#but also becomes progressively less impressed by his own successful rolls

[r-h-e-t]

Caduceus Clay | Divine Intervention

Wow, the Wildmother really loves him.

[lovelyirony]

Hi! “If I fail, I’ll fall apart/Maybe it is all a test/because I feel like I’m the worst / so I always act like I’m the best” -Oh No! This is one of my favorite lyrics ever, and I'd really like to see what you bring out of it :) You're amazing, ily! 💞

what if maria had more of an effect on tony’s upbringing than most? howard’s still a dick but make it funny

Tony has known he was probably not the best human on earth ever since he was five and his dad made a bigger deal out of a dead man’s birthday than his own. 

At age five, you don’t really know a lot about the world yet. There were about two things that Tony didn’t know that he wishes he did know: 

1.) The word “fuck.” It would have helped with a lot of his situations. 

2.) The concept of jealousy. He probably could have gone to a child therapist or some shit, he’s not sure if those even existed back then, or if his parents would have even let him go. 

(After all, he’s supposed to be their perfect little boy, just the right amount of precocious and the other amount being something like genius or respectability.) 

It is actually his mother who takes the reins on his life. Howard has effect, he has huge effects. 

Maria is a socialite who absolutely refuses to let her son succumb to Howard’s devil-may-care attitude that he’s so infamous for. Her son is going to be well-mannered, respectable, and know exactly how to treat a lady of high social standing. 

This involves training at a young age. Six would be a fine age. 

It’s not Howard who sends him to boarding schools, it’s Maria. She ensures that he goes to the finest schools available, most abroad in Europe. She trains him out of the American accent, into something a bit more refined. 

He spends summers learning different languages and different skills. He learns how to fence by the time he’s ten, and becomes quite proficient at it. 

She quizzes him on established families, up-and-coming families, and never keeps him far from her sight. 

Anthony Stark is not going to be a wild-child, she decides. 

-

Anthony isn’t, for the most part. Sure, he usually stays up past what is acceptable for the night to work on some mechanic stuff and uses the word “damn” a bit too much for his mother’s liking, but that’s the reason make-up and apologies were invented. 

He follows rules and is known to smile like his mother and enjoy listening to quartets play out in the open air during the summer months. He travels to Europe and participates in various activities and is the talk of many socialites who eagerly await his arrival. 

He’s a portrait, holding still for all’s approval, and he’s not quite sure how to move. 

That’s troublesome, he thinks. 

The problem is this: Anthony Stark doesn’t have any interests outside what is required. He loves working on inventions, and they are necessary for the company to survive, but his father hates any robotic invention he pushes for, and mother thinks that if he tells people he’s rather fond of AC/DC then he’s a plague to society and will be shunned. 

(He doesn’t say it to her face but they haven’t shunned Sunset yet, and she’s a whole world of problems, so rock music is the least of their problems.) 

There is one thing that he pushes for: university in the United States. He’s been traveling to Europe since he was a child, and he honestly needs to do something for himself. 

Maria is not pleased. 

“So after I sacrifice so much for you, this is how you repay me?” she asks him over dinner. 

He places his fork to the correct side. 

“Yes. This is how I am repaying you. By getting a perfectly respectable college degree from a critically-acclaimed university that anyone would be lucky to attend. Not to mention it might reflect badly on Stark Industries if I don’t go to an American college. Do I not trust American institutions to run an American business?” 

“You shouldn’t.” 

Anthony laughs. 

“Mother, they cannot teach me anything that Europe can’t. Let me go to college in the United States. Please.” 

“No.” 

- 

It takes Howard to convince her, and a.) Howard doesn’t even like Anthony that much, and b.) he also doesn’t like his wife that much. 

“He’s going to a damned college here, Maria. We don’t need him to go to any more of that fancy bullshit you call school over there.” 

“Fancy bullshit, Howard?! Bullshit?! You mean what has gotten him this far in life and will make him a better man of social standing than you?” 

“My god, is social standing all that matters to you? What are your little friends going to do, choke on their silver spoons when they find out that your son is going to an American college?” 

- 

Jarvis also convinces her. 

“It will be easier to monitor his progress from a shorter distance,” he advises. “And you can visit frequently.” 

Anthony gives him a very dirty look. Apparently, he wasn’t supposed to mention that. 

Oops. 

-

But, Anthony gets his way. He’s going to MIT, and he has a roommate. 

(Okay, so mother doesn’t know that. But he supposes she will if she ever visits. Or maybe not considering if Tony can successfully convince his roommate to “disappear” for at least a day.) 

-

Rhodey does not give a singular shit about high society anything or anyone. Anthony Stark is a name he registers, but doesn’t recognize. 

“Anthony’s a mouthful,” he says a week into their cohabitation. “You have a nickname or something?” 

“Ah...no? I mean, not yet,” Anthony says. 

“How do you feel about Tony?” 

“I...I suppose that that is alright.” 

“Are you from Europe?” 

“No, from New York.” 

“Well holy shit, you sure as fuck don’t sound like it.” 

- 

Anthony--well, Tony now--learns quite a bit about American schooling and what he’s actually supposed to be doing to pass off as normal. 

Rhodey (yeah he got a nickname that ended in ‘y’ too, Tony said he wouldn’t be the only one) takes him to the thrift store and tells him to pick out some clothes. 

“...there’s a shirt that’s advertising a restaurant from Montana.” 

“And? Does it look hilarious?” 

“Is that the point of this?” 

“Fashion is supposed to make you like what you’re wearing or like yourself. I swear if you say that those boring black suits make you feel better about yourself, I will be dragging you to any therapist that will take us for at least five dollars.” 

“Five dollars?” 

“Maybe less if I can negotiate.” 

“Hey!” 

- 

Tony learns how to have fun. He loves it. 

Rhodey makes him go to record stores and find the bargain bin, and they play the warped records and laugh as voices go up and down in pitch. Tony blasts Black Sabbath and Iron Maiden until the RA begs him to go to bed and Rhodey throws all of his pillows off of his bed. 

In return, Tony teaches Rhodey how to read other’s facial expressions, dress for any occasion and be the best-looking there, as well as avoiding any sort of conflict by bringing up past embarrassments. 

“Are you serious about the color of my shoe affecting my social standing?” Rhodey asks, trying to shove his foot into a shoe that was a brown color that Tony had described as a “golden mahogany.” 

“Yes, I’m dead serious.” 

“No fucking wonder everyone says eat the rich all of you are so fucking pretentious. It’s brown, Tony.” 

“Tell that to any high society woman over fifty.” 

“I will.” 

- 

As it turns out, he ends up doing it much sooner than anticipated. 

Tony’s parents come to visit. 

They call him Anthony. Which is gross. Rhodey hasn’t used the name “Anthony” in about six months. 

“I wasn’t aware that you were his roommate,” his mother says. 

“Well, here I am,” Rhodey says. “Name’s also on the information they sent out to the parents about the living situations.” 

Tony tenses as his parents brush off the obvious comment on how little they actually know about his situation and move right into the room. 

Maria stops at the huge poster of a rock band. 

“I assume that this is...James’?” 

“No,” he says timidly. “It’s...it’s mine. Their use of movement on the guitar strings-” 

“Take it down,” Maria demands. “It’s unsightly.” 

“Oh give the kid a break,” Howard says tiredly. “For once he’s not listening to you talk about the merits of paisley prints.” 

“I’m training our son for a more successful life than yours,” Maria hisses. “Of course, you’d have to stay away from your friend Jack to understand that.” 

“Rhodey, leave,” Tony says. “Trust me, it gets messier from here.” 

He does think about it. How easy it would be to walk out and check in with a couple of his other friends and talk about how crazy Tony’s parents are. How he could check back in near dinner time and then Tony could tell him all about how terribly it went. 

But Tony already looks terrible, and he’s doing that weird thing with his hands where he wrings them and then remembers he’s not supposed to wring them and makes it worse. 

“No,” Rhodey says. “I am staying until the bitter end. Who knows? Maybe I can give your mom a heart attack when I ask her the difference between kelly and forest green.” 

Tony grins. 

“You can leave any time, it’s about to get...interesting.” 

- 

Tony’s family is quite dysfunctional. They can put on a good front in public, for what it’s worth. 

Howard is impressed that Rhodey’s planning on going into the Air Force and then talks about Captain America for a lot of the dinner. Rhodey is very uncomfortable and then asks about business and Maria rolls her eyes and orders another glass of wine. 

After Howard finishes up talking about some contract and making vague threats against businesses that Rhodey thinks might actually be in trouble, it’s Maria’s turn. 

“So, Rhodey, where is your family from?” 

“We live in the Boston area,” Rhodey answers. 

“And what do your parents do?” 

“Dad works as a consultant for a local construction company, and my mom works as a high school history teacher. They both like their jobs.” 

“Hm,” Maria remarks, and it’s so light and casual and yet so cutting. Tony can see how Rhodey squirms, and he can’t just let it stand. 

It’s one thing for Maria to cut her own son down until he’s nothing. Still fucked up, but Tony can handle it. He’s been handling it for years. 

“Rhodey, how did your mom come to want to know she liked teaching?” Tony asks. “That sounds like it could be really hard to figure out.” 

“Oh, well it all started when she was in high school and wanted to change how one of her teachers treated students. It was a really inspiring moment for her.” 

“That sounds really cool,” Tony says. “What does she like most about her job?” 

“Probably the kids,” Rhodey says. 

The conversation carries on about Rhodey’s family until their dinner arrives and his mother manages to cut in with more questions. 

“So, what else does your mother do?” 

“She volunteers at the local food kitchen and helps some of the younger kids at the after-school program,” Rhodey answers. “She also makes a mean Thanksgiving turkey.” 

“Would you look at that,” Tony says. “Mrs. Rhodes sounds like a fine cook, I wish I could say the same for you, mother.” 

“Oh?” 

Howard actually laughs at that as he signs for the bill. 

“The kid is right, Maria. At some points I think your kitchen is only used for decoration.” 

“Oh, and you know how to cook, Mr. Stark?” Maria asks, raising her eyebrows. “I’d love to see you make anything other than coffee.” 

“I’ll make toast.” 

Rhodey laughs, and so does Tony. 

“Ready to go?” Tony asks, and part of it is a way to get away from an isolated conversation, and part of it is to make his parents leave for their hotel room sooner. 

“Tony, I want to have a talk with you before we retire for the night,” Maria says, and Tony tenses up. 

Rhodey can’t protect him from that, and he squeezes Tony’s hand as they walk behind his parents. 

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers. 

“Maybe,” Tony says. “Maybe.” 

- 

Rhodey goes into their building, and Howard waits in the car. He nods to Tony on his way out. 

“You’ve...changed,” mother says. 

“Well, that’s how humanity goes,” Tony says dryly, looking anywhere but her eyes. 

“Rock music? These snappish remarks towards your own mother? I don’t know if this college was such a good idea.” 

“It is,” Tony says. “I just...learned new things and incorporated it into my life. Nothing the matter with that.” 

“Nothing wrong with that?” Maria reiterates, surprised look on her face. “Rock music is for other people, you know things that others don’t know! You can perform violin and piano, you don’t have to listen to the personal manifestation of a headache!” 

“And if I like that headache?!” Tony asks. “If I like something that’s outside of what you approve, why so angry about it? Is it because you finally can’t control every single aspect about my identity? Is it because I’m not like your perfect little toy that you can make walk and talk how you like?” 

“You know it’s not that.” 

“Isn’t it?” Tony asks. “Because you want me to change every single interest that I’ve found I like by myself. I bet you want me to listen to Bach for fun.” 

“I do not want you to change from who you are,” Maria says. “You have eaten at the finest restaurants in the world and now you brag about making something called ramen in a microwave. A microwave?!” 

“A surprising amount of families in America have them,” Tony says. “And I’m a college student! I’m supposed to eat crappy food and then laugh about it in twenty years!” 

Maria turns red, and her lips screw up into a tight line. 

“I don’t think you should be here,” Maria says. “You’re forgetting your place. Your roommate is...” 

“My roommate is what,” Tony starts, glaring at her. “My roommate is what, mother? You want to honestly finish that sentence?” 

“He’s not good enough!” she yells at him. “You are a Stark!” 

Tony stares at her for a moment. And then another moment. 

“Leave,” he says. “Get the hell out of here.” 

“You don’t tell me-” 

“I do,” Tony says, using his full height to his advantage. “You can tell me how many times I’ve fucked up as many times as you want, but you never talk about James that way ever again.” 

He twists on his heel, forcefully opening the door to the dormitory and not once looking back. 

- 

Rhodey finds Tony back in his room when he gets back from getting ready for the night, and Tony is clutching a pillow and laying face down on the bed. 

“You know, you’ll have to turn over eventually to get some fresh air.” 

“Leave me to die, Rhodey. Oh my god.” 

“That bad?” 

“That bad. She’s probably going to try and put me in a prestigious college or some shit.” 

“Oof. Wanna fake your death and run away?” 

“Please.” 

“Well, too bad. I have a test next week, and you need to do your poetry notes.” 

“But poetry sucks.” 

“It only sucks because you don’t like modern poetry, suck it up and pull it out of your ass or something.” 

“Ugh, fine.” 

- 

Maria is trying very hard to get her son away from MIT and towards a fancy school in Europe. She doesn’t even care where, just away from his roommate and his classic rock posters and the dormitory. Anthony needs an environment where he can focus on networking, meeting more people. 

Howard says no. 

He can’t even bother to remember her son’s birthday, and he says “no.” 

“We need Anthony to go to an American school, and nothing is better besides maybe Cal Tech, and he’ll have to finish another year of college and Hammer Industries can use that as a sign of an unsteady heir.” 

“Well then get rid of his roommate.” 

“I’m not doing that, you’re asking for a PR death sentence.” 

“He’s a bad influence.” 

“No he’s not,” Howard says tiredly. “The kid is finally standing up for himself, and you hate that.” 

“I don’t hate that he can be his own person.” 

“You just wish he were his own person under your specifications,” Howard drawls. “He’s staying at MIT, that’s final.” 

“Hmph.” 

Howard rolls his eyes. 

“Go back to planning whatever charity gala you’re hosting this week, honey. I’m sure things will be fine.” 

Maria doesn’t speak against her husband, just fumes and decides she’s going to try to get Jarvis’ opinion. 

-

Edwin is also a flat no. 

“He will not forgive you if you do this,” he says, pouring her tea and adding in one sugar cube. “He loves his school, he talks about it all the time.” 

“And what, he calls you?” 

Edwin Jarvis realizes he shouldn’t have mentioned this. 

“At times, madam. At times. Will that be all?” 

“...that will be all.” 

Jarvis does bring up a good point. Besides her, of course, he knows Anthony best, even if he does keep calling him Tony. Anthony will grow out of that nickname soon enough. 

She has hope for her boy. He will most likely grow out of this silly little phase in life and finally appreciate her lessons. 

- 

Tony Stark doesn’t. 

Well, he learns her lessons. Can appreciate some of them and how much he hates that he uses them. 

But he learns a far more important lesson from Rhodey, and it shapes everything: 

“You’re your own person, and you’re far better as your own person,” Rhodey says. “I wanted to kick the shit out of you when we first lived together.” 

“You did?” 

“Of course I did!” Rhodey explains, gesturing with his coffee mug and getting yet another stain on the pillow. (Laundry again. Ugh.) “You talked like you were from a movie from the forties, it sucked.” 

“Oh, you mean the transatlantic accent?” 

“It’s pretentious, just ditch it. You’re interesting enough to listen to on your own. I listen to you talk about how much you hate Picasso sculpture, don’t I?” 

“You do,” Tony admits. 

“So then be yourself. Use what your mom taught you sometimes, but otherwise don’t.” 

“You sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure, I’m a fucking genius.” 

Tony snorts. 

“Okay, Mr. ‘I Forgot to Run the Dishes Again.’”

“I already said I was sorry!” 

-

Tony takes Rhodey’s advice into account when he walks into any board room. He wears the worst possible shoes with every single suit, usually uses all sorts of cultural references that fly over the old board members’ heads. 

He does things his way. It’s unconventional, it’s unpredictable, and it earns him a reputation. 

He’s in an interview in a suit and patterned tie (patterned with tiny robots), and the woman is smiling in a plastic way on the other side. 

“Now, a lot of people are saying you’re taking the business world by storm with your unconventional methods and personality. What helped you formulate this, your father?” 

“Oh god no,” Tony says, laughing. “He’d probably curse me to hell and back for even wearing this tie. My mother would drag me back down to hell again for this.” 

“Then who helped you with this?” 

“Rhodey, who else?” Tony asks. “He always gives the best advice, even if I’ll deny that about fifteen minutes later. He really is the reason that I’m who I am today.” 

“Seems like a great guy.” 

“He is. He always is,” Tony says with a grin. “Except, of course, when he doesn’t fold his laundry, that bastard.” 

The interviewer laughs and moves on, but Tony smiles to himself. 

He doesn’t have to be the best, he just has to be Rhodey’s. That’s all that matters. 

[ronsenburg]

Since you mentioned you were looking for drabble requests, if you haven't moved on from AA already, could I request something where Apollo or Klavier is struggling against pride/feeling that his problem isn't a big deal/some kind of internal roadblock to seek comfort from the other? Maybe they lost a case they don't think they should have lost, or it's the anniversary of something sad, or they just feel crappy physically or emotionally. Any reason is fine. Thanks for considering my request ^^

vorher:

It’s nearly six pm by the time Franziska finds him, tucked into a chair in the corner of some pretentious and probably ephemeral bar downtown.

It isn’t one of his usual haunts, but the staff seem to know who he is well enough, anyway. Though he is just barely twenty-three and his tab has been approaching the four figure mark for the past hour and a half, no one has bothered to card him or attempt cutting him off yet. Of course, that may have had more to do with the sizable tips slid to whatever staff member is closest in proximity rather than his rather notorious celebrity status, but Klavier’s ego has been rapidly ceasing to care about such things in recent months. What matters to him at this very moment is less the thrill of universal adoration and more the ability to nurse his wounded pride in pseudo-solitude with a vastly overpriced drink.

That solitude is shattered, however, by the arrival of Prosecutor Franziska Von Karma. The sound of her heels clicking firmly against the highly lacquered floors crescendos over whatever smooth jazz cover they’re piping through the hidden speakers as she makes her way directly over to him.

“Are you finished with your tantrum yet?” she asks, removing her dark sunglasses and placing them onto the surface of the bar beside him without any sort of invitation.

It takes a moment for the words to process; Klavier has spent so long playing the role of the ostentatious expat that his alcohol muddled brain can barely grasp the crisp and nearly foreign sounding syllables of her German.

By then, she has already removed her long leather gloves and cape, handing them off to an employee that floats near her elbow like a well trained dog on a leash. When she slides into the chair beside him and signals for the bartender, the scotch she orders for herself is nearly as expensive as Klavier’s own. If he weren’t so chagrined by her sudden interruption, he would likely be impressed.

“Since when is enjoying a drink after work considered a tantrum?” Klavier returns, finally, and also in German. He attempts to fire off one of his charming smiles as he speaks, but the words feel so clumsy and out of practice on his lips that the gesture falls short and sounds far more like the kind of sulk that directly proves the point she has made.

Franziska raises a perfectly arched eyebrow in reaction, though whether it is a response meant specifically for his faltering pronunciations or juvenile tone, Klavier can’t be at all sure. “Since someone recently made a complete fool of himself in a court of law.”

The words strike out like the lash of a whip; Klavier winces despite himself. Franziska is only two years older than him, but when she glances away with an air of disinterested disdain to take a sip from the tumbler placed in front of her, the gap seems far wider.

“You heard?”

“I saw,” she replies, glancing over to him again just long enough to offer a small, disparaging smirk. “It was quite the performance. Do people actually pay you money to see such foolishness on stage?”

The shame he’d been attempting to shove away for the past five hours flares up just below the surface of his thoughts then, hot and bright enough that he suddenly feels sick to his stomach.

“You are just as charming as they say, Fraulein,” Klavier smiles; the sarcasm tastes false and bitter on his tongue.

In truth, he had made a fool of himself.

Klavier has always prided himself on being meticulous in his pursuit of the truth, in perfectly balancing the demands of both his prosecutorial career and his life as a musician. And, most of the time, he’d succeeded so brilliantly that it had blinded him to the subtly advancing and yet still discreet signs that he might have been slipping.

There had been issues with the band’s latest album.

With the ink long since dried on the studio’s contract and their chosen title already heavily marketed, the pressure to produce something of value had been mounting. Every song he’d written since then had seemed increasingly vapid, words that fit a theme but lacked any sort of meaning, chords that sounded deliberately catchy but were devoid of anything new and surprising. They were going through the motions, but those motions were long since stale. There was nothing of the artistic fire that had skyrocketed them to success in their early years and that alone drained any last bit of excitement he might have derived from the process.

It was driving a neat wedge through the center of the band; Daryan called him a diva, so used to having things his own way that he fell to pieces at the idea of ever being told what to do. Take the money, release an album that was shallow but on brand. They could always switch it up next time when time was on their side. You’re the lawyer, he'd mocked, you should know exactly how much of our asses are on the line here.

Their arguments on the subject had become more and more frequent as the days passed, spilling from band practice to crime scenes and, finally, to the kitchen of Klavier’s apartment. This time, it was Daryan who had packed what few belongings he’d scattered throughout Klavier’s various shelves and drawers into an old duffle bag and left, slamming the door shut behind him with finality as he’d gone.

As Klavier’s luck would dictate, Daryan had been the lead detective on this last case. While they were both professional enough not to ignore each other completely during the proceedings, the type of communication necessary for a successful indictment had been… difficult, to say the least.

And so he’d been distracted in his investigation, enough that he’d overlooked a piece of evidence so decisive in the opposition’s favor that when it had been presented, he’d been left gaping in uncharacteristic surprise from his place at the bench.

Yes, he’d been slipping, unable to see the progression of his descent until he had been standing firmly at the bottom of a tall slope.

He was only lucky, he supposed, that this was not a murder trial.

Back at the bar, Klavier rolls his eyes softly, more an aversion of his gaze than a gesture for dramatic display. Franziska doesn’t seem to be paying him enough attention to notice such things, anyway.

“Well, you can consider me scolded. Your work is done.”

“And yet, that’s not why I’m here,” Franziska returns. Ignoring the eyebrow he raises toward her in obvious question, she instead tilts the tumbler back, swallowing the last centimeter of the amber drink. “I would not waste my time and energy searching the city to scold a fool who seems to be doing an admirable job of berating himself. No, despite your recent failures, there are people in this city who seem to care about your well being. It would be a shame if you were to drown in a pool of your own vomit.”

He cannot help his rather obvious flinch at her words, no matter how quickly he endeavors to mask it. “How very touching, ja? I was expecting more anger.”

Franziska pauses in the midst of extracting a matte black card from the small handbag she carries. When her steel grey eyes meet his, Klavier suddenly understands the fear the von Karma name had once inspired in courtrooms across the world.

“Oh, I am angry,” she smiles, wagging her finger in such a way that it is clear she is mocking him. “You allowed a criminal to walk free today. But he is guilty, I am certain of that. And now he will be cocky.”

Klavier is so stunned by her words that he barely registers that she has slid her card across the surface of the wooden bar, let alone has the presence of mind to argue.

“There will be more evidence to find and new charges to file,” she continues, unperturbed by his gaping. “I will assume that next time you will have your priorities in the correct order.”

With that, she stands and turns to the attendant who is still waiting nearby, ready to help her back into the dark, cashmere folds of her cloak. When the complex ritual of donning her long gloves and sunglasses is complete, she turns once again to face him.

“I will be driving you home. You may choose, now, whether you would like to accompany me willingly or if you will require Detective Gumshoe’s escort. You have until I reach the door to decide.”

It feels as though a whirlwind has swept through the room, appearing out of nowhere to disrupt his wallowing completely before disappearing as suddenly as she had come. Klavier is not stupid enough to doubt Franziska’s words, despite the fact that he is twenty-three and more than a bit inebriated. He wavers only slightly as he finds his own feet and follows her out onto the sun soaked sidewalk beyond the bar.

If she is smiling when she looks back towards him, it is the small, private smirk of victory. Klavier finds that he is too preoccupied with the act of placing one foot in front of the other along the uneven slabs of concrete to care. He stumbles gracelessly into the backseat of the car Franziska indicates, through a door held open by a man that Klavier can only assume is the Detective she had mentioned inside.

“Huh,” he comments before closing the door. “Somehow I thought you’d be taller, pal.”

A sharp stab of pain somewhere behind his left temple resonates brightly in response.

This is something he will certainly regret tomorrow.

nachher:

“Okay, spill,” Apollo demands, crossing his arms in a visible display of stubborn obstination that, at any other time, Klavier might find endlessly adorable.

