#Stygian Haven

[uwmspeccoll]

Typography Tuesday

The Ludlow Typograph is the overlooked younger cousin of the Monotype and Linotype type casting systems. Letterpress printers Steven and Meryl Chayt set out to demonstrate that the Ludlow is perfectly suitable to the production of fine press publications with their 1986 Anachronic Editions book A Ludlow Anthology printed in Winter Haven, Florida in an edition of 100 signed by the Chayts.

Here we show some presentations of Ludlow Ornaments and modern Ludlow typefaces from the book. The typefaces Stellar and Stygian Black were designed in 1929 by American designer and art director for The Ladies' Home Journal William E. Fink. Ultra Modern was designed in 1928 by Ludlow Typogragh typography director Douglas C. McMurtrie.

Our copy of A Ludlow Anthology is part of a gift from the estate of our dear friend Dennis Bayuzick.  

View other books from the collection of Dennis Bayuzick. 

View more posts related to the Ludlow Typograph Company.

View our other Typography Tuesday posts.

[nvthedasmode]

The Dread Wolf's Grave

Notes:

Very short one-shot fic inspired by the quote; 'They asked "do you love her to death?" I said, "speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life.'

Lavellan's name is Harellan, 'Raven' is Varric's nickname for her.

One of Harellan's nervous habits is rolling coins over her knuckles.

Set sometime during early Veilguard, Solas presumed to be at the Lighthouse rather than in a separate prison.

First ever fic! I am not a writer! I am just a lil guy with a lot of feelings!

And I am so sorry I have no idea how to write Solas and Varric lol.

-----

To say that Varric was uncomfortable was an understatement. It was one thing to ask a dwarf to live on the surface, another thing entirely to ask him to make himself at home in the Fade. Unfortunately, he had little say in the matter. The Veilguard had settled themselves within a deep pocket of the Fade; a safe haven from the blighted elven gods now roaming Thedas, and thus far it had proven to be a wise choice.

Their new home was where he emerged from now, and the morning silence (save for Bellara’s excessive snoring) was a welcome indication that everyone was still fast asleep. Or, at least, everyone but the one elusive elf he was looking for. Once he was confident he had not woken anyone up with his heavy dwarven tread, Varric’s footsteps established a leisurely pace as he descended the stygian steps weaving from the gilded door of the Lighthouse to the shifting island below.

The Dread Wolf’s corner of the Fade expanded before him, shimmering masses of Fade-touched rock floating across the enchanted vista as unhindered wisps of magic soared above him like stars against Kirkwall’s night sky. It was brighter, warmer, but still as commanding as the area of the Fade the fear demon had ruled. Some of the silhouetted islands in the distance would have been large enough to cast a city the size of Starkhaven into complete shadow, and some dipped deeper than even the oldest of thaigs. Smaller rocks housed old and ruined walls, frescos of the fabled wolf glowing faintly from the veilfire sconces and causing him to appear equal parts treacherous and feeble.

The littlest cluster of rocks presented an assortment of ancient elven … trees, Varric assumed. Their metal base gave way to a spherical head that sprouted sharp, golden branches. They wove intricate shapes that moved to shelter a gleaming emerald centre, glinting like fire. This group veered closer to the island he now trudged along, glittering vines with blossoms as large as ponds wrapping themselves around the jagged surfaces and reaching out to grasp their neighbour - a complex walkway of mystic bridges that connected the islands, forming an imposing jungle that served as a shrine to what once was.

Far above him, when he thought to look, Varric could have sworn he could make out the slightest shape of an azure city, light refracting across the landscape as if it was pouring through a window in a Chantry cathedral. The sight was often cloaked in a calculated mist, as though his eyes were intruding on an intimate scene between two lovers - but every time he rubbed his eyes to see it clearer, it had vanished.

Varric had learned that the island he had called home for the past few weeks could shift its appearance depending on his old friend’s mood. While the Lighthouse remained the same, often the Veilguard would wake up to see their interim home had a different garden to explore, each one shaped from Solas’ lonely library of memories. Sometimes there would be luscious fields of green, emerald blades swaying to a song none but they could hear as perfectly round drops of dew dissolved into dazzling specs of light. Other times there were seemingly never-ending pathways; rivers of crystal gems creating a map upon the island, waterfalls replacing cities and curious wisps building toy castles from motes of magic. Once, when Varric awoke in the dead of night (or as close as one could get to that, in the Fade), he peered out his window to see Solas strolling Skyhold’s grounds, his tired eyes never leaving the figures of Cole and the Inquisitor as they helped to soothe a dying woman lying by the campfire, clutching a fatal wound. Had Solas reached out to them, Varric did not know, for he had quickly retreated back to his bed to allow his old friend his privacy.

Today, as Varric disembarked the steps, the soles of his worn boots met an impossibly soft sand that shifted gently beneath his weight. Something resembling seashells dotted the ground, their surface gleaming and moving in a way that made them look more like creatures than collectible souvenirs. Out of baseless paranoia more than respect, Varric carefully picked his way across the fabricated beach to the towering figure in the distance.

Solas stood at the end of the beach, the ripples of the ocean creeping along the sand to stop just shy of the tips of his feet, as though magic itself dare not disturb him. He stood tall, gazing across his domain with an expression befitting his name as the manufactured breeze lifted the ends of his coat. Hands clasped habitually behind his back, a single gold coin rolled lazily across his knuckles, causing tiny spurts of reflected light to shower across his long fingers. Any reasonable dwarf back under the surface might have mistook it for magic.

“Good morning, Varric,” came his familiar voice. He spoke in barely more than a murmur despite Varric still being numerous paces away, yet he heard it as though they were standing next to each other.

“And here I thought it was only Rook who had to listen to your voice inside their head, Chuckles,” Varric shouted back, scowling half-heartedly when he saw Solas’ shoulders betray a small laugh.

Solas patiently waited until Varric had made it to his side before speaking again, finally turning his gaze to his friend with a playful smirk on his lips. “Ir abelas, I did not want to deny you the pleasure.”

Varric let out an indignant snort. “I’m starting to understand why so many dwarves stay below the surface.”

“To avoid speaking with me?”

“Now, now, I didn’t say that.”

“You did not need to,” Solas responded curtly. Varric was glad to see the smile still lingering.

At least he hasn’t lost his sense of humour.

The two fell into a comfortable silence, the sound of the waves crashing a few hundred yards ahead of them filling the space. Had he let his mind tune out for a moment, it would not have been unlike the mornings they had spent waking up to the sounds of the Storm Coast - Solas casting a protective barrier over the campfire before the Inquisitor burst into tears at the idea of going a single moment without her tea; Cassandra cursing from the edge of camp as she tried and failed to prove she could in fact approach a nug without scaring it away; Lace and Varric placing bets on how many more days it could rain before they all lost their minds. He wasn’t sure which put his back up more; being surrounded by suffocating grey and rain, slipping on lethal cliffs that never seemed to dry - or being in the Fade.

It was Solas who broke the silence first, as if sensing Varric’s unease. “How are you adjusting?”

Varric shrugged, stalling as he measured his response. It wasn’t in the nature of their relationship to lie to one another (or so I thought, he corrected himself), but he wasn’t about to start tearing apart his friend’s home either.

“I can’t exactly say I’m keen to settle down and start a family here, but I’ll give it to you - it’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” Solas sighed heavily, his eyes focused on something in the distance. “Imagine what it would be like without the Veil.”

“Chuckles, not now.”

“So, when would you propose-”

“I came here to talk to Solas,” Varric said morosely, feeling a pang of regret as Solas’ shoulders stiffened. “Not the Dread Wolf. How about you humour me, just this once? Then I promise we’ll go back to the uncomfortable ‘Child of the Stone’ and ‘Ancient Elven God’ dynamic.”

