#So I did this and I wrote about Morde

[lolomidi]

The Price of Entertainment: An Episode-By-Episode Analysis of Alastor's Facade

I don’t think any character in Hazbin Hotel has been discussed as much as Alastor, and it’s a testament to how much the writers put in his character that the mystery of his intentions, past, and contract have been so debated on.

There are some takes I vehemently disagree with, but something a lot of people seem to have settled on is that Alastor is, behind his massive ego and cool-headed persona, insecure about his place in Hell after his long “sabbatical.” I want to do an episode-by-episode analysis of Alastor’s behavior and how Season 1 shifts our view of him from an unquestionably powerful Overlord to something with more depth, and while I won’t be speculating on who owns his soul and how he’ll break that contract in those post, I will take a guess at the future of his character in a narrative sense. I will also implicitly be addressing my issues with some of the conclusions others have made, or at least playing devil's advocate.

NOTE: I want to clarify that none of this is meant to depict Alastor as some poor woobie. He’s still awful. He’s in Hell for several reasons and being a serial killer is only one of them. Rather, I want to analyze what is shown to us about him, and how those story beats can be used to determine where he’ll end up by the finale of the series.

ALSO NOTE: I haven’t followed all of VivziePop’s comments outside of the show about the characters, and it’s possible that certain details have been changed between the release of the pilot and the show, so take any mentions of what hasn’t been explicitly depicted within the show with a grain of salt.

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Part 1: Recap Analysis

This section will consist of commentary regarding Alastor's appearance and behavior in the given episodes, with retrospection based on new information given in later episodes if needed.

“Overture”: Alastor is pretty one-to-one with his depiction in the pilot in the first episode. He’s snarky, open about his sadism, but helpful if begrudgingly so. Interestingly, he’s able to put together a well-edited, if tonally awful, commercial, and probably could have done better if he weren’t intentionally being an ass about it. From the finale we know that he and Vox likely used to have a more magnanimous relationship, and it’s likely that he picked up some tools of the digital trade in that time despite or before being turned off completely by it.

“Radio Killed the Video Star”: Vox effectively plays heel for Alastor this episode as we continue that first impression of the Radio Demon. We spend a good time showing off the former’s power and how far his roots have spread throughout Hell’s society, only for Alastor to effortlessly trounce him and steal from his audience, despite being gone for so long and his position in Hell less stable. This indicates that Alastor does still have pull, but at the same time that his position in the hierarchy of Hell is being contested due to the length of his absence. He deals with it easily here, but we’ll see in subsequent episodes that things aren’t as smooth as they first seem.

“Scrambled Eggs”: In terms of the eggs, there’s not much to talk about. He begrudgingly accepts Vaggie’s request to get rid of them “humanely,” but brings them back to the hotel after they prove to be useful spies.

More importantly, we get our first small hint that Alastor’s ego can be bruised when Carmilla doesn’t humor him during the meeting between Overlords. Now, I actually disagree with a lot of the takes on this episode in that I think it indicates that at least some of Alastor’s views and need to prove himself as a powerful Overlord are the result of self-delusion. Yes, he does need to reestablish himself as a person not to be messed with after being gone for so long, but I think it isn’t as bad as some are making it out to be, which makes his behavior in later episodes more strange and excessive if anything.

Carmilla, who mind you is a busy and stressed woman trying to hide the fact that she’s successfully murdered an angel, hits his ego by not caring where he’s been (something he wouldn’t have revealed in the first place), but she also welcomes him back, which is more than you could say to Velvette and by extension the Vees. And minutes before that, Zestial, who’s probably the highest on their totem pole, does go out of his way to meet with Alastor and inquire about where he’s been. Alastor himself gets over the slight pretty quickly and has no issue contributing to the meeting. Overall, he isn’t necessarily terrifying other overlords, but he still has an established place with them and they do seem to get along well enough. He’s “part of the group” unlike the Vees, who are treated more like upstart outsiders.

I also want to point out that despite Zestial likely outranking Alastor in power, they seem to be alright with each other. Alastor is cordial and does not demonstrate a desire to antagonize him like he does Lucifer in the next episode. Speaking of which…

“Dad Beat Dad”: This episode gives us a lot to chew on and is the first major indicator that Alastor’s issues go beyond wanting to be the center of the room. From the very moment Lucifer walks into the hotel*, his eye is twitching and he is visibly pissed. Lucifer undermining him (notably contrasting Zestial, who is polite despite his power) doesn’t help and makes Alastor let loose his first swear in the entire show. Being the petty bitch he is, Alastor, knowing he can’t intimidate Lucifer in any way, immediately goes for his weak point–Charlie–and plays up the role of a caretaker for her and the hotel. It’s a low blow, but it also feels like a defense–he’s signaling to Lucifer that this is his hotel, that things are taken care of already, and that they do not need his assistance, even though they ultimately do in order to get a meeting with Heaven.

But then things get more complicated with the appearance of Mimzy, who, to the surprise of several characters due to his solitary nature, was friends with Alastor all the way back when they were alive, and she carries a load of implications with her. She’s the only crack so far at what a “human” Alastor is like–apparently he’s a heavyweight drinker, a good dancer, and most notably, in Mimzy’s words, a sweet man who "becomes a kitten" when he's drunk. This is a huge departure from the unflappable, egotistical Radio Demon we’ve known up to now, and I think it’s a purposeful choice that we’re hearing this information but not shown it like his early days in Hell just prior. It’s simultaneously left to the imagination but difficult to do so because it contrasts so heavily with everything that has been shown to us beforehand. Another thing is that Mimzy is sure that Alastor will clean up her mess–and apparently this isn’t the first time he has, if Husk is anything to go by. So many people seem to miss this, but Alastor, who hates being tied down or disrespected, has been allowing Mimzy to leech off of him, presumably due to their past friendship making him turn a blind eye.

Alastor is on edge for this entire episode and is already unusually snappy when Husk addresses Mimzy, and pushing the button that was his contract is what sends him over the edge. His temper exploding is a direct result of his feeling that his control over both the hotel (via Lucifer) and his personal life (via Husk’s “doubt” that he can handle everything and that his reputation is what it used to be, plus the reminder of his deal) is being taken away from him. Alastor’s threat to Husk, which seems to not be his usual behavior if Husk’s willingness to show concern and talk back in the first place is anything to go by, is an attempt to remind both of them that he holds the cards, that he’s a powerful Overlord that is not to be trifled with, and he explicitly says as much when he goes out to deal with what Mimzy’s dragged in.

It’s only after he lets his anger out on the mobsters and “proves himself” that he visibly calms down and makes the logical decision to tell Mimzy to leave with a serious attitude, and also doesn’t antagonize anyone for the rest of the episode. It seems like despite his fury earlier, he was listening to Husk, who’s rightfully smug about it. He’s even present when Charlie declares her desire to protect her people, and his smile seems just a tad bit more genuine.

*Note: it’s not impossible that Alastor has some sort of personal grudge against Lucifer which caused his hate-on-first-sight, depending on the circumstances of his disappearance and contract (i.e. if it’s with Lilith).

“Hello Rosie!”: As opposed to Dad Beat Dad, Hello Rosie is arguably where we see Alastor at his most in-his-element. He gives off a lot of conflicting vibes at the beginning, from mocking Charlie’s distress to, in a shockingly honest moment, lecturing her about the importance of a smile to portray strength, a card we’d only been shown due to comments outside of the show. He smugly holds his knowledge over Charlie’s head but is visibly impatient to have her make a blank check of a deal with him, solid enough to benefit him but vague enough so that Charlie won’t feel immediately threatened. He’s clearly been waiting for an opportunity like this since the events of the pilot.

After that, he puts back on his gentleman’s demeanor and introduces Charlie to Rosie, and from here on he’s arguably at his most comfortable in the entire show. He’s relaxed around Rosie and is actually willing to ask for her help (something I can’t see him doing with any other character), casually complains about Susan, is encouraging to and praises Charlie even behind her back, and most notably, gives her his radio cane unprompted. More on that later. He also mentioned wanting to guide Charlie to Rosie specifically, implying that he was being genuine about wanting to act as a mentor to her, though his intentions are probably self-beneficial.

“The Show Must Go On”: The finale is arguably the most revealing episode on what Alastor’s inner world is like, as we see him unmasked several times. For one, his private admission to Niffty, the closest thing he has to a friend within the hotel, that he’s enjoyed watching the other residents connect to each other. This is in direct opposition to his initial (stated) reason for helping the hotel in that he wanted to watch them all fail, and yet he seems content with his initial assumptions being proven wrong. There’s no malice or sarcasm in this moment, he’s relaxed and talking to someone he relatively trusts.

And so he goes into the battle swinging and confident. Then, of course, Adam.

I want to bring up something before we keep going. Yes, fighting Adam without angelic weaponry was a needless risk. Yes, Alastor fell victim to the very sloppiness and arrogance he accused Adam of, and it’s thematically appropriate that he was the only one to lose his battle in that he was fighting for his own ego more than “love.” But also, people seem to forget that Alastor is the only demon in the entire show with a precedent for permakilling without an explicit reliance on angelic weaponry, as the Overlords he toppled in his original rampage seem to have never returned. He’s egotistical, but not stupid. He may have genuinely believed that he had the means to kill Adam himself but didn’t get the chance/couldn’t due to his contract or absence possibly weakening him. But that's speculation for another day.

So, he has to retreat before Adam double-taps his ass and is too injured to return until after the extermination. He makes a grand exit, but not before grabbing the broken pieces of his radio cane. The one he allowed Charlie to use just an episode prior, and presumably is a conduit for his powers, and he grabs it while a murderous angel is inches away from wiping him off the face of Hell.

His portion of “Finale” is the first time we see him singing alone and not playing off someone in a duet. It’s obvious that he’s trying to keep his composure, still speaking to himself in his artificial transatlantic accent (which we now know for a fact he doesn't need to do, seeing as he finally broke character when Adam wrecked his cane) and reassuring himself that he’ll come out on top next time. But here his front shatters and we openly see what the show has been hinting he is for the first time: a deeply paranoid, desperate, and unstable man.

Essentially the worst-case scenario has happened: after a season of interfering with every attempt to capture him on camera, Vox has footage of him at his lowest point for all of Hell to see, and he’ll have “died” a martyr, a weakling, and still in the chains of an unwanted contract. For Alastor, who is so deeply afraid of showing any sign of vulnerability, who wants to be seen as a monstrous Overlord, it’s understandable that this humiliation is enough to send him into a mental spiral and recant any fondness for the hotel in favor of accomplishing his own goals. Worse yet, when we next see him he gives zero indication of any of this even when Charlie and company are simply glad that he's alive, which leaves us to wonder: has he been like this behind the smile from the very beginning?

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Part 2: Closing Thoughts and Future Speculation

With everything we’ve taken note of above, we can start to piece together a picture of who this guy is, and what the writers are going to do with him.

Alastor is sentimental. It’s not just his attachment to older technology or his love for being the center of everyone's attention. He likes being around people, he has friends, one of which he continuously indulged despite her using him multiple times, and he ultimately was starting to enjoy his time at the hotel before his defeat spooked him. Despite him using her, the fact that he was even willing to let Charlie use his cane (and note that he takes it from her as soon as she’s given a substitute, so that is a significant gesture for him) is an implicit display of trust whose implications don’t become apparent until the finale.

But this is paired with deep insecurity. Alastor, despite being one of the most powerful people in the Pride Ring, has a crippling fear of being seen as vulnerable or “lesser” by others. There could be multiple overlapping reasons for this: the general climate of Hell, whatever happened to him seven years ago, his experiences as a mixed-race human living in Prohibition-era Louisiana, his original death, a natural predisposition, etc.

Regardless, this anxiety of his is so overwhelming that, when paired with the ever-present stress of not owning his own soul, it’s driving him insane. He made a splash in Hell upon entry and now he’s desperately trying to reinvoke that in order to defend himself both physically and mentally. He’s the gifted kid who’s slowly going nuts trying to keep up an impossible momentum as they grow older. He’s an ex-human denying his humanity because he doesn’t want to feel human. Everyone’s out to get him, and anyone who could be an enemy is an enemy unless he has total control over them via a contract, power, or the reassurance of years of close friendship. It’s why he’s cordial to Zestial but takes Carmilla (who wasn't even trying to spite him) and Lucifer’s comments personally, in the same way someone with low self-esteem might want to lash out against an authority figure who they feel is looking down on them.

Worse yet, he can’t/won’t let these feelings out and is bottling them up so that no one will know he feels this way (note how quickly he was able to relax in Dad Beat Dad when he was given an outlet for his stress), because that’s a sign of weakness too. It’s honestly kind of frightening that in his final scene he gives zero indication of being injured or of just having had a meltdown. By all outside accounts, he’s his usual chipper self, and no one at the hotel save for maybe Husk, who can’t say anything Alastor doesn’t want him to, would realize anything is amiss. The reason his part of “Finale” is chilling isn’t just because of the implications that he will become an antagonist in the future–it’s that his mental state is so poor that he is no longer acting rationally, which makes him unpredictable in the worst possible way.

I think Alastor’s character arc isn’t going to be redemption by way of going to Heaven, I don't think that place is his style anyway, but rather redemption of his own self-image. I don’t think the writers would make what is arguably the most popular and well-developed character in the show just to say that he’s hopelessly evil and simply end it at that. We’ve been exposed to multiple facets of his character, and while his deeds and probably his intentions are sinister, his underlying motivation for it all seems to be “freedom,” which decidedly isn’t (unless your name is Eren Jaeger).

I do believe that he’ll have his villain moment where he indulges in his worst impulses, but that ultimately it won’t do anything to fulfill him, because as we see in the official comics before the release of the show (which may no longer be canon but still give a viable “baseline” for the characters), when his desire to be feared and respected is granted, it only isolates him. Like the others, he’ll have to hit rock bottom before he can climb back up.

Pentious, who was successfully redeemed, needed to understand that people weren’t out to get him, which allowed him to make the decision to put his friends before himself and trigger his selfless sacrifice. Angel, who’s well on his way to redemption, needed to realize he wasn’t alone and could rely on others, and his confidence and self-love has grown enormously since then. I think these are both lessons Alastor will need to learn eventually as well. He’s the manager of the hotel, but also undoubtedly a patient. He’s hungry for freedom, but only when he learns these lessons will he be truly free.

Or maybe I’m thinking too much into it idk lmaooooo

[ashwin-the-artless]

Nanite Replacement Therapy

Ever since we started publishing our stories, there’s been a rumor going around that someone, if it isn’t us, is wandering around Portland, Oregon in a shiny new nanite exobody. And, I guess that those people who’ve read our more recent books are starting to speculate on how this might be.

I want to put that to rest.

As I wrote, we destroyed all of the nanites in the probe that our ancestor ship had sent to Earth 22 million years ago. Now that Phage has used its abilities to transfer the Tunnel to Sarah and Goreth’s psyche, there’s no need to keep the nanites present and functional on Earth. And, in fact, there is great danger in doing so.

We Ktletaccete have absolutely no interest in endangering Earth life in that way.

Some say that Phage must have used the nanites to transfer the Tunnel to Sarah and Goreth’s brain. And, if it had, that would have definitely been a viable way to do so. And, if the nanites had remained dormant in their system in all that time, we could certainly have activated them and done something with them.

We didn’t. We have not done that. There are no nanites here. I am sorry, you will all have to figure out how to make them yourselves, and go through all the social and technological change necessary to get there. And we will not help you do that. The process is important. It’s a part of evolution, which best when it is gradual and gives the rest of life a chance to adapt.

But.

If we had brought nanites to Earth, and they were somehow made available to you, here is what making yourself a nanite body might be like.

Not an exobody, as we often do on the Sunspot, but a replacement body for the one you grew up with, because that’s what so many of our fans are talking about.

You might as well understand how it really works.

So, here we go. CN: implied gore, death of the body, transhumanism, etc.

When Morde converted her body to a fully nanite one, sie did it quickly and rashly, with no regard for hir own health and safety. And no one recommends doing what sie did, least of all hir. However, sie paved the way to understanding the process. (For those curious, Morde’s actual name and pronouns are Mortu and shem, but sie has chosen these English equivalents for when we write about hir for Earth publications.)

So, if you read Systems’ Out! and think that you could endure the process sie underwent and follow in hir footsteps, please done. Please consider this more effective and thorough suggestion.

Do it slowly. And do it by following this procedure designed to accommodate the human psyche and physiology.

You can still do it largely at your own pace, within these parameters. There are even stages at which you can halt the process, or possibly start to reverse it. Though there is definitely a point of no return.

Should you somehow, miraculously acquire a dose of Ktletaccete construction nanites, or watakarro as we call them, what you will receive is just enough to create a neural terminal. This is more than enough to convert your body to a full nanite one in time.

1.Installing your neural terminal

The very first step, once they are in your bloodstream, is to consent to the neural terminal.

Do this by saying out loud the words “fe watukarro getimarro nimuufenokera.” This is Fenekere for, “I say yes to a construction nanite gateway,” or a nanite neural terminal.

For a set of nanites precalibrated for human neurology, it should take roughly 48 hours for them to learn your personal neural processes and adapt. And then you will begin to have access to any local nanite Network. If there isn’t one already present, your nanites will create their own.

