#Orin is her own trigger warning

[sky-kiss]

Orin/GN!Durge: Pride (18+)

A/N: Look just. I dunno. There's that fun lil' solo-satisfaction challenge going around but this is NOT tagged for that because no one should be burdened with Orin lol. But like...I thought it'd be a fun character study? So... now this exists. I'm sorry.

Orin/GN!Durge: Look, by Orin Standards this is Tame

Pride drives her to her bloodkin's bed. They are gone again, off to do the slave-lord's bidding. It tears at her. The memory of their last exchange haunts her, heavy like a touch, like lips tracking up her spine, a tongue pressing to the small of her back.

"Off again, is it? You fly from our pasture so often these days. Our sheep whisper, bloodkin." 

They smile, so pretty, so pale, teeth white, white, white—she likes them better flecked with blood, sank deep into the throat of their shared kills. "And what do Bhaal's sheep say?" 

Pride is why she touches herself. Bhaal's Chosen needs reminding. Orin slips beneath their sheets, leaving her scent on them. She winces, fingers dipping between her legs and finding herself dry. She rarely takes pleasure in something so banal, and the touch is such a little thing. Not sweet like a blade, barely anything at all. 

But she thinks, rotates the memory in her mind, and there. Better. 

"That you have made yourself the Tyrant's toy. Bane's Chosen, they say." 

And her bloodkin had laughed at her. Foolish Orin, fool child—always kept in the dark about their plans. Father’s plans. Orin bares her teeth, twisting. The sheets catch about her legs, silk-slippery, too soft, all of it. Hollow thing, empty thing—and the fingers are not enough, no, no. She thinks of the knife again (their knife, and Orin's stomach clenches, a sharp pang of arousal tearing through her), but cannot find the will to move.  The world narrows to a single point: their laugh. It echoes through her damned skull, slips its tendrils into her flesh, and so she slips a finger inside herself. 

Bhaal's Chosen crooks a finger, making her cross the space between them like one of their supplicants.  

Her heart thunders against its cage of bones, threatening to snap them, as her bloodkin's hand settles at the curve of her throat. They press—delicious pressure until the world's edges go black and curl inwards. "Sweet kin…you doubt our Dread Father?" They trace her cheek with their nose, voice like honey, syrupy-thick. Their left hand comes up, fingers curling against her clavicle, scratching, tapping, in time with her heart. 

She swallows, snarling. Tear it free, yes, tear the traitorous thing from her chest. It ought to have beat for Bhaal alone, but it hungered for her Bloodkin's touch. Weak-flesh, pathetic thing. She lifts her hips to press deeper. The moment she breaks from the memory, the pleasure washes back out to sea, and she cannot will it back. Orin thumps her fist against the mattress, turning her face into the pillow as if to suffocate herself with their scent. 

"The Lordling calls you away, and away you run. He bleats, and you turn your ear." 

Bhaal's Chosen ignores her. "Look at you." 

Her bloodkin hums, curling their fingers, breaking her skin. Orin chews the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. It aches to have them close—like her flesh is too tight. Like it should give way. Heretical thoughts flood her head—they are flawed things. Father made them incomplete. Orin's stomach twists. The answer is to tear them open, yes. Crawl inside, stitch their seams to hers—only then can they be truly whole. 

"Sweet Orin…my gift." 

Orin turns onto her belly, letting instinct wash over her as she sinks further into the memory. Her hand shifts, bones rearranging, stretching, setting until it's their hand. All its familiar calluses, nails sharper, threaten to tear at her insides. Good. Good...oh, it is written, decreed. It is Father Bhaal's will that they should tear one another apart.

"It will be you and I at the end of all things." 

They have whispered this same promise to each other over the years. They will drown the world in blood and carnage. They will build their citadels with its bleached bones and stand amidst the hollowed shells of its corpses. They will kill and kill and kill until it is only them. 

Pleasure swells, and she whimpers, dragging her nails up her belly to cup her breast. She clutches until the flesh gives way. She must imagine it's her bloodkin's nails, taking those few millimeters to press nearer to their heart. 

Orin thinks of the light leaving their eyes, burying her dagger in their heart. Perhaps she will pierce their lungs first, yes—swallow the last of their air…

The changeling shudders, fucking herself harder, gasping at the thought of her kin's knife finding its mark between her ribs. Yes, together. They'll go together, just as promised, just as…

Orin pulls taut, her cry short and clipped. The savageness of her orgasm and its suddenness catches her by surprise, her body clenching on nothing first and then gripping her fingers hard enough to hurt as they press back inside. The longing, the hunger, the emptiness…oh, all these wretched sensations remain…she is never enough to chase these things away. 

It will take more whispers in the dark, more blood, more promises…it will take their lips on her throat and the press of them between her legs as they bask in a fresh kill…

…it will take death, yes. Their blood and flesh mingled. And then Orin will be satisfied. 

[rom-e-o]

So in the spirit of the soon-to-be Christmas season, I was rereading 'Begin Again' and got to the part where Orin's in jail and all that and like-

What do you think Orin's haunt was like? How do you think the Christmas Ghosts + Marley would speak to a man like him? I know Present would probably a lot less jovial with him-

Oh my gosh, you're re-reading "Begin Again"? For the holiday season? That makes me so, so happy. ;;

(I'm currently working on their wedding in-universe, so that is just lovely extra inspo. And Marley would be making an appearance, haha.) Ah, yes. Orin's haunting.

The spirits would be far less kind to him, as would Marley. Past and Marley would be equally brutal. Marley, for all his faults, was not an Orin. Marley might be condemned, but Orin?

Past, taking Connie's form in wax and using her voice, glares daggers at him as they watch the memories. If Scrooge got ping-ponged through dimensions with some whimsy and regret, Orin gets an exclusive trip to his very own Silent Hill with her.

Trigger warnings for abuse, su*cide attempts, SA, violence, drugs, alcohol.

PAST:

They go over everything:

The day Orin's sister, Juliet, left home and told nobody. ("She didn't leave an address for you to write her at. Interesting.")

The day Orin lied on his paperwork to get out of the slums close to Arthur DoGoode, then sees his daughter for the first time. ("Did you know all along what you planned? I wonder.")

The wedding night, when he first hit her and forced her into acts. Then the honeymoon in Switzerland, where he forced himself and friends/colleagues on her. Some paid good money too. This part goes on for hours, hearing her screams and sees her thrashing and tears from a whole new angle as man after man descends upon her. ("That's when she started drinking, because it helped her black out, and took away the pain. No powders yet. Those came later, after you broke her bones. And her dreams for love.")