Tonight, however, he has reached a new level of exhaustion, one that leaves him blinking back at Apollo in baffled surprise as he attempts to pivot his thoughts from their previous trajectory in order to make sense of the other’s sudden words. “Spill was?”

As his words indicate, the intended course adjustment doesn’t go very well at all.

“Whatever’s going on with you,” Apollo replies, huffing out a sigh of what sounds nearly like frustration. “You’ve been working late, you don’t eat, you haven’t been sleeping. Something’s up; I think you should tell me what it is.”

Though Apollo’s words and posture are combative, it is all for show. There is an uncertainty in his eyes and concern exposed in the way he bites at the inside of his lip in silence, waiting for Klavier to speak. The fact that Klavier has learned to recognize this expression through repeatedly causing it is a painful enough thing to shoulder; to admit to the reason behind his behavior when it will only bring them both all the more strife, however, would be far worse. Not because he doubts the limits of Apollo’s strength; it is his own resilience that is threatened by the thought of divulging the extent of his insecurities.

Klavier runs a hand through the strands of hair that have escaped the hasty braid he had tied earlier that evening and attempts an apologetic smile. “Ach, Liebling, there is nothing to tell. It is just work.”

“You’re lying.”

It is stated as a fact, nothing more. But while there is nothing accusatory in Apollo’s tone and his face is perfectly even as he says it, Klavier still feels the words as though they are the sting of an attack.

“Ja?” he responds. “And you promised there would be no bracelet inside the house, did you not?”

What he intends is for the words to sound facetious, a nod to the same kind of fond banter they had indulged in long before the intimacy of a romantic relationship. But Klavier is lying; it is not an offense often committed between them and certainly not one he has reveled in or perpetuated out of malice, now. Still, to be seen through so shifted his smile without meaning to. Klavier can feel it teetering on the edge of a sneer that feels both unfamiliar and familiar all at once.

What follows, then, is a long pause.

A lifted arm, a proffered bare wrist, is Apollo’s only response.

That gesture feels more devastating than the aftermath of an actual, physical fight. Klavier can feel the air exit his lungs in a sharp hiss of remorse, his posture on the plush sofa of their study crumbling as he leans forward to place his head into his waiting hands.

“That was uncalled for,” Klavier begins, though his voice is muffled by the skin of his palms pressed firmly against his speaking mouth. “I am sorry, Schatz, I—“

But his words are interrupted by the sudden creak of sofa springs, the cushions on either side of Klavier dipping under the newly applied weight of Apollo’s knees. There is the feeling of Apollo’s warm fingers wrapping around the skin of his wrists, gently pulling his hands away from his face.

“I know you, Klavier,” Apollo says softly; his voice is so uncharacteristically gentle that the words sound less like a statement and more the sweetest declaration of love. Maybe they are. After all, Klavier has been loved before. But being actually, truly known? He glances up into Apollo’s brown eyes, warm with determination and affection. “I don’t need the bracelet to see when you’re upset. If you don’t want to talk about it right now, I understand, but you don’t have to go around pretending everything is okay when it isn’t.”

“Bold words for someone who insists upon always being fine, ja?” Klavier murmurs, another half hearted attempt at humor that falls flat in what little space exists between them. 

Apollo still lifts the edge of his lips in a small, humored smile of concession. “In court, maybe. But not with you. We all need to be vulnerable, sometimes.”

The breath that Klavier exhales wavers under the strain of unspoken emotions, his eyes fluttering closed just as Apollo leans forward to place a featherlight kiss against the center of his forehead, against his cheekbone, against the corner of his downturned mouth. 

“You can trust me, Klavier,” he concludes. “I’ll always be here, whenever you’re ready, okay?” 

Klavier finds he does not have the words to respond, then, even as the sound of fabric rustling against fabric fills the air and the hands holding Klavier’s wrists retreat. Their absence is felt immediately in the lack of warmth as Apollo slides back off the couch and onto his feet. 

“Apollo?”

Apollo’s footsteps stall halfway through the door.

Klavier still finds he needs to clear his throat before he can continue to speak, swallowing back the sentiments that have collected there that he is otherwise unable to express. “Could you stay? Bitte. Just for a moment.”

This is a weakness Klavier should not afford himself. It is selfish to ask Apollo to comfort him when Klavier cannot even bring himself to explain precisely why he requires it. But Apollo’s eyes are soft when they find Klavier’s gaze once again, inexplicably fully of acceptance and, beyond that, what Klavier knows is love.

“Yeah,” he nods, “of course.”

Apollo stays far longer than a moment, his fingers combing through the strands of Klavier’s loose hair under the fading light that filters in though the slightly open window. They don’t speak, but the steady rhythm of Apollo’s breath in the otherwise silent room, the gentle pressure of his fingers, is enough to distract him from the tumultuous cascade of his own thoughts.

[passionate-reply]

This week on Great Albums: most 80s enthusiasts are well aware of the Buggles’ “Video Killed the Radio Star,” famous for being the first music video ever played on MTV. But when’s the last time you actually listened to the whole song? Chances are, it’s better than you remember. And the rest of this album is a masterpiece, too. FInd out more by watching the video, or reading the transcript, below the break:

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, I’ll be looking at the 1979 debut album of the Buggles, The Age of Plastic. If you know anything about the pop landscape of the 1980s, you’ll know that MTV played a key role, codifying the “music video” format and aestheticizing the music industry like never before, not to mention introducing a plethora of British electronic acts to American audiences for the first (and sometimes only) time. The Buggles were one of the many synth-pop bands that scored a crossover hit chiefly from the exposure that heavy rotation on MTV won for them, but at the same time, their legacy is intertwined with MTV’s much more deeply. The Buggles’ clip for their single “Video Killed the Radio Star” has the distinction of being the very first ever played on MTV, during its 1981 launch.

Music: “Video Killed the Radio Star”

I’ve done my fair share of videos where I talk about artists who are brushed into the “one hit wonder” bin in America, and I usually find myself saying that their big hit isn’t that outstanding compared to the rest of their work, or the album it appears on. But in the case of “Video Killed the Radio Star,” I have to say, I think this track is a veritable masterpiece. It’s a shame that it’s become so inextricably linked with MTV, and its place in history overshadows its ability to stand on its own as a great work of art. It’s a song that feels very familiar, because it’s used so often as a sort of jingle for this era of music history, but every time I go back and listen to it in full, it blows me away. The song was, of course, not written with the intent of being about MTV--it’s about how the advent of television doomed radio dramas back in the 1950s, and was chosen by MTV in a bit of amusing irony.

But “Video Killed the Radio Star” is so much more than that post facto smug joke. It’s delicately wistful and nostalgic, with the crisp, soprano backing vocals of Linda Jardim providing a nod to 50s pop, but also very firm and powerful, once you add in that despondent piano. It’s the part that’s usually cut in the “jingle-ificiation” of the song for B-roll, but also the piece that really makes the composition tick--it’s the contrast between the brash and childlike optimism represented by Jardim, and the rest of the melody coming in to remind us of how those hopes are dashed as we come to adulthood, and we grow to see the world we lived in as children collapse upon itself. This all comes together to make the song utterly compelling to listen to in full, despite how pithy and trivial its oft-repeated hook has become.

While “Video Killed the Radio Star” was the single that managed the most mainstream success, the rest of the album features tracks that resemble it, in their sense of cinematic narrative and fascination with nostalgic retro-futurism. It’s not quite a concept album, but it still has an impressive amount of thematic consistency, and its tracks’ resonance only seems to increase when considered alongside one another.

Music: “Johnny on the Monorail”

Stark and plaintive, “Johnny on the Monorail” closes out the album on a moody, introspective note. Those bright backing vocals return, this time adding in some scatting, in a more overt reference to 50s doo-wop. Its high-tech mass transit theme calls to mind Kraftwerk’s seminal “Trans-Europe Express” from a few years earlier--but where they had used heavy, hyper-physical percussion to portray the workings of the machine itself, the Buggles’ hymn to the train focuses on the internality of its human occupants. The train is a socially-charged space here, but one filled with awkwardness and tepid, partial connections to other people. It’s a perfect microcosm of a sterilized future world that separates man from physical actions, like walking, as well as from his fellow man. This emphasis on the human, emotional toll of high technology is a constant throughout the album, even on its lone “love song.”

Music: “I Love You, Miss Robot”

In “I Love You, Miss Robot,” the age-old myth of romance between human and machine serves the role it always does: satirizing the transactional or objectifying nature of “modern” relationships, and the perversity of our attempts to fill our needs for companionship with things instead of people. The composition is, fittingly, quite hollow and languid, centered around a simple bass guitar riff while electronically-distorted vocals flit around like ghosts. Despite Trevor Horn’s reputation for orchestral, baroque pop, there’s actually a surprising amount of driving, rock guitar on this album too. It’s most prominent on the track “Clean, Clean!”, which is certainly a major sonic contrast with “I Love You, Miss Robot”! “Clean, Clean!” actually directly follows it in the tracklisting, albeit broken up by the flip to side two, if you’re listening on vinyl.

Music: “Clean, Clean!”

Despite its rough-edged aesthetics and driving rhythm, “Clean, Clean!” maintains the sense of high-concept narrative that pervades The Age of Plastic, showing us a glimpse into a brutal war. But, set against the haunting sense of distance and sterility embodied by tracks like “Johnny on the Monorail,” “Clean, Clean!” ultimately feels quite different thematically as well, with its soldiers inhaling diesel fumes and struggling to “keep the fighting clean.” Both sonically and lyrically, its feel is a bit less atompunk, and more dieselpunk--and, for once, the linguistic allusion to “punk music” is also relevant here!

The cover of The Age of Plastic features a headshot of Buggles frontman Trevor Horn, rendered in lurid primary colours. Combined with the tight horizontal lines of the background, and the digital-looking typeface used to render the name of the band, it seems to be an image culled from some futuristic display screen, fitting the album’s aforementioned science fiction themes. Looking back on it now, of course, there’s a certain retro feel to these now-outdated ideas about computer displays. It’s a reminder that for as much as this album was, in its own time, looking backward to Midcentury ideas about the future, and embracing a certain retro-futurism, it’s now aged into being “retro” itself, in a world where much of contemporary culture looks back at the 1980s with hope and wonder.

The title, “The Age of Plastic,” calls to mind not only a world of futuristic super-materials, but also the negative connotations of plastic: fakeness, disposability, and malleability to the point of having no fixed identity. In that sense, Horn’s technicolour visage can be read as the image of that plastic-age hominid, formed anew by evolving technology and an increasingly cold and alienating culture.

If you’re familiar with Western pop, the odds that you’ve already heard a lot of other work by Trevor Horn is extremely high. For as much as “Video Killed the Radio Star” has gone down in history as a gimmicky number, Horn’s fingerprints run all throughout popular music, from a stint as the frontman of progressive rock outfit Yes, to producing hit songs for artists like ABC, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, the Pet Shop Boys, and Seal. My personal favourite project of his, though, is probably his sample-heavy, avant-garde work as a member of the Art of Noise. A lot of people don’t know that there was actually also a second Buggles album, 1981’s Adventures in Modern Recording. I’ve met few people who would argue that it’s quite as good as The Age of Plastic, but if you’re interested in more of this sound, you might as well give it a shot! Lead single “I Am a Camera” even managed to chart minorly in several markets.

Music: “I Am a Camera”

My favourite track on The Age of Plastic is its opener, the pseudo-title track, “Living in the Plastic Age.” Moreso than any of the other tracks, it really draws its strength from its narrative, with clever lyricism that really rewards a close listen. It captures a day in the life of a businessman in a soulless, corporatized future, going through the motions despite a nagging notion that the corporate grind is no path to true fulfillment. The song’s frantic pacing portrays that ceaseless, hectic sense of stress, and its soaring refrain is one of the album’s highest points of drama. I can’t think of a better summation of the album’s overarching themes. That’s all for today, thanks for listening!

Music: “Living in the Plastic Age”

[4328fox]

Ordination Day

summary: Yuri is invited to the event that would make Ioder and Flynn's positions official. Some things are bound to change as a result. The question is whether or not one is able to accept such change.

notes: pairing is fluri, though this is set pre-relationship. Also, TOV spoilers everywhere!

Once again, I’d like to thank everyone who helped me as I was writing this!

Wordcount is (almost) 13k words. here’s a link to AO3, if you’d rather read it there!

You’re sitting by a windowsill, in an inn in Aurnion. You wrapped up a quick delivery job for someone here earlier. Normally, you wouldn’t have lingered here. While thinking about your circumstances, you glance down to a piece of paper, still resting on your lap. The core of your blastia glints under the moonlight.

Please come to Master Ioder’s ordination.

Flynn won’t even put a proper invitation in, but you’d thrown it out if he did. He knew that very well too. Still, you wondered why he bothered asking.

You stretch a bit, letting out a huff that might just be you mocking the letter. You actually did consider ignoring this altogether. Saying it got lost in the mail, or something. You didn’t want to be mixed into this, not when you had little reason to.

Writing has never been in your style either, but you’d write back to Flynn, to keep in touch with him. He made you promise to, because after the Adephagos was dealt with, it would mean going your separate ways again. Not that you didn’t run into him, sometimes. Or pretty often, even. It’s a well-known fact that your luck is cursed, and Flynn doesn’t know when to leave things be. You wonder if Flynn ever spends time in his room.

Another letter came a day after Flynn’s, this time from Estelle. It must have been serious enough that she went out of her way to write to you, but you already had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t the emergency you expected.

Yuri, I know that you insisted I throw out that uniform when you caught me sneaking it in your bag, but I held on to it. Once you come here, I’ll let you have it again. It’s for Ioder and Flynn’s ceremony!

And of course it’s Flynn’s ceremony too. As of now, you don’t know what to expect, aside that it’s both Emperor and Commandant ordinations going down in one event. It's hardly surprising that Flynn wouldn’t put any weight on his official promotion taking place.

For a while, the ordination has been the talk of Terca Lumireis. Estelle’s teacher mentioned it before you and Brave Vesperia stopped the world’s end. And after the loss of the barriers, people needed to hold on to something that wouldn’t spark anxiety. Of all places, even Dahngrest began talking about it.

You stretch again. You suppose you should get going to bed, because you have a long day ahead of you tomorrow. You step over to the sleeping Repede, recounting how you turned down Judy’s offer to fly you to Zaphias today. With the main event two days away, you felt like you wanted to take the long route, instead. At least some people established that dock that was made to connect Illycia and Hipionia.

And unless someone were to ask Judy and Karol, no one really knows you’re here. Not that it truly matters, but there’s already going to be some amount of attention on you when you’re in the capital. A small reprise of privacy doesn’t hurt anyone.

You have to nudge Repede a little before you can comfortably lay down in bed. The warmth of your partner is calming, and distracting enough to lull you to sleep.

You are anything but a morning person, but you wake up early due to your gut squeezing at you. Just from trying to comb through your hair with a hand, you can already feel where it tangled up.

The next thing you know, you’ve taken semblance of a decently-looking person, now checking out of the inn. You and Repede note the nice weather outside, the town bustling with life more and more with each new visit you make here. It reminds you of the Lower Quarter. The community here is growing to be just as close-knit too, and you can’t not smile while passing some kids, they’re already running wildly at this hour. There were less of them last time you were here, and you didn’t realise that until this morning.

What you do realise, however, is that a fair-haired Commandant has no business being in Aurnion today. You can’t make out much of him from this distance, but he is armored as ever. He seems to have been handing some reports. You never get how Flynn is this chipper so early in the day, but the sun shining and reflecting on his pauldrons gives him a brighter look. From a certain angle, it would even be blinding.

You make eye contact with him, and he’s already distracted from whatever conversation he was having with the captain stationed here. You stand there, a building or so away by now, as he excuses himself and steps over to you and Repede.

“Yuri, what are you doing here?” he smiles at you in surprise, but you catch his eye twitching, subconsciously. He kneels to greet Repede too, who is ecstatic to see him.

“That’s what I’m wondering. You should be in Zaphias.” You cross your arms as you study his body language more. He doesn’t seem to have packed much on his person, much like yourself. And his hair is its usual messy. He looks up at you, and he squints, actually, because the sunlight hit his eyes.

“I had a blastia thief to deal with. I had to act.”

Of course he did. These cases are singular and not too common, thankfully, but Flynn takes each and every one of them himself. You can tell he still looks slightly breathless, he must have run all the way here.

He stands up to meet your eyes. “And you? I thought Ba’ul would give you a ride.”

“He and Judy have plenty to do. I was just sightseeing here.” You offer a grin, but Flynn must already know that you’re here for a guild job, not looking entirely impressed.

“Well, if we both happen to be here, would you like to go back to Zaphias together?” Before you can even open your mouth, he continues, “We can catch up, and all.”

“We can catch up during your ceremony too,” and he instantly gets a bit exasperated at what you’re trying to imply, even if you’re just joking. “But, yeah, we are going in the same direction. Will your knights mind me taking you away from them for a day?”

Flynn tries not to grin at the way you phrased it, but he now looks like he’s grimacing. “Not ‘my knights’. But just give me a few. I’ll be ready to head out soon.”

You nod at each other, and you instead take your walk’s direction for the entrance of Aurnion. Repede woofs at you and you can’t help but sigh. So much for some alone time.

Not that Flynn is a bother beyond his nagging, but you should have suspected something like this would have happened. In fact, you usually do expect it, it’s a habit you picked up from the past year and a half. While you don’t seek his blue uniform out in a crowd, you do strain your ears for his voice, for some indication that he’s in the same place as you again.

If you didn’t run into each other just now, you would have instead come to Zaphias hearing that he’s running late on preparations for his own special day. Because something’s always bound to come up. The moment Flynn notices an issue, he obsesses over it until he gets it dealt with.

You lean against the entrance of the town, Repede barking as you exchange conversation with him. It isn’t long until Flynn is back at your side and ready to go, somewhat brighter and less sleep-deprived. He scratches behind Repede’s ears one more time before you three officially exit the premises of Aurnion.

The first group of monsters you come across is not overwhelming, but you were struggling to take a breather. It’s good that you packed healing items, and that Repede is so fast. Once able to continue on walking, you find yourself a bit too worn out to offer much of your usual quips. Though it’s because you spend some time in silence that you notice something is eating at Flynn. You should get him to talk.

“Flynn-”

“Yuri-”

You both stop to look at one another. Repede barks, as if to join in.

“You first,” Flynn insists. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Nah, I was going to ask you why you look so nervous. Out with it.”

You give him a look, and he somehow resists rolling his eyes. “I was wondering what you’ve been up to. Besides guild jobs.”

“That’s all?”

“What else should there be?” At a loss for words, you cross your arms. You spot a large enough rock and make a move to go sit on it, but Flynn speaks again. “We don’t need a break for this.”

“...I suppose you’re right. But let me think.”

“Ever so busy, I take?” You can hear the grin in his voice, and you have to push down the urge to tell him to shut it, before his teasing even began.

As you all continue walking, you’re wondering out loud, recounting if anything potentially interesting happened with you. There’s you and the guild looking for a more permanent residence. Flynn assures you that you would all be welcome to Zaphias, if you so wanted. You think a bit more, but decide against it. Too many knights, among other things, wouldn’t make it so ideal. Though you get the feeling you made him disappointed voicing that.

You throw in a story or two between rambling, and he at least offers enough of a conversation so it doesn’t feel disgustingly one-sided. Flynn then gives a story of his own, and talks about another success that he and Ioder managed against the council. The pride bubbles up in you, you say how them working together like this has resulted in a lot more progress being made than what Alexei had seemingly done in his entire time as Commandant. Flynn makes a troubled response, unable to argue against it, and conversation quickly dies.

The silence settling becomes a suffocating one, you both can tell. Alexei is still a sore topic. Flynn tries again by asking “You haven’t been in my new quarters, right?”, which is possibly one of the worst ways to follow up a topic concerning Alexei.

But you humor him anyway. “Is that a special invitation? I thought ordinary people have no business there.”

“Yuri, you’re no ordinary person.”

“Whatever, still not castle staff. But no, you only wrote to me about it. Didn’t it take a while to convince you to move there?”

Flynn flushes a bit, but continues. “It’s still weird. It’s too big, it makes me wonder if there’s any use in repurposing it.”

“Into what?”

“I haven’t thought of it... “

Repede just then barks, and sprints ahead. You turn, and notice the docks. You pick up the pace. Once closer, you now see a few knights positioned there to keep watch. They instantly regard Flynn with the utmost respect. They instantly recognize you too, as a friend of the Commandant. You find it weird.

By the time Flynn started talking to them, probably about some knight things that don’t concern a criminal like you, you and Repede have already decided to board the ship yourselves. There are a few more passengers, but there are also various cargoes going in and out of the ship. It’s probably supply exchanges between the two continents.

You directly head for one of the cabin rooms. Once there, Repede settles comfortably over the bed. You sit down too.

...Maybe you should ask someone at the castle to patch up this Dhaos cape. The winds are less harsh with it on, and it gives you a weird sense of strength fighting with it. As you go through your things, you find your bag weirdly empty on supplies. “Was this your doing?” you ask in Repede’s direction, who only barks back indignantly. Maybe Flynn is low on gels too.

Not that you can exactly ask Flynn now, because he has things to do. Flynn runs on tasks and missions all the time at this point, you would hardly be surprised if he comes here apologising, because he found he needs to take a detour in Halure, or something.

The cabin door opens after some time, revealing him. “And here’s the guy who drained me of my Apple gels again.” You say dryly.

Flynn doesn’t relax from whatever tension he built up. While he doesn’t look visibly nervous, you can tell his throat dried up on the way here. He still frowns at your remark. “I don’t think I threw that many at you this time.”

You grin, you’re already scooting over to give Flynn the sitting space. “I’d say you owe me gels, but stuff them in your own mouth next time, alright?”

“I doubt I came in here to hear that from you, of all people.” From how close you both are now, you can hear something in his body crack slightly upon sitting on the bed.

“And I doubt I was ready to be low on apple gels now.”

“Yuri…”

“I’m just saying!”

“You’re impossible.” Flynn finally slinks back to lay down, and you can hear the metal of his armor click here and there as he positions himself comfortably enough. You watch the way he stretches his torso, and the way he arches ever so slightly, as a pleased sigh escapes his lips. Your eyes trail up to his own, and you find that he’s looking back at you, smiling.

Something on your face threatens to make you smile too, so you cover it up by talking: “Don’t tell me you’re actually sleeping like this.”

“Will you really kick me off for it?” his pointed look only said hypocrite.

“Right. So did you come here because you haven’t had enough of me yet?”

“I can handle a lot before I get enough of you.”

“Sure, say that. But we might be stuck at the hip until nighttime.” You lay back down in the same fashion Flynn has, and now you’re both relaxing side by side, staring at the ceiling. Seconds pass before you ask. “You did leave someone else to handle the organizing at Zaphias, right?”

Flynn sighs a bit. “Lady Estellise insisted she would. And I’d rather not dwindle with something if someone else can do it better.”

“Estelle knows her stuff, yeah. At least you get less time with the council before the main event.” Flynn groans, and you can’t not chuckle. “What now?”

“Nothing, I’m just thankful for Lady Estellise and Master Ioder dealing with them while letting me take on actually important tasks.”

“Wow, you’re kinda honest for once. Are you sure no one is eavesdropping on you to hear how sick you are of the council now?” You mockingly peer at the door, and Flynn shoves you as you laugh.

“It’s not that. But they’d be on my back for taking on emergencies now. They’d say-”

“That you have other knights to handle this? That you can just stay in the capital?” Flynn shoots you a glance, but he shakes his head a little.

“Almost. But I imagine they’d use that argument too.” He swallows a bit. “Do you think so, too?”

You rest your arms behind your head as you think. “Kind of. But I know this is in your style. And I know how much of a pain in the ass these guys are. If someone’s helping you so you didn’t deal with them as much, then may as well focus on something more important. You don’t seem to be taking this ordination that seriously, anyway.”

Flynn laughs helplessly. “If you passed through Zaphias first, I’d be wondering if Lady Estellise told you something. It’s more that it isn’t something to throw a big deal about.” And there he goes again. His own ceremony. “At this point, the council can’t really influence who Master ioder can officially appoint a Commandant. That’s all there is to it.”

You can’t help feeling amused at the idea of those snobs gritting their teeth, knowing they’d continue dealing with Flynn, the stubborn mule, for years to come. Yeah, maybe the Empire’s left in really good hands. “But it feels like a ceremony wouldn’t be too necessary.”

“I’m not surprised you think that, actually.”

“Not for the reasons you think. Everyone back in Dahngrest thought you’re already the permanent choice.”

“Yeah, but things will change after the ordination.”

“You think? Your authority as Commandant isn’t going to increase from what you’ve told me before.” And that’s where Flynn shifts a bit, as if the way he’s laying in his armor is uncomfortable now.

