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baelliish · 7 years

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Dark wings; Raven | Monologue

Tagging → Petyr Baelish, Kendry the Servingboy, sellswords.

Time Frame → 3;291 A.C.

Location → Petyr’s chamber, the Rookery, Corridors; The Eyrie, Kingdom of the East.

Notes → Littlefinger enshrouds a harrowing secret amidst a hidden plot of betrayal.

A slash of maroon and cerulean darted clear across the skies, bleeding through the sparse clouds to shed an ominous gleam over the Vale. Its light spilled over a peeling scroll splayed upon the table in his solar and brought an unwelcome drift of biting, dusky wind. The lone candle illuminating the parchment flickered and danced to the patter of the breeze. Petyr wrapped a brown lambswool tunic about him to guard against the cold and decided it was wise to amble onto the terrace rather than wait for the flame to wither upon its end.

On slippered feet, the master of coin stood from his chair and ambled onto the terrace hewn of solid marble. As he walked, unhurried so as not to make a sound, he wished he had brought the withered scroll to glimpse upon the letter sent from King’s Landing. Every man my age prays for a small taste of invulnerability, but the gods rarely listen…even the braavosi gods of my forebears…I wish—I wish…

The dour, pasty aroma of baking bread spilled through the arrow-slits and sturdy parapets of the keep that sheathed the kitchens. Petyr peered across the rippling vermilion skies, pallid and ashen under a river of cloud dense and immutable. He couldn’t see the lash of the swelling tide but heard the wistful whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, of winds coursing against the pillars of the rocky gallows; warm, fond memories of boyhood upon the Red Fork when he watched the tide for hours, marveling at the unrelenting push and pull of waves lapping from the rivers.

“Father says the Drowned God is like to drag you into his watery halls if you keep starin’ at it like that,” his ward brother, Edmure Tully, said before throwing a pebble at his arm. Edmure was younger, only one-and-ten, yet stood a half-foot over Petyr; lanky, sure-footed, and broad-of-chest where Petyr was narrower-of-chest but at five-and-ten had full arms and shoulders to match. Edmure seemed especially tall in loose-fitted sheepskin breeches and an airy tunic. Too light, what is he planning?

“Ow!” he shrieked as the pebble bounced into the silent sands off his forearm. With a scowl he bent to retrieve the pebble and poised to throw it but by then Edmure was off on a run along the grey, shiftless coasts and Petyr stood there, abashed and perplexed. At five-and-ten, almost a man grown, Riverrun’s master-at-arms, Ser Desmond Grell, allowed him to wear the weapon of his choice and while Petyr was not keen on weapons he had chosen a small dirk with a brass hilt fashioned with the sinewy wings of a mockingbird. The mockingbird reigns amidst the trees, not much use in that, the castellan mocked.

The piercing shrill of seagulls distilled his memory and, distraught, Petyr found himself not upon the shiftless, jagged sands of the Fingers but the sturdy terrace of his balustrade. In the East, the earliest specks of a dawning sun peeked over the horizon. Soon the day’s light would shed upon a castle crest atop the Mountain of the Moon, a castle of marble and granite and stone effaced and plastered above the mountain’s rough, unrelenting surface. At two-and-twenty, when he was pleased to serve Jon Arryn of the Vale, Petyr marveled upon the castle at the highest peak of the mountain that was at the end of a paved road with a gate of blue-veined marble; tall, proud, visceral. The Eyrie—that is a real castle—and impregnable. Far from the small flint tower I call home. Petyr glanced upon the heart of the castle, with its twin marble towers connected by a granite bridge, each tower reaching for the skies, topped with a dollop-crown of bright white marble inlaid with the cerulean satin of House Arryn. There were two lesser towers flanked around them, crowned in silver and cerulean, mortared together with marble towers spotted with turrets and baileys and solid rockways for the castle guard. Petyr’s own quarters were outside of the oblong of towers, to the far left of the towers connected by an archway of burnished russet rock, leading into the sparse, cavernous corridors and stairkeeps that led up, and up, and up until tall blocks of glass and crystal permitted sunlight like the end of a dark and endless cave. At the top of the tower were the Eyrie’s libraries, stocked and studded with boarskin covered books and old, dusty scrolls; a cavernous room with two sparse beds and shelves stacked with jars (distinguishable with patches of parchment scribbled with milk of the poppy, nightshade, the tears of lys, and other potions and herbs), and Petyr’s own private chamber with a canopy bed, a hearth, and a table replete with quill and ink which led to the tight balcony upon which he perched.

He had only to gaze upon his whiskers to be reminded of the scourge of time. His beard was once a full shock of course jet-black hair that had, once, peppered itself with shocks of ashen-grey patches. Most of the black is gone, now. With sunken eyes, a strong face, and a head full of hair that matched the pallor of his beard, Petyr was often depicted as an agile man with years behind him. Petyr often wished that time were on his side. Time had to be on his side. One day, like the players of legend, I shall twist and turn and shape the Seven Kingdoms into a beacon of wealth and power, as firm as any Lannister keep. A voice seemed to raise from the hills, wistful as the wind and as frail as the crone. “The Seven Kingdoms are already a beacon of power, with princes and lords…already a beacon of power, with soldiers tittering to the banner call of every lord from Sunspear to Castle Black. None of it is yours…” Petyr frowned in frustration. Age plagues me with voices, is that the way of it? He gripped the jagged edge of the terrace, his brown eyes staring vaguely at the somber skies. Oh, but I shall shape the Seven Kingdoms. It will be my image Westeros glances upon….mine…mine own.

Petyr departed from the terrace to the sound of quiet footsteps upon the stairkeep leading to his chambers, knowing that it was his steward Kendry come to inquire about breaking his fast. At the table he found the discarded scroll and the frayed candle that had blown out. He examined the scroll again, etched with the cautious script of one of Petyr’s predecessors that laid out the layment of the Eyrie, complete with demarcated margins of passageways and deep, dark tunnels carved deep, deep beneath the Towers. How much time has passed? A fortnight? A turn of the moon? Many moons? And, still, no sign of—

“Good morrow, m’lord,” quipped the eager, inquisitive boy of three-and-ten with a mouth teeming with crooked teeth, high forehead, and bed of fire-red curls. He swooped inside and shut the door behind him with that eager grin of his; a grin Petyr supposed all young boys had.

