#but it's not entirely out of greed nor is it at all out of malice

[dnangelic]

i feel like dark has the tendency to disappoint one mun's expectations after another bc yeah he looks the way he does but then he's like. he's easy to rile up but it's difficult to actually get him to fight (because of daisuke) and he's never killed anyone + he's chaotic good and not human and his entire basis of theft operates on that so his morality turns blue and orange to some people + he's a flirt but as soon as anybody actually starts showing signs of interest in him all of his internal sirens and warning bells start going off so he starts to avoid them and push them away + a very real part of his true, legitimate personality is tsundere and awkward as hell + he's cringe + despite it all, the power of love is very real to him

[high-priest-of-battoo]

I do not hate the creator because I hate the world, nor do I hate him for in a roundabout way creating sentient life.

The world is beautiful even with all of the hardship and strife.

Especially since most of the world's problems are caused by humankind. That we know of.

The world is beautiful because it is full of love and it is the responsibility of every sentient creature to spread this beauty.

You see the creator made a massive universe full of wonders; countless planets, stars, and everything in between. But selfishly he did not make anything to see and admire. The universe itself however through a stroke of luck accidentally created something that could comprehend it once the creator had already abandoned it

Let's cast our minds to the first homo erectus who through some random genetic mutation developed a soul. Let's imagine them as a mother. At some point that first soulful being looked down at its newborn baby and realized that suddenly for the first time in its whole life, it was no longer entirely alone. Then it looked to the stars the same stars above us today and hoped for the first time that the babe in their arms would never fear predators, that it would be free of disease, that it would never know the crushing loneliness that their mother, that it would know the taste of fresh fruit and meat, of cool water, that it would feel the sun's warmth and the wind's caress. It prayed that that baby would have a better life than they did.

And for the rest of human history that has been the most common prayer. The prayer of serfs and slaves. The prayer of mothers and fathers. The prayer of children and their grandparents. The prayer of people rich and poor. Of people living in the present and those living in the past.

The creator heard every one of those prayers. He listened to the first mother and simply didn't care.

He did not care when the first mother's first babe knew starvation more than they knew joy.

He did not care when the slave's child grew up to inherit only their parent's labor and suffering.

He did not care when the soldier's child was forced into a war twice as horrific as his father.

I hate the creator not for his malice but for his indifference.

I give my power to the true-hearted gods so that one day generations from now those prayers may be answered.

So that no child is forced to go hungry, that no person has to die from disease, that all know the love of family and friends, and the wonder and awe of the the beautiful universe.

I pray to the gods so that the creator will one day be bound in the chains of Bat’too and snuffed out. So that vengeance may be taken upon the creator who saw the love and the beauty of the universe and was content to let it wither and rot on the vine.

And to those who would follow in the footsteps of the creator, I will say this.

There are no pockets in shrouds. One day you will die and future generations will spit upon your graves and curse your names for your cruelty and greed.

[fcb4]

The Vikings are raiding, the people are degenerates, the clergy are corrupted and the leaders of the kingdom are brigands…so cries the Bishop known as: The Wolf

🔥🔥🔥 Bishop Wulfstan: Sermon of the Wolf to the English written c1009🔥🔥🔥

“Beloved men, know that which is true: this world is in haste and it nears the end.”

The State of the Nation:

And in short, the laws of God are hated and his teaching despised; therefore we all are fre­quent­ly disgraced through God’s anger, let him know it who is able. And that loss will be­come universal, although one may not think so, to all these people, unless God protects us. Therefore it is clear and well seen in all of us that we have previously more often trans­gressed than we have amended, and therefore much is greatly assailing this nation.

No­thing has prospered now for a long time either at home or abroad, but there has been military devastation and hunger, burning and blood­shed in nearly every district time and again. And stealing and slaying, plague and pesti­lence, murrain and disease, malice and hate, and the robbery by robbers have injured us very terribly.

And excessive taxes have afflicted us, and storms have very often caused failure of crops; therefore in this land there have been, as it may appear, many years now of injustices and unstable loyalties everywhere among men. Now very often a kinsman does not spare his kinsman any more than the foreigner, nor the father his children, nor sometimes the child his own father, nor one brother the other.

Neither has any of us ordered his life just as he should, neither the ecclesiastic according to the rule nor the lay­man according to the law, but we have trans­formed desire into laws for us entirely too often, and have kept neither precepts nor laws of God or men just as we should.

Neither has anyone had loyal intentions with respect to others as justly as he should, but almost everyone has deceived and injured another by words and deeds; and indeed almost everyone unjustly stabs the other from behind with shameful assaults and with wrongful accusa­tions — let him do more, if he may.

The Sin of Sex Trafficking

“Also we know well where this crime has occurred, and it is shame­ful to speak of that which has happened too widely. And it is terrible to know what too many do often, those who for a while carry out a miserable deed, who contribute together and buy a woman as a joint purchase between them and practice foul sin with that one woman, one after another, and each after the other like dogs that care not about filth; and then for a price they sell a creature of God – His own purchase that He bought at a great cost – into the power of enemies.”

“And many mis­fortunes befall this nation time and again: things have not prospered now for a long time neither at home nor abroad, but there has been destruction and hate in every district time and again, and the English have been entirely defeated for a long time now, and very truly disheartened through the anger of God”

We Pay Our Abusers:

“But all the insult that we often suffer, we repay by honoring those who insult us. We pay them continually and they humiliate us daily; they ravage and they burn, plunder and rob and carry to the ship; and lo! what else is there in all these happenings except God’s anger clear and evident over this nation?”

Sins of the people:

It is no wonder that there is mishap among us: because we know full well that now for many years men have too often not cared what they did by word or deed; but this nation, as it may appear, has become very corrupt through manifold sins and through many misdeeds: through murder and through evil deeds, through avarice and through greed, through stealing and through robbery, through man-selling and through heathen vices, through betrayals and through frauds, through attacks on kinsmen and through manslaughter, through injury of men in holy orders and through adultery, through incest and through various fornications. And also, far and wide, as we said before, more than should be are lost and perjured through the breaking of oaths and through violations of pledges, and through various lies; and non-observances of church feasts and fasts widely occur time and again. And also there are here in the land God’s adversaries, degenerate apostates, and hos­tile persecutors of the Church and entirely too many grim tyrants, and widespread des­pisers of divine laws and Christian virtues, and foolish deriders everywhere in the nation, most often of those things that the messengers of God command, and especially those things that always belong to God’s law by right.

Here in the country, as it may appear, too many are sorely wounded by the stains of sin. Here there are, as we said before, man­slayers and murderers of their kinsmen, and murderers of priests and persecutors of monas­teries, and traitors and notorious apostates, and here there are perjurers and mur­derers, and here there are injurers of men in holy orders and adulterers, and people greatly corrupted through incest and through various fornica­tions, and here there are harlots and infanti­cides and many foul adulterous fornicators, and here there are witches and sorceresses, and here there are robbers and plunderers and pilf­erers and thieves, and injurers of the people and pledge-breakers and treaty-breakers, and, in short, a countless number of all crimes and misdeeds.  And we are not at all ashamed of it, but we are greatly ashamed to begin the remedy just as the books teach, and that is evident in this wretched and corrupt nation.

Sins of the Clergy:

And entirely too many holy religious foundations have deterior­at­ed because some men have previously been placed in them who ought not to have been, if one wished to show respect to God’s sanc­tuary.

And that came about, just as he said, through breach of rule by the clergy… through the sloth of the bishops and folly, and through the wicked cowardice of messengers of God, who swallowed the truths entirely too often and they mumbled through their jaws where they should have cried out”

And therefore things have now come far and wide to that full evil way that men are more ashamed now of good deeds than of misdeeds; because too often good deeds are abused with derision and the Godfearing are blamed entirely too much, and especially are men reproached and all too often greeted with contempt who love right and have fear of God to any extent.

[1piece-for-you]

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭 — 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

[𝐀𝐒𝐊] - 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨😊𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 — 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐒𝐋... 𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐄𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐊𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫?🙏🏼 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬𝐬𝐬

[𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄] - 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐀𝐒𝐋! 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐊𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. 

━━ 𝐄𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐊𝐢𝐝𝐝

— In the eyes of the public, Kidd is indisputably an uncontrollable savage; a menace that is shrouded in death and terror. He stands with an unwavering form that spits ichor and acid towards every authoritarian, barbarian, and civilian in his path, and his crew proudly shares the same sentiments as their captain, for they are just as ravenous and power-hungry as Kidd.

— And as his lover, a sense of pride thrums beneath your skin whenever you read headlines detailing the Kid Pirate’s most recent bloodshed. It is a thrilling sensation, knowing that Kidd possesses such monstrous strength, yet he treats you so wonderfully gentle with the right degree of roughness. 

— The strong grasp Kidd has on you are both enthralling and welcomed. The implication of being kept in his hardened arms with no escape never ceases to send biting tingles down the curve of your spine. His possessive behavior towards you is no secret; the mad scowl resembling that of hellhounds were enough to signal to all the unworthy individuals that you were undoubtedly claimed by him.

— Though selfish mannerism is befitting for the walking explosive that is Eustass Captain Kidd, the word jealousy never did quite seem to belong in his vocabulary. 

— And you were inclined to believe such a notion; Kidd is incredibly brazen with his earthly desires and greed for treasures he deems worthy of belonging in his collection. There never existed a reason for him to be jealous since the planets were constantly aligned in his favor. Whatever his target was, it will inevitably end up in his clutches.

— But the truth is, that attitude was only retained until you stepped into Kidd’s life. All the people he held in his bed before were for cheap, fleeting pleasure, and the materialistic goods in his possession are nothing more than replaceable, inanimate objects. You do not, nor ever will, belong in either of those categories; you are too precious to be labeled as anything other than Kidd’s treasured lover. 

— And so, after officializing your relationship, an unforeseen development was occurring within Kidd’s psyche. In the open air, where his sharp eyes take notice of the lingering gazes and judging stares your presence attracts, a newfound threat looms behind him. The sickly green claws of jealousy ropes around his neck, clawing at his throat to shout threats of murder towards any and all of your pursuers. 

— He would never admit it, but the slumbering insecurity buried deep in his metallic heart had finally awoken, rearing its ugly head whenever jealousy seeps into the cracks of his frame. 

— While you are considerate of Kidd’s feelings and would genuinely never wish for him to feel even the slightest bit of distress, your more sadistic side is a little too tempted to garner this reaction out of him. And as destructive as his rampages could be, which hinders the livelihood of both the innocent and Kid Pirates themselves, the entertainment you derive from them is intoxicating.

— There is plenty to notice of Kidd’s hostile behavior during his jealous outbreaks; the prominent veins throbbing on his neck, the faded white on the knuckles of his clenched fists, the feral eyes of a beast that craves red to be spilled. It is these same details that made Kidd so alluring in the first place.

— The most notable event of Kidd lashing out was when journalists for the News Coos had sought you out for an exclusive interview on your boyfriend. It was during one of those rare occasions when you had the privilege of self-isolation whenever visiting a relatively secluded island. Being asked to an interview was certainly a strange occurrence, but otherwise, you gladly accepted their invitation, just for the pure enjoyment you would receive when Kidd learns of this; it was sure to be a spectacle. 

— And oh, how right you were. You would even dare to compare the next morning of cotton candy and yellow rays to a night of vivid, scattered fireworks. The imaginary sparks that flew from the grinding of his teeth and the vicious glare that was scorching the newspaper to char as he traced the front headlines; the sight alone had undoubtedly left you high on cloud nine. A shame that Kidd did not share your view on the matter. The article was entirely laced with inflated lies and pompous descriptions courtesy of you, which the journalists easily lapped up, but those details were not what pressed Kidd’s gears.

— The picture accompanying the interview was none other than one of you; a quaint, charming photo that encapsulated your smile. It seemed that the editors deemed photos of Kidd to be both unnecessary and tasteless; he is a renowned pirate, his fiery red and crazed snarl is engraved into everyone’s mind. And so, that day’s newspaper had essentially settled you in the limelight. For that, he was livid beyond the orbit; he was furiously seething. You were swarmed with harmless threats, stuttered quibbles, and poorly disguised compliments for nearly a week.

— “How can you interact with these nobodies?” “If you wanted to talk about me, then I’m right here to listen, you know!” “Why would you let someone take a picture of you? Now the world will see how-! They’ll know about your existence!” “How dare you look so- look so damn cute!” - How brazen of you, to find a riled up Eustass Kidd be your guilty pleasure.

— But you know his limits, as any lover should when it concerns their partners, and to calm down that brute of yours, you resort to the two most effective methods; hushed whispers of sweet honey and melting wax, or close contact of bodies with not even a hairsbreadth of space in between. 

—But really, it never matters what you do, Kidd is always happy to indulge your needs and his own, especially if it rids that grotesque, sliver of doubt that nips at his mind as he drowns himself in the nectar of ecstasy. As long as you remain by his side and in his embrace, he will be content, and the same goes for you.

━━ 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

— Killer is a dangerous man. He is the manifestation of dreading silence and disguisable malice; his mere presence of which that is both suffocating and daunting never ceases to send his foes onto trembling knees. It is honestly a shame that people allow his estranged mask to cloud their better judgment and underestimate his true strength, for they would be no different from mindless sheep wandering into the wolf’s den.  

— But perhaps there is some delight to be found in the fact that the masses remain ignorant of Killer’s more feral side, which lies beneath his metal veil of mystery and obscurity. Though, the real pleasure of it all truly descends upon your core when you are graciously given the chance to witness him succumb to the boiling heat of jealousy.

— Killer may be the level-headed one of the crew, with his silent bravado and hardened resolution, but that simply means he is more capable of hiding his true intentions. In a sort of absurdly humorous way, Killer could be compared to the infamous Pandora’s box; dare yourself to probe the enigma and be rewarded the gift of miserable consequences. 

— Typically, it would be an utter chore to garner any sort of instinctual response laced in ire from Killer; his patience and composure do rarely snap, but then again, it may be due to the iron pride he latches onto that refuses to falter in the face of his enemies. Well, whatever the incentive is, Killer effortlessly deflects and counters any shunning whims and mockery throttled his way, no matter the level of triviality in the situation. 

— And yet, when those supposedly trifling incidences drag you into its cesspool of festering problems, a rivulet of frigid panic whirls within him. There was something so prolifically revolting about heeding his lover involved in such situations, and that bitter inkling only deepens when he finds some weak nobodies casting empty promises and vapid flirts at you. The confinement in his chest would be too tight, suffocating his velvet rope in endless unease; it was impossible for him to ignore it, to ignore the desire to show you were his. 

— Now, Killer will never act out so intrusively at a scale that would cause you discomfort; he greatly respects your boundaries and privacy, shown through his timid head tilts and hovering hands as he waits for your confirmation to coddle you in tender intimacy. But sometimes, Killer’s need for a release from the thrumming tension and frustration distorts his reasoning, whether in the form of cloaked malice or blatant aggression. 

—  If it is the former, Killer would quietly come in between you and the other party with feigned formalities and subtle contact. His bold assertions range from small doting to shameless proximity; a brush of his bronze skin against your own warmth, a possessive embrace around your waist to pull you back against his steel frame, a shift of view to his mask, where you knew that Killer was riddling you with all his passion and reverence through his masked gaze.

— Ah, even the smallest of his grazes has your mind muddled in pink sugar.

— But as much as his fervid touches leave you teeming in a swirl of rousing electricity, there was no denying that the sparking sensation utterly surges when he follows up with a more assertive approach. And oh my, how his killing intent permeates the atmosphere when he is edged on by the crawling eyesore of your flatterer laying their sullied claws on your petaled features.

— Really now, just who did those specks of grime think they were, to project themselves upon you so invasively? Slamming an object down may be enough to scare off your contriving admirers, but the temptation to simply utilize his raw, brute power to ensure they never awake from their slumber was just too much of a rush for him to reject. However, Killer is more civilized when it pertains to social settings, so brawls prompted by him are not a common affair; but you could still list the numerous times he punched somebody for more warranted reasons, especially when they unmindfully slip themselves into your space by force.

— But the part that swoons your heart into torrid oblivion are the aftermaths of any of his invidious turmoils, when your ever so reserved giant, who can be reduced to melted chocolate and thawed hearts with a touch of your own, returns to you with a shameful expression. Through the veneer for his unmerited insecurity, you could vividly picture the confliction swimming in the depths of his cerulean eyes. 

— As unreasonable as it may sound, Killer is entangled in the firm belief that you had this sparkling image of him where he is this reposeful, yet formidable pirate who also happens to be the ideal boyfriend. It is this same notion that spurs Killer to play the role of a perfect lover; the unfortunate product of his childhood, where he spent years in hiding out of self-doubt. And so, when he finds himself reacting senselessly violent towards a mundane situation, fueled by nothing more than petty feelings, he is inclined to believe that he somehow has broken your trust.