Solas silently met his eyes then, and the coin in his hands stilled as white knuckles wrapped around it tightly. Just like the painted walls on the islands floating around them, Varric could see his were tall but crumbling. Exhaustion and pain had sunk their bloodied talons into his sharp features, but under the wolf there was still the man. A friend that desperately wanted to get out.

“I’ve never been good at this sort of stuff,” Varric muttered, turning his gaze back toward the ocean, “but you left a lot of people behind. Good people, that missed you.”

“I am not unaware of that, Varric,” Solas replied. Varric could hear the sharpness to the tone, a warning that he should drop the subject immediately.

They both knew he wouldn’t.

“I mean, even Buttercup seemed upset - although she tried her best not to show it. With you gone, Cassandra became her next target for pranks, and we both know pissing off the Seeker is a dangerous choice at best - lethal at worst. I mean, I’m speaking from experience here.”

A quick glance to his right told him Solas was also very pointedly staring out at the ocean again, doing his best to look the picture of disinterest, but the ironclad set of his jaw gave him away. It always had.

“And Ruffles! I thought she would never stop accidentally adding your frilly cakes to the Val Royeaux order list each month. Eventually, me and the Kid-”

“Did you come out here with the intent to torture me, Varric?” Solas snapped, his proud mask melting away to pained anger as he pressed his eyes closed. His nose scrunched as he breathed through it, the waves that stretched before them stuttering and turning a sickly green. “Do you see me as so many of my People do? Do you also think me a heartless monster with no feelings?”

Against his will, Varric’s mind recalled his friend’s broken sobs as she read Sutherland’s reports about the monstrous demon that had plagued Skyhold. Her heart’s deepest regrets ravaging the place they had once called home, the scars of his past forever embedded in the old Inquisition fortress.

“No,” he sighed. “I don’t think that at all, Chuckles.”

Another deep breath from Solas. The water slowly began to settle once more, melting back to a cool, pure cerulean that would have made the painters at Halamshiral turn crimson with embarrassment.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“Remember,” Varric said shortly.

Solas opened his eyes to peer at Varric with confusion, and he could see the purple storm deep within them threatening to pour out and engulf the island they now stood upon.

Silently, Varric nodded to Solas’ hands, still held tightly shut as though he were frightened of dropping whatever was in them. Solas slowly unfurled his fingers, the gold coin nestled innocently in his palm, small dents pressed into his pale skin from clasping it so desperately. The purple storm observed it silently, eyes barely blinking as they stared.

“I saw you playing with it,” Varric said gently, feeling his friend was more a terrified Halla than the dreaded wolf in that moment. “Raven used to do the same thing, when she was nervous. Ruffles had to pry it from her hand when we went to the Winter Palace.”

Solas continued staring at the coin, his expression unreadable. “She gave this to me on the way to the Temple of Mythal,” he said tentatively, as though testing out the words in his mouth. Varric supposed this was the first time he had allowed himself to speak of her in years. “She said she had no need for it any longer, since she had …”

“Since she had your hand to hold,” Varric finished for him. “She said it loud enough for the entire camp to hear.” The memory almost made him smile himself.

A ghost of a smile tried to lift the corners of Solas’ mouth, but it faltered before it even began.

“I remember.”

Varric did smile then. I knew you were still in there, Chuckles.

“Do you still love her?”

There was barely a heartbeat before Solas tore his eyes away from the coin, wrapping his fingers safely around it once more before straightening to his full height and turning to look along the endless sands.

Varric felt the Fade change before he saw it. The sands before them rippled and swirled, floating smoothly into the air to reveal the harsh black rock of the island below. A deep shadow lurked over the area, a stark contrast to the vivid, colourful sky behind it. The sands shifted and formed a familiar image; tall swaths of darkness encircling a small enclave while a suffocating green mist rolled along the floor, catching Varric’s ankles and sending small tendrils up his legs that dissipated as quickly as they appeared. Paltry red spirits skittered around nervously, as if they were constantly running toward - or away from - something.

This was the graveyard from the Fear demon’s lair. Or - more accurately, Varric supposed - Solas’ memory of it.

There was a slight adjustment, however. Only one, solitary gravestone sat in the enclave. The stone it was made from looked sick, brimming with fear and unspoken terrors, its aura almost oppressive.

Varric approached it wordlessly. The words upon it were the same and yet not as he remembered - the elegant, smug carvings of the fear demon were gone, replaced by hurried, almost infantile writing that looked as if it had been carved with a very sharp claw.

‘Solas,’ it read. ‘Dying alone.’

It was only then that Varric saw them. A spectral version of Solas - his friend, Solas - appeared slowly from the darkness, smiling as he offered a gloved hand to the second figure that manifested. Harellan met his smile with her own, eagerly gripping his hand and laughing as he twirled her into his arms. The scarlet spirits, appearing to be calmed by the two newcomers, turned to watch, sweeping closer to the radiant scene that seemed to consume the darkness around it. Varric could hear the faint sound of a band playing from - somewhere? Nowhere? The memory of his friends didn’t seem to care, nor did they notice him or the cruel grave at their feet. They danced and looked at no one but each other, and Varric was irrevocably certain that they would dance forever if the world would let them.

The lonely voice came from behind him then. It was so thick with immeasurable pain that Varric could not bring himself to turn around.

“Speak of her over my grave, Varric,” Solas murmured, “and watch how she brings me back to life."

[flowersdiceandlove]

The burial mounds, a place of mystery, the place of the dead, cannot be comprehended by humans. It is a place warped by time and resentful energy and the intentions of those who inhabit it and who knows what else. It is sentient and has a strong will of its own. It’s said that no one can leave the Burial Mounds, and that is true as much as it’s not. The burial mounds keeps what is theirs; protects what is theirs. No one can escape from the Burial Mounds bc more often than not, once you enter, the Burial Mounds see you as theirs. It does not take well to people hurting and taking what is theirs. (And, maybe this is why a certain demonic cultivator was able to survive and leave that place. Maybe he understood this will and resentment bc he too would do anything to protect those he loves. For him as well, once he considers someone family, they are family. And nothing will change that. No matter what happens, his family is his family, and those under his protection are fully under his protection. They can see a kindred spirit in each other, and so the Burial Mounds let him go, knowing that he will always carry part of the Burial Mounds with him. The souls in his sleeves and the resentful energy he welcomes into his body. The boon that the Burial Mounds grants him.)

It is for these reasons that WWX knows to bring the Wen remnants there. Not only does he know he can defend them if needed in that place teeming with resentment, he knows the Burial Mounds themselves will protect them. It protects its own, and the Burial Mounds knows these people that WWX brought are his, so they are its. It’s as simple as that. And, the Burial Mounds likes it. It likes having these people here, milling about and carving a life on it. It likes how they turns its soil from barren to fruitful. It likes how they are happy and content. It likes being their home and haven. It will do anything to protect them.

When the first siege comes, the Burial Mounds try to protect what is theirs. These people who have made a home on it. But, they are all grieving deeply, and it’s beautiful child, the first to even understand them and want to make peace with them instead of destroying them, is breaking apart. He is breaking apart with the weight of someone who could not protect that which is most precious to him. And he has been breaking with this weight for months now, every day chipping another piece of himself away, every day pulling further and further into himself, every day driving him just a little more insane. The Burial Mounds have no problem with madness. They will still embrace him fully and without question, but it pains them to see him like this. They are all breaking under the pressure of what the world outside its borders do. This is no longer their haven, but now their place of imminent doom. It is only a matter of time until the cultivators attack. The Burial Mounds fights back as it always does to protect those that are its. But, some of these living cultivators attacking are family of WWX and it cannot attack family. And, it knows that even should he wipe all these harmful intruders out, that will not stop more from coming, and more after that. The Burial Mounds would fight every wave they send, but that is not the issue. The issue is that its people are grieving and breaking. The issue is that it cannot do anything to fix that and every attack will break their spirits just that much more.

