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summertimemusician · 7 months ago

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WIP Snippet of the First x Prisoner Reader Vision I've Had Recently

It was dark, as it had been for a long time now.

How long has it been, since he was thrown into this dark cell with accusations of treachery and left to rot?

Days?

Weeks?

Months?

(He didn’t entertain the possibility of years. It slithers and bites cold and cruel like the metal around his wrists, it hisses mockingly in his ears like the demon’s, like snakes twining over his throat.

If he did, he’d think of Orville, of a demon desperately wanting to be granted rest, of deity’s with pale eyes and summer sunlight hair of golden Hylian wheat fields and blue skies. Of a world outside the prison cell.

He can’t afford to falter now, would not give the lord the satisfaction of thinking he’d successfully tamed a lion.)

It was quiet in the dark, if he did not move, nothing but his own breathing and the dizzying, choking dread over what he still saw every time he closed his eyes, over the threat of furious tempest and the burning greed stoking the flames of malice. His perceived betrayal and the injustice of being defanged when his only wish was to protect his people was more agonizing than any wound inflicted on him on the day of his imprisonment, festered like the untreated cuts and bruises, burning through his mind constantly like the tight strain of the chains, digging and pulling into at what was once strong flesh.

The silent isolation could drive any man insane, only stubbornness and determination kept him strong.

…

Suddenly, something changed, enough to make him stir, head hung low but ears twitching with interest. A familiar sound that made him bare his teeth with the most minute of flinches.

Shouting.

Angry yells and outraged howls, the type belonging more to a wild fox’s throat than that of a human’s.

Yelling was never a promising portent.

The metallic screech of an old rusted door being opened reverberated through the dungeon halls, thankfully not his own, a voice’s strangled cry cuts through the silence, more pain than rage, punctuated by the indifferent snapping of cold, twining chains and the slam of the prison cell’s entrance giving it a sense of finality.

‘... Why would someone else…?’

What kind of deeds did his apparent cell neighbor commit to get locked in the most deserted part of this place? He knew there was a cell by the side of his own, from what little he could recall before being imprisoned himself, but it made no measure of sense to chain someone else nearby.

(He knew what the lord was doing, keep him quiet after he'd spoken up about the threat, keep him isolated, drive him mad, slowly but surely chipping away at his will to live-

Even if he was released, who would believe the words of a madman?)

Link thought about his own circumstances, of how he had been branded of ill mind and opportunistic intentions, and ultimately decided it did not matter.

After all, his motives didn't matter either.

Soon enough there was banging on the metallic doors, then cursing, then yowling, then hoarse cries, and then nothing as the silence returned once more to stifle the atmosphere with its oppressive, suffocating weight. Clamping down like a lynel’s fangs upon his mind again.

Link’s ears twitched as he briefly flinched into consciousness, shuddering from both the deep aching in his bones and the cold of the cell, something whispering beneath the silence of the cell. It was subtle, a quiet little clink, clink, clink against the walls like a bird sharpening their beak on stone, his eyes snapped open, eyes darting about the darkness, squinting and straining his ears, the chains rattled with the suddenness of the movement and he gritted his teeth as each muscle screamed in protest, almost gagging at the metallic sweet smell mixing with the sourness of old sweat and the stale air of the cell. He really didn't want to dislocate one of his shoulders again, once was enough.

Link closes his eyes, and sends a quiet prayer for his fellow wayward soul.

...

At first, he thought he imagined it. He couldn't hear the firm footfalls of the guards, the main indication of their patrol routes, nor the confident stride and rankling jewelry of the lord, and he was sure his cellblock companion had gone silent after a quite a few possible weeks of putting up one impressive fight, he doubted they would have left anything much for them to work with.

(If his lips curved a little at the blood coating the lord’s fine sleeves after one of his visits, well, that was between him, the darkness and the goddesses, if they were listening at all.)

And still, the sound persisted, clink, clink, clink.

Then-

Clack.

He lifted his head with a wince, it throbbed but Link couldn't care less about it, he had to find the source of the sound. He squinted at the wall, finally hearing something new, the clanking of heavy chains and heavy, strained breathing, a voice growling in aggravation and strain, raspy in a way he was sure his own would match. A scraping against stone.

“Well… Not much of a breeze from there, great.”

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry as lightning lanced through his spine, a tension seizing his frame, the words came out before he could fully process them, “...Apologies to disappoint.”

“Oh goddesses-” There was a faint sound like something being dropped and the clanking of the chains alongside a faint, muffled thud.

“No goddesses to be found, not here. Just me.” He spoke, some amusement creeping into his voice.

A pause, the faint shifting of metal on stone, and then, “... Did you just- no, nevermind that, this is-” A faint, incredulous chuckle, teetering on the cliff of hysterics, still, they had a nice laugh and suddenly, Link briefly wondered what the shape of a smile would look like on their face, “I know this is probably an awful thing to say, stranger, but it’s so, so nice to know there’s someone else in this awful place other than that pretentious jerk.”

“The lord?” He inquired, more of a statement than anything else.

“That’s the one.” They confirmed, no small amount of bitterness coated their voice with the same sharpness found in the thorns of briars, “Barely a full year in the kingdom, and he’s got his people hauling me to the slammer.” They scoffed, their worn down voice carrying quietly through his cell, “And here I thought Hylia’s people subscribed to her ideology that all life is to be preserved and just judgment above all, guess the joke’s on me.”

Link hangs his head in resignation, something like loathing scraping at his throat, trickles of guilt swallowed down like blood, “... As someone once in his servitude, I offer my apologies on behalf of my people.”

“Oh.” The voice exclaimed, shifting in place, before speaking hesitantly, “Hey now, you don’t have to apologize. It’s got nothing to do with you, the idiocy of one man shouldn’t fall on your shoulders”

A part of Link would like to differ, maybe, just maybe, if he was still free then, he could have done something, anything to help. The prisoner’s howls still ring in his ears.

Remembering his own predicament makes him hold his tongue. If he couldn't even convince the lord that what he saw was the truth, he doubted he would actually succeed

“So…” They start, his ears flick at the light, metallic click, from the corner of his eye, he sees a piece of the wall fall away from a very subtle crack, the shattered stone dropping against the ground of the cell, mixing with the dark stains of old blood, “You seem like a decent enough guy, and you don't sound too hot there so I won't ask what you're in for, care to give me something to call you other than stranger? I'll give you my name in return. Doesn't look like we're going anywhere any time soon, may as well get used to one another.”

He blinked slowly, taking a deep, trembling breath.

When was the last time someone had treated him with any shred of sympathy? When was the last time he had someone to talk to?

(The lord didn't count, it was less a conversation and more so being talked at, urged like some sort of reluctant pet, degraded like a feral dog-

“Take it back.” The lord had spoken, his face impassive and eyes cold, as one of the guards held his head in a grip hard enough to rip the hair from his skull, he hisses, both from the concussion, his back open like a blooming flower and from the blood dripping into his eye and down his cheek like a faux tear, “You may have failed me, may have consorted with demons and dared to renounce our golden goddess' mercy. But so long as you agree to say that all you've told me is a lie, I'll let you go. You will live a normal life, all of your blasphemies will be forgiven.”

He gritted his teeth, it would be so, so easy. It was always that easy.

Except he remembered the thing he sealed in that mask, that even it seemed afraid of what was to come. How it shrieked and yowled and screamed and roared and pleaded to either be slain or sent back to where it belonged just so it would avoid getting involved. Of having nightmares of the sky set aflame for as long as he could remember, of a man with pale hair and crimson garments cackling as he tore his comrades limb from limb, of a woman with golden hair and impossibly seating sapphire screaming with the sound of shrieking birds behind her voice as crystalline wings were torn from her back by a man with hair the color of the fires of war, eyes alight with fury and hate-

He spits at the lord’s feet, snarling like the lion he was often compared to.

“Never.”)

What did he have to lose as he was now, defanged and declawed?

“Link.”

(You pause from the other side of the wall, freezing in place. The short, rusty dagger you had nicked from one of the guards scratching violently against stone as your broken hand shakes, an already unsteady grip sustained only through spite and desperation made lax with shock.

Link, says the man on the other side of the wall. The man whose voice is like gravel, like ashes after a forest fire, but still kind, a little awkward but who immediately apologized for something for harm he didn't even inflict upon you.

You had hoped the Hylia and Hyrule thing were coincidence at best , but now-

Mentally screaming into your own mind, you give him your name, the knobs of your spine prickling with a cold other than the metal collar around your neck.)

#lu first x reader #or if you prefer #first link x reader #for those who want to separate it from an LU concept #'Oh it's just a WIP it doesn't have to be good-' Me: *repeatedly double checking everything while struggling through essays #even though it's not complete*#told ya'll I'd write it out lol #or well in the process #Summer stop putting the Links and Reader through the horrors challenge: impossible #and failed sucessfully #Reader who is just trying to mind their own business and in denial: Alright so the whole fantasy settting #surely the Hylia thing is just a coincidence-#*gets sent to the slammer for perceived blasphemy #hears their other cellblock company is named LInk #flashbacks to the SS prequel manga* Nevermind I need to get outta here STAT. And maybe take this guy with me #summer writes #Summer Writes LU #Summer's WIP's

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twistedisciple · 8 months ago

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FIRST CAME THE SCRUTINY OF THE DRAGON'S GLARE, one of the first inward gazes into the inevitable, yet pointedly disappointing defeat of her hound from where she stalked the spectating masses, the unfurling emotion obstinate despite the end goal of his mission merely serving to distract before reaping true benefits. second came the soft curl of her lips, twitching the solidarity of her countenance until she had not the energy to stop the laughter that broke free from her.

and that was how she appeared upon reaching her other half; grinning blatantly in amusement with her claws unsheathed, clasped hands near her stomach unless it was to carelessly dismiss an idle medic with a curt wave or, if necessary, entirely push them out the way herself.

