#but one piece has me hunting for that and it’s always bogged down by people powerscaling and completely losing me

[petrichorium]

Powerscaling is so annoying to me bc it’s just men actively covering their ears to ignore whatever story is being told in favor of screaming abt the dude whose dick they totally don’t wanna suck. Like, no, he doesn’t “no-diff the verse” he’s a c-tier antagonist w a cool design and his narrative role is to get his ass kicked. U can still get on ur knees and throat it that’s perfectly fine let’s just be more honest w ourselves now

[ordinaryschmuck]

What I Thought About "Hunting Palismans" From The Owl House

Salutations, random people on the internet who certainly won’t read this! I am an Ordinary Schmuck. I write stories and reviews and draw comics and cartoons.

Today, I present to you reason #4,693 for why The Owl House is the best thing at the moment: It's the perfect balance of serialized storytelling with an episodic format. The story always moves forward with an exact order for how episodes should be watched, but each episode still functions as its own standalone tale. Having prior knowledge of what happened before adds more to the experience, but you can still watch whatever you want and still have an enjoyable time. Take "Hunting Palismans," for example. It adds so much more to the overarching narrative while slightly continuing other threads. But it's still something you can watch as is without remembering the past or wondering about the future.

However, to properly explain how requires spoilers. I wasn't kidding when I say that this episode adds so much, so you're going to want to be wary of that when you continue reading.

With that said, let's review, shall we?

WHAT I LIKED

Coven Heads Meeting: We already saw these fellow schmucks in the trailer, but that doesn't take away how cool they are! It's not explicitly stated which head belongs to which coven, but you can already tell who goes where just from their designs alone. And I love that. I love that just by showing us some excellent character designs, anybody with half a brain can already figure out the particular type of magic each Coven Head specializes in. It's a perfect example of the show-don't-tell level of storytelling that is always at its best through animation, and I'm all for it because of it.

What the Day of Unity is: Several fans, myself included, have already speculated that the Day of Unity was that Emperor Belos planned to combine the human world with the Boiling Isles and rule it all with an iron fist. That being said, figuring it out is one thing, but being told that it's true is a whole different level pants-s**ting horror that I AM NOT READY FOR! Even when it's going to happen, I can assure you that I will not be prepared to witness it ...and I am scared of when it does.

Belos Body Horror: ...Disney, I was already scared s**tless of this guy. I DO NOT NEED THIS!

That being said, seeing Belos do...whatever the f**k that was, helps explain further why he needs the magic in palismans. I always assumed because it's like fuel for a car, giving him the power he needs. Now, even though the answer is more apparent, there are still some questions to be had. Is he cursed, and the magic keeps it at bay like Eda's potions? Or did he experiment with the wrong type of magic, and the palismans keep him stable? Only the future can say for sure...and I'm also not prepared for the answers from that either.

Golden Guard is Belos’ Nephew: Gosh dangit, THE INTRO HASN'T EVEN STARTED YET, AND THIS EPISODE IS ALREADY GIVING SO MUCH!

But, yeah, the most powerful witch on the Isles is apparently Golden Boy's Grunkle Belos. That very knowledge is incredibly interesting to discuss while presenting possibilities for future narratives. I don't know about you, but I see the Golden Guard going down the path of Zuko, learning that the magic of friendship is worth much more than whatever power he gains from being Belos' nephew. And possibly earning his uncle's love seeing how he's the only family he has. It's a situation that's vastly different from Amity's because even when she defies her parents, she'll still have Edric and Emira at the end of the day. For Golden Guard, knowing that he lost a great family to wild magic, the inclination to go against Belos is a lot weaker due to him being all he has left.

Oh, and also, Belos' family getting wiped out because of wild magic. Yeah, not only does that give the best type of motivation for Belos' distaste for it, but it also explains the Golden Guard's hesitance to use it. He's inclined to so he can save his uncle, sure. It's only the fact that he knows what happens with wild magic that causes some resistance...Also, we're less than a minute in, and I'm already getting all of this from one discussion between two characters.

HOW IS THIS SHOW SO GOOD?!

Intro Changes: It's about time too. It seems weird that the crew waited to change Eda and King's designs in the intro this late in the game, but it also tells me that Amity dying her hair lavender is the last huge change this season will present. Otherwise, why change the intro at all if you were going to alter Luz, Willow, and Gus' designs anyway? It just doesn't make sense to me.

Luz Keeping the Echo Mouse as a Pet: The fact that she keeps the most important creature in the world to her as a pet...it's...it's adorable, alright? And as we established several times, I cannot hate adorable things.

Don't judge me!

Amity Staying Home: There are two plausible ways why Amity didn't go to school that day. Either she's getting punished for dying her hair or because she's trying to avoid Luz so they won't talk about the you-know-what. Either could work and seem understandable to Luz, thus explaining why she admits how "that makes sense." Although, there is something to discuss in how Luz is curious as to where Amity is. Judging from the tone of her voice, it's pretty clear that she wants to talk about the little peck on the cheek and maybe get some confirmation as to what it means. Because there is no going back from that. You can explain away saying or doing something stupid, but you cannot un-kiss a cheek. That is a point of no return, and if Amity really is avoiding Luz because of it, that means it's up to our favorite weirdo to make the first move. As for what that may entail...we'll just have to wait and see.

Frewin: We get two bits of information here for the price of one reveal here. Knowing that Frewin is a palisman is shocking enough, but the knowledge that Bump is partially blind and needs Frewin to see? That is an intriguing piece of intel that I would have never expected to get revealed. This is reason #5,279 for what makes The Owl House so good. Even when the show presents information you wouldn't guess, it's all so interesting anyways that you can't help but go along with it.

Adopting Palismans: First of all, love the fact that the Bat Queen makes a return to provide a solution to the palisman trees being rare and solving her own problem regarding the discarded palismans. It's a situation where everyone wins in a way that is so clever that I can't help but admire it.

Second, the idea of students choosing to adopt palismans instead is cute. I'd say it gives further insight into who these characters are in how they say what they want to be, but there's nothing really new added that fans couldn't figure out from the get go. But I will say that it's pretty cool to know that these characters have official staffs now. Speaking of which, if you're upset that their palismans don't match up with your headcanons...grow up.

This was a cute and smartly written scene that should not be bogged down by whiney fans who can't accept a series doing something different from what they expect.

Little Rascal: I’d take a bullet for this bird. That is all.

Luz Being Uncertain of her Future: A lot of fans offer several ideas of what the future could look like for Luz. Will she stay in the Boiling Isles? In Connecticut? Or will she go back and forth? We don't know, but one question we rarely brought up is what does Luz want? More specifically, what does she want to do? After everything Luz went through, the adventures she's gone on, and the lessons learned, what is something that Luz wants her future to be? That's an answer she doesn't really figure out, and I'm genuinely ok with that being a question that's tabled for another day. Most kids who ask that question themselves aren't always going to find an answer after a short amount of time and sometimes even need to spend their lives trying to figure it out. So having it be something Luz has to consider and probably find out in a future episode is the smarter option, as it allows time for it to simmer in her own mind and provides more insight into her character. As stated several times in this episode, she doesn't think things through, so it's nice that the writers finally allowed her some time to wonder what's next when the adventure is over.

Luz Having to Improvise Without Paper Glyphs: You want to know what my favorite Spider-Man moments are (this is relevant. Trust me). My favorite moments are when Spidey's web-shooters run out of fluid, and he's forced to improvise with that big brain of his to find a solution. That's sort of what happens with Luz in "Hunting Palismans." She didn't bring her glyphs with her (why would she), so she's forced to use the environment around her to make new ones. Plus, Luz also flexes her knowledge of the Boiling Isles by mixing her glyphs with a magical plant (which Willow certainly told her about) so that she and the Golden Guard could knock out Kikimora's dragon. It's yet another showcase of her intelligence that a lot of fans are too keen to overlook. Unfortunate to see, too, because looking at how well Luz can craft the perfect solutions by fighting smarter, not harder, is a fantastic add-on to her personality. I love characters who win through their wits rather than their raw powers, and I once again hope more people will catch onto that aspect of her too.

Golden Guard Whistling the Theme: Look, I love it when a show acknowledges its own theme song, ok? Leave me alone.

Luz and the Golden Guard: This is one of those dynamics you didn't know you wanted until you have it. And now that I have it, I DEMAND MORE!

Seriously, seeing these two interact off of each other was a ton of fun to watch. When Luz and GG are initially at each other's throats, their threats and mockery towards one another aren't out of spiteful anger between two mortal enemies. It's more like...two siblings who get on each other's nerves yet are supposed to deal with one another. It's equally adorable and hilarious, and yes, I absolutely loved that they're forced to work together in this episode because of it.

Although, while the entertainment value is fantastic, it also adds more proof of why Luz is the best character in the series. She spends one night with this guy, and that's more than what she needed to make a difference with him. I wouldn't go so far as to say that they're buddies now, but Luz definitely sowed the seeds into his redemption. He's far from willing to join her side, but he still does something he rarely does with anyone else: He told her that his name is Hunter. And this is what Luz does. Through nearly every person she meets on the Boiling Isles, she always manages to change them for the better. It'll be a while before Hunter deflects from Belos, but if Amity proves anything, Luz has a way of sneaking into people's hearts. They just need to spend more time with one another, and I can't wait to see what happens next because of it.

Kikimora Wanting to Kill Hunter: This shows a lot about who Kikimora is, but it potentially proves just how dysfunctional the Emperor's Coven can be. If Kiki proves anything, the coven must be filled with people willing to backstab and cheat their way to get on Emperor Belos' good side. Just look at Lilith. She literally cursed her own sister just to get in and received all the rewards because of it. The Emperor's Coven may be the best choice for witches to do magic, but if you're surrounded by people you can't trust, then is it really worth it?

The Guards Not Knowing Who Hunter is: This helps add to how much of a big deal it is for Hunter to reveal his name to Luz. If people can't even recognize his face, there's a chance it means that he keeps his true identity a secret except for those in his inner circle.

And the coven guards brushing off his brand is more than believable to me. They may be aware that Belos' right hand is young, but teens will be teens. Anybody with enough artistic talent can fake a brand. So it isn't too far off for those two to think Hunter was just a kid pulling a prank.

Hunter is Powerless Without his Staff: Not much to say here. It's just some more neat insight into Hunter's character that makes me wonder if even Belos' magic is real magic.

But I will say this: The fact that Hunter comes from a lineage of powerless witches, well, who's to say that isn't because of a...certain ancestor?

(*Cough* Hunter is related to Philip *Cough*)

Hunter vs Kiki: A pretty well-animated fight scene that adds potential drama to the story for the future. Now that Kikimora knows that Hunter helped Luz escape with the palismans (albeit unwillingly), she may or may not hold that over his head when the time comes. Or, at the very least, decides to keep a closer eye on him whenever he makes a slip-up.

Eda and King Getting Luz her own Palisman Wood: These last two weeks have been severely lacking in the Eda and King department, but scenes like this more than make up for it. Those two have formed such a bond with Luz to the point where they would do the impossible if it meant she would feel better. It proves just how much of a family they all are and the lengths they would go for each other. After all, weirdos have to stick together.

Little Rascal going to Hunter: Hunter is right. That was surprising.

Given how much Little Rascal stuck by Luz, I was more than positive that she would be the one he chose. So seeing Little Rascal pick Hunter instead is a much nicer twist. There could be multiple reasons why, and I'm just going to leave that to the analyzers in this fandom to decide. Especially since the answer isn't really all that important.

So, instead, I'm going to go ahead and sit in the corner as I wOrRy AbOuT tHe DaY tHaT bElOs FiNdS lItTlE rAsCal!

IT'S GONNA HAPPEN! AND I SWEAR TO ALL THAT IS HOLY, IF THE WRITERS KILL HIM, I WILL NOT BE HAPPY!

WHAT I DISLIKED

First, there's...um...

Well, there was this...

Ok, as much as I liked--No, that turned out well anyways...

…

...

...I've got nothing.

I, honest to goodness, have no complaints about "Hunting Palismans" Not even the tiniest of nitpicks I would usually ignore due to how well-executed everything else was.

It's all written fantastically to the point where it's...perfect.

IN CONCLUSION

"Hunting Palismans" is an easy A+. It introduces even more plot threads, gives insight into characters, and despite being essential to the story, it still manages to be a fun episode all on its own. And, I'd go so far as to say that it's one of the best, if not the best, episodes in the series. There's nothing bad about it, and that surprises me. I rarely find nothing bad to say about any story, even the ones I enjoy greatly. I'm sure there are some flaws that others would be more than happy to point out, but why bother hunting for the imperfections when I could accept that, for once, an episode is simply perfect.

(And that’s six hits in a row...THAT STINKER IS GOING TO HAPPEN! It hasn’t happened yet, BUT IT’S GOING TO HAPPEN! I CAN FEEL IT!)

[twothumbsandnostakeincanon]

What about??? Feral backwoods Stiles, mushroom hunter extraordinaire, and Chef Peter, who owns the highest rated restaurant in the city, and knows the only place to get the best pink oyster/porcini/maitake mushrooms is from the insane man who always smells kind of like dirt when he brings in a haul.

And like when I say “feral” I mean Stiles talks to exactly four human people ever: Lydia and Allison who check to make sure he’s not dead every few days, Cora the sous chef who helps him unload, and fungus negotiations with Peter.

Anyway Stiles has theories on how fungal networks are a higher state of being than humanity, and also actually God™ maybe? And yes he’s eaten hallucinogenic mushrooms before but unfortunately these are theories he developed while 100% sober.

Peter loves this forest weirdo. He is utterly fascinated by how Stiles makes his ideas make sense, and truly frustrated with how every visit makes him super late for prep, so he tries asking Stiles out to dinner for a longer conversation and also smooches maybe.

Stiles, under the impression that Peter only wants to know more about his “mushrooms are the fruiting reproductive body of fungus, which makes mushrooms god’s dick” idea, invites him back to his place.

Peter isn’t opposed to taking their date closer to a bed, and agrees immediately.

But?? Instead of a sexy candlelit dinner upon arrival?? Stiles opens the door in response to Peter’s knock and frowns at his shoes.

“You’ll never make it in those. There are two bogs we have to cross. You can borrow my other waders.”

Peter is extremely confused, but that’s his usual state around Stiles so he rolls with it.

It takes 40 minutes and a pretty insane amount of climbing over and around tree roots, but Stiles finally announces they’ve made it.

Peter looks around, wondering what “it” they’ve made it to, when he sees it poking out from under oak leaves.

Chanterelles.

Stiles is showing him his chanterelle spot.

Peter looks around, eyes wide, heart beating fast.

Mushroom hunters don’t share foraging spots. Ever. Not with their friends, not with their neighbors. There are parents who won’t even share their hunting spot with their children.

And Stiles just... brought him here.

Stiles, who is crouching down to show him the mycelium underneath a piece of wood, and talking excitedly about how trees can use fungus to communicate with each other.

On their first date.

Peter decides right then and there that he has to marry him.

It takes a minimum of three dates for Stiles to clue in on the fact that Peter is romancing him. His brain has been All Forest All The Time for like eight years, so it’s hard for him to pin down “hot chef man keeps talking to me. Sometimes even about non-mushroom things? And sometimes those non-mushroom things are about how much he likes my face?? I like it and will continue to show him fungus and trees so he doesn’t stop, because that is clearly why he’s here.”

Anyway they fall in love and Peter has to pick twigs out of Stiles’ hair a few times a week, P.S. he finds out five years later that Stiles actually has three chanterelle spots and he only showed Peter the smallest one 👌

[enkelimagnus]

A Castle in the Forest

Percy x Vex’ahlia, Chapter 8, 4107 words,

A Modern AU, in which Vex is a park ranger taking over the Alabaster Sierras post, and finds much more than she bargained for

Read on AO3

Daddy issues, emotional breakdowns and rash decisions

----------------

Snow falls almost continuously for the next day or so, covering the forest and the mountains in blinding white. Every time Vex goes onto the look-out post over the cabin, may it be to clear the path for eventual work or to actually check on her surroundings, she finds herself unable to tell white stone from snow.

Her eyes meet an endless ocean of white, she’s forced to wear sunglasses when the rays bounce off of the snow and ice and blind anyone trying to watch the surrounding nature. It’s breathtaking.

She spends as long as she can on the lookout post, sometimes alone or sometimes with Vax. The endless white makes her feel incredibly small. When she’s alone, the only thing across the valley from her is the castle, in its white glory. It doesn’t loom the way it does when it rains. It stands, proud and tall.

Whitestone exhales in winter. It chases away the heaviness. The sky is bluer right now than she’s ever seen it here. Syngorn doesn’t get this beautiful in winter, it gets drab and wet and disagreeable. Whitestone thrives in the snow. Vex finds herself exhaling with it, breathing hard and free in the cold.

It’s exhilarating, the way the air almost hurts when you breathe it. She wants to stay here forever.

She’s spent a few early morning hours watching the sunrise on the lookout post, black sky turning to gorgeous colors and the winter sun making the white come to life suddenly. It goes from darkness to light so fast it’s almost dizzying. But she can’t stand forever watching. She’s getting a little too frozen for comfort, and she has other things to do.

She climbs down the almost frozen ladder, careful of where she steps and how she grabs. She makes it back down with no issue. The warmth of the cabin envelops her as she steps into it. It stings her fingers and feet a little as warmth and blood comes rushing back in. She busies herself making coffee in the morning, puts the aluminum pot on the stove.

Vax is still asleep, curled up on himself a little. His hair has gotten free of the tie at some point during the night and it’s going to be a bitch to entangle. She can already hear his whines as she brushes out the tangles. He’s always been sensitive when it comes to his scalp. It would be easier if he cut his hair, really, but he will probably kill her before he does that.

Like this, with his hair covering his ears, he looks almost full-blooded. Vex swallows.

She hates those thoughts. They’re not hers. They’re the ones of the Syngornian elves. They’re the echoes of their comments, of their looks, of their whispers. They’re the memories of their father’s very words when they first arrived. He’d watched them so critically, observed their ears and their hair and their faces, searching for where the human ended and where the elf began. He hadn’t found what he’d wanted, of course.

The disappointment and contempt in his eyes at the moment he’d realized that they would never be mistaken for anything other than what they were is carved into her mind forever.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons Vax never wanted to cut his hair.

No, that couldn’t be it. Vax isn’t her. He was somehow much stronger than she was when it came to their father and Syngorn. He hated them, was clear about it and had given up on their approval years ago. Now he just lives his life and flips them off both literally and figuratively every single day.

Vex isn’t the same. She never could shake the desire to make Syldor Vessar proud. She never could shake the desire to be part of Syngorn, of its society, of the culture. Still now, it comes to her sometimes, the question of whether he cares about what she’s doing. Whether he’s proud of her.

She knows he isn’t. She’s not a full-blooded daughter, she’s not part of Syngornian society, she didn’t take to the education he tried to give her. She was supposed to become part of the courts, to look and act noble-born. She wasn’t supposed to sneak out of the house at night to go run in the woods for hours, sometimes even days. She still could dance well, she could cast a couple of spells, could carve woods and care for leather and saw if needed, she knew how to put her hair up the most appropriate way, knew how to apply makeup in fashion, but she wasn’t noble in any way. She wasn’t a good daughter.

She admits it has gotten easier since Velora, his new daughter, their half-sister, came along. She’s now the full-blooded perfect daughter. There’s no expectation on Vex and Vax anymore, just sighs and demands of good behavior, of not tainting the Vessar name further, as if they were responsible for their own existence, as if he wasn’t the one who conceived them. But Vex doesn’t feel any better.

