#and i personally liked them fleshing out the marginal characters. i never found that boring or like a major diversion

[skrunksthatwunk]

not my dad not liking moral orel season 3 🤭🤭🤭that's so embarrassing for him (<- he's not wrong for feeling that way but i think it's like 60% because he doesn't like it when art gets weird and that's so so tragic for him)

[terramythos]

TerraMythos 2022 Reading Challenge - Book 5 of 26

Title: Taste of Marrow (River of Teeth #2)

Author: Sarah Gailey

Genre/Tags: Fantasy, Western, Alternate History, Novella, Third-Person, LGBT Protagonist, Female Protagonist, Nonbinary Protagonist

Rating: 4/10

Date Began: 02/23/2022

Date Finished: 03/07/2022

Two months after the collapse of the Harriet dam, feral man-eating hippos now roam the Louisiana bayou. The former crew behind the disaster now lie scattered. Former villain Adelia Reyes and Hero form one unlikely group. The two have every reason to mistrust each other, but when Adelia’s newborn daughter Ysabel is kidnapped by bandits, they must to work together to find her. Meanwhile, Houndstooth and Archie contemplate what to do next. Houndstooth becomes obsessed with finding the missing Hero— and he’s willing to pay any price and abandon any principle to succeed. 

“You realize,” Hero finally said softly, “that you’re only doing the job because you’re good at it. That you only love it because you’re good at it. You realize that somewhere along the way, you forgot you’re killing people. You don’t feel a goddamn ounce of the remorse your mother’s preacher said you’d feel if you took another life— you just feel bored.” Their voice dropped to a whisper. “You feel bored by the murders. And you wonder who you are, that you can say that about yourself— that you’re bored by the murders.”

Review, content warnings, spoilers for River of Teeth, and minor spoilers for Taste of Marrow below the cut.

Content warnings: Depicted-- Death, animal death, graphic violence, torture, mutilation. Mentioned-- Abuse.

I really hoped the second book in this series would redeem the many faults of its predecessor. Alas, it wasn’t to be. Taste of Marrow is marginally better than River of Teeth, but still struggles with a weak plot and hit-or-miss characterization. While there are occasional glimpses of a good story in here, the overall execution is mired by so many problems that it never quite succeeds. 

Perhaps the most frustrating thing about this book is there are stretches where it’s almost good. I want to give credit where it’s due and acknowledge the positives. I didn’t mention this in my previous review, but River of Teeth’s prose is a little rough. There’s some improvement in Taste of Marrow; it feels smoother to read, and I found most of the off-the-wall similes and metaphors charming rather than awkward. I noted several parts that genuinely made me laugh, like the description of a barkeep the characters encounter.

There’s an obvious effort to flesh out the characters. River of Teeth didn’t bother to develop any members of the cast outside Houndstooth, so I was a little surprised that this book focuses on characterization. There are two main storylines in Taste of Marrow, and I found myself genuinely enjoying the one following Adelia and Hero.

Adelia goes from being a one-note minor villain in River of Teeth to someone much more nuanced. She’s an assassin who realized over time that the work made her feel empty inside. So she’s decided to abandon her old life by having a child— someone she can genuinely love and care for. This explains many of her actions in the previous book, like why she spared Hero even though killing them would have been easier. Adelia is the most well-written character in this series simply for that level of narrative follow-through. I particularly liked an early scene where it seems like she’s going to torture and kill a man with his own knife, but instead returns it and tells him to take better care of it for his son. It’s a solid, tense exchange that defies character expectations.

While Hero’s backstory has been alluded to a few times, we get a much deeper exploration in this book. I loved the whole bit where Hero talks about the person they used to be, and how Gailey uses this to draw parallels between them and Adelia; specifically how the art of killing takes a toll on one’s ability to connect to others. Hero and Adelia may seem different on a surface level, but are ultimately very similar people. They form a cute, genuine friendship that makes me feel things. It’s almost—ALMOST enough to carry the book for me.

Unfortunately the other storyline, which follows Houndstooth and Archie, drags everything down. Following Hero’s disappearance, Houndstooth spends every waking moment trying to find them. His obsession leads to increasingly unhinged acts; lashing out at Archie, a literal wall of crazy, and so on. I like corruption arcs when done well… but Taste of Marrow lacks the compelling setup needed for it to work. Houndstooth and Hero’s relationship in River of Teeth was bland and unremarkable. The two barely interacted outside sporadic blushing and a single hookup. So Houndstooth’s utter devotion and extreme behavior come off as absurd— a pretty big problem when it’s half the story. He magically gets better without having to atone for, say, torturing a random guy, which cheapens the whole arc.

I don’t have much to say about Archie because she’s just that boring. All she does here is worry about Houndstooth. It’s a shame because a fat French grifter is a fun concept for a character, but Gailey never does anything interesting with her. I’m struggling to remember a single noteworthy thing she did in this book. Why does she stick around when Houndstooth treats her like garbage? Who knows. I question why she and Houndstooth are in this story at all, to be honest.

My biggest complaint about River of Teeth was the surprising lack of hippos. The sequel starts two months after the collapse of the Harriet dam, releasing hundreds of feral, man-eating hippos into the bayou. You might think it’s impossible to make that premise boring, but Taste of Marrow manages. Hippos barely factor into this story— even less so than before. The mounts are almost completely absent. The only noteworthy feral hippo scenes (two in the whole book) are basically just Jaws. You could literally replace them with sharks and nothing would change. I swear Gailey did zero research into hippos when writing these novellas, because they’re just murder machines thrown into the story whenever it’s convenient. It’s crazy to me that this series seems determined to neglect its main selling point.  

Plotting is also a problem. The setup is genuinely well-written and action-packed; it provides an immediate hook and sense of urgency. Adelia’s newborn daughter Ysabel gets kidnapped by bandits and Adelia has to get her back. But rather than exploring the devastation such an event would have on a new parent, Adelia and Hero just plod along for two-thirds of the book until the evil mastermind contacts them. I straight up forgot Ysabel existed at one point. Perhaps that’s my own weakness as a reader, but a kidnapped newborn should be a big deal within the narrative— something the characters obsess over and talk about. Yet it’s barely a thing for most of the story.

There’s a “shocking twist” regarding who orchestrated the kidnapping, but it’s so random I just laughed. It might work if said character had been fleshed out at all in River of Teeth, but they barely existed outside of a mention. They aren’t especially memorable in this story due to the late introduction and lack of development. Their evil master plan is to exterminate all feral hippos, something framed as horrific and unreasonable. But considering the hippos are an invasive species literally terrorizing and eating people en masse, I fail to see why this is such a bad idea. The only downside is what would happen to the domesticated hippos, but any emotional impact falls flat since they’re barely in the story.

Finally, the hippo ex machina ending is pretty dumb. Is finding a new way to kill off the main villain really that hard? At least in River of Teeth the antagonist getting eaten by hippos was his own doing. Here it’s just a contrivance to kill them quickly and end the book.

Novellas by their nature have strict limitations on how much of a story one can tell. Gailey stuffs so many characters and ideas into these books that it’s impossible to adequately develop anything. Paradoxically, this makes them feel bare bones. The choice to split Taste of Marrow into two narrative threads compounds this problem. Maybe if the novella focused on just Adelia and Hero, there would be space to flesh out the good stuff in their part of the story. Or maybe this whole series would function better as a short story collection. If wishes were hippos, I guess.

I probably should have quit this book partway through, but for whatever reason I stuck it out. Sunk cost fallacy, maybe. While Taste of Marrow is slightly better than River of Teeth, it’s still not very good. Definitely looking forward to reading something else.

[leapyearkisses]

Director’s Cut Commentary - Orbs Are Bad News Part 2

Second part of me blathering my thoughts all over this old story per the request of a very nice anon! I am still sleep-deprived, so yay~ Sorry, this commentary is probably way less interesting, since this part is just the sexy stuff, but if you have any particular questions, please send me another ask!

Happy to do any of my stories or just answer asks, whatever. I clearly enjoy reading myself talk XD

Comments in bold below the cut! This part is NSFW. Well, it’s all kinky but there’s also sex.

I forgot to mention this in Part 1, but the title of this story is because the homebrew campaign I ran for my friends involved magical evil crystal orbs. Hence they are bad news.

"Are you ever going to stop sneezing?" Remembrance asked.  At the same time, Cordes said, "One thousand blessings, Llewellyn, one for each."  The two of them were several yards ahead on the road, and only Cordes was looking back over his shoulder.  Right now, the four party members were the only travelers on this particular stretch, although as they got closer to civilization, they'd started to pass the odd wanderer, farmers with wagons, even a merchant or two.  The woods here were broken up periodically by stretches of arable land, clear-cut several decades ago and now waving with wheat, flax, or various vegetable leaves.  The fields were golden in the late sun.  Their shadows stretched behind them like taffy, rippling on the cobblestones.  The day was vanishing quickly, and Gerrit could sense his companions' impatience to move on even as he stopped again himself, drawing out his handkerchief in a now very familiar motion.

 Stick your people in a world. That’s my advice. Don’t have them just floating around in a no man’s land of generic scenery. (Also why I like period/historical snzarios and fantasy stuff, because reading about plain people in an apartment somewhere is boring to me.)

Llewellyn, for his part, could not answer them, face buried in his elbow as he ducked with another reluctant outburst. "Hahktschiu!  Hahh- happtsch!"

"Bless," said Gerrit, and he stepped in front of the elf to shield him marginally from view.  He laid one warm hand on the back of Llewellyn's neck and lifted the handkerchief with the other, capturing the next sneeze in the flannel folds.  He settled his fingers firmly around Llewellyn's nose.

This was an arrangement that had been born out of necessity three days ago when the party had raided a bandit camp's plundered stores.  Along with a good stash of gold and gems, they'd found a blue crystal orb, cursed perhaps, that had summarily become attached to both of Llewellyn's hands, rendering the sorcerer unable to do most anything... including take care of his cold on his own.

 On the last episode of Orbs Are Bad News...

Llewellyn blew his nose into the handkerchief, wetting the cloth and dampening Gerrit's fingers through it.  Originally quite opposed to such a display outside of the most private circumstances, the elf had been forced to put his pride aside and let Gerrit help him.  His fever had abated the previous day, but the frequency of his sneezing had increased, as if his body was insistent now on ridding itself of whatever illness remained.  It was a horrific prospect to Llewellyn to catch the resulting mess every time in the sleeve of his robes... so he suffered Gerrit to hold the handkerchief, even though they were walking along the road where any might see them.

Despite some initial teasing, Remembrance and Cordes had quickly grown accustomed to the practice and now cared not at all, except to complain.  "We're going to have to camp again," grumbled Remembrance.  "Five miles from Veigh and we're going to be stuck without a bath!"

 Is five miles a realistic figure here? No fucking clue! I frequently engage in excessive and specific research for my stories, but I didn’t look up how long one might hike for in D&D. Oh well.

"Is there anything I could do for you?" Cordes asked, somewhat exasperated.  The priest had made several herbal concoctions for Llewellyn over the past few days, but none had helped the elf's nose much.  Cordes's specialty was unfortunately not the curing of disease but the mending of bones and flesh.

 I will take any opportunity to make up an excuse as to why the snz cannot be contained. You’re welcome lol

"Ndo," Llewellyn growled, as fed up as the rest of them.  "I'm beyond heh- help. Hngtschiu!"

"Bless you, arimelda," said Gerrit, trying to keep his voice even.  He shifted the handkerchief so that Llewellyn could have a drier spot, trying to ignore a glimpse of slickness on the elf's face.  "Remembrance, Cordes, why don't the two of you go on ahead?  Find an inn, get a room, take a bath, whatever you want.  It might be prudent also to send a message ahead to the Mages Guild about the orb.  Will you do that?  Llewellyn and I will join you when we arrive."

 An elvish word appears! I researched this but not walking.

Cordes nodded.  "Yes, I'll draft a letter as soon as- Hey!"  Remembrance had grabbed his arm and was rushing ahead already.

"Let's go, man!" she said.  "Everyone loves a damn priest; you're my ticket to a good room, so may your god help you if you dawdle."  Her pointed tail swished as she practically jogged down the road.  Cordes spluttered but could no more stand up to her as to a tornado, so off they went.  It was a remarkably short time before the two of them were out of earshot, disappearing around a bend.

 And again, removed so that the main characters can bang, lol.

Gerrit sighed but turned his attention back to Llewellyn, who was blowing his nose again.  The handkerchief was running out of clean corners this late in the day, but the elf leaned back this time when he was finished.  "All set?" Gerrit asked.

"Yes."  Llewellyn rubbed his eyes on his upper arm, wiping away a spare tear from the effort.  "...My apologies."  He cleared his throat, refusing to meet Gerrit's gaze.  "We may arrive after dark."

"You're ill," said Gerrit, trying to fold the flannel in a way as to avoid his pocket getting wet.  "We'd move faster if you let me carry y-"

"No."