— So it is in your best interest that you remind him of just how perfect he already was, how you adore his qualities, his potential, and his flaws; Killer does so much to deserve that melodic reassurance. Imagine, the radiant blissfulness that would cocoon his being once your comforting voice sends honey swirling through his body. And besides, his possessive arrays are enticing performances, because everything Killer does for you was just so profoundly romantic, even with the couple splashes of crimson here and there.

— Of course, there are other traits of Killer’s for you to wholly cherish him for other than the ones that lean towards his violent streak, but how can you gloss over such displays of ferocity without proper appreciation? He deserves at least some slick pressure poured in with unbridled love and infinite urges, from the top of his crown to the underside of his jagged jawline; perhaps even lower if you are ever so daring.

[thebibliomancer]

Archaia’s Jim Henson’s The Dark Crystal Age of Resistance #12

The Journey into the Mondo Levidian Part 4

In this installment, they do not journey into the Mondo Levidian at all. Maybe this should have been titled Into the Guts and Back Again: A Gelfling’s Tale.

In part one, newly All-Maudra’d Mayrin deals with a Sifan separatist crisis but also plenty of unresolved mother-induced insecurity issues. She charters a ride with Captain Kam’Lu to speak to the separatist leader Fenth but a sea monster sinks the ship.

In part two, Mayrin and Kam’Lu are adrift at sea on a raft following the sinking but then they get eaten by a sea monster. The two meet the monster gut dwelling Boblings and learn that they have a limited time before the Mondo Levidian returns to the deeps and then there’ll be no escape for a trine. With the Bobling King’s daughter Gunda, the two set off on a journey out of the Mondo Levidian.

In part three, Mayrin, Kam’Lu, and Gunda set off on a journey to the Mondo Levidian’s porticol and fight a lot of Zoa. Mayrin and Kam’Lu become friends on the basis of name-shortening. And Mayrin flies Kam’Lu out of the closing porticol to save him from Zoa and prove her mom wrong.

So they’re out of the giant fish so what more is left of the story at this point? The answer is beneath the keep reading.

So let’s get started!

Dot arrives on SkekSa’s totally sweet monster/ship which she is very proud of.

SkekSa: “Greetings and welcome to the greatest behemoth in the Silver Sea, Ambassador Dot’leth! You’re aboard an unstoppable ship built with Skeksis ingenuity. Does our mastery of nature itself make you tremble in awe?”

Dot: “I assume you mean the second greatest behemoth in the Silver Sea, considering the attack on the Sifan ship that cost the lives of All-Maudra Mayrin and Captain Kam’Lu --”

SkekSa: “Well, yes, that was reported... but the captain of this ship has yet to find any proof of the alleged creature that destroyed the Sifan ship.”

Now, at first blush, this seems like SkekSa slipping up and accidentally admitting culpability like Prince Humperdinck in Princess Bride and his fastest ships.

But when the Mondo Levidian emerges from underwater, SkekSa goes from ‘what the heck’ to ‘i WANT that.’

SkekSa: “Second-greatest behemoth in the sea... bah! What does that ignorant old Vapran know about the sea! The only monsters here are --”

Mondo Levidian: -emerges-

SkekSa: “Oh. What other secrets are hiding in this infernal world...?”

And

SkekSa: “It’s been many trine since SkekSa discovered such a wonder -- and a majestic creature such as this deserves a naming ceremony! Vassa... You will be mine! The Mariner sails only the greatest creature -- er, ship -- in all of Thra!”

I had been assuming that the Mondo Levidian attack was a conspiracy by SkekSa to seize power for her preferred Gelfling clan. But it seems like it was just crazy random happenstance that she and Fenth got opportunistic over.

Also, holy crap, Dot has a full name?

And Fenth and Dot are implied to have History, being a little awkward around each other.

Over on top of the sea monster, Mayrin and Kam’Lu discover that the Zoa (led by the Zoa wearing clothes. The Necrozoa?) are following them up and out of the porticol. Mayrin and Kam’Lu have to take to the air again to try to escape to SkekSa’s ship.

Watching all of this happen, SkekSa settles on ‘bored of this.’

SkekSa: “New plan. SkekSa doesnt’ care anymore about your Gelfling squabbles.”

Fenth: “But...! But....! You said I could have power! We had a deal!”

SkekSa: “And SkekSa is bored of politics. I want that creature. I will be unstoppable, and all of Thra will be mine to explore! Entire lands waiting to be named -- named after me!”

I kind of like that SkekSa’s priorities are 1) Giant monsters, 2) Naming a lot of shit after herself, 3) The Sifan, I guessss. 2.5) is probably ‘ugh Skeksis politics uuugh.’

Mayrin manages to lead most of the Zoa swarm in front of the Mondo Levidian which jumps up and eats them.

She lands on the deck of SkekSa’s ship and has a moment with Kam’Lu.

This very good friendship has just become a kissing relationship.

It has been a hell of an enemies to lovers for them, huh?

The remaining Zoa and the Zoa-in-clothes, identified as being a queen Zoa? land on SkekSa’s dreadnought and Mayrin declares that the Zoa stand before a United Thra “Vapran courage and Sifan honor!” and for the Zoa to turn back or be destroyed.

Then there’s a massive Zoa vs Gelfling fight scene with SkekSa yelling for them to get off her ship.

I adore her.

Fenth gets upset that Mayrin is uniting the Sifa and Vapra and decides ‘hey, all kinds of things can happen in the heat of combat’ and throws an entire ass sword at Mayrin’s back.

But Kam’Lu blocks the attack with the goo shield (which he evidently kept). And its a bit of a broken pedestal moment considering Kam’Lu’s personality in issue one was ‘hey did you hear this cool stuff Fenth is saying??’

Kam’Lu: “Vile traitor! I trusted you! I believed in your lies and your wisdom! I thought you would lead us to something better... But you are the poison to all Gelfling-kind -- a poison I can no longer willingly imbibe!”

Good for you, Kam’Lu.

The war against the bugs ends when Mayrin stabs the queen Zoa in the eye and yells a defiant speech to her.

Mayrin: Queen, I am not one for violence -- But I will resort to it if I must! I will do whatever is necessary to save my kind -- just like you. We are the same! Please! Turn away! Turn away and end this needless bloodshed!”

And the queen Zoa does.

Whether actually moved or cowed by Mayrin’s speech or because she’s smart enough not to go in for sunk cost, the queen and the remaining Zoa take off.

Good job, Mayrin.

Although, it is funny that you tried to sue for peace when you earlier described the queen Zoa as “a monster filled with blind hate, resentment, and beastly rage. Something born in the pit of despair and darkness... Something that knows only hunger and power.”

But it won’t be the first time that Gelfling were way off in regards to the Arathim slash offshoots, nor the last.

Still, it feels right that the final boss of Mayrin’s plot was a giant monster queen wearing her mother’s clothes that she fends off by confidently telling to buzz off.

Fenth tries to blame the whole situation on Mayrin for leading the bugs to the ship, which is technically true. But Kam’Lu has become Mayrin’s biggest supporter because the boy believes with all his heart.

Kam’Lu: “You’re wrong! Mayrin is here because she had to save us at all costs! She is here because she is fighting to keep the seven clans together! She has been through a bizarre adventure, struggling through the stomach of monsters unknown!”

“I was just like Fenth -- I distrusted Mayrin because she was a Vapran. But Mayrin has saved my life too many times to count. She proved her strength in the toothrakes! She outwitted the horrifying King Bobling! She fought bravely and earned the respect of the greatest warrior of Bajula! She is what the Sifa clan needs. What all Gelfling need! In the darkness of the Mondo Leviadin, Mayrin led the way. I believe in her.”

“LONG LIVE ALL-MAUDRA MAYRIN!”

“And I swear, from this day to my last, when my body is taken by Thra, that I will fight for her -- by her side. As her friend... Her captain... Her...”

And then he trails off there because Mayrin holds his hand and the poor boy only has so much processing power.

Also, he kinda embellished Mayrin’s accomplishments by saying she outwitted the “horrifying” Bobling King. That guy was a kitten.

The Sifan Maudra is intrigued by all this love biz and asks Mayrin what she would do if the Sifans do decide to leave the clans.

Mayrin: “If we are to separate, then the seas will weep for the lonely Sifa clan. The mountains of Ha’rar will shake in the bitter Vapran gales. We must be the shining light of Thra -- together!”

“We are the living monuments of everything that touches us, be it the good and warm that gives us hope... or the malice and greed that drives us down darker paths. And... I wear my mother’s colors. I know it. I feel it -- I accept it. But I am not my mother.”

“I promise that I will bleed for you! I will fight for you! I will break my body in half to ensure that you have yours! To sail the sea as you see fit! So please, give me the chance to prove it to you! Give me the chance to fail and to succeed! if you do... Perhaps we may all grow old together -- knowing what unity is meant to be... knowing what love is --”

WOO!

Fenth is less than thrilled. Not just for his thwarted ambitions but because SkekSa has thoroughly gotten sick of him and is probably annoyed that she had to sit through all these speeches without even getting a giant sea monster.

She grabs him and drags him away through the crowd while everyone is distracted being jubilant.

SkekSa: “Take a long look at the Silver Sea, Fenth -- It will be many trine before you witness it again... Skeksis friend SkekTek the Scientist has plans for Gelfling who fail!”

Huh. Wonder what that means. This is way too soon for draining to be on the table.

Later, WEDDING TIME!

On the cliff above Raunip’s pass, the Sifan and Vapran come together for the wedding of Mayrin and Kam’Lu.

Dot assumes that Mayrin chose the venue so she can fly Raunip’s Pass with the power of love but Mayrin chose the venue so she can deliberately not do that because she’s done following her mom’s path.

Mayrin: “You have taught me the most important thing, Kam’Lu -- that I am the only one responsible for the path I fly. That we must all chart our own path -- and that we cannot do that when the dense cloud of grief fogs our vision. And that to be my best self -- no matter who it is that I am -- I must be myself. Faults and failures and scars and all. Understanding that acceptance is not the same as failure. We must think of the future of our kind.”

Its also implied that Mayrin is already pregnant as she declares that she’ll name her firstborn Seladon, after Mayrin’s mother.

... It is incredibly ironic. Mayrin declares that she’s going to set her own path and then chooses her mother’s name for her daughter. The daughter that she’s going to repeat a lot of Seladon I’s parenting mistakes with, giving Seladon II a whopping case of insecurity and unfortunately no character building adventure with a hunky sea captain.

Hm. I wonder what happens with Kam’Lu. That whole family situation probably would have been less of a timebomb with him around. Alas, the sea is a harsh mistress. Full of fish and salt.

So, the last arc of Archaia’s Jim Henson’s Dark Crystal Age of Resistance comics. I still have two of the YA novels to read but with the cancellation of the show, who can say when there will be more comics.

But the comic ends strong. We visit another parent when they’re young and get to see more wild Thra life. We get to see SkekSa! She’s a delight. We get to see another side of the Sifan than the brief appearances in the show.

Thanks for the good times, Archaia’s Jim Henson’s The Dark Crystal Age of Resistance comic.

[comic-the-adventurer]

There was nothing.

“Nothing.”

What did “nothing” imply?

What did “nothing” mean?

What did it mean to say there was nothing?

For him to say that he was nowhere, with nothing around him, he had to know what that truly meant. He couldn’t misidentify his surroundings yet again. Not now. Not after he finally might have time to stitch together his disjointed thoughts. His heart jumped at the thought of falling short. Before something changed again, the answer needed to be found.

When you think of “nothing,” what's the first thing that comes to mind? A black void? An empty room? Void is something. Emptiness is something. What’s nothing? If you’d define “nothing” as simply, absolutely nothing -- no sound, no entity, no visual, no existence -- to the point where if Mist-Jun begged you to believe he was nowhere with nothing, that alone would prove it to be yet one more devious lie. (No. He wouldn’t perform another elaborate lie. Out of everything that gets entangled in his tattered thoughts, he will forever be haunted by what banished him “here.” It’s the one thing he can remember)

He realized: He couldn’t be in an area with nothing inherently. No matter how empty it felt at times, no matter how hollow his heart felt, if looking upwards, there was always that rarely-spinning cot mobile. The mobile that always remained in the same place no matter how far he thought he strayed; as long as he looked above himself, it was always there. Even if the rest of the forever looping “room” was empty, there was always the golden cot mobile -- he was never certainly with nothing.

Although, maybe “cot mobile” doesn’t quite describe it well. In a mobile, pendants are connected to a base that spins slowly. This one had neither. He’d argue it’s more like an endless, lightless chandelier that began who-knows-where. There is no ceiling; just where the chandelier faded away -- No visible start to the mobile, just an end.

The chandelier was barely visible from shadow when he first awoke here. Originally, it appeared as a small, golden dot from his perspective. With how far it rested from the "floor," he barely noticed it at that time. The more time passes, the longer it grows, he'd realized at one point.

Until then, he was convinced time stood still where he was, all while earth continued to live on as suffered. The thought likely came from how long those mysterious voices revealed he was punished to spend in this looping, blank world a few...years?...ago.

The chandelier, he was certain, was the lock keeping him in this ominous realm.

Just like everything else here, the patterns on the cot mobile periodically changes, it seems. Never when he's looking, though; always when he turns his back.

It's never unusual or unnerving for him to recognize the patterns in the chandelier; familiarity always gave him a feeling of safety.

...

Not always.

Sometimes, he views the patterns with fear.

The patterns came in lines; one set of symbols repeated themselves until the line was over. The farther down on the chandelier, the shorter the line. It occurred to him, one day, if that meant the mobile would inevitably be forced to stop growing.

He wondered what would happen then.

The more he studied the symbols on the mobile, the more he realized some shapes were recurrent: Nearly always, there was a silhouette of him and a woman dancing. He smiles when seeing this symbol, knowing it was fortunate this was a common pattern; had it not been for this, he might have forgotten about them by now. Completely and entirely, he means. That encrypted, dance partner on the chandelier reminded him of who? It's not the first time he's thought about them. He knows their name, even if it must’ve been buried into the back of his head unknowingly. He promised never to forget them. Who was it? Don’t forget them, Mist.

Don’t forget them.

Don’t forget them.

Don’t forget them.

It was strange.

When he’d first awoke in this endless chamber of immeasurable darkness, he was only reminded of what led him there by those ghastly voices that were kind enough to warn him of his crimes. Otherwise, he’d be forever wandering these tainted halls without a clue of what banished him here.

This shadow-shrouded dungeon has become a prison to him. A special prison, just for him. With the years he’s spent here, he’s given up hope of escaping from this blighted chamber or finding himself released if he remains patient. With the years he’s spent here, he’s given up hope of getting answers to what the red handcuffs encircling his wrists represent or what the green shackles entangling his ankles mean.

With the years he’s spent here, he’s given up hope of trying to get answers for anything anymore.

They’ve likely forgotten him.

Not them, the voices, he means.

He’s been abandoned with no one coming back.

He hasn’t heard those voices respond to him since day one. Not just voices -- he needed to specify. Those voices. The voices that explained why he was imprisoned here when he’d first awaken, that’s who he was yearning to hear. The only other voices he’s heard in here are rather unsettling whispers that, though uncommon, seem to come from merging and shifting walls…

...And…

...of course…

...that familiar lullaby that rarely sings from the cot mobile.

It comes in waves.

Day-and-night cycles are far from identifiable to him (Here in this domain, he could identify one, and only one, cycle: "safe stage" and "danger stage.") but, over time, it grew increasingly obvious the faint melody was periodic, performing in random order. He would never know when it would start. Nor why - despite his relentless search for answers, he will forever be rooted in a world filled with simply empty non-existence.

Chills swept over him.

He couldn’t help but feel embarrassed he hadn’t recognized the person who whispered that song sooner.

Although, even then, the first time he was struck by this gentle song, he could recognize the medieval folktale hidden beneath the soft-spoken lyrics easily. This song was about one of their traditional acts, he noticed. Upon the first time he heard the lyrics, it was about the ancient belief that, if you scribbled your deepest desire on a scrap of paper, slipping it into a glass bottle and watch it safely sail past the ocean horizon, one day, you’ll find your wish has become a reality.

…

There’s a strange connection he felt resonate between the lullaby and him.

Down to the singer.

The lyrics.

The melody.

The--

...

Focus, Mist-Jun.

Should the time come he gather the strength to search through the fogged memories of his tragic past well enough, his recollections had told him that...he...used to cast wishes into the sea himself;

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

Could not.