“Yuri, how about the outfit you’ll wear tomorrow?”

“Hey, don’t change the subject.”

“But really now, I was relieved to hear you haven’t done anything to the clothes I gave you all this time ago. Lady Estellise hadn’t told me anything of their fate…”

“I still can’t believe you’re trying to push me to wear that! What’s with my current clothes?”

“Nothing bad, but I just want you to look good for tomorrow!”

“I look fine as I am-”

Poor Repede has to bark at you twice to get you to stop being so loud, and you decide to let it be, letting the conversation calm down into something less likely to spark anything between you and Flynn. Well, at least not in the argumentative sense. You didn’t realise you started shoving one another.

You look at Flynn again. He’s closed his eyes, humming a bit. It sounds familiar, but you can’t seem to put a finger on what the song is. Something about how nice his features look when the bastard isn’t being a pain passes through your mind, and you get an urge to raise your hand and brush some of his hair off his forehead. At least the signal of the ship nearing the docks is enough to distract you from unnecessary thoughts.

It’s still about early afternoon when you finally begin trekking through Illycia, but it would take about a few hours to get to the capital. Repede seems to be the liveliest after the boat trip, but he’s also the only one in the group who got any sleep in. You let him run ahead, and he occasionally stops just far enough to still see you and Flynn, waits for you to catch up, and then runs some more.

By now you know that there’s something up with Flynn.

You take another good look at him, from head to toe. Flynn seems to notice, but doesn’t question you.

You’d think he knows by now why Ioder chose him to do what Alexei couldn’t, there’s no time to wallow in self-doubt…! It isn’t even a matter of succeeding previous Commandants, but carving out a new path to go far and beyond. Is he still reluctant in his abilities as a knight? He’s over some unfamiliar superiors trying to get under his skin, you’ve seen firsthand that he can handle any insult thrown at him.

But it could be that Flynn is that uncomfortable with being in the limelight. Not to mention the way he’s humble to a fault, it’s hard to get him to accept any praise. Back before Zaude came crashing down, he noted how it isn’t even his praise to accept. Isn’t it why he and Ioder tried to give you some official recognition in the first place?

Is Flynn talking to anyone about his doubts at all? Because he sure as hell doesn’t tell you a single thing. He could bother to write more beyond typical pleasantries in his letters to you.

And even though walking usually gets your mind off of things, your concern doesn’t leave. The closer Zaphias gets, you feel even more annoyed. Not only did Flynn (likely) internalise another set of self-deprecating statements, that you still don’t know how to force out of him, but a form of dread took hold of you, because you really don’t want to be dealing with any of this. Your grip on the cloth holding the sheath of Second Star tightens.

And it’s probably because you tuned out of the conversation at some point, but Flynn now squeezes your shoulder. “Yuri, are you listening at all?”

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of both his gloved hand on you, as well as the phantom feeling of your nails having dug into the palm of your own hand.

“Sorry. I was thinking again. What were you saying?”

Flynn, thankfully, moves his hand away, and continues. He keeps an eye on you. “I was telling you about tomorrow.”

“Actually, is it necessary for me to even be in the castle the entire time?” You spit this out without a thought.

“What? Of course you need to be there for most of it. That’s one of the reasons I invited you.”

“No, but see, can I just sneak in and out at certain intervals, so I’d be there only when I’m really needed? I would have much more fun being near fellow commoners and stuffing my face with non-snobbish foods.” You sound angrier than intended.

“Yuri, what are you on this time? You have a reason to be at the ceremony!”

“And what is it, to have some assholes gawk at my being there while they make Ioder’s position official?”

“Is that what’s bothering you?” There’s a pause you almost miss. “No, I actually need-”

“I don’t want to hear what the reason is.” Flynn shuts his mouth then, stupefied, before his face looks less surprised, and more frustrated. You can’t hold back. “Just out with it already, Flynn. Something’s bothering you, not me. Focus on your own problems, for a change.”

He almost says something, but instead looks past you.

“Wait, Yuri.”

It annoys you, so you raise your voice to get him to look. “No. You clearly want to talk now, so let’s do that now!”

“There’s monsters!” He shoves you, to run past you, and you finally turn to notice a horde of said monsters running from the direction you came from. Flynn strikes the one leading the charge. Repede barks in alert too, and rushes into the group beyond you. You have a weird sense of deja vu.

Fighting off some wild boars isn’t entirely unusual, but there sure are a lot of them. You strain yourself beyond your limit to push them aside with your artes. Maybe this is the spirits’ messed up way of telling you not to start fights in the fields.

You dig into your bag to grab another orange gel… only to see you have none left. You curse under your breath, and slash at another boar charging at you. You realise that Flynn’s speed in casting Holy Lance and Mistral soul has considerably lessened, which means he is also out of gels.

And a quick look at Flynn tells you that he’s looking pretty bad already. In order to pave an escape plan, you need to get him to stop casting altogether. You try to yell at him to get a move on, into a direction that diverges a bit from the path to Zaphias.

Not that this works. Repede howls from behind, and you realise that Flynn got surrounded. A boar must have hit him while trying to move, because now he’s resorted to slashing at them with just a sword. He’s barely able to raise his shield.

To hell with these boars. Repede is already taking on the attack a few feet away from Flynn, but neither of them are able to attentively keep in mind the one coming from behind him. Another slash like this could end fatally, and this isn’t where Flynn Scifo should fall. This is where you come in.

“Flynn, stay still!” You yell out hoarsely, and plant yourself by his back and block with your sword. The boar jabs right into your arm and growls fiercely in your face, but you’re hardly bothered by the burning sensation. You punch the ground, shouting out “Destruction field!” from which the boars are sent flying, then crashing into the ground.

There is one monster left standing, but you make no move for it, being at your limit now. You hear Repede’s running, and as expected, he lands the definitive blow. Good boy…

A pair of hands clutch at you before you fall to your knees. At least Flynn minds the arm that got the worst of it.

“Hey, good job, Commandant. Anywhere hurt?”

“Stay still.”

“Flynn, it’s fine. Just hand me a gel.”

“We don’t have any gels.”

“Shit.” You knew that already. “I can cast Guardian Field-”

“You are not using a sword in this state.” Flynn moves to sit you down, and that’s when you realise how close he is to you. The warmth his arms bring out almost makes you forget how much your arm hurts. You watch him double-check his bag again, but there’s no use in that, it’s clearly empty. Repede noses over to sit as well, on alert, in case any newcomer monsters want a round.

With this proximity, you can sense Flynn growing frantic long before it gets apparent on his face. At least he doesn’t look too upset. “We can just wait until the bleeding stops. I’ve had worse.”

“Just let me treat you.” A small, shaky breath. “Divine favour upon you.” Magic focuses around you all, and you can’t even protest, before he says the word. “Cure!”

Magic reinvigorates you, your arm in particular, until nothing hurts anymore. Your vision clears, and it’s Flynn who crumbles, dropping the sword you didn’t even notice he was still holding.

It takes you a second to process what just happened. “What the hell, Flynn! We don’t have gels!” And now it’s your turn to hold onto him, and shit, he looks worse than you thought. You lay him down, so he could at least stop feeling so tense in your arms. “You’re not Estelle, you’re barely able to cast without a blastia!”

“It’s fine, Yuri.” He smiles at you, and that fact infuriates you.

He’s leaning on you as he lays, close to losing consciousness, maybe more, and he looks anything but fine. That fact infuriates you.

“What will everyone say if you died here? Don’t waste your energy when you’re expected back in the capital, asshole! The empire needs you!”

“Is that all there is to it? The empire needs me?”

There’s a beat. You feel like you almost missed it, even if you just saw the way Flynn’s expression dropped. “I can’t die, because the empire needs me?”

Something glasses in his eyes.

“The hell are you-”

“Am I really that irreplaceable…” His eyes are closing, but he’s struggling to keep them open. “That I can’t even…” Flynn is clutching a bit at his chest now, where his blastia would have been. Something in you says to at least take his hand, to guide it away from his heart, but you can’t find it in you to do so.

You can’t even say a thing. For the longest moment you feel like his eyes are piercing right through you, until his strength finally gives out, and he falls unconscious. The way his voice sounded just now is enough to haunt you in your next dream.

The silence that settles on the fields is uncomfortable, to say the least. Repede’s nudging forces you out of the blank state in your mind right now. You grab Second Star to cast Guardian Field, just in case.

If Flynn just let you do this in the first place, him passing out could have been avoided. He’s always putting himself in harm’s way, and for what?

“You’re not thinking rationally.” You hear yourself mumbling. You take off your cape, and drape it over Flynn’s body, just as the wind picks up. “You worry too much.”

At least Repede can watch your back while you can’t bring yourself to stay attentive. It’s less about being exhausted (because little by little, you feel your power coming back to you), but more about everything else about this.

While the fields and tall grass are the worst place to sleep in, Mayoccia plains offer some weird sense of comfort. It’s just the three of you in a large space, with the breeze being your only threat. At some point, you’ve moved Flynn’s head to rest on your lap, to at least reduce the risk of him catching a cold out here.

He’s still incredibly warm. Maybe armor does wonders to keep the heat in. Or maybe it’s his very determination burning strong. You focus on the sensation of Flynn’s hair on your fingers.

He feels so relaxed, for once. Maybe the things he said before passing out were part out of the sheer exhaustion he must be running on. The ordination got to him to such a point, that seeing you get roughed up a bit set him off and made his rationality slip.

But even something about that doesn’t sound right.

You look at how his chest rises and falls. Your eyes move to gaze at his face, and you can’t even bear looking at it for more than a few seconds. Guilt is catching up to you, knowing that snapping at him did nothing to help the situation. At what point is getting mad at him for his confidence in leading the knights justified, and at what point is it overdoing it? Are you any better than the very people that fed into Flynn’s insecurities to begin with?

Your hand continues brushing Flynn’s hair, however, and at least that gives you some clarity that he’s right here, where you left him to rest. That, for now, is good enough.

You finally distract yourself by talking to Repede. It helps pass the time.

Flynn eventually shifts to wakefulness on his own. “Yuri?” he looks up groggily, and you finally gaze into his eyes for the first time since what felt like ages. “How long was I out?”

“About an hour. Are you feeling better?” No, he isn’t.

“Just weird.” He gets up to move, and it doesn’t resemble the movement of a guy who had just passed out. That’s good news, for starters.

You need a moment or two to get up, because your legs fell asleep while waiting. It takes you three a bit to gather yourselves, and to continue the walk to the capital.

“Thank you.” You turn to look at Flynn offering you a smile, but you can tell it isn’t reaching his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m glad I can help.” You did not even comfort him.

But neither of you address it. As you go on, Zaphias gradually stops being a looming presence ahead of you. You’re still not used to seeing its barrier being absent, but otherwise it looks nearly the same as usual. The only actually notable difference is the way many knights are stationed to keep watch of any corner which could allow monsters to rush in.

By now, you’re finally approaching the gates to the Public Quarter. You hoped to at least go through the Lower Quarter, but it’s not like you can split up from Flynn now, because you both are headed for the castle.

Some knights are already saluting you like you’re some great hero, and the discomfort settles in again. Maybe you’re getting a taste of what it was like for Duke at least a decade ago. Or Raven, for that matter, when he would need to be present as Shwann. You wave at the guards. Maybe it would get them to drop the formalities with you. They wouldn’t be saluting you if you weren’t friends with their Commandant.

And once you do go in, the public stares begin almost instantly, but they’re less directed at you, and directed more at Flynn. You hear some whisper or two about you being so close to the Commandant, but only a few people manage to recognize you.

People pay attention to who you’re friends with. Sodia is (or was) a walking example of this. That Flynn is still friends with a criminal would mean it’s easy to bend and twist whatever good image he’s trying to keep with the council.

And maybe Flynn dreads dealing with the council tomorrow because of you. He knows he can’t change you. But then why go through the pain of having you here, especially after you rejected the title of “free paladin”?

...You rarely see the city get so busy out on the streets at this hour. The decorations and scent of feasts for tomorrow are indicative of how dedicated people are to making this day special. It makes you think back to the Lower Quarter, and how they must be preparing to celebrate too.

And the day after tomorrow, you’ll get to be on your own again.

Before you realise it, you reach the Royal Quarter. It’s significantly quieter than the rest of Zaphias, as usual. Flynn turns to look back at the stairs you came from. “I didn’t think the Public Quarter would be this excited.”

“Yeah, they seem to be in high spirits. I’d rather that than to hear them boo you the entire way.”

“I’m sure there’s some people that would gladly do that instead.” Flynn laughs.

“That’s to be expected. Didn’t you tell me some people failed to find fault in Alexei?”

A hum. You two continue walking, some knights salute you, and some nobles stop and stare, like they can’t mind their business. You ignore some of the looks they give you.

“Just let them be for now.” You say. “Some people can’t accept change, and that’s their problem.” Flynn hums again, but it sounds just as inattentive as the other one. It makes you turn to him. “Right?”

Flynn has been looking at you, troubled again, and it takes him a second to realise he’s caught staring. You give a confused look. He sighs and gives in.

“Sorry, Yuri. I was just thinking how everyone must be frustrated that we took so long.”

“They can wait a bit more. You’re not in charge of preparations, anyway.” And didn’t he leave of his own volition? If he’s so bothered by burdening Estelle and Ioder, he really should have just sent in Sodia or whoever to rush toward Aurnion’s general direction all night.

The opening and closing of castle doors is when the ringing in your ears finally comes to a halt. You don’t understand early celebrations.

“Oh, Flynn, you’re just in time.” a youthful voice says. “And is that Yuri I see? It’s good to have you here once more.” Ioder was just walking past the stained glass when you came in. He seems enthusiastic.

“Yo. I had to drag your workaholic Commandant all the way from Hipionia.” You say, and you already hear Flynn grumble in protest. “But take it easy on him, he needs a twelve-hour nap.”

Ioder chuckles, much to Flynn’s dismay. “I do appreciate the gesture. Please, make yourself comfortable. We have some matters to attend to with Flynn, but I believe Estellise is in the castle gardens, if you wish to see her.”

And that’s your next destination. You part ways with Flynn for now, who’s surely more than happy to get a breather away from your company. Repede stays back too, wanting to follow him around for once.

Decorum is all over the hallways. You do have to hand it to the staff here, working hard to make something out of ordination day.

And there’s still a dozen or so workers who are doing some wrap ups for today in the garden. Estelle is in the center of the cogwheel, offering her final input on things. It’s nice to see, she’s really having fun. Once she notices you, she even begins waving very ecstatically. That’s your cue to walk over to her, so she didn’t rush out of whatever she’s doing now. But that still doesn’t stop her from giving you a hug!

“It’s been so long!” You hear her exclaim. She must be exaggerating a bit, but hey, you do feel the sentiment too. You pat her on the head, your ribs aching a little once she lets go of you.

“It sure had been.” You take another look around yourself. “You’re really doing wonders here.”

“It’s just everyone’s combined effort coming to fruition. And we’re nearly done, too.”

“I can go over there” you point vaguely to some distant area of the garden, “and wait for you to wrap up. I’m not in a rush.”

“Sure!” She pauses, but then says: “Have you seen Flynn? He’s been gone since yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s in the castle now, we got here together. If you need to talk to him first-”

“No, it’s fine! I can see him later. I was worried, is all.”

At least that’s out of her head. You decide it’s best to let her finish up here, so you stroll over to the place you pointed at just now. Estelle shouldn’t take too long, but it’s gotten late enough that trying the clothes today would be pointless. You have the boars to thank for that.

You rest at the bench for some time, the left-and-right movement all over the garden being the one thing keeping your eyes open. The more you think about it, though, the more you realise that you actually have no clue of what the ordination will be like. You didn’t really pay attention when Flynn tried to explain to you.

Stretching a bit, your mind wanders back to Dahngrest, instead. You know that Harry got an invitation too, as is expected, but you’re the only guildsman outside of the Union that was invited. Karol, Judy and even Patty are too busy to come, but you wouldn’t be surprised to see Rita here. Last time you heard from her, she said she had better to do than play dress up for the capital, but knowing how persuasive Estelle is… Maybe she somehow is busy too, though. Out of everyone, Raven seems the likeliest to make an appearance for tomorrow. But he’d be keeping a distance, probably. You envy him.

You didn’t know you were dozing off, not until you snap your eyes open to Estelle calling out to you. She hands you what seems to be a warm sandwich, and you accept it gratefully. Hunger slipped your mind entirely.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.” Estelle tells you.

“It’s fine. Flynn really left you with all the work.”

Estelle sits next to you on the bench. “Not quite, it was manageable. But I wanted to make sure we can handle everything going on tomorrow.”

“Damn, how long is this ceremony?”

“The ceremony itself? Not too long, I think. But most of the preparations we did today are for the celebrations afterwards.”

“Oh, right. The nobles’ party. Is that one mandatory?” Estelle laughs as you bite into the sandwich.

“It is mandatory. I don’t think you need to stay for all of it, but…”

“Let me guess, Flynn wants me to?”

She’s a bit surprised that you took the words out of her mouth.

“I already came all the way here, I may as well indulge in rich people's food. Flynn also supposedly had intent of showing me that new sleeping quarters of his. Have you been there?”

“Oh yes, it’s huge!” She gesticulates with her arms to emphasise. “Back when it was still Alexei’s, I was never allowed to wander there, not even in the hallway leading up to it. Flynn’s jaw almost dropped when we were finally granted access to clean it up... ”

Between Estelle’s dramatic retelling of the events, you manage to ask how she’s been, and how her writing’s been going. She says she only gets to sit down and add to her story when she isn’t travelling, but you imagine she still carries her journals around to note any ideas she gets.

With some convincing, she has you agree to get up at sunrise to get you dressed. “We could have avoided this if you came here sooner.” Estelle says. You don’t tell her why you were delayed in the first place. You don’t tell her you had intentions of skipping this altogether, either.

Repede eventually makes his reappearance, evading Estelle’s attempts at patting him for the nth time. You usher Estelle to go see Flynn, since he must be free now. Meanwhile, you decide to get some shut eye back in the Lower Quarter. Despite Estelle offering a room for you for the night, you don’t accept it. You don’t know when else you’ll be able to talk to everyone down there before you’d need to go back to Dahngrest again.

...You do feel like there is never enough time to catch up with everyone you don’t see for an extensive amount of time.

“Get it through your head, already! We’re happy just to hear from you!”

Hanks would say this to you each time you and Repede make way for the room that the Comet still keeps vacant for you.

You feel nostalgic just being here. You walk to the bed, toss your boots off, and lay down. Repede follows suit. The room is barren by now, you’ve long since packed the few things you had into a box that you left on the Fiertia. It’s all there until Karol actually picks a proper home for Brave Vesperia. But coming back like this is nice, too...

...Once again, it’s hardly dawn, but you still drag yourself out. The streets give you the weirdest feeling that it’s some calm before the storm.

There’s no need to be discreet, but it would be much faster for you to round the castle building, and scale a wall until you reach a window. You signal for Repede to just go through the doors. Now, Estelle’s room was around the second floor… Or maybe the third, the interior inside is so weird-

“Yuri.” Right behind you. “Just use the entrance, for once.”

“Morning to you too, Flynn.” You flash a grin at him. As you look at him you notice his getup: White pants, and a turtleneck. Wait, what?

There’s an uncomfortable pause, like Flynn expected you to say more. “Yuri?”

Your eyes meet. “You surprised me.”

“I guess I did.” He crosses his arms, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“Why the hell are you up so early.”

“I was taking a stroll.”

“Unarmored?”

Flynn’s stare moves down to the side of his hip. You follow his gaze, and notice his sword, still there. “Oh.”

“I know it’s weird to see me without my pauldrons, but that doesn’t mean I come unprepared for ambush.”

“No, you look weirdly unprepared now. And I don’t get how you’re here just on time to stop me from scaling this wall.”

“Let’s say I had a hunch.”

“Weirdo. What will the poor nobles think of the oh-so-unsightly way you look?”

“Whatever it is, it would be their last chance of seeing me for what I am; a Lower Quarter plebeian.” Flynn states plainly.

“No way, you’re a plebeian even if they make you wear gold. Don’t forget your roots.”

He laughs. “At least I won’t have to worry about you looking so fancy that you forget your own. But you do need to get a move on. If you want to even stay for the event, you actually need a crash course on what to expect, and Lady Estellise has been racking her head on what to say, and what to omit.”

“If you let me scale, she can even tell me about the origins of ordinations.”

“We all know you hardly care about the origins. You are not scaling this wall.” You swear he’s almost taking a battle stance against you.

“I changed my mind, you’ll actually be the shittiest Commandant up to date.” You say dryly, which prompts Flynn to chuckle. “I can’t wait until the revolution of Zaphias happens.”

“Sure, Yuri. And I’ll wait for you to come back to the knights with open arms.”

“No way in hell.” You cringe, and you take it as your signal to just go.

You take a few steps away from the wall. Flynn watches warily, before relaxing. “Yuri, I suppose I’ll be seeing-”

Then you rush and make a jump for the wall, latching onto the bricks! You barely see the surprised look on Flynn’s face!

“Yuri!”

“Yeah, catch you later, Commandant!” Despite the continued protests, you scale the wall.

You dust yourself off, just as you neatly close the window. Upon looking, you realise a maid was staring the entire time. “Just another morning in Zaphias castle, right?”

“...No, not really.”

“I guess not.”

You make your way to Estelle’s room, in front of which Repede is waiting for you, diligently. You wait a few minutes like this. Once Estelle finally emerges, you realise that it’s been a while since you’ve seen her actually look like a princess. Though, this get-up is definitely not as regal as the clothes she wore back when you first met. Only a few strands of her hair are tied back, and they probably meet at the back of her head with some ribbon. It’s just in her style.

She has to stop you from barging into her room, and instead drags you away to where you’d supposedly have to change in. The way all these hallways look similar has you doubt if Estelle didn’t take at least one wrong turn on your way. She insists she didn’t.

One look inside this dressing room tells you everything: it’s too empty and yet, too pompous. You swear that Flynn should be repurposing places like this first, before he goes around changing the use of his own quarters.

“Estelle, was there no room that was closer, at least?” You deadpan, staring at yourself in the comically large mirror.

“I had to ask a maid to tell me about here…”

You look very unimpressed, and she can probably tell. “If you look on the bright side of it, we can stay here, until it’s time, and then we can use the shortcut to get to the throne room faster.”

“Did a maid tell you about that too?”

“No, Flynn did! Actually, Yuri, maybe we can have him come over and-”

“Let’s not.”

She sinks a little. “Why?”

“...He’s probably busy.” Given he hasn’t chased after you this entire time. “Look, let’s just get this over with.”

Estelle leaves it at that, as much as she probably doesn’t want to. She walks over to the single chair in this room, right by the divider. You notice your designated clothes folded there. “Here,” she says and lifts some belt, “Let me at least tell you about all the pieces you’re about to wear.”

“You really did your homework, huh.”

She glows even more. “Of course! I was preparing for this! Tell me, do you care about wearing this belt that you can attach your sword to?”

It wounds up being a long morning.

From the lengthy explanations, you get that you have to stay in one place. You weren’t tasked to do anything important, like you dreaded. Flynn made too much of a big deal out of this.

“It’s almost like it wouldn’t matter if I’m not there.” You sit on the chair, arms folded, while Estelle brushes your hair. The bored expression that you see in your reflection should be enough to give you some award.

“That’s not true, Yuri!”

“I’m joking. I wouldn’t want to waste your effort, for one.”

“We are very happy to have you here.” She smiles just as you feel her make through another knot in your hair, before brushing upwards. “I know it’s taking a lot from you to be here, so we really appreciate it.” She then carefully ties your hair up in a ponytail, not letting any strand run loose. She looks over it a bit, and it doesn’t feel uncomfortable, surprisingly.

Estelle takes a step to your right, taking a look at you through the mirror, probably to read your expression. She points to the mirror with her brush still in hand, and asks a simple question.

“How do you find the uniform?”

That prompts you to stand from the chair, finally examining yourself. You fold your arms for a bit, to get a feel for the fabric, then kneel to pick up Second Star, in the same way you always do. You’re staring back at your reflection.

You take a good long moment to think about it.

...But you don’t think it’s in your style. It’s not quite the type of comfort you embrace, a tad bit too comfortable, a tad bit too regal. By tying your hair back and brushing your bangs neatly, you make for a perfect fake. A knight in the heart, a knight in fabric you probably never thought you would wear yourself. Estelle said she did her best not to make the clothes wrinkle after all this time, ever since you caught her trying to stuff them in your bags long ago. It’s not like you would care if she did.

And no matter how much you protest, you are invited. Even if you try to remind yourself about how much you don’t fit in, it’s very apparent that you’re wanted there for one reason or another, amongst all these nobles who scoffed at you back then. Would they even recognize you like this?