"Then I don't mind taking a more leisurely pace."  Gerrit smiled.  Even after everything, Llewellyn was stubborn.  Honestly, since they weren't really in a rush, he didn't really care when they reached Veigh; they'd only detoured here to try and remove the orb.  If Llewellyn, the most inconvenienced, didn't want to give up his pride and piggyback on... well, Gerrit found his noble hauteur inexplicably cute.

 Me too, buddy. Don’t worry, you can carry your elf later.

He also wasn't in a particular hurry because it was awfully uncomfortable to make any sort of time with his arousal pressed flush to his thigh.

A reminder that sex is usually going to be involved in my stories. The snz is not enough by itself.

Llewellyn coughed into his elbow and then started walking again.  Gerrit had pulled back his hood for him in the morning and braided his hair, and the crown of plaits caught the afternoon sunlight like an obsidian.  Gerrit tried not to let his eyes linger on the sorcerer's pale nape.  Or any other part of him.  He and Llewellyn had been travelling together for close to three years, working for their current patron in the capital, and in that time Gerrit had felt himself growing closer to the elf.  Wanting to be closer, anyway.  

Llewellyn shot a glance at him and caught him looking.  Gerrit flushed and turned his gaze back ahead to the road.

"You've been very accommodating during all of this," the elf said, tone carefully neutral.

Gerrit shrugged.  "It doesn't bear mentioning.  We're comrades."

"Comrades," Llewellyn repeated, an edge to his voice that Gerrit couldn't quite place.  "Is that all it is?"  He kicked a stick that had fallen to the cobblestones, sending it into the brush. Somewhere to the right, bumblebees droned over a meadow.

 Llewellyn is kind of a asshole and not super great at communicating with any level of affection, although he does get better.

Gerrit swallowed.  "Yes?  You and I, we've helped each other before.  I consider you to be a steadfast companion."  Eyes on the road.  Eyes on the dappled play of shadowed leaves and light on the ground.  "Why do you ask?"

"So shy," Llewellyn exclaimed, a tad mockingly.  "You've never been shy about taking me to bed, Gerrit."  Despite his short height, the elf seemed to find it easy to look down his nose at the much taller fighter.  "Has something changed?"

 Height difference is also personally sacred to me.

"Changed?"  Eyes on the road.

Llewellyn stopped walking.  "You called me 'arimelda.'  'Dearest.'  Did you think I wouldn't hear you over my sneezing?"  He couldn't cross his arms with his hands trapped by the orb, but the set of his jaw was determined and his firm brows were arched.  "I wasn't so distracted then as you seem to have thought."

Gerrit shoved his hands in his pockets.  He stopped walking but didn't turn.  "Apparently not," he muttered.  "Look, we can set it aside.  Doesn't have to mean anything – doesn't have to change anything.  I know a highborn elf like you wouldn't consider an official relationship with a half-elven bastard, and I've known that from the start.  For my whole life.  So... I care about you.  But it can just be as comrades, or whatever you want it to be."  Llewellyn was quiet, and after a long minute, Gerrit did turn on his heel, desperate to know what kind of reaction he'd provoked.

 The angst of the half-elven existence! Gerrit is a very typical half-elf in terms of D&D characterization, lol. Despite that, I do find these different-lifestyle pairings interesting, so they keep happening, cliche or not. There is a definite pathos in the elf/human relationship because of the different lifespans, of course - most famously depicted through Arwen and Aragorn, probably, although he’s not the exactly typical human. Anyway, it kind of varies how people like to determine elven and half-elven lifespans in D&D depending on the PHB and your DM’s weary forbearance lol, but Gerrit and Llewellyn will expect to live similar lengths because I’m a sap.

He saw Llewellyn standing with his eyes closed and head titled back, lips parted.  The elf's nostrils flared as he gasped.

"Are you going to sneeze again??" Gerrit asked.  He threw up his hands, then went for his handkerchief once more.  They ­did have an arrangement.

He strode back over to Llewellyn's side and tucked the cloth around his nose again, thumb and forefinger just resting on the elf's nostrils.  He started to rub Llewellyn's back.  "You have the worst timing, you know?  Here I am, spilling my heart to you and everything."  

 I laughed writing this part, too. You can’t always let things just be angst.

"Sh-hhuh-t up, I jh- just nih-" Llewellyn gasped again and gave in; he had no other choice.  "Hahktscht!"  He moaned and pressed closer into the handkerchief, thick congestion only aggravating the itch that remained inside.  "Hkktschtt!  Hngtscht!  Hahh- ah-- ankcxttschiu!"

 That sure is a bunch of letters crammed together!

"Easy... it's okay."  Gerrit massaged Llewellyn’s nose, tried to soothe the irritation.  He guided Llewellyn to the side of the road, and, in a moment of calm, settled him to sit on the grassy bank.  He followed, kneeling at the elf's side.  Llewellyn was tearing up again and his nose was twitching against the pads of Gerrit's fingers.  Gerrit felt electric all over.  He found himself wishing the handkerchief was gone so that he might touch the soft, heated skin of Llewellyn's septum, coax the elf to relax and loose his tension, sneeze into Gerrit's palm.  The mess didn't bother him; none of it bothered him.  He was supremely unbothered.  His cock was almost painfully hard.

It took several more minutes punctuated with more urgent expulsions before Llewellyn seemed to trust himself to speak.  His eyes were wet with unshed tears, eyelids tender and reddened.  His nose was brightly ruddy, running to chapped.  He had to take a shaky breath, collecting his thoughts.  "Gerrit."

 I’m a very visual writer. This kink is extremely visually-based for me. I wish I could draw as well as I want to so I could depict these scenes how I imagine them, but eh.

"Yes?"  Gerrit lowered the handkerchief, gently pinching as he did to clear any lingering moisture.  He wasn't ready to hear a rejection, nor did he feel particularly ready for a lecture or a tirade or even a logical exploration of why a relationship was a bad idea.  He wanted, if possible, to keep walking to Veigh, side by side, listening to the bees and dragonflies and songbirds settling in for the evening, feeling the light breeze on his face, replete with the scents of summer.  

"Kiss me."

Gerrit blinked, mental caravan bunching to a halt.  "What?"

 i am so funny omg

Llewellyn nudged him in the chest with the orb.  "Kiss me.  You're all worked up."  He cleared his throat.  "And judging by the state of you, you're not put off by my cold.  So?"  He tilted his head to the side, gently, closed his eyes.  "I want you to kiss me."

 An example of the B character not really forcing the admitting of the fetish but just kind of not caring. That is also okay, and I think it’s normal. People don’t just admit to all their kinks immediately upon entering a relationship.

Baffled, but feeling as though maybe all was not lost, Gerrit obliged, pressing their lips together.  His own eyes slid closed and he cupped Llewellyn's cheek, deepening the kiss, touching their tongues together, trying to convey how he felt.  Whatever had changed.  The kiss lasted for too short a time; Llewellyn broke away to breathe, eyes half-lidded, but he didn't lean away.

 I’ve never kissed anyone, but I consume media. I feel like I am pretty good at depicting things regardless of experience.

"I'm not going to dismiss you out of hand," he said.  "You or your feelings.  But I would ask for some time to think."  He looked up through his lashes.  "Are you feeling better?"

 Another thing I like in romance, even in kink short stories like this, is a more realistic portrayal of the confession than just “It was obviously meant to be~”

Gerrit could feel his pulse in every extremity.  "Not really," he managed, and he kissed Llewellyn again, this time sliding one hand under the elf's head and one at his hip and pressing him back to lay in the grass.  He moaned in his throat as Llewellyn kissed back, and when they had to break for breath, he started to kiss at Llewellyn's forehead, jaw, throat, wherever he could touch skin.  His hands roamed over the elf's body, smoothing over hip and thigh and belly until he could start to undo the buttons on Llewellyn's close-cut robes.

"Gerrit," gasped Llewellyn.  He moved the orb between them, jamming it into Gerrit's sternum.  "You are not going to sleep with me on the side of the damn road!  Get ahold of yourself!"

 He has standards!

Gerrit growled at the quick pain in his chest, then shook his head and leaned back.  He flushed deeply and pulled his hands away.  "Oh.  Oh, fuck, sorry.  I-"

"Pick me up."  Llewellyn lifted his arms.

"What??"  Gerrit's brain was having a hard time keeping up at the moment, all of his blood being elsewhere.

"There was a thicker copse of trees back about thirty feet, on the left."  Llewellyn waved the orb at him.  "Pick me up.  We can lay down there."

 His standards are NOT that high! But he does have them!

So.  So Gerrit ducked his head into the circle of Llewellyn’s arms and picked him up, holding him securely and setting off down the road again, back the way they’d come.  The elf was right; there, about twenty feet back from the bank, was a thick copse of pines, all grown together with wild geranium and maidenhead ferns.  Gerrit pushed through, shoulder first.  Despite its proximity to the thoroughfare, the inside of the stand was quiet and shielded completely from view.  This would do nicely.

 Told you you’d get to carry him soon.

He set Llewellyn back on his feet and made short work of undressing him, first freeing the sorcerer from his pouches and bags, then undoing the silver buttons on his robe from his collarbone to his crotch.  The rich fabric fell open appealingly.  Next, Gerrit freed the elf from his boots and leggings.  A long white shirt, woven from the finest of elven angora, still covered him, but Gerrit pushed the fabric up over Llewellyn’s belly, leaning in to kiss the elf again and touching him intimately.

Llewellyn moaned and nudged Gerrit’s hip with the orb.  “Now you,” he said.  “I want to see your body.”

Gerrit complied, making quick time shedding his cloak, pack, leather armor, breeches, boots.  Two daggers, two short swords, caltrops, a bow and quiver, a glaive, and a spiked whip followed.  He pushed them to the side as Llewellyn rolled his eyes.

This is another funny trope lol, like when a hero or assassin or someone has to go through airport security and the metal detector keeps beeping because they’re carrying 18 knives on their person. Fighters are proficient in every weapon, so why not have one of everything?

"You can't possibly have a use for all of those," the elf said, and then Gerrit captured his mouth again.

He laid Llewellyn down on the soft carpet of pine needles, using his cloak to cover the ground and double as a makeshift pillow.  The elf was beautiful in the shifting shade, skin flawless.  He had the orb resting on his chest and it glowed intermittently in the inconstant sunlight.  The gold chain netting that encapsulated both the orb and Llewellyn's fine-boned hands glimmered.  "You know," said Gerrit, smoothing a hand down Llewellyn's bare thigh.  "You'd look pretty good bound up in gold chain."

"This isn't enough for you?"  He scoffed.

Gerrit laughed.  "It would be fun to tease you.  I love it when you fuss at me.  So cute."  He dodged Llewellyn's elbow and settled down on his stomach, hooked one of Llewellyn's legs over his shoulder, and nuzzled the base of the elf's cock.  "Ready, arimelda?"  His own cock was under him, pressed to his stomach in the confines of his shirt.  He could feel his pulse in the head of it, quickening with the scent of his lover.

"Yes, you prick," sighed the elf, and he moaned when Gerrit started to kiss him and lave his skin.  His fingers flexed on the orb, longing to wind into Gerrit's hair.

 Licking is kind of thing, and I love writing about fellatio so. Yay~

Gerrit took Llewellyn into his mouth eagerly, fingers curled over the elf's thighs, fingertips pressing at the sensitive inner surface as he sucked and teased and swallowed.  Like this, he could focus on Llewellyn's pleasure.  The noises the usually stoic and prideful sorcerer was making were enough to make Gerrit moan, mouth full, and rock his hips.  Nothing pleased Gerrit more than seeing Llewellyn undone, seeing the elf flushed and open and undone for him.  And he shivered, all over, when he heard the elf's breath catch and his tone go wavery.  He thought he could come from this, listening to Llewellyn sneeze while pleasuring him implacably with a heated, well-placed tongue.

 This is also VERY IMPORTANT. Caretaking to the point of like, partner worship idk. It’s good!!

"Aa, aa, ahh- ih- Gerrit, I-" Llewellyn drew his knee up, curling, heel drawing along Gerrit's back.  "I nih- need to snih- hh-"

Gerrit drew his head back, let Llewellyn's cock free for a moment.  He didn't loosen his grip on the elf's legs, though, wound up and desirous.  "Okay by me, melda, it's okay.  Feel all right?  Want me to stop?"  He was breathless himself, had to force the words past the distraction of his arousal, but he would abide.

 Consent is the sexiest thing.

"No, don't stop," Llewellyn groaned, then turned his head to the side.  "Hpptscht!  Hah- Haktschiu!"

"Bless, bless."  Gerrit kissed Llewellyn's thigh tenderly, then nipped it, drew his tongue over the hurt, sucked a bruise to mark its place.  He swallowed Llewellyn down again as the elf cried out in pleasure and then bent with another helpless burst.  Gerrit wondered if he could make Llewellyn come simultaneously with a sneeze and what that might feel like.  The fantasy set him alight.  His abdomen was tight, his cock like a brand on his stomach. He redoubled his efforts.