"there you are! how many did you fell, dear?" a greeting in itself, paired with the delicate cant of her head as she watched griss with keen eyes, wholly unbothered by the sight of bloodstained cloth being deposited at the side of the cot she found him near. "hm. . . i would have offered you the monastery's cups, but they have a disgusting taste in drinks. hmph! no matter. i am proud to see you last as long as you had, though not entirely impressed. you are a hound after all."

because she had not, though again, the relevance of her direct participation mattered little when it brought her in the shadow of lord sombron's self - appointed, falsely crowned heir. and that, too, would be a matter to be brought upon later. yet, to completely ignore it. . . not many of her conquests always went untold from her hound's ears, as to lean upon him provided her with a body to punish when all led to fail. after all, who else had delivered the word of the fell twin's existence if not him?

two - toned eyes flit from griss' face to her flexing claws. "had you seen lord rafal's performance earlier? defeated in the first round." then, quiet, the rare flicker of strange intent darkened her countenance, indulging the opinion of her half she hardly took to notice. "what do you think of it? is that his usual prowess in the throes of battle?"

Medics parted like a sea, or like fleeing rats, telling Griss of Zephia's arrival before her laughter reached his ears. Those tending his wounds had eagerly abandoned him under the pretense of giving the two of them privacy, but he couldn't say he cared one way or another. The bleeding had stopped by now, but he'd been made to relinquish the mantle of his loyalty, the cilices and straps intended to bind and chafe, and the rest of his clothing from the waist up so that they could dress his wounds. Now he sat on the edge of the cot, defanged and declawed for Zephia's judgment. He leaned back on his hands to watch her with a lazy smile.

"Yeah, well--" he excused the comment with the wave of one of his hands, dried blood still caked around and under the fingernails. "-- me 'n this other guy got outnumbered."

Just the facts. He'd never been one for glory in battle, as long as he got to have his fun. And he couldn't say he didn't have fun this year. It was clear in the remnants of his smile. But despite the residual exhilaration, despite their languid drift, carmine eyes were still attentive. Zephia had been taken out of the tournament, too, and he wondered idly about the lines of her face, whether they had always been there or were new.

"Lord Rafal lost, too, huh?" he answered absently, until she snapped his attention back for an opinion. His gaze hardened with sharpened focus and caught the tail end of something dark slither across her expression, too fast, but too uncertain. A trick of the light, or one of the mage dragon's many secrets he knew he'd never understand, Griss couldn't tell for sure.

"I dunno." He shrugged the thought away and pushed himself stiffly off his hands, bending forward to drape his arms over his knees instead, the ridge of his spine making shadows down his bare back between crimson-stained bandages and crimson-inked skin. "I've only seen 'im fight as a dragon."

The memory of his first run-in with the fell heir evoked an itch across his chest that he scratched at absentmindedly.

"Always did think his human body looked kinda flimsy though," he said, and then discarded it with a shrug as if it had no merit at all, as barren and superficial as it was. It wasn't often that Zephia asked him for his thoughts, and rarer still that he knew the kinds of thoughts she wanted from him. The years -decades, by now - they'd been suppressed had allowed his survival for this long. The question had set rusted gears to struggle infinitesimally in some forgotten part of himself, powered by nothing else but the irrepressible desire to please, yet lost in ambiguity, unable to find the traction to turn. He searched her face for a sign that that was enough, all too eager now for distraction, and his attention caught on something else. He tilted his head slowly to the side and reined in his splaying grin, the faintest glimmer of concern softening his eyes.

"They got your injuries all taken care of, yeah?"

#ruinakete #toaboel2024 #// zephia stop asking him for opinions!! he has none!! /j

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herspawn · 1 year ago

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" Little spider has a bite. What if i defanged her? " He spoke, circling around Ivy with those also dark red eyes. A dhampir with thought strong enough he ascended two fools into godhood. Ivy has dealt with him a handful of times when his god sends him crawling through the filth from their castle home. " --- I wouldn't even let you get close enough to touch my mouth as much as you crave to have fangs yourself, Lord Aurelio. "

the hardest paragraph i ever written for myself in a drabble.

#𝕴 ‣ ❝ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐚𝐝𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐬 — ooc. ❞

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abronzeagegod · 2 years ago

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Melthana Saint Felix put her hands in her pockets. "Yeah big scary vampire man. I'm practically shaking in my boots." She yawned.

The vampire stopped. He wasn't sure what to do with this. Usually when he threatened people with the teeth and claws and powers over darkness, people were more afraid. Even police officers.

"Oh come on, I was waiting for you to do something," Melthana said again. Trying to push him to action.

The vampire took a half step back. This was exceedingly weird. This short woman was just looking at him, not even in an active attack posture. She was just waiting. This was unnerving.

Finally, after a few beats to many, where Melthana only smiled wider and wider, the vampire moved to coalesce the shadows beneath her feet.

The shadows didn't move.

"What?" the vampire hissed.

"Oh are the shadows not moving like they are supposed to?"

The vampire tried again, this time to make a spear of darkness, harden it, and throw it at this meddlesome detective. But instead he threw nothing.

Melthana yawned again. "You know, a few years back I did a favor for a shadow demon. Well, that's not true. I did a favor for the Lord of Shadow, the Demon Xeballa. So, thanks Xeballa, we're almost square."

The vampire swore he heard a groan of annoyance from the darkness all around him. The darkness that was always so comforting and safe for vampires, was now an enemy, something to be fear. The kind of fear that he hadn't felt since he was human.

"I can feel your fear," Melthana said as she finally started to advance on the vampire. "It's delicious. Even better than the fear that you instilled in all of your thralls. I hate that word. Thrall. They weren't thralls, they were your slaves. I saved them all. And now you are going to pay for your crimes against those girls."

The vampire was cornered and he knew it. But he was still a vampire, and this woman was still just human. He lunged at her as she advanced, but for some reason he was moving so slowly, sluggishly, like he was moving through tar.

"You know another one of my very good friends. Well she sits on the Court of the Night Shore. You know, them, the vampire overlords that dictate powers and control vampires across the world? Well my good friend Lady Ivory, you see she has a particular hatred of vampires that kidnap, torture, and feed on innocents without permission, like you. So Lady Ivory revoked your powers."

The man, no longer a vampire, just a weakened dhampir, broken and powerless, knew true fear for the first time in a long time.

"You want to know the real source of my power? The real reason why you don't scare me?" Melthana said as she advanced on her quarry. "Well it's because my first friend is something much much older than Xeballa or Lady Ivory, or even the Night Shore. See, one of my best friends lets me use his power, and he's Fear. Not a god of fear, or an avatar of fear. He is Fear. And the more scared of me you are, the more powerful he, and I become."

The man tried to run, but the shadows formed a thick morass around his legs and he couldn't move.

"Now," Melthana said, her eyes burning green, "you're under arrest."

"Detective Saint Felix!" bellowed the lieutenant.

"One moment sir, I've got a suspect to book."

"Johnson you finish that for her!" the lieutenant yelled.

"I didn't do anything really, just made this vampire spawn poop himself a little. He killed like nine women."

"And the Night Shore?"

"Already cleared it with them. You can contact Lady Ivory, real name Patrice Sverenson. We're good, I just... defanged him a little and made him really afraid so he wouldn't run or try to rip out my throat," she explained.

The lieutenant grumbled and folded his arms across his massive chest. "Fine. For now. But I find out you did anything illegal or below board, I will have you destroyed."

"Yes, sir."

You are a wizard that specializes in summoning magic. Unlike other summoners that forcefully bind otherworldly creatures to do their bidding, you are the eldritch equivalent of “I know a guy”.

#cold black iron and green fire #my fiction #oh melthana #aka detective spooky #finally starting one of these with reoccurring characters #original characters you might even call them

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back-and-totheleft · 2 years ago

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As we wrote in 2010, when first attempting a retrospective of the directorial features of Oliver Stone, the outspoken director loves his country, but he is also among its loudest critics. This makes him either the perfect filmmaker to take on a non-documentary portrait of the world’s most famous whistleblower, as he does in this week’s “Snowden” (our review) or the absolute worst, depending on your point of view on Snowden, patriotism, the act of whistleblowing, the CIA, the United States of America, and of course, Stone himself.

Simply put, the one thing you cannot expect from Stone is neutrality: Whether tackling history head-on in films like “Platoon” or “Born On The Fourth Of July,” or profiling presidents in “JFK,” “W.” and “Nixon,” and even in seemingly genre-centered material like “Natural Born Killers” or “Any Given Sunday,” Stone unapologetically views America in his own unique, and sometimes contradictory, way. So, does “Snowden” represent a confrontational clash between the political ideologies of its subject and its director, or a complementary melding of those points of view? Is it hagiography or critique? And what truth can be found in a fictionalized profile of an already divisive figure if it comes through such a defiantly non-objective lens? These questions are worth bearing in mind in our assessment of the rest of Stone’s output.

His track record is certainly marked by tremendous highs, inarguable lows and the curious middle ground largely populated with unprepossessing genre excursions like “U-Turn,” “Any Given Sunday” and “The Doors.” Yet while his output might be uneven, his films are hardly ever boring, and whether his experiments work or not, he usually doesn’t refrain from playing with form, via unusual lens switches, film stocks, shooting techniques and camera angles cropping up in the most unexpected of places. Detractors maintain that such flash and dazzle can make even his best work feel dated; defenders hold it up as evidence of a distinctive, uncompromisingly auteurist vision.

But most of us lie somewhere in between those two points of view, so to help you make up your mind about whether to bother with his latest biopic this weekend, we’re taking a proper, updated look back through Stone’s feature directorial output. Excluding documentaries like “South Of The Border” and the bombastically titled “Oliver Stone’s Untold History of the United States” and those films he only wrote the screenplay for, like “Scarface,” here’s our ranking of every Oliver Stone movie prior to “Snowden.”

“Alexander” (2004) Hoo boy, where to begin? The most ambitious film Stone has ever tackled, “Alexander” is an almost magnificent failure on every level, rendered watchable only for its camp qualities. There is skill on intermittent display —for one thing, the battle scenes are grandiose and gorgeously lensed— but the cast… sweet Lord, the cast! The director often lets his actors play fast and loose, but never has he indulged the worst impulses of subpar performances as he does here. Then again, the characters are thinly sketched and mounted with absurd exaggeration —from Angelina Jolie’s snake-handling, potentially incestuous Queen Olympias to Val Kilmer’s groggy over-eater King Philip to Jared Leto’s painfully misguided eye-shadow addict Hephaistion. A bottle blonde Colin Farrell as the titular military genius demands his own sentence-long description: you can see he’s trying really, cringingly hard (he was at the height of his alcohol and drug addiction), but the larger-than-life Alexander is just too much for him, and he feels tiny and diminished within his character’s colossal penumbra. Loaded with giggle-inducing lovers’ talk between Alexander and Hephaistion and cardboard villain scheming from Olympias, overall this is more or less the definition of hubristic filmmaking brought low by its own pomposity.

