#altar of righteous sacrifice

[sunlitriddle]

On That Day, Five Years Ago

This is based on OG more than anything, using updated Remake visuals. But, since I haven't finished Rebirth, any spoilers are from the original game. I have no idea what shenanigans they have for the climax of part 2 and all of part 3.

I always loved Mideel and finding out the True Flashback of what actually happened in Nibel. This moment, where Cloud is Just a Guy filled with a righteous fury, he has the strength to wield the Buster Sword, avenge his hometown (including everyone who didn't think much of him) and kill* Sephiroth.

I wanted to contrast just how weak Cloud is, how average, how utterly human; and how heavy the Buster Sword is... and duty, and honor, and sacrifice, and all the other meanings it's accumulated through time. And somehow, he has the strength to wield it.

I also wanted to give a twisted, holy vibe to the Nibel Reactor, with bundled wires hung like a vaulted ceiling leading to the altar and the sarcophagus of a false god.

*death doesn't seem to inconvenience him much, let's be real.

[walkswithmyfather]

Hebrews 10:10-14 (NLT). “For God’s will was for us to be made holy by the sacrifice of the body of Jesus Christ, once for all time. Under the old covenant, the priest stands and ministers before the altar day after day, offering the same sacrifices again and again, which can never take away sins. But our High Priest offered himself to God as a single sacrifice for sins, good for all time. Then he sat down in the place of honor at God’s right hand. There he waits until his enemies are humbled and made a footstool under his feet. For by that one offering he forever made perfect those who are being made holy.”

“Jesus Is Alive and Active” By In Touch Ministries:“

”Jesus may be in heaven, but He is actively guiding and advocating for us.”

Have you ever wondered what Jesus is doing, now that He’s in heaven? Today’s passage tells us that He is sitting at God’s right hand. It might make us wonder what He’s doing up there. Is He simply waiting for the time when He comes back to earth? No! He’s actually quite active on our behalf.

First, the Lord Jesus is within every believer, in the person of the Holy Spirit (John 15:26; Romans 8:9-10). This means that from heaven, Christ is working to shape your character and empower your obedience.

Second, the Lord intercedes for us (Hebrews 7:25). He makes requests on our behalf and brings our prayers to the Father.

Third, we see in 1 John 2:1-2 that Jesus is our Advocate when we sin. Positioned between us and the Father, He declares our righteous standing because of His sacrifice and our faith in Him.

Finally, Christ is preparing a place for us in heaven (John 14:1-3) and arranging all events necessary for His return.

Jesus is in heaven carrying out the Father’s will. And we should be doing the same thing here on earth. The Lord can save others through us when we reflect His life in our work, attitudes, words, and behavior. Let us, Christ’s body—His eyes, ears, voice, feet, and hands—point others to Him.”

[Photo thanks to Štefan Štefančík at Unsplash]

[mental-health-and-jesus]

8-12-2024 | Bible App | Hebrews 11:

‘By faith Abel offered God a better sacrifice than Cain did. By faith he was commended as righteous when God gave approval to his gifts. And by faith he still speaks, even though he is dead. By faith Enoch was taken up so that he did not see death: “He could not be found, because God had taken him away.” For before he was taken, he was commended as one who pleased God. And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who approaches Him must believe that He exists and that He rewards those who earnestly seek Him. By faith Noah, when warned about things not yet seen, in godly fear built an ark to save his family. By faith he condemned the world and became heir of the righteousness that comes by faith. By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, without knowing where he was going. By faith he dwelt in the promised land as a stranger in a foreign country. He lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. By faith Sarah, even though she was barren and beyond the proper age, was enabled to conceive a child, because she considered Him faithful who had promised. By faith Abraham, when he was tested, offered up Isaac on the altar. He who had received the promises was ready to offer his one and only son, By faith Isaac blessed Jacob and Esau concerning the future. By faith Jacob, when he was dying, blessed each of Joseph’s sons and worshiped as he leaned on the top of his staff. By faith Joseph, when his end was near, spoke about the exodus of the Israelites and gave instructions about his bones. By faith Moses’ parents hid him for three months after his birth, because they saw that he was a beautiful child, and they were unafraid of the king’s edict. By faith Moses, when he was grown, refused to be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter. By faith Moses left Egypt, not fearing the king’s anger; he persevered because he saw Him who is invisible. By faith the people passed through the Red Sea as on dry land; but when the Egyptians tried to follow, they were drowned. By faith the walls of Jericho fell, after the people had marched around them for seven days. By faith the prostitute Rahab, because she welcomed the spies in peace, did not perish with those who were disobedient. These were all commended for their faith, yet they did not receive what was promised. God had planned something better for us, so that together with us they would be made perfect.’ Hebrews 11:4-9;11;17;20-24;27:29-31;39-40

Photo from Pexels

[eretzyisrael]

DON’T EMBARRASS ME 

In this week’s Torah portion Tzav, God tells Moses to command Aaron and his sons - the priestly caste - to offer various types of animal sacrifices in the Tabernacle and Temple. The most common kind of sacrifice is the burnt offering, which expresses a desire to submit to God’s will and come close to Him. Another type of sacrifice is the sin offering, to atone for and purge an unintentional sin caused by carelessness. The burnt offering is burnt entirely on the altar but the sin offering is not. Although the burnt offering and the sin offering are brought for different reasons and serve different purposes, they are slaughtered in the same place. Our Sages explain that this is to protect one who brings a sin offering from embarrassment as it won’t be apparent to onlookers which type he is bringing.  In Judaism, embarrassing somebody in public is a grave sin comparable to murder. The Sages of the Talmud teach that it would be better for a person to allow himself to be tossed into a furnace than to willingly embarrass another. Hillel famously summed up the Torah in one line: Do not do unto others what is hateful to you. Public humiliation is hateful to all of us, so let’s avoid doing it to others. And if you (God forbid) are shamed in front of others, keeping quiet rather than striking back is considered an exceptionally righteous act that will be rewarded!

[pugzman3]

Psalms chapter 118

1 O give thanks unto the LORD; for he is good: because his mercy endureth for ever.

2 Let Israel now say, that his mercy endureth for ever.

3 Let the house of Aaron now say, that his mercy endureth for ever.

4 Let them now that fear the LORD say, that his mercy endureth for ever.

5 I called upon the LORD in distress: the LORD answered me, and set me in a large place.

6 The LORD is on my side; I will not fear: what can man do unto me?

7 The LORD taketh my part with them that help me: therefore shall I see my desire upon them that hate me.

8 It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in man.

9 It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in princes.

10 All nations compassed me about: but in the name of the LORD will I destroy them.

11 They compassed me about; yea, they compassed me about: but in the name of the LORD I will destroy them.

12 They compassed me about like bees; they are quenched as the fire of thorns: for in the name of the LORD I will destroy them.

13 Thou hast thrust sore at me that I might fall: but the LORD helped me.

14 The LORD is my strength and song, and is become my salvation.

15 The voice of rejoicing and salvation is in the tabernacles of the righteous: the right hand of the LORD doeth valiantly.

16 The right hand of the LORD is exalted: the right hand of the LORD doeth valiantly.

17 I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.

18 The LORD hath chastened me sore: but he hath not given me over unto death.

19 Open to me the gates of righteousness: I will go into them, and I will praise the LORD:

20 This gate of the LORD, into which the righteous shall enter.

21 I will praise thee: for thou hast heard me, and art become my salvation.

22 The stone which the builders refused is become the head stone of the corner.

23 This is the LORD'S doing; it is marvellous in our eyes.

24 This is the day which the LORD hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.

25 Save now, I beseech thee, O LORD: O LORD, I beseech thee, send now prosperity.

26 Blessed be he that cometh in the name of the LORD: we have blessed you out of the house of the LORD.

27 God is the LORD, which hath shewed us light: bind the sacrifice with cords, even unto the horns of the altar.

28 Thou art my God, and I will praise thee: thou art my God, I will exalt thee.

29 O give thanks unto the LORD; for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.

[tpanan]

July 27, 2024 - REGARDING THE MOCKERY OF THE LAST SUPPER OF JESUS CHRIST

Most Rev. Andrew H. Cozzens, S.T.D., D.D.

