#even an arbiter occasionally wants to be held

[binah-beloved]

If i may add to the idea of preventing the meltdown. I imagine on those rare attempts that succeed the seed of light scenario error triggers and all the work done is erased (and just to be both cruel and to make sure it doesn't happen again you remember)

it would, too. just to mock you

nothing but relief, intense and whole, washes over you when somehow, you manage to reach Binah's consciousness in the midst of her meltdown. the fragment of an Arbiter tilts her head at you, lowering her bloodstained claws and slowly leaning down with careful movements; her face presses gently into your palms, the texture cool and smooth, and when you begin tracing the grooves and ridges that line her form she lets out a quiet, metallic sigh. another moment in silence and the Arbiter dissolves, leaving the Sephirah of Extraction slumped in your hands, looking almost peaceful. her hand comes up to graze yours, fingers covered in tiny scars and old wounds, and you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding as Binah opens her eyes and stares at you with the softest gaze you've seen her muster

then there's a tick as the clock rewinds, everything starting from the beginning again, and you're drowned in your own despair

[larrythefloridaman]

Mayhaps some thoughts on Valentine?

Oh, dear valentine... so mysterious... and the weight of being the perfect, gentle showman is such a heavy burden to bear...

Val is fascinating to me, because even though theres so much we don't know about what he really wants, really feels, really thinks, because most of his screentime is on the sidelines in an obviously staged persona, theres a lot of interesting inferences we can make from what he says when he breaks character, doesnt break character, or expresses his (oft-ignored) agency, but, with so many details missing, I am forced to turn to thematic analysis and context clues to fill in the blanks. I say forced as though I dont love doing this shit lmao

Val's occasional awkward fumbling breaks with his presenter persona lead me to assume hes that flavor of theater kid thats sort of... reserved, passive, awkward, almost shy in their personal life until they're onstage, where they Come Alive before the crowd, but also, hes presented in his introductory episode as a man who 'walks directly into explosions just to see if he can survive them.' contradiction between the private and public self, risk and spectacle and, of course, performance are important things to consider when evaluating Val. He wants to put on a good show for the people, after all! Talented and radiant and powerful and good, Val is an instant hit with the audience- and Val puts his body on the line trying to 'save the day' in a very risky move, a shady deal with a shady being with shady terms. Keep in mind Crimson really hadnt done anything REAL bad at this point- a little theft, a little homewrecking, his greatest crime we saw was being kinda spooky, really.

We don't hear the terms of Val and Crimson's bet, their discussion of the terms entirely held through crimson's ability for psychic communication, but we do see the result. Valentine looked at the quiet, eldritch thing Crimson began as, and wagered his body as Crimson's prize. Crimson wins, a gentleman keeps his word, and the Captain Crimson era begins. It isn't long before theres reason to regret his choice, although the Grunk's death wasn't something Crimson exactly wanted to happen either. Captain Crimson, given the privilege of choosing who in the tie at the bottom of top 8 gets to move on to the next part of what was supposed to be a two part tournament, the Grunk is shortly after found dead. Val remains in Crimson's thrall for another several months, Team Crimson formed amid the hiatus's offscreen chaos.

I think a feeling of guilt in the situation hes avoiding does haunt him. He claims little memory of his time as Captain Crimson, but the Grunk certainly seems to blame him some, even saying that 'at least hes not dead this time,' when Val successfully defends his championship from the Grunk. And hes in good company! Culpable in the Grunk's Death Club: Crimson (oops!) Hamhel (catalyst for both his and his killer's presence at the tournament,) Val (unintentional accomplice to manslaughter) Larry, Iggy and Chartreuse (knowingly complicit for timeloop reasons!)

Which adds some layers to Val breaking from his professionalism and stage persona a bit in 23's intros to express Intense Concern with J0hn's puppeteering of a murderer and VERY POINTEDLY bringing up the Grunk's own murder charges, audibly upset by the Grunk explicitly taking pride in them, he's clearly pretty disturbed by it- although he never pushes too hard against the tournament's regular function, even when it would be pretty fair to. One must remember the P. Rool Arc- the tournament is not an unquestionable arbiter of good or fairness, the tournament's rules are not unbreakable impartial tenets of the universe but the personal, often petty, choices of a jesterly godking, a TURTLE in a CLOWNCAR, and so going along with them is, within their world, a choice that all the characters are making! Everyone in the cast is, for better or worse, somewhat complicit in the tournament's failings, at least as much as any one actor who willingly works under a questionable director or in a questionable industry, if that makes sense. Technically, Valentine's championship was won at Plum's expense. Valentine participated- alongside an assortment of other fighters, including Rights Sentience, a so-called sentinel of that which is good and right- in the group free-for-all to take P. Rool's win away from him, and happened to come out on top. Relevant information to recall on P. Rool Day.

And, also relevantly to 23, he's pretty disturbed by Quad too, as we see in his introduction in 17. I think Quad is critical to understanding what Val's got going on under the surface- of the clones, theyre pretty explicitly the most directly similar from base to clone, and ive said it before and ill say it again, the thing Ryan's said about Quad and Val thats stuck with me characterization-wise is that 'Val is like a rollercoaster, Quad is like skydiving.' Rollercoasters are a thrill, with ups and downs and twists and turns but a careful calculation for safe results along a planned path, placing an implicit trust in the engineers who designed it for you to enjoy, although the controls are left out of your hands, and so when something goes wrong all you can do is wait for it to be over and hope noone gets hurt. Skydiving is throwing yourself directly to the whims of the world and letting go for a very INTENSE and STRAIGHTFORWARD thrill, running on the often CAREFULLY CONFIRMED trust that your parachute will work and with direct, conscious, personal control over when it deploys. I think of how Val often rolls with the tournaments decisions despite his misgivings, often seemingly not even informed until DAY OF what he'll be dealing with, and I think of how Quad was part of the first forfeit in tournament history and on another occasion caught just a whiff of horseshit and marched right up to god and beat her ass. Quad is like Val without the tact, the nuance, the subterfuge, like Val if you intentionally distilled and intensified him to the point of parody, and in the process, boiled out all the subtleties and passivity.

The natural instinct to compare Crimson and Val's relationship during Val's possession and Quad and Order's is... I think not EXACTLY wrong, but I don't think it's one-to-one at all. If Quad is, thematically, like Val with all the subtleties and nuance (not to say quad is UNnuanced because of course he is, but like. yknow what i mean in this context) wrung out, then maybe the intensity and circumstances of the awfulness of Quad and Order's relationship is a much more black-and-white case, but the baseline dynamic was similar? Just. Greyer. More complicated. Less extreme. Another all-take and little-to-no-give relationship between a controlling person and someone only wanted and valued by them in the first place as a useful, disposable tool in the pursuit of their own desires, who was never really all that interested in them personally as anything more than that, because at the end of the day they always wanted something or someone else, until someone else gets rid of the taker, and the giver is left alone to reevaluate things in their absence. But i suppose we already knew that. Another difference of course being they were two people who happened to collide for a while by chance and made regrettable choices, while Quad was born and designed with the purpose of being used. (And, of course, got to overcome that.)

Considering other Crimson'd folks were very much able to dispel Crimson from their bodies when they didnt want him there anymore, Hamhel 'defecting' offscreen, Chessmaster casting it off with all the casualness of flexing muscle, when they had come to some kind of epiphany and wanted to better themselves, while Val needed to have it dragged out of him by force, and even, in a moment of weakness and spite in response to the humiliation of Dani's Rat Stunt may have even considered taking crimson BACK if jay's speculation about val's feelings after the exorcism in 11 holds weight... its... interesting. And while they're plenty professionally friendly, I do think theres potentially some... lasting resentment, between him and Dantoinette in the mix, too. She did not need to rub his face in losing to the rat, and that could just be a dani-typical weak-filter shit-talk moment. But he did not need to bring up the bear. and Val's usually more careful than that.

Val lost a bet. They were together for months. They had to have developed some kind of dynamic and rapport in that time. While he absolutely was a controlling asshole, even just by nature of How Possession Literally Works, there isnt much reason to assume crimson was uniquely cruel to Val in their relationship compared to his other partnerships, and most folks who were possessed for more than a day came out of that relationship rightfully hating his ass and not wanting to be around him but not like. Life-Wreckingly Transformed by Him or anything. He's not an abuser, hes not that kind of evil. hes your dickhead ex that brought out the worst in you, he's the sketchy mp3 downloader thats BEGGING for you to let him install viruses, he's the best employee at a scam company. Crimson is just as disgusted by people like Prism or the Doc as anybody else reasonable. He's just a selfish, negative, dirtbag asshole thats rebellious for the sake of it and pressures you into and gives you excuses to pursue bad ideas- both his and your own, and living vicariously through those he controls to escape his circumstances and get to be anybody but who and what he actually is for a while, and Val was perfect for that. He 'got what he needed' by 'being' him. Vibrant, beloved by the crowd and community, comfortable in front of the camera, seemingly so confident warm and happy despite everything, so in control of his own destiny, at least in theory. The heartless coveting that which he cannot have. Val reduced more than once to an idealized object on a pedestal. The perfect man, and a being that from certain perspectives might barely qualify as a person at all- he certainly didnt present himself as one to start with. Hell, hes still imitating Val just a bit trying to play presenter in his stead in Orange.

BUT. All that being said. Order isn't what Val chooses to compare his time with Crimson to, in a rare instance we see of him actually trying to talk about it. No. His choice of comparison is a different object of Val's disdain- Cupid. Heartbreak and Cupid.

Heartbreak and Cupid are friends. and Heartbreak does say he WANTS to find someone that meets his romantic standards- but Cupid begins to push through his boundaries, FORCING it, making this OVERWHELMING UNASKED FOR SPECTACLE out of his issues on live broadcast, and when he decides he DOESNT want to pursue it actively anymore, Cupid refuses to back down from trying, because he DID want it and Cupid doesnt want him to Give Up on what he wants, but the reality is Heartbreak just found some peace with being by himself and doesn't want it so bad anymore, but Cupid seemingly wont take him at his word that he's genuinely just changed his mind. Tempered expectations, mistaken for lost hope. And it pisses heartbreak off so much that at least when the wound's fresh he doesn't even want to look at the color pink.

Val made a bet. We didnt see the terms. Val, in contrast with his perfect gentlemanly persona, flirts with villainy from time to time- quite literally in the case of his exchange with Dr. Order at the start of 16 before Quad was made, sometimes less literally and more subtly complicit with the tournament's less than perfect ethics record, nobody's perfect, no exceptions, not even the perfect man is unflawed- but never truly falls from grace again after his time with Crimson, while using the same cunning and subterfuge the god of treachery employs in facing challenges and claiming advantages all the same. Tempered subversion, mistaken for submission to conformity. And Crimson's presence is enough to make Val just want to stay home.

Am i cooking or is this nothing? YOU decide!

[theseventhoffrostfall]

Games Workshop turns to you and says they fucked up doing all the banning and removing of content and now fans are leaving. They want to turn it around. And to do that, you have been given a free pass to make up to five novels on anything you want so long as they are W40k setting. What, if any, ideas do you go with?