“Seizure” (1974) If it’s not exactly been disowned by Stone, his directorial debut has never been a title he’s actively promoted either, and it’s not hard to see why. A deeply schlocky horror within which, with the best will in the world, it’s difficult to see even the nascent seeds of Stone’s filmmaking future, it features defanged “Dark Shadows” star Jonathan Frid as Edmund Blackstone, a writer whose nightmares come to life and begin to off his Agatha Christie-style cast of houseguests (all eccentric millionaires and cheating trophy wives). The three demons Blackstone’s imagination summons (like many neophyte writer/directors, Stone here is enthralled by the idea of the dangerous power of writerly creativity) are Henry Judd Baker as the Jackal, Hervé Villechaize (Nick Nack from “The Man with the Golden Gun” and Tattoo in “Fantasy Island“) as The Spider and Martine Beswick (another Bond star with small parts in both “From Russia with Love” —as one of the fighting gypsies— and “Thunderball“) as the sexy Queen of Evil. There’s not a whole lot to recommend it now except for lovers of kitsch, and while it would take seven years for Stone to be given another shot at directing, it’s sort of impressive that it happened at all, given the clunky amateurishness of this endeavor.

“World Trade Center” (2006) Considering Stone’s reputation as a political firebrand, high was the anticipation and also the trepidation for his take on the then-still-recent events of 9/11. But following hot on the heels of Paul Greengrass‘ terrific “United 93,” the biggest surprise was how conventional a melodrama Stone’s film proved to be. He clearly needed to play nice after the tanking of “Alexander,” but no one was expecting anything close to the Lifetime movie-of-the-week that “World Trade Center” turned out to be. It’s not without its moments: the attack itself is well staged, and few directors are as adept at gruff male bonding, which makes up much of the second half of the film. But it still comes across as a somewhat dishonest piece of work, taking a tragic day and mining a happy ending from it. And the political subtexts are a little disturbing (Michael Shannon‘s character, who later served in Iraq, declaring that “they’re going to need some good men out there to avenge this”), the filmmaking unsubtle —witness the soft focus flashbacks from Nicolas Cage‘s character— and Stone’s total inability to depict women as three dimensional individuals is glaring in the short shrift given to Maria Bello and Maggie Gyllenhaal as stricken spouses.

“The Hand” (1981) Really only comparable to Stone’s debut within his catalogue (and it does represent a significant improvement on “Seizure”), the supremely cheesy “The Hand” is probably most notable now for the always good value Michael Caine provides in one of his most obviously beach house/tax return-inspired roles: he plays a comic book illustrator pursued (even cross-country!) by his own severed hand which he loses in a freak accident. Stone’s filmmaking craft may have improved a great deal since “Seizure,” but it’s sadly put to work sustaining a ridiculous premise that even sees frequent use of perspective camerawork —from the perspective of a crawling malevolent severed hand! The unconvincing prosthetic is devoid of anything but the rubberiest terror, and though there are a lot of “it was only the cat”-style efforts at jump-scares, few of them really land. The film is also deeply misogynistic, seeing as, however reluctantly, we’re supposed to relate to the maimed man’s deep, inchoate anger (which often feels like the filmmaker’s own) at his neglected and dissatisfied wife (Andrea Marcovicco), and at a world that doesn’t appreciate him as he believes he deserves. Still, Caine’s commitment, especially at the climax as he “Strangelove’s” himself, is a sight to behold.

“The Doors” (1991) A semi-factual look at the life and times of Jim Morrison and his acid-rock band The Doors, this biopic is marred by standard tripped-out and conspiracy-laden rhetoric typical to Stone. Who was Jim Morrison, and why did he fall apart? No matter how romantic/tragic a hero Stone views him as, it feels ridiculously overblown to ascribe such importance to these questions. The half-baked memories from Morrison’s early years do little to illuminate his evolution into the Messianic creature Stone has him become, and with all the sex, drugs and rock n’ roll that were key notes of the 1960s, Stone leaves out any real sense of the soul and the art they helped create and then destroy. It’s shot and edited like a film school project and is littered with throwaway characters, though Val Kilmer is sensational —he makes it difficult to think of Morrison without conjuring up his portrayal. But what could have been an in-depth look at a tortured musician battling America’s prudish and naive idealism becomes two hours of an insufferable whining rock star and shaky camera work, and if it’s watchable, it’s only for the soundtrack, an underutilized Kyle MacLachlan as Ray Manzarek, and Kilmer.

“Savages” (2012) After Stone’s run of flops in the ’00s, culminating in the bland disappointment of his 2010 “Wall Street” sequel, hopes were high that the new decade would see the director return to the provocative firebrand experimentalism of yore. And an adaptation of a Don Winslow novel, starring a fresh and hungry cast of attractive rising stars certainly seemed to have more in common with the sensibility of “Natural Born Killers” than that of “World Trade Center.” But be careful what you wish for: while somewhere under the redundant voiceover and painful flashy posturing of “Savages,” the heart of Winslow’s novel does beat, mostly it’s a muddled, irritating mess that has nothing to do with the drug trade. Two young marijuana dealers (an ex-Navy SEAL and a Buddhist played by Taylor Kitsch and Aaron Johnson, respectively) share the love of O (Blake Lively, whose present comeback can largely be seen as a retreat from this sort of role), but their idyllic sun-and-sex Cali lifestyle is threatened when a cartel headed by Salma Hayek and Benicio del Toro moves into town, with Tarantino-indebted violent results. Though there’s some sort of plot involving John Travolta‘s DEA agent, nothing can conceal the vapidity of this exercise, which attempts to at once grapple with weighty, high-stakes issues and have Lively, in voiceover, deliver a description of the different climaxes she has with her two lovers (orgasms vs “wargasms,” smdh).

“U Turn” (1997) Standing out like a sore thumb in the director’s filmography, “U Turn” sees Stone set aside the political commentary to have some lunatic pulp fun, turning in a film stylistically similar to “Natural Born Killers” but freed of the desire to make a meaningful point about global affairs. Sean Penn is as close to an everyman as he’s ever played and gives a solid performance, but he’s overshadowed by supporting players who seem to be in some kind of competition to out-crazy each other: Every inhabitant of Superior, Arizona is more batshit than the last, from Jennifer Lopez‘s femme fatale to Joaquin Phoenix‘s combustible Toby N. Tucker. It’s a crude, unrestrained piece of work, and the fun that Stone seems to have with the “Bigger! More!” direction of his actors and lurid visual excess doesn’t translate to the experience of the viewer, except in the most fleeting of ways. We’d be tempted to say that any film involving a hideously-made-up Billy Bob Thornton playing solo Twister has to be worth tracking down, but “U-Turn” is eternally less than the sum of some individually entertaining parts.

“Any Given Sunday” (1999) “JFK” marked the perfect balance between Stone’s experimental tendencies and his storytelling rigor, but after that picture and “Natural Born Killers,” he succumbed to a kind of schizophrenic overkill for a while. When he finally calmed down (slightly), he tackled football drama with “Any Given Sunday,” but if it’s Stone on downers, the picture is still hilariously amplified and exaggerated. Note the synopsis that describes the film as a “look at the life-and-death struggles of modern-day gladiators and those who lead them.” Al Pacino, at his hammiest, loudest and most over-the-top, plays the utmost cliché version of the frustrated coach trying to bring his broken team back to glory and tame the arrogant young quarterback (Jamie Foxx), who just won’t play by the rules —literally, he just does what he wants and changes plays mid-field. Co-starring Cameron Diaz (the team’s owner), Dennis Quaid (a fading quarterback losing his edge), James Woods, L.L. Cool J (all-around hilarious), Matthew Modine, Charlton Heston, Ann-Margret and Lauren Holly, “Any Given Sunday” is so melodramatically over-the-top that the film becomes like an unintentional parody of a sports film. But laughing-at is still laughing, right?

“Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps” (2010) Long after-the-fact sequels are rarely a good idea, and Stone’s only time returning to past glories is further confirmation of just that. It’s easy to see why the film came to pass: the 2008 economic crash made the original seem particularly prescient, and it seemed like the time was ripe for Stone to turn his lens back on the high finance milieu. And some of the old magic does return: Michael Douglas, reprising arguably his most iconic turn, doesn’t miss a beat, giving a lovely ambiguity to Gekko’s quote-unquote rehabilitation. It’s one of Stone’s slickest-looking films, thanks to the sleek cinematography by Rodrigo Prieto, but the whole thing feels unnecessary and surprisingly low-stakes. Allan Loeb and Stephen Schiff‘s script never really scratches the surface, and it suffers from a lead —Shia LaBoeuf’s Jacob Moore— who is much less interesting than Charlie Sheen in the original, and whose half-baked revenge motivation and insipid romance with Gekko’s daughter (an entirely wasted Carey Mulligan) feel like distractions from what the film should properly be about. It’s perfectly watchable on a craftsmanship level, and is even momentarily diverting, but a film brought into being because of its apparent topicality should not be so toothless.

10. “Natural Born Killers” (1994) Stone’s serial-killer film is his most kaleidoscopically strange; a savage, of-the-moment takedown of the mass media’s fascination with true-life killers —contextualizing it amidst O.J. Simpson, the Menendez Brothers, and the serial killer trading cards popular at the time doesn’t make the movie any less bonkers. It should have been a revelatory experience, especially when you factor in its A-list cast (including Robert Downey Jr., who for some reason shows off an Australian accent) and its bold visual experimentation. But as it turned out, Stone was so hyped up on the movie’s oversized too-much-ness that he forgot to, you know, tell a story. Very loosely based on a script by Quentin Tarantino and starring Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis as a pair of star-crossed spree killers, the film encompasses flashes of unforgettable mordant insight, like the laugh-track sitcom flashbacks with Rodney Dangerfield as Lewis’ pedophile father, as well as inexplicable embellishments like the rear projection of a Pegasus. What any of it means seems beside the point: this was Stone going for a mood more than a movie, a fever-dream of the American climate at the time, and while it does not at all hang together or hold up to the passage of time, it’s valuable for a glimpse of Stone at his most frenzied, giving out sparks as well as hot air.