She feels worse actually. Being discarded can be worse than being a disappointment. When they set fire to the Shademurk Bog and she couldn’t leave her own room for days, terrified and in pain, wounded in more ways than one, all he did was barge into the room and yell at her for endangering an important alliance with the Fey. In that moment, she realized she didn’t matter to anyone anymore but Vax.

And it still hurts, a slowly pulsing, forever seeping, ugly wound, that remains even when the ones Saundor had gifted her with are healing. She knows she’s stupid to care so much about a man that never loved her. But what else is she supposed to do?

The coffee pot starts gurgling and she turns back to it. Vax stirs in the bed, warm and almost soft this early in the morning, when thoughts and memories have yet to come to his mind. Vex busies herself with eggs and bread as he sits up groggily.

“Early riser,” he mumbles. “How long have you…”

“A couple of hours,” Vex shrugs and grabs two of the metal plates and puts them on the table, next to two mugs for coffee. “Did some work and made you breakfast.” She reaches to flip the toast over on the pan. It takes a lot of attention to toast bread that way. She enjoys it though.

Vax huffs and gets out of bed, stretching a little and walking over to the table and the food she’s now putting there.

“What’s the program for today?” He asks, as he reaches for his bag.

Vex follows his arm and raises an eyebrow. “Hmm… We should probably hunt while the weather is pleasant. It could start snowing and just not stop for a while and finding meat then will be a struggle.” She points out.

Vax ruffles through his bag before he takes out a couple of little pouches and a glass vial. The spices and vinegar Vex requested.

“Well that sounds fun. Do you want me to come?” He puts the spices on the table with a smile towards her.

“I’m probably going to need some extra hands to get it back,” she points out. “Unless you want to wait for my text and then come get me, you should probably come along. Besides, some time in nature will do you good.”

Vax puts on a falsely offended hair, hand going from the coffee-filled mug to clutching his chest. “That feels like an insult, stubby.”

Vex reaches over and taps his cheek slightly. “You’re pale. You spend too much time in city shadows.” She shrugs. “They won’t recognize you when you go back home. All tan and full of winter air.”

Vax nods quietly, looking down at the mug. He’s usually not that quiet when she mentions his lifestyle, especially disapprovingly. Something’s up, she can tell. He leans back a little, still staring at his cup. The coffee is steaming hot, and he seems to be fixated on the patterns the steam is making in the air between them.

She leaves him in the silence for a moment. Vax doesn’t like when people push for information, even her. And she had toast to watch. She finishes watching the toast right when the eggs on the other pan are done.

She piles the toast on a plate and turns around with the pan to put the eggs in their plates. Vax has shifted slightly, a hand up to his face, fingers against his brow bones. He looks preoccupied by whatever it is that’s not making him snap back at her.

When she finally sits down, he exhales and looks up at her.

“I can’t go home,” he says quietly. “Not to Syngorn.”

Vex frowns a little, leaning away from her chair a little bit. “Did something happen?”

Vax looks away from her, swallowing. She doesn’t like this at all. Bitter dread starts pooling in her stomach.

“Father doesn’t want either of us around Velora,” he says after a moment. “He’s made sure we weren’t welcome home anymore. We won’t be able to make it through the door of the house. And…” He stops, sighing. “I think he made sure the people I usually hang with would push me away too.”

Vex sits shell-shocked in her chair. The eggs and toast and coffee are all growing cold, but so is her heart, right now.

She should have expected it. She should have known. When she left for Whitestone, she’d made sure to let Velora know that she didn’t have to be what he wanted her to be. That she could run and fall and come back home with bloody knees. That she could punch anyone who bothered her, no matter how highborn. That she didn’t need to be a perfect elven daughter. Syldor had been furious. He’d basically slammed the door behind her.

Vax takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and slides it over the table. It’s cut roughly and the words on it are messy. Elvish. Don’t come back. It’s not their father’s handwriting, nor is it Devana’s, his wife. She guesses from Vax’s pained eyes that it’s from one of his so-called friends.

“What are you going to do?” She asks after a moment. “Do you still have things there?”

Vax shakes his head. “Nothing important. All I have is here, right now.” He points his chin towards the bag next to the bed. It’s small. “There’s some of your things too,” he points out. “I thought you’d want them here… I didn’t know then we wouldn’t be back.”

Vex’s head is spinning. A second piece of paper is put on the table. This time, the paper is beautiful, the handwriting perfect, and it’s signed by Syldor himself. Her eyes skim over it. The gist of it is the same as the other paper. The house next to the tower, the deep green velvet of the bed canopy.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” she asks. She wishes she didn’t sound as remorseful as she does.

“You seemed happy,” Vax shrugs. “I didn’t want to ruin that.”

Fuck, they’re alone now. Truly alone. Their mother is dead, their father wishes they were dead, they have no one and they have nothing and they don’t have a home. Tears burn as they rise in her eyes, as she tries to shove them down.

“I’m gonna stay here a little,” Vax continues. “And then I’m going to go to Westruun and stay with Gilmore until…”

Until what? Until he changes his mind? Until she stops wanting to stay in Whitestone? Until they grab a map, close their eyes, drop a coin and see where it lands, where they decide home will be?

“We’ll be fine,” she whispers, but she doesn’t believe it.

Why did he have to overhear her telling Velora to be rebellious? Why couldn’t she shut her fucking mouth and not try and bring Velora into the terrible path she’s on? Why couldn’t she be the daughter Syldor wanted? She hadn’t tried hard enough, and now, now it was too late.

She’s never good enough for anyone.  

There’s a nudge against her leg. She looks down and sees Trinket. He’s making little noises, obviously aware of her distress, but she hasn’t heard them. She hasn’t heard a thing. The egg looks cold and congealed now.

She swallows. “I need to go and get meat for Trinket and us,” she says after a moment. “I need… to go and think.” She points out. “Maybe you shouldn’t come.”

Suddenly, they’re back to being teenagers, grieving and angry. All that Vex wants to do is go and run through the woods until she forgets where she’s from, until she forgets the weight of who she has to be. And Vax nods, the way he did fifteen years ago.

“I think I’ll go to the city again,” he says quietly. “Walk around.”

The same thing he’d do when they were teenagers. He’d stay in Syngorn, sneak around on the rooftops while Vex ran. At the end of the day, they haven’t changed. They’re 28, and yet they’re still the same broken-hearted thirteen year olds that ran out of Syldor’s house that first time.

Vex nods quietly. She stands and reaches for her quiver, strapping it to her thigh. She gets everything else ready, bundling herself up for the oncoming hunt in the cold. As her fingers close around her usual bow, her mind drifts to Fenthras, still hidden under her bed. She shoves the thought away. She’s not worthy of that weapon.

The door of the cabin slams in the silence. She’s greeted by blinding snow. Her instincts yell at her to run and she does.

She takes off running the second she passes the first ring of trees around the clearing. Her lungs burn with exhaustion as well as the icy air. The snow crutches underneath her feet. She runs for a while, until she feels like she’s miles away from the cabin. Her foot catches on a hidden branch and she tumbles down, knees and hands hitting the packed snow.

Her pants are wet and cold and her wrists and knees hurt from the impact but she stays there. She wants to scream and she wants to cry and suddenly, she’s 13 again. She’s 13 and howling at the moon because her mother is dead, her father hates her, and the only person that loves her is as broken as she is.

The moon is not out, it’s the middle of the morning and the sun is shining, but still she howls. Her ears ring with the strength of her own screams. If anyone hears her, they’ll think she’s a wounded animal. It’s fitting.

She’s a wounded animal, hands and knees in the snow, knees numb, face burning with a thousand needles and she screams. Her body is wracked with sobs and screams, she wants to break, she wants to sleep. She’s so tired. She’s so mad. She punches at wet cold snow. It’s packed dense and it hurts her fist as she rages.

She’s ridiculous, isn’t she? She’s an adult woman, and she’s sobbing now because her father won’t love her. Fuck. She wishes her hands were claws in the snow. It’s all so white. She wishes she could stop thinking.

It’s too cold to be out there on the ground, crying. This is ridiculous. Her hands are getting numb, and so are her feet. She lets herself fall into the snow, curls up on herself. She’s still shaking and crying, but she’s not screaming anymore. She’s too tired.

Her sobs eventually quiet, her body stops shaking. She’s just breathing now, harder than before, out of breath from her crisis. She’s cold. The snow has wetted her clothing and the parts of her body not covered by several layers are damp. Her hair is wet too, after she’s just spent gods know how many minutes curled up in the snow.

She doesn’t have any other option than to get up, hunt, and go back to the cabin. And then… She doesn’t know. As long as she can keep her post here in Whitestone, she has somewhere to be. She has a house, she has an income, she has a purpose. As long as she doesn’t find herself in a situation here, she’ll be fine.

Nothing like Saundor can happen again. She doesn’t have Syngorn to go back to anymore, in case something happens. There’s no more emergency exit. This is all she has. She exhales. Fuck. She doesn’t have anywhere to run to.

Gilmore’s nice, but she doesn’t belong there. That’s Vax’s emergency exit. She’ll only take space.

She just needs to be very good at her job. She needs to be indispensable to Whitestone and to the Alabaster Sierras park. She needs to stop making waves and asking questions. She’ll settle there, do her work, and let everyone forget that she’s anything but useful and discreet.

Vex exhales, closing her eyes and trying to calm herself down. Her heart is still pounding in her chest. She needs to shove down the hurt and anger at her father, the panic when she thinks of having to leave Whitestone. She needs to focus on her job.

She forces herself to center, to melt into her primeval sensing abilities. She needs to do her job right.

It’s far from as smooth as the last time. She doesn’t let herself breathe her awareness through her pores, instead, she throws it out of herself in rage, still a little shaky from her crisis. She pushes it out of her skull, out of her body, like she doesn’t want anything to do with it. Her mind tangles with the forest and digs into it, searching, hungry, a predator.

A howling monster of a mind shoves itself through the forest, in search of prey. There’s no fey. Relief floods into her, despite herself. She didn’t think he was a big player in her current state, but isn’t he always? Hasn’t he been a player of her crisis for the past five years?

She tastes ash again. Fiend. No.

She failed. She fucking failed. There were more than one and she missed one. It’s there, it’s violent and it makes her want to scream again.

She snaps back into her body and hits the ground again. Fuck. She failed in the one job she had to do. She’s useless here, isn’t she? She’s useless everywhere, after all. To everyone.

No. Fuck that. Fuck the fiend. Fuck Syldor Vessar and fuck Saundor. Fuck everyone.

She grabs her bow and starts running again, in the general direction of where she sensed the fiend.

She’s out there for what feels like hours, running, hunting. She’s hungry now, exhausted. She’s a little in pain too, and she doesn’t have time for that. She emerges out of the woods and onto a path that she immediately recognizes. She looks up.

Above her stands the blindingly white architecture of Castle Whistestone. She’s on Keyleth’s trail, where she originally found the fiend.

She focuses again. It’s much closer now, and it seems to be straight ahead of her. Except ahead of her is the stone of the rock formation on which the castle was built. There’s nothing there. How can the fiend be in there?

Vex’s eyes scan over the rock, searching for something, anything that will make sense. She’s desperate. She wants to succeed in something, one thing. She wants to find the fiend and kill it. She needs to.

The rock seems to be looser than the rest, smaller rocks shoved one on top of the other in a way that is unlike the rest of the stone around her. There’s a couple bushes in front of it, probably trying to mask the inconsistency. Except in between the two is a space for one thin half-elf druid to go through.

The issue with visiting the same spot every month and being the only one known to use that path is that it’s obvious to see where you disturbed the natural arrangement of wilderness. Vex knows Keyleth went through there. She knows her fiend is close. There’s no other explanation. Keyleth wasn’t smart enough to fool her.

She manages to move some rocks out of the way, though it takes her a while. She’s determined, and time is nothing important to her right now. She’s solely focused on finding what the fuck Keyleth has been hiding from her.

A tunnel opens in front of her. She takes a step forward. There’s not going back now, isn’t it? She waits for a second as her eyes adjust to the darkness.

The ground seems dry, preserved from the weather. A few feet further in, Vex can spot the remains of a small fire. Someone has camped here. She swallows. It doesn’t seem very used. There are some footsteps in the dust and dirt. Vex swallows. Maybe… maybe she should go get Vax. She isn’t far inside and she might need back-up.

But she doesn’t want him to rescue her again. She needs to be useful, by herself. He’s not always going to be by her side in battle, and she needs to do it by herself. She doesn’t want him there. She’s not a damsel, fuck. She’s strong.

She starts walking down the tunnel. It isn’t very long. A few hundred feet at most. The minimal light from outside quickly disappears however, and Vex finds herself walking in the dark. With a quick motion and whisper, she casts Pass Without a Trace. She’s going to surprise that monster.

She eventually reaches a partially crumbled wall, about a foot thick. A large statue has been moved away from the crumbled part. It had probably been used to hide the hole. This is not just a tunnel, this is a secret tunnel, on many levels. Vex looks back behind herself. She can’t see the entrance anymore.

She walks through the hole and into a storage room. Once again, it’s full of dust, with a single path going from the hole in the wall to the door. Whoever is going through this passage - and she guesses it’s Keyleth - doesn’t stop to check the dust-covered crates stacked into the room.

The door itself is closed, but it doesn’t hold to Vex’s skills. She’s learned to pick locks from Vax, and she’s become pretty good at it over the years. The lock clicks as it turns, and she takes a deep breath before opening it.

The room is plunged into darkness. It’s much larger than the storage room, divided into two paths, one going on the right and the other on the left of a central section. She sneaks in closer and she sees metal bars and the glint of chains. It’s a dungeon.

Vex’s breath itches. She shouldn’t be here alone. Fuck, what is she doing? She takes a step back. She’s being stupid. Her fucking pride and her fucking issues are getting in the way. This is not what being useful looks like. She turns around and starts walking back to the door when a light hissing sound reaches her ears.

She was supposed to be stealthy. Fuck, this is where she dies, isn’t it?

She turns around, quietly. Better to be seeing whatever is behind her. She’s supposed to be the one taking monsters by surprise, not the other way around.

A light turns on, deeper in, and flickers. Shadows pool over the floor, waves upon waves of dark smoke. It almost seems to stick to the stone of the walls. It overwhelms the space of the corridor, coming towards Vex. She should be running. Why is she frozen in place?

Footsteps hit the stone floor. They’re light, but Vex has sharp senses. Even with the light hissing of the dark smoke, she can hear those steps getting closer. Two feet, unless some are more silent.

They come out of the smoke like a nightmare. They’re tall and pale, surrounded in black, the smoke seeping out of their nostrils and mouth and eyes, of their hands. It pours out of them, sick and brutal and hissing at her.

A humanoid, with pale hair and glasses and one eye blue and one eye black. Something ugly twists inside of them as they twitch, head tilting to stare at her. The blue eye blinks but not the other one. It’s a deranged sort of wink.

“Well, hello, there. Who are you?”

[wehavethoughts]

Six of Crows Review!

Six of Crows

By: Leigh Bardugo

YA Fantasy Novel

Henry Hold & Company, 2015

Rating: 4.5/5 Waves

Summary: Six rag-tag teens are offered the job of a lifetime: more money than they know what to do with and all they have to do is spring a scientist from the most heavily fortified prison in the world. A daring adventure filled with magic, love and betrayal. 

The review CONTAINS (mild) spoilers for the novel Six of Crows.

Content Warning for Six of Crows: Blood, Violence, Death, Forced Prostitution (mentioned), Fantasy Racism, Sexism, Slavery/Indentured Servitude

“No Mourners. No Funerals.” – All of these wonderful characters right before they do something insane.

I can’t tell you how refreshing it was for me to pick this book up and read in three days. It’s been years since I’ve found a book that I simply could not put down. From the writing style to the pacing to the clever characters, this book had everything I didn’t know I needed. Before I dive into why this book knocked my socks off, I want to give a shout out to the several friends who recommended this book to me over the years (you know who you are). You were right! I loved it <3

Aside from how highly recommended this book was, I knew pretty early on that this book was a great fit for me. The first clue was that there are not one, but two maps in the front. I might be the only one, but a good map to start off my fantasy book always puts me in a very good mood. In my version of the book, the maps are illustrated by Keith Thompson and they are beautiful. The detail and imagination that went into these maps, particularly the Ice Court schematic really allowed me to immerse myself in the story, especially since one of the characters actually sketches the Ice Court in the novel. It is so easy to imagine Wylan hunched over a piece of parchment drawing this spectacular map.

My second clue that I would love this book was that it is a heist novel. In fact, knowing that this book was about a fantasy heist was at least half the reason I decided to read it, and Bardugo did not disappoint. What I find to be most compelling about this heist story is how she lays out the mission as nearly impossible, but never gives the reader a reason to doubt the characters’ resolve. Sure this heist seems insane and doomed to fail, but our faith in the characters keeps the reader invested. Bardugo also did a great job with her foreshadowing. The plot twists and the way the characters solved their problems, while surprising, always made sense in hindsight. There were never any instances where I felt like Bardugo used her magic system to ‘cheat’ the character’s out of a bad situation or where the characters were just so clever there was no way I could have ever guessed what they were going to do. The book kept me on my toes, but it never made me feel stupid.

As I mentioned in my About Page, I love me a good magic system, and Bardugo delivers fun and vibrant magic with clear rules and expectations that just beg to be broken. She also does a great job integrating the magic into a world that feels complex and expansive. This world has both a history and a future in a way that makes me feel like the author put a lot of good work in and loves this world as much as I do. My favorite detail is how Bardugo used language and language barriers in the story. The main cast are from different countries within this world and logically speak different languages, though fortunately most are multilingual. I just love the little details like how Wylan speaks schoolroom Fjerdan because he learned it from his tutors and how Matthias only just learned Kerch during his time in prison. It gives the world a fun realistic dimension.

Hands down the best thing about this story is the characters. Usually at this point in the review I have to sigh and tell you that it was a fun book but the diversity was lacking. Fortunately for us Bardugo gives us a beautifully diverse cast of well rounded and compelling characters. Of the six main cast, only one is an able-bodied straight white man (I am making some assumptions about Matthias’ sexuality so you will have to forgive me) and in an age where I am still reeling from the Avenger’s lineup this crew was a breath of fresh air. Every single character comes out of the gate interesting, three-dimensional and just a delight to read. This book is constructed so that every chapter we switch point of view and I found myself excited to see how each character thought and reacted to the wild situations they ended up in. Also, the way Bardugo gets the reader to care deeply for her characters does a fantastic job in creating high stakes with real tension. I found myself holding my breath and flipping pages with much more force than necessary during some high stress scenes. Even the characters that were clearly not good people had me checking my moral compass from time to time and cheering for them anyway.   

I think it’s also important to include how much I liked the writing style of this novel. Everything I listed above wouldn’t have been nearly as enjoyable if the flow and pacing of the writing were not enjoyable to me. This novel is written in a fairly typical YA style of fantasy, fast pace and dialogue heavy, which I loved. There was enough description that I never felt lost, but I also never got bogged down in details I didn’t care about. Bardugo also made a fun choice to break the book up into six parts and at the end of each part there are two full black pages with the part title. The first couple times I mostly ignored it, but when a character is in physical danger and you flip the page and it’s just black! That is a great use of your physical medium! I got chills.

I have one nit-pick that didn’t deeply affect this book’s rating, but could be a deal-breaker for other readers. First of all, this novel is the first in a duology and it does not stand on its own as a story. While the main conflict does get resolved, another plot starts in the last couple chapters and the story does not end at the end of the book. It is clear that a single story has been broken into two books and it came as a shock to me. Fortunately, unlike the poor suckers who read this when it came out in 2015 and had to wait a whole year for the sequel, I only have to wait about a week for my library to have it available. Still for people who want a stand alone book or enjoy when all of the books in a series have a neat and tidy ending, this is not the book for you.