The Christmas he locked her on the balcony and left her to freeze. ("You said she was sleepwalking. The idiot police believed you, but did your neighbors? Did Connie's mother?")

The Christmas he locked her in a closet when she objected to him swindling with complex financial contracts. ("She was in there the whole holiday. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Alone in the dark. Thirsty. Trapped.")

The night Connie slit her wrists in the bathtub, and Orin saved her, complaining about all the blood. ("Theresea locked you out of the hospital room. She knew. And Arthur ... did you know he brought a pistol to meet you? He really thought about it, but I bet you never noticed. Too busy feeling invincible. Besides, the idea of dying in prison away from his wife and daughter is what stopped him, not any mercy for you.")

The day of Arthur's funeral. It's a huge event, with hundreds of people gathered. ("More than you'll ever have at yours. You keep checking your watch. You were bored, Spiegler? Or thinking about what you'll ask Connie to make for dinner? ... You know, Arthur never forgive himself for introducing you two.")

The Christmas he shoved her down the stairs of the Astor House, breaking both her legs. He waits fifteen minutes before getting help. She cried for help the whole time. "O-Orin, h-help ..."/"Stop talking! J-Just shut up! I need to think."/"If I don't ... I love you ... Orin."/"Stop talking! Are you deaf? You idiot!" ("You didn't want people to find out. You'd become too bold.")

The trip to the hospital, and the discovery there. ("It was always convenient. You didn't bed her often, but when you did, you weren't careful. Any time she needed a doctor's treatment, you paid them off to ... check. And when it was true, they did their duty before she ever woke up. You thought she didn't know. It's her body. She knew. She would have probably agreed, you know. Any spawn of yours shouldn't exist")

Then, finally, the day she says goodbye. Withdraws money, sneaks out, and throws her wedding ring in the ocean before hiding away in the basement of the boat. ("Does it infuriate you, Spiegler? That she outsmarted you? It shouldn't. She was always smarter than you. With money. With people. Her biggest mistake was actually falling in love with you.")

There is no whimsy in looking at his Past. There are no happy memories. No good times. It's just mistake after mistake. And seeing it all before him ... it makes Orin panic. He never thought he'd have to pay. And Past taking Connie's form, glaring at him as he world literally fractures apart? Reality crashes into him.

PRESENT:

Present? There's no jolly song-and-dance. Orin arrives in his chamber, and finds Present standing amidst towers of food and sweets. But ... all the dishes are wrong.

It's all the foods Orin used to ask Connie to make regularly. Eels in aspic. Tournedos de volaille. Pots of rarebit and bread. Peanut brittle. And it's all rotting.

"You have immaculate timing," Present would tell Orin, his voice booming. "I can not take you anywhere this night - it is New Year's Day, and I am bound to Christmastime in my travels. But the veil is thin. I can show you what happened ... mere days ago."

And Orin sees Constance and Ebenezer. At first, his anger returns. The bitch, he thinks. Then ... he keeps watching. There is no casualness to their movements. Nothing steamy or sexual (well, not in that moment). They don't act like two people having an affair. In fact, it's ... tender, what he sees. Loving.

The couple is standing before a roaring hearth in the otherwise dark mansion, their bodies bathed in firelight. Mr. Scrooge's mansion, Orin notes, with all the tacky yuletide decor. With a saunter that's almost bashful, Ebenezer crosses the room and overturns his hand to her in welcome. Slowly, she accepts it, drifting closer in foolish hope. Then, he leans down and brings their lips together. It's not a frantic brush of contact, but rather, it smolders like a lit ember. Tilting her head slightly, she welcomes the new angle. One strong arm cradles her shoulders while another is slung low around her waist, steadying both of them. He dips her backward, allowing gravity to help deepen their kiss. When they part for air, he grins at her sheepishly. He looks so young, almost boyish, with his blushing cheeks and sparkling eyes. Orin notes that he looks ... besotted. In love. “Merry Christmas, Constance,” he whispers. “I … hope you made some better memories of the holiday this evening.” So, she'd told him. Constance nods. Just as he was about to drift away, she grabs his shoulders to stop him. Not wanting to leave him emotionally abandoned, her lifts her hands to cup his face. She moves so slowly, offering plenty of time for him to move away. He never does. With her fingertips skimming his sideburns, she leans in and kisses the side of his aquiline nose. “Merry Christmas, Ebenezer,” she says. “And, um, yes. I would say I most certainly did.”

He also catches a glimpse of New York. His coworkers. They don't mention him.

The next thing he sees is fire. Endless, hot flames, before the final ghost appears.

YET-TO-COME:

Yet-To-Come would treat him with the same indifference. After all, no matter your status or wealth, death plays no favorites.

He is shown two futures. The first is right after he brings Connie back to New York from London. She doesn't go easily, but he prevails. She's his wife, after all. There's nothing she can do. She knows that.

She fights him at the docks, and finally, in a blaze of fury, he pushes her one last time. She flies off the bridge and crashed into the Hudson, where she drowns and dies. Dead, by his hands, finally.

When Ebenezer arrives in port the next day to find the memorial to her, his pained scream is enough to shake the heavens.

Then the scene changes. The second future. It flickers to Orin's funeral. Not a soul is in attendance.

MARLEY:

For Marley, it's personal. Think about it - he dies, yet finds a way to come back with Three Spirits to make sure his only friend/partner doesn't share the same horrible fate as him. This work provides him with no benefit. No salvation, no do-overs, nothing. The only benefit is saving his partner from the same eternal damnation as him.

An Marley sees Scrooge change. He sees Scrooge become a giving philanthropist. With his help, the "Festive Fund for the Poor" grows too big for tip boxes to contain. He's present for the birth of Harry and Hela's child (specifically, he keeps his nephew from pacing a hole in the floor while she pushes) - he sees his family legacy continue, and sees him holding their baby. He's turned everything around, and in such a short time. Marley is even okay with Cratchit's name replacing his on the doors. They needed new signage anyway, he thinks fondly. Something newer and more in-fashion.

Then, he sees Scrooge find this sad, frail, and frankly kind of pathetic woman in the streets. ("Look at her dress, poor thing. Old boy better buy her something nice.") Interesting, he thinks. He sees them fall in love, and quickly. He saw how he acted with Isabel, and even then, he wasn't so besotted. Plus, she's a perfect clerk, and rounds out the counting house team splendidly.

When he sees Ebenezer embracing happiness and the promise of romance anew with this woman, it feels like they've finally come full-circle. He's going to be okay, Marley thinks. That fills him with all the happiness he could hope toy have in his afterlife.

Then this corrupt, New York businessman barges in and tries to undo everything. To rip it all away. To undo an entire year of growth.

Absolutely not.