Gerrit felt it first, when Llewellyn came, in the tightening of the elf's thighs and stomach, then tasted the salt of his release.  His world narrowed down to taking it in, swallowing, milking with his mouth while Llewellyn cried out, going until the elf was pushing him away, keening, oversensitive.  He didn't wait to lift Llewellyn then into his lap, cradling him with one arm and stroking himself with the other hand, desperate to come as well.  Llewellyn pressed his face to the junction of Gerrit's neck and shoulder, tightly gripping the cloth of Gerrit's shirt as they rocked together.  The elf's nose was gently wet and he was panting, sniffling.  Gerrit came with a shout, holding him close, shaking with an overabundance of pleasure.  He let go of his cock and embraced Llewellyn fully.  He had enough presence of mind not to confess to anything, but he couldn't stop himself from murmuring how beautiful, how soft.

 okay. o__o There’s only so much I can say about writing the porn lol. I write what I want to read.

Gradually the world came back.  Birdsong, first, and the bees, the sounds of the trees swaying in the light breeze.  The lingering heat of the day, dampened by the shade and the growing dusk.  The musty smell of pine needles and the sharper hint of sap, the scents of sex, the pressure of Llewellyn astride his lap, the bite of uneven ground against his knees.  Llewellyn was touching his cheek, trying to say something sweet, failing because of his cold again.

 I tried to write this part so that it would not be immediately obvious to the reader, as it is not to the characters, that the orb is gone.

"Ah- hh- Ttschgktst!"

Wetness against his neck.  Gerrit wound his fingers with Llewellyn's and kissed his jaw.  "Bless you," he said.  "I'll find you a healer in Veigh.  We'll get you well again.  Right after we free you from the orb."  He laid his cheek against the back of Llewellyn's hand tenderly.  Then he paused. "Wait."  Straightening, he brought his hands between them.  The right was laced with Llewellyn's left.  "The orb is gone."

Llewellyn straightened also, looking down at his hands.  His hands with no orb.  He lifted them both, amazed.  And then wiped his nose on his wrist, sighing in pleasure.  Gerrit tried not to blush despite everything.

 Me too, buddy.

"Where did it go?" he asked, looking past the elf's shoulder.  "Why did it come off?"

"Who even cares at this point??"  Llewellyn had let go of him and was stretching, running his palms over his body, touching his own arms and face and cock, finally able to move and feel again after three days of magical bondage.  He wiggled his fingers and then clapped his palms together, raising a small flame with their parting.  "I have my freedom back.  I can cast spells again.  I can-" He smiled brilliantly.  "I can touch you, too."  He dropped his hands suddenly to Gerrit's lap, nimbly taking Gerrit's cock between them.

Gerrit lost track of the orb immediately.

 Me too, buddy.

---

It was dark indeed when the two of them made it to the inn in Veigh, but both were in high spirits.  Gerrit had relinquished handkerchief duty back to Llewellyn with a great internal mourning, but he could always fantasize about this again in the future (he did, frequently), and he knew that Llewellyn, despite his best efforts, would catch more colds on the road (he did, more frequently than he would like).

I would love to play a fetish-friendly D&D campaign, but it would be way too embarrassing, probably. My current PC has allergies, but I have never mentioned them in-game and probably never will lol. God help me if my DM ever remembers that I wrote them into my character sheet.

Remembrance and Cordes had only been able to secure one room, it seemed, with two beds.  Gerrit resigned himself, going up the stairs, to sleeping on the floor. But... it was apparent upon entering the small space that... well, their priest and thief had ended up taking up only one of the beds, together.  Gerrit and Llewellyn traded glances.

"I don't think I want to ask," said Llewellyn, going for the free bed.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Gerrit replied, joining him.

The untold story, lol

In the morning, Cordes, with great dignity sprung from embarrassment (the cause of which he did not volunteer) informed them that a letter had not been sent to the Mages Guild yet.  He was immensely relieved to find that one was no longer needed and quick to congratulate Llewellyn on his newly regained freedom.  Remembrance just chuckled from the bed and took her time buckling her armor back on.  

Already in Veigh, the party spent some time stocking up on medicines and liquefying some of the heavier treasures they'd liberated from the bandit camp.  Gerrit sent a message on to their patron to expect them back in the capital in a couple of weeks, barring disaster.  They purchased horses and set out, ready for the next adventure.

---

The orb lay still in the pine thicket, nestled like an egg among the ferns, waiting for the next hapless traveler. 

 Faust’s Orb of Rope Bondage. Make a Will saving throw [DC 15] upon touching the orb with any body part, wearing clothes or not. Upon a failure, the orb will find its way to adhere to the hand of the hapless adventurer. If both hands touch the orb, they will both be stuck. If two people fail the save, one of each of their hands will be stuck. The spell can be broken only if each attached party has an orgasm.

I GUESS

[battlestar-royco]

let’s talk about tropes

here’s a little (little?!) post on tropes, as promised!

some tropes i hate and why i hate them

love triangles: this one’s pretty simple and obvious. love triangles are unrealistic and toxic. they romanticize emotional cheating, and they cause nasty ship wars in fandoms, especially when two of the points in the triangle are women. often, the “losing” point of the triangle is a one-dimensional throwaway character who either gets killed off or accepts their fate and steps back for the “winner” to take over. this dynamic can get especially problematic when the “loser” is a woc and the “winner” is white, when the “loser” is an lgbtq+ character, and/or when the “loser” has no purpose other than to create drama for two other fleshed out characters. the character often ends up being hated for bad writing and “getting in the way” of the endgame ship. yikes. the only valid resolution to love triangles, imo, is a polyamorous relationship!!!

girl hate: it’s rare to see nice friendships and romances between women, and often this trope is used to drive an unnecessary wedge between two female characters who would have otherwise been great friends. i don’t mind when two women/girls are in conflict with one another for an interesting reason, but i absolutely hate when the conflict is based on something stereotypical and boring. the “girl hate” conflict is always based on something misogynistic, unrealistic, and/or stupid--like a man, looks, sexual practices, or a contrived competition. this is especially gross when the men in the story act as the voices of reason in the conflict, patronizing the women and teaching them how to be nice and use logic.

“strong female characters”: many writers mistake “strong” characters for characters who employ violence, sassiness, and masculine attributes to get what they want. I’m so over it. all I want is nuanced representation of women that doesn’t reduce them to a love interest or a sex object who looks down on other women. strength comes in many forms, and everyone defines it and identifies with it differently.

miscommunication: this has to be one of the laziest forms of prolonging drama, when two characters are fighting because of something that could easily be solved if they were locked in a room together for five minutes.

incest/incest-adjacent romances: this should go without saying, but we’re for some god-awful reason going through a period where incestuous relationships/fake-outs (ie, you’re in love with him? too bad he’s your brother. oh wait, it’s revealed that he’s not!/you two are blood related but you either never met or you went through a period of separation, so that means you can fall in love) are heavily romanticized or used to create extra drama, and it’s just unnecessary and not cute. i think authors use this to add some sort of edge or uniqueness to their writing, but it’s just so toxic and a complete turn-off for me.

aesthetic oppression: (term inspired by and similar to “aesthetic conflict,” thanks kat) when an author throws in some sort of oppression that is experienced by people in real life, but they either don’t address the oppression thoroughly or they only use it to add some sort of edge to their story and further a character’s romance, death, redemption arc, etc. for example, the homophobia in GOT season 6, which reduced loras to a walking stereotype of a gay man before he was subjugated by the church sept and blown up, and the patriarchy in ACOTAR that only exists to show how feminist rhysand is.

boys/men fighting, having tantrums, or expressing themselves through violence: it’s fine for male characters to fight every once in a while, but i just hate that this seems to be exclusively employed with male characters and it is used as a solution or reaction to problems when realistically, men are much more nuanced. men cry. they might be alone or in front of others. they might cry into their pillow or on a friend’s shoulder. fictional men add violence and anger to their sadness because the authors don’t want to emasculate them, but that’s a stupid goal and crying doesn’t affect someone’s gender. smashing your belongings when you are upset is unhealthy and potentially dangerous, and so is physically fighting others over trivial or patriarchal issues (ie a woman) when conversation could be/is probably much more compelling and effective. it’s important to show men that anger isn’t always the first emotion to feel under duress and that they don’t have to express their feelings by punching walls or throwing their belongings across the room. (also?! practically? YOU’RE RUINING YOUR OWN FUCKING STUFF AND/OR YOUR ROOMMATE/FRIEND/PARTNER’S STUFF, YOU ASSHOLE.)

sexy immortals: immortality can be used in clever and entertaining ways, but i feel like a lot of the immortals i’ve been seeing lately run in the same vein as the twilight vampires, which is to say: unearthly beautiful (aka conventionally attractive), overly sexy (aka stalking a love interest for the sake of “attraction”), apparently 16-25 years old (aka accessible to grown women who read/write ya).

uninvolved parents or non-existent guardian figures: sometimes young characters don’t have parents and that’s fine; some of my favorite books are about characters with one parent or no parents. but i still feel like we’re coming out of a period where it was very popular to kill off the parents (especially moms) at the beginning or before the story starts. i really want to see more exploration of characters with parents, or at least see the characters without parents make significant relationships with adults or react appropriately to the loss of their parents.

one-off character deaths: when a character enters one chapter or episode of a book/show just to immediately die for cheap emotional manipulation. this character is also sooooo often a marginalized person, and it’s super predictable and tired. try harder, author/screenwriter!

some tropes i love and why i love them

special snowflake/chosen one: I can’t explain it. I know it’s so cliche and one of the most hated ones out there, but I love when this trope is done right. I’m not a big fan of the chosen ones who have a special destiny, especially if the mc is a white boy, because that’s been done a million times before. but I’m a sucker for that one character who comes upon an unexpected special ability/object/creature or connection to a force of good/evil/nature and has to contend with that. They’ve been Chosen and they’re completely unprepared, and it’s gonna change their life trajectory and relationships and maybe even political climate.

woobies!!!: I feel like this trope is so underrated and it’s one of my favorites of all time. I absolutely love rooting for that one character who’s too good for any of the shit they’ve been through and Deserves Better^TM, but they manage to survive and grow against all odds.

found family: i love that authors are expanding the concept of family and unconventional narratives about love. the found family trope is so charming and relatable to many readers, and it’s great to see seemingly contrary characters come together to find a loving home together that isn’t necessarily romantic.

soft characters: it’s rare (though increasingly less rare, fortunately) to find soft boys, aka male characters who are compassionate, funny, kind, pensive, and/or quiet instead of brash, loud, violent, and angry. i know so many boys and men who fall all along the spectrum of masculinity, and it would be great to see more characters who represent that, especially because male characters are typically forced to express their masculinity in one way. i also absolutely love seeing women being equally as soft and kind--with the exception of ASOIAF!sansa, i feel like this kind of character has been cast aside for the sassy, rebellious, empowered^TM female character who isn’t like other girls and wields a bunch of weapons. i’d really like to see more female characters whose strengths come from empathy, intelligence, and emotion.

unique relationships within a friend group/ensemble: this one is marginally related to my love of found families. not only do i really like tight, strong friend groups, but i also like when each of the friends within that group has a different and compelling dynamic (hostile, romantic, friendly, tragic, whatever may have you) that can carry a scene or an arc. unique relationships between all the characters in an ensemble adds so much dimensionality to a story.

complex guardian figures: this mostly applies to ya, but i think it can also be said for many adult books and tv shows. adult characters often get flattened or sidelined for romance or action plots when in reality almost everyone has parent/guardian relationships, and these relationships are the source of so much complexity. that complexity may mean love, found family, anger, patronization, manipulation, and more, and all these things will be expressed differently based on the characters in question. for example, look at the difference between eleven and hopper from stranger things and harry and dumbledore from harry potter. hopper and dumbledore are so different and each of them carry darkness and baggage that comes out on the kids for better and worse. bonus points if the guardian is a woman, because these types of relationships between girls and women are relatively rare to the ones between boys and men.

anti-heroes/anti-villains: i think this is another one that goes without explaining. we’re all the hero of our own story, after all. if an author can successfully convince me to root for a character who i know is wrong but believes they’re in the right, or for a character who does the wrong things for the right reasons, there’s a good chance that i think very highly of that author.

stoic, bitter, angry characters: if there’s one character in the ensemble who has any of these traits, there’s a good chance they’ll be my favorite, especially if that character is a woman. usually this character’s journey is about what makes them vulnerable and how they become close with the most unlikely companions or form a special relationship with a foil character. it makes the audience feel like we’re being let in on a secret, specifically about that character.

and that’s about it! my inbox is always open to talk more in depth about any of these and more, so let me know. thanks so much for 700, you all are great :D

[atamascolily]

Lily reads Star Wars: Red Harvest, part five

This book summed up in one sentence: "Hello, naughty children, it's murder time.... specifically, YOUR murder!” *evil laughter*

In which the students at Sith Hogwarts meet something that’s even creepier than they are... and they like it. Some of them. For a bit. 

