#blood cockles

[dotthings]

Going to draw attention to this part of the panel where Jensen and Misha spend five minutes just talking about all the great guest stars and recurring actors they've had on the show, how great the characters are, and how the cast is not only talented but there was a really high amount of good people they love hanging out with. Both Jensen and Misha spoke enthusiastically about that, but Jensen in particular here again spoke very eloquently and warmly about the extended cast, as he has repeatedly before now. It's unfortunately necessary to highlight this about Jensen given certain standom narratives some insist on that don't at all reflect Jensen's full actual views, his love and respect for the whole cast, and his artist eye view of appreciation for what those characters and actors brought to the story.

Queued up to the start of the segment

[radio-charlie]

Definitely overshot budget but this was so good

[yaka-arrow]

it’s such a small detail in kid!Peter and Yondu fics but I fuckin love it!! when people immediately assume Peter’s Yondu’s kid

[naffeclipse]

Sea Tears

Reader x Selkie!Moon

Commission Info

Thank you to the darling @cipher-the-sidhe for commissioning me to write about Selkie!Moon! The setting and the scenario are absolutely delightful. It's a shame I haven't written a selkie until now but I'm so glad I finally did!

Content Warning for mild injury and blood.

———

You tread carefully through the salt-tinged darkness and listen. A low hum plays along the moonbeams brightening the Salish Sea coast in an ancient voice you cannot translate. The fish and the seals might understand it as it thrums like insects on the wind or the constant, murmuring dance of the waves. You wonder if it is simply the sea. Perhaps it is something hidden along the dark inky waters now softly lapping up in the high tide.

Bends and sharp juts of coves shelter the rocky beaches. Further inland, a dense forest of coniferous evergreens conceal the beautiful shore and thrive in high levels of salt spray. You descend to the water, minding every step knowing that a slick, ocean-stained rock could easily lead you into a stumble and your head could crack open like an egg on the wave-smooth stones. 

These beaches are not for sunbathing and sand castles. They are to stand and admire the great breath of the Salish Sea and the bumps of crags lining the dark teal ocean—if the mist and cold don’t form an avid deterrent.

You rub your arms over the sleeves of your jacket and breathe a crisp scent. Driftwood dots the edge of land and water, and heaps of bull kelp sway farther out in the sea, lurking like guardians just along the surface to whatever might wander from the depths. 

Tonight, the fog is wonderfully parted by the silver-fingered light of the full moon. You scan the crevices in between dark, angled but blunt rocks, seeking the smooth fragments of seashells. In your years, you have rarely discovered a whole heart cockle or horse clam shell. There are only remnants of what was whole. 

The sand is firm and brown. The water gushes between stones before receding gently back with a frothy lace edge, bubbling and tumbling over itself just to do it all over again. You spy a fragment of a castoff shell, bleached and pale. You bend carefully down to scoop up its shard like a piece missing from a puzzle you wish to finish.

You hold it between your fingers. A curve or perhaps half of a spiral of a shell, sculpted by the waves now, softened by the time of being broken. Still, it is beautiful.

Carefully, you straighten while you slip it into your pocket. A soft understanding fills you to the bottom of your rib cage. A kinship, perhaps. You cast your eyes around you for a moment, admiring the moonlight until it shines upon a texture that is not often found here. 

Fur. Silver and speckled in blue-gray, it sits, slumped and hunched between two rocks, lying lifeless.

A seal. The dawning comes upon you in a moment of the rushing tide, and then, your feet are moving towards it. Your heart twists while you watch it sharply. How it could be so still and thin? Is it injured? You don’t have your phone with you—you left it in the car parked beside the oceanside road. Who would you call? Wildlife service? Perhaps it’s already too late.

No. You pray it isn’t.

You weave between sand and stones. Where the unmoving figure lies is thick with rocks, with almost no beach to speak of other than what is buried beneath. Your sandals slip on the slick edges of the rugged terrain. Wobbling, you catch yourself before you sling your body along a craggy boulder. You pass over the harsh edges and corners of the rocky shore, almost within reach. The fur hasn’t moved an inch at your rash approach. Your throat bobs for a moment in the horror of coming upon a long rotted seal—then your sandal-clad foot slips. 

A whip of sea and wind, and you fall. You throw your elbow down to catch you and it scraps sharply down the side of rough rock. You gasp when you bounce and slide, splashing into a thin strip of the tide slipping between cracks and crevices, but hold your chin high, away from any fatal head injuries.

You inhale slowly, eyes wide in the relief that you are not currently dripping your brains out of your skull like spilled yoke. A thin, stinging pain erupts along your forearm. Prying yourself off of the ground, watching where you place your feet, you get back up. A glance at the fur confirms it is still there. Slowly, you twist your arm to examine a fine, ragged cut slicing towards your wrist. A mix of sand, salt water, and blood spread across your skin. 

You breathe as it flares with pain. You close your eyes and convince yourself that you’ll clean and bandage it once you get back to your car.

First, the seal.

You lower your arm. Blood drops into the water as you at last reach the two stones the fur is wedged between, and tentatively, you reach out with the vain hope it might be warm and move with life. Your fingers stroke over the beautifully silver shade of the coat, dappled with blue-gray markings and a few, lovely rings at the end. But strangely, it’s cool with mist and bunched like fabric. Your mind turns the conundrum over slowly as if examining a broken seashell before you tug on it, higher, higher, until you hold in your hand the thin skin of a seal.

A pelt.

There is no blood, sinew, or otherwise, much to your relief. It carries a smooth sleekness on its underside. The strangeness of it tugs at a part of your mind, a memory of folklore and tales spoken around a table late at night. The beautiful pelt fills your vision with its starry silver shade and the Pacific ocean-deep hue of its markings. Carefully, as if handling platinum and sapphires, you caress the fur with the back of your fingers. A drop of blood from your arm threatens to stain it and you quickly shift the hide to your clean arm. You can’t ruin this beautiful coat with your crimson.

You lift your head. You gaze out over the ocean, rippling with the incandescence of the moon upon its onyx surface. Your heart bobs within you. Your eyes seek, and your ears strain.

The hum of the ocean which has filled you since you first arrived in the darkness grows. It is no longer a muffled, soft sound carried from behind closed lips but a soft melody lifted upon a voice. It rises to the sky. Over the driftwood and waves, you turn to face it, clutching the seal skin to your chest.

A man sings.

A part of you, undeniable and filled with longing, strides towards it. Following the curve of the rocky beach, you watch your every step. A plea in your core echoes with the desire to find the one singing. The crystal vibrations of the siren call rings through your bones. 

A rocky cove crops up on the side of a bluff, cutting off the beach but resuming with a swell of the tide into its darkened alcove. Once you near the mouth, you stop to bask in the lovely timbre. 

Then, with your fingers tangled in the soft, sleek fur of the seal pelt, you stand upon a rock just out of reach of the oceanic tide and peer into the cove.

In the glow of the night, a man stands in the icy shallows. You can only gaze at his striking figure wrapped in moonbeams. He steps lightly, his movement rhythm. The water ripples softly underneath him. He waves his arms, his limbs flowing over his head and down, like a wind sweeping the rocks and ushering the mist higher onto land. He turns, and one leg sweeps over the inky surface before stepping back. 

His body is long-limbed and slender, blue-gray like the speckles on the fur you hold. Upon his face is a marking of a silver crescent. His rich copper eyes flash in the dimness and are half-lidded in his homage to the great sea. Your breath stalls in your throat caught upon his visage. His face is wide and flat. Draping behind his head is an appendage much like a seal tail, an even darker blue with spots of glimmering silver-like stars.