Bishop of Crookston

Chairman of the Board of the National Eucharistic Congress

“If then my people, upon whom my name has been pronounced, humble themselves and pray, and seek my face and turn from their evil ways, I will hear them from heaven and pardon their sins and heal their land.” (2 Chr 7:14)

Dear Brothers and Sisters in Christ,

At the opening Holy Hour of the 10th National Eucharistic Congress, on Wednesday July, 17, 2024, I prayed these very words, inviting tens of thousands in the stadium and thousands more watching virtually to join me in asking the Lord to pardon our sins and heal our land.

Then on Friday evening, July 19th, we all united around Our Eucharistic Lord again in Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis to make reparation for our sins. We humbled ourselves in the presence of Jesus, Our Lord and Savior. Recognizing that if one member of the Body of Christ suffers, we all suffer, we prayed together for healing and forgiveness. We were lead through a litany of healing and repentance in the Eucharist by Fr. Boniface Hicks, O.S.B. Many people told me that this moment of communal penance and reparation was a moment of great healing for them. It was amongst the most powerful experiences of grace for me personally during those holy days.

Just one week later, on July 26th in Paris, where the newly restored Cathedral of Notre Dame stands as an iconic reminder to our belief in the importance of the Mass, which makes spiritually present to us the Last Supper, nearly 1 billion men, women and children, in person and through live telecast, witnessed the public mockery of the Mass, the “source and summit of the Christian life” (LG, 11). During the opening ceremonies of the Summer Olympics, the famous DaVinci Masterpiece The Last Supper was depicted in heinous fashion, leaving us in such shock, sorrow and righteous anger that words cannot describe it.

Brothers and sisters, we know that what the enemy intends for evil, God uses for good. We know that “where sin increased, grace overflowed all the more” (Rom 5:20).

Throughout salvation history, the Lord and his prophets have called us—the people of God—to respond to the darkness of evil with the light that comes from the Lord. At the heart of this call are prayer and fasting. Jesus told us that some demons “can only come out through prayer [and through fasting]” (Mk 29:9). He modeled this for us when he spent 40 days in the desert before beginning his public ministry, praying and fasting, begging God the Father to prepare him for all that lay ahead—including his perfect gift of self through his death on the Cross.

We believe that the Last Supper is united with the death of Christ on the Cross and, together with the Resurrection, these events are all one in the Paschal Mystery. This passover, which begins at the Last Supper, is the most sacred moment in the life of Jesus. This is when Jesus offered his life for us so that we could share in his divine life forever.

Jesus experienced his Passion anew Friday night in Paris when his Last Supper was publicly defamed. As his living body, we are invited to enter into this moment of passion with him, this moment of public shame, mockery, and persecution. We do this through prayer and fasting. And our greatest prayer—in season and out of season—is the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

As the Church throughout the world gathers tomorrow at the Lord’s Altar, let us do so with renewed zeal. Let us pray for healing and forgiveness for all those who participated in this mockery. Let us commit ourselves this week to greater prayer and fasting in reparation for this sin. Perhaps you could attend Mass once more this week or do an extra holy hour?

We may also be called upon to speak about this evil. Let us do so with love and charity, but also with firmness. France and the entire world are saved by the love poured out through the Mass, which came to us through the Last Supper. Inspired by the many martyrs who shed their blood to witness to the truth of the Mass, we will not stand aside and quietly abide as the world mocks our greatest gift from the Lord Jesus. Rather, through our prayer and fasting, we will ask the Holy Spirit to strengthen us with the virtue of fortitude so that we may preach Christ—our Lord and Savior, truly present in the Eucharist—for the Glory of God and the Salvation of Souls.

Let us, strengthened by Christ, be the Eucharistic Missionaries we are called to be.

+In Christ Jesus,

Most Rev. Andrew H. Cozzens, S.T.D., D.D.

Bishop of Crookston

Chairman of the Board of the National Eucharistic Congress

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Tuesday, June 4, 2024

may 22_june 4

RIGHTEOUS MELCHISEDEC, KING OF SALEM

The Righteous Melchizedek was the King of Salem (Jerusalem). He was both a king and a priest, laying the foundations of the city where the Messiah would appear. According to Mar Jacob of Serugh, Melchizedek was a Canaanite, asserting that the very site of his kingdom bears witness to this. Therefore, his genealogy is not recorded. He must have been born, and he must have died, but the Scriptures deliberately conceal both events, assigning him neither beginning nor end, so that he might be called a priest forever. Melchizedek (who appears in the Scriptures suddenly, and then disappears) is regarded as a type of Christ (Hebrews 5:6, 10; Hebrews 6:20; Hebrews 7:2). He did not receive his priesthood from any other priest, nor did he pass on his priesthood to anyone else. In his homily "On Melchizedek, Priest of the Most High God," Mar Jacob of Serugh states that the priests of the past shed the blood of animals when offering sacrifices to God. By contrast, Melchizedek was made a priest "by the sacrifices of his soul," and did not sacrifice animals, nor did he offer anything but himself to God. Melchizedek did not adorn himself with splendid robes as Aaron did; and instead of offering bulls and rams, Melchizedek offered his holy prayers from a pure heart. The Son of God also resembles Melchizedek, because there is no beginning or end to His priesthood, and He offered Himself to the Father as a perfect sacrifice. As Priest, Christ brought Himself to the place of sacrifice, placing His body on the altar of the Cross, and shedding His blood for us.

In chapter 7 of the Epistle to the Hebrews, the Righteous Melchizedek is called the King of Salem, and also a "priest of the Most High God." By the interpretation of his name, he is called the King of righteousness and the King of Salem, in other words, "the King of peace" (Hebrews 7:2).

Melchizedek met the Patriarch Abraham as he was returning from his victory over the kings (Genesis 14:18-24). He brought bread and wine to Abraham and blessed him, saying: "Blessed be Abram of the Most High God, Who made heaven and earth, and blessed be the Most High God, Who delivered thine enemies into thy power." By offering Abraham bread and wine, Melchizedek foreshadows the Church's Liturgy.

Thus, the Righteous Melchizedek was shown to be greater than Abraham, because he blessed Abraham. Abraham, the lesser of the two, did not presume to bless one who was greater than himself (Homily of Mar Jacob, line 299). Abraham accepted the blessing and offered him a tithe of his spoils, and he also showed him reverence (Homily, line 310).

The priesthood of Melchizedek is superior to the priesthood of Aaron, because Melchizedek blessed Abraham. By giving Melchizedek a tithe, Abraham, the ancestor of Aaron, showed that he recognized him as a priest. Through Abraham, Levi's tribe offered first fruits to the image of the Son of God which was seen in Melchizedek. Nevertheless, the Lord did not choose to come forth from the tribe of Levi, but from the family of Kings.

Melchizedek did not serve "according to the priesthood that was to be dissolved, but according to that which unto the ages abides spiritually; and since his priesthood was never annulled, with respect to service; behold how he is spoken of as living, through his priesthood." (Homily, lines 361-364).

The Holy Prophet-King David speaks of him as a priest who would never die (Psalm 109/110:4). When he thought about the Messiah, in order to compare Him to someone whom He ought to resemble, he did not think of anyone from the priesthood of Aaron. Instead, he selected Melchizedek, who provided for his liturgy without any sacrificial victims. The spiritual ministry of this man, who was in the likeness of the Son, is incomprehensible. He wore two crowns, one hidden, and the other manifest. He had authority in two different realms. He was an earthly King who never engaged in battles with those on his borders, because of his peacefulness (Homily, line 538). He desired nothing but peace and righteousness (Homily, line 542).

The Church recalls Melchizedek at the beginning of Great Lent: "Imitate that Priest of God and solitary King (Hebrews 7:3), who was an image of the life of Christ in the world among men." (Thursday of the first week of Great Lent, the Great Canon of St. Andrew of Crete, Ode 3).

St JOHN-VLADIMIR, PRINCE OF BULGARIA, GREATMARTYR AND MIRACLE-WORKER (1015)

The Holy Martyr John-Vladimir, a Serbian prince, was born in the tenth century. From his childhood he was raised in piety, and at maturity he wisely governed his holdings Illyria and Dalmatia, preserving the holy Faith in purity.

The noble prince was married to Kosara, a daughter of the Bulgarian Tsar Samuel. Summoned for talks with the Bulgarian Tsar John-Vladislav, he was treacherously murdered by the Tsar on May 22, 1015, at the entrance to a church. Kosara, the pious spouse of the holy prince, entered a women’s monastery that she built, and where also she died, not leaving the church until the very end of her life. The relics of the holy prince are located near Elbosan.

