#adventures of the pyrrhus

[clockwork-ashes]

Day 5 - War | Adventure

Note: for day 5 of @erisweekofficial <3 this is my last gen eris fic for this week, but i have loved writing him and lucien!!! also a HUGE thank you to the lovely @speakingintothesilence for the writing prompt!!! i hope you like it <3

Summary: Eris takes Lucien with him on an adventure into the Autumn Court woods, expecting the trip to brighten his brother’s mood (one-shot). Read also on Ao3 <3

The fire flickered, dancing as it switched from a deep orange to a bright yellow, only to return to a more muted colour once more. Embers flared off the logs, looking like shooting stars in the darkness of the cave. 

Every time Lucien moved, Eris noticed that his shadow transformed into a menacing creature on the stone walls. It seemed as though his hands had claws, his back hunched like a predator ready to pounce. 

Perhaps it was because Lucien was sitting in a way that had him curled in on himself, Eris thought. His youngest brother’s legs were bent up towards his chest and he was resting his elbows on his knees. The small knife in his hand was sharp, the pointed tip easily cutting into the thick piece of wood in his hands.

Eris and Lucien had spent the entire morning hiking through the forest, searching for one of the many dangerous beasts that prowled the territory and tormented the local towns and cities. Eris could admit that it was difficult to hunt effectively with a child, but he had never minded the company. At a decade and a half, Lucien still seemed little to him, despite the young male’s consistently growing list of responsibilities. 

An adventure in the woods.  

Lucien had grumbled the words sarcastically as they had left the Forest House, weapons in hand. Eris had cast him a questioning look that had been ignored, and he had never been one to push his brothers to share their emotions. 

When the morning had passed almost entirely in a fraught silence, none of them speaking, Eris had suggested they stop near the caves so they could find something to eat. 

The fish Eris had easily caught were wrapped in leaves and thrown over the fire as he considered what might be making Lucien so miserable. 

They used to come to the caves close to Winter’s border often when Lucien was a boy. It was the perfect place to escape to when the Forest House became too much, and the crowd of nobles in the capital became too suffocating. No one bothered them, and it was easy to forget the fast paced and ruthless rhythms of court life. 

Eris had not taken Lucien to the caves with him in over a year, and it had been months since they had even seen each other. Beron liked pushing his oldest sons across the territory to handle power independently. Eris had been responsible for the large piece of land that bordered Spring for centuries, and with the Hybern general constantly attempting to strike an alliance with the courts of Prythian, Eris had been busy.  

In the time since he had last seen Lucien, the boy seemed to have grown significantly. He was much taller now, his frame much too large and lanky as his muscles struggled to keep up with the change in height. He was letting his hair grow out, the dark strands tied back neatly in a loose braid. His bright russet eyes still seemed a bit too big for his face, giving him the impression of innocence. 

It was almost startling to see Lucien’s almost always smiling lips pulled down in a frustrated frown. Even Pyrrhus, who wagged his tail and pressed his snout into the boy’s side was not enough to change his attitude. 

There was a mist of anger around Lucien. He had reluctantly agreed to come hunting when Callum had asked. His disappointment had been clear as river water when Callum told them he would not be joining, upon their father’s request. 

Eris sighed from where he sat, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck before he addressed Lucien. “What are you carving?” 

The question hung in the air for a moment. Lucien tossed the knife and the piece of wood to the ground where it knocked against the dry earth with a clatter. “Nothing,” he clipped. 

Eris looked at him with a raised brow. The silence stretched, awkward and uncomfortable. Fire was not the only thing between them. 

Lucien looked away first, an angry flush high on his cheekbones. The flames flared with a resounding crack, the pressure building until the logs had no choice but to snap in protest. 

Eris said nothing. He had learned from trial and error that it was usually best to let Lucien filter through his thoughts before engaging in an argument.

“It’s not fair,” Lucien said, his face red as the words fell in an angry hiss between his teeth. “You come and go and expect everything to be as it was when you left, it’s not.” 

Eris tensed at the words, wondering what he might have missed in his absence. Beron usually left Lucien alone, hardly engaging with the boy unless it was to chastise him. When he was younger, Eris had hoped that Lucien’s infectiously happy demeanour might affect the High Lord. Even their father was not immune to the natural charm and joy he brought into every room he entered. His hopes had been thoroughly crushed as Beron grew more harsh as time passed. 

“You’re never home anymore,” Lucien accused. The outburst breaking free like a wave against the shore, sudden and not entirely welcome, like he had been holding it in for a while. 

Eris tensed, taken aback by the statement. “So?” 

Lucien wiped a hand across his eyes roughly, and Eris realised belatedly that he was crying. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, his voice strained. 

The guilt nearly choked Eris, he felt unwell, the full weight of what Lucien had said finally setting in. He clumsily and inelegantly moved along the ground so that he could be next to him. He had no idea what he was doing and wished that Callum was with them. He was close enough to Lucien that their knees were touching. 

His brother sniffled, looking in the other direction but not pulling away.  

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Eris winced at how rough his words were, almost as if they were an order rather than a question. 

Lucien shook his head, still unable to face Eris, but he leaned onto his eldest brother heavily. 

Eris decided that was good. 

“I’m not a daemati,” he said softly, trying his best to sound like Callum. There was no doubt in Eris’s mind that the third born Vanserra would have known what to do. Raised by their maternal grandmother in Xian during the war, he was the only one of them that Eris could describe as kind.

Beron was always irritated by it. 

Lucien shrugged, his shoulder shifting against Eris weakly. “It’s not important, not really,” he breathed out, no longer angry.

“Could you…maybe you can tell me first and then I’ll decide.” Eris nearly cringed at how awkward he sounded. He would have liked to have thrown himself into a river and simply sink like a stone to the bottom for eternity.

Eris was always surprised with how little convincing Lucien needed to open up about his feelings. He expressed with furrowed brows how Felix did not seem to like him, and how Ronan ignored him. Their other two brothers verged on treating him with cruelty, and Eris had to hold back a growl as he listened. Lucien explained how Callum was the only person in the Forest House who understood. “I like it better when you’re home,” Lucien continued. “Without you… I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t feel like I belong.” He looked up at Eris with wide russet eyes, nearly pleading with him to help him understand. 

“Listen to me,” Eris urged after he was sure Lucien was finished getting it all off his chest. “You’re one of us, for better or for worse.” With a gesture he had no idea he was capable of, Eris gently wiped at a stray tear on his youngest brother’s cheek. “So never change, Lucien, not for the likes of anyone.” 

Eris watched as he considered the words carefully, could practically see them spinning around his skull. Lucien finally smiled up at him, his eyes glowing gold for the briefest of moments before he held his shoulders back a bit more confidently. “Thanks, Eris.” 

Daylight. 

Eris ignored the small spark of foreign magic, choosing instead to playfully ruffle Lucien’s hair. He watched as the boy grinned, unguarded and no longer upset. While Eris was beyond praying to the Mother, he silently begged whatever higher power might be listening that the Autumn Court did not break his brother’s spirit. 

[basingstokemercury]

And here's the full set of character concepts Snow and Vicori belong to.

All but one are based on a character from a classic folk ballad - all the ballads have been recorded by Joan Baez, though in one case I've used the lyrics from someone else's version.

I've given this away previously, but if you don't know all the songs and want to try guessing feel free (answers below a cut at the end)

Francis Seabreeze (high elf battlesmith artificer)

Francis grew up on a farm, with a loving family and a talent for mechanics. There weren't too many opportunities for an engineer to make herself a name out in the country, and fixing the farm equipment didn't quite cut it; so she left for the big city, where education and industry awaited. Years later, Francis is known throughout the region as a brilliant artificer. She's rich, famous, talented - and alone. Naturally introverted and slow to open up to strangers, she hasn't been able to build a new social circle after leaving behind everyone who knew and loved her. If only she could go home... But she's put too much work into her new life, burned those bridges too long ago to back out now. Until new people do make their way into her life, bringing adventure, risk, and a possible way back...