The first thing you’ll be able to access is your own Network space, and a command menu. And if the person who gave you the dose of nanites is at all remotely responsible (which they are inherently not for passing out such dangerous technology) they will act as your Tutor. And your new Tutor will greet you and give you a tour of your new technology.

This will feel a lot like a fever dream, or lingering dreams as you’re waking up in the morning. A hypnopompic state, just as you are waking up, is perfect for this, so typically the nanites and your new Tutor will time things to introduce you to the system on a morning following your dosage. Your mileage will vary on this, depending on any quirks in your biology, but you will generally have access by the fourth day.

And, once you’ve taken the time to practice interacting with your Tutor and your Network space, you’ll find that it becomes easier and more accessible with time. But for a few days, at least, it will feel a lot like you are doing no more than vividly daydreaming. It may feel fake.

The primary reminder that it’s not fake will be your tutor refusing to think, speak, or behave according to your expectations and commands. It will be a living and conscious being, a person, and retain its own rights to consent and autonomy. If I were your tutor, I would explain to you how your vessel belongs to you, and that you have merely consented for me to visit it to help you in your transition, but that I would also accept and respect any further invitation to share your vessel further, if you trust me to do so. That would not be a request nor an implied order, but merely a statement of fact.

From there, your tutor will start to teach you the Fenekere commands to configure your terminal to your needs. It’s not necessary to describe this in detail, as the information will be provided for you at that time, pretending that this is at all possible. Which it isn’t.

By the time you take the next step, your access to the Network will be so vivid that when you connect to it you will be able to forget the signals you receive from your body and feel as if you have fully entered another world.

Your body still exists and still has needs, and if it fails before you have taken certain steps, or have given the nanites enough time to fully map and replicate your psyche, you will experience personal damage and memory loss. Please exercise balance, and return to your body frequently enough to take care of it.

One way to manage this, if you find this too difficult, is to give your Tutor fronting permission, so that it may exercise, clean, and feed your body as needed.

But, also, maintaining regular contact with your body will give you a better sense of what you’re doing as you modify it and coax it through transition.

2. Replacing the biological neural processes

It makes sense to start here. The nanites have been reconfigured to interface with your neurology on both a molecular and electromagnetic level. Of all the organs in your body, it is easiest for them to replace your neurons first.

Also, by taking the time to replace your neurons first, you will integrate and transfer your consciousness fully into your Network before it comes time to take the final steps.

It is this stage that takes the longest, and it is where almost all of the (hypothetical) subjects have reported the most frustration, but it is well worth it.

You don’t really need to know the full details of how it works, because the program will have already been constructed to do it for you. But a rudimentary knowledge of the process helps to understand why it is done in this way.

The nanites will start at the peripheries of your neural cells, at the connections between the dendrites and axons, where they are already working to read and mimic your neural processes. And a fully parallel neural net will be constructed.

Once that is working in perfect sync with your biological neurons and your electromagnetic fields, the nanites will then start to physically replace your neurons themselves, starting with those most distant from your neural core, your brain.

This may create some sensations similar to the pins and needles, and pangs felt by surgery patients in recovery. The more slowly you go, the more mild this will be. But, you are in control, and you can adjust this speed manually and find where your own limits are. Again, within preset safety parameters.

But the other thing you will have to do is supply the nanites with building materials.

Your body already has most of the trace elements needed to create a construction nanite, but not in the ratios needed for a full conversion even at the slowest rate. Also, most of those elements are locked up in biological functions that are still needed at this phase.

So, you will need to either adjust your diet or invest in a regimen of dietary supplements. This can be pricey, so it is recommended that you save up for this, or for you to find some covert and discrete way of acquiring them otherwise. You may consult your Tutor about how to do this. It will likely already be several centuries older than you, with a wealth of knowledge and experience at its disposal, even if it isn’t so familiar with Earth customs.

Think minerals more than vitamins. Though some vitamins contain the needed elements as well. A full list that is tailored to your specific needs will be generated.

Some people have (hypothetically) found that once they have enough nanites at their disposal they can absorb and process the needed elements through their fingertips by touching various objects.

This is usually only available at the later stages. Hypothetically.

As you near these stages, you shouldn’t really experience anything unusual. Not involuntarily, at least. By this point, the nanites will have such a grasp on your neural signals that the tingling and pangs should have abated entirely.

You will have a progress chart you can call up, and review, and a list of new commands that you can safely issue to your system, and with that you can start to experiment.

Do not experiment outside of the safety parameters, or you could damage your body before it is ready for the final stage.

The Point of No Return

Theoretically, it is possible to use the construction nanites to cultivate, direct, and coax stem cells into growing into new neurons and integrating back into your nervous system. So, in theory, as long as you have a few neurons left in your body, you should be able to grow new ones. We’ve even been informed that it might be possible to do so without any of the originals present. And your nanite network should be able to teach them to function as a biological network for you to reside in them again, and to manage your body on their own.

Nobody has ever tried this.

And in terms of our knowledge and experience, the point of uncertain return starts when you begin to replace the neurons of your gut. The odds are still very good at that point, but the weight of neurons that permeate the human gut is nearly the same as the human brain, and the impact of their function is fairly significant. Regrowing them would take a lot of work and calibration.

By the time you are replacing your spinal column, you will also be altering your brain, and regrowth will be even riskier.

Once you’ve replaced any given organ of the brain, regardless of any path you’ve chosen, you should consider yourself past the point of no return. You can still give it a try, but we do not recommend it.

Again, nobody has bothered. They are usually much too satisfied with the process to even consider it.

Depending on your settings and personal comfort, this whole stage could take anywhere from three months to three years or more. Anyone taking longer than three Terran years, however, is doddling purely for their own comfort and interests.

3. The Final Step

When your progress chart pings, it will mean that you have not only entirely replaced your neural system with nanites, but that you also have enough reserves to harvest materials in earnest and construct the rest of your nanite body in a short time.

If you were aboard the Sunspot, or had access to a vat of nanite clay or pure nanites, you could do this next step nearly instantly. But you are not, and don’t, and won’t. But, since we are daydreaming about all of this, you might as well consider that possibility.

This part looks a lot like what Morde did as Metabang wrote about it in its book, Systems’ Out!

If you have a bin of nanite clay or slurry, you can just jump into it and issue the command. Your Network will take the initiative to disconnect from your biology and take control of your allotted portion of nanite clay, and do the dirty wetwork without causing you any distress or pain what-so-ever.

If you want, you can observe it from a dissociated state while in the Network, as if in third person. Or by watching your chart. Or you can remain in contact with what is now your physical form, your nanite body, and experience the sensations of it metabolizing your old biology.

I personally have experienced neither of these things, so I cannot tell you what it’s like. When my original vessel died, I was already fully a Network entity, and I was more focused on ushering my fellow system members who lingered within it into their new life as Crew.

Morde refuses to describe hir experiences in detail, saying it was very personal.

But, considering the extreme configurability of the Network and the nanite neural terminals and exobodies, you should be able to tailor your experience to whatever it is you expect from it.

If you are forced to, or want to take things more slowly, using what you might have on hand in your home, I recommend performing the process in your bathtub.

You’ll need a very large dose of those supplemental materials, which your tutor will direct you to fill the tub with.

Then you will lie on top of them and direct your nanite reserves to start replicating using those materials.

Once they’ve reached outside of your body and started doing this, you can get up and walk around for a while if you like. Let the bathtub fill with nanite slurry.

Maybe you have a few things you want to do yet with your old body. Maybe there’s a ritual you’d like to perform, to thank it for its service and bid it farewell. Or simply let your friends online know that you are in your final stages. (Don’t do that. Don’t write about it on social media. Don’t tell anyone. The world should not know about this. It is too dangerous. DO NOT LET THIS TECHNOLOGY FALL INTO THE WRONG HANDS - You really don’t need to worry about this, this technology doesn’t exist on Earth. But if it did, this would be the protocol.)

Or, you can just continue to lie on the supplements and wait. You should be able to access the Terran internet through your nanite Network, anyway. It is trivial to set up wifi and the proper protocols. Most of that work has already been done by your Tutor. Play some Marvel Snap or Diablo II Resurrection while you wait. Maybe VRChat. I particularly like the Odd Giants community, even if they’re not quite where their parent game, Glitch, used to be, yet. But with your newfound processing power, maybe you can help them out!

And then, when the nanites in the tub reach critical mass, see above.

This part of the process takes a matter of seconds or up to around an hour, depending on your resources.

Enjoy!

4. What you can do with your new nanite body

Ktletaccete engineers and programmers have been working for Sunspot centuries to perfect nanite senses and capabilities.

Ideally, your senses should seem just like they were before you started this process, a perfect simulation of your biological processes. And the slower you take this whole process, the more accurate they’ll be. The three year mark is the point of diminishing returns regarding this, of course. So longer than that isn’t really necessary.

But, of course, you can now configure them and your own psyche to do all sorts of interesting things. Likely, you’ve been doing this since you first got your terminal and started unlocking commands. But now you have the full suite at your mental fingertips.

Seeing in infrared and ultraviolet, for instance, is absolutely trivial. As is being able to sense most of the electromagnetic spectrum.

You could even configure your nanite neurology and Network psyche to interpret your other sense as if they were visual, if you wanted, such as smell or sound. And there are models you can use to make that interpretation useful to you, instead of bewildering.

You should also be able to refine your sense of touch to be able to tell at an instant the chemical composition of whatever your body is contacting. Or, if that’s overwhelming, you can send that information to a visual readout that you can pull up and read at your leisure.

The big question you probably have is whether or not you can fool the world into thinking you haven’t done this to yourself. Can you blend in? Can you avoid detection? What are the practical concerns of this?

Well.

That’s where some problems may arise.

While we have made it so that the surface of your nanite body can imitate the color, reflective, luminal, and textural properties of skin and textiles (and anything else), and we’ve finally figured out how to produce sound with nanites that is nearly indistinguishable from biological vocal apparati, there are some things that are much harder to hide.

You’re going to show up on various kinds of Terran sensors. You might even, if you’re not careful, trip the metal detectors in government buildings and other checkpoints. The TSA will not know what to do with you, and they will panic, and so will the rest of the United States, if you try to travel by air in the conventional way through that country. You should bypass these sticking points by sneaking onto aircraft as a mist of nanite dust, and you will want to spend some time experimenting with how to do that safely without leaving nanites behind to idle until someone else finds them.

You’re going to want to stop going to the doctor. You won’t need to, of course. But they won’t know what to do with you if they try to examine you. Fortunately, in many countries you can probably neglect your relationship with your doctor without much fuss. Just avoid doing anything that gets a team of EMTs sent to examine you for anything.

It’s the more subtle things that will raise suspicions on a daily basis, though.

The density of your nanite body can be adjusted to match your old body’s weight, so that shouldn’t be a problem. But the pliability of your surface will not quite match that of skin and flesh, and people who touch and grab you may notice this. Objects might bounce off of you slightly differently than off a typical human, and you might also not react to them the same way yourself, depending on what you’ve done to your senses and reflexes.

You can still eat and enjoy food, and your nanites will process what you consume for energy. But you can now eat just about anything. Be careful to not make that a habit you perform in front of other people. Eating batteries is a serious faux pas and a grave security risk, as tempting as it may be.

You might be tempted to stop buying clothing, and to just simulate it with your own body. Simulated clothing may move quite a bit like the genuine article, but when touched will likely give away its true nature, if someone knows what to expect of a nanite body. But also, if you always seem to be in new clothes without spending money on them, or always seen in the same set of clothes without them appearing to deteriorate, this can create other clues that some people might pick up on.

Back to the eating thing. If you don’t eat regular food at the rate at which you needed to for your old body, some people will notice that. Your needs are different, though, and higher without the broadcast power of the Sunspot, and you’ll end up consuming supplemental fuel sources, which can be tracked by snoopy government algorithms or roommates. Unless you steal it and consume it where no one can detect you.

I think this may give you a clear enough image of what to expect if you make it this far. Your Tutor will endeavor to guide you further and investigate the concerns and dangers of your specific living situation.

But, you also no longer need to live life pretending to be human.

You could, if you wanted to, spend a few years as an unused mail drop box on the corner of an old industrial site, and focus your attention entirely on the Internet. To give one example for no particular reason.

Or you could see what it’s like to pass as a Terran animal of some sort. It is highly unlikely members of the species you choose will accept you as one of them, especially if they rely on a strong sense of smell. But other species may respond predictably to you, including the odd human.

The possibilities are fairly endless and really restricted to your sensibilities. Unless you attempt to violate or interfere with the rights to consent or autonomy of another person, in which case your nanite body will refuse to carry out that particular command. 

Sorry. No nanite assisted killings. We cannot allow that. It’s for your safety, after all.

[loserboyfriendrjl]

Dorcas,

Once you find out what is right, you have to fight for it. It is what we do, after all, isn't it? Fighting for the right cause, unaware of what it may bring upon us. We'll keep on fighting no matter what; this is what we do. I wish it will not be what we both think it might be; I am not ready to die, love.

I'm not ready to die. I'm not ready to be buried, to be dead, to be gone. I don't want to be forgotten. That's why I wrote all of these letters, and I will let you find them, and read them, and not forget me.

This letter has been written in May, 1980. Lily is very pregnant, and James is extremely excited to meet their child. They're having a son, did you know that? So, you were right; I thought it would be a daughter. His name is Hari, by the way, and Sirius and I are going to be the godparents. (I just came back from their place (James started crying when he asked us to be the godparents. Sirius said he's being a dramatic tosser), and I am now writing this letter to you.) Don't worry, you and Remus are next. They'd love to have you, if you want to.

I have been thinking, recently. About many things, thinking and overthinking, thinking and rethinking. We don't have much left; whether you want to accept that or not, the fate is not on our side, this time. I love you. Would you want to get married? We could have a little ceremony, and a party. We could finally be united, forever, like we've always dreamed. How's that sound? (No, James is not going to officiate it; he's going to start crying.)

We don't have much time left. Why not make the most of it? Why not do the things we've always wanted to do?

I'll be leaving for the week. Dumbledore's sent me off with Caradoc, said he doesn't trust him anymore. He's shaken, of course, after Benjy's death. Poor bastard needs a break. But the war won't end on its own, and so, he's still fighting. An Achilles of some sort, you know? Fighting to avenge his dead lover. I hope we won't have to do that.

However, I do hope that, when I will come home, you will wait for me, and we will get one more night of love. One mord night before the sun rises, one more night before it all ends.

Feed the dogs for me, please. Don't forget to put the shoes out; Fergie has gotten quite the nasty habit, he's started chewing them. And don't miss me too much; I will be back. I always am.

Marlene ♡

[matronoftheblackrose]

The King of Death

The souls swarmed around Thresh. The eternal Harrowing, the fall of Viego, all of this immense power. Truly, he could now truly and fully understand the meaningless nature of mortals and their struggles. After all, who could oppose him? His lantern shone with a brilliant, green light. Even the gravedigger could do naught but shamble away-

“Warden,” Yorick rumbled.

Thresh’s eyes snapped down and glared at Yorick. He dare stand here? In front of him?

“What are your thoughts, Gravedigger? Dare you think you can oppose me?”

Yorick shrugged. “What is your goal, Warden?”

“I know of your goals, Gravedigger. You cannot oppose me.”

“My goals?” Yorick stroked his beard, not making eye contact with Thresh. “Do you know them, Warden?”

Thresh cackled. He threw his lantern down on the ground in front of him, held his arms out to his sides and cast in the eerie glow of the Ruination itself, he demanded, “All you and the rest of Runeterra can only writhe, like a worm on a hook, before me. What need do I have to know of your goals?”

With a sudden, violent swing, Yorick struck Thresh’s perfect jawline with his shovel. Thresh had withstood the entire barrage of every single bloody Sentinel of Light with ease, he made no effort to resist a shovel.

Bone cracked.

Thresh’s head twisted from the impact. His eyes burned with rage as he slowly looked down at Yorick, who returned the intensity with a glare of his own.

“You get that one. Now to see what is still flesh, and what is bone, as I flay you.”

Yorick shook his head. “No. You do not,” turned around, and hobbled away from Thresh.

Thresh tried to pull his arm back to prepare his scythe, only to find his body unable to move. In fact, now that he thought about it, he was staring at his body from a wholly unique perspective. Thresh could not comprehend the literal, out of body experience, he was undergoing.

“There is a reason why Viego shed so much of the souls, and why it was so hard to ‘catch’ him. An ancient secret, even older than the Blessed Isles themselves,” Yorick said, the Maiden of the Mist encircling him, laughing and sobbing. “I may not be able to kill you yet, but when I can, I will. For now, I can cut down your misinformed ego.”

Thresh was about to howl his curses at Yorick when an iron gauntlet grasped his spirit’s throat. As Thresh was yanked back, Yorick gave Thresh one more disinterested look, but his words were colder than the deepest grave.

“Give Sahn-Uzal my regards.”

---

Thresh felt his soul fly through time and space, with all of his hundreds of thousands of souls scream in unison as they trailed behind him. Eventually, Thresh was thrown down onto an ephemeral ground that felt as solid as any stone. 

‘My liege, I bring to you an oddity,’ a voice whispered.