Honestly, there's like a bunch of stuff I'd do before just churning out novels if I was tasked with getting things on track. Like, gather up the writers and come to some kind of consensus on what the actual universe is like. We can't even get accurate assessments on if imperial spaceships are typical sci-fi size of 700-800 meters on average or regularly a few miles long, let alone any idea on if life in the imperium trends towards a comfortable simulacrum of modern life, a Judge Dredd crack nightmare, or a strange, morbid near-nihilistic fascination with martyrdom and death that renders them more alien than some of the aliens in the setting. We don't even have to settle on the things I think are coolest and most appropriate, just some kind of fucking consensus so there can be any kind of consistency, because people's patience for giving 40k a pass on a standard every other franchise is held to is wearing thin

That said, if you held a gun to my head and said "give me novel ideas to entice the fan base with something crowd-pleasing but fresh", I'd spitball:

1.) An Arbiter working his beat (an industrial-hive world with the hives arising from a vast and stormy ocean. Intense electrical storms can last months, severely hampering communication and periodically isolating individual hives. Focus on him investigating weird mutants, rogue psykers, rebels, maybe the occasional cult (chaos or not) or genestealers. Bonus points, since Arbiters are not conventional law enforcement and have little interest in common criminals, you get to give him a complex relationship of periodically cooperating with colorful local gangs

2.) A unit of Tempestus Scions on various missions. Travelling the universe, doing operator shit, getting to apply cunning solutions against worthy, high-value foes. Prevents absurd scale creep, since our boys are using hellguns and armored trucks; they aren't ringing up a tank battalion or dropping a titan on someone. Consider it a fun writing challenge to have squad bants and humor despite stormtroopers being brainwashed fanatics

3.) The adventures of an Eldar Corsair crew wedged between a Tau sphere of expansion and a Rogue Trader's nascent empire. Explore both factions through an outsider's perspective, and you get a bit more levity and dark humor, despite examining the Eldar's weird psychology, because Corsairs are among the tiny minority who are just in it for the fun and money rather than fervently serving some holy purpose or another.

4.) The escaped remnants of a genestealer cult find themselves with genuine freedom after the Hive Fleet they were summoning was crushed by the Imperial Navy. Now they've gotta survive, continue to improve their "superhuman" genome, and hopefully save their cousins from the maws of the "False Gods"

5.) A mastermind Inquisitor heads a cabal of his fellows, fighting a shadow-war for control of a whole subsector against the schemes and raids of a cunning Alpha Legion warband. Despite being a dyed-in-the-wool fanatic as any good inquisitor is, he can't help but raise a glass and toast the cleverness of the magnificent bastards out there spinning their webs

[naviizeldablog]

Maybe it’s Time to Move On.

Request by @friendoftwili​ for Twilight angst at Arbiter's Grounds. 

Dear lord this took way too long to get done. Thank you for putting up with me. I really don’t have much to say on this besides I didn’t really check for spelling or grammar errors so bear with me. Credit goes to @linkeduniverse and Nintendo. Peace out.

It had gotten cool enough for Twilight to put back on his usual garments. When the sun started to rise over the horizon he could already tell that it was going to be another treacherous day of walking through the vast wasteland of Wild’s desert. By noon he had stored his chanimail and pelt away to endure the sweltering heat scorching his back, and had only half a flask of water left. The only sight around them was a vast desert, dune after dune after dune, with the occasional pillar crumbling apart from erosion.

The heat was starting to take its toll on some of the heroes who were not accustomed to the heat. Four was dragging his feet, the polished knight of the group forced to take off his beloved scarf, and the hero of oracles mumbling under his breath of how he hated this place.

Unlike some of his comrades, Twilight could live with the heat and the chilling air that would come once night falls. But, there was something about the place that made him uneasy. He decided to worry about it later, yet it still bothered him from the back of his mind.

Suddenly the wind picked up, blasting sand at Twilight’s face. 

As the wind turned into a roar, Twilight could faintly hear his leader speaking out to the group, “This is turning into a sandstrom, we need to find cover now.” 

“This isn’t some regular strom pops!” remarked the hero of oracles, who was struggling to drag his feet through the sand and his hat on his head.

“I think we’re changing worlds again!” the ground shifted, their feet sinking into the sand quickly. The sun seemed to glow brighter, light blinding Twilight as he tried to keep standing.

“Brace yourselves!” was the last thing he heard before the light engulfed him.

When Twilight came to, he was laying on a cold and hard surface, grains of sand scratching him with every move he took. He let out a groan of discomfort, and propped himself up on his elbows. He looked out in front of him, and saw crumbling pillars and archways that almost looked familiar. A sense of dread settled itself in him but for what reasons were foreign to him at the time.

“Hey what’s this giant slab of rock?”

He froze in fear. No,it couldn’t be. Surely they weren’t here-

“Check this out guys!”

Please Hylia have mercy on him, don’t let this be the place-

The youngest of them piped up, “It looks like it held some sort of circular reflector in it, like the ones used for star gazers!”

No no no no no no no-

“Are these glass shards?”

Dear Hylia no-

“They look more like mirror shards.” he could hear the sound of metal clinking together, along with mumbles about why a shattered mirror would be here in all places.

No.

Anywhere, anywhere but here.

“Twilight buddy, are you okay?” he could hear the evident tone of concern in the hero of the sky’s voice. 

No, no he was not. Too much had happened here. It was all too much.

“Twilight?” it hurt him to hear the pain and worry from his protege, but was quickly distracted when a blur of blue and green flipped him over and started to examine him.

“Are you hurt? Sick?” Twilight meekly shook his head to each.

“Mentally unstable like Legend?”

“WANNA SAY THAT TO MY FACE PRETTY BOY?!” 

“That’s enough boys,” his mentor’s voice silenced the bickering two, Twilight cringed when he heard heavy footsteps walking his way. The older hero knelt down beside him, blocking his view of the others.

“Twilight, look at me.”

“I’m sorry… I can’t-”

“You don’t have to explain yourself pup, let’s just try and hunker down somewhere in these ruins.” a hand was extended out to him which was slowly accepted. Twilight grabbed onto Time’s arm, not trusting his trembling legs to keep him upright.

Twilight watched as the last of the sun’s rays faded away and the sky turned indigo. A cold gust sent shivers through him, his usual layers of clothing along with a blanket useless against the chilly air. His bowl of stew, made by their official chef, laid forgotten next to him. His eyes narrowed as vivid memories flashed before him.

Their victory.

The light spirits.

Her revival.

The sense of relief and joy.

Last words unfinished.

A tear.

A mirror shattering.

Silence.

The sound of someone approaching him shook Twilight out of his brooding mood, by the sound of it, it was his mentor and leader coming to consult him again. He pushed the bowl out of the way when Time sat down next to him. An arm snaked around him, which he absentmindedly leaned into. 

“This place means something to you doesn’t it.” oh if only he knew. If only he knew the anguish Twilight had felt when his closest comrade and friend disappeared from his world without even saying good-bye. 

“If it didn’t then I wouldn’t have broken down like that.”

“True, true.”

“I’m assuming that you don’t want me to pry?” Twilight simply shrugged, he knew that eventually he would have to tell his mentor. Might as well do it now while the scars were reopened.

“You mentioned once to our prideful knight here that your heart was broken by a foriegn princess,” Twilight perked up and looked up to his leader, whose gaze was focused on the horizon. His lone eye scanning the dunes of the desert, intensely as he seemed to be lost in his own memories.

“When he asked you how she had done so you replied that your heart was shattered like a mirror.”

“I.. uh-”

“Could this princess perhaps be related in any sort of way to the broken mirror?” Twilight looked back down and could feel his eyes just starting to water over from the thought of her.

“Yeah, it’s the reason why I can never see her again.”

“Hmm.” the arm around him lifted off and his mentor stood up, dusting the sand off of his tunic.

“Well, I’m going to head back to start first watch. When you feel ready, we’ll be there.” Twilight made no movement or sound as he listened to his teacher get up and walk away. Now alone in silence, he started to finger with the hemline of his tunic. His mind became less jumbled, and for the first time while being there, he actually felt at ease. A thought came to, which caused him to smirk in spite of himself.

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll one day move on from this place. From these feelings. From her. After all, there’s no use lingering onto the past.

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

Tony, Steve, Clark, and Bruce: A Cross-Universe Comparison

I saw a post that, in my opinion, unfairly compared Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne, and this inspired me to write a comparison of the four characters listed in the title above. I believe many people misunderstand a lot of what these characters believe and stand for, so I want to express what I find their stances and motives to be in relation to each other.

As a note, the interpretations of these characters have varied widely, given the multitude of comic book authors and the somewhat differing portrayals on screen. For this analysis, I will be focusing mostly on the film interpretations, as they are better known, with the exception of Superman; this is because on screen, he is intended to be a reimagining of the character. In order to stay true to his nature, I will mostly be using the Superman developed in the comics (particularly the one presented in the Dark Knight Returns).

On the surface, Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne appear to be two fairly similar characters. Both experienced traumatic youths, including the sudden deaths (which were both murders) of their parents. Both Tony and Bruce are incredibly wealthy and intelligent, with almost unlimited technical resources making up for their non-superhuman physical abilities. These two characters, however, are actually closer to opposites than doubles.

In actuality, these characters are each more similar to the other's counterpart: Tony tends more towards Superman's more conformist vision for the world, having gone from a rogue, or individualist, to someone who recognizes his own potential for ignorance and damage and decides he needs to be held accountable. It is Steve Rogers, not Tony Stark, who is the MCU counterpart of Batman.

Steve had initially, at least on a surface level, been portrayed as the ultimate conformist: he gave his life to the army, in order to become a medical experiment who fought and acted at the behest of his country. But in actuality, he maintained his individualistic and rebellious spirit, growing further into that attitude as the franchise progressed. This is why, by Infinity War, Steve has embraced his Nomad identity, fully shirking any responsibility to the larger government, and instead, seeking after his own goals.

This individualist attitude is encapuslated best in Endgame, where Steve says to a high-ranking government official: "I'm not asking for forgiveness. And I'm done asking for permission." This implies that he had, at some point, asked for permission in the first place, but this is not the case. When the Accords were introduced, Steve spoke out against them, refused to compromise, and essentially fled, becoming a rebel and fugitive in the process. Any time an authority, government or not, gives him an order he doesn't agree with, he dismisses it outright.

These actions and attitudes are mirrored almost exactly by Bruce, who not only appoints himself sole arbiter of right and wrong by enforcing his vigilante justice, but also avoids police detainment and other efforts to force him to comply with the law. The law is not sufficient for his purposes, so he does not abide by it. He has no problem with allowing himself unchecked power; for example, in the Dark Knight, he constructs a surveillance system that invades the privacy of every citizen of Gotham to find the Joker. Although he does destroy it, to him, the ends justify the means. He does not believe there is anything wrong with allowing a decision of such magnitude to be left solely in his hands, and in fact, he would not want anyone else to interfere, even a government. He firmly believes he knows what is best--and he intends to plant himself like a tree and say to the government, "No, you move."

Bruce is much more cynical about humanity than Steve, which is understandable, and offers insight into their differing ways of acting on their similar beliefs. Steve was raised in poverty and was bullied, but experienced minimal trauma in his youth, whereas Bruce was traumatized at a young age. Despite having privilege as a child, Bruce was darkened by his trauma, making him use his position of power in decidedly more violent ways than Steve, who was able to grow into a position of power without the scarrings of a traumatic youth. This is what causes the apparent difference between them--on the surface, no one would call Bruce and Steve similar, as Steve is viewed as a "good" character, and Bruce as morally grey at best. Ultimately, however, they act similarly: Bruce uses his troubled past as a justification for inflicting his own form of justice on those he deems criminals, and Steve uses his supposed moral high standing to do the same thing. Both of them also view the advantages they have over average humans as indicative that they are supposed to take action--but, because of their superiority, this action is taken on their own terms. It is similar to the theory of the Superior Man in Fyodor Dostoevsky's novel Crime and Punishment. The Superior Man, expresses the main character, would not be bound by the laws of society. He could break and form them as he pleased, as they only exist to keep the average members of the populace in check. Much of the same attitude is presented by Steve and Bruce, who, as stated, use their physical advantages as an excuse to do whatever they deem "necessary". Because of this the two characters, although they express their idealogies in different ways, share many of the same views.

