#Some people are intesting and she can grow to like them

[heavenlyborne]

Does Shalria (or Shakira, according to my autocorrect), establish a hierarchy for other humans, and even other species, or does she lump everyone together, nobles and commoners and merfolk, beneath the Dragons?

// Answered under the cut! (Also I had a good chuckle over your autocorrect, now I’m going to think of this song every time I have to spell her name)

Thank you very much for sending this in, Sparrow! You know, this is actually a really interesting question to think about since humans are generally thought of so lowly by most Celestial Dragons, that even one of their own referring to themselves as such is enough to absolutely infuriate them? There is so little regard for human life amongst their kind that whole countries can be taxed into poverty, allowing the population to suffer, starve and die just so long as the World Nobles can enjoy a little extra wealth. When it comes to Shalria and whether or not she has a hierachy for humans and other species, that would be a resounding yes! Pretty much everybody who doesn’t have celestial blood running through their veins is trash as far as she’s concerned, but humans are the most tolerated race with royalty coming first. They’re nowhere near as good as World Nobles but at least they try, and most seem to do a good job of running their silly little kingdoms and earning tribute for the World Government. Celestial Dragons were once mere royalty themselves before ascending to the Holy Land, so Shalria would at least deign to pretend to be polite if she ever happens to interact with one. When it comes to humans in general, she does tend to lump them all together. Nobles, commoners, peasants and pirates; they’re barely worth the filthy air they breathe and she could care less about any of them other than perhaps a few interesting or amusing individuals who might have gotten her attention. It’s the way she was brought up, with slavery being normalized and anybody unfortunate enough to become a slave is seen as less than human, more akin to some beast of burden or object to be used and discarded once they’re done. Overall she tends to think lowly of many humans regardless of skin colour or where they come from, paying more attention to things like wealth, mannerisms and status. The reason? She literally doesn’t consider herself to be human, actually believing herself to be a living god much like most other Celestial Dragons. Who cares where you come from or what you look like so long as you’re doing what you’re meant to? A good human is supposed to do as they’re told and that’s that. Underneath humans come other races. Longarms and Longlegs are human as far as she’s concerned, just uglier with freaky-looking arms and/or legs. Mink are considered to be animals but just as intelligent as humans, perhaps being respected a little more because they’re comfortably removed enough from humanity plus tend to be capable servants. They’re strong, fierce and can be wonderfully loyal much like her own father’s servant in Saladin who is a Rough Collie Dog Mink, having served the Rosward Family for nearly 40 years. Ranking below humans and the Mink Tribe are Fishfolk and Merfolk. To Shalria they are more disturbing being somewhere between human and animal, plus Fisher Tiger was responsible for the attack on the Holy Land of Mary Geoise when she was a young girl. She remembers that night all too well, how high the fires rose and threatened to overwhelm their household while countless slaves escaped into the night. It was close to the time her mother passed away and since then, Shalria tends to subconsciously associate their kind with negative experiences. Giants and Tontatta are considered interesting, with the former being thought of as exceptional servants due to their legendary size and strength while the little dwarfs are thought of as endearing but stupid due to being so easily ruled by the Ancient Donquixotes.

[panda-noosh]

Hi :) Idk if you still write to Voltron but if it's possible I'd love to see a Pidge x reader where Pidge meets her S/O at the end of the war. Pidge needs help to build a new thing that'll help Earth to heal and the Garrison put handles her that intesting person.

    This was too important of a job for Pidge to be distracted, and that was her first complaint.

   This arrangement was stupid. It was utterly senseless, considering Pidge had handled every other mechanism perfectly fine on her own - she didn’t need a second set of hands, didn’t need someone elses input when it came to the things she had been studying for almost her entire life.

    She told Shiro this on multiple occasions, but the man was paying her no attention whatsoever. He said she deserved the break, that some of the work would be put onto somebody elses shoulders so she could go about and have some time to herself - it almost made Pidge laugh.

   When had she ever needed a break? 

    She grumbled as she walked through the halls, arms folded over her chest and head ducked down. She was meeting her partner today, and it wasn’t anything she was excited for. Already she could feel her own hostility bubbling to the surface, and she was afraid that if she didn’t wind her neck in now, she was going to lose it the minute she opened the door. She just wanted to get a move on. She just wanted to dive in and start whatever project she had to start - Earth wasn’t going to heal itself. The people weren’t going to suddenly overcome their trauma after a few weeks. Pidge’s job was to help them, and yet here she was, stuck doing pointless business meetings that would have affected no one if cancelled.