So instead, the Burial Mounds decide to change it. As the cultivators pour in, the Burial Mounds pulls its energy from defending and into charging its intention.  Some of its people get cut down, but that is fine, it will still work, they do not have to be alive. Just as WWX is about to destroy the Stygian Tiger Amulet (oh, and look at their brave boy, but don’t do that, my child, it will tear you apart) a large pulse of resentful energy ripples out over the battlefield, shaking the ground and seeping into all that is theirs. The air and ground starts to ripple, unstable and warping like swirls of marble, until none can stay standing in this odd happening, toppling over, nauseous from the swirling. Those that are theirs are sucked into the soil, deep into its power, and it embraces them into its depths.

Then—

They open their eyes.

WWX is seven, on the streets of Yiling, and turns his head to the Burial Mounds so close by, calling to him. Come home, my child, it whispers. Come to me; I will protect you.

Wen Ning is eight and Wen Qing 14. They also look in the direction of Yiling—of the Burial Mounds. They too hear the call. There are gasps rippling around their home, and people bursting through doors, embracing each other, crying in joy. Eyes flick around at everyone. They know. All those that were on the Burial Mounds, as well as Wen Qing and Wen Ning remember. They know what Wen Ruohan is planning. They also know what will happen to their real family.

They go to Yiling. Just a few at first. They lost many people in their branch before they were saved by WWX, and those people are more than hesitant to go to that cursed place. Those that remember can’t simply leave them to their fates again. So, some go, while some stay. They will convince the rest later. When they arrive at the base of the Burial Mounds, there is already a large collapse in the wall surrounding it looking to be made recently. The paths open up for them as they start their ascent. The path is just as they remember, the corpses and spirits howling, but leaving them be. They know they are already part of them. Granny Wen and Wen Qing are at the front of the group, leading the way. Wen Qing wishes her brother was there, but that was not something their parents would budge on. They barely let her go, and only because Granny was insisting as well and promised to look after her.

They reach the clearing where their homes were, and there they are. Their little shacks that barely stay standing. The patches of land they’d tilled and toiled over. And there, perched on a tree stump by the side of the road is a boy, even smaller than A-Ning, covered in dirt and grime that can’t all be from the Burial Mounds, spinning a black, bamboo dizi in his tiny hands. He watches them with shining eyes and a large smile they’d know anywhere breaks out on his face, then—

He laughs. The boy laughs loud and clear and bright as he topples off the stump in his joy. Many of them join in the laughter as well. Amazed and in disbelief. Wen Qing, granny, and a few others rush over to the little Wei Wuxian and pull him into a crushing embrace. The laughter soon turns to wracking sobs as they all cling to each other and let it all sink in. 

They are alive. They are together.

And, they will make sure it stays that way.

The Burial Mounds hum around them, welcoming them home.

[chunkypossum]

Y’all wanna know some things that bother me SJM Books edition that lead to UNHINGED theories?!? : Obvious Spoilers for all of Sarah J Maas books …

*also, I told you these are unhinged thoughts, don’t come for me.. argue with your mama… just enjoy the ride.

- Why do we know the Bluebloods Matron name and not Blackbeak or Yellowlegs?

- And why does she share a name with the princess of Adriana in ACOTAR?

🧐

- Why is ACOTAR the only series in first person? What is Prythian hiding?

- And why is it only Feyres story? Nestas story is 3rd person but several different POV.

- What exactly were we not supposed to notice about the people or places Feyre saw or experienced that could easily be hidden in her 1st person POV?

🫣

- Why are feline descriptors used for everyone and everything , constantly?

😬

- The parallels between the library in the house of wind and the Torre Cesme

- Wombs

- Cats

- Darkness that stares back

- Haven for women

😉

- “I was never as good as I thought I was…” - Florence, but applied to Aelin- we gloss over the fact that she seriously considers conquering other worlds like wtf. What if Aelin, and hear me out, (I say this as I’m also on my knees for her bc she is my queen), is somehow responsible for the Asteri?

🤯

- 1. Briggs said, tugging on his shackles, “the only people I see on a daily basis are the ones who take me apart like a cadaver, and then stitch me up again before nightfall, their medwitches smoothing everything away.” 2. No injuries ever remained when she awoke. No pain. Only the memory of it, of Cairn’s smiling face as he carved her up over and over. 3. SJM:”what goes on on the dungeons might be too much, poor hunt Ruhn and baxian”… IM JUST SAYING.

🥲

- Ruhn shares a name with the mountain ranges in Erilea. Is he named after them?

- Perhaps his a nod to his mothers home.

- The ruhnn mountains are where the Stygian spiders made their home after they split with their sisters on the southern continent

- Handmaidens of Maeve who has VIOLET STARRY EYES,

- like Rhysand…

- Rhysand who looks like Ruhn….

- THE PIECES ARE THERE BUT HOW DO THEY FIT?

🙃

- When Feyre has visions/dreams of Amarantha in ACOTAR Rhys sees them…. When he recounts his story in ch 54(ACOMAF), why does he imply he didn’t know who she was dreaming about? He would know Amarantha wouldn’t he? In her dreams it was woman with red nails … we never get that little detail about Amaranthas looks. Why? Was it her? Or someone else?

👩🏻‍🦯

- Cresseida, briar, Cormac… these are not common names so why the hell does she use them in more than one series?

🙃

Of course I can’t forget the classics….

- WHAT DID LORCAN DO?!? 👹

- And where the fuck is Vaughn? 👹

[helluvaoutlaw]

Seems like you travel alot. Betcha you have you a long list of the best places to eat, especially the places that room and board you. Where are your top 5 places to eat in Hell?

I'll do more: I'll give ya TEN great places where to eat, sleep and hide from the law in general.

Here's my top ten list, startin' from the worst:

10 Pandemonium Pub & Inn:

Set in the Gluttony ring, the food was great but I couldn't get ANY sleep because they kept playin' fucking loud music all night AND day.

Great if you're a party animal, not so much if you're an hired assassin and need sleep.

9 Abyssal Alehouse:

This one's set in the Envy ring, great view of the ocean, but constant bad weather and gloomy atmosphere.

Not only that, but water kept dripping from the ceiling of my bedroom, and I hate cold and humidity. Good soup, but they never told me WHAT exactly was in it. Creepy.

8 Stygian Pub & Inn:

Also set in the Envy ring, this one had really good rum, but they could've done more with the fucking HEATING.

Seriously! What's their problem with warm temperatures??

The food could've been better and the bed had a stupid, goddamn water mattress...which got pierced by my horns. Ugh.

7 Malebolge B&B:

Set in the Greed ring, good breakfast and decent beds, but it costed WAY too much for a simple Bed & Breakfast.

Also, I kept hearin' people shooting and bank alarms goin' off.

6 Hellfire Haven Inn & restaurant:

Set in the Pride ring, a little too fancy-looking for my tastes. Nothin' special, to be honest.

5 Havoc Hideout:

Now that's more like it. This is set in the ring of Wrath, and they make delicious chili dogs and privacy is always guaranteed.

4 The Fiery Furnace Tavern & Inn:

Set in the Gluttony ring, this one had the best stakes I've ever eaten. And it was warm (finally!), but there was a riot every evening. Not that I'm complainin', but after a while, it gets boring.

3 Eternal Flames Motel:

You can find this one in the Wrath ring, great rooms, great view, great beds. Discreet, silent and it was clean, so good service, too.