It couldn’t be a coincidence how--

--something clicked not too long ago when he realized the lyrics always alter slightly with each performance. Though the pure melody was always the same, the “final” lyrics are always delayed more each listening with new words added to the ending, steadily building another verse. While he always heard it begin all the same and, ignoring it at first, he was unaware that the strangely familiar lullaby had been rewritten.

Because his heart ached from hearing it.

With even the beginning of the lullaby intertwined with an aching story he had promised himself he would forget, how could anyone have the strength to resist shielding themself from the nightmare? Despite grimacing at the thought, It wasn't until after the song's length doubled that he thought to rehear its healing lyrics as he had staggered steadily to his feet.

…

He shouldn’t have waited. He knew that now.

Although he feared the way his broken instincts insisted the true nature of the song would have been better left a mystery, he had known the fragments of his spirit wouldn’t stop bleeding until he understood the song’s true strings to his heart.

He’d been right.

With the sadly-sung lyrics, the singer reminisced a tale of a maiden crowned as a reigning royal, and as such, grows accustomed to receiving anything and everything she would desire at the drop of a hat. As time passed living her best life and sharing her throne with her best friend, she had grown caring not of the disgusting way the foolish peasants outside her castle were forced to live, nor how greatly the townspeople hated her greed.

(The peasants weren’t being fair, he deemed. He knew they weren’t.)

The verse rambled on about her narcissistic orders as ruler…

...and…

...the penalty that came with it.

Once the public heard word of how their queen grinned happily with malice as she carried out wickedly inhuman deeds that provoked nothing but grief and misery for the common people such as enflaming the sacred forest and slaughtering the cherished lover of another princess from a faraway country, the masses arose to overthrow the ruling tyrant, leading the reign-sharing best friend to--...

…

...to…

...

The song never specified.

Still, he knew exactly what happened.

He promised them he would never forget.

It was a memory that ate away at him, a memory that tormented him, yet he would sacrifice everything and anything to hold on to this one, certain sin.

Repeating the same bloody scene again and again.

He smiles.

He couldn’t tell you what it is, of course.

It was a secret.

That he held on to.

Even after death.

[sugarcookiesandsins]

Charmed [Episode 1]

➰ ot7 x reader, poly!bts x reader, mafia!bts ➰ they wouldn't notice her until she was standing above them, a smoking gun in her hand a bullet in their heart 🌡 M   🛑 heavy violence 🕛  6.1k+

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Tags: Since this is a revamping of the series, I am using a new tag list. If you were on it before, please message me so I can add you back. To those on the list, thank you for taking the time to read this. 

@omgsuperstarg​ @missseoulite​ 

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Reflected in your eyes were the lights of the boat as you stood next to the railing, air fogging as you breathed out courtesy of the temperature difference between you and your surroundings. The ripples had long disappeared beneath you as the body sank farther into the depths of international waters. Twenty miles or so from the nearest land, surrounded by the inky depths of the sea, you felt oddly at peace with yourself than most would be. Before you, the sea extended with multitudes of opportunities, yet you held on to the metal pole, refusing to let go and fling yourself into its cold embrace. Overhead, past the tips of the sails with their heavy canvas, the sky extended in the same way; punctuated with lighthouses that never ceased to guide traveler to the shore.

This far out, much like the senses, even the jurisdiction became convoluted. It was the age-old argument of territory and even the final frontier, be it space that extend pat your reach or the depths that you could feel splashing against with every wave that the barge broke, could be subject to a baseless human need that no one seemed to be able to justify past material greed. 

The body would not pop back out of the water for a at least 2 weeks and add on the time lags that always happen when multiple governments tried to make an important decision, you had more than enough time to hole up somewhere else on the planet as the buzz died down.

Without tearing your eyes away from the blurred horizon, your silently raised a hand towards the bow. The muffled yelling and the vibrations of the engine under your feet gave you the only answer you needed as the barge turned, headed in the direction of the nearest port. And yet you faced forward, watching the waters as they tried to fight against the metallic interruption only to succumb to the power of modern technology. Your figure remained still, clothed in black like a specter charged with guarding the ship. The waters closer to the coast were calmer, only breaking on the wooden stakes of the ports as they teased onlookers with millions of secrets buried under the cloak of time.

Your face remained impassive, even if no one could see it. The crew members had simply been instructed to ferry you out and ferry you back, a clean operation that would get them access to a very lucrative fishing spot. Environmental concerns had forced the government into restricting the fishing, but as a major export, it could not stop it all together with the amount of people employed in the business. So, they started dealing permits for who can fish where and for how much; it’s amazing to think that the government had indirectly created a new black-market sector when they were supposed to be the paragons of peace and leadership.

Your face was a mystery to these workers, and not one person there would be able to swear that they weren’t curious as to who you were. They had simply been told by their boss that they were scheduled for a late-night trip out into the ocean. There would be only one person boarding and only one person leaving. They were not to disturb their guest for any reason, nor were they supposed to inquire about the guest and his actions.

You trusted them to not risk their job for mere curiosity, but what you didn’t trust were the people with enough money to make their curiosity worth the risk. People are fickle like that and everyone can be influenced, if promised the right thing.

The mistake that most amateurs make is that they believe that if money is not strong enough to break a man, then their moral fortress is impregnable. Only the select few, which included you, realize that there is more to offer in life than just financial backing. To some, success is only thing worth anything in life, and that may be something not controlled by the number in your checkbook. It’s surprising how much support you receive when a political candidate finds themselves short one particularly threatening opponent.

Letting out a wry smile, you think about the past that brought you here to this moment. Not the millions of coincidental events of the universe - though that certainly plays a part in it all. It was a single night that became the catalyst for everything you are today. It was the night that BigHit targeted your family, all because of some idiot who didn’t have the balls to face the consequences of his mistake. Surprising how a member of the biggest sect of organized crime in all of South Korea still is chicken enough to pin the blame on someone who was considerably lower on the food chain than they were.

BigHit had been in part of your life since the start, having always employed your father as the legal head for the group. The front was a real estate firm, but it was one of those elephant-in-the-room types of situations; common knowledge, but ignored to maintain some semblance of normality. Heck, you were sure the entire city knew the truth that hid behind the white, blocky letters, but it was an unspoken rule that no one said anything. BigHit was untouchable, until 7 years ago and the paranoia that spread through the company cost your family greatly.

It had all started when some lower-level lackey noticed an inconsistency in the finances. There were conflicting spending reports between company-sponsored business trips and the withdrawal amounts. On multiple instances, one exceeded the other and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening. This was coincidence number one. The man wasn’t even supposed to be checking the finances, he was just filing something away for his boss when he knocked over the files. It was impossible to stop his roaming eyes as they scanned the information while cleaning it all up.

Immediately he made a beeline for the higher ups, who, after looking over it to make sure the worker’s suspicions were correct, passed it along the chain of command. Then the investigation began. Almost immediately, your father’s team came under suspicion. They had been involved in a financial report for a case, which had required multiple trips to the prosecutor’s office - an overseas prosecutor accusing BigHit of international grand theft. The case was more trouble than it was worth; everyone knew that BigHit wasn’t the type to commit petty theft. They had too much leverage to work as snakes under the cloak of darkness.

A full search tore the building off its foundation, until the money was found in your father’s private office. They didn’t bother to look for evidence any longer.

1.      The doorknob was scratched.

2.     There was dust on the surface.

3.     There was coffee on the table.

4.     The money was in plain sight.

5.     They came in the night.

6.     There was a girl in the closet.

7.     She survived.

8.    They didn’t.

Ticking off each point after the next, you calmed your racing heart. It was the same feeling that accompanied the flashbacks of blood. From within the closet, you watched from under the door, mouth clenched around the soft baby fat of your arm, the only thing that kept you from screaming into the open air. Using your calloused palm, you rubbed at the scars, now slightly faded with treatment from time.

You would pay them back for every injustice. You felt closer than ever to feeling their blood running down your blade, swimming in the dents of your skin, and molding with it as you showed them the same mercy they showed your parents. You could still hear their voices, sloppy words mixed with tears as they begged for mercy. Still they tried, with their last breath they still held onto the belief that the guns would be put away.

The last thing you heard before the gun shots were two words. They were filled with such malice, as you had never heard in a voice before.

You knew who said them too. After all, it was hard not to recognize BTS; BigHit’s personal dirty-work squad.

And with that, their fate was sealed. You were closer than ever to feeling their blood running down the blade of your dagger, swimming in the dents of your bones, and molding with your skin as you showed them the same mercy that they showed your parents.

Waiting until the boat was tied to the docks, and all crew members had left - another insurance policy for your identity - you alighted from the boat. Running the pad of your finger along your right wrist you stopped, feeling a gap in the silver chain that enclosed the joint. The last gap of the last bracelet - on it would go a small replica of the flag of Burma. With it, all the spaces were filled.

As it reflected the yellow light of the streetlamp, each charm shimmered with beauty. Looking at each on in turn you remembered. You saw the tears in the eyes of the woman as she choked on the same poison she had used on her sister. You heard the screams of the rich man who had abused his family as karma came back for him tenfold. You smelled the pungent stench of sex as the rapist lived through the pain he had given little girls. You tasted the salt in the air as an avid sailor met his end at the hands of sharks, forever a corrupt official. Under the lamplight, you reminisced. With the completion of another set came the inevitable question.

What now?

If it was in your hands, you would be headed to Seoul on the next flight out, far too ready to leave this life behind, but unwilling to do so until your goal was fulfilled. Sadly, it wasn’t up to you.

It was in the hands of your boss, your self-appointed instructor and ringleader. It was he who had found you in the park living off of stolen pastries and money. It was he who had developed your natural affinity for crime and theft and who controlled who you would find at the end of your gun on any given day.

A cool breeze blew in from over the ocean, sending chills down your spine like someone was playing a sonata on your nerve strings. Far too ready to leave the country, you move out from under the lamplight, letting the black of your jacket hide you from the ignorant world around you.

Within the surrounding houses there were people, innocent people, unaware of what goes on beyond their sphere of influence, unaware that you had them all in yours. It was a macabre thing to be thinking about, but even the most painful truths cannot be denied. There was nothing stopping you from scaling into their bedroom like a phantom, a conjuring of their worst dreams. Just as there was nothing stopping you from following the body into the ocean’s cold embrace. With nothing holding you back, you wondered why you never took the plunge before.

Walking for the better part of the hour brought you to the last place any respectable wanted to be seen. Having long since been abandoned by the previous owners, the building seemed ready to collapse at any moment. Deep cracks in the cement foundation would scare even the most confident from stepping inside.

Still, you ignored all that and strolled in, much more concerned with getting into the comfort of your bed. Crawling through the small window - the door had been blocked by a pile of rubble -, the sight of your things brought some relief to you. Nothing had been disturbed; everything you were was still a secret to the rest of the world.

Up the steps, ignoring the soft dust that flowed up around your boots, you made a beeline for your bed. Barely, just barely, noticing the dark-haired man who was making himself quite at home on the tattered grey couch.

Sending a small nod his way, you took off the face mask and prosthetics that helped protect your identity. It was an extra lesson that you had taught yourself and perfected with time. Within 15 minutes, it was possible for you to look like a completely different person with a fabricated personality

The greatest of your tricks were the ones when you introduced targets to your masks independently of each other and played them for the better part of the month. They would treat each differently, a good tell as to a target’s preferences. Then the prank would collapse because as much as you loved the amusement, there was the proverbial counting down until it came time for you to finish the job.

After cleaning your face of the prosthetic glue, you walked towards your teacher, delicately wiping down you face and neck of any stray water droplets. He remained impassive throughout the entire process, having grown used to your one-sided mindset. Letting your legs collapse, you maneuvered your body into a half-sitting and half-lounging position on the couch. Grunting, you told him to speak, feeling you brain already beginning to shut down from exhaustion. The work and the walk home had tired you out, especially considering it was in the early hours of the morning.

“Done?” It was a simple question, but it carried heavy weight behind it. ‘Done’ was not just the referring to the firing gun, it included everything from prep to disposal and aftercare for your supplies, all of which you had painstakingly accomplished before you set out to the docks with the black garbage bag, weighed down with both a human body and stones.

“What does it look like?” Your temper was running short at 2 in the morning and there was no force strong enough that could make you behave when you were this sleep deprived.

“Hmm.” See, the thing about your boss was that holding a conversation with him was mostly about reading between the lines. He was never blunt with his words, instead foregoing lengthy exposition for psychic communication - messages delivered between tone and tongue.

Unclasping the hook, you tossed the silver bracelet towards him as proof. “How many more do I have to do before I’m ready?” He had said nearly 6 month ago when you got this chain that this would be the last one, but there was no knowing if he was telling the truth. After all, you were close to beheading him if he had told you something you didn’t want to hear.

Your master may have once been young and able, but time had taken its payment from his life as it would do to many others; he was now well into the older years and lacked his former ability. There was no doubting that fact that if the both of you went head to head, that you would win, yet you never did try to challenge him. Mostly out of respect, but also out of the knowledge that losing him would be like losing your parents again.

“If I said you’re not ready, what would you do?”

You glared at him. You were tired of hearing those words. It seemed that throughout your life you were never ready. You weren't ready when those men came and took away your family. You weren’t ready when you found yourself in the cold, only getting by with scraps and pity for random passersby. You were never ready it would seem.

But at this point you were too tired to argue, and much too accepting of the supernatural ability your teacher had for telling the future; if he said you weren’t ready then you weren’t.  Even then, there was something about the question that seemed more examinatory than before. Perhaps it was the level-headed stare he pinned you with, eyebrow bent with curiosity at your answer that clued you in to his intentions.

“I would accept the next assignment.”

“Hmm.” You swore you saw through his eyes and witnessed the cogs turning in his brain. “And if I said that you were ready?”

“I would start preparing. There is a lot to be trained for and many details to sift through.”

“Hmm.” That ‘hmm’ was the most infuriating thing of all.

“Well,” I asked.

“You’re ready.”

The following morning went by in a blur of motion. You were still tired from the lack of sleep you had suffered, but you didn’t need to really pay attention to this part anymore. The packing sequence so deeply engraved in your nerves that you never paused to doubt yourself when you stepped out the door 2 hours later.

In way, it was a morbid testament to how much this life has become part of who you are. It was difficult to imagine what your life would have been like had BigHit not betrayed your father’s trust that night. If they had just stopped being impulsive and took the time to think; say what you want about organized crime, it was built on the laws of the jungle and a seed of doubt grows and festers. Your father never stood a chance; he was dead the moment the man from his team decided to earn a little extra on the side.

You know this now. You know a lot of things now that you didn’t before.

And what you did know came from the one man who rarely spoke. After your master had approved the target at BigHit, he disappeared with the morning fog; never really knowing where he had been or where he went to with the sun peeking over the horizon. Still, you deduced that he must still be nearby, having discovered the manila packet filled with your travel details. First and foremost, was the passport declaring you to be of Korean nationality. It was easy enough to play off if you claimed you were born in said country. It also had inside the telltale colors of a Burmese visa. Running a finger over the perforated stamp, you wondered at the craftsmanship.

Forgery was a skill that you defined in very broad terms. It was an art form at its core; the most perverse kind, but still qualified enough to fit under the same category as the greats. The ability to mimic someone else, especially with the professed claim of the uniqueness of each person is a great feat; even if that ability was used for less than ideal means.

Your cover was simple enough. According to the information, you were a freelance photographer returning from an assignment in Burma. There were some pages depicting your ‘travel itinerary’, conveniently including the same port that last night’s ship had departed from. It also included some printed photographs of historic sites and monuments that you had supposedly visited and photographed.

After the passports and identification details, he had clipped together your golden key; plane tickets. They were for a flight at noon out of the nearest airport and one-way to Seoul. Averting your eyes from the rest of the content, you noted the time on the wall. Thankfully he had allowed you a little grace period before you had to leave for the airport.

Then finally at the end, were the documents that you were most interested in. Printed on crisp white paper were the profiles of the top team in BigHit. BTS was a paradox in many ways. Many people knew them, yet at the same time they were clueless. They seemed to be a small group but did the work of dozens. They were young but played games with the mind of a seasoned professional. They were like you.

The profiles were limited in how much they could provide in terms of personal biographies and most of what was contained in the test was collected from local sources and eyewitnesses that saw the youth before they were dragged behind closed doors to be trained by their fathers. The strength of this group lay in hereditary lineage. For multiple generations, the task had passed from father to son. This ensured that secrets of the trade remained just that - secrets.

You were sorely tempted to forget the flight and experimentally began thumbing the files, relishing the feeling of the way your revenge seemed closer than ever. But you needed to get to the airport and make your way through security. Thankfully most of your stuff would be checked in, and your backpack only contained the few necessities you carried from mission to mission. Steeling yourself for the weeks to come, you let out a silent wish to the heavens. You would see this through to the end; whether it ended with your corpse or theirs.

