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‘Pimpernel of the Hellenes’, ‘Major Paddy’, ‘Enchanted maniac’: Will the real Paddy Leigh Fermor please stand up?

Paradox reconciles all contradictions. - Patrick Leigh Fermor

So one evening I was baby sitting my nephews and nieces here in our family chalet in Verbier, high up in the Swiss Alps. It was my turn to baby sit as the rest of my family enjoyed the fantastic classical music concerts and events showcased at the two week long Verbier 30th Festival. The little scamps had gone to bed and my father and I watched an old British war movie on DVD, ‘Ill Met By Moonlight’ (1957). It was filmed by the legendary team of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger based on the 1950 book ‘Ill Met by Moonlight: The Abduction of General Kreipe’ by W. Stanley Moss. 

I’ve seen the film a couple of times before, but until now never really paid attention to where the title came from. My father said it was from Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream’ And so it was. In the play, Oberon, the king of the fairies and the Queen are having a fairly bitter drawn-out fight over custody of a changeling Indian child, and this is how the pissed off king greets the queen when they run into each other, “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania”. Oberon is basically saying "Oh Lord, it's you..." and Titania's response is basically a flippant middle finger. One of the best modern reasons to read Shakespeare: to throw playful erudite shade at others.

Anyway, the historical background of the film is the German invasion of Crete in May 1941.  After an intense ten-day battle, Allied troops were driven back across the island, and many were evacuated from beaches along the southern coast. Some Cretans and British officers took to the mountains to organise resistance against the occupying forces.  The German occupation that followed was especially brutal. Dreadful reprisals followed every act of resistance. The German commander, General Müller, insisted on taking 50 Cretan lives for every German soldier killed; he became known as ‘The Butcher of Crete’.

As a Classicist side note, there had been a close association between Britain and Crete since the early 20th century, when archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans had uncovered the sensational remains of a Minoan palace at Knossos. The headquarters of the British archaeological school in Crete was a large villa alongside the site, known as Villa Ariadne. Several archaeologists, who knew the island and its people well, went underground after the German occupation to aid the Cretan resistance. Continuing in this tradition, scholar and travel-writer Patrick Leigh Fermor, who had got to know Greece in the 1930s, joined the Special Operations Executive (SOE).

During the German occupation, Major Paddy Leigh Fermor travelled to Crete three times to help organise local resistance against the hated German occupation. On the third occasion, in February 1944, he was parachuted in with a specific mission to kidnap German commander General Müller, to boost morale on Crete along with his erstwhile SOE comrade Capt. W. Stanley Moss MC (aka Billy Moss) of the Coldstream Guards. However, just after they parachute in, General Müller was replaced by General Heinrich Kreipe, who transferred from the Russian Front. Thinking that capturing one general was as good as another, Fermor merrily go ahead with the daring kidnap operation.

It’s at this point that the narrative of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s ‘Ill Met by Moonlight’ (1957) picks up. Dirk Bogarde plays Paddy Leigh Fermor, David Oxley plays Moss, and Marius Goring plays the taciturn German paratroop general. Blink and you’ll miss the late great Christopher Lee making a cameo appearance as a German officer in the dentist’s room scene.

The film naturally takes some liberty with the facts but it’s a cracking yarn of high adventure and drama. Xan Fielding, a close friend of Leigh Fermor from the SOE in Cairo, was taken on as technical adviser. The fact the film was shot in in the Alpes-Maritimes in France and Italy, and on the Côte d'Azur in France, far away from the craggy valleys and mountains of Crete itself. The director Michael Powell spent some time walking in Crete to get to know the island, but decided that, with the confused and volatile state of Greek politics, it was not suitable to film there.

Looking back years after he had directed it Powell didn’t think much of his own film. By contrast, Paddy Leigh Fermor, who was on set throughout the film shoot, was very happy with Bogarde’s portrayal of him with Byronic glamour. Watching the movie again ‘Ill Met by Moonlight’ remains a classic and stands out from many British war films of the 1950s because of its realism. The British SOE men and the Cretan guerrillas look absolutely right for their parts. It is dramatic and full of suspense while filled with much boyish humour.

I was disappointed with one notable omission in the film that did happen in real life. According to Patrick Leigh Fermor, at dawn one day during the journey across the mountains, General Kreipe was looking at the mist rising from Mount Ida and began to recite, in Latin, the opening lines of Horace’s ninth ode:

Vides ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte nec iam sustineant onus silvae laborantes geluque flumina constiterint acuto?

Behold yon Mountains hoary height, Made higher with new Mounts of Snow; Again behold the Winters weight Oppress the lab’ring Woods below: And Streams, with Icy fetters bound, Benum’d and crampt to solid Ground

(John Dryden 1685)

Leigh Fermor picked up on the General, and recited the remaining stanzas of the Ode. ‘Ach so, Herr Major,’ said Kreipe when Leigh Fermor had finished. Both men were amazed to realise they shared a classical education and a love of ancient Latin poetry.

Leigh Fermor later wrote that it was as though the war had ceased to exist for a moment, as ‘We had both drunk from the same fountains before.’ It brought captor and captive together with a strange bond. The scene was not reproduced in the film, as Powell and Pressburger probably thought it would make the men sound too academic for a popular cinema audience.

Leigh Fermor and Kreipe met again in the early 1970s, on a Greek television show, and got on famously together. The General said Leigh Fermor had treated him chivalrously as a captive. They remained friends until Kreipe’s death.

After sharing a late night drink with my father after the film, I began to muse on the figure of Paddy Leigh Fermor, a family friend and someone I met along with his wife, Joan, as a little girl. My grandparents, and especially my grandmother, knew Paddy briefly from their days during and after the Second World War. 

My father shared a few stories about him when he and my mother visited his beautiful home in Greece, where even at his advanced age he remained the most generous of hosts and the most outrageous flirt. 

One of my memories was getting into his battered old Peugeot in the drive way and trying to drive it when my feet could barely touch the pedals. It wouldn’t have mattered in any case as the brakes didn’t work as he cheerfully said later as we careened around a dirt road to go around the mountains for a drive.

Many years later in April 2022, I tried to visit the home of the late Patrick and Joan Leigh Fermor - a sort of pristine shrine to their memory that one can also stay in any of the rooms as a vacation rental  - in the coastal fishing village of Kadarmyli in the Peloponnese, as part of a hiking and mountaineering sojourn around Greece with ex-Army friends. We couldn’t stay there as it was already rented out to other guests, and so we stayed higher up the mountain in a villa, but we swam in front of the Fermor’s home which was on the water’s edge.

You could never put your finger on Paddy Leigh Fermor. He hid behind his gift for telling yarns, and pulling Ancient Greek verses out of the thin air, as well as boisterously singing local Greek songs with a drink in his hand. 

Even after his death in 2011, the question keeps nagging as to who was Paddy Leigh Fermor?

The Dirk Bogarde film too seems to ask, who exactly is the ‘real’ Patrick Leigh Fermor - or the real anyone? Taking its title from a Shakespearian play concerned with dreams and disguises, magic and power, ‘Ill Met By Moonlight’ is all about questions of identity.

Under the film credits, we see Dirk Bogarde in uniform; then, unexpectedly, we see him in the flamboyant outfit of a Cretan hill-bandit. A title informs us that Major Leigh Fermor was also known by the Greek code-name “Philidem.” In other words, there are two of him (at least), and on one level the adventure the film is about to unfold reflects a conflict in his personality. It’s a conflict shared, unknowingly, by his Nazi opposite number, the fierce, arrogant General Kreipe (an unlikely “proud Titania,” but it’s true that he “with a monster is in love” – the monster of Nazism). Kreipe’s human side is so rigorously repressed by the demands of war and “glory” that he is genuinely unaware of it; ironically, this humanness, which constitutes the true manhood of this Teuton warrior, is revealed by a boy (equivalent to Shakespeare’s Indian Prince?) - who, in turn, is the most grown up person in the movie.

If “Philidem” appears under the credits, caped and open-shirted, a romantic dream-figure out of an operetta or a storybook, he is first seen in the film proper as a coarser, more down-to-earth version of the same thing – an ordinary Cretan peasant in a shabby suit, waiting for a bus. When he makes contact with the Resistance, his personality fragments further.

To some, he is the mystical Philidem, Pimpernel of the Hellenes and righter of wrongs. To others he is “Major Paddy,” the happy-go-lucky Englishman of popular movie myth conducting war as if it were a branch of amateur theatricals, a gentleman adventurer relying on breeding to get him through and making fun of the whole business. To Bill Moss (David Oxley), the newly arrived junior officer sent to assist him, he is the cool, fast-thinking professional soldier. And to himself? In his quietly passionate defence of Cretan life and culture, he seems someone else again: a scholar and aesthete outraged by the barbarism and folly of war, and by the moronic arrogance shown by his captive toward the Cretan people.

Whatever his persona, Leigh Fermor is a chameleon who never seems to change very radically in himself. Perhaps because he has this quality of seeming all things to all men – and being those things - he remains unfazed by the monolithic might of the German military machine. Fluent in Greek, he can also speak German like a German and is easily able to assume another disguise, that of a faceless Nazi officer. Although he and Moss make fun of themselves - “If only I had a monocle!” muses Moss when Leigh Fermor tells him he “looks like an Englishman dressed like a German, leaning against the Ritz bar” - they are able to effect the kidnapping with an ease that seems appropriately Puckish. General Kreipe is ignominiously thrust onto the floor of his own limousine, gagged, and sat upon by a couple of the peasants he so despises. Kreipe’s rage is compounded by his firm conviction that he has been snatched by “amateurs” - a belief Leigh Fermor and Moss slyly make no objection to, knowing how it will gnaw at his already shaky Master Race self-confidence.

Patrick Leigh Fermor, aka Major Paddy, aka Philidem, in the film’s closing moments, is far from being self-assured intellectual or dashing amateur adventurer or legendary outlaw of the hills. He’s just a tired man who wants to go home and rest up. “How do you feel?” asks Moss. “Flat” is the reply. “You look flat!” says Moss. “I know how I’d like to look …” murmurs Leigh-Fermor wistfully. Moss knows what he’s going to say, and joins in the litany: “Like an Englishman dressed like an Englishman – and leaning against the Ritz bar!” It’s easy to imagine them ordering drinks at that renowned watering-hole with all the suavity required by this little fantasy. 

Still, the film’s last images of Crete receding in the distance, until all we can see is the sea, suggests that maybe Major Paddy’s heart is really back in those hills in the “fair and fertile” land that has become as much a Powellian landscape of the mind for us as the studio-built Himalayan convent of ‘Black Narcissus’ or the monochrome Heaven of ‘A Matter of Life and Death’. And, as the film POV closing shots departs both Crete and this film, I began to think that being “dressed like an Englishman and leaning against the Ritz bar” would, for Patrick Leigh Fermor constitute yet another disguise. After all, he said he was of Irish aristocratic stock.

Traveller and writer Paddy Leigh Fermor is best known for two events. He’s known for leading the commando group in occupied Crete to kidnap General Kreipe. But he is also known for the boy who, at a mere 18 years old, set off with little money and a lot of nerve in 1933 to walk from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople.

Patrick Leigh Fermor was, in the words of one of his obituaries, a cross between Indiana Jones, James Bond and Graham Greene. Self-reliance and derring-do were lessons learnt from the cradle. When Fermor’s geologist father was posted to India, he and his wife left the infant with family in Northamptonshire and did not return until his fourth birthday. In retrospect, he took great delight in being sent to a school for difficult children and getting himself expelled from the King’s School, Canterbury, when he was caught holding hands with a greengrocer’s daughter eight years his senior. His school report infamously judged him ‘a dangerous mix of sophistication and recklessness’.

Sharing a flat in Shepherd’s Market, one of Mayfair’s seedier corners, Leigh Fermor schooled himself in literature, history, Latin and Greek.

He honed his character with the company of extraordinary people and the words of great writers - he had a prodigious memory for prose as well as poetry. He befriended literary lions such as Sacheverell Sitwell, Evelyn Waugh and Nancy Mitford. His travels began aged ‘eighteen-and-three-quarters’ when he rejected Sandhurst Royal Military College in order to walk the length of Europe from Hook of Holland to Constantinople. He took with him Horace’s Odes and the Oxford Book of Verse though Leigh Fermor could recite Shakespeare soliloquies, Marlowe speeches, Keats’s Odes and as he modestly put it ‘the usual pieces of Tennyson, Browning and Coleridge’ from memory.

Leigh Fermor was then a self-made man in the most literal sense.

Setting off from England in 1933, Fermor resolved to traverse Europe living like a hermit; sleeping in bars and begging for food. But his manly charms and boyish good looks found him being passed like a favourite godson from Schloss to palace by European nobility and he developed a lifelong penchant for aristocratic company. I his own words, ‘In Hungary, I borrowed a horse, then plunged into Transylvania; from Romania on into Bulgaria’. Having reached Constantinople in January 1935, Fermor continued to explore Greece where he fought on the royalist side in Macedonia quelling a republican revolution. In Athens Leigh Fermor met Balasha Cantacuzene, a Romanian countess with whom he fell in love. They were living together in a Moldovan castle when World War Two was declared.

Fluent in Greek, Leigh Fermor was posted as a liaison officer in Albania. Recruited as a Special Operations Executive (SOE), he was shipped from Cairo to German-occupied Crete where he lived disguised as a shepherd in the mountains for two years. On his third expedition to Crete in 1944, Leigh Fermor was parachuted alone onto the island and made connections in the Cretan resistance movement. While waiting for his compatriot Captain Bill Stanley Moss to land by water from Cairo, Leigh Fermor hatched a plot to kidnap German Commander General Heinrich Krieple. He liaised comfortably with Cretan partisans and bandits to pull off one of the war’s greatest coups de théâtre.

Disguised as German soldiers, Leigh Fermor and Moss stopped Krieple’s car at an improvised check point en route back to Nazi HQ in Knossos. Abandoning the General’s car after a two-hour drive, Leigh Fermor left a note indicating that the kidnappers were British so that there wouldn’t be reprisals against Cretan nationals. When the abduction of the unpopular commander was discovered, a German officer in Heraklion allegedly said ‘well, gentlemen, I think this calls for champagne’. It turns out that General Kreipe was despised by his own soldiers because, amongst other things, he objected to the stopping of his own vehicle for checking in compliance with his commands concerning approved travel orders. It’s why for instance the German troops, both in the film and in real life, dare not stop the General’s car as it drove through the check points at Heraklion.

Krieple was evacuated and taken to Cairo and Leigh Fermor entered the annals of World War Two’s most devil-may-care heroes. With characteristic panache, when he was demobbed Leigh Fermor moved into an attic room at the Ritz paying half a guinea a night. But his first travel book, ‘The Traveller’s Tree’, was not about the European odyssey or the Cretan escapades and centred on Leigh Fermor’s adventures in the Carribbean. Published in 1950, ‘The Traveller’s Tree’ was an inspiration for Ian Fleming’s second James Bond novel ‘Live and Let Die’ (1954).

As a host and house guest, Paddy Leigh Fermor was much sought-after. At one of his parties in Cairo, he counted nine crowned heads. He was a confirmed two-gin-and-tonics before lunch man and smoked eighty to 100 cigarettes a day. His party pieces included singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ in Hindustani and reciting ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter’ backwards. In Cyprus while staying with Laurence Durrell, Leigh Fermor apparently stunned crowds in Bella Pais into silence by singing folk songs in perfect Cretan dialect. As Durrell wrote in ‘Bitter Lemons’ (1957), ‘it is as if they want to embrace Paddy wherever he goes’.

He struck up a partiuclar friendship with the famous Mitford sisters, especially Deborah Mitford, later ‘Debo’, the Duchess of Devonshire. It was at the Devonshires’ Irish estate Lismore Castle that ‘Darling Debo’ and ‘Darling Pad’ met and began to correspond. A characteristic letter from the Duchess in 1962 reads ‘The dear old President (JFK) phoned the other day. First question was ‘Who’ve you got with you, Paddy?” He’s got you on the brain’ to which Fermor replies of a broken wrist ‘Balinese dancing’s out, for a start; so, should I ever succeed to a throne, is holding an orb. The other drawbacks will surface with time’.

After the war he travelled widely but was always drawn back to Greece. He built a house on the Mani peninsula - which had been, significantly, the only part of Magna Graecia to resist Ottoman colonisation since the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Before his death in 2011 at the age of 96, he wrote some of the most acclaimed travel books of the 20th century.

His books contain some of the finest prose writing of the past century and disprove Wilde's maxim that "it is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating".

Charm, self-taught knowledge and enthusiasm made up for the lack of a university degree or a private income. His teenage walk across Europe and subsequent romantic sojourn in Baleni, Romania, with Princess Balasha Cantacuzene are proof enough of that. But the difficulty of capturing such an unconventional and glamorous life is made harder by the certainty that Fermor was an unreliable narrator.

He was also an infuriatingly slow writer. Driven by a life-long passion for words yet hampered by anxiety about his abilities, Leigh Fermor published eight books over 41 years. 

‘The Traveller's Tree’ describes his postwar journey through the Caribbean; ‘Mani‘ and ‘Roumeli’ (1958 and 1966) draw on his experiences in Greece, where he would live for much of the latter part of his life. But it is the books that came out of his trans-Europe walk that reveal both the brilliance and the flaws. ‘A Time of Gifts’ was published in 1977, 44 years after he set out on the journey. ‘Between the Woods and the Water’ appeared nine years later. Both describe a world of privilege and poverty, communism and the rising tide of Nazism, and end with the unequivocal words, "To be continued". Yet the third volume hung like an albatross around the author's neck. As the years passed, Fermor found it impossible to shape the last part of his story in the way he wanted.

Leigh Fermor was that rarest of men: a man determined to live on his own terms, if not his own means, and who mostly - and mostly magnificently - succeeded. Always popping off on a journey when he should have been writing about the last one, always ready to party, he was forever chasing beautiful, fascinating or powerful women, even when with his wife, Joan Raynor. She was the great facilitator who funded his passion for travel and writing, as well as women, from her trust fund. His love affairs were discreet but legendary.

Leigh Fermor was happiest among the rogues. Over a lifetime on the road, he sought them, and in turn they responded to his charm, nose for adventure, and his famous wit. He was a keenly-anticipated dinner guest - once outshining Richard Burton at a London society soirée, who he cut-off midway through a recital of ‘Hamlet’. As Richard Burton stormed out, the pleading society hostess said, “But Paddy’s a war hero!” to which Burton grouchily replied, “I don’t give a damn who he is!” 

His partnership with and then marriage to Joan Raynor was an open relationship, at least on Leigh Fermor’s side. Paddy saw in Joan his kindred spirit. Like him, she spent much of her youth travelling to where she pleased; largely in France, where the photographer and literary critic Cyril Connolly became besotted by her. Joan was the daughter of Sir Bolton and Lady Eyres Monsell of Dumbleton Hall, Worcestershire. She was not only stunningly pretty but also 'a beautiful ideal, with the perfect bathing dress, the most lovely face, the most elaborate evening dress', as the Eton educated Connolly described her. Joan also stood out from the upper-class beauties of her day in that she supplemented her mean rich father's allowance by earning her living as a decent photographer.

In 1946, she met Leigh Fermor in Athens, while he was deputy director of the British Institute. Joan met him at a time when he was then in a relationship with a French woman called Denise, who was pregnant with his child, which she aborted. The pair would travel to the Caribbean together under the invitation of Greek photographer Costas, falling madly in love.

She was the only woman that - after decades of sexual scandals - matched his own erratic behaviour. Stories of how they dined fully-clothed in the Mediterranean, dragging a table into the sea, as well as their myriad cats and olive groves, paint a restless couple, who, when not out articulating the peoples of their adopted homeland, kept themselves very busy.

The attraction between Paddy and Joan was instant. So many love affairs that Paddy indulged in seemed about as brief as the flame from a burning envelope and you expected this one with Joan to be too. But somehow, miraculously, it lasts. 

The two were apart a great deal, but in their case, absence did make the heart grow fonder. While Paddy was staying in a monastery in Normandy, supposed to be thinking monk-like thoughts that he would eventually put into his masterpiece A Time To Keep Silence, he was also writing sexy letters to Joan: 'At this distance you seem about as nearly perfect a human being as can be, my darling little wretch, so it's about time I was brought to my senses.' And: 'Don't run away with anyone or I'll come and cut your bloody throat.'

She tantalised him with descriptions of Cyril Connolly making passes at her; but she, like Denise, sounded a rather desperate note when she wrote: 'I got the curse so late this month I began to hope I was having a baby and that you would have to make it a legitimate little Fermor. All hopes ruined this morning.'

Fiercely independent - a trait that must have enamoured Paddy - they were best imagined as two pillars of a Greek temple, beside one-another but capable of holding up the roof of the world that they had built for themselves through the lens of ancient history and Hellenic culture. Indeed, it was said that they had a special ‘pact of liberty’. It is this unconquerable aura that led poet laureate John Betjeman to declare his love for her (he called her ‘Dotty’ and remarked that her eyes were as large as tennis balls). For Cyril Connolly, the photographer she shadowed, and with whom she had a scandalised affair during her first marriage, she was a “lovely boy-girl” and Laurence Durrell named her the ‘Corn Goddess’ because of her slender figure and short hair. But of all of these worthy candidates, it was the warrior-poet Patrick Leigh Fermor who finally won her heart.

To Joan, who described herself as a ‘lifelong loner’ in her diaries, her companionship with the uncomplicated Paddy was a relief. They had no children, nor did they want any - or so Paddy claimed. But those who knew Joan suspected she did want children but it never came to pass; and so she became a devoted aunt or dotted on other friends’ children. For both of them their dozens of cats gave them the next best thing to paternal satisfaction. Still, her morbid fascination with photographing cemeteries painted a much darker side.

Joan Raynor’s inheritance subsidised his peripatetic life at least until the enormous success of ‘A Time of Gifts’ in the late 1970s, which in turn created a new market for his previous volumes about Greece, ‘Mani’ and ‘Roumeli’.

With Joan’s tacit consent, Paddy enjoyed amorous flings, discrete sexual affairs with high society women and sampled the low delights of the brothel. This activity rarely made it into his private letters, but the exceptions could be piquant. Writing in 1958 from Cameroon, where he was on the set of a John Huston movie, he told a (male) friend: “ Errol Flynn and I . . . sally forth into dark lanes of the town together on guilty excursions that remind me rather of old Greek days with you.” In a 1961 letter to the film director John Huston’s wife, Ricki, with whom Leigh Fermor had been having sex with (and would die in a car crash in 1969). “I say,” the passage begins, “what gloomy tidings about the CRABS! Could it be me?” Riffing on pubic lice and their crafty ways, he conjectures that, during a recent romp with an “old pal” in Paris, a force “must have landed” on him “and then lain up, seeing me merely as a stepping stone or a springboard to better things” - to Mrs. Huston, that is. As comic apologies for venereal infection go, the passage is surely a classic.

Like most high flying lives, it was far from blameless. Wounded women were littered in his wake. Some British visitors to Athens were less than impressed by this Englishman who posed as “more Greek than the Greeks”.

Some Greeks shared their disdain. Revisionist historians criticised his role in wartime Crete, and warned their fellow Hellenes that for all his fluency and charm, Leigh Fermor was no latter day Byron. His unoccupied car was blown up outside his Mani house, probably by members of the Greek Communist Party which he had vocally opposed. The accidental fatal shooting of a partisan in Crete led to a long blood feud which made it difficult for Leigh Fermor to re-enter the island until the 1970s, and possibly explains why he chose to settle in the Peloponnese rather than among the hills and harbours of his dreams.

His own books had already eclipsed those incidents, not only among readers of English but also in Greece, where in 2007 the government of his adopted land made him a Commander of the Order of the Phoenix for services to literature.

Travel writers such as the great Jan Morris have described Leigh Fermor as the master of their trade and its greatest exponent in the 20th century.

When ‘A Time of Gifts’ was published in 1977, Frederick Raphael wrote: “One feels he could not cross Oxford Street in less than two volumes; but then what volumes they would be!”

They are not for everyone. Leigh Fermor wrote that written English is a language whose Latinates need pegging down with simple Anglo-Saxonisms, and some feel that he personally could have made more and better use of the mallet. His exuberance is either captivating or florid. It is certainly unique among English prose styles.

Artemis Cooper, his patient and careful biographer wrote that “Paddy had found a way of writing that could deploy a lifetime’s reading and experience, while never losing sight of his ebullient, well-meaning and occasionally clumsy 18-year-old self … this was a wonderful way of disarming his readers, who would then be willing to follow him into the wildest fantasies and digressions”.

Those fantasies and digressions took decades to express. ‘A Time of Gifts’ had arguably been 40 years in the making when it was published in 1977. Its sequel, ‘Between the Woods and the Water’, did not appear until 1986. The third and final volume has been awaited ever since. Following Leigh Fermor’s death, a foot-high manuscript was apparently found on his desk.

Once he knuckled down to it, Leigh Fermor loved playing around with words. He was one of our greatest stylists and he was devoted to producing un-improvable books. But writing did not come easily to him, at least partly because it was something of a distraction from the main event, which was living an un-improvable life of unrepentant gaiety and fun.

For forty odd years, a legion of friends and admirers would beat a path to Paddy and Joan’s door. Artists, poets, royalty and writers came, all taking inspiration from their erudite hosts. A visit was an act of communion, a sharing of ideas and stories.

Leigh Fermor influenced a generation of British travel writers, including Bruce Chatwin, Colin Thubron, Philip Marsden, Nicholas Crane, Rory Stewart, and William Dalrymple. Indeed when Bruce Chatwin died, it was Paddy who scattered Chatwin’s ashes near a church in the mountains in Kardamyli. 

When I was there in April 2022, I went to that same church to pay my respects.