“Would that it was, lad,” taking care to wrap the scroll and seal it with a veil of crimson velour, Petyr offered it to him, “have there been any ravens on the horizon?”

“No, m’lord,” said Kendry as he retrieved the scroll with lithe fingers. As a servingboy, Kendry was not allowed to roam the castle walls with weapons, but resting on the side of his birch-colored breeches was a small dirk, almost a small needle-like sword that green boys loved to wave around in their pretend-jousts of renowned knights of the lists. “Will you break your fast with grape water and sweetbread today?”

Petyr nodded briskly, caught in a fit of nostalgia over a very special falcon-hilt sword he carried in his time as a boy of the Riverlands. Kendry shuffled out of the room. Petyr departed after him. He counted two-and-twenty stairs, hewn of white marble, before reaching a wide hall with three gelded doors at the end. Kendry would have taken the door to the left that led to the inner gate and eventually the kitchens from whence wafted the sweet, dour aroma of fresh bread baking in the ovens. Petyr ambled through the door on the right which, to his disappointment, led to another stairkeep that went up to another side of the Tower where the raven’s cages and cells upon cells of letters loitered the walls. He took a deep breath before taking the climb.

Up and up and up he went, his cautious feet clambering silently, the tap, tap, tap of his varnished boots upon marble the only sound in the tight, dark corridor. Another gelded door awaited him at the top, and he entered to find the bask of shimmering light pouring through the wide opening in the wall illuminating the cell, from the cluster of charcoal iron cages to the columns of cells from which various scrolls and letters poked out. An old, dingy carpet of withered sheepskin covered the floor in spots, beneath the craggy chair and table used for writing, and the wrought iron pole that the ravens perched upon with letters clasped to their spindly legs.

“Cold, cold,” quorked one raven from the lower cages. They had noticed the master of coin’s appearance, and one raven’s mutterings triggered an onslaught of raven speech. “Water, water” sniped another raven, “Dark, dark, dark, dark,” quorked another. The last had warranted a second-glance from him…suspicious, he peered at the cages. Dark, it says. Does it know the saying? Dark wings, dark words. “Dark, dark, dark…” shouted another raven, this one from the upper cages. No. Ravens know nothing, as a wolf or boar. It was no sooner than Petyr sat down at the desk that Kendry swooned in, his body shuddering to catch its breath, his arms holding a tray with bread, a flagon of grapewater, and a cup.

Petyr was proud to have seen him. “You ought to be mindful of running through these halls. One bad fall and you’ll be beyond any maester’s skill to heal,” he fingered his beard as Kendry set the tray upon the table.

“I’ll try to take care, m’lord. Might I sit with you?” He asked, breathless and panting, a bright gleam in his cherubic, big brown eyes. Petyr nodded; beginning to tear into the hard crust of the sweetbread and tear it into chunks. He poured his own grapewater, the liquid pouring from the flagon with a splash of dark purple. He offered Kendry a hunk of bread, “you might have brought a cup for yourself, lad, knowing your intention to sit. We wouldn’t find any up here. Well, is there something troubling you? No, I daresay not. Have you had another dream?”

Kendry smiled, bright and crooked, and leaned back in the chair before nodding. “Yes, m’lord. I—it was another dream like last time. There was water all around me…I was floating above it like I was on a ship—only there was no ship—then the water melted away and there were burning trees and animals on fire, men screaming and my own mum scratching at her eyes…” The boy’s smile turned sour as he recounted the images hearkened in his dreams, his green face that was once lit with joy and eagerness now sowed in fear and doubt and confusion. “Then even they melted away and for what felt like a moon’s turn I couldn’t see…until it appeared again—the water—“

“Water, water, water,” quorked a raven somewhere behind them. That seemed to bring the bright smile back to the lad’s face but it just as soon withered to wind.

“The water—“

“Water, water, water, water…” sniped another raven, perhaps it were the same raven, Petyr could not tell the difference, but he glimpsed the awning of the lad’s smile before he craned his head in frustration. Kendry stood from the with a hunk of uneaten bread in his hand. Bits and pieces he tossed inside the raven’s cages, roaring in supple laughter when a raven quorked “Grain, grain, grain…” the sight brought a smile to Petyr’s sly features. The lad’s easy laughter reminded him of the youth he had been, a mere reflection of Kendry’s smiles and laughter at birds and keen eagerness to learn and ponder, always ponder. In truth, Petyr pondered a world in which all boys were in no eager hurry to discard books and letters and trees and seasons for hard glimmers of steel and tales of fire and blood, wars and dragons, and blood, blood, blood. Would that Catelyn were grateful for my devotion…all might be different.

The steward sat down, flushed of face, his fair skin splayed with blotches of crimson, “It…surrounded me, m’lord. When last I was surrounded by…it…I floated, drifted really…this time my neck was covered and my legs were cramping. I tried to wake up—I did. I didn’t, until I drowned…and darkness crept over my eyes and my last breath had come and gone.” Kendry’s big, brown eyes lifted to Petyr; doubtful and confused and afraid, pushing the smile away.

Drowning. He dreamt of drowning. For a long moment Baelish gazed upon the lad in silence, until at long last he said, “I don’t remember drowning in your previous dreams, lad.” He took a pacing breath and fingered his peppery beard, “when I visited at the citadel in Oldtown, long ago, I met an acolyte who once said all dreams were questions…mysteries…our minds cannot understand, dreams oftentimes reveal—“

Kendry shot up from his chair and meekly ran toward an open window of the rookery, peering into the distant eyes. He nearly jumped at the sight, “look, Lord Baelish! A raven!” But Petyr had already risen, trying and failing to glimpse a speck of black in a smothering sea of mountain peaks and dense umbracious clouds. He frowned, furrowed his brow. He liked the lad, but…Must he remind me of the scourges of time. He would have me find a raven in midflight, ah, would that I could.

