#actually there's one other star war that i will allow and it's have you heard

[maxwellatoms]

Do you think the new division of Cartoon Network Studios will end up exploiting and abusing AI to make new cartoons of their old properties?

I wouldn't put it past any studio to do this.

We're at the end of The Animation Industry As We Know It, so studios are going to do anything and everything they can to stay alive.

The way I see it is:

AI "art" isn't actually art. Art is created by humans to express ideas and emotions. Writing prompts allows a computer to interpret human ideas and emotions by taking other examples of those things and recombining them.

Just because something isn't art doesn't mean that humans can't understand it or find it beautiful. We passed a really fun prompt generation milestone about a year ago where everything looked like it was made by a Dadaist or someone on heavy psychedelics. Now we're at the Uncanny Valley stage. Soon, you won't be able to tell the difference.

It's not just drawings and paintings that are effected, but writing and film. It's every part of the entertainment industry. And the genie is out of the bottle. I've seen people saying that prompt-based image generators have "democratized" art. And I see where they're coming from. In ten years, I can easily see a future where anyone can sit down at their desk, have a short conversation with their computer, and have a ready-to-watch, custom movie with flawless special effects, passable story, and a solid three act structure. You want to replace Harrison Ford in Star Wars with your little brother and have Chewbacca make only fart sounds, and then they fly to Narnia and fistfight Batman? Done.

But, sadly, long before we reach that ten year mark, the bots will get hold of this stuff and absolutely lay waste to existing art industries. Sure, as a prompter I guess you can be proud of the hours or days you put into crafting your prompts, but you know what's better than a human at crafting prompts? Bots. Imagine bots cranking out hundreds of thousands of full-length feature films per minute. The noise level will squash almost any organic artist or AI prompter out of existence.

AI images trivialize real art. The whole point of a studio is to provide the money, labor, and space to create these big, complicated art projects. But if there are no big, complicated art projects, no creatives leading the charge, and no employees to pay... what the fuck do we need studios for? We won't, but their sheer wealth and power will leave them forcing themselves on us for the rest of our lives.

The near future will see studios clamp down on the tech in order to keep it in their own hands. Disney does tons of proprietary tech stuff, so I'm sure they're ahead of the game. Other studios will continue to seek mergers until they can merge with a content distribution platform. I've heard rumors of Comcast wanting to buy out either WB or Nick. That's the sort of thing I'm talking about. The only winners of this game will be the two or three super-huge distribution platforms who can filter out enough of the spam (which they themselves are likely perpetuating) to provide a reasonable entertainment experience.

400,000 channels and nothing's on.

I do think that money will eventually make the "you can't copyright AI stuff" thing go away. There's also the attrition of "Oh, whoops! We accidentally put an AI actor in there and no one noticed for five years, so now it's cool."

One way or another, it's gonna be a wild ride. As the canary in the coal mine, I hope we can all get some UBI before I'm forced to move into the sewers and go full C.H.U.D.

[penny00dreadful]

STWG Prompt: star

Steve blinked, the cogs finally sliding into place.

"You're the star! You're the star?"

"Yes! Obviously." The star rolled his eyes. 

He was all idiosyncrasies. Gorgeous but downright snippy. A shock of long dark hair and dark eyes to go with his pale skin. Black tattoos up and down his arms and a heavy silvery cloak shrouding his lithe body.

Steve frowned. "You don't look like a star."

The star scoffed. “Heard that one before.” He muttered before scowling back at Steve. “Well why don’t you tell me then, in your infinite human wisdom, what stars are supposed to look like?”

“I don’t know! Like,” he waved his hand up towards the sky, “like a big clump of burning rock or something. I’m not a fucking astronomer. Why do you look so… human?”

“Why do you look so celestial?” The star raised his wrist to his mouth, trying to chew through the tether Steve had managed to secure him with while he was still getting his bearings, feeling that strange pull, telling him that this human shaped lump at the bottom of this crater was what he was looking for. "Can you take this fucking thing off me?"

"Uh… sorry, no. I can't do that."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because… well because I promised Nancy I'd bring her back the star as a show of… love?" He sounded more unsure the more he spoke. Back when the star was just a meteor or some dust, this was all so simple but now…

"Some girl has demanded you go out and bring back a fucking captive as a show of love?"

"No, that's- she didn't ask me to do anything!"

Actually thinking about it, Nancy had looked almost resigned when he'd suggested it. And a little sad. Like that wasn't really where she had wanted the conversation to go.

Fuck.

Had she been trying to break up with him?

“So you just decided to go into slavery on your own?”

“No! I- I have a way to send you home after… when I show Nancy what I’ve done for her. When I prove it to her. She won’t want to keep you after… she doesn’t abide by slavery.”

The star huffed, crossing his arms and pulling Steve forward a little with the restraint. He didn’t even seem to notice. “And what if I don’t want to go home?”

“Why wouldn’t you-” Steve stopped. He supposed it wasn’t really his place to ask. “Then I’ll free you, you can do whatever the hell it is you came down here to do.”

The star looked at him, thinking, turning it over in his head with a little side to side motion. "Okay, how about this? We help each other out. You let me go and I promise to come with you back to Nancy and then you help me find what I came down here to find.”

Steve frowned again. He wasn’t sure. The star could be lying to him but Robin always told him he was a great judge of character. And it didn’t seem like this star was going to run away. He wanted something down here, on earth.

“What are you trying to find?”

The star’s face went a little pink at that.

Interesting. 

“I… I’ve been watching humans for hundreds of years, your wars, your hate for each other, your petty differences, the natural disasters that devastate your people. But through all that there always seems to be a thread of love. Even if it’s just one person plucking her sister out of the floodwaters or two lovers on opposite sides of the fight meeting in secret… love is always there and I… I want… that.”

“You came down here to find love?”

The star turned his back on him, embarrassment radiating off of his body in waves. “Yeah. So what if I did?”

How could Steve ever say no to that?

He pulled at the lash around the star’s wrist, allowing it to slip free and dragged it back towards himself.

“Okay.”

The star turned around, his big brown eyes wide in shock. “Okay? Just like that?”

“Yeah. Just like that.”  He held his hand out. “I’m Steve. Do you have a name? I’m sorry I didn’t ask before now.”

The star looked down at his hand as he took three steps closer, looking back up at Steve’s face then down again, extending his own hand, slim fingers and all.

“Eddie.”

Nancy had wanted to break up with him as it turned out and hadn’t known how to do it after Steve had adamantly told her he'd travel outside of Hawkins to find her the star.

When he came back to her to tell her he’d found his own love in Eddie on his travels she beamed at him, placing a kiss against his cheek.

“I’m glad." She said. "You deserve it.”

Eddie, who had never come across a ring or necklace at a market stall that he didn’t like, always drawn to the shine. Eddie who had shed the bright almost white silvery cloak for blackened leathers and heavy boots, as dark as the night sky. Eddie, who had gifted Steve a single lock of hair to bring back to Nancy, promising to meet up with him in a few hours, once he’d finished spending all of Steve’s money at the closest bookshop beyond the Gate that separated Faeria from Steve’s world.

Eddie’s lock of hair that Steve now handed over to Nancy who looked into the handkerchief with confusion.

“Steve?”

He looked down.

Eddie’s hair had turned to stardust.

“He can’t cross the Gate.” Steve whispered to himself, horrified before turning and running with everything he had back the way he came, Nancy’s shouts fading out behind him.

He wasn’t sure how long it took him to run through the old cobbled streets, out into the field but just as the Gate came into sight, he saw Eddie on the opposite side round the corner and start walking towards it.

He could do it, he could make it, he could-

“Eddie!” He shouted, stopping Eddie dead in his tracks before his boot could cross the border.

“Ste-?” 

His words were cut off as Steve bodily slammed into him, throwing them both into the grass and away from the Gate.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart.” Eddie groaned, rubbing the back of his head. “That excited to see me?”

“You.” Steve panted, clinging on as tight as he could. “Can’t cross. Gate. Hair. Turned. To. Lump of rock.”

“Oh shit, really?” Eddie ran a hand up and down his back, settling into the grass. “That would have been awkward. And you came to save me?” Eddie sighed, fluttering his eyelashes. Steve could feel it against his cheek. “My hero.”

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking at Eddie spread out below him, dark curls fanning out around his head and a cheeky grin on his face. He lowered himself down for a kiss, muttering into his mouth “You’re damn right I came to save you. Can’t have anything taking my star away.”

Continued

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Blood, gore, major character deaths.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Oh my god.... Everything is happening ARGH! I'm actually going to try and post updates daily now for this, bar Sunday for the next Sublet chapter. I am just so excited to finish this series! Hahaha, anyway, I've loved seeing all your reactions and theories!! <3

Chapter 102: Envoys to Dragonstone 

When you had returned to your chambers, it was a blur of movements and thoughts, but one in particular seemed to absorb all the rest. Its dark tendrils wrapped around the others, pulling them into the dark with it, thus making its size almost immeasurable until all other thoughts were devoured by it, gone from the light, and all that was left was it. 

War was coming.

With shaky hands you grasped a piece of parchment and sat at the table. With the ink pot and quill, you rolled the parchment flat beneath your palm and began to write. 

You wrote as though your life depended on it. 

Because it did. 

And with each swift flick of your script, a blaring word in particular seemed to have broken loose from the feeling of hopelessness. A word which had been whispered and cried. Spoken and sneered. A word that had fuelled your hope, and created your despair. A word that you knew, now more than ever, was a need to act. 

Dracarys. 

And so you wrote until the page was full, and tears leaked from your eyes at knowing what was to come next. 

Loss. 

‘Mother and Father, 

To write to you under the present circumstances does little to steady my beating heart, but it is something that I know will ensure that it keeps doing just that. Beating. 

Aegon is dead. Slain at the hands of Aemond. 

And now he is King. And I, Queen.

The treaty is lost, and at the risk of another war coming to take us all, I must beg you, bend the knee.

Bend the knee to Aemond. 

If you swear him as King, he has said that he will allow you to live on Dragonstone and carry out your days there safely and happily. 

If you do not bend the knee, war will break, and I will not survive it.

You will not survive it. 

None of us will. 

My only consolation is that if you do, we shall all live, and that I will be able to see you again soon.

I suspect I am with child, Aemond’s child. And if the promise of your own flesh and blood upon the throne does not satiate your need to rule, then know I hold no grievances towards you. It is your birthright, just as it is mine.

If you do not bend the knee, you must send star fruit to the Keep so that I know of your decision, and may feel its sweet nectar upon my tongue once more before war breaks out. It is the only way I will survive this all, and it is the only way that I will know that you do not hate me for asking you of this. 

It was not my wish to depose my mother of the throne, nor my father, or my dearest brother Jacaerys. I beg for your forgiveness. I shall go to the Godswood and pray that you will forgive such an offence, and pray that the Gods will forgive my sins too.

Until then, I wait to hear of your acquiesce to Aemond and I's rule, or the delivery of star fruit to the keep in barrels full. 

Yours forever,

Queen Y/n.’

Tears slipped past your eyes, and you had not even heard Aemond enter the chambers, nor sense him standing behind you as he read your letter. It was only until he touched a lock of your hair at the back of your head did you know that he was there. 

“Are you ready?” He asked softly, cool patience in his tone.

You turned your head to look up at him.

Were you ready?

Would you ever be ready for what was to come?

If your parents bent the knee, that meant you would rule as Queen, like you had always wanted, and at the side of Aemond. 

But if they didn’t?

No.

They would come. 

Just as you asked.

More tears fell, and Aemond swiped them away gently with his thumb, “Issa iā qopsa geralbar bona ilagon gō īlva.  Yn nyke gīmigon bona hēnkirī, hae mēre, kosti.” It is a difficult road that lays before us. But I know that together, as one, we can.

“Iksan nāpāsagon ñuha lentor.” I am betraying my family, You sniffed, another tear trailing down your cheek hotly.

Aemond frowned sadly at you, helping you to stand.

“Iksis ziry drēje?” Is it true? He asked quietly, “Issi ao lēda riña?” Are you with child?

You knew in your bones that you were.

Although there were not many symptoms but the inklings of sore breasts, you just knew. You knew instinctually that it was true. That the Gods had given you and Aemond another chance of being parents, and you would not lose that opportunity again.

You nodded, another tear rolling down your cheek, one of sorrow and joy.

Aemond bent his head down to kiss you gently, lips brushing against your own in reverence, but his hands upon your face showed the true excitement that he held back. They were firm, and tight, and almost tingled against your skin. 

“I am scared.” You breathed.

“I will keep you and my child safe.” Aemond looked you in the eye, sincerity on his face, a hand coming to press gently at your stomach.

You smiled sadly at him, “Not if war breaks.”

“Even then. I will not lose you, or our child. You are the most precious thing in the world to me, my one and only love. Not even the Gods could take you from me.” He promised.

Your heart soared as you nodded up at him, rising on your tiptoes to capture his lips once more. He whispered an apology against your lips, and you couldn’t help the small sob that escaped.

“Please do not make me choose.” You whispered, hands holding the sides of his face, stubble brushing against the scar of your palm, the reminder of your union and love always there.

“You have already made your choice. Now they must make theirs.”

Aemond left you in the chambers alone to deliver your letter to Otto Hightower and Ser Criston Cole, who readied themselves to leave by ship that very evening. They would arrive to Dragonstone by morning. 

And you would get your answer from the skies.

DRAGONSTONE POV

The morning broke the same way that it had before.

The sun rose above the waters surrounding Dragonstone, and cast the volcanic island in a glow of golden light. There was a light breeze that morning as the maids had opened the windows and balcony doors to Queen Rhaenyra and King Daemon’s quarters. 

They had been dressed and readied, and broke their fast together. Little Viserys and Aegon the Younger tottered around their chambers, playing with tiny toy dragons that had been carved from wood. 

The couple eventually made their way down to the study, Rhaenyra having gotten word from the men at the Red Fork that a certain war dragon had been spotted in the skies, and not seen to have left until almost a dozen days later.

As Rhaenyra shifted the letters at the large desk and Daemon sat lazily before the fir with one leg crossed over the other as Little Viserys sat on his knee, stories being whispered into the young boys ear as Aegon the younger sat on the floor playing with his toys, the door to the chambers were rapt by knuckles thrice in quick succession. 

“Come.” Rhaenyra beckoned, and watched as the doors were opened swiftly by a Ser Erryk Cargyll.

