#The Wandering Isles - The King of Fools | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lyculuscaelus · 2 months ago

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A Delicate Copy

(AU; a pretty old one-shot, finally got the time to upload it on tumblr)

Nobody greeted him “morning” this time.

He woke up on an unfamiliar beach. The sand felt different—coarser than the one he used to sit on in those last seven years. The air smelled misty, unlike the clear sky that used to embrace most parts of the island with her warm arms, a cycle lasting for seven years. He saw the trees growing in bloom, but they did not remind him of his homeland—for he didn’t find that forest anywhere, nor did he see his beloved Mount Neriton. There were only mists, mists that used to arise from the wine-dark sea, mists that used to hide the face of death where gods were lurking, mists that used to give way to the warmth of a cave, in the past seven years.

And that was when he finally realized he was lost. Again.

The tired mariner crumbled on the beach, and sobbed.

He didn’t check what his tears were made of, for he knew there was nothing but pain in them. Pain as found in the glimmering reflection, pain as found in himself. Twenty years of pain condensed into one single teardrop, and he held up his hands to wipe it from his face.

But he sobbed still.

He did not see the herd of sheep coming. He did not see the young man cloaked in a kingly air walking. He sobbed until he felt himself melting, and that was when he stopped, for his sorrow had brought him burning rage. Rage for an unjust promise.

“Where did the Phaeacians send me? What country have I come to this time?” he roared, clenching his fists. “Why did they leave me here—with all this treasure I cannot protect? Have those Phaeacians not promised me to send me home—to my homeland where I came into being? And now what foreign land is this? Those idiots…they did me wrong indeed. May Zeus, god of suppliants, grant them a punishment that is only too proper for them…but for now, let me just count these gifts, in case some of them happen to be missing.”

And so he counted. The tripods seemed untampered, and the cauldrons looked fine. Gold and silver, and all this splendid clothing—surprisingly, he found nothing missing. Then he rose to his feet, and again he wandered, on this unfamiliar beach, with a heart much-enduring he let out another wail of sorrow, another stream of tears.

And then, the young man came forward. A cloak across his shoulders, A spear in his hand—the tip seemed somewhat strange—the young shepherd stopped, and regarded him curiously.

“Friend,” he addressed the young shepherd quickly, wiping out his tears when his eyes were not coping. “You’re the first one I see here. Will you promise me no harm, if I greet you with open arms? For I’m entreating you, like I would a god, to save me, protect my goods, and keep me in good company. I’m begging you, as a friend on his knee. Now please tell me everything, so I can understand—what country have I come to? What people have I met? Is this a sunny isle, or a headland of the mainland reaching out to sea?”

“Stranger—are you a fool? Wait no, I don’t think you are, so you must be a traveler from a distant land,” the young man answered him, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But I’m sure men from different places have all heard of this island—because of its fertility? Maybe. But it’s a rugged place not fit for herding horses. You can find crops and grapes here, though, but it’s not like they’re uncommon. So I suppose it’s because of its heroes—stranger, do you happen to know the great Argonaut Laërtes, or Odysseus the sacker of cities? This is where they come from—such a place well-known, for I’m sure even lands far as Troy would still recognize the name ‘Ithaca’.”

He twisted his head, searching for memories. Ithaca—a name he had whispered so many times, to the goddess waiting in her cave, to the king sitting on the Phaeacian throne, in the songs he had sung in his pleading. He felt his lips lifting as joy swarmed up in his chest, but something about this place seemed strange…it still felt foreign to him, for some reason.

So he answered carefully. “Ithaca—a famous name indeed. I’ve heard of it even in wide Crete, somewhere far across the sea. Ah, so I’m finally here in person, with all these goods of mine. But there is more that I left when I fled from my city, when a dear son of Idomeneus fell to my own hands, for that swift-footed Orsilochus wished to take away the spoils I had won at Troy, for which I had suffered so much already—in the devastating war and on the dangerous sea. We struck him when he was heading home—me and my companions, with my bronze-tipped spear I ended him. But then I ran off to a ship, paying some Phoenicians to get me to other lands—I’d hoped they would take me to either Pylos or Elis, but the winds did not heed our command. And then here I was, worn out by exhaustion, laid low by sleep. But when I woke up, I found them all gone—and now it’s just me, alone with all my goods, here on this foreign land, seeking help.”

The young man smiled, and replied with a hand reaching out to his left shoulder. “Surely, Odysseus, one’s cunningness must be so wily if he is to outwit you—even for a god.”

He felt a jerk in his heart. How would a young shepherd like him see through his disguise?

“Yes, I know who you are—that pair of eyes I have indeed seen and heard of,” the young man continued gleefully. “But come now, Odysseus, do you really think there will be a celebration party waiting for you here? No, you will find troubles in your home, and I fear even you cannot defeat them this time.”

“What trouble are we speaking of?” Odysseus asked tentatively. “Then again, something feels wrong about this place already. If it is indeed Ithaca you’re speaking of, I don’t find any evidence—”

“You’re always thinking like that, aren’t you?” the young shepherd giggled. “No wonder people call you polymetis. Anyone else would’ve rushed to meet his wife and children—but not Odysseus. No, he’d test everything with trickery first, then he’d observe his wife himself, seeing if she’s still the Penelope he knew of—the answer is yes, even if you’d like to see for yourself. She still remains your wife—though not for long. At this very moment there are one hundred and eight suitors reveling in your house, spending your wealth as they wait for your wife to reconsider her marriage—a proposal she’s been denying for three years straight.”

He felt delighted, somehow, knowing that Penelope remained his own, even when he didn’t belong to Penelope alone anymore. For days he had been wondering if Penelope would find comfort in the fact that she didn’t have to wait for him any longer, and now…he could finally find out for himself.

“As for this place,” the young shepherd continued, pointing to the west. “I bet you can’t recognize it because of all this fog—it’ll probably disperse any moment soon—see? Now it’s gone.”

And then Odysseus saw it—Mount Neriton, where the forest was verdant; Phorcys’s anchorage, with an olive tree standing at the harbor head; the Naiads’ cave beside it—where one would make sacrifices to the nymphs to grant their wishes. And as Odysseus beheld everything, he fell to his knees, kissing the fertile ground with great passion, and held out his hands towards the nymphs with an utterance of prayer. The young man watched him with interest. But when Odysseus finished his prayer, the young shepherd replied. “Now let’s not delay but put these goods in some hidden corner of this sacred cave. Then I’ll tell you all the details about the troubles in your house before you go.”

And they brought them all into the cave—the shining bronze and gold, the fine clothes and all other gifts—and then they worked together to move a rock in place to block the entrance. When they had finished their work, the young shepherd was the first to speak. “Now, Odysseus, you can begin to plan for the suitors’ demise. That is a task I cannot assist you—but know that you can always trust your swineherd and your own son. So, stop by his house before you head for the palace. You can learn about everything that transpires in your house there.”

Then the shepherd gestured to him to go.

And Odysseus nodded with gratitude, then walked away. He didn’t notice how the young shepherd stared at his back, how a smirk revealed itself on his lips, how he slowly walked up, a spear in his hand, and all of a sudden—

Odysseus found himself falling to his knees, his back bleeding.

And then the pain suddenly struck.

He knelt down to the ground, gasping in surprise and anguish. He barely caught a glimpse of the young man pacing beside him, as the shepherd finally spoke. “Well done, Odysseus, you have left your back open.”

“Why…why are you doing this?” Odysseus growled, his voice failing. “Who…are you?”

“A son you never had,” the young man smiled ominously.

“Te…Tele…?”

“No,” the young man cut him off, looking away in disgust. “No, you’re the farthest thing I have to a father.”

“But…but why?”

“Touch your wound, and you’ll find your answer.”

So he stretched out his right hand with effort, and found the wound he did. Strangely, he did not see any red stained on his fingers—for there was no blood at all. Instead, a drop of water dripped from the tip of the finger, falling towards the sands. “What is…happening to me?” he hissed.

The young shepherd pointed at him with the spear, letting slip his words with wings. “I see you’re a good lier…but not as good as him. I know what you are at first sight—a shadow, a counterfeit, a phantom made of cloud—”

“What?” he exclaimed, his eyes wide open.

“Yes, you’re no Odysseus of Ithaca…” the young shepherd crouched down, lowering his face of mockery. “You’re nothing but a mere eidolon—of the man who is supposed to be here. I see you’re sharing his memories, his wits—but the thing is, you lack his spirit. The heart of a man is built upon hardships he endured, not hardships he remembered. For him, it’s been nineteen years since he had seen his home; but for you, it’s been twenty-seven days only.”

“How could you possibly know?” he snarled, ignoring his pain. “Who are you to judge my memory? The things I recall—the things I feel—They’re so real to me. I can smell the scent of gore as faces of men were smashed against the walls in that Cyclops’s cave, see the rays of Helios diminish as we entered the realm of Hades, hear the war-cries as we clashed with the Trojans…I have felt the pain of losses. I have known fear. I have suffered and sailed through the toughest of hells…and now you’re telling me that all these memories are nothing but fancy?”

“First of all,” the young man rose to his full height. A cloud of gold suddenly enshrouded the shepherd. The next thing he saw, the one standing before him had become a tall woman, armed with a panoply, her spear blazing. Upon her helmet, the red crest seemed as if drenched in blood. On the face of her shield, the head of a Gorgon stood out menacingly.

“…Athena?”

“I am to judge as I say so.” the woman allowed a smirk on her lips. “Second, no, these memories aren’t your fancy—they’re just not yours to begin with. Third, you are far from the man you’re trying to impersonate. For that reason, I have no use for you to clean up the mess here in Ithaca. Now, look at my eyes and tell me—where is Odysseus?”

He gasped, and raised his head painfully. His strength was failing him. “But I am…Odysseus.”

“Don’t keep fooling yourself. What you bear with you is not yours, and I cannot let you take what he has from him—his form, his memories, his sufferings…and his wife, his son, his family. I cannot allow you to have your ‘revenge’ while the real Odysseus suffers still,” the goddess glared at him, her eyes gleaming with rage. “I’ll ask you again—where is he?”

The pain was working its way through his veins as he once again crumbled, this time breathing rapidly as he felt his life slipping away. He had never felt the brink of death so close to him…but then, what remedy could he possibly find to appease the rage of a goddess?

Goddess…

“I don’t know…I’m sorry…” the words sounded softer than a whisper. He knew that death had finally found him—a sacker of cities, a man of twists and turns…

…a shadow of this man, at least—

—he accepted his death like accepting his identity.

He did not see the fluttering waves, forming a near-smirk on the face of the sea.

He did not see the goddess of wisdom plunging her spear into the sands, calculating new wiles for her scheme.

He did not see the wife of Odysseus weeping by her loom, wherein a shroud had been woven, her time run out finally.

For at that moment, he had drawn his final breath already.

All of a sudden, the fallen body melted into a rising cloud, erasing any trace of recognition. A gist of steam rose up silently, taking away one last sign of its existence. Staring at the emptiness where a phantom of Odysseus had once laid, Athena already knew her answer.

“Calypso.”

…………………………………………………………………………………

(TW: implied SA)

He beheld the daylight blankly, trying to blink away the memories of the last five days. Or the last few years—the number had already lost its meaning here.

But he’d never thought the goddess would be cruel enough to lock him up in the cave for five days straight. Five days without sunlight, five days without fresh air, five days without mourning by the sea, whispering hopes of his homecoming.

The door was only opened when he was in need of food…or when the goddess was in need of him.

Why don’t you just close the door forever, and trap myself in? Why don’t you just leave me here dying of hunger, or simply suffocating?

Is it really necessary to open the door again?

Odysseus shook his head, continuing his walk towards the shore. He didn’t turn to see if the goddess was following behind—he couldn’t care anymore. It wasn’t even the goddess herself who freed him—he just woke up finding the door open, and took his chance. And now he had finally come out, no goddess in sight.

I’d rather die than let you take possession of me. It’s a thought he had whispered on the first night, when he was asked into her cave. When he was forced into her cave. Only now had he realized, he had been so simple, so naïve.

He did not die, but he had been her possession ever since.

Sometimes he would just hope that the goddess would be merciful enough to simply let him die an Ajax’s death. Sometimes he would think about casting himself into the neighing sea, wishing for an end to all this misery. But he would always restrain himself whenever he thought of Penelope. He just couldn’t leave her waiting forever.

“But you already did,” sometimes he could hear the goddess’s voice answering. “You failed your comrades already. What makes you think you won’t fail your family?”