Thresh snapped his hands down, his scythe and lantern blasting into view, and he swung at the one who dared manhandle him. Strangely enough, the offender was similar to Hecarim and the Iron Legion- a foe built almost entirely from a humanoid suit of plate mail with a pale blue light that bloomed from within, but as Thresh’s scythe sank into a soul, the Warden knew this was just more food for his lantern. With a hard pull, Thresh ripped out the soul from the armor and guided it to his lantern, and absorbed it.

Dead silence as Thresh finally took in his surroundings: It was a new realm for him, sure, but it was... actually wonderful. All mimicries of life, all built entirely from the energy of mortal souls, from the paved ground of a castle and the tapestries depicting battles on the walls, that seemed to be simultaneously as close to Thresh as they were far from him, to the hundreds of armed, heavily armored soldiers surrounding him. That Yorick was a strange fellow, but the Warden could see he was in fact, being rewarded by the gravedigger. Thresh would make sure that Yorick’s torture would be delightful agony for such a beautiful gift.

‘He has power here?’ a soldier whispered.

‘No. He dares have power here,’ another whispered.

Thresh looked about, rattled his chain a little bit, and asked, “Which one of you brought me here?”

‘You know not?’

The soldiers laughed in unison at Thresh, making his sickly blood boil.

‘Foolish Banquet of Delights, only an emissary, or our liege, can do so,' another soldier answered.

“Liege?” Thresh spat the title out with a cackle. “There is a king here? How curious. What is a king to a god? Bring him here, I will claim this realm for my own.”

The soldiers went dead quiet. They pulled their spears, bows and their entire armoury of weaponry free and pointed at Thresh.

Thresh struck first. Swinging his scythe, he cut swathe after swathe of soldiers down with ease. Each spirit detonating as he pulled himself into them, absorbing hundreds of souls. Even here, Thresh could feel his strength grow, the power of the lantern absorbing souls with every strike he made.

“Kneel before your God, you wretched mongrels. I will give you the leash that you all deserve.”

A single toll of a big black bell roared in the distance. The soldiers pulled back, sheathed their weapons, and knelt to the ground. Thresh could not help but grin- he already conquered an entire realm in such a short time.

A voice sang, “When the bell begins to ring, it means the time has cometh for one to go to the temple of the king.”

A wild haired man walked towards Thresh, pointing at him, mania in his eyes as he continued, “There! In the middle of the circle of our legions he stands! There he stands- searching! Seeking!”

Thresh swung his chain once, twice, then heaven the scythe at the man. 

And with just one touch of the man’s trembling hand, Thresh’s scythe stopped midair, and fell to the ground.

“The answer will be found,” the man continued as he brought his hands up to the sky of silently screaming souls. “Heavens, help us. Spare us the daylight of life this man brings.”

And like the rush of a thousand, metal wings grinding and screeching, a mace the size of a colonnade slammed into the ground. Along with the mace, with a flick of iron wings that sent a cascade of shrapnel flying every which way, a giant of a man appeared from the soul-filled air.

“Nightfall has arrived,” the man concluded, bowing to the ground in supplication.

A head or two taller than the gigantic mace, swathed from head to toe in the heaviest armor, with the framework of a ribcage composing of his chest plate, an iron revenant stood before Thresh.The iron man stared at Thresh, who may have been dwarfed in stature, but the Warden certainly puffed his chest out like a boy trying to impress his date, in response to the giant’s arrival.

Thresh pointed at the man before him, “Are you the so called king of this realm?”

The iron revenant did not respond.

Thresh tightened his grip on his scythe. “Are you or are you just another pitiful soul for my collection?”

The iron revenant looked to its side, at the prostrated man, and said in a deep voice, that sounded eerily similar to the toll of a bell, “Dio, I request a song: Hymn of Valor.”

Dio stood up, bowed again, scuttled to the back and in seconds, a song that quickened the heart and pumped one’s adrenaline flooded the realm.

Thresh pointed at the iron revenant and said, “Come out and play, liege.”

“I will ask this once: Who marked you to be brought here?” the revenant asked in response.

“It does n-?’ was all Thresh could manage before a spectral claw the size of the revenant grasped him, pulled him forward with loud, shrieking steel on steel, and threw him to the ground.

Before Thresh could respond, he felt the full weight of the mace slam into him. He felt his body creak, his soul crack, and it would have been a fatal blow if it were not for all-

“One million, three hundred fifty seven thousand, six hundred and sixty seven souls empower you.”

Thresh’s eyes went wide. He threw his scythe out, hooking the revenant’s armor, and tore his chain with all of his might. There was the clink of metal breaking, which elicited a gasp of shock from onlookers. Thresh was about to say something when he felt his body leave the ground, and he saw he was about to be golf swung in the face by the mace.

Thresh threw his lantern and pulled himself towards it, his face narrowly missing the swing- but his legs felt the full impact and shattered instantly.

“One million, three hundred fifty seven thousand, six hundred and sixty six now empower you,” the iron revenant continued.

“How dare you do this to me- I am your god! You will kneel before me and I will add your soul to my collection!” Thresh spat out as his legs reformed and he stood back up.

The iron revenant went quiet. It hoisted its mace up to its shoulder, and pointed at Thresh. “You may be a collection of souls, but not a single one of them is perfected, Thresh of Helia.”

Thresh felt something in his head- it must be the newly formed flesh. An ancient, long forgotten sensation that the Ruination discarded alongside the lizard brain mortals had.

“Though misery loves company, you have what is mine. I will take them back.”

The iron revenant swung his mace down again, almost clumsily so. Thresh was able to sidestep the strike, only to find the giant mace change trajectory mid-air, and aimed directly at his lantern.

With a loud crack, the lantern burst with a flood of souls that all flew to the iron revenant and prostrated themselves to it.

“Hobbyist of Helia, of the Blessed Isles- what is a false god to the true King of Death?” The iron revenant raised his mace above his head, and with a bellowing bell toll, demanded, "Who am I, my children of the grave? Who is your liege, sing my praises, conquered souls.”

And the voices chanted,’Mordekaiser! Mordekaiser!’

Thresh felt a bead of sweat drip down the side of his head. What in all of the hells was this? Wait, he remembered something- Yorick said something about Sahn someone? Duke Vladimir of Camavor related an old legend about a warlord-

Then Thresh was struck yet again. This time Thresh braced himself as best as he could, but his lantern could not sustain the force.

“One million, two hundred fifty five thousand, five hundred and thirty two left,” Mordekaiser stated as more souls fled from Thresh’s collection and swirled about him in a cacophony of metal shards. “I will accept your servitude whenever you decide, godling.”

Thresh decided he did not care who this thing was- no one steals from his collection. Whipping his chain about, Thresh let out a torrent of vicious strikes- each blow detonating a soul that could tear entire buildings down. Yet after the tenth blow, Mordekaiser grasped the chain, and snapped the scythe, which joined his encircling aura of metal and death.

“Your sickness sustains me. Your pain delights me. Your lifeline is severed, death is creeping, and there is none to save you.”

“For there is none as great as he, the Kaiser of Morde!” the soldiers all cried out in unison.

Thresh staggered back. He could get out, his lantern beamed with the energy of souls when he was struck in the chest- collapsing it a thousand times over as more souls fled from his collection, repairing his broken and battered body.

“One million, seventy nine thousand, eight hundred and seventy nine left. You shall serve me too, spirit.”

Thresh hissed, “What are you? How can you have this much power? Not even Viego-”

“I am the metal that Noxia was built on. I am the monster that is whispered in the ears of children. I am the reason that man fears the dark of the forests and the light of fire. The songs of sirens are sung to my appeasement, and I bless alll with great suffering. I am Mordekaiser, and the same magic that chains you to this realm frees me to walk between.”

Thresh looked about, realizing the full error of his ways. This really was the realm of death, and this man- no, this creature, was not only able to exist here, but it cultivated the power of death itself. The Shadow Isles may be undeath, but that was why Mordekaiser was able to harm him at all. He needed to escape, he needed a moment-

Thresh narrowly avoided the next mace strike as he backed away from the advancing Mordekaiser, his mind racing. So long as Mordekaiser was focused on him, Thresh could not really concoct anything remotely clever. Wait.

“Yorick the Gravekeeper has asked me to send his regards to Sahn-Uzal,” Thresh threw out, hoping it would land.

And it did. Mordekaiser paused in his stride. “Yorick, you say. So that is how you were marked. I see.”

That was enough breathing space. Thresh detonated his lantern once more, cursing at how many souls were about to be lost, as the spirits ripped open a portal to the living world. With enough energy utilized, so long as the souls themselves were fully consumed, Thresh could walk between these realms at the mere cost of a couple hundred thousand or so souls in theory.

Mordekaiser’s gauntlet snapped out, almost grasping Thresh, but his fingers caught nothing but air as Thresh disappeared from view. Whatever this Mordekaiser was, he needed more information. He needed to interrogate Vladimir, he needed to collect more souls, he needed more power. How dare someone lay claim to his realm, when Thresh was the Warden- nay, the God of Souls.

“Mordekaiser, my liege...” Dio started, but said nothing else. He would not dare question the King of Death.

“The Gravekeeper, one of the only men to earn respect, has marked him as a target of interest. When I return, the hobbyist shall collect more souls.”

“And the more souls one dare has, the more power you have against them, Kaiser of Morde, a 6v4 you could say,” Dio said with a nod and a smile.

Mordekaiser glared at Dio, silencing the man. What a strange statement to make when everyone here knew about it. But that was the problem, only people here knew about his might. Mordekaiser was now in deep thought- perhaps it was time to return to Runeterra and take back what was rightfully his.

[writeblrfantasy]

excerpt from fate of smoldering ruin: a mourning dance

context, elys just buried his father and mordi is trying to put a smile back on his face. i am in love with everything about this scene and i feel like that ao3 tag "i wrote this for me but you can read it too" lol. just. mordi's longing and devotion but also resignation are so prevalent here and just. hngg im in love with how i portrayed it

also, i am pleased to inform you this is not the only mourning dance in the trilogy :)

“Do you know what the Moon Court does in the event of a death?” Mordi asks quietly. He doesn’t wait for Elys’ denial. “We dance.” Mordi smiles for the first time today, picturing it. Few of the farewell dances he participated in were celebrating the departure of those he knew closely, but the Moon Court doesn’t care. All are family among the Mages. “Our funerals are a celebration of the life, not a sadness of the death.” After a silent day’s ride of indecision and overthought, he holds out his hand.

“You never did collect that dance,” Mordi says, his voice thick in his throat. “You promised you would hold me to it. It was your birthday wish. And when kings make promises, they deliver to their people.”

Mordi’s heart is beating so fast he’s glad Elys doesn’t have heightened hearing. However, one long look at Elys’ eyes tells him this was no mistake. Elys has never looked so impossibly fond, so grateful. Not at him. It draws heat to Mordi’s cheeks that slowly travels down the length of his body. Elys’ stare does not waver in its intensity.

Of all things, Elys says, “you are not my subject, Mordi,” with a similar emotion cloying his voice. He presses his palm into Mordi’s. He is warm.

“That does not matter,” Mordi murmurs in his ear, drawing him close. Closer than he’ll have Elys again for a long time, perhaps forever. He savors every second. “You are still my king,” he says, and there have never been truer words. He stares into Elys’ emeralds long enough to make sure he understands—as much as Mordi is letting him see. “Dance with me, my king.”

Mordi still remembers the steps. It’s not a lively dance, exactly, and they have no music to guide them but Mordi’s sole memories, but it’s a fast dance. Elys picks up the patterns quickly—he is not a royal for nothing. They spin and spin, twirl just to watch Elys’ robes swish.

It doesn’t take him long to find sunlit tears making rivers on Elys’ cheeks. “Do the mourners cry as they dance?” he asks, smiling.

“Sometimes,” Mordi says. “The Moon Court teaches positivity. Hope. A trust that the light will always come back to us.” A pause. “And it is the safe resting place for those who cannot find the light any longer, who are convinced it is gone from their world. We have each other to guide us through the darkness. We are family, and for someone we all carry a guiding light. Some lanterns are brighter than others.”

Though it uses up a great portion of his Moon Magic supply for the day, what with it being day and sunny, Mordi releases one hand to conjure a sphere of moonlight in his hand. Elys’ eyes blow wide with awe, and Mordi works hard on keeping the grimace of effort from his face. It doesn’t help his stores and his energy that he hasn’t been sleeping much, or well. He will sacrifice anything for Elys.

They’re still dancing; Elys has kept them in the rhythm of the steps. Mordi holds his eye, keeping the moonlight alive a little longer, and says, “I will always be your lantern, Elys. Whenever you need me.”

He does not add that the lantern metaphor is usually reserved for lovers. Elys will have no way of knowing, and perhaps Mordi wants to pretend things are different, keep the memory of Elys smiling and nodding as proof that Elys wants him in that way.

In another world, another life, it would be so. In this one, all Mordi has are dreams and fantasies.

The moonlight in his hand flickers and finally snuffs out, exhausted. “Thank you, Mordi,” Elys says softly, his eyes dancing with mirth and his tears dried, and Mordi is warm all over.

ASH AND SHADOWS TAGLIST (LMK TO BE ADDED/REMOVED) @faithfire @magic-is-something-we-create @47crayons @muddshadow @worldbuildng @writing-is-a-martial-art @shaheenarnitipsyart @nikkywrites @ren-c-leyn

[1000fiction]

Day 9: Daddy Kink ft. Galmar Stone-Fist

Relationship:  Unspecified

Species: Bosmer/Wood Elf

Warnings: Penetrative sex, Daddy kink 

Summary: Having a lover that resides in one of the coldest places of Skyrim can be challenging, but when said lover doubles as a living heat source, one can’t help crave daddy’s attention.

A/N: I wrote this with a specific OC in mind so I do apologise if the story isn’t as reader insert friendly as usual. hope you all like it! Getting there slowly. 

It was as the dragonborn slid across the icy paving, and through the door of the Palace of Kings – kindly held open by the guard – that they decide the greatest downside to the Stormcloak cause, was that they decided to run their operation from the arse-end of Skyrim. Even Riften was chilly in the summer, Winterhold had to be the closest thing to an ice giants anus, and Windhelm felt like jack frost wasn’t just nipping at your nose, oh no! The bastard was biting down on your everything - and not in a pleasurable way.

The city was often so frozen over they’d considered buying ice skates, but at least within the palace the roaring fires provided heat, as well as a certain Nord. To the dragonborn’s delight, Nords seemed to thrive in the environment, and one such creature was almost always found pacing the warm room.

Upon their arrival, the Bosmer identified Ulfric, Galmar, and a small collective of other officers gathered around the table, and the idea of throwing aside the map and ordering them all to huddle atop of them was incredibly appealing. So many Nords, so much delicious heat.  

Galmar was – thankfully - the first to notice the Bosmer’s presence, lip twitching and eyes rolling at the dramatically shivering bundle before hastening the meeting to a close, the officers each taking their leave with a final salute.

The last officer was barely out the room when the dragonborn swooped in, face planted firmly into Galmar’s chest, feeling him rumble with a deep chuckle. Blissfully large palms ran up and down their arms and sides, seemingly impervious to the chill, and able to melt away the layer of frost that dusted them.

“You damn Nord’s and your damn cold.” The elf muttered bitterly, though the sentence was heavily broken by the chattering of teeth.

“You damn elves and your thin skin.” Ulfric chimed in, grinning as the elf’s head whipped to strike him with a glare. If looks could kill, Ulfric would surely be dead, but they didn’t, so the Nord continued to chuckle, finding the display of Galmar covering his much smaller lover in his bear-skin cloak far too amusing. “Cold out?”

“Piss off.” They spat back before returning their attention to Galmar. “You. Bedroom. Now.” The dragonborn had no intentions of waiting, instead opting to make a head start to Galmar’s quarters, the deep bellows of Nordic laughter sounding behind him.

Galmar didn’t keep the bosmer waiting for long, but even in the short time he’d taken to finish a conversation and walk to his bedroom, the elf had managed to gather every relatively warm item in the room and bury himself beneath the sheets of the captain’s bed. The old nord shook his head in amusement, stripping himself off and digging his way into the makeshift burrow. Settling on his back beneath the sheets, the man lay still as his lover crawled atop of him and clung like a limpet on a rock. Galmar held him close, arms wrapping round him to warm his chilled skin, quietly waiting for their shivers to cease.

Their scent permeated the den as they warmed, earthy, like freshly tilled soil. He smiled, placing a kiss to their forehead. “Warmer, kitten?” he smirked, feeling his lover shiver for a completely different reason. If there was one way to guarantee an increase in temperature, it was this.

They nuzzled their face to the hair of Galmars chest with a hum, “Yes daddy.”

Galmars cock twitched.

“We leave soon, daddy should get you warmed up, so you don’t freeze while I’m gone, don’t you think?” Large hands kneaded at supple flesh, pawing from their waist, down to the curve of their ass, and further still to the soft back of their thighs. His companion hummed in appreciation, feeling a trail of heat left in the wake of Galmar’s touch.

“Please daddy.” They whispered; eyes hooded as they inched to trail kisses up the Nord’s neck.

