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silvokrent · 4 years ago

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RWBY Character Analysis: Pietro and Penny Polendina

Up until now I’ve been keeping quiet about my opinions on the newest volume, in no small part because my personal life has been one absurd setback after another, and I haven’t had the energy to engage in fandom meta. If you do want to know what my current opinion of RWBY is, go over to @itsclydebitches blog, search through her #rwby-recaps tag, and read every single one. At this point, her metas are basically an itemized list of all my grievances with the show. I highly recommend you check ’em out.

Or, if you don’t feel like reading several hours’ worth of recaps, then go find a sheet of paper, give yourself a papercut, and then squeeze a lemon into it. That should give you an accurate impression of my feelings.

In truth, I have a lot to say about the show, particularly how I think CRWBY has mishandled the plot, characters, tone, and intended message of their series. And while I enjoy dissecting RWBY with what amounts to mad scientist levels of glee, I think plenty of other folks have already discussed V7′s and V8′s various issues in greater depth and with far more eloquence. Any contribution I could theoretically make at this point would be somewhat redundant.

That being said, I’d like to talk about something that’s been bothering me for a while, which (to my knowledge) no one else in the fandom has brought up. (And feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.)

Today’s topic of concern is Pietro Polendina, and his relationship with Penny.

And because I’m absolutely certain this post is going to be controversial and summon anonymous armchair critics to fill my inbox with sweary claptrap, I may as well just come out and say it:

Pietro Polendina, as he’s currently portrayed in the show, is an inherently abusive parental figure.

Let me take a second to clarify that I don’t think it was RWBY’s intention to portray Pietro that way. Much like other aspects of the show, a lot of nuance is often lost when discussing the difference between intention versus implementation, or telling versus showing. It’s what happens when a writer tries to characterize a person one way, but in execution portrays them in an entirely different light. Compounding this problem is what feels like a series of rather myopic writing decisions that started as early as Volume 2, concerning Penny’s sense of agency, and how the canon would bear out the implications of an autonomous being grappling with her identity. It’s infuriating that the show has spent seven seasons staunchly refusing to ask any sort of ethical questions surrounding her existence, only to then—with minimal setup—give us Pietro’s “heartfelt” emotional breakdown when he has to choose between “saving” Penny or “sacrificing” her for the greater good.

Yeah, no thanks.

If we want to talk about why this moment read as hollow and insincere, we need to first make sure everyone’s on the same page.

Spoilers for V8.E5 - “Amity.” Let’s not waste any time.

In light of the newest episode and its—shall we say—questionable implications, I figured now was the best time to bring it up while the thoughts were still fresh in my mind. (Because nothing generates momentum quite like frothing-at-the-mouth rage.)

The first time we’re told anything about Pietro, it comes from an exchange between Penny and Ruby. From V2.E2 - “A Minor Hiccup.”

Penny: I've never been to another kingdom before. My father asked me not to venture out too far, but... You have to understand, my father loves me very much. He just worries a lot.

Ruby: Believe me, I know the feeling. But why not let us know you were okay?

Penny: I…was asked not to talk to you. Or Weiss. Or Blake. Or Yang. Anybody, really.

Ruby: Was your dad that upset?

Penny: No, it wasn’t my father.

The scene immediately diverts our attention to a public unveiling of the AK-200. A hologram of James Ironwood is presenting this newest model of Atlesian Knight to a crowd of enthusiastic spectators, along with the Atlesian Paladin, a piloted mech. During the demonstration, James informs his audience that Atlas’ military created them with the intent of removing people from the battlefield and mitigating casualties (presumably against Grimm).

Penny is quickly spotted by several soldiers, and flees. Ruby follows, and in the process the two are nearly hit by a truck. Penny’s display of strength draws a crowd and prompts her to retreat into an alley, where Ruby learns that Penny isn’t “a real girl.”

This scene continues in the next episode, “Painting the Town…”

Penny: Most girls are born, but I was made. I’m the world’s first synthetic person capable of generating an Aura. [Averts her gaze.] I’m not real…

After Ruby assures her that no, you don’t have to be organic in order to have personhood, Penny proceeds to hug her with slightly more force than necessary.

Ruby: [Muffled noise of pain.] I can see why your father would want to protect such a delicate flower!

Penny: [Releases Ruby.] Oh, he’s very sweet! My father’s the one that built me! I’m sure you would love him.

Ruby: Wow. He built you all by himself?

Penny: Well, almost! He had some help from Mr. Ironwood.

Ruby: The general? Wait, is that why those soldiers were after you?

Penny: They like to protect me, too!

Ruby: They don't think you can protect yourself?

Penny: They're not sure if I'm ready yet. One day, it will be my job to save the world, but I still have a lot left to learn. That's why my father let me come to the Vytal Festival. I want to see what it's like in the rest of the world, and test myself in the Tournament.

Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of the approaching soldiers from earlier. Despite Ruby’s protests, Penny proceeds to yeet her into the nearby dumpster, all while reassuring her that it’s to keep Ruby out of trouble, not her. When the soldiers arrive, they ask her if she’s okay, then proceed to lightly scold her for causing a scene. Penny’s told that her father “isn’t going to be happy about this,” and is then politely asked (not ordered; asked) to let them escort her back.

Let’s take a second to break down these events.

When these two episodes first aired, the wording and visuals (“No, it wasn’t my father,” followed by the cutaway to James unveiling the automatons) implied that James was the one forbidding her from interacting with other people. It’s supposed to make you think that James is being restrictive and harsh, while Pietro is meant as a foil—the sweet, but cautious father figure. But here’s the thing: both of these depictions are inaccurate, and frankly, Penny’s the one at fault here. Penny blew her cover within minutes of interacting with Ruby—a scenario that Penny was responsible for because she was sneaking off without permission. Penny is a classified, top-secret military project, as made clear by the fact that she begs Ruby to not say anything to anyone. Penny is in full acknowledgement that her existence, if made public, could cause massive issues for her (something that she’s clearly experienced before, if her line, “You’re taking this extraordinarily well,” is anything to go by).

But here’s the thing—keeping Penny on a short leash wasn’t a unilateral decision made by James. That was Pietro’s choice as well. “My father asked me not to venture out too far,” “Your father isn’t going to be happy about this”—as much as this scene is desperately trying to put the onus on James for Penny’s truant behavior, Pietro canonically shares that blame. And Penny (to some extent) is in recognition of the fact that she did something wrong.

Back in Volumes 1 – 3, before the series butchered James’ characterization, these moments were meant as pretty clever examples of foreshadowing and subverting the controlling-military-general trope. This scene is meant to illustrate that yes, Penny is craving social interaction outside of military personnel as a consequence of being hidden, but that hiding her is also a necessity. It’s a complicated situation with no easy answer, but it’s also something of a necessary evil (as Penny’s close call with the truck and her disclosing that intel to Ruby are anything to go by).

Let’s skip ahead to Volume 7, shortly after Watts tampered with the drone footage and framed her for several deaths. In V7.E7 - “Worst Case Scenario,” a newscaster informs us that people in Atlas and Mantle want Penny to be deactivated, despite James’ insistence that the footage was doctored and Penny didn’t go on a killing spree. The public’s unfavorable opinion of Penny—a sentiment that Jacques of all people embodies when he brings it up in V7.E8—reinforces V2’s assessment of why keeping her secret was necessary. Not only is her existence controversial because Aura research is still taboo, but people are afraid that a mechanical person with military-grade hardware could be hacked and weaponized against them. (Something which Volume 8 actually validates when James has Watts take control of her in the most recent episode.)

But I digress.

We’re taken to Pietro’s lab, where Penny is hooked up to some sort of recharge/docking station. Ruby, Weiss, and Maria look on in concern while the machine is uploading the visual data from her systems. There’s one part of their conversation I want to focus on in particular:

Pietro: When the general first challenged us to find the next breakthrough in defense technology, most of my colleagues pursued more obvious choices. I was one of the few who believed in looking inward for inspiration.

Ruby: You wanted a protector with a soul.

Pietro: I did. And when General Ironwood saw her, he did too. Much to my surprise, the Penny Project was chosen over all the other proposals.

Allow me to break down their conversation so we can fully appreciate what he’s actually saying.

The Penny Project was picked as the candidate for the next breakthrough in defense technology.

Pietro wanted a protector with a SOUL.

In RWBY, Aura and souls are one of the defining characteristics of personhood. Personhood is central to Penny’s identity and internal conflict (particularly when we consider that she’s based on Pinocchio). That’s why Penny accepts Ruby’s reassurances that she’s a real person. That’s why she wants to have emotional connections with others.

What makes that revelation disturbing is when you realize that Pietro knowingly created a child soldier.

Look, there’s no getting around this. Pietro fully admits that he wanted to create a person—a human being—a fucking child—as a "defense technology” to throw at the Grimm (and by extension, Salem). Everything, from the language he uses, to the mere fact that he entered Penny in the Vytal Tournament as a proving ground where she could “test [her]self,” tells us that he either didn’t consider or didn’t care about the implications behind his proposal.

When you break it all down, this is what we end up with:

“Hey, I have an idea: Why don’t we make a person, cram as many weapons as we can fit into that person, and then inform her every day for the rest of her life that she was built for the sole purpose of fighting monsters, just so we don’t have to risk the lives of others. Let’s then take away anything remotely resembling autonomy, minimize her interactions with people, and basically indoctrinate her into thinking that this is something she wants for herself. Oh, and in case she starts to raise objections, remind her that I donated part of my soul to her. If we make her feel guilty about this generous sacrifice I made so she could have the privilege of existing, she won’t question our motives. Next, let’s give her a taste of freedom by having her fight in a gladiatorial blood sport so that we can prove our child soldier is an effective killer. And then, after she’s brutally murdered on international television, we can rebuild her and assign her to protecting an entire city that’s inherently prejudiced against her, all while I brood in my lab about how sad I am.”

Holy fuck. Watts might be a morally bankrupt asshole, but at least his proposal didn’t hinge on manufacturing state-of-the-art living weapons. They should have just gone with his idea.

(Which, hilariously enough, they did. Watts is the inventor of the Paladins—Paladins which, I’ll remind you, were invented so the army could remove people from the battlefield. You know, people. Kind of like what Penny is.)

Do you see why this entire scene might have pissed me off? Even if the show didn’t intend for any of this to be the case, when you think critically about the circumstances there’s no denying the tacit implications.

To reiterate, V8.E5 is the episode where Pietro says, and I quote:

“I don’t care about the big picture! I care about my daughter! I lost you before. Are you asking me to go through that again? No. I want the chance to watch you live your life.”

Oh, yeah? And what life is that? The one where she’s supposed to kill Grimm and literally nothing else? You do realize that she died specifically because you made her for the purpose of fighting, right?

No one, literally no one, was holding a gun to Pietro’s head and telling him that he had to build a living weapon. That was his idea. He chose to do that.

Remember when Cinder said, “I don’t serve anyone! And you wouldn’t either, if you weren’t built that way.” She…basically has a point. Penny has never been given the option to explore the world in a capacity where she wasn’t charged with defending it by her father. We know she doesn’t have many friends, courtesy of Ironwood dissuading her against it in V7. But I’m left with the troubling realization that the show (and the fandom), in their crusade to vilify James, are ignoring the fact that Pietro is also complicit in this behavior by virtue of being her creator. If we condemn the man that prevents Penny from having relationships, then what will we do to the man who forced her into that existence in the first place?

Being her “father” has given him a free pass to overlook the ethics of having a child who was created with a pre-planned purpose. How the hell did the show intend for Pietro to reconcile “I want you to live your life” with “I created you so you’d spend your life defending the world”? It viscerally reminds me of the sort of narcissistic parents who have kids because they want to pass on the family name, or continue their bloodline, or have live-in caregivers when they get older, only on a larger and much more horrific scale. And that’s fucked up.

Now, I’m not saying I’m against having a conflict like this in the show. In fact, I’d love to have a character who has to grapple with her own humanity while questioning the environment she grew up in. Penny is a character who is extremely fascinating because of all the potential she represents—a young woman who through a chance encounter befriends a group of strangers, and over time, is exposed to freedoms and friendships she was previously denied. Slowly, she begins to unlearn the mindset she was indoctrinated with, and starts to petition for agency and autonomy. Pietro is forced to confront the fact that what he did was traumatic and cruel, and that his love for her doesn’t erase the harm he unintentionally subjected her to, nor does it change the fact that he knowingly burdened a person with a responsibility she never consented to. There’s a wealth of character growth and narrative payoff buried here, but like most things in RWBY, it was either underdeveloped or not thought through all the way.

The wholesome father-daughter relationship the show wants Pietro and Penny to have is fundamentally contradicted by the nature of her existence, and the fact that no one (besides the villains) calls attention to it. I’d love for them to have that sort of dynamic, but the show had to do more to earn it. Instead, it’ll forever be another item on RWBY’s ever-growing list of disappointments—

Because Pietro’s remorse is more artificial than Penny could ever hope to be.

#rwby #rwby volume 8 #rwby spoilers #rwby thought dump #my posts #i speak #rwby meta #pietro polendina #penny polendina #james ironwood #arthur watts #ruby rose #rwby worldbuilding #rwde

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avehi-the-adamant · 4 years ago

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Are We Dead Yet? Pt. I - Piercing the Veil

[[ Co-written with @sylaess & @kidcatgemini ]]

~*~

The summons came for all of them.

Every single Knight of Acherus could hear that call, knew that call. It wasn’t one you fucked around with.

They stood in ranks, watching the portal open. Waiting. Somehow, they were going to help. The icy winds atop Icecrown snatched at cloaks and fur-trimmed armor alike. Stole the wispy breath of the living and tossed it to the glacier beyond. A very solemn time.

A very anxious time.

They filed through. Rank by rank.

It took forever, in Sylaess’s humble opinion. All for a bloody portal. To the deadlands. Shadowlands. Syl hated portals. They always fucked her up. She cut a glance to see if she could spot Avehi one more time. Had tried to get into formation with her, but who knew if they were still near each other? There had been so much shuffling about.

The rank before her moved up. Started popping through, one by one. So the rumors were true, then. Bolvar had had his ass handed to him by Sylvannas. And then she messed everything up. Again. Sylaess was careful to keep herself still, steady, and cool. At least outwardly. It was tiresome. But she did an excellent job of that mask.

Sigh.

Syl stepped forward unthinkingly. Just muscle memory in the line, headed into the portal. The less she thought of the insanity she was about to partake in, the easier it got.

That was a bold-faced lie, but she was grasping every thin thread to keep herself from launching off the side of Icecrown instead of into the afterlife. Both options sucked, to be fair.

Took a breath, hands on her swords hilts like they were a lifeline. Stepped through the blue-black mass of magic that would lead her to the exact place she’d been avoiding all these damned years. Literally.