"Orin Spiegler, the Spirits and I have only intervened with individuals like you on Christmas. To right wrongs and to help others, as we can. However, your past and future are so vile .... you are the only exception thus far. Our end goal for these lost mortals is usually redemption. However, in your case ... our only hope is change. To cut to the bone to foster regret. Pray that is the worst of it."

Then ... Orin wakes up. Honestly, he contemplates hanging himself in the cell, but what will that do?

Moved by Past and Marley's actions, he asks for the constable. He confesses to everything, but asks for a pen and paper.

He has two letters to write before he goes.

[mythrae]

An Appalling Ally

Summary: Orin the Red reveals to Lord Enver Gortash how she got rid of her competition as Bhaal's Chosen.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: 18+ (minors do not interact), discussion of graphic depictions of violence, non-consensual, incest, also some light smut

Author's Notes:

Not beta'd so please be kind

Thank you to everyone who read the first part! 🫶🏻🥹✨ love u

Please pay attention to warnings I listed, I know these topics can be very triggering!

Click to read Part One here!

Click to read on AO3 here!

“WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS DID YOU DO TO HER?”

Lord Enver Gortash stood and banged his fists on his wooden desk, knocking over his wine-filled chalice. The deep red liquid bled on the table and spilled to the floor, dripping on the feet of Orin the Red. She stood patiently, a grotesque smile stretched across her face.

She had summoned herself to his study, upsetting his guards as she broke into Wyrm's Crossing late in the evening under the guise of a fan-girl, seeking the soon-to-be Archduke's affections. When he had invited her in, hoping for a little amusement from the halfling, she had transformed in front of him, showing her true self — and her true intentions for gaining an audience with him.

“I told you, Little Tyrant. I simply got rid of her.” She replied with a smirk. “And so I am here to fulfill my duties as Bhaal’s newest chosen, including helping you and Ketheric enslave the Elder Brain with the Crown of Karsus.”

He reached over his desk and grabbed the changeling’s shoulders. “Mythrae has been missing for days, Orin. Where is she?” He shouted at the woman in front of him, his fingernails digging into her pale, marbled skin.

“Now now, no need to get so hasty!” She laughed, shrugging his hands off and flashing her ring of teleportation to him. “If things get too out of hand, I have my grandfather's gift, hm? So let’s try and be more… civil, shall we?”

His face turned to stone as he sat back in his seat. He knew he had to take control of his temper, or the little minx would be out of his grasp. He already detested her, from what Mythrae has spoken of her sister, but actually working with her sounded abhorrent to the Chosen of Bane.

But how else was he going to find his betrothed?

"Speak, Orin. Tell me where she is."

“Oh, but that would be no fun, wouldn’t it?” She asked, placing her hands on the table. “It would be more thrilling for me to show you instead.”

The stench of death and blood filled Gortash’s nostrils as she leaned in close to him, her blackened lips dangerously close to his own. Her eyes, fully white, looked at him like a piece of meat, asking to be devoured by her alone.

Gods, what a truly vile creature.

He waved his hand at her, reclining back in his chair and opening the space between them. “Fine, have it your way. Show me what happened.”

“With pleasure.” She sneered. “I’ll put on quite a show for you, Enver.”

“Don’t call me that.” He nearly spat. “It’s Lord Gortash to you.”

“Whatever you say, Little Lordling.”

Orin's body started to transform, the sound of her bones cracking and skin shifting making Gortash feel uneasy. She was truly a lover of the macabre and grotesque, and loved putting on quite a disgusting show whenever she morphed herself. Before long, he saw she had become a reflection of himself.

"Remember that letter you wrote to her? After the two of you stole the Crown of Karsus?" She asked, his own voice filling his study.

Gortash nodded. Yes, he remembered. It was the last correspondence he had with Mythrae.

"Well, what you had written was very lovely, but I had to make some... changes, you see. Put my own spin on it." His reflection, controlled by Orin herself, paced around his desk as he spoke.

"What did you tell her?"

"There was no way I could get her alone up here," she gestured out to the window behind Gortash, the city still alive so late in the night, "so I told her to meet me — or I guess, you — in the Temple of Bhaal. Oh, and she looked rather ravishing. Of course, she would if she was planning on seeing her betrothed..."

So she knows, he thought to himself, and that's why she's acting this way.

"My dearest kin looked too exquisite, you see," Orin continued, "I just couldn't keep my hands to myself."

The tyrant's stone face quickly changed to one of worry. “What… what did you do to her?”

“Patience, patience, patience, boy!” Orin growled at him, “Now, where was I…”

Enver’s composure with the changeling was wearing thin, his fingers anxiously tapping on his desk while straightening out his back.

“Ah, yes! When I had Mythrae all to myself at the Temple of Bhaal. If only her guard was higher, hm? She wouldn't have been such an easy whore for me."

“You did not…” He started, struggling to find the words he wanted to say.

“Oh, yes I did!” She cut him off before he found his voice. "And you should have heard her cries for help, they were quite lovely!”

He watched as his reflection reached for their head, the sick sound of cracking neck bones pounding against his eardrums, and now his lover stood before him.

“Gortash, no! Please, stop! It hurts!” He heard Mythrae’s voice leaving the changeling's lips.

He could feel his anger boiling through his entire body as the sound of her voice filled his thoughts.

“Enough of this!" He yelled, his tapping fingers now balling into a fist. "Tell me where she is!”

“What, you don’t want to hear more about how you deflowered her?” Orin teased, taking her arms and pushing everything off of Gortash's desk. She laid her body — Mythrae's body — on top of it, lying back like she was relaxing in a field of flowers.

“How I plucked all her petals using your body, like a child to a daisy," she reached up and pulled at the air with her fingers, "pluck, pluck, pluck, until I made a mess of her? The audience truly loved the show!"

"I wish to hear of no such horrendous things. I only want to know where Mythrae is." He repeated his request, doing all that he could to hold back his rage for the Bhaalspawn.

"Oh, if only you could have seen her face, Gortash." She drabbled on, ignoring him. "The look of betrayal she gave me when I had her trapped on Bhaal's altar, how her face contorted in pain when I first ent-"

"What happened to her? Out with it!"

“And when I could use her no more, after she was spent," Orin pulled out a short sword, tainted dark red, "I took my very favorite blade, and sliced her head right open!”

Gortash froze in his seat, processing the words she spoke.

Did Orin... kill her?

"Oh, and her blood was so warm as I felt it spill out of her skull. Delicious indeed. A moment I will cherish with my very favorite blood-kin!"

He still was at a complete loss for words, staring at Mythrae's form lying in front of him.