His voice carries a song you have no name for but that which you hold only the most reverence in its echo. Your lips part unwittingly in adoration. He sings to himself and dances to an audience of the black sky filled with the moon.

But you twitch a hand forward as if you might catch a note of his lullaby and cradle it close to your chest. The man’s head snaps towards you. You freeze.

In a second of time and starlight, he holds your gaze, and you slip into the coppery irises that fill his wide eyes. His attention slips to what you clutch. You glance down, admiring the fur anew before you find your voice, hollowed and soft.

“Is this yours?” you ask.

The man stares, motionless like the bluffs the waves beat against. A few heartbeats pass within you. The man gently dips his head. The tail on the back of his head sways slightly like a nightcap.

“It is,” he speaks. “Please return it to me. I cannot return to the sea and my brothers without my coat.”

His voice rasps through the salty air and brushes the shell of your ear as if he whispered it to you. 

The word emerges in your mind like the fall of dusk. Selkie. One who has shed his fur to take a faintly human form under the full moon. The tales you’ve caught murmurs of were always of women, beautiful and naked, who begged for their seal skin back but spent the rest of their days held captive by the man who kept it hidden, forced to become a bride and carry his children.

An ache takes over your heart at such a cruel fate.

You answer with a gentle, “Of course.”

You slowly step into the icy waters. A shiver rolls up your body and you catch your tongue between your teeth to keep from gasping out at the shock of the brine. The selkie watches you, his eyes unreadable, his hands poised with his fingers half furled—as if you intend to dangle his seal skin in front of him before yanking it out of reach.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. You wade far less gracefully in the echoes of his dance and song to reach him under the cove’s mouth, “I didn’t intend to keep it. I only meant to return it to you.”

You find the truth along your tongue. Even if you didn’t catch a glimpse of his beautiful melody, you would have left the coat where it lay, too afraid of stranding a selkie without her or his skin.

He says nothing until you present it to him. Carefully, you hold it out to him and his long fingers grasp it. A soft breath leaves him. His shoulders lower while he turns his coat over and examines it, stroking the fine fur before leveling an unreadable gaze over you. You’re small before his tall figure. You feel clumsy and cumbersome in comparison to his lissom body. 

A true selkie, right before your eyes.

“So you did,” he at last murmurs as if he were dreaming. His copper eyes glide over you. His blue-gray body shimmers with a galaxy-like illumination. He carefully folds his coat over his arm before holding out his other hand and bidding you closer. “Come here. Sit with me.”

You stare at his offered palm. A few thoughts cross your mind of danger and temptation, a selkie ready to snatch away an unwary human, but would he have asked you so kindly? You slide your fingers into his grasp. He holds your hand before gently tugging you down until you cross your legs and sit in the icy cove water beside him.

“Is it true?” you ask, then flush slightly with the bluntness of your voice echoing in the alcove.

He tilts his head at you, the appendage at the back of his head slipping over your shoulder. His silence coaxes you softly into asking, “Do humans really steal the coats of selkies and force them into marriage?”

The selkie’s eyes lower, somber, before he dips his chin. “It is true. But not always.” His eyes find yours and hold them softly.

He has yet to release your hand, but slowly, he lifts your wrist and turns it slowly. You almost forget the sting until the sight of the bloody cut down your arm strikes you once more. Your lips twist at the sight, glancing at the selkie and fearing his judgment. How human you are, bleeding in his ocean.

“What did this?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes outlining the edges of your wound.

“A fall,” you say sheepishly, “I thought your coat was an injured seal.”

A laugh, rolling and deep, loosens from his lips. A not unwelcome shudder fills you in the sound. Mischievous and sincere, all at once.

“You must be more careful,” he says, his laughter dying as he leans closer.

You curl your fingers. Pressing back in the slightest as he hovers over your torn flesh, you hushly ask his name.

But he doesn’t answer. You watch in the quiet of the tide as the selkie blinks, and a tear falls onto your sliced forearm. A soft tingle spreads through your flesh. You glance down, and another tear falls, mingling with the sand and ocean salt, but the tingling becomes a gentle sensation knitting and stitching the skin together. In stunned silence, you observe seven tears in total bind your wound as if you never fell.

“This is my thanks for returning my coat.” The selkie releases your arm to gently wash it with a touch of brackish water. Blood and sand wash away, leaving your skin as it once was. He lifts his head and smiles. “I am Moon, and I must go.”

“Oh.” The sound is so small coming from you. “Moon…”

You echo your name. It feels so weak in comparison to his, but he takes it within his mouth and he sings it once. Your heart bobs within your chest as if floating upon a storm-tossed sea. 

“Goodbye,” he rasps. He holds your gaze, soft as seafoam, and tugs his coat over his body. He slips down into the water. A flick of velvet flippers emerges, and a large seal lifts his head above water. 

You gaze at the beautiful copper eyes of the seal. Whiskers twitch and a wet nose presses closer to you. Slowly, carefully, you stretch your fingers and stroke the soft fur of his head. Your palm runs down the slippery slope of his neck to his strong, blubbered back. The selkie holds beautifully still.

“Goodbye, Moon,” you whisper.

The selkie eyes upturn, somehow grinning in an animal form. In a sharp splash, he turns and dives into the water. The sleek dappled fur of his pelt mingles with the moonlight reflecting upon the black ocean before the waves reclaim one of its own. 

You stay in the cove for a time you cannot account for, watching the waters, wishing to catch the echo of his song just one last time.

Gradually, like the moon beginning to shift across the darkness, you get to your feet. Water splashes back into the cove. Your heart grows heavy and forlorn, and you rub your fingertips together as if still stroking his fur.

Perhaps you might return in search of broken seashells but find the selkie again.

[buffetlicious]

This XO Minced Meat Noodle (XO 肉脞麵) at Sembawang Shopping Centre used to be a cheap place to sate the hunger. But not anymore after they revamped the menu (shown below is the old menu) by coming up with small, medium and large portions range. For the same price I used to pay, I am getting a small portion which is way lesser than previously.

Mum got her Laksa (叻沙), a popular dish in Singapore, containing influences from Chinese, Malay, and other cultures. At its core, laksa is a spicy soup comprising the base ingredients of coconut milk, dried shrimp, fishcake, fish balls, fried bean curd puffs, blood cockles and prawns. This bowl doesn’t have prawns and mum don’t like cockles so we asked for it to be excluded. The noodles here is the thick rice vermicelli and topped with finely chopped laksa leaves (Persicaria odorata).

I went with the dry style XO Minced Meat Noodle (XO 肉脞面), opting for thin yellow noodles. For the toppings, it came with minced pork, sliced pork, braised mushroom, fish ball, fishcake, a fried wanton and crispy tempura bits. Mix the noodles up with the savoury brown sauce and tuck in.

[livebloggingmydescentintomadness]

Pls ashley if u want, could you list like the 10 most, to you, telling cockles moments/things that should make anyone think it’s obvious that they are more than friends.

oh dear, do i want to talk about cockles, i don't know...

OKAY.

a while back i answered a "top 3 no hetero explanation" moments ask, so let's count those as the first three to save me from repeating myself. i'll pull the rest from the masterlist, in no particular order.

4: jensen saying he and danneel both refer to misha as their boyfriend. it would take quite an effort to hetero that statement. bonus: my whole jenmisheel tag.

5: misha, possibly unaware he's on camera, casually calls jensen "sweetheart".

