#even with a distinction between blood and adopted

[floralovebot]

How was aquaman a bad father/mentor? Also did aquaman ever see Garth as his son?

Well, before death of a prince, Arthur was mostly bad in the way all of the mentors were bad. In that they yknow,, let children fight bad guys with them and actively encouraged that actually.

But other than that, Arthur was a decent guardian! I know I tend to shit on Arthur sometimes but he honestly didn't do that bad of a job raising Garth. He insisted that Garth go to school, helped him out with his school work, did the bare minimum in feeding and housing him (well,,, they lived in a cave for a while but still), encouraged him to be friends with the titans, supported him when he wanted to be independent with Tula, consistently protected and comforted him,, I mean, as far as dc guardians go, Arthur was actually pretty good yknow?

Arthur being a Bad Dad to garth really did start with death of a prince. Like when I say that completely fucked their relationship forever, I mean it.

As for Arthur seeing Garth as a son,,, honestly, I think it's a little up for debate. His dialogue in death of a prince definitely outright says that he doesn't, but personally, I think that had more to do with Arthur being a little immature and emotionally dense. He did think of Garth as a son, he just didn't realize it until after he tried to kill him aldhg

[homunculus-argument]

Fantasy concept: The standard classic fantasy races, but humans are the species that's living the diaspora spread among other peoples' lands and cultures.

Humans are adaptible, can pick up whatever languages and customs they need to, learn to dress according to climate, are capable of digesting almost anything that the majority race commonly eat, can tolerate magic but don't need it to live, and altogether seem to find a way to live comfortably - or at least tolerably - wherever they can live at all. Many races who have humans living among them have a misconception that humans are some kind of sapient chameleons, that just automatically take the shape of their environment without thought or effort.

In truth, human communities are fairly tight-knit and have strong support networks, and they can and will immediately take in any newcomer stray humans and families, teaching them the ropes of how to live here. Not just out of the kindness of their hearts, but pragmatic reasons: one bad human or family will reflect badly on the whole population of the area. It's better to make sure that a stranger has a job than hear your own neighbour say that humans don't have jobs. It's fairly safe to assume that most humans who live in the same city know each other to some extent, but just because they're allies doesn't necessarily mean that they're friends.

While mixbreeding with the local population does happen - humans, for some reason, tend to be far more open to romantic and sexual relationships with other races than the rest, and the ones to do so have an astonishing knack for locating the one specific elf, orc, dwarf or any other who happens to find humans fuckable - and wherever the hybrid offspring aren't sterile, the human population of the area tends to aquire some majority-species blood and traits, mostly the distinct local traits of the human population of any area are cultural, taught and learned from the community.

Some elvish dialects don't have separate words for "half-elf", "a human born and raised in elvish lands", or "human who speaks fluent elvish and knows the customs", and even some elvish humans are surprised to hear that other cultures consider these to be completely separate concepts. As far as they're concerned, humans living among elves are all the same thing. Sometimes a person who's 75% elvish and only has one human grandparent, but was raised by the human side of their family, is considered human-among-elves.

And sometimes the divide between human poulations of different races and cultures is more stark than between the majority peoples themselves - while an orc clan and an elvish city-state might be willing to temporarily set aside their differences to work towards a mutual goal, the orcish humans and elvish humans among them might not.

While the human minorities among other races do have a distinct identity as humans of their own regions, this does not apply to goblins. Neither goblins nor the human populations among them make any distinction between the two at all. Both will refer to "their" humans as simply goblins, only specifying "a big one" if necessary, but even then you'll need to see the person in question to know whether they're talking about a human raised with goblins or just a particularly tall, physically large full-blooded native goblin. Goblins do not have a concept of personal property beyond "I had access to it and nobody stopped me from grabbing it, so therefore it's mine", and their humans are therefore goblins too.

Being one of the species combinations whose offspring are infertile, there's no goblin blood among their human populations save for the half-goblin individuals themselves, but considering that spontaneous adoption by simply herding unsupervised orphans into one's home is a commonplace, widely accepted practice and not any more unusual a way to start a family than having biological children, the individuals in question are largely unbothered by it.

While the humans-born-among-goblins aknowledge that they are human, they genuinely do not understand the concept of why one couldn't be both a full 100% human and a full 100% goblin at the same time. While humans from other cultures are confused and annoyed by their insistence, they'll have to agree that any person who'll come to your house as a guest (most likely unprompted and uninvited) and will just casually snatch a bug off your floor and eat it right in front of you, and then interpret the look on your face to mean that they were supposed to ask permission first is definitely a whole, entire full goblin.

The goblin-humans take this as a compliment.

[ghoulsbounty]

From a Previous Life (Pt 3)

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Preg!Reader

Summary: You rush to the Ghoul's aid, but find that hospitality doesn't come cheap in the wasteland.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, pregnancy, talk of cannibalism, mention of child loss, canon-typical violence, blood, angst, grief, yearning, rejection.

Word Count: 8.8K

A/N: This is late! I'm sorry this wasn't finished last week, but it took me a while to get the ending to a place where I was happy with it. Part 4 coming up next! I'd love to know what you think 💌

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

In the weeks that followed, a palpable tension thickened the air, suffusing every moment with a sense of unease. The Ghoul, ever cautious and seemingly intent on minimizing any unnecessary interaction, forwent sleep altogether. Instead, he adopted the role of a silent sentinel, perched upon whatever seating deemed acceptable as he watched over the entryways of your temporary shelters. There he would remain, a solitary figure in the dim moonlight filtering through shattered windows, his hat pulled low over his ghoulish features, shrouding them in shadow.

As you lay awake, restless and watchful, your gaze was repeatedly drawn to him, silently pleading for him to abandon his post and join you in the refuge of your shared space. Still, he remained steadfast, his bed beside you still empty and unused by your departure the following morning.

During the days, you travelled in silence under the relentless glare of the blistering sun, each step bringing you closer to your elusive destination. You would pause occasionally, your keen eyes scanning the barren landscape for any sign of abandoned treasures that could be sold for a fine price. Each discovery was accompanied by a hopeful glance towards your companion, a silent plea for approval. More often than not, his response was a grunt or a dismissive shrug, leaving you to carry the weight of your excitement and disappointment alone.

He had truly reverted back to the aloof and distant man he had been before that fleeting moment of connection shared around the crackling fire—the night he had gifted you the Pip-Boy. It had felt like a heavy reminder of the vast divide between you, a symbol of the distance that must remain for your child's safety.

The internal struggle waged within you relentlessly, tearing at the fabric of your resolve as you walked alongside him. On one hand, the instinct to protect your child, to prioritize their safety above all else, pulsed through your veins like a guiding light. But on the other hand, an undeniable longing stirred within you, a selfish desire to throw caution to the wind and reach out for him, to seek the comfort of the companionship you had felt briefly.