Another cause of the difference in public interpretation of their characters is that the narrative justifies Steve's decisions at every turn, but Bruce has more of a penalty to pay for his actions. Ultimately, Bruce is also justified by the narrative: he gets a happy ending in the Dark Knight trilogy, at least. (As an aside, this is perhaps a commentary on how in the end, the rich are able to get away with anything, and can do whatever they please with no real consequence. Although I will not make a statement on the veracity of such a claim, it is nevertheless a possibility that the films endeavored to make a pint about it.) Bruce does, however, have to face some costs for his decisions. He is driven into hiding for eight years after taking the blame for Harvey Dent's death, which was caused by a chain of events in which he--and his occasionally selfish decisions--played a major role. Additionally, in the comics, Batman lost several of his companions, with Dick Grayson giving up the role of Robin, and Jason Todd dying because of Batman's oversights. This distinct cost to his actions results in him appearing to be less of a morally good character; in the perception of the audience, if Bruce really made the right decision, would it not then have resulted in victory? It is a firmly entrenched idea, in America in particular, that good will always triumph over evil--and so, if there is any element of good that does not unequivocally triumph, it must not have been purely good.

The similarity between Steve and Superman comes from their acheiving this ideal, this unequivocal goodness, but it is not present in Batman, leading many to wrongly think that Steve and Superman are birds of a feather; in fact, Tony is much more similar to the do-gooder Superman, who feels compelled to utilize his assets and abilities to help the common people. Tony likewise focuses much more on helping others than on correcting injustice as Bruce and Steve do. This is the ultimate distinction between the four characters: whereas Bruce and Steve believe it is their moral duty to correct the injustices they perceive--confrontational heroics--Tony and Clark see their abilities as an opportunity to help others--supplemental heroics.

In other words, Tony and Clark recognize it is not their role to define what is good or bad on an ultimate scale, and instead step in and offers aid in the areas in which they know it is needed. For example, Tony provides scholarships for underfunded college students in order to help them pursue their dreams. He contributes on a larger scale with his technology, allowing much public access to his inventions, such as BARF, that would be good for the common welfare. In this way, he contributes a lot of good without creating his own definition of good; instead, he does what the public perceives as good, just as Clark does when he saves people from accidents or other catastrophes.

Tony often fights, however, to keep the weaponized side of his inventions--namely, the Iron Man suits--private. This is because he had previously been involved with the government in the weapons business, and realized that there was no accountability there, neither for him nor for the government. Countless people died, and there was nothing to keep the people involved in check. Thus, his position on individualism versus conforming to the government depends on each party being kept accountable by the other; he will submit to governm ent authority, as it makes him liable to some higher power and prevents him from making potentially world-altering decisions on his own, but he also maintains enough control that he can exert pressure on the government in return if they begin to grow too large.

This seems to cause him to differ some from Superman, who does not keep the government in check; this is because of a difference in situation. Ultimately, because Superman is so powerful, the government could not actually keep him in check, and so he voluntarily submits to their authority as a way to keep himself accountable. He knows full well that if the government were to "step out of line", he would certainly be able to subdue them, but he recognizes the old adage that "absolute power corrupts absolutely," and does not want to take that chance.

Superman realizes, just as Tony does, that it is not his right to determine what is right or wrong since he is just one man. Unlike Tony, however, Clark is powerful enough to exert his will over everyone. To prevent himself from acting on this temptation, he submits himself to human authority. Thus, Tony and Clark have very similar idealogies: neither fully relinquish autonomy, but prioritize accountability over the freedom to do whatever they would like, because both have seen the consequences of unchecked power.

As a slight aside, this surrendering of control develops to become the source of the conflict between Batman and Superman in the Dark Knight Returns, the comic which not only revitalized the comics industry but also inspired Batman vs. Superman. In this comic, Superman has almost completely relinquished autonomy to the government, and Bruce has become the ultimate symbol of resistance, inspiring violent gangs to assert their forms of justice on the streets. The conflict between the two of them is ultimately reduced to a conflict between their two opposing ideals: conformism and individualism. This also provides great examples to illustrate the difference between confrontational and supplemental heroics: in the comic, Superman sacrifices himself to divert a nuclear missile from its target city, nearly dying in the process; Bruce emerges from retirement to become Batman again, because he believes the condition of society has gotten out of hand and needs him to correct it. He, too, nearly dies in the process of doing so. Ultimately, both survive and go on to continue striving towards their various ideals, allowing each other to function without interference. This is supposed to represent how there is a place for both approaches, and neither is necessarily right or wrong; rather, they balance each other out.

In the end then, it is clear that despite their superficial similarities, the characters commonly related to each other are in fact very different on an ideological level. The reason the pairs (Tony and Steve, and Bruce and Clark) work so well in the same franchise is because they serve as foils and complements to each other: one member demonstrates confrontational heroism and individualism, and the other in turn demonstrates supplemental heroism and conformism. They represent the ongoing battle in the real world between differing beliefs and ideals, and it is precisely this conflict that makes their interactions interesting to observe--whether on screen, or on the page.

[therabidjackalope]

Like L.A.M.B.s To Slaughter

(SNIPPET TIME!!! Because I’m happy with what I’ve got so far. First draft, so may or may not improve in future versions)

The storm came without warning, crashing into existence with a blast of thunder and a blanket of black rain. Despite it's irritable grumbling, it lured the tired couple to sleep with drumming fingertips across the roof and muttering winds. Even as it's slashing claws of lightning struck across the sky, it promised more safety than threat.

But the weather was no ally. The roll of the thunder disguised the occasional clop of horse hooves. The drumbeat of the rain hid the pounding of marching boots. The flashes of lightning kept their torches from being seen. With the aid of the storm, they surrounded the house. Their chants began soft, lost in the howling cries of the wind, but they began to rise swiftly in pitch and power, sapping away the strength of the hapless sleepers inside.

The rotten door shattered to splinters from the first assault, fragments falling wetly to the floor. Holy light poured into the small house, devouring the curse as it found it. The sleepers woke suddenly, still tangled in each other, but they were torn apart by rough hands, jerked mercilessly from their bed and dragged across the floor without explanation.

Once out the door, they were thrown roughly to the wet ground, the light around them chasing away the night while allowing the rain to fall. Nadirah gritted her teeth as she tried to stand, feeling her strength ebb away like a leaking water skin.

“Lambs!” She heard her husband grunting out in surprise. “They've come!”

Boots stamped heavily across Nadirah's vision before turning to face the struggling pair. The doe fought against the invisible force holding her down to tilt her head upwards. Shining metal armor covered a tall human frame. Not a scrap of skin was left uncovered by the shimmering plates. A tabard of brilliant red added a splash of color to the untarnished silver. Across the chest of the tabard, Nadirah could almost make out the golden shape of some sort of animal, but she could not read the words stitch above and below.

The armored figure reached up and removed the helmet with a flourish. The face exposed belonged to a creature that resembled a man but snarled like a beast. Hateful blue eyes stared down at the helpless pair, promising only pain and death.

“Who are you?” Nadirah snarled. “What do you want?” A sudden blow from behind sent the doe back into the mud. “Your eyes don't deserve to look upon the Lord of the L.A.M.B.s, filth!” Before she could respond, a heavy boot slammed into the side of Nadirah's head.

Stars of pain exploded across her vision and she lifted her arms around her head instinctively to protect herself from any further attacks, although none came.

“Who am I?” The leader of the men repeated, his voice thick with malice. “Even lowly filth like you should know who we are. I am Mathias Greer, Lord of the Lights Arbiters of Mercy and Benevolence.” Although she couldn't see him, Nadirah could hear his fancy armor rattle and clink as he began to pace, the mud splashing under his heavy boots. “What do I want? I want peace. Beauty. I want my children and grandchildren to live in harmony and safety.” Small droplets of mud splashed across the doe's face as she slammed down one of his boots next to her head. “And I want to wipe this land clean of you and your ilk. Every one of you servants to that crazy man who has crowned himself the king of corpses, you have all blanketed this once beautiful country in a plague of rot! And you... YOU!”

Nadirah slowly lifted her head, looking up at the hateful man with one eye, the other already swelling shut. Hatred burned white behind his blue eyes and his lips were peeled back in a feral snarl. Flattening her ears, Nadirah used all the energy available to her to return his glare and bared her own teeth in return. The blow across the side of her face only further fueled her fury, although the chant continued to sap away her energy and strength.

When Mathias spoke again, his voice was thick and venomous with disgust like a poisonous tree sap. “You and this....ghoul... defiling even the concept of marriage with this sham of a union! You are a blight! A cancerous, unsightly abomination! A mockery of life itself! But we, the Light's Arbiters of Benevolence and Mercy, we shall bring life and prosperity back to this haggard soil!”

The other L.A.M.B.s cheered at his words and Nadirah felt a harsh kick to her side.

“Now stand, minions of the darkness! Stand, and face the judgment of the light!” The chanting around them increased and seemed to take on weight of its own, the mingled voices becoming an invisible entity and crushing the undead pair beneath it.

Nathaniel groaned, struggling to even breathe, His fingers twitched and dug into the mud as he struggled to reach for his mate. “Nadirah...” His whisper somehow reached her ears despite all the other noise around them, attempting to drown it out. “I'm... so sorry.” The doe grit her teeth and inched out her arm in an attempt to reach his own. Suddenly his arms were grabbed by rough hands and he was lifted to his feet. Unable to fight against the power of the paladins, the ghoul could only hang limply between his captors.

The pain was immense. Nadirah felt as if her own body was tearing itself apart. She tried desperately to rise to her feet but her bones were still jelly. “No! Nathaniel, no!” She cried, her fingers grasping frantically at the mud as if she could drag him back into her embrace through her will alone.

“You have brought ruin and destruction in your wake.” Mathias said, slowly drawing a long, silvery sword from the scabbard at his hip. “You are an enemy to life, the light, and all that is good in this world. Your master, the king of liches and curses, is not welcome in these lands!” He raised the sword above his head. “You stand before the light and have been judged...GUILTY!”

Nathaniel's head rolled until he was able to look at the doe. “I love you.” He croaked softly.

“Do not taint that word with your filth!” Mathias screamed. Nadirah could only watch helplessly and wide eyed as, with a swing of the sword, her world came crashing down around her.

Anger cooled into an all-consuming grief, and Nadirah felt as if her insides were consumed in its icy flames, turning to ash before blowing away. Her body became a hollow husk, just an empty shell with nothing left to protect.

The doe closed her eyes, misery sinking into her bones. Everything was gone. He was gone. What did she have left to fight for? Was it even worth fighting anymore? Maybe she should just surrender now. She had given her all and she had nothing left. Maybe whatever gods or fates looked over the spirit world would have mercy and finally give her the peace she so deeply longed for.

She ignored the mud-covered boots that tromped in front of her. Ignored the rattle of iron armor and the murmurs of self-rightous disgust from those around her. Even the pressing weight of the holy chanting could no longer reach the mourning doe.

“It is your turn, beast.” Mathias said. “Rise, now. Rise and face your judgment.” Two of the L.A.M.B. Soldiers moved to either side of her, preparing to pick up her, but Mathias held out a hand to wait. “Be wary of that one. It's a MidKnight.” He warned. “I've faced enough of those kind to recognize one even without their trappings. They feed on the innocent and live to extinguish the light. Those who feast on misery and pain will eat their fill and yet always remain hungry.”

Nadirah ignored them all, refusing to move as she waited for the surcease of her heart beat. Every breath brought the scent of her mate's blood to her nostrils, even as the pouring rain fought to freshen the air. She wrapped herself in his warm memory like a blanket, as if it would protect her from reality.

“I said rise, beast!” The lord of the L.A.M.B.s demanded, jabbing her roughly with the toe of his boot. “Rise or I will judge you where you lay!”

“I'll make her rise, my lord!” One of the soldiers volunteered excitedly, reaching down to lift the prone tarin.

“Essandria, no!” Mathias cried out. “Don't touch it! Its still dangerous!”

Angered at being disturbed, Nadirah shook her head weakly to the side. Her sharpened horn tip grazed the young woman's arm as she jerked at the doe's shoulder. Such a shallow wound was not even felt, but it was enough to draw tiny beads of blood to the skin. Washed down the woman's arm by the rain, they splashed, unnoticed into the doe's fur.

