#beggars at the feast

[pilferingapples]

this is an invitation to infodump. i would LOVE to hear the thoughts you have on beggars at the feast, should you want to talk about them

AUGH ok ok let's see how well I can articulate...anything

OK so first: In the Letters server lately we've been talking a bit about how , in the book, Thenardier is WAY more the Human Nemesis than Javert is. He shows up earlier than Javert does; he's able to be a threat in ways Javert can't be, and to people Javert can't and wouldn't even try to touch ; he shares a TON of paralleling symbolism and class-blurring roles with JVJ; he's the last Personal Threat remaining in the novel, and the last thing we hear about him is that he's not only thriving , he's committing worse atrocities on a grander scale than anything we saw in the book, and getting nothing but social approval for it.

Thenardier is a nightmare, and he's triumphant, and as such he's a condemnation of society in an equal and opposing way to Jean Valjean. Valjean's story (and Fantine's , and the Thenardier siblings' ,. and the Amis , etc) says "look what we're destroying, look at the actions we punish". Thenardier's ultimate triumph as a literal slave trader flips it around and says "look what we support, look at what we endorse, look at what we elevate and approve." (now within the book I could take this farther , I could point out that the only thing within the novel that breaks any of the miserables free of their oppression to any degree is crime of some kind, be it revolution or theft or Being an Accomplice or exploitation, and the only thing that costs the (relatively) privileged their security and power is to truly ally with the miserables, but !! I'm talking about the musical)

In the musical Thenardier is softened a lot. Like... a LOT. The Thenardiers' exploitation of Fantine is barely mentioned ; their violent abuse of Cosette is turned into a joke; their abuse of Eponine is minimized (and their other kids are either Not Appearing in this Play or not obviously connected to them) ; and that final doomstrike epilogue, Thenardier becoming a slave trader, is gone. He's no longer the primary and most dangerous human antagonist; as in many other adaptations, that's now Javert.

So there's a different arc but it's there : From Master of the House and the Robbery , when he largely comes across as a gross but funny Comic Villain ; to the Attack on the Rue Plumet, where we finally see a bit of danger to him; to Dog Eats Dog, where he is really just acting on the same philosophy we saw in MotH but now doing something most people have a more immediate revulsion to, and the mask is really off; to , finally, Beggars at the Feast. If Beggars at the Feast is done RIGHT, This is Where The Villains Win.

They've gotten knocked around, sure, but they've also just gotten a ton of money, and, if done right, they are either blending in with the society party or, in the best staging * , they end up leading the dance. It's Master of the House all over again, only this time we're not being invited to laugh along with Thenardier's "band of soaks" ; this isn't the dregs of society, an easily stigmatized lower-class punchline.

This is Society, capital S Society, and they're just as ready to go along with him-- MORE ready to go along with him, even, because at least some of his inn customers usually get to be affronted and argue a little, but arguing with him risks some Unpleasantness, and isn't everything in Society so pleasant? Isn't it nice here, at the party? Let's not argue with the openly hateful people singing about how they want to destroy us all; look, they're dancing and singing! Let's just follow their lead. Won't that be nice.

And without getting into modern politics just because it's ALWAYS so current and I could never update the references frantically enough, I'll say that this is where Stage!Thenardier most echoes those Book!Thenardier Napoleon III vibes. Hugo knew what this dance looked like. He fell for it at one point.

(and hey, maybe it even raises some unease in audience members who laughed at MoTH and the child abuse and the Robbery without thinking about it-- maybe some people realize Oh Shit, We Fell For It Too. Not necessarily, but maybe?? ) And so it's fitting that it's this scene that has IMO a very clear sense of the book's incredibly specific political message ("Parisians, France, Please Overthrow Napoleon III, Probably With Barricades" ) , albeit in reverse. The Thenardiers gloat "Clear away the barricades and we're still here!" -- to them, a brag on how they endure all the changes around them.

But also implying: don't clear away the damn barricades. If you don't want the Thenardiers to run the show , help shore up that furniture wall and fight (for a modern international audience, this is probably going to be Not AS Specifically Involving Barricades).

So yeah. I'm not gonna say it's the most important song in the whole show , but it's important in ways I rarely see critics or commenters notice.

...Or it's just a funny musical reprise and you can have the Thenardiers be immediately thrown out of the wedding as frauds bc hahaha the poors thought they could play with their betters, good thing we're all so much smarter and cooler than that in the upper crust. That's fine too.

yes I have opinions; also I'm Correct

[thatisntverycombefair]

hypotheically what if i was the master of the house?! what if i was quick to catch your eye and there was infact never a passerby who would pass me by. what if i was servant to the poor?! some might say butler to the great. comforter, philosopher and LIFELONG MATE!

[coeur-feyrac]

so i think kyle adams may also play the first customer in Master of the House, who later gets pegged(?) upstairs?? anyways. iconic.

[professorgtnt]

一位女性由未婚夫陪同,到液士顿市中心的凯悦酒店定喜宴。 两人仔细看过菜单，也选好了用什么样的餐具及鲜花摆饰。两人的品位都很高，账单算下来一共是一万三千美元。付了一半的定金后，他们回家准备奇喜贴。 就在要去邮局的那一天,准新郎临阵退缩：“我还是不��确定,”他说，“这是很大的决定，我们再考忠考虑吧。”

愤怒的未婚妻到凯悦取消酒席，公关经理完全了解她的心情。 经理说：“我也曾遭到同样的事。”她讲起她自己取消订婚的经历。 可是有关退费，却是坏消息。“合约不能改，我们只能退给您一千三百元。现在有两个办法：放弃剩下的定金，或是如期办酒席。实在很抱歉。”如期办酒席好像有点疯狂，可是这个气坏了的准新娘愈想愈觉得这个点子不错。不过可不是喜宴，而是大请客！十年前她曾经无家可归，住在收容中心。如今,她又站起来，找到好工作，存了不少钱。现在她有个大胆的想法，就是用她的积蓄让波士顿的穷人享受大都会的一夜。 1990年6月的一个晚上，波士顿城区的“凯悦酒店”举办了一场前所未见的酒席。准新娘把主菜换成无骨鸡，“纪念”新郎的临阵脱逃0,寄邀请函到各收容中心。那个温热的六 月夜晚，平常只能从纸盒里把别人吃剩的匹萨扯下来吃的人，享用着法国菜。凯悦的侍者穿着燕尾服，给那些拿拐杖、推步车的老年人端上精美的餐前菜。 流浪汉、捡垃圾的、有毒癮的，暂时拋开街头生涯的艰苦,坐在屋内浅酌香槟、吃巧克力结婚蛋糕，随着乐卧的旋律起舞直到夜深。

[nasatshirts]

well that's a bit of a rollercoaster 😅 they're all from my summer playlist !

Tags (if u guys want to): @freakwiththeknifecollection @tirednapentity @poolboyvmprmansion @mossandchaos @axolotlsauce @bart-allens-boyfriends @audliminal + anyone i forgot (rip my terrible memory 😔) and/or anyone who just wants to!!

put your ‘on repeat’ playlist on shuffle & let your friends pick their favorite of the first five songs!!

thank uu for the tags @blackberry-sunset @tigolbittys <33 np tagging @misomilf @biscuitlovie @nocturnal-phantom @ravenous-rage @remuredshampoo @kaleidoscopexsighs @frank-lilac @drowsyanddazed @angelfruittree @shipsnsails mwah mwah 💋💋

[antinousletmehit]

Okay here me out please… can you pretty please write a Telemachus x reader where when ody returns and is being made fun of by the suitors while still in this begger disguise reader starts fighting off the suitors and yelling at them for being rude and maybe joins ody while he is hunting them down and Telemachus has a love sick look while watching reader just like ody did for Penelope when they were teenagers and after seeing how cool and awesome of a warrior reader is, ody turns to his son and says “I aprove of this one 😏” and poor Telemachus is just like 😳

୨୧┇Telemachus x reader

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

The hall of Ithaca’s palace echoed with the crude laughter of the suitors, their voices grating as they lounged at tables meant for nobler men. Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, shuffled into the room, his weathered cloak draped over his shoulders. He kept his head low, scanning the faces of those who had sullied his home. The suitors noticed him almost immediately.