You remembered the warmth of his arms briefly wrapped around you, the intimacy of talking freely together like you had done that night by the fire. The memory tugged at your heartstrings, igniting a fierce longing that threatened to overwhelm your senses. And despite your best efforts to bridge the conversational gap, to break through the walls he had erected around himself, he remained stubbornly distant.

The silence between you grew more pronounced with each passing day, a distinct barrier that seemed to stretch endlessly between you. You couldn't help but feel a sense of resignation settle over you. Some divides were simply too vast to bridge, and perhaps, you thought with a heavy heart, yours and the Ghoul's were among them.

It wasn't until one particularly hot mid-afternoon as you battled against a relentless radscorpion that had sprung at you from beneath an overturned refrigerator in that evenings shelter, the Ghoul's patience reached its limit. With a single, precise shot from his magnum, he dispatched the giant arachnid before turning to you with a sour expression.

"Outside," his voice commanded, firm and unwavering.

You followed behind him obediently, watching in silence as he collected the empty Nuka-Cola bottles scattered on the porch and lined them up along the railing. Once satisfied with his work, he turned to you and nodded, signalling you to follow him. Together, you descended the steps and moved further away until you reached a spot that provided a clear shot at the makeshift targets.

You eyed him cautiously, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of your resolve as you waited for his next instruction. But when his gaze settled expectantly on the gun holstered at your hip, you knew what you were to do. With quick hands, you fumbled to unholster the weapon, your fingers closing around its familiar grip as you prepared to face the challenge that lay ahead.

Despite the sweltering heat and the sweat that trickled down your brow, you squared your shoulders and raised your weapon, determined to prove yourself to the Ghoul—to show him that you were capable of holding your own beside him. And as you took aim at the makeshift targets, a sense of determination surged through you. Today, you vowed, would be the day you proved yourself worthy of his respect.

Pulling back the hammer, you let out a shaky breath as you pinched the trigger. The shot rang out, reverberating through your body like a thunderclap as you felt the recoil jolt through your arms. Taking a step back to steady yourself, you lowered the gun and peered ahead at the targets, your heart sinking as you realized that all five bottles remained stubbornly intact, mocking you from their perch.

A sense of annoyance bubbled up inside you, mingling with the disappointment that weighed heavy in the pit of your stomach. You heard the Ghoul sigh from his spot to your right, where he leaned against a a utility pole with his arms crossed.

"Again," he said, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation. "And keep your eyes open this time."

His words jolted you out of your reverie, pulling you back to the present moment with a sharp clarity. Despite the simmering frustration within you, you nodded in acknowledgment, steeling yourself for another attempt with the gun raised.

"Feet further apart," he instructed, his tone firm and authoritative. Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and adjusted your stance, grit crunching beneath your boot. You heard him tut, then suddenly felt him beside you. His heavy boot kicked at the inside of your own, widening your stance even further. His gloved hands pressed against your shoulder with a firm tap, guiding you into position before withdrawing just as quickly. "Again."

As the Ghoul moved back to his post, you steadied the gun out before you, pushing down the giddiness that surged through you like a current. It was an unexpected sensation, sparked by the lingering heat left behind by his brief touch—the first physical contact he had initiated since your embrace around the fire. You took aim at the first bottle, and with the memory of his guidance in your mind, you pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, its echo reverberating through the desolate wasteland. A split second later, the sharp noise of the bottle smashing reached your ears, the shattered pieces scattering across the ground like sparkling jewels.

"Yes!" you exclaimed triumphantly, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you raised your arms above your head in victory. Turning to your mentor with a wide grin, you hoped for words of praise, but you were instead met with a stoic nod of approval, his expression unreadable as he regarded you with a steady gaze. Disappointment panged in your chest, a fleeting moment of deflation amidst the rush of triumph.

"Four more, then you can celebrate," he gestured towards the remaining targets and you eyed him with defeat as your arms dropped to your side.

Eyebrows furrowed in determination, you rolled you neck as you prepared yourself. A brief glimmer of pride flickered in his eyes as he watched you turn back towards your targets with a raised weapon.

"Four more, then you cook dinner," you countered and he laughed quietly, a short huff of air out his nose that was barely perceptible.

As the afternoon wore on, you focused all your concentration on the task at hand, determined to prove yourself capable not just to the Ghoul but to yourself. With each bullet that flew past its target, the Ghoul's sighs of irritation echoed in the stifling air.

He had retreated to the scant shade offered by a nearby fence, his slumped posture a testament to the oppressive heat that hung heavy in the air. From his vantage point, he observed your progress with a stoic demeanour, offering little in the way of encouragement as you struggled to find your mark. Still, you refused to be deterred by his silence, channelling your frustration and determination into each shot. With each miss, you adjusted your stance, honing your focus. Finally, the satisfying sound of shattering glass filled the air as the last bottle exploded into a thousand pieces, scattering across the ground.

Pride swelled within you as you looked down at your gun, a tool that had once seemed so foreign and intimidating. In that moment, a sense of awe washed over you as you realized just how far you had come from the life you had once known. The image of yourself as a wife, a homemaker, seemed like a distant memory, a remnant of a time before the world had been plunged into chaos. 

As you stood there, gun in hand, dirt under your nails, and a sense of purpose burning within your soul, you couldn't help but wonder how absurd your former self would find this scene. The thought of her reaction brought a smile to your lips, a bittersweet reminder of the person you had once been, and the person you were becoming.

A slow clap from behind you drew your attention, and you turned to see your partner walking towards you, his lips pulled into a wry smile. "Well, as long as no one moves, you might just cut it."

Despite his teasing, you welcomed the familiar banter, a reminder of the rapport that had developed between you before it's abrupt end. With a smile, you looked him over, a wave of gratitude washing over you. "Thank you, for this," you said, gesturing with the gun towards the broken glass. "I feel like The Man From Deadhorse."

With a playful grin, you raised your gun towards the Ghoul, a glint of mischief in your eyes. "I hope you like the taste of lead, you commie son of a bitch."

The sudden shift in atmosphere caught you off guard, the playful jest dying on your lips as the Ghoul's demeanour transformed with alarming speed. Before you could react, he closed the distance between you with swift, purposeful strides, his grisly features contorted with rage.

In the blink of an eye, he knocked the gun from your hand, the dull thud as it buried into the sand was loud in the tense quiet. Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched in stunned silence, your wide eyes snapping back to him when he seized your arms in a vice-like grip.

"You don't play like that, you hear?" he scolded, his voice low and harsh, the intensity of his gaze drilling into you like a laser. His leather-clad fingers dug into your flesh, leaving behind faint impressions as he held you firmly in place.

With a shaky nod, you swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as you replied, "I hear you." The tension hung thick in the air between you. "It was from a movie, I didn't mean nothing by it."