Casting a last glance around the room, you closed the door on the remaining supplies in the room. There was nothing much left, mostly wrappings from packagings but the biggest blow to your heart was the makeup you had to leave on the counters. The master always had professionals come and clean after you left. They were in charge of removing all your DNA from the place, this also included the makeup that you used for that mission.

Thankfully, he always arranged for new materials to be on site in the next place that you lived, but it pained you to have to recreate you three most iconic personalities from scratch each time.

Since dabbling in FX makeup for missions, you had probably portrayed no less than 50 personas, but there were a select three that you found yourself coming back to. The beauty was that they were so different, yet so generic that they became obsolete after a while in the memories of anyone who had come into contact with them.

The first, and your personal favorite, was Eli. He was a roughed up street rat with a penchant for making trouble and the aptitude to flirt with anyone he met, be it a man or a woman. He always got along well with the older women with his youthful, boyish charm. There was an art to his Casanova speech and his laid-back demeanor that seemed to draw eyes away from wallets and purses.

The second was an older woman of around the age of 28. Levi was a successful business woman with the kind of gait that made it seem as it she was on a mission. With her tight mini-skirts and heal the length of a dagger, everyone noticed when she walked in and when she walked out. Never a hair out of place, she was the weapon against older men or young aspiring businessmen attracted to a powerful woman. It also helped that she walked in and when she walked out.  It also helped that she knew exactly how to move to gain an advantage.

The last, and simplest of them all, was a timid kitten. Adding a little fat to all areas of your body, you transformed into a girl who jumped at the sound of a book hitting the floor. Never looking men in the eye, Eve shuffled forward with the kind of steps that made you think she was 5 seconds from bolting in the other direction. She was the easiest to play - after all, she rarely spoke and was mostly there as the kind of character that would pass by unnoticed in a crowd.

With these three personas, as well as your own, you were set to take on whatever, or whoever came in your way. The decision of who to use at BigHit first was still up in the air, but you were pretty sure the decision would end up being Eli. Levi would get you too much unwanted attention and Eva just didn't match the image that BigHit wanted. Further still, Eli would be able to run through the underground circles with relative ease considering his aesthetic. Even without the arguments, you would still have chosen Eli. He was the favorite after all.

Continuing to make your way towards your gate, you only paused for a moment to buy a simple meal to tide you over until you landed in Korea. It was already too late in the day for breakfast, so you settled on some noodles at a corner shop in the airport. The stall was small and well hidden from prying eyes in the far corner of the terminal. Casting a small glance around, it also seemed to be in the blind spot of the small cameras dotting the ceiling of the building. Still, you had learned to never risk anything.

Thus you sat for the next half hour, slowly making your way through a bowl of noodle soup, payed for in cash, with your hood pulled as low as it could go. All in all, it wasn’t the best you’d ever had – Levi had been treated to many expensive restaurants – but it was enough for what was required of it. Resting your body at the table, your eyes couldn’t keep themselves from wandering to the other people in the airport. Each with the different façade. There were serious businessmen on phones, arguing about something or another as they raced towards  sole destination – as there were in any airport. Yet, conversely there were also families on vacations, children leashed in one hand and bags held in the other, getting side-traced by the smallest trinket in the shops lining the walkways.

From between the murmurs around you, you could almost see a little girl running through legs towards the candy store. The naivety in her eyes shining bright as she continued on ceaselessly chattering about something in the way that only other children were able to understand. It was hurried and pitched, the prospect of a sweet more exciting than grammar. Following behind her came a man and woman, the women had your face while the man shared your eye and hair color. Hand linked, they laughed together at the little girl in the cotton dress, and you know that they would give into their daughter like they always did.

Yet before you could continue to watch them, they disappeared behind another stranger. Pushing the empty plate away, you held your head in your hands. The cool metal of the bracelet let refreshing wherever it contacted your warm skin. The need to catch up on sleep was real – the 5 hours you got after your master left not really working to fill the deficit your mission had caused – it was moment like this when you hated him for drilling a 7 am wake-up call into your circadian rhythm.

With a sharp ding, the screen announced that your flight had started boarding. Deciding that there was no putting it off, you made your way towards the glowing sign of your gate and followed the crowd of people until you made it to your seat. As always, it was an economy, nothing surprising about that.

Since entering the vicinity, you had mostly kept to yourself, which people tended to notice. You cut an imposing figure among the rest of the people scaring away those that might have initiated a conversation with you. Some took small glances at your figure, but non screamed that they were coming for your life, so you tended towards ignoring them. Even your row mates decided to keep to themselves, immediately losing themselves in the inflight entertainment that the airline provided. The only downside to your seat was that it would be even more difficult to read the files that your master had presented you with. Wandering eyes were common enough on airplanes and you were always in fear that it would be the wrong person catching a word or two of what you were reading.

Sinking back into the cushioned seats, you debated whether taking a short nap would prove beneficial in comparison to reading the profiles. In the end, your training kicked in and procrastination became a foreign word. Submitting to your conscience, you ordered a cup of black coffee and pulled out the files.

There really wasn’t anything new that you hadn’t already discovered in your independent investigation of the bangtan members. Since the moment that you could, you had been keeping tabs on the boys. After all, killing them would be the only way to take revenge. The BTS lineage would end with them, just as yours would end with you. The only thing of interest to you were their positions and newfound specialties. Eli was a very moldable character. There of course was a base aloofness that manages to charm even the most hardheaded folk, but specifics were the variables that you played with. In order to take down Bangtan, you would have to create the perfect character.

Mostly, he would remain the same as always, pickpocketing anything worth filching and maintaining that cherubic smile that one couldn’t tell if he really was absent-minded or he truly was too adept at acting. Skimming the profiles of the younger members, you noticed that one of them had a similar talent. Kim Taehyung, you had heard of him. He was one of the more public members and from what you had heard of him, he was very good with his hands. That’s not a problem. Eli would just have to be better than he was. It would be worth it to test Eli out on the streets for a couple days before starting the mission. The other holes would be carved out after an initial interaction; there should always be some room left for mistakes.

Last known sightings included a mall. That seemed odd, but then again, you supposed that even mafia needed new wardrobes occasionally. You wondered if your luck would be good enough to collide with them at the mall, but that would be secondary. First, you had to establish Eli in the underground society.

There were two way to go about it. The first option was just to commit one big heist and make a scene. Or you could just rise slowly, committing small pickpocketing jobs and become famous from the sheer number that you were able to accomplish.

Details would be hashed out later, but you were only two hours into the flight and the caffeine was wearing off. Deciding that your mental health mattered more now, you packed up the files and locked your backpack. Pulling out the provided blankets, you curled up to get some well-deserved shut eye.

Your dreams were mostly empty promises. Nothing but the vast darkness stretching before you, once filled with fantastical ideas but now painted in muted colors like even you subconscious was restricting you from true happiness. You knew what that happiness was; the end of the Bangtan lineage. Yet, it still sat poorly in your stomach. With soft mumbles, you fell deeper into the void, unable to fully comprehend exactly where you were going.

 A couple hours of blissful sleep passed before the flight attendant with her manicured nails gently woke you up in order to inform you of your arrival in Seoul. In accordance with their regulation, you put away the provided sleeping materials and put your seat back into that position that was somehow perfect yet irritating for your spine.

Popping the piece of gum in your mouth, you closed your eyes in an attempt to withstand the pressure change as the airplane landed. You may be a trained operative, but your body never really cooperated with planes. Personally, you preferred the steady oscillation of a train or car, both of which were equally dangerous considering your tendency to fall asleep in them. Still, personal partially aside, planes were faster so the only thing you could do was grit your teeth and live through it. You chanted your mantra in your head, it was a constant reaffirmation of your goal and served to calm down with the familiar weight of the words in your mind.

1.      The doorknob was scratched.

2.     There was dust on the surface.

3.     There was coffee on the table.

4.     The money was in plain sight.

5.     They came in the night.

6.     There was a girl in the closet.

7.     She survived.

8.    They didn’t.

By the time you finished, the plane had touched down as was slowly making its way to a gate and you were a step closer to your final goal.

The feeling of being in Seoul was electric. The very air seemed to caress your hair, teasing and taunting you to speed up the timeline of your plan. It was a sore temptation to just throw your carefully constructed plan to the wind and waltz through the front door with machine guns and just extinguish the magazines, but that would be letting them off too easy. They deserved nothing less than the ultimate suffering, watching on as you pulled apart BigHit from under them, bit by bit, limb from limb.

Waving over a taxi, you climbed into the back and rattled off the address of the apartment that your master had bought for you. It was nothing crazy expensive, simplistic enough for a person receiving the pay that a college student would have. Small and compact with a single bedroom sectioned off from the main space, it rent was pretty low and it suited your need. Basic furnishings were missing, but that was expected for a person who had just moved into the area.

Deciding that it would be smarter to explore the area, you threw on more casual clothes after washing the stink of the airport off your body. Making your way into the sunlight you took a moment to absorb the feel of warmth the sun on your skin. This was your favorite moment - the post-mission bliss where the stress of the past was only a distant memory, at least for a while. Shoving your hands into your pockets you randomly choose a direction and began walking. Neither path seemed to hold anything special, so it really didn’t matter.

Your stroll was relaxing to say the least, the only tangent being when you stopped in a cafe to grab a snack and a cooling drink. Juice in hand, you continued to walk. The sky was just starting to show hints of the approaching night when you found yourself staring at the catalyst of your mission, Coex Mall. The building itself far surpassed any malls you had visited before and it seemed as if nothing was lacking as you entered and walk past clothing and cigarette stores.

As you walked, you wondered what BTS would come here for. They were known for being a secretive group so why they ever would step in such a crowded place in the middle of broad daylight was a mystery to all. They were a dangerous group, so it could not have been anything good, yet that still didn’t seem to stop stories circulating among women about their so-called ‘talents’.

Well, your feet had brought you here, so might as well get a headstart on making a mental layout of the mall. Sure, online maps worked to a degree, but there was no better cartographer than the one who walked every inch of the territory. Besides, it would also give you a chance to look at furniture shops. Your apartment was barren of even a mattress.

Stopping every so often, you finally made you way to the area of the store reserved for those lucky bastards who had more money than they knew what to do with. Many name brands showcased their wares proudly in diamond-proofed glass cases and behind burly security guards who glared openly at shoppers who looked as if they belonged anywhere but here.

You were one of the unfortunate victims with worn blue jeans and a comfortable sweater. Nothing about you screamed rich, but that didn’t matter to you. You knew what your bank account held, stocked with payments from jobs taken over the span of 4 years. Passing the first couple was easy, but the more guards that watched you with wary eyes, to more annoyed you became, but those thoughts all disappeared when you heard the whispers. They were hushed at first, singular words slipping past lips to make their way into your ears.

They were here.

No wait, not all of them. Only two.

But that was enough for you. Yes, you had previously discarded the thought of speeding up your plans, but since you were already scoping out the mall, why not scope out the targets while you were at it. Besides, you were never going to meet them with this face after today. The only person they would see would be the devilish smile of Eli, corners turned upwards with the knowledge that he knew more than anyone else in that room.

[solitarylurker]

magase ai’s hidden quest in babylon

after finally getting up the nerve to watch the last episode of babylon, i found myself pondering the ending and sorting out the series in light of the final episode

and i found something surprising hidden within the final episode, something i haven’t seen discussed anywhere--i discovered what i feel was the (perhaps intentional) purpose of the story

for a long time now i’d been wondering if perhaps the structure of the story was meant to be less literal and more a modern “stage” to work through the idea of “what if there really was such a thing as the whore of babylon, what would that look like in a modern context?”

obviously a take such as this, and a story which explored such a topic, wouldn’t be able to use simplistic reductionist themes like “oh, magase ai was just a girl who’d been abused by the patriarchy and was getting a little revenge on the system”; instead, it takes a more visceral mythological slant, granting a child (who becomes a woman) an ability to distort and tempt the weak-willed around her without even meaning to at first, and then easily once her own malice entered the picture

what would such a character look like, and what would their effect on the world be? and what does this mean for us as viewers? 

this was what i’d begun to think was at the heart of the story, but i think even that view may be too simplistic in light of the finale

as far as i can tell, all the political set up is basically a stage for the whore of babylon to act out her role--i think any “taboo” would have worked (incest, bestiality, euthanasia, murder, etc.); suicide probably was chosen because it’s more common than the other options and also removes the immediate, easier rejections that murder would entail, but ultimately the exact topic debated doesn’t really matter for the purpose of the story

instead, the topic is the excuse to crack open the veneer of the “good” and the veneer of the righteous, to expose the filth in the system (prostitution, inhumanity, greed, etc.), and to let the whore of babylon have free rein to do her thing--magase ai choosing suicide for her victims rather than some other vice is irrelevant, as i think her gleefully murdering sekuro demonstrates she’d be perfectly happy pursuing whatever vice moved her along in her quest

and here’s where the little surprise hit me with the ending--the whole damn story is a race between magase ai and seizaki zen: which one of them can find what they’re looking for first before the other is destroyed?

seizaki is obviously looking for the meaning of evil and how to separate good from evil and eradicate evil; magase’s quest is the exact inverse of seizaki’s--she is looking for the meaning of good and trying to separate good from evil

the difference between magase and seizaki, besides their perspectives, is (i think) that magase wants to find “true good”, the good that cannot be corrupted, no matter what buttons she pushes

this is why, in my own understanding, biblical themes were chosen for this story rather than buddhist ones--buddhist themes would paint magase and seizaki as two opposing forces in the world eternally doomed to face each other and butt heads, but biblical themes don’t have to have that aspect

in essence, my understanding is that seizaki was magase’s “project”--she was testing his limits to see if he could materialize “true good” for her; he was probably one of many such projects

her helping itsuki kaika likely was only a means to an end while she searched for the next appropriate candidate for her continuous project, one that had likely started when she was a child (we can probably assume the boys she drove to suicide were some of the earliest such candidates, as well as her foster uncle)

the reason i think this is magase’s true focus is because she is so deeply delighted to find seizaki in episode two; not only is she delighted, she actively pursues him in ways she doesn’t seem to with any of the other targets she takes down; his name must seem poetic to her, and the idea that maybe she’s finally found the one person who can stand as her opposite probably fills her with glee

i think her obsession with the video game in particular, and with the hero, plays into this--she knows she is the villain, but as far as she can tell, she can’t find someone to be a proper foil for her

if she is true evil, there must be true good--but where, and how can she find it? she doesn’t seem to have any trouble accepting what side she’s on, nor is she agonizing over it--she relishes and delights in it; what she appears to be agonizing over is that she doesn’t have someone who can stand against her, who can truly face her with an opposing viewpoint without ultimately corrupting under her touch

this theme is chilling and deliciously subtle, especially when the writers connect it back to the garden of eden (the beginning, connected to the end, through the temptress); if magase is representing both the tempter snake and the whore of babylon, she’s metaphorically (and literally) the embodiment of evil

the amazing thing about this, and i’m not entirely sure this was intentional on the part of the novelist but patterns happen whether humans intend them or not, is that there is no one on earth who can face evil as the embodiment of good

earth, in the biblical sense (which the story is invoking, whether true or not) is a fallen world, a world filled with those who are the offspring not only of the two first sinners, but also the first murderer (cain)

this means that wherever magase ai goes, she will never be able to find “one” person who embodies true good--biblically, only one such “person” ever existed, because all humans are fallen creatures who can only embody “true good” with divine assistance (and even then they fail)

thus, magase’s quest is far, far more hopeless than seizaki’s, because evil is relatively easy to define if you step outside of postmodernism, and it’s easy to “stop” evil, but it is not easy to “embody good”

this is why it’s inevitable that seizaki must become evil to stop evil, and by doing so he fails to become the “true good” magase is searching for

i personally am of the opinion that seizaki shot himself in the final scene, mostly because of the weight of his own failure to live up to his own principles and his understanding, at last, of what he’d allowed himself to sink to, even if it was expedient/necessary in a utilitarian sense--this story is not about utilitarianism, it is about the platonic/biblical form of “the good” and “evil”; seizaki was searching for “the good”, not expedience/utilitarianism, and he failed to embody it

and by seizaki failing, magase’s latest experiment fails, and she vanishes from the stage to begin the quest anew

what i love, love, love, about the ending is that it establishes that magase is a force in the world who will continue, forever, always searching for someone, anyone, who can embody true good and face her at last, bringing true justice and meaning to her existence

but, if she truly is the embodiment of the whore of babylon, this reckoning cannot occur until judgment day, and so this is a story about the limbo the whore of babylon is eternally stuck in, waiting for that day to come

ultimately, i think babylon’s ending is the “bad end” for the story--seizaki fails to embody the good, and magase fails to find that embodiment in him and must move on to corrupt other souls; however, as a thought piece and as a story, i think it’s such a refreshing take and i must admit each episode (outside the first one, ironically) seemed to fly by in no time at all

[advernia]

fic: so a demon struck gold

— is there someone who truly comes out as fortunate in this strange tale? - fairy tale!au: the jack of hearts & alice the second.

i.

