#being forced to perform capitalism

[lunapwrites]

Crazy rough day today. Just trying to breathe through it. Thank fuck I have therapy tonight. Thank fuck I accepted an offer for help.

[piraytoro]

I also think these discussions make the mistake of taking 'anti-natalist' arguments at face value and ascribing to them their stated function rather than their actual function. I don't think that forced sterilization is actually any more about preventing the potential existence of a child than anti-abortion sentiment is about protecting it; it's about controlling the bodies of marginalized people—largely women—with the specific intent of furthering the infantilizing idea that they can't be trusted with the care of their own children; this is also the function of the welfare policies mentioned above. The system of child removal is a force of assimilation that also ultimately powers the prison industrial complex and other forms of slavery. Cutting these kids off from their communities both accustoms them to state control and shows that people like them have no recourse against the system.

I don't think eradication is really the end goal because eradication undermines the functions of the system as it exists and removes the source of labor. The incredibly loud minority who actually call for complete eradication are necessary even if that end goal is undesirable because. well. they're a minority. They don’t really have the power to push through the extremist ideal. The existence of these extremists is greatly beneficial to those for whom the current status quo is desirable and who need things to stay as-is: both because their rhetoric increases the number of people who are ambivalent or hateful toward disadvantaged groups and because they make this quieter majority seem reasonable and even generous in comparison, allowing them to push the narrative of unfitness as a gesture of apparent benevolence.

Again, the system wants marginalized kids removed from their communities. And so, the narrative must be upkept that marginalized people should not be allowed to have children, because they WILL have children, and then the people who benefit from this system can argue that, since these people are unequipped to and therefore shouldn't have children, it is in the best interest of the child to take that child away. They want marginalized people to have children because the subjugated class is necessary for the survival of the system that profits off their labor—they just want you to think they don't want those kids to exist. Because, if they can get you to agree that those kids shouldn't exist, then you've already dehumanized them and then they’ve won. Which is how the infantilization of people of color leads to their unchilding—another thing that seems 'contradictory' until you look into the mechanisms behind it.

If the system was really after eradication, marginalized groups wouldn't be disproportionately affected and targeted by abortion laws. Under capitalism, it's not ultimately about wanting to get rid of certain bodies; it's about wanting to be able to control them and their output, both in terms of children and in terms of labor (the former just to assure the latter). If the average white middle/upper-class person thinks marginalized people are a burden on society, no amount of forced or underpaid labor will seem unjust. And this forced and underpaid labor is what allows not only billionaires but also the middle/upper classes to live in the manner to which they have become accustomed. And everyone knows it! Everything I’ve just described is what allows them to know this and yet not see it as wrong, so that they’re never moved to do anything about it. They’ve been fooled (and incentivized) into seeing a meritocracy, and ultimately a just world, where none exists. This process underpins the entire system. It’s always been there, by design.

hiii caden, any chance you could simplify/reword this post? as written it is rather difficult for me to parse. <3

hiya, sorry, stuck this in drafts and forgot it was in there 🙈 let me try to rephrase

there's a common issue i see (not just on here) where people try to make blanket statements about how motherhood / parenthood / children are valued socially, but they're thinking only in terms of individual attitudes and misunderstanding why the relevant politics result in statements that might seem contradictory at first. so for example, someone observes that there is, broadly, pressure to have and raise one's biological children. however, someone else points out that this logic doesn't apply to all people equally: in particular, racialised people and poor people are actively discouraged from having children, including by overtly eugenic means like forcible sterilisation (this still happens today!) and welfare policies.

what i was saying in the post was that there is not actually a contradiction between these two positions, despite one appearing 'pro' natalist and one appearing 'anti'. the trick is that the politics that drives both positions (the state's efforts to manage and exploit its population; a politics of human beings as biological resources; hence, what foucault termed 'biopolitics') demands not just the reproduction of a labour force and military reserve, but also the designation of subaltern populations who are considered as a biological threat to the nation / race / national future, and who must therefore be discouraged from reproducing and ultimately eradicated. the politics that highly values one population (eg, the white / 'native born' / able bodied / straight / cis couple and their biological children) is the same politics that inherently also devalues all others (indeed, the attributes that are valued are defined in part through the process of comparison/contrast; these are political designations in the first place).

it's just a common frustration of mine that people try to discuss this as a matter of personal attitudes and are therefore unable to connect natalist and eugenic policies to the biopolitical logics that drive them. it leads to really pointless conversations where people just kind of throw up their hands and act like these attitudes are contradictory or internally inconsistent; they're not. the consistency is not in a uniformly 'pro' or 'anti' position wrt childbearing; it's in the logic that demands and prizes certain bodies and populations, and scapegoats and attempts to eradicate others.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

big question. i'm cis (afab) and my gf is trans (amab) and i'm sorta having a hard time reconciling something. i've been a hard line feminist since i was about 8, by 12 i was a practical library on everything and anything womens lib. i'm spending a lot more time around trans people especially my gf now and i'm sorta struggling to reconcile the trans experience with my feminism. like- i'll see trans women being like "i hate my body :(" "my voice is awful" "i need [x thing to try to pass] ugh" and like my first thought is always "NO! THATS HOW THEY FUCKING GET YOU!!! THE PATRIARCHY WANTS YOU TO HATE YOURSELF SO YOU ENSLAVE YOURSELF TO CAPITALISM AND LIVE IN A CONSTANT STATE OF NEED FOR NEW PRODUCTS TO WARD OFF THE EVER PRESENT SELF HATRED BROUGHT ON YOU BY SOCIETY" and they go "well then how do i pass/transition?" and i honestly don't know and i also don't know how far it goes before its no longer dysphoria but instead the intentional subjugation of women by patriarchy for profit. i wanna help my fellow ladies but i honestly don't know how to like- apply the feminism i was taught as a child to trans women and i want to learn as soon as possible so that i can start doing it like yesterday

hi there,

I'll be honest: if it feels hard to apply the feminism you learned as a kid to your trans friends, that's probably because the feminism you were taught didn't have trans woman in mind.

luckily, the answer to this is something that I consider to be feminism 101: what a woman does with her body is, ultimately, her fucking business.

listen: I agree with you that the beauty industry(TM) is evil. it's misogynistic, it's exploitative, it thrives by making women feel bad enough about themselves to make them spend money on shit they don't need, etc. we all know this.

now, having said that: women who like makeup or wear heels or get laser hair removal or whatever other asinine thing are not my oppressor, nor are they my enemy. dare I say, we have bigger problems.

we also need to consider that many trans women are coming to these choices from a VERY different place than many cis women are. while I think my fellow cis women really benefit from reminders that they're allowed to stop shaving or wearing eyeliner or dieting or whatever, that's because most of us have had those actions forced on us from very young ages and may genuinely need a hand to feel secure breaking out of those behaviors.

the majority of trans women are not coming from a background where they were encouraged to partake in the same personal grooming habits and modes of presentation as cis women; many of them have, in fact, been ostracized, bullied, threatened, and otherwise hurt because of forays into forms of presentation that are considered feminine. no matter how good your intentions may be, approaching your advice indelicately can, unfortunately, make you come across as no different than any transphobe on the street trying to enforce cisnormative societal expectations. it also must be said that, for many trans women, the ability to "pass" is a matter of security - for having their status as women recognized at all, and to avoid harassment and abuse in public spaces. if you live in America, like I do, politicians in power currently have an extremely explicit anti-trans agenda that can make it harrowing to be visible as a trans person, and trans women in particular are frequently targeted for violence.

there are absolutely critiques to be made the way the many trans women are expected to perform hyperfemininity. the notion that someone is duty bound to drastically change their appearance in order to transition at all is itself extremely rooted in cisnormativity, and "passing" is often contingent on being young, thin, able-bodied, reasonably wealthy, and hewing as closely to Eurocentric standards of beauty as possible. that's not awesome! but that's also not the fault of any individual; no trans person asked to be born into a world where gender norms are so narrow and failing to pass can come with a very real risk of physical danger.

also, if I can circle back to this: again, women who participate in aspects of the beauty industry are not our enemies. there are always going to be some number of women who enjoy doing their makeup or like spending time fussing over their little outfits or want breast implants or whatever. some of those women are going to be trans. my official feminist stance on this is that I don't give a shit, because I believe in bodily autonomy even when it involves things I would not do personally and the choices that individual women make about how they want to style their little meat body don't even crack the top 100 things that I'm worried about right now. it's actually kind of vitally important, politically, that trans people be able to safely pursue their preferred gender expression; while it's not particularly revolutionary for a cis woman to go outside all dolled up, whether a trans woman can do that safely is a pretty basic litmus test for how safe a given space is for queer people. it's a ridiculously low bar, and many places will still fail to clear it.

so, yeah, I don't know, dude. be there to talk to your trans girlies if they want to start unpacking some of the pressure they feel to conform to a very rigid idea of womanhood, but whether or not they can walk down the street in your neighborhood safely is a WAY bigger issue than whether they decide to do voice training or not.

if you really want to cut to the root of the insecurity and vulnerability that the beauty industry thrives on exploiting, your time is much better spent working to ensure the trans women in your life feel safe and supported and have a community where they can find support regardless of how they look.

necessary disclaimer I'm a cis girl, any transfemme folks please share your voice here and feel free to clap my ass if I've said something out of line.

[violenteconomics]

I suddenly remembered your 7 man band au when you appeared on my dash, The concept reminded me of kpop idol debut shows, like imagine they only went because the company offered money for getting pass screening but after that you can get booted off so they join, they pass, they get money, theyre ready to hop of this show but plot twist, their made to join the first ep, sure why not more money and it doesn't sacrifice much school time but now they keep winning in the show to the point they fear they might actually be forced to debut as a boyband/Kpop group

i'm gonna be honest, the way u phrased this was h i l a r i o u s.

like imagine there's a popular tv show in twisted wonderland (let's call it "powerline's power stars", based off of that one pop star from "a goofy movie") that's famous for launching the careers of its contestants into the mainstream once they debut. neige and vil both were on it, so of course all of pomefiore knows about it.

epel hears that you can get 500 thaumarks just for signing up to audition, and ANOTHER 500 for actually making it past screening. they all think "why not, money's money" (jack and sebek are just glad they're not going through with ortho's suggestion of making a visual novel gacha game with hot boy characters to attract the "whales", whatever THAT means), and they take a weekend off to shoot their audition tape.

at first they just want to send in their audition, take the money, and leave -- but apparently they're actually pretty good, because one of the producers calls them and says they made it onto "powerline's power stars". they try to back out of it, but as soon as they're promised 1000 thaumarks just for showing up for the shooting, they zoom out of night raven college at record speed.

(well, okay, they do actually write their housewarden some notes explaining why they're not there. the notes themselves are in varying quality, ranging from epel's "money" written in purple glitter pen on a piece of notebook paper and left on vil's doorstep, to sebek's tearful, 10-page long apology in squid ink and delivered via raven.)

when they get on "powerline's power stars", the audience falls in love with them. their chemistry is so good to watch -- a little bullying, incredibly affectionate, and most importantly, surprisingly in-sync despite how much they argue. and their performances are top-notch, always following some kind of theme based on one of the great seven (they are nrc students after all, might as well represent them while they're at it). their creativity and group dynamics easily make them among the the most popular contestants on the show.

the show takes this and markets them in advertisements BRILLIANTLY. sebek and jack are the straight-laced, tsundere-like yet very passionate and protective types. ace and epel are the mischevious, pranking, little shit types, except epel hides it under a delicate facade and a quiet voice. deuce and ortho are the chlidish, overly-excited types who are just there to support their friends and do their best. and yuu is the glue that keeps them together, the ever-present cheerleader, always cheering them on and keeping their spirits up no matter what.

AND EVERYONE EATS THIS SHIT UPPPPPP THE VIEWERSHIP AND RATINGS FOR "POWERLINE'S POWER STARS" GO THROUGH THE FUCKING ROOF AFTER THE FIRST ADVERTISEMENT FEATURING THE FIRST-YEARS, AND THEY PASS THROUGH EVERY ROUND WITHOUT FAIL.

the first-years, on the other hand, are more concerned with the amount of money they're raking in for every round they pass. they're so invested in their new capital, they don't realize how good they're doing until it's announced in the final round that they won the whole thing, and will now signing on with the official "powerline" music brand.

when they're told that they're now actually expected to write an album and make more music videos, instead of being excited, they're like "F U C K we actually have to do WORK now UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

(obviously, they give in and do it, because money is money.)

(...ykw, i'm actually fucking with this idea pretty hard lol. i might make it part of the "seven-man band" canon. like this is the random contest that they joined and that's why their famous now.)

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Capital (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You think you married the plainest woman on earth, and you look away for one second and suddenly she is not. Typical. At least, for Daemon.

Warnings: Mature language, sexual thoughts, canon typical violence.

Requested: Yes! But since I am particular about my aesthetic, I didn't answer there. Jealousy + arranged marriage. Brought to you by the seven deadly sins.

Gluttony /ˈɡlʌtəni/

​the habit of eating and drinking too much.

Claw Island is as good as getting vanished from the court. You know it. Your Lord husband knows it. Even the tenants know it. Why else would the King order your marriage to Daemon Targaryen?

It was not as much of a punishment as the King had hoped. The Celtigars are a prestigious family, one of the few left with Valyrian blood. While not ones to flaunt their riches or seek for great power, you led a luxurious lifestyle.

The finest wines. Myrish rugs. The newest books. And of course, the riches from the surrounding sea. Beautiful pearls, a fleet that, while small, sailed with speed. The best foods.

The small island was your perfect little world, sequestered away from the troubles of the mainland. What else could a person long for, when they lived in a paradise? Claw Island had it all. Miles and miles of tempestuous sea, soft sands and gorgeous wildlife not seen anywhere else. Humble, but good people. Natural riches enough to last a lifetime.

But as of late, your breathtaking lands did nothing to bring you peace. Sometimes, in truth, as you walked along the shoreline, you wished for a tremendous sea wave to swallow you whole.

It would be better than this. Among the crabs, the sea life and wreckage of old ships, you would feel at ease. At home, even. And finally, finally untroubled. But things were not as you wanted them to be. With your Lord Father at court, someone had to mind the island. And no one knew the lands as you did.

You shuddered to think of something happening to you. In that case, the island, and its people, would go to your husband. Considering how much he hated it here, Prince Daemon would make a poor ruler.

You glare. He glares right back. Remembering your manners, you serve him a cut of spider crab seared in butter. The meal is rich and decadent, a show of the best Claw Island has to offer.

“Crab, Lady Wife?” Daemon raises both eyebrows. “Again?”

“What else does the Prince wish to eat?” You do your best effort at keeping your tone even. You try hard to not raise your voice at him, remembering the rumors about what happened to his last wife. So far, it seems to be working. Despite being older than you, the man behaves as a child. You have found he benefits from being managed as one, too.

Ever since you got married, he has been desperately trying to rile you up. The Prince always seemed to deflate when you refused to engage. He was clearly itching for a fight, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“You seem too willing to indulge in cannibalism for my tastes.” Daemon, in what he surely believed to be the absolute demonstration of cutting wit, smirks. You smile at him, sedate. You have heard enough remarks about crabs to last a lifetime. “It’s worrying.”

You could answer him. Perhaps make a mockery of his inability to perform in bed and the behavior of the female praying mantis. You do not. Instead, you force yourself to give him a tight smile.

“Don’t worry. I will ask the servants to bring you fish.” You took your napkin out of your lap and placed it on the table. Dutifully, you rang the bell to call for a servant.

“Again?” Daemon complained, sounding much like a petulant child. You smiled and went back to your seat. Your crab was getting cold, and it would most likely be by the time your husband’s fish was served. But good manners dictated you could not start eating without him. You resigned yourself to another night of eating a cold dinner.

“You should write to the King, my Prince. I would serve you venison, were it not for the fact that your dragon has nearly extincted the population here.” While you were by no means poor, feeding a dragon was an expense you didn’t care for, especially one so picky as Daemon’s was showing to be.

While a dragon was a marvelous creature, and having one guarding your lands was a great perk, it was also hard. Caraxes ate the same as five grown men in a day, if not more. He didn’t eat just anything you served him, either. Much like his owner, he was picky. He had come with dragon keepers, and needed to be built a shelter.

You had hoped that his serpentine appearance would mean that he would eat a lot in one sitting, then hibernate, but no such luck. Your island couldn’t keep up, no matter how hard you tried. Animals didn’t reproduce at the pace required.

