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megyulmi · 5 months ago

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➠ Symbolism of Yuuji’s childhood memories in Chapter 265 and how it connects to his conversation with Sukuna:

I was rereading the latest chapter and ended up dwelling on how the order in which certain things appear along the path Yuuji and Sukuna are walking connects with the progression of their conversation and the outcome of it, so I want to point out a few of such details in case someone else finds it interesting.

First, I will start with Morning Glory (asagao, 朝顔, lit. morning face) Yuuji mistakes Ajisai for. Asagao was brought to Japan with the advent of Buddhism and came to represent Enlightenment. When one thinks of the flower, an old line often comes to mind: [Asagao blossoms and fades quickly to prepare for tomorrow’s glory]. It is the theme of one of the oldest songs on the morning glory, written by the Chinese priest at the temple of Obaku near Uji, who is said to have been the first person to introduce the flower to Japan. Since its arrival, it has been a frequent theme in Japanese Buddhist poetry, particularly when writing on the fleeting condition of human lives, as the poets found a congenial subject in the morning glory, for they considered no flower has a briefer life and beauty, and the buds of yesterday are flowers to-day, but only for a few short hours, and then nothing will be left but ruin and decay; though how quickly fresh buds will appear and fresh flowers open to be the tomorrow’s ‘morning glory’. Therefore, in Japanese culture, asagao is a symbol of new beginnings. The flowers open in the morning, representing the dawn of a new day, and close in the evening, symbolising the end of the day and the passing of time.

Next comes Ajisai (紫陽花), the Japanese hydrangea. The flower has both positive and negative connotations in Japanese tradition, symbolising both deep or heartfelt emotion and also a fickle or changeable heart. However, I mentioned in this post that the blue hydrangea (I am assuming blue, because Yuuji mistook it for asagao) can mean sincerity, forgiveness, remorse and spirituality. Ajisai are also an important part of the ceremony in celebration of Buddha’s birthday (Kambutsue), where his statue is washed with sweet hydrangea tea by the visitors of the temples. As such they are often found at shrines and temples.

After that, Yuuji and Sukuna catch Crayfish. Interestingly, Buddhist philosophy references the crayfish when speaking about the temporary nature of existence. All that seems solid and permanent, like the crayfish shell, eventually disappears. There is a famous painting of Priest Xianzi (Japanese: Kensu) by Unkoku Tōgan from the Momoyama period. It depicts a seated figure of a Buddhist monk who appears to be contemplating the large crayfish (or shrimp). Kensu or Xianzi is a semi-legendary eccentric priest of the Tang dynasty, who spent much of his time wandering along riverbanks, eating crayfish and clams. He allegedly achieved Enlightenment while catching a crayfish.

Later they come across Horses, which hold a special place in Buddhism, embodying spiritual virtues and the timeless quest for Enlightenment. The story of Siddharta Gautama Buddha’s renunciation and his separation from his beloved horse, Kanthaka, is a significant story in Buddhism. As Siddharta decided to leave behind his life of luxury and embark on a spiritual journey, he faced the task of saying goodbye to his beloved horse. The separation from Kanthaka symbolises the profound sacrifice he took when he renounced worldly attachments in the pursuit of Enlightenment. Additionally, in the Shamanistic tradition of East Asia and Central Asia, there is a concept of the Wind Horse, a flying horse that is the symbol of the human soul. In Tibetan Buddhism, it was included as the pivotal element in the centre of the four animals symbolising the cardinal directions.

After the horses, we see them engage in Archery. As a Buddhist symbol, the bow and arrow are found throughout the art, mythology and theology; held by gods, part of vivid legends, lauded in sacred texts and painted on the walls of the temple fortresses. They are symbols of the wisdom and compassion of the Buddha. Just as the arrow flies straight to its target, so too must the mind of the archer be focused and free from distractions.

And lastly, Snow. As a symbol of purity, it is taken as representative of naive innocence behind heroic undertakings. In this regard, it is also a subject of paintings in special combination with cherry blossoms as a symbol of what is ephemeral and transitional as is the life of the hero. However, snow is often associated in the Japanese short poetry with the Zen notion of Emptiness. This is because, to quote the poet Naitō Jōsō, snow covers and clears everything: [fields and mountains / all taken by snow / nothing remains]. From the lens of Buddhism, as the defilements—greed, hatred, and delusion—melt away like snow, the process of purification speeds up our relinquishment of impurity. To do this, one needs to be able to feel their humanity from within, where the invisible factors of mindfulness, clarity, faith, energy, concentration, and wisdom can dismantle and dissolve years of deluded ways of perception, of relating to life. Only then will the ground of awakening begin to appear.

I find Yuuji’s conversation with Sukuna to be rich in symbolism, each element along their path reflecting deeper themes of compassion and Enlightenment. Their journey begins with the morning glory, symbolising a new beginning and Yuuji’s offer of redemption to Sukuna. The hydrangeas, mistakenly identified as morning glories by him, signify Yuuji’s readiness and offer of remorse as he sincerely reminisces on his childhood with him. The appearance of the crayfish continues this theme, highlighting that this conversation is a chance for Sukuna to contemplate the temporary nature of existence and the path he wants to continue leading from there on. The horses, embodying spiritual virtues and the timeless quest for Enlightenment, appear as Yuuji’s way of asking him to renounce his old ways in pursuit of Enlightenment, followed by Archery right after, emphasising his readiness for compassion despite all Sukuna has done to him, mirroring the Buddhist ideal of a concentrated, undistracted mind. And lastly, comes snow as a symbol of purity and the potential for redemption, evoking the Zen notion of emptiness and the purification of defilements. Yuuji, by invoking these symbols, offers Sukuna the last chance at redemption and Enlightenment. He shows Sukuna the final act of compassion if Sukuna shows remorse, which Sukuna refuses.

In the end, Yuuji and Sukuna walk the same path, but their choices lead them in opposite directions. Yuuji embraces the symbols of Enlightenment, striving for a higher understanding and compassion, whereas Sukuna rejects these ideals, choosing instead to renounce the path to Enlightenment.

#i need to stop info dumping hereㅋㅎ #but i have so many thoughts on the last two chaptersㅜㅜ #hopefully someone finds this interesting.#jjk spoilers #jujutsu kaisen spoilers #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #itadori yuuji #yuji itadori #sukuna #ryomen sukuna

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quitealotofsodapop · 5 months ago

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Did Tripitaka ever experience the heat of a tiger? It sure was confusing for him. Humans do not have mating seasons (we look for love when we want but this is not the case with animals).

It must have been difficult for him, especially around Azure. Did Tripitaka come to consider Azure as a potential mate during a time of mating?

OK this is nsft territory so be warned!

Tripitaka is an interesting character to analyze since he's supposed to represent The Ideal™ buddhist monk for his adhereance to the rules... but he's never known anything else really. He was raised in a monastery, and very soon after becoming a priest (and solving his dad's murder + losing his mom), got sent on the mission for the scriptures. Would he be as dilligently a buddhist if his parents had not undergone such tragedies?

Tripitaka never approaches sexuality in Jttw (his own or others) because in Buddhist belief; sexuality is considered a "worldly attraction" like vanity or pride. Same reason the book never has him eat meat, whether for survival or unintentional (like in the Spider Sisters arc). It blemishes his perfect record.

But since the Tiger Monk au has Tripitaka in a situation where he honestly can't uphold the very human standards of buddhism...

Our boy fighting some biological demons rn.

My idea of Tripitaka is that he's mostly on the aro-ace spectrum, but seriously questions his sexuality over the course of the Journey. Seeing hot demons and celestials of many genders does that to a sheltered religious guy.

Combine that with a tiger's seasonal heat, and you got a monk frothing at the mouth, trying to keep himself from acting reckless.

Tigers go into seasonal "heat" every 3-9 weeks depending on the individual. Anyone whos met an unfixed cat or heard a cougar sounding like someone being murdered will know that these mfs make sure that you know about it. Tigers in particular have a deep "Meow" sound they broadcast to find mates. They even have "first dates" to get to know each other. Example.

Tripitaka feels weird one day and subconsciously makes a deep meow sound - scaring the whole gang. Wukong is immediately is putting a bicycle lock on that cassock!

I feel even when pushed to the brink of his urges, Tripitaka wouldn't be comfortable "going all the way" unless its literally someone he wants to stay with for the rest of their near-immortal lives.

Also his disciples are off-limits; the mentor-disciple bond is too precious to him to risk over a selfish urge.

But, Azure Lion offers an opportunity. He's a fellow feline demon with a similar Buddhist background who understands Tripitaka's moral conflict weighing his desires over his faith. He isn't the monk's superior or inferior, so no issue of power imbalances.

Tripitaka needs a moment to think. And to draft a diagram of pros and cons.

If these two ever did do "The Deed" (or just 3rd base)...

Macaque would be the first to know. And he'd be howling with laughter. XD At least until Azure threatens to tell the others why Macaque was in Wukong's room that very same night. Mutual glaring ensues.

And ofc Azure would be seconds away from being skinned alive by a quartet of the tiger's super-protective pilgrim brothers the very second of the them sniffs Tripitaka the next morning.

Peng would still brag in Azure's place as you can imagine - lion done pulled a baddie on insane difficulty. Yellow Tusk would shake his head in disapproval, but would also be a little impressed.

#nsft talk #suggestive tw #tiger monk au #lmk tripitaka #lmk azure lion #lmk aus #lmk #lego monkie kid #i need a shipping tag for tripitaka x azure lion #nsft #goldenmane #goldenmaneshipping

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whencyclopedia · 1 month ago

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Protestant Reformation

The Protestant Reformation (1517-1648) refers to the widespread religious, cultural, and social upheaval of 16th-century Europe that broke the hold of the medieval Church, allowing for the development of personal interpretations of the Christian message and leading to the development of modern nation-states. It is considered one of the most important events in Western history.

The dates of the Reformation are not universally agreed upon. Some scholars date the event 1400-1750 (from the dissent of Jan Hus to the end of the pre-industrial society), while others suggest 1517-1685 (from the dissent of Martin Luther to the revocation of the Edict of Nantes), and there are many other claims regarding dating which have equal merit. The dates 1517-1648, however, are the most widely accepted, setting the beginning of the Reformation at Martin Luther's dissent and the end at the Treaty of Westphalia that concluded the Thirty Years' War which started as a dispute between Catholics and Protestants.