Pyrrhus Firshade (centaur ancestral guardians barbarian)

Pyrrhus was an unremarkable, happy young man. A soldier in training, with a stable job and a wonderful fiancée serving alongside him. Until that fiancée got herself mixed up in a duel. And killed. Devastated, Pyrrhus went beyond his people's usual pragmatic mourning customs, visiting her grave every day and spending most of his time there. A year and a day later, that ended rather surprisingly. As Pyrrhus sat by his beloved's grave as usual, her spirit appeared to him. The lengthy, passionate mourning was keeping her tethered to the physical world, preventing her from moving on as the dead should. Still not fully comprehending her meaning, Pyrrhus was ecstatic to see her again. Perhaps this meant they could yet be reunited? The task she named to bring that about seemed impossible, but he was determined. If he succeeds, will he choose to save his love or let her rest?

Snow Brightlord (air genasi eloquence bard)

Snow never meant to change his life when he came to the bustling city on a pleasure visit, but lovely Fleur changed it for him. A charming saloon girl with many friends and admirers, Fleur was always courteous to Snow as she was to all who sought her favour. Wishful thinking is a strong force, and Snow interpreted that courtesy as a mark of greater distinction than it was. So, when he came upon Fleur talking intimately with a young aristocrat - a clear betrayal of his love - he took the obvious course of action. Killing his rival. A talented orator when thinking clearly, Snow managed to talk himself out of the death penalty - but all his verbal arts couldn't win the still-grieving Fleur over to him. Considering his difficulty, Snow came to a conclusion. Obviously, Fleur had only wanted the other man for his wealth and status. If Snow could make a name for himself too, perhaps she'd be convinced. Of course, as Snow looks for money and power of his own, he still doesn't accept his guilt for the murder. It was justified, and if not he wasn't in his right mind, and anyway the man had it coming. Maybe that'll change with time, and maybe his mind will be able to survive the blow.

Vicori Bittergrace (duergar mercy monk)

Ten years ago, Vicori had it all. Well, maybe not all, but a pleasant life, good marriage, and affair with her husband's best friend. That last bit, of course, is what brought it all down - but not in the way one might expect. Vicori's lover was accused of murder. He was innocent, of course, but the witnesses all identified the fleeing killer as bearing a definite resemblance to him. Luckily, there was a cast-iron alibi: he'd been with Vicori the whole time. Using that alibi, now... It would have destroyed a marriage, ended two people's happiness, condemned Vicori in the eyes of the public. He stayed silent. Vicori regretted not having spoken herself, having put her honour before the life of someone she cared for, but it was too late. After her husband's premature death, she dedicated herself to a monastery, wandering in a quest to prevent other wrongful executions. She still visits her lover's grave when she can, dressed in black on lonely nights.

Sierra Silverwood (tiefling arcane trickster rogue)

Rake. Rambler. Careless drifter. Sierra's life was neither comfortable nor orderly, but she didn't particularly mind any of that. Until she fell in love, that is. A normal occurrence, and a perfectly safe one if you don't happen to be a ballad character. The young man she married was vain and materialistic, exulting over the gifts she sank her little income into. She was glad to give all she could, every token of affection worth all the effort it took to gain. And when she didn't have enough? There was no choice but to take from others. Sierra became an infamous highway robber, raking in gold by the thousands - until she got caught. Her husband didn't even visit her in jail, claiming ignorance of his "beloved"'s crimes. Too late, she realised she'd thrown everything away for someone who didn't even care as long as he could use her. Freed from impending execution by a strange chance, Sierra feels lost and directionless, ready to follow any path that can restore her confidence and self-sufficiency.

Chiyo Flowerfall (human divination wizard)

Chiyo fell in love. Familiar beginning, isn't it? He left home to be with the woman he adored, abandoning his father and brothers for the allure of sweet romance with a passing stranger. It didn't last. Bitter and disillusioned, Chiyo swore off romantic love and turned to the study of divination magic. His goal: never to have to take a gamble like that again. If everything was predictable, every chance studiously calculated... Then, maybe, he could dare to risk his heart again someday. With the proper assurances behind his choice. His research has to wait, though, now that a disturbing prophecy has chosen him as its vessel; the fate of much more than his happiness rests on what he'll do with the knowledge.

Songs referenced:

Francis - original story, I couldn't find a song to match

Pyrrhus - The Unquiet Grave

Snow - Lily Of The West

Vicori - Long Black Veil

Sierra - Rake And A Ramblin' Boy, with small touches from Sylvie

Chiyo - Careless Love

[scarlet-rider]

(( Mini recap post because the Iron Serpent arc will be restarting soon! ))

(( General synopsis: Ever since Florence’s adventure with her friends into the depths of Area Zero, Paradox Pokémon have somehow found a way out of their home within the crater and have begun to escape into the vast wilderness of Paldea. This doesn’t go unnoticed by the Pokémon League, of course, and Florence is one of the trainers assigned with the task of capturing the rogue Paradoxes and placing them back into the safety of the Great Crater. ))

Part 1

(( Florence, Rika and Larry are all called to help with an escaped Iron Valiant. However, ex-Galar Champion Blake arrives at the scene in an attempt to help, only for chaos to break loose! Larry ends up greatly injured and the Iron Valiant escapes. ))

Part 2

(( Florence returns to the scene in a second attempt to subdue the rogue Paradox, and runs into Blake again along the way. The two search for it together, only to find the very Iron Valiant they were looking for fatally injured, clinging to life… Florence discovers the possible cause- a dart lodged into the Paradox Pokémon’s body. ))

(( Next up: More dead Paradox Pokémon keep popping up, each case tracing back to those mysterious darts. In her desperation to prevent any more from being unfairly killed, Florence begins to disregard her schoolwork in order to pursue the culprit and find away to prevent any more escapes from the crater. Meanwhile, Pyrrhus begins to exhibit strange behaviors, disappearing for hours at a time and letting out strange calls into the sky… this leads Florence to an incredible discovery during the middle of her investigations: a never-before seen Paradox Pokémon. ))

(( COMING SOON: THE IRON SERPENT ))

[cassiedrey]

WIP Intro; The Spirit Touched Trio

Genre: Fantasy, Action/Adventure, Romance, Court Drama Themes & Tropes: Upper vs. Lower Class, Forgetting & Remembrance, Love Across Class, Bodyguard Crush, Best Friends to Lovers, Save the Girl, Ancient Spirits, All Magic Users, Self Contained World Status: Plotted, about to begin draft 0

All Angelique Amsel remembers is waking up underneath a great tree created by her own magic, with a note in her hand that says ‘wait for me, I will find you again,’ evidence of an unknown spell she cast. Left with this mysterious note and the deep, profound emptiness that something is missing, she has been plagued by vague dreams of someone dear to her whom she loves very much. For the last year, Angel has been searching for answers.

What Angel doesn’t know is that she cast a spell that rescued her long time love, Astrophel Morgenstern, plagued for most of his childhood by the volatile and manipulative Mary, one of the Mera, a great being of shadow from the dark and mysterious Black Realms. But every piece of magic comes with a cost, and for Angel, the powerful spell that saved her love also took her memories of her relationship with Astrophel, erasing him from the memories of all who knew their love. That is, except for Angel’s sister, Namine, who is tasked with remembering, unable to tell others of the spell, lest it break. Burdened by the great sacrifice Angel made, her sister must take the memories to her grave.

Meanwhile, the brilliantly smart heiress of the CEO of mega corporation Hallow, Amaya Castilla, finds a magical tomb within the skeleton of an ancient progenitor spirit, believing it will solve many magical problems. However, everything goes wrong the day she and her team explore the tomb when one of the soldiers protecting Amaya, her good friend and crush Ronan Vertice, loses his teammate and best friend Ekko in a strange magical incident, costing his trust in both Amaya and Hallow.