As he regarded you, the intensity of his grip slowly eased, his features softening marginally as he released you from his grasp. Though his anger still simmered beneath the surface, there was a hint of remorse in his eyes, a silent apology for his outburst. "This ain't no movie, darlin'."

"I know that," you said wistfully.

"Then act like it," he grunted, a wheezing cough escaping him before turning away. "Let's get moving," he muttered, his voice tinged with resignation as he retrieved the gun from the sand and handed it back to you.

You holstered your gun, a sense of caution settling over you as you eyed him warily, your footsteps echoing softly against the gravel path as you followed him back to your shelter. He stopped abruptly a few steps ahead, his posture rigid as he doubled over, sputtering into his closed fist.

Instinctively, you moved toward him, concern etched into your features, but you halted in your tracks at the sight of his outstretched hand. "Get back," he rasped, his voice strained, a clear warning in his tone.

You watched with growing unease as he struggled to regain his composure, each laboured breath sounding like a heavy weight upon his chest. The deep, chest-rattling wheeze that emanated from him sent a shiver down your spine, but despite the urge to rush to his aid, you knew better than to defy his command. With a reluctant step backward, you maintained a cautious distance, your eyes never leaving him as you waited anxiously for the bout of coughing to pass.

The coughing had started a few days prior, coming sporadically but with increasing frequency, especially when the Ghoul worked himself up. At first, you had dismissed it as the inevitable toll of his years spent wandering through dust and dirt, but as the days passed and you witnessed the panic in his eyes one evening while he counted his stock of liquid-filled vials, you knew it was something more. The sight of his trembling hands, the frantic glint in his tired eyes, sent a chill down your spine,

You didn't fully understand the significance of the vials, only that they were his medicine—but for what ailment, you couldn't be certain. You had assumed it was for pain, a necessary relief for someone who had endured the relentless exposure to radiation for so long. You knew better than to ask him about it directly. Even in moments of calm, when the worry over his dwindling supply wasn't etched into his furrowed brow, you knew that prying into something so personal would be met with resistance.

The Ghoul staggered back to the shelter and you followed behind him with growing concern, your heart pounding in your chest. You watched in silence as he grasped the stair rails for support, his normally steady gait now faltering. It was a sight you had never witnessed before—him weakened and vulnerable—and fear shot through you like a bolt of lightning, unwelcome thoughts of what this could mean racing through your mind.

You quickly put the invasive thoughts aside, hurrying to join him inside where you found him hunched over his saddlebag. His movements were frenzied as he loaded a vial into the inhaler that distributed the medicine. With a deep, shaky breath, he puffed the inhaler, the sound echoing loudly in the confined space. Minutes stretched into eternity as he fought to regain control of his breathing, his chest heaving with each ragged inhale.

You held your breath in anticipation, watching as his chest heaved and then settled, but your frown deepened when a groan escaped him. He threw himself back against the wall, his movements laboured and unsteady. His arms hung limp at his sides, the inhaler discarded and forgotten on the ground beside him. His hat slipped from his head, tumbling to the dirtied tiles below, leaving his bald head glistening with perspiration, the droplets of sweat trickling down his tired face.

It was a sobering sight, one that filled you with a sense of helplessness as you stood before him, unsure of what to do to alleviate his suffering.

"Told you to stay away," he breathed, his voice weary as he met your gaze, exhaustion evident in his eyes. "I'm fine," he muttered, though the strain in his voice betrayed his words. "Just need to close my eyes."

As his eyes fluttered shut, you moved to his saddlebag with haste, your heart pounding in your chest as you searched desperately for another vial to bring him back to you. But as your trembling hands sifted through the contents, your heart sank like a stone—empty. He had been rationing his vials for days now, telling you there was a place up ahead to get more, but that you weren't to come with him. Another one of his solo trips.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you realized that he was going nowhere in this condition. His shallow breathing reduced you to panic as you fumbled at the inside of his heavy duster, your hands shaking with urgency. Ignoring the incessant clicking of the dosimeter, you pulled out a weathered map that he had drawn up at the beginning of your journey, showing you just how far you had to go until you'd find the haven and the stops that you'd make between.

Your gaze swept over the roughly sketched lines and symbols, tracing the route ahead with a growing sense of urgency. Finally, your eyes landed on a cluster of squares topped with triangles, situated close to the location you recognized as your shelter on the map. Beside them, a lone letter "V" was scrawled, signalling the area designated for his next collection of vials. The distance seemed manageable, just a half-day's journey at most—perhaps even less if you pushed yourself.

The prospect of venturing out alone was daunting, yet despite the risk of leaving him vulnerable, of being scolded for leaving upon your return, you knew there was no alternative. He relied on those vials, and you relied on him.

With a heavy heart, you removed his gun from its holster, carefully positioning his gloved hand around its grip before settling it on his lap. Adjusting his hat back on his head to shroud his closed eyes, you hoped that any passing traveller might be deterred by the implication of a formidable foe awaiting their approach.

Taking a deep breath, you glanced back at your companion one last time, the weight of your decision settling heavily upon you. With a silent prayer for his safety, you asked him to wish you luck before turning away and setting off towards your new destination, determined to retrieve the vials and save the Ghoul.

The two-story house stood large and imposing before you, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon casting long shadows across the grounds. Its faded white paint was peeling, revealing the weather-beaten wood beneath, and its roof sagged precariously as if it could collapse at any moment. The yard, overgrown with tall grass and weeds, was littered with the carcasses of rusty, broken-down vehicles and an assortment of discarded debris, each piece a story of neglect and abandonment.

Stepping onto the sprawling porch, the creak of the wooden boards seemed to echo through the still air as you steadied your nerves. You rapped your knuckles against the front door that hung slightly ajar. 

"Whaddya want?" a disgruntled voice hollered from inside, and you stepped back as the door was torn open to reveal a man, his greying hair unkempt and greasy, clinging to his weathered face that was etched with deep lines and one large, pink scar from eye to jaw. "Well, what is it?"

Clearing your throat to dispel the tension, you attempted a friendly smile as you greeted him. "Hello, I'm hoping you can help me," you began, holding the unfolded map up to show him. With a pointed finger, you indicated the spot marked by the Ghoul with a "V." "I'm looking for vials, is this where I can get them?"

He peered closer to the map, beady eyes squinting as he considered it. With a dirty hand, he rubbed at the white stubble of his chin as he hummed, his gaze flicking over you quickly before straightening. "Vials, you say? You're in luck," he gave you a toothy smile, displaying his blackened teeth.

Despite the turn in your stomach, you breathed a sigh of relief. Tucking the map away in the side of your bag, you smiled gratefully. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that," you laughed.

"Well, don't dilly-dally on my porch all night, girl," he said, ushering you inside.