Once upon a time there was a miller who was poor, but who had a beautiful daughter. Now it happened that he got into a conversation with the king, and before the miller left for home the king said, “I have heard that you have a daughter who can spin straw into gold.”

Hearing the king’s words, the miller went pale. How did the king know of his secret? He threw himself to the ground, close to the king’s feet. He wept for his life and for his daughter’s, for his honest heart could not dare lie to the king.

“It is true, my king,” cried the miller, “that my only daughter can spin straw into gold.”

So the king said to the miller, “That is an art that I really like. If she is as skillful as you say, then bring her to my castle tomorrow, and I shall put her to the test.”

                          ii.

When the miller’s daughter was brought to the king, he led her into a room that was entirely filled with straw. Giving her a spinning wheel and a reel he said, “Now set to work. Spin all night, and if by morning you have not spun this straw into gold, then you must die.”

The he himself locked the room, and she was there all alone.

The poor miller’s daughter sat there, and for her life she did not know if she could accomplish her task in time. The room was overflowing with straw. She became afraid, but she did her best not to cry.

She sat down before the spinning wheel, and whir, whir, whir, three times pulled, and the spool was full. Then she put another one on, and whir, whir, whir, three times pulled, and the second one was full as well.

So it went until midnight, and then half of all the straw was spun, and half of the spools were filled with gold.

The miller’s daughter let out a sigh, and then suddenly the door opened. A young man stepped inside and said, “Good evening, Mistress Miller. Why are you sighing so?”

“Oh,” answered the girl, “I am supposed to spin all this straw into gold, and I am getting tired. I do not know if I can spin until sunrise.”

The young man sat beside her and said, “That is what you say, but those hands are still spinning, are they not? Shall I do it for you instead?”

The girl shook her head. “I cannot allow you to do that,” said she, “but won’t you keep me company until sunrise?”

“Oh? And what will you give me if I keep you company until sunrise?”

The girl had nothing to give him, but she thought long and hard before she said —

                            ( iii. )

“Mistress Miller. Why is it that you and your father still suffer from poverty when you are skilled enough to spin straw into gold?”

“You speak of the truth that my father has chosen to deny and implored me to keep hidden till his last breath. From simple straw I could make gold enough to build a castle in his name and dress him in the finest silks, but to him that is all for naught were he to lose his only daughter to the hands of greed.”

“Ah, then I suppose your father was in the right to be afraid, because those same hands that he spoke of now threaten your very life as we speak.”

Such a flippant tongue, to be able to refer to the sovereign that way, the girl thought. She did not appreciate the young man’s lack of tact but she sensed no malice when he spoke, so perhaps he meant his words to be a jest. So she said aloud, “Hold your tongue. You should not speak of the king in such a manner. Surely all that he has asked me to spun will be for the prosperity of the kingdom and for the benefit of every subject. A true king would not allow himself to be wholly consumed by something as shallow as human greed.”

Were her belief to be the word of the world, then only a handful of rulers sit rightly on their thrones, he thought to himself. The girl could speak clear and true of and righteousness and duty with such innocence, how admirable of her. “And there is nothing more noble than man making good use of their own talents to aid their fellowmen,” said he, “but do tell me, how do you suppose word of your skill reached the king’s ears when you have done well to keep it hidden?”

To this she said, “The king is a man of great power and even greater resources. If he wished for it, he could uncover any secret buried deep and far in this land.”

            Whir, whir, whir, three times pulled, and the spool was full.

The miller’s daughter does not see the young man’s crooked smile.

                            iv.

At sunrise the king came, and when he saw the gold he was surprised and happy, but his heart fell into a greed for more gold. He had the miller’s daughter taken to another room filled with straw. It was even larger, and he ordered her to spin it in one night, if she valued her life.

The girl did her best, but she could not keep herself from sighing. Once again the door opened, and the young man appeared. He said, “It seems that you have found yourself in a much more difficult predicament. Shall I do this for you instead?”

The girl still shook her head. “I cannot allow you to do that,” said she, “but won’t you keep me company until sunrise?”

“What will you give me if I keep you company until sunrise?”

The girl had nothing to give him, but she thought long and hard before she said —

                            ( v. )

“Mistress Miller. If it is your desire to see the world and the many things it has yet to offer you, then why not do so, when you have finished spinning straw and the king has finally let you go?”

“That is a most tempting possibility but alas, I must temper my heart and perish the thought! I have so great a desire to return to my father, as he has been sick with grief ever since he took leave of me. Yes, I spin this straw with high hopes of seeing him once more. He is my only family and with him is where I belong, in our humble hut by the hill.”

“And after that?” said he, “will you not set foot for the oceans, the mountains, the fields? Will you not escape from the mediocrity of enduring years of hardship; despite the contentment you find in the company of your father in such a dismal situation?”

            Whir, whir, whir, three times pulled, and the spool was full.

The young man’s question goes unanswered.

                            vi.

By morning she had spun all the straw into glistening gold. The king was happy beyond measure when he saw it, but he still did not have his fill of gold. He had the miller’s daughter taken to a still larger room filled with straw, and said, “Tonight you must spin this too. If you succeed you shall become my wife.” He thought, even if she is only a miller’s daughter, I will not find a richer wife in all the world.

The he himself locked the room, and she was there all alone. 

The poor miller’s daughter sat there, and for her life she did not know what to do. She became more and more afraid, and finally began to cry.

Then suddenly the door opened. The young man stepped inside and said —

                            ( vii. )

“The full moon is high in the sky and graciously bathing the room in plenty of its light, but you are yet to pick up a single piece of straw to spin upon that wheel,” said he as he sat beside her again. “There, there, Mistress Miller. Why are you crying so?”

“Oh,” answered the girl, “I am supposed to spin all this straw into gold, but there is far too much for me to spin in a single night. But what further pains my heart and wounds my soul deeply is that if I were, by some miracle and grace above, able to succeed in my task; I am to be the bride of the king. I am to leave my poor father fretting to death and alone in his misfortunes, never again to step as much as a single foot on the rocky path that leads to our humble hut on the hill.”

In the face of the girl’s great distress however, the young man chose to laugh. He laughed as he sat down before the spinning wheel, and whir, whir, whir, three times pulled, and the spool was full. Then he put another one on, and whir, whir, whir, three times pulled, and the second one was full as well. So it went until morning, and then all the straw was spun, and all the spools were filled with gold.

With no more tears left to cry and the first rays of dawn drying her eyes, the poor miller’s daughter stared at the young man with fright. “What have you done?” she whispered in terror, “I asked not for your help nor company, for I have nothing more of value to give you. I have resolved myself to find a way to escape the fate of death that looms over me as a consequence of my disobedience, but through your unpredictable efforts I shall now live to see another day; a day that will still begin with a fate I dread to face. Tell me, stranger, why have you done this?”

The young man simply smiled.

“The first time you denied my help but requested my company, you offered to me not your mother’s necklace but the tale of your life. The second time, you offered to me not your father’s ring but a glimpse of your many dreams and ambitions. A third rejection is just but a small humiliation that is paid off tenfold by having more knowledge of who you are, but today you greet me with the sight of your tears and broken spirit,” said he, taking steps forward. “No, I shall not settle for that, nor can I endure the thought of someone like yourself meeting the abrupt end as an unfortunate corpse hanging by the gallows come morning or to be wed to a most unworthy man who claims to his name the title of a king.”

“For two days I have merely offered you aid, but today I have taken action out of kindness and saved your life. For two days I have asked you for something in return for having the pleasure of my company but today, it is I who shall dare make a proposal, and you to make quite the perilous choice.”

                                                The young man knelt before the poor miller’s daughter, staring into her trembling eyes all the while.

“Oh, poor miller’s daughter. Won’t you take my hand, and marry me instead?”

                                        1: in honor of twstwon's release, our writing group decided on grimm fairytales as writing challenges for march - this the first i finished out of my bunch, rumpelstiltskin! maybe i can get around to posting the rest soon.... φ（．．） 2: rumpel was one of the fairy tales that as a kid, i wondered what exactly was the moral of the story..... like.... stranger danger??? remember to pay what you owe??? don't lie/exaggerate about ppl or you'll get them into trouble??? i still don't know LMAO...... i mean, i can't even consider rumpel himself as an antagonist since there's a lot that the story leaves vague.... the mystery of it all seems fitting for someone like edgar tho, so this was pretty fun to think about! (´∀`)

[spiderbob007]

The Legend of Massey: The Origin of a Killer Cat

The blight had decimated what was once a verdant valley within the Emerald Isle. Those that prospered by buying, selling and trading their wares with other members of the community found themselves at best destitute and at worse vilified. Tucked within a small cottage on the outskirts of the scant village of Wet Spoon, lived Donald O’Shea McFerguson, a once renowned merchant able to find the most obscure of relics to sell to the more sophisticated members of the community. Donald was said to have studied at the feet of the Merchants of Venice, but in truth he was an economics prodigy, who created a unique model of finance that is little understood, even by the most sophisticated of scholars. But in times with little opportunity for fortune and a population that was draining from the land for new prospects across the Atlantic, Donald was a desperate man – a man susceptible to the mischief of those rarely seen creatures known as the Leprechaun.

 Deep within a dank cave lived one of the most malicious and malcontent mischief makers among his kin. Other leprechauns regarded him as a menace to be avoided, even when he was in the best of moods. Striking without warning, he was not selective in the target of his pranks. It was rumored that he pranked a stone to the point of making it weep. This gossip is often used as an explanation by the peasantry for why the stones are wet on autumn mornings, without a cloud in the sky.

 Leprechauns love desperate times, for this is when the greed, envy, and wrath of others is more readily manifest and harvested for their amusement. Contrary to legend, leprechaun’s do not possess vast caldrons of gold coins. In fact, they are mendicant creatures more likely to beg and steal than earn or find their fortune. In lean times, the fairy people suffer along with Mother Nature’s children, but they will willingly go malnourished in exchange for the joy of causing other’s mirthful misery. Thus, is the dynamic that was about to forge a bond that would go unbroken for generations.

 With the potato crop failed, Donald was finding that the notches in his belt were not only going in the opposite of their usual direction, but he was having to resort to boring new holes in the leather every week to accommodate his dwindling waistline. While foraging in the forest under an extremely gnarled and uninviting oak tree near a stygian cave, Donald heard a hiss and a spit. He stood straight and silent, listening for signs of the Celtic Cryptid. The surly wildcat was known for dropping down from tree branches onto the neck and shoulders of unwitting victims leaving them with lacerations that required the attention of the local barber. Scanning his environment, Donald spotted a pair of golden eyes leering at him from the canopy above. Suddenly the creature’s eyes softened, and he heard a gentle purring noise. An orange and white cat emerged from the leaves, gently and timidly moving along a branch as though it feared falling from what to it must have seemed a cataclysmic height. Regaining his composure, Donald reached up to the timid creature and for a moment paused, thinking it was going to bite him from fear or malice, but the cat allowed him to gently cradle it in his large arms. Donald pondered upon a name for his new companion, in that moment he could have sworn that he heard a gentle whisper through the trees say – “Massey.”

 Massey proved to be a competent hunter, often disappearing in the night through a cottage window and returning in the morning with a rabbit or vole. Although a meager meal to share with a grown man, Donald was happy for the supplement to his diet and the companionship that his new pet would provide. Meanwhile down in the village of Wet Spoon the remaining citizens were complaining of household items disappearing from their homes along with food from their cellars and pantries. There was no signs of forced entry and no clear suspects.

 When the duly elected shire-reeve left with his remaining family members for the shores of America, the local hide tanner appointed himself to the position. Billy McBruce O’Sparkle, had no knowledge of investigative techniques nor juris prudence, and he began randomly pointing his crooked finger at anyone who had ever crossed his path, which was pretty much everyone. Running out of suspects to investigate or persecute, Billy remembered the trader who lived on the outskirts of town. Oh, Billy really hated that guy for his clever skills at making deals. He was convinced that Donald had swindled him out of several tanned hides that Billy traded for exotic wares from the Orient rumored to have been crafted by the hands of the Masters. Whatever wizardry was required to make the trinkets change shape; Billy was not skilled enough to discover. “Phooey ahn 'is poehzzles!!” Shouted Billy. “I'm goin to get to de bahttom o' dis case if it's de last din I evr does!”

 The Irish are a superstitious people with good cause. The island serves as the epicenter of supernatural occurrences that begot the traditions of Samhain to protect mankind from the winnowing season when spirits wander the countryside and demonic forces from beyond the vale of human understanding hold sway over reality, giving birth to creatures both monstrous and beguiling. Among the fairest and most feared creatures to hold sway over the fates of mankind are the Banshee. Their pale skin and trellis of fiery hair lure the unwitting to a fate heralded by their caoine cry which marks the doomed for imminent death; although unique among her kind is a coral-haired giantess gifted with a matriarchal kindness and a warrior’s spirit – D’Arcee.

 The knocks came hard upon the oaken door of Donald’s cabin, and he could hear the angry voices on the other side; one in particular was high and anxious; proclaiming with righteous fury that Donald was a “cheat an uh swindler.” Before Donald could get the door fully opened, the rabble crashed into the main room and grabbed him fast. Billy began shouting orders to have the cabin searched “frahm tahp to bahtoom,” as Donald’s neighbors began to turn over furniture, pull aside bed sheets, and destroy priceless treasures from lands to the east; all the while a certain orange and white cat peeked down from his ceiling perch with a slight grin upon his feline countenance. The sudden and strangely haunting sound of a cat’s meow drew everyone’s attention to a bundle hidden high in the dark of the rafters.

 The young Danny O’Witwicky McWheelie, being the nimblest among the posse and due to his tendency to talk in rhyme the most likely to not be mourned if he fell to his demise, was enlisted to climb into the attic. Untying the bundle from its perch, Danny tossed it down and all manner of necessities spilled onto the floor. Knowing that there was no reasoning with an angry mob, Donald mustered his strength and took the distraction as an opportunity to make his escape. When in need of preserving one’s own existence, even the stoutest of men can harness unnatural speed that they would normally never achieve, and Donald was deep into the forest in a very short time.

 The angry villagers searched for hours and were soon inclined to return to their squalid abodes with the coming of dusk, when suddenly they could hear the mewling of a cat. Massey had found Donald taking refuge in the hidden hollow of a massive and gnarled oak tree in the center of the forest that as a child he had often played in with his imaginary friend. “Silence you auboehrn 'aired devil,” he muttered under his breath, but the cat was insistent and began to dig his claws into Donald’s flesh. Unable to suppress his pain and anguish, Donald cried out with a wounded howl.

 Hearing the echo of Donald’s anger, the villagers were mustered for vengeance once again and had soon surrounded his oaken refuge. “Ye mought as ell soehrrender Dahnald,” proclaimed Billy. “Dere'll be no escape fahr ye now!” Donald continued to cry out in anguish from his malicious companion’s continuous assault upon his leg. “Fine! If dat's dey way it's goin to be, den we'll boehrn you ooeht!” Billy then gave the order for the other villagers to use their torches to set the oak ablaze; when suddenly there was a mournful wail, a flash of light and the appearance of a giant goddess towering above the tree. Shock taking command of their senses, the villagers bolted from the wilderness and no one ever dared speak of the night’s misgivings for fear that the banshee would return to claim their soul.

 It is said that magic is only science that we don’t yet understand, but true magic is beyond the comprehension of the senses of humankind and as such when witnessed, causes a form of madness that enables the mind to interpret the indescribable. Angered by the sudden appearance of his spiritual sibling, Massey dropped all pretense of being a feline and once again took his natural form. Leprechauns are powerful mystic beings, but in comparison to a banshee they know it’s best to use guile instead of brute-force magic. “Good evening to you sister,” Massey cordially remarked, fiddling his fingers behind his back. D’Arcee only regarded the diminutive demon with suspicion, but in keeping with the etiquette of their kin, returned the courtesy; but she was quick to pivot and questioned the occurrences within the forest and her sibling’s probable role in the evening’s shenanigans. Feigning indignity, while maintaining a respectful tone, Massey assured D’Arcee that he was only attempting to rescue poor Donald from certain death. At this remark, Donald suddenly broke from his shocked stupor and accused the creature he believed to be his cat of orchestrating the entire affair. Sensing that his canard was not fooling anyone, Massey was relieved that his spell was fully realized and unleashed a torrent of supernatural forces upon D’Arcee.

