#I HOPE I DESCRIBED HOW IMPOSING HIS IS IN FULL WOLF FORM

[pinkkittysaw]

not sure if anyone cares, but incase anyone wanted visuals for werewolf!clive in his full wolf form, i based him off of black wolves ^_^ with his eyes being more of an azure blue rather than yellow

anddddd since he’s a werewolf of my imagination his size is similar to that of the extinct epicyon haydeni (images below the cut)

[wri0thesley]

A Well Rounded Education (1): Suspension (Fem!Reader x Toji Fushiguro, 5k)

series synopsis: You are a teacher’s aid to teacher Gojo Satoru, training to be able to take over your own class next year by shadowing and helping him out. Gojo does not make things easy for anybody.

chapter synopsis: One of your favourite students has been suspended for fighting, and Gojo has palmed off the meeting with his guardian to go through all of the paperwork and facts and conditions on you. “Don’t worry,” Gojo says. “It’ll be Megumi’s sister, she always takes care of this kind of stuff!”. Gojo is wrong.

NSFW. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. dom/sub dynamics, light fearplay and predator/prey elements. piv sex.

(a well rounded education m.list and navigation)

1.

“I’ve got all these other parents to deal with,” Gojo whines at you, pushing the papers into your hands. “And I hate paperwork, and I don’t have time to meet with Megumi’s family today – hell, if it were up to me, the kid wouldn’t even be suspended! Those guys had it coming!”

Gojo is not a very good teacher. Both of you know that – no matter how justified – violence never solves violence. Gojo, you think, would let these kids fight it out in an arena instead of solving things like an adult. You heave a large sigh as you look down at the papers detailing Megumi Fushiguro’s three-day suspension for fighting during school hours.

You’d seen Megumi before he’d gone home. He hadn’t had so much as a scratch on him; his face set in a frown, his arms crossed, his eyes downcast. You’d sighed at him and asked him if he was alright, and he’d shrugged.

He’s not a very talkative boy at the best of times, and you suppose that the suspension and the fight and the mini uproar it had caused in the school aren’t helping be any more verbose. You’d said goodbye to him and said that you hoped he thought about what had transpired today, your heart aching a little bit that you couldn’t be any more help to him.

You’d seen the three boys Megumi had got into a fight with, too. They had not gotten off so scot-free – they were bleeding noses, scraped cheeks, bruised eyes. At the very least, you don’t think any of them will get on Megumi’s wrong side again.

Gojo has to meet with all three of their parents tonight to give them the full story of why their children are so roughed up and what’s being done about it; a position that’s been doled out to him, you’re sure, because Principal Masamichi blames him for the incident and is punishing him. You can’t deny that seeing Gojo actually get punished for something is nice, but--

“Won’t they be mad to see me instead of you?” You ask him, biting your lip. “I mean . . . you’re his teacher. I’m just your aid.”

“Oh,” Gojo’s eyebrows rise behind his glasses. “No, it’ll be Megumi’s sister who’ll come, she’s a sweetheart! She’ll nod at you and say mournfully that she’ll talk to him and you’ll give her the paperwork, and that’s all – job done! Honestly, if I could palm this off on you and talk to Tsumiki instead, I’d do it in a heartbeat--”

“This is your job,” you tell him, exasperated, and he laughs wide and open. You’re not really supposed to get like this with him – if he were any other teacher, you’re sure that the exasperation and sighing and half-snapping you do would have had you thrown out of their class – but Gojo treats your irritation with him as if it’s the funniest thing that has ever happened. “You’re supposed to be good at dealing with this kind of thing!”

He shrugs.

“You’ll be fine!” He tells you, again. “Honestly, this isn’t the first time this has happened with Megumi and it won’t be the last. That kid’s got a right hook that could knock out an elephant!”

You do not ask him how he knows this. Asking too many questions of Gojo is always flirting with danger; you never know when his mouth will flash into a grin and you’ll suddenly be barraged with a flood of words and stories that don’t quite make sense and never seem to have a concrete end. But you can’t resist one last question – just in case it comes up. After all, it seems that Gojo has spoken to Tsumiki enough times for him to at least kind of know her--

“His sister?”

Gojo looks at you, and for a moment the shroud of capricious energy lifts from him, and he seems entirely serious. You’ve noticed this particular change in him only a few times – and often, those times have been about the more difficult backstories of students.

“His father isn’t around very often,” he says, eventually. “He’s some kind of something or other, Megumi never really says, but whatever he does, there’s a lot of travelling involved. Tsumiki’s his older sister – she’s twenty one, and she’s been more of a parent to him than it seems like his dad has.”

No wonder Megumi always seems suspicious and tired of Gojo. Something about his flighty nature probably strokes the back of Megumi’s psyche, where annoyances about an absent father are kept. You sigh, turning away and shaking your head to rid yourself of the idea of psychoanalysing the students.

“Alright,” you say wearily. “I’ll talk to Tsumiki.”

2.

You’re nervous as you set up for the meeting. You know Gojo had said that this would be easy, that Tsumiki was very sweet and would probably apologise to you for Megumi being a problem – but still! This is the first time you’ve ever met any of your students’ guardian figures in any capacity. You feel kind of bad that it had to be for this kind of news, actually – ordinarily, you like Megumi a lot. He’s very intense and serious and clever, and you think that he has a bright future ahead of him when the trials of being a twelve year old boy finally are over – but this meeting isn’t for saying things like that. This meeting is for giving details of the three day suspension that Megumi has gotten for – you check the paperwork again – fighting three boys by himself on one of the sports courts, making them bleed and . . . breaking one of their arms? No wonder Gojo had seemed so miserable at the thought of meeting with the victims’ parents.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, making sure that it still sits as neatly as you’d arranged it that morning. You check the clock to see you still have two minutes before anyone is due – you discreetly check your lipstick in a compact mirror (yesterday you’d had it on your teeth and you hadn’t realised until Mai had pointed it out with a laugh in her voice), smooth out your pencil skirt, tug at your stockings to make sure they’re pulled up and not wrinkling about your ankles . . .

And then, you wait.

The clock is straight across from you, so you’re able to see as Tsumiki is five minutes late, and then ten minutes late, and then fifteen. The tick-tock echoes in the room as your leg bounces against the floor, anxiety making you want to gnaw all of the carefully applied lipstick off of your mouth. From what Gojo had said, this doesn’t sound like Tsumiki at all – you’re just about to give up and pack all of your things away, figuring maybe she’d called into the office to say she couldn’t make it and telling you had been neglected, when the door slams open.

You rush to your feet, your sensible heels clacking on the ground.

“Miss Fushi--”

Your voice peters away.

The person stood in the doorway is, you’re certain, absolutely not Tsumiki Fushiguro.

For one thing, it’s a man. For another thing . . . well. You’re not entirely sure that a man with that expression on his face would ever be described to anyone as a ‘sweetheart’. Your frightened eyes linger on him for another moment, really taking in the broad shoulders and the muscles and the hair falling over his face, the dark, green eyes that are glaring at you like you’ve interrupted something very important. There’s a scar by his mouth that you also do your best not to stare at, just in the same way you avoid staring at how the form-fitting t-shirt he’s wearing clings to a muscled abdomen.

“It’s Mr, actually,” he says, which seems absurd in the face of him, standing there. He raises one eyebrow at you. “You were expecting my daughter, right?”

(You don’t know it, but Toji Fushiguro has gotten a read on you in less than a moment. He’s seen the wide eyes and the pretty mouth and the neatly appointed outfit, the pencil tucked behind your ear, the slightest tremble faced with his imposing presence – the fear as you’d seen the scar and the smoulder and the body. You’re adorable.)

“I . . . uuh--” Your cheeks are hot. You nod, weakly, and he walks into the room proper, the door swinging shut behind him with a deafening click. There’s danger in every one of this man’s movements, like a wolf who has finally cornered a little rabbit. You are feeling inexorably like prey, at this moment in time.

“I was expecting a man,” he says, shrugging. He sits at the chair in front of Gojo’s desk, pulled up just for him. He looks huge in the classroom; his shoulders too wide, his biceps bulging from the sleeve of the shirt. You don’t think this man was intending to be in a school classroom right now. “I guess you’re not Mr Gojo, huh? Gotta say,” he shoots you a grin that’s dangerous, everything about him is threatening. “I much prefer this development.”

“Oh,” you’re blustering, and it’s so cute. You sit back down in the chair with a quiet displacement of air, agitation in your fingers as you rake through the papers on the desk. Said desk is incredibly messy; Toji doesn’t think it’s yours. He ought to feel mad that they’ve palmed him off on some little assistant who’s probably not even fully qualified yet – instead, he’s watching your hands trembling and your teeth nibbling on your pretty mouth. “Y-yes, G-Gojo’s dealing with the parents of the other party--”

“My kid got into a fight, yeah?” He asks. “Decked ‘em pretty good, from what I heard.” You wince at his words, and that’s cute too.

“Megumi’s a good boy,” you say. “He’s just . . . got his own sense of justice, I think.” You look down at the papers, and your eyes seem to focus, back in a more comforting zone. “He’s been suspended for three days, and when he comes back, he’s on probation.”

“What’s that mean for him?” Toji asks, promptly, though something about the way he says it suggests to you he doesn’t really care. There’s a lightness, an airiness in his tone that sets you all off-kilter.

“It just means we’ll probably keep an especial eye on him. He’ll get a report that’ll need signing off on at the end of every period, someone will check up on it--” You see one of Gojo’s scrawled notes in the margin of the paperwork. You wince. “I’ll be in charge of it, actually. Making sure everyone’s happy with his behaviour for a few weeks--”

“How old are you, sweetheart?”

The question makes you jump. You’re like a doe in headlights, looking up at him. You blink slowly.

“I—I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, Mr Fushiguro,” you say, prim. That’s cute, too. He likes breaking prim and proper things like you. “I’m—I’m doing my training. I’m working as an aid here for a year, and then I’ll be qualified to be in charge of my own class.” There’s a hint of pride in your words, there.

“Toji,” he says. “That’s my name. You haven’t gotta call me ‘Mr Fushiguro’. I’m not tryna’ be pushy,” but he’s inched forward. His elbows are resting on Gojo’s desk, in front of you – he rests his chin on his folded hands, sharp eyes regarding you as if you’re something he wants to devour. “Y’just look tense.”

“This is the first time I’ve met a student’s parent,” you admit, though the minute it’s left your mouth you’re regretting it. Like you’re admitting to some kind of weakness. This close to him, you can see there’s a dark red stain on one of his wrists, like dried blood. Your stomach is tying itself in knots. It’s not helping that his forearms are so big, ridged with muscle.

“That so?” His eyes gleam. “What d’ya think of me?”

You don’t actually need to answer him. He can see it in the way your eyes keep nervously skimming over him. The way your lips are shining in the light. The bob of your throat as you swallow.

“Mr Fushiguro--”

“I told you to call me Toji,” his voice is almost mocking. You watch him lean over the table like you’re somewhere far away from the action – watch his hand reach out and cup your face, calloused thumb brushing your cheek, like you’re a ghost in the corner of the room. His palms feel like they’re burning hot. “You’re tremblin’, little lamb.”

You had thought you’d felt like a rabbit – shy, ready to run at any moment. But the moment his hand is on you, you’re docile – too scared to scamper away. You suppose you are like a lamb, staring a wolf straight on in the face, too stupid or too pliant to use your common sense and run.

“I . . . I shouldn’t,” you say, voice trembling just as much as the rest of you. Toji’s smirk hasn’t left his face. You’re saying you shouldn’t, but he just bets if he reached further down and unbuttoned your blouse, your nipples would pebble for him – he just bets there’s a wet stain on your underwear, right now. He can always tell when someone’s turned on by the idea of playing with fire.