“Well, look at this!” Antinous sneered, rising from his seat. “Another beggar come to steal what little is left of the feast!” The others laughed, and Eurymachus leaned back, gesturing mockingly. “Shall we toss him a scrap or two, Antinous? Or maybe your leftover bones will do?” Odysseus gritted his teeth but said nothing, his hands tightening on his staff. Before he could respond, however, you stepped forward.

“Enough!” you snapped, your voice sharp and commanding. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to you. You were no servant or passive bystander, you were a fierce protector of the palace, one of the few who still stood loyal to Ithaca and its rightful king.

“This man has done nothing to you,” you continued, your eyes narrowing at Antinous. “If you have any shred of decency left, you’ll leave him be.” Antinous scoffed, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “And what will you do if I don’t? Throw me out yourself?” “If I have to,” you replied, your hand resting on the hilt of your blade.

“You always have to play the hero, don’t you?” Eurymachus muttered, rolling his eyes. “Better a hero than a parasite,” you shot back.

At that, the room erupted into murmurs, some of the younger suitors chuckling nervously. Telemachus, standing near the doorway, watched you with wide eyes, his heart racing. The way you stood your ground, fearlessly defying men who thought themselves untouchable, made his chest tighten. Odysseus, still playing the part of the beggar, smirked as he caught sight of his son’s lovestruck expression. Leaning toward Telemachus, he whispered, “I approve of this one.”

Telemachus’s face flushed a deep red. “Father, please,” he mumbled, barely audible.

“She’s got fire,” Odysseus continued, his voice low and amused. “That’s what you need, boy—a woman who won’t back down. Just look at her.” Telemachus did look. He couldn’t help it. The way you glared at Antinous, daring him to make a move, left him in awe.

Antinous, meanwhile, was fuming. “You’ve overstepped,” he growled, taking a step toward you. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you stepped forward as well, meeting him head on. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Before the tension could escalate further, Odysseus cleared his throat, drawing attention back to himself. “Perhaps you should listen to the lady,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “She seems to be the only one here with sense.” Antinous glared at him but reluctantly backed down, muttering curses under his breath.

As the suitors returned to their seats, Odysseus turned to you, his eyes gleaming with approval. “Thank you,” he said softly. You nodded, though your gaze remained sharp as you watched the suitors warily. “Someone has to stand up to them.”

Telemachus stepped closer, his heart still pounding. “You were incredible,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. You glanced at him, a small smile breaking through your serious demeanor. “Thank you, Telemachus.”

Odysseus smirked again, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder. “She’s a keeper, lad. Don’t let this one slip away.” Telemachus’s face turned scarlet, and he stammered something unintelligible. You tilted your head, curious but amused by his sudden shyness.

[yanderenightmare]

more gojo with curse!darling please! i lobe this concept<3

Gojo Satoru

P1 & P3

TW: abduction and captivity, mild condescension, mild coercion, NSFW hints, some descriptions of darling, but nothing too specific, a joke dissing people with blue eyes and pale skin

gn reader - fem labels (drama queen) & fem accessories (jewelry: various)

He kept you like one would a stray cat. Leaving you be as you found places of comfort around his apartment, hiding when you wanted to be left alone – which was almost always.

You hadn’t warmed up to him yet. Understandably so.

He’d set out food for you, locking the door with seals when leaving – scoffing out a laugh after coming home only to find the dish still on the table. He keeps forgetting you don’t eat.

You may look it, but you’re not exactly human.

But you are getting thinner, unfortunately. Suppose his apartment isn’t ideal hunting ground for a curse. And as you’ve gotten weaker, you’ve become wilder – primitive in a way – hissing at him when he gets too close – feeling vulnerable. 

You’re very cute.

But, cute or not, he doesn’t want to starve you. He isn’t cruel. So he walks and wonders what it is that you would find appetizing. 

Watching your behavior – how you sneak around his apartment looting – like a crow – collecting shiny objects to deck yourself in. Stealing all his rings, chains, watches, belt buckles, manchets, any gold or silver-rimmed glasses, and anything else you can use as jewelry – old coins, can tabs, all the silverware – along with everything else you deem pretty – fabrics, flowers, decorations, all his silk shirts. 

You rob anything and everything of value, making a nest of it all in the tub. 

His theory is that the bathroom is the shiniest place in the house and, therefore, where you feel you most belong. You sleep there despite him having given you a room – coveting all your findings.

He’s never really thought about how a curse can have such behaviorism. It’s not too odd to keep tamed ones as pets, but still, he’s never thought about why one would aside from utilizing them in combat. But you weren’t made for such intents and purposes. You were… just fascinating to have. Not far off from being an exotic pet.

But even for a curse, you’re unusual.

It’s not fear or death you thrive on. It’s… something a lot more innocent, actually – which is probably why you have no malicious instincts to hurt him – not that you could if you tried. But he can tell… you don’t want to be a curse, do you? In fact, those few times he has nicknamed you curse, you’ve scowled at him a little more than usual. 

No, what you desire is devotion – to be worshipped. 

What you want is to be a god.

Quite like him, actually. You like having your ego stroked. 

It’s your pride that needs feeding, and he can only asses that it feasts on people’s mad desire for you – of which he has plenty to give.

But you reject it.

“I won’t rely on the pity of a filthy jujutsu sorcerer. I’d rather starve.” You tell him with a sneer, curling yourself up with folded arms upon your chest – pouting with eyes closed, drowned in your treasure bath as though everything wasn’t nicking your skin, trying to ignore him.

He slants his head to the side, crouched down beside you with his arms resting on the tub, a smirk on his face – playing cute as he reaches a slim finger out to touch your cheek.

“Won’t you let a filthy jujutsu sorcerer worship you a bit? Trust me, a curse has never made me feel so weak before. Don’t you think I’d make for the best beggar?” 

You grimace, brows deepening into a vexed frown without opening your eyes, but you don’t flinch away. “I won’t be patronized. You keep playing with me like I’m your toy.”

“Maybe a little,” He chuckles softly. You’re such an honest and expressive little curse. “But I do think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen~”

“Naturally.” You reply simply, the furrow in your brow softening, but you don’t offer much more.

“Come on, pretty curse.” He drawls. “Let me help you before you waste away.”

You scoff. “Tch- foolish, selfish human… you really are such an ugly thing to behold.” The furl returns, but still, you keep your eyes closed. “Do you honestly think that your rancid touch is going to save me?” Then you laugh – harshly and mockingly. “Please, don’t flatter yourself. A god requires offerings left at their shrine, not the filthy touch of the peasants that leave them.” Your nose scrunches suggestively. “You should consider it a blessing to even be allowed to look at me.”

Vain and stubborn, he thinks. You are the curse of beauty. But still, he's never experienced rejection before.

Suppose he has to try a little harder…

He soon finds himself courting you. Trying to make you comfortable.

He starts giving you gifts – first, silver silk bedsheets that lure you into sleeping in your bed instead of the bathtub, along with other changes that make your room more appealing – ornate wallpaper, canopy drapes surrounding the bed, and a smaller chandelier for the ceiling. Happy to see you abandon your former treasure in the tub in favor of your new dwelling.

Then he gifts you other pretty articles – clothes and such that actually fit you – patterned silks and lace. He attempts to give you clothes you can use to cover up more of yourself, but you seem partial to wearing less – most comfortable in just an elegant kimono you can easily discard on the floor.

You’re confusing like that – walking around his apartment half-naked but hissing and scowling at him when he stares.

It’s more the jewelry you enjoy wearing – crowns, earrings, necklaces, body chains, rings for your fingers and toes, bracelets for your wrists and ankles – everything in abundance. Jingling when you step about.

You seem healthier after receiving his presents. Also, a bit less skeptical – now engaging in conversation with him – although often about what his next gifts will be and if he can buy you diamonds and rubies for you to bead your hair.

“Sorry, but the banks closed. I’m not giving you a single dime, your highness.” He laughs one day, eyes bright and smiling, watching the puzzlement befall your face before the spread of horror that soon followed after hearing his next words. “In fact, I’m gonna start taking things away.”

“You wouldn’t-” Your voice had dropped into something so weak it was adorable, no longer having that strident overconfidence you’d built up.

It makes him feel almost bad watching your face drain and become so distressed like a spoiled little brat who’d just been told no for the first time.