Source: Orthodox Church in America_ OCA

ACTS 12:25-13:12

25 And Barnabas and Saul returned from Jerusalem when they had fulfilled their ministry, and they also took with them John whose surname was Mark.

1 Now in the church that was at Antioch there were certain prophets and teachers: Barnabas, Simeon who was called Niger, Lucius of Cyrene, Manaen who had been brought up with Herod the tetrarch, and Saul. 2 As they ministered to the Lord and fasted, the Holy Spirit said, "Now separate to Me Barnabas and Saul for the work to which I have called them." 3 Then, having fasted and prayed, and laid hands on them, they sent them away. 4 So, being sent out by the Holy Spirit, they went down to Seleucia, and from there they sailed to Cyprus. 5 And when they arrived in Salamis, they preached the word of God in the synagogues of the Jews. They also had John as their assistant. 6 Now when they had gone through the island to Paphos, they found a certain sorcerer, a false prophet, a Jew whose name was Bar-Jesus, 7 who was with the proconsul, Sergius Paulus, an intelligent man. This man called for Barnabas and Saul and sought to hear the word of God. 8 But Elymas the sorcerer (for so his name is translated) withstood them, seeking to turn the proconsul away from the faith. 9 Then Saul, who also is called Paul, filled with the Holy Spirit, looked intently at him 10 and said, "O full of all deceit and all fraud, you son of the devil, you enemy of all righteousness, will you not cease perverting the straight ways of the Lord? 11 And now, indeed, the hand of the Lord is upon you, and you shall be blind, not seeing the sun for a time. And immediately a dark mist fell on him, and he went around seeking someone to lead him by the hand. 12 Then the proconsul believed, when he saw what had been done, being astonished at the teaching of the Lord.

JOHN 8:51-59

51 Most assuredly, I say to you, if anyone keeps My word he shall never see death. 52 Then the Jews said to Him, "Now we know that You have a demon! Abraham is dead, and the prophets; and You say, 'If anyone keeps My word he shall never taste death.' 53 Are You greater than our father Abraham, who is dead? And the prophets are dead. Who do You make Yourself out to be? 54 Jesus answered, "If I honor Myself, My honor is nothing. It is My Father who honors Me, of whom you say that He is your God. 55 Yet you have not known Him, but I know Him. And if I say, 'I do not know Him,' I shall be a liar like you; but I do know Him and keep His word. 56 Your father Abraham rejoiced to see My day, and he saw it and was glad. 57 Then the Jews said to Him, "You are not yet fifty years old, and have You seen Abraham?" 58 Jesus said to them, "Most assuredly, I say to you, before Abraham was, I AM." 59 Then they took up stones to throw at Him; but Jesus hid Himself and went out of the temple, going through the midst of them, and so passed by.

[blackjackkent]

After picking up the last umbral gem, Shadowheart got an inspiration and some very excited dialogue: "That's the last one! The inner sanctum is within reach now!"

And a soft whisper from the sacrificial bowl of blood as we went out: "You have triumphed at every turn. Seek out my inner sanctum - the final test awaits."

So uh. I guess it's time to find out whether Shadowheart is going to have to sacrifice Hector to Shar or something. Back we go up to the main level to get on the traversal platform.

Also a rat tried to bite Hector, completely unprovoked:

OK, let's do this thing.

Riding the now-enabled platform down, we arrive at what is, presumably, the inner sanctum.

This altar requires three umbral gems, which is exactly what we have left over after activating the previous platform. And after placing all the gems in place...

There it is. The inner sanctum of the gauntlet of Shar.

-------

"At this rate," Hector mumbles to Karlach in an undertone, "I'm going to get smited by a moonbeam as soon as we get out of here."

"If Selune's any god half worth worshipping," Karlach mutters back, "she knows you're helpin' your friend. And that's worth plenty."

"I hope you're right."

-------

Once again I'm letting Shadowheart take the lead here since she is the only one actually comfortable with this situation.

"This must be where initiates undertook their final preparations," she says excitedly as we approach a platform with a waypoint labeled "Verge of the Shadows" on it. "The end is near!"

A voice - the soft voice that has followed them through all the trials, which Hector can only assume is Shar herself - echoes her. "The end draws near. You show great potential - do not falter now. One more test awaits. Descend to the Nightsong. Make a sacrifice. Rise again a Dark Justiciar."

"Almost there," Shadowheart whispers, her voice trembling with righteous energy. "I will not fail you, my lady!"

-----

"Shadowheart..." Hector hesitates, looks at her worriedly. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Of course," she snaps back. "I told you. I have wished for this all my life - to stand at the Lady's side and be her sword."

"And the sacrifice?"

A moment's hesitation, quickly covered. "I told you - I am sure the days of a human sacrifice are long past. It is no doubt some monster that must be slain."

He looks at her steadily. "If you are certain, I stand with you."

A long pause. "I know. And I know what it costs you, Hector," she admits quietly. "Thank you."

[beardedmrbean]

Maundy Thursday, observed on April 13 this year, marks a significant moment in Holy Week for Bulgarians, rich in traditions and spiritual meaning. It is the day before the Resurrection feast, where ancient customs intertwine with religious rituals.

On this auspicious day, the practice of wishing for something while holding money or another valuable item prevails. According to tradition, those who are righteous may find their desires fulfilled.

Central to Maundy Thursday customs is the painting of eggs, with the first egg being painted red. This egg carries symbolic importance, as it is used to make the sign of the cross on the foreheads of family members, signifying blessings of health, joy, and happiness.

The day commemorates the biblical events of Jesus Christ's last supper with his apostles, during which he washed their feet and instituted the sacrament of the Eucharist. The significance of receiving Christ's body and blood during the Holy Liturgy is emphasized, urging believers to strive for purity of heart.

The evening of Maundy Thursday is marked by the renewal of leaven and the kneading of dough for Easter bread, known by various names across Bulgaria. These breads are intricately decorated and often contain red eggs, symbolizing Christ's blood.

Kozunak, a sweet ritual bread symbolizing Christ's body, is also prepared on this day. Often round in shape and adorned with braids, kozunak is accompanied by a red egg placed in the middle.

In the evening, Good Friday matins are observed, where passages from the Gospel depicting Christ's suffering and death on the cross are read. This solemn occasion serves as a reminder of Christ's sacrifice for humanity's redemption.

As part of the rituals, priests take the cross out of the altar, symbolizing Christ's journey to Calvary, and anoint willing individuals with oil of health during the oil consecration ceremony.

Maundy Thursday in Bulgaria is a time of reflection, tradition, and spiritual observance, bringing communities together in reverence and celebration.

[bestworstcase]

So, overall, what's your opinion on punitive narratives?

the pithy answer here is if i wanted to read a morality play i would read a morality play

being less facetious, i find punitive storytelling to be generally dissatisfying in large part because it often sacrifices character on the altar of moral restitution (or retribution)—quite a lot of punitive narratives are fundamentally about the punishment in that the narrative is structured with vicarious enjoyment of the villain’s defeat and death or humiliation or groveling redemption as the climactic centerpiece, which i find uninteresting at best and viscerally off-putting at worst. even stories that are otherwise written well cannot salvage this for me (think ATLA’s handling of azula) and more often it’s a matter of “well the part before the climax was good.”

ultimately i also find it to be a bit pointless, because the villainous characters on the receiving end of the narrative punishment were created to be punished and, why bother. it’s equally as insipid and irritating as character bashing in fanfiction for exactly the same reasons; it strips away character interiority in favor of character does bad things so they can be punished so we can feel righteous vindication about bad guys getting what’s coming to them, except it never actually lands with me because i have a disease called Caring About Character Motivation.

[smhalltheurlsaretaken]

I love the jedi but enjoy the sith, mostly vader,new republic sith and old republic sith, do yoi have a lost of your favorite star wars villains.

In order, Dooku, Thrawn, Palpatine, Vader, OT-era Tarkin, Maul - and TCW!Hondo right after Dooku if that counts.

Pretty vanilla lmao. I like the Son as a concept but he's really not hardcore enough to really embody what he's supposed to represent. (There's not enough of the slimy slithering madness and viciousness that makes the Sith do stuff like sacrifice Jedi on altars and do blood magic rituals, among other things.) He's too tame for something supposedly worse than the Sith, though he'd be horrifying if he'd been more Dark-Side-y.