“W.” (2008) The most striking thing about “W.” is what it isn’t. After the embellishments and elan of “JFK” and “Nixon,” the third film in his unofficial “president trilogy” feels positively square. Straightforwardly told and edited, the story of one of history’s most reviled presidents, the war-startin’, election-stealin’, torture-endorsin’, grammar-ignorin’ George W. Bush (Josh Brolin) plays more like a mundane human drama than the toothsome takedown you might have expected. Part of this has to do with the tremendous humanity that the excellent Brolin somehow brings to the role, but a lot of it is a symptom of the movie’s production being really rushed. Perhaps there’s another definitive director’s cut somewhere in here, one with all the flourishes and pizzazz you’d expect, but we’re stuck instead with this half-formed film, which while not without its pleasures (like seeing Richard Dreyfuss mumble his way through a Dick Cheney impression), doesn’t yield anything of real substance at the end. Even a little more distance (and maybe the looming threat of a far more unapologetic demagogue as POTUS) would have helped, but 2008 felt just too soon to be able to define the 43rd president’s place in history, despite a terrific central turn.

“Heaven & Earth” (1993) Not known for showcasing strong central female characters in his movies, nor for being that preoccupied with various foreign enemies of the U.S. (preferring to locate the good/evil dichotomy within the American ranks), Stone went for something different in “Heaven and Earth.” A searingly melodramatic look at the Vietnam war through the eyes of a Vietnamese woman, it may be the weakest of his three Vietnam films overall, but it’s not without its merits, and though it was unfairly dismissed at the time, it’s aged relatively well. “Heaven and Earth” tells the true story of Le Ly (an excellent Hiep Thi Li), a Vietnamese woman who, separated from her family by the war, meets and marries a seemingly nice, caring U.S. soldier played by Tommy Lee Jones in one of his customarily intense performances. He takes her home, only to be confronted by repressed battlefield demons. “Heaven and Earth” lacks his customary focus, but as always, it’s ambitious and sincere. And Robert Richardson’s stunning cinematography lends a genuinely epic scope, while a more intimate script from Stone also makes it a shame that this more sedate film has all but been lost in the shuffle.

“Salvador” (1986) Given Stone’s perpetual indignation at American imperialism in the 20th century, it’s no surprise that so early on in his career he zeroed in on Central America, and more specifically the violent civil war in El Salvador that raged from 1980 through 1992, protracted in no small part due to the meddling of the U.S. government and military. Made while that conflict was still ongoing and seen through the eyes of a downtrodden, irresponsible American photographer (James Woods), the film tracks the hack as he travels to San Salvador with his equally dubious friend (Jim Belushi) in hopes of reviving his career. But caught between leftist guerrillas and the right wing military, he fails to find the Robert Capa-style romance of war photography and is faced with only the ugliness of war. While not as overt a polemic as some later titles, “Salvador” is not exactly subtle, and Stone’s leftist sympathies would have been better served had the dialogue been less on-the-nose: as valid as his concerns about U.S. hegemony and the threat of a second Vietnam were, the diatribes are so stilted as to lose impact. Still, while dated, “Salvador” remains a respectably entertaining piece of work, featuring a definitively sweaty Woods.

“Platoon” (1986) The past is another country; they do things differently there —like give Oscars to Oliver Stone, or cast Charlie Sheen as a bookish innocent. This makes rewatching “Platoon” today an unintentionally poignant experience. It’s not a bad film —for craft and performances, it’s one of Stone’s best— but common attitudes toward war have undergone such a philosophical revolution in the intervening years as to make its message anachronistic, if not irrelevant. That Stone transposes the good vs. evil axis away from the U.S. vs. The Enemy, and towards the internal struggle of mentality and ethos between martyr Elias (Willem Dafoe) and his pot-smoking followers, and the treacherous Barnes (Tom Berenger) with his cadre of murderers and rapists, may have seemed like progress at the time, but in so doing, he ascribes every virtue of nobility to the former, and every cruelty to the latter. So all he has really done is switch one bogeyman for another. These simplistic dichotomies do the film no favors in these muddier moral times; for better or worse, the world and its wars have moved on, and “Platoon,” though well-made and intermittently affecting, has been left behind like a buried artifact, its interest now mostly archaeological.

“Talk Radio” (1988) Stone found a partner in crime in Eric Bogosian, whose play that this film adapts, and performance supplies much of the grunt work in this tightly wound drama. Essentially a one-man show, Bogosian is aces as Barry Champlain, a shock jock whose passion for spitting vitriol at anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path is matched only by his own self-aggrandizing, caustic personality. Stone follows Champlain through a sweltering, nerve-wracking day, whirring his camera around the sound booth like a madman but maintaining a firm grip on Bogosian’s exacting performance (despite an over-reliance on sarcasm that typically goes hand in hand with the nervy Jewish film stereotype), while Leslie Hope, Alec Baldwin and Stone regular John C. McGinley all do solid work behind the scenes. “Talk Radio” must have been a passion project for Stone: it’s an unusual choice to follow two of his biggest successes, and it shows. This is personal work for both author and filmmaker, but he renders it just conventional enough to stay on the rails, speeding to a surprising and saddening conclusion. Like Barry Champlain, Stone likes to go all out, but his direction here thankfully shows noticeable restraint.

“Wall Street” (1987) The film that spawned ’80s American icon Gordon Gekko, as well as numerous pop-culture catchphrases that Michael Douglas would spend the majority of his subsequent career riffing on, and which made Charlie Sheen a legit box office star, “Wall Street” is so much a product of its time that it fares better than other films from Stone at the time, purely because it defines its time. Stone and Stanley Weiser’s propulsive screenplay moves like a whippet; Sheen, as the naive newbie with his post-“Platoon” baby-face still intact, is a great match for Douglas’s icy villain; and their Central Park showdown, as photographed by the incomparable Robert Richardson, reaches near epic/mythic proportions as the two trade verbal blows before Gekko pops his top. It’s father vs. son, mentor vs. student, man’s-man vs. boy-man. And that’s what Stone has always excelled at —showcasing men of strong will going up against one another until someone hits the floor. “Wall Street” has a lot in common with De Palma’s “Scarface” (scripted by Stone), and much like that film, has taken on a deserved new life over the last decade as one Stone’s most influential films and a defining work in his canon.

“Nixon” (1995) Stone’s catalog contains more than a few films that have aged badly, but also at least one truly underrated work. “Nixon” could easily have been a sanctimonious hit piece on the infamous 36th POTUS, but Stone, with a crack team of collaborators (many of them from “JFK,” like composer John Williams and cinematographer Robert Richardson) creates a rich, layered portrait of a weak-willed but power-hungry man with more than a few co-conspirators just as ruthless and cutthroat as he was. The movie lost money and was received tepidly by critics, though most remember Anthony Hopkins’ hypnotic performance as Nixon: sweaty, anxious, capable of furious rages and somewhat in thrall to wife Pat (Joan Allen), who comes off as more than a little Lady Macbeth. Despite the scope and seriousness of the subject, Stone really pushed the envelope in terms of experimentation; in what other major studio presidential biopic would you see a scene of a bigwig meeting with Nixon superimposed with time-lapse imagery of a flower blossoming? “Nixon” combines the trippy go-for-broke-ness of “Natural Born Killers” with a much more coherent script, an impressive all-star cast and an epic rise-and-fall story that justifies his over the top filmmaking.

“Born on the Fourth of July” (1989) With “Born on the Fourth of July,” Stone finds an outlet for his Vietnam fascination that’s altogether different from the ideological jungle hell of “Platoon” or the straight-laced drama of “Heaven & Earth.” The story of Ron Kovic, based on his own memoir, stars Tom Cruise as the paralyzed Vietnam vet struggling to come to terms with a life-changing condition and a country that labels him a hero but treats him as anything but. All sarky “Oscar bait” memes aside, Cruise really is good here, delving heart and soul into Kovic and spending most of the film in a wheelchair, but more importantly channelling the broken spirit of a young man unwilling to assume the role everyone wants him to play. The supporting cast is as good as they come, with Willem Dafoe again making his mark as another wheelchair-bound veteran who whisks Kovic away to a temporary paradise. Stone’s stylistic choices are right on the money here, whether he’s using color temperature to separate flashbacks from the main story, or a brief display of slow motion to capture the incident that permanently upends Kovic’s existence. “Born on the Fourth of July” plays like a howl of anguish, but feels thoroughly earned and deeply moving.

“JFK” (1991) Stone’s most intricate picture and still his best, “JFK” takes up the cause of controversial Louisiana district attorney Jim Garrison (Kevin Costner), who prosecuted local businessman Clay Shaw (Tommy Lee Jones) for involvement in a conspiracy to assassinate President John F. Kennedy. Historically speaking, the evidence is thin, but as a piece of propaganda, it’s second to none; even if it doesn’t convince you, by its very craft and professionalism it at least legitimizes conspiracy theorizing to a level it had never enjoyed before. The director expertly lines up the inconsistencies of the official story —the “back and to the left” scene describing the impossible arc of the “magic bullet” is still an all-timer— and makes a talky, three-hour-plus story fly past by sheer dint of bravura direction. The fill-in-the-blanks sequence with Donald Sutherland alone is a masterclass in editing —indeed “JFK” remains one of the best edited Hollywood movies of all time. And one should not undervalue the performances: Costner’s likable, principled everyman schtick has never played better, while the mammoth supporting cast, from a near-unrecognizable Jack Lemmon to a scenery-chewing Tommy Lee Jones to a brilliant Gary Oldman as Lee Harvey Oswald, is uniformly excellent.

Tell us your own favorite Oliver Stone films, take us to task for our takes, or suggest some wild conspiracy theories as to the rankings, in the comments below.

–Jessica Kiang, Drew Taylor, Nick Clement, Oliver Lyttelton, Mark Zhuravsky, Kevin Jagernauth, Rodrigo Perez, Danielle Johnsen, The Playlist, Sept 15 2016 [x]

#oliver stone #the playlist #lists #top ten #essentials

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freedfromthegalactichivemind · 2 years ago

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It's funny how BOTH the Catra and Hordak fans (Not all but some) want to soften them.