6: i don't have documentation of every time, but it's very common for jensen and misha to be significantly late to their panels/ops/autos, to change clothes in the middle of the day at cons, or be seen with... stains. 🤷‍♀️

midday pants change? 🤔 misha’s shirt turned inside out?? 🤔

misha tells fans it’s jensen’s fault he was late for photo ops  

jensen changed his shirt in the middle of the day, around the same time they were both late for their ops

both seen with… um… white… stains… on their clothes…

7: the ten year anniversary post, wherein they went back to the same restaurant they first went to dinner and sat at the same table. i mean, i've been with my qpp for 18 years and it would not even occur to us to do this lmao.

8: misha's "blanky" that he "kept in jensen's spare room", which led to fandom sleuths admitting it had long been covertly known that jensen and misha lived together in vancouver while filming spn from 2017-2020. @theyarebothgunshot did a brilliant post of a timeline of events surrounding their cohabitation.

9: misha wore a ring that jensen gave him during the time they lived together.

10: the casual but incredibly revealing intimacy with which they pose together, both publicly and privately. like, not to go on about body language, but i just can't buy this kind of closeness without something going on. there's a whole section of the masterlist devoted to moments of intimacy like these.

now, if you're new to cockles and i've just blown your mind, that's what the masterlist i've put my blood, sweat, and tears into is for.

[believerindaydreams]

everybody should know that blood cockles are a real species, I'm not making them up

[msfeatherfreckles]

Seriously, you all are so idiot. I'm laughing at your pathetic state. 🤣

https://www.tumblr.com/msfeatherfreckles/761817716842708992/what-do-you-think-about-the-fact-that-jensen-liked?source=share

I specifically put that tag on that post so it didn't have to cross your dash if you're curating your online experience. You're the one wading into the cockles tag and rage-baiting. And you've managed to rage-bait yourself.

Congratulations on your partial success, I guess, but you're the one giving yourself a high blood pressure, and you're calling me idiotic?

Well, some people need their dose of attention. So here's some love, light, and cockles kisses. 😘

[pyromaniacbibliophile]

bricktober day 28-blood

@lesmis-prompts

People azelma's back even though I still don't know her she's my pookie now

______________

She picked through the gutters as she walked. Underground and unpleasant, damp, dingy, and downright disgusting, the sewers were nevertheless one of her favourite places. She presumed it was a habit she had gained from her father. Despite the smell and the sight, she didn’t mind it. She had never exactly been precious about her appearance, and with siblings like hers dirt and mud were everyday sights.

So she walked through the tunnels, picking up rings or gold teeth or just battered coins. Whatever the tides brought her.

Today was different. She knew it would be different from the second she stepped down and was greeted by a wave of smell. The smell of iron. Walking further along with a lantern flickering, she noticed the red-red-red flowing through the carved channels at her feet. Blood.

To be fair, there was nothing unusual about seeing blood down here, Paris was half women and her father’s gang alone killed plenty. But this much at once?Idle and morbid curiosity ignited, she wandered uphill, following the streams of blood through the sewers.

Through tunnels in various qualities, all filled with blood, she worked her way to a drain through which the dark red dripped thickly down. Here the smell was near overpowering, so she ducked back through a side tunnel and up a different drain. Emerging at a corner, she paused to orientate herself before walking down the street.

Left here and she could see the Cafe Musain up ahead, a red banner hanging from its window. She looked down and saw cobbles scrubbed clean and gutters high with blood running along the side of the road.

Unease filled her, she was remembering vague flickers of conversation overheard. A barricade, a revolution. She walked slowly down the street, now silent.

Silent- and just up ahead, lain in neat rows, were corpses. One side dressed in the neat uniform of the national guard, the other in all manner of torn and ragged clothing- the only similarity between them the red stains across their chest.

Flies buzzed. Silver bullets that rung together as she knocked them and sent them rolling adorned the pavement and the bodies. Crushed shell necklaces from lovers abandoned on the ground. She recognised two bodies next to each other and ran, the dead eyes of her brother and sister following her. And the corpses lay there in their straight lines.

Silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row...

[cyberphuck]

Not gonna lie though if you REALLY think Orinus Atkascha is the True King of Ivalice then you’re a little bit sus. Friendly reminder that Orinus’s claim to the throne was shaky AT BEST because he was probably conceived through his mother’s infidelity (and again, it’s not WEIRD to tell married women, even in real life, that a child conceived with lies and betrayal by a wife whose womb belonged to her husband should have had no other destiny than to go cold in the crib).

Ovelia Atkascha had ALREADY been named heir BY THE KING (and if any of you had ever READ A BOOK then you’d know Kings have the divine right to rule over and make decisions for the lesser people of his kingdom, and that’s just as true in Ivalice as it is in real life) and the rumor that she’d been “switched at birth” was baseless hearsay anyway (AND people who lie burn in Hell for all eternity). SHE was always going to ascend the throne and if her female weaknesses made her an inferior ruler than a true trueborn son of the King would have been, at LEAST she was SUPPOSED to be there and wasn’t a BASTARD.

But by the grace of God she became the wife of Delita Heiral who, though he was of a much lesser House, was neither the fruit of a greedy mother’s cockle nor tainted with the unworthy blood of a commoner. Delita took Ovelia’s weak and confused womanly hand and ascended the throne as her husband and King, allowing her to fulfill a woman’s true purpose of bearing and nurturing children (and more people IN REAL LIFE should remember that, but they’re too busy liking gross and morally bad things like age gaps and incest).

Delita had come from humble but pure beginnings as the third son of a minor lord, but God saw his honesty and goodness and guided him first to the service of Baron Grimms, then to his ultimate destiny as destroyer of lies and corruption. He was a good husband to Ovelia, protecting her from all those that sought to harm her. And since he wore the Crown honestly, and not through lies and deceit, he was a good and just King.

And the TRUE King, if you even care, but I’m sure you’re too busy shipping Reylo (ugh) to understand how REAL LIFE works.

[bylightofdawn]

Dear Star Wars Fans

It's Hot Take time with El.

I am sooooooo fucking sick of seeing these "Weh, Star Wars sucks now posts" or "Disney keeps putting out the bad stuff and is RUINING MY CHILDHOOD" posts.

It's legitimately like I'm being transported back to the '90s/early 2000s forums where endless fanboys were whinging over Lucus ruining Star Wars with the prequels. And BTW, they have not stopped in the past 20 years. They will continue to be pedantic and toxic and generally pessimistic about everything.

So to come to Tumblr and see that same mentality being shoveled about like three pounds of horseshit that cross my dash at least once a day. And well, I'm grumpy enough this afternoon to go off.

Hot Take Point One: Just because YOU don't like a show or a series doesn't mean your opinion is the majority. There is someone out there who loves the season you're proclaiming is the worst thing ever. That character you detest is someone's special blorbo and the ship you despise is someone's OTP. And that is okay; their tastes are entirely valid, and your experience is not universal. You are not a peerless bastion of flawless good taste and the supreme authority on Star Wars. 

How do I know this? Cause you're on this hellsite and you like Star Wars. 

I'm not naive enough to expect people to not bitch about and complain about things they don't like, and honestly, you're allowed to do that. I encourage you to do it. I want people to keep in the back of their minds that it's their opinion and that it's not universal. And their opinion is no better than another person's. Even someone who you think has a shitty opinion or ships something 'problematic'. If you're going to proclaim someone else has dogshit taste, I would encourage you to look into the mirror and realize someone else thinks your tastes are dogshit as well. And fuck right off with canon is the only real and valid opinion. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES DISNEY HAS CHANGED CANON? They can't make up their fucking minds; nothing is set in stone, so just enjoy what you enjoy and let other people enjoy what they want. We're all here because we supposedly love this fandom, right? I feel like people have lost sight of that point. We're supposed to love Star Wars, and it should bring us together as a fandom, not tear us apart. But that's a rant for another day.