“Oh- I would.” He grinned like it was all only a cruel joke to him – something just for shits and giggles. “Satoru Gojo giveth and Satoru Gojo taketh away.”

“But-” Your lip wobbles, and he can spot the tears brimming in your eyes already.

He doesn’t let it bother him. Or at least he doesn’t let it show.

“I think I’ll start with all your jewelry- how about that necklace you’re wearing right now?” He threatens, pale hand reaching towards your neck to pull your pearls off – but you shrink into a ball on the floor before he has the chance to.

“No, no, no, don’t-” You start sobbing, and he thinks it’s the first time he’s seen a curse be so sad and desperate.

Not to mistake those countless curses he’d made cry and plead for their life, but that wasn’t what you were doing. You were grieving. 

You’re really such a simple thing, aren’t you?

His smile softens into something not so cruel. Crouching down to your level, placing his hand atop your head where you’re bowed and bawling, petting you soothingly. “Okay then, drama queen. Stop your crying. I’ll let you keep it.”

You raise your head, hopeful. Looking at him with terribly puffy eyes - cheeks streaked with teardrops hanging off your lashes. Looking so pained and vulnerable, it made his heart ache at the sight. 

You don’t say anything but he can tell there’s a question on your lips you’re unable to voice.

“Under one condition.” He answers. 

You flinch when his hand slides from your hair to cup your cheek, holding your chin as he rolls on his feet and places a kiss on your salty lips.

You gasp and allow it for a second but then abruptly push him off – falling back on your butt. “No- you’ll make me filthy.” You rush out. “Beauty is meant to be admired, not reaped. It’s not right. You can’t-”

He watches you blush and stutter and thinks it’s silly how he hasn’t thought about it before. But now it’s become clear. Curses spawn from human fears, after all. It’s not strange that they’re so similar. But still… he’d never think a curse would be afraid of losing their virginity.

“It’s okay,” He coos, setting his knees down softly – crawling forward to where you sit, hiding your face behind small hands decked in too many rings. “I’m not gonna stain you…” He promises, his breath warm on your skin. “I’m gonna make you feel like the most desired diety in the world.”

Your breath shivers as he takes your hands and uncovers your face – eyes wide looking at him.

“And after I’m done admiring you, I’ll get you more diamonds and rubies than you can count.”

You swallow – eyes skittering from one of his blue ones to the other.

“Really?” It’s below a whisper.

“You bet.” He answers with a smile, flashing you a smirk. “I’ll get you enough to swim in.”

Your nose does a little twitch like it usually does, but this time, it’s not to express disgust. “Do you promise?” You bite your lip – staring at him.

“Let’s make it a binding vow.”

And that’s the arrangement.

You let him admire you in ways you’ve never let anyone else before, but only if he fulfills all your greedy heart’s desires.

He doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have something to spend money on that’s worth it.

You’ll lie next to him and he’ll get to study you up close – finding things that betray you – model details that aren’t in line with human imperfections. Missing bone structure, flawless symmetry, hairless skin devoid of any and all accent of mark or spot – just smooth milky texture without a single fault.

He says it’s sad – that the standard for beauty isn’t even achievable, to which you reply that it’s only fair everyone should be subject to the same disappointment, never to achieve perfection like you.

He asks if you think he’s really that ugly. And you say yes.

“Liar.” He accuses. Head propped on his hand, his hair a tousled mess lying in the bed beside you.

You’re looking up at the ceiling but close your eyes insouciantly at his comment. You tip your chin a bit as you speak – lips pouty and proud. “Lies are an ugly trade- in which I don’t partake.”

“Oh, really?” He rolls on top of you and you give a whine. Looking up into his sparkling blues and how his pearly hair falls loose and wispy. “Then look me in my eyes and tell me I’m ugly.” He dares.

“Puh-” You scoff, folding your arms above your puffed chest, looking off to the side, still with eyes closed as though to dismiss him like you so often do. “Men with beady bright blue eyes and pink skin look like pigs.”

You sneak a peek with one eye when he doesn’t answer. He’s still looking down at you – still daring you. 

And you continue. Raising a finger to nudge his nose up. “Say oink-oink, piggy.”

He brushes your finger away as he leans in closer. Now with his nose rubbing yours.

“Tell me I’m ugly.” He repeats – his voice dipping low into that serious tone that makes your breath tight and your stomach flurry.

“You’re-” You try but it ends up swallowed, stifled beneath those big worldly blues. “You’re…” You try again but it’s worse than the first time, making you bite your lip. He’s not budging.

You look away. Feeling defeated and mopey because of it.

“You’re not as pretty as me.” You finally sulk.

So cutely grumpy with your pursed lips and vexed brow, he just has to laugh. “Tch- now that we can both agree on.”

And then he forces you to laugh too – beginning to snort like a boar into your ear, placing sloppy kisses to your neck while you scream out that it tickles.

P1 & P3

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monsterhunt: Savogorg, Demon of Deliciousness

Demons reflect the most destructive impulses of the living and while most default to primal feelings like fear, pain, and despair... the feeling this saccharine salamander embodies could best be described as "the irresistible urge to stick your finger in a freshly frosted cake".

Driven by an indulgent need to taste all the finest things without ever worrying about hunger Savogorg crashes feasts, burgles pantries, and pinches pies from windowsills heedless of the chaos it causes in the process.

It takes an act of supreme immoderation to summon the demon of deliciousness, an inability to be satisfied that goes so far beyond hedonism that it wounds the soul. A ruler who beggars the realm with their elaborate feasts, An epicurean restaurateur who seeks ever more exotic experiences for her exclusive clientele, the taverncook who insists that this time he'll finally be able to make his grandmother's recipe as good as he remembers it. Those that suffer this affliction find themselves beset by bouts of reckless appetite, and with every mouthful the demon's stake upon them grows until it is finally able to manifest in the world.

Adventure Hooks:

Everyone knew it was a bad omen when the earl's secondborn shot the white stag. Legends of earning lordship be damned, it was plain as day the creature was beloved by the forest goddess. Butchery and trophytaking was bad enough, but to serve the flesh to your spoiled friends only to spit it out as "gamey"... now that truelove was worthy of some divine wrath. Now the noble lad wanders the wood in a state of ragged confusion, delirious from hunger and mushrooms and fermented berries, sometimes asking passersby for help, sometimes attempting to bite them. Folk susspect he's become a werewolf, and the earl is offering a rich reward to those who can bring his boy back and break the curse, while his firstborn is willing to pay extra to ensure that doesn't happen. She's become convinced her brother desires her inheritance, and what could it hurt if he stayed mad?

A prestigious culinary competition has been thrown into chaos after a series of disastrous incidents and atleast one contestant going missing. This is an excuse to riff off your favourite baking shows while the party plays detective trying to find who's eating the supplies... and the staff.

There's no such thing as forbidden snacks when you're a hunger demon. Having slithered into an elven temple dedicated to the god of earth and wine, Savogorg has laid it's greedy fingers on a sacred artifact in the form of a heavily laden bunch of grapes each sculpted from a precious gemstone and swallowed it whole. Ignorant of the demon's existnace the elves are incensed at this trespass, and begin hunting and questioning would be thieves. Tracking the demon might be easier than expected, as the holy artifact has given it divine indigestion, and the amphibious fiend keeps burping up minor mirracles as it moves about the city looking for a place to sleep off its tumymache.

Challenges & Complications:

Despite it's bulk, the demon's squishy body allows it to pass through any opening the size of a fist, allowing it to slip into unexpected places through drains, chimneys, and cracked doors, leaving behind only a sugary slime. This also allows it to unexpected escapes should it be cornered by the party. Experementation may reveal that extensive cold damage may cause the demon's body to semi-solidfy, preventing this ability.

As a demon of appetite, Savogorg is sustained by the act of eating, and will freely regain hitpoints anytime it focuses on chowing down rather than fighting the party, or if it's swallowed one of them whole. Poison can be useful here, souring its stomach and preventing it from actively eating anything more.