   The doors of the ship slid open. Pidge took a deep breath in, settled her anger, stepped into the room-

   And saw you.

   Maybe that was the moment she shut down. She couldn’t really tell. As soon as her eyes met yours, the lines became blurred and things started clicking into place and Pidge didn’t realise she was grinning until you were awkwardly smiling back at her, lifting your hand in a tiny, shy wave that had Pidge’s heart fluttering all over again.

   She had seen you only a handful of times before, and neither of you had spoken during those times. Pidge would cast a glance in your direction, would try and catch your attention by doing the most Impressive Thing she could think of - but most of the time, you were much too absorbed in the work at hand to really pay Pidge that much attention, which was something she both resented and respected, all in the same breath.

    After the war, Pidge had always just assumed you’d gone back home to your family. She never would have thought in a million years that you’d want to continue with the work you’d started to help the war effort.

   And yet here you were, hands folded awkwardly in front of you as you waited for Pidge to say something, anything to get the conversation going.

    Pidge spluttered, trying to make her brain catch up with her mouth. “Y/N!”

   Your name. Your fucking name. She winced as soon as she said it, not surprised by the way your eyebrows furrowed together in confusion - Pidge had never asked your name before. The fact that she just came out and said it must have confused you to no ends.

    “I’m Pidge,” she said, trying to recover as quick as she could. “I heard we’ll be - uh - working together for the next few weeks.”

   You nodded. “It’s an honour on my part, Miss Gunderson-”

   “Oh god, please don’t call me that.”

    “S-sorry. Pidge. I’ve been a big fan of your work for a long time. A big fan of you and the other Paladins.”

   Pidge could barely hide her scowl at the mention of the other Paladins - she loved them like family, but when it came to you, she wanted your praise all to herself. 

    Nonetheless, she smiled. “I’m happy to hear that. I’m also a big fan of your work.”

   You frowned. “You know of my work?”

   “I know plenty about your work.” Pidge started towards the workshop, gesturing for you to follow her. You fell into step beside her, and Pidge had to physically stop herself from swooning over the scent of vanilla that came from your clothes. “I don’t know if you remember, but we were on the same ship together a few times. I never came up and introduced myself, but I saw you. You seem very passionate about this kind of thing.”

    You shrugged as if it was no big deal, as if contributing to the survival of planet Earth wasn’t anything to get worked up about.

   Pidge frowned, nudged you with her elbow. “I’m serious. You did some incredible stuff back there; stuff that was very important for the end result.” 

   You hollowed out your cheeks and looked away. Pidge could see you were growing nervous, but she felt the need to make sure you knew just how serious she was.

    “I don’t want to take any credit,” you replied. “The world would have gone to shambles if it hadn’t been for you and the Paladins - and Takashi, of course. What I managed to construct is a very small piece of the puzzle.”

    Pidge watched you. She watched the way your hands knotted in front of you as you spoke, watched the way you refused to look at her as you put your own hard work down for the sake of giving Pidge and her friends all of the credit.

   “Well, I don’t think that’s true at all.”

   Your head snapped round, startled. “What?”

   Pidge shrugged, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “I don’t think the Paladins and I should take all the credit. In fact, I don’t even think we should take half of the credit. The people working behind the scenes - people like you - were just as important to this as we were. We would have crumbled without you.” Pidge quickly caught herself. “Without people like you.”

    You swallowed thickly. Pidge watched your throat bob, watched you slowly turn away so you were looking at the approaching door. Neither of you said anything more as you shouldered open the entrance to the workshop and immediately headed into work, not casting Pidge a second glance.

   Pidge didn’t mind. At least, that’s what she tried to tell herself. There was an odd nagging in the back of her head, an odd urge to look over and check on you every few minutes. She was so used to getting lost in her work almost as soon as she got her hands on it, but you were a big enough distraction to rip her attention away from the task at hand, if for just a few seconds at a time.

    The two of you worked around each other for what felt like hours. Pidge’s hands were scratched and blistered by the time she finally slumped in her chair, packing in for the rest of the night. You had already applied four plasters onto your fingers when you slumped down next to her and groaned in a most out-of-character way.