Hot Take Point Two: Have a little appreciation and respect for the people working on these shows. Unless you are in the industry or working on said show, you probably don't understand the amount of work, effort, blood, sweat, and tears that goes into making these things. Some of these people grew up dreaming about working on a Star Wars IP. This is probably a dream come true for a lot of people working on these shows, and you're pissing all over those dreams for popularity points on the internet like this is fucking Reddit, and you're farming for upvotes. No, it's not perfect; yes, there are going to be shitty VFX and cringe as fuck dialogue. 

It's not perfect, but they do their best with what they get handed. We had a saying in my old print shop, you can only shine up a turd so much. aka you take the shit you are given and you try and make it as polished and pretty as you can but at the end of the day you're working with the shit you were given. And I'm not saying these series are criticism proof or that you're not allowed to ridicule some of the terrible bad choices made.

I will go to my grave ranting about the ridiculous batshittery of fucking jetpack jousting in Mando S3. 

Hot Take Point Three: I will also argue that there are good elements in every new Star Wars IP released by House of Mouse. Yes, even the one you hate down the cockles of your black heart. I challenge you to shut out the noise from Tumblr, the bandwagon hating on something, and go in trying to find something you enjoy in a season or an episode. Find, say, 5 things you enjoy or a character (even a cringy one) or a set piece you visually find interesting. Maybe a funny joke or even a special effect so ridiculously stupid you can't help but laugh. (I'm looking at you Ahsoka fighting god damn fighters with a lightsaber while on top of the Ghost zooming around at full cruising speed. It's so utterly preposterous I can't help but laugh and shake my head all at the same time.)

You don't have to post about it or speak about it to anyone don't worry your friends don't need to know you might secretly enjoyed something you all 'hated'. Though I would also challenge you to actually speak about it as well because...hear me out here, you might find NEW PEOPLE who enjoyed those same things you might make more friends in the fandom, shocking I know. 

But just trying to FIND a positive thing in a show will give you a slightly more balanced relationship with how you consume it. Honestly, that's just general life advice you should try and take to heart. That's a freebie from your old Auntie El there. 

It's so easy to be a negative, pedantic fan who hates what we claim to love. But by making the conscious choice to find something good in this so-called pile of shit in front of you, maybe your relationship with the IP will be a happier one. If nothing else, you'll perhaps get sparked and remember what made you love Star Wars so much in the first place. 

So yeah, keep in mind your experience is not universal, even if you hate it, respect the time and effort it took to make it and try and find what sparked joy in you in the first place when interacting with the media. 

Oh, one other thing? 20 years from now? You're prolly going to look back on these shows you hate and find yourself nostalgic and maybe even a little apologetic for how much you dogged on this stuff because there will be a whole new cycle of brand new IP people are creating where people are proclaiming THAT is the worst shit ever made and they don't make Star Wars content like they used to. 

Cause that's just the human condition, and as someone who has been in this fandom for thirty years? I've seen that cycle replayed multiple times. We love the Prequels now, but twenty years ago, everyone hated them and thought they were ruining Star Wars. It doesn't get worse, it doesn't get better; we just grow older and learn to have a new perspective and learn to interact with the fandom in different ways. 

I'm just begging you, please stop being negative, toxicly pedantic fans who just sit there tearing down everything and learn to interact with the thing you claim to love with...actual love.

[thegreatlearning]

My bones are free and I become two people instead of one.

One person is white and snippering porcelain dish, but wait! It’s with pieces all in one filled with meaty marrow. Look and they’ll clatter.

The other person is one blood sack of hair and oil can’t tell right from wrong slipping out the door and freezing solid in a cool gust of winter air.

Cobble cockle knitter knatters my bones over to the ice block and, it’s just as much like a frozen TV dinner as anything.

My block of skin and meat are put into the red hot oven to roast after thawing sweating out the poison overnight in a metal bowl.

Snitters snickering snappering clattering clicking my knippering kipper bones pull out the crusty, juicy roast and serve it boneless at the dinner party complete with candles.

Finally 1/2 of myself toasted roasted up all tenderly, is eaten with big bites by the neighbors around a table sagging with quiche, pastas, pickles, fish puffs, silver platters, broth. While people eat.

My 1/2 other half Miss Casper Bones crouches in the corner rattling her crazy jaw and sending each dry bone ringing and clanking chuppering and rustling.

[newsintheshell]

💫 NETFLIX GEEKED WEEK 2024: TRAILER, ANTEPRIME E ANNUNCI ARRIVATI CON IL GRANDE EVENTO!

Clip, date, novità sul cast di Avatar e One Piece e anche qualche annuncio a sorpresa!

Un po' in ritardo, ma vi ho portato anche il riassunto della Geeked Week '24.

Il grande evento virtuale di Netflix, dedicato ai fan di animazione, videogiochi e non solo, ci ha regalato un sacco di belle novità anche quest'anno.

La kermesse si è tenuta la scorsa settimana, ma prima non sono proprio riuscito a farci un post, fra l'Aniplex Online Fest 2024, il palinsesto autunnale di Crunchyroll e alte cose, fra cui anche vari impegni, siamo arrivati al martedì dopo, scusate 😅

ONE PIECE

Parliamo subito dei nuovi membri del cast, che entrano a far parte della ciurma di Netflix per l'attesa seconda stagione di quel mezzo miracolo (in cui nessuno lecitamente credeva), che si è rivelata essere la serie live action ispirata all'epopea di Oda.

Quest'anno, a condurre lo show della Geeked Week ad Atlanta c'era Joe Manganiello e non era lì per caso. L'attore ha infatti svelato che prenderà parte alla serie nel ruolo di Mr Zero/Crocodile, per poi annunciare che Miss All Sunday a.k.a. Nico Robin avrà le fattezze di Lera Abova!

Come fisicità direi che ci siamo, quelli del casting continuano a far un buon lavoro. Parole incredibili da dire quando si parla di una serie Netflix, non ci credo neanche io.

In più è stato mostrato anche Chopper, ma solo di spalle e di sfuggita. Per i più curiosi, qua c'è anche un tour del set dietro le quinte, in compagnia di Bagy in persona, Jeff Ward.

GUNDAM: REQUIEM FOR VENGEANCE

Mostrata una clip in anteprima tratta dalla miniserie di 6 episodi diretta da Erasmus Brosdau (Origin Zero, The Lord Inquisitor: Seed of Ambition), in arrivo sulla piattaforma dal 17 ottobre.

Le animazioni facciali dei soldati saranno anche un po' rigidine, ma quando l'occhione dello Zaku si accende, il neurone di attiva all'istante!

CASTLEVANIA: NOCTURNE

Mini teaser con al centro Alucard e Richter, che ci annuncia quando potremo vedere la seconda stagione della serie made in Powerhouse Animation Studios (Tomb Raider, Blood of Zeus), ispirata alla celebre saga di videogiochi di Konami: da gennaio 2025!

THE WITCHER: LE SIRENE DEGLI ABISSI

Altra clip in anteprima, stavolta presa direttamente dal nuovo film d'animazione con protagonista il mitico Strigo dai capelli bianchi creato da Andrzej Sapkowski, in uscita l'11 febbraio 2025.

Lo spezzone è presentato dal grande Doug Cockle, la voce di Geralt nei videogiochi che lo hanno reso famoso al grande pubblico.

Il piccolo banter con Ranuncolo è carino, ma per sicurezza continuo a tenere incrociate le dita per un lavoro almeno con una parvenza di fedeltà al racconto originale (“Un Piccolo Sacrificio”)... con Netflix è un po' difficile, lo so.

