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istumpysk · 3 years ago

Text

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ACOK: Sansa VIII (Chapter 65)

My little kumquat! 😘

King Joffrey sat above them all, amongst the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. He was in crimson samite, his black mantle studded with rubies, on his head his heavy golden crown.

Joffrey is dressed like a Targaryen. Remember this, we'll circle back.

+.+.+

The Lord of Casterly Rock made such an impressive figure that it was a shock when his destrier dropped a load of dung right at the base of the throne. Joffrey had to step gingerly around it as he descended to embrace his grandfather and proclaim him Savior of the City.

✨ metaphors ✨

+.+.+

Pride of place was given to Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, a once-powerful man gone to fat, yet still handsome. His sons followed him in; Ser Loras and his older brother Ser Garlan the Gallant. The three dressed alike, in green velvet trimmed with sable.

[...]

Ser Garlan Tyrell, five years senior to Ser Loras, was a taller bearded version of his more famous younger brother. He was thicker about the chest and broader at the shoulders, and though his face was comely enough, he lacked Ser Loras's startling beauty.

Kind of interesting, kind of not: at the end of the last Sansa chapter we learn Renly Baratheon saved the city. Fast-forward to this chapter, where they're recognizing all heroes and their deeds during the battle, and Renly is never once mentioned.

Extremely confusing for the reader, and I don't think we get any clarification until the next book. The only clue is the Tyrells dressed in green, and a description of Garlan's body type.

George loves being a little shit.

+.+.+

"The roses support the lion, as the might of Highgarden supports the realm," proclaimed Joffrey. "If there is any boon you would ask of me, ask and it shall be yours."

And now it comes, thought Sansa.

[...]

"Your Grace," Garlan said when the king approached him, "I have a maiden sister, Margaery, the delight of our House. She was wed to Renly Baratheon, as you know, but Lord Renly went to war before the marriage could be consummated, so she remains innocent. Margaery has heard tales of your wisdom, courage, and chivalry, and has come to love you from afar. I beseech you to send for her, to take her hand in marriage, and to wed your House to mine for all time."

King Joffrey made a show of looking surprised. "Ser Garlan, your sister's beauty is famed throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but I am promised to another. A king must keep his word."

Queen Cersei got to her feet in a rustle of skirts. "Your Grace, in the judgment of your small council, it would be neither proper nor wise for you to wed the daughter of a man beheaded for treason, a girl whose brother is in open rebellion against the throne even now. Sire, your councillors beg you, for the good of your realm, set Sansa Stark aside. The Lady Margaery will make you a far more suitable queen."

[...]

Joffrey raised a hand. "I would like to heed the wishes of my people, Mother, but I took a holy vow."

The High Septon stepped forward. "Your Grace, the gods hold bethrothal solemn, but your father, King Robert of blessed memory, made this pact before the Starks of Winterfell had revealed their falseness. Their crimes against the realm have freed you from any promise you might have made. So far as the Faith is concerned, there is no valid marriage contract 'twixt you and Sansa Stark."

[...]

Sansa leaned forward, her hands tight around the gallery's wooden rail. She knew what came next, but she was still frightened of what Joffrey might say, afraid that he would refuse to release her even now, when his whole kingdom depended upon it. She felt as if she were back again on the marble steps outside the Great Sept of Baelor, waiting for her prince to grant her father mercy, and instead hearing him command Ilyn Payne to strike off his head. Please, she prayed fervently, make him say it, make him say it.

Lord Tywin was looking at his grandson. Joff gave him a sullen glance, shifted his feet, and helped Ser Garlan Tyrell to rise. "The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart. I will wed your sweet sister, and gladly, ser."

This whole scene is scripted, but the author reminds us Joffrey doesn't always follow the plan. I would not be surprised to learn George meant to convey Joffrey was waffling, and that look from Tywin was necessary.

Side note, we have betrothals being broken by Kings in back-to-back chapters. Sadly, one side is more crafty about it.

+.+.+

"Yes. But if I'm not to be queen, what will become of me?"

We don't have to worry about that.

+.+.+

The queen was irritated by that. "You should have learned by now, none of us get the things we want."

Oh, but Sansa does. We already know that.

+.+.+

Next came four of lesser birth who had distinguished themselves in the fighting: the one-eyed knight Ser Philip Foote, who had slain Lord Bryce Caron in single combat; the freerider Lothor Brune, who'd cut his way through half a hundred Fossoway men-at-arms to capture Ser Jon of the green apple and kill Ser Bryan and Ser Edwyd of the red, thereby winning himself the name Lothor Apple-Eater; Willit, a grizzled man-at-arms in the service of Ser Harys Swyft, who'd pulled his master from beneath his dying horse and defended him against a dozen attackers; and a downy-cheeked squire named Josmyn Peckledon, who had killed two knights, wounded a third, and captured two more, though he could not have been more than fourteen. Willit was borne in on a litter, so grievous were his wounds.

Ser Kevan had taken a seat beside his brother Lord Tywin. When the heralds had finished telling of each hero's deeds, he rose. "It is His Grace's wish that these good men be rewarded for their valor. By his decree, Ser Philip shall henceforth be Lord Philip of House Foote, and to him shall go all the lands, rights, and incomes of House Caron. Lothor Brune to be raised to the estate of knighthood, and granted land and keep in the riverlands at war's end. To Josmyn Peckledon, a sword and suit of plate, his choice of any warhorse in the royal stables, and knighthood as soon as he shall come of age. And lastly, for Goodman Willit, a spear with a silver-banded haft, a hauberk of new-forged ringmail, and a full helm with visor. Further, the goodman's sons shall be taken into the service of House Lannister at Casterly Rock, the elder as a squire and the younger as a page, with the chance to advance to knighthood if they serve loyally and well. To all this, the King's Hand and the small council consent."

Sorry for making you read that, but I get super paranoid when we spend this much time on four random nobodies.

Ser Philip Foote is a one-eyed knight who is given Lord Bryce Caron's lands after he kills him. In ADWD, Philip's claim to those lands will be challenged by Lord Bryce Caron's bastard half-brother.

Lothor Brune enters the service of Littlefinger. He will eventually protect Sansa from Marillion, and develop a crush on Mya Stone. He has been promised land and keep in the riverlands when the war is finished.

Nothing noteworthy about Goodman Willit, but the man he serves, Ser Harys Swyft, is trapped under a horse during the battle.

Josmyn Peckledon, or Peck, shares commonalities with Podrick Payne. He'll later become Jaime Lannister's squire, and frequently sleep with Pia. He burns Cersei's letter to Jaime.

There might be something here, but I feel like I have to bend myself in a pretzel to get there.

+.+.+

A more significant lordship by far was granted to Ser Lancel Lannister. Joffrey awarded him the lands, castle, and rights of House Darry, whose last child lord had perished during the fighting in the riverlands, "leaving no trueborn heirs of lawful Darry blood, but only a bastard cousin."

Oh yeah? A Lannister is going to claim the lands and castle of a decimated family with no trueborn heirs, with the exception of a bastard cousin?

Is Kevan Lannister going to marry his son Lancel to Amerei Frey, the eldest daughter of the female heir to Darry, to strengthen his claim over the Darry lands?

Stealth jonsa. Pretty sure that bastard is still alive too.

+.+.+

The Imp was said to be dying as well, from a terrible cut to the head.

As if I'm that lucky.

+.+.+

Sansa had not heard of Littlefinger doing anything especially heroic during the battle, but it seemed he was to be rewarded all the same.

Ser Kevan got back to his feet. "It is the wish of the King's Grace that his loyal councillor Petyr Baelish be rewarded for faithful service to crown and realm. Be it known that Lord Baelish is granted the castle of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes, there to make his seat and rule henceforth as Lord Paramount of the Trident. Petyr Baelish and his sons and grandsons shall hold and enjoy these honors until the end of time, and all the lords of the Trident shall do him homage as their rightful liege. The King's Hand and the small council consent."

On his knees, Littlefinger raised his eyes to King Joffrey. "I thank you humbly, Your Grace. I suppose this means I'll need to see about getting some sons and grandsons."

He does not mean with Lysa.

I can't tell if this is sloppy writing, or if Roose and Tywin are already fully allied, and Littlefinger knows everything.

We'll learn at the end of this chapter that the plot to kill Joffrey is in full motion, and only a month away. Killing Joffrey, when Robb is still alive, is a great way to turn the tides in favour of House Stark and ensure you never get your castle.

Either Littlefinger already knows Robb is a dead man (Impressive, given the marriage alliance with House Frey was just broken), or George didn't think the timeline of this one through.

Or maybe he really is an agent of chaos.

+.+.+

Lord Paramount of the Trident, Sansa thought, and Lord of Harrenhal as well. She did not understand why that should make him so happy; the honors were as empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it at present. Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to. Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down and killed.

Arya can't figure out what princess is betrothed to a Frey, meanwhile Sansa's over here piecing together the plot of ASOS.

I'm SORRY, it's funny!

+.+.+

Robb has beaten them every time. He'll beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.

Sorry hun, your brother can't be relied upon, you're going to have to defeat him yourself. We believe in you.

+.+.+

More than six hundred new knights were made that day. They had held their vigil in the Great Sept of Baelor all through the night and crossed the city barefoot that morning to prove their humble hearts.

[...]

Some had bloody feet from their walk through the city, but they stood tall and proud all the same, it seemed to Sansa.

+.+.+

But no sooner had that one been dragged away than a knight of solemn mien with a fiery heart on his surcoat shouted out, "Stannis is the true king! A monster sits the Iron Throne, an abomination born of incest!"

"Be silent," Ser Kevan Lannister bellowed.

The knight raised his voice instead. "Joffrey is the black worm eating the heart of the realm! Darkness was his father, and death his mother! Destroy him before he corrupts you all! Destroy them all, queen whore and king worm, vile dwarf and whispering spider, the false flowers. Save yourselves!" One of the gold cloaks knocked the man off his feet, but he continued to shout. "The scouring fire will come! King Stannis will return!"

Are we sure this is about Joffrey?

+.+.+

Joffrey lurched to his feet. "I'm king! Kill him! Kill him now! I command it." He chopped down with his hand, a furious, angry gesture . . . and screeched in pain when his arm brushed against one of the sharp metal fangs that surrounded him. The bright crimson samite of his sleeve turned a darker shade of red as his blood soaked through it. "Mother!" he wailed.

With every eye on the king, somehow the man on the floor wrested a spear away from one of the gold cloaks, and used it to push himself back to his feet. "The throne denies him!" he cried. "He is no king!"

[...]

They say the Iron Throne can be perilous cruel to those who were not meant to sit it.

Hey, remember how Joffrey is dressed like a Targaryen? :)

+.+.+

"The queen will never let you go, never. You are too valuable a hostage. And Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn sons."

My stance is there will be no bastards in Sansa's womb.

+.+.+

"When?" Sansa asked. "When will we go?"

"The night of Joffrey's wedding. After the feast. All the necessary arrangements have been made. The Red Keep will be full of strangers. Half the court will be drunk and the other half will be helping Joffrey bed his bride. For a little while, you will be forgotten, and the confusion will be our friend."

"The wedding won't be for a moon's turn yet. Margaery Tyrell is at Highgarden, they've only now sent for her."

"You've waited so long, be patient awhile longer. Here, I have something for you." Ser Dontos fumbled in his pouch and drew out a silvery spiderweb, dangling it between his thick fingers.

It was a hair net of fine-spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. "What stones are these?"

"Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight."

"It's very lovely," Sansa said, thinking, It is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.

"Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It's magic, you see. It's justice you hold. It's vengeance for your father." Dontos leaned close and kissed her again. "It's home."

Tiny clues already hiding in the text.

Dany's tight silver collar was chafing against her throat. She unfastened it and flung it aside. The collar was set with an enchanted amethyst that Xaro swore would ward her against all poisons. - Daenerys III, ACOK

Anyway, more sloppy writing:

Littlefinger and Lady Olenna have already planned Joffrey's murder at this point (Great job sending Littlefinger, Tyrion), so how come Lady Olenna interrogates Sansa over Joffrey's character in the next book?

Are you telling me she's on the fence? Sansa has to convince her to go through with it? Because I don't think Littlefinger would accept her backing out of something like that, nor do I think he requires her participation.

Am I missing something? Usually I am.

Final thoughts:

Tyrion is never once mentioned or thanked during their wank fest in the throne room, and I was smiling about it the entire time. Loser.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #acok #sansa viii

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my-writings-and-musings · 4 years ago

Note

Catch me immediately sneaking out of Medbay via vents and paying the brig a visit.

On one hand this idea is hilarious. You're bandaged in the medical bay, on bed rest for the sake of your broken body, but find yourself snapping back to consciousness in the dim stillness of the ship's artificial light. The medical bay is still, you're the only one awake and alert in the entire area, and there's no stimulus to explain your sudden wakefulness. Everything is silent, as if all noise has been eliminated in your vicinity by something more otherworldly than the medics trying to get you better.

Only your senses working in tandem allow you to understand why you are awake, and what you must do next, for the sake of universal balance. You can sense the ongoing injustice like a dog senses a tsunami. Pain matters little as you force your bruised body to act, hopping into the vents and limping at full speed to the source of the disturbance.

A bot is sad, and you refuse to let this crime against existence continue a moment longer, even if said bot is the reason you're as injured as you are now. God as your witness, he will be comforted, and you'd like to see anyone try to stop you. Fort Max is going to get a hug, and you're gonna give it to him, and then you'll get rest. But only then.

Cue your little body swan diving from the vent above Max for a tactical embrace that hits like a well aimed missile.

On the other hand this idea could be heartwarming and also tearjerking.

With all the advanced technology available to the medical staff, your life threatening injuries were stabilized in minutes, though there's still ample pain and a sizable road to recovery ahead. All present medics agree you should rest for a few days after your... "ordeal", to regain your strength before any visitors are allowed. In response to your requests to at least communicate with Fort Max, you're gently told that he can't receive prisoners or messages in the brig after his actions, especially from those who were most grievously injured by said actions. It's difficult to argue them as you are, and with Rung lying motionless on his own recovery slab, his head gone and his thumb still unattached...

But you know the big mech is hurting. Of course you're also in some considerable physical distress yourself, but unlike you, Max doesn't have anyone there for his pain. That bothers you even after everything he's put you through.

Maybe it's so easy to forgive because it all seems as unreal now as it did then. He'd burst in just as you were preparing to leave so Rung could have his session with a surprisingly early Whirl, and while you'd freely admit to having been terrified, the agony in his optics had made it clear he wasn't acting out of anything but trauma. The bot you'd befriended had obviously not been in a good place, his aura giving the sense of anything but a gentle giant whilst he tried to demand what his tormented mind thought would make the pain finally stop. You'd known he was acting from fear just as well as your fellow hostages, despite being far less experienced in the area than they. Perhaps it was because of their survivalist knowledge that it was just you who'd been caught off guard, as you hadn't known just how badly afflicted Max was until your tiny body had ended up in his trembling fist, your breaths coming in so shallow you couldn't even cry for help...

Residual fear made you shudder on the slab, but instead of deterring you, the resulting pain only made you want to act.

Being a human had a number of advantages on a ship designed for giants, and the first was that no one had bothered to secure anything against a being of your size. The hardest part of escaping the medbay was simply getting up and finding the least painful way to walk, which admittedly was far from easy with your multitude of healing ribs. Ratchet would be furious if he knew what you were doing... Come to think of it, he would probably be as angry as could possibly be once he inevitably figured out you'd been out of bed at all, so all things considered there was no point in trying to go back now. That realization was surprisingly freeing.

The vents were your obvious solution even before you laid eyes on the opening and recalled their network ran the length of the entire ship.

How ironic was it, that you'd been instructed to use these in the event of an emergency, and your first time doing so was to defy orders? If this little stunt of yours succeeded and word got out, some of the crew would probably be proud of you. The rest would vary between fury and shock at such an unexpected move from their little human.

With your all in one communication tool, map, remote control and social media device of a wristband you have no trouble plotting a route. The only trouble will be getting there in your current state, completely without detection, and then making it back with equal levels of success. Only your stubborn refusal to leave a bot suffering stops you from giving up as soon as you see the distance ahead of you. Thankfully quick thinking and planning gets you some shortcuts, namely by ducking into hallways and grabbing mercifully empty elevators, but the journey is still a long and painful one. That time unfortunately gives you ample opportunity to think about what you'll say, which leads to you recalling exactly what needs to be forgiven, and that replays a number of horrifyingly fresh memories each time.

Pressure like you'd never experienced had threatened to crush your body as those powerful digits had closed in, only stopping when a number of your bones collapsed under the strain with reverberating cracks as they broke, an experience so painful you could still see the stars it had sent bursting before your eyes. Everything afterwards had been a chaotic blur, save for an expression of horrified guilt on a familiar face and the grainy footage of Overlord beaming whilst committing his trademark butchering, then darkness as large hands had carried you to safety...

Wiping sweat from your brow, you resist the painful urge to cough as you close in on the brig, knowing that a few of the prisoners will be dangerous enough that caution will be required. It's hard not to be afraid of the very idea of being grabbed once again, but that fiery determination keeps you moving through all the pain and exhaustion and admittedly logical fear. Focusing on Max as you knew him was your primary source of strength as you moved into the much smaller vents that ran through the cells. While still roomy enough for a human, they were impossible for a bot to fit through, likely to prevent escape attempts. Hopefully that would make getting through much safer for you.