The twin gave a short nod in greeting before apologising for his intrusion, “Your, Grace, there is a ship, just west of Dragonstone.”

Rhaenyra stiffened in her chair, and Daemon snapped his head to the man, quietening his whispers.

“It flies the banner of your brother.”

Rhaenyra stood from her seat slowly, Daemon going her with his son in his arms, the boy nestled against his side.

There had not been a ship to Dragonstone since the day Otto had come to watch her daughter be wed to her half-brother.

“Notify the council, have them be ready.” Rhaenyra commanded, and Ser Erryk bowed his head, leaving the chambers at once. 

Rhaenyra and Daemon stared at each other, Viserys fussing in Daemon’s arms, sensing the tension that mounted in the room like a storm.

“Do you think it’s a trap?” Daemon breathed heavily, smoothing hair away from his sons head as two of Rhaenyra’s maids entered the chambers.

Daemon kissed the top of the boys forehead before handing him to one of the girls, the other scooping Aegon the Younger into her arms before exiting the chambers. 

Rhaenyra moved around the desk, coming to stand in front of Daemon, “I believe we should be ready for it.”

By the time the two entered the Chambers of the Painted Table, the Small Council of Queen Rhaenyra were already standing around it in wait. Jacaerys stood off to the side, his Lady Wife, Baela beside him. 

Lord Corlys stood to the side of Baela with Princess Rhaenys and their other granddaughter Rhaena, all who wore black and red, with hints of blue, as was their new and old House colours. 

All other Lords and Maester’s stood at the other end. 

“When should they arrive to shore?” Rhaenyra asked, forgoing a greeting as she walked swiftly to the head of the table with her husband.

“Within the hour, Your Grace.” Came the response of Maester Gerardys.

Rhaenyra nodded, looking amongst the table before she jumped into action. 

“We need to be ready for whatever my brother Aegon has planned. Patrol the skies and the sea. Have men at the ready for anything.”

Jacaerys stepped forward, “I shall ride Vermax.”

Rhaenyra nodded, though her heart raced in her chest.

The last time she had allowed her children to take to the skies, only one came back.

“I’ll take Moondancer, Your Grace.” Princess Baela declared.

Rhaenyra gave the girl a small smile, “Good.” She turned to face Rhaenys, “Take Meleys to the sky. If Aegon or Aemond are to come on the backs of their dragons, we will need numbers and you are one of our best.”

Daemon was the next to speak, “I shall take Caraxes-”

“-No.” Rhaenyra argued, “You will stay with me. I need you at my side.” Turning to Lord Corlys, she requested the presence of his ships, “Have four of your ships ready at port.”

The older man nodded, moving swiftly out of the chambers to command them.

“You said there was only one ship?” Rhaenyra questioned the Maester.

“Yes, Your Grace. Only one has been spotted.”

The crown weighed heavily atop the Queens head in that moment, the first time she had ever truly felt the weight of it.

At first when Daemon had crowned her, it was foreign, but with time, she grew to not notice its presence, as though it was another set of braids atop her head. But now, she felt the heavy weight of it all, pressing down on her skull, hyperaware that she had a duty, and it was about to be tested.

Once the ships had been pulled to the docks, and her dragon riders had taken to the skies, Queen Rhaenyra and her King Consort, Daemon Targaryen, moved with the Queens Guard down to the meeting point of the path where they had stood before. 

When greeted with Aegon’s terms. 

And then later with the return of their daughter.

But this time, they waited and watched as the heads and banners of the Green three headed dragon came towards them, and they did not once sense that they would be reunited with their daughter once more. Instead, Ser Otto Hightower was flanked by Ser Criston Cole and members of her brothers Kings Guard.

Above them, three dragons flew in circles, watching from above. 

Waiting. 

Ready.

Ser Otto Hightower, in all his lithe glory, came to a stop before Queen Rhaenyra, looking all the more like a weevil that had crawled into a farmers grain.

For he was a pest that had wormed its way into her fathers life, and become the driving force of the usurpation of the throne, her daughter and sons deaths, and the removal of her surviving daughter to her half-brother.

Ser Otto was a man that Rhaenyra as a child had hoped and prayed that her father would have seen through. That Viserys could have seen the man before him was a mask, a shell, and hid his true intentions behind duty and tradition. But Viserys had been blinded by the wolf in sheep's clothing, and Otto’s lies had been strengthened by Daemon’s love for her.

Viserys never did get to see the ruin that his inaction would become.

Daemon, the once Rogue Prince, stood at his wife’s side diligently, as he had promised to do, large palms resting upon the two swords that flanked him, one being the Dark Sister blade. He struggled to not sneer at the man who had taken everything from him.

Taken his daughter from him. His brother.

“We come as envoys.” Otto began, Ser Cole staring at Daemon, his own hand atop the hilt of his sword.

Daemon had not forgotten Cole's place in all this either.

Crispin Cole.

Rhaenyra looked down at the men from her nose. Despite being shorter than them, she stood uphill, and gave the illusion that she was above them.

And she was.

Where she was Queen, they were mere Ser’s.

“King Aemond the First-“

“-Aemond?” Rhaenyra interrupted sharply, worry coursing through her chest, “Did my brother Aegon drink himself to death in his cups?”

Otto reached into his coat pocket, the Queen’s Guard shifting as they watched his movement carefully. Long fingers pulled apart his lapel and dove into the inner pocket, grasping the rolled parchment from their daughter.

Daemon shifted atop the balls of his feet.

Lord Hightower held out the scrolled parchment, green insignia stamped into its papery surface with wax, “A letter from the Queen.” 

“Queen?” Daemon snipped, looking at the parchment. 

Ser Erryk stepped forward to grasp the letter, armour shuffling as his eyes darted to his twin, Arryk Cargyll, who stood behind Otto Hightower.

It was a sad day for either twin, seeing their other half on different sides of a silent war. Their eyes met, if only briefly, all hurt and betrayal, before Erryk took the scroll and delivered it to Rhaenyra.

“King Aegon is dead. And in the line of succession, Aemond has taken his place.”

“What about his remaining son?” Daemon questioned, looking at the scroll briefly before back at Otto.

Otto held his hands behind his back, “Maelor is too young to rule at such a time, and Aemond has taken the Iron Throne.”

Ser Erryk held out the parchment for his Queen to take, which she took whilst keeping her eyes upon Otto, much like her husband, who continued to talk. 

“Bend the knee to the King, swear your fealty to him and he shall allow you to remain here as the Lady of Dragonstone, whereafter your son Jacaerys the Lord of Dragonstone, and Joffrey Lord of Driftmark. The Queen has agreed to send word to you now that the treaty has ended with Aegon’s passing.”

Rhaenyra hastily unrolled the parchment, ripping the green wax insignia of the three headed dragon off the paper, the wax crumbling onto the stone below. Violet eyes roved over her daughters script whilst Daemon read over the top of her shoulder. 

The Queen felt a tide of rage.

“I will not bend the knee to a usurper and kinslayer who is not even second in the line of succession. He has no right to the throne.” She hissed at the Hightower Lord, “Where is the Princess?”

“She is Queen Consort now, and shall live her days with the King in peace and safety. Your blood sits upon the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra, something that should satiate your desire for war. Bend the knee to Aemond, blood not be needlessly spilt again.”

Otto spoke like an old man telling his daughter or wife to buy something from the market that was not needed, and not at all like a man who was preventing a war.

Daemon quietly seethed beside his wife, looking at Otto, and having read two words that gave him the permission he so desperately sought. Daemon shifted, hand pulling the Dark Sister blade from her sheath and stormed forward.

“Fuck this.” Daemon sneered.

Ser Cole stepped toward him, and from above a dragon screeched.

It was a blur of guards, and the sound of men and their blades being unsheathed filling the air.

Ser Erryk Cargyll stepped to the side of Daemon, if not slightly more forward, blocking the blow of Ser Cole’s blade as Daemon moved towards Otto, whose eyes were wide in shock. Queen and King’s Guards met in the middle, a blur of bodies as Rhaenyra stood firmly, planted as she were.

Watching. 

With a swing of the Dark Sister blade, Daemon sliced through Ser Otto Hightower’s shoulder, the blade cutting through flesh and bone as though it was butter, carving down to the middle of his chest.

Blood sprayed from his wound, and the older man cried out into the air, the beating wings of dragons loud above them.

As the King Consort pulled his blade from the Hightower Lord, who stumbled backwards on shaky legs, Daemon swung the Dark Sister blade into the air once more, connecting with his neck.

His body landed on the floor before his head did, which rolled downwards into the chaos of the guards and knights who fought, mouth open and eyes wide.

Ser Erryk blocked another swipe of Criston’s blade, who came at him harder and faster, anger and desperation in his eyes. Ser Arryk, his twin, steadily approached the two as he battled through the sea of fighting.

A few of Aemond’s men had turned back, running down the path to try to get back to their ship, to send word to the King, but a large shadow loomed above them, and with a cry, Baela screamed out her deathly command for the very first time.

“Dracarys!”

Moondancer, a slender and pale green dragon with pearl like horns, opened her jaws and a plume of fire was cast over the Green deserters. The flames devoured the men entirely, who screamed in agony, trying to outrun their burning flesh, before dropping to the floor below, silent and stiff.

Baela, to prevent any more attempting to escape, landed against the path, the large claws of her dragon digging into the stone sides, much like how Rhaenyra had, many moons ago.

Moondancer screeched, head down and long at the backs of Aemond’s men who turned to face the dragon in fear, swords lifted in a pathetic last chance of defence. 

It was an opportunity that Rhaenyra’s men did not let pass. 

And an opportunity Daemon didn’t either. 

The Dark Sister blade cut through three men, and Jacaerys upon Vermax landed behind the Queen and her men, a subtle threat, and a vow of protection for his Queen Mother.

Vermax growled deeply, teeth bared, whilst Rhaenys continued to circle atop Meleys from above, searching the skies for any sign of her cousins.

Ser Cole, sensing that he was fighting a losing battle, did not give up, and came at Ser Erryk brutally. The twin stumbled backwards, Arryk moving towards Cole’s side as Criston's blade barely just missed the twins face.

But as Ser Cole was occupied, and Rhaenyra watched from behind stony faced, he did not see the shadow that passed behind him, nor did he anticipate the thrusting of the Dark Sister blade through the pummel of his chest.

Ser Erryk Cargyll took advantage of the opportunity, and turned to face his twin brother, a man who was the exact image of him bar small scars upon their bodies, and if you had asked Arryk a year before, he was taller. Their swords clashed together, moves and skill mirrored as both men had grown and trained together side by side.

Daemon Targaryen, the once Rogue Prince and now Rogue King, a man who was seasoned in war, and battle, and swordsmanship, stood behind Ser Criston Cole, blade in hand as it penetrated through the top of his chest under his shoulder. Blood dripped from its tip thickly as he looked down at it, eyes wide in shock. 

Daemon’s silver hair, now streaked in blood, lifted gently in the breeze that rolled past.

The drops of Ser Cole’s blood was loud in Rhaenyra’s ears as she looked at the man dubbed ‘The King Maker’.

With a large boot, Daemon kicked the knight off of his blade, and onto his knees.

Ser Criston Cole landed with a thud, looking up at Rhaenyra, eyes darkened by hatred. The blade in his hand had fallen to the ground, and blood dripped down from his wound thickly, splattering across the stones like many of his other men. 

Rhaenyra looked down her nose at the man, lips pulled back in a sneer.

It was quiet on the path, the only sound Rhaenys’ dragon calling out from above, and the sound of blood on stone. All other fighting was drowned out by the rage that pumped through her veins.

And as though connected through a bond, like rider and dragon, Daemon stood behind Ser Criston Cole, The King Maker; a man who had been sworn to Rhaenyra once before, a man she had once been intimate with when she was a young girl, a man who had witnessed the Gods affirmation that she was fit for the throne, a man who had aided the usurpation of the throne, a man who had broken his oath to the cloak, and Daemon heeded the Queen’s wordless command.

Daemon swung the Dark Sister blade one final time.

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[roseghoul26]

Part 1

Arthur Morgan x f!Reader

"'Do you love me?' You asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Arthur nodded, gazing at you like you hung the moon and the stars.

'Then say it. I promise you, nothing bad is gonna come from it.'"

Synopsis: A retelling of the mission "Blessed are the Peacemakers", where instead of Arthur getting kiddnapped, it's you.

Tags: fluff, friends to lovers, eventual smut, smut, torture, mentions of sexual assault, no actual SA, dutch is father figure, so is hosea, arthur morgan deserves everything, fem reader, afab!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, not beta read

part 1 ❉ part 2 ❉ part 3 ❉ part 4

“C’mon, we’re heading out. And make sure you bring that rifle.”

Arthur’s voice caused you to look up from polishing said rifle, the freshly cleaned barrel glinting in the afternoon sun. Before you stood the cowboy, one hand resting casually on his gun belt, the other rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his. 

Narrowing your eyebrows, you stood, strapping the gun across your back. “You’re worried,” you stated, and you watched his movement halt. “Why?” 

“Dutch says… well how’d you know that? I ain’t even said anything yet.”

“You don’t need to say anything, cowboy. But that’s beside the point. Dutch says…?” You gestured for him to continue. 

You swore you heard him mutter something about you being a damn witch before he turned around, leading you to where the horses were hitched at the front of your camp. The new camp, Clemens Point, was starting to grow on you, even with all the bugs and coyotes around. The access to water was nice, and it was close enough to cities to not be a burden to go to, but far enough away from big populaces to live an outlaw lifestyle. As the two of you walked, Arthur began explaining the new plan that Dutch had roped you two into. 

“Pearson said he met some O’Driscolls, who claim Colm is willing to ‘negotiate peace’ with Dutch.” Arthur sounded as convinced as you felt.

“You’re kidding me.” 

“I swear to you. Don’t know what’s gonna come from it, but it’s a start.”

“You really believe Colm’ll just stop fighting Dutch?”

“Not really. But Micah got Dutch convinced he would, and crazier things have happened…” For the second time, you watched him rub the back of his neck. 

“You think it’s a trap, don’t you?” 

“I’d be a fool not to.”

By this time you had reached your horses, yours a large black and white war horse, his a brown Appaloosa.You went to go pick up your saddle which lay across the hitching post, but when your hands made contact with the leather, Arthur playfully swatted your hands away, picking the saddle up himself, heaving it up and over the horse with a light grunt. He had rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, allowing you to fully appreciate his muscular forearms as he lifted with ease.