Nadirah snapped open her eye, the other still swollen shut. Her entire body tensed as she felt an explosion of power fill her. She felt as if a river of molten metal was being poured into her like a mold. Burning liquid steel flooded her veins while iron filled her empty cavities. Faster than the human could move, her hand snapped up, becoming like a striking serpent to grasp the young woman's throat.

Her single eye swiveled to meet the human's terrified gaze. With a single twist of her fingers, the woman's neck snapped like a rotten twig and she fell limp in the MidKnight's grip. When the doe spoke, her voice was a mere whisper, and yet it rolled like thunder across every ear. “I. Claim. Your. Dead.”

[magnetar1]

A Cold Place

Fire is gone from his eyes: echoes of our past dwindled there.   Distance we once could not live without, yet always finding our way back.  Over centuries, even, if one could see it that way.  Pillars along the road, stoically rendered.

Never once did I see him cry, but now he could not turn it off.  I wanted to take the pillow from underneath his head to suffocate him with it, the thought making me instantly sick.

– My son.  Where have you been all these years?

It was not a question I could answer easily.  We came, he & I, from a time of no-time, constantly embroidered with the qualities of universal beings. Now, as I understood it, he had succumbed to his human side & did not love himself in the same way.

- - -          

Where did I go?  Away.  Why did I come back?  I don’t know.  I suppose, like any orbiting thing, I’d eventually return to my spawning grounds: he who gave birth to me in the darkness of a cave on the edge of a raging ocean.

Finally, when the first civilizations came to be, we lived like God Kings . . .

Courageous fellows who opened the way, communicating directly with resonant masters.  Transferring our knowledge to a rising populace who sacrificed themselves to our order.  We who’d known chaos, intimately providing strength to those who had only lived once.

For millennia we thrived . . . Until time stopped.  A serpent winding through Gulfs of Pathophas.   Digging deeper into the earth as we climbed higher. Fueled by chaos concentrated in our souls, lusting after fallen stars . . .  

Eve of Jamaz.  Our pageantry grew.  A feast for cannibals as streets filled with our willing guests, come to offer their flesh with adoring fealty.  While sun bathed our court in warmth of an eternal summer & our kin flashed gold amidst its bloody gnashing.  Vitality of nocturnes, absorbent of its craven masquerade.

So many lives we consumed in darkness of light.  Spectral indifference cannibalized into being.  Even as we watched cascading flesh pile at our feet, we knew the advent of its fortune.  The gods, incarnated, suffered neither guilt or shame.

- - -

– Do you see what the world’s become?

The father looks at me distantly & with confusion.  The tears have since dried, but the nervous emotion lingered in his face.  He knew he was about to die.

I guess that’s why I came to see him, albeit unplanned.  Dimensions we had crossed allowing us certain privileges – Even as I orbit, I am fractured. Logic distilled as a seed of destiny absorbent of that first ocean.

I saw it with my own eyes, but now is hard to conceive.  All the mad struggles we had then, prior to our exalted union with outside forces. And now I could see he was returning to this state, before Illumined Ones came to wake us up.

It no longer mattered to him.  The world, too, had become chaotic & was gnawing at his soul in the same way.  Those masters, unfeeling, had let him become swallowed by it – Guilt of being human, suffering to live, fear of the unadorned majesty of the astral flame.  

Having wallowed in it we should know, but I could tell he’d forgotten. Waiting at death’s door for the final push, enough strength to hump over the finish line.  Maybe I should bring him something revitalizing to eat, to help him commemorate?

- - -

Cruel but sympathetic, he’d risen above the Host.  Drawn into Olden ways, prior to magnetic storms.  Delivered into the hands of masters who effaced the stain of apostasy.  No longer a beginning or an end – Undifferentiated allusiveness . . .

Instead, savoring every morsel as if it was to be the last.  I cut the flesh in tiny pieces, too, so he would not choke.  And maybe that is the most inhuman thing I could have done: let him live.

A cheap motel in the burrough of another dirty city.  That is how he chooses to live out his final days, if one were to call it living.

– But we’re immortal.  Doesn’t that mean anything to you?

Drooling blood into the palm of my hand, he closes it into a fist.  Even the blood has its limits, where the line ends & all astral communication is cut off.  Suddenly, flesh tastes sour & there is no necromantic cure for bringing it back.

Everything he saw in the world came from them.  Now, they’re moving on. To answer my question: it means nothing because it is nothingness itself. The last question either of us will have to ask if we are to understand each other.

- - -

For his sake, I tried to let go of the past.  No longer Titans of a declining order, but ordinary men of a debilitating union.

Chaos intervening at the last moment –  

Fire consumes, blinking out as quickly as it bursts.  

Lashed by a serpent’s tail, passing through to another widening gulf.

Missing our ride from the start.  Crepuscular twin; ordained, instead, by the snivelling traits of humans . . .  

Watching as the shadow descends to envelop my father.  Filled with weight of my mortality.  Shaken savagely, I weep uncontrollably.  A feeling that never left, lingering in a pit of darkness.  

– Don’t leave me?  Absolutely the weakest thing I could have said to him.  

Sudden remorse: thinking on early days of he & I.  Even though beggars, we were happy.  Rarely did we starve, but I won’t lie about hard times.  My father, susceptible to addiction, very quickly passed them on to me. Seeking a golden moment anyway we could.  Eventually, our pursuit was no longer survival, but a prolonged migration into death.

– I need something more.  One of the few clear days I remember.  Street slumming, in search of a banquet, I prop my father up on a shoulder because he is weak.  

When he says something stronger I know what that means.  Skeleton groaning beneath his gossamer skin, the sanguinary lust in his eyes. Looking at him, now, I’m perplexed by how we ever made to this point . . .

Bags of liquid organs dripping into sewers.  Coalescing brine of fermented souls.  It was far from the ideal childhood.  Still, when I held his papery hand in mine I knew there was beauty in it.

We rose above them anyway, I thought, as if harboring a reality in which we were the progenitors of a golden age.  Mediators of the god-tongue informing the brightly shining aristocracy of those distant episodes.  

I wanted to believe that we’d gone to war for ourselves.  Not for greed, but to define the world as a living carapace.  Elemental seed perfected to maintain a grid of order across the land, before religion came along to assassinate the terms.

- - -

Between pain & abrogation, I sift through the past no more.  Ashes of its high storm roll toward indefinite thresholds of future catastrophes. While all grids meet here, in the basement of a hovel where the city sleeps & all wars are fought with the gross allegation that it will make them free.  

Like I said, though, the time is now.  The demonical heritage of disparaging races.  Plebeian grid-lock held back by mysteries unordained: gods that vibrated inside the spinning wheel hovered over this world . . .

Instead, churches of today, each with some paranoiac disciple to pull the levers.  

Even as the world fell into its most sociopathic stage, my father & I clung to the ideal we were better than that.  Occasionally, taking a life to fight back the urge, we did not wish to disrupt the cosmic order – Conceiving of a universe little more than a dew drop, brimming with gods & demons occupying universes of their own.

In the palm of my hand where the brooding war ends.  Life drawn back into itself as a vortex of possible outcomes is reduced to One. Calcination of a vision I had when I first lost my way.  A golden beacon cuts through the fog.  Flashes of mountainous waves whiplashed by frothing winds; deep, obsidian valleys formed out of misted vacancies, drawing down the current.

- - -    

I walk away from the place where all the stars fell.  Alone once more, the way it’s always been.  Even though I mourn his death & years he gave me there is no mystical truth to be found; specters coiling in to reap their harvest.

While in the cave he had so many profound things to say & there was no complaint from the pulsing diadem.  Center of a world I barely knew, yet so intimately aligned to the distance I felt from ALL things . . .

Not even the taste of human flesh could bring me back.  Rites, imagined or not, developed or not, became the link I wished to erase.  Somewhere along the way we got our demons & humans mixed up.  Arbiters of Jamaz, brought through the shadow gate to reconcile the fates against us.  

Were we even there, in that court, as the world repealed against us? Judging the mordancy of our lives as winter edged close.  No more people of the sun, gone to let blood at their private altars.  A wound that is not a wound closes as fear & dominance shut out any death affirming providence . . .

The nurturing wound that was their enemy is an old friend of mine. Licking the palm of my hand, not cannibalistic but reverent.  Essence of a father, master, god; he who pulled me from the willowing current, rolling it back with his mind.  

– I never left your side.  Been right here all along, didn’t you know?

He does not answer, but sags gently on his tattered bed.  No longer shining, but grey & humble; the silent mask he wore, inhuman & indifferent.  A willingness to brood once more in the nullifying moment. Gases hissing out their defiance, articulating his most base thought: that we have been anchored here for far too long.

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

Phantasos departed through the south gate at well past midnight. The guards did not see him leave. Cloaked in black, he was nearly invisible to the naked eye--and perhaps they had had just a bit too much to drink, so that the rest of their senses were dulled.

That was, of course, all according to plan. The young heir was up to no good, as he quite often was, and he couldn’t afford for a single soul to see him leaving.

The farmlands beyond the village walls were in a deep slumber. Out there, surrounded by acres and acres of rural country, he should have felt safe in the knowledge that there was no one around to catch him for many miles in every direction.

Instead, he felt vulnerable. There would be nowhere for him to hide until he reached the southern woodlands, and the journey would take him an hour or more on foot, then several more hours to the Hewn City Border. If one of the local farmers’ dogs caught wind of him and raised the alarm, he was done for...

...and he wouldn’t get another chance at this.

For a while, he followed the main road. It connected the farmlands with the Sea Path away to the west, and to the smaller communities living in the southeast. By day, it was crowded with carts hauling crops and cattle into the village, but by night, it was deserted, save for the occasional fox skulking in the shrubbery along its edges. He made good time on level, compact dirt.

Inevitably, the houses grew too close together, and he abandoned the road for fields of wheat and corn. The crops hid him from sight, but not from smell--and he knew from personal experience that farmers kept particularly keen and vicious dogs to patrol their lands after dusk. More than once, Phantasos had been caught stealing vegetables from them, and he would not soon forget the fear of their gnashing teeth.

Tonight, he encountered no resistance. Although he was not particularly religious, he took it as a sign, and uttered a quiet thanks to his clan’s patron deity. Perhaps She was smiling upon him--or, more likely, She found his arrogance highly amusing.

Regardless, he’d take what he could get.

It was nearing sunrise when he arrived at the Hewn City Gate. Beyond it lay the darkness of the unknown, and a past long forgotten by dragonkind. It tugged at his cloak with wispy fingers, whispering for him to step into its parlor--and it took all of his will to resist its tempting invitation.

Very few dragons were permitted beyond its gate. The Luminaries, on business from their Patron; a handful of scholars and archaeologists, who often never returned; and his own dede.

Dreamweaver spoke nothing of their visits to the Hewn City. When they left for it, they did so without a word, and returned likewise. Their business there was almost certainly the Lightweaver’s business, and although She held no fondness for secrets, whatever it was Dreamweaver did in the ruins under Her name must have been important enough for Her to go against Her very nature as an arbiter of truth.

But Phantasos was his dede’s son, and far keener than any of his clanmates gave him credit. Even now, as he stared into the undulating blackness beyond the gate, he could feel them.

He could feel the being Dreamweaver communed with.

“I know you’re there!” he called. Most would have cowered before the Hewn City Gate, but his words did not falter, and he stood tall and straight. “Come!” he called again. “I command you!”

“You command us?”

The voice was like thunder in his ears, as deep as the core of the earth and as ancient as the gods themselves. The darkness beyond the gate stirred, only just, and a single flash of gold appeared at its heart.

“You are the dreamwalker’s child,” the voice rumbled, “but not the dreamwalker themself. Tell us why we should obey you.”

“Because I’m stronger than my dede,” Phantasos replied, with a cocky upward quirk of his lips. “If you obey them, you should want to obey me even more. I’ll bet I could beat you with my eyes closed.”