Although the Reformation was previously understood as a monolithic event, current scholarship interprets it more as Protestant Reformations, a series of protests against the corruption of the medieval Church, seeking reform and, initially, the leaders of these protests had no intention of breaking away from the Church. A prime example of this is the Bohemian Reformation (c. 1380 - c. 1436), precursor to the Protestant Reformation, which initially only sought to remedy unbiblical practices by the Church.

By the 15th century, corruption in the Church was widespread and devout believers sought to rectify this. The refusal of the Church to address these criticisms eventually led to the schisms that would establish Protestant Christian sects which developed into denominations such as Lutheranism, Calvinism, Anglicanism, and others.

The Protestant Reformation completely changed the European cultural, religious, social, and political landscape and is often referred to as the birth of the modern age as it coincided with and was encouraged by the Renaissance of the 15th-16th centuries. Although there were earlier movements in response to the corruption of the Church, modern technology in the form of the printing press allowed for the dissemination of protestant literature and the publication of the Bible in the vernacular, resulting in widespread support for the cause and the end of the monolithic religious, cultural, and political authority of the Church.

The Medieval Church

The Church dominated medieval Europe (c. 476-1500) as the sole authority on spiritual matters and, as it became more powerful, influenced the spheres of politics and culture. In time, the pope became a significant political presence and, generally speaking, spent more time and effort on worldly affairs than religious matters. The hierarchy of the Church – pope, cardinals, bishops/archbishops, priests, and those in monastic orders – began to exercise their authority more for their own personal gain and comfort than the spiritual well-being of the people.

The Bible was only available in Latin – which laypeople could not read – and the Christian Mass was also recited in Latin as were the prayers (such as the Our Father and Hail Mary) taught to the people. Although the Church mandated adherence to its vision of Jesus Christ's message, this did not resonate with many laypeople who practiced a kind of blend of Christianity with pagan folk belief. The inaccessibility of church teachings, coupled with the obvious display of luxury and comfort by the clergy, led to reform movements as early as the 7th century, and according to some interpretations, even earlier.

#History #Bible #Calvin #CatholicChurch #WHE #[#]

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monstersdownthepath · 8 months ago

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Shadowbound Heart

Minor Artifact

Aura: Strong Conjuration, Strong Necromancy

CL: 22nd

Weight: ---

Slot: —

The first of these wicked artifacts is said to have been made when a tyrant wished for a means of immortality that would sustain his youth and health forever. He had, at first, thought to contact Asmodeus, but knew the Dark Prince's price would inevitably include his soul, and his demise would be arranged for him in the background. Similarly, beseeching a demon for immortality was an excellent way to not see the end of a decade, and a daemon even less. So the story goes, he took to another option: Zon-Kuthon.

The God of Pain heard the tyrant's plea and offered him a mechanical heart, crafted of the Netherworld's steel and by Zon-Kuthon's madness. All he asked for in return was that the tyrant rejoice in the "gift of pain" he would receive, and to seek to give it to others. He would keep his life, he would keep his soul, he would keep his youth and health, all for the price of pain, inflicted upon himself and others. Figuring that even the worst of worldly agonies would pale in comparison to Hell and figuring that, with his new eternity stretching before him, he would grow used to any pain his new heart would cause him (worst comes to worst, he has a mechanical body crafted), he accepted.

As these tales go, it is hubris to ever believe yourself beyond a price set by a god. Every mortal believes themselves the ones that will finally outwit their patron, but not one has succeeded. As the tyrant found out, the agony his new heart caused him was at a level there was no getting used to, and rather grimly, he found that the death he feared so terribly was now wholly beyond his ability to reach, no matter how much he strained for it.

Whether this foolish tyrant truly existed (and what his eventual fate was) or is merely a cautionary tale about making bargains with the Midnight Lord, the device featured in the story is quite real. Several of them exist, crafted both by Zon-Kuthon and the lesser Demagogues, some sitting in the ribcages of dried skeletons who found a way out of their bargain, most of them still embedded within the chest of a mortal seeking immortality, a new experience, or performing a mission for their patron. The fact that there's not one inside every high priest of pain suggests they're either difficult to create, even for a demigod, or only a limited number of them can exist at a time, or perhaps both.

Shadowbound Hearts resemble twisted, clockwork hearts bearing a smooth plate of silvery metal emblazoned with the unholy symbol of the god or fiend which created it. They're deceptively easy to install: A willing, living, corporeal mortal must hold the device to their chest for one full round, at which point spiked tendrils emerge from gaps within the device and rips its way into the mortal's torso. The artifact destroys the victim's heart and settles into its place, weaving its tendrils throughout their torso and settling in as its magic goes to work. At this point, the creature is considered infused. The ragged, shredded hole heals over swiftly except for the metallic plate, which now sits directly over the new heart and marks them as a bearer of one of these cursed artifacts.

A creature infused with a Shadowbound Heart enjoys several benefits: it gains Regeneration equal to its Hit Dice, and only Electricity damage causes the heart's Regeneration to stutter for a round. The user reverts to a young adult appearance and remain young so long as the Heart remains in place, taking none of the penalties of aging but reaping the benefits. They do not need to eat, drink, or breathe (but still feel the pain of starvation, thirst, and asphyxiation if they do not), become immune to disease and poison, and have 25% Fortification. They recover from damage to their physical ability scores at a rate of 1 per round, and drain to their physical ability scores at a rate of 1 per day.

An infused creature slain through any means, such as by a death effect or HP damage while their Regeneration is deactivated, returns to life at -9 HP one hour later and resumes regenerating HP as normal. If the heart is removed from their body at any point, their body dissolves into gore (killing them if they were, somehow, still alive). One hour later, they begin regenerating from around the heart, their tissues pouring from the gaps in the clockwork and slowly reforming their body over the course of 1 minute, at which point they're restored to life at -9 HP and resume regenerating HP as normal. Only continuous Electricity damage to stall the heart prevents it from restoring its infused creature.

This immortality is not without its costs. The infused creature gains vulnerability to pain effects which cannot be removed or suppressed, taking a -5 penalty to saving throws against pain effects. Every hour, there is a cumulative 1% chance that the heart suddenly surges with activity, its tendrils probing the creature's nerves and organs in indescribably painful ways, visibly slithering to new locales beneath their skin to find new clusters of nerves to torment. The creature is utterly paralyzed by the pain, falling prone and helpless, unable to do anything but experience the agony for 1d4 minutes. Once the pain triggers, the chance to activate resets to 1%. Every time the infused creature suffers at least 1 point of damage per HD they have from any source, the heart senses their pain and becomes envious; it gains a 5% chance to activate and an immediate check to see if it activates must be made.

Once infused into a creature, that creature has few ways to escape their pain. The heart's creator can will it to cease functioning at any point, withdrawing its tendrils and slipping from the hole in the victim's chest (this takes 1 minute and paralyzes the creature with agony), at which point the victim must receive the benefits of the Regeneration spell or die, as they no longer have a heart. A Limited Wish spell can remove the heart from a willing creature, restore their original heart, and ends the infusion if the caster succeeds a DC 32 caster level check. A Wish or Miracle used on a willing creature removes the heart, restores their original heart, and ends the infusion without a check needed. Whenever a heart is deactivated in this way, the creator often sends some of their agents to investigate what has happened (or perhaps even investigates themselves) and to recover the heart through any means possible and punish the formerly-infused creature for rejecting their gift.

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Destruction: Zon-Kuthon can destroy any Shadowbound Heart in existence by simply willing it. Otherwise, they must be destroyed by forging an adamantine hammer and chisel in the Positive Energy Plane, and using the hammer to drive the chisel straight into the heart through the metal plate, making sure to destroy the unholy symbol in the process. This causes the heart and the tools used to obliterate one another. Destroying a Shadowbound Heart while it's still inside a creature instantly kills that creature, and destroys their body utterly in a flare of positive and negative energy.

#original concepts #sort of #this whole thing came to me in a single shotgun blast in the shower

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psalm22-6 · 13 days ago

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Source: The Sydney Morning Herald, 27 June 1864

The readers of Victor Hugo's last romance, Les Miserables — and they are many, and the work, with all its faults, is a striking one — can hardly fail to have been impressed by the portrait of the lowly, self-denying Bishop of D— ; the 'bishop' to whom his affectionate flock could find, in one of his own baptismal names, so appropriate an epithet, that he is represented as having been familiarly known amongst them as Monseigneur Bien-venu — Monseigneur Welcome. To many, and to English readers especially, the character may appear forced and fanciful; and yet, allowing for the not unnatural exaggeration of a novelist, exaggeration which has unfortunately a tendency to throw upon an otherwise charming character on air of ridicule, the portrait of Monseigneur Myriel is no unfaithful sketch of the life and character of the prelate who for the first quarter of the present century (from 1806 to 1838) adorned the episcopal throne of Digne, in the south of France. Those who have had the courage to wade through the formidable array of volumes of an author of undoubted talent, but of extravagance of style and imagination unbounded — an author who mingles in one marvellous amalgam the true and the false, good and evil, the pathetic and the horrible — with a bad taste disconcerting to those most disposed to admire his real ability; will perhaps gladly learn something more of the true history of the saintly bishop whom Monsieur Victor Hugo has brought before us as fulfilling so touching, but at the same time so singular a part.