The two things keeping this book from a perfect score were the fantasy racism and how the women were framed in this world. I am using the term ‘fantasy racism’ because there is systemic oppression in this fantasy world and that systemic oppression is a clear metaphor for real-life racism, but in the story the minority group is the one with magical powers and not an ethnic minority. Generally, I think this author did a good job at showing the damage institutionalized racism can do to specific countries and the world as a whole. What I did not enjoy was the sub-plot of one of the main cast (Matthias), who was a member of the highly bigoted ruling class of the most racist nation in this fantasy world, overcoming his racism not through critical thinking or learning to understand the value of lives that are different from his own, but rather because he fell in love. I am open to the idea of racists learning to respect the cultures they were prejudiced against and when done right can be a very powerful thing, but when romance is the key motivator it feels very hollow. Also I have trouble conceptualizing a woman of the minority group falling in love with someone who is literally a part of the military death squad in charge of hunting down her people (Nina I know he’s hot, but what the hell?). Either way, the idea of reforming a racist with the power of love is not a trope I enjoy in my media.

The second thing keeping this book from a perfect score is the treatment of the women characters. One thing I noticed early on is that nearly all of the women characters had been forced (either financially or physically) into prostitution or slavery. It makes the reader think that in this fantasy world the only places to find women are the brothels or in chains. This world is vibrant and full of so many interesting things and people, yet for women the world seems so very limited. I found myself disappointed that even in a novel written by a woman, a well loved character is described during the climax as ‘a  half-naked girl in shreds of teal chiffon’. To be fair, I have read fantasy books that have done their women characters much, much dirtier, but it’s unnecessary and exhausting. I notice it even in small doses and I’m sick of it. Fortunately, neither of these issues I had with the novel got a ton of page-time and there was always something else going on that I could focus on, like the strong female friendships and the brilliant disabled protagonist.

Tldr; Overall, best book I’ve read in a long time. I couldn’t give it a 5/5 because of some issues in how the fantasy racism and women were handled, but I would still highly recommend this novel to anyone who likes fantasy stories, diverse characters and/or a really good heist. 

~TideMod

[7deadlycinderellas]

if the summer of our lives, ch35

AO3 link

The returns to Winterfell trickle back in slowly.

Daenerys sticks around long enough to recoup her troops from White Harbour. Those who remain are camped outside Winterfell, at their protection. There aren’t many, as many of the dead hordes had come southeast towards White Harbour upon breaking the defensive line at Winterfell.

It’s far too long before they learn that the dead at White Harbour included both Theon and Yara, along with many of the Ironborn.

Robb had given his condolences, barely holding back tears at the loss of his childhood friend. By his side, Arya had quietly asked,

“Do you think he fought bravely?”

Daenerys had been taken aback,

“I can’t say I knew him well,” she starts, mind sorting through her mess of memories, old and new. “But I knew he fought shoulder to shoulder with the others, that he and his sister both looked battle straight in the eye.”

Arya squeezes Robb’s remaining elbow, trying to reassure him. She had never quite come around to Theon the way that Sansa had, but she knows how hard it could be to lose someone who you may have never gotten to tell what they meant to you.

Val has taken to leading hunting parties, in hopes of finding game enough to feed those within the walls still, so she sometimes stays by Robb’s side in her place. It’s sort of working. Arya thinks on Theon, broken down, who gave his life for Bran, given his life again for the north. Another thread of regret, that they hadn’t managed to save him, or to give him his due.

“He will be remembered,” she assures Robb.

“The Iron Islands will be in a difficult spot now,” he muses, then asks, “I don’t suppose there’s been any word from their uncle Euron? Our intelligence told us he had also been aiming to take the islands himself.”

Daenerys had smirked quietly to herself.

“We have not received word. The Islands supported me on this venture, they will support me when I retake the Iron Throne. It would be poor form for me to forget them, it would be even poorer form for them to immediately rebel, and go back to their reaving ways against both my express wishes, and Yara’s command.”

Arya leaves them while they discuss Daenerys going north again to lead the refugees home from Bear Island. In a corner of the Great Hall, she writes out letters to the Vale and the Riverlands, telling them that it is safe for those who have taken shelter to return north.

She stays inside often, because it is quiet, because it allows her to adjust to her unbalanced ears. Outside among the bustle and the rebuilding, she finds herself often fighting the urge to spin, to find the whisper, to chase what seems just out of reach.

At least at night, on a straw mattress in part of the repaired Great Keep, there is peace. Gendry has always been willing to whisper softly to her, whatever words she needed, and no more.

Sleep comes easily for Gendry because during the day he doesn’t stop. Some days he works in the forge, providing nails and tools and such out of what repurposed iron he is able to get his hands on. There’s not enough.

But even when he’s not, there’s carts to push and stone to carry. His muscles are used to their limit, and here, as he sees new growth begin in the scar of Winterfell, he feels his low birth has been put to good use. He’s always worked for his living, and now his work is for the living of others.

Those who remain too, must live for the living of others.

Robb spends his time supervising the rebuilding and sending and receiving riders from several of the other keeps who had held the line, from Hornwood and Torren’s Square and Cerwyn. Hornwood had taken the worst casualties, but that ended up fortuitous. They had food stores still to help feed the other survivors.

Jon helps where he can, often with his hands. He finds another role too. Those within Winterfell have suffered losses as well.

One day, he finds Ygritte in the Godswood with Johnna. The girl is nearly grown now, but still sobbing like a child.

“Wounds took her mother night before last,” Ygritte tells him.

Jon sits beside them carefully.

“Was your sister sent to Bear Island?” he asks the girl.

She nods.

“Then she’s as safe as she could be,” Ygritte insists, “Safe as she could hope for in this world.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to tell her this,” Johnna weeps.

Jon meets Ygritte’s eye, and realizes words aren’t needed right now. Jon knows there isn’t a correct way for a child to have to tell another about the death of a parent. He reaches an arm across Johnna’s back and is quiet, letting her cry.

Her tears were not wasted. Bear Island had fought hard and long. Because most of the refugees there had been women and children, they were ill-equipped for any sort of battle, but especially the one that came towards them across the water.

When Daenerys had come to lead them back, she had found them attempting a funeral pyre for those who had fallen. The water made it difficult to light, but it turned out dragon fire worked fine.

Only the youngest Mormont daughter remains, though bruised and battered, standing among the other survivors.

“We had to do what we could,” she tells, shivering in the cold, “To keep the others safe. I was pinned down at one point, cornered, I would have died if not for Hodor.”

Daenerys turns her gaze and considers the large man behind Lyanna. He looked as though he could have giant’s blood in him, but seemed as shy as a child when he ducked his head to her, with a respectful “Hodor.”

“I saw him hoist her straight onto his shoulders,” Osha tells, leaving out the part that it had happened when one of the dead had her down and was clawing at her gut. Osha’s wounds during the battle were great, but not life-threatening. Despite this, Daenerys doubts she will be able to make the journey back to Winterfell without them becoming life-threatening. “She fought like a beast from her perch, and he somehow still kept both his arms free.”

“It’s probably because of Hodor that we didn’t lose any of the children,” Gilly comments. She’s helping stitch up a nasty cut across Henneh’s forehead. Her and Sam had made it, Henneh too. Nella, Norea and Rhea hadn’t been so lucky.

“Once everyone can gather, I can lead you back to Winterfell,” Daenerys assures them.

“I shall stay here,” Lyanna insists, “This is my home, and some of my people will still need protection here. Tell my sisters- if I still have any- tell them I will hold the island down as well as I can until they return.”

She swallows roughly. She doesn’t want to think that it might just be her.

Osha sits up best she can, one arm bracing as well as she can with the bandages around her middle.

“If you will have me, Little Bear, I think I will stay here.”

Lyanna smiles, softly, with a hint of uncertainty behind her eyes.

“Bear Island is home to some of the greatest fighters in Westeros. I think you have proven yourself more than worthy.”

It’s early the next morning when Daenerys hovers in the sky long enough for the refugees to board their boats and follow her lead.

The day the boats leave Bear Island, Jojen wakes from a vision of it. In the Neck, the rain has continued, swelling the bogs and streams. Some days it is freezing, other days tranquil.

“If they were leaving, with the Dragon Queen’s lead, it must be safe for us to return as well,” Sansa says firmly.

Meera nods,

“I’ll send word for everyone to return here as soon as they can. Once we have everyone, we’ll start for the Kingsroad.”

It’s strange, Sansa thinks, seeing the northern refugees emerging from the swamp, like cats from among the waters and reeds. So out of place, yet having seamlessly blended in.

Eventually, the whole band is back together, though the lost, seeking eyes and mutters continue. Sansa hears many of the men speaking of their visions and sight, and tries not to dwell on it.

She sees Meera hug her father, and assure him that they will be back once everything has worked out. Sansa feels a little piece of her heart break when she remembers this means that Bran will be leaving Winterfell again too.

The rain, however, means that travel north is more difficult than it had been coming south. Bran eventually gives up, and rides on one of the few horses they have, carrying Arra wrapped up in his coat, after having had his cane sink and cause him to slip in the mud one too many times.

“Never thought I’d wish to travel in the snow,” Meera admits, coming up beside Sansa, where she’s walking behind Bran’s horse. “At least snow doesn’t get things soaked through quite as fast.”

“If it’s the fluffy snow at least,” Sansa agrees, “Not the heavy slush we had for a while.”

They walk in silence for a bit, while Meera watches Bran and Arra ride.

“I still can’t believe it sometimes,” she admits, “Sometimes when I’m holding her, I’m like ‘who are you, and why am I being trusted to take care of you?’”

Sansa chuckles.

“The way mother always talked, I think lots of new mothers feel that way.”

Her smile falters.

“I do understand though. This is...way past the point where I feel like I have any sort of handle on anything. Past this, this is the unknown.”

And I’m completely terrified of the unknown, she doesn’t say. Eyes moving to each member of their party individually, she would feel almost ungrateful to speak. They’re all facing an unknown future.

They’ve sped up their walk, and are now alongside the horse.

“It’s strange to think most of us are technically pushing thirty,” Bran comments. Arra’s sleeping, snoring softly against his chest. She’s been easy, too easy sometimes he thinks. She sleeps through the night now and is bright and alert when awake. He doesn’t want to get used to it. He wishes they didn’t have to travel with her so young, Meera especially has been fretting about the swamp air possibly making her sick.

Sansa turns around so she can see where Jojen and Shireen are walking with some of the other refugees. One of them is talking animatedly, and Shireen appears to be hanging on every word.

“And even those of us who aren’t,” she comments, “May have lived more in this life than we could have even dreamed of in the last.”

By the time Winterfell is in sight, the rain has turned again to snow, though it’s lighter, flurries, and some days even are clear.

It’s reassuring, especially when Sansa notices that the skyline of Winterfell has changed. She hears the murmurings among the others in the group as well, of what has become of their home.

Some of the walls are crumbled, black with burns. She can just make out the Broken Tower, or what used to be. It’s name is even more appropriate now.

They don’t even have to call out. The drawbridge is open. People mill around inside and outside the walls, moving stone and other things. Sansa tries not to think that some of those things could be bodies.

When they approach, there is a hush, and several people run off. The group stands at the gates, unsure of themselves, or where they should go.

One of the Free Folk eventually points them to the Great Hall.

“Wounded are there, and the people who can help sort you out.”

With everyone milling around her, Sansa’s not sure who she even expects to greet them. Despite this, her heart lifts when Jon runs out in front, throwing his arms around her.

“We were so worried,” he tells her, hugging Sansa and then Bran, and moving about to try and direct the others to where there are blankets and rations. She watches his eyes bug out a bit at Bran holding Arra, and Sans feels so guilty breaking his joy.

“Who did we lose?” she asks him, turning apprehensive.

“About half of our forces here,” Jon starts, and then pauses, “Benjen. Theon and Yara both, and quite a lot of the Iron Born who supported Daenarys.”

That could be a problem, Sansa thinks, but right now her mind is overwhelmed by grief about Theon.

“And those of us who made it aren’t necessarily in one piece,” Jon continues, though he is interrupted by a burst of noise.

Arya has rushed out to join them, and she is right now standing with Bran and Meera and fussing over baby Arra. She’s picked her up and his holding her over her face, and Sansa can just hear her say in Meera’s direction, ‘you lived my worst nightmare’.

“Arya’s left ear,” Jon continues, “Robb’s left arm. Lots of fingers and toes to frostbite-”

“Jamie Lannister’s right eye,” Arya interjects. She hugs Sansa so hard she nearly topples. “Make sure to talk into my right ear,” and Sansa doesn’t even get a moment to mourn for her.

Both Arya and Jon hold still for a moment, before quietly telling Sansa and Bran.

“Father’s alive, but he’s in bad shape. Maester Luwin’s not sure how long he has.”

Sansa’s stomach sinks, but not as far as it perhaps should. She puts on her face,

“Lets go see him then.”

As the group that has formed follows Jon, Bran asks,

“Has the group from Bear Island made it back yet?”

“Just a day before you,” Jon confirms, not needing to bother asking how he knew, “Daenarys has left again.”

“Where is she headed now?”

“To hopefully pull off a really stupid plan to make everyone in the South listen when she goes to take the throne.”

Sansa feels alarm bells go off in her mind, but doesn’t dwell.

The Great Hall is again being used for meals, and for directing and organizing. One part is still partitioned off, however, for Maester Luwin to help the remaining wounded, as best he can.

Seeing Ned in his weakened state is harder than Sansa could have expected though. His chest is bound with bandages under his shirt, and sometimes he stills, and breathes deep, as though the very smallest movements pain him. Jon leaves her and Bran alone to talk to him, and they sit on either of his sides, while he tries to look over reports of the supplies they still have.

Bran gently passes over Arra, with a sheepish smile, a faint blush, and,

“Meet your first grandchild.”

Sansa spares a smirk.

“I think I should feel slighted that I didn’t even hear word of your marriage,” Ned tells him, and Sansa sees Bran blush.

“It wasn’t exactly the best time.”

Ned marvels all the same. After a few moments, Bran continues.

“Have we sent ravens to Riverrun and everywhere else refugees were sent?”

Ned voice turns grave.

“Yes, but I fear them returning so soon. My numbers here say we should have sufficient rations, especially if spring is truly coming. But I don’t know if we can provide shelter for everyone, and I can’t even fathom how many years it will take for repairs to complete. We’ve lost so many men and horses, and I don’t know how we can get more raw materials…”

“We’ll have to get to work then,” Sansa insists, taking some of the papers and beginning to look them over, “We’ll start organizing who among the other noble houses remain, and have them begin returning and reopening their keeps-”

Her words are interrupted by Bran’s hand on her shoulder.

“Not tonight, Sansa,” he insists, “Lets eat, and rest. There will still be work in the morning.”

Ned agrees, vehemently. Then he begins to cough, and Maester Luwin, who had previously been remaining away for their privacy, comes in to tend to him.

There are no resources for a feast, of course, but that evening, everyone gathers around one of the blankets in the Great Hall, and share rations and stories.

Lots of people come around to see the baby, it having been so long since any of them have seen one, and Sansa counts down faces. When Arya takes a second turn, she passes her to a somewhat terrified looking Gendry. Gilly, and one of her sisters, the little one, come by with Sam to meet her too. Only one sister, Sansa notes. Shireen and Jojen get up to join them when they move on to sit with the other children who have returned from Bear Island. Hodor sneaks up behind the group, and lifts up Bran in a great hug. Robb and Val eventually make their way over, and Sansa tries not to smirk too heavily at Robb’s teasing. It helps distract her from wincing whenever she sees where his arm should be.

She sees Gendry needling Meera about something, that results in her swatting him. She sees Shireen sneak off from the hall and then return.

“I wanted to return the book I took,” she confesses, “At least much of the library is intact. It would be a shame for so much knowledge to be lost.”

The first part of her thought seems almost childish, but Sansa understands, and the last part troubles her.

“I wonder if anyone will remember the truth of what happened here?”

“That’s one of the reasons I want to write everything down so bad. I wish doing so didn’t just mean it might languish on a shelf somewhere at the Citadel...if I’m lucky enough to get it there...but the more we do, the more people we tell the truth, the better it will be, the less likely the story will die out.”

Sansa’s smile turns grim.

“I used to put far too much stock in stories. Too often I discovered they were so far from reality they might as well not be considered true at all. “

“That’s why you write them,” Shireen insists, “Write them, instead of letting them spread by word. This is one of the reasons I think the world would be so much better if more people could read and write.”

It’s a lovely thought, Sansa thinks, though admittedly it’s a hard one to imagine being implemented.

Across from her, Ygritte quietly rocks Arra, while Arya listens as Jon explains to her what Daenarys’s current plan is.

“She wants to hunt down and catch one of the remaining wights. She thinks that if she can bring it with he to King’s Landing, then Tywin and Joffrey will pay more attention to her and her stories.”

Arya snorts, loudly. Sansa covers her face in her hands.

“Please tell me I didn’t come up with this same plan before?” Jon asks, rolling his eyes while Ygritte snickers by his side.

Sansa shakes her head, a sardonic smile rising on her face.

“Wasn’t your plan before, at least,” she says, her heart twisting at the memory of when she had been told exactly who’s plan that was. It was a stupid, near suicidal plan then. At least now it seems to just be stupid.

Ygritte leaves first, as she’s on the first watch of the night. Arya and Gendry depart to where they’ve been sleeping, and Jon leads the rest of them to where sleeping quarters have been set up, in the Great Keep.

“Most of your old rooms are still here,” he tells, “But we’ve had to adjust to having so many more people. Parts of the guest house was destroyed, and we have to keep some who are still wounded on the ground floors.”

Sansa thinks sleep, any sleep, on a straw mattress or a featherbed either, sounds divine now. And he’s not wrong, there are people sleeping everywhere, separated by hanging sheets if they’re lucky.

Sleep doesn’t come easy though. Even in the comfortable bed, Sansa finds herself tossing and turning throughout the night.

At dawn, she gets up, and puts on her boots and a heavy cloak over her nightdress, and wanders a bit. She watches the late night watch coming in, and the early morning workers moving in the same circles she is, in the pale blue frozen air.

On one of the archer’s perches, she finds Bran by himself.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. She nods.

“Meera’s still out like a light. I don’t think either of us expected anyone here to be so taken by having a baby around.”

“New life,” Sansa muses, “After they’ve seen nothing but death for near on a year. You’ll never hurt for a child minder,” Sansa agrees. She quiets a bit, contemplating the sunrise.

“So what are you up here for?” she asks.

“I’m calling all my ravens home,” is Bran’s response. Sansa nods

“I suppose you don’t really need them patrolling the land anymore.”

“I’d like to send one or two to Riverrun, to assure Mother and the others that it’s safe. The rest I want to call home.”

Home, Sansa thinks. They still call Winterfell home, even she doesn’t think it will remain for many of them.

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

Whumptober prompts #5,#6, #7 in one fic

5: Gunpoint

6: Dragged away

7. Isolation

I got bogged down and fell behind on whumptober so here is my fic utilizing three prompts in a vain attempt to catch up. Not my best work for sure but here goes!

Baz

The moment Snow heads to the bathroom for a shower Bunce lunges at me, pulling a brightly coloured piece of paper from her pocket and waving it in my face.

I scoot away, until I’m wedged into the corner of their lumpy sofa.  “What is the meaning of this attack, you fright?”

She flaps the paper at me again. “Read this!”

I pluck it from her fingertips and spread it out on my knees. It’s some sort of flyer. One of those god-awful things they have pinned to the bulletin board at the café on campus.

I roll my eyes at her and she knocks her shoulder into mine. “Read it.”