Like yeah I want them in sweaters seeing Pony Movies after the war just as much as the next person and crying when reading "Little Engine that could"

But also like

Let them have body counts during the war

Have the Horde capture civilians like in the 80's show and send them off to hard labor in Horde Mines

Have them have a plan using a Evil Laser of Doom one time!

They were the Dark Lord and Trusted Horde General! Don't defang them!

Hordak and Entrapta have had to have built an Evil Laser of Doom at some point (besides the arm-cannon). I seem to remember an interview where the Crew-Ra mentioned that Tung Lashor never escaped the sand-pit that Catra got him stuck in, so there's at least one body to her name, there. I like a balance with the both of them. I don't like it when people treat either of them as irredeemable - you know, the people who are "Catra is just a toxic person by nature and doesn't deserve to have friends" and people who seem to think that Hordak secretly beats Entrapta or something - it's like... you can keep characters villains without pretending that they do ALL the evils! Conversely, I really don't like it when people coddle them too much and act like they did absolutely nothing wrong / that anyone would have done what they did. They were awful to each other and they were awful to random Etherians and that's just that. Villains acting like villains in fiction is FUN! Embrace the bwahaha!

#catra #hordak

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saurons-pr-department · 2 years ago

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@valar-did-me-wrong

I'm responding to your tag on this post in a separate post because I'm not one to rain on other people's parades and I don't want to ruin your friend's fun but eh.... mine is not a blog on which to find love for Halbrand as Sauron...

Of course I love Sauron fans! And I love seeing people getting into the character, but Amazon have defanged him. They've skipped over one of his greatest long-cons and betrayals in the form of not going over his loooong time working with the Elves of Eregion in order to try bring them under his sway. They've completely removed the set up for one of the greatest tragedies of the Second Age. They've ripped out the heart of that whole story in place of some weird romance thing? (which, even if it is a ploy to corrupt Galadriel it's on such a small scale comepared to what Second Age Sauron should be plotting as to be laughable).

Basically, as much am I'm very much team "hehehehehe mwahahahahahah! Yes! Now you see the wonders of the Dark Lord! Please join me in weeping when Barad-dur falls in The Return of the King" (don't judge me T_T) and want everyone to know what a great and fun a character he is.... I'm probably not going to be much fun for anyone who likes Halbrand flavoured Sauron specifically. Everyone is welcome here! But eh... don't anyone expect me to refrain from talking about how much this show has missed much of the point of these characters' stories and what makes them great.

However, I agree whole-heartedly with the sentiment that we should all go live in Mordor and love Sauron, for his is The Best.

So yeah... please don't anyone take this to mean that they are not welcome to interact with this blog if they like the show and it's version of Sauron, just know that I deeply hate it and will gladly say many many negative things about it.

But also know that you are particularly welcome if you saw the show, thought that Sauron guy might be interesting and now want to know about him in canon because in that case, call me a Ring of Power because I will more than happily bind you to the Dark Lord's allegiance!

#trop negativity #i'm really sorry that i'm being no fun in response to what was supposed to be a fun tag #but i hate what this show has done so much #and i'd rather not have people come along and be disappointed #there's been plenty of disappointment in the last day or so #was i too serious? i think i was too serious...#again sorry

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cybershock24601 · 6 days ago

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Want to elaborate on this thought more because so much of Veilguard’s writing in spots seems like it’s trying to preempt the Discourse.

The conversation about the lords of fortune you have with Taash about not taking “culturally important artifacts” seems exactly like the devs realized a bunch of people would probably freak out about a bunch of pirates plundering treasure and selling it to the highest bidder and so they decided to go out of their way to explain that the lords' explicitly aren't going to help create the british museum of thedas.

Crows don't buy children out of slavery and use horrendous, torturous methods to mold them into perfect assassins and now they don't have to deal with people freaking out about having to work with them and your crow rook gets to be a good guy assassin.

Templars are almost nonexistent in the game and either work under the mages like in Teveniter which was pre established lore or don't interfere at all like Nevarra or just don't have any presence at all allowing Bioware to neatly step around the pages and pages of essays about mages vs templers.

Slavery is a major thing in Teventer but they make sure to keep that ugly reality off screen and only have you interact with the good guys freeing the slaves. Even throw in a nice elf guy running a fried fish stand despite Fenris' personal questline in DA2 showing how bad things are for even free elves in Teventer.

Calpurnia as a companion would have been so interesting but considering how many people can't even engage with the subtle nuance of Vivienne's character, no way could they possibly handle having a former villain as one of their companions.

Considering how nasty, vicious, and downright mean some people got when Inquisition dropped when it dabbled in moral grey areas, I absolutely get why the devs choose to take a step back from engaging with the sociopolitical commentary that's been so present in the Dragon Age series.

With how much of the fandom either a) lacked the reading comprehension to meaningfully engage with the nuance of their writing or b) were the type to start sending each other death threats over, at times clunky. allegorical fictional politics, it is no wonder Veilguard feels like Dragon Age for Babies because it is. Because that is the level of emotional control and literary analysis so many fans of the series displayed back in the dark days of 2014. It's not like I'm not disappointed with how defanged Dragon Age has become but it's understandable why the devs choose to side step so many issues especially with ten years of development hell to overthink and rewrite things they realized would probably get more volatile fans grabbing pitchforks and torches about.

For all the interesting lore that's been revealed, the setting itself has been reduced to being very two dimensional with good guys and bad guys and very little grey area in between. I still like Veilguard, it's a really fun game with some decent writing and I'm at a point in my life where I can appreciate a lighter setting and tone to the game especially since it does have its dark moments to balance that out but that doesn't mean I can't lament about some of what's been lost in Veilguard.

Veilguard as a game seems like its scared to say anything because it's scared to say the wrong thing and in doing so refuses to engage meaningfully with the darkness inherit to its own setting.

Starting to realize the reason veilguard is so toothless in comparison to other dragon age games is probably due to how fucking insane the fandom was back in 2014 when inquisition dropped. People were at each other’s throats constantly due to what the game was saying and not saying in its fictional politics that I kinda get why veilguard is so sanitized and so many factions are whitewashed. The devs probably didn’t want people ripping each other’s heads off or dealing with the backlash of people picking a faction made of actual pirates or assassins with terrible methods to acquire and train recruits for example. I still like veilguard but the way it grinds down the rough edges of the setting is as disappointing as it is understandable when reflecting on the landscape of the 2014 dragon age fandom when they probably started working on the first rough drafts of veilguard’s story

#dragon age #dragon age veilguard #really swinging a bat at a wasps nest here but i feel like this all needs to be said

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mz-elysium · 2 years ago

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[ID: a set of four dramatic photographs, each heavy on the contrast and blue-orange saturation and bearing the same white title, The City of Gold & Iron; a glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge through rocks and fog; a street in Berkeley at night, lonely streetlights and store fronts; forlorn mountains and trees under galaxies; the Palace of Fine Arts, a rotunda evoking the ruin of ancient Rome overlooking a lagoon. A last banner shows a white gothic W and the series title, Wormwood and author, Mz-Elysium over a swirl of black and red / END]

WIP INTRO : The City of Gold & Iron

↳San Francisco motto : Gold in Peace, Iron in War.

↳ Genre: urban fantasy, personal horror, political intrigue ↳ Origin: Vampire the Masquerade, World of Darkness ↳ Tropes: vampires in 101 flavours, doomsday prophecy, everyone is a villain, hopepunk, friends to enemies, enemies to ???, ensemble cast, many POVs, love is the most important power, religion, corruption arc

For the vampires of the San Francisco Bay Area, war has come and gone. The East Bay’s strained relationship to the City has only gotten worse. In 1944, the streets ran red with elder blood and Anarchs wrestled control from the Camarilla. The revolution came and went. New lords of the high clans stepped in — once rebels, not that many remember.

Now, after fighting werewolves in the wilds, Sabbat in the North Bay, each other at every corner, and the strange Wan Keui, they are tired. The silver tongues of the City sold the Bay back to the Camarilla. The Camarilla might’ve beaten their enemies — but, the crown remains. There was a price.

One by one, the Anarchs have begun to remember why they rebelled. Others relish their newfound power and would do anything to defend it.

Gold fades, as the iron reveals itself.

⚫SETTING

↳San Francisco. The seat of the crown, to which the entire Bay Area owes supplication. After her husband’s mysterious death, an iron-fisted Tremere rules alone. Ex-rebels fill the courts, indulging in the blood and circuses of rebel aesthetics while extracting rent from their vassals.

↳East Bay. Wars have left only fledglings behind. What remains of the die-hard Anarchs has been defanged — or been seduced by Camarilla power. A manipulative older Malkavian sits alone in the University of Berkeley, with no intention of paying the upstarts.

↳South Bay. The heart of Silicon Valley, under the absolute control of a single Nosferatu inventor and his loyal brood. Interlopers are accepted rarely — and with much suspicion. There is an air of bitterness, as San Jose and all of tech’s glittering wealth still doesn’t have the raw power or style of the City.

⚫PLOT

The Captain, an honourable Ventrue, struggles to reform the Camarilla and not drown in the intrigue. Him and his lovers begin the dangerous game of balancing honour and loyalty. The hallowed halls of power has betrayed many, before.

The Stranger, a splintered Malkavian, has not yet seen her first deathnight. Only a fledgling. Only a dreamer. The Camarilla spares none. If a role in their intrigues is not chosen, it will be chosen for her. Her very humanity is at risk and she finds she doesn’t want to run.

The Peacemaker, a kind-hearted Gangrel, and his pack crumbles under the weight of laws — as the prince outlaws what they hold dear. Faith. Magic. Their very clans. Any of the lies they live by could earn execution. Powerless under the crown, they struggle for agency.

Also…

↳A Brujah sired into the Free State learns what the boot feels like on their neck. ↳A human hunter in the employ of the Vatican begins to wonder if the very monsters she hunts can be saved. ↳A techno-warlock of the Tremere keeps a secret lover of the rival necromancers. ↳A thinblood contemplates the cost of keeping her mortal family. ↳A freed ghoul takes his freedom into his own hands.

and many many more.