There is no concealment about the matter. The prelate introduced by our author to serve as the framework for his socialistic and pantheistic theories, and called by him Monseigneur Charles François Bienvenu Myriel, Bishop of D— , is none other than the late Charles François Melchior Bienvenu Miollis.Bishop of Digne. The most cursory comparison of the facts of the venerable prelate's life with the portrait drawn by the novelist is sufficient to establish this. Born at Aix, in Provence, in the year 1753, of pious parents, his father being a zealous and conscientious magistrate, he was ordained priest by the Bishop of Carpentras, in the year 1777, and sent forthwith to fulfill the functions of the priesthood at Brignolles. The strange story of his marriage, and of his worldly and dissipated life is due entirely to the vivid imagination of the novelist, and is a libel upon the character of this good man, who from childhood manifested the most earnest piety; piety which we may well believe to have been fostered by that pure home life to which his father had accustomed him, and of which that father had set the best example, by the praiseworthy practice of daily family prayer, and of other works of virtue and religion. At the epoch of the Revolution, Mons. Miollis, who was conscientiously unable to take the oath required of the clergy by the Revolutionary Government, appears to have emigrated to Rome, and, during his residence in that city, to have devoted himself to researches into the history and antiquities of the Christian metropolis. Eleven manuscript volumes remain to attest his industry, and contain the most interesting results of his enquiries. Upon his return to France, he became attached, in the capacity of vicaire (curate), to the parish of Saint Saviour, at Aix, where he had long been known for his devotion to works of charity, and his zeal for the instruction of the young in the principles of Christianity. It was with regret that, in 1894, he left this modest post, to return to his former cure and it was at Brignolles that, two years afterwards, the episcopate, literally, sought him out. Far from seeking this promotion, he never ceased to reproach himself with having allowed a burden, which he esteemed beyond his powers, to be laid upon him nor was he fully reassured on this point till after he had completely freed himself from the yoke. When the Emperor Napoleon came to a rupture with Pope Pius VII, Monseigneur de Miollis made on concealment of his sentiments. Summoned to the Council of 1811, with his colleagues, his bearing was firm and honourable. The following anecdote is wonderfully characteristic of the man. The Emperor, having had with him a long private interview with the object of gaining over the Bishop to his own views, the prelate replied, with deep respect but perfect firmness, "Sire, It is my, rule and practice to come to no decision in matters of moment without taking counsel of the Holy Spirit. Allow me time." The following day, the Emperor again accosting him, as follows: " Well, Monsieur, and what says the Holy Spirit ?" "Sire," replied the Bishop of Digne, "not a word of what your Majesty was pleased to say to me yesterday." When the Emperor, on his return from Elba, passed through the city of Digne, the Bishop, insensible alike to fear and favour, remained at home in his palace. The Emperor, respecting the noble independency of the Prelate, continued his course, the course which, though he knew it not, was so soon to terminate on the field of Waterloo.

In the early years of his episcopate, the diocese of Digne comprehended the department of the Upper and Lower Alps, a sufficiently extended district. Moreover, during the prolonged vacancy of the Archbishopric of Aix it fell to the lot of Monseigneur Miollis to discharge, in addition, the episcopal functions in the dioceses; so that he had not only to traverse the rude mountains, intersected by torrents, and bordered by precipices, and for the most part trackless, of the Alpine districts, which he was accustomed to do either in a light car, or mounted modestly, like our Saviour, upon an ass, or even on foot, staff in hand; but it became necessary for him to take long journeys, even to the borders of the Mediterranean Sea, for the purpose of preaching and confirming; the consecration of churches, and the visitation of schools, hospitals, and the poor — duties, which he performed with indefatigable zeal. At last, in 1838, overcome by age and the laborious nature of his duties, he resigned the see, and retiring to the house of a married sister, in Aix, devoted himself to the preparation for death, and for the account which he would soon have to render of his long administration. During the five years thus spent, he was the admiration of the whole place, as well on account of his profound humility as for the incomparable patience with which he endured the pains and infirmities of old age, supported by an union with God so close, so constant that nothing could henceforth disturb him. On the 27th June, 1843, the venerable Monseigneur de Miollis slept the sleep of the just, at the age of ninety years and nine months; leaving to his clergy and his flock, together with the reputation of his lofty and beautiful holiness, the legacy of the inextinguishable memory of his works of piety and charity His funeral was a veritable triumph. The city of Digne, in the cathedral of which, by his own desire he was interred, was adorned as for a festival, and in place of the mourning and sadness which are the usual accompaniments of such scenes, there was a certain subdued and holy joy, a sort of spontaneous and popular ovation as to a saint already glorified. [. . .] The readers of Les Miserables, or of this brief sketch, may satisfy any interest in the life of the subject of these notes which may have been excited in them by reference to the Life of Monseigneur Miollis, by L'Abbé Bondil; an 8vo. of something under 300 pages, published at Paris (Repos. Rue Bonaparte) a year or two ago, and costing something less than half-a-crown. To those who have derived their notions of the Bishop solely from Monsieur Hugo, the perusal of his life may be recommended almost as a matter of duty, inasmuch as they will thereby learn that all the good attributed by the novelist to his priestly hero falls short of reality; while certain false ideas to which the romance can hardly fail to have given rise will be found to have no place in the reality. To all, the memoir referred to may be suggested as an interesting and well written account of one whom the staunchest "Protestant " will allow to have been a "good and faithful servant" of his Lord. L.H.R.

#les miserables #myriel #miollis #catholic things #or should I say protestant things #contemporary reactions

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thepatristictradition · 7 months ago

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Veiling is not about Modesty (and it can even be Immodest)

What is the purpose of Veiling? If you were to look at some other religions, the answer you would get is "modesty". To discuss veiling, we must first discuss Modesty and "modesty". The idea goes, the more of the body covered = the more modest it is. But Christianity (and especially Eastern Orthodox Christianity) is much different than any other religion in the world. Thus, our view on Modesty is much different.

Modesty, in our faith, is not about being covered in the Worldly sense; it is about blending in and going unnoticed. This is where the middlingly correct idea of the "heart posture" comes into play(1). It is hypothetically possible to clad oneself in an ankle-length floral dress and a lovely veil and still be immodest if one is doing it with the intention of attracting the attention of pious men. It is always immodest to dress in a way that provokes, intentionally or unintentionally, such as overly flashy clothing or jewelry, or dress that is very foreign to the culture where you are visiting or residing. Likewise, it is also possible to be modest in a garment that leaves the wearer nearly naked, as in a swimsuit at the beach, where that is the expected attire.

The actual purpose of the Veil, especially in a Prayerful or Liturgical setting, is an expression of a portion of our Theology of the Church, the Eucharist, and Jesus. The Church is a woman, a Wisdom to whom all Priests and Bishops are married. All Orthodox Christians are the bride of Christ, though the men and women among us express this truth in different ways. The Eucharist is, theologically, the fruit of the marital union between the celebrant and the Church. Our Christian theology, down to its very core, is marital. The veil is marital garb.

The primary pieces of scripture Christians cite in favor of Veiling are 1 Corinthian's 11:5, " But every woman that prayeth or prophesieth with her head uncovered dishonoureth her head: for that is even all one as if she were shaven," (KJV), and 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18, "Rejoice evermore. Pray without ceasing. In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you," (KJV). Taken together, many would say that women must, at least, cover their hair/heads in Church and during prayer in general. Many would further say that this implies women should veil all the time, or at least in public.

But why is that? Is a woman's hair immodest? Is it indecent to show one's hair or head in public? Fortunately, no. No part of the body in Christianity is considered intrinsically indecent or shameful. On the contrary-- every part of the body is valuable and good, and it is only the Fall that brings shame upon them. What is indecent and what is acceptable is determined by the society you find yourself in. If we find ourselves in a community that believes elbows are the height of inflammatory sexuality, I should hope we all cover them with only the thickest of wool shrouds.

In the Old Testament, a woman covering her hair is a symbol of marriage, first and foremost. This is not only true in the Hebraic culture of the OT, but also in most antique cultures across the Middle East and the Mediterranean both in the OT, and in the Gospels and the Epistles. Unlike what many young Orthodox women say, the veil is not a symbol of submission, either-- at least not any more than a wedding ring is today or the veil of Hebrew women was. The veil of a Christian woman is the expression of a theological truth-- wearable ecclesiology and Christology.

1) Much of the discussion of heart posture, especially in protestant circles, is simply an excuse to wear crop tops to Church in the name of personal piety. Another post on this shall follow. A good rule of thumb is that heart posture always condemns, never excuses.

#eastern orthodoxy #christianity #orthodox christianity #eastern orthodox #christian #modesty #veiling #veil #Christian modesty #christian girl #christian blog #woman of god #feminine modesty

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modern--nights · 9 months ago

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Verily, the Lasombra stand as chieftains and seers, monarchs and sages, warriors and holy men. They weigh with care who merits the Embrace, yet show no mercy to those of their ilk who prove unworthy. Indeed, the sole menace to the dominion of clan Lasombra may well be clan Lasombra itself. Montano, eldest childe of Lasombra, now governs from the distant Castle of Shadows in Sicily, his rule extending as a shadow over his Sire's troubled repose, haunted by visions of darkness and the Abyss.

Deep-rooted in religious fervor, perchance due to their profound affinity with shadows, many among the Clan tread the Path of Heaven. This fervent piety kindles strife within the Clan, turning their gaze inward. In Iberia, the Shadow Reconquista rages—a clash between Christian and Muslim Cainites, dividing the Clan. Its echoes reverberate far beyond Iberia, ensnaring distant allies. Christian Lasombra within the Church rally resources for Christian forces, whilst Muslim brethren seek alliances, especially with the Assamites. They implore their Jewish kin to join their cause, for fear of dire reprisal should Christians seize power in Iberia.

Yet, the schism without mirrors the schism within. The Cainite Heresy festers within the Church, a heretical cult dominated by Lasombra priests and bishops. These apostates claim Cainites, marked by God, akin to angelic beings, with the Curse of Caine sanctifying them. Naturally, even non-Christian Lasombra decry this doctrine as blasphemy, striving to expunge such heresy wherever it takes root.

Moniker: Magisters Visage: The Clan of Shadows boasts a diverse assembly, with members hailing from Spanish, Italian, Jewish, North African, or Arabian lineages. Most Lasombra garb themselves in opulent attire, bedecked in silks from the Orient, sumptuous French brocades, or the resplendent fabrics of Arabia. Even those within the Church, though it eschews worldly riches, often don regal vestments befitting their high station.

Refuge and Quarry: Some affluent Lasombra opt to dwell amidst their familial estates, masking their true nature to retain control over their holdings. Here, they find ample sustenance amidst kin, servants, and retainers. Others, averse to the complications of concealment amongst throngs of mortals, establish solitary abodes of opulence, sacrificing convenience for secrecy and security. Some adherents of the Cainite Heresy feed upon their congregants, veiling their actions as sacred rites. Nonetheless, such practices demand utmost discretion, lest they incur the wrath of more orthodox Christian Lasombra.

The Embrace: Lasombra often select their progeny from among the affluent, powerful, or politically astute. Yet, Magisters may equally embrace those of humble origins, whose ambition and intellect shine bright. Birth alone cannot gauge one's mettle or capacity for leadership.

Clan Disciplines: Dominate, Obtenebration, Potence Weaknesses: Lasombra cast no reflection in reflective surfaces, rendering it arduous to conceal their supernatural essence from mortals. Moreover, they recoil from bright light, suffering additional harm from sunlight.