“Of course, my Lady. Of course.” Daemon says, in a dismissive tone. It’s then, when a servant comes in with his fish.

Your crab is cold. Again. Daemon is not pleased with the fish, but seems wary of extending dinner even more. For once, he doesn’t complain.

Dinner is eaten silently. In your head, you make plans for tomorrow's meals. Perhaps oysters, served cold, will withstand the wait better. You finish dinner and settle down to read some before bed.

When the time comes for it, you close your book. Daemon departs with a cold kiss to your cheek. You go to your bed, just as cold and empty as the kiss was, and fall asleep.

It’s around the witch's hour when he comes back to you, getting into the bed next to you. He stinks of cheap perfumes and oils. As he pulls you closer, to be able to hide his face on your neck, you can feel the smell of sex and alcohol induced sweat. It comes from the clothes Daemon hasn’t even bothered to shed before getting in bed with you.

You don’t like him drunk. He gets sloppy. You do better when he hides his indiscretions, the proofs of your failure as a woman. As a wife. He seeks his pleasure from other bodies, never yours. With you, he is unable to perform to completion.

Perhaps the same happens to him with others, on nights like these. That thought soothes you, and it’s the only reason why you allow Daemon to seek comfort in your arms. Sometimes, he has nightmares. It’s expected then, too, that you are the one to soothe him back to sleep.

Shifting in his grip, you rub his back, gently. You card your other hand through the matted strands of blonde hair, as a mother would do to his child. In many ways, you guess he is one. You pity him, your husband. A man with a void so deep, not even all the vices in the world could fill it.

You are unable to fall back asleep. You lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling. When you hear the rooster’s first crow, you roll out of bed. Sleep is not coming for you. Daemon, unperturbed in his slumber, only sprawls more. You tuck him in.

When you get to your vanity, you catch the servants leaving the correspondence for the day on it. She giggles when you point at the bed and the mess of clothes, gesturing for silence. It makes you feel better, that they think your husband comes from the pleasure houses straight into your arms for more than just cuddles.

One of the letters catches your eye. It’s written in the strange alphabet used for High Valyrian, bearing both the royal seal and the King’s name. You don’t mean to pry. In fact, you open it because you are worried your husband has upset his brother even more.

Marriage is like being tied to a ship. When the tides are good and the ship strong, you soar above the sea. But no one wants to be tied to a sinking ship. It’s that fear what leads you to heating a knife on your candle’s flame and lifting the seal.

You read as you brush your hair, unrushed. You know Daemon won’t be awake for at least six more hours. But the more you advance, skipping polite greeting, the more your stomach sinks, and you jump from sentence to sentence.

“And while I understand your dislike of Claw Island, it is a less harsh punishment than you deserve. Much you complained of wanting a Valyrian bride, and now the opportunity presents itself, ripe for the taking. Yet, you do not seem keen on it. Is it, again, the lack of a throne you find off-putting? Perhaps, the lack of a child bride you can manipulate? Your Lady Wife might not have purple eyes or silver hair, as you mention, but she is a maiden in the bloom of youth. Tales of her beauty have graced the court, shared among the eager mouths of her family and previous suitors. Both Lord Velaryon and Lord Mooton agree that the woman is a delight, well-mannered and easy on the eyes. She has impeccable breeding and education. I will not grant you the annulment. I will not allow you to go back to your whore.”

There is a coppery taste in your mouth. Blood, you realize. From biting your tongue so hard to avoid letting out a scream of rage. It feels like being stabbed, countless times. In your back, and in your heart. Betrayal and deep, hurtful sorrow.

What have you done to deserve this? To be blindsided so? You have stood firm through all the humiliations your husband puts you through. Never once reproaching the way he goes out after dinner and does not come back until sunrise. Never complaining of his audacity to search comfort in your arms when he is drunk and stinking of whores. Never once raising your voice at the insults to your people, your home, your family.

But for Daemon Targaryen, it wasn’t enough. You would never be enough. Childishly, when you had first heard of your betrothal to him, you had hoped for companionship, if not love. At least, you thought, you would have a friend. But you hadn’t been enough of a woman to keep him in your bed, you had not been enough of the blood of Old Valyria for him to give you children, and you had not been enough for him to stay married to you.

He took from you, and took from your island and from your family, and not once was he satisfied. Not once, he was sated. And now, Daemon has done the unspeakable. Not satisfied with making a mockery out of you, with his constant unfaithfulness, he seeks to ruin you further. It’s only King Viserys who protects you and your family from further embarrassment.

You have underestimated him, pitying him while he planned your demise. The ruin of your house. You have been sharing your bed with the enemy. The thought frightens you and fills you with anger at equal parts. What will happen, when the King dies and the awful Princess with whom your husband was so taken ascends? Will you be put to the sword, accused of an imaginary crime to get you out of the way? Treason, perhaps? Hands shaking in anger, you fold the letter and reseal it as carefully as you can.

That is the day you decide you will retreat into your shell, like any good crab. You will close yourself over, put up walls and keep him as far away as you can. And you will wait for the day to stab at his heels until his physique reflects exactly the useless kind of man he is inside.

One day, this man might kill you. You will have to make sure he does not get away with it.

Envy /ˈenvi/

​the feeling of wanting to be in the same situation as somebody else; the feeling of wanting something that somebody else has.

It’s not often you are summoned to the court. But your father is about to be named Keeper of the Keys, a prestigious position often held by members of your house before being promoted to Master of Coin. The implication is clear. Soon, another Celtigar will be handling the finances of the Kingdom. It’s a ploy, to intertwine you further with the Royal Family. As soon as King Viserys dies, it will be your father who serves on Princess Rhaenyra’s council.

Hence, the need for a celebration. Traveling from Claw Island to King’s Landing is exhausting, especially considering that you do the journey by ship while your husband does so in his dragon. He seems overjoyed about it, but you can only think of how much the separate travel is costing your purses.

Daemon arrives early, because of course he does. Meanwhile, you spend your time preparing to put on the play of your life. You must be the most dutiful wife in the Seven Kingdoms, or else he might find a reason to get rid of you. Setting apart your most fashionable dresses, preparing gifts for the King and Queen and otherwise looking radiant.

Knowing Daemon, he is already whispering poison in his brother’s ear. You need to dazzle the King and the whole court, convince them you are not only an adequate wife but a perfect one. No stain must be perceived in your reputation.

You arrive punctually, just in time to prepare for the feast. It’s inside the Hall where you meet Daemon, and greet him with a kiss on the cheek. Chaste, but affectionate, performed under the King’s approving look. You are radiant in your house’s colors, with subtle references to Targaryen’s ones.

The feast is torture. Viserys, Daemon and Rhaenyra are all seated at the same table. They get along wondrously, while you, Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor are ignored despite being next to them.

The only thing that calms your heart is watching your father, sitting at the table of the Master of Coin.

“My Queen.” You say to her, hoping to curry favor. The Gods knew you needed as many allies as you could. “I brought you this.”

You take out a beautifully engraved rendition of the Prayers Book. It’s a gorgeous edition, with a gold finish. You hope that at least, if she doesn’t like it, she would think it is a gift to the babe she carries. It’s a thoughtful gift, the kind of thing you excel at.

“Oh, Lady Targaryen!” The Queen says, and takes it, admiring it in the light. Fortunately, she seems truly charmed by it. “It is the most wonderful thing!”

“I have one myself.” You tell her, as if you had not purchased it for exactly this moment. “When I heard you were from Oldtown, I couldn’t think of a better thing to bring.”

“It’s lovely.” Alicent says, as your husbands ignore both of you. Viserys and Daemon are too busy having their fun to care about what women are doing. “Will you join me in prayer tomorrow?”

“I would be delighted to.” It’s the first genuine smile you wear since your arrival. And it’s the first time that someone from the royal family smiles back.

You do attempts towards Rhaenyra and Laenor. They both ignore you, and so, you decide to keep strictly to conversing with Alicent. You decide to leave Viserys out of it, despite your gratitude to him because you would rather not look like much of a sycophant.

Your happiness at finally making a friend between your in-laws makes you oblivious to Daemon’s silence. During the whole dinner, he barely taunts you. None of the crab-based insults he so favors are present, either. That should have warned you. If you have learned something about your husband is that there is never a time when he is quiet.

He bides his time. The desserts are already served when Daemon delivers his greatest insult up to date. Some couples are even swaying to the rhythm of the music already, no matter if the tables have yet to be cleared.

“I wish to dance, I think.” Daemon says, getting up from his seat. You start to get up too, knowing you cannot refuse him, but he turns towards Rhaenyra. “A dance, niece?”

Rhaenyra preens under the attention and takes his hand. For a second, you stay frozen, hand falling uselessly by your side just when you were about to reach for him. You feel like you are being stabbed. Again.

The humiliation is so great you wish for some great disaster, perhaps one of the couples bumping against a table and overturning it, just to get the attention away from you. Half the hall has now seen you get rejected by your husband. In a celebration meant to honor your father, nonetheless.

You struggle to keep your face emotionless, curved into a polite little smile. You have made a fool of yourself. Hot tears gather in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Noticing your despair, Alicent places a hand on your arm, softly.

“Thank you, Lady Targaryen.” She exclaims, loudly. “With the babe getting bigger and bigger every day, I find it harder to stand. You are very thoughtful.”

Her rescue, as she stands and walks down the dais, helps you save face. Your smile turns more genuine.

“It’s but good breeding, my Queen.” You answer, just as loud. “What kind of noble could see a Lady of your station and not aid her?”

Alicent smiles, and she cradles her stomach.

“Indeed. Only a savage, I would think.” Her glance at her own husband is unmistakable. But Viserys is too busy watching Rhaenyra and Daemon dance to help his pregnant wife. His eyes never leave his brother and daughter, his expression twisted into one of annoyance.

Alicent makes her way towards a table where a few knights sit. Most of them are from Oldtown, and you cannot help but smile at her doing the rounds her husband so neglects. But her rescue, and quick exit, leave you in an uncomfortable position. King Viserys and Ser Laenor are engaged in conversation, including you only when they remember your presence, which means once every half an hour.

Without Queen Alicent, you have no conversation partner. The only thing you can do is watch. Daemon twirls around the room as if he were not a married man, taking every eligible bachelorette in the room for at least one dance. He is enchanting, pulling blushes left and right. He dances twice with Rhaenyra and Laena Velaryon.

You play your part to perfection. Each time he glances your way, you give him an indulgent smile or a sweet tilt of your head. Even when he dances again with Rhaenyra, your expressions don't shift. Instead, you lift your cup to them and even find it in yourself to give a small clap.

It’s torture. It’s exhausting, having to play the devoted but never jealous wife, when he is doing his best to embarrass you. Finally, the King retires, but orders that the celebrations do not stop. You consider making your way towards your father, uncaring if leaving Laenor sitting on his own is rude.

Just as you are getting up, a knight, dressed in a fine green gambeson, steps in front of you. You look up at him, wondering what he could possibly want.

His voice is soft and eloquent, with the barest hint of an accent. His voice reminds you of someone, but you cannot quite place who.

“Lady Targaryen. You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you.” You answer him, politely. Is he about to ask you for a dance? Is this a ploy for your husband to embarrass you further?

The knight smiles. He is tall and slender, very different from your husband, yet handsome just the same.

“If I had a wife as pretty as you, she wouldn’t be sitting here.” He compliments, and startles a laugh out of you. It has been months since the last time a man complimented you so. Before marrying, you had quite the suitors, but no one dared practice courtly love with the Rogue Prince’s wife. And your husband never once spoke to you kindly.

It’s a thrill, to feel wanted and appreciated again. You love having his eyes on you. It fills you with a forgotten kind of confidence. As the daughter of the man whose star in court is rising, as a beautiful woman and as the wife of a Prince, you deserve to be admired. It’s not your fault your husband can’t see it, you are desirable. People should be currying for your favor. You shouldn’t be begging for the scraps of a man whose only interest is his niece.

“Would she be on the dance floor?” You tease the knight, falling back into the practiced flirtations that had made you so popular before. You feel like you are glowing again.

The knight shakes his head, a hint of mischief appearing in his brown eyes.

“I would forbid her from leaving my chambers.”

At that, you laugh again, blushing. Despite how charming he is, you are still a married woman. You cannot give anyone reason to suspect or judge you, else Daemon might have basis to rid himself of you.

“I am not your wife.” You say, politely. The knight gasps, as if wounded, making you laugh again. You do not realize someone is glaring daggers at you, entranced as you are by him. “But perhaps a dance might suffice?”

The knight gives you a cheeky grin. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet, gently.

As he leads you towards the dance floor, you barely notice Daemon looking disgruntled on the edge of it. You look over and see Rhenyra dancing with some tall and broad knight. He is probably jealous of him.

“You must give me your favor, for tomorrow's tournament. We are, after all, celebrating your family.” The knight says, making you focus back on him. His eyes are brown and kind, so soft. They remind you of someone, but once again, you can’t tell who.

“Ah, I see you are a tough negotiator.” You tease, your tone turning slightly more girlish. This time, it is the knight who laughs.

“What can I say? It’s in my blood.” The man winks, as he starts to twirl you around.

“I think, my lord, you have yourself a deal.” You grin.

It’s only when a Hightower knight approaches the stands the next day and offers you his lanze, you realize the mistake you have made.

Wrath /ræθ/

​extreme anger.

Daemon can’t believe his ears. Out of nowhere, a sweet sound reaches him. It’s the sound of a Lady’s laughter, but something about it makes him turn his head.

Perhaps, the fact that the sound has managed to catch his attention at all, despite the loud music, chatter and other laughs. Perhaps it is that the sound is familiar to him. He doesn’t know what it is, but as the piece finishes, he steps aside and tries searching for the source.

It’s then he sees you. His wife. Glowing and laughing on that Hightower cunt’s arm. And no, it’s not Alicent he is referring to. Otto’s spawn seems to have a proclivity for you because this is the other one. The elder.

Gwayne. His hands all over you, a gentle touch to your lower back to guide you forward. And are your eyes brightening? For him? As you pass by Daemon, you barely spare him a glance. He manages to hear a piece of the conversation.

“Your favor, for tomorrow's tournament…” The man has the gall to ask, as if he could win you the flower crown! The nerve of that Hightower pup, to think himself able to win. It’s clear he doesn’t remember the last time he faced Daemon, and while he was already planning on entering, now he knows with absolute certainty he is competing. Gwayne Hightower seems to have forgotten his lesson. He needs to remember his place.

“… Tough negotiator…” Your cheerful voice answers. Probably telling him he has to win if you do so because you are Valyrian and proud like him. Surely, the idea of getting crowned Queen of Love and Beauty appeals to you. You want a flower crown? Daemon will get you the damn thing.

When he was no more than a boy, his father used to have a particularly overzealous hound. Daemon had taken great delight in setting him free just when ladies were visiting. The dog loved sniffing beneath the ladies' skirts and humping their legs. The whole scene often ended up with Daemon getting yelled at, either by the ladies or their husbands. Now, as he looked at the proverbial dog humping his wife, Daemon understood why the ladies' husbands were so enraged.

He should cut his hands. Hightowers. No sense of shame at all, with their whorish ways. They were all the same. There went Alicent, throwing herself at Viserys when poor Aemma was not even in her pyre. There went Gwayne Hightower, placing his paws all over you and trying to charm you when Daemon was still in the room.

Couldn’t he tell you are his? It’s not that Daemon likes you, but it’s an affront to his honor. You are the wife of a Prince. The mere fact that a measly knight thought he could compare it’s outrageous. And the fact that he dared touch you! The nerve!

It’s Daemon who shares your bed, back in Claw Island. It’s Daemon you hold during the night, who pays for your silly little dresses. It’s for him you have clearly gotten all pretty today. How dare he, that Hightower fool.

He can’t have you. Gwayne Hightower is not allowed to just swoop in and try to steal his woman. You are meant to sleep by his side, be his solace. You are not the kind of woman for whom a simple knight would be enough. Just like him, you love the lush life. Could Gwayne Hightower buy you a dress like that? Could he use a dragon to protect your little island?

Daemon clutches at his cup so hard, he thinks he might bend the metal. You are his bride. He is the only one allowed to have you. If he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t mean someone else can.

Rhaenyra approaches him again, no doubt wanting another dance. But not even her allure, which is usually so hypnotizing to him, manages to get him out of his bad mood. He hates when other people touch what is his.