So, Dooku, because he's a disaster and a mirror to Anakin's garbage and because there's a lot of genuinely interesting things about a character who was among the wisest and noblest and who knows what the darkness is and willing embraces it anyway. he's Star Wars' Saruman and I love Saruman. It certainly helped that he was played by Sir Christopher Lee. The man was just that good.

Thrawn, because of the smooth, calm demeanor - much like Dooku's. That scene where he slowly explains what a kalikori is without revealing right away who is Hera, toying with us with his incredible score in the background, gave me shivers the first 4-5 times I watched it. I love sophisticated and collected villains. Brutish villains feel too simplistic and not nearly as frightening. I also love Star Wars aliens.

Palpatine because he's a delight to hate. He has no redeeming qualities whatsoever - he's just absolute selfishness embodied and that makes if very fun. Also love the 'frail' old man whose power is in his insidiousness. I love how maniacally happy about his plans he always is and I love to think of how completely bored he must have been during the Empire days, before Luke showed up and gave him something to plot about. Sure I wish the Zillo beast could have flattened him to a Sheev pancake - or that Dooku would have just punted him into the sun before Naboo, but hey, at least he got thrown down a reactor and exploded twice and was never ever heard of again, right?

Vader because he's a powerhouse and that's always impressive. James Earl Jones' voice was always magnificent as well and there's something so expressive about faceless characters.

OT Tarkin because- smooth, calm and collected old villain. I really have a type ah ah. There's something so maddening about that complete confidence that they're right, that end-justify-the-means mentality they confuse for wisdom, that dismissive way they see the hot blooded righteous heroes as so beneath them...

Maul mostly for the times he goes completely crazy and either turns into a spider or a Temple-dwelling Sith cockroach and runs around painting Kenobi on the walls with his blood. I love his arc with Obi-Wan, I love what it says about the light and the Dark, the Jedi and the Sith, and the Florrum and Twin Suns duels are my favorite ever.

Finally, Hondo... Well, is Hondo. Much smarter, much more ruthless, and much saner than people give him credit for - just spectacularly greedy and ballsy. I wouldn't call him a villain so much as the true example of what a 'morally gray' character is. It's not good guys in impossible situations like Mace, it's not complex villains like Dooku, it's not the image people have of a tortured prince of darkness that deep down feels really sad about all the murder he's doing and it's not the selfless hero who angsts about quickly killing a monster that one time - it's Hondo.

I'm generally pretty indifferent to Ventress, Jango, Boba, bounty hunters like Cad Bane, the Hutts, villains of an episode, or more minor villains and/or reformed antagonists like Bo-Katan, Kallus, etc - as characters anyway. I might like them when they're onscreen or like their place in the story but they don't do much for me individually beyond that.

And a special mention goes to Miraj Scintel - the Zygerrian Queen and only Star Wars villain I truly and deeply loathe. I hate seeing her onscreen, I hate hearing her talk, I hate watching her move, I hate her aspirations, I just detest her. Everything about her is infuriating.

[hiswordsarekisses]

Abraham had come to know God, and by knowing Him, he came to trust Him so much so that when God asked him to sacrifice His only son Isaac he never even hesitated.

According to the account in Genesis chapter 22, God told him what He wanted him to do in verse 2, and in verse 3 Abraham rose up that morning in obedience and left.

And then, when it was time to take Isaac to the altar, he said to the young men he had brought with him: “We” will be back.

Abraham may not have understood why God had asked him to do this, but he did know God’s heart. Because he knew His heart, He trusted that He is good and righteous and he must have understood that God would not ask him to do something like that without good reason.

Then God not only stopped Abraham from sacrificing Isaac, but He ended up doing the very thing that He had asked of Abraham - only He followed through to save us - by giving up His only son.

God later condemned human sacrifice in Leviticus 20:1-5, but the difference with Jesus was that it was God Himself in human form giving Himself in our place. But the story of Abraham shows that God will provide the way Himself. A Ram for Isaac, and Himself for us - and shows that we can trust His heart with the holy instinct of obedience.

Lord, help us to know You so well that we never question Your actions - or even Your lack of action - because we know Your heart. Help us to know Your heart so well that our immediate response is obedience and praise even when we do not understand.

Lord, I trust Your heart

with all of mine.

(His Words Are Kisses)

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Thanksgiving to God

1 Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his gracious love is eternal.

2 Let Israel now say, “His gracious love is eternal.” 3 Let the house of Aaron now say, “His gracious love is eternal.” 4 Let those who fear the Lord now say, “His gracious love is eternal.”

5 I called on the Lord in my distress; the Lord answered me openly. 6 The Lord is with me. I will not be afraid. What can people do to me? 7 With the Lord beside me as my helper, I will triumph over those who hate me.

8 It is better to take shelter in the Lord than to trust in people. 9 It is better to take shelter in the Lord than to trust in princes.

10 All the nations surrounded me; but in the name of the Lord I will defeat them. 11 They surrounded me, they are around me; but in the name of the Lord I will defeat them. 12 They surrounded me like bees; but they will be extinguished like burning thorns. In the name of the Lord I will defeat them.

13 Indeed, you oppressed me so much that I nearly fell, but the Lord helped me. 14 The Lord is my strength and protector, for he has become my deliverer. 15 There’s exultation[h] for deliverance in the tents of the righteous: “The right hand of the Lord is victorious! 16 The right hand of the Lord is exalted! The right hand of the Lord is victorious!”

17 I will not die, but I will live to recount the deeds of the Lord. 18 The Lord will discipline me severely, but he won’t hand me over to die.

19 Open for me the righteous gates so I may enter through them to give thanks to the Lord. 20 This is the Lord’s gate— The righteous will enter through it.

21 I will praise you because you have answered me and have become my deliverer. 22 The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone. 23 This is from the Lord— it is awesome in our sight. 24 This is the day that the Lord has made; let’s rejoice and be glad in it.

25 Please Lord, deliver us! Please Lord, hurry and bring success now!

26 Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Let us bless you from the Lord’s house. 27 The Lord is God—he will be our light! Bind the festival sacrifice with ropes to the horn at the altar. 28 You are my God, and I will praise you; my God, and I will exalt you. 29 Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good and his gracious love is eternal. — Psalm 118 | International Standard Version (ISV) The International Standard Version of the Holy Bible Copyright © 1995-2014 by ISV Foundation. All Rights Reserved internationally. Cross References: Genesis 24:50; Exodus 15:2; Exodus 15:6; Deuteronomy 1:44; 2 Samuel 22:20; 1 Chronicles 16:8; 2 Chronicles 32:7-8; Psalm 6:1; Psalm 6:5; Psalm 30:1; Psalm 31:7; Psalm 54:4; Psalm 88:17; Psalm 106:47; Psalm 115:9-10; Psalm 116:1; Psalm 119:1; Psalm 135:20; Psalm 140:4; Psalm 146:3; Isaiah 26:2; Matthew 11:3; Matthew 21:42; Mark 12:10-11; Luke 1:51; Luke 21:20; Romans 8:31; 1 Peter 2:9; Revelation 22:14

[late-to-the-fandom]

"But it was not what loomed above them that made Renathal’s cold skin crawl. It was what lurked below them. The unnatural chill that crept through his veins even before his booted feet touched the ground." Read on AO3 here.

“Discontent is one word,” declared the Accuser. “Though, I would have used another.”

“And what word would that be?”

“Disappointment.”

The Dark Prince resisted the urge to massage his forehead where it ached. Ten minutes in the Halls of Atonement and he had already endured as much of the Harvester of Pride as he could stand. What with his newly appointed duties and the mysteries still preying on his mind, Renathal had quite enough to be getting on with and little patience to spare for the Accuser’s many, many punctilious complaints.

Her last word still hung in the sanctuary's incense-laden air like the final note of an ominous hymn. But there were no penitents in the pews to offer obligatory solemn amens - or from whom Renathal might demand a fortifying cup of tea. Apart from the Accuser looming over the altar and Renathal himself determinedly standing in the aisle, there was only one other Venthyr in the room: the Curator, perched awkwardly in the front row of hard benches.

Renathal made a furtive, and futile, attempt to catch her eye, but the grey-haired Venthyr was preoccupied with peering politely around the nave, as if seeing the ornate gothic architecture for the first time. Lost in thought, supposed Renathal glumly. He heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“I suppose we may all be forgiven some disappointment with the current circumstances,” he said diplomatically. “Revendreth has certainly fallen on difficult times.”