I’ve learned you don’t cross Bunce when she’s like this—reeking of intensity and too much caffeine.

The black print is stark against the orange paper. “PAINTBALL TOURNAMENT” is emblazoned at the top in 72-point font. Overkill, if you ask me. I skim the rest then turn to her. “Yes? Why are you giving this to me?”

“It’s for Simon.”

“Then why the devil aren’t you giving it to him?”

She crosses her arms and levels a glare at me over her glasses. She’s actually quite terrifying when she’s like this. “I’m giving it to you so you can take him there.”

“Why on earth would I take Snow to a paintball tournament?” I peer at the paper again. “With people we don’t even know?”

“So he can shoot things.”

Oh. I suppose there is some sense to that.

“Yes, fine, I get that, but why do I have to take him?” I can think of far better ways to spend an afternoon than crawling around in the dirt with a horde of chavvy wankers with a gun fetish.

Although crawling around in the dirt with Snow does have a certain appeal.

“So you can shoot things together.” She huffs at me. “You’ve said it yourself, Baz. He doesn’t get enough exercise. He used to train all the time. He used to go on missions, run himself ragged on those ridiculous quests the Mage sent him on.” She flops back against the sofa, all the energy gone out of her. “He doesn’t do any of that anymore.”

She’s right. He doesn’t. He’ll go for a run here and there but it’s not so easy with wings and a tail, even spelled invisible. They throw him off pace.

Snow joined a fencing club a few months back, but there’s no one there who can match him. He got bored after just a few weeks.

Much as it pains me to admit, Bunce has a point.

Simon might actually like this. An activity where he can use the skills he honed for years as the Mage’s Heir but not actually have to kill anyone or anything.

It could be good for him.

I suppose we could take the train. I’d rather not get any stray drips of paint on the Jag.

“Fine, Bunce. I’ll see if he wants to go.”

Snow is literally bouncing.  He’s got his camouflage combat suit on, protective body armor all in place, goggles perched on top of his head. His tail is tucked away.

I’ve done an “out of sight, out of mind” on him and made his wings incorporeal. As long as he doesn’t think about them we should be fine. I debate casting a “these aren’t the droids you’re looking for” as well, for good measure, but decide that it’s not quite sporting. He’s already got an unfair advantage over the chunky tossers populating this place.  

And an unfair advantage over me.

All that’s left to do now is choose our weapons and decide on an ammo package.

We’ve been assigned to a random team, since there are only two of us, and thank magic we’re on the same one.

I strap my ammo belt on. I was planning on the standard issue rifle and ammo package but Snow insists I get some high tech, stealth sniper rifle. “You’ve not done this before, Baz.”

“Neither have you, you nightmare.”

Snow scoffs. “Yeah, but I’ve played video games for years.” He steps closer and zips my suit all the way up, fingers resting on my chest for a moment. “Trust me. You’d rather be behind the line with the long-range weapon.” He leans in, words barely above a whisper. “With your eyesight and reflexes you’ll be fucking lethal with this.”

I do what he says. There is no way I can argue with Snow when he looks at me like that.

He gets the top of the line rifle and enough ammunition to supply a small army. Which I suppose is exactly what he is.

It ends up being far more entertaining than I anticipated. Snow’s right, I prefer a position a bit back from the fray, out of the direct line of fire, so I can pick off my opponents one by one from there.

He thinks I’m being strategic. Only if my strategy is getting as good a look at Simon Snow in action as I can.

Unlike Bunce, I’ve rarely gotten to see Snow in his element, when he’s relying on the pure power of his body and the instincts that have been honed in him. He’s powerful. He’s lethal.

He’s fucking breathtaking.

And I will take down every arsehole that even tries to take a shot at him.

My ammunition is soon running low and I belatedly curse myself for not listening to Snow. No matter. I wedge myself behind a bunker and peer through a crack, rifle at ready. I can watch Snow to my heart’s content like this. No one’s going to make an effort to ferret me out here. I’ve got the drop on them from my vantage point.

Snow is mesmerizing. He’s halfway across the battle ground now, yelling as he advances on the enemy forces, spraying them liberally with yellow paint. Kill shot after kill shot.

He’s a one-man platoon, on berserker mode.

It’s brilliant.

There are two enemy combatants advancing on him now, left and right, using the meagre hedges and undulations of the ground to cover their progress. I wonder why they haven’t sent a volley of paint at him yet.

I pick off the one on the left first, since he’s closer to Snow, and then turn my sights on the bloke on the right. I hit him too. Kill shots both.

But they don’t stop advancing.

According to rules they both should be out of play now. I reload and hit them again for good measure.

They don’t stop.

There’s something sinister in their stalking of Snow, even if he has decimated their ranks single-handedly. They should be shooting at him, not tracking him in this way.

I’m leaping over the bunker and racing across the no man’s land in an instant, eyes on Snow.

They tackle him from behind, which is clearly a violation of rule number three.

I’m not going to get to him in time. I don’t know what’s going on, but these two are a different sort than the regular paintball denizens we’ve run into so far.

They’re tall, lithe, faster than I would expect as they lunge forward and tackle Snow to the ground.

He’s not going down easy. Snow lands punches on them both, feet flailing as he kicks the legs out from under one of them and knocks his head into the other’s chest.

I’m almost to him when I feel a thud against my back. Some sodding git has nailed me with a paintball. And then another hits me. The abruptness of it catches me off guard and I stumble on a rock, going down in a heap. I’m back on my feet in an instant but I’m already too late.

The two blokes have a hold of Snow and they are dragging him into a forbidding two story structure with no windows on the far edge of the field. He’s not fighting back.

They’re moving far faster than any Normal should.

One looks back at me and gives me a smirk. A blood-red grin from a green-cast face.

Fuck.

Goblins.

Simon

My head’s throbbing when my eyes blink open. Fuck, it hurts. I try to reach up to rub my head but my hands are tied behind my back.

It all comes back to me. My mad rush across the field, the ambush.

Fucking Goblins. I don’t know why they can’t have an election or a hereditary monarchy or a parliamentary procedure instead of this fucking arbitrary method of choosing a king centered on who kills me.

That’s no basis for a system of government.

These two are grinning at me from across the room, smooth green skin, blood red lips. Fit and feral, the bastards. They finally figured out that it would take more than one of them to bring me down.

Took them long enough.

I wonder where Baz is. I’m sure he’s gone completely feral himself, if he witnessed them ambushing me.

It’s Penny and Baz’s biggest fear, that I’d be waylaid by murderous magical creatures someday when I was alone.

Well I wasn’t alone, it was in broad fucking daylight, and in a public place, for Merlin’s sake.  A damn paintball venue, of all things. Proves my point, really. Baz and Penny can’t protect me every minute of every day, even if they’re right there with me. I have to be able to fend for myself. Like I always did before.

Just without magic this time.

The taller of the two saunters across the room. “Finally got you, Mage’s Heir.”

“Yeah, well, hope you two have it figured out which one of you gets the crown.”

Goblins may be fit and fast but they aren’t the smartest, not as far as thinking things through. They’d have had me years ago if they’d been savvy enough to stop trying to get me one on one.

If I can keep them talking, stall for time, that should give Baz a chance to find his way to me.

If anyone can hunt me down it’s him.

I doubt they’d kill me here, anyway. I’m sure they have to do it in front of some formal tribunal, to prove it’s actually me and that I’m actually dead. I mean, that’s what would make sense, from a political standpoint, but who knows with this lot.

Seems to be working, from the frowns on their faces. “Hadn’t thought of that, had you?” I say, bold enough to rub it in a bit, now that I know I’ve got them thinking.

That earns me a kick from the shorter goblin. “Shut your mouth, Chosen One.”

They retreat to a corner of the room and start bickering. Maybe they’ll kill each other off and do Baz’s work for him.

I’d not mind.

I think this is the structure at the far end of the battle field. I’d seen it and assumed it was a storage facility of some kind.

It is.

There are two lawnmowers and a small tractor. Rolled up fencing. A stack of wood in the far corner. Field maintenance it seems. I take stock, to see what might be useful as a weapon. The shovels and rakes appear to be the most promising.

The building is about two stories high but there’s only the one floor and then a little loft on the far side, with a ladder leading up to it. I can’t see if there’s anything up there from here. It’s dark and dim, just a few lights shining weakly high up in the rafters.

There are no windows. Just a door. A solid one.

The Goblins seem to have reached some sort of agreement. One leans against the wall and the other comes my way. “Get up.”

I don’t.

I’m not going to make it easy on them. I may be tied up but that doesn’t mean I have to be obedient. They’ll have to carry me if they want to take me anywhere. I’m not tall but I’m solid. I can make it difficult if I choose.

I do choose.

It takes both of them to get me across the space to the ladder. I’m kicking and flailing, shouting at them too, just in case Baz is near enough to hear me. He won’t even have to be that close, with his hearing, but I roar at them anyway. Makes me feel better, it does.

I’m not going to lie, I’m right furious these two got the drop on me. I let my guard down, thinking it was just Normals here.

Won’t be making that mistake again.

They finally drag me up the ladder, thumping me on every step as they take me up. I’m going to have bruises all over by then end of this.

It’s a small space, filled with boxes of paint balls, labeled by size and color. They shift two of the boxes and wedge me between them, tightening the ropes on my hands again and tying my feet now for good measure.

They have gotten smarter.

Arseholes.

One leans down, all gleaming red smile  again. “We’ll be back, Mageling. Can’t drag you out the front gate of this place in broad daylight but it’ll be dark soon enough.” His grin is all sharp teeth and cherry red lips. “Once they’re all gone Nigel will bring the car around and we’ll have you right where we want you.”

The other one chimes in. “You’ve had a good run. And now you’re running days are over.” They’re giving me matching smiles now, all cocky, thinking they’ve got me cornered.

They do but I’m not going down without a fight. They’ve given me their plan, so now I know what to expect. No subtlety at all.

The short one—Nigel, I suppose—checks his watch. It looks like a fucking Rolex. I don’t understand goblins, I really don’t.

“Come along, Terry,” he says. “We’ve got to get out of here before they do a sweep of the property for the night and put the gear back in here.” He smirks at me. “We’ll be back after sundown for you.”

They go down the ladder. I hear a door click and then I’m alone.

I scoot forward as far as I can, without getting too close to the edge. I wonder why they store the paint up here, rather than down of the main level. I’ll probably never know.

I give my hands an experimental wiggle but the ropes are tight. I try to twist my fingers to find the knots but I’ll give the goblins this—they know how to truss you up good and proper. I won’t be getting myself out of these rope shackles anytime soon.

I end up thinking about the spells I could have used when I had magic.

“Cutting the Gordian knot” is tricky—Alexander the Great may have cut an actual knot but most people use that spell for solving a conundrum, not an actual knot in a rope.  

“Gotta help our Cinderelly,” would have brought out every rat and field mouse in the place, although I’m not sure I could have had them gnaw the ropes willingly.

Who am I kidding? Those spells would have never worked for me. Too complicated.

I’d have just called the Sword of Mages and sawed the ropes against the blade until I could break the strands.

Or I would have just gone off. Reduced the whole building to splinters.

I miss magic. I miss it with my heart and soul. I miss it so much I can taste it—the smoke and burning that used to come over me when I’d use it.

But I was never any good at it, was I?

I can’t let myself think about that. Not right now.

Not when I’m stuck here, with no way out and no idea where Baz is.

Fuck. I wonder if this is what Agatha used to feel like?

Bloody useless. I hate it.

Bet she did too.

Baz

I’ve been circling the building, trying to find a way in. There’s only the one door.  I pull on the knob, rattle the hinges but I can’t rip it away, even with my vampire strength. I don’t know what they’ve done to it, the bastards, but it won’t budge. Goblins don’t have much magic but they do fucking have the market on making doorways do their bidding.

Even “open sesame” fails me.  Fucking hell.

There’s not a window, not a crack in the foundations. Nothing.

I’m losing my mind. I heard Simon shout. I heard his voice through the solid walls of this god-forsaken structure. Why the fuck do you need an impenetrable fortress at a sodding paintball club?

My fangs have popped, my fists are clenched. I’m going to rip these bastards limb from limb.

Simon has to still be alive. There’s no way they’d go to their tribunal or whatever the fuck they call it without proof they’d captured him. Without proof they’d killed him.

I’m circling around again, looking for anything I might have missed my first time around when the goblins come out the fucking door a few feet away from me, all glamoured to look like members of fucking Duran Duran instead of their disgusting green selves—all big hair and frosted waves, eyeliner on point. It’s not a good look with the camouflage jumpsuits.

I’m on them before they even see me, silent and deadly. I knock into the taller one—he looks just like John Taylor—shifting him off balance. He bumps into the shorter one—more of a Nick Rhodes look on him—and then turns on me with a snarl.

I’m ready for him.

I snap his neck before he can even take a step.

The Nick Rhodes look-alike takes a step back, looks like he’s ready to run for it but I’m on him before he has the chance.

“Where is he?”

“Where’s who?”

“Don’t fuck with me. Where’s Simon?”

He tries to claw at me. Goblins have long, elegantly manicured nails but you’ll get a nasty rash if they scratch you. My hand goes up lightning fast and I catch his wrist. I bend it back until the bone snaps and he howls. 

I mutter a “Silence is golden.” No good having anyone hear us. I can handle one goblin on my own and I don’t want an audience.

I’m not well versed in the memory spells the Coven uses on Normals that inadvertently witness displays of magic. Or the one my father uses on Vera from time to time.

Less seen the better then.

I make quick work of this goblin too, snapping his head with a twist. He goes limp and falls to the ground. I cast a “into thin air” on the corpses and rush to the door. “Open sesame” works this time, since they’re both dead and their magic has died with them.

I rush inside, scanning around the room for Simon. I hear a shout from above and I spot him, trussed up but grinning at the sight of me, on some sort of landing up a ladder.  

I’m up it in an instant, casting “like a knife through butter” to shear through his bonds with my wand.

I’ve got my arms around him an instant later. “You bloody bastard. You courageous fuck. I told you it would be the bloody goblins, I told you those arseholes would never rest.”

Snow leans into me, head on my shoulder. It takes me a minute to realize he’s laughing. “Are you all right, Simon?” I catch his face between my hands and stare into his eyes.

He’s still smiling. “What are you laughing about, you nightmare? You could have been killed.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of that spell,” Snow says. “I was sitting here, waiting for you to finally show up, you jammy bastard, trying to remember what spells would work to cut ropes. ’Like a knife through butter.’ You’d think, of all the spells, I’d remember that one.”

I rub my thumb on his cheekbone and shake my head. “You’d think.” I press a kiss to his forehead and then stand up, pulling him up with me.

Last time I listen to Bunce. Take him for paintball, she said. It’ll be good for him, she said. Bloody hell.

But when I look at Simon I know she was right, fucking Goblins and all.

He’s sweaty and bruised, with a lump on the side of his head, but his smile is wide, wider than it’s been in weeks.

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Before the Dawn (BC x OC)

Genre: Angst, Historic, Werewolf AU

Pairing: Werewolf!Bangchan x Hunter!OC

Warnings: No warnings apply

Summary: When Religion grows and slowly diminishes another, worshippers of Nature are made victims of the new laws put upon Man by a single God.

A God who hates the apparent spawns of Hell who were once seen as another part of the people inhabiting the realm of Mother Nature. However, His believers want to see them gone, even if it comes at a cost.

And this contract has a highly personal one. 

Author’s Note: As mentioned before, I am currently doing a creative writing course as part of my studies and the story below is part of the building portfolio.

Personally, there has always been an interest in the growth and belief in Christianity despite being an atheist who strongly leans towards the older polytheistic religions, especially the Greek and Roman ones. Nevertheless, recent focus has been turned to the Celtic belief system thanks to studying Germanic and Celtic medieval heroes and Christian saints.

And knowing that Christianity did not overtake Ireland in one night, this is also a wee exploration of the co-existence of Paganism and Christianity.

Furthermore, this work was inspired by a piece of art I picked up when I was in Edinburgh for the first time about the Scottish folk tale ‘The Grey Wolf’ (link to Hannah Forrest’s art). This myth is blended into the piece with an old English legend that when someone who truly loved and trusted the werewolf called him by name, the wolf would become human again. To top it all off, there is the mention of banshees to put some Irishness into the mix.

Lastly, the names are in Irish. But, let’s be honest, we all know who I actually wrote about.

I sincerely hope you enjoy. 

Banner art is by ShamiesArt on DeviantArt (link)

Masterlist

It is a common mistake for ordinary people to immediately expect silver-coated arrows in the hunt for the monster terrorizing the village. Little do they know that there is another pacifist trick to make the evil go away. The reason that this method is so hardly known, is that it is erased from most texts that are passed down in hunter families or altered to require so much that mindless violence is the simple and fast solution.

Mankind sure does love its beastly side.

However, to maintain the peace and spare even the life of the huntress, all one truly needs is the lady worshipped by the wolf and who knows his true - Christian, if you ask the Godly people - name. Ana, Mother Goddess, has left an epitaph behind when the Gods left the Earth, describing in it how to pacify the Children of the Moon she created and noting this precise method. Always being up for new weapons and hunting techniques, tonight the divine word will be put to practice.

If only to save the heart faithfully belonging to the one beating in the chest, shrouded by evenfall.

Faced with ivory fangs glistening in the moonlight warmed by smoking fire, blood-frenzied.

Familiar deep brown eyes now blazing with rage while they always looked so tender when secretly making love in the grove with the oak tree, overlooking the crystal lake in the valley.

The giant wolf a contract has been set out on by the very same townspeople who once whispered of a lucky marriage. Withal, those truthful rumours soon darkened when Christianity made the beloved golden-haired boy an abomination instead of the baker’s son whereas the remaining Pagans tried their best to protect the youth without being burned at the stake.

Heretics.

Like the mistress who is supposed to murder the boy that has been missing from the riverside village for more than a year, much to the delight of the overbearing Churchgoers.

What has happened to humanity?

Why must Religion ruin Love?

Why does one person have to pay for the primary sin of the Many?

Nay, two will grace the Cross that is both their blessing and punishment.

If we stay.

“Criostoir.” Just an inch away, the big nose often kissed with sincere affection and now transformed and blackened like the night halts. The beastly anger subsides, dilated pupils softening and sharp teeth covered by wolfish lips carefully listening to a voice they have to recognize. ‘’It’s me, Iúile.’’

And do. 

A shudder like a disturbed body of water mirror treks through ashen dotted with hay fur, muscles snapping and reattaching as bones break and change positions in limbs slowly becoming human, stretching and shrinking vocal cords voicing the agony.

‘’My love.’’

The two little words spoken before entwined fingers assuring of endless faithfulness have to unravel, no moment to be taken to assure humanity has truly returned to the wolf lover.

We run.

Fading like the banshees in the bogs.

The contract sees no silver.

[myevilmouse]

In Defense of The Rise of Skywalker

Or...how I learned to stop hating and enjoy a movie

Spoilers and random thoughts below the cut.

I hate the abomination that was/is The Last Jedi.  Let’s get that out of the way.  I’ve already explained the hundreds of reasons why, the biggest and most unforgivable being the character assassination of Luke “I call him Jake” Skywalker and the invalidation of every victory of the OT.  I resent this making people lump me into a “gatekeeper” sect, or accuse me of racism (Rose was annoying and ruined Finn’s heroism, jeopardizing hundreds of lives for her own selfish reasons without building up a convincing romance and blah blah etc).  It has nothing to do with her gender, race, or anything.  It has to do with poor character development and inconsistent motivations/messages. 