“Hey-” you began, before getting silenced with a look from the cowboy. 

After quickly securing the saddle, he held out his hand expectantly, slightly tipping himself downward in a mock bow. A cheeky smirk adorned his face. “Your ride is ready, princess.”

“I ain’t no princess,” you scoffed, but you still took his hand gingerly, unable to stop a faint smile from growing on your own face, and you stepped into one of the stirrups, using Arthur's hand to help bring your body fully over the saddle. 

His hand still held yours as he responded. “No you ain’t,” his gaze, which was playful, turned into something fonder and gentler, a look you’ve seen him give you time and time again. “You’re something better.”

Leaning down until you were almost at eye level with him, you swore you felt him squeeze your hand ever so tighter, and you spoke low, slightly husky. “And what would that be, Arthur Morgan?”

His eyes widened, and you watched his eyes flick up and down your face, trying to determine if your flirtatious tone was a joke or not. A few seconds passed before he opened his mouth to respond. “You’re-”

“C’mon lovebirds! Hurry up!” Micah’s shouting broke whatever trance the two of you had been in, and you felt Arthur quickly drop your hand like it was scalding, stepping back to create an appropriate amount of space between the two of you. A light dusting of pink covered both of your faces, his blue eyes looking everywhere but you, and a quick scan of the camp told you that Micah wasn’t the only one watching the two of you: Javier and Charles shared a look, the hunter laughing gently as the other shook his head; Tilly and Mary-Beth were furiously whispering to each other, glancing over at the two of you every other second.

Clearing your throat, you straightened back up, urging your horse forward as Arthur mounted his, catching up to Micah and Dutch who sat waiting at the entrance to camp. A few seconds later you heard Arthur approach, settling at your right side. “Ready?” Dutch asked, turning and leaving once receiving nods from you and the others. Following suit with Dutch and Micah in the lead, you settled in for the ride. 

Glancing over to the cowboy to your right, you watched him chat with Dutch, not paying attention to the conversation as you took in the man who has plagued every thought in your brain for the last two years. It was no secret you were head-over-heels for Arthur; you had been for at least the past two years. The two of you had been friends for at least four years at this point, becoming close when you joined the gang after a partially-successful pickpocket attempt against Dutch (you had managed to snag his gold pocket watch, but were subsequently caught a few minutes later once he realized). Despite that, he had offered you a place with the gang. You accepted, partially because you needed money, a place to sleep, and could possibly make friends, but you also joined because you finally had a place to put your niche talents to use. 

Arthur and you became close quickly, and you worked together well, meaning you were often sent out together for jobs. It was a platonic relationship, but the two of you always danced the line of platonic and romantic, flirty remarks being tossed around wildly. It wasn’t until the last year or two where you felt yourself start to actually fall in love with the cowboy, and the flirting wasn’t helping. It was the age old tale of falling for your best friend, and feeling too afraid to say anything in case it wasn’t reciprocated, possibly ruining said friendship. 

It wasn’t hard to fall for him. For all the hard front he puts up, he has a kind heart, going out of his way to help folks (he usually preferred when a reward was offered, but would do things begrudgingly if none was presented). He was loyal, staying by Dutch’s side through thick and thin, and had humor drier than a desert. And he wasn’t bad on the eyes either, a thinker body built from years of labor, skin tanned and scars from years in the wild and sun. Eyes bluer than the ocean, you found yourself always drowning in their depths. 

You hadn’t realized you had been staring at him until you heard him say your name, slightly loud, as if he had been trying to get your attention for a bit. He laughed, “I asked, ‘he treating you well?’” 

When you gave him a confused look, he pointed downwards to your horse, which Arthur had bought for you a few weeks ago after your previous horse was shot by some Lemoyne Raiders. “He is,” you stroked his mane affectionately, earning you a content huff from the beast. “Thank you again, Arthur.”

“It’s nothing, really. You named him yet?”

“I have. You ever read Charles Dickens?” 

“Ain’t much of a reader,” he responded. 

“His name is Tiny Tim, from A Cristmas Carol. My mom would read it every year ‘round Christmas time.”

“Tiny Tim? There ain’t nothing tiny ‘bout that beast!”

“That’s what’s funny!” You laughed, and Arthur just shook his head, trying and failing to hide his own laughter. 

“Yer cute,” he said, nonchalantly, like he had no idea he was actually saying it. You just stared at him, caught off guard by his seemingly very genuine statement. Now it was his turn to be confused, and he cocked his head to side, glancing at you quizzically. 

Dutch’s voice had snapped your gazes back forward, meeting his eyes as he turned to talk. “You know, I’ve been fighting Colm for so long now… I can barely remember a time when it was different.”

The man to your right finally looked away from you, his expression harding as he responded. “And you’re still fighting him now, make no mistake of that.”

“Here he goes…” Micah began. “Doubting Thomas… is there any plan you ain’t sour on?”

“Maybe you’re right. I’m just nervous. Let’s not waste any more lives needlessly.”

“I ain’t costing lives here… I’m saving them. What did you say, we had Pinkertons coming after us?”

“Because of Blackwater,” you chimed in. 

Micah continued, “And Leviticus Cornwall and his private army! Then… who knows when this local hillbilly thing will come to a head, hm? Can we really afford to be fighting on all these fronts, and O’Driscoll?”

The group was silent for a moment, all chewing on the words spoken by the blonde man. 

“There is wisdom in that,” Dutch finally said. 

“For once,” you muttered, thinking you were unheard until you heard a chuckle from your right. 

“Oh, I hope so, gentlemen, but… like I said, I’m nervous.”

“Yeah, me too,” you added. “Feels too good to be true.”

Now it was Micah’s turn to shift around his saddle to face you. “Look, you ain’t even going to be the one in danger… we’ll get on over there… find a nice perch for you to settle your pretty self into… you got that rifle, don’t you?”

Choosing to ignore that one particular comment of his, you tapped the strap across the shoulder that held your rolling block rifle, one of your most prized possessions. “Never leave without it,” you said, failing to notice the way that Arthur glared daggers into Micah, who continued talking.

“Then me, Dutch, and Arthur walk right into the lion’s den, with you to cover us.”

“Just stay calm, unless I give you a reason not to,” you said, a growing tension building inside you.

Dutch gave you a reassuring smile.“Oh, we’ll be fine. We’ve got you.”

“I will do my best.”

“Oh, my dear, with you watching over me, I would walk into hell itself.”

“As would I,” Micah added. 

You weren’t doubtful of your abilities as a sharpshooter, but the praise coming from the man you respected, and Micah, helped bolster your confidence, and you felt yourself sitting up straighter as you rode. “You don’t need me to tell you how great you are,” Arthur said, pausing a moment before continuing. “But I’m gonna anyway. I would go anywhere if I knew you was watching over me.”

“Now y’all are putting too much pressure on me,” you joked, trying to clear the comforting ache in your chest from Arthur’s words. “Gonna give me performance anxiety.”

“Arthur knows a thing or two ‘bout that!” 

“Micah, I swear-” he growled, and you and Dutch shared glances before breaking into laughter, the tension building up with the upcoming meeting dissipating momentarily. 

The next few minutes of riding were in comfortable silence, before Micah halted suddenly as you reached the base of the hills, the rest of you skidding to a halt behind him. “Hey, up there, men on the ridge.” 

Glancing up, you indeed saw four men atop the ridge, all four on horses, looking down on your group. You watched Dutch place a hand on his gun, already ready for things to go wrong. “O’Driscolls, from the look of them.”

“I don’t like having eyes on us.” Arthur grumbled. 

“We’re close,” Micah pointed to you. “You’ll be the eyes soon enough.”

Nodding, you swung your rifle around so it sat in your hands. “Let’s go.”

The group started back up again, riding around and up the hill. That previously dissipated tension was back, and you saw the way that Arthur’s jaw clenched as he rode. “Maybe he’s right, Dutch. Maybe I have pushed too hard. Got us into situations that… could have been safer. I just… I see all these mouths we got to feed, and I… I dream too big. Caring too much, that’s my problem.”

“The hell you on about, Micah?” You asked, Arthur nodding in agreement. The men in front both ignored you.

“Caring too much?” Dutch scoffed. “There’s no such thing.”

After giving you a look that screamed confusion, Arthur exclaimed “This is horse shit. From both of you!”

“It might be! Micah might be full of shit. Colm O’Driscoll might be full of shit. The promise of this great nation, men create equal, liberty and justice for all… that might be nonsense too. But it’s worth trying for. It’s worth believing in. Can’t you see that, friend?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try. All I ask is you try.”

Finally reaching your destination, you all halted again, and you watched Micah turn around so he was face-to-face with you. “Alright, princess,” he looked directly at Arthur, jesting at the earlier interaction he interrupted, before looking back to you. “You’re gonna peel off up ahead. We’ll be meeting down on the plane. Find a spot just above us where you can keep an eye on things.”

“Alright, alright.” You responded, getting ready to leave before Arthur stopped you.

“However this shakes out, let’s aim to meet back at the fork in the road afterwards.”

“Got it. Behave yourselves, boys.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” you heard Dutch respond before him and Micah took off toward the plane. Again, you turned to leave, but you heard your name leave Arthur’s mouth. 

Glancing at him, you gave him an easy smile, before chuckling lightly. “Better get going cowboy. They’re gonna start without you.”

Your laugh died in your throat as you saw a rather serious Arthur before you, an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Be careful.” He inhaled shakily. “Please.”

“I- I will,” your answer sounded more like a question. “But it’s not me you should be worried about. I’m not going into the ‘lion’s den’, as Micah put it. I’ll be fine.”

“Just promise me if things go wrong, you’ll get the hell out of here.”

“You know I can’t promise that. But for you, I’ll certainly try.”

Knowing that was the best he was going to get from you, he just shook his head, and began to make his way toward the others. “I’ll see ya later, princess.” 

Turning so he couldn’t see your flustered state, you waved him away, laughing as you heard Micah shout hurry up, loverboy. Reaching the top of the hill, you dismounted, hitching your horse to a nearby dead tree, and as crouched at the edge, you watched through the scope of your rifle as the men waited for the O’Driscolls to arrive. 

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

You should’ve known something was wrong when you only saw three men on the plane. 

It wasn’t the fact that one of these men was Colm himself, nor was it the fact that each of these men were armed and dangerous, ready to fire at a single wrong move from Dutch. With you watching from above, and Micah and Arthur both backing Dutch from behind, you had no doubt which side would win in a shootout. 

No, it was the fact that you remembered there being four O’Driscolls waiting atop the hill as you all approached.

At the time, as you crouched on your perch, keeping eye on the “negotiation” happening between the two gangs, you hadn’t been worried, figuring they had a person on watch as well. You should’ve looked a little harder, could’ve scanned the nearby hills and see that the fourth O’Driscoll was nowhere to be found. Maybe if you’d have done this, you wouldn’t be hung upside down in Colm’s basement, a nasty gunshot wound in your left shoulder.

The footsteps had approached quickly, and the butt of the rifle was even quicker, striking you across the face with a sickening crack. Everything went black, and you barely remember waking up strung across the back of a horse for a few moments before falling back into unconsciousness. 

You remember waking up again, and you were able to escape for a moment before one O’Driscoll was able to get you with a rope, causing you to eat shit, your head slamming against the forest floor. They had laughed to each other, before one of them held their gun up to your shoulder, an agonizing blast and a flash of white light the last thing you saw before darkness took over again. 

Now here you were, strung upside down, the blood currently rushing to your brain making it pound harder. Everything hurts, the small puddle of blood beneath you indicative of the state of your body. You’d lost track of how long you’d been here; everything became a blur after the first day. 

Colm had yet to make an appearance, his men being the ones to torture you. It was the same few men each time. They alternated from keeping you upside down to having you tied down to a chair, to having you hanging by chains that pulled at your shoulder, aggravating your wounds even further. But they never asked many questions, instead finding their answers in their knives and pokers that they carved into your flesh.

Day after day you searched for means of escape, coming up fruitless each time; his men were surprisingly well trained, making sure to not leave anything in range of you that could be used as a tool or weapon. 

However, they wanted you alive, for whatever reason. Crude first aid had been applied to your wounds, preventing infection and disease from killing you off, but the one at your shoulder continued to be the worse. Occasionally they would give you water and stale food, messily hand fed by one of the men. Despite that, every time you heard the cellar door open, you waited with bated breath for the final blow, but it never came.

The cellar they kept you in was small, musty, and lit by a single candle on a table to your right, just out of reach from where you hung. A few scraps of cloth lay on the table, covered in crimson, and a single chair sat tucked in the corner, also covered in blood. 

Trying to find any sort of comfort, you tried sitting up a bit, your abs screaming out as you managed to lift yourself up a few inches, and some of the blood returned to the rest of your body. Dizzy, you shut your eyes, letting yourself flop back down, the chains creaking above you. 

The chains were so loud that you almost failed to hear the squeak of the cellar doors opening, heavy footsteps coming closer and closer to you. Opening one of your eyes, you saw an unfamiliar silhouette approaching, until you heard him speak your name. “It’s good to see ya.” He said, stepping fully into the cellar, the candlelight allowing you to see him fully.

“Hello, Colm,” your voice was hoarse from screaming, and you watched the greasy man step closer, a plate of food in one hand, some kind of utensil in the other. Finally opening both eyes, you  watched him place his things down on the table, the clatter of the plate barely audible over your own heartbeat. You must’ve blacked out for a moment, because before you knew it a bolt of pain tore through your body and you cried out, Colm stepping back from you after pressing his hand hard into your shoulder. 

He sneered down at you, grimy yellow teeth flashing. “How’s the wound?”

Gritting your teeth, you stared down the leader of the O’Driscolls with as much venom as you could muster, willing back the tears of pain. “Can’t feel it.”

“Whatever makes ya feel better,” he stalked over to his food, turning his back to you as he ate. “ Now, tell me…” he spoke through mouthfuls of food, “fine gun like you… why you still running around with old Dutch? Could come ride with me and make real money.”

“You know it ain’t about the money, Colm.”

