#dean humburg

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Can you call out Rafal for his actions I'm mad at him

If you don't mind, I've written this out with a more in-narrative approach! Just send another ask if you'd wanted me to interpret your ask differently, or actually involve a response from Rafal, Rhian, or whomever else.

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If Rafal had a criminal record or wanted posters, maybe they'd involve something like this:

Beware of Never Sorcerer Rafal Mistral* and His Delinquent Associates

This dangerous and volatile individual is responsible for the subsequent criminal activities with which he has been charged:

Kidnapping/Abduction (numerous victims)

Cruel and Unusual Punishments (involving transmogrification)

General Antisocial Conduct

Undue Confiscation of Personal Effects (one (1) lamp)

Desertion (current status: gone AWOL x2)

Child Neglect

Aggravated Assault

Human Trafficking and Miscellaneous Human Rights Violations

Accessory to the Crime of Vampirism

Blood Harvesting/Use of Blood Flight Magic

Hate Speech against Seafarers

Trespassing on Monrovian Property

Prison Break

Vandalism and Destruction of Property

Mockery and Slander

Sowing Mutiny

Endangerment of Children

Cheating Death and/or Self-Necromancy

Murder

Abuse of Authority

Elderly Abuse (Humburg)

Disproportionate Retribution (even by Never standards)

Cruelty to Animals (Stymphs, supposedly)

Privations during Peacetime; Establishment of Living Quarters without Regard for Safe and Proper Sanitation and Adequate Amenities

School Violence and Protracted Child Abuse

Terrorism (see footnotes on the convict's tyrannical 'reign of terror') and Other Unlawful Usage of Scare Tactics and Torture (various kinds)

Torture by Sleep-Deprivation

Use of Ex post facto (Retroactive before Establishing Rule of Law) Punishments

Identity Fraud

Reckless Conduct

Stalking (Arabella)

Worrying Mothers

Enlisting Child Soldiers

Deliverance of Death Threats

*Apprehend him on sight if you are in possession of electrical bonds, and only approach the felon in the company of trained Monrovia technicians. Deploy any means necessary for effective and immediate capture and secure containment.

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Honestly, if all this were ever to be a thing in canon, I'd be surprised if Rafal could have a (lasting, untampered with) criminal record. I sort of thought, according to the world-building, most ordinary Nevers are exempt from whatever laws there are in the Woods, seeing as tales punish them organically, not through human means of enforcement, and besides, I thought School Masters were above the law since the main series has no evidence of these types of practices, like Rise implies.

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Cool! I've never seen this comprehensive of an interpretation of Rafal's "Fala" guise! And, I love how specific your references to scenes from Rise are! Well done on that count too!

WHAT EVEN IS A BOWL OF BROWN HAIR???

I'm obsessed with Fala, as in the identity "Fala" that the Storian drew up and Rafal ended up going along with. Maybe mostly because I love that particular part of the story and there is no illustration of that part. And my poor unimaginative brain cannot work out what on earth is even "a bowl of brown hair"? 😭 Most of my research just showed a bowl-cut, and the phrase doesn't appear to be something commonly used? So that's what I went along with, that "Fala" has a bowl cut like this.

His description made me think a lot... 😭😭😭

I wonder if anyone's ever done a visualisation for Fala or anything?

[liketwoswansinbalance]

In Unrecognition of Rhian…

This fic is also available on Wattpad or AO3, if you would prefer to read it elsewhere.

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This fic was inspired by a comment about a stained glass window on this post by @wheretheoceanglows! Many thanks for the thought that jumpstarted this!

Summary:

Since Vulcan murdered Rhian, Rafal has not let himself grieve.

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Something was out of place at the Good School and Hedadora did not like it one bit.

A week ago, she had been summoned by the remaining School Master to serve as Dean of Good, and as she had approached the Good School, on the day of her arrival, more and more oddities had come into view.

It wasn't the Stymphs nested atop the coruscating, glass towers, sitting vigil like watchmen.