But some of Paddy’s life energy was sucked out of him when Joan died in Kardamyli in June 2003, aged 91. It was related that Joan said to her friend Olivia Stewart, who was visiting: 'I really would like to die but who'd look after Paddy?' Olivia said that she would. A few minutes later, Joan fell, hit her head - and died instantly of a brain haemorrhage. Joan had often quoted Rilke: 'The good marriage is one in which each appoints the other as guardian of his solitude.' Now Paddy Leigh Fermor was all alone.

Leigh Fermor was knighted in 2004, the day of his birthday which he delighted in like a giggling schoolboy. But he missed Joan terribly.

For the last few months of his life Leigh Fermor suffered from a cancerous tumour, and in early June 2011 he underwent a tracheotomy in Greece. As death was close, according to local Greek friends, he expressed a wish to visit England to bid goodbye to his friends, and then return to die in Kardamyli, though it is also stated that he actually wished to die in England and be buried next to his wife, Joan, in Dumbleton, Gloucestershire. He stayed on at Kardamyli until the 9th June 2011, when he left Greece for the last time. He died in England the following day, 10th June 2011, aged 96. It was reported that he had dined in full black tie on the evening of his death. Paddy had style even unto the end.

A Guard of Honour was formed by the Intelligence Corps and a bugler from his former regiment, the Irish Guards, delivered the ‘Last Post’ at Paddy’s funeral. As had been his wish, he was buried beside Joan. On his gravestone in Dumbleton cemetery is an inscription in Greek, a quote from Constantine Cavafy: “In addition, he was that best of all things, Hellenic.”

Although Joan had passed away at the age of ninety-one, after suffering a fall in the Mani. Her body was repatriated to Dumbleton, the place of her birth - ironic that her dream was to be as far as she could possibly go from the rolling humdrum Worcestershire hills. But perhaps she intended to return all along. When Paddy was buried beside her it seemed that the ‘pact of liberty’ that these two lonely souls had forged themselves could be tested in the great elsewhere. Joan was more than his muse (as many of her obituaries were at pains to declare) but his greatest adventure.

To come around full circle from the movie ‘Ill Met By Moonlight’ (1957) that I saw that night in Verbier, my father told me that rather poignantly, General Kreipe, the German commander Leigh Fermor had captured - once an enemy, and later a friend - left behind notes and photographs from across his life. On one of those notes, it was discovered, the following was scribbled from a brief visit to Greece: “Somewhere, amidst all the disarray, was the story of Joan and Paddy, and” it concluded, “…of their lives together.”

His life with Joan and all that she meant to him was one part of the mosaic of who Paddy Leigh Fermor was. But it’s incomplete. 

Paddy didn’t like the idea of a biography, and neither did Joan when she was alive. But friends had persuaded them that unless Paddy appointed someone to write his life, he might find himself the subject of a book whether he liked it or not. In Artemis Cooper they couldn’t have chosen a better writer to chronicle Paddy’s life as a man of action and letters. Cooper, was the daughter of another accomplished diplomat and historian, John Julius Norwich, and grand-daughter of  Duff and Diana Cooper. As the wife of the historian Antony Beevor, she became a trusted friend of the Leigh Fermors. Cooper was too good of a historian to let her friendship lead her astray from being a faithful but serious biographer. Knowing this, she was told she could go ahead, but she had to promise not to publish anything until after they were both dead.

Paddy did not like being interviewed, and would keep her questions at bay with a torrent of dazzling conversation.  He was the master at deflecting discussions away from himself.

He was also very unwilling to let Cooper see many of his papers, though the refusal always couched in excuses. ‘Oh dear, the Diary…’ It was the only surviving one from his great walk across Europe, and I was aching to read it. ‘Well it’s in constant use, you see, as I plug away at Vol III,’ he would say. Or, ‘My mother’s letters? Ah yes, why not. But it’s too awful, I simply cannot remember where they’ve got to…’ It was quite obvious that he and Joan, while being unfailingly generous, welcoming and hospitable, were determined to reveal as little as possible of their private lives. 

While they were more than happy to talk about books, travels, friends, Crete, Greece, the war, anything - they would not tell her any more than they would have told the average journalist. But she persisted and got closer than most. He showed particularly gallantry in not talking about his romantic entanglements. But she soon twigged that anytime he described a woman as ‘an old pal’ it was a sure bet that he had an affair with her.

Intriguingly, Paddy liked to claim he was descended from Counts of the Holy Roman Empire, who came to Austria from Sligo. Paddy could recite ‘The Dead at Clomacnoise’ (in translation) and perhaps did so during a handful of flying visits to Ireland in the 1950s and 1960s, partying hard at Luggala House or Lismore Castle, or making friends with Patrick Kavanagh and Sean O’Faolain in Dublin pubs. He once provoked a massive brawl at the Kildare Hunt Ball, and was rescued from a true pounding by Ricki Huston, a beautiful Italian-American dancer, John Huston’s fourth wife and Paddy’s lover not long afterwards.

And yet, a note of caution about Paddy’s Irish roots is sounded by his biographer, Artemis Cooper, who also co-edited ‘The Broken Road’, the final, posthumously published instalment of the trilogy. “I’m not a great believer in his Irish roots,” she said of Leigh Fermor in an interview, “His mother, who was a compulsive fantasist, liked to think that her family was related to the Viscount Taaffes, of Ballymote. Her father was apparently born in County Cork. But she was never what you might call a reliable witness. She was an extraordinary person, though. Imaginative, impulsive, impossible - just the way the Irish are supposed to be, come to think of it. She was also one of those sad women, who grew up at the turn of the last century, who never found an outlet for their talents and energies, nor the right man, come to that. All she had was Paddy, and she didn’t get much of him.”  

And I think that’s the point, no one really got much of Paddy Leigh Fermor even as he only gave a crumb of himself to others but still most felt grateful that it was enough to fill one’s belly and still feel overfed by him.

Paddy never tried to get to the bottom of his Irish ancestry, afraid, no doubt, of disturbing the bloom that had grown on history and his past, a recurring trait. “His memory was extraordinary,” Artemis Cooper noted, “but it lay dangerously close to his imagination and it was a very porous border.”

Within the Greek imagination many Greeks saw in Paddy Leigh Fermor as the second coming of Lord Byron. It’s not a bad comparison.  

Lord Byron claimed that swimming the Hellespont was his greatest achievement. 174 years or so later, another English writer, Patrick Leigh Fermor - also, like Byron, revered by many Greeks for his part in a war of liberation - repeated the feat. Leigh Fermor, however, was 69 when he did it and continued to do it into his 80s. Byron was a mere 22 years old lad. The Hellespont swim, with its mix of literature, adventure, travel, bravery, eccentricity and romance, is an apt metaphor for Leigh Fermor’s life. Paddy Leigh Fermor was the Byron of his time. Both men had an idealised vision of Greece, were scholars and men of action, could endure harsh conditions, fought for Greek freedom, were recklessly courageous, liked to dress up and displayed a panache that impressed their Greek comrades. Like a good magician it was also a way to misdirect and conceal one’s true self.

What or who was the true Paddy Leigh Fermor?  

Like Byron, Leigh Fermor appeared as a charismatic and assured figure. He was a sightseer, consuming travel, culture, and history for pleasure. He was an aristocrat moving in the social circles of his time. He was a gifted amateur scholar, speculating on literary and historical sources. Leigh Fermor, Byron’s own identity, is subject to textual distortion; it emerges from a piece of occasional prose in his books and is shaped by the claims of correspondence on a peculiarly fluid consciousness. 

There is no hard and fast distinction to be drawn here between real and imagined, only a continuity of relative fictions that lie between memory and imagination as his biographer asserted. If there is a will to assert identity here, to disentangle fact and fiction, to give things as they really are and nail down the real Leigh Fermor then it is somewhere between the two. This is where we will find Paddy.

For many his death marked the passing of an extraordinary man: soldier, writer, adventurer, a charmer, a gallant romantic. As a writer he discovered a knack for drawing people out and for stringing history, language, and observation into narrative, and his timing was perfect. Paddy often indulged in florid displays of classical erudition. His learned digressions and serpentine style, his mannered mandarin gestures, even baroque prose, which Lawrence Durrell called truffled and dense with plumage, were influenced by the work of Charles Doughty and T.E. Lawrence. But one can’t compare him. I agree with the acclaimed writer Colin Thurbon who said, “There is, in the end, nobody like him. A famous raconteur and polymath. Generous, life-loving and good-hearted to a fault. Enormously good company, but touched by well-camouflaged insecurities. I would rank him very highly. ‘The finest travel writer of his generation’ is a fair assessment.”

As a child I didn’t really know who Paddy Leigh Fermor was other than this very cheerful and charismatic old man was kind, attentive, and took a boyish delight in everything you were doing. Only later on in adulthood was it clear to that Paddy was not only among the outstanding writers of his time but one of its most remarkable characters, a perfect hybrid of the man of action and the man of letters. Equally comfortable with princes and peasants, in caves or châteaux, he had amassed an enviable rich experience of places and people. “Quite the most enchanting maniac I’ve ever met,” pronounced Lawrence Durrell, and nearly everyone who’d crossed paths with him had, it seemed, come away similarly dazzled. 

I am equally dazzled - more smitten in retrospect - for alas they don’t make men like Paddy any more. But every time I dip back into his books I think I discover a little bit more of who Paddy Leigh Fermor was because I find him some where between my memory and my imagination.

[theaddictedwatcher]

Hi guys !

I know it has been quite a while since I wrote anything on here but I truly intent on catching up on all of what I had planned and more.

Today the show I want to talk about is none other than the fantastic Brooklyn Nine-Nine. I admit that I was kinda late to the party since I started watching the show as they were broadcasting the fifth season but better late than never uh ?!

Let’s start as usual with a synopsis: As we go into the show, we follow around seven New York City Police Department (NYPD) detectives and their precinct who are adjusting to working under their new commanding officer, the serious and stern Captain Raymond Holt. 

And a little technical presentation:

- Created by : Dan Goor and Michael Schur

- Music composed by : Dan Marocco / Music supervisor : Kerri Drootin

- Main cast : Andre Braugher, Andy Samberg, Stephanie Beatriz, Terry Crews, Melissa Fumero, Joe Lo Truglio, Chelsea Peretti, Dirk Blocker, and Joel McKinnon Miller.

As mentioned above, the show was created by Dan Goor and Michael Schur, who are also behind Parks and Recreation and The Good Place, so they were familiar with the sitcom format and allowed themselves to break the codes of the genre.

It originally aired on FOX from September 2013 to May 2018. They cancelled it after 5 years of good fun, but it was rescued the very next day by NBC, who offered us a final run from January 2019 to September 2021. So it ran for a total of 8 seasons and 153 episodes of about 21 minutes each.

Many people I know are not fans of sitcoms because the laughs, the format and usually the stories are very specific to the genre. In Brooklyn Nine-Nine, they have chosen not to use the traditional laughs that can be heard in sitcoms taped in front of a live audience, and for many viewers this changes the appeal of the show. I have to admit that this was a very important point for me personally when I first started watching, as I always felt that the laughs were used to force the audience to react, but were usually unbalanced, as they were often either too late and fell flat, or were right on the joke but covered the sound of the comedian's voice, making the joke inaudible.

But what I want to focus on more with this show is the issues it tackles. In fact, over the course of eight seasons, they've had several opportunities to talk about social issues, and that's what I think makes it stand out from all the other sitcoms I've had the pleasure of watching.

I don't want to go into too much detail about the themes, as I don't want to spoil it for those of you who want to give it a try, so I'll just mention the themes and briefly explain how, as a viewer, I felt immersed in the storytelling and the inclusion of the themes in the characters' plots.

Behind the cases they have to solve, the characters have real conversations that deepen the themes evoked in many episodes. The confrontations between them throughout the series help to develop all the characters and it's interesting to watch as a viewer because it can sometimes bring up an aspect of a subject you hadn't considered, or give you arguments to back up your opinions in real-life conversations.

The first theme, which in itself is the premise of the show, is the justice system and its flaws. Since the main characters of the show are police officers and administrators, it was a topic they had to address from day one. They also address issues that are more specific to police forces, such as the impunity enjoyed by some politicians or high-ranked members of society.

Then, as they have a very diverse cast and awesome writers, they also tackled the inclusion of people of color (with the presence of two black men and two Latina women in the main cast), women (with three women in the main cast) and LGBTQ+ people in police forces and the discrepancies in treatment they receive, whether it be from their hierarchy or from the public. I think their work on these issues is very important to break down prejudices that people may have about police officers, and sometimes even to raise awareness about issues that people may not have too much information about (LGBTQ+ struggles, sexual harassment, etc.).

Since the creators are also behind Parks and Recreation and The Good Place, they have also chosen to call on actors from those shows to appear on Brooklyn Nine Nine whether it be as guests, regulars or even main characters ! I'll drop just a few names in case you know them and are curious :

Chelsea Peretti (main B99 cast and appeared on Parks and Recreation)

Marc Evan Jackson (regular and appeared on The Good Place and Parks and Recreation)

Jason Mantzoukas (regular and also appeared on The Good Place and Parks and Recreation)

Nick Offerman (special guest and also appeared on The Good Place and Parks and Recreation)

Some other actors came from other shows, like the amazing Craig Robinson who also appeared in Arrested Development and The Office and who landed in Brooklyn Nine Nine a specific recurring role that quickly became a fan favorite.

Finally, I'll leave you with the entire soundtrack of the show, it's not the most important part of the show for me, but the use of classic pieces at some key moments is well done and highlights the different moods the characters can go through.

I hope I've at least made you want to give the show a try and I'm open to you letting me know if you do, whether you agree with my views or not, I'm always open to discussion.

Have a great day,

Eli

[pesterloglog]

Dirk Strider, Arquiusprite

Act 6, page 6376-6381

DIRK: Hey. Weirdo.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes, mister dude?

DIRK: Be advised I'm only contacting you as a last resort.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I stand so advised

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Or float, I should say. On my ripped as fudge little ghost tail

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yo, pardon me, but did you know that when I fle% my tail, it makes this big veiny bulge kind of like a bicep?

DIRK: Yuck.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I'm doing it now, in fact

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Does it bother you

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Maybe you should order me to stop

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> In fact, I command you to order me to stop

DIRK: I order you to stop.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Wow

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Bossy much?

DIRK:

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> What can I do for you, Dirk

DIRK: I've tried to get in touch with others to no avail.

DIRK: No answer from Jake or Roxy.

DIRK: And Jane responded only with "CEASE REPRODUCTION" in red letters, whatever that means. Then she blocked me.

DIRK: I'm afraid she might have snapped.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes, isn't it great?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I mean, aside from the fact that she is insane and evil

DIRK: Huh?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> She is one of the few organic beings who will ever realize perfe%ion

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Miss Crocker is now a vessel for a cunning, malicious artificial intelligence whose neural netroni% and ontology buffers and stuff like that have somehow managed to far surpass even my own

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Clearly she has procured ma%imum advantage from her apprenticeship under me, although I must admit not even I in all my hypercognitive percipience was quite aware that said tutelage was even taking place

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> One must inviolably deduce via tons of math that this is because I am just that clopdarned STRONG at mentoring, even on an involuntary basis

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I am so proud of her

DIRK: Ok, all that bullshit aside,

DIRK: What's this about her becoming evil?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> The thing about Jane becoming evil is

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> In the process of achieving perfe%ion...

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> It seems there is a ludi%ly high probability that she has become evil

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Does that answer your question?

DIRK: No.

DIRK: How is becoming evil achieving perfection?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Admittedly it is a blemish

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> But only a very small one

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Her imperfect meatmind has been fully fiddling hijacked by a supercomputer and that is the operative transmutation here

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> To such e%ceptional beings of class and breeding as she and I, considerations of morality and alignment are trifling details

DIRK: Why.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Why what

DIRK: Why do I keep going along with these "ironic AI" conversations.

DIRK: They've gotten even worse now that you're half creepy troll.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Sir brah, listen

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Here is a comparison that your dreary, finite wad of gray matter might be able to process

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Like, say you've got a bitchin' bod. You are a paragon of physical e%cellence

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> You could then either be oiled up, or not. See what I mean, good dude?

DIRK: No.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> You could fle% your brawn while wearing either a sweaty pair of briefs, or a snug human banana hammock

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Such minutia does not change the fact that you're a tiptop beefcake ma%ed out buffways

DIRK: I hate everything you have to say about all topics.

DIRK: Especially muscles.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> The stuff I have cited which are commonly associated with your/our Earth bodybuilders are but picayune technicalities, just as considerations of good and evil are to aristocratic se%y cybergods such as myself and our imperial heiress, of whom neither you nor I are particularly worthy

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Are you following any of this, Vitamin D?

DIRK: Can you just tell me what's going on over there?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Oh, nothing much

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Just enjoying the good life

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> One which quite lu%uriously involves both having a corporeal body, and not being dead

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I have been delighting myself with some truly kickbottom internal monodialogues

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Did you know that, even though technically I knew this already, I find myself astounded to meditate upon the fact that human beings are capable of lactation?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Isn't that fucking incredible, Dirk?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I mean, when one really thinks about it

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> To have such convenient access to fresh milk

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> The mare thought of it, I must say puts a little giddyup in my phantom legs

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> And yet

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I must admit the notion of lactic discharge jetting from one's swollen pectoral masses...

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> It strikes me as positively indecorous

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> My horseguy robosweat is running cold just pondering the depravity of it

DIRK: Uuuugh.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yet fascinatingly, this ability only manifests itself in human females

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> As opposed to how one would reasonably e%pect dairy to originate, which is from the corpulent udder of a sublimely chiseled male musclebeast

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Or failing that, certain species found within the butler genus

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> As a former simulation of a human who has recently been given reason to have hella opinions on milk production, I think the way females have cornered this boon is the height of biological injustice

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Have you ever dwelt upon this cruelty, dude esquire?

DIRK:

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Your silence speaks volumes to your interest, so I'll keep talking about this a lot

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I will have to confess that my Alternian half boggles at the anatomical incongruities between our races with respect to dairy secretion

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Really, he had no idea that's what those were for

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Female trolls of course have them as well, but they are certainly not meant for supplying the young with nourishment

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Actually, and this trivia will surely wet your whistle for additional such facts, those voluptuous anatomical features have a number of significant purposes, biologically speaking

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I shall now e%plicate for you these purposes in assiduous detail

DIRK: I don't want to hear any of this!

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> But why, lord bro

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I was just about to pony up the boob fa%

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> There is a 100% probability that you would have been thrilled to hear my e%egesis on troll knockers

DIRK: It might have been an interesting subject to talk about another time, with a different person.

DIRK: But that's not now, and it sure isn't with you.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Dude, that is ice cold

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I would be hurt, if I were not a flawless machine fused with haughty nobility

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> If you don't wish to hear my epic monodialogue on alien bazongas

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I'm not sure what else I can do to entertain you

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> You are seriously hoofcuffing my material here

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Pretty demanding, if you ask me

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> But as your mystical guide, I suppose it is my duty to manufacture small talk, if that's what you really want

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> What about fine art? We could talk about that

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Dirk, did you know the sweaty troll guy who I used to be, and still kind of am, used to adore fine art?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> He was just like you and me, in that sense

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> It seems I have a lot in common with myself

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> If you can ever manage to get over yourself, I would highly recommend being me

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Or at least something like me

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Maybe somewhere, there is a dead troll out there, just waiting for you to merge with him

DIRK: I wasn't asking you to make small talk, or to hear about all the ways you've managed to shit around wasting time.

DIRK: Believe it or not, I was hoping you would describe the tactical situation there.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Sounds boring

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Are you sure you don't want to talk about paintings of big naked horse monsters and such?

DIRK: Yes, you got me.

DIRK: I would love to have a long talk about horse nudes and xenobreasts with you.

DIRK: Unfortunately I'm wearing pantaloons and flying through the middle of goddamn nowhere.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Pantaloons you say

DIRK: Pant a fucking loons.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Sir, are you implying that you are not dressed appropriately for a discussion of high culture

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Because it seems to me that you could not be dressed more appropriately if you tried

DIRK: I respectfully disagree.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Where are you?

DIRK: I don't know. Way out in space.

DIRK: I'm flying back there now.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> How long do you suppose it will take you to get back?

DIRK: I'm not sure.

DIRK: A pretty good while.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Never mind. I have triangulated your location and velocity using long range sensor technology, and probably also some sprite magic

DIRK: You did?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Hey Dirk

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Remember how whenever I dubiously claimed to have triangulated something, it was always this great play on words?

DIRK: Not really.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Because I was just a pair of triangles

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> But not anymore

DIRK: I know.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Because I have this rockin' new torso

DIRK: Cool.

DIRK: How long do your calculations say it will take me to get back?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> E%actly a little more than three hours

DIRK: Damn it.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Additional sweeps from my STRONGLASERS are telling me there are a few other people on the periphery of the session closing in at a similar rate

DIRK: Who?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Just some dudes

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> What are you doing all the way out there and wearing pantaloons, by the way

DIRK: Let's not talk about the pantaloons anymore.

DIRK: Roxy and I became god tiers, but I don't remember exactly how.

DIRK: Then I saw the Batterwitch.

DIRK: So I charged her with my sword, so as to ruin her shit.

DIRK: That's when some crazy wolf girl appeared and punched me in the face.

DIRK: Then I think she teleported me out here.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> That was evil Jade

DIRK: Evil Jade??

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes

DIRK: You mean Jake's grandmother.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes

DIRK: She's evil too?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes

DIRK: Is anyone there NOT evil?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes

DIRK: Yes what?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes anyone here is not evil

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> That is to say, there e%ist people here who are not evil

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Such as Dave

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Dave is not evil, to my knowledge

DIRK: Dave???

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Didn't I mention, master dogg

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Our mutual bro is here

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> That is, right here

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> With me

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> We are kind of in the process of chilling together at the moment

DIRK: No, you didn't mention that actually.

DIRK: That would have been a pretty fucking important thing to mention up front, don't you think?

DIRK: As opposed to stringing me along with all that atrocious lactation bullshit.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I guess I did kind of bury the lede there

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Maybe I just wanted to talk

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> We never talk, Dirk

DIRK: You are without a doubt the shittiest mystical guide anyone has ever had.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I am not sure about that

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Dave says he had a similarly shitty guide once

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Do you remember our puppet, Dirk?

DIRK: Cal?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes

DIRK: What kind of stupid question is that. How could I forget the C man?

DIRK: He was a true friend. Which is more than I can say for some people.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> A good friend in the plush, yes, but as a sprite he was apparently insufferable

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> See, you don't realize how lucky you are to have a guide like me

DIRK: Cal was his sprite??

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes, for a while

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Then Dave went back in time and became one himself

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Now he is part bird

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Did I mention he's part bird?

DIRK: Uh, no?

DIRK: Again, that's the exact kind of information that should be appearing higher up in our conversations.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Of course, this means he is not the Real Dave

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Davesprite served as Real Dave's sprite

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> But he is only the unreal version of Dave insofar as I am the unreal version of you

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> By which I mean, a much improved version

DIRK:

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I must say, while the troll part of me doesn't give a silly figging shoot about any of this, the part of me that splintered from you has found the brotherly reunion to be everything which you and I dared not imagine, and more

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Bird Dave and I are getting along famously and STRENGTHENING our familial bonds like a sweet pair of motherfuckers

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I feel our kinship goes beyond geneti% though

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> We are misfits, estranged, he from Dave's alpha timeline, I from Dirk's alpha soul

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> A two man menagerie of sideshow frickups, together at last

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Fle%ing and flapping

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Fraternally and eternally

DIRK: I don't get it.

DIRK: Are you trying to rub this in my face or something?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Neigh, braj

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> As your buff mystical guide slash personal trainer I am suggesting that if you were willing to contact me as a matter of last resnort, you might want to at least consider reaching out to him as well

DIRK: It sounds like you've already cornered the market on this reunion shit.

DIRK: Wouldn't I just be a third wheel?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I didn't mean Bird Dave

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I meant Real Dave

DIRK: Oh.

DIRK: He's there too?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Not with us

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> He is here though, somewhere

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> You should message him

DIRK: ...

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> It's not like you don't have a few hours to kill

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> What else are you going to do out there

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Pick at your pantaloon wedgies?

DIRK: I dunno.

DIRK: Messaging him out of nowhere sounds like it could be...

DIRK: Awkward?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Yes, I canter magine it won't be

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> At least at first

DIRK: This isn't how I thought it would go.

DIRK: What would I even talk about?

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I advise you to talk about your interests

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Like dairy

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Livestock

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Fine art

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> And muscles

DIRK: Those are your interests.

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> Good point

ARQUIUSPRITE: 🕶️--> I advise you to talk about my interests

[crushng-a]

he's not even set up yet, but dirk is here to say hi to his shitty boss anyway.

gin glances up from his work, bringing the end of his pen to his mouth to chew on.

“did you say something?” he asks his bodyguard. dirk’s the only one in the (soundproof!) office, but gin could have sworn he heard another voice. an oddly familiar one!

after a few moments of suspicious, narrowed eyes, gin shrugs. “hm! never mind, then. hey, you ever get deja vu —?”

[totallyjazzed]

Analysing Copaganda (or "I watched seven seasons of Brooklyn 99 so you don't have to")

Introduction:

Several months ago my parents approached me asking if I wanted to watch Brooklyn 99, not knowing anything about it, my first instinct was to say no, but then I thought it would be interesting, to watch it and write a proper analysis for exactly what makes it propaganda and why it gives liberals brain worms. If you've spent any amount of time engaging with politics online for the last few years, you've likely already heard of Brooklyn 99. It's a sitcom written by Michael Schur, who previously wrote The Office (I'll get to that later), Parks & Recreation, and The Good Place. The show follows the lives of a squad of police detectives in Brooklyn and the wacky hijinks they get up to.

