#Your honor I love Etienne so much

[aroseyetbloomedwrites]

[daitranscripts]

Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts Deleted Dialogue

Various snippets of dialogue that didn’t make it into the final cut of the game - listed in scene order.

Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts Masterpost

—

Guard: This storeroom is locked for the party. The palace entrance is over there… through the very large, gilded doors.

Guard: My lady. You have had too much wine. This is a locked storeroom. Not an entrance. Guard: My lord. This door is locked for a reason. Please go into the palace through the front doors.

Guard: What was that? Merde…

Guard: The steward will have our hides for this.

—

Sera: I could break more stuff. Just for fun? This place is so dull.

Dialogue options:

I need a diversion.

We’ll go in soon.

I need a diversion. PC: Do me a favor, Sera. Distract those guards over there so I can see that they’re protecting. Sera: You bet your arse I will!

We’ll go in soon. PC: We’re going inside soon. Just be patient. Sera: Ugh! So bored!

Sera: (Yawns.) Whatever.

—

Dialogue options:

General: It’s an honor. +10 Court Approval (Vivienne in party)

Celene (Vivienne in party): Accompanied by our court enchantress, no less. Vivienne: Your loyal servant is delighted to be in your presence, Your Majesty.

—

Solas: Such lovely pageantry.

—

Iron Bull: They said this stuff is a garnish, but nobody stops you if you fill your plate with it.

—

Vivienne: Watch your back, Inquisitor. Remember: everyone here wants you dead.

—

Speaking to Gaspard’s vassal

Nobility perk: I am interested in heraldry. (Use the Nobility/Politics persuade.) PC: It’s good to see the council present. I’ve always had a love of heraldry. Vassal: Indeed, the council had to be present, since the talks concern inheritance of the throne. Of course, they would have hardly refused any invitation from Empress Celene.

Dialogue options:

She is delightful.

That would be madness.

What about from Gaspard?

She is delightful. PC: The empress is very elegant. Vassal: Her majesty is a far more brilliant jewel than anything from the imperial treasury!

That would be madness. PC: No one would turn down the empress! Better to paint yourself blue and live in the trees! Vassal: You have it exactly right, Inquisitor! Better to give up civilization entirely than live without the empress.

What about from Gaspard? PC: But would they refuse an invitation from the grand duke? Vassal: Absolutely! He had allies on the council once, but burned those bridges years ago. Gaspard is a villain. Little better than a bully. Shouting his vile death at the council to give him the crown. The Chalons heraldry will never over the palace. The council will not bow to him.

Vassal: But I must get back to work! It is a rare pleasure to speak with someone knowledgeable. Good evening, Inquisitor

—

Speaking to Lady Marcellette

Nobility/Politics: Court history is fascinating. (Use the Nobility/Politics persuade.)

Nobility/Politics: Court history is fascinating. PC: I’ve always been intrigued by the history of the Imperial Court.

Lady Marcellette (non-human PC): Really? I would never have expected… Lady Marcellette (human PC): History is a living subject. So few understand that.

Lady Marcellette: The struggles of the court a hundred years ago still plague us to this day.

Dialogue options:

Even longer than that. PC: Not only the last age. Thousands of years of history still make their mark on the future.

Some people never learn. PC: We are doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past if we don’t pay attention to our forebears.

They caused the civil war. PC: Certainly, they brought us to the current war.

Lady Marcellette: Truly! How much of what happens tonight was set in motion by the Queen Mother Asha Subria in the Exalted Age? How much bloodshed could have been avoided by a word from the Emperor Etienne I in the Blessed Age?

Dialogue options:

If only we could find out.

It’s fun to speculate.

Better not to wonder.

If only we could find out. PC: It’s a pity we’ll never know. Lady Marcellette: True. But understanding where our trouble begins is the first step toward solving them.

It’s fun to speculate. PC: I’ll bet you concoct stories in your spare time about how different things would be. Lady Marcellette: Well, I’ve written a few… but they’re not worth sharing.

Better not to wonder. PC: It’s wiser not to play “what if?” Lady Marcellette: Very true.

Lady Marcellette: You should visit the library while you’re here! It isn’t open, but I can give you the key. It’s an absolute treasure for history lovers. You must not miss it.

—

Noble 1: Very well.

Noble 1: Indeed? If the Inquisition intends to hold those deserters accountable, I should be glad to pledge my support.

—

Noble: She’s trampling the wisteria! Has she gone mad?

Noble: He’s brutalizing the wisteria! How dreadful!

—

Noble 1: Is that the Inquisitor? What is she doing? Noble 2: She wouldn’t actually climb that trellis, would she?

Noble 1: Is that… the Inquisitor? Where is he going? Noble 2: He wouldn’t dare climb that trellis, would he?

Dialogue options:

Just looking at the garden.

It’s adventurous.

Shut up.

Just looking at the garden. PC: Of course not. I’m simply admiring these plants. Noble 2: A thousand pardons, Inquisitor.

It’s adventurous. PC: In every Orlesian romance, someone climbs a trellis. Admit it, you were thinking of doing the same. Noble 2: Whatever I might have thought, I wouldn’t have done it…

Shut up. PC: Mind your own business. Noble 2: Hmph!

—

PC: Uh-huh. Something funny about this.

—

PC: Maker, these people hate me. How do I fix this? PC: Josephine will kill me if I mess this up any worse. Now what?

—

Underworld: We might work together. (Use the Underworld/Criminals persuade)

PC: I want the grand duke’s men there out of the way, and unless I’m mistaken, you want the same thing… Elf 2: I think we understand each other. Elf 1: My [lord/lady] Inquisitor.

—

In the game room:

Dialogue options:

I can answer. (Use the arcane persuade.) PC: The answer is “What does it have in its pockets?”

Noble 2: How did you answer that so easily?

—

Dialogue options:

Why did you two part ways?

You still love her.

Investigate: Why did you two part ways? PC: What made the two of you part ways? Celene: She wanted change. And she thought I should deliver it. My word is law, Inquisitor, but laws don’t command people’s hearts. Culture does not transform itself overnight. She never loved me. Only my influence. Wisdom is never bought cheaply.

General: You still love her. PC: Maybe you kept it because you still care for Briala. Celene: I do. it is not wise, but… we cannot always be wise.

—

Dialogue options:

Maybe it’s sentimental.

It was yours, then.

Maybe it’s sentimental PC: It might have meant something to her. Briala: Or she held onto it in case she needed something.

It was yours, then. PC: So, this did belong to you. Briala: It did. But that was a long time ago.

—

On entering royal wing:

Varric: I didn’t think you were drunk enough for this plan, Handy.

Varric: Usually we don’t reach this stage of a plan without a lot more drink, Lucky.

—

In Celene’s Quarters:

If the PC doesn’t free the man and speaks to him again: Noble: You piece of shit. Let me out!

—

Josephine: Oh, no, no. You can’t dance in that.

—

Celene: I do. Those “wild stories” have made some things abundantly clear. Gaspard: I hardly know what to believe anymore. Briala: I think everyone believes them, Your Grace.

—

Celene: Gaspard? Do you have any last words?

[captwraith]

She thought they would get tired of her letters, but they never did.

Her father had chosen this woman, a kind and gentle woman who sent her beautiful letters and little gifts sewn by hand. If the seamstress believed Eridani thought her own mother was being replaced and would resent her for it, she couldn't have been more wrong. Eridani's mother had passed years ago, a fact that still brought her grief at times but eventually came with the peace and understanding of adulthood. Eri loved no one more than her own father and it was clear that he hadn't been happier in so long than he was now with this Iskaldrik woman. Eridani bought the seamstress new perfumes and pressed flowers in letters; she told her she would be honored to be her daughter. Her new mother promised that they would have a second wedding in Lysara one day so Eridani could attend.

Dearest Etienne Selland, My deepest gratitude for your letter, it was received with so much happiness. I am Eridani, as you must know by now! Words cannot describe the joy I feel at the news of our mother and father meeting and being in one another's company for the past few months. I haven't seen my father write such words of excitement in years! Your mother seems like the kindest of souls, the most beautiful of women. My father should be so honored. Do not show this letter to him, I fear it would make him quake and blush for days, but I expect there may be a future where we're family. Could you imagine such a thing? But even if there isn't, I would love to know the son of the woman who has captured the heart of Jayesh Maheswari. One of these days I hope to escape my studies, if even just a month and...

It was odder at first with the son. Eridani thought of her sister, Carina, who had never been able to breath even one little breath in this world. A baby sister who died before she could ever live. Eri had ached all her life for a sister or a brother but there was no telling what this man would think of her, especially with both of them old enough to quite safely ignore the other. But she didn't want to, and it seemed that neither did he. Casual, polite letters became entire sheets of paper with stories and jokes, little gifts and pranks hidden between pages to make him laugh. For months, then years, this was their seperate lives entwined.

Dear Etienne, That was a very TERRIBLE picture of your house renovations, you're going to have to draw me a better one!! In fact, our ma has much better taste - have her draw one for me next time ✿ ☺. Speaking of showing, there will be a party The Tower is hosting next months, so I will need your help choosing from one of these three dresses because I cannot, for the life of me, choose. I have attached the photos... But ignore that for now!! You gave me such a great story, so it's my turn. There is this girl, an Apprentice of Vulcan. You would not BELIEVE the...

Being a student of The Tower had it'd perks: the witch enchanted her letters and gifts and had the birds who delivered them be enchanted as well. They would be fast, fast as the wind, and they wouldn't return until her family in Iskaldrik had the chance to use them too. Some months she paid for a caravan to bring them more gifts, sweets and letters, as well as photographs and music. A sweet bard followed Etienne around for a month as a joke.

Even in The Tower, Eri never felt that she had made a truer friend so quickly. Etienne Selland was gentle and curious, kind and modest, and there was no chance for Eridani to use any of the tricks that came to her so easy these days. Within letters, she could not manipulate her voice or body language or anyone else's mind. She had to fully trust him and he had to trust her - to learn one another through words, sentiments and little gestures that spanned across the borders of Lysara and Iskaldrik. By the time the following spring arrived again since their very first letter exchanged, Eridani never would have considered the need or desire to get anything out of her new brother. Her father was safe with their new family, he was happy. She was happy. For years, this happiness endured, for years she thought she would find the time to spare to travel past the borders.

She would see them soon.

Brother, My heart is aching. I haven't heard from you in days. Iskaldrik has fallen and I am traveling back from Astoria to see what there is that I can do... please, please, message me. Please. I can't bear another bare-footed bird coming to my window with no word of our family. I love you, Eri

By the time Iskaldrik had fallen, Eridani had already taken on responsibilities that nearly drowned her but that she would never let overwhelm her. The Agent of Minerva was cunning, quick, and dependable and she would prove her worth to her country. So she did, she did the very best of what was expected of her and then did more. However, months passed and then years, and her family was placed further down her list of priorities. Her ambition had taken the forefront. With all the work she did in the borders of Astoria, there was hardly time to spare to travel all the way to Iskaldrik. She regretted not going directly there after her graduation, and she regretted not postponing her studies for at least a month or two during her time as an Accepted to see them. She had many regrets but none of them changed the fact: her father was dead, the mother she never met was dead, and the only brother she ever had was gone where he didn't want her.

[crumplebottomsinteriorsmagazine]

Crumplebottom's Interiors Interviews: Etienne Toussaint

Today I had the honor to meet and interview Etienne Toussaint, the reclusive designer and maker of the Etienne Bench and Etienne’s Love…seat. While he maybe an introvert in the very public sphere of design, I wanted to hear about his inspiration behind his work and why he wants design to be affordable. We met at the Windenburg establishment, South Square Coffee, where he spends most of his free time after working in his Windenburg studio. The interview has been lightly edited for clarity and conciseness.

Francis DeWolf: So hello, Etienne. It is finally nice to meet you in person. Can you tell me a little about your background and training?

Etienne Toussaint: Thank you for reaching out. My background is in traditional studio painting. I attended the University of Britechester as a studio art major and focused on sculpture. Brad Connelly was still teaching there and actively saw that I had more of a talent for furniture and practical pieces after seeing my work in my junior year. He helped focus me to get a job with Martell as a junior designer in their plastics lab.

FDW: Why plastics?

ET: I was still very much working with plastics coming out of university, so it wasn’t until I realized that plastics were very much more impactful on the environment than wood, fabric, and metal materials. Of course, the production of all furniture is hard on the environment, and I thought that moving away from plastics was one way to do so. Of course, now that I mostly work with fabric and wood, that plastics-based fabrics are still a thing and still cheaper than using, say, cotton or wool.

FDW: Yes, I know that with the emergence with softer polyesters, it is cheaper to use those materials. As we have seen, you have made it a priority to make your work affordable to more people, but you still work with cotton velvets and other natural fibers, tell me, why cost is so important to you?

ET: I was thinking of my own childhood and how it was hard for my parents to afford to buy new and buy a quality piece of furniture. They often replaced pieces from thrift shops when the furniture would break. I went to Britechester on a full-ride scholarship and felt that I wanted to give my parents the chance to own new furniture, that wasn’t just the standard old-fashion stuff.

FDW: So is that where the emphasis on new and experimental forms you are known for came from?

ET: Yes, I feel like everyone should have a quality piece of furniture that they can use at a good price. Obviously, not everyone has the experimental taste that I have. But honestly, I do want folks that like high-end design to get their hands on it.

FDW: I want to shift gears a little and ask why the seemingly reclusive life and unwillingness to really be in, maybe not the public eye, but at least feel more private and pseudonymous when you have these goals of affordability?

ET: I want the work to stand on its own rather, than standing the design and “glory” when it upstages the furniture. Too many designers seem to be more about attaching their name to pieces then pieces standing the test of visibility in the home.

FDW: So, is that why you live here in Windenburg versus say San Myshuno?

ET: I just prefer the quietness of Windenburg and lower cost to have a big studio to work in. I am still very much working as an artist. Having the Casbah Gallery representing my work, is how I got involved with their affordable design initiatives.

FDW: Are you still doing sculpture?

ET: Yes, I am very much a maker of things, then say a painting or other 2D art. Making things with my hands is just very calming and takes me back when my dad would often build things for my mom. He came from a long line of craftsmen and today I honor that tradition.

FDW: One last question, what’s next?

ET: I have some new metal works coming in the next couple of months or so, so be sure to be on the lookout for those. I decided to move to metal for this project, as I got some shipping container scrap metal that builds out my work. ¥

Poses by @r-jayden

Objects on my own CC blog: @orangeresearcher

[ceph-the-ghost-writer]

Relationship History Tag Game

Tagged by @authoralexharvey! It was interesting to see a little bit of background on the cast of ASMLP's relationships (or their avoidance of them rather?). I'm sure it's manifesting in all sorts of fascinating ways during the actual story. Well, fascinating for the reader--Nadia, Etienne, and Simone might find it less entertaining.