Stepping into the dimly lit home, you were hit by the musty scent of decay and mould. The house was cluttered, filled with stacks of old newspapers, broken furniture, and various knickknacks. The man led you through a narrow hallway into a small room that served as both a living space and a workshop. A cluttered table sat against one wall, covered in tools, scraps of metal, and various mechanical parts.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing to a rickety chair near the table. "I'll see what I got."

You sat down cautiously, the chair creaking under your weight. The man rummaged through a pile of junk on a nearby shelf, muttering to himself as he searched. After a few tense moments, he produced a small wooden box and placed it on the table in front of you.

"Here they are," he said, his tone gruff. "How many you need?"

You glanced at box, your heart pounding with a mix of relief and anxiety. "I need as many as you can spare. How much for all of them?"

The man scratched his head, considering your request. "Caps, or trade?" he asked, eyeing your bag.

"I have caps," you replied, reaching into your bag and pulling out a small pouch. You poured the caps onto the table, counting them quickly. "Is this enough?"

He scooped up the caps, weighing them in his hand before shaking his head. "Not hardly," he said, pocketing them as he stared down at you expectantly. You quickly fumbled in your bag, trying to find something to offer. "How about that there contraption?"

Your eyes followed his to the Pip-Boy on your wrist. What would the Ghoul say if you returned without it? He had insisted you keep it on, gifting it to you as a means of gaining some semblance of control that you desperately wanted. Granted it had recently become an unwanted reminder that loneliness would be your only companion until you met your baby, but he wouldn't want you to trade it. Yet he wasn't here, and you were in desperate need of those vials.

"Please, anything else," you pleaded, one last ditch attempt at negotiation as you rifled through the contents of your bag. "I have scrap, copper, toothpaste, you can even have my gun," you continued, listing your items in a desperate ramble before throwing your gun onto the table beside you. 

The man's narrow gaze swept over the array of items you had laid out, his expression a mask of disdain. Without hesitation, he seized your bag and upended its contents onto the worn tabletop. With a rough hand, he sifted through the items, emitting grunts of disapproval as he scrutinized each one.

"No, no good," he muttered, crossing his arms in a gesture of finality. "That thing's worth more than all that junk combined." His lip curled in distaste as he indicated the Pip-Boy resting on your wrist. "It's the gadget or no deal."

Desperation gnawed at you. You needed those vials; the Ghoul's life depended on it. Leaving empty-handed wasn't an option. Fighting back tears, you took a deep breath and looked up at the man, striving to keep your voice steady. "Fine, it's a deal," you conceded, fingers trembling as you unclasped the precious device from your wrist, placing it reluctantly into his filthy palms.

His cracked lips curled into a predatory grin as he regarded his newfound treasure. With a casual shove, he pushed the box of vials across the table towards you. Eagerly, you reached for it, anticipation tingling in your fingertips. But as you pried open the lid, hope turned to bitter disappointment at the sight within.

"There are only three vials here," you stated, disbelief colouring your voice. "We agreed on the Pip-Boy for everything you've got."

A mirthless chuckle escaped the man's throat as he he leaned back against the table, a smug gleam in his eyes. "There it is," he declared, gesturing towards the meagre contents of the box in your hands. "Lesson learned, darlin'. Always check the goods before sealing the deal."

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and frustration, cursing yourself inwardly for falling prey to such a blatant deception. Anger surged within you, fuelled by both the injustice of the situation and the man's smug satisfaction.

"That's not fair!" Your voice rose, laced with indignation, drawing a startled expression from the man across the table.

"Now listen here, you little-"

"What's all this hoo-ha about?" a woman's voice interrupted him as she entered the room. She was about the same age as the man, greying and wrinkled, but whereas his face was stern, hers warmed when she saw you. Her hands went to the apron tied around her thin waist, wiping at the dirty fabric as she spoke. "Well, who do we have here?"

The man released an exasperated sigh, his patience wearing thin. "Just a fool not knowing when a deal is done," he muttered, flinging your empty bag in your direction. "Collect your shit and hit the road."

Before you could react, her hand shot out with startling speed, connecting with the back of his head with a resounding smack. He recoiled, irritation contorting his features as he rubbed the offended spot.

"Goddamn, woman!" he exclaimed, shooting her a venomous glare. "She got the chems, I held up my end of the bargain."

Her eyebrows arched inquisitively as she scrutinized you. "And what might someone like you want with those?"

"My friend, he's unwell," you explained, rising from your seat to begin to deposit your items back in the bag. 

"So, he sent you to fetch them," she deduced.

You nodded, choosing your words carefully as you gauged the situation. Despite her apparent kindness, you sensed it wise to withhold certain details of your predicament. "Something along those lines," you replied cautiously, then pointed to the three vials. "I just hoped there were more."

"There are more," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she delivered a swift reprimand to the man beside her. "Edwin, why are you lying to this poor girl?"

Edwin, still nursing a sore spot on his head from her earlier blow, shot her a disgruntled look. "Can't a man try and make a profit in this economy?"

Ignoring his protest, she turned her attention back to you, a friendly smile gracing her features. "My husband will whip up as many vials as you need, don't you fret," she assured, her reassurance a comforting balm to your frayed nerves. Casting a disapproving glance at Edwin as he started to object once more, she added, "And to make amends for his rudeness, I'll whip you up a plate."

You breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, but I really must hurry these back to my friend," you insisted.

"Of course you must," she affirmed, her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled again. "Edwin will go fetch you some from the cellar. We can't keep such valuable stock out in the open, you understand." Her explanation was delivered with a nod of assurance, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Edwin grumbled, leaving the room presumably to fetch the vials.

"Why don't you and me wait for him in the dinin' room," she suggested, her voice carrying a hint of Southern charm from the old world. "You ain't tasted nothin' till you tried my brahmin roast." 

Your protests dissolved into silence as she gently guided you into the room from whence she appeared. A grand wooden dining table commanded the centre of the space, its unpolished surface bearing the scars of time and use. Two weathered candelabras sat empty upon the worn tabletop framing an intricately designed vase that stood proudly in the centre, its once-vibrant bouquet now reduced to a collection of decaying flowers, a red hue faded to a sombre brown. Despite its faded grandeur, there was a certain charm to the room, a nostalgic reminder of simpler times.

Memories of your past life flooded your mind. You remembered the stressful joy of hosting gatherings, the meticulous attention to detail as you fretted over the correct placement of place mats and whether the centrepiece was in keeping with the latest trends from the home magazines you avidly read. Glenn, ever the laid-back husband, would often be found nestled in his recliner, savouring a glass of whiskey as the radio drowned out your worries. He only intervened when you were on the verge of tears, calling for Patti to come and mend his frantic wife.

As you took in the scene before you, a pang of nostalgia tugged at your heartstrings, a bittersweet reminder of a life left behind in the wake of the bombs. In this dilapidated dining room, this family had somehow managed to create a semblance of normalcy amongst the disorder. You only hoped to do the same for your own child.