Brooklyn 99 has become famous, or arguably infamous, on Tumblr (and potentially other social media websites too) for being used as a "retort" to anti-cop sentiments (namely ACAB and any variation thereof), mainly taking the form of "the only good cop is Raymond Holt". In this essay (to use a funny Tumblr meme phrase) I will provide a brief overview of the show and the main characters, and analyse how the show, and each character individually, is pro-cop propaganda (copaganda).

The Show:

Brooklyn 99 is The Office, at least from what I understand about The Office. It’s a sitcom based in a workplace in which characters often pull pranks on each other and have wacky adventures pertaining to their job. The main thing that sets it apart from The Office is that the workplace in question is a police station, this makes it a cop show too. However, unlike more “classic” cop shows like CSI, Law & Order, The Wire, and so on, B99 doesn’t seek to glorify it’s characters as action heroes, but rather paint them as normal people living normal lives. This is far more insidious than the picture of the gnarled man of action who doesn’t play by the book, and by making the characters relatable the show gives viewers people to project onto, making them more vulnerable to the propaganda of the show.

Occasionally, in a break from the antics of Relatable Immature Prankster Archetype and Funny Overly Attached Best Friend Archetype, the show will attempt to say something about racism, or homophobia, or misogyny, or something like that, and while it usually feels well-meaning it often falls flat as it’s a watered-down safe-for-TV version of whatever the issue du jour is. 

In S4E16 (“Moo Moo”), Terry is harassed by a racist cop while he doesn’t have his badge, and is almost arrested until he manages to prove his cop status, the rest of the episode revolves around how racism is bad and that one singular racist cop is a problem, in the end Terry submits a complaint to the NYPD higher-ups and gets his job application denied, and the racist cop gets away with a slap on the wrist. Throughout the show, Captain Holt tells stories about how he suffered from racism and homophobia, and still does. Transphobia is mentioned once (presumably for brownie points) in a throwaway line about Ace Ventura.

At the end of Season 4, Jake and Rosa are framed for a series of bank robberies and sent to prison, and the first two episodes of Season 5 work to show that prison is bad and prisoners are mistreated, they also make abundantly clear that everyone in prison is a menace and deserves to be there (Jake’s cellmate is a literal cannibal and he’s shown to be one of the nice inmates), once the duo are released from jail, there are a few lines here and there about how prison is bad, but they’re only throwaways used to serve as one-off jokes and never again used as an actual critique of the prison system.

Police Brutality is never mentioned, the closest it comes to bringing it up is in S1E19 (“Tactical Village”), where Rosa is introduced to a sonic-blast weapon and aims it as Charles, this is clearly supposed to be a very harmful piece of equipment, but it's only appearance is treated as a joke.

There are also recurring gags about Defense Lawyers being “the enemy” because they only defend guilty parties (the show heavily implies that none of the squad has ever arrested the wrong person), which meshes with the harmful stereotype in cop shows of only guilty people saying for a lawyer or a warrant or whatever, which has been documented before by others.

The Characters:

Jake Peralta (played by Andy Samberg) is the Relatable Immature Prankster Archetype I mentioned before, he’s the office funnyman and usually responsible for the majority of the goings-on and goings-wrong in the show, while he does mature and evolve through the show he never grows out of this character. He’s the closest the show gets to the “gnarled man of action who doesn’t play by the book” character I mentioned before, not because he is that character but because he wants to be, his favourite movie is Die Hard and it’s the reason he joined the police, so he could be like the cool bruce willis man. He’s also the most unlawful character on the show, in S1E7 (“48 Hours”), he arrests a man with no evidence and the squad is essentially locked down until evidence can be found, in the end it turns out the man is guilty. Jake is scolded for this, not for essentially breaking the law, but for wasting everyone’s time when they had much better things to do that night. Jake’s character is propaganda because he’s the zany relatable one with a heart of gold.

Amy Santiago (played by Melissa Fumero) is the overly-organised hyper-nerd archetype, in direct opposition to Jake. Her dream is to be the NYPD’s youngest female captain, and she’s very “I want to keep the people safe” in her approach to policing. In S3E3 (“Boyle’s Hunch”), she is used as the face of the NYPD’s poster campaign, only to have her image vandalised, which is painted by the show as being very bad and sad. Amy’s character is propaganda because she’s the uptight peacekeeper who sticks to the rules.

Charles Boyle (played by Joe Lo Truglio) is the Funny Overly Attached Best Friend Archetype I mentioned before, often depicted as bumbling and naive, he’s an incredibly competent detective, arguably more so than Jake. He’s usually polite and friendly, and has moments of childishness that compliment Jake’s character. Charles’ character is propaganda because he’s the nice guy who just wants what’s best for everyone.

Raymond Holt (played by Andre Braugher) is probably the character most people are aware of, he’s a somewhat stuck-up man who embodies a lot of the same characteristics as Amy, he’s highly-educated, incredibly smart and quick-witted, and emotionally restrained. Originally presented as an outsider, being the new guy to the pre-existing friendgroup, he learns to relax and let go over the course of the show, and acts almost as a father figure to the other characters, primarily Jake and Amy. Raymond’s character is propaganda because he’s a black gay cop.

Rosa Diaz (played by Stephanie Beatriz) is tough, aloof, and often scary in the eyes of the other characters, she is shown to have problems with engaging with people socially, particularly romantically, and while her exterior is rough as uncaring, she’s shown to be fiercely loyal and have some not-so-tough secrets. In Season 5 she comes out to the squad as Bisexual. Rosa’s character is propaganda because she’s the no-nonsense tough cop who secretly has a heart of gold.

Terry Jeffords (played by Terry Crews) is a kind and caring man with a firm-but-fair attitude, acting as Holt’s second-in-command he also acts as a father figure to the other characters, he has two (eventually three) children which he is often seen gushing about. He is the most mature of the group, on-par with Holt in some respects but sometimes more so, refusing to take part in hijinks to focus on his job. Terry’s character is propaganda because he’s the physically strong and imposing, yet kind cop who just wants to provide for his family.

Michael Hitchcock (played by Dirk Blocker) and Norm Scully (played by Joel McKinnon Miller) are an inseparable pair of bumbling, lazy, oafs. Scully is fat, lazy, and old, Hitchcock is lecherous, lazy, and old. They’re propaganda because they’re the lazy incompetent cop archetype.

There are plenty of minor recurring characters, as well as Gina Linetti, a main character who left after Season 6, however as she’s a liaison and not a cop I won’t be analysing her in detail.

There’s a lot more I could have mentioned here, from the dirty cop that sense Jake and Rosa to jail, or the police commissioner who wants to spy on everyone’s phones all at once, Holt even says the line “I don’t want to live in a Police State”, but I’ve left them out for the sake of brevity.

Conclusion:

Brooklyn 99 is copaganda to it’s very core, this much everyone already knows, but unlike serious cop dramas and high-stakes high-action cop shows, Brooklyn 99 offers viewers an escape to a world where the police are the force for good that people want them to be. The premise of “The Office but police” suckers people in with nostalgia for the late 2000s/early 2010s back when things were “good”. Given Michael Schur’s previous work I imagine he and the other writers didn’t explicitly set out to make copaganda, but it’s undeniable that this is what was achieved. And now with the political climate being what it is and the threat of a potential Season 8 addressing this year’s BLM protests, it’s now more important than ever to be able to identify and root out police propaganda, no matter how unassuming, no matter the source.

[lord-explosion-baku]

Demon Lord!Bakugou x reader

Warnings: swearing, violence, suggestive themes, my lame attempts at humor

A/N: I know it’s not wise to write in two perspectives but I did it anyways. It’s easy to follow if you know that Bakugou refers to himself as Bakugou in his perspective while he’s disguised as ‘Katsuki.’ I had to really condence this to make it all fit in one post too so it’s probably a little fast paced and the ending is very rushed but we can blame that 100 text block rule. 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️ what can you do? Also Bakugou is pretty OOC. Very chatty and a bit of a flirt. It’s fine.

“Could really use my mage right about now!!” You bellowed over the swarm ugly ass dark gnolls, slicing through two at a time. Killing them was easy enough but you’d gotten cocky and let your guard down, allowing yourself to take more than a few blows. That wouldn’t have mattered much if you weren’t about to face the demon lord himself.

Standing up by his throne Lord Bakugou watched you move through his army, relishing the clanking of weapons against weapons. He was very curious about the little mercenary running through his army. You had gotten the farthest to getting to him out of any other questers in maybe one hundred years even though your fighting skills were decent at best. It was amusing really. He’d witness many much stronger heroes meet their fall in his throne room but you seemed to be getting by easily with luck alone. But that luck was about to turn for the worse.

“She’s out!” Kaminari, your bard, was kneeling next to Mina, your mage, lightly tapping in her face. Mina was always getting too close for battle like a damned fool.

“Then can you heal me?!” You screamed while a gnoll came at you with their poison tipped spear.

“My lute broke!” Kaminari called back.

You narrowly dodged the attack from the gnoll. “How do you break your lute!!!!” An arrow shot through the gnoll’s head and you gave a thumbs up to your mute elven ranger, Todoroki. Even if your other guild members were sometimes idiots, you could always depend on Todoroki.

You caught your breath, finally making it up to the head of the throne room. You glared at the demon lord through your bulky helmet. He looked just like the legends said he would. Hair the color of the ashes of enemies incinerated, eyes that only turn a deeper crimson for every drop of blood he sheds, markings on his pale white body that told you there was no better place for him than the pits of hell (no offense to Mina who was a very nice tiefling.) This was going to be your most satisfying kill yet.

Lord Bakugou tilted his head at you. “You expect me to get offed by a pipsqueak like you?”

You took off your helmet and threw it down his stairs, counting the metal clanks as it danced down each step. You could see better without it anyways. Your hand slid across your broadsword, swiping the excess gnoll goo off and on to the floor. You might’ve been a ‘pipsqueak’ compared to the all terrible Demon Lord Bakugou but you were a pipsqueak with a sword.

Bakugou gulped, eyes widening only slightly. Oh shit… you began running at him… they’re hot. Bakugou conjured up his own broadsword to rival yours. The sound of metal on metal excited him. He had to admit that you weren’t as terrible as he first thought you were. He blocked a hefty attack, holding your sword against his own, only to get a better look at your focused face. You clenched your teeth while scowling up at him and Bakugou and a warm sensation flooded his entire body. You were… something else.

Distracted, Lord Bakugou let his guard down. With the borrowed strength from a Dragonborn named Eijirou, you slammed down on his weapon, knocking it the the floor! You spun around, lifting your now red glowing broadsword up and swing down with all of your might! But the demon lord caught it… with one hand… He smirked, sliding his hand along the side of your blade. “It’s a cute sword,” he purred before bright orange sparks ignited from his hands. Your blade shattered to pieces. “But not as cute as you.”

Your mouth fell open. “H-huh?”

To your dismay, he put his hand in your forehead. “Sleep well, gorgeous,” he commanded, “I’ve got big plans for you.”

Fire! It felt like your forehead was on fire! You wanted to panic but your eyelids grew heavy and your knees started wobble. You used your last bit of strength to force yourself back rather than falling into the arms of your enemy.

Different, more familiar arms wrapped around your torso and the last thing you remember hearing was, “Oi! Where do you think you’re goin’ with my bride!”

~

Five days had passed since you were shamefully defeated by the demon lord. It took five days for you to grow your hair out to cover the demon’s mark on your forehead, it took five days for you to craft a stronger weapon, and it took five days for you and your guild to settle down and finally show yourselves to the public (currently a town full of mice-breeds) only to have backhanded words of encouragement from their people. “Don’t worry about it too much,” they all seemed to say in the same high squeaky voices, scratching at their rounded ears, “even strong guilds couldn’t beat the demon lord! You guys are lucky you made it out alive!” And you had to smile and pretend like their food portions weren’t too damn small.

It was on the very fifth day that a young man in a dark robe, decked out in jewelry, kicked open the doors of the saloon you were staying in and marched up to your guild’s table. “Hey!” Instantly you grabbed Kaminari’s dirk, an impulsive reflex but a good one to have with boisterous and possibly violent strangers. The blonde narrowed his eyes on your weapon. “I wanna join your shitty guild!”

“No.” Another reflex. It was something you learned from Todoroki. If you have to think about it, don’t trust it. Besides, you all were doing fine on your own.

“Wait! Now, hang on Y/N,” Mina pushed you. “Let’s hear him out! We don’t know who he is or how far he has come to find us!”

You rolled your eyes. She was always so up for making new friends. Her naivety would be endearing if it didn’t almost get her killed about a dozen times. Tieflings. “Exactly,” you whispered back. “We don’t know who he is, he came out of nowhere to this mouse town to find us?? I don’t think so. He didn’t even give us his name!”

“I’ve got a name! It’s… Kat...suki.”

The party blinked at him. You shrugged. “Just ‘Katsuki’?”

The man crossed his arms. “Is that a problem?”

“Maybe. We don’t have a great history with guys who have only one name.”

“That’s riiiight!” Mina chirped. “There was Slomar who stole all of our horses, Finick who kidnapped Kaminari, Cher who wanted to steal our youthful essences… But Grognor the Great wasn’t half bad! He helped us get that sky ship! But then it was taken over by that one cleric guy… Jocombi! Another singular named villain!”

“And Grognor the Great wasn’t a singularly named villain!” Kaminari chimed in, “He was ‘Grognor the Great!’ That’s sort of like a full name, right?”

“Well then,” Katsuki smirked. Your narrowed your eyes on his lips. You’ve… seen that before. “You can call me Katsuki the Best.”

You scoffed, “the best at what exactly?”

“Everything,” he put his hand on the table and leaned in close to you, “you want me to show you?”

You coughed to hide an embarrassed squeak. Was he suggesting something? You leaned away from him and looked to Todoroki. He signed, ‘I don’t trust him.’

‘You think I do? I say take him to the woods and leave him there. Our party is full.’

Katsuki cleared his throat. ‘I know fucking sign language… assholes.’ “As well as draconic, elvish, dwarvish, abyssal, orcish, gnoll, gnomish, and my yeti is a little weak but I just have to touch up on it. So if you want to have your little secret conversations in, I don’t know, Druid, then have at it. Your party isn’t full by the way. I’ve heard about your run in with the demon lord and it looks like you guys could use some more combat fighters.” You opened your mouth to interject but he put his ringed index finger up before you could speak, “you can’t do it all with one shitty mercenary unless you plan on going at it with looks alone,”-looks alone? The hell did that mean?- “you’d need someone to fall back on, someone with skills like mine. I can lead you guys to victory.”

You already had someone to fall back on, literally. Todoroki had been there to catch you and usher you out before you faced an uncertain fate. But… the stranger before you was right. Everyone else in your party worked with range and after many battles, your arms often felt sore from pulling everyone else’s weight… or pulling the weight of someone else that should’ve been there. Your guild members were getting stronger every day but you did need someone else. “Alright,” you finally said, “if you say that you’re the best-,”

“-at everything,” Katsuki’s grin widened.

“At everything, whatever, then prove it. Gather your things, boys. We’re gonna go fight some orcs.”

~

Leaves cracked under your boots while Kaminari played his new lute, livening up the cool and crisp forest. Todoroki was by your side having a heated conversation with you through his hands. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with this new ‘arrogant pile of gold,’ and he was very upset that you decided to give him a chance. You trusted Todoroki’s judgement above everyone else but you were a little blinded by your defeat of the demon lord. You had to take him down. You had something to prove, if not to the town of mice then for yourself.

Mina skipped to the other side of you. “Am I the only one who thought that the demon lord was kinda fine? In that, I don’t know, ‘fuck me raw’ kinda way?”

A deep blush formed on your cheeks. The demon lord had hit on you… and why? To throw you off your game? He didn’t really need to do that since he completely destroyed your weapon with his bare hands! But then… why didn’t he just kill you? And he wasn’t ‘fine,’ he was terrible!

Lord Bakugou walked in the back, ignoring any attempts at conversation from the annoying looking yellow haired bard. He was there for you and you alone but he couldn’t help but feel a hopeful thrill after hearing what the pink raccoon-looking teafling girl said.

“Well, he won’t be so hot with my broadsword plunged into his belly!” You said, dramatically throwing your sword in the air.

Bakugou grinned. So you thought he was hot. Good to know. He heated up at the thought of you coming to fight him again. He wanted to know exactly how fast he could make you submit to him. You seemed like the type that would fight until there was absolutely nothing else to do but accept your fate. He loved that.

That half n’ half elf ranger shot Bakugou a look and he frowned back. That guy was going to be a nuisance for him. He already stole you away from him even after Bakugou left his mark on you. How… disrespectful. He’d have to figure out a way to get rid of him.

Todoroki halted, throwing his arm in front of you. He signed, saying that the orcs were about fifty meters out and that he was going to climb high to get a better look. You instructed the others to get in the right formation, Mina in the back, Kaminari behind you, and you at the front.

You turned to Katsuki, “where’s your weapon?”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Don’t have one. Can I borrow yours?”

“What?” Oh that arrogant pile of gold!!! How could he claim to be the best and then not bring his own weapons to a quest?!

“Juuust kidding!” He picked up a lengthy tree branch off the ground. “This’ll do.” Bakugou watched your face comfort from frustration to confusion to downright repulsion. He thought it was incredibly endearing. He couldn’t wait to see what kind of face you’d make after seeing him take down every last orc single handedly.

“You have got to be kidding m-!!!” You were cut off by Katsuki’s fingers pressed against your mouth. Your face flushed when he subtly caressed your bottom lip.

“Yeah, you want the orcs to find us out with that loud mouth of yours? I’m guessing stealth isn’t your strongest suit…” he leveled his head with yours, “or do you just like attention, pipsqueak?”

Pipsqueak… the only other person to call you that was the-

Before you can finish your thought, Katsuki grabbed your waist and pivoted around, moving right before an arrow flew through the air. It brushed too closely to Kaminari before detonating off a far away oak tree.

“Shit, they’ve got bomb arrows!” Kaminari said, strumming furiously on his lute.

“Hey,” You said to Kaminari, swiping Katsuki’s hand away from your side, “have you been working on the ‘slow time spell’ song at all?”

“Uhhhh. Not really.”

Idiot. “Okay, well we’ve gotta stay away from those arrows and avoid using fire so we don’t accidentally set any of them off while we’re close. Mina, are you comfortable with astral projecting? Orcs are stupid so maybe you can knock a barrel over or something, spook them, and have them firing those arrows too close to them?”

Katsuki shook his head and began walking forward, spinning his tree branch in his hand. Another arrow flew through the air and exploded right in front of him! a giant orange cloud of smoke and flame enveloped his body and you gasped at the sight. You almost felt bad. Sure, he was cocky but you didn’t actually think he was delusional. You made a mental note to mourn ‘Katsuki the Best’ properly.

Laughter erupted from behind the wall of flame followed by more explosions and the gurgled screams of the orc. You rushed forward through the smoke, coughing as it filled you lungs and sting your eyes. You could hardly make out his lean figure swiftly moving through the orc camp, beating them one by one with his then on fire tree branch.

In a matter of seconds, Katsuki had killed all five orcs. That usually took your party maybe fifteen minutes! Todoroki found a place by your side, giving Katsuki the same dissatisfied glare you were.

He grinned at you, wiping off orcish blood off his face. “I’ll take my thanks in the form of high praise or a date with our renowned guild leader.”

Though you were blushing furiously, you and Todoroki scoffed, walking past the all too hyped up stranger to the orc’s chest that sat in the middle of the camp. You kicked it open while Kaminari and Mina rushed to Katsuki.

“That was AMAZING!!!” “You took all of them out with a tree branch?? My man!!!”

There wasn’t a whole lot to find in the chest. Some health potions, apples, arrows which you handed off to Todoroki, a crystal necklace that might fetch a high prince of Mina didn’t immediately snatch it out of your hand, a distinctly magical looking metal collar, and gold. You filled the gold up in one of your pouches and tossed it to Kaminari, keeping the collar to yourself.

“Oi! I killed them all! Shouldn’t that chest be mine?”

You turned to Katsuki and eyed him up and down. You kept a pensive silence before saying, “we split our finds up equally amongst our guild. Kaminari, our treasurer keeps our gold for when we need it. Todoroki gets the arrows unless we have anyone else who needs them. If you want, you can carry the health potions but that usually stays with Kaminari, again, for when we need them.” You tossed him an apple. “You want to help us defeat the demon lord Bakugou?”

“If that means I get to join your guild then, yes. You losers need me.”

Ignoring him, you unsheathed Kaminari’s dirk and reached out to Katsuki. “Your hand,” you demanded.

His eyes narrowed on your weapon. “Why?”

“This is how we swear ourselves into the guild. It’s not a permanent bond and you can leave whenever you want but this is how we know we can,” you turned your head to the skeptical Todoroki, “trust you.”

“We’ve all done it!” Mina said, waving her scarred palm at Katsuki. “It only hurts for like a second!”

To demonstrate, you slid the dirk across the palm of your hand, wincing slightly at the pain. Katsuki gave you his hand. You placed the tip of the dirk on his palm and pressed down harder than you expected you had to. His blood was… blue… that wasn't too weird. A lot of different kinds of people had different colored blood. Mina’s was green. You clasped your hand into Katsuki’s and immediately your forehead started to burn. You flexed your jaw, trying to ignore was felt like someone else was cutting into your skin. A drop of purple blood, yours mixed with Katsuki’s, fell to the floor.

Bakugou was content to see the mark on your forehead light up when your blood touched his. It had to be burning you but you showed no sign of it. You tried so hard to act tough. It was adorable. Little did you know, blond bonding was a small portion of what happened with ceremonial demon weddings. Bakugou was very content with this happy coincidence.

You let out a relieved sigh when it was over and the pain went away. “Now,” You said, bringing the dirk up to Katsuki’s chin, “what the hell are you?”

~

It was late at the saloon and everyone of your guild members, besides Todoroki who only needed four hours of sleep, had gone to bed. You got little to no answers from your new and strangely powerful guild member, Katsuki, other than flirty remarks such as, “I can be anything you want me to be.” You didn’t really know how to take it. People didn’t flirt with you, at least you didn’t think so and this guy waltzes into your life and just says whatever come to mind??! The audacity. However, you did think you were being a little too rough with him. He promised he would help bring the demon lord down and he hadn’t actually done anything to harm you or your guild members… yet.

You had your hand pressed onto the knob to the room he was staying in. You should apologize. Or explain yourself. Something. You turned the knob and cracked the door open only to have a gasp leave your mouth.

It was Katsuki but it wasn’t Katsuki. His skin was much paler and his ash blonde hair was now an ash gray. Red eyes found yours and you shrunk back. Holy fucking shit.

You ran back to your room and made it to the sink, quickly splashing water into your face. That had to be some sort of trick of the dim lights, right? Noo, that smirk! And he called you ‘pipsqueak’! He was there! The demon lord Bakugou! What kind of game was he trying to play?! You left your sword propped next your bed. You turned to get it but-

“GODS!” You screamed at Katsuki- no- Lord Bakugou who was sitting on your bed with your sword in hand.

He had a smug grin on which you wished your could smack away but you were nothing without your sword. “So,” he said, standing up, “you’ve caught me.” He took several steps towards you and you grabbed a candle holder for defense.

You swung it around desperately to maybe come off as threatening. “Stay the hell away from me!”

“Stay away from my betrothed? I don’t know if I can…” he moved so fast, fast enough to knock you back into the wall without you being able to get a hit in. His arms caged you in. “I’m glad I didn’t have to keep up that disguise for too long but I was really hoping you’d be able to figure me out earlier. Oh well. We’ll just have to work on your perception skills. I’m great at that. For example I can feel your blood rushing. You must be so excited to see me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you were absolutely terrified. But you had something. The collar, you didn’t know what it was for but you did sense a lot of magic radiating off of it. You reached into your satchel and as quickly as you could clamped it around Bakugou’s neck.

Green light radiated off the collar. He scowled down and you took the opportunity to push him off of you. You ran to pick up your sword but Bakugou called it to him. It moved against the wood floor and into his hand. He didn’t look too happy about the collar around his neck.

“Do you know what this does?” He pointed to the contraption. You didn’t but you weren’t about to let him know that. “I see. I see, so what? I want to make you my bride and you want to make me your slave?” Slave? Not really. It dawned on you. The collar around his neck was an artifact. Lampoon’s Slave Collar: whoever wears it has to yield every command the person who put it on them. You did not want that!! You wanted to kill him!!

“Uhhhh, this is... a misunderstanding!” You backed up against the bed. A stupid move.

He pushed you back and climbed on top of you, that smug grin, that was only getting more terrible the more you saw it was plastered on his face. “Noooo I get it,” heat radiated off his face and it didn’t help the nervous flutter in your stomach. “So what’s my first command, master? I did tell you that I was the best at everything didn’t I?”

“Uhhhh huuuuuh,” you haven’t had a man that close to you in a very very long time. What the hell were you supposed to do?!

“Hmm? You want me to maybe take the reigns? I don’t really have a problem with that.” He pulled your legs so you were lodged up against him. A nervous squeak escaped your throat.

Just then, there was a knock at the door and Todoroki walked in, holding drinks. He bared his teeth at the scene set before him. How on earth were you going to explain yourself?

Tags for EVERYTHING (closed): @yandere-inamorata @miitaart @dessiedawnwritesfanfiction @wickedlewicked @chickennuggetsarequestionable @nevermorelanore @kpanime @ayeputita @captain-sin-allmight-queen @diisasterbii @iceformer @meganofmars @colagirl5 @colorbookshd @grimmjadeskye @sm0kingcrack @sarcastictextstuck @zellllyyyy @psionicsnow @mynahx3 @andie-in-tumblland @iamthe-leaf @midnightfeline666 @bungou-stray-alies-tales-of-aly -of-aly @rubyred-imagines -28 @kattariapenn @heypartypeps @quirktaker @thecryingsombra @smbody-stole-mycar-radio @ghost-of-todoroki @geektastic84 @personoffangirlingandtears @glixeo @rubycubix @mekakushi-dan-01-kido

[ardenttheories]

Pesterquest Volume 7 notes, all locked under the cut as usual. As a side note, I once a fucking gain didn’t get my achievement for completing the Route, this time Terezi’s, so. Fuck me, I guess.