Thin slots in the airways became your windows of guidance, due to the map being more than a little vague about navigating the brig. It was mostly as big as it was to ensure each cell had ample room for its occupant, a standard right for Autobot prisoners of war you were delighted to see but found none too simple to traverse. Darkness you didn't dare illuminate also complicated your mission. Quick glances outside of your little vents revealed glowing biolights and occasional flashes of optics you didn't recognize, and while you were fairly confident you could identify Max even in the dark, you were hardly eager to do so.

Luck gave you a rare break not too far into your little spying operation, one that couldn't have come too soon with exhaustion weighing you down and aches growing ever harder to ignore in your bandaged body.

Though he was larger than any other prisoner, you recognized Max by something completely unrelated to his appearance, and it immediately made you certain your decision to come down had been the right one. There was a kind of weariness to the hulking body seated on the floor of the cell, even though they were obviously awake, as if gravity was being artificially strengthened only for them. Upon a closer look you realized there was more than just fatigue dragging the occupant down; their entire being radiated such unimaginable grief it all but choked the air around them, making you wobble as if teetering on the edge of a bottomless well. Your heart threatened to shatter at the sight of a being enduring so much suffering. Hesitation of any kind evaporated in the face of your revitalized determination to console the mech who'd endured so much, as you refused to let this go on a moment longer.

"Max? In the vents, above you, it's Y/N."

In an underwhelming touch of irony your injuries actually made hushing yourself rather easy. Max slowly roused from his fog with every word you spoke, looking back and forth before casting his optics upwards and becoming aware enough to be shocked by what he saw. His expression was like a bot beholding a ghost.

"Y/N?! You're alive?"

The exclamation makes you sad and angry at the same time; really, no one had even given him that basic piece of mind? Sure there'd been a great deal of chaos, but letting him know he hadn't murdered you seemed rather routine, even after everything he'd done.

"It's okay, big guy. I'm okay." You assured, not realizing it wasn't quite true until the pain of simply existing with your injuries hit again. Hiding a wince, you grabbed at the corners of the vent as he continued to gape, easily sliding your hands into the crevices built to keep out much larger servos. "Hold on, I know these can open from the inside..."

"I don't understand..." He said, watching you like one might watch a dream unfold, standing and raising his cupped servos to catch you as the vent swung open. Perhaps the exhaustion was making you delirious, but there was no fear as you dropped the short distance into his waiting palms, despite what had happened the last time you'd been in his grasp. Perhaps the look of restrained hope in his optics put you at ease, as he didn't yet appear willing to believe this was real. Holding you like a blessing dropped by Primus himself, the giant mech sat down on the berth pushed against the wall, unable to stand under the weight of everything seeing you was making him feel.

"I thought... I was so sure I'd... You weren't even moving." He said softly, looking away as if he didn't deserve to see you alive after what he'd done. Perhaps you just had the softest heart in the universe, but such guilt in a truly gentle giant hurt more than any of your actual injuries. It was so easy to see the full scope of his trauma in the aftermath of everything, and how he obviously had been so far out of his usual self in the fog of pain and fear he'd been unable to stifle a moment longer... You wanted to help him so badly.

"I was hurt, but I'm alive. I'm going to be just fine." You assured, words halting just a bit when you included the "going" for the sake of accuracy. Currently you had a load of internal supports holding broken bones together, but with human medicine you'd have been immobile in a brace and multiple casts, probably for weeks. Even your forgiveness couldn't simply make that all go away.

"I'm... I don't know what to say." Came his reply after a long silence, his optics finally rising to meet your eyes. Though you hadn't been amongst Cybertronians for too long, you knew straight away that he'd been crying, as the tell tale dimness of his optics and slight discoloration of the mesh around them were unmistakable. Seeing that broke your heart more as you settled into his palm. Finding his voice again, he tried and failed to manage a bitter smile, the weight of his guilt making it impossible to attempt such an expression. "A little "sorry" feels pretty pathetic right about now."

Holding back the urge to cry, as well as the urge to lie down as adrenaline failed you and exhaustion started creeping in, you tried to offer encouragement. "It's okay, Max. I know you're sorry-"

"I'm so much more than sorry, Y/N."

The interruption wasn't at all firm, but it still stopped you with its unexpected weight.

"I'm... I'm so ashamed... I took a vow to protect all life, especially organic life, and I nearly killed you just to send a message. You've been nothing but nice since I got here, and this is how I pay that back? Nothing that... that happened to me could make that okay. You didn't deserve any of this, and neither did... neither did Rung..." Fading off with a crack in his voice, he let the tears fall without a care, not even letting out a sob as they pattered onto his armored chest. "But because I can't do much else, I'm sorry. To you, to everyone, for everything... I hope that helps you a bit."

Sniffling and unable to stop yourself, you wondered how proud Rung would be of the big bot if he could see him now, and you had to emphasize to yourself that one day you were going to get a chance to tell him.

"It does, but I'm not mad, okay?" You said as you tried and failed to scoot closer, realizing that you were unable to move much at all from the pain and weariness of the injuries you'd unsettled by trekking here. Paying it little mind, you looked up into those big optics and tried to convey as much forgiveness and encouragement as physically possible. "I don't know everything, but after enduring what you did... Max, I'm just so glad you're here. We're all gonna be okay; you, me, and Ratchet says Rung will be too so long as we all put the work in. That's probably true for all of us, we just need to focus on getting better. I'll be taking care of myself, and I'll be here for you every step of the way."

"Heh, are all humans this forgiving?" He said, actually managing the tiniest hint of a smile as he spoke. "I... I don't... It's going to be a lot of work, but I'll try for you. For now I do need to stay down here though, what I did... I can't just walk. You know that, right?"

Though you were aware that things could never be so simple, you were still sad as you nodded. It seemed the truly evil bots of the galaxy were quite content to keep letting others endure the fallout of their cruelty while never facing any consequences themselves... Had Overlord ever been truly punished for all the torment he'd caused? You were entering a bit of a fog at the thought when a loud commotion at the entrance to the brig got your attention as well as Maximus's.

"-cannot BELIEVE this. I always thought they were at least somewhat responsible, but they're giving your most brainless stunts a challenge!"

Ratchet's very identifiable and very angry tone carried right to the cell you two were seated inside. Max actually gave you a full on smile in his cupped palms, something like a long forgotten feeling of mischievous delight twinkling in the back of his brightening optics.

"Guess you've been found out, eh jailbreaker?"

You'd have laughed if not for the pain and the sound of Rodimus closing in with a not at all reserved yawn of exhaustion.

"Relax, Ratchet, it's too early to be yelling... Besides the scanner says they're fine and right... here."

The two mechs appeared beyond the bars in the darkened brig, and while neither looked especially happy, one was far more actively angry than the other. Somehow you weren't intimidated in the slightest to be caught. Perhaps it was because you were completely fine going back to bed, not to mention that there weren't a whole lot of punishments the bots could really give you, but most likely you were just glad to have accomplished everything you came down here for. Well, everything but one...

"Fortress Maximus, if you would... just hand over Y/N... I need to get them back to the medical bay." Ratchet said firmly, caution evident in every syllable. Unnecessary as it may have been, Max didn't seem to take offense, likely because the medic had saved his own life after Whirl had put him down. Standing slowly from the berth, he approached the cell door with you held carefully in his servos. It was at that moment you realized the big bot was actually cuffed at the wrists. The sight combined with the fact that he'd be all alone after you left made you remember one more thing that needed to be done, which you recalled just as you were about to be handed over.

"Hold on, just let me..." In a hurry, you stood up on the bots palm and forced your legs to cooperate, hobbling the short distance to his chest that he held you so close to and throwing your arms open wide for a clumsy but genuine embrace. Barely able to talk between everything going on inside of your broken body and beyond, you croaked out a final bit of encouragement, looking up as you plopped down and were quickly but gently snatched up by the waiting medic. "See you later, Max. I promise."

"See you soon, Y/N."

#transformers #maccadam #idw #more than meets the eye #mtmte #lost light #tf #fort max #fortress maximus #human reader #self insert #my writing #my asks #requests

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lava-pops · 4 years ago

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Various mine craft monsters and how I feel about them, in order of how long I ranted about them

I have strong opinions and time on my hands, and so I will subject you to the entire fucking essay. Please understand that in an unobserved, socially distant singleplayer state, and wielding god-like powers, some less palatable aspects of my personality have emerged. Rest assured the end credits told me I played the game well.

Slimes: I fucking love slimes. They don’t do anything particularly amazing but the fact that they exist delights me.

Phantoms: Beauty. Beau-ty. Fucking love these guys. All glowing like. Majestic. 10/10. Gorgeous night sky. Delight of the heights. Need 100x more of them.

Blazes: Love. The drama. The decadence. The burning ethereality. The alien geometry. The wicked Fortress. Fuck me up.

Zombies: I’ve accepted them. Sometimes you’re just going to get attacked by zombies. They used to be you. So you need to be more understanding. Mild stress and disgust mixed with grief and concern, but if there are more than one zombie, emotions are cancelled out by adrenaline and sheer bloodlust.

End Dragon: Fuckin sick!!!!!! What a beautiful creature. I just wish I could spawn a bunch of them, and baby dragons, and unleash them on the world. I’m still disturbed by how it eats Endermen. It could also eat them in a less bloodcurdling way, but I’m not complaining.

Ghasts: Morbid fascination. I find them really interesting. It’s interesting how huge they are and their odd little noises. Don’t judge me but I like to spawn them inside walls so I can hear them all screaming at once. It just sounds weird okay. I think I might do that with my sound up and see what my roommates think of it. Really makes you feel like you’re in Hell.

Wither: I don’t really mind the Wither at all, just because it helps me make places look authentically exploded. This would be a different story in Survival. I would probably shit myself at that doom sounding gong, then be so upset it literally ripped limbs from trees just to hurl pieces of itself at a pig until it was dead that I would quit the game and finally keep Minecraft uninstalled for more than 24 hours.

Creepers: I have cursed these aggressively many times and on my blog and really, I don’t hate them. Rather, I am in awe of them and the bottomless well of terror they have shown me I am capable of feeling in a split second. I’m in awe of the way they have demonstrated to me the brutality of nature. When I see one I hear the Metal Gear yeet sound, but there is no bloodlust here. I am but a prey animal who knows how to run. And sometimes I don’t know how. Sometimes... I just watch.

Vexes: Get it!!!!! Kill it!!!!!! *Fly swatter sounds* These horrible little mosquito bitches!!!!!! I love the wings and how it can phase through things, except without the murderous intent. During a sleep-deprived chaotic rampage, I was amazed to find that after all the mobs that had fought the Wither, this one was actually doing damage to it. How did I feel as I watched the Wither succumb to an eternally rising swarm of Vexes? I’m not really sure on that one. It was kind of like watching something die horribly on the nature channel.

Witches: I love them in a critical way. I totally vibe with them. I sometimes fantasize about living in a hut in a swamp alone with my ominous cat. However, my feelings were really hurt when they helped the Illagers attack my swamp village. It’s like, why would you hurt a Villager? Just why? If you have a functioning brain -- Zombies and Skeletons don’t have that -- how could you? On the one hand, I love how they use Minecraft First Aid on themselves, but it’s fucking stressful in a fight. It’s like, STOP DRINKING THAT STUFF!!!! I DON’T KNOW HOW HEALTHY YOU ARE!!!!! *knocks McDonalds cup out of your hands*

Drowned: Blessed. Listen. They’re so pretty and blue. One of the head motherfucker ones with the trident ruined everything, shoved me out of my boat just to fight, knocked my stuff over everywhere, hurt my cat and fucked my wife, and also I died and searched for my devastated livelihood in vain for three days, but I love that there are mini Poseidons everywhere. They’re basically mermaids to me. I don’t mind if they kill me a bit. I trust the ocean to be vaguely threatening to step into. And you know the guys with the little shells? Really. So pretty. They have everything... ancient little houses... magma... treasure.

Skeletons: Whereas Creepers activate my primal prey animal instincts, Skeletons just really offend me. I feel like every time they give me that shady squint and shoot their arrows because they won’t face a move I call Raw Mutton Persistence, they are saying, “Bitch.” They have faces that beg to be slapped. What kind of skeleton doesn’t grin? Be grateful for your bones. The fact that I am not galaxy-brained enough to have diamond bling and usually don’t last long enough to actually slap them leaves me with all sorts of simmering resentment that violently surfaces when I see them in Creative Mode. I think the most distinctive flash of indignation I have experienced at their hands, or rather, their shitty little bitch arrows, was when one followed me into the water and still tried to shoot me as their arrow went super slow in a pathetic downward arc. What is your fucking problem?!!!

Illagers: Malevolence. Vengeance. They are certainly fascinating, compelling, and realistic, but god damn I hate these guys. They can eat my entire ass. I made a blue wool sculpture Illager style on top of their Outpost in the shape of a dick and balls and made a waterfall pour out the tip of it, and then I zoomed out feeling both smug and bad about myself. In fact if there’s a war crime you can use against an Illager, I’ve done it in Creative Mode at 3am in a quarantine-enabled inner void, hoping I’m not going to hear about it in the afterlife. Have I always hated them? Perhaps. You must understand that back in the day, when they first went grunting pompously around my swamp, I had no idea what the fuck I was looking at. I just knew it had to catch these hands. I didn’t know what a Raid was either and thought Minecraft had just become sort of intense for a little while. But I will always remember when they were standing under my Giant Wharf Prismarine Vaguely Religious Rectangular Condos shooting at my adorable Villager with his precious leaf hat (all of my Villagers are gay men) sitting in a boat not hurting anyone and I’m still mad, bro. They shall know my wrath

#minecraft #long post #mobs #monsters #heres the essay absolutely no one asked for

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roman-catholic-mass-readings · 4 years ago

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30th June >> Mass Readings (USA)

Tuesday, Thirteenth Week in Ordinary Time

The First Martyrs of the See of Rome.

Tuesday, Thirteenth Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Green)

First Reading

Amos 3:1-8; 4:11-12

The Lord God speaks - who will not prophesy!

Hear this word, O children of Israel, that the Lord pronounces over you, over the whole family that I brought up from the land of Egypt:

You alone have I favored,

more than all the families of the earth;

Therefore I will punish you

for all your crimes.

Do two walk together

unless they have agreed?

Does a lion roar in the forest

when it has no prey?

Does a young lion cry out from its den

unless it has seized something?

Is a bird brought to earth by a snare

when there is no lure for it?

Does a snare spring up from the ground

without catching anything?

If the trumpet sounds in a city,

will the people not be frightened?

If evil befalls a city,

has not the Lord caused it?

Indeed, the Lord God does nothing

without revealing his plan

to his servants, the prophets.

The lion roars –

who will not be afraid!

The Lord God speaks –

who will not prophesy!

I brought upon you such upheaval

as when God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah:

you were like a brand plucked from the fire;

Yet you returned not to me,

says the Lord.

So now I will deal with you in my own way, O Israel!

and since I will deal thus with you,

prepare to meet your God, O Israel.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 5:4b-6a, 6b-7, 8

R/ Lead me in your justice, Lord.

At dawn I bring my plea expectantly before you.

For you, O God, delight not in wickedness;

no evil man remains with you;

the arrogant may not stand in your sight.

R/ Lead me in your justice, Lord.

You hate all evildoers;

you destroy all who speak falsehood;

The bloodthirsty and the deceitful

the Lord abhors.

R/ Lead me in your justice, Lord.

But I, because of your abundant mercy,

will enter your house;

I will worship at your holy temple

in fear of you, O Lord.

R/ Lead me in your justice, Lord.

Gospel Acclamation

Psalm 130:5

Alleluia, alleluia.

I trust in the Lord;

my soul trusts in his word.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Matthew 8:23-27

Jesus rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was great calm.

As Jesus got into a boat, his disciples followed him. Suddenly a violent storm came up on the sea, so that the boat was being swamped by waves; but he was asleep. They came and woke him, saying, “Lord, save us! We are perishing!” He said to them, “Why are you terrified, O you of little faith?” Then he got up, rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was great calm. The men were amazed and said, “What sort of man is this, whom even the winds and the sea obey?”

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

——————————

The First Martyrs of the See of Rome

◼︎

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Tuesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

Romans 8:31b-39

Neither death nor life will be able to separate us from the love of Christ.

Brothers and sisters: If God is for us, who can be against us? He did not spare his own Son but handed him over for us all, how will he not also give us everything else along with him? Who will bring a charge against God’s chosen ones? It is God who acquits us. Who will condemn? It is Christ Jesus who died, rather, was raised, who also is at the right hand of God, who indeed intercedes for us. What will separate us from the love of Christ? Will anguish, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword? As it is written:

For your sake we are being slain all the day;

we are looked upon as sheep to be slaughtered.

No, in all these things we conquer overwhelmingly through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 124:2-3, 4-5, 7b-8

R/ Our soul has been rescued like a bird from the fowler’s snare.

Had not the Lord been with us–

when men rose up against us,

then would they have swallowed us alive

When their fury was inflamed against us.

