#I've trained myself to resort to shadow and I need to get out of that

[luv-again]

we are not talking abt the fact I'm using shadamytober as writing practice for amy's pov in SLI no we are not

[stromuprisahat]

Second Army disorganization

Siege and Storm- Chapter 14

One of the most frustrating and famously nonsensical passages of Grisha trilogy, easily explained through doylist approach- the author's inability to write strategy or politics and demands of the genre, requiring a weak, unfit heroine to defeat immensely powerful opponent way out of her league:

Alina: Oh no, they dare to oppose me again! :(

Isn't that why would you want to establish a council in the first place? So you get constructive criticism and suggestions to do things better?!

My objections to the notion Alina came up with representation of Grisha can't be more obvious:

Army is a structured organization. There are ranks and councils by default. No amount of ignorant teens will persuade me calling it "Second" makes it otherwise.

Any big organization has a structure. Even if Second Army were only about education, there would be councils and posts on different levels. Hell, school system works that way.

Alina: I'm gonna have the useless ones represented, because we're not doing things like the Darkling, but that doesn't mean I'll respect them myself or abandon my prejudices. Fucking nerds. Weidos...

Another YA nonsense- you cannot put people into categories based on their physical predispositions, and expect the mental ones to fit accordingly. You can have a huge, muscled guy, skilled in delicate handiwork. You can have a tiny wisp of a girl beating the living shit out of you (popular trope by itself).

Now why should sensitivity to metals get you a spot in labs, if you're a strategic genius? Or incredibly skilled, witty rhetorician? Isn't it more likely you'd be required to complete basic training to stay healthy and prevent accidentally endangering others, while being assigned to whatever you're most useful at?

And what about those weak or less intelligent ones? Are they bringing coffee and arranging entertainment?!

It also fits this fan interpretation, that Materialki are often neuro-divegent, so they are tend to be kept away from battle for their own sake.

Alina wasn't involved in practical running of Second Army before. Just because she doesn't know about something, it's not a totally fresh idea.

I'd be afraid of a girl, who almost murdered a bunch of people for asking questions, too.

At this point, I'm gonna run with the idea that all the older Grisha are torn between face-palming and silently laughing their assess off (so Alina doesn't overhear and her clique doesn't resort to violence).

“But what do they do in there?” I asked, not entirely sure I wanted to hear the answer. “Only the Corporalki know. But there are rumors that they’ve been working with the Fabrikators on new … experiments.”

Shadow and Bone- Chapter 8

... and that says nothing about the field, or the little groups in noble houses. People tend to stick together with their own, when in strange enviroment. I'm sure such bonds dissolve immediately after their return "home".

I've also delved a little into the sitting order here.

A few lines earlier, Alina noted Materialki didn't show up to complain. Who is so horrified then?! Not them, for sure.

Ironically, this fits into Fabricator-brain theory linked above AND the most logical explanation- Materialki have basic self-defense training, but only those, who are able to, continue. Alina isn't particularly friendly with any of them, so how would she know no one had EVER bothered to teach them? Alright, there are none in her class, but as far as we know, it consists of a Squaller, an Inferni and a Heartrender. Not the most saying sample.

Having a third of all Grisha helpless doesn't fit into the picture of Aleksander's leadership:

“That’s what Botkin always says. ‘Not showy, just to make pain,’” I said, imitating the mercenary’s heavy accent. “Smart guy.” “The Darkling doesn’t think Grisha should rely on their powers for defense.”

Shadow and Bone- Chapter 17

You don't have to become another Bruce Lee, you only need a chance, when they drag you out of bed in the middle of the night.

What tradition?

This is rather well-written group of angry, disorganized people. It might start with a reasonable goal, but soon everyone talks about something else than others, and the message gets lost in the noise.

Tradition doesn't equal "the way things are done". Neither of them is the same as "the need for structure and people knowing their places". The third one is a legitimate concern, although one could argue it's exactly what Alina's attempting.

This whole scene very much reads like:

The author is desperate to prove the Heroine isn't quite useless- she has good ideas! Look! *whacks a hundreds of years old stategist and survivor par excellence with stupid stick*

[bellarkeex]

Treacherous [Cardan POV]

My interpretation of Cardan's POV from the night he wrote the Alice in Wonderland note. Jude. Jude. Jude.

☾ warnings: confused yearning cardan, not sure there is any?, mention of drink & powders, not explict smutty dream

☾ read on ao3: here.

☾ wc: 1036

“Oh, Cardan.” Her sighs echo into the shadowed trees around us.