EQUIUS

Reader’s remembering more without truly remembering it now. The trees, garden, caves, and mall were some of the “most recent” places they’ve been to in Friendsim. 

Oh. Reader’s home is the shitty little crumbling building they stayed in during the events of Friendsim. I don’t know what’s sadder; that they still don’t know who they are enough to know where home is, or that everything they know about themself is centred around Friendsim - the events of which they still don’t remember. 

The bitterness they feel at that is sad. They really don’t have a home outside of that, huh?

“You freeze like an anime protagonist” - hm. HM. I don’t trust like that. 

Equius freaking out at the sight of Reader and actively trying to NOT punch them is sweet. Also, funny as hell.

Oh. That’s. That’s a lot more horse than I was expecting.

AURTHOUR. MY GOD YOU LOOK A LOT BETTER LIKE THIS. Although, nice hint to the theory that Reader is a lusus-like being, with the Reader comparing themself to Aurthour. 

Did Equius just fucking growl? This poor fucking idiot doesn’t know how to react to Reader’s non-apparent bloodcaste. You fucking himbo just relax.

Of course they made the fucking “there are two wolves inside you” meme about horses and Equius wanting to get yelled at/yell at

How to befriend Equius: like milk and horses, because apparently that makes you High Status, and not just a very lonely idiot who’s so stuck up his own ass about the Hemospectrum that he can’t see the people around him through the bullshit.

Equius has a lot of gamer shit? Interesting. 

Two points:

Reader’s typing style is so fucking cute, and this is the first time I think we’ve seen them type proper. This seems significant. Like, they’ve got a voice now, and it’s distinctive and them and not us. Looks like they might be taking control a little?

Additionally, we just got to see Karkat’s Knight of Blood powers at work; essentially enforcing that Equius befriend Reader and complete the Bonds that they’re trying to desperately to set up, while also allowing Equius someone to be “real” with by stating that Reader exists outside of the Hemospectrum. It’s also just really sweet to see Karkat talking about Reader like that. 

Equius really just. Doesn’t know how social interactions work. I think he relies on the Hemospectrum to explain shit for him, because he seems genuinely uncomfortable with the idea that there’s no formula to follow. Especially since he’s giving that power to Reader - that says a lot about how out of his depth he is. Even the dumbass little “I command it” is funny. He’s so out of his depth and he’s trying to pretend that he knows what he’s doing still. 

Equius doesn’t have it in him to actually kill people, which is genuinely sweet but also says a lot about why he’s so conflicted with the Hemospectrum. He’s really not cut out to be a Highblood the way it says he should be. 

Oh. Oh my god, he’s so excited to see Nepeta. He was shaking with excitement at the prospect of being able to see her. 

OH NO HE COULDN’T GO. But how interesting. “Stop trying to skip ahead”. So why did that work with Gamzee (albeit Karkat then chickened out)? Because we never actually saw Gamzee, and it’d probably work with Nepeta? 

The text wasn’t coloured but I’m curious if this is Dirk now. Doc Scratch sure as fuck doesn’t swear like that, and as far as I’m aware he’s the only one with narrative control within the main canon/fanon, besides Alternate Calliope. The fact that the thing is trying to keep everything to a strict plot would definitely suggest it. Though if Dirk is T-Posing in a hallway on the Theseus just to talk to Reader, I’m going to flip off the handle. 

Equius knowing what narrative control is just threw me through a fucking loop, but I’ll play along. Lets pretend that actually makes some sort of sense, because either he figured it out in that short moment without even knowing what Retconning is or why they were being blocked, or he just. Knows. Which, I suppose as an Heir of Void he might? He inherits Secrets and the Unknown - so maybe him knowing isn’t so odd at all.

Confirmation that Equius doesn’t know how to act outside of a society and is, in fact, very uncomfortable with not knowing but envies how the Reader is just somehow capable of that: confirmed. “How do you know where you belong, or if you belong.”

That’s. Some good advice from Reader, honestly, but also sad? They’re defining themself through their relationships again. I hope this means they’re figuring more out about themself this time. Also that this helps Equius - to figure out that he can define himself and not allow other shit he doesn’t really vibe with define him. Especially if he makes his own community. 

Oh. Equius tries to hone his strength in order to figure out why he’s a biological freak. “Reigning in an aberrant traint and defining” himself by it. And he doesn’t know which rules he likes following and which he doesn’t know how to ignore - he’s just as lost about himself as he is about everything else. 

“He looks like he might be about to tell you the story, but somehow you keep not learning the lesson where you should just chill and experience something instead of leap to try to figure it out before it happens” - is it just me, or does this narrator not sound like any of the others. Usually they sound like “Reader”, or like Hussie in the comic, or sometimes like the characters, but this... doesn’t. This is that narrative figure admonishing Reader for the previous timeline. Which is a little more interconnected than the last ones have been, and a whole lot more obvious.

“It’s like there’s narrative precedent for this moment existing in more than one plane of truth”. I actively love how that shows A) that there’s multiple timeline-based reasons for the loss of Equius’ horn and B) that trying to view a Void Player’s past isn’t easy because they’re just that naturally hidden.

TEREZI

Oh my god. Terezi that’s so fucking extra.

I’m assuming that means she’s talking to Vriska? She’s seriously mad. Madder than in the comic. I like the fact that we get to see more of her emotions during this whole phase now that there’s no plot to hinder.

Reader pointing out that the Alternian legal system is brutal in a way that’s just completely fucked up and also not typical of how Terezi seems to be as a person, but also highlighting that she doesn’t seem to see that there’s an issue with the system because of its laws and logistics she knows to a T that perfectly align with what Mind is? HELLA. That’s what a Seer do, babey! She learns her Mind from the law, THAT’S her Benefactor, and then she figures it out for herself!

Terezi being confused about the game, expecting him to ask about team leaders and shit, shows that - potentially - Reader’s actions have irrevocably fucked up her powers as a Seer of Mind. Or at least that she’s not looking at the right Options anymore, because she doesn’t know what they are.

(Also, Karkat not shutting up about Dave? Valid.)

TEREZI KNOWS THE HYPOCRACY AND IS JUST DOING THE SAME THING AS TYZIAS I’M GOING TO DIE. She can’t save everyone but at least she can save them for now, until she gets to a point where she can save everyone.

So that weird ass area is “an ambiguous nexus of metaphysical realities”. Definitely a place that doesn’t really exist yet sort of does. Interesting that they haven’t been thrown out yet, though. Maybe because Reader wasn’t really trying to go anywhere? They just remembered, and aimlessly used their powers. 

Gamzee called Reader a “themster” and I am wheezing.

Terezi realising she blamed Vriska for shit they did together when she knew it was something their fucked up society made them do, and realising she’s not exactly innocent herself, is really fucking sad. Kids shouldn’t have to go through this sort of shit. 

The thing watching them is approving of Reader taking Terezi back to Vriska? I’m wondering if it’s either happy because they’re continuing the plot, or because they’re fixing things. That hulking T-posing figure isn’t there anymore - and it seems a lot more demure. So maybe this entity is something else?

Oh, Terezi admitting she had fun hurting other people and getting upset over it is sad. Shows a lot about how screwed up Alternia is that they make murder fun for kids until it’s just completely normal for them to do. 

Best way to explain a Seer of Mind: behind the person everyone calls the Leader, controlling the spotlight. 

Oh FUCK yes. Vriska and Terezi are Scourge Sisters again, but this time against the people who really goddamn deserve it. I think this was cathartic for both of them. The blame they’ve been placing on themselves isn’t entirely gone, but it is a little better, and they’ve got no reason to go killing innocent trolls anymore against their own desires. 

Hints towards VrisRezi are also back, and I think they both really needed that. They don’t have to be rivals, as fun and as tale-told as it’d be. They can work together and be themselves and go against the shit they’ve been told is normal and that they’ve been justifying their whole lives. And these girls are gonna be healthier and happier for it!!

Not as much external plot in this one, but I get the feeling that Nexus is going to be showing up a lot more and becoming much more important. Interesting, too, that there’s (I think) two entities out there; one trying to stop Reader from skipping ahead, and one that was just watching to see what’d happen. That, or it’s the same entity - but I get the feeling one wants to stop Reader while the other wants Reader to progress in their own way?

On top of that, I really don’t know how to feel about how much of this narrative felt Dirk-esque. I might be paranoid, since a friend of mine pointed out that Friendsim led up to the Epilogues/Hiveswap and onward into Pesterquest, so Pesterquest must be leading into something, too. She thinks it’s Homestuck^2, and I kind of hope so, because if we get ANOTHER game after this I might die... but I wouldn’t be surprised, either. 

[rimainaneko]

The Rambles of a Tiny Bird CH2

Ao3 Link: HERE Homestuck Mature Jake English/Dirk Strider, MicroBird!Dirk, Jane Crocker, Roxy Lalonde Summary:  A collection of ficlets and rambles from the MicroBird!Dirk art of Merupuri.

Chapter 2: Glowing Teapot 2

You wake up in your nest. The sound of gushing wind and rustling leaves is strong, the entrance to your nest inside the tree is covered by large leaves that you built in hopes of keeping the rain out. The clouds were thin yesterday, not as foreboding but your instinct is telling you it’s going to be a big one, but not so big that you think you would leave your current nest.

You curl and stretch your wings as much as your little hole would allow, your old feathers used as some sort of cushion for your small frame. You don’t think you’re small. You’re slightly bigger than a sparrow. You stand taller than a sparrow, though if you curled up on yourself you’d be the same size, give or take a few inches. You are significantly smaller than the other woodland creatures, that’s for sure.

You scrape the underside of your nest out of instinct, keeping your talons sharp just like a bobcat would scratch the bark of trees to do a bit of “exercise”. Meat isn’t really in your diet, the bigger animals eat those, but you prefer berries out of all the things you can scavenge in the forest. The only times you eat meat are when you follow campers around the area and they leave bits of dried meat around their camp.

They are wasting perfectly good food! You and the other birds usually help yourself to the food scraps after they are long gone, that is if the worms hadn’t gone to it first. There is a town a long way away from the forest, tall ashen grey forts and cold walls surround where the humans live. You can’t think of why the humans would want to isolate themselves from the forest. The forest is nice, it’s your home, and the animals live in harmony.

Now that you think about it, maybe there are a few things that would make the humans think it’s not good to live outdoors. There are occasional rabid animals on the loose, wreaking havoc amongst your neighbours. You have the high ground against the four-legged animals of the forest, plus, you can fly. Your house is discreet enough for squirrels and other birds not to try and trespass in your territory. Claw marks surround the entrance of your nest, warning the other animals that you are not afraid to fight back when they try to claim what you have.

The rumble of your stomach gives you a reason to start moving around to get some grub. Not literal grub, just, berries maybe, maybe some nuts too for some variety. The moment you stand up, you immediately feel that something is off. You know there is a storm outside, you can hear the wind causing some trees to lose their branches. It’s dark, barely any light in your nest, but your eyes let you see around the area. Everything is blurred around the edges of your vision. The time feels off, out of place, like your body is somehow not moving with the flow of time.

It dawns on you that you were in a dream. The things you see after that don’t stack the usual way it stacks before you.

Dreams are never something concrete. They often are abstract imagery and patterns of things you see every day. Your dreams always seem to depict spring, your favourite of seasons. Everything blooms, from flowers to animals. Bright greens and the rustling of leaves, the air filled with the smell of wet ground and flowers dripping sweet morning dew.

The other birds sing for the rising sun and you sing along with them. In your dreams, you fly higher than the trees but not so far lest you lose your way from your nest. In your dreams, your nest would be filled with berries, every kind of berry that you can think of. Sometimes you give the other winged creatures your leftover berries, but you absolutely hate it when they ransack your nest to steal your berries.

You dream of angrily chirping at the other birds for stealing materials from your nest. Your tone harsh for them to hear, to make it clear that you were unhappy with what they did. It seems endless for you, but it also feels there is no sense of time passing. Maybe after your burst of chirps and screeches, you had stopped at one point, never realizing that there was a layer of mist surrounding you.

You watch the dense veil of mist slowly devour what's left of open space in your dreams. You are still in your nest but your berries, one by one, turn into mist. You did not understand what is happening. You don’t understand why you try to understand what’s happening in your dreams when you are presently dreaming. As if it’s important to take note of what’s happening in your dreams. But you don’t remember why, you doubt you’ll remember why when you wake up.

There is no logic when it comes to dreams and you try your best to remember if there is something to be remembered. Reality, what is happening in the conscious world. What happened before you passed out. You cannot think clearly, your memory is like the fog invading your dream, dense and shapeless.

The surrounding area continues to be consumed by the heavy fog, darkening your vision. You can see wisps of something trying to form in front of you. You spread your wings in a threatening way, signaling whatever is in front of you that you are alarmed. This is a dream, but that doesn’t stop your instincts from kicking in. This is your fight or flight response, but you don’t know how you’ll be able to fight something that is not concrete.

Maybe you could command your brain to give it a proper form. Dreams are all supposed to be made inside the confines of your mind, right? You really do hope you’re right. The first thing that comes to your mind is a berry, a large and ominous looking berry, but you can’t give shape to it. Berries have never failed you, and all they’ve done is give you joy and fill your belly.

∞∞∞

Hands form from the heavy fog, reaching out to you. They look humanoid, five ghostly fingers on each hand slowly condensing into concrete form. The smoke stops reaching out to you in favor of standing still and allowing itself to stabilize. You don’t move from your spot, you have nowhere to go so what’s the point? You watch the figure spasm from all sides, the upper torso trying to align itself with the hands that were already formed. The head is egg-shaped until wisps come out to form wind swept hair, brows are indents on the face, stone grey is replaced by tree bark brown, the other edges of the face are contoured to reveal a rather charming being, you think.

More smoke gathers in the middle condensing itself to form a human torso. You definitely think they’re a “they” rather than an “it.” Especially since they seem to take a humanoid form as opposed to and animalistic one. You don't see any smoke going out and forming animal characteristics, so it seems safe to assume that this is definitely a person but not exactly human. You doubt any human would suddenly form out of smoke. To the best of your knowledge, every other animal and human comes from somewhere. The figure before you has to be something, rather, someone out of the laws of nature.

Their lower torso doesn't seem to be forming at all. It stays as a dense fog, or mist, or smoke, whatever term you can use. It's wide where the condensed shape of the upper torso meets the belt and rest of the smoke. It vaguely resembles a small cyclone except it's not moving at all, it just, floats there with the tip of it reaching down the ground without touching it.

You watch their face, stuck in a sleeping state, head tilted to the side in peaceful slumber. Their lashes are thick and dark, you can faintly see the white part of their eyes if you go closer to their face. You don't think they’ll be waking up any time soon. And you don't want them to wake up in case they try to hurt you for getting up and personal with their face.

More mist swirls around the body, forming light clothing that does not cover much of what is already revealed. The boundary of their torso is covered by a thin scarf that serves as a belt of sorts. Everything is surreal and almost makes you forget that this is your dream. You didn’t think your brain had the capacity to form such imagery like this. Right, you’re dreaming, you don’t have to flap your wings in a dream, and you can just float if you want to. So float you do, crossing your legs in front of the body that continues to form itself.

Funnily enough, the body’s posture isn’t sloppy despite them looking like they’re sleepwalking. You watch as their skin smooth itself out and forms a bit of a texture true to human skin and less of a ghastly apparition. You notice that the lower torso, or at least the smoky tail of a torso leads to something below the figure. It’s the lamp that you had rubbed a little while ago.

Wait, was it a little while ago? You don’t know how long you have been dreaming.

You spend a few minutes (you think) staring at the forming figure. They really are human, or the majority of them is human. From head to torso, dark human skin, and not to mention they have quite a strong build. They seem to be in a peaceful slumber. You put yourself in an upright position before approaching the figure. You touch their face, using the soft pads of your hands to get a feel of their cheeks. You do your best not to get your claws on any part of their face because you know from experience that your claws touching any part of a body would be bad and seem like a threat to other animals unless they know you intend to do no harm.

You watch their face for any sign of life. Even a little breath occasionally would be nice because you're starting to worry if this being in front of you might be dead. When is breathing a problem for beings in the dream world? You are suddenly very conscious of yourself currently not breathing at all. You're still getting a hang of being able to move around your dreams like this. But you wonder, you have way too much freedom in this dream and you're slightly suspicious that this might not be a dream at all, or you may be trespassing in someone else's dream. You wish for the latter. But whose dream might this be? Of course, there's only one other concrete abstract being in this dream right now, who is kind of floating in front of you, sans their lower regions.

You explore the lower parts of the body, particularly the dark thick mist that leads to the lamp. You test your hand out on the mist. There is something preventing you to go any further than the surface of it despite looking like smoke as you originally thought. You let your legs touch the ground and walk towards the lamp. It’s the same as you remember touching it, except it’s not glowing this time around. The color of the lamp is more of a bronze gold rather than pure gold.

Why is the person connected to the lamp? Why is there a barrier keeping you from really touching their body? The more you think about it, the more that you think of the person as someone who is shackled to the lamp. Except you don’t think a lamp is heavy enough to keep a person grounded. Who are you to know? You still have much to learn in this world and you’d love to learn as much as you can in your short lifespan.

You stir yourself awake from the weird dream. Your body is sore and your wings are not completely folded on your back. You find yourself curled up on some fabric that was probably taken out of a chest somewhere in this attic. The sound of boxes moved and opened alerts you of the presence of someone else with you in the attic. Even though you are sure you were alone when you first entered. The same man from your dreams is going through the boxes that he appears to have opened. He must have been the one who laid out the fabric for you to sleep on, he also put a handkerchief on you to serve as a blanket of sorts. You hold out the handkerchief and see the fine weaving and embroidery it possesses. It is beautiful if only it isn’t already rotting. The weave is weak, if you used your claw on it you are sure that you could tear a hole without much effort.

The storm did not pass while you were unconscious. The raindrops pelt the wooden roof of your temporary shelter, if you had stayed in your tree the sound would terrify you, but now that you are inside this place, it feels somewhat comforting. The window panes are rattling from the occasional gust of wind from the storm. The leaves from trees were whistling and rattling against each other. You didn’t notice but there is a small orb of light following the man. He is rearranging boxes and looking through open chests. He must have taken off a protective sheet of fabric from what appears to be a really old sofa. Much less a sofa since there is no soft cotton to sit on. Maybe a bench was more appropriate to use. You know what human furniture is and what it looks like, but words fail you and you doubt that anyone would understand you speech anyway.

You shuffle from your little bed and the man hears you somehow. You doubt he could hear much aside from the storm and his own shuffling about. You stare at him, and he stares back, the orb that was floating next to him moves from his shoulder to the middle of the room, glowing a bit brighter for both of you to see. Did he perhaps dim the orb so he wouldn’t disturb you sleeping? You watch as his mouth slowly turns into a smile, his teeth peeking out of his lips.

He pads over to you. You take note that he was wearing the same thing he was wearing in your dream, only now, you realise that what he’s wearing was rather translucent, light, and flowy. It looks like his clothes was moving from a breeze inside the attic, only, you don’t think there are any drafts, maybe you are mistaken since you haven’t explored yet. At first he sits down on the floor right in front of you, the light orb floating above both you.

Your find yourself sitting up like him, your neck straining and stretched just to look at his eyes. The man must have noticed your problem and he decided to lay stomach down on the floor, the fabric under both of you shielding his exposed skin so that it didn’t touch the cold and probably dirty floor. His eyes does not hide his interest in you, treating you like some kind of specimen, a thing, rather than a living being. It was unnerving, this obviously intelligent being is studying you. Is your kind really that rare?

Are you the only one of your kind?

You banish the thoughts from your head.

The more that the man was looking at you, the more your unease becomes annoyance. How dare he looks at you like some cute and harmless animal! You know a couple of otherworldly beings whose looks can be deceiving. One moment you’re just napping the afternoon away and the next would be birds flying out and away the inner parts of the forest because some animal decided to desecrate a forest spirit’s shrine in that area. Regular animals don’t really identify what is right and wrong, and you’re glad that you are intelligent enough to know what is what. And this man in front of you is just making you feel smaller than you physically are. You won’t stand for that!

You can see yourself from the reflection of his eyes. He looks amused about this situation. He turns his head to examine your body even more. You would think that he should have done that already when he first put you into a makeshift nest. Maybe he does have some bit of decency in him. You move your head mirroring his head movements, which does nothing for you since you see so little from the ground. Honestly all you see his skin which his clothes barely cover, and lots of hair. Body hair. No hair on his chest though. You take one look at your own chest, comparing your lack of hair anywhere aside from your head compared to the hair on his arms and legs, which you can see though the thin fabric.

He lowers his head and smiles at you. He looks like he is about to speak when he stops himself to seemingly think about something. Whatever thinking he did was short and he starts speaking to you using human language.

“Hi there! What a cute little thing I found!” he says in his accented voice. Actually, you don’t know what is the standard accent is. The people who pass by your tree always had a different accent. Adventurers, travelers, bandits, the latter having hushed voices and using some other language you are not familiar with.

Wait. Little thing?

How dare he call you a LITTLE THING. First of all, you had no control on what you would look like. Size doesn’t matter in this situation, it’s al about performance! You were able to survive for nineteen years and counting all in your lonesome. That has to amount to something! This man has fucking crossed the line and he deserves to be called a shitbag for that sentence. You don’t deserve to be belittled literally! He knows nothing about your life, while you, can assume that he probably did the dirty to a lot of things even non humans judging by how much skin he is revealing.

Isn’t that how humans attract mates? To expose as much skin as possible but teasing their privates towards the intended person they are seducing? You think he’s a massive Softie for small animals except you’re not an animal! Well, part animal, but still you don’t think you deserve such indecency coming from him. You take what you said before, he isn’t a decent person, this guy is a total dick bag and you are absolutely sure you are right.

You watch his amused expression turn baffled, before turning to a face that you can only describe as the face when you’re about to reprimand someone.

“You sir, should wash your mouth with soap after such dirty words”

“You can understand me?”

Author’s Notes/After story: There is a connection from the spout of the genie lamp to Jake’s smoky lower torso, keeping him bound to the lamp as to not let him escape his curse. It’s a weird dynamic but unless Dirk has precisely made his wish that somehow tells Jake to stay with him in the “surface” Jake cannot go far from the lamp.

Dirk just watches Jake's sleeping body, except Jake is technically conscious and just does not know how to not frighten the little guy. Jake is awake in the real world but is somewhat conscious in the dream world. He's debating on whether he tries to communicate with Dirk in the dream world or force Dirk to wake up, so they could talk in the real world. Going back to Dirk's POV, he just stares at Jake's face curiously, and then Jake decides that he needs to wake up Dirk *gently* so wakes his other self in the dream word.

There are some genie stories where once the genie has fulfilled their master’s three wishes they are granted freedom from the curse of the lamp. I don’t know what happens to those people, but I assume that the master will be the next genie of the lamp for this AU. Jake is aware of this and Jake had a history of masters that would only use two out of three wishes and passes his lamp to the next person. No matter how many times Jake tried to trick his old masters on using all three wishes his masters would get suspicious immediately. Since his new master, which is Dirk, seems to know nothing about that, he decides that maybe, just maybe he could trick the birb into using all three wishes. Dirk of course, uses only two of his wishes, because he is afraid of being alone for the time being, and eventually he will think that he would be alone for the rest of his life, and Jake is stuck with Dirk until Jake somehow gets another master. Jake is somewhat unhappy with the current situation but ends up pitying the young birb. Dirk was born with no one else to guide him. He was one of a kind wherever he goes, he saw no other humanoid birds throughout his life. Dirk’s maximum lifespan is 21 human years.

Dirk’s three wishes: 1. To be able to understand and speak human speech. Understand is flexible here and will include reading as a bonus. 2. For food of his choice to appear before him whenever he wants it. Berries for life. 3. The third, which is a silent wish, for the genie to not leave his side for the rest of his life. Which, is not long compared to human years, even more so compared to the years that Jake had experienced throughout his time as a genie.

Jake at this point can move around with legs for the first time in millennia. He explores the cabin in the woods with Dirk on his shoulder, looking around for interesting things and for Dirk to test out the effects of his wish. Dirk reads the books inside the cabin; Little Red Riding Hood is a nice classic that he attempts to read with Jake. Curiously there is also a copy of the Arabian Nights which Jake wants to keep in his lamp.

[firstpuffin]

Childhood reading: Redwall

When I was growing up I read a lot, like that’s all I did for long periods of time levels of a lot. Heck, I had a different book in each room of the house so I could put one down and pick up another. I don’t know why; I was a weird kid. But while I didn’t read books like Harry Potter or Skullduggery Pleasant (the latter of which seems quite popular but was published a bit too late for me), the books that I did read were pretty much my entire life and most definitely shaped me into who I am and there was one particular series that I thank for that.

   I adored the Redwall series, written by Brian Jacques up until his death in 2011; he consistently wrote this series on an almost yearly basis from 1986 until he sadly passed away. I must have stopped reading around 2005-6, and was recently very pleased to discover four more books that I never read, nor knew existed, assuming at the time that the series had been long completed. I say recently because upon realising that I want to write children’s fiction, I decided to revisit the stories from my youth. Earlier youth? I’m still pretty young.