2 Perdition's Hotel:

Ahh, now THIS place is somethin' alright... it's in the Lust ring, and the "service" is top notch, along with the food and the bedrooms. The first three blowjobs or handjobs are for free, and there's a jacuzzi in every room.

1 Brimstone Lodge:

Of course the best of them all could only be in the Sloth ring.

Let's be honest, if ya are in need of rest and relaxation, along with good food and great service, this place has it all: air conditioning, wi-fi, soundproofed bedrooms, peace and quiet, discretion...and free drugs, if you want 'em.

Great lake view, not a fan of pink, but it doesn't matter.

[britishcounty123]

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[whelved-in-words]

a devil with a warm embrace

a devil with a warm embrace beckons me in with a string of lies hanging from a rod of bait

and into the stygian abyss of his being i enter

a home of black smoke polluted with wisps of a scorched past.

it curls around me,

a suffocating blanket of protection and danger

a haven of sweet violence and a cocoon of morbid moments.

i wrap it around my body so tight that it cuts me to the marrow and coils around my heart

my lungs

my intestines

and adulterates my internal walls with his tendrils of blackened fumes.

and thus, when i exit his poisoned void at last,

i never have to say goodbye,

because wherever i go,

he comes too.

[radioactivepeasant]

Part two:

The vehicle bounced over the rocks, kicking up a plume of dust behind it. The occupants grimaced, but it couldn't be helped. Strider Range was one of the harsher places in the Wastelands. It was just a little too far from the Cacomiztli river for any reliable water sources, and only the desperate would risk drinking the acrid fluid collected in the local cactuses. The soil was hard packed, not the loose dunes of the Stygian region that wrapped around the island from the coast to the first six miles inland, and visible dust plumes were inevitable.

"Signal's close," the driver, a large, bald man with a truly impressive mustache, shouted over the growl of the engine. "You reckon the beggar's alive still?"

In the seat beside him, a weatherbeaten man stared down at a scanner with hard eyes.

"The beacon went off two hours ago. They haven't moved towards the Cacomiztli since then, they went northeast."

He shook his head, sending little flares of light bouncing around the jeep where the sun glanced off of five metal spines or horns implanted in his skull.

"We're getting too close to Turquoise Canyon. The odds of the metalheads leaving any leftovers are slim."

A man in the back of the jeep stopped fiddling with his eyepatch for a moment and made a disgusted sound in his throat. "Poor sap," he remarked.

The signal led to a trio of boulders just in sight of the Great Volcano. Poor soul. Whoever had activated the distress beacon, they'd stopped only a mile away from being able to see the Lighthouse.

The three Wastelanders stepped out of the vehicle and moved cautiously forward, weapons at the ready. It was not unheard of for the southern Marauders to kill one of their scouts and steal their beacon to lay an ambush.

The driver spotted the bodies first, and cursed.

"Ah, Volcan's bits! Those ain't Wastelanders, that's Havenite gear!"

All three men recoiled, scanning their surroundings with renewed suspicion. The city-state of Haven was usually wise enough to keep their greedy fingers off of the Wastelands. Finding Havenites in Strider Range was either a sign of exile, or a bad omen.

"This flotsam wouldn't have set the beacon off, right?" the driver muttered to his companions.

"I'm going to take a look."

The horned Wastelander slung a wicked-looking staff off his back and eased closer.

"Wait, sire!" The one-eyed Wastelander hurried after him. "What if it's a trap?"

"Then their fate is on their own heads," the king retorted.

Upon closer inspection, the strangers definitely weren't Krimzon Guard, which probably meant they were exiles. But it was too soon to let down their guard. Two humans and two animals lay propped against the boulders, where they had no doubt relied on the shade of the early morning. Pity it hadn't lasted long. The sun now beat down on a gangly figure with green hair hanging down over their face in limp curls. A second figure, far smaller -- too small -- lay beside them, so covered in red cloth that no distinguishing features could be seen. If not for the gentle rise and fall of their chests, they could easily have been mistaken for corpses.

"Looks like we've got a couple of live ones," the king called over his shoulder. He prodded the taller one's boot and scoffed when it elicited no response. "Well. Barely."

His eyes fell from the tangles of half bleached hair to a beacon in the dust beside the Havenite.

He glared down at the offending device. Beacons of this style were made and produced solely by his city. His people. There was absolutely no good reason for a citizen of Haven to be using one, unless they had killed one of his people.

"Lord Damas, I don't like this," the man with the eyepatch called, edging forward. "Can we just go?"

In one quick movement, the Wastelander king gripped the Havenite by the channeling ring strapped to their chest and heaved them upright.

"Where did you get this beacon?" he demanded, "Who did you steal this from?!"

The stranger's head flopped back weakly, and Damas nearly dropped him in surprise. Without the hair to obscure his view, he was looking at a young man -- just a boy, really. Not even old enough to have more than a patch of peach fuzz on his chin.

"Hell's bells! It's a kid!" The driver took a step back. "Haven's throwin' out kids now?"

Damas scoffed. "It's Praxis. Why does that surprise you?"

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "The sun blisters on this one are pretty ugly, but not the worst I've seen. Kleiver, get him in the car. See if he'll answer some questions with some fluids in him."

With a mildly disapproving harrumph, Kleiver stumped forward and hoisted the boy up over one shoulder.

"It's your lucky day, punk," he grumbled, and hauled him back to the jeep.

Damas stooped and scooped up the two animals that had been using the boy's shadow for shade. One was an orange, rodent-like thing he'd never seen before. Almost like the endangered swamp rats once found throughout northern Haven, but not nearly as ugly. The other one-

The king scowled. Oh, he knew this creature. It was a seer's familiar. It could hold much knowledge, or great malice. Only time would tell which.

"Drake. Here." Damas passed the animals to the third man. "Try to get them to drink some water."

Drake cringed at the sight of the moncaw.

"That is one ugly-ass bird," he said flatly.

He had a far more favorable reaction to the rodent thing.

"Oh, look at this little fella! Huh. He's soft, too. Hold on, little guy, we'll get you fixed up."

Drake turned back to the vehicle, talking to the unconscious rodent in an embarrassingly babyish voice. Damas smirked and rolled his eyes, then turned to examine the last figure. His wry grin fell as he took in a tiny hand inching out of the cloth wrap.

"Oh. Oh Rot!" he breathed, and dropped to his knees beside the tiny figure.

There was a knot in his gut as he pulled back the material shielding the face, wondering why he was filled with dread.

Oh gods, no-

For just an instant, he was a haunted man.

He saw round, flushed cheeks, vivid blue eyes. Damp curls plastered against a little brown face. Dark green, just starting to bleach at the ends.

Damas squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again.

No.

The face hadn't changed. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t!

It's not him. He's too old. But his eyes- oh Precursors!

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the tiny boy raised his hand towards Damas. It faltered and fell weakly against his face. Then, peering up through glazed eyes, the child gathered his strength and formed his hand into a sign.

"Daddy?"

Damas’s heart leapt into his throat.

Who is this child?!

He knew at least one sign of a language invented in his city -- the city-state of Spargus -- but he was left in the Strider Range with a Havenite.

Damas bundled the child into his arms and attempted to calm his racing heart.

Time was of the essence.

"Kleiver, get the engine going!" he shouted, "This one's delirious!"

"Holy-!" Drake scooted over to make room in the back for the second boy. "That's an entire baby! Who exiles a freakin' baby?!"

Ignoring the space provided, Damas slipped into his seat and kept his grip on the half swaddled child.

"Water," he ordered tersely.

Drake handed a flask up as Kleiver gunned the engine. They all knew that getting back to the city quickly was a matter of life and death now. The mystery of a Havenite kid having a Spargan beacon could wait.

Damas glanced between the feverish child in his arms and the limp teenager in the back of the jeep.