“That’s right… it’s Dutch’s famous charisma.” In a blur of movement, his food forgotten, he kicked you square in the chest, knocking the wind out of you. Your body swung from the chains, which groaned and creaked at the movement. All you could let out was a soft wheeze, your vision going double. “You killed a whole punch of my boys… at Six Point Cabin.”

So why haven’t you killed me yet? You smirked, at least the best you could, your teeth stained red, lip splitting. “One of your own took us there. Bastards had it comin’.”

The click of a gun and the feeling of cold metal against your head made your wish you kept your mouth shut. The final blow was coming at the hands of Colm. Trying to swallow, your throat too dry to do so, you put on a brave face, even though internally you were terrified. There was so much you had left to do, so much left to tell. This wasn’t where your story ended, right?

Closing your eyes, you tried to take deep breaths, fighting down the panic bubbling inside. Do not show him you’re afraid, you thought. Don’t give him the satisfaction of you being afraid in your last moments. 

And you waited.

And waited.

You waited until you felt the barrel of the gun slowly pull away, and your eyes shot open, confused. “Yer lucky I need you alive,” Colm snarled, striking you across the face before returning his pistol to its holster, running a hand over his face while circling your body like a vulture. “Law want’s ya alive. All of ya.”

“Best of luck with that, sayin’ you only got one of us.”

“For now.”

“You planning on raiding us?” Colm didn’t respond. “You can tell me. Not leaving here soon anyway.”

“Nah,” Colm began. “Ain’t gotta go to that much trouble to round you up. We lure an angry Arthur in to rescue ya… Dutch and the others following… and  grab all of ya and hand ya in… then disappear.”

“So you only met with them to grab me?”

“Of course…” Colm chuckled. “He’s gonna be so mad. He gonna come raging over here… and a whole lot of ya… and the law’ll be waiting for him.” Sighing, he crouched down before you, his rancid breath overwhelming your senses. “Oh, I missed you.”

The first strike went to your gut. 

The second went to your bad shoulder. 

The third and final strike landed at your nose, blood spraying from the impact. 

Groaning, you felt the warm liquid streaming from your nose, joining the puddle beneath you with a soft drip, drip, drip. Colm stood up, grabbing his plate with a huff, shaking out one of hands, his knuckles slightly busted from the strikes. He didn’t say anything as he left, stomping up the stairs loudly, the door slamming shut behind him.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a newfound sense of urgency to escape coming over you, needing to stop Colm’s plan from coming to fruition. Glancing around, you looked again for something to help you escape. Unlike all the other times, however, something caught your eye on the table; whatever utensil Colm had brought down sat there, glinting gently in the light. Luckily for you, it seemed like Colm wasn’t as well trained as his men.

Slowly, you began to rock yourself back and forth, trying to build up enough momentum to reach it. Holding back noises of pain, you rocked, getting closer and closer with every swing, your fingers straining and you reached, and stretched, until finally it was in your grasp. You nearly cried with relief, and after glancing at the utensil in your hand, which was a two-pronged fork, you ceased your swinging, eventually coming to a full stop. 

Hands shaking, using whatever scrap of strength you had left in your hands, you bent on of the prongs forward, creating a lockpick like instrument. Now it was time for the hard part, which was trying to reach the padlock that held the shackles around your feet, connecting you to the chains. 

Every muscle in your body was begging you to stop, shaking as you slowly started to sit up, your core working overtime to get you up. All you had to do was just reach and disengage the lock. It took a few tries until you were finally able to get it in, and then-

Click. 

You didn’t have any tie to brace yourself before you made contact with the floor, going face first into your own blood pool. Rolling on to your back, you let the world stop spinning before sitting up, glancing worriedly at the cellar door to see if anyone heard your commotion.

After no one barged in after a few moments, you began to stand up, your knees giving out as soon as you were upright. Stumbling, you practically fell into the table, nearly knocking over the candle in the process. Your arms were outstretched in front of you, bracing yourself against the table, and you saw a few droplets of blood from your nose hit the wood. Grimacing, you snatched a bloodied cloth from nearby, tearing a small amount off to block off the blood flow. 

It was at this point that you really started feeling the gunshot wound in your shoulder. After a quick assessment, you realized it was still an open wound, but it was a clean shot, meaning you wouldn’t have to dig the bullet out of you. Eying both the metal fork in your hand and the candle on the table, you mentally steeled yourself for what you were about to do. 

Dragging the chair up next to you and sitting, you heated up the metal instrument until it almost glowed, then before you could lose your nerve, you pressed it to the wound.

It wasn’t the pain that hit you first; it was the smell, which would forever be engraved in your mind. But after you clocked the smell, the pain hit you like a tidal wave. You couldn’t tell if you were screaming or not, but you continued to hold the device, waiting until you couldn’t see blood spurt out at every beat of your heart. 

Groaning, you slumped your head on the table, feeling exhausted after putting yourself through that, but you had only a few seconds to recover before you heard the door open again. Turns out your cries were very much audible. 

Pressing yourself against the wall, you heard someone begin to come down the stairs. “Hold on, I’ll be back in a minute,” you heard the stranger say. You recognized the voice; it was one of the torturers. 

The man stood at the base of the stairs, dumbfounded, as he took in the empty shackles before him. “What the hell-” That was all he was able to get out before you pounced, the tool finding a home in his throat, and he crumpled to the floor, a small gurgling leaving him before he stilled. The man, unfortunately, was only armed with a knife, which you grabbed, holding it out defensively in front of you as you climbed the stairs. You had to move; it wouldn’t be long until his friends started looking for him. 

You had almost reached the exit before two shadows approaching halted your movement, and you pressed yourself against the wall, trying to make yourself as small as possible. Two men approached, neither of which you recognized. They were chatting as they patrolled, not really paying attention to their surroundings as they patrolled. A few tense minutes later, the figures retreated, and you dashed out as quickly as you could.

Taking in a breath of fresh air, you took in your surroundings: the two guards were to your left, their backs to you; a small shack was in front of you, and you saw some guns lying out; to your right you saw a horse hitching post, and you thanked the unseen forces of the universe that your horse was here; surrounding you were multiple houses, all you presumed were filled with O’Driscolls. 

First, you needed a weapon. Then, you were getting the hell out of here.

Moving as quietly and quickly as you could, you kept low, keeping an eye out for any other O’Driscolls. Entering the small wood shack, you grabbed the first gun you saw, and you almost left before you saw a very familiar engraved barrel out the corner of your eye. There, sitting in a wooden crate were your weapons, including your prized rifle. 

Swinging it over your shoulder, and securing your gun belt across your waist, you were actually starting to feel hopeful about your chances of survival. Keeping your stolen knife and your pistol out, you poked your head out the door, looking for any guards before taking off toward your horse, still trying to keep hidden.

Once you were close to the horses, you made your presence known, not wanting to spook them. Approaching your mount, you muttered softly, rubbing his neck affectionately. Immediately his eyes flew open, and he began rearing until he realized it was just you.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you, boy.”

Something told you he felt the same. 

“Let’s go home.”

You were partially up your horse when you heard a commotion behind you. Whipping your head around, you saw a few O’Driscolls emerge from the various houses, guns out and pointed at you, shouting at you and each other. You had just managed to get on before the shots started going off, bullets whizzing past you as Tiny Tim took off like a bat out of hell, hooves barely hitting the ground as you soared across the plane. 

You could barely make out anything around you, everything a blur as the wind whipped across your battered body, relishing the feel of fresh air before hearing footsteps behind you. Glancing behind, you saw four O’Driscolls in pursuit, firing wildly in an attempt to stop you. 

Aiming behind you, you took a deep breath in, stilling yourself to the best of your ability, taking in each of your targets before squeezing the trigger.

In rapid succession, each man took a bullet to the chest, either stopping them or causing them to go flying off their horse. Within moments your pursuers were gone, leaving only you standing. After hearing no more shouting or hoofbeats, you figured it was safe to holster your weapon. Tiny Tim had slowed down some, a quick trot instead of a full out gallop. 

The adrenaline from the last ten minutes was beginning to fade, your drooping eyes evident of your waning energy. Leaving forward, you leaned forward as best you could in your saddle, your arms wrapping loosely around your horses next for some security.

“C’mon TT, get us home.” You whispered, before your eyes closed at their own volition, your thoughts only of Arthur as you slept.

[willthespy]

SHORT SOLANGELO ANALYSIS FROM MY NOTES APP

(except it’s mostly in response to fandom)

Honestly, I’ve heard some reasons why people hate Solangelo. And don’t get me wrong; I don’t care that you don’t like a ship, but some of you are ignorant (and biased) and trying to find reasons to hate it.

One i’ve seen is that «they have no shared interests» etc, etc. Since when was that an issue? It wasn’t an issue with any other ship, so why is that an issue with the one canon/main mlm ship we have. And even if that wasn’t said with homophobic intentions, which it definitely doesn’t have to be, it still is odd that it is fine with your ship to have them not share common interests, but when it’s the ‘same case’ with Solangelo or some other canon ship it’s not?

Besides, nobody said they didn’t have any shared interests and nobody said they need to have shared interests. «Nico doesn’t like Star Wars. He hated it.» Oh, sweet gods. He watched all those movies for a reason, first of all. You’re saying he doesn’t like Will even after doing all that??? You’re using that as reasoning??? And even if he didn’t like it at all (gods forbid someone has an opinion not based around/biased by their relationship) that is okay. Especially for neurodivergent people I’ll say that it is okay to be in relationships and still have different interests than your significant other. Same interests ≠ madly in love whatsoever.

In fact, from a sociological/psychological/WHATEVER perspective, a lot of neurodivergent people tend to prefer it if someone doesn’t have the same interests. Yes, this depends per person, but that’s something I’ve noticed happens a lot.

The «they hate each other» argument is used, referring to their banter, and I love (read: hate) how those same people still like Percabeth. Like, okay, now give me the real reasons you don’t like it, without grasping for fake ones that don’t actually match up with your idea of a relationship. The bias is biasing.

I think the most important part of Solangelo is the fact that they can let their guards down around one another. They always have those walls up around others - though in different ways - and they don’t always have to be like that in front of each other. They’re also there to protect and care for the other, much unlike the fanon idea where Will often only cares for Nico. They aren’t there to fix one another, they’re there for each other.

Note that they still both have some walls up in TSATS! That doesn’t make their relationship any less real, but I think that is also very much to be expected from characters who have actively had to deal with trauma. And even then, even without knowing everything, they still care and are there for each other, no matter how frustrating it may be to be out of the know.

They’re also not «complete opposites». In TSATS we literally read that they have more similarities than meets the eye (which can be read as the light-darkness symbolism.) They balance each other out and they’re ALLOWED to argue. Did you guys know that? It’s important to me that you know that.

Did you know characters/people can argue and then solve the situation/argument using healthy communication? Shocking, I know.

I do think the start of Solangelo wasn’t smoothly written whatsoever. Will was kind of used as a puppet and obviously put there ‘for Nico.’ Do I think Will should get more character separate from his relationship/his father? Yes. Do I think he has no character at all? No. But also… It’s a children’s book. You can’t expect the best written character in history from a book written for middle schoolers.

They wouldn’t be the first canon ship with a bad start, so I’m not too fed up about that. If I would ask for anything, I’d like a book/short story about Will as a character (his backstory/just anything) or just a story in which they grow more in their relationship and as separate characters (though not broken up).

My point mostly is this; if you really don’t like it, you don’t have to interact or read or do anything, really. (Yay!) Don’t use the Solangelo tag for your hatred. Especially not if it’s an unproblematic ship.

[antianakin]

It seems a little odd to me that people apparently want their lightsaber battles to be compared to the Duel of the Fates battle as a litmus test for how good it is. While I love that particular lightsaber battle, there are two reasons why I think it stands out: first, it involved a LOT of firsts (first time with three opponents, first time using wuxia style, first time at higher speeds more indicative of the prequels, first time with dual lightsaber, first time where one of the people involved wasn't human); second, it has a really good score behind it (and the music for this was demonstrably different than what we'd heard in the OT but the soundtrack to the Prequels followed in that same vein afterwards).

It was NEW, primarily. It was exciting because a lot of it was very different to ANYTHING people had seen before in a Star Wars battle scene and that made it exciting.

So if you want your lightsaber battle to somehow be BETTER than "Duel of the Fates" you have to not only find something new to add to a lightsaber fight that no one has seen before (which is pretty difficult to do these days), but it has to somehow be SO new that it's more exciting than all the new stuff Duel of the Fates had. And that just seems a little unreasonable and ridiculous, doesn't it? New is new, your new thing is not necessarily going to somehow be better than the last new thing just because it's new.

People remember Duel of the Fates because it was SO different and that made it exciting. And the scene is good, obviously, it's a well done fight sequence, the actors are all good at their jobs, but the fight scene that I most often hear people talk about specifically because of the impressive level of skill on the part of the fighters as well as the very intentionally emotional choreography is Battle of the Heroes.

There's nothing really in Battle of the Heroes we haven't seen before. It's a one on one fight scene, it's two characters we've already seen fight each other in a different movie (though obviously with different actors), they each only have the one normal lightsaber, there's not really any props either of them uses in the fight, and the style of fighting is pretty much exactly the same as in the other two Prequels and the lightsaber fights we've seen across them (including several fight scenes in this same film). It's LONG, but that's about as new as it really gets.

What people continue to discuss regarding the Battle of the Heroes sequence, though, is how impressive Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor were, how they weren't sped up with CGI at all and didn't use any stunt doubles for the entire fight because both of them were just THAT GOOD at the choreo (which likely was a combination of both natural talent and a lot of time given to training each of them). That level of skill allowed both actors to do the whole fight which meant they could act THROUGH the fight. Stunt actors are incredible and obviously do often work really hard to act as the characters during the fight scenes, but it feels different when the actor is genuinely good enough to do the fight and can bring their own acting skills to the scene. If the actors can actually do it and make it look good, it can really add an extra dimension to the fight that might not otherwise exist, and I do think that that shows in this particular fight scene

The other thing people talk about a lot with this fight is the intentional choreography and the way it was created with an emotional story in mind. Nic Gillard has talked about how it was supposed to show Obi-Wan constantly giving ground to try to give Anakin as much time as possible to calm down and come to his senses, and you can SEE THAT. You can see Obi-Wan giving ground, you can see him be on the defense almost the entire time. But Obi-Wan is conflicted, obviously, he doesn't WANT to kill Anakin, but Anakin isn't offering him a lot of choices and Obi-Wan knows his duty, so he does take the opportunities to strike at Anakin when they come to him. There's an emotional depth to Battle of the Heroes that quite simply isn't there in Duel of the Fates because they built it into Battle of the Heroes. Duel of the Fates is mostly just two guys doing their job until Qui-Gon dies and Obi-Wan gets angry about it, but that only lasts for a short period of time. Battle of the Heroes is emotional from the very beginning, all the way until its tragic ending.