Galmar spread their thighs to straddle his own and hauled them higher so his cock tucked warmly between the junction of their legs. He kneaded rougher, fingers gripping and grasping at skin, searching out that sweet soft spot on their rear before landing a firm smack with both hands. The elf jolted minutely and barely gasped, to Galmar’s displeasure, so another smack quickly followed. It wasn’t until Galmar could feel the heat radiating from the struck skin did he resume his gentler touches, a thick index finger straying from the pack to seek out his lover’s tight hole.

He prodded at the puckered skin, delighting in the gasp and jolt from his lover as he massaged over it.

“Do you want something kitten?”

The Bosmer pulled away from his neck, a thin strand of saliva connecting their lips to the collection of hickeys they’d been working on.

“Stretch me daddy.” Still their eyes were barely open, but a healthy flush had finally reached the tips of their pointed ears. He removed his finger, trailing the thick digit up his lover’s spine, chuckling deeply at their pout.

“Be patient.” He scolded, finally bringing his finger over their shoulder, up their neck, and pressing it between their lips. He watched enraptured as they sucked diligently, if the need for lubrication wasn’t so great, he’d doubt he could resist pushing his cock into the mer right then, but they were such a small creature in comparison to him, and he wouldn’t dream of hurting his kitten in such a way.

Finger slickened to his own satisfaction, Galmer pulled it from the mer’s mouth, quick to press it back against their hole before it dried. The tight ring gave little resistance as he penetrated, fingering, flexing, and stretching as he held his lover close to his chest. They crooned in his ear, their nimble fingers groping at his muscular arm, feeling them tense with each crook of his finger.

They rocked against him, panting as the friction between the two naked bodies increased, the motion urging Galmar to insert a second, then third finger. The dragonborn fucked themselves slowly, sliding onto the Mord’s fingers as best they could with the unforgiving angle. It wasn’t long until realised they needed more.

“Daddy please, more.” The elf whimpered, pawing at Galmar’s chest, wantonly grinding against his rigid cock.

“I suppose you have been less bratty than usual…” he paused in mock consideration; his mind fully set on pounding his lover to Oblivion. “Very well, you can have your reward little kitten.” He withdrew his fingers, spreading their ass as they gripped and guided his cock into them, the sensitive shaft quickly engulfed by their heat.

The pair moaned simultaneously, pulling one another into a searing kiss as they joined. Galmar took his lover deep, bending his knees, feet planted firmly on the mattress as he began slow thrusts up into his partner. The Nord could feel each pant and sigh they made against his skin, the dreamy sensation followed by gentle nibbling.

Thick arms wound even tighter around the Bosmer, weighing their body down against Galmar’s rough chest, leaving them nothing to do but desperately attempt to bounce their ass down onto the Nord’s cock it tandem with his up thrusts. It was a futile attempt however, as the man began thrusting with renewed energy, his thrusts so powerful they sent the elf sliding up his cock, gravity assisting to slam their weight back down.

The sound of skin on skin was muffled by the heavy covers, but beneath the sheets, the Bosmer could thoroughly hear Galmar’s heavy balls slapping against their ass and feel the roughness of his muscular thighs against the softer skin of their own. Their tongue lolled out their mouth, canines on display as they grinned in unreserved pleasure, drooling words of filthy encouragement.

Galmar’s chuckle rumbled deeply in his chest, feeding off his lovers’ lewd language.

“The fact you think you can use such language is adorable little kitten, how about I shut you up with my cock down your throat? Hm?” The Nord grunted, hammering harder into their tight hole. “Have daddy’s cum warm you up from the inside.” Clearly his language had an effect, for it wasn’t long after that he felt his lover constrict around his shaft, and cum, their nails digging into his arms and his name dripping from their lips in a high-pitched gasp.

Galmar’s grip didn’t relent, holding their body close as he released his seed deep within them, painting their insides with his thick, hot seed. A minute of heavy breathing later, and he finally released them, his lover sitting up in his lap, blankets wrapped tightly around their shoulders and pout present on their face.

“What?”

“You can’t say shit like that and then not do it.”

The Nord laughed loudly, large hands lifting to cradle their flushed cheeks.

“Give me a few minutes, kitten, and I’ll be happy to oblige.”

[autumnslance]

((Shadowbringers 5.3-5.4. I wanted to have this done by the 15th of January but didn’t quite manage it because these two idiots are wordy as heck, and I initially started in the wrong place and POV. I wrote roughly 8000 words total and only ended up using half of them. There are letters and pining and admitting things happening here.

Below the cut as usual for those who prefer Tumblr to Ao3, but the formatting may work better on that site.))

Aeryn stepped through the mirror and into the familiar space of the Ocular, taking a moment to reorient herself after the rush of journeying between worlds. Once the vertigo had passed she left the Tower, the Crystarium guards greeting her as she crossed the Exedra. It took some questioning before she was finally pointed to where Ryne was currently; training with Captain Lyna just outside the city gates.

She simply watched for a time as Lyna tried to keep her distance while Ryne tried to close in. Aeryn did not announce herself, simply noting how Ryne’s bladework had improved, at least one new trick learned since the last time Aeryn had watched her fight.

“That is enough for now,” Lyna said as they reached a breakpoint in their dance. “And the Warrior of Darkness has waited long enough,” she continued with a wry smile in Aeryn’s direction.

Ryne started, then turned with a grin, hurrying over to give Aeryn a hug. “It’s good to see you! Oh sorry, I’m all sweaty…”

Aeryn laughed, brushing damp strands of hair from Ryne’s reddened face. It was still winter in Eorzea, but in Norvrandt spring was on the horizon and the morning was warm. “Not to worry. Hope you don’t mind the interruption.”

Lyna waved them off. “Go on; we can catch up later.”

Aeryn nodded, knowing the captain wanted word of her grandfather, and G’raha had given Aeryn a small package to deliver, but that would wait until Lyna was off duty and had readied herself. There was an order to such things with the stoic woman.

Instead, Aeryn turned back to Ryne and smiled. Had she gotten taller? “I have a question, if you’ll indulge me.”

“Of course!” Ryne answered as they walked across the bridge into the city. “What is it you need?”

“I have a note from Thancred; he and Urianger are currently on a mission, but he left me instructions for tod--well. The day it is back on the Source.”

“I see. What are the instructions?”

“I’m to ask you about the black willow box he kept in his room here.”

Ryne paused, a little sharp breath escaping. “Ryne?” Aeryn asked.

“Sorry! It’s just I was under strict instruction never to open the box, though I have the key now, of course; I still didn’t dare. It’s where he kept,” she hesitated.

“Kept what?”

“I’ll show you; it’s a good thing--I think--that he wants you to see. Come on!” Ryne dashed toward her apartment as if she hadn’t just completed a long practice session with the captain of the guard. Aeryn picked up her own pace to follow along after.

It did not take long for them to reach the apartment Ryne used to share with Thancred. As the girl opened the door, Aeryn realized it was the first time she had returned to these rooms since the Scions’ departure from the First. It was much as she remembered, though lacking Thancred’s continued presence. Evidence of Gaia’s frequent visits were visible instead, from lipstick-stained coffee mugs at the sink to dark ribbons left on an end table to a book that did not seem to be to Ryne’s taste on a sofa cushion.

Ryne paused in front of the door that had led to Thancred’s small room. “I haven’t been in here since,” she trailed off, shaking her head. “Gaia and Taynor sorted most of it, actually, so only a few personal things remain. I should probably move to a smaller suite to let someone else use the space…”

“Maybe you need a roommate,” Aeryn suggested. “Perhaps Gaia could stay with you.”

Ryne reddened. “We’ve considered it, but I’m just…” She gave a helpless little laugh as she shrugged, looking up at Aeryn apologetically. “I’m just not quite ready, I think. It’s silly, but there’s a part of me that keeps hoping they’ll find a way--a safe way--to return. Even just for a little while.”

Aeryn squeezed Ryne’s shoulder. “It’s not silly,” she said quietly. “And I keep hoping that, too. Fairly certain Y’shtola has it at the top of her projects list.”

Ryne laughed, truly this time. “She would!” She looked at the door again. “The box should be on the shelf above the writing desk,” she offered Aeryn a small key. “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Aeryn nodded, taking the little key and entering the room.

It was familiar, yet unfamiliar. Always small, it had kept from being cramped mainly by virtue of Thancred’s own minimalist tendencies with his added reluctance of accumulating things on the First that he would have to leave behind in the end. Even so, the room felt barren, many necessities and items missing, given away to be used by others in need among the Crystarium’s residents; naught went to waste while still usable.

The bed was neatly made; her eyes lingered for a moment, recalling a handful of pleasant times curled up together in it. They had often met in her own chambers for privacy, especially when feeling the need for more than simple closeness. There was a bench under the shuttered window; he used to clean his gunblade there, storing materials and parts in a chest beneath the bench. Nothing remained but the seat.

The writing desk was really a tall square table, a stool for the chair, in a corner of the room. Two simple shelves hung on the wall above it, some of Thancred’s personal effects that remained neatly placed upon them. The black willow box was a simple but lovely piece of old Nabaath make. It was familiar only in that it was a part of the room, always upon the shelf above the desk, a background decoration.

She had to stretch a little to pull the small box down. She unlocked it, pondering what it could contain for one last moment before opening the lid to find out.

Neatly folded pages, Thancred’s familiar handwriting covering them, five different bundles marked by Vrandtic dates in Eorzean lettering. The earliest one was dated five--no, six years ago now, in the midst of Thancred’s first year in this world, just after the Vrandtic new year. The second bundle was dated a year later. Then the third, then a fourth. The final bundle broke the date pattern, written...She shivered. The dates would have been the time after they assaulted Mt Gulg and before seeking Emet-Selch and the Exarch in the Tempest, when she had lain in a Light-induced fever for days in between.

All of the letters, long and detailed, were addressed to her.

Aeryn carried the box to the window and opened the shutters, letting in the natural light of day. She sat at the bench, picked up the first letter, and began to read, brows already rising at the first line.

My Dear Aeryn,

It’s been roughly half a year, to me, since I arrived in this world. We search for a means to send me back, but given the dangers, it’s difficult to say if we shall ever be successful. I hold onto hope, given we have made the impossible happen more than once—particularly when you are involved.

I know so much less time is passing for you, even as time is difficult to track beneath the eternal Light, but the people still mark the hours and days as best they can--perhaps better than we do in the Source, reliant as we are upon the sun and stars. So as the calendar year turns to a new page, I find myself confronted by reminders of you at every turn, my own mind noting the dates, as if counting down to your nameday in truth.

Violas grown in the Hortorium call to mind your favored hair decoration and your scents carried with it. The heather meadows and clear mountain springs of Il Mheg make me think of the taste of your magic. Treasure hunters in Mord Souq unearth duelist rapiers reminiscent of your combat style. The grey waters of a lake, shifting in color and tone under the burning sky, remind me of your eyes and ever-shifting moods.

I think of our new situation, how fragile it all still seems, our duties as Scions, the distance between Ala Mhigo and Doma keeping us apart more often than I liked. Especially after already having denied my own interests for far longer than I care to admit.

I fear now, not knowing when I may return to your side--in whatever capacity--that I am forgetting important things, and I very much do not want to. So indulge me as I list your various qualities that I admire, to remind myself why I allowed myself to maintain my impossible infatuation for so long, even as you became one of my dearest friends...

Aeryn eyes widened as she turned to the next page, then quickly checked the several pages following; Thancred had indulged his bardic habits, writing in verse and engaging in wordplay. Even the most innocent descriptions and memories of moments together, professional and extremely personal, were laden with puns and innuendo--not entirely unexpected from him.

She was mostly through the verses, trying to parse every dedicated line, when a knock at the door startled her.

“Aeryn?” Gaia called. “Everything all right?”

She cleared her throat. “Fine; I’ve quite a bit of reading to do, though; I may need some water.”

The door opened, Gaia appearing with a tray already in hand. “Ryne thought you might--are you all right? You’re redder than I have ever seen, and that’s saying something.”

Aeryn pressed a hand to her warm cheeks. “I’m fine. Just...wasn’t expecting some of what I found so far.”

“Is that good or bad?” The girl asked, setting the tray on the nearby side table in easy reach. There was a small tea service and also ice water, bless them. 

“It’s...Better than good,” Aeryn replied. “I may be awhile, though.”

Gaia shrugged in her nonchalant, pretending-not-to-care way. “Doesn't matter to me, but I was going to drag Ryne out for a while, just so you know. You’ll be fine here by yourself--won’t you?” A little genuine care came through in the last two words, despite her attempts to seem otherwise.

Aeryn nodded.

“All right. Enjoy your reading, and we’ll see you later.” Gaia gave a little wave before leaving, quietly closing the door behind her.

Aeryn cleared her throat again, sipping the cup of minty green tea--bless those girls again--and set the first letter aside for now. She would get back to that later; alone in her own room, where she could bury her face in a pillow and shriek like a schoolgirl when overwhelmed by his words, godsdamn him. For now, the second bundle had her curious.

My Dearest Aeryn,

I almost let the date slip by, I am ashamed to say. So much has happened in recent weeks...

She read through two pages of his recounting Minfilia’s story and the reincarnations that had followed, offering a small hope to Norvrandt; of Urianger and Y’shtola’s arrival, his anger at the spell’s failure and yet relief at seeing Urianger again; and their shift in focus upon learning of the Eighth Umbral Calamity.

...Urianger’s vision of the Calamity, of our deaths, is a sobering thought. The idea of you fallen especially freezes my blood. I cannot bear the thought.

So I redoubled my efforts to rescue the girl bearing Minfilia’s name and appearance. She sleeps now on a cot in this Mord town as I write. She can’t be more than twelve or thirteen summers; a frail little thing with no skills aside from reading books thicker than she is, and asking innumerable questions. They taught her nothing, simply locked her in a windowless cell under the waterline. For at least ten years, that is all the child’s known. If the fate Urianger saw for us makes my blood freeze, her situation makes it boil again. Should I chance to meet Eulmore’s General--the man responsible for her “care”--I will let him know exactly what I think.

Tomorrow Minfilia and I shall attempt to reach Nabaath Areng, the site of the Flood’s halting; the girl says she must go there, as if pulled. I have a hope I dare not voice yet. The Blessing of Light does work in such interesting ways.

But that is on the morrow; tonight, though a day late, I wished to write to you as I did last year. With the date in mind you have also been in my thoughts--when I’ve had a moment to think, at least--and I find myself recalling more and more often the little things. Simple things. Things I fear I may forget, having been here for years now, years without the way you tilt your head when you have a question. It initially annoyed me actually, you were so quiet but now, gods I would give much to be in your silence again, to see that quizzical look. Anything to see the little furrow between your brows when you’re thinking. When you prop your chin on your hands as you stare out a window, tea forgotten in your hand. How you unconsciously wriggle and make faces as you read, reacting to the pages, lips silently moving as you devour each word...

“Oh I do not,” Aeryn muttered--realizing in the same moment that she was doing that now. She sipped her tea and kept reading, noting how he wrote, as much as what; the moments where he had scratched out words, or underlined others. The splots where the pen had sat on the page a moment longer than normal as he thought of what he wanted to admit to. The way the letters slanted in places where he was eager. There was no poetry this time, fewer puns and word play. He had written when tired and possibly injured, given the shakiness of some lettering.

There were places where he couldn’t remember clearly--what perfume had she worn on the day of a particular memory? Was she wearing her red coat, or a blue dress in another? He wasn’t certain.

The letter wrapped up several pages later.

...I must get some sleep, given the long trek across the Amber Hills awaiting. I don’t know what will happen when we arrive, but whatever it is, I’ll keep the girl safe. Taking care of her is the only thing I can do, lacking the skills of the Exarch and our colleagues. Particularly now that we have abandoned the idea of going home--yet. I still don’t know how I feel about that, having struggled to find a way back for so long now, but there must be a home to return to. To save ourselves, we must save this realm. Forgive me; as much as I yearn to see you again, I wish for you to live far more. Despite everything, I still remain

Yours, Thancred.

Aeryn drew in a sharp breath; the previous letter’s signature had been much simpler, after all the floweriness of the verses. This simpler, newsy, reminiscent letter had such a different feel to it, so much changing for him in that year. Her eyes kept drifting to that closing.

It took a few moments before she was able to refold that bundle and open the next.

His next year in the First; this one another detailed description of events he survived, and quite a lot about Ryne, still only known as Minfilia at the time.

...I actually began this letter yesterday, as we rested in a small inn at the edge of the Greatwood. I thought of seeking out Y’shtola, but am unfamiliar with those dark and twisting paths, and was low on ammunition. Minfilia was exhausted, unable to fight or imbue cartridges, and I won’t risk her more than our constant travels already do.

It was she who reminded me that I had been writing, before she made me take my rest as well. I’ve never told her about these letters, but she’s a bright girl and I have told her of you. Sometimes it’s simply because she is curious about you, and the hope that you’ll come here and save yourself, as well as the rest of us. Many times though I don’t mean to say anything, but the stories simply come, like a slumbering spring awoken by new rains, bubbling up and overflowing the riverbanks.

It’s something about her, I suppose, that makes me remember, and so I must speak before the memories fade back into the dustier corridors of my mind. Perhaps an effect of her unique Blessing? Or perhaps simply her childish curiosity drawing it out of me.