Despite the complicated, rare magic of the spell that protects him, Astrophel has sworn to recover Angel’s memories without breaking it, so they may be together again. However, Astrophel, Angel, and Amaya find themselves threatened by powerful spirit summoner Harper Banesworth, a holder over one of the Great Spirits of Nature who has been corrupted into a taboo practice that steals magic from others. As Astrophel’s efforts to recover Angel’s memory provokes the wrath of Mary, Harper is stopped only by her twin brother Haran, her former love Ellis Beck, and his best friend Elaysa Khan, another Great Spirit holder, as Ellis chases her in the hope of rescuing her from herself.But Mary is bent on destroying everything, leading to an attack on everyone’s family and friends that plunges Namine and her friend Pyrrhus into the Black Realms, causing Amaya to question her family’s legacy and the steep cost at which magical power comes. As she finds herself conflicted between troubled, sad Ronan as he begins to question everything Hallow stands for, and the values she was taught at her father’s knee, Angel and Astrophel set out on a journey after Namine and Pyhrrus–a journey that might just recover Angel’s memories of Astrophel once again.

Tag: #spirit touched trio If you would like to be added to the taglist for this work, please let me know~!

[pedallingthepyrrhicpindus]

VALEDICTION

(I asked Chat GPT for help - I think it may have gone a little over the top) Ladies and gentlemen, gather 'round and bear witness to this extraordinary tale of seven remarkable men, whose spirit of adventure and camaraderie has ignited the very essence of exploration. 

Allow me to present to you the intrepid cyclists, whose wheels have rolled upon the ancient soil of Greece, unearthing treasures of both the land and the soul. 

Hearts overflowing with gratitude, these individuals embarked on a journey that would forever transform their lives. 

From the moment they departed, their heads held high, they knew they were bound for greatness.Venturing far from the relentless noise of the world, they sought solace in the bosom of Greece's storied past. 

In the footsteps of legendary philosophers and playwrights, they discovered a sanctuary far removed from the chaos of progress. And as they emerged from the sacred realms of ancient wisdom, a profound calm settled on them, encapsulating the very essence of their privileged journey.

Guided by an unconventional visionary—a sage whose instinctive spirit and freethinking nature ignited the path before them—they ventured into uncharted territories. These were no ordinary paths, my friends. They were trails woven by the daring few, traversed by cyclists of immeasurable resolve. Through sunlit meadows and rugged mountain passes, they beheld the breathtaking wonders of Greece's untouched landscapes. Fresh leaves danced upon verdant trees, while blossoms painted the countryside with vibrant hues, celebrating the arrival of spring.

The Pindus Mountains, with their towering peaks and ancient whispers, bestowed upon our valiant adventurers a timeless revelation. Life, they learned, transcends the confines of mere conquests, for it is not in victory alone that true fulfillment lies. It is in the bonds formed, the shared laughter echoing through time, and the respect bestowed upon one's fellow journeyers. 

Pyrrhus may have sought victories at all costs, and Ali Pasha may have pursued power at the expense of others, but these stalwarts knew better—they embraced the harmonious rhythm of life.

As we bid farewell to the hallowed lands that embraced them so warmly, let us join in celebrating the triumphs of these modern-day pioneers. In the words of the illustrious poet and scholar, Percy Bysshe Shelley, "We are all Greeks. Our laws, our literature, our religion, our arts have their root in Greece." 

These seven exceptional men have embodied the very spirit of Greece, carrying its legacy within their hearts to share it with the world. So, my friends, raise your voices and applaud the courage, the unity, and the unyielding spirit of the Marty Tours cycling holiday. For they have unveiled the beauty of ancient Greece and, in doing so, have ignited a flame of inspiration within us all. Efcharistó.

[applestorms]

OOO this is right up my alley. i definitely need to read more beauvoir to get more up to date on the figure of the adventurer, but it's interesting that op specifically associates dirk with the passionate person since to my understanding the passionate person is specifically associated w/ nietzsche, and in turn beauvoir's criticism of nietzsche.

quick background on western existentialist philosophy: iirc, you kinda have two different main generations of philosophers from the 19th/20th century. in the first generation, you begin with kierkegaard, but then also have nietzsche and (though yes he's more of a fiction author) dostoevsky, with none of them really being aware of the others minus nietzsche learning about dostoevsky for like a year before he went crazy and kicked it. in the second generation though, you have beauvoir, sartre, and camus, all of which are french and therefore aware of not only the works of the previous generation, but each other.

what i really like about beauvoir is that a lot of her existentialism that i've read is built off of crticisms she has of the other existentialists. in particular, she is very critical of the individualism of kierkegaard and especially nietzsche.

it's important to note two things here:

1. as nietzsche outlines it, there are really two main flavors of nihilism. the first is that there is no absolute meaning, or that there is no greater (christian) meaning that governs/explains our lives, and the second is that there is absolutely no meaning, or that there is never any chance we could find any meaning, anywhere. nietzsche and beauvoir both actually seem to agree that the second is terrible since it basically just saps your life of all substance and just sucks ass in general, and instead go for the first, where you can create meaning in your life (really all of the existentialists i've read thus far have some iteration of this idea THOUGH ALSO i haven't read basically any camus and it seems maybe his idea of the stranger goes more for total nihilism??). where beauvoir differs though is that beauvoir doesn't think you can let go of people in the same way that nietzsche does, arguing against his strong individualism with a more socially conscious view that eventually leads to her theories on oppression and social justice, especially with regards to feminism.

2. the guiding line of basically all existentialism is this idea that people are constantly dealing with a conflict between two opposing halves with the ultimate conclusion that the two sides must be synthesized together instead of denying either side. for beauvoir this is a conflict of body/soul, but also a conflict of object vs. subject, which is particularly potent when it comes to dirk and all of his goddamn puppets. this is the "ambiguity" in the ethics of ambiguity, basically. but also it relates to the idea of projects, which is where beauvoir thinks that meaning is created. to beauvoir, all human projects are basically destined to never be finished within a single lifetime, maybe not even more than that, but she still thinks that it's important to pursue them regardless of that inherent absurdity (this is what the whole pyrrhus/cineas thing is about). i think it's a twisting of these projects into something more absolute that is a big part of beauvoir's criticisms of both nietzsche's idea of the passionate person/artist and kierkegaard's knight of faith.

anyways, i mention all of this just to point out that beauvoir's criticism of the passionate person is largely a response to nietzsche's ideal, which specifically comes out of beauvoir thinking that nietzsche is too individualistic in his pursuit of his passions, ignoring the social structure that surrounds him to the detriment of both himself and everyone around him. the passionate person as nietzsche outlines it is basically inclined to pursue their goals at the cost of all else w/ no regards for other pre-existing moral standards, which sounds real great until you realize that hitler fits into that structure quite nicely, to the point that the nazis explicitly took a lot of nietzsche's philosophy and used it for themselves, regardless of nietzsche's original (perhaps still a bit questionable?) intentions.

i was actually just talking about this the other day, and this is in part what motivated my astronaut ramble about agency in homestuck as well as undertale/deltarune. undertale is actually a very beauvoirean game w/ how it treats relationships, in particular the idea of choosing to continue to keep up relations ("If I cry over him, he is no longer a stranger to me. It’s my tears that decide." from the ethics of ambiguity, god that quote is fucking good) and i think homestuck has a lot of the same ideas! like take caliborn's session for instance- the entire point of it is basically the most cruel punishment sburb could give him for refusing to collaborate and thus form a meaningful relationship with his sister. even more so than dirk, i think that caliborn is a fantastic example of nietzsche's passionate artist (because yes, he says that everyone should be an artist; an additional layer to caliborn as the flawed creator god w/ the yaldabaoth stuff) gone wrong, the individualism and fanatic chasing of his passions to the point of fucking over multiple goddamn universes.

i don't think it's a coincidence either that the alphas main issue comes down to not only miscommunication, but also a kind of social and physical isolation. dirk and jake have by far the closest relationship with caliborn and therefore lord english out of everyone in the entire cast, humans and trolls both, and in turn they both have a very particular relationship with isolation. as i was talking about w/ borzoi the other day (in response to a question about who would distance themself from their friends for the sake of doing the "mature" thing):

for jake, i think he would absolutely use the excuse of “it’s better for them if i leave” to try and justify his need for distance. jake is just introverted in general and needs a lot of space but he’s also got his social anxiety going, so his instinct is gonna be to try and come up with some kind of explanation to get what he wants. from that post-trickster conversation it’s actually kinda clear that both jake AND dirk feel guilty for all of the bad shit that happened, regardless if it was actually their fault, and since jake is smart enough at least unconsciously to pick up on the fact that he genuinely hurt jane and kind of knew about it the entire time he’s gonna be feeling extra guilty and avoidant. TLDR jake is avoidant as fuck and being able to justify running away with “it’s the good mature thing to do” would be incredibly appealing to him.