Daemon decides to retire for the night, before she can reach him. He needs to think. How he longs for your shared rooms back at Claw Island. At least that way, he wouldn’t spend the night tossing and turning, wondering if the Hightower cunt escorted you back to your rooms, and if so, at which hour.

Strange, isn’t it? Such a small act can cause such a big shift in perspective. So many months, he had spent thinking of Claw Island a prison, longing to be able to come back to court. Now, he sees it as it was. A shell made to protect the most valuable pearl the sea had produced.

Had Daemon known men at court would try to steal his bride, he would have never authorized this trip. Your father could have been named Hand, but you would have never stepped foot outside your castle if Daemon had known. You would not be taken with Gwayne Hightower if he had a say in it.

He had a plan. The knight would make a fool out of himself. Daemon just had to encourage him in the right direction.

Daemon is up and about as soon as the sun is. He strolls towards the space prepared for the tournament, armor in hand. He changes slowly, giving plenty of time for Gwayne Hightower to arrive.

The foolish knight does. So do you, sitting next to your father in the stands, all pretty and glowy under the sun. You wear a red gown that compliments not only your skin tone, but pays homage to both of your houses. After all, both House Targaryen and Celtigar have red on their coats of arms. A clear show that you were meant to be his, and his alone. What would you even look like, if you were married to a Hightower fool? Red and green would look hideous in a dress.

As the highest-ranking competitor, Daemon gets to make the first challenge. To no one’s surprise, he picks Gwayne Hightower.

Daemon waits with bated breath, already seated on his horse. Does the man dare? Oh, he dares! The Hightower cunt gallops towards the stands. You don’t rise, looking towards the Hightower whore. It’s then he realizes you must be truly innocent. You are either doubting the boldness of the man or are not aware of his house, and do not recognize him under the armor.

But as Gwayne Hightower reaches the stand, Daemon close on his heels, he takes off his helmet. You gasp.

The Hightower whore makes a move as if to get up. Her brother’s voice cuts her off.

“I was hoping to get a sign of your favor, my Lady.” The man says to you, and your eyes widen. You stand, shakily. You look at Daemon, then at the cunt, then at him, then back at the cunt. Daemon arches an eyebrow, visor lifted. “For you have already struck me with your beauty, and the fact that you cannot be mine. Allow me the consolation of placing a crown of flowers upon you, and soothe my wounded heart.”

You gasp at the bold declaration. Daemon has to admit it, the cunt has some nerve. Not only has he praised you in ways that are too bold even for a couple courting, but he has slighted Daemon in front of the whole court. He has made explicit mention of your marriage to him.

Viserys eyes him warily. Daemon scoffs. The distrust is unnecessary. Why would he slaughter the Hightower now, when he has the chance to plummet him into the ground without consequences in just a few minutes? Besides, it would be in bad taste, slaughtering the brother of his sister-in-law.

Your father urges you forward, with a forced laugh. You grasp one of the favors from your box, which has only two, and place it upon the Hightower’s lanze. The pretty ribbons sway in the wind. White and red from House Celtigar proudly displayed.

Daemon clears his throat, and presents his own lanze.

“How touching.”

You ignore him, as Rhaenyra approaches. Surely thinking how he will want to wear her favor, after his rejection of last night. Curse him, Daemon thinks. He should have danced with you. If he had known that up jumped son of a rat was going to try his luck, you would have not left Daemon’s arms the whole night.

“Thank you, niece. But today I fancy wearing my wife’s favor. For it would be a shame for her to be lacking her crown once her champion undoubtedly disappoints.” He loudly declares, uncaring if his niece’s face falls. Rhaenyra will get over it. But this has turned into a manhood competition. He can’t let Gwayne Hightower, of all people, win.

“Can I do that?” Daemon hears you whisper towards Viserys and his whore. “Can I have two champions fighting each other?”

Viserys, as if this is the most fun he has had in a while, answers cheerfully.

“Of course, my dear girl.” It probably is the most fun he has had in a while. Really. It must be very amusing to him, after hearing Daemon complain about you for months. Who would have known he would have to fight some Hightower for your attention? Laughable, really. A Prince groveling. “Double the chances for you to get the flower crown, is it not?”

“Of course.” Your father jumps in, clearly trying to prevent a scandal. “Go on, love. Give the other one to your husband. If more are needed, we will get more ribbons.”

You approach Daemon, pretty little favor on your delicate hands. You smile at him, pleasantly. But this close, he can tell you are shaken by the power play happening right in front of your eyes.

Daemon lowers his lanze as you stretch to place your ribbons. You give him a confused and hurt look. He stretches closer.

“Save that one.” Daemon says, as he places a hand on your hair and pulls out the red ribbon that holds it back. “I’m your husband, I get some privileges.”

His gesture makes you laugh. Daemon feels on top of the world. He gives a superior glance to the Hightower cunt, as if saying: Look at me, I do not need half your effort and get double the results.

Daemon is not so deluded as to think the laugh is more than half nervousness and half playing the part of the dutiful wife you are, but to Daemon is still a win. He can see why the other lords want you. With your hair loose, smiling and with your skin glowing from the sun, you are actually quite pretty.

He ties the ribbon around the pommel of the lanze.

“A kiss, for good luck?” Daemon knows he is pushing, but cannot help but be smug. His pretty wife gave him her hair ribbon to tie around his chosen weapon, for all the court to see. Smugness radiates out of his pores.

Without any expectation, the sweet peck you give him is even more of a delight. Even more sweet is the disgruntled look on Gwayne Hightower's face.

Safe to say, the man gets unseated so fast, it has to be the quickest defeat ever registered. The crunch he makes as he falls from his horse it’s the most satisfying sound Daemon has ever heard. The crowd gasps and cheers. The man does not get up.

That will teach him, he decides. Gwayne Higtwoer will never again even look your way. Daemon turns his horse back around, ready to face his next opponent, but it’s stopped by the pages.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower has requested to continue with the sword.” At that, his blood boils. He nearly jumps off his horse, discarding the lanze and unsheathing Dark Sister.

“What will it be, boy? First blood?” He saunters towards the man, and the sight of him this close only serves to anger him more. He shares Otto’s slender build, tall and slight. In Hightower armor, he even looks like him. Daemon is going to enjoy this.

“Why stop there?” The knight asks, hatefully. “Until one of us yields.”

“As you wish.” Daemon charges, forgoing his shield. He is just too angered for politeness. This is not jousting anymore, it’s his hate for Higtowers, and the fact that this man has tried to take something that’s his. He should have never looked your way. Never. And if it’s up to Daemon, perhaps he will leave the arena without the ability to repeat the feat.

The fight is quick and dirty, but even when he has disarmed and cornered him, Gwayne Higtower refuses to yield.

“What are you..?” Daemon asks, utterly confused because the little savage is grabbing Dark Sister with gauntled hands and pulling.

“Just as marriage is not an excuse for not loving…” He grins, teeth bared in a feral little grin, and Daemon lets go of his sword in surprise at the boldness of the fool. “No weapon is no excuse for yielding.”

He loses it, then. Later, he will only remember red. Daemon throws himself at him and starts punching him, until the asshole goes limp on his arms and has to be pulled away from him.

Only the fact that the Hightower fought back is what allows him to keep participating in the tournament, instead of being exiled again. The split lip and bleeding eyebrow do serve to build a case in his favor.

He wins the tournament without any opposition. With bloody hands, he places the flower crown on your head. Your horrified look is not as satisfactory as he would have thought.

Pride /praɪd/

the feeling that you are better or more important than other people.

Daemon manages to get a hold of you before you vacate the stands. You are trying to avoid the crowds, waiting patiently in your seat. He doesn’t allow it, urging you towards his chambers with a firm grip on your wrist.

Some other ladies titter and giggle, pointing towards the two of you. No doubt, they think he is about to ravish you. They are not wrong.

It’s not often Daemon feels desire for you. In truth, while you have a pretty mouth and a soft body, you do little for him. But today, you are enchanting. The flower crown still sits atop of your windswept hair, making you look like a forest nymph. There are a few red stains along your temple, left there by Daemon’s hands when he placed the crown on top of your hair.

Never has there been a woman more deserving of the title of Queen of Love and Beauty. As you walk with him down the halls, he feels a smug sort of satisfaction. Here is the woman half the court wants, Daemon wants to scream. Here is my wife.

The feeling is not unfamiliar to him, but it is in relation to you. His possessive nature so far has only extended towards members of his house. The lust is new, too. Daemon has experimented it many times, but never towards whom he should.

As soon the door closes after you, he kisses you forcefully, only for you to shove him away.

“What are you doing?” You ask, as you spit out some of his blood. You are remarkably strong, having been able to push him while still in armor. But what shocks him the most is the fact that you did it at all. Months of marriage and you have done nothing but smile, regardless of what Daemon does.

“Shh, Lady Wife. Nothing unusual, I assure you.” He pulls you back in, kissing along your neck. This time, you push him even harder.

Daemon stumbles and blinks, hard. Are you rejecting him? He sits down on the bed and takes off his helmet. He has beaten the Hightower fool half to death and won you the silly flower crown. Why would you reject him?

“You prefer him, don't you?” That has to be the answer, surely. You must be having an affair with the cunt. Why else would you reject him? It’s not allowed. While Daemon is not particularly keen on forcing you, you are his wife. He has a right to your body, and you shouldn’t deny him. You know it. Never before have you refused him, due to the same reason. So this must be something else.

“What nonsense are you on, now?” You barely lift your eyes from your work, busy with pouring some water in a bowl and taking out clean linens. Efficiently, as if a seasoned healer, and not a soft lady from Claw Island, you rip them apart.

“Don’t play daft, wife.” Daemon reproaches, scowling. Your innocent act is starting to tire him. You can’t possibly believe him so dumb. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“If this is about Ser Gwayne…” You start and he feels the urge to scream. He can’t help but cut you off.

“Of course it is! Of course it is about that fucking Hightower.” Daemon’s voice goes high-pitched, imitating yours. “Ser, Ser.” He rolls his eyes. “How easily they hand titles now. Is every scum in this realm a knight?”

Your face doesn’t even twitch. That is one of the things about you that drive him to insanity. No matter what Daemon says, he never seems to get a reaction. It’s infuriating. You are all manners and dimples, even in the face of the most vile insults he throws your way. You either have no honor, letting him stomp all over you, or you think him right. Pathetic. Even the Bronze Bitch bit back.

His nostrils flare. Softly, you step between his parted legs and dab at the cut on his brow with a soaked linen. Ever dutiful.

“You do know adultery is a crime.” Daemon says, in a low, threatening tone. You give him a pleasant smile, squeezing water out of the cloth. It runs red and fast down your wrist.

“So is incest.” Your voice is far too cheerful for someone who just got accused of a crime that’s punishable by death if he so chooses. And not only that, but you have the nerve to threaten him.

“I am a Targaryen.” Daemon practically growls. You glare at him. He should be angry, but instead, his loins seem to heat up. Who can fault him? Any man would feel the urge to take you over and over, when faced with those eyes and those lashes.

Surely, after it, you would understand you were his and not Gwayne Hightower’s. It was not such an ambitious plan. Perhaps a lesser man would have trouble with it, but not Daemon. Give him ten minutes between your legs and you would be singing his praises.

“And I am a Celtigar.” His pause has allowed you enough time to form a retort. You press down on the cut on his brow with a viciousness that startles him. Daemon winces in pain. No getting distracted, he notes. Less you murder him when he is not paying attention. “To stifle the blood flow.” You explain, but Daemon can see the bloodlust in your eyes. You want him to hurt. The past few months have not gone in vain, it appears.

“Mine, you are mine.” He replies, gruffly.

You let go of the cloth, hands on your hips. Your mouth opens and closes, astonished.

“You don’t have any right to speak those words to me.” How he longs to grab you and show you exactly who is in charge. There you are, screaming! You! The woman who Daemon doubted knew how to make sounds louder than polite conversation. “Am I not the bride you never wanted? Your chain? Well then, sail free. Go!” You scream, and Daemon needs to pick his jaw off the floor because never has he seen you this angry.

Are you screaming at him? He feels the urge to pinch himself, to see if he is dreaming. But the way you are pointing your finger towards the door seems very real. Still a bit confused by the sudden personality change, Daemon does not obey.

It feels like a dream. Like stepping into a parallel world. The words that come out of his mouth are spoken by a stranger, and he can only watch as you turn more and more furious.

“No. Come here.” Daemon grabs at your gown, trying to pull you into him. He doesn’t really know what he is going to do if you budge. Place you in his lap and placate you with a kiss? He doesn’t get to find out. Grabbing you has clearly been the wrong move.

You slip out of his grip with a harsh jerk. Daemon is not as young as he used to be, but the sight makes his lust bubble up. You are alluring when angry, all passionate lines, and bloody temples. Valyrian, in a way you had never been before, with your darker coloring and soft manners. Yet, when mad? You are a conqueror goddess made flesh.

“No! I will not. I am not yours. We might be married but I will…” You stomp your foot at him, all angry little crab. For the first time, he sees fire in you.

Such a shame this is the moment you chose to grow a spine. He couldn’t understand where you had been all this time. So many months wasted with the meek little wife, when he could have had you instead.

Why had you decided to show you had a personality now, of all times? It was not fair, if it was for that Hightower cunt.

“Why Gwayne Hightower? Out of all the men on earth?” Daemon mutters, clearly not low enough because you answer him.

“This is not about Gwayne Hightower.” You glare, crown of flowers balancing precariously on top of your head. As you move, a few petals fall down. Angry little dryad that you are, you bat them away.

“If not, what is it about?”

“You!” You scream at him. It’s hateful, it's rage filled, it’s everything you are usually not. A true Valyrian goddess, letting mere mortals feel her might. Daemon would have enjoyed the display more if he wasn’t the mortal in question. “I forgot what it felt like to be wanted. To be looked at as someone who was desirable. Do you know how I have felt? Begging for scraps of attention, trying to make this work?”

“Wife…” He pleads because now there are tears in your eyes, and while Daemon doesn’t do begging, he doesn’t do comforting either.

“Do not call me that! Didn’t you petition for an annulment?” And how had you found out about that? While he had not been exactly secretive with his correspondence, he didn’t believe you to be proficient in High Valyrian. He has no time to ponder on it because you intend to go further. “Well, you are in luck! I will make my own request!”

“Viserys will not allow it.” Even if Daemon has to go beg him on his knees to not grant it, you are not annulling this marriage. Not when he is just starting to see the real you.

“Fine! Then I am going back to Claw Island. Stay here.” You scream, and you look so determined it scares him. For a second, he actually thinks you have the power to ban him from the island and force him to stay, giving you plenty of time to receive visitors. Male visitors, all surrounding you, courting you, as if he were already dead and not just exiled.

“Look. I’m sorry. Can we start over?” Daemon offers, in his most pleading tone. He has not apologized since… Gods. He barely remembers how to do it.

“You made me forget I deserved more than scraps.” You laugh at him, as his first apology to someone in more than ten years is the funniest joke existing. Then, enraged. “It will be a cold day in the Seven Hells, when I give you another chance.”

Hurt. He realizes, as you throw the flower crown at his feet and slam the door. Hurt. You are hurt, not angry. He has done the worst thing a man can do to a woman. Damage her pride.

Lust lʌst/

very strong sexual desire, especially when love is not involved.

Much to your dismay, every time you try to speak alone to the King, you are swiftly intercepted. If it’s not Corlys Velaryon asking you to help him pick a book in the library, it’s your Lord Father summoning you to his chambers. It seems like the whole palace is in it because even Princess Rhaenys asks you to stroll with her through the gardens when you lurk too close to Viserys’s chambers.

Daemon was smarter than you thought. He had taken to using your own weapons against you. The need to be polite kept you from rejecting all these new invitations, and so, you often ended up stuck an entire afternoon with nonsensical plans.

As time passes, your rage starts to subside. Much to your disgust, it morphs into shame. You cannot believe how you lost control in front of Daemon. Everything you have worked so hard on could vanish for a single afternoon pf foolishness.

You would rather not be his enemy. When the time comes for the two of you to go back to Claw Island, Gwayne Hightower is still bedridden, despite it already being days. Daemon is a dangerous man to cross.

Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem angry, or even resentful. In fact, your husband has never been more attentive. With the talent of existing just at the right moment, Daemon appears at your side each time there is a door to be opened or a chair to be pulled.