"For your sakes," he said, "I hope you have the willpower to survive."

Fic Prompts: Free Day Thursday

We return once more to the Meddling Mar au, in which Jak’s childhood self and the Explorer uncle messed with the time map and got back to Haven after only 5 years had passed. Now we move from the end of Jak 2 to the beginning of Jak 3

Jak didn’t struggle when they came to arrest him.

He didn't fight back when he was handcuffed and dragged into an air train, even though he could have slaughtered every one of them in a second.

He didn't even protest. He was in shock.

Everything he'd been through, everything this city had subjected him to, and now they were throwing him away.

He'd been taken from whatever poor fools brought him into this world, kept under Samos’s thumb as their weapon in training. Handed over to Errol to be tortured into their perfect monster. Sent into battle before he was even physically mature. And now that Kor was dead and the Precursor Stone was beyond their reach, Jak had outlived his usefulness. Even Samos seemed to think so, keeping silent during the sham trial.

Of course, Jak had also wondered if that was retribution for his defiance of the old man.

How long he stood in the hold, glazed over and shell-shocked, he couldn't guess. What finally broke him free of his trance was a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Discreetly, Jak shifted his stance to give him a better look. That couldn't have been who he thought he'd seen!

In the very back of the hold, near the hatch to the cockpit, two crates full of emergency supplies were kept locked to the floor. Most air trains had them -- one in case of a water landing, one in case of crashes. A small, round face peeped out from behind the crates, locked eyes with Jak, and ducked down again.

It took every ounce of Jak’s self-control to keep from stiffening.

Mar?!

[[MORE]]

What could have possessed him to stow away?!

Wherever they were going, Jak hoped there would be a place for Mar to escape-

The ramp lowered, and Jak's heart sank.

The sun was rising over a dusty expanse of nothing. This was dry desert, with barely a hint of life outside the perversely vibrant cactus dotting the horizon. Already heat shimmered between uneven towers of rock, like a portal between sweeping dunes and hard scrublands. Jak stared into this gateway to hell and understood then why they'd pulled him from his hammock in the middle of the night. This wasn't actually a banishment. This was an execution.

Ashelin shot him a worried look as he was dragged from the ship into the rising heat, but she said nothing. Jak locked eyes with her, ignoring Count Veger's smug reading of his "sentence".

Please- he tried his hardest to convey without a sound, Don't let him do this.

"This is a death sentence and you know it," Ashelin spat, "At least have the guts to admit to that."

"Your protests were overruled!" Veger looked far too smug. "This dark eco filled...thing is far too dangerous to run free."

He flapped a hand at the guards holding Jak.

"Drop the cargo!"

"Overruled by who?!" Daxter demanded, interrupting what promised to be an overly verbose protest from Pecker. "We want a recount!"

The count turned with a sneer. "Oh? I see you wish to join him?"

Predictably, Pecker immediately backpedaled. Jak tuned out his patronizing suggestion to "drink lots of water" -- did the birdbrain see any water around here?! -- and made urgent eye contact with Daxter.

"Go back to the city, Dax," he said sharply.

Don't die out here with me. I've gotten you into enough trouble. Don't leave Mar alone.

Ashelin wouldn't meet his eyes as she released the handcuffs.

"I'm sorry," she said half-heartedly, "The council is far too powerful. There's nothing I-"

She looked away, clearly embarrassed by her own meager apology.

"I know," Jak answered dully.

Can't overrule an entire city if they all want me dead.

He blinked and looked down as something was pressed into his hand. It was a beacon of some kind, already activated and flashing. What was-?

She's...trying to help me?

"You just stay alive," Ashelin said brusquely, "That's an order. Someone will find you, I promise."

She took a step back, then reluctantly turned back to the shuttle.

"Oh, and don't worry about the poor little Heir you've been dragging around," Veger purred, looking down his short nose at Jak.

"Freed from your deplorable influence, he'll be able to meet his full potential under my tutelage."

Jak tensed.

That's what this was about.

It wasn’t about him!

Well, it was. The other him.

Veger was after Mar.

Mar wouldn't be safe in the city if he went back.

Jak’s eyes flicked from Veger to Ashelin to Mar, and then to Daxter. He saw understanding in his best friend's eyes. Daxter understood the risks too. The ottsel was going to have to be ready to fight the instant they made it back to Haven.

Keeping his hands low, and his movements small, Jak spelled out take the kid to Sig. Stay safe.

The ramp began to rise up as the engines roared to life, and Jak pulled his scarf up to block the plumes of dust raised by the turbines. He heard a cry, then several more shouts; surprise, indignation, or anger, he couldn't tell. A small hand slipped into his own, and then he was being pulled towards the rock turrets.

"Don't look back!" Daxter's voice rang shrilly in his ear as a familiar weight landed on Jak’s shoulder. "Junior jumped out before I could stop him! Run! Run before Velcro turns that ship around!"

"This is madness!" The unwelcome voice of Pecker grated on Jak’s ears. "What are you doing?!"

Relief was overpowered by anger in that moment. That stupid kid! If he'd just kept his head down and stayed hidden, he and Daxter could've had a chance to escape! Now all four of them were going to die if they didn't find water and shelter!

Jak darted through the space between the rocks -- the one he'd thought of as the gateway to hell -- and pulled Mar to the side with him.

Mirages shimmered across an expanse of rocky soil and cactus plants-

"Ay! I told you not to touch that, my love! Look at your finger-"

Jak blinked, and the memory dissipated like smoke. Where had he heard that before? There weren't plants like this in Haven. And while there were plenty of thorny growths in Sandover, the phrasing didn't sound like anyone Jak had known.

Beside him, Mar held up a hand, fingers splayed, and squinted at it as if trying to read it. He tilted his head, then frowned and dropped his hand.

"Can't see the lighthouse," he said with a dejected look.

"Lighthouse? What lighthouse?" Daxter asked.

The little boy shrugged expressively. "Don't know. I know there's a lighthouse in the Wasteland that's supposed to save travelers, but I don’t know where it is."

Well, a lighthouse meant a lighthouse keeper, and that meant shelter. It was better than wandering aimlessly under an unforgiving sun until their legs gave out, anyway.

The boys picked their way between haphazard piles of red rock and scrubby bushes, seeking shade. Now and then, Daxter stopped to try to scrape dew off the leaves, but it was barely enough to wet their tongues.

All the while, the hum of the air train grew louder.

They needed to hide.

Jak scanned the rocks with gritted teeth, silently praying that one would have a cave or recess. There wasn't enough dark eco in his body to transform: if he had to make a hole in the rocks, he'd have to do it under his regular power. But not here. They were too close to the air train.

"Pecker," he said sharply, "Fly up."

"And let them -- raaawk! -- spot me? No thank you!" the moncaw snapped.

Jak picked up the bird hybrid and bodily tossed him into the air.

"Fly. Up." He glared at him. "Look for shelter, or anything that looks like people live there. If the air train is far enough away, we'll run for the next rock tower."

Daxter frowned. "We won't be able to do that for long," he warned. "Remember how tired we got just crossing the magma gorge back in Sandover? I got a feeling this heat is gonna really take it out of us."

Already sweat rolled down their necks, taking precious moisture from their bodies. Jak slipped his goggles down around his neck and unwrapped his scarf. Every fiber of his body told him that he was going to regret this decision, but what choice did he have? When the full length of the cloth had been shaken out -- some two feet in all -- he draped it unceremoniously over Mar's head.

"Cover up. That's about the only shade you're going to get out here."

Mar wound the scarf around his neck and face twice, but the excess still fluttered down over his chest. Just as well. That was more of him to be slightly shielded from the sun. Mar wrinkled his nose and gagged behind the scarf.