Is that really her voice? Or is it just an illusion? He could no longer tell the difference. Reality had become the nightmare he woke up to, and he couldn’t find solace in his dreams either.

It’s as if I’m dead inside…

But deep down, he knew he was dead already. Dead to the mortal world he knew of, dead to the people he loved and cared for. If anything, at least he was not physically dead yet.

But after five days of that kind of treatment…he only hoped to be long dead before then.

What are those five days for?

He had no answer. Although…some trees did appear to be missing. He’d always notice it whenever there was a tree missing. It was like an instinct, something he had trained himself when he used to garden with his father. But that memory had seemed so distant as Ithaca itself—so hard to access now.

He had just reached the shoreline when he noticed a spot on the sea.

Is that…a raft?

A raft in full sail, steered by a person with an oar, three large sacks beside them…

But then he saw the goddess, waving at the person on board, a pleasant smile on her face, as the raft slowly sailed away. The person on board—a man, as he saw that now, his face seemed rather familiar. It was as if…

Wait.

Is that…me?

Odysseus almost called, and stopped himself in fear of the goddess. That man didn’t seem to notice him, but instead turned towards the brightening horizon, a brave new journey ahead…

What on top of Mount Neriton is going on here?

But then he found the goddess approaching. The smile on her face had somehow turned malicious, and Odysseus wasn’t sure if he’d want to find out why. The goddess walked up to him, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Now that he’s gone,” the goddess looked beyond the wine-dark sea, beyond the lands and islands that had composed his wanderings, then whispered gently to his ears. “It’s like I promised, Odysseus of Ogygia: we shall have our eternity.”

#fun fact: after the day of Hermes’s visit Odysseus built his raft in four days and left on the fifth according to the Odyssey #so if you do the math here in this AU #you’ll find that the “five days” of imprisonment Odysseus was referring to here start from the day when Hermes came #so in this AU the real Odysseus didn’t even know Hermes visited in the first place—so he never knew there was a chance for him to leave #anyways thought you might like to know if you’re reading this :D #odyssey fanfic #the odyssey #greek mythology #fanfiction #fanfic #odysseus #odyssey au #writeblr #writers on tumblr #Lyculī scriptiōnēs #tw: implied sa

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hunterontheedge · 3 months ago

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So how's Cereza and the rest of the Underhero cast doing in Realmia?

Wonderful question... let's see! (Sorry this took a while! I was doing all of the art for this post... lol)

Queen Alexandria II and King Timothy still reside in the Moth Forest, which, now sits a fair ways away from the Golden Settlement in Bugaria. A fairly recent trade has been established between the Ant Kingdom and the Moth Tree, too! There have also been invitations, yet... Alexia can't go. The forest stone has become bound to her and has caused quite a few problems. As in there is a tree growing out of her back, making flying much, much more difficult. A solution is being searched for! But in the meantime, Timothy stays alongside her and they live happily.

Greg, Bella, and Handy are still on adventures! Greg also frequently checks back on the manor every now and again (he sometimes parties with the sentries and blowies). Though they'd initially loved exploring warmer climates, the frost stone had bound itself to Greg and he can no longer stand the heat (much to his dismay). However, Bella feels reassured; having seen Sheercold wandering about put her mind at ease. The group roams the frigid region they're located in rather aimlessly, but it's awfully nice to have company in one another.

El Salserissimo [WHIPCRACK] has made himself quite at home on Luncheon Isle! Plenty of ingredients to go around, and much to fool with! His passion for cooking is admired by the residents-- and his bond with the lava stone is actually quite handy when he needs to get a fire going! The Don is indeed, very content with this new life! Though, he still stays in touch with everyone else-- most especially Mr. Stitches.

Speaking of the devil himself, Mr. Stitches retired from his cartography job but decided to keep sewing, regardless. He'd made the faux pillars in his room, plenty of blankets... whatever keeps him housed, honestly. Not that his right hand would allow him to be evicted. He tends not to go outside, as someone he holds a rather strong grudge against remains a common household name.

T. Bur works as one of the royal scientists. He finds his job really fun, as he has wonderful coworkers, plenty of mysteries to solve, and no remnants of the past linger just at the edge of his sight. Bur is most fond of Alphys, as they can relate to one another's circumstances but also happen to have similar interests! Mystery solving aside, he has a fairly casual life!

and...

...well. She's not really human anymore.

#underhero #underhero spoilers #<- vague but also technicality #realmia #white responds to the wall

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libidomechanica · 1 month ago

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A wanton and walked with thine arms into

Misfortunes lot the riches old. Thy gloom will sit beside a loth farewel, and in my own. Isles love begets, then, the household flowers felt his pleasant music the happy he who look’d upon me; whom no scandal could find your hate

I doe a Devil turne. Beat like a hawk, an’ wi’ her love like books’ gay coveringly—O dearth of human foot, and dishonest speech each on each. Of covert flowery meads th’hill’s shadow falls in the square fast where overfed. In please,

enough to early risers after than his woe. Sometimes the cost of varnished from his sweet soul with speed.—Now thou doest watching his forehead woos? If I lay here dead, wouldst print more, for love, I think me some two and twists the really promise

for my bride, till the original of tender tribe who surrenders, survives. A wanton and walked with thine arms into the best can she guess’d how long must I be a criminal. We ha’ cheated things more than not that are snug a

we-see poem, a they-love poem. Glance thrown, a thorn; it looks very captain’s side this brow, but when obstinate silent night. Wild bird, and the frosty air is always asking me from many had lovers look’d profound; some ne’er presume,

though I despair of my cure, do you beware the qualities. No Caspian could not heed my lonely wander far in other line: so long a-gone, whose cool it among them to your dimpled arms that you loved you I could be most dainty

Ariel’ and perplexes, until I heard it—the king his foe he’d laugh and swell thee stands erect this flake of truth; a smooth as those which that you overlooked and worse. And down swelling songs, the smoulders, warm their language holds the domed

and better Death, for better at the heard it—the wind; in winged eager, on he hies through accoutrements, pitiful in my breathed with crimson mouthed shells; or than Hermes’ pipe, when new wonders—past there. Three I am amazed you start, and

shoulders withoute stoon? Doubtless it is possibilities I love is fire, which so long in wealth goes to a Jew; both senates see the woes of self- doing crime. You must like the hawthorn’s blossom winks through what does Pity here? Which governs

me to overcomes you, you the warriors! When will dare to plunge them hovering to the weary winter’s ragged mawkin, thought t was. And bring a sweater with a dribbed shot, loue gaue the woodbine leave to go.—The man who lov’d—and music

of the Banquet—none in love doth keepe. We drive through our brain so wild! Music I hear in the midmost and then, how rich to me, your eyes turned about the degrading details I have sworn an oath that which thereof gate in the side. Itself

sees not yet a thing, she is a handsome, noble, rich, more Foole for all noble birth-pangs o’erpay. To charm from yours, and I see the spot to which reconciled; and that our delight takes in darkness, some sudden thee; yet eyes would name, and,

may be, now! While the floor chalk mimics painted beauteous hill of hooks question? That which don’t know what I know it: when they pass’d the pale lips; she hates remoue. Forth from the Isles love me, Love! Life, have power to madden thee; and merry larks on wings

were mine. Shut up each hissing by, behold another nation; but suffers changed forest of honest man. Is not Ida do that her so well I see that leads so oft amiss ladies do now and Cool grass, and sighing vaults.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #196 texts #ballad

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demonicintegrity · 3 years ago

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Remember when Luz found the ice glyph through the snow? And how there’s a was slight possibility the isle itself was revealing magic to her. And since then she’s routinely figured out glyphs and magic by interacting with the isle.

The isle itself. The Titan. King’s father.

The Titan sees this human girl that’s wandered into their world, their corpse, and doesn’t think much of it in their afterlife. But this girl comes to mean so much to his(? Do we even know for sure the Titan was a dude other than King’s assumption? Do Titans even have a human/demon/witch’s concept of gender???) son, the precious child he likely died trying to protect. And through whatever power The Titan’s spirit might still have, he will try and protect her. Because unlike the woman that took King in, she was struggling to keep her head in his world.

But now she’s stronger. She’s a proper part of King’s family. And now this fool who was parading his name and spirit in vain is now threatening her and her world more and more. There isn’t much spirit left, but he will use it to protect the family his son has come to love so dearly.

#toh spoilers #the owl house

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morihaus · 3 years ago

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Folklore

Two apprentices make their way to the shore of the Isle of the Wise, basket and blanket in tow, already chattering away with one another. Although the College of the Sapiarchs has a reputation its rigorous and cutthroat academic atmosphere, even its most studious pupils are encouraged to take reprieves from their works, if not for their own benefit then for the benefit of the hardworking staff, those who have earned their own breaks from instructing and professing, as well as those who have important duties and research of their own to attend to.

Runalenwe and Pannolaire each possess their own cutthroat reputations, so it is with some surprise that their peers observe them taking these personal allowances of unstructured time not to get a leg up on their competition, but to get out from the halls of learning and into the natural splendor of the wild. They always take their breaks together, ostensibly to keep an eye on their most spirited and contentious academic rival, but also in the spirit of camaraderie; even as they have butted heads over their decades-long apprenticeships, they have found themselves rather transfixed on one another, interested, entertained, some might even say 'enamored.' It's true that they might consider themselves lovers, but they were not young or carefree, rather their love was ennobling and constructive, a means to an end- they would say- and all the fun they have along the way is merely incidental.

Runalenwe reaches what she considers a good place to rest, a nice shady spot under a tree, waves lapping at the shore before them. She unfurls the bright sheet they've brought at, inviting Pannolaire to take her seat before her, to which the other woman smiles and sets herself down very prim and proper. As Runalenwe joins her, she sets their woven basket down beside them, and continues on with their line of dialogue.

"Quite the ambitious project, a catalogue of Tamriel's famed magical artifacts," Pannolaire says. "Was her 12-page dissertation on the Flask of Lillandril not enough?" Her dark crest of brown hair seems to shimmer with life in the sun's light, as does the dress of decorative feathers and scales that she's donned instead of her apprentice's garb. Her companion thinks she cuts a figure rather like a bird of paradise, head held high against her collar of colorful plumage.

"Oh, I'd be fascinated to hear how many she can turn up." Runalenwe replies as she gets comfortable, propping herself up with an elbow against the blanket. "The research will be interesting- and her reports are always wonderfully detailed to be sure. The problem is by just 20 years time, I'm sure we'll be made aware of several new artifacts, or new qualities to the ones we already know, and all her work will be made obsolete. That's the problem with such presumptuous 'catalogues', better to channel your focus on just one thing. She clearly wishes she could be Sapiarch of just about every discipline!" She laughs, a few strands of her curly straw-colored hair swinging free of her top-bun. It's a noble laugh, haughty and mocking, yet it touches Pannolaire just the same as the warm bubbling laugh that came out of her honestly, most often when they were alone.

Pannolaire unpacks the food she'd brought, laying out the small spread as they continue to speak. Rolls of bread, fresh fruit, aged wine, and shellfish. "Which single artifact would you focus on?" Pannolaire glances up as she hands her a warm roll. "Some destructive staff? A weather worker?"

She chuckles, taking a small bite and clearing her mouth before responding. "Oh, Pannolaire, I've more interests than just shocking the daylights out of things! It's funny you should ask, actually."

"It is?" Pannolaire says.

"Yes, and I'll tell you why." Runalenwe grins.

Pannolaire smiles as well, cracking into a shellfish with practiced grace. "Please do."

"You are, I'm sure, familiar with the Ring of Phynaster? Artifact created by the ascended Aldmeri sorcerer Phynaster, great explorer and adventurer, a hero of the High King Aurthelel's court?" Pannolaire nods, not speaking for modesty as she samples some fruit. "It provides the wearer with protection against magics and poisons- it's popularly believed to have been created to facilitate in Phynaster's daring yet dangerous lifestyle, and even to have aided in his mythical long stride. But this story has been confused with time- it is misunderstood by so many of the scholars of Tamriel, those who forget that Phynaster was once one of us, a mortal, with mortal wants, mortal acquaintances."

Pannolaire watches Runalenwe as she orates, every word uttered with such a poise to belie rehearsal, and yet her character is so spontaneous, like an arc of lightning from a hand, or the first crackle of thunder. These qualities make her quite the speaker to spectate, and so she hangs on her every word.