There is no "beating" Duel of the Fates. It's impossible to "beat" Duel of the Fates in terms of impact on the audience because the whole reason it was impactful was because it was new. New things are probably going to be about the same level of exciting each time, and it's getting harder and harder to introduce that many genuinely new things into these fight scenes. But what you CAN do is really showcase impressive skills and choreography, and/or add in tons of extra emotional depth to a scene. Both things can and do make fight scenes memorable without needing to feel "new" or different to anything else. Don't be Duel of the Fates, you'll never be Duel of the Fates. Be Battle of the Heroes. I promise your viewers will thank you for it.

[almondemisewriting]

doomed to repeat

prologue: original sin

This story happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. It is already over. Nothing can be done to change it. - Matthew Stover

notes: as mentioned before on my main blog @almondemise, I recently watched the acolyte while recovering from an infection and became rather obsessed with it. I fear this might be my roman empire. star wars had never really interested me but you can count on the fact that I watched every single of those movies after finishing the acolyte. although I haven't written fanfiction in years, I better put this english degree to work. no oshamir as I fear I can't do them justice. / banners are by @cafekitsune & gif by @goodsirs

summary: after Osha and Mae had banded together and betrayed Qimir in the forest of Khofar, he killed them. now, once again, he was alone. how good that he had already been working on another plan. on the other end of the galaxy, there was a girl born out of pure force. a weapon raised for one reason only: to kill him. but the force works in mysterious ways.

word count: 3.6k

pairing: qimir x female oc; the stranger x female oc

warnings: english is my second language, jedi evil arc, manipulation, psychological abuse, physical abuse, violence, martyrdom and other religious themes, probably inaccurate star wars lore & deviation from both plot and general worldbuilding, explicit content and other sensitive themes in following chapters

She had never chosen to be the Chosen one. Her destiny of martyrdom was forced onto her as retribution for her original sin: being born. All the suffering Amalthea endured throughout her life never could quite make up for it.

In fact, Amalthea had never made a decision, she was simply an amalgamation of all the choices made for her. She had no particular feelings about it. It was not like hate was a feeling that was allowed for her to feel anyway. There were dozens of rules for her to follow, a hundred things being forbidden to feel, a million things not allowed to experience, all for her safety.

If pride was allowed, Amalthea would have been proud of being good at following rules. It made her life easy, but it also made her lonely. Late at night, she lay awake, a blanket of unhappiness weighing her down, the viciousness of isolation gnawing on her bones so tangible that she bit her lips bloody. There was no one she could talk to. Amalthea was not allowed to speak to anyone unless spoken to. Emergencies excluded, of course. An easy rule to follow.

But at Anantore Point, only a couple of people were authorized to talk to her at all. Her days were spent in perpetual silence, thinking, listening. Often she went days without talking to anyone. It helped that people usually ignored her, acted like she was part of the furniture, her Cortosis ring and the veil helping to keep her hidden. Amalthea often imagined the others not being able to see her at all.

Until a year ago, no one bothered to correct her daydreams. It would have been worse if there were people who actually wanted to talk to her. A connection. Any connection. Amalthea vastly preferred being invisible. At least that is what she often told herself.

With time, not being able to talk to anyone made her into someone who was an excellent listener. And she was eager to listen. Going into most of the rooms of Building C and blending in to eavesdrop was easy.

"..heard that Team Three did not come back from their mission. Apparently they sent a message that they found him and then just vanished. They couldn't even track their ships!" "And they won't try to find them?"

Kiani and Odessa were low-stationed officers who mostly did administrative work but had a hang for gossip. Amalthea became acquainted with most of the events at the station thanks to them. Usually, it was just who slept with who, complaints about what food they served in the canteen, and other inconsequential things. But sometimes Odessa had interesting news thanks to Nyseth. Amalthea did not know exactly what his job was, but she did know that they tried desperately to hide their relationship.

Knowing so many secrets of the people living at the station did not make her feel bad. It was not like she could have told anyone. And with news like that she could not help listening in a bit more closely. Sinking into a plush brown chair close to them, she acted like she was reading one of the books she always carried around, but focused on their mouths. Conversations like these were often whispered and she was lucky that the veil hid her stare. 

"No, I heard Yavin say that they will not send a recovery ship. It's too dangerous. He is probably on some other planet already, but all kinds of cultists will be searching for him. He says that having multiple ships in the same vicinity will end up with us losing more teams."

Odessa's voice was hushed and taut. When she named him, she almost stumbled over her own words, her fear transforming her dispatch into a jumbled and croaky mess. Amalthea heard Kiani gasp. There was a short silence after.

"I guess it will be time then soon," Kiani mumbled. Both she and Odessa started looking towards Amalthea. The insinuation made her sick to her stomach. She promptly lowered her gaze down to her gloved hands. Had the others seen her staring? Were they still looking themselves?

Trying to sink deeper into the chair, her shoulders slumped forward in an unnatural curve, her veil almost touching her knees. Now, standing up and going anywhere would have made it obvious that she listened in. So she agonized in the awkward silence, trying to make herself invisible again, the feeling of uneasiness leaving behind an uncomfortable prickle on her skin.

Suddenly, loud chatter outside the door interrupted them. The metal of the double doors crashed into the sandstone walls next to it and in came a whole barrage of people back from their missions and other work, ready to storm into the canteen to fill their grumbling stomachs. 

By now, Amalthea knew all of them. At Anantore Point there were less than fifty people employed and even less than that were allowed to enter the buildings on a permanent basis. The less people knew she existed, the better.

The loudest group of all were Brom, Qimir, and Kona. Qimir was today's good news. During a mission over the last couple of days, his ship suffered sudden engine failure while in hyperdrive, and while going back into realspace he got unlucky and landed in an asteroid field where he got cut off from the rest of the group. Just this morning he was able to find them again, his ship completely beaten up, but his mission completed.

Amalthea did not know what to think of him. He was unprofessional, goofy, carefree, and not the smartest. But he knew his way around ships and various planets better than more experienced explorers at Anantore Point and he had come here on personal recommendation by Senator Fasmum. Most importantly, he was her anchor point when the time came.

Qimir's job was being responsible for getting her safely to him so she could do her job. Perhaps the last person she would ever see. Still, he was the reason she had to wear the Cortosis ring. At least that is what Amalthea guessed. Until Qimir showed up a year ago she never had to wear one. But like her, he was Force-sensitive, although he never studied it. They tested him and he could barely even light a lamp. Master Xylter said that the Force was wasted on someone like him. But Qimir could still observe it. 

And that was the problem. Although Amalthea could not see it, she exuded massive amounts of the Force and that was distracting for every Force-sensitive person who came close to her. Close in this case was relative. Depending on how sensitive someone was to the Force, they could feel her from hundreds or thousands of miles away, even if they were strangers.

She wondered what it looked like, but no one had ever bothered to tell her. And Amalthea did not dare to ask. Master Xylter had said that it was because more important guests would visit after the recent happenings, but it was obvious that Qimir could not concentrate on his job with her around in this state. Amalthea did not mind the Cortosis ring. Sure, it was heavy, but having it rest on her collarbones was strangely comforting sometimes.

However, not even the ring could make Qimir stop looking at her. She felt the weight of his stare bearing down on her without mercy. And she just didn't understand why. Most of the people at Anantore Point didn't even give her a single glance, never mind a second one. Meanwhile, it was like he could not rip his eyes away from her.

Sometimes, when she sensed him, she looked back and it was like he could stare straight through the veil into her eyes, making the hairs on her neck stand up. At least, he was good at concealing it in front of others. Amalthea was not ready to be lectured on being too noticeable. 

So, like many days in the last year, she decided to eat her dinner in her room. Nobody looked at her when she got up and made her way to the door. Except Qimir. His gaze was glued to her. When she walked past him to exit, she could have sworn that their eyes met. Knuckles white and straining, she clutched the front of her robe in her hands and got out of Building C as fast as she could, stumbling over elevator entrances, stairs, and her own boots.

Could he see underneath her veil? That was impossible unless you were a Jedi and had enough control of the Force. And there were only five Jedi living at Anantore Point: Grandmaster Torinn, Master Xylter, Yavin, Ecla, and Amalthea. Shuddering, she tried to physically shake off the feeling, her dense robe rustling in the desert winds outside. The way from Building C to Building A was, as usual, completely empty. Out of all of the people living here, only four had access to Building A, Amalthea being one of them. Only Ecla was standing in front of the entrance ready for her night shift and nodded at her. "Meditation?"

She simply nodded back and made her way to her room. As her guard, Ecla was allowed to talk to her. When she first came to Anantore Point six years ago, Amalthea was really excited but soon understood. Ecla was here to do her job, not make friends. She would later quietly enter her room to put down dinner and then leave as quickly as she came. The same routine as most days. Only after closing the door behind her, she realized that her books still laid in the employee room.

Although Amalthea was bored a lot, she was grateful. The Conclave of Light had saved her life when she was a baby, housed, fed, and trained her. In exchange, she did what she was born to do and it was an honor. There might have been many rules, but they were all there to keep her safe from Rebels, Wildlings, and, in the worst case, the Sith.

Most people believed them to be extinct, but you could never be too sure. And suspicious events over the last years had proven the caution of the Jedi right. Soon it would be time for Amalthea to go. A nameless Sith had been slaughtering people. Jedi searched for him and ended up dead too. He was not a dark user with many followers, but he was amassing amounts of Force that made it clear that he was a danger. Not just to the Jedi, but to the Republic at large.

Just a month ago he had executed multiple Jedi and civilians on Khofar, then vanished without a trace. It was Amalthea's responsibility to stop him. A final fight. It was all Amalthea had been working towards. The climax of her entire life. Her purpose. Her dream? She had never asked herself that. She would rather not. The choice had been made for her, the Chosen One. Her immaculate conception would either end in immaculate victory or immaculate death. Before her thoughts could get any louder, Amalthea assumed her meditation pose, closed her eyes, and concentrated.

Amalthea did not know how much time had passed since she started meditating when she heard Ecla enter her room. She often lost herself in her concentration, not knowing when and where she was when she awakened, saturated with Force and strengthened with knowledge. Ecla did not put her dinner plate down or leave the room. When Amalthea turned towards her, Ecla did not even hold a plate.

"Master Xylter requires you in the main office in Building B."

Immediately she knew what this would be about. Actually, Amalthea had already expected to be called in soon. It was time. The feeling of finality grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. But there was no time to acclimatize. She put her gloves back on and followed Ecla outside, struggling and breathless.

Amalthea could have found the way to the main office herself, but it was night, and Anantore Point, being the only cluster of buildings in this desert and desolation, stood out. Not having others around made it safer, but the lights flickering could be seen far away. So as soon as the sun tinged the sky with hues of pink and orange, Amalthea was not allowed to walk outside alone. She moved gingerly behind Ecla, almost hiding behind the broad shoulders of the experienced Jedi warrior, becoming invisible in between her massive strides.

Often, Amalthea pictured Ecla before Anantore Point in her head. She knew nothing but her name. Nevertheless, she trusted her. And, while she could not tell anyone, she admired her. She knew that Ecla would always keep her safe. Amalthea had personally seen her finish off intruders before. Secretly, she wished Ecla would come with her on her mission. She knew she was sinning heavily with that wish. Personal affections were forbidden. Any outside help during her mission was forbidden. But no one would ever know what she thought. No one ever asked. 

Master Xylter was not the only one waiting in the main office. Amalthea had a look at the others. Grandmaster Torinn. Yavin. Qimir. So it was as she expected. Master Xylter cleared his throat and she quickly got down on her knees and looked to the ground. "Greetings Master." Amalthea could hear Qimir swallow loudly. When she got up and glanced at him, he was glaring at her. Was he angry that she didn't greet him? But there was no time to contemplate.

"You know why you are here. Your mission is in three days. Say yes if you understand." Master Xylter had never been patient. "Yes, Master."

Amalthea pondered for a moment. It was now or never. "I don't know if I am ready for the mission yet. I still have not been knigh-,", she began.

Master Xylter reacted fast. "Insolent!" His voice was so loud that even Ecla flinched. Immediately, Amalthea fell to her hands and knees, her veil brushing the dirty ground. Not a second later, Master Xylter's boot secured it there. Desperate, Amalthea pleaded for forgiveness. She should not have acted so rashly and the humiliation of her audacity stung worse than a cut.

"How dare you question the decisions of the Conclave! I must have spoiled you too much. You have not been knighted because you're simply not worthy. I do not care if you do not think you are ready, you are ready when I say you are. You will do your duty and you will do it gladly," Master Xylter exclaimed. 

"Stand up." Slowly, Amalthea got back on her feet, her posture demure, her arms hanging aimlessly at her sides. They were dirty and bruised, but it was too mortifying to openly try to brush them clean on her already ruined clothes. She decided to get this done quickly.

"I have been ill-mannered, Master. I deserve punishment."

When she was younger, Amalthea cried every time this happened. But she quickly learned it would just incense Master Xylter more. By now, she had more control over herself. Calmly, she lifted her dirty veil, her face as tranquil as an undisturbed lake at dusk. When her Master struck, not a single soul in the room dared to move.

But the corner of her sight showed something interesting. Qimir's hands, tightly curled into fists. Did he want to hit her as well? He was an explorer, after all, a job that sought people with a hang for violence.

"Thank you, Master. I will do better," Amalthea said softly. As she put her veil back down her unobstructed gaze fell back upon Qimir. His eyes seemed to bore themselves into her, his dark blown-out pupils reeling her in like the gravity of black holes. It was the first time their eyes met directly. The moment was gone as quickly as a shooting star and Qimir straightened his gaze towards the empty space in front of him, his jaw unclenching and his back loosening. 

Yavin spoke up. "You will leave Anantore Point at dusk together with Qimir. He will take you to the designated place, deploy your pod, and wait for you to finish your mission. You will kill him. You will wait for further instruction," he stated slowly and clearly.