Organization: Within the Clan exists the Amici Noctis, the Friends of Night—an exclusive fraternity admitting only those who have proven their worth to the Clan. Presiding over the Courts of Blood, the Amici Noctis grants leave for Amaranth, serving as the final arbiter of its application. Unsanctioned Amaranth invites swift retribution, as decreed by the Amici Noctis. Predominant in central Europe, Montano staunchly opposes the Friends of Night, forbidding their presence in Sicily and the Castle of Shadows. In Iberia, the Shadow Reconquista impedes the Amici Noctis's authority, rendering it powerless to quell the discord.

Stereotypes: High Clans: A meaningless distinction, espoused by the equally pointless. Our ascendancy stems from merit, not lineage. Their classification as High or Low speaks volumes of their discernment. Low Clans: Let other High Clans spurn them. Only a fool rejects a valuable asset or indispensable ally. Assamites: More akin are we to the Children of Haqim than to most others. Let prejudice blind others. They are honorable and worthy allies. Ventrue: The Scions misconstrue power and position, to their detriment. Let them pursue lofty ambitions; it renders them pliable. Followers of Set: Let them strive to revive worship of their defunct deity. Time marches on, and those who resist progress are trampled beneath its stride. Tzimisce: Godless pagans, one and all. They spurned the chance to forsake their heathen ways. While we acknowledge their might, we cannot place our trust in them.

#vampire the masquerade #vampire: the masquerade #white wolf #brujah #camarilla #lasombra #vampires #onyx path #v20 #dark ages #clan lasombra #sabbat #rpg #world of darkness

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 7 months ago

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Heretic - a Malevolent fic

What road remains for a man whose purpose abandoned him?

AO3

For @aktrashpanda, who drew this art:

What road remains for a man who lost his own? Who misplaced the one he was given? Who followed, sure, faith and sight fixed on what seemed narrow and true?

Aye, but that’s the wrong question. Here is the right one: what remains for a man whose road, narrow and true, abandoned him?

It’s an answer I never sought, for I did not know the road could refuse its rider. My purpose, my meaning, as I knew he was, left me behind. I woke without my road, and without my arm, my purpose run away. No one has seen him.

What road remains, then, for a man? The truest of all: seek and you will find.

‘Tis the newspapers which the Lord uses to shed light on my new way: the report on the mayhem up north, half of New York’s elite caught up in some scandal.

I recall… something about upstate. This is where my purpose was going next, and by God, it sure looks like he got there.

The story’s a good ‘un, rife with worldly intrigue, and the papers talk of nothing else. There’s murder, fire, underground rituals, strange masks and bodies no one can identify, and… Satan-worship?

So it’s called in the reports about the mess our finest uncovered, yet that is not the devil’s symbol I see in these grainy photos. I know what I see, for it was in Arthur’s book.

I had time to study that book, to learn some new truths, and I remember what it was called: Malleus Monstrorum, the Hammer of Monsters. Between learning to live without my arm, and giving comfort to my sheep (who come to me for it, distressed by my injury and unable to offer their own), I take months to locate a copy. To track down the wayward brother in Dunwich who has one, and is willing to let me see.

And in that time, I find no comfort with my flock, or in my prayers, or on my knees. Neither with the host on my tongue, nor with sleep in my eyes. There is no comfort, for my road has forsaken me.

But the book. The book, blasphemous yet true: brother Andrew, muttering and mad, lets me see, and in it I find the symbol they saw upstate, and it leads me on.

He was not alone in his hard journey, brother Andrew, and from him, I receive names, clues, a way forward. I follow that symbol through paths and hints and secret codes, and I find the people who know what it means, and I walk this new road that seems to have found me.

Which it has.

And then, I find her.

She, who walks between. She, who thinks herself above creation, but is not; she, who, being so old, is so young, and has so much to learn. And I… know I am meant to teach her.

(Is it heresy to find a new purpose after yours got away? Is it heresy to seek a new path, to follow a different star when the one you knew has gone dark?)

She takes me from my life because I recall to her that same road which abandoned me; we’re both forsaken, left behind by him who gave us purpose and direction and hope. (Though she does not call it hope, I know what I see. What she lacks is not hope, but faith.)

She says he was her favorite. I say he was my purpose, and so condemn myself.

“I will keep you, little priest,” she says, not acknowledging that I sought her.

“I will use you, little priest,” she says, bidding me wield the skills the good Lord gave me, which she calls magic and I call penance.

“I will corrupt you, little priest,” she says, not knowing that I am already corrupted, and she can bring me no lower.

But I can lift her up.

Through her teaching, I learn to heal, and so can finally do good deeds to weigh against my bad. Through her, I meet and lead wild sheep who may never lay eyes on another shepherd through all their cursed lives. Through her, I travel, and see works and worlds unimaginable, and through her, I will be redeemed as I guide her to redemption.

(It is not the same as weekly confessions, the same humble faces masking repeated sins and perfunctory repentance. It is sanctification, active and pure.)

Arthur Lester was my purpose, but now, I see: he was not an end in and of himself. He was the road to my end.

“I should kill you, little priest,” she says, but she means it not at all. I am her purpose, and she’s mine, led together by one who had no faith of his own. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

“I will convert you, little priest,” she promises, low, and that I will not worship her makes her question what she knows.

In the end, we will save each other, or damn each other, and either way, Arthur Lester is to blame. I don’t know that he lives, but I have faith that he does—and I pray for him. I pray he finds his own road, and this time, that he stays true.

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NOTE:

Psst… there's a way to support my writing now (and thank you Kraiva, Som, Charlie, Flamia, Bree, and more who encouraged me to do it).

#oscar #oscar malevolent #malevolent oscar #malevolent fic #malevolent #lilith malevolent

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shadeslayer · 3 days ago

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oc talk abt one of my older story ideas

most of my ocs are characters/verses ive had since like middle school and have been vaguely developing ever since. in the last years of doing stuff w the five/iseldre characters ive been focused a lot more on making them abt like. diversity of experiences all coming together. but also the original idea of it wasnt just abt that it was more abt like. every 100 years five babies born r chosen by the gods to be their representatives on earth and theyre supposed to vaguely all get together and kind of make decisions that will effect everyone in the world. and its a lot about the expectations people have for the next gen of chosen and that these kids grow up under that expectation and then have to become adults under this legend they physically represent

the original main character, riley, i had for it (though i want it to be ensemble cast of the five, really, but hes always gonna be the og) was a trans man who had to hide his identity both as the next chosen one and his gender because there was a belief that every generation of chosen would 'switch' genders and so this rounds space god chosen should be a girl But hes Transgender. Imagine. (lots of thinly veiled projection onto him and 'research for a story' abt him that was just me looking up how to transition) but now i Understand Things More im trashing parts of that/rewriting it

hes nonbinary, but hes still ~stealth as a trans man. hes still hiding his identity. now i think on it i think itll be that its Believed that the chosen 'switch genders every generation' but thats like. a pattern that doesnt exist that people are reading into things by selectively looking at recorded history that supports it and quietly ignoring the parts that dont seem to add up

but either way, it expanded into like with each of the five i wanted to explore a different tension/theme/problem. riley was going to be hiding his identity, laurie would be wrestling with religious beliefs/colonization (she grew up basically in a christian mission church raised by a pastor but also idk how that fits into the world at all lol i just wanted a character that wld hate priests.), ram would be dealing with being aromantic and low affect + low empathy so she just gets a lot of shit. and she can be kind of a dick but also she would "be cis" and then halfway to 2/3s of the way through realize shes transfem and start transitioning. chako is about leaving a home that they love and having to move forward despite never wanting to leave. and wind is like. idek theyre just around to be around. theyre the pinkie pie of this group atm

and i got so sucked into thinking about all those individual storylines and shit i forgot what i really wanted to do overall with this and it was like. i think i didnt know it fully but im reaching for something leaning into that loz-verse flavor of being forced by seemingly random chance at birth to be part of a great repeat of history that everyone says is Very Very Important but also it doesnt seem fair that its been put on You for no fucking reason + why does this need to happen at all

i was toying for a while of "shouldnt they have powers or something" but and this reminds me why they dont. because theyre not even that special. theyre chosen by specific symbol birthmarks in specific bodily locations, so they are explicitly "specially chosen" but like. theyre not. its random & they have no powers they have nothing but a birthmark that means theyre Worldly Important. there is no upside for them out of this, and it is somewhat easily faked via tattoos and other things so its a big point of what this world works on is a worldwide program to track births for this

and it also makes rileys shit a big problem in that his parents never reported him when he was born and had isolated him completely from the rest of the world. and the world is like wheres the space gods chosen this is sooo weird and every few years a faker turns up but gets disproven eventually. and his deal is kind of about familial abuse especially in a specific style of raising children in very isolated environments by homeschooling, controlling contact w others, and living rurally, (and denying his transition) and its about him escaping that finally and then coming into society and struggling to cope while also struggling w needing to compulsively hide himself from others for multiple reasons

#anompolili

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lena-kelley-oiar · 6 months ago

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I think a lot about religion when it comes to my own life. My father was an atheist, my mother a Catholic. When my father passed away, she insisted I join the church.

I never believed in a literal God, though I found the concept fascinating. The idea of an all-powerful, omniscient higher power that will punish you if you disobey its holy word. After I left the church once more at the age of 23, just when I was starting my career at the OIAR, I soon realised I'd replaced that concept with the real thing. In this way, I had made God real. A God that monitored my every move. A God that punished me when I disobeyed. A God I worshipped out of fear. I was no longer a Catholic, but in a way, I was more religious than I had been back when I'd been studying to become a priest.

Another aspect of religion that fascinates me is the role of a man as compared to the role of a woman. The man, son of Adam, son of God, is a representation of humanity as a whole. Mankind. Whereas the woman is a mere extension of the man; Eve, Adam's rib, or a vessel for divinity; the Virgin Mary. The role of a woman is to be with a man, the role of a mother is to birth divinity into existence. Birth is an act of creation, and in this way, God is a mother, as well. The mother of all life.

My mother always treated me as her son. Her first and only child had to be a man, so she deluded herself into thinking I was something I wasn't, and made me play along. In the church, everyone seemed to accept me as a man with no further comment; I was an altar boy and a priest in training, I wore my father's old suits, I was the man of my household. The very image of the divine, holy, righteous masculine, in the body of a cisgender woman.