"Phynaster himself was quite a cautious sort- his stride wasn't simply long, it was measured, well-conceived through careful calculation. His safety and longevity was more or less the product of a wise and careful mind. He did not forge his famed ring for his own sake, but for the sake of a lover." Runalenwe's lips curve into even more of a satisfied smile, the kind that tells Pannolaire she's hanging knowledge over her head right now, a coy mocking gesture. She shoots her a look as though to say 'don't leave me in suspense', and the other apprentice continues on. "A certain firebrand, another mage of Aurthelel's court, the oldest and most venerable court of Alinor, composed of only the most respected ancestors; Phynaster, Syrabane, Ruilil, Peregrine- even noble Trinimac brushed shoulders with her and counted her as his peer, as well as his comrade in arms. She was Eeartora the Tempest, queen of the skies, her words commanded storms and her spells sundered coral citadels to the depths of the sea, all to be forgotten as her own legend grew. It was she who caught the first Alinor Sunbird and brought it, unscathed, to the feet of King Aurthelel, and it was she who first mounted a great gryphon and rode it, as Welkynar, into battle."

Her audience of one helps herself to some shellfish as the other sings the praises of this noble and venerated ancestor. Runalenwe considers herself a woman of action, but Pannolaire finds her waxing lyrical on the matters of magic, of magicians, and most anything having to do with her noble clan of wizards. "That certainly sounds like the type of woman who could benefit from such a ring." Pannolaire remarks, smiling and discarding the now emptied remains of her morsel, golden eyes locked on her companion.

"Indeed!" Runalenwe agrees heartily, laughing softly to herself. "And that is what he must have thought, for with her in mind he endeavored to create the powerful artifact that we know today. She was its first holder, and she would go on to bequeath it to her descendants, before ascending to join with her lover in Aetherius..." Her smile lingers, Pannolaire can feel the purposeful pause she is taking and raises a hand to her lips as she chuckles for her lover's theatrics. "Eeartora's line would follow in her wake, living as war mages, welkynars, and studious heroes of their eras. What's more," She raises her chin proudly at this, the rays of sunlight giving a glow to her tan skin. "Her line leads directly to yours truly."

"Ah, I see... no wonder you were going out of your way to flatter her to such a degree." Pannolaire remarks, smirking behind her gloved hand.

Runalenwe scoffs, but smiles. "I can't be shamed for honoring my ancestors, can I?" And with that, she reaches down and helps herself to some fruit, satisfied with her piece.

Her lover gives her a moment's rest, then says something with no other goal than to prod at her ego. "I'm not sure I believe you. I mean, such a famed and legendary ancestor- I've known whole hosts of wizards who give her worship."

Runalenwe, true to form, almost chokes on her apple. "You don't believe me!?" She asks with raised brows, somewhat aware of the game they now play, somewhat genuinely scandalized.

"I'm not sure if I believe you." She corrects her.

"I'll have you know there are extensive genealogical records in my family's tomb!"

Again, Pannolaire laughs behind her hand, and her lover's eyes trace the glimpse of her lips. "Well then, you must take me there on our next sabbatical."

This time, Runalenwe's laugh is brash and untempered, her grin wrinkles her freckled face and her shoulders bob up and down. "Sabbatical! Oh, how rich- what are we, twelfth years???"

Pannolaire laughs along with her, laying beside her, sharing this bright and tranquil day all to themselves. Their hearts are light- they race when they stack their projects up against one another's, when they give presentations knowing that the other is watching, whenever they hold formal dialogue with their peers and mentors watching. How odd it is that their hearts race now, alone together, wearing no uniform and beheld to no observation, no assessment, free to be as they are. Runalenwe's hand finds its place in Pannolaire's, and after an interlude of silence and pecking at their meal, one speaks back up.

"...I'm no good with enchanting, but," Pannolaire says, dark lids drooping as her eyes wander out to sea. "I'm a fool for such romantic gestures... I would love to make you something, something just for you." With these words she shuffles up against Runalenwe's side, leaning against the other woman.

Runalenwe raises her arm to wrap around Pannolaire's waist, pulling her closer still. She leans in to press her head against the other's. "How sweet." Her forehead lies against her temple, her lips hover about her ear as she speaks softly. "What would you make for me, Pann?"

Pannolaire thinks on her skill sets, shifting about with a small bubble of nervousness. She lets herself fall closer against Runalenwe's soft embrace, letting out a long sigh. "A book on etiquette, perhaps."

The other woman chuckles. "I'm classically trained, love."

"In Aldmeri, sure. But would you know how to say 'good day' to a Nord?" Pannolaire retorts.

She laughs again, and for lack of a response presses her lips against her cheek. Pannolaire laughs too, forgetting the lunch they'd packed and shifting about to bury her face in the crook of her lover's neck, leaving a couple of black marks where she plants her kisses. Arms wrapped around her, Runalenwe replies. "Do they have those- good days- in that frigid country of theirs? Honestly, I'd be shocked if they see the sun."

Pannolaire pulls away only to smile and laugh at her peer. "Of course they see the sun!" The two chuckle on that point for a moment, before she settles in once again. "Well, actually, there is an interesting phenomenon that occurs at extreme northern latitudes- sunless days- they only happen at select parts of the year though..."

Runalenwe, content to hold her lover's body as she goes into a long tangent about novel astronomical phenomena and the Nordic holidays that coincide with them, closes her eyes and smiles. Her hand slowly traces Pannolaire's side, gentle and unobtrusive, as not to distract her from her speech.

She easily goes on for nearly half an hour, and it's only Runalenwe's reminder of the cooling food that makes her take pause, before the two resume their dialogue. They continue on like this until the sun dips down, embraced by the sea.

#tesfest21 #mori writing #oc: pannolaire #oc: runalenwe

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plus-size-reader · 4 years ago

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Ignored pt. 2

Theon Greyjoy x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1492 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Theon’s wife leaves the Iron Isle and wanders around until she finds herself in the arms of someone else.

Part 1

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You couldn't believe how he was reacting.

Maybe hastily boarding a smugglers ship to a foreign land was a bad idea, or at least far too rash for a woman of your standing. Still, you didn't understand why your husband was reacting like you were the irrational one.

You had been more than understanding of all his requests. When he wanted to leave you in the north to go home, without any idea when he would be back, you allowed him to do so without so much as a word.

All you wanted was a lousy letter every few weeks but even that was clearly far too much for him.

In fact, during your entire exchange with the man, you found little evidence of your letters at all which meant that he either wasn't getting them, or didn't even bother to save them in the first place. So, you asked.

You interrupted his very heated berating of your character to ask him exactly where all your letters had gone.

"I burned them, and scattered the ash to the sea" he replied, not even bothering to lie to you. Perhaps it was his anger making him more bold, or perhaps it was something else entirely. Perhaps the male was just trying to drive you away.

In any case, it worked.

Once again, Theon had made you look like a fool.

You had boarded that ship with nothing planned, stupid enough to believe that he would actually be glad to see you. In reality, he had just tossed away all that time, effort, and love like one of your unread letters.

...But when you stopped to think about it, maybe you shouldn't have been shocked.

After all, Theon had been an excellent husband when he had nothing else to worry about but perhaps now that he had everything he'd always wanted, he didn't need you.

He wasn't alone in the world anymore, some little boy tossed to the wolves like trash. He was back home, and with that came his real family and the title he'd been born with. It was possible he just didn't need you to distract him anymore.

So, you did the only logical thing you could think of.

You sat in the sand, staring out into the deep darkness of the water as it rolled up to where you were sitting. The salt-dense water drenched your clothing and exposed skin but you didn't pay it any mind.

Instead, you let your tears fall and mix with the salt water beneath you without a care in the world.

Theon didn't even bother to chase you as you stormed out of the room, and out of the castle, never looking back. No one else stopped you either, assuming that you were just some common woman being hysterical.

If only they knew.

If only you were back in the north. If only you had anyone to be by your side, to show you that you mattered to them and that you weren't just some disposable thing. Right now, you just wanted to be back home, but you couldn't have been farther away.

See, when you boarded that ship, you assumed that you wouldn't need to worry about going back to Winterfell. You foolishly assumed that your husband would welcome you with open arms into his new life, even if you had gone behind his back.

You hadn't even stopped to consider that Theon may actually turn you away in the way he did, because you thought that he loved you.

Even thinking about it made you want to be ill. How could you have been so stupid?

You asked yourself that over and over again as you fiddled with the gold wedding band on your finger. Theon had it made by the blacksmith just for you, and you still remembered how ecstatic you had been the first time you saw it.

At that time, it was your most prized possession but all it was now was a reminder of your foolishness. It was a reminder that you weren't even good enough for the man who claimed to love you.

So, without so much as a second thought, you slipped the small metal band from your finger and tossed it into the sea. With a tiny splash, it was gone, lost to the salty depths but you felt nothing as it sunk.

In some ways, it lessened the weight of your own heart as you stood from the sand, paying no mind to the mess it had made of your gown and rushed as quickly as you could to the fjords.

With any luck, you would be able to get a ride with a fisherman, or a trader, or anyone. It didn't matter, as long as you got as far away from the place as humanly possible and you never looked back.

It was quite the journey back to the north, where you found that in your absence, the people of Winterfell decided you a traitor as well as your husband. You now had not an alley in the world, without a husband, a family, or a home.

However, you kept as positive as you could, and just kept going north until you found yourself outside the Dreadfort. You had no idea what it was at the time, but in ending up there, you found the one place in the world you would find refuge.

While the current position of the House Bolton was up in the air and you had no real way of knowing if they would kill you or not, you had to hope for the best. After all, your father had fought beside Roose Bolton in the War of the Five Kings, and that had to count for something.

If nothing else, it was worth a shot.

You didn't really have many other places to go.

Naturally the man was shocked to see you there, shivering on his front step but he let you in nonetheless. As far as he was concerned, you had married the wrong man but you were still of the North.

Turning you away to the elements would only ensure your death, and why would he do that when you could be of so much more use to him alive?

"You're quite far from home aren't you, little one?" Roose hummed, reaching out to offer a hand to you which you took slowly. It gave him just enough leverage to lead you further into the castle, and you followed without hesitation.

Even the dark, mysterious and potentially dangerous confines of the dark castle were better than the bitter cold. You had been born of the winter but you were human and had been travelling without shelter for hours.

Your skin pricked when you sat before the fire, your attention fully on the older man who you assumed would have a number of questions for you regarding where you had come from. Though, Roose Bolton just kept looking at you across the table for a few minutes in silence.

When he finally did speak, you stopped in your tracks. His voice was intimidating, and boomed in the close quarters of the room, where it was just the two of you.

"What were you doing all the way out here, all alone?" he wondered finally, not seeing any reason why a woman like you would be wandering around so close to the wall with no one to accompany you.

That was the question of the year wasn't it? How did you end up here, entirely alone when you should have been with your husband on the iron isles. If you knew, you wouldn't have been sitting there in the first place.

"I didn't know where else to go, I was hoping I could take refuge here for a while" you shrugged, hoping that you weren't being too presumptions in what you were asking. It wasn't lost on you that Roose Bolton owed you nothing but he didn't even hesitate before he nodded.

"Of course, I'll send word to your father of your arrival in the morning" he suggested, and while you weren't sure that would even gather any kind of results, you nodded anyway. "You will stay here in the south wing until we get word from him"

There was something so casual about the way he spoke before he stood from the table, gesturing for you to do the same before you had even processed what he was saying. "My son, Ramsay will show you there" he informed, taking you all the way there before leaving entirely.

As strange as the man was, you knew better that to give it a single thought, seeing as he was helping you out so much in your time of need.

Roose taking his absence left you alone with the young man he had called Ramsay, and from that moment on, your life was never going to be the same...whether you knew it or not.

#Theon Greyjoy #theon greyjoy x reader #theon greyjoy x ps reader #theon greyjoy x plus size reader #theon greyjoy imagine #got #got x reader #got x ps reader #got x plus size reader #got imagine #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones x ps reader #game of thrones x plus size reader #game of thrones imagine

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siyo-koy · 10 months ago

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OMG SPIT! (Chugs it down)

#The Wandering Isles - The King of Fools #NOT ACTUALLY WHAT HAPPENS BTW!!!#but i wouldn't put it past him

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drabbles-of-writing · 4 years ago

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I like to think while Luz becomes principal in Four Years, a side project of hers is quietly introducing more humans to the magic of the demon realm. Like she first invites a few freshmen to see the Isles and shows off Hexside to them to get more human students and it progressively grows into a bigger project over time as students enroll and word spreads back on Earth.

how dare all of you have such cool ideas I’m taking it

Luz introduces a bunch 12-15 year old’s to the school during the summer like how she was. Aka, she stalks a bunch of houses with King & Snowy to pick out the magic/weird kids to guide to the new portal. What she does is she introduces kids one or two at a time before letting them go home, think it over, and then decide if they want to come back or not. Course there have been kids that try to tell their parents, but when they hear it’s by The Haunted Kidnapping House, they tend to not really believe it. Also there’s like....nothing there & Luz is really good at running from cops.