(If you’re just joining me, check out the “Red Harvest” tag on my blog for previous posts)

Cut to not!Qui-Gon, his cloak billowing in the wind. 

“You landed on the wrong world, Jedi.”

Trace turned and faced him directly. The man was a Sith Master; that much was readily apparent—perhaps an instructor at the academy.

Okay, fine, but how do you know that, Trace?? What does a Sith Master even look like? Is their a dress code? Is it his presence?? This explains nothing. But that’s totally in character, because Rojo Trace is a Jedi of few words and never explains anything.

“I am Shak’Weth, Blademaster here on Odacer-Faustin. I can only assume that you came here seeking humiliation and an unpleasant death.”

“I’m here on other matters.”

“Ah?” The Blademaster cocked his head slightly, looking marginally intrigued. “But you’ve found me instead.”

Their duel is interrupted by a zombie attack, allowing not!Qui-Gon to escape and the Blademaster to die a horrible death.

In case we needed the reminder, the Whiphid bounty hunter is also a horrible person, as Zo learns when she tries to read his mind:

Normally her telepathic abilities weren’t particularly strong when it came to non-plant life-forms, but the Whiphid was what she thought of as a relatively easy read. In fact, from within, his mind resembled nothing so much as the trophy room aboard his ship where she’d first awakened: a place of death, a de facto display space for grotesque trophies and old kills. Some were alien species that she’d never seen before. Others were human. All were brought together in universal expressions of pain, desperation, and helplessness that they’d worn as the bounty hunter had delivered the coup de grâce. His mind had become a storehouse of their dying moments. This crypt of suffering, this reliquary, wasn’t just what he carried around in his head every day—it was his head.

He does not take kindly to Zo poking around in his mind. Zo is freaked out because she saw Scabrous watching her in there, too. They take shelter in the Tauntaun stables (because this is set on not!Hoth), and it turns out that the bounty hunter is a softie for them. Then the animals start screaming and the lights go out.

It turns out the Sith students love being zombies. Who would have ever guessed.  

He saw it with two sets of eyes: the ones he’d had when he’d been alive, and the strange new vision that the Sickness had given him. On some intuitive level he understood that the first set was fading, going blind, and that was fine with him, absolutely fine. The Sickness had given him everything he’d hoped for, everything he wanted, power and strength beyond all imagining. It had altered the midi-chlorians in his bloodstream, telescoping his natural abilities, enhancing them exponentially.

...The newly dead were rising slowly, shuffling to their feet. Rising up with them, Lussk stared into their faces, faces that he recognized from the academy, now contorted into something utterly new. He felt no fear at the sight of them, no sense of foreboding—only a slick dark fascination.

I’m looking at my future, he thought, and shivered with anticipation. It was a good future, he realized, an endless future, a place of unfathomable possibility.

But there's a price. Of course there is.

The Sickness wanted his soul.

No, Lussk told it. It’s too much. Even for what you offer, even for immortality itself, the price is too high.

A Sith with standards? Say it ain't so!  

I will make you the last one, the Sickness promised. Of all the others, you alone shall endure. That is what I have to offer you.

No.

The Sickness paused within him, considering. That is too bad, it said finally, because you no longer have a choice in the matter.

Yeah, it doesn't go well.

Also, turns out the zombies have a hive mind because the Sickness is controlling them all. So that's creepy, too. I’m not sure how all this works because this isn’t the sort of book to go in for explanations and world-building mechanics, so we’re just gonna roll with it.

The remaining students find the inevitable secret Sith weapon stash. The one female Sith, Kindra, is about to murder the asshole of the group, who's trying to off her in a power struggle because she won't give him a lightsaber, when they get interrupted and... you know what, I'm on her side here (inasmuch as I sympathize with any of these characters).

The Big Bad orders the tree librarian to use Psychic Plant Power to pretend to be the orchid and lure Zo to the library and bites him when he doesn't immediately comply. Zo and the bounty hunter fight zombies, and it all seems hopeless, but Zo hears her big brother's voice in her memory, and it powers her up for a big fight scene in bullet-time.

The tree librarian goes mad and sets the library on fire because the bite is infected with the Sickness. It's super metal.

Old fool, it had said, foolish old creature, your life has been wasted here among your books.

The Neti had tried to respond, to tell it no, that these scrolls and texts were his life, but the Sickness hadn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in that. It had more to say, and the Neti realized that he was a captive audience.

It’s not too late, the Sickness said. I have given you new life, and a new purpose, and you will know it if you seek my face. Will you, old tree? Will you seek my face?

What is it? the Neti asked. What is your face?

Mine is the face of blood and fire.

... The flesh is our fuel, the Sickness counseled, and its voice was like thunder now, and the books are our fuel, and this planet is our fuel, all things are fuel, they exist only so that they can be consumed by us.

Yes, yes—

They are meat for the beast.

Yes.

And the beast is you.

Yes.

This is literally how the virus thinks about everybody and everything and that's absolutely terrifying.

The Sith students get attacked, again. Interesting tidbit:

only Sith Masters can use Force lightning, how—

A bunch of zombies get electrocuted by Force lightning when a Sith Master shows up to "help". One of the students get injured, and turns into a zombie and gets electrocuted by the master.

The bounty hunter abandons Zo because she wants to go to the library because she thinks she hears the orchid calling her (we know it’s the now-evil Tree Librarian under Scabrous’s orders). So he goes exploring on his own instead.

The students must have used this place, he thought—some wit had left a handmade sign painted over the entranceway. It read:

WELCOME TO THE PAIN PIPE

Tulkh looked around. It appeared to be some kind of training simulation chamber, a wide, high space full of elaborately machined devices that protruded from the floor and walls, even down from the ceiling—pillars, pinions, retracted coils, and battering rams. But that quick impression was all that Tulkh was able to absorb before the hatch burst open behind him, allowing the flood of bodies to come spewing into the space with him.

Not without a sense of the absurd, thought:

Teenage Sith zombies, Tulkh thought—how in the moons of Bogden had it all started? Every so often, the universe must just get bored and decide to really cut loose.

UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE YEAR. Especially ironic since none of this would have happened if Tulkh hadn’t brought the orchid here, but I guess he’s not in a position to appreciate that.

Anyway, he finds Scabrous's droid:

“You’re an HK model.”

“Confirm: A Czerka Corp HK series, yes, sir, but—”

“You know what HK stands for?”

“Response: It’s an industry term, sir, but—”

“Hunter-killer.”

The droid made a scandalized chirp. “Correction: Respectfully, you’re mistaken, sir. I am a protocol droid. Proficient in millions of galactic languages and—”

“Czerka built you special to get around local laws banning assassin droids.” Tulkh was gritting his teeth now. “Those flip shields over your eyes—that’s a combat modification. When Scabrous brought you here, he put a restraining bolt on you, but if I do this—”

He yanked the bolt off. There was a brief, hissing sizzle as the HK’s processor muzzle shorted out. Tulkh felt his skin tighten, his fur standing on end. He cast a grim look at the droid. “Remember now?”

Wait, so the HK droid didn't realize it was an assassin, it thought it was a protocol droid? OH MY GOODNESS, THAT EXPLAINS SO MUCH, and I totally didn't catch that earlier. Okay, this is gonna be good, and by good, I mean, incredibly violent and probably full of explosions. 

The asshole student wants to kill the one female student because he's an asshole. They make her strip naked to prove she's not infected, because they're assholes--only for the master to reveal he's been infected the whole time. The asshole dies, Kindra survives, and shanks the one other survivor so the zombies will get him and not her. #PowerMove. Zo is going to be the Final Girl, but Kindra's made it surprisingly far. I bet the librarian is going to kill her, though, because of that conversation they had earlier.

Meanwhile, Zo is looking for the orchid:

Tulkh had refused to follow her here, leaving her to go alone. When she’d confronted him about it and said, Let me get this straight, you’ll walk into a Sith Lord’s tower, but you won’t go into a library, he’d merely nodded and planted his feet, telling her that he knew a trap when he saw one.

#accurate, since Darth Scabrous is waiting for her in the library. He's a medical monstrosity, because his face is still falling apart, but the Sith alchemy is keeping the Sickness at bay--for now. (Or is it?)

[araitsume]

The Desire of Ages, pp. 132-143: Chapter (14) “We Have Found the Messias”

This chapter is based on John 1:19-51.

John the Baptist was now preaching and baptizing at Bethabara, beyond Jordan. It was not far from this spot that God had stayed the river in its flow until Israel had passed over. A little distance from here the stronghold of Jericho had been overthrown by the armies of heaven. The memory of these events was at this time revived, and gave a thrilling interest to the Baptist's message. Would not He who had wrought so wonderfully in ages past again manifest His power for Israel's deliverance? Such was the thought stirring the hearts of the people who daily thronged the banks of the Jordan.

The preaching of John had taken so deep a hold on the nation as to demand the attention of the religious authorities. The danger of insurrection caused every popular gathering to be looked upon with suspicion by the Romans, and whatever pointed toward an uprising of the people excited the fears of the Jewish rulers. John had not recognized the authority of the Sanhedrin by seeking their sanction for his work; and he had reproved rulers and people, Pharisees and Sadducees alike. Yet the people followed him eagerly. The interest in his work seemed to be continually increasing. Though he had not deferred to them, the Sanhedrin accounted that, as a public teacher, he was under their jurisdiction.

This body was made up of members chosen from the priesthood, and from the chief rulers and teachers of the nation. The high priest was usually the president. All its members were to be men advanced in years, though not aged; men of learning, not only versed in Jewish religion and history, but in general knowledge. They were to be without physical blemish, and must be married men, and fathers, as being more likely than others to be humane and considerate. Their place of meeting was an apartment connected with the temple at Jerusalem. In the days of Jewish independence the Sanhedrin was the supreme court of the nation, possessing secular as well as ecclesiastical authority. Though now subordinated by the Roman governors, it still exercised a strong influence in civil as well as religious matters.

The Sanhedrin could not well defer an investigation of John's work. There were some who recalled the revelation made to Zacharias in the temple, and the father's prophecy, that had pointed to his child as the Messiah's herald. In the tumults and changes of thirty years, these things had in a great measure been lost sight of. They were now called to mind by the excitement concerning the ministry of John.

It was long since Israel had had a prophet, long since such a reformation as was now in progress had been witnessed. The demand for confession of sin seemed new and startling. Many among the leaders would not go to hear John's appeals and denunciations, lest they should be led to disclose the secrets of their own lives. Yet his preaching was a direct announcement of the Messiah. It was well known that the seventy weeks of Daniel's prophecy, covering the Messiah's advent, were nearly ended; and all were eager to share in that era of national glory which was then expected. Such was the popular enthusiasm that the Sanhedrin would soon be forced either to sanction or to reject John's work. Already their power over the people was waning. It was becoming a serious question how to maintain their position. In the hope of arriving at some conclusion, they dispatched to the Jordan a deputation of priests and Levites to confer with the new teacher.

A multitude were gathered, listening to his words, when the delegates approached. With an air of authority designed to impress the people and to command the deference of the prophet the haughty rabbis came. With a movement of respect, almost of fear, the crowd opened to let them pass. The great men, in their rich robes, in the pride of rank and power, stood before the prophet of the wilderness.

“Who art thou?” they demanded.

Knowing what was in their thoughts, John answered, “I am not the Christ.”

“What then? Art thou Elias?”

“I am not.”

“Art thou that prophet?”

“No.”

“Who art thou? that we may give an answer to them that sent us. What sayest thou of thyself?”

“I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, Make straight the way of the Lord, as said the prophet Esaias.”

The scripture to which John referred is that beautiful prophecy of Isaiah: “Comfort ye, comfort ye My people, saith your God. Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her, that her appointed time is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned.... The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain: and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.” Isaiah 40:1-5, margin.

Anciently, when a king journeyed through the less frequented parts of his dominion, a company of men was sent ahead of the royal chariot to level the steep places and to fill up the hollows, that the king might travel in safety and without hindrance. This custom is employed by the prophet to illustrate the work of the gospel. “Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low.” When the Spirit of God, with its marvelous awakening power, touches the soul, it abases human pride. Worldly pleasure and position and power are seen to be worthless. “Imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God” are cast down; every thought is brought into captivity “to the obedience of Christ.” 2 Corinthians 10:5. Then humility and self-sacrificing love, so little valued among men, are exalted as alone of worth. This is the work of the gospel, of which John's message was a part.

The rabbis continued their questioning: “Why baptizest thou then, if thou be not that Christ, nor Elias, neither that prophet?” The words “that prophet” had reference to Moses. The Jews had been inclined to the belief that Moses would be raised from the dead, and taken to heaven. They did not know that he had already been raised. When the Baptist began his ministry, many thought that he might be the prophet Moses risen from the dead, for he seemed to have a thorough knowledge of the prophecies and of the history of Israel.