 What occurs next can only be interpreted with a human mind and in the language known to the author in description of the mystical occurrences that took form this night. The head of D’Arcee began to take a shape and appearance like that of a fiery-eyed jack-o’-lantern, and Donald was transported from his arboreal conclave to the cranium of his would-be savior. At the sight of what he had conjured, Massey burst out into peals of gleeful laughter; but it was short-lived. Magic like any commodity can be stockpiled for a time when it’s needed most, and Massey had been using his reserves with wild abandon to maintain his secret identity. D’Arcee to the contrary had been absorbing the magic of countless autumn seasons when the veil was at its weakest and unknown forces flowed into the realm of what we consider the natural world. With the twitch of her fiery eye, she was back to her normal form and Donald was once again in his cottage with no memory of what had occurred.

 D’Arcee leaned down to where her face met that of her would-be adversary. “Do you like playing tricks little one?” she uttered with cool disinterest. Massey shuttered with fear as her cold breath wafted over his face. D’Arcee pulled herself up to her full height plus several meters more, she considered her opponent for a brief moment and then she was gone. What stood in the place of the Leprechaun was once again a large orange and white cat, but this time there was no changing back.

 Donald found himself in possession of a cat, but yet he could not remember where it had come from nor why he felt compelled to keep an animal that seemed disinterested in anything other than eating and lounging in a sunny window. The people of the village seemed to know something about Donald that he himself was unaware of and in time his mysterious reputation earned him the interest of a girlfriend. Resolved to find a better life for his new family, Donald used his connections to book passage across the ocean to pursue prospects in the land of Virginia, where he adopted the less-Irish sounding last name of “Ferguson.” In time Donald’s family grew, and as all natural things do he was released from this mortal coil to make room for the next generation, but he passed on his experience and business acumen to his progeny, as well as an apparently ageless cat that always seems to find a home with a Ferguson with no one the wiser as to its true nature.

[kirisakin]

DEDEDE IN THE SUB IS WILLFULLY MALICOUS, AND HERE’S WHY

A really goddamn long essay that is probably looking too deep into dub vs sub changes, but I typed up anyways since I was in the mood. 

For the sake of lessening confusion, the original series and the dub will have different names (Great King/Triple D, Metanaito/MK, Escargon/Escargoon, and Fumu/Tiff) when referring to their specific versions.

I was thinking a little more about Dedede’s inconsistent personality in the sub, and I realized something. He’s pretty paranoid about losing his kingdom and accusing everyone of rebelling 24/7, whereas in the dub, is confident and utterly obsessed with himself. The reason? Original Dedede’s faking being stupid, and the 4Kid’s dub is genuinely stupid. The proof is mostly obvious with certain things that are said in certain versions; Great King is always threatening to murder dissents with little to no provocation, and Triple D prefers pranks. 

Disregarding the shoddy censorship of 4Kids Entertainment, this does not explain how in the original, he swaps from dictator to schoolyard bully within the span of 5 episodes. It has to be intentional, and probably is; he already installed propaganda devices into all of his subject’s homes, so why not push the idea that he’s just a foolish, lost soul that screws up once or twice, but it’s okay! He didn’t mean it, and he’s really smart and nice and good! 

Because of this Dedede lynchpin, many personality changes are bound to follow suit.

This is why NME Salesman is so blatant about his conning and greed; as long as Triple D gets a shiny new toy when he asks for it, he’ll let him insult his entire lineage. Customer Service, on the other hand, is even more of an ass-kisser by acting serenely polite to Great King, and buttering up his oh-so wonderful ideas. 

Escargon in the original may genuinely be in love with Dedede, and is sticking around out of devotion. He knows that the Great King is acting to deceive those unworthy and ugly commoners, and hopes that as soon as he’s got his fill, they can finally be equals. Triple D and Escargoon seem to be more like two friends that have ambiguously gay moments between them, but it’s pretty obvious Escargoon is clearly only sticking around because the big wall of meat will protect him. Both are wrong, and end up in horrible relationships out of their own misconceptions of what he’s like.

Fumu is either 95% certain he’s faking his ignorance, or 5% with no in-between. She’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but with how suddenly he switches between personalities, she can’t be sure. Fumu primarily wishes to be a teacher, something the anti-intellectual Great King condemns, but she refuses to step down. Sure, she might be a little politer in her telling him to piss off, but at the end of the day, she just wants to make sure everyone’s educated. But since she’s vocally anti-Dedede and the Great King flip-flops at the speed of light, the townsfolk assume she’s just whiny and snooty, and refuse to give them her ear no matter what the king does.

Metanaito is a different beast altogether, and gets a twisted sense of enjoyment out of watching Great King’s charade. He’ll gladly kick the guy when he’s down, just like how NME Salesguy does in the dub, and the same dynamic shows. The nice man agrees with you at the end of the day, so you’ll let him do as he pleases as long as he’s still licking your boots at sundown. There’s also the amount of charisma he apparently exudes; Great King pretty much gives him free range because he thinks he’s so cool. He keeps up appearances because, hey. If the Great King does, why shouldn’t he?

With Triple D, this dynamic is flipped on its head. 

Tiff is just frustrated with life in Cappy Town, and knows that the king won’t change. Tiff is not aware of any ulterior motives, nor does she need to be because there are none; Triple D’s ignorance is solely a product of his upbringing into privilege, and never having to learn a thing for himself. She’s gotten sick and tired of the cappies being as dumb as he is, and because if this, comes off as angrier or bossier than she intends to be when she’s only trying to help. She loses her temper a lot faster and stands her ground on the sole basis of having to deal with his crap for years and feeling like she’s the only person who knows/cares enough to do something about it.

MK probably feels like he’s dealing with a man-sized toddler every single day of his life, and has no time for any of that. He watches Triple D make an idiot of himself again and again and again, and let’s face it, is probably still only working there for the same reason people can’t look away from car fires. He cracks jokes and looks cool to keep the big oaf laughing, which is pretty much 89% of his job description. Note the “I Really Wish I Wasn’t Here Right Now” button.

I know that the Chip episode said he had brain damage, and that might explain why he violently switches between two personalities, but… no. That’s a get-out-of-jail-free card.

[doeeyeddyke]

CRACK

A whimper.

CRACK

A whimper.

CRACK

A whimper.

On and on and on.

A crack, then whimper.

Except the whimpers grow in volume and frequency, until it is no longer a periodical whimper that can be heard between the cracks of the whip but rather screams and cries. But Ivan would never know. He can’t hear.

That doesn’t stop him from enjoying this though, whipping his victims until the skin of their dorsal area is torn and raw and red and brown as new blood smears the drying old blood, and the old blood dries over scabs, and the scabs reopen with each crack of the whip, and the cycle starts all over again, repeatedly, until their back is pure crimson and they’re shuddering, near dead.

But near dead isn’t dead, and he won’t stop till death, nor is he meant to.

Few would find a career as a knouter appealing, but it was the perfect job for the likes of Ivan- tall, strong, burly, intimidating Ivan. What he supposedly lacked in intelligence he made up for with brute strength.

And what strength it was.

Some could say he had developed that strength through rigorous exercise and practices, whilst some would say it was his family blood. And then there were those who would say his strength and power was not his to have, that he had not earned it.

That his mother gave it to him.

Mother.

His mother.

If only she were here, things wouldn’t be this way.

Mama, Mama!

Ivan, go, go!

But Mama-

No, Ivan, you must go without me. I will follow after, but you must leave. Now!

Mama, no!

Ivan!

I don’t want to go without you!

And you won’t. I will be with you, I promise, but you need to go first. Now go!

As a child, Ivan did not have much and no one considered him to be worth much- no one but his parents. His father worked in a factory and his mother was a servant in the household of an aristocratic family. Due to a series of ear infections, he had gone deaf at a very young age and in turn was unable to learn how to talk. He relied on sign language to communicate and although he did go to school, he had to take separate classes with a teacher who could sign.

The teachers were very kind and sympathetic to Ivan, who was very polite and tried to be unobtrusive. What a shame that such a sweet boy such as he had to experience this, they would say amongst themselves.

The other students disliked how much the teachers favored Ivan, and at first had alienated him out of prejudice. Sneers and taunts would be exchanged in the hallway, not that he knew. But as they grew older, unheard insults and ignorance were not satisfying enough.

THUNK

“Hey, stupid!”

THUNK

“Where are you going, you big oaf?”

THUNK

“Damned teacher’s pet.”

THUNK

“лох”

THUNK

“сукин сын”

Rather than exchange unheard taunts Ivan would never know of, they decided to confront him and make sure he knew just what they thought of him. He didn’t need to hear their words to know what they were saying, what they thought of him. Stupid, dumb, crippled, pathetic. Books and boxes and shoes and whatever was in their hand at the moment was thrown at him.

Did it hurt?

Yes, of course, and not just physically.

But did he care?

A bit, but not as much as they’d like.

It was upsetting, yes, and of course it made him miserable. But it didn’t deter him from living on, from going to school, from being happy. He had his parents, he had his teachers, he had his knowledge-

But most of all, he had Zaroff.

Zaroff, son of the family for whom his mother worked.

Zaroff, his only friend.

Zaroff, the only one who would accept him.

Zaroff, who brought him comfort.

But above all-

Zaroff, who had taught him how to fight back.

Ivan-

Ivan, don’t you hate this, the way people treat us? Acting as if we can be pushed around?

Don’t you want that to change?

Don’t you want to put them in their place?

Don’t you want to show them what you’re capable of?

What you’re really worth?

Zaroff was rather an outcast as a child, like Ivan, though he didn’t have books thrown at him. Due to his family’s status, no one would dare say anything or do anything to him directly. Rather, they whisper and watch, of how his parents bought his place at the school, how he wouldn’t ever get in trouble because the headmasters wouldn’t dare go against his parents, how he’s just a rich spoiled brat who thinks he’s a prince.

It was a nuisance at most, but even so-

Ah, but what did it matter? No one dared to say anything once their friendship formed, once they learned how to make use of their strengths, literally and figuratively. One could say Zaroff was the brains and Ivan the brawn, for once their friendship bloomed Zaroff taught Ivan the way of the hunt, and how to use his strength. For the rest of their years at school, they hadn’t had to think about what everyone was saying, because no one said anything for fear Zaroff and Ivan would take action against them.

And so they were left in peace at school.

Ivan’s mother, however, was not.

Whilst they were off at school, Mama was serving the Zaroff parents. The Zaroffs quite liked her, she was nice, and as Ivan was a good friend of their son they liked him too. Ivan’s family was actually quite lucky. The rich can be cruel, but this was not the case for them, and they were grateful. However, with all good things come bad things.

Greed.

Envy.

Malice.

The likelihood of having favorable ‘masters’ to work for was extremely unlikely, and the fact that Ivan’s mother was lucky enough to get such ‘masters’ did not settle well with all the women who weren’t as lucky. They started to exchange foul words in hushed whispers behind her back, but kept such language to themselves. As much as they disliked her for her luck, her luck also raised her status to one above them.

Until the accusations.

Crops and livestock had been falling ill and dying without reason for some time, and soon the people came to the only logical solution: witchcraft. And it’s from there that things went downhill for Ivan’s mother.

Witch.

Seductress.

Demon woman.

Enchantress.

She performs spells by moonlight that manipulate minds.

She curates potions of death and tests them on our crops and livestock.

She’s a witch.

She’s a monster.

She must be eradicated.

They came for her at night.

The Zaroffs were away on a trip, visiting some other friends within the aristocracy, leaving Ivan’s mother free of work for the time being. She had planned to spend that time with Ivan, to go out with him and his father. Perhaps they would hunt or fish or go horseback riding; this break brought a chance to do so. But they never were able to take advantage of it.

They came for her at night.

Mama, Mama!

Ivan, go, go!

But Mama-

No, Ivan, you must go without me. I will follow after, but you must leave. Now!

Mama, no!

Ivan!

I don’t want to go without you!

And you won’t. I will be with you, I promise, but you need to go first. Now go!

A crowd of what seemed to be the entire village, all holding torches and pitchforks and crosses and all sorts of materials that could be used to kill or drive away a witch (or human for that matter), seemed to have assembled and marching towards Ivan’s home, soon crowding around it like a surging sea of flaming prejudice and irrationality. Papa and Mama tried to hold them off long enough for Ivan to at least escape, which he did with his mother’s insistence.

That was as long as they could hold him off.

Whilst Ivan hid on the demesne of the Zaroff estate, waiting for his parents, they were burning within their home, the mad screams of hatred and disgusting pride at their destruction echoing from the throats of those in the crowd and surrounding them as they died.

Your Mama and Papa are no longer.

Ivan noticed that his current victim didn’t seem to be reacting to his whip any longer, and paused to see if he had died.

He had.

Satisfied, he straightened up and stretched, cracking his knuckles. Another job well done. The czar should be happy.

General Zaroff should be.

And so he was, Ivan could tell, as he caught sight of the General’s reaction to the bloodied and mutilated bodies brought to their gruesome end at the hands of the knouter he had long known.

[lordsister]

Loved Not Wisely (Yandere!Lawless x Reader)

Yandere warning: kidnapping, stalking, obsession, murder, sadism

Shifting, you winced as the ropes around your wrists dug into your skin, blood soaking the rough material. You had no idea where you were, but could make out bright lights beyond the blindfold covering your eyes.

One minute you were walking along, everything seemingly normal, and the next everything went black, the smell of chemicals filling your lungs. You woke up tied to a chair, gagged and blindfolded. From what you could tell you were alone, your captor missing. You had no idea how much time had passed or where you were, and as much as you struggled against your restraints, they didn't budge.

The adrenaline from your initial realization about what had happened slowly wearing off, you tried to think. Your first instincts told you to get free and run, run as fast as you could, but neither of those things proved possible, the rope around your wrists too strong. When struggling proved useless you took to trying to get the blindfold off, and when that didn't work you started screaming for help.

With each passing moment your panic grew because you knew...

It was only a matter of time before whoever had kidnapped you came back.

You screamed until your voice was raw, but with no luck. Wherever you were, no one could hear you. From under the blindfold, tears streamed down your face, your body beginning to shake. Racing with terror, your mind jumped to the worst possible conclusions.

'Why am I here? What's going to happen to me? Am I...Am I going to die here?' You choked back a sob. 'Why did this even happen to me? Who would do something like this? Why?'

Searching your memory, you tried to think of any time in the past where you'd felt like you were being watched or stalked, but nothing particular came to mind.

'Is this some sort of hostage situation then? Like for a robbery?'

Oh you and your naïve little mind. You had no idea what was really happening, no idea at all about what horrors were to come.

Biting his thumbnail, Hyde watched in wicked amusement as his sweet little love struggled and cried, caught hopelessly in his clutches. Your screams almost sounded like the tweets of a caged bird, batting its wings at the bars of its cage as it panicked, but birds always settle down after a while and so did you, your cries for help reducing to tears.

How beautiful you looked, tied up on stage like a tragedy waiting to happen. He knew it was a good idea to bring you to the theater. No other setting fit what was about to happen more perfectly.

Hyde could barely believe the time had finally come for him to take you after so many long months of watching. Finally, finally he could fulfill the urges he'd been feeling for you since day one when he accidentally bumped into you on the street. The Servamp of Greed couldn't say what exactly it was about you that caught his eye, just that it was a feeling, a feeling that had taken over his entire life.

What started out as a simple encounter turned into sleepless nights of thinking, wondering, fantasizing about you. Who were you? What was your name? What were you like? What did you love? What did you hate?

At the end of all his wondering, Hyde arrived at a single conclusion.

When he bumped into you, you smiled at him, asked if he was alright. You didn't glare or frown or tell him to look where he was going. No, you smiled at him and it was arguably one of the most beautiful smiles he had ever seen in his dark, tragic life. And if you smiled that meant you didn't hate him, and if you didn't hate him then maybe that meant you liked him, and maybe, just maybe it was more than that...

Maybe...just maybe...you loved him too...

Maybe it was his mind filling in for the complete lack of knowledge he had about you, but what it created was a dark seed planted deep in his heart, slowly sprouting as his obsession grew.

If he could fall in love with you in the space of a five second encounter then didn't that mean you could've fallen in love with him too?

It was only a matter of time before Hyde started stalking you, the desire eating away at his sanity making it almost painful not to. Day and night he watched you, uncaring when his tether to Licht grew dangerously taught. The Austrian boy no longer mattered now that he'd found you, the person he would make his new Eve.