“I wouldn’t mind spendin’ a few weeks with you in charge of me,” he muses, and then chuckles humourlessly, correcting himself. “Sorry. Lemme rephrase that. I’d rather be in charge of you, but--”

Oh, he sees that. The little flash in your eyes, an imperceptible contract of your shoulders. If you weren’t behind the desk, he bets he’d have seen your thighs press together too. Girls like you are just so fucking predictable, and he loves it every single time. There’s just something that’s so much fun about breaking them – making them submit, admit that him being so close with the scent of something-that-might-be-death clinging to him turns them on like nothing else. Your attempts at being haughty and polite and proud have just made the stirring between his thighs harder to ignore. You’re such a cute, neat, demure little thing – by the end of this meeting, he’s going to have his way with you, you bet.

“M-Mr Fushiguro,” you say, trying to wrest back control of yourself – honestly, he’s pissed you aren’t listening to him, but the title’s kind of endearing. You’re trying so hard! Pity you’re going to lose all of your manners when you’re bent over this desk with his cock inside you. You haven’t even moved your face away from his hand. “I-I have to give you these papers.”

He stands up, pulling his own touch away from your cheek. Stretches. Your eyes are drawn to the brief expanse of his stomach, just above his trousers – the dark line of hair leading down to . . . Oh, God. You shouldn’t have thought about that. The grin on his face is cocky, and you know that he knows you were looking.

“I’m just gonna throw ‘em in the trash, sweetheart,” he says to you. “Now. Let’s talk about the elephant in the room, yeah?” He steps closer to you. You totter to your feet, half-unsure, half driven by the low ache between your legs and the thrum of desire that’s been reverberating through you since the moment he’d carelessly thrown out how much happier he was to see you than Gojo. You have to tilt your head up a little when he comes closer. You’d thought you realised how massive he was when he’d walked through the door, but that’s nothing compared to how his size seems to dwarf you. Every unkind thought you’ve ever had about your body or your face seems to have gone out of the window as his heated green gaze hungrily drinks you in. You know it’s the stare of some predator who’s going to devour you, and you still feel transformed. Your breath catches in your throat as his hand idly comes to the top of your blouse buttons, a finger brushing the place in your throat where your pulse is beating its unsteady rhythm.

“Whaddya say, little lamb?” He grins down at you. “Gonna let yourself be caught by the big bad wolf?”

You’re supposed to be telling this man about his son’s misbehaviour, giving him all of the paperwork that Gojo had thrust at you, getting him to say he’ll talk to his kid and try and make sure that it won’t happen again. You shouldn’t be tipping your head back further, letting his fingertips lodge dangerously in the hollow of your throat, flirting with the place where your windpipe is. You shouldn’t be breathing out, all of your pretty prissiness and good morals and pride disappearing where you stand in the face of one of your students’ really hot dad.

“Yes,” you breathe.

And Toji wastes no time.

3.

He doesn’t even bother unbuttoning your blouse; just drags his hand down, and the buttons pop off, scattering on the floor. You gasp at the show of strength, and Toji is still grinning, clearly enjoying that you’re admiring him. His hand pulls at the fabric, until your breasts are fair falling out of it, the blouse wrestles off your skin.

“You’re wearin’ something like this at work?” He asks you, giving a tug to the gore of your bra. You hadn’t done enough washing this week, and the one you’re wearing is all filmy white lace. “Almost like you knew I was comin’ huh?” His grin is crooked. You tremble as you reach behind you, undoing the clasp – and for that, you get a murmur of ‘good girl’ that has your knees turning to jelly.

He whistles as the bra drops from you, his gaze admiring. He takes in the spill of your breasts, the little peaks of your nipples. He takes handfuls of them, squeezing them in his big hands, his fingertips digging in so painfully you can imagine that you’ll have bruises in the shape of his fingers tomorrow. The idea doesn’t disgust you.

He lowers his head to kiss you. He’s not gentle with you for a moment – his teeth immediately nip at your bottom lip, kissing you hungrily like you’re the first taste of sugar for a man who’s lived on nothing but bread for months. His tongue licks at your lips, begging entrance – dancing against your own when you helplessly open those same lips, demanding in the exact same way Toji is.

He pinches your nipple between thumb and forefinger, delighting in how quickly the bud hardens. He rolls it between them, toying with it, enjoying the soft noises you make that get caught in his mouth. If he wasn’t kissing you, he thinks, you’d be bleating like a lamb right now. Huffing and whimpering. When he finally gets his cock in you, he’ll have to remember to clap a hand over your mouth so you don’t attract too much attention.

Your other nipple is given the same treatment, hot lightning bolts of pleasure ricocheting from the touch of Toji’s calloused fingers to the spot between your legs. You’re grateful for how solid Toji is – if he were any less so, you’re sure you’d be buckling over where you stand.

He pulls back with a final, marking nip to your lower lip, almost hard enough to make you bleed. You whine, and a dark chuckle spills out of his lips in response.

“Toji,” you whimper as he pulls away. You miss the feel of his body pressed against yours like a physical ache. His hands encircle your thighs, pushing you up onto the edge of Gojo’s desk, clever fingers already pushing your tight pencil skirt up so it’s bunched around your waist.

He kind of misses ‘Mr Fushiguro’ now it’s gone, but the sight of your stockings digging into your thighs soon chases the thought from his mind. He guesses your skirt is more than long and tight enough to make sure nobody gets a glimpse, but oh . . . that you’d be walking around all day, like that, with nobody to fuck you silly--

He can’t help but let his hands knead the soft skin, the flesh, his thumbs imprinting so hard in the plush that you squirm. He’s pressing your thighs apart, now – revealing the modest underwear, the soaking wet patch where he can see the outline of your plump labia lips.

With your legs spread, he can smell how turned on you are. Oh, yeah – he knows your type, alright.

“Ain’t you cute?” He says, chuckling. “You really want me to do you over this desk?”

“You can’t leave me like this--” Your voice is reedy, breathy, almost petulant – at another time, he’d make you beg for it. He’d take his time over you. But although the idea of being caught fucking the cute little teacher’s aid is briefly appealing, he doesn’t really want to make a whole load of trouble for himself when his cock is practically begging to be sheathed inside your wet holes. “Please--”

It’s the please that does it. It’s always the ‘please’ that does it for Toji. He chuckles, smirks, crooked grin – all of it feels like it’s mixing together in your mind, your throat very dry as nothing seems to matter right now except the fact that your sex is practically pulsing with how empty it is, and you think that the hot hard stiffness pressing against your thighs would really help alleviate some of that.

“Aww,” he says, fiddling with his zip and underwear, grabbing his cock and giving it a cursory pump just so you can admire the sheer size of him. “Don’t worry, little lamb. I’ll give ya what you need.”

He gets what he wants. Your eyes, as big and dark as the eyes of a doe – the soft choke of breath as you get to see the size of it, so big his own fingertips don’t quite meet. It’s the kind of cock that could ruin you for somebody else – and you’ve had sex before, of course, but you’ve never taken anything quite like that--

“That’s cute,” Toji murmurs, pressing forward, nestling his slick cock-head between your soaking wet thighs. “Wish you could have seen what a picture your face made just then. Afraid I’m gonna tear you in two?”

He might – he might, you think. But you pout at him and Toji’s cock throbs, as he glides the slick glans through the mess of your arousal, wetting himself even further. Your breath hitches, your hips doing a cute little jerk as it brushes your swollen clit. He can’t help himself but swirl the head over it some more, making your breath catch and whine, bleating like a little lamb--

He sinks his hips forward, and your fingers flex on the edge of the desk, knuckles white, at the relentless sear of his cock driving you open. You feel so stretched out, and he’s barely a third of the way in – he can’t help but watch your expression. He always likes to see someone the first time they’re impaled on his cock – the glassy eyes, slack jaw, the pleasure-cum-pain in their faces. He wants to take a picture of you and keep it in his wallet so he can pump one out to the sight of you when he’s on business trips and too busy to go out and find himself a hole to fuck.

“How’s that feel?” He asks you, so soft and low that you barely catch it. Another slow inch. He lets you feel every ridge, every vein, every bump of his shaft. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

“F-full—” you gasp.

“I bet,” Toji replies – and then, he bottoms out inside you. His eyes look down to where the two of you are joined; the slick fluid leaking out of you, all heat and needy. “You fit me like a glove.”

Your cheeks heat at the compliment, at the lewd way he’s looking at your spread open cunt – the way your hole is fluttering around him, the peeking pearl of your clit. He’s studying you like he wants to learn you by heart.

“Head’s up,” he says. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

You’re about to open your mouth, and ask him what he’s doing right at that moment if he hasn’t started fucking you yet – but then, he’s dragged almost the entire length of his cock out of you in one savage thrust and is immediately spearing it back into you, his pace brutal. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, your back hitting the solid, flat surface of Gojo’s desk so that you’re flat out with your thighs wrapped around Toji’s hips.

If he weren’t so entranced by the feel of your walls fluttering around him, trying to suck him in further and deeper, so tight that you’re basically a vice, he’d grab you by your hair and force you to stay seated whilst he fucked you. But right now, you feel so good that all he can think about is his own release. The wet sounds of his cock gliding in and out of you, the squelch of your arousal and slick making every pump easier and easier. You feel so good. You’re tighter than he even imagined you could be, so good that he kind of wants to take you home and have you take up permanent residence in his bed.

You’re moaning, your back arching with every one of his thrusts – taking it admirably. There’s pain in your moans, yes – he supposes he could have prepared you better, had you come on his fingers a couple of times, if time were not of the essence – but they’re the pained moans of someone who likes to be hurt a little bit.

With every rock of his cock inside of you, he hits some new spot that you’ve never had stoked before, makes the heat and need inside of you swim just a little bit closer to the forefront. You don’t even notice you’re moaning and whining until a big hand slaps over your mouth, rough, hot palm against your lips, smearing your lipstick.

“You’re gonna be a good girl and stay quiet,” Toji says to you, through those savage thrusts of his cock inside of you. “You don’t want your . . . your fuckin’ . . . anyone walkin’ in on you being railed by your student’s dad, do you?” You shake your head, but he feels the throb of your cunt around his cock, the way your walls contract, and he adds it to the store of things he’s learning about you. Always the quiet ones, right? Always the proper ones who look as though they’ve never even seen a cock--

The feel of him inside you is absolutely dizzying, so much and so full that you can no longer think. His cock batters against a certain place in your channel, a textured wall – and before you know it, everything is going dizzy and black and white like exploding fireworks, your chest bursting into heat, your inner walls getting so tight around Toji as you come that he thinks you’ll be the one to fucking break him.

Oh, you’re adorable, creaming on his cock – the slick gush of your arousal around him, the dreamy cast in your eye, the fact he can feel you drooling against his palm. He increases the speed of his own thrusts, chasing his release through the weak aftershocks and smaller pulses of you around him, through the over-sensitive squirming of your cute little cunt, the fact that tears are pooling in your eyes at how much everything is suddenly feeling--

He groans and the hand still clinging to your thigh is suddenly pressing so hard you think he’ll snap your bone, ragged breath;

“Fu—fuuuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna take it all, that’s right, good girl--” in between belaboured, ragged pumps, his cock twitching as he manages to pull out at the last moment and his release spills all over your thighs, luridly glistening wet in the overhead fluorescent lights.

That’s another moment he’d take a picture of, if he could.

He’s not the kind of man who waits around. He gives himself ten seconds, to catch his breath, to admire your plush thighs painted with his come, before he’s tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping zippers and doing buttons. He shoves his hands into his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet for a second – double checking he’s left nothing of his in the classroom.

Yep. All clear.

He turns to leave, air of cocky confidence back – you only just see the shifting muscles in his back as he turns to go, leaving you where you are. You’re lucky he’s so tall, or you’d probably barely have seen him in front of the door frame (you didn’t even lock the door, anyone could have walked in at any time! You don’t even want to know what Gojo would say if he’d walked in to his aid being fucked like a slut across his desk).