"Smells gross," he complained.

Jak ignored him and set about tying his hair up into a makeshift knot on top of his skull. If he could keep it off his neck, his body might be able to cool off a little more efficiently, but he couldn’t guarantee it. When finished, he set his goggles back in place and scanned the horizon with them.

We're on our own, now.

[emsleyanbluejay]

🔥🎨, and for the wild card ask: can I preen adri's wings. Pretty please.

🔥: Which system members are the most chaotic?

This feels like a fucking cop out but. Khaos and Little Prince. The former just wants to say curse words and steal my food, and operates on Eldritch Roger Rabbit Logic, and the latter has decided that all lizards (here meaning anything vaguely reptilian) belong to her and that Wrath as a domain should be given to her since Mischa doesn’t want it. She also just says some absolutely buckwild shit.

🎨: Favorite colors?

Blue: deep purple, edging on black

Sol: i am a blue-blood for a reason, you know.

Echo: i’m just a hot pink bitch

Escort 97: gunmetal.

Haven: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Mischa: Red. Fuck off.

Bellamy: i’m sure you know at this point, love~ (it’s fucking purple, the asshole.)

Little Prince: green! yellow-green!

JT Thirteen: anything muted.

Adri: deep gray (iirc? come back here so i can ask you, motherfucker)

Khaos: ;} stygian blue and magenta

Poet: Midnight blue

The Maverick: Maroon.

Hisaya: I don’t want to answer this question. (why not?) I don’t want to answer this question. (it’s because it’s black, isn’t it?) *blushing angrily* I don’t want to answer this question.

(Aster, Specter, and Schrödinger not included because they don’t really have opinions on that kind of stuff)

🃏: Can I preen Adri's wings. Pretty please.

if he were here, i know he would love that. social preening is one of the things he misses most about heaven

[sedehaven]

Dance with Me (Gertrude's Plea)

Let me dance you through

the veil, and feast you in

our crimson silence.

My darling, my sweet,

let me taste your salt–

your life.

I can give you time–

suspend you like

a dandelion in glass.

Beautiful, even after

the cities of men crumble

like bone in the crucible

of my need.

I can give you stygian blue

and every other color hidden

from mortal eyes. I can give

you the scent of winter snow,

the light musk on a young girl’s

wrist and throat. I can give

you the rustle of silk, the soft

spread of legs like petals,

I can teach you the

fingerskim

across frightened skin–

pulse thump beneath

hands warmed by young

lust.

(Your thighs blush, crimson creep

as light as our dance steps.

My love, let me. Just a taste.)

Surrender, my love, and dance

with me. My rosebud darling,

my moonlight love. Dance,

sweet one, dance with me

to the veil and beyond,

Christabel. To all that

lies beyond.

-- S. E. De Haven

[rosewind2007]

Would love to see someone complete this!

Across:

1. SM friends who might help with 5A (7)

5. Towards the least paperwork? (5)

8. Grown big, ate large meal and then razed to the ground... (9)

9. Stygian underworld contains Mesopotamian sky god! (3)

10. MB isn’t “over the moon” about such a group of words (5)

12. They set on fire! Sounds like abuse (7)

13. Near a safe haven, satellite transmits drama series (9, 4)

15. “So shines a good deed in a ———- world” (7)

17. Infatuate the greatest to embrace nothing (5)

19. ART is baffled by sailor (3)

20. ART, alone, very confused about the speed of light: arsehole (9)

22. PA bot was son of Fundin, born in Erebor (5) (edit damn you autocorrect!)

23. No saint, with strong drink, making snake-oil (7)

Down

1. Mobile unit, female, time I put on casual clothes (5)

2. Perihelion rises up against TERFs? (3)

3. Vending machines only in the galley? Possibly. (7)

4. Anacronyms out of fashion for popular media? (9,4)

5. Raider has head cut right off! That’s a help! (5)

6. A hot smoke billowing around carcasses hanging from these (9)

7. Chadwick discovered a sort of star (7)

11. Idling, certainly not out for war (2,7)

13. Wrong! You tag a hay-fever drug. (7)

14. Baby emergency response system comes out with utter gibberish (7)

16. Even this valiant effort includes an unusual proper name (5)

18. Confused mutual losing article in Mayan ruins (5)

21. A calumny upon Peri’s name, to blacken it thus? (3)

[wuxiaphoenix]

A Long Road Chapter 12 Ficbit - Time To Panic

“Hanguang-jun will be fine.” Wei Wuxian didn’t open his eyes.

“He has people who care about him here, too. When I closed the bond between them, Kellen panicked. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t care.” He breathed out. “Lan Wangji’s made it weeks inside Valdemar without setting them off screaming about blood-mages. And politics will be Nie Huaisang’s problem. We need to take care of our people now. Whatever’s wrong with the Nie sabers... the Nie Sect are supposed to be righteous cultivators. So it won’t just be a resentful energy problem. We’re going to need a capable cultivator to help. And that means your sister.”

Wen Ning nodded. And did his best to calm down. First things first. They had to get out of the palace, and then out of Haven.

Which... was going to take a while. Fortune had been with them in that it was dark, making all the Yiling Patriarch’s concealing shadow-magic more effective. And Companions were fast - but at least for a short distance, Wen Ning was faster. Lan Wangji and the maze array had kept the Heralds distracted, and one moment of distraction was all they needed.

At least to get this far... calm.

This far was fine. More than good enough. Companions’ Field was large, and mostly empty for the night. There were plenty of places to hide, most of them much more obvious than this little fold of earth. They should barely need any magic to lay low and wait. Once the guards relaxed, and whatever Heralds were going to be unleashed on Haven bolted through the hidden door, they could use the door themselves. Or leap the wall. Or, if Cousin Wei was feeling particularly mischievous and they thought they could risk it, just pass for servants and walk out the gates.

Wen Ning had to look aside at that thought, biting back a giggle. Because it would be funny. It really would.

But if they were going to pull that off... they had to be calm. So he had to reach inside himself; reach, and try to soothe all the anger burning through him, so it wouldn’t ripple down their bond and set off Cousin Wei’s own buried fury.

It’s so hard. And it’s not fair. Master Wei hid it so long, and now - now everyone in the Jianghu will know he’s coreless. Mediocre. Someone who can never walk the sword path again.

If the Great Sects knew that - they wouldn’t care about the Yiling Patriarch’s deadly cultivation, or the Stygian Tiger Seal, or all the ghosts and fierce corpses of the Burial Mounds it could summon. All they’d care about was that a civilian, a mediocreman, had threatened them. Had shown a power that made righteous cultivators treat him with respect, and fear. The Great Sects couldn’t live with that. No sect could.

[hunxi-guilai]

Ah! I am mxy anon! My first part was about how wwx getting mxy's body sort of parallels jc and the golden core (only the intent is not as benign). Which when I thought about it, sort of reduced my frustration with wwx regarding mxy? Because to me, wwx was sort of dragged without consent from his peaceful death (which given his cultivation is maybe a you reap what you sow) into a body which is essentially a ticking timebomb, which is only diffused through, well, murder.

(follow-up to the last paragraph of this post, thematically related to the Mo Xuanyu section of this post, and in response to the tags on this gifset)

So I agree with you anon, in that Mo Xuanyu’s calling-back of Wei Wuxian’s soul absolutely mirrors the golden core transfer -- highly experimental, vaguely forbidden magic used to catapult the plot into a new dimension of oh shit, we’re going there? Consent issues everywhere you look? Motivated by at least one party’s desire for revenge? Check, check, and check.