Artsource

[micksmansion]

went to watch a local production of les mis a bunch of days ago and during beggars at the feast, m thenardier pointed at me when he went "this ones a queer but no one knows it". 😭😭😭

[portraitsofsaints]

Happy Feast Day

Saint Martin of Tours

316 - 397

Feast Day: November 11

Patronage: against poverty, against alcoholism, beggars, equestrians, France

Saint Martin was born of pagan parents in what is now Hungary and raised in Italy. As a conscientious objector, he was forced at the age of 15 to serve in the army. He became a Christian catechumen and was baptized at 18. He was discharged at age 23 and went to be a disciple of Hilary of Poitiers. He was ordained an exorcist, became a monk and later ordained a bishop. He was one of the first saints not to be a martyr.

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase. (website)

[novaursa]

Caught by Fire (the princess)

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the daughter

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The throne room of the Red Keep was bustling with the usual activity of court. Lords and ladies milled about, their chatter filling the vast chamber with a hum of politics and ambition. The Iron Throne loomed at the end of the hall, casting long shadows across the polished stone floor. Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, stood near the dais, observing the proceedings with his usual cool detachment, though his mind remained sharp as ever.

The day’s business was tedious: disputes over land, trade agreements, and the endless petitions from minor lords seeking favor. It was the kind of monotony Otto had grown accustomed to over his long years of service. Yet, today, something caught his eye—a distraction he did not expect.

You stood near the edge of the court, your silver hair unmistakable even among the throng of nobles. Dressed in a gown of deep crimson trimmed with silver, you exuded an effortless elegance that seemed to draw attention like moths to a flame. Lords drifted toward you one by one, their intentions unmistakable as they angled for conversation, each one more eager than the last.

Otto’s jaw tightened imperceptibly as he watched.

Lord Corwin Harte, a portly man with an overly jovial demeanor, was the first to approach. He bowed deeply, his laughter carrying across the room as he leaned in, no doubt regaling you with some tale he thought charming. You smiled politely, though Otto could tell your interest was surface-deep at best.

Next came Ser Gawen Lydden, a knight with sharp features and an even sharper tongue. He clasped your hand, his words low and conspiratorial, as if sharing some grand secret. You arched an eyebrow at him, your expression hovering between amusement and bemusement.

Otto’s frown deepened as yet another lord stepped forward—Lord Myles Wythers, a younger man with a self-assured swagger. He bowed with exaggerated flair, his eyes lingering on you a moment too long for propriety.

“Seven hells,” Lord Jasper Wylde muttered beside Otto, his voice barely containing his amusement. “She’s like a beacon in the storm, isn’t she? Look at them—lining up like beggars at a feast.”

Otto didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him.

Jasper, ever the opportunist for mischief, grinned and nudged Otto’s arm. “Don’t tell me you’re immune to it, my lord. Even the most disciplined man might find himself… intrigued.”

“I’m merely observing,” Otto said curtly, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

Jasper’s grin widened, his tone turning sly. “Observing, are you? You’ve been doing a great deal of that lately where the princess is concerned.”

Otto shot him a warning glance, his voice low. “Careful, Wylde.”

But Jasper was undeterred, his amusement only growing. “Oh, come now, my lord. Admit it—watching those buffoons circle her like vultures is far more entertaining than these petitions.”

Otto didn’t reply, though his gaze briefly flickered back to you. Lord Wythers had stepped aside, replaced by yet another suitor—a wiry man with a too-eager smile whose name Otto didn’t care to remember.

Jasper leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, if you wait much longer, someone might just succeed in catching her attention. And wouldn’t that be a tragedy?”

Otto’s lips thinned, his annoyance simmering beneath the surface. “The princess’s affairs are none of my concern.”

“Are they not?” Jasper quipped, raising an eyebrow. “The way you’re glaring at those lords says otherwise.”

Before Otto could reply, a burst of laughter drew both men’s attention back to you. You were smiling now, genuinely it seemed, though the cause of your amusement was unclear. The sight sent an odd pang through Otto’s chest, one he quickly dismissed as irrational.

Jasper, of course, noticed. “Gods, you’re hopeless,” he muttered, shaking his head. “If I were you, I’d—”

“Enough,” Otto snapped, his voice quiet but firm.

Jasper held up his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk never left his face. “As you wish, my lord. But if you ask me, the gods have a strange sense of humor. Fate seems to enjoy putting you in her path.”

Otto didn’t reply, his gaze once again drifting to you. You stood now with an air of subtle grace, your head tilted slightly as you listened to the next lord’s overtures. Whatever he was saying, you didn’t seem entirely invested, though you were polite enough to hide it.

A strange thought crept into Otto’s mind—one he quickly shoved aside. Jasper’s words lingered, though, an unwelcome echo that refused to be silenced. Was it truly fate, or just another cruel jest from the gods?

As you glanced up, your eyes briefly meeting his from across the room, Otto felt his chest tighten. You smiled faintly before returning your attention to the lord before you, leaving Otto to wonder if you’d noticed his gaze—or worse, the subtle flutter of his traitorous heart.

Forcing himself to focus, Otto turned his attention back to the court proceedings. Yet, even as he spoke of grain shortages and trade routes, his thoughts remained frustratingly divided.

The hum of conversation in the throne room continued unabated as you stood amidst the throng of nobles, your effortless grace drawing the attention of everyone around you. Lords jostled for a chance to speak with you, their eagerness barely concealed behind courtly smiles and shallow bows. Otto Hightower watched from his position near the dais, his jaw tight and his patience fraying as the scene played out.

But then, to Otto’s simultaneous relief and chagrin, Princess Rhaenyra swept into the room. Her silver hair gleamed under the light of the high windows, and her lilac eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as she made her way toward you.

You turned at her approach, your face lighting up with a smile that was far more genuine than any you’d bestowed upon the eager suitors surrounding you. “Rhaenyra,” you greeted warmly. “Come to rescue me, have you?”

Rhaenyra smirked, looping her arm through yours with practiced ease. “You looked like you needed saving. Besides, I could hardly let them monopolize your time.”

The gathered lords exchanged disappointed glances as Rhaenyra began to lead you away, her presence making it clear that their audience with you was over. Murmurs spread through the room as you exited the throne room together, your laughter echoing faintly in your wake.

Otto exhaled, tension he hadn’t realized he was holding leaving his shoulders. He felt an odd mix of relief that you were no longer the center of attention and an unwelcome twinge of disappointment that you were now absent from the room.

“Saved by the princess,” Jasper Wylde muttered beside him, his voice low and full of amusement. “You should be thanking Rhaenyra, my lord. She’s done you a favor.”

Otto shot Jasper a warning look, his patience for the man’s jests rapidly wearing thin. “If you’ve nothing useful to contribute, Lord Wylde, I suggest you hold your tongue.”

Jasper raised his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk never left his face. “As you command, my lord.”

Before Otto could respond, the heavy doors to the throne room opened once more, and King Viserys entered with his usual air of good-natured authority. Dressed in rich black and gold, the king greeted the gathered nobles with a genial smile, his steps deliberate as he made his way to Otto.

“Lord Hightower,” Viserys greeted warmly, clapping a hand on Otto’s shoulder. “You look as though you’ve been holding up the entire court on your own.”

Otto inclined his head. “Your Grace. The court has been… lively today.”

“Lively?” Viserys chuckled, his gaze sweeping the room. “That’s one way of putting it. I hear my niece has been quite the center of attention.”

Otto’s lips thinned, but he nodded. “She has certainly… drawn the court’s interest.”

Viserys laughed, clearly oblivious to the starin in Otto’s tone. “She has her father’s fire, that one. And her mother’s charm, though she wields it far more deliberately. It’s no wonder the lords are vying for her favor.”

Otto nodded absently, his thoughts momentarily drifting. “Yes, well, Y/N—” He paused, realizing too late that he had spoken your name instead of the title. “—I mean, the princess certainly commands attention.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow, his head tilting slightly. “Are you well, Otto? You seem… distracted.”

Otto cleared his throat, his composure slipping for the briefest of moments. “My apologies, Your Grace. It has been a long morning.”

Behind him, Jasper Wylde let out a barely stifled snicker, his amusement unmistakable. Otto’s spine stiffened, but he refused to acknowledge the man’s antics.

Viserys frowned, concern flickering across his face. “Perhaps you should take a moment to rest. You’ve been working tirelessly.”

“There is no need,” Otto replied quickly, regaining his usual measured tone. “The realm requires attention, and I am perfectly capable of—”

“Even the Hand of the King is human, Otto,” Viserys interrupted gently. “Take care of yourself. The realm can wait a moment longer for its steward.”