R/ Our soul has been rescued like a bird from the fowler’s snare.

Then would the waters have overwhelmed us;

The torrent would have swept over us;

over us then would have swept

the raging waters.

R/ Our soul has been rescued like a bird from the fowler’s snare.

Broken was the snare,

and we were freed.

Our help is in the name of the Lord,

who made heaven and earth.

R/ Our soul has been rescued like a bird from the fowler’s snare.

Gospel Acclamation

Matthew 5:10

Alleluia, alleluia.

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,

for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Matthew 24:4-13

You will be hated by all nations because of my name.

Jesus said to his disciples: “See that no one deceives you. For many will come in my name, saying, ‘I am the Christ,’ and they will deceive many. You will hear of wars and reports of wars; see that you are not alarmed, for these things must happen, but it will not yet be the end. Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be famines and earthquakes from place to place. All these are the beginning of the labor pains. Then they will hand you over to persecution, and they will kill you. You will be hated by all nations because of my name. And then many will be led into sin; they will betray and hate one another. Many false prophets will arise and deceive many; and because of the increase of evildoing, the love of many will grow cold. But the one who perseveres to the end will be saved.”

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

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diveronarpg · 5 years ago

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In fair Verona, our tale begins with CYRUS SLOANE, who is TWENTY years old. He is often called CORIOLANUS by the CAPULETS and works as their EMISSARY. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

His story does not begin, as most traditional stories do, with his birth. No, his tale was written long before his birth – his tale was tied to that of another, was tied to a woman, to a name. The Sloane name. What name in Verona was not tied to it either by the spilling of its blood or the knowledge of the infamy that it bore? He was the culmination of its hardships, heartache, and the cruelty that it bore. It was a special, intoxicating concoction that only Verona knew how to manufacture, how to mold. So, essentially, he was the child of Verona, not a child of the woman that he deigned to call mother. Even after she abandoned him, he still called her mother. If he rescinded that title from her, then he rescinded his name for, at the tender age of twelve, it was the only thing that he had. He had other things of course – the knowledge that the coldness of the stars watched over him as he turned to violence to vent his rage and replace all that he had lost. Cyrus Sloane, heir to the Sloane name and all the riches that came with it, had many things in his life, despite all that Fate and Lady Fortune took away, and retribution was one of them.

However, the softness of his childish face, blue and purple painted across the pink of his round cheeks, gave nothing away. Like Eros, he unwittingly invoked the infatuation and adoration of others – those who did not see the blood on his hands or the way he took vengeance upon those who tried to steal away the only things that he had. They saw only the blue of his eyes and the winning curve of his grin. Like a cherub, they cooed as they looked upon him, like a heaven-sent creature from God. Perhaps he was heaven’s gift to the aunt and uncle who took him in once his mother had offloaded him. It certainly seemed like it with the way that they spoiled young Cyrus, offering him everything under the stars and denying him but the opportunity for suffering to enter into his life. They brought him into their life and whisked him away from the hellish city that he had been raised in, introducing him to the life of luxury that could be found in South Africa. But one could not live such a decadent life without having a little rot set in – and with the beginnings of darkness already set upon his soul, it was not surprising that like should seek out like, and the demons should reach out to drag him under their black wings.

The mob of South Africa gave him the tools to teach the world to lay itself at his feet with a honey-lacquered tongue and rose-pink lips that demanded nothing less than adoration, adoration, adoration. Like his relatives, the whole of Cape Town was able to deny him nothing and to him, the whole city was nothing but the dirt under his feet upon which he could build the ruin of those who had dared deny him when he was nothing but a child. Cyrus had borne the Sloane name as a child and now he bore it it as a man, a man thirsting for retribution so that he might teach them the power of his hand – should his tongue be poised for vengeance then may the streets run slick with Verona’s blood, and should he grant it absolution then all may know the benevolence of the sole heir to the Sloane name. The request for such an opportunity remained quiet on his tongue, a secret that he kept close to his heart until the moment came – and it did. The dealings with the Capulets, with his mother, had grown sour with the war that waged in the place that he had been born and molded. Cyrus returned, hungry to prove his mettle to Cosimo Capulet and to prove his mother wrong, ravenous for the chance to make his mark in the place that he had been born and molded. He pleaded his case – and to his surprise, was inducted as not an initiate, but an emissary.

Whether it be God or the Devil who deigned to smile and bestow such a blessing of an opportunity upon him, Cyrus did not know nor did he care for he paid respect to none other than his own will. A boy who became a god through will alone did not pay homage to those who did nothing for him – but he did exact retribution on all those who had dareD believed him a weak, unworthy thing. Verona has weathered many things, from their deified kings who trample the city beneath their feet, to the woes that painted the streets red and made their graveyards full. But Verona has met its match in Cyrus Sloane, and mercy to the man that dares to recognize him as anything other than the oncoming king.

VIVIANNE SLOANE: Mother. Ah, yes, mother dearest as he so fondly called her in his thoughts when bitterness had beset his dreams. He used to wonder, for the first few years, why she abandoned him. The thoughts were various and taxing – one despairing thought leading to the next and so on, and so forth until tears wet his cheeks. She’d claimed it was the two of them against the world - so where had he fallen short of her love? But then came the moments where his thoughts stopped being so treacherous and abusive, when they stopped accusing him of being the one to have committed the wrong. They grew as he grew, granting him a new and more righteous perspective. He had committed no wrong, but Vivianne, his mother, had something within her. No woman could ever justify abandoning a small child whose hands were too tender and whose eyes were too filled with tears to see straight. But now he will reap his justice – some way or another he will make everything she holds dear abandon her.

BERNADETTE DU PONT: Partner in crime. He sees her for what she is and calls her for what she’s worth – his match in every sense of the word. What with their darling eyes and their cherubic faces, the two are likely to get away with anything and everything so long as they paint those darling smiles upon their lips and flutter their darling lashes. No doubt, there are other women in Verona just as winning as she, but none are quite so tenacious or fickle as Bernadette Du Pont. They all preen and coo like lack-luster doves whenever he steps upon the scene, but Brigette? She prances around like a majestic peacock, head tossed up as if she did not dare to deign him until she sees fit or he plies her with macarons. Everything can become so drearily taxing when concocting dastardly schemes of vengeance – so some levity and careless, woe-begone mischief is needed in his life. Who better to grant him reprieve than the delightful darling of destruction?

CASSIAN BHATT: Mentor. The whole point of procuring a mentor is so that one day you might surpass them – and Cyrus has time and time again. His agenda with Cassian, he hopes, will prove no different. It was no surprise that Cassian took him under his wing, for Cyrus knew that he had nothing but potential for a career in politics. But what did surprise him was how easily he succumbed to Cyrus’ innocent spell of charming words and student-like manners. It was as if Cassian half-expected to be gifted an apple by his favorite protegee, expected his student to be as taken with him as he was with Cyrus. Little did he know that beneath the eyes that blinked so wide and blue there were schemes that the Devil himself would find damnable. Upon the hands that caressed a wistful lover’s cheeks were muscles that ached for vengeance upon all those he considered beneath him. But no, Cassian Moretti, the cleverest and most tactful man in Verona saw nothing but a pupil.

PAOLA DAMASCO: Target. He has studied her for awhile – how could he not when her story is so similar to his? A child lost and abandoned. Even when he left Verona, he managed to hear whispers of her, keep tabs on the child of Verona that sought to make this place her home whether they accepted her or not. From afar, he’s been the demon in the shadows, dismantling her every attempt to rise among the ranks and join the gods and goddesses of the city, the untouchable, the elite. He wondered how it must make her so angry and rageful that even he, a boy cast out because of an unloving mother, was able to step back into the city and they welcomed him like one of their own. And yet she, who has bled and sweated and cutfor the city is still unable to call it home. How long will it be before the marble she has cut herself from cracks under the weight of his glory?

Cyrus is portrayed by LORENZO ZURZULO and was written by ROSEY. He is currently OPEN.

#active rp #mob rp #bio rp #lsrpg #cap #cyrus sloane #m #om #mw

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chrystening · 6 years ago

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All That Glitters | Sinbad / Male Reader

Title: All That Glitters Fandom: Magi Rating: M Words: 4k Summary: Anyone who’s taken a second to look past the glimmering, faux-perfect exterior knows Sinbad must be up to no good. You were convinced that the King of Sindria has everyone under his spell… and now you are too. Warnings: hypnosis, probably dubcon, forced masturbation, sinbad being sneaky and awful

The dregs of war had clearly not dimmed the Sindrian spirit, because the celebration of the war’s end was well under way.

Sindria was lively and beautiful, glittering and festive. Under the night sky, torches burned bright, lighting the paved roads. Women danced in their silky outfits, feathers and jewels against their skin, as men juggled torches to the delight of watching children. The people were kind and generous, handing out masks and other festival paraphernalia. Where usually, there’d be some danger lurking about, criminals seeking to rob unsuspecting festival goers, you found none. There was only generosity, happiness, fun.

A string of flowers, vibrant in their color, was suddenly shoved in your face. You blinked dumbly at the intrusion, before focusing your sights past their petals, to the innocent girl holding them out to you. Her toothy grin widened.

“Flowers, mister?”

You paused before smiling kindly down at her, taking them gingerly.

“Thank you,” you said, pulling the lei over your head.

She nodded, before skipping off gleefully.

You absentmindedly watched her bounce off, smelling the savory aroma of meat. Grills lined the path, smoke wafting up like signals for festival goers to follow.

There didn’t seem to be a single problem with Sindria that you could point out. It had a flourishing economy, low crime rate, swift justice system, and a seemingly benevolent king. You couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that this country’s prosperity was all due to one man.

You sighed, a dim figure amidst the joy and festivities. Your thoughts were interrupted as someone small bumped into you. You managed not to stumble forward as you felt him gather his bearings, still leaning most of his weight on your back.

“Ah!” you heard. From the childish lilt, you surmised it was your blue-headed friend.

“Aladdin?”

You heard his soft, earnest feet pad around. He skipped into your view, blessing you with his countenance. You smiled at seeing his smile, always pleased at the pure joy and wonder he found in everything.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you! Alibaba, Morg, and I are going to go talk to Uncle Sinbad!” Your eyebrows rose. The two aforementioned suddenly came into your sight, Alibaba sheepishly scratching his head and Morgiana with a polite smile. Aladdin clasped his hands together and gleamed up at you. “Would you like to come?”

You grinned sheepishly. “I’m fine.”

The thought of being in Sinbad’s presence unnerved you. You knew if given the chance, you’d fall for his charms, as had everyone else.

Aladdin deflated, puffing his cheeks. “You haven’t joined us in anything tonight! Just now you missed the reenactment of our journey into Zagan’s dungeon!” At the mention of that you cringed; if you were recalling correctly, it was due to Sinbad’s encouragement they left. They could’ve died… You looked them over. They were just kids, you thought, looking over their faces.

“It’s true. You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself tonight,” Morgiana supplied, gentle concern in her features. Alibaba looked at you questioningly as well. You scratched your head.

“I know, I know, but—“

“Come on,” Aladdin urged, pushing you along. “You need to at least meet the eight generals!” A perverted look appeared on his face. “Ah, Big Sis Yam is so pretty and soft~”

Aladdin cooed over his magic teacher as he guided you forward, Alibaba and Morgiana in tow.

You didn’t blame their excitement, blinded by the glamour of Sindria and its king. Neither of them had seen what you had. You remember much too vividly seeing Sinbad in his djinn equip—intense, crushing power surging off him in waves, as the wrath of what felt like God rained down from the sky at his command. While such power was becoming commonplace in the age of dungeon conquering, there was just an abnormality to his strength. Men that strong didn’t just build empires on islands, ruling peacefully and fairly. You thought of your own childhood.

They just didn’t.

You allowed yourself reluctantly to be pushed, a murky feeling in your heart as you went to see the esteemed King of Sindria.

Yeah… You didn’t like him.

You reached this conclusion at the sight of him being fawned about by women, their eyes batting coyly at your entrance. You grimaced, immediately reminded of the gluttonous, lustful king your own country suffered under. Seeing your entry with your young companions, the horde swarming him was gently shooed away. The jewels and gold they wore clang together like songs as they exited. You absentmindedly watched them go, as opposed to Alibaba and Aladdin’s ogling, before returning your attention to Sinbad.

You stilled, terror racing up your veins.

His eyes, pools of deep amber, were acutely focused on you. They were highly attentive, unblinking and observant. The ghost of a smirk on his lips sent shivers down your spine. No one else seemed to be under the same effect as you, your young friends chattering as usual. His presence grew only more oppressive as he didn’t turn from you at all. No one seemed to notice his staring.

You ripped your eyes away from his, feeling uncomfortable.

You were right. This man couldn’t just be… as perfect as everyone claimed.

While the trio were introducing you to the eight generals, you kept your eyes anywhere except Sinbad, only making eye contact when greeting the guardians humbly. They were all interesting, some energetic and others stoic. They all appeared… honest. Kind-hearted. At the very least, well-intentioned. None of them gave you the same chill as their leader.

After introductions were done, you retreated behind Alibaba and Aladdin, who lead the conversations thanks to their extroverted personalities. You lost track of the topic at hand, the chatter becoming peripheral to your mind until screams broke out.

“What did you say?!”

“Oh, I’m sorry—are you hard of hearing?”

Your eyes darted up to Yamraiha and Sharrkan. Everyone’s attentions were diverted from the matter at hand. Whatever—it was an opening. The more responsible guardians endeavored to calm the situation, while the others watched in amusement. You dared to look at Sinbad again, relieved to find him not looking back. He was leaning back in a lavish chair, his visage framed with the metal vessels he carried. He laughed in merriment, amused by the argument between his retainers. Frustration clawed at you.

He had to be hiding something. And you had to find out what.

You tore your eyes away from Sinbad, and they fell to your young friends. Their colorful heads bobbed, and their faces were pink from laughter and youth. You had to find out soon, before it put your friends in danger.

Managing to ease your way out of sight, you were soon ducking behind a corner to escape.

You weren’t the only master of stealth, unknown to you. Once you looked away, Sinbad’s eyes trailed your every movement. He watched as you withdrew from the situation, eyes lingering on the wall you had disappeared behind once you were out of sight. He stood naturally and quietly, only catching the attention of the most observant person present.

Jafar, standing to the side as always, looked up. He folded his arms, his sleeves linking together.

“My king?”

Sinbad glided past him, speaking without interrupting his stride.

“I’ll be away for a minute or so. Don’t let anyone follow.”

Jafar bowed his head slightly, sinking it lower into the cover of his sleeves.

You found yourself walking deeper into the confines of the palace grounds. The festive music was little more than a whisper in the air, growing ever fainter as your steps continued. The liveliness of Sindria was beginning to fade into the distance. That mirage of delight and liveliness was a world away.

The presence of light was becoming harder and harder to come by, only supplied by the occasional torch. But you didn’t mind; you, in fact, preferred the dark, and the cover it provided. You’d need the darkness in this mission.

Step.

The relaxing atmosphere dissipated and your senses were sent on high alert.

You froze. You hadn’t sensed anybody in the nearby vicinity.

This stranger only let you hear their approach because they wanted you to.

You whirled around, fingers itching at your right side. They cackled threateningly with hissing electricity, before fizzling out in your shock of who it was.

You were confronted by Sinbad, his face in drastic shadow. You blinked dumbly—it was all you could do. He didn’t move or say anything, allowing you to become uncomfortable in the silence.

You collected yourself, urging your body to stop its reluctant tremble. You made an attempt to veil the poison in your eyes, smiling politely. You bowed your head, breaking eye contact.

“King Sinbad,” you spoke.

You flinched at his hearty laugh, followed by the clink of jewelry as he folded his arms. “Where’s that fight I just saw a second ago?” You didn’t respond. “Don’t tell me it’s all gone. And please, call me Sinbad.”

You looked up, focusing on red jewel that sat in his hairpiece, winking dangerously at you.

“You aren’t enjoying yourself?” Your eyes snapped to his—a mistake. “What are you doing so far away from the entertainment?” He smiled amicably, but every word was a loaded question. He sounded so sure of himself, so sure of you. In fact, you’d be surprised if he didn’t already know your intentions. Your eyebrows furrowed. Did he?

You furrowed your eyebrows, mind grasping at what to say. What was it about him that kept you from lying? You had done so easily in the past.

“Are you… spying on me?” he continued, grin withstanding. You flinched, blanching and speechless as you found it impossible to lie to him. He let out a hearty laugh at your face, and you narrowed your eyes. You reassured yourself as he bent over in mirth. He didn’t have any idea. He was playing with you.

“You…” you muttered, folding your arms and looking away.

“Well, either way, Yamraiha’s security enchantments are down, so I suppose you have the run of the place…” you heard him say amicably. Your ears perked at that.

You didn’t reply, standing there awkwardly in the silence. You weren’t looking, but Sinbad was looking at you through half-lidded eyes. You were a problem, yes, but a good-looking one nonetheless.

Your nerves then went on high alert when you heard him take a step forward. They screamed at you when he took another. You took a step back. He took a step forward.

Step back, step forward.

Step back, step forward, until he was almost right on top of you.

You gasped when your back hit a pillar.