I wish that we could’ve seen Wei Wuxian’s feelings on his resurrection explored more; there’s an excellent post out there somewhere that talks about the tonal differences between Wei Wuxian’s death in MDZS vs. CQL, but what’s important to note is that in MDZS, Wei Wuxian’s death is an active sacrifice, a final, powerful move full of agency where he chooses to destroy the Stygian Tiger Seal as best he can, and is torn apart by the backlash. Meanwhile in CQL, we are gifted with an unparalleled wangxian moment, but... Wei Wuxian’s death feels very passive, in a certain sense -- there’s this feeling of inevitability, like he’s been backed into a corner with nowhere else to go. What should I do? he wails, when he wakes up in the Burial Mounds in episode 31. Who can tell me what I should do? Already, he can feel the jaws of narrative closing in on the paths he can take.

I personally don’t have strong preferences for either version; what I’m more interested in is what Wei Wuxian’s mental landscape looks like when he comes back from the dead. MDZS!Wei Wuxian went down fighting, so his mischievous energy and vibrant vivacity when he comes back to life makes sense. But CQL!Wei Wuxian? CQL!Wei Wuxian wanted to die, and I think that makes such a huge difference in how we should read Wei Wuxian’s relationship with Mo Xuanyu’s sacrifice.

Ah, let me clarify the thoughts behind this part of the earlier post:

I’m actually kind of frustrated with Wei Wuxian for not looking into Mo Xuanyu more; I mean, I get it, you have a murder mystery to solve and a world order to topple, but I feel like Wei Wuxian, our empathetic pioneer of demonic cultivation, and likewise a victim of his own choice to pick death as the way out of a bad situation – Wei Wuxian, of all people, should care about who Mo Xuanyu was.

I meant this less as “Wei Wuxian is morally obligated to care about Mo Xuanyu” and more like “it’s extremely out of character for Wei Wuxian not to care about Mo Xuanyu.” This is the man who looked at a bunch of prisoners of war from a sect whose laundry list of crimes includes the massacre of Wei Wuxian’s childhood home, the loss of his golden core, torture, and throwing him into the Burial Mounds. And yet, despite all of this, Wei Wuxian looks at the Wen refugees and goes against the entire cultivation world for them, goes against Lan Wangji for them, leads them into the one haven he could think of which was yet another site of intense trauma for him, helped them build a new life and looked about himself and decided that yes, this was the hill he was going to die on (literally, in the case of the novel).

Wei Wuxian is so profoundly empathetic, from both his cultivation technique to his inability to watch injustice come to pass before him, that I cannot believe that he would come back to life and go “oh cool, new body! better pay off the mortgage on it in revenge” and just go on his merry way. 

This is the man who willingly engages in Empathy -- already a risky cultivational practice -- with multiple unrestful ghosts throughout the show (A-Qing, Nie Mingjue, and in the novel/audiodrama, the ghost of a prostitute in the Guanyin Temple). Yes, Wei Wuxian generally performs Empathy in order to get important information about whatever mystery they’re trying to unravel at the moment, but more importantly in doing so, Wei Wuxian becomes the medium through which untold stories can be told. 

Murder will out, and its voice is Wei Wuxian.

Voice is an incredibly important theme in CQL, especially when considered in context with the themes of legacy, reputation, and narrative. Again and again, the story asks -- what characters are allowed to speak, and what characters are silenced? Luo Qingyang/Mianmian, when she erases herself from the narrative, says you’re all louder! you’re all more rational! and storms out of the cultivation world; the entire story of Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan crashes down around an inability to speak, the forceful removal of voice. We learn, then: if no one hears your story, then no one will avenge you, no one will defend you. If no one knows that you’ve been wronged, no one will raise a hand to correct the injustice done to your life.

Through Wei Wuxian, A-Qing gets her story told. Nie Mingjue gets his story told. And yet, despite being there from the beginning, in more ways than one, Mo Xuanyu never gets his story told. 

Not in his own voice, at the very least -- we can piece together the outline of a life from the clues other characters drop, but we never get to hear Mo Xuanyu tell his own story.

I should mention that my frustration revolving around Mo Xuanyu’s character has less to do with Wei Wuxian and more to do with the narrative itself, and how it treats Mo Xuanyu -- namely, as little more than the plot device to bring Wei Wuxian back to life. We are given so little of who Mo Xuanyu was; pretty much everything we learn about him comes from the mouth of someone else, and in a world where reputation is shown to be an extremely fragile, fickle thing, I would hate to let my understanding of Mo Xuanyu begin and end with “gay and crazy.” Who was Mo Xuanyu, before Jin Guangyao got his hands on him? How much of that Mo Xuanyu was left, after he was banished? Did he actually try to seduce Qin Su, or Jin Guangyao, or was that all rumors and hearsay carefully cultivated by Jin Guangyao to make sure no one listened to a disgraced outcast?

For that matter, why didn’t Jin Guangyao just kill him, if Jin Guangyao needed Mo Xuanyu gone for good?

Likewise, what happens after Mo Xuanyu returns home? Folks have pointed out that, in order for a Wei Wuxian-looking-Wei Wuxian to successfully masquerade (hah) as Mo Xuanyu, Mo Xuanyu would have to spend years on the long con of wearing make-up, obscuring his features, wearing that godawful mask, so that the switcheroo can happen and no one notice (I diagnose Mo Xuanyu’s cousin with terminal stupidity and would you look at that, I’m right because he’s dead). But for Mo Xuanyu to pull off that kind of deception involves lengthy forethought and dedicated execution, which for me raises all sorts of questions about Mo Xuanyu’s mental state. How is it that he could execute a lengthy revenge plot, years in the making? What exactly was his flavor of insanity? Was it even real, or again -- another one of Jin Guangyao’s rumors?

I saw a super cool theory/interpretation of Mo Xuanyu’s mental instability as aftereffects of Jin Guangyao’s musical cultivation -- that Jin Guangyao, in addition to destroying Mo Xuanyu’s reputation, also royally fucked with Mo Xuanyu’s mind in the same way that he pushed Nie Mingjue over the precipice of sanity and into qi deviation. Which could mean that, in his journey to resurrect Wei Wuxian, Mo Xuanyu had to fight the fragments of his own mind to maintain continued concentration and focus long enough to do what needed to be done, which would mean holy shit, Mo Xuanyu is metal as fuck. 

And yet, all we’re told is that he was gay and crazy. Forget his shattered aptitude for cultivation; forget his iron will, his flashes of genius, his unprecedented success on the level of Wen Qing’s golden core transfer -- he paints his face! He likes men! He harassed the Chief Cultivator, and/or his wife!

And as for the blood... god, there’s so much blood. I’m always wondering what happened to Mo Xuanyu, but especially in the context of the ritual that brings Wei Wuxian back -- what happened to Mo Xuanyu. How many tries did it take him to get the ritual right? How many times did Mo Xuanyu lie, bleeding out in his own array, wondering if the next person to wake up in his body would be him, or another wronged soul he’d never even met? How many times did Mo Xuanyu rehearse his own death, and promise to himself that his vengeance was worth it, even if he’d never live to see it?

Mo Xuanyu deserves better. Mo Xuanyu deserves another chance, the way Xiao Xingchen does. But most of all? Mo Xuanyu deserves to have his story told.

[sarah-maclean-completist]

MacLean has often professed her interest in the worst of the romance heroes, the absolute scoundrels and the nearly irredeemable men, infamously embodied by Derek Craven in Dreaming of You by Lisa Kleypas; so much so that she and Fated Mates podcast partner Jen Prokop have declared February 2 as Derek Craven Day. She’s written her own fair share of incorrigible heroes, including Ewan, Duke of Marwick, from Daring and the Duke, and Malcolm Bevingstoke, Duke of Haven, from Day of the Duchess. She seems to take particular delight in compelling these cads down the path of reformation, puncturing their bombast, prying open the clamp on their feelings and forcing them to grovel as they work their way toward the emotional growth necessary to be worthy of the women they love. She’s a master at the romance novelist’s game of Break the Rake.

