#brother death /

[bamf-jaskier]

"So I went up to the Koreth Mountains and mined myself some fire ore, smelted it down and added my sweet Gwen's ashes to it. Then me and Gwen went hunting."

BROTHER DEATH (CALLAN) + MELDOF

The Witcher: Blood Origin - Of Warriors, Wakes, and Wondrous Worlds: Ep 3

[perryabbott]

Well, you two must be madder than a bag of cats if you think you can pull that off. THE WITCHER: BLOOD ORIGIN — “Of Dreams, Defiance, and Desperate Deeds”

[l-watches-while-note-taking]

First thing I did this year was watch Witcher Blood Origin, I loved it, best start to the year I've had in a while! Elie and Fjall, her voice used to start a rebellion and also be an anchor, Fjall going through the first mutation and asking softly once everything was done to die, my emotions were messed with. And like everyone was a badass and I was vibrating. New year actually started during the mutation process, which interesting, don't know if that's supposed to say something about this year.

[witcherladiesamirite]

I’m loving the surprise Meldof and Brother Death friendship tbh. They’re so good! Tender and in pain in such overlapping but dissimilar ways. Love to see it, honestly I could’ve watched a whole episode about them. And!! Completely nonromantic!! Love it

[djarinslover]

Personally I really liked Blood Origin, just wish it was longer so we could’ve gotten to know more about each character

[old-deerstalker-hat]

[witchthewriter]

I just finished watching The Witcher: Blood Origin AND OH MY GOD. I’m not going to spoil anything but if anyone has seen it, please comment because I HAVE to talk about it. 

It changes so much about the Witcher?! 

   Also I’m going to have to write some fanfics because oh god the tropes, the relationships, the characters, the plot. It’s ... perfect. 

[spilledbutter]

Seanchai: The Scoia'tael mean well, but elf kind cannot win fueled by pain and anger alone. Hope is vital. The elves need a story lost to time, one of the few who overcame the many. The Story of the Seven.

Jaskier: The St-The Story--Let me guess, a bunch of warriors join forces to fight against all odds... It has been done to death.

Seanchai: Has it? Seven estranged warriors who come together to fight an unstoppable empire, bring humans and monsters to the world via the Conjunction of the Spheres, and create the very first version of a witcher? That's been done to death?

Jaskier: Uh... No. No, I've--I've not heard that one, admittedly. Wow! That's very different. Oo-oo-oh! This is very fun. You're telling me that the first version of a witcher was a badass elf...? This is really gonna piss Geralt off... Alright. Where do we start?

Seanchai: It all began 1200 years ago, in the Elven Golden Era, before the arrival of humans and monsters in the world. Six lone outcasts, strangers to each other, destined to be found together in a blood quest...

Fjall of Dog Clan.

Scian of Ghost Tribe.

Brother Death.

The Mages Zacare and Syndril.

Meldof and her vengeful hammer, Gwen.

Soon to be led by the seventh, the one they called the Lark.

[oakendesk]

book cover - Brother Death - 1952

Mike Ludlow

[renfriscreyden]

The problem with Blood Origin

The biggest problem Blood Origin faces is that it was cut too short. Though Blood Origin presents an interesting cast of characters, and sets up the witcher universe, none of the events and emotions feel deserved. What once was a series with six episodes, has been cut down to four, forsaking a third of its origin plot and backstory. The characters presented are vibrant, interesting, and diverse, and their backstories, past, and personalities are used to propel the plot forward.

Yet, these backstories seemed to have been cut down so dramatically that none of the resulting action or emotions feel deserved. Éile and Fjall fight to avenge their clans, their previous way of life, and their family members, despite their flaws, yet none of the avenging feels vengeful enough. We barely know anything about these clans, which are so important to the story. We see them protecting, but that is all we know, no further depth. Then, we learn that the character’s relations to these clans are filled with pain and regret, too, which begs the question if they are worth avenging at all, though this drives part of the story. We get flashbacks in the misty marshes, leading up to the meeting with Zacaré and Syndril, suddenly fleshing out the characters, showing us there is much more to these characters than might meet the eye.

However, we never really learn much more than surface level details about any of the Seven. The characters feel incomplete. Much of the weight given to these characters and their bonds is unexplained. Little elaboration is given about Éile as the Lark, for example, which makes it appear as if her power to inspire rebellion is without base, though flashes of her power are shown in the episodes, they are rarely elaborated upon. Likewise, there is suggested to be weight to the name Brother Death, but this weight is only ever hinted at, never elaborated upon.