And it wasn’t the newly-erected, wrought iron gates, proclaiming to all the Woods: TRESPASSERS WILL BE KILLED.

It wasn't even the acrid smoke, billowing from the silver tower that stood like a sentinel over the bay, either.

It was the body strung up in front of the School for Good.

Over the entryway that read: THE SCHOOL FOR GOOD ENLIGHTENMENT AND ENCHANTMENT in shining letters, lovingly polished to a mirror-like sheen, hung a haphazard, iron contraption that held a corpse which rattled about in the wind.

A plaque affixed to the base of the gibbet, beneath the gruesome display read: HERE, FOR SHAME, HANGS THE VILE TRESPASSER VULCAN OF NETHERWOOD. LET HIS FATE BE A WARNING TO THOSE WHO DARE THREATEN THE GOOD.

To Hedadora, the victim’s grisly, charred corpse was unrecognizable, dressed in tatters like a drunken pirate with a now-scraggly beard and bare, dangling, gangrened feet. A singular, rusted, stab wound through its heart had rusted over nearly as much as the weathered cage that contained the man.

Hedadora shook her head, thinking it was a mirage. This was highly unorthodox and quite grotesque for any Ever’s delicate constitution. Surely, that did not belong here.

It was rotting for Heaven’s sake! And the breeze was tainted by its ungodly stench, only exacerbated by the midday sun.

And not a single Ever looked as repulsed as Hedadora had felt! Not one pupil had spared it a second glance.

The bedraggled Evers milled about in a shiftless, permanent fog in black on their way to classes and paid the exhibit no mind. Evers? In black? Ah, yes, she’d heard word of the Good School Master’s death. Those poor, bereaved children!

And that thing likely hadn’t been taken down in weeks, Hedadora presumed. It seemed bolted there, built to last an eternity.

This castle was in dire need of a woman’s touch. But who was she to decide what did and didn’t belong? Well, she assuaged herself, once she was Dean, things would certainly change, that much she knew.

As it turned out, the Evers themselves had become inured to their once-regular feelings of repulsion. They accepted this hideous blot to their otherwise resplendent environs.

But, more than them, the Nevers knew why it hung there—they were finely-attuned to such messages by now in their young lives. Clearly the offal served to ward off newcomers. Harm a single soul on the premises and you were fated to die, uninterred, made into a spectacle for all to gawk at, trophied and mounted.

All this, and Hedadora still hadn’t met the man behind such an operation.

Naturally, rumors were bandied about—that he donned an iron mask, that he burned people alive, even in this apparent utopia, but finally, after training for a total of a week with Professor Mayberry, her soon-to-be predecessor, Hedadora was scheduled to meet the Evil School Master.

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The week prior, Rafal had told himself that his first order of business was to find a competent substitute.

The day after Rhian’s death, Professor Mayberry, had returned to ease the tension and help the transition of power along, until Rafal found someone else to hire. It was the least she could do, she’d confessed tearfully.

Then, Rafal came across a list Rhian had left on his desk. The name Hedadora had not been struck out, so Rafal decided to allot the woman a trial run once he was able to contact her. Probably, she was the candidate Rhian would’ve hired.

When Mayberry left, Rafal stared hard at the calligraphic hand, about to crumple the list and toss it into the wastepaper basket. Instead, he hastily stuffed it into his pocket.

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After Mayberry’s reappearance, no one had seen Rafal for weeks on end.

The Nevers could only verify his presence as they caught onto a new system he had put into place.

None of them, not even Humburg, had been notified, but they were able to intuit what was going on.

Each class, their smoking ranks snaked around the silver tower in an orderly train, and floated up to the tower window, entangled around a glimpse of a beckoning, pale hand.

Yet, no one could tell if the ranks were indeed being evaluated. The leaderboard hadn’t budged in days.

The numbers were always thrust back, burning and dripping with obscure, opaque pitch, driven into the ground by their weight, boring steaming holes into the ground as they guttered out like smoldering meteorites, burrowing their way to Hell.

Every time, the blackened fields were left pockmarked with craters as fearful Nevers jumped out of the missiles’ paths.