Before he dwelled upon it any longer, Petyr tittered away from the window and back to the chair behind the table. He had to remember the tidings of the day that was to be delivered to Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East. The private Sept upon the third level would bear Septa Hera who required nightshade to guide her sleep. The winch carracks upon the first levels would bear men confined to work with the oxen beneath the Eyrie, and Petyr soon learned that onion poultices pressed upon charred skin healed festering burns, that milk of the poppy dulled the rarest of senses. Young Robin Arryn was to devote the day’s light to studying numbers and sums, tomorrow it would be herbs and spices with healing properties, the next he would study the histories of Westeros during that day’s light. Would that I could influence the young prince, but how long before he is led to embrace a world of blood, blood, blood. Even a small boy like young Jasper.

“Salt, salt!” exclaimed the raven that flew into the rookery in a rush of black feathers. Perched upon the iron pole the raven’s spindly legs carried a thin parchment but before Petyr could glimpse the colors of the sealing wax Kendry was upon it, all smiles and wonderment and boyish curiosity.

“Away from the raven, lad, away,” the master of coin balefully shooed the steward aside.

“I have to learn m’lord, I want to learn. Can…can I send the next raven?” he asked, his red curls bouncing against his high forehead. His brown eyes, gleaming from the sunlight, revealed lighter specks of brown.

“Perhaps. But not today, off you go lad. If you like, you may take the bread and feed the falcons that float around the sky cells.”

Kendry craned his neck in frustration and backed away from the raven, “yes, m’lord. The birds are fun, too, do you think a mother bird will let me keep a hatchling for a bit of bread? I dare not take one else I’d run and fall like you said.” As he spoke, the lad lifted the tray from the table, stole a final glance at the ravens, and stood beside the gelded door.

Petyr hadn’t parted his detached stare from the small square of parchment wreathed to the raven. He prodded it with his eyes as if he had glimpsed it before. What he said to Kendry in a detached voice was, “No, but my lad, no mother will part with their children but from their dark, dead clutches.”

If the master of coin’s words confounded the servingboy he did not show it and just as soon flitted beyond the door into the levels of the Eyrie. After a moment, when Petyr was certain that the lad had covered a fair distance he crossed over to the raven, carefully supported the raven’s backside with his right hand and unsheathed the parchment with his left.

A dollop of charcoal-grey wax embossed with a thin stream of gold sealed the parchment, the wax pressed with a pin fashioned in the likeness of a prancing mockingbird. Petyr was suddenly full of wroth, his left hand curdled the parchment, his jaws binding in anger. If anyone had intercepted the raven it would have torched his plan, his life’s work, everything. It was unwise to bring a sellsword into this. Unwise. He ought to know better than send a raven in the thick of day’s light, when enemies tittered and tattered through the shadows—and all too eager to drown a quiver in a raven.

The sellsword companion of his mercenary was a spindly man of four-and-thirty, thick of waist and shoulder, with a bulging belly and teats to match. He had a close-clipped beard that were no stranger to drippings of ale and stringy yellow teeth. Littlefinger met him, once, when the sellsword journeyed to his brothel upon the Silk road at his behest. The knights do not respect him, he needed a friend and better the Master of Coin for a friend than none at all. But if he is foolish enough to send a raven in daylight he is foolish enough to keep our letters unhidden. Unhidden! Wroth, Littlefinger cracked the seal and leaned the parchment into the light.

Ships are amassing at the port of Old Wyk, Trading galleys, wharves, dromonds, Ironborn are amassing at the port of Old Wyk, Harclaws, Sunderlys, Drumms, Norberts, I know neither why neither what will next come to pass, Perhaps, you are wise where I am not? Noho Dmiritis.

He signed it. SIGNED IT. Petyr tossed the parchment at the table as if the it contained greyscale, but it wafted to the floor just shy of its mark. Pace to and from, he did, festering in his wroth. The blundering fool would dare ruin all that I worked for—he dared not think it. High was the sun to the west, all shade of the moon cast aside, seagulls soared through the skies above the stygian valleys, and the clatter of oxen and granaries, of shouting men and retainers could be heard from the rookery. The day has begun, and ought too should I.

The master of coin bent to retrieve the parchment from the cold ground and plastered its folds along the table. From a cudgel bowl beneath the table he gripped fresh parchment, dipped the quill into jet black ink, and began to rewrite the sellsword’s letter. This one I shall present to Jon Arryn, the other shall burn and may the sellsword’s foolishness burn with it.

The scourge of time would turn a man who was once fond of House Arryn into one of its bitter enemies. Often, Petyr glared upon the long, twisted stairkeeps that wound deep, deep into living mountain with malice. It seemed that life, alone, would not bring death for it had stairkeeps and jagged rock to contend with. Clutching his walking stick, he thought to be grateful that the King’s chambers were upon the same level as his own even if they were spaced far, far apart, several leagues in truth. Better, still, then clambering to the lower levels for which he used one of the three metal winches to parley him down the several leagues to the next level fashioned into quarters for knights (many of fealty to the Arryn household guard) barracks and storehouses, cisterns and dining halls.

Tap, tap, tap, rattled Petyr’s hard-heeled boots as he traipsed along the cold, bare ground. His eyes had long ago adapted to the dim-lit darkness of the Eyrie, the tap, tap, tap, of his saunter announcing his presence through the great corridor of the third level that furrowed through the Castle’s western face and ended upon the rookery near his chamber. Hewn into sconces upon the walls were torches bearing roaring flames that served as the Eyrie’s only, tepid lighting.

“Let her go!” a winchkeeper bellowed to his partner who lowered foodstores and horses on the winch to the storerooms and kitchens. Near him would be kitchen boys and hall girls and bread kneelers who pick and choose ingredients for the next day’s meal. By now the trading galleys, wharves, and swan ships would have docked in the port of Gulltown; its captains bartering bushels of barley and grain and corn, barrels of arbor gold and casks of summerwine, all for a slip of coveted golden dragons.