FOR DIRK. it’s a little more complicated imo, i generally read dirk as a lot more In Need of people than jake is, but he also has a major control problem, especially when it comes to himself. dirk has a low view of himself generally so yeah no shit he’s gonna take on more responsibility than he maybe should’ve, and he’s just as likely as jake imo to be able to logic himself into thinking that distance is the only acceptable answer. honestly though i think their approach to that distance would still be kinda different: jake would distance himself from EVERYONE because that’s kind of what he truly wants, he’s not ready to deal with a whole bunch of awkward social shit, and definitely not all at once by the end of the game. dirk though, i think he’d be the most likely to distance himself from jake, but figure out more specific boundaries for everyone else. like he didn’t shy away from that awkward as fuck conversation with dave, right? it kinda came outta nowhere cause he didn’t know the history but dirk to me seems more like the type to be hyper aware of other people and beat himself up for making them even slightly uncomfortable later, but still wouldn’t be able to avoid those interactions regardless, if only cause then his old material for self deprecation would go stale. dirk might emotionally distance himself by locking himself away but he still feels the need to deal with everyone else’s problems, at least in a practical sense if not emotionally, so there’s only so far he could run before that itch for micromanaging comes back

anyways. very messy thoughts here i may come back and edit these more later when i'm not ten minutes away from running out the door but YES, fantastic analysis, i just wanted to add more of that stuff on nietzsche since now that i think about it his particular flavor of existentialism is hells of relevant to not only beauvoir but homestuck as a whole (and imo caliborn in particular too). i suppose this response is more focused on the ways that social isolation plays a role in all of this, but everyone should definitely read op's essay for a more formal/clean take on jake and dirk lol.

DirkJake & Beauvoir: An Existential Analysis

posting this here again because i am insufferable and this is currently my magnum opus 

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vTIEpH7wYe9_PWNu7sqk_HlmjpEnNMkDzA9S2QdaJp4rXi6_O2fovQ3RB0fJ6y0aTjNgQDU9E76Bbem/pub

jk i’m working on something about the kid guardians right now!! not all the ideas are there but it’s rotating in my brain very often so it’ll come at some point 

[thepulta]

It took three excruciating days for the Tundra to reach Port Prosper. The first few hours as they pulled away from the dock and set their knots ploughing through the wilderness Westlie sat on the bed with her eyes closed listening to the sound of the engine. There was some soft chatter from the crew, footsteps; the hiss of a steam gasket. When the engine shifted ever so slightly to the left her bed creaked and she made a note in her mind. More footsteps, more steam. A breeze whistled around the hull and Westlie felt them correct course to adjust for it. At some point she almost fell asleep and came back to consciousness as footsteps echoed down the hallway and entered the room. Whomever it was paused for a moment at the doorway - no doubt looking at her stone-still sitting frame - and then rustled through their belongings before walking out again.

The silence after that was unnerving and Westlie opened her eyes with the urge to check over her shoulder.

She’d been placed in the corner, the farthest from the door - and darkest part of the room. There were a few bookshelves with dusty, out of date books it seemed. A few spiders - the regular kind. Nothing too out of the ordinary or worthy of interest. There might be time to read the books later, possibly. She scrolled the titles; The Properties of Bioluminescence in Agaricomycetes? Riveting. Westlie sighed and moved her carpetbag to the bed, noticing a matchbox and candlestub on a nearby shelf. She struck it and gently blew on the soft flickering light, blinking after few moments as she became entranced by the fresh flame.

It was habit to check inventory and she placed everything from her trunk onto the bed, recording it in her mind. There wasn’t much; a change of petticoats, a few walking skirts, a longer evening skirt. Westlie had a few dresses but she’d left them; too much space to pack and impractical in the first place. A few pairs of breeches, her regular vest, a jacket, and several undershirts. A small box of grooming products. She placed the photo of her family face down on the bed, snapping the box of earrings shut and placing it on top. There was The Navigator’s Fine Handbook along with a book of numerical calculations and a trashy penny fiction Morgan had gotten for her in Brabazon. Westlie couldn’t remember if she packed that for sentimental value or because it was actually entertaining. The trunk was nearly empty when she pulled out a thin gold chain and empty locket - a fifteenth birthday gift and the only thing Westlie could remember her mother giving her - she placed it beside the photo, and then set down a pair of slim but sturdy leather gloves.

Westlie surveyed the pile, hands on her hips, quietly noting each mend and fold. This would work. This was practical. (Obviously. That was why she packed them. She planned this, even if she’d been drunk on sheer force of will for the past three days.) If she needed anything else, she could purchase it in Port Prosper - or wherever Fitzroy planned to go. She folded the carpetbag first, tucking it into the corner of the trunk, then carefully folding and placing each article in its own proper place. She hid the photo at the very bottom along with the earrings, hesitating with a wry look at the locket. She really didn’t need it. Why did she bring it? It was empty. She sighed, shrugging and tucking it in with the photograph, making a mental note to never look in that corner of the trunk. There was a sense of finality as she closed and locked it and she stared at the truck, half wanting to open it up and check everything was there again.

Pettycoats, skirts, pants, vests, books, photo, books, gloves, locket, earrings. Pettycoats, skirts, pants, books, vest, jacket, shirts, gloves, locket, earrings. Was that right? Did she have everything? Fuck. Westlie reached to open it, hesitated, called herself an idiot, opened it, and pulled out the Navigator’s Handbook; she shut the truck without looking and forced herself to lie down on the bed, flipping to a page and scanning it without really reading.

She tried pretending to herself for thirty minutes before kicking off her boots and sliding under the covers, pulling the sheet tight around her. It was so quiet.

It wasn’t even silent in the ship; she could hear the gentle pumping of the engine. The crew walked down the hallway every so often and she could hear one of them humming. There was her soft breathing in the room, and the creak of the engine as it adjusted course ever so slightly. That was what she liked about them; never quiet, living, throbbing. It reminded her of the shop at midnight; she was generally annoyed when she was ordered to go in that late, but occasionally when the house was too big and her room was too big, she would slip through the alleys and let herself in the back. The taste of hours and coffee would wrap around her and she felt everything else drop away in the deep, claustrophobic stillness. She’d light a candle on the desk and watch it for hours. Like a moth, she followed the flame until it dripped into a nub, slumping in on itself, stuttering out with a soft hiss and leaving her in darkness. Occasionally she fell asleep, and depending on how long she’d been there, wake up with a headache several times worse than a hangover and frizzier hair than usual.

She’d still never felt this empty, like there was an icy hole in her chest, squeezing and gnawing away. What was this feeling? If it was fear, it was a different kind. For her, fear was an icy paralysis that anger helped burn away. It tended to leave her frozen in place, afraid to run, afraid to push forward. But she had everything she needed with her - she literally just checked. Everything else in that house could fuck itself. So why was that hole so empty? Why did it squeeze and burn? Did she just miss... the familiarity, the city? Westlie curled tighter around herself, choking back a sob. Fuck, she was a full-grown woman. Why-?

She snorted, refusing to question the emotion any further, just burrowing deeper, letting it slowly eat her up inside until she choked again, one tear trickling down, then two. Fuck it, nobody was going to be in here for hours. She had nothing to hide either, she was a grown-ass woman and she could cry if she wanted to.

And somehow that was what broke the flood gates, her shoulders silently shaking hard enough she heard the bed creak. Westlie covered her mouth with part of the sheet so she wouldn’t hyperventilate as the tears spilled down her cheeks. For the anger, she thought, sullenly, as she tried to hide in the pillow. For fucking everything. For that goddamn, gaping hole that ached like a bitch. It didn’t hurt, it wasn’t pain, but it just ached with a deep unfulfilled yearning. Something empty crying desperately for something to fill it. At some point hours later, between her pillow wet with tears and the sounds of the crew shuffling softly into their quarters, she fell asleep.