"I'll have Junior walk you back to your friend," she announced, her voice carrying a gentle authority as she guided you to a seat amidst the array of mismatched chairs. "He's a good boy, you won't come into any trouble out there with him by your side." 

With a tender smile, she disappeared through a swinging door, leaving you to ponder her offer in the dimly lit room. However, your contemplation was interrupted by an unpleasant odour that wafted through the doorway, assaulting your senses with its acrid essence. The stench caused your stomach to churn uneasily, and you couldn't help but wrinkle your nose in distaste.

As she returned with two steaming plates balanced delicately in her hands, the offensive smell accompanied her, its presence overwhelming. Recoiling slightly, you fought to suppress the urge to gag and wondered how the woman wasn't doing the same.

Setting one plate down before you with practiced grace, she deftly produced a worn napkin from her apron, gently draping it across your lap with an air of hospitality. Expressing your gratitude, you watched warily as she took her seat opposite you, her eyes bright with anticipation.

Since your escape from the vault, you hadn't consumed anything that hadn't been prepared by your own hands or originated from a tin can. While her gesture was undoubtedly kind, you couldn't shake the apprehension that gnawed at you, fuelled by the putrid scent emanating from the meat on your plate.

You hesitantly prodded at the dish, watching as the jellied fat quivered around the thick bone it encased. A wave of revulsion washed over you, and opting instead to sample a carrot, you found it had been thoroughly drenched in the juices and carried the same off-putting aroma as the dubious meat.

Swallowing heavily, you mustered an encouraging smile for the woman across from you as she observed your reaction, her gaze expectant. Despite the foul taste in your mouth, you smiled in appreciation, hoping that it was enough to mask your unease. 

"It's delicious," you fibbed, delicately patting the corners of your mouth with the napkin. You eyed the door you had entered through. "Will your husband be joining us soon?"

You didn't want to push, but the urgency of your situation weighed heavily on your mind. Every moment spent away from the Ghoul felt like an eternity, and the thought of his deteriorating condition filled you with a sense of dread. You could have left with those three vials, but what guarantee did you have that they would be enough?

You knew nothing about his condition, nor did you possess the knowledge to provide any meaningful assistance. All you could do was return with as many vials as you could carry, hoping that the sheer quantity would be enough to appease him and alleviate any resentment he might harbour towards you for leaving.

"It's a big cellar," she offered in explanation, her tone carrying a hint of apology for her husband's delay. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, her gaze unwaveringly fixed on you. "Gets a mite lonesome in this old house."

You offered her a sympathetic smile, sensing a shared understanding of loneliness in her words. "And Junior, is he your son?" you asked.

"One of 'em," she replied with a wistful smile, her gaze drifting momentarily into the distance. "The only one left. Tall as a redwood and about as sharp as one too, bless his heart." There was a fondness in her tone, a mother's unconditional love for her child evident in every word. "But us mothers, we love 'em all the same, don't we?" she added with a gentle chuckle, her eyes flicking to your pregnant belly before returning to meet yours with a glimmer of joy.

Your eyes widened in astonishment at her revelation, and a surge of vulnerability and protectiveness welled within you, prompting your hands to instinctively cradle your bump. You had grown noticeably, your pregnancy now too pronounced to conceal any longer, compelling you to discard your vault suit in favour of garments salvaged from an old dresser. Amidst the solitude of your journey with the Ghoul, encounters with others had been rare, limited to a handful of oblivious traders who had failed to notice your condition. This unexpected revelation felt like a breach of privacy, like divulging a secret that had been shared exclusively between you and your companion.

"Of course," you replied cautiously, sensing the weight of her words.

"I'd move mountains for my boy, just to ensure he's fed and breathing. In this world, that's about all a mother can aspire to," she murmured, eyes glistening with the threat of tears. "It's a pitiful state when a mother can't even provide that much for her own kin."

Your heart constricted with anguish, fears surging to the forefront as you contemplated the prospect of being unable to provide even the most basic necessities for your unborn child. The notion of welcoming a helpless infant into a world of scarcity and violence filled you with terror. You had been hesitant to confront the reality of impending motherhood, unsure of how you would navigate the responsibilities that lay ahead. Despite clinging to the hope that sanctuary awaited you at the haven, you couldn't shake the nagging doubt that lingered in the recesses of your mind.

As you looked into her sad eyes, a pang of empathy tugged at your heartstrings. This poor woman had endured unimaginable loss, yet here she was, seemingly trying to cling to a semblance of normality by creating a home for her remaining family in the wasteland.  It was a fragile existence, one that could be snatched away at any moment, and as her resilience struck a chord within you, you wondered: Could this be your future as well? The thought lingered in the depths of your mind, weighing heavy on your chest. 

"Don't feel sorry for me, darlin', I got my time with my boys," she assured you, reaching across the table to rest her hand gently on yours. 

You smiled sadly as you regarded her. "I can't even imagine what you've been through," you admitted, your voice laced with genuine sympathy.

"No, I suppose you can't," she replied softly, her hand withdrawing from yours as she settled back in her chair. There was a moment of quiet contemplation before she spoke again, her words carrying the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "I've come to realize in this world that it's not about what's been done to us, but what we are willing to do."

You nodded in agreement. You had been thrust into this harsh reality, subjected to the horrors of the vaults and the betrayal of those who promised salvation. Yet, despite the trials and tribulations you had faced, you had fought tooth and nail to survive, to carve out a place for yourself in this dangerous new world. And now, with the imminent arrival of your child, that determination burned even brighter within you.

"Are you willing to do anything for your baby?" she asked, her voice soft yet resolute. Without hesitation, you nodded, unwavering resolve in your eyes.

Her gaze dropped to the table momentarily, lost in thought, before lifting once more to meet yours. "So am I," she declared softly, an edge in her voice that belied her gentle demeanour.

With a swift motion, she brought her index and middle finger to her lips, emitting a sharp whistle that pierced through the stillness of the old house. Your brows furrowed, trying to make sense of her action before Edwin shuffled into the room, trailed by a looming figure whose long hair obscured the majority of his face. "Christ, Mag, I thought we'd be waiting all night," the older man grumbled. "Junior, grab the girl."

You turned your gaze back to Mag, the panic rising within you like a tidal wave, but as your eyes searched for reassurance in hers, you found only avoidance. Her gaze remained fixed on the table, refusing to meet yours, her expression inscrutable.

Junior closed the distance with two swift strides, his towering frame engulfing you as he efficiently yanked you from your seat, flinging you onto your back on the table with a brutal force that stole the air from your lungs. The table's decorations rattled to the ground, mingling with the scattered food in a cacophonous crash.

As Mag's now stern voice echoed through the room, a cold shiver ran down your spine. "Don't leave any marks, Junior," she scolded, authority in her tone. Her son nodded in obedience.