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The day of Hedadora’s evaluation, willowy Nymphs flitted around in a nervous circuit in Good’s grand foyer with decanters of chilled, raspberry cordial, croissants, and rosettes of whipped butter. Silver trays held tiny saucers of black olives, pomegranate seeds, poached quail eggs, and luminous, pink, champagne currants.

Students clinked flutes of cordial, and the fairies chirred amongst themselves, but none was more apprehensive than Hedadora herself. She could only will herself to do her best, and hope to be looked upon favorably.

In an instant, the room hushed as the elusive School Master of Evil entered the foyer, appraising Hedadora’s cloud of white hair and pink-rimmed glasses.

He was positively saturnine, Hedadora noted as she saw the sunken shadows beneath his eyes.

Rafal picked up a pitted olive from a dish. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Hedadora sensed a lull, and decided to begin by pitching her best ideas: remodeling the Good School. Perhaps that would sway the unyielding figure before her.

Thus, she spoke of removing the horrendous gibbet to cultivate a more inviting atmosphere, widening the stairwells for easier access to the higher floors and the Library of Virtue, adding a statue garden to the roof, curtains so the students wouldn’t be blinded by the glass walls’ glare, fixing rounded finials to the pinnacles so the darling, little birds wouldn’t be impaled by the sharp spires of Good’s highest turrets. Just simple, minor architectural changes, as, oh dear, oh dear, the current state of Good wouldn’t do at all!

Rafal stared point-blank and said nothing.

Hedadora continued to prattle on brightly, about adding wall sconces and perhaps fresh flowers in them, reaching towards the glorious sun, like all living things did!

Not the Night Crawlers, thought Rafal. Not himself either.

The flowers would remind the students to always reach for the light and strive to be as pure and Good as they could possibly be.

Ridiculous, thought Rafal.

Undeterred by the School Master’s dearth of a response, Hedadora forged on valiantly. As it was, the design of the place was impractical, and the sheer vanity embedded in every cornice was clearly evidence that some frivolous magpie of a person, who only cared for surfaces and shiny things, had designed it without regard for those who actually inhabited the place.

“Out,” Rafal croaked hoarsely.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Hedadora wrung her hands.

“Out. Out from my Schools.” Rafal fired her on the spot.

“You’re being unreasonable, Master Rafal!” Dean Mayberry cried out on behalf of her replacement. She hadn’t spent an arduous week training Hedadora only for her not to fill the role!

Good fights for each other. We can only fight for ourselves, rang in Rafal’s head. Just as he’d last told his Nevers the last time he’d personally taught them.

He had no one to fight for, Evil as he was.

“Out,” he repeated.

⸻

Then came the day of the unveiling. Both Schools were gathered in memory of Rhian.

Onstage, Rafal nodded to Kyma at his side, and the Evergirl pulled a gilded rope, drawing velvet curtains back to reveal a stained glass window in which Rhian was haloed.

The Good School Master’s lithe, white-robed figure was set against panes of champagne and rose and golden-hued glass, with winding, golden, flowered vines encircling his likeness, the tableau resembling a page from a sumptuous, illuminated manuscript.

The golden light of the setting sun set the window aflame, blazing with color as the day approached dusk.

Rafal’s eyes watered, irritated by the excess light, or perhaps the cause was the copious number of flower arrangements festooning the halls.

He turned away from the window, eyes dull and dimmed to a deadened gaze.

Tears streamed down several Ever’s faces, as they split into piteous, extravagant sobs, derailing the assembly.

No one would get anything done if they were still mourning Rhian, Rafal realized. Perhaps he’d decided wrong when he’d commissioned the window. It was a reminder of the loss.

Rhian this. Rhian that. Rhian was dead.

His audience still faced him, the Evers and Nevers nearly indistinguishable in funereal black, eyes downcast.

After a long while, they quashed their sobs, some Evers shuddering into handkerchiefs, giving way for Rafal to speak.