“We have not fallen on anything,” the Accuser argued, slamming her hand against the altar and causing the Curator to jump. “Difficult times have been thrust upon us. The other Harvesters act as though the drought does not affect them. The Countess’s constant little parties-”

“Are necessary to keep up morale,” interrupted Renathal; a phrase he had repeated to this Harvester more than any he could remember. “The Sire’s anima conservation programme allows for indulgence in moderation.”

“Moderation? The fonts in the Chalice District flow at all hours while souls here are sacrificed every day!”

“What?” Renathal grimaced at the slip and quickly reasserted his composure. “That is - surely, no souls have been entirely drained?”

“With alarming regularity.”

The two Harvesters regarded each other in suspicion, as if unsure how far they could trust the other’s apparent concern. Whatever personal animosities existed between them, Renathal knew the Accuser was fiercely protective of the souls within her care, and unflinchingly honest. But… the sacrifice of souls for anima? That was even more concerning than outright rebellion. Could Denathrius know?

“Our Master has, naturally, been informed of the dire situation,” continued the Accuser as if reading Renathal’s thoughts. “But either the drought has dulled even Denathrius’ fangs, or-” She hesitated before pressing on recklessly, “he is part of the hypocritical plot. I send messengers daily to Nathria, but the Master refuses to address any of my concerns: the waning of the medallions, the discrepancies in anima tithes, the souls permanently lost! He hears our cries but does nothing to punish the guilty or aid the souls in need.”

Renathal frowned, sifting through the treasonous diatribe and plucking out the thread he did not understand.

“What do you mean, the medallions are waning?”

The Accuser briefly tabled her righteous outrage to shoot Renathal a withering glare.

“Surely, even you, Renathal, must have noticed that?”

When the Dark Prince’s expression made it clear his patience was fraying, the Accuser sniffed in irritation, tugged a gold chain from a pocket of her dress, and thrust it out for his distant inspection.

“They are devoid of power. Useless.” She shook the chain, and Renathal was surprised to see not even the faintest wisp of trailing anima. “Nothing more than pretty jewels,” she finished in disgust, and Renathal’s fingers reached instinctively for the matching medallion resting against his chest.

It was true. There was none of the usual vibrating thrum of waiting power. How was it possible he had not noticed this before? It was as if his brain were so used to the magic's absence it had not bothered to alert him to its loss. Now he was paying attention, however, Renathal felt almost naked without his eons-old source of power. Realising his hand still clutched the chain, he released it and tucked his cuffs more securely into his bracers.

“It seems you and the Harvester of Avarice have been similarly afflicted,” commented the Accuser grimly.

Glad of an excuse to avoid her shrewd gaze, Renathal turned again to the room’s third Venthyr.

“What is wrong with the Curator?”

“Look at her!”

The words swelled through the sanctuary, fractured against the high rafters, and fell back to the nave in a thousand plaintive echoes. Renathal's eyebrows rose at the Accuser's uncharacteristic passion.

“The greatest archivist in reality, and she hardly knows where she is at any given time! She remembers next to nothing! Her mind is - is - lost.”

The word broke in the Accuser’s throat. Her hand dropped to the altar again, this time in despondence, the sound rousing the Curator, who pushed off from the pew and headed for her side.

“Harriett,” she said soothingly, “you worry too much. I feel perfectly fine.” She slipped an arm around the stiff Accuser. “It’s the drought, I’m sure. Lack of anima makes us all a bit forgetful, I - I think.”

Her eyes slipped out of focus, and Renathal, watching closely, thought it looked more vacant than musing; thought the arm wrapped around the Accuser’s lower back looked like more than a sisterly comfort; thought the panic suddenly alight in the Accuser’s beady eyes had less to do with the Curator’s condition and more to do with fear that Renathal had noticed the slip of her secret name.

He had, but he had not needed it. He had long suspected their friendship of harbouring a more intimate affection. Exclusive relationships, as Renathal well knew, were not often permitted by the Master, so it was no surprise to him they kept such an affair hidden. The only surprise was the Curator’s careless reveal of it.

Renathal wondered if she was struggling under the same scattered malaise he, too, could not shake. And he felt a sudden, desperate urge to unburden himself to his sister; the second oldest Venthyr in existence and the one with whom he had always had the most in common. They had been quite close in their younger years, but - his gaze flicked to the Curator's fingers absently stroking the Accuser’s corseted waist - even she could not be wholly trusted anymore, especially in this thoughtless state.

Swallowing the compulsion - and a flicker of aged envy - Renathal looked tactfully away from the cosy pair and once again busied himself with his cuffs.

“I appreciate what I am sure is a neighborly concern…” The Accuser's thin lips tightened at his delicate stress of the word. “But, as the Curator says, I am sure both her condition, and that of the medallions, are merely results of the drought. However -” He raised a hand to forestall her impending argument, “I will bring these matters to the Master’s attention. Doubtless your messages have been routed to some secretary. Denathrius has been busy - you know of the mortal situation, I trust?”

The Accuser nodded.

“She - that is, the mortal's atonement - is taking up a great deal of the Master’s time. But I will speak with him personally. Today, if possible. And-” Renathal glanced at the Curator, hazy eyes now flitting aimlessly about the rafters, “And I will see that a greater allotment of anima is provided the Archives.”

Even the Accuser could find no fault with these pronouncements. Her sallow face twisted uncomfortably, as if without a critique she was unsure what else to say. Renathal took advantage of her temporary distraction to bid both Harvesters farewell and make a hasty retreat to his waiting carriage. It trundled off through the Cathedral district's many winding cobbled side streets, Renathal in back, staring sightlessly out the narrow slit that served as a window at the passing crypts and confessors, feeling distinctly unnerved. The secretary Denathrius had lent him had assured him the drought was under control; enough anima was being conserved to maintain the regular number of courts and feasts, if at a fraction of their normal decadence. But...

Souls being sacrificed for anima? The thought made even the Dark Prince queasy.

Did his Master know? How could he not? Denathrius said himself, nothing in Revendreth escaped his notice. But it was equally unimaginable to Renathal the Sire could permit such an atrocity to occur. The theological paradox twisted his mind as the carriage rattled its way across Penance Bridge, his anxious eyes wandering over the approaching silhouettes of the Grand Palisade: tall, stately spires on black brick foundations that sank into a sheer, nearly vertical drop. Just below the bridge, the cliffside was wreathed in mist, the thin, stretched wisps painting the smooth grey stone in shades of unbroken blue.

Except - Renathal sat up sharply - for a splash of outborn purple.

“Stop!”

Renathal rapped hard on the carriage roof. The sinrunners whinnied in protest as the driver tugged fiercely on their reins. Before the confused dredger had managed to bring the creatures to a complete stop, the Prince had flung the door open, leaped to the bridge with a clatter and - wincing at the anima expenditure - stepped over the edge into empty space. Tendrils of crimson magic bore him gracefully through the twilit air toward the cliff, and the familiar lavender figure clinging to its side.

Determined not to give his Master cause for any more ‘disappointments’, Renathal had maintained a safe distance from the castle and its mortal occupant since he had caught her climbing down it weeks before. Not that her presence had ceased to haunt him; her dusky skin, her uncommon heat, the laughter he had unexpectedly drawn from her had all featured highly in his private moments. But now, watching her slide a few cautious inches down the steep incline, Renathal was more than a little put out to find her engaged in another ill-advised attempt at escape, in spite of his warning.

He slowed to a stop and hovered just above her right shoulder, the noise of his coat caught in the breeze prompting Elisewin to turn her head.

“Were you to succeed in this endeavour,” Renathal began without preamble, “are you aware where you would find yourself?”

Elisewin blinked at him.

“Hopefully … the Endmire?”

The question was broken by laborious breaths. Her knuckles were white, her arms shaking as she fought to keep her grip on the unaccommodating stone. That same, strange instinct to come to her aid sprang to life in Renathal's chest. He crossed his arms over it firmly.

“There is no escape that way, either.”

“I’m not trying … to escape,” panted Elisewin tersely. “I am trying … to carry out … my task.”

Her blue-white eyes glittered in defiance. It was the most emotion Renathal had yet seen from her, and he detected no hint of a lie. But the statement was so odd he could not help repeating:

“You have been set a task in the Endmire?”