DEVIL MAY CRY

Rimaniamo in casa Studio Mir (Dota: Dragon’s Blood, The Witcher: Le Sirene degli Abissi) e fomentiamoci un po' con un'altra celebrità, che guarda caso non è propriamente umana, caccia mostri e ha una chioma candida: l'unico e inimitabile Dante, figlio di Sparda!

Gli 8 episodi della nuova serie tratta dalla storica saga di videogiochi targata Capcom, arriveranno in streaming da aprile 2025. We are locked and loaded, baby!

ARCANE

Quest'anno possiamo saltare ottobre e andare direttamente a novembre, per favore? Dopo questa clip con dark Vi io non posso più aspettare!

La seconda e ultima stagione della mia personale serie tv dell'anno 2021, che ricordo essere ispirata al grande universo di League of Legends, verrà pubblicata ancora una volta in tre atti: il primo arriverà il 9 novembre, il secondo il 16 novembre e il terzo il 23 novembre.

Fortiche, continua a creare capolavori di questo calibro e la mia vita è tua! Non scherzo, questi ragazzi sembra abbiano veramente un tocco magico, che spero non perdano mai; hanno creato qualcosa di speciale e ne voglio ancora!

CYBERPUNK

Netflix e CD Projekt Red hanno ufficialmente annunciato di star collaborando, per riportarci a Night City con un nuovo progetto di animazione!

Non si sono sbottonati sui dettagli, ma restiamo in trepidante attesa.

TOMB RAIDER: LA LEGGENDA DI LARA

Uscito anche il trailer doppiato per la serie animata che, dal 10 ottobre, porterà sui nostri schermi Lara Croft.

Chi ha familiarità con i videogiochi reboot di Crystal Dynamics (Tomb Raider, Rise of the Tomb Raider e Shadow of the Tomb Raider), riconoscerà subito la voce di Benedetta Ponticelli!

Gran bel tocco di continuità per tutti i fan, visto che la storia sarà ambientata dopo gli eventi raccontati nella trilogia della sopravvissuta, per l'appunto.

AVATAR - LA LEGGENDA DI AANG

Sapevamo già che la seconda stagione era stata confermata, ma ora la produzione è ufficialmente iniziata. Non c'è ancora una finestra di uscita, ma nel frattempo è stato svelato un nuovo membro del cast!

A calarsi nei panni del mio adorabile gremlin della terra preferito c'è Miya Cech. Qui sotto il breve teaser che anticipa l'arrivo di Toph Beifong nella serie.

SAKAMOTO DAYS

Si vociferava già all'annuncio della serie, ma ora è confermato: l'action family comedy, basata sul popolare manga di Yuto Suzuki, arriverà in simulcast a partire da gennaio 2025.

L'anime è diretto da Masaki Watanabe (KADO - The Right Answer, Battle Spirits) ed è una produzione TMS Entertainment (Dr. Stone, Rent-a-Girlfriend).

HELLBOUND

La miniserie horror thriller sudcoreana, diretta da Yeon Sang-ho (Train to Busan, Kiseiju - La zona grigia), tornerà con una seconda stagione il 25 ottobre, giusto in tempo per Halloween.

Per chi non lo sapesse, l'adattamento live action si basa sull'omonimo fumetto, in due volumi, pubblicato dal regista assieme a Choi Gyu-Seok.

MAGIC THE GATHERING

È VIVA! ESISTE ANCORA! Questa era completamente sparita dal 2019, quando al primo annuncio doveva avere alle spalle addirittura i fratelli Russo.

Non è più così, a quanto pare, visto che il rilancio parla di una nuova direzione creativa, da parte dello showrunner e produttore esecutivo Terry Matalas (Star Trek: Picard, 12 Monkeys), in compagnia di Patrick Osborne (Nimona, Winston) come regista supervisore e produttore.

Io sono un fan del gioco di carte da quando si chiamava Magic L'Adunanza, spero che Hasbro e la Wizards abbiano preparato dei bei borsoni di soldi, perché pretendo una gran serie animata e non voglio scherzi.

Il Multiverso ha un potenziale enorme ed è pieno di luoghi, personaggi e storie interessanti. Sapevamo già che avremmo cominciato con Chandra, ma dall'inconfondibile silohuette direi che nel frattempo si è ufficialmente aggiunto anche Ajani.

SPLINTER CELL: DEATHWATCH

Ubisoft ritira fuori il povero Sam Fisher per piazzarlo ovunque, meno che in un nuovo videogioco di Splinter Cell 😭

Sono passati più di 10 anni dall'ultimo e non sono riusciti neanche a fare il remake del primo iconico capitolo della saga stealth. Troppo impegnati a mungere Assassin's Creed a quanto pare...

Però, l'annuncio a sorpresa di questa serie animata mi dà un pochina di speranza. Forse. (Non troppa visto l'andazzo recente della situazione di Ubisoft)

Nel progetto sono coinvolti gli studi Sun Creature e Fost, con al comando Guillame Dousse e Félicien Colmet-Daage.

⫸ NON VUOI PERDERTI NEANCHE UN POST? ENTRA NEL CANALE TELEGRAM! ⫷

Autore: SilenziO))) Se usate Twitter, mi trovate lì! 

blogger // anime enthusiast // twitch addict // unorthodox blackster - synthwave lover // penniless gamer // INFJ-T magus

[FONTE]

[hereforyourdispleasure]

A few mutates later Vampire came 2 da tree. He was wearing a blak leather jackson, black leather pants and a Good Chralotte t-shirt.

“Hi Vampire.” I said flirtily as I started to sob. Draco hugged me sexily tryont to comfrot me. I started to cry tears of blood and then told them what happened.

“Oh fuck it!” Vampire shouted angrily. He4 started to cry sadly. “What fucking dick did that!”

“I don’t know.” I said. “Now come on we have 2 tell Dumbledor.”

We ran out of the tree and in2 da castle. Dumblydor was sitting in his office.

“Sire are dads have been shot!” Draco said while we wipped sum tears from his white face. “Enoby had a vision in a dreem.”

Dubleodre started to cockle. “Hahahaha! And How due u aspect me to know Ebony’s not divisional?”

I glared at Dumbledore.

“Look motherfucker.” he said angrily as Dumbeldore gasped (c is da toot of crakter). “U know very well that I’m not decisional. Now get some fucking ppl out there to look for Series and Lucian- pornto!”

OH. OH GOD. IT'S MY IMMORTAL.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Ugly Little Girl (Arya II) [Chapter 64]

Surprisingly long.

Hilarious title by the way.

Eleven servants of the Many-Faced God gathered that night beneath the temple, more than she had ever seen together at one time. Only the lordling and the fat fellow arrived by the front door; the rest came by secret ways, through tunnels and hidden passages. 

Secret tunnels? Must be an Arya chapter.

+.+.+

Their tall chairs were carved of ebony and weirwood, like the doors of the temple above. The ebon chairs had weirwood faces on their backs, the weirwood chairs faces of carved ebony.

Remember the time I said there was a suspicious lack of the old gods in Braavos? That was dumb.

+.+.+

"I know this man," she did hear a priest with the face of a plague victim say. "I know this man," the fat fellow echoed, as she was pouring for him. But the handsome man said, "I will give this man the gift, I know him not." Later the squinter said the same thing, of someone else.

Arya will murder Raff the Sweetling in TWOW. Knowing her victims doesn't appear as if it's going to be an issue for her.

+.+.+

After three hours of wine and words, the priests took their leave … all but the kindly man, the waif, and the one whose face bore the marks of plague. His cheeks were covered with weeping sores, and his hair had fallen out. Blood dripped from one nostril and crusted at the corners of both eyes. "Our brother would have words with you, child," the kindly man told her. "Sit, if you wish." She seated herself in a weirwood chair with a face of ebony. Bloody sores held no terror for her. She had been too long in the House of Black and White to be afraid of a false face.