Sinbad was not affected by your hysterics at all. He gave you a knowing smile, his face framed with locks of violet. He shifted, his jewels clanging against one another melodically. They resounded in your ears like chimes. Warm torchlight refracted off his jewelry like molten sunlight, dizzying to look at. You swallowed, unable to look away from his eyes. His eyes were dangerously gold.

“Forgive me if I’ve gotten the wrong impression,” he started, before advancing one more step. His voice grew lower, right above a whisper. “But I get the feeling you aren’t very fond of me.” You visibly shivered, embarrassing to admit. Torchlight made the ring on his finger glimmer. “Tell me.”

Your entire being trembled once he said that, his voice tinny and bouncing off the walls. You blinked. Was that your imagination?

You could feel the strength radiating off of him, washing over you in waves. You felt your legs grow weaker. Sinbad was silent, waiting for a response from you. His molten gaze was unwavering. Your jaw tightened; you couldn’t stand those eyes. They were sharp, possessing a gross omniscience. He could see right through you, you knew. Look away, look away! you begged him inwardly.

Only the crackling of fire was audible, almost drowned out by your heart’s pounding. You opened your mouth.

“I–” An eyebrow cocked tauntingly. “I… don’t,” you responded, finally. His smile deepened, his eyes becoming gold slits in his shadowed face.

“Oho~” His voice was playful. “If I’ve done anything wrong, please, let me formally apologize.”

“As if you’d mean it,” you breathed before being able to stop yourself. His eyebrows rose imperceptibly. Newfound courage flooded your body seeing his façade falter, if only for a bit. You stepped forward, almost chest to chest with him.

“From what I’ve seen… I-I don’t know if I can trust you.” What exactly were you doing? You were insulting a king, in his own country, in his own palace, after indulging in his food and entertainment. Sure you wanted to get to the bottom of this, but there were… smarter ways.

But you didn’t care. Something about Sinbad was decidedly off.

Humor entered his visage. “And here I thought my hospitality was more than generous.” You stiffened when you felt his fingers play with your lei. You shook him off, eyes darting to a bracelet you were sure was a metal vessel.

“For your own benefit, I’m sure,” you countered.

He gestured to his luxurious palace. “And what are these benefits I could get that I don’t already have?”

You narrowed your eyes; he must’ve known by now you weren’t a fool.

“Alibaba’s the displaced prince of Balbadd. When he comes of age to take back his kingdom, he will be a powerful ally. Aladdin’s a magi, a magician of creation. His power and influence could be limitless.” You were babbling at this point, unable to stop talking. “You could even make use of Morgiana if you wanted; she’ll become a formidable warrior.”

He didn’t say anything, still grinning. And? he seemed to be saying through his silence.

“And they all listen to me.” Your eyes narrowed as you and him stared at one another. “And I might tell them something you don’t like.”

Sinbad’s eyes were heavy on you, level and calm. He still had that damn smirk on his face, as if he was winning. He didn’t step back from you.

“Well?” He placed his hands on his hips, leveling a dare on you with his gaze. “And if I ‘wanted to make use of them,’ what would you do about it?”

At the thinly veiled threat, you summoned your magoi, letting it surge around you in a small sphere. It didn’t faze him at all, not that you expected it to. Sinbad was more powerful than you could imagine. Frankly, you didn’t know what you meant by this display of power.

“Then I’ll stop you.”

He appraised you for a moment, before learning forward. He was completely unaffected by your power, penetrating its barrier with a flagrant hand. Your eyebrows furrowed. It took all the power you had in your body not to dart away. Sinbad’s hand cupped your face, and you gasped. He bent down to your ear. You put your hands on his chest to push him away as your magoi dissipated, but you had no strength to.

He moved, his lips just brushing with the sensitive shell of your ear. He was beginning to whisper when you turned away, looking towards the moonlit fountains. You couldn’t move. Or didn’t want to? You scanned the vicinity, embarrassed. What would this look like to a passerby?

You struggled to even focus on his exact words, but you knew you were absorbing them somehow .

Whenever you–

–touch–

–ally with–

–heat–

–pleasure–

– think of me.

What he was saying was enough to make you blush, but what was this intense effect? There was a definite ring to his voice, hollow and hypnotic. You were panting, the shell of your ear where his breath tickled turning numb. You struggled to keep your eyes open, not to close them and fall against his chest. Your insides were swirling with fire. You grew panicked once you felt the beginnings of an erection.

But you went flaccid once he withdrew his lips from your ear, your eyes shooting wide open. You looked at his face–God, it was smug. He smiled down at you, eyes glittering, before turning away.

He began his departure, continuing and exiting around a corner. Once you knew he was gone, your knees failed you. You leaned on the wall and exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. You sank to the floor, clutching your chest. Your heart racked against your ribs. All he said… since when had Sinbad felt that way for you? Or was he playing around again? You felt the need to scurry back to your room–

You frowned. No, you steeled. You felt the niggling that you should go back, but there was no time for that. You bounded back up, and made your way throughout the palace grounds. You avoided the eye of any guards walking about, hopping from roof to roof until Sinbad’s office was in sight. You scanned the area, no one appearing to look your way. Sinbad had so carelessly admitted that Yamraiha’s spells were down.

You flew up to an open window. How careless his hubris had made him…

You set foot in his office, the room dim and shrouded in shadow. It was still, books on shelves and papers on his desks your only companion. How unsettling it was to be here at night. It felt a whole lot smaller. You traipsed to Sinbad’s desk, bending over to open a drawer.

When you reached for it, It was as if it was happening in slow motion. You absently wondered why. Your fingers made contact with the knob, and a jolt flickered in your brain.

You blinked, hand curled around the knob. Then you moaned suddenly–you slapped a hand over your traitorous mouth. From your hand’s place on your face, you could feel the heat of your cheeks. You bristled. In fact, all of you was hot. Why… were you so hot? You stood up straight, releasing the drawer knob against your own volition. Perhaps Yam enchanted sudden fever on trespassers?

You had to get back to your room. You walked away from the desk, steps growing weaker. Towards the door you went. Something was at work here, a spell, an enchantment, something. You could pinpoint the moment your mind began to fuzz. You could hear your heavy breathing in the silence of the room. You tripped—over what, you weren’t sure—and landed on all fours. You let out a deep groan, feeling searing heat pool to your groin. You scooted until your back was against the wall adjacent to the doors. Seeing no shadows underneath the crack of the doors, you surmised you were truly alone. No guards even? Was Sinbad always this trusting? You folded your arms as you sat against the wall.

You wanted to be touched, you realized. Of all times... You gritted your teeth.

… You were alone…

“No one…” you panted aloud. You writhed, blushing. “It’s…” Fine, your mind whispered to you. But that wasn’t your mind’s voice...

You’re alone, it’s fine, it said.

To your shame, your trembling hands fell tentatively from the fabric on your chest, instead slipping under them. As if by themselves, they ran across your warm skin. Behind the fuzziness of your mind, you were aware you should stop. But ‘Keep going,’ sang the choir in your mind, in voices that weren’t yours or anyone’s you knew. The pads of your fingertips ran over the buds of your nipples. Just a graze against them and you were hissing. Your touch felt like fire and ice. Forget slow and sensual, you thought. Your hands dove quickly underneath your waistband.

You gripped your length, groaning in relief. You could feel the pulse of your own erection, and you stroked it affectionately. Your head hit against the wall as it lolled back.

You closed your eyes. Firm touch, bronzed skin, and long, long hair like ink. Amber eyes, grinning lips, gold earrings. Your mind was flooded with flashes of a man with eager hands, kneading you. His face escaped you, but that didn’t matter. His tongue–that mattered. His body– that mattered. The feeling of him sinking into you– that mattered.

You let out a delirious sound, hand a pistoning blur on your erection. It leaked profusely, your makings falling onto your pants, dripping down your balls. You bucked into your own hand, an embarrassing motion but one you didn’t dare stop.

You brought your knees up as you curled into a ball on the floor. The sparse jewelry you wore–thin bands of gold and a layered pendant–clanged together in gold noises. Alongside your gasping, pleading, they were the only sounds that accompanied you in the dark of Sinbad’s office.

Sinbad– he was brought to mind suddenly. So suddenly you jerked at the thought of him. Yes… Sinbad .

Your frenzied eyes relaxed, glazing over.

“Sinbad,” you whispered like a secret. The fading logic in your brain was connecting the dots. He had something to do with this. He wanted to stop you. He had only left you alone because he knew you’d be–

You drew a breath, those thoughts lost in a breeze.

“Sinbad,” you said again, this time louder, more wanting. He wasn’t there to answer, but your mind conjured his body for you to beg at. His smile just a while ago, his whispering. How could he have left you like this? You whined with abandon, completely unconcerned with keeping quiet.

“Sinbad, Sinbad, Sinbad,” you gasped, unable to think or say anything else as you pumped your hands between your thighs.

You wanted him. You knew your administrations were enough to drive you to finish, but not to be satisfied. Not until he was there to help you. Your eyebrows knotted as you felt yourself push over the edge.

You came with a purr, mouth open and wet. It was nearly painful as you were rigid for a moment, before falling lax. You were a boneless pile on the floor, eyes closed and listening to your own breathing.

You wouldn’t be surprised if you fell asleep right there, basking in the silence and warmth of an orgasm.

There was the wind outside... the rustle of leaves... the soft beat of dreams… the chanting of citizens… One of your eyes opened a sliver. You bristled when the music from the city registered in your head again. Oh my God… oh my God –

You pushed off the floor to sit up in Sinbad’s office– Sinbad’s office! Your cheeks flamed once more, but with humiliation. You looked at the hands holding you up. Your right hand was slick with cum and sweat, soiled with your shame. A niggle in your mind bode you to bring it to your lips.

“Oh my God,” you gasped. You rose to your feet, your knees wobbly and legs protesting, but rising nonetheless. Your mind was still a hazy cloud, but clearing.

You looked around the office. It looked so normal and untouched, as if nothing of note had occurred. As if you hadn’t just pleasured yourself in the king’s office, while pleasuring yourself to the king. You eyes fell to the floor, which beheld the only evidence of your being here. Your seed painted the carpet, so out of place and almost mockingly innocent. You hurriedly swiped at it with your fingers, wiping them on your clothes before you fell prey to the voice in your head telling you to taste them. This was mortifying.

You took one last sweep around the room under a nervous brow, before striding to the window and leaping out of it without a second thought. You’d retire to your room for the night. Hell to the festivities–you were too embarrassed to look anyone in the eye. How could you even look Sinbad in the eye again after this...

At least no one had been here to witness this… whatever this was, you thought furtively, descending like a feather to the ground with red cheeks.

At the same time, from outside the door, Sinbad applauded his restraint, having been eager the whole time to join you. He stepped away from where he had been listening and slipped out his hand from under his robes. You had just been too cute. And naive.

He began walking down the corridor, making his way back to the festivities. How lucky you can go back to your room, whereas a king will surely be missed... he thought, sighing with a smile. Sinbad licked his own fingers clean. And I’ve already overstayed my welcome.

#sinbad male reader #sinbad imagine #magi imagines #sinbad x male reader #zepar #fic #fic commissions #mine

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sparda3g · 7 years ago

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Food Wars! Shokugeki no Soma Chapter 261 Review

We have finally reached to this point; the end of the road. Erina has already amazed the top 2 Elite 10 members, but they’re not the one to judge, so it does not count. Erina’s dish is finally served in this 2-part judgment process (I think). This chapter is the first to present Erina and her true form of specialty; unleashing her special perk. Having said to be part 1, it’s no doubt we are slowly savoring a magnificent taste of victory.

It’s no secret that Erina stole the battle singlehandedly; arguably the entire arc. She has been on a tremendous momentum and the ride won’t end until she can get the last laugh over azami. The last chapter was so satisfying for her character to evolve, pairing love increased tenfold, and her killing spree keeps on going. This chapter is where she will finally get to claim her rights to live as a sole person and mark the end of her father’s reign.

The tension deepens from the very first page with many characters including the audience, preparing to be amazed by Erina’s specialty. You would think it’s the protagonist that is on stage, about to blow them away, but it’s Erina. Wait, I think I contradicted myself…The moment of truth keeps on building up and Erina never look so alive and confidence with that second page.

Tsukuda is likely aware of the hype because it was purposely stalled further with Azami getting his last words while acting like a father in a rare occasion before meeting his ultimate defeat. It’s all the merrier to hate the guy, trying to ruin the hype. It was strange to see him talking like a caring father, as if he decided to be concern of her. He points out how she was breathing heavily after improvising for 10 minutes. The problem is he’s more concern on the presentation.

Somehow, he deviates from his concern on her health towards the representation of a chef. According to him, if they improvise or try to cook something unusual, it would force them to work so hard; much difficult than what’s already established. He’s not wrong about that, but it’s not as inventive, hence lack of enthusiasm. Because of that, he finds her dish unacceptable. It comes off like a cheap excuse and act like sore loser; however, it actually does play a role and key to his character.

This is like a cooking series’ version of “any last word” moment. Think of a scene of when a character about to do something that will change forever, the other character would plead to do otherwise. Case in point, Azami tried to convince Erina that her dish shall not be served due to health and such; but Erina, the Queen she is, has decided. She will serve and thus, breaking all chains from Azami completely. I have been surprised plenty of times from the last chapter, and yet this one surprised me as well.

The special insert is none other than Furi-freaking-kake!

I forgot to mention in my last review. The part I like about the callback that this series does is how it is done in an appropriate timing that isn’t just nostalgia, but it serves a significant purpose. It’s hilarious that Erina used peanut butter and squid for her dish; however, it’s fascinating how it connects to the main theme of creativity. It was always portrayed as the worst dish imaginable, but Erina made it work. If it can be delicious, then nothing is impossible. It is this series’ version of “anyone can cook.”

In this chapter, it’s the furikake that amazes the judges with its transformation. The detail of how it slowly melts really made it look so good. Saeki went out of his way to zoom in a piece of meat with the cube on top slowly dissolving. There has to be a restaurant for me to try; it’s drool worthy. Decora more or less described my reaction just by looking at it. Finally, the tasting process commences and Azami activates Erina’s trap card. He look awed judging by his eyes. You have done that to yourself.

Surprise, surprise, Decora and Anne got foodgasm, now with tentacle…well, you know what (serious note: is there a better word than that?) Actually, instead of tentacle that wraps around the two judges, it’s the egg sauce or juice that engulfed them. Saeki really spent a lot of time in his early days as Toshi huh. If stripping isn’t the endgame, this could be it. The description of the taste favors towards to creativity because they are awestruck beyond anything. Never would they have imagined that there could be something more than what’s already considered “perfect.”

I do like the full picture of the foodgasm (not the wrapping) where they are once living in a good life with what they already have. Everything changes when Erina attacks. Her specialty is so blessing that the servants of God have arrive to carry them to the heaven heights. It’s a funny, charming, and delighting way to describe the taste in the nutshell. How adorable those little Erinas are; it reminds me of chapter 3 with Soma. Now it brings me to this point: Erina’s specialty.

The thing about her specialty is quite terrifying. She is like jack of all trades and now, she can master of all. Actually, it’s more like polishing or harmonizing for a unique balance. The reason why it’s amazing is because her choices of recipe are what they are considered as: low-class. If she can convert it and make it at least redeemable like with peanut butter and squid, she can make anything delicious like 5-star class; perhaps even more. It’s why the resemblance to Soma’s little servants happened here; it’s the same, only in its master form, at least in her own way.

Her specialty goes against everything Azami believes in. I don’t know if Azami was aware of her specialty to be this, but if so, it would make a lot of sense for his action to be painful that ultimately manipulated her. She has a gift that can influence anyone to cook the way they see fit. It’s like what she believed in: cooking is fun. She pretty much was his enemy from the get-go. If he can enslave her, he can twist it to his favor by converting her God Tongue into “there can only be one way” morale.

Erina completes her development against Azami. The days of his control over her are long gone. This is her farewell. She was the bird in the cage; now flying away towards freedom. She calls it “True Gourmet Flying Away from the Academy: Delinquent Daughter Style.” Looks like Yukihara rub even got to her in naming as well. How they won’t be together will be a war crime of the century.

It’s about time to see Azami losing his cool after everything. He finally reached to the tipping point; no longer put an evil smile to hide his actual feeling. Actually, I do recall him bit his finger after confronting with Alice, humiliated no less. He has bad luck against female Nakiri I suppose. In all seriousness, he does have a flashback that brings the light to why he said those words about “concern” before.

The flashback lasts a page and 1/3 but it’s enough to give you an idea where he established the problem he sought fit to eliminate. Before Jouichirou lost his love with cooking, he was experimenting different recipes with the dish that he won gold prize with. Azami didn’t understand why he tried to change something that is already perfected, but he told him that it fascinated him to see other possibilities such as flavors. It was his belief that Azami believed what got him “damaged.”

Azami was portraying like a killer from a case from Phoenix Wright the video game; nearly about to break and show his true color to everyone. It is filled with angry words that continuously deny anything else but his. It’s no wonder his character acted unusual when Erina was breathing hard. He believed Jouichirou gave up his passion because he tried too hard to find other means and because of testing many recipes, he burnt out. Worn out Erina probably resembles him in his view. That would explain his reaction towards his farewell; like he knew why he left Tootsuki.

