#I personally am going to slip into the shadows with my nuanced opinion of ‘it could be better but i like it’

[hana-bobo-finch]

Hot take!! Two things can be true at once!! I generally don’t interact with thg fandom much on here but I have been seeing posts in passing from those who don’t like sotr/those who are defending it and!! guess what!! you’re both right that’s the beauty of opinions!!! You can like the message of the book but not the delivery, you can like the delivery of the book but not the fan service, you can think there’s no fan service, you can think there’s too much, you can love the book but think it’s flawed or hate the book but think it has decent parts, you can feel anything you want about it and it doesn’t make one opinion wrong or right I can’t believe I have to say this

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, NAY! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE LOVERS with the faceclaim of ASHLEY MOORE. Admin Cas: I think we can all agree that The Lovers is a difficult concept to pin down. It’s a task in itself to balance the devotion they have for The World, her world, while not sacrificing who they are at their core. But, Nay, you were certainly up to the task. There’s something so lovely about Prudence, so beautiful and admirable, but something hungry. So much of her life revolves around The World, but that does not mean that Prudence doesn’t have a story of her own to live out. I particularly enjoyed the way you likened her story unfolding to a caterpillar grows into its chrysalis; to become a butterfly or moth, either is possible. I can’t wait to see what you do with her!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

Out-of-Character.

NAME: nay 

PRONOUNS: she / her

AGE: twenty-two

TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: gmt + 5 ; and i’d say my activity ( especially with quarantine, still ) is at a 7/10. lately, i have been trying to write every day, and that means at least a reply every day – even if posted through queue after being written on a better writing day. 

ANYTHING ELSE?: i wrote this way too quickly, because i suck at being patient and didn’t want to wait a week to turn in an app, so forgive me for the sinful typos committed in my haste! this definitely isn’t as polished as i wish it were. also? there are possibly too many insect-facts in this and if that shit squicks you, i am so sorry.

In-Character.

SKELETON: the lovers

K E Y W O R D S 

UPRIGHT: love, harmony, relationships, values alignment, choices

REVERSED: self-love, disharmony, imbalance, misalignment of values

| source: x

NAME: prudence “prue” luna lockhart

→ ETYMOLOGY ;

P R U D E N C E / “intelligence; discretion, foresight; wisdom to see what is suitable or profitable;” also one of the four cardinal virtues, "wisdom to see what is virtuous;" from Old French prudence (13th Century) and directly from Latin prudentia “a foreseeing, foresight, sagacity, practical judgment,” contraction of providentia “foresight” (see providence). Secondary sense of “wisdom” (late 14th Century) is preserved in jurisprudence.

L U N A / “the moon,” especially personified in the Roman goddess answered to Greek Selene; also, an alchemical name for “silver”; from Latin luna “moon, goddess of the moon,” from PIE *leuksna- (source, also: of Old Church Slavonic luna “moon,” Old Prussian lauxnos “stars,” Middle Irish luan “light, moon”), suffixed form of root *leuk- “light, brightness.” The luna moth (1841, American English) so-called for the crescent-shaped eye-spots on its wings.

L O C K H A R T / Scottish: of uncertain origin, probably from a Germanic personal name composed of the elements loc 'lock', 'bolt' + hard 'hardy', 'brave', 'strong'. English: occupational name for a herdsman in charge of a sheep or cattlefold, from Old English loc 'enclosure', 'fold' + hierde 'herd(er)'.

| sources: x & x

FACECLAIM: zendaya coleman ( or ashley moore or natali litvinova — in order of preference! )

AGE: three-&-twenty for zendaya / four-&-twenty for ashley or natali

→ BIRTHDATE: fantasy-equivalent of july 8th; the most cancer baby there ever was!

DETAILS: it took me forever to find a skeleton that made me feel the enduring love i’ve been searching for beyond the ability to see a story, and as it always, unfailingly, tends to happen for the rare occasion where i opt for a softer character, it caught me completely off-guard. initially, surveying the tags, i was leaning towards the skeletons of the wheel of fortune, the hierophant, the devil, the hermit – all of whom, in my opinion, are characters who have been shaped by a darkness, be it inherent or inflicted, that’s rendered them with shadows or edges. with the lovers, that’s not the case. they are tender: like a paramour’s kiss, or a bruise, or an overripe peach you can sink your fingers into. and maybe it’s my unflinching desire to subvert the stereotypical presumption of what it is to be soft, the fragility noted in their skeleton does not translate to weakness or meekness to me; i enjoy that they are both tender, and possess the ability to be chaotic, and manipulative, and impulsive and desperate and vindictive and defensive. what i love most about this particular skeleton is the sheer humanness of them.

that, and their love for THE WORLD. for a moment there, that was definitely what drew me to them; this idea of love as religion had my mind reeling like a siken poem, rhapsodising about a love so powerful, it can alter a person. this is partially because i am the most hopeful and shameless of romantics, and partially because love, its nuances, and its powers and vulnerabilities genuinely, deeply interest me. however, working my way deeper into this application-form, that changed.

it is the love that the lovers — or prue, to me, now — holds for THE WORLD is one that attracted me. it is her own potential for growth that’s kept me in her clutches, besotted, wishing to tell her story. hers is a tale, i believe, of metamorphosis: a question i posed in a later section, as well as what lurks in my mind, is whether that metamorphosis is one that leads to a moth or a butterfly. did you know it is moths who come from cocoons, but butterflies who come from a chrysalis? moths, who are drawn to light. butterflies, who drink nectar, also help spread the seeds to grow more of the flowers. both which come from a caterpillar, whose first meal is typically the egg they come from. what i enjoy is the ambivalence that presents itself — or, as i like to call it: potential. there are several directions that prue’s story could go in, several choices that could define her, and it’s all up in the air until it isn’t anymore.

i wish i could tell you that my EUREKA! moment wasn’t insect-research, but i can’t, because that would be a lie. i’m not even sorry. 

BACKGROUND: 

☉ CONTENT WARNING(s): infant death, stillbirth, body horror imagery, insects

come, dear reader, won’t you settle in? let me spin you a tale—a tangled web of one, indeed—about a girl who smells sweet as white roses and is as satiny to touch as her gossamer-thin garments. this girl is just a girl; she has never been the girl. even so, this story is her story, and though she is not equipped to be the heroine of a story, or so she believes, she is the heart of this one. like a heart, she is swollen with the fullness of blood: thus, let me etch this tale into parchment with the blood of love, in crimson-ink of metallic-reek. 

it comes in three parts: a beginning, a middle, an ending; it is for you, dear reader, to decide which is which. 

let us anoint this tale the title of METAMORPHOSIS –

✧✧✧

i. THE EGG ;

before there is the girl, there is a man and a woman who live in faerûn by the sahrnian sea, bound together by a contract that is decidedly not the forest-fire love faerie-tales herald. yet that is not to say that love never comes, just because love comes after. when it does, it is a calm love, a steady one; a love that has never cost one to lose one’s mind, and has been grown, meticulously, over the passage of time and the trials and tribulations have littered the path of a match made by those who are older and have witnessed so much more life than them. it is not for years that the woman feels nature stirring within her body’s vessel, and when it does, it is with the undying bestowing upon her a gift that makes up lost time. 

when the girl comes, she comes from a belly more full than most. it makes sense that it is so, for there were meant to be two of them: a boy, and a girl. one might suppose that, in the end, there still were, yet only one in the way it mattered. 

( you decide, dear reader: which is which? ) 

she is born — and it is days, and days, before her time. no matter, a name still awaits her. prudence, they call her. pierce, he would have been.

from the beginning, she emerges from the ruddy cave of her mother’s womb incomplete. a greyish pallor remains where life ought to be warming her skin; it is as if he leeched enough life from her for him to choke on, and she siphoned her brother’s death through the connection only womb-mates share – and this is what she will hear in later years, when she asks about him. 

she will wish she hadn’t.

✧✧✧

ii. THE CATERPILLAR ;

( when you feel unforgiving, dear reader, remember: it is a caterpillar’s job to eat; without an abundance of consumption, it cannot survive. it is this abundance of consumption that allows for the production of silk. it is this same abundance of consumption that is its undoing. )

years do not care if one is ready to bear them; they come, when they must, as they must. and so comes to pass the childhood that tries to swallow prudence lockhart whole, over and over and over –

as an infant, blood is filtered out of her body and fresh blood poured into her veins. it helps, some. it does not help enough, yet there is nothing more to be done; her parents must take her home, and pray to the undying god for the rest. they pray, and pray, and pray, as two people of noble blood and lucrative business-dealings rarely stoop to, for lack of need to need it.

as a child, prue is still a frail slip of a thing, with bones jutting out against taut bronze flesh in protest. fill yourself up, her mother pleads. you must survive, beloved. she offers her savory meals and sweet decadence twice, and anything she takes a suggestion of a liking to just as many times more — and it works; it takes time, but work it does, and prue’s cheeks round some and at times flush rosily, some weakness giving way to the minute miracles that are her tardy signs of life. it is not much, but it is enough, isn’t it? it is to the mother who has warred for her existence. who still combats for prue’s survival. 

when does the girl begin to feel that it might be her that her mother is fighting, when every frustration about her lessness, her inherent lessness, begins to steal the breath from prue’s lungs – for is it not her who is all poetry & rot, wisp-thin & about as flimsy? her heart fills with hot, vital blood then: it beats loud and clear as a belltower’s toll, cutting through all else with the potency of its truth. this is as much as i am, she beseeches in turn, as her mother had once done, except not, for graceless tears roll down her cheeks in impassioned rivulets and the voice that thickens with feeling.

how will you survive the world, beloved? her mother implores.

i might not, prue knows. i might not, she accepts.

it is the caterpillar’s destiny to unbecome –

✧✧✧

iii. THE CHRYSALIS ;

– unbecoming takes time.

it takes long enough that both mother and daughter grow used to it, initially, and then around it, ultimately. 

there is, after-all, the distraction of warfare engrained in the backbone of their precious faerûn. there is the journey to tyrholm, the settling into the dregs of hightown – not quite lowtown-bound, and not-quite-not. it fazes her parents to not be profound upper-echelons of society; her father, a man used to running the business inherited by the men in the lockhart family, and her mother, who had spent all of her time worrying for prudence and never had to about wealth. but prue, for her part, is accustomed to the notion of not-quite-right / not-quite-enough; the feeling might not be home, per se, and yet she recognises the walls of the house all the same – could walk its rooms in the dark, if she had to.

it is circumstance that calls the lockharts to castle tyrholm. 

it tears at her parents: her father believes in not squandering opportunity, and her mother would rather squander anything but prudence. even THE EMPRESS sees it, does she not, when she cants prudence’s head and observes her fragility? the king’s reputation precedes itself; would a heart as true and innocent as hers survive a court like his? within minutes, it is too late to ponder it any longer. within minutes, it is no longer a choice, but a deal already struck. just like a match: it cannot be unstruck. one can endeavour to douse a fire, but it is not the same as un-starting it.

for a time, the castle is one more place prue does not feel she belongs; it is alright, she tells herself. you are alright, she says – because her mother is no longer by her side telling her anymore, is she? silken thread ensnares the girl when THE WORLD knocks on her door one evening; it is lilly-white, the radiance of their smile. prue does not understand why, then; she is nothing exceptional, she flounders for the right thing to do, and even then, she gets it wrong so much more often than she ever gets it right. perhaps, she will never understand why – why they are so kind, why they make her feel seen, why… 

and still, this once, there is no question of whether it is enough. they are more than enough.

for the first time in her life, prue discovers what it is to be warm.