Rules: briefly (or not) describe what kinds of intimate relationships (platonic, romantic, sexual, or otherwise) your MCs have had PRIOR TO THE BOOK STARTING. Have they had their hearts ripped out before jumping into your fluffy romance? Are they aro/ace and have never been in a long-term relationship before?

I did this for Isaac, Renato, and Dorian last time, so let's hear from Ben, Ollie, and Kinslayer next.

Ben

Yeah, yeah, laugh it up about how you could fill an encyclopedia with all the people he's slept with. But he puts just as much effort into platonic relationships as he does into screwing around. Of course he's close with Desmond, and not just because he's Ben's sire. Desmond was the role model he'd needed since his father and older brother died when he was still a kid (thanks WW I). Desmond showed him that a man could provide with more than just money. That he could fight not just for dominance or honor (whatever that is) or his own anger, but justice, love, and the protection of others. Hanging around Desmond also helped him figure out that he could check off "all of the above" when it came to which genders he was attracted to. That figurative encyclopedia started filling up pretty quick afterwards.

As for Theodore...look, they fight like cats and dogs, but Theo's all right (do not breathe a word of this, got it?). Ben wouldn't say the guy's like an older brother or anything. More like a rival. Micaela likes him anyway, and she's always had a knack for reading people.

Hell, probably because Micaela is good people. She gets a little gloomy sometimes, and maybe wanders off by herself for a decade or two, but she always goes out of her way to help everyone. She's also a crack shot with a rifle, and has a lot of guts in a quieter sort of way. He likes to just lay out by the lake with her sometimes and stare up at the stars.

Same goes with most everyone he lives with in Olympia. They drive him crazy sometimes, but that's kind of how it is with family, whether they're related by blood or not. Well, he is related to them by blood, only in the vampire way, not the--oh, hell, nevermind. You get what he means, right?

Ollie

You're going to make her say it, aren't you? Fine. She loved...loves...feels something for Renato. You don't survive an apocalypse with somebody and just stop caring when you're not dating anymore, okay? Even after you've been broken up for years and you're afraid he'll do something that'll force you to kill him.

Mergus is their father. For all intents and purposes, and through magic if not genetics. They quite literally owe him their lives. So, Renato can have his little rebellion, work out whatever shit he needs to work out, but if it comes down to the two of them...she knows who she'll choose.

As for other relationships, she keeps it simple, no strings attached. Why would she want to try for anything more after she found out she could be replaced by a fucking goldfish?

Kinslayer

They've lived a long, long, looong time, friends. So, for the sake of brevity, they're obviously not going to get around to naming everyone.

Haru gets first mention, though. They've known each other for...well, at least the better part of few hundred years, give or take. Things started out rocky, as they usually do for all their kind. But Kinslayer had grown patient enough over the centuries to not obliterate some scrappy little class three at the first annoyance. And Haru had the sense not just to realize that, but to be curious instead of mistake their disinterest in territorial pissing contests for weakness. Eventually, they took to traveling together sometimes, even settling down and having kids now and then. Haru is, in a nutshell, their partner.

While they haven't forged quite the same bonds with the other ragtag psychic vampire misfits who chose to trail along after them like ducklings at some point, Kinslayer doesn't mind them either. Well. Luxe can go piss up a rope most days. But once in awhile his mouth does come in handy for getting out of a scrape.

On the subject of their kin, if they were capable of regret, not living up to their moniker with Tristan Knox would be their biggest. But they're a mind reader, not a fortune teller. It took some time and doing, but they eventually corrected that misstep. Yessir.

Which brings them to an honorable mention for their little black sheep cousin, Renato. Despair and desperation aren't bravery maybe, but they'll do in a pinch. Kinslayer looks forward to finding out what havoc he'll cause next. And whether he'll figure out how to dig deep enough to find out what he's really made of.

No pressure tags @theimperiumchronicles @k--havok @vacantgodling @korblez @late-to-the-fandom @words-after-midnight & an open tag for anyone who wants to give this a go!

[skyllion-uwu]

Top 5 of your OCs (probably has been asked before but idk)

World's hardest question:

Nova Armstrong

Etienne

Evanthe

Jaxon

Trixy

Honorable mention goes to Bee Batson. Not sure if she counts since she's an AU version of Shazam but I love her so much

Ask Top 5

[elegant-etienne]

A sad announcement.

Dani Russo, @snarksonomy , known on FFXIV as Milloux Allard/ @aethersmoke-and-ash, Violetta Fierlane/ @violetcuriosity, T'Many Allowe/ @tams-catte, and others, has passed away. Dani was the former leader of the Ashen Enclave FC and the head and founder of the Tangled Boughs. She organized many public events over the years, founded Crystal’s first Duskcord, and was also a well-known moderator of the Balmung RP Network. She will be remembered as an amazing artist, leader, organizer, and most importantly, a wonderful friend.

I am devastated, as I'm sure many of you are. Dani has been one of my closest friends for the better part of 5 years, and nothing I can think to say feels adequate to express my grief. When I think of the hard work she has put into her FC and the FFXIV community in general, I am overwhelmed at the prospect of trying to share this news with all of the people she has touched. Her warmth, humor, and eye for beauty will continue to inspire me for the rest of my life. I can't believe she's gone.

I have left a private note to Dani's family about how beloved she was by her online community and extended an offer to help memorialize her, however, I do not expect to hear back quickly, if at all. It is important to give her family space in this time of loss, as the handling of her online presence and online friends are probably the last thing on their minds right now. I will give updates if I get any news on this front. That being said, while I've found and confirmed her obituary, it did not contain details and I do not have further information on her passing. While those who were close to her knew that Dani struggled with her health for the last few years, this loss is still very much unexpected, and her family may choose not to disclose more. Let us focus instead on being here for one another and sharing all our good memories of Dani.

Dani has touched so many lives. She always took time to get to know people and their characters, remember their interests and jokes, and made them feel special and included. As her frequent collaborator and close friend, I know how much it meant to her to make connections and run events for this community. She worked endlessly to make sure others were having fun.

Her reach and impact on the Balmung community are farther than I realized.  I’ve been overwhelmed with all of the love and stories I’ve heard so far, and I know I’ll hear more. Because of this, I do intend to eventually put together something more public-facing in her honor so that we can share our stories and memories of her - probably during The Rising. The summer fireworks were always a time of reflection for her character Milloux, and that seems like an appropriate time. For now, though, I am heartbroken and sorry to be the one to share this news.

Look after yourselves and your health. Enjoy goofy, weird jokes and strange beauty, embrace your unique tastes and interests, and be strong and firm in your convictions. These are the things Dani always helped me to do.

Thank you.

- Etienne “Eti” Clairemont

[sarah-mcmasterx]

Souls.

There was no fucking way. There was no fucking way. Sarah stared, wide-eyed as the vampire approached her. ‘What’s the matter, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ His voice was taunting. True to his nature, and he was one that she’d hoped that she would never see again. She didn’t want him here. He shouldn’t be here. Sarah was positive that she’d gotten rid of him before she was sent back to the Chateau for the second time. 

The memories of all of his compulsion ran through her mind. Unlike the stronger compulsion that still had a hold on her, this vampire was not as old, and not as strong as the King. He had also been very forward with what he’d done to her. He compelled her, forced her to believe the worst things about Effy, before crashing it all down and laughing at her about it. He enjoyed making her feel pain. To hurt her and make her need him. 

While Sarah was in his care, she’d been kept from everyone.  Anyone that could threaten his hold — anyone that she may have trusted — he kept from her. When Sarah found her clarity, whatever sliver there may have been, she took the opportunity. She killed him during one of the City’s disarrays, and was returned to the Chateau. 

But now here he was. 

“You’re dead,” the words passed her lips in a quick, rushed whisper, as if she was scared that someone may hear her — that someone would know what she’d done. 

‘Am I?’ His smile widened, and his dimples creased in his cheeks. "Who are you trying to convince, Sarah? Me? Or yourself?" 

 “I-I saw you...” a tear slid down her cheek, “I... I know yo--” 

‘We should play,’ he cut her off and smiled. ‘I’ve missed it... And I have so... So much to tell you. Maybe it will help you think better... Or maybe it will finally press puree on that lovely mind of yours...’  There was no where to run. Etienne had her in solitary on a rotation as part of his plan to break her down piece by piece. And now he — the only ex-master of Sarah McMaster... would do the honors.

[johnconstantinesdick]

who are your favorite characters in the series? I started the first book but am having some trouble getting into it so I was wondering what I have to look forward to (I have no issue w/ spoilers I already tried to read some of the wikis)

Oh the wiki is pretty bad (I’m actually working on putting together new fae race articles). I think some other people have been doing more edits recently though.

But as for favorite characters!!

There’s Cassandra, a physics major at Berkeley, Toby’s (not blood related) niece, and a seer. She’s working to figure out how the Summerlands work, like. Scientifically. She’s a background character but she’s been showing up more frequently in recent books and I have a feeling we’re working up to a book all about her and her family.

There’s Walther, Cassandra’s boyfriend, Toby’s friend, and the best alchemist in the world. He gets a lot of focus in A Red-Rose Chain but he’s a consistent ally and helper from book 4 onwards! He’s trans and the author has been clear that he’s NOT going to die. He’s constantly tired of Toby’s ridiculous shenanigans but he’ll always help and it means he’s super intellectually stimulated by all the weird and considered-impossible alchemical tricks he needs to come up with.

There’s Etienne, the seneschal at Shadowed Hills, who comes into focus during Ashes of Honor (my favorite book) when he finds out the changeling daughter he didn’t know about is missing and subsequently gets roasted for dating a folklore professor, really Etienne?? He loves his wife and daughter so much it hurts, and after Ashes of Honor he and Toby build a steady friendship. There’s an entire essay to be had about his shifting ideas of duty and loyalty and love but if I start writing that I WILL cry.

There’s Dianda, a pretty, violent mermaid that can and will punch you in the throat. She’s fiercely protective of her husband (later, husbands!!) and children, and she and Toby get along really well and respect eachother a lot.

There’s Gillian, Toby’s daughter, who’s hurt and angry and confused and who has had decisions made for her more than she would like. The decisions were to keep her alive, but she’s forever changed, and she can never go back to her old life. She was the first changeling to make a true Choice, where she could belong fully to either world, where she wouldn’t be killed if she chose human. She did, and Toby let her go, but the rest of faerie wouldn’t let her go just because she wanted them to. Toby and the Luidaeg save her life, but she’s fully fae and she has to live a life she never chose. Her family is fucked up and as much as they all love her to the point of devotion, that doesn’t always mean treating her the way she wants, especially when she doesn’t even know fully what she wants.

And then there’s the Luidaeg, Antigone of Albany, firstborn to two races. Her children were slaughtered and skinned, and the children of the perpetrators killed their parents as an apology. She wrapped them in the skins of her dead children and called them selkies. She loves the selkies, as they’re what’s left of her children, but she hates them as well. She’s the sea witch, cursed to tell no lies and grant the wish of whoever came to find her, for a price of her choosing. Her prices are high not out of cruelty, but out of a hope that she can be left alone. She sings “Poor Unfortunate Souls” at Toby’s bachelorette party.

[fandomn00blr]

It’s Thursday again! And boy howdy do I have lots of things that I should have thrown away a long time ago. Tagging @funkypoacher​ again, because we have an understanding 😉. Also tagging eranehn@parera-zuul-jar​​, @zuendwinkel​, @johaeryslavellan​, @convenientcoma​, @grumpkinvicky​, @serial-chillr​, @paraparadigm​, @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold​​, @factorykat​​, @pinkfadespirit​​, @barbex​​, @ginnyq​​, @lostinfantasies38​, @elveny​, @kunstpause​, and anyone else who has something that they never finished or cut from a WIP but couldn’t quite get rid of! Feel free to use the banner if you want! 

I dug way deep this week, to the very first DA fic-type thing I ever wrote down (and have subsequently never shared with anyone because it’s just that good). I may have mentioned before that I started playing Dragon Age games when I was pregnant (now it’s a theme, I guess), and I started with Inquisition, so I apologize to the entire fandom for what I’m about to share... 

Without further ado, here’s a fade-preggo SolAdaar/SerAdaar? baby shower situation at Skyhold (under a cut because I warned you...also, it’s pretty long):

“I know that I am incredibly popular now that I am the size of my own war nug, but at least one of you has to shove off and mingle before Josephine throws a fit.”

Solas only reinforced his dutiful stance at Adaar’s side, planting his feet, and clasping his hands together behind him, looking as immovable as a statue in his determination to stay.

“Hey, I’m following the rules for once. I’m on the schedule! At least, I think…” Sera turned pleadingly toward Dorian.

“Oh, but I really wanted to be a part of this adorable love triangle...er, quadrangle?” He winked at Solas, who met this gesture with the same stoney glare. “Very well, then. If you need me, I’ll just be entertaining your guests in the library upstairs.”

As Dorian strode away from them to break up some of the group of Orlesians that had surrounded Cullen, an unfamiliar masked visitor approached.

“Inquisitor Adaar, may I introduce myself? I was expecting a formal pronouncement in the reception hall, as is the custom in Orlesian society, but I see this is not Orlais.”

Sera made no attempt to hide her eye roll as she let out a loud audible sigh. Solas tensed slightly at his accusatory tone, but his facial expression remained unchanged as he stared out over the hall.

“I am sorry you were disappointed, friend. What is your name and your relationship to the Inquisition?” Adaar was the only one of them who even pretended to have any manners. Such was the burden she had to bear, she supposed, as she felt the other burden kicking at her insides.

“Oh, another unfamiliar custom, but I will take it as an honor that you call me your ‘friend.’ My name is Etienne de Beaulieu. My family was one of the first that Lady Montilyet asked to aid your cause in the Exalted Plains after Haven fell.”

“Well then, you are indeed a friend to the Inquisition. Thank you.”

“Excuse my boldness, Inquisitor, but perhaps you can settle a great mystery circulating throughout the lands.”

“Probably not. Solving mysteries is really not one of my skills.”

“This mystery pertains almost exclusively to you.”

“Even more reason I probably won’t be able to solve it!” She laughed, trying to mask her discomfort as the thing inside her did some kind of somersault into her bladder. How many knees and elbows could it possibly have?

This was, of course, not how these conversations were meant to go according to the extensive books on Orlesian etiquette that Josephine had provided her. Again, she found she just didn’t care. Her house, her rules, after all.

The other man, however, seemed perplexed that she was not willing to answer his questions with questions and go round and round until they both believed that the other had confirmed what the other had wanted to hear without actually saying anything.

“Well, I…”

“Oh just ask her your friggin question!” Sera blurted out.

“This is quite a departure from what I am used to.”

“I’m sorry, Etienne. But you will find that we are all quite terrible at the art of Orlesian conversation here. Please, just tell me, what do you want to know?”

“Well, there are many rumors, many speculations.”

“About?” Solas was growing impatient with this conversation as well, especially once he realized where it was headed.