He began expressionlessly, as if delivering a rote recitation from the Handbook’s student code of conduct. “Today, we are gathered here to remember my br—”

Rafal stopped, his throat suddenly dry. Nothing came out. His voice had caught on a gargantuan lump. He swallowed, then swallowed again, throat bobbing.

“We are here to—”

A student coughed.

The Evers leaned in and peered at him strangely like he was a novelty show.

Not a sound escaped his throat, like a noose had been wrapped around his neck.

The Nevers murmured amongst themselves, concerned.

“Goodbye,” Rafal muttered.

The Nevers stared dumbfounded. That was it? This was what they had slogged over to Good for? All that fuss for nothing?

Rafal stalked off the stage, past Kyma, past the gleaming window.

Humburg rose from his seat and started to waddle forward, stone-faced, but Rafal left too quickly.

Black robes snapping behind him, Rafal strode down the aisle past his Dean, past the gormless, huddled, sniveling, ebony-clad mass of students. They cleaved apart, as if by a knife, clearing a path for him straight to the doors.

He slammed the doors with such force that a deep fissure bloomed from a hairline fracture in the glass floor, riving the assembly room into two down the middle. The doors juddered along with everyone’s skulls.

“…Rhian.” He finished his sentence as the doors settled with a thud.

He took off, heedless, tearing through the fog at breakneck speed without a destination in mind, and nearly impaled himself on a lethal, spiked pinnacle—had Hedadora been right about the birds that day?

He landed on a steeply-angled slope of one of Evil’s turrets, sitting himself on the edge of an eave, cloaked in the shadow of the spire.

The golden light of the sunset did not suit him. It was too warm, too lively. He looked out of place.

A place for everything and everything in its place. Even children recognized the reason embedded in such a statement.

Most things you could find a place for.

First, rearrange, when something new strutted in, and installed itself, intending to take over.

Second, remove, when something old broke, when it was vulnerable and defenseless. Or rendered itself useless and weak.

And third, replace, when there was nothing else to do, when the old thing could no longer fill a gap. Because he had let it break. And it would never return.

Out with the old, in with the new. That’s how the world worked.

And that’s what he’d do. Rearrange, remove, replace.

It would probably take a few generations for each new Dean to die. Or retire.

Then, he’d simply find another.

And another.

And another.

Seeking out replacements was a job he’d never anticipated having to waste his time on. All he could do was continue, wait for another day, and the next, and the next.

Rafal pulled the list out of his pocket. There was only one name he wanted to see. One candidate who would’ve surpassed all the rest. He didn’t want another Dean.

A place for everything and everything in its place.

He balled up the list.

But what if it was the other way around?

What became of a place when it lacked its thing?

He watched the Stymphs, ever his wardens, watching over his new, Good wards. That figure had doubled overnight while another had been halved.

He thought back to the rankings, the spell he’d cast. Why couldn’t other things put themselves in order, slot neatly into place?

The dusk’s frosty, moonlit pallor illuminated the Evers’ castle, which glowed whiter as the sky darkened.

He watched Vulcan’s body sway in the breeze, trussed up in its creaking, rusted cage, threatening to fall, to succumb to the elements. It would, one day. But that was something he could set right.

He stared into his tower window, and there was the Pen, scratching away at another tale.

And through one of the door frames, he glimpsed an empty, undisturbed bed.

There was only one thing not where it should be.

So there he sat, in the cold, refusing to return to his rightful place all through the night.

The wind washed over him, and he remained, cold as a corpse like always, waiting for the darkness to descend.

⸻

Songs I associate with this fic:

"Marche Funèbre" - Chopin

Fits Rafal's internal state, part of the time, when it's plodding and routine. Also, there are some sections that sound outraged.

"Idea 22" - Anya Nami

The lyrics toward the end make me think of the burning rankings:

This second of life

Feels like forever

This world has failed us

So let burn

Let it burn

Let it burn

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Note:

I'd love to know your thoughts, feelings, or reactions!

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Hello i was the person who asked to call out for Rafal! Not to bother but can we get rafal's reaction?