It was believed also that before the Messiah's advent, Elijah would personally appear. This expectation John met in his denial; but his words had a deeper meaning. Jesus afterward said, referring to John, “If ye are willing to receive it, this is Elijah, which is to come.” Matthew 11:14, R. V. John came in the spirit and power of Elijah, to do such a work as Elijah did. If the Jews had received him, it would have been accomplished for them. But they did not receive his message. To them he was not Elijah. He could not fulfill for them the mission he came to accomplish.

Many of those gathered at the Jordan had been present at the baptism of Jesus; but the sign then given had been manifest to but few among them. During the preceding months of the Baptist's ministry, many had refused to heed the call to repentance. Thus they had hardened their hearts and darkened their understanding. When Heaven bore testimony to Jesus at His baptism, they perceived it not. Eyes that had never been turned in faith to Him that is invisible beheld not the revelation of the glory of God; ears that had never listened to His voice heard not the words of witness. So it is now. Often the presence of Christ and the ministering angels is manifest in the assemblies of the people, and yet there are many who know it not. They discern nothing unusual. But to some the Saviour's presence is revealed. Peace and joy animate their hearts. They are comforted, encouraged, and blessed.

The deputies from Jerusalem had demanded of John, “Why baptizest thou?” and they were awaiting his answer. Suddenly, as his glance swept over the throng, his eye kindled, his face was lighted up, his whole being was stirred with deep emotion. With outstretched hands he cried, “I baptize in water: in the midst of you standeth One whom ye know not, even He that cometh after me, the latchet of whose shoe I am not worthy to unloose.” John 1:26, 27, R. V., margin.

The message was distinct and unequivocal, to be carried back to the Sanhedrin. The words of John could apply to no other than the long-promised One. The Messiah was among them! In amazement priests and rulers gazed about them, hoping to discover Him of whom John had spoken. But He was not distinguishable among the throng.

When at the baptism of Jesus, John pointed to Him as the Lamb of God, a new light was shed upon the Messiah's work. The prophet's mind was directed to the words of Isaiah, “He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter.” Isaiah 53:7. During the weeks that followed, John with new interest studied the prophecies and the teaching of the sacrificial service. He did not distinguish clearly the two phases of Christ's work,—as a suffering sacrifice and a conquering king,—but he saw that His coming had a deeper significance than priests or people had discerned. When he beheld Jesus among the throng on His return from the desert, he confidently looked for Him to give the people some sign of His true character. Almost impatiently he waited to hear the Saviour declare His mission; but no word was spoken, no sign given. Jesus did not respond to the Baptist's announcement of Him, but mingled with the disciples of John, giving no outward evidence of His special work, and taking no measures to bring Himself to notice.

The next day John sees Jesus coming. With the light of the glory of God resting upon him, the prophet stretches out his hands, declaring, “Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world! This is He of whom I said, After me cometh a man which is become before me.... And I knew Him not; but that He should be made manifest to Israel, for this cause came I baptizing in water.... I have beheld the Spirit descending as a dove out of heaven; and it abode upon Him. And I knew Him not: but He that sent me to baptize in water, He said unto me, Upon whomsoever thou shalt see the Spirit descending, and abiding upon Him, the same is He that baptizeth with the Holy Spirit. And I have seen, and have borne witness that this is the Son of God.” John 1:29-34, R. V., margin.

Was this the Christ? With awe and wonder the people looked upon the One just declared to be the Son of God. They had been deeply moved by the words of John. He had spoken to them in the name of God. They had listened to him day after day as he reproved their sins, and daily the conviction that he was sent of Heaven had strengthened. But who was this One greater than John the Baptist? In His dress and bearing there was nothing that betokened rank. He was apparently a simple personage, clad like themselves in the humble garments of the poor.

There were in the throng some who at Christ's baptism had beheld the divine glory, and had heard the voice of God. But since that time the Saviour's appearance had greatly changed. At His baptism they had seen His countenance transfigured in the light of heaven; now, pale, worn, and emaciated, He had been recognized only by the prophet John.

But as the people looked upon Him, they saw a face where divine compassion was blended with conscious power. Every glance of the eye, every feature of the countenance, was marked with humility, and expressive of unutterable love. He seemed to be surrounded by an atmosphere of spiritual influence. While His manners were gentle and unassuming, He impressed men with a sense of power that was hidden, yet could not be wholly concealed. Was this the One for whom Israel had so long waited?

Jesus came in poverty and humiliation, that He might be our example as well as our Redeemer. If He had appeared with kingly pomp, how could He have taught humility? how could He have presented such cutting truths as in the Sermon on the Mount? Where would have been the hope of the lowly in life had Jesus come to dwell as a king among men?

To the multitude, however, it seemed impossible that the One designated by John should be associated with their lofty anticipations. Thus many were disappointed, and greatly perplexed.

The words which the priests and rabbis so much desired to hear, that Jesus would now restore the kingdom to Israel, had not been spoken. For such a king they had been waiting and watching; such a king they were ready to receive. But one who sought to establish in their hearts a kingdom of righteousness and peace, they would not accept.

On the following day, while two disciples were standing near, John again saw Jesus among the people. Again the face of the prophet was lighted up with glory from the Unseen, as he cried, “Behold the Lamb of God!” The words thrilled the hearts of the disciples. They did not fully understand them. What meant the name that John had given Him,—“the Lamb of God”? John himself had not explained it.

Leaving John, they went to seek Jesus. One of the two was Andrew, the brother of Simon; the other was John the evangelist. These were Christ's first disciples. Moved by an irresistible impulse, they followed Jesus,—anxious to speak with Him, yet awed and silent, lost in the overwhelming significance of the thought, “Is this the Messiah?”

Jesus knew that the disciples were following Him. They were the first fruits of His ministry, and there was joy in the heart of the divine Teacher as these souls responded to His grace. Yet turning, He asked only, “What seek ye?” He would leave them free to turn back or to speak of their desire.

Of one purpose only were they conscious. One presence filled their thought. They exclaimed, “Rabbi, ... where dwellest Thou?” In a brief interview by the wayside they could not receive that for which they longed. They desired to be alone with Jesus, to sit at His feet, and hear His words.

“He saith unto them, Come and see. They came and saw where He dwelt, and abode with Him that day.”

If John and Andrew had possessed the unbelieving spirit of the priests and rulers, they would not have been found as learners at the feet of Jesus. They would have come to Him as critics, to judge His words. Many thus close the door to the most precious opportunities. But not so did these first disciples. They had responded to the Holy Spirit's call in the preaching of John the Baptist. Now they recognized the voice of the heavenly Teacher. To them the words of Jesus were full of freshness and truth and beauty. A divine illumination was shed upon the teaching of the Old Testament Scriptures. The many-sided themes of truth stood out in new light.

It is contrition and faith and love that enable the soul to receive wisdom from heaven. Faith working by love is the key of knowledge, and everyone that loveth “knoweth God.” 1 John 4:7.

The disciple John was a man of earnest and deep affection, ardent, yet contemplative. He had begun to discern the glory of Christ,—not the worldly pomp and power for which he had been taught to hope, but “the glory as of the Only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.” John 1:14. He was absorbed in contemplation of the wondrous theme.

Andrew sought to impart the joy that filled his heart. Going in search of his brother Simon, he cried, “We have found the Messias.” Simon waited for no second bidding. He also had heard the preaching of John the Baptist, and he hastened to the Saviour. The eye of Christ rested upon him, reading his character and his life history. His impulsive nature, his loving, sympathetic heart, his ambition and self-confidence, the history of his fall, his repentance, his labors, and his martyr death,—the Saviour read it all, and He said, “Thou art Simon the son of Jona: thou shalt be called Cephas, which is by interpretation, A stone.”

“The day following Jesus would go forth into Galilee, and findeth Philip, and saith unto him, Follow Me.” Philip obeyed the command, and straightway he also became a worker for Christ.

Philip called Nathanael. The latter had been among the throng when the Baptist pointed to Jesus as the Lamb of God. As Nathanael looked upon Jesus, he was disappointed. Could this man, who bore the marks of toil and poverty, be the Messiah? Yet Nathanael could not decide to reject Jesus, for the message of John had brought conviction to his heart.

At the time when Philip called him, Nathanael had withdrawn to a quiet grove to meditate upon the announcement of John and the prophecies concerning the Messiah. He prayed that if the one announced by John was the deliverer, it might be made known to him, and the Holy Spirit rested upon him with assurance that God had visited His people and raised up a horn of salvation for them. Philip knew that his friend was searching the prophecies, and while Nathanael was praying under a fig tree, Philip discovered his retreat. They had often prayed together in this secluded spot hidden by the foliage.

The message, “We have found Him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did write,” seemed to Nathanael a direct answer to his prayer. But Philip had yet a trembling faith. He added doubtfully, “Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph.” Again prejudice arose in Nathanael's heart. He exclaimed, “Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?”

Philip entered into no controversy. He said, “Come and see. Jesus saw Nathanael coming to Him, and saith of him, Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile!” In surprise Nathanael exclaimed, “Whence knowest Thou me? Jesus answered and said unto him, Before that Philip called thee, when thou wast under the fig tree, I saw thee.”

It was enough. The divine Spirit that had borne witness to Nathanael in his solitary prayer under the fig tree now spoke to him in the words of Jesus. Though in doubt, and yielding somewhat to prejudice, Nathanael had come to Christ with an honest desire for truth, and now his desire was met. His faith went beyond that of the one who had brought him to Jesus. He answered and said, “Rabbi, Thou art the Son of God; Thou art the King of Israel.”

If Nathanael had trusted to the rabbis for guidance, he would never have found Jesus. It was by seeing and judging for himself that he became a disciple. So in the case of many today whom prejudice withholds from good. How different would be the result if they would “come and see”!

While they trust to the guidance of human authority, none will come to a saving knowledge of the truth. Like Nathanael, we need to study God's word for ourselves, and pray for the enlightenment of the Holy Spirit. He who saw Nathanael under the fig tree will see us in the secret place of prayer. Angels from the world of light are near to those who in humility seek for divine guidance.

With the calling of John and Andrew and Simon, of Philip and Nathanael, began the foundation of the Christian church. John directed two of his disciples to Christ. Then one of these, Andrew, found his brother, and called him to the Saviour. Philip was then called, and he went in search of Nathanael. These examples should teach us the importance of personal effort, of making direct appeals to our kindred, friends, and neighbors. There are those who for a lifetime have professed to be acquainted with Christ, yet who have never made a personal effort to bring even one soul to the Saviour. They leave all the work for the minister. He may be well qualified for his calling, but he cannot do that which God has left for the members of the church.

There are many who need the ministration of loving Christian hearts. Many have gone down to ruin who might have been saved if their neighbors, common men and women, had put forth personal effort for them. Many are waiting to be personally addressed. In the very family, the neighborhood, the town, where we live, there is work for us to do as missionaries for Christ. If we are Christians, this work will be our delight. No sooner is one converted than there is born within him a desire to make known to others what a precious friend he has found in Jesus. The saving and sanctifying truth cannot be shut up in his heart.

All who are consecrated to God will be channels of light. God makes them His agents to communicate to others the riches of His grace. His promise is, “I will make them and the places round about My hill a blessing; and I will cause the shower to come down in his season; there shall be showers of blessing.” Ezekiel 34:26.

Philip said to Nathanael, “Come and see.” He did not ask him to accept another's testimony, but to behold Christ for himself. Now that Jesus has ascended to heaven, His disciples are His representatives among men, and one of the most effective ways of winning souls to Him is in exemplifying His character in our daily life. Our influence upon others depends not so much upon what we say as upon what we are. Men may combat and defy our logic, they may resist our appeals; but a life of disinterested love is an argument they cannot gainsay. A consistent life, characterized by the meekness of Christ, is a power in the world.

The teaching of Christ was the expression of an inwrought conviction and experience, and those who learn of Him become teachers after the divine order. The word of God, spoken by one who is himself sanctified through it, has a life-giving power that makes it attractive to the hearers, and convicts them that it is a living reality. When one has received the truth in the love of it, he will make this manifest in the persuasion of his manner and the tones of his voice. He makes known that which he himself has heard, seen, and handled of the word of life, that others may have fellowship with him through the knowledge of Christ. His testimony, from lips touched with a live coal from off the altar, is truth to the receptive heart, and works sanctification upon the character.

And he who seeks to give light to others will himself be blessed. “There shall be showers of blessing.” “He that watereth shall be watered also himself.” Proverbs 11:25. God could have reached His object in saving sinners without our aid; but in order for us to develop a character like Christ's, we must share in His work. In order to enter into His joy,—the joy of seeing souls redeemed by His sacrifice,—we must participate in His labors for their redemption.