“Would you like to try it?”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No, I just don’t like to get my hands dirty without good cause.”

The being beyond the gate chuckled, and the ground beneath Phantasos’ feet shook. “You are certainly an arrogant child,” it said, “but you show some of your progenitor’s wisdom. What do they call you?”

“Phantasos,” Phantasos replied, “and you?”

“Collectively, we have no name,” the being said.

The darkness began to coil and whirl, drawing Phantasos’ gaze to the single gold point at its center. His eyes flashed in response to its power, the same otherworldly light as his dede’s, and his body moved of its own accord, stretching out a hand toward the gate.

His palm found cool, black scales, resonating with the thick, throaty hum of old magic, and his eyes cleared.

“But you may call me Ozymandias.”

He was the largest Imperial Phantasos had ever seen--and he was willing to bet that no dragon was meant to grow to such an immense size. Ozymandias was from a time before the beginning, so long-lived now that he had surpassed the limitations of common dragons and become a being apart, a god in his own right. His scales were as black as night, his body adorned with golden trinkets, and all across him were runes, written in a text no living dragon knew or could possibly decipher.

He was truly a being from a lost age.

Phantasos grinned. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Ozymandias assured. “Tell me, Child of Light, why has your progenitor sent you here?”

“They haven’t,” Phantasos replied, “I came on my own.”

“Then they have spoken of me to you?”

“Not at all.”

Ozymandias gave a quiet huff, but to Phantasos, it may as well have been a hurricane. “You sensed my presence upon them,” he said. “You possess a rare gift.”

“I’m their child,” Phantasos reminded.

“Yes,” Ozymandias said, “you most certainly are.” Then he abruptly dropped all of his immense weight onto the ground with a content sigh. “What have you sent yourself here for then?” he asked. “You wished to speak with me. Your wish has been granted.”

“Our world is changing,” Phantasos explained, “becoming more dangerous by the day--and my dede is weakening. They don’t want to admit it, but they’re worn thin. As their son and heir, it falls to me to do something about it.”

“You believe I may be of service?”

“Yes,” Phantasos said. There was a brief pause, during which he looked exceedingly proud of himself. Then, “You’re going to be my royal guard.”

At this, Ozymandias burst into a fit of barking laughter. “What cheek!” he exclaimed. “You may possess power beyond even your progenitor’s, but you are still a mere child! Your wish is that I abandon my long-held post on the whim of a fledgling?”

“Pretty much,” Phantasos replied. “With your power on our side, no one would dare to harm us. If you protect us, you’ll be protecting our allies and those who rely on our village. You’ll be protecting all of dragonkind. Leave the Hewn City to the shades and come with me.”

“Do you know what I am?” Ozymandias asked.

Phantasos frowned. “Do I need to?”

“I am forces beyond your comprehension,” Ozymandias said. “You cannot hope to control me. Even the Lightweaver, in Her tower of gold, fears my might and my wrath.”

“You’re not so tough,” Phantasos replied. “You’re trying to scare a little boy, after all.”

Ozymandias opened his great maw, and blew his hot breath onto Phantasos’ face. It stank of death, and sulfur, and cataclysm--and Phantasos’ legs trembled, but the fire in his eyes only grew with the challenge.

“Very well,” said Ozymandias. “I shall accompany you. However, in return, you will bear the brunt of the responsibility of seducing me away from my post. Should the Lightweaver disapprove, it will be your head on Her platter.”

Phantasos did not hesitate, only smiled. “Deal.”

[ah17hh]

My disappointments with LaVeyanism and the emergence of a new individual Satanism via /r/satanism

My disappointments with LaVeyanism and the emergence of a new individual Satanism

Let me start off by saying I don't think Anton LaVey was a bad person at all. I have a great degree of respect for him and his contributions to Satanism but after heavy consideration I have come to believe that many facets of his philosophy have become outdated and unfeasible.

My first main problem is the philosophical one. LaVeyan Satanism's main philosophical influences are Ayn Rand, Ragnar Redbeard (pen name of Arthur Desmond), and a little bit of Friedrich Nietzsche. The first edition of The Satanic Bible provides a whole bibliography of influences but these are the main ones. The Book of Satan pulls entire passages straight from Redbeard's Might is Right and LaVey himself went as far as to claim that Satanism is "just Ayn Rand's philosophy with ceremony and ritual added".

If you know anything about individualist philosophy you probably recognize the name Max Stirner. Stirner was the founder of individualist anarchism and was a major inspiration of nihilism and postmodernism. He is relevant to this discussion because Rand and Redbeard are both bad Stirner copycats. Stirner rejected any authority that could be held above his unique while the two ideological failures that tried and failed to emulate him were very much invested in upholding authority. Redbeard devotes a large portion of his writing to arguing that the English are superior to all other peoples, especially Jews, and that women are rightfully the property of men. Rand's main focus was defending the tyranny of corporate rule, aside from also being a racist and a rape apologist.

While this doesn't entirely discount what little nuggets of merit exist in their philosophy, why bother? Why not go right to the goods? A new Satanism based largely upon Stirner and Nietzsche as opposed to some clumsy imitators would be stronger and better than ever before.

This leads to another big problem with LaVeyan Satanism, which would be its dependence on Social Darwinism. For those of you who don't know, Social Darwinism is a now discredited doctrine which asserts that the evolutionary theory of Charles Darwin, which is that only the organisms which are best fit to a particular environment shall thrive in it, should be applied to human society, usually through the practice of eugenics and other equally disastrous ideas.

It seems strange that this set of ideas is part of LaVey's philosophy in the first place considering that his own Seventh Satanic Statement is "Satan represents man as just another animal, sometimes better, more often worse than those that walk on all-fours, who, because of his “divine spiritual and intellectual development,” has become the most vicious animal of all!". What makes any member of this wretched human species worthy to be the arbiter of life and death? That is all Nature's affair and She tends to respond rather harshly when humans try to involve themselves in Her affair.

Why delude ourselves with foolish dreams of abstract hierarchies when we can instead focus on things that truly matter? Things like creating art and the pursuit of knowledge or anything that makes the individual happy while not harming those around oneself? We may favor the just and curse the rotten based upon their actions, not the circumstances of their births.

The last point I want to make is that Satanism is stagnant in this day and age, largely due to the failures of the Church of Satan to evolve LaVey's philosophy in any meaningful way. This past decade has been occultism's time to shine in the mainstream and Satanism has been left in the dust despite this. To understand why this has happened we need to understand what splintered Satanism all the way back at the turn of the century. LaVey had died some years ago and the Church of Satan was under new management with Peter H. Gilmore taking over the High Priesthood.

For a number of reasons that would take an entire separate post to explain scores of Church members, including people close to LaVey, left and formed their own Satanist groups. This kind of thing had happened during LaVey's lifetime as well with Michael A. Aquino leaving to form the Temple of Set, but this new schism was a different beast entirely. Gilmore's response to the exodus was to effectively declare all the heretics "not true Satanists" and from that point forward the Church of Satan has maintained that its brand of Satanism is the only real Satanism, even though Satanism existed in different forms long before LaVey.

This outcome didn't do Satanism any favors and since then the Church of Satan has become, for all intents and purposes, a semi-exclusive club that occasionally performs rituals while smaller Satanist groups exist in complete irrelevance with the notable sole exception of The Satanic Temple, a troupe of progressivist political trolls who don't actually have anything to do with Satanism beyond its shock value. Satanism is stagnant and no number of recitations of passages from LaVey's bibliography will change that. Something new is needed for a rebirth of Satanic philosophy.

That something new could very well be a more anarchic Satanism. Still holding close ideas like The Nine Satanic Statements, The Eleven Satanic Rules of the Earth, and The Nine Satanic Sins but recognizing that in reality there are no rules, only suggestions. You can have a Satanic church or coven or cult if you want to, but who says you have to? Do whatever the Hell you want. Worship Cthulhu or Saturn or Tiamat or even all three if you really want to. Treat yourself as the first priority of your life as Nature has beared unto thee the whole world to enjoy the indulgences of. Make your own world, just don't make it boring. There's infinite possibilities and I'd love to hear what some other people think could be done. Thanks for reading and here's to LV A.S.

Submitted December 24, 2019 at 01:28PM by hollyjanefields via reddit https://ift.tt/2ZwnIIN

[nh935]

The Adventures of Solaire, Part II: Rewards and Consequences

The Incredible yet Accurate Adventures of the Dread Pirate Captain Solaire Ravenheart

Otherwise known as

The Adventures of Solaire

Part II

Rewards and Consequences

 Now that Solaire has been reborn from the ashes of his family mansion, I want to take a moment to relate to you his first action he took in his noble quest to save River Ravenheart.

 Close to six in the morning, Solaire sailed the Forlorn Rose into the port city of Snaz Snen and, after noticing that the docks were almost completely abandoned, anchored his ship next to a modest merchant ship with a lamp still burning in the windows. This, he figured, was just as good a place as any to begin raising the money he would need to arrange his face-to-face meeting with Weiss. After placing down a large plank of wood to act as a bridge, he boarded said ship just as an individual made their way out of the captain’s quarters.

 “Ah!” this newcomer with blonde mutton chops exclaimed, “You must be Capgras DuMonte!”

 Solaire tilted his head back and raised an eyebrow. “Yeessss…”

 “George Fontaine!” He reached forward and began vigorously shaking his hand. “Pleasure to begin this business venture with you, sir, truly a great honor!”

 Solaire allowed his hand to be moved before staring at the freshly-shaken appendage like a chef inspecting a suspicious fish, prompting a very awkward silence.

 After a minute or so of this had passed, George cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I’m sure you’re a busy man, so let’s get down to the payment.”

 Solaire’s head shot up. “Payment?”

 “Yep!” He gestured Solaire forward into the captain’s quarters. There, in the center of the room, was a large sack filled to the brim with coins.

 “500 gold, just like we agreed” George chirped. “Quite a bit of money. Whole family’s savings, right there. Not a penny left in the bank. Worries the missus a bit. I tell her not to worry, but you know how wives are. If she wasn’t worried about this, she’s worrying about the children falling ill or my mother getting older. I keep telling her, we’ll make it all back in spades with this venture, guaranteed, but it never helps. Glad I can talk to a businessman like you, eh?”

 Solaire ignored him and moved forward to the bag, running his fingers through some of the coins.

 “So!” George moved up and clasped him on the back. “What do you say?”

 Solaire turned around and unloaded a small hand pistol into the man’s gut.

 Once George hit the ground, Solaire moved behind the bag and shoved, throwing his shoulder into the weight of it to drag it along the ground. He struggled with it a bit once he got to the railing, having to lift it up and over to place it onto the gangplank, spilling several coins into the ocean below. Once there, more shoving commenced until the bag was securely laying on the deck of the Forlorn Rose.

 Behind him, Solaire heard a gargling “Please…”

 It was George. The wretch had found enough strength to crawl onto the deck and up on the gangplank, leaving a long streak of crimson blood behind. He was on the wood now, arm outstretched to Solaire in a desperate plea.

 Solaire reached forward…

 George’s eyes lit up with hope.

 ...and pulled the gangplank back, dropping George into the icy ocean below.

 I’d like you to remember this incident, as it will set the tone of this adventure going forward.

 ***

 But now I beg your forgiveness, dear reader, for I must take you on a brief journey away from this fascinating man, even though I have just told you all about his family tree, his noble quest, the burning of his past, and the manner of madness you can expect from him afterwards. Yes, we know of Solaire, but we know nothing of the others that will soon populate the story afterwards, and Mr. Weiss will become very important soon. Nowhere near as interesting, but important nonetheless. So let us depart from Mr. Ravenheart, tunelessly humming “Drunken Sailor”, and travel 800 nautical miles North-Eastward, to the monolithic beauty that is the Emperor.

