#Oath of Flagellation

[greyeisacreativecolor]

I'm playing in a halloween oneshot this year, and decided to use my Artificer homebrew to play a frankensteins monster with a couple of flesh golems of his own! If you too want to play a horror body builder in 5e this spooky season then you can buy Dark&Dower for as little as $1!

https://ko-fi.com/greyeisacreativecolor

[the-batacombs]

Kay, I finally found a copy of Batman: The Wedding to read, so now I've read most of the whole little arc and it's. It's weird. It put a lot more pieces into place for me that I hadn't put together by fandom osmosis, which helped a lot, and I think I kind of understand the shape of the story that Tom King was trying to tell.

The thing that's really getting me is the fact that it really implies this like...deterministic Selina Kyle in opposition to a free will Bruce Wayne? She (and the narrative) build up this idea that Batman follows from suffering, and she makes her decisions accordingly. But in the last couple pages Bruce and Alfred's conversation suggests that Bruce has just been doing his best to find happiness this whole time.

The whole thing can have been engineered by Bane (confirming that Batman does not, in fact, follow from suffering) without eliminating the concern that Selina really thinks (a) Bruce is just that selfish and (b) Bruce is incapable of changing his behaviors.

So it's just...nothing? She leaves him at the altar just because she won't communicate with him and there's no further communication and he immediately falls into a guilt-sadness spiral? (And then Dick gets shot--)

It's weird. I think it would be a very good basis to move his and Selina's relationship out of the on-and-off primary love interest stage into the vaguely-amiable-exes stage (DC won't do it, but I can dream), but the primary implication here seems to be that Selina just really wasn't ready to get married, and consequently she blew up their relationship.

[bluebellles]

"i'll sell, I'll sell my whole to you; what's my, what's my price? how about, how about just a part of you?"

a lemurian's bond is a tether, an oath rafayel bears like a blessing. what happens if he betrays it?

pairing: rafayel x reader / rafayel x non!mc reader but also not ... form your own conclusions

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, isekai and transmigration, not exactly fluff but not NOT fluff at the end, sfw

cw: panic attacks, blood, technically self-harm, ambiguous endings, this can be a standalone but belongs to a longer in-progress fic, girl with a lvl -10 charisma stat tries to write a character with a lvl 1000 charisma stat let's all give her some grace, mc's role lacks context but its very complex NO mc bashing here

He couldn’t stop the claws forming as he tore at his chest, trying to get rid of the tightness. He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe?

His lungs felt like lead and his throat burned as though it was filling with salt water. Choked gasps brought more pain than the bloodied marks scraped across his skin. Was this how it felt to drown? Was this his karma?

He couldn’t see past the heavy film that covered his eyes, had no idea they were flashing rapidly between pink and blue. Couldn’t hear past the shrill ringing in his ears. His bond seared in his chest, cold and burning and heavy and hollow. 

He’d never know how he got to your doorstep that night. He was a man possessed. Filthy and shattered and wrong. Didn’t remember slumping against your door with a sickening thud, didn’t come back to coherence until you showed up in front of him with a terrified expression.

Why did you look so scared? Was that his fault? Did he fuck this up too?

He wanted to wipe that horrified look off your face. It didn’t belong there. He reached a shaky hand up to brush against your cheek and watched you crumble further when it came away bloody. 

His unfocused eyes pinpricked as he tracked the marks. Something settled ever so slightly in his chest at the sight. At least it was proof. Proof that he could still touch you. Proof that he was still yours. He wanted to cut himself open further so you could see. You still know, right? 

“What are you doing here?” Your voice was shaking uncontrollably, your hands hovering out in front of you like you wanted to touch him but didn’t know if you should. He was yours to touch. Why didn’t you know? “Should I- I mean do you need me to call someone? Should I call her?”

Rafayel cannot stop the honest to god growl that escapes him at your last question, causing you to flinch back as his eyes flash that haunting, otherworldly blue. First he betrayed his bond and then he made his one and only mate, the other half of him, afraid. What a worthy god he had turned out to be. 

Your fear quickly shifts back into panicked concern when his gasped, choking breaths resumed and he began clawing once again at his chest. Whatever calm you had instilled in him shattered as the bond began aching inside of him once again, sharp barbs that clawed into his ribs and pulled.

Resolving yourself, you surged forward and wrapped your hands around his wrists as you tried to stop his self flagellation. 

“How do I help?” You aren’t sure when you started crying.

His gaze tries to meet yours as his vision fades in and out. Your touch is already a cool balm against his stinging hands, a calming reprieve he couldn’t possibly deserve. 

“Tell me what to do,” he begs, hands twisting around to clasp yours. He can’t stop his claws from digging into you. Another sin for him to atone for.