Otto nodded reluctantly, though the faint heat of embarrassment lingered in his chest. “Of course, Your Grace.”

As Viserys turned to address another matter, Otto shot a glare at Jasper, whose grin only widened in response.

“You seem… unwell, my lord,” Jasper whispered, his tone mockingly concerned. “Perhaps the gods are weighing on your mind. Or is it something—or someone—else?”

Otto’s jaw tightened, and he turned away without a word, focusing instead on the matters at hand. Yet, as he moved through the rest of the day’s duties, the slip of your name lingered in his thoughts—a quiet reminder of the strange, unwelcome flutter that your presence seemed to provoke.

The chamber Otto Hightower retreated to was one of the few places in the Red Keep where he could find some semblance of peace. A goblet of wine sat untouched on the small table beside his chair. He leaned back, his eyes closed as he exhaled deeply, willing the tension in his shoulders to ease.

The day had been relentless. Court politics, endless petitions, and, of course, the whispers—always the whispers. The name of the princess seemed to linger in every conversation, like a shadow he could not escape.

Just as Otto began to think he might finally enjoy a moment of solitude, the door to the chamber creaked open. He didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Father,” Gwayne Hightower greeted, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. His boots scuffed softly against the floor as he approached. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Otto opened his eyes with a sigh. “You always seem to find me when I wish to be alone. I assume this isn’t a coincidence.”

Gwayne smirked faintly, pulling up a chair opposite his father. He was younger, greener in some ways, though his resemblance to Otto was undeniable. The same calculating eyes, the same rigid posture—though Gwayne’s youth lent him a certain arrogance that Otto had long since tempered.

“I’d call it intuition,” Gwayne said, settling in. “You’ve been… preoccupied lately. I thought perhaps I should inquire as to the cause.”

Otto arched an eyebrow. “Preoccupied? I’ve been managing the affairs of the realm, Gwayne. That hardly qualifies as unusual.”

Gwayne leaned forward slightly, his expression sly. “Yes, managing the realm… and apparently catching falling princesses.”

Otto groaned, rubbing his temples with a weary hand. “Seven hells. Is there no one in this cursed castle who doesn’t know about that?”

Gwayne grinned, clearly enjoying his father’s discomfort. “The court has been buzzing with it. A princess falling from the sky—into your arms, no less. It’s practically a song waiting to be written.”

“If anyone dares turn this into a song,” Otto muttered, his tone dark, “I will personally ensure they never sing again.”

Gwayne chuckled. “Come now, Father. It’s not every day the Hand of the King becomes the subject of such intrigue. You must admit, it’s rather… poetic.”

Otto shot his son a glare, though it lacked its usual bite. “It was an accident. Nothing more.”

“Perhaps,” Gwayne said, tilting his head thoughtfully. “But the gods do have a way of making accidents look like fate.”

“Spare me your philosophizing,” Otto snapped, though there was more weariness than anger in his voice. “The last thing I need is another fool spouting nonsense about the will of the gods.”

Gwayne smirked again, leaning back in his chair. “You’re unusually irritable about this, Father. It makes me wonder if the whispers hold more truth than you’re letting on.”

“There is no truth to it,” Otto said firmly. “Princess Y/N is—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “—she is the daughter of Daemon Targaryen. A Targaryen princess. That is all.”

Gwayne raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you seem… affected.”

Otto scowled. “I am not affected.”

“Are you not?” Gwayne asked, his tone turning more serious. “Because I’ve seen you handle far greater scandals with far less irritation. This is… different.”

Otto didn’t respond immediately. He stared into the fire, his thoughts churning. Finally, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If it seems different, it is only because of the absurdity of it all. The court’s obsession with the incident is exhausting, nothing more.”

Gwayne studied his father for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “If you say so.”

Otto exhaled, reaching for the goblet of wine and taking a long sip. The warmth of the drink did little to soothe him, but it was something.

“Gwayne,” he said after a moment, his tone softer, “you’d do well to remember that court politics are a dangerous game. The princess… she is not someone to be trifled with.”

Gwayne nodded, though the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes remained. “Of course, Father. I’ll leave the trifling to others.”

Otto shot him a warning glance but said nothing more. Gwayne rose from his chair, brushing imaginary dust from his tunic.

“Try not to brood too much,” Gwayne said as he made his way to the door. “You wouldn’t want anyone thinking the Hand of the King has been struck by the Seven.”

Otto groaned again as the door closed behind his son, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more. The fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth doing little to dispel the unease that lingered in his chest.

He closed his eyes, willing the thoughts of you—your name, your presence, your laughter—to fade from his mind. But even as he tried to push them away, they remained, a stubborn whisper at the edge of his consciousness.

The atmosphere in the small council chamber was charged, though that was hardly unusual. The lords seated around the long oaken table wore their respective expressions: Lord Tyland Lannister, ever composed and calculating; Lord Jasper Wylde, barely hiding his smirk at whatever mischief occupied his thoughts; Lord Beesbury, looking a little lost but muttering about the treasury nonetheless; and Lord Lyonel Strong, calm and measured as always.

Grand Maester Mellos was scribbling notes on a parchment, his quill scratching faintly against the surface. At the head of the table, King Viserys I sat with an exasperated expression, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair.

And at the center of everyone’s irritation sat Daemon Targaryen, leaning back in his chair with a lazy, infuriating smirk.

“You can’t keep behaving like this, Daemon,” Viserys said, his voice weary but firm. “You’re a prince of the realm, not some common sellsword. Starting brawls in the city undermines everything we’ve worked to build.”

Daemon shrugged, utterly unbothered. “The brawl started itself. I simply ended it.”

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. “You’ve been back in King’s Landing for less than a fortnight, and already I’m cleaning up your messes.”

“That’s what you have a Hand for, isn’t it?” Daemon replied, his smirk widening.

Otto Hightower, seated to Viserys’s right, straightened in his chair. His green-and-gold robes were immaculate, his posture stiff as his gaze landed on Daemon. “The king’s Hand is here to ensure the realm remains stable. Cleaning up your recklessness is an unfortunate side effect, not the purpose of the position.”

Daemon chuckled, leaning forward slightly. “And yet, you seem to do it so well, Otto. Perhaps the gods meant for you to follow me around like some glorified nursemaid.”

“Enough, Daemon,” Viserys said sternly, though the irritation in his voice didn’t seem to faze his younger brother.

The room fell silent for a moment, save for the faint scratching of Mellos’s quill. Otto kept his expression impassive, though his fingers tightened around the armrests of his chair.

Then, as if sensing the perfect opportunity to further unsettle the room, Daemon glanced at Otto with mock curiosity. “Speaking of which… I heard a rather amusing tale recently.”

Viserys frowned. “What are you talking about now?”

Daemon leaned back again, his grin widening. “It seems our dear Hand had a rather… close encounter in the courtyard the other day. Almost trampled by a horse, I hear. Were it not for a certain someone—” He paused, his eyes gleaming mischievously. “—my daughter, no less—who saved him.”

A faint ripple of amusement passed through the council. Jasper Wylde openly grinned, while Tyland Lannister hid a small smirk behind his hand. Lord Beesbury, oblivious to the tension, simply looked confused.

Otto’s jaw tightened, though he refused to rise to the bait. “The incident was minor, and I have already expressed my gratitude to the princess for her intervention.”

“Gratitude, is it?” Daemon said, feigning surprise. “And here I thought the Hand of the King didn’t concern himself with such trifles.”

Viserys sighed, glaring at his brother. “Daemon, if you’re going to sit in on these meetings, the least you can do is behave like an adult.”

Daemon ignored him, his attention still fixed on Otto. “You know, brother,” he said casually, addressing Viserys but clearly aiming his words at Otto, “perhaps you should consider appointing a younger, nimbler Hand. One who can keep up with the chaos of the court—if they’re not too busy being saved by princesses, that is.”

Otto’s grip on his chair tightened, but he kept his voice measured. “If the king wishes to appoint another Hand, that is his prerogative. Until then, I will continue to serve the realm to the best of my abilities.”

Daemon tilted his head, studying Otto with a look of mock consideration. “To the best of your abilities, indeed. Tell me, Otto, do you find it difficult to keep your feet planted these days? Or is it only when my daughter is around?”