"... though it is a shame, really." She tutted while toying with her blade. "She was no true Chosen if she was able to let you in and distract herself from her real purpose. I will not be as easily swayed, Lord Gortash." Her skin began to shift once more, the changeling back in her original form as she sat up on his desk, spreading her legs wide open for him.

In some grotesque form of seduction, she placed the blade of her short sword in between her legs and rubbed it against her armored mound. Gortash watched as her fingers tightened around the hilt as she moaned dramatically, getting off from the pressure on her arousal, as well as the eyes of the dark haired man watching her.

Vile, wretched woman.

"As if I would ever bed with someone like you." He uttered as he looked away, disgusted at the slightest thought of touching her skin in any sort intimate way.

"I have my ways, Little Tyrant." She hissed in disapproval, turning away from him and sliding her body off his desk. "If I could take your pretty little wife all to myself, I can take you, too."

In that moment, Lord Enver Gortash lost all control.

“Fuck you, Orin." His words were filled with poison, "You are no true Chosen of Bhaal. You’re an imposter!”

“Angry, are we?" Orin laughed, licking the essence of her arousal off her blade. "Be careful now, for we need to work together. Unless you think that I should become the Archduchess? You and I would have so much fun together."

In a fit of rage, Gortash reached for chalice on the floor and threw it at the dastardly changeling. Before the glass left his hands, Orin already had her fingers wrapped around her ring, and he heard the glass shattering into pieces against the wall.

With a displeased sigh, he fell back in his chair, still in shock of it all. Being forced to work with Orin the Red. His future as the Archduke potentially at risk. His woman, his love, his equal stolen from him.

He didn’t even know if she was alive, though he assumed if Orin got her hands on her, she was as good as gone.

He filled his head with thoughts of her, in much happier times. The first time he saw her, when he had completely bewitched him by her looks alone. When they kissed for the first time, right in his office. When he first told her that he loved her, the way her eyes sparkled — one red and one grey — as she repeated his words back to him. That night when they looked over Baldur's Gate as he slid the ring on her finger, when she had promised herself to him.

They were supposed to rule together. They were supposed to have a family together. But now, it was as good as gone.

Gortash was not a crying man. Being a politician, he kept most of his emotions locked away. And even then, he never liked to shed tears, for he felt it was a sign of weakness in a man.

Tonight, he cried. Oh, hells, he cried.

Tomorrow, it would be back to business as usual. He had a plan, after all, and although he needed the help of Orin the Red, he intended to follow through. He would not become a failure like so many others before him.

But for now, he wept in his chair as the new moon rose above the city, mourning the loss of his one true love.

[beecreeper]

17, 21, 22, for all 5 of the fellas >:3

Sorry this took so long to answer!

Answers under the cut as usual, with a cw for suicide, grooming, and some of the nastier durge elements.

17.) What is your OC’s greatest failure?

Briar: Letting herself get got by Orin. She should NOT have been so easy to get the jump on

Molli: Hmm I think I would say it’s how she failed to take over her dad’s textile business after he died. She got really overwhelmed by it, especially since she was dealing with grief at the same time, but she also just was not at all suited to running a business. The business quickly started to flounder and she was strong armed into selling it off for way less than it should have been worth.

Ferox: If you asked him pre-tadpole it would be his inability to take himself out of the picture 🙃

Myrala: In her tav au, she spends years in Baldur’s Gate trying and failing to establish a church of Eilistraee. In 15 years of work she’s barely gotten a ramshackle meeting room and a handful of refugees to take care of and she’s constantly struggling to keep even that much afloat.

Poppy: I don’t have a specific instance in mind. She’s certainly prone all manner to classic nat 1 shenanigans, but there’s nothing that like, sticks in her mind as anything more than a misadventure because she rarely has much emotional stake in it. You can’t be a failure if your ambitions never extend beyond winging it :)

21.) What is the worst thing your OC has done?

Okay so. BIG trigger warning for this section. Mentions of grooming, cannibalism, necrophilia,

Briar: Oh man. Oh man. So much. You know durge canonically ate a baby?? But I think one of the worst things she did that isn’t just *gestures vaguely at durge stuff* is when she was back in her circle. Briar had been groomed as a teenager by her high druid but, as Briar aged into her twenties, said high druid started to get more cold and distant towards her. Then a new young elf joined the circle that the high druid turned her attentions on instead and Briar got mad mad mad about it. So Briar framed the new girl as a spy and got her executed by the circle. I call that one particularly bad because it was way more premeditated than can be blamed on her urge alone.

Ferox: Again *gestures vaguely at durge stuff* but one of the worst ones that I know for him specifically is that you know how durge is canonically a necrophile?? Well Ferox first did that with Myrala after he killed her. And since then that particular urge tends to focus itself on drow.

Molli: Molli has never done anything wrong in her entire life thanks for asking.

Myrala: Killing a person during a mugging when she was a teenager in Menzoberranzan. She had steadily been moving up from “petty thief” to “proficient thief” to “gang member”. Less pickpocketing and more robbery. Well, one day things turned bad, she panicked, and she stabbed the person she was robbing in an alleyway. As a cherry on top, even while horrified at her own actions, she still took their stuff before she ran. That whole incident made her rethink the path she was on and led to her eventually turning to Eilistraee.

Poppy: Poppy grew up as a mercenary and has been on some... less than ethical jobs before. I haven’t thought of specific instances on hand, but there have definitely been jobs where it’s like “if you interrogated this for more than a few minutes you’d realize you were in the wrong”. But she’s never done anything that would get her slapped with an “evil” label. Solidly morally grey territory.

22.) What is your OC most guilty about

Myrala: During Myrala’s aforementioned years of struggling to keep her tiny floundering missionary work afloat in Baldur’s Gate, she’s given in to the temptation to turn back to stealing to get by and it tears her apaaaaaart. She feels like it’s spitting in the face of the new life she found in Eilistraee, like she’s no better than the desperate street rat she was in Menzoberranzan. She feels like she’s supposed to be better than this but! It’s just so hard! Every time she even gets *tempted* to steal again she feels like a failure and a hypocrite and The Worst.

Already answered this one for the main three here, but here’s the other two

Poppy: Leaving her family behind. She looooooves her mercenary family but the wanderlust is too strong. She writes them letters constantly.