“W-wait,” you say, weakly, still sprawled over the desk with his come cooling on your thighs. You manage to prop yourself up on your elbows, but your entire body feels like it’s just taken a battering. He takes a look back at you from the door, dragging a big hand through his hair, his crooked grin still on his face. You look so pretty like that – all fucked out and messy, the shine taken off of you. “T-the paperwork--”

You’re not sure where said paperwork is. Underneath you, maybe? You hope it didn’t get soaked.

“Told ya’,” he says, dismissively. “I’m just gonna throw it in the trash. Thanks for the fun, sweetheart. See y’around, huh? I should do stuff for the kid’s academic career more often.”

The door slams shut behind him.

[moawrites]

The Last Fox-King || Patreon Update

Here, in its nascent form, are the first two chapters of a project that I've been really having fun writing lately! It even features fun things like blanks in the place of names/holidays/places that I haven't settled on yet! I thought that it might be kind of neat to show how I go back and fill in details like that later on in story development :D

I'd maybe describe this one as following an 'enemies to married to lovers' trope

One

In the early morning light, the forest took on an unusually soft, alluring air, so unlike the mirk and menace that crept through the trees in the nighttime. It was in these moments that Annis dared to stand at the top of the hill overlooking the road down to the forest, her hands tucked in her apron. She was never able to linger for very long; there was always the risk that she’d be spotted and scolded for wandering out of the castle unaccompanied, but it was a risk that she took with ever-increasing frequency.

A young woman of fairly respectable breeding wasn’t meant to possess such a profound sense of curiosity in the forbidden, and Annis had always prided herself in being fairly respectable. She was lucky, she knew, to have ended up in Elden Keep, living a life of comfort and security. With no family left to speak of, and no prospects whatsoever, keeping in the lord and lady’s good graces was a matter of utmost importance.

In fact, when at all possible, Annis preferred to avoid their notice entirely.

The mountain that rose from the far reaches of the forest looked imposing as always, swathed in a constant fog that seemed to drown out the greenery below every night. They said in the village that spirits skulked down from the mountain under the cover of the mist to find human souls to steal, but she hardly considered such superstitions credible. It was far more likely, in her opinion, that the Greenwoods held bandits and outlaws who preferred the cover of dark, and had crafted such tall tales to keep everyone else far away.

If that were the case, then it certainly seemed to have worked. Every inhabitant of Elden Keep and the village nearby seemed to avoid venturing there alone at all costs, save for Sir Ostig, who claimed that the best hunting for miles around was to be done in the forest. Of course, as Sir Ostig also maintained that he’d lost his hand to a woman wearing a wolf’s skin that he’d encountered in the forest one night, Annis found his claims a bit suspect.

Realizing that she’d managed to linger far longer than she’d intended, Annis turned on her heel and hurried back to the castle. If she was lucky, today might be the day that Matron finally excused her from her duties early enough that she might sneak away to explore the village. Nearly four months in Elden Keep, and she’d hardly had a moment alone in all that time.

“You are out early this morning, May Annis.”

She tensed, but was only the boy Todd, leaning against his stave in the shadow of the gateway. Annis drew herself up to her full height; she was only a bit taller than him, but she hoped to be imposing. “I do hope that you are not the only guard on patrol, else we are all surely doomed.”

“Your words wound, my lady.” Todd stepped closer, a cheeky grin on his face. “I do not believe that Lord Gereld would be happy to hear that his fosterling is prowling about unsupervised.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Annis replied primly, dusting off her skirts. “I have only been taking in some fresh morning air in the courtyard.”

Todd looked at her for a moment, then turned back towards the open gate. “Do you often dream about the forest?”

“What was that?”

“You might want to ask old Madge for a charm, if you are.” He tapped a little wooden bead tied around his neck. “Helps me. Well enough, at least.”

“Madge the potter? Isn’t she mad?”

Todd snorted. “Mad as can be, I expect, but you and I can hardly talk, lady, if we are hearing the call of the Greenwood.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Annis replied primly, and then she gathered her skirts and hurried back to the castle, the prickling sensation of his bright green eyes following her.

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[mostlycompetentwriter]

I Am You: Chapter 3

Pairing: OC x Bang Chan x Han Jisung x Seo Changbin

Genre: Romantic Fantasy

Warnings: Smut, some mentions of blood and gore

Previous Chapters: (chapter 1), (chapter 2)

Note: Just to clarify, in the scene where Myah and Changbin are both wolves, they use a special mind link to speak to one another. All pack members can communicate while they are wolves. However, mates can speak to one another no matter what form their partner happens to be in. This is how human Changbin is able to communicate with wolf Myah.

“Have you seen Changbin?” I asked Felix, watching the younger alpha absent-mindedly skin the deer laid out on the table in front of us.

“I think he’s hunting,” Felix replied, frowning as he let out a disgusted sound. “It would be nice if he could skin his own kill every once in a while.”

“He’s always hunting,” I huffed in frustration.

Felix shrugged, “He’s probably not far out. He just left like fifteen minutes ago. You can probably catch up to him if you need something.”

I immediately heeded Felix’s suggestion, shifting forms carefully, as it had certainly been a while since I last allowed my wolf to takeover. However, I knew it would be much easier to catch up to Changbin with a better nose, relying purely on smell to find my tsundere mate. And I picked up on his trail fast, following his scent slowly while I still felt unsteady on the four legs replacing my usual two. I really needed to run more with Jisung when he offered. It was almost embarrassing how out-of-touch I felt with my hyper-active wolf, especially after experiencing yet another clumsy fall along the mountain rocks. 

I was fully committed to shifting every day.

Thankfully, I found Changbin quickly, distracted by the small doe grazing a hundred yards or so away. I waited patiently, making sure my scent was down-wind so that he couldn’t possibly blame me if he missed this kill. But Changbin was the pack’s best hunter, and he tracked down the unsuspecting creature with startling astuteness. 

It was as he was dragging the doe back down the cliffside that he spotted me. His dark brown wolf let out a grumpy growl as he walked over to where I waited. He let the prey fall from his mouth, regarding me with a look that I could only describe as reprimanding. 

I heard his voice speak clearly through our mind-link. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

I refused to back down. “You’re always hunting these days. How else was I supposed to talk to you?”

Changbin’s wolf was imposing as he stood over me. He was bigger than most wolves, and he exuded power and dominance. “Go back to camp.”

I watched as he leaned back down to pick up the doe. “Will you talk to me tonight?”

“I’m hunting late.”

I let out a sharp bark, racing ahead to block his path. “Why are you ignoring me?”

“Don’t act like this, Myah.” 

“I don’t understand why you can’t talk to me. Are you really going to punish me for something I already forgave you for?”

He bullied his way past me. “It’s dangerous up here. Now go home.”

Stung by his disregard, I obeyed his order, starting back down the path with much less spring than I had before. I glanced back over my shoulder at the big alpha, wondering if Changbin knew how much he was hurting me. 

But distractions were never a good thing on the mountain, and I heard the switch before I felt its claws. Unfortunately, I had failed to keep an eye on the path in front of me, as Changbin had constantly warned me about, but that didn’t make it any less shocking. Which is probably why, at first, the pain from the trap didn’t register over my surprise. But then I felt it deeply when I saw the blood. I let out a pained howl, instinctively trying to pry my leg away from the source of my pain. It only worsened the situation, the sharp edges digging brutally into my flesh. 

“Don’t move!”

I heard his command before I could scent him, but Changbin was suddenly there, burying his head into the side of my neck, releasing soothing alpha pheromones even as the pain grew to an unbearable level. I fell to the ground, craning my neck around to look at my mangled leg, bits of flesh and blood amidst the silver trap. I saw fingers next, faintly realizing Changbin had shifted to his human form, working at the trap.

Then I heard the mountain lion’s growl.

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“I think Channie hates me,” I complained to Jisung, watching the alpha move about his room, a towel wrapped messily around his waist.

“Chan doesn’t hate you,” Jisung chided gently, digging for a pair of sweatpants out of his closet. 

“What did I do?” I asked, ignoring Jisung as I rolled onto my back, looking up at the ceiling.

“Chan’s just stressed,” Jisung said. “He’s got a lot of decisions to make.”

“Mating shouldn’t be a difficult decision,” I muttered because it was true. In fact, mating should be easy with the person you love.

“Don’t be impatient,” Jisung said, suddenly appearing above me. “Chan always thinks about everything too much, you know how he is.”

“It shouldn’t require any thinking,” I said, letting out a whine of protest when Jisung moved onto the bed, crowding me into the mattress. I broke off only when I was wrapped in Jisung’s arms, secure against his strong chest. His vanilla scent surrounded me, and I could tell he was releasing calming pheromones, which I appreciated.

“Everything will work out in time,” Jisung whispered, pressing a tender kiss to the side of my temple.

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“Changbin!” I cried out through the bond, watching the mountain lion creep closer, likely smelling my blood in the air.

Changbin managed to open the trap and I whined as I pulled my leg free. “Can you shift?” he asked me, but I was in too much pain to concentrate so I shook my head, desperately trying to push myself onto all four legs, but collapsing back down each time. The mountain lion growled, haunches raised in an attack position. Changbin shifted back easily, his intimidating wolf forcing the lion to briefly reconsider its plan. “Don’t worry,” Changbin said, using the mind link to offer me calming reassurances.

I threw back my head to howl, hoping our other packmates could hear the call. Unfortunately, it also prompted the lion into action and it launched itself at Changbin. I watched in horror as it wrestled Changbin to his back, exposing his soft underbelly and tender throat. The sound of its claws slashing through fur and flesh was revolting and my stomach churned dangerously. Changbin fought back, using his hind legs to push the lion off, reclaiming an upright position before chasing after the lion, nipping at its weaker tendons. The lion stumbled on the loose rocks and Changbin brought it down, tearing into whatever flesh his teeth could sink into.

I looked away from the gruesome scene, calling out for Chan and Jisung through the mating bond, but they were probably too far away to hear my pleas. Instead, I let my wolf take control, and she slowly started limping us over to the coverage of the bushes, hoping to disguise the scent of our blood. However, the lion did not like her decision, losing sight of its easy prey. He managed to throw Changbin off, and I winced as his body crashed into the side of the rocks. I tried to throw myself forward but let out a pained yelp when I felt the lion’s teeth dig into my leg, pulling me away from my destination. 

I whined loudly, panting hard against wave after wave of pain, my flesh wound reopened by the lion’s unforgiving teeth. We started down the slope and I knew I was going to die. The lion would easily drag me somewhere it was familiar with, ripping into my throat before using my carcass as its meal for the next several days. I was poisoned with fear, watching my life slowly drain out onto the rocks around me.

But Changbin hadn’t given up, and the lion was unprepared for Changbin to attack again. My mate managed to wrestle the lion into a precarious position of weakness, immediately going for its throat and locking his teeth around its pulse point. I faintly observed Changbin pulling back with a large chunk of flesh between his teeth, my vision swimming in and out of focus. I did register Changbin’s dark scent, and his familiar voice trying to reach out to me, even as the blackness finally claimed me.

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I knew Chan was going to break up with me. 

I could tell by his posture, by the distinct way he was hunched in on himself, doing no favors to his taller height. He was also unusually quiet, taking me by the hand to lead me to the meadow where we always played together as children. The one his mother had taken us to for the very first time when we were barely five years old. It was a special place full of meaning and Chan knew how important it was to me, how I always felt calmer when I was surrounded by the familiar daffodils.

He wanted me to be comfortable because the news he was going to deliver would likely break my heart. This was all I could think about when Chan finally turned around to face me, eyes distant and sorrowful. “Myah,” he said my name, and my heart reached out to him. “Do you love Jisung and Changbin?”

I was thrown by the unexpected question. “Of course I do.”

“You know they’ll always take care of you, right?”

Chan’s questions seemed misplaced. “What are you talking about?”

Chan sighed, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his jacket. “Jisung and Changbin are starting their own pack, you know.”