Given such a predilection, it’s a pleasant surprise that the hero of Bombshell is the rake’s opposite. He’s the man with a heart of gold who has endured the darkest of circumstances. MacLean spins 180 degrees away from her Stygian-hearted cad in the Bareknuckle Bastards trilogyand gives us the cinnamon roll who can’t seem to stop sacrificing himself for others: Caleb Calhoun.

Sarah MacLean’s Riot of a Romance is Quite the “Bombshell”

[judgeitbyitscover]

The Child Thief (2009)

Peter is quick, daring, and full of mischief—and like all boys, he loves to play, though his games often end in blood. His eyes are sparkling gold, and when he graces you with his smile you are his friend for life, but his promised land is not Neverland. Fourteen-year-old Nick would have been murdered by the drug dealers preying on his family had Peter not saved him. Now the irresistibly charismatic wild boy wants Nick to follow him to a secret place of great adventure, where magic is alive and you never grow old. Even though he is wary of Peter's crazy talk of faeries and monsters, Nick agrees. After all, New York City is no longer safe for him, and what more could he possibly lose? There is always more to lose. Accompanying Peter to a gray and ravished island that was once a lush, enchanted paradise, Nick finds himself unwittingly recruited for a war that has raged for centuries—one where he must learn to fight or die among the "Devils," Peter's savage tribe of lost and stolen children. There, Peter's dark past is revealed: left to wolves as an infant, despised and hunted, Peter moves restlessly between the worlds of faerie and man. The Child Thief is a leader of bloodthirsty children, a brave friend, and a creature driven to do whatever he must to stop the "Flesh-eaters" and save the last, wild magic in this dying land.

Krampus: The Yule Lord (2012)

One Christmas Eve in a small hollow in Boone County, West Virginia, struggling songwriter Jesse Walker witnesses a strange spectacle: seven devilish figures chasing a man in a red suit toward a sleigh and eight reindeer. When the reindeer leap skyward, taking the sleigh, devil men, and Santa into the clouds, screams follow. Moments later, a large sack plummets back to earth, a magical sack that thrusts the down-on-his-luck singer into the clutches of the terrifying Yule Lord, Krampus. But the lines between good and evil become blurred as Jesse's new master reveals many dark secrets about the cherry-cheeked Santa Claus, including how half a millennium ago the jolly old saint imprisoned Krampus and usurped his magic. Now Santa's time is running short, for the Yule Lord is determined to have his retribution and reclaim Yuletide. If Jesse can survive this ancient feud, he might have the chance to redeem himself in his family's eyes, to save his own broken dreams, . . . and to help bring the magic of Yule to the impoverished folk of Boone County.

Lost Gods (2016)

Fresh out of jail and eager to start a new life, Chet Moran and his pregnant wife, Trish, leave town to begin again. But an ancient evil is looming, and what seems like a safe haven may not be all it appears . . . Snared and murdered by a vile, arcane horror, Chet quickly learns that pain and death are not unique to the living. Now the lives and very souls of his wife and unborn child are at stake. To save them, he must journey into the bowels of purgatory in search of a sacred key promised to restore the natural order of life and death. Alone, confused, and damned, Chet steels himself against the unfathomable terrors awaiting him as he descends into death’s stygian blackness.

Slewfoot: A Tale of Bewitchery (2021)

A spirited young Englishwoman, Abitha, arrives at a Puritan colony betrothed to a stranger – only to become quickly widowed when her husband dies under mysterious circumstances. All alone in this pious and patriarchal society, Abitha fights for what little freedom she can grasp onto, while trying to stay true to herself and her past. Enter Slewfoot, a powerful spirit of antiquity newly woken ... and trying to find his own role in the world. Healer or destroyer? Protector or predator? But as the shadows walk and villagers start dying, a new rumor is whispered: Witch. Both Abitha and Slewfoot must swiftly decide who they are, and what they must do to survive in a world intent on hanging any who meddle in the dark arts.

Evil in Me (2024)

Aspiring musician Ruby Tucker has had enough of her small rural town and dysfunctional family. But a falling out with her best friend and bandmate has killed her dreams of escaping and making it big in the Atlanta punk scene. While helping her eccentric neighbor organize his religious relics, an ancient ring clamps down on her finger―possessing her with the spirit of a blood-thirsty demon. There’s no getting it off unless hundreds of people chant a spell to set Ruby free. And what’s worse, the ring is a beacon for evil, drawing an unimaginably wicked mob straight to Ruby, hungry for her flesh. If Ruby can get her band back together, she has a shot at salvation. It's time for her to face the music and put her whole soul into a song―one powerful enough to raise some Hell.

Child Thief (2009)

Krampus: The Yule Lord (2012)

Lost Gods (2016)

Slewfoot (2021)

Evil in Me (2024)

Authored and Illustrated by Brom

[britishcounty123]

Best honeymoon resorts in Munnar | Resorts near munnar

Tucked away in the lush embrace of Best Resorts in Munnar entice visitors to experience the splendor of a bygone age of British rural living. These establishments seamlessly blend the charm of colonial aesthetics with the allure of modern comfort, creating an immersive retreat for those yearning to traverse the landscapes of tranquility. Elegance Redefined at British Country-Themed Retreats: Step into the realm of refined simplicity, where the symphony of nature harmonizes with the meticulous architecture of British country the best resorts in Munnar. Exquisite lawns, artfully landscaped gardens, and quaint cottages stand as living canvases, painting an idyllic picture reminiscent of the tranquil English countryside. Each resort serves as an eloquent testimony to a time when sophistication melded seamlessly with nature, crafting an atmosphere that beckons both the discerning traveler and the adventurous family. Familial Bliss in the Lap of Luxury: For those in pursuit of a family-friendly haven, these resorts in Munnar offer a sublime fusion of comfort and recreation. Expansive family suites, adorned with vintage embellishments, provide a cocoon of opulence after a day of exploration amid Munnar’s breathtaking vistas. Children frolic amidst well-manicured gardens, while parents find solace on verandas, savoring the timeless beauty that envelopes the hills.

Affordability Unveiled in Stygian Luxury: Indulge in an escape without the weight of exorbitant budget resort in Munnar , where the fusion of opulence and economic prudence transcends conventional expectations. Charming cottages, offering panoramic vistas, accompany intimate dining spaces and personalized service, redefining the paradigm of budget accommodations. Here, frugality intertwines with luxury, ensuring an indelible sojourn that transcends financial constraints. Episodic Enchantment in Every Nook and Cranny: Within the confines of these resorts, every nuance narrates a story. From the antique tapestries that grace the reception to the gastronomic creations inspired by colonial culinary traditions, each facet encapsulates a dedication to storytelling. The walls echo with whispers of yesteryear, inviting guests to immerse themselves in the episodic charm of Munnar’s British country retreats. Unveiling Munnar’s Enigmatic Majesty: Beyond the ornate thresholds of these retreats lies the enigmatic majesty of Munnar’s natural splendor. The undulating hills, veiled in ethereal mist, embrace valleys adorned with tea plantations, creating a tapestry of serenity. Guided nature sojourns, avian expeditions, and cultural excursions provide an avenue to delve deeper into the region’s allure, transforming your stay into not merely a retreat but an odyssey into the heart of Munnar. In summation, Munnar’s British country-themed resorts are not mere accommodations; they are gateways to an era of elegance, nostalgia, and natural grandeur. Whether you seek a family-centric refuge, an economically judicious retreat, or simply aspire to bask in the novelistic allure of the hills, these establishments await, poised to script unforgettable chapters in the narrative of your Munnar experience.