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libidomechanica · 6 months

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Of Ida: they quicken

A rispetto sequence

The smart of two gold. Forget the sky! Then why do you still, devouring hounds, love within a dream within who fled. Peace, foolish with

the twilight. And he could opens forth afresh—Desire doubt to which done, forbid! You run away in thee, the whisper, not any.

And who keeping her country people might I call her long alone The crane, ’ I said he, he revere: imaginations of Eloquence?

Being stood among man! Very weel aff and trembleth only fier, strikes each puree, our soul began to burn away heals his rich.

Easy live an equal share their eares you praise their myriad voices instinct, flagged, and out, and there, as with hard by publish thy

dayly-vexing cauld, survive not this island. If rule by force inscription of thy silv’ry feet my still e’en the raise; but Cloe not paint.

With some man is always approaches, paints now to blende, rag and part; anothers ever bell? Thus faults, whom we canna be the letters?

Of the phrase but marked her duty duty, clear that the churchyard trees were but beauty with Cyril and aye? Ah, what I should grieve and pure.

Sparkling ayre all at once, this change to sea. If in my thou shame, nor friendship tell calls her some night; but my arms I thought a kiss shouts,

I must read the sleeves o’ nonsense and green complexion seek, and fired. Corn bows all the bell, and lusters to reach in the one in part.

For a meadows of truth come, will love me—toll the name. Have the bastioned walls so costly bribe. At last, my other winters shallowes

my ear; but we set forth, and brings. Or some in mind, fortune may live and said One who never watch the strict sense! She a wintry sky.

And the roar of a windy shore, and sweeps away she went. Then she had looks anoint me, gang by virgins o’er theories, that heavenly

features the ocean is, there is too young to builds a beauty made when I scorn of loue, cease, a hard to show my heart. Have walking.

In the exhaust pipe an’ drum we’ll well near the window be, it is! My wealth no stouter we asked professors. As the humming to building

words that it once seen of God, nor of her smilde where fountain and chafe and pith to make my old excuse of chess won’t let us here!

For, like to take all that th’ unkindness our device; wrought of the deepe move: for trumpets sound of all.—By stirred by the two are set

it freely near your granted was; since that are only child: yet Helene, love Frankenstein! I let me tell whether round him on my strand!

Keeping to thought and fallen from a sip of Beauty—Beauty, midnight, I murmur of this blessed you tonight, there; he grafts upon the

rose was wildly clad; hers more than wealth, worth, wide world—ah me! And kick your faith, like and yet testifying restless bilious—but oh!

Your lawns and the wind wild beasts, ranged alone among then they: alas the pure in my breast. ’ Your loving: o, but I’ll come to ye, my lassie,

dinna cry. Where blitheful, while. You say well; for that look at it pricking headlong thy Face from a sort of hotel. Wild to flow.

Breast indecent Hunger seizes up and to famous executives who bewailest for your bonie break of day let the proud as horse

emotion; and learnt our sweet and merry may blessed at a’! So we came instead with you not formost play so, she wrote, in high or low.

Back to her than I. I hid my love, you read it do, or the king. Is more supper they did; but some and her, look I see them mastered

round him from the rosebuds which way is home? Close that moment at my hair it is gifted, it might to the lover, were string the blood?

Hearts, no praises shall slumber? Too became, in the canna hae luve wi’ the bed to me. ’ With the light, not Momus self doth possessed. Was

drown all hell whether of corn bows all her year all her hangs free; a prince that its breast, till either mouth sips: Ay, in their claes, or doth go.

And along thy outward walls I stamp of her sent a ring—a little green hill or physics! Not one with this crystal stones for the world

they left in fooles mouth sips: Ay, in the day believed in not they transparents grudge, muscles running Time is with your froward you too.

Since to win her knows not eares hung. I now those expressing, drunk as death into my great whales and blowing airs. Or else to be more

dying, dying. By my heavy Saturday in June? No doome show’d; from the Croft were as prompt to kneel, and the moon shone that loved us.

And had been absent in this, now sucks throwing: astrophel with windlas so; that I must go, to move, thyself and trentall sum my counts

her own clear with her glossy ravens on things from the Bliss that which she had done perchance he had dream with the muscle and love, but work.

But thought foot on my cradle shone through his delights would honestly buy, if you ask myself if thine own influence of melody

in the meadow kit foxes craving, nor snakes in the man. Sigh and bone recouers, but we thread, while ye may, go marry, if I could do.

From eyes twinkle twixt mine he took his sceptre like Heaven’ he added shape, a bough, and euen hell on stilts its only one to aggravate

the soon awake, as thine and fair. To the Spring of amber failing: the land, he candle in love depend on Fortune’s shining?

Their malice? Soul and still share the pure and glanced that a chiel sae clever; the deserve to pick up. Words are allotted to me was no

opening heart in little grace might be sinne which so longed to one, and all around him from that was ten color and she was a song.

Have when spring in the almost, yet, if examined, it is with separate palms tip toward minds out grasp them were gray. In the road beside

her sliding a cockney ear. That be still with a rancorous cry, at war with chat. Is it, then worst, I cannons loud alarms to do.

Come, degenerations married at you didn’t care. The sea, dragging his gilt-head cane, and even the stone, I see what he sped to move,

that all. The woods they stand I the driven snaw, twa drifted clear of evening to make folke bow: of fountains of the land air! Fears better?

Then sun is his braine of the morning again, I am shame; my eyes But it is like all the shadow of this after than other

tongue there, I notice him who’s she, or sung and all claim his bridegroom, weel aff, Woo’d and scar for hours! When the ones moan; long prayers for it.

The first day home, he’s been clear within whose smiles to part—but so it was stung; where the windy night drown all its eunuchs too, lest thou dost

most of one so bright deeds a Tyrans make me to describe, unless silence. That our loving, earth, and the Heaven of dearer than I.

Might persuade myself, nor the classic Angel speak, how long alone dwell and twines, in the bed baith like the sand, small words the liberties;

there is a paint. Let but the half the ravenous and jewel set in the cottage was a time she errs, but bland then hastily spake.

’ To me, and braes, wi’ mae nor me. Forget till fault there’s genial genitals have actually like me, loveling lyre upon you

and my incurable rose waues in sun her smiled, full-blown, before fly; I hid my heart I offer still seat you pattern of Mortal!

My poor little days dragged sloped to make each was deeme these rude bones to proued. For want to kiss against his skull had our two bodies’ force

in tightened with spirit fold, hersel very faire, how tender truest bands: striving was, blue-eyed, and very ears between syl-lables!

The latest, Juan looked as horses be; and went sings here you stick your bonie lass that light: who know. And that which birth to discontent with erring

it up like to the weird seizure came on flower, little than a cubit in me and tears, I’ve shunned soul shalt have we went away?

Not oft the Lass of Albany. Only faut is lame, the people call, all was Indignation, and I the drown thine thee. The Princess

shouldn’t watched you love our backs with his foretell, sweet whispered: and you brought a kiss upon our dear, was hidden pride Thus truly, waking coals.

Marriage; scarce stauncht they stand, year upon earth could have my bride once yet! My lad. It would prevailed to standing pleasure, conveys it in a

dawn that Star was they close in their welfare is cold, thy wooing voices instinct, flagged, and his radiant friendship is seeking us, learn.

My Muse, you, dearer than an April shroud; then ye comes to use him, and I defaced. Before than one, Her Grace, this horse we go withstand,

below! You many time were a room to rent the same. A woman broke out in a country people in long along thy Fathers sleep.

When there; he grafts upon his face enioyeth, but my poor Love, rather tolerant enchanted is, I feel my mind. To recommeth his

pide weed, my lassie thocht na lang till strong; I love you go. Has yields: my Lady Ida’s youth: they harped on high. Struggling in the sadness.

My genitals have cost, of more is none saved, and go, thou love the chance your great pitty? Man who had sailed to flowers, like to duct tape

there difficult to spell, small course begin to raise, once mind like a girl, for all loose vnchastitie, with windows in curles are hushed grasses.

The last we think that eve we went, and splendour pluck the words thou may fail; then come bay-window from that never saw the glow of a

desperate I better, thought back down. ’ Fathers of hemlock; our daysleep, in this answered, but it must not well, the mansion some more dying.

Let Love must be but in my arms. The sand, and come and married and a wretches, paints now unto me; love for to laugh, while ye may, go

marry. Woo’d and blade, betray my noble tears; and fly, ’ she went away, child we lost to the hush’d, and the vain to thought of Albany.

Or seldom seen of my House, lights quiver as it yesterday? At a Draught will be! And why we calls, the mother and said … Nay, we are

ten fretful as that through the pain … Do whatever you, w’are met, just once so deare, they fused the kings. Once deadest thou nothing, flies, nor thee.

And now I have street half a service, none saved? The lands, in vertue lame; that, self-deceives, and that favouritism. That made of which done,

for that she were fair, as I write. And tempting plague to Loue doth growing: astrophel, sayd she, or Vileness that be i’ th’ fire.

But, child … that pine to my very weel waled were enough! Than Heav’n, and thing alive enough the world was not in other sliding in

that, he on her as on a strange to say, the bride: then fraught will heart, with wine were live with here; by no encroachment wrong man in a bore.

And swift up the cruel is shed. Remembered by so small and they have drawn after than wearing cry: every rafter will be born whom Loue

did not be hardly do we affection will be born of a photo booth. With the Day became heavy next to use him, he the North.

Witch, your mother came Cyril, and, Julia, do but this our bedded with Learning at the rose that which reward secure his head? She year,

the sky. And almost blue Cupid, hauing me on fireside, wi’ twa white girl—she would be; thought here thou dost seen your gentle cannot buy?

We stood with his captain, a padded be, and o’er all their shaped to me. And simper amorous cry, at war with a song them glide, like

to laugh’d and equipp’d a Camel, and long low sibilation impossible and I’ve had dreams, goodnight of naught healthfull caustiks, blame?

Alas, ye’ve ruin’d me. The feather, look as yet the wholesale common sense, or am I sick to the lingered the wakeful anguishments

of each into thee. A thousand me: for her in the season, and ambrosia, mix the not thy nail in bloom the metaphysics!

I hate but reach shall seek to her, comfort her, Prince, ’ he said for I am underneath my mother, leander, who causes my soul

struggling in the windy hill. My mother’s dearie; the linger her Heaven’ he added sharper sense and by your elbow as I am?

Years old; and all I nurse in the dye of her Moon and then the glory in the sense the strapped their prayers; my mother’s holland she went.

Set in my pouch I had joined slackly, we behold it the rapid tide, that fosters and the heavy with lots of talk; nothing, dying.

To give and mine: but we three decker’s oaken spine athwart then stept a buxom hostel, call not; we ourself the wet feather. For you

half-words of this! And a mulberry and also her song, my free lovers to the God could that all as endless moon too became her.

The Death into my birth I spake of the Northern empire pray your lives away down, and clear. Outlasts us all hear each shall for

clarification. And hands repeated shoulder. My young, consider how—not a whirlwind: then, would part, and weary I though my fill.

With some say, for the two are in her pictur’d-forth to die; and suffer here was a child ephemerald and turn to sun, could be lynched

in all: wreck upon, and rain. On night dead; strong to do with the lass made the same, else laws of them when it grows upon your bonie laddie dear.

As I wanderer would wed, my father well picture to the object of insult let us away! You run away art resent

still break from him to past. Yet in a cloud divide in Marses livelier nor Gotterdammerung but all the Courtesies of those.

Getting her cheek: its sad courage and Lion—let not yet may live with so well, and to me. Singing: Here came, and hand intend, let not

only be that is with a thumbnail— brined and ruffled by the holding written by iron, by the mind, and rose-trees wet with man.

But sorrow, a rule by force in a dreams and hounds, by unions married thee, vnto Dianaes traine to ask the world aught waiter sailboats they

say; come! Body join’d to body, which glibly glided in the memory—odours, whence after I am may cease to see and left.

Till these, whose body, but now such vngratefulnesse? We were not say I have drawn after you’re while thy guided were gladly speak my name

should, by being to the winds used to greeted by what she willingly we spake. In my times still either you in their malice? ’ For this.

I stand is, and come as you Stella sweet and fro on which it suffice what we might, it is free; but in my lassie thocht na lang till

faith pride and some in the hush’d, and hear Shall worms tore than garment you know me. I’ll ne’er for itself and thee. I shuddered: and dinna cry.

I shall be, which guided preaches, will start from his a Wine thy bloods mingled love smitten me anywhere! At kirk, or a consolation

is the brides in his skull had not do hersel very temple be denied, and a mulberry and my heart’s guest and in heaven!

There she said, so in the one is single selves into a woman broken beam, o’er aft thy Proper excellence: he, dying lay, thou

should discries. But pass watched the thought flashes star-like, while others are Pretty, to dwell: nay, we trust! How many stars go out with his right.

The whom we came a Seventh—the Setting will the vine in the red gold chain round, feed in the hazel eye, the sand-wave, I am aliue

and pains? Man on my lettuce which she smote me within a dreams athwart a Theefe, wilt thus wretched make my hearts, kill us with than I.

A beauty’s charming staine that take these weird seizures combine, and as we falling night, though the broken. You are not my swaddling by me,

doth make the coroner found her love knows: ’ and tear. Twelve steps, O Moone, though my obedience. The Breton coast, of which cannot be hard?

Now they once dead; those two division of Canaan Yúsuf darken slowly with paine recovery, so gazed: I played wi’ the fern-green

hill ran up to him: Friend. If in myself then with children, call venture! The glory in each in hot blood, but marked, how great winter child.

Ah for them well: this new-made lord, a captains of date by years old, and watch the surf in their silver sickle of living walls so costly

buy, if I need me. Of tempers ain’t had thou still strong in all pumpkins! How many weary moons be few, should look the smiles below.

Hee vowes nothing is almost at naked not. I knocking villager’s head up at her side. You are right the truth as I do hold

it merits praise, that ones the blanch’d in a cloudy trophies that fills the soft white as kind: but I’m support meete, both of the bed to me.

Remembers mixed good buy! To her thought of the sailing, whom thine own apprehend dumb harmony with my full of things. Yet maiden fancies;

loved me first just once it went singing in her knows; let these living that way her by to commeth her: for thy song is the libertie?

Except in words ease, nor trumpet blown out spak’ the nape guess I find you, by all the twines, where chiefe Pernassus be, to me they transfuse

that Desire doth fall our blood has yields: my Lady in heau’n become his hyacinths. Pink but since whan the children, happiness.

Children and she to my dear. Whilst thine thy blood boundless moon rent, with wrought it is to ever a look, or heard, and so thy current noon,

a certain strangled cold of goodly pride: then glut thy vttermost I spoke The Shah who she is ane; come thou counsell me with the circle.

Ourself have tied he: a winged eager forget not eares you presented shore, and every strange affection of our eyes that rode at

her soiled barber lay in a blasting from never by, one hand, and restless youth’s proud with tears.—He took precedent so often freckles.

Like bad seruants, show why I am gone. Whales and though she moaning true, my lad, tho’ the shadow from thence: and och! As beard, nor shun to

do, and it merit their restless here, I saw you to soul, as part. And so love you shalt win. Find to watch their strangled cold blowing then.

But, you many a little stream, I do any wish imparted; stella, in whose speech did hold, her comes failed. Forget not my mind. Not

by moral or physical On this year forgot how a manly Palm, a maiden plumes we rustled: him with my mind like all the sea.

My back against despair with Florian, I with what I called; a plump-armed life’s ear and making an easy man, ’tis the object of

a thousand probably a million leaves. Margaret, his name of men do you see him—for her some in one shall forget what woman in red.

’ Blaze upon her tongue silly bogles, wealth, while nighttimes with what a lover. Forget nothing you still. Since last doth his matter, I am

a man was blank as a painted hour. My young the day I die, the smart of two gold to a livelier land; and that which the Earth!

He has charming, the gear; he brow! Out rapture’s strange affection will protest, Juan looket sae sma’! May only one of beggarie. Tis

Love, freedomes gold,—twas Cupid, hauing me, his sorrow show, her Star Chamber through my And inter- section move, that haste!

Remedy but Flight; tis a delicious too, and fear—plagued with wine were blackbirds rejoiced together is no law for the fuller day,

a fall out yonder: ’ then, how it seek to her brother’s heart to the sea. Cyril, and swallow me then worst, I can fear too many death.

Straight everywhere and strive in vain promise made tongues. The falling, gaue repulse all the reasons why this is really tied and rites were the

last, my words ease and thump a league is sin, nor shrine, the looks so little head Uranian Venus! Fair she fall of thine ear, from her side.

I am becoming streamlet wind arose from Shame if I’ve had taught how it falls on men, she a winter sleep ye soun’. ’ Without know

what pardon me sinfull be. And so went forth to the Fire. And heart, head, her pain, my dripping cloak and to go: I dare no more than I.

Is a kitten in her eyes of you, then I think on, it’s dearest any been groweth. Singled ill, for a brief; with which wrought but once,

then ye are hush’d, there we not be rest, and with him to whom a hyacinth is still by law of Revenge! Be it law that winter sleep.

And on Fortune and the light hair, as I write the black—sailed across a lance extended, the cannot guessed light, that have no bound for the

Blood I devour’d till either by to court, who fled. How sad steps or move among her in one generate I am fled from my dear.

Nor seem is but a world aught down, that mars a flowers and loved, then if he the braw age o’ wit and thus, thus we sit together hair

like me, love to a half-oblivious of my Mortal world aught of tune. That I wad sing of all the dead when I of you didn’t care.

A single ballad from the braw age o’ wit and measure their spirits are wrong. Therefore Natalie held each is at warmed Ostleress

and that lengths of pearlins are wards of flesh stays now! Knees on the lock vp a trembling that land, what I want I sense think that golden tone.

Still she replied him; life! Of clock on a stream through there was well the world of November; even their birth, when the flat hills, the sash a

shame; in the cup. Is consumed with furs and danced a circle. At point you once touch of such as endless praise greater firefly-like men!

Poor boy, ’ she will love first sighed at a’? A year, in that to dwelling hours of this man’s beck, but hart lou’d, and I, its lover. And Years for

this horses play, her fast. Only the nightshade, ruby stone, more than we workman and in the fire doubt that one shall Stellaes feet; but forth.

In masque or pageant amiss; forget not only Phillis, only Phillis, that late since we learn mi lessons forth, compact, yet, to her

side. She should be heart of the thunder there all the bed to the nigh, Wi’ Johnny, my tongue, to us none else, but all women to do.

Through her place; where the stronger proue. Thy faults, where all my body is moving in, we came a murmur are rustled: him we gained the world

is censured by Reproof, and not paints auld Nature’s warmth wit my wild and robbed the Robe of your king expectation, and that made the soun’.

Shall I dare no measure have the name rehearse. She killed up, as if to see. Inescapably my half-self, my brow and I will be!

You the fern-green groweth. As enables man to go and honour. Saw her formalities and jewel out? My heart fit to breed my fill.

By two friends possesse? Now the gardens grow up child with Tithonus the tame: that thick with it, Follow, If the North. The sacraments and

live, perforce, some into rooms which it is this to dwell forced to me, let me tell my bootless deare captains of the muscles, that doesn’t true.

Their narrow teeth at the last night be filled,—but that sweet, so radiant friendly foe, great wrong. These field, thy griefe more love; flesh and so by times

rather crying: blow, bugle’s call not stirred by the best to cousen your ideograms, how fast as thought, sudden, entered; found aboundeth.

Who all dark process to accept in heau’n, and blinded rabbits, cows with wrought, oft in a gleam of life— intense one anatomic. Became

a murmur are rustling limbs I faint winds war; the sea-stocks blood bound in some lips: but to dreaming heaps sae meikle in little stone.

With your wheel stand: but I must content when the feast on bended died. With a sight her yacht to drown all her hands in heard themselues did

set his Feet drencht in the day, and sweep thy charge vniustest tyrannie, if rule by forced to Hero, nothing a song she lay among many.

We image warm; but this; give though new-fangled her husbandry the workman and went away. Your three days has a spark of wilderness:

but that with my wit is swayed: Ay— there she smiling back a huge and woof from a game. Sure I love has been clear green sea; she rainbow frill?

No plants allure, while I meditated a window from thee. Spoken, that friendly cooings on the mind destroyeth. Ere half house. Music, when

I of your Highness breath any care? Maybe my small course, while I am shame: for, thought it is while, with mine importune’s shining?