Tried not to scream.

The Maw was unchanged from when Avehi was here last-- but it was still an entirely new experience. Before, merely a fragment of her consciousness could wander freely through the desolate wastes beyond the veil. Now, she was here wholly, fully… with no guarantee of any way out again. Her body never felt more cumbersome, reminiscent of when she was first risen. That bitter, ashen taste. The way the air felt so thin and yet stifling at the same time. The amber skyline was piercing, a burning contrast to the somber grey dust beneath her hooves. Immediately, the wailings of the damned assaulted her ears, in a symphony of suffering. This was no place for a mortal.

Thankfully, she wasn’t one.

Foolishly, however, she’d brought two along with her. She looked back to her companions; imposters, both adorned in Ebon Blade recruit armor. Argonas’ barely fit over his muscular physique. An oversight on her part-- she should’ve procured a Tauren-sized set for him, just in case. Raetos’, however, fit just fine. Though his brighter skin tone betrayed his Light-suffused body beneath the dark Ebon plating. Both of them would’ve been easy enough to pick out… if anyone were looking hard enough. Too focused on Bolvar, Avehi presumed. She wasn’t sure about the Highlord. Helm or no helm, it was hard for her to reconcile how she felt about the presence that had set up shop in the back of her mind since the fall of Arthas Menethil. Familiarity, yes. But overwhelming distrust trumped it. Like an estranged brother.

She put it from her mind, for now, attention back on Argonas and Raetos.

“Muster your senses.” she instructed. “We must move-- quickly!”

Argonas did just that; he was much more prepared for the terror this place instilled in the depths of the soul than Raetos was. Having died somewhat recently, he was already accustomed to this place, and the heavy draw that permeated the air. He expected it. Prepared for it. Shrugged it off, and moved to follow Avehi into the wastes. Somewhere here, they’d find Sinafay. And he’d make good on his promise to free her from this terrible place! That alone was all the drive he needed to suffer through.

Raetos wasn’t as fortunate. Despite all the time he’d spent on the Fel-suffused planet of Argus, it did nothing to protect him from the wave of absolute dread and hopelessness that permeated his senses.

“--Light,” he muttered under his breath, kneeling down and throwing his helmet off to bring his hands to his head.

Thankfully, his Lightforged body offered him some protection. He couldn’t imagine how much more horrible this place would be without it’s soothing properties. It took him a moment, as he waited for his senses to acclimate. When he looked up, Avehi and the others were already far ahead. He removed some of the extra pieces of plate armor Avehi had told him to wear. The atmosphere was already too heavy, and the weight of the gear was unbearable. At this point, it didn’t matter if the Ebon Blade realized they’d brought a mortal through.

Not like they could force him to go back...

Gritting his teeth, he got back on his hooves and followed after his companions. He was one step closer to finding Fable.

Sylaess’ skin felt prickly. Like someone had chopped the sides of her neck with the blade of their hand and jolted all her nerves at once. A cold sweat made her armor lining cling uncomfortably.

She wanted to vomit.

Two steps onto the other side, and she held it all back. Held her breath, too. Did a half-turn to check for an ambush and--

Came loose from herself. Drifted away from her own body.

Ah, shit. The thought was haphazard at best. A remote acceptance. The world went away.

Sylaess stiffened up like she’d been struck on the head and went over like an ominous pillar of saronite. No hand came out to break that fall. Crashed to the ground unceremoniously with a dull thud. Absolutely unresponsive for a solid moment, other than a faint tremor in her hands. Unnatural.

“I waited, nonetheless.”

He took another bite, and chewed that one too for a while. Thoughtfully. The only times Argonas was really so quiet was when he was eating or sleeping. His mouth stopped running long enough for his thoughts to get a turn. Most of his thoughts were on Sylaess, and his gaze followed them. He swallowed.

“Was it worth it?” he asked, motioning roughly over his own face where Sylaess’ exacerbated scarring was. “It looks as if you took a few hits. Did you learn anything of the truths you are seeking?”

She blinked at her hands, considering the question for a hanging moment. “...I don’t know if I feel qualified to name worth about this, but I learned enough that I...” Want to take a scalding damn bath, my friend, badly. “...want to leave. I have enough control, I feel.” No, you don’t.--

The taste of rust and dirt in her mouth. Black, watery rushing in her ears. A flicker of lights. Pushed away from the fragmented memory. Didn’t recognize much of it, anyway. Didn’t make too much sense.

And awake again.

She gave a hell of a start. Limbs felt loose, uncoordinated. Standing up felt a little clumsy. Shit, how many times was that? Sylaess tensed, willing herself to look like iron again. Hoped beyond whatever frail hope she had that most of her companions looked past that little... episode. Destarion had made sound mention of her new ailment. She had an idea of what happened, but never a full understanding. Her skull felt like it throbbed, and yet was airy all at once. It was incredibly hard to refocus.

The fragment of memory, or fictitious image was fleeing her mind already. Little snippets. Some were true, but she couldn’t tell what was real. It was harrowing to try and winnow it all out.

Truthfully, she felt like her bones were made of windchimes. Hollow.

Avehi eyed the elf, a mixture of worry and annoyance upon her countenance. The poor thing shook and wobbled like a newborn talbuk finding its legs in this treacherous place. The Draenei couldn’t fault her too terribly for it, though-- everything about this place was an affront to the senses. She was, in truth, surprised Argonas seemed to take it in such stride. But then… he’d been here before, rather recently. She examined the trio, and grunted. This was it. This was the team. With no plan to get back out, and no telling what to expect inside… they proceeded.

“Stay close.” came her only instruction; her only warning.

The Vindicators trudged forward, driven by their respective purposes. Avehi had finally made it to the other side, and took strides now in correcting this problem that had haunted her for so long. Argonas’ purpose was far more specific. Yet both moved, in a show of their shared training, keeping a close-yet-loose and wary formation. Hammers drawn and ready for the horrors the Maw would surely throw their way.

Raetos stayed further behind, both to watch their backs, and also to keep an eye on Sylaess. She was the only one in the group he didn’t know at all. She was such a tall and skinny thing, so lanky and sickly looking. And from the looks of it, she’d taken the entrance into the Maw harder than he had. He wondered how long she'd been dead, but then Avehi had made it clear that it wasn’t a question to ask a Death Knight. A sensitive subject.

Now wasn’t the time to make friends and start conversations anyway. Quite the departure from his regular self. Instead, his golden gaze scanned the rocky cliffs. Oddly enough, it wasn’t too far off from the rocky and desolate landscape that Argus had been… except Fel was replaced by… well… death and mist of some kind. So he had no issues blending and moving quietly about the area. Thankfully so, because the mist made it hard to see at a distance, and there were constant eerie screams in the background that made things difficult for his ears to pick up other sounds --not to mention the sounds of battle! It would make hunting the enemy harder for him.

He wondered if Avehi knew where she was going. She seemed to anyway… So he followed. For now.

The worst of it faded slowly. Not that the ominous air of the Maw itself was helpful in any sort of recovery.

To be fair, she’d been here before. A few times. They had to find Sinafay as fast as they could. Every second in this place was a threat to the very fabric of a soul.

She should not be here. So many should not be here. That would have to be solved later. It was a much grander scale issue.

Sylaess shook her head slightly, chasing off the thoughts before they took hold. Glanced over the rest of the party and resolved to ignore her indiscretion. Such as it would be. A brief flicker of concern for Argonas, but she let it slide. Had to. No room for that here. She wasn’t particularly concerned with Raetos, disguise or no.

There was a feeling that the Jailer would be able to sense them regardless of any shade or misdirection and that bothered her. Bothered her a lot. She slid a hand into her cloak, a hidden pouch there. Reassurance. The tiny vials were wrapped securely in cloth and leather layers, protecting them from a lot of damage. They seemed intact. “Avehi, do we have a specific direction, or should we try to command a soul to give us an idea?”

Her voice was quiet and gravelly, but clear enough. Such an odd thing to hear out of her own face. She sighed softly through her nose. At least she’d spent the last few weeks with the ritualists in Acherus, learning what she could of the other side of being a death knight. Less battle, more magic fuckery.

"Once we have our bearings, that's a good idea." Avehi replied without breaking stride. "Let's get up this ridge, and see what we can see."

"--Command a soul?" Argonas repeated, clearly uncomfortable with the notion. "Have they not suffered enough without such compulsions?"

"Probably. You can ask your wife the specifics after we compel a wayward soul to lead us to her." came Avehi's curt response.

It silenced Argonas well enough.

“Geez… I mean, it doesn't hurt to ask nicely at first,” Raetos couldn’t help but throw his opinion in, “If they’re being a pain in the ass, then by all means, but Argo’s right. No need to hassle an already suffering spirit if it’s not putting up a fight.”

He held his rifle ready, keeping his senses sharp despite his mouth working.

“Like… from the looks of things, there are some obviously bad things picking on helpless looking spirits,” he mentioned, taking a peek over the ledge where he spotted the commotion, “We intervene, the nice spirit tells us what they know out of gratitude, and then we can compel the baddies for extra information. Win win. Oooh! Leave that hound-thinger down there alive, though. I want that.”

“Was it worth it?”

The memory echo gave her half a pause, but it slid away like oil on water. She sighed softly, the tightness in her jaw not settling.

Maybe it was the half-echoed whispers from the souls damned to this place. She could hear them. Assumed Avehi could, too. “More than half of these souls are ... remnants. Shattered pieces. The Maw is where they are sent to be slowly obliterated. Now that all souls are sent here, it's ... the worst fate you could wish on anyone. No hope for rebirth here, just swift annihilation if you’re lucky.” Sylaess said. Gave pause, side-eyeing Raetos. “They’re constructs, but ones that feast on souls. Fine sport, I’m sure.” She had meant to be calming, reassuring even. But her words raked like gravel, gashing out the hideous truth of this place. The end was colored by sarcasm. No mercies indeed. There was regret, but she couldn’t pluck the words from the air. Nor did she feel she could’ve found better to say. The elf tugged her cloak over her shoulder, black hollow eyes scanning the area in a slow sweep. Old habits were never far. At least, she assumed it was a habit.

She eyed the hound. Then it came together. “But we could harness it to travel faster. At least, one of us.”

This place was grating on Avehi’s nerves. The sounds most of all. Words no mortal could hear, but registered as whispers to the Death Knights, one foot in and one foot out of their graves. Half-truths and intrusive thoughts given soundless voices, all speaking directly to her mind.

“You belong here, too.”

“None escape…”

“The Jailer sees all!”

It was distracting. Overwhelming. And Argonas’ and Raetos’ sanctimonious protesting only irked her further.

“Feel free to see how far asking nicely gets you.” Avehi chuffed, growing in irritation. “But if you want your respective loved ones saved from this infamously-inescapable place? Cast aside your Light-bleached sensibilities and be prepared to do whatever it takes. Let the undead handle the undead, if you can’t stomach it.”

The ridge crest overlooked everything… and nothing. There wasn’t much to see of this desolation. A ‘river’ of aetherial miasma cut through the land some distance ahead. And following it to their left revealed ramparts of some manner of fortification. Beyond that, ever-looming in the sky, was an infinitely tall tower. Unsettlingly menacing, it dominated the skyline, casting its shadow over the already dismal landscape.

“--There.” Argonas spoke up, motioning to the fortifications. “I… I saw Sinafay near there, when I died. I remember the wall.”

“You’re certain?” Avehi asked, turning to him.

He nodded once, eyes affixed to the distant keep. It was recent enough, still fresh in his mind. Avehi grunted, but nodded in response.

“Then we make our way there. Any soul we manage to find on the way, we question.”

She waved her hand dismissively at the construct and his ‘dog’ down below.

“Leave those sentries be, if we can. The creature will serve us no purpose, anyway.” she directed. “Splitting up here is the worst thing we could possibly do.”

And yet, that was exactly what Raetos decided to do. As the others turned away and continued their journey, the Lightforged kept his eye on the hound and its rider. He always worked better alone anyway. And it would be easier to sneak around without the heavy plate wearers. Brows knit into a frown as he looked over to his friends once more, only to see them already a good distance away; pushed forward by Argonas recognizing a rock formation.

Fable wouldn’t be with Sinafay. It was a gut feeling the Draenei had. Their times of death had happened so far apart and differently. The chances of finding them together in this hell hole was slim to none. His three companions obviously cared more about finding Argonas’ mate than his. Avehi had promised to bring Raetos into the Maw. That done, it was time for him to walk his own path. His partner needed him, and he wasn’t going to waste any time following the wrong trail.

Silently, he stepped away from the group and hid into the cliff. And just like that, he was gone, silently moving down the cliff to stalk the hound and rider, hunting rifle in hand.

“Perdition...” It was more of a mumble to herself, thinking over the location. She frowned, watching Raetos go--but who was she to stop him? If you want to disappear into hell, literally, by yourself, then that’s on you. She honestly wished him well.

The wash of voices became loud in her ears for a moment. She grit her teeth.

“If we’re headed that way, we should get going. “ A pause, and she stared at Avehi. Tried to gauge how much she knew of this place, gave up. “He’s watching.” Softly. “There’s not much I can do about it.” Stepped up to be vaguely beside the other Knight a moment. “The best thing is that he’s busy with the sudden swarm of Acherians. He can’t focus.”

The Draenei’s tail flickered in irritation, as Sylaess put so well into words what she was feeling. The master of this domain exuded a too-familiar omniscience in this place. The power behind the Helm of Dominion worn by the Lich King could be felt here. Its origins, perhaps? It felt far too similar to be coincidence.

“There’s nothing any of us can do about it.” she affirmed, bluntly. “May his focus be elsewhere as we get done what we’re here to do. Everyone stay cl--”

She narrowed her eyes in search; the brightest of their group was nowhere to be found! For his otherwise inept and naive countenance, Raetos was particularly adept at forging his own path and vanishing when he felt it was time. His impatience and disobedience would be his doom here, Avehi thought, as she shook her head.

“We need an escape. A rally point. Somewhere to fall back to and regroup as necessary.” she grunted, eyes flickering to Sylaess. “Can you secure one? Argonas and I will go ahead into the keep, and see if we can’t find Sinafay.”

Sylaess nodded. “I’ll hold to one spot as well as I can, but I feel I might need to move. May this be a quick endeavor.”

(( Mentions: @avehi-the-adamant / @argonas / @raetos / @sylaess / @sinafay1 / @darkestfable ))

#character stories #Shadowlands #The Maw #Avehi #Sylaess #Argonas #Raetos #Sinafay #Fable

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erinaceina · 4 years ago

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ScotsSwap 2020

Bombycine

Recipient: Jo (@notasapleasure). I hope I’ve done Jerott justice. It’s been absolute torture not talking to you about writing this <3

Prompt: Philippa and anyone as a BroTP, ‘Take the words 'sharp' 'alone' 'close[near]' 'missed' and give me some Pain :’)’ - it’s mainly alone and pain really, although Jerott has had some close encounters with sharp objects in the recent past. I hope it’s still delicious angst, even if it has wandered a bit off topic.