I’m also not a huge fan of The Force Awakens, mainly for its lack of originality and the treatment of Han/Leia, but otherwise I thought it was OK.  I liked Finn, wanted him to become a Jedi, found Poe to be a worthy heir to our antihero mold.  Rey left me indifferent and Kylo Ren was a temper-tantrum throwing teenager, but anyway...

Let’s keep that as background/context and not get bogged down.

Since they announced the title of this movie, I have been livid with rage. How dare they use my man’s name to sell their disgusting imitation of a beloved universe?  I was certain, ever since it was announced, that Rey would take Luke’s surname, despite having treated him so horribly in TLJ, despite having done nothing to earn it, despite having spent far more time with Leia, so if anything a Solo/Organa family name would make more sense.  It was just to sell tickets and I was furious.

I read all the spoilers.  Worst fears:  confirmed.  I looked at leaked photos.  I raged over the inanity of the plot and the sad conclusion to the Skywalker Saga, which in my mind will always end with ROTJ.

Still, I love Mark Hamill, and I decided to treat this film as a MH film. The completist in me required theatrical viewing.  Rare to get our man in a cinematic release.  So I went, ready to hate watch, prepared to dull the bitterness and betrayal with wine.

But….JJ Abrams directed a fix it fic.  And it’s good.  This film not just address the real injustices and horrible story decisions of TLJ, but also addresses some of the major problems of TFA too. 

I tried to go in with an open mind, but obviously I had many preconceived notions, and already knew almost every single story point and character beat.  I was ready to roll around in my hate and slam the abomination.  I want to emphasize that I am one of those people that was COMPLETELY prepared to hate EVERYTHING about this.

There are flaws. 

But there is so much that is great. 

I really really liked it. 

No one is more shocked than I at my own reaction.  I was ready/willing/wanting/primed to hate everything about this.  Please keep that in mind.  Hahah and no one is paying me to write this post 😉

I decided to write this because I also read all the negative critical reviews online from the pro critics yelling FAN SERVICE.  And I’m like…damn straight?  Ever since George Lucas made Han shoot second, fandom has understood that we understand this franchise better than film executives.  We aren’t concerned with adding an extra dewback or improving special effects.  We love these films the way we first experienced them, and they cannot and should not be “improved” to the ultimate detriment of the brand.

I’m here to tell you that the critics are not being fair.  The spoilers on reddit were true, but the movie works. Let’s accept, before we go further, that Abrams couldn’t entirely rewrite the mess that he stepped into/helped create. So I can’t defend the fact that Finn isn’t a Jedi yet or the mess that is the new Rebellion/failure of the old. I, like many fans, wish we had been given a different/better story from the beginning.  Sadly, we were not.

That is something we don’t have to accept (I certainly don’t consider these films “canon” in my mind—Mara Jade forever!) but let’s approach this film in the spirit it seems to be intended:  An attempt to address the very valid criticisms loudly voiced about the others in the trilogy, with the caveat that we are stuck with TFA and TLJ no matter how much we hate them.

First, the music is amazing, as we all knew it would be.  The acting is stellar.

Some of the things Abrams “fixed:”

“Rey is perfect/Mary Sue/good at everything”.  There is a conscious effort in this film to show her training, with Leia as her Master.  There is a good scene foreshadowing her final struggle, where she strains to hear the voices of Jedi past and fails.  There are several signs that she is not a Jedi yet, including how Palpatine talks about her, and perhaps my favorite, when she tells Leia she hasn’t earned Luke’s lightsaber.

Me: Damn straight you haven’t.

And Leia AGREES, keeping Luke’s weapon because Rey isn’t ready for it. She’s still learning.

Further proof of her non-Jedi status, when Rey is killed, she doesn’t join the Force.  She is a corpse.  On the other hand, Ben Solo, once redeemed, disappears as we would expect a good Jedi to do.  A clear distinction between the two of them.

And speaking of Leia:

Leia’s character:  TFA and TLJ Leia is weak and sends other people to fight, whereas our brave Princess from the OT is volunteering for suicide missions, grabbing weapons from the hands of her rescuers, and running into danger for a good cause.  It always bothered me that she didn’t go after Kylo herself (or with Han).  In this, we see her as a Jedi Master, training Rey, with her own lightsaber.  Leia is once more a badass, true to her character.  A legitimate Jedi who also joins the Force (although not sure why it took her so long post-mortem, that was weird).

Luke’s character:  Hello, I am A LUKE FANATIC.  The biggest sin of TFA and especially TLJ was this idea of Luke hiding out and becoming the disgusting, pessimistic coward he was shown to be.  Abrams ignores this pretty much entirely, starting with the revelation that Luke was actually going on missions with Lando to hunt for a Sith artifact to help the Rebellion.  Luke kept notes, he was busy and ACTIVE.  He wasn’t giving up; he was leaving a trail to help anyone who followed.  The best ‘fuck you’ in the whole movie was Luke catching Anakin’s lightsaber when Rey throws it away.  The ultimate rejection of his TLJ characterization.  

Luke’s conversation with Rey echoes very much the ROTJ “you must confront Vader” conversation.  There are many echoes of ROTJ but given the restrictions on what we are working with, I accepted this parallel.  Much like Luke had to face his unfortunate inheritance, so must Rey.  It’s not terribly original, but these films aren’t.

I also loved the simple line “I was wrong” when Rey asks why he did what he did in TLJ.  This to me is simply “Rian Johnson was wrong/The Last Jedi was wrong.”  There is no excuse that is acceptable, but this is a filmmaker acknowledging an injustice, and I appreciated it.  (Did I mention these films are not canon for me? They aren’t, just giving credit for this attempt.)

Han’s character:  I hated SO MUCH how they turned Han into a failure in TFA.  A buffoon, not even a good smuggler anymore, a failure as a father, a husband.  When I heard he was going to be in this I was like HUH?  But this “memory” of his father that Kylo Ren sees after Rey heals him and departs, after he’s lost his mother, is another attempt to redeem the injustice to Han’s character.  Han is the one in the movie who brings Kylo Ren back to the Light, not Rey.  It is a very short scene, but effective.  The acting is poignant, with the “Dad” working for me.  Maybe I’m a softie.  But I appreciated this brief proof that Han Solo, in the end, didn’t suck as a father, and ultimately, even as a hallucination, inspired the love that saved his son.

Chewbacca got a medal:  I said Abrams was fixing things in the sequels, but I admit I was choked up to see this fixit from A New Hope.  Finally Chewie gets the medal he is LONG overdue.

Team dynamic with the new characters:  Finally we understand why these people care about each other.  They go on shared adventures, they have banter (and some good jokes, not the stupid bathos of TLJ), and there is finally some sense of camaraderie that was discarded in TLJ.  There are several references to Rey’s “new family,” clearly referring to this band of Rebels, and it was far more compelling than in earlier films.

Finn’s Force Sensitivity:  I, like many, desperately wanted Finn to be a Jedi.  Since TFA, it seemed inevitable!  I loved how he used the lightsaber, how he seemed to have Force abilities (that were never really explored).  TLJ ignored that potential completely, sidelining him on that stupid Canto Bight quest and pulling him away from Rey.  There are so many signs that he is destined to be a Jedi in this film, I was thrilled to see them.  Knowing things without explanation, doing amazing things, sensing things, trusting his feelings, it’s another ‘fuck you’ in my opinion, to RJ for ignoring this former stormtrooper’s destiny in favor of overblown set pieces and pointless CGI theatrics.  When he says, towards the end “I can feel it,” I wanted to fist pump.  YOU GO BE A JEDI FINN!  THE FORCE IS WITH YOU.  Personally, I would have loved for Finn to be the main protagonist of all three films, but I appreciate us getting what we got, since we can’t get what we want.

Stuff that worked:

The Wedge cameo:  Yeah.

Lando:  Wonderful. His dialogue, especially at the beginning, does a lot to fix our view of Luke.

Kylo’s redemption:  See above re: Han.  I’ve seen a lot of criticism about the kiss.  I get the whole “female character’s purpose is to validate the evolution of the male” criticism, but I want to point out a couple things about this. First of all, it’s not a “Reylo” kiss. Kylo is gone.  This is well after Kylo is redeemed.  He’s been of the Light for a while before this, it’s clearly Ben at this point.  It’s also obvious Rey knows that, and like Luke forgave Vader for his abuse, she forgives Ben Solo for his.  So I understand also the criticism that is making people puke about Rey kissing her abuser, but again, Luke sheds tears for the father he loves, who maimed and traumatized him.  Star Wars is about redemption and forgiveness that accompanies it, and I don’t have the same issue with this.  If she kissed KYLO without him being redeemed before he died, for example, I would be disgusted.  This is not that.

The cinematography/pacing/story:  So many critics and the spoilers made it sound like this was a convoluted mess.  I went to see it with a non-native English speaker and neither of us had any trouble following the plot.  Yeah, a lot happens, but it all is linear and consistent within the film.

The humor/dialogue:  Felt way more Star Wars-y and better placed than the last two films.

The Jedi Helping Rey:  As much as I thought I would hate this, it was really well done, largely, I think, due to the foreshadowing during her earlier training.  When Palpatine says all the Sith live in him and we know what she’s gonna say but it still works SO WELL.  I was rooting for her and I’ve never been a huge fan.  But at that climactic moment, I was a believer.

Major flaws

Of course there are some.  For me the most major:

A Jedi Strikes Not In Anger: In every single lightsaber battle (pretty sure, I only saw the film once), Rey is the first to strike.  She always seems to be fighting from anger and with negative emotion.  This is not at all Jedi-esque and I found it particularly jarring in her duels with Kylo Ren.  This bothered me more than almost anything else in the film because it is never addressed.  She fights ANGRY and she fights FEARFUL and then somehow when she’s supposed to strike down Palpatine, she has it in her to resist.  This, above all else, makes me not like her as the “heir to the Jedi”.  I thought it was a real problem, and makes her ultimate evolution at the finale less convincing.

Rey Skywalker:  I get why they did it, but I stand by my earlier thoughts regarding taking the Solo or Organa name.  I have nothing against adopted families.  And I found it SLIGHTLY more palpable because since the Emperor refers to Ben as “the last Skywalker” and then since he transfers his entire life force into her, you can argue that she has “Skywalker” literally in her spirit now.  OK fine.  But I still don’t really think she earned it.  She came CLOSER than I thought she would and I didn’t ultimately want to burn down the cinema as I expected I would want to.

Force Resurrection:  No. Just no.  This changes so much and makes so much of the earlier films moot. Why wouldn’t Anakin just resurrect Padme?  Don’t get me started.

Other random new Force things:  Like Force Ghosts touching shit.  Yeah I know Obi Wan sat on the tree in Dagobah, I know, but we keep learning new and more powerful Force shit each film.  Teleportation of objects (that lightsaber?!), astral projection, rapid healing, and now playing catch with your ghost friends.  I get they are important to the story but it feels lazy.  But my exception here was Luke catching the saber because FUCK YOU RJ. 😊

Redemption=Death:  I wanted Kylo Ren to die for his sins too, but I recognize this strange thing we have going on in the GFFA that if a baddie goes good they die.  It’s the equivalent of the horror movie “fuck and the killer gets you” trope.  I didn’t necessarily mind Ben dying, but it seemed … lazy.

The final shot:  It was a mistake to even touch this iconic moment.  It wasn’t earned.  Make your own legend/iconic moment and leave my farmboy his.

Something no one can fix:  The sucky destinies of Luke Jake, Han, and Leia.  They didn’t live happy lives, they didn’t see the end of tyranny, they all died with only the hope of success.  I will never forgive the attempted destruction of the legacy of the OT (attempted cause it’s still how it all ends in my world), this disregard of the triumph of the Rebellion over the Empire, and I will never believe that the New Republic failed so completely and miserably.  Bring on the EU/Legends and forget this shit.

Final thought:  I went to this expecting the cinematic equivalent of a back alley abortion and instead I got what felt like an apology.  An entertaining and polished and sincere apology.  We deserved better, and I think the people who made this film realized that and did their best.  TROS had to wrap up something that was divisive and imperfect and misguided, and tried as hard as it could, in my opinion, given what they were working with.

It was a good movie.  Ambitious, with flaws, but I am glad I saw it, and I hope you will be too. <3  May the Force be with you.

[mindseyeinkarnate]

Portraits of a Serial Killer - “The Cell” turns 20

I've often reflected how the influence of Art is a key component missing from Modern Horror. The Xenomorph we all know and fear came from the painted nightmares of Swedish surrealist H.R. Giger, the Screamer is said to have influenced the Ghostface Killer mask.  For a further rundown of art's musings over the genre, I would highly recommend 2017's Tableaux Vivants for a look at 60 such portraits and the films they inspired.

In the summer of 2020, The Medium video game appears to correct that oversight with the recent trailer dropping, adapting Polish painter, Zdzislaw Beksinski's frightening paintings.  In the same season of the same year is when The Cell celebrates 20 years (8/17/2020).  This film appeared to feature as many artistic influences as possible into its near two hour runtime.

The sight of chains freaked me out upon watching my first Hellraiser movie, so the sexual perversion of their use in this film did little to alleviate such apprehension, especially as they pulled so tightly to suspend human flesh in the air. Despite a previous scene showing the villain having drowned his victim, this was the true introduction to his villainy - the former showed what he did, that latter why he did it.  Even re-watching this film so many years later, I had to look away from the screen, recoiling from such a grisly display.

Typically, in Horror or any film that assumes a particular aesthetic, it is color that makes the impression to set mood.  Instead, the use of white in this film, from the K9 to the bleached state of the victims is used to ghoulishly haunting effect.

I remember critics remarking that because of Vince Vaughn's comedic history they couldn't take him seriously in this role and relegated his involvement to stunt casting. I take the opposite stance since, for me, every role after this film simply serves as a reminder that he starred in The Cell.  I've always felt that comedy actors do well in dramas - see Robin Williams in "Good Will Hunting" - and I thought that Vaughn did a serviceable job in this film, never distracting from either tone or plot.

I was happy that they just dove into the mechanics behind entering one's mind as an accepted reality, that they didn't get bogged down in techno babble or exposition of the technology.  There is a time and place for the virtual journey into the cerebral frontier, such as The Matrix or a good adaptation of the Lawnmower Man, but for the Cell, I'm happy that they focused more on the story and not so much the science.  The suits do look like Twizzlers, but it was made by Eioka Ishioka (who passed away in 2012), the same costume designer as Vlad Tepes' suit from Bram Stoker's Dracula.  I do like that the two participators are suspended in the air while their minds are linked.  It's an eerie callback to the killer's suspension from chains for sexual release. Also, it does give the technology that space age feel as though they are in a weightless environment.

Since the 90's, special effects have been criticized as dominating films to the point Stephen King is quoted as remarking that "story supports effects instead of effects supporting story". Similarly, an argument can be made that at times The Cell becomes too indulgent with its usage of famous art that serve no plot function, e.g. the Horse Split, the Three Women of Odd Nerdrum's Dawn painting, Mother Theresa and her Hallmark card, etc.  As the director is quoted as saying "The thing about this film is it’s an opera, and there is no such thing as a subtle opera.”  I don't believe that the script was penned as an excuse to pack in as much gallery portraits as possible or is an hour and fifty minutes of a music video.  I just wish the director would've used each art piece he seeks influence from to develop the story or the character.  The imagery doesn't always portray the killer's psychology or the psychologist's therapeutic technique.  If he wasn't going to utilize subtlety, he should have implored restraint.  He later added "Anyway, I missed the whole plot, just been talking visual all along, ah, where are we?”

Once in the killer's mind, his depiction as the master of his domain is a hauntingly accurate depiction considering the previous scenes of suspension rings in the back of his body, which unwittingly foreshadowed to the audience his royal appearance to come.  Even the name, King Stargher, is a daunting title for a movie monster.  When rising and descending from his throne, the violet robes receding from the walls and tracing along the room is hypnotically unnerving.

As tiresome as the "we're still in the dreamworld" trope can become (The Matrix, DS9 Season 7 episode 23 "Extreme Measures"), this film not only flips it when the psychologist realizes that she's "already in", but does so in a cleverly visual way.

King Stargher

Horned Stargher

Court Jester/Vatican Clown  

Serpent Stargher

It is interesting to think that a single actor would assume many distinct monstrous characters.  Unlike a Freddy Kreuger or a Pennywise that turn into manifestations of their victims' fears, the figures that Stargher assumes are all avatars of his own warped psyche, his own inner turmoil.  Vincent D'Onofrio really does put in his all with this role.  He's soft spoken and understated when he needs to be and malicious and heartless when the scene demands it.  Along with the visuals of the film, D'Onofrio's performance is worth the price of admission.  It's a shame that his acting as well as the movie's stunning artistry are what have gone overlooked all these years.  Speaking of...

One invalid criticism that has been levied against the film is its attempts to persuade the audience to sympathize with the killer.  My intention with the following statement is neither to flaunt my Horror insight nor to divide the lines between fans within Horror and those without.  Having said that, even as an adolescent seeing this movie in theaters, I at no point felt remorse for the serial murderer and I chalk up this long-held misconception to a bad read on the film.

So off-base is this "critical analysis" that it can't even be regarded as a Jekyll & Hyde dynamic.  The villain is not split down the middle between binary good and evil, where both halves are at war over his soul, or the repressed impulses of his Dark Passenger are manifesting in a heartless butcher.  If there is any distinction, it is between who the antagonist was when a victim as a boy and what the man became as an adult victimizer.  If anything it is the good that is repressed, not the evil.  Furthermore, along with using the film's plot to force Alice down the rabbit hole of the Mad Hatter's mind, this film does address the nature of evil.  When referring to Stargher, even Jennifer Lopez's character remarks "The Dominant side is still this horrible thing".  The Vince Vaughn detective states "I believe a child can experience 100 times worse the abuse than what Gish (a different killer) went through, and still grow up to be somebody that would never, ever, ever hurt another living being."  Thus, these serve as acknowledgement that the abducted criminal is firmly in the driver's seat to the point of its reference as a "thing" and a condemnation of what the killer has become, respectively.

Along with exploring the psychology of the killer, the film does not qualify the villain's innocence, it questions it.

The critics probably missed that pesky detail that would've debunked their headline before they pressed a single word of their denunciation.

These same professional critics wouldn't give a second's hesitation towards throwing Horror under the bus and condemning Scary Movies for inspiring violence if it meant their jobs were only the line, yet they would balk at the notion that continued mental trauma and physical abuse can cause psychopathic behavior.

There are classics and icons worth praising for their plot and performances, respectively, and then there are some Scary Films that Horror Fans view with the understanding of their heavy material and without your typical fanfare because they're a hard watch.  I can see where people would be fans of Hannibal Lecter not because they or the film glamorizes cannibalism, but because of Anthony Hopkins' acting chops (excuse the pun).  Conversely, John Doe, the serial killer of Se7en, has and will likely never enjoy such admiration because of the cold purity of his calculated evil.  The 2 decade critique of The Cell's villain portrayal is a dark cloud that has unjustly hung over its head.

The motif of "the eyes of a killer" was something applauded in Rob Zombie's Halloween 2, yet ridiculed in The Cell 9 years prior?

This film's premise and the fact that it wasn't fully effectively executed makes it primed for a remake.  Hollywood needs to be issued a Cease and Desist order of such wholesale dependence on Remakes in general, let alone in the Horror genre.  When you consider that so many remakes can't outdo the original and even tarnish the films they attempt to emulate, why not fix the problems of a film that went wrong and take the credit when you get it right?

[thornbolts]

Over the Bog and Through the Marsh

I wish I had this back in Northrend. It almost makes things too easy. My target's a bright purple speck against the abyssal night this damn hell marsh shrouds itself within. Sight with the Shadow. It's a great boon to those who can tame it, and I'm pulling hard on its with a leash. I can squeeze the trigger, and that balloon of a rotten head in my crosshairs pops in a shower of red mist.