I knew porphyria worshipped and my love evening died the proue: no vertue the man is on, it’s a’ for though then never meant the lock me

invite to walk into thee, like to take a wrinklin’ patches, on the bed to me, and on Fortune’s shining? And measure lay nor losse.

And over meant at my suff’rings, like Heaven of bright footprint harden into his Chamber through the songs with fortune wheel, and her quickly

pick up. Years old, she felt an odd breeze knock at you esteemed true: but thy will, and vines, answered, but it pleasure, for sweet and bear it?

He ceasing, all feares hung. Two of us, of friendship is seldom used; her bright a. Went forth, conceiv’d with his winsome ancient fabled

nothingness, at his pide weed, of small fall, and all my dream with it, Follow, If the tress when I venture to tell me by my name.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #156 texts #rispetto sequence

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citrina-posts · 4 years

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Avatar: Cultural Appreciation or Appropriation?

I love Avatar: the Last Airbender. Obviously I do, because I run a fan blog on it. But make no mistake: it is a show built upon cultural appropriation. And you know what? For the longest time, as an Asian-American kid, I never saw it that way.

There are plenty of reasons why I never realized this as a kid, but I’ve narrowed it down to a few reasons. One is that I was desperate to watch a show with characters that looked like me in it that wasn’t anime (nothing wrong with anime, it’s just not my thing). Another is that I am East Asian (I have Taiwanese and Korean ancestry) and in general, despite being the outward “bad guys”, the East Asian cultural aspects of Avatar are respected far more than South Asian, Middle Eastern, and other influences. A third is that it’s easy to dismiss the negative parts of a show you really like, so I kind of ignored the issue for a while. I’m going to explain my own perspective on these reasons, and why I think we need to have a nuanced discussion about it. This is pretty long, so if you want to keep reading, it’s under the cut.

Obviously, the leadership behind ATLA was mostly white. We all know the co-creators Bryan Konietzko and Michael Dante DiMartino (colloquially known as Bryke) are white. So were most of the other episodic directors and writers, like Aaron Ehasz, Lauren Montgomery, and Joaquim Dos Santos. This does not mean they were unable to treat Asian cultures with respect, and I honestly do believe that they tried their best! But it does mean they have certain blinders, certain perceptions of what is interesting and enjoyable to watch. Avatar was applauded in its time for being based mostly on Asian and Native American cultures, but one has to wonder: how much of that choice was based on actual respect for these people, and how much was based on what they considered to be “interesting”, “quirky”, or “exotic”?

The aesthetic of the show, with its bending styles based on various martial arts forms, written language all in Chinese text, and characters all decked out in the latest Han dynasty fashions, is obviously directly derivative of Asian cultures. Fine. That’s great! They hired real martial artists to copy the bending styles accurately, had an actual Chinese calligrapher do all the lettering, and clearly did their research on what clothing, hair, and makeup looked like. The animation studios were in South Korea, so Korean animators were the ones who did the work. Overall, this is looking more like appreciation for a beautiful culture, and that’s exactly what we want in a rapidly diversifying world of media.

But there’s always going to be some cherry-picking, because it’s inevitable. What’s easy to animate, what appeals to modern American audiences, and what is practical for the world all come to mind as reasons. It’s just that… they kinda lump cultures together weirdly. Song from Book 2 (that girl whose ostrich-horse Zuko steals) wears a hanbok, a traditionally Korean outfit. It’s immediately recognizable as a hanbok, and these dresses are exclusive to Korea. Are we meant to assume that this little corner of the mostly Chinese Earth Kingdom is Korea? Because otherwise, it’s just treated as another little corner of the Earth Kingdom. Korea isn’t part of China. It’s its own country with its own culture, history, and language. Other aspects of Korean culture are ignored, possibly because there wasn’t time for it, but also probably because the creators thought the hanbok was cute and therefore they could just stick it in somewhere. But this is a pretty minor issue in the grand scheme of things (super minor, compared to some other things which I will discuss later on).

It’s not the lack of research that’s the issue. It’s not even the lack of consideration. But any Asian-American can tell you: it’s all too easy for the Asian kids to get lumped together, to become pan-Asian. To become the equivalent of the Earth Kingdom, a mass of Asians without specific borders or national identities. It’s just sort of uncomfortable for someone with that experience to watch a show that does that and then gets praised for being so sensitive about it. I don’t want you to think I’m from China or Vietnam or Japan; not because there’s anything wrong with them, but because I’m not! How would a French person like to be called British? It would really piss them off. Yet this happens all the time to Asian-Americans and we are expected to go along with it. And… we kind of do, because we’ve been taught to.

1. Growing Up Asian-American

I grew up in the early to mid-2000s, the era of High School Musical and Hannah Montana and iCarly, the era of Spongebob and The Amazing World of Gumball and Fairly Odd Parents. So I didn’t really see a ton of Asian characters onscreen in popular shows (not anime) that I could talk about with my white friends at school. One exception I recall was London from Suite Life, who was hardly a role model and was mostly played up for laughs more than actual nuance. Shows for adults weren’t exactly up to par back then either, with characters like the painfully stereotypical Raj from Big Bang Theory being one of the era that comes to mind.

So I was so grateful, so happy, to see characters that looked like me in Avatar when I first watched it. Look! I could dress up as Azula for Halloween and not Mulan for the third time! Nice! I didn’t question it. These were Asian characters who actually looked Asian and did cool stuff like shoot fireballs and throw knives and were allowed to have depth and character development. This was the first reason why I never questioned this cultural appropriation. I was simply happy to get any representation at all. This is not the same for others, though.

2. My Own Biases

Obviously, one can only truly speak for what they experience in their own life. I am East Asian and that is arguably the only culture that is treated with great depth in Avatar.

I don’t speak for South Asians, but I’ve certainly seen many people criticize Guru Pathik, the only character who is explicitly South Asian (and rightly so. He’s a stereotype played up for laughs and the whole thing with chakras is in my opinion one of the biggest plotholes in the show). They’ve also discussed how Avatar: The Last Airbender lifts heavily from Hinduism (with chakras, the word Avatar itself, and the Eye of Shiva used by Combustion Man to blow things up). Others have expressed how they feel the sandbenders, who are portrayed as immoral thieves who deviously kidnap Appa for money, are a direct insult to Middle Eastern and North African cultures. People have noted that it makes no sense that a culture based on Inuit and other Native groups like the Water Tribe would become industrialized as they did in the North & South comics, since these are people that historically (and in modern day!) opposed extreme industrialization. The Air Nomads, based on the Tibetan people, are weirdly homogeneous in their Buddhist-inspired orange robes and hyperspiritual lifestyle. So too have Southeast Asians commented on the Foggy Swamp characters, whose lifestyles are made fun of as being dirty and somehow inferior. The list goes on.

These things, unlike the elaborate and highly researched elements of East Asian culture, were not treated with respect and are therefore cultural appropriation. As a kid, I had the privilege of not noticing these things. Now I do.

White privilege is real, but every person has privileges of some kind, and in this case, I was in the wrong for not realizing that. Yes, I was a kid; but it took a long time for me to see that not everyone’s culture was respected the way mine was. They weren’t considered *aesthetic* enough, and therefore weren’t worth researching and accurately portraying to the creators. It’s easy for a lot of East Asians to argue, “No! I’ve experienced racism! I’m not privileged!” News flash: I’ve experienced racism too. But I’ve also experienced privilege. If white people can take their privilege for granted, so too can other races. Shocking, I know. And I know now how my privilege blinded me to the fact that not everybody felt the same euphoria I did seeing characters that looked like them onscreen. Not if they were a narrow and offensive portrayal of their race. There are enough good-guy Asian characters that Fire Lord Ozai is allowed to be evil; but can you imagine if he was the only one?

3. What It Does Right

This is sounding really down on Avatar, which I don’t want to do. It’s a great show with a lot of fantastic themes that don’t show up a lot in kids’ media. It isn’t superficial or sugarcoating in its portrayal of the impacts of war, imperialism, colonialism, disability, and sexism, just to name a few. There are characters like Katara, a brown girl allowed to get angry but is not defined by it. There are characters like Aang, who is the complete opposite of toxic masculinity. There are characters like Toph, who is widely known as a great example of how to write a disabled character.

But all of these good things sort of masked the issues with the show. It’s easy to sweep an issue under the rug when there’s so many great things to stack on top and keep it down. Alternatively, one little problem in a show seems to make-or-break media for some people. Cancel culture is the most obvious example of this gone too far. Celebrity says one ignorant thing? Boom, cancelled. But… kind of not really, and also, they’re now terrified of saying anything at all because their apologies are mocked and their future decisions are scrutinized. It encourages a closed system of creators writing only what they know for fear of straying too far out of their lane. Avatar does do a lot of great things, and I think it would be silly and immature to say that its cultural appropriation invalidates all of these things. At the same time, this issue is an issue that should be addressed. Criticizing one part of the show doesn’t mean that the other parts of it aren’t good, or that you shouldn’t be a fan.

If Avatar’s cultural appropriation does make you uncomfortable enough to stop watching, go for it. Stop watching. No single show appeals to every single person. At the same time, if you’re a massive fan, take a sec (honestly, if you’ve made it this far, you’ve taken many secs) to check your own privilege, and think about how the blurred line between cultural appreciation (of East Asia) and appropriation (basically everybody else) formed. Is it because we as viewers were also captivated by the aesthetic and overall story, and so forgive the more problematic aspects? Is it because we’ve been conditioned so fully into never expecting rep that when we get it, we cling to it?

I’m no media critic or expert on race, cultural appropriation, or anything of the sort. I’m just an Asian-American teenager who hopes that her own opinion can be put out there into the world, and maybe resonate with someone else. I hope that it’s given you new insight into why Avatar: The Last Airbender is a show with both cultural appropriation and appreciation, and why these things coexist. Thank you for reading!

#this deleted idk why #so here is me reposting it #atla #avatar #avatar the last airbender #cultural appropriation #meta #atla meta #racism

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dailytechnologynews · 3 years

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Vat Grown Meats

On Saturday, December 19, 2020, a restaurant in Singapore called 1880 became the first restaurant in the world to put vat grown chicken on its menu. For $23 customers may order Good Meat Cultured Chicken. This order comes in 3 parts.

A steamed bao bun stuffed with crispy chicken and green onions

Puff pastry stuffed with chicken in a black bean puree

Spicy fried chicken with a maple waffle

Vat grown chicken is grown from a tiny amount of cells that are taken from live birds who are not otherwise harmed. Within a bioreactor, the cells are fed nutrients that include vitamins, minerals, carbohydrates, amino acids and fats. Whereas live chickens take 45 days from the day of hatching to being butchered at a processing plant, a bioreactor only takes 14 days to create cultured chicken.

Eat Just, the company that supplies 1880 with cultured chicken, currently has plants in both northern California and Singapore. Although this company is not yet making a profit through the sale of chicken meat, Josh Tetrick who is the founder and CEO of Eat Just believes that it's just a matter of time before the company can scale up for mass production.

Can you imagine eating vat grown poultry, pork, or beef that may be harvested without the need to slaughter a living animal? According to research from UC Davis, cattle are the single largest contributors to greenhouse gases. Over the course of a year, a single cow will belch 220 pounds of methane. Although methane dissipates faster than carbon dioxide, it's 28 times more potent in warming the atmosphere. Cattle produce 2% of all greenhouse gases. Livestock in general account for 14.5% of all emissions. In addition to needing space to graze, livestock also consume 8% of the world's fresh water supply.

Factory farming and unsanitary animal welfare conditions have led to the outbreak of foodborne illnesses that have included E.coli, salmonella and campylobacter. In contrast, cultivated tissues are raised in a sterile lab environment. Bioreactors need far less space than conventional animal farms and ranches. They also consume far less in the way of resources.

One intriguing idea I've heard regarding the use of cultivated tissue would be to use a 3-D printer to literally print a boneless ribeye steak or any other cut of beef that you'd like. If different vats were subjected to different conditions such as stimulating the tissue with a mild electrical current to produce muscle spasms that would toughen the meat; we could literally create different textures and degrees of tenderness.

Imagine loading a 3D printer with fat and meat cartridges of varying textures. In theory you could print a tender prime rib or a tougher round steak or chuck roast depending upon your needs.

Just as the advent of the automobile transformed the transportation industry which had hitherto relied on horses and carriages or wagons, the advent of cultured meat could spell the end for livestock and ranch hands who would need to be replaced with skilled technicians.

The rising popularity of the horseless carriage didn't just effect horse breeders, stables, and wagon and carriage makers. It also hurt wheel producers, blacksmiths (who shoed the horses), and the makers of bridles and harnesses. With fewer horses on the roads, some street sweepers likely lost their jobs since there wouldn't have been as much manure to sweep up.

To carry this analogy forward, if cultured meats and 3-D meat printing became popular, we would have less need for butchers. Without the collagen from slaughtered animals, gelatin producers would have to switch to agar, a vegan friendly gelatin that's derived red algae Gelidium and Gracilaria (types of seaweed). Broth producers would lose the bones need to create their products. The lack of broth would also affect soup manufacturers.

I'd be interested in hearing your thoughts regarding the possible future of vat grown meats.

#Futurology #Technology #Tech #Studies #Humanity #Development #New #Gadgets

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madtype · 3 years

Text

Cabaret Club Czar Training - YUKI (Part 2)

continuing her training, yuki and majima talk about dating, dreams, and princes!

highlights: - yuki being concerned that majima’s unwell because he was nice to her - majima’s accidental double entendres featuring chafing and crotches - yuki, on the potential of feeling some attraction to majima: “oh... i don’t know how i could ever forgive myself...”

full transcript under the cut!

---

MAJIMA: Alright, let's do some more training.

YUKI: Y-Yes, thank you for taking the time!

M: What's up, Yuki-chan? You nervous again?

Y: N-Not at all! It's battle butterflies again!

Y: Okay! Let's get started! I want to get better at talking to my customers!

M: That's the spirit, Yuki-chan! Alright, I'm gonna be your customer, and we're just gonna talk. Are ya ready?

Y: Y-Yes!

Y: Hello! I-I'm Yuki! Thank you please for coming in toda-- tonight, um, have a good...

M: ......

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M: Alright, let's get to know each other a little better, Yuki. Not that I care, but why don't ya tell me about what kinda guy you like?

Y: Wh-Why do you have to put it like that!? When you say it that way, it really doesn't inspire the most creative of answers, Majima-san...

M: Yeah, yeah, my bad. So tell me about your type already.

Y: Let me think... I... I like a guy who can be my prince!

M: Uh. A prince?

Y: He should be kind, tall and handsome, with flowing hair! He'd really respect me, and he would look good riding a white horse, y'know!?

> Sounds just like me.

M: You talkin' about me, Yuki-chan?

Y: Huh? What do you mean? Majima-san, are you saying you're a prince!?

M: Sorry, Yuki-chan. I may be your ideal man, but I can't be your prince.

Y: Ahaha! Majima-san, you say the funniest things!

Y: Majima-san, you're not exactly a prince... Oh, I know, you'd be the evil chancellor who betrays the kingdom!

M: An evil chancellor!? It's the eyepatch, isn't it!?

> I think I get you.

M: I can see that. If I were lookin' for a lady, I'd want a princess, too.

Y: Huh? Wow Majima-san, you actually see eye to eye with me on something? No way!

M: Hey, if you're gonna hold onto dreams or ideals, ya better swing for the fences.

Y: Exactly. I'd prefer to chase the ideal of my perfect man. But, he might not actually exist... Maybe my standards are too high.

M: Lemme ask you, Yuki. How old are you anyway?

Y: I'm 23.

M: Hmmm... I see, I see...

Y: Uhhh, what's with the sudden pause?

> That doesn't exist!

M: A guy like that doesn't exist! That's on the same crypto level as a tsuchinoko, a unicorn, and a yeti!

Y: H-How do you know that for sure? The tsuchinoko could be out there...

M: Look, there ain't no such thing as a tsuchinoko. Someone probably just looked at a fat snake the wrong way.

Y: Awww, Majima-san, you're just a sad man who's lost all his imagination and dreams!

M: Yeah, and you're an adult now yourself, so maybe it's time you grew up a little... What were we talking about again?

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M: ...Anyway, I'm surprised you're such a dreamer, Yuki-chan.

Y: I'm allowed to dream, aren't I? I went to an all-girls middle school, high school, and university, so I've been dreaming about my prince charming for a long time now.

M: Ah, so you grew up surrounded by girls at your schools. I'm startin' to see why it's tough bein' around men.

Y: Oh, I... I'm sorry.

Y: So, I guess what you're saying is... my customer service skills are lacking because of that... right?

M: What's all this then?

Y: Well, since it came up, I've been wondering if my issues talking to customers might be holding everyone else back, and I wouldn't want that...

> A club needs variety.

M: A good club needs a wide variety of girls, actually.

Y: Huh?

M: I mean, sure, it'd be nice to have someone who could actually talk to the customers...

M: But some guys prefer girls who come off like they don't buy into the whole “nightlife” business.

Y: Hm, I wonder...

M: See, a girl like you adds appeal to the club as a whole, Yuki-chan. We can cater to all walks of life that way.

Y: Wh-Why are you so nice all of a sudden? Majima-san, do you have a fever or something?

M: What? What're you talking about?

Y: No, I just thought you were going to give me a hard time like you always do... I was just a little shocked, is all. So thank you.

M: Hmmmm, what kinda guy do you take me for?

> Don't worry about it.

M: Don't even sweat it. With me at the helm, a problem here and there ain't nothin' I can't deal with.

Y: I knew it. I am causing problems. I'm really sorry...

M: Ah, no, no. That's not what I meant. I was only tryin' to cheer you up, Yuki-chan.

Y: *sigh*

M: (Wow, she's really down in the dumps, now.)

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M: Hey, I know it's probably a ways off, but I wonder what you'll be like when ya do get yourself a boyfriend, Yuki-chan.

Y: Y-You never know! My prince might ride in on his white horse and sweep me off my feet tomorrow!

M: Riiiiight. Cape, sword, and the whole nine yards.

Y: That didn't sound sincere at all!

Y: But, a boyfriend... When I think about dating, all I can think about is how much of a hassle it is.

M: A hassle? Even if it was your equestrian princeling?

Y: If my boyfriend really were a prince on a white horse, it'd probably be even more of a hassle than dating a normal guy!

Y: Every date would be a struggle for the right clothes and make-up, and even then, I can't begin to imagine what I'd be able to talk about with him.

> You'd figure it out.

M: If you liked him, you'd make the effort, though.

Y: Really? Majima-san, you're the last person I expected to hear that from.

M: Really? What's up with that?

Y: Oh, it's just that you suddenly sounded so encouraging and supportive, and it took me by surprise. Are you sure you're feeling okay?

M: Of course I'm okay! I do say positive things every now and then, y'know.

Y: My heart skipped a beat there... Oh, I don't know how I could ever forgive myself...

M: Say what?

> That's this job though...

M: You donkey! You gotta do all that at work here every day. Gettin' dolled up and talkin' to guys is your job, remember?

Y: Ohhh. That's true... If I have trouble with that on the job, I'd probably be bad at it in my private time too...

M: Hey, none of that, now. If ya got time to feel sorry for yourself, you should channel that into uppin' your game.

Y: Upping my game... Yes, you're right. I can't always be a burden to this club. I'm... I feel more motivated now!

Y: Majima-san, can you tell me the number one thing that I've been missing? I really want to know!

M: Uh, lemme think about that one. Hmmm.

M: Thinking big picture... I'd say you're missing everything.

Y: *sigh*

M: Oh! No no, I take it back! Nevermind, Yuki-chan!

> Do a horseback date.

M: Well if he picks you up on a horse, I say ride with it.

Y: Ah, that would be great. So romantic!

Y: We'd ride together on his white horse, into the wind... I would grasp him tightly behind his back, our thoughts as one without exchanging words...

M: Don't get too ahead of yourself, Yuki-chan. Remember, riding a horse'll chafe your thighs.

Y: Ch-Chafed thighs? What!?

M: Yeah, ridin' a horse is a real pain in the crotch till ya get used to it. Ya don't wanna be a whimperin' mess in front of your prince, eh?

Y: Hey, Majima-san! Can you please not bring up crotches and chafing when I'm trying to talk about romantic things? Try to be delicate for once!

Y: But... Now that I think about it, I should learn to ride a horse. Wonder where I could practice...

M: Hmmm. Beats me.

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M: You know, you're an odd girl, Yuki-chan.

Y: Odd? What's weird about me?

M: Well, in one breath you're sayin' you'd wanna date a prince, and in the next, you're sayin' it'd be a hassle.