“It’s just about what I expected it to be.” You say as you look at Estelle, offering a smile in order to ease her nerves. “But we’ve been here for a while. Isn’t it about time for us to go?”

She glances at the windows for a second, then looks back and nods. “I don’t think even Flynn would recognize you instantly.”

“I would only hope so.” You briefly wonder if disguises would have worked back when you were still wanted by the knights. “Hey, Flynn and Ioder are going to be overdressed too, right?”

“Absolutely.” Estelle says, as she leads you out of the room.

Even though you hoped to blend in better when dressed like this, you suppose walking with Estelle and Repede down the hallway is still a sight. Not that you want to bother unpacking all of the other reasons you’re being stared at. At this point, you may as well make a show out of it, they can’t insult you in your face with much that you haven’t heard before.

You don’t even know most of the faces that you pass by. You swear you even caught a glimpse of Sodia and Applehead at some point, but by the time you think about it, you’ve already made your next turn.That must mean Flynn is somewhere near...

But now you’re finally here. The throne room. You remember the first time you were here, when Alexei had taken over the castle. It wasn’t the best first impression. But hey, at least it looks different now.

Someone pushes from your side, complaining about how you stopped right at the doors. Estelle takes your left to guide you away, but something on your hand distracts her from making more than a few steps. “Yuri, your blastia...?”

“I think a lot of people still keep theirs.” You tell her. As she stares at it, it seems to you that she can’t find the words to express what’s on her mind. It’s a weird pause, it makes you look down to see if something happened to your blastia. But you only see the core, dormant as it has been.

Your eyes move back to Estelle, and you realise she isn’t wearing hers. She hadn't worn it yesterday too.

“I’m sorry, Yuri, I thought I saw something.” Another pause settles between you two.

“Let’s just go before someone else pushes me.” You say.

..At least Estelle is standing next to you for the ordination. As you look around, you notice a few other people wearing similar outfits to yours, standing around you, it’s probably some swordsmen, who are given a special title thanks to the Empire’s favour. Noone here even knows you.

Soon enough, the ceremony starts abruptly, or so you think it does. There’s some guy who announces the beginning, and more people emerge to stand around by the throne itself. Some hold items like scrolls. You realise that amongst them is the Fake Dein Nomos. Did Estelle suggest using that instead of prying the real one out of Duke?

It dawns on you how this entire thing really is going to drag on for a while. While these people read from the scrolls, you offer a scratch to Repede, or mess with your bodhi blastia, to try pass the time.

Things eventually do pick up, by having Ioder’s name finally be called for. It’s only then you notice that Ioder and Flynn are standing at the top of the staircase, waiting. Ioder walks down.

To you, he really does look overdressed. You have to suppress a chuckle, but the best way you can describe his appearance is that of a very stereotypical ruler from some storybook. While all of this must have been tailored for his size, it makes Ioder look relatively small instead.

Beyond that, you don’t dwell on Ioder’s appearance, because your eyes look for Flynn, still waiting to be called for.

He looks so serious, that you’d mistake him for a statue. He’s wearing the thing Drake gave him months ago. It’s very… well, it’s different. Armor wraps around him where you would see blue. It’s not something you’re used to. It’s clear that this is purely ceremonial, but you feel like such armor would be a waste not to use against monsters who pierce their victims with teeth or claws. You could ask Flynn what he thinks about that idea. The headpiece offers some support on his face, but it’s probably about as useless as going against foes without any helmet.

There’s a detail over his heart that keeps your eye transfixed on Flynn, but then you notice his blue eyes looking bright in stark contrast--

“In place of Dein Nomos, we shall present you, Emperor Ioder, with a counterfeit left by the late Commandant Alexei.” Ioder expresses his thanks as he accepts the sword.

Your focus settles down on the scene at hand.

But you think he looked back at you.

Your eyes hurt from staring up for so long. You rub at them a little, to get the irritation to stop, and some guy on your right scoffs.

And then it’s Ioder’s turn to offer some smart words he probably spent weeks thinking about. He looks bright, not unlike some of the paintings of previous Emperors you passed by earlier. How long would it take until people insist on painting him too? He’s only eighteen.

You at least figure out when to clap. Ioder looks over to where you stand, and Estelle claps louder. Once the noise calms down, he speaks again.

“I, Emperor Ioder Argylos Heurassein, call forth Captain Flynn Scifo.”

But the silence continues.

You look up, and see that Flynn is still. You can’t make out his facial expression. You hear murmurs.

You start to move, and Estelle grabs your arm. “No, Yuri!” She barely keeps her voice low.

You look at her. “Something’s not right.”

“Yes, so what of it?” Someone behind you speaks out. “That would be an example of the Emperor’s errors in choosing someone incompetent enough to mess up their own ceremony. Are you trying to instigate something?”

“Hey, you-” You try to move, but can’t, because Estelle holds on to you tightly.

Though the frustration bubbles in you, you hold your tongue. In the blur of it all, Ioder says something, but you don’t hear it. Iit passes through you, really. You focus your gaze on Flynn’s figure again, who has begun moving, suddenly. Was it in reaction to your commotion? Well, at least the whispers have stopped.

As Flynn goes down the stairs, it’s as if nothing went wrong in the first place. Eventually, you can see the face he’s making; it’s like he’s about to face off another serious foe. Something about it is very endearing, but you still can’t shake the feeling off that something’s wrong.

Before you know it, he is now facing Ioder, and bows. “I am here to serve.”

Further talking ensues, but you’re not paying attention. Every so often, Flynn offers a “Yes.”, as he is promising to do his duties. Protecting the people, commanding the knights. You’re suddenly reminded of the ten-year-old, who talked your ear off about how amazing the knights are. And from today, he will be the one to make them into something more than childish praise.

“Flynn Scifo, you are bestowed the position of Commandant of the knights, officially.”

“This is the highest form of honor, Emperor Ioder.” Flynn bows once more.

He faces the crowd of spectators, looking determined. He looks upon all spectators, and the scroll reader says something else. Flynn locks eyes with you, and this is when you nearly miss the round of applause.

Ioder speaks up again. “Now, everyone, we officially announce the celebrations of this glorious day. Please feel free to explore any location in the castle, so long its doors are open. Our staff is more than happy to assist you. As for the complimentary meals, they are in the gardens. I offer my warmest regards to Princess Estellise, who worked very hard to make this all possible.” Another round of applause happens. Estelle is very embarrassed over the sudden attention.

Though you would have initially taken it as your moment to leave, you instead walk forward. You take off so fast, that Estelle almost misses to follow right by you. There’s so many people, but you need to talk to him.

You finally reach him, and of course he doesn’t look like someone who had nearly flunked his own ordination. “Lady Estellise, Yuri.” He says, and somehow he’s still able to smile.

“Hey, Flynn, what was with that?”

Estelle instantly interjects. “Yuri, now is really not the time!” She’s right, but then...

“Can we go somewhere, to talk?” You stare at Flynn like something is about to happen, like an enemy is about to emerge and strike.

Flynn must be overwhelmed just by how suddenly all this is happening. He turns his head behind him, toward the door of the sword stair, and then looks back at you. He has his answer.

But before he can even say anything, someone else comes in to announce themselves.

“Flynn Scifo, my congratulations.” That’s when you finally see a pair of nobles, finally at Flynn’s side. “We are truly regretful, but we didn’t want the princess and... this person, to just whisk you away for the entire day! Everyone’s dying to talk to you.”

“Yes, my apologies…” Flynn bows.

He looks a bit helpless, so you decide to help him out. “Just go,” You say, surprising both him and Estelle. “We can talk later. Enjoy the party.” You start walking, or maybe it’s Flynn who is getting pulled away.

“Yuri, I’m sorry.” Estelle says, apologetic. “I suppose that was the price for him not being here yesterday.”

“Not much that can be helped with. Let’s just pass the time for now.”

The day ends up long, agonizingly so. As you pass through the hallways, Estelle notes how there are more people present here, not just the ones who were at the ceremony. The newcomers would be the type to be here to look good, you imagine.

Whenever Estelle herself would get pulled aside for conversations of her own, you had the bad luck to exchange insults with a few nobles, who recognized you through your disguise. While they do their best to get under your skin, with things ranging from your origin to your ties to Flynn, you don’t retaliate. Ideally, you wanted to, but after your stunts earlier, you want all this to end sooner.

You couldn’t shake off wanting to see Flynn again, anyway. You know he’s barely managing the day, and the way he did not move earlier kept replaying in your mind, no matter how much you tried not to think about it.

You wonder if you should have pushed harder to talk in private as soon as the ceremony ended, but a voice in you reprimands you for even entertaining such a thought.

In the tail end of the afternoon, you and Estelle make it to the gardens, to grab a bite of some of the efforts from the castle cooks.

“At least this is the only big event I’ll ever have to attend.”

Estelle looks at you curiously. “What about any other big occasion in the future?”

“We’ll get there when those happen. Let me have this for now.” You take a bite out of this amazing pudding cup, and Estelle chuckles.

“I did not think I would need to seek you out again, Yuri Lowell.” Someone suddenly says. You know exactly who this voice belongs to. You open your eyes to peer at her.

“Hey. Did I do something again?”

Sodia pinches the bridge of her nose. “No. Just listen for once. I came here to ask why you haven’t approached the Cap-” she corrects herself, “the Commandant. Are you avoiding him again?”

“Does it look like I am? I’m just waiting for my turn, until he can talk to me.” You don’t want to tell her it would take you one rash decision to go look for him. A question comes to mind, instead. “Did he send you after me himself?”

“No, he did not. But he would mention you whenever I could exchange words with him.” She crosses her arms, very clearly displeased. “Just go find him. You typically always distract him enough to make time for you.”

Flynn’s problem is exactly that he always makes time for you.

You munch on another spoonful of pudding.

“I hope you at least consider what I had to say. Princess Estellise,” she bows to Estelle, “I hope you have a splendid evening.” Estelle offers her a thanks, and Sodia exits the gardens nearly as quickly as she came.

Estelle breaks the silence that was threatening to settle. “Yuri, she is right. You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“You make it sound like I am actively avoiding him.” You rise from where you were sitting. You set the finished pudding aside. “But fine, I’ll get going now. I should at least let him make fun of my get-up.”

You look at her pointedly, and she almost misses the beat to respond. “Oh, don’t worry about leaving me here! See, what if Repede stayed with me?”

You turn to Repede, questioning him on this sudden decision. But he surprises you by walking over to Estelle, staying closer than usual to her. Estelle didn’t expect this herself, because she looks like she’s about to tear up from joy.

“Then I’ll go. I know where he might be.” You get up, and you make an exit from the gardens. You turn back to Estelle, to offer a final wave to her.

It’s still full of people around, but it at least makes you look less suspicious than what you seem. You hope Flynn bothered to eat something today, if he ever made his way to the gardens in the first place.

While wandering, you pass by one of the dining halls at some point. You peek in, just in case.. But you don’t linger for more than a few seconds. You swear you caught a glimpse of Harry and the old man, drinking there, but you have no reason to idle time away any longer than you have.

The throne room by now is nearly entirely vacant. That doesn’t concern you, as  you see that the doors to the Sword stair are open.

The breeze is gentle, even at the top of the capital. The sky is dyed orange, illuminating everything golden. You didn’t realise the sun began setting. Below you, everything is lively, still bustling in its festive activities.

Not that you can hear anything. Only your footsteps break what is otherwise a perfect silence. By the time you reach Flynn, you see him sitting, observing Zaphias. You almost don’t recognize him.

“Hey, did I keep you waiting?”

Flynn spares you a glance. “Yuri…”

He gestures for you to come over, and you comply. You sit next to him. There’s a silence, as you both watch the sky gradually change colors. The gold becomes pink, soon enough.

“Part of me didn’t think I’d see you today.” Flynn says suddenly.

You glance at Flynn’s direction. “Was I not supposed to show up?”

Flynn’s gaze is still fixed at the clouds, which have begun losing their puffy whiteness, letting colors wash over them. The way he’s been sitting isn’t what you’ve come accustomed to, it’s very casual. You look at his legs, nearly entirely wrapped in white armor and black pants.

“I had my own assumptions. Especially after yesterday.” He pauses for a moment, to take a good look at you again. “But you were at the ceremony.” And you are here now. “I want to thank you for coming.”

You’re searching for something in his eyes, but you alone can’t put a name on it.

Thank you for coming. For me.

But he doesn’t say that. Why do you think he would?

You notice how Flynn’s left fist unclenches. Even in the presence of such a view, he still can’t relax. Not that you can blame him, given that you’re pretty sure that “I’m the source of your problems.”

“Now you’re spouting nonsense, you know.” His tone sounds anything but harsh.

“Then was being frozen at the ceremony related to whatever you’re not telling me?”

Before you know it, Flynn’s entirely looked away again, uneasy. Uncomfortable, almost. His eyes reflect the sunset in such a way, that words fail you instantly. You look back to the sky too, letting out another exhale.

Eventually, Flynn starts again. “Seeing you at the ceremony made me very relieved. You even went through all the hassle to look so…”

“Fancy?”

“Maybe that’s not the word for it.” He smiles. “And no, I’m not going to scold you about the stunt you almost tried then.”

“You still bothered to mention it.” You don’t mean to sound bitter, but Flynn still laughs in response. Though, he sounds melancholic.

“I know at least some things won’t change.” He says, quieter. He looks down again, you can tell that he’s trying to push some thoughts deep down, never to come out.

But you don’t want to let him wallow in this any further. There’s been an underlying thing all along, that even you failed to notice. If you leave it for when you can talk to Flynn again, putting off important conversations, and instead keep up whatever narrative your lettered correspondences paint, will he ever be able to say anything?

“Flynn. Mind showing me your new room?”

He agrees to it. Probably because he realised he can’t back out now. Or maybe Sodia was right, and he was waiting all day for you to ask him. Regardless, he offers his hand to yours, and he does not let go of it for the entire way to his room. You don’t make the effort to pull it away, either.

You reach the hallway Estelle told you about, and you’re not surprised that there are no guards here.

“I thought the Commandant’s room would have some security here?”

Flynn’s hand is on the door’s handle. He says it so softly, you almost miss it. “I dismissed them, when I was officially appointed to this room.”

And then, the door is open.

You take it all in.

Somehow, you expected something much more refined. Maybe it was before, but Flynn and Estelle tried to make something out of the otherwise barren state of this room. You can pick out where Estelle intervened, design-wise.

But the first thing you really take note of is the bed itself. You walk over to it, and it doesn’t look any smaller up close. It’s probably the only one that you (and Flynn) would ever see in your lives. How would it feel to sleep on a bed you can’t fill on your own?

You turn to the right side of the room. It seems to have been repurposed to function as Flynn’s personal office. There’s a bookcase here, presumably with everything he would need to do his work. That would spare most visits to any of the libraries, probably.

Turn your head the opposite direction, and you see shelves that hold personal belongings. You recognize a few things from back when you were kids. At the same time, all these items barely take up any space, and most of the shelves have yet to serve their purpose here.

Instead of approaching the few shelves that hold any memories, you make your way to the desk. Clean, spotless. No paperwork out of place.

“How does it feel here?”

“It feels like a Commandant’s bedroom should feel, I think.” If Flynn actually worked on making this room as personal as he could, then he instead made this section of the castle look very unwelcome, and lacking in life.

Your hand glides over the surface of the table. Even the very sensation of it against your fingertips tells you it’s the expensive kind of woodwork.

You look at Flynn.

“I was very happy, when I could travel with you all,” he suddenly admits. “Looking back to those times made me remember that I lack the capability to travel. Not like I used to.”

“It’s not like you are always going to be here. There will be times when you’d need to personally get involved.” Though you recount that Alexei himself did not travel as often either. “And hey, who said you need to stay here all the time?” Especially given that it looks so lonely.

“I can just send other knights to do what I used to do. Or at least, that’s what the council says.” Yesterday’s conversations resurface, but you wait for Flynn to gather his thoughts. “Recently, Raven visited me. He wanted to give me a warning.”

“About what, the council?”

“He saw first-hand how much Alexei was struggling with doing anything. Raven told me about the actions Alexei resorted to doing, out of others’ sights. Because otherwise, the council would...”

You instantly notice how frigid Flynn’s getting. “Hey, come on, didn’t you tell me once that you’re willing to endure their stubbornness? You told me it’s fine.”

“I know what I said! I just…”

“You have the allies needed to help you. You are not fighting on your own. And you do have the authority to oppose them now. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, it’s not. You know that yourself, Yuri.” Flynn steps closer to you, and there’s a certain glint in his eyes that you swear you last saw years ago. “We came to the knights to invoke change, but I didn’t think…”

You grab Flynn’s shoulders. “Didn’t think what?”

He pushes your hands away, and walks toward the window, the one by the shelves.

You find yourself impatient, again. “Don’t tell me you’re listening to what some older people say about you. You’re not going to become like Alexei.”

Flynn continues staring out the window.

You speak louder, to try to get his attention. “If you believe in the people who put their trust in you, then you won’t die without accomplishing nothing.”

“But if I die, no one else can take on the Commandant position like I have, right?”

“What?”

“That’s what you mean, right?” He turns around, and it just now dawns on you just how exhausted Flynn looks.

From the window, you notice that the sun has set.

And Flynn continues, barely containing his voice. You both know no one would hear him here. "I can’t even protect those who matter to me. I can’t exert myself to my limits, I can’t take injuries, even if it’s for the ones I want to protect. Am I expected to just let everything happen by me?”

“Do you even hear what you’re saying? Is this just a fucked up way to tell me that you want to die?!” You don’t realise when you started moving toward Flynn, but soon enough, you’re facing him directly. You’re withholding the urge to grab him again.

“I’m saying that I’m just me, Yuri! I don’t want to be the Commandant behind the desk, overseeing everything! I… I’m not an untouchable beacon. And I’m not a hero to die for.”

Protest rises from deep within you. “Then why do you act like you’re going to barricade yourself here come tomorrow?”

“Because I want to at least work hard enough, to make up for the praise I know I don’t deserve. That I took what was meant for you and Brave Vesperia is already too much for me. You alone said that it doesn’t matter who does good for the people. And I wish it didn’t matter to me, because I just want to do what I can for everyone’s sake.”

Before you can respond, Flynn breathes in, and continues.

“But a lot of people began insisting that my place is not on the battlefield, that I shouldn’t chase some blastia thieves, or personally oversee whether everyone outside Zaphias has housing. That I’ve done enough already, that I don’t need to focus on things a knight should be doing to begin with!”

Flynn rubs at his face, and the gloves seem to irritate him more than help him calm down. He exhales harsher.

“And I miss traveling, Yuri, I miss doing what I have grown accustomed to doing. That’s part of my oath as a knight.” You feel as if Flynn is trying to laugh here, but laughter itself doesn’t come. “Maybe there’s something childish lodged deep inside. I don’t even understand it myself.”

You find yourself grasping to understand.

“I’m regarded as a hero, when I know I am not one. The most of what I’ve done the past few months, is argue with people who think the most vile things about the civilians I swore to protect. But I can’t even protect them directly now. No, I never could.”

He places his hand over his chest. There, his own dormant blastia remains. You look at Flynn’s hand. You can sense the blood trickling down your left.

“Yesterday, I could heal you. I felt like I was doing something for someone, and seeing the result with my own eyes!” The grip over his chest tightens. “But then you said that the empire needs me. Because my purpose lies in whether or not I’m useful enough. And I know that by holding the thoughts I have now that I...”

His shoulders shake, and that is when the weight Flynn Scifo has been holding on his shoulders begins crashing down.

It feels as if some of the weight itself is stuck in your throat, not allowing you to say a word. You’re frozen still, when Flynn, The Commandant, is completely open to any attack. You want to move your hands.

You want him to stop saying things.

“I invited you to come today, because I wanted to see you.” He makes a sound, and dread clutches your pounding heart. “I wanted to see you, to know that I’m not alone. I… I wasn’t even conscious of it.” You can’t bear that he’s still looking at you so softly.

You know you cannot comfort him.

“Yesterday, I thought we were together like old friends, just you and I, Yuri. Not as a Commandant and a civilian.”

“Flynn…” Your hand threatens to move.

“I want to be myself. I need to feel like I’m still me...”

You catch him, before his knees hit the floor. And he holds on to you as he cries, because he needs you.

...

You don’t keep track of time passing. The room eventually is submerged in darkness, all illuminated only by the moonlight through the window. That’s when you take Flynn’s hand, and guide him from the floor to the bed. You help him rid of all the armor on him, but it’s mostly Flynn taking it off, really.

And all that hides under it… is Flynn himself. The same Flynn you saw this morning.

“I bet you can at least breathe for once.” You remark. Flynn chuckles softly.

You try to send him to the bathroom (whose door you didn’t even notice earlier), so he can change into sleepwear. But before Flynn leaves, he walks to the wardrobe instead, and opens it.

“I don’t want to force you to stay.” He sounds hoarse after all the crying, but that doesn’t stop him from talking. “But I know that it’s too late to find Lady Estellise, in order to get your usual clothes back. You’re free to borrow something for tonight, and return it to me later.”

“Sharing things like the old times, huh? You don’t need to be so serious about that.” At least saying that provokes Flynn to smile.

“Still, I wouldn’t know when I’ll see you again. You leave tomorrow-”

“I’m here now. Do you want me to stay here tonight?”

The question surprises him. But maybe deep down, he was hoping to hear it.

You watch him drift off to sleep. You know that you cannot comfort him, but the warmth and clamminess of his hand in yours makes you believe that just being here is enough.

[clumsydarknut]

Having just rewatched The Legend of Korra and The Last Airbender in that order...

I just gotta say, the Gaang is so incredibly powerful that it's shocking to me that anyone argues Korra is the more powerful Avatar. Let me break this down:

Sokka

Though he isn't especially good at combat in the beginning of the series, his intellect repeatedly comes to the rescue at just age 16. It's Sokka who develops the lid for the Fire Nation War Balloons. He also thinks up the fake firebending they use in the Fire Sanctuary. His tactical knowledge is equally impressive - it's him who figures out the Solar Eclipse, how to bring down the drill threatening Ba Sing Se, and who discovers Jet isn't as righteous as he claims. Despite being the butt of all the jokes that episode, Sokka's instincts are, in fact, incredible. Then on top of that he trains in the way of the sword with one of the greatest blade masters in the history of the world, and progresses at an incredible speed. The man is an unstoppable force of intellect and dedication, even compared to many of the tacticians and leaders in both ATLA and LoK.

Katara

In only season one, before reaching the Northern Water Tribe and at only age 14, Katara teaches herself most of the basics of waterbending, including freezing things at will, improvised control, and basic forms from the scrolls she stole from the pirates. But that's just what we see on-screen. When they do reach the Northern Water Tribe, she not only unflinchingly challenges a master waterbender in at least his 60s, she holds her own against him, using advanced techniques we don't see used anywhere in LoK (even by Kya, her own daughter) that she is largely improvising on the spot. She then learns everything Master Paku has to offer her in the span of a few weeks and is deemed a master waterbender, at only 14. Katara, with no training, was able to take on Fire Nation climbing tanks single handedly, and with training was capable of halting the rain in at least a 40-foot radius. Katara bends more water at one time than any other waterbender in either ATLA or LoK with the exception of the Moon and Ocean spirits.

Toph

In addition to being blind, being the creator of metal bending, and being the first to learn the badgermole's seismic sense, Toph had raw power that few other benders ever knew. The most notable instance I can think of off the top of my head is when she, on her own, in the middle of a sea of sand where she could hardly see, halted the descent of Wan Shi Tong's Library, which was being dragged back to the Spirit World via his spirit powers. She single handedly stopped a hugely powerful spirit in his tracks with only brute force. This 12-year-old tiny blind girl had enough power to keep a massive stone library tethered to the physical realm. I'd argue this is on par with Avatar Kyoshi separating Kyoshi Island from the mainland in terms of raw strength.

Zuko

Though he is always shown to be a weaker firebender than other members of his family, it's important to realize he is still far more powerful than your average firebender. In the beginning of the series he's still learning the basics, but he hits a major turning point when he asks his uncle to teach him how to use lightning. He isn't successful with that, of course, but in the process of learning to redirect it, we see a change in him. He gets the hang of that technique more or less, but the real difference shows in how he absorbs his uncle's ideology on the balance of the world. From that moment on, Zuko's bending improves at rapid and even frightening pace. His bending becomes fluid, adaptive, and creative. Rather than the short bursts of flame we see in season one, where he's focusing on the muscle and not the breath, we see his abilities change to more full and sweeping attacks - where he focuses on the breath, and how it extends past his body.

In all honesty, though, it's his sword and stealth skills that are truly incredible. I'm fairly certain we can all agree that his work as The Blue Spirit far outdoes any other nonbending warrior (and most other bending warriors) in either series. It's actually when he combines his swordplay and his bending that he is the most proficient. Then, on the day of Sozin's Comet, he is able to fight with heightened power without losing control of the flames - I'd bet that some of that comes from his swordplay. Neither Ozai nor Azula show the same level of precision or restraint.