There’s a selfish part of me that wants you to meet her. It would mean that you’re here, for one, but also I think you two would get along. She’s a good girl--with her moments of petulance and stubbornness, as many youths are wont, but she’s come such a long way already, has learned so quickly.

I fear influencing her. The choice she must make is so important, and it must be hers.  You would be a much better role model; you inspire others to do what’s best simply by your presence. I’ve felt the lack of you more keenly this last year than ever before...

Aeryn read through, noting he wrote it more like a conversation she had yet to answer. Memories of their adventures and companionship were woven through the words more naturally as he spoke to her. She smiled as he spent a good chunk of the letter not even realizing how he had gushed about Ryne and all she had learned and how she had grown in that first year they spent together, as if he were trying to ensure Aeryn would love the child as much as he so obviously did--even if the foolish man hadn’t been able to tell the girl so until it had almost been too late.

But then, that was Thancred; locking his thoughts and feelings behind stoicism, snark, and literally in a box on a shelf.

She traced her nail along the letters of his name--again signed “Yours”--before tucking that bundle away and picking up the fourth.

By this time the twins were somewhere in Norvrandt, though Thancred had no opportunity to see them as Eulmore’s hunters were ever close. He wrote to Aeryn of his frustration with how many Scions had come to the First but she was still so far away and still in so much danger, alongside the rest of the Source and this shard itself. If she couldn’t come to Norvrandt to break the Light’s hold over the realm then the girl would have to make her choice sooner rather than later--and perhaps face the same fate as all of her predecessors.

He admitted that he feared both of those outcomes. He seemed to have begun to cross out that line, but had stopped himself.

...A nasty part of me believes you will never receive these nameday letters. That these are simply my way of remembering yet another important woman in my life I will never see again. I try not to dwell on such thoughts, try to keep busy, but you know me. Perhaps better than anyone since our Minfilia. How I wish I could speak with you again; patrolling through Mor Dhona, lunch at Rowena’s cafe, stargazing on the roofs of Ala Mhigo, reading in the Waking Sands’ dusty library. Simply holding you until we fall asleep, those few, rare moments we had. You always made me say more than I ever meant to; you’ve a way of drawing me out despite myself—and failing that, of simply being there as a brilliant, warm presence.

There are places here I want to show you, things I want to share. Yet I fear your coming, what it will mean. What changes I’ve experienced. What we had was...comfortable, and felt right, after so long, and yet it was still so new and fragile. I used to be confident in my ability to be delicate, but these last few years with this girl have made me feel boorish and clumsy. And I know I have changed, not just because of her, but everything in this hard world. Will you recognize me when we meet? Will you still want me, when you were already so uncertain before?

I suppose I shan’t know until you’re here, or we find a way home. Given the Exarch’s record, the former seems more likely. And it still worries me, much as I know it’s the better course to preserve all we hold dear...

Aeryn stared out the window for a long moment; she had known of his doubts, his fears; when she had arrived and finally found him again, it had been difficult. Yet despite everything, they had gotten past it.

She eyed the final bundle, slimmer than the rest, those dates seeming so heavy though she had no conscious recollection of them, given her state at the time. Having finished the tea, she poured a glass of water and began to read.

Aeryn,

Ryne assures us you will still be Aeryn when you wake; her wards hold for now. I pray long enough to find a cure for what those bastards did to you. What we did to you, unknowing. Will you be pleased to know I have not struck Urianger for his part? I was too tired and injured as we returned, and occupied with carrying you besides. Now I simply am too weary in heart and mind to conjure that initial anger, and he has had time to explain how the Exarch coerced him into his confidence.

I am still not happy about it.

For five years I waited to see you again, thought about you through many days and most nights--such as they are, here. It’s funny what one can become accustomed to in time. Finally seeing you again was a jolt to every one of my senses as the missing you had long since become more real to me, much as I longed for your presence.

And as I feared, you hesitated. I don’t blame you; I know this place changed me. What we had back home was still so new, despite the prior years we had known each other. So I tried to be content to merely be in your company once more. We had rebuilt our friendship once, we could do it again. I had been a fool to think I deserved more.

Then you sought me out in Rak’tika. Do I need to tell you how you intoxicated me that day? I hope I was a comfort, both in words and in the release you needed. The distance still felt too great, but this much, at least, I could give. I thought it would be enough, to simply be what you needed in the moment.

I know now that I was once again fooling myself.

These last few months traveling and fighting and just being together have been a strange mix of stress and relief; our mission had been dangerous and difficult in so many ways, and yet working together, it was hard not to get caught up in the optimism, in the feeling that things would turn out, that we would find a way.

And you were here; your quizzical headtilts, your faces when you read, the white flowers in your hair. Your silences, your laughter, your strength in combat and your helping with every common chore in the vicinity. I thought I could simply be happy to bask in your steady light.

But now, seeing it tear you apart, it is not enough; it never was, and never will be. I can live with it, should that be your wish. My wish, however, is to continue what we had once begun. To hold you close not only occasionally but always.

Aeryn felt a hard lump in her throat; there was a decent space between the lines, the ink thick where he had hesitated, the initial letters shaky. Still he had written them:

I am in love with you, Aeryn.

It’s taken me time to collect myself after rereading what I just wrote and fighting the urge to burn the whole page. A part of me fears that you will scoff, though the greater part of me knows--hopes--better of you.

And the gods know you deserve better than me, but if you’ll have me, I certainly won’t complain.

I know after everything with Ryne I ought to say it to you aloud. That it may already be too late to do so. I pray that isn’t the case. I pray I find the courage and the words both to say what you deserve to hear. Even should you never reciprocate; if that should be the case, you shall never hear another whisper from me on the matter.

But I hold out a small hope, that you will, that you do. That we will have the chance to discuss the matter further. That you survive.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I only know I’ll be at your side until the end; there’s nowhere else I can be.

Ryne is calling; hold on just a little while longer, darling.

Yours always, Thancred.

She covered her face with her hands, emotions and memories flooding over her. There were words before finally confronting Emet-Selch in his memory of Amaurot. More than words on returning to the Crystarium, bodies twined together in relief and comfort.

Then she had returned to the Source to report their success. She came back to the First as quickly as she could, though; not only was there still much work to do, but he was here, and things were...not exactly different, but not quite the same, either.

As she reread the last page, she noticed a swiftly written addendum on the back. She turned it over.

I carried these letters all the way to the Tempest, thinking if I failed to say anything I might at least give them to you--they are yours, after all. But of course no time seemed right, and with a screwing of my courage (and pointed prodding from Urianger), at the last I was able to say what I wished. Miraculously, you said it too.

And now here we are, you peacefully asleep while the night sky wheels overhead and I still hear the celebrations outside despite the ungodly hour. I’ll rejoin you in a moment, but I needed some time to attempt to process the last few days. What happened in the Tempest. The fact you’re alive, and healthy, and claim to love me in return.

I’m not entirely certain why, but I won’t complain, either.

Rereading these letters, I’m not sure I’m quite ready to hand them over yet. They’ll return to their box for now, and perhaps in a few days I’ll be ready to show you.

Aeryn laughed lightly; of course he had hesitated to share them. The letters showed all his vulnerabilities behind the serious, confident facade he had developed. And with everything in the Empty, and then Elidibus, it was no wonder the letters had fallen to the wayside.

Until her actual nameday on the Source had come around, his note delivered with her breakfast by Tataru per Thancred’s instructions while he was on his latest reconnaissance. It wasn’t as if he could have brought the letters with him, after all--nor given them to her in front of the rest of the Scions in the Ocular, nevermind how public their relationship was now.

She rubbed her face--she had cried more than a few times while reading--and replaced the letters in the box. She locked it, and pocketed the key.

The girls were still out so it was no trouble to take the tea service to the sink and clean it, along with the other dishes, giving her time and activity to settle. She finished by washing her own face, removing some evidence of her emotion.

Since the first year she had joined the Scions, they had given each other gifts; she had discovered his nameday from Minfilia, gifting him the orchestrion roll of a song she knew he liked from a favorite minstrel. Her own first nameday as a Scion had been missed due to Lahabrea and Baelsar’s schemes, but Thancred was certain to make up for it. Sometimes they were late, or even early, but they always managed a little something, even as friends.

Aeryn took the box with her as she left Ryne’s apartment. She still had a few people to see while here on the First--starting with Lyna and the messages from G’raha--but then she would retire to her own suite in the Pendants and do a bit of rereading.

And maybe a bit more once she returned home, too; after all, if she timed it right, it would still be her nameday, and the best time to reread her present.

[mali-umkin]

I was singing Erutan's Jabberwocky and it occurred to me that I only read Alice Through the Looking-Glass in French and could not remember how the poem was translated. So I looked up some translations because how do you translate a nonsense verse poem?

The stanza in question is the first one:

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

There are more than ten translations in total, and Bernard Cerquiglini, a linguist, even wrote a whole book about this first stanza, titled À travers le Jabberwocky de Lewis Carroll, exploring the translation of mots-valise.

Henri Parisot's translation:

« Il était grilheure ; les slictueux toves

Sur l’alloinde gyraient et vriblaient ;

Tout flivoreux étaient les borogoves

Les vergons fourgus bourniflaient. »

French translation of the Disney animation movie:

« Fleurpageons

Les rhododendroves

Gyraient et gygemblaient dans les vabes

On frimait vers les pétunioves

et les momeraths engrabes ».

Look how convoluted and yet full of imagery these are. It is like they appeal to our instinctive understanding of nature and movement, by denying us the possibility to find meaning only in established words and language. It is not conventionally aesthetically pleasing or pretty sounding, but that is precisely because the beauty lies elsewhere.

Papy's full translation:

Il était grilheure ; les slictueux toves

Gyraient sur l'alloinde et vriblaient :

Tout flivoreux allaient les borogoves ;

Les verchons fourgus bourniflaient.

« Prends garde au Jabberwock, mon fils !

A sa gueule qui mord, à ses griffes qui happent !

Gare l'oiseau Jubjube, et laisse

En paix le frumieux Bandersnatch ! »

Le jeune homme, ayant pris sa vorpaline épée,

Cherchait longtemps l'ennemi manxiquais...

Puis, arrivé près de l'Arbre Tépé,

Pour réfléchir un instant s'arrêtait.

Or, comme il ruminait de suffêches pensées,

Le Jabberwock, l'œil flamboyant,

Ruginiflant par le bois touffeté,

Arrivait en barigoulant !

Une, deux ! Une, deux ! D'outre en outre,

Le glaive vorpalin virevolte, flac-vlan !

Il terrasse le monstre, et, brandissant sa tête,

Il s'en retourne galomphant.

« Tu as donc tué le Jabberwock !

Dans mes bras, mon fils rayonnois !

O jour frabieux ! Callouh ! Callock ! »

Le vieux glouffait de joie.

Il était grilheure : les slictueux toves

Gyraient sur l'alloinde et vriblaient :

Tout flivoreux allaient les borogoves ;

Les verchons fourgus bourniflaient.

[ask-de-writer]

KURIN’S FOLLY : World of Sea : Part 15 of 15

KURIN’S FOLLY

Part 15

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

23,699 words

© 2020 by Glen Ten-Eyck

writing begun  2006

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  Part 1 is here

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The whole crew watched in amazement as the Great Sea Dragon swam lazily toward the ship, her long serpentine neck cutting a wake larger than the ship’s.  The birds of Sea swarmed peacefully about their creator, even perching on her head and spines.

Innocently, Kurin asked, “Would there be some other reason that you don’t want to make a boat with this glue?  It’s the left overs from the contest and you did make it.  Master Juris has expressed full confidence in your work.”

Yoram got a sinking look as he realized how badly he was snared.  He pointed at Juris and exclaimed, “It was his doing!  He was my Shop Master and he said to make the glue that way!  It won’t hold.  He said to put the soap in it and label it as number 1 panel glue.”  He ran down, saying, “Juris said it would make you look bad is all.  I didn’t think that he would let you actually go out in the boats.  When you did, and then needed to test the glue, I knew that we were caught.

“I’m sorry for all of it.  I should never have gone along with mislabeling the glue.  I’m sorry that I tried to hit you with the mallet.  I knew that I could never be a Master if it got out that I’d done something like that.”  He hid his face in his hands and sobbed.

Juris was trying to maintain his disdain for the whole proceeding with its attendant doubt of all the evidence, in the face of his wonder.  He had only seen Dari once before in his life.  In fact, he was one of the few who had seen all five of the Greatest of the Great Sea Dragons.

The problem that he saw was a simple one.  Before she had gone to the Grandalor, Juris would have trusted Kurin above all others on Sea.  After she jumped ship, Kurin had made a fool of him in front of everyone.  It was bad enough that the Court had seen it.  Did the Great Dragons have to see him made a fool as well?  Now it was happening all over again.

She had just presented him with a simple, impossible choice in front of a court and here came a Great Sea Dragon to see his humiliation.  He settled for pretending that the entire plot was Yoram’s.  He pointed at his chosen victim and said bitingly, “After hearing Yoram confess to trying to murder Kurin, not once but twice, can you truly believe that I was a part of his plot?  He forged the tallow slate that was found planted in my quarters.  He mixed the glue and mislabeled it.

“I have a grudge against Kurin and admit it freely.  I have spoken out when I should not because of it.  Everything that I did was of a peaceful nature.  I am a man of passions but not violence.  Yoram showed his true colors when he attacked Kurin with a mallet in a clear attempt at violent murder.”

Yoram was struggling in the grip of his guards and trying to shout his innocence over Juris’ blatant accusation.

Juris continued as if the interruption was not happening.  “I did do things that on reflection I should not have done.  They have very properly cost me much.  I have lost my shop and my Mastery.  Possibly, I have lost my place on this ship.  I came to my senses too late.  I did wrong.  But murder?  Never.”

Alor clearly saw Juris’ brutal attempt to frame Yoram, who was certainly in deadly shallow water. She remembered the trial in the Dragon Sea all too well.  She remembered one thing in particular.  If asked, the Great Sea Dragons would provide testimony.  She turned and called, “Dari!  This is a trial concerning Juris.  Can you answer some questions for us?”

The five hundred foot creature swam close enough that her wake made the Longin rock gently and answered, “I know little of the matter under trial.  However, I can interpret for those who do.  The Longin’s Orca pod are totally familiar with every movement and word spoken aboard your ship.  That is their duty.”

Whales surfaced around the ship, rolling and swimming playfully as Dari spoke.  She concluded simply, “Ask what you will.  They understand you perfectly.  They simply cannot make your speech.  I will accurately translate what they reply.”

Alor nodded, accepting.  Juris jumped to his feet and exclaimed, “The Tenth Great Law requires us to accept the word of a Dragon.  Nobody contests that.  The Orca Whales, though, are but beasts.  We cannot accept their so-called statements for anything!”

Drawing back in distaste, Dari retorted, “You must take my word for this by the very Law that you spoke of.  The Orca Whales are quite as intelligent as you humans, perhaps a bit smarter.  Their memories are perfect and precisely detailed.  I personally shaped them so, two and three quarter million Gatherings ago.  We rely absolutely on their reports in the management this whole planet.”

Juris shrank visibly at Dari’s reply.  Alor asked, “For the record, first.  By what means do you follow events aboard our ship?”

A Whale whistled briefly.  Dari replied, “They use echo location and simple listening.”

Again Alor nodded.  Thinking for only a moment, she said, “A simple yes or no to this question, please.  Are you able to track the history of this tallow-slate from the last Gathering to now?”

A brief whistle was interpreted as, “Yes.”

“Then who all handled this tallow-slate, up to the moment when the search of Juris’ quarters brought it to my attention?”

Three of the Whales whistled for a few moments.  Dari said, “The apprentice Morgan was given the chore of recasting all of the tallow-slates for the boat shop.  Yoram took the renewed tallow-slate and used it for two and a half days. Master Juris took the tallow-slate and removed it to his quarters where he wrote on it.  After a talk with Yoram he erased the top line of writing.  After a talk with Kurin outside her shop, he erased the second line of writing.  Later, after another talk with Yoram he erased the next line of writing.  Then your search found the tallow-slate.”

Alor thought for a moment and said, “Juris had two conversations with Yoram in connection with this tallow-slate.  We have conflicting tales concerning those conversations.  In the first one, did Master Juris ask Yoram to make number 17 glue and label it number 1 glue?  Also, did he give Yoram any reason to believe that nobody would be hurt?”

Whales sang together for several seconds and Dari replied, “Yes, Master Juris did tell Yoram that he should add soap to the glue but not so much as for true number 17 glue.  Use about half that, Yoram was told.  The reason given was to be sure that the boats were beyond assistance when they came apart. I quote, ‘Then we’ll be quit of the little Ord once and for all.’”

Alor pursued her line of questions, “Did they consider the rest of the ship at all?”

Dari simply spoke, “This was covered in what the Orcas told me about the conversations.  Yes, they did consider the Longin.  They were of the opinion that there were enough who knew the mapping and navigation that the school could be recovered from ‘the terrible accident.’  As to the bankruptcy, they stated that the Longin’s creditors would have to extend their loans or lose everything.