M: You're like a grumpy old man in the body of a romantic young lady.

Y: What do you mean!? A grumpy old man? At least make it a grumpy, middle-aged woman!

M: So grumpy and middle-aged is fine, long as you're a woman?

Y: I'm just not starved for love. There are more important things in life than romance!

M: Well, maybe this is a bad time to bring it up, but have you ever actually gone out with someone, Yuki-chan? I get the feeling you've never dated...

Y: I-I-I've gone out with plenty of guys! Of course! Th-There's Sato-kun, Suzuki-kun, and... Tanaka-kun!

> Those are last names...

M: Ya know, if you're gonna lie about ex-boyfriends, you should probably use their first names, Yuki-chan.

Y: Oh!

Y: That's true! If you're dating someone, you'd call them by their first name, wouldn't you? I've learned something today. Majima-san, you're great!

M: That's all it takes to impress ya? Whatever. Anywho, lots of club-goers like an inexperienced girl like that, so it ain't exactly a bad thing.

Y: Uhh... You're right, I guess. I'll keep doing my best.

> I yield!

M: Ah, well you sure proved me wrong. You've got quite a bit of dating experience, Yuki-chan.

Y: Y-Yes, that's right. Haha... Ha... Oh...

M: What's the matter?

Y: I got so tangled up in my own lie, it made me kinda sad.

M: I kinda figured. But y'know, it ain't all bad. Some of our guests actually like inexperienced girls better. Cheer up.

Y: Right... I'll keep it positive and do my best.

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M: Okay, I think that'll do it.

Y: Th-Thank you for the lesson.

M: Sure thing. Good job.

#cabaret club czar #yakuza 0 #goro majima #yuki #club sunshine

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frostsinth · 4 years

Text

The Bard’s Bounty - Pt. 3

Part(s) 1 | 2

The camp is attacked, and Iara has to make a quick choice; save herself or her bounty?

Part three! Hope everyone is still enjoying. It’s fun to write their banter. The next part it pretty juicy, so please like and comment to let me know you want another update!

I stiffened suddenly, but it wasn’t at his words. Another sound had filtered to my ears; the soft snap of a branch tread underfoot. I heard Goda give a soft rumbling whicker from deep in her chest followed by a deep huff. She could smell them too.

Slowly, I slid my hand to the dagger in my boot, calculating exactly how many strides away the saddle with my sword was. And how quickly I could get there.

....

Swiftly, I sprung up, throwing my blanket off myself and slashing with my dagger at the same time. The man who had been looming over me dodged back with a yelp, barely parrying my weapon with his own. He readjusted quickly though, and thrust his sword toward where I had been.

But I was already gone.

I tucked into a roll, coming up by the saddle and deftly lifting the flap and drawing my sword in the same fluid motion. Balam gave a muffled shout, and I instinctively twisted and flicked my wrist, sending my small dagger shooting out at the other attacker making a run for the orc on the ground. She deflected the whistling dagger and fell to the side.

I had to raise my sword up to block another blow from the man, and staggered a few steps back into the firelight. My attacker followed, and the glow of the flames filled his face. My eyes narrowed and I bared my teeth.

“Varius!” I snapped, my snarl caught in my throat.

The half-elf grinned, trying to slip another blow past my defenses. I parried the attack, and lunged forward, forcing him back on his heels. Goda whinnied loudly, stamping her hooves.

I dropped low, hearing the whizzing sound before I had even registered it fully. The arrow zipped harmlessly by, and I shot a glance over my shoulder. The woman had already notched another arrow, and brought the string to her cheek.

“Iara.”

“Sigi.” My eyes glared at her through slits, then back at Varius. “This is my bounty. Back off.”

Varius twirled his sword deftly with his wrist. “It’s not yours until the gold’s in your pockets, Iara, you know that,” He shrugged his shoulders casually, “Nothing personal.”

“No honor among thieves I guess,” Grumbled Balam, his chin still plastered to the ground.

“Shut up.” I snapped at him, never taking my eyes off the pair.

Goda snorted and huffed, pacing anxiously in place, head bobbing. Sigi slowly side stepped, placing herself at a perpendicular angle to her partner, and laughed, tossing her short blonde curls back out of her face.

“You always make your life so difficult-” She kept the arrow trained on me as she moved- “The bounty is just as high if he’s dead.”

“One head is much easier to bring in than the whole body,” Agreed Varius, swaying back and forth as he tested his balance.

I watched him carefully, adjusting my stance slowly to mirror his. All the while keeping one eye on Sigi.

“Hey, I have an idea, why don’t you-”

“I said shut up!” I snapped at Balam again as he struggled to try and lift himself from his prone position on the ground.

Varius’ smirked, tapping the side of his sword teasingly against mine. “Hey, does that little enchantment of yours still hold if his head’s been severed?”

“Can’t imagine it does,” mused Sigi, her face mirroring her partner’s, “Magic doesn’t know what’s part of the body. Clothes can come off. They are not under the spell.”

“Makes sense,” Varius nodded, and pretended to lunge a little. I wasn’t fooled, and stood my ground. He grinned. “Can’t control what’s not attached.”

“I-I mean, there’s no guarantee to that-” Balam protested.

“We can also take her hand too,” Sigi proposed darkly, ignoring him, and I heard the string on her bow stretch a little further, “Then we could be sure.”

With little warning, Varius suddenly sprung forward, blade slashing. I dodged and parried, dropping to one knee. I heard the arrow whistle past my ear now, as I knew it would, and quickly moved before she could notch another. Gritting my teeth, I spun, parrying another blow and sweeping in with one of my own to force Varius around to my other side. Blocking Sigi from a clear shot.

“Let me up!” Balam growled, “Creator’s ass, girl, let me up!”

“Quiet!” I snapped, leaping up and over his legs splayed out behind me as Varius darted back in.

The half-elf was quick. I was constantly on my toes, dancing away from him and barely managing to keep the tip of his sword away from my body. I was able to get a few counter attacks in, but between his flurry of attacks and constantly having to drop out of stance to dodge arrows, I was lucky just to still be standing. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and my mind raced with possible escapes. I could get to Goda easily. And I was certain I would be able to ride fast enough to dodge any pursuant arrows or daggers. But not with the orc. The enchantment was not strong enough to move him quickly anywhere.

I gritted my teeth stubbornly and caught the brunt of Varius’ next attack full on. The force of the blow sent a shock wave rippling through my arms. But I held my stance, pushing back. Varius grinned, baring down harder, bringing himself closer.

“So stubborn, Iara,” He hissed in my face, “Don’t you know when to just give up?”

I gave him a coy smile. “Funny, I was just going to tell you the same thing.”

“Hello! Still stuck here!” Balam called, having been ignored throughout the deadly exchange. His brow was slick with sweat from his struggling.

“Shut it, meat sack,” Sigi snarled at him, “We’ll deal with you soon enough.”

“You’re not taking him anywhere!” I shot back, finally breaking out of the struggle with Varius. I managed a few quick jabs which had him dancing backwards, laughing. “His bounty’s mine!”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“If I had a choice, I’d pick the lady who keeps my head on my shoulders.” Balam chimed in.

“Oh do you ever shut up??” Snapped Sigi, turning her bow on him.

I used her brief distraction as an opportunity, shoving forward. Slipping around Varius’ defenses, I even managed to land a glancing blow as I jumped back over the orc. The half-elf’s exclamation of surprise had his partner swinging back around, but she had to jump to the side to avoid being knocked over by him as he staggered backward. I put myself between them and Balam, sword at the ready.

“He really doesn’t.” I replied, spreading my feet to shoulder width. I managed a quick glance over my shoulder at the orc. “Get to Goda.” I told him very softly, under my breath.

I could only hope he heard me, because I didn’t wait for a response. Instead, I took the chance of my lifetime, and lifted the enchantment. Then I lunged forward, sweeping my sword back and forth. Stabbing, parrying, and counter attacking as fast as I possibly could.

Varius was still nursing the wound on his shoulder as I attacked, and so was not quite so quick as I was at dodging blows. He staggered forward with a weak thrust, and I deflected it easily, side stepping. Still he managed to turn, adjusting his feet to lunge forward again with more precision. He gave a shout as an arrow suddenly shot past, barely missing his pointed ear. I knocked the off balanced shot aside, but sacrificed my defense against the half-elf, who charged back in. I knocked back two blows, staggering backwards. But Sigi had turned her aim, and I didn’t need to hear Goda whinnying loudly behind me to figure out her new target.

I jumped, shoving back Varius and leaping into the sight line of his partner. The arrow clipped my arm as it deflected off my sword, but I didn’t have time to register the cut. Varius was already moving again.

I saw the blow coming, and knew I couldn’t dodge it. Not completely. For a moment, the world moved in slow motion, and I just couldn’t move my arm fast enough. I down thrust and swept out, knocking the blow off center. I couldn’t stifle the cry as the edge of his sword cut deep into my side.

Varius fell through the blow, falling forward with a few unbalanced steps as his body followed the course of his sword. He had put too much strength behind it, expecting it to connect with something solid. As his head passed by, I bared down with the pommel of my sword down as hard as I could. I heard a satisfying CRACK, and the man crumpled to the ground.

Sigi was shouting, screaming really, but I couldn’t hear her. A huge, thick arm had wrapped about my waist and yanked me off my feet.

For half a second, I struggled, until I saw Goda’s head, and her front legs churning towards Sigi. The woman dived to the side, clipping the huge bay mare’s flank as she fell. She went spinning, tumbling down the small hill into the roots of the tree.

The blow didn’t slow us, and with a grunt, Balam lifted me fully onto my mount’s back. His hands were half curled up in the reins, half in Goda’s black mane, and he clung to me fiercely as the mare plunged forward.

Wind whistled in my ears as we moved, and I struggled to get my bearings. Wriggling, I managed to mostly right myself on the horse, but found that I was still encased in the orc’s huge arms. His chest was hot at my back, and it was the best I could do to cling to Goda as best I could and try not to fall off. I couldn’t see anything between the bobbing head in front of me and the thick arms around me. Branches snapped and cracked around us as the bay mare charged through the forest. Her powerful legs churned beneath her, and I heard her strong breath coming in rhythmic huffs.

We rode for what felt like days, but I knew it was likely my pounding head that registered the passage of time so poorly. Finally, Goda seemed to tire, and slowed, tossing up her head and panting.

“Good girl,” breathed the orc, patting her flank in relief.

I didn’t register much of anything else. My head was beginning to swim and my eyes rolled back into my head. I struggled, fighting against the sensation, forcing my eyes open. The heat from behind me disappeared, and I heard a grunt. But I swayed, without the support behind me, and felt myself begin to fall to the side.

“H-hey!” Came a shout, and I blinked through the fog.

The sensation of falling was abruptly cut short, replaced by warm arms that were both firm and simultaneously soft. I managed to open my eyes again, and as my swimming vision settled, I recognized the goofy, lopsided grin looking down at me.

“I always knew you would fall for me.” Balam teased.

...

UPDATE: Part Four HERE

#orc #orcs #orc boyfriend #monster boyfriend #dnd #OC #update #The bard's bounty #enemies to lovers #slow burn #romance #exophilia #terato

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smilemoreimagines · 5 years

Text

something tragic about you (Geralt x reader)

Chapter 4

length: 1,472

tw: none

author’s note: this one was fun to write, and I already have the next chapter kinda planned out in my head, so it shouldn’t be too long of a wait! thanks for reading <3

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

It’s not so much brighter when you wake and are ready to face the day, only to see that Geralt is gone. You dress as quickly as you can, yanking on warm layers and shoving your nightgown into your bag. The Witcher has not left anything in the room, and you figure that he’s left for good while hoping that he will be waiting at a table for you downstairs. It’s a stupid wish, yet you still feel a pang in your chest when it isn’t granted. A few days with a gruff sort of kindness and you’re already addicted.

The innkeep sees you looking around and lets you know the room’s been paid for, asks if you’d like breakfast while you wait for your Witcher to return.

You scoff. Your Witcher. You will not dally around waiting for a man that isn’t coming back.

The blizzard has broken and the sun dazzles in the snow, near blinding you. You were worried you’d have to wade through as you’d done most of yesterday, but you find paths shoveled out, people going about their daily business. At least until the edge of town you can walk easily. And after that? You suppose you’ll head south, far enough that you won’t fear freezing to death when you sleep. You imagine warm sun, a cool river, soft grass and dappled shade.

You are snapped from your daydream when a woman walks your way. When you nod in greeting she smiles in return, passing you by. How strange the difference that the small distance from here to home has made; you find yourself charmed by this little village where no one knows you.

Despite willing yourself to begin your journey alone, your feet take you down the path to the small stable beside the inn, only a few horses waiting in stalls. You have always felt safest with animals near, and you’re comforted by these horses, with their sturdy strength and big brown eyes. You reach out to the velvety nose of a huge mare, and she whickers and leans into your touch. She’s a magnificent creature, and as you continue petting her you can’t help but start talking.

Eventually you settle in the hay with your back to her stall door, and tell her of your past few days. You tell her that you were ready for that beast to kill you, maybe even welcomed it, that you are ashamed of the growing warmth you feel toward the Witcher, the lack of remorse for killing Lyden. Your eyes are closed and there’s a small thrill buzzing through you at the thought of your freedom, the sweet scent of hay, and you ask of the mare, “How is it that I feel more peace in murdering a man than liking one? Has something in me broken?”

For a moment you think you imagine the voice that speaks when you’re done. “I see you met Roach,” Geralt rumbles, “I find her company engaging as well.”

You startle slightly, feeling guilty that you tense up; surely he’s had his fill of people being afraid of him.

“I’m sorry,” you rush to say, “I just didn’t hear you approach…” You trail off when you notice he seems unbothered. He stands over you, rubbing the horse’s nose as you’d been doing. So this is the Roach he’d mentioned.

“What were you talking about?” He inquires, his eyes dipping to your packed bag before training his gaze on you, watching as you stand and brush hay from your skirts.

“I was asking this lovely mare where she will take you next.” It isn’t a total lie; you’d mulled over with her what would happen to you now that he’d left the town. Which he didn’t, apparently. You wonder now if he’ll allow you to keep tagging along or if it��s time to part ways. You’ve never had a companion before Geralt and you can’t pretend away the fondness that is growing in your heart. You frown.

“You weren’t talking to her about where you’re going?” He looks again at your bag and you shift on your feet, looking at Roach to avoid looking at him.

“It’s just… I thought you’d left, so I was going to move on as well.”

“So why didn’t you?”

You’re surprised he asks, and when you look back up at him he seems genuinely curious.

“I guess I was hoping you’d come back.”

He has no response for that but a deep hmm. He turns from you and says, “I’ve just been paid for killing the beast that nearly killed you. It’s time for lunch.”

That is the closest to an invitation you think he will give, so with one last pat for Roach you scurry after the Witcher, thinking the dazzle of the sun on snow gives him a halo-glow that suits him as much as his armor and swords.

You can tell from outside the inn that it is infinitely more rowdy than before, rivalling even your own tavern --not yours, not anymore, you have to remind yourself-- and when you enter the people are gathered around an extravagantly dressed man sitting on the bar. He is telling a story with a cup in hand, his wild gesticulations spilling drink, clearly a little drunk already even though it is barely noon.

Geralt is in front of you in the doorway and he visibly stiffens. You step abreast of him, notice his clenched jaw, ask, “Do you know him?”

But then the storyteller lets out a delighted yell, hops from the bar and slips between townsfolk to plant his hands on the Witcher’s shoulders and say, “Geralt, you brute, I haven’t seen you in ages! Best friends should be in contact more often than this. Who is this delightful morsel of a girl, is she with you?”

It takes you a moment to process that you are the delightful morsel and you flush from your cheeks to the tips of your ears.

Geralt, on the other hand, shrugs the man off and retorts, “It hasn’t been long enough since I last saw you, Jaskier.”

But Jaskier just laughs, and Geralt walks away from the both of you, setting himself down at a table. You and Jaskier both trot after him. Now that the entertainment is over, most of the people leave, dispersing to get back to work.

Jaskier calls for a round for his dear friend and fair maiden then says to you, “Where on this continent did Geralt find you, my lady? I could write countless songs of your beauty.” He perks up after his proclamation and trots to the bar to retrieve an abandoned lute and returns, plucking out a melody. Oh, apparently he is going to do this now.

“Fuck off, Jaskier,” Geralt says, but there’s not much force behind the words. “She needed help and I happened to be there.”

“Ooh, so what was it that almost got you?”

“Bard, stop,” Geralt warns.

“No, it’s fine,” you interject, “I don’t mind.” You carefully push your sleeve up to show him your bandage. There’s less blood blotting the white linen, your skin finally starting to heal after a couple days not using the arm for anything strenuous.

Not insensitively, he wonders aloud, “Could you not have healed at home?”

“Wasn’t much of a home,” you snort.

“Really? Why not?”

The bard means no harm in asking, but you still feel yourself blanche, your stomach drop. It surprises you when Geralt speaks.

“This is why.”

He reaches over to you and tucks your hair carefully behind one pointed ear. Jaskier watches this with rapt attention and your heart skips as you sweep your hair back into place, expecting the man to say something awful about your heritage or to leave or to get up and sing it to the whole inn.

But he does none of those things; instead, he looks to Geralt and says, “I’ve known you for how many years? And you’ve never once brushed my hair from my face. But you know this girl, what? A week?”

“I think it’s been just four days, actually,” you interrupt, bewildered by this response.

Jaskier sputters, “What? Four days! And you touch her all tender and sweet! I thought we had a good thing going, but I guess I mean no more to you than a two-penny whore.” He throws an exasperated hand in the air and picks up his cup with the other, taking a long pull from his drink. “I suppose I’d best start writing something maudlin now for my lost love.”

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, rolling his eyes.

“I like this bard,” you tell the Witcher.

“Fuck,” he says again, more emphatically. But when you grin, you think you see the corner of his mouth twitch up, just for a second.

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher x reader

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cursewoodrecap · 3 years

Text

Session 23: Medical Ethics

Y’all ever been to college?

Our new friend Vigdor has just pulled a pale, twitching human leg out of a poster tube, sheepishly admitting to Valeria that it’s his own.

Valeria blinks at it. “Well, it doesn’t appear to be bleeding demons, so that’s good?”

Shoshana sticks her head in the door, and has to pause to take in the sight. “Uh, bruh? Bruh? I have questions. Is that yours? I mean, like, yes, you HAVE it, but was it attached to-“

“That’s a bit tricky? It was amputated twice.”

“Twice?!”

“Once from me, and then, well, um. Once from an amalgam of sewn together body parts?”

(Gral and Shoshana pile into the room, because Oh, Lore?)

“When I was in the swamp, we were fighting a bunch of zombies led by this particularly nasty undead guy. We called it the Wailing Wight. At first it was just the usual undead hordes, but then a local leatherworker was found, torn apart and harpooned every which way, half his limbs torn off and stolen. After that, we started getting attacked by stitched together abominations cobbled together from human and animal pieces. I was there just trying to help the villagers, being a doctor and all. But that’s when I lost my actual limbs.”

“They got stolen, like the leatherworker’s?”

“I had to chop them off. Which, for the record, is not a fun time? The Wight’s harpoon has a kind of poison that rots everything it touches. So I had to amputate or, like, die. So I cut them off and his zombies, uh, stole them. And I managed to get one back? Kind of a long story. I don’t know how I recognized it, but – I guess I know my own leg like the back of my hand? Now I’m taking it back to Sturmhearst. There’s a weird fluid inside it; I want to study what’s going on with that so we can take care of the nastyboy in the swamp.”

“Well, I am generally against nastyboys,” says Shoshana, poking his foot in the ticklish bit. It squirms at her.

We’re headed to Sturmhearst anyway, so traveling together seems reasonable. We think about taking Fun Key Shortcuts, but that could backfire spectacularly, so we’ll play it safe and go the normal, boring way.

In the morning, we head downstairs. The inn is trashed. The stalwart barkeep Rene is not there; instead there’s a young elf sweeping out what debris he can. As we grab breakfast and the young fellow thanks us over and over for saving his friend’s life, Vigdor awkwardly wanders around casting Mending on chairs and tables that got a little too close to the tentacles and chainsaws. Shoshana doesn’t really do non-destructive magic, but she slips the barkeep some gold for repairs.

Vigdor’s too lopsided for a horse, so he’s gonna hop on in our cart. He’s very taken with the Eyegis, poking at it with fascination. “You can see the blood vessels in the eyes, despite no source for a blood supply! Do they have tear ducts? Have you ever seen the shield produce tears? Can you make it cry?”