Yavin had been the commander of the explorers ever since Amalthea could remember and he was good at his job. He was deviant and did not want to be found. Commander Yavin did so anyways. He prided himself in his work, but he had gotten older as well and Amalthea could hear in his voice that he was glad that he could soon retire. It all came back to how successful Amalthea would be. Grandmaster Torinn laid a calming hand on Amalthea's veiled hair.

"Remember, Padawan. No weapons. Your Force will provide. Do not doubt the Conclave. As a last resort, please make use of this."

His old croaky voice was barely above a whisper, and still, everyone listened with reverence. Grandmaster Torinn had trained Jedi for decades, was highly respected, and had been specifically chosen to instruct Amalthea in the Force. He dropped a small green crystal in Amalthea's open hands.

"This is an Artusian crystal. It will strengthen your Force when you need it."

Next to him, Master Xylter grew impatient. "You will finish this mission. You will be successful. You will be allowed to talk to Qimir during the mission. Flight emergency situations only. Now go back to your room. Do not expect rations for the next twenty-four hours. Dismissed," he bellowed.

Amalthea clutched the crystal in her hand and felt the sharp edges press into her skin as she wordlessly left the room, bowing slightly. Of course, she didn't expect to get fed any time soon. Denial of food was Master Xylter's favorite punishment.

The three days were over faster than Amalthea anticipated. Ecla came into her room to wake her, but Amalthea had not been able to sleep and was already meditating, her new clothes equipped and her bag next to her. It was her first time to leave the building complex ever since arriving here over twenty years ago and the airfield fascinated her. There were thousands of little lights blinking like stars on the ground, dozens of ships awaiting to soar into the gradually lightening morning sky.

Amalthea felt electrified by what expected her, her stomach churning, her body slack and glossed over with cold sweat as she dragged herself behind Ecla towards a small exploration ship. Qimir was already waiting for her, greeting her shyly. Once again, his eyes wandered all over her body, fixing themselves on her face. Today was the second time he saw her without her veil.

She would not need it anymore from today on. There was nothing that could keep her safe now. So she lost her protective layers shielding her slender, bony figure and her dark curls. Qimir watched them billow in the artificial wind of the ship's engine, seemingly unsure of what to say. After some deliberation, he asked the worst question possible.

"Are you ready?" Ridiculous. Did it matter? Had Amalthea been anyone else, she would have probably laughed. Alas, she had not laughed in years. So she responded in the only way she knew and silently climbed into the ship that would deliver her into the hands of her destiny.

[zuppizup]

So, of all the things we saw in the trailer, I have to say, the tag line is what has me the most intrigued.

The Cosmic Order?

This is the first we’ve heard of anything like that.

With Book Six being titled Stars, I've been thinking a lot about how often the subject of destiny is mentioned in the show.

Callum’s spell book gives us the word association between the Stars and destiny.

But what, if anything, has destiny got to do with the so called Cosmic Order?

Kosmo's speech in the recent trailer gives some hints as to what this order might concern.

Worlds one and myriad.

Why do the Celestial Elves wear those blindfolds? Are they capable of true insight into other timelines or realities? Are the blindfolds functional or merely aesthetic?

Are we dealing with a multiverse versus (for want of a better term) some sort of Sacred Timeline?

If that is the case, where does Aaravos fall in all of this?

And what might any of this have to do with the current cast?

The character most associated with questions of destiny is obviously Callum. He wars with himself regarding following a set path versus choosing his own fate during his dark magic coma. Rejecting this apparent destiny is part of the spark that allows him the understand primal magic. If the show had ended in arc one, this would have been the resolution of this issue, however, with arc two, we see the subject of destiny arise once more.

During his possession by Aaravos, the subject of destiny comes up once again, with Aaravos blithely dismissing any agency Callum might actually have. While you could assume this is a reference to Aaravos making assumptions based on Callum’s character, given the recent references to the Cosmic Order, an intriguing possibility presents itself.

Does Aaravos, a Startouch elf, have some kind of divine knowledge of Callum’s future?

Or a likely future?

If destiny truly is currently a true and real thing in the world of the Dragon Prince, is is possible to challenge this destiny?

To defy it?

Rayla challenges this assumed fate both to Callum, but also in her own mind, in Chasing Shadows.

She truly believes Callum is in control of his fate, his destiny. When she tells him to choose another path, she clearly believes he is capable of doing so.

Will this conviction be the drive Callum needs to challenge a destiny others decree is written?

Where do I think this is going?

One of the things I really enjoy about The Dragon Prince is how it keeps me guessing. Sure, we do get set up and pay off, but the Mystery of Aaravos is aplty named. We still don't really know much, if anything, about his motives and goals.

In thinking about this Cosmic Order, in conjunction with Aaravos disdain for those he deems arrogant, I began this whole thought process thinking Aaravos wanted to challenge singular destiny/fate, but looking at his belief the inevitability of Callum’s fate, I’m not so sure any more. Did Aaravos try to defy his supposed fate and suffer his downfall as a result?

Thankfully, we have just over a week until we find out more, but one thing I very much am expecting is for the subject of fate and destiny to become a major plot point over the final two seasons.

[dcdreamblog]

Stumbled into an online fight over whether SSoV member the Vigilante counted as a Western Hero, and there was a lot of confusion. Some of it was mixing him up with the other, more recent Vigilante with all the TWs, but I was wondering if you could address the following claims? That he was a werewolf, that he was Thanagarian, that he was racist, and/or was a time traveler from the Old West.

First, to answer the broadest question on the table. No, The Vigilante does not count as an old western gunslinger because he's too young to have lived during the actual Old West. His debut was in 1941 and his motif was intentionally playing on the dime novel and vaudeville stereotypes OF cowboys and western gunslingers.

(A sketch portrait The Vigilante himself commissioned during the height of his career. Striking the kind of pose and wearing the kind of things and gunslinger was imagined to wear by the early 40s)

I do know at least the small seed of truth that each of these wild accusations is coming from, though how some of them warped into what you heard is WILD. I'll go through them one by one:

Werewolf: It's not that he IS one, it's that he shot one. One of the most famous and impressive shots the man ever made was during a battle with a lycanthrope. After being pinned beneath heavy stones during the initial scuffle, he used his belt to lasso a nearby gun, loaded a silver bullet into the chamber and ricocheted the shot off the cave wall into the beast using only the wolf's shadow and the shadow of another hero battling the monster as reference points.

Thanagarian: Again, he's not Thanagarian, one would think we would notice massive avian wings sprouting from his back. His association with the Thanagarians is that he was captured during the Thanagarian invasion from some years back and was put through deeply inhumane torture at their hands before being freed by allies. The events have stayed with him making him hesitant to trust the Thanagarian Hawks, though public appearances alongside Hawkwoman suggest that that iceberg may be thawing with time.

Time Traveler: Got the order of events (from his perspective at least) reversed. After WWII the Seven Soldiers became dispersed across time during the final battle with their arch-nemesis. Vigilante spent months if not years in the wild west, making a name for himself as an ironically nameless bounty hunter and gunslinger before being rescued from history by the JLA

Racist; HARD-LY. Vigilante was known to go to bat directly for oppressed communities on his turf. Usually Native Americans, Hispanics, Ex-Convicts and Asian Americans. He sponsored multiple ex-convict societies where his personal vouching allowed former criminals to find well paying work even in war and post war industry. His own sidekick Stuff was of Chinese-American descent making both of them very active in fighting crime in Asian communities in the Southwest and more than once he engaged in tense standoffs with local law enforcement for the rights of tribes and natives. He blew at least one sheriff's toe off when he stepped it over the line of the Crow Reservation in Montana.

Greg Saunders has lived an interesting life. On top of all that there's the obvious fact that his secret ID is one of the most influential country western stars of his generation. As a society (and certainly my discipline) we are lucky he's such a candid public speaker even at this point in his life

[artist-issues]

Hello! Hope I am not pestering.

It seems someone new is responding to the pinned post again, so I will try not to sound redundant. I took a gander at your second to last point and I am curious about something.

In regards to stories that don't have known authors, like folk stories that were passed down orally and only after some point were written down by a person who wanted to put it all together; could we say then, what the author intended to say with the story is open to multiple interpretations? Would that then be that stories of this nature are not in fact stories, but just gibberish?

Maybe! Like the Brothers Grimm collecting folk tales, that sort of thing? It’s very important to this whole conversation that everyone understands: there can be multiple interpretations of any story. There can be. But those interpretations are either “correct” about what the author was saying, or “incorrect.” There are also different layers of meaning, even in intended meaning. We call it “nuance.” But just because there is nuance doesn’t mean there are no boundaries of what’s correct and what’s not.

Just like if the Main Point of a story is, “Faith Triumphs Over Fear” has a lot of layers of consequential meaning.

If I say “Star Wars’ main point, as a franchise, is that Faith Triumphs over Fear,” and you say, “Star Wars is about darkness versus light,” guess what? We actually don’t disagree. Your “interpretation” is just a different phrasing or stage of mine. Because faith could be rephrased as “light” and darkness as “fear,” in the context of Star Wars. And if someone said, “Star Wars is about how family love always wins against lust for power,” guess what, that still falls under the banner of “Faith Triumphs Over Fear.” Because family love requires faith: taking action based on trust in a person you’ve bonded with even though you can’t 100% prove they’ll always have your back, versus power, which is only chased by the villains in Star Wars because power brings what ladies and gentlemen? Control. So we’re back to faith-versus-fear, just from a “family” perspective.

So. There can be different layers of correct interpretation. And, there can be totally contradictory interpretations of a story—but just like anything in life, if two truth-statements contradict one another, they cannot both be right. One, or both of them, must be wrong.

So if one person says Lord of the Rings is about conquering and subduing weaker populaces, and another says Lord of the Rings is about the value in populaces that are sometimes perceived as “weaker,” they can’t both be right. They cannot both be correct interpretations, because they cancel each other out.

That is all I’m ever saying. Not that nobody is allowed to interpret a story differently. Just that there was an intended meaning, so your interpretation COULD BE WRONG.

And with that said, the Brothers’ Grimm’s collection of stories? Well, they had to summarize and re-write them. So they had to make their own interpretive judgement on the oral stories they were hearing, and then write their own. So, in that sense, maybe we’ll never know if they correctly interpreted what they heard. And, we’ll never know if what they created was faithful to what they heard. We can only judge each story by what it says.

Maybe you can’t know what the little old lady telling the Brothers Grimm Hansel and Gretel meant by her tale because you didn’t get to hear the way she told it. But the Brothers Grimm meant something, when they re-told it. So figure out the intended meaning of what you got, not what you don’t. It’s a faith thing. You don’t know what chemical makeup and manufactured history the clothes on your back have, but you still wear them in public as if you’re sure they won’t unravel.

What the storytellers call their stories changes things, too. Like the remakes that are so popular today. If someone makes a story about a headstrong and adventurous young woman who claps-back at those who wrong her and conquers the heart of a prince through flirting—then they call that a “Cinderella” story—they’re wrong. They’re mislabeling their story. Because none of the earliest versions of Cinderella are about that kind of girl. That is a wrong interpretation of the story. So…they should call it something else. That’s fine. But don’t try to change a story’s meaning, just call it something else.

Basically, my answer to your question is: no, a collective summary of oral traditions does not have to be gibberish. It could be a faithful reproduction of what the oral storytellers were trying to say—a “correct” interpretation, passed on. It could also be an incorrect interpretation, but at that point, if we can’t interpret the source material for ourselves? Firsthand? Then all we get to do is interpret the passed-on version. And try to do that correctly. Like a game of telephone. Because the point is to understand what the storyteller is trying to tell you, then make a judgement call, or even start saying your own thing. (The point is not to change what they’re saying.) And if you can’t hear the storyteller with your own ears, you can only hear a secondhand account, or thirdhand, or whatever? Then that’s all you have to go on.

Think about how conversation works. Even the words I choose to use might not be the exact most perfect tools to convey what I really mean. Because I’m a fallible human. And your perceptive biases might warp the words I use, too. Add into the mix more people, passing our words to each other through their own perceptive filters? You could lose a lot of originally-intended meaning. But if any conversation is going to happen at all, any communication—you have to just do the best you can in good faith. You have to say, “I’m going to come to this conversation believing you’re trying to say something, and willing to understand.”

That was kinda rambly, sorry. But hopefully something in there answers your question!

[highfantasy-soul]

Ooohh I'm so interested in where The Acolyte is going with the story and characters.

It's really solidifying my horror at the Jedi's conduct when it comes to children, trying to claim 'We're actually giving you the choice - YOU get to decide!' when the 'you' is....an 8 year old. In Sol's case, a 4 year old.

An 8 year old cannot consent.

An 8 year old should not be allowed to join the army.

An 8 year old should not be taken from their family, never to see them again, because they heard some stories about a cool warrior group with magic powers who fly through the galaxy and wanted to join them.

The witches using some sort of mind-altering power on Torbin was viewed has horrific to the Jedi invaders, but where was that horror when Jedi do their mind tricks, controlling other's actions and reading their minds - all with the might of a military behind them?

Both options: staying with the coven for life and joining the Jedi to be cut off from her family forever, are bad for Osha.

Osha's mom shouldn't have tried to force the ritual on her, but nor should the only other option be to go join the Jedi cult.

The show is doing a great job at introducing all these different factions and desires and just putting them on the table in front of us and saying 'yeah, this is messy and no one is the perfect good guy in this galaxy'.

I've always hated the notion that the Jedi are perfect good guys and I'm glad that's being explored with nuance here. The Jedi are a high-control organization that preys on toddlers and trains child soldiers. Do they do some good things? Yeah. But the nature of their organization and colonial tendencies (going into foreign cultures to steal their resources (force sensitive individuals) to use for their own gain) cause them to do some pretty bad things, too.

Blah blah blah, hero worship bad, all powerful organizations will have bad aspects to them.

This is the type of Star Wars I love - these are the types of issues I love delving into and I'm super excited to see the whole story of what happened on Osha's home planet. There's not a doubt in my mind that Sol lied when he said Mae killed everyone - Torbin wouldn't have been so guilt-ridden if that had been the case and Kelnacca wouldn't have chosen isolation. I'm really enjoying the layers that are peeled back each episode and can't wait for more!

[gryphis-eyes]

⊙ Message from spirits

⊙ Welcome to this very simple but (I hope) useful pick a card, I know its been a while and here is my last attempt to get back to tumblr haha.I don’t have more to say , hope you’ll get the message that will light the fire in your !