[unsoundnovel]

#unsoundnovel : oujia tabletop rpgs, the seven seconds of silence between the groans of dialogue as you shuffle through half-a-presses. your pinky ache—the pinching where it holds up the whole world in your phone, the gods’ and google earth’s last atlas. this is not real, this is not real—and that makes it safe, that you can scour the universe with just two thumbs and a handful of buttons. what is delusion, and what is real hurt? the weird kind of fantasy, the weird kind of anxiety dream, you can’t even explain to a therapist.

somehow pretending makes it hurt worse.

it still makes more sense than whatever’s going on on facebook.

carrd. a herbert sherbert (he/they, 25+, white and asian) multi-muse / video game / dnd / gothic writing blog. muses under cut.

general horror / gothic trigger / christian imagery warning. i also write soft things! i am made of multitudes and maxed out mediums.

BALDUR’S GATE / DND ( in order of preference for interaction!)

MINTHARA. bisexual, she/her. 300+. abandoned by lolth, absolutely.

LAE’ZEL. bisexual, she/her. 20+ (time works differently in the astral plane.) // from slaver to slaver. bow down.

ORIN. lesbian, she/her. 20+. // if you do not choose me, i will force your hand and cut off every finger.

LOLTH. bisexual, she/her. older than you could possibly understand. // still researching.

RAPHAEL. bisexual (with heavy m lean), he/they. devils don’t keep track of such things. // hold your applause!

MYSTRA. bisexual, she/they. older than you can comprehend. // still researching.

by request only : shar / ketheric / dame aylin / shippe / sisyphus. / karlach.

DRAGON AGE. (in order of preference for interaction!)

DORIAN. gay, he/him, 30. // does nothing by halves, except to push and pull people away.

ISABELA. bisexual, she/her, 40. // i have big commitment issues, and i often lie.

THE IRON BULL. bisexual, he/him, 45. // what’s better than an ex-cop? an ex-priest. what’s better than an ex-priest? a spy.

by request only: bubbles aka hawke / morrigan.

FINAL FANTASY (in order of preference for interaction!)

BARRET. bisexual, he/him. 35+. // can’t you hear her crying? i feel her. i weep with her.

GLADIO. bisexual, he/him, 22. // one of the best men. the shield, the sword flower.

LULU. bisexual, she/her, 25. // too young to be so old. i wear so many belts to strap me in, and keep me safe from a world that drives too fast and crazy. i am a test track dummy.

FANG. lesbian, she/her, 27. // i tore the sky down, and i’d do it again. anything for her.

ZACK. bisexual, he/him, 22. // haunting the narrative, i am still the hero of your dreams and the undead nightmare of my own.

GENESIS. bisexual, he/him, 27. // theatrical! insane! i perform for the back seats! i perform for god and heaven!

by request: lightning.

OTHER.

LESTAT. bisexual, he/him, haha! // prancing pony on amphetamines.

MARUKI. lesbian, he/him, 32. // god complex, mind control, i can make you happy.

BEATRICE. bisexual, she/her. // tear out its guts.

BATTLER. lesbian, he/him. // incompetent.

[ascianblood]

Eva Lore (FFXIV) - 6/15/23

A dump of lore for my FFXIV au oc Evangeline for my own archival. Not to be mistaken for Alaqa, who is the canonical version of Eva. TRIGGER WARNING FOR: Mentions of mental and physical torment, suicide, and homicide. 

Basic Information: Evageline Kagon (born Alaqa Kagon). 25 years old. Au Ra, Xaela. 4′9.  Alaqa was as any other Kagon tribeswoman, who spent most of her time under the cover of the night hunting beasts for meal and sport. She was very good with blades, but preffered her dual knives over a more traditional spear. She was so remarkable with her blades that the tribe often relied on her to bring back game from hunts and prepare them accordingly. There isn’t much to mention about her childhood or family, but they were stable and very close. She had one older brother, Orin, and two younger brothers, Dei and Dodai. I’ll probably make a more in-depth post about her familial relationships at a later date. 

As she grew older, she started having rather violent nightmares out of nowhere; horrible views of people being ripped to pieces, their flesh torn asunder, as well as vicious screams. She could hardly even stand to sleep, let alone hunt or participate in tribe activities. She found herself feeling isolated and perturbed, anxious that what she was seeing was a premonition of suffering from the Dusk Mother. Her family worried for her, but she refused to elaborate on her sudden changes. Eventually, the terrors became so pronounced that she refused to sleep altogether, for she would wake in a writhing fit, unaware of her surroundings. 

And then came the voices. Rather than the screams she had known, these voices whispered to her in frightened tones, and repeated over and over for her to leave. She couldn’t stand it anymore, so at the break of dawn before the sun could crawl over the Steppe’s hills, she left her home. She knew that she would never be allowed to return, but the voices urged her, almost controlling her. So she fled, as far as her meager feet could take her.  Upon the shores of the Ruby Sea, she stowed away within a Confederate vessel and prayed that Nhaama would release her of her torment. It must have been over two weeks of scavenging within the small confines of the ship when she landed in Limsa Lominsa. Her condition had stabilized since leaving the Steppe, but the voices had been replaced by a burning migraine so heavy she felt as if her whole body was a flaming ember.  She needed money. Badly. So when she arrived in the city proper, she lent her blades to odd causes. The procuring of meats, perhaps bodyguard duty here and there. Sometimes, a hit request; her first real taste in spilling mankind’s blood. Her Lominsan connections grew, and she was forwarded to the Adventurer’s Guild. There, she was officially enrolled, and continued with her tasks until she was approached by Jacke, leader of the Rogues. Dual blades being her specialty, she agreed to join them. It was here that she adopted the name that Jacke gave her, Evangeline, or “angel”. Her membership within the Rogue’s guild ultimately lead her to the Scions as well, where Minfilia promised her aid from her migraines. The story goes as MSQ does, but Eva never truly becomes better. In fact, she becomes more and more unstable the more animals, men, and gods she fights. Every ascian battle left her uncomfortable, but for a reason she could not place. Unknown memories started finding their way into her mind, like lost puzzle pieces. Minfilia never could rid her of her pain, and after her passing, Eva felt as if she had been cheated. Once friendly and outgoing within the Scions, she became colder. She still seemed kind, but on the inside, she was becoming jaded; nihilistic, even. In SB, she truly changed for the worst when Zenos made an appearance. At this point, she had grown an aqquired lust for blood, whether it be man or animals. She needed to kill, and Zenos matched her need with his own. She was beginning to lose sight of reason. It took all of the patience within her not to cut down the very beings she called friends.  And then in ShB, Eva is met face to face with the ascian Emet-Selch when he so kindly introduces himself. It is then that she remembers fully. The Sundering, her relationship with him, and how their beautiful life had turned sour so quickly. She knows she must speak to him, and they do, alone in her chambers of the Pendants. He reveals to her that he had been calling her for years now, hoping she would find her way to him. The Nightmares, the voices, the constant headache, and the memories; all of his design, for he had forced her sundered soul to remember things which she otherwise would have never remembered in the first place. She hated him. Despised him. It mattered not their previous relationship, as loving and gentle as it was. The pain of thousands of years was still fresh within her mind, a gaping wound pried open that she had not had sufficient time to heal, unlike his millennium of recovery. Yet she knew that she still loved him, as vile as he had become, and when he offered her his hand in comaraderie towards the goal of recovering the sundered world, she accepted. All of ShB is spent with the two together, secretly working together in favor of the rejoining. Emet is always with her, but not in view. The only times the Scions know he’s there is when he willingly allows himself to be seen.  Their relationship becomes one of physical desire and lust, but being far beyond the path of reason, also becomes one full of pain. A love and hatred so deep that they know not how to deal with it effectively, leaving only a truly broken reflection of their previous relationship. Emet enjoyed using her like a tool or a toy, and often reveled in the monster she had become. Eva, in turn, grew so restless that she craved for the deaths of anyone she did not care for. There is a constant battle throughout ShB because Eva wishes to slay all of the Scions, but Emet refuses to allow her to do so as it would completely ruin their plan. She even thought about the death of Emet herself. She wanted things to return to how they used to be, but at the same time, she was so far removed from feelings of love. In the end, she figured that the sooner she died and was reborn as her full self, the better.  This continues until the final battle with Hades, where Eva pretends to kill him. No, she does not kill him. She knows she could, but he had become her only source of entertainment, and she knew that their plan would ultimately not fail. She was a rabid dog on a leash, following his command. Elidibus is another story. I’ve not fully thought out why she fells him, but for now, let’s say it was because she cared for noone at this point other than Emet, though she despised him.  In EW, Eva’s story ends with the end of the entire world. Fandaniel’s summoning of Zodiark marks the end of her life. In the original version of this story, I let her and Emet die, but not be returned to their ancient days. I am thinking of allowing the possibility of the rejoining working, and them returning as whole beings with all of the trauma still stockpiled from their previous incarnations.  This is all for now. I really just like to draw them and their ridiculously horrible relationship. 