But patience is a virtue for a sniper, and this necromantic puppet still has a use for me. You see, it’s caught something’s scent.

She panned her scope as her target stumbled forward as fast as it could,  bone-protruding arms held out and yearning. Disease-ridden saliva drooled from the mindless's jaws. As it forced breath through its dead lungs, the sound whistled through a small slit in its mangled throat.

Another blip shined in her shadowy vision, a force shimmering with life. It pulsed in the background like a beating heart. Loud and healthy, it prodded at the forsaken's instinct to rip it out of the ribcage and tear into it like a bloody steak. Rem caught herself with her mouth slightly agape. She shoved the gnawing hunger down back into the pit of her throat. In her distraction, the mindless turned around an enormous tree. No shot.

Rem pushed off of her palms and gathered her bolt-action. The sight lit up life force, no matter how faint or unnatural, and showed the way to her quarry; otherwise, these woods were darker than even the blackest Tirisfal night, with branches spearing out in all directions, each tree like a black-barbed porcupine. One wrong step and one goes through your eye and out your skull.

Was the Shadow always this empowering? Despite the lethal hazards everywhere, her feet were lighter than ever before, and she could leap so high she could avoid even the Trapjaw plants snapping at her like alligators. As she bounded from branch to branch, Rem had one thought running through her mind: This was freedom, freer than running in the wilds, freer than her first hunt alone. Total control over both her surroundings and herself.

Follow the heartbeat. It shows you the path. Each hazard, regardless if it was the spear-like branches that aimed for Rem's eye socket, the sinkholes that could swallow the largest tauren whole without a trace, or the flora with blade-like leaves and tendrils trying to chop her into pieces, all of them moved in slow motion. Hell, Rem wondered if she could even react to bullets in this state.

"...H-Help, anyone." The wail demanded her attention as she closed in on that whistling mindless. "Please, anyone!" 

Rem focused her life-detecting vision on the voice. Its heartbeat pounded in her ears, that strong living heartbeat, the very picture of life. How would it taste? No one would know. People disappear in the Aldmarsh all the time. What's one fewer person?

No.

Don't give in. Don't give in to the hunger. It only shouts and begs louder the more you feed it.

Rem snapped back to reality as the entire forest rumbled and churned. Even with her Shadow-given agility, she struggled to keep her balance on the branch underfoot. How the limb didn't break was a miracle.

"ANYONE!" The cry blared so loud that she could feel her eardrums struggling. The mindless stumbled toward that heartbeat with a voracious appetite. Rem was in the air even before she realized it, catapulted into action on pure instinct. She drew her hunting knife, holding it like an icepick to bury into the mindless's skull when she landed.

As the ground drew closer, birds evacuated from the trees as another rumble churned through the marsh. That one mindless, drawn to its meal like a moth to a fire, stumbled into what looked like a small sapling whose fruit glowed like a lamplight. The heartbeat stopped, silent before the mindless disturbed that small fruit. Its color shifted to a bright yellow like an anglerfish's bulb.

Rem forced her eye closed as the largest heartbeat she'd ever seen blinded her like a flashbang: an enormous serrated maw erupted out of the ground like a leviathan breaking through the water. Anything caught in its teeth disappeared into its abyssal jaws, and Rem was plunging right toward it.

Shit. Rem darted her gaze around. She didn't care if it was a plant that had axe blades for limbs or a bioluminescent mushroom that exploded as a defense mechanism. The maw under her looked like the abyss itself, and anything was better than falling in. She flung a rusted chain out and prayed that it wouldn't break as it looped around a sturdy-looking branch. The sickle at the chain's end chopped into the wood, holding secure. Rem felt her shoulder tear out of the socket as the chain stopped her fall at the wrist. She shot her other hand up, claws wrapping around metal links and pulled with all of her might, climbing as fast she could go with what precious seconds the chain still held.

Rem felt the chain snapping as she neared the branch. As she pulled herself up several more feet, it cracked again. Not enough time. Rem felt the Shadow surge through her body. She'd never tried this before, but she knew she was out of options. Do or die, Remington Thornbolt. 

D̴i̵s̶p̸e̷r̴s̴e̴. 

The word rasped with an otherworldly hiss as it left the forsaken's lips. As the chain snapped, the syllables replayed backward with a voice that wasn't hers. And as that unworldly voice slithered into her ears and writhed in her mind, her formaldehyde-coated flesh faded into incorporeal black, wrist freeing itself from the chain loop. Her ethereal form steered itself on Rem's instinct and glided up onto the branch, her feet materializing solid as she touched the bark. The rest of her followed. She stared at pale palms, wisps of whispering Shadow intertwining through her fingers.

This was all too much.

--

FOXGLOVE SCOUTING REPORT - THE LEVIATHAN

SCOUT: REMINGTON THORNBOLT

I'm writing this report to warn of a, for lack of a better description, huge-ass plant lifeform that could easily devour a small village. I don't know what other names I can give it other than "Leviathan." 

The Leviathan is found deeper into the marsh, hiding away underground. It's like a reverse angler fish. It hunts by laying a trap on the surface, a small bulb that looks like a sapling growing healthy fruit. Don't ever touch this fruit.

I've observed one of the mindless springing its trap. The Leviathan will erupt from the ground and devour anything caught in its grasp. It doesn't even chew. It just swallows everything whole like a land whale or something. Didn't see the bottom of its mouth. I didn't want to stick around.

I've included a sketch of what I remember the sapling to look like. In addition, the Leviathan seems to be capable of mimicry. I heard it speaking like someone in need, someone pleading for help, which is how I came to find it. I suspect that the mimicry is a way to lure prey toward its bulb.

If you ever see a small sapling with a juicy fruit hanging from it and you think it's too good to be true, it is. Don't ever disturb these saplings. When you see them, find another way or step as lightly as you can. If you hear someone crying for help and your gut tells you something's off, listen to it.

I have no idea how we can even kill this thing--or if we can or should kill it. All I can say is do not engage it under current circumstances. I don't know how large it truly is.

[theaceace]

I started writing a funny little piece about Martin listening to gossip, and then the spirit of hugjonsims2k19 took over. Set in a nebulous s4 au wishy-washy sort of timeline. Enjoy?

It takes Martin longer than he is proud of to realise that there’s something off – that there has been for a while, really. He’d like to say it’s because he’s always so busy these days. Peter keeps him bogged down with endless paperwork, and should he ever manage to find a spare moment between forms, scheduling, budgets, and worrying, then he’s trying to take to heart what Peter told him. That he needs to keep himself isolated – that a clean break is better for everyone involved, that dragging the process on will only hurt him more in the long run.

Hurt him more – at least Peter had the good sense not to lie and say this way would be painless.

So between all of the… everything going on, it’s a while before Martin walks in on Sonia and Rosie giggling over something Cam had supposedly said and realises that he has no idea what they’re talking about.

They don’t notice him walk in, and if they look up and see him leaving, neither of them reacts.

It’s stupid. It’s office gossip. His stomach shouldn’t be twisting and cramping like he’s about to be sick, there shouldn’t be sweat starting to bead along his hairline, he shouldn’t have to swallow down the thickness in his throat. It’s stupid.

But Martin had always known exactly what was going on. Birthdays, weddings, all the antics people’s children or nieces and nephews got up to, all the quiet little fallings-out and goings on that came with cramming so many people into one building and asking them all to work nicely together. He doesn’t remember how it started, or quite why, but he had always been considered trustworthy – a good person to talk to. Once that might have made him laugh. After all, so much of who he became at this place was built on lies; harmless, maybe, but still lies.

In retrospect, it’s impressive that it took so long for anyone to figure him out. Somewhere like the institute – the domain of the Beholding, that draws in the sort of tenacious people unable to resist a mystery – isn’t conducive to keeping secrets.

Martin, though, Martin’s always been good at keeping secrets – he knew about two pregnancies, an engagement and four divorces weeks before anyone else, and once word got around that he was a good person to talk to (compassionate, quiet, always ready with a smile and an offer of tea), well. Suddenly he had a lot more secrets that needed keeping.

He remembers, sometimes, how quickly he had given up the truth to Jon, and wonders how much of that was the Archivist, and how much was simply that he was sick, so sick, of keeping everyone’s words bottled deep beneath his ribs. If he hadn’t just been so grateful to give up this one thing that he would have blurted it out anyway. (It isn’t a fair comparison, of course. He would tell Jon anything, because he’s Jon and there’s very little Martin wouldn’t desperately wish to tell him, but was it really Jon asking?)

Now, Martin is out of the loop. He has no idea how Rosie’s nephew is getting on with preschool. Knows that Jenna’s birthday is coming up but hasn’t heard anything about her plans, even though she’d always invited him along for drinks with everyone from artefacts storage to celebrate. Doesn’t know if Dale ever managed to work up the courage to ask Rob out. His tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth as he hurries back to his office and near slams the door shut. When was the last time he had a conversation with someone – anyone other than Peter? When was the last time he had to say something more than ‘excuse me’, or ‘have you seen a stapler round here?’

He doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’t know.

Too long, he thinks a little hysterically, and has to take a moment to get his breathing back under control. It’s good, he tries to tell himself. Or, well. Not good, maybe, but necessary. Right.

And so what if he doesn’t know all of the ins and outs of every employee under the institute’s roof? That’s not a bad thing. He doesn’t need to know any of it (doesn’t need to know in the way that Jon needs to know, that pressure, the weight of a single question that could force someone to their knees, and).

No.

Enough.

Now that he knows, though, he can’t help but listen in gently to all of the conversations he hadn’t realised he was missing.

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by how many of them are about the archives.

And Martin can’t help but feel bad when he listens in – like he’s spying, almost. Of course, if anyone actually paid any attention, they’d realise he’s there and listening, and probably yell at him, or throw something (and it’s awful how there are times when he thinks that’d be preferable to nothing). He doesn’t feel bad enough to stop, though. He doesn’t dare venture down into the archives, knows that he’d be lost if he did, so this is the only real way he has to gauge what’s happening beyond the odd statement tangled haphazardly in his coat pocket, or Peter’s snide little comments.

He… isn’t sure how to feel about what he hears.

Basira, he learns, spends a lot of time outside, officially following up on statements. Unofficially, she has a bad habit of dropping completely off the grid for days at a time. There’s a lot of speculation aboutlll where she goes and what she does, but never anything in an official capacity. Martin suspects that Jon knows where she is should he ever think to check, so it doesn’t really matter if half of accounts assume that she’s just slacking.

Melanie – it sounds like she’s recovering. Slowly, but when he hears her name these days, it’s less wary, more conspiratorial. Of course, there are rumours that she can’t be in the same room as Jon; that the last time Jon stumbled sleep-deprived and almost hilariously unobservant in the break room while Melanie sat sipping tea, she threw the mug at his head. Martin isn’t quite sure if he believes that one or not, but there is a suspicious new stain on the wall at roughly Jon’s eye level.

There’s also talk of a new figure that’s been seen lurking around the archives – no one’s met her, and the way they tell it, no one’s even caught more than a glimpse of long limbs in a patterned suit and a cloud of dark hair. Martin tries not to think about it, and checks that he remembers every door he opens. So far, she hasn’t done anything more than exist in the same building as him, but even so.

And there’s Jon.

At first he’d tried, tried so hard not to hear anything about Jon. Left the room when his name came up, once even resorted to sticking his fingers in his ears like a child until he was sure the conversation had moved on. But his resolve only stretched so far until it snapped, and left him hovering uncertainly in the doorway to the institute’s library and trying to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping on the gaggle of new researchers sat around a nearby desk. Though generally unnoticed these days, he hasn’t quite worked himself up to Peter’s level of sneaking around.

“No, seriously! I walked in and he was just curled up in the armchair asleep! I’ve literally never seen him set foot outside the front door of this place,” says one of them whose name Martin doesn’t know, but has spitefully decided to call Too Big Glasses. She’s speaking far too loud to be polite for a library, and waving her hands around as she talks. “And he just had actual piles of those statements lying all around him like a nest. I think someone had piled a couple of them on top of him too – like it was so funny, you know like those videos of people stacking things on cats? Yeah, like that!”

“Funny?” Asks someone Martin thinks is called Toby. “Wait, you actually think something about that guy is funny?”

“Yeah?” Too Big Glasses says – she sounds confused. “I mean, if he’d tried to turn over the whole lot would’ve toppled!”

“Yeah, but,” Toby glances around and lowers his voice as though that might encourage her to do the same. Martin has his doubts. “How can you find anything about that guy funny? He’s – ugh, he’s creepy, and I don’t say that lightly these days.”

“I guess,” says Brown Jumper, looking up from her book for the first time and blinking owlishly at them both. “But I overheard Rosie saying that a lot of shit’s happened down in archives lately, so I mean, it’s not like he’s the only creepy thing down there.”

Martin bristles, almost forgets himself, almost marches over. A thing. A creepy thing. How dare – they have no right –

He catches himself just before he steps across the threshold. Can’t go undoing all of Peter’s hard work now, he thinks sardonically.

“What kind of shit?” Asks Too Big Glasses, who must be even newer than the other two.

And Martin – he doesn’t want to hear a play-by-play account of the last six mon – the last yea – any of it. He doesn’t want to hear these strangers talking about any of the things that have happened since he moved down to archives like they know a single damn thing about it, like they have any sort of authority to be talking like that about his life, about the things he had to see and do just to keep himself sane and mostly human.

More human than Jon, at any rate, he thinks before he has a chance to stop himself, which just brings back the awful twisting knots in his stomach.

He steps forwards, purposeful and completely unnoticed, and starts browsing through the shelves for the book he’d originally come down here in search of. It’s hard to completely tune the researchers out, but he does his best – he even manages to hunt down a few older editions of the book he was looking for that might offer some valuable comparisons to the conclusions a previous follow-up had come to on his latest statement. In fact, he’s almost made it back to the door, to the corridor beyond, the stairs beyond that, and finally to his safe, quiet little office.

Almost.

They’re still talking about Jon, he registers dimly, and doesn’t notice the way his feet slow. He doesn’t listen because he doesn’t need to know. In fact, he does such a good job of not listening that it isn’t until he hears a hushed

“- dead!” Whispered across the table that he freezes up, shoulders lifting high and curling in as though bracing for a physical blow. He has no context, he tells himself frantically, they could be talking about anything now. A statement, probably, that they’ve finished researching and passed on to Jon to be archived. That’s all it is, he tells his shuddering lungs and frantic heart. More words filter in through the static suddenly buzzing through his mind, between his ears and behind his eyes, but he can barely make sense of them. He knows they’re still speaking English, but the sounds are all wrong, jumbled up.

He isn’t, Martin tells himself. He can’t feel his arms. He’s fine. You’d know if he wasn’t.

At least, he thinks he would. Even Martin – secluded, isolated, lonely Martin – would have heard something. Basira would have – or, or Melanie – even Peter –

The books are on the floor, he thinks hazily, and the researchers have turned to stare – at the books, but then up at him. He doesn’t have enough space in him to be embarrassed at the looks they’re giving him. Can’t bring himself to be horrified at his lapse. So they can see him. And? And? If he’s failed already anyway then what does it matter.

He’s already hurrying down the corridor, doesn’t hear them muttering to each other about Wasn’t that Martin? Didn’t he used to work in archives? Haven’t seen him down there in a while, wonder if he knows what’s going on? Don’t know, haven’t seen him anywhere in a while. Maybe he’s scared of the spooky archives ghost too, woooo!

He doesn’t hear any of it. By the time they’ve moved onto a new conversation, he’s already racing the familiar halls of the archives, the sound of his footsteps swallowed up by the carpet. There are more twists that he remembers, an asinine part of him thinks, more branching paths than there should be, and he isn’t sure if it actually takes him twice as long as it should to reach Jon’s office or if time has just slowed to a thick, lethargic stream clinging at his legs and slowing him down. Like running in a dream.

There’s nothing dreamlike about the way the door bounces against the wall when Martin throws it open, the way it rattles on its hinges. Nothing dreamlike about the way Jon flinches so hard his chair rocks back, the way he begins to splutter –

“Good lord I – Martin? Martin are you quite alri – are you about to faint, god, come here, sit down, I – “

Jon. Stuffy, fussy Jon, with his brow creased heavily over filmy eyes that haven’t cleared since he woke up, reaching out to Martin like he wants to help him into the worn desk chair but isn’t quite sure how, hands fluttering and twitching around. For a moment, Martin doesn’t move, doesn’t speak – isn’t sure he can. His throat is dry, and he has the horrible, creeping suspicion that that’s because every drop of water in him is threatening to spill from his eyes in a horrible, humiliating mess, but he doesn’t care.

There’s more grey in Jon’s hair, he thinks as he takes a determined step forward. Deeper bags under his eyes. He’s been chewing at his thumbnails, and when Martin finally gets close enough to feel the unseen barrier warp and strain, and finally give way, he can smell on Jon’s jumper that he’s been smoking again.

The smell is almost comforting, he thinks, as he presses his nose into it.

He’s imagined hugging Jon before. Of course he has. Thought about how easy it would be to completely envelope Jon, who is narrow and angular enough that Martin sometimes thought he’d be able to wrap his arms around him twice. He’d liked to imagine Jon laughing as he did, just the softest little huff of breath against Martin’s neck.

It’s nothing like that.

Martin is still biting back tears and bowed over until they’re almost the same height; Jon’s skin is icy where Martin’s cheek is pressed against the side of his neck, and there’s no comforting thrum of his heart between their chests. Jon is drawn tense as a bowstring, arms by his sides, and Martin thinks he can see his fists clench and open, clench and open. He should pull away, he thinks, and apologise but as soon as he tries to bring himself to, he can feel that static push trying to crawl its way between them, and so he can only cling tighter.

He’s already made a mess of things. Might as well go all-in now.

“Martin?” Jon asks softly. Disbelievingly. There’s a hesitance in his voice that Martin doesn’t think he’s ever heard before – that he definitely doesn’t want to hear again. He shakes his head mutely, still afraid to try to talk to Jon (afraid that he won’t be able to) but somehow Jon seems to know what he’s trying to say. Or maybe he Knows. Martin can’t bring himself to care.

Very, very lightly, Jon’s hands rest on Martin’s back, smoothing broad strokes across his shirt so gently that Martin could almost believe he’s imagining them. But his imagination’s never been this good, and he’d never think to include the smell of Jon’s cheap laundrette washing powder, or the heavy weight on the back of his neck that feels like someone staring.

“Martin?” Jon asks again. There’s no real question to it, no compulsion – still just that faint disbelief, as though he is as afraid as Martin that this isn’t real. Martin doesn’t let go, but neither does Jon, and he doesn’t speak again. Just guides them, eventually, to sit against the wall, still clinging, still pushing back against the static that hums along Martin’s skin. There will be consequences, says a voice in Martin’s mind that sounds disconcertingly like Peter.

But consequences, Martin thinks, are for later. When he can breathe steadily again, when Jon stops running a clumsy hand over his hair. For now, he looks up and offers Jon a watery smile.

“I didn’t say it earlier,” he manages. “But I’m glad you’re not dead, Jon”

[authorellenmint]

Perfect Moment

My foot snagged on a brick atop a pile of its brethren. Nearly six months since we moved into Skyhold and I still hadn't bothered to clear it out. I glared at them for a moment and sighed, exhaustion making the decision for me.

"I'll move you later," I muttered, climbing up the last stairs to my quarters, knowing it won't happen. There were far more important duties for the Inquisitor than a pile of loose bricks and some starlings nesting in the ceiling.