Setting: St. Mary’s, early autumn 1560.

Characters: Jerott Blyth, Philippa Crawford, Francis Crawford.

Relationships: Philippa + Jerott, Francis + Jerott, Philippa/Francis.

Rating: I’m not sure? References to things that happen to Khaireddin, but nothing explicit.

Summary: Sleep is not kind to Jerott Blyth.

Word Count: 2986.

Note: This is broadly compliant with this and this, mainly so I could squeeze Astraea the cat in there.

Spoilers: Non-specific spoilers for stuff that happens in Checkmate.

*******************************************************

The pain rose up to meet Jerott Blyth, mingled with the waters of the Middle Sea, and he drowned in the scent of spikenard and jasmine, in roiling fumes and obscene kisses and all the stench and horror of battle. Even as he fell, half-blind from the blow to his temple that had swept him overboard and the haze of gunpowder that hung, cloying, over the churning blue-green waters of the Mediterranean, he heard behind him the low, animal noises of the foundering ship.

The pain at shoulder and temple and thigh howled in awful harmony with the tortured screaming of overstressed timber and the crack of snapping lines. Flashes of light filled his failing vision, amber and gold and cornsilk-fair, yet, through them all, he could see glimpses of palm and pomegranate beneath a blistering African sun; the smell of storax and benzoin clung to the aching tissues of his throat and curdled in the saltwater filling his burning nostrils.

Although Mehedia lay more than a hundred and fifty miles distant, set on its strangling neck of land in the shining sea, passing vistas reached him through the sheet of blue water and yellow fire. He thought he could see flashes of gnarled grey-green olive groves and fields touched with the blush of new barley and smell the sun-warmed earth and the fetor of bombyx mori. Even as the roiling waters of the Middle Sea saturated his padded gambeson, drawing him down and down into the currents that eddied and swirled around him, down into the vortex of the foundering ship, he thought he could feel the splintering wood of a burning hut beneath the tips of his blistered fingers. Even as his useless arm hung wavering and limp as storm-wracked kelp and a ribbon of blood like scarlet silk wound through the water around him, he touched the soft, pliant curve of a child’s back and the damp weight of of amber hair tacky with cooling blood.

İpec böceǧi, called the dry, whispery voice of the old woman, and Jerott Blyth flinched. For this wast thou born? What lack is there in Scotland that her sons grow so feeble?

The saltwater again burned in Jerott Blyth’s nostrils and, with the sudden clarity of the sleeper and the man nearing death, he knew that the sea battle and the olive groves alike were the mere conjurings of a mind caught in a drugged stupor. Slitting open stinging eyes against the fetid, poisonous fumes of burning silk cocoons, tasting bitter almonds like charnel flesh on the back of his tongue, he saw with little surprise that he lay beside the discarded body of a fair-haired child on the rough floor of the warehouse belonging to the silk-farmer’s sister in Mehedia. The marks left by the mutes were livid on a face touched also by the griefs of a short life twisted and warped against itself.

The great impulse to live that dwelt within Jerott Blyth’s sturdy flesh took fresh flame, and, even against the will that cringed against it, he drew a dragging, acrid breath and smelt the cloying, indecent reek of the perfume that clung to the boy-child’s cooling flesh.

The cornflower-blue eyes were open and far-seeing beneath their heavy, slack lids as they had not been beneath the merciful bindings of Amiens or in the wreckage of a shattered face on a Northumbrian hillside. The soft, kitten’s mouth, still bearing the last, revolting brush of paint, formed words without breath, as parched as the desert air. İpec böceǧi, for this wast thou born? Is there no failure thou hast not encompassed?

*******************************************************

The gasping breath that woke Jerott Blyth was his own, rasping like poison in his chest, and his outflung arm howled with pain. For a moment, he thought he could feel the raw burns of Mehedia licking its length and he was back in Djerba - the Djerba of some seven years past - with Onophrion Zitwitz’s jellies melting on his tongue and the golden warmth of the North African sun spilling through the latticed windows of his convalescent room. For a moment, he burned again with fever on the boat fleeing the carnage of Djerba with Giovanni Andrea Doria fretting and fuming at the prow and Danny’s hand clasping his own and the utter failure of the Knights of St. John sour in a mouth that cracked and bled. With a blink against the enveloping darkness that admitted neither sunlight nor the deadly fire of an overturned brazier, he recognised the shadow of the bed curtains and the dim glow from the last embers of the fire dying in the hearth. A dint on the pillow by his head suggested the recent warmth of a cat, but he was utterly alone, neither prisoner nor knight.

With a hollow, awful noise, half sob, half laugh, Jerott buried his head in his shaking hands, feeling the trembling weakness in the injured arm and the aching memory of the old burns. It seemed to him that, like the silk moth which has no organs by which it can nourish itself, he lacked in that moment any means to sustain himself, and could merely exist in the labouring of his lungs and the eddying horror of the dream. Khaireddin, who he had failed to save; Marthe, whose death he had caused, however unwitting; Francis, who might have died by that same act of mercy; the boy Diccon, weeping before a father who turned an implacable face to him, the warm light of the afternoon gilding both their pale heads.

Although he had regretted his hasty words as soon as they were spoken - Damn it, Francis, he’s not one of your men to browbeat. Can you not show him half the pity you gave the other? - he felt the previous day’s anger kindle again at the memory of the cool displeasure in Francis’s eyes and the flat, uncompromising line of his mouth, even as his infant son tugged at his silken hose and begged to be held.

Mo cridh is a good little boy now, said the voice of that other child with the pitiless clarity of memory.

With no more conscious thought than the doomed silk moth, Jerott swung his legs over the edge of the bed, groping with chilled toes for the slippers that had been set out for him. Although the day had been warm for Scotland on the cusp of autumn, a decided chill hung in the night air and he shrugged into the borrowed robe, feeling it pull across the shoulders where it was cut for a slighter man.

In the near total darkness, he let his feet and memory guide him through the corridors of St. Mary’s, grateful at least that although the house no longer maintained its martial aspect, Francis’s taste did not yet run to endless trinkets and furbelows to trip the unwary. At the head of the stairs, something sleek and pale regarded him curiously from a ribbon of pale moonlight where a shutter stood ajar, but, before he could do more than peer blearily back, it disappeared into the recesses of a court cupboard made monstrous by the shadows.

Once, on a night such as this, Jerott Blyth might have sought the wine cellar and all its bottled comforts; once, Lymond might have locked it against just such an eventuality. Tonight, however, Jerott wandered through the silent house with no goal in his mind save to put as much space as the night permitted between himself and the fading echoes of his dream. His slippered feet padded softly across the expensive carpets and he recalled with a shudder the carpet painted with red and white in the in the selamlìk like a terrible exchequer counting out life and death - say goodnight to the dark.

Despite his meandering path, Jerott was not overly surprised when he lifted his eyes and found himself in the passageway leading to the great, vaulted kitchen. There would be fresh water there to wash the taste of bitter almonds and smoke from his mouth, thanks to some mechanical contrivance of Lancelot Plummer’s, and the cool of the Scots night under cloud-veiled stars through the door beyond.

He had already stepped through the door when he realised that long room was not empty; the faint glow from the banked hearth was matched by a candle flame and in its light a slim figure moved briskly from table to cupboard. Jerott froze, for a startled moment half-fearing some apparition from his dream, or, worse yet, an encounter with Lymond for which he was ill-prepared, but as the figure turned to greet him, he saw the fall of dark, unbound hair swing out around slender shoulders and recognised his hostess in a robe de chambre belonging, like Jerott’s own borrowed garment, no doubt, to her husband.

‘Jerott!’ Philippa came more fully into the light, her smile warming with more pleasure in the encounter than Jerott thought strictly reasonable for some time after two in the morning. ‘Couldn’t you sleep either?’

‘No,’ Jerott said shortly, and wondered what else he could say, but Philippa seemed unperturbed.

‘She gaue him milke, the slepe fell in his hede,’ she pronounced cheerfully. ‘I was making myself a posset, guaranteed by Kate to knock out half the county - of course, that’s in England. Would you like some?’

About to demur, Jerott was shepherded without delay to a seat at the well-scrubbed board and had an equally well-scrubbed lemon deposited in his nerveless hands. Half-hysterically, he found himself thinking that Djerba might have gone better with Philippa Crawford and not Giovanni Andrea Doria commanding the massed forces of Christendom. Taking the knife presented to him, he set to paring dutiful curls of zest and listened to the surprisingly comforting sounds as Philippa clattered around the kitchen, collecting the milk and cream from the cool slate and the sugar and nutmeg from the spice chest. As she worked, she hummed to herself, a fragment of Salve intemerata virgo, a snatch of a filthy ditty that he had heard on the docks at Leith. In short order, he found himself in possession of a steaming goblet of spiced posset aromatic with lemon and nutmeg and the Crawfords’ good French eau de vie, and being appraised frankly by the appallingly candid brown eyes of Francis’s child-bride.

A child no longer, he conceded with a shade of reluctance, although he could see the ghost of the scrubby and dishevelled adolescent alongside the the elegant courtier in the lines of her face as he squinted against the flickering warmth of the candlelight. A single lock of brown hair fell in disarray across her high brow, but, even in the dim light, it was glossy and well-trimmed, and the thin-fingered hands cupping the second goblet no longer showed the effects of diligent adolescent gnawing.

‘So,’ Philippa said conversationally, pushing a plate of sweetmeats towards him. ‘You saw Diccon’s argument with Francis.’

The posset soured in Jerott’s mouth. ‘Argument? He’s a child. He was crying. God, Philippa!’ Francis’s retort had, as ever, raised an angry and impotent resentment within him only made worse by the recognition that he was over-matched.

‘He’s Francis’s child,’ Philippa corrected gently. ‘He could pick a fight with a fencepost and is as highly strung as a papingo at a fair.’

Jerott subsided sulkily into his chair and eyed a sticky square of something dripping with honey and jewelled with candied nuts.

‘Baklava has many curative properties, but the banishment of nightmares is not one of them.’

As so often with Lymond, the softly spoken words left Jerott feeling as if he had been flensed and scoured raw, but there was a kindness in Philippa’s face that Lymond rarely permitted himself to display, and Jerott consciously relaxed the fingers clenched bitingly tight around the goblet until the ache of the healing wound in his shoulder subsided.

‘What, then? What possible reason could Francis have to treat his own son like that after… after…’

‘After losing Khaireddin? But if Diccon’s offence was no grave matter, neither was Francis’s.’ And in quick, amused words, Philippa sketched the outlines of a scene quite different to that which Jerott had seen - or thought he had seen: the tired, overexcited child; the hand tangled in the cat’s inviting fur until she awarded the barest scratch to her tormentor for this impertinent ambuscade; Francis’s insistence that Diccon should render his apologies to his feline friend before any consoling cuddle; child and cat alike falling asleep in Lymond’s lap even as he himself drowsed in the late sunlight. The light in the cornflower-blue eyes that had been not cold anger but a carefully corralled excess of emotion.

Philippa licked a crumb of honey-soaked semolina from her fingers and continued in a quieter voice, recalling the outspoken, stalwart child that Jerott remembered from the long-ago voyage, the terror and exhilaration alike of playing for Roxelana Sultàn, the dawning fear she had felt in the sultana’s gilded and grilled listening post above the Divan as she saw Jubrael Pasha for the first time. Kuzúm’s whipping and the despair of her wedding night in the French ambassador’s residence and the long journey home.

As if it were drawn out of him like a skein of silk unravelling, Jerott found himself responding in kind, telling the story of his ill-fated foray to Mehedia, the horror that he had found there and the coming horror that he had been unable to prevent. Just a quarter-hour’s difference, just a little more wit to see the danger surrounding him, just a little more strength in his arm… Remembering the obscene travesty of the kiss pressed into the crook of his neck, Jerott looked away, into the shadows that crowded the corners of the kitchen, but Philippa’s fingertips pressed lightly against his own, a benediction of a kind, as cleansing as any priestly absolution. In a flash, he remembered the calm of Francis’s face set against the crispness of his pillow in Amiens, the blind, blank eyes and bloodless visage and quick, expressive features shorn of all emotion.

İpec böceǧi, for this wast thou born?

And - no; they had stood as well as they might against a malicious and terrible will and had found beyond its bounds some place of refuge, though it had driven them over distant lands and wide seas. It had made of them something which none of them had been able to contemplate, both for good and for ill, and, as storm-wrack, they lay upon its farthest shore. If there was grief here in plenty and a lifetime of Graham Reid Malett’s ill works to be unravelled in Scotland, there was no shame in that.

Perhaps he was not formed as the horned worm of India, unable to sustain life even in others.

With a start, Jerott realised that the goblet was empty and cool beneath his fingers, the plate reduced to a scattering of crumbs and the first faint glow of dawn spilling through the high, narrow windows. The cat perched on one end of the long table, glowering at them through narrow green eyes and batting at a scrap of honeyed pastry with a desultory paw. Blinking against the sting of tears, as caustic as any poison, Jerott saw that Philippa’s lids were drooping, her chin propped on one hand and the other laid lightly on the curve of her belly suddenly revealed beneath the fine lawn of her shift where the embroidered silk of her gown had dropped away. ‘You must forgive Francis, you see,’ she said in a voice warm and soft with sleep. ‘It is difficult for him at the moment.’

‘I - yes - there is nothing to forgive,’ Jerott said, and found that he meant it. Perhaps, like the pelican, Francis would sustain these children with the last of his own heart’s blood, as he might have sustained his firstborn, were it not for Gabriel’s schemes, but the stubborn light in Philippa’s drowsy dark eyes suggested that she had decided opinions on the matter. And, with abrupt solicitude, ‘You should go to bed.’

‘A moment longer. Goo to Morpheus; thou knowist hym well.’

Rising to his feet against the protesting ache of his own muscles, he was surprised to find himself swept into a hug comprised half of peacock-embroidered silk and half of flying dark hair that filled his nose with the scent of chypre. Cautiously, he let his own arms close around Philippa and felt a great flood tide of weariness sweep over him, as if all barriers to sleep had been swept away and that welcoming sea rushed in, bearing all before it.

Disentangling himself with only a little difficult involving Philippa’s hair and the carved horn buttons fastening the sleeves of his robe, Jerott padded sleepily from the kitchen, the cat weaving lazy patterns around his bare calves.

*******************************************************

‘Well, yunitsa?’ asked the figure lounging in the entrance to the larder, a sleepy, sardonic smile crooking one corner of his long mouth and pale linen sleeves falling back from his sinewy arms as he brought his hands up to frame her face.