[In the ice death chamber classroom:]

Humburg: [holds out a sheet of paper to Rafal, teeth chattering.] What d-d-do you suppose we do with t-t-this, M-Master?

Rafal: [swings his feet down from his desk, boots thumping on the floor, as he stands up in an instant. He takes the paper from Humburg, glances at it, and snatches a pen off his desk.] How kind that the numpties have done nearly all the the work for me. [He presses the paper against the blackboard behind him, and scratches out the instructions for capture until the ink bleeds through and instead prints: ALL IDIOTIC ATTEMPTS AT ARREST HAVE FAILED. Then, he tacks the page up at eye level.] This can serve as a lesson plan, and—as a warning. Find and bring me all the rest, Humburg. We can wallpaper the halls with them.

[liketwoswansinbalance]

The Good, the Evil, and the Volcano

I've been watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch (1996), as per a recommendation from @rosellemoon, (Thank you, by the way—I've really been enjoying it!) and had a thought based on the season three finale, "The Good, the Bad, and the Luau."

The premise of the episode was that Sabrina had an evil twin, Katrina, and both twins were put on trial, to determine who was the good one as a matter of life-and-death.

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There were three "trials"/testimonies in the episode, if I recall correctly, and the twins had to bring forth evidence of their goodness.

To loosely interpret what happened: whomever was found to be the evil one was to be sent away, a fairly benign punishment. Yet, it actually turned out that the evil twin would be pitched into an active volcano as a human sacrifice, to cleanse the pair of its shadow. (Hold that thought for a bit. I will circle back to it later!)

Ok, now to transpose this into the Endless Woods:

Unbeknownst to the brothers, the stakes of the trial are much higher than they first believe, worse than they were initially led to perceive by the impartial Gnomeland judge who lied to them, so as to preserve the integrity of the examination.

One fateful day, Rhian and Rafal are brought to trial, to determine the true content of their souls and thus, their fates, accordingly, probably in a version of the Endless Woods that wants to purge itself of all Evil, being more dystopian than it already is.

In the episode, Katrina passes one of the tests with flying colors, and things originally look bleak for Sabrina. As far as Rhian and Rafal go, the plot could look like this:

Rhian is performatively Good, and he's far better at looking Good on paper than Rafal is, for all intents and purposes. Yet, the question is: how much of his Goodness is sincere? Appearances can be deceiving and not everything is as it seems. Just, keep those classic adages in mind.

And, even if Rafal is renowned for his Evil all throughout the Woods, he tries his hardest to win the trials, and so too does Rhian.

They have ample reason to try after all—neither of them wants to be cast out of the Woods, consigned to a magicless existence. And, more importantly, neither of them wants to be the loser on principle, because that would mark them as the inferior twin for the rest of their days.

Anyway, by contrast, Rafal's reputation does not serve him well, and whenever he does Good, it's for selfish reasons. His motives are often more visibly selfish than Rhian’s reasons. Albeit, Rhian's reasons for doing Good are also just as self-serving, just more subtle; they revolve around vanity more than Rafal's power-hungry drive for tangible gains does, at the very least.

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Thus, during the first of the trials, Rhian had a lifetime of clearly Good Deeds to show for himself, and Rafal had... nothing. And, Rhian exhibited compassion during a spontaneous act of kindness.

During the second trial, Rafal won by acting quickly under a high-pressure situation, leaving Rhian as the loser.

Now, during the third trial, Rafal had a better answer than Rhian's in response to the prompting from the judge: to recall something Good they did for another during the last 24 hours. (Luckily for Rafal, hours ago, he had done something that qualified indirectly as a Good Deed: he had been thinking over a riddle the Kingdom Council had given him to solve, and the Stymph screeches outside had finally gotten to him. He decided to confront the birds, and Humburg, who looked to be the source of their agitation from Rafal's view, as Rafal didn't have all the information available. The Stymphs had been starving, made irritable by their prolonged suffering, and Humburg was suffering from back pain, groaning on the ground, being pecked. So, Rafal cast a spell to silence the Stymphs, providing them with food, but he only did it to "mute" them, in a sense, in order to shut them up, so he could properly concentrate, and get back to his riddle promptly. He also decided to "help" Humburg by petrifying him temporarily, but even if that was a crude, scornful "solution," it did technically alleviate Humburg's back pain!)