“Daemon!” Viserys barked, his patience finally snapping. “Enough of this. Otto serves me loyally, and I will not tolerate you questioning his position—or his capabilities.”

Daemon shrugged, unbothered by his brother’s anger. “As you wish, Your Grace. I’m merely… making observations.”

Viserys glared at him for a moment longer before turning to Otto, his expression softening slightly. “Are you unwell, Otto? You seem more quiet than usual.”

Before Otto could respond, Jasper Wylde let out a poorly stifled chuckle, his amusement evident. “Perhaps the near miss with the horse rattled him more than he lets on.”

Otto shot Jasper a glare but quickly turned his attention back to the king. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am quite well. My focus remains on the matters of the realm.”

“Good,” Viserys said, though he cast a wary glance at Daemon. “Let’s keep it that way. We have enough chaos without adding fuel to the fire.”

Daemon smirked, leaning back in his chair once more, clearly satisfied with the disruption he’d caused. The rest of the council, sensing the tension, quickly moved on to more pressing matters, though the faint undercurrent of amusement lingered in the air.

As the discussion turned to trade agreements and military concerns, Otto remained silent, his thoughts simmering beneath the surface. He refused to let Daemon’s words shake him outwardly, but the Rogue Prince’s jabs lingered in his mind like a thorn.

The gardens of the Red Keep were quiet, a peaceful sanctuary from the cacophony of court. Otto Hightower had wandered there in search of solitude, the weight of his duties pressing heavily on his shoulders. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the hedgerows and fountains. Birds chirped softly in the trees, and the faint scent of roses perfumed the air.

He strolled along the cobbled path, his hands clasped behind his back, his thoughts preoccupied with the latest council debates. The accusations from Daemon still echoed in his mind, a bitter reminder of the prince's constant presence. But as he turned a corner near the central fountain, his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.

You were there.

You stood beside the fountain, the light catching in your silver hair and making it shimmer like molten moonlight. Dressed in a simple gown of soft blue, you looked far less regal than you did at court, but no less striking. You seemed unaware of his presence, your focus instead on the small cluster of flowers you were arranging in your hands.

Otto hesitated, his usual composure faltering. He should have turned back, left you to your privacy, but his feet betrayed him. He stepped forward, the sound of his boots against the cobblestones catching your attention.

You looked up, surprise flickering across your face before it softened into a smile. “Lord Hightower,” you greeted, your voice light. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“The gardens are a rare refuge,” Otto replied, his tone measured. “Even the Hand of the King needs a moment of quiet now and then.”

You laughed softly, the sound as delicate as the breeze rustling through the leaves. “A rare admission. I thought men like you were impervious to weariness.”

He allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “Even I have my limits, Princess.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with a curious expression. “And what weighs on you so heavily, my lord? The realm or its people?”

“Both,” Otto admitted, surprising himself with his honesty. “The demands of the realm are… relentless.”

You nodded, your gaze dropping to the flowers in your hands. “I imagine it must be exhausting, keeping everything in order.”

“It is my duty,” he said simply, though his voice softened. “Much like yours.”

You looked up at him, amusement flickering in your violet eyes. “My duty? To endure the endless parade of lords vying for my favor?”

Otto’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. “It seems an unenviable task.”

“It is,” you said, though your tone was light. “But I suppose it’s a small price to pay for being a Targaryen.”

There was a pause, the air between you charged with something unspoken. Otto found himself captivated by the way the sunlight danced on your features, the way your eyes seemed to hold a thousand secrets. He chastised himself for the thought, but it lingered nonetheless.

You broke the silence, holding out the flowers you’d gathered. “What do you think?”

Otto blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Of the flowers?”

“Yes,” you said with a teasing smile. “Do you think they suit the gardens?”

He glanced at the small bouquet—simple, unassuming, yet arranged with care. “They suit you,” he said before he could stop himself.

You arched a brow, your smile deepening. “Is that so?”

Otto cleared his throat, quickly regaining his composure. “What I mean to say is… they are understated, but no less beautiful for it.”

Your gaze lingered on him for a moment, a strange mix of amusement and something softer in your eyes. “That’s a rather poetic sentiment, my lord.”

He inclined his head slightly, his tone regaining its usual steadiness. “Even the Hand of the King is capable of appreciating beauty.”

You laughed again, the sound sending an inexplicable warmth through him. “Well, I’m glad to know you have some softness beneath that armor of duty.”

He said nothing, his gaze fixed on you as you turned back to the fountain, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the stone. The moment felt strangely intimate, as though the rest of the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you in the golden light of the gardens.

Finally, you looked back at him, your expression thoughtful. “You know, Lord Hightower, you’re not quite what I expected.”

Otto’s brow furrowed slightly. “And what did you expect, Princess?”

You smiled faintly, though there was a glimmer of mischief in your eyes. “A cold, unfeeling man who sees the world in black and white. But you’re not. There’s something… more to you.”

He stared at you, momentarily at a loss for words. He wanted to refute your statement, to maintain the carefully constructed image of himself as the unwavering servant of the realm. But the way you looked at him, as though you saw something beneath the surface, made him falter.

“Perhaps you see what isn’t there,” he said quietly.

“Or perhaps you hide it too well,” you countered, your voice just as soft.

Another silence fell between you, the weight of your words lingering in the air. Otto felt his heart flutter—a sensation he hadn’t experienced in years. It was absurd, impossible, and yet it was there, undeniable and insistent.

“I should let you return to your work,” he said at last, his voice steadier now. “The realm won’t govern itself.”

You inclined your head, your smile lingering. “Of course. Duty calls, as always.”

Otto turned and walked away, his steps measured and purposeful. But as he left the gardens, he couldn’t shake the image of you—the way the light caught in your hair, the warmth in your eyes, the way your words had stirred something long dormant within him.

The gods, he thought grimly, were either punishing him or toying with him once more. Perhaps both.

[catstrophysics]

Shoutout to Kyle Adams as Thénardier tonight for changing the lyrics in Beggars at the Feast to "this one's a queer, I might try him, too" and then twirling and dipping the man out of the couple. Icon behavior.

[shady-tavern]

Preview for "Kindness is Undoing" the October Short Story

Once upon a time, there lived a young girl who had a braggart for a father. It was well known by everyone in town that his tales were greatly exaggerated and while many enjoyed listening to them, they knew better than to believe him.

His daughter grew up with such fantastic tales as well. Grand tales on how her father had once saved a lord and then given the reward away to a beggar. They didn't have much themselves, not with how much time her father spent at the tavern night after night, but a beggar would have had even less she thought, so what her father had done was very kind and selfless.

As she grew she understood that none of her father's stories were true, that he was more likely to pocket the coin a beggar lost and drink it away than return it. He was only generous where others could see and only if it benefited him in some way.

"Don't feed the strays," her father told her when he saw her toss out leftovers that he refused to eat. "They'll only come back for more."

The strays did return, so the young woman only fed them when her father wasn't around, sneaking them dry, hard crusts of bread, bits of cheese and vegetables and leftover bones. Whatever she could set aside for the animals she gave them.

One day there was a very ragged looking bird. Only, it wasn't a bird at all, but perhaps the shoddiest glamour in existence. It was a fae, who was trying and failing to blend in. The young woman felt somewhat amused, though she also remained polite and cautious.

She fed the bird like she would have fed the others and it left behind a little wriggling worm made of gold. She put it into the garden, feeling befuddled about what she was meant to do with a golden worm. It was alive, clearly, and she felt sorry for the helpless little thing.

The bird certainly squawked for quite a while when it noticed what she had done, though strangely enough, she got the impression that it was glad rather than upset.

In return, the food she grew in the garden in front of their small house was always plentiful, the plants healthy and strong. Her neighbors complimented her and every bit of food she shared with them made them light up, the vegetables and fruit tasting downright divine.

"My daughter can turn even rotten food into a feast," her father bragged and where, previously, the other folk in the tavern had smiled at his exaggerated boasting, this time a few exchanged glances.

While they didn't think his daughter had the sort of magic needed to undo the rot of time, they still thought that there was something special to her food. The young woman was none the wiser, for she stayed away from the tavern, tending to the garden and her job with the seamstress.

The fae bird however seemed to have vanished, leaving only regular birds behind. Or, so she thought. 