‘Well,’ Philippa confirmed, and pressed a kiss to the scarred wrist. ‘He’ll sleep tonight, at least. And you?’

‘I see Astraea has absented herself, so I suppose we will find ourselves the next targets of the infant’s hair-pulling fervour in far too short a time, but for now my sleep, like justice, requires a witness.’

‘Then let me be witness by sight and by sign.’ Philippa smiled up into his face, smoothing the fingers of one hand through the disordered silk of his yellow hair. ‘Come to bed, Francis. There is nothing more to put right in the world tonight.’

*******************************************************

Notes

The first three paragraphs draw heavily on the description of Jerott’s approach to Mehedia in Pawn in Frankincense, pp. 111-112.

İpec böceǧi - ‘silkworm’ in Turkish (I hope).

‘Like the silk moth which has no organs by which it can nourish itself’ - some version of this is repeated at various places in Pawn in Frankincense and also in Checkmate.

‘Mo cridh is a good little boy now’ - Pawn in Frankincense, p. 445, aka the most distressing line in the entirety of canon (and, let’s face it, there’s plenty of competition).

‘She gaue him milke, the slepe fell in his hede’ - John Lydgate, The Fall of Princes.

‘Goo to Morpheus; thou knowist hym well’ - Geoffrey Chaucer, Book of the Duchess.

#scotswap #lymond fanfic #my fic #philippa somerville #jerott blyth #francis crawford

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alj4890 · 5 years ago

Text

Prompt Requests/Phoebe Buffay Quotes Friends Prompts

(Thomas Hunt x OC*Amanda) with the quote, "This is my husband, Crap Bag." As requested by @krsnlove and a heated moment between the pair as requested by numerous others.

(Thomas x Amanda) in a drabble from And Then I Met You storyline.

A/N Thomas Hunt might be one of the most romantic Choices characters but he can also occassionaly stick his foot in his mouth. And poor Amanda 🤦🏻 She always jumps to the wrong conclusions when in doubt. These two manage to have the most perfect moments and the most perfectly disastrous moments, LOL.

@lxaah11 @alleksa16 @penguininapinktuxedo @blackcoffee85 @stopforamoment @hopefulmoonobject @krsnlove @annekebbphotography @hopelessromantic1352 . @sunflowergirl05 @desireepow-1986 @greywitchyshots @lilyofchoices @moodyvalentinestories @emceesynonymroll @my-heart-beats-for-ya @aworldoffandoms @ab1901 @lolablackwrites @flyawayboo @i-bloody-love-drake-walker . @trappedinfandoms @kate-mckenzie

Masterlist

What Did You Say?

"Where's Amanda?" Maxwell asked.

Thomas frowned some as he glanced about at all the nobles and dignataires milling about the palace grounds. The outdoor luncheon on this warm day had caused a slight disagreement between himself and his wife.

If it had not been for their infant daughter napping, he was certain Amanda's anger would have been heard all over the palace.

"She didn't feel up to coming." Thomas explained.

"That's too bad." Maxwell's eyes went directly to the woman in white appearing. "You sure she didn't feel well enough to come?"

"Why wouldn't I know how my wife feels?!" Thomas snapped. "She--"

He was struck speechless at the sight of his wife stepping out of the double doors of the palace.

"She, um, she looks pretty healthy to me." Maxwell muttered, turning away from what he knew would be a colossal fight. Especially over the dress she had decided to wear.

Thomas cursed aloud, drawing outraged gasps from some of the elderly nobles nearby. Without another word, he made his way over to her.

***********

"Freddie!" Amanda exclaimed in delighted surprise. Perhaps it was a touch more delighted than normal so that her dear husband could hear her as he approached from behind. "How long has it been?"

Fredrick Larsen pulled her close for a kiss on her cheek. "At least five years." His eyes dropped down to the abundance of cleavage she had displayed in her form flattering white dress. "I hear congratulations are in order on the birth of your daughter."

"Thank you." Amanda replied. A geunine smile appeared on her lips. "Kathleen is all I could hope for."

"You certainly don't look like a woman who recently had a baby." Fredrick said, keeping his eyes fixed on her figure. He reached out and brushed a lock of her hair back off her shoulder.

"A lot can happen in three months." Amanda shrugged his hand off while maintaing a flirty smile for revenge purposes. "Tell me," her eyelashes fluttered in a coy manner. "What have you been doing--"

A throat cleared behind her.

Her smile faltered at that familiar warning. She glared over her shoulder at the source.

Thomas met that with his own narrowed eyes. "Amanda, why don't you introduce me? I don't believe I have had the pleasure of meeting this man before."

Her smile held a touch of evil. "Where are my manners? This is Sir Fredrick Larsen. He used to be an intern under Hakim."

She slipped her hand in the bend of Fredrick's arm while looking up at him. "Freddie, this is my husband, Crap Bag."

"Excuse me." Freddie stuttered in surprise. "I didn't quite catch the name."

"Thomas Hunt." Thomas said between clinched teeth. "If you'll excuse us, Freddie, I need to have a word or two with my wife." He grasped Amanda's arm and yanked her away.

"Let go of me." She hissed, smiling and nodding at those they passed.

He kept his face devoid of the anger that was quickly consuming him. "Not yet." He growled near her ear. He forced her into the entrance of the palace hedge maze.

**************

Once they were deep enough within its twists and turns, he let go of her.

Her cheeks were flushed with rage. Her chest rose and fell with each breath. "How dare you pull me away like some--"

"How dare you act that way with some man?!" He interrupted.

She stuck her nose up in the air. "Just because you think I'm fat and unattractive, it doesn't mean everyone else does."

"I never said that you were fat or unattractive." He ran his hands through his hair, tempted to yank it out in frustration. "I only mentioned you skipping out on today's luncheon, because you said that you didn't feel attractive enough to attend."

"You could have argued." Her words struck like a whip. "You could have tried to make me feel better about myself. Instead, you readily agreed that I shouldn't show my disgusting figure out in public!"

"I never meant that!" He yelled. "DAMMIT AMANDA, I was trying to be supportive in whatever you wanted to do. You had been up all night with the baby and I thought I was being nice in coming to this ridiculous event on my own."

"Don't you dare cast yourself as some sacrificial knight." She wagged her finger at him, stepping closer. "Not one time have you attempted to compliment me since I had the baby."

"That's not true!" He stepped closer to her. "I've told you over and over what a marvelous mother you are and--"

"I'm not talking about that!" She clinched her fists. "I'm talking about a compliment to me! To how I look. You rarely kiss me in anything less than an absent minded peck. You haven't even tried to seduce me since long before I had Kathleen. That alone lets me know how ugly I must be in your eyes." She blinked back her tears. Her postpartum depression had yet to leave this one area that she was already highly sensitive about. "There's bound to be someone out there who doesn't find me repulsive."

Thomas was once again struck speechless.

Her earlier anger-infused confidence had disappeared causing her shoulders to slump in defeat. "I won't bother you anymore--"

He yanked her back into his arms.

"You have bothered me for months." He whispered in her ear. "I've waited on you to tell me when you felt like having my attentions once more."

She stilled in his arms. "What?"

"Did you honestly believe I found you unattractive? I haven't kissed you as I wanted because I knew my desire for you was barely being restrained." His lips skated over her neck. "I couldn't take the feel of your lips against mine, knowing it would lead to more painful frustration. But now that I know you are ready for me..." He turned her face toward his and kissed her.

Her legs shook with the intensity of his embrace. His hands released their vice-like grip on her arms and began to ghost over the dips and hollows her dress so prominently displayed. He kept her imprisoned against him as his lips continued to channel their combined frustrated anger into passion.

She turned toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck. His hands slid down, gripping her rear, pressing her even more so against the hard plains of his body.

"Thomas," she gasped when he bit down on her bottom lip. "I thought you didn't want me anymore."

"You thought wrong." He murmered. "I never once stopped wanting you." He groaned when she kissed him. "I have taken a number of cold showers the past four months because of my dreams of you n--."

They stilled when they heard voices nearby. Amanda stepped away from him.

"We should probably return to--" her breath hitched when he pulled her back. "Thomas, we need to..."she closed her eyes and grapsed his shoulders as he kissed his way down her neck, dipping into her cleavage.

"We aren't going back to the luncheon." He told her, keeping his arm around her waist while guiding her toward the exit.

Her lips, swollen from his kisses, curved. "Then where are we going?"

His arm involuntarily tightened around her. His dark eyes burned with desire as he gazed down at her. "You know exactly where I am about to take you."

#thomas hunt x amanda #rcd thomas hunt #thomas hunt #choices thomas hunt #and then i met you #phoebe buffay prompts

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darveyfics · 7 years ago

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COuld you please write a 7.12 fic related please plaease im sorry for bothering you

So this is the scene of the two of them drinking together and listening to his father’s records. The one piece of context somebody might not know is that during a flashback to Harvey’s childhood in this episode Gordon’s band is playing a song called “Boppin’ with Donna”.

Sometimes I like to write a fic that starts on nothing and goes nowhere, you know, like the show. I hope it’s not too bad - Maria

Reticent

“Rememberwhen-”

“Ido.”

“Youdidn’t let me finish.”

Shechuckles, looks over at him with an eyebrow raised cockily “Really?”

Hersmugness stirs something beneath his chest, a warmth, a momentum only she canprovoke. It makes him feel guilty, the intimacy and precision in the way sheaffects him, dangerous. He swallows it down, dry and thick. Feigns indifferencehe figures she sees right through.

He rollshis eyes, “Sure, what was I saying?”

“Youwere going to ask if I remember another time we heard this song,” there’s notease in it but perhaps a little nostalgia, she understands his resistance tospar, she always understands.

Henods unspoken gratitude even though their agreements are supposed to beentirely elusive. A tired sighs pours out of him feeling the weight of theirrecent misunderstandings then, like fifty pounds sitting on his chest, stealinghis breath. He forces himself to shake it off “With my dad,” he meant todistract from the choking way he thinks about her now, in these increasinglyrare moments, like the two of them, as a unit, are fading, but it outs in awhisper like it is holy. In some ways, he figures it is.

“Withyour dad,” She agrees quietly, lovingly, a reflection of the sanctity in hisvoice refracted and divided like light into purer, more colorful sentiment.

Shehas always been better at this than he, better at feeling his feelings.

Therecord gasps and stops, saddling them with imperfect silence, the hum of thecity, ghosts and blurred edges. Harvey reaches over and lifts the needle beforeit can sing again.

Heleans back into the cushions, rolls his wrist until the amber in his tumblerspirals like a drain. His mind swirls and sinks with it, struck by a memory.

“Firsttime you heard it, right?” He asks almost sweetly; halting the swirl by rollingthe glass the other way he turns to her slowly.

Pastblends into present, he blames the scotch for seeing two of her overlapped. Oneexists minus ten years with longer hair and brighter clothes, bangs and a lotless complication; the other has been wearing black for the last week andhasn’t made him coffee in a year.

Hewonders who he would pick, fleetingly; knows without a doubt he would chooseher now, whenever now is. The most important thing has always been that she stays.

Donnasmiles, “Yeah, and he had the brass to say it was for me,” She reminisces,leaning forward. She pours herself another dose. The crystalline sound of thebottle touching the edge of glass ricochets across empty space prettily; theirtheme song.

“Itis your name in the title,” Harvey argues with faux gravity, still seeingdouble. In his mind’s eye, her dress is purple and his father’s voice ischarming, he never missed a beat with her.

“Itjust happens to precede my arrival by a couple of decades,” She counters.

Harveyscoffs, “Your arrival?”

Shenods “Yes, the amazing, life changing day, you met me,” she declares grandly.

He agreesbut cannot agree, “Seriously?”

Sheputs one hand on her chest, mouth agape, the picture of over-dramatic outrage“Oh, I’m sorry, we just established I was prophesied.”

“Inever said that.”

“Ithink you did.”

“No,I didn’t.”

Donnastraightens herself, crossing her legs and resting her hands on top of eachother on her knee, she stares him down seriously “Your honor, I think thedefendant is aiming for a perjury indictment.”

Harveysnorts a laugh, surprised as she sparks to life the old routine, there’sdelight but also an ache to it as they flex muscles they haven’t used forlonger than he had realized, “I believe the prosecution is distorting theevents,” he rebuttals setting down his glass to focus.

Donna narrows hereyes, pretends to look down at imaginary papers and push up glasses she doesn’tneed, “Mr. Specter, do you deny the day you met me was life changing?”

Harvey rolls hiseyes, “Really?” He whines.

“Plead the fifth?”She offers defiantly.

“Coward’s move andyou know it,” he chastises.

“If the shoe fits,”she says, reaching for her glass and taking a sip that does not break eyecontact. He watches the glimmer of humor in her hazel eyes and only marginallyremembers this is exactly what he was supposed to be avoiding.

“Whether you did ordidn’t is not the point, the point is I never said it,” he argues smugly.

“Well, well,” Donnastarts, leaning back with poise and pride, resting her forearms on the arms ofthe chair and drumming her fingers on the edges reflexively, “I see we havelowered ourselves to technicalities. Cheap.”

Harvey smiles, “Aslong as it gets results.”

“No honor,” she nods disapprovingly,though a laugh is edging behind her lips.

It is something elsehe has not seen in a while, this specific expression, he wonders if they reallyhave been fading or if he just hasn’t been paying attention. Which reminds him.

“My father did writea song for you,” he blurts out.

Donna lets the laughfly, he has heard it plenty but it is still welcoming warm familiarity, “No, hedidn’t,” She tells him like it is sure and obvious, like he has had too much todrink.

“He did,” Harveyinsists, wondering how he could forget, though maybe he is stretching thetruth, “He kinda did,” He corrects himself.

Donna raises aneyebrow, sustaining her suspicion “Kinda?”

“He never recorded it.It was a draft,” he reveals, “He said he got inspired out of the blue one day,”Harvey sinks into the memory, he himself only heard it once.

It was at his father’sapartment during a damp New York summer afternoon and they had run out of otherthings to talk about. Gordon hesitated to play him the song, kept explaining himself.Harvey mostly thought it was funny, “He asked me not to tell you,” He hadn’tand then it had never come up again, “I’m sorry, I forgot,” he apologizes and turnsto find her eyes, they’re glossed over with unshed tears. He blinks andrealizes so were his when wet warmth rolls down his cheeks.

“Did he write itdown?” It moves the very ground he stands on that that is the first thing sheasks, that she misses his father too.

It hurts all the moreto have to answer, “If he did, I never found it.”

She sighs, “If you do,it’s mine,” assertive but kind.

He sees the purple dressagain and bright red hair cascading over it as she throws her head back tolaugh at Gordon’s blunt flirting, “Of course,” he whispers so gravely it feelsmore binding than any contract. He could not deny her most things, much lessthis.