“No one has ever seen him like this.” Queen Alicent marvels, as he watches him go fetch you a blanket in case the room is too cold for your liking. “Whatever you did to him…”

“Nothing, I assure you.” You answer, sternly. You don’t want her getting funny ideas, like that you are dabbling in witchery or the Seven knows what. It’s not something you can afford. Already balancing on a tightrope after the fight, any accusation could be your ruin. You do not trust Daemon’s change of heart. He is probably just biding his time.

Noticing something is amiss, Daemon comes back with the blanket, wrapping it around you. Alicent falls quiet.

Daemon stares at you, his hands lingering on your back more than necessary. He seems to be taking you in. His eyes fixate on your bosom a tad too long before you realize what he is doing, and you cover yourself more with the blanket.

Your cheeks heat up. You cough. Alicent’s brows raise.

“You are so beautiful, wife.” Daemon says, a bit dumbly.

“And you are a fool.” Your response is heated, and stupid, too. But you feel too embarrassed to care. Alicent is still sitting there, with a scandalized look on her face. Anyone would be ashamed to be the object of such obvious ogling, much less when they have never been exposed to it.

You are unused to this side of your husband. At most, when trying to consummate, Daemon would glance at you with disdain and proclaim it was all your fault. His eyes would never watch the heaving of your chest as you breathed, or the sway of your skirts when you walked. Were you superstitious, you would have thought him a man possessed.

Daemon laughs, either at your comment or your expression. It’s good, you suppose. At least he has not taken offense. You would have thought he would be angered, never one to suffer affronts to his pride without reacting.

“Your fool.” He leans down and places a kiss on your forehead, before walking away.

You stare at him. Alicent stares at you. Neither says anything. You are not sure what to make of it. It’s strange. It’s him now, who serves you dinner. The choicest cuts of meat, the sweetest of wines and meads, never asking for anything in exchange.

He has gotten unusually affectionate. Or possessive. Whatever it’s going through his mind, you don’t know. Daemon has never been open about his thoughts and feelings with you, unless they stem from displeasure.

Perhaps it’s a burst of boastfulness. He flaunts you, a hand on your waist, lower arm, whatever he can get away with. He is suddenly interested in the dresses you wear, commenting on them and gifting you new ones just because he thinks they would suit you. You do not miss the fact that the dresses are always in his house’s colors or styles he personally favors, with intricate needlework and embroidery.

It’s interesting. Once again, his testing of boundaries seems to come back. His hands are always playing with the curls at the nape of your neck, or the folds of your skirt. You have even caught him toying with the buttons of your bodice. It borders on the inappropriate.

“You are pushing it.” You say to him when his hands curls around yours as you dance. He is supposed to keep his hand extended for this step. He doesn’t seem to care. The other guests give him amused looks. No one is about to chide a Prince for his lovesick behavior towards his wife. Especially in a goodbye feast for the couple.

In truth, you are starting to think most of the fathers at court are relieved. If the Rogue Prince is chasing after his wife, then he is not chasing their daughters.

“Holding your hand is pushing it?” Daemon holds your hand more securely, as he makes you spin. This is another new and unexpected development. Now, he only dances with you. No heated looks at Rhaenyra, no longing glances towards Laena. You are not sure how you feel about it.

“It is. You are inconveniencing everyone.” You say, as he spins you again with a flourish. Despite wanting so badly to keep being cross with him, you cannot help but laugh with childish delight. What girl doesn’t want to be twirled around and made to feel special? “You are supposed to exchange partners.”

The balance of the dance has been thrown off by his refusal to let go of you. Any time there needs to be a switch, the couples flounder around the two of you. It’s childish on his part, but he seems unwilling to let you dance with another man.

“Oh, you haven’t seen me pushing it yet.” Daemon laughs, and pulls you in until your body is flush against his. It’s improper and probably not allowed. Scandalous, even. Yet again, no one is about to say anything.

Much less you, suddenly realizing that being pressed so close to Daemon is quite enjoyable. He smells surprisingly clean this evening. No trace of alcohol on his skin, or other women’s perfumes. Instead, he smells of the soap he usually favors and some sort of aromatic oil.

“Will you push further, then?” You raise your brows. It’s sort of amusing that Daemon is trying so hard. You would have not taken him for the seducing type, not when he had been so keen on dissolving your marriage.

“I will.” Daemon leans in, to whisper in your ear. His voice is low, thick with desire. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “I want you. I burn for you. I need you in my bed, on top of me, under me, any way you will let me have you.”

You give a scandalized little gasp, softly hitting his shoulder. Daemon grins, pulling you in even more. The two of you are so close, you imagine you can feel his heart beating against yours.

“I’m not done.” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your jaw. Daemon’s lips trail kisses towards your ear, teasingly blowing some air against it. “I want to spend the nights feasting between your thighs, on the valley of your breasts…”

“Stop it! We are in public.” You squeak, yet you look up at him like a flower searching for the sun. The attention he bestows on you is flattering, and you can't help but want to hear more.

“Do you want to hear a secret, wife? Every time you walk, I find myself lost in the sway of your hips. I want to drown on it. Drown on you. Until no trace of another remains, until the taste of your lips is the only thing I know.”

By this point, your skin feels so hot you worry you are about to combust. You gape at him. Not only has he dared to make a bold declaration, but he has done so in a room full of people.

You take a moment to gather yourself. Daemon could be bluffing for all you know, and so, you decide to match him. You brush your thumb against his cheekbone, feather-light.

“Then do it. No one is stopping you. Come to bed. Drown on me. Drink me, take me, ravish me.” You are trembling, and you only realize it when Daemon holds you tighter against him. You feel feverish, voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “Give me Valyrian sons, to hold my island when we are both gone.”

“No. No.” He says, against the curve of your neck, embraced much closer than the dance requires, making a spectacle. “I want them to have your smile and your eyes, and that infuriating curve of your shoulder. Give me daughters with your smart mouth, and your even temper. I want them to be proof of the love I had for you.”

You tremble more. Love. He really said… Oh, by the Seven.

“You are shaking.” Daemon kisses your brow. “Don’t. Unless it is from pleasure.”

Laughter rings in your ears. It's yours, but it feels foreign. You are too stunned to think clearly. Daemon tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“Are you still there, Lady Wife?” He taps at your lower lip with his thumb. There is a teasing tilt to his smile, but his eyes are nervous. Vulnerable. Daemon was clearly not planning on confessing tonight. “Or have I broken you?”

“Prove it.” You say, still caught up on the love part. His declaration has sent your mind reeling, and shown you all of your latest interactions in a new light. You don’t know if Daemon knows what he is doing. He is a deeply passionate creature, much like his house’s sigil. Daemon doesn’t do infatuations, nor does he do dislikes. He loves or hates, and there is no in between.

“I will.” He promises, playing with a stray piece of hair that has fallen out of your up do. “Our whole lives. But perhaps I can start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You frown, puzzled. You even pull back from his embrace to be able to look at his face. What an odd thing to say. Despite it, you admire the utter shamelessness he has about it. Were it you the one accidentally confessing, you would be a bundle of nerves.

Daemon doesn’t even blush. Of course, there is the small fact that he believes himself to be the Seven’s gift to humankind. You suppose if you believed yourself to be irresistible, you wouldn’t be nervous either. Cockiness wasn’t something you thought did it for you, but it seemed like you were learning new things every day.

“You will see.” Daemon smiles. You let him keep his secret, figuring it can’t be anything that bad.

You discover what he means when you arrive at Claw Island. A dragon egg waits for you, the fireplace clearly modified in a hurry, judging by the new stones and bricks that were added to the hearth.

“Even if it never hatches, I want you to have it. For you are as Valyrian as we are, and I was a fool not to see it sooner. You are worthy. It should have been on your cradle as a child.”

Greed /ɡriːd/

​a strong desire for more wealth, possessions, power, etc. than a person needs.

The way his eyes trail after you now, it’s quite unfamiliar. Not lust, nor disdain. Something entirely new. Heavier.

Your afternoons have been filled with new entertainment. You coo at the egg, holding it over the fire. Sometimes, Daemon kneels beside you and helps you hold it, making a game of it. How long before either of you gets burned? How long can you endure, hands so close to the fire, before you are yelping and giving it to him?

When you think he is not looking, you speak to it in High Valyrian, whispering soft promises of how loved him or her will be once it hatches. There is no doubt in your mind it will. Perhaps not in weeks, or even months. Yet, your heart tells you there will be a dragon before your life ends.

Every night, you place the egg in the bed next to you. On your side, you curl around it, trying to share your warmth. Daemon reaches forward, sometimes. When he thinks you are asleep, his hand will curl over your waist and touch the egg, pressing it more against your stomach. You wonder what he means by it.

Does he know what he is doing? The low lullabies he half sings, half mutters under his breath indicate a yes. The way his lips curl into a soft smile against your nape show a longing that’s very much not subconscious.

Just as a pot of boiling water, the egg hatches a night no one it’s looking at it. Both Daemon and you are curled in a love seat, engrossed in a book. He is reading something about the doom of Valyria, your legs over his lap. You are submerged in a text about a man’s travels around the Free Cities.

One of his hands is wrapped around your ankle, in the sweetest of chains. Each time he flips a page, he will brush it with his thumb, softly. While not unwelcome, it’s strange. You are not used to being comforted in the same way you did for him during the first months of marriage. While Daemon doesn’t expect any kind of retribution, you find yourself granting it anyway.

The domesticity is quickly broken, however, when a strange noise fills the halls of your home. At first, you are unable to hear it through the background noise, but if you strain your ears, you can just make it out. It’s a shrill cross between a bird’s chirps and someone crying.

“Daemon?” You close your book and stare at him. Unable to help it, you get a little sidetracked, watching his face. His mouth is pursed in concentration, the candlelight giving his features a golden glow. Despite him being several years older than you, you cannot help but find him terribly handsome. Age has only turned him more distinguished. You betted he was dashing when younger, but unlike his brother, he has aged like a fine wine.

Sensing your eyes on him, he gives you a lazy smile.

“Little wife.” His voice comes out in a pleased rumble at having caught you looking. Your face heats up. Daemon's eyes shift from yours, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You squirm under his gaze, trying to focus.

“Do you hear that?” You force yourself to utter.

“Hear what?” Daemon leans more towards you, his hand squeezing your knee. You give a small, delighted shiver. Good gods, what is it about him that gets you to turn into a puddle of want with the simplest touch?

“Some sort of animal crying.”

Daemon frowns. He tilts his head to the side, as if to listen better. You keep quiet, hoping to aid him. Then, his face breaks out in the biggest grin.

“It hatched! You amazing, wonderful woman.” He praises, pulling you into him. The hug is awkward, but it doesn’t last because you are too eager to see the baby dragon. Your dragon. You squirm out of his hold and rush out of the room, not even bothering to put on shoes, Daemon hot on your heels.

When you open the door to your chambers, you find the cutest thing ever. A baby dragon, slimy and confused, sits in the middle of his egg in the fireplace. It’s all big, dark eyes and long limbs, much like a baby horse. Unable to resist the temptation, you reach towards them.

“I do not…” Daemon tries to stop you, but the baby dragon climbs right up into your arms, curling close to your chest. Eager to touch it, you let it climb over your shoulder and nuzzle you, even if the sudden weight makes you stagger a little.

“That was really dangerous.” Your husband reprimands, trying to lift it away from you. The baby dragon snorts towards his direction, as if attempting to breathe fire. It only manages to give a cute little sneeze. Daemon glares.

“Aw, you are just like a baby.” You coo at the dragon, petting its head. Daemon looks even more disgruntled.

“Your dragon tried to burn me.” He complains.

“It’s a baby, husband. They don’t know any better.” You rub the scales on its back, soothingly. Unwilling to let go, you find yourself looking around your bedroom. “Let it stay here? Just for tonight.”

Daemon glares. You give him your biggest, most pleading eyes. He relents.

“Fine. But it’s not sleeping on the bed with us. And only for tonight.”

“Only for tonight.”

A month after, and the baby dragon is still sleeping in your bed. He has taken to laying between Daemon and you, leeching off your warmth. Daemon complains of having to sleep on the edge of the bed and his back being sore, but despite it, never once asks you to send the dragon outside with Caraxes.

The trouble starts, how not, with a trip to King’s Landing. This time, you ride with him, as a passenger to Caraxes, while the baby dragon follows. When Daemon lands, the dragon keepers fret around your baby, unsure of what to do with the unexpected visitor.

You command him to stay by your side, despite the protests of the dragon keepers. You are arguing and complaining and shielding your baby while Daemon only watches, amused.

Perhaps the commotion attracts more people, or someone calls for them, but you end up cornered as King Viserys makes his way to the dragon pit.

“What do we have here?” He asks, smiling at you. You give him a nervous look. Your dragon has gotten bigger, and so, you can not pick him up gracefully, but you usher him behind you regardless.

“Nothing, your grace.” You say, lacking your usual charm. You feel nervous about leaving the baby dragon on his own in the dragon pit. What if the other dragons don’t like him? What if he gets lonely?

With one hand, you reach for Daemon. His fingers meet yours halfway, squeezing reassuringly. More often than not, being a woman, your orders were not taken seriously. But if your husband gave an order, people would rush to obey. You hope he intercedes in your favor.

“Daemon, please.” You say, under your breath. “Don’t let them send him away. He will behave.”

“What do I gain, little wife?” He asks, interlocking your fingers together. Daemon gives his most charming grin to his brother, before pulling you into him. You go willingly, body lax and pliant for him. “A kiss, perhaps?”

“Please.” You turn to look at him, hoping to move him. This close, once again, you feel slightly distracted. Your husband smells so nice, and his hands feel so good around your waist, it’s no hardship at all. You press a kiss to his cheek.

“Must you always arrive with such a ruckus?” Viserys frowns. Daemon gives him a small smile.

“You know me.” Slowly, he starts to lead you towards the Red Keep, a hand placed protectively on your lower back. The message is clear. Daemon wants you to make your dragon follow you. You don’t even need to order it because your baby, smart as it is, is already following. The dragon keepers step back, muttering unhappily.

“Is it going inside?” Viserys point at your dragon. Foolishly, you had been hoping he didn’t notice, and so, your stomach drops. But Daemon doesn’t falter, strolling confidently inside as if he owned the place.

“He will behave. As long as no one touches her.” Normally, you despise when people talk about you as if you are not there. Currently, though, you can only feel relief that your dragon is not getting sent to sleep outside in the cold. He is just too little for it.

Viserys walks you towards his private dining room. A blonde child runs around, playing. The Princess and Ser Laenor are already there. And Alicent is even more heavily pregnant than before.

“How have you been?” You ask Alicent, sitting next to her. You half expect to be left out of the conversation as you were a few months before, and so, choose to sit next to someone who has been kind to you. The baby dragon hops on your lap when you take your seat.

Alicent looks absolutely horrified.

“Good enough.” She speaks, blinking slowly. It’s clear she cannot believe her eyes. She stares at the dragon in a mix of awe and fear.

“He is harmless.” You explain, petting it as if it were a small dog and not a baby dragon. “Do you want to pet him?”

Alicent reaches forward with a trembling hand. The dragon sniffs her, and curls to sleep again.

“… And I was thinking of changing the layout of the hall, to make sure he fits…” You hear Daemon complain, and your ears immediately perk up. Is he talking about your baby?

“So you keep it inside?” Viserys asks, sounding disbelieving.

“I have never seen such a close bond.” Daemon boasts. He sounds as if he is proud of you, you realize. It makes something warm flutter in your stomach. No longer are you the wife he never wanted and tried to get rid of. “Damn thing sleeps on the bed with us. It’s better trained than a dog, seriously. We should have given Celtigars dragons a long time away.”

“Why not leave it outside?” From where you are seated, you can’t see his face, but you imagine by his tone, Viserys is smiling.

“She will riot. She loves him as her own son.” Daemon explains. You keep your eyes trained on the nervous Alicent, who has managed to lay her hand on top of your dragon’s head. She looks about to bolt.

“Isn’t he the nicest thing?” You say to Alicent, excited. “He thinks I am his mom, or something. Isn’t it great?”

Alicent does not look as impressed as you hoped for, but she gives you a kind smile. She seems willing to tolerate your eccentricities if for the sake of not having to make conversation with Rhaenyra.

“Very nice.” She compliments. “Pretty colors. Prince Daemon was very kind, giving it to you.”

“He is.” You smile, softly. “Although he complains all the time.”

Alicent shrugs. This time, both of you tune in the conversation between Daemon and Viserys.