“The parentage of the...child...growing inside of the Inquisitor.”

Solas shot Adaar a quick look, as if to warn her to be careful about her answer or retreat entirely from the conversation. Maybe she would need to use some of her conversation lessons, after all.

“Parentage? Well, I am clearly the mother.” She chuckled again, though it sounded far more strained this time. She didn’t know whether or not to play coy, pretend she didn’t know, or to turn and embrace Solas and loudly declare him the father of their mysterious Fade baby right there in front of the whole hall to dispel any other possible speculations.

As if he could read her mind, he shook his head just enough for her to notice, a thin smile across his lips as his eyes continued to stare out in front of him.

“Many fear that it could be the Tevinter Altus you have taken as a companion.”

This broke the spell of uncertainty that had suddenly made her pause and she burst out into deep, genuine laughter. This young, inexperienced nobleman had just given her the perfect out.

“Ah, Dorian Pavus? He is of high standing within the Imperium. Would the Orlesian nobility object to this match?”

Sera was pretending to puke behind her, an effective discourse strategy that somehow was not mentioned in any of the Orlesian handbooks she had read.

“I believe it would be quite the scandal, Inquisitor, to have the spiritual figurehead of the Inqusition, a Qunari at that, matched with a Tevinter of any standing,” he explained with the condescending patience of one who thought he was speaking to an imbecile. “But then, we hear other rumors, too...”

“Well, you may find the answers you seek in the Library, Monsieur de Beaulieu, but for now, I must bid you adieu.” Adaar felt the sudden petty rush of winning, however unconventionally, this small part of The Game, and her attempt at an ‘adieu’ was a bold show of chutzpah. Plus, it rhymed.

“Not that it’s important in the least, but it’s pronounced, ‘ad-yoo’...” He dared to try to get the last word with a pronunciation lesson? He truly was new to this.

“‘Frig you, nob!’ is how I actually pronounce it,” Sera announced, rather loudly, moving towards the nobleman menacingly.

He took a few steps back, realizing this was as much as he was going to get from the Inquisitor on this matter, and Solas shook his head at them, a broader smile creeping across his face as he looked down at Adaar’s swelling ankles.

“It is natural that they are curious, but I think you were wise not to declare the truth in front of everyone,” he murmured, once Sera had chased the man out of earshot.

“I wouldn’t have --” Adaar began to protest, but Solas turned and tilted his head at her with that infuriating smugness. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting me some cake?!” she demanded.

[lsbaird]

The Devil’s Luck - Chapter Two Preview!

It’s a nice long one today, folks! Maybe snug up with a cup of coffee. If you’re just now joining in, the prologue is here, and chapter one is here! Today’s installment tells us more about Chancelion, the unfortunate Evern, the maybe more unfortunate Frey, why squirrels are bastards, and why you should lock up your books when Etienne comes to visit.

 Etienne woke up late the next morning feeling almost cheery.  It had been too rainy the night before to do a thorough scouting of the rooftops, and he had retired early.  His garish bed made up in feather ticking what it lacked in subtlety, and none of it could be seen in the dark anyway. He had slept like the sainted dead, though he still had to suppress a yelp when he woke and saw the room by daylight.  It was that damn cherub.  

He opened his curtains onto the gardens—the view was as lovely as promised, if still somewhat waterlogged—and took a deep breath. All would go well. A rocky start did not predict a rocky end, after all, and if he was going to make some flubs on his mission, it was better to make them at the beginning rather than at a more critical moment. He repeated these things to himself until he started to believe them, and turned away from the window to face his first morning at Chancelion.

The tea and soup from the night before had not yet been cleared away. Frey's servants had heeded his order not to disturb Lady Elsa, and even if they had tried, the chair Etienne had put under the door handle would have prevented it. He was pleased to see it had not shifted an inch. Trustworthy staff, Etienne thought, adding the tidbit to his growing list of household details.

His dress was still unpleasantly damp, even after spending the night spread over two chairs by the fire. Etienne had three gowns with him, which was enough for his deception, but any real noblewoman would feel destitute with so little.  Etienne padded across the bright carpets to the wardrobe lurking in the far corner.  Wearing a frock of his fiancé's choosing was a sure way to his heart, and as Lady Elsa's lady-maid and trunks of clothing were all fictitious, it seemed a shame not to have a look, at least.  It couldn’t be as awful as the rest of the room, could it?

Etienne tugged on the brass handles of the wardrobe doors, instinctively braced for whatever horror might await him.  But here, once again, Chancelion—or at least Chancelion’s master—surprised him.  

Shades of cool green and black washed over Etienne like a refreshing waterfall.  In the letters to Frey, which had been concocted by Ephaseus and written by Etienne, ‘Elsa’ had mentioned her preferences when it came to such things: an emphasis on clothes that would be best suited for the concealment of weapons, and for activities where accidents could happen.  Every least detail had been taken into account, even her (Etienne’s) antipathy to lavender. All the linens smelled of mint leaves, instead.

She would not be used to the cold, and as a result, there were three handsome wraps as well as a fine wool dressing-gown in Lady Elsa's favorite emerald hue.  Pearls were her favorite gem, and the embroidered bodices were stiff with them, no matter the outrageous price they commanded in Easting.  She enjoyed riding and hunting with birds, and so a green damask riding habit hung in the nearest corner, along with fine hawking gloves decorated with gold silk tassels.  A lady's riding boots occupied the bottom of the wardrobe, along with several different pairs of slippers.  An evening dress, suitable for a royal ball, was downright crunchy with its yards of thick gold lace; Etienne mourned that the neckline was far too low for his disguise.  Jewel boxes nestled on the shelves contained ropes of pearls, gold chain, and actual emeralds.  Etienne at once lost his vain little heart to a particular pair of pearl drop earrings, thinking they would look elegant on Elsa and rakish when worn with his usual black leathers.  

Perplexed by his findings, he looked at the room again, as though to make sure its hideous state had not been some fevered imagining on his part, but it was as outlandish as ever.  The wardrobe and its contents seemed to have come from some other chamber, possibly one in a different house.  

Etienne fingered the soft velvet of a split sleeve. The gown was a simple one for day wear, easy enough to get into on his own, and the already demure neckline could be made even more modest with a fichu hanging nearby.  After a moment's consideration, he pulled the dress from its hook and his mostly-dry corset from the windowsill, where he’d thrown it the night before.  

Dressing took him time and care; it was, after all, as much his arsenal as his disguise. The pins in his wig could pierce a man's heart, the flutter of lace at his throat concealed a fine length of garroting wire.  Poisons he had as well, of various sorts, but one in particular—the powder of the humble grensel blossom, concealed beneath the ruby on his forefinger—was for Etienne alone.

Etienne carefully measured out a tiny portion of the deadly nitoxis powder from the compartment on his ring, swirled it in his half-finished cup of tea from the night before, and drank it down.  It tasted like nothing but cold chamomile tea and orange peel, but he couldn't repress a faint shudder.  Playing dice with his own mortality was a dangerous business, but his immunity had saved his life six times so far.  Of course, the time he failed to keep up his doses the withdrawal almost killed him, but that was a hazard of the job.  It was a price he paid for being careless, and he'd learned, very quickly, to never be careless.

His weapons and dress secured, Etienne smoothed the sleeve of his gown to be sure the crimson brand on his wrist was well-covered, and swept out the door for breakfast.  

Once again, however, the actors had failed to assemble for the performance.  This time, it was the leading man that was missing, and Etienne was in the dining room before he found any of the other players at all.  

“Out at the cattle barn, miss,” Tobias whispered, as the maid dished up oat porridge and poached eggs on toast for Etienne, alongside fat sausages and potted chicken liver and fried apples and all the other morning delicacies of the country.  “One of the yearlings took ill in the night, and suffers naught but the Master to nurse it.”  

“He is good with animals, then?”  Etienne asked, napkin balanced on one hand to eat with a young lady's poise.  It would not do to give in to his own peculiar habits, such as pouring massive globs of honey on his sausages.  

“They take to him, aye,” the butler went on, in his creaky voice.  “But the stableman hopes that some of the Master's good fortune will rub off.  None he's nursed yet has fared poorly after.”

“Oh, how curious.  Is he so very lucky?”  Etienne sipped his at his tea like a bird tasting the air of a winter morning.  It had been put out for milady’s breakfast on ormolu trays, served in cups of a fine porcelain as fragile as frozen milk, but was weak enough to read a gospel through.  Coffee, to Etienne’s abiding regret, had not yet caught on in Easting. With a flash of longing he thought of Ephaseus' comfortable, parchment-scented study, a battered silver pot of black coffee laced with cacao powder at his elbow, and a thick book in his lap, leather armchair pulled up to the fire.  Resigned, Etienne contemplated swift murder, and dutifully drank his impotent tea.  

“Luck is what the unfaithful call the will of God,” Tobias wheezed, and it was lucky he had his back turned as he attended to the sugar tongs, so he missed the expression that crossed Etienne's face.  It was as much for the sanctimony as the weak tea.  “But it would seem heaven has seen fit for Lord Reichwyn to be uncommonly blessed in that regard.”

Etienne lifted his eyebrows, and wondered how quickly the uncommonly blessed Lord Reichwyn would sink in a swollen Easting stream after his lungs were punctured with a knife.  “When might you expect him back?”  

“He asked me to proffer his apologies, my lady, and inquire if you would do him the honor of going for a ride with him this afternoon.”  

Etienne's smile was winning, and genuine.  There were so many ways one could die, out on horseback in the country.  “I should be delighted.”  

“In the meantime, he bids you feel free to look around the house and grounds, and hopes you find them to your liking.”  

Etienne remembered that Elsa was supposed to have every intention of making Chancelion her future home, and as a result should take an active interest in things like the main hall carpet and the gutters. For himself, Etienne wondered if there was a decent library.  He finished his breakfast in spite of Tobias hanging off his elbow like a dried-up dungball, and went off to get a better grasp of the manor's layout.  

 Excepting the dearth of coffee, Chancelion was a well-appointed estate.  Frey, in his two years of holding the title of Lord Reichwyn, had devoted considerable time and effort to converting the neglected property into one of the finest holdings in the north.  Etienne spent the morning wandering the halls, not only checking to see which doors and windows were regularly unlocked but, more and more, with a genuine interest in the house.  It would have taken all day and some of the evening for a complete survey of the rambling manor, which he fully intended to do, until he was distracted in his reconnaissance by the scent of books.  

He was not prepared for the library.  Country manors were rarely outposts of learning, and at best one could expect to find an old volume of St. Justicia’s teachings, or an archaic treatise on mushrooms, or doggerel poetry about cows.  Or so Etienne supposed, and he was delighted to be proven wrong.   It was not expansive, that was certain, only a simple square room with one window. But it was quality.  Etienne knew that by the smell of old leather and quality parchment, as well as beeswax, which meant the room actually saw use.  Within a minute he had vanished into the library’s inviting shadows, and the rest of the morning slipped by with astonishing speed.

He had just persuaded himself to resume his work, and was heading for the other wing of the house to do so, when there was a commotion from the entrance below him.  Etienne gathered up the weight of his green velvet skirts (which had been made heavier with the weight of one or two rare editions that he was sure no one would miss) and peered over the balustrade into the stone-flagged entryway below.  

Freyton Reichwyn Landry had just returned from the stables, as muddy and strawy as any cattle-hand, beaming in spite of the state of his boots and coat.  His hair was falling out of his queue again, and his good spirits gave him the appearance of a boy returning from some successful caper.  He was wholesome enough to make Etienne shiver, as would any explorer in a foreign land when confronted with some strange and innocent animal.  Etienne didn’t think they even made them like that anymore.  Or ever.

“I think she'll pull through, Tobias,” Frey announced with triumph, shucking out of his waistcoat.  Etienne bit his lip and leaned slightly over the railing, watching closely, but Frey kept his shirt on. Even going out to the stables he had it buttoned to the wrists.  His neckerchief was modest in terms of ruffle, but he wore it wound up to his jaw like an old-fashioned city lawyer.  Etienne let out his breath in frustration as Frey put on his more gentlemanly boots.  “But it's coming up another rain, I'm afraid.  Touring the grounds with Lady Elsa will have to wait.  Have you seen her?”

“Lady Elsa is inspecting the house, sir,” Tobias answered.  

“Ah, well, I hope she hasn't gotten herself lost!” Frey pulled on the coat Tobias offered, a somber thing of brown velvet and gilt buttons, more suited for his role as manor lord, trading it for the threadbare tweed he had worn for nursing cattle.  

Etienne pondered the advantages of making an entrance just then, but chose instead to retreat backstage to his rooms for the moment. For one thing, he wanted to dispose of his stolen books in his traveling bag, and for another, there was a trap to be laid.  

Etienne paused by his dressing-table for a brief dose of powder and perfume, and then went out in the corridor and proceeded to get lost.  Not terribly lost, of course, only a little bit lost, just a short way inside the unexplored wing of Chancelion and out of sight.  He knew his perfume would do the rest.  He also knew, from the sound of boots on the carpet down the hall, that a splendid, fated rendezvous was imminent.  

Etienne positioned himself at a cross-corridor, between a suit of archaic tilting armor and a large ceramic urn, and put on his very best winsome and bewildered expression.  

For once, the leading man knew his cue.  Frey appeared around the corner with impeccable timing, redoing his ribbon and whistling a country jig.  His eyes lit up at the sight of his betrothed in the corridor, and he quickened his pace along the landing.  

“Here you are!  I hope you haven't been too dreadfully bored, have you?”  

“Oh!”  Etienne said, wringing his hands and turning in surprise, as though he had not in fact been counting Frey's boot-falls, and had not known full well just when to look up to best effect.  “Lord Freyton!  I'm ever so glad to see you.  I'm afraid I've gotten turned around entirely.  Is this the way back to the east wing?”  

Frey shook his head.  “I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Elsa.  I have been terribly rude to abandon you this morning, without even a guide around the house!  I should have sent Tobias with you to show you the lay of the manor.”  

“We'd still be in the foyer,” Etienne muttered, and then caught himself with an internal curse as Frey’s eyebrows shot upwards. Elsa would never say that!  Not about such a dear, kind old soul!  “I mean,” he hastened to add, “He is elderly, and I fear it would be too much strain for me to drag him all over at my pace, and…” Etienne hit on it all at once, and it was so obvious, he was ashamed it had taken him so long.  “Well, the truth of it is, I was searching for a room.”  

“A room?”  Frey echoed, with a careless smile.  “Well, there are dozens of them, Lady, you may have your pick.  Is your chamber not to your liking?”  

Etienne's laugh was a little thin. That had been a close call.  “Not for me, My lord.  One room in particular has caught my fancy,” he continued.  “I have heard a legend told of this place: the great ghost story of Chancelion.  In Ivanis City, they say that your great-uncle Evern Reichwyn played a hand of cards with the devil, and lost, and was dragged down to hell for payment.  Is it true that the room where they gambled is still locked up, untouched?”  