Your brows knit together in confusion. He takes your left hand and drags it to the bloodied mess below his collarbones. Your palm spreads over his bond mark, burning under his rapidly heaving chest. Your breath hitches in your throat.

For the first time, you cannot close your eyes and look away from your role in this world. You still aren’t sure what it means. If you’re some sort of parasite causing this kind of turmoil and agony. At this moment, it doesn’t matter.

“Breathe, Rafayel,” you command.

The effect is instantaneous. All the breath in his lungs rushes out of him in one fell swoop. It takes a few tries before he can intake more, even longer before the trembling of his limbs settles down. 

The Lemurian slumps forward, relief palpable as his face collapses into your neck. His breathing is still ragged and hoarse and his blood drips onto your oversized pajama shirt. Neither of you notice.

“Forgive me,” he mumbles out hoarsely, before fading out of consciousness.

You don’t think he’s referring to the stains on your clothes.

You sit for hours on your front porch, feeling the weight of him press into you like a boulder you had been refusing to shoulder for far too long. The chill of the night air soaks into your bones and you welcome the ache. 

More than ever, you felt the desperate need to run. To escape from this world before the damage you left carved itself far deeper than the wounds marring the chest of the man who slept against you.

What a beautiful man he was. Flawless skin, a perfect nose that sloped down into pouted lips. Impossibly soft hair and sinewy muscle created to mimic the epitome of human desire. Everything about him was otherworldly, meticulously mapped out to create a creature who was made to love and be loved in return.

Absolute perfection, deteriorated into a bloodied mess with sunken eyes and lips tinged blue from lack of oxygen. Panicked and desperate and feral all because of some faulty code.

You would find a way to fix this world even if it meant removing yourself from it. For now, though, you could no longer keep shoving away your responsibilities and hoping someone else will pick up the pieces. As wrong as your presence may be in this universe, it was still your mess to clean up.

For now, though, you just closed your weary eyes and fell asleep next to a fallen god.

When you wake again, everything is soft and warm. Sunlight blinks through your blinds and washes over you. There is a gentle clamoring trickling into your bedroom through the partially cracked door and your body is clad in fuzzy socks you don’t remember putting on the night before.

As a matter of fact, you don’t remember getting into bed at all.

You shoot up, suddenly very alert. An appetizing smell wafts into your room from the kitchen as you scan your brain and recall the horrific events from the night before. 

Sliding out of bed, you give yourself a quick once over in the mirror and smooth down the bird’s nest roosting on your head before cautiously poking your head outside.

Sure enough, the man in question was currently making himself at home with your stovetop as he expertly flipped what looked like a perfectly seasoned egg crepe. He looked incredibly refreshed compared to the night before with a billowing, clean shirt tucked into perfectly tailored black pants and no trace of the dark circles that had weighed down his eyes previously.

He looked out of place in the small, cluttered space of your home. Like someone had accidentally dropped a rose into a vase of wildflowers. Despite the contrast, he seemed perfectly at ease as he puttered around your tiny kitchen without a single inclination that he had been attempting to tear his own heart out of his chest just hours ago.

A floorboard creaked beneath your feet and he paused, whipping around to face you faster than you could jump back into the safety of your bedroom. 

You wanted to hide from the intensity in his gaze. Curl up and wilt away from the way he drank you in as if seeing you for the first time.

You wondered if he could tell, because he closed his eyes for a moment too long to be a blink before turning away again and trying to relax the tension in his shoulders.

“Morning sleepyhead,” his voice was deceptively casual, measured and curated to disarm as opposed to his desperate pleas from last night, “Or should I say afternoon? Do all humans sleep as much as you or are you a special breed? I was starting to think you slipped into a coma.”

“You… egg?” Was your very eloquent response.

His shoulders actually did relax at that, carefully plating the egg and scallion crepe before turning around and placing it in front of one of the stools that lined your kitchen island. 

“Me Rafayel,” he pointed to himself with a haughty smirk before beckoning you towards the crepe, “The egg is for you.”

You scowled at this, making no move to sit down. Instead, you glanced down at yourself, realizing for the first time that underneath the oversized hoodie you definitely did not put on yourself you’re still wearing the pajama shirt stained with the fish in question’s blood.

He pouts, as if he was hoping you wouldn’t notice. 

“I didn’t want to take it off while you were… anyways, I’ll pay for the dry cleaning,” he sniffs as if that was your main concern.

“I got this shirt out of the five dollar bin at the flea market,” you remark dryly, “I’m pretty sure if you take this thing to the dry cleaner’s they’ll pay you to let them throw it away.”

He pauses, assessing you carefully before putting on an air of fake nonchalance.

“Icanjusttakeitthen,” he spills out, the words too rushed to be as casual as he was aiming for.