Her reply was an odd downward jerk of her chin. A nod, assumed Renathal, until, following her gaze, he noted the cloth sack knotted tightly around her waist.

“I’m supposed … to be searching … for anima,” panted Elisewin, shifting her weight from one leg to another. “He says Venthyr … can’t go in there.”

She slid another deliberate inch down the cliff as Renathal considered this, her feet finding a narrow crevice and cramming the toes of her soft-soled slippers inside.

“That is true,” mused Renathal quietly, speaking as much to himself as to Elisewin. "One of the Endmire's central dangers is its unfortunate habit of eating away at the soul. To be sent there is the worst punishment a Venthyr can endure, apart from the Ember Ward, and even then, the guilty are only ever interred in cages along its edges. Any unavoidable errands in that place are given to Dredgers who have a trick for withstanding its effects temporarily. But I suppose a mortal might..."

Renathal trailed away, inspecting Elisewin dubiously, as if searching for outward signs of some special, heretofore unrevealed resilience. She did not notice. Possibly, she had not heard any of his explanation. She was busy feeling for handholds in the cliff, nails scrabbling against stone equally smooth and impassive as what Renathal remembered of her signature expression. Not that she wore it now. On the contrary, she looked harassed and distinctly uncomfortable. Renathal furrowed his brow.

“But if your errand is sanctioned, why not simply take the lift down?”

“There’s a lift?”

Stretching out an arm, Renathal indicated the cliff face on the bridge’s other side where, shrouded in mist, the creaking cords of the little-used lift could just be seen. Elisewin groaned. She let her forehead drop to the rock with a muted thunk. Renathal’s mouth worked ferociously to repress a sudden wicked grin.

“As you are on a mission for the Master, I suppose I might offer my assistance,” he said instead, all formal politeness, lowering himself through the air until he was again just above her eye level. “Unless,” he added archly, “you simply enjoy climbing down things?”

Elisewin blew a wayward strand of sweaty hair from her eyes.

“Not particularly,” she replied.

Her accompanying smile, however breathless, breathed life into Renathal’s own. He could feel his lips curl past his fangs as he extended his hand in a mirror of their previous meeting and commanded, "Come."

This time, Elisewin considered for a few, nervous seconds before, at last, relinquishing her grip on the cliff and reaching for Renathal's hand. His fingers locked around her wrist and, with one firm tug, Renathal pried her mortal body from the rock and collected it securely against him. The dark top of Elisewin's head brushed his goatee as she tucked her face into his armored throat, her hands digging into his coat’s fur lapels as desperately as they had the stone. Renathal’s smile edged towards a smirk he was glad she could not see. With minimal effort, he summoned more anima to support them and glided smoothly down.

And down.

And down.

Until the shadows of the Grand Palisade disappeared and Penance Bridge became an oddly-shaped cloud in the distant sky. But it was not what loomed above them that made Renathal’s cold skin crawl. It was what lurked below them. The unnatural chill that crept through his veins even before his booted feet touched the ground.

The Endmire.

There was no part of Revendreth its Prince had not at one time explored. But the adventurous exploits of his relative youth were many eons past, and this was not a part of the realm any Venthyr in their right mind had reason to frequent. Already, in the seconds Renathal spent blinking, acclimating his eyes to the denser darkness, he could feel the Endmire start to gnaw at his essence. He knew the longer he stayed within its confines, the more it would strip from him, the weaker he would become, and the harder it would be to escape. Instinct demanded he find higher ground immediately. Only -

Elisewin shifted against him, lifting her head to find his eyes.

“Thank you. Your Highness. Again,” she said, and smiled; but it was weaker, shakier than the one only minutes before, and she had not yet pulled free of his protective embrace.

Perhaps the Endmire had more effect on mortals than the Master anticipated.

Hands still clinging loosely to Renathal's coat, Elisewin's head swiveled in each direction, inspecting their dim surroundings, and the long, thin slice across her cheek Renathal had not noticed on the cliff caught his attention. Unwrapping an arm from around her, he let his fingers trace the air just over the cut, resisting the temptation to touch her heated skin.

“Where did you receive this?”

“What?” Her hand flew compulsively to her cheek, brushing his fingers on the way. “Oh, that. Just a ... dredbat. In the ... Banewood.”

She pronounced the words slowly, as if making certain she had them right. Renathal wondered if the sudden cramping sensation in his stomach was a natural effect of the Endmire or the thought of Elisewin attacked.

“Another task of the Sire’s?” he asked.

She nodded.

"Part of my... atonement."

Pinpricks of some dark colour uninterpretable in the gloom blossomed on Elisewin's high cheekbones as Renathal continued to stare.

“Speaking of which,” she said, extricating herself politely from his remaining arm. “I really ought to get to work, your Highness. You know..."

She gestured feebly at the ground with one hand, the other fumbling to untie the cloth bag knotted to her heavy black skirts. It took her three tries. Her fingers were shaking. And Renathal made up his mind.

If Denathrius had set her an assignment here, he - the Prince - could not overrule it. But the thought of leaving the mortal and her warm, easily-marked flesh to traverse this nightmare on her own was almost as impossible to fathom, whatever her sins.

“Of course,” Renathal agreed. He shook back his hair, smoothed down his coat, and steeled his unsteady resolve. “The sooner we begin, the sooner we may quit this... unpleasant locale.”

The cloth bag froze halfway to Elisewin's shoulder. She blinked at Renathal again.

“We?”

Renathal hoped his nod looked more confident than it felt.

“I am familiar with the Endmire and its perils. As I am here already, and you are yet new to Revendreth, I shall escourt you for as long as is safe, then remove us both.”

Elisewin's mouth fell half open, then hung there, as if she had misplaced the words she meant to say. Without waiting for her to find her tongue, Renathal chose a direction at random and began to trek down the unkempt path.

"This way."

A second of silence. Then, a light patter of footsteps, a swish of skirts, and a grunt - presumably, as she trod on them - informed him Elisewin followed just behind.

The Endmire, true to its name, was a wandering, labyrinthine marsh. Abandoned for epochs, ill-tended for longer, all historic attempts at cultivation and shelter were left in various stages of collapse and decay. The place stank of wet rot and that sharp, crackling odor Renathal associated with the exposure of Revendreth's roots. Here the realm was stripped to base, amalgamous elements, and even when efforts and anima had been invested in the area, something preternatural had always lurked within. Vicious, half-formed creatures had a habit of spawning from the proliferant air, and after only a few steps, Renathal could feel the tell-tale, soul-sucking numbness as the Endmire sapped reality from his very person.

Throwing a would-be-casual glance behind to see how the mortal was faring, Renathal watched Elisewin shiver, despite the many layers of her Venthyr dress. He faced forward again, considering appropriate distractions.

"So," he began, speaking over his shoulder, "the Sire has you searching out anima within the realm as part of your atonement?"

“No," came the answer. "I mean - not just anima. Various things. In the Banewood I was supposed to be looking for some sort of flower. Widow’s... something.”

“Widowbloom?” Renathal raised an eyebrow Elisewin could not see. “For what purpose?”

"He did not share. Denathrius - the Sire, I mean - he's not particularly forthcoming."

Her voice was moving away, and Renathal's boots crunched to a halt on the slimy gravel. He turned to find Elisewin tripping carefully off the path, skirts held high, squinting ahead at the murky, unmoving water.

"He seems to want me to find things," she continued as she walked. "I'm not even sure the things themselves really matter. It's more the searching. Speaking of which," she stooped and plucked something from the mud, "Is this what I'm looking for?" 

In seconds, Renathal was off the path and at her side, peering at the item in Elisewin's palm, held out for his inspection: asliver of dingy red glass, from which he could just sense a faint pulse of harvestable power.

"Yes," he concluded. "This is anima in a crystalised form. We refer to them as rubies. Although..." Renathal wrinkled his nose. "This is really a piece of one. Rather too small to be any use on its own, I fear, but... if there were more..." 

He looked down, regarding the river with a small sniff of distaste, while Elisewin looked up, openly searching Renathal's face, translating his expression like the cramped script of an arcane tome. She tucked the ruby fragment into her bag and let her skirts' many ruffled hems drop to the mud.

"If you prefer, you can follow along the path, your Highness," she said. "I promise, I won't stray far."

Her tone was mild, but something in the way she pronounced his honorific sounded like a challenge. 