The next time she ran into the fae winter had arrived and he was among the stray cats meowing in front of her door. He once again looked like a trully ragged version of an animal, a clear shimmer of glamour coating his scraggly fur. 

It was certainly befuddling, but she let him into the house just like the other cats to curl up in front of the fire to stay warm and she set down bowls of fish that a neighbor had traded her for some of her jam, made from the berries grown in her garden. 

There was more fish than she could eat and for lack of storing and salting options, she offered them gladly to the animals.

Winter was a rough time for everyone and her father loved to stay out until late at night and often enough he didn't come home at all, sleeping in front of the fire in the tavern along with the other local drunks, so she had the house all to herself.

She put out blankets and pillows for the cats and in the morning, the ragged cat left behind a fish that shimmered and glittered like it was made out of jewels more beautiful than even royalty owned. 

She hurriedly scooped the fish up to drop it into a bucket she hastily filled with water. Unsure what she was meant to do with a fish of all things, she got dressed, carefully covered the bucket and tucked it under her coat to keep it warm enough as she shuffled out into the cold and snow.

It was a bit of a journey to the nearby lake and she was out of breath and covered in sweat by the time she had hacked a big enough hole into the ice to let the fish slide into the lake.

It immediately brightened further, shimmering so beautiful it stole her breath away and it swam circled just below the surface, where it would have been easy for her to scoop it back up.

She found herself smiling at the joy of the fish and when she stepped back, it vanished into the depths of the lake with one last glimmer. Smiling, glad that the fish had a chance of survival, she truged back home, seeing the fae cat on her way back.

It was hard to read the expression of an animal that wasn't an animal at all, but there was something thoughtful to it. She bowed politely and after a moment the cat blinked and and dipped its head back at her.

It vanished between one moment and the next, turning to breezes that blew away.

The fae cat did not show up again and winter passed. Even before the last snow passed her plants already poked out of the earth, determined and hardy. They grew first out of all the other plants and they grew faster and stronger as well.

On her way to work at the seamstress' house, the young woman passed by the lake and each time the fish as there, bigger now than it had been before, glimmering and well fed. And each time she walked back from work by with things she had made folded in her satchel, the cotton and linen turned to silk, the simple embroidery thread becoming gold and silver.

The young woman never brought anything she made to the fish, she knew better than to demand magic that wasn't freely given. Besides, it was more than enough already. She never went hungry, her neighbors often trading the best parts of their own meals and hunting with her for her berries and fruit and vegetables.

The fine clothing she traded away for other things and soon the roof of the small house she and her father lived in was properly thatched, the chimney free of chinks and her cupboards filled with honey and candles and herbs and spices.

Even traders began to stop by their small town to ask for some of her garden produce or if she had recently made anything she was willing to part with.

She caught glimpses of the fae from time to time, either as a ragged bird or a scraggly cat and she always bowed a little and left food out for it. The fae seemed puzzled and soon she had company as she worked in the garden or as she weaved bolts of cloth, sewing them into whatever was needed once she was done and bringing the rest to the seamstress.

It was quiet, pleasant company and for all that she knew to be wary of the fae, this one seemed strange. Once or twice she wondered if this was all the fae could do, if it could only exist as a bird or cat and nothing else. Not everything magical was powerful, after all.

She didn't mind, nor did she particularly care if her strange friend was special, she liked them well enough and told them so on one occassion.

The cat blinked and then curled up and fell asleep on the same patchwork pillow that it had claimed in winter. The young woman smiled and kept sewing. And if the cotton turned to silk under her hands and the dyed linen thread to gold, she only noticed so when she was done.

Her father was incredibly proud, boasting that his girl could turn rough, unspun wool into silk and fraying linen thread into gleaming embroidery. That she had turned all the copper in their household into gold.

The other patrons exchanged glances and for all his exaggerated boasting they did wonder how the girl got her hands on so many wonderful things. She did not seem to be a thief, for no one in town was so rich as to own silk clothing and no one's gardens were as good as hers.

It happened then that a lord passed through their town on his journey back home and he overheard the father's boasting as he ate his fill in the tavern. The lord was young and handsome and rich, but hearing the father's boasting woke something greedy and callous and mean within him.

What a brazen thing, the lord thought, of a fool to boast of such magical things. But oh, if it was true, what a treasure he would have found in this backwater town. If it was true, he deserved to have it. If it wasn't, he'd make sure to put a liar in his place.

"I will take her to my castle in the morning," he demanded as he rose, startling the tavern silent. "Three days she has to turn my rotten food into a feast, my linen into silk and my copper into gold."

The father, for just a moment, wished to protest, but there was nothing he could do after his loud bragging than oblige. Even if he hadn't bragged, no one was allowed to deny the young lord anything. He was the most favored nephew of the king and after the death of the king's son he was next in line. One day the throne would be his and his power and influence was great.

"I will send her come dawn," the father said, resigned and nervous. 

The young lord smiled and said, "No, I will have her fetched by one of mine to ensure she really comes." He snapped his fingers and one of his knights stepped away. The lord dipped his head in a mockery of politeness before he left to retire for the night, feeling quite satisfied with himself.

*.*.*

The full story will go live on October the first on my patreon and ko-fi! Thank you all so much for your incredible support, be it memberships, kudos or reblogs and comments! You all make it a joy to share my writing with you.

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[firinnie]

Let's ask Penelope today, should we?

So I think these characters might not appear in Epic because they take too much time/are easily replaced by Odysseus but in Odyssey most of his servants went over to the suitors and we are sure about 3 of them who were loyal to true King until the end.

One of them was Eumaeus, the swineherd, and OH BOY he is a really interesting character, has an interesting backstory and is the best buddy you could ever have. Homer even hides in the text how cool he is, plus he has a heart of gold. Odysseus comes to his hut, transformed into an old beggar by Athena, and not only does he offer him his bed (and sleeps outside with the pigs) or gives him the best cuts of meat at a feast but Eumaeus is literally a fatherly role model for Telemachus, has a close relationship with boy, hugs him when he greets him, etc.

I wanted to tell you all this so that we know what kind of person we are talking about here. Here begins an interesting thing, because the truthful Eumaeus tells Ody-beggar that

"But from Queen Penelope I never get a thing,

never a winning word, no friendly gesture,

not since this, this plague has hit the house

these high and mighty suitors."

So simply "Since the suitors appeared, Penelope has stopped respecting me/us."

I put "/us" there because his way of speaking is very symbolic and I can believe that it may refer to the rest of the loyal servants too.

I was very surprised when I read this because not only is he so good to Telemachus but he defended Pen from suitors. In addition, he was Odysseus' childhood friend, his mother raised Eumaeus side by side with his sister. He was just the most trusted person left but Queen has some problem with him. Or does she not? I think too much about unimportant things but here I believe 3 way to see it are:

1. Penelope is not as close to Eumaeus as Odysseus was so she thinks that he wants to take the place of a father in her son's heart because of their really close relationship.

For Epic Pen I'm sure this is big nope but for canon? Maybe 50:50. This lose a bit of sense of her intelligence and we know her as a wise one.

2. Penelope wants to discredit those who are still loyal by treating them coldly so that the suitors won't pay more attention to them.

That makes sense, but when you look at the fact that the suitors weren't afraid of loyal servants, they believed the king was dead... She had to fend for herself but at the same time she couldn't reject them, Odysseus' father was too old and his son too young to do that either. This sounds like our Pen, putting her emotions aside for the good of others.

3. Panelope pushes away people close to Odysseus because of the pain she feels about his departure.

In my opinion, that makes the most sense and is perfect pair for 2. She became "cold" not intentionally but out of emotion and because she had to announce her husband's death to buy him more time and get rid of over 100 men.

I definitely think too much about one sentence but hey Eumaeus is cool and Penelope is deep. If we can talk about them a bit then why not.

[animentality]

I cling to the prayer for forgiveness first off because it's absolutely insane to apologize to your GOD for admiring a man, whether it's platonic or romantic, but secondly, because.

Because how the fuck was the dark urge acting...or how strongly were they feeling...

That it scared them into begging for forgiveness???

Like listen.

Scleritas Fel insists that he's been with you for your entire life and you two have clearly spent way more time together than Orin and her poor dead imp butler.

But orin herself seems to think having a butler is embarrassing and juvenile and not befitting of a true scion of Bhaal...