Weariness clouded my brow.  The others who traveled with me barely made it through the hold's doors before collapsing in a heap. It wasn't supposed to go quite so badly,  but that's the thing with dragons. Even when it goes according to plan,  you're still fighting a damn dragon!

Steadying on the banister,  my head poked over the landing to find a balm for the rawest soul. The porcelain bath Josie surprised me with gurgled in the vast space between bed and fireplace. Steam still hissed off the water. No one should have known when we'd be back, but I spotted the ravens preceding us and convinced Sera to not shoot them out of the sky.

Dropping the bag brimming with elfroot (we always need the damn stuff) onto my bed, I   twisted my shoulder's knots begging for a moment's relief. The rattling of bolts reverberated below me as someone yanked open the door, armored feet stomping up the stairs two at a time.

Sighing, I dipped my fingers into the tub. The siren call was overbearing. It was right here,  waiting to soothe away a weeks worth of tramping around in the mud and muck. But I only trailed my fingers through the water, making little glyph symbols to pass the time as he rounded that first staircase and made for the second.

My lips curled as I heard him pause at the landing, his labored breathing trying to overcome the armor he insisted on wearing everywhere.

"Maker's breath, you could have told me you were back!" he grumbled.

"Hello, Cullen," I said, then turned towards him. His hands rested upon his sword hilt as he fiddled with it. "I'm back."

"I see that now."

"So there's nothing to worry about," I said, rising away from the tub.

"You traveled to fight a dragon, there's plenty to worry about."

I pulled back my sleeves, exposing dirty but undamaged flesh, "Look, no burn marks."

His whiskered chin jerked towards my head. "What about that?"

Sheepishly,  I pulled off the helmet I forgot I still had on. A char pattern covered the top half and shattered one of the wings on the side. It was always kind of a stupid design and whipped in the wind. The dragon improved it.  Self consciously, I tried to comb my flat hair into place, but he didn't care. Crossing heel to toe, Cullen reached out for the helmet. I   dropped it into his hands so he could inspect the damage.

"Useless now," he declared, poking a finger into the char and denting deep into the compromised metal.

"I never liked it much anyway. She did me a favor." Those doleful eyes turned on me and my smirk wavered, "Cullen..."

His gloved hand worked through my knotted hair, trying to shape it. I ran my fingers along his arm, burrowing into the pelt across his shoulders.

"I know you worry..."

"Find me a man who wouldn't," he said, cupping around my jaw.

"Which is why I'll fight through the void to come back to you."

That delectable scar across his lips rose with his smile. Knotting my fingers through his shoulder pelts, I rose on my toes and kissed him. He stumbled for a moment, always tensing before letting himself give in.  Cullen's hand slid around my waist, pulling me closer to him. The armor bit into my chest, but I ignored the pain.

Breaking free of my   lips, he placed his forehead against mine and said, "Don't think I've   forgiven you for stopping here before coming to see me."

"You were in a meeting. A big one with Duke de Something or Other," I waved my  hands to mimic the mask, "What was I supposed to do, kick open the door,  throw a dragon carcass on the table, and jump on top of you?"

He blinked slowly, then lifted a shoulder, "That is a tempting image."

Laughter jumbled in my throat, still scratchy from the dragon's fire. "Josie'd have my head on a platter, but, for you...I'll try. Next dragon hunt."

Cullen's soft smile fell. "You suspect there will be another?"

"Emprise,  Crestwood, the Hissing Wastes, seems like the dragons are thicker than  nugs in southern Thedas." I pulled away from his warm arms and sat upon the bed. Exhaustion rattled my bones as I tipped my head into my hands.  "In truth, dragon hunting isn't something I fully feel comfortable  with."

"Oh?"

"Cassandra looks upon it as if she's fulfilling some ancient legacy. Solas grows quiet, insular..." from his eyebrow raise, I added, "more insular. As if we're destroying a piece of history. And Bull...It's probably best if you don't know about Bull and  dragons."

He finally collapsed beside me and picked up my hands in his. "What of you?"

Sighing,  I glanced towards the ceiling. The setting sun cast colors through the windows. From the prism of the cloudy skies, they danced upon the ceiling. "Dragons are dangerous and kill people. I'm in the profession of stopping people from being killed. Sometimes it's that simple."

"Ha,"  Cullen laughed once then burrowed his face into my shoulder. I'm certain I stank of bog, sweat, and that brimstone dragon odor, but he didn't pull away, only lay there. I ruffled through his hair, twisting it around my fingers.

"Commander, Sir."

We both snapped up. Cullen jumped off the bed and glared at the dwarven scout who snuck into the room undetected.

"What is it?"

"Comte de Ghislain is waiting for you," she said, holding out a report and trying to bury a blush across her cheeks.

"That blowhard's been waffling with us for weeks now!" Cullen cursed, yanking the report away from the scout.

"He says he's willing to sit down and discuss options, now."

"I'd like to discuss how far my boot can get up his ass," Cullen continued, batting at the report.

The  dwarven scout's eyes only crossed to me a few times, but I could read  the prayer on her lips, "Thank the ancestors they weren't naked."  Otherwise, she focused fully on her raging commander.

"I will be going now," she said inching away. Getting halfway down the first staircase she called out a "Sir!" then ran for it.

Cullen sighed, still poring over the vellum.

"Well, that should keep the troops entertained for awhile," I said, rising off the bed.

"This damn Comte's been flooding us with missives swearing support then yanking it at the last moment," Cullen shouted.

"Uh huh," I muttered, my fingers working the buttons across my vest. It hit the floor with a thud that didn't distract the commander too absorbed in his problems.

"And every time I insist we ignore him, Leliana returns with another report insisting he's the connection we need."

"Right,"  I continued. "Where's that damn...ah here it is," I unknotted the chains binding the last of the leather to my skin and shook it off.

The sound of twenty pounds of dragon hide hitting the floor was enough to catch Cullen's attention and he finally broke from his reading to find me naked. I placed a hand on my hip and asked sweetly, "Anything else  about the Comte?"

"The what?" he shook his head, trying to will himself to look away. "Oh, yes, the Comte..." His voice trailed off as I  picked the report from his fingers to glance over it. Most of it was in the curly script of our ex-Bard, but there were a few jagged marks where Cullen vehemently disagreed with her. Occasionally to the point of smashing a quill in the margins.

"What do you think?" he asked after a time.

"I think..." I tossed the report onto the bed, "I will be taking a much-deserved bath and that my commander should join me."

His eyes closed softly as he exasperated, "You tempt me so, but..."

"But  what?" I asked, "This Comte is clearly playing the game. Why not play  it back and leave him waiting for a few hours...or more?"

His scar rose at the thought I placed in his mind of the Comte frothing with rage at having to wait, or perhaps it was from my bare flesh. "I have a  lot of work to do..."

"Cullen," I said, waving at my chest. Before he could answer, I turned towards the tub and slid a leg in. The heat bit into my unprepared flesh, but it adjusted quickly, aching for the relief across my muscles. Slowly, I added the rest of my body, carefully sliding down the side of the tub so not to slip. My toes poked out of the water, one nail still missing courtesy of a chevalier hoof.

Flailing in my periphery caused me to turn in time to watch the scrumptious ass of my commander as he wiggled out of his armor. The boots seemed to be giving him a right problem, which gave me a better show.

I slid forward across the tub pulling my knees up to my chest. A muscular forearm landed beside me across the tub's rim and I trailed my fingers across the nearly invisible hair. Cullen steadied himself before climbing in behind me, his legs sliding around my hips. I leaned back onto him, his warmth more intoxicating than the bath's. He reached an arm around me, pulling me into a hug. My head slipped back, settling upon his shoulder as my eyes slipped closed.

With his left arm still guarding me, his right hand slid down my arm laid across the tub's lip. The deep gouging from a mage fire gone awry, healed into a callous dug into my flesh, but I didn't mind. I wanted to kiss every scar on his body, every hurt in his brain, just to soothe for a moment in this unending world.

"I really shouldn't stay long."

"Uh huh," I muttered, nuzzling deeper into his chest, "bits of you claim otherwise."

He laughed, "Just because I wish to doesn't mean I should."

"Cullen, take a moment. Relax. Enjoy this lovely pair of breasts."

"If you insist," he said kissing my neck and cupping around said breasts.

"Isn't this much better than running after some Orlesian nob or calibrating the trebuchets?"

He paused in his light kisses and whispered, "Do you have to ask?"

"It can't be all dragons and comtes. Sometimes it's just you, me, no clothes, a tub...and an unlocked door."

I  expected him to bolt from my epiphany, but he slid lower into the tub and wrapped both arms around me. He buried his face into my shoulder and whispered, "Forget the door. This is perfect."

I tried to turn but he held me fast, "You better not be an envy demon that assumed Cullen's face."

"And if I were?"

Reaching  my arm towards the artfully arranged towels for the soap, I mused,  "Wouldn't be the first time I've fought demons nude."

"Oh?"

"A  very long story I have to be much drunker to tell." The soap slipped from my fingers and plopped into the tub, disappearing into the piles of legs. Searching caused more water to slosh onto the ground.

"I  was thinking," Cullen started, first lightly rubbing my shoulders, then digging deeper into the knots. "Perhaps the next time you decide to go  on a dragon hunt, I could accompany you."

"You would?"

"It would keep me from worrying about you."

"You wouldn't worry here, you would worry there while dodging fireballs. Have you ever fought a dragon?"

He paused his massage in thought, "Oddly, once. In the circle tower in  Ferelden a mage kept a pet dragonling. It was a disaster after it  sprayed all over the library and nested in the wall."

I patted his hand and said, "The high ones are a tiny bit trickier than a baby dragon. If you're going to come with, we might need to start you out on  something smaller."

"Oh?"

"Like a pack of nugs."

Cullen snorted, his fingers trailing across my hips. "It's good to know what my Inquisitor thinks of my combat skills."

I  twisted around in the tub and reached my sopping hand to his chin,  rubbing across the eternal whiskers. "I happen to think quite highly of your skills," I purred before pulling him down for a kiss.

As I slid away for air, I asked, "Still want to run back to the Comte?"

"Never," and he wrapped me tight in his arms, never wanting to let go. I squeezed him back twice as hard.

[oaesiir-beloved-of-heaven]

How Mowing Your Lawn will Save American Civilization

A little neglect may breed mischief ...

for want of a nail, the shoe was lost;

for want of a shoe the horse was lost;

and for want of a horse the rider was lost.

—Benjamin Franklin

Poor Richard's Almanac, preface (1758)

American habits our forefathers practiced are often the subject of ridicule today. The image of the American father has changed in modern perception; he is now fat, bumbling, politically backward, balding, an alcoholic who's chief indulgence is piss beer. The image of such a man in shorts drinking a Monster Zero riding his lawnmower at the crack of dawn is now a literal meme across the internet.

Make no mistake; such critical viewpoints are another symptom of the self-flagellating masochism which has gripped the American people for nearly a century. Optimism and zeal gave way in the modern discourse to malcontent and apathy after the first nuclear bombs were dropped on Japan. From our newfound place of unquestionable superiority Americans began to ask new questions from the safety of supremacy so far removed from the struggle that put them there: have we gone too far? Have we traveled across the last frontier and made it from sea to shining sea in the name of an Empire of Liberty only to have lost ourselves along the way? Can a nation such as ours even exist - does it deserve to exist?

Self-criticism is indeed a virtue and it has been practiced in the American people since household names like Paul Revere and Patrick Henry questioned the merit of the Constitution we now know as our founding document. Later it manifested when people like Henry David Thoreau refused to pay taxes which he knew would go to support the Mexican-American War which he - wrongly - felt was an unjustified act of imperialist aggression.

It’s important to be able to have something to measure yourself against whether it be a moral standard or a friend who is the whetstone that keeps your mind sharp. But what we see now is quite different. We are not seeing critics of American policy and culture coming from a place of love and admiration but rather malice. These critics do not want to see America do better because we can be better but rather they want the Republic to fail and be replaced with something more to their liking, damn the rest of the American people.

Let’s ask ourselves not just what today’s criticisms of American habits are but where they come from. Isn’t there a difference between a friend at the bar telling you that you’ve had a bit too much to drink and an adversary among your peers who considers the mere presence of a bottle of whiskey in your home as a sign of crippling dependency?

Who really is benefiting from the collapse of American self-confidence? It’s not you or me, it’s not our allies, it’s not the free world, nor our communities, municipalities, states, and greater democracy. What Americans need now is to reclaim themselves and their virtues and not abandon them wholesale.

The unique and truly powerful aspect of America’s democracy is that its maintenance falls to all citizens and not a political class. The already quoted Benjamin Franklin was an advocate of the necessity of an educated class of voters who were politically and civically active. The goals of such virtue can be found all over the many institutions of America he helped establish like fire departments and public libraries. It does not fall to the government alone or the elite to maintain society but the active efforts of us all. Civic virtue is the heart and soul of a voluntary society.

Now that I’ve impressed all this upon you the inevitable question must be arising: what does this have to do with lawn care?

Have you ever remarked on the true difference between a cultured and uncultured lawn? Many people consider the mere act of attempting to tame the wilderness on their property a Sisyphean one to be delegated to others if it is to be done at all. But allow me to describe to you the consequences of not tending one’s lawn particularly if you are like me and live in the wilderness where nature is not far away.

In tall grass parasites and other harmful insects come to reside. Ants inevitably make their homes in the soil with the other smaller creatures nearby being a natural source of food with the tall grass providing excellent protection for their mounds. Mice, opossums, armadillos, squirrels, badgers and other small mammals will also find solitude and resources within the fields. Then come snakes looking for meals and like the ants shelter in the soil beneath the tall grass. Soon coyotes and wolves will come looking for food as well with the overgrown ground being perfect hunting ground. Trees and other thick foliage can grow making traversing the ground and assessing it difficult. Nevermind the hazard and untended tree can pose to people or their property. Not all the plants will be benign either; thorns, poison ivy, thistles and other harmful nuisances will emerge. The more wild the acre the more wildlife will come to call it home. Soon enough you’re living in the middle of a small forest that is anything but suited to your comfortable living or the pleasure of your guests and neighbors. A hole or two could appear in the ground as well and you’d never be the wiser or perhaps a bog.

It is clear now to the astute reader what merit my quote has at the beginning of this essay. A simple weekly ritual taking only a few hours of your day might prevent all of these calamities. Though many of us would rather others do it or simply not do it at all I believe it is an edifying exercise of body and mind. A well-groomed property has many possibilities. New spaces for recreation and projects, habitation for animals that might prove beneficial for food, work, or as companions. Trees, plants and crops which while not enough to take to market might prove a healthy snack while out and about or simply a conversation piece and another reason your friends and neighbors love to visit because it means succulent pears or juicy persimmons.

This is not a simple statement of my love for landscaping or a suggestion you take up the hobby; it is an allegory for how our own virtue in daily life can and will improve our democracy. Too often we shove off our duties as citizens on government functionaries and when we do this we exchange a piece of our freedom for security and hope it doesn’t backfire or such powers do not come into the hands of villains and despots.

It is easy to mock older people and past generations for their seemingly provincial passions and lifestyles. But when we do so we lose something valuable as when we discard a culture or people because we view them as savage and uncouth. I’m not suggesting we should wholesale revive the past with all its ill trappings but consider that perhaps there is something to the more grounded practices of our parents and grandparents and beyond. Think about all the things they know/knew how to do but you’re clueless on. How does that negatively impact you? How does it negatively impact your community? Let’s not get bogged down in archaic reaction and get locked into the idea of turning back the lock; that’s not what this is about. It’s about sifting through the living examples of our ancestors and harvesting gold from mud. It goes beyond simple lawncare. America is not a nation of blood and soil but almost a religion maintained by our beliefs and the practice of those beliefs. That the best person to govern a community is its constituents. How can we maintain such a free society without a morally astute, self-reliant people? We cannot. Our goal should be to mold ourselves into such people. A man who can take care of himself is a free man. Together with the product of our own labor in hand we can contribute to the common weal overall. This is the frontier mindset. The free man’s mindset. We do not sit idly by and let our world pass us by; we ride the tiger, we tame the bucking bronco.

Now the full breadth and scope of this practical analogy is revealed to you. We must reclaim the American spirit of independence and self-reliance to maintain a voluntary and democratic society. Put down the comic book and grab a newspaper. Seek out real edifying literature that informs you about the doctrines and theories of our government and practical books that can make you more handy. Go less to the auto shop and pick up a Hayne’s manual and some tools. Learn some simple homespun recipes and stop eating out whenever hunger calls. Pay more attention to your local government and find ways you can make your voice heard and exert your will in the ballot box. This is the truest way to a free society: one where we are less dependent and more independent. One where we have the power and tools to more readily help and advise our neighbors and we have the skills and resources to collaborate. It makes our modern society with all its hard-won excess and bounty a boon and not a dependence to survive.

It’s warming up outside; the sun is out more and a cold breeze is always at your back. So why not roll up your sleeves and do your part to make your community that much greener and yourself that much more free?

[getoffthesoapbox]

[GS] Goblin Slayer’s Foundational Sublayers

“Don't worry about the snakes in your garden when you've got spiders in your bed.”

I hope I’m not stepping on a landmine by posting about this particular show, given it’s controversial nature, but I’m quite floored by the layers I’m discovering in Goblin Slayer now that I’ve watched the first two episodes. I guess I’ll preface this with a couple disclaimers, then work out the rest under the cut.

First of all, I know nothing about Goblin Slayer other than that it is a light novel and has a manga variant. I’ve never read either, and have no intention of reading either in the near future. How the story unfolds or whether or not its intriguing and gripping premise devolves into pointless harem hijinks, I know not. If it’s merely a male power fantasy or if it has more substance, I know not. These things I will discover as they come within the anime. My post at this time is concerning what is right in front of me, the two episodes that are out. Whether the story can make good on what its more subtler layers are promising remains to be seen. 

Second of all, this post will not delve into the controversial elements of the two episodes other than to refer to them lightly as necessary. While I believe the human mind is stronger than common wisdom implies, I’m not interested in fighting people over what should have been warned or not, so I won’t be messing with it. It just bogs down the flow of a post to have such things, and it goes against my principles, so I’ll be stepping around it entirely. 

Preamble over. Let’s get crackin’.

Edgy Exploitation Fantasy or Psychological Horror Fantasy?

There used to be a subgenre of horror filmmaking called exploitation or grindhouse films. Some of the discussion I’m seeing about Goblin Slayer reminds me a bit of the controversies surrounding these shadier elements of filmmaking throughout film history. Artists are always pushing boundaries, touching taboos, and getting bit for going too far. This is the nature of art, and the whole process is fine--boundaries should be set by culture, but they should also be poked and prodded by subculture. It’s an eternal dance that is necessary and desirable for the health of a society. Go too far one way, and you’re too rigid. Go too far the other way, you’re unable to get your bearings. There is a time and a place to explore exploitation, and artists need to be free to go where the normal civilized person cannot. (Or at least, that’s what I believe.)

Where does Goblin Slayer fall, then? On the surface, one might say it easily falls into an exploitation subgenre. The first episode alone features men being viciously murdered and women facing far worse, all to set up the Heroic Entrance of the blank slate (quite literally, as he has no face) Audience-Insert Hero character. This Audience-Insert Hero Character then proceeds to Destroy All The Bad Things and save the day. In episode two, we find out the Audience-Insert Hero Character not only saves the day, but he’s the Only One who saves the day for the Little Guy and no one but his Harem, who he doesn’t notice because he’s Too Manly, appreciates him. 