Feel free to follow “#vtm: wormwood” or ask me and I’ll tag you in.

#vtm: wormwood #vampire the masquerade #original writing #vampire #wtwcommunity #writing #wip intro

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aldamiriel-necrococo · 2 years ago

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**Curse of Strahd spoilers**

Absolutely tearing my hair out trying to rationalize the attacks on Ireena’s home and the feast of St. Andral. I’ve been working on getting to know CoS and tweaking it to my liking for over a year now. I’ve got most things settled, but for the life of me I cannot figure out Strahd blatantly trying to burn down Ireena’s world around her.

If he didn’t care about actually making her love him, just getting her to give up and say “ugh fine” he could just keep grabbing her and taking her back to the castle every time she ran off, or outright imprisoning her there, which is boring.

I **cannot** reconcile a 20 int supposed strategic mastermind who’s had 400 god damn years sitting up in his sad boy tower with nothing to do but watch fucked up adventurer TV and imagine scenarios of how to get his waifu to notice him wouldn’t have figured out by now that that fear=/=love. It just does not make sense and I do not have interest in playing a character with that gaping of a logic/plot hole front and center! I can’t do it!

But. Then I moved on and when I came back to St. Andral’s I found myself going down the same logic path again. But by that point Strahd just looks like a sorry excuse for an omnipotent dark lord, and even if I did try to rationalize it as him turning a blind eye and reaping the benefits of Ireena having no safe zones, he’d either successfully convince everyone he truly did have no idea as a master manipulator would, resulting in the players feeling more “cmon man get it together” rather than the smorgasbord of mortal dread horror and terror that they deserve, or he’d make it obvious he did know and defeat the point of not having him be the one wreaking unholy havoc varg vikernes style in the first place.

I’m not under the impression that these are the only opportunities available for him to go ape shit and strike appropriate amounts of fear into the hearts of sensible PCs, but defanging him and removing his direct connections to these events seem just as bad for the narrative and gameplay as doing the opposite.

If you do have advice that keeps with a more phantom of the opera toxic but fun and hot and goth about it very unrealistically rather than a Too Real “I’ll leak your nudes then you’ll get back with me right that’s how this works” pathetic ex vibe, I would happily accept, but right right now I’m mainly just screeching into the void.

#long post #curse of strahd #dnd #how do you ‘more under the cut’ on mobile #everyone like ‘he’s using common abuser tactics why are you trying to make it a healthy relationship’#I’m NOT that’s just not at all fun!!!#there has got to be a better answer

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cericata · 3 years ago

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v; ----- OFFKEY. // AU TW; DOLLS / MANNEQUINS, CULT / HEAVILY RELIGIOUS ELEMENTS, PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR ELEMENTS, HALLUCINOGENICS, DRUGS / DRUGGING, INSECTS, MEDICAL PROCEEDURES, CANNIBALISM, MUTILATION, AND OTHER COMMON HORROR THEMES.

THIS VERSE WILL CONTAIN NO SHIPPING OF BELA/DONNA. There will be NO romance or sexual themes AT all related to this verse. Read more here. // @bambolae

Note: Reminder that everything that happens in this verse is discussed by all parties, as this is not a closed verse if you’re interested in being part of it please feel free to ask but be aware we don’t contain our muses or pull punches. It’s going to be a dark one, this all written for the fun of horror and does not reflect our actual thoughts or opinions on specific subjects. For full transparency many of the things explored and discussed are traumatic ( never assume someone hasn’t had their own trauma and stories even when exploring specific topics in fiction. Some topics may even be personal to the person writing it, be respectful and careful with baseless accusations.) and will be handled with the care and attention that it needs. Thank you for your time now onto the actual fun stuff.

Synopsis: After a particularly crushing failure Mother Miranda grows more impatient with her eldest child. With the winter months closing in, she chooses a punishment that she is sure will remind Lady Dimitrescu of exactly what is at steak should she continue to fail. Choosing Alcina’s eldest daughter as the sacrifice of her Mother’s blunder, she sends Bela off to live with Donna Beneviento for the winter months with no word of if or when she would be permitted to return. Whispers of making mistakes in entrusting Alcina with three daughters makes their rounds, and perhaps giving her youngest daughter a chance would be the next best move. As the winter months thaw out there is no word on Bela being permitted to return to the castle, and within a few years Donna would rather die than let her. Declawed and defanged, she is no longer a Dimitrescu, not even in name.

PERSONALITY SHIFT

Bela changes a lot in this AU, with Alcina out of the picture and Donna being basically like talking to a wall, Bela has to discover a lot about herself. At first she reverts back to a predatory animalistic state, extremely feral and dangerous. However, due to the plants and Donna’s constant sedation, she begins to rediscover pieces of her humanity. The dreams are fragments of memories long lost, these start to piece back together the woman she once was. Donna also takes great care in getting rid of anything dangerous, it starts small and builds over the years (from her prideful claws to her powerful fangs they all have to go eventually so she can be Donna’s ideal daughter), constantly filling Bela’s head with the fact that she’s just a young lady and it’s Donna’s job to protect her. It’s not cute to fight or act like a beast, Alcina maybe allowed that, but she’s not a Dimitrescu anymore so she will behave and act like a proper daughter fit for the Beneviento house. She does develop genuine affection for Donna over this time, Donna does help her with her anxiety and encourages a lot of self expression as long as in the direction of her humanity and not her monster. Not to mention the crippling loneliness would get to anyone. Donna starts to become well respected in the village, becoming a popular house due to Bela going out on Donna’s behalf to bestow gifts and collect offerings. The tales of Dimitrescu castle having three daughters, becomes a forgotten fact as didn’t the story always just include two?

RELATIONSHIP SHIFTS // BASELINES

- Aunt Alcina: In the first few years of this arrangement Bela misses her Mother terribly. She even sneaks off to the castle multiple times in an attempt to beg her to save her. When nothing can be done after time she eventually starts to see their relationship in a new light. Donna commonly speaks how it is a Mother’s job to protect their children and she spent most of her undead life protecting Alcina. Donna begins to question her older sister’s parenting and convinces Bela that she never loved her and was simply using her as a glorified guard dog, she even treated her like an animal and the second she was gone she replaced her with one of her sisters. - Daniela: With Daniela forced to step up into Bela’s position, Bela starts to develop resentment for her youngest sister. She can’t believes she would do something like that to her especially since she misses her so bad. Daniela becomes aware of the shifts within her older sister and when she can beat her in a fight due to her physically weakening state she worries her older sister may be in danger and not just being an asshole per usual. Cassandra: Not much changed between the two, besides Cass maybe being a bit worried about her. Mother Donna: Now taking the role of her Mother figure Bela loves her dearly but also fears her greatly. She never feared Alcina would harm her, and she knows Donna will never physically harm her but she has seen the horrific power of the second lord first hand now. She fears of disobeying, and she genuinely wants to be a daughter she is proud of. Her feelings are much more complicated, she blames it on the humanity, but knows it’s because she still longs to go home. Angie: Angie is an extension of Donna and Bela does know that. She treats Angie like she’s her Mother as well which looks absurd considering Bela is 6′2 without heels and could crush her little skull in her jaws in seconds. She still lets Angie scold her and insult her, obeying without too much fuss. Uncle Karl: Interestingly enough Karl and Bela have more of a relationship in this AU, taking away Bela from Alcina soured Mother Miranda at least to the eldest daughter. Bela knows her new Mother is devout as she’s gaining favor from Miranda now. She commonly turns a blind eye to things she notices within the village and might even drop by for a visit if for no other reason than to get out of that prison more. Karl won’t rat her out for straying off her worshipping and she appreciates that. Mother Miranda: JAIL FOR MOTHER MIRANDA JAILLL, but no really Bela actually develops a distaste for her in this AU, even though she comes to love Donna she will never forgive her for making Alcina mourn her as a daughter.

#v; ----- OFFKEY. // AU #long post ///#bambolae #;;I promise I'll actually write something like story wise soon #;;my girlfriend and I have been talking about this verse while my kidneys have been bad though so I appreciate her letting me rest #;;this is kind of an overview of this verse which will be showing up on my blog a fair bit #;;I wanted to get this out before I do any type of asks or samples in the verse though; I'm sure Andy will write an even better version #;;of this AU since this AU is kind of her baby for Donna's blog

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monochromatictoad · 9 months ago

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I have been summoned with my defense for LoS Dracul/a!

When you play LoS1, Gabriel is human. He is a human man, who is trying to solve his wife's murder, while also trying to reattach the spiritual connections of the Heavens back to Earth. In order to do this, he needs to destroy the Lords of Shadow. Not only will that help reconnect the Heavens and Earth, but it will give him pieces of the God Mask, which Zobek lies to him and tells him that it could bring Marie back. Gabriel also only has Marie. His wife was his family, because he didn't know he had a son at this point, and he was a bastard orphan in the 11th century. His dark thoughts made it hard for him to make friends in the Brotherhood, outside of obligation. Besides maybe Felicia.

The later you get in the game though, the more it's hinted that Gabriel is slowly getting consumed by his rage and grief, by his regrets and pain, but he keeps going just for the promise to have his wife again, despite killing Claudia in his sleep, and being forced to kill her guardian in order to gain his gauntlet. It also gets hinted at what will happen with Gabriel, when you dig into Malphas' story. Eventually, Zobek reveals himself and his manipulation over Gabriel, also revealing that Gabriel is the one who killed Marie under Zobek's mind control, and then Actually kills Gabriel. This results in Satan coming up, and Gabriel coming back as an Angel. Yes, Gabriel Belmont literally is an Angel at the end of the game. Now the DLC shows how Gabriel becomes Dracul. Which includes losing Laura, even though he didn't want to hurt.

Now, in MoF, Dracul is merciless. He is destruction. He is chaos. He is all that is unholy with the world. The only time he showed any form of his previous emotions, was when he killed Trevor, and tried to save him.

But, there's more to this. In MoF, it is shown, through an artifact known as, The Mirror of Fate, that showed Cardinal Volpe and Pan what Gabriel was going to become, so they forced Marie's hand in giving up Trevor to them, so he could be safe. Now, the shard that The Brotherhood of Light had, could only show bits and pieces of the future, not the whole thing. Unlike the main mirror itself in Dracul's Castle. So it's essentially revealed, that Gabriel was always doomed to be Dracul. That he was always going to be raised to eventually become the protector of Humanity.