Donna nods, takes adeep breath and lets it out slowly, “You really killed the casual mood,” shejabs.

Harvey smiles, shakeshis head, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I wantedto know, I just wish you hadn’t done the job halfway,” she says it between asmile, it is a joke, an absolution, but he can see the edge of disappointmentin her eyes. He cannot read them as perfectly but that is a look he has alwaysbeen afraid of and paradoxically only grown more familiar with. He needs to dissolveher ache.

“Hey,” he whispers,reaching for one of her hands and stopping short of touching, they have kissedand hugged but he doesn’t know where they draw this new line, if meaning it toomuch violates its borders, “I am sorry,” he tells it from his core and watchesher drink it into hers.

“It’s okay,” sheanswers, her fingers tremble, itching to bridge the gap between them, insteadshe recoils not wanting the blame for breaking them again just for trying toinch closer, “It’s okay.”

They are too tangled,metaphorically, sometimes he wonders if he can even shake her off withouthollowing himself out, wonders if she feels the same. He is selfish enough towish she does, it would mean some kind of barrier from the searing pain ofbeing left. He is selfless enough to also wish she doesn’t for a chance tonever hurt her again with his careless needs.

He should not be thinkingabout any of that, “We finished the bottle,” he points out flatly, stealing aglance at the half inch of scotch left inside the glass.

She follows his gaze,“We almost did,” Donna says andreaches for the neck, downs the rest in one gulp, “There, now it’s done,” Hewatches with bemused surprise as she sets the empty Macallan back on his centretable, turns it between her fingers to ponder the label, “At least it was justa 12 year.”

“You say that like itmakes us less drunk,” he remarks, covering her hand on the bottle with hiswithout thinking, without pretense, just to turn it to him so he can also read.Hers falls away a second later, he wonders if it means she is afraid to touchhim now, hopes not.

“It doesn’t,” sheagrees, “I think I’m tired,” she says and points it with a yawn.

“You think?” Harveysmiles affectionately, “Are you brewing a hangover?” He asks, mildly worried.He knows scotch can upset her stomach and that she hates to vomit, he alsoknows she has some secret hangover cure she never told him about because itwould ‘encourage his bad habits’. How the tables have turned; he is barelydizzy.

“Are you asking thatas my boss or my friend?” She interrogates, side eyeing him suspiciously.

“Both,” because he isboth, needs her there tomorrow morning but also cares if she will be miserablethe entire night.

“I’ll be late, butI’ll be fine,” she bargains.

His eyebrows knighttogether, “You don’t have to come in,” the complacency is immediate, so muchfor thinking he can accept her misery.

One corner of herlips pulls up, she wants to say that is not the business-wise decision “I’ll behere,” she reassures him instead. She is a little disappointed in herself forbeing so averse to letting him down even in small ways.

Donna smoothes outthe skirt of her dress and stands on surer legs than the half bottle she drank wouldhave anyone guess.

“Already?Lightweight,” He teases, sneaking a glance at his watch, a quarter to midnight.

“I thought you had tobe home an hour ago,” She bites back, the implication is a double-edged sword,reminds him he has someone waiting; reminds her that she does not.

Harvey presses hislips together and watches his hands intently. She sighs, taking pity on him,like always.

“Sorry, I need Advil,”she breathes out tiredly.

He nods, “You’reright,” he says without meeting her eyes, “Good night.”

Donna considers him,them. She is tired and dizzy and has a headache brewing behind her eyes; it isnot her job to heal him, it never really was, “You know, I was wondering,” Shestarts and waits until he looks at her again, “Would I make a good lawyer?” ahand outstretched, it isn’t her job,she volunteers to save him.

Harvey allows himselfa small smile, “Thinking about going to law school?”

She scoffs, “God no.”

His eyebrows shootup,”Excuse me?”

She rolls her eyes,“You know what I mean.”

He does. He takes apause to think on it “You wouldn’t,” he answers earnestly.

She is mildlysurprised; Donna narrows her eyes at him, “Not smart enough?” As if, she isfishing and he knows it, she wants him to know it.

Harvey snorts alaugh, “You’d overachieve I’m sure,” it is what she wanted to hear, theexpected, but he isn’t done “Too good,” He adds, “You’re… too good,” headmits softly, with candid admiration.

Her breath hitches,he can do that sometimes, when it’s almost midnight and he knows she will dohim the courtesy of not bringing it up in the morning.

“You’re a goodperson, Harvey,” their lives might be easier if she could not read him sofluently.

He presses his lipstogether and shifts his eyes to the floor, index anxiously thrumming the glassstill in his hand, “Not always,” he made a lot of mistakes, can’t tell whichone is knocking on his conscience the loudest right now, “Not like you.”

“Well,” she startsgood-naturedly, “Nobody is like me,” Donna brags jokingly.

Harvey smiles andshakes his head “I’ll drink to that,” he announces and empties his tumbler.

She watches and sighs,feeling the prickle of the headache intensify, “Now it’s good night.”

He nods, “It is,” heagrees without looking.

She can feel histhoughts, his regrets, makes it hard to detach, “Are you okay enough toremember your address?” She teases, hanging back, a subtle way to ask if he isokay.

He snorts, “Sharp asa razor, I just…” he lingers, deciding if he wants to keep her “I think I’lllisten to a few more,” He admits, “Since nobody else will from now on.”

He hardly ever makesit easy on her.

Donna sighs, crossinghis office to pour herself a glass of water. She takes a pill from her bag nextto it and swallows it down with one sip, then moves to the window where therecords are stacked and lifts two of her favorites, “Which one?”

Harvey almost offersher an out, but there is no point in pretending he does not still need herthere, that he didn’t choose the words to make her stay “Left,” he picks andshifts on his seat, reaching for it.

She pulls the vinyloff the sleeve and hands it to him, waits until he gently trades the one on therecord player for it before going back to her seat. Once she’s settled Harveylets the needle drop and his office fills with his father’s music.

“I miss him,” hewhispers like he is trying to hide the confession in between the notes.

Donna closes hereyes, leans her head back until she’s facing the ceiling and breathes it in, “Iknow,” she answers.

They don’t speakagain except to mumble simple goodbyes an hour later, giving life permission togo on unhinged at dawn.

Being understood isenough.

#darvey #suits usa #dailydarvey #donna x harvey #darvey fic #author: Maria #can ya'll believe im not dead #reply would ya #i need fuel to finish a fic about their dance and one about his mom

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gamerzcourt · 7 years ago

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Nier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Discuss What Games They Admire MostNier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Discuss What Games They Admire Mostvideo games

New Post has been published on http://www.gamerzcourt.com/nier-psychonauts-and-other-devs-discuss-what-games-they-admire-mostnier-psychonauts-and-other-devs-discuss-what-games-they-admire-mostvideo-games/

Nier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Discuss What Games They Admire MostNier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Discuss What Games They Admire Mostvideo games

These past few years have yielded an amazing roster of games that we personally love. With so many fantastic experiences out there, we began to grow curious over what games developers particularly enjoy. During our time spent at this year’s GDC, we had the opportunity to interview a wide variety of game developers and key figures in the industry, so we decided to ask what current game they find inspiring and admire the most, and why.

As you’ll see from the responses below, the games each developer adores might not come as a surprise to you, especially if you’re familiar with their work or tastes. Others had some surprising picks that you probably wouldn’t expect. What current games do you admire the most? Let us know in the comments below. And be sure to check out feature detailing the 25 best games you might’ve not heard of that we saw at GDC 2018.

Chad and Jared Moldenhauer, Directors of Cuphead

Jared Moldenhauer (left) and Chad Moldenhauer (right)

Jared Moldenhauer: I have a library of 100+ games that I’m working towards currently. But one of the earlier games that I chose and found very rewarding was Hollow Knight. It’s an interesting and challenging Metroidvania. And the visuals and the universe that they created, and the feeling within all the characters; I was happy playing every minute of it.

Chad Moldenhauer: I recently started and really enjoy The Witness. I was looking forward to that for a long time!

Yoshinori Terasawa, Danganronpa Series Producer

Yoshinori Terasawa: I love the Persona series. I adore the sense of personality that those games have. I really like how cool and stylish they are.

Rami Ismail, Producer of Nuclear Throne

Rami Ismail: So many games have really sparked me. Games that really stand out to me are Engare and Farsh, by Mahdi Bahrami, both games based on this Iranian heritage. I was very impressed by This War of Mine, which gives a unique perspective on war. Just seeing that tremendous shift in perspective translated into a game that is so powerful and poignant, that reminds me that there is so much more out there.

Tom Kaczmarczyk, Producer of Superhot

Tom Kaczmarczyk: Our game director [Piotr Iwanicki] who actually came up with the idea, he often cites an indie flash game called, Time4Cat, as one of the inspirations, because it did have the same sort of time automation mechanic. For me, I love Hotline Miami because of its action sequences. A lot of what we pick up come from action movies, and from the way people design cinematic experiences where you fall into a certain archetype of a situation, and you immediately understand what’s going on.

Tim Schafer, Founder of Double Fine (Psychonauts, Brutal Legend)

Tim Schafer

Tim Schafer: Lately, a game that really made a big effect on me–it sounds really cliché–but Breath of the Wild was a huge thing. I just loved it. Everyone loves something different about games, there’s no one game that’s perfect for everybody, but it made me realize that my number one thing is exploration. I’m constantly exploring and surprised and I just love it and I play it all the time. I also love Loot Rascals, which is a great roguelike, and I’ve recently been playing Persona 5, which is just amazing. Amazing style and tone, it’s so polished.

Jason Roberts, Director of Gorogoa

Jason Roberts: In 2017, I was a big fan of Inside and Night in the Woods; those were big games for me. I’m big on tone, mood, atmosphere. These are important to me. And I love those games. And I also, this year, I think Florence and any game from Annapurna are just very carefully, precisely created with tone and atmosphere. That’s what I value.

Dean Ayala, Hearthstone Senior Game Designer + Dave Kozack, Hearthstone Lead Narrative Designer

Dean Ayala: Dungeon Crawl Stone Soup. It’s a roguelike released back in 1997. A lot of the Hearthstone design team plays it. It’s super old-school.

Dave Kozack: It has been in continuous development; it’s one of those community projects. That’s why the name, Stone Soup. But we played a lot of rogue-likes while we were working on Dungeon Run, and that was one of our favorites. It’s just something we keep coming back to as a team. It’s a lot of fun.

Ian Dallas, Creative Director of What Remains Of Edith Finch

Ian Dallas

Ian Dallas: For me, the last game that affected me emotionally in a strong way was Universal Paperclips. A game about clicking on buttons and manufacturing paperclips that I just found myself lost in for 8 hours. It was really like a troubling emotional experience, and it’s amazing that it comes out of just text on a webpage. It reaffirms the power of video games and the way that they can teach you things about yourself and about the world that you couldn’t really internalize in any other way.

Chelsea Hash, Technical Artist of What Remains Of Edith Finch

Chelsea Hash: Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice. Their commitment to the multimedia format and drawing from different rendering styles to support their vision was something that I was glad to be able to experience, something that was willing to think outside the box.

Damon Baker, Nintendo Publisher and Developer Relations

Damon Baker: I can’t choose one game. It is like choosing my favorite child! There are so many different types of experiences. Most recently I am working my way through Night in the Woods. I haven’t been able to play that previously, and having a lot of flights lately has given me more flexibility to get through a lot of indie content. Of course, I totally enjoyed Celeste. I vowed not to use assist mode on that game at all and beat it; but it took me 1800 deaths or something to get through it, but it was a beautiful game.

Matt Thornson, Director of Celeste

Matt Thornson: I’ve been really enjoying my time with Into the Breach. It’s amazing!

Victor Kislyi, Wargaming CEO (World of Tanks)

Victor Kislyi: Civilization. All of them, because I started playing from Civ I. Now, believe it or not, before playing World of Tanks last night I was playing Civilization and I was playing on the plane on my way here. Civ 6 is amazing, and it was my MBA. I’m a physicist by education but, playing Civilization, all those layers, economy, exploration, politics, military, science, religion–your brain is trained to juggle those multiple layers like almost instantly, or at least very, very correctly. And, that’s a good analogy with business, people, finance, media, failures, exploration, etc., etc. I think Civilization, as a concept, as a game, actually, is more valuable to humanity than Mona Lisa.

Yoko Taro, Director of Nier: Automata

Yoko Taro: I think that Grand Theft Auto IV and Super Mario Bros. are two big games that influenced me when making Nier. But with games from the past–not modern games–I felt more freedom or challenge as a player. Let’s say we have a black background with a white dot on it and let’s call it the space. I feel like that really creates freedom, especially in terms freedom of imagination, and challenging the dev team to create a world without really being able to express that world visually. In that sense, I feel that in the past, game developers were trying to create a new frontier. They were trying to expand the world, expand the universe of gaming industry.

Yoko Taro (left) and Takahira Taura (right)

Now that the game industry has matured pretty much now, a lot of people actually go for a more safe game. They try to make all the consumers happy with that one game. I think that that actually limits to what they can do and I feel that no one is really trying to expand that arena or expand that world anymore. I am a little bit sad about that.

Takahisa Taura, Designer Of Nier: Automata + Metal Gear Rising

Takahisa Taura: When The Witcher 3 came out, we all played it and had fun with it, but we also looked at it to see what would we do if we created a game like this. We were using The Witcher 3 as a learning experience on how to create an RPG. I think that’s where it all started. Well, that’s where we came from, so it wasn’t too difficult of a task to create a JRPG.”

GameSpot News

#Admire #devs #Discuss #Games #MostNier #Mostvideo #Nier #Psychonauts #They

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blessuswithblogs · 7 years ago

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Thoughts on Hollow Knight: I gazed into the void and it was full of cute buggies

(very minor spoilers for Hollow Knight ahead)

It occurred to me when I was writing up my thoughts on The Surge that Hollow Knight probably deserved the same treatment, as it is another recent Dark Souls inspired offering that I played quite a bit of. I think the reason I haven't really put my thoughts together about Hollow Knight yet is that I haven't really needed to. The game is simply very good in a straightforward, easy to understand way. Hollow Knight is a metroidvania made by the indie studio Team Cherry with charming hand-drawn graphics. Mechanically, it draws much more from modern Castlevania titles than Souls. The only thing that really even qualifies it as a Dark Souls inspired game is the fact you lose your money on death and have to recover it again. It's a rather unnecessary addition, but at least in Hollow Knight, this mechanic has some (vague) diegetic reason for being.