It’s not the same with Tsukasa because his problem was to find the upmost perfection, even when he was getting great reception. Tsukasa could be manipulated to find only one path to cooking; that’s why Azami wanted him on his side. The irony is that even if everyone follows the way of one path, they will eventually be burnt out from little to no joy. Probably even at a quicker rate than what he could imagine because reality is it won’t work at all. There’s no escaping from fallout or a perfect solution.

The ending is…interesting. Well, more like the first impression because apparently the series took a dark turn with a bomb explosion. It perplexed the hell out of me that Erina became a complete antagonist. Soma was crying but later raged over her betrayal and said the line, “You traitor!” Okay, none of that happened, but the explosion did and that alone was still strange. Erina must have Plan B to secure her win.

Azami has a shock look in his face; again, another moment of slowly coming to his defeat. Judging by the yelling, it appears that his “blessing” has begun its effect to the audience. I don’t know if it will be a domino effect as in everyone will slowly get stripped away or the shock factor is how his blessing can spread out in far distance. The former is expected by fans, but I wouldn’t mind the latter one as well. Not sure about the explosion part but this is a cooking manga.

I just love how it ends with Erina about to make Azami her pawn. He has been the ruler for far too long; what goes around comes around. Erina can cook an amazing dish that can beyond any expectation. Azami asked for a death flag by announcing his technique to everyone; she would get her point across even stronger. If she can make a Nakiri or in this case her father to cause bursting, making everyone stripped, she can cook a dish with the snap of her finger.

*snaps*

…just like that…

It’s the first part of the thrilling conclusion. It may not end up as a 2-part judgment process, but it is certainly the beginning of the end of Azami’s ambitious plan. The artwork is nice, even with the foodgasm scene. Erina continued to be the most impressive person on Earth with her delighting determination and blissful touch to the dish that is already mouthwatering. It was sublime to see her development coming this far and now, she is about to rule the world. Grant us that win!

#food war #shokugeki no soma #shokugeki no souma #chapter 261 #review #erina nakiri #soma yukihira

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mademoisellegush · 6 years ago

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Pílagrímr

Because i’ve fallen in love with @radiojamming ‘s Viking AU, I played a little in their sandbox, if you will. Dahlia’s a skald, a wandering poet; Kodi is Cody, Dj’s own deputy. warning under the cut for canon typical violence. On ao3!

Words have always run deep in Dahlia's bones. Words and images, twisting, dripping from her tongue, stirring blood and dreams, sharing stories and the people who made them. Her crone of a grandmother said she must have drunk the Mead of Suttungr; she disagrees. She simply knows the power the tales hold, from deep within warrior's halls to the simplest fire shared in the woods. She was raised suckling from legends, walked with living god-chosen heroes- her repertoire includes both living and dead figures, glorified, exalted. People will always love poems, will wish to hear of themselves and their likes. So it is no surprise when the wolf-cloaked warrior asks for- no, demands- them at every stop on the road.

The first nights she travels northward with the strange group, one skald amongst a handful, she listens.

They are missionaries, she learns, from a southern faith. Family, and a close one at that. Three brothers, a sister, and their followers, priestesses and warriors and skalds; a message, and it needs to spread. Their leader speaks convincingly, charmingly, but his siblings are as dangerous as he. Dahlia watches them all in turn, and learns which poems work best, which news they listen to. When it's her turn to entertain for the evening, she has an idea of what to say. She starts with something safe- perhaps not the gods and their adventures, not with how that had turned out for the previous poet. Hers is a bawdy tale, light and perfect for the energy running through the mead hall. Her fingers first drum the rhythm of the words on the bare skin of her arms, and then syllables flow like the ale running through the hall. When she gathers and starts to strum her harp, the words carry over the din of the feast, clear like the clash of well made swords. But as the night goes on, mead fire in her gut, she feels she can do better. So must the leaders of this group, sitting like conspirators at their table, not even bothering to glance her way. Downing her mug, she launches into one of her own pieces, untested so far. She's anxious, sweat running down her spine, under her cloak, like this is her first time entertaining. It's not as bawdy as the previous piece, though the subject herself might be. For this is about a friend, a fearsome shield maiden from the northern lights. Who might not appreciate the fact she's about to get turned into a god-blessed hero, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her, right? Aesir know she might even enjoy the attention. She plays with the lowest cords of her instrument, voice pitched deep. "The bright iron of her blades Her mother raised at birth; From fires of divine forges Destined for her hands. Valkyrie blood within Pushed god-blooded Kodi To a most treacherous path; Glorious battles won." Some of those still conscious stir, content to listen to the new poem. The strange leaders of this group don't visibly react. If not for the smallest flicker of their eyes in the golden glow of the fire, she would say they had stopped listening. It makes sense that the most war-like would like epic stories- she searches for an appropriate picture to paint. With an entire horn's worth of mead in her belly and more than a little aggressive wariness towards these strangers, she weaves her tale. It is simple enough in form, rhyme practiced for hours after the events. Kodi, daughter of a Valkyrie, had shared in her mother's battle prowess, she informs the hall. For many stanzas the hero warrior trains and seeks out worthy opponents to prove her worth. When she's sure of having the attention of most everyone, she tells of the woman's battle against Jormungandr, giant snake of the sea. Descriptions of their forms and acts carry the poem to the last ember, a long and gory fight Kodi herself had recounted with bloodlust in her eyes. When she stops, those around her shove ale and heady fruit wines in her hands, drinking till she can't see straight. Not bad for an original work. Satisfied with her haul, Dahlia grabs the last of the roasted fowl, accepts the mead a blushing girl hands her. She deliberately doesn't look long at the head of the table, uncomfortable with the way the leaders sitting there stare, the light bending in ways it shouldn't around them. There is something dangerous beneath their seams, wolves in their eyes. She beds down with the sleeping revellers already on the ground, warm bodies at her back anchors in the dark.

She wakes to green fumes seeping in and the beating of the drums, high and clear music coming from outside. Rubbing the sleep from her face, she sees the priestess leads Seiđr, ceremonial clothes eye-catching in the morning sun. The blonde stands on a hastily erected raised platform, seiðstafr in hand. It’s a pretty staff, brass inlaid with green gems. Almost as noticeable as the priestess herself, head rolling back in the middle of a trance, long hair swaying with her black lambskin hood.

The crowd -an unusual mix of both men and women, but everything this group has been doing is bizarre- chants along, holy words heady with the smell of burning henbane. One of the acolytes throws the augury bones to the spirit board, and the green fumes overtake Dahlia’s mind.

It is a blissful state.

The next time her turn to entertain comes up again, the group has travelled a few leagues further northward. She knows some of their names now, warriors and servants alike. There's Dagny who likes tales of the elves; Brunhilde who maintains the shields and lets her sleep at her side after the long walks; little Thorvald friendly with every adult in the group and easy with his affection. There's also the leaders of this group, strange as they may be. The priestess, turn by turn Rachel for her brothers, Ástriđr for everyone else, is the eeriest. She talks softly, in a cloak of pale green like Hel’s own skin, glides over the ground like giant raven wings. Her name serves her well, Dahlia notices, for she is almost divinely beautiful. Her stave is a dark and pretty thing, a contrast to the pale sickly green of her clothes.

The youngest of the three men is an energetic one, his words gliding smooth like the best skalds she ever knew- fitting, for it seems to be his role. His siblings name him Jón, the followers Hrókr- crow. He picks at people, at things, like carrion; she avoids him like the dark ravens of battlefields. He wears his own stave proudly on his skin, near every piece of bare flesh branded.

He’s also one of the most bloodthirsty people she ever met. On the third day of their march, he throws a man to the ground. Coward, he names him, coward and kinslayer. Shock spreads through the crowd, and he uses it well. Jón looks to his siblings, eyes wild, and forces the kinslayer to his knees. He murdered another follower- and since they are all family this is the worst crime of all. The sobbing man begs, voice hoarse, for forgiveness, for the mercy of decapitation; none speak in his defense until the brother in the gray cloak nods. Jón grins. If her tongue is sharp, his is silver, and she finds even herself nodding along to suggestion of the Blood Eagle. One of the worst tortures she knows of; he delights in drawing it out.

She can only think of verse, eyes fixed on the gory spectacle. Þar fundu þeir Hálfdan hálegg, … Carving the eagle on the bare skin of his back with his broad sword, Jón cuts the ribs to groin, pulls the lungs out; blood spattered on his face. At last, the man dies, silent and choking on missing organs. ...Ok gaf hann Óðni til sigrs sèr.

The walk northward continues in silence.

Their leader, surprisingly, is the second eldest. Jósepr his family name him; Ásvaldr, his followers. The first time she hears it, she coughs back her laughter, valuing her tongue too much then to openly mock a man who thinks the name "divine ruler" is his. Not very skald-like, but her position is nowhere near secure enough for mockery. Fitting, though. The man gathers skalds around him like a court, like a jarl might. The branded stave on his face a beacon.

To what end, she wonders, as more and more people join the ranks of his followers. But not all are simple folks- the eldest and last, warrior to the bone, trains a small army. Jakob, Einarr- a lone berserker, clad in wolf's skin, and just as strange as his siblings. The last one surprises her before the feast starts, blocking the doors to the hall. "You were the one who sung of the Valkyrie shield maiden." It's not a question, she wants to snark. "You mean Kodi?" She replies, forcing herself to relax, neck craning upwards to look him in the eye. "Obviously," he sniffs, cheeks ruddy in the cold. "Do you have more tales about her?" Dahlia wants to scoff at how rude he's being, but that's not bound to win her any favours. "Many of them, in fact. You wouldn't believe what she's like. Spirit like Hel’s own fire, and sword arm stronger than fifteen men.” "You know the Valkyrie personally," he says again, more a fact than question. Oh. Oh no. Oh, by Freyja’s falcon plumes. "Yes, I do," she forces herself to answer. "I will sing of her once more, if you wish." Jakob looks caught off-guard. "That sounds- good." And like that he lets her slip into the hall, where already the feast has started. She grabs one of the drinking horns from a table, starts tapping her rhythm on the wooden drum of her harp. This time she weaves the gods into her poem. It's half testing the boundaries of what Jósepr allows the skalds, half love of the story itself. The tale itself is one of her favourites- trickery, deceit, victory of man over divine. It's also about Kodi, like Jakob wants, and her teenage antics. She starts with a challenge from the hypothetical Valkyrie mother, of how her child must claim a divine blade through trials. From the first word, the wolf-skin warrior listens intently. Dahlia knows how to speak, to sweep the room and maintain drunken gazes; she knows when she holds everyone's attention. Building up from that divine order, she describes the travel into the gods' world, the choice the shield maiden made to steal a feather from Huginn, one of the All Father's ravens. There is no battle here, just wit and meticulous planning. Successful deceit, and Kodi goes back to her mother with sacred feather in hand, receiving her blessed sword in return. It's as well received as the last - and Jón stands up drunkenly when it ends to drop his own cloak on her lap. It's a heavy fur trimmed thing, a deep and dark blue, with a wide silver pin forged in an intricate knot. When she accepts it the man stumbles back to his seat, back to his siblings. She wraps it over her, delighted as she runs calloused fingers through the soft fur. So delighted that she almost misses the hard stare Jósepr gives her, his stave a dark omen.

So goes the second song.

As they travel further northward, the people ask less and less for her stories. Even the other skalds gather around Jósepr and his siblings, listen to strange tales of doom and glory ominous in the lengthening autumn nights. The only one who routinely stops and demands any of her tales is the berserker. He must be enraptured by the subject matter; Kodi would love it, she thinks, as she launches into another retelling of her friend’s trials. He repays her with heavy silver pieces, once with an amulet bearing the group’s sigils, once with a small seax. The handle is smooth bone, its short iron blade decorated with runes. She tucks it at her waist and resolutely doesn't think about it.

Jakob finds her again, the third night she must entertain. The group has settled in an old coastal village almost lost under the snow, buildings now bursting from the swell of followers they have accumulated. Most of the skalds that were there when she wandered in weeks ago have gone off to share the news; she doesn't know why she hasn't yet done so herself. But there is something coming. Dahlia can feel it deep to her bones. She would like to see whatever it will be; that is reason enough to delay. "You have more songs of Kodi." Once more, not a question. "Yes, I do," she assures the berserker. She wonders what he would make of the woman herself, as fierce and intense as he. They'd either battle to the death or take the other to bed, and for a heartbeat she considers aiding such a thing. The warrior goes silent again. "Would you like to meet her?" She asks before she can stop herself. Bad idea, very bad idea. Jakob squints at her, nose and cheeks red as his hair. "I was going to leave soon, and I know where we might run into Kodi. I think she actually lives on this very coast working for jarl-" "Yes." Uh. That was easy. And he leaves just like that, back to overseeing the training of the group's budding army. She watches him go, wolf head swaying in the biting wind.

That evening, she wears the thick blue cloak and its matching pin again. For luck. She asks Brunhilde for help with her braids. That sick feeling of doom in the pit of her gut is back, and her hands tremble too much to handle her own hair. It won't affect her voice. She has trained too much for nerves, she reminds herself like a prayer.

She doesn't eat anything, just downs her ale before she starts. Bad thing to do on an empty stomach, but tonight, she takes her time. For all the strange things Dahlia has seen with this growing clan, she genuinely loves stories. Sharing them with people, learning theirs. It's a wild and weird world, and she treasures every facet she gets the chance to see.

So she chooses the Nine Days.

It's the longest poem she has composed herself. She doesn't think it's all accurate, but the crux of the matter is this: a story doesn't have to be true. The poet shares their information, twists dreams and facts- to uplift, to make glorious. The poem lives on forever, with the people who hear it.

On the First Day, she starts, Kodi heard a terrible cry. One of the dís, alone and hurt from a terrible bloodbath, crawled to her and died in her arms. The goddess’ sister, wounded as well, appeared and bade her swear an oath to avenge them. The room hushes, the fire burns low as she sings. While the log are consumed by the flames, Kodi finds the ogre responsible for such terror. Thirst for righteous battle overtakes her, and she launches into a deadly duel with the monster. But the two are well matched, and for eight long days and eight nights they fight.

For every log added to the pit, Dahlia describes the rising of the sun, of the moon. The hall listens, tensions running high. She laces her anxiety, her feelings of doom within every word. And at last, on the ninth day, she brings the tale to its end. Kodi, bleeding and wounded, cuts through the soft belly of the ogre. With wild eyes she holds the head aloft, fulfilling her oath to the dís.

There is no cheering when she is done. The mood isn't somber, but pensive. They can all feel that something is creeping closer, merciless like the dawn. But she barely has the time to think on this- a hand tugs at her elbow.

She's sitting near the head of the table before she realizes she's even been moved. Rachel and Jakob are softly snoring in a corner, one surrounded by her own pile of followers, the other alone

“Finally we meet, child,” Jósepr says, tearing her out of her thoughts. “Much too late, it seems. My brother tells us you'll be leaving us soon.”

Dahlia glances at Jón, deep in his cups,singing along with whatever drinking song this half of the hall has just launched into.

“I have been here almost three weeks, Ásvaldr,” she replies carefully. He looks… pleased, with the use of his self-given title.

“And what have you learned?”

That this is not a man you lie to, she thinks. That he is gathering an army. That he would burn down the world for the three people around him. That he is, also, slightly drunk. So is she.

“Not many new stories, actually.”

His cheek twitches. He leans forward, hands clasped under his heavy grey cloak. Mirror to the one Jón gave her, the one she wears right now, she realizes.

“You chose some very specific songs. You know the hero herself?”

“They were requests. And yes.”

She circles her hands around her harp underneath the table.

“You can feel it, can't you? You know something is coming, inexorable and deadly. Our world is ending, skald. What will you do when Ragnarok comes? Will you still sing as Yggdrasil chokes and withers?”

“I’ll write songs about it,” comes the easy answer. “While Midgard burns I'll find myself a nice, tall mountain, to watch it from before I die.”

“What of your heroes? What of your Valkyrie? What of the gods and their ilk?”

This isn't a conversation, she thinks. It's a trap, and it's closing in fast.

“Everything must die,” she shrugs, hands wringing beneath her blue cloak. “If I am no hero able to keep Hel from her due, why should I fret?”

Jósepr opens his mouth to speak, when the table crashes to the ground. Jón lies sprawled on the floor, hands raised and waving with the song he still, somehow, keeps barking along to.

Dahlia needs to get out. She hasn't been compensated, but that feels irrelevant. Unwilling to wait, she gathers up her things; weaving and twisting between drunken revellers. Barely breathing in the cold winter air, she hears panicked cries. Lights are coming up the shore. A raiding party? Here? But there's just one boat landing through the mist, silent warriors at the helm.

One of the clan’s sentinels pushes her aside to rush into the hall, his braids whips in the night. She stumbles, clutching at her harp, drops backwards into a pile of leaves.

“I should have guessed I'd find you in the crow’s nest.”

She knows the hand offered to help her up- strong, bearing the thin web of scars any warrior worth their salt gains. Dahlia grins.

“And I you, vinr. What brings you here?”

Kodi shakes her head, auburn braids catching the light. She's worried, the skald realizes. Fear in her eyes, skin flushed in the cold.

“Something bad,” the shield maiden glances at her companions. “Politics.”