Of course, LoS2, Trevorcard reveals that Gabriel Belmont is the only one who can kill Dracul, and that is true. Throughout LoS2, Dracul kills Inner Dracul, the embodiment of everything corrupted and evil inside Dracul, and becomes Gabriel again. He possibly still uses the name Dracul, but he is no longer the Prince of Darkness. He is Gabriel, God's Champion. He gets his life back, which is both Marie and Trevorcard.

(But Mono! Dracul canonically rarely left his throne because of big sad!)

Because it was in character for Dracul! This man was not a charismatic leader like Dracula! He was a knight who was genuinely trying his hardest, but got betrayed one too many times! The Castle was also purposely isolating Dracul as much as it could, feeding into his paranoia that anyone outside of the Castle was a danger and would betray him. Also, he was feared by everything in that Castle. They only fight him in LoS2, because the Castle possesses them.

Also, I know Beev mention something about the guts and man-eating demons raining from the sky from mainline Dracula, but Dracul destroyed a million man army using holy magic, had destroyed the village Trevor had come from, almost killing his son's whole family in the process, and there is a note in MoF, mentioning something about a mountain of possibly Dhampir baby skulls. So he's not innocent. He's not defanged. He is as much a monster as the main Dracula, but he did not actively go out and kill humans, he was only interested in the Brotherhood, Zobek, and Satan.

Also, in LoS1, Frankenstein's Mechanical Monstrosity, was literally run by a fetus. That Gabriel destroys. When he was human.

The Golgoth guards in LoS2? Human children that had been experimented on and made into bastardized Nephilim. Also, the infected were also humans at one point as well. Also, Dracul kills and devours a family in LoS2 during the opening scenes. Child included.

Gabriel/Dracul is NOT an innocent man by any means. But he shows regret for these actions. He prays over the Mechanical Monstrosity after defeating it. He can't actively fight the Golgoths, but he does possess them when necessary. And when he passes the room that he was fed in, he looks away, disgusted in himself.

Anyways, tangents aside, in Lords of Shadow, you gain the perspective of Gabriel being doomed to become Dracul, and you want to help him. To break the cycle he was trapped in, the minute of birth. You watch the journey of a man losing himself, and then getting the help to find himself again. His family and God forgive him, and he learns to forgive himself. Also, Dracul is more Fallen Angel, than he is a true vampire.

"NFCV's portrayal of Dracula is a masterpiece, it finally gave depth to the character! His sorrow is sympathetic, he's not just an evil guy for evil guy's sake! He's deep, nuanced!"

Is he? Is he, though?

The more I think about Dracula (the games one obv), the more it angers me how the show treated him. In its best seasons, to boot.

Because yes, they certainly put a lot of focus on his grief, and took care to humanize him. And that's the issue.

The idea, on paper, is wonderful. Dracula is a monster moved by human emotions. He's a danger to the entirety of mankind, God's direct enemy, but at his core, he's a man bereft for the loss of his wives.

The very first episode nailed it! He makes an utterly terrifying entrance in Targoviste, as a pillar of fire threatening the people to move out in a year lest they face his wrath. They don't believe him. He keeps his word. He does not hold back.

youtube

And he caps it off with this chilling, yet tragic speech:

Kill everything you see. Kill them all. And once Targoviste has been made into a graveyard for my love, go forth into the country. Go now. Go to all the cities of Wallachia: Arges! Severin! Gresit! Chilia! Enisara! Go now and kill. Kill for my love! Kill for the only true love I ever knew. Kill for the endless lifetime of hate before me.

This is Dracula. This is the Devil himself who is absolutely destroyed by the loss of his love, knows that he will never be able to move on, and by all the forces of Hell, he will make everyone feel his misery.

Season 2, by all means, should have capitalized on this. Imagine the great contrast it would be: one scene shows Dracula, in his firey form, sending his forces, the Night Creatures that he forced Hector and Isaac to make all night, to raze an entire village to ashes... and the next, he retreats to his quarters to slump in his chair, speaking in a soft and broken voice, and suddenly, he is a man again. It would show his duality so well.

But the show simply forgot the first part.

The entirety of the plot in S2 is that Dracula has stopped being a villain. This is the crux of the conflict! Dracula spends his entire time moping in his chair, and he's so Depressed™ that he literally loses control of his forces... which allows Carmilla to more or less replace him.

There you have it: Dracula's entire arc in S2.

Dracula gets nothing but "humanizing" moments. He speaks civilly to Carmilla after she makes a fool out of him. He commiserates to Isaac about how no one is his friend anymore, taking care to sit by his side like they're buddies. He doesn't care about anything anymore, thus allowing Carmilla to run amok and play Hector and Isaac like recorders (I would say "like a fiddle" but that would imply talent). His plan gets described, multiple times, including by his own son, as nothing more than a suicide mission that will accidentally take down everyone with him. Most importantly, Dracula is painted as being simply a shortsighted fool, who lied to Hector to hire him and then he's surprised that he's distancing himself, who never thought ahead when it cames to blood perserves, who really, why didn't he just turn Lisa into a vampire, is he stupid?

(he's literally doing a :( face. i cannot make this shit up)

Once again: his death scene, which is at its core him being taken down by his own emotions, is brilliant in a vacuum. But in context, it breaks down spectacularly: Dracula has done nothing but feel sorry for himself for 7 episodes now. Where is the guy who made guts and man-eating demons fall from the sky? This is such a blatant attempt to defang (hehe) an iconic antagonist for the sake of 1) propping up an OC, and 2) because we are such good writers and we will fix the shallow games by giving Humanity to our antagonists, to the point where they're not even So Bad After All! (also 3) because woobiefying the dilf will make our horny fans happy)

But like. You can show Dracula's humanity without painting him as such a sad meow meow.

It is said that there was a deplorable incident. Those who did it, those who saw it, those who didn't stop it, the one who created the world, all are equally guilty.

The pain of loss Distorted overflowing resentment Unquenchable sorrow The claws of a trembling fist pierce the palm Becoming a bloody hammer of violence

Gaining what was lost A power as big as sadness A person who rebels against the creator of an existence that will never be lost

One page has the narration describing Dracula's "unquenchable sorrow" that turns his fist into a "bloody hammer of violence"...

"Please, I beg of you, I’m human too!"

"My nourishment is human life and mistakes. I will disappear when humans perish…"

And the next one will have Dracula severely punish his General for daring to question him in his cruel plan for revenge.

And he'll still show some vulnerability to Isaac, but apparently he was okay with him killing Hector and bringing his head back.

And then there's the ending of SoTN, where Dracula finally asks Lisa forgiveness, but not after nearly killing his son and even swearing to wipe away his "vulgar blood" in Japanese. And then there are the implications, most obvious in Grimoire of Souls, that even Dracula has grown tired of being forced to come back over and over, but shows no sign of remorse.

[...]

It may not be shown in depth as NFCV does, but even if more is left to imagination, the games do a much better job at walking the line between "Dracula is the Devil incarnate, a spiteful monster who only desires death and destruction" and "Dracula is the former shell of a man who was broken by grief and cannot let go of his pain".

So yeah. I'm not impressed by the show trying too hard to make me cry for its ineffective, pathetic, pitiful version of Dracula.

#anti netflixvania #im sorry if this is more tangenty #i get emotional over Gabriels story #tragic hero #no pics because my tumblr mobile is being weird.#but i hope this is somewhat coherent.

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mercysought · 4 years ago

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“WHERE IS SHE?” she loud shouts came quickly, as was the reaction from not only from the Aurum guards outside (who allowed the stomping man to walk straight into her office) but as well from Livius who stood beside her on the desk “WHERE THE FUCK IS THE HALF-BREED BITCH?!“

The paper that he waved around in his right hand was familiar, as was the bright red expression of pure rage on Marcus Aurum’s face. It seemed that he had finally felt the shoe drop, so to speak. Maxima gets up from her desk, green eyes moving from the paper back to her brother.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH THIS?!” he barks, the paper crumpling under the stress of his fist.

The paper, Maxima assumed, was the letter of summoning to which army post he would be assigned to. An army post that a document had requested. The same post that the deceased Faustus Aurum, had started his very successful career in.

A broken heart can lead you to do the most inmaginable things. Especially one that is never able to heal after having so much disappointment. A document that Maxima had enchanted to be and look different, and that Marcus had signed.

“I will fucking KILL YOU—“

The force spell made her desk shake, the papers thrown to the air as the man’s body lounges forward. The impact shifts the wood, the sound of it softened by the heavy rug. Maxima takes a step back and left behind are three mirror images which shatter into bright pink and purple shards of glass. It is in an invisible state that she moves behind him. A blade drawn in her hand. Purple lightening weaving its way around thin fingers, tainting the gold around the fingers with its neon hue. Only for Livius to jump in action.

You can disable a body without causing harm. A firmly placed hit and even the largest brute can be left unmoving to the ground with nothing but needles prickling at their skin. Marcus was not a large man, nor was he a trained one beyond the norm within Tevinter Society.

Livius strikes without hesitation. Firm, accurate.

Marcus falls to the ground, grunting. Maxima reappears in the room, a few steps to the left from where her illusions had been. The shackles that Livius now placed against her half-sibling’s body were familiar to her; after all, she had ordered them specifically.

Maxima marches towards where he lay, bound, her hand closed into a fist. Her blade thrown over to her desk. When Marcus lifts his head to face her, her fist dives down hitting him on the mouth.

The crunching sound echos through the room.

It is a sound that would have made Maxima cringe, and yet behind green eyes there is no light. There is no sign of hesitance. There is only a snarl, and a fist that rises once again.

“CALL ME THAT AGAIN!” his face is down and if she was to see it, she would see that there is blood in her rings. Blood over the neat and carefully set jewels atop the bands. Her heart beats loudly, roaring at her ear “GO ON!” from beneath the robes, her foot comes out, crashing against against his ribs. Air is exhaled and Marcus starts falling to the side, caught only by the magister’s hand, pulling his hair to look up “DO IT!”

His eyes roll and she feels disgust roaring with a force of thunder from within her throat.

She wants to kill him.