-=-

She felt better in the morning. She usually did. And she was hungry. Westlie paused mid-stretch in bed, remembering the crew a few feet yonder and settling for a slightly more dignified roll of the shoulders as she straightened up. There was a soft turquoise-purple glow through the cabin windows, casting a diaphanous sheen over everything. All of the crew - minus a boy who couldn’t be over 14 - were already up and gone. How long had she slept?

Westlie slid upright and laced her boots, pulling things together with practiced habit and an authority she didn’t really feel. Her routine was always the same. Wake up, get dressed, put up her hair, open the shop. And there was some variation, but even now she could feel the itch. Have to flip the sign. Have to do the books. Have to finish whatever the secretary didn’t do.

Poor Mary. Westlie allowed herself a little laugh that sounded small within the room. There was some shipment of hours expected to arrive today but the bank required a 36hr notice before a withdraw greater than 3000 sovereigns and she’d possibly, maybe or maybe not intentionally have forgotten to give that written notice within her application craze. The Captains wouldn’t get paid. There was also supposed to be a shipment of Polythreme mugs delivered to some estranged aunt who lived on the outskirts of town. Ordinarily it was the sort of job Westlie would have to see to herself due to the sheer trouble of finding someone who’d listen to cups screaming god-awful bloody murder for two hours. But of course, no more. Ah, she could never go back to London. Mary would skin her alive.

Westlie straightened and brushed off her vest, reaching up with instinctual practice to pull out the hairpins she’d forgotten to remove the night before. How many times had she done this with a hangover? How many times had Morgan teasingly grabbed her from behind when she did it with her eyes closed? Westlie pulled her loose curls over her shoulder, combing it with her fingers while staring blankly at the wall. She could envision her hair clearly, frizzy curls framing her face; pale London-skin broken by sharp brown eyes. With her hair down she was almost pretty, according to Morgan (who was obviously, always pretty). Westlie smiled at the memory as she put her hair up. Morgan was always pretty though; she knew how to turn heads. Westlie had missed that class somewhere along the line; and the ache inside her twisted for a moment.

The rest of the day was quiet. The crew tended to ignore her and Westlie found she welcomed it. The ache returned periodically and she felt found herself lurking about the ship, trying to avoid contact with anyone who looked like they would talk to her while giving herself enough preoccupation to not die of boredom. Her hands itched. Usually she’d be writing angry letters to creditors at this point. Was it surprising that was one of the first things Arthur taught her to do? Probably not.

                   Dear So-and-So,

           It is my regretful duty to inform you there is a charge of (several hundred to several thousand) sovereigns at Fairweather Co.. If your cargo has not arrived for sale, please be aware the amount is still due by (some ridiculous date, usually within the week). If further charges must be accrued on your account, inform us in writing at (either the shop where Westlie had to manage it, or the house, if it was a large sum and Arthur had to chew them out personally) by (some ridiculous date, usually within two days). If the charges are not rectified by this date, Fairweather Co. will begin to charge an interest of (anywhere from 5-25%) on your account.

                    Appreciation for your patronage,

                           Arthur Faire,

                    Fairweather Co., pp. Westlie Faire

Ugh. She had her name on so many of those letters. Over the years her signature shrank from a diligent alert beneath her father’s to a barely distinguishable scrawl next to the date. Of course she still got some dirty looks because she had to deliver them occasionally. She’d gotten good at putting on her best ‘I’m just the messenger’ face - similar to now, actually as she stood lurking in the cab. It was a blank face with sharp enough eyes she still looked engaged enough not to be incourteous. The Navigator and First Mate worked around her, charting occasionally and shifting dials ever so slightly. Westlie looped her hands behind her back and watched the edge of islands crawl by through the windows.

-=-

She didn’t cry that night, but she woke up bolt upright in a fevered sweat from a dream she couldn’t remember ready to scream Morgan’s name. She couldn’t get back to sleep. Westlie got dressed and spent the rest of the night in the map room reading.

-=-

The map room proved to be the greatest comfort of the whole trip. Westlie skipped breakfast and took her lunch back to the room, splitting her time between watching the islands roll by and practicing charting Port Prosper to miscellaneous places. It wasn’t difficult, but remembering all the steps took time, especially with the winds and nuances of the Reach Fitzroy said they mostly operated in. Westlie tried to remember the letter she received and immediately burnt a few days before. The Pyrrhus was a Pellinore; an agreement to meet in Port Prosper rather than boarding straightaway in London; a mutual distaste for a certain cunt of a man.  The only engine she’d piloted had been a Bedivere since they comprised most of the Faireweather fleet, but the Pellinores were close enough. She remembered the layout from books and a few test rooms; their rotation stocky and nuanced, like driving a brick wall around a rock. They were good sturdy ships.

The ache returned and Westlie grimaced, looking out the window.

Didn’t know how to pilot a Pellinore, hadn’t officially flown in years. She didn’t deserve this escape, did she. She remembered writing letters furiously a week ago to every half-competent captain in port - she knew who they were, unsurprisingly, since she handled a fair portion of their sales. It was a straightforward letter because she was good at writing succinctly: I request to be taken as a crewmember (no position, no pay; fuck, it could have been 5 sovereigns a month and she’d have taken it) if you have an open position. The letters were not the difficult part. Westlie tapped a pen against the table as she stared out the window, willing herself back to her books but too diverted to stop.

She’d had five interviews that evening after all of her letters. Every single one she froze up. She remembered the amused looks of the captains and it made her shiver; the pen tapped harder against the table. It was something about the judgement; the way they walked in and scanned her. She wasn’t there to fight them either, she knew that, it was to get a job and be helpful and a good crewmember. That was what she wanted to say - possibly in more words. But she couldn’t soothe herself enough to get the words out and each question ended with a stilted messy answer. Where are you from? How much can you lift? Stupid questions.

Fitzroy was the last captain and at that point she was somehow almost comatose, close to tears, and burning with anger at herself at the same time. She barely remembered shaking his hand. It was probably a shitty handshake. Westlie shuddered quietly. They sat down across from each other and she found herself staring at the table, suddenly fixated on the horrifying potential future of walking back into that house, scrounging for a list of new captains the next day, and also ordering several dozen cans of gasoline, because that was what she’d been ordered to do. She couldn’t. She couldn’t.

Fitzroy broke her out of it by clearing his throat and Westlie had to meet his gaze. It was stern, but almost impassively gentle. She remembered wondering what he was hiding because only good actors had that kind of face; but he seemed honest. She was too much of a mess to worry about it. He pulled her letter out of his coat pocket and turned it over, sliding the empty backside across the table. “I assume you know how to navigate?”

“Yes, sir.” Well she got that out.

He dug a bit deeper for a pen and passed it to her. “I’m going to New Winchester. How long will it take me? Stop off at the Circus on the way.”

Something she knew. Westlie took the pen like she was floating in the Reach and he’d offered a rope. The numbers recalled themselves unbidden. “Wind?”

“Calm.”

“Pull?”

“Assume none.”

“Hold?”

“Pellinore. Full. A good bit of power in her.”

She hunched over the sheet of paper. Westlie barely remembered writing; it was all a furious blur, double-checking, closing her eyes and trying to remember the rate of acceleration for a Pellinore. ‘Good bit of power.’ What the fuck did ‘good bit of power’ mean? She rounded up in case he’d be offended by a lower number. Westlie straightened as she neared the end, checking the distance, trying to recall each number in the manual. She’d really spent too much time reading it hadn’t she; it was supposed to be a reference. She did want to fly though; obsessions that turned into careers were normal, weren’t they?

Checking one last time, she slid the letter and handed the pen back over to Fitzroy, holding her breath as he looked through it. It felt like a lifetime before he folded it up and tucked it away again, giving Westlie an approving sort of nod. She waited.

After a unholy pregnant minute he sighed and leaned forward, placing clasped hands on the table and staring directly at her soul. “Miss Faire, I assume you know a reputation preceeds you.”

Icy fear fully encased Westlie’s heart and possibly stabbed it. No, no, no, please.

“However, a lack of education is not part of it.” His eyes narrowed and Westlie wondered if she should politely excuse herself to throw up in the corner. “Miss Faire, why do you want to leave London?”