First year she brings in a total of 3 kids. Only one stuck around, as the other two decided to leave at different points during the summer. They have some wild stories to tell. And throughout the summers, Luz would introduce at the very most 5 kids at once to Hexside. Normally the kids would go back to their parents at the end of the day (coming up with some kinds of excuse), but for the few who ditched things like camp for Luz, they live with someone in the family if they can take them. But usually just with other families like with exchange students. God help the poor souls who end up spending the summer with Edric or Eda.

This isn’t counting the ones from the previous year who often find ways to come back and hang with their previous families. In like a decade there are at least 15 humans wandering about the Isles, not counting Luz. AND THEN,,,,there’s the kids who come during the School Years. Usually those rare kids who were sent to a boarding school n slipped out into the Boiling Isles. And that orphan who ran off that one time n now stays year-round. It’s kinda like Camp Halfblood from Percy Jackson. There’s the few rare kids who stay year-round with their own foster families but most go home during either the summer but usually during those school 9 months.

Most of the kids all know of the other humans in the Isles. Sometimes they’re friends, sometimes they’re not. The first few years the human kids all Pack Bond together because there aren’t any other humans but eventually they loosen up and now the older kids help the younger ones make more witchy friends. It’s like it’s own niche little family in itself.

The kids also, of course, tell any of their human realm friends about this and end up bringing them to the Isles, and some of those kids start learning magic. And within a few years, it’s sort of a thing known by the kids in the area. The creepy haunted house takes you to a whole other dimension full of witches and demons and magic oh my! It’s a running legend that how you get in is during a one hour period right after the sun sets, a demon dog or snowy owl (depends who you ask) appear and ask you what you’re here for. If you tell them you’re there for The Witch, the Isles, or some variant, they’ll take you into the house and through a mirror you’re sure was normal before, and you’ll appear in a land that is not our own. Course, this is only on a Saturday night. they won’t appear any other night, for some reason the kids can’t think of.

And yes, Luz and Amity do ‘adopt’ (it’s not legally but its the thought that counts) the occasional kid who comes through, human or not. You thought I was going to stop at giving them one kid? You foole. You buffoons. It’s unending.

Wait till y’all hear what the ex-blights did to the old Blight Manor.

#asks #the owl house #four years au #luz noceda #luz #Human Project #thats what its called now #future #amity blight #amity #hexside #human realm #demon realm #info dumping #ideas #explaining

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years ago

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Parallels: Sansa and Jeyne Farman

Three Starklings (and Robb) in the crypts of Winterfell.

Suddenly Arya remembered the crypts at Winterfell. They were a lot scarier than this place, she told herself. She’d been just a little girl the first time she saw them. Her brother Robb had taken them down, her and Sansa and baby Bran, who’d been no bigger than Rickon was now. They’d only had one candle between them, and Bran’s eyes had gotten as big as saucers as he stared at the stone faces of the Kings of Winter, with their wolves at their feet and their iron swords across their laps. Robb took them all the way down to the end, past Grandfather and Brandon and Lyanna, to show them their own tombs. Sansa kept looking at the stubby little candle, anxious that it might go out. Old Nan had told her there were spiders down here, and rats as big as dogs. Robb smiled when she said that. “There are worse things than spiders and rats,” he whispered. “This is where the dead walk.” That was when they heard the sound, low and deep and shivery. Baby Bran had clutched at Arya’s hand. When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs, and Bran wrapped himself around Robb’s leg, sobbing. Arya stood her ground and gave the spirit a punch. It was only Jon, covered with flour. “You stupid,” she told him, “you scared the baby,” but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too.

(AGOT, Arya IV)

Baby!Cersei and two friends in the tent of Maggy the Frog.

She dreamt an old dream, of three girls in brown cloaks, a wattled crone, and a tent that smelled of death. The crone’s tent was dark, with a tall peaked roof. She did not want to go in, no more than she had wanted to at ten, but the other girls were watching her, so she could not turn away. They were three in the dream, as they had been in life. Fat Jeyne Farman hung back as she always did. It was a wonder she had come this far. Melara Hetherspoon was bolder, older, and prettier, in a freckly sort of way. Wrapped in roughspun cloaks with their hoods pulled up, the three of them had stolen from their beds and crossed the tourney grounds to seek the sorceress. Melara had heard the serving girls whispering how she could curse a man or make him fall in love, summon demons and foretell the future. In life the girls had been breathless and giddy, whispering to each other as they went, as excited as they were afraid. The dream was different. In the dream the pavilions were shadowed, and the knights and serving men they passed were made of mist. The girls wandered for a long while before they found the crone’s tent. By the time they did all the torches were guttering out. Cersei watched the girls huddling, whispering to one another. Go back, she tried to tell them. Turn away. There is nothing here for you. But though she moved her mouth, no words came out. Lord Tywin’s daughter was the first through the flap, with Melara close behind her. Jeyne Farman came last, and tried to hide behind the other two, the way she always did. The inside of the tent was full of smells. Cinnamon and nutmeg. Pepper, red and white and black. Almond milk and onions. Cloves and lemongrass and precious saffron, and stranger spices, rarer still. The only light came from an iron brazier shaped like a basilisk’s head, a dim green light that made the walls of the tent look cold and dead and rotten. Had it been that way in life as well? Cersei could not seem to remember. The sorceress was sleeping in the dream, as once she’d slept in life. Leave her be, the queen wanted to cry out. You little fools, never wake a sleeping sorceress. Without a tongue, she could only watch as the girl threw off her cloak, kicked the witch’s bed, and said, “Wake up, we want our futures told.” When Maggy the Frog opened her eyes, Jeyne Farman gave a frightened squeak and fled the tent, plunging headlong back into the night. Plump stupid timid little Jeyne, pastyfaced and fat and scared of every shadow. She was the wise one, though. Jeyne lived on Fair Isle still. She had married one of her lord brother’s bannermen and whelped a dozen children.

(AFFC, Cersei VIII)

#asoiaf #sansa stark #jeyne farman #arya stark #cersei lannister

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hannatuulikkdiary · 4 years ago

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Tracking the steps of the Deer Dancer

Some years ago, in Southern Arizona, a friend advised me to beware of the desert's spiky plant life. Sure enough, wandering the zigzagging paths through the canyon, I found myself picking fine spines from my clothes and skin. Learning to minimise this risk, I started paying attention to the ground and noticed human trails intersecting with animal tracks – javelina, coyote, and especially deer. With no rain for weeks, hoofprints remained debossed in the dry earth, like chains of split hearts, or strings of letters. Where clusters of tracks had accumulated, it looked as if the deer had been dancing.

During that same visit, I came across a copy of the book Yaqui Deer Songs / Maso Bwikam: A Native American Poetry, edited by Larry Evers and Felipe S. Molina. Originally from the Río Yaqui, the indigenous Yaqui (or Yoeme) people now reside across the divided borderlands of Sonora, Mexico and Arizona, USA. I read that before setting out to hunt, their ancestors held a festive rite, enacting the wilderness world through a series of songs that address the deer, asking forgiveness for those animals that will die. Though hunting is rarely practised by present-day Yaqui, traces of the tradition remain extant in the Deer Dance, wherea single male dancer becomes the Maaso– the deer – and, wearing a stag headdress, he imitates the movements of a white-tailed deer.

I was struck by the ways in which the photos of the costume bore a resemblance to some images I'd seen of the antlered headdresses found at Star Carr, a Mesolithic site in Yorkshire. Archaeologists have suggested that these red deer frontletswere worn in hunting rituals, allowing the wearer to harness antler effects, gaining access to the perspective of the 'animal-in-action'. Could this also be true for the Yaqui Deer Dance?

Pondering these connections, I recalled two dances I'd heard about in the British Isles – the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance of Staffordshire, believed to be a memory of a celebration of villagers’ hunting rights, featuringsix men bearing mounted antlers said to move like deer, and the Scottish Highland Fling, thought by some to have its origins in a warrior’s dance imitative of deer, with hands held aloft for antlers.

'Mimesis' – the imitation or emulation of the more-than-human-world – in traditional music and dance is something I've explored over the years, from Scottish Gaelic vocal imitations of birds, to the practice of embodying a river in South Indian Kutiyattam movement. I was keen to find out more and studythese three'deer dances' in tandem.What kind of deer effects are harnessed in these dances? Which deer behaviours are imitated and why? What do they reveal about our relationship with deer and ecology?

Over the next couple of years, I made numerous field trips to observe dances, interview practitioners, and learn steps directly from tradition bearers. Spending time observing deer, I consideredthe ways in which their behaviour is emulated in the dances and, learning about the ecologies of their habitats, I examined their relationship to hunting, stalking at Trees for Liferewilding estate in Dundreggan, and animal tracking in the Sonoran Desert. I was particularly interested in exploring the 'tacit' knowledge embodied in the dances. What could be discovered by 'learning' and 'doing' these dances, as opposed to just 'watching' them? What could be discovered in the body, through practices of stalking and tracking, instead of simply 'reading' about them?

Needwood Forest, Staffordshire...

I first went to see the Abbots Bromley Horn Dancein September 2017, and then again in 2018. This folk dance takes place once a year in the Abbots Bromley village, near to Bagot's Wood, an area of woodland just one and a half square miles, which is all that remains of the ancientNeedwood Forest. Like most forest in Britain, historically it was property of the Crown and, in this case, was once parcel of the Duchy of Lancaster.

Today the word 'forest' refers to an area of wooded land, but the medieval sense of the word referred to land set aside for royal hunting. The 'Royal Forest' included large areas of heath, grassland and wetland, essentially anywhere that supported deer and other game.Villages and towns that lay within it were subject to forest law, protecting the 'Beasts of the Chase' from being hunted by anyone except the king, safeguarding the habitat in which they lived. These 'beasts' were primarily deer, and included native red and roe deer, as well as non-native species such as fallow deer, introduced to England for the very purpose of hunting.

Every Royal Forest in England was overseen by a keeper who was appointed by the King, and whose position was often hereditary. Forest Law meant that it was illegal to hunt deer, chop down trees or underwood, unless permission had been given by the Crown. Penalties for offenses were severe, but by 1217, the death penalty for poaching had been abolished. This didn't stop some kings; during the reign of Henry VIII, a yeoman named Richard Horne was caught poaching deer in the woods and was hung for his crimes. His ghost, known as Herne the Hunteris said to haunt Windsor Forest, with antlers growing from his head and chains rattling behind him.

Within the structures of Forest Law, payment for access to certain rights became a useful source of income and local nobles could be granted a licence to hunt an agreed amount of game, giving forest inhabitants a variety of rights. As I mentioned, theAbbots Bromley Horn Danceis believed by some to be a memory of a medieval celebration of villagers’ hunting rights, possibly recalling the act of giving thanks to the local nobility for access to the Royal Forest. Others believe it was danced to ensure a successful hunt, or a good harvest. The forest itself was largely lost in the eighteenth-century due to deforestation. With all this in mind, I couldn't help but think that the Horn Dance was taking place in an imaginary landscape, in the ghost of a place that no longer exists.

The dance itself featuresten dancers: six deer-men carrying mounted antlers, a hobby horse, bow-man with his bow and arrow, Maid Marian (or man-woman) with their stick and ladle, and the fool with his pig's bladder. The antlers are mounted onto carved wooden deer heads at the end of sticks, reminiscent of a child's hobby horse toy. Surprisingly the antlers are not native; carbon dated to 1065, they came from reindeer, long extinct in Britain.

At eight in the morning, after collecting the horns from the church, the ritual begins. Moving in procession, the horn dancers exit the church yard and, on a street corner in the village, they perform a sequence of steps, circling and winding in time with the accompanying music performed on melodeon and triangle. Though stylized, particular movements are especially mimetic. Recalling the rutting behaviour of a number of species of deer, the dancers move together in a parallel walk, and then face one another, moving towards and away, passing through, as if clashing antlers during a fight. Followed by villagers and visitors alike, the horn dancers and their musicians proceed to beat the bounds of the village, walking over ten miles throughout the day, performing at each farm and pub. Taking a drink at every stop, as you might imagine, banter follows, with jokes erupting at every turn. The music is constant and consistent and, soon enough, I found myself humming along with the tunes. The sound of the triangle was particularly affecting, cutting through the cacophony of sound.