✧✧✧

tell me, dear reader – is this a butterfly’s or moth’s metamorphosis?

PLOT IDEAS: 

❂ “love, for you, / is larger than the usual romantic love. it’s like religion. it’s terrifying.” – richard siken  

see, i told you: siken’s poetry reeling through my mind. religion is a really interesting ideology to link the notion of love to, because there are so many boundaries one crosses in the name of faith. at times, we call it the lesser evil. other times, we say it’s letting the end justify the means. we’re all trying to be holy. 

this is where i want to start discussing potential plots for prue — but i want to, first, preface it by saying that though THE WORLD is very much at the centre of her story, it is because prue’s unparalleled love for them is central to her life-story; i treat it like an experiment, where prue is the dependent variable and her love for THE WORLD is the independent variable that incites action & reaction, placed in different situations. it is, that said, the most potent of variables, and can hardly be called controlled, despite how desperately prue herself attempts to keep it to the corner-alcove they hide the truth of their love in. this love is not a selfish love; it is strong, and all-consuming, and maddening – more than a soldier’s swearing fealty to a kingdom, it is the most devout of prophets bowing their head at the altar of the divine deity they put their faith in. that’s pretty intense stuff, right? i want to see what it elicits.

this can be a double-edged sword, and in fact, i’d be rooting for it to be. on one hand, i want to explore how this love has made prue strong. i want to see how it has made her braver, and more resilient. i want to explore that she took THE EMPRESS deeming her fragile-seeming, and how she’s donned it as armour, because it is that same delicacy that has made THE WORLD love them. i want to explore it through interactions with the royal family foremost — THE WORLD, of course, but THE EMPRESS, THE EMPEROR, THE CHARIOT, and if it works out, maybe even septimus himself. it’s rare for prue to not let things slip, and roll off her back, but that is when it comes to her. her love for THE WORLD makes her want to protect them, fiercely; it lights a fire in her soul that has never been lit before. and fire? yes, it warms – but oh, it burns, too, doesn’t it? it has the power to ruin. and i don’t want to limit that exploration to just the royal family; i want to explore it with the animosity-potential between her and TEMPERANCE as well, but that’s one plot i’ll talk more about further down. 

there are little ideas floating around in my head that i would love to explore with the respective players, but i could imagine a friendship between prue ( probably due to her sweet-tooth luring her, too often, to the kitchens ) with THE HANGED MAN – and to explore a bond, that could further be complicated, potentially, by prue not being able to talk about what she and THE WORLD share. or, more chaotically: for her to share it, and for THE HANGED MAN to let it slip to THE DEVIL? how far would prue go to protect this? and would she, if it presented the opportunity for the future where she and her love get to be together is pushed closer by it? how selfless is her love? how powerful would fear be against it?

i’m honestly just a firm believer that, when our backs are against the wall, that’s when we find out who we really are. and that’s the main storyline i want to explore with prue, more than anything else, because i think that she has never been pushed to that edge and, because of it, she’s never copped up to her own identity. she met and fell in love with THE WORLD at such a young age, so quickly and wholly, that it has shaped so much of what her ideal self is. i want to see how her ideal self would differ from the reality of her. and i want to see her confront it.

❂ “you are going to break your promise. i understand. and i hold my hands over the ears of my heart, so that i will not hate you.” – catherynne m. valente

very recently, someone put forth an idea to me: love is a promise. that’s what i want to talk about here. there’s a sense i got — both from the lovers’ skeleton, and THE WORLD’s — that both of them know that there is a time-limit on their relationship. or, at the very least, whatever room there is for prue in their future, it isn’t a room where they share the bed. but i also get a sense that they know it, and neither of them talk about it. i think a part of prue feels like the amount of good that THE WORLD has brought her will last her a lifetime, and i think that isn’t true, so much as she’s hoping it is? i want to see the two of them talk about it. i want to see prue wanting them to fight her love. i want prue to admit she wants to be chosen over duty, or a marriage with someone who isn’t her, or fear, and i want to see what something like that would do to their relationship. or hell, i want someone who has power over THE WORLD, like THE EMPEROR, or THE EMPRESS, or THE CHARIOT or THE HIGH PRIESTESS to find out about the true nature of their relationship and force that choice once they even start talking about, so the situation can force their hands even if they don’t force one another’s.

there’s so much between the two of them i want to dissect and play with, it apparently needed to separate quotations. oops?

❂ “all things truly wicked start from innocence.” – ernest hemingway 

we all have the occasional ( or perhaps more, no judgement! ) propensity for wickedness. i feel really passionately about softer people not being safe from cravings for chaotic behaviour, even if they might, in prue’s case, justify it through the innocence of intention. a lot of her initial effusion is of a heady amalgamation of sweetness and delicacy; i want to see her display a dash of something that takes leave from that, and surprises even herself. now, though not at all set-in-stone and totally up to be discussed with the respective player, i could easily see it rearing its head in the dynamic between herself and TEMPERANCE. how many times will she be shooed away from a room with a beautiful woman and the love of prue’s life? it terrifies prue, the idea that THE WORLD will slip out of her fingers like the sands of time, so much sooner than she is ready for. i’m curious: would there be a moment where she would not leave? where she would make the nature of their relationship known? would she ever snap back, or continue to smile tenderly, bow her head, and listen?

i’m also dying to explore the potential plot brewing between the lovers and DEATH. part of this is a total shot in the dark, so bear with me, but – imagine this: there is a darkness in them that tugs at the darkness in her; they are hungry, and she is a starving-thing, and what a pairing they could make. imagine prue venturing into lowtown with them, and for the alternative reality DEATH’s hunger dangles that could open a door to an actual future with THE WORLD? i want there to be temptation — towards darkness and chaos, yes, because i am a sucker for moral ambiguity, but also for the loyalist that prue is to be lured by the revolt. 

❂ “you cut up a thing that’s alive and beautiful to find out how it’s alive and why it’s beautiful, and before you know it, it’s neither of those things, and you’re standing there with blood on your face and tears in your sight and only the terrible ache of guilt to show for it.” – clive barker

it is difficult for even me, as i delve into prue’s psyche, to be a wordsmith adept enough to encapsulate the sheer magnitude of her love for her lover. let me tell you this, though: it is love that is devout enough that prue would sacrifice herself before it. she would shirk what she believes she knows of herself to fight for THE WORLD. but there is little in the universe free of the shackles of consequence. it feels inevitable to me that, at some point, sooner or later, prue will commit an action or reaction in the name of love — and then, she will have to live with it. it’s even better to me for her to go beyond her limits for this love that is everything to her, and then find herself turning to them to sacrifice for her as freely as she does them… and for them to, perhaps, not be able to. or perhaps, for it to turn prue into a person she herself can no longer recognise. there was a part of me that wanted to already cook something up, and to toss it into the writing sample portion, but i decided otherwise. if i get to write this character, i want to start in a place that is different, and develop my way towards a darker pasture, so to speak.

a darker pasture, however, is where i want her to at least visit. in a setting such as this one, i don’t think it can be helped, truthfully.

❂ “each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.” – anaïs nin

while i was trying to knit this application together into one whole piece, a recurring concern for me has been that i want this character to have its own story, and the lines of that can get awfully blurry when the character is one the feels as intensely as prue lockhart does. she is such a hypersensitive creature; more than anything, it is her interactions that penetrate her, and alter her, and cause the discord between the sides that are wont to tug at her, who stands in the most Lawful Neutral of spots. i’ve decided to lean into it, though, because i genuinely believe that it poses an intriguing dichotomy between her inherent nature and the nurture that moulds it beyond the obvious, magnitudinal parental hand in it. that said, there are actual several different potential connections i want to toy with here. ( one of which is THE HANGED MAN, but i already mentioned that above, and didn’t want to be repetitive! )

THE MAGICIAN / listen, prue is so used to being the Softest. but this little baby is even softer than her, and every time they flinch, she just wants to help. she tries, at every turn, to be kind and i really want to see her become a friend / confidant for them? maybe learn about their magic. to maybe give them a secret of her own back ;) gal pals, gimme. i need something wholesome; it can’t all be agony & ecstasy, god damn it.

WHEEL OF FORTUNE / it is pure coincidence that throws the two of them together as often as it does. but prue is the sort to believe the best in people, and is never too arrogant to admit where she’s been wrong. this bond is where her feelings towards magic first begins to see development, and i am so, so, so interested in toying with it. even more so when you throw in their bond with THE EMPEROR — does faze prue a little — and his relationship with THE WORLD in there. such potential for growth and drama.

DEVIL / for years, every time prue has seen them, she has walked in the other direction. otherworldliness is unnatural enough as it is, but the proof of what they can do scars them with evidence of it – and so, out of genuine fear, she’s evaded them. and yet, coincidental interactions with the WHEEL OF FORTUNE has made prue think twice. a look at the haunting in their eyes has made her think thrice. i want to play with that dynamic!!!

THE MOON / hers is the only magic that does not scare prue, i think. it is the only one she is not too intimidated to ask questions about, because she truly is extremely curious when she takes an interest in something, and a lifetime of listening in the background has given prue a taste for stories. i feel like she could bring out something adventurous and wild within prue? a part which prue never got to explore, because she grew up with a very, very cautious mother who kept a very close eye on her and treated her like glass because prue really does look fragile. i want a bond to make her feel stronger!

THE STAR / if there is one thing that prue has grown up to be, it is a true romantic. it makes him something of a kindred spirit; something in her could reach out to something in him, creating a kindred bond that makes her feel seen in a way that only THE WORLD has ever given her.