Of the various locations Solaire will visit in the pages ahead, few exist now as anything more than memory and the occasional piece of driftwood, but the Emperor is a rare exception. A lucky thing, too; it’s a true grandeur and a marvel to behold. A large steel ship painted white and trimmed in black, the Emperor floats on the waves despite being the size of a small city. At that mass, sails alone are insufficient, so instead it propels itself via “steam engine”, pumping in sea water to be boiled in large cauldrons heated with burning coals, then takes the steam inside of an intricate system of pipes so that it may move a massive set of propellers underwater. The black soot that is the waste product of this process is expelled through smoke stacks the size of castle towers, making it a sight so huge and strange that one could be forgiven for thinking that some massive sea-born monster, and not a ship, was out in the distance.

 That exterior, though, hides a gilded interior, full of gold and silk and all the finer things in life. At the time of Solaire’s visit, the Emperor was designed to be a floating casino resort, containing four levels of slot machines and card tables for all amounts of wealth, a large buffet-style dining hall constantly filled with the richest of foods, 2,000 rooms for guest habitation, and a huge ballroom with a massive band of 64 string instrument players, 30 brass members, 27 woodwind players, fifteen percussion members, and eight dolophone players (which I suspect to be a form of embezzlement from the conductor. I have no knowledge of such an instrument, and as a bard, I am inclined to trust my own authority on the subject.)  But despite this size, no small details were spared. Each room had gold-leafed crowning, carved frescos, painted friezes, a tasteful arrangement of exotic plants, and more details besides, in relation to the function of the room.

 This floating palace was the vision of one Mr. Weiss, pronounced in the old Eswein accent as “Mr. Vice”. He lived up to the name, too. Weiss had been the son of the senior Weiss Edgars, who controlled the large and profitable theive’s guild on the major import/export city of Snaz Snen. Junior Weiss was uninterested in most of the activities of the guild, preferring to spend his time womanizing, drinking, and ingesting all manner of illicit substances. The only piece of his father’s business that held his attention was the gambling rings the guild ran on the side. They were fascinating affairs. Weiss watched dice roll after dice roll, calculating odds and adding together wins and losses. They were driven by math, Weiss realized, so that no matter how lucky a hot streak was, the house would still come out on top. No temperamental thieves needed, and no muddling authority to worry about. Just simple numbers and disgusting amounts of cash.

 That was all the encouragement he needed. Weiss applied his mind into the creation of more ingenious gambling machines, and if his patents are any indication, Weiss was quite intelligent. He created the first slot mechanisms, and combined the invention with a clever application of psychology to construct the first slot machines, perfect temptresses that lured in the unsuspecting with low buy-ins and utilized small winning payouts with the promise of large jackpots until the player became hopelessly addicted to pulling the small lever. He made the roulette wheel, the perfect arbiter of randomness, designed dice games with higher payouts but lower chances to win, added decks into decks to frustrate card-counting, and dozens more additions aside. Soon, the casinos were raking in more money in one night than a master thief could make in a year.

 Which is when Weiss had a new vision: a ship. A massive ship, more like a luxury island, in which members of all economic brackets could climb aboard and sail away for a week, or a month, or longer, enjoying a vacation free of all the stresses awaiting them on shore. A perfect retreat. But it would require entertainment, which is why it would also be filled to the brim with gambling pastimes. A perfect captive audience. Even those not interested would eventually cave to boredom. And Weiss would slip in his numbing, addictive number games into every member aboard. When they were dropped off, they’d owe far more money than they ever paid for their ticket, and Weiss would be there every day, captaining this ferry of sin and its damned passengers.

 I apologize again, but I wanted to give you an appreciation of the perfect application of sinister design that Weiss had set up before Solaire starts to systematically smash it. It makes the next several parts far more entertaining to read.

 ***

 Weiss was currently seated in the top lounge, enjoying the company. He was an equal-opportunity corrupter, so the ship was divided up into four main levels, each catering to a different economic class bracket. The top level was only for the highest spenders, aristocrats and politicians, those who could casually withdraw hundreds of gold coins from their pockets. As such, it was his favorite company to keep.

 At the moment, he was talking to the Dinan ambassador to Archone, with one arm around a gorgeous woman and another on a bottle of artisan beer (an oxymoron if I ever heard one). He was small, only five foot two (well, five feet even, but we’ll be polite and ignore the platform bottoms of his shoes), but he made up for it in pure personality. Weiss was an animated man, using his arms as much as his hands when he talked and waggling his eyebrows so frequently one might worry they were about to fly off. He was dressed, as always, very dapperly; in a velvet red suit accented in gold thread, a top hat of similar style and color perched atop a head of white hair. His cane was seated by his side.

 Weiss laughed. “And so, zat’s vhen I said to him…”

 A loud buzzing interrupted him, coming from the brass pipe attached to the wall on his left. It was the ship’s internal communication system, a series of pipes he designed that contained and amplified sound waves so that any important communication could be delivered at anytime, anywhere on the ship.

 He glared at it annoyed.

 It stopped buzzing for a second, then began buzzing again.

 Weiss sighed. “Excuse me for a second, but I musht attend to zis.”

 He walked over to the vibrating pipe, dragged it down to mouth level, and asked “Vhat is it?”

 “Um, we’ve got someone who asking to purchase a ticket for the current voyage” the voice on the other line said.

 Weiss eyebrows knit together in annoyance.“You called me about a shtowaway?”

 “No sir. He’s outside the ship.”

 “...vhat?”

 “He’s currently sailing alongside us, calling out to the crew that he wants to purchase a ticket.”

 “But ve are 500 miles away from land.”

   “Yes sir.”

 Weiss rubbed his eyes. “Has he identified himself?”

 “Hold on.” A brief moment passed. “He says his name is ‘Solaire Ravenheart.’”

 “Ravenheart…” Weiss muttered. His memory was photographic, so it only took him a second to recall the name and the man. Yes, youngest of the line. He’d been here once or twice, top deck, too, but each time he looked mostly bored and uninterested. In all honesty, he got more use out of the free bar than any gambling table. He’d never shown up again, and Weiss had written the man off as a lost cause.

 “Sir?”

 “Does he know vhat ticket he vants to purchase?”

 “Month long ticket, top deck.”

 “Does he have ze 500 gold?”

 “He claims he does.”

 Weiss thought for a moment. This was highly irregular. No doubt there were some fishier motives at play. But at the same time, holding a Ravenheart in one’s pocket was far from a bad thing…

 “Let him aboard. After you collect payment.” Weiss began to walk away, then paused. “And tie up his schip to tow behind us. Claim confenience, record as collateral.”

 “Yes sir.”

 Weiss shook his head and walked back over to his two companions. “Apologies for ze interruption. Vhere vere ve?”

 “You were in the middle of telling us about meeting the Baron of Oskus, babe” the pretty blonde said.

 “Ah yes! So, zere I was, worsht hangofer I hafe efer had, sittink on my own tophat of all zings! And the Baron was zere, layink on ze craps table, so I turned to him and said…”

 The brass pipe vibrated again.

 Weiss’ smile went tight. “I turned to him and said…”

 The pipe gave another vibration, only louder.

 “One moment.” He stomped over to the pipe. “VHAT?!”

 “Um, sorry sir,” the voice stammered, “but it doesn’t look like he has all of it.”

 “All of vhat?”

 “The gold. It’s close. 487, I think. He says a few pieces fell overboard.”

 “Jusht let him on!”

 “Alright. Also, there’s blood…”

 “Lishten to me.” Weiss drew the pipe down lower so that he could lean over it, as if trying to intimidate the brass instrument, “I. Don’t. Care. Gife him ze ticket, tow his schip, and deal wis any problems yourself. If I hear one more call about zis man, I will demote you from whatefer position you hafe now to boiler fuel, UNDERSHTOOD?”

 “Y-yes sir!”

 Weiss rolled his eyes and turned back to his two companions. “Perhaps we schould retire to a prifate room, no?”

Solaire walked about the ship, taking in every detail he could. He’d been here twice with his father during a few fruitless attempts to connect with his son, and Solaire had found it boring each time. Too civilized. Solaire hadn’t been able to understand how these paper cards and ivory dice were supposed to get the blood flowing. In a tavern, sure, where you were cheating and he was cheating and everyone was just waiting to catch someone cheating so that they could start a brawl. But not here, where even the sharp corners were blunted down so that no one could hurt themselves and besmirch the memory of their vacation.

 But then again, now he was here for a reason. Weiss had consigned the large payment for River, which means that he knew something. Or had something written down. And seeing as he couldn’t just walk up and ask him, he had to spend some time figuring out how to get that information. And yes, finding that ship with the gold was a good omen. He needed to rob someone to get aboard and in a position to talk to Weiss, as most of his wealth was now buried in the ground. Finding a mark that easy had to be a sign that fate was smiling at him right now. But that was no excuse to get sloppy.

 Every detail mattered, he thought. He kept his eyes and ears wide, watching the customers, the servants, the large, eight-foot tall, thin and golden clockwork automatons with long blades for arms watching the crowd (those weren’t there last time, were they?), smelling the food, observing the crew, listening to the “SCHINK, clack, clack, clack, *tink*, DING! Clatterclatterclatterclatterclatter” of a nearby slot machine.

 Solaire stopped. Had he heard that right?

 He walked over to another slot machine, being played by another woman, listening closely to the mechanism inside.

 She dropped a coin inside and pulled the large lever, spinning the little symbols inside. “SCHINK”. She pulled the lever again, stopping the spinning symbols. “Clack, clack, clack.” No symbols matched.

 Solaire waited as she pulled out another coin.

 Lever. “SCHINK!” Lever again. “Clack, clack, clack *tink*” The symbols matched this time, prompting a “DING!” and the “clatterclatterclatterclatter” of falling coins. She yelped for joy and scooped up her winnings, rushing off to another section of the ship.

 Solaire approached the slot machine. So, he had heard that right. There was a tink. A familiar tink, at that.

 Back when he was younger, his parents deluged him with tutor after tutor, under the claim that they needed to educate him, when in reality they were really just trying to keep him busy so that they didn’t have to deal with him. Part of that process was trying to find something the young lad was interested enough in to keep him sitting still for more than five minutes. For a while, they found that he was interested in mechanical systems, particularly locksmithing, but they soon realized Solaire was far more interested in figuring out how to bypass such locks than making more.

 It was a bit too late, as they found that out after a nearby temple had him arrested for breaking into their mausoleum, and by that point, the damage had been done. Solaire had never forgotten about what he learned and locks would forever be his easy to persuade friends.

 Now, Solaire knew that there were two types of locks. One was the tumble lock, the classic configuration that required a specially-cut key to move the small pins that kept the lock from moving. They required a skilled hand and a small piece of metal to manipulate open. But the other kind, combination locks, were made with spinning disks that, when properly aligned, would catch on a small bar and remove it, allowing the door to swing open. All you needed to open those was a well-tuned ear to hear the sound of the disk catching.

 A sound that was a very particular tink.

 Solaire moved around to the face of the machine, looking it over. A familiar, childish emotion, that of troublemaking curiosity, washed over him.

 If that was the case, then the way these slot machines worked was to spin the symbols so fast that they landed on a random configuration. If all three disks lined up to the same notch (and, by extension, the three symbols outside), the machine would be able to open up a door inside and dispense coins. If not, the machine’s attempt to open the door would be thwarted and remain closed. No coins. So if you could make sure all the disks spun together, and introduce some friction into the machine so that, when it got to the matching notches, it didn’t have enough momentum to overcome the divots…

 Solaire walked over to the large buffet table, scanning the tables until he arrived at the end, where the desserts and drinks were kept. Past the cakes, the cream, the iced cream, the puddings… aha! Sugar. Plain and simple sugar. Solaire took two of the cups nearby and filled them both up with sugar. Then he moved over to the tea station and placed just a tiny bit of boiling water in one. Stirring it with a spoon, he managed to mix it into a thick and sticky sludge. Then he came back to the slot machine.