⊙ How to pick a pile ? There are differents ways to do it, you can do a little meditation while thinking about the 3 images, you can also use a pendulum, remember to listen to your intuition while chosing and reading the messages those are general reading so not everything will be for you or it will ask you to interpret it based on your situation

◇ Deck used : Rider Waite, Shakespeare Oracle, Phenix Oracle

⊙ Pile 1 : The Cat

Cards ; 3 of cups, 6 of swords R " Tis true. The wheel is come full circle; I am here. ”

One day things go up and one day things go down, such is the nature of Fortuna’s actions. The cards are showing me those 3 muses singing with their cups full of sweet beverage while on the other side of the reading someone is struggling on their boat, going against this raging river’s flow. Some of you seems to be tired of life, you're always fighting, barely resting while other people seems to roam freely through life. Its not fair isn’t it ? I feel like the main issue here is that you're going through a though period and it affect your mental a lot, so of course our brain’s first move is to look at others and be like ”damn look at them, so happy and relaxed while im in this burning house”. Do not throw yourself heartlessly into this path which seems to be the only one, do not look at other, look at you. You might be afraid to do a specific thing (new project ?) Because others seems to do it better or the idea you got already have been done but listen to me ; nobody is doing things better than someone else, succes doesn’t mean its better it just mean it touch more people but it doesn’t mean it is made of quality. That’s why we always got people talking about underated movies, music etc, nothing is better, things are just different. What matter isn’t how amazing you'll do but rather how you will do it because you are not anyone else’s mind, look at the story of the hero with a thousand faces it has been done so so many times in fictions but people dont always realise it, why ? Because all of those fictions have been done by different people so that’s why lord of the ring is so different from star wars. To be honest I was thinking about telling you to go slower but the phenix cards are really telling you to move and just do it ! Be serious about this project wether it mean actually writing a story and publishing it or starting writing it, you got nothing to lose.

⊙ Pile 2 : The Owl

Cards ; 3 of swords R, hangedman ” for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.To me it is a prison. ”

Ive heard ”a haunted heart” part from on the fence by tv girl in mind while reading your cards. I have no contexte about what happened to you but I can tell that it was a wild ride isn t it ? Sit down my dear its time to rest and listen. Whatever happened didnt happen out of the ”univers” cruelty or a ”blessing in disguise” what happened felt like an attack toward you (from your pov) wether its truly the case or not I dont know but I truly think the cards are reminding you to focus on the present since they are hiding the past from me. Do not search for the why, do not search for a blessing coming from it, what was good what was bad do not try to listen to thousand of readers who will tell you how to act (I mostly got those ”forgiveness” speech that every new ager are repeating). You dont need to focus on that past thing you need to focus on yourself and your needs from the present, not the needs you had 5 month ago. You should let your life calm down, put less effort in the world and put more effort for yourself wether its forcing you to have a self care moment or allowing yourself to have a lazy day or just sit down and do nothing but listen to music. The lyrics from ”after the storm” it carry the whole message im trying to give you. Basically, yes what happened suck but its not an excuse to give up on yourself.

⊙ Pile 3 ; The Snake

The lover, 3 of swords R

" The enemy increaseth every day; We, at the height, are ready to decline.There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat; And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures. "

It's time to risk it all my friend. I have no idea if It's a project, a ritual/spell (I get that most of you are into witchcraft or spiritual thing). See this snake going for the butterfly even if It's small and can avoid the snake’s strike easily, the reptile still go for it. It even look like the snake is using the obstacle in order to jump higher to catch the butterfly. (Idk why I get that you should try to watch samurai champloo). The advice here, is to look at everything that went bad or didn’t work in the past and ask yourself ”why” so now you'll be able to make your action more effective because you have grown a lot since the last time you try that thing or something similar. I feel a big burst of energy so its like everything is here, you just have to act. Like the snake, do not chase your goal or just walk around it until you saw the opportunity. Just go in front of it and strike ! With the Lover I see that this thing is dear to your heart or will light the fire in yourself again. You can do it, you have the power to do so, you can only gain good thing from this situation that will (above of making you happy) will heal something in yourself.

⊙

[strawberrystepmom]

jedi master!suguru x f!princess reader. part of the jjk star wars au! we meet mimiko and nanako and get to see a little more of jedi suguru bc im sickeningly in love with him. wc 2.7k

divider thanks to @/saradika

Clacking through the hallway of your family’s estate, dress hiked up far above your ankles and knees to allow less prohibitive movement, you rush back to your chambers. Shocked you can walk and wobble in the shoes picked out for you, the worried handmaiden attempting to keep up with you concerned about what put you in such a hurry to start with.

“Is everything alright, your highness?”

Nodding, you try to brush off any further questioning but fail while fumbling into your bedroom, trying to toe off your shoes at the door and toss them to the side. Quickly ripping the intricate headpiece keeping your complicated braided updo in place, you stop your rapid dash as soon as she stands and quirks her brow in your direction. She holds out her hand and you place the delicate metal in her palm, the actual piece hanging off of her hand and glinting in the light.

“I assume you’ve heard the Jedi is here?”

Immediately, you try to explain yourself away but she just laughs, pretty waves swaying with each shake of her head. She knows you better than anyone, having been by your side since you were both children, and it’s written all over your face.

You’re about to go bend some rules.

Which ones are entirely up to your whims and how much deeper your feelings have grown for Master Suguru since his last departure. Those who know about your dalliances support you and your affections for the man but the election is coming up and the words of Senator Nanami stick in the forefront of their minds regardless of how brightly you smile to get out of trouble.

“Report her recklessness to me, please,” he asked months ago. The entire group of your handmaidens and attendants and pilots have yet to turn you in, several meetings between yourself and the man you were to be avoiding arranged secretly.

The sweet way that you speak about Master Suguru makes you practically glow and this is enough to convince them to turn the other cheek or to at least pretend they aren’t actively facilitating two rule breakers following their hearts rather than their duties.

Defeatedly, she sighs and walks across your chambers to your closet, sliding the door open and digging through the garments inside. She knows you keep your disguises toward the back but wonders if you’d be so bold to attempt to disguise yourself on your own home planet where people have known you from your dimples to your beauty marks since the day you were born.

“How much sneaking are you doing tonight? Do we need to put you in Jedi robes again?”

Laughing, you shake your head and move to untie the laces at the back of your dress and you’re stopped by another handmaiden who reaches where your arms fall just short of being able to touch and you whisper your thanks. Turning back to your unimpressed attendant, she awaits your answer while rubbing fine fabrics between her index finger and thumb.

“No hiding tonight. In fact I’d rather wear something to really turn his head,” you joke and she gasps, shocked by your brazen admission of wanting to capture the Jedi’s attention rather than demurely rebuff him as you’ve been instructed to do by every person with sense around you.

“I’m joking.” You clarify quickly with your brows raised and she nods, her face giving away her disbelief. There’s a little truth to every joke, after all. “I am going to introduce him to the twins, though, so perhaps something informal.”

On a daily basis, you don’t care what you’re laced or fastened into. You don’t take pains to think about the fabric, the shoes, the accessories - that’s what everyone standing around you does - but you always feel compelled to try and impress Suguru despite his insistence he’d find you breathtaking in mechanic shop rags.

Your palms sweat at the thought of seeing him again after several months apart, much less introducing him to the young girls you recently plucked from the local orphanage after getting a call from the minder of all the children, a friend of yours.

“These girls belong elsewhere,” she explained sadly and you knew in a moment this was a decision as difficult for her as one could be. You nodded understandingly, knowing exactly what she meant after looking around at the faces of the other children. They weren’t any more or less important than the rest of the children but they had something different about them - Force sensitivity.

The orphanage is well funded thanks to your tireless efforts to divert funding to support them and the other children will eventually be sent to school or apprenticeships if they choose to become mechanics or pilots or anything they want - the beauty and power of choice is something you’ve insisted they be given. Life is meaningless without the opportunity to choose, a fact you are all too familiar with.

These girls were different in a way that made them stand out even to the other children, deeply worrying for their minder.

She disclosed that she believed them to both be Force sensitive but didn’t want to immediately let the Jedi Council know, wanting to look into other options first. The girls recently lost everything including their parents in an unfortunate raid on their home and had become withdrawn as a result.

You attempted to encourage them out of their shells and only succeeded after asking them if they’d like to come and stay with you on your estate. You made this decision to keep an eye on them until Suguru’s return. He’s the person best equipped to evaluate their potential and you, again, wanted to give them the opportunity to choose.

Would they like to be Jedi? Would they like to stay with you as attendants in training?

Tonight will be the night you’ll hopefully be lent the slightest bit of clarity either way and you rush to slip into a breezy dress with hem that hits right at your ankle. Just as you slip into your far more comfortable and practical sandals, a knock on the door makes all eyes turn toward you.

Your handmaiden makes her way to the door and offers a polite bow to the man standing on the other side who bows in like. The sight of them is hard for you to make out from where you stand but you hurry toward the door and meet the cautious glance of your attendant with a smile.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head but relents. There is no point in telling you what you already know - be careful, be safe, be smart. You have already defied all three requests, doing so since the day you decided to follow your heart and carry on your secret affair.

“Master Suguru, how wonderful to see you.”

It is wonderful. In fact the sentiment feels almost shallow as you regard him, gray tunic and matching pants wrapped around his body snugly with a new addition of an olive colored outer robe.

“The pleasure is mine as always, your highness.”

Eyes dancing across him for longer than you should allow anyone to see, you can’t help but wonder if he picked the color knowing it’s your favorite. He is one of few people to know such information, after all, and you’ll be sure to ask him later after it has been chucked off and discarded on the floor of his accommodations.

Extending his hand in your direction, you take it and brush your pinkie along the outside of his thumb as you always do. It’s the smallest touch but the most intimate the two of you share where others can witness, the soft curving pad of your finger almost too familiar with the knuckles. He smiles, meant just for you, and you assure your handmaiden that she is to stay behind in your quarters as you step through the door and it shuts behind you.

You are free at least for a little while and giddiness runs wild when you rush to his side, his long hair brushing the backs of your elbows with how close together the two of you are walking.

“I have some girls I’d like you to meet, Suguru. I believe they’re Force sensitive but wanted to allow you to assess them first before contacting the Council.”

He nods from beside you, hands grasping his belt as they always do and your stare lingers over them ensuring you see no trace of new injury. They appear clear, no scratches or burns. He understands the inspection and also the hidden meaning of your words - you want him to mind probe and see how they feel.

It isn’t a painful or intrusive process, something they’d have to go through if they were to attempt to join the order anyway. You picked him for his lack of discipline and rigidity which is something he perhaps should be offended by but it’s also the very thing that will have him tracing his long fingers over the curve of your spine later. He can hardly complain.

“Have you noticed anything specific in either of them that you find concerning? Anything threatening?”

Contemplating his words for a mere moment, it doesn’t take long for you to shake your head.

“No, nothing like that,” your voice lowers in volume and you lean closer to Suguru who fights the urge to put his hand around your waist and hold you there. “I simply worry because of their bond. I don’t believe they could ever meet the standards set for them.”

Ah yes, a twin bond. It isn’t enough they can practically communicate without words but it has happened more than once during his time as a learner and now a master, twins often find themselves struggling with the attachment bonds between them. A Jedi is not to have them, the most ardent rule they’re all to follow, but how can one break a bond with someone they shared a very womb with?

“I’ll see what I can find out for you.” He means it and you smile at him warmly.

Walking a few more paces down the corridor, you arrive in front of the quarters you know that the twins have been staying in and knock at the door with a smile. A small voice comes from the other side, barely audible.

“Who’s there?” Smiling, you lean closer to the door and speak quietly. “It’s me,” you announce just loud enough for the girl to hear and the door cracks.

Nanako peeks around the doorframe, large brown eyes widening as she sees you. She returns your smile with one of her own as her gaze darts behind you to Suguru, her smile fading as she leans closer to you and you close the gap to ensure she feels comfortable speaking.

“Is that the man you told us about?”

You nod and she looks between you and him before pulling the door open enough for the pair of you to enter. Suguru cautiously steps behind you and bows before the young girl, bending his knees slightly to meet her eyes.

“Thank you for allowing me to come in Miss…” he trails off and the bolder of the sisters smiles at him, leading the way into the bedroom. “Nanako. My name is Nanako and this is my sister Mimiko.”

She motions toward a small table and chair set in the corner where a darker haired girl who looks nearly identical to her sits, looking up through her lashes and hiding a smile in her shoulder seeing you. You don’t have to instruct Suguru to stay standing where he is, he knows given how cautiously she stares, and you approach her and sink to your knees beside her with a smile.

“This is the man I told you about,” you clarify to Mimiko who looks around your shoulder and nods. Suguru takes the opportunity while they’re distracted to use the Force to gently gauge the girls and their feelings. They seem comforted by you, the lighter haired twin gravitating toward where you kneel beside her sister.

The three of you have a conversation he cannot hear between yourselves but he can see the girls’ memories gradually fill in a blank silhouette that lived in the moments you’d described to them to give them a frame of reference for what Suguru means to you with him. His hair, his robes, his serene smile.

Fondness nearly chokes him up as he sifts through the memories, you described the first night you met him in storybook detail. You told the girls about the time he saved your life on Corellia, back when he was still a Padawan learner. You even told them about the time he gifted you his Padawan braid upon passing his trials, a symbol of his great affection toward you even if you downplayed the symbolism of receiving the gift.

It’s humbling to witness the way someone speaks about you while you aren’t there and he feels overwhelmed with emotion as he delves deeper into the girls’ minds while they’re chattering about their day to you. You’re practically glowing in their memories, a warm tinted haze coloring each moment they remember sharing with you. He believes if they could do the same to him, probe his mind, they’d see you colored in the same light within his subconscious.

You’re his sunlight and it appears that you are theirs as well, laughing through their memories and letting them gather in your lap to read to them in the evenings.

The truth he worried about the most is soon revealed to him - the girls are inseparable. What one does the other will follow and he knows in that moment what must be done to ensure the pair live a life full of their own decisions.

They must stay here with you.

He clears his throat and you smooth your hands over the back of each girls’ head, smiling while excusing yourself and leaving them to watch the two of you attempt to stay separate and neutral despite the urge you have to lean against his shoulder or plant your palms on his chest while listening to him speak.