When I left the church, I didn't leave my cross necklace, nor my masculinity. These are things I held onto, things I gave a new meaning to. In this, I defied creation itself, I remade myself; the very image of ragged, contemptable, submissive masculinity. A man with no family, a man who worked on sundays instead of attending church, a man who turned to alcohol and lust to escape his worldly problems. A heretic and a sinner.

There is a pride in that, I suppose. In taking their holy masculinity, and twisting it to suit my own way of life. In knowing she's up there, shaking her head down at me in disappointment.

Look to me now, Holy Mother. Your firstborn son, with blood on his father's suit.

#tmagp rp #the manager wants to talk to you #tw religion #cw religion

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haggishlyhagging · 1 year ago

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A few years ago one Robert Byrn, a 40-year-old professor of criminal law at Fordham University, took it upon himself to represent all human fetuses between the fourth and twenty-fourth week of gestation scheduled to be aborted in New York City municipal hospitals. Byrn was himself represented by attorney Thomas Ford, who made the following statement: "The fetus might well be described as an astronaut in a uterine spaceship." As Ellen Frankfort aptly comments:

It takes a certain kind of imagination to assume guardianship for something lodged within another's body—a rather acquisitive proprietary imagination that fits right in with the conception of a woman as a spaceship and the contents of her womb as an astronaut.

The astonishing Byrn incident and the analogy made by his attorney merit some attention for the light they throw upon the deceptions of male myth. Since an astronaut is perceived as the captain of a "vessel," there is a desire to see the fetus as controlling the woman. Moreover, the image of the astronaut in a spaceship is interesting also because in this image the "captain" is very much controlled by other males outside the spaceship (for example, politicians, economists, scientists, flight surgeons, engineers). This makes the analogy particularly "appropriate" in its perverse way, for the fetus is maintained in control of the woman by males outside (for example, politicians, legislators, priests, doctors, social workers, counselors, husbands, "lovers"). Moreover, the analogy involves deceptively circular reasoning, making it doubly appropriate in this doublethink context. For here, a biological event—the presence of the fetus in the uterus—is imaged as "like," that is, imitative of, a technological event—the presence of an astronaut in a spaceship. This elicits an obvious question: Is the astronaut in the spaceship an attempt to imitate the situation of the fetus in the uterus? Elsewhere I have shown that there is (unacknowledged) evidence in ethical writings on abortion of a widespread male tendency to identify with fetuses. This merits further analysis.

There are clues about the source of this fetal identification syndrome (which is frequently fatal for women unable to obtain needed abortions) in Frankfort's description of Byrn as "a childless man who seeks to guard unwanted fetal tissue." Males do indeed deeply identify with "unwanted fetal tissue," for they sense as their own condition the role of controller, possessor, inhabitor of women. Draining female energy, they feel "fetal." Since this perpetual fetal state is fatal to the Self of the eternal mother (Hostess), males fear women's recognition of this real condition, which would render them infinitely "unwanted." For this attraction/need of males for female energy, seen for what it is, is necrophilia—not in the sense of love for actual corpses, but of love for those victimized into a state of living death.

Frankfort's description of Byrn as "childless" also merits scrutiny. For it is the condition of all males to be childless, and there is evidence that this condition is experienced as disturbing to those who are obsessed with reproduction of the male self (which should not be confused with any genuine desire to care for and energize another being). Indeed there are male authors who are very willing (perhaps too willing) to attest to the anxiety of males over their childless state. Philip Slater, for example, writes of "this vulnerability of the male in the sphere of worldly immortality which gives rise to the concept of the 'external soul,' so prominent in magic and mythology." According to his view, a woman need not guess whether something of herself continues on in a new organism, for she can see the child emerge from her own body:

Thus if one translates "soul" in these stories as "that part of me which will live on after I die," the woman initially holds her "soul" within herself. It is only the man whose "soul" always resides outside of himself.

Thus "as men have been lamenting for centuries, his immortality is out of his own control."

According to this view, then, males identify the "immortal" soul with biological offspring, and women should feel fortunate in their role as incubators, shells, hotels, youth hostels, homes, hatcheries for human souls. I have already suggested that it is dangerous for women to accept reductionist theories about the male propensity for "womb envy." Thus it should arouse suspicion that Karen Horney's "womb envy" theory (with which she countered Freud's proposition of "penis envy") has been eagerly adopted by some liberal males (for example, Philip Slater). The problem with such a theory is that the implied criticism stops short of being a genuine feminist analysis. Hags must learn to double-double unthink (Andrea Dworkin's phrase)—that is, to go past the obvious level of male-made reversals and find the underlying Lie. Thus it is a pitfall simply to reverse "penis envy" into "womb envy," for such theories trick women into fixating upon womb, female genitalia, and breasts as our ultimately most valuable endowments. Not only disparagement, but also glorification of women's procreative organs are expressions of male fixation and fetishism. These disproportionate attitudes are also demonically deceptive, inviting women to re-act with mere derivative fetishism, instead of deriding these fixations and focusing upon the real "object" of male envy, which is female creative energy in all of its dimensions. Male hatred of women expressed in such fetishized forms hides the deeper dimensions of envy, which remain unacknowledged. Thus we hear one male say of another's "project" or invention, "That's his baby." We also hear men describe the books, papers, articles of other men as "pregnant" with meaning. Such deceptive expressions provide clues to the deeper levels of deception. They suggest that the procreative power which is really envied does in fact belong primarily to the realm of mind/spirit/ creativity. Yet this envy is not necessarily a desire to be creative, but rather to draw—like fetuses— upon another's (the mother's) energy as a source. Thus men who identify as mothers (that is, supermothers controlling biological mothers) are really protecting their fetal selves. They wish to be the fetuses/ astronauts and the supermothers/ ground commanders, but not the biological vessels/ spaceships which they relegate to the role of controlled containers, and later discard as trash.

-Mary Daly, Gyn/Ecology

#mary daly #womb envy #male entitlement #abortion #fetus envy #male parasitism #female creativity

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hieromonkcharbel · 9 months ago

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From a sermon by Saint Peter Damian, bishop

Invincibly defended by the banner of the Cross

Dear brothers, our joy in today’s feast is heightened by our joy in the glory of Easter, just as the splendour of a precious jewel enhances the beauty of its gold setting.

Saint George was a man who abandoned one army for another: he gave up the rank of tribune to enlist as a soldier for Christ. Eager to encounter the enemy, he first stripped away his worldly wealth by giving all he had to the poor. Then, free and unencumbered, bearing the shield of faith, he plunged into the thick of the battle, an ardent soldier for Christ.

Clearly what he did serves to teach us a valuable lesson: if we are afraid to strip ourselves of our worldly possessions, then we are unfit to make a strong defence of the faith.

As for Saint George, he was consumed with the fire of the Holy Spirit. Armed with the invincible standard of the cross, he did battle with an evil king and acquitted himself so well that, in vanquishing the king, he overcame the prince of all wicked spirits, and encouraged other soldiers of Christ to perform brave deeds in his cause.

Of course, the supreme invisible arbiter was there, who sometimes permits evil men to prevail so that his will may be accomplished. And although he surrendered the body of his martyr into the hands of murderers, yet he continued to take care of his soul, which was supported by the unshakeable defence of its faith.

Dear brothers, let us not only admire the courage of this fighter in heaven’s army but follow his example. Let us be inspired to strive for the reward of heavenly glory, keeping in mind his example, so that we will not be swayed from our path, though the world seduce us with its smiles or try to terrify us with naked threats of its trials and tribulations.

We must now cleanse ourselves, as Saint Paul tells us, from all defilement of body and spirit, so that one day we too may deserve to enter that temple of blessedness to which we now aspire.

Anyone who wishes to offer himself to God in the tent of Christ, which is the Church, must first bathe in the spring of holy baptism; then he must put on the various garments of the virtues. As it says in the Scriptures: Let your priests be clothed in justice. He who is reborn in baptism is a new man. He may no longer wear the things that signify mortality. He has discarded the old self and must put on the new. He must live continually renewed in his commitment to a holy sojourn in this world.

Truly we must be cleansed of the stains of our past sins and be resplendent in the virtue of our new way of life. Then we can be confident of celebrating Easter worthily and of truly following the example of the blessed martyrs.

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autisticlancemcclain · 2 years ago

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fic rec friday 14

welcome the the fourteenth fic rec friday! where, on friday, i rec five of my favourite fics.

1. tell me again, do you love me? by @hiuythn

If it were anybody else, Lance would think they’re messing with him for fun.

But Keith is Keith, straight-forward and guileless. If he’s touching Lance more, it’s only because he’s gotten more comfortable. And on one hand, that’s great, that’s—Lance feels very honored. His heart is doing backflips and aerial stunts and everything. On the other, this is really not helping with his raging crush.

His breaking point turns out to be when Keith, exhausted after a day of subspace meetings, drops his head onto Lance’s shoulder and sighs.

It’s a sigh that says, now I’m comfortable, that admits, I’m recharging, that practically screams, you help.

Hands in his pockets, he lets Lance bear his weight as if he trusts Lance to handle it. Great. That’s just—how dare he. How dare he be so vulnerable with Lance? Who does that?

It’s so enraging that Lance just blurts out, “I’m going to need you to stop doing this before I fall in love with you even more, asshole.”

Keith freezes. - Or, five times Lance acknowledges his feelings for Keith and one time Keith reciprocates.

okay hiuythn is literally one of if not my favourite klance artist to ever cross this fandom. she is, as she has titled herself, the total queen of best friends to lovers. she nails it every time. this fic in particular is somehow exactly what the description says and also not what you expect. i have read this fic dozens of times, i read it every time i really want to smile with my whole heart. this fic is cute and sweet and funny and GOD i love it

2. ‘CAUSE EVERY TIME WE TOUCH I GET THIS FEELING by @hiuythn

“It is a blessing,” the high priest warbles. God, he’s so old that Lance is afraid he’ll just expire on the spot. “From our God of Celibacy, to aid you in your fight to keep your bodies free of worldly taint.”

“Okay,” says Lance. “Only we didn’t ask for it. We asked for your planet’s support in a war.”

Beside him, Keith is staring at his bare hand, expression stormy.

Earlier, he had placed it on Lance’s exposed wrist and something like an electric shock had ripped through them at the touch.