And with certainty colder than ice in her veins, Dahlia knows. This is only going to end in blood and tears.

“I'm leaving with you.”

Kodi nods once, determined.

“We have much to discuss once this is done.”

The group of warriors files into the longhouse, and Dahlia hurries to their ship.

When the warriors walk out, Kodi pushing Jóspr forward, Dahlia sees how the crowd ripples. She knows the tell tale signs of archers on the shore, the way blades glint in the night. All the while Jóspr sings, a hymn in the dark.

As the boat launches into the night, she sees the arrows and their burning trails. She hears the cries of people in the water, nails and axes hacking at the wood. She helps as she can, stabbing assailants with her new blade, putting out fires. Unending waves; battle she's thoroughly unsuited for.

She fights until someone tugs on the hem of her cloak, and she hangs over the edge of the ship. No time to think. There's a crash, and wood splinters like straw all around. Her world becomes ice; the water cold, so cold, and all she can think about is how this is going to ruin her harp.

Things fall into the water, currents pushing and pulling her onto the rocks. She refuses to die like this. She grabs for a piece of flotsam, head bobbing above the water and drifts.

Eyes closing with the seawater, she barely sees the jarl’s sailors captured or slaughtered on the shore. The fires and their screams a sick melody that plays through the night; cradling her in the water.

#far cry 5 #viking au #heita ok víti #john seed #jacob seed #faith seed #joseph seed #Dahlia Hargen #my writing #theres some description of john being john so beware

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oshindireylo · 6 years ago

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Force of Nature - A Reylo Fanfiction

Hey guys! Starting a new multi-chapter fanfic called Force of Nature. Really excited about this one! Hope you enjoy.

Summary: After burning down her foster father's home, Rey tries to escape only to realize that the fire has followed her. Blessed (or cursed) with confusing powers, Rey is forced to join a government run group of other mutant individuals, helmed by the Skywalker researchers. She instantly dislikes her handler Ben, retrieval agent and ex subject himself, but finds she has little choice in his companionship as he helps teach her how to control her powers. Yet something darker is at work here, and it seems the government may have plans for their science experiments in the face of looming war.

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16244636/chapters/37977338

Prologue

She was running. She didn’t know where she was running, she just had to get far away from where she was. The gas can fell from her hand, crashing onto the ground and spilling what was left of its acrid contents across the pavement. Rey kept running, vision blurred. She didn’t know where the others were, the children. Maybe they had been inside. Oh god, what if they had been inside? No, she was sure she had timed it right- they had been at overnight camp, a lock in at their school, that was why she had picked tonight. Hadn’t she? Nothing made sense. She hadn’t meant to burn the whole thing down. She didn’t know the fire would do- that. Her eyes were burning from the smoke. Her lungs heaved. She didn’t think she would be able to make it much farther.

WRRP- RRPP- RRRRP. Sirens flashed behind her, lighting the street in blue and red. No no no… there was no way they caught up to her so fast- Rey crashed into the bushes of a nearby house, cutting across lawns. The cop car spun aggressively, taking a nearby side street to try and follow her. She scrambled down a slope and back into the road on the other side of the house, pelting for the safety of the forest. Relative safety. She had no plan but to escape the mess she had left behind her. The sirens blared as the car closed in on her, outstripping her sprinting easily.

Rey cut left hard, hopping a chainlink fence and ripping the leg of her pants in the process. She felt the stinging pain of metal cutting her leg, could feel the dribble of warm blood as she kept moving. Maybe she could climb something- she was a goddamn good climber, a professional one even. She hopped on an air conditioning unit, jumping and trying to pull herself up onto the low overhang of a porch roof. Whoever lived in this house, she prayed they wouldn’t wake up. Inching her way across the roof, she could see two cop cars patrolling the street, men getting out of them and sweeping with flashlight beams. She pressed close to the shingles, inhaling the scent of tar and trying to keep her fears under control. They wouldn’t find her up here. They wouldn’t think to check the roof.

Across the sea of suburban houses, she could faintly see the fire. There was a column of smoke pouring into the air, firetrucks parked around it, sirens flashing. The two story home was totally, unsalvagably ablaze. She stared at it, mind tipping dangerously into madness as she considered the work of her own hands. She’d only meant to set the office alight. Burn the desk, burn the papers, burn the blood money- but something inside had wanted more. A hunger. She’d stood in delight as the fire caught the walls, spread across the ceiling, moved down the hallway. Like someone locked in a deep dream, she had wandered slowly out of the home. Her hatred of the home smoldered in her chest as the fire grew larger and larger. It was only when the first emergency responders had begun to arrive that she realized she was standing at the scene of the crime with a gas can in her hand. At best she’d be charged with arson, at worst attempted murder. She had to get the hell out of here.

Now she could see the movement of people below her with flashlights. She shifted, trying to get into a more hidden position by the chimney. Halfway up the roof, she put her foot in a pile of shingles and slid. Stupid! Stupid stupid, not paying attention- the shingles slid from the roof and careened downwards. Rey threw herself forward, trying to catch them with a slam of her palm but she missed. They tiles fell from the roof and hit the concrete with a loud smack. Flashlight beams instantly pointed at the roof.

“Fuck me sideways-” and Rey was running again, this time across the roof. She couldn’t make it to the next house from this one, the gap was too wide, but she might be able to make it to the garage. People were shouting, trying to get a light trained on her. Screwing up her face with determination, she took a sprinting leap from the edge of the house. Her fingers caught the garage’s gutter and she dragged herself up onto the roof. They had a megaphone now.

“YOU ARE UNDER ARREST, PUT YOUR HANDS UP-” She sprinted up the slope of the roof, across the peak and down to the low point on the other side. The ground wasn’t that far so she leveraged herself over the side, dropping and catching herself on her feet. They ached but she had to get away. The cops would never understand why she’d burned the house down, they would throw out all of her statements and claims just like Plutt said they would. Rey tore across the grass.

“HANDS UP!” She froze, the voice was right behind her. Very slowly, she lifted her hands, gasping for breath. “Don’t move.” The cop was moving closer. Rey could see the freedom of the forest, two streets over. She had almost made it. There had to be some way she could still make it. Her hands were itching and burning, rubbed raw from the shingles and the climbing.

“I can explain…” She tried to begin, knowing desperately that she couldn’t. There was absolutely no explanation for what had occurred that anyone in a court of law would care to hear.

“You are under arrest, anything you say can and will be-” he grabbed her wrist and screamed. Rey screamed too, surprised at the loud noise, as the cop stumbled back clenching one hand with the other. “What the fuck- how did you-!?” His hand was burned, red and throbbing. Rey’s eyes went wide, she took a few steps away from him. The spots where she had stood were black, the intentions of footprints burned into the grass. What the fuck was happening? Not wanting to take the time to figure out what was going on, sure she was losing her mind, Rey ran for it. She sprinted to the low picket fence, hopped it, and ran out into the street.

There were two cop cars driving at her, sirens screaming and ripping apart the night with blinding lights. There was no fucking escape, there was nowhere to go and she was so damn close. Rey thought she was going to scream, it was like one bad thing after another in an endless cycle. No. NO. They couldn’t have her! Her hands were burning again, somewhere in the air around her she could smell smoke and burning rubber. Her shoes were… melting? She was frozen like a deer in headlights, unable to pull her shoes off the pavement. The sleeves of her hoodie were smoking, fraying. The car stopped and cops piled out, pointing guns at her. Why were they pointing guns? Who did they think she was, a terrorist? She was a twenty something white girl from the middle of nowhere America, the sight of eight guns pointed at her was more frightening than anything she could have imagined.

“Please…” she whispered, hands lifting slowly. The burning in her palms was worse now, stinging like she’d been stung by wasps in both hands. “Please don’t shoot.”

“ON THE GROUND!” A man with a megaphone screamed. Rey slowly dropped to her knees, feeling one hit the pavement and then the other. There was a rushing in her head drowning out all thought, drowning out the yelling officer and his noisemaker, the blaring sirens no one had turned off. Rey couldn’t help but wonder if she was dreaming. Maybe she would wake up in her bed and everything would be a distant memory. But her bed was gone now, burned up with the rest of the house. She had done that, there was no point pretending. Now she was going to pay for it. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

BOOM.

The cars exploded in a fiery inferno, windows blasting outwards. The cops scattered, some with parts of their uniforms on fire. Rey threw her hands over her face to shield herself from the blast, feeling too woozy to stay standing much longer. There was running and yelling as the flames licked the shells of the cars, no one was paying attention to her anymore. She pulled her bare feet out of her ruined shoes, clothes singing and starting to smolder, and forced herself to move closer to the forest. A few more steps. She was dragging herself now, barely able to move. Exhaustion was settling in, the surreal light of the fire bathing the trees in a wicked orange glow.

Rey made it into the trees before stumbling and falling behind some bushes. She couldn’t have kept moving if she tried. She lay there staring up at the treetops, seeing the first leaks of blue at the edge of the world, and wondered what the hell was going to happen next. Would anything happen? Maybe she would die here in the forest. No one but her students would miss her. If they remembered.

She was still in this daze when she felt a pair of strong arms slip under her and lift her up, cradling her carefully. Opening her eyes was too much trouble. If it was the cops, they could have her. Whoever it was smelled like leather and soap and faintly like tobacco smoke. The hands against her skin were startlingly cold. She didn’t complain, but she did wrench her eyes open as best she could to get a look at the cop.

It wasn’t a cop. It was a boy- a man- with dark hair. “Shhh.” He murmured, his voice lulling and deep. “Go back to sleep.” She didn’t feel like she should trust him, after all, she didn’t know him… but she was too tired to argue. Before he carried her out out of the woods, she had fallen asleep.

#reylo fanfiction #reylo #ben solo #kylo ren #rey

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dee6000 · 4 years ago

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A message on this current insanity by Archbishop Carlo Maria Viganò

A few days ago a lady, believing she appeared gifted with practical sense, said that it is necessary to submit to the use of the mask and social distancing not so much for their effectiveness, but to support our rulers in view of a relaxation of the measures adopted so far: “ If we put on the mask and get vaccinated, maybe they'll stop and let us live again, she commented. Faced with this observation, an elderly gentleman replied that some Jews, in Germany in the thirties, perhaps thought that wearing the Star of David sewn on his jacket would somehow satisfy Hitler's delusions, avoiding far worse violations and saving himself from deportation. Faced with this calm objection, her interlocutor was shaken, understanding the disturbing similarity between the Nazi dictatorship and the pandemic madness of our days; between the way in which tyranny could be imposed on millions of citizens by leveraging their fear, then as now. They have allowed themselves to be persuaded to obey, not to react to the violation of the rights of German citizens guilty only of being Jews, to inform themselves of the "criminals" in the civil authorities.And I ask myself: what difference exists between the denunciation of a neighbor who hides a Jewish family and the zealous reporting of those who receive acquaintances in violation of an unconstitutional provision that limits the freedoms of citizens? Are they not both respecting the law, observing the rules, while those same rules violate the rights of a part of the population, criminalized yesterday on a racial basis and today on a health basis? Have we learned nothing from the horrors of the past?while those same norms violate the rights of a part of the population, criminalized yesterday on a racial basis and today on a health basis? Have we learned nothing from the horrors of the past?while those same norms violate the rights of a part of the population, criminalized yesterday on a racial basis and today on a health basis? Have we learned nothing from the horrors of the past?

The voice of the Church invokes the divine Majesty to remove the " flagella tuae iracundiae, quae pro peccatis nostris meremur". These scourges have manifested themselves in the course of history with wars, plagues, famines; today they show themselves with the tyranny of globalism, capable of making more victims of a world conflict and of destroying national economies more than an earthquake. We must understand that if the Lord were to allow the supporters of the Covid emergency to be successful, it will certainly be for our greater good. Because today we are precluded, as if it were a fault, what little remained in our society that was still inspired by Christian civilization and that until yesterday we considered normal and taken for granted: exercise our fundamental freedoms, find ourselves praying in church, going out with friends , see us at dinner with our loved ones, be able to open the shop or restaurant and earn honestly, go to school or take a trip.

If this pseudo-pandemic is a scourge, it is not difficult to understand what are the sins for which Heaven punishes us: crimes, abortions, murders, divorces, violence, perversions, vices, thefts, deceptions, scams, betrayals, lies, desecrations. , cruelty. Public faults and faults of individuals. Sins of God's enemies and sins of His friends. The faults of the laity and the faults of the clerics, of the base and the top, of the governed and of the rulers, of the young and old, of men and women.

Those who believe that the violation of natural rights that we are undergoing has no supernatural significance, and that our share of responsibility is irrelevant in making ourselves complicit in what happens is wrong. Jesus Christ is Lord of History, and whoever would like to banish the Prince of Peace from the world He created and redeemed with His most precious Blood does not want to accept the inexorable defeat of Satan, the eternal loser. Thus, in a delirium that has all the traits of hubris , his servants move as if the victory of evil is now certain, while in reality it is necessarily ephemeral and momentary. The nemesisthat he prepares for them will remind us of the people of Israel after the crossing of the Red Sea, and that Pharaoh could have done nothing if it had not been permitted by God.

The Christian Easter, the true Easter of which that of the Old Testament was only a figure, takes place on Golgotha, on the blessed wood of the Cross. Of that perfect Sacrifice Christ was the Altar, Priest and Victim. L ' Agnus Dei , held up by the Precursor on the banks of the Jordan, took upon Himself the sins of the world, to offer themselves as human and divine victim to the Father, in His Blood restoring the order violated by our Progenitor. It is there, on Calvary, that the true Great Reset took place , thanks to which the inextinguishable debt of the sons of Adam was canceled by the infinite merits of the Passion of the Redeemer, redeeming us from the slavery of sin and death.

Without repenting of our sins, without the intention of modifying our life and conforming it to the will of God, we cannot hope that the consequences of our sins, which offend the divine Majesty and can be appeased only by penance, will disappear. Our Lord showed us the royal way of the Cross: " Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example to follow in his footsteps " (1 Peter 2:21). Let us each take up our cross, denying ourselves and following the divine Master. Let us approach Holy Easter with the awareness of always being under the gaze of the Lord: "You wandered like sheep, but now you have returned to the shepherd and guardian of your souls“ (1 Peter 2:25). And let us remember that in the dies irae We will certainly all have him as Judge, but thanks to Baptism we have deserved the right to recognize him as a Brother and Friend.

We ask the Supreme Judge, in the words of Sacred Scripture: " Discerne causam meam de gente non sancta, ab homine iniquo et doloso erue me ". To the Merciful Father, who in His divine Son has made us heirs of eternal glory, we humbly address David's words: " Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea, et a sin meo munda me ". We ask the Consoler Spirit: " Da virtutis meritum, da salutis exitum, da perenne gaudium ".

If we really want this so-called pandemic to collapse like a house of cards - as it always happened for far worse scourges, when the Lord decreed its end - let us remember to recognize him, and him alone, that universal Lordship that we usurp with every sin. , refusing to obey His holy Law and thus making us Satan's slaves. If we want the peace of Christ, it is Christ who must reign, and it is His kingdom that we must want, starting with ourselves, with our family, with our circle of friends and acquaintances, with our religious community. Adveniat regnum tuum . If, on the other hand, we allow the hateful tyranny of sin and rebellion against Christ to establish itself, the madness of Covid will only be the beginning of hell on earth.

Let us therefore prepare Confession and Easter Communion with this spirit of reparation and atonement, both for our sins and for those of our brothers, men of the Church and our rulers. The true and holy "new renaissance" to which we must aspire must be the life of Grace, the friendship of God, assiduity with His Most Holy Mother and with the Saints. The true " nothing will be the same as before " we must say by rising from the confessional with the intention of sinning no more, offering the Eucharistic King our heart as a throne in which he delights in dwelling, consecrating our every action, our every thought, our every breath.

May these be our wishes for the next Easter of Resurrection, under the benign gaze of Our Queen and Lady, Co-redemptrix and Mediatrix of all Graces.

+Carlo Maria Viganò, Archbishop

#Catholic #covidー19 #Michigan #President Trump #gop #democrats #italy #britain #massachusetts

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esseastri · 7 years ago

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Megan Reads Oathbringer (part 4)

sometimes I wonder about labeling the parts of the liveblog with “part 1, part 2, etc” ‘cause like...that doesn’t mean it’s part 4 of the book. just part 4 of the liveblog? idk, I jUST realized that might be confusing in a book split up into five parts, but it’s too late now...

I’m still in part one, for those keeping track.

Part 4 encompasses pages 240-326 (previous parts)

I genuinely cannot imagine Dalinar marrying someone quiet and shy and it’s just. wild.

“his bracer clocks” bless Navani for inventing wrist watches and calling them something delightful instead

nooooooo don’t bring Taravangian here!!!! Don’t let him see the center of your power!

crap, now we’ve got, like...all the factions together, right? Taravangian and the diagram people. the Ghostbloods. Amaram and whatever he’s doing. And us....everyone who knows stuff about the end of the world, all in one convenient place. What could possibly go wrong?

Oh, except Jasnah. She’s out there, somewhere. When will my love return from the war

seriously, it’s been 240 pages, where is Jasnah.