 No one had touched it, which meant that the symbols were still in their winning position. Taking the spoon out, he carefully poured the concrete-like mixture into the spaces in between each symbol cylinder. After ensuring there were no bubbles of air between the cylinders, Solaire blew on the mixture with his mouth, watching it dry quickly in the hot air of the enclosed gaming area. Then he took the cup of dry sugar and poured it into the open display window. With the cylinders together and the grains placed into the spinning mass, Solaire put a coin in and pulled the handle.

 There was a grinding sound as the gears attempted to chew through the foreign material. The symbols shook and vibrated, then began to rotate slowly, chugging along with the determination only a machine can muster. It took nearly three minutes for the slots to rotate around once, and once they did so, there was a *tink* as the three matching symbols returned to their former spot on the display and stopped, followed by a loud DING! and the clatter of coins.

 Soliare put one of the coins in and, while waiting for the slots to finish a second tortured journey, took off his top hat and scooped the coins inside. Once he was finished, there was another DING! Followed by more coins. Solaire repeated. He won again. Repeat. Win. Repeat. Win.

 By this time, a small crowd had gathered around the suspiciously lucky man. While they watched and murmured to themselves, one of the clockwork automatons raised his head and walked over to the machine. With a set of whirring, clicking steps, he pushed his way through the crowd to get to the man now placing the coins in his pockets.

 “PASSENGER” it croaked, “YOU HAVE BEEN WITNESSED TAMPERING WITH CASINO EQUIPMENT AND WINNING A STATISTICALLY UNLIKELY NUMBER OF TIMES. PLEASE FORFEIT THOSE WINNINGS AND COME WITH ME.”

 Solaire turned about calmly to face the giant metal contraption. “Ah, well you see, I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”

 The deck went quiet in expectation. Even the automaton clicked a little softer.

 Solaire reached into his hat and threw a handful of coins at the thing.

 There was immediate chaos. The passengers began clambering over each other, trying to grab the valuable coins out of the air. The automaton tried to make his way through into the center, shouting “GUESTS, PLEASE STOP. THOSE WINNINGS DO NOT BELONG TO YOU.” The few people who weren’t watching the scene unfold were watching now, witnessing the long, spindly robot try to delicately shove people aside with its large bladed arms.

 And Solaire ran, hat of coins cradled in his arms.

 An alarm bell began to sound. “ALL PASSENGERS AND NON SECURITY CREW” the robots began to call at once “PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR QUARTERS. WE WILL DEAL WITH THIS SHORTLY AND APOLOGIZE FOR YOUR INCONVENIENCE.” As they repeated the announcement over and over, they moved towards Solaire, moving in a not quite a run but not quite a walk towards the fleeing noble.

 Solaire gritted his teeth and fumbled inside his coat for the pistols stored there. For a brief moment, his fingers brushed against the Ivory River, but he decided against it; the ammunition for that gun was rare and who knows when he would be able to acquire more. Instead, he grabbed the regular flintlock revolver and aimed it at the lead robot.

 “Apologize for this, you metal bastard” he growled and pulled the trigger.

 The bullet hit the side of its chest and bounced off with a resounding “PING!”

 “WE APOLOGIZE THAT YOUR ESCAPE IS FUTILE.”

 Solaire grimaced and shot again.

 This time it PINGed off the top of its shiny head.

 “PLEASE COME WITH US SO THAT YOU MAY BE DETAINED AND/OR EXECUTED, DEPENDING ON THE NATURE OF YOUR CRIME. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE THIS MAY CAUSE.”

 Solaire took a deep breath, raised the gun one more time, and closed an eye as he lined the barrel with his open eye.

 This time, the bullet landed in the center of the lead robot’s head, causing a smash of glass as it entered the lense set there.

 “WE APOLOGIZE, BUT THIS UNIT IS BLIND.” The automaton tried to take another step and placed its long leg right onto a small cart filled with dirty dishes. The cart shot forward, causing the robot to fall backwards onto the robot immediately behind it. It, in turn, toppled over too, knocking into another nearby unit, and pretty soon the first formation of nine were spinning around and falling over, like tops losing speed.

 People were screaming now, panickedly running this way and that. Another formation of robots appeared over the mass of their fallen brethren. Solaire muttered a soft curse and weaved through the crowd. After pushing his way past a group of dashing tourists, he managed to get to a section of exposed deck free from people and break into a full-on sprint.

 “Halt thief!”

 A mass suddenly hit Solaire in the back, causing him to fall forwards and spill the golden coins all over the deck. The mass stayed there and pointed a blade that Solaire could feel on the back of his neck. “This is Emperor security, and you are under arrest for the theft of- holy shit!”

 Solaire managed to squirm his way around to face his attacker. It was a man, a muscled one, at that, with short black hair and fair skin, dressed in red and brown leathers. He was pointing a hooked sword at Solaire’s neck, a matching one gripped in the other hand, but his eyes were looking at the mass of spilled coins splayed out across the floor.

 He was sitting directly on his chest, which meant that Solaire couldn’t get his arms up off the ground. Time to improvise.

 “Hey, you!” he called out to the man on top of him.

 He looked down to Solaire.

 “You help me get out of here, and I’ll split that 50/50 with you.” Solaire said.

 “It’s my job to catch you,” the man replied, but Solaire could detect the waver in his voice.

 “Your job worth that much?” he asked.

 The man licked his lips, then stood up and offered Solaire a hand. Solaire grabbed it and  they stood just in time to watch one formation of robots approach from behind, and one in front.

 “You get the ones in the back, I get the ones in the front?” the man asked.

 “Sounds good” Solaire replied, readying his pistol.

 A chorus of gunshots rang out on the deck as both men unloaded their guns onto the opposing force. Solaire aimed at his group and fired. The first PINGed, the second PANGed, but the third found a weak hinge at the knee, toppling one over and watching it become speared by the footsteps of its companions. Solaire lined up a fourth shot that entered the chest of another one right where the heart would be, causing the machine’s movements to become slow and jerky until it stopped marching all together. He aimed once more at the still approaching forms and…

 *click*

 The gun was empty.

 He turned around to see how his new found friend was doing. The man was swinging from banister to banister, using the hook on his sword to hurl himself through the air while the other hand aimed a large pepperbox-looking pistol at the automatons, chipping them away with hit-and-run tactics.

 In one smooth motion, Solaire grabbed the hat, scooped a majority of the spilled coins back into it, and ran into a nearby staircase before either the oncoming robots or his ally could stop him.

 Down the stairs he went, down to the second deck, the sanctioned area of the well-to-do working class of the ship. As silently as he could, he cracked open the door of the staircase and peered out.

 The hallway was completely empty. Every door was closed and not a soul was in sight.

 Solaire crouched down, minimizing his frame and doing his best to silence the sounds of his movements. He slinked down the halway, trying each door knob until the third one proved to be unlocked as he steathfully slipped inside. 

 Inside contained the trappings of a well-furnished tavern room. Two beds with clean sheets were placed in the center of the room, as well as a writing desk and a comfortable chair. And, because this is the Emperor and the Emperor was the epitome of luxury, nearby in a little alcove was a flushing toilet, and two basins with a pipe that dispensed flowing water with the turn of a handle, one basin sized for hands and the other sized for whole bodies. A large and slightly overweight gentleman was using the hand-sized one, humming something to himself. He was dressed in a tweed suit jacket and pants in a lovely shade of dark green, with a bowler hat on top as well. His face was soft and baby-like, despite the ginger whiskers growing out of his face, and around his neck was a carved wooden necklace in the shape of a shell.

 He turned, saw Solaire, and gasped.

 Solaire pointed his pistol at him. “Don’t. Make. A. Sound.”

 The man raised his hands up over his head, spied the still-running tap, and shut it off before returning his hands to the position of surrender.

 There was a knocking at the door.

 Solaire moved over to the bed furthest away from the door, keeping his hat of coins gripped tight the whole time. Once he was there, he whispered “Answer it, and make sure to tell them that there’s no one in here but you.”

 The man nodded and moved towards the door, arms still raised.

 “Put you hands down!” Solaire hissed.

 He did so and opened it wide as Solaire ducked behind the mattress.

 “Hello? Yes? Whatever is the matter?” the man stammered.

 A crew member in a dark blue sailor’s coat did a polite bow. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but a fugitive has been spotted on the ship. We’re doing a check of the rooms to make sure he isn’t hiding in any of them.”

 The man began to sweat. “Well he isn’t here. No one here. Except me, of course! Just me. Myself. Alone. No need to check.”

 Solaire put his palm over his face in his hiding spot.

 The crewman arched an eyebrow. “Sir, is everything alright?”

 “Yes, fine, why wouldn’t it be fine?”

 “Could I just quickly check?” the crewman asked, attempting to step inside.

 The man blocked his entry. “Now now now now there’s no need for that.”

 The two began an awkward struggle over entryway. “Sir, let me through!” the crewman declared through gritted teeth.

 “Please, sir, if you would just understand” the man babbled, “I-I-I am a man of privacy. I value, I-I…”

 “This is for your own safety sir!”

 “I-I… I… I-AHCHOO!”

 The man in the tweed suit let forth an enormous sneeze. As he did, a massive cloud of sparkling green, pink, and yellow smoke filled the room and the hallway beyond, filling the area in a hazy mass of glittering smoke, obscuring vision.

 Solaire blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

 He shook his head; no time to think. Gripping the hat tight, he ran past the two men, both of whom had backed away from the door in the confusing incident. As he did, he bumped past the crewman, who called out “HEY! He’s over here!”

 “Where the blazes is over here?!” an unseen voice responded.

 Solaire bolted towards a staircase further down the hall, slamming the door open and leaping up the stairs two at a time until he reached the top deck. Barreling into it, he burst through. He was at the tail end of the ship, mere feet away from the Forlorn Rose and freedom.

 A door suddenly opened in front of him and a short man in red stepped out, smiling and saying something to someone inside. “I’m schure zat I will be back in jusht a second…”

 There was no time to react. Solaire collided with the small man at top speed. Both figures spun through the air as the gold coins went everywhere, flying into the sky before raining back down with the sound of high-pitched clattering.

 Weiss rubbed his head. “Vhat on…” He turned to Solaire. “Ze Ravenheart?!”

 Solaire reached for his pistol, but all he felt were coins. He scrambled around, trying to find the familiar shape of the handle without taking his eyes off of Weiss.

 There was a tap on his shoulder.

 Solaire turned around just in time to see a fist the size of his face rushing straight towards him.

 The blow knocked him backwards. His vision was blurred, his ears were filled with ringing, and he could feel blood trickling down his nose. Unable to think, much less move, he collapsed onto the deck floor, helpless to do anything but watch the fuzzy play unfold in front of him.

 “Ah,” the foggy short red figure said in a muffled voice, “zank you Aushtin.”

 A humongous white shape with… shark teeth? No that couldn’t be right… grinned. “No problem, boss.” He stared down to Solaire. “Nighty nighty now.”

 With no strength to do anything else, Solaire complied.

[canvaswolfdoll]

Death of the Author and Ownership of Canon

Who does the canon of a piece of media belong to? Who is the final arbiter of what is true or not within a work? What role does peripheral sources have in relation to canon?

Is the Author Dead?

This is a hot topic by artists and critics, where lines get drawn and arguments erupt.

So, as both an artist and an occasional critic, obviously I must have an opinion.

Yes, what the Author says is canon is canon.

Playing Looney Tunes Theme!

Okay, okay, let me actually dig into it.

The phrase “Death of the Author” comes from an essay by Roland Barthes, which argues that the Author has no more authority over his work than his audience, is merely the Scriptor, or the one who puts the work into readable text.

Because, apparently, art is a purely ethereal concept that just gets shoved into a creator by a genius living in their walls. Artists are merely the conduit for the work to be made manifest, and thus none of their intentions, personal concepts, or the bits of soul they place within are of any merit.