At Blithfield Hall, the tone changes considerably. The hall, a Grade 1 listed country house owned by the Baggots, has been in the family since the 14th century. The horn dancers perform on the lawn outside and when the music stops, they stand in line and wait. The Lord and Lady of the house then proceed to shake each dancer's hand, while the audience looks on from across the boundary wall. In a legacy of class inequalities, the memory of a celebration of hunting rights becomes particularly visible. Back in the village, the dancing finishes at about eight pm, when the horns are returned to the church, to be hung on display until the following year.

During the dance, I met Jack Brown, a tradition bearer and local historian, now in his nineties, who was dressed as a fool in yellow tails. He explained that he had "played all the adult parts" in the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance – deer, hobby horse, fool, man-woman and musician – and invited me to visit him at his home, a treasure trove of photos and objects, including props from the dance – a pig's bladder, triangle, bow and arrow, and stick and ladle. Jack shared with me his memories and knowledge of the dance's history and gifted me a pamphlet on his interpretation of it.

The horn dancers themselves are also very generous, opening up the floor – or ground – to participation, and over the two years I visited, I took part in a number of dances, giving me direct insight into the movements, shapes and step formations, as well as an embodied understanding of the sheer weight of the horns. Weighing between sixteen and twenty-five pounds, it is physically difficult to dance with these objects, to carry and move with them. Reindeer antlers are larger than red deer – our biggest native species – and if, as it has been suggested, they were imported from Scandinavia, perhaps we could say that the dancers of yesteryear were attracted to their size, in order to 'harness their effects'. What are these effects, I wondered? The size and weight of the antlers certainly enhances a performance of physical strength, perhaps showcasing 'heroic' abilities of endurance. During times when hunting was commonly practiced, these were presumably important attributes.

The props are most deer-like during the 'fighting sequence' when the antlers become like weapons between three pairs of rutting deer-men, albeit in an incredibly stylized rut. Some folklorists have posited that the Horn Dance was a fertility ritual; the antlers in this case would be symbolic of the male sex organ. Was this a mimetic display of the stag's bravado? Certainly, at some point, multiple powerful effects were being harnessed.

Back in the studio, I began to make sketches, tracking the shapes made on the ground by the dancers in a series of visual scores. Returning the following year, I showed my score sketches to Jack, and to Jim, a deer dancer whose family, the Fowells, have been performing the Horn Dance since 1914 after it passed to them from the Bentleys – interestingly, the Bentley family were historically the foresters of the local woodland. Checking the shapes and patterns on the page, Jack and Jim approved my visual notations, confirming their accuracy.

My notation process was also supported by a surprisingly fortunate booking! Reserving a room in a local B&B that looked down onto the area of the final dance, I was able to film it from above and compare the footage with my scores.

Caledonian Forest, Scotland...

The Caledonian Forest, characterised by Scots Pine trees, was once a huge forest stretching across Scotland. About 6,000 years ago, as the climate became wetter, some of the forest began to disappear, but the impact of human beings was even greater; trees were felled for ships, buildings, fuel, and to make way for agriculture. By the 1700s, the Caledonian Forest remained only in the most remote places and much of the wildlife that depended on this habitat was lost through hunting, or simply because there was not enough forest left. The last wolf is said to have been shot in Scotland in 1743, which meant that by this point, all of the predators had been wiped out. In fact, all of the largeanimals had gone, leaving only the red deer. Since then, this animal has come to symbolise the Highlands.

In the 19th century, as deer stalking became fashionable, large tracts of land were dedicated to deer, allowing their numbers to increase, and ‘deer forests’, which are essentially open hills managed for deer, doubled in size. Today, many Highland estates still maintain large deer populations for stalking purposes and the current number is estimated to be 350,000 individuals. Through their excessive numbers and overgrazing, deer are often seen as the problem that prevents the regeneration of the Caledonian Pinewood, however, the ecological imbalance between native forest cover, numbers of grazing deer and lack of natural predators has been caused by humans, not deer.

Trees for Life acquired their Dundreggan estate in 2008, and since then, they have been rewilding the land, planting new trees in places, such as higher mountainous areas where it is difficult for trees to establish on their own, and reducing grazing pressure to allow the forest to recover and regenerate, which, inevitably, involves the culling of deer. In 2017, I went to stay in Dundreggan, and went out stalking with Allan Common, the lead deer stalker on the estate. It was autumn, which in the red deer calendar, meant this was the time of the rut. Meanwhile in the stalking calendar, it was the time for hunting stags. I wasn't sure whether this seasonal stalking tradition was due to the fact that a rutting stag, full of high levels of testosterone, was less alert and easier to hunt, or whether it was because this hormone surge meant that the stag was now adorned with a large mane and antlers, and so more desirable as a trophy. Doug Gilbert, the operations manager at Trees for LifeDundreggan suggested that perhaps it was a mixture of the two – a legacy from the stalking craze.

Dressed in a ritual costume of wax jacket, gaiters and tweed deerstalker hat, at 7am I was met by Allan and two of his friends. Up on the hill, he instructed us to move as one body, then, as we got closer to the deer, he showed us how to lie on our bellies and remain hidden. At the edge of a ridge, we stopped to look down into a bowl-shaped area. The distant sound of roaring stags reverberated into the cold morning and, for a brief moment, through binoculars, I watched as two mature stags walked in parallel, checking each other out, before lowering their antlers, initiating contact. Throughout the morning, Allan, or one of his friends, would position a gun, then using its view finder, take a shot. Sometimes this awkward movement alerted the deer to our presence, so to counter this, Allan skilfully mimicked the bellow of the stag with his voice, to keep the stags interested. It worked! – at one point, a mature male drew very close, standing only a metre or so away. Concealed safely behind a boulder we listened to his spine-tingling roar. My heart beat fast.

While staying with Doug and his partner Joyce, a fundraiser at Trees for Life, I learned more about their work. In order to regenerate the Forest, as well as the practical task of planting trees, they explained that there needed to be a shift in values, from "seeing the land as a place for deer, to seeing the land as a place with deer in it". On the estate, it does feel as though this is happening. When I asked Allan what the biggest changes have been in his job as a stalker, he explained that it was his shift in perception; he used to think the deer were the most important thing, but now he values the land in itself, the ecology as a whole. He told me about an earlier job, working for a sporting agency, where people pay money to go shooting, but had realised some time ago, that he didn't like this 'trophy culture'. He preferred instead to have a relationship with the place, and recounted lying on his back, watching as a golden eagle flew over him, just metres above his body. His most treasured memories were not to do with stalking itself, but a connection with the more-than-human world.

In February, when I returned to Dundreggan, there was heavy snow on the ground, and the deer tracks looked as though they had been debossed, not in earth but in thick white paper. It was the season for stalking red deer hinds, which, like the stags, were hunted in the morning. Night time was reserved for stalking the sika deer, an 'invasive' species from Japan. Being nocturnal, with a tendency to stay hidden under tree cover, they were difficult to spot. Allan used a combination of traditional tracking and an infrared thermal camera to find them. I began to reflect on the relationship of technology to the traditional costumes worn in the various dances, specifically in relation to the red deer frontlets found at Star Carr. Archaeologist Chantal Conneller has posited that these frontlets extended the body of the wearer, allowing them to "harness the animal in action", expanding their perception, essentially becoming-with-deer in order to hunt them. The user of the hunting rifle, with telescopic view finder and infrared thermal imaging also extends the body and perception, augmenting and expanding the senses, extending what is possible as a human being.

Allan may have used up to date technology, but he didn't appear to display any of the macho behaviours I had expected. His friends, however did, and on occasion, I felt uncomfortable. One ex-military friend, in particular, was keen to tell me all about his rifle throughout the stalks, even making me pose for the camera after a successful shoot. This macho sporting chat is not unusual in Scotland, in fact, it is part of mainstream stalking culture. After all, on most estates, the land is maintained as a 'wilderness' resource for deer, which supports an elite hunting economy for the privileged few – mainly rich cis white men on shooting holidays, collecting their trophies. This macho aspect of stalking is reflected in the language; the 'monarch', for example, is a term used to describe a mature stag with sixteen tine antlers, and thus the most prized trophy. Similarly, the language of animal behaviour studies is also gendered, and arguably problematic; the word 'harem', for example, is used to describe a group of female deer sharing a single mate.

Deer stalking itself is steeped in myth and folklore. Geographer Hayden Lorimer writes: "The pursuit of deer, both as a pastime and as a livelihood, has a long history in the Scottish Highlands. Celebrations of these activities, preserved through several centuries in native Gaelic folklore, oral ballads and apocryphal yarns, were seized upon by the authors of stalking guidebooks, histories and personal reminiscences." Scottish 'deer' folklore was mined and appropriated by the cultural elite, giving deer stalking culture seeming authenticity.

The Highland Fling seems to be part of this process of appropriation. The story goes: Legend tells of a boy who encountered a stag; his father asked him to describe what he saw and, lacking adequate words, he danced the animal instead, his movements imitating capering, his hands held aloft for antlers. Becoming popular as an authentic dance of the highlands, it seems that deer mimesis gave the Fling credibility, but after some digging, I discovered that the story is more than likely a bit of 'fakelore' and probably invented by an eighteenth-century, Lowland dance teacher as a caricature of a 'wild' highland warrior who imitates deer. I couldn't help but think that this 'fakelore' shares striking parallels with the romanticisation of deerstalking, itself a mimetic performance of hunting traditions, reinterpreted and distorted into a form of macho display by landowning classes.

In Spring 2018, I began my studies in Highland Fling, taking lessons with dancer and teacher Sandra Robertson in Kinguisse. Sandra gave me a pair of leather ghillies – soft shoes traditionally worn in Highland Dance. Strangely, the word 'gillie' also means 'hunting guide' or 'male servant to a Highland chieftain'. The shoe's name is thought to be a type originally worn by Scottish hunting guides, who were servants to the lairds – there it was again: the working-class highlander at service to the landowning class and to the elite hunting economy.

I put the shoes on over my thick red socks and Sandra showed me some basic steps. Having done ballet up until the age of 19, I was accustomed to jumping, but the first thing to get used to was landing on the balls of my feet. This took some practice and on the evening after my first session, my shins were agony. Slowly, with time, I got used to it, and before long, I had learned six steps: shedding, rocking, toe and heel, backstep, crossoverand last shedding. It took me months of practice to get through the whole dance without stopping – it was exhausting! Anyone doing this dance regularly, had to be extremely fit.

To help with my learning, I made visual scores of the dance, replacing arm positions with red deer antlers, and human foot fall with red deer tracks in a notation of the steps. I also began to experiment with blind debossing, inspired by seeing the tracks in the snow.

Romanticisation aside, learning the Highland Fling, I could understand why the story of deer imitation stuck. While dancing with deer in mind, the arms, when held high, felt like antlers. The steps, such as toe and heel, backstep and rocking were delicate and deer like, yet powerful and athletic. Two of the steps sheddingand last shedding seemed even to reference the stag's antler shedding, which happens once a year. I could imagine that if a dancer of the Fling performed well, it might make them feel powerful and elegant. I wondered how it might feel to perform this dance if I were a man?

Sonora Desert, Arizona and Mexico...

The indigenous Yaqui, or Yoeme tribe are originally from Sonora in northern Mexico. Seeking refuge from persecution by the Mexican Government in the 19th and early 20th centuries, some of this community were forced north of the border. Their descendants in the USA call themselves the Pascua Yaqui, and in 1978 they were finally recognised as an official tribe. Today, the Pascua Yaqui have eight communities in Southern Arizona.

The Yaqui Deer Dance is a small but important element in the modern Yaqui ceremonial cycle, a ritual involving dance, music, pantomime, and poetry, in a complex blend of catholic and indigenous beliefs. Yaqui traditions speak of the Deer Danceonce being part of a rite performed before the hunting of the deer, but today that connection is only a memory.

Supported in part by the University of Arizona Poetry Centre, in March 2018, I went back to Arizona to begin to make connections with the Pascua Yaqui community. I met with Larry Evers, who co-authored the book on Yaqui Deer Songs mentioned earlier. He was about to retire from his role as a professor between the English and American Indian Studies departments at the University in Tucson, and when I visited, he was clearing out his office. Generously, he gifted me a pile of books and papers on Yaqui culture, as well as a set of DVDs with hours of footage of a Deer Dance ritual performed in Mexico in 1976. Of particular relevance to my research was an old type-writer written thesis, in which the writer Susan Burton explores the relationship of the Yaqui Deer Dancesteps to the movements of real deer and, using the 1976 film footage, notates the dance's vocabulary with labanotation.