“What?”

“What?”

“…Why?”

It’s at this point that Rafayel blushes, leaving you to blink in alarmed confusion before eyeing him like he might still be in the middle of his breakdown.

“Your egg is going to get cold,” he changes the subject poorly, “Are you seriously just going to ignore my hospitality?”

You considered letting him know that hospitality is usually for hosts and not their guests (does he even count as a guest if you never invited him inside?) but you were quickly distracted by the sound of your stomach rumbling in protest. 

Instead you shrug and settle down at the island, picking up your fork and taking a curious bite. The flavors are simple but delicious, the richness of the egg melding perfectly with the seasoning he used and chopped scallion that was definitely too fresh to have been rotting in your fridge. He must have picked up groceries when he went to change his clothes. 

Your eyes light up at the taste and you make yourself comfortable before digging in. In your enthusiasm, you don’t notice the satisfied look that shutters across Rafayel’s expression before returning to his normal aloof state.

“Anyways, you must be wondering what I’m doing in your kitchen at,” he glances at your microwave clock, “three p.m. on a Saturday.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. 

“To talk about…,” you hesitated, “…last night?”

“BZZT!” you jump a little at his sudden exclamation, watching him press an imaginary button in front of him, “Wrong! Try again.”

“You’re auditioning to be my private chef?”

“Tempting, but you probably couldn’t afford me.”

“You just like to break into people’s houses for fun?”

“Not usually under such pleasant circumstances.”

You quickly grow tired of guessing, opting instead to shovel more crepe into your mouth. He pouts a little at your lack of participation.

“Some private investigator you are,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don’t actually really care that much.”

“Trying reverse psychology now, huh?”

“It’s seriously fine if you don’t want to tell me.”

“Fine, fine, you’ve pried it out of me,” he snaps his fingers, “I’m here to hire you for a case.”

This gave you pause. Had you not already been aware of the depth of Rafayel’s character from playing through the game, you may have taken his flippant disregard for the events that occurred the night before at face value. Knowing what you did, however, a few things were very apparent to you.

The first being that although the Lemurian felt emotions very deeply, for him to have displayed that level of vulnerability to what was essentially a complete stranger was incredibly out of character. You knew that despite his propensity for dramatics, Rafayel was more than likely the love interest with the most emotional maturity and control. 

You also knew that it was this emotional intelligence that ensured that the out he was giving in this moment was not for himself. Despite this being only the second time you had met, you were certain he had already dissected your psyche and could read your innermost desires even better than yourself. That was a siren’s greatest asset, after all.

You were a runner. You certainly had questions about what had caused the Lemurian to end up on your doorstep, and you could almost guarantee he had many of his own for you. He could probably tell, however, that direct confrontation would only make you retreat back into your shell faster than he could say “bond”. 

His eyes tracked you with false nonchalance, a predator waiting to see if you would take the bait. Perhaps he was suspicious that you knew more than you were letting on, or maybe he believed you had answers he needed.

Either way, the misdirect to working a case was not only a well-crafted trap for you to sink into but also, possibly unbeknownst to him, a rather generous one. 

After all, just last night you had vowed to start taking ownership of your parasitic presence in this world. Rafayel was supplying you with the perfect opportunity to insert yourself deeper into the narrative without truly getting close to anyone. As long as you could keep that barrier between yourselves, it was essentially the perfect in.

[itsalmostavengers]

7!! 🥰

7: Late nights

"You should rest, sir."

It was sound advice, all things considered. Jarvis had given him a lot of sound advice over the last 24 hours: things like 'bathe' and 'look over the new fortification plans' and 'address your people'. The assassination attempt had occurred in the middle of the square, after all - the citizens would be scared. It was Anthony's duty as king to assuage those fears.

But while Jarvis was the best Chief Advisor a man could ask for, his role was confined only to that. Advising. And Anthony had no plans on moving more than three inches from the spot he was sat at right now, at Steven's bedside.

He kept his eyes fixed to the other man's peaceful expression. They'd stopped the bleeding hours ago, but the knight still hadn't awoken. His fever still raged; a terrible storm under the surface of Steven's porcelain skin.

The sword had pierced clean through his chest. Front to back. Armourless, because Gods only knew that Anthony had fortified that man's uniform more times than he could count at this point in his life, but of course, it had been when Anthony was bothering him during his sparse few hours of personal time that his would-be-executor had decided to try their luck.

Steven, of course, hadn't hesitated to put himself in front of the blade. That was what his oath demanded of him, after all - to die for the king without hesitation. Without question. No matter how many times the King may have begged him not to over the years.