Similarly, many character relations are underdeveloped. Fenrick is supposed to be very close to Balor, literally being his heart, as he himself says, yet they are seen a handful of times together, and their relationship is glanced over quickly, without any focus or detail. Éile and Fjall, too, have an intense relationship, but it feels very cut and dry, their love mostly unexplored, going from tension to love in no amount of time at all. 

Many aspects of the society are unexplored, too. There is much talk about a lost elven culture, yet this is barely fleshed out, just shown via shimmering white architecture, and books, though the world, especially the war raging, reminds much of the Witcher, barely differentiating from the Continent we already know. There is SO much potential, so many interesting aspects to explore, yet nothing is fully fleshed out, leaving everything underdeveloped, nothing really living up to its potential, even the lore. The conjunction of the spheres just happens, and we only ever see its cause, but no detail as to what exactly unfolded. The concept of celestial twins is barely expanded upon despite its heavy use. Had the series been six episodes, much of the underdeveloped interpersonal relationships and worldbuilding would have been much better. 

For a series, there is little development, just the achievement of a goal: bringing down an empire. Such a lack of depth and development would have worked much better as a movie, for a problem, conflict, and resolution format would be much more satisfying for a two-hour movie than a three-hour series. The cutting of the episodes suggest a lack of commitment to choice: either to the format of a movie, with the showrunner admitting to cutting down the episodes to have the format be like that of a movie, or to that of a show, which requires more depth and development. 

Pace cannot be all, especially not in a production that has already been divided into four parts, slowing down the watching experience. Blood Origin should have been a movie, or stuck to the six episodes, but as it is now, it lacks in motivation and backstory, making the plot and lore superficial, and much of the action and emotions undeserved, without base. Rooting for characters is difficult when the characters are not fleshed out, when the potential is there and was there, but has been cut, leading to an action-filled show that lacks in its promise of lore and character. Not everything needs to be expanded upon in detail to enjoy a show, but the lack of detail leaves too much open to interpretation.

Had it been formatted as a movie, the lack of backstory and worldbuilding might have been excused, even though the show was meant to expand upon the lore of the world of the Witcher. Yet, as a series, Blood Origin lacks depth, development, and decision. 

[whataboutthefish]

The road was paved with blood and bone

The Witcher: Blood Origin fic

Brother Death | Callan/ Zacaré

Also on Ao3

You don’t earn a name like Brother Death over night, indeed not even in the span of a lifetime that you or I would understand. It was a death that etched its way into the very core of a man's being, until the ground he trod was paved with blood and bone

Brother Death didn’t cower to anyone, he would rather die than show vulnerability. He’d tried, many times, to let Death take him. For Death to deal his final blow and allow him peace, for he would find none while blood still pumped through his veins. 

Brother Death had no clan, he walked alone, on a path forged for him many decades ago. He was the nightmare you told your children to keep them in line, for the doors that Brother Death cast a shadow over would see blood spilt upon its threshold.

When Brother Death walked into a Mages mist, he was made to live a nightmare of his own making, only to emerge stripped bare, and for the first time since he was a child, untainted by the horrors of the world, seen for who he truly was.

There was no way around the mists, turning back was not an option, his actions had assured of that. When he tried to find the edges and a way around, he ended up walking in circles, it was impossible but he returned to the same spot time and again. 

The only option was through. 

The mist was clearly unnatural, he’d heard rumors of a Sage in the area, he was all too aware entering may mean Death would come for him.  That part of his soul that ached for death screamed at him to step headlong into the unknown. He took a deep breath, patted the hilts of his cleavers and crossed through the veil to see what the fates had in store for him.

His breath caught in his throat as he felt the familiar heat of blood spray across his face, the body that dropped to the ground before him was one of the many faceless he’d slain. Was this a death of retribution or one of the casualties of his quest for revenge? When had the lines between them blurred so much that he felt no compassion for either?

His mouth fell open on a silent roar.

The smell of battle, of blood and shit was all around him, adrenaline seared through his veins, his skin felt raw as the battle rage tore through him. The sound of death and dying surrounded him, but he knew there would be no more foes, he knew there had been no real battle. What he was standing in the middle of was a massacre.

His silent roar still echoed in his head like a mother’s lament, undulating with rage and grief. He dropped his cleavers, fell to his knees and clasped his hands over his ears. Squeezed his eyes closed and started to beg for death. The panic that wrote itself like a ballard under his skin promised eternity in the nightmare of his own making, of an afterlife filled with the terrors he’d wrought upon others.

His dread turned to ice in his veins when the searing pain of an arrow ripped through his shoulder, a wound long since healed, pushing him into a new nightmare. A nightmare Callan witnessed every time he closed his eyes, since the day he lived it. A nightmare so real that it fueled his every step. A nightmare that changed the course of his life before he’d even had a chance to know himself. The nightmare he entered was the birth of Brother Death, although that name would not follow his steps, scout ahead and spread like wildfire for many years to come. The origins of his name were lost to all but himself, where they blazed as stark and clear now as they did on that fateful day.