THE TOWER / because she was raised right by it, the sea is where prue feels most at home, and she always has. i could see there being something about THE TOWER’s stories making her feel warm inside, and thus, her braving a friendship with them. i think she could use the wisdom of someone older? and there’s just something about them that made prue shyly scuff her toe at the ground, like – an oliver twist moment of, “can i have more, please?”

THE FOOL / stories talk about princes and princesses. the dragon’s fire, the nobel steed. prue looks at him, and she wonders: where are the stories about them? the princess’ lover, and the king’s soldier – those who fight for the crown, without wearing it. it could make for such an unlikely bond, but such an intriguing one, i think? i got the idea, and i just could not shake it. humour me!

and 0f course, there is potential with literally every other character, too, but i honestly ran out of time before i could come up with something for them too. i’m down to flesh it out~

❂ “we grow. it hurts at first.” – sylvia plath 

at the start of her story, prue starts off as a fragile underdog. she turns blossoms into a lover, and it turns her fiercer – which is not the same thing as being fierce, but it’s a start. what i want for her — what any writer wants for their muses, i reckon — is growth. i want prue, who has grown up sheltered and protected, to experience pain and hardship. i want her experiences to call into question what she thinks she knows, flip it on its head, and make her think. i want her to think, and to change her mind, and to change it again. i want her to confront her fears, and her uncomfortable truths, and to experience all the tempestuous emotions she’s spent her entire life keeping at bay, having convinced herself they could shatter her. i want her to unearth her endurance, to test its limits. i want to explore her undoings and remakings. what i enjoy most about her is the volatility of her that most would not see coming, because volatile and tempestuous and emotional is what she is. she is all heart, all the time, everywhere. can you imagine how visceral that has to make every experience?

imagine the potential for growth if she let herself just feel all of it. if she opened herself up, and let the universe rush in, instead of walking on eggshells as she does. just imagine. that’s what i want for her.

CHARACTER DEATH: i could, of course, see prue meeting an end. in fact, there are a couple of circumstances that could make it deliciously poetic, even.

Writing Sample.

They match each other: step for step; right, then left –

Hardly anyone turns to look at the two of them anymore. The two of them, making their way down the hall, with their dark heads leaned close together, like two plants growing towards one another when the sun leaves them for too long. It might be more peculiar to see them apart. There is a strange pride that twists a corner of Prue’s mouth at the unshakeable knowledge of the fact – a hint of tremendous pride at the small, precious claim THE WORLD makes with the statement of their proximity. It is everything to her, and perhaps it is what lends to the smoothness of her gait as they move past the portrait-eyes that scrutinise it, as if they await another of the many stumbles they’ve already witnessed. Prue floats beside them.

Her heart is gone, long-since pressed into the palm of their hand. Does it weigh them down? She could pretend it is why she keeps their fingers curled into the crook of her elbow, helping them carry the heaviness of the heart she’s given away to them; Prue holds fast to that touch with her own hand covering their fingers, unwilling to give up those four pressure-points that burn her flesh through the silk of her sleeve for anything, enough to shield it with the dome of her palm.

“ – Prudence?”

Their hand flinches at the same time as Prue’s grip on their fingers tightens. As if a chill blew in, and froze the marrow in her bones, the girl stills in place. It is not because she recognises the voice. It is because she ought to have done, for what the cant of her head finds is a woman whose gaze mirrors her own: amber-warm, almond-shaped. It is her same mouth that speaks the syllables of a variation of her names that does not belong to her, not as Prue does.

“Mama –” she says, her voice so quiet, she fears it might not reach her.

She is too far away now. Even mere footsteps away, she is too far.   

Extras.

��� INSPIRATIONS → anne shirley cuthbert – from anne of green gables; tiana – from princess & the frog; missandei of naath – from game of thrones; margaery tyrell / house tyrell – from a song of ice & fire;  madame lebedeva – from deathless; effie trinket – from the hunger games series; jack pearson – from this is us; patroclus – from the song of achilles; 

✦ INSPIRATION TAG → here;

✦ PINTEREST BOARD → here.

[theorynexus]

50.

Before returning to liveblogging, I’d just like to say that the organization I used for the Aspects (3 sets of 4, with Freedom, Fate, and Mixed categories) in my last post is one of many different possible ways of categorizing the Aspects.  Their nature is complex, and they individually preside over such broad aspects of reality that any one system of dividing among them is not necessarily going to capture all the nuances and connections to be found between them. The one way that is known canon to organize among these would be the Aspect Pair system, which, as one can see due to the way I described the four categories, is not mutually exclusive with the schema which I utilized in the post. To clarify: I mostly chose this particular way of organizing the Aspects for my counter to Dirk’s train of inquiry for the sake of showing that while many of the Aspects lend themselves to a Fate reading, Free Will is just as well supported. ...

***snickers***    Well, that’s certainly one way to describe the blurring resulting from the intermingling of numerous shards of her soul which is now occurring. On a side note:  It is very interesting that his control is ongoing in pseudo-real time, for his frame of reference, and that his ego is so narrowed/focused at the moment (possibly as a result of the difficulty in maintaining narrative control?) that he can possibly have such slips as a result of distraction on his part. I wonder if Rose not speaking is more a result of the general narrative pause that he is implying might happen if he is not focusing (unlikely, considering all indications are time flow continues) or his manipulation/entanglement of Rose.

How benevolent of him. That said:  Yes, indeed, what he is saying does make quite a bit of sense, especially with the tense “could have been,” suggesting that this is a matter of present and past intermingling, such that the future selves that split off from at least her current main node of being (from her perspective) are not integrated preemptively, for that would probably skew their creation, mess with possibility, et cetera.        Moreover, what he is saying with regards to the psyche needing to be at a certain level of strength very much makes sense, as well. His own is only capable of this because of his Unbreakable Soul personal trait, most likely. He cracks, splinters, bends, but doesn’t fully break~ (And no, I don’t think that Dave being able to cut his Unbreakable Sword suggests that this is no longer the case; rather, it is most likely a sign that he achieved greater mastery of his soul and was able to divest its connection with the sword temporarily, showing an increased degree of flexibility on his part.)

I don’t entirely trust this, insofar as I am not entirely sure Rose is ready to open them, but if Dirk is being truthful as far as his intentions go, at the very least this suggests that his agenda of “becoming a single god” might be more benevolent insofar as it might be more local (meaning specific to him).   If that is so, it could explain the discrepancy that seemed to crop up with Rose being able to actually talk/think in presumably her own (that is to say, deviant from Dirk’s) manner / persona, and might suggest he at least intends for this measure to be temporary.

Hmmm. Well, this all makes it seem somewhat sinister again, insofar as “what I want her to see” could be interpreted as being “only” what he wants for her to see, and the antagonistic “martyr” comment a moment before makes that vibe a bit stronger; however, I DO think that she at least eventually needs/needed to have opened her eyes for the sake of her cohesion and development, so I am quite conflicted on this matter, and in my opinions of it. (Note: I think she needs this because she’s presently quite restricted and narrowed in her field of vision, for her expanded Vision as a Seer of Light is being constantly resisted by her, and thus she is essentially putting blinders on to the burning rays of the sun.)

This could be interpreted both as dangerous, psychically subsuming, insinuating behavior on his part, or as the natural result of her Seer status making things happening seem like noise in her wider-opened consciousness.

Well, that’s a very interesting act of metaphorical/-physical manipulation. So very subtle and questionable and interesting~

LET’S TAKE A FIELD TRIP TO CANDYLAND!!!

That is a weird and silly way of viewing things.  Of course there can be regret. Humans agonize over things they can’t help/change all the time, dummy. :P

Yes, indeed, I do appreciate that spoiler protection, Narrator. Though perhaps a hint might have been more interesting. Perhaps a hint might still be yet to come. Indeed, though: it is likely that no change would happen while I was gone, if I randomly flipped to the equivalent page, Candy 25, and looked back.   I will not do so, regardless of the temptation.

***chorus of Cherubic laughter***     Negatives and positives. Very interesting, indeed.  For some reason, I am suddenly struck with a desire to know whether and/or how these epilogues might intermingle in Homestuck^2, should it be a direct sequel to them.

Now... that is a particularly interesting manner of describing things. I wonder: does this describe the uncertainty/opacity that was naturally supposed to emerge from the narrative End of Homestuck gap in the works that allowed for the escape out of canon in the first place? The “blend ingredients responsibly” comment probably refers to the fact that Lord English presented the primary force that insisted on there being a single Alpha Timeline that, regardless of the retcons, Scratches, and narrative loop-de-loops required to reach its conclusion, ensured his ascension and the natural progression of his being, within Canon.    Presumably, outside of Canon, reentry might be both possible and required in order to maintain the balance of that narrative shell that protects the rest of meta-textual reality from LE’s ire-filled gaze, and thus there are multiple “pathways of promise” that have equivalent legitimacy, and which can simultaneously take place, so long as one of them actually leads to LE’s most important battles’ proper conclusions.     A similar situation to this actually happened in Homestuck’s canon, with the splitting of Vriska, though I’m sure you knew that already.   Of course, only one timeline in this scenario actually successfully left to the exit of canon, along with the kids’ victory state, and presumably the situation is now majorly different. Anyway: I do again wonder how these two main branches shall combine and/or split off in the future-- what sort of interactions they might have~

I am very curious what actual mechanics might have led to this particular sweet and rancorous set of circumstances being forced into being. Is it just random chance that leads to this “irresponsible” outcome?   Is it a necessary sacrifice for the narrative “oomph” to oppose Lord English, in order for the measure of wills to be balanced?   Very curious, generally.

Wow, indeed that sounds incredible. Also ominous. Particularly the use of “bleed,” and the contrast of majesty+disheveled, light and shadow.

Somewhat creepy, but okay.  (I guess the fact that Doc Scratch was a creepy uncle figure always meant that Dirk was intended to be creepy like this, to some extent.)   That said:  Indeed, I agree that this is probably very reflective of her true/Ultimate self.

Again, somewhat creepy.  Additionally: Interesting that he seems uncertain-- unable to truly penetrate her mind, just then --and that this comes across almost as him reassuring himself.

I do truly appreciate this semi-blind, selfish desire of his.   Truly, that is one of the greatest needs of the thinking being: acknowledgement. 

That is a very complex thought. It certainly will be her, but it will be more. Regardless, as will have been elaborated upon by the later passages: she absolutely needs to let go if she is to survive. Her physical form is dying, and the only choice is to either perish, or to allow herself to naturally develop as her godly self is naturally designed to.  While there is technically a choice, as is the case with The Choice that the Denizens present, there is really not much of one to begin with. She will know what is right in her heart, when the choice is made, and her own character will not have permitted her to turn another way.  The only question is if there’s a third option. I would just like to say that Dirk’s statement of “better” is somewhat untrue, likely. There are likely positives and negatives of the choice-- things Rose will have to sacrifice in order to make it work.  Thus, while her Greater Self will be better in some ways, she may well be deficient in others.