"I'll rest when he wakes," Anthony muttered, his voice sounding distant and faraway even to his own ears. The late night was beginning to edge closer to an early morning, but the idea of not being at Steven's side just then was not one he could stomach. His decadent bedroom, his thick furs to keep him warm - none of it worth anything when put up against the man laid out on this simple cot, tucked away in the palace sanatorium.

He cleared his throat, rubbed his heavy eyes, and then refreshed the cold rag that was sat atop Steven's forehead, dunking it in a new dose of icy water before laying it back across his knight's clammy skin. This was not a job befitting of a king. He was well aware of that. He had been told as much by the nurses he had sent away, by the Chief of Staff he had instructed to keep things running in his absence, and he was sure if these palace walls could talk, they would say the same. But in that moment, the Gods themselves could've come down and demanded he get back to his divinely chosen role and Anthony would have told them to go and rot in hell. This wasn't about status or position or duty, all of which Anthony would abandon if it meant that man in front of him would just wake up.

No. This was about a skinny little stable boy with too-long limbs and floppy blond hair and a smile both warm and challenging, whom King Anthony had loved since the very first moment he'd set eyes on him 15 years ago, and had not stopped loving for a single moment since.

His fingers were slick with water and they left glistening trails against the side of Steve's cheek as he stroked, feather-soft and tender, down the plane of the other man's slack face. He didn't care that Jarvis saw it. Jarvis would already have guessed, as would most of the palace officials, and the hour was too late for Anthony to care about it any more. Perhaps Steven would've, if he'd been awake. But he wasn't and so he didn't get a say.

"My Lord," Jarvis' voice was unbearably soft, and still Anthony refused to look his way, because he knew exactly what he would see on the man's kind face if he did. "I know you must feel great guilt, but flagellating yourself in this manner is going to do nothing to-"

"I will rest when he wakes."

"And if he doesn't wake?" Jarvis responded, fast and heavy. "What then, sir?"

Anthony's fingers grazed the corner of Steven's soft mouth, thinking of their shared lifetime of lingering glances. Overstayed touches. The quiet, resigned devastation that'd been plastered across Steven's beautiful face when the Royal Wedding had been announced three days ago. It had been inevitable that Steven would need to take some time, and yet still Anthony had insisted on sneaking out of the castle, hunting him down, demanding to talk with him about it when he was in his plain attire, no uniform, defenceless -

Anthony sucked a sob back into his chest before it could slip out and reached blindly for Steven's hand. "He will wake," he insisted, childlike and petulant and wholly uncaring about it. "He will. He will, Jarvis."

Jarvis inhaled as if he were about to argue, but in the end, nothing came out. Instead, there was a soft sigh and the sound of light footsteps. Age may have changed his body, but when Jarvis pressed a hand to Anthony's shoulder, the presence of him was as comforting as it had always been.

"I can still remember the look on your face after you'd been introduced to that first horse of yours," the elderly man spoke softly, his fingers squeezing down against Anthony's skin. "You were enraptured. Eyes shining like two shooting stars, practically bouncing off the walls. I thought you'd simply taken a shine to the animals." There was a gentle chuckle. "But Gods almighty, your Majesty, you would not stop talking about that stable boy. And no matter what we said about the horses, you always found a way to bring it back to him. Always him."

Steven was warm and soft and unresponsive under Anthony's hands. He could still feel the ghosting wetness of the man's blood as it'd poured out of the gap in his chest; see the expression on his Knight's face, nothing but pure relief, even as he'd been falling to his knees in the dirt. You're okay, Steven had told Anthony, a moment before he'd slipped away and a moment after Anthony had realised he would do truly unforgivable things if it meant that he'd get just one more day with his Knight.

Tony nodded, curt and unhesitating. "Always him," he agreed.

[kwillow]

I have this strong feeling that theo would be very happy to live in one of my oc's nations. (Hes a minotaur prince of a country that religiously collects any and ALL forms of knowledge cause they believe knowledge no matter what about or how you got it, is not evil also they do necromancy) Unless theo likes to lie in which case just dont do it infront of the crown prince and he'll be golden. The prince tends to skin people alive for lying to him u.u

Theo's a man of ethics, you know. He's taken a Hypocritic Oath.

Alas, I worry Theo might not be as at home in such a nation as one might think, despite his, erm, hobbies.

His studies into necromancy/blood magic are done out of a sense of filial duty, and as a rather fussy man with a prudish personality, he finds the hands-on application of it quite revolting and something to be endured rather than enjoyed. Additionally, Theo may be a nerd who loves books and dark magic and books about dark magic, but he is also a proud scion and adherent of an archaic aristocratic line. As such, he comes packaged with some rather staid, traditionalist values and the belief that most people are inherently his lesser. His few social experiences haven't dissuaded him from the opinion that the vast majority of people are some combination of brutish, stupid, and dissolute.