"Oh, I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty," Renathal retorted wryly. "Or my boots," and he splashed into the water, reveling in Elisewin's appreciative laugh.

Which pretty sound was the last pleasant thing to occur for the next quarter hour, spent wading through the blessedly shallow but nauseatingly filthy water. In spite of his pronouncement, Renathal was secretly glad of his armor which protected his skin from the worst of the ordeal, and he winced and marveled in equal measure at the sight of Elisewin's water-logged skirts. He knew their weight must have doubled, but she ploughed on without complaint, dipping her hand into the muck every few minutes and withdrawing another dirt-crusted gem. Unwilling to be outdone, Renathal refrained from commenting on the increasingly rough terrain, or the prickling numbness which had enveloped his feet and was inching steadily up his legs. 

"There seems to be a lot of this in Revendreth," said Elisewin suddenly as they squelched past the crumbling ruins of some long-forgotten building; a guardhouse, Renathal thought. "Has it always been so... run-down?"

"Not at all," he assured her solemnly. "Once, all of Revendreth was inestimably beautiful. The damage and decay you have witnessed is largely the result of the drought." He paused to clamber over a thick outcrop of sludgy bracken before continuing. "Where once excess anima would have been used for upkeep and repair, the Sire has been obliged to redirect it towards the - well, the bare essentials. That is, the continued existence of the Venthyr and the souls within our charge. He..."

But the rest of his explanation faded as Renathal recalled the Accuser's sinister accusations of earlier. Souls sacrificed for anima...

"I see," said Elisewin into Renathal's silence. "The drought has gone on a long time, then?"

"Yes," he confirmed absently," it has been-"

His tongue froze again. Exactly how long had the drought been? A few cycles? A century? Longer? Renathal's memory felt as sluggish as his legs.

It was the Endmire, he told himself, sapping sense from his mind as well as sensation from his limbs. Already, he was slowing; could no longer force his feet to match their original dogged pace. Nor did this escape Elisewin's notice, either, and for several steps, Renathal watched her watching him from the corner of her eye. Then she stopped.

"Prince Renathal," she said, and Renathal knew his shiver had nothing to do with the Endmire and everything to do with the way she said his name. "I think, perhaps, you should... head back." She winced a little at her own inability to couch this with more tact. She pressed on hurriedly, "I do appreciate your assistance, and your company, but... well, you said yourself, this place is deadly for Venthyr. That was the whole point in Den- the Sire sending me in the first place. And really," She hoisted her half-full bag more securely up her arm, "I can manage. I'm sure I'm supposed to be doing the task on my own, anyway."

It was laudably done, thought Renathal; the small, self-assured smile, the expression carefully crafted to appear as impassive as her natural face. Only her legs betrayed her, shaking under her soaking skirts. Whether from fear or exhaustion or the drain of the Endmire on her own mortal body, he did not know and it did not matter. 

"I think we have both spent quite enough time in this... unwelcoming environment," Renathal decided. "If I remember correctly, a path up one of the more navigable cliffs lies not far ahead on the left. Past there." He indicated a sharp bend in the valley where an island of wild foliage and twisted trees barred the rest of the grimy water course from view. "We shall make for the path. You may retrieve any further anima you find along the way and then consider your task complete. And," he added as an afterthought, "admirably well done."

His attempt at indulgent, Denathrius-like compliment glanced off Elisewin like a poorly thrown punch. Rather than the smile he had hoped to conjure, she cocked her head and resumed that searching expression, intense and impertinent, as though Renathal's face were a puzzle to be solved.

“Are you always so… hands-on in assisting souls with atonement, Your Highness?”

No, was the answer. Most emphatically not. But the question tread ground almost as dangerous as the Endmire through which Renathal hastily resumed his lagging march.

“I assist very few souls in atoning,” was his evasive answer. “That is not the Harvester of Dominion’s purview.”

"Oh?" Water rippled noisily as Elisewin fought to catch him up. "What is?"

Grateful her line of questioning had taken this safer route, and absurdly pleased at her interest in him, Renathal explained:

 "The other Venthyr. The nobles and Harvesters, in particular. It is my responsibility to keep those in power on their path, ensure they adhere to their purpose, reward those who do well and... re-educate those who stray." 

"I see," said Elisewin again, and Renathal caught the slightest shudder. "Does that happen often?" she asked, panting a little with the effort of keeping up conversation while slogging through water now well past her knees. "Venthyr straying from their purpose, I mean?"

"It happens occasionally," Renathal found himself admitting for some reason. "Even now, there are rumours of rebellion brewing."

"What? Rebellion? Why?"

Each word was punctuated by a sharp inhalation. Renathal turned to find Elisewin doubled over, hands pressed to her sodden knees, fighting for the breath he abruptly remembered was not an affectation for mortals. Her face, tilted to his, was flushed with the effort, and registered genuine shock. The innocence of it made Renathal chuckle softly. He waded back to her, and, solicitously, offered his arm.

"Oh, Venthyr may rebel for any number of reasons," he said matter-of-factly, enjoying the warmth of Elisewin's hand tucked into his elbow as he helped her struggle on. "Likely the drought - its effects and restrictions - are the current precipitating ones, but-" He clicked his tongue, "Venthyr gravitate to power, and most will exploit any weakness to achieve it. There is always at least one Harvester scheming for a way to attain more."

His eyes flicked to Elisewin's profile to gauge her reaction, and caught her slow blink. Renathal was beginning to associate the gesture with surprise.

They dragged themselves at last from the water onto the wide jutty of dead earth and dense, tangled foliage, and paused, Elisewin to catch her breath and wring out her skirts and Renathal to inspect the knot of tree limbs, lamenting his lack of sword. Cutting through the branches would have been effortless. Barring that, he would have preferred to use magic to clear their way. But, quite apart from the looming thought of unnecessary anima expenditures, Renathal was uncertain he possessed enough anima excess. He knew with grim certainty he lacked the power to glide them both away. The Endmire's relentless corrosion had conquered his lower extremities, and he could feel the numbness prickling up his arms as he began to attack the arboreal snarl. 

The path ahead was now their only escape.

Pushing this ominous realisation to the back of his mind, Renathal set himself to his task. A warmth against his shoulder told him Elisewin was near, but instead of assisting, she spoke, voice suffused with unusual consternation.

"I don't understand. I thought Venthyr... are they not supposed to be those souls who have successfully atoned? Why are they fighting each other for power? And shouldn't the Harvesters be the most - I don't know - righteous, of them all?"

"Not necessarily," Renathal replied, her voice near his ear sending anima surging helpfully through his veins. "Denathrius handpicks each Harvester. His reasons are his own. Sometimes, those reasons are mysterious. As you well know."

It occurred to Renathal to wonder why he was confiding such dangerous truths to a mortal he had met three times. Perhaps it was the Endmire undermining his well-trained defenses, but... something about confessing his private thoughts to Elisewin felt unnaturally natural.

“Denathrius isn't capable of corruption, then?” she asked.

And the truth he had been denying even to himself hit Renathal like a wayward branch. He flinched at the thought. Distrust of Denathrius was treason. Which was why it was so concerning to Renathal a secret part of him had been considering it. The mysteries and strange discrepancies the Sire cleverly managed not to address... the Accuser's accusations and the paradox they created... all swelled to a crescendo in Renathal's weary brain, and a sudden desperation to be free of the Endmire and its sanity-sapping air overwhelmed him.

He elbowed past the last barring branches, frantically thinking up a suitable answer to Elisewin's difficult question. But the sight that met Renathal on the other side of the thicket plucked the problem neatly from his mind.

It was not the Endbeast's presence that surprised him. Truthfully, he had expected to see one long before now. The Endmire had always been home to any number of unstable creations; that was half the reason he had chosen to escort Elisewin in the first place. What he was unprepared for was the beast's sheer size.

It towered over them - as large as any dredger giant, and a world more disconcerting - its enormous shadow a blue-tinged blanket flung across the Endmire's black. Almost the width of the ravine's narrow bottle-neck, there was no way around it, no way forward without skirting one of its trunk-like limbs. It possessed arms and legs of a nebulous sort, but where a head ought to have been, only three vaguely circular lumps grew. Each was free of anything like discernable facial features, just a hole in their centers, flickering with eerie blue light.