Westlie had helplessly cleared her throat and her current self audibly groaned in the map room. Why did she want to leave? Because she would be stuck in that nightmare shop all her life? Because everything around her was tainted and evil and hideous? “I- I can’t stay here.”

Fitzroy leaned back in his chair, eyeing her. The bar swirled around them, a blend of scents and colors; someone sang a drunken sky-song. Something about bleeding crystals and sharp-edged lovers. Several more people joined in for the chorus, and around them clicked glasses and thumps of well-drunk whiskey. Please, Westlie wanted to whisper. Please. I’ll be better. I’m afraid. I’ve never done this before.

After several minutes that felt like hours, Fitzroy straightened up, his face relaxed of scrutiny. Please. “During my last trip, I encountered some... situations that lost me my first mate. If that’s acceptable to you, it will require navigating, along with regular maintenance duties and oversight of most ship functions, as well as keeping track of the cargo - although I’ll help with those duties. It pays standard. But I do warn you,” his gaze sharpened, and she could read past it into the distrust of her name. “it’s not easy.”

“I’ll learn anything.” Westlie leaned forward into the challenge, somewhat forgetting not to act desperate; the iciness thawed a little in hope. Her current self found a slight offense in that Fitzroy thought she had just been lounging around the Faire household her whole life. “I learn quickly- sir.”

“Then I don’t see why this won’t work out well for the both of us, Miss Faire.” Fitzroy tipped his cap to her as he got up, and he left without looking back, leaving Westlie overwhelmed enough she sat there for several minutes, trying to comprehend it. That was it. She had a job. She had a job. She had to pack. Holy shit she had to pack.

She possibly drank some other sucker’s shot as she walked out the door, too out of it to notice the screech of indignation behind her. Westlie could remember walking down the street trying to head back to the shop, but her mind was in a million places. She missed her turn, doubled back, missed it again, and finally decided to turn three lefts into a right. She remembered organizing things in her head, trying to ask Fitzroy when to leave, about Port Prosper, about New Winchester, when a yell caught her attention and she jerked back to reality with Mary in front of her nose waving a stack of papers, almost close enough to smack her.

Oh, that cunt.

“What? I’m on my way back to the shop. You had to accost me?”

“Says the one who apparently can’t see in front of her nose. Hello. I need these by tomorrow! Arthur needs to sign and date them before they go to the ministry. You know it’s the 24th.”

“Oh really. I hadn’t checked.” I hate you so much.

“Of course you didn’t. You never check.” Mary scoffed, pulling out a tin of rouge and looking down to pat her cheeks. “I have to tell you every month and every month it’s ‘Yes, Mary’, ‘I’ll remember, Mary’, ‘Stop reminding me, Mary’. If you just did them the night before I wouldn’t have to worry about it and you wouldn’t cause your father so much trouble.” Westlie had possibly never hated anyone more than at that moment. ... a lie, but stars it felt true right then.

Instead of fucking decking her stupid face and goddamn fucking rouge tin Westlie settled for snatching the paperwork from under her arm. “Have a good evening, Mary.”

Mary scoffed in her direction as Westlie beelined away. “Do it on time next time!”

Westlie came so close to shouting ‘Saucy cunt!’ in the middle of a busy street she bit her tongue, but coincidentally the anger was back, and it burned an enthusiastic hole in her heart. She was so close. Current-Westlie closed her eyes, remembering the taste of victory as she tossed the paperwork on a shelf for Mary to find unfinished the next day. What had changed? She was more than victorious now, she was free. Why did that feel so hollow now?

Maybe it was Fitzroy’s piercing gaze that looked right through you. He’d obviously disliked Arthur, even though he’d traded a shipment of hours with them a month before and Westlie could remember him very occasionally coming through once every few years or so. Maybe it was her fear? Why? Why would he hire her anyway? Who wanted a first mate who could barely answer why she wanted to leave?

Westlie groaned and buried her head in her arms. She stayed like that for a moment before absently digging through her bun to pull out the hairpins and run her hands through it. She was so fucked. She was more than fucked. She’d always been alone, but this-

Fuck. That feeling was loneliness wasn’t it.

Westlie closed The Navigator’s Handbook and slid it away to the other side of the desk so she could mope in peace. She’d always been alone, she knew that. If she had problems, she generally had to solve them. Occasionally Morgan offered helpful suggestions, or soon after the problem just went missing (??) That was it though; she never had time for friends. Arthur was a prick, Relia was useless. The secretaries were increasingly young and increasingly insufferable as Westlie got older. It was the same now, she just didn’t even have Morgan. Every inch she gained she scraped for. Every injustice she had to fight through. Why was she lonely now?

Westlie looked up out the window and tried to stop thinking and just forget. The turquoise hue had turned a soft purple and the wind had grown stronger. The engine hummed. Without thinking Westlie started putting her hair back, pulling it away from her face like she was used to. When had she started to wear her hair back anyway? She couldn’t actually remember. Morgan always wore it down; it was part of her ‘fuck authority’ phase and she just never grew out of it. But then again, she looked good with a braid. Westlie just couldn’t imagine it not being up.

Sighing, she dismissed all her thoughts, pushed the last pin in, and reached over to pull the handbook back in front her. Review. One more time. Prosper to Titania.

-=-

She woke up drenched in sweat again but not near-screaming at least. Westlie threw off the covers, panting at how hot the fucking bed, the air, the room was. Fuck it was so hot. How hadn’t they all suffocated in their sleep? It felt like hours until she was cool enough to crawl back under the covers. When she finally did, she was so tired she fell asleep within five minutes and this time it was dreamless.

-=-

Westlie lurked in the cab again as they approached the Albion Relay. The Captain was a begrudging man, but thanks to her previous payment, he didn’t comment. She noted the dials as they approached, watching the Navigator swing them closer to the giant steel beams and rotund, threatening-looking encasings of stone; the hissing and clicking of the dock as it enclosed about them. He was quite skillful. Westlie took notes at the side thrusts of the engine, the subtle swings as he brought them in line. It all depended on the weight of the cargo, the engine power, the ship. Good things to know.

She considered asking the Captain how much cargo they had in the hold and thought better of it.

Getting through the relay was painless. Almost too easy. Westlie watched the Navigator until he seemed to be getting nervous from her stares, and they approached close enough to Port Prosper to warrant her making sure her books were sequestered away. That was simple though, she didn’t have many, and so she waited on her bunk, staring again at The Properties of Bioluminescence in Agaricomycetes. Thank the stars she wasn’t bored enough to read that though.

Once they docked, a burly fellow from the crew was tasked to carry her trunk. She took a hotel recommendation from the Captain and then she was on the docks. She found herself glancing between the engines, hoping to get a glance of the Pyrrhus, but she didn’t see it, and soon her and her trunk were deposited in the middle of The Humble Shroom’s lobby. The woman at the counter was a prick. The footman was not, however, and she tipped him several pennies.

By the time Westlie was in her room and half-settled she was desperate to sleep but she was coherent enough to scribble a short note to Fitzroy:

                  Captain Fitzroy,

         [Westlie hesitated over the short opening, considered starting again, checked herself, and left it.] I’ve just arrived in Port Prosper and remain settled until your arrival at the Humble Shroom. I’m looking forward to meeting again [Was that proper??? They’d already met???] and assisting with departure at your convenience.

                 Warm regards,

                 Westlie Faire, [She hesitated again.] First Mate

That was polite and informative, wasn’t it? Westlie internally panicked for the next five minutes, stared at it for another five, then gave up, folded it, and requested one of the hotel messengers to keep an eye on the docks and deliver it when applicable. Then she slept.

-=-

When Westlie woke up the next morning, it was like breathing perfume; no dreams, no crying, just sleep. A soft green light shown in from the edges of the window, and she could hear the city humming to life around her. Someone, somewhere down the street was playing a fiddle. Westlie rolled over and cuddled her pillow, allowing herself the luxury of a warm, contented smile on her face. Maybe she’d died and gone to heaven. Seemed possible. She drifted off to sleep again for a few more minutes, pulling awake slowly as the light shining around the corners of the curtain grew stronger.