All that to say - he believes that he himself has the proper motivations, intellect and capacity for self-control (ha) to practice responsible crimes against nature, but would he say the same of wide swathes of society? Certainly not! A kingdom wherein necromancy is widespread and celebrated would naturally have too many lowly people who should never practice such a gruesome, potent art doing so, and that means the kingdom itself must be corrupt.

He would view the collection of dubiously-attained knowledge similarly. He would certainly like to partake in such knowledge, because he is a noble man of good breeding and fine manners who can understand and apply such knowledge with a gentleman's delicate touch. As a curiosity, and out of an appreciation for historical artifacts, he would like ancient tomes of evil work preserved, but not accessible to the unwashed masses who would sully them or use them for ill. Better to remain in a private library, read only by those who engage in appropriate self-flagellation after. Who decides what to preserve and which people should get access to it? Well, himself, of course! He wouldn't trust any other curator's judgment. Another strike, in his view, against a kingdom with a laissez-faire approach to science.

Also, while he values (often brutal) honesty and is certainly not a consummate confabulator of the caliber of Hyden or Ambroys, Theo will use deception to achieve his own ends. Just... not often very well. He's not exactly rocking a Charisma build. He also tends to chafe against male authority figures, especially if they threaten any consequences of his actions. It might end badly for him on the "skinning alive" front.

Anyway - I wouldn't stamp Theo's visa to the minotaur prince's kingdom, for everyone's sake. Best case scenario, he rudely complains about everyone there being debased reprobates the whole time and everyone is extremely uncomfortable. Worst case scenario, I've got one dead rat-sans-pelt and the city's libraries have been ransacked by a man who feels like common people are too dumb and immoral to read medical textbooks and the Kama Sutra alike.

[robinyourcreator]

@avoskorm tagged me for a WIP Wednesday Whenever and I've managed to buckle down a bit and work on one of my event prompts

so!

i will tag @defira85 @sleepytimegrrl @oldlight117 @marlfox1017 @strugglingcomet2

and with that said, have a little bit of Alde the Dark Urge, Shadowheart, and (the polycute's newborn, Kerena,) dealing with the anxiety of being so very very fucked up and ALSO new parents under the cut

…You find yourself clenching your fists, so you curl yourself more firmly into Shadowheart’s side, feeling the shifting of her ribs against your cheek with the rise and fall of every breath. Safe. All your loves are safe here.

While it would demean little Kerena for her to be assumed to be of your blood… it would only demean her. There is nothing and no one in this world more terrifying than you. Nothing that could come for her-- for any of your loves-- will ever even come close. You swore an oath, and you will protect the light you’ve found with everything that you have.

"Do you... often feel like you're intruding, Alde?" Shadowheart asks quietly, studying you over the precious bundle in her arms held to her chest, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You stiffen against her side, your eyes widening, jerking as if she's caught you in the middle of committing a crime. You're not known for being terribly subtle, no-- well, not with anything but a knife-- but it still takes you by surprise sometimes, just how little you can hide from her.

"No!" you yelp, then slap your hands over your own mouth to shut yourself up. You cough and lower your voice to something barely above a whisper. "I don't... It's not... I mean, it's my own fault. Not anyone else's. It's nothing. Really!"

Shadowheart hums. "That's an awful lot of words for 'nothing.'"

"It's not like that! I promise," you insist. "I just... I wasn't made for this. I don't-- you deserve to be happy. All of you deserve to be happy. And I'm-- I'm me. I was made to end the world. Not-- not for this. Not for any of this. ...I don't want to ruin it."

You push yourself up to look at Kerena, and find yourself leaning down to kiss the wispy white curl on the top of her perfect little head. "I don't want to ruin anything for her."

Shadowheart watches you for a moment, the corner of her mouth curling towards one of the softest smiles you've ever seen. "...You really do adore her."

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I do. I was always going to adore her. She's yours. Made of the two people I love more than anything in the world. She's perfect. She was always going to be perfect."

"It doesn't bother you? That she's not..." Shadowheart flounders for a moment, before settling on a word choice she clearly doesn't like, but is too tired to rephrase. "...yours?"

"...She's mine in every way that matters," you say quietly. "If she was... more mine, that would be worse. No one deserves my father. Especially not her."

"Hmm," Shadowheart hums again, and your heart drops. If she does that twice, you’re really in trouble. "Tell me, Alde: do you think the rest of us would love her any less if she was? That we loved you any less, when your father still had a hold over you?"

You burrow into her side again to avoid her gaze; you just know the look she's giving you right now.

She shifts Kerena in her arms again, freeing a hand to rest on your head, stroking soothing fingers through your own mop of white hair. "Do you think you and the rest of our loves love me less, Alde, for still having Shar's hooks in me? For still bearing her mark on my own hand?"