[rinwellisathing]

You're Awful, I Love You: Part 46

We spend a moment with Orin here, trigger warning for misgendering and also there is definitely some grooming going on...Just Sarevok being generally kind of a piece of shit

Enver Gortash/Trans Male Tiefling Dark Urge

Sentry's siblings kept hard at work in their respective hunting grounds. The Baldur's Mouth was soon brimming with stories of whole families in the upper city falling violently ill of a mysterious hemorrhaging disease from which no healer could save them in time. A horrifying specter haunted Rivington in the night when the fog rolled in, leaving the headless corpses of hapless lovers out on a stroll or a picnic. In the lower city, a shadow stalked the alleys and back roads, leaving the corpses of young woman strewn across the pavement in the early hours of morning. By the docks, bloody stabbings and bodies left arranged in tableaux with odd notes and sometimes, strange disappearances which left no body at all.

Orin did not enjoy competition. Her own slaughter-kin had criticized her art when his rarely if ever honored father, always honoring that Banite filth. She clenched her hands, fingernails digging into the skin as she thought back to a time when Sentry had not been her rival, her enemy. She bit her lip as the memory formed in her head. She had been young, just entering pre-teens, laying on her stomach, hands coated in blood, pressing them to paper on the floor of the temple. Grandfather had entered, flanked by Fel and a tall, thin boy a few years older than Orin. She'd looked up curiously, white eyes focused on the newcomer. He had been spattered in blood and gore and seemed...sad, maybe. “Lady Orin, this strapping young lad is Sentry Ojeda, your elder brother. You'll recall I had been searching for him for some time.” Fel had announced. Orin had noticed Sarevok sneer slightly at the introduction, but was silent for the time being. “Are you...are you making a painting?” Sentry had asked, slowly approaching Orin and kneeling beside her. “It's quite good. Want to paint together? I've got some special paints with me.” He'd fished some crimson vials from his pockets and set them out on the floor. She had smiled at him.

The following year or so, she recalled being close with Sentry, tagging along with him when he would go out to fetch materials. She remembered a blacksmith had leered at Sentry and the boy had simply smirked. “Now, Orin, you see how his teeth glisten? Gold. We can use that for our sculpture work, wouldn't that be fine in our sculpture of father? He loves gold and jewels, yeah?” He'd explained quietly as he'd approached the blacksmith, swaying his hips, letting his tail flick back and forth teasingly, beckoning the man into the shop and discreetly nodding for Orin to follow. She recalled giggling and clapping her hands in delight as Sentry had wrenched the man's jaw open, the sickening crack of his skull separating, how his blood spilled across the floor. She and her brother had knelt in the red puddle and prayed to father reverently before Sentry had handed her a pair of pliers to extract the teeth while he perused the walls of murder implements. When the task was done, he had presented her with two fine stilettos with gold hilts set with rubies. “A present for my favorite assistant.” They had spent the next several days in Sentry's sculpture garden, building a replica of father from bone and flesh, seating him atop a throne of corpses. A throne Orin knew now held a different lord...That pitiful Tyrant.

She remembered visiting grandfather and telling him all of the things she and Sentry had done, the fun they'd had, calling him her favorite slaughter-kin, beloved big brother. But grandfather hadn't smiled, he'd simply given a mirthless laugh.

“You cannot have a 'favorite' sibling, Orin. You know father's will: there is only one chosen, the rest are destined for slaughter.” Sarevok had reminded her with a cruel sneer. “Do you not know what your 'brother' truly is?” Orin had stood silent, looking at her feet. Speaking to grandfather was difficult, she could rarely find her words in his presence. “SHE is Vereena, the breeder. Meant as a vessel to bear unholy assassins for Bhaal. She is beneath you and you must remind her of her place.” Sarevok's voice dripped venom. “But...he is my brother...” Orin started. “No. She is merely a vessel who has convinced herself she is your better....Will you allow this insult?” Sarevok leered down at Orin, his expression filled her with fear. Perhaps if Sentry really was lying to her, if he really did look down upon her... She had to convince herself it was true. The alternative was too painful. Besides, had her own mother not tried to kill her in her bed? Why should Sentry...no...VEREENA be any different? She could not look at the beautiful stilettos in her hands as the thoughts filled her mind. She pushed away their silent side by side prayers on bloodied floors, surrounded by viscera. Their sculptures, their paintings...it all meant nothing. This so called chosen was just another liar waiting to slit her throat to get one step closer to being father's favorite, a place which should he hers by right.