Let me admit here that I’ve not done more than skim the Wikipedia article on it, as the essay itself is dry and opens with references to a then-occurring French Political movement,[1] and requires many footnotes to contextualize it. This is the same opening that also seems to argue that an Author’s time era and geographic position so also not be considered in criticism.

But I’m not really attacking the original essay as much as the “Customer is Always Right”[2] tone it gets thrown around with nowadays. Because it’s become a handwashing phrase audiences use to reject information that conflicts with their preferred interpretations (let’s be fair, their headcanons) and creators use to avoid being held accountable for their work.

Which is a fine system for, say, a political essay or other argumentative piece, where failure to communicate the meaning is a failure of the art itself. It’s when Death of the Author is applied to a fictional work, especially a serial one with a internal world, that I bristle.

Fantasy worlds exist beyond the scope of the story, as should the characters. A lot of details are required to build these things, details that cannot always be elegantly explained in text without breaking immersion. It’s why Tolkien has his indexes and web artists have their comments, because good writing should be able to casually reference world details without throwing the reader, and great worldbuilding also makes the reader interested in discovering more.

So to look at the Author’s words and dismiss them is an insult to the work behind those words.

For an Author to say their own words have no meaning is an insult to those eager to learn more, and an act that discredits the author’s entire library (or portfolio) of work. It comes off like the author doesn’t truly care.

Which is fine if it’s work created for a paycheck. Everyone needs to do soulless work from time to time. But if it’s a personal project, then why should I feel any passion for the work if the creator is insistent what they say on it carries no weight?

So, if you make something, then, yes, you’re allowed to comment and clarify through social media. You shouldn’t plan on it, because a work, foremost, should be able to stand alone. However, if you reach someone to the point they seek out more of your world, then respect your audience enough to grant your words canon weight.

So, that’s well and good for single-author works. But what about collaborative works? Like a television show or… superhero comicbooks? Things that have so many hands on it that creative direction can get muddled?

First off (and this applies to even single-author works) the source text trumps all else. If, for example, the author says his novel is about the evils of television, but the text makes it explicitly clear that it’s just a parable about an anti-intellectual society, then, sorry Bradbury, but younger Bradbury wins the argument.

Let’s call this Law 451, because I’m going to forget I gave this rule a name so might as well go for the joke in the moment.

Returning to multi-creator works, I will always give deference to the writer of any particular segment, followed by whoever the creative director is (whether that’s the initial creator or whoever took over for them), then director,[3] then artists as it applies (ie, decisions to who gets placed in backgrounds shots and so forth).

This isn’t to say you can’t criticize execution. If the author intended for, say, (and this is a spoiler for something I won’t name) a character’s memory wiping actions to be seen as a tragic and desperate attempt at fixing past wrongs, the audience are in their rights to say that, no, it came off as irredeemable and the character ignoble for it. But the audience can’t discount the intention. Basically, a creator can say what they intended from their work, but they don’t get to dictate audience reaction.

Everyone, whether creator or audience, brings different knowledge and experience. If there’s a gap where the two should overlap, then I think the creator and audience should be granted the benefit of the doubt and permission to reach out to share knowledge. So if a creator accidentally stumbles into an unfortunate trope, hold back the anger and share the context that they’re missing. If the author subtly alludes to the politics of hair, and their audience don’t know the history, the author shouldn’t respond with passive aggression, but instead pause and think “Ah, I miscommunicated a point. How can I rectify that?” then either modify the work to make it clear or calmly share resources.

I’ve… kinda forgot where I was headed with this essay…

Oh, right!

I feel that by cutting off the author’s ability to make clarifying statements or add periphery material, you not only hobble an artist's abilities and options, but also cut off an angle of criticism. Because, while media should be able to convey its intentions by itself, no one’s perfect, and if the critic allows themselves to seek out and find the author’s intentions, they find themselves with material to compare and contrast. For poor execution, the critic can point and say ‘this is where the author wanted to go, but these are the crags that sent them off track and how to avoid it.’ Alternatively, the critic may discover facets they hadn’t previous discovered, bring to light ideas and brilliance they may not have noticed if not given new context.

Also, ‘Deleted Scenes’ and the author's notes aren’t canon. Making art is as much about the negative space as the lines you actually put down.

My stance is simple: unless the author is literally deceased, their word is canon, absolutely. And even if the author isn’t alive, anything they’ve left behind explicitly stating canon carries that weight.

Kataal kataal.

[1] Which a joke from The Goon Show teaches me are a rather frequent thing. [2] The source of which isn’t advice for a worker to let customers walk all over them, but merely not question the goods and service they seek. If a customer is buying a thing, then they are correct to buy it. That’s it. That’s what that means. [3] Though, by virtue of the longstanding ‘Director vs. Writer’ debate, I’ll happily ascribe to ‘Death of the Director’. Screw you, guy, you’re just the guy clumsily trying to bring the words to stage.

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Religion and sports: games people play

“When Europeans entered North America,” writes Arthur Remillard of the Saint Francis University, “there had been about 500 impartial Indian cultures, each with its very own particular nonsecular world view.” By Indians, Remillard here way the native Americans. The video games that the natives played “additionally carried an air of sacredness”. But the Europeans saw the games or “bodies in movement” as “an affront to Christianity, and a barrier to conversion”. These our bodies in motion were taken as evidence of “superstition”—a demonstration that Western Christianity’s “civilizing” function had but to start.

The complex relationship that game and religion have had over the centuries keeps to this day. Last week, the International Basketball Federation or Fiba, the sector governing body for basketball, ratified a brand new rule permitting players to wear headgear. The selection has been welcomed via many Islamic and Sikh groups as the brand new rule will permit gamers to wear hijab and turbans for the duration of the game. The demand to alternate the regulations in numerous sports to accommodate specific cultures has been developing for a few years now. An impetus to such demands changed into provided by Ibtihaj Muhammad, the United States fencer who has become the primary American athlete in Olympic history to wear a hijab within the Rio video games of 2016.

The media also splashed snapshots of girl seashore volleyball players from Egypt—some of them in hijab and all of them in full sleeves and length pants. This turned into in sharp assessment to their warring parties, who were attired within the bikini fashion apparel one might usually accomplice with seashore volleyball. Following these developments, Nike, one of the pinnacle worldwide sportswear brands, has announced that it’ll be coming out with a “Pro-Hijab” for Muslim athletes.

Sports ought to certainly embrace more variety. If an innocuous change in a rule or two will permit competitors from culturally different elements of the world to show off their talents, then those changes must be made. But changing guidelines can not clear up all the issues. Take the case of Heena Sidhu, the Indian shooter, as an instance. She decided to drag out of the Asian Airgun Shooting Championship in Iran last 12 months due to the compulsory hijab rule for girls contributors. The count, as it could be visible, boils down to preference. And if some choice must be taken away, which of the 2—game or religion—may be the final arbiter?

Religious Tolerance and World Peace

Religious tolerance way accepting others religions of their own way

You ought to receive religious beliefs of others and practices, even though you cannot agree with their practices or beliefs. Religious tolerance is vital as it allows us to honor and admire the differences between our religious practices. Religions every now and then separate us in terms of practices, but on the equal time, it keeps us collectively. Religious tolerance is the street to international peace. In order to construct worldwide peace, we ought to keep away from violence and follow morals which might be preached by the religions.

Alphabetical list of world religions

Both believers and non-believers are residing inside the equal society. So, it is vital to have nonsecular tolerance to hold peace amongst human beings all around the global. By understanding the essence of different religions, you’ll come to know almost all the religions are preaching the same morale. Human rights violations are because of nonsecular intolerance and such violations aggravate misunderstanding among human beings. This will get up several threats to the security globally and domestically. Solutions for nonsecular intolerance can be located within the teachings of any faith and in all spiritual teachings all over the international.

Each spiritual community has a duty in their very own in order that their preaching has to assist in ending conflicts and toughen the safety in order that worry is changed with the aid of belief. The responsibility of each man or woman is important in each religion. If you need to sense oneness and find humanity inside the mind of every individual, there ought to be a universality of religious expressions. Hence, cohesion in the range is critical in religious tolerance. It is crucial to have the sensation of oneness and humanity to preserve cooperation and peace within our globe.

Religious intolerance usually hinders love and peace

Religious intolerance is mostly because of lack of knowledge and restricted know-how. Education assists you to beautify the on secular values inside the human beings. Through education also you could expand spiritual tolerance because simplest authorities laws can’t help to prevent the religious intolerance.

You must eliminate disparity, prejudice, and hostility toward other religions even if you have no belief in the ones. You should understand other scriptures, their ideas and essence so you will recognize that all nonsecular scriptures are preaching the identical factor. Religious intolerance in no way lets you attain everywhere. Hence, it is vital to have nonsecular tolerance to keep global peace and protection.

Financial Issues in Sports Today

In our world, many troubles stand up concerning accounting troubles and techniques used to present monetary statements to the general public and to the traders. Federation International Football Association (FIFA) and the National Collegiate Athletic Association has these days been under the microscope of the general public with reference the monetary statements which have been made to be had to the public.

The World Cup is a football (soccer) tournament that started out in 1930 this is held each 4 years at a number country between qualifying countries. The event is by means of some distance the most considered sporting event in the international with a remarkable twenty-six million plus estimated visitors inside the past activities. As one could believe, u . S . A . This is offered the opportunity to host the World Cup receives an astounding spike of their financial revenue; so, the method of selecting the united states is a very calculated drawn out manner that is held via twenty or so contributors of the FIFA government committee who evaluation shows via every u. S . A . Consultant. To receive the bid a rustic ought to acquire at the least fifty-one percent of the votes; if all the nations are under the fifty-one percentage mark the bottom vote getters are removed and the bidding technique begins again.

Cbs sports march madness

In 2014, there were murmurs of perceived troubles in choosing the host united states Russia for the following World Cup extravaganza in 2018. Shortly thereafter the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) started to check out the bidding manner and determined the 2014 bidding system seemed to were manipulated by way of one or more than one folks that may want to have a connection with FIFA’s inner control. Speculation and different materials of facts have been supplied to the general public that brings inquiries to the system and the previous vote casting years. In 1999 Klynveld Peat Marwick Goeredeler (KPMG) turned into hired as the first outside auditor for FIFA to assist ensure translucently, and honest practices had been getting used. An article from the New York Times states, “Having one of the large auditors of path facilitates to give some credibility to your debts,”. (Browning, NY Times) A recreation at its core that is supposed for satisfaction for the player and viewer respectively also can hold a key part in a communities financial status; The World Cup bid being a super example, giving the winning united states of America an expected eight to twelve billion greenbacks in sales for a 3-month occasion.

A Brief History About Video Games

It is not lengthy that video games were invented

But the video games are an awful lot older than you could consider. The oldest game is the “Tennis of Two”. This game became invented by John Higginbotham in 1958. The video game of that point consisted of a horizontal line on the screen along a perpendicular lie to constitute the internet. The subsequent video game turned into invented in 1960 with “Spacewar”. The next game becomes played using the tv.

The video arcade recreation “Computer Space” got here inside the early 1970’s. So long and soon got here in new inventions of video games. Coming to the present time we now find thousands of games. These are without difficulty available. The makers of the games preserve enhancing them occasionally to manage up with the present day state of affairs.Moshi games for girls.

All the games have emerged as downloadable

Thus, people can play in their telephones and capsules alternatively of buying video games. The sport might have 3-D portraits, sensible moves, and exquisite sound best. The more and most common names of video video games are X-Box, Game Cube, PlayStation 2, and many others.

Some of the common concerns of this industry are youngsters get greater attracted to those video games. Where the video games growth their intellectual interest but reduce their physical activity. Some dad and mom even come responsible the manufacturers. Thus, the makers have added the interactive video games. The dance pads added calls for the gamers to imitate the movements of dance. Several other technology are also being followed to make the device at par with the age of the participant.