“You should’ve told us that participating in your religious ceremony would do this to us,” he says now, a growl under his words.

The high priest falters in his tracks, confused by their lack of gratitude.

Yeah, fuck you, man. Don’t go around giving people spiritual STDs.

yall are gonna get a lot of hiuythn today. and ur gonna like it. bc yet another thing she nails is the black paladin keith red paladin lance dynamic!! theyre so stupid and codependent. i love them. this whole fic is just the funniest premise alive, and no fic makes me laugh like a hiuythn fic. oh and also quick warning that this fic IS explicit, but i encourage u to give it a try even if thats not ur thing bc i guarantee you will be laughing

3. baby sweetheart darling love by @hiuythn

Keith gives Lance a nickname. Lance mistakenly assumes that it’s an insult.

god i love this one. the idea of keith being so whipped that he doesn’t even realise that hes slipping out the fondest nickname in the world every time he speaks...god. i love him. hes so dorky and soft i adore them liek actually

4. skin hunger by @hiuythn

Keith is touch-starved to the point of stupidity. Lance helps. Lance tries to help. Lance tries.

the description alone should have yall clicking the fic fr. its so cute, and yet again the best friends to lovers and black paladin keith/red paladin lance has been completely nailed like i cannot get enough. i would gobble up a thousand fics every single day by her honestly

5. i killed sendak for this by @hiuythn

“I’m married?” Keith blinks. “I’m married to you?”

i actually read this one years ago, before any of the other fics came out for me to obsess over, and i loved it then too!! so sweet and dorky and funny. also flustered down bad keith and flirty suave lance is always a peak dynamic actually

that’s it for today!! i’ll see y’all back next friday for the next fic rec post!!!

#this one is almost 100& klance lol #and i pulled another 'all one author' thing again sorry #im annoying #anyways.#vld #voltron #lance #lance mcclain #keith #keith kogane #klance #friends to lovers #team as family #fluff and humour #fic rec #fic rec friday #longpost

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hydropyro · 10 months ago

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"Webs of Fate" Excerpt - Act III

kind of spoilers???? 5,880 words

This won't happen for a while in my ongoing fic, "Webs of Fate", but I had to write it and I can't just sit on it for however many months it takes to get there in the story.

CW: Abdirak and all he entails, caning, punishment, injury, blood

Abdirak and Karlach were chatting heartily about food as the small group of adventurers made their way through the city, Alakvyr at their head. He got one foot up onto the first step of the temple before he froze as though a spell had been cast on him. The Loviatan recoiled — the way a regular person would react to severe pain — and took a few quick steps back onto the cobble path.

Alakvyr spoke to some tieflings on the first landing, a couple of whom Abdirak recognised from the Grove so early on in their journey, before turning back to the group. “Apparently one of their priests has been murdered and it’s being blamed on the refugees.

“I think it probably has something to do with—” he trailed off, tapping his temple pointedly. Then, the drow gestured for the group to follow him.

Abdirak remained rooted in place, averting his eyes from the massive, white structure in front of him. Nausea rose in his stomach and he turned himself completely away, looking across the street as if the wooden building was far more interesting.

“Abdirak?” He heard Alakvyr call. “Are you coming?”

The Paingiver waved a dismissive hand, shaking his head. “Go on without me. I am not feeling well.”

Apparently none among them were aware of the cause of Abdirak’s hesitation, because the drow had come to stand beside him, looking him over with concern. “They have healers inside. I’ll ask if they can help you.”

Anger was not an emotion that Abdirak felt with any regularity, and so it was surprising then when it flared up inside of him. The drow could be forgiven for his ignorance — while Abdirak had spoken long about his goddess, her teachings, and her will, he was not fond of disparaging other gods and had not spoken at length — if at all — of Ilmater or The Crying God’s heretical faith. “No — do not do that. I will be fine here. Take as long as you need.”

There was a burning in his soul — the same kind of possessiveness that Abdirak had felt when the devil was near and propositioning ‘his’ drow. But Alakvyr would not be lost to Ilmater’s cowardly dogma. And if the murder of the Ilmatari priest was connected to the Bhaal sect of the Absolute Cult, as Alakvyr had suggested, it would be necessary for their band to investigate.

He took a seat on the ground in the shade of an awning of the building across the street from the Ilmatari temple, keeping his eyes averted still. People of all kinds bustled past — humans, elves, tieflings, dwarves — many of whom looked as weary and long-traveled as their own little adventuring party.

Abdirak lived on the road, and he enjoyed that life in spite of its occasional dangers. He enjoyed traveling, sightseeing, and experiencing all the varieties of pain and pleasure that Faerûn had to offer. But most were not suited to such a nomadic life.

He watched as women walked past with babes on their hips and following along behind while men pulled small carts with what must have contained all of their worldly possessions. He felt for them, and hoped that they would find whatever it was they searched for.

“Sir?” He turned his head, looking toward the sound of an older sounding woman. A halfling stood near him, smiling kindly.

He adjusted his weight, facing her more directly. “Yes?”

“Your friends are inside helping to find whatever awful person killed our dear Father Lorgan — I couldn’t help with that, but they mentioned that their friend was waiting outside as he felt unwell. They asked if I could try to help. What ails you?”

Abdirak frowned, and then moved quickly away from her, climbing to his feet. He walked away without speaking. His chest burned, but Loviatar did not expect him to enact her will in this busy street — so close to the conclusion of the grand mission she had sent him on.

He was angry.

The camp was quiet when Lae’zel, Karlach, and Alakvyr made their way back in. Gale was thumbing through one of his many tombs, but he looked up when the drow approached.

“Have you seen Abdirak?”

The wizard nodded. “We were all a bit worried when he came back alone. He said that you were all fine -- and went into his tent.

“I haven’t seen him since.”

Alakvyr thanked him and turned to go around to Abdirak’s tent near the stream. Wherever they made camp -- if there was water, the Paingiver was camped near it. He rapped a knuckle on the taut fabric, saying the Loviatan’s name.

“I’m here.” he heard the human say.

“How are you feeling?”

There was no response.

“Abdirak?”

“Come in, Alakvyr.”

The man sounded -- off -- though Alakvyr could not quite put a finger on why. He pushed through the flap of the tent and saw Abdirak kneeling, a sharp knife in hand that he worked, almost absently, along the meat of his thighs. When Alakvyr entered he set the blade aside and rubbed a palm of the stinging powder into his wounds with a satisfied hiss.

“Are you feeling any better?” Alakvyr asked, looking the human over. He had been worrying that the journey would be hard on the older man -- and it was so difficult to tell if the pain lover was uncomfortable, so his admitting to feeling ‘unwell’ must have meant that his ailment was quite severe. “Was Sister Yannis able to help you?”

Abdirak straightened some, his mouth twisting into a frown. “I did not require any assistance, Alakvyr, and I had told you as much before you went into the temple.'' The tautness of his features was unfamiliar and unnerving.

“I know,” Alakvyr said, and the Loviatan’s eyes widened. “I was concerned for you and--”

“And you disregarded my wishes,” the Paingiver interjected. Before Alakvyr could respond, he continued, “I did not doubt the sincerity of your concern, Alakvyr, but I explicitly told you not to seek help on my behalf in the temple.

“You crossed a boundary -- and you’ve damaged my trust.”

The drow was speechless. He hadn’t thought that he had done anything wrong -- “I -- don’t understand.”

Abdirak’s jaw flexed uncharacteristically and he gestured for Alakvyr to come to him, the motion moving to patting the ground beside himself so that the drow would kneel.

“I was angry with your actions,” Abdirak said quietly once the drow had knelt beside him. “And I meditated on it for many hours. I am still somewhat angry -- and hurt -- but mostly, I am disappointed”

Alakvyr frowned. “Please, can you tell me what I did?”

“You disrespected my wishes for myself, Alakvyr. You removed my autonomy.” As much as he typically enjoyed the sound of his name on the Paingiver’s tongue, the lack of his typical endearments made the drow uneasy.

“You don’t understand it, but you put me in a very uncomfortable position -- and could have put that ‘Sister Yannis’ in danger.”

“Danger?”

Frustration furrowed the human’s already tight brow. “I told you that I felt unwell because I could not enter the temple. It is a temple for the god, Ilmater.”

Alakvyr nodded. “I understand that you’re a cleric of another god -- but they did not reject me. I even gave last rights to Father Lorgan.”

“Loviatar and Ilmater are ancient enemies -- child.” His tone softened some at the elf’s ignorance. Loviatar demands that her followers remove all followers of Ilmater from the face of Toril by any means. Converting them -- abducting them -- even killing them.”

“You’re joking.”

“I am not in the mood for joking.”

Alakvyr shook his head. “But, you wouldn’t have -- harmed her--” He let his words trail off, afraid to hear the answer. He had known from the beginning some of the reputation of Loviatar’s faith and her followers, but then he had heard of the reputation of surface dwellers. From what he had seen of either he did not quite believe the rumors.

The Paingiver met Alakvyr’s eyes and nodded. “If my Maiden had willed it -- of course.” His brows furrowed again, though more in an expression of disgust. “We have spent so much time together and have talked at length about my beliefs -- you would still doubt my devotion?”

Alakvyr averted his eyes, but shook his head.

“I would take no pleasure in it, dear one,” Abdirak said, his voice low.

The drow believed that -- or desperately wanted to. As far as he knew, Abdirak had never lied to him, and had no reason to. “I’m sorry that I put you in that position,” Alakvyr murmured. He met Abdirak’s gray eyes again, and the Loviatan relaxed some. “Are we -- okay?”

The human almost smiled. He reached out and rested a hand on the drow’s shoulder. “We will be.

“After supper you will come back here to my tent.

“I will punish you -- then all will be forgiven.”

Abdirak sat on a log beside Alakvyr as they ate. Everyone else in camp was in good spirits. When Karlach had asked if he was feeling better and if the ‘cleric at the temple of Ilmater’ had been able to help him, Gale, Wyll, Shadowheart, and Astarion had all balked. They understood the -- incompatibility -- of Loviatans and Ilmatari.

Halsin and Jaheira were still not quite comfortable with him as it was, despite Abdirak’s assistance with the Shadows Curse and Ketheric, so Astarion’s tale about two Loviatans who had abducted a parishioner from that very temple over two hundred years prior did not paint him in any better of a light for the druids.

“He was missing something like a tenday,” the ex-Magistrate said. “They found him alive, but--” he grimaced, baring his fangs as he sucked in a breath.