Maybe there was a library in Prosper somewhere; she could read until Fitzroy summoned her. She found herself smiling sleepily, thoughtfully as she settled in front of the vanity with a comb and paid more attention to her hair than she had in a few months. It went slowly - and painfully - but after a few hundred strokes Westlie could actually say it was managed. She felt a little like a child playing dress-up as she pulled it over her shoulder and put on her cap. The hat sunk far lower over her eyes than normal - not propped up by the bun. She was usually tugging it down, forcing strands of hair to stay tucked within it. Westlie rolled her eyes at herself and tossed it off, leaning back in the chair and sinking into its deepest recesses, smiling.

Maybe later she’d worry about studying; maybe later memories would come back unbidden but right now- now this was bliss. She almost fell asleep again slouched in the chair but got jerked back to reality by a knock on the door. “Breakfast!”

Oh right, there was breakfast downstairs. “Thank you!”

The footman was already moving down the hall, giving quick little knocks and getting varied responses. Westlie was pretty sure there was a grumbled ‘fuck you!’ mixed in somewhere.

Did she want breakfast? She stared at her slumped figure in the mirror, hair cascading. No, she’d grab something later. Westlie cocked her head noting each movement. Morgan usually described her eyes as ‘sharp’; they were quick and biting. “You’ll kill me with that stare, Wes.” Westlie rolled her eyes because Morgan didn’t hesitate, just threw her arms around her neck with a grin. “We need to celebrate! Let’s go to the pub.”

Westlie smiled at the ensuing drunken memory and focused back on her eyes. They weren’t biting at all now, they were soft and warm. Her mouth barely remembered what smiling felt like, but now there was a gentle sparkle and Westlie grinned back at her reflection. Funny how it felt like her face, but it seemed so different at the same time; it was like seeing a familiar strnager. She straightened in the chair, moving out of habit to pull her hair up and Westlie found herself watching the mirror, arms frozen, hesitating. She wasn’t going to the shop today. God forbid she ever set foot in that hellhole again. If... if she wanted- Westlie spelled out her thoughts carefully, slowly placing the comb on the table and watching her reflection like it would start moving without her- she could do whatever she wanted. She was a skyfarer now.

Westlie stared at herself.

She did have a sewing kit in her personals. The thought of sawing off thick hair with tiny thread scissors might have horrified anyone with any sort of sense but Westlie pulled them out like a sword. Plopping back by the vanity, she took a deep breath, and stabbed them shut somewhere close to mid-neck. Half a curl of red hair fell into her lap. Westlie tightened her mouth in to a thin line, took another breath and kept slicing. It felt like hours and her fingers ached when she was actually done. She found herself trying to even out both sides so her hair ended up more by her chin than mid-neck, but fuck it. She stared at the ensuing result in the mirror.

It framed her face; she could give it that. Her eyes were deep and earnest, mouth set in a firm, straight line. She looked like she’d just sawed off a limb.

Which, technically, she kind of had.

A deep pang of fear hit her and Westlie pointedly started sweeping up the bits of curls rather than look at the massacre she’d just wrought on her head. Thankfully most of the hair fell on the chair; it was easy to gather, and the other bits were small enough they weren’t noticeable, or luckily, blended with the carpet. She wondered if she should have made a wig as she threw two good handfuls in the garbage bin. Still looking away, Westlie got dressed, sticking to her routine as best she could with her hair slipping and falling into her eyes. New habits, she tried to mumble to herself. New job, new life, new habits. Don’t piss anyone off, don’t boil over. ...New habits.

She buttoned her vest, tempted, but terrified to look in the mirror again. She repeated the mantra, tucking her hair behind her ears and willing it to stay in place. After adjusting her collar for the third time she finally felt at loss as she finished dressing. She knew smashing the habit would ache; that was why she wanted it gone. This was going to be New Westlie who didn’t work for Fairweather, who didn’t give a shit if her hair was supposed to be up or down. It had to be this way - for her own good. New Westlie also knew how to work through fear, Westlie told herself, and she could stare at her own goddamn face. New Westlie stalked over to the vanity and stared intently at her reflection before she could be a little bitch about it.

Frizzy red hair stared back, awkwardly parted to the side - probably the result of her trying to keep it out of her eyes while doing up her boots - and determined eyes. It’s a new life, Westlie reminded herself, taking in a breath. You are First Officer Westlie Faire, you have nobody, you rely on nobody. You work hard. You need to repay Fitzroy.

She took a breath, closing her eyes and gently pushing away the sting of loneliness lurking at those words. It was easier than she expected.

You are First Officer Westlie Faire. Her reflection stared back at her, more earnest now, believing it. She willed herself to take it all in, to swallow it, believe it; leave everything else behind. She had to accept the loneliness. Nobody loves you. You can’t rely on anyone. You have nobody; you are nobody. You have a temper at the worst times and can't speak when you need to.

But you do finish things. New Westlie bit her lip, trying to reassure her reflection. She swept a few stray stubs of hair to the floor. You... are determined. You are brave. You will do what it takes to get the job done. You will not give up. Fitzroy... She hesitated, almost biting her tongue as she wondered if the pep talk had gone too far and she was shamelessly puffing herself up. New Westlie placed those thoughts aside. Maybe she didn't deserve it. But she could pretend for now; she'd earn it. ...Fitzroy made the right decision. 

She stared back at the mirror. The eyes were haunted and afraid, but resolute; that was the look Westlie was used to seeing in them and her reflection felt more familiar. Fitzroy had definitely made the wrong decision. She was talking to a goddamn mirror. Westlie got the urge to laugh. She faced herself again, less haunted, more resolute.

You are First Officer Westlie Faire. New Westlie took a deep breath and tried to pour every ounce of positive insistence she could into the message. You have nobody, but you are determined. You will never have anybody, but you are persistent. You will learn, and you will overcome. You can prove anything you set your mind to. Nobody can stop you. Fitzroy made the right decision.

She was going to be alright. She'd make it work.

Westlie slipped a pen into her pocket, took one last glance at the vanity, and struck out to find the library.

[gracchisuggestions]

Adventuring safety with Nestor.

(On the next episode -

Nestor: You need to be very careful about showing respect to the gods.

Pyrrhus: I’m mature enough to handle myself, thanks.

Pyrrhus: Anyway, there’s an old man I’m gonna shank on Zeus’s altar.)

(Original post)

[kemetic-dreams]

An early African American In Japan, but first he was not the first person of African heritage , that history goes back Centuries earlier, by folks like Yasuke the African Samurai, however Mr Pyrrhus Concer’s story is interesting in its own right, Maybe because I’m also an ex-sailor ..Navy to be exact who live in Japan I can identify with him.

The historical marker at 51 Pond Lane, where all that remains of the Pyrrhus Concer Homestead is the worn-down pool house (far left)

So who is Pyrrhus Concer, and what makes his life interesting.

Pyrrhus Concer was born on March 17, 1814 to an enslaved mother, Violet; following her status, he too became the property (whether technically a slave or an indentured servant) of his mother’s owner Captain Nathan Cooper in Southampton. Subsequently, Concer was sold to Mr. Elias Pelletreau II for the sum of $25.00. Five years old at the time of his sale, Concer had no choice regarding his transfer, leaving his mother behind when he was still a young child. Even after slavery ended in 1826, Pyrrhus Concer apparently remained in the Pelletreau household until he was about 26 years old.

After working as a farm hand, Concer shipped out on a whaling vessel, like many young Long Island men. He advanced from a green hand in 1832 to pilot, eleven years later, of the whaleship Manhattan. In 1845, he had his most notable maritime adventure when he and his shipmates rescued some shipwrecked Japanese sailors. The Manhattan, with Concer aboard, delivered the Japanese sailors back to their native land–then a closed society. By spending long periods working at sea, Concer was able to improve his economic situation back home.

[iamthepulta]

@thesarahsupreme @nicktosaurus @lettuce-shoes

Seggesting a character might be ace.

[doevademe]

Hey So I'm a reader from your Ours is Victory Fanfic And I was just wondering how you got the Idea?

Hey there! The idea actually came about because I had two plots for two different fics that both were going nowhere that I decided to mix together. Further details just sort of fell into place as I outlined it.