Licht Jekylland Todoroki was the first victim of his obsession for you, killed by his own hands just like all the other Eves of Greed before him.

After the job was done, Hyde, no...Lawless felt as if he could finally breath easy. Now there was nothing separating him from you! Throwing away the name Licht had given him, he could barely contain his excitement to gain his new name.

The night before he kidnapped you, Lawless watched from outside your window as you slept fitfully, tossing and turning. What were you dreaming about?

A cocky smile crossed his lips.

Were you maybe dreaming about him?

His delight only grew as your thrashing progressed, an obvious nightmare playing out in your dreams.

Now here you were, those nightmares turned into reality, hopelessly ensnared in his trap.

Rising to his feet, the theater seat flipped up, red velvet smacking red velvet and creating a sound that made you still. Lawless chuckled. Now you knew you hadn't been alone this entire time.

Fingers brushing the polished knives on his belt, Lawless began to make his way towards you, relishing the sound his footfalls made as he slunk down the aisle toward you. From where he was, he could make out the rapid motion of your chest as you began to panic and he couldn't help but smile as he climbed the steps to the stage.

Now the show was about to start...

Panic and fear rose in your throat, choked whimpers escaping your mouth as footsteps neared you. You hadn't been alone? Your captor had been watching the entire time? A new kind of fear rushed through your veins, the true severity of your situation sinking in. You held your breath as the footsteps stopped, right next to you.

"Give me a name..." an unfamiliar male voice murmured in your ear, warm breath brushing your skin. "Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice..."

"Wh-Who are y-ah!" You yelped as a cold hand grabbed your throat, squeezing just hard enough that you could still breath, but barely.

"Give me a name!" the voice growled in your ear, sharp teeth nipping harshly at the shell. "Make me your own..." his voice softened, the grip on your neck loosening. Wandering fingers brushed down the column of your throat before tracing back up to your jaw. "Become my Eve, my Eve of Greed..."

'What...?'

Eve of Greed? You had no idea what that meant or what was going on. It sounded like your captor was reciting lines from a play.

'Is there some line I'm supposed to know? He wants me to give him a name...?'

Something cold touched your cheek, its sharp edge tracing to the corner of your mouth and you froze.

"Give me a name, give me a name, give me a name!" he demanded, the knife pressed against your face, threatening to break the skin.

Swallowing, your lips parted just slightly, a name escaping on a breath. It wasn't an ordinary name, but the only thing you could think of in this situation. With a crazy person holding a knife to your face and whispering Shakespeare into your ear, demanding a name from you, the name you gave him was "Othello."

...Because by no means was he a Romeo.

His relieved sigh fanning across your face, you felt him lean into the space between your neck and shoulder, his body pressing against yours. The blindfold loosened and fell away, allowing you to finally see your kidnapper. You would've called him handsome if it hadn't been for the insanity in his red eyes. Around his neck, a chain glowed, leading to your still-bound hands.

"A pleasure to meet you, Eve of Greed," he chuckled, his lips skimming down your jaw to your throat. "I'm Lawless of Greed. You can call me your Othello." The knife struck the stage floor with a clatter and you sucked in a shaky breath as his lips attached to your neck, his hands moving to grip the side of your head and your shoulder.

"P-Please, don't-!!!" A scream left your lips and you thrashed in panic as fangs pierced the skin of your neck. Tears flowed down your face and cries of pain escaped your clenched jaws as the vampire at your neck moaned and slurped, helping himself to his new Eve's blood and solidifying his bond to you.

A long minute of terror passed before your vision began to darken around the edges, blood loss bringing an end to your struggling. Faintly, you felt the vampire stop drinking, his bloody lips traveling up the side of your neck.

"Speak of one that lov'd not wisely but too well..." A kiss on your jaw. "Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought..." A kiss to the corner of your lips. "Perplex'd in the extreme..."

The last thing you saw was the glowing red of lawless eyes before you slipped into darkness, the tragic maiden in greed's cruel play.

A/N: This turned out to be tamer than I thought it would, but oh well. I do not own Servamp or any of its characters. 

[dndeviants]

The Bargain

Too much my lord? Ruki mentally reached out to Vasili... who she knew by his true name... the Vampire Lord Strahd von Zarovich. 

She watched as he used his human disguise to sway the adventurers to work with him directly. After all, humans and mortals were more likely to trust one of their own. 

Strahd’s mental voice spoke in her mind, Perhaps a bit. However... I need them on our side. If lewd humor is the best way, than I will excuse the indulgence... but Ruki... Did you notice anything about this... Melinda?

Ruki sensed that he referred to Linda’s visual similarity to Tatayana... Indeed, Strahd would have noticed it in her... She was about the same height and build as her, if a bit more muscular from years of fighting, certainly older than Tatayana was, but it did not mar her appearance. She had a similar style of hair, even if her color was a warm brown and not a vibrant auburn. Linda’s eyes were silver, whereas Tatayana had hazel eyes... but the shape of her features, her earnest expression... If one was not able to see color, there would hardly be a difference between the two...

But Ruki had to make sure that Strahd did not fall into his old habits if they were to win this time... and for him to finally escape. Not as much as much as Ireena, my lord. She projected to him, to distract him.

There was a pause before he reached out to her, Yes, Ireena... Tatayana. I will go to her, and make sure she is protected. I don't want the curse to befall her yet again.

Vasili nodded slowly at Linda, measuring her reaction. It was neither positive, nor negative. It was... almost infuriatingly blank. He ventured onward in conversation, "Yes. It has been a problem for some- well, most of the citizens of this place. I've been busier than ever trying to repair relations between all the villages and towns, the boyars and the Lord... "

She leaned back in her chair, "I get that, but what kind of vampire ruler is he? I mean do the people just not like him because he's a vampire or is he just terrible all around?"

Ruki was assertive in her response, “It is the former. You see, many rumors have been spread about Lord Strahd that hold no validity.”

Vasili pinched the bridge of his nose, "It is a complicated matter. While I do acknowledge that he can be brutal at times, ultimately, I believe he has the best interest of his people at heart."

Linda huffed, "Sounds like most rulers to be honest."

Vasili seemed distracted for a short moment, before he snapped back to conversation suddenly "Is that so? So... in exchange for our aid, you will help us clear up this little... situation?"

"Sure, whatever. I don't see why not," she sipped a little more wine, a fuzziness tickled her skull.

"Excellent! Thank you very much. I look forward to our partnership. Have a good evening... There is something I have to take care of..." Vasili resumed his cheerful manner and stood, placing a few gold pieces on the table. “This is for your board for the next few days."

Linda looked up to Vasili. Even though her head was swimmy, she could tell that he had something important to do... there didn’t seem to be any malice in his motives, but he was certainly worried about something.

 "Alright thanks. I assume you will return with more information? After you have dealt with whatever this urgent business is..." She could not help but wonder what worried this gentleman. There could have been several things, if what he said about Barovia were true.

Vasili nodded curtly,"You have my word. Enjoy your stay. I will be back soon. I just have to report to my Lord, and I should be back by tomorrow," he bowed politely to Linda and took her hand to kiss it, before he retrieved his hat from the table. 

Linda lowered her head and hid her blush from him as he swiftly left the Inn. Grindle hopped into Vasili’s seat and faced Linda. 

He tapped his notebook, “So... any reason you aren’t terrified to your wit’s end?”

Linda raised a brow at her old man, and smirked, "Might be this,” she held up the wine bottle. She looked at the notebook,  "So what notes have you gotten so far?" .

Grindle jumped up a bit and flipped through his notes, "Note one- Do not appear to be in Toril. Note two- Wolves too close to the damn village. Note three- Charcoal quality is exceptional. Note four- Vampires..."  He closed his notebook. "That's all I got."

Linda tilted her head, "You going to collect some of that charcoal? If so I want some. Also add note five, werewolves in Krezk."

Grindle nodded and muttered while scribbling in his notes, "Werewolves in Krezk."

Linda heard groaning from the blond man as he was slowly coming to. "Guess this stuff doesn't knock you completely out,” she mused.

Ruki could sense Grindle’s discomfort, and decided to ease his worries,  "Well, I am used to everything that you have experienced here tonight since I live here... and if I may add, the wolves here are so-called ‘pets’ of Lord Strahd.”

Grindle set his notebook down and ran fingers through his wiry, white hair, "I... don't see how this makes that better."

"They serve his orders and have aided me on my travels through the various villages,” Ruki offered.

Linda huffed skeptically, "Yeah, I agree with Grindle. How does that make anything better? Alright, so this vampire controls the wolves... a patrol?" 

She shifted her attention over to the blond man groaning. Maybe it’s best I stop now while I’m ahead, she corked the wine.

Ruki nodded, “In a way, yes. A patrol for Lord Strahd's envoys such as Lord Vasili and myself.”

Linda squinted,"There is a town guard, right?” What in the devil happened here that there are wolves patrolling the streets?

Ruki hummed, “You can say that... but they are corrupt cowards in my opinion.”

“Ugh, my head...” The blond man finally stirred, rising from his alcoholic stupor. He turned and faced Linda and Ruki, "Hi... who- who are you people? Strangers?"

Linda leaned back in her chair, "To you? Yes."

The man laughed a little bit, "Ah, of course. I'm Ismark. Nice to meet you."Ismark scratched his head, "So what are you in town for? I'm sure I can help out someway."

"The name is Linda,” she tilted her head to him, “Well, not sure what all I'm here for yet, but I would like to learn more about this place. I'm not from around anywhere near here..."

Linda got up to go sit with Ismark, but Ruki looked over to Grindle, curious to know more about how Linda was now.

“So how long have you known Lady Linda?“

Grindle twirled his mustache in amusement, "Ever since she was a little girl. I raised her after her father died- may he rest in peace. Only one to look out for her for most of her life. She's grown up a lot."

"Ah, so you are her adopted father much like how Lord Vasili is mine...” Ruki could not help but draw a comparison. 

Grindle chuckles,"I would suppose so. She's a busy body, just like Johnathan. But I gave her all the trades she needed. It was a shame what happened."

Ruki pondered the statement, “He seems to have met an untimely end?”

"Her father- my friend, Johnathan, was murdered, his entire family too. If I weren't there, Linda probably wouldn't have made it out the day of the fire..." Grindle rubbed the pages of his notebook in thought.

Ruki tilted her head, "What was his crime, that someone would be so ruthless?"

"Being successful,” he huffed bitterly, “and being an honest merchant in a world filled with dishonest people."

"I see,” Ruki was quiet,”So someone's greed and envy got the better of your friend and his family.. such a shame. Was the real culprit caught?"

"He was, and he was put away and hung for what he did, but I could never let Linda go back into a world like that... I took her from her home, changed her name, protect her from other greedy bastards- pardon my phrasing- from those that would use her to get at her fortune."

"I see. She is fortunate to have family like yourself..." Ruki glanced over at Linda speaking with Ismark.

 "Anyone is fortunate to have those that care for them. How about yourself? Pardon my bluntness, but how did you come to be affiliated with this Vasili?" Grindle looked over to the tiefling girl.

Ruki nodded, "My mother was killed by a man who feared the abilities of my clan. My grandmother, the high matriarch of our clan watched over and helped me manifest my own powers. Lord Strahd was able to see great potential in my prowess and convinced my grandmother to lend me to his envoy to better hone my abilities."

Grindle reached over, offering his hand for comfort, "I'm so sorry for your loss. There is nothing worse than losing your family. I am glad that you had someone to look after you. It must be hard, considering that you are also a tiefling."

Ruki was unused to such a gesture from a stranger. She reluctantly took his hand. 

Grindle spoke to her gently, "I know it isn't much the same thing, but it's always the hardest on those who are different in any way. Being a gnome among humans, a tiefling, or being a girl tinker... it's good to have someone to look after you." 

Ruki nodded, appreciative of his words, "As you can tell, I live in a different world than your's. I have Lord Strahd's many consorts that look after me. They have taught me the value of perseverance."

Grindle's lips twitched in amusement, "Many 'consorts', eh? So there's at least no lack of trying when it comes to an heir..."

 "It is unlikely, seeing as they are all undead," Ruki stated in a matter of fact tone.  

 "Ah. Yes, the undead." Grindle shifted in his seat at the reminder of the world they were now in. 

Ruki looked over to Linda and Ismark once more, seeing them in deep discussion  "It seems like Lady Linda is warming up to the Burgomaster's son.." she mused.

[copperinland]

Deceit, Desire, and the 1980s

           Excess, greed, and apathy are words that are equally relevant in describing America in the 1980s as well as Girardian concepts persecution and mediated desire. The application of two of Rene Girard’s books, The Scapegoat and Deceit, Desire, and the Novel with American Psycho, Wallstreet, and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, will prove that the core of these films is rooted in significantly older psychologies -- though Rene Girard would contest this term -- than the contemporary interpretations offer. My argument is that beneath the satire, exposure, and portraiture lies novelistic-mediated desire and elements of mythic persecution.

           Definitives are seldom found in nature, and the same is true of a definitive categorization of mediated desire. Several of the implementations by the old masters of the novel, Dostoyevsky; Stendhal; and Cervantes, are different forms of mediated desire and contain idiosyncratic differences among them, but all are demonstrated through the structural model of the triangle (Girard 2).

           Girard offers the triangle because it provides a spatial mode of thinking when comparing and contrasting elements of a story. He acknowledges on the second page of Deceit, Desire, and the Novel that all stories can be described with a straight line, from the subject (protagonist), and the object of desire. The object of desire can be anything, and often, anyone: primarily women. What Girard’s triangular model of mediated desire does is introduce a mediator that hovers over the straight line of subject and object and acts as the interpreter of desire. Only the great novelists can articulate this relation according to Girard.

           Stendhalian vanity is perhaps the most easily recognizable connection to the culture of the 1980s because it is centered around a protagonist that Girard labels the vaniteux (Girard 6). Stendhal demonstrates vanity through terms like “copying” and “imitating” and it is the latter that draws the most attention. “A vaniteux will desire any object so long as he is convinced that it is already desired by another person whom he admires.” (Girard 7). This quote would suffice as a summary of Patrick Bateman’s character profile in American Psycho. The following sentence further connects Bateman as a modern vaniteux by including, “The mediator here is a rival, brought into existence as a rival by vanity, and that same vanity demands his defeat.” (Girard 7). This firmly establishes an idea for Bateman’s mediator, but that will be covered later.

           Firstly, it is essential to detail the aspects of Patrick Bateman that situate him as a vaniteux, despite the description fitting so accurately. Patrick is a vessel; he states in his opening monologue that there is no Patrick Bateman, only an idea. He can only exist as a reflection of others’ perceived desire. He is capable only of wanting and imitating those around him. One of the primary objects that Patrick pursues throughout the film is a reservation at Dorsia, first for the status that comes with being able to get one and secondly because of Paul Allen’s assumed ability to get one. “Humiliation, Impotence, and Shame” are terms that can be interchanged with obstacle (Girard 178). Girard quotes from one of Denis De Rougemont’s books, Love in the Western World, and tells the reader that, “Desire should be defined as a desire of the obstacle.” Patrick desires the obstacle of obtaining the elusive reservation put in place initially by his circle of friends which mention it among their group, but Patrick’s desire is amplified when he discovers that Paul Allen supposedly frequently gets tables at Dorsia and this establishes Allen as a rival to Patrick. Allen as determined the obstacle for Patrick to pursue, it is the most serious obstruction (Girard 179). Passion intensifies throughout the film at this point, even after a modern twist to Stendhalian vanity in which the subject defeats his mediator.

           Two primary forms of mediation exist among all of the novelists’ desires, and they are external and internal. These terms are used to demonstrate proximity between the subject and mediator. External mediation exists when the subject is so far removed from the mediator that their realities cannot or would be unlikely to interact. Metaphysical desire falls into this category because a good example of external mediation is the Muslim and Mohammed or any follower of religion and cult. The novelistic example used by Girard is Don Quixote by Cervantes. The opposing side of the spectrum is internal mediation in which the spiritual distance between subject and mediator is close enough for the two spheres of possibilities to “penetrate” one other (Girard 9). Internal mediation is where rivalry begins and is the type that best describes American Psycho. The entire film revolves around class symbols such as fashion, real estate, and rank; the movie embodies physicality. Patrick is only able to imitate what he sees; he is incapable of reciprocating any emotion. He doesn’t desire to be any particular person, only to possess what others have.