   Pidge couldn’t help but grin, looking over at you. You were slouched on a bean bag, head tilted till it touched your shoulder, eyes closed. You looked utterly beautiful, ethereal. Pidge wanted to reach out and brush your hair away from your forehead, but instead opted for kicking her shoe into the side of your chair, very nearly tipping you over.

    “Go get some sleep,” she said. “You worked hard today.”

   You grumbled something incoherent.

   Pidge frowned, slowly sitting up. “Y/N, go to bed. We can finish this in the morning.”

    “A few more hours and it’ll be done,” you replied, eyes still closed. “Just give me another few hours.”

    Pidge rolled her eyes; she’d heard those words before, because they were the words she spoke almost every single time she had a project to complete; the idea of coming back in the morning was often too much for her to bare, so she needed to get everything done then and there.

   But hearing it from you, watching you try and lift your head up against the weight of your exhaustion - a protective side that Pidge hadn’t even realised was there slowly started showing it’s head, until Pidge was rising from her seat, wrapping her arms around your waist and swinging you up into her grip, bridal style.

   You yelped, eyes snapping open, hands winding around Pidge’s neck to stop you from falling. Pidge grinned down at you, holding you a little tighter.

    “Excuse me,” you hissed. “You look much too small to be able to do this.”

   Pidge winked. “You don’t become a Paladin without gaining a little bit of muscle in the process.”

    And that really was the start of something neither of you would have been able to predict. 

[anjagnorisis-blog]

Artist: Conor Oberst                                                                                      Author: Conor Oberst                                                                                    Album: Ruminations                                                                                         Year: 2016                                                                                        ��           Genre: alternative/folk/anti-folk 

 TITLE

 A “next of kin” (NOK) is a person’s closest living blood relative or relatives. It is a legal definition in the United States (where Conor lives). According to legal systems, in cases of medical emergency, the next of kin may participate in medical decisions when their relative is incapable of such. This term is not used anywhere in the song itself, except for the title. Its nature, related to legal issues (jargon), may indicate that the author wants to separate himself from the issues presented in the song (death, loss, hopelessness) by using a term which doesn’t necessarily have any emotional connotations in order not to feel sadness himself. He may also use it ironically to point out that people, when in difficult, life-challenging situations (such as death of a beloved person), are limited to the system and its bureaucratic procedures, having no room left for sentiment, nostalgia and pain. 

 VERSE 1 

The speaker admits to seeing a (supposedly) car crash on the interstate highway which moved him deeply to the point he couldn’t get rid of the feeling. The crash must’ve been fatal, with certain person(s) dead as a result, since he ironically points out that the dead person’s relative (next of kin?) must be notified, as restricted in a database. The speaker now reveals that he is, in fact, to notify the relative. He again admits that he feels uneasy as he doesn’t want to call that person nor inform them. Did he know the deceased? Does he know the relative? Or is he just as empathetic? He tells the relative that he has bad news and asks them to sit down to not fall unconscious (possibly). It’s worth to notice that the mentioned “interstate” sounds similar when pronounced to “intestate” which refers to the condition of the estate of a person who dies without having made a will or other declaration. 

 VERSE 2 

We now switch to a different scenery. We’re presented with an image of a bathrobe hanging on somebody’s bedroom door. It belonged to a woman who’s clearly a year gone by the time. Her closest one, possibly a relative, a man (a husband? partner? father? brother? A partner more than anyone else, given the image of a shared bedroom) buried her body by a sycamore, a tree which in Catholicism symbolizes clarity (Zacchaeus climbing it to see Jesus clearly among a crowd of people). The tree is a symbol of place in the lives of Catholics where they’re able to have a clear vision of Jesus, their savior. In Egyptian Texts, two sycamore trees stood at the eastern gate of Heaven. Between the trees the Sun God, Ra, showed himself each morning. It is believed that a sycamore tree and its valuable wood (often used to carve sarcophagi, or coffins) was a symbol of protection for the Egyptians during the journey from life to death. I think it’s safe to say that the author could’ve had both symbolic connotations in mind. He tells us that the man, grieving his wife’s death, buried her under the sycamore. By “the” & the following line we know it’s not a random one, but possibly a tree growing in their garden or somewhere near home, since the man wants to “keep his wife/partner close”, aka wants to have “the best view” to visit her grave often and to have it protected, near. We’re later told that “it”, the man’s partner’s death was devastating to him both emotionally and physically. It “made him old” which may refer to him changing physically (people’s hair, for example, can turn gray within seconds of a traumatic experience) or/and mentally (loss of a loved one is a life-changing experience which provides people with both trauma and knowledge). The man tries to “rebuild” something. His heart? His body? His life? His faith? but he can’t do it, because it deteriorates instead. He’s told by people that that’s the routine of life, that’s what happens - death is real and will affect you, everyone experiences loss, you can’t do anything about it, but he doesn’t want to deal with it that way, he’s unable to come to terms with it. 