I grip at every piece of skin I can reach. Though she is below me, I am the one drowning in her presence. Blissfully unaware to any semblance of touch except nails digging into my back, the hot shallow breaths on my neck, and her warmth I am repeatedly sinking into. Little bruises had begun to show on her collar bone and if one were to look carefully, more would be found on her inner thighs.

My stomach twisting at every little sound which escapes her mouth, urging myself on in hope to be blessed with more.

My name on her lips, I know this would be my undoing. What would finally drive me into madness. The becoming of a mere beggar, my only wish to hear her say my name. No matter whether whispered and breathless. Hell, in this nightmare, I’d settle for it being screamed in rage.

⋆⁺⋆⋆⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺

It was not always like this.

Many times, she had surrendered to him, the only words the mortal girl dare to utter being pleas. Begging for him to do many improper things to her. Acts which would seem unbefitting to any other respected prince. Yet, he was not that kind of prince, and such acts were expected of him by now.

Oh, Cardan please. She would beg. It is your mercy I am at.

⋆⁺⋆⋆⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺

Another countless consecutive night, I’ve awoke from a fitful sleep. Restful nights have become a luxury I don’t often receive without, what others would call, an obscene amount of drink or powders. But no amount drink nor powders could free me from this torment.

I’m unsure how long I lay breathless among ruined sweat-soaked sheets before I rip them from my body, recoiling from the bed. Relieved to feel the cool of the wood chain press against my back, instead of the stick of linen.

This is entirely absurd and should be the least of my worries. My supposed girlfriend is frolicking around with my apparent best friend, and I cannot even get a simple mortal to leave me in a moment’s peace.

I fail in my attempt to disregard my most recent horror, memories forcing me to recall each moment. I need to forget each one. But I cannot. I remember them all.

Breath fails me just as much as forgetting does, I cannot go on like this. I am entirely restless.

Jude. She's just a blip. Her sad short mortal life merely just a chapter in comparison to my immortal one, I remind myself. She'll be gone before I've even noticed the years have passed. Jude. Gone. Buried beneath the strange mortal soil in which she came from. Gone and everything will be as though my mind was never plagued.

And yet even now after she's vanished, she remains remembered by the land. Her mark clinging onto the earth. The earth clinging onto her. Jude. As though she's supposed to be here.

But she's not.

It is unsettling, unnatural.

My skin itches whenever her & her twins’ blanket is a foot too close to ours, but she's not even here and I feel like I'm on fire. Invisible flame biting at my skin, engulfing my heart and shooting down to my gut. An appallingly disgusting sensation that cannot be properly explained to those unknowing of the feeling.

I fear I may lash out at any moment. A tamed animal resorting back to its feral ways, and she knows.

She knows; because she is the same. Nothing more than a dog trained to not bite the hand that feeds it. But every so often, something must give.

And something has.

Despite my, as of late highly frequent, delirious state there is no mistaking the gradual slip of her façade. Unbridle rage replacing usual strategic indifference. And though that rage is evidently directed at me, I would be unable to say I’m not intrigued. Intrigued by what she could possibly be mad about? Wondering of what sets her soul alight.

It is depraved, treacherous even, and I cannot contain this. I cannot shape this into a calculated void.

The blank papers sprawled before me on the desk seem to perfectly mirror my deteriorating mental state.

I am not sure if out of sheer anger or desperate yearning for relief, I feel I must write. Attempting to free my mind of every thought it holds.

I need it gone. All of it.

Could all be fixed if she was out of my sight?

I finish one page after another, only stopping when ink begins to leak uncontrolled from the battered end of the pen. I vacantly acknowledge the distant cramping of my fingers, slowly regaining focus.

Beyond some daze, I’m aware of what I've written. Aware of what I have wasted my parchment on.

Etched in ink that has smeared along the pages, onto my fingertips and the desk below me, is her. Jude. I can only stare at her name on the paper below me. Her odd, rounded name to match her odd, rounded ears. Jude.

In spite of my overly warm skin and unruly appearance, a strange serenity clouds my previous spiralling thoughts. Calm slips into the air around me.

But I don't welcome the feeling.

I don't wish to understand it. I don't wish to see it.

Before another thought can begin to plague me, I brush the stained bits of paper in to the first book I reach for – slamming it shut so hard a few stray pencils clatter to the ground, chasing a few stay pages of truth that avoided being encased inside the book. I’d have to remember to burn them later.

Only after a minute do I read the cover of the book beneath my hands. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass.

I almost laugh, as though some sick and twisted work of fate had given me the book itself, deciding to place it in my hands personally. The mortal book I got from my sister. The book my sister got from Judes sister.

I refuse to acknowledge it.

And yet, her name lingers on my fingertips as it lingers on the lands – even after she's gone.

☾ there was definitely more than one jude note, our man was feral for her