I nodded because it was usually all Jisung talked about. He was beyond excited to lead his own pack, and Changbin was relieved to get away and start his own family. Felix would be joining, along with several of their friends: Seungmin, Minho, Hyunjin, Jeongin, and Woojin. I was excited because I adored the idea of starting something new, especially with my mates by my side. 

But that needed to include Chan as well.

“My father wants me to stay here,” he finally said. “He wants me to lead his pack in the future.”

I immediately shook my head. “You have to come with us, Chan. Jisung and Changbin are your best friends, and I-”

“I’ll get in the way,” Chan interrupted. “You already have two mates, Myah. They both adore you.”

“But I need you too,” I protested, squeezing our intertwined hands. “You mean so much to me, Chan. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“I know,” Chan agreed, pausing to look around, a nostalgic smile on his face. “We got into a lot of trouble together, but that was a long time ago. We both have to start considering our futures.”

I stepped in closer, eliminating more of the space between us, even though it still felt like it wasn’t enough. “My future means nothing without you in it.”

Chan’s expression softened. “I can’t do that to you.”

“You’ll break my heart,” I warned him. “You’ll hurt me and you promised you wouldn’t.”

“Not if you don’t let me,” Chan countered. “You deserve a long life, Myah, with Jisung and Changbin.”

“With you,” I insisted earnestly. “Chan, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have Jisung or Changbin.”

“But you do have them,” he said. “You’ll always have them.”

He tenderly reached out, thumbing his way across Changbin’s mark on my neck. “But I need your mark.”

“It’s too much.”

“Not it’s not!” I disagreed, clutching even more tightly to him, feeling like he might vanish at any moment. “Chan, you made a promise to me! You can’t say these things...Please don’t leave me.”

I was starting to panic and Chan picked up on it, releasing more of his soothing scent which I consumed greedily, faced with the possibility of never having it again. “I’ll visit when I can.”

“It won’t be the same,” I trembled, disregarding the space he tried to maintain, collapsing into his arms.

“You’ll move on.”

“No, I won’t,” I insisted, leaning up to scent him. “Why are you doing this? Why bother even promising it to me if you never planned on keeping it?” 

He winced as if my comment caused him physical pain. “At one point, I did intend to keep it, but then you mated with Jisung and Changbin. I could see the change in you, the way you looked happier around them. You really don’t need me anymore, Myah. It’s just hard to let go of the past.”

My tears were soaking through his t-shirt, but I knew Chan didn’t care. “If you leave me, I’ll miss you every day. You’re my best friend, Chan. My soulmate.”

“Be good for me,” he whispered into my hair. 

“Stop it!” I harshly interjected, abruptly pulling out his arms, startling both of us. “Stop saying that you’re leaving. If you really loved me, then you would stay.” Chan was at a loss for words, opening his mouth before closing it again. “I don’t care about your father’s pack now,” I continued, “I care about the one I’m building, and I refuse to be a part of it without you. How can you not understand how much you mean to me? I don’t just want you, Chan, I need you! I depend on you for so much and if you left, I’ll be completely empty, because you won’t be there to fill those places anymore.”

I was incoherent, tasting my salty tears as I shook my head vigorously, refusing to acknowledge Chan’s words. Empty threats, that’s all they were. Chan had been mine from the moment we met, and nothing would ever tear us apart. No matter how many people came between us, or how many fights we got into, or how he could ever think we’d be able to live without one another. Chan caught me in his arms before my knees gave out and he brought us both to the ground, holding me close as I cried against his chest. “What can I do to convince you?” I pleaded with him. “I’ll do anything.”

For a while he was quiet and I continued to sob those terrible soul-wrenching cries that jarred the places inside of me that was frightening. Dark places I tried to hide away, like the evil voice that sometimes whispered that I wasn’t good enough for any of them. That voice might be right, but I always did my best. I would always fight for them.

Finally, Chan gently encouraged me to lean back, drying my tears with his sleeves. He picked up my wrist, brushing his lips across the blue-colored veins decorating the surface of my creamy skin. “Shall I do it here?” he asked, glancing up at me with eyes that reminded me of home.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I could only smell Changbin when I woke up, dizzy with the after effects of restless sleep. His scent was spiked with fear. It was enough to pull me back to consciousness, and I blinked against the blinding white light infiltrating my line of vision. “Ah,” a familiar voice spoke. “You’re finally awake?”

I glanced over at Woojin. “How long have I been out?”

“A day or so,” he replied, “But I think it was the trauma. Your leg will take some time to heal.”

I sat up slowly, listening to Woojin’s advice while leaning back against the bed frame. “Is it really bad?”

“I’ve seen worse, but that was back during my training. You’re the first real injury we’ve had in the new pack.”

“That sucks,” I said, and Woojin chuckled. 

“Your mates have been worrying all night,” Woojin informed me. “I couldn’t get Changbin to leave. His scent was everywhere.”

“I can smell it,” I acknowledged. “But when you say mates-”

“Felix freaked out,” Woojin said, rolling his eyes. “He and Seungmin ran all the way to the border, and I’m sure they made it sound far worse than it actually was.”

“That was an important meeting,” I said. “They shouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, Felix is young, and it’s hard to be in your right mind when the third in command is running around nearly hysterical. I had to give Changbin some morphine, his body was halfway between wolf and human. It wasn’t pleasant to see.”

“Great,” I muttered because I didn’t like the idea of everything falling apart over me.

“They can return to the northern lands later,” Woojin said as if he knew exactly what I had been thinking. “I’m sure Taeyong would gladly welcome back Chan and Jisung. He has a mate of his own and understands how it feels to be away when they’re hurt.”

“I can’t really move it,” I said, frowning at my immobile leg. “Is that normal?”

“It’s the cast,” Woojin explained. “Do you feel well enough to talk to your alphas?”

I groaned at the idea of dealing with their high-strung whining, mothering me to the point where I felt suffocated. Woojin grinned. “I can tell them you’re still sleeping.”

“Maybe for tonight,” I agreed.

Not because I didn’t love them, of course, but because they could turn into an absolute nightmare when their alpha instincts insisted I was on my deathbed as opposed to a sterile hospital cot frowning down at my new cast. 

It would be a long recovery.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I could feel Chan everywhere. 

I tried not to wince at the pain, instead focusing on the growing bond, ignoring the way his teeth sank into my wrist, eyes bright with a vivid orange color. Instead, I only thought about Chan and it made the pain bearable. I thought about his lovely hair, naturally curly, thick strands soft between my fingers. I thought about his gorgeous eyes or the wicked slope of his nose. I thought about his handsome features, and how his smile completely eclipsed even the lowest of my moods. I thought about his warm voice and familiar scent, the rich smell of pine that reminded me of my childhood.

I thought about the way Chan made love to me, treating me like I was fragile. His body covering mine, sheltering me under his protective form. His soft kisses drawing small moans, encouraging him to give more. His pulsing cock inside of me, filling me to the brim with all the love he could give. A special kind of love incomparable to the way I felt with Jisung or Changbin.

Because Chan was encompassing. He was everywhere, present at all the points in my life I could remember, good or bad. And he filled all my empty places, the darkest parts of myself that I hated, but he managed to bring light to them all. He was everything I needed to feel complete, marked by three alpha wolves who would do absolutely anything my heart desired.

I was finally me.

[jedimaesteryoda]

Septon Meribald: Septon to the Poor

Septon Meribald is a character who we see for a short while through Brienne’s POV in A Feast for Crows, and manages to become a popular minor character in both the book and series. Alongside Arya’s journey through the riverlands from ACOK to ASOS, Brienne’s journey highlights the effects of war on the civilian population, and Meribald serves as an important voice for the smallfolk during this arc. Meribald as per Martin’s characterization, wouldn’t be out of place in any medieval fantasy when you first meet him, but is also a three-dimensional character with a past that would make him out of place in that same setting. He is best remembered for his “Broken Men” speech in the chapter we meet him. The speech is eloquent in how it captures some of the grim realities of war, and contains some of Martin’s best prose. However, while I will analyze his speech, I think he deserves a more thorough examination and analysis based on more than just one speech.

Introduction:

"There's a man," Ser Hyle said. "A septon. He came in through my gate the day before you turned up. Meribald, his name is. River-born and river-bred and he's served here all his life. He's departing on the morrow to make his circuit, and he always calls at Saltpans. We should go with him."

- AFFC Brienne V

The donkey carried such a heavy load that Brienne was half afraid its back would break. "Food for the poor and hungry of the riverlands," Septon Meribald told them at the gates of Maidenpool. "Seeds and nuts and dried fruit, oaten porridge, flour, barley bread, three wheels of yellow cheese from the inn by the Fool's Gate, salt cod for me, salt mutton for Dog . . . oh, and salt. Onions, carrots, turnips, two sacks of beans, four of barley, and nine of oranges.”

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald is introduced as a traveling septon who works and lived in the riverlands his whole life.

Circuit riders, as they were called, were a not uncommon feature in the early United States, especially west of the Appalachians as many settlers pushed westward. With an increase in the US population and many people living in rural areas, the Methodist church had to deal with too few ministers to staff parishes in these small, rural and some of them, new communities. They also had to deal with the fact that permanent, full-time ministers weren’t economical and have enough “work” in a community with a very small congregation. The US Methodist Church dealt with this issue by assigning ministers multiple officiates in an area that formed a “circuit” as the minister was to travel to and attend each parish on a regular basis.

Meribald is a septon in this vein who makes his regular circuit providing religious services to the villages that are too small and poor to have a septry as well as distributing food to the poor. He provides both material and spiritual sustenance to the smallfolk throughout the riverlands.

“The septon could neither read nor write, as he cheerfully confessed along the road, but he knew a hundred different prayers and could recite long passages from The Seven-Pointed Star from memory, which was all that was required in the villages. He had a seamed, windburnt face, a shock of thick grey hair, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Though a big man, six feet tall, he had a way of hunching forward as he walked that made him seem much shorter. His hands were large and leathery, with red knuckles and dirt beneath the nails, and he had the biggest feet that Brienne had ever seen, bare and black and hard as horn.”

- AFFC Brienne V

“I have a weakness for the orange, I confess. I got these from a sailor, and I fear they will be the last I'll taste till spring."

- AFFC Brienne V

His unkempt appearance of a windburnt face, leathery hands, dirt-filled nails, and black, hard feet give the picture of a man who has lived a hard life without much of anything in the way of luxury, and if anything, avoids it. He is a down-to-earth man whose only luxury he’ll let himself have is oranges, and he gives most of those away. His feet show that he doesn’t own any shoes, something even most smallfolk wear, and he goes barefoot with a simple wooden staff like the popular Saint Francis of Assisi (more on him later). The dirt in his nails show he doesn’t seem to adhere to the maxim of cleanliness being close to godliness, and with his bare feet, give him a kind of earthiness, being close to the land and its people. Septon Meribald is described as tall, but his posture makes him appear smaller, a physical representation of Meribald’s humble attitude with the way he lowers himself towards the people he interacts with. Generally, they are the smallfolk where a septon like himself would normally enjoy a marginal higher status, and one can see the gentleness he shows towards them. He confesses “cheerfully” his illiteracy, which resulted from a lack of formal education that is usually provided by maesters to the upper classes in castles and the Citadel. That is part of his veneration of simplicity rather than anti-intellectualism with all the passages and prayers he knows he learned by rote like Brutha from Practchett’s Small Gods. His unkempt appearance and illiteracy also give the misleading impression of a man who seems simple, but actually possesses a profound intelligence.