“Nnnnnoooooo,” you whine, muffled, because you’ve buried your face in her nightshirt. “Don’t do that. Not fair.”

“You knew I never played fair when you married me,” Shadowheart counters playfully. “And I certainly didn’t marry a self-flagellating little fool.”

You unbury your face from her side just so you can look up at her with your most lethal pout. “I thought you married at least two of those.”

Shadowheart lets out a surprised bark of laughter, startling herself and Kerena both from the sudden motion. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m holding the baby! I’m already terrified enough something terrible is going to happen to her on my watch. Hold her yourself if you want to be funny.”

[balrogballs]

Hi I love your South Asia AU so much, and this is probably a stupid question, that’s why I’m asking on ANON. You mention a few times that Maedhros practices the “ratheeb” and could you mention what it is? I tried to Google, I promise, but there were many different results.

Absolutely not a stupid question, it’s an incredibly niche regional practice in the area my parents are from, and I’ll definitely be explaining it in the chapter in which it’s performed, because it’s very unlikely people outside said region are aware of it.

So ratheeb is short for kuthu ratheeb (ratheeb being a generic word hence your Google results). It’s a self flagellation ritual specific to a tiny subset of Muslims in Northern Kerala, where men go into a trance state and slash at themselves to the rhythm of devotional songs. It’s technically a religious practice but is also performed by non-religious people (for example, Maedhros in this AU) and these days it’s more very painful folk art and performance than anything.

In the story, it’s essentially an allusion towards the Oath, and imo the ritual when performed by non religious people just screams Maedhros to me in general — beating yourself up for a thing you no longer believe in. And in the context of my AU — one look at a ratheeb performance will tell you exactly why the papers called Maedhros what they did.

Might actually help to see it because it’s hard to explain haha, so here’s a YouTube link to a video of the practice (as depicted in a film) — not graphic but TW for blood and obviously self flagellation.

[haveyoulistenedtothisalbum-poll]

Tracklist:

Perpetuation • Dawn of Flagellation • Ageless Venomous • Evil Gods Havoc • Eyes of Eternal Scourge • Saviour's Blood • Serpents Spectres • Ravenous Hordes • Diableros • Sepulchral Oath

Spotify ♪ Bandcamp ♪ YouTube

[missveryvery]

So last night in Baldur's Gate 3, I became an "oathbreaker" and you might wonder what I, a perpetually guilt-ridden, bleeding heart, overly-sensitive dweeb must have done with my paladin to break my oath. Here's two examples of things that can get you into oathbreaker territory:

What did I do that's as bad as murdering a TINY GIRL who is a RACIALLY OPPRESSED REFUGEE?

Killing a guy who tortures people!

These are the same??!??

Killing this hot topic party city flagellant baby's-first-toxic-dom embarrassing motherfucker got my god tsking at me?!??! What????

[aesolerin]

Did you ever hear about that digital presentation/lecture one of the Red Hook fellas gave on how they put together the game visually and inspirationally? (Fun Fact: Jester turned out the way he did because Bourassa hates the DnD Bard stereotype, lol) I'm mentioning this in particular because he went over Leper as an example in terms of symbolism incorporated into his design

(which, side tangent to that: Leper's blocky and metallic aesthetic was inspired by Iron Man! the more you know, lol)

This was put out onto YouTube before Red Hook made it fully clear DD2 was gonna be a thing, which made it all the more notable when people later realized that one of the pictures used on that slide was of Leper's DD2 character design. So, everything he was talking about here was likely with Leper's canon DD2 backstory in mind. This is important because:

One of the points Bourassa mentioned was the fact that Leper has a "broken sword for a broken man".

That by itself is already brutally sad, but rest assured! It gets worse if you think about it long enough. After all, do you remember when that happened in his backstory? If not, lemme stop being coy for a moment to help you in drawing some conclusions:

The Leper's sword broke in killing off his advisors.

It wasn't the diagnosis that got to him. Neither was it leaving his kingdom behind. It was in breaking the oath he made to himself that he would protect everyone in his kingdom. Because, treacherous or not, his advisors were still part of his kingdom. It was only a small handful of people, sure. And yes, it's true that they couldn't be trusted to take actions in good faith once he was gone. And it likely was the right thing to do, at the end of the day.

But justifications don't erase the stark truth that he murdered his own subjects in cold blood.

And THAT shattered him (and his sword) more than a simple diagnosis or self-exile ever could.