Tap, tap, tap. Littlefinger travailed along the jagged stone edge of the great corridor, passing a gelded door that contained a stairkeep which led up, and up, and up into the libraries. He had discovered a secret servant stairkeep behind the library that crept into a terrace of baths filled from the elegant system of pipes and drainage that snaked and coiled through the mountain like the roots of an ancient weirwood tree. Tap, tap, tap.

Mouths as black as the starless night gaped from the great corridor, leading to and fro, up and down, as dark and abysmal as pitch without torches to yield light. Tap, tap, tap. Then he heard hushed voices muttering in the darkness, voices that carried and voices that tittered. Petyr leaned against the stretch of wall beside the open mound, straining to hear the whispers.

“…It’s this Mountain, dark and lonely it is…” a male voice probed in the dark.

“Bugger this bloody Vale, bugger it all,” quaffed another male voice, raspier than the last.

“I have a feeling, something in my belly….” Petyr strained to listen, but the voice was frail and thin, perhaps a woman’s voice. “…longship of a’ hundred oars…sacking…”

Thunk! Thuuunk! Aghast, Petyr craned his head toward the arch of the great corridor as a fit of childish laughter flitted through the thrall of fire and rock. The clatter of voices all but hushed when a cluster of children, well-garbed and innocent, flitted around his legs. Their small arms bellowed through the air, catapulting small rocks at each other. The tallest of the children was a boy of five with a face of freckles, pallid skin, and a toothless smile; the youngest a girl with a smock of russet curls and fair skin.

“And what are you playing, children? Knights and bowmen?”

“Pirates and reavers!” The tallest boy held a rock in his hand as if it were a cudgel with which he planned to reave and pillage and sack. Petyr smiled, ruffled the boy’s close-cropped black hair, and turned to depart. Tap, tap, tap.

Around the archway he sauntered until the scuttled dirt and jagged edges of the ground led to a stream of Myrish carpets inlaid with cerulean and gold scrollwork. The walls of the great corridor too were smooth, tweaking and twisting to the contours of the walkway. A crag of stairs awaited at the end, arching up and up until the intimate clusters of hearth and chambers and baths and terraces were reached. Torchlight led to the awnings of bright sunlight and the piercing shrill of seagulls soaring above the mountain peaks. Tap, tap, tap. There was a time when the master of coin ascended the stairkeeps of the rock with ease, steep and scuttling they were; treacherous. His brown eyes shone defiantly in the dark whenever he watched the greenboys and household knights ascend the stairkeeps two at a time.

Tap, tap, tap. Twin flames flickered off the darkness on matching torchbearers outside of the solar; a thatched door where the Myrish carpets ended and a high room etched into marble lay beyond. Littlefinger leaned upon the marble wall to settle himself, the soles of his feet aching, when the door creaked open and a tall, lean youth stalked from the solar. Short locks of russet hair covered a high forehead, soft cheekbones, and guileless eyes that shone a deep green in the fireshade. Littlefinger craned his head in deference, jarring aside to permit him leave of the stairkeep.

#[ m. ] : monologue.#[ m. ] : dark words; raven.#I was very very inspired omg

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vohalika · 8 years

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I suffer for my art

For an article appearing on thefandomentals.com, I actually sat down (with a lot of booze) and subjected myself to watching the Lightning Thief movie again. Here are unfiltered live notes, so everyone can suffer with me.

(Why yes I do channel cinema sins. just a little bit)

· The first 10 seconds do away with the one core rule of the franchise; as Poseidon for some reason steps out of a river, a fisherman SEES him. The books avoid this by having a thing called “mist” exist that keeps mortals from seeing ancient greek mythology stuff going on. Unless, of course, that particular fisherman was blessed with clear sight and is destined to be the next oracle. Suck it, Rachel.

· Oh god, Sean Bean is in this movie, and he doesn’t even die. That alone says everything about the quality you need to know.

· Why the fuck are they meeting in mortal forms on the empire state building? Yes, that’s where Olympus is, but Olympus is metaphysically ABOVE the fucking building, not the deck they’re on, which would be crowded at any and all times of day.

· Okay. So they meet here to discuss exposition. Zeus knows Poseidon has a son. Zeus is also to blame for Poseidon never contacting said son. I mean, technically it’s a pact the two of you made with your other brother after he spawned Hitler and a world war happened, but, uh, is that even canon to this movie?

· Okay, Sean Bean establishes the summer solstice as a deadline. Keep that in mind. SUMMER SOLSTICE.

· Why do we put the plot into the first three seconds of the film? Was Columbus afraid we’d fall asleep after this and wouldn’t be able to catch up?

· Okay real talk Logan LErman would have been the perfect Percy about 5 years before this movie was made. He grew up a little too baby faced to still be a good fit for battle hardened don’t fuck with me Percy of the follow up series, but still, such a missed opportunity.

· Okay so Percy regularly hangs out at the bottom of the swimming pool for 7 minutes to think. That’s, ah. Weird. You know. If you do that regularly, people might notice. And Grover, whose job is to keep him safe, and also to technically keep him from realizing he’s not quite human, is encouraging this. Because. Sure. Why not.

· OKAY. SO. They kept the NAME of the school, but not the boarding school aspect. They turned Mrs. Dodds into an English teacher so she could make a joke about the word fury in Othello. And they choose to establish the dyslexia and ADHD thing during dialogue while not actually showing any ADHD symptoms. I can’t quite talk about how well they do with the dyslexia, but from what we see, it’s the letters just fogging over and randomly turning into Greek letters which is not how it is described in the books at all. Seems more like Percy needs glasses here.

· Oh my fucking god. Gabe comes home, sits down in the uncomfortable kitchen chair, demands beer and smacks Sally on the ass, and both Percy and Sally treat him like a rude house guest maybe, not like the abusive asshole he’s actually supposed to be. Percy even stands up to him and thinks it’s necessary to explain that this is his mother and he will not have her sexualized in this kitchen. Gah.

· How can this house both be Gabe’s while at the same time, he never held down a job?