Septon Meribald walking beside them with his quarterstaff, leading a small donkey and a large dog

- AFFC Brienne V

Septon Meribald is always accompanied by two animal companions: a donkey and a dog. The donkey is an animal that features prominently in the Gospels. It was used to carry the pregnant Virgin Mary to the inn where she gives birth to Jesus, and later was used as a mount for Jesus upon entering Jerusalem. Donkeys were (and still are) used as beasts of burden meant for carrying loads on their backs and pulling carts and plows. They also were occasionally used as mounts by those who were too poor to afford horses. They were and still are considered to be the cheapest form of agricultural power after human power. That is opposed to the more expensive stallions, especially coursers and destriers, that are often used for cavalry or war chariots. That Meribald would use a donkey as opposed to a stallion fits perfectly with his veneration of poverty and simplicity as well as his anti-war views which we’ll get into later.

"It must make for a lonely life, septon."

"The Seven are always with me," said Meribald, "and I have my faithful servant, and Dog."

"Does your dog have a name?" asked Podrick Payne.

"He must," said Meribald, "but he is not my dog. Not him."

The dog barked and wagged his tail. He was a huge, shaggy creature, ten stone of dog at least, but friendly.

"Who does he belong to?" asked Podrick.

"Why, to himself, and to the Seven. As to his name, he has not told me what it is. I call him Dog."

- AFFC Brienne V

"Dog keeps me safe upon the roads, even in such trying times as these. Neither wolf nor outlaw dare molest me when Dog is at my side."

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald is also accompanied by his Canine Companion, a large sheepdog he simply calls “Dog.” Dog isn’t used for hunting, a common leisure activity for aristocrats as well as one of survival for smallfolk, nor is he a regular pet. He appears to just be Meribald’s traveling companion as well as protector. He is described as a big dog that is capable of killing wolves, but is nonetheless friendly. The Starks and their direwolves will make you forget that wolves have a history of usually being portrayed in literature, especially religious texts, as evil with the shepherd protecting his flock from wolves is a common trope in Christianity. Dog fulfills the function of a sheepdog for Meribald, protecting him from wolves and outlaws, and his presence helps to emphasize Meribald acting as a shepherd to the smallfolk wherever he goes. Meribald’s treatment of Dog is unusual compared to other dog owners in both Westeros and real life. He doesn’t do something so simple as name the dog, because the way he sees it, he doesn’t own Dog, and thus, has no right to impose a name on him. Meribald treats Dog, not as a pet, but as belonging “to himself, and to the Seven,” an autonomous creature entitled to the dignity and respect of a living being. People demonstrating their humanity or lack thereof through their treatment of animals and relationship with nature is a trope used throughout fiction. Fantasy is no exception with Tolkien portraying the good races, like elves, as in harmony with nature while portraying the bad races, like orcs, as at odds with nature, exemplified by the eagles and trees (Ents) aiding the good races against the bad. Francis of Assisi even remarked on the connection between man’s relationship with animals and that with his fellow man: "If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men." He wasn’t the only one to observe that. Philosopher Immanuel Kant stated “He who is cruel to animals becomes hard also in his dealings with men. We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals.” Meribald’s treatment of Dog makes him stand out in his treatment of all life as deserving of kindness and compassion, including those valued the least by society: the poor and animals.

"The brothers will ferry us over on the morning tide, though I fear what we shall find there. Let us enjoy a good hot meal before we face that. The brothers always have a bone to spare for Dog." Dog barked and wagged his tail.

- AFFC Brienne VI

"And your tides," suggested Meribald. Dog barked agreement.

- AFFC Brienne VI

"I shall make time," said Meribald, "though I hope you have some better sins than the last time I came through." Dog barked. "You see? Even Dog was bored."

- AFFC Brienne VI

"Gladly," said Meribald. Dog barked.

- AFFC Brienne VI

"It is being common-born that is dangerous, when the great lords play their game of thrones," said Septon Meribald. "Isn't that so, Dog?" Dog barked agreement.

- AFFC Brienne VII

"We'll have silver. Else you can sleep in the woods with the dead men." Willow glanced toward the donkey, and the casks and bundles on his back. "Is that food? Where did you get it?"

"Maidenpool," said Meribald. Dog barked.

- AFFC Brienne VII

It helps that the author manages to give Dog an almost human-like quality. There are plenty of scenes where Dog barks right after Meribald says something as if Dog understands what he is saying and expresses agreement with him, and even Meribald acts as if Dog actually does. It manages to emphasize the bond between the two as fellow companions with Dog providing protection and Meribald providing food.

Backstory

Now, we go into Meribald’s personal backstory. We learn from the start that he is a lowborn riverman, the son of a peasant. We learn about his life before becoming a septon, and what likely led him to become one. We’ll start with the earliest, his part of the past he mentions right after he delivers his “Broken Men” speech that explains a large part of his character.

The quiet stretched and stretched, until finally she said, "How old were you when they marched you off to war?"

"Why, no older than your boy," Meribald replied. "Too young for such, in truth, but my brothers were all going, and I would not be left behind. Willam said I could be his squire, though Will was no knight, only a potboy armed with a kitchen knife he'd stolen from the inn. He died upon the Stepstones, and never struck a blow. It was fever did for him, and for my brother Robin. Owen died from a mace that split his head apart, and his friend Jon Pox was hanged for rape."

"The War of the Ninepenny Kings?" asked Hyle Hunt.

"So they called it, though I never saw a king, nor earned a penny. It was a war, though. That it was."

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald is a veteran of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and he fought when he was just a boy aged no older than thirteen. It puts his comments to Podrick Payne: "I have never known a boy who did not love the Warrior” in another light. Meribald was probably no exception to the rule. He had his head filled with the songs praising war when he first enlisted to avoid feeling left out, and thought it would be a glorious adventure the way Quentyn Martell did of his journey to Daenerys. This romantic notion is further emphasized by his older brother William saying Meribald could be his squire as if he were a knight, which the protagonist in these kinds of songs usually is. And as is the case in the series, these romantic notions crashed into brutal reality as Meribald lost his three brothers along with a family friend. It is no secret that war can be a traumatizing experience with many veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I once studied alongside a veteran of US wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in college who was around my current age. He confessed to suffering from PTSD to the point that when he sat down for lectures he always sat at the end of the seat rows so no one could sneak up on him. Of course, while he was an adult when he fought, Meribald was still a child, even by Westerosi standards. His knowledge of broken men is so detailed, because he was one. His words at the end of the chapter show that the trauma from that experience still haunts him to the present-day. After the war, Meribald couldn’t adjust to life like it was before, and that experience is ultimately what led him to decide to become a septon.

"Going barefoot was my penance. Even holy septons can be sinners, and my flesh was weak as weak could be. I was young and full of sap, and the girls . . . a septon can seem as gallant as a prince if he is the only man you know who has ever been more than a mile from your village. I would recite to them from The Seven-Pointed Star. The Maiden's Book worked best. Oh, I was a wicked man, before I threw away my shoes. It shames me to think of all the maidens I deflowered."

- AFFC Brienne V

We learn that for all his saintly qualities, Meribald is still human. He ashamedly admits that in violation of his vows of celibacy, he abused his position as a septon by going to isolated villages seducing inexperienced, young women while preaching. His war experience likely plays into that early part of his career. People have different ways of dealing with pain as Robert did with womanizing and drinking, and the trauma from the War of the Ninepenny Kings likely played a role in Meribald’s womanizing. His biography doesn’t exactly make him a complete saint, although to be fair, the Church is filled with saints with worse records than Meribald’s. Famed theologian St. Augustine of Hippo had a history of frequenting prostitutes and womanizing including impregnating the daughter of the wealthy Roman family he served. St. Moses the Black was a former highwayman who robbed and likely murdered a number of people. St.Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuits, was a military man with a history of gambling, womanizing/whoring, and brawling and dueling, especially since he was sensitive to insults. It does make one wonder what standards are used for picking saints.

The reason he doesn’t wear shoes is because he went barefoot as penance for his womanizing ways. The act itself of throwing away his shoes basically symbolized a turning point for him in terms of personal development by turning back on his old ways akin to Jean Valjean of Les Miserables deciding to turn a new leaf after his remorse over stealing from Petit Gervais. Meribald’s backstory shows him to be, not a born saint, but a flawed human being who had to undergo some personal growth to become the man he is today.

Faith and Philosophy

He led his donkey down the slope, beckoning them to follow. "If you would sleep beneath a roof tonight, you must climb off your horses and cross the mud with me. The path of faith, we call it. Only the faithful may cross safely. The wicked are swallowed by the quicksands, or drowned when the tide comes rushing in. None of you are wicked, I hope? Even so, I would be careful where I set my feet. Walk only where I walk, and you shall reach the other side."

The path of faith was a crooked one, Brienne could not help but note. Though the island seemed to rise to the northeast of where they left the shore, Septon Meribald did not make directly for it . . . His footprints filled up with water as soon as he moved on. By the time the ground grew firmer and began to rise beneath the feet, they had walked at least a mile and a half.

- AFFC Brienne VI

Essentially in this scene, with his staff, he is Moses leading his followers through the Red Sea to a literal land of milk and honey: the Quiet Isle. His footprints filling with water is could also be referencing Jesus walking on water. I think this passage can itself be an allegory for the path to spirituality/enlightenment with a priest leading his followers through treacherous terrain to safe haven. As Meribald probably sees it, it isn’t a direct, straight path, but a longer, crooked path as Brienne notes. In Herman Hesse’s most famous novel, Siddhartha, the titular character starts out as a Brahmin’s son wanting to achieve enlightenment, becomes an ascetic, and then becomes a merchant gambling, making love to a courtesan and living a hedonistic lifestyle. He later finds himself having sunk so low he goes to the river to commit suicide, only to reconsider at the last minute. He finds a teacher in the ferryman, and by “listening” to the river, finally achieves the enlightenment in his older years that he started out seeking as a teen. Meribald’s own path to spirituality was similar: a peasant’s son from the riverlands who became a soldier, and later as a result of that, became a broken man and a septon who slept around in spite of his vows of celibacy until he reformed into the man we meet in A Feast for Crows. Given his own story, he knows that people can change, and there can be bumps and turns along the road to faith and personal development.

History shows that everyone approaches faith differently. Interpretation of Scripture can largely depend on the interpreter. As Reza Aslan pointed out, up to the Civil War, people on both sides of the debate over slavery used the Bible to support their arguments, including drawing from the same passages. It can go both ways; people will draw values from Scripture and at the same time, people will often insert their own values into Scripture. To give an example, Meribald is like the last High Septon AKA the High Sparrow in being a barefoot, traveling septon from the riverlands with sympathies towards the smallfolk, but his approach and practices separate him from the more zealous, power hungry High Septon, especially in their attitudes towards armed conflict given Meribald’s experience as a soldier. There are also people who use faith for their own self-aggrandizement from bishops and popes of medieval times all the way to televangelists and megachurch pastors of modern-day.

In Geoffrey Chaucer’s magnum opus, Canterbury Tales, alongside some bawdy tales, there was some commentary on the Roman Catholic Church in the subtext. In the first group of pilgrims being made up of aristocrats, one sees the problems of corruption within the Church represented by the Monk who liked to ride, hunt and wear expensive clothes in violation of his vows of poverty, and the corrupt Friar who took bribes for offering absolution, preferred associating with the wealthy over the poor and slept around in violation of his vows of celibacy. Martin is similar with his treatment of the Catholic Church analogue in his series with the Faith of the Seven, and the corruption within the institution is plain to see. The High Septons and Most Devout wear cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver along with the High Septon wearing a crown made of crystal and spun gold. The first High Septon we see is given to the vice of gluttony as demonstrated by his obesity when the rest of King’s Landing was starving in A Clash of Kings to the point that Moon Boy jokes about it. Among the Most Devout, Septons Raynard and Ollidor visit brothels in King’s Landing, and Septon Luceon (Frey) served Arbor gold and suckling pig to thirty of the Most Devout in an effort to buy their votes for his campaign to be the next High Septon. The process seen for selecting the next High Septon among the Most Devout mimics actual history when the college of cardinals would elect a new pope with many bribes and deal making behind the scenes to win, or rather buy, cardinals’ votes for the preferred candidates. A number of the Most Devout and the High Septon (the fat one) would fit right in with the Monk and the Friar’s group. However, in one of the last groups consisting of the very poor, one finds the Parson.