Because, the thing is: someone can believe that their actions were objectively the best possible option and justifiable, while considering those same actions subjectively horrifying and unforgivable. After all, murder is still murder no matter the motivation, and some folks deeply take that to heart.

~~~~~~

Of course, this is only true if I remembered that presentation correctly, as I haven't tried to look it up to verify it, lol. You got any thoughts on it, yourself? Assuming you hadn't already realized that on some level, of course - for all I know, you could have drawn this conclusion a long time ago and never brought it up because you thought it was obvious! xD

Or, on the other side of it, there's no reason you should feel the need to change how you characterize our fave Leper buddy, y'know? Though, imo, it's not particularly contradictory to how we normally characterize him. This is just another angle you could look at him from if you wanted to in your writing, shippy or otherwise!

(Though speaking of shipping: this creates another interesting level to think about Leper's dynamic with Jester, no?)

(Maybe Jester needs to get his king to forgive himself by comparing their past actions. If Baldwin finds nothing wrong with what Sarmenti did, which was spurred on by a much more selfish - if entirely sympathetic - motivation, why should Baldwin go about putting his own actions on a pedestal of guilt? Unless he's implying that he's supposed to be morally better than Jester, which I'm p sure both of them would hate to draw as a conclusion.)

(Or maybe Leper sees it as another way they can understand each other that others may not grasp. That while they may be stained by their past actions, it doesn't make the two of them inherently unlovable or deserving of suffering. It's a burden they can help each other bear due to their own personal experience with it.)

(Or maybe Jester is tired of all this masturbatory self-flagellating fuckery and would much rather he and Leper get down to something a bit more literal in its sexual nature. Wouldn't put it past the Silly fella)

thank you much for providing that link to the video! which i will in turn provide in full, because it is a very fun and thought-provoking talk overall, not just the Leper stuff!!

(and, as someone who's played lots of bards, ☹ [but i will point out i've never played one of those horny bards at least])

i do very much agree that retaliating and killing his traitorous advisors was a huge turning point for Leper, and a source of at least some degree of internal conflict for him.

was it a moment of freedom and liberation, finally justified in doing something about those poison-tongued sycophants?

was it a moment of horror and regret, killing treasonous-but-still-subjects of his?

was it a moment of resignation and cold calculation, defending himself against attackers seeking to kill him?

was it a moment of inevitability and hollowness, knowing something of this magnitude was bound to happen after his diagnosis?

some bits of all four? fluctuating day-by-day, nightmare-by-nightmare?

as Bourassa said, a broken sword for a broken man. no matter the literal golden facade he puts up, Leper is still a broken man looking for something as he battles the horrors of the Hamlet/the world. at least this is an unexpected connection he shares with Jester, right?

i will admit it's not something i've commented much on in my fics, as Jester's trauma is just so much more, but i certainly have thoughts!

way back in my first DD fic, Dreams, Jester notes that royal blood on their hands is something they share, and Leper smiles as he says “Hence the beauty I see in your bloody finale. Such cruelty and abuse should be responded to in kind."

in Bow, something about the assassination attempt seems to have severely fucked up the Veiled Emperor's sense of trust.

believe me friend, when it is finally revealed, i am going to have so much fun 😊

these are some wonderful(ly painful) thoughts you've shared, and again thank you for putting this talk on my radar!!

[longwindedbore]

What fresh (Catholic) Hell has the oblivious or brain-dead (Protestant) Evangelical leadership cabal delivered themselves and the rest of us into?

I ask as an ex-Catholic - are you punch-drunk fools aware that you have engineered the take over of the Supreme Court by Opus Dei, a secretive world-wide Catholic organization?

Apparently you thought you were using the Catholic Church to increase YOUR political power.

Maybe you Evangelicals should re-evaluate who used who.

YOUR local pro-White Evangelical Patriarchy State GOP politicians are bankrupt and facing being swept from office in a tidal wave backlash that has already begun.

Trump GAVE Opus Dei a majority on SCOTUS potentially for decades. While you and Faux News watched.

It’s one thing to co-opt the “Catholic issue” of abortion to use it for the White Christian Nationalist & Patriarchal code language “secret” goal of “overturning Affirmative Action and getting women and minorities out of the White man’s workplace.” That’s political. Ugly. But political.

But doesn’t it defeat all your plans to hand the supreme court over judges indebted - in all senses of the word - to Opus Dei, an organization that reports directly to, and only to, the Pope in Rome?

As an ex-Catholic I see that we now have six very very alt-right to fanatical lunatic fringe of Catholicism Supreme Court Justices: Roberts, Alito, Gorsuch, Kavanaugh and Barrett. It terrifies me. But you’re OK with it?