Aang

This kid is 12 and he's already an airbending master, complete with tattoos. People may complain that he relies far more on airbending than the other elements compared to Korra, but realize this - Aang's avatar experience began the day he was told. He didn't even attempt bending other elements until he met his teachers. In terms of time covered in the show, Aang had access to these other elements for a considerably shorter amount of time, and we didn't see much after the defeat of the Firelord. By my estimate, he likely was just as proficient in the other elements as Korra by the time he reached 16. I don't think using his most comfortable element more frequently while still learning the others (all of which he's been studying for less than 6 months) indicates a difference in power or skill - especially when you look at how much raw strength he has in all four.

Without the Avatar State, Aang was able to: destroy dozens of Fire Nation Naval Warships singlehandedly; create a whirlpool powerful enough to wrench a massive sea serpent into the side of a cliff; generate a shockwave of earth large enough to take down the entirety of the Earth Palace Royal Guard (different from the Dai Li); create a rolling wave of earth to ride while wrecking Dai Li agents; build a massive zoo in a matter of minutes; redirect lightning from a comet-enhanced Ozai; and, though not necessarily powerful, he invented the air scooter.

The most amazing thing, though, is that Aang could easily take any one of his companions in a fight. Without the Avatar State. And while still bearing the burdens of his entire culture being destroyed. It's shown that he defeats Zuko multiple times, and based on the little bit we see of him fighting with Toph, the makings for a quick victory in an actual fight are all there - though that's probably more due to him being able to fly, making him immune to her seismic sense. Against Katara in a water-only match, he'd probably lose. But give him his other elements, and we're in for a show. And again, his companions are nuts. Some of the strongest benders and smartest warriors in history. That should tell you something about just how amazing Aang is, and all without the Avatar State.

As a fan of epic battle scenes, despite how beautiful LoK's animation was, ATLA is always gonna take the cake.

[diddlesanddoodles]

DUMPLING ch 45

Connar had been kind enough to let her use his satchel to carry and conceal her new belt and vambraces. Her mother did not give it much more than a glance when she finally arrived in their room. Lolly was there too and it did not escape Nenani’s notice that both of them looked strangely nervous.

Lolly did not say anything as she helped Nenani into her dress for the final check and though Nenani felt justified in her earlier conversations with Lolly, she could not entirely ignore the feelings of guilt. Lolly had been endlessly kind to her ever since she had first arrived in Vhasshal and to see the Matron so stiff and fidgety and secretive...it worried Nenani. Her mother on the other hand, Nenani was beginning to understand that there was a lot that she had and would keep from her daughter. But for Lolly to follow suit...

Just as she played with the idea of apologizing, just to clear the air, there came a soft knock at the door and before anyone could answer, a male servant pressed into the room. Lolly turned away from adjusting one of the sleeves, eyeing the man distastefully, before asking, “State your business, sir.”

The man met Lolly’s cool gaze unfettered and replied in a formal and poised manner, “Her majesty Queen Rosanna.”

Lolly jerked to attention and stepped to one side, taking up a formal position with her head bowed low. Her mother hopped down off of the window sill to stand alongside Nenani just as a figure dressed in a blushing pink silk dress slipped into the room. The Queen was picturesque in her posture; demure and soft but her eyes were sharp with intelligence. They reminded Nenani of Farris’s eyes in a lot of ways, but instead of vibrant green, they were a dusty hazel. Lolly dipped into a deep curtsy with a low greeting of, “You’re Majesty.”

Her mother did not curtsy, however, and merely bowed her head slightly. Nenani, suddenly struck with the realization that she did not know which to do, instead made an awkward sort of hybrid of the two, but it was ungraceful and clunky and did not go unnoticed. The Queen’s eyes fell upon her and clicked her tongue. “That won’t do, Princess. Such blunders of decorum may fall upon kinder eyes within these chambers, but I assure you, the Lords will take note and it won’t do at all for your first impression to be that of a manner-less child.” She nodded to the man servant, a clear invitation for him to leave, and after the door shut behind him, Rosanna turned her attention back to Nenani. “Now, you noticed how your mother greeted me? That is because we are social equals. Her standing matches my own, but as she is a guest in my home, she shows me respect with a slight head bow. Matron Lolly, as a head servant, shows greater deference by lowering herself further into a deep curtsy with her head bowed.”

Rosanna walked up to the side table where both Nenani and Oira stood. “For you, Princess, the appropriate greeting is a slight curtsy with your head bowed. Not nearly so far as Lolly, though dear. Now, try again.”

Silently, Nenani did as she was bade. But the Queen only frowned. “Again. Keep your back straight as you dip. And keep your hands folded in front of you.”

It took seven more attempts before Rosanna was satisfied and she smiled. “Good. Now, at the dinner, should a Lord approach you and you wish to acknowledge him, you merely bow your head as your mother did. The Lords are of lower rank and should never be kowtowed to by a member of royal blood.” She paused and then added with a small grin. “In many other matters as well.”

Beside her, Oira snickered, but quickly pulled her face back into neutral placidity.

“With that all said, however,” Rosanna began, now with a genuine smile upon her face, “I must say, Matron Lolly. You and your girls have done a commendable job with her gown. The Princess looks enchanting.”

Lolly allowed herself a smile and dipped back into a bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“But we shall have to do something with her hair,” the Queen added, putting a finger to her lips and seemed to consider the little girl. “I have a few ideas. I don’t suppose we have any hair trinkets small enough for her? Emeralds would look splendid in such red hair.”

“There’s a few pieces we’ve found in storage that might do, but I will need to check and see if any of them are emeralds, milady.”

“Go and see what you can find. I’d like for this all to be ready and settled before tomorrow night. I suspect nerves shall make us forgetful in the moment and I won’t have an overlooked detail spoil the evening.”

With another low bow, Lolly exited the room. The Queen turned to Oira and said, “I wanted to come speak to you both beforehand in any case. It occurred to me earlier today that we have not discussed with the Princess just what it is we are aiming to accomplish with this dinner. I would hate to have her be presented to the court without all the proper facilities at her disposal and be left at a disadvantage. If the Lords sense any weakness, they will pounce.”

“In truth, Your Highness,” Oira replied. “I had hoped to not have to burden her with politics.”

“Politics?” echoed Rosanna with a mild frown. “My dear Annie, we speak of the welfare and future of your people. Not mere politics. If you are ever to wear the crown, you must be able to hold your head high. The weight is a great one as I am sure you know. Warren has great faith in your ability to take this mantle. You must also trust your daughter as well. It may very well be hers one day. If our goals are achieved.”

Nenani looked between her mother and the Queen, that uneasy feeling in her belly returning. “What...what is it that I need to know?”

The Queen looked to Nenani and then back to Oira with a meaningful eye. Oira drew in a long breath and turned to Nenani. “Since coming here, King Warren has been telling me about his efforts to cultivate a safe haven for our people. That and all that he and his men have been doing to bring others out of danger. In many respects, the Hill Tribe is a resounding success. But there are only three hundred or so humans living there. A mere fraction of what Silvaara’s population was at the outbreak of the war and so many more of our people are still struggling out in the wilds; being hunted and harvested by those who flaunt his Majesty’s laws and mandates. Or worse, languish in captivity awaiting a gruesome fate. So...Warren put it to me that it might be...that we could...that we could, with the Crown’s help and investment from the Lords...rebuild Silvaara.”

Nenani stared.

Though she could not grasp the true weight of her mother’s words, she was smart enough to understand the gravity of the task they had set before themselves. All the stories he had been told of the war, the absolute destruction of Silvaara, and the scattering of its people. “And you...you would become Queen?”

Her mother’s eyes looked sad for a moment before a steely haze came over her and she nodded. “Never would I have thought that I would ever wear the crown.”

“Such sentiments that both you and my husband share, dear Annie,” Rosanna replied softly. “He never thought he would be King. But the war has swept the field for both of you.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be Queen,” Nenani asked, recalling how vehemently she had professed to Keral that she was not Queen when he merely suggested it indirectly.

“I didn’t,” Oira admitted. “And I don’t have a care admitting that I have very little faith that I am up to this task. I told Warren he was mad for thinking it was possible. To rebuild Silvaara. But the more we spoke and the more he showed me...the less I could ignore what’s been staring at me in the face for all these years and that I had just...couldn’t bring myself to see it. Until now…

“With an empty throne, there is no hope for our people. My people. And what’s more...I cannot ignore the quiet genocide still raging. Families ripped apart, men slaughtered, children sold to meat markets, woman chained up and forced into the life of brooding mares.” She took a deep breath as a tears rolled down her face. “And when I met the Hill Tribe leaders...they looked to me as though…” She sighed and wiped her cheeks. “It will not be easy. Even if we succeed tomorrow night, there is no telling how long it will take. And there is still him to consider...it will put me even more at odds with Aidus that I ever was before. He’s always sought a way to the throne. If I declare myself Queen, it may antagonize him into attacking. He’s been quiet still and Maevis has made tremendous progress with his lanterns and spells, but…

“Before we can do anything, Aidus must be stopped. He poses as much a danger to the people as any scheming Vhasshalan. We will never be safe until he is brought to justice. But I know him. He will be the first to move his piece in this game. In the meantime, however, I do not intent to cower in the shadows anymore. When he comes, I will be ready. And I will bring down upon him such a vengeance that there will be nothing of him left to scatter but ashes.”

Nenani did not recognize the woman standing before her as her mother. Her mother, who always seemed timid and jumped at every shadow, who hide the scars of her long captivity, and who trembled at the mere muttering of Aidus’s name. Her mother was now all at once a tall standing woman with steel in her eyes and a command to her voice that Nenani have never heard. Where had this woman come from? She was resolute and firm and not anything like she knew her mother to be. She…

She looked like a Queen.

All at once, Nenani realized how incredibly selfish she had been. How her only thoughts about being a Princess was the fear that somehow it would take her away from the family she had found within Vhasshal. After so long being alone and finding a place all her own, it terrified her to her core that she would have to leave it. That her birthright would be nothing but an ever growing divide between herself and those she loved and then she would find herself alone once more.

But it wasn’t that at all, she realized with a growing sense of wonder. It was a duty. Her duty.

Nenani’s eye caught the Connar’s leather satchel and her dagger laying on her bed. She stared at the thorn guard crest upon the dagger’s sheath and Nonna’s words came to the forefront of her mind. “Not everyone shares the same view as to just what it means to uphold one’s duty. It is a hard line to walk. And one you must be prepared for if you ever want to take the oath yourself.”

She looked into her mother’s eyes, meeting the hard steel of them with her own and said, “I want to help.”

…………………………………………..

They were all gathered in the King’s study at a small round table to take supper together and discuss the following night’s event and to strategize. Upon the table was a raise platform that served as a human sized table, bringing all company to a near equal standing. Or rather, sitting. Complete with linen and fine china, the spread included plates and platters of food – all human portions. Nenani had seen the kitchens prepare human portioned food before, Saen was normally the one to do it since he was the best at cutting meat very thinly, but to find herself on the receiving end of that work felt a bit strange. She was much more accustomed to a simple ramekin of stew and a hunk of bread. Not slices of venison steak with peppercorn sauce or milk and herb poached trout. Or the various sweet meats and pies. She made a mental note to let Saen know just how well his hard work presented itself.

“If we present it as an investment opportunity, they’ll take to the idea much better than if we were after mere charity,” Warren explained. On his right sat Queen Rosanna, back straight and delicately sipping at spoonfuls of a clear yellow broth. In contract, Jae sat to Warren’s right and was enthusiastically digging into his plate of food and ignoring the occasional critical glances Rosanna sent his way.

“Jae dear,” Rosanna said lightly, finally giving into her urge to correct her step-son’s posture, “Please sit up straight. You’re not a goblin.”

Jae paused, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, but he obediently straightened up and began to chew with a deliberate slowness.  

“A great many of the Lords are businessmen and they think in terms of expenditures and risk and mitigated loss,” the King continued, only sending a glance towards Jae; the edges of his mouth curling ever so slightly in a stifled grin. “That, I believe will be our best avenue of attack.”

When Jae reached over the table to stab a piece of meat with his fork instead of using the serving tongs, Rosanna made a face and opened her mouth as though to critique him once more, but Warren placed a calming hand on her arm and gave her a look as though to say ‘leave him be’. She returned her husband’s look with a reluctant nod and she returned to sipping her broth, but her mouth was a thin line. Manners, it seemed, were a very big deal to the Queen and Nenani tried to mimic her so as not incur her critiques that Jae so nonchalantly shrugged off.  

“So then,” Jae asked, stilling chewing as he picked up his cup filled with lime flower tea. “How much does it cost to rebuild a kingdom from the ground up?”

He swallowed and winced against the flavor of the tea. He’d been instructed to drink the entire thing before he would be allowed anything else to drink and he had managed through the first half without much complaint.

“We’re seeking an initial sum of twenty thousand,” Warren replied and Jae nearly choked on his next sip of tea, spitting some of it across the table. When he went to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, Queen Rosanna loudly cleared her throat.

“Use your napkin, Jae dear,” she said, regarding him a single eye. Jae bit his lip, reaching for the napkin across his lap, and dutifully cleaned his face.

“And most of that would be setting the farmers up with what they need to establish the fields and get the wheat crop into the ground,” Oira added. “Even with all of the Lords full support, it’ll be at least two years before enough infrastructure is established to allow mass re-population.”

“Why the farms first?” Nenani asked.

“Armies march on bread and Kingdoms are built on it,” her mother replied. “Without a stable and reliable source of food, any rebuilding efforts would be useless.”

“The Hill Tribe has been very successful with growing wheat,” Warred remarked after taking a drink from his wine goblet. “We almost exclusively use the flour from that crop here in the castle.”

Nenani blinked. “Really? So all the bread Quinn and Kol make uses flour from the Hill Tribe?”

“Yep,” Jae answered. “Farris is gonna hate it when he starts having to import flour in a few years because everyone growing the wheat all moved back to Silvaara.”

“I’m sure we will find suitable substitutes in Vhasshal,” Warren said.

Jae smirked back at him. “You weren’t there to hear Quinn and Kol pitch a fit when the orders got messed up last month and they had to use all that flour from the Timberbrook mills.”

Nenani giggled. “Was that what they were so angry about?”

Jae nodded. “Yep. I guess human milled flour is a lot finer.”

“I must admit,” Rosanna added. “The bread that comes from the kitchens is quite spectacular. And I do believe the quality of the flour does play a part. We might even be able to use that as a point of possible investment.”

“Give us money so we can keep making good bread,” Jae said with a grin and for the first time, Nenani saw the Queen smile at him.  

“I think I may write to my sister as well,” Rosanna added. “Her brother in law is a merchant who trades with the Iatis Empire. Perhaps we could even secure a revenue stream elsewhere through exports.”

Nenani felt lost in the conversation, not knowing a thing about streams of revenue, investing, or the trading terms of Ibronia and the Iatis Empire. The only thing she really knew about Iatis was all the threats Beastmen would make about putting her in chains and selling her to the empire as a slave. Whether that was true or just an empty threat, she did not know. So for the time being, she contented herself with good food and merely listening.

“It may even spark a bit of friendly business competition,” Rosanna continued. “If I remember correctly, I believe Lord Colem does business with Iatis. What was it again…spices?”

“Indigo,” Jae answered. “His whole estate is covered in indigo flowers. Which makes me wonder why he always wears that hideous yellow coat.”

Rosanna stifled a grin and masked it further by delicately wiping her mouth with a napkin. “It is a rather unsightly thing, isn’t it?”

“Looks like it could come to life and start crawling away…” Jae said and drained the rest of his tea.

Despite herself, Rosanna let lose a rather undignified snort of laughter, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment, but that seemed to set the table into a fit of light laughter.

“I’m never going to remember all of these names,” Nenani said staring into her cup of milk. She had been given a cup of something called hippocras, but found the flavor a bit too strong. It was made from a very young wine watered down and then stewed with spices and sugar. Now that Jae had finished his lime flower tea, he was drinking his own cup of hippocras rather enthusiastically.  

“Don’t worry,” Jae told her after setting his cup back down. “Just stick with me and I’ll point everyone out. I already promised Donal I’d be your escort anyway. He was going to make you sit down and memorize everyone’s names, but I managed to convince him otherwise.”

She smiled at him gratefully, internally balking at the idea of having to remember so many names and titles. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied and then regarded her with an easy smirk. “Even though you locked me out on the roof.”

Nenani frowned into her cup and hunched her shoulders.  

“What now?” Warren asked, looking to Jae with one brow raised.

“Oh, yeah,” Jae said, grinning widely. “That day I was late to that meeting with Donal? It’s ‘cause Nenani locked the window on me and I had to break into Keral’s room just to get back inside.”

Feeling distinctly warm, Nenani kept her eyes glued onto the table and slowly started to sink into her chair. Her mother was looking at her oddly.

“Why would you lock him out?” she asked.

Nenani mumbled something under her breath, her face disappearing below the table top. Her mother laughed and patted her arm. “Sit up, Nenani. Come on now.”

“I was teasing her,” Jae said, still looking far too amused.

“That’s not very gentleman-like, Jae,” Warren reprimanded, but he too had a look of humor about him. Rosanna for her part, did not appear all that surprised.  

“I did apologize,” Jae countered.

“Sounds to me as though she was entirely within her right,” the King laughed. “You’re lucky she only locked the window. She could have set you on fire like Thrist.”

Nenani frowned, looking up to meet the King’s eye and seeing his knowing expression, blushed and started to sink down into her chair again. Jae’s expression of lazy amusement broke and he frowned. “What? When? Where was I when this happened?”

“Probably still on the roof,” Warren quipped and took a sip from his goblet. Beside him, his wife sighed and reached for her own wine.

...............

Apologies for the wait on this chapter and the fact that is was a bit shorter than I normally post. 46 is shaping up to be a beast though, so I’ll make it up to you. In the mean time, enjoy a very embarrassed Nenani. 

BONUS ART: 

[ranger-report]

Thoughts On: HERETIC II (1998)

Just over one year after the release of Hexen II, Raven Software published the final game in their dark fantasy series. Set apart from the Serpent Rider Trilogy of Heretic./Hexen/Hexen II, Heretic II told the tale of Corvus Corax, the elven hero of the first Heretic, and his journey to return home after years of wandering the Outer Worlds. See, defeating one of the Serpent Riders resulted in his being thrown far far away from his origin world of Parthoris, and left to his own devices, he had a bit of a time attempting to make his way back. Marking the first time in the series that id Software had no involvement in the release of the game save for providing the modified id tech 2 engine (AKA the Quake 2 engine), this release was published by Activision under their purview. Moving in the direction of a third-person adventure with first-person shooter mechanics, Raven made it clear that they were going to take inspiration from wherever they could, including a popular little title called Tomb Raider. While garnering favorable reviews, Heretic II would ultimately be lost in the holiday shuffle of PC gaming as it had the unfortunate circumstance to be released one week after a particularly groundbreaking first-person shooter from Valve Software. You may have heard of it: Half-Life. As a result of the unfortunate coincidence and the lackluster response from fans due to the series changes, Heretic II was a commercial flop. But, with all that said, how does Heretic II stack in the lineup of the series it brings to a conclusion? And why has there been no further entries in the series since?

To begin with, the decision to make Heretic II a third person adventure was controversial amongst fans of the series. Yes, the style was popular and gaining traction, and Raven was nothing if not innovators, so the decision to a degree made sense. Why not take their dark fantasy world and put it through the wringer, especially since the main plot of the first three games was now over? Going into this title, I knew I was in for an adjustment period, but I had no idea it would be as shocking as it was. Slow, unintuitive camera movement coupled with clunky, lackluster controls make the game much more of a chore to play than the original games. Gone is the fast-paced combat, replaced with deliberately paced enemy encounters. Picking up heavily on the Tomb Raider inspiration, Corvus can leap, flip, roll, and somersault his way around the maps. Points for inspiration. But man’s -- er, elf’s -- reach exceeds his grasp, and while this sounds well and good on paper, molasses-like reaction times feel more like directing Corvus through waist-high water instead of the nimble acrobatics the game shoots for. Animations, graphics, sound design, everything on a technical level is top notch stuff. Corvus himself has a modeled backbone to allow for more fluid animations, shown off in his running, fighting, and even idle cycles. It’s impressive stuff that the gameplay just can’t seem to live up to on an engaging level. Heretic II feels like an attempt to return to the form of the first Heretic, but through the lens of a team who’s never played the first one. Rather than using different types of mana for ammunition, green mana is reserved for offensive spells, blue mana for defensive spells, and most weapons have unique ammunition types. Gone, too, is the inventory system of carrying items and objects for future use; instead, Corvus automatically uses any health or magic pickups he comes across, something which is bolstered by shrines which either completely refill mana, health, or armor points. When it comes to story, one must wonder which direction the intent was headed. Perhaps the original vision of Hecatomb was to come full circle with Corvus and face the final Serpent Rider after being outcast from the realms. The scattershot nature of the plot here doesn’t seem to suggest it, however.

As Corvus progresses, he returns to his home of Parthoris to discover a strange disease has taken over the land, changing the elves into diseased, violent versions of themselves. After being attacked, Corvus himself is infected, initiating his quest to discover a cure, and stop the mad magus Morcalavin. On an interesting note, it turns out that Morcalavin has collected the Seven Tomes of Power to aid him in magic use, but one of the Tomes is a fake and is the cause of the infection -- Corvus has been carrying the seventh Tome with him since Heretic. A bit of revisionist history considering that Tomes of Power have been consumable items since Heretic, and there were many more than seven. Noting this change to lore, Corvus simply needs to replace the fake Tome with the true one, and that should reverse Morcalavin’s corrupted power. Another noteworthy change is that the hub system of the previous games is also gone, replaced with a similar map progression to Heretic. Some maps are linear exercises in traveling from start to finish, others require moving about the many layers of the map to collect and bring together keys and objects. This is one of the largest departures from the previous games -- this story is far more intimate, more structured, more character-driven with cutscenes, dialogue, worldbuilding not seen in prior entries. Before, we were simply nameless warriors moving through dark fantasy worlds, kicking ass, taking names, killing gods and monsters alike. Here, we get to know one of said warriors by name and history. Yes, before now, Corvus was never actually named in his first appearance. He was simply “The Heretic” which was FAR more badass, although Corvus Corax is up there on the list of great fantasy names with ease. But, rather than a ride, this game wants to tell a story, watering down the experience. Whether Raven can tell a good story in other games is besides the point; here, the slipshod nature of the shoestring story attempting to provide a bit more theatricality feels tacked on, an oddity. Sure, perhaps the evolutionary nature of progression is where Raven felt the need to provide an actual factual story with their action game, also again from the inspiration of Tomb Raider slipping in, but it doesn’t hit the mark, nor age well in particular. Here we can see the beginnings of action games moving forward out of simple exercises in running and shooting, but telling stories with cinematic flair. Half-Life did the same, but with striking results, and far less awkward dialogue. And then, furthering the frustratingly bland story is the abrupt ending, in which the villain is cleansed of his corruption and ascends to godhood the way he intended, but leaving behind his power to Corvus in order to protect the world. So the bad guy....wins? But has become a good guy?

So, the question must be asked: what happened? Where Hexen II showed little of the changes that Raven were forced to make when new owner Activision mandated that they split the Heretic and Hexen series into separate entities, this game bears the unfortunate weight of that departure. As previously mentioned, the planned third game in the Serpent Rider Trilogy, Hecatomb, was divided into two games post-mandate, the ideas of which also went in two separate directions. John Romero has made frequent commentary in the past about the separation of the games as products vs a proper trilogy. He’d been involved with Hecatomb until his departure from id Software, which was also around the time that Raven was purchased by Activision. The publishing giant, he notes, split up the Raven team who had worked on the Heretic/Hexen games, further increasing the divide of the products. According to one of his accounts, one team worked on all three Serpent Rider games before the split, at which point that team was divided amongst the three in-house developing teams that already existed. While Brian Raffel, the mind behind the game series, was present and active on Heretic II, not everyone who’d put their passion into the rest of the series was there for the creation of this game. This shows in the final product. 