But rather would he give, in case of doubt,

Unto those poor parishioners about,

Part of his income, even of his goods.

Enough with little, coloured all his moods.

Wide was his parish, houses far asunder,

But never did he fail, for rain or thunder,

In sickness, or in sin, or any state,

To visit to the farthest, small and great,

Going afoot, and in his hand, a stave.

This fine example to his flock he gave,

That first he wrought and afterwards he taught;

Out of the gospel then that text he caught,

And this figure he added thereunto-

That, if gold rust, what shall poor iron do?

For if the priest be foul, in whom we trust,

What wonder if a layman yield to lust?

And shame it is, if priest take thought for keep,

A shitty shepherd, shepherding clean sheep.

Well ought a priest example good to give,

By his own cleanness, how his flock should live.

. . .

He had no thirst for pomp or reverence,

Nor made himself a special, spiced conscience,

But Christ's own lore, and His apostles' twelve

He taught, but first he followed it himselve.

-Canterbury Tales: General Prologue (Translated for modern audiences)

I glimpse the castles of the great lords only at a distance, but I know the market towns and holdfasts, the villages too small to have a name, the hedges and the hills, the rills where a thirsty man can drink and the caves where he can shelter. And the roads the smallfolk use, the crooked muddy tracks that do not appear on parchment maps, I know them too.

- AFFC Brienne V

While acknowledging the pervasive corruption within the Church, Chaucer wasn’t wholly cynical towards the Church and Christianity. He uses the Parson as an exemplary character, and puts him in the group where Chaucer made each person, although very poor, represent all the Christian virtues. The Parson is a model cleric who lives a simple life of poverty, travels far to reach his parishioners, and shares his income and goods with the poorest of them. The Parson practices what he preaches, setting an example for his parishioners, and serves as a representation of the ideals of Christianity. The clergy closer to the aristocrats tend to be corrupt while the ones closer to the poor tend to be virtuous. Meribald would fit right in with the Parson’s group. His speaking of being far from castles, but visiting the towns, holdfasts and villages demonstrate his association with the smallfolk and poorer members of society while foregoing association with the aristocrats. While he is not opposed to aristocrats as shown by his treatment of Brienne, Hyle and Pod, he prefers to be with smallfolk. His parish is effectively the riverlands within his circuit; he always travels far to attend to people, and gives his food to the poorest parishioners. Meribald is to the Faith in this story as the Parson is to the Church in Chaucer’s: he is a representation of his faith’s ideals of humanity, peace, charity and justice. He provides a direct contrast to the corrupt clerics who run the Faith. As Victor Hugo told his son in response to his opposition towards making a bishop, Myriel, "a prototype of perfection and intelligence" in Les Miserables: “I cannot put the future into the past. My novel takes place in 1815. For the rest, this Catholic priest, this pure and lofty figure of true priesthood, offers the most savage satire on the priesthood today.”

His association with the smallfolk can be seen further in his preference among the Seven.

"I have never known a boy who did not love the Warrior. I am old, though, and being old, I love the Smith. Without his labor, what would the Warrior defend? Every town has a smith, and every castle. They make the plows we need to plant our crops, the nails we use to build our ships, iron shoes to save the hooves of our faithful horses, the bright swords of our lords. No one could doubt the value of a smith, and so we name one of the Seven in his honor, but we might as easily have called him the Farmer or the Fisherman, the Carpenter or the Cobbler. What he works at makes no matter. What matters is, he works. The Father rules, the Warrior fights, the Smith labors, and together they perform all that is rightful for a man. Just as the Smith is one aspect of the godhead, the Cobbler is one aspect of the Smith. It was he who heard my prayer and healed my feet."

- AFFC Brienne V

Meribald’s preference for the Smith is very much in line with Jesus and Isaiah of favoring peaceful, productive labor over war and conflict (swords beaten into plowshares). Meribald’s comments on the Cobbler reveal an understanding of the ideas behind it, and it further emphasizes his association with the common people by preferring the common-oriented Smith over the more aristocrat-oriented Warrior. His statement regarding the Smith, and extending it to other tradesmen, even farmers and fishermen, displays a social consciousness, an acknowledgement that the laborers and craftsmen are the ones who actually add value to society and keep it running as opposed to the generally unproductive warrior caste that rules over Westerosi society. As the smith creates the “bright swords of our lords” suggests, he points out that even the martial aristocrats are wholly dependent on this segment of society that they usually look down on. His own personal experience with war would also make him reluctant to favor the Warrior. He himself knows the negative effects war can have just going by the speech he is best known for.

"More less than more. There are many sorts of outlaws, just as there are many sorts of birds. A sandpiper and a sea eagle both have wings, but they are not the same. The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, but most outlaws are more like this ravening Hound than they are the lightning lord. They are evil men, driven by greed, soured by malice, despising the gods and caring only for themselves. Broken men are more deserving of our pity, though they may be just as dangerous. Almost all are common-born, simple folk who had never been more than a mile from the house where they were born until the day some lord came round to take them off to war. Poorly shod and poorly clad, they march away beneath his banners, ofttimes with no better arms than a sickle or a sharpened hoe, or a maul they made themselves by lashing a stone to a stick with strips of hide. Brothers march with brothers, sons with fathers, friends with friends. They've heard the songs and stories, so they go off with eager hearts, dreaming of the wonders they will see, of the wealth and glory they will win. War seems a fine adventure, the greatest most of them will ever know.

"Then they get a taste of battle.

"For some, that one taste is enough to break them. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in, but even a man who has survived a hundred fights can break in his hundred-and-first. Brothers watch their brothers die, fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold their entrails in after they've been gutted by an axe.

"They see the lord who led them there cut down, and some other lord shouts that they are his now. They take a wound, and when that's still half-healed they take another. There is never enough to eat, their shoes fall to pieces from the marching, their clothes are torn and rotting, and half of them are shitting in their breeches from drinking bad water.

"If they want new boots or a warmer cloak or maybe a rusted iron halfhelm, they need to take them from a corpse, and before long they are stealing from the living too, from the smallfolk whose lands they're fighting in, men very like the men they used to be. They slaughter their sheep and steal their chickens, and from there it's just a short step to carrying off their daughters too. And one day they look around and realize all their friends and kin are gone, that they are fighting beside strangers beneath a banner that they hardly recognize. They don't know where they are or how to get back home and the lord they're fighting for does not know their names, yet here he comes, shouting for them to form up, to make a line with their spears and scythes and sharpened hoes, to stand their ground. And the knights come down on them, faceless men clad all in steel, and the iron thunder of their charge seems to fill the world . . .

"And the man breaks.

"He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them . . . but he should pity them as well."

- AFFC Brienne V

This is the speech that earned Meribald his notoriety among the fandom. It is one of the few times where GRRM is very on the nose, and hammers his message into the text explicitly. The speech is a beautiful passage that stands as the biggest denunciation of war in the series, and showcases the anti-war stance of Martin, himself a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War. Every battle that the reader has seen firsthand or been informed about is generally through the view of a member of the nobility, including Davos, who while being born one of the smallfolk, is still a nobleman. The lords are first and foremost a warrior caste who have usually trained for battle their whole lives up to that point, and usually go to battle well-armed, armored and mounted. Here, Meribald presents a very thorough, eloquent and articulate view of war through the eyes of the smallfolk who often lack the extensive military training and armaments of the lords, and yet, make up the majority of feudal armies that engage in battle.

In battle, the smallfolk in these feudal levies can take wounds, both physical and mental, from the injuries sustained in battle, the act of killing itself, the terror of the battle and seeing the people they knew die in gruesome fashion. After battle, they strip the dead of necessities like armor, clothes, weapons and any coin the bodies may have on their persons. Due to the poor supplying of feudal armies, if the infantrymen want to eat, they have to resort to foraging, or taking supplies by force from local smallfolk. They also kill the livestock as part of chevauchee, and rape the local women, since law enforcement is notoriously difficult in warzones. Then, after having undergone so much trauma, some men break during battle and desert. Broken men are deserters suffering from PTSD, usually in an unfamiliar land, where their feudal obligations to serve their lords no longer mean anything nor their fear of divine judgement, but everything takes a backseat to survival. They have often retained their weapons or at least some of them, along with the tactic of foraging. The application of these things can usually result in broken men engaging in banditry to survive. Even when the war is over, the effects of it can remain.

"It is being common-born that is dangerous, when the great lords play their game of thrones," said Septon Meribald.

- AFFC Brienne VII

Meribald’s anti-war attitude is drawn not just from his personal experience as a soldier and broken man, but likely witnessing the destruction and suffering among civilians in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and the War of Five Kings. Along his circuit, he likely has seen villages and towns destroyed and people ravaged by the Lannisters, Brave Companions and Starks. His comments on the smallfolk suffering when the lords go to war is comparable to the observation made by Varys: "The High Septon once told me that as we sin, so do we suffer. If that's true, Lord Eddard, tell me … why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when you high lords play your game of thrones?” The smallfolk always bear the greatest costs of war from the broken men to the foraged, and even massacred, smallfolk. With Meribald’s words, we can look at Tyrion’s description of the army defeated by Robb at Oxcross being largely made up of “raw—apprentice boys, miners, fieldhands, fisherfolk, the sweepings of Lannisport,” in a new light, with much of the people killed in battle being poor smallfolk who are there by circumstance.

They can often be the group in battle to suffer the highest casualties and receive the fewest personal gains. The former is especially true given as Gendry points out: "Knights and lordlings, they take each other captive and pay ransoms, but they don't care if the likes of you yield or not." Highborn combatants are worth ransoms or can make useful hostages, creating an incentive to capture rather than kill them while lowborn combatants have no wealth or connections to call upon, and as prisoners-of-war would be just more mouths to feed in an army that crawls on its stomach, leaving little incentive to capture them.Excluding chivalry, with exceptions like Elia Martell, Lord Hewitt’s daughter and Bracken’s daughter, highborn women usually have some protection from rape via their status with anyone knowing her family would have swords to call upon to defend her honor while women among the smallfolk have no such protection with no swords to call upon. The lords can be rewarded with lands and castles for their services and ransoms from captured lords or knights in service while the smallfolk see hardly any of those rewards, except small ones such as the loot they can obtain if they sack someplace, or strip a dead body. If they’re really lucky, and perform some great feat, like saving a lord in battle, they can be richly rewarded with gold, lands, a keep and their sons serving as squires, or essentially be welcomed into the nobility and get a foot through the door into lordship for their families. That was the case with Ser Bartimus and the man-at-arms who saved Ser Harys Swyft in the Battle of the Blackwater. To borrow from the American Civil War, Westerosi wars can be perfectly summed up as a “rich man’s war, but a poor man’s fight.”

We come across examples of both broken men and raided smallfolk in Brienne’s POV with the raid on Saltpans led by Rorge. We see much of it caused by broken men, and an example of a lord neglecting the obligations of his status.

"Back on the road, the septon said, "We would do well to keep a watch tonight, my friends. The villagers say they've seen three broken men skulking round the dunes, west of the old watchtower.”

"Only three?" Ser Hyle smiled. "Three is honey to our swordswench. They're not like to trouble armed men.”

"Unless they're starving," the septon said. "There is food in these marshes, but only for those with the eyes to find it, and these men are strangers here, survivors from some battle. If they should accost us, ser, I beg you, leave them to me."

"What will you do with them?"

"Feed them. Ask them to confess their sins, so that I might forgive them. Invite them to come with us to the Quiet Isle." 

-AFFC Brienne V

"Ser Quincy is an old man," said Septon Meribald gently. "His sons and good-sons are far away or dead, his grandsons are still boys, and he has two daughters. What could he have done, one man against so many?"

- AFFC Brienne VI

It was Hyle Hunt who finally put words to what all of them had realized. "These are the men who raided Saltpans."