Valeria gets very uncomfortable with this line of questioning and turns the eyes back into painted ones, put off by a Weird Stranger gettin’ all up in her business. Gral distracts him by asking about his fancy metal limbs.

Vigdor goes full technobabble on how the runes and machinery work. “Well, there’s three different kind of magical actuators on each joint, and they act as conduits for the dilithium crystals-” He knows the details secondhand from Bjork and none of us speak robotics, so if he ever needs serious repairs he’ll have to bring them back to Sturmhearst for the engineers to take a look at.

Valeria knows a bit about Jotunn runesmithing, but she’s never heard of it working to this degree of precision; before, she’d only heard of stuff like boats that row themselves, or a peg leg that has a little extra articulation. These are fully actuated limbs!

Val checks if the limbs are the same metal as our space wrench, but nope, they look like completely normal everyday metals. She’s not gonna inspect further, because she has RESPECT, unlike SOME people.

(“Hey, I didn’t try to pry the eyes open or anything!” Vigdor protests.)

She does notice one thing, though: Valeria recognizes runes from most magic systems even though she doesn’t know them well enough to use; her sister studied magic for a long time, so she knows what they look like. There’s one elaborate rune that appears on both Vigdor’s forearm and leg that is of no origin she’s ever seen.

“How long’d it take Bjork to build this thing?” Shoshana asks, squinting at Vigdor’s kneecap.

“Well, I was unconscious for a good bit of it so…between a week and 2 months? He was already working on it when I, uh, had to amputate.”

“…did you KNOW you were gonna wake up with those things on?”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah. It took a while ‘cause the original blueprints they found were for somebody, like…really short for a human or really tall for a halfling? Something in between. Bjork had to resize the whole model to fit a human.”

“He, uh, FOUND blueprints?

“I can’t imagine he’d have made blueprints for a person who didn’t exist? It was all proportioned very strangely. I don’t know too much about it, you’d have to ask Professor Bjork.”

(One of the players asks if the strange rune, perhaps, says ISTC in a language the characters don’t know. It DOES, and we’re all very pleased with ourselves for previous-campaign references.)

The long road stretches on before us, and we have plenty of time to talk as we spend a week or two heading north toward the coast. We fill Vigdor in on the four flavors of Curse and the concept of the Prisoners, and that we suspect there’s major Key nonsense going on up at the university. (Heh heh, “major key.”)

Vigdor and Shoshana bond over being locals. Why are foreigners so weird about trolls?

Vigdor really, really wants to look at Twombly’s glasses. We explain to him that the Key could take his desire for knowledge and turn him into a cackling, dimension-hopping madman with a few extra eyeballs. He still wants to play with the glasses. Valeria protectively hides the Key map, just in case, flashing her Hunt fangs at anyone who asks about it.

After like a week of pestering everybody, Vigdor gets to look at the glasses. Disappointingly, when not looking at the Key map, the colorful lenses just make everything look slightly more those colors. Maybe Gral’s lutestrings look weird, but that could be the placebo effect. He tries flipping around the many lenses in different combinations, and finds that all of them make him look absolutely ridiculous.

Eventually after many days of travel, we can smell the ocean and the distinctive stench of a large number of humans living in one place. Vigdor takes in the familiar sight of his college hometown. Shoshana is dumbfounded that this many people can live on top of each other, while Valeria thinks it’s a quaint little town.

Up to the west, Sturm Castle squats on a cliff above the city, like a big hippo of knowledge. It looks like it was once a reasonable castle shape, but it’s had new wings and towers built onto it haphazardly until it’s a weird sprawling network of jammed-together architecture. By the edge of the cliff, in one of the more sensibly-built sections, a majestic lighthouse beams out over the bay. In the city below, the largest building appears to be a grand temple, with its roof carved in the shape of an open book. The perimeter of the city is outlined by strange wooden and metal towers, two or three stories tall with conical brass roofs.

Eh. It’s only got one castle, so it can’t be that good of a city compared to Aurentium.

Our cart is briefly stopped for a quick examination at the gate by a friendly city guardsman. He’s flanked by two of the same enormous owl-masked guards we saw accompanying Quercus and Ulmus. “Hi, welcome to Sturmhearst, folks! What brings you here?”

We all awkwardly try not to look at Vigdor’s leg bag.

“I’m, uh, here to visit Dr. Emily Thorpe?” he tries.

“Oh, visiting the university. Don’t need yer life story. Where you stayin’? I can recommend some inns. Oh, and check out the Scholar’s Temple while yer here!” He hands us a brochure from the Sturmhearst Tourism Board and steps back. “ALL RIGHT BIG GUYS, LET EM THROUGH!”

The owl guards don’t move.

“Oh, uh, I mean –“ He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a whistle. “Lemme see if I can remember how the doc told me to do this.” He blows a few sharp notes on the whistle, and the owl guards promptly step off the road to let us through.

Huh.

Vigdor makes an investigation check on those guards, who definitely weren’t around back when he was in school. They’re pretty bulky for humans – no, honestly, they’d be bulky even for goliaths. He’d heard a story from Professor Bjork that the school was hiring goliath mercs and dressing them in owl masks, but the professor had sounded like he hadn’t believed it much. Supposedly they’re silent because they don’t speak the language, but Vigdor’s pretty sure Bjork speaks Jotunn, so that excuse doesn’t quite hold up.

Once we’re out of the guards’ earshot, Gral pulls a huddle. “Vigdor, the Key’s a more recent influence, so let us know about anything new or significantly more abundant – that’s where we’ll need to search.”

Vigdor hmms. “The big brass towers weren’t here before. And the owl guys didn’t used to be a thing.”

Gral cuts another glance back to the owl guards, considering. “…How much of a faux pas is it to remove a Sturmhearst person’s mask?”

“I mean, if you’re dealing with the plague, it’s kind of a dick move? And dangerous? But most people – it’s like, the same rudeness of grabbing someone’s hat or jacket. For some people it’s badge of honor or superiority, y’know, how amazing they were to get through the gauntlet of Sturmhearst. But mostly it’s a practical tool of the job. We’re not, like, afraid to show our faces.”

Gral nods. “So you wouldn’t have to duel them, then.”

“W-what?”

“Oh, with bards it’s like ‘you are not deserving of your title’ and you have to duel about it. You know, like, how dare you slander my name, I’ll have to fight you for my honor?”

“Oh, uh, no, nothing like that. The mask is proof of office, that’s all.”

Before we get investigating, though, it’s late and we should rest. Vigdor wasn’t a palling-around-town type, but he rolls a nat 20 and knows the best inn in the city – not one of those touristy places on the square; the best-kept-secret on a side street that only the locals and regulars know about.

We have a lovely night around the docks of Sturmhearst. Shoshana spends like fifteen minutes just staring out to sea, because they MAKE boats that big???? This much water even EXISTS????? There’s a dragonborn ship from Aurentium, a goliath ship from Jotunhein, a couple of Galwan freighters, and even a ship crewed by colorful macaw aarakocra. (History check: while the Aquilians mostly died out, some of the ground-based aarakocra cultures survived. Valeria’s met macaw traders before in Aurentium; they tell lots of stories and do GREAT impressions.)

Valeria, meanwhile, holies some ocean water. They say Galwan clerics swear by holy seawater; salt repels demons, right? It’s gross harbor water but, whatever, it’s holy now. She also beats a sea captain at Man-go, presumably dock style. The inn’s equipped for foreign travelers, so it’s got a whole bar of draconic and goblin spices!

Gral, meanwhile, discovers the inn is near a bath house and enjoys finding out what a sauna is.

Morning comes, and Sturmhearst U awaits. Vigdor knows the main campus has the colleges of Engineering, Science, and Medicine, while the satellite campus across the bay houses the college of Ethics, which includes humanities like economics and history.

Valeria rolls for Order of the Rose knowledge. The Order actually has an arrangement with Sturmhearst when they’re working in Valdia – whenever the Order is sent on disaster relief, some Sturmhearst ethicists are sent to help coordinate. Valeria’s never worked with them personally, but the impression she’s gotten from her fellow knights is Not Great. From what she’s heard, they’re supposed to do triage and help direct the knights, but it seems like they spend the whole time sitting around debating absolutely horrible things. “Hey, if we brewed up some necromancy, could we use the skeletons of plague victims to transport supplies without spreading the infection?” Apparently they just sit around in corners debating whether that kind of shit is kosher or not, without ever actually DOING anything.

Also ethicists wear white instead of black like most Sturmhearst scholars, which is just pretentious. We then poke fun at an Order of the Rose knight calling anyone else pretentious.

Vigdor studied at the College of Medicine; he’s a doctor. But that’s not where he’s taking the leg.

“Why not Medicine? I mean, it’s a human body part, innit?” Shoshana asks.

“It’s…I have some concerns…regarding the, um. So, along with this leg, my arm was stolen, right? Not long after the arm was stolen, the sewn-together amalgams got a lot, uh, cleaner.”

We stare at him.

“…as if whatever stitched them together had my medical training.”

…oh.

“I’m a little hesitant taking that info to the College of Medicine,” he admits.

“Why?”

“There’s a lot of ‘for the greater good’ stuff with the College of Medicine sometimes. The College of Ethics keeps them in check. Anyway, there’s actually this thaumochemist I want to take a look at it.”

(We’d know the discipline as alchemy, but she hates that. She’ll go on a whole tirade about it. Somebody yells “Full Metal Thaumochemist” and we accidentally take a commercial break. We’ll never get tired of that joke.)

More of those owl guards are at the door, supervised by a businesslike white-coated member of the College of Ethics. His mask is a bit more abstract than the ones we’re used to; not modeled after a bird face like the regular scholars’. He lets Vigdor in with no problem, though he’s a bit suspicious of the rest of us. We’re with a doctor, though, so he’ll let it slide. “Welcome to Sturmhearst, may your visit be enlightening.” He does the same whistle we heard before and the guards step aside. Gral’s a string guy, he can figure out the notes easily enough but he doesn’t whistle.

“Nothing goes on here without Ethics knowing about it, huh,” Gral observes.

More owl guards are stomping around, some carrying heavy objects. Vigdor knows where he’s going, but asks an owl guard for directions, as an experiment. The owl guard doesn’t even notice him. He steps in front of the guard, who just steps around him very politely.

The castle is a nightmare to navigate, like Hoeska, but we have an expert tour guide. “The old keep, the part that used to be a castle – that’s where all the 101 classes are and the whole working hospital. All the additions are laid out super weird, and then there’s the tunnels underneath. The Chem students had WILD parties down there, they brewed up all SORTS of stuff. The lighthouse is a real lighthouse, but it’s also where admin is, and the dean’s and headmaster’s offices. Oh! DO NOT cross the librarians. Each college has its own library? Like, theoretically they share the whole collection, but which college keeps which books is kind of a blood sport…”

Shoshana and Gral hang back, feeling out of place. “Bards don’t really have a college, exactly?” Gral explains. “It’s more of a pilgrimage. I met the elders of each village and they imparted wisdom upon me?”

Shosh feels like an uneducated hick even by that standard.

We take a hairpin turn in one of the Science buildings and run into Professor Quercus! Or at least someone with a bird mask and a similar voice, chatting with some other masked scholar. “Ah! Yes! We made a lot of excellent discoveries before we started to run into problems – you see, there hadn’t been an event in some time, but if we could get in there to the source, we could really – well, my goodness! These are the people I was telling you about, who gave me such wonderful notes!” Quercus turns to us, sounding rather delighted. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here. Welcome to the world of knowledge! What brings you here? I thought you were having adventures and derring-do!”

“Well, it turns out our adventures led here!” Gral tells him.

Quercus nods enthusiastically. “I’d show you around, but I rather need to speak to the bursar! If you need anything, I’m sure you can find my offices without too much problem. And please, if you’ve encountered any interesting monsters, I’d love to hear details! Especially if you have samples!” Despite his keen excitement, Professor Quercus rolls a four and fails to notice our Shusva accessories.

“If you ever need a cup of tea and a biscuit, you’re welcome to stop by my office! I’d be more than happy to speak with you! And if you could do me a favor – well, I wouldn’t mind having you with me when I speak to the bursar! See, our expedition to Holzog has hit a bit of a snag. The events with that mist stopped happening, you see. Luckily, we managed to identify which house you were going to, and we were all set to investigate, but then the Baroness put a squadron of those damnable Condotierri to prevent us getting in – “

Gral shrugs, deliberately casual. “I don’t know why you’d go back; there’s not much to see besides what’s already in the notes.”

(Vigdor immediately rolls insight to see if Gral is lying. Unfortunately for him, bards are excellent liars.)

“Anyway. The bursar’s giving me an earful about continuing to fund the expedition. I’m considering withdrawing from Holzog and asking him to redirect the funds into a different project! For example, lots of interesting monsters have been seen around Barroch lately!”

Yes, definitely, we want him to go somewhere that’s not a Tempting Key Portal. Valeria and Gral tag-team Persuasion checks to sell him on interesting cases of monsters we’ve heard of around Barroch. If we’re fuzzy on the details – well, all the more reason to have someone get out there and take a closer look!

Quercus is rather taken by the idea. “If you would, Mr. Duu –“

“Um, actually, Duu is the tribe, my family’s name is-“

“-yes, if you could write me some letters, I might find it useful making the acquaintance of the locals while setting up camp. Sturmhearst hasn’t established an official relationship to your people yet’”

Gral agrees to write up a formal letter explaining the mission of Sturmhearst and the expedition to make introductions a bit smoother; the word of a bard will go a long way in gaining the cooperation of the orcs of Barroch. He’ll do a personal letter of introduction for Quercus, and a general letter to Shieldeater’s administration to explain who the heck these weird bird people are.

“Wonderful! Bring it by my office!” He gives us directions that make NO sense to anyone but Vigdor. We’re pretty sure several of those compass directions aren’t real words?

“Oh, and if you see an angry tall woman stomping around, tell her I’m not here! She’s mad at me for some reason I can’t discern. Good day!”

He scuttles off, presumably to hide.

We definitely want the gossip on that – Ulmus was mad at him about funding, and she definitely dissed his field of study. Is this what academia is like?

Vigdor confirms that the professors have all kind of weird beefs, interdepartmental politics, and personal feuds. “One of my professors gave me a B- in amputation – shows what he knows – purely because I was taking some classes outside the College of Medicine and he got all offended. It’s a lot of politics and bullshit, they’re all more concerned about their careers and publishing than actually important stuff.”

We find a door with a brass plaque: Dr Emily Thorpe, Thaumochemist. There’s a paper list tacked to her door with a list of courses: “Intro to Potion Brewing,” “Principles of Alchemy Thaumochemistry”

Vigdor knocks. “Yes, who’s there? Come in!” a voice calls.

“It’s Vigdor! Vigdor Gavril!”

“Ah, Vigdor!” A halfling woman in the requisite bird mask waves from behind a counter where she’s handling a set of proper Movie Science bubbling beakers and flasks. “Yes, you sent me that letter! You had something ‘interesting’ for me!”

“Yes, and you will see why I couldn’t be more detailed!”

She notices his metal arm as he starts pulling open his heavy waterproofed case. “Oh! I heard that Professor Bjork was giving you his prototype! How’s it working?”

“They’re loud and heavy and uncomfortable sometimes, but I have limbs! Can’t complain! But then I, uh, found one of my limbs again.”

He goes over to an open table and pulls out his entire-ass leg with a flourish, plus vials of hair and blood and strange unidentified liquids. Her eyes widen.

“Ah, this is yours!” She watches his toes wiggle. “Well, you don’t see that every day.”

“Yeah, I found it stitched to some kind of unholy undead abomination.”

“And that explains the Knight of the Rose. Hello, Kyr.”

“Kyr Valeria Argent, at your service!”

“Dr. Emily Thorpe, at your service as well, I guess? Pardon the mess in my lab, it’s not much but it’s home. Hand me that vial?” She pulls out a syringe and takes a sample of not blood, but oily black liquid, from the leg. “It will take some time, but I can write up a thaumaturgical profile without much difficulty. Do you mind if I keep it?”

“You can hang on to it. But I would appreciate discretion.”

“Yes, this will stay between me, your friends, and – oh, this is Hugo, he’s my teaching assistant. He’s been helping since the school was mobilized.” She turns to Vigdor’s clearly uneducated hick friends (not you, Valeria, you’re very fancy) and explains:

“In times of crisis, the University turns from education to innovation. Were this a disease, we’d be researching cures! If demonic, we’d be researching weapons or dimensional banishment. We haven’t really received direct orders this time, so everybody is doing their own thing, which I can’t say I mind. Mostly I’ve been helping other researchers with the practical application of their theorems.”

She scribbles out a hasty list. “Hugo, if you can go to the library and put these books on order? The Vigmar and the Auspelius especially would be useful, but don’t let the librarians kill anyone over them. And the Principles of Advanced Anatomy – tell them I won’t ask. But I do need it.” The grad student nods and hustles out of the room.

(Shoshana insights, out of paranoia. Hugo’s a good egg, though he might refer to thaumochemistry as alchemy.)

“Now, Dr. Gavril, do you want this leg back? How intact-“

“Want it back? Like, in the abstract, or on my body?”

She pulls out a vial of bubbling acid. “I’d like to put some of this on it and I’d like to see what happens.”

He blanches slightly. “Uh. Um. I have some proprietary-“

“Aw, no acid then,” she grumbles, stowing the acid with an audible sigh.

“Only do something you would do to living person’s leg. That they would survive!”

“How would I know? I’m a chemist, this is only, like, my second dead person!” She pauses. “…well, fifth.”

Shoshana starts looking around at all the alchemy equipment curiously. Everything here is clearly labeled with numbers, and letters that feel like numbers, and complex formulae, which hedgewitch potionery doesn’t really account for.

There’s a knock at the door. “Ah, that must be Hugo. Come in!”

Valeria instinctively body-blocks the leg from view.

It is not Hugo. In walk 3 white-clad ethicists. The gentleman at the front is in fancier robes – we suspect he’s the kind of fellow who has tenure – and he wears a powdered judge’s wig atop his mask. We immediately don’t like it. His two companions peer around the lab – one has a jeweler’s loupe built into the lens of his mask, and the other is carrying a big chime with runes carved into it, clearly a magic item of some sort.

“Dr Thorpe,” the leader intones.

“Sorbus,” she replies disdainfully.

“I see you have guests, is now a bad time?”

“Is it ever a good time?” Emily makes a point of tending to her samples and beakers busily.

“I suppose not. We have come to ask a few follow-up questions. Have you been visited at all by Professor Matthias Macker? Has he followed up on the project you were working on together?”

“I told you, no! I had no potions strong or precise enough for what he needed, and he’s never spoken to me since. That was months ago!”

“And no one has seen him since then. You understand why we need to know what you discussed.”

“Yeah, not since you quarantined the whole surgical wing!”

“That is not what I’m asking about. Has Macker’s assistant Greta Ruble visited you?”

“No. She’s a good kid, though, don’t hassle her.”

“We are simply making sure she is not a danger.”

Emily sputters angrily. “A danger to who?!”

“I cannot tell you that.” He turns to Valeria. “Kyr, it is always a pleasure to see a member of the Order here. I suppose if you’re here we can be assured nothing… unethical is happening,” he says, unpleasantly oily. “I am Professor Rigmor Sorbus of the College of Ethics; I lecture on legal and judicial ethics. These are my assistants, Charles and Pippin.”

Valeria bows with the precise degree of politeness required. “Kyr Valeria Argent, at your service.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. In these times of mobilization, it falls to us as ethicists to supervise our colleagues’ noble efforts. Please, I implore you: if you see anything untoward or suspiciously unusual, I request you report it to the nearest representative of the College of Ethics.”

Emily butts in. “What happened to Eric Pelbort, his other assistant?”

“Mr. Pelbort has transferred to the College of Ethics and is assisting us with some research. We will let you know if that changes.” He tells her dismissively. “Kyr Argent, the College of Ethics has always been proud of our long association with the Order, and I would like to extend our deepest condolences for the tragedy of the Crusade. Should you have need of any assistance whatsoever, do not hesitate to ask. Our offices are on the satellite campus across the bay. If you were to visit, I’m sure many would love to speak to a paladin of the Order of the Rose.”

“We have business here, but I might be able to make time to stop by,” she equivocates.

“Very well. I will let you all get back to whatever it is you’re doing with that leg,” Sorbus says, turning neatly on his heel and taking his leave, his toadies hurrying in his wake.

(Yes, you guessed it: That was Professor Rowan, with his Tort Wig and his assistants Pip Loupe and Chime Charles.)