Nathanael's first expression of his faith, so full and earnest and sincere, fell like music on the ears of Jesus. And He “answered and said unto him, Because I said unto thee, I saw thee under the fig tree, believest thou? thou shalt see greater things than these.” The Saviour looked forward with joy to His work in preaching good tidings to the meek, binding up the brokenhearted, and proclaiming liberty to the captives of Satan. At thought of the precious blessings He had brought to men, Jesus added, “Verily, verily, I say unto you, Hereafter ye shall see heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of man.”

Here Christ virtually says, On the bank of the Jordan the heavens were opened, and the Spirit descended like a dove upon Me. That scene was but a token that I am the Son of God. If you believe on Me as such, your faith shall be quickened. You shall see that the heavens are opened, and are never to be closed. I have opened them to you. The angels of God are ascending, bearing the prayers of the needy and distressed to the Father above, and descending, bringing blessing and hope, courage, help, and life, to the children of men.

The angels of God are ever passing from earth to heaven, and from heaven to earth. The miracles of Christ for the afflicted and suffering were wrought by the power of God through the ministration of the angels. And it is through Christ, by the ministration of His heavenly messengers, that every blessing comes from God to us. In taking upon Himself humanity, our Saviour unites His interests with those of the fallen sons and daughters of Adam, while through His divinity He grasps the throne of God. And thus Christ is the medium of communication of men with God, and of God with men.

[vateacancameos]

Books Meme Fun

I was tagged by @odamakilock. You’re so lovely for including me. I could talk about books all. Day. Long. Even though I mostly read fanfic right now. ;)

1. Which book has been on your shelves the longest? 

My boxed set of The Dark Is Rising series by Susan Cooper. I adored that series as a kid. I used to read them on a yearly basis. They were my Harry Potter (I also adore HP, but came to the game late [college]). High-five to Oda for being close to the end of the series! I’m glad you’re liking them. :D

2. What is your current read, your last read and the book you’ll read next?

Oh yikes. Like I said, I’m not actively reading a lot of actual books these days, so I don’t have any current reads. Last book was Roald Dah’s Matilda, which I’d never got around to reading as a kid for some reason. I guess they didn’t have it my small town library. :( I was surprised at how close the movie was to the book. A great read for any child or adult, in any case! I was thinking I’d read the second book in the Binti trilogy next, but then I remembered the next Legend of Korra comic (Turf Wars Pt 2) comes out in a couple of weeks, so that’ll definitely be next up on my list. If anyone likes the Avatar cartoons and is interested in LGBT representation in comics, read Turf Wars. The Korrasami relationship is great to see fleshed out.

3. Which book does everyone like and you hated? 

Hah! Most classics? Too much… white maleness. Hard pass. As for modern popular reads, American Gods by Neil Gaiman (loved lots of other Gaiman books though), Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson, and the whole Song of Ice and Fire series.

4. Which book do you keep telling yourself you’ll read, but you probably won’t? 

Hmmm. A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller Jr. has been on my TBR for at least a decade, but it’s huge so I’ll probably not read it.

The rest under the cut, because this gets looong.

5. Which book are you saving for “retirement?” 

Nothing I ever thought about doing. Maybe A Canticle for Leibowitz!

6. Last page: read it first or wait till the end? 

As a kid I always read the last page first, but now I don’t. Mostly because books are more complex now and the ending makes zero sense without meeting all of the characters first.

7. Acknowledgements: waste of ink and paper or interesting aside?

Sometimes interesting, but mostly ignore them. I don’t mind them, though. People should be acknowledged for the help and support they gave the author.

8. Which book character would you switch places with?

Wow. Um. I have no clue! It’d be a background character, definitely. I want to be the one watching the ridiculousness, not the one it’s actually happening to. Oh! Maybe one of the Koudelka sisters in A Civil Campaign (Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vorkosigan saga). Kareen’s life wasn’t completely chaotic, but still interesting. Plus, she got to go study on Beta Colony. Or some unnamed background character in the Wick+Div comics.

9. Do you have a book that reminds you of something specific in your life (a person, a place, a time)? 

All of them? I almost always associate books and music with specific times of my life. The Dark is Rising series, The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle, and The Witch of Blackbird Pond when I was going through my adventure and history stage. The Time Quintet (A Wrinkle in Time, etc) was given to me by my cousin, and I fell in love with fantasy thanks to her. ACD’s Sherlock Holmes stories were my first “grown-up” books.

10. Name a book you acquired in some interesting way. 

I’m boring. 90% of the books I’ve read have been from the library. The others I buy…

11. Have you ever given away a book for a special reason to a special person?

I love gifting books, because everyone should have at least one book in their life that they love unreservedly, and I want to help them find it. Last one was Slaughterhouse Five to my father-in-law, but that was just because he was bored and need of something to read. We got to talk about it, though, so that was nice, seeing as we don’t have much in common.

12. Which book has been with you to the most places?

Hahaha, everything on my reading apps? As for actual physical books, maybe Hogfather (Terry Pratchett). It’s a largish book and I’ve read it a few times, so it hangs out in my purse fairly often.

13. Any “required reading” you hated in high school that wasn’t so bad ten years later?

Yes! This happened to me several times. The Scarlett Letter and The Great Gatsby come to mind. I hated most of what we read in my HS American Lit class, but my college-level Love in American Lit class was amazeballs and made me re-examine lots of books.

14. What is the strangest item you’ve ever found in a book?

I know there’s been a few things, but I can’t remember any of them. Some weird notes written in the margins maybe.

15. Used or brand new?

Yes please.

16. Stephen King: Literary genius or opiate of the masses? 

People like him, so you really can’t discount that. I think he did a lot to help keep the horror/fantasy genres from disappearing, so that’s a definite plus. He has an interesting mind, but not genius level at all. I personally have hated every book of his I’ve tried, apart from Salem’s Lot.

17. Have you ever seen a movie you liked better than the book? 

Lord of the Rings. Sorry, y’all. I hated the books. It was the first time I’d ever taken more than a week to read a book (end of high school era). I hate JRRT’s writing style with a fiery passion, but the world building was lovely, so I liked seeing a condensed version (haha) on screen.

18. Conversely, which book should NEVER have been introduced to celluloid?

Oh dear. Ummm. The Dark is Rising movie was horrendous, but it is by no means a loner in that respect.

19. Have you ever read a book that’s made you hungry, cookbooks being excluded from this question?

YES. Sunshine by Robin McKinley. The main character is known for her cinnamon rolls. I craved them for weeks after I read that book.

20. Who is the person whose book advice you’ll always take?

Hmmm. Not really. I don’t have too many friends who like books, and most who do have very different preferences than I do.

I tag @221booksinthetardis and @61below, if you’re interested. ;) And anyone who sees this and wants to do it. Please tag me and let me know what you read! Seriously, I want to know all about y’all’s reading habits.

[shipburner]

The Final Testament of Dr. Mortimer Beale

I was really glad that luck worked out that I would leave for the North on my birthday; it didn’t feel right for this event to be without mythic significance. Part of me wants to wax lyrical about it being a rebirthday – my first birthday since I came out as trans, the day I picked a name, the day I kill off the last male self-insert OC I ever really made, lots of straws out there for the grasping – but to be honest, Fallen London wasn’t really part of Genderquest 2k17: Battle for Gendikar. The community I’ve found through FL has been endlessly supportive of that quest, but Dr. Beale wasn’t related to that.

Dr. Beale was just a man who wanted to explore the secrets of the Neath, and got suckered into Seeking because it was the biggest secret of them all. The fandom commitment to not revealing what lies beyond the High Gate truly makes me proud, and I feel honored to join the ranks of those who have gone North. This, I think, is why I’m trapping Dr. Beale in the North forever – the secrets. Fallen London is a universe full of endlessly inventive mythology, full of surprises and secrets around every corner. The initial weirdness of daily life in a subterranean realm was what drew me into the Neath, but the secrets were what kept me there, and why I persisted with Dr. Beale’s quest. I have seen what is beyond the High Gate, and it is – well. It is beautiful. I can tell you that much. Beyond that? Let there be some mysteries yet in the world.

So, without further ado, I present the final testament of Dr. Mortimer Beale, presenting not only some of the information about him I never really got to display in the game, but also his thoughts on Seeking the Name.

Today, the 5th of August, 1895, I, Dr. Mortimer Beale, do set out my final testament, to be borne back to London in the handicles of my beloved Ooth-Nargai. It did not always understand me, towards the end, but its love for me was always constant, and mine for it. What we shared was real, but all too brief. It has informed me, on our voyage, that I am to have something like a child, as such things are reckoned among the Axiles. It has chosen the name Celephaïs for the child, but it will append “Beale” to it, out of devotion, out of memory. Its habitual reticence was, I think, a blessing this time. It hurts. Lord in Heaven, does it hurt. But had I known ere now, I might have dithered. I might have tried to fool myself that I could have stopped, turned back – but it was always too late. And what kind of a father would I be to them? What child could grow up happy with a father who saved his life and then threw it away a second time? Oh, I would be present temporally, yes, but not in spirit. Half my flesh, half my mind, half my immortal soul (if such a thing is real) is gone … I have been ink’d and wick’d, made a candle of myself entire. I wear my own severed head as a hat. Better a dead man for a father than a monstrosity. Ooth-Nargai will remember me well to little Celephaïs, and read my books to them, and more than that, I do not ask, in truth. So, let the news be the spark of hope I bring with me to the King of Ways, the spark I bring with me beyond the Avid Horizon, rather than cause for suffering.

As I write this, in the warm captain’s cabin of my magnificent pleasure-yacht, I look out over the cold black zee – North, past the Pale Wastes, past Whither. I might have come here earlier, with the Dilmun Club; now, I come mad with strange hunger. My crew (if they were ever really here) wish to turn back now ­– they are the sensible ones. The lights of London are a distant memory. It is strange, to know what one will never see again. It is strange, to still be surrounded by so much comfort as one goes to meet one’s doom. It is quiet. Lacre falls softly around me. Christmastide in August. Serene. Ooth-Nargai dozes by my side. We enjoyed a pleasant supper – our last together. Fresh fish and fresh bread and fresh greens and fresh water, and, now, hot cocoa, as we nestle beneath the blankets. This may be the last time I am ever comfortable, with food and fire and family, typewriter on my lap. I relish it. I have given up much, but this I will not. Not for a few more hours, while life remains to me.

Let me speak of that life I now end.

I was born – on this very day, in fact – in the year 1866 in Liverpool, back on the Surface, where the sun still shines. My father, Ramon Quejana y Panindagat, was a sailor from the Spanish East Indies, who brought his bride Margarita Karunungan y Enriquez to England and settled there to raise a family. I was christened Manolo Maria, a name I have not used in the Neath, which deception has caused me a curious amount of guilt – but there are no deceptions in the North, so let my Christian name be known. Ramon managed before both my parents’ unfortunate death in 1888 to produce an inheritance large enough for me to drink away but too small for me to actually use, which is precisely what I did. I spent a dissolute six years thereafter, and arrived, at the age of twenty-eight, to the point of having no future foreseeable, no past worth thinking about, and the brink before me. It was at this point that I had a thought:

“Wasn’t there … that thing. The … the thingy. With … the bats. And … the city. The … the London. I’m … why the … why the b____r not. Can’t be worse’n this. Who … who needs the sun, anyways. Y-yeah. Never did nothin’ fer me, th’ b_____d. I’ll … I’ll ----ing do it. ---- the sun.”

I used the last of my meagre savings to buy a ticket on the Travertine Spiral, and my drunken stupour bore me into a fight, which bore me directly into the arms of the constabulary. I was no stranger to the gaol-house, but here in the Neath, made for some odd reason to wear a mask, in a prison hanging from the roof, filled with far more hardened criminals than I, stern-faced guards who ate candles when they thought no-one was looking, and a disturbing subclass of people who shoveled horrible things into their mouths, carved burning sigils into the walls, and yelled about “The Number” and “The Name”, I gathered all of my courage and upon the spot vowed never to touch the bottle again. My vow was tested, but never broken; water is of a more salubrious aspect down here, and my inclination to share my small beer allotment with the other prisoners won me a few friends.

I intended to serve my time peaceably, but as it soon transpired that my one month’s hard labor for drunk and disorderly had been confused with my neighbor’s twenty years incarcerated, I decided that one more small crime could not hurt. I purloined a chisel from the works and loosened a bar at my window, and leaped out onto a passing dirigible.

I landed on my feet in Ladybones Road, pawned the jewel I had kept secret for emergencies, and charmed a soft-hearted widow into giving me an attic room. I was asked to provide a name and invented the name “Dr. Mortimer Beale” on the spot, for no reason other than that it sounded marginally respectable and that it was not a name at all similar to Prisoner Manolo Quejana y Karunungan. A sordid rag was willing to take me on as an enquirer, and I set to exploring the mysteries of the Neath, of both moral and natural philosophy.