“He’d been a friend to Gavilar and that was enough for Dalinar.” like. okay. sure. but you know your brother was trying to end the world to bring back the gods, right? like? ARGH.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm hey do we have a way to tell Radiants from normal Shardblade holders?

I’m not saying I don’t trust Taravangian and his “newest Radiant” Malata, but... I DON’T TRUST TARAVANGIAN AND HIS NEWEST RADIANT MALATA

seriously, what is in Kholinar that all the parshmen are headed there? or...being driven there by their weird glow spren?

“Men of blood and sorrow don’t get an ending like that.” DAMN STRAIGHT THEY DON’T, YOU MURDEROUS CURMUDGEON

mmmmm she’s a Dustbringer? Our first one... “I don’t like how she smiles.” same though? I’m. concern.

oohh, I didn’t even think she might have an honorblade. where would Taravangian have gotten another honorblade. I remember reading something about there being more honorblades out and about in the world, but we don’t know whose, do we?

I. Am. Concern.

...........it’s not the bond. #confirmed by the stormfather. so there goes my theory about the the stormlight healing Dalinar’s memories.... hm

Taravangian getting all self-righteous about the Shin “murderering all those monarchs” like. even on a not-so-smart day he’s clever enough to deflect blame, to reinforce the idea that he’s just a harmless old man, would never command an assassin to kill off everyone’s kings. He’s terrifying, tbh.

mmmm, everyone thinking Dalinar is gonna attack them, I mean...good assumption but for once, you’re wrong!

omg

Dalinar, please, please do not go to war with the whole world all at the same time. Please.

I...don’t think that’s a spren...I don’t know what it is, but I don’t think it’s a spren. unless...can cities have spren? There are enough people, right? Can they manifest an incarnation of themselves? That’s basically what spren are, right? forces of nature made manifest, so...why not forces of civilization, too?

oh god

how long has it been alone?

this......is another story I wrote because it was sad, not because I wanted it. oh god. ooohh god. Urithiru...

OH ROCK!! ARE YOU OAK--okay, he’s okay.

wait

so it’s not just murders...it’s any sort of violence? the copycat is copying...all violence? or...just the criminal kind? surely it’s not copying all the violence of the army training or sparring. But...why? what’s to be gained from repeating the same crime a second time?

how long has this spren been alone and how mad is it?

does it think...violence is the way to be more human? to remember more? I’m...concerned and confused and. aaahhhhh

“Let me be stronger than those who would kill me.” punk!Dalinar, pls. you can pray for better things than that...

Dalinar keeping Navani’s prayer in his pocket like...my dude u r gettin married. the pining is. wow.

umm. #y i k e s

no wonder Kadash goes and joins the ardents...

Dalinar just...murdering a hundred people including some of his own men? is? really...like, okay, here’s the thing: We knew from the previous two books that Dalinar had done some bad shit. And we were told repeatedly that he’d changed dramatically. But being told and having it spelled out in...child murdering and unthinking friendly fire is...something else. The character development of this man is wild. and mildly uncomfortable. Like...his bad shit wasn’t just a few battles and some brutality of conquest. this was. really, really bad shit. And to see how far he’s come and how much he’s trying to atone for is. sure a thing.

and somehow people DIDN’T figure out that the Thrill is bad before now???

“This is a mercy” ARE YOU SURE?

AND THEN HE JUST GOES AND KILLS SOME MORE, JUST FOR FUNSIES

BUDDY. MY DUDE. YOU NEED TO STOP AND RECONSIDER YOUR LIFE AND YOUR CHOICES. PLEASE.

seriously, how does anyone think the Thrill is a good thing here.

Shallan really needs to look into her budding multiple personality disorder.

OKay, but are they siding with “the enemy” or are they siding with some parshmen who are now in workform and just want to be treated as real people instead of slaves? ‘cause like...you guys are all basing your strategy on the idea that EVERY parshman went stormform and started rampaging about killing everything in sight. And that definitely hasn’t happened yet.

Why hasn’t Kaladin mentioned this to you guys?? like?? oh, I guess he got his spanreed stolen, right? I just....... there’s a lot going on here, but there’s a certain amount of...maybe consider what the negotiations with the parshendi/parshmen/whatever they are now really are before you just...write them all off as evil?

Then again, these are Alethi lighteyes, who don’t really understand the concept of not generalizing a population they consider below themselves.

this is why the whole dudes not writing thing is ssooooooooo stupiiidddd. Kaladin can’t tell you guys ANYTHING unless he finds a nice lady to scribe for him. God, Vorinism is so stupid sometimes.

“Spark” is a good name for a spren tho, maybe she’s legit? I still don’t trust her. at all.

a flying bridgeman, Shallan, PLEASE

he’s a flying captain of the guard, at the very least.

nooo

NOOO

NO I DON’T WANT THIS

NOW I HAVE TO DEAL WITH FUCKING AMARAM THAT RAT BASTARD ALL THE TIME????? NOOO

NOOOOO

IALAI NO. YOU COULD HAVE JUST TAKEN OVER YOU’RE SMART ENOUGH YOU COULD HAVE BEEN THE FIRST HIGHPRINCESS AND IT WOULD HAVE BEEN AWFUL BUT ALSO AWESOME BUT NO. NO YOU HAD TO JUST DRAG FUCKING AMARAM THAT RAT BASTARD INTO THIS.

I DON’T WANT THIS TAKE IT BACK, BRANDON.

“Highprince.” “Highprince.” “Bastard.” GOD BLESS ADOLIN, BOY WONDER.

oohhhhhh Adooolliinn. babe, you can’t just--okay. there is is. The Thing.

Shallan. “Oh.” UH HUH. OKAY THEN. SO MUCH FOR THAT SECRET though it wasn’t really a secret. just a miscommunication. but still. I sort of wish that Kaladin had been able to tell Shallan himself about Helaran--though, he still didn’t know it was Helaran.

But there would have been something satisfying in that being just...between the two of them. Them working that out and him probably apologizing and her probably not forgiving him and there would just be. delightful angst before they eventually decided to be friends. But Adolin telling her gives her time to prepare, I guess? for seeing Kaladin again? I still don’t think she’s going to forgive him which will make for veerryyy interesting dynamics when he returns.

Listen, I just really wanted Shallan to pull her Blade on Kaladin, and have him trying to avoid her attacks while apologizing a lot even though he was perfectly in his rights to defend his at-the-time commanding officer from a threat. That would have been delicious angst.

Hopefully she doesn’t hate Adolin for being the messenger, though...

“Everything would have been better off if he’d just let Amaram die.” TRUER WORDS, ADOLIN. tbh, how much do you think Kaladin thinks about that very exact same thought? The answer is: A FREAKING LOT

well, shit. destroying the Oathgate seems a reasonable option, but also it’s gonna make saving the world a heck of a lot harder...

I wonder...if they’d had literally anyone else do the negotiations, if this would be going differently. People know Dalinar, they know he’s the Blackthorn, or used to be, and they don’t know him well enough to know how much he’s changed. If the Blackthorn had come to me and been like, “yo, I want to open a portal to your city center and send you soldiers to help you rebuild” I would ALSO assume he was going to invade my city and try to conquer me and I would also refuse him. But like...if Shallan or someone completely unconnected had tried, I’d be a little more likely? to agree? Idk I feel like they are definitely being hindered by Dalinar’s reputation here.

Just don’t let Taravangian do it. Don’t let him do anything. Oh god.

“a unified Vorin coalition” OH GOOD NOW IT’S A RELIGIOUS WAR. or an Inquisition. Nobody expects the Vorin Inquisition.

I love that Dalinar just....knows how to do shit. Like, Kaladin and Shallan have been practicing and had training sessions with their spren to figure out their powers and even Lift is REALLY BAD at Friction, and Dalinar’s just like. Adhesion. Got it. No problem.

aaaAAAHHH Dalinar holding Oathbringer again and it’s...not screaming it’s whimpering and I’M. SAD. ABOUT A SWORD. DANGIT.

DON’T GIVE HIM THE SWORD. AMARAM DOESN’T DESERVE A SWORD. DON’T DO THAT

okay, but Amaram calling Dalinar a hypocrite is like... POTS AND KETTLES, MY DUDE.

Taravangian: “I sound like a madman, don’t I?” No, you sound like a man for whom the ends justify the means.

Here’s the thing: I see the practicality in Taravangian’s stance. There’s always a practicality in sacrificing a few good ones to get rid of all the bad ones. And yeah, Dalinar’s desire to always save all the good ones, even if it means sparing the bad ones, is just a tad idealistic. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Idealism is never something that we should give up on, is never something we should ignore or stop working towards. We shouldn’t always have to settle for practicality.

hoooo cool. The Stormfather can just...send Dalinar to other people in visions wth that’s really cool. Like a Kyprioth/Aly situation except the destination person knows they’re there.

“Shallan had nothing to do, but Veil was useful.” No, Shallan. You’re useful. You are Veil. It’s not. It’s not a different person. It’s just you adsfghjkl just. YOU’RE ALICE, PARKER. GOD.

“Veil liked watching people. She shared that with Shallan.” THAT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE THE SAME PERSON. YOU ARE ALICE.

omg, I love that Pattern just...brought both Kholin bros and all of Bridge Four.

“go do something stupid without letting me watch” OMG PATTERN, BBY.

I have missed Bridge Four, hello darlings

THEY’RE JOKING WITH RENARIN AND HE’S SMILING AND THEY’RE FRIENDS AND I’M SO HAPPY AAHH

THIS IS SO CUTE I LOVE THEM AAH

omg, I didn’t realize there was a staircase, I thought they were just going to be jumping into a void.

dear god, roshar has a Sisyphus equivalent that’s delightful.

sooo, I’m assuming that’s...Odium, Honor, and Cultivation in those mosaics? I’m genuinely amused that Shallan thinks they’re “pagan symbols”

Bridge Four took point even though there were two Shardbearers and an extra Radiant and MY BBYS I LOVE THEM I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

NOPE

NOPPPPPEEEE

NOOOOOOOOOOPPPEEEEE

DON’t DIE?

DON’T DIIIIIIEEEE

I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR THIS HORROR NOVEL SHIT

NOOOOPE

ADOLIN NO! YOU STORMING FOOL DO NOT CHARGE THE DARKNESS UNMADE EVIL THING WHAT THE FUCK NO

NOOO

I’M OUT

BYE

if any of Bridge Four die, so help me, I will drive back to Utah and yell at Brandon personally. To his face.

NOOOPPE THIS IS CREEEEPPY AS FUUUCKK WHAT THE NOPE

ooohh Renarin’s a good, he’s healing them, that’s my boy

okay, the illusory army is preTTY DANG COOL GET IT GIRL

but also the Unmade thing is freaking terrifying and I’m nope

...I’m assuming that since Dalinar saw nine shadows and the champion that there’s one Unmade for each of the ten orders of Radiants? LIke, this one, the Midnight Mother can be directly countered by Lightweaving. So maybe another one is designed to be defeated by Windrunners or Elsecallers or whatever. And it’s one for each?

I genuinely love that the new Radiant’s don’t call their swords Shardblades. It’s Sylblade, Glysblade, Patternblade. I love it.

“Adolin [...] charged into the room, bursting right through the middle of an illusion of his father.” Well, ain’t that just storming appropriate. How beautifully poetic.

also, Adolin and Renarin fighting back to back is A LOT AND I’M LOVE THEM

ooohh my god, it’s trying to bond with her?? trying to rip Pattern away and bond with her that’s... YIKES.

oohhh shit....corrupted creationspren. ooohhhh my god.

Odium, why you gotta ruin everything good in this world, you jerk

ooh...it was...bound. by a Lightweaver. bound like the Parshendi’s gods? like the parshmen? how are we binding people? I’m getting the idea that maybe binding people is bad.

I’m getting the idea that Ishar is bad. but that’s a theory for another time.

okay, so...the pashmen weren’t...going to Kholinar. they were going to a tiny city a week’s walk from Hearthstone...to...besiege it? why

what. is. happening.

also omg Kaladin’s never been to a real city, someone take this child on a sightseeing vacation, asap.

how...did they take the city and what...are they gonna do with it?? I’m all for giving them land and lives but I’m worried about stormform. and voidbringers. and a lot of things.

the parshmen calling him Kal is murdering my soul

oooh noooooooooo there’s a highstorm coming and the people are all outside and the parshmen are camping, and I...am worried.

Yixli? that’s a terrible name. though I guess she’s a questionably evil spren of odium, so.

Fused? okay, that’s a fun word for Stormform.

Kal, babe, you need to get out of there.

Ah. Good choice.

Syl whacking at the gloryspren and telling them “Mine!” about Kaladin is FRIKKIN ADORABLE HI I LOVE SYL

of course it’s all perception, Kaladin, everything is different if you change your point of view. That’s what makes being a person so difficult.

“Treat them better than they treated you.” AMEN. THAT’S THE ONLY WAY THINGS GET BETTER.

it’s hard and it sucks a lot, but it’s the only way.

oh shit

oh sHIT

what. dark stormlight? what the?

SHIT

THERE’S LIKE, THREE OF THEM?

okay, only two. buT STILL

Why can they do Lashings? do sotrmform voidbringers whatever the fuck they are have Radiant orders too? WHAT IS HAPPENING

“You can’t save all of them.” BUT HE’S DAMN WELL GOING TO TRY

HE’S SO GOOD

SO GOOD

WHAT

THAT’S?? MAGICAL. WHAT. MAGIC WINDSPREN SHIELD????? CAN HE DO THIS NORMALLY OR IS THE STORMFATHER HELPING OR?? WHAT

omg, just...deposit him in front of Urithiru. That’s convenient. Why thanks.

YAAAASSSS

SHE’S HERE!!!!!

SHE’S BACK!!!!!!!!!

SHE’S HEEERRRREEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YEESSSSSS

me: can I squeeze the interludes onto this part of liveblog? also me: *scrolls up to the top of this post forever me: Maaayyybe not.

#op #Megan reads OB #Oathbringer spoilers #ladyknightliveblogs #aaaahhh there is sooo much happening and so much left to happen and aaAAHH #oh hey I've now finished the preview novel--sorry the preview chapters #whoo hoo!!#Stormlight Archive #Oathbringer #Brandon Sanderson

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archivesdiveronarpg · 8 years ago

Photo

In fair Verona, our tale begins with CYRUS SLOANE, who is TWENTY years old. He is often called CORIOLANUS by the CAPULETS and works as their EMISSARY.

His story does not begin, as most traditional stories do, with his birth. No, his tale was written long before his birth -- his tale was tied to that of another, was tied to a woman, to a name. The Sloane name. What name inVerona was not tied to it either by the spilling of its blood or the knowledge of the infamy that it bore? He was the culmination of its hardships, heartache, and the cruelty that it bore. It was a special, intoxicating concoction that only Verona knew how to manufacture, how to mold. So, essentially, he was the child of Verona, not a child of the woman that he deigned to call mother. Even after she abandoned him, he still called her mother. If he rescinded that title from her, then he rescinded his name for, at the tender age of ten, it was the only thing that he had. He had other things of course -- the knowledge that the coldness of the stars watched over him as he beat the face of another street urchin ruthlessly and savagely. He had the comfort of the clothes upon his back and the softness of cardboard boxes to lay upon when his very bones grew weary and his body demanded sleep in place of the abuse that he put it through. Cyrus Sloane, heir to the Sloane name and all the riches that came with it, had many things in his life, despite all that Fate and Lady Fortune took away, and retribution was one of them.

However, the softness of his childish face, blue and purple painted across the pink of his round cheeks, gave nothing away. Like Eros, he unwittingly invoked the infatuation and adoration of others -- those who did not see the blood on his hands or the way he took vengeance upon those who tried to steal away the only things that he had. They saw only the blue of his eyes and the winning curve of his grin. Like a cherub, they cooed as they looked upon him, like a heavensent creature from God. Perhaps he was heaven’s gift to the couple that took him in after finding him bleeding in their back alley. It certainly seemed like it with the way that they spoiled young Cyrus, offering him everything under the stars and denying him but the opportunity for suffering to enter into his life. They brought him into their life and whisked him away from the hellish city that he had been raised in, introducing him to the life of luxury that could be found in South Africa. But one could not live such a decadent life without having a little rot set in -- and with the beginnings of darkness already set upon his soul, it was not surprising that like should seek like out and the demons should reach out to drag him under their black wings.

The mob of South Africa gave him the tools to teach the world to lay itself at his feet with a honey-lacquered tongue and rose-pink lips that demanded nothing less than adoration, adoration, adoration. Like his parents, the whole of Cape Town was able to deny him nothing and to him, the whole city was nothing but the dirt under his feet upon which he could build the ruin of those who had dared deny him when he was nothing but a child. Cyrus had borne the Sloane name as a child and now he bore it it as a man, a man thirsting for retribution so that he might teach them the power of his hand -- should his tongue be poised for vengeance then may the streets run slick with Verona’s blood, and should he grant it absolution then all may know the benevolence of the sole heir to the Sloane name. The request for such an opportunity remained quiet on his tongue, a secret that he kept close to his heart until the moment came -- and it did. The dealings with the Capulets, with his mother, had grown sour with the war that waged in the place that he had been born and molded. Who else would they send to smooth such inconveniences over than the man who had the whole of South Africa beneath his feet?