He hated how small he felt, when the terror made him freeze. Watching his mother be hacked near in two was the first strike to shatter his soul. She had run into the soldier's blade to save him, to give him the time to hide somewhere safe and he’d just stood there. He wasted her sacrifice on that day and it stabbed into his heart, searing hotter than any arrow wound. 

The sound of her gurgles as she bled out in seconds echoed in his ears, before he managed to move and took off running. He fled his hut expecting to find help; he found nothing but death. 

It was the day Death came to him and roared his name. 

He watched the soldiers as they stalked the alleys, saw them exit village huts wiping blood from swords, putting their cocks back into their britches, blood spattered over their bodies a stark contrast against their pale skin.

He was spotted fast, a child in the midst of a massacre, a sword pointed in his direction and the hollow laugh of a male who towered over him like a giant. He saw the bow as the male notched an arrow, pulling back, he took off running, too late. He heard the arrow whistling through the air right before he fell to his knees. 

He felt a hand take his own where it lay in the mud as he fell forward, a village elder wheezed the words “play dead, cub,” And he did so, he closed his eyes and collapsed to ground. He didn’t flinch when his body was kicked, he held his breath as the arrow was ripped out of him and placed back in its quiver. He didn’t cry out when his body fell back to the hard earth. He didn’t move until long after the army had left.

When he eventually let go of the hand, the elder long dead and cold, he wobbled to his legs, blood loss made him dizzy but he had to see. He always had to see. What he saw broke him completely. His clan lay dead, his village burning around him. Smoke burnt the back of his throat as ash rained down, blinking it from his eyes, smudging his face with blood and dirt, Callan started to choke on death.

As the images began to spin around him like a vortex Callan saw the face of every death he’d witnessed, inflicted, every bloody scream and petrified look. Every single one ripped through his soul until he clawed at his eyes screaming for it all to stop. 

“Hush now, Callan, come back to me.” 

The voice was that of a goddess, when he opened his eyes he found his head in the lap of the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. The sun shone behind her making the blonde strands of her hair glow like an aura around her face. 

“Death?” He asked with a whispered voice that felt raw with use, the remnants of ash still on the tip of his tongue. 

“Not death, brother.” She stroked a hand through his hair, the touch far more gentle than he’d experienced since his mother’s hand. Her thumb caught tears he hadn’t known he shed, and she looked at him with such compassion his heart ached. 

“Then who?” His thoughts still came sluggish and slow as the haze of death hung around him. 

“My name is Zacaré,” She tilted her head, looking down at Callan, her hair falling over her face to dance across his cheek.

“How do you know me?” 

“You’ve walked my mists, I have seen all of you, Callan.” 

Callan’s mind finally cleared of fog, he scrambled from Zacaré’s lap, he wore a look of disgust on his face that made the female flinch. “You must not touch me, for I will soil you. I’m unclean, not worthy. Please forgive me.” 

Zacaré smiled, a soft sad thing that he wanted to wipe from her face. “Callan, I see you.” 

“You cannot, must not.” He begged, but he knew in his heart it was too late, her mists had read him like a book laid out for all to see. 

“You don’t know what I see,” She answered, she walked to him with a strength that shone from her core, “Do you wish to know what I see?” She asked, as her hands came to cup his face, as she leant in to rest her forehead against his and gently close her eyes. 

She felt his nod, his throat too tight to speak. 

“I see hope,” She kissed one cheek, “I see hurt,” she kissed the other side, “I see a good male.” She pushed her lips against his, stealing his breath and the sob that broke free.

“I am not a good male,” He whispered into the space between them.

“You can be.” She whispered back.

Zacaré held a hand out for Callan to take, after a long moment, where he stared at the creature who seemed to hold his heart in her hands, he reached up and took it.

That was the day he left Brother Death on the floor of that forest clearing and walked the road by his goddess’ side, a male named Callan.

[zhnnveuxpasdrmir]

[lambden]

Syndril in Blood Origin (stills from the show, Tudum)

[idoodlestuffsometimes]

I need to share how the IT guy at work greeted my department on CrowdStrike Blue Screen Friday. Never have I seen a man so shocked by the sight of perfectly functional computers

(They were off during the update)

[chloesimaginationthings]

In every FNAF universe William Afton can't count

[thevastnessof]

obsessed with villains who you just KNOW are aware deep down in their heart that they've done something unforgivable, but the only way to never admit that or face the guilt is to keep doing it over and over again until they don't feel guilty about that first time anymore