To chronicle my deeds in their entirety would be tedious. I was a person of some importance; nay, an extraordinary mind! The name Dr. Mortimer Beale was immortal in Horizon Glyphs, written into hearts and minds, feared, and steeped in shadow. I was a singular character; my philosophy, my artistry, my skill at arms, my underworld faction were all my own. I was touched by fingerwork (clay and mirrors and laughing serpents), walked the fallen cities (Erech, Amarna, Hopelchén, and Karakorum), approached the gates of the Garden (of Eden? Of Stone, the Mountain of Light? Are they the same?), and saw through the eyes of Icarus (Icarus returning/longs for the deep places). I dreamt, in honey and in sleep, of the burial of the dead, of a game of chess, of the fire sermon, of death by water, of what the thunder said, of someone there (perhaps), and other things besides – beautiful vistas represented fumblingly in my writing.

Long have I loved lists, and I allow that this “testament” is mostly composed thereof, but I cannot help but list the things that affected me, that stood out to me – the beauty and wonder of my Neathly home, even though I dwelt here little beyond a year. I still remember first coming to the Echo Bazaar, to Merrigans Exchange, and marvelling at something so simple as a shard of glim or a nodule of deep amber.

I was ambitious, once: I sought out my heart’s desire, toiling tirelessly to play the Marvellous, a card game in which I could wager it all – learning the intrigues of the Church and of Hell, of two star-crossed lovers older than I had ever imagined, and, most poignantly, of one Tristram Bagley, a mad musician who tried to write with the Correspondence, the language of stars. I have talked with a priest who trades in faces and a prince of devils hanging in a bottle. I bought a hotel suite from Gilgamesh and saw the face of Enkidu in the street every day. I can state in truth that I performed Bagley’s opera, the Bell and the Candle, for Her Enduring Majesty herself, and it was extremely glorious and surpassingly erotic. (I miss when I could muster such bombast.) A Master of the Bazaar itself gave me a hat.

I have – no, I had – friends in every corner of Fallen London. The criminal underworld, the Rubbery Men, and libertine men and scarlet women were dearest to my heart, but most knew and loved me – and two people loved me on Her Enduring Majesty’s throne itself! I was a Young Stag, and, I think, I helped some wastrels put their wealth to positive good – and a member of the Dilmun Club as well, and sought for immortality as far as I could. I progressed from journalism, to authorship, to the study of the Correspondence – the hot breath of stars, that is their language. I toyed with the Red Science – it has faded from my flesh, but it allowed me to meet my beloved Ooth-Nargai, for which I am eternally grateful. I pursued cruel and unusual zoology with a Bishop and a Wings-of-Thunder Bat; I discovered the Cave of the Nadir with a Firebrand and a Missionary, where all the laws are broken. I followed a spymistress’ cruel missions, and found her repentance; I governed Port Carnelian for two terms. My salon, Dr. Beale’s House of Arguing, was a haven of learned and respectful discourse, as was my newspaper, the House of Arguing Weekly Newsletter. I started my own Department of the Correspondence at the University, and embarked on expeditions of scientific discovery.

Yet one discovery escaped me, that I had heard about throughout my entire tenure in the Neath – Mr. Eaten’s Name. I had heard of it, but did not know what it signified. (I know now – a Master of the Bazaar was betrayed for tarrying with Amarna, taken to its end by its former ally. It was stabbed, and eaten, and drowned, and given to the lacre. It fades, faster each year, but it still is not forgotten. Not yet. A reckoning will not be postponed indefinitely.)

And thus, I started on the Seeking Road. I heard a voice, echoing from the well each night. In the still hours before dawn, in the wicker of a candle-flame, there is a voice. I did what it says. I do not regret it.

I flirted with disaster, slipping into horror, and learnt of the alphabet of scars. Beneath a strange sign I set out on the road, and as I slurped down the secrets, drowning in wine, boiling with hunger and breathing darkness, I approached the brink. I learned the Number at Christmastide – on the ninth day, Mr. Sacks stopped at my window, clad in salt and fox-fur; I took a memory of lost Axile, but heard an echo in so doing, and with it a trace of sadness, like the frost which silvers the night. The light on the edge of sleep was his. He was Mr. Candles. He will not be again. And, in a dream of dark waters, acquired the first of my weeping scars, off to go dancing with damnation. Candle-eyed, I watched the road unfold before me; knife-hearted, I steeled myself for what needed doing; edge-pledged, the road narrowed for me; corpse-given, I set my path for grief; marsh-mired, I trembled as the first step began to open; north-looking, I learnt of the body and the Number. Charred and mourned I became, drinking the thick corn beer of the Third City, stabbing out my life with knives of black glass, twice scoring the flesh and twice stabbing straight to the heart, and once drowning myself in the obsidian-lined well. And thus I learnt of the mind and the Number, and seven times I prepared betrayals, New Newgate becoming a comforting embrace.

The path to this place was not hard – I used the hollowness of cats to carve out a hollow in my belly to be filled. (Cats are friendly; I leave cats and catkind behind. That is another loss.) The ace of hungers was but raw meat and roast chestnuts drove the engine. I used the couriers’ notes, two of bats, to lessen the menace, folding ever in two. Then I moved to the worse – three of roses – the scrawl of the Correspondence in the bloody-ivy, tearing and eating, the thorns biting my mouth, a tango like that of the Musical Mathematician. I studiously avoided the four of eyes, still valuing myself too highly to be thought of as a monster. The five of lights filled me with wax and fire, but tallow is fat, and I thought the shock and pain worth it.

O but what of that place – the sky, the sky, the deepless blooming black – I began to stain my immortal soul. I had regained it from the devils, and now – I was confirmed a Catholic, back on the surface, and it hurt, the pain not physical, not mental, but spiritual. I was told the soul was immortal. (In the Neath, I learnt that may not have been the case.) In my dissolution, I had not attended a Mass or confessed my sins in so long a time. But still, it hurt. One seeks the Lord in hardship, does one not? (I attended services at a chapel in the North, yes, but I also attended a good and Godly mass, ere I departed, in the hopes that it would lave whatever I had left of my soul before I departed. Let this narrative be my confession. I hope it works. I doubt it will.) With brilliant souls I lured the cat. It stalked through my dreams – I turned to the bottle, sipped laudanum, breaking my solemn vow. Only the poppy juice would give my dreams the necessary dullness. More and more did I require it. Once with the cat alone, six times with a spirifer friend.

Now things began to hurt. The six of pearls – my great-grandfather was a dentist – I ate the teeth of others, crunching like corn, and I ate my own teeth, to gnaw ceaselessly. The seven of words that I answered, and made of myself of a pie – the Curve and the Lost Light – no more – flense-gifted I was, and the scales fell from my eyes. Seven was the number, seven false saints, seven scars of wax. I found five poor souls to listen to me, and two sleek black cats who’d seen the bloody-ivy in the Palace. The stench of betrayal filled my nostrils. Secrets burned. I lit a candle for the scar and the smirch, The Smirch; I tore the bombazine for the hook and the bait, The Hook; I took a ring for the scent and the turn, The Impetus; I took permission for the stone and the eyes, The Compass of Souls; I smashed a lens for the ink and the ink, The Ember; I whispered to the night for the web, o the web, The Webs; I made a bonfire of souls for the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, the price, The Sun and the Saint. I had the wax, and the wick, and the flint, and the tinder, and the season.

And I had St. Arthur’s candle, the first of seven. Knife-known I was, and the knave of regrets, calling “Restitution!” for the Drowned Man. Crossroads-bound I became, and pearls beyond price were the price, and my sanity, and memories of light. Among masques and mysteries and midnights, I gave up my fate, engaged in crypticisms, and was asked why. I said I must. I realize, now, that that was a lie. I told it to myself, hiding from the truth – that I chose to do this. I do not know now why I did not revel in this truth: that it was always an option, as was all my love of secrets. This was something I chose to do, for love. “In matters of the Bazaar,” they say, “look to love.” It is not love of Mr. Eaten, or not entirely – it is love for the Seeking Road. Love for secrets, love for the stories of betrayal and revenge, love with the concept of my own self-destruction in pursuit of secrets. It is odd, this new awareness: I doubt I would have pursued it were it less horrible.

It was worth it. St. Beau’s candle, the crossroads-candle, I now owned, and crossroads-cursed, I sought for restitution further, that I could grieve. With the knight of feasts, I set a place for Mr. Eaten, red as wounds, red as riots … and my hunger was settled, or went deeper. I sought a well, in the Forgotten Quarter, and gave up a work of genius, telling my stories to the well. St. Cerise’s candle I had, and I was as proud of myself as hoped. At the brink of the lower mysteries, I researched my incunabula, and, initiate, with Gods’ Editors, sought out the lower archives of the College of St. Cyriac.

From the book of Matthew (if that was even his name) slightly revised, chapter 25, verse 42 – “For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, for I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink.” It was Mr. Eaten’s Calling Card, and the Isle awaited. I grew hungrier, hungrier, until the grief came upon me, until at long last I could light a candle in his memory, to ask ­what is forgotten?

And then I paused. I took a breath. I learnt that I could not take much with me, and so I devoted myself not to wasting the chiefest of my treasures, but to ensconce myself in the heights of the Bazaar itself, ensuring housing, if not for myself, then for those I left behind. Once again I had to inveigle myself into the tales of the Bazaar, to grow more Notable in its eyes, that I might blaze bright enough in defiance. And in that time new stories broke upon the shore – subtle shifts in the airs of London, promising greater change. I enjoyed the company of friends. Another Election was held, and I campaigned for an Implacable Detective. She lost to a boor called Antonio Feducci, whose libertarian ways mock the mechanisms of state, and who I am glad to leave behind. That ate my time. But I was still resolved, and, finally, when I had accomplished what was needful, I sold most of my worldly goods, and slept with the calling card crumpled in my fist, and took to the oars.

On Winking Isle, I prepared. I set aside jewels and riches, gave up my intrigues, rejected wine and song. No map knew the place I went; I had no more sweet memories, no more bitter. I knew nothing of Stone’s light. My chiefest treasures were gone. I told the wind my stories, forgot Axile, unpicked the warp, unpicked the weft, let the messages fall by the road’s edge. No more secrets. I saw the Sun beneath the Sea?. I paced the well. Isle-walker, tower-watcher, light-eater, well-weeper, libation-giver, shatter-fated, star-seared, I became.

I left the Isle – if I was ever really there – and rested briefly in London, until a little man knocked on my door, and I ate my exceptional entry, entire. It was a freedom to no longer strive to burn. I gained no candle – I gained St. Destin’s Candle, which does not yet exist. I asked a new question – Who is Salt? – and bent again to the oars. I walked the Isle again, knowing its two dozen paces intimately. I was red as sunsets, as desire, as betrayal, as the waters, as remembrance, as roses, as science – and then became black, black as paper, as ink, as time, as knives.

I groaned, and stretched, and left the Isle again – if I was ever really there – and sought her out, in the place where hearts go. I made a decision, after long deliberation, with a woman sloughed-off like a snakeskin – I wiped free my skin-bound memories, and profession, and acclaim, and destiny, and ability to have any of those things again. Perhaps I lie still in the Cave of the Nadir, flesh falling from my bones and bones growing over my eyes, and walk the Neath in a dream, writing this for no-one as I moulder in a sad fantasy. If that is true, what must Ooth-Nargai think? Does it wait for the return of a husband? Of a fellow-parent? Of a sad man who forgot his name and life to find out those of another? – but no, I cannot dwell on this. I will merely state that while I gave up power and wealth and fame and future light as air, I let fate bend itself around me ere I give up friends or home. I do not miss what I gave up to gain St. Erzulie’s Candle, where I became black as stars.

Again, the Isle. Welcome, welcome was I ere I left, and climbed into a yacht instead of a rowboat to sail over a real sea. I (we, we must I say, for a lady comes with me) went north, to where light and colour leached from the Zee, and I attended services at the Chapel of Lights. I learnt of the descents and ascents and betrayals, and gained St. Forthigan’s Candle. Then so long did I pace the well, cleansed, cleansed was I, and then I left the Isle behind for good. I forged secrets as in earlier days to find the rarest books to trade for the lady’s Hollow Heart, and I steamed South. I rowed, I rowed, I rowed (or did we?). I met with Nicator in that hollow stair, refused soup, asked my question, and woke. I attended in service of St. Gawain. And there, in the Chapel of Lights, was I damned. I offered myself – removed my head – made of myself a candle, entire. I gathered strange supplies for one last journey – prepared – embarked.

You may be horrified, dear reader, of what this journey has contained. I know I am. You may wish – I know I do – that my story had been a longer and a better one. There are so many stories I left unfinished, friendships I failed to forge, things I could have yet done.

But my story led me here, to this frozen gate. I will not turn back now. I will knock, and ask my question – and who knows, what then.

Yet lest you think I have acted entirely selfishly – which would be a fair assessment – lest you think that all my study of natural philosophy, no matter how outlandish, neither produced nor will produce any good – which would, so far, seem to be the case – lest you think that I chased dreams until I was devoured by a nightmare – which would be wholly true – I offer this last, feeble act.