All of the good humor had fled Frey's face.  For a moment Etienne thought he had gone too far, and some fast back-stepping would be required, but Frey shook himself and dredged up a smile from somewhere.  It was a thin ghost of the previous one, however, and did not reach his eyes.  

“Ah, I should have known you would be curious,” he said, sadly.  “I suppose even in the south, the misfortune of Chancelion is known?”  

Etienne clutched his hands in his skirts, consternated. “Forgive my inconsiderate curiosity, my lord.  Of course, it is a family matter here, and a serious thing, not some scandalous fireside rumor told in a salon in the city...”  

“Frey,” Frey said, with a touch of his old humor. “Call me by name, lady, and I will grant your desire, any desire.”  

Etienne felt his pulse quicken, in spite of himself. He told himself it was only the hot blood of the chase.  “So he did play a hand with the devil?  There is such a room?”  

Frey shrugged.  “I wasn't there at the time, so I don't know about the devil or not. But there is such a room, yes, and it is indeed untouched, as far as I know.  It's a morbid curiosity, really, and in my eyes it is the sad remnant of a man who went mad and nothing more.  But I cannot deny the air of the place, and I've no heart to disturb it. The servants refuse to speak of the room at all, so one can hardly expect them to go in and tidy it up. There is only one key, and it is mine. I am not sure if such a place is suitable for you, even if it is only a legend.”  

Etienne's curiosity was now well and truly piqued. So Freyton Reichwyn Landry—who if Etienne’s information was true, was the Devil's Heir apparent himself—doubted the legend of Chancelion, and his own great-uncle's fate?   “I assure you, Lord Freyton, I am not prone to histrionics or fainting.  I can endure the sight of a dusty chamber with a tall tale tacked onto it.”  

“Then I will show it to you,” Frey said, and reached for the ring of keys at his belt.  “Provided, of course, that you meet my condition.”  

“Your condition?”  Etienne echoed, and then remembered.  “Ah yes.”  He paused to taste the name a little before letting it out.  “...Frey.”  

His suitor smiled once again, and it was as though the sun had come out, though rain still hammered down like musket-fire on the leaded glass windows.  “That is much better,” he said, and swept his arm towards the left-hand corridor.  “This way, my Lady.”  

Frey knew the passages of his rambling house as though they were the contours of his own bedchamber.  Even though he had only lived there for two years, he could recite the date of every tapestry, the tournaments won or lost in every suit of armor, the artist of every portrait.  Knowledge of his ancestral home was a matter of some pride for the young landholder, and as he had been unaware of his birthright for most of his life, he took it as both his duty and his pleasure.

Etienne did not have to feign interest on Elsa's behalf; he had a weak spot for history and the halls of Chancelion had their wealth spread out in a tasteful sheen, instead of the overcrowded luxuries of his room.  Frey led Etienne across a landing and through a side-passage, then down a staircase of coiled squares, the railing-posts mounted with exquisitely carved hawks.  

“They were an addition of his,” Frey said, patting one of the birds on its shiny head.  “He liked it a great deal, I've heard.  Hawking.  You enjoy it as well, don't you?  Perhaps tomorrow it will be dry enough to go out.”  

“His?”  Etienne repeated.  

“Uncle Evern,” Frey said.  “I never met the man, but Tobias was here at the time, you know. Much younger, of course. He knows everything about the place.  I'm a mere amateur by comparison.”  Frey had paused at the landing, under an ornate window with stained glass in the pattern of the Reichwyn arms, emblazoned on a shield held by a pair of rampant cats.  On a sunny day, it would have splashed them both with blues and golds, but in the rainstorm, it was darkened as though in mourning.  The device featured crowns and stars and moons and suns—-the same as Evern's ill-fated round of card suits.  Etienne wondered if Frey had picked those motifs when he came to inherit, or if his Great-Uncle had chosen them when he won Chancelion.  Etienne shuddered as he turned his back to the window. Perhaps it was only that the Archdemon had a wretched sense of humor.  

“This way,” Frey said, once he had finished adjusting a bit of the stair-carpet that had buckled up under its rod.  “Bloody thing is always coming up.  Someone's going to trip on it and break his neck, honestly.”  

Would it were that easy, Etienne thought, but he took note of the step, just in case.  Maybe on the way back.

They soon left the refurbished parts of the house, plunging back into older, dusty passages. Bits of plaster had fallen from the walls to reveal bare stone.  Crates were stacked against the walls, and moth-eaten hunting trophies glared down at them from the high walls, their glass eyes disturbingly lifelike in their gaunt heads.  Frey and his guest had encountered no servants in their journey, and there seemed to be little chance of doing so now.  

“I must apologize for the state of this wing,” Frey said, shoving aside an old oak table to allow more room in the passage for his lady's copious skirts.  “My predecessors in the title were an unscrupulous lot, though I pray Saint Justicia had mercy at their souls' trial. They ransacked the house and sold most things of value.  I've only just gotten the present rooms in a fit state to live in.  It's something of an ongoing project—oh, damn.”  A suit of armor had collapsed on itself, scattering pauldrons and greaves across the hallway like the wreckage of an upset carriage. Frey reached back a hand to help his lady across the mess.  “Mind that spur, it can't be at all nice to step on.  In truth, when I took the house, it all looked like this, and there wasn't much left in the coffers.”  

“You've done splendidly with the manor,” Etienne murmured.  “I had no idea it was in such a state when you came to your title.”

“Well, to be honest, it was worse than this.  They were keeping pigs in the great hall, and had burned most of the furniture and banisters for firewood.  I'm only glad they didn't touch the library.  For one, I doubt they could read, and for another, Tobias locked the doors and claimed to have misplaced the key.  Lucky thing he did.  You enjoy reading, my lady?”  

“A great deal,” Etienne answered, with honest enthusiasm.  

Frey was delighted in turn by his bride's delight.  “Then you must see our library.  Do you know we have an ancient account of the binding of the Archdemon, in the very hand of the scholar D'Grassa?”  

“Do you really?”  Etienne said, his eyes wide, showing no sign that the leather-bound original D'Grassa was in his traveling case at that very moment.  “That's extraordinary.”  

“I can't read it, of course,” Frey said, apologetically.  “But you mentioned—in your second letter, I believe—that you dabbled in the pre-Justician letters?  I'd be honored if perhaps you could go over some of it with me. Some night after supper perhaps?”  

“I shall do my best,” Etienne said, hoping his smile wasn't too fixed.  He either needed to find a way to smuggle those stolen books back into the library, or to brain his fiancée before the subject could come up again.  Though it was a pity, he thought.  So few people want to learn the old letters in this day and age. I finally find one who wants to, and I have to kill him instead.

Frey was counting tapestries.  “Seven, six...  ah. Here it is.  The one with the hunt on it.”  Faded figures writhed across the wall-hanging, racing their dogs and horses pell-mell into the yawning holes made by age and vermin, all in the determined pursuit of a stained-looking stag.

“Was it always a hidden room?”  Etienne asked, as Frey shoved up the tapestry with his elbow, and jangled through his ring of keys in search of the right one.  “I mean, doesn't it strike you as a bit odd, that Evern would be playing cards in some hidden room?”

“Oh, no. It wasn't always hidden.  This is the old armory.  Evern had it converted into a games room, and Tobias tells me he always came here after dinner to play cards or dice with his friends.  There were no guests the night of the last hand, but he would dice on his own.”  Frey had found the key he wanted, a rather elegant one for such a room.  Etienne had been expecting a slab of iron with a rough tooth, the sort for locking manacles.  “The room was shut up and covered afterwards, by some superstitious second cousins of mine who inherited next.  They weren't here long; the lady of the house went mad and wound up drowning herself in the duck pond.  The staff insists her ghost’s been sighted regularly around the grounds ever since, not that I've run into her myself, but we did just have a scullery maid quit a fortnight ago after supposedly seeing her.”  The lock gave a surprisingly well-oiled click. “There. Mind the tapestry.”  

Etienne held up one arm to ward off the moldering folds of the hunt scene, and followed Frey's gesture into the fabled chamber.  The overwhelming impression was one of dust, but that was only to the eyes. There were other senses to be assailed, other messages to heed, and they presented themselves at once, to the detriment of all others.  

The moment Etienne crossed the threshold, the crimson tattoo on his wrist burst into pain, burning as though freshly inscribed.  Etienne could feel every needle-stroke of the protective seal upon his skin.  He put one hand to his wrist, grasping the mark hidden by his sleeve, and struggled to think past the agonizing warning.  For Etienne was far more than a common-garden villain and garrotter.  He was a sworn and bloodied member of the Order of the Crimson Seal, founded by Vynae himself after the defeat of the Archdemon centuries ago.  Etienne was an elite soldier standing against a tide of black magic and foul sorceries. His was a sword of brilliant reason in the darkness, and he was branded and oathed to Ephaseus and his cause.  

Frey left the door open behind him, though the tapestry tumbled down after and a few of the hounds lost their snouts in the crumbling threads.  “You see, it is truly not much to—” He broke off, in alarm. “Elsa!  You've gone white!  Are you ill?”

With effort, Etienne pried his fingers off his wrist, and his teeth apart.  The air of lingering evil was so palpable in the room, he marveled that Frey could stand there oblivious to it.  “It’s—it’s nothing,” he said.  “Only some dust in my lungs, it made me quite giddy.”  He pulled a kerchief from his artfully constructed bosom, and held it delicately over his mouth as he forced his mind to clear, to focus past the pain.  “I should be fine in just a moment.”  

“I should not have brought you here,” Frey said, scowling.  He had one hand on the small of Etienne's back, to catch his bride-to-be should she faint.  “Your bravery is commendable, but there's no need to go further—”

“I'm quite all right now,” Etienne said, tucking his kerchief away, and making a grand show of fussing with his cuffs.  “Now, we've come all this way to see this place, I should like to see it! Don't frown so, it was only a spot of stale air.”  Etienne put a finger to Frey's lips, teasing, and it was enough to startle a smile out of his betrothed.  

Etienne's head was clearing at last, even though the mark of the Order still buzzed like the stings of an entire beehive. The room was small, even cozy, though the air of neglect made it seem that much more empty and echoing.  He had always pictured the famous duel taking place in a bare chamber with a splintery wood table and two chairs, like in some hidden dungeon.  But this had been a delightful room years ago, one designed for leisure and pleasant pursuits.  The high, narrow windows had all been boarded over, but several of the planks had fallen in, letting in a watery light.  Dust lay thick and undisturbed on elegant tables and chairs; a settee sat decomposing in the corner, tapestry cushions lumpy grey in the colorless light.  The beams of the ceiling had once been painted in bright, lively patterns, now they only looked like faded graffiti.  A shadowy portrait peered down over the mantelpiece.  Logs still waited in a neat bundle by the hearth, where black ash was scattered around the gnawed rug in tiny trails.  

“Squirrels,” Frey said, following Etienne's eyes.  “They'll have the whole room nibbled to floorboards in another year or so.  I was going to have a grate put over the fireplace to keep them out, but I haven't found any workmen willing to do it.”

“Ah.” Etienne took a few steps forward, his skirts sweeping a clean spot through the dust.  “This is the man himself, I assume?”  He tilted his head far back to get a better look at the painting, but in the gloomy room—and under the dirt on the paint varnish—Lord Evern Reichwyn was a yellowed ghost, dark-eyed and fair-haired and elusive, sitting at ease with his hand on the head of a hunting dog at his knee.  He was handsome, even in shadows, and wore his shirt open.  Etienne could see an echo of Frey there, somewhere in his slightly-arrogant face, a whisper of familiarity beyond just coloring.  

“I wanted to put him in the great hall,” Frey said, with a little sigh.  “But one of the chambermaids swooned at the very idea of it, so I'll have to wait a bit longer to dine with my uncle, I suppose. I can't really blame the servants. They've all become superstitious. I only hope the painting's not ruined by the time I can have it brought out.”  

Etienne took a step backwards to see the painting better, but his skirts bumped into something behind him.  “Ah!  I didn't even see...  oh.”  The something was a chair lying on its side, on the floor.  Etienne knelt to right it again, and noticed the dust heaped up against the toppled legs.  The chair had fallen decades ago, knocked aside from the delicate little table behind it. The matching chair on the other side was scooted a short distance from the table, as though someone had pushed it back to rise, maybe to refill his glass.  But it was the table that drew Etienne's attention.  Almost invisible under a thin film of dust, there were cards scattered on its surface.  They had curled with age and one—the ace of crowns—lay on the floor.  One corner had been chewed by a rodent.  Frey was on the other side of the table, looking down at the three crowns and seven suns that lay there, just to the side of a grimy crystal glass.  A bottle was on the table, empty save for some flakes of brown dirt, and the other cup was overturned, cracked and empty.  Its contents had made a darker patch, long ago, on the table and the carpet below.  

Etienne stood up without moving the chair from its resting place.  “This is it, isn't it?”  

“It is,” Frey said, heavily.  “Sad, is it not?  He even laid out another hand of cards and a glass.  I suppose the loneliness of the place in winter must have driven him mad.”

“So you don't believe the Devil sat here, and answered Lord Evern's challenge for an opponent?”  Etienne's fingertips hovered over the stack of undealt cards in the middle of the table. They had slipped sideways into a heap.

“Don't mistake me, Elsa.  Every Sabbath I've a grateful hymn on my lips for Saint Justicia.  But this speaks to me more of madness than of a curse. Though I suppose that's devilry enough, is it not?”  

“So why the tales?”  Etienne said, moving to the other side of the table and trying not to flinch as his tattoo went to pinpricks again.  

“Tobias found Evern in this room the next day.  Just like this.  The wine for two, the cards laid out so, and Evern out of his wits with his hair gone snow white.  Of course it went round to the servants in a flash that Evern was yammering nonsense about the Devil and a curse and payment due, and if someone asked him directly what happened, he would only gesture to the cards.  He wandered off into the moors the next night.  He's never been seen since.  All the servants except for Tobias left Easting right after.”  

“How awful,” Etienne said sadly, as Elsa would have.  “So the curse—”

“Is a myth, of course.”  Frey looked up at him, intently.  “I know my cousins had hard luck at Chancelion, but they made their own misfortune. I've been here six years now, and it has been nothing but blessed for me.  Surely, if there was a curse, I would have been victim to it?  No.  I show you this to put your mind at ease, Elsa.  It is a sad room, but nothing more.  No split-hoof prints burned into the carpet, no eternal ring of fire, no ghosts showing up on the anniversary of the game to replay it again in transparent pantomime.  You need have no fear of it.”  

“I'm not afraid,” Etienne said, though that did not mean he agreed.  If there was no curse, then Etienne would not be standing there, tricked out in green velvet, with murder on his mind.  If Evern had not gambled away his soul in that room, then why were there no coins on the card table?  Even a madman playing himself would know a bet had to be laid as well as cards.  