Your hands trembled as you instinctively reached for your holster, only to curse under your breath when you found it empty. The realization hit you like a sledgehammer— you had handed your gun to Edwin during the negotiations, a decision that now seemed foolish in hindsight. Defenceless, vulnerable, and at the mercy of forces beyond your control. Like a cruel nightmare, you were back where you had started. 

"Can't sell meat that's all bruised up," Mag's words lingered in the air as she left the room and your eyes widened in terror as the door swung to a shut. You scrambled to rise from the table, but Junior pushed you back down, though this time with less force. 

"Please, you don't have to do this," you begged, tears welling in your eyes.

"She's not for selling, she's for eating," Edwin interjected callously, disregarding your pleas as he seized your ankles. Junior seized your wrists in an iron grip and pinned them above your head, stretching you out before them. 

"Says who, you old coot?" Mag challenged, reappearing with a hefty butcher knife gripped firmly in her hand. The awful smell filled the room again, and you felt bile rise in your throat.

"Says me, the one who got her inside in the first place," he retorted, grunting as you struggled against his grip. "Besides, I'm sick of that rancid meat. He's been festering in there for weeks." He nodded toward the door where the putrid smell was emitting from.

His words sent a chill down your spine as you glanced at the mess of food scattered across the floor. Your eyes honed in on the repulsive meat that now lay splayed on the grubby carpet amongst the ceramic shards of the plates. Brahmin meat, she had told you, but now you realized it was another poor soul who had crossed this family's path.

Perhaps you were naïve to not consider the act of cannibalism in this dire new reality, but your mind reeled at the images of teeth ripping through bloody flesh.

"Please, why are you doing this?" you cried, tears hot on your cheeks as panic consumed you, each futile struggle met with unyielding strength from Edwin and Junior. Mag moved to your side.

"We've had this conversation, darlin', you know why," Mag whispered, her face looming mere inches from yours. The warmth that once suffused her features had now drained away, replaced by a chilling resolve as she gazed down at you. "Motherhood demands sacrifice, and this is the sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Her gaze shifted to your belly, assessing it before turning to address the old man. "We'll keep her for meat and sell the babe for a hefty sum," she declared, eliciting a triumphant whoop from him. As her hand tenderly caressed your sweat-dampened hair, a shiver ran down your spine at the realization of your fate. "I want you to know that I mean you no ill will," she murmured, her voice a soothing contrast to the horror of her words. "But my boy has to eat."

The gentle touch of her hand offered little comfort as you recoiled from her touch. When you shook your head in a futile attempt to rid yourself of her grasp, she stepped back, her voice hardening once more.

"I wish I could promise this won't hurt, but there's only one way this baby's comin' out," she stated matter-of-factly, her words ringing with finality as the weight of your impending ordeal settled like lead in the pit of your stomach.

As the blade hovered menacingly above you, your mind raced with desperate thoughts. You couldn't shake the image of the Ghoul alone, abandoned where you'd left him while you embarked on this ill-fated rescue mission. What if he awoke to find you gone, vanished without a trace? Would he think you'd left him, angry over what had transpired between you both? Or perhaps that you'd waited until his weakest moment to finally run from him. The mere notion tore at your heartstrings.

You needed him to know the truth, to understand that your departure was in aide to help him not abandon him. You couldn't die knowing that he may think so badly of you, even though you weren't sure why it mattered so much. He'd been difficult and stubborn, scolded you and made you cry, but there was a yearning that you felt for him beyond your own understanding. With every fibre of your being, you silently pleaded for a chance to return to his side, to make things right and ensure that he could never doubt your devotion.

But you were trapped, with nowhere to run and no escape from the horrors unfolding before you. The full stretch of your body left your bare stomach uncomfortably exposed to the imminent danger. The cold, unforgiving blade of the knife traced a path across the swell of your belly, its touch sending shivers of dread coursing through your veins. Though the first cut was not deep, the sting of pain accompanied by the trickle of blood down your side served as a grim reminder of the perilous situation you had walked yourself and your unborn child into.

Since escaping the clutches of the vault, you hadn't dared to picture your future, quickly learning that the dangers of the wasteland were capable of shattering your reality with ruthless brutality from one moment to the next. Yet, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, one thing had remained constant: your unwavering determination to protect and nurture the life growing within you.

From the moment you heard the doctor confirm your pregnancy, a flicker of hope ignited within you. Despite the deceit of your husband, the looming threat of war, and every obstacle that stood in your path, you had clung to the unwavering belief that you were destined for motherhood. It was a truth that resonated deep within your heart, but you felt it slowly being swallowed by the hollow ache of despair and regret.

With a heavy heart weighing down every fibre of your being, you closed your eyes, bracing yourself for what was to come. In that harrowing moment, a chilling realization swept over you like a tidal wave: if you were to remain conscious through these next moments, you would meet your baby. You were so far from carrying to full-term, but why would Mag go to such lengths unless she was confident that your baby would survive. Afterall, a living baby must be worth a fortune in the wasteland. A commodity, as the Ghoul had described you. 

Then, the thought pierced your soul: your baby would enter the world alone, without you, unaware of what transpired or why you weren't there beside them. Growing up to think that their mother never loved them. You couldn't let it happen.

With your last shred of resolve shattered, a primal scream tore from your throat.

A distant crash from another room shattered the tense atmosphere, bringing the woman's relentless pursuit with the knife to an abrupt halt. All three members of the family turned their heads towards the doorway, their eyes widening in shock as it was obliterated before them. A deafening cacophony of splintering wood filled the air as a single bullet burst through, sending wooden fragments flying in all directions.

Instinctively, you turned your head away, seeking whatever meagre protection you could get. In the midst of the commotion, Edwin's agonized holler pierced the air, his body recoiling as the bullet sliced through his neck. With a forceful impact, he was thrown back against the kitchen doorway, his form crumpling to the ground with a heavy thud that reverberated throughout the room.

Junior's anguished wails pierced your eardrums. Despite his distress, his vice-like grip remained unyielding, keeping you firmly in place even as he grappled with the shock of his father's demise.

Meanwhile, Mag offered only a fleeting acknowledgment to the lifeless form of her husband before her attention snapped back to the now-open doorway. There, a figure emerged, a silhouette framed by the shattered remnants of the entrance. With each step, the sound of spurred boots rang out like a beacon of hope.

As the Ghoul's hulking frame filled the doorway, a wave of relief washed over you. He appeared worlds apart from the unconscious man you had left behind in search of aid, and as you took in his daunting appearance, you noticed the inhaler clutched in his hand, an almost empty vial inserted inside. 

Locking eyes with him across the room, you watched as his weary gaze swept over the scene before him: you, splayed out and held down on the table, a small cut marring your belly, tears streaking your face.