"May the Father judge them harshly," said Meribald, who had been a friend to the town's aged septon.

- AFFC Brienne VII

Where everyone else, is faulting Ser Quincy Cox for not defending his town when it was brutally sacked by Rorge, Meribald is the only one that tries to express some understanding towards Cox. He says that Ser Cox was likely afraid for his family as well as himself, and knew he couldn’t have done much against the raiders. This can be partly due to Meribald himself being a veteran, and knowing what it is like to be afraid facing an onslaught. He was also willing to help three broken men who he knew might be dangerous and potentially harm him by giving them food, knowing they might be starving, and an offer to perform services for them and take them to the Quiet Isle for refuge. One of the closest times we’ve ever gotten to Meribald judging and badmouthing someone is his comments regarding the hanged raiders of Saltpans. He doesn’t show pity for the hanged men likely being broken men despite his words in his famous speech, and deviates from “May the Father judge them justly” to “May the Father judge them harshly.” Of course, in this case, his anger is completely and understandably justified. Meribald’s comments regarding Ser Cox when taken with his sympathy towards broken men show him to be a compassionate man who tries to be understanding and avoid judging people too harshly. This can be partly given to him acknowledging his own mistakes in the past, and thus, be less judgmental towards others’ shortcomings as opposed to someone like the inquisitorial High Sparrow

Meribald’s background largely influenced his own approach to life and faith. His experience in the War of the Ninepenny Kings gave him anti-war views, and his past mistakes helped him to acknowledge that people are people and anyone can fall off track. His experience as one of and interactions with the smallfolk as well as the hardships they face explain his smallfolk-centric worldview. We can look at a historical figure in Catholic Church hagiography that likely inspired Meribald’s character.

Meribald’s Real-Life Counterpart

If there is any historical influence for Meribald, it should be obvious for anyone who has even a basic knowledge of Catholic saints: Francis of Assisi. To give a little basic info, he is one of the patron saints of Italy and the environment, the eponym for San Francisco (in a way fitting with the city’s liberal reptuation) as well as Pope Francis and founder of the Order of Friars Minor, more commonly known as the Franciscan Order. He is also described as the first to receive the stigmata, or receive wounds/marks on his hands, feet and side corresponding to Christ’s wounds from his crucifixion, and credited with creating the first Nativity scene. Francis is a very popular saint, even in Protestantism with Franciscan orders in the Anglican and Lutheran churches, given he embodies many of the qualities that one would look for in a saint. It is said no one was more dedicated in imitating Christ and carrying out the Christ’s work in Christ’s way than Francis to the point that he is even sometimes described as alter Christus, or literally “another Christ.” It comes as no surprise then, that he was canonized less than two years after his death.

Francis was born Giovanni di Bernardone in 12th century Assisi, the son of a wealthy cloth merchant and a noblewoman from Provence. He was informally called Francesco or “the Frenchman” by his father to honor his business success and enthusiasm for French things. Francis wore lavish clothes, and was known to be one of the biggest party animals in town. Albeit, better born than Meribald, Francis shared the commonality of being a veteran whose war experience caused him to re-evaluate his life. Francis originally wanted to be a knight joining in Assisi’s war against Perugia. He was taken prisoner at the Battle of Ponte San Giovanni, and spent a year imprisoned in Collestrada where he suffered a long fever. During the fever, he started to re-evaluate his life. Two years later, his search for victory and glory lead him to leave to fight for Apulia, serving under Count Walter III of Brienne (I kid you not). Apparently, a strange vision made him return home to Assisi. Francis later decided to foreswear his inheritance and become a wandering beggar, and taking Christ’s words literally, stripped himself of the lavish clothes he once liked to wear, and replaced them with a coarse woolen tunic tied with a knotted rope in place of a belt. He traveled from place to place, working to rebuild ruined churches in the countryside of Assisi and Umbria, nursing the sick, including the outcast lepers and giving alms to the poor. He preached brotherly love, peace and penance to the ordinary people in the countryside despite not being an anointed priest. Francis, as Meribald does, celebrated and venerated his poverty, and traveled the countryside preaching and giving aid to the poor. Win Wenders, when talking about the film he made about Pope Francis, described St. Francis as having “an incredible social consciousness, and identified with the outcasts and the poor of his time, and really lived a life of radical solidarity with the poor and outcasts.”

Francis also went so far as to go over enemy lines during the Fifth Crusade to speak with Sultan al-Kamil of Egypt to convert him, or be martyred in the attempt (he failed at both). Francis and Meribald fought wars in their youth only to become men of peace when they grew older in both word and action. There are legends such as Francis healing a leper through prayer. Another being one of his friars scolding three robbers for stealing food and drink from Francis’s monks, and Francis responding by having his friar apologize to them and give them bread and wine. Those three robbers would be moved enough to join Francis’s order. It reminds me of Meribald’s comments regarding what to do if three broken men in the dunes come upon them: "Feed them. Ask them to confess their sins, so that I might forgive them. Invite them to come with us to the Quiet Isle."

Francis is the patron saint of animals and the environment given he displayed kindness and respect towards animals in a way Meribald wouldn’t disapprove of if Dog is anything to go by. He saw nature as a “mirror of God,” and he referred to animals as “brothers and sisters.” His attitude towards animals would have been met with approval from the SPCA and other animal rights organizations with words such as “Not to hurt our humble brethren is our first duty to them, but to stop there is not enough. We have a higher mission - to be of service to them whenever they require it.” There are stories and legends of birds gathering to hear him preach, half-frozen bees crawling towards him to be fed and the famous tale of the Wolf of Gubbio.

The story goes that the town of Gubbio was terrorized by a large wolf that preyed originally on its flocks, then also began to feed on the townspeople and finally switched to eating only people. It supposedly could not be harmed by an weapon, devouring anyone who tried to kill it. Francis went up to confront it and chastised the wolf for its actions, with the wolf responding by bowing its head in submission. Francis than made a deal with the wolf: “I promise thee that thou shalt be fed every day by the inhabitants of this land so long as thou shalt live among them; thou shalt no longer suffer hunger, as it is hunger which has made thee do so much evil; but if I obtain all this for thee, thou must promise, on thy side, never again to attack any animal or any human being; dost thou make this promise?" The wolf placed a forepaw in Francis’s outstretched hand in agreement to the oath. Francis then walked with the wolf following him to town to the surprise of the townspeople. The wolf died two years later, and the town was saddened given he had become a symbol of Francis’s sanctity and divine power. The legend says they gave the wolf an honorable burial and later built a church at the site.

Crazy enough, during the renovation of the Church of Saint Francis of Peace in 1872, the same church where the wolf was said to be buried, under a slab near the wall of the church they found the skeleton of a large wolf that was likely several centuries old. They reburied the wolf skeleton inside. My guess is that in real-life, a wolf may have preyed on Gubbio’s flocks, and Francis came up with a simple solution: feed the wolf and it wouldn’t have to feed on their flocks. The description of the Wolf of Gubbio does also bring to mind a certain canine in the series.

“They say the pack is led by a monstrous she-wolf, a stalking shadow grim and grey and huge. They will tell you that she has been known to bring aurochs down all by herself, that no trap nor snare can hold her, that she fears neither steel nor fire, slays any wolf that tries to mount her, and devours no other flesh but man."

- AFFC Brienne V

I wouldn’t be surprised if a similar situation happens with Meribald regarding a seemingly invincible, large wolf terrorizing the riverlands, devouring its flocks and people: Nymeria. Dog wouldn’t be able to protect him from Nymeria if she came upon him, and Meribald, being a man of peace, would deal with her in a way that men of war have tried and failed to do. I’m willing to bet money on it.

Conclusion:

Meribald plays the role of guide for his fellow travelers as well as the reader, and the mouthpiece of the author on war. Being the only one among the group who is one of the smallfolk and not the nobility, he provides a much needed perspective on war through the eyes of 99% of the population. His good-natured, country bumpkin-esque appearance masks an intelligent man with profound insight on war, society and faith. He probably has a worse background prior to joining the Faith and shortly after than most of the Most Devout and High Septons, but he turned out a better man than any of them. He is the closest to a saint we’ve seen in this series, more so than any other septon we’ve encountered. Hopefully, I think we will meet him again in the series, and I look forward to hearing what more insights he has.

[player-slayer]

Coffee Runs: Death House {all notes}

First and foremost, before any talk of the spare alterations + additions I made to Curse of Strahd’s intro adventure, it needs to be said that the wisdom gleaned from slyflourish, DragnaCarta1, MandyMod, and starwalkerstudios was invaluable! If you’re thinking of running the adventure, give their guides + recommendations a look! Especially if, like me, you decide to take this TPK Factory for a spin on your first time!

Part I — Entering the Svalich Woods I started my players out as 2nd-level passengers on a merchant caravan, describing some weeks of banal travel and dreary weather before giving them a bit of breathing room to introduce their characters and do a bit of rp. They went to sleep, safe in their bedrolls beside a warm fire, and awoke surrounded by dense fog, their belongings strewn haphazardly about the clearing. A few investigation checks, some constitution saving throws (which they all made, the bastards), and a bird collapsing from the sky in exhaustion later, and they figured pretty quickly that: A. They had been moved in the night somehow and B. This fog sucks. and so were quickly on their way. None of my players pitched that they wanted to keep watch, though if they had my intention was just to let them watch the fog roll in over them and describe a sense of nausea and dizziness wash over them that they couldn’t place (as they were plane-shifted). I may have also given them the chance to spot a wolf staring them down as the fog creeped in out of the treeline. I had a lot of new/inexperienced players, so I didn’t want to take their weapons + belongings at this point, though one of my players did decide at character creation that his halfling paladin had a pony mount name Courage. Courage I had no problem taking from him. This is a horror game motherfucker, you think I’m just going to let you keep your adorable pony named Courage?

Part II — The Death House Most of the house I ran as written.

My alterations to how I ran Rose + Thorn can be found here.

I removed the broom of animated attack (though my group skipped that room regardless) and combined a few rooms for the sake of streamlining the possible avenues of exploration + limiting dead-ends.

As with others, I made the nursemaid a roleplaying encounter rather than combat, describing her as beautiful if plainly-dressed, with a tired, solemn expression. When the players first entered the room, I described her as standing with her back to them, seeming to be a normal, solid figure at first, though as their light source fell over her described a translucent quality and eerie blue-white haze to her form. I named her Ludmila and gave her mixed human and elven features, and played her as being very affectionate toward Rose + Thorn. 

I also added two possible entrances to the attic: I moved the secret stairs behind the mirror into the master bedroom and changed the path up in the nursemaid’s suite to a simple attic hatch, since that made more sense to me in terms of how Gustav + Elisabeth would have organized their home. Why would the hired help get the cool fancy secret passageway?

The biggest changes I made to house was the secret room in the library, detailed here.

Part III — Death House Dungeon As with the upper floors, I removed/combined a few rooms and alcoves for purposes of simplifying, plausibility, and/or aesthetic preference, but not many.

I scaled back the encounters a bunch, some to more success than others:

Ghouls :: I only threw two ghouls at my party, and even with one of the players beginning the encounter at 1hp they handily beat them. A combination of lucky dice rolls on their saving throws, judicious use of disengage and med kits by the rogue, and the paladin’s protection fighting-style in the small hallway went far for them. In hindsight, I think I was pulling my punches a little too much (not imposing penalties for all trying to fight crammed into the same little area—we had a map and minis up for reference at the request of one of the players but at this time I was not utilizing it for grid-based combat, which I think was a mistake), but we were short on time that night anyway and the fight was still fun and dramatic, so I’m not kicking myself too much about it.