“Loviatar worship isn’t really ‘permitted’ in the city -- or at least it wasn’t when I was a Magistrate, though they tend to be rich, sadistic nobles who can afford to break a few rules in the right company--”

The High Harper eyed Abdirak, holding a goblet of wine casually in her hand. “Is your company going to bring trouble, priest? Is there anyone else that your goddess would have you kill?”

“None in particular.” There was a hint of amusement in the Loviatan’s tone that Alakvyr had grown accustomed to -- and fond of. Alakvyr could tell that she wasn’t satisfied with the priest’s response, but also knew that Abdirak was not interested enough in her opinion to care.

“I hope this is true,” the druid said. “We have enough gods causing problems for us at present.”

“He has traveled with us a long time, Jahiera, and has been very helpful.” Alakvyr spoke up in his defense. “Besides, it is my fault that Sister Yannis even spoke with him. He told me not to, but I didn’t know about the history their different beliefs have.”

“Well, while you all were doing that,” Gale said, eager to change the subject, “Kar’niss spoke with Halsin after surveying the wilderness around the city. He said he found a cave full of bodies.”

“You know how hard it is to understand it,” Astarion said, gesturing flippantly. “They could have been animals for all we know. By the time we caught up with him -- and was able to understand what he was trying to say -- it would have been too late to investigate.”

Karlach started to explain what they had found in the Open Hand Temple, perhaps the two sets of bodies were connected. They knew that Bhaal was one of The Dead Three involved with the growing Absolute Crisis, and so an increase of murders was not too surprising.

Alakvyr was quiet while the others chatted and planned. More quiet than usual, and he’d gotten a few sideways glances from some of the companions who noticed.

“Between a death cult and figuring out a way into the city, we have a busy day ahead of us,” Wyll said. He dunked his plate into a shallow pail of water to rinse it before setting it aside until it could be washed properly. Then, he stretched.

Astarion followed suit, though he had no plate or bowl to be washed. He made a comment about needing to hunt, and how he would take the second watch after Jahiera.

They were all nearing the end of their journey. Astarion would be wanting to face Cazador soon -- Shadowheart had to find and rescue her parents as Dame Aylin had said -- Wyll had watched his father be infected and then dragged away under Moonrise, and while he was not as antsy as the others, surely that was in the front of his thoughts. Karlach still needed to find an answer for her engine and Jahiera was missing an old friend somewhere in the city.

Abdirak stood without speaking, setting his plate aside and then leaving to go to his own tent. Others in the camp did, as well, though a few stood near their tents and chatted.

Alakvyr stayed by the fire for a while longer, only accompanied by Gale, who had already set about using his mirror image to wash up the used dishware.

“You’ve been very quiet this evening,” the wizard said. “Don’t worry. We will get everything sorted. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”

Alakvyr glanced at his friend, offering him a kind smile. How he continued -- how any of them continued -- with what they were facing, he couldn’t know. He certainly wouldn’t have made it this far without them. Or without Abdirak.

Alakvyr stood from the log and dug through the chest of food near Gale, quickly making two mugs of mint tea before Gale pulled the kettle away from the fire. The wizard didn’t say anything about how the drow was making two mugs of tea -- especially considering that Alakvyr didn’t particularly like tea.

“I’m just tired. I’ll head to bed -- see you in the morning?”

Gale nodded, using a towel to dry the dishes that his mirror had washed. “Yep. We will finish up here, and see you bright and early.” Both the wizard and the mirror image waved goodnight as the drow started away.

Alakvyr could have groaned, but didn’t want to sour the amazingly cheery wizard’s mood.

He walked out of camp far enough that he wouldn’t be seen well in the dark before doubling back and rounding the outer edge of the camp a short distance to the Loviatan’s tent. His heart was pounding in his chest when he approached the flap, and his voice was weaker than he would have hoped when he said the Loviatan’s name.

“Come in, child,” Abdirak said.

Alakvyr sighed in relief at the sound of the endearment, pushing his way through the flap of the tent. He passed Abdirak one of the teas. Typically the man would have thanked him, but now he only watched him with his all-too-seeing eyes.

“I hope you haven’t brought this to try and lessen your punishment.”

Alakvyr froze. That had not been his intention. He had just wanted to please Abdirak, and knew that the Loviatan enjoyed tea. He shook his head, unable to speak, and the Paingiver gave him a nod.

Abdirak patted the ground beside himself, indicating that Alakvyr should sit with him, and sipped the tea quietly.

They sat together for a long while, in complete silence save for Alakvyr’s pounding heart. He was not afraid of whatever ‘punishment’ entailed, though if he thought too hard on the prospect he might begin to be. With everything they had shared together for ‘pleasure’--

Once the Paingiver had finished his drink he set the mug aside. “We spoke some earlier, and I asked you to come to my tent this evening to accept punishment. Do you understand why?”

Alakvyr gulped his tea loudly, nodded once, but then paused to collect his thoughts into a coherent sentence. “I -- disrespected your trust and took away your autonomy.”

Abdirak hummed in affirmation. It was so -- uncomfortable -- to see him without so much as a hint of a smile. He had always looked rugged, and could be incredibly intimidating, but to see him devoid of any of the mirth that Alakvyr had grown to expect was terrifying.

He didn’t believe that Abdirak would harm him. He was afraid of disappointing -- and of losing -- the Loviatan. They had shared much as teacher and student -- and maybe as more if Alakvyr allowed himself to hope. It was probably terribly naive of him, but the Paingiver had become his rock when his world had completely shattered. Losing him over a short-sighted mistake--

“Did you hear me, child?” Abdirak asked. His head was cocked to the side slightly and his gray eyes studied the drow.

Alakvyr sniffed, his nose becoming a touch runny -- probably from the tea. “No, Paingiver, I’m sorry.”

“I asked if you accepted the need for punishment.”

“I do,” the drow said quickly. He was willing to do whatever it took to make things right with the man.

The Loviatan looked him over for a while before he hummed and turned, pulling something from his bedroll. He held an item out to Alakvyr, saying, “Study this.”

The drow set his half-drunk mug aside and accepted the item from the Paingiver, shivering some as their fingers brushed.

It was almost like a net without the netting. The handle was made of brown leather -- woven and well oiled. It had a small loop for ones’ wrist, while the other end was made of three thin lengths of wood, braided together and then folded back onto itself to form a taut loop. The wood was light colored and smooth, without any barbs or splinters. He ran his hand over the wooden part and it almost felt soft. While he examined the item, the Paingiver quietly watched.

“This is what I intend to use for your punishment. It is a method called ‘caning’. Do you know what that is?” The Paingiver’s tone was low, almost a whisper.

Alakvyr didn’t, but he was sure that he could guess. He shook his head.

“I will strike you ten times with this,” Abdirak took the cane from his grasp, holding it expertly in his hands. “This is not a session for pleasure, though a cane can be pleasurable when the proper preparation is done. It will not be this time.

“I want you to count each strike, and thank me for correcting you. If you need a break,” Alakvyr heard the stress on ‘need’, “you are permitted to use ‘Sanctuary’, but you must accept all ten lashes.

“Do you understand what to expect and what is expected?”

“I think so--” Alakvyr’s voice came almost as a whisper. “What -- am I -- what if I can’t?”

“You can,” the Paingiver assured him with a sharp nod. He was looking at the cane in his hand then, running his thumb over the wood and leather. “And you are welcome to change your mind at any time. You can always revoke your consent, Alakvyr.

“Say ‘Sanctuary’, and let it be known that you would like to stop.”

“What then?”

Abdirak shrugged, his gray eyes falling onto the drow again. “I’ll heal you and you go back to your tent.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Both Karlach and Lae’zel were with you when you disrespected my wishes, and they were both aware of what I had asked you not to do. But I am not punishing them. They are not my students. I do not need to trust them.

“If you do not accept this punishment -- you are well within your rights not to -- I cannot keep you as a student. If I cannot trust you and if you cannot be held responsible for your mistakes, I would prefer not to associate with you in that way.” The Loviatan paused. Maybe he felt the way that Alakvyr’s heart shattered at his words. “I won’t simply leave -- I have sworn to help you all with this cult business.

“Our relationship would simply change.”

Alakvyr swallowed hard again, desperately trying to wet his dry mouth. He hadn’t thought much about their relationship.

“The choice is yours. I will not force you to do anything, dear one.”

The younger elf shivered at the sound of the endearment. “After the punishment you said all would be forgiven?”

Abdirak nodded. “It will be behind us, never to be spoken of again. But,” he held up a finger, “I only correct mistakes once. I do not tolerate repeated offenses.”

Alakvyr looked at the ground, his mug of tea left abandoned beside him. He drew a deep breath and then nodded. “Okay. I am ready to accept responsibility.”

The Paingiver smiled, looking -- relieved -- and Alakvyr could have melted into the ground.

“Undress, Alakvyr, and we will begin.”

Abdirak folded Alakvyr’s nightclothes once he had removed them and set them aside. The drow was compliant as he knelt, bent over a short stool that Abdirak had borrowed -- unbeknownst to its owner -- from another tent in camp, and allowed himself to be bound to the stool by his elbows, arms, and knees. Abdirak kept his buttocks and thighs free of any binding.

“I am putting this padding over your hips to protect some vital organs should a strike fall off mark,” he explained before he laid a folded up blanket over the drow’s hips. “Unlike a scourge which is a sharp pain, this will be much deeper.” He suppressed the urge to run a hand over the drow’s skin -- this was a punishment, and thus Alakvyr did not deserve his affection yet.

Had they been using the cane for pleasure Abdirak would have started with spanking with his hand, gradually increasing the intensity and massaging the elf’s abused flesh between strikes. Then he would run the cane over the drow’s body, allowing him to become familiar with the sensations. He would have praised Alakvyr, cooed and whispered to him. The first few lashes would not have even welted -- Abdirak would have much preferred that over what he needed to do now.

“I am going to cast a silence aura around us so you do not disturb the others. Would you like some water before we begin?”

“Yes, please, Sir,” Alakvyr whispered. His whole body was trembling, but he did not resist any of the Paingiver’s instructions.

Abdirak cast the spell and uncapped his canteen. He moved around the drow rather than lean over him, not willing to give the elf any undeserved contact. There was fear in those sanguine eyes as Alakvyr drank, but Abdirak did not sense that he was unwilling to continue. “After five lashes I will allow you to break for water again.”