· Also Percy comes into the pretty house at the ground floor and calls for his mother who is like on the third floor. Is that entire house theirs? If so, damn, Gabe is a rich unemployed white trash person.

· Oh and now Poseidon just randomly wanders around New York to stalk his son amazing

· Percy wears headphones during the plot related exposition at the MOA

· At least he’s fidgeting now. That’s progress.

· OKAY. So Ms. Dodds pulls Percy aside in the middle of the lesson, and Grover and Mr. Brunner can totally leave too to help him. They also cut the action sequence but sure, whatever.

· Percy gets weirdly ableist when Grover says he’s his protector. Like, in the books Percy’s objection to that was that Grover was constantly being bullied and Percy had to stand up for him.

· In fact, Percy and Grover could possibly pass for cool kids here; neither of them look like losers. Percy is pretty and has amazing abs. That’s… Completely contrary to how book!Percy feels. Like, he gets better once he reaches the age where boys stop looking like cave trolls, but, uh, that takes a while.

· Then they go home to Sally, Grover downs Gabe, and they run off, and Gabe’s poker buddies just let them be. What.

· They start conversation about the father while the sun is setting in New York City, and only commence it in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere

· The minotaur who just toppled their car is suddenly all the way up the hill. Wow.

· Sexist edit: In the books, Percy’s mom explains to him how to fight the minotaur. Here, he just kinda figures it out himself.

· Okay. Two dumb things: With the mom evaporated just before the camp gates, why do they fight the minotaur at all? In the books, Percy is half a mile away from the camp when the showdown happens and he fights to save himself and his mom. Here, he just charges out there to avenge his mom even though the magical gate is right there.

· Second: instead of going for his sword, the actual weapon, Percy goes for the horn stuck in the tree, almost getting skewered himself. Now, the narrative for some reason rewards him for this, but this is just dumb. And there was also no indication that the horn was going to work better than the sword, which is also right there and not stuck in a tree.

· The fury roughed him up more than the minotaur did, and yet this is the part where he falls unconscious

· Grover is BUFF

· He’s supposed to be a scrawny loser kid with anxiety issues

· Also nursing Percy is Annabeth’s part. This is important. Ish.

· Yeah, okay, Grover giving Percy the tour is… Unfortunate. In the books, there were actual adults giving him these talks, and also Annabeth, and you get the feeling Satyrs are veeeeery low on the pecking order. Also, Mr Brunner was there to actually take him seriously

· Also, the camp just looks wrong. Way wrong.

· UGH

· UUUUUGH

· OKAY

· We’re introduced to BRUNETTE Annabeth while a bunch of people do badly choreographed battle around her. This is wrong. This is so wrong.

· Annabeth is good in a fight, yeah. But her main asset is her brain. And the first glimpses we get of her is taking care of Percy, both nursing him and giving him the tour, because she piecing together how he fits into a prophecy that concerns her and is her ticket out of there.

· Also they kind of combine her role in this movie with that of Clarisse, who is a daughter of Ares and a bully like the ones Percy never had to face here. I have no idea why they did that, and it’s even more ridiculous since Clarisse appears in the sequel.

· Why did they have to put more than one centaur in here, they’re supposed to be party animals roaming the countryside, EXCEPT for Mr. Brunner who is Chiron fuck everything

· Okay. They also conflated the daughters of Aphrodite with the naiads that are around, and both groups would NEVER give Grover the time of day. Buuut I guess considering where this leads, we do have to play up his sex appeal, huh?

· OKAY. The cabins in the books are actual fancy and pretty houses, befitting Greek gods. Being claimed by a god is also a special thing, and the fact that it is special contributes greatly to the 5 book story arc. Here, they just shove Percy into a weird wooden structure full of sailing paraphernalia specifically built for him.

· Okay so apparently the only danger kids of the big 3 pose is making the other big 3 jealous for some reason, not because they literally kicked off the world wars

· And apparently, Gabe’s smell isn’t supposed to keep monsters away, but the other gods?!

· Well I mean everyone seems to have known about Percy, sooo

· Also Percy has no way to integrate into camp or anything , has no connection to any of these people, anything

· Luke is missing a scar, and is also completely creepy from the get go

· Why do we keep getting meaningful close ups of Annabeth, what is she supposed to mean to anyone at this point

· Why was she fighting with a knife minutes ago and is nnow using a bow and arrow, it’s Athena not Artemis

· This game of cpture the flag is stupid

· And also undercuts Annabeth’s actual point

· In the books this involved like tactics and shit

· But like, I commend the script for making Percy lampshade how ridiculous this all is

· It’s just that capture the flag had a narrative purpose, too, which is null and voide when he was already claimed

· Also Percy is such an idiot for just going for the flag like that

· Annabeth has boob plate

· "My mother is goddess of wisdom and battle strategy. You know what that means?" - IT MEANS YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO TAKE OFF YOUR HELMET WHILE FACING AN ENEMY WITH A SWORD.

· AND ALSO YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO MONOLOGUE AT AN OPPONENT

· WHAT IS HER BEEF WITH PERCY? Yes, he rudely stared at you for a while, but why do you need to cut him up like that?!

· She just beats him down and nobody does a thing they all just stand around staring what the fuck

· And then everyone cheers when she’s done beating down the completely untrained new kid?! WHAT THE FUCK

· ArE YOU ALL BRAAVOSI WHAT IS EVEN GOING ON

· THERE ARE BLUE FORCES RIGHT BEHIND YOUR FLAG WHY ARE THEY NOT DOING ANYTHING

· Percy, who already knows he’s a son of Poseidon needs to be told by divine intervention to go to the water, the only place he actually liked before

· Brief contact with water then turns him into superman and has him actually sort of beat Annabeth

· Though not as cruelly as she beat him

· And then everyone just lets him walk to the flag. Why the fuck.

· You know who actually figured out how the water powers worked? Annabeth!

· You know who actually made a battle plan to get the flag for the blue team? ANNABETH!

· Gaaaaaaaaaaaaah

· Percy gets party invitations. The fuck.