“I'm glad to see you are as brave as you are intelligent,” Frey said, and smiled at his bride-to-be.  “And as lovely.”  

Etienne turned away, wishing he’d thought to bring a fan with him to hide behind.  “You do me to much honor, sir.  I am only too curious for my own good, as my Aunt would say. But I thank you for being so honest about the room.  Another man would not even have permitted his bride to see it, for fear of making her hysterical or overwrought or some nonsense.”  

Frey's hands tightened on the back of the Devil's chair.  “Honest?” he asked, as though to himself.  “Hardly.  In truth, Elsa, I only agreed to bring you here so that for a moment we could be most assuredly alone, and unobserved.”  

Etienne's pulse tripped with warning.  What was this, then?  Surely Frey was not about to make an attack on his lady's chastity?  “Oh?”  He forced out a laugh, but it rang as hollow as a specter's in the room.  “You choose a strange place for courtship, Frey.”  

Frey did not warm to the teasing; if anything, he looked more grim.  Etienne wondered for a split second if there was a beast under his veneer, one who would prey on an unsuspecting female, but dismissed the idea at once.  If anything, it was Frey who should be worried about his bride's intentions.  

“Elsa,” Frey said, and his handsome face twisted a moment with dismay.  “I have...  there is something I must tell you.  Tobias suggested I wait until the wedding night, but that is dishonorable, and no lady deserves to be so willingly misled.  I would give you the chance to refuse me.  I don't think a sensible lady would reject my suit on such grounds, but you deserve the chance to do so.”  

Etienne took a step away.  For an assassin it was practical: he wanted some distance, something solid behind him if need be, and room in which to fight.  But in his gown and wig and paints, it looked perfectly authentic as trepidation.  “What are you talking about?”  

Frey pushed himself off the chair, and raked back the hair that was always slipping out of its ribbon.  “Elsa. Darling.  You know I think this curse business is nonsense, correct?  I'm a man of faith, believe me, but I will not be dogged by imaginary devils.  Nor would I see you live here in fear, when my only wish is for you to bring warmth to this place...  and... and children.”  His face was flushed with crimson, and to Etienne it was the only color in the entire room.  “For the two of us to give Chancelion life again.  I never dreamed of achieving such things when I was a fatherless boy growing up in a tavern, playing cards to earn my mother's bread, without even a home to call my own.”  He looked at Etienne in something like desperation.  “But the moment I came here I have loved this house from cellar to spire.  Yes, even this wretched room.  It grieves me to see it so.  All I have ever wanted was for fortune to shine on this place once more.  And for two years, it has.  Never have I been more convinced that there was no curse than I was the moment you accepted me as your future husband.  It was the most wonderful day of my life, even more so than the day I was informed of my inheritance.”  

Etienne felt his heart sinking, oozing down into his belly like the drowning wick of a tallow candle.  Frey continued on, as though his confession was being dragged out of him with an inquisitor's red-hot hooks.  

“But there is a reason—a trifling coincidence and one I give no credence to—that you might think such a curse exists.  I speak not of Evern's madness, or the foolishness of my late relatives. It is something about me, specifically.”

Etienne wished he could loosen his corset.  It felt like he couldn't breathe, and his one consolation was that his anxiety must be convincing.  “...What is it?”  

Frey looked at him, a long, searching glance, and then he took off his velvet coat. He flung it on the back of the Devil's chair, and sent his waistcoat after it.

“My Lord!” Etienne began, forgetting to call him Frey.  

Frey did not answer, but his silk cravat unraveled to the floor like a serpent's ghost, and then, with only the barest moment of hesitation, he pulled his shirt off over his head.  

Even the dim light of the room was not kind.  Etienne's wrist burst into flames of pain, and he put a hand over his mouth, knowing his noise of horror would not be a woman's cry.  From throat to wrists, and shoulder to belly, all over the smooth muscles of Frey's torso, tiny red lines writhed across his skin. They twisted and bent and curled like live insects held above a candle flame, and Etienne's stomach clenched with revulsion at the sight of them.  He struggled to hang on to his ruse, and in no small amount, to his sanity as well. Elsa would only be shocked at the marks, surely.  She would be aghast, but would think them only lines, blemishes.  

But Etienne could read them.  He knew the horrors inscribed across Frey's skin, and understood the terrible doom they foretold as they burrowed down Frey's ribcage.  Death and chaos had been dragged over Frey's body like corpses behind a charnel wagon, leaving bloody paths behind.  The letters screamed with rage inside Etienne's mind, the rage of a demon from the depths as he wrenched at the splintering bars of his cage. Those splinters made those awful letters, scribed in the highest tongue of hell.  When Etienne could tear his eyes back to Frey's, he found them shining with grief.  

“You refuse, then,” he said softly.  “Lady. I do not blame you.”  

Etienne gulped past the taste of bile in his mouth.  “No!”  he gasped, but he looked away and could not bring himself to look back again.  “I am not so shallow, Frey.  But they—what are they?”  It was all Etienne could do to feign ignorance.  He was possessed with a wild urge to take a blade to Frey's skin, to peel away the marks as one would a rotten spot on an otherwise perfect and luscious peach.

“Birthmarks, I assume.”  Frey answered, subdued.  “I've had them my whole life, though when I was a child they were mere mottling.  My mother told me I looked as though I had been born flayed, they were so thick on my skin.  But as I have aged they have thinned, sharpened.  It's my hope that some day they will fade away entirely.  But save for my head, my hands, and my feet, no part of me is unmarked by them.  I believe them to be mere lines, like the strain of a vein broken beneath the skin, but—-tied to Chancelion as I am, they easily seem to take on a more evil meaning.” Frey had pulled his shirt back on, and though the demonic scribbling was still visible at his neck and wrists, Etienne felt a good deal saner without them shouting their horrific threats at him.

Etienne forced himself away from the side table, tearing his hands away from its marble top.  His fingers had left damp, sweaty patches in the dust.  “I am your betrothed, am I not?  I fail to see how that should change.  You do me little honor, Frey, to think such a small thing would sway me.”

The gratitude and adoration in Frey's eyes was heartbreaking, even to so small and shriveled a heart as Etienne's.  “When you asked to keep our engagement quiet, out of respect to your aunt's endeavors to find you a suitor on her own, I admit, I was grateful.  I knew then you could refuse me without bringing undue shame on yourself.”  

Etienne drew himself up straight.  “Shame? My shame, Frey, would be to refuse the heart of so worthy a suitor.”  

Frey took a step forward, arms outstretched, and Etienne knew he must do the same.  If he was to continue his role, then he would have to submit to being kissed, and kissed he was.  Earnestly, and as chaste as a blushing milkmaid's dream.  Etienne’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere.  Frey had the marks, and only that confirmation made Etienne realize how desperately he had hoped otherwise.  But it was so.  Frey was the Heir, his doom was sealed by Ephaseus' decree, and Etienne was sorry. More sorry than he'd ever been for any blackguard nobleman seeking black powers, or for heartless beauties who cursed the lovers who spurned them.  Those he had snuffed without a thought, serene in his duty.  But once, just this once, Etienne had been beginning to hope Ephaseus was mistaken.  

He should have known better.  Ephaseus was never mistaken.  

Etienne's duty was clear.  Frey must die, and quickly, before the fate inscribed on his flesh could be allowed to manifest.  And really, what better place to do that than in the hidden chamber?  Frey was the only one with a key to the room, in a distant and unused part of the house.  No one had seen them pass this way.  Etienne could dispose of Frey here, lock the room, and then Elsa could protest that she had not seen her beloved all day.  Who would look for him here?  In the chaos it would be easy enough for Elsa to take her leave of Chancelion, for good. With any luck, by the time Frey's body was found, he wouldn't be in a fit state to show how he had met his untimely end.  He would be another victim of Chancelion's curse, and would follow Evern into legend.

Etienne leaned harder into Frey's kiss, trying not to think about the state that warm mouth would be in, in a few days’ time.  He'd sent enough men to the worms, there was no reason to go getting squeamish about it now.  He was doing Frey a mercy, though the man didn't know it.  The only question was how best to go about it.  Poor bastard, Etienne thought.  Probably it was best to be quick and painless, so he wouldn't know what had happened.  He could go straight to Saint Justicia's arms with his true love's kiss still on his lips, dreaming of all the sons that would not be born.  

Etienne put a hand back to the table, as though to steady himself.  The other he tangled up in Frey's hair.  To Frey, it must have seemed quite an ardent gesture. Etienne, however, was only looking for the best place to clonk him.  Evern's empty wine bottle on the table was dusty and cold against Etienne's other hand, and he grasped it.  Sometimes the best weapons were already provided.  One blow to the head, and then if Frey was still breathing, the gentle pressure of his lady's hand over his mouth and nose would end that.  It was perfect, really.  As sweet a setup as Etienne had ever dreamed of.  Etienne felt his belly tighten, and he brought the bottle up in an arc that would end at the back of Frey's skull.  

Death was an eventuality for everyone, Etienne thought.  It was only his job to speed things along.  

It was at that moment, just when the murder was shaping up so splendidly, that it happened.  Actually, it was several things, happening all at once.  The first of them was only a tickle, a little tug on the strap of Etienne's ladylike shoe.  It was not worth note until it was followed, alarmingly, by the unmistakable sensation of something large and alive wriggling under lace-edged linen drawers and crawling up Etienne's leg.

It was instinct; it was involuntary.  Etienne shrieked and the bottle flew out of his hand before it was even a third of the way through its course.  It crashed into the fireplace and exploded; the overturned table scattered cards up into the air.  Frey started back with an oath on his lips, still quite alive, and Etienne was forced into a frantic kicking jig, at last flinging a bewildered and very much offended squirrel out of his undergarments.  It shot beneath the settee and up the chimney, leaving Etienne swearing at it in words that Lady Elsa should by no means have even known, much less dreamed of using.  

Etienne caught himself halfway through a tirade involving fornication, the nine fires of hell, and leeks, and whirled to face Frey.  Surely, what with that and murder and misfortune and squirrels for the love of reason, Etienne's mission and his ruse were both lost.  

But Frey, honest, guileless Frey, was only hanging off the Devil's chair, laughing until he couldn't breathe.  For a moment Etienne hoped he might laugh himself into the grave and spare Etienne the trouble, but there was no such luck.  

Actually, there was plenty of luck, and all the wrong sorts.  

It was not a pleasant evening for Etienne.  Not only did Frey tell the story of the squirrel to Tobias as he served the couple dinner, but Frey was only more enamored of his bride for their adventure, and for her presumed acceptance of him.  He spent the meal gazing at Etienne in pure, unashamed adoration, and that evening kissed him again before saying good night: a frustrating experience for Etienne as there was no good opportunity for death in it.  At nine thirty, he was left in his garish bedchamber with no company but his own frustration and that hideous cherub.

And then, of course, to top it all off, Etienne had to sneak out in the middle of the night and put the D'Grassa volume back in the library.  

[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

Ladyhawke: The Story

When you boil it down, the story of Ladyhawke isn’t quite a tale as old as time, but it’s pretty darn close.

Ladyhawke tells the story of star-crossed lovers, suffering under a curse that stands between them.  It is the tale of a couple who struggle to remain hopeful, to find a way to break the curse, to end their suffering. It’s a common theme, used everywhere from Romeo and Juliet to Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  Stories of star-crossed lovers are extremely prevalent, which unfortunately means that it’s rather easy to turn their accounts into stale, cliché-filled, predictable stories.

Ladyhawke, on the other hand, managed to avoid this with one, very simple change: They told the story from the outside.

Enter our ‘main’ character, Phillipe Gaston.  (Spoilers below!)

The story of Ladyhawke begins with two events going on at the same time, in the same place: A service in the cathedral above, led by the corrupt Bishop of Aquila, (John Wood) and an escape through the drain system below, performed by petty thief Phillipe ‘The Mouse’ Gaston. (Matthew Broderick)

His escape from his impending execution causes quite a stir among the guards of Aquila.  As it turns out, the prison of Aquila is impregnable, totally inescapable and thoroughly secure to the point where absolutely nobody, barring Phillipe, has ever escaped before.  In order to ensure that this reputation remains untarnished, the Bishop sends the guards, led by Captain Marquet, after him in an attempt to return him for execution.

“Great storms announce themselves with a simple breeze, Captain, and a single rebel spark can ignite the fires of rebellion.”

Phillipe gets away okay at first, traveling outside the city and stealing a change of clothes, a dagger, and some money.  His elation and confidence get the better of him however, and he foolishly announces to an entire inn that he is the lone escaped prisoner from Aquila.  Unfortunately, among the patrons of the inn are Captain Marquet and his posse.

Philippe, for all of his useful abilities, isn’t quite up to fighting off an entire squad of armed men, and though he does his best to evade them, (even slicing Marquet in the cheek with his newly acquired dagger) it isn’t quite enough to ward them off.  The soldiers restrain him, and prepare to kill him.  Right before the sword falls, however, who should arrive but a Knight in Shining Armor?

This strange and mysterious newcomer, armed with both sword and crossbow, turns out to be Etienne Navarre (Rutger Hauer), the former captain of the guard of Aquila. He rescues Phillipe, fending off the guard quite handily, and rides off on his black horse, accompanied by a faithful hawk, and a rather unwilling Phillipe.

That evening, Navarre and Phillipe stop off for a rest in a barn owned by a suspicious farming couple.  As darkness falls, Phillipe is charged with taking care of Navarre’s massive horse, Goliath, and gathering firewood.  Anxious to get further away from Aquila, Phillipe decides to tell Navarre that he is leaving, just before he is attacked again, this time by the aforementioned suspicious farmer. This time, however, his rescuer takes the form not of the great, black knight, but of a great, black wolf.

Terrified out of his mind, Phillipe flees back to the barn to discover that Navarre is nowhere to be found.  In desperation, the young thief grabs the former captain’s crossbow, and prepares to try to kill the wolf, but is stopped by a figure even more mysterious than the missing captain.

A strange, beautiful woman in a black cloak (Michelle Pfieffer) prevents him from shooting the ferocious animal, and to Phillipe’s stunned amazement, calmly leaves the safety of the barn, going out to meet the wild creature.  The wolf comes to her, quietly and tamely, and the pair walk off into the forest.  Phillipe is left in shock, attempting to convince himself that he is dreaming.

Already, we know quite a bit about our main characters.  Philippe is totally alone in the world, and is very concerned with the safety of his own skin.  He’s not exactly a coward, but he is certainly a sly person, using his wits to get what he needs rather than brute force.  He’s an Action Survivor, not a fighter, and he knows he’s not much help in combat.  Indeed, he seems to alternate between being terribly proud of his own cleverness, and knowingly humble about his own shortcomings, depending on his familiarity with what’s going on.