If the above were all that Goblin Slayer had to it (and perhaps future episodes will truly devolve into such a premise), then I would agree with those who criticize its exploitation of its female (and male) characters for the sake of elevating its hero and allowing its audience the opportunity to both be titillated by the violence being done to the victims and enjoy the fantasy of rescuing the damsels in distress who can be rescued. In some ways, Goblin Slayer certainly isn’t shy about indulging in its exploitative opportunities. But I do think there’s more to it than merely the exploitation layer, and that’s why I haven’t dropped it. 

I think Goblin Slayer’s world building is some of the strongest I’ve seen in an anime fantasy setting in a long time, and the first episode left me with a genuine sense of horror that I haven’t felt in a long time. Horror is much like humor--it’s easy to spot and hard to do right. Jump scares and spooky sounds are one thing, but narrative horror--the kind you’d find in The King in Yellow or The Turn of the Screw--is much more difficult. The kind of horror that creeps up on you, that gets you thinking, that’s much harder. The same is true of slapstick comedy--it’s easy to do body humor, but difficult to do the more complicated forms. Goblin Slayer does an excellent job building its world into something truly horrific in its first two episodes, and while this does elevate its hero to truly “heroic” proportions, it also emphasizes just how difficult, unrewarding, thankless and necessary a task this man has undertaken is, and the depths of the evil which has snuck in by the back door. 

But more than the world building, more than the harem elements, Goblin Slayer gets so. much. right. on two very important narrative levels most people never even think about: the evolutionary level and the mythological/religious level. These two levels are buried beneath our stories, and most of the time in the rush of planning characters and plots and themes and the “things of heaven” so to speak, writers don’t even realize the “hell” at their feet, the foundation upon which they’re building. When a writer gets it right, you know, because people are drawn to it without being able to understand why, even if the plot, characters, and “themes” are badly written or terrible or repugnant morally. When a story gets the foundation layers right, there’s something in it that really calls an audience’s attention, for good or ill, and that’s what I want to explore here today. 

The Serpent In The Garden & The Heart

What struck me about the first two episodes of Goblin Slayer was that this world was fucked inside and out. This is the layer of myth and religion--whenever a story starts with a premise like that, we’re going straight back to the origin stories of mankind--the angry gods and goddesses, the banishment from paradises, the murdering of first brothers. Even if we’re secular people, we all carry within us the DNA of generations upon generations of people who held this mythology within their lives and blood. It influences us in ways we don’t even recognize to this day. 

Goblin Slayer makes a clear-cut case for the evils of the goblins themselves, and they’re the easiest to address first. The goblins are this story’s initial enemy, the “serpent in the garden” to to speak. They are the thing, according to the Hero, who is keeping the World from Paradise. The source of the fall, so to speak. And the story does an excellent job of establishing the horror of these creatures. In small groups or one-on-one, outside of their nest, they’re no threat at all, much like a lone rat might be or a lone wasp or a lone termite. But enter their nest and their layer, ignore them to let them multiply, and you’ll soon find yourself battling an infestation of the little buggers. These goblins are nasty little creatures--smart as dogs and rapacious as bed bugs. They hide from larger, scarier monsters, and loot poor, ill-defended villages, pillaging for supplies and women, who they drag back to their layers. Much like pillagers throughout humanity, these creatures swam what they want and devour it in whatever way strikes them. They’re truly horrific creatures.

Now this alone would be rather one-sided if the goblins were the only evil the story highlighted. But fortunately, there is a second layer that touches on the snakes that exist in the heart of every creature. Why are the goblin infestations increasing? Because humans don’t feel like dealing with them. They’re a hassle (like pests), they’re easy to kill as long as you don’t get swarmed, and there are bigger fish to fry (likely legitimately, but that hasn’t been justified yet). Worse, they tend to attack poorer villages that can’t afford to put up a town defense much less hire adventurers to assist them. The bounties aren’t worth it for anyone but the greenhorns looking for experience. So much of the destruction caused by these green menaces is due to human greed and sloth--”strong” humans are too important to waste time on “small” fry like goblins. Greenhorns are then sent to the slaughter--the ones who survive become regular adventurers and soon escape the grind of goblin-hunting while the unlucky ones get slaughtered or worse. 

Even with these two sides of horror--nature and the heart of man--this story would fall flat if it didn’t have one last piece of the triangle. Generally when stories fail at this level, they fail because their protagonist is “above” the serpent within. Fortunately for Goblin Slayer, the Goblin Slayer himself is not this kind of character. He may have a harem and he may be “heroic,” but the first two episodes of the story do not justify him or his actions. I think it might be easy to take his backstory flashback as a justification, but there are a few key moments that the story emphasizes which, in my opinion, make it clear that the flashback is merely to explain why he’s obsessed with his mission to eradicate the goblins, not to justify his actions. The first moment is in the first episode when he slaughters the helpless goblin children--while his words may be “correct,” they neither convince the Priestess nor do the visuals agree with him--he’s portrayed visually as an overbearing monster bearing down on the hapless creatures. In the second episode, he attempts to justify himself to the Priestess again, but what we see from her is not her nodding in agreement or having a Sudden Realization of his Righteousness--instead she is praying as they’re slaughtering the goblins. She still views him as wrong, even if this is a necessary evil in order to protect their own kind. 

On top of the Priestess’s alternative viewpoint and the camerawork, we have his Childhood Friend, whose pain and loneliness is emphasized. His work isn’t justified by her story, it’s criticized. While he’s off chasing down this endless revenge quest, he’s hurting a woman who has cared for him for most of his life. He’s missing out on the beauty of her company and her companionship, on the brighter side of life, on “heaven” so to speak. Her uncle wants her to give up on him, and understandably calls him crazy. But she is faithful in waiting, and in hoping that one day he’ll turn toward her. To be fair, the story does try to play things evenly rather than simply criticizing its main character (it does want you to root for the Goblin Slayer), and it does this through the Guild Clerk, who in my opinion is the least trustworthy of the heroines so far. She may “value” the Goblin Slayer, but she’s certainly willing to hand out goblin missions to unqualified greenhorns and use them as cannon fodder when necessary. The story makes it clear that she has a serpent in her heart as well. 

What I see here, with these three key elements in play, is the set up for a huge redemption arc not only for the Goblin Slayer, but also for the world at large. We’re starting off with both a fall from paradise (the goblin infestations rising) and the Problem of Malice/Evil (the indifference of the other adventurers and the obsession of the Goblin Slayer), both of which will have to be addressed and rectified before the end. It’s clear from the opening that, much like Guts from Berserk, the Goblin Slayer cannot complete his mission alone. He is not going to be able to actualize himself as a person and as a human being and free himself from his obsession until he is shown a bigger picture through the perspectives of the people who come into contact with him. 

The exploitation in the first two episodes to me seems to be ultimately necessary for establishing the sheer magnitude of the stakes in this story not just for the main hero and heroine, but also for the world itself. It is a world that has turned a blind eye to injustice in favor of greed, a world that is not functioning with proper order and is allowing chaos to flourish because people are trying to avoid facing what they don’t want to face. If this theme carries on throughout the entirety of the story, and if both the Goblin Slayer and the world change by the end, I think it could have the makings of quite a satisfying quest on the most fundamental of levels, even if it indulges in a few harem hijinks. 

Evolution On Display

This might be kind of a funny thing to notice, but I think the evolutionary layer is a key layer in storytelling that perhaps isn’t acceptable to modern sensibilities despite resonating deeply due to the nature of evolution.

On average, women tend to flock toward the men at the top of a hierarchy. These men, evolutionarily speaking, are the most likely to be able to offer security and safety for the woman and her offspring. Since only in the modern age have medicine and work opportunities become available to allow women to not rely so heavily on men’s assistance, this is something buried deep within the female psyche that they most likely don’t even realize is operating within them. 

Harem stories are annoying to me in general because I tend to find them unrealistic in some senses (generally the male figures in them are not what women themselves would pick as the “top of the crop” which is why women can so quickly pinpoint a male fantasy character vs. a legitimate top male). Male fantasy characters tend to be average schmucks whose only selling point is that they’re “nice” and can help solve the girls’ problems. Characters like that tend to be off-putting for female audiences because let’s face it, in real life you kind of need more to sell than just your niceness. ;) So in most harem stories of the anime variety, the harems the males gather to them are not earned the way real top males earn their harems. 

Take, for example, a star actor or a star sports hero--these men work their asses off night and day to rise above the crowd. They may get several girls who like them when they’re first starting their craft, say, in high school. By college they have a respectable harem of ladies who are interested. By the time they make their first break in the industry, maybe they have a new girl every night if they want. By the time they’re famous, they most likely can have whoever they want whenever they want. This is the nature of what it means to be on top. And this makes sense, because think about what comes “with” being a star of this kind--immense wealth, immense notoriety, immense resources. On a biological level, it only makes sense that these men would be incredibly attractive to women, women who might not mind sharing if it means having a piece of such a man. 

What I love about Goblin Slayer is that it actually accurately gets this element. Women see the worth of men and the likelihood of them making it to the “top” of the hierarchy earlier than men do. This is why the Childhood Friend’s conversation with her uncle in episode two was so interesting to me--he sees nothing of worth in the Goblin Slayer, but she already is seeing a man who has the ability to secure the life and resources she needs. She’s seeing the future while her uncle can only see the worthless sack of shit in the present. You see this effect also on the Priestess, who the Goblin Slayer rescues. She sees his worth as a protector, thus security. The Guild Girl also sees his worth in the status sector--he’s the Only One Who Will Fight Goblins, which is a status. The reason he gets ridiculed by other adventurers is because they don’t understand that he’s carving a niche status for himself (he himself doesn’t understand this either), but they instinctively fear that niche status. Ridicule comes from an instinctive fear of excellence. Whenever a man (or woman) begins reaching for excellence, it stirs up anxieties among the people around them who know subconsciously that they’re not striving for the same thing. 

Thus we end up with this realistic harem that actually works for once because it’s based (most likely subconsciously on the writer’s part) on actual evolutionary development. The Goblin Slayer is in the process of earning his status, his resources, and his harem. He is doing that with single-minded attention toward his goal, which is ultimately the eradication of goblins. Now, his goal is wrong, and he’ll have to temper it, but it’s an important part of the process guiding him toward the top of the hierarchy, where he’ll find the happiness he doesn’t know he’s looking for now. 

Why Fantasy Stories Aimed At Men Still Matter

I wasn’t going to go here when I started my post, but apparently I have something about it I want to say. 

There is certainly a push now to make stories of all shapes accessible to women, and I absolutely have no problem with this. Expanding the audiences for stories is perfectly fine (and smart from a business-standpoint!). But at the same time, I think something has been lost for male audiences in the process, and for female audiences as well, in removing the opportunity for a truly male-oriented worldview for (some) stories.

Stories are essentially a way to understand each other, to bridge the gap between our heads and other people’s. It is as helpful for a woman to watch a male harem fantasy as it is for a man to watch a female reverse harem fantasy--both offer windows into the dreams and wishes of each gender and give clues as to what kinds of personality traits are worth cultivating and what traits should be snuffed out as quickly as possible. 

The problem comes when one gender gets a monopoly over the other, or when one gender becomes naval-gazing and self-indulgent at the expense of the other, which is why (understandably) we’re seeing a movement toward stories with broader perspectives. The only downside to a broader perspective, of course, is that you lose intimacy and you lose the ability to enter a specific type of person’s worldview. (This brings me to mind of something like Lolita, which probably would not be able to be published in the modern day.) When you can’t narrow the perspective of a story to reflect a single mindset, you definitely lose some flavor along the way. Whether that flavor is worth losing or not is probably up to each individual viewer. 

The other problem that I’m seeing at least with recent storylines in anime is that even as they’re extending the narrative umbrella to female audiences, in the process they’re losing the aspirational aspect of men’s journeys. These stories aimed at men are no longer guiding them toward becoming the kind of men who can attract the women they want and be respected by their peers; instead they try to placate young men who have made nothing of themselves by offering them women who will accept them “as they are.” I see the same thing happening in stories for girls--girls aren’t aspiring to become the best partners they can for the men at the top of the hierarchy, instead they’re being told they can just “be themselves” and the top males will land in their lap for no reason at all simply because they’re the heroine. I find these kinds of stories to be dangerous in a great many ways because they foster false expectations and senses of entitlement that aren’t helpful when navigating difficult gender dynamics in the real world. 

What does this tangent have to do with Goblin Slayer? Well, as far as I can tell, Goblin Slayer is getting this right. The Goblin Slayer is not a layabout useless sack of crap whose childhood friend has to wake him up every day by jiggling her unrealistic assets in his face. He’s a man who is making his way in the world, a man who has a purpose he chose for himself, a man who pays for his rent, a man who gets himself up every day, a man who politely escorts the lady of the house where she wants to go, a man who is respectful and civilized. He is a man “in process,” which is a great place to start with a hero. Of course there is still growth--he needs to become more than merely a goblin murderer. If he wants to earn the harem he’s beginning to attract, he needs to expand as a person. But what I appreciate about this story is that it establishes the basics of what one needs to begin attracting the opposite sex--a job, industriousness, and excellence in one’s field of work. What’s even better is that this story is establishing that this can all be done without looks being a factor--the Goblin Slayer is never seen without his helmet, which means he’s attracting people based on what he does and how he acts. In other words, the Goblin Slayer is an aspirational figure, even with his flaws. 

Stories like this are necessary for young men so that they can see themselves as something other than useless layabouts who need a woman to wake them up in the morning. Stories like this are also necessary for the brave women who care to overlook the male perspective in order to gain understanding of how much work a man has to put in to even be able to attract any notice, and to what men are looking for both in relationships and in their lives in general. I guess maybe I as a viewer just like to see this aspect respected and hope that stories won’t be afraid to regain a bit of what has been lost in transition here. Again, I don’t want to lose stories that appeal to everyone, but I think it’s fine for some stories to focus specifically on one gender in order to help work through many of the problems and challenges that gender faces in the world. Goblin Slayer by itself can’t do that alone, and I’m not even saying it’s the best variant of this genre, but at the moment it’s getting things right and I like to praise things when I see them getting things right. 

He Who Runs Away Today Lives To Run Another Day

I hope I haven’t offended anyone with this post (it’s hard to talk about controversial subjects without offending at least half the room), but if I have I offer my sincere apologies. This was meant to be an exploration of the thoughts and feelings this story and some of the controversy surrounding it stirred up within me, and I’m not really sure I accomplished much more than merely getting some thoughts out on paper, but it is what it is. 

Whether you love Goblin Slayer or hate it or are indifferent to it, thank you for making it all the way to the end of this and I hope we’ll cross paths again.

Until next time!

[brightbeautifulthings]

Into The Drowning Deep by Mira Grant

"If the mermaid had been an idealized projection of a human woman onto a marine mammal, she would have looked different every time, fat during some eras, thin during others, not consistently slim to the point of freezing in oceanic waters. The people who described mermaids were describing a real creature, something that wasn't mammalian, but looked mammalian enough to make a tempting lure. And why would anything lure sailors, if not as a form of sustenance?"

Year Read: 2018, 2020

Rating: 5/5

Context: I started the Newsflesh trilogy for last year's Halloween reading list, and Into The Drowning Deep is the seventh Grant book I've read since then. That's not counting the Seanan McGuire titles, and I have the Parasitology series on my TBR for next year. It's safe to say that Mira Grant is one of my all-time favorite horror writers and queen of the scream queens. Trigger warnings: death, blood, gore, body horror, drowning, claustrophobia.

About: Seven years ago, the Atargatis sailed over the Mariana Trench to film a mockumentary about mermaids, funded by the entertainment company, Imagine. None of the crew survived, and the footage that was released was labeled a hoax. A select few in the scientific community know that it wasn't. When Imagine funds a second voyage, it stocks the Melusine with some of the best scientific minds in the world, along with upgraded security measures. Few people expect them to actually prove the existence of mermaids, but the effort will redeem Imagine's failing reputation in the wake of the Atargatis tragedy. For Victoria Stewart, the trip is an opportunity to find out what really happened to her sister seven years ago and, perhaps, finally lay her ghost to rest.

Thoughts: Last year's MVP of the Halloween reading list was The Girl With All The Gifts by M.R. Carey. Even though I'm only about halfway through this year's, I can already tell that Into The Drowning Deep is it, as well as possibly being the best book I've read all year. This is why I read horror. This is why I read, period. This book has everything: great writing, fantastic and diverse characters, gripping suspense, scarily plausible science, and, of course, no shortage of gore and bodies. Sorry in advance that this review is kind of a mess; there’s a lot in the book, and naturally, I tried to comment on everything (because I loved everything).

Let's start with Grant's mermaids, since they're the initial selling point of this novel. In short, they're terrifying. They're fast and brutal with a mouthful of needle-like teeth, and they're better equipped to kill things than any creature has a right to be (except there are real things in nature that are just as deadly). They're also frighteningly clever, and Grant uses her expertise in mad biology like a weapon in her toolbelt. Each new thing we uncover about the mermaids' biology or behavior is perfectly timed to add to the terror and, at times, they're not even the most frightening thing on the page--the ocean is filled with things that can kill us without even trying. (I got to the end of a particular chapter going "Oh shit. Holy shit.", which probably says more than all my rambling here.) The amount of research that went into this novel must have been incredible. All the science, from the mermaids' habitat and language to their hunting strategies, is scarily plausible, and it's rare to meet a novel that is just so breath-takingly smart.

One would think that a novel over 400 pages would have to lag at some point, but it doesn't. Not even once. Between the fascinating science and Grant's mastery of suspense, there's never a dull moment. The book is cleverly told from the perspectives of scientists and entertainment specialists, which means we get the best of both worlds: all the realistic oceanography, plus the horror aesthetic. The world-building emerges flawlessly, a piece at a time, so that we never feel bogged down in the scientific details. It's at a level that even readers with no background in marine biology can understand, and every new bit of information feels vitally important--because it usually is. In this book, science is a matter of life and death. There’s also a message about climate change and the damage humans are doing to the oceans, which skillfully follows in the tradition of some of the best horror in providing cultural commentary.

Some of the most tense scenes I've ever read happen in this book, beginning with a submersible's descent toward Challenger Deep (a terrifyingly claustrophobic scene, and not the only one) and rarely letting up. Grant cleverly labels the novel's sections with layers of the ocean (Photic, Aphotic, Bathypelagic, etc.), and the choice couldn't be more apt. We're pulled deeper into the story with every page, until the suspense is like a hundred of feet of water above our heads, set to crush us (or eat us) at any moment. Reading rarely keeps me up at night, but sleep was hard to find while I was reading this; my brain was constantly buzzing with the story, and I suspect it will be for a while.

The characters are well-developed, diverse, and largely female, which is always one of the major appeals of Grant’s books. There are twin deaf sisters who are experts in organic chemistry and piloting an underwater submersible, respectively; a character with debilitating chronic pain; a half-Hawaiian super scientist; an autistic lesbian reporter; a bisexual lead female; and a wlw romance. The best part is that all of them, down to the side characters, feel like original, three-dimensional people you might meet in the world, rather than characters on a page. Dr. Toth, the world’s leading scientist in sirenology, is a fierce and practical voice, and she may be a distant relative of Newsflesh’s Dr. Abbey (only mermaids haven’t pushed her to be quite as, er, practical as the zombies have). Even the purposely unlikable characters are still interesting.

Grant expertly juggles the many perspectives, letting us in on a new character's experience when it will serve the tension-building, but returning to the main few often enough that we're pulling for them. I was especially invested in Tory and Olivia's relationship, which is surprisingly well-developed given everything else that's going on. I said it about The Girl With All The Gifts, and I'll say it again here: if you're only going to read one horror novel this Halloween season, it should be this one. Orbit, please let her write the sequel! I’m buying a copy for everyone I know this Christmas. (Incidentally, a book about murder mermaids is right in the range of “normal” for a gift from me).