Her hand releases him, and she lowers herself, bending her knees to stand beside the bound Aurum. He stares up at her with an ire that she herself feels roaring within her lungs. To think this man shared her blood made her skin crawl, though that was not because of him. Marcus Aurum was far too insignificant for that, but because of their common link.

Marcus had said often that she had killed his father’s legacy. She thought good. And she would die happy knowing that it had been a filfthy half-bred bitch that had been the only and main hand in it. She would build atop his bones and they would all follow her bidding.

“After the shit you pulled,” her voice is but a whisper. Soft, cool despite the anger that simmered beneath. Her tongue lashes against her teeth, in the sharpness of her lips and in the dead within deep, dark green eyes “you should be standing beside me” she looks over her shoulder, towards the dark oak wooden desk. The sun behind it with the curtains pulled is so bright that it completely washes out the garden. A pile of papers is now on the floor, the wood sipping of the ink that had been spilled “by my desk, all but content to serve this family. To serve me.” she pauses, looking back to Marcus whose dark eyes, so similar to hers, try to read hers. Her thoughts.

His lip is starting to bloom, swell. If Maxima’s fist hurts, she does not feel it. There is just her heartbeat, the slight shake of the hands that are now closed into fists against her bent knees. They both stand levelled; a grace that she had never been afforded, not until returning to Tevinter “Nothing to be concerned about, no dreams, no connection to the fade, no hate, no feelings. Nothing.”

Nothing.

That seemed like a fair fate for him. A man that had made her life an absolute hell since she had returned to this cursed land. A man that had undermined her at each chance. A man that had made it clear to all others in their blood line within this household that it was a fine thing to treat her like she was just another piece of their property. A pretty mask brought North by his father. A man whose actions and mouth had lead her to dealing with blackmail from the only person that she had wished to never find out about any of this.

She would find a way of using her connection to the Archon, to twist it in her favour. One way or another.

“Do you know what that is called in the South, Marcus? What they do to mages when they can no longer be controlled?” Her red lips curl as she rises. The click of her heels is drowned by the heavy fur rug.

The silence settles in the room. With a flicker of her wrist the papers float in the air, once again returning to their proper place atop her desk, fluttering like white doves that came to rest in the warm sunlight.

There were people even this far north that would provide such services. There were people that would be more than happy to make her happy, and if this made her happy… Well… An act of aggression against a Magister outside of the grounds of a duel was often enough…

“Lady Maxima?” Livius looks up to the Magister, holding Marcus by the shackles behind his back.

Maxima looks over her shoulder, picking up the spilled ink pot. The mess is cleaned easily enough, the stain remained in the wood. She sighs loudly, eyes opening once again and now focusing on the garden just outside of the closed, large windows.

She was not a monster.

Regardless of how much she wanted to see him defanged. His blood on the floor. His existence reduced to not even a footnote in the history books. Still Maxima thought: She was not a monster.

And yet how much she felt like scratching that itch. Death would be too kind, and too easy.

“Take Lord Marcus to one of the cells.” she finally says, turning around on her desk but not looking over her shoulder towards them. She could hear the shingling of the shackles, the grunts of effort “I think Marcus Aurum needs a couple of days to remember his duty,” she finally turns around the corner, sitting over her chair as the figures leave her office “and my generosity.”

#maxima aurum ( muses )#maxima aurum ( headcanon )#( is this the best that I've written? no but I wanted to do it and so I did (: )#fantasy racism tw #violence tw #tranquility tw #( I was going to do a gif header but )#( I would need to search for gifs )#( I'm swinging between wanting to post it and delete it so I'm just going to post it )

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nextwarden · 4 years ago

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Angel

An angel had wings so it could fly. An angel was good and kind. An angel was beautiful and majestic. It brought light to the world, peace to the heart, and calm to the mind. Hallowed in the power it had been given.

She was nothing like an angel. She was strong, she had taken all she could to become so. She was powerful, reaping time and lives akin in order to rise. She was fearless in her spirit of conquest and fearsome in appearance. She was gorgeous of a deathly beauty; tall, with skin of ash and eyes of gold, flowing hair of night and sunset that enraptured the soul; her claws were sharp and her horns solid, many a last breath had flowed upon them. Talons, a strong tail which she often kept wrapped around herself, and large ominous wings completed her hellish appearance. She was proud of it, more than a memento of her family, it was the image of her own ability: not a scratch came to blemish the vision of chilling awe she inspired in others. Not until that moment, at least.

She had never been deeply attached to them yet too late had she realized how integral they were to her being. To her being her. The two ugly and badly scarred studs that served as a reminder that she had once soared the skies in search of prey were but painful reminders of a past long lost.

They'd taken her by surprise, unprepared, unarmed, undefended. Somehow, within the conjunction of events, a miracle had occurred, and their plan had worked.

But they'd not stopped there.

They'd marked her with shame: defanged, declawed, wings torn off, she'd been left there, bleeding and shivering in her pool of tears. Until they'd portaled her and emptiness had come to wrap her in its sweet and silent arms.

And the worst part was that she couldn't blame them. She was furious, a rage burned in her like it had never before,and bitter about such a simple defeat. Yet she understood: they viewed her as she viewed them and she would have neither hesitated to do the same unto them if she had been in their position. Take out the head and the rest falls. Gouge the eyes and cut the tongue so that it may not curse. Burn the ashes and their ashes so that it may not rise again. Scatter them in the wind at the four corners of the known world and vow upon their abandon to the void.

They had taken everything. Her beauty, her power, her freedom. Taken and locked away for eons. And yet, despite the rage sizzling in her blood she bided her time. Such was the way of the world, darkness consumed light and light swallowed darkness, one had to overtake the other, it was inevitable.

But in every light there is a shadow lurking and in every shadow a star burning. That shadow was their fear; perhaps their strongest weapon and yet their flaw too. They had gone far to ensure the Hero's victory would not be undone easily, too far to prevent the shift yet not enough to erase its consequences. They had robbed her of all that made her Empress and cast her away in an abyss out of all, in hopes of delaying the righting of the world. It had worked in a way. When a Lord of Shadow is vanquished, another rises. They had hoped to prevent such an passing for the foreseeable future. And in doing that, they had left her with a possibility, a single hope, one that would carry her through the unending nothing until her return: she had not come undone. What that meant took longer to realize than the fact itself. She was broken yet not undone.

The pain had been her sole companion, unfading for so long she had believed it would remain ad aeternam. It had, in a way. Beyond her return, beyond her subsequent rise and fall, and her second starless night, it had rescinded yet kept throbbing. In her regrown form, claws and fangs, in her horns and tail which they had not touched for she had concealed them, in her wings too, absent as they had remained since that fateful twilight where they had burned in holy light. No more was she to feel the wind in them, the Sun and the Moon dance over the delicate fur; in the hollow of their past glory only the disconcerting echoes of their silence remained, throbbing uncomfortably. She had been once more, but she had not been her own.

Even in her wholehearted abandon to her goal, to her people, to the cause, she had not been able to wash away the stains that had permanently disgraced her, tainting the revered frame, the only thing she had not gained through power or effort, the only present she had ever been given, the only memory which remained of what she had once loved. For she had loved, once. They had been beautiful and kind and so little remained of that in and around her. So little it almost felt as if nothing remained at all. Her father, her mother, her grandmother, the ever mysterious shadow of her grandfather, all had sunk into the sands of time, only for her to stand alone and needed. In truth, she wanted little of it, she would have wanted none of it if they not still whispered in her ears the pride of her clan, if they not sang in the breeze the destiny she was to reach for.

The pain had been constant, throbbing and ebbing, spreading and blinding. Or perhaps had she done those things to herself to push it back into the deepest recess of her mind, trying to forget it was ever there. It had been there. Driving her to go ever farther, ever stronger, ever better, ever more… Until it had not. For she too needed.

When that shift had happened, she could not exactly say. The fires burning under her skin had been ablaze for so long and had reached such intensity, she had become them. Yet at some point she had found them tamed, lukewarm, unable to burn the hand that had reached into them, offered to her for reasons unknown. She had thought at first that the hand itself had managed that feat on its own, it was strong after all, stronger than she had ever believed - she could see it in the blue of the eyes that came with it - and, to be perfectly honest, had ever hoped. All had been too easy, too smooth, something had to happen and come put a wrench in those projects. Long before she would have seethed and turned the world ablaze at the simple prospect; then, it would have made her furious. Now, however, she had found it had simply been a source of excitement, almost childish, as if an amicable competition, almost.

They had competed, clashed, had taunted and mocked, searched and teased, they had gone from simple coincidence to fated foes and, despite all the shortcomings, the ups and downs, never had backed down from the challenge the other offered. Perhaps it had been a pure spirit of competition, perhaps it had been hate or distaste, but perhaps it had been something else. Something else entirely that had made her willing to go further than before, that had kept her standing when all around her faltered and knelt under the pressure, that had made her see beyond. Beyond herself and that seemingly unattainable goal, beyond duty and beyond commitment, beyond what was expected of her, by others and by herself. It had pushed her to think about the choice, long before she had made it. To ponder why even she was pondering. That hand in the fire, not unburdened yet unburned, opening a path to an unknown, so scary and thrilling. It had not tried to kill the flames, simply basking in them, patiently.

She was nothing like an angel, features of shadow and fear. She was broken, beaten and bloody, and in pain. She had been for so long. She was not undone, the shackles of duty keeping her whole as much as they pulled at her. She was not her own. Yet, perhaps, she could learn to see the stars in the depth of night, perhaps she could put herself back together, perhaps could the pain be truly soothed as the weight of the chains were lifted. Perhaps there was still hope, one she realized far too late she had left behind as an unwanted burden. Perhaps the fire within had burned through all the embers that were left, and it was time to let the rain offer new life to the forest. Perhaps it could be done with him, not by or through but alongside, in kindness and in good. Perhaps beauty was in such things after all, and perhaps such things hid within her. Perhaps still, she had the right to decide and to choose, perhaps it was high time she let the wind ruffle her feathers and the Sun and Moon bathe her open wings…

—

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A Hero’s Retirement

#a hero's retirement #fantasy #writing #heroicretreat #isekai #hero #demon #demon empress #slice of life #sliceoflife #long post #trauma #devil #house by the sea #amenor #past

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