“Perhaps, as you build him something outside, you can distract her with an actual baby.” Viserys says. Alicent looks torn at the comment, and you can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed by the topic.

It’s not something you had thought about before. Well, you had. Never with him, though. As a girl, you dreamed of being a mother, and as a woman, Daemon and you had discussed the issue of heirs already. You had spoken about it during your last goodbye feast, in this same castle. But those words had been spoken in the height of passion, and neither of you had done anything about it.

“Trust me. Next time she holds a babe, it will be a proper human one.” Daemon says, and his hand finds yours over the table. You look up at him, meeting his purple eyes. He looks hungry. Starved, even.

You lower your eyes demurely. Viserys laughs. And Daemon, greedy as he is, lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

Sloth /sləʊθ/

the bad habit of being lazy and unwilling to work.

The light filters in through the open curtains, giving the room a soft glow. Daemon’s face scrunches up, bothered by the sunlight in his eyes. He has tried to convince you to sleep with them drawn, but you are unwilling. To you, the best way to wake up is slowly, with the sun. Or so you say. He is not very convinced.

Daemon stretches. You reach for him in your sleep. He gives himself a moment to savor it, the fact that he can finally pull you closer. The dragon is finally gone from his bed, although he is no way near distracting you with a babe.

Dragons are not pets. Daemon had been taught that since the cradle, even before he had a dragon of his own. Their control over them was only an illusion, and so, they should be trusted but feared. He had lived by that rule, never once questioning it. Until you.

Watching you raise yours as if it were your own child had proven interesting. You lacked his education about them, but you made up for it by sheer enthusiasm. The fact that your dragon had not bitten your hand off yet or burned you to a crisp could only mean two things: You were some sort of forest nymph, or they were mistaken about their approach to dragons. He knew which one he thought was true.

How much was nature, and how much was nurture in their relationship with dragons? Trying to answer that question would occupy his entire lifetime. Daemon hoped that watching you gave him some insight. Even if he ended up discovering you were a nymph in disguise or some sort of goddess of the hunt. He wouldn’t regret it, fascinating as you were.

No matter how much food for thought you gave him, Daemon had been enjoying the joys of marriage. Perhaps, a little too much. Seeing you with the baby dragon had awoken some unexpected feelings. Targaryens were dragons, after all. When the time came, you would make a good mother. Not only were your instincts well-developed, but you seemed to thrive on having something to nurture.

Ah, the joys of domesticity. Daemon loves that you trust him enough now to allow him to witness you at your most fragile. Asleep and wearing a soft white night shift, you are deliciously innocent. Giving, too. You do not complain when his hands find your hips or when he pulls you flush against him. Nor do you move away when his face hides in your lovely locks, mussed with sleep.

Your expression is open and vulnerable in ways you are never when truly awake. Your eyes open just the tiniest sliver, before you hide your face on your pillow, rubbing against it like the sweetest kitten.

He adores you like this. Worships you, even. Obsessed with the curve of your hip, or the soft flesh above your womb. Daemon can’t help but rub it, hoping to manifest a child into existence without actually fucking you.

If he believed in such a thing, as so many fools in this realm did, Daemon would say this was the Seven Heavens. But he knew the truth. Just like you, who worshiped the Old Gods of Valyria, Daemon did too. How could he not when he had a tiny goddess sharing his bed?

Your nose scrunches up. You twitch. Worshiping a little nymph, now that was hard work. Especially when the nymph in question does her best to escape his personal worshiping time.

If Daemon could spend all day in bed, just like this, he would. He would trace your features with his mouth, peppering your face with soft kisses. He would feast on the soft curve of your neck, drink up all your sweet little noises. Trace a path down your soft limbs, draw nonsensical patterns on your stomach. But you are an energetic little thing, always jumping out of bed, no matter the pleasure he tempts you with.

Convincing you to stay is hard, but Daemon likes to think it’s an art he has perfected. It’s not a ritual, by any means. Each morning goes differently. Sometimes, you need to be kissed silly. Sometimes, you need to be gently worshiped and coaxed back to sleep. But his favorite mornings are the ones that go like this.

“I have to go check on the tenants, down by the shore. The rain season just started.” You complain, as he noses along your hairline. Suddenly, Daemon’s arms are empty. He opens his eyes to find you sitting up and pulling your robe over your night shift.

You look delectable in red. He should buy you more robes like that one. Especially because he is about to ruin it.

“Did you say at what hour you are going?” Daemon sits up as well, toying with the edge of your robe. You bat his hands away, playfully.

“No.” You are hurriedly standing up, perhaps knowing what comes next. Daemon grabs your robe, and pulls you back in, using all his strength.

No matter how much you try to keep your feet planted on the floor, you end up tumbling back into bed. You give a girlish shriek, a smile already forming on your face. You struggle, kicking the blankets off the bed.

“Come back here, you little minx.” He tugs you by the ankle, making you laugh. Your hair is sticking up in all directions and your chest heaves up and down with the exertion of putting up a fight.

Daemon secretly loves it. He would never tell you because you would be outraged, but he enjoys the idea of overpowering you. Perhaps, once you fully trust him, he could ask you to play like that. But for now, he takes what he can get.

“Or else what Lord husband?” You tease, still trying to escape him. More blankets and furs are sent flying off the bed. You give a mean little tug to his hair.

“That was it!” Daemon complains, and starts tickling you. The night shift rides tantalizingly up your hips, giving him an unintentional show. He feels his blood warming, arousal turning into a dull throb in his loins. Your legs kick wildly, you squirm on the bed, and your eyes fill with tears from laughing so much.

It’s only when your poor body can’t take it anymore, and you are crying from laughter that he stops. He thinks of how it would feel, to overwhelm you in a different context, make your body take and take until tears ran freely down your temples. A different sort of crown for his forest nymph, one made from her own silver tears. The visual is too much for him to take without giving himself away.

Daemon lies on top of you, smothering you with his weight. He licks a few stray drops of sweat from your neck, making you flay once again. There will be a day when play wrestling will turn into something much less sweet. That day, though, it’s not today.

“Get off!” You complain. “That’s disgusting.”

“I could eat you up.” He teases, nuzzling into your neck. It's the truth. Daemon loves the taste of your skin and your smell. If he thought he could get away with it, he would crawl between your thighs and feast on you. “You are delicious, wife.”

“Daemon.” You push lightly at him, trying to get up. Again. But your words lack their previous conviction. Daemon can tell he is getting to you. “It’s getting late.”

“The tenants can wait. Let us hide from the world a little longer.” He pleads, clinging to you. Under him, exhausted after the play wrestling, you go limp. He knows he has won then.

You spend the whole day in bed. The tenants end up being visited closer to sundown. Daemon does not regret it one bit.

[serpentface]

Taighr A Teng, current high priest of Finnerich and beloved populist monarch, posing in his eclectic mix of royal regalia, a simple commoner's cloak, and dancer's garb.

---

His career as king has, so far, been notably impressive.

He had his starts as a lesser nobleman from the plains on the northwestern edge of the region. This northern region was never directly occupied by the Imperial Wardi invaders and only loosely controlled by the tributary puppet government, and the rebellion against this loyalist government and the resulting Finnerich civil war originated here. He rose to prominence in this war, eventually functioning as the general of these rebelling forces.

These forces utilized guerilla tactics and light archer cavalry (the latter being central to the warrior culture of northern Finns) to great effectiveness, and Taighr received a bulk of the credit for this. He claimed to have been visited by the solar chief god Neghri and cloaked in his armor. He never declared himself a possible king, but his confidants (conveniently) publicly urged him to undergo a rite of kingship to prove his god-given invulnerability, and he was successfully seen to perform the naked dance through fire unscathed. This granted him acknowledgment as truly chosen by Neghri, and planted the notion of Taighr being potentially a legitimate king (a status that is usually hereditary, and only granted to high lords when not) in the minds of many of his people.

Afterwords, he prominently fought on khaitback half-naked, clad only in the garb of a dancer (Neghri is a god of the dance among many other things). His claims of divine armor seemed to hold true- he never suffered any more than flesh wounds in over three years of sustained warfare.

He led battle in which the Wardi general Odomache was captured and killed, and is heavily suspected to be/popularly championed as the one who executed her with her own handcannon. He will neither confirm or deny this, but has the gun in his possession and sometimes appears with it in public. Either way, his role in this pivotal battle, subsequent expelling of Wardi troops, recapture of the capital and eradication of the Wardi-loyalist government cemented his status in the minds of a significant majority of his people. He performed the fire dance yet again in the capital and was formally declared king in the aftermath of the war.

He entered into kingship under the near-worst of circumstances. His kingdom has been decimated and politically fragmented in the aftermath of two decades of Imperial Wardi occupation as a grain tributary/colony, and the onset of a multi-year drought began that very year.

Part of his success against this adversity rested in seizing unprecedented and wholly centralized power. The former system of kingship rested upon a council of lords that each governed their own territories, with a king's power Publicly resting in his authority as high priest but practically resting in his lords' alliance and loyalty. He declared this system to be responsible for Old Finnerich's downfall (already a very widely held belief in the general public) and executed almost all the remaining lords (who were also political rivals, having a claim to the crown more legitimate than his own by the traditional standard) and their kin under accusations of being Wardi loyalists.

These executions extended further to many lesser nobles and other identified traitors, in the end wiping out a sizeable portion of previous authority figures. He replaced executed lords and nobility with trusted loyal compatriots and popular public figures, and made efforts to legitimize his reign by taking the daughter of a former lord (who had died a martyr resisting the original Wardi invasion and was widely beloved) as his queen.

This capitalized on general public sentiment of distrust of surviving former leadership (who, if not loyalists, at least Submitted to Wardi occupation) and was a move favored by the majority of commoners (who received none of the fringe benefits that benefited loyalist nobility under Wardi rule, and this invasion occurred in the context of Preexisting tension and peasant revolts). This was not, of course, a universally accepted move, but Taighr's merciless treatment towards accused traitors along with general public favor for his action has gone a long ways towards dissuading dissent in these first years of his reign.

He has so far used his heavily centralized power to great effectiveness in rebuilding efforts and famine response. He reduced taxes on commoners, supplementing this lost income with the very substantial liquidated assets of the former lordship. Much of these assets were grain, which has been stored en-masse and rationed and periodically redistributed to alleviate the famine. The hardier, more drought resistant grain (particularly a strain of barley) has been heavily invested in planting projects. He divided the lands of his executed nobility and civilians killed in war and granted it to members of the peasantry to farm with increased status as landowners, which has caused a sizable migration to the fertile southeast of the region.

Some of his most recent maneuvers have involved resumption of raiding Wardin and Bur's trade ships and coastlines. The piracy has been beneficial to securing needed resources and wealth, while the raids (which have largely hit villages and small towns that don't have a Lot to offer mid-drought) have more of a function of terrorizing weakened enemies and building public morale in trying times. He's also in the process of courting a neighboring kingdom of Hrolje (with historical trade ties to Finnerich) into full allyship against their shared enemies (Imperial Wardin, the Burri republic, and several Royal Dain kingdoms).

A drought (which has lasted six years so far) occurring the very year he took the crown is a spiritual issue as well as a practical one. As the people's high priest, he should have the power to commune with the gods (particularly Neghri, chief of the gods with whom he has a singular connection as king) and prevent such a thing from happening. The public reaction to this drought has been varied, but most see its occurrence immediately following the expulsion of Imperial Wardin and defeat of its high priestess as significant. Many consider this to be the foreign god Odomache's vengeance, and question why their own gods (who are much more powerful and hold total sovereignty over this land) have not intervened to help them.

Taighr's public stance is that this is not quite the case. Their own gods have sent this drought to both punish their enemies and to test the Finn people. They have not forgiven Finnerich's surrender to their enemies, and require proof of the people's loyalty and strength before they will call the drought away. This message is harsh but hopeful in tone, and has been embraced (or at least accepted) by a sizeable majority. A sense of purpose to their suffering (HEAVILY bolstered by effective practical measures of famine alleviation) has gone a long way to keep Finnerich's general populace unified and confident in their new king in the face of adversity.

He has had tremendous success so far, but his rule has clear potential for future instability. While he is very popular among the peasantry, not everyone loved the whole 'mass execution of political rivals and their families' thing. Some members of these families are known or suspected to have escaped (and potentially have more legitimate claims by tradition than Taighr does). His reduced taxation on the commoner class cannot last forever, and his functional creation of a new landed peasantry class is untested and likely will not remain stable in the long term. A small but not insignificant minority interprets the drought not as a test but punishment from the gods for the acceptance of a false king.

---

Taighr has shunned most regalia for his public image. His outfit here has only the bare minimum regalia of the torc and headdress (along with his tattoos), and the rest is dancer's garb and a simple cloak. His image is partly as a maneuver to appeal to his people, who simultaneously desire a traditional king (as their protector and benefactor who can commune with the gods) but are utterly disillusioned with their former dynasty for having so deeply failed them (and being somewhat unfavored even before their surrender to Imperial Wardin).

His choice to partly neglect a traditional 'royal' image emphasizes his outsider status from this now heavily scorned ex-dynasty, while still appearing in such a way that legitimatizes him as a king to public perception.

The arm tattoos and banded motifs on the headgear contain symbols widely used in Finn art, but are forbidden to be worn as tattoos for anyone other than kings (unless the right has been granted by a king in recognition and blessing). A kings rule is marked with arm and leg bands added for each year of sovereignty, with symbols chosen to represent the character of each year and a king's accomplishments and actions therein. These tattoos tend to be flattering in their meaning and serve to cement a chosen narrative into the king's very skin- his successes are lauded, his difficulties are acknowledged but framed as a struggle in which he remained strong/will ultimately be triumphant.

The first year shows an abstract symbol of unification and brotherhood, representing his role early in the war when he had already emerged as a military leader was first acknowledged as a potential king. The second denotes clouded skies and an obscured sun, representing the struggle and uncertainty in the height of war. The third shows victory by the arrowhead, celebrating the end to the war, Finnerich's restored sovereignty, and the expulsion of invasive elements. The fourth shows the motif of maize, denoting the sense of hope and regrowth in the first year free of tributary occupation (somewhat in contrast to the reality of the drought). The fifth shows clouded skies yet again, as this was when public elation over their victory was thoroughly quashed by the drought not only Not Stopping but having its worst year of all, one of the more difficult years of his sovereignty. The sixth shows foundations, a sense of rebuilding in regards to great public works and triumphant management of the famine, a year in which more rain came and his land/grain distribution system entered full swing. The seventh shows an abstract symbol of clasped hands in unity and arrowheads, celebrating allegiance with Hrolje and great success in raids against enemies. He is in the eighth year of being recognized as a king, and the latest one has been outlined but not completed.

The tattoos on the back of his hands mark his status as legitimate king chosen by Neghri, capable of communing with the gods and performing acts of magic. This symbol is completely forbidden to be worn by anyone besides a king (including on clothing/jewelry/etc) and is the ultimate symbol of lordship, sovereignty, and connection to the chief of the gods.

His head (not directly visible here) is artificially lengthened, having been bound in infancy. Artificial cranial deformation is a widespread practice among many of the North Viper peoples, where it tends to be associated with beauty, nobility, and/or a semi-divine status. This practice is reserved exclusively for the hereditary nobility (kings, lords, and lesser nobles) of Finn culture. The trend for most Finn headgear to be very tall and pointed is at least related, giving a person a noble and dignified bearing (regardless of their skull's actual length).

[unsolicited-opinions]

Have you followed the campus Hamasniks on a "Hunger Strike for Gaza"?

At Stanford, they demand that the University meets with them to discuss their demands...or they'll get sorta' lightheaded and cranky...! I mean...imagine threatening to make yourself slightly uncomfortable unless someone else gives in to your demands for attention. Nothing says "moral urgency" like a hunger strike you can end whenever you get peckish, amirite? It's barely a step up from a toddler who threatens to hold his breath until he gets a cookie, and it's ridiculous.

Stanford administration's response to their demands is professional, clear, and appropriate:

Dear students, I am writing in response to your May 10 communication regarding your plan to begin a hunger strike. The university does not intend to negotiate in response to your demands. We respect the rights of students to express their views in ways within the limits of our time, place, and manner of rules. At the same time, we urge students to consider forms of expression that do not jeopardize their health and well-being. If you do continue with your hunger strike, we strongly encourage you to take precautions to support your health. The resources of Vaden Health Services and Student Affairs will be available to you in this regard. Sincerely, Michele Rasmussen Vice Provost for Student Affairs Stanford University

You'd think that'd be where it ends, right? That Stanford students, studying as they are at an elite university, would understand that they have absolutely no leverage whatsoever.