It was impossible to tell if the thing had noticed him - its faceless heads were each as motionless as its titanic frame. Best to slide back the way he had come and regroup, Renathal decided, just as a low crack from behind him froze the unnecessary beating of his heart. He thrust out an arm to stop Elisewin from following him, but she was already clambering through the hole in the branches, exhaling in irritation every time her skirts snagged. She hit Renathal's outstretched arm and stumbled back with another series of noisy snaps. Then her hand hit her mouth with an audible smack as she stifled her instinctive gasp.

The Endbeast's featureless faces creaked slowly in their direction.

Not a well-timed predicament, thought Renathal, recovering himself, but he had certainly faced worse enemies, even if he could not immediately place what or when just now. The effort it took to call anima to his hands was more concerning than the beast itself, and Renathal took special care with his aim, unsure how long his magic would realistically last. This hit needed to matter. Bracing himself on numb legs, Renathal hurled the coil of anima and watched in satisfaction as it hit the abomination dead center between its ill-shaped heads.

It roared, if the sound could be called that with no mouth or vocal cords to produce it. A high uneven keen split the decay, bone-chilling even to the Dark Prince. A crack appeared across the creature's poorly-formed torso, a spurt of eerie blue flame erupting from underneath. It stumbled back two paces, then stopped, and Renathal watched in growing alarm as the Endbeast steadied its legs underneath itself and launched in their direction.

The ground shook beneath Renathal's already unsteady limbs, and the pang of emptiness in his chest told him all he needed to know about his chances of a second anima attack. The Endmire had successfully leeched all his drought-reduced reserve. There were no souls nearby, nothing in the ground he could harvest. He touched his medallion before remembering it, too, was useless. There was no other option.

Fumbling behind him for whatever part of Elisewin he could reach, he found her hand and said with quiet urgency, "Run.”

If it had been his first course of action, they might have managed it, but Renathal's legs were screaming as he lurched forward and sideways, crossing the ground in two drunken strides and splashing through the ankle-deep water, dragging Elisewin behind him. He was aiming for the gap between one of the lumbering Endbeast's legs and the steep cliffside. The wailing creature would close the space in seconds, but they could make it. There was room. There was time. Calling on his threadbare anima reserves, Renathal put on a burst of speed -

-and tripped. His boot slid through loose earth where the water met the embankment, and Renathal hit the mud face-first with a wet smack. Seething in frustration and panic, he rolled as fast as his armor would let him. And there was the Endbeast's huge, flat "foot" above him. It was already descending. There was no time left to plan.

Something else hit Renathal's chest first. He glimpsed a waterfall of dark hair, then a cloud of sparkling blue. And then he was blinking up at the mist-shrouded sky, the ground beneath him abruptly harder, flatter. A rock dug painfully into his spine. It shuddered underneath him, once, twice, three times as - Renathal turned his head - the Endbeast's lower appendage pummeled the embankment thirty paces to the left, exactly where his body should have been.

Something heavy vibrated against Renathal's chest plate. Ragged breathing fluttered his mussed goatee. He dragged his gaze from the rampaging Endbeast to the mortal being atop him.

"How did you do that?"

Elisewin's expression as she blinked up at Renathal echoed his own confusion. 

"I have ... no idea," she panted.

There was no time to explore this mystery further. Another eerie howl, like a malignant wind, made them both cringe and scramble to their feet. The sound of their voices, or some eldritch sense, had alerted the Endbeast to their new location. It twisted to face them, collecting its limbs underneath it, preparing for a second advance.

Renathal glanced hopefully at Elisewin, struggling to straighten her cumbersome gown, but she showed no signs of additional convenient magic. And the beast was pivoting slowly, shifting its massive weight toward them. Its mass was a weakness he could use against it if he just had something. Think. He had to think.

“Here, your Highness!" called someone from behind him, and Renathal spun to locate this new and vaguely familiar voice.

Ahead of them, tucked into the shadow of the cliff, lurked a narrow metal cage. And within, a shrouded figure stretched an arm between the bars, brandishing something in his direction.

"Catch!"

The figure tossed its item underhand at Renathal, who, to his own surprise, caught it.

A rapier. A thinner, lighter weapon than he usually preferred, but well-made and sharp; Renathal sliced a finger on the blade as he fumbled it the right way round. He slashed it experimentally through the air, its weight easy to wield in his weakened state.

It would do.

He turned back to face the oncoming Endbeast. Armed, he felt his confidence return in a vital surge. Defying the Endmire's pull on his limbs, scraping his veins for the last trace of anima, Renathal forced his protesting legs to carry him forward, lifting the sword to meet his furious foe. He parried one swipe, dodged another, planted his feet and let the beast's own momentum impale itself on the well-crafted blade. 

The Endbeast's sharp, pained keening threatened to shatter Renathal's eardrums. He could feel its massive weight collapsing around him, and tremors wracked both arms as he fought to keep the sword steady. Something snapped, and it was seconds before he understood it was his leg. Only when he hit the ground did he realise he was falling, crushed beneath the creature's corpse, though, numb as his body was, Renathal could not feel it.

How fortunate, he thought with a last flare of mordant humour as his consciousness began to fade. The last thing he saw before his eyes drifted shut was Elisewin's lavender face, very close to his, and the last thought he had before he succumbed to black was that he rather liked it that way.

Read Chapter Four: Anima Awakening | Visit the Masterpost

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[gloryofdawn]

My wife and I own some land, we're working on getting a house built. There is currently no HOA in the area. It is my deepest hope that one will appear around us. On the day that happens, when they come to invite us to include our property in their self-righteous cult of busybodies, I will have a contract prepared. It will state that the only circumstance under which our home will become a part of a Homeowner's Association is when the President of the HOA kidnaps me, ties me to an altar, carves out my beating heart with an athame, and sacrifices it to a pagan deity of their choice (I don't want to be exclusionary).

I mostly just want to see the looks on their faces.

[t0rschlusspan1k]

A realistic depiction of violence also serves to show that even if you do survive a war, you probably won’t feel like a hero. In fact, the impact of combat can be so traumatic that the toll it takes on your mental health can end up destroying exactly what you thought you’d protect, and leave you as a mere shell of your former self that’s neither heroic, nor victorious over evil, nor death-transcending. War don't ennoble men. It turns them into dogs. What is important to remember is that in hero systems, violence and suffering can be redeemed as long as they serve a greater purpose. As Becker wrote; “What man really fears is not so much extinction, but extinction with insignificance.” And so when we’re discussing the cinematic depiction of combat and trauma, this nuance is precisely the reason why many war films stumble in their message. One popular war film that exemplifies this is Saving Private Ryan. The film opens with the invasion of Allied soldiers at Normandy. The 20 minute or so sequence, which is filmed in a realistic-looking documentary style, features graphic violence, terrified soldiers, and the overall chaos and destruction of combat. But after that, as Agnieszka Monnet explains in her essay “Is There Such a Thing as an Anti-War Film?”, the conventions of Hollywood storytelling re-emerge and ultimately frame the violence and cost of human life as heroic, and renders it all meaningful. This is most notably demonstrated as our main hero falls at the end, which could have left us wondering if the sacrifice to save Private Ryan was worth it or not. But instead, the film provides us a clear answer with its epilogue in which Ryan lives to be a good man and beloved grandfather, who remembers and honors the men who died for his sake. In doing so, we are reassured that all is well, that all the sacrifices eventually served a heroic purpose, and death has successfully been transcended to achieve greater significance. To emphasize; this doesn’t make Saving Private Ryan a bad film, but it does make it a comfortable one, and as such, it greatly detracts from its effectiveness as a true anti-war statement. In his review, David Walsh also draws attention to the film’s heroic leaders. “The implicit stance taken by the film” – he writes - “is that only the authorities in Washington concerned themselves with ideological matters, while the men in the field were unthinkingly doing the dirty work.” By looking closer at the representatives of what we could see as the film’s hero system, we indeed see that they are portrayed as righteous, rational, and deeply concerned with the suffering of soldiers and their loved ones. The point is not so much if leaders were actually like this or not, but that it doesn’t at all question the hero system that is driving the violence. The film states the sacrifices were costly, but then assures us they were laid upon the altar of freedom. And this sentiment of meaningful suffering echoes throughout the entire film, and in doing so, redeems it. What it comes down to is that despite showing the gritty reality of combat, war films can still romanticize instead of criticize if they do not question the general function of their hero systems.

— Like Stories of Old, Lies of Heroism. Redefining the Anti-War Film