Another interesting quirk of his is that he is almost disconnected with the story, spending a good deal of the narrative talking to God, making plenty of observations about the goings on in the plot.  The audience hears his external monologue that comes across as wavering somewhere between flippant and earnest.  He’s a shrewd chatterbox, accustomed to his place in his own world, and very uneasy about being drug into a grander tale that he does not belong to.  He is very much an outsider, stumbling along with the story in a confused, frantic state, gathering information at the same rate as the audience is, unwillingly pulled into a conflict that, at this time, he wants no part of.  It’s almost a direct inversion of the traditional Hero’s Journey.  In a way, it seems quite odd that this ‘Mouse’ is our main character, when really, shouldn’t it be the fierce and mysterious Black Knight?

Navarre serves as excellent contrast.  He is quiet, reserved, and carries with him a very stern presence, an underlying dangerousness that comes out in battle. He patiently tolerates Phillipe’s behavior for a reason that, as of this point, both Phillipe and the audience aren’t aware of yet.  He is gentle with his horse and the equally mysterious hawk, and yet a capable and ferocious warrior in battle.  As the ex-captain of the guard of Aquila, he also carries with him an unknown history that connects him with events prior to Phillipe’s escape.  In a more traditional fantasy, it would be he that the audience is following.  Navarre is the one with an unspoken quest and sense of purpose, and it is Navarre and his actions that drive the story.  

And finally, there is the strange woman that has appeared out of nowhere, and disappears into nowhere again in the morning.  She has a strange connection to the wolf, and is a lady of few words.  At the moment, that is the extent of our knowledge about her, but we are instantly aware that she is vital to this story.

The next morning, Phillipe tells Navarre about the events of last night.  Navarre, for his part, takes special interest in Phillipe’s description of the enigmatic woman, asking if she spoke, what she’d said, and her name.  The Mouse, with very few answers for Navarre’s questions, is left perhaps more confused than when he’d started.

Meanwhile, Captain Marquet returns to Aquila with bad news: Not only is Philippe still on the loose, but the ex-Captain Navarre has returned. The Bishop reacts rather strangely; he is less interested in their escaped prisoner and the trouble-making warrior than what travels with them: the hawk.  He orders Marquet to ensure that the hawk is unharmed, and sends him back out to go search for the two fugitives.

Back in the woods, Navarre finally explains his plans: His quest is to kill the Bishop, and he wants Phillipe, the only escaped prisoner from the medieval version of Alcatraz, to help him.  By using him to get in, Navarre will enter the church and strike the Bishop down with the sword of his ancestors, adding his own jewel to the set that adorn the hilt of the weapon.

Phillipe is less than thrilled with this prospect, having just escaped from there, and has this to say:

“There are strange forces at work in your life. Magical ones that surround you. I don’t understand them, but they frighten me. You have given me my life. The truth is I can never repay you. I have no honor, and never will have. I don’t think you would kill me for being what I am, but better that than to return to Aquila.”

However, thanks to some…..convincing by Navarre, he is left with no choice but to stay.

Very subtle.

That night, with Navarre nowhere to be found, the woman appears again, stumbling across Phillipe, who has been tied to a tree to prevent his running off again.  Making good use of his silver tongue, he convinces the woman to free him.  Once released, the Mouse scurries off into the woods.

Of course, that doesn’t exactly go as planned, either.  He is once again apprehended by Marquet and the guards, who attempt to use him to find Navarre.  The next morning, Marquet leads an ambush against the knight, and in the scuffle, both Navarre and his beloved hawk are shot with a crossbow.  Despite his wound, Navarre defeats the guard and saves Phillipe again, and immediately rushes to the side of his bird.

Navarre gives the hawk to Phillipe, instructing him to ride as fast as he can to the abandoned ruins of a castle, now inhabited by a priest-turned-monk named Imperius (Leo McKern).  Phillipe does so, and arrives shortly before sunset.  The monk, a disgraced, but sincere man of God, brings them in, and immediately sets to caring for the hawk, locking Phillipe out and speaking soothingly to the animal.

You can all guess what happens when night falls.

Phillipe picks the lock and lets himself in, and realizes what the audience has likely figured out by now: The hawk and the woman are the same person, animal by day, human by night.

After tending to her wound, Imperius explains.

The woman is named Isabeau, and again, as one might have guessed, she and Navarre are deeply in love with each other, and have been for quite some time.  Years previously, she was pursued and lusted after by the Bishop, and by rejecting his advances, (and returning Navarre’s) enraged him to the point of bitter insanity. Though the pair tried to keep their love a secret, the Bishop found out, and after consulting with the supernatural, comes up with a demonic curse: as mentioned before, Isabeau is a hawk by day, human by night, and Navarre is human by day, and the great black wolf by night.  Forever together, eternally apart.

The monk’s part in all of this?  He is the one who mistakenly told the Bishop of their love, indirectly causing the couple these two years of pain.  Now, desperate for forgiveness and atoning for his role in the story, he has good news: there is a way to break the curse.

Here lies perhaps the greatest piece of genius in this story.  In some contemporary fantasy films of the time, there are neat little devices thrown in to offset the epic-ness, the strangeness, or the fairy-tale-ness of whichever story is being told.  In Labyrinth, the items in Sarah’s room follow her into the fantasy world she travels to, grounding it in real-life elements.  In The Princess Bride, Fred Savage interrupts Grandpa Peter Falk to insert his own comments about his disgust or outrage with the story going on.  In Ladyhawke, however, the addressing of its own ‘fairy-tale’ vibe is done from within the narrative, namely through Phillipe.

Although Phillipe serves as the audience’s window into this world, the fact is, the audience is likely to pick up on things much faster than the Mouse does, very simply because we know we are watching a story play out, and Phillipe doesn’t.  As far as he knows, he is just going through life, stumbling upon what he slowly realizes is a story.  He is an observer, unconnected to these people, figuring it out as he goes along.  As early on as the first encounter with the wolf, he begs God to not involve him in this, recognizing magic and mystery at play.  Despite this vague glimmer of genre-savviness, the identities of the animals don’t truly dawn on him until they are staring him in the face.  It takes the evidence of the arrow in Isabeau’s shoulder, matching the wound of the hawk, to convince him of the truth: that he has stumbled into a fairytale.

Thus, he needs things explained to him, and he, similarly to Fred Savage, comments aloud (repeatedly) the strangeness of the situation and his place in it.  Phillipe serves as the ‘real world’ tie in this fantasy story, albeit a more grounded one than the examples above.  He is the exact amount of ‘realism’ necessary for this story, which is frankly, not a lot. He can afford to be both fascinated and skeptical of the story, both moved and objective about Navarre and Isabeau’s plight because the story itself also straddles that line between the utterly fantastic and the grounded, down to earth realism of medieval Europe. It’s a fascinating balance that comes to a head here, halfway through the story, heralded by the first glimmer of hope for the star-crossed lovers.

At dawn, there is another attack by the Bishop’s guards, fended off by the unstable architecture of the crumbling ruins and a well-timed transformation by Isabeau.  This scene, while giving us the privilege of ‘seeing’ Isabeau turn into a hawk, also begins to escalate things on the enemy’s side.  Defeated once again, the Bishop sends out another force: a hunter with a specialty for wolves.

The Bishop’s orders are clear, and give us considerable insight into his motivation:

“A beautiful woman with alabaster skin and the eyes of a dove. She travels by night, only by night. Her sun is the moon. And her name is… Isabeau. Find her and you find the wolf. The wolf I want. The wolf who… loves her.”

What a nice guy, right?

When Navarre arrives in the morning, Imperius and Phillipe go to meet him with their news.  The Bishop’s evil curse can be broken if Navarre and Isabeau stand before him, confront him as man and woman, both human, which can only be done on ‘a day without a night, and a night without a day’.  Navarre, long hardened and discouraged, dismisses this hope as the ramblings of a drunkard, and takes Phillipe and the hawk to continue his plan of slaying the Bishop.

Ironically, with the tables turned, Phillipe finds himself attempting to persuade Navarre of this one chance, secretly telling Imperius to follow them.  Navarre, as stubborn as he is heartbroken, refuses to listen, and orders Phillipe not to tell Isabeau of this possibility.

One night, while Isabeau and Phillipe are talking, they meet the wolf-hunter that the Bishop has sent after them, who has ridden in with fresh wolf-pelts. The hunter realizes that this is the woman that the Bishop is after, but before he can do anything, Phillipe has his first moment of real, honest-to-goodness bravery.  Drawing Navarre’s sword, he threatens:

“If you lay one hand on her you will find it on the ground next to your head. Now ride on!”  

Desperate in an effort to find and save Navarre, Isabeau dashes into the woods, with Phillipe behind her.  Isabeau’s connection with Navarre, even in wolf form, allows her to prevent him from stepping into a wolf trap, sending the hunter himself into one instead. The danger is not over, however, and during a further scuffle, Navarre falls through the thin ice over a body of water.

Phillipe, selflessly throwing himself into danger for the first time, goes in after him, acquiring a series of deep scratches on his chest from the wolf in the process.  Assisted by Isabeau and Imperius, he deposits the wolf near their campsite, where the ‘Ladyhawke’ waits for him to awaken at dawn.

(This leads to my questions about the pair’s sleep schedules, but I suppose that’s not really important.)

At daybreak, Navarre and Isabeau lay eyes upon each other, and almost touch in their short moment before Isabeau’s transformation.  Too soon, the moment is gone, and the Ladyhawke flies off, leaving Navarre crushed.

Navarre, unable to find his family sword, lashes out at Phillipe when the Mouse tells him that he lost it during the night.  The knight’s anger quickly dissipates, however, when Phillipe’s shirt falls open and the former captain sees the scars left from his animal form’s panic.  Staggered and grateful, Navarre embraces Phillipe, and finally agrees to try to break the curse.  That night, Imperius and Isabeau smuggle Wolf!Navarre into the city while Phillipe goes back the way he came: through the sewers.

The next morning, the sun rises as usual, and Navarre, unable to see any sign of this ‘day without a night’ stuff, reverts back to his original plan: when Phillipe opens the cathedral gates, Navarre will ride in and slaughter the Bishop.  He orders Imperius to kill Isabeau if he fails, which shall be signified by the cathedral bells chiming as usual.

The plan goes off without a hitch.  Phillipe gets the doors open and Navarre rides in, full of righteous fury, now blocked from his revenge only by Captain Marquet.  During their brutal duel, Navarre sees something that makes him stop in his tracks: a solar eclipse.

Realizing that the curse can be broken, he attempts to rush back to tell Imperius to spare Isabeau, but it is too late.  The bells chime, and Marquet closes in.  Despairing and grieving, Navarre fights more brutally than ever, and after being thrown his sword (carried by Phillipe, who, turns out, did not lose it), ends Marquet’s life and turns on the Bishop.

He is halted once again, this time, by something good.

Isabeau enters the cathedral, in full light of day, not a feather to be seen.  Together, she and Navarre stand before the Bishop, breaking the curse once and for all. Enraged, the Bishop moves in, intending to stab Isabeau in the back, declaring: “If I can’t have her, no one shall!”

Now it’s his turn to be stopped in his tracks, pretty permanently, by Navarre’s family sword embedded in his torso, thoroughly killing him.

What a shame.

Navarre and Isabeau embrace joyfully, reunited at last.  The couple thanks both Imperius and Phillipe, and as the monk and the thief bow out, the happy couple share a kiss, looking forward to a life untarnished by curses.

It’s a satisfying end to a thoroughly satisfying movie.  A bit expected, but come on, who doesn’t like a happy ending?

The only thing that could come across as a little odd about this ending is simply who it’s about.

In a way, it makes perfect sense.  Of course we want the curse broken, of course we want the couple reunited and for the scummy Bishop to get what’s coming to him.  But what we also might want would be some resolution for our supporting protagonist here.  

What about Phillipe?

As with The Wizard of Oz, it’s easy to think that maybe our main character hasn’t changed that much from beginning to end.  Navarre, on the other hand, has gone from tragic avenger to hopeful hero, together with his love at last.  Isabeau is a person grown stronger through adversity, remaining loyal and relieved to be released from the curse.  Even Imperius is a new man, redeemed from his accidental betrayal by his assistance.

But Phillipe?  Where does his end come in?

The answer lies a little before the main climax.

The scene on the ice, where Isabeau tries to slide across to rescue Navarre in wolf form, is, in my opinion, the resolution to the Mouse’s character arc, where he goes from Action Survivor to hero.  By diving in after Navarre, putting himself in peril to save his friend, he sheds the remains of his selfish, thieving qualities and gains the honor that, earlier in the film, he said he was without.

That is where the change is completed.  That is where Phillipe becomes a hero.  And that is what allows him to put Navarre and Isabeau first.  Beginning the story alone in the world, Phillipe gains friendship and respect from notably Navarre, giving the young thief a new place in a larger world.

True, the climax of the film belongs to Navarre and Isabeau, as it should.  They are the cursed couple.  They are the main focus, even if they aren’t the protagonists.  They are the ones who have earned this ending, and deserve it.

In that sense, the end fits perfectly.  Everyone grows, everyone changes, and everyone gets their happy ending. Now that’s what I call a great fairy-tale.

In the articles ahead, we’ll be taking a look at some more of the aspects of Ladyhawke, so please, if you enjoyed this one, stick around for next time!  If you’d like, don’t forget that my ask box is always open.  Thank you guys so much for reading, and I’ll see you all in the next article.

[shadowetienne]

Etienne’s Top Fives of 2019: Kpop Edition - Boy Groups

Time for round three of my top fives of 2019 (which I am starting before February ends, we’ll see if I manage to finish it before midnight).

This is the round for Boy Groups! It’s interesting because I think that this is probably a year that I’ve focused more on girl groups than boy groups as a whole, but there’s a lot of long term favorites (and some upsets of the usual order) on this list.

If a boy group has had subunits or members doing things solo, I consider that part of the group’s body of work for the year as long as they’ve also done some full group stuff. If only a subunit has been active, they’d probably get considered a boy group for the sake of this, and if only solos have been active, then they’d go in with solos.

The list with representative MVs is under the cut!

There are so many great boy groups out there that this list is always hard to choose! And I’m sure that there are even more that I don’t know about that I’d love! I’m always open to recommendations!

Here’s a shoutout to the boy groups that made my preliminary list (in the order I wrote them down over the course of the year): KNK (“Lonely Night”), Lu:Kus (“Faker”), Ateez (“Say My Name”), B1A4 (“A Day of Love”), ONF (“We Must Love”), SF9 (“Enough”), The Boyz (“Bloom Bloom”), Spectrum (“After Party”), TRCNG (“Missing”), JBJ95 (“Awake”).