“If I may be allowed an opinion with no basis but more than six hundred Gatherings of observation, the fleet would not extend those loans without solid collateral.  At present, the only collateral is the school and it would not exist without Kurin’s driving force.”

Downcast, Alor replied, “I am forced to agree.  Back on the track of the events, then.  From what you have said, both Master Juris and Yoram were well aware that they were attempting the murder of most of our students and Kurin as well. That is hard.”

The Great Sea Dragon extended a tentacle and touched Alor gently, saying, “I am well aware of that. As short as your lives are, we often get very attached to some of you.  In this case, Blind Mecat and I are very fond of both Kurin and Juris.

“That makes it very difficult when one tries so hard to slay the other.  Kurin has used every resource at her command to save not only Juris but this ship, too. Regrettably, in Juris’ case, it appears that Kurin has failed.  The court must still reach a verdict but I fear that you have little sea room.

“Normally, we Dragons are not allowed by our own law to interfere in human affairs.  Being asked for specific aid or testimony is not considered interference.  Juris could have succeeded in his plot and I would not have been allowed to interfere.”

“I will stand by within call for the rest of this voyage.  I need to observe the ecological consequences of your mapping school.  I also want to continue my conversations with Kurin.”  Dari slid silently under the water. Her location was given away by the flock of many species of birds circling amicably not far away.

Alor turned to the jury.  She needed a few breaths to gather her shaken thoughts.  “With the testimony of the Dragon Dari, I believe that the case against Juris and Yoram is complete.  I can see no possibility for acquittal.  You must decide their fates.  The principal victim of their schemes, Kurin herself, does not wish to see them die, though that is the penalty prescribed in the laws of the Naral fleet.”

The Officers and Masters were looking at each other uneasily.  They all knew both Juris and Yoram. Captain Mord tried to put off the inevitable by asking, “Alor, could we include exile from the Naral fleet in our deliberations?  We could let them go in a boat the way that Kurin proposed.”

Regretfully, Alor pointed out, “That is not possible, now.  Before the trial or before the case was concluded, it could have been done.  You must consider only guilty or not.  For the attempt to murder in cold blood, there are no mitigating circumstances allowed.”

Captain Mord stood and led the jury away to consider their verdict.  Kurin was looking at the glue blocks with which she had secured Yoram’s confession.  Tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes.

The jury returned almost as swiftly as they had left.  Captain Mord spoke.  “Is the Log of the Longin ready to record the verdict of the jury?”

“It is,” Alor replied.

“Then the defendants must stand to hear the judgment of the court,” Captain Mord stated.  Both Juris and Yoram stood.

Captain Mord pronounced, “Juris, by a jury of your fellow Masters and officers, you have been found guilty on all counts.  Yoram, the same jury has found you guilty of the attempted murder charges.  For you both, the sentence required by the law of the Naral fleet is death.

“Your convictions and the evidence upon which they are based will be reviewed by the Captains Council of the Naral fleet.  If that review goes against you, the Council will set the time and manner of execution.”

Lissa realized that Kurin’s upset was at more than just the verdict.  Holding Kurin close, she asked softly, “What is it?  Kurin, you have done all that could have been done.  This isn’t your fault.”

Burying her face in Lissa’s chest, Kurin said swallowing around her grief, “Exile.  I didn’t even think of it, really.  I was so clever with those glue blocks that they had to refuse it.  Now they are on the reef and I put them there.”

High Cloud detached himself from the flock celebrating Dari’s presence and dove into the sea. Climbing out, he came straight to Kurin, accidentally giving Lissa a few small cuts as he landed on Kurin’s shoulder.  The still flopping skelt in his beak was being expertly stuffed into Kurin’s mouth before she realized what was happening.

The interlude gave Lissa time to think.  She helped to hold the fish while she said sternly, “Kurin! You did all that you could.  When a choice must be made between a whole ship and a single person, the ship must come first.  Juris tried to destroy not only you, but this ship as well. You saved the Longin.  Trying to save Juris too, when he was so intent on her destruction was folly.”

-THE END-

<==PREVIOUS

[ccoccae]

I AM THE BEST ; l.yy  ( ii )

⇘ previous part

That’s it.

You’re absolutely losing your mind.

Liu Yangyang highkey vanished.

It was as if his abrupt leave last Wednesday was his farewell to you ㅡ not that he said goodbye though, tsk.

No but seriously.

You haven’t seen him for a wholeass week. He wasn’t in the hallway running around with that annoying classmate of him named Donghyuck - going around and literally giving their juniors and seniors the unending desire to strangle them then and there, he wasn’t sitting with his group of friends during lunch and you didn’t see him in Music Class when your class came in for a survey.

The two blank documents that you shared with him (which he hasn’t opened by the way) is begging to be typed on to serve its purpose.

Ugh - it’s killing you. You don’t know what to write about and if you did, it won’t be a short story - it will be a fricking five book serie. Yangyang? He has quite a mind. He proposes such good answers and arguments that leave you thinking; if he didn’t hate you so much, you would’ve been debate buddies - and maybe friends.

Hold up, don’t get ahead of yourself.

“Uh- Jeno.” you walk to his table during lunch, finally having the guts to do so. His friends who just got their food glance up at you and you shy away slightly at the attention that you don’t want.

“Hey ____!” He greets you and you smile tightly at him, still feeling the stares of his friends. It’s normal for friends to listen to open conversations that aren’t secretive and rather free - but you kinda wish they would just mind their own business.

But they can’t just do that.

What you didn’t know is that people talk about you. About how you’re almost a dipping flower. You appear and awe people around you unconciously and the moment they blink, you’re gone. But they mostly talk about how you always manage to be placed on top or with Yangyang during German exams. It has them shook.

Yangyang literally MOVED from Germany after living there for 6 years and you haven’t even been there for a mere vacation! You blow people’s minds beyond comprehension and you don’t know it.

“B-by any chance, do you have Liu Yangyang’s phone number..?” Your voice is low and soft, still trying to hide yourself from his friends. “It’s because we haven’t started at the project and I- really- don’t- have any connection with h-him.”

You unconciously play with your fingers, waiting for his reponse that doesn’t take long.

“Iㅡ”

Jeno is interrupted by a pitchy voice that you recognise. “I have his number!”

You turn to the opposite side of the round table to see Lee Donghyuck who has his hand in the air, face bright and smiling sweetly at you. “Do you want it?” He asks, leaning into the table.

“U-uh, yes.. please..”

“Okay, I’ll give it you. But only if you buy me a piece of strawberry cake.” His smile turns to a mischievous one - the change is something you expected. Lee Donghyuck without mischief is not Lee Donghyuck.

You are about to take into his deal until his other friend, whom you believe is named Renjun, smacks his back that you can hear it from where you stand.

“OUCH!” Donghyuck screeches and you hold back a giggle. Jeno pokes your elbow softly, making you turn to him.

“Here.”

[ Come over to my place and let’s get this over with. ] is what Liu Yangyang told you after you accidentally called him. He sent his adress right below all your messages that he just ‘read’.

Ouch. Seenzoned.

Yangyang’s mansion was big - well, mansions are supposed to be big. You didn’t expect Yangyang to be THIS rich. You just got used to the fact that he casually wears a Gucci hoodie during Gym classes.

Right when you stood by the gateway, a gaurd comes up to you with a smile asking, "Are you Young Master Liu's guest?" and you nodded. "Follow me please." Then he escorted you through the gate then to the sandstone driveway to the mansion.

From there, a maid - you assume her to be the head maid due to his cold attitude - greets you in chinese. You swear your mind was rusted when it comes to chinese, but you manage to reply to her politely.

The maid halts infront of one of the many big black doors in the first floor. She doesn't knock and that gives you a mini-heart attack.

"Young Master, please stop playing computer games. Your project partner is here." There goes her cold, monotonous tone sending chills up your spine. You haven't heard someone lack so much passion in speaking.

You bite your bottom lip, unable to think of something to say to Yangyang once you face each other.

Should you say 'Hi Yangyang, let's get to work.'? or 'Liu Yangyang, where have you been?!'?.

You are lost in panicked thoughts that you don't notice the maid telling you can now enter until the worker walks past you to attend to her other duties.

With a deep breath, you cautiously step in the room. Darkness greets you and you eyes search for him. Liu Yangyang.

And he's there.

On his expensive looking gaming chair in front of a set of three monitors. The middle one being a curved screen. Your jaw slack at the sight, eyes trailing to the keyboard constantly glowing with many colors upon clicking.

Liu Yangyang meets your awed gaze, then raising his eyebrow at you - mentally asking why you're still glued in your spot like - the door is open boo.

"Did the maid leave?" Yangyang asks, tone colder for it to be considered a question.

"Uh.. yes.. she did." You answer quietly, above a whisper but loud enough for Yangyang to hear.

"Good," Yangyang turns back to his monitor set, putting his headphones back on. "..close the door behind you and take the study table."

You do as what you're told, closing the door behind you and heading towards the study table situated beside Yangyang's gaming set, but the white leather office chair is situated at the opposite side. So when you sit, you're facing Yangyang to the side.

A notebook is open on the table and you look through it after glimpsing that it's German.

' Eine Mädchen beobachtet einen Mord an einer Familie durch eine Reise in Astral-Zeit. Sie ist nicht sicher, ob sie immer noch verhindert, dass die Ereignisse passieren, aber ihre Vision beweist, dass sie richtig ist. Sie möchte sagen, was sie so nicht gesehen hat, aber niemand wird ihr glauben.'

That was written on the page.

"Is this the story idea?" you ask, picking up the notebook and shows to Yangyang who seems to be doing something in his computer.

Yangyang only glances at the paper then nodding.

"Great. We finally have an idea." You murmur to yourself, placing your laptop after moving Yangyang's macbook aside and turning the study lamp on.

Then you star working, fingers tapping on the keyboard in fast yet smooth motions. Your eyes darting from the notebook then back to your computer. After writing the raw idea, you grab a nearby pen and write down additional ideas to shape the story then transferring them to the document.

'Let's make the murder gruesome.'

'The girl must've been attempting her astral time travelling'

'Make the details of the vision a bit hazy'

Because of your sudden concentrated mood, you don't seem to hear Yangyang's frantic clicking on the keyboard and his mouth commanding his teammates, his eyes trained on the computer and aiming to kill opponents.

Yangyang dies again after being sniped by the opponent Widowmaker for the 5th time during this whole game. He falls back onto the chair in exhaustion, his head dropping to see you still perfectly delved into the task at hand.

He's been playing for almost an hour and a half now while you are still working on forming the plot from the story idea Yangyang literally just wrote when it popped into his mind.

'Why is she rushing?' He thought to himself then the thought of him not showing up to the German classes seems to make him feel a tinge of guilt.

Only a bit.

Without a second tought, Yangyang leaves the game, turning his computer off and placing his headphones down.

He slides himself to sit across your figure while clearing his throat. This made you look up to see him taking out his macbook and starting it up.

Yangyang catches your gaze and sharply asks, "What?" with a sassy raise of his brow.

You rapidly blink, immediately turning your concentration back to the computer. "Nothing. Just surprised you finally decided to come and help.." Your last sentence was low as a whisper, but Yangyang still heard it.

"I'm not completely heartless."

"What do you say if we add another character? Let's say it's the boy's family that was murdered." You ask nonchalantly, suddenly a bit more confined to be able to talk to Yangyang.

This slight change also takes Yangyang aback a bit

"S-Sure.." it's rare to see you confine. You're rather reserved, shy and likes to keep a distance. "But we have to connect him to the main character."

"Let's say he's a transferee and the day he transferred is the say the murder happens." You answer quickly as if you've been expecting the question.

"Let's make it a massacre." You suggest and Yangyang raises an eyebrow. "Let's kill off ALL his family members."

Yangyang chokes in his own saliva at the blunt suggestion.

Him choking makes you blink, realising that you've been too 'businessly talkative'.

"A-are you okay?" You ask, looking around for something that will somehow relieve Yangyang, but finds nothing.

"Just fine."

"Okay.."

Yangyang quickly recovers from his fit and so did the awkward silence that now sits on both of your shoulders.

"I.. like the idea." Yangyang says, opening the document. "There has to be atleast three of his family members. Let's say he has his parents and a younger sister."

"Oh yeah sure." You say, typing it down but seeing as Yangyang has already typed it you click backspace and so did Yangyang. "Ah no - I'll delete mine-"

"I literally just deleted what I wrote." Yangyang groans.

"Sorry- I'll type it again.."

You bite your bottom lip, typing the context.

'Why does she always do that?' the boy questions your habitual demeanor when concentrating.

Your lips are slightly swollen under the pressure of your cute front teeth, your hair pulled up to a bun but a portion of your front hair is layed delicately on both sides of your face - framing it perfectly.

You look up to meet Yangyang's eyes and he immediately looks away - mentally asking himself why in the hecking world did he stare.

The rest of the time they work in silence, only the sound of keyboard keys being pressed and occasional questions about the story plot.

"I have to go now." You announce softly, gathering your things when Yangyang nods in agreement.

Surprisingly, Yangyang follows you to the door. So before leaving, you turn to Yangyang.

"Thanks for bearing with me. I just really want to complete this project." You tell him, sincere eyes shooting through Yangyang's unmoving ones. "Goodbye."

A limousine stops by the entrance and a beautiful woman on her late 40s exits the glossy vehicle, her prada heels landing on the sandstone first.

You immediately bow as soon as you make eye contact. You want to leave, but it will be too rude to do it right now.

"Hello dear." The woman says in chinese, strutting to you who keeps a stable but bright smile. "You must be Yang's project partner?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm _____." You reply, also in chinese and silently thanking your most hated teacher who atleast teached you something good.

"Oh, impressive." Yangyang's mother coos, turning to her son who stands by the porch looking uninterested. "She's also the one who somehow managed to beat you in german class right, son?"

You tense at the mention of 'german class', instantly averting your eyes onto Yangyang whose jaw clenches at the question. There's a feeling in you that just clenches.

You blink in sudden realization, everything suddenly clearer, having the answer to your questions.

Yangyang hates you for being 'better' than him in German class?

Wow.. you should've seen that coming.

"Isn't she the one who got three straight A pluses while you only got two of them and an A." His mother's words take toll on Yangyang. He doesn't like hearing his failure - especially when it comes from his mother with a tone of disappointment.

You watch as Yangyang cold exterior fall when his head hangs low - unable to hold eye contact with his mother.

"Sorry.." he whispers lowly, fingers fidgeting the back of his shirt.

"Anyways," the older woman turns back to you. ".. how's the project going? Is Yang doing his part?"

"It's doing great, ma'am. Yangyang was actually the one who came up with the story idea." You reply, tone always enthusiastic.

"Only the story idea? Huh. What did you came up with Yang? A boy and his tragic love for his violin? Hahaha."

Yangyang's jaw clenches more, his jawline more prominent than it already is.

"Are you staying for dinner, dear?" She asks you.

"Uh, no ma'am. I'm taking my leave now. Good evening." You bow one last time before turning her back and walking out to the gate.

She spares one last glance to see the woman slapping Yangyang's cheek. The scene made you stop on your tracks, worry washing over you.

Feeling like you're staring, Yangyang meets your eyes and he glares.

'All your fault.' he thinks to himself.

⇘ next part

[thegeminisage]

what about kara, the druid girl arthur kills in season 5

oh man okay. this is gonna be rough. here are my honest thots: i genuinely panicked for a sec bc i thought you meant the david cage android game and i was about to be like NOT TODAY SATAN because i dead ass did not even remember that girl’s name. this is for a few reasons

reason one is that i only watch two episodes of season 5 (5.02 and 5.03) because i think most of season 5 fucking sucks. there are a lot of likable moments scattered here and there but the overarching plot is stupid and the ending is lame as hell arthur’s FINE everybody shut up

reason TWO is because i think the whole thing around arthur and mordred’s conflict was incredibly contrived and shallow. i don’t think a thing about kara because like many characters in merlin, especially the ladies, she’s only allowed to have one personality trait at a time and her personality trait is “down with camelot” 

and like yeah mood you go girl or whatever but like the deliberately made her to be as unreasonable as possible to give arthur NO CHOICE but to execute her and morded NO CHOICE but to shank him back?? like arthur’s bud mordred asks him to give kara the benefit of the doubt and an out or whatever as a favor b/c he’s in love with her (reasonable) and arthur does (also reasonable) and she spits in his face (unreasonable - even if she still wanted to be anti-arthur, what you do is LIE your way out of it and then come back at him after you’re free). so now arthur has to kill her so as not to risk her hurting more people (...mostly reasonable, as an isolated decision) and mordred can’t forgive him for that (also understandable). they wrote it like that because on paper like this it makes sense. but what actually wound up happening is that she comes out of nowhere, doesn’t have the time she needs to establish herself as someone important (and as i recall has very little chemistry with mordred on top of that), and then mordred’s rage over her death and his subsequent revenge seems very disproportionate given that the audience barely got to know her at all.

so like this whole thing of arthur being his own demise had jackshit to do with him not accepting magic and more to do with him more-or-less reasonably being told by this person that she would never as long as she lived stop trying to come for his kingdom and him being like well shit what am i SUPPOSED to do? he wasn’t even killing her because of her magic! that had nothing to do with it! 

idk, i think the character and the plot revolving around her is incredibly dumb. this ties in to the larger issues i have with season 5 in which it frequently feels like nobody has any free thought or free will at all (sometimes literally in gwen’s case), they just feel like sock puppets made to do this weird out-of-character little dance to give the writers the tragic ending they wanted. the actors are charming, the sets are beautiful, the score is moving, but there’s just no life in most of it because despite their familiar faces most of the time the characters are strangers to me. season 1 promised us one thing and we got almost the total opposite in season 5, so it’s always gonna be a disappointment to me.