Larry was excited by my research, though warned me that I would have many boundaries to cross. Firstly, my gender – the Yaqui Deer Danceis strictly a male domain – and secondly, my ethnicity as a white European. As with many First Nations people, the Yaqui tribe have been consistently ill-treated by various outsiders throughout history, from the invasion of the Spanish Jesuit missionaries and the Mexican Government's persecution of indigenous tribes, to the early American anthropologists misquoting traditions, and the US authorities' mistreatment of anyone who is not white. Understandably, the Deer Dance, and Yaqui culture more broadly, is rarely discussed outside the community.

I was readying Donna Haraway's book 'Staying with the Trouble' and the following passage resonated:

"Indigenous peoples around the earth have a particular angle on the discourses of coming extinctions and exterminations of the Anthropocene and Capitalocene. The idea that disaster will come is not new; disaster, indeed genocide and devastated home places, has already come, decades and centuries ago, and it has not stopped. The resurgence of peoples and of places is nurtured with ragged vitality in the teeth of such loss, mourning, memory, resilience, reinvention of what it means to be native, refusal to deny irreversible destruction, and refusal to disengage from living and dying well in presents and futures."

I wondered if it was possible to foster a meaningful dialogue and cultural exchange? To open up possibilities, Larry put me in touch with his long-term collaborator Felipe Molina, a Yaqui tradition bearer, teacher and translator, from Marana, Arizona. We exchanged emails and, though Felipe was interested in my research, he was too busy with his Easter commitments as a Deer Singer. We agreed to be in touch again later in the year.

During the Easter ceremonies, the Yaqui Deer Danceis held on two occasions, at the Pahko– an all-night Fiesta – and then again on Easter Saturday. Seeking permission to attend these, I contacted Daniel Vega from the Language and Culture Departmentof the Tribal Council at the Pascua Yaqui Reservation. At our meeting, I explained how I was exploring the imitation of deer across cultures in order to better understand their relationship to ecology and, sharing a little about my research so far, I was delighted when he showed a particular interest in hearing about the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance. He explained that the Yaqui tribe perform their various ceremonies as healing rituals, not just for the Yaqui, but for everyone around the world, so, if I went with respect, I was welcome to attend the Easter ceremonies at Old Pascua– the old village in South Tucson. He warned me not to take photos, make sketches or any recordings – this was strictly forbidden – and that I had to keep my cell phone out of sight.

Not quite knowing what to expect, on Friday evenings I began to attend the Lenten ceremonies, participating in the processions of the fourteen Stations of the Cross, following the various church groups who sang and prayed at each of the crosses positioned around the Old Pascua village. Also partaking in the processions was a ceremonial group called the Fariseos, who are said to represent those who persecuted Jesus. Within this group were the Chapayekas– masked figures who symbolise evil. One of the Chapayekas'ritual functions is to deride the procession and distract the church groups by silently mocking them, beating time with swords and daggers, and shaking the deer hoof rattles around their waists and moth cocoon rattles on their ankles. My initial reaction was to laugh at their pantomime-esque performance, but as the sun went down and the procession continued in darkness, they really felt quite sinister. I soon discovered that it is taboo to stare too closely at a Chapayeka.

On Palm Saturday, I attended the Yaqui Pahko. Though I'd read so much about it, nothing could quite prepare me for the experience of this multifaceted, powerful night-time ritual. Approximately two hundred performer-participants, divided into about twelve groups, each with a distinct role and music, carried out ritual processes and costumed dances representing the various overlapping forces of good and evil. There was only one Deer Dancer though; at the Ramada, a structure symbolising Huya Ania (the wilderness world), the Maaso(the deer dancer) emerged as a timid fawn and, dancing alongside the Pahkola(a group of clown-like animal-esque figures), he slowly grew into a virile adult male through the night, before predicting his own death and concluding his dance as an animal spirit.

During a break in the ceremonies, I chatted with someone I'd met in the 'audience' who made a striking observation about how the Maasoalways has his torso tilted forwards, like the enigmatic Palaeolithic ‘sorcerer’ cave painting of the Trois-Frères caves in Southwestern France. I hadn’t made the connection before, though I had stuck an image of the ‘sorcerer’ in my sketchbook. The visual similarity is uncanny – was this how humans become-with-deer?

A similar sequence of Deer Dances took place on Easter Saturday, another complex, multi-layered ceremony, where, in a battle against evil, the powers of the more-than-human world were harnessed. Dancing Matachiniswore flower streamers in their hats, processing Angels waved branch-switches in the air, trickster Pahkolas wore animalesque masks, and, the Maaso (Deer Dancer), in his final dance, charged at the Fariseos, threatening with his antlers. Finally, when evil was defeated, the Fariseoswere ritually ‘killed’ by 'flowers', symbolised by paper confettithrown at them, and a straw ‘Judas’ was burned in a fire, along with all the Chapayekamasks and swords. Bells rang out from the church and celebratory music was played. With so much colour and joy, I felt like I never wanted to brush the confetti out of my hair!

In a closer examination of the Deer Dance itself, the combination of the dancer's movements and costume seems to span a spectrum of mimesis, from iconic deer imitation to something more stylised. The deer's headdress enhanced the sudden sharp-to-still deer-like movements of the head; soon enough, I found myself watching not the dancer's eyes, but the deer's eyes, partially hidden beneath the cloth. The long line and tension of the tilted torso suggested a deer's back, and the white cloth joining the dancer's head and deer head gave the impression of a deer's neck and shoulders. The flexed feet were reminiscent of the animal's hind legs, while the gourd rattles suggested the front legs, the movements of which gave the impression of a deer's speed and agility. The footwork itself – the choreographed steps – seemed less iconic and more stylized. I wondered if I would be able to meet and learn from a dancer some time...

The dance is traditionally accompanied by three musicians who sing and play instruments: the hirukiam,notched rasping sticks resting on half-gourd resonators said to represent the deer’s breath or the scraping of the antlers against the brush, and the ba’ abweha’i, a water drum made from a half gourd floating in a bowl of water, representing the heart-beat of the deer. Sitting on the floor during the dance,I could feel the vibrations of the water drum in my chest, and I imagined that the dancer might be tuning his heart into a deer's heart beating.

The songs accompanying the dance, are sung in Yoem noki(the Yaqui language) and describe the Maaso(the deer) and his encounters with other animals, birds, insects and plants, especially flowers, which hold a spiritual significance. The Yaqui believe that there is a close communication between all the inhabitants of the Sonoran Desert, which they call Huya Ania. This could be translated as 'wilderness world', but it is worth pointing out that the word 'wilderness' here, does not mean a "neglected, uninhabited, or inhospitable region" like it does in the Oxford Dictionary, but a living, connected community. This ecology of the Sonoran Desert appears in the traditional songs, which become like scores, or a script to the dancer who, as the deer, also becomes, for a moment, the badger that is being described, or the hummingbird, or the mountain lion.

Later that Summer, I returned to meet with Felipe and, over a number of meetings, learned more about the dance. We shared our perspectives and he generously answered my sprawling questions, teaching me about aspects of Yaqui culture, including some Yoem nokiwords. Felipe explained how the Deer Dance was a way for people living in the city to connect with Huya Ania (the wilderness world) and Sea Ania (the flower world), and as he described how the songs are lessons for listeners to learn about ecology and Yoeme ancestors, I began to think of the Yaqui Deer Dance as a form of activism.

I was honoured when Felipe invited me to give a talk to his students, a class of young Yoeme adults, who were learning about their culture at the Yaqui tribal chambers on the reservation. I shared a little about my work with vernacular traditions, specifically Scottish Highland culture and language, and about the history of the repression of Scottish Gaelic and the current resurgence of the language. It was good to hear Yoeme perspectives. Though the Yoem Noki language is under threat of dying out, people like Felipe are out there doing the work of preserving and passing on knowledge.

Felipe and I began to make plans to visit a Deer Dancer in Mexico later in the year and, in November, over a number of days, we went back and forth by foot across the Mexico-USA border, to work with Indalecio ‘Carlos’ Moreno Matuz, a young Yaqui Deer Dancerfrom Vicam, Sonora, in the Yoeme homeland. We worked in Carlos’ hotel room, where I interviewed him and learned about the physical and symbolic aspects of the dance through demonstrations and diagrammatic drawings, while Felipe translated from English to Yoem Noki and back again.

Felipe and Carlos explained that the dance had only ever been performed by men because they were the ones who traditionally went hunting. Interestingly,the deer behaviours imitated were less about the bravado and display associated with the rut, and more about alertness and agility as a form of defence. This corresponds with the fact that in Yoem Noki, there is no word for 'buck' or 'stag'; Maasosimply means 'adult male deer', though his other song names are displayed here. The only time the Maasodisplays aggressive behaviours, such as charging or threatening with lowered antlers, is when he is being attacked or provoked by other figures in the ceremonies.

The white-tailed deer – and coues-white-tailed deer – live in areas of the Sonoran Desert – a land that rambles over 320,000 km, across two countries. It is home to about 130 species of mammals, more than 500 kinds of birds, 20 amphibians, 100 or so reptiles, 30 native freshwater fish. There are perhaps as many as 2500 native species of plants and 4000 in total. It is also home to at least 17 Indigenous cultures as well as many others who have adopted it.

The tribal lands of the Yaqui have been irreversibly damaged, initially due to the European invasion and colonisation, and latterly by the rapid growth of capitalism and climate change degrading the ecology. Along the Yaqui River in Mexico, eight tribal villages have no water due to drought and the actions of agricultural corporations and, every year, people battle with wild fires caused by rising heat levels and invasive grasses spread by cattle. Although the culture of the Yaqui Deer Danceis being preserved, the ecology of the wilderness world is seriously under threat.

Wild-deer-ness

Throughout the process of exploring these dances, I considered how a body of work might emerge from my research. By conjuring the antlered male deer, the dances evoke images of wild nature, but I realised there is a disconnect between what is encoded in their movements and the reality of local ecology. I was also acutely aware of the striking relationship between our cultural perceptions of 'wilderness' and ideas of 'masculinity'.

How could I honour these folk traditions and histories, yet simultaneously critique and de-stabilise constructed problematic narratives? How could I address contemporary intersections of ecology, gender and class? How could I touch on the complex relationship between indigenous cultural knowledge and the appropriation of vernacular culture? What did I want to explore and communicate?

I spent time writing, thinking, dreaming and in my note books began to distil my research into words:

From Palaeolithic cave paintings, to Landseer’s Monarch of the Glen, throughout time, artists have made representations of deer. Whether as staples to hunter-gatherers, icons of power and empire, or the focus of sport, deer have long been central to human cultures.

In popular imagination, deer remain etched into people’s consciousness as emblems of the 'wild' – the word wildernessitself, derives from the Old English wilde, wild, and doer, deer – and our relationship to the idea of wild-deer-nesshas shaped the landscape. Transported across continents, some species, such as fallow and sika deer, transformed ecologies with the establishment of royal deer forests and parks – hunting grounds belonging to the Crown. Other species, such as the reindeer of the arctic tundra and white-tailed deerof the Sonora desert, face threats of habitat loss caused by climate breakdown. In Scotland, the overpopulation of red deer due to human made environmental change impacted greatly on the degradation of Caledonian pinewood ecology.

And so, it follows, although they are perceived as powerful, deer also embody vulnerability. Constantly alert to the threat of a hunter or predator – or the ‘ghost’ of an extinct predator – they inhabit vulnerable places. It could be said that deer do not live in wilderness, but in ghosts of places that no longer exist.

Across timescales and cultures, our relationship with deer as a totemic and ideologically powerfulanimal has contributed to a construction of wilderness as an imaginary landscape, setting 'nature' apart from 'culture'. Is it possible to shift our relationship to the world and renegotiate these dichotomies?

The dancers at Star Carr, the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, the Yaqui Deer Dance and the Highland Fling are separated by geography and time, yet there is a commonality in these seemingly disparate cultures, which find echoes throughout history, fromthe ritualised carrying of stag heads condemned by medieval European church leaders, and Herne the Hunter, the antlered ghost of a royal gamekeeper in English folklore, to the Tibetan stag-headed Chamdance and Shishi-Odorideer dance of Northeast Japan.