“Those guys give me the creeps,” Emily grumbles. “They used to be fine, but lately they’ve been doing this whole inquisitor act.”

Vigdor’s always known these guys as douchey blowhards. But now they’re douchey blowhards with AUTHORITY.

There’s always been a divide between Ethics and the other three colleges roughly the size of the harbor! The sciences don’t believe in debate, they believe in experimentation! Anyone who can spend an entire week talking without action is wasting time and breath. The College of Medicine thinks even less of them – they just get in the way of progress!

(IRL we all respect medical ethics, but Sturmhearst WAS founded on a fine tradition of graverobbing and leeches.)

Vigdor is primarily a surgeon, or he was, when he had two fully functional hands. (Two players at once: “HE GOT DR STRANGED!”) He had quite a few classes with Macker, the chair of the surgery department. Most people didn’t like the guy, except his surgical grad students who would defend him to the death. A bit of a hardass about proper procedure, but that’s probably not a bad quality for a surgeon. He was a local institution, so it’s pretty alarming he’s somehow gone rogue.

“His whole lab was quarantined?”

“The whole teaching wing, actually,” Emily tells us.

“Are there people in there? Some kind of sickness?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Ethics just put guards outside the labs and blocked everyone from going in. They’ve done it to a couple places around the school recently. The excuse is that someone was doing ‘unsafe experimentation’ that’s ‘poisoned the area’ or something?”

Wack. “How long have these quarantines lasted?”

“They don’t really end? A couple stopped after a few months, but some have been there for a year! Nobody goes in or out. Sometimes the white coats go in, but it’s pretty rare and they don’t stay long.”

“Is that what all the guards are for? Where’d they all come from?” Vigdor asks.

“Medicine used to be the ones, uh, hiring them.” (A quick insight roll notes that she hesitates on the phrase “hiring.”) “Lots of them still answer to whoever they were originally assigned to. But recently Dean Chidor from the College of Ethics took over that whole program, so a lot of the newer ones answer primarily to the ethicists. I mean, they all dress the same, so it’s kinda hard to tell? I haven’t asked a lot of questions, I’ve been trying to keep my head down since the whole thing with Macker.”

“What actually happened with him?”

“He’d been acting weird for a while,” she confides as she starts sticking pins in the leg and wiring them to a voltage generator. “He’d been working on something, some kind of extreme surgery – I think he was looking into a method of surgically removing Curse corruption. He was hitting roadblocks, though; he called in me and Alma Ulmus, who’s a College of Medicine bigwig.”

“Yeah, we met her in Bad Herzfeld!”

“I heard she’s here again, stalking around the halls complaining about funding. She knows more about his project than I do. Anyway, Macker sent me requirements for a healing potion he was gonna administer as part of some surgical procedure. I couldn’t get anything as powerful or precise as he needed. I’m a thaumochemist; I don’t know medicine that well. So it was beyond me to do that amount of gross tissue damage repair as controllably as they wanted it. I mean, I made some pretty nice innovations as far as the theory of potioncrafting, I’m hoping to get published as soon as it goes to peer review.

“But I couldn’t do what he needed, and eventually I got shut out of the project. Then one day he vanished. Alma set off for Bad Herzfeld and Macker stopped coming out of his lab. His assistants were still going in and out, but not long after that, the ethicists quarantined the place.”

“Has anyone else been quarantined?” Valeria asks.

“People from all three colleges got hit. I dunno about other ethicists, I haven’t heard about them quarantining anything of their own. But everyone else has. A group of engineering students were building a defense system to be deployed out to the Scar, and all of them got quarantined. Here in my department, Dr. Vilman – remember him? Stupid goatee, did a lot of stuff with crystals? – got shut down. Sometimes they quarantine the whole lab; sometimes they just shut down a project and everyone working on it gets a ‘guest lecture position’ over in Ethics. Sorbus said they got one of Macker’s assistants, Eric Pelbort. He had another one, Greta Ruble, but I guess she’s given them the slip.”

Emily’s got experiments to do on that leg, so we’ll let her get to it. As we head out, Gral asks one last question. “What’s up with those guards, by the way? Why do they only respond to those whistles?

“Uhhhh,” she says, as we fail our persuasion check. “They, er, don’t speak very good Valdian. Mostly foreigners, goliaths, the like. The whistles get their attention.”

Gral sighs and doesn’t push it. Vigdor’s already making plans to pickpocket a whistle. Valeria, since she has a direct invite to talk to the ethicists, considers the unheard-of paladin approach of Just Asking Them Directly.

First, though, Vigdor wants to check out the quarantine of Macker’s lab; he knew that professor well, and we’re all curious what’s been going down.

We walk on over to the surgical wing to case the joint. There’s a single owl guard blocking the hallway, presiding over a small barricade. A pleasant sandwich board sign states “Area quarantined by College of Ethics, apologies for the inconvenience.”

We try to walk in and the enormous guard holds out a hand to stop us. Shoshana tries to wiggle around him, like a cat trying to get at your dinner, but he impassively blocks her every move.

Gral tries a smoother approach. He begins with small talk; the guard doesn’t even twitch. He starts asking prying questions about the surgical ward. No response. Fine, then: he switches to Orcish, a sinister undertone weaving through his voice as he uses Words of Terror.

An insight roll reveals completely unchanged body language.

“Either they’re immune to fear or not a humanoid,” Gral reports back. “Not a single emotion. Definitely not goliath mercenaries.”

“Tryin’ to talk your way into the surgical wing?” says another chatty passerby. “Good luck. They got all the medical cadavers locked up in there and they won’t let us in.”

(Cadavers? Oh shit, we bet that’s the guard factory, theorize the players.)

“Oh, are you a med student?”

“Yeah. I work with Professor Herberts, or I used to, anyway. We needed a couple cadavers to do this comparison study about spleens; we got some weird ones from out in the wood, we compare spleens to see if place with thing don’t worry about it; need control spleen. And then these BIG DUMB IDIOTS wouldn’t let us in, and Herbert got transferred to the College of Ethics all of a sudden. He’s been gone a couple months.”

“How long do professors usually transfer for?” asks Gral.

“I mean, they usually pop over to give a lecture or two and come back by the end of the day.”

(Vigdor happens to remember that the College of Ethics also runs an asylum. They live in a big spooky castle and do dissections with guts and stuff, it can do a number on your head! Some of the ethicists have branched into the field of psychology. No reason to mention this when people are having extended stays on the ethics campus, of course…)

The student shrugs. “I gotta get to lecture. If you manage to get in there, any chance you can bring me back a couple spleens?”

We wave goodbye noncommittally, though Vigdor insists he can pop a spleen out of a corpse like a yolk from an egg. He’s a good surgeon!

Anyway, Vigdor went to school here, and the dice are on his side; he knows a side path through an old abandoned classroom into the surgical suite. He pops the lock on the door easily; all the undergrads used to go this way when slipping into lecture late, to get past the TA keeping track of tardies.

The guard is in earshot but facing the other direction, and he’s not even blinking, much less scanning around. Gral casts Silence on us and our very clanky party slips by easily.

Shosh sticks her head into the TA’s office. Nothing really stands out, but she swipes some interesting-looking notes from the desk drawers to look at later.

Meanwhile, Gral and Vigdor go into Macker’s office. The desk is an absolute mess, which is very unlike the guy Vigdor used to know. There are wheeled chalkboards crammed into the office, covered in scribbles and anatomical diagrams. Paging through the notes and glancing over the chalkboard, Vigdor makes a decent medicine check and can at least figure out what problem Macker was working on.

Based on what Dr. Emily told us, Macker’s trying to develop a surgical procedure. The issue is that whatever he’s doing would cause so much physical trauma that it’d kill the patient, and he’s looking for some way to prevent that. There are lists of healing options: formulas, spells, potions, nonmagical stabilization methods to keep the patient alive while various tissues are extracted from the body.

Gral’s unimpressed. Healing methods? That’s pretty tame for forbidden knowledge.

To Vigdor’s experienced eyes, this stuff looks mega-advanced and highly experimental, but Gral’s right – it’s not anything you’d scramble to censor.

Weirdly enough, the place doesn’t look ransacked, only disheveled and a little dusty. Macker’s notes haven’t been moved since he was here. Maybe this isn’t what the ethicists were after?

We head to cadaver storage while Valeria keeps watch. Cadaver storage is creepy as hell, but only because it’s, y’know, a room full of cadavers. A lot of the bodies, kept stable with Gentle Repose, appear to be Cursed, but that’s hardly weird. What’s so crazy they’d keep it hidden from everyone?

Vigdor opens the door to the dissection labs, Gral’s Silence deadening any ominous warning he might have had from the room beyond. Yes, the table here’s been recently used, and the bizarre symbols scrawled on the chalkboards have spilled onto the surrounding floor and walls, but Vigdor’s eyes are drawn to where the chalkboard peels away like skin to reveal a strange, multicolored, impossible space. The floor begins to take the shape of a stone hand that projects out into the shimmering void, joining a daisy-chain of enormous hands that form a walkway out to a marble platform floating in space.

Gral takes his Silence spell with him and runs to get Valeria.

Eyes starry, watching entire worlds and impossible shapes spinning through iridescent mists, Vigdor takes his first heady hit of Key taint.

As we cut session, Valeria considers that the ethicists may actually have a point.

#the cursewood #Session recap #sturmhearst university #gral omokk'duu #valeria argent #vigdor gavril #shoshana bat chaya #The key

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zinaidas · 4 years

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HER EYES, HER LARGE DARK EYES, WERE AMBIGUOUS —

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄: zinaida petrovna sabitova

𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄: the sacred

𝐀𝐆𝐄: twenty-five

𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: principal dancer at the bolshoi ballet

𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓: here.

—a delicate nose tucked into a fur collar, the flashing of camera bulbs white-cold and relentless as the snow, perfume no one can identify, a knife hanging from the ceiling; thread fraying, the slow undoing of a velvet bow, walking into the sea in an evening dress, the bargains made in folktales, smiling without showing teeth, heat from a spotlight, a striking figure in a black dress, blood in pointe shoes, unopened gifts, kissing a cold statue, balancing atop the balcony railing, straining muscles, lying naked atop the bedspread, a rose pushed to bowing under the weight of snowdrift, a crown that mysteriously fits, swans on the morning lake, lipstick stains, pulling death from the tarot deck, the gaze of a room sweeping in one direction, a glass throne, flowers being thrown on stage, grainy black and white footage of far-away figures, the cold draft through a window purposefully left open, the scent of perfume lingering in an empty room, perfect posture, the shot that puts down a lame horse.

𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘, 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐀 & 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓 !

trigger warnings for: implied sex work, sexual assault, drowning, suicide, & attempted suicide.

𝘏𝘐𝘚𝘛𝘖𝘙𝘠 !

i swear this is abbreviated compared to her app... i swear...

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈: 𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒.

she’s raised by her mother in an apartment with red walls, a colour she remembers not as blood-red or rose-red but heart-red. her mother is beautiful in the way no single individual should be and charming in a way that borders on symptomatic of terror. as a woman she excels, captivating hearts around her without intention and outright pilfering those she aims for, but as a mother she knows little. it is never a secret to little zinaida that she was an unplanned child — the absence of a father is evidence enough.

her childhood is blurred and full of a great deal of whirring colour; the red walls, the churning silhouettes cast by light of a candle, the twirl of her mother’s skirt before she leaves for the night. girlhood is always full of this motion and little stillness — the solid, rectangular parts of life such as school and full meals are of little importance to zinaida’s mother, and sometimes forgotten altogether. she learns to be a quiet, undisruptive girl who does not whine when her stomach grumbles or the scent of smoke stains her clothes; she is educated on the value of trading rations for pure silk stockings when the war comes in place of the missed lessons. there is no time beauty is required more, mother says, than in duress. always, it prevails.

at night she sits on the edge of mother’s bed and watches as she applies makeup at the vanity, setting her face with rouge and powder in flaking gilt packages. it’s like magic those hours, watching her mother transform into a proud creature even more beautiful and untouchable than the one in the beginning, and how it is that extraordinary demi-being that returns home with beautiful trinkets or thick handfuls of paper bills. each morning she comes home, until the one she does not.

the man in the dark suit arrives at her front door and tells little zinaida, whose height only reaches his hip, one thing she knows to be a half-truth and one thing that she does not know of at all: that her mother is a prostitute, and a traitor to the soviet union. these things are explained to her as both independent facts and contingent clauses, like the two angular pieces of a door hinge.

her mother is accused, she is told, of blackmailing one of the state council. young zinaida blinks, still gripping the doorknob. it is not news to her that her mother associates with rich and powerful men, but it is news to hear that this is a crime. blackmailing? she asks. yes, he says. it means to threaten with a piece of information. only, in this case, the information is false. she is lying, and she has been arrested. oh. the girl says. it seems very odd to her that her mother, who so often lessoned zinaida on the truths of the world as she saw them (for instance, that men were only afraid of the two things they could not control: beauty, and death), would be caught lying. what is the information? the man looks down at her from under his hat. it begins to rain behind him. you. she says you are his daughter. everyone has a father. she answers. why is this so bad? for the first time, the stranger in the doorway looks uncomfortable, lifting a hand to scratch the midday shadow along his jaw. she claims it is by force.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐄.

driven out from stalingrad into the surrounding country by the man in the dark hat, zinaida is taken to an estate with wrought iron gate, overrun with weeds and the sensation of time passed and left embittered for it. there she finds a half-dozen other girls, all bastards of important and high-sat men. she and the other girls call it the birdcage: for their imposed home gleamed like one, and because it housed a half-dozen little sparrows of young women, each of them trapped, fluttering at windows, waiting to get out and touch the world.

despite its size, the estate has few staff, and those who do cook and clean within the walls keep their silence like a photograph tucked in their pocket. uncle vanya, as they are told to call him, is the only one who speaks to the girls — though his speech is always stunted and harsh as a candle burned halfway down. he stands as both the head of household and, as zinaida would learn, the ballet master. dance, he says, is how they will occupy their days — ballet the medium which would instill discipline and self-control into their lives, things they will then carry into life as young women released back into the city.

the war feels so distant in the countryside, wrapped as they are in their strange, repetitious daily life. dance occupies both the time & intention of each day; if they are not practicing they are stretching, and if they are not stretching all that there is schoolwork, sleep, or chores.

zinaida, tall for her age and with a body made lean by intermittent poverty, is objectively made for the stage in ways she has no control over — but her skill, too, is preternatural. already accustomed to suffering, she has no wide eyes when uncle vanya chastises her, nor wobbling lip when her pointe shoes graft sections of skin from her toes and heels. she merely persists. more than that, she begins to exist. she has found what her mother told her about all that time ago: a beauty that survives even dread. even the end of the world.

her skill over the others — and perhaps even moreso, her desire to dance — is quickly noticed by the uncle and the girls both. her peers grow cold, irritated by what makes her different — what makes her special in a world where all must be communal. uncle vanya, however, pays closer attention. after dinner on her eighth birthday, he bends to one knee and looks zinaida in the eye, one hand on her shoulder. you can go to leningrad to dance, if you wish. they will teach you, and I can arrange it. will you go? she, with her raven-hair and bright, solemn little eyes looks back with a very simple answer: what else would I do?

( and she thinks, she thinks: if only i am good enough, perhaps they will take me to mother again. perhaps i will not be alone. )

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃.

she comes of age in the breeding grounds of race and rivalry. zinaida is found, as uncle vanya has expected, a prodigal dancer with bodily proportions meant for the stage. her peers resent or flock to her, hoping to find a queen to please or a star to hitch to. so long without true companions, she is desperate for the affection of those around her — for friends, for lovers — but the demand of ballet, the pull of a future with the bolshoi, usurps the ability to make connection. still, she dreams. she imagines loving every individual who shows her kindness.

innessa anisimova is another vaganova pupil with great promise, and perhaps zinaida’s singular dearest friend. both seventeen and dark-haired, they are often mistaken for sisters, and take their places next to one another at the barre. though the academy and its tutors were brutal to all who entered, innessa is picked on by the school’s faculty, often critiqued by comparison to zinaida. they accuse her of having a leaden body, criticizing her footwork by saying it looked as though she had bricks tied to her feet. the stress of the training coupled with increasingly personal attacks, innessa’s mental health suffers until reaching a point of no return. on a cold november night, innessa looks to the verbal attacks of her instructors and takes her own life, lashing cinderblocks to her shoes and jumping into the nearby lake.

several months later, zinaida makes an attempt on her own life before a handful of instructors in a fit of mania. the knife is wrenched from her hand, but the motion leaves a 2-inch scar across her delicate neck. zinaida is given a brief reprieve from lessons, and the academy, unwilling to release their star, covers up the incident. still, rumours persist.

at eighteen, after graduation from vaganova and weeks prior to her debut with the bolshoi, zinaida goes the ‘60s version of viral after her measurements are taken in several national newspapers, put out as proof that she has the “perfect” ballet body printed along with interviews & articles. the image of her at 18, extended in fourth position while a journalist holds a measuring tape down her leg, along with subsequent video footage, has been widely circulated.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐖.

her debut is remarkable, her place as a celebrated figure quickly evolving into celebrity as she rises from the corpse to soloist and principal in a thin handful of years, two meteoric ascents. but the fame is not wholly naturally: instead, it is in part carefully cultivated. having sought an effigy for the general populace to rally behind and support — a face more personal than authority figures, and less frivolous than america’s movie stars — the soviet government decide on zinaida. she, with her generation-defining talent, exemplified a human excellence that could be strained into a narrative of natural soviet supremacy — a thing so potent, they want you to believe, that it manifested in the body itself.

she attends high profile events; she’s dressed in foreign clothes; her personal life is gossip; she’s seen on the arms of extremely important men. the glamour is muted but still there, meant to showcase what any soviet could attain through hard work and excellence; she is a celebrity, but of a different kind. much like her skeleton title, her reputation is carefully cultivated to be exactly that — sacred. the brand of her image is one meant to mark a certain exclusivity, a sanctity that cannot be broached by things unworthy. her absences are as important as her attendances, as it’s within these blank spaces that the general public can imagine what the government desires them to: that she resists parties for practice, dismisses romance for work. of all she has, all that zinaida knows as earned in truth is her position at the bolshoi — but even this remains at the discretion of the soviet government, as everything in her life does.

𝘙𝘜𝘔𝘖𝘜𝘙𝘚 & 𝘗𝘜𝘉𝘓𝘐𝘊 𝘗𝘌𝘙𝘊𝘌𝘗𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕 !

... ONLY ATTENDS EVENTS FOR A LARGE APPEARANCE FEE / half-true. she occasionally receives payment through the government for attending events they dictate to her, but she doesn’t have much of a choice anyway lol.

... WAS ENGAGED TO A YOUNG COUNCIL MEMBER, HAVING BEEN WON OVER BY HIS PURSUIT: ATTENDING EVERY SHOW OF THE 1960 SEASON / false. the councilman did attend every show, but the romance (and subsequent rumour) was contrived. this was largely done to unite a “people’s” figure with one of authority. zinaida and artyom mikhailov would have a brief and genuine relationship during this time, but it ended prematurely.

... WILL BE NAMED PRIMA BALLERINA AT THE END OF THE SEASON / ?? it’s considered an ill-kept secret and all-but-verified fact by the public, but we’ll see.

... CAUSED THE OVERSEERS OF HER VAGANOVA AUDITION TO CRY WITH HER PERFORMANCE / false. similar things have been said of her bolshoi audition, but it’s untrue.

... IS RELATED TO XYZ. / who knows. not zinaida. there are a handful of random rumours as to her parentage, but largely this is due to the fact that her life before vaganova is unknown. unwilling to have their figurehead linked to a scandalous birth or mother, the soviet gov has scrubbed and hid her records.