In that fleeting moment, his expression darkened with a silent fury. With swift and merciless precision, he raised his magnum, his aim unwavering as he first targeted Junior. In an instant, the sound of gunfire shot through the room, a single slug piercing through Junior's skull, extinguishing his cries in a heartbeat.

Mag's horrified gaze barely had time to register the terror before her own fate was sealed. She turned to the Ghoul with venom in her eyes. "Coop—"

With ruthless efficiency, another bullet tore through her chest, sending her crumpling to the floor beside her fallen son. In the span of mere seconds, the room fell almost silent, the only sound being the Ghoul's heavy breaths as he surveyed the aftermath of his swift justice.

A low groan echoed across the room, drawing the Ghoul's attention to the source of the sound. Without hesitation, he fired off two more shots into Edwin's chest, putting an end to his suffering. As the final ring of gunfire faded, the Ghoul lowered his gun, his gaze fixated on you once more. His eyes, dark and brooding, seemed to bore into your very soul, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable in their intense scrutiny.

With trembling hands, you pushed yourself up to sit on the table, the weight of so many emotions swirling within you like a windstorm raging inside your chest. Fear, relief, guilt, and gratitude warred for dominance, each vying for your attention as you struggled to make sense of the harrowing ordeal that had unfolded before you. In that moment of uncertainty, you found yourself paralyzed by indecision, unsure of how to proceed as you watched the Ghoul, awaiting his instruction.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he holstered his gun and tucked the inhaler back inside his coat, the look of anguish etched upon his scarred face. With a silent understanding passing between you, he beckoned you to him with a curl of his fingers, a wordless invitation for comfort that you never thought possible from him. Your body moved on instinct, propelled forward by a force beyond conscious thought, as you leaped from the table and into the safety of his waiting arms. In that moment, all pretence of strength crumbled away, leaving you clinging to him with a desperation that bordered on frantic.

You held onto him so tightly that you could almost feel the air being squeezed from your lungs. As his muscular arms enveloped you and your unborn child, a floodgate of emotion burst open within you, unleashing an outburst of tears that wracked your body with their intensity.

"I never left you," you whispered through each sob, your voice hoarse from screaming, the words spilling out in a plea for understanding. "I swear, I was coming back."

His touch was tender as he stroked your hair, his breath warm against your ear as he comforted your trembling form. "Nobody would blame you if you hadn't," he murmured softly, then cleared his throat. "I told you, you weren't to come here."

"I had to save you," you insisted, your voice shaking but resolute.

"Sure did a fine job," he said, glancing around the room at the carnage. "Looked like you had everything under control."

His teasing stung, and you pulled away from him, hurt flashing in your eyes as you stood your ground. "You were unconscious. If I hadn't come, you would have—" your voice cracked, unable to finish the thought.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" he interrupted, irritation thick in his voice. "Good thing too, because I wasn't aware just how dumb you could be."

"I didn't know if you'd make it," you shot back, your voice a raw blend of frustration and fear. "I had to do something, I couldn't lose you."

For a brief moment, his eyes softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. But it was quickly replaced by steely conviction. He pointed a gloved finger at your belly, his tone firm yet edged with concern. "I shouldn't be your concern right now."

You cradled your bump protectively, looking up at him with glistening eyes. "And yet here we are."

He was silent for a moment, his hand dropping back to his side as he regarded you with a mix of frustration and helplessness. "What am I going to do with you?" he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You didn't answer him. Instead, you moved back into his chest, seeking the comfort you'd felt moments before. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, the tension in his muscles softening as he held you close.

"This can't keep happening," he said after moments of silence passed between you, his words hammering at your heart. You couldn't tell if he was referring to the intimacy of your embrace or your reckless brush with death once again. Regardless, you tightened your grip on him.

"Just a little longer," you whispered, your voice barely audible. He sighed in resignation as he gently disentangled your arms from his waist, pushing you back to look into your eyes. His hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, and he retrieved the device that would sever any remaining physical connection between you.

You had barely had time to enjoy the unbridled freedom of those moments in his embrace, the silence broken only by the rhythmic beating of his heart against your cheek rather than the disturbing clicking. But now, as your eyes fell on the Pip-Boy, you realized you weren't ready to relinquish that freedom, despite the protection it promised.

"I told you not to take it off," he chided. When you started to explain yourself, he cut you off. "I don't care, just put it back on."

You shook your head, your eyes locking with his, defiance met with disappointment. "Don't make me do it," he pleaded earnestly, his voice softening, laden with a desperation you hadn't heard from him before.

"I have a choice, and so do you," you told him, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

He smiled sadly, a bittersweet expression that deepened the ache in your chest. "I wish that were true," he replied, pulling your hand gently and fastening the Pip-Boy around your wrist. The device closed with a sickening clink, severing the fragile connection between you. You held his gaze, chin high, though you wanted to curl into yourself.

"I wonder if it really is me you're protecting with this thing," you said, your voice trembling with rage and sorrow, your hand still enclosed in his as the clicking commenced. "I'm not so sure anymore."

His gaze dropped as he took a deep breath, bracing himself before looking back at you with a rueful smile. "Me neither, vaultie," he admitted, his voice a whisper of regret. He dropped your hand and turned to leave the room. "Maybe it's better that way."

He disappeared through the open doorway, leaving you alone with the heavy silence and the cold weight of the Pip-Boy on your wrist. The freedom of touch you had tasted moments ago now felt like a distant memory, replaced by the stark reality that, regardless of anything else, the Ghoul was determined to keep you at a distance. 

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @lothiriel9 @ancientbeing10 @sillysimping @maeplaysbass @moon-trash1507 @spookyoat @rebelmarylou @writtenbyhollywood

[mamwieleimion]

I have this new take on Elrond and his looks/connection to his ancestry/how he's precived.

This is something of a cumulation of posts I have read that talked about things like:

How people see Elrond as physically most a like to people they want to see at first

How Elrond accidentally became a Patron of Unions/Marriage

How Men think he's incredibly Elven and Elves think he looks a lot like a Men

How no matter how he dressed in Valinor his always gonna turn heads and concerned questions (specially from the Noldor)

And of him being more Maia/Eldritch

Him being a Feanorian (I don't really know if that's relevant but I see him as one so that might affect how I write about him below 👇)

(some of these can be found on my profile/in my posts if anyone interested)

Alright, having said all that, I can now being.

So, men don't really have great memory of times past. But! Let's assume that some kind of knowledge of Doriath had survived long enough into the Second Age, that when Men generally knew about Rivendell they had accidentally between generations lost the distinction between Doriath and Rivendell.

Let's be honest, if the common folk have such stories, then somethings must get lost between generations. And the nobles also at some point might have for some time lost the distinction, I would totally believe that.