Her earlier statement, as I laid out earlier, was in fact incorrect. That said, it is indeed necessary to have abandoned humanity at the point.  Whether or not it was additionally necessary to break down quite all those barriers is another matter. I would suspect that this is in fact not the case.   I do wonder: shall individuality between the two of them actually buckle with the entanglement of their being on a psychic level?     For some reason, I suspect that their cores shall in fact remain somewhat unfused. However, this is mostly intuition, based on the fact that he is/intends to struggle to maintain her physical body for at least a while, yet.   We shall see how things truly turn out, either way.

***lip curls into a snarl***     What disgusting, wretched nonsense.   That kind of verbiage directly contradicts your desire for an understanding equal, Narrator.   Why does your intelligence have to outstrip your wisdom to such a degree?    ***sighs***

Yes. Yes, it does.  Whilst it is not such a linear or meta-stable structure as might otherwise be thought, anyone knowing the nature of Narrative should be aware of the key time-based interactions which allow it to function. I am beginning to absolutely loathe Dirk’s arrogance. ~~~ Post Script Note:  It is very interesting to see the “You” at the end, there, for it could represent Rose, rather than the Reader, at this moment, and the aforementioned blurring of their consciousnesses which I suggested some time ago. 

[bestnoncannonship]

Alright..I'mma get in on this VC fancasting debate.

As a director, I often have a LOT of opinions on people's casting decisions. A LOT. (Someday, I'll write a novella on Ken Brannaugh's casting.) So as I see a LOT of fancasts casts based on how people look and few based on whether or not the actor can likely handle the role, I'mma throw my hat in the ring. (Warning....the more I write the less technical and more shitposty this is gonna get!) So here you go! The Vampire Chronicles series if I got to cast and direct it!!

The Brat Prince:

Most importantly....we gotta get us a Lestat. And the choice is clear:

Evan Williams: this fabulous shitposting aesthetic trash is as close to the one and only Vampire Lestat as we are gonna get on this plane of existance. He is all charm and quite light in his loafers and a complete mess.......but most importantly, he has proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is able to play a character that does inexplicable and morally reprehensible things while still being read as highly sympathetic, likable, and even a hero. That's what I worry about most with Lestat. He really is a very terrible person who doesn't learn or face too many consequences. And he has to be very very very sympathetic. Not just "Oh I Stan that villain" likeable.....but a true hero. And it takes a very. Special. Actor. To pull that shit off. And this is it. This is the guy. He was hired to play an Iago-esque gay villain type in Versailles, STOLE THE SHOW OUT FROM UNDER GEORGE BLAGDEN (no mean feat as Blaggy was giving a hell of a performance) and made his character a beloved icon. Yeah....I trust him to lead a show. I trust him to be Lestat.

Nicholas L'enfant:

Okay not gonna lie I struggled with this one. There was someone else I wanted to see in this role....but I decided he was better employed elsewhere. And this is who I ended up with:

Yep. George Blagden. See...in the grand scheme of things Nikki is a very low-screentime role that has a LOT of impact on the story. And who better to trust with low screentime that the god of grantaires, who took a few small shots and lines and GAVE US A FULLY CHARACTERIZED GRANTAIRE in the Les Mis film. He is very sweet faced, and easy to like, can make being an on screen depressive fascinating instead of dull and has proven time and time again that he is the master of the complete mental breakdown, complete with horrifying but tragic crazy eyes. Also.....he bears a strong enough physical resembles to.....

Louis!!!!:

Our beautiful depressed dark angel with a vampire eating disorder who has no self esteem and is still in love with his abuser needs nuance. He needs soul. And he needs a sweet and delicate beauty. And so:

Alexaner Vlahos!!! The soulful eyes!! The delicate bone structure!!! The slight tones of simmering resentment!!! The ability to play a character that could have become VERY one note VERY quickly with goregeous amounts of nuance and sympathy!!! Vlavla has quite the varied resume. Mordred. Phillipe. Romeo. Captain Hook. To put it lightly he has a LOT of range and the one through line is he is NEVER boring. He plays a lot of roles that could very quickly become boring and one note (Romeo? Captian snooze right there!). But every second he's on screen or stage he is so completely alive in whatever he is feeling. I TRUST him to keep the entirety of Louis's brooding nuanced and fascinating for an audience and to physically and facially convey Louis's very important internal monologue that we will not be able to hear because this version is going to be from Lestat's point of veiw. I toggled with the idea of making him Nikki for a while....but ended up with Louis for 2 reasons. 1) he doesn't need the scripted plot drama Nikki has written in to make a compelling character and 2) he and Williams share such beautiful chemistry. Whenever they're together, even off screen, their focus shifts so that they orbit each other like bianary stars and any director can see that that's something that should be explored and exploited to add demension to the Louis/Lestat relationship and justify why they keep coming back to each other.

(And so ends the Men of Versailles segment of my fancast. So sue me. There's some incredible actors there.)

Let's return with

Gabrielle De Lioncourt:

The incomparable Alex Kingston, lately of River Song fame, though I met her as Elizabeth Corday, and Doctor Corday is driving this casting choice. I wanted an actor who was an appropriate age to play Williams's mother cause we don't fuck with that women are "old" at 30 shit in this house. And she can carry off the kind of "I will not hesitate to kill a man" BDE that Gabrielle requires without trying, but she's also proven herself comfortable and competent with the level of CAMP that VC requires. I can see her easily showing up on set for a few scattered episodes, slipping easily into the verse, and nailing the kind of woman who can put Lestat in his place then run back off to the jungle. Also....that De Lioncourt hair!!!!!

Marius "Daddy" Romanus:

Yep. This fuck. I can hear it now.... "Why isn't he lessssaaaat??? He's so blonde and prettttyyyyy????" Well....mainly because....I ain't sure this lil fuck can run a show as a very despicable but likeable hero yet. He's admirable. A good actor. A great villain. But not a hero and not heroically likeable. Personally, I'm of the opinion that in 10 or 15 years he will have grown into the ability to play something as complex as Lestat with likability....but for now.....DAMN is he a creepy imperial thing. He's got that "My house, my rules" vibe down. He's preditory. He's distinguished. He is Marius. And he's go the best Roman coin profile I've ever seen.

Armand:

N/A

Ok. Controversial decision....but I want to see a complete unknown as Armand. Send casting out to cast a wide net, scour the world for the Botticelli death machine. But definitely don't pull him from the pool of already famous younguns. Because your Armand needs to be deep. Skilled. And primarily UNSPOILED by the school of child acting that is forced upon child actors. (I was a commercial kid and child stage actor. It was terrible.) Go out and get some twinky fresh faced raw talent so you get depth.

Claudia:

N/A

Big old ditto on what I said above about child actors. A nice doe eyed unknown, preferably without a stage mom.

AKASHA:

Yikes. So many amazing choices!!! How do you follow Aliyah??

With literal human perfection Gina Torres of course!!! Again....I wanted to go with an older woman. Someone who would be seen as an authority to all vampires. Someone god damnned goregeous. And someone who I find intimidating. Also, since I'm skewing a little tall with this cast (at least as TV actors go) I wanted someone who comfortably stands among and above most of them! She's a seasond tested actor, and certified badass. And we know she can steal a scene. Besides if she can look regal as a queen in that weirdass dress they gave her in the serenity movie she can pull off whatever monstrosity costumes comes up with to follow the Aliyah getup.

Khayman:

Don't @ me but....I have a LOT of feelings about Khayman. I love his particularly breed of immortal insanity. I love the way immortality drove him mad into a childlike enjoyment and curiosity. And I knew exactly who has to be casted to play that combination of intimidating ancient and innocent curiosity:

This is Howard Charles. He is capable of playing both an intimidating giant and a sweet soulful cinnamon roll at the same time. I cannot sing this man's praises enough. Am I scared of him? Do I want to hug him? Both? He's also one of the best scene SHARERS I've seen on screen in a long time and that's very important in a supporting role.

Maharet:

Just because Anne Rice doesn't know shit about Mesopotamia doesn't mean we have to follow her in that. I wanted to pull from Middle Eastern or Indian populations for her to best reflect the look of the region in a time that's roughly in line with the pre-dynastic Egyptian mish-mosh associated with Akasha.

So I'm gunning for Indira Varma. When I say this woman has timeless beauty.....I mean timeless. She's as prehistorically hot as she is today. And she's such a strong actress, I want to give her a role that isn't 50% sex scenes. She's got both the warmth and the commanding strength to play Maharet. I would ideally like to get a dancer to play Mekare....someone who can handle the physical interp of the role. Probably an Indian dancer to match Indira Varma.

David Talbot:

In the newly declared tradition of Doctors playing Talbot:

This is the only current Gif I could find of Sylvester McCoy. Known to many as the Seventh Doctor. And to many as Ratagast the Brown. He embodies that sort of huffy aging britishness that David projects, but has the over the top personality that can give us those hints of the vitality of David's youth. Basically I can see this man telling stories about hunting tigers in India. Then when he gets the hot young Raglan James Body:

Luke Pasqualino. Swarthy young troublemaker. But for all the youthful good looks, he proved that he was able to play grace and gravitas as D'artagnion in the final season of the BBC Musketeers. I'd love to give him a chance to explore that deeper part. I also trust his ability to match the energy of a cast, which he did repeatedly on musketeers, and portray both the impulsive self aggrandizing Lestat in the Raglan James body and to play the DarkAU Musketeer type that is Raglan James himself.

That's literally all the Gifs I can put in a post. I know I skipped Daniel......but that's because I have surprisingly few opinions on Daniel.......he's very much a vanilla audience connecting character. I'd almost like to see an unknown in that role....just to see what we a new face could make.

And thus ends my casting of the Vampire Chronicles!!

[captivesrp]

Frustration. Murchadh is filled with it. None of the older tribe members will talk with him about the hunt or current politics. His information sources have been cut off. He is not allowed in the hut with the scrolls, he is not being taught new dialects, and most Gwaedwn are nervous about talking to him at all. However, Fuldryn is still giving him star-charting lessons when the skies allow it, and tonight promises to be a clear one; maybe tonight Murchadh can get some answers.

In fact, the sky is only mostly clear: occasional clouds pass over the stars and interrupt the lesson. Murchadh, using one such pause, asks, “Fuldryn, you told me once that only a few tribe members stuck with Symbre. Who were they?”