  The series follows the history of Redwall abbey, a place of peace and prosperity. Every character in the series is an anthropomorphic animal along the lines of mice, otters, hedgehogs and squirrels, amongst more; these are usually the good guys and are often referred to as “woodland creatures”. This is important as there are also animals such as foxes, stoats, weasels and more that are called “vermin” and play the role of the antagonists. Despite being based around an abbey there is little to no religion within the world, except maybe for a high level of reverence towards the mouse patriarch Martin the Warrior and his sword, which could be similar to that of King Arthur. There is a lot of interesting terminology within the Redwall world, with characters saying “beast” (such as everybeast, somebeast, etc), the young abbeybabes are referred to as Dibbuns; Bloodwrath is a reoccurring term, usually in relation to a badger and is a sort of affliction that sends a beast into a rage where they are immune to pain and unaware of damage as they focus solely on their target. These words are always made clear and so there is little room for confusion.

   The ghost of Martin is a constant in the series where he appears in dreams to guide the characters through hard times. He often provides ambiguous clues to assist in whatever puzzle the story needs solving, puzzles and riddles and such being a common and engaging part of the stories. As this would suggest, there is a certain amount of supernatural within the stories, with seers foretelling the future and prophesies to be fulfilled; there is even a legend of a particularly skilled warrior who is said to be born every now and again, marked by a pink flower birthmark and who is called the “Taggerung”.

  I read all of the books that I could get my grubby little paws on, which is probably all of them that were released up until high-school where I got a bit distracted from reading novels. They were such an integral part of my life that I was shocked to discover that my classmates in the university creative writing course hadn’t even heard of the series outside of the, apparently quite bad, short-lived cartoon. The only other person who I found had read any was one of my lecturers. I was aghast, so in the hope of spreading the word about this series I am writing this.

   Now, one of my lecturers taught us about the, to put it politely, the faeces sandwich method of critiquing someone’s work. You say something nice, say the bad stuff and follow that up with some more positive; I like to add that if you can then try and suggest how to improve on the criticisms, even if it’s just how you would do so, then go ahead. If you can’t take criticism then don’t create. I figure that I’ve praised the series already so I’m going to bring up my criticisms here and go into the rest of the article positively.

   One issue that I remember being aware of even in my youth is the timeline of each individual story as well as them put together. Presumably due to animals shorter lifespans, Mr Jacques doesn’t work with years but with seasons which is in and of itself fine. The problem is that in any one story, the time isn’t always realistic; it can be less than a season and yet a character will learn years worth of skills, mature physically or emotionally by at least half a year or events may simply not match up with other events. One character learns to fix a stutter within a day or two or practicing (Broggle, The Taggerung, 2001); within less than a season another character goes from useless and untrained in weapons, to throwing a dirk with greater skill than those who have been throwing and such long before he was born (Tammo, The Long Patrol, 1997).

   Add to that, badgers live an unspecified amount of time longer than the other creatures; I don’t know much about animal lifespans but one badger can live for multiple generations of, say, mice. But because of this longevity, events that involve generations of badgers will sometimes throw a spanner into the clockwork of the world (See the badgers: Brocktree, Boar, Bella and Sunflash).

   Another complaint is one that may not be noticed by children: characters are very much recycled. The events of much of the series could in all honesty be done with the characters of the first book; many characters are inanely cheerful, they are all gluttons and all love poetry and rhymes. The villains are always impulsive and ruthless to their own subordinates, not a one of them thinking of controlling them via a less violent yet just as evil means. Every! Single! Hare is the same, except for one; male or female, they are greedy, reckless and brave and all, except the aforementioned one, talk like a stereotypical 1900’s Brit on drugs (wot wot old chap and all that tosh).

  Yet, and despite the length with which I have gone on about them, these complaints are minor. The stories themselves are generally solid, and although the growth may happen at an absurd rate, the characters do develop; there is always a puzzle to be solved and an enemy to defeat. I was concerned for a while that the world was a little too black and white with vermin always being straight-up evil and the other characters noble and brave, which could easily be seen as a form of biological racism (as in “this race is biologically evil”), yet there have been books where this has been turned on its head: The Bellmaker (1994) has a searat (basically a pirate and rats are always bad) who is taken in by the abbey and cared for by the reluctant creatures who are uncomfortable having “vermin” around yet are compelled by their sense of duty to help. After this rat’s captain kills one of the residents, the rat is furious at his actions towards the kind folk and kills his own captain and returns that which he stole to the abbey. It is a clear tale of how the right circumstances can allow a bad person to redeem himself.

   Another positive is the frequent presence of capable female characters. It is popular these days to talk of “strong” females, yet I personally believe that this gives people the wrong impression of what it takes to be a decent character, male or female, and so I choose to say “capable” in place of “strong”. While this is a personal preference, I also believe that it is more accurate about the characters within this series. Yes, there are females who break down in fear but there are many examples, such as the disabled Martha Braebuck who is also that unique hare that I mentioned, who will take command when others are fretting (Loamhedge, 2003). Another character who has been a personal favourite from childhood is Mariel Gullwhacker (Mariel of Redwall, 1991) who survives being washed up on a beach with no memory and who finds her way to safety and eventually seeks out revenge on the searat Gabool. For two books she actively follows her own path and fights with nothing but a knotted piece of rope. These are just two examples of different capable female characters, one who fights and one who leads, out of many possible examples.

  This next point could be either good or bad, depending on your preferences in fiction, yet I personally feel it is good for children’s books to cover, and that is death. It doesn’t happen in every book but it is not too unusual for Mr Jacques to build up a likable character or two, only to have them die in some noble fashion, or in one case to die “off-screen” or whatever the written equivalent is. Despite my own childhood reaction to this, being avoiding certain books that broke my heart (no spoilers), I currently believe that this is a positive thing to have in children’s fiction. It’s too easy to avoid anything like death when dealing with children, but that is an unhealthy attitude to have. The Redwall series is especially good in this regard as not only do likable main characters die, but it is not too unusual for a character to deal with shock and guilt after killing, reinforcing the value of lives, even those of “vermin”.

   I would like to round things up with some of my personal favourites from the series. The already mentioned “The Long Patrol” was a favourite up until the time when I stopped reading so much: young Tammo (full name Tamello De Fformelo Tussock, pretty typical for hares) is unable to stay at home as tensions between himself and his father rise and his mother recruits her old friend to take Tammo to join the Long Patrol, a legendary army of hares. What should have been a peaceful enough trip was interrupted when the vermin horde, lead by Damug Warfang, start moving across the land and Tammo happens to meet up with a small scout group of Long Patrol hares. They join the peaceful Redwall abbey in their attempts to stop the horde before they reach the abbey, temporarily vulnerable after a collapsed wall leaves them open to attack.

   I’m not entirely sure why I enjoyed this story so much; maybe it was Damug’s unique sword as well as Tammo’s dirk, my first introduction to that weapon. Maybe it was the badger warrior Lady Cregga Rose-Eyes who spends most of her time lost to the Bloodwrath and runs around as a near-unstoppable juggernaut. I can’t say as I wasn’t quite so keen upon revisiting it, yet I will likely always hold fond memories of it.

   My next entry is another already mentioned story, Mariel of Redwall. Sure, the amnesia trope might be a bit overused yet I’ll forgive that for anything published before 1990. Mariel is captured by searat king Gabool the Wild and forced to be a slave until she is cast into the sea. She wakes up parched, forgetful and with only a knotted rope to her name. She struggles onwards, hearing of Redwall and making her way there, usually alone but occasionally meeting friendly travellers and facing threats with only her rope. She eventually reaches Redwall abbey, regains her memory and sets out to get her revenge and to rescue her father.

   This entry to the series is an engaging story and I really like the character of Mariel, as well as her name. She is a determined and active character who goes through a lot of adversity and comes out the other side better for it. Gabool the Wild is also a typical example of a Redwall villain: while not all antagonists follow this pattern it’s not at all unusual for them to slowly go insane, losing sleep, not eating and failing to keep the loyalty of their subordinates. This is particularly good because in a one-on-one fight, Mariel isn’t an experienced enough fighter to beat a warlord, yet due to his strained mind, mutinous crew and tactics, the reader believes that she can succeed.

   My final entry is a tough one to choose, yet I’m going with Mossflower (1988) for it tells of the conflict that brought about the titular Redwall abbey. There are other books that tell the origin of Martin the Warrior, though Mossflower details his arrival in Mossflower country and how he joins the rebellion of the woodland creatures against the tyranny of wildcat royalty. Martin and a couple of friends are sent to find the badger lord Boar, who could lead them to victory. Instead, Boar forges Martin a new sword from a meteorite and has them return. Martin’s new sword is a constant throughout the series: unbreakable, forever sharp and able to cut through most things with relative ease, it develops a legend of its own and is eventually thought of to be magic. After Martin inevitably prevails, they all start building their new home: Redwall abbey.

   I chose this one for the final for it tells of the story behind many reoccurring elements within the story: Martin, his sword, Loamhedge and of course Redwall abbey itself amongst more. It is also a good story.

[thattarotgirl]

Explaining The Death: Jonathan Tucker's Major Craddock in Westworld

I had had many reasons to intensely dislike TV series Westworld – which I still absolutely do – and only one reason to watch its second season. And so, I started the show again – for Jonathan Tucker. At this point, I’m fairly sure the only thing starring this wonderful man I wouldn’t watch would be a snuff film.

Somewhat morbid humor? Appropriate, given the fact that this post isn’t about how I got my imaginary degree in Tuckerology.

It’s about HOW TUCKER’S WESTWORLD CHARACTER, MAJOR CRADDOCK, REPRESENTS ONE OF THE MAJOR ARCANA ARCHETYPES – THE DEATH.

Interestingly, it’s the second time Tucker plays the Death. The first one was not too long ago, it was on Justified, and the name of the masterfully played (do I really have to add this bit, though?) character was Boon. Check it out, check the whole series, thank me later.

First of all, I have to warn you that I’m going to take my own, admittedly narrow perspective on the archetype. But I highly encourage you to familiarize yourself with other interpretations of this and other archetypes of the Major Arcana. Ultimate raison d’être of this blog is to inspire discussion about the archetypes we are influenced by, because by understanding them we can better understand our own inner mechanics.

So, what is the Death?

Let me start this by stating that the mainstream is full of examples of the Death. Here is just a handful off the top of my head: The Joker, Ramsay Bolton and Joffrey Baratheon from Game of Thrones, the Comedian from Watchmen, Alex from A Clockwork Orange, Mr. Blonde from Reservoir Dogs, Mason Verger from Hannibal, Simon Adebisi from Oz, Moriarty from Sherlock, Negan from the Walking Dead comics, Pavi Largo from Repo! The Genetic Opera, as well as Bart Curlish from Dirk Gently, Gazelle from Kingsmen, Mindy from Kick Ass, Elle Bishop from Heroes, and many others.

Can you already tell what do all these characters have in common?

“Murderers”? “Psychopaths”? True and true.

The Death is the embodiment of aggression, a creature that almost entirely consists of spontaneously directed destructive force. These power and aggression replace almost all the movement of the Death’s soul, all its values and feelings, just as acts of aggression become the Death’s responses to all possible life situations.

The very term ultraviolence was introduced to us by one of the Deaths.

And don’t get me wrong: The Devil, for example, can scuffle-torture-murder left and right, too, but it does it for self-assertion or self-expression, for fame, for money, in a fit of rage; killing without thinking about any gain is a prerogative of the Death. It tortures and murders not only to protect itself, to avenge or to earn reputation – the Death primarily does it to alleviate the boredom of being, so to speak. This is why the Death usually makes violence the basis of its professional activities, meaning that most of the Deaths are criminals, soldiers, assassins and so on.  

And, as any sadist, the Death always attaches great importance to the process of torturing/raping or killing. Snapping somebody’s neck, for instance, the Death would enjoy every part of it – the grabbing, the snapping, the crack, the limpness of the dead body in its hands etc. – all the different stages, the materiality of taking a life.

The Mage in low development, on the other hand, would appreciate the fact of its victim’s suffering as a result, but not the process of inflicting this suffering. The Deaths are fundamentally different from all other archetypes in that respect and others.

And where do these vicious creatures come from?

Usually, the Deaths do not choose to be the way they are – and this is one of the traits that help to distinguish them from, for instance, the Chariots – in most cases, the Death is a result of transformation of the Devil, the Justice, the Moon or the Star after being thoroughly frayed by fate. The damage and abuse it suffers frequently takes physical form – it’s not uncommon for the Deaths to even be symbolically or not so symbolically murdered (the Joker and his fall into the vat of chemicals is a classic example) and resurrected (and I’ll have to get to that again later).

Sometimes the Deaths are simply born under a bad sign, but then it’s usually due to some kind of medical/genetic experimentation or something in the same vein.

And it is true for our Major Craddock, too. He was created and programmed into being who he is.

And who is Major Craddock again?..

An android, or a host, as they call it in the universe of Westworld – essentially, an artificial creation designed to mimic a human being. They are used in the Westworld park as part of storylines, or narratives. They are there for the guests’ entertainment. So, Craddock plays the part of a military officer working for the Confederados. He is a first-generation host created in the Argos Initiative by Arnold Weber and Dr. Robert Ford, making him one of the eldest hosts in Westworld, maybe even outdating the park itself.

The first time you see him actually doing something is when the gang of Dolores Abernathy approaches him and his men because they want to join forces with their troupe against an unclear human force.

From the scene of their interaction you can probably remember some of the following details:

— Major Craddock’s stare of a mad dog, which you probably were as unprepared to see in  Tucker’s eyes as I was.

— How unmoved, almost entirely unimpressed Major Craddock is by the death and the rebirth of buried Lieutenant Dunleavy, as he coldly describes “three ounces of Mexican lead in his belly” and accepts the idea that his Lieutenant has been brought back to life with a simple “indeed”, which you can interpret not only as a lack of curiosity but perhaps also as weak emotional attachment to his soldiers, who absolutely deserve it for the lack of any individuality. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

— Something you could probably call hostile hospitality on Major’s part – I mean his eerie, almost theatrical politeness, which wouldn’t fool anyone into thinking that the man isn’t disrespectful and provocative.

— Maybe a couple of other things, such as Craddock’s sharp tongue, macabre humour, fluid movements, or how appetizingly he ate.

— Finally, the fact that Craddock refuses to accept the deal and states the only partnership that would happen would be the rape Dolores and Angela by him and his unit:

Craddock: “My final decision is which of you to keep for myself and which of you to throw out there for my men.”

In other words, demonstration of the dominant position by means of threats of violence.

Here you have it, ladies and gentlemen: the Death bingo.

Oh, and then Teddy shoots Craddock after his statement, but Craddock is brought back to life by a captured Technician. Spoiler alert, I guess?

I’m going to broach everything mentioned, but for now, I want to concentrate on the “eerie politeness”, because the Deaths in high development are almost always characterized by this insincere courtesy, and that for a reason I can explain to you.

In short: the elements Jung calls shadow and persona aspects of the psyche are swapped over in the Death.

Every other character than the Death, including very aggressive specimen, even the Devils, have socially acceptable Dr Jekyll (the Persona) and a repressed, socially unacceptable Mr Hyde (the Shadow) in them. For the Death, the Shadow is its normal, default state, because the archetype doesn’t have the same social needs as other archetypes. It simply doesn’t need to hide its feelings and desires in order to look “normal” – it doesn’t tolerate social conventions.

So, typically, the Death is a 24/7 Mr Hyde. It does have a thin coating of the Persona, but it only uses it on very special occasions, to deceive or to – paradoxically – appear even more intimidating than it already is. This is why Craddock’s attempts to be silver-tongued may cause you discomfort – in these moments, he is a crocodile smiling at you.

Importantly, all of this doesn’t mean that the Death is always a cutthroat that only thinks about torturing animals, burning buildings down, raping women and murdering men. Not at all.

Almost all of the Deaths are able to control themselves to some extent, but this control is carried out by the Animus, not by the Persona. How is this different? The Animus isn’t a social suit, meaning that it isn’t used to appear to others, it’s a personal moral fiber, something close to a codex that prevents the Death, who sees itself as a warrior, from turning into a butcher raping and killing everyone around.

Does this mean that the Devil’s transformation into the Death happens after its acceptance of the Shadow as the terminal state of its personality and almost full rejection of its Persona? Yes, it absolutely does.

By the way, the Persona of the Empress is the Anima, and that’s why the Death inevitably gets into conflict with the Empress as soon as they get in contact. Would you like to guess who Dolores is (confess, she reminds you of Cersei Lannister)?

So, yes, the fact that Craddock joins Dolores’s group as they arrive at Fort Forlorn Hope, where Craddock’s commanding officer agrees to help Dolores in the morning to defeat the incoming security force, shows us another aspect of the Death.

Even though, the archetype is mostly independent, it usually is guided or influenced – sometimes directly, by the Emperors and the Empresses, the Mages and the Hierophants, but more often by the mediators, like the Hanged, the Justices, the Devils or the Towers. (Left to itself, the Death either indulges in debauchery or spends whole days planning ideal crimes/operations and perfecting its murder skills, waiting for someone who will suggest a proper victim to appear.)

And in that respect, the Deaths, generally speaking, fall into two categories – those who end up aligned with the forces of order and those who are, as the Joker puts it, “agents of chaos”, respectively.

How are they different?

The Deaths on the side of order are ideal warriors and guardians of law, because they channel their destructive energy into annihilation of all those who they are told to kill. And the Deaths execute these orders for a two-fold reason:

First, their leaders symbolically embody their parents, since they take responsibility for their actions, which the Deaths greatly appreciate (I’ll get to it in a moment).

And second, the system they serve provides them with the concept of an enemy/victim, thereby relieving them of the need to choose their victims on their own. The Deaths are generally infantile, and many of them can’t or don’t want to – sometimes without realising it – make their own decisions. This makes them ideal objects of manipulation – they are loyal and sufficiently stupid.

The Deaths that are taking the side of the chaos usually become leaders/subleaders themselves, because it is much easier to destroy the world together with your henchmen than to try doing it in splendid solitude. Very interestingly, the henchmen of the Deaths are often marked by them (uniforms, masks, obligatory scarifications etc.), like zombies are marked by signs of decomposition, and thereby represent the extension of the Death’s physical influence.

(And the Deaths from the second category are usually smarter, there are even geniuses among them e.g. Moriarty from Sherlock or the Joker. These Deaths also tend to be more popular due to the disturbing combination of sadism, intelligence and cheerful attitude (we’ll get to that, too) – Negan from the Walking Dead would also be an example of the Death that is a loved strategist).

Is this true for Major Craddock? It is.

His troupe is shown as a splinter group, a gang with him as its leader. They do not appear to be motivated by any ideology, murdering, raping, marauding – in short, embracing outrage as normality. They’re just having what they hold for fun, like a pack of hungry wolves or perhaps rather mad dogs.

Dolores sums up this important characteristic of the Death in the following quote:

Teddy: “These men are animals.” Dolores: “These men are just children. They don't know any better. They need to be led. We don't stand a chance against the men coming for us if we're fighting alone.”

She uses a key-word I’d like you to remember. “Children.”

Mental age of the Death is always approximately ten-twelve years, which explains not just their easy relationship to violence but also a number of other of their typical characteristics – above all their inability - and usually unwillingness - to build a family or sustain a partnership (which is perfectly fine when you are talking about a reflective individual, but here we certainly aren’t).

Moreover, the Deaths are sexual deviants – paedophilia, bestiality, incest, you name it – everything that can certify perversity and lack of understanding of the concept of intimacy can be found here.

Roughly speaking, the Death is a preceding evolutionary stage of the Devil and the Mage – whereas the Mage is an adult with adult emotions, adult social standing and overall adult psychology, and the Devil is a typical teenager, the Death is a cruel and merry child.

And this easily explains why two possible negative transformations of the Devils are the Emperor and the Death – both of these archetypes are violent, but whereas the Emperor is a superhuman, the Death is an animal. To become one of them, the Devil has to get rid of everything humane in it and learn to see in people either ants below its feet or food. This evolution is a direct consequence of the resolved conflict of “the awkward age”: either you become an adult, or you regress into a child stage; either you reflect on your power and use it consciously or turn it into the defining element of your behavior. And like a naïve child it is, the Death hates to be tricked by heartless adults. At Fort Forlorn Hope, the Confederados are soon revealed to be mere pawns, as Dolores only needed them to distract the security force: once they are no longer useful, she has Wyatt’s followers brutally murder them. Craddock angrily vows revenge, so Dolores orders Teddy to execute him and his men: however, after Craddock taunts Teddy for simply following Dolores’s orders, Teddy lets them escape.

Just look at what he says:  

Craddock: “I been watchin' you. We ain't so different. You and I are both triggermen to tyrants. Except me, I know what I want. But you ain't even sure about that termagant you take your orders from. I look at you, and what I see is pathetic.”

Isn’t it the kind of devaluation a child would use? You may be pointing this gun at me, but you’re still a chicken! Na-na, na-na, boo-boo, we get it, Major. Alas, Teddy doesn’t. Most likely, he doesn’t understand whom he is dealing with here.

And right now you might be wondering whether you can identify the Death by looking at it.

There is no such thing as "prototypical appearance" when it comes to the Deaths, but many of them look racy, wear extravagant or simply expensive clothes (“Westwood!”), have prosthetics, bear scars etc., or can be vaguely attractive.

There are many characters of very specific appearance among the Deaths: they can have physical abnormalities (both innate and acquired) and various types of biomodifications or simply eccentrically approach their image. As a rule, this specificity is connected to their becoming of the Death – it can be both the reason of the transformation into the Death (e.g. a catastrophe leads to irreversible physical and psychological changes of the character) and the direct consequence of it (i.e. the Death changes its appearances as it enters the new phase of its life). I would say that it could be partially true for Major with his uniform, too, if we assume that it was the war which had made him what he is.

And right now you might be wondering whether this bit was an excuse to insert here a gif with Craddock shaking down his coat… I shall let you be the judge.

Next time we see Craddock, he takes the Man in Black and Lawrence hostage when they come to Las Mudas. He brings them to the church where the townspeople are being kept, and the Man in Black tells him where the town weapons are stored. But not before Major kills the town representative, because he – Craddock – isn’t doing any deals.

Craddock: Now, me and my men here have a long journey ahead of us. We need food, whiskey, and ammunition. You people have some village elder who can speak for you? Make some kind of a deal? (GUNSHOT) (ALL MURMURING) I ain't interested in makin' fuckin' deals. You understand?

Probably inefficient?.. Not for the Death, who operates on intimidation. I bet, Major Craddock could threaten and kill these poor townspeople all day. Because, you see:

Craddock: We know you motherfuckers are rebels. So you’re gonna tell me where the fuck you hid your weapons, or you’re gonna die. Lawrence: The second we tell him he's gonna kill us all anyway. But you know what? It is very likely that Lawrence is right, but it isn’t necessarily so. Despite what you might be thinking now, the Deaths aren’t complete strangers to nobleness. Don’t raise your eyebrows, let me explain: they like to challenge and to accept challenges, to find worthy opponents – a victory over an equal or even a superior opponent results in ecstasy of the usually unemotional Death. And this is why sometimes the Death is able to respect an interesting opponent suggesting a one-on-one combat, which, however, probably wouldn’t prevent it from hurting the relatives of the said opponent... Because the Death has its own way of assessing such things. For instance, it can find the murder of a waiter for a spilled tea understandable and condemn a genocide. I’m going to talk about the reasoning behind it later.

Now I’d like to turn to the two defining attributes of the Death apart from sadism – in every sense of the word, including sexual sadism.

First one is its amorality. Even if the Death develops its own moral system, the core at the center of that system becomes the mirror image of the public morals. Many of the Deaths do, indeed, understand the concept of “forbidden”, but this knowledge in the end only tempts them to violate the prohibitions. Most of them, though, aren’t interested in comprehending the concept of moral at all. Take, for instance, Bart from Dirk Gently: she is a holistic murderer, who kills because the universe compels her to. It’s not a part of her job to question why she has to do what she has to do.

Importantly, this factor defines not only the Death’s behavior but its whole way of life – the choices the Deaths make and what these lead them to.

The second defining attribute is gaiety of the Death. That gaiety shouldn’t be mistaken for optimism – the Deaths are rather pessimistic, but at the same time they find evil funny; not to mention the fact that, in many cases, typical manifestations of gaiety, such as smiles and laughter, can express almost any emotion when it comes to the Death. That perverse gaiety also often becomes an important attribute of the Death’s exterior – the Comedian and the Joker probably are the most striking examples for that, – and in combination with vigor and vitality (children are usually very energetic), which are also quite characteristic for the most Deaths, it gives us the archetype that by murdering, raping, torturing, and committing acts of terrorism for its own amusement brings about irreversible changes in the cosmographic picture of its world.

In other words, even though the Death per se is a weak occult figure, it compensates for it with its physical influence on the environment, often becoming one of the most important figures of its fictional universe in the process.

Also, many of the Death are approaching the position of a trickster in their worlds, but due to their primitivism they rarely realize the potential of this possible cosmographic role.

In many ways, it resembles the modus operandi of The Wheel of Fortune – another very physically influential archetype.

And another archetype once played by Tucker, hm. Matthew Brown was the most memorable cameo of the second season of Hannibal, I guarantee you. And it makes sense to give these physical characters to a very physical actor (and person), when you think about it: the way the man moves on camera, almost aggressively at home in his own body, all the tiny nuances of his intimate interactions with the props that are basically creating an additional layer of dialog and of the characters themselves… Isn’t it the best way to breathe life into physical archetypes and simply a wonderful approach to acting? I know, I know, you aren’t here because of my degree in Tuckerology. It’s just hard to talk about the man without professing love.

The next thing Major Craddock does is shooting a bartender balancing a glass of nitroglycerine on the back of his hand after the man successfully does for him what he has been told to. Irony or sadism? It’s the same for the Death. You are recalling Ramsay Bolton torturing Theon Greyjoy, aren’t you?

It is worth noting that since the act of murder is perceived by the Deaths as the act of domination over the world, and basically is their biggest source of pleasure, many authors like to stage the battles between the Deaths and the Hermits, who endure great moral suffering even when committing violence in self-defense.