Honorable Mention:  Up10tion (“Your Gravity”)

MV Link: https://youtu.be/BOo3fJ8lqbA

Up10tion has been on and off this list since 2016, and they’re definitely a group that I like a lot that I wish that their company had a better idea of what to do with. It did drop them a little out of the list down into honorable mention territory that one of my biases wasn’t promoting with the group for this, but I did like the song a lot! This is one of those groups that I would be more into if they just got the sort of promotion that would really show what they can do. (Biases: Sunyoul, Wooseok)

5) VIXX (“Walking”)

This has been the lowest that VIXX has sat on one of these lists since I started making them in 2014 (where they’ve landed between 1st and 3rd every year). A lot of that comes down to the fact that we’re hitting the them getting to military service and me going into waiting mode and focusing on other groups I like more. I love this song though, and I love that it’s really a wait for us sort of feeling. And I am waiting for them to back to performing as a group together again. There is a definite bittersweet feeling though because it’s going to be a while, and things will change, and a lot of groups sort of peter out after their military service even if they do stick together. I’m glad that this is a beautiful song and a beautiful moment because of that though. (Biases: Taekwoon, Hongbin)

4) Imfact (“Only U”)

Imfact is a group that I’ve been very into since their debut (they’ve never fallen entirely off these lists, and they’ve been as high as second on the boy groups lists). I really enjoy that they’ve found their sound, and I wish that they got more attention because their songs are pretty uniformly good. I hope that they keep on going strong in 2020. “Only U” was a great song and one that I’ve returned to many times since it came out. (Biases: Jeup, Lee Sang, Ungjae)

3) Nu’est (“Bet Bet”)

Nu’est with their triumphant return as five after the Nu’est W era and waiting for Minhyun to be back. This is such a good a song, and it very much fits into my favorite parts of their sound while still pushing them into a new era of their music. I kind of love the outro for MV (which is a different song). They’ve found this very fairy tale style and it suits them a lot. (Biases: Ren, Minhyun)

2) Got7 (“Eclipse” / “You Calling My Name”)

Got7 has been on and off these lists for a long time (pretty much since debut), but this is the highest they’ve ever landed. Both their MV title tracks this year blew me away, with “Eclipse” (above) slightly edging out “You Calling My Name” as my favorite. It’s Youngjae’s bit of the chorus that does it. I feel like this is vocally the strongest their sound has ever been. They’re doing some interesting, creative things sound wise, and I love the weird open ending on “Eclipse” so much.I think that one other thing that has helped them rise in the list for me is an improvement in the integration of the rap parts into the structure and sound of their songs. There’s less of a feel of the rap sections being dropped into the song, and more of them being an integral part of the song that helps it build, and I appreciate that. (Biases: Jinyoung, Youngjae (this one is interesting because it has changed over the years in this group))

1) Seventeen (“Home” / “Hit” / “Fear”)

Seventeen started out the year with “Home” (above), and I knew immediately that they were going to be the top of this list for the year. It’s still my favorite song they released this year, though “Fear” and “Hit” were also very good. They’ve had such a year. I don’t even know what to say about Seventeen. They’re firmly my favorite Kpop group, they’re the only Kpop group I’ve seen live (though that was in 2020, not 2019 but it was the 2019 releases). I love their voices, and their sound, I love that they keep trying new things. They are pretty much unique among kpop groups that I follow who have more than a few releases in that I like every single one of their songs. (Biases: Junhui, Wonwoo, Woozi (and like most of the group honestly, but those three are my top three))

[bird-was-here]

THE INTERROGATION.

Oz knew these people. All of them. Ever since he was a child, he’d been familiar with the screech of walkie talkies. The guns. The courtrooms. He was The Honorable Judge Langston’s boy. Even in death, his father was well respected. And more importantly: feared. To turn a blind eye to the Lamars’ grip on the Ashmont police department and judicial system as a whole would be either naive or for your own safety. Some chose to only view Oz’s father as a smart man, a father, a man of the law with a winning smile; someone who came to barbeques; someone who made sure they got a card on their birthday. Some knew him as a puppet master, strings controlling facets of Ashmont’s government and justice and money held firmly between his big palm. Regardless of what you thought about Langston Lamar, Sr. everyone knew Oz’s father as power. And extreme power at that.

And Oz wasn’t an idiot. He knew what some members of the police force said about him. He heard them when he entered. Heard them talk about him by the water fountain in hushed whispers, behind their mugs of coffee, lips pressed into straight lines.

Well lookit here, judge jr. or that’s that fuckin Lamar kid, or it’s about time.

He knew this wasn’t a fair fight.

Daddy isn’t here to protect him now.

Maybe. In some sick, twisted, unforgivable way. His father was preparing him for this moment. For when Judge Langston Oscar Lamar, Sr. was gone. And Langston Oscar Lamar, Jr. was left with the battle scars and the training. And Oz was prepared.

Immediately as he was seated, before they could ask anything, his hands folded neatly in front of him on the table where they could see them (because Elaine Grant and the rookie were cops regardless of small smiles and kind eyes) he spoke. His voice was clear, crisp, and sounding too much like his father’s, “I want to invoke my right to counsel. I will not answer any questions until I have consulted with my attorney.”

mentioned (in order): Daisey (throughout of course), @nevaehporter , @uhdirtbag , @eyes-on-me-please​ , @bclthczcros , @ofhvney , @ofzola

Part One ( You. )

Do you have any criminal history? Anything big or small that you want to make us aware of?

Oz’s father had taught him many things: how to shoot a gun (rather, how to shoot once and hit whatever you were pointing at); how to handle the police; how to read legal books at seven as if he was preparing to take the bar exam the following year... And for the first time in his life, he wished his father was here. But there was no bringing him back. Oz could -- would -- do this alone. His attorney, sitting behind Oz now, had been his father’s. The Lamars always had him, a man by the name of Arnold Dupree, on speed dial. Because, of course, they did. 

His face stayed neutral, answering their question directly, “No, I do not.” Which was not a lie. He had no criminal record. And there was nothing he wanted to make the police aware of.

How have you spent the few weeks back at college? What have they been like?

Oz wished that literally any of the officers that hated his father and thus hated him by association were conducting this interrogation. He knew Officer Grant. And he felt bad she would be the one he had to do this with. He had his father’s eyes. Eyes that cut. That stared through Elaine as if she hadn’t come to his third birthday party. As if all of the ‘you’ve gotten so tall’s and ‘tell your mother I say hello’s meant nothing. 

Again, his response was neutral, “I’m in my first year of medical school, I’ve been very busy with my studies.” He felt no need to comment on how he enjoyed his physiology classes or how he was already taking courses in neuroscience. “My schoolwork occupies most of my time.”

Part Two ( Daisey. )

How did you know Miss. Rutherford? What was the nature of your relationship?

He could feel his heart skip a beat in his chest. Miss Rutherford. Daisey. Forcing the gaping hole in his chest hidden behind his button down to close. Not here. The mere mention of her name in this way was almost enough to send him spiraling. Almost. “We were childhood friends. We had been in a relationship for approximately a year and a half, but have since separated amicably. She’s one of my best friends.” Was. She was one of his best friends. She was the love of his life at one point. He had promised her he’d take care of her. And fell short. There would forever be an empty space that Daisey once to inhabited in his life. And to a certain extent, he would never forgive himself for not doing more. Even if that was illogical, even if there was nothing he could have done. Which there wasn’t.

Do you remember where you were the night Daisey went missing? If so, where were you? What were you doing? Who were you with?

He exhaled, “Yes. I was hosting a party at my home. We had danced towards the end of the evening, Daisey and I, but I had to attend to other party-goers. I left her to speak with my cousin Nevaeh and didn’t see Daisey for the rest of the night. I spent at least 30 to 45 minutes with Nevaeh in the garden.” He hoped that if they were to question Nevaeh too, this would give her an alibi. She had been with Oz.

Did you notice anything strange about Daisey’s behavior the night she went missing? Did you notice anything suspicious about anyone else you ran into that night?

He shook his head, “No, she seemed fine. Her normal self. Though I didn’t receive a text from her the morning after which was very unlike her.” A pause at the second question, “Yes. Someone was sifting through the knife drawer in my kitchen. Kieran.” He didn’t need to explain who Kieran was to Elaine, this was the son of the chief of police. Everyone in that building knew who Kieran was, “It happed around 2am. And I asked him to leave. I’m still missing one of the knives from the drawer.”

Where were you the night Daisey’s body was recovered?

"It was the second day of my PBL, I was at my apartment studying for a test I had the following week. My mother texted me that it was important I come home, so, I met her in our sitting room, and that’s when I was told.” He remembers his mother sitting him down. His stepfather there for support -- for his mother, not Oz. In reality, there was nothing either of them could do to prevent the break down that was to come. He remembers silently listening to his mother’s neat, official voice, his stepfather’s hand on her shoulder. He remembers his eye twitching though he had expected this was what they were going to tell him that Daisey was dead (but not just dead but laid out on display like sleeping fucking beauty in the fucking junkyard). He remembers standing before she finished, without a word. And disappearing into the large house and locking himself away to crumble alone. “So, in my apartment. And then my mother’s.”

How familiar are you with the Ashmont woods? Have you been there often? Have you recently ventured out here? If so, why?

The Ashmont woods. He and Daisey used to visit there all the time. He remembers her teetering on logs over stream banks, jumping off of rocks, swinging from tree branches and teasing ‘aw do you ~~careee~~ about ~~meee~~?’ The answer was always a firm, worried ‘yes, get down from there!’ Sometimes, when they had gotten older, they’d smoke there together. He remembers the first time she kissed him. It was in those woods. They were in high school, and he was nursing a black eye that he would blame on lacrosse practice. They were still in their school clothes. He remembers her wearing his blazer, draped over her shoulders so elegantly and perfect as if it was made for her, how he exhaled brow furrowed. ‘One day... I swear to god, Daisey. One day... He’s going to fucking pay.’ It was only by chance that he caught her staring at him, pulling him from his brooding. Not that she was making any attempt to hide. She had always been shameless, plucking the cigarette straight from his lips. Oh, Oz remembers the heat, how his eyes widened in surprise, the flush of his face, how everything melted away and it was just him and Daisey. The only two people in Ashmont. It was cliche, sure, but he felt those fireworks. Those butterflies. And fireflies... It was immediate, the thought that one day he was going to marry this girl. Yeah. Oz knew those woods like the back of his hand. How could he forget?

“It’s located behind my home. I used to go there often as a child and into my teens but not as much anymore. I haven’t ventured out there recently, no.” He and Alice have lately seemed to prefer secluded spots closer to campus to smoke in private. The woods had been a special place Daisey had taken both of them, but it had become too far of a trek once the school year started back up, “The last time I was there must have been sometime during the summer.”

Part Three ( the Investigation. )

Do you have feelings towards the investigation? Any comments?

He almost lost it, at this point wracked with memories of a girl he loved and would never have, memories of childhood, memories of pain, and warmth, and isolation. And they had the audacity to ask him if he had any feelings towards the investigation. Feelings. As if this wasn’t something he felt so profoundly, and horribly. As if each and every question wasn’t a source of stabbing pain, “Of course I do, she was a close friend.” He could feel Dupree’s eyes on the back of his head and pulled the reins, “I trust the Ashmont police will bring whoever did this to justice, to offer the Rutherfords some sort of solace and so that Daisey can rest in peace. That’s all I want.”

Do you have any people you feel the police should look into? Please, let us know who and why.

He was finished here.  “Daisey knew a lot of people, even more than I do. She reached everyone on St. Etienne’s campus. But I would speak to Kieran.” He was tempted to mention Zar. Who hated him, and Oz was sure hated Daisey for similar reasons. But he refrained. Daisey had never come up in their conversations and for all Oz knew Zar had been fucking Agave or whatever the hell that kid’s name was the entire night of the party. He wasn’t going to throw him under the bus. Especially not when he knew that if Zo found out, it would hurt her. Zar was safe for now. “I don’t know him well at all anymore, but stealing knives seems concerning.”

[moonaft]

The Winter Long - Reread

Rosemary and Rue

A Local Habitation

An Artificial Night

Late Eclipses

One Salt Sea

Ashes of Honor

Chimes At Midnight

Interlude : Full of Briers

As always, spoilers up to The Brightest Fell and October 2018 for the Patreon stories. No spoilers for Night and Silence, and at this point I think I’ll have finished the entire reread by the time I get my copy. Which is just as well.

First off, ‘the winter long’ is one line after ‘rosemary and rue’. Is the final book going to be ‘Grace and Remembrance’? 

I really like TWL. This was a good book, filled with shifting allies and cameos by my favorite people. It’s probably my favorite after The Brightest Fell and not just because of Simon. 

I am going to ignore the fact that the knowe is called ‘Muir Woods’ even before it was named that in 1908. Maybe? Maybe Arden took up the name really quickly. I can’t find a mention of it by name in Patrick’s first short story and I can’t dig up “In Little Stars” right now to check if it was called Muir Woods back then. Patreon’s search sucks.

Onto the ball! A good ball, in which no one gets poisoned or nearly assassinated and Toby doesn’t commit murder. Yeah, if I was her I also wouldn’t want to go to fancy balls. She takes after Sylvester in that regard. 

Speaking of, hi Sylvester! Hi Li Quin!

Arden has social anxiety and needs more friends than Madden. I am surprised no noble Daoine Sidhe have come a-courting. At least she’ll get Walther and Cassandra to take jobs at court soon. 

I love Arden subtly copying Quentin in table manners. 

Are Raven-maids and -men the opposite of Selkies, born birds and need the feathers to transform?  Jazz takes off her band to turn into a raven. Amandine doesn’t, but presumably her magic can force the transformation regardless. Though Amandine does imply that destroying the band will keep her as a human. 

Yes, it’s time to put everyone to bed. Meanwhile, Toby gets to pull some all nighters.

Hello, Simon.

I love how no one has questioned where he was since Late Eclipses, and that only as a brief mention. He’s the tragic backstory, not meant to show up in the present. Oleander was that too, but now she’s dead and can’t hurt anyone anymore. 

Yeah, she was really not expecting that. Why is it that the bad things only happen to Toby during the books? From the plot summaries, the time between the books is the only time she gets to relax.

Yes, that’s not Sylvester. 

It’s sad how much Toby has internalized him as her personal boogeyman. Dugan, Riordan, Samson, the false Queen could all be fought. It wasn’t easy by any means, but here Toby’s given up without a fight which just doesn’t happen. She’s already determined this is a fight she can’t win. 

I love that the first thing Simon does is praise her. He genuinely does not mean her ill-will.

So Simon has not seen Evening in years prior to TWL and did come to warn Toby about it. Or, turn her into a tree for a hundred years, but to him, that is helping. Evening didn’t send him so he must have gotten word somehow that she was returning. Where was he all those years?

Hello Jazz, you have great timing. Sorry that you are once again attacked in your own home.

Simon didn’t come in limping – Toby turning his spell back against him must have hurt him badly.

Why exactly does Simon have so many transformation spells? Is this his own flower-based transformation or something he got from Evening? It could be his own – he once transformed Patrick’s suit into something more modern and there’s no indication that eventually failed. And why fish? Could he have transformed Patrick into a fish so he and Dianda could spend time together in the Undersea without breathing spells? That would be so cute.