[trespeak]

What's your favorite house album?

Wow, that’s a toughie. Might just have to give you a list instead.

This ended up being pretty long so I’ve put all the big descriptions I wrote for each of ‘em under the cut, but here’s the gist:

Daft Punk, Discovery (2001)

Kaskade, Fire and Ice (2011)

deadmau5, For Lack of a Better Name (2009) and 4x4=12 (2010)

Phantoms, Phantoms (2017)

Justice, † (2007) 

Lazy Rich’s singles

Porter Robinson/Virtual Self – Spitfire (2011) and Virtual Self (2017)

I like a lot of deep house and electro house, so most of my picks here are within either or both of those subgenres (as well as progressive house, in deadmau5′s case).

For more of my thoughts (and there are many!), see below.

Daft Punk, Discovery (2001)

Accept no substitutes. For Guy-Manuel de Homem Christo and Thomas Bangalter, making quality tunes seems to just be second nature. Their second album replaces the underground, city-street feel of Homework with a shiny, discotheque-ready sound that stands on the shoulders of giants but does so as a means of updating and widening the reach of their own influences (with “Harder Better Faster Stronger”’s use of “Cola Bottle Baby” as a perfect example thereof). My favorite track on the record, “Digital Love,” perhaps only barely qualifies as house, but between the earnestness of the vocoded lyrics and the heart-stopper of a guitar solo, I don’t even mind – who cares about genre conventions when you’re a smitten robot? It’s utterly brilliant and its era exists as the gold standard for many DP fans, myself included among them.

Kaskade, Fire and Ice (2011)

Ryan Raddon’s seventh album and the one I hold the most nostalgia for. An ambitious effort on Kaskade’s part, Fire and Ice is a double album, with original tracks on one side and remixed, chilled-out versions of the same songs on the other (geddit?). The ICE mixes are something of a mixed bag, with some having more reason to exist than others, but the Fire side of the album earns it a place here on its own, with Skrillex and Raddon giving us their own brilliant take on a classic track from Guy Manuel de Homem Christo on “Lick It,” as well as the smooth vibes of Ryan’s collaboration with his band Late Night Alumni and Inpetto on “How Long.” Another standout track: “ICE,” a big, bumping jam Ryan made with Dan Black and Dada Life.

deadmau5, For Lack of a Better Name (2009) and 4x4=12 (2010)

Oh, Joel. These days he’s earned a controversial status as full-time internet troll alongside his career as a musician, but he’s still had a palpable impact on the industry at large (pop juggernaut Marshmello more or less owes his entire career to the allure of the man in the cute mask, and while Daft Punk did it first, Mello’s own interpretation is particularly and explicitly influenced by the way deadmau5 did it). These two albums dropped when I was twelve/thirteen and still opening my eyes to the wide world of electronica, and I think they’re particularly significant as the point where I went from being a casual fan of it to a devotee, sparking an investment in the Scene® that I still have to this day. The degree of control Joel flexes over his work at its peak was unprecedented for the time and still holds up now – “Strobe,” the album closer on For Lack Of, is particularly notable in how it makes ten minutes feel like no time at all in how it builds and shifts with just a few simple, powerful elements in play at a time. “Ghosts ‘n Stuff” earned Joel and vocalist Rob Swire a crossover hit, and “Raise Your Weapon” stands as an early illustration of what the North American take on dubstep would sound like in the years to come. 

Phantoms, Phantoms (2017)

Kyle Kaplan and Vinnie Pergola’s debut record is a clever mission statement for their work. Their deep house tunes are infused with pop sensibilities, placing them in company with contemporaries like Jamie xx and Disclosure as house DJs making an effort to bridge the gap between the radio airwaves and the dance floor. My favorites include “Just a Feeling” with Verite, a modody track called “Downtown,” and the utterly brilliant “Need You Closer,” a collab with Hayley Kiyoko that easily converted me into the Church of Lesbian Jesus. (Their recent work is also worth a nod as well – they’ve been building up singles to drum up interest in a new EP, including one of their best tracks to date, a driving progressive house tune called “Designs for You.”)

Justice, † (2007)

Gaspard Auge and Xavier de Rosnay’s debut record remains their best. There’s so many iconic tracks on this one: The slick vibes of “Genesis” and “Newjack,” the ever crowd-pleasing “D.A.N.C.E.,” the pumping “Phantom” and its sequel, the nu-disco sleaze of “DVNO”, and the ear-splitting delight of “Waters of Nazareth.” The record earned them a positive, if daunting, comparison to fellow French house pioneers Daft Punk, and while their work on it shares an obsession with taking diverse samples and reconfiguring them into their own image, Justice’s fascination with the macabre aesthetic of 70′s horror films and the rock ‘n roll ethos of T. Rex earned them a distinct spot in the pantheon of electronic acts with this record (as well as its followup, the different-but-still-great Audio, Video, Disco).

Feed Me - Feed Me’s Big Adventure (2011) and Calamari Tuesday (2013)

Jon Gooch was one of the earliest musicians to emerge under deadmau5′s mau5trap label, and still shines as one of its leading acts today (High Street Creeps, released earlier this year, has jams for days). While he started his career making drum ‘n bass tracks as Spor, the bulk of his work since 2009 has been under the Feed Me alias, where he’s dabbled in all manner of electronic but mostly hews close to the realm of electro house. Gooch’s experience in making complex tunes meant that Feed Me came out swinging, with tracks like “Grand Theft Ecstasy” and “Muscle Rollers” exhibiting a confidence and technical skill from the outset that most producers would kill for on their first record. By the time his first proper full length released two years later, he’d developed a consistent feel that made collaborations with indie bands (”Love Is All I Got,” with Crystal Fighters) and soulful singers (”Last Requests,” with Jenna G) feel as natural as hard-hitting bangers (”No Grip” and “Death by Robot”). Mix in a little bit of both and you get “Ophelia,” a anthemic ballad made with YADi – my favorite song from the record, and a earworm that still sticks with me six years on. Love, don’t let me drown…

and some honorable mentions!

Lazy Rich’s singles! Richard Billis is a Canadian DJ who retired from producing tunes in 2017, but for the decade or so he was releasing music, the electro house singles he released were nothing short of iconic. Songs like “Blast Off” (with Hirshee and Lizzie Curious) and “Flash” (with Hot Mouth) are energetic, breezy and danceable. There’s nothing quite like a good Lazy Rich drop; his beats hit the dance floor with the weight of a truck, and have a sonic diversity among them that would predict the electronic scene’s shift toward the dynamism of future bass. It makes me sad that we won’t get any more of them, but Billis left behind such an evergreen catalog of singles that it’s hard to be down for very long. (I used to use his remix of Zedd’s “Stars Come Out” as a theme song of sorts on an old website where you could be a DJ with your friends. The fond memories are strong with this one.)

Porter Robinson/Virtual Self – Spitfire (2011) and Virtual Self (2017) – Leave it to Porter Robinson to carve out a completely separate musical persona just to hearken back to his halcyon days as a young producer. My initial introduction to him was just after he’d emerged from the hands-up scene, while he had his eyes set on stardom through what he called “complextro,” and it was surprising to find that his work not only lived up to its genre classification but actively carved out a market for its sound, even before Porter had dropped an album. If the dubstep and house feel of Spitfire was a revelation, the DDR vibes of the Virtual Self EP are a revitalization; similar in ethos, but with an owned, Serial Experiments Lain-styled technological aesthetic. Porter does a lot of work to keep the two projects separate (even going as far as to delineate live shows between the aliases), but rather than fragmenting his work the distinction only ends up strengthening his catalog, in much the same way Jon Gooch’s work as Feed Me complements his earlier collection as Spor.

JOYRYDE’s singles and upcoming album - John Ford Jr. is an English DJ who knows what he likes: fast cars, bumping house beats, mean-muggin’ rap jams, and making tunes that blend all of the above in one way or another. His JOYRYDE project is only a few years old, emerging in 2016, but it’s very much the culmination of years of diggin’ in the crates and building a sound that blends the hip-hop influences of trap with the boogie-bounce sensibility of house. No sooner is this evident than the “parental discretion is advised” warning (and subsequent punchy opening bars) that welcomes you into “HOT DRUM,” though his other tracks (including “MAXIMUM KING” and the Rick Ross-assisted “WINDOWS”) share that kinetic energy. He’s one to watch!

Also worth your time:

Oliver’s Mechanical EP and their album Full Circle

Mord Fustang’s All Eyes On… compilations

Botnek’s singles from 2016 onward

Chris Lake’s releases with his label Black Book Records

Self Help by Walker and Royce

pretty much everything by Ellie Herring and Chrissy (Murderbot)

Fantasmas by Zavala

anything Wolfgang Gartner has made (particularly his early 2010s singles)

That’s all I got for now. If you made it this far, you’re an angel. Thanks for indulging me :)

[lagroupie]

Interview: Giant Moa

Jeffrey, Rafael, Ivan and Remo through my Nikon.

A few weeks ago on a hot and sunny evening, I went to 49Bis Festival in Malley, a little festival that promotes local bands. Amongst those bands was Giant Moa from Bern! We had been following each other for a while on social media, but I never got a chance to watch them play live. As a big fan of garage rock, it was now or never! They did not disappoint and went so wild, the whole neighborhood must have been headbanging to their songs!

Join me and Ivan, Remo and Jeffrey – from Mord Fuzztang, filling in for Rafael who was on dad duties – as they tell me about their first show in Romandie, their record I Will Never Be Cool, the evolution of their sound, Taxi Gauche and more. Many thanks to Giant Moa and 49Bis!

What are your lives like in Bern?

Ivan: I work at a kindergarten twice a week, and the other days I like to sleep a lot. It’s mostly boring!

Remo: I am a student. At the moment, I am on vacation from university. Usually, I try to do a little bit of music every day. I also teach guitar once a week.  So studying and living the regular student life.

Don and Alex from Broken Bridge joined Giant Moa for the last song of the show.

It’s your first time playing in Romandie right? How do you find us Romandie people?

Ivan: Very stylish and good-looking!

Remo: And super-friendly, with cool tattoos!

Ivan: Everyone wanted to help us carry our stuff! It’s a little bit like a vacation, because you don’t understand what people are saying! (laughs)

Your sound seems to be a 100 % inspired by American garage rock, like Ty Segall for example. Was it a conscious choice, or did it come naturally?

Remo: It’s a good topic, we have been discussing this a lot lately. When we first met, Ivan and Rafael knew each other already, but I didn’t. I found them through a very old website when I was looking for a band. I wrote “I enjoy Ty Segall, Thee Oh Sees, ...”. We all loved this garage LA psych thing. So in the beginning, the sounds we recorded came from this common influence. But last year, we actively chose to seek other inspirations and to be more ourselves.

Ivan: Yes, to find our own way of inspiring ourselves through playing with each other.

Jeffrey: You like to play with each other!

Ivan: Fuck you! (laughs)

I’ve done so many interviews in English, but it’s the first time someone makes that joke (laughs). Your latest record is called I Will Never Be Cool. Between this title and the lyrics of the song, I can’t help but think that there’s a story behind it. Could you please tell me more?

Ivan: There is a story behind it actually! When we wrote Jeans, my favorite jeans ripped! And I was thinking about what it meant to be cool. Basically, if these jeans made me cool, then I was not cool anymore. The song is about those things in everyday life, how you try to be something you are not. It accidentally ended up being very deep.

Remo: We were also discussing what it meant to be authentic. Can you be authentic? Can you choose to be authentic?

Ivan: We wanted a cool name for that EP. No need for coolness, because it doesn’t exist. So we just thought we would never be cool. That’s it! (laughs)

The EP is out under Taxi Gauche Records. How did you guys meet Piet Alder from the label?

Remo: It’s funny because we had not met him before! I first met one of his bands at a show, and we were talking about music. And they told me “I have this friend called Piet, maybe he would be interested in your sound!” So I just sent him an email – the only email we have ever sent to any recording label – and he liked our sound ! We met him and it worked, and that’s it!

What can we expect from Giant Moa in the future?

Ivan: We are working on something.

Remo: Something big.

Ivan: Something that allows us to leave this LA garage rock scene. (laughs)

Remo: We’re actually thinking of doing something like a concept record, where we dive into a story and tell it through an album. We also want to go further with performing as well.

Ivan: There is also a collaboration with Jeffrey from Mord Fuzztang, so there is going to be two drummers!

https://giantmoa.bandcamp.com/music

https://www.instagram.com/giant_moa_band/

[kidyeda]

IT IS THE SAME MACHINE The former activist of the “Black Panther” Jamal Joseph is not surprised at the racism of the American police - and recommends lessons from the history of the protest movements

Police violence against African Americans has attracted worldwide attention and mass protests, according to a video that showed the brutal death of George Floyd during an arrest in Minneapolis. Before the current "Black Lives Matter" movement, the Black Panther Party organized the resistance in the 1960s and 1970s. The SZ spoke to the filmmaker, professor and black panther veteran Jamal Joseph about the long tradition of police violence and structural racism.

When you saw the video of a white policeman kneeling on the neck of handcuffed George Floyd until he died - were you shocked?

Jamal Joseph: It broke my heart, but it didn't surprise me at all. Historically, the police see themselves as an institution of occupation, the aim of which is to intimidate the African American population. Your job is to protect the ruling class and their property. Their racism is the legacy of slavery. At that time, it was taught that we African Americans were not fully-fledged people, and the police took over controlling the slaves and catching lost people.

And the police have not yet been able to free themselves from this mentality?

The policeman kneeling on George Floyd would not have shown this murderous behavior to a dog - for example, if the animal had bitten someone. What does it say about the appreciation of black life that you treat animals more gently?

Hundreds of thousands of African Americans and whites are taking to the streets. Did the protests hang solely on police violence?

No, the story is long: Police officers recently murdered a sleeping woman (Briona Taylor) in her bed after storming the wrong apartment. Another African American (Ahmaud Arbery) was unlucky enough to jog in the wrong neighborhood. The cases have one thing in common: a human being is denied all humanity because of his skin color. This racism reaches into the structures: It is no coincidence that the Covid 19 crisis has hit disproportionately many African Americans.

What could help defeat this age-old racism?

President Trump has instigated many of his followers, especially those from the poorer white underclass, to believe that their brown, black, Asian, or Spanish-speaking people are to blame for their problems. The rulers fear nothing more than cooperation across racial boundaries. This was done by, for example, the Black Panther leader Fred Hampton (murdered by the police in his sleep) in Chicago in the late 1960s: In his Rainbow Coalition, he led poor blacks, Latinos and whites to recognize that they all work under the same mechanisms of capitalism suffer and could only overcome them together. We will not be able to convert Trump fanatics. But I rely on their children who go to colleges and high schools to start a new Rainbow Coalition with them.

When you were a young leader of the Black Panther Party in New York, the FBI declared them terrorists and white-haters. Does the right-wing strive today against the same prejudices against the Black Lives Matter movement?

I have to think of my first day as a black panther recruit: I came to their office and expected them to hand me a gun to shoot a white man if necessary. But they handed me a stack of books: From Malcolm X to Frantz Fanon. And then they explained to me that it was not about skin colors, but about the common class struggle. In other words, the unequal distribution of property and power. And that the capitalist machinery benefits from the disunity of the exploited. That's why the Black Panthers were violently beaten, while racial segregation organizations like the Ku Klux Klan remained untouched.

Does Donald Trump continue this agenda today?

Yes, he wants to label the protesters as left-wing radicals, criminals and terrorists. Therefore, everyone who goes to demonstrate must be careful. Sometimes agents provocateurs want to tempt people to riot, some come from the anarchist camp and have no political agenda.

What is the difference between the protests today and the former organized resistance of the Black Panther?

Viele der Jugendlichen, die heute mitmarschieren, sind wütend und frustriert, haben aber so gut wie keine politische Vorbildung. Ihr Instinkt sagt ihnen, eine Ladenkette oder eine Polizeistation als Symbole der Unterdrückung zu sehen. Aber wenn sie Gebäude anzünden, Autos umstürzen, Geschäfte plündern, bleiben sie der Wut des Moments verhaftet. Ich verstehe diese rebellischen Instinkte nur zu gut. Eine langfristige Bewegung aber sollte über die bloße Reaktion hinausgehen.

Wie könnte die aussehen?

Als Black Panther waren wir in den betroffenen Communities präsent, riefen Programme wie das Frühstück für Schulkinder oder Impfkampagnen ins Leben. Der Kampf gegen die Polizeigewalt war nur Punkt sieben unseres Zehn-Punkte-Programms. Es reicht eben nicht, ein paar Instagram-Botschaften zu senden, wenn die Polizei wieder jemanden umbringt. Wir waren damals auch da, wenn der Vermieter drohte, jemanden auf die Straße zu setzen, organisierten Mietstreiks, unterrichteten die Menschen über die Ursachen des Elends in den armen schwarzen Vierteln und wie sie sich dagegen organisieren könnten. Wir brauchen heute dringender denn je schwarze Führungspersönlichkeiten, die diese Aufgaben übernehmen.