You'd THINK that, but the folks at Stanford SJP are a special kind of stupid. They've managed to cram their heads so far up their asses that their small intestines vibrate when they try to pronounce "Gaza" as if they speak Arabic. (Do you think the same people, after returning from their semester abroad in the capital city of France, insist on calling that city "PAIR-REE"?)

This is real, not satire. Ready?

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I know what kinds of things I wrote when I was an undergrad. A lot of it was, in hindsight, ignorant and cringe.

But man, even I wasn't as ever as stupid as these children. "You’ve forced us to take this tactic"

Nobody forced you to perform not-eating for social media.

"You are responsible for the health and safety of these Stanford strikers"

WILD. Stanford didn’t ask you to starve. In fact, they asked you not to. The strikers literally wrote their own threat, carried it out on themselves, and blamed someone else for it. (Wow, they really do understand Hamas-style reasoning and propaganda methods.) Not eating is your plan, children - but sure, blame the school when you get dizzy trying to topple Israel with vibes.

"The only form of expression you respect is silence"

They’re literally reading their protest statement on video, on campus, after months of rallies, with media coverage. No one has silenced them - they just didn’t get what they wanted....and these privileged children hate when they don't get what they want!

You are responsible for our health!

Stanford Administration: Okay. Here's Health Services and a sandwich. Protesters: How DARE you!!!

"We do not take this lightly"

Even when it is juice cleanse week (not to be confused with Jew cleanse week)? Not when school is almost out and you need a beach-ready bod?

"We will answer on Stanford’s behalf"

So...you're fasting...on behalf of a private university...and calling it "liberation?"

"We will escalate!"

To what, exactly?

"We’ve tried everything: rallies, proposals, noise, now this."

Have you tried reading history? Exploring multiple sides of the issue? Learning facts on the ground? Listening to protesters inside Gaza? Reading Hamza Howidy, John Aziz, or Ihab Hasan? Checking to see what Saudi Arabia and United Arab Emirates think? Listening respectfully to intelligent people with whom you disagree? No? Just vibes, white savior horseshit, and victim cosplay?

[Shrug] You do you, fam.

We’ve done everything we can!

Except making a rational point, learning history, or suggesting a policy beyond WE BIG MAD.

Our fate is in your hands!

Your blood sugar is your responsibility and Stanford offered you snacks.

Protesters: We demand to get what we want! If you don't give it to us, we’ll sit in the grass and get faint until you feel bad! Stanford: ...okay...?

They're not just ignorant and wrong. They're idiots.

[ddarker-dreams]

hello! do you have any other reader pining for chrollo (just a little bit) thoughts?? i legit feel like i miss chrollo but like…your chrollo and the way you write him specifically. LOL. i love your writing! i know you’re busy so even if you can’t get to this, i hope you’re having a great week!

I MISS CHROLLO TOO why must capitalism force me to perform labor ... a true injustice ... 😡😡😡

chrollo possesses charisma in its purest form. he needn't be flashy about it, no, the silent allure is a hallmark of his charm. this ease at winning others over sets him apart from the most seasoned politician. when you speak, it's like he'd silence the rest of humanity if not only to hear you better. this dedication is intense, teetering the fine line between flattering and unsettling. you believe he knows no other way to convey love. he wants it to be overwhelming, leaving you breathless, so you mistake the asphyxiation for euphoria and not an imminent demise.

recognizing this trait is a testament to your acumen. you wonder why he pursues you as if you're always at risk of falling through his fingers. it can be felt in the little, inconsequential moments, like when a fresh pot of coffee brews in the morning. he watches how you place your mugs side by side. how you measure out his creamer, then yours, making adjustments until it's just so. these simple gestures bewitch him. they make his espresso taste less bitter and his accompanying strawberry danish all the more sweet.

you wrestle with these observations. if you're looking at it too close, or not close enough. eventually, the simplest explanation makes the best case. you, like so many others, forgot that despite his namesake, he's no fallen angel or celestial being. he wants so desperately to maintain your affection and fears a day will come when he no longer will. prior to you, if he failed in one of his endeavors, it wasn't earth-shattering. maybe he didn't read the room right, or made the wrong call. he isn't infallible, it happens, and not every curio he seeks ends up in his possession.

there'd always be another heist; there might not always be another chance with you.

any good criminal establishes contingencies for unknowable variables down the line. maintaining ownership of your heart might be his greatest job yet. there will always be a part of him that can't fully relax, lest his complacency act as the catalyst for his end. this devotion is yours.

on one of those aforementioned mornings, when handing him his mug, his fingers brush over yours. instead of relinquishing your hold, your grasp tightens.

"so..." you trail off, already beginning to regret this boldness yet determined to see it through, "just so you know... you don't always have to try so hard."

chrollo might not acknowledge it outright, but the ease in which he smiles when taking his first sip says plenty.

[iridescentscarecrow]

what frustrates me about fandom interpretations of makima as a one note Source of evil, apart from the fact that the manga itself refutes this, is that her character haunts and ties together so much of part two that it's impossible to fully understand without understanding her.

makima isn't ever a unilateral antagonistic force. she's an agent of the institutional evil that looms over all of CSM. she's in as much a commentary on gender and performance of gender as denji is.

and fjmt in part two enacts the "haunting the narrative" trope in such an interesting manner because you see flashes of makima in every female character. you see elements of her diluted into, most visibly, the characters of asa, nayuta and fumiko.

in asa, i see makima in that yearning for connection. i see her in the way that asa herself is fundamentally unable to approach the relationship of equals that she so desperately desires, partly due to her own social awkwardness but also because of yoru's threat: everyone she gets close to turns into a weapon. the fundamental inequality to human relationships that makima is unable to overcome.

during the aquarium date, you see asa echo makima again and again in lines that evoke makima's purposing of denji. that weaponising. "i'll grant you any request / save me chainsaw man! / you don't have to think about a thing."

and her connection with denji also founds itself upon this. yoshida talks to asa about parasocial relationships -- rerendering makima's idealisation of the CSM in how asa sees denji as a love interest. asa and denji parallel each other so organically in their gendered suppression and portrusion of desire. it's a punctuation of denji's search for intimacy that's mirrored by makima's in part one. exploring how asa is different from makima is perhaps the most intriguing part of this reflection though: an example being the way asa overthinks her outfit for her date with denji while makima seamlessly models herself into an Effortless woman.

[it's not like asa borrows just from makima. for example, there are things to be said about the way she views her Body (as compared with reze and quanxi) but examining how mkm's character bleeds into asaden is quite compelling.]

nayuta being the most visible remnant of what makima was is also interesting because makima herself appears so little in nayuta beyond the surface. nayuta's role as the control devil is hinted at frequently as is her appearance resembling makima's

but her and denji's dynamic more often echoes the hayakawa family and pochita than anything else. consider: aki giving up his goal (his 'easy revenge' that he finally sees for what it is) for the sake of his family, that warmth of blood and platonic bodily intimacy that power embodies--

it's all referenced to again with nayuta and denji, in direct panel callbacks and the plot itself! nayuta is The Family that makima constructs for denji in part one to pull him along the plot she prepares. i'm thinking about how makima is an allegory for capitalism. and what the family unit means in a capitalistic structure. the propagation of an ideal that hinges on birth and descendancy, about narrative and reproduction of narrative, about how nayuta births herself from makima and denji's relationship.

and this is also why nayuta herself exerts so much control over denji in the plot, as well as why she's used as a piece to control him. in part one, family was used to create the Chainsaw Man from denji. in part two, it's used to make denji abandon the Chainsaw Man, this icon that the church and the public now take possession of. [something something alienation of the worker from the product. from the collective. from the self.]

fumiko is perhaps the hardest to pin down here because her role evolves as the fandomisation of the Chainsaw Man evolves too. in fact, as a denji fan, she represents not just makima but multiple people who see something in and want something from denji! (think of how she references reze in her highlighting how denji is just a child; how reze uses her commentary on denji to engage with her Self. it's fandomisation,,, and what is makima but Chainsaw Man's fan?)

fumiko most obviously calls back to these wants and their conceptualisation of denji in the raw sexual violence that the events in the theater scene moving into the karaoke scene embody. the undercurrent of sa that runs through p1 and p2 is brought to the forefront in this scene -- denji falling back into these cycles of abuse, him slipping into habitating the wants of others (his initial horrified expression and then his grin during the fight. his initial inner monologue and then the cut to him licking the tentacle.)

so much of CSM rests on this fandom of denji, this theme of what production and idealisation means, one you can trace through fjmt's body of work. and this fandom reaches its crescendo in p2. what's even more interesting about fumiko is her pathos under this layer. her seeing denji as denji at some level but in the end, her handling of him is so selfish. her echoing makima's uninhibited laughter at the horror of denji's situation, her predatory cruelty. denji simultaneously humanised and dehumanised through her fandom.

fjmt's characters exist as foils, as parallels and ideas. makima's character has such a stranglehold over part one and these ideas run over into part two naturally -- as a consequence of denji being a reciever of these themes, but also deliberately in fjmt evoking the Thing that is makima repetitively -- to underscore the forever re emerging structure that denji and now asa are trapped in. the same structure that makima produced and was simultaneously caged by.

[leviathan-supersystem]

this what if the world was made of pudding thing is making me insane bc to me. a communist. one of the most reprehensible things about capitalism is that people die every day due to an artificial scarcity of resources. if youre not trying to come up with a solution to the problem of disabled people dying for no reason what are you even trying to come up with a solution to?? what's the point of dreaming of a world beyond capitalism if in the world beyond capitalism anyone who can't self sustain themselves dies???

the thing is, a lot of the antiwork crowd is trying to imagine a better world for disabled people, they just suck really bad at it. like they noticed society's obligation to perform labor, and the flawed nature of existing systems to evaluate disability in relation to that obligation, causes harm to disabled people in the here and now, and they went "well it's simple then! we simply hold that NO ONE has any obligation, nor should be compelled via any incentives, to perform labor. problem solved!" and then they called it a day and didn't spend the 10 seconds to think "hey wait a second don't some disabled people specifically need other people to perform labor in the form of care for them, and doesn't an ethical framework which holds that labor should never be obligatory or incentivized kinda leave those disabled people without reliable care, and also is so limited as an ethical framework that it can't even definitively say that someone is in the wrong when disabled people die because communities don't perform the labor of caring for them or create systems of social incentives or obligations to ensure that labor is performed"

honestly i would be a lot more forgiving of them having a shoddy and short-sighted ethical framework if they didn't make a habit of dogpiling and smearing anyone who doesn't agree with their absurd fringe ideology as "supporting forced labor".

i'd also be more forgiving if they didn't lean so heavily into right-wing mccarthyist red scare rhetoric any time they pull this routine on a marxist, "aaaaugh the red communist menace will have your elderly grandma working in the cobalt mines at gunpoint till she dies while the jackbooted commissar laughs over her broken body, yes my fellow patriotic god fearing americans feral anarcho-nihilists, we must do whatever we can to thwart this terrible marxist scourge!"

also when they do this whole dogpiling smear campaign routine they lean very heavily on accusations of ableism, which is some truly egregious hypocrisy considering their own ideology's major shortcomings when it comes to ensuring the well-being of disabled people.

[yeonbam]

have been meaning to cry about THIS Thame so much. like the irony of being asked to "feel it" when at the same time he is demanded to stop feeling and live like an immobile object. there is something so cruel in being [directed] to think about someone who makes you bring out those feelings just whenever it's asked of you and to suppress it when it's unwanted...

Because he's in so much pain but he had to repress it all. If he lets himself feel it, he can't work but if he doesn't let himself feel it he can't work either because you cannot seperate art from feelings. But that's what capitalism demands. It demands you seperate yourself from the world and exist as a solitary self-centred creature while also demanding you perform the same way you would if you had it all. basically a level of unrealistic emotional masterpiece that one can only achieve through community.

Thame who had repressed so hard, being forced, for the sake of the same career that took away his love, to think about his love for it. not to mention that he also loves his job. but human beings are multifaceted. he can't Only love his job. he loves his friends his (ex) boyfriend and he as a human needs to be allowed all of this.

and williams acting!!! you can see the pain, the visible effort in trying to be stabbed in the same wound he has been trying so hard to forget. he has been isolated from everyone so he probably lives without any way of outlet at all. because he's like that, because he knows best how to adapt, how to keep his expression to himself unless it's being brought out of him. the company forced him into a shell once and they are doing it a second time.

[storkmuffin]

Okay, new anon take 2 :)

Sorry about asking about content that makes you uncomfortable :( I feel like it is hard for me to distinguish between what is uncomfortable from my cultural perspective vs what would also be uncomfortable from the Korean perspective (e.g., I find all discussion about weight/dieting deeply uncomfortable, but it seems like not everyone sees it that way).

I really liked the way you framed Yunho as super competitive, even about being seen as nice, friendly, etc. It feels like a very natural reaction to the weird idol dichotomy of, on the one hand, spending years in a super high pressure environment where you or someone you get close to could be cut at any moment and, on the other hand, needing to appear super close/friendly/supportive/etc. of the people who eventually become your members. It makes being nice in all of those ways a competition too.

Which brings me to the question - how do you see this affecting Yunho's relationship (on camera) with Jongho? I feel like Jongho is also very competitive (the "monster of capitalism"), but unlike Yunho, he does not seem to have the same need to be loved by everyone always. I think this is especially interesting because Ateez have said that they tried to push Yunho/Jongho as a pairing and Jongho never reciprocated.

Hopefully this one is better :)

Hi~

I think a Yunho-Jongho pairing would have been kind of a terrible idea, and I'm relieved that KQ (I assume you meant KQ) dropped it and/or Jongho forced them to drop it.

First and foremost, Yunho and Jongho look too similar. Before they matured out of their babyfat faces and prior to their plastic surgeries and make up choices, Yunho and Jongo actually looked exactly the same in the face. This is not to give permission to the racists who go All Asians Look Same, but! During my own baby-Atiny (what am I now? Toddler Atiny?) days I had a really hard time telling Jongho and Yunho apart, and I wasn't the only one. The yellow writing is a highlight of the Korean youtube comments that were commonly left on early Ateez performance vidoes, and it reads: Are the blue haired and blonde haired ones twins?

From this compilation of their moments

I later realized there's a significant height difference and demeanor difference between the two, but they really look very alike, and not in a way that enhances each other's beauty. This is no good. This is the antithesis of Yunho calibrating himself to Yeosang to create a 4DX Stereo-Surround Geisha Boy Effect in their joint TokToqs that I've written about here. Yunho and Jongho tend to make each other disappear.

But beyond the unfortunate visuals (which is such a weird thing to say about two extremely handsome guys but hopefully you understand what I mean), there are Jongho specific reasons why any pairing between him and the others would not work.

Jongho is very straight. He does not find playing at queerness either amusing nor worth it. He just finds it blatantly unbearable, and I've wondered if this is part and parcel with him being more a vocalist and less a dancer (though obviously a very skilled dancer). Dancers just touch each other a lot, singers less so, no? (Neither singer nor dancer here, so I'm just making this part up whole cloth).

Speaking of worth it - Jongho doesn't need to fight for attention from the audience in the same way as the people I am going to call the Corps - Wooyoung, San, Yunho, Yeosang, Seonghwa - have to. He's kind of got his own space that's very powerful, sometimes more so even than HongJoong, because the two rappers often are paired with each other, and Mingi also does double duty as Tall Dancer/ Formation Maintainer with Yunho. Jongho holds a featured soloist position for almost every song. He starts out already having won, so there's nothing to compete for, as far as he's concerned. So why do a pairing, when he hates that concept?

Jongho has the most definitely solid plans for a post- or apart-from-Ateez career. He has an extremely distinctive voice and for someone coming out of the Idol world, a very rare powerhouse vocal capacity. I think, honestly, he can take it or leave it in terms of being an Idol.

Jongho and Yunho together to me give off an old fashioned Korean masculinity (positive) vibe, that doesn't fit with what sells right now to the Western market, where Kpop boy bands are generally making their money. The caretaking that Yunho gives Jongho, for example, is to be the only one to think of bringing out something warm for Jongho to drink while he's shivering on the terrace alone, barbequing. Jongho will say he's fine, Yunho will insist (this is the dance) and then Jongho will sip gratefully at the cup of broth or whatever while Yunho leaves him alone to do the meat scorching. Being a Korean woman from a conservative family, I find these moments extremely charming, because I see this sort of exchange all the time all around me, and it makes me feel affectionate for these guys, to see them be ordinary Korean men. But this sort of thing, I assume, doesn't set Western fandom panties on fire, because you can't eroticize it or read lore into it. It's extremely dry, as fan service, is it not?