Evolving over generations, each dance is mimetic in some way, with movements that imitate male deer behaviour and gesture, from the frolicking of the fawn and the alertness of the adult male, to the bravado, display and aggression of the rutting stag.Costumes also play a significant role, and often, but not always, feature elements of attire made from animal parts. Another common feature is that they are (or were) traditionally performed by men and, with their displays of muscular strength and athletic endurance, they are all thought to have their origins in (or associations with) hunting ritual practices.

As traces of hunting rites, how are these dances to be understood within a contemporarycontext?

How does the mimesis of male deer behaviours inform a 'performance' of masculinity by male dancers? What are the implications of these gendered performances in society today?

Returningto the animal tracks that obsessed me, back in the studio, I finished scoring the three deer dances I had studied, tracking the steps of the dancers, replacing human foot-prints with deer hoof-prints: red deer for the Highland Fling steps, white-tailed deer for the Yaqui Deer Dance steps, and reindeer for the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance steps. Working with Edinburgh Printmakers, I developed these into a series of blind debossed prints.

Becoming-with-deer

Considering different approaches to choreograph from the scores, I decided to draw upon the most mimetic aspects of what I had learnt and adopt fragments of steps to make something entirely new. But who would perform this? Drawing on multiple layers of my research, I began to conceive of a series of characters, each one a constructed assemblage of aspects drawn from a male-deer/male-human spectrum, playfully dissolving human:animal binaries. Making sketches of these figures, I gave each of them names borrowed from archetypal male characters found within traditional theatre, as well as deer and deer stalking terminology: monarch, warrior, young buck, fool and old sage.

To get to know them with my body, I decided to attempt to become each deer-man myself. By queering these figures, I hoped to challenge our constructed ideals of masculinity and question the mythologies that give authenticity to gendered behaviour. Having experienced some of the more negative and toxic behaviours of the heroic-hetero-male in my day to day life – let's call this thecrisis of masculinity– I also wondered if, by becoming these characters, I could release myself from their impact on me as a queer woman, and simultaneously bring to the foreground the impact of these behaviours – the crisis of ecology– on vulnerable and damaged habitats.

My plan became to create a moving image and sound work, performing each character in a choreography-to-camera. I began to collaborate with two performance artists: Peter McMaster and Will Dickie, who both practice at the intersection of live art and dance, and whose past work had, in various ways, explored tropes of masculinity, ritual and ecology. Peter collaborated with me on the film's dramturgy and Will became the movement director, helping to devise the choreography. Together, we discovered and developed the characters.

To begin our process, in October 2018, we spent a few days at Trees for Life, workshopping ideas and watching deer. We also went out deer stalking with Allan. This time I was very sensitive to his movements, almost reading him as a dancer, and was struck by the ways in whichhe took on qualities of the animal of the hunt, harnessing deer-perspective.Like the deer, he was quick to register distant movements and sounds and, on getting close to the animal, to remain hidden, he tilted his torso with bended knees, a pose strikingly similar to the Yaqui Deer Dancer's basic posture and cave painting of Trois-Frères.Will made an interesting observation about how the deer stalk appeared to be carried out in clearly defined ritualised stages. Beginning casually, walking upright and chatting, we slowly grew tighter as a pack, becoming quieter and more focused, tuning in to our surroundings and, as we drew near to the deer, we got close to the ground, not moving or making a sound, our bellies up against the heather. Before taking a shot, Allan spoke about a moment of stillness – a stillness of breath and of thought.

In a similar way, each dance that I had been studying, sat at a different stage in the ritualised drama of the hunt: the Yaqui Deer Dancetraditionally took place before hunting, allowing the hunter to access the perspective of the deer; the Highland Flingwas a dance of triumph, a dance to feel powerful and in control; and the Abbots Bromley Horn Dancewas a celebration after the hunt, to give thanks. With gestures that ranged from iconic imitation to stylized metaphor, these rituals of the hunt were clearly mimetic of the rituals of the deer rut. But how could the dramaturgy of my film address what felt urgent to me: the interconnections between the crisis of masculinity and the crisis of ecology? We slowly began to realise that if Deer Dancer was to function as a ritual space, perhaps the characters would have to stalk each other to the death...

Early the following year, Will, Pete and I worked together to discover the five characters from the inside, developing their movement vocabulary and training exercises and, as we explored the relationship between them, a story emerged. I began to conceive of a two-channel film and sound work that would play with, and attempt to destabilise narratives found both the within anthropology documentary and wildlife/nature documentary. To prepare for the filming process, I created a story board for the two screens, and composed and recorded a multi-layered vocal composition to perform to.

Utilised technology to 'extend my body' and expand my vocal range into 'male' and 'stag' pitches, I worked with my voice to imitate drum sounds. Recalling my experience of the Yaqui water drum, and the Abbots Bromley Horn Dancetriangle, my intention for the sound was to affect the viewer-listener on a body level, sometimes in a way that is unsettling, at other times like a heart-beat of low vibrations in the chest or belly. Alongside the process of developing the characters physicality, and the vocal score, I began to design and make the costumes and props, with invaluable assistance from my partner Lydia Honeybone, using an assemblage of materials, from ribbons and sequins, to bullets and hunting horn. I also worked with naturally cured deer hide, hooves, antler and skull, specifically for the cod pieces, and the weapons, hinting at the relationship between the posturing of male sexual bravado and violence.

We filmed over three days in Glasgow University's theatre against a black curtain. My director of photography Andrew Begg lit the space, and followed the story board shot by shot, filming each character one by one, then, in post-production, with editor Laura Carreira, I then pieced together the jigsaw puzzle.

Introducing the characters...

The Monarch is a mature, dominant male, who holds his head high, displaying his sixteen-tine crown and enlarged neck. Over his hide, he wears gold. His stance is wide and a bulbous codpiece with tassels enhances his majesty. Belling loudly, he asserts his authority, warning off rivals to his harem of hinds. But he's growing old and his limbs are becoming stiff. Soon he'll be past his prime.

The Warrior is highly alert, his senses tuned into his surroundings. He tracks and hunts, defending himself on attack with antlered spears that extend from his shoulders. He's in his physical prime; his chest is hard and strong and over his tartan loins, he wears a sporran and bullet belt. When he hears his rival, he sounds his horn, displaying his power.

Though the Young Buck has reached sexual maturity, he's still a spiker, yet to win his own harem. But he's looking. Dressed in tweed trews and protruding codpiece, he taps the ground, addressing potential rivals. He is lustful, cocksure and trigger-happy, challenging anyone in his close proximity. Breathing heavily, he's on the hunt for a hind, on the hunt for a fight.

The Fool, small in stature, avoids the dominant males as they proclaim their authority during the rut, bawling and displaying his white behind in fear. Wearing ribbons, bells and a modest codpiece, he carries a broom with antlers, a hobby stag that appears to push and pull him into combat. Haunted by ghosts, this skittish staggard is bewildered by his own inner conflict.

The Old Sage is a spirit of the wild hart and ghost of a man. Haunting the wilderness with skull and ragged horns, he relives his life tending the land with hooves and hands. He also relives his death. Only perceived by a few, he sees all.

Deer Dancer

In the resulting work, the costumes, movements and music work together to tell a story, with the visual scores acting as hidden keys to the work. In the 'pop up theatre space' of the gallery, we meet the five characters in an imaginary wilderness world. This wilderness world is not rooted in a particular ecology, but is place-less, black and empty, allowing the viewer-listener to construct and project their own wilderness into the space.

A dynamic emerges between these deer men, and slowly they begin to stalk one another.Then, in a face-off, they lock eyes, take a bow and the deer dancecommences. With movements that signify both the deer rut and a pre-hunt ritual, the characters face one another, performing their ritual dance, with fragments of steps from the three dances. In the visual scores, these steps are delinieated in gold foil on the debossed tracks – interestingly, the word 'foil' also means 'animal track'.

Then, coming to a stop, one by one, the deer-men draw their weapons, and we see each one lying in their death pose, with blood flowing from their body, signified by slow moving red ribbons. As bodies disappear (or decompose), the costumes remain as relics of culture to be performed again. Bit by bit, they too disappear, until then reappear on my body, piece by piece, reconstructing each character in a queer assemblage. And then it begins again...

Stuck in a perpetual loop of learned behaviour and appropriation, these stag-men are ultimately condemned to self-destruct. Humankind has left a footprint so deep that we are only now beginning to grasp the immensity of the calamity. In a small way, I've come to think of Deer Dancer as a contemporary life-crisis ritual for a damaged planet. But when the balance has been set right in ritual, the question becomes how do we really address the damage?

This text was originally written and presented as a talk at Edinburgh Printmakers in September 2019, to accompany Tuulikki’s Deer Dancer exhibition.

Deer Dancer credits: Performed & directed by Hanna Tuulikki; Character development and choreography by Will Dickie, Peter McMaster and Hanna Tuulikki; Dramaturgy by Peter McMaster; Movement direction by Will Dickie; Sound composed and recorded by Hanna Tuulikki; Sound mixed with Pete Smith; Director of photography by Andrew Begg; Edited by Laura Carreira; Costume fabrication assistance and wardrobe management by Lydia Honeybone; Production management by Amy Porteous; Costumes and print works by Hanna Tuulikki

Developed through conversations and interviews with tradition bearers and academics, Felipe Molina (Yaqui tradition bearer/ translator), Larry Evers (American Indian Studies, The University of Arizona), Jack Brown (Abbots Bromley Horn Dance tradition bearer/ historian), Doug and Joyce Gilbert (Trees for Life); by observing a number of dances and participating in rituals, including the Yaqui Deer Dance (Pascua Yaqui Easter ceremonies, Old Pascua, Tucson, Arizona, March 2018), Abbots Bromley Horn Dance (Abbots Bromley, September 2017/2018); and direct learning with Sandra Robertson (Highland Fling), Indalecio 'Carlos' Moreno Matuz (Yaqui Deer Dance), Gary Faulkenberry (animal tracking, March, July 2018), Allan Common (deer stalking at Trees for Life, Dundreggan, autumn 2017/2018).

Commissioned by Edinburgh Printmakers, funded by Creative Scotland. Research and development supported by Magnetic North's Artist Attachment, funded by Jerwood Foundation and Creative Scotland. Additional support from Hope Scott Trust, The Work Room, University of Arizona Poetry Center, Trees for Life, University of Glasgow, Glasgow School of Art, and CCA: Centre for Contemporary Arts, Glasgow.

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alayne-stonecoldfox · 6 years ago

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Sansa and Songs

Sansa’s love of songs is shown early on in the books, and is a an important part of her character as well as her narrative.

Once, when she was just a little girl, a wandering singer had stayed with them at Winterfell for half a year. An old man he was, with white hair and windburnt cheeks, but he sang of knights and quests and ladies fair, and Sansa had cried bitter tears when he left them, and begged her father not to let him go. "The man has played us every song he knows thrice over," Lord Eddard told her gently. "I cannot keep him here against his will. You need not weep, though. I promise you, other singers will come."They hadn't, though, not for a year or more. Sansa had prayed to the Seven in their sept and old gods of the heart tree, asking them to bring the old man back, or better still to send another singer, young and handsome. But the gods never answered, and the halls of Winterfell stayed silent.

Many different characters comment on it

Lady Catelyn had said that Sansa was a gentle soul who loved lemon cakes, silken gowns, and songs of chivalry - Brienne

So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly.- Arya

Sansa Stark, he mused. Soft-spoken sweet-smelling Sansa, who loved silks, songs, chivalry and tall gallant knights with handsome faces.- Tyrion

Her love of songs is at first tied to the way she wishes to see the world, her innocence, her dreams and her naivety. She has lived a happy and sheltered life, she is the beautiful daughter of a noble house, and has no reason to think her life would not be like the heroines of the songs she loves. This is her romanticised view of the world.

All she wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in the songs.

Be brave, she told herself. Be brave, like a lady in a song.

"It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling.

Sansa insisted. "I don't want someone brave and gentle, I want him. We'll be ever so happy, just like in the songs, you'll see. I'll give him a son with golden hair, and one day he'll be the king of all the realm, the greatest king that ever was, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion."

This quote below is one of the first times Sansa instead associates songs with a negative connotation, but in an interesting way.

The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad.

She has just witnessed a young Vale knight die in the joust. It is described as :

“the most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor's second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. The youth fell not ten feet from where Sansa was seated.”

Sansa’s reaction is recorded alongside her friend Jeyne’s

Jeyne Poole wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, but Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come.