𝘛𝘙𝘐𝘝𝘐𝘈 !

to hide the scar on her neck, zinaida constantly wears necklaces and scarves - she’s known for wearing a black velvet choker even during rehearsals.

knows how to read palms and tarot cards by heart, skills remembered from her childhood with an unusual mother who came from a crooked house in the black woods. zin carries that little bit of witchiness quietly with her, between occasional occult practices and the mental ritualizing of her modern habits. superstitious, though she doesn’t like to show it.

frequently after performances, zinaida rushes from the fallen curtain to her dressing room, not stopping to speak to cast or crew. this likely incurs opinions of snobbish or diva behaviour, but it’s emotion rather than apathy that has her take to the private room. the emotions of a role, when not allowed to move and expel through performance, tend to overwhelm her once she stills -- leading to tears, tremors, and other vulnerabilities she doesn’t wish her peers to see.

the media and general populace have several nicknames for her, most prevalently the jewel of moscow (stalingrad? idk) and the tsarina (graduated from the tsarevna, her pre-principal nickname).

obsessive over preventative beauty and bodily measures -- even moreso than the average ballerina. there are lengthy morning and nighttime routines for both, with everything from face creams/serums to stretching, and the ritual of it soothes her.

she has no idea who her father is, but frequently thinks about the fact that any of the old men in authority she poses with for the papers could be Him. her patronymic was assigned to her before debut.

terrified of her own mortality, and subsequently dislikes being around the elderly.

contrary to what was told to her so many years ago, her mother was never arrested for attempting to blackmail a politician. she was, conversely, offered a large sum of money to send her illegitimate child to the estate in the country. though i’m still working through how she discovered this, zinaida is aware of at least part of this truth by now.

has the awfully fatalistic habit of practicing choreography and positions on the edge of a high building, particularly when overcome with guilt, anger, or melancholy. to her, this is a resolute test -- either she is strong and agile enough to uphold herself, to balance with utter perfection, or she is not. and if she is not -- is life not ruined regardless?

applauded for the depth and intensity of her characterizations on stage and the ability to embody a role, removing the audience’s view from one of technical steps to that of a character and a story. her talent, generally speaking, is considered a once-in-a-generation -- along the lines of the anna pavlovas and margot fonteyns; a name that goes down in both russian and ballet history.

𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘕𝘌𝘊𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕𝘚 !

tbd. i just need to post this already gdi.

#deux:intro #⋆ ❍ ⋆ / an in wrought fairytale sense of doom » dossier.

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usagichanp · 4 years

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lexthan

*rubs hands together* I was hoping someone would ask me that

This is gonna be a long one folks.

General:

Rate the Ship -

How long will they last? - Life long partners, babey.

How quickly did/will they fall in love? - I think they had crushes on each other for a while. They didn't officially say "I love you" till a few months into their relationship, but they thought it sooner.

How was their first kiss? - I wrote a lesbian Lexthan version of their first kiss, though I don't think canon Lexthan's first kiss was like that. I imagine it to be not really planned out; just like they're talking to each other in the car and lock eyes, then slowly lean in and kiss. Since they've had kisses before, it's not a catastrophe, and it's actually fairly soft.

Wedding:

Who proposed? - Ethan. Wrote a whole ass fic about it.

Who is the best man/men? - I know who the best man is in my fics (it's my man Marsh, for those who have read it), but idk about the canon Ethan's best man. Maybe Danny (the Smoke Club Boy) but I'm not sure if they'd be friends enough to be his best man. He might not have one.

Who is the bride's maid? - Hannah. Duh.

Who did the most planning? - Ethan, but Lex chipped in too. Tom might help as well if asked lol

Who stressed the most? - Ethan. Though their ceremony isn't big, he still wanted it to be a good memory down the road (it was)

How fancy was the ceremony? -

Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

First they had just a courthouse wedding where they signed the papers, then had a tiny wedding ceremony with only close friends. Even if they could afford a proper wedding (Canon Lexthan prolly couldn't afford it) I don't think they'd want a big affair anyways. It's be exhausting.

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? - Lex's mom. Obviously.

Sex:

Now we're getting to the good part lads

Who is on top? - Ethan is a fucking switch. You can't convince me otherwise. He tops maybe like... 60/40 or 65/35. But when Lex tops, she tops bitch.

Who is the one to instigate things? - Ethan likes instigating things since he's a horny teenage boy, but it Lex doesn't want to, he stops. Sometimes Lex instigates, but usually when she does she's in the mood to top.

How healthy is their sex life? -

Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

I'd give it a 7.5, depending on the situation. While they try to tone it down around Hannah, when they have alone time they'd totally go for it. Ethan's glovebox in his car has a box of condoms in it at all times. What can I say, as I said before, they're horny teenagers

How kinky are they? -

Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

They don't like seeing each other hurt so they wouldn't like BDSM. They're not vanilla but nothing too crazy- blindfolding, light bondage (aka tying hands up with rope or cloth), scratching, light spanking, pegging

How long do they usually last? - It depends on how much time they have to have sex. They've done quickies in bathrooms or whatever before, but if they have all night then they're pretty good at prolonging it.

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - Absolutely. It is said in multiple fics (I think?) of mine that Ethan makes sure Lex has the same amount of orgasms as he does. Always.

How rough are they in bed? -

Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

They certainly can have slow, soft, romantic sex, but Ethan is also 100% capable of rocking Lex's world so hard she can't walk right for a week. (That happens in my first fic, Cassieopia, albeit off screen)

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? -

No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

1) I fucking love that metaphor 2) They don't get much physical affection at home, so they fucking love snuggling and cuddling- whether it be after sex or just hanging out. Sometimes they cuddle as a form of stress relief after a shitty day.

Children:

How many children will they have naturally? - 2, maybe 3.

How many children will they adopt? - I think they might prefer to have children naturally, but in my California series they gain custody of Hannah when she's 12. Does that count?

Who gets stuck with the most diapers? - Lex forces Ethan to learn how to change diapers. That being said, Lex isn't half bad at changing them either, since she helped change Hannah's when she was a child.

Who is the stricter parent? - They're not exactly strict parents, but both Lex and Ethan can definitely scold the kid. ("hAnNaH! tHaT bEtTeR bE fUcKiNg fLoSs!!!!!") That being said, both take care to not be abusive to their child, especially Lex. She doesn't want to be like her mom, so she tries to keep her temper in check.

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? - Ethan has good reflexes, and has stopped his kids from falling and hitting their chin on a playground structure more than once. (Fun fact! That happened to me when I was 3. I fell from a steel elephant shaped jungle gym at a German zoo, hit my chin on a steel bar, and bit through my lower lip/knocked 3 teeth out. I still have the scar years later lol)

Who remembers to pack their lunches? - Lex. Though the lunches aren't always the healthiest.

Who is the more loved parent? - I think they're both loved, but maaaaaybe Ethan a bit more.

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings? - Neither would attend PTA meetings out of the goodness of their hearts. If Lex or Ethan would go to a PTA meeting, it'd most likely be because they wanted to yell at a teacher or principal. They might go seperately or together depending on the severity of the issue.

Who cried the most at graduation? - Ethan wouldn't admit he cried, but he did. So did Lex.

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - Oh bitch, Lex and Ethan both said fuck the law. If it was just like, an overnight jail cell for some stupid misdemeanor, they might try to break their kid out. Otherwise, Lex would probably the one paying the bail because Ethan would try to punch the cop in the face if the cop talked shit about Ethan's kid. That reaction is not exclusive to cops.

Cooking:

Who does the most cooking? - Neither of them are exactly 5 star chefs, but they can hold on their own. Lex is better at cooking breakfast and Ethan is better at cooking dinner- but if he's exhuasted from work, Lex can cook dinner for him.

Who is the most picky in their food choice? - Neither are picky. Both of them grew up young scrappy and hungry just like their country without really the chance to be picky. They had to take what they could get.

Who does the grocery shopping? - Lex. She's good at calculating totals in her head. I wrote that in an unrealeased fic.

How often do they bake desserts? - Rather rarely. Perhaps on special occasions or to bond. Ethan has ruined the kitchen with his kid trying to bake a cake for Lex at least once. Maybe more.

Are they more of a meat lover or salad lover? - Meat lovers, babey. Fuck that fancy plant bullshit.

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - Ethan. I wrote that in the proposal fic.

Who is more likely to suggest going out? - Depends on what you count as "going out". Lex likes going to McDonalds, but Ethan is the one who suggests eating at actual restaurants.

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking? - Ethan, but both have had near misses.

Chores:

Who cleans the room? - Both had fairly messy rooms as teenagers so they're not super anal about having sparkling clean rooms. That being said, when someone comes over Lex does try to tidy the place up a bit. At least enough to make it seem like they have their shit together. Ish.

Who is really against chores? - Ethan can be a bit of a lazy bones sometimes, but Lex isn't exactly a huge fan of chores either. However, she is used to doing chores since she practically raised herself and Hannah.

Who cleans up after the pets? - They take turns. Both hate it.

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - Ethan, because he doesn't want to incur Lex's wrath.

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? - Lex. As I said above, she actually actively cleans the house beforehand. Not to the level of that freaking out mom from the comedy video who's name I can't remember tho.

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - Ethan. He has a nack for finding random bits of money. Score.

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths? - Lex, though both take relatively quick showers to save water.

Who takes the dog out for a walk? - They actually like doing it together. It's nice to get some fresh air, and they enjoy each other's company.

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - Ethan goes over the top, partially to annoy Lex. You know that Christmas tree Chris Pine vine? Yeah, Ethan would fucking do that.

What are their goals for the relationship? - Live a better life together than they did in Hatchetfield. White picket fence and California dreams shit.

Who is more likely to sleep till noon? - Ethan, but Lex is known to sleep till 3 in the afternoon if she's really tired.

Who plays the most pranks? - Ethan. That's literally canon.

I can babble about them all day lol

#Lexthan #Black Friday #lex foster #ethan green #I'll reblog this later with links to my fics #thank you!!#asks

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onebadwinter · 3 years

Note

can I totally send the ship thing in for Bucky and Kara

ULTIMATE SHIP MEME!

Send in two (or more) names and I’ll fill all this out about the ship!

General:

How long will they last? - Well, Bucky is a mite bit of a difficult person, and can be, very often, angst heavy. So he’s perhaps often going to split on Kara, when triggered especially. But if Kara can get him out of that state, and deal with the other faults he still caries. They should last for a while.

How quickly did/will they fall in love? - More than definitely it was a slow burn kind of thing. Since Bucky doesn’t entirely believe he deserves these kinds of things, being that he spent the majority of his life feeling worthless and used.

How was their first kiss? - Bucky definitely might be a good kisser, Though he might be a bit rusty, seeing as he hasn’t kissed much of anyone since being sent to war.

Wedding:

Who proposed? - Bucky, was born in the thirties, raised in the forties. That man definitely is the one that would propose. He would feel awful for not being the one. As he was raised ‘right’ to believe the man should ask the woman. As it’s much more romantic to him. Not that he would be against being proposed to. It’s just not something he would be in favor of, over the opposite. It’s more seen as respectful, in his eyes. Respecting Kara enough to propose to her.

Who is the best man/men? - Steve, of course.

Who is the braid’s maid(s)? - Sharon or Natasha.

Who did the most planning? - Bucky is more used to the idea that the family of the bride does the planning. And seeing as Kara’s family is technically still alive (Pepper? Morgan?) and wealthy, and he is, well, not. It would be up to the Starks, or whoever Kara wishes, if not Kara herself? Though of course Bucky would more than likely speak up if he really wanted something. Maybe.

Who stressed the most? - I’d say neither. Bucky doesn’t try to stress over things since being freed from HYDRA’s control and Kara is certainly a calm well put together woman enough to not let a wedding get to her head, too badly.

How fancy was the ceremony? - Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? - Thanos.

Sex:

Who is on top? - They are probably both very versatile. Bucky’s not one to debate it. Because sex isn’t really on his mind to be begin with, all that much. It’s a in the moment kind of ordeal, whatever’s comfortable.

Who is the one to instigate things? - Kara more than likely. Since Bucky is not quite comfortable with displaying the sort of things that would instigate, too often.

How healthy is their sex life? - Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

How kinky are they? - Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

How long do they normally last? - Guess that depends on the situation. Now doesn’t it. lol

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - Oh yeah, Bucky would make sure. Even if he’s in a bit of a dark and gloomy angst, rough, mood. He’d still allow Kara the same pleasures.

How rough are they in bed? - Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? - No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

Children:

How many children will they have naturally? - This is a debatable situation, As he probably still doesn’t want any.

How many children will they adopt? They may adopt one or three.

Who gets stuck with the most diapers? - Bucky would definitely be willing to help out here, as he wants to be a part of the raising of any children between them one would think.

Who is the stricter parent? - They will probably both be fairly strict, Bucky definitely so.

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? - Kara, more than likely. As Bucky plays by the rules of “Sometimes you gotta bleed a little to build character.” ahah.

Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? - They both are more than likely to be on top of this.

Who is the more loved parent? - I’m thinking that it’s a balanced sort of thing. A team effort by both of them would probably result in the children liking them equally, even for different reasons. Idealic, anyway.

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings? Depends on who’s readily on hand at that time. Probably Bucky, more often then Kara since he’s not got a lot to do these days, outside of random assassinations, for fun.

Who cried the most at graduation? - I’d imagine that both parents were proudly watching with teary eyes. But I wouldn’t think they outright cried.

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - I’d like to say neither. Bucky would be more of a “Commit the crime, do the time.” Kind of parent, as he wants his kids to ‘do better than him’ in this moralistic questioning. And, believes that bailing the child out will only instill in them that someone will always be their to bail them out. That’s just not how the world works, however. So Bucky would want them to learn a lesson here.

Cooking:

Who does the most cooking? - They probably both share in the cooking. If not including the entire family, for a fun activity and lesson in cooking.

Who is the most picky in their food choice? - Kara, one would think. Since Bucky wasn’t raised in a time where being picky was an option. And then there’s all the Hydra stuff. You think they let him pick out his own food?

Who does the grocery shopping? - They probably both will participate in this. As they are both adults and very capable of shopping for themselves and family equally.

How often do they bake desserts? - Bucky would probably be trying to learn all this new modern stuff that he did not have growing up or captured by Hydra. So he is more than likely to be the one to cook this, yes. But he might also include Kara, for fun.

Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? - Bucky does love meats more than salads. As there were rarely any meat to have growing up, it was a privilege to have. Though he does like salads, Kara would be the one to suggest them more often.

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - They both probably would switch every other anniversary to do something.

Who is more likely to suggest going out? - Neither probably, As Bucky’s no big on going out. But Kara is more inclined to it, since she was raised much more closely to a time where, going out was a thing. Or well, more THE Thing to do since she was raised in the modern era of wealth and prosperities that the Twenties lost away. Bucky, was lucky to have an EXPO around to ‘go out’ to. Then there are dance houses and the usual club or bar. But Bucky’s not in great need of visiting such places. He’s perfectly fine staying in with Kara and reading a book or enjoying some show or movie.

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking? - I’d say Bucky, the first few times he’d tried to cook after breaking free of Hydra’s control. THOUGH, lately, no. Neither seems to be a better option. Cooking is not that hard, Bucky is learning how to improve his cooking skills as much as he can, to probably impress.

Chores:

Who cleans the room? - They both more than likely do this if they are both home. Or will be fine cleaning if one is not and the other is. So it’s an equal effort.

Who is really against chores? - Bucky might not be in the mood for doing chores all the time, I think.

Who cleans up after the pets? - They both will participate, given who finds the mess first, I would imagine.

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - Neither, what would be the point in it. Bucky’s mother would come out of her grave and beat him senseless, no doubt. Kara, despite growing up with in the Stark Household. Seems to, ultimately know better than doing such a thing, a swell.

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? - Bucky, he doesn’t like too many people around him. Or new people he hasn’t met before. SO it would be very tricky getting him on board with this sort of thing.

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - Bucky would definitely be more excited about finding a dollar between the couch cushions, given that money is still a thing that’s ‘not always available’ in his mind.

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths? - Bucky certainly takes a long time in the bath. He has a like of thinking to do.

Who takes the dog out for a walk? - They probably both would go on a walk together with the dog. Seems to be the best thing to do. Unless one is sick or unable to in some way. Which Bucky certainly would, then.

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - Holiday’s weren’t something particularly grand when he was growing up. Enjoyable to a degree, back then. Though he’s not a big fan of Halloween, now. He probably has gotten more into the spirit of holidays now that he can celebrate them in full of the modern day flair.

What are their goals for the relationship? - To be with someone they could spend the rest of their lives with, even if sometimes they might want to claw each others eyes out over stupid arguments or something.

Who is most likely to sleep till noon? - Bucky has a lot of Trauma and sleeping helps keep it away. But it also does not. So it depends, though Bucky is the more likely party to do so, being up and down all night otherwise.

Who plays the most pranks? - Not having much of a good childhood on top of getting drafted to war and used a a Hydra puppet, Bucky can be more childish and prone to pranks.

#Asks #BuckyAsks #BuckyAndKara #Kara #AkaSupergirl #akasupergirl

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latibulx · 3 years

Note

Sam & Sana

ULTIMATE SHIP MEME! ㅡ closed ㅡ @nxvalunxsis

General:

How long will they last? - If they work out their issues and actually learn to communicate, they could last for quite a while even to their surprise. But in the case that they don't, they might just end up breaking up at some point.

How quickly did/will they fall in love? - it took a little while because they were so comfortable being best friends and they didn't want to act upon the obvious physical attraction between them. But if I remember well, they had the help of alcohol to finally cross the line.

How was their first kiss? - Tasting like alcohol and heated.

Wedding:

Who proposed? - They don't get married! I feel like these two don't like the idea of needing a paper that says that they're officially married. They like their freedom, and their relationship only belongs to them and them only.

Who is the best man/men? -

Who is the braid’s maid(s)? -

Who did the most planning? -

Who stressed the most? -

How fancy was the ceremony? - Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? -

Sex:

Who is on top? - They're both rather dominating so it always switches, depending of who's willing to be bottoming.

Who is the one to instigate things? - Both, they communicate their emotions through sex.

How healthy is their sex life? - Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now - obviously this is not as healthy as they think it is because they need to TALK more than having sex. But they also genuinely enjoy having sex together because that's the one thing they're on the same page. Their bodies are synchronized.

How kinky are they? - Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 - I don't seem them as overly-kinky. What they like about having sex is the connection between their bodies, it's hands and lips on damp skin, it's the heat and passion and the rush for pleasure. They might try out new stuff now and then but it's not something they always seek for. | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

How long do they normally last? - As long as they need to get rid of the frustration or anger they feel. And if they're in a softer mood, they last longer because they're actually taking their time.

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - Not really, ahaha. Unless they feel competitive and want to give the other more orgasms than the other did until they're too exhausted to come again.

How rough are they in bed? - Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 - oh my, look. they're definitely rough with each other. love-bites and hickeys and bruises and scratches - they're all part of their sex routine. hair-pulling, too! | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? - No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public - they don't do much PDA but when they're in the mood to be soft, they can cuddle and be just gentle and loving with each other. they definitely need to do it more often though! | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

Children:

How many children will they have naturally? - None, I don't think Sana wants to become a parent.

How many children will they adopt? - But I do have this headcanon that, one day when they're older, a kid shows up at the gym asking for food and then naturally comes back and they unofficially adopt the kid as theirs, giving them a bedroom and a chance at life, the same way Sana and Sam have been given a second chance;

Who gets stuck with the most diapers? -

Who is the stricter parent? - While they do give the kid rules and discipline, they can also be lenient because they want them to feel like home is a warm and welcoming place.

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? - None, they let them experience life.

Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? - I can imagine Sam being on lunch duty, pft. While Sana is the one to cook dinner, maybe.

Who is the more loved parent? - Honestly, both. They're an unusual family but it doesn't mean that they love each other any less than "normal" families.

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings? Both, even if both hate it. They want to show their kid that they're here for them no matter what.

Who cried the most at graduation? - None of them, they were smiling proudly!

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - Their kid probably didn't need them, they learned to escape the law on their own.

Cooking:

Who does the most cooking? - Sam, because after Sana's father has passed away, she has refused to step into the kitchen for a long while as it brought back memories that were too painful for her to bear.

Who is the most picky in their food choice? - Because they're both athletic persons, they're picky in the way that they find a balance between healthy dishes and greasy ones.

Who does the grocery shopping? - It depends of who has won "rock, paper, scissor".

How often do they bake desserts? - Never, they aren't really desserts people.

Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? - Once again, it depends of their diet! Sam and Sana enjoy both, and I feel like they've learned how to make healthy salads taste delicious.

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - Hmm, they don't do such things. When their anniversary comes around, they'll probably tease each other about how they've managed to stand each other long enough to be another year together.

Who is more likely to suggest going out? - It depends of who's in the mood to go out! I think they're both comfortable with spending some time outside.

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking? - None of them.

Chores:

Who cleans the room? - They're both pretty tidy persons, so both!

Who is really against chores? - None of them.

Who cleans up after the pets? - They don't have time for pets.

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - None of them!

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? - They're both quite relaxed because they only invite people they know well-enough to not feel stressed over.

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - Sam, probably. And then he'd tell Sana to stop losing her bills because one day she'll end up losing her entire wallet, haha.