Ghast :: I only included one ghast, the remaining form of Elisabeth Durst. My players missed her, but had they entered the room, I intended to describe her appropriately horrifying in look and scent, largely avoiding feminine adjectives or immediate give-aways as to who this used to be, but to draw attention to the fact that the creature was standing over an end-table, staring down blankly at the surface before being alerted to their presence. After the fight, if they inspected the table, they would have seen the key to rose and thorn’s room, the implication being that even in her undead, purifying state, some base instinct or remnant of Elisabeth still remembered her children and still wanted them to be okay, even if she was unable to act on or form coherent thought around that base feeling.

Shadows :: Again not wanting to overwhelm new/rusty players, I went with three shadows for the encounter in the Darklord Shrine, since they had just finished a long rest and were feeling nice and flush with hit points and spell slots again. If they had wandered in after the ghoul fight, I likely would have scaled the encounter back to only two shadows. This was another encounter they avoided though!

Part IV — One Must Die I love this beat in the adventure! Its so tense!

I tried to describe everything as eerie and upsetting as possible in the hopes that the party would nervously stick together for safety and all end up on altar at the same time. Unfortunately our cleric was YOLO af and ran up onto it ahead of the party, and as soon as the chanting began she noped tf off of there and triggered the fight, so the party never had the chance to consider what they should do. So it goes!

That said, the fight itself was really cool. I ran a reskin of MandyMod’s flesh mound, which I called the Shambling Cradle, and took a good minute to describe the bits of sinewy tissue and lurching amalgam of animal and humanoid remains writhing up out of the irony water for maximum atmosphere.

It was an overall very dramatic and cool fight. A combination of unlucky dice rolls and forgetfulness of the Lay On Hands feature led our paladin to be killed, but it actually resulted in one of the most surprisingly poignant beats of the story. He was a fledgling paladin of the goddess of sacrifice and bravery, and after struggling against his own fearfulness of the things he’d seen in this house, overcame that fear and did the most damage of anyone in the party to the creature before being killed in the same fashion as his matron.

I had named our game Death With Dignity on sort of a whim to avoid cluing the players in right off the bat that the house was evil, but after the game our cleric’s player pointed out that he had earned our game that title.

Part V — Escape After the shambling cradle was destroyed, I narrated a brief moment of reprieve as the party caught their breath, taking a moment to highlight the paladin’s bravery and sacrifice, and reminding the party of the iconography of his matron, and how his form seemed to mirror it.

Then I told them the house and dungeon were caving in on them.

When this moment came, I kept everyone in initiative, having them all make dex saves at the top of each round to avoid bits of rock and wood hitting them as the structures crumbled all around them. I had a set number of rounds before everything collapsed, but the party managed to make it out in good time by exiting from the upstairs window via grappling hook. 

It was pretty dramatic and I think the players felt the exact amount of anxiety I was hoping for as they scrambled through the house, hauling the paladin’s lifeless body (and then the rogue’s unconscious one) with them, but I think if I ever run the adventure again I’ll opt to treat it as a 4e skill challenge instead.

As soon as they were out on the grass I described them turning to watch as the house caved in on itself, creaking and snapping before collapsing into its own pit. Then the sounds of birdsong, and the clearing of fog from the grasses and forests, but still very much in this strange new world.

And that was my run of Death House!

Overall I really loved this adventure as a one-shot, even if it might be a little meatgrinder-y as an intro adventure to a full campaign for my tastes. There was enough opportunity for roleplay for my rp-inclined players, a decent mystery for them to chew on, and lots of fun undead to squick everyone out with and make stupid gross noises for.

I think that this is a great adventure for new DMs looking to cut their teeth on something kind of intense and messed up, especially because I feel it taught me a lot about pacing and the action economy of 5e!

I look forward to hopefully running this adventure many more halloweens into the future!

[literaryinspiredwebserieslove]

LIW Review: Lovely Little Losers

Much as I love NMTD as my favorite adaptation of my favorite Shakespeare play, LBD for introducing me to the genre and the genre to the world, and so many other literary-inspired webseries for so many reasons, Lovely Little Losers will always be my favorite. 

The premise is simple: Benedick, Balthazar, and Pedro (now going by Peter) from Nothing Much To Do are going to university in Wellington and living in a flat together with the lovely and awkward Freddie Kingston. Freddie and Ben decide to impose some order on the flat with a set of absurd flat rules that everyone has to follow, including a curfew, vegetarianism (and vegan Fridays), Ben getting to film everything, imposed flat bonding in the form of challenges, and the worst rule of all, no romantic relationships, aka no shenanigans. 

The series is loosely based on Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost, but in reality there are only about five episodes that have anything to do with the plot of the original play. Apart from those moments, the inspiration mostly just creates the premise and the names of certain characters.

Plot overview:

Freddie, Benedick, Peter, and Balthazar sign a bunch of ridiculous flat rules that at first seem like a good idea and quickly spiral out of control. Then Beatrice and Meg decide to road trip to Wellington, where, due to The Rules, they end of sleeping in a tent in the back garden along with Kit, another friend of the flat. It’s hard to say more about the actual plot without spoilers, since it’s barely revealed what’s been going on until almost the end (starting around “SARDINES” and going until “FEATHERS”), so I’ll move on to my other categories.

Format:

All actual episodes are posted on the Lovely Little Losers YouTube channel, with Ben as the main (unreliable) narrator, Meg as secondary (mostly reliable) narrator, and other characters (such as Beatrice and Peter) occasionally filming/uploading videos as well. Fifteen videos are devoted to “Balth in a Bath,” which was all filmed on the same day in February but is uploaded sporadically throughout the year. There are also between fourteen and seventeen song videos, depending on how you define “song” (more on that later). There are also a few extras on other YouTube channels that, while not technically part of the story, help illuminate things considerably (the channel I’m referring to here is Zoos Job, though there are also two videos on the Nothing Much To Do channel).

How to watch LoLiLo:

This is ordinarily not one of my categories, but in this case it is very necessary. You MUST read the video descriptions, and also check the comments section, to have ANY idea what’s really going on here, and even then most of it’s going to be subtext. You can watch the series either in the order it was intended to be watched in or in chronological order (which ruins a little of the mystery but averts a Zoos Job marathon later on. Links to both playlists are below). Keep in mind that Benedick is the narrator of nearly the whole thing, and that he is editing the content to fit his own agenda – the one @beatriceeagle calls “Project Birdy-Fingers.” This means that two-thirds of the love stories in LoLiLo are almost entirely hidden from the viewers and once again need to be read through subtext. 

Realism:

Off the charts dedicated. This series has a much more experimental style than NMTD – several episodes use more than one camera angle, nearly every episodes has multiple characters in it, and is frequently filmed over multiple days and edited into non-chronological order – but there is still always a reason for the camera to be there and always a reason, in-universe, for it to have been edited and uploaded the way it was. This dedication to realism made things that much more difficult for The Candle Wasters, but it also adds hugely to the value of the series.

Music:

As I mentioned above, many, many episodes of LLL are actually songs. The series has been referred to by many people as a “secret musical” because of this. 11 songs are almost entirely character development. “A Merry Note” was written by Shakespeare and was mostly The Candle Wasters being clever and making us think our ship had sailed. “Heaven in Her Lips” is a cute love song. “Stay” is secretly plot, though the lyrics also assist in understanding “one foot on sea one on shore one in the boiling hot lava,” which is the real first episode of LoLiLo. Then we get to the question of whether certain other videos are songs. “Berry Nice,” while a Balth in a Bath episode, is clearly a song. But what about “Beatrice and Ballads,” which is essentially the reprise of “Beatrice, You’re Vivacious”? What about “A Sonnet,” which, although not a song, is the inverse of “An Ode” and should therefore be included for the sake of symmetry? Of course, the numbers don’t matter, because the songs are amazing. The songs themselves were mainly written by Reuben Hudson, Elsie Bollinger, and Maude Morris, with some help from other writers, and are performed mostly by Reuben Hudson and Mouce Young, with help from most of the rest of the cast.

Representation/diversity:

Very strong. Several characters are not white at all (Kit and Jaquie), and race just generally is a non-issue. LGBT representation is also great, especially for a pre-2016 webseries: Peter is now openly bisexual, Balthazar actually uses the word “gay” to describe himself, Paige and Chelsey are a lesbian couple who have basically the only functional relationship in the whole series, and the sexuality of several other characters (Kit, Freddie, Costa, Vegan Fred), is never defined, though I headcanon them all as bi. Though there are no disabled characters, there are extensive explorations of mental health issues, though as usual for The Candle Wasters, this is largely in subtext. Also, people actually talk about money in this and have realistic issues with money, which is a nice change from every other webseries I’ve seen.

Film quality:

Fantabulous, especially since The Candle Wasters had an actual budget for this series.  As mentioned before, there are even episodes shot with multiple cameras THAT ACTUALLY WORK. Yay for realism and quality combined is all I can say.

My three favorite things about Lovely Little Losers:

1) My two favorite episodes, “RUSSIANFUDGE” and “ACCOSTED”

2) Balth in a Bath, because Balth in a Bath is perfect and innocent and lovely and actually includes a lot of exposition and character/relationship development that doesn’t exist anywhere else.

3) The fact that I keep getting more out of it on every rewatch – and I have now seen this thing in full ten times, though it’s been more like twenty for some episodes (”TEA,” “RUSSIANFUDGE”), and I have no idea how many times I’ve watched/listened to some of the songs.

Difficult things about Lovely Little Losers:

On first viewing it can be almost impossible to understand what’s going on almost all the time, and it can be easy to skip things because the series seems largely plotless. Do not give up hope! There is indeed a plot, but you have to hunt for it. If you finish the series and still feel confused or dissatisfied, I recommend a rewatch and @beatriceeagle and @marydebenham ‘s LLL rewatch metas, which have been invaluable for many the confused/dissatisfied viewer. It can also be frustrating that certain things (like apologies) are never said on camera, but we can blame realism for that. 

All I can say is, despite its surface flaws, LoLiLo is not only my favorite webseries but also only of my favorite pieces of literature of all time. There’s so much here, in character, in content, and in theme, and I could talk about it for ages more than I already have. Although on first viewing I had no idea what to make of it, I now give LLL a solid and glowing 5/5 stars.

Cast:

Benedick Hobbes – Jake McGregor @jakeasaurus--rex

Peter Donaldson – Caleb Wells @letslipthedogsofwar 

Freddie Kingston – Bonnie Simmonds @bonniesimmonds

Balthazar Jones – Reuben Hudson @reubenhudson

Meg Winter – Jessica Stansfield

Beatrice Duke – Harriett Maire @harriettstella

Kitso Harper – Phodiso Dintwe

Paige Moth – Mouce Young

Chelsey Long – Bronwyn Ensor

Rosa Jones – Ella McLeod

Hero Duke – Pearl Kennedy

Jaquie Manders – Kalisha Wasasala

Costa McClure – Robbie Nicol (Aka White Man Behind a Desk, now part of The Candle Wasters)

John Donaldson – Geroge Maunsell

Vegan Fred Boyet – Daniel McBride (aka Sheep, Dog & Wolf)

Dogberry – David Hannah

Claudio – Matthew J. Smith

Leo Duke – Alex McDonald

Ursula – Tina Pan

Zeb – Jim Mitford-Taylor

Kelsi Forrester – Calum Gittins

Julia – Mirabai Pease

Violet – Hannah Mitford-Taylor

Maria – Hannah Geddis

Created by The Candle Wasters @thecandlewasters

More complete social media links for the cast and crew are available from people who aren’t me :) 

Running time:

Approximately ten hours. 

Time frame:

December 24, 2014-December 25, 2015

Watch it in the original order here:

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLZ4M4eic7acR3w0c4lLxWE8SnpT2WzoCJ

Or in chronological (Zoos Job) order here:

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLZ4M4eic7acRAEqZtFwMqTz_lvB5YxKs4

Or in upload order as a slideshow here:

https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1tvK1vOQNA9ClJi8K061c_sxiY4pwHfxbUvj8yPd_yuE/pub?start=false&loop=false&delayms=3000&slide=id.p