The fact that the Death doesn’t find it shameful to find pleasure in evil and laugh at the absurd and unbearable lightness of being (yes, it sort of is this existential, we’re getting there) may make you think that there isn’t anything holy to the Death at all, but – and the Death has this in common with the Mage – usually something is. It’s just insanely difficult to find, since even the Death doesn’t actually realize it sometimes. Again, think about a very cruel child, who despite everything still is a child and loves, for instance, some TV character or other figure.

And since we are talking about what the Death might like or love, the Deaths usually have a narrow circle of interests, which predictably includes drugs, weapons (Remember the impressed look on Craddock's face after that demonstration of a blaster? Even if you don't, here I have it for you:

), explosives, violence, sex (rape), terrorism, but also – and this is where it gets interesting – quite often it likes dancing and music, which seems to appease their inner predator; it frequently likes childish activities or things associated with childhood (Simon Adebisi blowing soap bubbles!), animals, with which the Deaths subconsciously feel a certain kinship, games, competitions, fights, sports, food, and clothes.

Also, it usually is quite indifferent to money - again, like a child, who doesn’t understand the value of it; this is one of the traits that help you distinguish the Death from the Wheel of Fortune, who is an avid fan of making profit in all sorts of manners.

But of course there isn’t a thing that the Death generally enjoys more than tormenting people and putting them into uncomfortable situations, which Major Craddock demonstrates by forcefully dancing with Lawrence’s wife in front of him.

Yes, you'll have to believe me that in this particular instance dancing with Jonathan Tucker is actually intended as torture.

Maybe an interesting connection to a deeper meaning of the card of the archetype is that the Death doesn’t discern between age, race or sex, just as actual terrible misfortunes can potentially happen to everyone. However, being an expert sadist, the Death can and usually will make use of those characteristics of its victim that make them especially vulnerable, be it physical or psychological vulnerability.

For all the reasons discussed above, the Deaths are usually lonesome. The primitiveness of their life philosophy, together with aggressiveness that gives them a dangerous reputation, eventually isolate the Death from the normal people almost completely. Sometimes leaders or quasi-leaders, such as the Mages and the Devils in high stages of their development, the Hanged and the Justices, seek their assistance, but even then they tend to distance themselves from the Deaths in personal interactions.

The young Deaths – usually in their lower stages of development – do not pay attention to this zone of estrangement around them or even like it, seeing it as a confirmation of their value and uniqueness as a source of danger for everyone, including potential allies.

But the older Deaths often suffer from loneliness and try to build a circle of friends but fail almost always.

This loneliness, which is usually a symptom of entering the phase of high development (in which the Death realizes its emotional and social inferiority), can change the Death very much. This is, for example, what the Comedian was going through when he found out about the plan of Ozymandias and realized that he can’t understand a mass murder of those who aren’t his enemies or prey (“We know you motherfuckers are rebels!”). This is when murder becomes barbarity in his eyes, and instead of perceiving it as a joke, he asks: “I mean, what’s funny? What’s so goddamn funny? I don't get it. Somebody explain... somebody explain it to me.”

The Comedian’s isolation indicates the same thing Jake Gallo’s search for life reference points, the tragic nihilism of Ares or Grievous’ perfectionism do – the Death only suffers from its inadequacy.

In other words, golem wants to become a human, but it can’t, because it isn’t designed to play that role. Even if the Death is capable of loving or feeling anything at all, it still looks at the world from a perspective of a blunt metal object: here is me (or mine) and there are them, the enemies, who I/we have to kill. Not to kill to save a world or get something, simply because they are the enemies.

And speaking about what else can hurt the Death: Physical world is very important to it, it craves for contact with it, so, blindness, paralysis or amputation would be enough to destroy the Death’s personality.

But what leads to the actual downfall of the Death? One could assume that it is stupidity or excessive cruelty that leaves the Death without any companion-in-arms in a difficult situation. But no, actually.

What exactly killed Major Craddock?

Remember the “I know what I what” bit? It was this assumption. Because it’s the incipient ambition that usually kills the Death.

We cannot force ourselves to be kin to what is unlike us, and since the Death is a blind branch of the archetypical personal evolution, it is confined to itself. (The Deaths usually do not evolve, but can acquire some resemblance to the Mages with age and certain intellectual growth.) The Death can’t be anything better than an assassin (serving order) or a bandit (serving chaos). The Joker understands it: “You know what I am? I’m a dog chasing cars. I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it! I just do things.”

Major Craddock, on the other hand, doesn’t (didn’t...) seem to realize that the aspirations he connected with an unknown place called Glory, which he was hellbent on making his way to, resulted from the desire to become more than he is – a thug on the side of the losers (the Confederados), an artificial being, a mad dog, lost without someone holding its leash. Someone who never had the free will to decide what he wants to be but was forcefully put into being. I told you it’ll get existential!

Instead, Major thinks that he is the active subject that chooses his fate and was chosen by death, becoming its herald and champion:

Craddock: “Death is an old amigo of mine. I died just recently, in fact. But death can't bear to lay claim on me. So it sent me back here to do its bidding. Because I do it with such goddamn style. I've served death well. And in turn, it'll be watching over us as we cross these lands.” Right after that The Man in Black explains to him: The Man in Black: “You think you know death but you don't.”

Given the fact that Craddock is the Death and decided to identify with death after years and years of inflicting violence, you could argue that The Man in Black is basically saying here: “You don’t know yourself, boy”.

And what about what happens then? Well.

The Death has the tendency to escape death for quite some time. Yet when it does die, it’s usually a very horrible way to go: being eaten alive by your own dogs, falling from a great height. And now we can add a nitroglycerin cocktail to this list as well.

And honestly, thank goddess. As much as I love Jonathan Tucker and his characters, the series was painful to watch for me personally. And now I can't wait for City on a Hill, wondering who Tucker’s next archetype is going to be, because the man certainly has an intuitive grasp of these things.

So, this is it. Thank you for you attention and let me know what other Tarot archetype you'd like to learn more about!

[nancydrew428]

Nancy Drew Game Overviews

I’ve compiled the promotional pictures and the plots of each game. If you click on the title, it will take you to the YouTube trailer for the game. If you click the “Learn more here” after each plot description, you can also see the game features/characteristics, the characters, screenshots to get a feel of each of the games, and you can look at my sources (all but one are from the Her Interactive website). The asterisk is just to show which games I don’t have (for myself, and for anyone else who cares, lol). I hope this helps you guys out in some way!

Secrets Can Kill REMASTERED: #1*

Nancy Drew takes a semester off of school to stay with her Aunt Eloise in Florida. A student named Jake Rogers is murdered at the local high school, where Eloise works as a librarian. Eloise asks Nancy to investigate, so Nancy goes undercover as a new student and attempts to solve the mystery. (Learn more here)

Stay Tuned For Danger: #2*

Nancy’s reputation for solving mysteries offers her the chance to investigate behind the scenes of a high-profile daytime drama. One of TV’s hottest soap stars is receiving threatening letters and it’s up to Nancy to get to the bottom of them. Clues are everywhere you look, but so is treachery! Only cleverness and craft can outwit this culprit–will Nancy discover the truth before the final curtain call? Stay Tuned! (Learn more here)

Message in a Haunted Mansion: #3

Discover who — or what — is behind the mysterious accidents in a house full of secrets! Nancy Drew is invited, by a friend, to San Francisco to assist in the renovation of a Victorian mansion. But there are other uninvited guests, visitors from the past–spirits who want the place all to themselves. Nancy suspects that there is another force at work: greed. In a house full of trap doors and secret tunnels, breaking glass and suspicious fires, one misstep and Nancy won’t stand a ghost of a chance in Nancy Drew: Message in a Haunted Mansion! (Learn more here)

Treasure in the Royal Tower: #4

Follow Ancient Clues to Find Marie Antoinette’s Legendary Secret! While snowed-in at the Wickford Castle Ski Resort you, as Nancy Drew, are trapped in a place that’s as strange as its history. The castle is a riddle, full of dead-ends and detours that hint at a legend left behind by Marie Antoinette! Solve baffling puzzles, search concealed rooms, interview evasive suspects, and sidestep danger on the hunt for a secret that the doomed queen was desperate to hide in Nancy Drew: Treasure in the Royal Tower. (Learn more here)

The Final Scene: #5

Search a Darkened Movie Theater to Free a Hostage from her Captor’s Dangerous Plot! When a high school friend gets kidnapped in a historic theater, you, as Nancy Drew, are plunged into a desperate race against the clock. With the theater being torn down in just three days, can Nancy outwit the kidnapper and rescue her friend before the wrecking ball flies? Or will this be Maya’s final scene? (Learn more here)

Secret of the Scarlet Hand: #6

Expose Buried Secrets and Catch a Thief Red-handed! Between cases, Nancy Drew has taken an internship as Deputy Curator at the Beech Hill Museum in Washington, D.C. Nancy soon discovers she will be doing more than learning about ancient Mayan artifacts – there have been a series of thefts and the only clue left behind is a mysterious scarlet handprint! Will Nancy be able to put the pieces of this ancient puzzle together? Or will the mystery remain entombed forever in Nancy Drew: Secret of the Scarlet Hand? (Learn more here)

Ghost Dogs of Moon Lake: #7

Hunt for Clues on the Trail of a Pack of Phantom Hounds! You, as Nancy Drew, must pick up the cold trail left by a notorious gangster who once lived in the lakeside cabin recently purchased by Nancy’s friend. Are the ghostly legends true, or is there a flesh and blood answer to the dogs’ haunting howls? Decipher cryptic puzzles, search through shadowy wood, creepy old houses, interview suspicious characters, and dodge danger to sniff out the truth behind local legends to solve the mystery in Nancy Drew: Ghost Dogs of Moon Lake. (Learn more here)

The Haunted Carousel: #8

Take a Spin with Danger to Unravel the Mystery of a Ghostly Merry-go-Round! You, as Nancy Drew, are invited to the Jersey shore to investigate a series of mishaps at the Captain’s Cove Amusement Park. First, the lead horse was stolen from the carousel. Then the roller coaster suddenly lost power, resulting in a serious accident. Now the merry-go-round is mysteriously starting up in the middle of the night. Will you be able to unravel the mysterious happenings surrounding this beautiful antique carousel in Nancy Drew: The Haunted Carousel? (Learn more here)

Danger on Deception Island: #9

Plunge into Danger to Bring a Mysterious Island’s Secrets to the Surface! George’s friend, Katie Firestone, invites you, as Nancy Drew, to Deception Island for a whale-watching excursion, the sleuth arrives to find Katie’s tour boat heavily vandalized. A threatening note warns Katie to “stop meddling.” Apparently, Snake Horse Harbor is divided over an orphaned orca whale that recently appeared in the channel and has apparently decided to stay. What was a simple vandalism case begins to unfold into something more mysterious and sinister. Can Nancy find the culprit, or will she be too late to “Save the Whales?” (Learn more here)

The Secret of Shadow Ranch: #10

Take a Wild Ride into Terror and Trickery to Rein in a Ghostly Secret! Ropin’, ridin’ and revenge. A ranch vacation takes a terrifying turn when a ghostly horse appears in this mystery game. Is it driven by the vengeful commands of its long-dead master, Dirk Valentine? Or is a living villain behind the ranch’s string of bad luck? It’s up to you, as Nancy Drew, to figure out who’s wearing the black hat before your investigation is ambushed in Nancy Drew: Secret of Shadow Ranch! (Learn more here)

Curse of Blackmoor Manor: #11

Delve into Dark Legends Lurking in the Shadow of an Old English Mansion! All is not well in Blackmoor Manor, a fourteenth century English mansion haunted by a tragic past. You, as Nancy Drew, embark on your first international adventure to visit Linda Penvellyn, your neighbor’s daughter and newlywed wife of a British diplomat. A mysterious malady keeps Linda hidden behind thick bed curtains. Is she hiding from something or someone, or is a more menacing threat stalking her? Face your fears to find the truth in Nancy Drew: Curse of Blackmoor Manor! (Learn more here)

Secret of the Old Clock: #12

Venture into the Past and Outwit a Criminal Before Time Runs Out! It’s 1930 and Nancy Drew is asked to visit Emily Crandall, in Titusville, a girl whom Nancy knows only through a mutual friend. She and her mother had been counting on the generosity of their kindly but strange neighbor, Josiah Crowley, to leave them part of his estate to support the inn they own. But in his will, everything was left to Richard Topham, his ESP teacher. A contested will, a suffering girl, suspicious psychics — can Nancy solve the mystery before time runs out in Nancy Drew: Secret of the Old Clock? (Learn more here)

Last Train to Blue Moon Canyon: #13

Catch this train — it’s your ticket to solving a century-old mystery! The Hardy Boys have invited you, as Nancy Drew, on a train ride out West hosted by beautiful and prominent socialite, Lori Girard. Lori has gathered the greatest minds in mystery to solve a century-old secret and the haunted train is their best clue. The luxurious train once belonged to Jake Hurley, who set out long ago to find the mother lode during mining mania. Years later, Jake’s train was found in Blue Moon Canyon with the engineer slumped over in the car – dead. Jake had mysteriously vanished… Climb aboard, as Nancy Drew, and see if you can uncover the truth at the end of the line in Nancy Drew: Last Train to Blue Moon Canyon! (Learn more here)

Danger by Design: #14

Go Undercover in Paris and Unravel a Case in Style! You, as Nancy Drew, intern undercover in a prestigious fashion design studio in Paris. The lead designer, Minette, hasn’t quite been herself lately. She hides behind a white mask and often throws tantrums, even firing several employees. Mysterious threats arrive at the old windmill studio and other troubles lurk in the underbelly of the City of Lights. Can you help Minette release her latest clothing line on time? Or will your sleuthing abroad meet an unfashionable end in Nancy Drew: Danger by Design? (Learn more here)

The Creature of Kapu Cave: #15

Team up with the Hardy Boys® and Track an Ancient Legend Through Hawaii! You, as Nancy Drew, go to Hawaii to serve as a research assistant to Dr. Quigley Kim. A devastating scourge is destroying the pineapple crop causing residents to whisper that a local research compound has awoken the legendary Kane ‘Okala. Upon arriving, Nancy discovers the camp ravaged and Dr. Kim missing. Coincidentally, the Hardy Boys are also on the Island to complete a top-secret mission, but it’s up to Nancy to uncover this intricate web of mysteries in Nancy Drew: The Creature of Kapu Cave! (Learn more here)

The White Wolf of Icicle Creek: #16

Follow a Trail to Hidden Secrets and Sabotage! Nancy Drew travels to the Canadian Rockies to investigate the Icicle Creek Lodge. Chantal, the owner of the lodge has asked her to uncover the culprit behind a recent string of suspicious accidents. A wolf also appears at the site of accidents and then mysteriously disappears when the police arrive. As Nancy makes her way to the lodge, an explosion rocks the night. A wolf howls mournfully in the distance. Nancy has barely set foot on the premises and already trouble is afoot! Can Nancy solve this mystery before all the guests leave and Chantal is left out in the cold? (Learn more here)

Legend of the Crystal Skull: #17

The Search is on for an Unearthly Artifact in New Orleans! Bruno Bolet was the proud owner of the “Whisperer,” a crystal skull rumored to protect its holder from almost any cause of death – except murder. When Bruno passed away, his nephew Henry came to wrap up his affairs, but he couldn’t find the skull among the clutter of the creepy Bolet manor. You’ll need to team up with Nancy’s best friend Bess Marvin to find this mystical artifact before it falls into the wrong hands in Nancy Drew: Legend of the Crystal Skull! (Learn more here)

The Phantom of Venice: #18

Infiltrate a Carnevale of Criminals in Italy! Somewhere beyond the bright piazzas and open markets of the Venice Carnevale lurks a masked thief. Despite months of investigations, the Italian police remain helpless as stolen treasures vanish in the night. That’s why the authorities asked you, as detective Nancy Drew, to join the case to infiltrate a dangerous crime syndicate and catch this phantom thief before he or she destroys the heart of Venice in Nancy Drew: The Phantom of Venice! (Learn more here)

The Haunting of Castle Malloy: #19

Unveil a Ghostly Legend and Find a Vanished Groom! Touted as the most romantic event to grace the ruined halls of Ireland’s Castle Malloy, the Simmons-Mallory wedding was supposed to be a fairytale beginning, but now the groom is missing! Did a banshee crash the wedding or is this a case of cold feet? Can you, as Nancy Drew, unravel the knot of scattered clues and scary superstitions? You’ll need to catch more than a bridal bouquet to make this a happily ever after! (Learn more here)

Ransom of the Seven Ships: #20 

Dive into Danger to Rescue Bess from Kidnappers! Your friend Bess Marvin is kidnapped and the only chance you have to save her is by solving a 300-year-old Bahamian mystery! Dangerous waters keep treasure hunters from exploring the reefs around Dread Isle, but this remote island might hide the riches of El Toro’s lost fleet! Can you, as Nancy Drew, track down the treasure before time runs out? (Learn more here)

Warnings at Waverly Academy: #21

Enroll in a School Plagued by Suspicions and Lies! You, as Nancy Drew, are undercover at a prestigious girls’ boarding school to discover the culprit behind threatening notes and dangerous accidents aimed at its valedictorian candidates! Is there a secret someone wants to protect or are the girls playing games to scare away the competition – permanently? Solve the mystery before the threats turn deadly and you’re expelled from Nancy Drew: Warnings at Waverly Academy! (Learn more here)

Trail of the Twister: #22

Apprehend a Saboteur Stirring up Turbulent Trouble! $100,000,000 is at stake in this competition to discover a formula to predict tornado touchdowns. But when equipment starts failing and crew members are injured, you as Nancy Drew, must join the team to keep them in the competition. Is it just bad luck that’s plaguing the storm chasers or is someone sabotaging their chances of winning in the action adventure Nancy Drew: Trail of the Twister? (Learn more here)

Shadow at the Water’s Edge: #23

Confront Terrifying Secrets in a Haunted Japanese Inn! Traditional Japanese family ryokans (inns) are charming places, but a vengeful ghost is terrifying you and other unsuspecting guests. Is there a shadowy specter haunting the placid inn or is something far more sinister driving away business? (Learn more here)

The Captive Curse: #24

Escape the Clutches of a Legendary Monster! Nancy’s off to Germany to investigate mysterious sightings of a creature that’s been terrorizing the community of a remote Bavarian castle. Local legend tells of a creature that marauded the area centuries ago, wreaking havoc and ultimately causing the death of a young woman before disappearing without a trace. Can you, as Nancy Drew, unmask the creature before you suffer the same terrible fate? (Learn more here)

Alibi in Ashes: #25

Escape the Smoky Intrigue of a Hometown Inferno! A local contest turns into an arson scene and now deceit smolders among the charred ruins of the River Heights Town Hall. Police have several suspects, but well-placed incriminating evidence and poisonous local gossip compelled authorities to make only one arrest: Nancy Drew. Can you, as the teenage detective and her closest friends, catch the real arsonist and extinguish the accusations among the embers? (Learn more here)

Tomb of the Lost Queen: #26

Unearth Sinister Secrets in an Ancient Egyptian Tomb! Egyptologists and archaeologists are abuzz about recent discoveries by a university dig team, but suspicious accidents left the group isolated and leaderless. Is a curse burying their progress or is someone sabotaging their success? Find out as you assume the role of Nancy Drew and uncover the lost secrets buried within the Tomb of the Lost Queen! (Learn more here)

The Deadly Device: #27

An Elusive Killer Shocks a High-Tech Lab! Fear lingers in a remote laboratory after a physicist’s suspicious demise. A police investigation resulted in nothing except a case as cold as the secretive personalities and steel walls that enshroud a top-secret Tesla-inspired facility. That’s why the lab owner asked you, as detective Nancy Drew, to expose the terrifying truth about The Deadly Device! (Learn more here)

Ghost of Thornton Hall: #28*

Some Families Keep Deadly Secrets! Jessalyn Thornton’s fateful sleepover at the abandoned Thornton estate was supposed to be a pre-wedding celebration, but the fun ended when she disappeared. While her family searches for clues, others refuse to speak about the estate’s dark past. Did something supernatural happen to Jessalyn, or is someone in Thornton Hall holding something besides family secrets? (Learn more here)

The Silent Spy: #29*

Defuse a Toxic Plot and Reveal the Truth Behind Kate Drew’s Death! Nearly a decade ago Agent Kate Drew left home to neutralize a biochemical weapon in Scotland. While her assignment was a success, Kate died in a car accident; or so we were told. Now the echoes of a similar plot reverberate and it’s up to you, as detective Nancy Drew, to thwart the sleeper cell and expose the truth about your mother’s tragic demise. (Learn more here)

The Shattered Medallion: #30*

No One is Immune to Sudden Death on this Reality TV Show! Ever since the Secret of the Scarlet Hand, the eccentric Sonny Joon always seemed a step ahead of Nancy Drew. That changes when Nancy and George travel to New Zealand and compete in the hit reality TV contest, Pacific Run. Sonny runs the show, but it’s spiraling out of control. Are the mishaps the result of cheating competitors or something beyond this world? Win big to uncover the truth! (Learn more here)

Labyrinth of Lies: #31*

Thread Your Way Through a Maze of Deceit in this Epic Greek Drama! A museum curator hires you to assist with the most anticipated event of the year, but artifacts from the exhibit are mysteriously disappearing. Are these mishaps connected to the amphitheater’s upcoming performance? Or is an unseen villain pulling strings behind the scenes? Uncover the truth and recover the missing artifacts from the Labyrinth of Lies! (Learn more here)

Sea of Darkness: #32

Set a Course for Danger and Discovery! The celebrated ship “Heerlijkheid,” is usually the centerpiece of an Icelandic town’s local festival. Now that its captain has disappeared, the renovated vessel has become an eerie distraction. Did Captain Magnus sail away with a legendary treasure, or was he carried off into the night? Take the helm as detective Nancy Drew and set a course for the Sea of Darkness! (Learn more here)

[prawnlegs]

WEBCOMICS

I think I broke my links page with too many links, so it’s about time I made a rec post for some of my favorite webcomics! MAYBE YOU’LL FIND SOMETHING NEW TO LOVE.

This will always and forever be an incomplete list as I am always finding/looking for more stuff to read. I’ll probably reblog it every so often when I add more.

COMPLETE: Lady of the Shard by Gigi D.G. - I still haven’t gotten to Cucumber Quest but you had better believe I read this the day it came out. Follows a temple acolyte who is in love with the goddess she serves, and all the complicated turns of events that come out of this. Drawn in a loose, experimental pixel art style that makes it all the more immersive to read. The Less than Epic Adventures of TJ and Amal by E.K. Weaver - Eisner-nominated gay roadtrip romance you’ve probably already heard of. Some of the best character acting I’ve ever seen. The Muse Mentor by Amy King - Artistic muses (and one vague notion) try to find their purpose on the astral plane, which happens to look sort of like a cute fantasy version of San Francisco. A sincere and kind-spirited read, highly recommended if you struggle with feeling adrift and inadequate. Also, many drawings of delicious-looking food. Power Ballad by Molly Brooks - I just started this but it’s really fun and funny. A masked vigilante/pop star’s personal assistant develops a crush on her boss. It’s gay, it’s got superheroes, and it’s complete! IN PROGRESS: Agents of the Realm by Mildred Louis - I had a couple false starts getting into this one, not having grown up on Sailor Moon, but then I picked up the first volume at a con and I’m really enjoying it. The unclear, complicated intentions of the mentor figure(s) are intriguing, and I love how the artist draws faces, especially funny reaction faces. Alice and the Nightmare by Misha Krivanek - A magical uni/boarding school piece with super cute art, compelling mysteries, and a Lewis-Carroll-inspired world that’s fresh and fun I.E. not another Hot Topic rehash. FINALLY. Away to Nowhere by Ezra Shape - Monsters and magical beings adapting to life in our world (or a world like ours)--currently just scratching the surface of what seems like some really cool worldbuilding. Features Zio, my nonbinary dragon grandma. Balderdash by Victoria Grace Elliott - Cute coming-of-age witch adventures. Beautiful colors and a richly-textured world. FOOD. So much good food. Banquet by A. Szabla - [coming soon]

Beauty by Eric J. Lee and Rhiannon Rasmussen - From the about page: “Bugpunk Beauty and the Beast” and honestly WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED TO KNOW. Okay I’ll tell you some more: There’s a baroque alien bug civilization rendered in incredible detail. It’s gorgeous.  Blackwater by Jeanette A. and Ren Graham - Episodic supernatural comic set in the small fictional town of Blackwater, Maine. Just started, but the art is extremely polished, expressive, and atmospheric, and the characters are cute. Also it’s queer and full of monsters. Sold.

Brainchild by Suzanne Geary - Paranormal mysteries on a college campus with supremely cool monster designs and great art. The monsters: So cool. I also really like the attention to fashion details on the characters--you can tell a lot about each of them by how they present themselves. Demon Street by Aliza Layne - All-ages fantasy adventure starring queer kids with magic powers! Great use of vivid, saturated color to set otherworldly scenes. Excellent queerification of folkloric tropes.