 VERSE 3 

Now the speaker addresses the listener/reader. He tells us - “you” - that you can’t perform onstage when you drink too much. When a “star” is born something needs to die - he paraphrases the issue presented e.g. in Andersen’s tale “The Little Match Girl” where the protagonist is told by her grandmother that when somebody dies - a star falls from the sky. The speaker, possibly the author himself, knows the difficulty of being a known artist - drinking problems, the possible loss of one’s true identity which needs to “die” in order for their new image - “a star” to emerge, to please the audience. It doesn’t only need to refer to a musician/artist’s fate though, because one doesn’t need to be a singer to “perform” aka present, carry out, fulfill or accomplish anything. This verb may refer to any actions one can take, including the most basic ones. “Get too drunk” = make yourself unstable so you can’t do anything right. One thing also has to end in order for something else (sometimes better) to start. For us, for the speaker, for the author. For everyone. Later, the speaker clearly shows us his own perspective on the issues as he admits to having “spread his anger like Agent Orange”. Now, Agent Orange is a defoliant, most notably used by the U.S. military during the Vietnam War which caused major health problems for anybody who was exposed to it. By “spreading his anger” like a chemical the speaker confesses that he was open with his negative emotion in a toxic, contaminating and damaging way, to himself and other people, probably. He then admits that he did randomly, against the better judgment, as being “indiscriminate”, just like Agent Orange affecting the lives of Vietnamese people. He talks about how he met Lou Reed and Patti Smith (both valid counter-culture icons of the 70s, musicians and poets, self-taught and independent, charismatic) which didn’t have any crucial impact on him anyway. He thinks that yet another loss - of innocence, made him indifferent already. Also, you should never meet your heroes.

 VERSE 4 

Who’s a “she” mentioned at the beginning of the first line? That’s possibly the trickiest line of them all. A partner? A girlfriend? A mother? The aforementioned Innocence? She’s definitely known to the speaker and has the edge over him by “winning the fight”, possibly an argument or a game (like poker) by “calling his bluff” i.e. challenging the speaker to reveal his real intentions (like a card) to unmask him and show his weakness. “She” is smart and skilled. The speaker, as a result, runs away and notices the night has already begun. It is hot, too which can be unusual to some of the listeners since there’s no more sun at night thus the heat decreases. He points out that he has a lighter which doesn’t seem to work and admits that he shouldn’t smoke anyway. The lighter may symbolize the urge or possibility to do nasty things which never seem to work thus it’s better for the speaker to not continue on this path. He says he’s already on his way, “free to leave” as though he can go away already, not restrained nor limited anymore. He walks down the Bowery, fast. The Bowery is a street and neighborhood in New York City. The area was infamous for the number of low-brow concert halls, brothels, pawn shops and flophouses, welcoming all those considered outcasts or degenerates. This line can make the “she”-problem clearer then by adding more possible interpretations . A “she” can be a prostitute, an opponent in illegal poker game, maybe. The speaker cries and through his tears, yet another obstacle, he can’t see the road/path/way before him but he admits and assures us that he managed to get back home; to what’s familiar, close, near, comfortable and considered safe, known. 

 SUMMARY: 

Conor Oberst’s “Next of Kin” tells a story of loss and acknowledgement of it. A story of feeling lost and inadequate, nervous and anxious. A story of failing at living with pain. A story of losing innocence, purity and dignity. A story of understanding loss, facing up to it and finding a way to what is always there, sometimes abandoned and neglected - home. Our own sensible selves.

[blackgoddessofsassiness]

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