Post Script:

Thanks for trying to begin a discussion with me again. I'm glad I didn't come off too harsh for not wanting to look at the Jewel Box stuff. And I think - I can't gauge but - I think Hong Seokchon at least is now considered something of a mainstream star just from sheer longevity, so it's not like Koreans in general dislike him or find his content objectionable. You didn't make a cultural faux pas or anything. This is very personal and specific to me, and how could you possibly have known until you asked?

As for Yunho competing to be the best at everything, but especially at being Good and Kind and Lovable, two examples for you to consider:

Left: Here is Yunho threatening a plate of pasta with defeat, because he's going to eat the whole thing. This is just funny.

Right: This was him talking to San trying to see who would win in wishing each other well (this was his birthday). (In this second one I'm not doing a literal translation, which would be "You think I'd lose?")

But Yunho's vocabulary is generally about winning and losing, very frequently, about things that normally don't have anything to do with either.

[radiomogai]

im hypomanic so maybe this won't be phrased the greatest but since you're an archive and have been here for years.. does it feel like this place (mogai community) has just become a place of mass production?

i don't know. viewing this place back in 2021 it felt homely and comfortable, being here now feels like walking into an office where everyone's sat at their computers ignoring each other. the community feels so distant and the coinings feel so forced in a way, like they're just appealing to trends and need to fill up their queue. maybe im just a pessimist but.. i was gonna say it feels like capitalism is slowly taking over the community but that's definitely not what im looking to say, just something similar to that. feels like we lost what made this place, well, this place, a long while ago

Yeah, we feel it too. We've talked about it before, but not on this blog.

Some of our biggest critiques of the MOGAI community have to do with individualism. We despise how individualistic it is. We dislike new flag designs just because someone doesn't like the original flag because we think that degrades the point of flags as a community symbol. We dislike it when people don't check to see if something has already been coined when they recoin things, as it feels diminishing of the work and words and experiences of others. We dislike it when people declare that those they disagree with are barred from usage of terms or flags they made. We dislike the treatment of flags and terms as... for lack of a better word, as original characters, rather than as terminology made for describing and discussing identity and experiences.

We get confused when people coin things just for the hell of it, without them being requested or applying to themself (though likely part of this is our own autism and difficulty understanding experiences outside of our own). Sure, I suppose coining is just putting a word to a pre-existing experience, someone out there must have that experience, but it does feel like it's coining for the sake of quantity rather than quality. It feels like it's representative of having lost sight of why people started coining microlabels, of the very real people and experiences and ways of navigating through the world that these words and images represent.

We've also made the capitalism comparison haha. It's not a 1-to-1, but I do think capitalism affects the way people go about making things. A pressure, subconscious or otherwise, to constantly produce, to constantly labour. People apologizing when they haven't coined for a while (we're guilty of this also, unprompted apologizing when our work is slow), coiners getting burnt out. The heavy skew of people valuing coiners over all others in the community, especially over lurkers/collectors/those who don't perform some sort of labour.

So, yeah. You're not the only one.

[afterartist]

HELICALTALE MAIN CAST LINEUP!!

(Not ll of the characters but the most important ones to the plot)

‘And now: AU Infodump

BUT BEFORE ANYTHING!!

I will be answering any questions (within reason) any of you have about the au, even if it’s about some random side character only three people have ever heard of before

I live world building and any chance to expand on this world are treasured

I’ll probably answer with fun little doodles as well lol

So ask away :D!!

Basic AU overview:

Helicaltale is NOT a classic based Timeline.

The AU is set in a world where Mt Ebott was destroyed during the war, leaving a desert crater in its place, no protection for the Monsters to retreat and nowhere to seal them underground. In response, the Human mages put a spell on Monster kind, ‘Helios’ Curse’, forcing them to be unable to touch sunlight or else they’d burn (think Vampires or Minecraft Mobs)

The main story takes place 87 years after the war ended and 29 years after friendly communications between the two races begun, with the Monsters settled in a camp like city, made of tents and canvas buildings, around the oasis that formed in the desert that was now known as Ebott crater. Humans and Monsters have achieved peace between the races, regular trading routes and communications set up between the two cities.

Now all that was left was for both Humans and Monsters to find a way to break Helios’ Curse for good.

(None of them can touch Sunlight (minus the humans) but the ones more lightly dressed (Gaster, Alphys, Asgore) all live in the city, with proper buildings not at risk of being blown over at any second so can afford to not be covered up 100% of the time)

Locations:

Ebott City-

The capital city of the country, Ebott is a massive human settlement, overshadowing old ruins left by the war. It’s currently the main base of conferences between human and monster relations.

The Oasis-

The Monster settlement, made from tents and interconnecting canvas sheets, from above it looks like a colourful cluster of a campground, large sheets stretched over the streets. From within it’s only lit by lamps and magic, the sky completely blocked out by tarps and canvas to avoid accidentally getting burned by sunlight, to those not familiar with the city it’s a labyrinth, others, its home.

(A major inspiration for the Oasis is the Kowloon walled city, for those interested in a more accurate visual of the Oasis)

The Great Fence-

While the name conveys grandeur, the fence is a simple chain link fence acting as the border around the entire Oasis, topped with barbed wire and adorned with tarps, it’s designed to protect the residents against wild animals like Coyotes and be a barrier against sandstorms more than it is to keep people out, one of the most regular jobs for the Royal guard other than being general peace keepers is to uphold the fence, often sending patrols out after heavy storms to keep everything in order.

Central Oasis-

A mix between Newhome and Waterfall, it’s the main hub of the town, the Royal family living there along with the majority of schools and recreational areas, most Water based monsters (ie: Shyren, Aaron ect ect) also live in this area, a large lake of water being the centerpiece of the city.

Lights district-

To the west side of the city is the main shopping hub, while much more open than the majority of the Oasis, many stores foregoing walls on their tents entirely, its full of stores and restaurants, the most well known being Grillby’s and Muffets joint restaurant, many visitors to the Oasis come for the night life of the lights district, the monsters that live in that area making the camp around them as flashy and attractive as possible, neon lights and dancing flames lighting up the darkness of the district, the Celebrities Mettaton and Nabstablook have also been alluded to frequent the region and perform for onlookers.

Sandbank-

The Snowden equivalent of the AU, having gotten its name due to its position at the east side of the city, being the least protected by the walls of the crater, Sandbank often gets the brunt of the sandstorms that hit the desert, leading many of the Royal Guards live in this area in case of an emergency during the storms.

Southside (the Black Market)-

Technically not its official name, the Southside of the Oasis is whispered about in the dark of night, rumours telling of an illegal market place and shady monsters working in the south, many a monster wandering in and never coming out. While most likely just old wives tales, its best you keep your distance, just in case.

(Yeah I made the Black Market an actual real marketplace because that will never not be funny to me)

Hotlands-

The north most section of the Oasis is best known as Hotlands, given the name as it’s the highest section of city but also the most shielded by the crater walls, leaving it boiling without any wind to seep out the heat’. There’s been speculation that Hotlands actually sits over an underground chamber of magma, adding to the blistering temperature.

Characters:

The Dreemurrs:

Frisk- (Any Pronouns)

Frisk is an 11 year old kid, a runaway from one of Ebott City’s Orphanages, known for its less than legal treatment of the children. Having joined Chara as the eldest helped them both escape, Frisk followed Chara into the desert, looking for shelter from CPS.

During the trek however Frisk falls sick with an illness, most common in Monsters but able to infect anyone with strong magic, called Icarus syndrome.

With Icarus syndrome being effectively Hyperthermia of the soul, any physical treatment is ineffective, needing a particular medication to have any hope of survival, leaving the crater as not just refuge but possibly their only chance of survival.

Chara- (They/Them)

Chara is 16 and the orchestrator of the escape from the Orphanage with Frisk, after having been in contact online with a kid from the Monster camp that offered assistance. During the escape Frisk fell ill, forcing Chara to locate and purchase the rare medicine. Ending up in the Monster equivalent of the black market, Chara found a monster begrudgingly willing to help, trading a magical glass eye, a prosthetic their grandfather made for both humans and monsters during the war, for a small vial of medicine. The trader warning them to keep out of the black market before dropping the two kids off safely at the center of the Oasis.

Asriel- (He/Him)

Asriel is the firstborn son of the Dreemurrs and heir to the Royal throne, at 16 he made contact and became friends with a kid online, the other telling him of the danger they and their sibling were in at the Orphanage. Quickly offering up his home, knowing both his parents had fostered and cared for many children in the past and wouldn’t turn away two more. Upon meeting them in the Oasis he makes fast friends with both Frisk and Chara, practically adopting them as siblings on the spot.

Toriel- (She/Her)

Queen of the Oasis at 143 years old, Toriel has seen her fair share of bloodshed and peacetime, giving her the knowledge to recognise that protecting young children is the best way to ensure their future, guiding them to Mercy and pragmatic solutions instead of Fighting. One of the first things she did after Monsters had finally settled into the Oasis being starting up a school, becoming the primary teacher for a good few years before other parents eventually began to join her staff. Though, with the two new children her son had brought to her doorstep, she’s begun to realise it’s not just the children of Monster kind that need protection.

Asgore- (He/Him)

King of the Oasis and 146 years old, Asgore grew up at the front lines of the war, the heinous acts shaping him into the pacifist he is today. Currently away from the Oasis, Asgore has turned his sights on communications with the Humans, staying at the city while conferences with the city leaders on trade routes and transportation commence. He is also overseeing the Monster half of the Science team, working closely with the Royal Advisor and Scientists Gaster in developing a cure to Helios’ Curse. He remains in frequent contact with the Oasis, making the trip back every weekend to see his now growing family and make sure Toriel isn’t overwhelmed with responsibilities.

-

The Fonts:

Dr. Gaster- (He/Him)

At 140, Gaster has spent his life developing weapons for war (the Gaster Blaster being his pride and joy) and perseverance for Monster Kind, having a massive distaste for all Humans and most Monsters. The sudden change from war efforts to restoration efforts throwing his life in disarray. Jumping at the chance to use Human equipment on government funded experiments, Gaster didn’t hesitate to leave his sons Sans and Papyrus (9 and 4 at the time) back at the Oasis to move to the city and begin work. He’s had a hand in creating many inventions helping Monster kind (both helping with the medicine for Icarus Syndrome and a magic Sunscreen that can briefly minimise the effects of the sun) and the head of the Selene Project, the project to break the curse.

Sans- (He/Him)

28 and thriving, Sans has made a name for himself as both the comedic slacker of the Royal guard and the savvy businessman as one of the Black Markets best traders. Having been forced to raise both himself and Papyrus from a young age, Sans became intwined with the black market at the age of 12, after Papyrus caught Icarus Syndrome and receiving no help from Gaster off in the city, Sans was forced to find his own way of getting medication. At the age of 12 he found his way into the black market, ending up trading his right eye, and subsequently some of his shortcut abilities with an underground doctor in exchange for the medicine, to this day he hasn’t told anyone what happened to his eye. From then on he found himself going back and getting into trading as a way of making money as a side job while both he and Papyrus worked to get into the Royal guard, quickly becoming infamous in the criminal world of the Oasis, though he had a rule that no kids were to ever be found trading in the market. A rule that quickly got broken when a young human kid stumbled into his shop, begging for help, offering a magic glass eye as payment. Unable to send the kid off without help (or turn down the irony of selling the meds for an eye) he made the trade before guiding the kid and their sibling to the Oasis center.

-

(Bonus:)

After dropping the kids off, Sans makes an attempt to use the prosthetic eye, yet upon fitting it into his socket, the magic activated and bonded with his soul, causing the eye to become fused with his being, immovable. Along with the eye he’s suddenly able to see things he, by all means, should NOT be able to see, including text bubbles from the creators (similar to error sans)

He also finds, magically in his pocket, a small golden key, only figuring out its use after stumbling across a door in the middle of nowhere, upon using the key on the door he finds himself in an entirely different AU, door closing and disappearing behind him.

This is what leads him to discover the Multiverse and travel between AUs (inconveniently ending up in Nightmares Castle more times than he’d care to count)

-

Papyrus- (He/Him)

The Great Papyrus, second in command of the Royal guard at the younge age of 23 (you may applaud now)

Having grown up with just himself and Sans, Papyrus always wanted to become something great to make his brother proud, despite Sans’ insistence that he’s already proud of him. When he was 13, while Sans was out getting food, Papyrus had been targeted and hunted down by a group of bullies from the Southside of town, the group of teens taking turns in beating him up, eventually escalating to the point where one of them pulled a mirror from their pocket and used it to reflect a beam of sun directly onto his face, leaving a permanent scar,

He was saved however, when a teen he recognised from the Oasis center came charging out from one of the nearby tents, picking up handfuls of sand and hurtling it at the other kids before beating them up with her fists alone. Once over, the girl had turned, helped Papyrus up and took him to see her grandfather, the current head of the Royal Guard, a job she loudly proclaimed she was going to have one day,

Ever since then he attempted and eventually got into the Royal guard, along with Sans and the teen, Undyne.

-

Gersons:

Undyne- (She/Her)

29, Captain of the Royal Guard, Wife of the best woman around, living the high life! Having been raised by her grandfather Gerson for longer than she could remember, she’s always looked up to the Royal Guard, no matter how her Grandfather told her it wasn’t all glory. She’d been sneaking out and training with one of the Royal Guards for 8 years by the time she was 19, stumbling across a fight, six of her classmates beating down on a young skeleton. She’d jumped to defense before she’d even registered it, helping the kid up and getting him patched up where eventually the kids brother, Sans, one of Alphys’ friends found them and thanked her profusely.

The three became fast friends, practically siblings, both of them there at her and Alphys’ wedding and her promotion to Captain of the Royal guard.

Alphys- (She/They)

27 and already one of the best Scientists in the whole country. Alphys’ having grown up in Hotlands would have never dared to dream she’d be working with a whole team of like minded scientists, especially not in the human city, though not being able to see her Wife as often was a dampener. Dr. Gaster was also a bit, overzealous, with the project, it was only a matter of time before the madman created some temporal superflux that blew up half the block, even if she wouldn’t be anywhere near as prestigious without his guidance, despite Sans’ reservations for letting them near him.

(I will be adding more to this AU btw, it’s in my top 3 faves lmao)

Bonus:

Animation I’ve done for Helical Sans to explain how his AU hopping works

[lobotomist-at-tabs]

mcr5 is real in my heart and here's how it could happen

disclaimer: this isn't actually evidence of mcr5, this isn't based on stone cold facts, i just think this concept would be really cool

buckle up and get ready for a crack theory i came up with while half asleep on my floor last night🫡

so, we know this tour is themed after the rise and fall of a dictatorship - draag, this sort of militarized land as shown in the tour teaser videos. according to the description of one of these videos, draag cast away the band (called "the black parade" in this lore, not "mcr") into some kind of prison, but tbp was being brought back as it was the dictator's favorite band. if tbp was a band with enough anti-govt sentiments to be banished in the first place, why was draag bringing them back? - to make a draag propaganda album. mcr5, if you will.