How you manage to exercise such restraint even surprises you at times but alas, you haven’t ever been given the option to do otherwise. You clasp your hands in front of you and he smiles, dark eyes meeting yours and making you shiver.

“They should stay with you,” he whispers. “They’re too old and their bond is too strong to be bent and broken.”

Nodding, you understand immediately what he means and you invite the girls to come and stand next to you. They rush to your sides, arms wrapped around your legs, and look up at Suguru expectantly who crouches in an instant.

“The two of you are happy here with the princess, right?”

They nod in unison and press their cheeks against your thighs, your hands coming to once again comfortingly cup the back of their heads. He smiles and nods in return.

“Stay where you’re happiest, it will always lead you in the right direction.”

Your own heart flutters at his words, wisdom one of the many things you adore about the man, and Nanako sticks her hand up to announce she’s about to speak.

“Is that why you came back here, Master Suguru?”

He tips his head to the side as if to ask what she means and she clarifies, stepping forward and putting her hand on his shoulder. “Are you happiest where the princess is?”

Children never miss a thing, he thinks while contemplating the best way to answer the question. His heart yearns to be wherever you are, no matter where you are and he knows it’s true. Suguru is many things - an oath breaker, a rebel, a romantic to his core - but he tends not to be a liar unless he has no option left so he nods.

“Yes, yes it is.”

The girl nods her own understanding and backs away from him, returning to your side with a grin as she looks up at you.

“I think he likes you, Princess.”

Giggling, you pet the back of her head again and look directly at your love in front of you. Years you’ve spent wanting him, it feels as if you’ve done it for more years than you’ve been alive sometimes, and you wonder if you shouldn’t be so indulgent in the presence of your charges. Perhaps you should demur like you always do, downplay the relationship between the two of you, pretend he doesn’t know you from the very inside out.

They already have it figured out, though, so there’s no sense in lying.

“Luckily for Master Suguru I’m awfully fond of him as well.”

[sepublic]

I love Kai’s climbing mech. Some Ninjago sets have endeared themselves to me because of the way they were implemented in the show, but the climber mech is one of the select few that I genuinely want just for the build alone.

And you know what? It genuinely resembles Nocturn to me. With Lego’s recent obsession with mechs and statues, plus Bionicle fans trying to cope about a potential G3 by considering Brickonicle, the climber mech feels like a genuine look into what a brick-based Bionicle might actually look like!

Four arms, plus the legs with the splayed toes and that particular piston piece for support… The lower arms wield blades, and one of the upper arms has a longer tendril to grab with! I even heard the designer for this set used Matoro’s claw piece as a placeholder for the climber mech’s golden claws!

I could see an extensive mod that turns this set into a Brickonicle Nocturn; The head would probably be brick-built and/or use the new dragon head mold pieces that Ninjago has introduced. Tbh, it doesn’t even have to be Bionicle G3 specifically; I’d just really like to see a theme where the sets ARE the characters, rather than the characters being within the sets.

The brick-built scale allows for so much more customizability for characters, and if Lego really wanted minifigures, maybe they could function as the smaller ‘Matoran’ analogue, who knows? There’s just so much character to convey with different builds. And Kai’s other mech this wave, which is the ‘base’ form of the climber mech in canon, is paired with a wolf mech whose hands and feet always remind me of the finned Piraka feet piece;

Look at that hand; That’s a Piraka foot. Lego seems really into mech builds lately in Ninjago and Star Wars, not to mention their attempts at superhero action figures. I want to see how Lego would do an original line of fully-sized characters on their own terms.

[breakandbuildfiction]

Fictional Matriarchal Societies

Okay this is a bit of a weird one but am I the only one who has noticed that pretty much every Matriarchal society in fiction is objectively worse than first world Patriarchal or Neutral Gender Dominance societies both in fiction and in reality? Particularly when you compare them to other societies in their same universe, timeframe, and technological advancement?

To keep things simple I'm going to reference three of these societies to make my point. Angel 1 from Star Trek TNG, the Amazon Amazons from Percy Jackson, and the Amazons of Themyscira from DC Comics.

To get the obvious out of the way first, all three of these societies are far more sexist than modern Western and first-world societies in our real life.

In Angel 1 the men are incapable of being allowed to hold any office, join the military, or be actual citizens. They are not dissuaded or have to work harder for these jobs like how many women have to in the real world, they just straight up can't. This sexism is so severe that when a group of men-- many of whom admittingly aren't actually from Angel 1-- stand against this, they and all their supporters are set for execution and it requires outside powers threatening them to get the Matriarchal leaders to agree that banishment to a desolate part of their planet is a good downgrade for their punishment. This was a society that advanced enough to have Warp Travel and yet they hadn't even STARTED on equal gender rights yet. Also, their level of technological advancement is far lower than average for a space-faring species in Star Trek TNG. Meaning not only do they fail to advance socially at even close to the same rate as the originally Patriarchal societies of the Star Trek universe, even needing outside influence to get the ball rolling, they also MIGHT be advancing slower technologically as well.

Next up are the Amazon Amazons from Percy Jackson. They literally put collars on men and made them slaves. This happens in modern America and they say they do this to 'show men their place'. They side by side with a society that most deem Patriarchal but still gives women equal rights under the law, but still believe that their way is better and are pro-gender-based slavery. And remember that this group never does SHIT of any actual importance in the entire series. The best they do is act a pitstop and as a lore drop for one of the leaders of New Rome. They are objectively the weakest group that fall under the Greek Pantheon in Percy Jackson despite being one of if not the largest with no unique mystical or technological advantages to speak of. The Cyclopses of Atlantis, all of whom are male and basically have severe autism, are a more impactful accomplished group from what I can tell, and I don't think we've even heard of most of them since they helped attack Typhoon back in The Last Olympian.

Finally the most famous and in my opinion worst offenders on this list, the Themysciren Amazons from DC Comics. Even if you don't take into consideration things I know aren't canon anymore like how they repopulated via mass rape and murder before chucking male children into the ocean, there are still a LOT of things that showcase that they are terrible. Though admittingly some of these aren't fully their own fault.

To keep things brief I'll just highlight how they condemn men and 'Man's World' for the existence of wars, saying it is the fault of the nature of men and that it is the duty of Amazons to show them a better path. This viewpoint they are written to have ignores the fact that there have been women who declared and perpetuated wars before and the fact that the Amazons really have no place to talk about the subject because due to them living on Themyscira they never actually have to deal with the problems that cause wars to occur. Think about it, due to them living on an island protected by, hidden by, and blessed by the gods themselves the Amazons never have to deal with things like cultural friction, border disputes, resource scarcity, religious differences, or trade routes and deals. Hell, due to Hippolyta being immortal-- or depending on the continuity all of the Amazons being immortal-- even periods of succession and political upheaval are nonexistent to them! They condemn men for using violence to deal with these issues despite never having to deal with them themselves. And when they DO have the SLIGHTEST taste of ANY of these problems, their reaction is to kill people. Seriously, a man so much as washing up on their shores is grounds for execution, and in the semi-rare storyline of Diana bringing male heroes to the island to help save it, she is punished for allowing men to set foot on their island. They are objectively hypocrites who are just as if not more violent than men. And this sucks for them since outside of like, six of them they are all basically canon fodder who mostly exist to get their asses kicked and give Wonder Woman a reason to get pissed off. Remember, most of them aren't demigods and can't block bullets with their bracelets. They are just tall and fit women with spears and shields and low-level metahuman physical buffs.

((Note: A very big exception to that 'Amazons are fodder' statement is the Flashpoint continuity where the Amazons are keeping pace with all of Atlantis as the two destroy the whole world. Though I will be docking points from this example because it is a war that started because Wonder Woman fucked a married man and killed his pissed-off wife before presenting him with her severed head. Meaning she started it... Also, I'm pretty sure the Atlantians having a higher population, greater ability to reproduce, and their attempts to flood the Earth while Atlantis itself couldn't be directly attacked by the Amazons all comes together as a guaranteed long-term win for the Atlantians.))

Speaking of spears and shields, their level of technological advancement, though it does differ between writers and continuities, is almost always shown to be stuck roughly in the Roman era. And yes, I know that civilizations that are isolated or have an abundance of resources don't tend to technologically advance as quickly as others, but these women are TWO THOUSAND YEARS behind the curve! As in, they haven't advanced since the last members of the island were sent their from Men's World, meaning their advancements all came from MEN! And it's not like their mystical abilities make up for that! Can you name a prominent magic user from Themyscira? Because I sure as hell can't. The best I think there is is Circi and she ISN'T AN AMAZON! The best magic users in DC that aren't demons or gods or what have yous are probably Kent Nelson, Giovani Zatara (when he isn't dead), Zatanna Zatara, and John Constantine. That's 3/4 men.

In short the Themysciren Amazons are written to be self-righteous sexist jerks who believe that because they never had to deal with any real-world political or societal issues they are better than men outright.

I don't know if this is because these societies are rarely if ever the focus of a longer story or if it's a long-term oversight from the writers, but all these examples paint the picture that women being the majority rulers of societies makes things worse in the long term. No social advancement, cases of extreme social regression, slower or nonexistent technological advancement, weaker military forces, inability to have a significant impact on their respective greater settings, need I go on?

But enough of this. It's very late and I wrote this all out in a single go. If anyone wants to dispute this, please give me some examples of Matriarchal societies in fiction that aren't socially and/or technologically inept compared to their Patriarcal/Non-Single-Gender Dominated counterparts. I would honestly love to hear them.

[love-beyond-space-war]

Request: "Sept 21st is making me think of Rtas for no reason in particular, so can we get a short of Rtas ‘Vadum/The Shipmaster with a reader that meant to stow away on a different, less important ship but accidentally ended up on his instead? Oh yeah, human reader after the Human-Covenant war is over. No preference on gender reader so whatever comes out in writing ig?"

Note: Alright, cool! Rtas is definitely one of my favorite characters. I just hope I made this request work as I wasn't sure why Reader was a stowaway in the first place since I forgot to ask ^^; Sorry if it's too short.

Home for a Stowaway

Rtas 'Vadum x Human! Reader

Synopsis: Rtas has always been on of the more merciful Sangheili after the Human-Covenant war. He's always been one to care for lower castes and even doesn't mind humans much now. However... he certainly wasn't expecting a secret human on board the Shadow of Intent.

Content Warnings: Romantic/Platonic Pairing (Dubious), Gender-Neutral Reader/Male Character, Canon typical violence, Possible OOC Rtas (?), Implied poor home life/life in general.

Rtas had strayed away from war ever since the end of the Human-Covenant war. His resentment towards humans, Jiralhanae, and San'Shyuum had diminished greatly. Now he was fine with just aiding Thel when possible and hunting those who have betrayed the Sangheili.

Compared to his life before... he was calmer than most others of his species.

Now Rtas spent most of his time aboard his ship, the Shadow of Intent. Sometimes he docked for supplies for his crew but other than that it was endless space. Compared to the usual bloodshed he was used to... this was relaxing if not boring.

When some of his Sangheili crew came up to him with an issue Rtas was actually surprised. He was even more interested when the two crew members hold up a squirming human in their arms. He sees you struggle like a caught fish, fear in your eyes.

Stowaways were heard of, every port had their tales of them. It didn't look like you meant any harm or were very malicious. It was a pain that he had you catch a ride on his ship, especially since the nearest port was far away, but he kept his cool.

You looked comparable to a frightened animal in front of him. You knew what he was but some humans weren't very accepting of Sangheili yet. You fear was excusable... yet he needed answers.

"Drop the human, they aren't a threat. I'll get answers from them... alone. I'll call if there's an issue." Rtas explains, the crew members dropping you on a hover chair before leaving the room.

There's an intimidating silence as you both stare at each other.

"Well? What's a human doing on a ship serving the Swords of Sangheilios?" Rtas questions. "Far as I know you're a stowaway, right?"

"I caught the wrong ship...." You whisper.

"Why are you even crawling onto random ships? Sabotage?" Rtas asks, watching as you quickly shake your head.

You then give your reasoning as to why you were fleeing. It was something about fleeing from somewhere or someone. You were meant to catch a different ship but ended up chased into his.

You looked like a street rat. Rtas supposed you could even be called a pest. However... Rtas believes he found himself a solution to this issue.

"You can ride to the next port." Rtas allows, seeing your eyes sparkle. "In the meantime, I don't mind having company."

"You'd... be willing to speak with a human like me?" You ask, curious about his words.

"My days of fighting humans are past me. I don't mind your kind. They're useful when you need them." Rtas admits.

"I thank you for not killing me on the spot...." You bow in your seat slightly, Rtas making a noise of disinterest.

"There's no point in punishing the innocent." Rtas reassures, gesturing your hover chair beside his as he watches the endless stars. Hesitantly you bring yourself beside him, looking away to avoid making the situation awkward.

Rtas decides for now this ship will be your home. Maybe he's needed a companion other than the usual crew to keep himself grounded anyways. You don't seem like you'll be bad company.

In fact, as time passes and he gets closer to his destination, you happen to prove yourself useful. You try to help him around his quarters. You immerse yourself in the tech of his ship. You even provide decent conversation.

From the information you provided him... Rtas doesn't think you have anywhere to go. You're thankful for his hospitality and speak to him as though he's a friend the more time you spend with him. Rtas would be lying if he said he wasn't attached to you by the time a port did come up.

When his ship landed for supplies and provided a rest from space travel Rtas noticed the look on your face. You looked genuinely upset that your time with him was over. Honestly, Rtas felt similar disappointment.

"Do you even know what you plan on doing after this?" Rtas asks you. You don't make eye contact.

"Not really, just gotta see where life takes me, yeah?" You give a bittersweet smile towards Rtas.

Rtas recalls how lonely travel was without you before. He remembers how you have nowhere you have to go. With some quick consideration... the Shipmaster gives you both an ultimatum.

"What if I gave you a role on my ship?" Rtas offers, watching you look at him with surprise.

"I'd be out of place, wouldn't I?" You ask, Rtas shakes his head and puts a clawed hand on your shoulder.

"No, you wouldn't. In fact... I enjoy your company much more than I'd like to admit. I can't bring myself to watch you go if you'll be all alone." Rtas explains, feeling his skin heat when he sees you smile.

"Then I'll take the offer, Shipmaster." You accept, happy you found yourself a new home.