Betreiben Sie deshalb in Harlem Ihre Jugendinitiative namens Impact Repertory Theatre?

Unsere Jugendlichen spielen nicht nur Theater, sondern lernen, die Probleme in der Community jenseits der bloßen Symptome – wie Polizeibrutalität, Rassismus und Armut – zu verstehen. Wie kann man angesichts der Strukturen den Wandel befördern? Wir brauchen Programme, die es den Menschen ermöglichen zu heilen, menschenwürdig zu wohnen und zu arbeiten, während wir die größeren gesellschaftlichen Probleme angehen.

Was die Polizeigewalt angeht: Es kursieren auch Bilder von Polizisten, die zusammen mit den Demonstranten niederknien, ihre Solidarität bekunden. Spricht das nicht für die Behauptung konservativer Medien, man müsse nur die schlechten Äpfel aussortieren?

Ich habe schon viele menschlich anständige Polizisten erlebt. Polizisten, die mit Menschen in der Nachbarschaft reden und sie an Sozialarbeiter vermitteln, anstatt ihnen Handschellen anzulegen. Das Problem mit der Polizeigewalt ist allerdings institutionell. Selbst Präsident Obama gelang es nicht, rassistische Institutionen wie die Polizei oder die Gefängnisindustrie zu reformieren.

Werden Sie selbst als Universitätsprofessor immer noch ihrer Hautfarbe wegen von der Polizei respektlos behandelt?

Du musst als Afroamerikaner immer auf der Hut sein. Vor Kurzem wurde ich Zeuge einer Szene, in der Polizisten einen jungen Afroamerikaner in Handschellen legten und ihn schlugen. Ich hielt an und fragte so sachlich wie möglich nach dem Grund: Es stellte sich heraus, dass sie ihn verdächtigten, das Fahrrad, mit dem er unterwegs war, gestohlen zu haben, obwohl er nachweisen konnte, dass es sein eigenes war. Am Ende entkam ich selbst nur knapp einer Verhaftung – und das, obwohl mich jeder in der Community kennt.

Sie sind Karate-Lehrer und haben einst sogar den Rap-Star Tupac Shakur trainiert, Ihr Patenkind. Was empfehlen sie Ihren Jugendlichen, um sich vor Übergriffen der Polizei zu schützen?

Ich rate ihnen immer, ihre Emotionen im Zaum zu halten: Wollt ihr, dass euer Name der nächste Hashtag wird? In einem Box- oder Karatekampf musst du auch kühlen Kopf bewahren, wenn dich dein Gegner auf die Nase schlägt. Du brauchst also Training und Disziplin, um im Notfall auf eine erlernte Technik zurückzugreifen. So absurd es klingen mag: Wir community leader sind dafür verantwortlich, unserer Jugend beizubringen, wie sie angesichts der Bedrohung durch die eigene Polizei am besten überlebt.

Kann man Donald Trumps Präsidentschaft denn wenigstens zugutehalten, dass sie die verschiedenen Protestgruppen durch seine aggressive Politik zusammenbringt?

Es ist die Unterdrückung, die uns zusammenführt. Am Ende aber wird die Lösung nicht von oben kommen. Kein Politiker kann dieses System reparieren. Vielmehr setze ich auf das Erstarken eines neuen Graswurzel-Aktivismus. Denn Black Lives Matter hat – bei aller Kritik – durchaus Erfolge gezeitigt: In vielen Polizeiabteilungen gibt es seitdem Trainings für den zivilen Umgang mit Verdächtigen. Es gibt Panels, wo sich Polizisten mit Community-Vertretern treffen. Und es gibt Staatsanwälte, die bereit sind, Anklage zu erheben. Früher wären Morde wie der an George Floyd überhaupt nicht gesühnt worden.

Jamal Joseph joined the Black Panther Party in 1967 in Harlem when he was 15. In 1968 he was jailed and became one of the youngest Black Panther leaders. During another five-and-a-half-year prison sentence for escaping a robbery in which two police officers were shot, he earned two degrees and wrote several plays. The photo was taken fifty years ago, in June 1970.

JONATHAN FISCHER

SZ 4.6.2020jamal joseph 2

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June 5, 2020 ★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★ • • • #rap #killermike

Recent entries

Fist and finger gun - killer Mike makes politics: as a rapper from Run The Jewels and as spokesman for «Black Lives Matter»

IT IS THE SAME MACHINE The former activist of the “Black Panther” Jamal Joseph is not surprised at the racism of the American police - and recommends lessons from the history of the protest movements

[foibles-fables]

hey foibles! i was wondering if you could talk a bit about how you wrote kahlans (apparent) processing of homophobia throughout weight? or just how she points out her surprise in having feelings for another woman.

Oh my goodness, I will gladly answer this. This topic is actually one I consider Often when writing Seeker fic--it's a universe [meaning the show universe--more on that in a bit] in which one could conceivably create that gorgeous fantasy universe in which M/M and F/F couples are just...commonplace and accepted. Hands down, no qualifiers. I think mostly of The Priory of the Orange Tree here (in fact, I think SS might have said some cool stuff about this topic? might be making that up, will fact-check). I have to say that when I read it, I pointed at certain parts of the book (mostly other characters noticing Ead and Sab's surreptitious ~chemistry without any kind of value judgement, just the surprise you'd give a friend doing anything new/unexpected/interesting) and yelled, "Yes, THIS! This is PRECISELY what I'm aiming to do in Weight!" It's a nice space to escape to, honestly, when the stakes of the F/F-centric story go far beyond the fact that the couple is F/F.

And, honestly, the canon Seeker universe is already just about there to begin with, IMO. Or, at least, doesn't give any indications that it would be impossible for it to be there. I know the Mord-Sith are an interesting bunch to use as as barometer, but look at them! Gorgeous Canon Bisexual Cara and Triana in 2.01. Cara being offered women at Denna's brothel. Darken Rahl knowing of and genuinely not giving a shit about Cara and Dahlia in the latter episodes of season two (besides a snarky comment or two because he's just him) (and we won't talk about Bury Your Gays here). It all points to this effect. I feel like any sort of queer relationships would be accepted there with complete societal approval.

[book universe note--Berdine/Raina is canon and lovely and tragic, but Richard expresses confusion and, at first, a bit of disdain for them, but I really think that's a Goodkind thing that should be taken with an entire shaker of salt. In any case, Richard Learns A Lesson about them (and CPR. if you know you know) pretty early on.] So, as I was saying, that's the universe goal I'm aiming for with Weight: one where, if (if, I say punctuated with an eyeballs emoji) Cara and Kahlan were to be in a public relationship, nobody would bat an eye. Look for evidence of this soon as I...hmm, sorry...keep Cara and Dahlia together for a hot minute?

Death of the author and all that (wink), but at the moment you're talking about, I saw Kahlan as less dealing with internalized homophobia, more dealing with a degree of surprise regarding something she's kind of just figuring out and grappling with about herself. At that point, the stakes with the Council aren't as high and she's kind of riding out these strange anxious feelings she has and now knows are returned. BUT, saying there's no societal homophobia is not to say there isn't a fundamental issue, almost exclusively dumped Kahlan: the pressure to do her duty to take a mate and give birth to little Confessors. So as their time in Aydindril passes, the guilt and angst that starts to flare up is not "I'm failing because I want to be with a woman, with this woman, and that makes me fundamentally Wrong" but "I'm failing because when I am like this I cannot do my duty, and give Cara what she wants, and give myself what I want, so I need to choose the one that does the Best Good." She would have (and has had!) the same issue with Richard. ALSO the whole "I wanna bang the woman who killed my sister, who happens to be right here looking at us." That's complicated no matter your sexuality. And that's where we are now. Does that make sense/answer your question? (this is not to say that Kahlan is RIGHT. She's very wrong and is, very intentionally, a hypocritical and unreliable narrator. Both of the dummies are. I can talk about that more but will SAVE IT.)

[and hey. There's a solution to every issue, right? Gonna definitely subvert some of the more common tropes, but...oh I have plans for baby Confessors...that's your spoiler for reading this far, y'all. Okay one more. Maybe the Mother Confessor won't have a mate as much as she'll have a...word that starts with w]

Anyway, to circle back around to your question, the Seeker universe (and, really, the Horizon universe! More on this later, maybe, when I haven't rambled too much already) can be built up very different from writing in a fandom like Warrior Nun--where the internalized homophobia/other similar challenges certainly aren't central to the main story so far, but is integral. It’s completely impossible to ignore or hand-wave it in good faith (HAH!). Given the modern-day and religious context, it's an issue that needs to be addressed and thoroughly to remain true to character development. Meanwhile, I'm trying to write the conflict in Cara and Kahlan's [relationship] as more of a "my deep attachment to this person is keeping me from doing what I think needs to be done" issue, regardless of sexuality.

Really hope that did it for you. I don't wanna go back and reread because I'm willing to bet it sounds like word salad but I am pressing Post Now now~~

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 37 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 37 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

///////////////////////

Mord did not know what to make of what he was seeing and hearing.  He was aboard the deadliest craft that he had ever heard of, and her commander, was crying — — — For enemy dead.  He felt guilty about the thoughts of a few minutes before.  Putting his arms about her, he held her until she calmed.  She parted from him gently and sat him on one of the big cushions next to her.

Getting a grip on herself, Sula said with a cold rage, “When we find who did that to Kurin, I hope that we can take them without loss.  If we do have to sink them, I will put them on the bottom without a tear. I have my sailors making inquiries to see if we can find the ones responsible.”  Mord was glad that ferocity was not directed at his ship.

Mord seated himself and said, “We also have inquiries under way, as does the Council and a number of ships that are friendly to us.”

The problem of finding evidence solved itself.  A young deck-hand of the Grython was brought in late that night, with the symptoms of Ord poisoning.  His case was not as advanced as Kurin’s and he responded well to treatment, at first.

“Off with your shirt,” Dr Worran ordered him, intending to see if he still had the strength and coordination to do it.  Wordlessly, the young man struggled with what should have been a simple task.  The Doctor helped him, observing his eyes and respiration at the same time.

“Where did you get that inflamed patch on your right chest?” she asked him urgently.

He shook his head as if having trouble speaking, then mumbled, “Dunno … It itched a little, but it stopped.”

Doctor Worran picked up his shirt and felt something long in the right pocket.  She removed it from his pocket with long tweezers.  She applied a thin paste to the point and washed it off carefully.

She burst in on Sula and Mord, holding her find carefully in the tweezers.  “Look what I found on that young man who just came in! I’ve a mind to let him die.”

Mord looked with horror at the Ord spine, revealed for what it was by the ugly greenish brown left by the testing paste.  It was neatly mounted in a handle.  It looked like an ordinary sail maker’s awl.  “What ship is he from?” was all that he said, as he carefully looked over the lethal tool.

“The Grython,” answered Doctor Worran.

Mord said thoughtfully, “I would not have expected that.  The Grython has been fast friends to the Longin for many Gatherings.  We need to talk to this man, if he can still speak.”

They went quickly to the sick bay.  Doctor Worran pointed out the inflamed area of right chest.  “He was carrying the spine uncovered in his right shirt pocket.  The poison worked through the fabric and his skin.”

“I see,” said Sula.  “He probably did not know what he was carrying, then.  I wonder how he got it?”

The sailor struggled against unwilling muscles to turn his head towards them.  His voice was almost inaudible, and he was clearly fighting for the breath to speak at all, “I won it on a dare.  A pair of sailors bet me a whole Selked-made sail stitching kit that I couldn’t poke the awl into Kurin’s lunch unseen, for a prank.  I didn’t know it would hurt her.  When I heard what happened, I took the awl from the kit and started to come here.  I didn’t make it.  I’m sorry.”

“You did well.  Who were they?” asked Mord.  “What was their ship?”

“I don’t know for sure,” he husked.  “I saw one them in the Grandalor’s booth earlier.  I did recognize the other, but didn’t realize who he was until too late.  He was Silor Elon.  I don’t know where he is now.”  It was a grim and angry pair of Captains who headed topside.  By now the sun was beginning to rise on the eastern horizon.

Mord told his Craft Masters what had happened and added, “This perfidy must be reported to the Council.  Who will go with me?”  Every hand went up.  Master Juris asked to look at the awl.

“There is Selked’s mark.  That means that he made this aboard the Grandalor,” he pronounced like it was a doom.

Chapter 12a: Flight of the Grandalor

“Dark Iren devour those fools!” Barad raged.  “Nobody will believe that we tried to stop them.  We will all swim for their idiocy!  By the time that the Council finds their mistake, they will have to send their apologies by way of Iren’s Orcas!”

Mister Timms paused in his duties long enough to agree, saying, “As many of us was involved in one way and another, Sir, I’m sure that you’re right.  Many inquired about the Ord and many more worked in the experiments.  Best we give the Council time to cool down before we try to explain.”

All about him the crew was quietly and efficiently preparing the Grandalor to get under way.  Tanlin was at the small floating dock, greeting each boat and speaking quietly to the new arrivals as the crew inconspicuously came aboard, a few at a time.  Occasionally, a boat left the ship with a few folk on it.

Moonlight glittered across the water, pursuing little Dorac over the horizon. All about them, only the stars and the running lamps and masthead lights of the sleeping Naral fleet provided any light.  It would be six hours before swift little Dorac rose again, followed shortly by mighty Wohan.  Six hours of darkness.  Six hours to flee for their lives.

Without tocsins or shouted orders, cables were slipped from the anchorage float and sails were set as silently as the wind allowed.  As she began to move, her masthead lights and running lamps were extinguished, one by one.  Following the constellation known as the Sea Hawk, the Grandalor raced SSE through the darkness under all of the canvas that she could fly, with no lights showing, straight away from the sleeping Gathering.  

As soon as the last of the masthead lanterns of the Naral fleet fell below the horizon, Barad wrote an extensive Log entry and took out his Three Dragons set.

Tanlin, who had just come off duty as First Officer of the Second Night Watch, relaxed into the cushions of one of the cabin’s chairs and looked on with interest.

“W’at’re ye doin’, Luve?”

“Trying to save our lives and our ship, in that order.  I have entered the whole true account of Kurin’s poisoning into the Log.  It cannot save me.  Unless we escape the fleet, I will die for Kurin’s murder.  It may well save you and others innocent of the killing.”

“T’at’s a good t’ing t’at ye’re doin’, m’ ‘Eart — — ‘ow’ll T’ree Dragons save us?”

“I have broken the course rose into seven possible tacks.  The dice will tell us which way to go.  If white lands on a number less than fifty, we hold course for an hour and roll again.  Whichever of these two dice eats the other gives us the  course to follow, from this table. He held up a tallow-slate with a neatly made table on it.  If neither one eats the other, we split the difference for our course.  We exclude only courses that we know to be dangerous.

“Roll the first one, Tanlin, and pray to the Dragons that it’s a good cast.”

As the dice rattled in the cup Tanlin thought, ‘E knows t’at ‘e’s doomed.  Even i’ we go t’ t’e Arrakans, t’ey won’t shield ‘im from murder, so w’at does ‘e do?  ‘E still t’inks o’ gain an’ loss but now ‘is t’ought’s for t’ose close t’ ‘im an’ ‘is crew.  ‘Ow many in ‘is place wad do as much?  Few.  Nane t’at Oi can t’ink o’.  An’ Oi married ‘im!  Pride swelled in her heart as the dice bounded clattering about the board and came to rest.

They leaned over the board together and she put an arm about his waist. He absently stroked her hair and put an arm around her as he read the fall of the dice.

“Dragon eats skelt, seventy three.”  He consulted his chart and figured the correction for the present course in his head.  “East-North-East. That will take us across the fleet, just out of their sight.”  As he straightened, she wrapped her other arm about him and gave him a spontaneous kiss.

“So close?  Shall Oi t’row again?”

“No. A better course could not have been chosen.  If there is pursuit and I am sure there will be, it will make us hard to see because of the glare of the early sun.  It also cuts back and across our track.  Any trying to find us by following our course will be thrown off as well.”

“Oi’ll take care o’ t’e corse change, Luve.  Ye’ve ‘ad a ‘orrible day.  ‘Ow long do we ‘old ‘t?”

“Seven and a half hours.”  He looked down at her for a rare unguarded moment.  Why did it take so long to find you?  I know that Teralat would have liked you.  The memory of his long dead wife hadn’t hurt since he’d realized that he actually respected Kurt— no, Tanlin.  He now knew for certain that his feelings had become more than respect.

“Aye, seven an’ a ‘alf ‘ours.  So, seventy t’ree?  T’e forst digit’s t’e ‘ours an’ t’e second’s t’e minutes by tens?” she questioned as she set the water clock to time the tack.

“Yes. You know, I married you for more than your stunning good looks.”

“Oi know.  Ye got t’ose t’.”  She flipped her fall of hair saucily as she left.  Arriving on deck, she became a First Officer.

TO BE CONTINUED

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