Alakvyr nodded and Abdirak knelt by his left side, holding the cane. He gave it a few practice swings on his own forearm, hissing at the way it stung before the burn built and seemed to crawl through his flesh and to his bone. The drow flinched at the sound, but Abdirak allowed it to go unpunished this time.

“You are to count and thank me for correcting you, Alakvyr.”

“Yes, Paingiver.”

“Are you ready?”

There was a pause and the drow drew a shaky breath. “Yes.”

Abdirak swung, striking the drow’s upper thighs with the loop. From his position kneeling, swinging only with his arm, the Loviatan put as much force as he was capable of using. He had caned people much more severely when giving demonstrations and lessons in the temple, using his entire body for the swing. Still, it was not an easy lash to bear, and Abdirak was not surprised when the drow wailed, ‘Sanctuary’ after only one.

He sat back on his heels, holding the cane in his lap, while the drow cried. He waited patiently, silently, though a dread began to build in his chest the longer that the elf waited.

He would not tolerate a student that he could not trust -- but he had never been with a student this long, with this level of intimacy, before. Alakvyr was something more than just a student.

Two pale stripes were across the drow’s thighs, and the skin had split from the force of the cane, allowing blood to weep forth. If Alakvyr decided to stop, Abdirak would not judge him, though he would be incredibly disappointed. He would heal the drow, and depending on his emotional state would care for him a short time, before they closed the door on whatever their relationship was.

“One, Sir. Thank you.”

Abdirak was glad that the drow could not see his smile, because he would not have been able to hide it. He choked down a praise and struck again, just a bit lower than before so that the lashes did not overlap too much.

The drow screamed again, coughing out a sob before his trembling voice said, “Two, Sir. Thank you.”

Heat burned in his chest, enveloping his soul. Loviatar was very pleased. Abdirak was also pleased -- though not so much in the drow’s pain -- rather his devotion. He was under no illusions that Alakvyr cared for Loviatar at all, which meant that he was devoted to Abdirak.

Another swing. Another scream. The drow’s entire body trembled and Abdirak glanced over him, looking for any signs of shock. “Three -- thank you -- Paingiver.”

Despite the relatively quick count, Abdirak waited a few beats before administering another lash, giving the pain time to properly spread through the flesh. He ensured that his swings were consistent and that his aim was true. Never too hard or too soft. He was not angry, not anymore. He would not have raised a single hand to the drow if he had still been angry. It wouldn’t feel like it at the moment, but his punishment was a sign of his own devotion and dedication to his student.

The braided cane cracked across the drow’s flesh, higher up this time than the first strike, the highest part of the loop landing in the meatiest part of the elf’s buttocks. Alakvyr screamed and sobbed again, but his energy was rapidly failing.

“Four.” He panted heavily, his chest heaving with his sobs. “Thank you, Sir.”

Abdirak caught his own lip, resisting another praise. How he loved to praise the sweet drow. “One more and you can have a break.”

Alakvyr gave a slight nod before his body tensed as another lash fell across his thighs and he screamed again. After a moment of silent sobs Alakvyr managed, “Five. Thank you, Sir.”

Abdirak rested the cane on the drow’s back before he moved up near his head again to give him more water. He wanted to pet his hair and wipe his tears that now fell so freely from his beautiful red eyes. His nose ran and as did drool as Alakvyr turned his head toward the Paingiver.

There was no longer fear in the drow’s eyes. Pain, exhaustion -- even anticipation, but not fear. In fact, when he opened his eyes and met the Loviatan’s gaze he offered a weak smile which Abdirak had to consciously keep from returning. This damn elf was making him soft.

He drank deeply. There was no doubt that his throat was raw from all of the screaming he had done, and the cool water should have offered some relief. Abdirak kept his hands only on the bottle, despite wanting to stroke the elf’s head and shoulders. Once the punishment was complete there would be time for that.

“Five more, Alakvyr. Are you ready to continue?”

“Yes, Paingiver.”

Abdirak nodded and retook his place at the drow’s left hip. He lifted the cane from Alakvyr’s back, the leather creaking as he tightened his grasp around the handle.

The drow was breathing hard before the Loviatan struck, and immediately yelped, “Six, Sir!” before his words fell into a long scream. “Thank you,” he finally panted, though he continued to whine softly between breaths.

Abdirak struck again and then grabbed the loop in his other hand, resting the instrument in his lap while he waited for the count. He ignored the physical evidence of his need beneath his robes, closing his eyes and raising his face to silently thank his goddess. Heat surged in his chest again and he sighed softly.

“Seven, Sir. Thank you.”

Another strike, and another few moments sitting quietly on his own, holding himself back. He was experienced and well traveled. He could hold a candle to Astarion’s body count as pleasure blended so well with pain, and yet being around this drow -- this random little elf -- made Abdirak feel like a fresh-faced youth. He had not felt this desperately needy since he was a Kneeling One.

He administered another lash, almost groaning at the heat that tore in his chest. He wanted to grab the drow and -- and he didn’t have a plan beyond that. Just carnal need. But, after the punishment, which Alakvyr had so wonderfully taken, he would need to be cared for.

“E-eight, Sir. Thank you.”

Even after Abdirak healed him as much as he was able, Alakvyr’s backside would ache for days, maybe up to a tenday. At the temple no healing would be administered, but given that Alakvyr was expected to fight the Chosen of gods, he could not be left partially crippled.

Another strike -- another delicious scream. His throat was raw from his cries and Abdirak could hear it in the rasp of his voice and the croak of his breath. His skin could hardly be seen through the blood, which splattered now with each subsequent lashing. Though Abdirak had not touched him, the drow’s blood speckled on his arms and robes.

Loviatar loved Alakvyr’s regular visits to Abdirak’s tent. She loved to hear his screams of pain, whatever brought them, and she loved to taste his suffering. She was possessive of him through Abdirak when others may influence him -- but Loviatar didn’t care about the way one corner of his mouth rose higher than the other when he smiled.

“Nine, Paingiver. Thank you.”

Loviatar didn’t care about the way his eyes seemed to burn in the dark when Abdirak held him tight after a lesson. She wouldn’t care how smooth his onyx skin was or how he had the faintest freckles across his face, shoulders, back, and thighs. Many of those freckles were buried, now, beneath brutal welts and gushing blood.

“One more.” Abdirak gave a final swing, his arm starting to feel fatigued, but he was careful to keep the pressure consistent. Then he placed the cane, wet with blood, back onto the drow’s lower back. The punishment would finish once the count was made.

“Ten. Gods, ten.” Alakvyr sobbed. “Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Abdirak.”

The Paingiver allowed his hand to stroke over the elf’s head and down his shoulders and upper back, rubbing him soothingly up and down while the drow continued to sob. “You did so well,” Abdirak praised quietly.

He stood and left the tent long enough to retrieve a bowl of water, adding a generous pinch of salt. The High Harper sat near the fire, but she had allowed it to burn quite low. As an elf she would be able to see more clearly in the dark than the Loviatan could.

“You’re up late, priest.” she commented, still nursing a goblet of what was probably wine. Her eyes flicked over him, over the blood that speckled his torso and arms, but she said nothing. Her expression said more than enough.

He collected a cloth from a pile that the wizard had meticulously stacked in the food chest. “So it seems,” he responded to the druid, not bothering to look in her direction again as he turned back toward his tent. “Goodnight.”

Abdirak did not bother himself worrying about whatever judgment he may face from those around camp, though over the course of his time with them he had become fairly close with many of the tadpoled adventurers. Despite her distrust of him, he saw the High Harper as a sort of kindred spirit. Perhaps when things were settled they would share many a tale.

Alakvyr’s throat sounded raw as he breathed, but he had stopped crying while Abdirak was away. “Abdirak?”

“It is me, child.” The Paingiver closed the tent flap and knelt behind the drow again. Twenty stripes marked the dark, meaty flesh in front of him.

He unbound the drow from the stool and set the small wooden thing outside. Alakvyr stayed on his hands and knees, his head hanging forward toward the floor.

“Come,” Abdirak laid out his bedroll and the spare that he kept for the nights when Alakvyr stayed with him, leading the drow to the blankets and helping him lay down on his stomach. He started to cry again when he flexed his muscles as he crawled, and as he straightened his legs to lie down -- burying his face into his arm and the fabric of the blanket beneath him.

“I am going to wash you and then I will heal as much as I can,” Abdirak explained. He used his hand to agitate the water and help the salt dissolve before he dipped the cloth in. Alakvyr didn’t say anything or protest, though he flinched when the cold cloth was pressed to his bloodied buttocks. Abdirak would not punish him for it in that moment.

As Abdirak worked the elf made small sounds of discomfort and pain, but he did not try to shift himself away. Once the skin was free of blood, now oozing a clear fluid as elf’s body worked to protect the wounds, Abdirak cleaned the blood from himself, set the bowl aside, and set about healing where the skin had split open.

“Will there be scars?”

Abdirak had been muttering to himself, thanking his goddess as he always did, and so did not quite hear what the quiet drow had said. “Pardon?”

“Will there be scars on my body?”

He ran a hand over the healing flesh, mimicking the hiss that the drow sucked through his teeth as another twinge of heat burned in his chest. “No, there shouldn’t be. I can only do so much tonight, but I will keep an eye on the healing.”

“Can there be?”

Abdirak paused. The drow still had his face buried into the blanket, but he could see the tips of his ears and base of his neck beginning to blossom with the tell-tale, maroon tint of his blush. “Would you like there to be?”

There was a pause, and the drow said, “Maybe one or two--”

Abdirak drew a long, steady breath. Alakvyr needed healing and he needed rest. He needed to be held and soothed when the fall inevitably came. “Yes, I can leave a few.”

Once he had been healed, drank some water, and was dressed again, with Abdirak’s assistance, Alakvyr lay curled into Abdirak’s chest, his fist lightly grasping the front of the Paingiver’s nightclothes. It was dark in the tent now, and Abdirak appreciated the sound of the drow’s breathing, his head resting against the Loviatan’s chest because the young elf liked to listen to the slow rhythm of his heart.

He ran his hand up and down Alakvyr’s back, scratching in a way that was only soothing, and he pressed several kisses into the drow’s hair

#baldur’s gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #abdirak #webs of fate #excerpt #spoilers #part that wont happen for a long time #angry abdirak #punishment

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