(if any of you are clikkies, you may know the scaled & icy lore - to my understanding, it's tyclancy being forced to make an album to promote dema, which is why its so markedly different than tøp's other works. this is what inspired me - it's possible that mcr would try to do the same thing.)

it could start off something very pro-draag, but in an almost sarcastic way. the same way that vampire money is a massive promotion of hollywood & capitalism, when we can tell it's actually a tongue-in-cheek critique of those who 'sell out'. then, it would become steadily more and more unhinged - the music getting 'weirder', the lyrics becoming more upfront, losing the image that draag curated for them as they take back control of the narrative and use art as a weapon for change. if they wanted to be awesome they could perform one new song at each long live show, and have the shows slowly become more disheveled.

and then, the album closes with foundations of decay: a song all about how all things end and return to the world, which could perfectly represent the fall of an empire. it would also establish that long live is a prequel to swarm tour - swarm is the aftermath of this collapse, which is why foundations of decay was part of it.

and of course after the tour they could release professional versions of these live songs, making mcr5 into a reality.

i do believe that if mcr was going to come back and make new music, it would have to be very rebellious / political, along the vein that danger days and conventional weapons began to fall into. after all, if frank can write I Am Going To Kill The President Of The United States under the Obama administration, i can't even begin to think what they would cook up in this current political climate lmao

anyway! only time will tell what this tour has in store for us, and there's a million different ways that mcr could go with both their lore and their music (and i'd eat it up no matter what). this is just an idea that i thought would be really fucking cool :D

[psychopassera]

PSYCHO-PASS LEGEND — Nobuchika Ginoza: Separation (Part 1 of 6)

Traducción al español (estan las seis partes completas), acá

A distant howl echoed through the night. A lament that had emerged somewhere on the mountain, where the trees stood tall like a sharp, solemn crest, reverberated again and again against the invisible dome that seemed to stretch from the zenith of the sky across the entire land—striking, over and over, some translucent lid. It vibrated with the persistence of a sound trapped within a suikinkutsu*, that garden of water-born echoes where tones continue to shimmer long after being released. A long, dense resonance lingered in the air.

And shortly after, as if arriving late, came another roar. Deep and prolonged. So profoundly melancholic in tone that it resembled the cry of a wolf forced to part from its pack forever.

Nobuchika Ginoza closed his eyes and strained to pinpoint the source, but it was in vain. Human hearing lacked such spatial precision. That exchange of voices, carried nightly from deep within the mountains, sounded like hidden sages laughing quietly at the chaotic folly of men. Tonight marked exactly one week. One week spent searching for a single dog, far from the human din.

The whisper of trees carried by the wind remained confined to this mountainous zone near the capital. In truth, these frigid nights—so cold they seemed to freeze even the dazzling shimmer of the night sky under the celestial dome—didn’t bother him, but perhaps the time had come to say farewell in silence.

As he climbed the slope, a small clearing opened before Ginoza’s eyes. The snow, lightly accumulated but hardened over time, reflected a moonlit blue hue that gradually deepened to a dark cobalt as it approached the forest’s edge. The forest was formed of towering tsuga trees. These evergreen conifers, known also as “the trees of the hanged” due to an old legend about executed criminals, grew closely together as if seeking warmth, casting a heavy darkness at their feet—like a protective curtain shielding the dead from further shame beyond death.

On the snowy ground, countless pawprints appeared, as if a whole pack of dogs had raced toward the shadowy woods. But on closer inspection, it became clear they all bore the exact same shape. It wasn’t a pack. It was one dog.

Ginoza instructed his companion to unearth one of the surveillance drones they’d hidden underground. The unit had been stripped of its mobile legs, and its casing—save for the lens—was fully covered in animal hide. As they pulled it out, soil clung to the Honshu deer fur and broke away in crumbling clods. His companion, grimacing at the smell, removed his gloves—also made from the same deer leather—while Ginoza programmed the drone to extract only the relevant segment from its vast cache of footage.

Data began transferring to the wrist-worn device he carried, watch-like in shape, and soon everything was ready for playback.

Ginoza looked again at the snow-covered plain marked by tracks, while overlaying the drone’s recording directly onto his retinas via directional hologram.

The dog was terribly thin, yet even with its prey clutched in its jaws, it didn’t stop to eat. It simply crossed the plain with majestic calm. In front of the tsuga forest, it began to perform a strange dance, as if offering a prayer to the goddess of the moon, sovereign of winter’s longest nights. Did it mean something? Or was it merely instinct? Whatever it was, the animal seemed to relish it.

And then, suddenly—it vanished. With a magnificent leap that activated every muscle in its body, it hurled itself into the darkness spun by the thick needle-like leaves of the trees and disappeared within it.

Ginoza slid the recording back to just before that moment. He froze the image right as the dog was about to enter the forest. He zoomed in on the captured frame. It was pixelated. Using AI, he extracted the dog’s silhouette and applied a quick correction to generate a sharp image, akin to a high-precision camera still.

The result was oddly absurd. The body traced a perfect arc, like a dancer on the verge of completing a final pose, but the animal’s mouth hung open—excessively so—as if caught in surprise. It didn’t seem to be barking. The expression didn’t match. Moreover, the prey it had carried was no longer visible in the image. That was the work of the AI’s censorship system. Most likely, the state of the prey was so horrifying that it had been flagged as potentially disturbing and automatically removed to preserve the viewer’s mental stability.

But someone else, besides him, needed to verify that footage. After all, they were members of the Criminal Investigation Department—guardians of Sibyl’s society. For Nobuchika Ginoza, in his capacity as an Inspector, the protection of the Psycho-Pass carried a deeper significance than it did for the average citizen.

“Sasayama. Tell me what the dog had in its mouth,” he ordered.

The moment he spoke, his glasses fogged up and his vision blurred, as though a layer of frost had settled over his eyes. It was the vapor of his breath, escaping from beneath the scarf wrapped up to his mouth.

“What a way to treat people…” Sasayama grumbled.

The Enforcer from Division One squinted at the uncensored holographic projection. Despite the freezing air well below zero, he wore only a stylish pinstriped suit, leather gloves, and a scarf. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the cold—his nose was slightly red at the tip.

“Don’t talk nonsense. Report, immediately,” Ginoza snapped, wiping the condensation from his lenses with a cloth as he shot him a glare.

“Yeah, yeah…” muttered Sasayama, shrugging as he raised one thumb and mimed slitting his own throat with the other. “It was a chicken. I guess it bit right into its throat and killed it in one go. Everything from the neck up was soaked in blood… But that’s the weird part. The dog didn’t have a single drop of blood on its fur.”

“I see…”

“What’s going on, Gino-sensei? Don’t leave me out of the revelation…”

“Was it a domestic bird that had already been bled out before the dog attacked it?”

Ginoza manipulated the device on his wrist, accessing the regional flora and fauna distribution map. In the area, records showed the presence of chickens raised under a broiler system*.

There were no reports of broiler chickens living in the wild. If that was the case, the dog had attacked a domestic bird from an inhabited zone.

“Let’s go,” said Ginoza, setting off. “We’ll be the ones to protect that dog.”

He turned his back on the clearing, descended the slope, and looked down at the hollow stretching below. A few scattered houses shimmered like gemstones sunk into the dark bed of a lake, reflecting the moonlight in trembling ripples.

It had all started with a report on animal reintroduction in a suburban area west of Tokyo.

Since the mid-21st century, the presence of live animals had steadily decreased, becoming a rarity by the 22nd century. Breeding animals was considered a luxury, a pastime almost exclusively reserved for the wealthy elite. Animal reintroduction was seen as an effort to return survival skills to species that, due to overprotection, had lost their instinct to fend for themselves. Since many urban developments built during old housing projects had been abandoned due to drastic population decline, those places had reverted to wooded terrain with abundant vegetation. It was believed that natural conditions were sufficient for released animals to survive on their own.

But history had already proven that assumption wrong. Animals domesticated over generations—raised and bred as pets or livestock—could hardly survive in the wild. Most died soon after release. And those that did manage to survive eventually descended into inhabited areas as savage raiders, stealing food and being classified as pests. A special division was eventually created within the Health Office, under the Ministry of Welfare, tasked with eliminating them. Thus, animal reintroduction ironically became a policy that turned against itself and was ultimately declared illegal. To this day, that remains the case.

However, the reintroduction incident this time, in the Okutama region, involved an even more serious crime. Every animal that had been released had an owner. The person responsible for the reintroduction was an animal therapist named Yōnobu Miyake, who ran a clinic on the outskirts of the city. Apparently, he was quite skilled and had earned the full trust of the affluent elite.

However, earlier this year, for reasons unknown, he released all the companion animals entrusted to him into the wild… and then vanished without a trace. His actions were as inexplicable as they were costly: they caused considerable losses. It was, in every sense, theft. The Public Safety Bureau took charge of tracking down the therapist Miyake as a suspect, while the Health Office was tasked with capturing the stolen animals. The two agencies coordinated a joint operation.

As part of that investigation, Nobuchika Ginoza and Enforcer Sasayama headed into the mountain region. Their target was a single dog. That dog, once the property of the cunning therapist, had turned into a silent hunter after being set free. Unlike other reintroduced animals that had settled into the mountains, this one avoided the wild dog traps laid out by the Ministry’s capture unit and continued to hunt freely, with unnerving composure.

Even since a week ago, when Ginoza and his team began participating in the capture effort, the situation had remained unchanged. But now, at last, something had begun to shift. The dog… had started descending into inhabited areas in search of prey.

It was too late that night to return to the city, so they slept in the car. At dawn, before the sun had fully risen, Ginoza and Sasayama began their descent toward the village nestled in the valley. The first light of morning was beginning to trace itself softly along the mountain ridges, as if sketching the outline of a wolf resting in the mist. Its diffused glow, hidden within the morning haze, slowly warmed the earth as the Public Safety Bureau sedan followed the narrow road along the slope.

Sasayama, in the passenger seat, was cursing while fiddling with his Enforcer-issued restraint device, shaped like a pair of handcuffs. Ginoza ignored him. The Ministry of Welfare had rejected their request for cooperation. It wasn’t hard to understand why. After all, they were encroaching on someone else’s jurisdiction. The Public Safety Bureau had the authority to act across domains using its special powers, but from the perspective of other government bodies, they were little more than a nuisance—intervening at will under the pretense of law enforcement. Still, Ginoza thought, at least they weren’t being actively obstructed.

Before long, they turned onto a rural road leading to the settlement in the mountain basin.

The land sloped downward in gentle hills: the houses clustered along the higher points, while further below stretched rows of chicken coops, stables, and vegetable plots. At a glance, the place seemed like a relic from another time. But as they stopped the car on the incline and rolled down the window, a faint mechanical hum could be heard. It came from agricultural drones, busy tending livestock and managing crop growth.

Ginoza stepped out of the vehicle, intending to head toward a farm where the dog had stolen poultry. He ordered Sasayama to retrieve the capture net case from the trunk.

The mountain air was thicker and more humid than in the city, and the cold seemed to seep through his coat as though it were penetrating straight into his skin. The house targeted in the attack was easy to locate, but it was empty.

Through the settlement’s administrator, they had already secured entry permission the night before. Officially, the village was registered as an agricultural recreation facility—a place where people could spend weekends engaging with nature in a measured way, seeking solace for the spirit. The wooden houses with tiled roofs were rented out as country homes, and guests could opt for the experience of caring for animals or crops. If one accepted the risk of tone fluctuation, it was also possible to consume pre-butchered meat. The chicken that the dog had taken the night before had been attacked right in the middle of that preparation process.

Next to the coop stood a processing unit. Several conical hoppers were lined up, designed to hang chickens upside down and insert their heads into the receptacle. The entire process—from bleeding to meat handling—was fully automated. Sanitary management was so strict that not even the faintest trace of blood could be smelled. Underground, the facility housed water and sewage pipes, electrical supply, and data wiring. Though presented as a rural retreat, the infrastructure rivaled that of any urban area.

They searched all the houses and structures in the area and ultimately decided to set traps centered around the coop, within the stable zone. The dog wasn’t large enough to take on animals in the pig or cattle barns, so those areas were ruled out. They were up against a skilled hunter—one capable of selecting its prey with precision.

Once the morning had passed and the sun had risen high in the sky, they returned briefly to the eaves of one of the houses and opened the case containing the auxiliary equipment. They took out the tripwire and boiled it for fifteen minutes in water they had set to boil earlier. During that time, Sasayama, taking a short break, pulled a pack of paper cigarettes from his breast pocket. Ginoza sternly ordered him to smoke downwind. If the scent of tobacco lingered in the air, the dog might pick it up.

Once the preparation was complete, Ginoza had an agricultural drone—the same type used in meat processing—bring over the materials they had prepared in advance: a pair of gloves soaked in the blood of a freshly slaughtered chicken, sealed airtight. He ordered Sasayama to put them on.

“Hold on a second, Gino-sensei,” Sasayama grumbled, visibly displeased. “Even I’d end up with a clouded hue after this.”

“If you’re an Enforcer, you shouldn’t be concerned about your hue deteriorating,” Ginoza said flatly. “We don’t have time. Do it now.”

Before dusk, all the traps had been set. Ginoza and Sasayama left the settlement, drove back to the paved road along the slope, and spent the night there, taking turns napping inside the vehicle. They kept the lights off, monitoring without pause the real-time feed from the drone mounted on the roof of one of the houses, facing directly toward the stables.

Ginoza adjusted the loose scarf around his neck. The cold was biting, but necessary. They had shut off the engine to leave no trace of their presence.

Wrapped in blankets, Sasayama exhaled sharply.

“Damn it… I swear I’m never doing anything like this again. The suit reeks of chicken, and there’s no way to get rid of the smell.”

He had ended up taking off his coat and was now in just his shirt.

They had also laid out a mat woven with chicken feathers, which no doubt intensified the stench even further. And yes… it really stank.

But it didn’t matter. There would be no second chance. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. They had to catch him here and now. The dog was cornered, pushed to its limit, with no freedom to choose its prey.

According to footage retrieved from the Health Office’s archives—obtained on Ginoza’s order by an analyst operating from the shadows—the animal had managed to survive thus far by hunting wild rabbits, pheasants, and other forest creatures. But the previous night, for the first time, it had descended into an inhabited area. That single act confirmed everything.

Despite having been released, the target still behaved like the loyal dog of its former owner, the therapist. Even in freedom, it hadn’t attacked the other reintroduced animals, which would have been easy prey. Instead, it had deliberately risked its life by heading for the settlement’s stables.

As soon as he set foot on solid ground, Ginoza advanced with firm steps along the frozen path, the frost crunching beneath his boots. The cold of the winter morning was sharper than ever, but the bright light of a cloudless sky warmed the body. Removing his scarf, he noticed a thin layer of sweat on his neck. The frigid air, like the tongue of a beast made of ice, slid across his warm skin with a chilling softness that ran down his spine. It was a strange sensation—but not unpleasant.

The dog had been caught.

It was trapped beside the meat processing facility, next to the chicken coop. The bait—a hanging chicken—remained in place, still suspended upside down, its head protruding from one of the metal cones, already bled dry, motionless in the silence of death. A wire ran from its mouth to the drainage system on the ground, and nearby, placed at a discreet angle, was a single-use paralyzer shaped like a sphere, with its internal mechanism exposed.

Right next to it lay a dog—compact in build, covered in dense fur, with short legs, long drooping ears, and an expressive, gentle face. It was most likely a Basset Hound*. It lay on its side as if dead, completely still. But when Ginoza approached in silence, gently stroking its fur so as not to startle it and checking for signs of breathing, he felt a calm, steady pulse. It was alive.

“Are you sure this is the one?” asked Sasayama, unfolding a portable cage for transport. “I don’t want it to turn out to be one of those other reintroduced dogs.”

“There’s no mistake. It’s this one.”

Ginoza knelt down and reached out to examine the animal’s collar. That was when their eyes met. The dog was conscious. It tried to lift its neck with effort, baring its teeth in a weak attempt to defend itself from the perceived threat—but it had no strength left. For at least a few days, it wouldn’t be able to move properly.

“It’s all right,” Ginoza said, carefully feeling the collar. “We had to use a rather harsh method to catch you. But I promise—no one will hurt you again. My name is Nobuchika Ginoza. Ron… I’ve come to protect you.”

He spoke the name engraved on the collar’s tag and gently stroked the dog’s fur. He was especially cautious when touching the area at the base of the front leg—or what remained of it. Part of the limb was missing. It was so well hidden beneath the fur that it must have been lost long ago. The fact that it had managed to hunt so skillfully on just three legs… filled him with admiration. For a moment, he wondered what could have happened to cause such an injury—but he let the thought go, and lifted the dog in his arms.

With care, Ginoza placed the dog inside the cage Sasayama had prepared.

Thus began the forty days they would share… until Separation. Notes: * Suikinkutsu: A traditional Japanese garden ornament and musical device. It consists of an upside-down ceramic pot buried underground, which creates delicate, echoing sounds when water drips into it—a subtle, contemplative soundscape meant to accompany purification rituals.

* Broiler system: A method of intensive poultry farming focused on rapid weight gain. Chickens raised this way are bred for meat production and typically live in controlled environments without access to the outdoors. They are not suited for survival in the wild.

* Basset Hound: A breed of dog originally bred for hunting small game. Characterized by short legs, long ears, and a keen sense of smell, Basset Hounds are known for their gentle temperament and distinctive appearance.