I don't know, seems like the author might be preparing Arya to look upon a ghastly face.

"Let us see." The priest lowered his cowl. Beneath he had no face; only a yellowed skull with a few scraps of skin still clinging to the cheeks, and a white worm wriggling from one empty eye socket. "Kiss me, child," he croaked, in a voice as dry and husky as a death rattle.

Does he think to scare me? - Arya I, AFFC

x

Lady Stoneheart lowered her hood and unwound the grey wool scarf from her face. Her hair was dry and brittle, white as bone. Her brow was mottled green and grey, spotted with the brown blooms of decay. The flesh of her face clung in ragged strips from her eyes down to her jaw. Some of the rips were crusted with dried blood, but others gaped open to reveal the skull beneath.

Her face, Brienne thought. Her face was so strong and handsome, her skin so smooth and soft. "Lady Catelyn?" Tears filled her eyes. - Brienne VIII, AFFC

+.+.+

He slapped her.

The blow left her cheek stinging, but she knew that she had earned it. "Thank you." Enough slaps, and she might stop chewing on her lip. Arya did that, not the night wolf. "I do deny it."

"You lie. I can see the truth in your eyes. You have the eyes of a wolf and a taste for blood."

Ser Gregor, she could not help but think. Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling. Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei. 

Only Arya would think a night wolf persona is detached from her real identity.

I think they know she's a warg.

+.+.+

"You were a cat, they tell me. Prowling through the alleys smelling of fish, selling cockles and mussels for coin. A small life, well suited for a small creature such as you. Ask, and it can be restored to you. Push your barrow, cry your cockles, be content. Your heart is too soft to be one of us."

They definitely know she's a warg.

Arya smelling of fish will be repeated 3x in this chapter. That might be Tully things.

+.+.+

He means to send me away. "I have no heart. I only have a hole. I've killed lots of people. I could kill you if I wanted."

"Would that taste sweet to you?"

She did not know the right answer. "Maybe."

"Then you do not belong here. Death holds no sweetness in this house.

Unless you're Daenerys Targaryen.

+.+.+

"I can pay the price. Give me a face."

"Faces must be earned."

"Tell me how."

"Give a certain man a certain gift. Can you do that?"

I'm sorry, did I miss something? Who is this man? Why is another servant giving out assignments and reprimanding Arya instead of the kindly man?

Also, hasn't she been wearing faces the whole time?

"Then on the morrow, you shall be Cat of the Canals again. Wear that face, watch, obey. And we will see if you are truly worthy to serve Him of Many Faces."

+.+.+

She got her first look at the man she must kill later that morning as she wheeled her barrow through the cobbled streets that fronted on the Purple Harbor. He was an old man, well past fifty. He has lived too long, she tried to tell herself. Why should he have so many years when my father had so few? But Cat of the Canals had no father, so she kept that thought to herself.

Two sisters attempting to justify awful situations.

When she closed her eyes she could see him in his sky cell, huddled in a corner away from the cold black sky, crouched beneath a fur with his woodharp cradled against his chest. I must not pity him, she told herself. He was vain and cruel, and soon he will be dead. She could not save him. And why should she want to? Marillion tried to rape her, and Petyr had saved her life not once but twice. Some lies you have to tell. Lies had been all that kept her alive in King's Landing. If she had not lied to Joffrey, his Kingsguard would have beat her bloody. - Sansa I, AFFC

Probably don't need to point out one of these acts is considerably worse than the other.

+.+.+

He has no courtesy, she thought, watching him go. His face is hard and mean. 

Look who's talking.

+.+.+

The old man's nose was pinched and sharp, his lips thin, his eyes small and close-set. His hair had gone to grey, but the little pointed beard at the end of his chin was still black. 

Boy, if I didn't know any better I would think this man is meant to represent another character in the story.

Petyr had been a small boy, and he had grown into a small man, an inch or two shorter than Catelyn, slender and quick, with the sharp features she remembered and the same laughing grey-green eyes. He had a little pointed chin beard now, and threads of silver in his dark hair, though he was still shy of thirty. - Catelyn IV, AGOT

+.+.+

"He is an evil man," she announced that evening when she returned to the House of Black and White. "His lips are cruel, his eyes are mean, and he has a villain's beard."

The kindly man chuckled. "He is a man like any other, with light in him and darkness. It is not for you to judge him."

Pfft, that doesn't sound very House of Black and White.

Villain's beard, lol.

+.+.+

That gave her pause. "Have the gods judged him?"

"Some gods, mayhaps. What are gods for if not to sit in judgment over men? The Many-Faced God does not weigh men's souls, however. He gives his gift to the best of men as he gives it to the worst. Elsewise the good would live forever."

The old man's hands were the worst thing about him, Cat decided the next day, as she watched him from behind her barrow. His fingers were long and bony, always moving, scratching at his beard, tugging at an ear, drumming on a table, twitching, twitching, twitching. He has hands like two white spiders. The more she watched his hands, the more she came to hate them.

"He moves his hands too much," she told them at the temple. "He must be full of fear. The gift will bring him peace."

Bending herself into a pretzel to rationalize this.

The Many-Faced God does not weigh men's souls, however. He gives his gift to the best of men as he gives it to the worst.

Assuming the cheque clears. What a crock of shit.

+.+.+

The old man was some sort of merchant, Cat concluded after watching him for a few days. His trade had to do with the sea, though she never saw him set foot upon a ship. He spent his days sitting in a soup shop near the Purple Harbor, a cup of onion broth cooling at his elbow as he shuffled papers and sealing wax and spoke in sharp tones to a parade of captains, shipowners, and other merchants, none of whom seemed to like him very much.

Some sort of merchant, eh?

Sounds like a man who might have a few enemies who would pay to have him killed.

+.+.+

The old man would count it out carefully, sorting the coins and stacking them up neatly, like with like. He never looked at the coins. Instead he bit them, always on the left side of his mouth, where he still had all his teeth. 

I have a prediction!

Pate grabbed it from his hand. The gold felt warm against his palm. He brought it to his mouth and bit down on it the way he'd seen men do. If truth be told, he wasn't sure what gold should taste like, but he did not want to look a fool. - Prologue, AFFC

+.+.+

"But what is he selling them?"

"He is writing each a binder. If their ships are lost in a storm or taken by pirates, he promises to pay them for the value of the vessel and all its contents."

"Is it some kind of wager?"

"Of a sort. A wager every captain hopes to lose."

Oh he's an insurance agent! Writing contracts, doing money deals, collecting coin! Fascinating.

"How will the crown pay its debts without Lord Petyr? He is our wizard of coin, and we have no one to replace him." - Tyrion III, ASOS

x

The Waynwoods are very old and very proud, but not as rich as one might think, as I discovered when I began buying up their debt. - Alayne II, AFFC

+.+.+

"… they lose their ships, oftimes their very lives. The seas are dangerous, and never more so than in autumn. No doubt many a captain sinking in a storm has taken some small solace in his binder back in Braavos, knowing that his widow and children will not want." A sad smile touched his lips. "It is one thing to write such a binder, though, and another to make good on it."

Not paying debts owed? Goodness, that sounds familiar too!

He went back to work after she left, trying to track some golden dragons through the labyrinth of Littlefinger's ledgers. Petyr Baelish had not believed in letting gold sit about and grow dusty, that was for certain, but the more Tyrion tried to make sense of his accounts the more his head hurt. It was all very well to talk of breeding dragons instead of locking them up in the treasury, but some of these ventures smelled worse than week-old fish. - Tyrion VI, ASOS

+.+.+

Cat understood. One of them must hate him. One of them came to the House of Black and White and prayed for the god to take him. She wondered who it had been, but the kindly man would not tell her. "It is not for you to pry into such matters," he said. "Who are you?"