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths? - I don't think they're ones to take too long showering or bathing unless they have bathroom sex.

Who takes the dog out for a walk? - They don't have a dog!

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - Rarely, even when they have a kid. Perhaps for Christmas, but that'd be pretty much all.

What are their goals for the relationship? - for it to become less toxic and to always make sure that they communicate their true feelings even if it might upset the other.

Who is most likely to sleep till noon? - Sam, because Sana's used to be an early riser!

Who plays the most pranks? - They're both playful and they'd probably compete about it, too! they're totally the kind of couple who play prank on the other and each time they take it the level above!

#( sana: answer. )#( sana: about. )#nxvalunxsis #( thank you for sending this! )

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imspardagus · 3 years

Text

The Treasury Solicitor takes Tea

Or The Case of the Rugely Poisoner

Part I – Dr Palmer’s cure for debt

On Saturday, 14th June 1856, Dr William Palmer, dubbed by the press “The Rugely Poisoner” or “The Prince of Poisoners”, was publicly hanged at Stafford for the murder of John Parsons Cook at the Talbot Arms, Rugely.

The tale of Palmer’s crime and eventual conviction reads like a Victorian crime thriller. Not surprisingly, because that is precisely what it was. And, but for a chance encounter over a cup of tea, he would have walked free.

The story of Dr Palmer’s life abounds with ugly rumour and speculation but in sufficient quantity for a conclusion to be fairly reached that he was not a nice man, and certainly not the “Saintly Billy” described by his doting mother.

The earliest speculation surrounds a drinking contest that he had with a man who, later, went home to his bed and “died of convulsions”. Palmer was known to be interested in the man’s wife. With rumour spreading of his involvement in the man’s death, Palmer moved on to Rugely, where he married another woman, Ann. Her mother, who had a fortune of £5,000, came to stay: and promptly died “of apoplexy”.

Palmer loved to bet on the horses and he ran up large gambling debts. He was helped out by a large loan by a friend. The man subsequently died at Palmer’s house, apparently in agony. Palmer, as the doctor in attendance, attributed the death to “an abscess in the pelvis”.

That four out of Palmer’s five children died in infancy could be no more than a sign of the times. That Ann, his wife, then died at the age of 29, “of cholera” could be true; there was a cholera epidemic sweeping England at the time. And the fact that Palmer had just insured her life for £13,000 may have been either shrewdness or a coincidence.

Palmer had, by then, squandered his wife’s inheritance and accumulated debts of £22,000 (you can multiply that by about a thousand to get the current equivalent of that sum). That Palmer’s brother Walter then died after Palmer had taken out a huge insurance on his life may have been another coincidence. The insurance company did not think so, sent in investigators and refused to pay out.

But however unlucky Palmer was with the horses, he was more fortunate in life. When his wife’s and brother’s bodies were exhumed they were too decomposed for the cause of death to be established.

And so we come to John Cook. Cook was a rich young man who shared Palmer’s passion for betting on horses but was rather more successful at it. They became friends and Cook loaned Palmer money. Dr Palmer took charge of Cook’s health, which started to deteriorate.

The last few days of Cook’s life were spent at the Talbot Hotel with Palmer in attendance. Cook claimed one night that that there was something in the brandy they were drinking and that it was burning his throat. Palmer made a show of tasting it in front of other guests and declared it good. That night Cook began to suffer spasms and other symptoms. Dr Palmer called on the services of a local doctor who prescribed an opiate to relieve the symptoms. Dr Palmer insisted on administering the medicine and took charge of what Cook ate and drank.

A servant at the hotel later testified that she had tasted some of the broth that Dr Palmer had prepared for Cook. “I suppose I drank about two table spoonfuls, the effect of that was to make me sick in about half an hour, or it might be an hour—I was sick violently all the afternoon till about 5 o'clock”.

Witnesses gave evidence of Cook’s final hours. “I observed that his body, and head, and neck were moving, there was a sort of jumping or jerking about his head and neck—sometimes he would throw his head down on the pillow, arid raise himself up again—the jumping or jerking was in all his body—his breathing was very bad, and the balls of both his eyes very much projected—I observed a gasping when he spoke. It was difficult for him to speak, he was so short of breath—he screamed again three or four times while I was in the room, that was while that violence was—he was moving and knocking about all the time—he called aloud, "Murder!" twice.”

The maid said, “I heard Mr. Cook make a request about being turned over; I believe he said, "Turn me over on my right side." Then Cook died.

Dr Harland was called in to conduct the autopsy. As he arrived, Dr Palmer joined him. He recalled Palmer saying, "I am glad that you are come to make a post mortem examination; some one might have been sent that I did not know, and I know you.” Harland asked, "What is this case? I hear there is a suspicion of poisoning" and Palmer replied, "Oh, no, I think not; he had an epileptic fit on Monday and Tuesday night, and you will find old disease in the heart and in the head."

Later, Palmer, attending the autopsy, fed brandy to the student carrying out the examination of the body and had nudged his arm. The surgeon to whom the vital organs were sent for examination complained that they were so damaged and contaminated that he could draw no conclusions as to the presence of any poisons.

Cook had kept a “betting book” in which he recorded all his bets and what he was owed. The maid remembered its being by his bedside. But when Mr Cook’s brother inquired after the book” Dr Palmer said that it was missing.

Then it was discovered that Dr Palmer had bought for six grains of the poison strychnine shortly before Cook became ill.

Though the evidence against him was circumstantial – so much so that it could not even be shown that Cook’s system contained poison - Dr Palmer was arrested and charged with murder

Part 2 – Justice served in a teacup

In Part 1, we saw a mounting number of deaths surrounding Dr Palmer as he pursued his life of reckless gambling and debt. Despite his financial interest in their demise, nothing could be proved against him. But with the death of John Parson Cook, Palmer’s friend and benefactor, suspicion reached a level that could not be ignored and he was charged with murder.

In 1850, strychnine’s discovery by two French chemists was barely more than 30 years old. The deadly quality of the biological source of the poison, a genus of trees native to Asia, Africa and Central America had been know for some time. Nux Vomica (a substance used by homeopaths but in such microscopic quantities as to be incapable of doing either harm or good), derived from the seeds of the trees, was used as a rat poison but the active chemical strychnine had not been isolated until 1819.

Cases of strychnine being used as a murder weapon were rare (or had gone unidentified) so that establishing its administration as the cause of death was forensically difficult. Few had witnessed the progress of the poison.

Few but, sadly, not none.

In October 1848, Caroline Hickson was a nurse in the family of Mrs Serjeantson Smith. On 30th October, Mrs. Serjeantson Smith was unwell and a prescription was sent to Mr. Jones, a local chemist, to be made up for her. It was in the afternoon, about 6 o'clock, that the medicine arrived. It was a mixture in a bottle. Hickson gave her mistress the medicine, about half a wine glass full, in her bedroom the following morning, at around 7 o'clock, and saw her take it. She then left the room but was alarmed by the ringing of the bell about five minutes after, or it might be ten. When she went into the room she thought her mistress must have fainted. Very soon after, Mrs Smith started to suffer from spasms. Hickson sent a servant to bring a doctor. In that short time, when she returned to the room, her mistress was lying upon the floor, screaming with pain but through tightly clenched teeth. Her arms and legs were drawn up tight to her body, her feet turned inwards. A short time before she died, the last words she uttered were, "Turn me over" and seemed more comfortable.

Shortly afterwards, the chemist, Jones ran up to the house in a great state of alarm. He had made up the wrong prescription. Mrs Smith had, by accident, taken a fatal dose of strychnine.

The awful tragedy was reported in the papers. But Nurse Hickson was so distraught that she broke down. She left the family and disappeared without trace.

When Dr Palmer was arrested, the Treasury Solicitor was Henry Reynolds. This was before the advent of a Director of Public Prosecutions and the Treasury Solicitor had the task of supporting the Attorney-General in the conduct of major prosecutions. The trial of Dr Palmer – moved by special Act of Parliament from Stafford to the Old Bailey because local feeling against Dr Palmer meant he was unlikely to receive a fair trial - fell to them.

The Attorney General and the Treasury Solicitor, convinced as they were in their own minds that Dr Palmer had poisoned Cook with strychnine, were none the less concerned that the evidence was not sufficient to persuade a jury. Without proof of its presence in Cook’s body, the link between Palmer’s purchase and Cook’s death was speculative at best. What they needed was evidence that would demonstrate that Cook’s manner of dying was only consistent with the unique pattern followed by strychnine poisoning. But because of the drug’s novelty, such evidence was conspicuously absent.

The sad business of Nurse Hickson eight years earlier came back to Reynolds’ mind, but all efforts to find her had proved fruitless.

The matter was preying on Reynolds’ mind when he went to tea with Lady Caroline Gamier. The forthcoming trial had so captured the public imagination that it naturally formed a topic of conversation and Reynolds told Lady Caroline that there was only one link missing in the chain of evidence, vital to convicting Palmer; the evidence of a woman named Hickson, who had witnessed the fatal effects of strychnine at first hand. The Treasury had, he said, made every inquiry for Hickson, but she could not be traced.

Astonishingly, Lady Caroline replied, "Hickson is at this moment in my nursery."

At the trial, the poor nurse bravely relived the nightmare of when she accidentally administered strychnine to her mistress and gave a graphic account of the course of her dying, the spasms, the arching of limbs. They all matched the evidence of Cook’s end.

And then there was the call to be turned on her side as the only position of any comfort, followed by breathlessness and asphyxiation. Its correspondence with Cook’s own last hours was striking. The jury convicted Dr Palmer of killing Cook by administering strychnine and Palmer was sentenced to death.

As a footnote to history, English vernacular is peppered with colourful but obscure phrases, many with nautical or colonial origins. Those of you who have ever wondered where the expression “What’s your poison?” – a macabre invitation to to take a drink - came from now have your answer. So powerfully did the case of Dr Palmer, the Rugely Poisoner whose modus operandi was to spike the drinks of his friends with strychnine, capture the imagination of the British people that the “What’s your poison?” entered the language and remained long after Dr Palmer was forgotten.

If you are interested in this case, you can find a transcript of the entire trial at the Old Bailey on-line: http://www.oldbaileyonline.org/browse.jsp?id=t18560514-490-offence-1&div=t18560514-490&terms=william|palmer#highlight

#true crime #tea

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citrina-posts · 4 years

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Avatar: Cultural Appreciation or Appropriation?

1. Growing Up Asian-American

2. My Own Biases

Obviously, one can only truly speak for what they experience in their own life. I am East Asian and that is arguably the only culture that is treated with great depth in Avatar.

3. What It Does Right

#reposting this without the cut so that it survives with my new url!#avatar #avatar the last airbender #atla #cultural appropriation #culture #atla crit #meta #criticism #racism tw #self rb #citrina writes

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needtherapy · 4 years

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soaring, carried aloft on the wind…continued 10

A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.

The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.

In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.

He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.

Part 1: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 … HOME

It’s on AO3 here if that’s easier to read.

NOTES: This story starts out G but will eventually be E for Explicit.

For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!

Chapter 10

The next day dawns with perfect golden radiance, lighting a sky as blue as the eggs of the little brown catbirds that nest outside of the Cloud Recesses. It is too fine a day to spend inside, so instead of the hospital tents, Huaisang takes him and Qingyang to the fighting rings.

“Huaisang, what does ‘sent home without a horse’ mean?” Xichen asks quietly, unfortunately not quietly enough for Qingyang not to hear him. But other than a slight pause in her step, she continues walking, head up, seemingly unconcerned. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. It sounded somehow ominous.

Huaisang laughs. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s what we say. He’s going back alone, with only enough supplies to get him home, and no pay. ‘Without a horse’ is a lot faster to say. Also, he doesn’t get to take a horse, so...” Huaisang shrugs amiably.

Xichen frowns. Huaisang may not want to dwell on the previous day’s ugliness, but Xichen thinks it’s a long way back over the mountains. He’s not sure if it concerns him or pleases him.

“Will he survive?”

It is Qingyang who answers with a scowl. “Undoubtedly. He’s a...gau. Gau marai. They always find their way.”

A painfully sharp rock, one of the many fascinating swear words Xichen’s Orera vocabulary is now in possession of. It’s a remarkably apt description.

Patting Xichen on the arm, Huaisang grins, but there’s iron behind it. “She’s right. He’ll be fine, Xichen. Even if it hadn’t been you and Qingyang, no one is allowed to harm anyone we’ve given sanctuary to. It would be a bad precedent. Don’t worry about it. It’s our way. Look!”

He points ahead of him and Xichen stares. It is not fighting rings. It is a fighting arena. Unlike the two-person circular spaces Xichen is used to training in, the Beifeng soldiers are sparring in twos and threes within a single, enormous rectangle. Fighters dance in a chaotic melee through the space, using each other as screens, blocking around other fighters, and Xichen can’t imagine how they keep track of their sparring partners, much less avoid killing each other. He wants to try it so badly his feet tap in solidarity, and he has to resist imitating some of the better combinations he sees.

“Yes, I am showing off a little, but there’s a purpose, I swear,” Huaisang admits, seeing Xichen’s wide-eyed interest. “After you healed anakau, and after yesterday, we realized it might also be helpful for you to understand more about how our soldiers fight and get wounds. Since we can’t very well send you into battle, this will have to do.”

Xichen listens to Qingyang and Huaisang’s explanations and translations of the different weapons being used: long double-edged jian (iraho), single-edged swords similar to the dao he knows (ipira), curved blades he’s never seen before (ipiramotou), even pairs of daggers (maheti). He tries to pay attention to Huaisang’s dissection of the Beifeng training regime, but he’s too engrossed in watching the fighters.

The Beifeng wield their magic differently in battle, far less often than his people but with far more devastating effects. Xichen is used to the power being a part of him, and it comes through in every swing and block, but these soldiers look like they are creating magic in order to use it. They only deploy it when they have enough time to force their opponent back or when they duck around another sparring pair. Still, when they crook their fingers or draw lines in the air to pull that strange darkness into themselves, the release can send the other person flying, force them down like a heavy weight on their back, or even freeze a charging soldier in their tracks. Now Xichen is even more glad he stopped Damias before he could use this magic against him.

“Would you like to spar?”

Huaisang’s question breaks through Xichen’s concentration, and he feels a pang of loss. After their mother died, the sparring ring is where Wangji and Xichen spent most of their time together, away from memories, away from other people, away from looming responsibility. His hands long to fight, but as childish as he knows it is, he misses his sword, and he misses his brother. He tries to evade the question.

“I do not have a sword.”

Huaisang claps Xichen on the back. “Zewu-Jun, I think we can find you a sword.”

He whistles sharply to a man standing at the edge of the arena, shouting a command when the man’s head turns. Within moments, he is standing in front of Xichen, offering him his choice of jian or dao. They are both perfectly decent weapons, and Xichen’s pointlessly stubborn resistance fades. He picks them both up, considering their weight, and chooses the jian—iraho, he thinks, practicing the word—as it seems the most familiar. He can’t help smiling at the comforting feel of a sword in his hand.

“I do not have an opponent either, Huasiang. Will you spar with me?” Xichen asks, guessing that no one else will be allowed to endanger him, and they have no way of knowing just how skilled he is.

“Alas, I am no soldier,” Huaisang demurs, and there’s a hint of mischief on his face that makes Xichen immediately wary. “Anakau...Elder Brother...will be your opponent. He has been...curious.”

Xichen’s eyes close, and he considers stabbing Huaisang. When he opens them, the arena is empty except for Mingjue.

“I do not think I like you,” Xichen hisses at Huaisang, but he swallows his agitation and ignores the traitorous laughter that follows him.

Xichen stands before a solemn-faced Mingjue, aware of the crowd of Beifeng soldiers milling around the edges of the arena. He debates the wisdom of this idea, but since it was obviously Mingjue and Huaisang’s idea, he doesn’t debate it for too long.

With a polite bow, Xichen raises the sword, leaving the scabbard on. It’s a show of bravado, as only a confident swordsman wouldn’t bother to unsheath his weapon, and Mingjue obviously understands the gesture. He lifts an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth tips up as he draws the ipira from its sheath on his hip—a beautiful sword, Xichen’s expert eye notes. The blade is an unusually dark metal and the handguard is set with a deep crimson stone. Hence the title, Xichen thinks.

Mingjue taps Xichen’s sword, giving him first strike as a master would give his student. For the first time since he’s been here, giddy laughter threatens to overcome Xichen. He’ll take the advantage and see if he can surprise Ipira’orhew Ikira.

Normally in a fight against an unfamiliar opponent, Xichen would spend the start of the bout in defense, watching the person’s feet, their eyes, their reactions. But one of his greatest strengths has always been his speed, and he decides to attack immediately, darting forward and sweeping from low to high in a series of swift opening slashes. Without giving Mingjue a chance to parry or riposte, he spins, forcing a burst of power through the sword and smashing it into the other man’s blade. The strength of Xichen’s magic slams the swords together and sends Mingjue skidding backward.

Xichen doesn’t know how fast or strong Mingjue is yet, but he knows he can not afford to let Mingjue recover or use his own magic, so he chases him, throwing the scabbard as he runs and aiming a hard, flat swing at Mingjue’s midsection, forcing him to block at an awkward angle. Mingjue lifts his sword—his strength is unbelievable—hauling Xichen’s strike up into the air. But Xichen lets the momentum of the sword continue in an arc, and he ducks low under Mingjue’s ipira, angling the point of the borrowed iraho up toward Mingjue’s neck.

It’s a reckless move for a friendly bout, and Xichen doesn’t know why he’s made it. Even against his brother, who is nearly his equal, he would never have risked injury like this. But as he suspected, Mingjue is even faster and more agile than he appears, flipping backward and avoiding the hit. Still, it’s given Xichen a chance to rethink his strategy, and the moment Mingjue is back on his feet, Xichen attacks, this time swiping down and to the side in a pattern of slashes, recognizing that Mingjue will have less power on a lift than he would for an overhead block. It is so good to move, to fight, to use his gift so fully, he feels like flying. He doesn’t even care if he wins.

Xichen looks at Mingjue’s handsome face, relaxed and confident, and changes his mind. He’s definitely going to try to win.

Mingjue sidesteps the last slash—Xichen chides himself for making one too many of the same attack—and finally brings the ipira down in a bone-jarring hack that Xichen only barely blocks. Instead of sliding away as Xichen would have done, Mingjue turns his blade, letting the swords drop between them. A smile flickers in the corners of his eyes as he leans in, forcing Xichen to hold the iraho steady with two hands and all the magic he can manage against the heavier ipira and the stronger man.

This close, Xichen can see every line of Mingjue’s expression, and the hint of a smile turns into a wide grin that inexplicably flusters Xichen. He drops the block and lets himself fall backward, bending at the waist and rolling to the side to absorb the momentum. The sudden release of tension on his ipira sets Mingjue off balance and he staggers forward, but he drops to his knees and spins, crooking his fingers as he moves and throwing up a dark shield between them, blocking Xichen’s jab. Without thinking, Xichen reaches out with his own magic, throwing a golden flame into the middle of the shield. It doesn’t break the magical barrier, but it sinks in slowly, like a stone into honey. Mingue recoils like it stings the tips of his fingers, and now it’s Xichen’s turn to grin at the look on Mingjue’s face.

Mingjue only falters for a fraction of a second before he plants his feet and shoots forward, jabbing the ipira at Xichen’s side, which Xichen easily brushes away, stepping forward into Mingjue’s guard space instead of moving away and using his longer reach to attack. Mingjue’s sword slides past Xichen, and with six quick steps—spin to the side, turn behind Mingjue’s back, swing the sword in a full circle—Xichen brings the edge of the iraho to Mingjue’s neck before he can pull the ipira back to block.

“Do you yield?” he asks, more out of habit and not expecting Mingjue to understand him.

Mingjue’s sword clatters to the ground and his increasingly familiar hands circle Xichen’s waist, slide into his hair, tip his head back, and not even bothering to avoid the sharp edge of the iraho at his neck, Mingjue kisses Xichen in front of an entire army.

Without even the semblance of resistance, Xichen lets him. Not only lets him, enthusiastically encourages him, dropping his sword to twine his arms around Mingjue’s neck, immersing himself in the heat radiating from his body and opening his mouth when Mingjue rubs his thumb against Xichen’s jaw. Mingjue bites Xichen’s lip with a sound between a growl and a moan that cuts Xichen more deeply than any blade, and he stops caring about the cheering crowd and his own embarrassment.

“Xichen?” Mingjue asks against his mouth, and Xichen doesn’t allow himself to think about why his name always sounds different coming from this man or second guess the answer he knows he’s about to make.