Fuldryn regards Murchadh seriously. “Myself, Noè, Arial, Máerl, Caffain, Cemedwn, Dulan, Sylbrech, Brennwgan, Gaddurac, and ol’ Hwff, of course. Oh, and Effric. By the time the other Old Gwaedwn had left, though, we were already expanding our ranks. We’ve never been below two score members. At our peak, and this was something like three or four generations ago, we numbered nearly three hundred. Anything else you need to know?”

Murchadh nods along with the list of names, not surprised by most of them. “What is the chain of command?

Fuldryn arches their eyebrows. “Everyone is an equal part in the tribe.”

Murchadh shakes his head to indicate his disagreement, and at Fuldryn’s look explains, “We are not all equal. I have to listen to and obey everyone. I want to know who I should really be listening to.”

Fuldryn’s eyes start to dance as they usually do when they enter into a sparring match of wits; Murchadh knows the look from other star-charting sessions where they had gotten lost in dialogue together. “If things really are unequal, then perhaps I do not have to share my knowledge with you.”

Murchadh smiles, springing his trap. “True, but then you are admitting you lied to me, proving me right. And if there is a chain of command, then it follows that everyone should know it so that we can have order . . . unless you like chaos?”

“The discerning tribesperson should not have to be told the hierarchy,” says Fuldryn, eyes twinkling in starlight returning to the skies. “What question do you wish to bring forward that you do not want to ask Symbre?”

Murchadh had been hoping the verbal sparring could disguise the seriousness of his avenue of inquiry, but it seems Fuldryn has seen through him. “I survive by knowing everything I can about those around me,” he says seriously. “Who to side with to stay out of trouble, who to befriend to gain protection; I have survived on wits, not muscle---unlike most of the ‘equal’ members of the Gwaedwn, who I imagine don’t need to ask sensitive questions in order to survive.”

Fuldryn looks at him searchingly. “What question must you ask for this purpose? You are a blood member of the tribe, like any other; you are safe here.”

“Not like any other.” Murchadh’s tone turns accusatory. “You know what has been going on in camp. There is unrest, especially since the death of Alaric. He is the second hunter you’ve lost, and the Gwaedwn have noticed. It doesn’t just affect us children anymore. There is tension in the village, and I would like to know where everyone stands in relation to Symbre.”

Fuldryn’s eyes are lost in the direction of the village. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve noticed.” They focus back on Murchadh. “Who have you been listening to?”

“One adult and another,” says Murchadh with a shrug. “I’m not blind or stupid. Did you think that I could not see that the rites you led for Alaric were an act to appease the tribe, not to honour the fallen? Your hunters are not worth anything to you; why should I side with powers that do not consider me valuable?”

“You were not compelled to take the oath,” mutters Fuldryn, but Murchadh pushes on:

“With those who would happily let me die to get what they want? Show me I am valued, trusted---just a little. Tell me who I can trust so that I am trusting the right people, otherwise I may be putting my life in the hands of those who would push me into the path of a charging boar.

“Do you even care? I came to you, the one person I feel I can trust for the right answers---who actually might know. If you told me who I could trust, I would believe you.”

“I will not speak against my blood-people, Murchadh---there is no quicker way to ensure a tribe’s downfall. Do not think to trap me in a war that is not yet necessary; I will take no sides nor will I draw any lines.” Fuldryn regards Murchadh for a long moment. “You know who to trust, young one. Your friends, your family---whoever that is to you. But know that if it does not mean the Gwaedwn, you will be on the wrong side when or if lines are, in the end, irreversibly drawn.” They fall silent and look up at the glittering expanse above.

Murchadh studies the tribesperson for a time, but the silence that has fallen between them is cold. Fuldryn will likely never answer his questions again.

*     *     *

The next day is even more isolating. By mealtime, Murchadh has still not had a real conversation. Taking his food, Murchadh heads towards a fire where he suspects he might find Symbre. He is not hopeful for much, but wants to know where he stands in her opinion. He finds the leader of the Gwaedwn nursing a mug of something hot, sitting by the fire. He nods at her, saying, “I was wondering if you were willing to share any more stories about the creature we are hunting.”

Symbre regards him coolly. “I’m surprised you’re still looking for me; I hear you’ve been dragging tales out of anyone who gives you a moment.”

Murchadh sighs and sits down a short distance from her. “I wish to capture the prey, and my father always taught me to know my quarry well if I desire a successful hunt. Is it wrong to try my best to hunt this creature, which will bring glory to my tribe?”

“Your father was a wise man,” responds Symbre. “But what more can you learn from old legend that we have not shared with you already? You know everything that is pertinent to your hunt.”

“I need to learn how this creature thinks. It knows it is being hunted, and it has always seemed to know we were coming before we even left the village. I need to know how it knows this, and then where it will likely move next, to catch it. Each time I learn a new legend I learn something new about the creature.”

“Do tell.”

Murchadh’s eyes glimmer darkly in the firelight. “The first thing I learned was that you do not need necessarily to be a child to kill the beast, only innocent of bloodshed. The second is that you can flatter it; almost every story has an element of flattery; in fact, it is usually the cause of the creature’s demise.”

“Very good,” responds Symbre. “I hope you can use this information on your upcoming hunt. Your flattery could use a little work, however---I understand you have not made many allies among your tribe as yet.”

Murchadh presses his lips together. Symbre has turned to another Gwaedwn and he knows she is finished discussing this matter with him. He walks away in a foul mood, feeling disconnected from his peers in the tribe.

*     *     *

Even Tyree avoids him in the next few days; Murchadh’s cousin sends him a few sympathetic glances over the next few days, but Murchadh is alone in his village duties of hunting and cleaning. He meets Asgell at the archery range one day, but she does not engage with him, packing up and leaving shortly after his arrival, saying only a few words as she passes him by.

Murchadh turns once again to the forest to find acceptance, but finds himself out of touch with it. Its sounds, smells, sights embrace him, but his instincts feel slow and his mind dull to its nuances. Five days after the first hunting group had left---now slated to return---Murchadh slips into the forest before sunrise, nodding to Ungant on watch. He finds a spot to focus; sitting down, he closes his eyes and begins a breathing exercise his father taught him. Slowly, he expands his awareness from his mind to his head and shoulders, to his torso, then to his legs. From there, he works on reading the forest around him with touch, taste, hearing, and smell. Feeling the ground he is sitting on, tasting the air, smelling the flora and fauna, listening to the minute sounds of the forest. As he does this, Murchadh is puzzled. Before, even in his first days of woodcraft, he could feel the forest being absorbed into him; he became part of the forest as it became part of him. Now, he feels his own effort alongside nature’s, to hold on, but the grasping is like a hand trying to hold onto water; Murchadh feels the forest moving through instead of in him.

It is well past sunrise when Murchadh finally feels the connection he had been seeking all day. As he gets up from the turf he feels much more alive than he has for a long time. His senses are tingling and he feels heavier. As he moves slowly back to the village, he is absorbed by the forest; he feels himself vanish in the dappled shadows as he glides over the ground.

When he arrives in the village, he hears that the hunting party has returned; he hustles to Symbre’s tent to listen to their report.

“. . . we were two days out and hadn’t seen the ancient guardian yet---the big tree marking the end of Crow-watcher’s riddle,” Cydwag is saying as he enters. “We camped in the early evening, as we didn’t want to encounter the ‘fell wisdom’ that the riddle told us to beware of after dark. I went hunting and . . .” Her eyes flicker to Ffrewgí and back to Fuldryn, who seems to be leading the inquiry. “Both Ffrewgí and I experienced something that night; something weird. It might have been the creature---anyway, we don’t really remember what it was, only that it was something incredible. The next day . . .”

Murchadh listens closely as the hunter describes the remainder of the expedition; Ashrille contributes a brief chapter where she and Wyddryr---who Murchadh notices is not present in the tent---had set off in the night to search for the creature by the riddle-marker of the ancient tree. Wyddryr had been seriously wounded by a monster there, which explains his absence. 

After Cydwag has detailed the group’s trip home, Ashrille tells Fuldryn that Cydwag had claimed to have seen Archora the night she and Ffrewgí had encountered the mysterious presence. Neither Ffrewgí nor Cydwag seem keen to discuss this portion of their experience; understandably, thinks Murchadh, but that Cydwag saw at least a representation of a living Archora makes him wonder about the hand that had been on the spear in the center of the village.

After a few more questions from Fuldryn, the hunting group is dismissed. Murchadh is thoughtful as he leaves the tent. It seems like the creature is getting bolder; Murchadh expects it really had been the creature Cydwag and Ffrewgí had encountered, which means it made an effort to speak to them. Interesting. Murchadh does not think the creature is evil, but it must have its own goals, and who can say what such goals might entail.

Murchadh sees Ffrewgí, head down, walking towards the captives’ complex. He catches up with him. “How are you doing?” Murchadh asks.

Ffrewgí responds darkly, “I can track a hunter in the dark now, if that’s what you mean.”

“I was meaning how you’re holding up. It has been rough for you. I want to help, if I can,” Murchadh responds gently.

“Do you think it was Archora? That Cydwag saw?”

Murchadh pauses to think. “I don’t know if it was Archora or not, but I think it means she is alive, if nothing else.”

“I don’t know,” says Ffrewgí quietly, but Murchadh thinks the boy is standing a little straighter.

*     *     *

The next morning, Murchadh and his hunting group are roused for their hunt. Crow-watcher gives them their riddle in the village this time around, outside of the outfitting tent where they receive their equipment. Murchadh leads Ainsley, Anwen, and Heulwen off in the direction indicated obviously in the first stanza of the riddle. He feels the eyes of the mystic follow them all the way to the edge of the woods but does not give him the satisfaction of a backwards glance. Murchadh wonders, though, how much of his dreams can Brân Crow-watcher detect. The thought causes Murchadh to shiver.

The day goes by with little event. Everyone keeps to themselves. Camp is set up, people go to sleep. The next morning, too, is quiet. Ainsley seems a little absent when he comes back to the camp from a morning supply hunt, but does not open up. By midday, they have traveled a good distance and step out of the forest onto highland plain. They cross a disused footpath while still in view of the forest fringe; a marker mentioned in the riddle. On its far side, they take a short break, and Murchadh is startled to realize that he knows this place. Despite the cool air, a heat shimmer forms along the bare ground and Murchadh suddenly sees forms passing along a well-trodden highway, their shapes indistinct. Before they can form up fully, Murchadh shakes his head and they disappear, leaving beneath their feet nothing but a thin dirt track almost lost in gorse and heather. He can hardly identify which of his worlds is real anymore, but he knows he needs to focus on this one.