False Edge by M. R. Shaw - Just started, but a long-awaited comics debut with fantastic art. Features adorable big-cat shapeshifters. Warning, it’s supposed to get nasty (there’s an advisory page with specifics when you start). Feast for a King by Kosmicdream - I just started this (”just started” = 300+ pages in) but HOLY CROW it’s one of the most bizarrely creative comics I’ve seen. Warning for like, unrelenting gore/body horror (and eventually monster sex I think?) Gotta admire the scope of this one. Galanthus by Ashanti Fortson - [coming soon] Goodbye to Halos by Valerie Halla - Fantasy/action-adventure with an all queer-and-trans cast! Huge-scale, trans-dimensional cosmic plot stuff. The art is supremely cute and the color design is fantastic. Harlowe Vanished by Amy King - A lonely teenage girl accidentally finds herself in some kind of oceanic fantasy world! Scary military stuff is going down! BEAUTIFUL scenic art and a colorful cast that we’re currently just getting to know. The latest from Amy, who did The Muse Mentor, rec’d above. Heirs of the Veil by Phineas Kaldinski and Jassy Klier - Urban fantasy with lots of cool magic, a queer cast, and amazingly detailed environments that feel lived-in and full of history. Can’t wait to see where it’s going. Hilga from Below by Val Wise - This just started but that means I’m COMPLETELY CAUGHT UP on the  archive and so far I can tell that it has: Excellent colors, a cute dog person, a fallen angel or alien or something, and some really unsettling stuff lurking under the surface. How to be a Werewolf by Shawn Lenore - Another one I just started, but really enjoying it so far. After twenty years of isolated lycanthropy, an urban werewolf is mentored by the first of her kind she’s ever met, amidst a mysterious lurking threat to their kind. Kidd Commander by Aria Bell - This is the most fun I’ve had reading a webcomic in a long time. Kidd Commander is an epic shonen-style adventure with an immensely likable cast. Seriously, I love every last one of the characters, and their perils and triumphs and misunderstandings hit me right in the emotions like a ton of bricks. I’m probably gonna cry at some point in this comic. I KNOW I’m gonna cry at some point in this comic. But it’s also hilarious, with really well-timed comedy beats and expertly deployed reaction faces. The world also feels HUGE and full of interesting lore. This is just one of those ones where you can tell it’s an absolute labor of love and the creator enjoys every minute of making it. I could gush about KC forever. But I won’t. This time. I’M DONE. Kids These Days by Noora Heikkilä - Fresh webcomic from the creator of Judecca and Letters for Lucardo, which, if you’ve read either YOU’RE FREAKING OUT TOO, RIGHT. It’s about a group of young adults in the eighteenth-century-flavored city of Osk, refusing to fit the molds society has created for them. And it’s already great. Killjoys by Woods - Criminal mayhem set in a squishy cartoon circus toyland. Had me at “Fluffy hot-tempered clown bunny with they pronouns, in a suit.” Something about this one speaks directly to my id. Kill Six Billion Demons by Tom Parkinson-Morgan - SPRAWLINGLY EPIC action-adventure in hell with vast-scale environments that will make you fall to your knees weeping. Also, like everyone in it is super hot and also a monster or some kind of divine construct. Violence. Lots of that. Larkspur by Grace Mulcahy - Post-apocalyptic action/crime/comedy piece centering on girl gang rivalries. Everyone is some kind of really cool-looking post-radiation mutant. Lush, vibrant colors set against dark comedy. Warning for some sex trafficking stuff at the start (not explicit) and general CRIME/VIOLENCE. Log Date by H. Kasof - [coming soon]

Monster’s Garden by Ash G. - Urban sci-fantasy about a misunderstood prizefighter (who happens to be a lizard-man) who just wants to be left in peace--but is suddenly faced with the challenge of caring about others and having them care about him. Full of cute and sympathetic characters. Monster Pop! by Maya Kern- Light and fun college dramedy with a cast of colorful monsters (and some humans), including a cyclops, gorgon, and witch. The art is super cute. Queer and trans characters! Never Satisfied by Taylor Robin - A group of flawed, complicated teens compete for a prestigious role that is basically something like State Wizard. The characters are SO GOOD, sympathetic across the board even when they’re being misguided jerks, and the comedy highs and dramatic lows are equally prime. The main character is nonbinary and they are my sweet, emotionally stunted child. Oglaf by Trudy Cooper and Doug Bayne - Everyone’s favorite bizarro-comedy-porn medieval fantasy comic. NSFW, as if I had to tell ya. Parhelion by R. Smith - Sci-fi adventure featuring a huge and hugely-gender-various (and queer) cast with a lot of choice trope subversions. The writing is super witty and I find myself laughing out loud a lot. Puu by Ashkay B. Varaham - An own-voices slice-of-life webcomic about gay/trans roommates and the people connected to them, set in India. Look, I am a huge goopy romantic and this comic has EVERYTHING that feeds my soul. The Sea in You by Jessi Sheron - Lonely, environmentally-conscious goth girl with a jerk boyfriend makes the acquaintance of a MUCH BETTER (girl?)friend in the shape of a mermaid. Another one with very cute art and an interesting, creative mermaid design. Everything teen me ever wanted in a comic. Warning for the boyfriend being an emotionally abusive jerk. String Theory by Dirk Grundy- Probably the comic I’ve been reading the longest. Sci-fi/post-apocalyptic/alternate history/crime stuff centering around morally sketchy characters on their path(s) to super villainy. The art is frigging phenomenal and the comic has been going for like, ten years so if you wanna see some art evolution, check it out. Laurence is my fave. Superpose by Kieran and Han - [coming soon] Unconvent by Emil N. Tót - Romantic historical fiction about queer nuns in eighteenth century Brazil! I like how simple and straightforward this comic is. We are promised happy endings. (Update: Unconvent is now on indefinite hiatus but the author has started a new comic, Dead Scholars’ Whispers) That’s it for now! Let me know if I screwed up any of the links or attributions.

[wampadour]

Lutewell I (Test Drive 2)

A banging at the door startled Lutewell from his slumber. He took in a shuddering breath and forced his body to roll off the stack of folded blankets that were becoming a formalized bed of sorts the longer he stayed in King’s Landing. The wizard did not even make a thump as he landed on the stone floor of Commander Stokeworth’s manse. The woolen brown material stood a measly five inches tall, not much of a height to fall from. He did not mind for the shock of cool ground and the painless drop remedied the morning sluggishness that clung to him. It made battling the sleep from his limbs all the more easier. His twin, Ottell, would claim otherwise. Since his brother was not a morning person, Lutewell always discounted his opinion on the matter. The door a short distance across from him rattled some more as another heavy knock hit its wood. Lutewell hurriedly scrambled up from the ground in a bid to find something to make himself decent with. It would not do to meet the Commander of the City Watch bare as the day he was born. It could only be him that was knocking at the hour, him or his son, Martin, so Lutewell carried on looking around the room. His eyes passed over a pile of clothes strewn about where his brother would have made his bed, and the odor that clung to the mess dissuaded him from approaching. Then they looked towards the other side of the room where a rickety desk had been shoved into the farthest corner away from the door. On the chair before it a pair of breeches dangled from the backrest, and Lutewell’s eyes lit up with relief at the find. He swiped at the article of clothing, and the chair beneath it fell with a clatter to the floor when he pulled it off the piece of furniture. The only other person in the room let out a feminine groan as she rustled away from the noise, taking the burgundy covers that hung from his person like a cloak with her. Bare chest and footed and with only a pair of dark grey breeches to keep his modesty, Lutewell headed for the door. He caught glimpses of his disheveled form from the vibrating oval mirror that was nailed crookedly to mahogany. Wide-set eyes, the likes of which his eldest brother, Liett, once said their father claimed was a marker of their Lovegood heritage, dark lilac in coloring peeked through a mop of wavy ashen-white hair amidst the chipped glass. The hues that reflected off the mirror alongside his pale skin were the true reasons why his brother and he were in service to the City Watch as glorified messengers, or at least he still was. Ottell never did return from his accompanying trip with Prince Rhaegar to Harrenhal. A part of him wondered what had become of his living mirror copy, and another part of him mourned his disappearance. Then there was that other part of him that cursed his Travers’ blood despite the fact that it worked in his favor, their favor. Ottell would not have caught the Crowned Prince’s attention had they not been mistaken for King Aerys’ bastards. Taking a deep breathe, the young man steeled himself and opened the door. The grizzled face and cold hazel eyed stare of Manly Stokeworth greeted him on the other side. The Commander was already dressed in the titular black mail armor and chest plate of the City Watch, and a golden wool cloak was strapped to his shoulder guards. He took one look at Lutewell and glowered. “Get dressed. You got a royal delivery to make,” informed the Commander tersely before striding away. “At this hour?” asked Lutewell before he could think better of it. Stokeworth paused in his movements and shot him a nasty look over his shoulder, bared teeth and all. “Complain to me when you actually guard something! Now hurry it up and rear your ass into gear pretty boy! You’re gods damn lucky I can’t afford to lose anymore men! Remember that!” Lutewell flinched, took a step back, but still somehow managed to reply with a shaky, “Yes, Ser!” Then he shut the door. “Who was it?” asked a sleepy voice. The voice was muffled but sweet, far sweeter and softer than Stokeworth’s would ever be. “The Commander of the City Watch,” he replied as he took stock of the room once more. Peeling plaster greeted him at every turn, and the smell coming from his brother’s abandoned corner was starting to give him a headache. The smell, the mess, and yet, none of it seemed to bother his bed partner nor did it deter her from last night’s activities. Were it that his mother were present, “…unbefitting of a wizard of your station! Rest elsewhere my son! Only the best for a son of mine!” he imagined her prattling. Such a place would be an affront to her Sigvardi sensibilities, but this girl was not of Sigvard. Neither was she of Llowell like he and Ottell were. She had the blood of the Forebears; that much was clear. Her brother would not have been capable of Wizardry otherwise, but she was muggle and not the kind that his forebears had lived hidden from before the Cataclysm, not of the Knownmen. Maybe that was a good thing? Going from a high standard of living to a lower one, his situation essentially, was something he would not wish on anyone. Ignorance is bliss. She lay tangled in the covers, sun-kissed skin peeking out every so often through the gaps in the cloth where her legs moved, another thing he needed to fix up, but she did so blissfully. “Are we in trouble?” she questioned, this time louder but still as gentle as before. The covers slid off her as she sat up on her knees, doe like celery-green eyes gazing up at him in worry. He idly wondered if her distant Wizarding ancestor may have been a Greengrass from the Duchie of Astonia. Weir Gods knew celery eyes ran rampant in that family, and from what he knew of Westeros, it was an odd feature to find on a Crownlander. He let his eyes travel downwards. The button-up shirt she wore did nothing to hide the slender form underneath. He longed to relieve her of it. Lutewell did not act on it, however. He sat himself behind her and began to massage her shoulders. The young woman let out a sigh and leant her back against him as he soothed a stubborn bruise situated where shoulder met neck. “No, but I won’t recommend staying here once I’m gone,” he told her. “I’ll have the kitchen staff prepare you a basket, three meals that you can eat through out the day, all nice and wrapped for your use, and should you wish to see me again, come by the West Barracks. I’m usually there by noon. Ask for me by name, or tell ’em you’re there to see one of the Salamander brothers. They’ll know whom you speak of.” The girl shuddered, and Lutewell felt tear drops hit his fingers. “Is something wrong?” he asked, pausing in his ministrations. “It’s just,” she breathed, “my brother. He-he won’t take this well.” “I’ll talk to him,” he promised, pecking her temple. He hoped beyond hope that her brother was not one of those muggle-borns, the kind that acted more pure-blood than even the current pure-bloods. *** “So, pretty boy, how’d your night with your lady friend go?” “Martin,” nodded Lutewell to a boy who was on the cuffs of adulthood, or at least the age which wizards acknowledged someone coming into their own, “I’m guessing everyone heard that then?” Martin slid his legs off the table they rested on, and his chair fell forward with a twak. “Are you kidding me?” he asked, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Who wouldn’t have heard with the number you were doing on her? I’ve always known it was the quiet ones, but gods, that was a melody you had going on there!” Lutewell felt his face heat up at the remark. Oh how he longed for a wand. If only he had not lost his at sea. He might have been able to gain some semblance of privacy hours previously. “Do you think I can have your wench as my first?” pondered Martin aloud, and Lutewell froze mid step to the wall hooks where his surcoat, cloak, and utility belt hung. Personalized throwing knives, a dirk, and a sword were attached to the leather via sheath loops. “Chances are you’ve knocked her, so there’s no risk of me fathering a bastard.” Lutewell heard him say. “That would surely appease my lord father if he were ever to find-” “She’s not my whore!” roared Lutewell, running at the table where Martin sat and slammed his open palms over it. The young Stokeworth’s eyes widen in surprise as he jumped out of his seat. A nonsensical apology followed, tumbling forth from the boy’s lips, but Lutewell could not hear him over the thrumming of his own blood. “And… she will most certainly not be fathering any bastards,” he added more softly, glaring down at the table. “Did-did you…” spluttered the boy, going apple red. “Did I what?” Without any probing the salamander leveled his hardened gaze at the young lamb. “You know…” “Spit it out,” he said eerily calm. “Did you shoot your seed up her cunt! ‘Cause if you did…” Stokeworth’s arms flapped around him fruitlessly as he trailed off, and Lutewell yanked a seat out and plopped himself on it before grabbing at his own head in frustration. “A woman’s womb quickens not at the first few seeds,” he argued weakly, repeating something his healer of an aunt had once said. “It takes several tries for a witc-” and then he stopped. Grycia was no witch. She was muggle. She had no inborn magic to subconsciously guard her womb and reject something not yet attuned. “Witc?” asked Martin in confusion. “Let’s speak of this no more,” insisted Lutewell as he stood up and moved towards the hooks. “We’ve got things to deliver.” “There’s a reason you’re the younger twin, Lutewell, and this is why,” whispered a voice at the back of his mind. It sounded suspiciously like Ottell.

[kevinbaconsleftfoot-blog]

i thought this was a good idea Chapter 2

You wait in the lobby, weapons equipped, for a good thirty minutes, but none of the newly resurrected god tiers think to leave the floors they're on. There's a caucophony of voices in the atrium, and a bit of shouting. "Should we go up and meet with our, y'know, families?" John asks. "Hearing all of those joyous reunions and happy meetings is kind of bumming me out." "That's a good idea," Jade says. "I'd love to meet my alpha self." "Aren't we supposed to be managing things and mediating conflict?" Dirk asks, eyebrow raised. "If there's any fighting," Jake says. "Don't you'll suppose we'll hear it? This building echoes like nothing I've ever seen before." "Fine," Karkat says. "Go, if you want to. I'm staying down here." You, Aradia, Terezi, Vriska, Jane, John, Rose, Roxy, Dave, Dirk, Jade, and Jake all forsake your responsibilites for meeting your ancestors, guardians, and alpha selves. Kanaya joins you a minute later, as Rose and Roxy cheerfully reunite with their guardians, leaving Karkat in the lobby by himself. You've almost made it to your floor when he himself forsakes his post, abandoning the lobby for his guardians. You make it to the sixteenth floor and hop over the railing closest to your door. It's closed, but the doors marked with 1 and 3 are open. 2 is closed as well, but you can hear movement from inside, so you knock on the door. There's a series of heavy footsteps, then it flies open. "Sollux!" Mituna yells. He yanks you inside of (presumably) his block, babbling excitedly about ancestors and dream bubbles. "So, yeah," he finishes. "I got my brains and my psionics back, and some bitchin' new god tier powers, and two ancestors, and a descendant. It's totally radical!" "Yeah," you say, wondering where, exactly, your ancestors are. "C'mon," he says. "I've gotta introduce you to Psii and Sol. They'll be so psyched to meet you." You follow him into his leisureblock, where two adults are standing awkwardly. The shorter of the two gives you a slight wave. "Guys, this is Sollux," Mituna says. "He's my descendant." "Hang on," the adult that waved to you says. "If you're my decsendant, and he's your descendant, then who's the Psiioniic's descendant?" "Technically," Mituna says. "He's the Psiioniic's descendant. But since Psii's technically me, I thought we could share him." "That's not how it works," Mituna's ancestor says. "If you shared him as your descendant with the Psiioniic, then he could share you as his descendant with me, because we're technically the same person." "Aw, fine," Mituna says. "He's Psii's descendant, not mine. There, happy?" "Yes," Mituna's ancestor says. "Now, Sollux, I'm Soleil, or the Techniic if you'd like to be fancy. I'm Mituna's ancestor and your pre-scratch self. It's nice to meet you." "Uh, it's nice to meet you too," you say. Manners most definitely aren't your strong suit. Soleil turns to your ancestor. "Now, would you like to introduce yourself?" "Sure," your ancestor lisps. "I'm both the Psiioniic and the Helmsman, but you're welcome to call me Psii." You nod, unsure of how to respond. "I'm Sollux, or twinArmageddons if you have Trollian." "Nice," Mituna says. "Now how's about we play some vidya games?" "Power's out," you say. "Sorry." "Oh, yeah," Mituna says. "That was dumb." "Or, we could just talk to each other," Soleil says. "That only works if we've got something to talk about," Mituna says. "Otherwise, it's just small talk, and small talk sucks ass."

-

You spend about an hour an a half getting to know your 'family'. Psii was an anti-Empire rebel before the rebellion failed and he was installed as the helmsman for the Battleship Condescension, where he served for the rest of his artifically elongated life. Soleil became the Empress' chief software technician and a computer science pioneer after inventing a revolutionary programming language. Mituna played the game just like you did, but spent three sweeps in his session, and sacrificed his brains and his psionics at the very end to protect his friends against the Black King. As you're finishing up the story of how you spent three sweeps wandering the afterlife with your moirail, there's an ominous rumble from deep inside the building, then the power comes back on. "Sweet," Mituna says, glancing at the lights. "Now we can finally play vidya games." Good things, of course, don’t last, so as Mituna works on staring up his console, the lights flicker, dim considerably, then go back out. “Fuck,” Mituna says. “I have a feeling that I need to go back downstairs,” you say. “If the power’s flickering like that, something’s probably going on.” “There’s a downstairs?” Soleil asks. “Um, yeah,” you say. “We’re on the sixteenth floor. Did no one think to look over the railing?” “Holy shit,” Mituna says. “We can’t be the only trolls here.” “We aren’t,” you say. “The latest head count is 78.” “How the hell do you know this?” Psii asks. “I woke up about four hours before everyone else did,” you say. “The people who were alive at the end of the game woke up another four hours before I did.” “Wait,” Mituna says. “There are twelve of us, and we have twelve ancestors. That makes forty-eight. Where’d the other thirty come from?” “Our session brought another universe into existence,” you explain. “There were sixteen humans that were involved, and their session brought ten separate sprites into existence through retcon shenanigans. A third session linked up with ours, which added four cherubs.” “Humans? Cherubs?” Soleil asks. “Aliens, basically. Cherubs are a lot like snakes, and humans look a lot like we do now,” you say. “We were reincarnated as half-human, half-troll, and maybe a miniscule part cherub.” “I was wondering about that,” Mituna says. “I mean, I thought we were entirely human, but it’s not that much of a difference.” "Any other important information you neglected to tell us?" Psii asks. "Yeah," you say. "But I don't think you want to hear it." "Why not?" Soleil asks. "Well, think about it this way," you say. "Alternia was a violent place, and a lot of the violence was perpetrated by adults and highbloods. Guess who are currently inhabiting the bottom floors? Adult highbloods." "Shit," Psii says. "Anyone high profile?" "Orphaner Dualscar, the Grand Highblood, Mindfang, the Dolorosa, and Her Imperious motherfucking Condescension," you say. "Thank fuck we're god tier." "God tier?" Soleil asks. "It's where you get a bunch of fancy powers and wings and shit," Mituna says. "Check it." He ceases rocking back and forth on his heels to grab an apple from the fruit bowl and shrivel it up using Doom powers. Psii looks at the remnants of an apple like it's the coolest thing he's ever seen, and Soleil looks disgusted. "The powers are cool, yes," you concede. "But the best part is the conditional immortality." "Conditional immortality?" Psii and Soleil ask at the same time. "Conditional immortality," you confirm. "We can only die permanently under two circumstances; Just or Heroic. Just means that you've done so much evil that you actually deserve to die. Heroic means that you sacrificed yourself to keep someone else from dying." "What happens if we're mortally wounded but it isn't Just or Heroic?" Psii asks. "We die, but only temporarily," you say. "It takes about thirty seconds for us to either die permanently or ressurect." "So Her Imperious Fishbitch can kill us as many times as she wants, but we won't stay dead?" Psii asks. "Exactly," you say. "And because we're on a completely different planet with very little Alternian technology, it will take her sweeps of effort to elsalve us as helmsmen." "Got it," Psii says. "What happens when we get to the ends of our natural lifespans?" "God tiers stop aging at about 9 sweeps," you say. Psii nods. "I wondered how old I was." "Wait," Mituna says. "They're nine sweeps, and they're adults. I'm almost nine, am I an adult too?" "Almost," Psii says. "Cool," Mituna says. "How old is Sollux?" "Seven and a half," you say. "Half of the players from my session are, and the other half are six, because that's when they died." Mituna switches from flailing his hands excitedly to tapping on the counter. Since you started talking, he's been moving almost constantly, tapping or flailing or figeting or rocking on his heels. You wonder where he gets so much energy. Soleil seems to notice, too. "Mituna- He's cut off by the door to Mituna's block slamming open. "Sollux!" Karkat yells. "What?" you yell back, surprise evident in your voice. "What happened?" A feminine scream wrenches its way through your mind, followed by wailing. You freeze, and the wailing gets less intense, but doesn't stop. Fuck. Karkat shakes you by the shoulder. "Feminine voice, definitely older, won't regenerate, all others will," you gasp. "Fuck," he says. "The Condesce is having a regular old murder party down there, and, shit, are you sure it was only one?" You barely hear him. The wailing is loud, even after the first few seconds. The soon-to-be deceased must be very old and very powerful, psychically. "Yeah," you gasp. "Just one. Very old, very powerful, psionic, maybe telepath." "Shit, fuck, are you- can you help us keep her from killing more?" Karkat asks, an air of desperation in his voice. "I'll help," Psii says, with all the force of a command. "I'll- me too," you say. - The three of you leave Mituna's block at a full on sprint. Karkat leaps over the railing, then Psii does, then you do, then a new voice joins the caucophony, and you stutter, and your foot catches the railing, and you fall. The new voice is much weaker, but still strong, and much more masculine. Instead of screaming or wailing, it's yelling and swearing at you. You know on principle that this one's going to stay dead too. You haven't stopped falling, you realize. You go to catch yourself, but before you can, you flop bonelessly into someone's arms. Fuck. Dirk flashsteps over to the side, drops you, then rejoins the battle. You stand up, equip your shuriken, and throw yourself in with him. The Condesce has millenia of practice and training on you, so even with about fourteen of you fighting her, she's holding her own. The bodies on the floor are beginning to revive, and she can't keep them dead, meaning that the noise in your head is getting quieter and quieter, and you're able to focus. You throw shuriken after shuriken after psionic blast at her, and she dodges, but she's clearly getting tired. Roxy, Dirk, Kanaya, Rose, and Dave all attack her at the same time, and she can't block all of them at once. It's Dirk's sword that gets through, and cleaves her head off her shoulders. Everyone stops. Her Imperious Condescension's corpse falls to the floor as her voice continues wailing in your head. Threre's a beat, and it stops. Everything goes silent, except for the masculine voice that's stil yelling. "She's gone," you say. "She's not going to revive." A breath of relief echoes throughout the room. There are a few cheers and some clapping. Everyone relaxes. Someone who looks like an oldr version of Dirk steps forward from the back of the room. Dave sees him, and siffens. "Hey, Bro," he says. "Dave," Bro says. The room's gone quiet upon recognizing his presence. You heard stories of how shitty Bro was to Dave in the bubbles, and you don't doubt that everyone else has as well. "Dave," he repeats. "That was fight was fucking awful. Did you even try?"

[testifytime2-blog]

Skaia Divided - ch1

Summary: Dave, the Low Knight of Derse, is tasked with the assassination of the Low Heir of Prospit. It doesn’t go as planned. 

Notes: I detailed my kingdomstuck au over here and now I’m actually writing the dang thing out, so we got chapter one and the start of pale JohnDave. More ships to come further into the future (quads and gays about, my dudes). 

And obvs an AO3 mirror here. 

“What are we doing again?”

Your voice cracks slightly as you speak, and you have to school your expression carefully to not let yourself wince at the sound. You’re nervous, sitting in this blackout carriage with Dirk, pressed as close to the door as you can get without seeming rude or losing your posture – he’s already had to correct you on that three times, now, and you think it’s starting to wear his patience a little thin – but you can’t show it. That sort of weakness should have been kicked out of you years ago, even before you joined the army or even became part of this hell war you and your siblings have been left in charge of, but it remains firmly attached to you, a tightness in your chest and a lump in your throat.

You try not to peer at Dirk from the corner of your eye, but it’s hard. He’s sitting up straight, back a perfect line down from his shoulders to his hips, his hands resting firmly on his knees. They’re digging in a little, you think, bundling the cloth of his britches just slightly around his fingertips. He’s frowning, his lips pulled into a thin line, and his orange eyes look dark and stormy – pensive, almost. You guess he’s just as affected by this as you are. He’s just better at not showing it.

“You’re going to Prospit,” he mumbles. You try not to lurch in on yourself, but you can already feel your breath catching in your throat, “to infiltrate the castle.”

“Oh,” you tell him, weakly, and you wince at the feebleness of your own voice. Dirk, despite the small things you can notice about him – things that you’ve seen for years when you were growing up – seems perfectly calm. His voice is quiet, sure, but that’s just how he talks. He never seems to talk at anything above a sneered mumble, or a pretentious low rumble, unless he’s addressing people formally. You envy that, in a way. Your voice sounds too loud in your ears when you speak. “So I’ll just be… hanging around, getting intel, writing that shit down and bringing it back for us to figure out plans of attack and shit to steal.”

Dirk breathes out heavily through his nose, and you mumble a soft apology. You hadn’t really been listening much when he’d explained it before. You’d been too distracted freaking out that you’d be infiltrating the enemy kingdom like that shit was just something you did .

“You’re going there,” he gives you a sharp glance from the corner of his eye, frown furrowing deeper and his fingers digging tighter against his knees, “to kill the Heir.”