With that in mind, it seems a little unfair to judge this game as harshly as I am. Perhaps we should be examining it, looking at the interesting bit of gaming history it represents. It marks a point in time where Raven, having experienced fair success on their own through working with technology giant id Software and other publishers, has become a corporate-owned entity. This is, in fact, the first game by Raven to be published exclusively by Activision. Eventually, Raven Software would be conscripted by Activision into the Holy Trinity of Call of Duty developers, rotating in and out making new COD games so they can come out yearly. What legacy, then, does this particular game leave? There is a mark here, a brand, a scar, a sign of things to come. Mandates from above demanding two franchises instead of one, an ironic analogy of the division of Raven from id Software -- Heretic II may have been published and distributed exclusively by Activision, but id Software published the previous games, and held publishing rights to those games. Meanwhile, the transfer of copyright went to Activision, putting future games into a pickle. Activision no doubt has little interest in creating new games in a series when they can’t make money from previous entries. Furthering problems is that Heretic II does not exist in digital format, probably again due to Activision unable to profit from sales of the prior games; a casual copyright search for Heretic II in the public record comes up with zero results, effectively placing the game as abandonware. With Raven owned by Activision, and id owned by Bethesda (formerly Zenimax), establishing cooperation between the two giants may seem difficult to impossible at this point.

What a shame for the final entry in what began as such a promising series to end limping across the finish line. In my research I found quite a few people who were glowing with nostalgic praise for Heretic II, and why not? In the opening level of Silverspring, we’re greeted with a run down town disparaged by the rampant virus. Flies zip back and forth and Corvus slaps his neck to be rid of them; children cry in the distance, dripping water echoing reminds of the empty nature of this place. All the environments in the game are rife with audio and visual treats that literally drip with atmosphere and character. There is a strange amount of life here, in a living world that feels interesting and worth exploring. But the controls and story fall flat, alongside the abysmal decision to make the game a third person adventure instead of the first person shooters of the previous entries. Whether or not we’ll ever see a proper new entry into the Heretic/Hexen world is, unfortunately, something that remains to be seen. Spiritual successors, such as AMID EVIL and the upcoming Graven reap the fields which were sown of Hexen’s seeds. Activision and Bethesda may never see eye to eye on the subject of reviving Heretic or Hexen or maybe even the fabled Hecatomb, but one thing is clear: regardless of the corporate greed which aborted the lifespan of this wonderful series, the first three games of this series live on as passionate exercises in dark fantasy, examples of how to push the FPS genre forward while remaining firmly grounded in what makes it work. Heretic II is the Crystal Skull of this series -- many will find themselves better off forgetting it ever happened. Activision certainly has. And again, how ironic is it, that the very mandate which they laid down in order to spawn new sequels and twin franchises led to the death of them.

[nomanwalksalone]

ARNYS ET MOI AND ME

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

How do you remember something you never knew? The orphaned opening words of Arnys et moi, journalist Philippe Trétiack’s memoir of the late and legendary Paris shop Arnys, raise that question: “I never stepped in. I never bought anything there. And now, it’s too late.” This ellipse adds romance to Trétiack’s incomparable book, which contrasts the rise of the family behind Arnys with Trétiack’s own. Like the Grimberts of Arnys, Trétiack’s ancestors were Jews from Eastern Europe who immigrated to Paris at the beginning of the 20th century and ended up the garment trade.  But where the Grimberts’ boutique became, to some, synonymous with a neighborhood, an attitude, a philosophy, and even Paris itself, the boutique tended by Trétiack’s mother stayed a neighborhood mediocrity, a sinkhole of time, money and, in Trétiack’s telling, of lifeforce itself as he describes how his mother kept shop despite the hate she had for the shop, for the clothes she sold and for their potential customers.  A far cry from the supposed intellectual and political salon that was Arnys.

How do we remember Arnys? Despite Trétiack’s professed unfamiliarity with the shop, readers may never encounter a more knowledgeable and measured historical account of the Arnys shop: the implantation in Paris of educated left-wing garment dealer Jankel Grünberg, whose successes across multiple shops allowed him to settle on the very established avenue Foch in the 16 arrondissement; the immigrant’s cultural emphasis on education that led his sons Léon and Albert to pursue studies on the at once more aristocratic and artistic Left Bank; the polio that derailed one son’s medical career and drove both to enter the family trade, this time in a Left Bank shop space close by the colleges and medical schools he had been attending; the burgeoning family success; the horrors of the Second World War, which saw Jankel and his wife die in Auschwitz; the evolution of Arnys the shop and the brand from a neighborhood corner in a sleepy part of Paris to the epicenter of a certain hip bohemia, of a self-conscious rebellion, of a subversively elegant set of limousine liberals (the loose equivalent of the French gauche caviar), and finally of a dated, sated establishment… before communion with luxury conglomerate LVMH forced Arnys’ transubstantiation into the nominal custom tailoring and shirtmaking arm of LVMH-owned brand Berluti. Even the mysterious name “Arnys” itself is finally explicated: the Grimberts (name eventually Frenchified) had moved into the space vacated by a shop named Loris; by coining a similar-sounding name for their new shop Léon and Albert hoped to attract, through confusion, some of the old shop’s former customers. 

Trétiack writes that it was the recent humiliating scandal of former French presidential candidate François Fillon that had sparked his interest in Arnys. Years after the Arnys shop had actually closed, Fillon made the papers for having accepted thousands of dollars in custom Arnys clothing paid for by Robert Bourgi.  Bourgi is a lawyer whose involvement in a shadowy-world of influence and intrigue between France and its former sub-Saharan colonies known as Françafrique has led members of the French political establishment to call him “radioactive.” According to the very entertaining French Vanity Fair writeup of the debacle, Bourgi would periodically drive Fillon over to the Berluti bespoke shop –  at Arnys’ old address -- when Fillon was feeling down and order him clothing, paid for in cold hard cash.  As a result, Trétiack writes, that shop now limits cash purchases to 1000 euros, or less than 20% of the price of a custom Arnys-by-Berluti suit.  Interestingly, Trétiack also suggests that the papers had referred to Fillon’s scandal at Arnys, rather than Berluti, not because they appreciated the academic distinction that Berluti custom clothing was created by the putative Arnys tailors, but because they feared losing LVMH’s enormous ad spend if they impugned an existing brand in the LVMH portfolio, Berluti, rather than the old brand Berluti had absorbed.

As Trétiack writes at the conclusion of his memoir, this exploration of Arnys allowed him to remember things from his own past that he had almost forgotten, yet felt so deeply.  In fact, ironically, Trétiack’s discussions of his own family’s trajectory are far cloudier (and shorter) than his descriptions of Arnys, no doubt because the latter involved researching and interviewing many of the people historically involved with the shop. Certainly, as Arnys et moi progresses, the personal memoir of Trétiack’s family comes to seem more and more exiguous compared to the gusto with which Trétiack describes not only the arrival of the Grimberts and Arnys, but the development of the garments and the ethos that made the shop an avatar of a sort of French exception, a prerevolutionary throwback, a haven for a certain set of the Parisian bourgeoisie as it wanted to see itself: deeply rooted in a timelessly elegant France of Enlightenment thought and local craft; intellectual without being sterile; a cosmopolitan of the fleshpots of the Sixth and Seventh Arrondissements, which at one time were famous bookstores, discreet art galleries and philosophers’ cafés. But today, Trétiack points out, former customers of Arnys also rue the passing of a certain clientele of the Café Flore, too.

How do I remember Arnys? Unlike Trétiack, I was a regular, if only occasionally profligate, customer of Arnys for the last decade of its existence, and knew it well for years before that, having been like Léon and Albert Grimbert a student in that neighborhood.  Like many of the habitués he describes, I used to stop in nearly every weekend. But those were not sufficient credentials to become part of the salon of intellectuals, esthetes and political figures Trétiack is only the most recent to describe. And as a guilty customer of the Flore for well over 20 years, I can attest that the shift in that café’s clientele to wealthy tourists and Eurotrash is by no means a recent phenomenon.  All that time ago, when as a student I would amble from my home on rue de Sevres past Arnys and its lovely windows to a rare treat at the Flore, it was already evident that the cultural landmarks of that area, those that Arnys claimed to be part of, had mostly disappeared in place of the boutiques of international luxury brands. There was very little left of the intellectual or countercultural long before Arnys itself ceased to be.

As a member of another diaspora, I know it is always my lot to be, in some way, an outsider wherever I am. Outsider that I am, I was shocked to find how closely Trétiack’s and my conclusions tracked: I am writing a book on vanished and vanishing French #steez, and occasionally wondered if a mutual friend like rag trader Ammar Marni, whom Trétiack interviewed for this book, had passed him my manuscript.  Like Trétiack, I concluded that Arnys incarnated a sort of French exception, a parallel universe where Beau Brummell had never imposed his modern English clothing style of simplicity of cut and restraint of color on the world. Arnys was a sort of escapism too lovely for we the uncertainly welcome to resist, a France as it would like to see itself, invented by an immigrant family.  

Arnys et moi laudably and interestingly lays out how Arnys constructed its myth, but occasionally strays into too eagerly believing some parts of that myth.  Trétiack spends a chapter or two lauding the 1940s invention of Arnys’ signature garment, the smocklike Forestière, and the cultural inspirations that led Arnys, in the wake of the Forestière, to create dozens of other garments inspired by the workwear and countrywear of France, as well as by classic French and Italian films of the 1950s and 1960s.  It’s only much later, towards the end of the book, that Trétiack mentions that that Arnys actually had remained a staid, Anglophile haberdasher until the 1990s, when the third Grimbert generation, brothers Jean and Michel, realized that ersatz Englishness was on the way out and that a contrived Frenchness (rich linings, beautiful and exotic materials, grandiosely theatrical designs, and a special notch in the lapel inspired by those created by the 1950s new wave of French tailors) could set the house apart. In other words, Arnys’ performative Frenchness, the thing that set it apart, is of quite recent vintage.  Trétiack also expounds in impressive detail on the magnificence and quality of every object Arnys sold, right down to the rarity of its handmade knives and the lushness of its pashmina scarves handwoven in Srinagar.  As something of a collector of artifacts of the places I write about, I’ve actually had the occasion to own and use items by these makers, including a Sauveterre knife and a scarf from Arnys’ supplier Kashmir Loom.  What Trétiack may not have realized is that the Arnys items were not just exquisite and luxurious, but were often incredibly delicate.  In the case of their handmade, hand-rolled seven-fold ties, they seemed to be deliberately more delicately and clumsily made than they needed to be in order to seem more handmade.  This seemed the case with a number of Arnys items.  Like Trétiack, I never became a bespoke customer of Arnys.  But here he and I diverge, as his words praising the current Arnys-Berluti cutter suggest he had not heard the pervasive and insistent words across the rest of the Paris bespoke population about the custom makers at Arnys. I’ll only note that the longtime Arnys cutter had actually left Arnys around the time it became part of Arnys, and is now retired, while their longtime custom shirtmaker died recently. 

Things change. Like Trétiack, I’ve wondered about the futility of writing about places like Arnys, about what it matters to remember. Then I remember that so many of us, so many different individuals with so many different individual histories, have conferred on this place, on this meaningless pair of syllables, so many different meanings, each with its own reverberations. How much can we know about what we remember?

[zardoru]

A Dragon Fan Takes A Pernese Dragon Ride

I’m not sure where to start. 

I’ve lately been reading the Pern series. A phenomenon that back in 1999 had a whole track in DragonCon called the Weyrfest, back when fandom was something that you had to get out of your way to get to. But more importantly, it’s a series written by Anne McCaffrey that has a writing style that I loathe, but that has masterful worldbuilding, stories, and ideas that changed the face of fantasy -- even considering that technically, the series is science fantasy, not fantasy! I’m not going to give you details as to why, so that that statement makes you curious.

I’m what you would call a modern dragon fan. Love ‘em. The variety, the personalities, power, flight, you name it, there’s just so much to love! With series such as Wings of Fire, How To Train Your Dragon, or Temerarie there’s no shortage of series that put dragons front and center as heroes and sensible characters that you can relate to rather than humongous beasts to be killed. I can’t really explain my obsession with dragons, but my friends can bear witness to it, to my potential chagrin. I’ve written OC-based fanfiction in the Wings of Fire universe, and am, at the time of writing, doing my own original story with a dragon protagonist.

So as such, I had heard of how Pern had been a Harry Potter equivalent of like, 1967, where people pretended to bond with a dragon (called Impressing in the Pernese world) or fire lizards, small, feisty and chittering wyrms, doing the duties of musicians called Harpers, or Holders, the masters of the land, or Riders that fought the quintessential threat of the world of Pern, called Thread. I had to give the series a shot, if only to see what people had been enamored with and how it paved the way for me, a modern dragon fan, as well as understanding the treaded tropes of yesteryear in my quest to write more about dragons.

I don’t mean to review the books as much as talking a bit about notable aspects of the series as a whole. At the time of writing, I’ve only completed the original trilogy, Harper’s Hall, Moreta and Nerilka’s story, plus the epilogue that is Beyond Between. 

There’s a few notable aspects. The series gives a great deal of importance to the intimacy between Rider and Dragon through a highly prominent narration of the acts of intercourse that occur among dragons -- of which the rider is not only witness, but a remote participant, even living the events through the eyes and scales of their mostly intelligent partner. Anne doesn’t describe the processes of linked minds, that is, the experience of their ability to have a transparent mind to each other, though it is stated that both parts of the relationship simply know how the other feels. This has led to a joke of lovingly nicknaming the series Dragonriders of Porn.

Of course, not only a special group of people are able to join in the magic; fire lizards, basically small dragons, also Impress. That means that most common people of Pern has a chance to have the experience of being friends with a small dragon. You can probably see the appeal of that.

The intelligence of dragons and fire lizards isn’t equivalent to that of a human, but they’re not animalistic either. It’s somewhere in between, though fire lizards are incapable of communicating verbally; not that they can’t communicate at all! Both fire lizard and dragon eyes change color according to how they feel. 

I don’t want to spoil all of the details of the worldbuliding, because you don’t really fall in love with the characters. Not quite. You fall in love with the world, and getting to know it, and the experiences of the people that live in it, is the appeal of most of the books. Not to mention that it is expansive enough to warrant a huge wiki!

Unfortunately, the series doesn’t have a dragon protagonist. It is mainly about the humans that inhabit Pern. But rejoice, Wings of Fire was a series inspired by inverting this choice, so it is not all bad. That said, it doesn’t make the series any less valuable for those fans that love the idea of good dragon characters. Give The White Dragon a chance. Ruth, the deuteragonist, is the titular White Dragon, and happens to be exemplary, and particularly disinterested in the frisky activities of his peers. Wink. Or give Moreta a chance, where the interactions between Moreta and her dragon Orlith are quite special, appearing almost as lovers.

It can be tedious at times. Not really because of what happens, but because of the choice of vocabulary and style, and long winded paragraphs of relentless description that may have you searching the words febrifuge, perfidy, zestful, or paroxysm. Give me some credit if these are common words, though, English is my second language! Not that any of my friends have ever used any of those words. 

The series starts rough. Dragonflight was originally separate stories rolled into one. To say “it shows” is as tautological as being redundant, dealing with the fall of a villain, the impression, and Lessa’s um, heroics, to be as loose as possible, should you decide to read it. Dragonquest underwent heavy rewriting, and while some scenes were incredible (Brekke! My heart! You deserved better!) the main theme of the conflict between the old ways and the new ways was not particularly appealing to me. 

Apparently, some details become contradictory. I have not read carefully enough for any of these details to jump at me. That said, the Harpers Hall series, particularly the first two books, are beyond excellent if you want an introduction, dealing with the struggles of Menolly, fighting against the idea that ladies were not meant to be Harpers. The third one is weaker, but can still be a welcome addition. If you want to reference something from these books, let it be Piemur’s love of fresh-out-of-the-oven bubbly pies. Wink again.

At the time, the Pern series was fairly progressive, though there’s a few modern sensitivities that don’t quite agree with some parts of the first book especially, having a hero considering the um, forceful relationship (exaggerate that in your head to its logical conclusion) he wanted to give to Lessa after their dragons “flew,” an euphemism for things you can probably imagine.

The views Anne had on homosexuality were, uh, not ideal, and I’ll skip over them, but given the circumstances, they do exist in Pern. They are treated fairly and have become the riders of female dragons that were not originally engineered to allow for that to be the case. There’s bi riders as well. There’s a notable absence of Trans representation, but given the time it was written in… I believe Anne would’ve liked for everyone to be comfortable in Pern, hardships and all. Reach out to me if you’ve got thoughts on this.

For Anne, the series had begun as an attempt to have empowered women and good dragons. It started a phenomenon, and her son, Todd, said she “first set dragons free on Pern and then was herself freed by her dragons,” due to the financial success and stability it brought her. I must admit that as someone that is trying to turn an obsession into stories, Pern is a reflection of the hope I have that perhaps one day I might write something for other dragon fans that will touch their imaginations. One day…

Of course, I also think Pern’s also significantly contributed to the overall idea that fantasy, as a genre, is extremely horny under the surface. I don’t know what to add to this idea that would be productive, but if you read it, you’ll probably know why.

Wow! That’s a lot of words. I haven’t even gone into the details of the stories or the blog Anne kept where she kept a very welcoming and warm disposition to the Pern fandom, not only endorsing fan activities, but even giving guidelines as to how to perform them respectfully, praising the lengths that people had taken Pern to, saying that she herself couldn’t have ever matched it. Nor talked about my favourite characters, which, again, I kin Ruth. Sorry kids, he’s taken. But if I may take away something from all this, it would be that Pern has cemented a special place in my heart, right under the thatching and walls that Wings of Fire put up for me, inspiring me to read once more.

Maybe it will, or it already has in yours too.

[bakugaykatsukii]

I Talk About Bakugou Because I'm Bored

Bakugou. He's best boy. My son.

No, actually, I'mma explain in as few words as possible why I absolutely adore his character.

Oops this got long.

Okay, so it's the first chapter/episode (I'll go off the anime because it's practically identical and more widespread) and it opens with Deku narrating. This is to establish an immediate connection between the audience and the main protagonist; it conveys how important Deku is. Plenty of shows do this so it's not really a big deal, just common practise. HOWEVER, the second character we hear speak is Bakugou, who is insulting Deku.

This is framed in a way that's supposed to make us dislike him, and continues all throughout the first episode. He's presented as a four year old trying to beat up our main character, and then his next scene is being ten years older and Still Trying To Beat Up Our Main Character. This makes him seem rotten to the core, as his character hasn't changed whatsoever in that time, and as an audience we know very little information about him.

On top of that, within this first episode he is deliberately made to have no redeeming qualities, nothing that could make him sympathetic in any way. The Sludge Villain fiasco isn't until ep2, and in this one he literally tells Deku to kill himself, reaching peak middle school bully. He destroys something the Main Protagonist clearly treasures and is privelaged in every conceivable way, even his (later obviously intense) desire to be a hero is simplified to monetary gain, with "I'll be even richer than All Might himself!!!" (or something to that effect). Later on I'd explain such a line to be a result of young Baku trying to quantify his future success, something he never mentions again after the Sludge Villain.

In these first twenty minutes of the anime, he's been absolutely dragged through the mud. Not only is he this arrogant, selfish, mean bully, he's also the sort of bully we can all relate to having, making him even more dislikable! It's so easy for an audience to write him off as irredeemable almost immediately.

But then comes ep2. Seasoned anime watchers likely brush over some small details, but the fact that the Sludge Villain attack happens when Bakugou is 14? Wow. At this point no one likes him, and to many people seeing this happen could come across as a sort of karmic punishment, deserving and therefore less sympathetic. And so Horikoshi succeeds in continuing to make him dislikable but also adding depth to this character who so clearly believed he was invincible.

However, any such depth is pretty much ignored by the audience. I've watched many reactions, and, at this point, due to Bakugou's sub par personality, most people don't care about what happened upon first viewing. To be fair, it's treated as background until Deku steps in and proves himself a hero, at which point he's promised a quirk and That's all anyone can think about.

(also there's some symbolism in this ep because Bakugou and Deku were both attacked by the Sludge Villain and saved by All Might, showing they are actually equals in character and have a lot in common.)

Anyway, so for the first few episodes no one gives two shits about Bakugou because he's meant to be dislikable. He's set up to be as bad as possible without needing to be arrested/never being redeemable. Yet, he's also not clearly set up to be redeemed whatsoever. Let me explain:

Quick break from bnha to head over to atla, Zuko is the perfect redemption arc. And some of that can be attributed to his presentation in the first few episodes: where he's portrayed as antagonistic but still honourable, and has a tragic past. He's the sort of character you know isn't actually bad at heart. But Bakugou hasn't got any tragic back story to speak of, and certainly isn't honourable, so we don't expect a redemption.

That's so interesting to me, because it basically means his character could go in any direction but most shounen fans expect him to be the typical rival. He's mean now and will be mean later, nbd. Will probably betray Deku in order to gain more power. That sort of stuff.

But, as the first season progresses, we're shown that Bakugou (on top of all of his anger issues and cruelty) is also so incredibly determined, to the point where it's harmful. A lot of people, even in season three, expect him to accept the LoV's offer, but as early as ep7 he's shown to be dedicated to being the best on his own. He utterly fails at pretending to be a villain, and doesn't manage to work with his "villain" teammate. When the USJ attack rolls around, he fights alongside Deku.

I feel like I've just word babbled for a while so here's a picture:

Isn't that adorable? Anyway, I continue.

Okay, recap: Bakugou is presented initially as bad and in no way sympathetic, but throughout season one some of his good qualities do get highlighted.

The Sports Festival is probably when I was most on edge about who my favourite character was. Todoroki vs Deku vs Bakugou was a whole internal debate. We all know who eventually won though. Point is, this is the first time Bakugou is supposed to seem likeable.

Like, yes, he helped out at the USJ, but he was still reckless and angry about it. In this arc his flaws stop seeming so antagonistic (even though he's now more at odds with 1-A than he's ever been) and are framed humorously; if you think about it, the only times you're not rooting for Bakugou in this whole arc is when you're laughing at his antics. He stops seeming like a massive unforgivable bully and becomes a secondary threat behind Todoroki, even though he ultimately wins the Festival.

One of the first things he does in the season is tell people messing with their class go away, albeit bluntly, and is then complimented for it by Kirishima, who is the nicest guy in the class! No longer are we supposed to necessarily dislike him, as he's being developed after all of season 1. Him saying "I'm gonna win" as his speach is expected by the audience and laughed at- absolutely nobody watching was scared he'd hurt Deku in some terrible way due to it.

The cavalry battle demonstrates that he can work in a team after some adjustment time, and he gets his own antagonist (Monoma) who we all root against! This makes us closer to his character, as in a way we have a common enemy.

Then obviously the single battles are super interesting, his one against Uraraka especially turning people to his side. Since Aizawa, who as an audience we trust after his actions at the USJ, backs up Bakugou's actions, we accept them as the right thing to have done. Especially since Bakugou later calls Uraraka "not fragile", demonstrating that he can respect people and actually isn't as discriminatory as his earlier actions against Deku might lead one to believe. Everything about this fight is pure gold.

The rest of his fights are also very interesting, so let me go off on a little tangent. He's the only person to 1) be uninjured by the end of the festival (he did win tho so...) and 2) he's the only person to win all of his fights by forcing his opponent into submission. He knocks out Uraraka and Kirishima, goes to knock out Tokoyami but has him give up instead and then knocks out Todoroki! His fights are so much more violent than the others, who are primarily trying to win by pushing their opponent out of the ring or by immobilising them, which could make him come across as more aggressive (which he is). But it actually works for his character considering the way he demonstrates respect is by giving his all, therefore in order to show he cares about these fights he has to go for absolutely decimating the person against him.

Also, interesting side note to all that, out of our main three festival contenders, Bakugou is the only one who actually needs to use the festival for its intended purpose: impressing scouts. Todoroki, as the son of Endeavour, is already known throughout the hero community as a promising young talent, and could even get the No2 hero to coach him if he so wished. Deku even says himself that he doesn't necessarily need to get scouted when All Might is already teaching him. Out of the three Bakugou has the most incentive to actually show off here, no guilt/baggage required.

Anyway blah Stain arc blah. Bakugou picks Jeanist to intern with, which many might think makes him shallow. Their quirks are in no way similar and their images are almost diametrically opposing, and Bakugou only chose him because he's such a highly ranked hero. However, I believe the creators crafted this pairing in order to convey how good of a future hero Bakugou promises to be. BJ, in these episodes, is all talk. He's such a superficial hero that, in order to rectify Bakugou's foul personality, he gives him a haircut. He demonstrates the arrogant nature that Stain hates so much. Meanwhile, Bakugou ignores him and is still arrogant in his own way, obviously, but not for anything other than his own pride. He, when you break it down, spends all of his time working towards a genuinely good goal, just to prove to himself that he's worthy- no desire for fans or fame in there, he wants success but isn't actually looking for any of the perks that come with it. This, imo, makes him better than BJ. Also, Bakugou never actually says he is working with BJ due to his rank and could be doing it because their quirks botha require so much time, practice and effort.

Okay, so, now for the final exams. This is where I decided he was my favourite. He works with Deku etc and proves to the audience that he can work with him and won't necessarily become a villain, plus All Might lets loose a little and proves he too can be violent and mean.