I closed Dr. Beale’s House of Arguing, my salon.

In its place I have erected an orphanage, the Quejana Home for Parentally Deficient Youths. I entrust Ooth-Nargai with its management; I have every confidence that it will be a loving home. Even if my scholarship is wrong, or unremembered, or of no use, I will at least have given children a home.

That’s enough, right?

There were times when I wanted to rule. There were times when I wanted to better the lot of all thinking creatures. There were times when I wanted simply to teach.

We do not always get what we want.

We can still try, right?

There are so many ways I could end this. I will not cheapen it by trying to add a justification, nor an exhortation to keep one’s chin up. I will only offer a jumble of misremembered sentiments, and let you choose the one you think most fitting.

That’s fair, right?

Cry no more, shapeling, cry no more / Men were deceivers ever / One foot on sea, one foot on shore / To good things constant never. /

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.

A reckoning shall not be postponed indefinitely.

What is Mr. Eaten’s name? That’s the best ----ing question, anybody ever asked.

Kiss your dad, square on the lips.

Good night, Fallen London, good night.

Ooth-Nargai. Celephaïs. I love you.

     – Manolo Maria Quejana y Karunungan, the erstwhile Dr. Mortimer Beale

[cover2covermom]

*Books included in this batch of mini book reviews: My Lady Jane (The Lady Janies #1) by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, & Jodi Meadows, Rodham by Curtis Sittenfeld, Me and White Supremacy: Combat Racism, Change the World, and Become a Good Ancestorby Layla F. Saad, & Born a Crime by Trevor Noah

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» My Lady Jane (The Lady Janies #1) by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, & Jodi Meadows

» My Lady Jane is a historical retelling of Lady Jane Grey‘s life with a fantastical flare.  I loved this reimagining of Lady Jane Grey’s life, especially since her real life didn’t end happily ever after…

» All the characters, including secondary characters, were dynamic and well fleshed out.  Jane was an absolutely a delight as a main character.  She was inquisitive, passionate, independent, and bookish.  I enjoyed watching her blossoming relationship with G, and their facetious banter.  I also couldn’t help but adore self absorbed Edward.  The lovable characters really made this story come alive.

» The fact that this book is written by a group of three authors boggles my mind.  The writing is so seamless, you could never tell this story was written by more than one author.

» My Lady Jane is laugh out loud funny!  I was thoroughly entertained from start to finish.

» This was just a wholesome, charming, and feel-good kind of book.  If you are looking for a clean YA book, I’d consider My Lady Jane to fit that bill.

» I cannot wait to read the other books in this series!

› Recommended to ⇒ fans of historical fiction/fantasy mash ups

› If you liked this book, try ⇒ The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee

» Rodham by Curtis Sittenfeld

» I loved that this was a re-imagining of Hilary Clinton’s life had she never married Bill Clinton.  I’ve always appreciated Hillary’s intelligence, strength, drive, and determination in real life, and these qualities were very present in Sittenfeld’s characterization of Hilary.

» I enjoyed the political intrigue throughout this story and watching Hillary climb the political ladder.» Unfortunately, the plot was slow paced, repetitive, and even boring at times.  I found myself not very motivated to pick this book back up after putting it down.

» Rodham could have been a good 100 pages shorter.

» The sexual content in this book felt off to me.  While I’m not a big Bill Clinton fan, I wasn’t exactly comfortable with the fact that he was portrayed as a sexual predator… It didn’t feel right to cast a real person as a sexual predator.  Depictions like this can be harmful to a person’s reputation, even if it is fabricated.  It just felt wrong.

› Recommended to ⇒  Hilary Clinton fans

› Trigger/content warnings ⇒ sexual assault

» Me and White Supremacy: Combat Racism, Change the World, and Become a Good Ancestor by Layla F. Saad

The second book off my anti-racist TBR.  » Me and White Supremacy, much like White Fragility, is a book geared towards white people and explores racism & white supremacy.  White Fragility was my starting point, and I feel this book was the perfect follow-up as it built upon many of the concepts that were introduced in White Fragility.  There were many new-to-me concepts in this book that gave me a lot of food for thought.

» This book is excellent for self reflection since it is set up as a 28 day challenge with reflection questions at the end of each chapter.  I thought the questions were thought provoking and relevant to the chapters they accompanied.  Because of this format, this would be an excellent book to work through in a group or book club setting.

» I would consider Me and White Supremacy to be another beginner level book for those that are just starting out on their anti-racist education journey.  I felt Saad did a good job of taking very complex issues and illustrating them in a clear, and easy to understand way.

 › Recommended to ⇒ white people looking to educated themselves about being anti-racist

› Trigger/content warnings ⇒ racism; white supremacy; sexism

› If you liked this book, try ⇒ White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo

» Born a Crime by Trevor Noah

» After reading people RAVE about this memoir, I decided to suggest it for one of my book clubs.  Confession: I didn’t really know who Trevor Noah was before picking up his memoir.   I don’t really watch TV, so I was not familiar with his satirical news show.  After watching a few segments of his show, I can say that Trevor’s personality and wit definitely shine through in his writing.  If you are a fan of his show, I’d venture to say you’ll love his memoir.

» Born a Crime is Trevor Noah’s experiences growing up as a bi-racial boy in South Africa under apartheid.  Going into this memoir, my knowledge of apartheid was minimal at best.  I found that Trevor did a wonderful job explaining apartheid for those of us that weren’t familiar with the history of apartheid in South Africa while also giving us an insider view of what it looked like on a daily basis.

» I was delightfully surprised with how insightful Trevor is.  I found myself tagging many different passages that struck me as profound.

» I’m not sure how Trevor does it, but he takes a book chock-full of horrific experiences and makes it lighthearted and entertaining.» My only minor criticism was that Trevor tended to jump around in time, which was a bit confusing at times.

› Recommended to ⇒ Trevor Noah fans; memoir fans

› Trigger/content warnings ⇒ racism; child abuse; domestic abuse; alcoholism

› If you liked this book, try ⇒ Educated by Tara Westover

Have you read any of these books?  If so, what did you think?

Comment below & let me know 🙂

Mini Book Reviews: August 2020 - Part 2 #BookReview #BookBlogger #Bookworm #Bibliophile *Books included in this batch of mini book reviews: My Lady Jane (The Lady Janies #1) by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, & Jodi Meadows, …

[soyosauce]

Living Under Glass In Implanted

The data stored in her blood can save a city on the brink… or destroy it, in this gripping cyberpunk thriller. When college student Emery Driscoll is blackmailed into being a courier for a clandestine organisation, she’s cut off from the neural implant community which binds the domed city of New Worth together. Her new masters exploit her rare condition which allows her to carry encoded data in her blood, and train her to transport secrets throughout the troubled city. New Worth is on the brink of Emergence – freedom from the dome – but not everyone wants to leave. Then a data drop goes bad, and Emery is caught between factions: those who want her blood, and those who just want her dead.

Within a techno-thriller-like framework Implanted’s author, Lauren C. Teffeau, weaves solarpunk and cyberpunk themes into a rich setting. New Worth is structurally crafted to evoke a sense of the outside world after radical climate effects have occurred. The stratification of class is literalized, with the rich living high up, enjoying the sun and the best goods the city has to offer. The poor live in all but darkness and have society geared against them in that there’s more crime and the cleaning robots don’t come around that much in the lower levels, etc.. The layout of the entire city is meant to feel like a vertical urban sprawl with only the aesthetic or veneer of a green space, a neat take on an urban jungle.

Emery comes from the terrestrial district down below, with her parents working her ass off to get her in school and land a job that’ll eventually enable them to move up. She’s short, she’s brown, and she’s completely bought into the status quo. Almost. It’s immediately clear early on that she’s a trauma survivor who goes to a virtual reality arcade to hone her skills. A particular skill set that she uses to claw back some control or agency in her life by hunting down people who prey on marginalized people, usually women; removing their implants and selling them.

In her personal life, she’s closed off and secretive, slow to trust—focusing on her coming graduation and landing a decent, but boring job to help her family move up, literally! Of course, this isn’t to be. A corporation blackmails her into joining their ranks, cut her off from everyone, even faking her death, and trains her to be a courier. Porting important information around in her blood, co-opting her very body for their own agency.

Importantly, she was close to fully synching with Rik, a person she plays the arcades with but has never actually met.

Implants are the heart of the high tech in this cyberpunk fiction. Everyone has one and it’s installed fairly early on, else they lose some of the higher functionality, apparently. It allows people to sync with one another, sharing their emotions and thoughts so long as they’re connected. All of society is built on this technology. Citizens’ identities and the way they interact is completely changed by their implants. Social structure and corporate structure is built on the idea that everyone has one. Except… not everybody does. The Disconnects are people who reject this idea, unwilling to trade their freedom and natural human interactions for a device that essentially keeps the populace under the city’s thumb. All the information that is disseminated from them is outright trusted. People no longer trust their own senses, they trust the information being fed them. Social interactions have gone “Online” even more, essentially.

Joining Aventine, the corporation that has blackmailed her, eradicated the one connection she was building toward having despite her trauma. It’s the ultimate way of letting someone into your life, as their presence would always be there with you.

Fast forward months later and a job goes wrong. The information she’s carrying turns out to be important enough that both the corps and the disconnects are after her and she has to risk finding and asking for Rik’s help, who thought her dead.

What ensues is a fairly typical technothriller structure. The slow lead up filled with infodumps and personal stakes followed by action as she has to use her knowledge of the city to navigate her way to any sense of freedom. It’s a cyclical and satisfying narrative that doesn’t feel bloated but does take a while to get going. Luckily, the whole thing is a fast read so it’s not a big deal.

There are some more interesting aspects to the story though, deviating from cyberpunk and the techno-thriller formula. The underlying feminism to the fiction was always nice, even if it made Rik kind of annoying sometimes. The agency of the story is always with Emery, which means when she screws up it’s on her; just as the bulk of the decisions are her own. Rik is a well-off white guy in the higher levels who is a fairly good blueprint for a good supporting character. He sympathizes with the disconnects and acts of as a lens to fill Emery in on the details of the New Worth she herself is unaware of. It works well. But he’s still a little wrapped up in his own privilege in the story, in my opinion. Which, I think is how it is meant to be.

The story is all from Emery’s perspective. Usually, I don’t end up liking something written in this way but it’s pulled off nicely here. Emery is likable and well fleshed out and her voice, while very casual (the only meh part of it for me), ultimately culminates in good character work. There is less prose but the themes are worked in such that there’s a decent amount of emotional payout because of the perspective.

It’s also somewhat subversive. It’s less frenetic than traditional cyberpunk, which usually has new terminology and infodumps that take place during action that doesn’t relent much. This is decidedly more low-key, making it also more accessible.

It also feels solarpunk in that it’s not entirely nihilistic regarding technology or the future, in general, despite the ecological disaster. There are explorations of being responsible and not simply ignorant when trying to understand the outside world that this society looks forward to. Not doing so having real, lasting impact that’s detrimental to humanity. The characters have low points but even when the omnipresent corporations illicit very little hope, it’s disillusioned later. Emery isn’t looking to simply save herself, she has to consider what her actions will do to others; decidedly not traditional cyberpunk where the protagonists are anti-heroes. Which, I like a lot. This feels like a more relevant cyberpunk story because of this.

The city finding a new use for things is also present but… not in the way you’d expect. It’s a living, breathing thing aesthetically because it has technology to counteract the greenhouse effect of living under glass, but also has maintenance tunnels and spaces for sub-cultures that are used by her as a courier to get her job done, even when that job eventually becomes eluding everyone. It felt like a well-realized setting with a purpose beyond the overcapacity of humanity resulting, again, in a nihilistic narrative more indicative of cyberpunk.

She needs to integrate into a corporation. Dressing like them and doing as they say. There is not the normal freedom of expression found in cyberpunk here, that’s been taken from her and, though subtle, I thought was an interesting way to turn it around later when she’s running from the corporation using the tech and the clothes they gave her. Rather than cybernetics being the thing used to subvert power structures, it’s a more literalized repurposing. Pretty cool.

Implants are both good and bad. Therefore the “good”, the “bad”, and the morally grey are put squarely on the shoulders people. Which ends up getting rid of the technophobia trope, too.

It’s also always great to read a female protagonist that isn’t sexualized. Her voice and thoughts make sense, both in just the case of being a believable character, but also in terms of being respectful of a trauma victim while not skirting the issue. She has internal things to work out as a result and the narrative is about that. It’s not only a blip of a character detail to make her sympathetic. It’s how you come to be able to empathize and understand her thoughts and decisions throughout the entire story.

Surprising, thoughtful, and good; Implanted, I hope, is the start of a distinctly feminist cyberpunk wave of literature striking out against the cyberpunk visual tropes pervasive in visual media today that people seem to be waiting for. People like me!