By nightfall, they can see the shadowy line of a high bluff half a day’s-journey to the east. Somewhere along is a waterfall, the end of their riddle; Murchadh can already hear it faintly in a stirring breeze. They set up camp; tomorrow is time enough to search the area. That night, Murchadh is drawn into a deep sleep.

*     *     *

Murchadh wakes as if pulled up from a sea of fog. As he collects his bearings, he realizes that he still has a short leg and a curled arm; he is disappointed by this for some reason. He stands, looks about. He sees near him another version of himself, a hunter latticed with scars and carrying a collection of weapons. Behind that Murchadh, another, unscarred and whole. Murchadh realizes that he is in the middle of a small audience of versions of himself---not just versions, either; the other members of the crowd are as much himself as he is, but from different times and places. Many of those around him are nearly indistinguishable from him, but he can somehow sense their differences of experience, emotion, perception.

Another Murchadh steps onto a small wooden stage in front of the audience; Murchadh somehow knows that this is not actually himself from any time or place, though it looks and moves precisely as he does. This Murchadh-not-Murchadh motions for the crowd’s attention and begins to orate in a traditional style of legendry.

“Every creature lives within two realms, and each realm is bordered by naught but the thinnest wall. The first realm a creature knoweth is Within. This be the realm of dreams; it is the first to be known by our kind, and sooth, it is the first forgotten. The second realm a creature knoweth is Without. This is the realm of the crawling creatures, those who art chained, in which we live. The realm Within is that of the birds and beasts of the air; we cannot live there without sacrifice, for verily our kind cannot dwell fully in two worlds at once. For one of our kind, to live Within and travel the red pathways is to lose grasp of the realm beyond that thinnest wall, and to drink the fluid of dreams is to lose the stomach to eat Without.”

Murchadh focuses on the words, burning them into his memory. There is something here he needs to figure out. He does not doubt this is somehow a vision from the Gwaedwn’s creature. The question is, why?

The Murchadh-not-Murchadh is suddenly looking right at him. “The dark cat killeth not Without, Murchadh. It dwelleth Within, and killeth by drawing you to it. Its followers feeleth not the wind Without, forsooth have they chosen the red paths and feel the passage of visions instead. Their battle is a lure.”

This resonates with Murchadh. He recalls battles in the dream-world, how he cannot be killed nor kill his enemies there. But the danger . . . why did his golden friend not warn him of it? Can he truly lose himself to that realm? Murchadh remembers how odd it had been to feel the forest move through him, beyond him, the other day, and how long it had taken for him to rediscover the connection that had once been innate to him. There is definitely truth here; Murchadh just needs to figure out why he is being warned.

The thing on the stage continues, “There art gifts outside the Blood, Murchadh. Do not thou let the feel of flight draw thee away from the gifts of the earth, for upon earth is where thy friends dwell.”

With those last words Murchadh feels the world fading around him. He looks at the warrior beside him, who returns his gaze and nods at him with a smug smile faint upon his face, and then everything disappears into blackness.

*     *     *

Murchadh wakes with a start. The stars are bright in the sky; it has only been a movement since the moon rose. Murchadh walks softly away from camp and gazes intently at the stars. The creature is close---it must be---but Murchadh knows he can do nothing; he has blood on his hands.

What is the creature’s motive? Why send him a dream? Murchadh loses himself in the stars wheeling above him, returning to sleep closer to dawn than dusk. Just as he lies back on the soft highland moss, a familiar shape blacks out the stars directly above him. Murchadh rests his head back and wonders if he is seeing through the veil or if his golden friend really has a presence in this realm. Turning that thought over, Murchadh falls asleep.

Murchadh wakes the others early the next morning and outlines the plan for the day: to search for the creature near the waterfall after they break their fast. Heulwen and Anwen head off in different directions to forage a quick meal, Ainsley disappears below a ridge hunting for some meat, and Murchadh is left alone to start a fire. Heulwen returns first, with handfuls of autumn berries. The sun is well clear of the horizon when Ainsley returns. Anwen is late returning, and Murchadh becomes concerned. He gathers his things, strapping on his archery brace. Heulwen accompanies him as he finds the missing girl’s trail without much trouble and follows it east, towards the waterfall. He pushes forward, quicker and quicker, Heulwen pattering along behind him. Then he sees her, along the banks of a stream a stone’s throw down a slope from them.

Suddenly remembering Anwen’s recent coldness towards him, Murchadh comes to a stop and suggests Heulwen go and check on her. As the tiny girl heads down the decline, Murchadh sits between two taller shrubs, breathing in and seeking to center himself here as he does in the woods. The land is wilder here, more uncontrollable. He feels the wind crack through the dry twigs of the shrubs, looks up absently and watches ragged clouds race each other towards the northern horizon. An eagle circles high above him. Slowly, Murchadh can feel his surroundings absorb into him---and then through him; again, the connection is transient, unwilling to remain in him. But it is better than the other day. He sighs and stands, moving to where Heulwen and Anwen are.

“Are you okay?” he asks Anwen as he approaches.

Anwen looks dazed. “Yes,” she starts, but a confused look crosses her face. “Yes, I am okay.”

“What happened?” Murchadh inquires gently.

“I wanted to be alone . . . and---I think---” Anwen loses her thought and struggles to grasp onto words. “There was something.”

Murchadh suggests they make their way back to camp, where they all have breakfast around a fire started by Ainsley. Then Murchadh asks Ainsley and Heulwen to look for tracks by the stream they found Anwen, thinking there was something suspicious about Anwen’s responses---alongside his dream, he has a feeling the creature is involved. When they are gone, he moves next to Anwen. “Hey,” he starts, “I know you don’t like me much right now, but I---” he pauses, searching for words. “Well, I want to help you if I can. I know losing someone is tough.”

Anwen regards him unseeing for a long moment. Focus comes slowly to her eyes. Eventually, she starts, as if just realizing that he is waiting for a response. “Um---thanks. I . . . I’m sorry I haven’t---” she falters and starts again. “You helped me so much, when Alaric was sick, and . . . I just---pushed you away. I’m sorry.”

Murchadh looks at her softly. “It’s okay. I know how hard it can be. When my father died I pushed my entire tribe away---permanently.” He pauses to think. “What is the best way for me to help you now? I know something happened to you this morning; the creature gave me a dream last night.”

“A dream?”

“Yes, it gave me some advice.” Murchadh considers something. “Regarding what, it would take a while to tell you. I can tell you later. Right now, I just want to make sure you are okay. What happened? At least, what can you remember feeling, seeing---anything like that. If you met the creature, like the others did, you probably won’t remember much---just enough to have lots of questions,” he adds wryly. 

Anwen looks unsettled. “Other people have seen it, too?” 

“The last group,” explains Murchadh. “Cydwag said she saw something and so did Ffrewgí, but the most they could remember was a light, or something. How about you?”

“I don’t remember what I saw. But there was something there and it . . . talked to me. About Alaric, and how I miss him.”

“Did it say anything unexpected?”

She considers the question for a moment. “It knows that we’re hunting it.”

“Yes, it probably does.” Murchadh smiles. He allows the silence to rest for a moment, then, “Is there anything you would like to tell me? Anything I am doing wrong, or anything you just . . . need to get off your chest?”

Anwen is quiet for a moment. “Did you get to know Alaric much?” she asks.

“He never wanted to talk. I wish I could have known him better.”

Anwen looks down and whispers, “I really miss him.”

Murchadh moves closer to her and carefully puts his arm over her shoulder. “Tell me about the man you knew.”

Anwen takes a deep breath and sighs. She then begins to tell Murchadh about Alaric: who he was, how he struggled, and how he died. The sun has dried the drew from the leaves by the time her words are exhausted. Murchadh lets silence reign for a few moments, then suggests they join Heulwen and Ainsley in the search even if they know the creature will not be found.

From the first hunting group’s report, Murchadh assumes there will be no tracks to find and, as he and Anwen arrive at the streambank his guess is proven right. For the sake of their own report, he figures they should all make an effort nonetheless. Ainsley and Heulwen have combed the near bank and up the incline by the time Murchadh and Anwen join them, so Murchahd suggests they scour both banks all the way to the waterfall. Anwen and Ainsley hop the thin waterway and trace paths there while Murchadh and Heulwen tackle the near bank. It is high noon by the time they arrive at the waterfall. An incredible roaring fills Murchadh’s ears; the fall rises higher than he can see at its base and is as wide as ten people abreast. Despite the glittering mist, it is surprisingly warm, and Murchadh suggests they stop by the pool to cool down and hydrate.

While his companions are refreshing themselves, Murchadh moves to the rockface beside the waterfall. He leans his forehead against the rock and tries to feel the land around him again. This time it immerses him. The sound of the waterfall rushes through him, washing his mind and soul clean. The solid rock allows him to feel the vibrating pulse of the land around him. He breathes it in, and the feeling holds inside him. He opens his eyes and sees prints by his feet, leading down to the pool; the cloven hoofed prints of a great stag. Murchadh does not know why he had not seen them before. He kneels to feel the grit in which a print is formed. His fingers brush the gravel, but the print remains untouched; he realizes suddenly that its shape glows slightly. Murchadh looks down at the pool, sees the tracks hovering on the surface of the water---then they vanish.

“Well,” mutters Murchadh to himself, “it makes sense: magical creature, magical tracks.”

The hunting group explores the area for a few movements; Murchadh chooses to keep his vision to himself. Long before dusk, they head back to their camp for a leisurely dinner and early sleep. In the morning, after they eat a foraged breakfast, they begin their journey back, and the two days of their trek pass without notable event---even Murcahdh’s dreams are stilled.

They arrive in the Gwaedwn village with light still in the sky and report to Fuldryn, Logain, and Symbre in the chief’s tent. Murchadh takes the lead in the retelling of their experiences, but the others chime in occasionally. Fuldryn asks him about his dream.

Thinking they already suspect his experience with dreams, Murchadh explains without hesitation, “I was with a bunch of versions of me from different points of my life. A copy of us stepped out onto a stage and warned me to be careful how much time I spend walking in my dreams---that if you spend too much time across the veil you lose substance on this side of it. The world within versus the world without.”

“Why might you need that warning?” Fuldryn inquires.

Murchadh looks them straight in the eye. “Crow-watcher may not be the only dreamer in our tribe. In my dreams, too, I am whole; life is better without . . .” he lifts his curled arm, “without the gimp. Anyway,” he says, jumping back into the narrative of their hunt, “we reached the waterfall, but there were no physical signs of the creature.”

“No physical signs?” asks Fuldryn with a hint of an edge. “What about signs that aren’t physical, dreamer?”

Murchadh smiles. “I saw a vision of large stage tracks by the fall. They were spectral; I could not alter them, and they seemed to glow. But then they faded. I doubt they were the tracks of the creature but merely part of the game it is playing.”