I don't feel quite as inclined to explain the systems of Hollow Knight in such excruciating detail as I did for The Surge, mostly because they are simpler, better implemented, and easier to understand. You swing your sword (or Nail, in the parlance of Hallownest, the ancient bug city where the game takes place), it does damage to enemies, enemies drop money (or Geo, as it is called) you can use to buy things, and you explore a huge 2D interconnected world. Character progression is done entirely by finding upgrades in the game world, or finding NPCs in the game world to buy things from, so Hollow Knight is quite light on RPG aspects. The main character customization aspect comes from charms, your only real gear analogue, which you can equip at benches, your rest and respawn points, for various helpful effects like increased swing range, extra health, and a passive magnetic field that draws Geo into you so it doesn't go flying off into the abyss all the time.

What I would say is the most unique mechanic in the game is the Soul system, which sounds ridiculous, but it's not what it sounds like i swear don't close the window. Instead of currency, Soul is basically your MP equivalent, which you use to cast spells and heal yourself. You regain soul by striking enemies with your nail, creating a rewarding rhythm of using basic attacks to power up your big moves or keep yourself alive. It encourages using spells instead of hoarding them because your Soul is effectively unlimited as long as you have things to smack. The game can get pretty hard towards the end because bosses and tougher enemies tend to go berserk the moment you step back to take a moment to heal, but otherwise it's a well realized system that gives you a lot of variety and flexibility in how you approach the game's various challenges.

Where the game really gets its self-proclaimed Dark Souls inspiration is in its world design and preferred method of storytelling. You play as the nameless Knight, a cute little bug child with some interesting powers and no sense of smell or verbal communication skills. The Knight is explicitly and importantly genderless. You start the game making your way to Dirtmouth, small town of friendly bugs situated on top of Hallownest, a huge bug metropolis built beneath the ground. Unfortunately, Hallownest has been visited by a Terrible Calamity and most bugs brave enough to venture into the depths eventually lose their sense of self and wander the tunnels aimlessly, attacking anything that moves. The comparison with Lordran is quite self-evident, and the general structure of the narrative mirrors the original Dark Souls quite faithfully. The world is designed similarly, exploring the nooks and crannies of a once great civilization, marveling at its grand archtiecture, and gradually uncovering the unseemly secrets it was built upon.

Unlike The Surge, which was so much of a narrative mess I felt like I had to go into it in detail just to sort my thoughts out and sort of confirm to the world at large that I wasn't having some sort of fever dream, I have enough respect for the tale of Hollow Knight that I don't really want to spoil it. It's worth seeing and exploring for yourself, and at a very affordable price point, I would really recommend giving it a try. A lot of love and care went into Hollow Knight. One area where the game shines is in its characters, a motley collection of bugs from all walks of life with many different perspectives and goals. They are both memorable in personality and in design, each one drawn in an expressive and unique way that emphasizes their own little idiosyncracies. Quirrel, a happy go lucky adventurer explores Hallownest for its secrets much like you do and you get to be friends with him as you go through the game. Zote the Mighty, a supremely overconfident and haughty warrior, becomes your rival of sorts after you get him out of a sticky situation. Cornifer, a jolly and helpful cartographer, can be found in each area selling a map for a reasonable fee and offering insight about the locale. You need to buy these to have a map to begin with, so you tend to be extremely grateful whenever you hear his trademark hummning and find the paper trail he leaves behind. There are a lot of characters in Hollow Knight, and most of them have their own stories and surprises. They're also "voice acted" in a sing-song fake bug language sort of reminiscent of older Legend of Zelda titles that's quite charming and evocative.

The game's various bosses (of which there are more than 5, I might add) are quite similar to the characters. They've got their own stories and goals and take on a variety of forms, some cute, some terrifying, some a little bit of both. I've been fairly effusive in my praise of the game so far, and while I do think that the bosses are very good for the most part, it is worth noting that a lot of later fights in the game, especially some optional ones, are huge difficulty spikes that can kind of take you out of the game. Being optional, of course, means that this is never a huge problem, but Hollow Knight can get pretty brutal later on even on the critical path. It has a much more traditional difficulty curve than the average Souls style game, which usually start very difficult and become easier as you master the mechanics. Instead, the game starts off quite leisurely but gradually (and sometimes not so gradually) ramps up into a very difficult fight for survival. Bosses, and regular enemies, also have their own bits of lore courtesy of the game's bestiary system, the Hunter's Journal. The Hunter is an NPC you meet fairly early on in the game who, impressed either by your courage or simple disregard for your own safety, bequeaths to you his journal and exhorts you to hunt and grow strong. By killing a certain number of each enemy type, you get both basic information and the Hunter's own thoughts and feelings, which can be quite edifying -- or at least amusing. I will criticize that the prose used in some of these entries is a bit amateurish, but, glass houses and all that.

Speaking of optional bosses, Hollow Knight has a lot of them. It has a lot of optional stuff period. It's a legitimately pretty huge game, especially your first time through. You go through a large variety of environments, from crystalline mines to verdant gardens to horrifying spider-infested tunnels. Hollow Knight can, on rare occasions, go right for the jugular with that primal fear of things that skitter and bite, and given how cute and pleasant most of the game world looks, these occasional forays into nightmare made manifest are extremely jarring and if you are particularly afraid of phylum Euarthropoda, you may want to give this game a pass. Or at least maybe have somebody hold your hand while you go through Deepnest. Spider hell aside, the game rewards exploration with all sorts of hidden goodies, vendors, and even entire areas that somebody only going through the critical path might never even see. It is in this aspect that the Souls lineage really shines through, at least by my estimation. The game is so big and multilayered that not having a map available from the start can be kind of difficult, since 2D space tends to be more difficult to make a mental map of. There's plenty of options for fast travel and shortcuts to take from place to place, but without some sort of anchor, getting lost is an inevitability.

My biggest singular complaint comes at the very end of the game, on the way to get the Best Ending, so it is once again optional content so I can't count it against the overall package too harshly. Even so, it's pretty bad. Leaving out on the specifics for spoiler's sake, you find yourself in a sawblade and spike infested deathrap straight out of Super Meatboy. The platforming in Hollow Knight is Perfectly Fine, but not quite precise enough to really shine in situations where I Wanna Be the Guy style jumping puzzles are presented as obstacles. It's a very out of place segment with no enemies to fight whatsoever (and thus, no really reliable way to refill soul and heal yourself from the inevitable damage you're going to take from whirling death) and while the payoff is good, I still came out of it feeling more annoyed than anything. The checkpointing in some of the game's later segments can be obnoxiously unforgiving, most of all in this particular part. Eventually I had to entirely reconfigure my charm layout to go for maximum survivability, and I would not envy the player who made it there without finding some of the special HP regen charms or enough mask fragments to upgrade their health bar. Also I keep almost calling charms badges because I am a huge Paper Mario girl until the end of time so sorry if that ever slips through.

I mentioned earlier that the story of Hollow Knight was worth seeing and experiencing for yourself, and I stand by that. I think that there are some criticisms to be had with the execution and perhaps the derivative nature of it all, but an indepth analysis of Bug Lore will have to be its own post, should I feel like making it. For now, I will simply say that the characters are brilliant and lovable, and piecing together the mystery of Hollownest is quite rewarding, even if it is frustratingly vague at times. I think a lot of people forget that in Dark Souls, most of the digging had to be done for the finer details about the various historical figures and places. The main thrust of the narrative, the curse of the undead and the Dark Sign and all that, was actually kind of just Out There from minute one. It gave you a foundation to work with. Hollow Knight goes for Maximum Enigma and obfuscates even the foundation until a pretty good chunk of the way in, which is maybe a little bit excessive. Ultimately, I think it's a valid stylistic choice, but one I'm not a huge fan of.

Hollow Knight is good. Hollow Knight is great! Aforementioned considerations of arachnophobia aside, I would recommend it to anyone who ever enjoyed a Metroidvania or similarly styled game, or any Souls fan. There's lots to see and do, most of it gorgeous and haunting in equal measure. I have a few fairly minor complaints, and people without much patience for Hard Games might want to consider just sticking to the critical path and looking up the rest on Youtube, but overall it's a fantastic package made with a lot of love and heart. There's an earnestness and sincerity to Hollow Knight that's very precious and should be nurtured as much as possible. It's this extremely high-concept bug adventure that is nevertheless very affecting and memorable. The eventual payoff for seeing and doing everything is very impressive and quite a spectacle, with some evocative visuals that will stay with you for a long time. Definitely a game of the year contender as we approach the conclusion of 2017.

#hollow knight #dark souls #lore

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mysdrymmumbles · 8 years ago

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Andraste’s Witch - Chapter 70 - NSFWish?

Pairings: Slowburn Cullen x F!Witch!Inquisitor

Rating: M for later chapters which will include violence, PTSD, withdrawal, angst, body horror (think red templars), and possibly other stuff that I will be sure to tag. This is not actually a grimdark story, but I just wanna give people a heads up for stuff that will happen. There will also be fluff and friendship and magic (though to be fair, this is Thedas, so magic will not always be positive and very rarely as adorable as that last statement implied).

Genre: Action/Adventure with elements of romance

Summary: Cullen’s mulls over his past and wonders about the present.

I should probably wait until next week to post this, but fuck it, lol. Thank you for reading <3

Andraste’s Witch

Chapter 70 - The Commander’s Broken Heart

Since the night he’d held her at the edge of camp, Finley had been avoiding him. Cullen was sure of it.

Maker, Josephine had even suggested they talk. She’d said that Finley seemed even more on edge than usual and that Cullen seemed to have a way with her, but the way she said it had made Cullen worry that perhaps Finley had said something to her, and she was trying to resolve matters before Denerim.

There was tension between them, and he knew Josephine had to noticed it.

He’d tried to tell himself that he was just overthinking things, but…

But everything was making him on edge.

Worse, he kept hearing people whispering about some damned bet. He’d asked Cassandra about it, but she’d simply shrugged and said she’d heard of one that was how long it’d take her to kill Varric, so she wasn’t really interested in knowing what the newest one might be.

With the pace they’d set for Denerim, there wasn’t a lot for him to do, other than ride and think things over. And his mind was merciless. It replayed his most recent interactions with Finley, thinking about the way she might reach for him, then pull away, as though she were troubled by something. The way she twisted under his gaze, like she was…afraid.

Of what?

Him?

He would never hurt her…

He almost wished Alistair was there, if only to give him a distraction. The man had spent his childhood screaming in Chantries, so Cullen didn’t doubt he’d be good for a laugh or even an argument. At this point, he would have taken listening to a victory speech about how ‘witches’ had to be real.

Unfortunately, Alistair had stayed back at Skyhold. When Finley had asked Alistair if he was coming with them—stars in her eyes and hope in her voice—he’d said no.

Well, there had been snorting, extreme exaggeration, and even a short giggle from Finley despite herself.

The famed grey warden was certainly good at drawing a smile from their Inquisitor…

But no, Alistair was going to wait for Hawke to get back, as Hawke had sent word that they’d found something important. Considering how he’d marked all of his letters to Skyhold as important, telling them that they needed to allocate resources they didn’t have to help people who wouldn’t let them in their country, Cullen wasn’t sure how serious to take the latest message. However, Alistair had been firm in staying behind.

Cullen was fairly certain Finley wanted to toss Hawke off a cliff for claiming the warden’s attentions, but Cullen hadn’t been able to mind that part so much. The man could trip into a room, and Finley was giddy and girlishly adorable.

She never did that with him…

He supposed he ought not to be jealous, considering she was sleeping with him, not Alistair, and yet he could not keep his scowls at bay. And a relationship between the Inquisitor and a warden outside of the Inquisition wouldn’t cause the same sort of stir as her finding comfort in her commander’s chambers…

Maker, help him.

Even with Finley’s adoration for every warden she met—at least it seemed so—he still wished Alistair was around, if only to distract him from the facts that Finley was avoiding him and that he had no desire to meet with King Cousland.

Maker, don’t let that man remember him. Please, please, please…

He’d been a no one back then, a pitiful wretch, mad from the horrors he’d seen, when Warden Commander Brosca had led her group in to save the day. It had been bad enough that Alistair had seen him that way, but he’d never thought of the strangers.

That he worked with Leliana now was a certain level of misery, as he still expected her to bring up Kinloch Hold at some point, though she never did. He was glad of her silence.

Perhaps, even if the king did recognize him as the raving madman from the tower, he would keep quiet about it.

It was a hollow hope.

King Cousland had been one of the more vocal members of the group who had saved the Circle. At the time, Cullen had thought the noble a blessing, a voice of reason that should have given credibility to his own demands.

He could still taste that bitterness in his mouth from when Knight-Commander Greagoir had refused to kill the remaining mages, not seeing them for the dangers he was certain they posed. With all that had happened, all those who had pretended to be a decent sort only to turn into murderous abominations, how anyone had been able to argue with him had been madness in his mind at the time.

Cousland had agreed. Better to cut them down now than to have them take out the remaining templars and make sure that the Wardens’ treaty could not be fulfilled.

Warden Brosca had been ready to toss both Cullen and Cousland into the lake, hissing that she’d like to see them swim in their armor. She’d had more choice words, though they’d been directed at Cousland rather than Cullen, and all he’d known was that Alistair and the others with them had managed to calm things down.

In the end, they’d gone on to save the world, and he’d gone to Greenfell to ‘recover’. As though all he’d been through was something that could be gotten over with a bit of fresh air.

Granted, after the first month, he’d thought that…

He’d been a fool, a young, traumatized fool, who’d sought comfort in the first arms that would take him.

Ellendra.

He’d needed someone, anyone to keep him grounded in reality, and Ellendra had offered him her hand and her bed. He’d been desperate to learn and please, to do anything that distracted him from his memories, anything that kept him awake long enough that he was too tired to have the nightmares that haunted him.

He hadn’t loved her, but at the time he thought he had. She’d been his first, and he’d felt that with her he could build some semblance of a life, something constant, something different. He’d even mulled over leaving the Order a night or two, though he hadn’t known what he’d possibly do with his life if he wasn’t a templar.

And then that had fallen through as easily as it had started, and he’d requested transfer, again wanting to be anywhere but where he was.

Knight-Commander Greagoir had suggested he not head off so quickly, that he take the time to allow himself to get better—that he would fight for the Order to allow Cullen that. He came by a few times—when he could spare—to check up on Cullen, though he’d seen the old man’s visits through a haze of betrayal, after the lenience at the hold. The knight-commander had tried again and again to talk to Cullen about what had happened, to encourage him to work through his problems.

But he couldn’t.

And he couldn’t stay in Greenfell. To know he was just one in a long line of Ellendra’s lovers, to know that he’d meant as much to her as he had to the demons that had toyed with him…

He’d needed to be anywhere else.

And so even though Kirkwall was the largest Circle in Thedas, he’d gone there when he’d heard of an opening, hoping to recover some part of himself that he’d lost by throwing himself back into the dream he’d had ever since he was a child.