Whether it be God or the Devil who deigned to smile and bestow such a blessing of an opportunity upon him, Cyrus did not know nor did he care for he paid respect to none other than his own will. A boy who became a god through will alone did not pay homage to those who did nothing for him -- but he did exact retribution on all those who had dared believed him an weak, unworthy thing. Verona has weathered many things, from their deified kings who trample the city beneath their feet, to the woes that painted the streets red and made their graveyards full. But Verona has met its match in Cyrus Sloane, and mercy to the man that dares to recognize him as anything other than the oncoming king.

Vivanne Sloane: Mother. Ah, yes, mother dearest as he so fondly called her in his thoughts when bitterness had beset his dreams. He used to wonder, for the first few years, why she abandoned him. The thoughts were various and taxing -- one despairing thought leading to the next and so on, and so forth until tears wet his cheeks. But then came the moments where his thoughts stopped being so treacherous and abusive, when they stopped accusing him of being the one to have committed the wrong. They grew as he grew, granting him a new and more righteous perspective. He had committed no wrong, but Vivianne, his mother, had something within her. No woman could ever justify abandoning a small child whose hands were too tender and whose eyes were too filled with tears to see straight. But now he will reap his justice -- some way or another he will make everything she holds dear abandon her.

Bernadette “Bunny” Du Pont: Partner in crime. He sees her for what she is and calls her for what she’s worth -- his match in every sense of the word. What with their darling eyes and their cherubic faces, the two are likely to get away with anything and everything so long as they paint those darling smiles upon their lips and flutter their darling lashes. No doubt, there are other women in Verona just as winning as she, but none are quite so tenacious or fickle as Bunny Du Pont. They all preen and coo like lack-luster doves whenever he steps upon the scene, but Bunny? She prances around like a majestic peacock, head tossed up as if she did not dare to deign him until she sees fit or he plies her with macarons. Everything can become so drearily taxing when concocting dastardly schemes of vengeance -- so some levity and careless, woe-begone mischief is needed in his life. Who better to grant him reprieve than the delightful darling of destruction?

Cassian Kun Hee: Mentor. The whole point of procuring a mentor is so that one day you might surpass them -- and Cyrus has time and time again. His agenda with Cassian, he hopes, will prove no different. It was no surprise that Cassian took him under his wing, for Cyrus knew that he had nothing but potential for a career in politics. But what did surprise him was how easily he succumbed to Cyrus’ innocent spell of charming words and student-like manners. It was as if Cassian half-expected to be gifted an apple by his favorite protegee, expected his student to be as taken with him as he was with Cyrus. Little did he know that beneath the eyes that blinked so wide and blue there were schemes that the Devil himself would find damnable. Upon the hands that caressed a wistful lover’s cheeks were muscles that ached for vengeance upon all those he considered beneath him. But no, Cassian Kun Hee, the cleverest and most tactful man in Verona saw nothing but a pupil.

Cyrus is portrayed by LOGAN LERMAN. He is currently CLOSED.

#logan lerman fc #bio rp #literate rp #lsrpg #mafia rp #m #c #e #c: coriolanus #t #tm #redo

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theredwallrecorder · 8 years ago

Text

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) pt 2

Huh. For the first time in forever I don’t actually know what to say here. I guess... stuff goes down? Martin and company find out that Hellgates isn’t all sand and brimstone. It’s a fox-eat-woodlander kind of place, where nothing is as it seems. I hear the god of that realm has it in for Martin. Really bad blood, you get me? I’m surprised Vulpuz hasn’t shattered the gates of Dark Forest just to get at him.

And let me tell you, the Great Vulpuz goes for the jugular.

Please enjoy Redwall Hell: The Anime pt 2, this time featuring Martin sass, a little magic, totes foreshadowing, and madness. Vulpuz has that in droves, see. He can’t help but share. They say sharing is caring, but there is such a thing as too much. All that sharing will attract her attention.

Here’s part 1 for those who have no idea what’s going on.

Also I oughta mention that I can’t take credit for all of Redwall Hell’s awesomeness. @raphcrow pretty much started this, and @thegoldensoundtwice is my partner in Redwall Hell crime. Bless you mateys for keepin’ the fires burning. <3

@fuzzhugs Martin vs. Hell, huh? Hell is a fox, mate, and that fox is REAL.

- - - - - -

Martin and his friends were speechless. The white fox remained seated upon Badrang’s old throne, watching them with an intense, almost unnerving curiosity. He flexed first one paw and then the other, each of his movements oddly erratic, as though he had been sitting waiting for them here for an age and a day, and since they had finally arrived, every last vestige of his pent-up energy could now be focused upon them. His gaze was sharp but distracted, constantly shifting from one of the company to another, and he seemed unable to sit still in his seat. Despite the constant fidgeting, he remained silent.

Confused by the fox’s baffling behavior, Martin struggled to find his voice. A feeling of mighty dread gripped his heart within his chest, and he suddenly became intimately aware of the fact that his best friends stood just behind him. Steeling himself, Martin locked eyes with the reclining vermin.

“I—”

A bemused giggle cut off the warrior mouse’s comment. The white fox shifted his weight to one side, his tail flicking dismissively. “Oh, do forgive me, mouse,” he quipped, unable to mask the dripping sarcasm in his tone. “Sometimes I find my merriment too difficult to contain! Pray, continue.”

His brow furrowed, Martin attempted to speak once more.

“Who—”

This time the fox guffawed aloud, only managing to halt his laughter by clamping both paws firmly around his mouth. It took a few moments for him to regain control of himself. Martin and his companions shifted uneasily.

“Goodness me, what trouble this gaiety has caused!” the fox declared to himself after he had relinquished his grip on his snout. His expressive voice danced across the ocean breeze, each syllable over-emphasized with curious whimsy. “I actually do care to hear what you have to say, Martin, so if you would grant me a second forgiveness, I promise you I will do all in my power to listen with grave reverence.”

Martin sensed the fox was mocking him, but he tried a third time all the same.

“Who are—”

The fox burst into uncontrollable laughter, echoes of gleeful insanity ringing out into the salty air. Lacking any sort of restraint, he gave full vent to his rude humor, bending forward in his seat and slapping his thigh repeatedly. Martin and his friends had no idea what to do. They waited in awkward silence until the fox’s merriment subsided. He dabbed at his eyes with a corner of his cloak, his chest heaving with exertion.

“Ah, bless me. This is more than I could ever had conjured, even if I had spent an age and a day building the perfect scheme.” The fox was all smiles as he gestured to Martin and his company. “Greetings and welcome! Come closer now, and make yourselves comfortable. I have so much I’ve been wanting to tell you!”

The six friends hesitated. Out of the corner of his mouth Gonff muttered, “Ah, don’t anybeast step backwards now, mates. The passage we just came out of is gone, and it’s a sheer drop to the channel below!” The abrupt news that their only escape route had vanished was startling, but the fox spoke again before any of them could react further.

“It is rude to whisper in company before a stranger, Prince of Mousethieves,” he chastised, eyes glittering with contained malice. “Of course the passage is gone. You cannot leave this place unless I will it.”

“Tell us who you are, fox,” Felldoh challenged, “before you attempt to amuse us with empty threats.”

The white fox rested his head in one paw, pinning the warrior squirrel in place with his intense gaze. “Felldoh the Wrestler. Oh, pardon, it’s just Felldoh isn’t it,” he admonished, lip curling upwards in a scornful sneer. “You see before you a vermin, but this one is far more than a mere beast.” The fox leaned forward upon his throne like a maniacal despot surveying his subjects. He spoke slowly, accentuating each word with deadly precision, his voice as cold as midwinter’s frost.

“I am the Claw that Drags the Corpses of your enemies into the bowels of the earth. I am the Eye in the Night, a fountain of obscuring mist, perpetuating and piercing the darkness. I am the gnashing of teeth, the splintering of bone, the crack of the whip, the shriek of the chain, the squeal of drawn steel. I am the Prophet of Abominations. Haha! I am the bosom containing the void of solitude. And yet, I am the emaciated shadow that lingers on the eve of war, rising to become the Insatiable Great Maw that follows behind and swallows all you hold dear.” He paused to lick his lips, as if to blissfully sample the infernal rust left behind by his last spoken syllable. He offered Rose a cheeky wink before continuing. “But perhaps my names are too much for you to comprehend. Very well. To borrow the tongues of the living, I am… the Great Vulpuz.”

In one regal movement he rose from his seat, throwing his arms out to either side, indicating the blue sky, the quarry, and the expanse of rocky coastline below them. “Behold! One of my many domains. Such fond memories you have of this place, warrior,” he mused, turning to look at Martin with profound pity, his head shaking in disgust. “Though it was not the first stage of your many failures, I must assert that it was the most glorious. Ha ha! A kingdom for a rose! What a pleasure to delight in the folly of a warrior’s youth. Tell me, how is it that you can even find the strength to look upon her?”

A low rumble issued from deep within Dinny’s chest. The normally peaceable mole flexed his digging claws aggressively as he and Gonff drew up behind Martin. A scowl wreathed the mousethief’s face, the sunlight reflecting off the knife he had just drawn playing across his brow. “That’s mighty low, even for a fox,” he muttered dangerously. “Do you always insult the creatures you’ve just met?”

Laterose moved to respond in kind, but Martin stopped her with the gentle touch of his paw. He flashed the three of them a grateful smile before turning to face Vulpuz squarely, his voice as steady and strong as sandstone.

“There was a time I would have been baited by your words, but now I simply find them annoying. Release us to go our own way.”

“’Release us to go our own way!’” Vulpuz repeated in a mocking tone. “Hmph, what a contemptuous bundle of useless words! My answer to them is ‘no’, since I’ve only experienced a measly shred of the entertainment I intend to glean from you.” The fox drew himself up, steepling his claws together in front of his face. “Allow me to state my objectives plainly. You will never leave this place. The very instant you entered my realm, you gave up the ability to go your own way. You are now part of my collection, an object that I will toy with as I see fit. Clear your mind of all you knew of Dark Forest, for Hellgates is your new dwelling place.”

“You can’t stop us from leaving,” Laterose declared, her clear voice overflowing with confidence. “Being in your realm does not give you power over us!”

“Oh you miserable little maiden, how deeply you’re mistaken.”

With a derisive flourish Vulpuz vanished. His voice continued to issue from seemingly everywhere, eerie echoes bouncing off the quarried fragments of stone as Martin and his comrades formed up in a loose defensive circle, each of them straining to catch sight of the fox.

“I can only guess that you weren’t listening during my eloquent explanation. Very well, I’ll go over it once more. Picture this: There was a band of foolish woodlanders who traipsed into Hellgates. The Great Vulpuz made himself known to them, and because they were utterly ignorant, he chose to teach them according to his principles. His lessons were brief and highly effective, as demonstrated hence.”

An enormous slab of stone close to Gonff shuddered suddenly to life, hurling itself with brutal accuracy upon the unsuspecting mousethief. Gonff hardly had time to utter a muffled shout of surprise, for in the blink of an eye both stone and thief had disappeared into thin air. In the same moment there was a low rumbling sound, and the sand beneath Dinny and Grumm started to churn and heave violently. With breathless speed, the ground began to devour the two moles, their bass voices crying out in terror.

“Ee gurt sands, oh, burr no!”

“Miz Roser, Marthen, help!”

Rose caught hold of Grumm’s ladle, her footpaws scrabbling to find a suitable foothold against which she could brace herself. Without warning she sat down hard, Grumm’s ladle still clutched in one paw. The two moles had been completely swallowed, buried beneath unyielding stone and sand. Rose glanced up at Martin, her mouth wide open in shock. Quickly Martin helped her back onto her footpaws, Felldoh warily circling the area behind them.

The warrior squirrel was furious at having been caught unprepared. Gritting his teeth, Felldoh dropped his sling upon the ground. He hefted his spear in both paws and shouted into the sky.

“Coward! Show yourself!”

In an instant Vulpuz was standing before him. Laughing maniacally, the white fox struck Felldoh in the face with a fierce backpawed slap, causing the squirrel to lose his balance. He toppled backwards over the edge of the cliff, followed by the echoes of a terrible scream that slowly faded into horrified silence. His chilling deeds accomplished, Vulpuz sniffed disdainfully, bending to retrieve Felldoh’s spear from where it lay on the path. Effortlessly he snapped it in two. He flung the broken pieces over the cliff edge before turning to face Martin and Rose.

“I don’t always take care of the rubbish, but I’m very methodical when I do, wouldn’t you agree?” he inquired, a nasty sneer contorting his beautiful face.

“What did you do with my friends?” Martin growled. He maneuvered himself in front of Rose and brandished his sword. Behind him, Rose fitted a rock to her sling and began swinging it in steady arcs, her eyes trained on Vulpuz.

The ruler of Hellgates smote his forehead with an open paw. “And we are still not listening! No matter, I’ll be able to fix that for you. I took your friends out. Not for a stroll through Mossflower Woods, mind you. Can’t you see?” The fox cleared his throat forcefully. “Entering my realm was a poor leadership decision, mouse. You brought your friends into a trap. All the signs of a trap were there. Hahaha, but what does Martin the Warrior do? He ignores them! He takes note of the possibility of danger and he charges full tilt into it, dragging all those he loves along with him.” Vulpuz stalked regally towards the two mice, the brisk wind whipping his cloak about like a torn sail caught in a storm. The timbre of his voice rose to a maddening scream as the skies above them began to darken.

“You can’t escape what you’ve been, warrior! Even now, the wraith who has frolicked through the mists of your slain foes’ nightmares lingers in your shadow!”

Martin had heard enough. He shifted his weight, readying himself to strike. The white fox was laughing again, the air around him popping and fizzing, blurring the edges of his form. His arms were outstretched, taunting the warrior mouse, inviting him to attack. Martin exhaled and raised his blade, his field of vision narrowing as the whirring of Rose’s sling intensified behind him. Time seemed to stretch itself thin just as Martin leaned into his charge.

Then, a voice like steel striking stone carved a rift through the ecstatic tension.

“Enough, Vulpuz.”

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astridstorm · 4 years ago

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July Fourth and the War Within

Good morning. It’s good to be back with you all on this Fourth of July Weekend. Those who attend church on any holiday weekend like this get bonus points in my book. I hope you’re getting some rest and enjoying this very different experience of Independence Day that we’re having.

Our church calendar is amazing. Last Wednesday at our service we celebrated the saint assigned for that day, who just happened to be the abolitionist Harriet Beecher Stowe. When I noticed that, This year, July 5 falls today, on a Sunday, I couldn’t believe it. Last month many learned for the first time of the significance of Juneteenth in the black community. June 19th was the day when Union soldiers reached Galveston Texas to tell the enslaved people there that they were free--two years after the Emancipation Proclamation.

Well, July 5 in a similar way is a day well known among black people. Someone said to me a month ago that white people’s attention when something happens like the killing of George Floyd lasts for about a month. I can’t help but believe that July 5 is on a Sunday this year to keep us engaged.

In 1852 Frederick Douglass was asked by the Rochester Women’s Anti-Slavery Society to give a speech for the Fourth of July in Seneca Falls, New York. Douglass had been a runaway slave who made his way north under extremely dangerous conditions. Two years before his speech at Seneca Falls, Congress had passed the Fugitive Slave Act, where northern law enforcement was charged with capturing those who had escaped bondage. It was a horrific law, and Douglass had much to be despairing of when he gave this speech.

He called it “What to the Slave is the Fourth of July.” He would have known that many black people by then had criticized July 4 as a day not for them. Many began to celebrate July 5, to make this point. But it was Douglass’ speech that made it famous.

So, since it’s not every year that July 5th falls on Sunday, or that our country is so engaged with issues of race and inequality, I’d like to read a little bit from Douglass’ speech this morning. It’s hard to hear, but we need to hear it.

I say ... with a sad sense of the disparity between us, I am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought life and healing to you, has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, [is] inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak today? ...

What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer; a day that reveals to him, more than. all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy-a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.

Can you imagine a room full of white people hearing this in 1852? The discomfort in the room must have been audible. After years of progress it still makes me squirm. This year, the Fourth of July is a call to do better, and finally deliver those ideals we trumpet. Maybe we needed a break from barbecues and pool parties to think about Who are we as a nation, almost 170 years after Douglass said those words.

In our reading from Romans today is contained what almost sounds like a summary of our country’s fault from its founding. This country with its lofty promise of freedom and liberty, but not for all. This country that confused even the founders, who were aware of their hypocrisy. Who wanted to do the right thing (in many cases) but who also knew Enslaving people was profitable, that it would be on their backs that our country would most quickly become economically independent. The side they took, the compromises they made against their own principles would tear this country apart. It’s still torn.

Paul wrote in a totally different time and context, but still, listen to how evocative they are of our country’s duplicity:

I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. ... I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do...So I find it to be a law that when I want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God in my inmost self, but I see in my members another law at war with the law of my mind, making me captive to the law of sin... Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!

Paul ends with hope. Douglass’ speech was actually hopeful. Go listen to it this afternoon. This time in our country, is hopeful. Perhaps we haven’t always, but we can do the good we want. We can will what is right--and do it, too. May this war within us end today, or soon, God willing.

That is my prayer for us on this Fourth--actually Fifth--of July. Amen.

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