“Very interesting,” remarks Fuldryn. “And they simply appeared to you?”

“No,” says Murchadh. “I was taking some time at the waterfall to center myself, to sync with the environment, and was thinking about the creature---what it knows about us, how it has been playing with us since the first hunt.”

Fuldryn’s lighten with sparks of humour. “No vision of birds, or bird spirits?”

“That was all you saw?” interjects Symbre.

“Then we turned back and returned here.”

A silence falls in the tent as the adults exchange significant looks. Murchadh waits to be dismissed. Finally, Logain ushers them out and closes the tent flap behind them. Murchadh heads back to his own tent, for the first time glad that no one in the village has been talking to him. He is wanting to have a very serious conversation with his friend on the other side of the veil; there are some answers he needs.

[kidsviral-blog]

Fireworks And Brimstone: The Personal God Of Katy Perry

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/fireworks-and-brimstone-the-personal-god-of-katy-perry/

Fireworks And Brimstone: The Personal God Of Katy Perry

The pop star’s Pentecostalism asserts that God plays an intimate role in every decision she makes, no matter how large or small.

View this image ›

Jenny Chang / BuzzFeed

What Katy Perry prays for, Katy Perry gets. She was just 11 when she asked God for “boobs so big that I can’t see my feet when I’m lying down.” It was the kind of prayer no one would expect God to take seriously, but Perry hails from a religious background that believes in a God who is eager to answer anyone’s prayers, no matter how small (or, ahem, big), as a way of proving His existence.

It’s the same God Perry prayed to on Feb. 1, when, as a fully grown pop superstar at the height of her career, she performed during halftime of the Super Bowl for an audience of 114 million. “I was praying and I got a word from God and He says, ‘You got this and I got you,'” Perry told Ryan Seacrest days later on the red carpet at the Grammy Awards.

When Perry talks about her relationship with God, it always sounds both personal and somehow refreshing. No other pop star talks about God so regularly and sounds so candid doing it. “I do not believe God is an old guy sitting on a throne with a long beard,” she once told GQ, and it shows. Her God is deeply interested in the details of her personal life, from her Super Bowl performance to her relationships to her cup size.

It’s not strange for someone raised in the Pentecostal church — someone who once said, “Speaking in tongues is as normal to me as ‘pass the salt'” — to feel like her success is the direct result of, and always dependent on, prayer. Her God is deeply invested in individual flourishing and prosperity. And a spirit as colorful as Perry’s would, in some ways, be a natural fit for Pentecostalism, which, with its emphasis on speaking in tongues and boldness in prayer, is one of the more fantastical forms of Christianity.

Kevork Djansezian / Getty Images

Jason Merritt / Getty

  It’s not what good girls do/ Not how they should behave/ My head gets so confused/ Hard to obey –Katy Perry, “I Kissed a Girl”

When “I Kissed a Girl” came out, I was just out of college — a small, Christian liberal arts college in Santa Barbara, Perry’s hometown. I went to a lot of weddings that year (There are a rash of weddings immediately after every Christian college graduation.) We had just graduated from a school that proscribed same-sex relationships, but everyone, young and old alike, was singing along on the dance floor: “It felt so wrong/ It felt so right/ Don’t mean I’m in love tonight.” Such was the broad appeal of Katy Perry.

She’s the closest thing we’ve got to a human emoticon — a totally lovable, expressive, candy-colored wink to pop culture. A word you keep coming across when reading about Perry is “cartoonish.” And cartoonish works for her image, but what it doesn’t do is tell us much about the person underneath the persona. “I have always been this character,” she told Glamour in 2010, “but I kind of cartoon-ized myself a little bit [in my stage persona]. So when someone really likes me, it’s like [she mimes opening a curtain] here comes a person! I wonder if you can handle this.”

Born Katheryn Elizabeth Hudson (she changed her last name to avoid being confused with the actress Kate Hudson) in Santa Barbara, California, in 1984, Perry’s childhood was tumultuous. Her parents, Keith and Mary Hudson, were Pentecostal preachers who moved wherever they felt the Holy Spirit call them, eventually settling back into Santa Barbara, where they founded the now-defunct Oasis Christian Center. “We were traveling all the time,” Angela Hudson, Katy’s older sister, said in the 2012 documentary Katy Perry: Part of Me. A traveling pastor’s salary — even doubled — isn’t much to survive on, so Perry’s family would occasionally eat from the food bank their church stocked. Katy, Angela, and their younger brother, David, weren’t allowed to eat Lucky Charms (“Luck” was too reminiscent of “Lucifer”) and had to call deviled eggs “angel eggs.”

It would be another 10 years before Keith Hudson would call his daughter a “devil child” in a sermon, and those 10 years held a world of change.

Katy Perry, like most of us, contains multitudes. The year she turned 16, she lost her virginity in Nashville in the front seat of a Volvo. The same year, she released Katy Hudson, an album of contemporary Christian music with songs like “My Own Monster” and lyrics like “Where can I go where can I hide from these evil sufferings?/ Oh these images painted on my walls/ They say there’s a place that I can hide in the shadow of your wings/ Oh Lord, bring me to this place of refuge.”

It’s precisely this tension between pastor’s daughter and good girl gone bad that makes Perry so intriguing — and, at first blush, cartoonish. But there’s a lot more under the surface, both to her appeal and to her life. “People love the story of good girl gone bad,” she said in Part of Me, “and they think my parents have disowned me, but that’s not the story at all.”

Keith and Mary Hudson have lived lives that evangelical Christians love to hear about, of the “I once was lost but now I’m found” variety. He played tambourine with Sly & the Family Stone and took LSD; she danced with Jimi Hendrix and got married in Zimbabwe, but was divorced before she met Keith. They became Christians and planted churches together across America while their children were young, preaching to new crowds on a weekly basis. There is a moment in Part of Me when we see Keith Hudson in front of a group of people in a small church with an eagle emblem on the wall behind him and, above it, the phrase “DECLARE HIS WORD IN ACTION.” He owns the room, as charismatic preachers do.

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Amazon

A hallmark of the charismatic church is the belief in an active, intimately involved God. Stanford anthropologist Tanya Luhrmann wrote a book about the American evangelical relationship with God, When God Talks Back. “Over the last few decades,” she writes, “this generation of Americans has sought out an intensely personal God; a God who not only cares about your welfare, but worries with you about whether to paint the kitchen table.” This upbringing has undoubtedly influenced Perry as it has so many of the faithful; to them, God isn’t a distant grandfather type but an omnipotent being who has an opinion about every possible decision they have to make, no matter how small.

When Perry talks about praying before her Super Bowl performance, she is talking about (and to) this kind of God. The charismatic God “really is unconditionally loving,” says Luhrmann over the phone from her home. He’s “a loving God and a buddy God…people do this back and forth when they’re talking to God, the way two young girls talk to each other. They’re sharing everything.”

Another observation Luhrmann makes is how much some charismatic worship songs “are almost sexual, with a touch so light that the suggestion could slip past.” She cites the song “Dwell,” which includes a line, addressed to God, in which the supplicants ask the man upstairs to “Come and have your way.” Perry subverts images and practices in this way — from religious to sexual — on her song “Spiritual,” from Prism: “Lay me down at your altar, baby/ I’m a slave to this love/ Your electric lips have got me speaking in tongues.”

Perry regularly incorporates her religious background into her public persona, whether she’s performing or on the red carpet or writing song lyrics. Rather than run from questions of faith, she embraces them in the same way she responds to queries about her family — with nuance. Her songs often point to what evangelicals would call “a hunger for something more,” whether it be the deep questioning from “Lost” (“So if I pray, am I just sending words into outer space?”), the Biblical reference in “Who Am I Living For?” (“So I pray for a favor like Esther/ I need your strength to handle the pressure”), or the sexual overtones of “Spiritual” (“Lost in sweet ecstasy/ Found a nirvana finally”). She has managed to integrate prayer and meditation, speaking in tongues and singing to arenas, support for LGBT rights and an open line to a personal God.

giphy.com

giphy.com

  One of the most affecting things about Katy Perry — something that is easy to overlook at first glance, but impossible to ignore as you spend time learning about her — is her vulnerability. I suspect it’s part of what makes her music so moving to her devoted fans, and it’s also what lets her get away with her cartoonish persona. Perry performed a medley of hit songs at the Super Bowl halftime show, complete with dancing sharks and costume changes, and turned around a week later and sang about overcoming suicidal thoughts at the Grammys in a relatively minimalistic performance. In that song, “By the Grace of God,” Perry recalls her frame of mind just after then-husband Russell Brand left her: “By the grace of God (there was no other way)/ I picked myself back up (I knew I had to stay)/ And put one foot in front of the other/ And I looked in the mirror and decided to stay.”

It’s a far cry from Katy Hudson’s Christian music album, which was written with about as much vulnerability as a phone book. But there’s something human in the fact that it’s taken some time for Perry to bare her inner life to the public. It’s a scary thing to write about one’s fragile mental state; scarier even than singing about kissing girls. (Although that proved difficult for Perry, too, who asked her sister to tell their parents that “I Kissed a Girl” was going to be her first single.)

The charismatic church presents a friendly God because it is concerned primarily that people might not know God at all, that they might be put off by an angry God. Where other denominations, like the Southern Baptists, are most focused on making sure people aren’t heretics, the charismatic church, to put it crudely, wants to make sure that people believe. That is both a cause and result of their conception of God as unconditionally loving, and unconditional love is a prominent theme in Perry’s music. Her song “Unconditionally” was written for John Mayer after their first breakup.

To talk about your own need for unconditional love — and your willingness to love unconditionally — is this really vulnerable thing. It’s rooted, for Perry, in this idea that God is all-loving and very close, not judging you but ready to hear whatever is on your heart, even when what’s on your heart is only pain. There was a scene in Part of Me where Katy, hours before a sold-out performance, is sobbing alone in a chair. Her marriage has started to fall apart, but she hasn’t told anyone in her inner circle. They fret about her, ask her if she wants to cancel, offer her water and a washcloth. Like many of us, she doesn’t really know what she needs.

In March 2013, Mary Hudson published an article on Charisma magazine’s website titled “How to Pray for your Prodigal.” Aside from an author bio at the beginning, Hudson never name-checks her famous daughter. “Satan’s assault on our youth is relentless,” she writes, and makes mention of the evils found in “movies, television, music and the Internet.” But, in a kind of unexpected and sweet aside, she also encourages parents not to hound their unbelieving or wayward children: “The people around you, including your child or unsaved relative, are not the ones who need to hear your prayers. Only God needs to hear them.”