The first idea was a fic about badass Roman warrior Nico, who owes his position to Octavian, meeting Percy and going on the quest with the seven instead of Hazel (since Nico wants to keep her safe with the Legion). Nico would have had a pseudo-romantic, abusive relationship with Octavian, and it would have been contrasted with his growing, more sincere feelings to Percy. This one fell apart because I wasn't feeling the characters. Percy lacked the motives to grow closer to Nico, and Nico seemed to just go to point A to point B because the plot demanded it.

The other idea was Nico having a blessing from Nike. This one came about because I investigated Nico's name meaning and found out it came from the goddess of victory. The plot was bare bones, with the only concrete idea being Percy becoming Nico's "champion" a la Seiya and Saori from Saint Seiya, but overall it was pretty plotless.

My research led led me to the story of the Ara Victoriae, its centerpiece being a Greek statue of Nike taken by the original Octavian/Emperor Augustus from Pyrrhus. I immediately started writing Nike blessing Nico in Badass Roman Nico's place, and things started falling into place. Halfway through the outlining of the first arc I decided I wanted an original adventure that made use of Nico's new abilities for the AU instead of the usual quest to stop Gaia and the Giants that everyone follows.

And that's how Ours is the Victory was born.

[basingstokemercury]

Okay but an adventuring party consisting entirely of the women from murder ballads. You've already got the Lily of the West and she of the Long Black Veil. I bet Wicked Felina from El Paso would make a great Sorcerer build

Oh, I built that (well not all murder ballads)!

Snow and Vicori are joined by centaur barbarian Pyrrhus Firshade (lover from The Unquiet Grave), tiefling rogue Sierra Silverwood (protagonist of Rake And A Rambling Boy), and human wizard Chiyo Flowerfall (protagonist of Careless Love, Michael Landon version).

Also elf artificer Francis Seabreeze, a talented engineer who left home for her career but realised she'd gotten financial success at the expense of losing her family. I couldn't fit a song that fit her story so I'll have to write one.

[1800duckhotline]

honestly the way i want marzanna&pyrrhus's story/setting to feel like is like, a world built similarly to how extensively built a ttrpg/dnd world would be. but it plays like an old school interactive visual novel like, kind of one of those weird king's quest adventure games, but with more dialogue. patho vibes but not as much dread and more whimsy (which doesn't mean less conflict) and in general its like, yes, magic is real. yes, supernatural creatures are real too. humans also have a special organ in their body also that is linked to their soul- that sort of shit. partially because if i ever do get to DM some sort of game or something it'd be fun to play it in a setting like this where there is a bizarre variety of personalities as "npcs"

[andessence]

@ofprevioustimes // continued.

She had been distracted before he spoke, sitting up on a pile of cushions beside a basket full of flowers that she’d picked from the garden in the morning - with which she wove a colorful garland of wildflowers. The maids served her a variety of fruits and occasionally refilled her cup with sweet wine. From time to time she stopped the work to pick a grape or take a sip. The servants were the first to notice when he addressed her, whilst Hermione’s eyes were focused on the little craft between her fingers. As soon as his voice caught her attention, she quickly she lifted her gaze to look at him and flashed him a delicate, girlish smile in response to his question, a brief lift of her eyebrows denoting a pleasant surprise. Every visit paid to her chambers was an opportunity. A chance to make herself appear gracious for him: her entire future in this kingdom relied on the success of these attempts. It was always uncertain whether or not he would come, so she always made sure to keep herself pretty for the possibility of his company, with golden jewelry hanging from her neck and her ears, garnishing her hair and surrounding her arms and wrists.

Hermione rose lazily from her seat, placing the garland atop her head before she walked towards her husband, keeping that half-grin on her lips that was both coy and flirtatious, contrary to the usual public displays of demure. “You could take me hunting”, she muttered whimsically. Her hands reached for his own: she held them firmly as if to emphasize the request, her thumbs brushing over his knuckles with an almost childish excitement. As she’d expected, the women of Epirus had different habits. Life had seemed more active, more adventurous back in Sparta - elsewhere, most of the fun was reserved for men only. This gave her a constant sense of tediousness, whilst she kept herself occupied mostly with weaving and waiting for his company. “Please?”, she asked, kissing his cheek, “I think it would be fun.”

“Take you hunting?” Pyrrhus let his hands be taken and held but regarded Hermione with a bemused look at the suggestion. His wife, bedecked and draped in her fineries, the picture of idle, womanly elegance only a moment ago as she drew another grape to her lips, wanted to join him for a hunt! The dissonance was palpable to him, and reminded him that her air of delicacy was nothing but another bauble with which she adorned herself, usually for his benefit. He remarked often to himself that he was glad for the quiet, demure image she maintained in front of others — it made things simple, and he could play his part more easily when she played hers too. However it was when, secure in his confidence, she let herself be playful and just a bit daring, that Pyrrhus was moved to acknowledge that in addition to being his wife, Hermione was also a person. In these moments he had the impression that there was a chance they might end up FRIENDS, really, truly, beneath the formalities of their marriage. 

“My wife, the Spartan,” he ribbed gently. And so what if he indulged it? Was not Artemis a woman herself and yet endeared to the hunt? The truth was that he was glad she expressed interested in something he could understand, and that he wouldn’t spend another visit to her rooms — already too infrequent — asking about crafts he doesn’t care for, sharing news he doesn’t pay attention to, or (rarer still) fumbling for something like closeness in the fine sheets of her bed. Hunting, hunting he could manage to enjoy. And so his humored expression feigned to weigh the options. “As you like it. I’ll have the dogs brought ‘round then.”  His hands shifted to grasp hers in return and squeeze. “Come to think of it, we’ll make it a day.” He gestured to one of the servants that lingered at the edge of the room and instructed her to tell the cook a picnic spread was to be prepared immediately for the departing couple. Turning back to Hermione, his voice lost the severity of an order. “And will you change then?”

[trvgcdiv]

* hermione: prince of sparta.

basic ass profile series.

portrayal notes.

Portrayal blithely ignores myth canon and is based on Vibes Only.

Pulls from blog headcanon; Greek myth based & Mexican culture influenced.

Portrayal involves transmasculine Hermione and parental abandonment

Interested in exploring the relationship between gender, gender roles, and queerness.

Secondary, Epic Cycle. Verses include (but not limited to) myth canon, myth AU, and modern.

basics.

Hermione of Sparta Princess of Sparta, Princess of Phthia Spartan / Laconian / Aegan —of white and Indigenous Mexican heritage in non myth verses Epic Cycle

appearance.

Hermione is oft accused of being less beautiful than his mother, though in truth few compare to their mother’s beauty. 

What bothers Hermione most is how much he looks like a perfect combination of both his parents: a living reminder of their union. Everything, from their features to their coloring, meets at the center of the two of them. 

This means wavy auburn hair, hazel eyes, and features that are at once too harsh for a “woman” and too delicate or seductive for a “man”

relationships.

Divine Heritage: Zeus, Nemesis Notable Ancestors: Tantalus, Pelops, Atreus Parents: Menelaos & Helen Siblings: TBA. Spouses: Neoptolemus (Pyrrhus)

personality.

TL;DR version, because it’s COLD and im TIRED:

mommy and daddy issues, BOGO 

lack of men/youths due to 10 year war >> Sparta is more genderfucky than usual >> Hermione was encouraged to fulfill a more masculine role and flourished there

Adventurous, rough and tumble; not just used to being Heard and Listened To, but Leading and Being Followed. 

Can be Broody(TM), but generally will keep negative emotions at a simmer... unless they’re backed into a corner/very triggered/etc. and then he’ll be YELLY SHOUTY FIGHTY

need to know.

Hermione is bisexual, transmasculine, and nonbinary, though he never thought too deeply about gender until he married Pyrrhus and was forced into a more traditionally (non-Spartan) feminine role. 

Updated pronoun hc. TL;DR I’m very flexible just please don’t be, like, OOC transphobic. 

Doesn’t really have body-related gender dysphoria in general, but it will develop if he, unfortunately, becomes pregnant. 

[phoibos-okeanos]

The man who wanted to be Alexander The Great of the West. Pyrrhus of Epirus. Brave, Clever, Warrior and the greatest adventurer of antiquity.