Prayed for the god to take him? Silly girl.

Controversial take, but scumbag insurance salesmen don't deserve to die ... they deserve a lifetime of endless psychological torture, and physical abuse.

I'm kidding. Mostly.

+.+.+

"If you cannot do this thing, you need only say so. There is no shame in that. Some are made to serve the Many-Faced God and some are not. Say the word, and I shall lift this task from you."

Say it.

Please say it.

Please don't kill this crooked old man.

This is not right.

This is not justice.

Think of your father.

Your brother.

Your mother. Your real mother.

+.+.+

"I will do it. I said I would. I will."

Fuck.

+.+.+

How, though? That was harder.

He had guards. Two of them, a tall thin man and a short thick one. They went with him everywhere, from when he left his house in the morning till he returned at night. They made certain no one got close to the old man without his leave. 

Littlefinger has a tall and short knight too! Plus an extra for funsies.

The three knights bowed and withdrew, though the tall one with the blond hair kissed her hand before taking his leave.

"Hedge knights?" said Alayne, when the door had closed.

"Hungry knights. I thought it best that we have a few more swords about us. The times grow ever more interesting, my sweet, and when the times are interesting you can never have too many swords. The Merling King's returned to Gulltown, and old Oswell had some tales to tell." - Alayne II, AFFC

We already know Ser Shadrich is important, I wonder if Ser Byron and Ser Morgarth will be elevated in the story.

+.+.+

"The guards go with him even when he slips out to make water," she said, "but he doesn't go when they do. The tall one is the quicker. I'll wait till he is making water, walk into the soup shop, and stab the old man through the eye."

"And the other guard?"

"He's slow and stupid. I can kill him too."

"Are you some butcher of the battlefield, hacking down every man who stands in your way?"

And we have to sit here and entertain discussions about Sansa's morality. Lol

+.+.+

"Him of Many Faces will be pleased." The kindly man rose. "Cat of the Canals is known to many. If she is seen to have done this deed, it might bring down trouble on Brusco and his daughters. It is time you had another face."

The girl did not smile, but inside she was pleased. She had lost Cat once, and mourned her. She did not want to lose her again. 

+.+.+

"What will I look like?"

"Ugly. Women will look away when they see you. Children will stare and point. Strong men will pity you, and some may shed a tear. No one who sees you will soon forget you. Come."

Wouldn't you want to go with a forgettable face?

+.+.+

The tunnels here were cramped and crooked, black wormholes twisting through the heart of the great rock. One passage was closed off by a heavy iron door. The priest hung the lantern from a hook, slipped a hand inside his robe, and produced an ornate key.

Gooseprickles rose along her arms. The sanctum. They were going lower still, down to the third level, to the secret chambers where only the priests were permitted.

Oh my goodness, are we travelling to the bottom of the castle where all the secret tunnels and chambers are? Never would have thought I'd see this in an Arya chapter.

+.+.+

The priest took down the lantern once again and led the way. The girl followed the light, counting the steps as she went down. Four five six seven. She found herself wishing that she had brought her stick. Ten eleven twelve. She knew how many steps there were between the temple and the cellar, between the cellar and the subcellar, she had even counted the steps on the cramped winding stair that spiraled up into the garret and the rungs on the steep wooden ladder that ascended to the rooftop door and the windy perch outside.

This stair was unknown to her, however, and that made it perilous. One-and-twenty two-and-twenty three-and-twenty. With every step the air seemed to grow a little colder. When her count reached thirty she knew that they were under even the canals. Three-and-thirty four-and-thirty. How deep were they going to go?

She had reached fifty-four when the steps finally ended at another iron door.

I feel like I've read something like this before.

At first he could see the dim outline of each rung as he grasped it, and the rough grey texture of the stone behind, but as he climbed the black grew thicker. Thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen. By thirty, his arms trembled with the strain of pulling. He paused a moment to catch his breath and glanced down. A circle of faint light shone far below, half obscured by his own feet. Tyrion resumed his ascent. Thirty-nine forty forty-one. By fifty, his legs burned. The ladder was endless, numbing. Sixty-eight sixty-nine seventy. By eighty, his back was a dull agony. Yet still he climbed. He could not have said why. One thirteen one fourteen one fifteen.

At two hundred and thirty, the shaft was black as pitch, but he could feel the warm air flowing from the tunnel to his left, like the breath of some great beast. - Tyrion XI, ASOS

+.+.+

A thousand faces were gazing down on her.

Got to ask ourselves if Jaqen recruited Arya because he knew what she was.

I have watched you for a long time, watched you with a thousand eyes and one. - Bran II, ADWD

+.+.+

They hung upon the walls, before her and behind her, high and low, everywhere she looked, everywhere she turned. She saw old faces and young faces, pale faces and dark faces, smooth faces and wrinkled faces, freckled faces and scarred faces, handsome faces and homely faces, men and women, boys and girls, even babes, smiling faces, frowning faces, faces full of greed and rage and lust, bald faces and faces bristling with hair. Masks, she told herself, it's only masks, but even as she thought the thought, she knew it wasn't so. They were skins.

Pardon? Excuse me? What the hell are they going to do with a baby's face?

This place is fucked, how can anyone read this and not instantly recognize this is bad.

+.+.+

Arya bit her lip. She did not know what she wanted. If I leave, where will I go? She had washed and stripped a hundred corpses, dead things did not frighten her. 

I sure hope so.

+.+.+

One tunnel was walled with human bones, its roof supported by columns of skulls. Another opened on winding steps that descended farther still. How many cellars are there? she wondered. Do they just go down forever?

There's four levels.

:)

+.+.+

Still as stone, she thought. She sat unmoving. The cut was quick, the blade sharp. By rights the metal should have been cold against her flesh, but it felt warm instead. She could feel the blood washing down her face, a rippling red curtain falling across her brow and cheeks and chin, and she understood why the priest had made her close her eyes. When it reached her lips the taste was salt and copper. She licked at it and shivered.

Since when is a knife involved?

+.+.+

"Bring me the face," said the kindly man. The waif made no answer, but she could hear her slippers whispering over the stone floor. To the girl he said, "Drink this," and pressed a cup into her hand. She drank it down at once. It was very tart, like biting into a lemon. A thousand years ago, she had known a girl who loved lemon cakes. No, that was not me, that was only Arya.

There are Arya fans who believe Arya is remembering Arya. Bless them.

Since when is there a drink? Are we doing blood magic?

+.+.+

"Mummers change their faces with artifice," the kindly man was saying, "and sorcerers use glamors, weaving light and shadow and desire to make illusions that trick the eye. These arts you shall learn, but what we do here goes deeper. Wise men can see through artifice, and glamors dissolve before sharp eyes, but the face you are about to don will be as true and solid as that face you were born with. Keep your eyes closed."

IS IT BLOOD MAGIC? It's blood magic, isn't it.

+.+.+

The leather scraped across her brow, dry and stiff, but as her blood soaked into it, it softened and turned supple. Her cheeks grew warm, flushed. She could feel her heart fluttering beneath her breast, and for one long moment she could not catch her breath. Hands closed around her throat, hard as stone, choking her. Her own hands shot up to claw at the arms of her attacker, but there was no one there. A terrible sense of fear filled her, and she heard a noise, a hideous crunching noise, accompanied by blinding pain. A face floated in front of her, fat, bearded, brutal, his mouth twisted with rage. She heard the priest say, "Breathe, child. Breathe out the fear. Shake off the shadows. He is dead. She is dead. Her pain is gone. Breathe."