He would be a protector, someone who would keep the innocent safe from monsters.

Before he’d thought that meant keeping regular people safe from abominations, and keeping mages safe from mobs.

After the madness at Kinloch Hold, though…

His concept of monster was already blurry when Meredith had gotten ahold of him, and she’d done nothing but make sure that the lines were redrawn in all the wrong places, the places he feared they should be.

She had been so confident, so firm, that he’d trusted her. She’d been the strict, stern leader that he’d wanted Greagoir to be. She didn’t give the mages chances to fall to temptation, she protected people.

Or so he’d thought at the time.

Because of that, he’d been her most loyal templar, one of the many reasons that he was promoted so quickly to her second in command.

There were rumors that he was Meredith’s plaything, though it held no merit. Their relationship was strictly professional, and he’d figured that any relations with mages or other templars would lead to nothing but heartbreak or manipulation.

Linda had been a poor waif in Lowtown who somehow always managed to be around and in need of saving. While he’d initially looked into her, suspecting her of helping blood mages seeing as she was always somehow involved with them, it ended up that she was there for him. She fancied him and risked most anything for a moment or two to talk.

After a particularly bad night, he’d fallen into her arms much as he had with Ellendra, just wanting a distraction from everything that was wrong with his life.

She’d been kinder, gentler, and yet he’d never been able to coax his heart into their affair.

They’d carried on for a few years, until one day she came up and told him that she was getting married.

Cullen had been surprised that that hadn’t hurt him like he would have expected it to, but he’d figured that that was what his life was. A series of short reprieves from the usual misery of the horrors that lay just beneath the surface, that haunted his nights.

After that, he’d limited himself to The Blooming Rose when he absolutely couldn’t stand the loneliness that smothered him.

It had been well enough, good enough for someone like him.

Though, as he’d realized what was going on in the Gallows—what he was letting happen—he’d turned away from even that.

Meredith had not been amused when his gaze had turned inward toward the templars, when he’d started listening to Ser Thrask and First Enchanter Orsino.

She’d been even less thrilled when he’d brought several templars to the Grand Cleric’s attention for their crimes against mages after Meredith dismissed him.

It was like he’d made a declaration of war against his superior, and even as he feared lines would be drawn within the templars, he learned that they were already there, and that he’d been on the side of the real monsters.

Maker, he’d been one of them.

Suddenly, he’d found himself having to make sure Ser Thrask or one of the mage-sympathetic templars were out hunting down apostates with him, or he’d find himself getting shouldered into boulders or shield bashed in the face as a fellow templar ‘mistook’ him for a mage in the heat of battle.

All accidents, of course.

And while it was a monster coordinating these things, he couldn’t help the slithering, twisted self-loathing that curled inside him, whispering that he deserved at least this much.

He deserved to be hurt, to be lonely, to suffer as those he’d neglected had suffered.

When he’d left the Order to join the Inquisition, he’d hoped he could find a way to atone, to…not to make up for what he’d done. That could never happen. But he’d wanted to try to be the man he’d dreamed of being when he was boy.

A protector.

He’d never even considered he might find someone…let alone a mage who held the key to saving the world. That someone like Finley could even consider him…

He’d given up on romance long before he realized he didn’t deserve it, and yet here he was, jealous of a hero because of the way the woman he loved seemed drawn to him.

His mind stopped at that, for some reason, slowly playing back his most recent string of thoughts.

Cullen nearly fell off his horse as what he’d thought processed. Snapping up and alert, he glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his near accident, though no one seemed to be paying him particular mind.

He ran his fingers through his hair, staring ahead, heat creeping up into his cheeks.

Maker, he loved her.

He loved Finley.

How?

How could he love her already?

Even as he wondered, all he could do was think of the way she spoke, of the quiet, hesitant smiles she gave him, of the way she came to him before anyone else, the way…

Maker, help him.

He wanted to offer her a ride on his horse, just to feel her body against his. Theirs was a slow enough pace that they could have talked off and on.

Talked and touched and…

And she was avoiding him.

Had she figured out before he had and been scared off? This was…it was far too soon. Love was something that took time and…

And he needed to see her.

When they’d camped for the night, he made sure the guards were posted and then searched for Finley, only to find that she was being as elusive as usual, though Leliana had assured him he needn’t worry and so he’d figured the spymaster had eyes on her wherever she was. Despite wanting to keep looking for her, he’d given in, his body weary from the days on the road, and headed to his tent.

However, when he reached it, he found a small paper tied to his tent flap’s tie. He unraveled it, a mite bit annoyed, especially seeing as the delivery reminded him of Sera, and she was supposed to be back at Skyhold.

He scanned the letter carefully and then sighed. The misspellings screamed that Sera had stowed away with them. While he didn’t care so long as she didn’t cause any mayhem, he knew that Josephine would be concerned if she found out.

Perhaps he’d forget to bring it up.

The note, however, said that he’d find something important at the stream just south of where they were camped, and so he headed off, even as he wanted to do nothing more than crawl into his tent and pretend to sleep as his mind played through every interaction he’d ever had with Finley and why she might be mad at him at present.

When he reached the stream, he found another note tied to a branch—almost hidden—that pointed him to the right.

As he wondered if he should have his blade drawn, he wandered along the brush, watching the water flow past, quick enough that it was clear and crisp. The underbrush and foliage were dense enough that—while it could hide someone easily—he doubted anyone could move through it easily to prepare a sneak attack, so clearly the notes hadn’t been alerting him to a possible weak point near the camp.

If this was some simple diversion tactic…

He forgot about sneak attacks and pranks the second he heard a surprised gasp and looked up to see Finley. She was sitting on a large rock beside the water, washing her long hair.

It was one of the first times he’d seen it nearly tangle free, and his breath caught in his throat as he watched her, imagining for a second it was his fingers in her hair.

“Commander.” Her voice was hesitant, as though she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. He was surprised by how much that caution hurt.

“Finley.”

At her name, that small, quiet smile he so loved whispered across her lips. It was gone too soon. “Has…something happened?”

That was what he wanted to know.

“Someone left me a note that I should come out here.”

“Oh…” He could see the gears turn quickly in Finley’s head as she assigned blame to the appropriate parties. So she knew Sera was here.

Wonderful.

She’d shed most of her clothes to keep them from getting wet as she fought with her hair, and the way her under shirt clung to her made him want to take her in his arms and cast it aside with everything else. To feel her heart beating with his, to…

“You shouldn’t be alone out here.”

“I’m used to being alone,” she retorted, shrugging and turning back to her original task.

Cullen stepped up beside the rock she was seated upon, watching her muscles in her bare arms move beneath her skin a few minutes before he managed to gather his thoughts.

“You could be hurt.”

“I’m used to getting hurt.”

Cullen flinched at that. A thousand responses flitted through his mind. He was sorry, even though he’d never hurt her himself. He wished she wasn’t used to it. He wanted to make sure she wouldn’t be ever again.

There were so many things he wanted to say, and instead, he stood there, close enough that he could reach out and cup her face in his hands, and yet feeling like he couldn’t.

“Finley.” Before he’d realized it, he’d knelt in front of her, peering up into her face, searching her expression. He wanted to ask what had happened between them. He’d found her in the woods early on when they’d started traveling, and she’d been crying, and she’d… He’d held her for a little while before taking her back to her tent.

The next morning, there had been a change, though, and he wasn’t sure what had caused it.

“Cullen.”

Her voice was soft, but the sound of his name on her lips sent a shiver through him.

“I just…” she trailed off, letting her hair fall against her back and shaking her head. “I miss the Wilds. It’s a lot easier when you know what to expect and what will likely happen and…here…nothing makes sense.”

Without thinking, he finally breeched that impossible distance between them, fingers gently brushing across her jaw and cheeks. He just wanted to do something, anything that would help her. “You’re not alone with that. Everything’s a bit of a mess right now.”

Finley leaned into his touch, closing her eyes as she brought her hand up to hold his. Even as she pressed a kiss into his palm, she straightened up, worried. “Am I…should we even…” He leaned toward her as she struggled to find her words. “I don’t really get how to do this. With you. Everything is so complicated.”

Cullen blinked, staring up at her, at the earnest worry settling on her features.

She looked away from him, wincing as she started to say something, and he couldn’t help himself anymore.

Leaning forward, he caught her lips with his, moving his hand back to the nape of her neck, as he moved his lips, seeking to memorize hers.

There was a second’s hesitation that almost made him stop, before her fingers were in his hair, tugging him closer.

He moved with her, surging up and pushing her down onto the rock, his knee propping himself up slightly over her as their hands wandered over each other, desperately seeking bare skin. One of her legs slid up along his to wrap around his waist, though Finley stopped short, pulling away a little.

As she caught her breath and he fought the urge to simply kiss her again, she bit her lip. “Cullen…your sword is pressing into my leg.”

“That’s not my sword.”

“What I’m talking about is.”

With a glance, he saw the problem—obvious thing that it was—and felt like an idiot. Of course he was still wearing his sword on his hip. Even as he cursed how in the way it was, hand reaching to his belt he stopped himself.

Something had cracked in the woods. A stick.

Cullen held his breath, waiting to see what would come of it. Finley was the one to dismiss it. “It was just an animal.”

When he looked back at her, however, he couldn’t shake the fact that someone could have snuck up on them, and they would have been caught off guard.

Maker, he was supposed to be protecting her, not putting her in more danger.

She seemed to be on the same page, already sitting up and running her fingers through her hair to make sure it was still clean.

“I’ll…stay with you until you’re ready to go back.” The words were forced, and he was half afraid to meet her gaze, that he might lose himself in thoughts of touching her again.

She simply nodded, reached out, and squeezed his hand. Then she was back to finishing up with the last few tangles in her hair. Cullen watched her, trying to keep his attention on their surroundings as well, though he had a hard time with that when they were so close.

Turning his back to her, he walked away a few paces, trying to think of something to calm the fire in his blood. Abruptly, he straightened up and looked back at her. “You were going to say something.”

“Hmm?” Finley braided her hair quickly and turned back to her clothes.

“When I kissed you. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just…” He wasn’t sure what to say that would excuse his actions, but he didn’t want her to think he would just kiss her to get her to stop talking or…

She hesitated at that, fingers gripping her shirt with more force than necessary as she stared blankly at the fabric.

“It wasn’t anything important.” She tugged it over her head and then gave him a hesitant smile. “Just a silly fear.”

That gave him pause.

That she’d been willing to open up to him made him want to press the matter, and yet…

Cullen could understand not wanting to talk about things well enough, and so he nodded, reaching out and lightly catching her hand. “Alright.” A light blush settled on her cheeks when he squeezed her hand, and he motioned back toward the camp. “We should get some sleep.”

As he let go of her, she drew in a slow breath, nodding before she exhaled. “We reach Denerim tomorrow, yes?”

“We do.”

“We…we’re not going to be there more than a few days.”

Cullen gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll be heading back to Skyhold by the end of the week.”

As he gave her that assurance, she let out another slow breath, tilting her head back and staring up into the branches overhead as they wandered back. “I’ll be glad to have this past us.”

“As will we all.”

And for the first time that night, she gave him a more genuine smile, stretching up on her toes to kiss his cheek before winding her way back through the trees to camp with the soft, quiet ease that made him wonder if he hadn’t been wrong in assuming it would be hard to have a sneak attack in this area.

He’d order a few more guards before he went to bed.

He’d messed up so many times before, but this time he would act as the protector he’d sworn he would be.

He would.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #cullen rutherford #witch!inquisitor #cullen x f!inquisitor #romance #action/adventure #angst #andraste's witch

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eddycurrents · 6 years ago

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For the week of 3 September 2018

Quick Bits:

Ant Man & The Wasp #5 concludes what has been a fun series from Mark Waid, Javier Garrón, Israel Silva, and Joe Caramagna. The artwork from Garrón and Silva has been excellent and this final issue allows them to show off some more incredible and strange ideas.

| Published by Marvel

Asgardians of the Galaxy #1 adds another fun little wrinkle to the current expansion and exploration of Marvel’s Asgardian characters, spinning out of the current Thor series, the Infinity Wars crossover, and other reclaimed threads from the past few years. You needn’t have read any of that, though, as this still serves as a good introduction on its own, the rest just adds flavour. Cullen Bunn adds some nice touches of humour to the story, while a large part of this story rests in the action depicted by Matteo Lolli and Federico Blee. This is off to a good start.

| Published by Marvel

Avengers #7 is a single issue story expanding upon the first Ghost Rider from Jason Aaron, Sara Pichelli, Elisabetta D’Amico, Justin Ponsor, and Cory Petit. I like the 1 Million BC Avengers, so this is a welcome exploration, especially when coupled with this beautiful art.

| Published by Marvel

Black Science #38 gives a very interesting perspective on the book’s reality, and the purpose of all of the different realities, as we reach the prime reality. Phenomenal art as always from Matteo Scalera and Moreno Dinisio.

| Published by Image / Giant Generator

Bully Wars #1 isn’t a bad debut, filling in a similar-but not quite as extreme-humour place as Skottie Young’s recently concluded I Hate Fairyland. Nice art from Aaron Conley and Jean-Francois Beaulieu.

| Published by Image

Call of Duty: Zombies 2 #1 serves as a prequel to the forthcoming co-op portion of Activision/Treyarch’s Black Ops 4 video game, introducing some of the characters who will be featured in that story. It’s very much a kind of Indiana Jones pseudoarchaeology type story so far, but it’s good. Nice work from Justin Jordan, Andres Ponce, Mauro Vargas, Dan Jackson, and Nate Piekos.

| Published by Dark Horse

Captain America #3 teases out a bit more of the conspiracy of a group behind the Nuke terrorists and an attempt to take control of America in the void left by Hydra’s demise. It continues to be a slowburn, with Ta-Nehisi Coates leaving a lot of the moral and ethical decisions up to the readers themselves as to whether or not what’s occurring is a “good” thing, even if being a byproduct of potentially nefarious ends.

| Published by Marvel

Clankillers #3 is more gorgeous artwork from Antonio Fuso and Stefano Simeone as they bring the darker aspects of Irish mythology to life. I quite enjoy how Sean Lewis is constructing how incredibly messed up this family has become.

| Published by AfterShock

Cloak & Dagger #4 starts pushing us closer towards the endgame as Ty goes on the offensive to find and rescue Tandy. Marvel’s digital originals have really been delivering some high quality stories lately and this one from Dennis Hopeless, David Messina, Elisabetta D’Amico, Giada Marchisio, and Travis Lanham has helped lead the charge. I know this one’s only supposed to be a limited series, with a couple more issue left, but the story and art have been top notch and I’d really like to see more.