           Girard says that the hero of internal mediation, or anti-hero in Patrick Bateman’s case, is careful not to have his imitations known, he carefully guards them (Girard 10). Patrick’s plots of murder and social climbing are never uttered to anyone; he does not even acknowledge them to himself through monologue. Girard explains why this is:

In the quarrel which puts him in opposition to his rival, the subject reverses the logical and chronological order of desires in order to hide his imitation. He asserts that his own desire is prior to that of his rival; according to him, it is the mediator who is responsible for the rivalry. (Girard 11)

Patrick kills out of hatred only in the murder of Paul Allen. He is subsequently the sole character that Patrick considers to be equal to, or worse, better than. He takes careful note of Allen’s successes and possessions: the Fisher account, the reservation at Dorsia, and his business card. These empty symbols elicit in Patrick two opposing feelings, that of “submissive reverence” and “the most intense malice” which constitute the passion of hatred (Girard 10).

           American Psycho as a film fits neatly within all of Stendhalian vanity because it too works to persuade the viewer that, “the values of vanity, nobility, money, power, [and] reputation only seem concrete.” (Girard 18). Mary Harron works from the source material written by Bret Easton Elis which depicts exceptional vapidity among members of significant affluent status. Patrick Bateman is in possession of all of these things, yet he simply isn’t there. The film shows the audience the danger of a perversely inflated ego, the disassociation between the wealthy and the poor as fellow human beings. There is nothing concrete about Patrick Bateman nor among any of his friends, save for Bryce who seems to have some investment in politics and social issues. It is he who at the end of the film remarks to the group about Reagan’s ability to lie in the face of American people, he is about to make a mention of what is inside Reagan’s false exterior, and Patrick intercedes:

But it doesn’t matter. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, The Vicious and The Evil, all the mayhem that I have caused and my utter indifference to it, I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis. My punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no further knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing.

Sadism is indubitably a large section of Patrick’s character, but the finishing monologue introduces to the audience the closest Patrick could ever come to admitting his role as the masochist. In “Masochism and Sadism,” the eighth chapter of Deceit, Desire, and the Novel, Girard discusses the mediator and subject as Master and Slave respectively (Girard 176). These terms are more in line with external mediation rather than internal, but Girard also explains how a hero of internal mediation can eventually fall into external mediation. Recall that the difference between the two is one of spiritual distance between mediator and subject, therefore, if the mediator grows closer in a story centered in external mediation, then the desire will transform to one of internal mediation and vice versa. American Psycho performs this change at the time of Paul Allen’s murder, which is undoubtedly the most important portion of the film regardless of analysis applied. It is with the death of his rival, the overcoming of the obstacle chosen by his mediator, that Patrick Bateman is able to walk among his own Gods; we will see something similar with Wallstreet later. It is here that Patrick’s mediation is further away, more abstract, and he is even more tortured as a result. “Metaphysical desire always ends in enslavement, failure, and shame.” Patrick elects to be tortured with these tools earlier in the film, he tolerates Paul Allen’s denigration of him, calling Patrick a loser and so on, because has a hero, or rather a victim, of internal mediation, these are the terms that the masochist must accept in desiring objects through a mediator so close in proximity. Patrick deifies Paul, and it is after the acknowledgment of this that Patrick acts. He becomes aware of the connection between his desire and what it truly is, that of Paul’s. Girard says that this is the defining point of the masochist, he is aware of the machinations of mediated desire and endures it (Girard 182). The difference lies in Patrick’s acting upon the structure he assigned himself to rather than the traditional Stendhalian hero who lives to serve his master.

Both the fiction of the film Wall Street and the reality that inspired it are rife with examples that fit into, “Men Become God’s in the Eyes of Each Other.” This chapter focuses on desire as articulated by Proust and Dostoyevsky with the latter’s implementation more relevant to Wall Street. To say that a connection between Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment and Wall Street is a dramatic understatement. Stanley Weiser, the film’s co-writer, and Oliver Stone explicitly said to each other about making, “Crime and Punishment on Wall Street.” (Lewis) It is also interesting to note Weiser’s admission that he did not read the entirety of Dostoyevsky’s book and opted for the Cliff Notes version. He says the paradigm of the book would not translate to the story of the film, but the proof is in the finished product. What this admission says is that Weiser and Oliver read the highlights of what makes Dostoyevsky’s work effective: mediated desire.

…Dostoyevsky’s hero dreams of absorbing and assimilating the mediators Being. He Imagines a perfect synthesis of his mediator’s strength with his own ‘intelligence.’ He wants to become the Other and still be himself. (Girard 54)

Bud fits into Girard’s definition of a Dostoyevskian hero nearly perfect. Bud does not covet only Gekko’s office, cars, and women; he wants to be Gekko, filtered through what he deems his own experience. He has the grand delusion that all protagonists of mediated desire have: that what is desired can be obtained. Many different explanations exist that connect the subject to the object and Girard often goes back in forth between whether the subject truly wants the object, if he wants to want, or if he wants to be humiliated. Bud appears to fit into the masochist role. Wall Street begins in external mediation as opposed to American Psycho in which the desire mutated from internal to external.

           Before the discussion of Men and Gods, it is pertinent to speak of Bud’s fantasies and what his concept of self is. Girard says, “The subject must have placed his faith in a false promise from the outside.” (Girard 56) The false promise is metaphysical autonomy. Bud wants to be at the top, where he thinks that decisions are made. He desires to control the desires of other men as Gekko does unto him.

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we, murderers of all murderers, console ourselves? That which was the holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet possessed has bled to death under our knives. Who will wipe this blood off us? With what water could we purify ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we need to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we not ourselves become gods simply to be worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whosoever shall be born after us - for the sake of this deed he shall be part of a higher history than all history hitherto." (Nietzsche, The Parable of the Madman)

Girard asks, “Why can men no longer alleviate their suffering by sharing it?” (Girard 57) He deems that solitude, a word that predates loneliness, is an allusion just as autonomous desire. A better question more fitting to this paper is, “Why can Bud not realize that his desire is not his own, why can’t he accept that neither he nor Gekko is in intellectual solitude? That they are master and slave?

           The answer is because Bud is trapped in external or metaphysical desire. I included Nietzsche’s declaration of the death of God because it relates to Dostoevsky's work greatly and Bud and Gordon Gekko’s relationship by proxy. Jordan Peterson draws the relationship between Nietzsche and Dostoyevsky as the latter predicting the former. Peterson makes clear that Dostoyevsky was not a nihilist but instead a very astute observer of culture (Peterson 213). He takes time in his argument to speak of Dostoyevsky’s prediction of the horrors of communism and how he was in favor of religion and morals over postmodernism, etcetera; however, what interests me most about this line of thought is the connection back to Wall Street. Gekko is to Nietzsche as Bud is to Dostoyevsky.  

           Gekko grew up in a world abandoned by God, where his father worked himself to an early death and one where he had to become the provider of his own prayers and fill the void. Gekko is revered to by many as a God in many ways, but the best example of praise is when Bud presents to him a cigar as an offering.

…as the gods are pulled down from heaven, the sacred flows over the earth; it separates the individual from all earthly goods… (Girard 62)

Bud sacrifices any possible claim to autonomy by affirming Gekko as his God. Autonomy in the liberal sense is an illusion according to Girard, but the subject does believe it, as many do, as an actuality. Bud cannot look freedom in the face, and as a result, he subjects himself to anguish. (Girard 65)

           Bud’s freedom gradually lessens as he grows closer to his mediator. He is a struggling yuppie in the beginning of the film and is not seeing as much progress as he envisioned. He tries to distance himself from his father and the tradition that he represents, the old Father. The destructive nature of the close interaction between mediator and subject is the driving force of the plot. Bud rises throughout the film to walk along his mediator, hand in hand with God. Bud shows all of the symptoms of a victim of metaphysical desire, much like Patrick Bateman in the latter half of his story. Bud seeks out obstacles which are presented to the audiences as “challenges” and disguise themselves as symptoms of his lust for power. They are instead examples of Bud subjecting himself to humiliation and degradation. He accepts Gekko as his master and God. He grovels beneath him and eats his scraps; he accepts the women he has already used. Girard notes a common theme in Dostoyevsky’s work whose name derives from his novella The Eternal Husband. The eternal husband, Girard’s term, is used in cases such as cuckoldry or latent homosexuality, though it is most commonly in reference to the former. Desire in the Eternal Husband stories is a competitive one, but it also relates back into Sadomasochism and the deifying of man. The story of the novella revolves around a man seeking out the lovers of his dead wife and seemingly befriending one that interests him most. What results is that the seeker finds a new wife and convinces the former lover of his wife to try and take her away from him. The analogy directly traces back to Gekko performing the same kind of play onto Bud. The difference is that the narrator of the novella is actually the mediator of the story, a clever twist. (Girard 46)

             Wall Street is confused when the Eternal Husband is applied. It introduces a symptom of external or metaphysical desire: double mediation. As Bud imitates Gekko and becomes him, Gekko reflects this desire and seeks to build a complete copy of himself. The film makes a point to relay that Gekko sees himself in Bud several times throughout and is the most explicit at the end with Gekko’s immense disappointment at the end of their reciprocated desires. This is common when mediation becomes a rivalry. Bud becomes the equal that he himself pursued from the beginning, but he is not yet the perfect copy made out of vanity by Gekko, and the result is conflict. Darien occupies various roles in the film. She is more of an indirect object, which sounds intensely misogynist but is nonetheless true. Gekko uses her as a gift to Bud, but this is not a gift given out of kindness; Gekko offers her to Bud in a mimetic way as the cigar was offered to him, but with vastly differing intention. The intention can be best described with the following quote from De Rougemont, “One reaches the point of wanting the beloved to be unfaithful so that he can court her again.” The film is a very complex retelling of the Dostoyevskian method. Characters shed and share characteristics without warning and some gain more and more over the course of the plot. Darien begins as an offering made by Gekko so that he can desire her again later and expose Bud as a masochist that is subservient to him, and what complicates her role is that the result of Bud’s awareness of his role is that he persecutes her instead. Girard discusses how mimetic rivalry ends in conflict and how it is resolved in a video interview with Hoover Institution on YouTube. The audience may see Darien as the conflicting object which directs both of the main characters’ desires, but she is instead the scapegoat that is used to resolve, though only momentarily, Bud’s anger with Gekko. She does not appear again in the film, which may suggest that Gekko has also completed his use for her. If this is the case, then she stands as a failed resolution through scapegoating, and this leads to the destruction of the mediator. Girard says that mimetic rivalry is inescapable in society and the only way for communal life to persevere is for the opponents to choose a scapegoat to explain their apparent differences and ardor. If the scapegoat fails, the result is war. Darien was an attempt by Gekko to soften future contempt by Bud in the hopes that Bud would fall blindly into masochistic desire and continue to serve him. The masochistic hero is, however, a much more lucid and dangerous kind of subject. Bud slowly learns over the course of the film that he has been used; he reflects on his humiliation and sees the structure that he had placed himself in and on his freedom that he sacrificed to pursue the ideal.

The masochistic vision is never independent. It is always in opposition to a rival masochism which is organizing the same elements into a symmetrical and inverse structure. (Girard 188)

           Of course, desire in terms of this paper cannot exist without at least two participants, but what Girard calls the masochistic vision works in a different way in contrast to what has been discussed previously. The masochistic vision is desire that is in spite. The masochist, “has a grudge against the very spirit of evil; and yet, he does not want to crush the wicked so much as to prove to them their wickedness and his own virtue; he wants to cover them with shame by making them look at the victims of their own infamy.” To see Bud’s reaction to Gekko’s betrayal as revenge is justified, but the prime motivation is not to hurt or destroy Gekko. Bud wants to shame him, to show Gekko that what he has done has negative side effects. Bud wants to surpass his mediator and teach unto him lessons that derive from his own, apparently higher morality. Hatred is observable in Bud’s actions, but he still thinks of himself as morally superior to Gekko and that his string of bad, or immoral decisions, were a result of Gekko’s manipulation. Bud has at the end come to terms with the limit of his autonomy; he recognizes the imminent destruction that comes from mimetic rivalry. This partially undercuts the primary objective of the film’s creators by trying to expose the greed of Wall Street and the culture of the ’80s, but overall it functions in the same way, just through different means.

           Both films discussed have cultural icons within them and were largely successful commercially. They both have comedic elements that produce satire and expose the immense greed and corruption that was prevalent in the time periods of their worlds. There is nothing new to be said about desire as the primary focus of the 1980s, commercially anyway, but there is more to be investigated into the why. The 1980s was an era that was symbolically in regression; it was a reversion to the 1950s, but also much further. Ancient ideas that centered around religion and tradition also brought back the largest faults of human ancestry. Girard says in his interview with Hoover Institution that mimetic desire is man-made, it does not exist in nature. It does not have to be an inevitability, just as persecution and scapegoating need not also. What both films do accurately describe the harm that comes from intense infatuation with the desire of others. There is no escaping it, as referenced earlier, but the level of interest and disassociation with oneself is up to the individual. Human beings that live within a civilization have the responsibility to become good masochists. Ones that know of the triangular structure that we have to live in and acknowledge that no alternative exists wherein a comfortable mode of living is possible. The choice lies in what and who one is her master. Girard would suggest that an abstract thing, such as a conception of the good (i.e., religion) would be a less problematic imitation because there is no chance of interaction or spiritual proximity to the divine to the rational mind. Philosophy can also occupy this role so long as the individual does not confuse the thoughts of others as their own and seek to compare themselves as equals to those whose thoughts have been stolen. More films like these two should be made so that the public can get a better understanding of what and why they want and believe.

[mainsoptions]

Darksiders 3 lust

The Horseman Fury was fighting with anger because of her horse. The point is the type of wrath DS has is not the one considered a sin. He chose to be in Hell to protect other realities from the evil Demons. Even Jesus gets angry, at some evil doers.Ĭlick to shrink.DS only fights because there is no ability to negotiate with demons, it is the same with the evil people in Darksiders. Therefore the only option is to fight and kill.ĮDIT: Further note that some Catholic scholars state that being angry at evil is actually good. In DS case there is no negotiating with evil. Therefore DS likely does not feed the the Sin Wrath. He smashes a console when Samuel Hayden attempts to justify progress through sacrifices. If I remember stuff from Darksiders one correctly things in that universe move above DS speed.Īs demonstrated wrath is only a sin if it is directed at the innocent and as I have proven DS. I am inclined to say unless DS has some hell artifacts or the unmaker, He will not be able to clear too many things that can go wrong based on a realistic take. If I remember DS1 they character speed is way out of DS league based on that flight scene with the other angel dude. Wrath 2nd encounter theoretically has the ability to kill DS and out speeds DS. DS has no underwater feats.ĭS is incorruptible illusions will not work for him or promises. Lust seems like a problem based on speed also. Greed might be a problem he is over DS strength and faster. Since you asked me to actively participate in the Dabate I watched the entire feats video provided. If enough information is posted i could debate on for DS. I could provide DOOM information if someone has enough information on Darksiders. I would be pulling things out of my ass if I made any conclusions as I only played Darksiders 1 long time ago. Is wrath a sin? Wrath with just cause the true definition of wrath may not actually power up the deadly sin Wrath. Strong displeasure at something considered unjust, offensive, insulting, or base righteous anger. Retributory punishment for an offense or a crime : divine chastisement Does righteous indignation count as wrath? Not sure if this changes things as it is mostly interpetations but there is evidence to show his vengeance is not out of malice but more so never again mentality. He has a entire page talking about how we fucked up the planet for future generations. in DOOM 2016.ĭG in comic is shown to care for the environment. Yes DS is wrathful in a sense but he is also doing what he does to protect others.ĭS is shown to care for human life. In an attempt to stop further demon activity of his own will to protect others from Demons. He still keeps the rabbit foot with him as a reminder until Quake Champions time period. Only game based on wrath was DOOM 2 as they killed his pet rabbit. He is angry not out of malice but with reason. Victory conditions are Death, BFR, incapacitation, knockout or destruction of ones physical form.ĭOOM Slayers rage is actually righteous fury it is more of a holy crusade than normal hatred. And he has no foreknowledge of the place he has appeared in as well.Įveryone on all sides of all these matchups are IC and have no prep nor foreknowledge of the other side capabilities. How well does he do and how far does he get? What happens and occurs in the story now while the Slayer is here on Darksiders Earth. And lore feats also apply to him as well when he appears. He has ALL his equipment and gear which is fully upgraded as well as feats from game play in Doom Eternal as well. He appears in the same city War first appeared in. He has no prep nor knowledge on how and why he is there. He fights them and few other bosses in the following order.īonus Round: The Doomslayer is teleported 1 minute right before the start of the first Darksiders's game. The Doomslayer by act of ROB, has been teleported from his usual Demon slaughtering during Doom Eternal, teleports him into the Darksiders universe, where he must face off against The Seven Deadly Sins from Darksiders.įeats are in this YouTube video.