These aren’t the Biden or Pelosi Catholics who will be excommunicated for fulfilling their oaths to the Public.

Three of the Catholic SCROTUS were nominated by your Evangelical “New Cyrus”, Trump. Then shoved through by McConnell and the GOP Senators elected by Evangelicals.

Opus Dei is a secular Catholic organization of economic elites operating worldwide.

Organized like SPECTRE (meeting in Rome) in the Bond movie of the same name.

Was used as the NAME of the sinister organization in “The DaVinci Code”.

Opus Dei has its origin and philosophy in the Spanish Fascist regime of Francisco Franco. Heir to the inquisition and Armada.

Currently the Pope is liberal and ecumenical. So unlikely to exploit SCOTUS other than try to persuade.

But the papal pendulum can swing in a heart beat followed by a puff of white smoke.

Also, the ‘explosive growth of new evangelical churches in Latin America’ you crow about results from ‘poaching’ members from the Catholic Church. The current Pope is, after all, South American. So not an admirer of Evangelicals.

What we’re you thinking? Assuming you thought.

Opus Dei doesn’t publish a list of members but influential secular Catholics, like Leonard Leo of the Heritage Foundation, have been instrumental in the nominations of five of the six current Judges. As well as many in lower benches.

[Opus Dei doesn’t publish a list of members for the same reasons that are typically expressed by the KKK and the marching virgins of the Patriotic Front.]

Trumped effed us all on this one by handing over control of the Court - at best - to a fringe group of devotees. Or - at worst - to an international theocratic cabal.

Maybe he did so because, like Russia, Saudi Arabia, and North Korea, the Vatican City micro-county does not have an extradition treaty with the US?

In any event nothing good has ever come from the far far far right of the Catholic spectrum. Devotees who are, still today, big fans of hair shirts, daily attendance at mass, self-flagellation, and sleeping on wood boards.

Hoping all you Evangelicals know the properly tonal response to “Dóminus vobíscum”

[vaultsixtynine]

loosely referring to younger ana's paladin situation as an oath of blood . flagellant paladin assassin to dubiously badly-coping traumatized freak monk who wants to stop unwillingly envisioning playing around in her friend's organs for fun pipeline

[ofstarsandskies]

ToZ AU -- A Kresnik's Regrets

Looking at Victor, Ludger has a thought. He knows he won't get an answer, but he'll give it a try.

'Victor, do you ever regret your Oath?'

"Of course not," Victor's "you're an absolute moron" stare's in full swing, yet he actually humors his question. "Giving up my eye's functionality was a calculated move; I trained to rely on one eye long before I bothered selecting my Oath's witness," Ludger's just about to nod when Victor flips the script, "Why did you ask?"

'Just thought it was common to regret it. Nii-san and I both do quite a bit.'

"That's because you both rush into situations without considering the consequences," It sucks he's right in Ludger's case. But really, his brother as well...? It's hard to imagine... "Though whatever your faults, there's no point in using hindsight to self-flagellate. What matters is you both still function as Kresniks; keep to your duties and leave the unnecessary thoughts behind before you create malevolence in yourself."

...Did Victor just console him? He... no, if he comments, Victor'll take it back. Just nod and accept it!

'Thank you, Victor. I'll try.'

[alittlelillian]

You are my punishment for the crime of existing.

You are my blade, my pills, my rope, my rubber band.

Inflicted on me to remind me of the oath I’d made, my unbroken promise.

My vow to never give up on people.

An unholy faith, humility at its core. Self flagellation in the name of compassion.

So even for you, someone so cruel, so complacent, so undeserving

I give myself up, my body, my heart, my mind.

Surely with time, when there is nothing left for you to destroy

When my nerves are frayed, my bones crushed, my muscles torn to shreds.

Surely then I will have paid my dues.

[balrogballs]

Never say Balls doesn’t suffer for her art because I just sat through an hour-long phone call with my chattiest uncle who has asked me a good 300 questions about my life and what I had for lunch for the last two weeks, because he practices a certain folk/religious trance-flagellation ritual that I have written Maedhros to be a practitioner of in my Postcolonial!AU (as an allegory for the Oath) and I wanted to write an accurate portrayal of it 😭

(sorry for the definition being from some academic paper but there’s very little about it online because it’s a VERY niche regional practice and I only remember it because I’ve seen it done IRL)

yes i am indeed using my family consisting of an intermix of a good 4-5 religions for fic writing purposes

[vigilantejustice]

baby’s first day of jury duty! best wishes!

stupid baby’s first day of jury duty more like it! so silly to have like selective amnesia and experience anxiety like it’s the first time every time as if my life hasn’t been a series of anxieties that nearly never eventuate. just constantly being bitten alive before and during only to see after that it was fine and not at all the big deal it felt like it was going to be but then instead of acting like a being theoretically capable of higher order thinking and learning a lesson it’s like self-flagellative rendition of sisyphus and his rock.

tl;dr it was fine and in a move that is very on brand for me was worried for no good reason