Holy christ, this is dark.

+.+.+

"You may have bad dreams for a time," warned the kindly man. "Her father beat her so often and so brutally that she was never truly free of pain or fear until she came to us."

"Did you kill him?"

"She asked the gift for herself, not for her father."

You should have killed him.

Arya still firmly in camp Kill The Oppressor.

"He killed the slave?" That did not sound right. "He should have killed the masters!" - Arya II, AFFC

Hard to know where that might be going.

The memories staying is similar to warging.

When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades - Prologue, ADWD

+.+.+

As they made their way back to the steps, the empty eyeholes of the skins upon the walls seemed to follow her. For a moment she could almost see their lips moving, whispering dark sweet secrets to one another in words too faint to hear.

"It's dead," she said aloud. "It's just a skull, it can't hurt me." Yet somehow the monster seemed to know she was there. She could feel its empty eyes watching her through the gloom, and there was something in that dim, cavernous room that did not love her. - Arya III, AGOT

x

Arya held the candle over her head. With each step she took, the shadows moved against the walls, as if they were turning to watch her pass. "Dragons," she whispered. - Arya IV, AGOT

+.+.+

Sleep did not come easily that night. Tangled in her blankets, she twisted this way and that in the cold dark room, but whichever way she turned, she saw the faces. They have no eyes, but they can see me. She saw her father's face upon the wall. Beside him hung her lady mother, and below them her three brothers all in a row. No. That was some other girl. I am no one, and my only brothers wear robes of black and white. Yet there was the black singer, there the stableboy she'd killed with Needle, there the pimply squire from the crossroads inn, and over there the guard whose throat she'd slashed to get them out of Harrenhal. The Tickler hung on the wall as well, the black holes that were his eyes swimming with malice. The sight of him brought back the feel of the dagger in her hand as she had plunged it into his back, again and again and again.

Quite the body count so far.

Unfortunate, but it's probably a positive thing she's being haunted by this.

+.+.+

An ugly girl should dress in ugly clothing, she decided, so she chose a stained brown cloak fraying at the hem, a musty green tunic smelling of fish, and a pair of heavy boots. 

New face, same fishy smell.

+.+.+

One time, the girl remembered, the Sailor's Wife had walked her rounds with her and told her tales of the city's stranger gods. "That is the house of the Great Shepherd. Three-headed Trios has that tower with three turrets. The first head devours the dying, and the reborn emerge from the third. I don't know what the middle head's supposed to do. Those are the Stones of the Silent God, and there the entrance to the Patternmaker's Maze. Only those who learn to walk it properly will ever find their way to wisdom, the priests of the Pattern say. Beyond it, by the canal, that's the temple of Aquan the Red Bull. Every thirteenth day, his priests slit the throat of a pure white calf, and offer bowls of blood to beggars."

In case you missed it, it's possible the Sailor's Wife is Tysha.

Not sure if the three-headed tale is important, or if we're looking for any reason to drag the Sailor's Wife back into the story.

+.+.+

When she stopped to watch and listen for a moment, Tagganaro glanced at her without recognition, but Casso barked and clapped his flippers. He knows me, the girl thought, or else he smells the fish. She hurried on her way.

I mean the obvious implication is that a wolf will be able to sense a disguised Arya.

But again, smelling the fish on Arya could be a clever nod to House Tully. Kind of a stretch though.

+.+.+

Instead she perched atop a wooden piling twenty yards away as the blustery wind tugged at her cloak with ghostly fingers.

BRAN?!

+.+.+

It was almost noon before she saw the man she wanted, a prosperous shipowner she had seen doing business with the old man three times before. Big and bald and burly, he wore a heavy cloak of plush brown velvet trimmed with fur and a brown leather belt ornamented with silver moons and stars. Some mishap had left one leg stiff.

We'll later learn he's carrying Westerosi coins.

The ugly girl sat next to him and put a coin on the lip of the pool between them. It was gold, with a dragon on one face and a king on the other.

If the silver moons and stars is a specific house, I don't know what it is. Could simply be more random Daenerys hints.

+.+.+

The movement tangled her arm in the folds of his cloak as she was pulling out her hand. Coins rained around their feet. "Thief!" The big man raised his stick to strike at her. She kicked his bad leg out from under him, danced away, and bolted as he fell, darting past a mother with a child. More coins fell from between her fingers to bounce along the ground. Shouts of "thief, thief" rang out behind her. A potbellied innkeep passing by made a clumsy grab for her arm, but she spun around him, flashed past a laughing whore, raced headlong for the nearest alley.

Slightly similar to another scene I've read.

The old man feinted with one end of the staff, pulled it back, and whipped the other end about faster than Dany would have believed. The Titan's Bastard staggered back into the surf, spitting blood and broken teeth from the ruin of his mouth. Whitebeard put Dany behind him. Mero slashed at his face. The old man jerked back, cat-quick. The staff thumped Mero's ribs, sending him reeling. Arstan splashed sideways, parried a looping cut, danced away from a second, checked a third mid-swing. The moves were so fast she could hardly follow. - Daenerys V, ASOS

+.+.+

Cat of the Canals had known these alleys, and the ugly girl remembered. She darted left, vaulted a low wall, leapt across a small canal, and slipped through an unlocked door into some dusty storeroom. All sounds of pursuit had faded by then, but it was best to be sure. She hunkered down behind some crates and waited, arms wrapped around her knees. She waited for the best part of an hour, then decided it was safe to go, climbed straight up the side of the building, and made her way across the rooftops almost as far as the Canal of Heroes.

Enjoying this account of Arya narrowly escaping a pursuit.

She heard shouts, then pounding footsteps, closing behind her. She dropped and rolled. The red cloak went careening past her, stumbling. Arya sprang back to her feet. She saw a window above her, high and narrow, scarcely more than an arrow slit. Arya leapt, caught the sill, pulled herself up. She held her breath as she wriggled through. Slippery as an eel.

[...]

It was very dark right now, she realized. She hugged her bare knees tight against her chest and shivered. She would wait quietly and count to ten thousand. By then it would be safe for her to come creeping back out and find her way home.

By the time she had reached eighty-seven, the room had begun to lighten as her eyes adjusted to the blackness. Slowly the shapes around her took on form. Huge empty eyes stared at her hungrily through the gloom, and dimly she saw the jagged shadows of long teeth. - Arya III, AGOT

+.+.+

"It wasn't stealing. I took one of his, but I left him one of ours."

The kindly man understood. "And with that coin and the others in his purse, he paid a certain man. Soon after that man's heart gave out. Is that the way of it? Very sad." The priest picked up the coin and tossed it into the pool. "You have much and more to learn, but it may be you are not hopeless."

What if the sailor didn't pay with all his coins? What if someone pocketed the coin while it was on the street? Flawed plan.

+.+.+

That night they gave her back the face of Arya Stark.

They brought a robe for her as well, the soft thick robe of an acolyte, black upon one side and white upon the other. "Wear this when you are here," the priest said, "but know that you shall have little need of it for the present. On the morrow you will go to Izembaro to begin your first apprenticeship. Take what clothes you will from the vaults below. The city watch is looking for a certain ugly girl, known to frequent the Purple Harbor, so best you have a new face as well." He cupped her chin, turned her head this way and that, nodded. "A pretty one this time, I think. As pretty as your own. Who are you, child?"

"No one," she replied.

I don't understand why she keeps progressing when they know she still identifies as Arya.

Final thoughts:

I don't think the takeaway is that Arya will poison Littlefinger (she could still kill him), but perhaps a contributing factor to his downfall will be coin?

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