Good job on using your cats to warn Tybalt.

I think even May gets over her feelings by the time of TBF, or at least, she’s willing to let him try so they can save Jazz.

All in all, Simon’s going to get what he wants by the end of this book, namely, Toby’s safety. Sure, he’s elf-shot but so’s Evening. It’s TBF where he’s going to get his ass kicked repeatedly.

Same, Quentin – I too have an endless supply of songs about boats. Five bucks says you’re singing “The Mary Ellen Carter”.

Tybalt probably would still shred Simon to pieces given the change but he’s out of the picture for all of TBF.

Why do you think you can predict what Simon’s going to do, Toby? You know literally nothing about his objectives. He’s also willing to answer what he can of your questions and tell you things without being asked.  

The knowe is willing to let Toby through, and she is family. Would the knowe have let Simon through because he helped build it? What about August?

Way to mess it up, Sylvester. You definitely should have told Toby about Simon before you sent her after him. But that’s in the past and doesn’t matter, does it, Sylvester? Just like September, just like August. It can’t hurt you anymore, right?

I do believe the twins were close once, and by 1840 that’s no longer the case, but it doesn’t matter until 1906. You didn’t help enough to find August, or you encouraged her too much, it doesn’t matter. Simon wanted you to hurt the way he hurt, and if you can’t see that, you have forgotten too much.

Yeah, I can’t imagine Simon hurting Amandine unless it was in direct defense of August or Toby. Sylvester, you should know Amandine’s not going to let him back into her life without August present. You should know this, why don’t you know this?

Tybalt, you told them to run, that is not the Torquills’ fault. Hey, remember that decree that says if you want to marry one of the three, that one can’t refuse?

“I need you to live long enough to be cannon fodder when Simon decides to attack.” Quentin loves you too, Toby.

You are missing a vital, vital piece of why Simon was running around with Oleander. He’s not doing it for shits and giggles, Toby.

Poor Luidaeg. It sucks having the answers and not being able to tell them. Toby’s doing better on the questions this time around.

“At least we know that Simon won’t be able to come after us there.” One small problem with that, Toby.

Does each Library have its own library card, or is it an all access pass?

Mags definitely wanted Toby to show up after Simon left. Whoops. And Toby, you still owe her your mother’s history.

Hi again, Simon. Maybe this time you can actually talk?                                                                        

Yeah, the arrangement with Oleander is definitely non-con. Everyone is glad she’s dead except probably Evening.

Simon has three modes in this book: what he thinks will help Toby, what Toby thinks is helpful, and what he does as a servant of Evening. This is the middle interaction – useful information, no one is transformed or hurt.

Toby, remember you still owe Mags info on your mom.

Amandine definitely ruined your life, Toby, even if you don’t want to admit it.

Good job on raising the dead, Toby.

I guess Evening is a vampire? There’s at least one Snow White legend like that.

“Your lover was a Selkie; he told me quite a bit after he died.” How- What- Did the Luidaeg summon the night haunts to talk to Connor?

How long had Simon been sitting on Toby’s doorstep? He must have gotten straight to Shadowed Hills to get the roses and then back to her place. To the rose gardens at least, he couldn’t have gotten into the halls themselves.

This is the other thing – Toby stops again to ask her personal boogeyman for help. She trusts him enough to do that, which is something we don’t see anywhere else in the series. To be fair, Simon does keep insisting that he’s there to help, which is something no other villain does.

And Simon’s convinced she’s going to die.

May’s benched again, which is a recurring theme that she specifically acknowledges. Let this girl have a field trip with Toby.

Although not into the ocean because that’s where everyone ended up! Hi Dianda. Thanks for saving Toby from drowning.

I wonder what would have happened if Toby told Dianda that Simon gave her the warning. Probably nothing good – here’s yet another trusted authority figure who knew about that relationship and didn’t tell her.

Hello Evening. Hate to see you again. If only Dianda could punch you in the face.

Here her magic is roses and snow but I swear I’ve seen it described as roses and apples somewhere.

So where was she these past few years as she recovered? Does she have another knowe?

So why is Marcia not affected by Evening’s magic? Evening doesn’t recognize Marcia as anything other than changeling, I think. But Evening wouldn’t care that much. I really really want her to be Titania. Maeve would be cool too, but I want her to be Titania.

Good thing no one drowned in that little episode, including Tybalt and Quentin.  

Hi Raj! Everything’s ok!

Props to Toby for being willing to burn the Library down to get it to close, and kudos to Mags for listening to her.

And Simon’s playing double agent on the phone. Toby couldn’t have gotten through this book without him.

Toby hasn’t actually slept since before the Yule ball. How many days and nights has it been since then?

So why did Evening get Quentin sent to Shadowed Hills directly after Luna and Raysel’s return? How did they break free?

Riordan was once in Alameda – how did she move down to Dreamer’s Glass?

And how did Sylvester know they were coming? Simon must have told Evening, or maybe Evening assumed Toby would show up.

Hi Etienne, Bridget and Chelsea!

Yes, leave the boys behind to play Xbox games. Good plan.

Luna does have several points about Evening, Raysel and Karen. Why, exactly, does Stacy have two Seer daughters? She is also smart enough to get her favor from Toby before telling Toby what’s going on.

Is Toby going to have to do a favor for every ally she has?

You can take the Daoine Sidhe out of the Torquill but you can’t take the fox-fur hair and golden eyes.

Poor Raysel. I hope this helps her.

Huzzah, Toby gets to sleep!

Hello again, Simon. OK, Toby doesn’t think he told Evening that she called Shadowed Hills. And he’s back at the house.

There’s something to be said for the image of Simon petting Toby’s rosebush-cat for hours.

Yes, everyone needs group therapy, which clearly doesn’t exist in Faerie.

Correction: there’s nothing in his blood now that she could change. If Toby knew enough to look, could she tell immediately? Maida told Toby that she was once a changeling, and now Toby can look at Quentin and see those watermarks. She has since looked at Sylvester and Simon and been unable to tell that they had human blood once, but Toby misses a lot.

Hmm, Toby is not this… intimate with anyone else. Mind walking while riding Simon’s blood? She’s never done this with living people before. I think if he can be saved in the end, it will involve something similar.

Yep, the non-con is strong here. Simon is a fascinating villain.

So what exactly was Simon planning here? Toby is not a tree. She’s out for several hours and up again. Was Simon buying her time?

Hi Luidaeg! Glad to see you up.

Titania also sounds like a shit mother.

Septiminus was Evening’s grandson. He certainly didn’t get his coloring from her.

“Most of her children died young.” But there were enough grandchildren to establish several Daoine Sidhe lines. Aethlin and Maida aren’t closely related to the Torquills or Dugan or Rhys or Riordan.

Maeve took what vengeance she could against Titania for the Luidaeg’s binding and we don’t know what that is, yet.

Ok, yes. This is where the Luidaeg says Evening’s signatures are apples and roses. Her own magic is brackish marshes and ocean air. Toby doesn’t ask about this.

Elizabeth Ryan would probably argue that the Luidaeg stole her heart but she isn’t here right now.  

I am pretty sure Evening is older than the Luidaeg, but the Luidaeg implies Maeve could have had children before her, just not through Oberon. And none of them are living now.

The Luidaeg knows who Amandine’s mother is and can’t say.                                    

Yes Evening, we know you don’t like Dianda and Patrick’s marriage. You can shut up about it now.

Is Dawn one of the things the Luidaeg can’t talk about? She is not mentioned at all in this book, least of all by Toby.

And Simon’s under Evening’s control again. Poor Tybalt.

And Toby’s covered in her own blood again.

Dammit, Sylvester, Simon’s better at giving Toby answers than you are.

Yes, which of the Queens owned that key? And what exactly is it?

Oh you still don’t know better by now, Toby. You are still somewhat blind to what’s going on around you.

Nice job breaking Evening’s spell, Toby.

Oh Simon, you were so close.

Being stabbed with Simon’s elf-shot laced blood is enough to take out a Firstborn but somehow drinking Nolan’s blood didn’t put Toby out.

Though being asleep isn’t going to stop her…

Naww, Tybalt and Toby are cute together.

Man, I really want to see Dianda and Patrick’s reactions on learning that Evening is the Daoine Sidhe Firstborn. And why does no one seem to recall Dawn? Is there a world-wide “don’t think about it” spell? If so, who could cast it?

[professortennant]

Bruh Jean x Lucien 22. two miserable people meeting at a wedding au

this gave me the perfect opportunity to write up my body shot scene so thank u

1500 words and there’s a craig mclachlan youtube reference easter egg in here

Lucien threw back the last of his scotch with a grimace, eyeing the festivities around him. The Tyneman family was equal parts ancient family friend and long-time adversary. As the last representative from the Blake family, he was obligated to attend Edward’s wedding (that andthe threat from Patrick to skip this year’s donation to Victim Support if he didn’t attend).

Pushing his chair back from the table, he stood and walked to the thankfully-open bar. A few more glasses of scotch and he would be well on his way to a state in which a Tyneman wedding wasn’t all that bad. 

He flagged down the barman and took a seat, looking around before he did a double take at the woman he had sat next to. Softly curling hair, an upturned nose, steel blue eyes, bright red lips, all wrapped up in an exquisite wine-colored gown. His heart skipped a beat and he found himself learning towards her, noticing her frown. 

“Not a big fan of weddings?” His shoulder brushed hers and he pretended not to notice the shock of warmth it sent straight to his fingers. 

The woman turned to him, her frown evaporating in the face of his grin and she shook her head, smiling at him ruefully. “I’m afraid--and, oh, don’t think less of me, but,” she bit her lip. “I’m afraid I’m not much a fan of the family.”

Lucien let out a bark of laughter, picking up the drink the bartender had placed in front of him. He lifted his glass, “Now, that I will cheers to.” The woman raised her wine glass and clinked the glass against his drink, eyeing him over the rim as she took a sip in cheers. 

He extended his hand, “I’m Lucien, by the way. Lucien Blake.” She took his hand and he noticed the softness of her hand, the way his hand wrapped completely around hers. 

“I’m Jean Beazley.”

They shared a smile and Lucien was proud to note that her eyes flickered over his face, taking him in, lingering on his lips. The noise of the wedding seemed to fade away and all he could see, all he could hear was her. 

“So, Jean Beazley, what did the esteemed Tynemans do to earn your ire?”

Jean blushed, looking down at her wine glass, swirling its contents absentmindedly. “Truth be told, Patrick is at his heart a lovely man, I’m sure. But, well, I work at the art museum downtown and Patrick owns a portrait I’m desperate to have in our collection and he insinuated if I attended his son’s wedding with him, he’d be open to negotiating.” 

Lucien nodded, “I see. This portrait must be really worth it if you’re willing to subject yourself to a couple of hours of Patrick’s time. Out of curiosity,” he added. “Which artist are you after?”

Jean’s eyes lit up, “Her name is Genevieve Etienne.” Lucien froze, hoping his face betrayed nothing. Jean didn’t seem to notice and she continued, “She doesn’t have very many works in circulation, but this particular piece is just,” she sighed, wistfully. “It’s beautiful, all her works are, but this one is different. There’s a sadness to it. It’s like you can feel it in the brushstrokes. It’s absolutely stunning.”

Lucien took another sip of his scotch, nodding. He was just contemplating how to tell her Genevieve Etienne was his mother--that he had a whole room full of her paintings if Jean wanted to look at them some time--when a commotion startled them both. 

Across the bar from them, Edward and his new bride were surrounded by the bridal party, all cheering and egging the pair on as Edward deposited his wife onto the bar and proceeded to lick a shot of tequila out of the hollow of her throat. 

The hoots and hollers filled the banquet hall and Lucien and Jean turned to one another, both shaking their heads. Jean pursed her lips, “Seems more of an activity suited for a nightclub than a wedding, if you ask me.”

Lucien grinned, knocking her shoulder with his, “Well, if you ask me, I’d say there was something rather romantic about drinking from your partner’s body. It’s about as intimate as you can legally be in a public forum.”

His voice had dropped an octave and it was low and husky, his eyes flicking to Jean’s mouth, already imagining the places he’d lick first. She was absolutely stunning and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so affected by another person. 

Jean’s eyes met his and he could see the beginnings of desire and he let out a half-groan when she bit her lip before confessing, “I’ve never done one before.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Never?”

She shook her head, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “I’m afraid I married rather young and my late husband and I never had much time for the typical party scene; we had a family and a business to run. And when he passed away, I just couldn’t bring myself to go out with the girls like that. It felt like I lived a different life.”

Lucien covered her hand with his and squeezed it, offering comfort. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband, truly.”

Jean covered his hand with hers, “Thank you. It was a long time ago. But thank you.”

A brief moment of silence fell over them and Lucien scrambled, not wanting the conversation to end. He caught sight of Edward pouring another shot into the crook of his bride’s elbow and he got an idea. 

Turning back to Jean, he smiled at her, “It’s not too late, you know.” His grin widened at her look of confusion. “To have a body shot, I mean.”

Her eyes widened and she held her hands up in front of her, warding him off. “Oh no, I think I’m well past those days, now. Plus, I don’t think anyone here wants to lick anything off me.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, looking down. 

Lucien took a deep breath. The scotch and the heady smell of her perfume and the power of her smile were all going to his head because he felt invincible, daring. 

He took her hand in his and turned it over, palm up. With his free hand, he dipped his finger into his scotch and drew a single, wet line down the inside of her wrist. 

Beneath her skin, he could feel her pulse thrumming, felt the warmth of her body. He looked up at her, “Trust me?” His heart hammered uncomfortably in his chest and he mentally pleaded with her to say yes. 

To his delight, she nodded at him, watching with wide eyes as he ducked his head and licked the line of scotch straight from her skin, closing his eyes and savoring the combination of sharp, bitter alcohol and the sweet taste of her. He lingered at her wrist for a moment, his nose nuzzling at her pulse point. 

When he released her wrist, he sat back and smacked his lips and grinned. “There,” he said softly, just for her ears. “Now you’ve had a body shot.”

Jean stared at him, eyes flicking between her freshly-licked wrist and the pleased, smug grin on his face. Then she laughed, rubbing at the spot on her wrist thoughtfully, “Technically, I think you’re the one who had the shot.”

Lucien leaned forward, ready to tell her that he had a hotel key in his pocket and they could order room service and she could strip him down and take as many body shots as she wanted off of him so long as she kept looking at him like that--like he was special and interesting and mattered. 

But before he could work up the courage to say anything, Patrick Tyneman was there, offering his hand to Jean and giving Lucien a cursory nod. “Jean, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Jean slipped her hand into Patrick’s and nodded, “Of course, Patrick.” As Patrick led her away to the dance floor, Lucien saw her look back at him, eyes apologetic. 

He slumped back into his chair, draining his scotch and licking his lips, hoping to still find a trace of her taste there. He really, really hated the Tynemans.