| Published by Marvel

Cosmic Ghost Rider #3 brings the ultraviolence as Donny Cates, Dylan Burnett, Antonio Fabela, and Clayton Cowles give us what amounts to an issue long battle between our time-spun, deranged Frank Castle and a seemingly infinite army of Guardians of the Galaxy led by Cable. It’s fun.

| Published by Marvel

Dark Ark #10 concludes this arc in fairly spectacular fashion, including a very impressive double-page spread from Juan Doe of the confrontation with Echidna.

| Published by AfterShock

The Dead Hand #6 is the conclusion to the first arc in this series and it is rather good. It ties up the events throughout the series so far and gives us a very interesting change to what happens next. I can’t say it’s unexpected because pretty much every issue has given us a surprise revelation or twist in the story, but it’s very well done. Kyle Higgins, Stephen Mooney, Jordie Bellaire, and Clayton Cowles have told a very compelling story of intrigue and spycraft here.

| Published by Image

Deadpool #4 is a fun single issue story dropping Deadpool into Weirdworld and just kind of running wild with it. It allows Scott Hepburn (with colours by Ian Herring) to really cut loose with some of the designs and layouts, and taps into the zany, bizarre humour and fantasy that Skottie Young has become known for.

| Published by Marvel

Death of the Inhumans #3 continues the slow, surgical excision of the Inhumans and much of their supporting cast from the cosmic Marvel scene. There’s some fight left in them, but I wonder if Donny Cates is setting us up for disappointment. I really quite like what he’s carving out for himself with this, Cosmic Ghost Rider, and Thanos Legacy. Also, beautiful artwork from Ariel Olivetti and Jordie Bellaire.

| Published by Marvel

Eclipse #10 makes me really quite appreciate Giovanni Timpano’s artwork more, especially finding out that he’s developing the layouts and panel progressions himself. Not only are they visually interesting, but it elevates the level of collaborative storytelling that he and Zack Kaplan are accomplishing here.

| Published by Image / Top Cow

Giant Days #42 complicates things a bit between Ed and Esther, continuing to navigate the tricky relationships between the characters. The humour and heart are at an all time high this issue.

| Published by Boom Entertainment / Boom! Box

Immortal Hulk #5 gets pretty heavy as the issue drops a few bombs in regards to Sasquatch and on whatever it is that keeps bringing the Hulk back to life. Five issues in and this is already on part to me with much of Peter David’s run, particularly the Dale Keown, Liam Sharp, and Gary Frank eras that I greatly cherish. Al Ewing, Joe Bennett, Ruy José, Paul Mounts, and Cory Petit are crafting an enthralling horror story, while greatly developing and embellishing upon Banner’s history. This is damn good.

| Published by Marvel

James Bond: Origin #1 is quite good, spotlighting a young James Bond, still in school, set during World War 2. It’s pretty straightforward in its action, but the artwork from Bob Q is quite a draw. He’s got a style that reminds me a bit of Peter Gross and Patrick Olliffe and it works really well for this kind of story.

| Published by Dynamite

The Last Siege #4 attempts to shift fates again this issue as Lady Cathryn and the stranger try to free themselves from Feist. The intrigue and shifting tension to the story are palpable, with Landry Q. Walker and Justin Greenwood keeping us on the edge of our seat with the action.

| Published by Image

Leviathan #2 is not quite as over-the-top insane as the first issue, as it starts to fill in the details of what’s going on, but it still tries really hard to throw as many crazy ideas at you at once. Especially Hollow Earth dinosaurs in addition to the rest of the madness going on. Another satisfying outing from John Layman, Nick Pitarra, and Michael Garland.

| Published by Image

Old Man Logan Annual #1 introduces us to the Punisher of the wastelands, with two stories centring around Old Man Frank. The lead from Ed Brisson, Simone Di Meo, Dono Sánchez-Almara, and Cory Petit is an interesting story about legacy, actions and consequences, as interpreted through the lens of this destroyed and crumbling world. After the start of the new Hillbilly mini, it’s nice to see Di Meo’s art again here.

The back-up goes further in to developing Old Man Frank himself with a “Punisher Wastelands Journal” story from Ryan Cady, Hayden Sherman, Dono Sánchez-Almara, and Cory Petit. I want more of this story.

| Published by Marvel

Optimus Prime #23 is a bit scattered, delivering overlapping narrative points of view, while a larger conflict erupts on Earth between two factions of Cybertronians and a contingent of GI Joe operatives. It’s chaotic, which is part of the point, but it’s made more so in that you’re probably going to need to read it a couple of times to get the most out of who’s presenting what at any given time.

| Published by IDW

Outpost Zero #3 really starts to turn things up as interpersonal conflicts start coming to the fore and the colonists being politicking amongst themselves in the face of oncoming doom. I quite like it. Sean McKeever has really fleshed out the characters’ motivations and voices, engaging you to see how the pieces fit into the overall narrative.

| Published Image / Skybound

Paradiso #7 gives more insight into the dwellers underground, Jack, and the city itself, but as it does so more and more questions are raised. It’s very interesting how this story is being constructed and embellished, the world-building doesn’t ever seem to stop in favour of just following a singular narrative path.

| Published by Image

Pestilence: A Story of Satan #4 delivers a few revelations and some more nasty twists for our valiant knights. As usual, the artwork from Oleg Okunev (with colours this issue by Guy Major) really makes the series shine. The designs for the advanced stages of the plague are very impressive.

| Published by AfterShock

Predator: Hunters II #2 has some really nice artwork from Agustin Padilla and Neeraj Menon. It’s interesting how Chris Warner is weaving some of the geopolitical strife in Afghanistan into the story and how it colours the Hunters’ hunt.

| Published by Dark Horse

Project Superpowers #2 is good. I’m sure that if I had read more than the original Alex Ross/Jim Krueger series, I’d get more depth out of this, but Rob Williams is making this story enjoyable for those of us that haven’t been following the broader story all along. Great art from Sergio Davila and Felideus.

| Published by Dynamite

Quicksilver: No Surrender #5 leaves us a fairly interesting place after this character study, and quasi-redemption arc, of Pietro. While I’m really interested to see where this goes next, this has been an excellent series from Saladin Ahmed, Eric Nguyen, Rico Renzi, and Clayton Cowles. I’ve really enjoyed how this series has used colour to enhance the storytelling and this issue is no different.

| Published by Marvel

Relay #3 gets weirder. I’m getting even more David Cronenberg and Philip K. Dick vibes off of the story now, as it shifts even further into the mystery of the nature of the Relay and what exactly is going on with reality. There are some very interesting sci-fi ideas being played with here.

| Published by AfterShock

Shadow Roads #3 is another wonderful issue, giving us a bit of Henry’s history, and a lot of action. AC & Carlos Zamudio are really doing a great job with the artwork.

| Published by Oni Press

Silver Surfer Annual #1 is a pretty straightforward morality tale about the conflict the Surfer has with fulfilling his role as Galactus’ herald and the hidden beauty and value of worlds that he’s serving up to his master. It’s a decent story, but what really elevates it is the beautiful artwork from André Lima Araújo and Chris O’Halloran. It’s unsurprising that this issue was dedicated to Moebius, because that who I immediately thought of when I saw this book.

| Published by Marvel

Spawn #289 lays out some of the steps in Spawn’s plans to stop the shadowy evil elements seeking to control humanity, incorporating some old characters and plot ideas back into the overall story. It’s kind of what you’d expect from a Todd McFarlane-penned story and it is fairly entertaining, especially for longtime readers, even if a bit stilted at times. What takes it a peg above the norm, though, is still the artwork from Jason Shawn Alexander (with colours from McFarlane, Brian Haberlin, and Lee Loughridge).

| Published by Image

Star Wars: Doctor Aphra Annual #2 is easily one of the best Star Wars stories I’ve read this year, telling a humorous and exciting archaeological adventure story of Winloss and Nokk attempting to capture a legendary beast. Si Spurrier is great at humour, subtle winks to deadpan black humour, and it comes off in spades throughout the dialogue here. Winloss and Nokk’s banter is just perfect. To add to that, we’ve got Caspar Wijngaard’s first interiors for Marvel and he just knocks it out of the park. His creator owned work is phenomenal, beautiful, atmospheric art and he brings all that care, attention, and wonder to Star Wars. This is a great comic.

| Published by Marvel

Thanos Legacy #1 serves as a capstone to the recent Thanos series from Donny Cates and Geoff Shaw, while also being a companion piece to Cosmic Ghost Rider and being enmeshed in the current goings-on with Infinity Wars. The lead story written by Cates, with great art from Brian Level and Jordan Boyd gives Thanos’ perspective for the Infinity Wars events and is fairly essential in what looks like is coming next in Marvel’s cosmic realm. Like his work on the recent Avengers: Back to Basics digital original series, Level’s panel compositions, transitions, and page layouts are phenomenal. The craft that goes into his storytelling is impeccable.

There’s also a silent back-up from Gerry Duggan, Cory Smith, and Ruth Redmond of Thanos training Gamora that highlights his sadism.

| Published by Marvel

Transformers: Lost Light #23 continues to tie up threads and drop huge revelations as we approach the end. James Roberts, Jack Lawrence, Joana Lafuente, and Tom B. Long are going out on a high note.

| Published by IDW

Transformers: Unicron #4 continues the systematic destruction of IDW’s Hasbroverse. It’s never looked so good with stunning art from Alex Milne, Sebastian Cheng, and David Garcia Cruz.

| Published by IDW

War Bears #1 is an interesting comic from Margaret Atwood and Ken Steacy, blending World War 2 working conditions, Canadian comics history, and propaganda comics into this tale. Great art from Steacy, especially as he incorporates the in-story comics pages into the work. I love when comics do that.

| Published by Dark Horse

Other Highlights: Aphrodite IX: Ares #1, Astonishing X-Men #15, Breathless #4, Come Into Me #3, Ghostbusters: Crossing Over #6, Invader Zim #34, The Long Con #2, Noble #11, Paper Girls #24, Secret Agent Deadpool #1, Spider-Man/Deadpool #38, Star Wars #53, Thief of Thieves #40, TMNT: Urban Legends #5, Unnatural #3, Vampironica #3, Venom: First Host #2, Weapon X #23

Recommended Collections: Brigands - Volume 2: Ruin of Thieves, Fear Agent - Volume 3, The Fix - Volume 3, The Further Adventures of Nick Wilson - Volume 1, Monstress - Volume 3, Monstro Mechanica - Volume 1, Old Man Logan - Volume 8: To Kill For, Prism Stalker, TMNT - Volume 20: Kingdom of Rats, Twisted Romance, X-Men Red - Volume 1: Hate Machine

d. emerson eddy does not have a brain slug attached to his skull. Why do you ask?

#This Week in Comics

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gamerzcourt · 7 years ago

Text

Nier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Reveal What Games They Admire MostNier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Reveal What Games They Admire Mostvideo games

New Post has been published on http://www.gamerzcourt.com/nier-psychonauts-and-other-devs-reveal-what-games-they-admire-mostnier-psychonauts-and-other-devs-reveal-what-games-they-admire-mostvideo-games/

Nier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Reveal What Games They Admire MostNier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Reveal What Games They Admire Mostvideo games

Chad and Jared Moldenhauer, Directors of Cuphead

Jared Moldenhauer (left) and Chad Moldenhauer (right)

Chad Moldenhauer: I recently started and really enjoy The Witness. I was looking forward to that for a long time!

Yoshinori Terasawa, Danganronpa Series Producer

Yoshinori Terasawa: I love the Persona series. I adore the sense of personality that those games have. I really like how cool and stylish they are.

Rami Ismail, Producer of Nuclear Throne

Tom Kaczmarczyk, Producer of Superhot

Tim Schafer, Founder of Double Fine (Psychonauts, Brutal Legend)

Tim Schafer

Jason Roberts, Director of Gorogoa

Dean Ayala, Hearthstone Senior Game Designer + Dave Kozack, Hearthstone Lead Narrative Designer

Dean Ayala: Dungeon Crawl Stone Soup. It’s a roguelike released back in 1997. A lot of the Hearthstone design team plays it. It’s super old-school.

Ian Dallas, Creative Director of What Remains Of Edith Finch

Ian Dallas

Chelsea Hash, Technical Artist of What Remains Of Edith Finch

Damon Baker, Nintendo Publisher and Developer Relations

Matt Thornson, Director of Celeste

Matt Thornson: I’ve been really enjoying my time with Into the Breach. It’s amazing!

Victor Kislyi, Wargaming CEO (World of Tanks)

Yoko Taro, Director of Nier: Automata

Yoko Taro (left) and Takahira Taura (right)

Takahisa Taura, Designer Of Nier: Automata + Metal Gear Rising

GameSpot News

#Admire #devs #Games #MostNier #Mostvideo #Nier #Psychonauts #Reveal #They

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gamerzcourt · 7 years ago

Text

Nier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Share What Games They Admire MostNier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Share What Games They Admire Mostvideo games

New Post has been published on http://www.gamerzcourt.com/nier-psychonauts-and-other-devs-share-what-games-they-admire-mostnier-psychonauts-and-other-devs-share-what-games-they-admire-mostvideo-games/

Nier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Share What Games They Admire MostNier, Psychonauts, And Other Devs Share What Games They Admire Mostvideo games

Chad and Jared Moldenhauer, Directors of Cuphead

Jared Moldenhauer (left) and Chad Moldenhauer (right)

Chad Moldenhauer: I recently started and really enjoy The Witness. I was looking forward to that for a long time!

Yoshinori Terasawa, Danganronpa Series Producer

Yoshinori Terasawa: I love the Persona series. I adore the sense of personality that those games have. I really like how cool and stylish they are.

Rami Ismail, Producer of Nuclear Throne

Tom Kaczmarczyk, Producer of Superhot

Tim Schafer, Founder of Double Fine (Psychonauts, Brutal Legend)

Tim Schafer

Jason Roberts, Director of Gorogoa

Dean Ayala, Hearthstone Senior Game Designer + Dave Kozack, Hearthstone Lead Narrative Designer

Dean Ayala: Dungeon Crawl Stone Soup. It’s a roguelike released back in 1997. A lot of the Hearthstone design team plays it. It’s super old-school.

Ian Dallas, Creative Director of What Remains Of Edith Finch

Ian Dallas

Chelsea Hash, Technical Artist of What Remains Of Edith Finch

Damon Baker, Nintendo Publisher and Developer Relations

Matt Thornson, Director of Celeste

Matt Thornson: I’ve been really enjoying my time with Into the Breach. It’s amazing!

Victor Kislyi, Wargaming CEO (World of Tanks)

Yoko Taro, Director of Nier: Automata

Yoko Taro (left) and Takahira Taura (right)

Takahisa Taura, Designer Of Nier: Automata + Metal Gear Rising

GameSpot News

#Admire #devs #Games #MostNier #Mostvideo #Nier #Psychonauts #Share #They

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