What I really love is about ep24 s2 is actually the bit that makes a lot of people chuckle: where Bakugou bites AM's hand. This kid has been giving his absolute all, putting every ounce of strength into beating his idol, because, lbh, his self worth depends on his success here, until he literally cannot raise his arms to punch anymore. And yet, he still refuses to go down, despite every odd against him. Something about that tenacity is just so incredible to me.

It's almost 1am, let's have another break, shall we?

Idk I thought it was funny when it came onto my dash.

Btw, it's now I wish I knew how to hide most of a post lololol.

Season three is just Baku's season, ngl. Like,,, so many of his Stans got their start here, and it's not hard to tell why. A big reason why Bakugou felt irredeemable was because he had no reason to be so mean, but the narrative makes up for that by then putting him through so many bad experiences.

There's been a million metas on why he's so perfect in this season, and this is already abhorrently long, but ah well.

Okay so he's captured by the League through no fault of his own. As the audience when we find out Bakugou is missing we immediately think he's done the dumb thing and gone off on his own, but it's quickly revealed that he's already been kidnapped. Tokoyami is also taken, cementing that the LoV are looking for kids with some villainous feature, but also showing that their perception of what makes a child villainous is skewed, since we know Tokoyami is good.

At the hideout Baku is entirely restrained and silent, so clearly against his will. If we remember every other time he's been restrained (so goddamn many) we'll think back to the Sludge Villain, finding out Deku had a quirk, after his *win* against Todoroki and his internship with BJ. In this way, it's obvious to tell that this is all a Bad experience for him, as those were all very negative times in his life. There's no way he'll join them.

None of the pros even consider it a possibility. Aizawa defends him against the press (and, once again, we like Aizawa! So we trust him) and none of his classmates think he could be evil, they're all primarily concerned for his safety. Even BJ, who insinuated that Baku could easily become a villain, doesn't appear to believe he'll turn down that path.

Also Baku is pretty cool when he fights of the villain like I'm ngl.

And then, when he sees All Might? And his face screws up? With his lip trembling? It's undercut with a joke but he's so obviously just a scared/relieved kid in that moment and it's gut wrenching to remember that.

It's really getting late and I'm at 11% here so speed round through the provisional licence exam.

He can tell Shindou is two faced

Even though he's blunt he's still got the instincts and smarts of a hero

The class looks up to him

Aizawa has a lot of favouritism for this child, y'all, how did I not notice this?

His failure here is intrinsic to his character growth as it means he hits absolute rock bottom and we can move onto:

Deku Vs Kacchan 2

Where to even start. The guilt and pain he experiences has made me tear up several times just from thinking about them, and that GODDAMN VOICE CRACK AS HE YELLS nope it hurts too bad.

It's sort of the culmination of every emotional issue Bakugou has exhibited throughout the series. He can't find self worth without constant praise and pressures himself to be unimaginably perfect, to a self destructive point. He has no support system in place to help him with these issues. His anger stops being repetitive/funny/annoying and is finally, clearly shown to be more damaging to himself than to anyone else, as he feels the only way he can deal with his stress and hurt is by lashing out at those who try to help him.

In this fight we also learn why Deku, even though he's Baku's victim, still looks up to him so much. And the whole dynamic is so perfect I might cry rn.

I am annoyed, though, that further than that Baku's mental health has been pretty much entirely ignored for 200 manga chapters. Probably my only complaint about him.

.

.

.

At an entirely selfish level, I can relate to Bakugou. Obviously I'm not a teenage boy with explosion powers who bullies people in order to feel any self worth, but the high standards for himself? The pain at any failures? Being told through childhood how great you are only for it to be torn away in your teens? That's all so painfully relatable to me, and so I feel an even deeper connection with his character.

One last picture to finish off:

[skyrimaddiction]

Different Characters meeting my OC Syan Part 3

Links to the first 2:

https://skyrimaddiction.tumblr.com/post/613971069135716352/different-characters-meeting-my-oc-syan-part-1 & https://skyrimaddiction.tumblr.com/post/614303340873089024/different-characters-meeting-my-oc-syan-part-2

Aela the Huntress: Farkas, Ria, and herself were at Pelagia Farm fighting a Giant that had become a threat to the locals as it had trespassed onto the farm. This beast was putting up a great fight and was a worthy challenge. Even so, they were tiring quickly and did not seem to be progressing. Farkas narrowly dodged the Giant’s club and fell to his knees. Ria and Aela distracted the Giant so that he could catch his breath and regain his strength. He was the one dealing the most damage. While firing arrows at the Giant to distract it while Farkas recovered. A red-haired Atlmer woman came running full speed towards Farkas directly behind him. She didn’t know this woman’s intentions, so she had to warn Farkas just in case. Before Aela could even utter a word. The high-elf woman catapulted herself up and over Farkas, using his broad shoulders to launch herself. She flew through their air with a fierce snarl on her face, and landed on the back of the Giant. The Giant raised it’s arms up trying to reach for the new assailant. The elven woman wrapped her legs around the Giant’s neck, and plunged daggers deep into it’s eyes. Aela was impressed. This woman showed no fear or hesitation, and had skills that she had never seen before. After blinding the Giant, the woman gracefully rolled off the Giant’s back and onto the ground. She yelled at Farkas for him to strike the beast while it had collapsed to it’s knees, and Farkas did so. Aela watched as the woman and Farkas exchanged greetings. Farkas had a fierce blush on his cheeks, and Aela could smell his arousal, and hear his heart race. Aela smirked, the poor ice-brain is smitten with her. Aela also caught the woman’s scent. Spiced-mead and honey, and she too, had a faint smell of arousal. Great, just what the companions needed, love-struck fools mucking about. Aela was still impressed with the woman, so she approached the two of them.  “You handle yourself well, perhaps you should join us.” The Atlmer woman tore her eyes away from Farkas and looked at Aela. Her amber eyes were strong, warm, and fearless. She smirked back at Aela “We’ll see.” She turned and walked off towards Whiterun. While the woman was greeting Farkas, she overheard her name, Syan. She watched Syan walk towards Whiterun, and then she turned to Farkas to speak with him, but stopped herself. his face was still blushed, and he stood there staring at Syan walking closer and closer towards Whiterun. Aela chuckled to herself and shook her head. The fool had it bad. His brother wasn’t going to be happy with that, as Vilkas was overprotective. She stepped in front of Farkas’s view “Stop staring you icebrain, and let’s go.” she said. She heard Farkas huff, and she smirked. She was only teasing the man, and he knew it. He may not be the smartest, but he was one of the strongest and largest men she had ever seen. He was a fierce fighter, a brave and loyal man, with a gentle heart. Her instinct told her that the woman could be trusted. She looked over her shoulder back at Farkas as they were walking past the town tavern. His eyes were locked on the door, and they were full of warmth and relief. Aela could smell the scent of the woman inside, just as Farkas could. Being of the beast-blood had it’s advantages. She chuckled to herself. There was no doubt, that Atlmer woman is something else. She couldn’t blame Farkas for being smitten with her, she was remarkable in her own rights, and beautiful as well. Aela smiled to herself. She couldn’t wait to see how this unfolds. She can’t wait to tell Skjor all about it too while they lay in her bedchambers, and she felt her heart warm at the thought of it.

Mercer: Brynjolf brought a new protege into the fold. Swore she would be nothing but useful to us after this unfortunate rut they’ve been in. When Brynjolf brought the red-haired Altmer woman to him, he immediately sensed she was a threat to him and his position at the guild. He thought he could set he up for failure by giving her the Goldenglow estate job. Even Vex failed to get the job done, so there was no way this new-blood would either. Brynjolf was shocked when Mercer gave her the task, and Mercer listened in on Brynjolf give her the details. He tsked, hopefully the mercenaries that guard there take care of her, one less problem for him. Unfortunately and much to Mercer’s surprise, she was successful. Mercer scowled, she was proving to be more of a problem then he had originally thought. The information she brought back from the estate was even more troubling. He had a suspicion that his past was coming back to haunt him, and he wouldn’t let anything stop him now, and had had a feeling this newcomer would be more trouble in the future. While she was out doing more jobs, he used his contacts to get information about her. Luckily, one of his contacts in Cyrodiil knew EXACTLY who she was, oh and the information was astonishingly useful and scandalous. He made sure to dispose of the contact afterwords. Couldn’t have any loose ends knowing about his inquiry. When she returned from Honningbrew Meadery with more information about the mysterious symbol that Mercer was beginning to dread, as he had suspicions of who it might be. He couldn’t have the truth revealed, not for anything. Before she left to go meet Gulum-Ei, he gave her a brief but haunting warning, that let her know he knew her past. “Oh and Syan, make sure you leave him alive, after all, we must be very flexible when serving our clients, and keeping our contacts happy.” The double-meaning was lost to Brynjolf and the others. But Syan knew......that Mercer knew. She stopped in her tracks and turned slowly to look over her shoulder back at Mercer. The look in her eyes was not fear or hopelessness that Mercer had been expecting, no, it was an inferno of fury, a glare of a promise of death if he uttered another word. He froze in his boots, and cold dread slowly seeped through his body and deep into his chest leaving him hollow. Then she gave the most menacing smile, and Mercer felt his heart stop. She turned and walked away, and he was able to breath again. Mercer quickly made plans. He needed to put an end to once and for all, and if this mysterious symbol was who he thought it was, he knew exactly how to do it, and would kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, and get everything back to the way it was before she ever stepped foot in the guild.

Alduin: After being lost in a drift through time, he finally re-emerged in Skyrim, to wreak havoc once more. He knew the foolish mortals would never be able to kill him, and he would reign in terror over all once more. He landed on a tower of a fortress, and looked down at the Joor below him. He couldn’t help but make eye-contact with the one Fahliil, the Atlmer woman. Her fierce red hair matched the haunting red of his eyes, but her amber eyes stared up at him, wide with shock, but no fear. Pretty, pathetic mortal he thought. His eyes bore into hers for a moment longer, and he knew her, Dovahkiin he thought to himself. He shouted at the sky in rage and burning rock pummeled into the fortress. He would slay all the Joor here in this fortress. He must not let the Dovahkiin live. He laid waste to the fortress. He flew over, looking for any signs of life, and found none. His rage sated for now, he flew off, ready to revive his fallen kin, and reign over the skys of Tamriel once more. Yet he could not suppress the feeling, that the Dovahkiin was still alive. As he was flying off he spotted her and another mortal man hiding among the trees. Every bone in his body was telling him to turn back and slay her here and now, but his wings would not listen, and they carried him farther and farther away. A mistake, he would later come to regret, and then be grateful for. (P.S. as a side note, in my fan-fic, he isn’t exactly killed.)

Paarthurnax: He had heard the Grey-Beards summon the Dovahkiin to High Hrothgar. While he was hopeful to meet the new dragonborn, he was filled with great sadness and conflict. He knew this would mean that his brother Alduin, was meet his end soon. He patiently meditated on words of power and fought with his conflicting emotions and thoughts, while waiting for the day he would meet the Dovahkiin for the first time. One morning, while the summit of the Throat of the World was silent and still, the clouds hovered just below. It was breathtakingly beautiful, yet below, he could hear the wind howling with such ferocity. A powerful blizzard he presumed. Then he heard her shout. Lok Vah Koor! It was thunderous, and made the mountain tremble slightly. The shout blasted a hole through the clouds that looked like a carpet of snow, before the rest of it swirled and dissipated. He watched as if it was a fog being lifted across the sky as far as he could see. A mighty Thu'um she had. He sat perched on the peak, waiting for her to arrive. He heard faint footsteps crunching into the snow. Her striking red hair was the first thing he saw. It swirled gently around her golden pink face. She puffed slightly out of breath from her long march up the mountain. Paarthurnax flew up into the air and landed in the snow before the Altmer woman. She did not seem surprised that he was a dragon. After exchanging greetings and Tinvaak for a while, She looked out upon the world from the mountain. He could feel the dragonblood in her was strong. Much stronger than he would have thought possible for a Joor. He could sense great power in her and he filled with pride, and also grief. He knew that Aludin would perish at her hand.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

No Distractions

Characters: Rock Star!Dean Winchester x Reader, minor characters

Word Count: 1,459

Warnings: none

Summary: With Dean being so busy with his career, he loses sight of what’s really important--and who.

Squared Filled: Vegas // Rock Star!Dean

Author’s Note: I know some of you have requested fics, and I promise I will get to them. I just need to finish these bingos before the deadline in June/July of this year. I am also trying to post daily again so bear with me. This is for @spngenrebingo and @spnaubingo and this is unbeta’d and any and all mistakes are all on me.

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

Pre-school: his tiny hands would bang on any surface that he could reach, making as much noise as possible. Much to the daycare teacher’s displeasure, he would be in his own little world, slapping his hands on all kinds of surfaces because he loved the different kind of noises it made.

Third grade: to pass the time in class, he would take two number 2 pencils and drum them against the desk, causing a distraction for the whole class. The teacher would get mad at him, but you’d watch in amazement that he could make music just by two orange pencils. The kids around him seemed to be more interested in him than the teacher which is why she threatened to send him to the front office if he didn’t put them away.

Seventh grade: by this time, his parents had given up and bought him a small drum kit, one that wasn’t very good, but was still able to keep him occupied. He’d be at the drum set every day after school, and you would be there next to him, doing your homework as you listened to the music he’d create from scratch. It was amazing how long he’d kept up this hobby, and he’d talked to you about making this his career one day. With just enough practice, he might get there.

Eleventh grade: he had joined high school band to play the drums for the first year, but it didn’t seem to click in his mind. He wanted to play more rock than what they were going for which is why he was interested in music class. They offered all kinds of instruments, and he was the first to grab the drums once he laid eyes on a real drum set. Playing acoustic guitar was something you picked up on over the years, and that instrument was yours. To be honest, you just took the class to watch him play.

Junior year of college: right from the start of college, he had found some friends to form a band that would play around the school, maybe participated in a few low-key gigs that paid pretty well for an up and coming starter band. You had been his supporter all throughout his life, and you weren't going to stop now. At this rate, he would become a rock and roll drummer, famous all around the world. Seeing him progress through his career is something that gave you joy because he was your best friend, and you would do anything you could to see him succeed.

Present day: Dean had been offered by many recording companies if he and his band would produce music, which, of course, he said yes. It was hard to pick only one, but you might have had something to do with that. While he wanted to be a musician, you have always wanted to be a producer, and you pulled some strings to get him the producer he wanted: you.

It was a dream come true to see him live it out on stage, playing for thousands of people only to rack it up to millions. From the start of preschool, he had wanted nothing more than to be a drummer, and now he’s gotten it, you weren't going to do anything to tear that away from him. He’s played on stages from all around the world, and at each event, you were backstage to watch him play.

The only downfall to this was the more popular he became, the less time you got to be alone with him. It was always play here, sign this, appear there. His happiness was your number one priority, but sometimes you wished you were back in his mom’s basement, watching him play on the shitty drum kit his mom gave him.

His latest gig, the one he scored in Vegas, he wanted you to be there for the opening night. There was no way you could say no to him, so you made sure to take the first flight you could to be there on time before they even got started setting up to see if you could score some alone time with him.

When you got there, that dream was crushed to a million pieces once you saw him surrounded by fans. He looked so happy to be signing their papers and taking pictures, and he looked so breathtakingly gorgeous, you decided to stay out of it until he was done. When he finally finished, it was time to get set up on stage.

The concert had been a hit, and afterward, there would be a small party at one of the casinos to celebrate the success of it all. He made sure you were coming to that, and it wasn’t like you were going to miss it. Maybe you might get in some alone time to tell him how you truly felt. It broke your heart that your best friend was being taken from you by the rest of the world, and you needed to tell him how you felt now before it was too late.

While at the casino, the whole band got together to have a few drinks before they all went on their separate ways to do their own thing. You found Dean huddled with a group of girl fans as they giggled away to try and impress him. Sighing, you took a seat at one of the games, frowning as you put in a twenty.

“Ladies, you can all get your pictures. Don’t worry,” Dean smiled as they giggled. They were pretty and nice and all that, but he really wanted to be spending time with only one person: his best friend.

“You did so well on that stage,” one woman fawned.

“Yeah, you really know what you’re doing there,” another smirked. Something told him to look away from the girls, to pay attention to what was in front of him. He looked up to see you trying your luck at one of the slots, with a sad frown on your face.

“Ladies, would you excuse me one minute?” he said as he gently pushed them to the side. He walked to you and took a seat at the other slots next to yours. “Hey, you okay?”

“No, Dean, I’m not okay,” you gathered the money you won and got up, leaving his side to be on your own. It broke your heart to treat him this way, but you really missed your best friend. He watched as you walked off to the VIP section and took a seat, taking out your phone to absentmindedly play on it.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked once he reached you.

“Don’t you have fans to take pictures with? Sign some things?” you asked, not looking at him.

“Y/N talk to me,” he sighed. The VIP section was empty which boosted your confidence a little bit.

“I fucking miss you, Dean. Do you know how long it has been since the two of us hung out?”

“We did before the show.”

“I meant alone, Dean. Don’t you miss the days where it was you and me, your drum set, and nothing else? Don’t get me wrong, I am so fucking proud of you for making it this far. I just… I miss you,” you sighed sadly.

“I guess I got caught up with everything, that I lost sight of who was truly by my side through it all. I’m so sorry.”

“And I better say this now because I don’t know when I might get another chance, but I love you. Like, romantically. I didn’t want to live my life without telling you that just in case you might feel the same way as I do.”

“Alright, here goes. For the past few weeks, I have been thinking about you romantically. You have always been there for as long as I can remember, never once giving up hope on my dreams. People said that what I wanted was a foolish dream, that I should think about something practical, but you never gave up on me. I hate that it took me this long to realize it, but I do love you,” he smiled, “romantically.”

“We should make a pact,” you stated, grabbing his hand. “We will spend one day a week where it’s just me and you, no distractions. If we’re going to make this work, we need to be there for one another. I don’t want to mess this up before it’s even starting.”

“I like that pact,” he grinned, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you in. At that moment, the other people in the room didn’t matter. You had Dean and he had you. Just like it has always been.

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[narcissusneverknewme]

Protection Detail P2C1

Part Two: The Growth of a Friendship

Chapter Three: Happy Holidays

The first time Draco walked into the Gryffindor common room the other twelve people currently occupying it stopped and stared openly. Draco took everything in with a sneer, cold eyes roaming over the warm house colors that decorated every inch of the room.

“This place disgusting,” Draco said, “Does anyone ever get sick? Do you suffer from sensory deprivation after a few hours of seeing nothing but this awful shade of red splashed on every-”

“Malfoy, shut up.” Harry said, with no real venom in his voice. Harry appreciated how intimidating this must be for the other boy and therefore thought he could let a few slights against his house colors slide for now.

“What is he doing here?” Lavender Brown asked from her place at a table near the entrance.

“Same thing you are, I suppose.” Harry said evenly.

“This is the Gryffindor common room. He really doesn’t--”

“You have Hannah Abbot in here for your study groups all the time.” Said Ron. “She’s a Hufflepuff.” Though far from being Draco’s biggest fans, Ron and Hermione had jumped on the protect-Draco-Malfoy bandwagon to help Harry.

“Yes. She’s a Hufflepuff. And a nice one.” Replied Hannah.

The four ignored her and took up seats next to the fire. No further protests were verbalized, but curious glances and pointed glares came from every side. Ginny, also ignoring the looks, came to sit next to beside them.

“Welcome to Gryffindor, Malfoy.” She said by way of greeting. The comment clearly irked him, but Draco did not respond beyond a slight inclination of the head, likely remembering a well-placed bat-bogey hex a few years before, “I’m a bit surprised you’re here, actually,” she continued conversationally, “but I suppose Harry wanted to keep an eye on you. Don’t trust the other Slytherin’s with him, Harry?” she asked.

Harry just looked at her, unsure how to answer. He wasn’t sure why but he didn’t like the way that had sounded.

“I mean, I might be wrong but I thought it was mainly Gryffindors and Ravenclaws that were attacking you between classes?”

Draco looked as though he were about to say something exceptionally nasty, a reaction Harry was starting to associate with Draco’s discomfort as much as distain or actual dislike.

“Harry here doesn’t like to take any chances with his ickle Dwaco’s safety,” an obnoxious voice cut in, mimicking the high pitch and misformed words of a small child. Zacharias Smith had entered the common room, unnoticed by the five seated by the fire, with Colin and Dennis Creevey trailing behind him.

“Shut it.” Colin said sharply before a stunned Harry or livid Draco could respond, “Sorry, sorry. Charms partner. No choice.” Smith looked offended at this.

“Oi, Lavender!” Ron said, far too quietly for her to hear, “Where’s the the Gryffindor-Only Common Room Protection Squad when you need them?”

Draco looked as though he longed to say something and was putting a lot of effort into keeping his mouth closed. Harry must have looked extremely red-faced and flustered because Colin, pushing Zacharias towards the other side of the common room mouthed, “Sorry Harry,” once more.

After the first few times, people got used to having Draco in the common room. He was not particularly quiet or polite, in fact he was notably neither, but they all got used to him as break progressed. It helped that Harry, Ron, Hermione (who actually heard some of the first years referring to them as “The Golden Trio”), and Ginny were all rather popular, especially with their younger classmates.

It also helped that Draco was a good storyteller, and could be very entertaining when he wasn’t busy being deeply unpleasant.

This really shouldn’t have been a surprise, Harry had seen large groups of Slytherins listening intently as Draco had regaled them with humiliating anecdotes about Harry for years. To be fair, seething with anger and embarrassment from across the Great Hall was not a prime seat for observing the finer points of Draco’s narration technique.

Sitting in the Gryffindor common room, listening to him relate something that didn’t involve Harry fainting or having his nose broken, was a strange experience for Harry. He had expected Draco’s mordant humor to be annoying, what he had not expected to find his sarcasm and clever turns of phrase to be amusing.

When Draco told a story he used his whole body. His fingers combed through the air as he described situations and people; he used ironic understatement and ludicrous hyperbole in rapid succession. Draco had a gift for theatrics. He did dramatic impressions, mirrored facial expressions and used wide, sweeping gestures. Draco was absolutely ridiculous, and Harry found himself enthralled, soaking in every motion, every word. Just like those Slytherins he, Ron, and Hermione used to mock for exactly this kind of pathetic rapture.

Harry was also surprised by how quickly his friends got used to Draco. Light-hearted bickering and harmless insults soon put everyone at ease. It was strange, since it was Harry who most hated Draco, that it was Harry for whom they all learned to tolerate him.

The two Harry had most anticipated finding it difficult to be courteous to one another surprised Harry by finding it the easiest. Hermione and Draco were so deeply amiable to one another that it almost made Harry uncomfortable. Hermione’s delicacy and ability to find a seemingly endless number of neutral topics of conversation, combined with Draco’s impressive ability to fake geniality, took the first steps in establishing peace.

As the first days of near-constant contact passed, Hermione and Draco’s conversations slowly became less and less neutral, but it no longer seemed to matter. They had become sort of friends, allied in their determination to squash the awkward atmosphere first conjured by Draco’s presence. He and Hermione argued about even the most sensitive subjects, often swapping petty insults along the way. After commenting on everything from one another’s test scores to fashion choices, they always ended their arguments slightly red in the face but, quite inexplicably to Harry’s mind, no less friends.

Ron and Ginny both opted to stay as far from the two of them as possible as soon as a debate sprung up. Hermione had a habit of appealing to them (mostly Ron) to back her up, so they tended to turn tail and run at the slightest indication that the discussion was going to get heavy.

Harry rarely said anything during these conversations. He didn’t have to worry about either Hermione or Draco dragging him in because whenever they tried he’d just give them a thoughtful look and say, “Er, I dunno... It’s a good question, though,” and so they both gave up asking. He found their debates oddly fascinating, he couldn’t explain why but he enjoyed listening to them.

The five of them studied, ate, played board games, and relaxed together. At night the entire group walked Draco to his common room. The conversation at the entrance to the dungeons would always go the same way.

“Thanks. I mean,” Draco would drawl, “I probably could have found my own common room on my own…”

“But why chance it, eh, Malfoy?” Ron would say.

“Watch your back in there and cast-” Harry would start.

“Yes, mother, I’ll do that.” Draco would interrupt.

“Right then.” Harry would say.

“Sleep well, Draco” Hermione would say.

“Yeah, g’night.” Ginny would add.

###

On Thursday night, six days after the start of Christmas break, Ginny came into the Great Hall for lunch. Because it there were so few students, only one table was set for meals, so Harry, Draco, Ron, and Hermione were seated together. Ginny sat down next to Hermione and leaned across the table, facing Harry.

“Hi, did you hear about the dance?” She asked without ceremony.