She says as much, and Scleritas mentions that the worst thing you've ever done is give a beggar a coin.

A strange moment of generosity...that I doubt orin would ever do.

Now...call me crazy, cuz I definitely am, but...maybe the dark urge always had something in them that wanted to resist.

Maybe that's why Scleritas has to stick to the dark urge so much.

Because they needed his guidance, more than any of the other bhaalspawn.

When you express doubts and fear about who you are, Scleritas doesn't act shocked. He doesn't seem terribly confused.

He takes everything you say in stride, like he's used to it.

Every honeyed word he says is basically saying you'll make the right choice. You'll act in a manner befitting your station. You will be a proper bhaalspawn, I know you will...

Because he's used to correcting you. And fixing you. And trying to mold you.

And to bring it back to the prayer of forgiveness...

What on earth were they doing, that caught their father's attention?

Was it just blasphemous feelings?

Was it in their actions?

I don't know, but I suspect that liking Gortash was not the first transgression they ever made...

Nor would it be the last.

You were always trying...even when his collar was tightly fitted around your throat...there was a glimmer...of something distinctly un-bhaalspawn like in you...

Ahhhhhh.

I can feast on bread crumbs if I want.

[whereserpentswalk]

There was, in ancient times, whenever those times may be, when Atlantis still stood above the waves, and when the Titans still ruled Olympus, a city was devastated by a plague of black ink. Those infected would have their blood turn thick and dark, and the black liquid would leave from their eyes and mouths, until their skin itself melted to that foul ink.

And when half, no more and no less, of the city's citizens had been claimed by the plague, a paladin made of glass walked into the city. His skin, and his eyes, and his teeth and his hair were all transparent glass, only his blood and his internal organs were flesh and blood, able to be seen through his transparent skin. And his armor too was glass, but a thick obsidian, yet less breakable than even steel. And he rode into the city's marble streets, and past it's great towers and pyramids and silver skyscrapers. And he rode on a creature that was more spider than it was horse, and behind him were an entourage of goblins, with blue scales and the heads of vultures and clothing made from mammoth's bones.

And the paladin walked to a white temple, at the city center, and told the plagued people in an inhuman voice. "Bow to me, and strip all your temples of their gods, and worship but me alone. And if you find a single soul who worships your old pantheon put them to the sword and give them no life here. Then and only then will I save you from this plague, and all illness will not exist here. For I am your only hope."

And the elder priests, and the elder statesmen, and the elder warriors all agreed, that this creature was worth any submission as long as he could cure their plague. So, they bowed, and their gods were expelled from their temples, and their statues burnt, and all temples that stood became the temples of the glass paladin. And the plague ended, slowly at first, as all who the paladin's cold glass hands touched were healed, and slowly less and less carried the illness. And all the meanwhile the rotted bodies of those who refused to worship their new savior rotted in the street, as the goblins poked them with spears and chewed their rotting bodies.

And time passed, and years passed, and people lived with the paladin's rule, knowing that the alternative was worse. And when plagues came again, and people wanted to rid themselves of the paladin, the elders said that they could not because the plagues would destroy them without the paladin. And when there were no plagues, and the people were healthy, and people wanted to rid themselves of the paladin, the elders said that they could not because plague would come again without the paladin.

Then one day the city was struck by famine, as the paladin sat in his temple. It had been generations, so many that not the oldest of them remembered the paladin's arrival. The famine marched on and the food was gone from the stores and the markets, and not even the rats had anything to eat but the corpses of the starving, and even the princes failed to fill their feasts. And all the cities' allies had no food to give in time, and all the great stores of goods were empty, and there was nothing anyone within the city's walls seemed to be able to do.

And when half the people had starved, no more and no less the glass paladin spoke to them. He had not spoken at all until his first statement. He walked out of the white temple, and told them, "We have made a deal before, let us make one now. I have become lonely in my temple, and desire company. Let me pick one young girl from whatever house or apartment I may, one every year, to be one of my brides. And even if they resist, I will not kill them but strike away their fingers and eyes until they can resist no more. And in turn I shall give you the nourishment you need, I shall fill your plates with sausages and cherries, and your cups with wine and bubble tea until even your beggars are fat. For I am your only hope."

And it was a dark thing to do, and they questioned if it was right. But the people decided that it was better to have their daughters given to their only hope, then to see them die of starvation. And in time the people were given what they needed to eat, and the famine ended slowly, and the ground touched by the glass paladin was made fertile. And in time what was justified as a necessary evil became a good, and people thought it the highest honor to give their daughters up to the paladin. And there would be great celebration for those who were carried off never to be seen again each year.

And time passed, and years passed, and people lived with the paladin's rule, knowing that the alternative was worse. And when starvation came again, and people wanted to rid themselves of the paladin, the elders said that they could not because the famine would destroy them without the paladin. And when there was food in plenty, and the people were well fed, and people wanted to rid themselves of the paladin, the elders said that they could not because famine would come again without the paladin.

And one day they city was struck by raiders, as the paladin sat in his temple. It had been generations, so many that not the oldest of them remembered the paladin's request for brides. Harpies from the north who came down from the sky to pillage and loot and ransack their treasures. And even the best marksmen of the city could not shoot them out of the sky for the creatures were too fast and too agile. And blood and corpses lined the streets, and the great treasures and works of the city were carried off.

And when half the people were killed or had been carried off as slaves, no more and no less, the paladin spoke to them. He had not spoken at all since the famine. He walked out of the white temple, and told them, "My dear friends near friends, it has come time for me to protect you again. But now the time is but more dire, and as I age these centuries, I grow weak and need new nourishment. I need a new source of food, and to my eldritch form your young men look so very sweet. Once a month send me one of your young men, select them as you will, and I will devour them. And for their sacrifice I shall darken the sky so no wing can fly through and arm my goblins as steadfast soldiers. I will protect you. For I am your only hope."

And at that point who could say no, they would already be struck with famine and plague if the paladin left, and the harpies killed more than the one soul a month the glass paladin wished to eat. It was the obvious choice after all. And in time the goblins fought the harpies well, and the skies grew cold, and the raids became less and less. And in time the priests said that the souls of boys eaten by the glass paladin had the highest place in heaven.

But soon it was too much. And though people said there would be plagues and raiders and famine if the paladin left, weather they were there or not, it just wasn't enough for many. Rebellions began, and people begun to speak of a world without the glass paladin ruling over them all.

And then one day, as the paladin sat in his temple. It had been generations, so many that not the oldest of them remembered the paladin's request for human flesh. The newest boy set to be eaten by the paladin, and the newest girl set to be his bride met within the glass paladin's temple. And they spoke, for hours, for they had nothing else to do but wait for their dark fates. And they became as close friends as people who knew each other's dooms could be. And they hatched a plan, that when the boy was waiting to be cooked in the kitchen, he would meet with the girl, and sneak her a knife, a small one that she could hide. And when the girl spent her first night with the paladin, she would unveil it the moment she undressed and break his glass form. The girl knew the glass paladin would kill her for this, but she decided that she'd rather him take her life then her freedom, that the pain the worst death he could bring her was worth no longer being his toy to control. If men older and more powerful than her had decided such things generations ago she would not have to make such a choice, but she did anyway.

They say the next day, the boy was eaten as expected, and the girl hung for her crimes. The paladin appeared before his people, but his face way shattered and broken, taped together crudely, the glass had been shattered by a knife. The girl had stabbed him right in the eye, honorable as she was, it was not enough to kill him, as broken as his glass flesh was, he stood. And he spoke to his people for the fourth and final time, "Subjects you have been infected with traitors and heretics. They will expel me from this city and leave you to be doomed by raids and famine and plague. So drastic measures must be taken to keep you loyal Tomorow, line up before the temple at dawn and I shall turn you into my goblin subjects, mindless and loyal to me, and you shall live forever without fear of treason. This must be done, or else surly treason shall infect you all, and you all shall die if you are not my children. For I am your only hope."

And they say the next day, the city was empty. And it's great marble streets, and its pyramids and silver skyscrapers had few to behold them. And a precession of goblins left with the glass paladin, ready to find another city afraid of death. But a few, a few who had rebelled and resisted the paladin, a few who had refused to line up, still stood in the city, ready to rebuild it, stronger and wiser, by their own hands.