These thoughts blurred through her mind as she stood by the docks, staring out at the sea. She had taken on the form of a half orc woman today, dressed in simple sailor's attire, reddish brown hair pulled into a careless braid to keep it off her tanned face. Several feet away, a vessel was docked and while no one knew it yet, the entire crew was dead, laid out perfectly to symbolize another piece of father's legacy. Sentry had called her art amateur...pedestrian...the art he used to sit by her side and create with her. It confirmed everything grandfather had ever said about him. Unfit to be chosen, an upjumped breeder with delusions of grandeur, refusing to even fulfill that simple task. He'd maimed Jackal, killed him at least once. He refused Sarevok, ignored his summons and denied him. He chose instead to rut with the chosen of father's own sworn enemy. Sharing father's own flesh with a simple Banite. His death would be a blessing, a fine tribute to father. He was poison to the family, a tumor to be excised.

[richardsphere]

My BG3 review

Full disclosure: Havent finished the game yet, currently deeply into act 3 but not yet reached a true ending, Act 1 is good at getting you invested and setting up a solid narrative foundation, but is actually sort-of bad at telling players which characters are playable. I legitimately didnt find the vampire until i wanted to go through the mountains and the game prompted me to grind for EXP lest i get my ass stomped, and was convinced that the druid was a camp-buddy like Withers, Scratch or the Baby Owlbear instead of a full-blown partymember. Also the Tiefling Party is weird? The option to romance characters at that moment felt weirdly early, and it didnt comunicate properly that you'd have the option to say no right now and pursue them later should your character come to like them in the future. So I as a player felt really put on the spot. (I regret making my character pick a romance in that moment. But I did see they could come to like Karlach in the future and didnt want to be locked out of it. In hindsight i regret picking romance) Act 2 is bad at telling you where to go. the Cursed Lands are drab, boring and have little in the way of recognisable landmarks, and the quest to un-curse the land requires you enter a random room in the inn to talk to a stranger unprompted and uninvited. I basically spent act 2 lost as fudge, unaware of anything that was going on and only met any of Throms kids after i finished the questline because the town they live in looked like a generic ghosttown that couldn't possibly have antying more to offer then more generic shadowmonsters. Act 3 is bad, like crumbling under its own weight bad. Questlines are interwoven with eachother in ways that basically force you to quit a quest half-way to get on with the another quest they dont actually tell you where to find. (the Gondians) and so many of the quests feel like sudden timers? (first it's "rig the printing press before tonight or be slandered", then its "be quick or Orin kills Zevlor without warning", then it's "You dont know how long you have before Orin kills the Hostage" followed by "defeat the Farslayer in 5 turns or less" and "stage a prisonbreakout in less then a single in-world minute). A lot of the quest objectives in Act 3 feel like annoying time-gimicks. Meanwhile the Act 3 Recruit can only be recruited after going far enough into the sewer to trigger the Hostage, yet refers to the hostage as if they've been allies a long time. Gale refers to Raphaels Contract as a signed thing when I refused to make a contract and just came home from a long day of KILLING HIM IN HELL, and Vos just WONT SPAWN so Lae'zel's questline is actually unfinishable. Act 3 falls apart on a script level as a result of its own attempts at complexity, and makes the world incredibly unbelievable as a result. Act 1 feels like the set-up for a brilliant game, Act 2 feels bad and lost. Act 3 just plain sucks to the point im not certain i'm finishing this game at all. Also tip for Larian: If you do produce some DLC: Please stop hiding your questgivers inside random buildings with closed (but unlocked) doors. Not all players are breaking into every strangers home hoping to beg them for Quests unprompted. I didnt find Marinya in act 3 until I looked up a guide to see if she even makes it there or that I was supposed to find her somewhere in Act 2 and got her killed because i didnt. Meanwhile I couldnt find the Remove The Shadow Curse quest because as far as I can tell from what i read online, starting it involves entering a random hotelroom for seemingly no story-prompted reason at all to speak with a random harper.

[brightbeautifulthings]

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

"'What if sometimes there is no choice about what to love? What if the temple comes to Mohammed? What if you just love? without deciding? You just do: you see her and in that instant are lost to sober account-keeping and cannot choose but to love?'"

Year Read: 2014, 2020

Rating: 5/5

Context: It's hard to know where to begin writing a review for this book. I read it for the first time in graduate school in about five weeks (alongside everything else I had to do in grad school, so I don't recommend that), and it basically blew my mind. At the same time, it's hard to imagine tackling it any other way for the first time. Despite its difficulty, there are things obsessive and immersive and, appropriately, even addictive about it. Full immersion might be the only way to read it for the first time, and I obsessed about it for months afterward. Since I'm not on any deadlines, I took it more slowly this time (21 weeks) so I could enjoy the writing and the nuances without the pressure to finish. For my less coherent weekly updates in real time, see my blog posts. Trigger warnings: Everything, everything. Death (on-page), child death, animal death, suicide, suicidal ideation, rape, pedophilia, possible incest, child abuse/abusive households, graphic violence/gore, eye horror, severe injury, drug use, addiction, alcoholism, mental illness, depression, OCD, grief, racism, ableism, transphobia, sexism, inexplicable hostility toward Canadians.

About: If it's difficult to know how to write a review, it's equally hard to describe what Infinite Jest is about. It's about so many things, tennis, addiction, communication (failures), and entertainment among them, but I'll do my best. Beneath all the numerous characters, timelines, and subplots, the main plot is about a film so entertaining that it kills anyone who watches it, robs them of all desire to do anything but watch it until they die, and what a faction of Canadian assassins will do to possess it. The auteur is James Incandenza, a suicide whose son, Hal, is a prodigy at Enfield Tennis Academy. Next door to E.T.A. is Ennet House, a drug rehabilitation center where Don Gately, former thief and Demerol addict, is taking it day by day to stay sober. Though they don't know it, Hal and Gately are connected, and the deadly Entertainment and those who seek it draw their paths closer and closer together.

Thoughts: It's rare to find a book that is actually as smart as it claims to be, but IJ is--certainly much smarter than I am, despite all my attempts to make sense of it. It starts off strong and doesn't let up for several hundred pages, which is a huge achievement all by itself. Wallace excels at writing extremely polished sections that could almost function alone as short stories, and the first chapter is one of my favorites in all fiction. It's reassuring, I think, to start the book off on a strong note, in case we worried we were in for a thousand pages of tedious slog. It can be both, but it's often heartfelt, insightful, and funny as well, and the payoff is well worth the effort. I don’t know how Wallace manages to pack every page with so much meaning. Anybody can put tedious lists in their books or make reading purposely difficult (and I have attitude about writers who do this for no reason), but there’s nothing haphazard about this book, despite its size and varied focus. Everything seems utterly intentional. The conversations are really top-tier; Wallace has a great ear for how people talk, and it's a fascinating look at how communication works and doesn't work.