“Hello to you too, Weasley.” Draco said, not looking up from his book. Harry rolled his eyes.

“The dance?” Hermione asked as the others stared blankly.

“Yeah. I guess even though they’re back to workshopping the whole Triwizard Tournament thing for now, the Yule Ball tradition is back on. I guess it was Grubbly-Plank’s idea. It’s the first Christmas since the war; there’s been so much mourning and people have been kind of sombre. Everyone loved the ball so much last time-- they’ve deciding they want to hold it annually.”

Harry and Ron exchanged looks at the “everyone loved it” comment but said nothing.

“That’s a terrible idea.” Said Draco, “Not nearly enough people stay over the Christmas holidays. Why are they having a dance?”

“Yeah,” agreed Ron, “Pretty much everyone stayed for Christmas in our fourth year, and we still had more than enough room for the Beauxbatons and Durmstrangs. We won’t have a quarter as many people. Seems a bit daft to have a ball.”

“Hmm,” said Hermione, “You’re right. There are less than 300 students at school right now.”

“That’s what Flitwick thought but Slughorn said there was an old ballroom on the ground floor for exactly this sort of thing.”

“Wait, how do you know all of this?” Harry asked her.

“Hagrid.”

On Friday evening Professor McGonagall, as acting headmistress, announced the ball was for all ages and was to be held on Christmas day, starting at eight o’clock. That was in four days.

In the meantime, there was a Hogsmeade trip planned for Saturday. Professor McGonagall reminded the seventh and “eighth” year students that they were legally adults and could apparate. She explained that they were, therefore, permitted during Hogsmeade weekends to go to Diagon Alley, if they wished.

This was good because it seemed that almost no one had dress robes. Of their group, Ron and Hermione had brought them, Ginny asked Mrs. Weasley to owl hers, but Harry and (surprisingly) Draco were without.

So the next day the five of them walked towards the village along with most of the other students. Once outside of Hogwarts grounds, however, they disapparated, leaving behind everyone sixth year and below.

Diagon Alley was fantastic. Everything was decorated for Yuletide. Soft snow was falling, people were singing, and everywhere were the colors of the season: silver, gold, red, and green. The whole street smelled like mulled wine and hot gingerbread. Golden bells hung from wizards’ robes and dangled off rooftops. Harry watched as his breath froze in the air and rose upwards in a merry, dancing cloud.

“Alright, let’s split up,” Hermione said, sounding businesslike, “Harry and Draco, you can go to Madam Malkin’s, I need to stop at Flourish and Blotts, these two” she gestured to Ron, and Ginny, “need go to the apothecary for Molly. Why don’t we all meet up at the Magical Menagerie. Then we can go to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, get something to eat, and check out some of the vendors together.”

Since no one seemed inclined to argue, they all set off.

Standing in the shop as Madam Malkin took their measurements felt very strange, but Harry didn’t know why. He’d been in this shop plenty of times and it had never made him feel quite so odd. As Madam Malkin walked off to ring up their purchases, Draco turned to look at Harry, a look of faint amusement on his face.

“Play quidditch at all?” he asked.

Harry stared.

“I do.” Draco continued.

They looked at each other in silence, then suddenly both laughed.

“You were such a git.” Harry choked.

“I’ve never been a ‘git’ in my life. You, on the other hand...” Draco answered, face and voice full of humor.

“Malfoy, you were a right prat and you know it.”

They were still flushed with laughter as they turned to shrug on their winter layers. Since they had entered from Muggle London through the Leaky Cauldron, they were both wearing Muggle clothes.

They had shed their bulky layers for the fitting, Harry revealing jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt, and Draco black trousers and a short-sleeve button up. Harry decided that Draco’s muggle studies must be paying off as he looked entirely normal, an impressive feat for any wizard. Harry had never seen him in short sleeves, he realized absently.

As Draco lifted his coat, the underside of his left forearm was momentarily visible.

Harry, moved lightening-fast, grabbed at Draco’s arm without pausing to think. He had drug it up to eye level before Draco realized what was happening. A moment too late, Draco wrenched his arm out of Harry’s grasp, staring at him wide-eyed.

Harry’s mouth went dry. “I never saw-- ”

Draco turning on his heel and stormed off without speaking, clutching his arm to his chest as though it hurt.

Harry was left to hurriedly pay for both of their robes. He had to practically run to catch up with Draco, who was striding down the pavement at top speed.

As he neared him Harry almost shouted, “Malfoy, I didn’t mean-- I had no right… ”

“Exactly,” He bit back, “You have no right.”

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” Harry said, tugging on Draco’s right arm, trying to slow him down.

“Fine. It’s forgotten.” Draco said, tone clearly indicating that it was not.

“Can we please... Can we just… Let’s go to the Menagerie, yeah?”

“Fine.”

They sped down the street, not speaking or looking at one another, moving at a pace that easily outstriped every other passerby.

Harry sighed with relief when he saw Ron and Ginny waving out of the Magical Menagerie window. Upon entering the shop, he and Draco separated, Draco going to stand next to Ginny and immediately striking up a rather forced discussion on pygmy puff care and Harry turning to Ron.

Ron gave him a big eyed “what the heck” look. Harry just shook his head in response.

The four of them only had to wait a few minutes before Hermione joined them and they entered the shop together, Draco and Ginny still deep in conversation.

They spread out through the shop, looking around at all of the interesting creatures for sale. While Harry was looking at a group of purple ferrets, he bumped into Hermione. He turned to apologize but before he could she spoke.

“Harry, is something wrong?”

“What?”

“Draco and you... Well, you both seem a bit on edge.”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

She looked at him calculatingly, and then seemed to decide to let it go, “Well,alright,” she said, “Anyway, I was thinking you should get a pet, Harry.”

“I don’t want a pet,” he said, surprised at the sudden change in topic.

“Yes, well, you should get one. What about an owl? Or a cat?” Harry began to shake his head when Ron called from across the shop.

“Harry! Come here!”

He and Hermione walked over to see what the other three were looking at. A group of slender black snakes were lazily stirring in a large tank. A large, handsome one was coiled in the center of the tank.

“Why so many loud ones?” The handsome serpent asked, sounding irritated. “The large orange one is noisy.” Said another, probably. annoyed that Ron had shouted.

Harry chuckled, “He’s always like that.” he said.

He turned to look at his friends, who were all staring at him. He felt a bit annoyed at this, they’ve all seen me speak parseltongue before, he thought, even Draco.

“What are they they saying?” Ron asked.

“Talking about you actually,” Harry said, “They think you’re too loud.”

Ron’s only reaction was interest, “Really? What exactly--”

“That one there,” Harry said, gesturing, “said ‘the large orange one is noisy.’” Harry chucked at the look of delight on everyone’s faces.

“You’re having a go!” Accused Ron, amused.

“No, I’m not. He actually said that.” Harry laughed.

“Well, anyway, Harry, look in the hollow log,” Ginny said. She and Draco moved aside so Harry could peer through the glass and into the space she’s indicated. Inside the false log was a snake. It was slightly smaller than the others and a startling shade of white, with glittering black eyes and fine, smooth scales. As it moved Harry saw that there was a large black patch on it’s back and on the tip of it’s tail. The black of it’s spots and eyes only made the sheer whiteness of it more startling.

Harry stared at it, it stared back.

“Hello.” Said Harry.

“Hello.” Said the snake.

“What’s your name?” asked Harry.

“No,” Said the snake, “nameless.”

“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry said. “You’re beautiful.”

“You are strange.” Said the snake, “Speaking. Too many eyes.”

Harry laughed and turned to his companions, who were gawking. “What?” He asked impatiently.

“You said your name,” Said Draco, “In a pack of spitting and hissing sounds, you said your name.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what did he say?” Hermione asked, gesturing towards the snake.

“She thinks I’m strange. My glasses confuse her,” Harry said.

They looked between Harry and the snake in wonder.

“How do you know it’s a girl?” Ginny asked after a moment.

“She sounds like one,” Harry answered.

The others got owl treats and things and payed for them. Then Harry made a decision. Catching the eye of the saleswoman on duty, Harry asked if he could have a look at the snake.

“I just want to look at her,” Harry muttered to a triumphant-looking Hermione, “I’m not buying her.”

A few hours later and the whole troop had returned to Gryffindor tower. They were sitting by the fire, talking and taking turns holding Manasa, Harry’s beautiful new pet.

She was oddly friendly for a reptile and seemed to enjoy both the attention and the warmth that came from being handled.

She was also a bit snarky, and sometimes said things that made Harry laugh. Whenever this happened the others would exchange looks like they were a bit lost. Manasa mistrusted Ron, “Too big,” she said, “Makes big noises.”

Harry laughed, “He says you’re pretty.”

“Still too big.” She said, but she sounded pleased.

###

Harry did not have the chance to talk to Draco for a long time. He finally got an opportunity when the others had gone to see Hagrid. Harry remained behind, Draco had protested, saying he would mind his manners, but Harry insisted that he had potions homework to do anyway.

So there they were, Harry and Draco, sitting opposite one another on the floor of the otherwise empty common room, with the fire beside them and books spread out between them.

They both attempted to study for a while, but were repeatedly distracted by one another until they both gave up and lay their books aside.

“But why don’t you just cut it?”

“You really aren’t one to talk, Malfoy, I’ve never seen your hair this long.”

“My hair is longer, yes, but it isn’t long and it isn’t messy, both of which are words that could be used to describe that kneezle nest on your head.”

Harry grinned and Draco returned the expression. A moment passed. Harry’s smile faded, and Draco’s vanished in response.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that, Potter. What?”

“I just… Can I see it?”

“See wha-- oh. No.”

Another moment of silence.

“Please?”

Draco snorted, “As if pleading would get anywhere with me. If this is how you get Hermione and Weasley to do things for you, I must say I’m disappointed in both of them. And that’s saying something, especially where Weasley’s concerned.”

Harry ignored this, “Draco it’s not… you’re not the first to wear it.”

“I know that,” he said sharply, “that’s the point.”

“No I mean, good men have born that mark. People make choices. Sometimes they’re wrong--”

“Stop. Whatever you’re doing, whatever this is” Draco gestured widely at Harry and the surrounding area, “stop.”

Another silence.

“I have scars.” Harry said, “not just here,” he pushed his hair back, “here, too,” he showed Draco the back of his hand.

Draco glanced at it, still angry, but froze as he took in the words etched into Harry’s hand. I must not tell lies. He reached out slowly and Harry let him run his fingers across it, feeling the uneven scar tissue.

“What is that?”

“Umbridge.”

“What?” Draco looked up at Harry’s face, shocked.

Harry’s fingers wrapped around Draco’s left wrist, “I showed you mine.” He said softly.

Draco quirked an eyebrow at Harry’s choice of words, and then let out a heavy breath. He flipped his arm over and pulled back his sleeve.

Then it was Harry’s turn to stare. Shining, white against pale white, was the twisting, grotesque shape of the Dark Mark. With Voldemort’s defeat the mark had faded from a black tattoo-like print on the skin, to something that looked like a scar.

Slowly, hesitantly, Harry ran his fingertips over the old mark. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Did it hurt?” Harry wasn’t sure why he was whispering.

“Yes.”

Harry was quiet for a long time. He thought about his scars, about the marks Ron got at the ministry in their fifth year, and the ones given to Hermione by Bellatrix Lestrange. He thought about Bill’s face and George’s missing ear.

In the dim light of the fire he could see, protruding slightly from Draco’s collar, the thin lines of scars Harry himself had left with a curse he didn’t understand. He thought about the mark on Draco’s arm and the child who had accepted it, not really understanding what it meant beyond his family’s safety and prowess. He thought about others who had taken that mark and wondered how many of them had not understood what it would mean. Finally he spoke.

“Do you know who Regulus Black was?”

Draco blinked at the unexpected question. “Yes. He was a relative of mine. Brother of Sirius Black.”

Harry smiled a little. Draco said nothing, waiting for Harry to continue. And so Harry did.

He told Draco everything he knew about Regulus. He told him about his family life and background, about his lifelong desire to serve the Dark Lord and the pureblood line. He told him that Regulus had been only sixteen when he received the mark. He talked about horcruxes and R.A.B. and the role he played in the war. He talked about Kreacher. All the while he traced the lines of the mark on Draco’s arm, running his fingers lightly over it.

When he was done he still didn’t release Draco’s arm, and Draco didn’t reclaim it. Harry talked about Sirius and Draco talked about his parents and aunt. They talked about the war and all the fear and anger they’d felt at the things they’d both been asked to do. They talked for hours. About everything.

It was incredibly strange whenever Harry remembered that he was sitting in his own common room, sharing secrets and scars with Draco Malfoy, his oldest enemy. But then their eyes would meet or their knees would knock together lightly and it wouldn’t seem strange at all, and that would be more frightening still.

When, without any warning at all, the whole Gryffindor gang burst through the door into the common room, Harry dropped Draco’s arm and shot back, hitting his head against an armchair.

“Hey, Harry. You alright?” Ron asked as Draco crowed with laughter.

Harry shot him a look of annoyance before turning to Ron, “Yes, I’m fine, no thanks to you. Manasa’s right.” he said sounding bitter as he massaged the back of his head, “You make big noises.”

Ron laughed and chucked a wrapped parcel at Harry’s head, “Here’s your present from Hagrid. You’re welcome.”

Notes:

I disagree with J.K. Rowling’s conjecture that Harry would likely lose the ability to speak parseltongue after his and Voldemort’s deaths. I prefer to imagine that it was not, as supposed, a trait given to Harry via old Voldy’s soul. I prefer to believe that it was a gift of Harry’s own, partly because I love the similarities between Tom Riddle and Harry. Tom was a half-blood raised by muggles who discovered he could speak to snakes and immediately used this ability to do harm. Harry was a half-blood raised by muggles who discovered he could speak to snakes and immediately used this ability to hold polite small talk with a Brazilian boa constrictor. I love the idea of Harry eventually owning a snake.

The snake in this story gets her name from a Hindu snake deity (aka a "Naga"/"Nagini"), called Manasa or Mansa Devi.

[nataliasecombe-blog]

The Fashionable Pop Music Sounds Rubbish But Nonetheless It Is The Most Profitable Genre Why

Initially of last month, an impressive assortment of standard music entitled Now That's What I Call Music! 9. The 60s !1960: Pete Greatest joins the Beatles, The group invited Pete Greatest tobecome their drummer on 12 August 1960. 4 days after hiringBest, the group left for Hamburg. The Beatles started a 48-nightresidency in Hamburg at Bruno Koschmiders Indra Club.1961: American country singer Patsy Cline becomes a mainstreampop music hit.Cline was the first feminine vocalist who adapted to thechange and have become a profitable pop singer.Ziggy Marley is born: David Nesta "Ziggy" Marley (born October 17,1968, Trenchtown, Jamaica) is a 4-time Grammy-winningJamaican musician and chief of the band Ziggy Marley and theMelody makers. Canada has an extended custom of singer-songwriters and that's partly in because of its own folksong laureate", Gordon Lightfoot. Coming out of the Toronto 60s folks music scene, Lightfoot's native country would become his lifelong muse, penning such classics as ‘Canadian Railroad Trilogy' and ‘Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald' and yet common sufficient to appeal worldwide, turning him into Canada's most profitable modern people artist. A beloved cultural icon, he's been the beneficiary of numerous awards and honours together with the Companion of the Order of Canada - Canada's highest civilian honour. Other issues are actually extra speaking factors than criticisms. What's of a greater worth, an overview or the near microhistory of one thing like Jon Savage's 1966: The yr music exploded. You want each after all, although the hazard with a survey is that it may possibly seem to shape history to its narrative. So for instance Andrew Loog Oldham was instrumental in getting the Stones rolling, however they didn't suffer as a result of leaving him as instructed here. They want on to report their biggest albums, and a number of the greatest in the style. I exaggerate, of course. No historical past can wholly keep away from classes. But Ross's place to begin is novel all the same. In Paul Griffiths's "Concise History of Trendy Music" (1978), fashionable music begins with the delicious flute solo that opens Claude Debussy's "Pr¿lude ¿ l'apr¿s-midi d'un faune" (1894), simply as for Griffiths the theories of Boulez (who first touted the idea of Debussy as founding father of modernism) are the important thing to music since World Warfare II. But Ross makes gentle, to not say enjoyable, of the "pseudoscientific mentality" of the Darmstadt summer colleges in Germany, the place Boulez and Karlheinz Stockhausen held court within the early '50s, "researching" ever more cerebral ways of writing music. Instead of Debussy, he opens twentieth-century music with the Austrian premiere in Graz in 1906 of Richard Strauss's "Salome," a piece subsequently admired for its daring and also hated for its vulgarity. As for "bad" pop, for me, there are multiple reasons. When you may have a first-tier pop artist they usually deliver a dud at the start of their album cycle (Ed Sheeran), that's an unforced error. There is also earwormy songs that quickly become tiresome, the "MmmBop"s and "Shots"s of the world, that start out annoying and get an increasing number of annoying the more it airs. Some music is just shit, there is not rather more you possibly can say about it. "Battle Track" is a pile of garbage, however it has found its area of interest viewers (divorce parties; ineffective political campaigns). More than 230 music genres is still too abundant to create a comprehensible structure that permits straightforward orientation. The necessity for a overlaying framework is a matter that can be addressed in this chapter. Certain (although few) visual genealogies choose not to implement such framework, and don't (or vaguely) display clusters of associated music genres. When coping with quite detailed genealogies similar to musicmap, omitting a visible framework would seriously hurt any sensible use the map may need. Thankfully, this framework already exists as almost all genres belong to higher, properly-known areas" in the musical community, what we will name super-genres. Super-genres are merely the mum or dad style of any given style; the next-level, overarching family. Pop music is the style of standard music that produces the most hits. Successful is a tune that sells many copies, and the latest hits are listed every week on the charts. To get on the charts, a music must be released as a single, magicaudiotools.com although most singles are additionally launched on an album. Songs that become hits almost at all times share sure features which might be generally known as the pop-music formulation. They've a very good rhythm, a catchy melody, and are straightforward to remember and sing along to. They usually have a chorus that's repeated a number of times and two or more verses. Most pop songs are between two and 5 minutes lengthy, and the lyrics are usually about the joys and issues of love and relationships. Pop songs are produced by groups like the boy band One Course and the lady group Women' Technology, and by pop singers like Justin Bieber and Madonna. It takes a strong debut track to knock the Queen of Pop, Taylor Swift, off the highest of the pop charts. And that is what Cardi B did with the historically profitable "Bodak Yellow." The swaggering hit marked the primary time a female rapper scored a solo No. 1 song since Lauryn Hill in 1998. It makes complete sense, too, as the music takes Cardi B's no-fucks-given approach to life that made her an Instagram and reality star. If that is not the right encapsulation of in style culture in 2017, then I don't know what's. You will have seen the popular video four Chords" by the Axis of Awesome wherein 4 guys cycle amusingly by means of 50 pop songs in six minutes, interweaving recycled harmonic constructions to nice impact. At any price, you've actually heard these chords earlier than, again and again. Utilizing the Roman numerals of music concept, we could label them I, IV, and V, the bread and butter of the blues, along with the minor chord, vi. In the key of C, that might be C main, F main, G major, and A minor. The 4 chords will be arranged in a number of methods, and the Axis of Awesome make use of this by shuffling by songs which include completely different orderings, using their widespread chords to pivot.

Based on a crack group of Spanish philistines (using a complex snarkhive referred to as the Million Music Dataset), over the previous 55 years there has been "a progressive homogenization of the musical discourse." Which means transitions between combos of notes and chords has diminished: songs have much less modifications in them, and are less completely different from one another. As well as, the researchers used sophisticated algorithms to prove that pop music has change into considerably louder than it was in the course of the first half of the twentieth century, as record producers ramp up the quantity throughout the recording process.

[saigontimemd]

Some thoughts on Tobias Forge, Prequelle, and the song “Witch Image” in particular

So it’s pretty obvious Prequelle is most definitely the most personal Ghost album yet; Opus Eponymous and Infestissumam are both relatively neutral or even plural in speaker/narrator (bonus tracks aside, the only “I” on either record come in “Jigolo Har Megiddo,” while the most common pronouns are “our,” “your,” and “we.”), while Meliora ratchets it up a bit with “Cirice” and “Mummy Dust,” both featuring a lot of “I”s and “me”s, but leaving the rest of the record neutral. In Prequelle, on the other hand, there are a TON of “I”s and “me”s, as well as a great deal more of “you”s than in past releases; the songs function much more as a dialogue between a direct speaker and listener, rather than a dictation or recitation (from the text LOL).

I’m not here to judge whether that’s necessarily a good thing or a bad thing right now - even though I love the album, the old vague angsty metal “you”s and “I”s are a little grating to me personally, and I hope Forge goes back to a more impersonal writing style in the next release - just to theorize about some of the music, specifically the song “Witch Image.”

Out of the seven songs with lyrics on the album, five of them - “Rats,” “Faith,” “See the Light,” and “Pro Memoria,” and “Witch Image” - feature references to falsehoods, betrayal, slander, libel, etc. Strip away the theatre, organs, and the R-rolling, and we’re almost to hardcore punk levels of talking about being stabbed in the back. Three of them (”Rats,” “Faith,” and “See the Light”) are directly confrontational, while “Pro Memoria” makes a reference to slander as a waste of time in the face of impending death. No doubt the ex-Ghost members currently suing him are the primary motivations for this subject matter fixation.

But then there’s “Witch Image.”

Although he’s talking about the suit as an ongoing thing, Forge has been understandably tight-lipped about his part in things, always careful to present himself as nothing but the sympathetic, wronged party - something his former bandmates are contending with pretty damn strong language. The truth, as with most suits, is probably somewhere in the middle of “Tobias Forge is a manipulative sociopath” and “Tobias Forge is real bad with making sure people in his band are on the same page as he is,” but you’ve got to wonder what’s going on in Forge’s mind. The “take that” songs give a pretty good impression, but “Witch Image” also stands out as something of an anomaly, hinting at another layer below “how dare you say those things about me.”

While “Rats,” “Faith,” “See the Light,” and “Pro Memoria” all come across as pretty self-righteous, “Witch Image” appears to be in the same vein, but the more I listen to it, the more I think it’s actually the opposite. It’s not punching down at someone trying to drag the singer down to their level, it’s punching up:

You have never stood this close to where you want to be You have always waded in the shallows between me and the deep blue sea You'd never want me to appear, you never want this to be over You never want it to reach out to the edge of time

The singer is addressing someone who is absolutely tortured with reluctance, someone who’s sort of beat around the bush, scared of success, but now has reached the point in their life where everything they’ve worked so hard for is finally within their reach. The listener, as it were, both never wants this success to end, but also never wants it to not end. They’re stuck in a paradox.

While you sleep in earthly delight Someone's flesh is rotting tonight Like no other to you What you've done, you cannot undo

This first chorus hits like a ton of bricks, and - at least to me - what the song is really about becomes crystal clear. The listener has achieved comfort and/or success, an enjoyable state, but someone else is paying the price for it. “What you’ve done, you cannot undo” isn’t sanctimony, it’s regret.

I have always kept you closer than you've known I am riding in the shadows behind you on a pale white horse

The listener here has always been capable of achieving this success that they’re both drawn to and repulsed by, but they leave destruction in their wake, followed by Death itself. Note, however, that this doesn’t rationalize the destruction as something necessary, but rather just a natural by-product.

While you sleep in earthly delight Still your soul will suffer this plight Like your father in Hell, What you've sold you cannot unsell

If the first chorus didn’t make this obvious enough, here it really hits: the listener has sold out, plain and simple. They’ve given up everything else important to them for this dream, but they’ve damned themselves in the bargain. This version of the chorus is particularly noteworthy because it makes mention of a sinful father - and the fans know that Forge had a less-than-stellar relationship with his father/stepmother side of his family.

While you sleep in earthly delight Still, your soul will suffer this plight But like a mother would save Her own child from digging a grave

Another possible reference to Forge’s past, this time with his mother and brother (the grave, we can infer, is Forge’s older brother’s), further showcasing the divide in his family relationships. The phrase ends the song unresolved, as if the thought can’t complete itself. It’s probably the most personal cut on the album.

I guess what all this messy analysis boils down to is this: I think this is also definitely a “take that!” song, but I think Tobias wrote it at himself, not the ex-band members this time. Up to this point, he hasn’t expressed any real regret over the events that led to the suit, and, as long as the suit is ongoing, he probably never will. But this song seems to be as much of an admission of regret, if not guilt, as we’ll ever get. Forge not only knows what he’s done is wrong, but is well aware of the consequences, of the numerous bridges he’s burned, of the friends he’s betrayed, all to achieve rock stardom that seems to only be arguably worth it. One wonders if he’ll end up losing more face as the suit progresses, or if the part of him responsible for “Witch Image” might break through and he’ll own up to it.