“You just love her,” Perry’s mother says in Part of Me. “No matter what she was doing or what she was singing about, she’s just a blessing.”

Though public perception of Perry’s faith has led some to view her like an alien who has successfully adopted the form of a human being — “How did a fire-and-brimstone-preacher’s daughter become America’s sexiest pop star?” Rolling Stone asked — her life and lyrics point to an answer: “With help from my buddy God.”

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/lauraturner/katy-perry-god

[kidsviral-blog]

Fireworks And Brimstone: The Personal God Of Katy Perry

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/fireworks-and-brimstone-the-personal-god-of-katy-perry/

Fireworks And Brimstone: The Personal God Of Katy Perry

The pop star’s Pentecostalism asserts that God plays an intimate role in every decision she makes, no matter how large or small.

View this image ›

Jenny Chang / BuzzFeed

What Katy Perry prays for, Katy Perry gets. She was just 11 when she asked God for “boobs so big that I can’t see my feet when I’m lying down.” It was the kind of prayer no one would expect God to take seriously, but Perry hails from a religious background that believes in a God who is eager to answer anyone’s prayers, no matter how small (or, ahem, big), as a way of proving His existence.

It’s the same God Perry prayed to on Feb. 1, when, as a fully grown pop superstar at the height of her career, she performed during halftime of the Super Bowl for an audience of 114 million. “I was praying and I got a word from God and He says, ‘You got this and I got you,'” Perry told Ryan Seacrest days later on the red carpet at the Grammy Awards.

When Perry talks about her relationship with God, it always sounds both personal and somehow refreshing. No other pop star talks about God so regularly and sounds so candid doing it. “I do not believe God is an old guy sitting on a throne with a long beard,” she once told GQ, and it shows. Her God is deeply interested in the details of her personal life, from her Super Bowl performance to her relationships to her cup size.

It’s not strange for someone raised in the Pentecostal church — someone who once said, “Speaking in tongues is as normal to me as ‘pass the salt'” — to feel like her success is the direct result of, and always dependent on, prayer. Her God is deeply invested in individual flourishing and prosperity. And a spirit as colorful as Perry’s would, in some ways, be a natural fit for Pentecostalism, which, with its emphasis on speaking in tongues and boldness in prayer, is one of the more fantastical forms of Christianity.

Kevork Djansezian / Getty Images

Jason Merritt / Getty

  It’s not what good girls do/ Not how they should behave/ My head gets so confused/ Hard to obey –Katy Perry, “I Kissed a Girl”

When “I Kissed a Girl” came out, I was just out of college — a small, Christian liberal arts college in Santa Barbara, Perry’s hometown. I went to a lot of weddings that year (There are a rash of weddings immediately after every Christian college graduation.) We had just graduated from a school that proscribed same-sex relationships, but everyone, young and old alike, was singing along on the dance floor: “It felt so wrong/ It felt so right/ Don’t mean I’m in love tonight.” Such was the broad appeal of Katy Perry.

She’s the closest thing we’ve got to a human emoticon — a totally lovable, expressive, candy-colored wink to pop culture. A word you keep coming across when reading about Perry is “cartoonish.” And cartoonish works for her image, but what it doesn’t do is tell us much about the person underneath the persona. “I have always been this character,” she told Glamour in 2010, “but I kind of cartoon-ized myself a little bit [in my stage persona]. So when someone really likes me, it’s like [she mimes opening a curtain] here comes a person! I wonder if you can handle this.”

Born Katheryn Elizabeth Hudson (she changed her last name to avoid being confused with the actress Kate Hudson) in Santa Barbara, California, in 1984, Perry’s childhood was tumultuous. Her parents, Keith and Mary Hudson, were Pentecostal preachers who moved wherever they felt the Holy Spirit call them, eventually settling back into Santa Barbara, where they founded the now-defunct Oasis Christian Center. “We were traveling all the time,” Angela Hudson, Katy’s older sister, said in the 2012 documentary Katy Perry: Part of Me. A traveling pastor’s salary — even doubled — isn’t much to survive on, so Perry’s family would occasionally eat from the food bank their church stocked. Katy, Angela, and their younger brother, David, weren’t allowed to eat Lucky Charms (“Luck” was too reminiscent of “Lucifer”) and had to call deviled eggs “angel eggs.”

It would be another 10 years before Keith Hudson would call his daughter a “devil child” in a sermon, and those 10 years held a world of change.

Katy Perry, like most of us, contains multitudes. The year she turned 16, she lost her virginity in Nashville in the front seat of a Volvo. The same year, she released Katy Hudson, an album of contemporary Christian music with songs like “My Own Monster” and lyrics like “Where can I go where can I hide from these evil sufferings?/ Oh these images painted on my walls/ They say there’s a place that I can hide in the shadow of your wings/ Oh Lord, bring me to this place of refuge.”

It’s precisely this tension between pastor’s daughter and good girl gone bad that makes Perry so intriguing — and, at first blush, cartoonish. But there’s a lot more under the surface, both to her appeal and to her life. “People love the story of good girl gone bad,” she said in Part of Me, “and they think my parents have disowned me, but that’s not the story at all.”

Keith and Mary Hudson have lived lives that evangelical Christians love to hear about, of the “I once was lost but now I’m found” variety. He played tambourine with Sly & the Family Stone and took LSD; she danced with Jimi Hendrix and got married in Zimbabwe, but was divorced before she met Keith. They became Christians and planted churches together across America while their children were young, preaching to new crowds on a weekly basis. There is a moment in Part of Me when we see Keith Hudson in front of a group of people in a small church with an eagle emblem on the wall behind him and, above it, the phrase “DECLARE HIS WORD IN ACTION.” He owns the room, as charismatic preachers do.

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A hallmark of the charismatic church is the belief in an active, intimately involved God. Stanford anthropologist Tanya Luhrmann wrote a book about the American evangelical relationship with God, When God Talks Back. “Over the last few decades,” she writes, “this generation of Americans has sought out an intensely personal God; a God who not only cares about your welfare, but worries with you about whether to paint the kitchen table.” This upbringing has undoubtedly influenced Perry as it has so many of the faithful; to them, God isn’t a distant grandfather type but an omnipotent being who has an opinion about every possible decision they have to make, no matter how small.

When Perry talks about praying before her Super Bowl performance, she is talking about (and to) this kind of God. The charismatic God “really is unconditionally loving,” says Luhrmann over the phone from her home. He’s “a loving God and a buddy God…people do this back and forth when they’re talking to God, the way two young girls talk to each other. They’re sharing everything.”

Another observation Luhrmann makes is how much some charismatic worship songs “are almost sexual, with a touch so light that the suggestion could slip past.” She cites the song “Dwell,” which includes a line, addressed to God, in which the supplicants ask the man upstairs to “Come and have your way.” Perry subverts images and practices in this way — from religious to sexual — on her song “Spiritual,” from Prism: “Lay me down at your altar, baby/ I’m a slave to this love/ Your electric lips have got me speaking in tongues.”

Perry regularly incorporates her religious background into her public persona, whether she’s performing or on the red carpet or writing song lyrics. Rather than run from questions of faith, she embraces them in the same way she responds to queries about her family — with nuance. Her songs often point to what evangelicals would call “a hunger for something more,” whether it be the deep questioning from “Lost” (“So if I pray, am I just sending words into outer space?”), the Biblical reference in “Who Am I Living For?” (“So I pray for a favor like Esther/ I need your strength to handle the pressure”), or the sexual overtones of “Spiritual” (“Lost in sweet ecstasy/ Found a nirvana finally”). She has managed to integrate prayer and meditation, speaking in tongues and singing to arenas, support for LGBT rights and an open line to a personal God.

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  One of the most affecting things about Katy Perry — something that is easy to overlook at first glance, but impossible to ignore as you spend time learning about her — is her vulnerability. I suspect it’s part of what makes her music so moving to her devoted fans, and it’s also what lets her get away with her cartoonish persona. Perry performed a medley of hit songs at the Super Bowl halftime show, complete with dancing sharks and costume changes, and turned around a week later and sang about overcoming suicidal thoughts at the Grammys in a relatively minimalistic performance. In that song, “By the Grace of God,” Perry recalls her frame of mind just after then-husband Russell Brand left her: “By the grace of God (there was no other way)/ I picked myself back up (I knew I had to stay)/ And put one foot in front of the other/ And I looked in the mirror and decided to stay.”

It’s a far cry from Katy Hudson’s Christian music album, which was written with about as much vulnerability as a phone book. But there’s something human in the fact that it’s taken some time for Perry to bare her inner life to the public. It’s a scary thing to write about one’s fragile mental state; scarier even than singing about kissing girls. (Although that proved difficult for Perry, too, who asked her sister to tell their parents that “I Kissed a Girl” was going to be her first single.)

The charismatic church presents a friendly God because it is concerned primarily that people might not know God at all, that they might be put off by an angry God. Where other denominations, like the Southern Baptists, are most focused on making sure people aren’t heretics, the charismatic church, to put it crudely, wants to make sure that people believe. That is both a cause and result of their conception of God as unconditionally loving, and unconditional love is a prominent theme in Perry’s music. Her song “Unconditionally” was written for John Mayer after their first breakup.

To talk about your own need for unconditional love — and your willingness to love unconditionally — is this really vulnerable thing. It’s rooted, for Perry, in this idea that God is all-loving and very close, not judging you but ready to hear whatever is on your heart, even when what’s on your heart is only pain. There was a scene in Part of Me where Katy, hours before a sold-out performance, is sobbing alone in a chair. Her marriage has started to fall apart, but she hasn’t told anyone in her inner circle. They fret about her, ask her if she wants to cancel, offer her water and a washcloth. Like many of us, she doesn’t really know what she needs.

In March 2013, Mary Hudson published an article on Charisma magazine’s website titled “How to Pray for your Prodigal.” Aside from an author bio at the beginning, Hudson never name-checks her famous daughter. “Satan’s assault on our youth is relentless,” she writes, and makes mention of the evils found in “movies, television, music and the Internet.” But, in a kind of unexpected and sweet aside, she also encourages parents not to hound their unbelieving or wayward children: “The people around you, including your child or unsaved relative, are not the ones who need to hear your prayers. Only God needs to hear them.”

“You just love her,” Perry’s mother says in Part of Me. “No matter what she was doing or what she was singing about, she’s just a blessing.”

Though public perception of Perry’s faith has led some to view her like an alien who has successfully adopted the form of a human being — “How did a fire-and-brimstone-preacher’s daughter become America’s sexiest pop star?” Rolling Stone asked — her life and lyrics point to an answer: “With help from my buddy God.”

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/lauraturner/katy-perry-god