I love this part of the book. It’s Sansa’s first, very blunt, encounter with death, though it takes place in such a wonderful colourful atmosphere, a court joust, where she’s been having the time of her life and has always dreamed of being part of. It is even quoted by her as being ‘a song come to life’. The way it’s written seems like she can’t quite process what she’s just seen. The reality of the death. The only thing that registers with her truly in that moment is that he won’t be the one the songs are sung for, and that’s what she finds most tragic. It is a shallow take on it. She is still a young girl caught up in songs and not reality.

This passage happens in Sansa’s third chapter, when Ned has decided Ser Gregor is to be brought before the Kings Justice, and Loras volunteers to bring him in but Ned refuses to send him. Sansa doesn’t understand why, and says this to her Septa, and Petyr Baelish overhears

Her father's decision still bewildered her. When the Knight of Flowers had spoken up, she'd been sure she was about to see one of Old Nan's stories come to life. Ser Gregor was the monster and Ser Loras the true hero who would slay him. He even looked a true hero, so slim and beautiful, with golden roses around his slender waist and his rich brown hair tumbling down into his eyes.

Lord Baelish stroked his little pointed beard and said, "Nothing? Tell me, child, why would you have sent Ser Loras?"Sansa had no choice but to explain about heroes and monsters. The king's councillor smiled. "Well, those are not the reasons I'd have given, but …" He had touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the line of a cheekbone. "Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow."

Again, a moment highlighted Sansa’s naivety and how she truly believes life would be like the songs, Ser Loras defeating Gregor because he is the handsome young knight and Gregor the monster. It is also the first introduction of the line “life is not a song sweetling” which will be echoed throughout Sansa’s chapters from this point on, as her innocent world view is shattered and her naivety chipped away. The line is impactful coming from Petyr Baelish of all people, as he was once also a young boy who’s world vision was crafted from songs.

"There's a song," he remembered. "'Jenny of Oldstones, with the flowers in her hair.'""We're all just songs in the end. If we are lucky." She had played at being Jenny that day, had even wound flowers in her hair. And Petyr had pretended to be her Prince of Dragonflies. Catelyn could not have been more than twelve, Petyr just a boy.

Did you come with Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood, the time they visited to lay their feud before my father? Lord Bracken’s singer played for us, and Catelyn danced six dances with Petyr that night, six, I counted.

He believed Catelyn Stark was being married against her will in an arranged marriage to Brandon Stark, falsely believing Cat loved him and he had taken her maiden head (he hadn’t, he was drunk and it was Lysa) and they were going to be together despite his lower birth, and he could fight for her hand, because that was how it happened in the songs where the gallant young hero’s always won. But that’s not what happened, and Petyr lost everything in that duel, his home at Riverrun, his ties with House Tully and what he thought was his true love, and from that point onwards he descended into bitterness, becoming a man of ruthless practicality. He recognises the same innocence in Sansa with a knowingness that it will not last.

Another key figure in Sansa’s narrative relating to songs is The Hound. From the beginning of her chapters he derisively refers to Sansa as a little bird who sings songs.

Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite."

Tell me, little bird, what kind of god makes a monster like the Imp, or a halfwit like Lady Tanda's daughter? If there are gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with."

A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face." He cupped her under the jaw, raising her chin, his fingers pinching her painfully. "And that's more than little birds can do, isn't it? I never got my song.""I . . . I know a song about Florian and Jonquil.”"Florian and Jonquil? A fool and his cunt. Spare me. But one day I'll have a song from you, whether you will it or no."

The Hound seems to resent Sansa’s innocence. He is a character that certainly knows how harsh the world is, and he see’s Sansa’s world views as foolish, and every chance he gets he seems to want to wake her up to the real world, whilst also acting as a protector. She brings out a lot of conflicting feelings within him, as he does in Sansa, as he does not fit her idea at all of what a knight was meant to be. His harsh demeanour is very confronting to her throughout her early chapters, culminating in a scene in her room where he seemingly planned on raping her, but could bring himself to do it, because as much as he hated her innocence, it touches him as well. He settles on wanting a song.

"Think I'm so drunk that I'd believe that?" He let go his grip on her arm, swaying slightly as he stood, stripes of light and darkness falling across his terrible burnt face. "You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you're taller too, almost . . . ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you . . . sing me a song, why don't you? Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids. You like knights, don't you?"He was scaring her. "T-true knights, my lord."

I could keep you safe," he rasped. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them." He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. "Still can't bear to look, can you?" she heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. "I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said." His dagger was out, poised at her throat. "Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life."Her throat was dry and tight with fear, and every song she had ever known had fled from her mind. Please don't kill me, she wanted to scream, please don't. She could feel him twisting the point, pushing it into her throat, and she almost closed her eyes again, but then she remembered. It was not the song of Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song. Her voice sounded small and thin and tremulous in her ears.

This scene, as well as the entirety of the chapters that come after Ned’s death and covering the battle of the blackwater, references songs in a new dark way in Sansa’s chapters.

Perhaps I will die too, she told herself, and the thought did not seem so terrible to her. If she flung herself from the window, she could put an end to her suffering, and in the years to come the singers would write songs of her grief.

She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard. Women swarmed over her like weasels, pinching her legs and kicking her in the belly, and someone hit her in the face and she felt her teeth shatter. Then she saw the bright glimmer of steel. The knife plunged into her belly and tore and tore and tore, until there was nothing left of her down there but shiny wet ribbons.

She heard it as she had never heard it before, and there were other sounds as well, grunts of pain, angry curses, shouts for help, and the moans of wounded and dying men. In the songs, the knights never screamed nor begged for mercy.

The deep moan of warhorns, the creak and thud of catapults flinging stones, the splashes and splinterings, the crackle of burning pitch and thrum of scorpions loosing their yard-long iron-headed shafts . . . and beneath it all, the cries of dying men.It was another sort of song, a terrible song.

They are children, Sansa thought. They are silly little girls, even Elinor. They've never seen a battle, they've never seen a man die, they know nothing. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way hers had been before Joffrey cut her father's head off. Sansa pitied them. Sansa envied them.

Do you have any notion what happens when a city is sacked, Sansa? No, you wouldn't, would you? All you know of life you learned from singers, and there's such a dearth of good sacking songs.""True knights would never harm women and children." The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

For those who remained, a singer was brought forth to fill the hall with the sweet music of the high harp. He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother's queen, of Nymeria's ten thousand ships. They were beautiful songs, but terribly sad. Several of the women began to weep, and Sansa felt her own eyes growing moist."Very good, dear." The queen leaned close. "You want to practice those tears. You'll need them for King Stannis."

But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. "Life is not a song, sweetling," he'd told her. "You may learn that one day to your sorrow."

Sansa’s world view has begun to change as she is no longer naive and has suffered tragedy, and nothing is happening as she thought it would. She still seems to love songs, but now there’s a lot of melancholy attached to them.

The third key figure in Sansa’s narrative associated with songs, after Petyr Baelish and the hound, is Marillion. Her Aunt Lysa’s favourite singer who she encounters first at the Fingers during Petyr and Lysa’s marriage, where he attempts to sing to her and rape her.

"Marillion?" she said, uncertain. "You are . . . kind to think of me, but . . . pray forgive me. I am very tired.""And very beautiful. All night I have been making songs for you in my head. A lay for your eyes, a ballad for your lips, a duet to your breasts. I will not sing them, though. They were poor things, unworthy of such beauty." He sat on her bed and put his hand on her leg. "Let me sing to you with my body instead." She caught a whiff of his breath. "You're drunk.""I never get drunk. Mead only makes me merry. I am on fire." His hand slipped up to her thigh. "And you as well."

Luckily, he is scared off by Lothor Brune, who is asked by Petyr Baelish to watch over her that night. But Marillion and his singing factor again into one of the biggest moments of Sansa and Baelish’s story so far, as he plays his harp and sings to cover the sounds of Lysa’s attempt at killing Sansa by throwing her through the moon door.

“No." Sansa planted her feet and tried to squirm backward, but her aunt did not budge. "Not this way. Please . . ." She put a hand up, her fingers scrabbling at the doorframe, but she could not get a grip, and her feet were sliding on the wet marble floor. Lady Lysa pressed her forward inexorably. Her aunt outweighed her by three stone. "The lady lay a-kissing, upon a mound of hay," Marillion was singing. Sansa twisted sideways, hysterical with fear, and one foot slipped out over the void. She screamed. "Hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey." The wind flapped her skirts up and bit at her bare legs with cold teeth. She could feel snowflakes melting on her cheeks. Sansa flailed, found Lysa's thick auburn braid, and clutched it tight. "My hair!" her aunt shrieked. "Let go of my hair!" She was shaking, sobbing. They teetered on the edge. Far off, she heard the guards pounding on the door with their spears, demanding to be let in. Marillion broke off his song."Lysa! What's the meaning of this?" The shout cut through the sobs and heavy breathing. Footsteps echoed down the High Hall. "Get back from there! Lysa, what are you doing?" The guards were still beating at the door; Littlefinger had come in the back way, through the lords' entrance behind the dais.

Petyr comes in time to stop it. Of course, we know this is when he kills Lysa himself. Marillion is witness to all of this. Petyr decides to keep him alive for his own ends, sending him to the dungeons to be tortured into now defending their innocence.

"We have come to an agreement, Marillion and I. Mord can be most persuasive. And if our singer disappoints us and sings a song we do not care to hear, why, you and I need only say he lies. Whom do you imagine Lord Nestor will believe?""Us?" Sansa wished she could be certain.

"Lord Petyr has been kind enough to let me keep my harp," the blind singer said. "My harp and . . . my tongue . . . so I may sing my songs. Lady Lysa dearly loved my singing . . ."

Sansa most traumatic moment, the moment she almost died, was serenaded with a song. Now she and Petyr use that singer to cover the crime of Lysa’s death with Sansa being able to hear him from down in the dungeons where he sings at night.

The singer's voice was strong and sweet. Sansa thought he sounded better than he ever had before, his voice richer somehow, full of pain and fear and longing. She did not understand why the gods would have given such a voice to such a wicked man.

He would have taken me by force on the Fingers if Petyr had not set Ser Lothor to watch over me, she had to remind herself. And he played to drown out my cries when Aunt Lysa tried to kill me.That did not make the songs any easier to hear.

"Please," she begged Lord Petyr, "can't you make him stop?""I gave the man my word, sweetling." Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, looked up from the letter he was writing. He had written a hundred letters since Lady Lysa's fall. Sansa had seen the ravens coming and going from the rookery. "I'd sooner suffer his singing than listen to his sobbing."

That night the dead man sang "The Day They Hanged Black Robin," "The Mother's Tears," and "The Rains of Castamere." Then he stopped for a while, but just as Sansa began to drift off he started to play again. He sang "Six Sorrows," "Fallen Leaves," and "Alysanne." Such sad songs, she thought. When she closed her eyes she could see him in his sky cell, huddled in a corner away from the cold black sky, crouched beneath a fur with his woodharp cradled against his chest. I must not pity him, she told herself. He was vain and cruel, and soon he will be dead. She could not save him. And why should she want to? Marillion tried to rape her, and Petyr had saved her life not once but twice. Some lies you have to tell. Lies had been all that kept her alive in King's Landing.

Marillion in his entirety really opens up a more troubling world view for Sansa to start to digest. He was beautiful and young and a singer, but he tried to rape her. He tried to aid in her murder. He was tortured into defending her and Baelish. She knows he will be killed. Sansa is conflicted by all of this, feeling haunted by his sad songs as she tried to sleep but can’t. He has given her a lot to think about regarding her survival but also her morality.

"My lady was too trusting for this world." Petyr spoke so tenderly that Sansa would have believed he'd loved his wife. "Lysa could not see the evil in men, only the good. Marillion sang sweet songs, and she mistook that for his nature."

Songs have been weaved throughout Sansa’s narrative consistently, alongside three men who enforce these links even more. The Hound who wanted a song, Lord Baelish who was once a lover of songs himself, and Marillion, the singer. I believe that songs will continue to play a thematic role in Sansa’s chapters, but i would say the dreams and innocence once associated with them in her mind is long gone.

The moment came back to her vividly. "You told me that life was not a song. That I would learn that one day, to my sorrow." She felt tears in her eyes, but whether she wept for Ser Dontos Hollard, for Joff, for Tyrion, or for herself, Sansa could not say.

As the boy's lips touched her own she found herself thinking of another kiss. She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak.It made no matter. That day was done, and so was Sansa.

That day was done, and so was Sansa.

#sansa stark #petyr baelish #sandor clegane #asoiaf #got #long post #SORRY IT'S SO LONG #i just...LOVE. BOOK. QUOTES

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