· Annabeth chases them away and then flirts with him for some reason. Percy is also completely turned on by a public beat down.

· “I definitely have strong feelings for you” whaaaat the fuck. Whaaaaaaat the fuck. This is soooo weird.

· WHERE IS MY FIVE BOOK AWKWARD PUBERTY SLOW BURN

· Oh hello flame demon. How nice of you to just show up like that and deliver the plot to us

· Okay. So. Hades wants the bolt, but outright states that he doesn’t have it. So far, the plans are to talk to one of two enraged gods and convince them he didn’t take the bolt. That’s…Not much of a plan at all unless someone here knows how to cast a zone of truth spell or something

· Hades now comes along and offers his mom in exchange for the bolt, instead of being framed for everything like in the books, and the camp counsellors just… leave Percy alone after that?

· Like, not only Grover, but the random chick who brutally tore into him in front of a crowd figured out he was going to bail without ever receiving a tiny bit of training, guys. This is stupid.

· Annabeth wants a quest. Sweetheart, this is not a quest. There is a protocol to these things, as you would know. A god has to assign it, there has to be a clear objective, and at least according to camp regulations, a prophecy, and the entire thing has to be official. But sure. Tag along with the random unprepared kid who’s going to get his mom.

· OH THAT’S JUST GREAT YEAH Annabeth would not know how to get to the underworld, she has to go ask A MAN for info SOMEONE SHOOT ME

· Luke is in a completely empty cabin with a gaming console and flat screens and pokes fun at the ren faire feel

· Luke, Annabeth has daddy issues completely independent from her godly parent but okay fine

· YEAH LUKE LECTURE US ON GREEK MYTHOLOGY

· NO NOT LIKE THAT

· Okay so my personal interpretation of Persephone is more that of an ancient times beauty and the beast kind of deal, so that she’s not entirely unhappy

· Also like, Greek mythology has a maaaaaajor Madonna/whore complex. Maaaaajor. And while she’s not one of the chastity goddesses, Persephone kiiiinda doesn’t fall in the dedicated adulteress part of that spectrum

· But foreshadowing. I get it.

· Convenient map is convenient

· Super literal soundtrack

· Also they still haven’t told us where the underworld is or how to get in there, just that it’s easy

· “Let’s split up, check everything” Greeaaat plan, Percy. And then just go looking around without actually looking thoroughly

· Now Annabeth is dragged along screaming and Grover actually knows how is greatuncle died and is the one to figure out what’s going on. Great.

· Like, in the books, he still finds his uncle Ferdinand, but no one ever knew what happened to him because he got lost during a search at a place where no one really returns from

· Annabeth is the first one to figure out that the nice woman giving them burgers and asking them to pose for pictures is not their friend and saves both Grover and Percy, and Percy figures out who she is himself immediately after, before the veil comes off and the snakes start hissing

· Oh, Uma Thurman, you are too good for this

· I need to watch Kill Bill after this just to calm down

· It’s weirdly cathartic to fight your own murderous instincts

· CALL ATTENTION TO ANNABETH’S HAIR JUST TO RUB IT IN WHY DON’T YOU

· Annabeth knows this story dammit

· Also villain monologue

· I dunno, Uma, you’re still pretty hot like that

· At least Percy figures out the reflection thing

· Ugh Annabeth has to get rescued

· How can you sense him if you were surprised by his presence before?

· Percy says he can look at her reflection and then throws away the phone he’s using to look at her when he actually sees her

· Where the fuck did they get the car

· How did Annabeth learn to drive at camp

· She can sense him, sees him coming, and he still gets to cut off her head from behind

· And then she conveniently carried around the pearl with her

· DID THIS MOVIE JUST IMPLY PERSEPHONE GOT FREAKY WITH MEDUSA?!

· How do they get a motel room, do they actually have credit cards or something? What the fuck.

· Yeah okay I don’t feel creepy at all looking at Logan Lerman’s naked torso some more

· So I guess Percy’s ocean powers in this movie work like waterbending and can also heal other people

· How he figured that out? No idea. Why he doesn’t start carrying around water everywhere he goes for just this purpose?

· And aaaalso I think the more significant story for the animosity between Athena and Poseidon would be how he fucked Medusa in her temple, but sure. The story about Athens.

· Book!Annabeth, when prompted, brings up both, by the way.

· Why is it forbidden for all gods to interact with their kids?

· DID SHE SAY SALLY UGLIANO?! SALLY JACKSON NEVER TOOK HIS NAME AND THAT IS FUCKING IMPORTANT

· Why is there laundry service in the middle of the night?

· And how did they get to check out after that?

· Yeah okay this Parthenon business is completely not in the books

· “I wonder if she really looks like that” Okay okay cutting out the field trip is fucking stupid

· No one checks the bathrooms before closing up the place?

· And no on turns off the lights in the bathrooms?

· Cleaning staff ruining the day yet again

· Every time Annabeth shoots anything in this movie I die a little on the inside

· Also hey, there are more black people in this movie than Grover and Persephone, and they all work in maintenance

· Ugh, son of Poseidon taking to the air

· Aaaand the maintenance squad has been possessed

· Annabeth gets to point out the obvious, Percy is on fire like it’s no big deal, and Hail Hydra isn’t even a thing yet. At least not in the main stream.

· Flying shoes are now fully attuned and working for him

· Annabeth shoots shit again

· At one point, it is a plot point that children not of Apollo aren’t that good at archery

· And Annabeth in the books fights with a knife, an invisibility cap, and her wits, and never shoots shit

· Medusa petrifies the hydra through fire

· Okay then

· Where do they get their money for food from

· That’s a major obstacle in the books

· The credit cards they totally have?

· And the gas money for that car

· Okay so the underworld is actually visually striking and could have had potential

· Hades is actually vengeful and out to kill the other gods

· Persephone mentions her allotted time away from him, but is still there before the solstice.

· She double crosses Hades because she hates him and shit, it’s weird

· And then she hits on what for all intents and purposes is an underaged boy

· The staredown is sooo unsatisfying and thematically rrelevant

· Luke just conveniently happened to flutter around the empire state building close to midnight because….?