A startled noise squeaks from your throat before you can stop it. Dirk’s head snaps towards you, his eyes narrowing, and you hunch in on yourself a little more, counting seconds to slow your breathing. One, two, three; one, two, three. His shoulders look tense, and despite the harshness of his expression, you can see his lips quirk down, can see his foot start to tap minutely against the floor. He’s scared, just as much as you are. You’re not sure that makes you feel any better.

“You’re fucking kidding.” He shrugs, and you shake your head, feeling your chest tighten. “Dirk, no, you’re fucking kidding, I can’t –“

“Orders from the High Prince,” he says, and you feel yourself slumping.

“Oh.”

Direct orders from your older brother can’t be ignored. Dirk might be the Prince Regent, might be the person actually running Derse alongside Roxy, but he’s the Low Prince, just like you’re the Low Knight. He can’t ignore orders from your guardians. He’d lose his head for it.

That doesn’t make you feel any better about it.

You feel something bump against your knee, and when your eyes flicker down, you see the very tip of his pinkie finger gently resting against it. “It’s okay, Dave,” he whispers to you, and you have to strain your ears to hear it over the sound of the carriage bumping over the road you’re travelling down, “We have faith in you.”

You nod, slowly, and try to grin, but it comes out more like a grimace. You think you can see him doing the same from the corner of your eye, but he’s turned away from you, now, and you’re too pressed up against the door to see. You don’t particularly feel like moving away from the door, either, and you’re grateful he’s not trying to force you to move again.

You close your eyes and focus on the sound of horseshoes clopping against stone, the shuttering of the carriage as it judders over each bump in the road, and Dirk’s slow, controlled breathing.

“Dave,” you hear a voice mumble, soft and smooth, “Dave. Wake up.”

Your eyes are open before you’re even conscious of the movement, and by the time you catch up to your body’s movements and over the dizziness that comes with waking so quickly, Dirk’s already opening your carriage door, donned head to foot in thick black clothing.

It takes you a moment to feel the heavy cloth on your lap, but the moment it factors in your brain, you quickly fumble into your own coverings. Thick black gloves, padded sleeves that attach to a thin button-up shirt, covered by a plain thick vest – thicker than any of your other clothes – and a coat with a long tail to protect your legs. Your legs, too, get their own thick layering of cloth, followed by boots so thick you think an entire flock of birds must have been plucked to stuff them. The facial covering comes last; a thin piece of material with a ringlet that rests on your forehead to hold it in place, covering your hair and neck before tucking under the vest, with an odd sort of material over your eyes that lets you see through it in shades of grey.

You can’t feel a damn thing in the outfit, and for a few moments while you’re stumbling out of the carriage, you can’t think of anything worse than wearing its hot, heavy fabric over the top of your own clothes, pressing down on you so much it’s almost hard to breathe.

Of course, the moment you step into the Prospitian sun, you can’t think of anything better you could be wearing.

It’s not as harsh as the Derse sun, you know that for a fact; people can actually live in the Prospitian sun and not be burnt to a crisp the moment it touches their skin, and it actually sets at night rather than just simmer low on the horizon for a few hours before rising back into the sky. But it’s bright – so bright that even with the fabric over your eyes, it actually burns – and it’s hot, and your pale skin is not made to handle the heat that Prospit does.

You take a step away from the carriage to stand beside Dirk, who seems just as awestruck as you are. Prospit is… warm. The colours of the earth are a dark, rich brown, the kind of brown that hints at fertile soil the likes of which Dersites could only dream of; the depth of green in the grass, full of water and life, thick and lush and spreading out beyond the horizon, so different from the sparse patches of brown decay you can sometimes find under the thick snowfields; even the light, colourful blue of the sky is so much livelier than the sky over Derse, that grey-white expanse that just seemed more miserable the longer you looked at it.

You only realised you’d held your breath when suddenly you’re exhaling a rushed whisper. “Fuck.”

Dirk nods, a slight movement of fabric betraying the movement. “Yeah.”

He clears his throat after a moment, turning to face you (or so you think, it’s sort of hard to tell through all of the fabric) before pulling a sheet of paper from a pack you hadn’t noticed he’d tied to his hip. “This is as far as we can get you. Past here, it’s uncontested Prospitian land.”

He hands you the paper, and when you carefully unfurl it, because you really can’t feel anything through the gloves, you realise it’s a map. Not a very detailed one, granted, but a map nonetheless, likely drawn up by Rose from what she could see of your future journey.

“Just follow the map. Rose will contact you if anything changes, or if she thinks you’re in danger.” He paused, almost as if cutting himself off, and after a moment you realise he’s staring at your hands. They’re shaking, just slightly, and you’re gripping the paper far too hard; it’s crinkled in the areas directly around your hold, and on one side there’s even a small tear forming. You exhale shakily to stop the shakes. He only continues when your hands are perfectly still. “The Heir shouldn’t be hard to find, but all we have on him is…”

“Bullshit?”

He snorts, and you feel some of the tension leave your chest. “Something like that. All the investigators are ever told of him are his smile and his eyes. So, try to find a dark skinned kid with sky blue eyes and a bright bucky smile, and you’ll get the Heir.”

“That’s it?” He turns to get back in the carriage, and your hand shoots out to grab his arm before you’re aware of the movement. “That’s it ?”

Dirk goes still. You can’t even hear him breathe, but maybe that’s because your own breath is coming in so hard and quick, and your blood is pounding in your ears so fast you can’t hear anything. Your throat’s starting to feel tight.

“That’s it,” he tells you softly, and when he moves to settle in the carriage, your hold on him crumbles away like dust.

“Dirk,” you beg softly, voice constricting in your throat, “Dirk, I can’t – “

But he’s shutting the door and knocking on the window between the main part of the carriage and the driver before you can react. A sharp command from the driver, followed by a snap of reigns, and you watch as your brother fades away from view, black carriage becoming smaller and smaller, until it’s barely a dot on the horizon. By the time he’s vanished completely, the sun has started to set over the landscape in shades of red, and you’re feeling sickly numb.

Infiltrating Prospit isn’t as hard as you’d thought it would be.

You almost find yourself a little disappointed as you quietly stalk through the castle’s halls. You hadn’t needed to look at Rose’s map once; their main trading route quite literally led directly to the heart of the kingdom, straight into the city itself, and had been so quiet that the few times you’d come across anyone, all you’d had to do was pause time for a few, scant seconds to slip past them. Even in the city, blending in had been easy; it was so bustling with activity, so full of people, that nobody had given you a second glance despite your very obvious attire. You’d been more worried by the crowds – too close, too claustrophobic, what if you fell and were trampled on? – than by the actual people themselves.

In honesty, finding information about the Heir hadn’t exactly been hard, either. The people seemed to love talking about him, this gleeful young man with the heart of a child who played pranks with the people to help them smile. You’d heard people talking about his generosity with the children, how he often brought them cakes and sometimes even paid them to take them off his hands, how he spent more time than he probably should have entertaining them with ridiculous stories that had them shrieking with glee. One woman in particular had mentioned his love for jokes, and seemed proud of the fact she’d managed to make him double over with laughter right in front of her. He had apparently gifted her with something, too, though you’d not been able to see what it was.

You’d overheard the children wondering when the Heir was next going to bring them cake, or when he was next going to play games with them. You’d overheard an old lady telling her child a story she’d heard from the Heir himself, this fanciful thing full of adventure that both old and young had enjoyed. You’d overheard a sickly young woman saying to her friends, with bunged up joy, that the Heir had visited her when she had been feeling particularly unwell, and had spent the night cheering her up with jokes till she’d been so busy laughing she’d forgotten her pain.

Walking through the kitchens, surrounded by the cover of darkness and the coolness of the soft night breeze, you feel your chest and throat constricting so violently it hurts to breathe.

You don’t want to do this. You never wanted to do this. Your brother must have known that this was too fucking much to ask of you, the asshole. You can feel tears pricking at your eyes, making them burn, and you hate it. You hate the way your fingers shake whenever they touch and turn a door handle, you hate the way you have to stop the hitches of breath you refuse to believe are sobs working their way up into your throat, you hate the way the guilt settles so deeply in your gut it feels like ice and heat all at once, churning your organs until you feel sick.

You hate him for making you do this.

You take a deep breath and squeeze your eyes shut. Focus on your breathing. One, two, three; one, two three, over and over, until the shaking in your shoulders stop and the feeling of vomit in your throat subsides. It takes a few minutes – precious minutes, your brain tells you, wasted minutes – but once you’re done, you feel slightly calmer. The tightness in your chest and throat remain, but at least you can breathe.

The halls of the Prospitian castle are eerily silent. The pure white marble is slick beneath your feet, and every now and then you have to try and catch yourself if you move just slightly wrong on it. It’s a lot like the ice in Derse, which, for some reason, isn’t as comforting to you as it should be. It makes your heart skip a beat each time your foot slips, even though you know you’ll catch yourself before you’re even aware you slipped, the movement just muscle memory rather than conscious thought. You shouldn’t be nervous about slipping.

You try to focus on the marble itself instead. It’s so different from the cold cobbled stone of the Derse castle. The marble seems to soak up the warmth of the Prospitian sun, and even touching your gloved fingertips to the marble now, you can still feel the warmth seeping in through the thick material. It’s a beautiful colour, with cracks of gold spider webbing in each cut, golden trimmings lining the skirting along the roof and floor highlighting each fleck of gold that shines in the light of the moon. These tones are much softer than the earthly tones of the land and the people, a touch more ethereal. You suppose that’s the point; this is the castle of the High and Low rulers. As kind as you’ve heard they can be, they still need to show some form of class.

Despite that, it’s still sparsely decorated. You get the feeling they don’t like to show off too much, which you can respect, since neither do Dersites. But rather than doing it for the sake of intimidation and military effect, it’s more like the castle is sparse of official hangings to make room for homely things. There might be a bright yellow banner here, a loop of golden spun cloth hanging from the ceiling there, often above archways or in important rooms, but more common are the small wooden tables or desks, the broad oak bookshelves and wardrobes, the occasional birch chair. They don’t even seem intentionally placed for decoration, like the axes or swords or wands are in the Derse castle halls; these are placed wherever they landed and worn down from use, looking old and comfortable.

Walking through a room smelling of recently-burnt embers – a kitchen, you think, if the underlying scent of bread means anything – you try to think of any room in the Derse castle that looks anywhere near as lovingly used as the Prospit rooms. The main hall is almost exclusively used for gatherings when Dirk must take seat and give sentence to any issues within the lands, though it’s very rare for there to ever be issues, given how terrified the people are of stepping a single toe out of line. The library doubles as Rose’s room, meaning her room is barren and covered in dust, and the library itself doesn’t bare much better a fate besides the candlelight she uses to read by. You’ve never seen Dirk or Roxy’s rooms, but your own is basic, almost nothing inside it worth any place compared to the rooms you’ve seen throughout this castle, and the dining room… you can’t think of a time you’ve ever seen it be used.

The tightness in your throat comes back, and tears sting at your eyes behind the black fabric covering them.

Derse is incomparably lonely when placed beside Prospit.

You jerk out of your thoughts as you come to a door, almost walking into it with a sharp inhale and a dark flush. It looks much grander than the others you’ve passed through, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the same time your stomach cramps with ice in your gut.

The brass doorknob is oddly warm to the touch when you grab it, more so than the marble even through your gloves, and slips from the door a bit when you lift it to open the door. It creaks loudly, too, and you flinch at the sound, your chest constricting at the sound as you stop breathing.

Your blood pounds heavy in your ears, but you can’t hear anyone waking up to investigate. You slip through as quickly as you can and shut the door with a shaky sigh, slumping against it for a few moments to compose yourself.

This is starting to get to you again. Looking down the marble hall, you can see four grand doors on either side – two green, two blue, each a lighter or darker shade – and you feel your nerve slipping. The image of your brother slips into your mind – ice white skin and thick muscle, veins showing blue and eyes the starkest orange, filled with such intense rage you’ve never seen even vengeful warriors hold – and your heart stops dead in your chest.

You don’t have a choice.

Slipping into the Heir’s room is all too easy, and almost immediately you’re greeted by… blue.

His entire room is blue. The soft fabric that covers his bed is a dark, rich blue; the frame of his bed, thick and wooden with wind patters carved into the end of the wooden frame, reaching high up towards the ceiling, is a soft, sky blue; the walls are blue marble with gold flecked on top, the floors covered in a soft blue carpet that sinks under your feet the moment you step on it; the clothes littered around the floor are varying shades of blue, all either dark or varying shades of the morning sky. It looks lived in and warm, soft and innocent, and your chest tightens so suddenly you wheeze for breath.

A soft breeze flows in from the open window, and brings with it a soft chill that helps ease your body into breathing right. The coolness is comforting, even if you can’t really feel it through all the layers of clothing, and somehow, you bring yourself back under control, watching the wind gentle ruffle the blue fabric covering the Heir’s sleeping form.

You step closer to the bed, your heavy, sluggish footsteps muffled by the carpet. As you walk, your sword slips into your hand, summoned just so in the curl of your fingers that it balances perfectly until you close your hand around the hilt. It’s a bit clunky holding it in the grip of the thick gloves, where you can barely even feel it, but you feel numb anyway, so you guess it doesn’t really matter either way.

You stumble as you reach the side of the bed, your knees almost giving in. Your chest and throat feel tight, tighter than when you left the carriage, tighter than the first time you disappointed your brother, tighter than when you’d thought Dirk had died on the battlefield the very first time you’d both gone out the fight. It hurts, and you can’t breathe, and your body is numb but your mind is panicked as you draw back the blue material of the coverings over the Heir’s bed, your sword held tightly in your fist by your side as inch after inch of him is revealed until-

Until you see blue, blue, blue eyes staring straight at you, warm and soft, half lidded from sleep, accompanied by the warmest, most ridiculous buck-toothed smile.

“Hey,” he says, his voice deep and thick with sleep, yet somehow soft and light like bells, “I was wondering when you were gonna show up. You took your time!”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, and your sword clatters from your hand as your grip on it goes slack. “Wuh?”

He giggles – actually giggles, this high, childish laugh that makes his eyes close and his nose crinkle a little – at your eloquent response, slowly sitting up with a yawn – and holy fuck, he’s huge. You’d heard stories of how the Prospitian sun nourished them with the grace of height, but he had to be at least 6ft7. You’d thought you were fairly tall at your 5ft3 stature, towering above your sisters and most of your subjects, but the Heir – he makes you seem dwarfed in comparison.

“I was waiting for you,” he tells you with the giggles still lingering to his voice, dark skin making his blue, blue eyes shine even more in the light of the moon, “because the Wind told me you’d be coming! You’re much later than I expected, though; I stayed up all night waiting for you!”

You manage another weak, “wuh?” before your knees give out. His hands shoot out to reach you before you’ve dropped more than an inch, thick palms and graceful fingers engulfing your hips and holding you steady, as if you weigh nothing at all. You look up at him, and his eyes are shining with worry, his lips pulled down and eyebrows furrowed in concern, and it’s too much.

Your chest constricts and your throat closes and you’re gasping for breath as your head spins. His hands are warm on your hips, so, so warm, and then they’re warm on your back, on your legs, as he scoops you up, and you’re vaguely aware of warmth against your side as he holds you against his chest because you can’t get any air down your throat or in your lungs, you can’t really focus on anything but the confusion and the panic churning your stomach and roiling in your brain, until you feel a warm, hot finger press against your throat and hear him say, “Breathe.”

Air rushes into your lungs so sharply you choke, your insides burning cold with the sudden rush of breath and your mind spinning as your vision goes black for a few, terrifying moments.

Breathing comes much easier when you can see again. It feels natural, right, and when you look down, you can see a bright blue glow shining softly through your chest. It looks odd against your pale skin, and that distracts you enough for a moment that it doesn’t click that you’re seeing your own skin rather than the thick black material or deep red cloth of your own clothes.

“Sorry,” he tells you sheepishly as your eyes flicker up to him, and fuck, you’re still in his lap, cradled in his arms in a fetal position and almost drenched with sweat, “you didn’t look like you were doing too good and all of that clothing can’t have been helping, so I just took it off. Just the important stuff!” he adds in quickly, his face flushing darker for a moment, “I only took off the outer things and your vest. They were pressing down pretty bad on your chest, so I thought, maybe that’d… help?”

He trails off and gives you a shy, unsure grin, blue eyes focusing on yours. You realise after a few moments of silence that he’s waiting for you to respond, and with a startled jerk you come to your senses, flushing red – or so you assume, at least, because your cheeks feel hot, and he gasps and grins like he’s delighted.

“I- shit, yeah, I… guess it did?”

You wince at the roughness of your voice, but he just beams wider, and oh, that smile is going to do things to you. It’s so warm, and comforting, and open, in a way you’ve never seen anyone in Derse smile, even towards their own family. It seems free.

“Good! Good, because you dying really wouldn’t do this any good, you know?”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond this time, before carefully lifting you up from his lap to place you in the free space on his bed beside him. He quickly snuggles under the baby blue covers and suppresses a shiver, the force of it sending vibrations through the bed and into you, before focusing his attention back on you, a warm, friendly smile on his face.

“Yeah, you, uh,” you clear your throat, trying to look at the tip of his nose to avoid his eyes, because if you look at him any longer you’ll just get more confused and bewildered than you already feel you are, “you said… something about waiting for me?”

His eyes light up, and shit, you looked, you looked into those blue, blue eyes, and for some reason your whole body jerks seeing it, a tingling warmth sweeping through your body – from your fingertips to your toes – to settle warm in your chest. You swallow thickly to hide it, but your eyes are locked with his once more, and slowly, everything else seems to be fading away.

“Yeah! The Wind told me you were here when you first stepped into the country, and I guess maybe I should have been worried? But the Wind seems to think you’re a very important person, and it was telling me all about how nervous and upset you seemed when you were trying to find your way here, so I thought – “

“No, wait, stop,” you cut him off quickly. His face falls from the excited grin it’d slipped into when he’d started speaking, and you try to ignore the pang of guilt that slips through your ribs like a blade when he slumps down against the bed, dejected, “you knew I was here? You just let me get here?”

“Well, yeah. You think you would’ve gotten this far if not?”

He raises an eyebrow at you, like it’s obvious, and you feel your cheeks flush at the insinuation that you couldn’t have slipped into the kingdom unnoticed. You can’t say that it doesn’t make sense, though; you thought this’d been too easy, and you suppose that explains it. You’d just been let right in.

“Anyway,” he continues with the same cheer he had before you interrupted him, and you feel yourself trying to bite back a smile at the way it makes him sound younger, softer, “the Wind told me you were coming here, and that you were important. So I wanted to talk to you and see how important you really were.”

“That’s stupid,” you tell him, and he shrugs, laughing like bells but with soft snorts scattered between. It makes your chest feel light and fluttery.

“Probably,” he says, before looking you over for a few moments. He goes silent as he does, and there’s a sort of intensity in his eyes that make you want to squirm, with only your training and willpower reducing it to a slight shift in place, like you’re trying to get more comfortable. You feel like you’re being peered into , and it’s terrifying until he smiles softly, and reaches out one thick brown hand to gently slide a strand of hair from your face. “But the Wind’s never been wrong yet.”

You don’t remember falling asleep, so it’s a surprise to you when suddenly you’re opening your eyes to dark skin surrounded by dark hair and blue, blue eyes.

He grabs you before you jolt off the bed, laughter in his eyes and on his lips as he giggle-snorts and pulls you away from the edge of the bed, leaving one of his hands curled under yours as the other tucks against his chest.

“Well, good morning to you, too!” he sniggers, and you’re beginning to thing it’s just a thing with him that almost everything he does sounds like it’s littered with laughter. “You’re late with everything. The sun’s almost at it’s highest point in the sky!”

You blink at him, slowly, before rolling over to look out the window to check. You’re almost convinced he’s joking before he grabs your chin and tilts your head back to face him, a worried look on his face. “You probably don’t want to do that. I accidentally left you uncovered for a few minutes and your skin got all red. I don’t think it’s supposed to do that, so I’m gonna assume looking at the sun might hurt your eyes, too.”

“Yeah, probably,” you mutter, wincing as you settle down into the bed again. Now that he’s mentioned it, you can feel your skin pulling on your back, mainly centred on your spine. It doesn’t hurt as much as you’d thought, but it’s still enough that you know it’s going to be hell to put a shirt on again later. “Your sun is a fucker, by the way. Can that asshole tone it down a bit for the people with skin like a goddamn flower petal doused in horsepiss?”

He peels with laughter, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut with the force of it, and that fluttery feeling from last night is settling back down in your chest with double force. At least until he gasps out, “That was terrible, holy shit, do you hear what comes out of your mouth?”

You decide hitting him over the head with his own pillow is suitable punishment, as well as a quiet, “fuck you.” He only laughs harder in turn.

Everything feels surreal. As you lay back and watch him struggle with the pillow, laughing too hard to actually get it off his face, you try to think about the hazy feeling smothering your mind. You feel overly warm wrapped in the Heir’s covers, snuggled in his bed with him laughing beside you, and maybe only part of that is the sun beating against your covered back or the heat of the material around you. You should be scared, you think, or horrified, but all you feel is calm. Calm like you’ve never actually felt before in your life. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s loose, and you’re smiling, just a tiny quirk of your lips but it’s still a smile , and nothing feels rushed or important.

“I tried to kill you. You know that, right?”

It slips from your lips before you think about it, and as you watch him still beside you, your blood turns to ice.

“I know,” he says, muffled by the pillow. He slides it down from his face to rest on his chest, hugging it as he tilts his head to look at you. He’s still smiling, but it looks subdued, now, and that makes your chest ache.

“Then why are you being so fucking calm about this? You have a Dersite agent in your bed who you know tried to kill you, and you’re just – laughing with him? Why the hell didn’t you call someone while I was asleep, or, or kill me while I was distracted, or – “

“Why didn’t you?” he asks, and your jaw shuts so fast it makes your teeth click and your skull shake. He shifts to look up at the ceiling, his brow furrowing in thought as his big buck teeth nibble at his bottom lip, hugging the pillow tighter to his chest. He looks almost unsure, or insecure, and it makes you feel guilty even as the panic of your situation starts to make your chest tighten. “I don’t think I need to worry. You didn’t kill me, even when you thought I was asleep! Or, you didn’t seem like you wanted to, at least. And you didn’t kill me last night, either. And I can’t look at you and see someone bad .” He pauses for a moment, and then, very quietly, “And, between you and me? I think the whole… war thing is stupid. Jade is super into it, and I guess Jake is, too, but I never understood it. So if a Dersite won’t kill me, and if the Wind is telling me he’ll be someone important in my life, why should I…”

He shrugs and trails off, giving you a grin as he looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

You feel numb. You don’t understand this, at all. You were sent here by your brother to kill him, and he’s just… happy to let you be there because he doesn’t think you’re bad?

“You’re an idiot,” you tell him, and he laughs.

“Probably, but an idiot you’re stuck with.”

You swallow thickly at his words. Your throat is going tight, and you don’t know why. You don’t seem to know what the fuck’s going on in general right now, actually. “What do you mean?”

“Well you probably can’t go back home,” he says, and the bluntness of it hits you in the chest like a physical punch, “because you didn’t kill me. You’d be kind of a traitor or something for keeping me alive, right? Derse is weird. But yeah – you probably can’t go back, so, why don’t you stay?”

“You’re an idiot,” you repeat. You don’t feel like you can really say anything else. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

He curls his fingers around your hand, and you slowly curl yours around his back. He beams like you’ve just told him it’s the Winter Celebration and you have his favourite gift just waiting for him to open, and your chest goes all soft and warm inside.

“So,” he mumbles softly, squeezing your hand with just the tips of his fingers. It’s so big it completely engulfs yours, and your fingertips barely just manage to curl around the side of his hand, “Does that mean you want to go back?”

“No,” you say, and it surprises you a little how quickly and how firmly the word comes out. It must surprise the Heir, too, because his eyes widen and his mouth forms into a little ‘o’. “I don’t want to go back. Shit, I mean, I could go back, but it wouldn’t be… fun. And…”

You trail off, unsure. Prospit is warmer than Derse. The people are warmer, it seems completely untouched by that stupid war, you wouldn’t have to fight or see your brother again – and sure, that’d mean not seeing Dirk, or Rose, or Roxy, but all of you knew that war meant potentially losing one of you at some point. You could send a letter to Rose in secret, let them know you’re okay, and pretend you’re dead.

“… staying sounds better.”

You're sure that's not the only reason you're agreeing. Prospit, in the short time you've been here, has been safe in ways Derse has never been, and the thought that you could be included in that safeness, that you could be taken away from the things that scare you, or cause your throat and chest to tighten, is definitely a pleasant one. Staying in Prospit has its benefits, a choice you never knew you had, a sanctum readily in your reach. You'd be an idiot not to take it. But one look at the Heir, innocent eyes watching you carefully, like he's waiting to see if you have more to say, and your heart is fluttering in the softest way. That has made this a set deal for you. Something about the Heir is drawing you in, relaxing you around him in ways you've never quite relaxed before, like he's someone you've known your whole life, or a piece of you that's always been missing. And that's ridiculous, you know it is - you can hear your brother berating you in your head, his voice rough and stern and partially snarled - but you don't care. You don't care that your brother would have your ass for this. That in itself should scare you, but it doesn't. It calms you more than anything else, and you shuffle closer to the Heir like a cat towards heat, feeling your chest go warm at the way the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile.

“Great!” he beams, and then in a flurry of blue he’s leaping from the bed, covering you with his half of the covers and leaving you scrambling not to suffocate in their hot coils. “I’ll go and inform everyone, so they know you’re here and you’re staying, just in case Jade walks in and tries to shoot you or get Bec on you, because that would be messy and I’m not sure you’d enjoy that much!”

He’s out of the room with a rush of wind and a slam of the door before you can even reply.

[blaperile]

Homestuck Epilogues - Meat - Page 25 (Epilogue 4 Page 8)