Later, however, it turned out that when Rafal's answer about the aforementioned Good Deed was reviewed in more depth, it was found to have been driven by impure intentions, disqualifying Rafal's evidence, meaning Rhian, was, by default, the victor of the third trial, and had won 2/3 of them, fair and square.

So, it came to be that the moment of the sacrifice had arrived.

Both twins were told the truth of the matter, that the actual punishment for being Evil was to be thrown into deathly, red-hot lava. And, it was the Good twin's noble duty to bid his Evil twin farewell and perform the send-off.

The judge commanded Rhian to push Rafal into the volcano, and he does! Miraculously, without question, Rhian obeyed the authority at hand.

Rhian said, "Okie dokie!" with unusual cheer, and shoved Rafal over the edge to his demise, secretly relieved that he had the chance to continue living. (Rhian was willing to sacrifice his brother because he's cowardly and didn't want to die himself.)

Rafal and the Ever witnesses present stared in slack-jawed, wide-eyed horror at how Rhian had publicly exposed his sudden, seemingly newfound capacity for Evil.

Then, Rafal toppled, almost plunging straight into the hot, molten lava below, but he managed to latch onto the cliffside by Rhian's feet, and when he regained his bearings, whilst still dangling precariously over the fuming, burning crater, he vengefully seized Rhian's ankle and pulled. And, he didn't pull himself up. Instead, he intended to drag Rhian down, shouting that he would take Rhian down with him, even if it was the last thing he did!

The judge observed these ongoings, and heaved both twins back over the edge, back onto solid ground, saving them. He then announced that no Good twin has ever had the heart to do away with his Evil twin, in the history of all other twin trials preceding this... exceptional outcome, but while this would, under ordinary circumstances, mean that he should pronounce the victim the Good twin and the one who followed through with his unethical order as Evil, this time, it was... rather hard to tell them apart, especially when accounting for Rafal's outburst, his equally murderous reaction toward Rhian's act, being petty retaliation and all.

Neither had passed the Volcano Test, a harrowing final test in disguise, which had devolved to become more hazardous than it was originally designed to be.

So, the judge concluded that both twins were Evil.

Consequently, he issued a court order for them to be closely monitored for signs of "reformation" as they returned to their daily lives, once again, having outlived a pretty surreal experience for the ages. In fact, in hindsight, the case was interpreted by a law clerk to mean that, incidentally, they had proven themselves more a danger to each other than a threat to the Woods at large.

The END.

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Good versus Evil is a commonplace literary theme beyond the world of SGE, and could be likened to mirror-image symmetry, which is often seen in Soman’s juxtaposed images throughout the series. Yet, I was thinking: is there a literary equivalent for rotational symmetry and what would it look like? I think it would have to involve greater than two elements in play, each a few degrees removed from each other instead of a pair of direct opposites, but I don't have an example of this in practice.

In addition, one of the most prominent instances of juxtaposition in the series to me, by the way, is how the brothers treat their respective Deans, and how Rhian’s reaction is far more passive as he just lets Mayberry go:

And across the bay, there’s this laughable bit:

(I'm sure Rafal is not the only soul who finds it funny. Something about the timing and this being the last line to a section and the well-deserved comeuppance of the moment just read as funny.)

[liketwoswansinbalance]

“The nerve of some Evers, Master!” harrumphed the former Dean Humburg. “Can you imagine thinking yourself above murder?”

“No,” said Rafal, his throat parched. “What dull existences they must lead.”

This is not a fic-related excerpt. It's just a random dialogue exchange, if anyone is wondering. Some variation of it might make its way into a WIP, but no guarantees.

[liketwoswansinbalance]

It's overdue, but I finally added ghostly text to the cover of this fic.