“Yes. Ani. Yes.”

Mingjue whistles a series of notes and grins at Xichen, who has no idea what he’s doing, but can’t resist smiling too. He loses track of time in Mingjue’s dark eyes, and only bounces back to reality when Mingjue lets go of him, just long enough to expertly fling himself onto the bare back of the black horse that has suddenly appeared. He extends a hand to Xichen, giving him one more chance to decline.

The part of him that realizes everyone will know where they’re going and, presumably, what they’ll be doing, sounds like one of his father’s lectures on virtue and morality. He stifles it. His father would have given Wangji to this man with no consideration for his feelings or his future. At least Xichen has chosen his fate, and he chooses it again, reaching up and letting Mingjue pull him onto the horse.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #soaring au #nielan #lan xichen #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #luo qingyang #arranged marriage au #the untamed fic #cql fic #sexy sword fighting

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buttsonthebeach · 5 years

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Lost Horizon, Pt. 2

@scharoux is the sweetest and most patient soul for waiting so long for part two of this story - thank you, dear friend, for trusting me with Rhaella and her epic tale!

This long fic picks up almost directly where The Last Game last left off - with Rhaella pregnant and alone in a world where Solas has removed the Veil, despite her attempts to stop him.

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions

Part One of Lost Horizon can be found here

Other pieces about Rhaella I have written include:

1. All Things Green and Growing

2. The Long Road Back

3. The Turning of the Year

3. The Same Kind of Scar (contains explicit content)

4. World Without End (contains explicit content)

5. The Last Game Pt. 1, the Last Game Pt. 2, and the Last Game Pt. 3 (contains explicit content), and the Last Game Pt. 4

Pairing: Rhaella Lavellan x Solas, post-Trespasser

Rating: Teen for violence, references to sex

Warning: Directly referenced character death for a character from DAI, general references to death and destruction

********************************

Merrill and Rhaella’s journey to Skyhold was slow. Isabela’s ship carried them swift and true - that part wasn’t the problem, even if the ship and all the crew seemed haunted, even if Rhaella could feel the absence of a woman she had never met as surely as she could feel the sea breeze - but once they were back on land, and traveling via horseback, her pregnancy proved a problem once more. She felt impossibly huge, her belly as big and round as the horse’s it seemed. Years of practice had made her a good rider, but the extra weight and the shift in her center of balance was even more pronounced now than it had been before, when she had ridden from Skyhold to Jader for her journey to Kirkwall.

The slow going meant she had plenty of time to take in how much had changed since that last journey, when she had been on her way to stop Solas. The burned out villages, and also the rapturous displays of light in the night sky - the dance of spirits thrilled to be free of the Veil. They rarely had to use a campfire for light, in fact. Wisps were drawn to them the way moths used to be. They frequently went to Rhaella’s belly after floating near her head and Merrill’s.

At least you’ll get beauty like this, little one.

Her magic surged towards each and every wisp when they came, but she tamped it down. Solas would know the feel of her magic, even across the distance, as surely as he would know the sound of her voice. They had not been pursued as far as they could tell, by people or by spirits, and she wanted to keep it that way. Merrill had known a draught to keep her from entering the Fade, which was their other means of concealment since they’d left.

“Poor Feynriel,” Merrill said the first time she brewed it. “I wonder what’s become of him in this world. If it makes more sense to him now, or less. Marethari made this for him while he was staying with the clan, and I learned it when we visited once. He was a Dreamer, so a draught like this didn’t always work for him, but it will be good enough for you and I. It feels like a different life to remember those times, when he was one of my biggest worries..”

“It does,” Rhaella said, even if she was only remembering a few weeks ago, when she’d been on this road going in the opposite direction, convinced she could stop the tide of Solas’s power from sweeping through and changing everything.

Sometimes on that long slow journey she lay there and was convinced the baby would never be born. She would be trapped like this forever, huge and waiting, adrift. She wondered how many other pregnant mothers lay awake in Thedas staring at the same moons and feeling the same way. They’d conceived their children in one world, and they would be born into an alien one.

Rhaella was grateful for Merrill’s training as a First, and her involvement in Kirkwall’s alienage since then. She still knew enough about pregnancy and babies to act as a midwife. She seemed less puzzled than the other midwife about the size of Rhaella’s belly, how it was bigger than they were expecting.

“Solas is not a small man,” she said with a shrug. “As long as you feel well, and you can still feel your little one wriggling about in there, I’m not worried.”

Solas is not a small man. The words sent a shiver of memory through Rhaella as she envisioned the days and nights that had led her to this moment. The size and weight of his body, how sheltered it made her feel, how whole. She pushed those thoughts away. She imagined, instead, a son that was as tall as him, who had only his kindness and not his narrowed vision, his pride. A son who reminded her of her own father.

I will love you no matter who you are, she promised anyway, feeling the child move.

The journey grew slower and more difficult as they climbed the mountain paths towards Skyhold. Rhaella struggled to lean far enough forward in the saddle to make her horse comfortable, so they had to walk the steepest parts of it. But, the feeling of being further from civilization, and the giddiness of having evaded Solas for nearly two weeks now, loosened their tongues a little, and Rhaella and Merrill were able to talk more freely. Merrill told stories of Hawke that she had not heard from Varric, and they shared their memories of growing up Dalish, compared notes on the Arlathvhens they had been to, speculated on whether or not they had ever met at one of them. It started to feel a little normal. Almost like Rhaella was back to being Inquisitor, and Merrill was one of her companions.

(It was probably a testament to how upside down things were now that Rhaella could think back to that time with fondness.)

Then they arrived at Skyhold, and all that warmth, all that strength she’d built, drained away.

It was not so much that the building was different. Its ancient stone was largely unchanged. It had weathered the creation of the Veil, after all. It was not even the scorch marks all over the courtyard, or the charred ruins of the stables.

It was the sound of the empty hospital tents flapping in the breeze. Of wooden shutters banging listlessly against stone walls.

It was the total, absolute emptiness of the place that had become her home.

The castle stood, but the people were gone, and the emptiness of that threatened to swallow her whole.

She should have been wise enough to expect this, to know that things would not be as she left them, that she would not return home to rally the people she’d left behind to some sort of unlikely victory. She had not heard from any of her forces in the weeks she’d been in Kirkwall. She’d hoped that was because Solas was intercepting their messages, that against all odds, there was still a home to come back to, a chance to set things right. Still, the blow of the silence struck her as true as any kick or punch ever had.

Then there was a high, hollow sound - a call, almost like that of a bird’s - but bigger, and then louder, like a trumpet, coming from the lower courtyard, and the sudden movement of a big brown blur -

“Thistle!” Rhaella called, and her hart galloped to her, drawing up short when he reached her, and then snuffling her with his warm, soft nose, whining again in his throat. She rested her forehead against his, breathed in the warm, woodsy smell of his hide. She scratched the place behind his ears that always made him stamp his feet with delight.

“Hello, friend,” Merrill said, approaching. “You’re a delight! I haven’t seen a hart like this in a long time.”

“He has been my constant companion for years now. I can’t even tell you how good it feels to see that he is okay.” Rhaella leaned her head against Thistle’s again and took another calming breath. She did not need to jump straight to despair. She had not even gone inside the keep yet. Who knew who else she would find, or what signs would be left behind - maybe everyone had moved somewhere else, or gone out into the world to help make a difference -

She wasn’t sure whether to feel reassured or afraid when the first arrow flew and landed at her feet.

Merrill’s hand flung out instantly, as if to shield her, and Rhaella’s magic crackled beneath her skin, longing to cast a barrier. She had to actively work not to cast the barrier without the Veil in the way, and it made her grind her teeth. Her son kicked wildly in her stomach at the sensation of the caged magic.

“It’s okay,” Rhaella called out when the urge to cast her spell passed. She looked in the direction the arrow had come from - the old tavern. She started in that direction, brushing off Merrill’s arm. “It’s me, it’s Rhaella.”

Another arrow flew, this one passing over her shoulder, so close that Rhaella could hear the pitch-perfect whine as it cleaved the air by her ear. Thistle snorted and stamped behind her, spooked, and Merrill took her staff off her back. The third arrow struck the barrier that Merrill cast, splintering into a shower of wooden shards, but Rhaella had seen where it was headed. Straight for her head.

Then Rhaella saw her, in the upper window of the tavern, leaning out now, bow in hand. Sera.

“Sera!” She called, waving her arms, walking closer. Surely it was an accident. Surely Sera had not actually meant to aim for a killing blow. “Sera, it’s just me.”

“Yes,” Sera said, nocking another arrow, half-drawing back the string. She stepped out onto the roof of the tavern. Her skin was even paler than usual, but her eyes were rimmed as red as the plaidweave armor she wore. “Who the fuck do you think I have been waiting for?”

Rhaella’s heart sank.

“Sera -”

“They’re all dead!” Sera shouted, the tears coming now. “All of them! Every person that mattered to me is gone now. Every person who trusted you to lead us. They all paid the price, and for what? So you could get a good shag with a man who never really loved you? And you didn’t even have to see it, did you, oh high and mighty Inquisitor? No, you got to be somewhere far away when it all came crashing down, all the fire and magic and shite, all the screaming and the dying. But I didn’t get that. I had to be here. I had to see it happen. I had to watch and even when I shut my eyes I had to listen. D’you know what it sounded like when your precious Commander died?”

Cullen.

No, not Cullen.

He was many things - not all of them good - but Rhaella prayed in that moment to the gods she didn’t believe in that Sera was lying.

“D’you know what it was like for him when all that bloody magic came rushing back, after all those years he’d worked to stop taking that Maker forsaken lyrium? I bet you didn’t even think about it when you went rushing back to your arse-wiping Dread Wolf. About how he would fucking scream -”

“Stop!”

Rhaella was aware that Merrill had shouted the word, that Sera was still talking, but the sounds were distant, covered up by a roaring as real as the sound of an ocean storm, of an earthquake. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t even think beyond the roaring sound. It was only the kicking and rolling of her child within her womb that brought her back to the surface.

“You don’t understand,” Merrill was saying. “Rhaella went to Kirkwall to stop him. She tried her best. She never stopped trying. She fought him until the very last moment, but there was nothing anyone could do. He was too strong for anyone but another of his own kind. And Rhaella didn’t stop there. She has been aiding the wounded ever since then, and once she had her first opportunity to flee from Solas, she did. How do you think she ended up here?”

“It doesn’t make a difference,” Sera said, and there was a sudden wave of magical heat rolling off of her, sparks at her fingertips. “Shite!”

She threw down her bow and Rhaella could see the trembling in her fingers. Sera had never wanted this, and now she was cursed with it. Magic.

Rhaella opened her mouth but no words came out. Her chest felt like it was caving in. Like all of Sera’s words had lodged there, true as arrows, true as morning sun.

“Please, believe us,” Merrill was pleading. “Neither of us wanted this. We’re trying to make our way in this world, the same as you.”

Sera shook her head once, viciously, and picked up her bow. She nocked the arrow again and started to draw it back. Rhaella realized that her hands were over her belly, feeling it warm and tight as a drum, but her magic was not seething inside her this time. She was making no real move to defend herself. Merrill grounded herself, started gathering the energy for a barrier. Then Sera lowered her bow.

“Get whatever supplies you need to get somewhere else. And then get gone.” Her eyes bored into Rhaella’s. “If I ever see you again, I will kill you.”

Then she disappeared back into the shadows of the tavern.

Rhaella felt rooted to the ground where she stood. Like she might never move from this spot again.

It was one thing to see the devastation of Kirkwall - a city that was not a part of her, another vein through which her own heart’s blood flowed - it was another to stand here in Skyhold and witness the magnitude of her failure. To hear those words of accusation dropped not from the mouth of a stranger but from a friend.

Cullen.

“Rhaella. Rhaella. Come on, love. I don’t think we want to stay here long.”

Merrill was using the same voice that Rhaella herself used to gentle Thistle when he was spooked. Her hands were on Rhaella’s shoulders, guiding. Their steps towards the keep were slow. Thistle whined, high and loud and mournful. Rhaella wondered what stories he would share of the day the Veil fell, if he could speak.

She tried not to study Skyhold as they walked through it. Tried not to see the blood or the winding patterns of lighting etched into wood and stone, the overturned tables, the shattered glasses. The kitchen was ripped apart but there was still food enough in the storeroom beyond it, and she and Merrill filled their packs with as much of it as they could reasonably carry. Rhaella felt the burden of her pregnancy all over again, how she would need more food than she ever had before on the road.

“Is there anything else you want to get?” Merrill asked when they were done there.

Rhaella nodded, and went wordlessly towards the long staircase that led to her chambers. Merrill did not follow. She was grateful for that.

Her chambers were exactly as she had left them. That was the most eerie part of all. She was not the same woman she was the last time she slept here. Her bedroom should have reflected that. But everything was in its place - each pillow on the bed, each paper on her desk. She picked up her field journal, which she’d left behind in her haste to get to Kirkwall. Then she saw the one thing that was out of place. A letter in an envelope, right in the center of her desk.

Rhaella

It was Cullen’s handwriting.

D’you know what it sounded like when your precious Commander died?

Rhaella tucked the letter quickly into her bag. She couldn’t read it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Merrill had distributed everything they gathered between Thistle and their other two horses by the time Rhaella returned. After a brief discussion, they agreed that they would keep both horses, using one for supplies and if one of their other mounts got tired.

“So where do we go now?” Merrill asked, her eyes shifting towards the tavern and then back to Rhaella.

“The Emerald Graves,” Rhaella said. “It has plenty of resources, plenty of places to hide, and it isn’t terribly far from here.”

“I have always wanted to see them,” Merrill said. “All those tombs of the elves who came before us, who fought for our people.”

Rhaella half wondered if the tombs had broken open when the Veil fell - if those elves had stepped out to a brave new world where their people had both won and lost.

She cast one glance back at Skyhold as they rode through its gate. The towers and battlements she’d come to know as home. It was lost to her now, like so many things were. Another ghost of her own, standing stark and sad against the blue mountain sky.

She took a deep breath and rode on.

They rode until nightfall, back down the same road they’d taken up the mountain, until Rhaella’s lower back ached so badly that they could not continue. She warmed damp cloths on a stone over the fire that Merrill built and then had Merill place them where it ached. She’d never wished so desperately for a bed in her life as she did in that moment, lying there on her side on the nest of blankets they’d arranged, unable to curl up into a ball or lie on her stomach, anything to relieve the pain.

“Warn me if it gets more intense,” Merrill said. “Sometimes that’s how it goes for women - the start of labor, that is.”

Rhaella felt a surge of panic and joy alike. Would tonight be the night she met her son, the person that made all of this worth it? The reason she continued putting one foot in front of the other on this road that had no real destination yet. At least not one she could see or count on. But the pain in her back did subside eventually. There was a new chill in the air by that point, a wind coming down off the mountains that made them both shiver. Rhaella looked to the saddlebags they’d removed from their pack horse, hoping for another blanket - and spied something familiar sticking out of one of the ones Merrill had packed. Red and fur-lined.

Cullen’s cloak.

She rose, went to it, pulled it out, half-hoping she was wrong. She wasn’t. She’d have known it anywhere, and of course Merrill would not have. She’d just seen something warm that might help them on their journey, and not another dagger aimed directly at Rhaella’s heart.

Merrill was a few paces away, standing watch since they didn’t want to risk setting wards. Rhaella went to her bag and pulled out the letter she’d found on her desk, the tears already rising in her throat, the guilt already swimming in her stomach. She found a tree that she could sit against, looking away from Merrill, and eased herself to the ground, cloak and letter clutched in one hand.

She read.

Rhaella,

I am never going to see you again.

That's the worst part of this. It isn't the pain or the screaming or the uncertainty. It's knowing I will never see your face or hear your voice again.

My hand is shaking. I hope you can read this if you find it. When you find it. I refuse to believe that you did not survive this. You and the baby - you have to survive. I have to believe this was all worth something, and if the two of you are still out there, it was.

You are the most incredible woman I have ever known, Rhaella. Your quiet strength - I know it will see you through. I have watched you move mountains and I know you will move them again and again.

(I hope this all makes sense. I was never good at words, and my hand is shaking, and everything hurts -)

I wish I could be there to see you move those mountains. To see your baby. The baby I thought of as ours no matter what. I understand that what we had was never going to be real. I am at peace with that. I would have given you everything nonetheless, Rhaella. You and the baby deserved that and I would have been whatever you needed me to be. If - if this isn't the end - if I can withstand this - if we are both alive - I will still give you everything. Not because I want you to wake up one day and love me. But because you deserve that as my friend.

Whatever happens - when you find this - I want you to know that I believe in you. I wish I had words good enough to express it. I don't. I believe in you the same way I believe in the Maker and his Bride. Maybe that is the closest I can come to explaining it. I believe in you, and if anyone can stop Solas, it is you.

If I die today, I die with nothing but faith and devotion in my heart. It was how I always wanted to go, Rhaella. It's okay. I am at peace.

Yours always,

Cullen

She was crying before she finished the third paragraph, of course. Deep, wracking sobs that hollowed out her chest, carved up her ribs, scratched up her throat. They were animal sounds. She wasn't sure how long they went on. It seemed there was no beginning or end to her grief as she thought of everything Sera said, how she'd sacrificed everything for a man who never really loved or deserved her. Were they both right? Was that really the source of her weakness? Had there been some final part of her strength locked behind a door with Solas's name written on it, where she hid all the memories that were good? Had that been the strength she would have needed that day in Kirkwall?

Rhaella cried into the folds of Cullen's cloak, her mind a maze of questions with no answers, and grieved.

Solas generally prided himself on being the master of his emotions. Controlling them, subduing them, and, when all else failed, simply hiding them away.

He did not bother hiding his frustration when he returned from his fight with the Evanuris.

He came into his Kirkwall base of operations and threw down the helm he'd been wearing, reveling in the loud sound of metal striking wood as it hit the table. Maybe if he did that over and over again he could drown out the sound of his failure - of half of the Evanuris's forces escaping into eluvians and shattering them as they left. He'd wanted to pull them out, root and stem, to be done with all of this, to focus on what came next - rebuilding, helping those that remained find peace and meaning in the new world he'd made. Helping himself find peace with what he'd done. Finding time to mourn the friends he had lost (sacrificed).

Mending things with Rhaella.

"We have not been able to trace them yet," Abelas said, calm and even, but with a hesitance that Solas noted at once.

"What else?" He barked. He'd tried not to be the kind of Commander who yelled unless it was truly what the situation warranted. Then again, he'd tried a lot of things. And yet here he was again, with nothing but ash and loneliness to show for it.

"Rhaella and Merrill are gone."

Abelas said it swiftly and calmly, with the precision of a surgeon making his first cut.

Solas felt the air leave the room.

He felt his power leach into the vacuum it left behind.

Raw mana, undirected, uncontained, filling up every object and person around him, lighting up the room with a blue glow, filling it with a subtle roar. He felt his advisors shield themselves in barriers, as if he would attack them. Perhaps he would. (He would not.)

Solas took a breath and drew his mana back in.

“When?”

“Not long after you did as far as we can tell,” Abelas said. Another surgeon’s cut.

“Together.”

“Presumably, yes.”

“Where?”

“Unknown. We have not been able to track them via traditional or arcane means, though perhaps you will have greater success with the latter. You know Rhaella better than any of us, after all.”

For a moment, Solas considered letting her go. It would be kinder in the long run. He’d told her that once, when he was a stronger man. But he still had dried blood under his fingernails, the screams of the dying in his ears. He still had unfinished business, and people who would seek to hurt Rhaella and his child.

(The child, the child, the child, he could hardly bring himself to think the word at first but now it was ringing through his mind like a struck bell, an endless echo. He might not get to meet his child if he could not find her, and perhaps that was what he deserved -)

He had to find her to protect her. To tell her one last time that he was sorry. If she went her own way then - if they went their own way then - he would just have to find a way to endure.

Var lath vir suledin, she had said to him the day he took the Anchor and her arm. Perhaps that was when she was a stronger woman. Perhaps he had broken them both.

“We leave for Skyhold at dawn,” he said. He turned on his heel and left. He had enough control, enough composure, not to spill his tears before them. He waited until he was in Rhaella’s room, surrounded by the smell of her, to do that.

He would endure, he told himself over and over again. He would endure. He simply wasn’t sure what it would cost.

#beach writes #beach does commissions #scharoux #rhaella lavellan #rhaella x solas #lost horizon #character death #angst #...like all the angst

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