Thematically, I think the book succeeds on more than any other level, including plot or structure. If we could say this book is "about" anything, we would almost certainly start with the themes and not the plot, which is often secondary to whatever point Wallace is trying to make at the moment. It takes an in-depth looks at things like addiction, depression, loneliness, failed communication, sincerity v. irony, critiques of postmodernism and metafiction (while being very meta itself, at times), and the very specific selfishness of an American culture that insists on freedom even to the point of self-destruction. At times, it feels a little heavy-handed or like it was yanked right out of an intro to philosophy course, but I suppose something in a thousand pages has to be obvious if we're ever going to pick up on it. A lot of these themes resurface in his other work, from "This is Water" and "E Unibus Pluram" to Orin Incandenza's Brief Interview style Q and A (and he would be a perfectly fitting character in that book).

The characters are some of my favorites in literary fiction as well, particularly the Incandenza family and Don Gately, and to a lesser extent Joelle Van Dyne (although Wallace typically doesn’t write female characters very well, and she comes with some issues). Hal and Gately couldn't be more different; Hal excels at everything he's ever done, and Gately has a record that includes accidental homicide on it. Hal is the hero of non-action, since little that happens in the book is engineered by him, while Gately is closer to the more typical hero of action, who defends the undeserving at great cost to himself. Yet their struggles with addiction are similar, and they both manage to be incredibly sympathetic characters. In my opinion, the book is always at its best when we’re with Hal or Gately, but I’m strongly driven by good characters. Despite being dead, James Incandenza's presence is also felt all over the book, from the Entertainment he created to his haunting ETA and sticking beds to the ceiling (probably the weirdest ghost I've ever seen in fiction). He's a tragic character in a book full of tragic characters. The others are too numerous to name, from the other tennis players at ETA and recovering addicts at Enfield, to the various bystanders populating Boston. We get brief glimpses into almost all of them, and while they may not all feel relevant at the time, most are memorable or heart-wrenching or slapstick funny, or all three. It's a book that contains multitudes.

That's not to say it's always on point though, and it isn't. There are a number of very serious problems with representation in this novel, and they're as bad as its detractors claim. A lot of the 90s humor aged very poorly, but that's not an excuse for some of the unabashedly racist depictions of African Americans, the uncharitable descriptions of Steeply's and Poor Tony's cross-dressing, or--however much I love him as a character--the fact that Mario Incandenza’s descriptions are ableist in just about every possible way. Wallace thinks he's capturing "voice" when he's really encouraging harmful stereotypes. The humor of the novel often doesn’t depend at all on these stereotypes and would in fact, be a lot more funny if I wasn’t spending so much energy cringing at it. So many of the little racist and ableist asides could have easily been edited out of the entire novel to make it less offensive. There are also sections where he seems at pains to be as gross as possible for its own sake. There are plenty of things grim or uncomfortable or flat out distasteful about this book, but sometimes the graphic violence kind of jumps out and stabs you in the eye, say, with a railroad spike.

If there are times when I was totally absorbed in the little tragedies of the Incandenza family or Gately's struggles, there are plenty more where it's like pushing something heavy up a hill. No lie, some of it is slogging through tedious minutiae and various experimental writing styles (some more successful and less offensive than others). Wallace has a gift for purposeful tedium; it’s at its peak in The Pale King, but he gives it a nice warm-up round here. The novel is difficult and meant to be, since Wallace maintained that some of the best pleasures are the ones we have to work for, and he's not totally off base. There's something very satisfying about living, for a time, in a book that spans a thousand pages, that demands focus and perseverance, and manages to give back (almost) as much as it takes. The book is always structurally interesting, but it starts to get more complicated toward the end as various characters and plots begin to almost slide into one another. I forgot how frustrating it was to near the end and realize--again--that it wasn't going to wrap up with any kind of satisfaction; the various plots slide, but they don’t meet. I thought if I paid closer attention on a second read that I would pick up more of the plot things I’d missed on my first, but I think the problem is that those answers simply aren’t to be found in the actual text. Of course, they can point us toward various conclusions, and the novel certainly encourages us to speculate and make connections, but I don’t think the actual answers are there.

That brings me to some of my final thoughts, for now. There's no doubt that this is a hugely successful book, and I believe it accomplished exactly what Wallace meant it to do. He jokingly referred to it as a failed entertainment, much the way Jim considered his lethal Entertainment a failure, but I have the sense that Wallace, unlike Jim, failed on purpose. The book purposely pays more attention to structure and theme than it does to plot or character, yet the plot and characters are hugely compelling for what we see of them. Imagine the book it could have been if he had paid equal attention to all of them. Wallace attempted to create a book that people wouldn't want to stop reading. Reaching the end certainly encourages us to begin again, as the first chapter is actually the last in chronology, but that trick only works the first time. By my second read, I realized that starting over wouldn't help me fill in any of those blanks or answer any of my questions, and I was content to let it go. On the one hand, IJ depends upon its structure to tell the story it's telling. On the other, think of the book it could have been if it spent more time telling a story and developing its characters and less time belaboring a point. It's one of the best books I've ever read, and the tragedy is that I think it could have been even better.

[suddenlysomewherethatsgreen]

Sorry!! My bad lol! What do you think Audrey's experiences are with smoking, drinking and the gutter :)

Oh this is an interesting question because it’s not about the show and more about my headcanons. Hmmmm

I don’t think Audrey was a smoker. I know nearly everyone was at the time but she probably wasn’t. Her boyfriends would smoke, Orin was a smoker because he didn’t know it messed up your teeth. But the smell bothered Audrey. She has a keen sense of smell and enjoys nice smells. So she owns a good deal of scented candles, wears perfume, works in a flower shop, and dreams of “the pine sol scented air”. Seymour tried smoking once when he was 12 because he thought it’d make him cool and he coughed his lungs up and had no interest in trying again.

(Trigger warning): Audrey didn’t like drinking but people would buy her drinks anyway, because it would make things easier for them when she let her guard down. Sometimes on dates with Orin when they were drinking, she would take an extra shot or two to make things easier for her too. She loved drinking tea though. Seymour had never tried it before she started working and she sometimes would bring it in and they’d make some. During Grow For Me there’s two cups on Seymour’s table, and that’s why.

Audrey flippin’ HATED The Gutter. I haven’t written much on her experiences there, and I didn’t think anyone wanted me to. Actually, I have been working on Audrey’s life story told in first person for a while now. So that might explore this further. Hopefully you’ll see that published soon. I just have a few kinks.

Once again, these are not facts but the person headcanons of a person who owns Harry Potter pajamas