· Does this camp have no security?

· The fight is badly, badly choreographed

· Luke also just has delusions of grandeur and wants to ascend to gdhood or something

· “You’Re no hero” – actually, per definition, he is.

· Also, this fucking lightning bolt is supposed to be more powerful than nuclear bombs, STOP USING IT IDIOTS

· And then Luke just kinda chills on top of the building, waiting for Percy to come and angage him in aerial combat like a video game boss

· Okay if you’re using the lightning bolt, fucking use it

· HOW CAN PERCY’S SWORD REFLECT IT DAMMIT

· No, really, if a celestial bronze sword can do that, what’ so great about it in the first place

· They use this thing like a flashier version of a tazer

· Also, they’re right underneath Olympus, you’d think the gods might actually intervene this close to their home turf

· Luke then uses Percy’s lack of proficiency at aerial combat to suggest he might be no son of Posedong after all… Which I agre with, actually, because Zesu would blast any sons of Poseidon out of the air immediately

· He also effectively reminds Percy of his waterbending powers, so he can make water tanks explode for dramatic final battle poses

· The bolt somehow doesn’t electrocute Luke when caught in a tidal wave

· Water somehow knocks Luke’s shoes off

· Mortals are allowed to go to Olympus

· Ah wait, just to ride the elevator up there

· Athena has a random British accent

· And the gods are arguing, completely oblivious to what’s going on, but also totally prepared for imminent war

· With each other in a council chamber

· Riiight

· Also the movie gave absolutely no reason for Luke to be angry

· Athena and Poseidon are conveniently already standing

· Zeus just like that agrees to bring Grover from the underworld WHICH IS NOT EVEN HIS DOMAIN

· Poseidon gets to talk to Percy and doesn’t even shrink down to do it. They never say why the gods aren’t allowed to talk to their children

· …Gods become human when they spend too much time with mortals? AND THAT’S WHY THEY’RE NOT ALLOWED TO VISIT THEIR CHILDREN?! WHAT IS THIS BULLSHIT?!?!!?!?!

· Zeus and Poseidon are RIVALS. Godhood can be BESTOWED. The rational thing to do would have been to let him become human and appoint a new god of the sea loyal to Zeus

· You’d think some tactical minded deity who doesn’t like Poseidon very much would have thought of that

· Sally can just kick out Gabe, just like that

· Chiron is totally into students disobeying. Let word of that get around, and everyone will run away and be eaten by monsters, defeating the entire purpose of the camp

· Gd dammit you kids have no chemistry and with the intense eyes and same hair color look more like siblings

· Making this almost kiss really uncomfortable.

· Also, how is Percy suddenly able to stand up against her clunky pirouette fighting without having stepped into water first?

· Ugh

#percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #the lightning thief #I HATE THIS MOVIE

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greenbloods · 11 months

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Scripvember 10: Syrio Forel

#braavosi script #scriptvember #syrio forel

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greenbloods · 11 months

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Scriptvember Day 3: The Iron Coin of the Faceless Men

Though the iron coin of the faceless man has scant description other than of its composition, I wanted to create a design for it. The officially licensed design (see below) looks cool but of course uses Latin/Westerosi script. It's possible that the iron coin is undetailed, or has only a symbol like the obverse of the official design, but I decided to stick with writing, specifically a Braavosi rendering of the Valyrian glyphs "Valar morghulis" (valar being the glyph on the front, morghulis on the back). I think that Braavos has a tenuous relationship with Valyria and script at best; while other Free Cities draw heavily upon Valyrian writing, Braavos was founded by illiterate slaves and Moonsingers, and used its own script from the outset. Nevertheless I think we would see Braavos embracing more Valyrian influences in limited ways including their script in official circumstances, perhaps something like how China uses seal script today, or Vietnam uses Chu'Nom. Unlike the diagonal, wicked appearance of Valyrian writing, Braavosi Valyrian embraces a curved style in line with its alphabet.

#scriptvember #braavosi script #valyrian glyphs #asoiaf #valyrian scrolls #iron coin #faceless men #house of black and white

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greenbloods · 1 year

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The idea of a Braavosi alphabet has been churning around in the back of my head for a while, and I’ve finally settled on a version I feel is interesting and “right” for the setting!

Sorry a couple of the letters are out of order and also for the image rendering, my handwriting is not all that great lol

Love love love Braavos it is so medieval Florence Venice core and I wanted to reflect the visual style of the manuscripts of that era with the script. I also felt like the Braavosi script would be in a rounded style especially during this time where it’s written by quill and inkbrush. The script kinda tended towards “standard fantasy alphabet” decisions like making it an alphabet and having both uppercase and lowercase versions of the letters, but I felt like it worked well for the aesthetics.

The script has been in use for more than 400 years, being developed at least in part by the Moonsingers who first came to Braavos by escaped slave ship, so I imagined that it was first used to write a form of Low Valyrian before evolving over time as the language turned into the modern Braavosi thats spoken during the time of the main series.

Most of the letters have existed since the beginning of the script except for “f” which developed later in Braavos’s history. There are two “y” letters: the one that’s just y is treated as a vowel (like in Daenerys) and the one that’s j/y is a consonant (like in the name Yorko). “gh” (as in “Valar morghulis”) exists as a letter but its pretty archaic today as the sound doesnt exist in the language of the city today. “x” only exists for transcribing the back-of-the-throat guttural sound but only like the Iron Bank uses it if you ask pearl merchant #17 about that letter they probably couldnt answer you

More information about the technical details and thought process behind this script can be found at this post

#i loved seeing the fandoms contributions to grrms worldbuilding in fashion and hairstyles and so much art #i wanted to contribute in my own way #plus i feel strongly that braavos should have its own unique visual style as we get some hints of it in the books but more is left unfilled #asoiaf #neography #braavos #game of thrones #my posts

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greenbloods · 1 year

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The Titan’s Tongue: The Language and Script of Braavos

Been thinking a lot about Braavos and the writing system of its tongue. Arya and Sam’s chapters exploring the city are so full of flavor and life that I wanted to gain a glimpse into its writing as well, and see what it would be like. We unfortunately have very little information about the Braavosi language, with it being completely absent from the show and only mentioned in passing in the books that the Waif is teaching it to Arya as part of her training in the House of Black and White. What little we know is largely names, but from this we can ascertain a bit about the language, and what we need for the script itself. The language seems to be to High Valyrian what Italian was to Latin: reduced vowel system (no distinction between short and long vowels, similar to Astapori Vayrian), eschewal of consonant clusters in favor of gemination (like in Tagganaro and Bellegere), and preference to end words in vowels.

Over the course of this post I will be trying to determine the sounds we would find in Braavosi and create an alphabet for the city’s people

Phonology

I imagine that the Braavosi have had a script loosely descendant from the High Valyrian writing systems, developed about 400 years ago when the first escaped slaves landed in the shrouded lagoon that is now the city’s harbor. These slaves and Moonsingers would have likely spoken a Low Valyrian tongue absent of some of the sounds that are represented in High Valyrian. By loose descent, I mean essentially that the letters are not necessarily one-to-one drawn from specific Valyrian glyphs (like Phoenician and Egyptian) but instead used as general inspiration. I also imagine that the Braavosi script is rather rounded and elegant, primarily written by quill and inkbrush, unlike Valyrian. Using @dedalvs ‘s wonderfully crafted High Valyrian and its phonology, as well as the phonologies of its descendant tongues in Astapor and Meereen, we can construct the following statements about Proto-Braavosi Low Valyrian:

no [r̥] (merged with r)

no [ʎ] (pronounced instead as [lij] or simply as [l] based on word context)

no [ɲ] (pronounced instead as [nij] or simply as [l] based on word context)

no long vowels (merged with short vowels)

the “gh” sound ([ɣ ~ ʁ]) is present in Proto-Braavosi, but does not seem to persist into modern Braavosi as we will see

Based on the attested spellings of the Braavosi names (factoring the fact that it is filtered through a Westerosi’s ears), we can extract the following information.

Consonants: l qu f g n t r y/j s d b sh th c/k/ch q m z ph h

Vowels: a e i o u y

Diphthongs: aa (Braavos), ae (Baelish), ay (Prestayn), ey (Jeyne, Wendeyne)

Since ph and f seem to be transcribed as distinct (such as in the name Phario Forel) they seem to be phonologically distinct sounds and not simply allophones. Thus, ph can either be an aspirated stop [pʰ] or a bilabial fricative [ɸ]. Since no unvoiced ‘p’ is represented, let us say that this is an allophonic variant of \p\ in Braavosi speech, transcribed by foreigners as “ph.” The “ch” in Tycho Nestoris could be an affricate [t͡ʃ] or a [k]; the latter seemed more natural to me. The “qu” in Allaquo seemed it could simply be represented as [k] + [w] or [q] + [w], or otherwise a labialized [kʷ] or [qʷ]; I think it can be ignored when creating our letters, particularly as it is not attested in High Valyrian. The sound sh ([ʃ]) exists only in the name Baelish, which very well may be Westeros-ized by its speakers, seeing especially as the sound does not exist in High Valyrian; we will thus treat it as an allophone of [s]. Finally, “th” is used to spell many Braavosi names (Uthero, Otherys, Lotho); this may be interpreted as a fricative [θ] or simply as another spelling of [t]; for the sake of simplicity, we will represent this allophone (if it is even an allophone at all) as another variant of “t.” Thus our final consonant inventory is as follows:

Consonants: p/ph b t/th d k/c/ch g q gh* s/sh f v/w z m n l y/j r h

*gh = Proto-Braavosi only

Or, represented in an IPA chart:

Apart from the loss of distinction in vowel length, there are two changes of note. One is that the rounded close front vowel [y] in Valyrian has shifted to an unrounded close central vowel [ɨ] in Braavosi. Furthermore, although not represented in writing, the vowels ɛ and ɔ are found in Braavosi speech (basically leaning hard on the medieval Florence/Italian parallels).

We are left with the following vowels.

(For context, here is modern Italian phonology lol.)

As for diphthongs, I won’t elaborate too much except to say that they are simply written using a combination of vowels (and the semivowel j/y), though their spelling patterns don’t always match onto their pronunciations. This post dwells little on orthography, but I think with more than 400 years of history the Braavosi script will have had time to develop concrete spelling patterns and crystallized standards which no longer reflect modern speech (though due to the somewhat egalitarian economy and political systems of Braavos, at least compared to Westeros and the other Free Cities, I think the script will not have diverged too radically from “common sense”). For instance due to sound changes representing an older form of Braavosi, a name like “Baelish” would likely be spelled something like “Bayelis,” with the spelled cluster “aye” represent the name.

I think there are two sound changes at play: one from High to Low Valyrian led to the loss of diphthongs (ae => e, so Daenerys => Denerys), and the second one from Low Valyrian to Braavosi which led to the elision of “y” between vowels(aye => ae, so Bayelis => Baelis/Baelish).

Script

With the phonology and basic history of Braavosi speech outlined, we can present the final writing system of the language, which I show in my next post:

https://www.tumblr.com/greenbloods/722222867516915712/the-idea-of-a-braavosi-alphabet-has-been-churning?source=share

Though it is bog-standard for fantasy scripts, I decided to make the writing system a bicameral alphabet, as it would best showcase the aesthetics of the script. I also wanted there to be a feel as if there were some far-back connection between Braavosi and the alphabet of the Common Tongue of Westeros (they would simply be using the Latin alphabet), which is also why I decided to make the “o” letter a blatant imitation of our letter O. The letter f is derived from the letter p as a visual reminder of the “newness” of the letter

Keep in mind that the script is only a snapshot of written conventions in one medium during one period of time, and there may be many variants for the script as well.

#yeah ik ik bicameral scripts get some flak but i think it works #braavos #valyrian #high valyrian #asoiaf #game of thrones #neography #david j peterson #linguistics #my posts

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