Anyways, and so, there is this legend/myth going around Men that the Hidden Elven City is and always was Rivendell (they might get a little fussed up with Gondolin but less so than Doriath I think). And they all agree that the Realm/City is ruled by a powerful being/spirit (they don't remember maiar anymore, but if they did, it would be a Maia ruling the Hidden Elven City/Realm).

So sometimes, when an injured man stumbles his way into Rivendell, and maybe they make the connection with our lovely Valley and their myths/legends. And then they are introduced to the healer who brought them back from the brink of death (Lord of the Valley Elrond). The men is pretty sure it was a woman ruling the Hidden Elven City, but it also could've meant Lord Elrond's wife (she probably passed away, the men mused later to justify his own thoughts. Because the death of a spouse isn't something new to men), or really, the Lord is beautiful enough to pass for a woman. The men doesn't say anything, he stays respectful. And when he leaves, he talks about the spirit who brought him back from the dead, saved him with a miracle from the heavens, of his kindness and beauty. The myth grows.

And maybe, along the way this belief becomes so strong something in Elrond awakens. After all, the blood of Ainur is strong, was strong in Luthien, almost overwhelming her elven nature. Was visible in Dior as all who looked at him found themselves failing to their knees in awe, feeling the fulfilment of their search for beauty. It had became stronger in Elwing, who used the Silmaril as the only light in her life, who as a small girl-queen only had this one thing left of her family. Elwing who unknowingly became stronger from this exposure, who feed her Ainur blood with light and strengthened herself until when she fell all Ulmo had to do to change her form was to give her a push in the right direction.

And it all came down to Elrond. Elrond who as a child, a newborn, was exposed to the light of the Silmaril, who after his kidnapping/impromptu adoption was nurtured by two powerful Elves of Valinor, by Eldest Sons of Feanor the Fire Spirit, who despite what some would like to forget had the blood of Finwë running in his veins alongs side the blood of Melian and Thingol. Elrond who held a Ring of Power and stood straight under its weight, who created a sanctuary in the darkness. The Lord of Rivendell who, knowingly or not, had created the only thing that could rival the Griddle of Doriath and even surpass it with it's complexity.

Elrond had became something more along the way. Even though many saw a man in him, others an elf. Elrond lived up to his ancestors and became more as they have. The Lord of Rivendell became a legend, a myth, a figure and an idea. And you can't kill ideas. So what if, he was something more? It didn't really matter at the end, because it was Elrond, kind as summer and wise as a wizard. And he protected his people.

So, when he sailed to Valinor, the only people who were suprised by his power/presence he had were those who never met him before. If a few Maiar were watching invisibly to elves as he arrived and he saw them then what? No one will call him out.

And even if he had became more elf than men, and then more Maia than elf along his long journey of life. It doesn't change anything at the end. Because the Lord of Rivendell was still the same.

[max1461]

I've said this before, but: I think one of the single most important conceptual distinctions you can make (for politics, for your interpersonal life, for ethics) is distinction between something being understandable and something being justified.

An action is understandable if, roughly speaking, the motivation for that action can be parsed in terms of feelings and beliefs which one can reasonably expect of, and finds natural for, the person in question. Often this is because the motivating emotions are something close to human universals, but this needn't be the case. One way or another, understandable actions are those that make us go "yeah, I can see how I might do that, if I were in their shoes". If someone yells at you, it is understandable that you might yell back. If you feel scared or threatened, it is understandable that you might lash out in some way. And so on. Actions which are understandable are actions which follow naturally from our status as imperfect human beings. Obviously, strictly prosocial actions can be understandable too, but I've focused above on actions which are understandable but which may in fact harm others to some degree, because this is the class which many find difficult to grapple with.

An action is justified if it is ethically good, under whatever framework you happen to adopt for that. Under my ethics, an action is justified if it in fact makes the world a better place, if it represents an appropriate compromise between the preferences of all affected parties, etc. You might have a different ethical framework, but the details don't really matter here.

Ok, so, what is the point of this distinction? The point is that we are all imperfect, and we all do things that are understandable but not justified pretty frequently. Failing to make a distinction between the two ideas results in at least two common pitfalls:

You can end up believing that all understandable actions are necessarily justified, or that some subclass of understandable actions are necessarily justified even when they are not. This is the sort of thinking by which blood feuds are justified. "Well you see, of course I don't endorsed violence, but the Montegues attacked the Capulets, so it is perfectly understandable that the Capulets would attacked them back" (very possibly true, depending on ambient cultural context), "therefore it was in fact a good and just thing for the Capulets to attack them back" (almost certainly false). It is left as an exercise to the reader to generate examples of this from contemporary political discourse.

You can end up believing that only justified actions are understandable, or that within some subclass of actions only justified actions are understandable. This is the sort of thinking that leads to viewing others as inhuman, or as fundamentally different from you and from other Good People, for their simple human faults or indeed for taking the very best of many imperfect paths set out before them. "The Capulets attacked the Montegues in retaliation, and this was not just" (very probably true) "therefore the Capulets are inhuman scum, who must be punished harshly for their actions" (certainly false). Generating contemporary examples of this, too, is fairly easy.

In general, I believe that part of doing the right thing is refraining from excessive judgement of others, even others who do wrong. But it is especially important not to judge others too harshly for actions which are highly understandable, which indeed you yourself might have done if you were in their shoes. This doesn't mean you have to believe these actions were ok, and it doesn't mean you have to forgive people for their actions if those actions harmed you, or anything of the sort. It merely means that you have a responsibility to empathize with them and to understand their actions as human, insofar as you can.

Conversely, I believe part of doing the right thing is trying to yourself do what is just, even when doing something less just would be understandable. This doesn't mean judging yourself harshly when you do something understandable-but-unjust (see above), but it does mean saying consciously "just because this action would be understandable, and just because I wouldn't judge someone else for doing it, that doesn't mean it's the best thing to do". Trying to rise above the worse aspects of our nature, that's one way to put it. We all mess up sometimes, and messing up shouldn't be something we're judged over, but it should still be something we try not to do.

[nicklloydnow]

Illustration by @steve_fagiano_art

“Chigurh stands up to God with an unflinching, uncompromising belief in predetermination—no free will or human choice, no mercy or sentiment, no giving in or letting go or giving up. Principled in the purity of his work, he defies sentiment and falsehood and betrayal. A pure born-again agent of death, anti-Christ Calvinist Chigurh is a man of his deadly word, a relentless avenger, an implacable killer defying God, no less than the diabolic Judge in Blood Meridian. "How to prevail over that which you refuse to acknowledge the existence of" lago was never so clear-minded, Ahab no more manically fixated, Kurtz no less obsessed with his mission to exterminate losers. "The horror! The horror!" What more can a man say of pure evil?” - Kenneth Lincoln, ‘Cormac McCarthy: American Canticles’ (2010) [p. 144, 145]

“Chigurh again adopts the Socratic method in his final encounter with his fellow hitman Carson Wells. Although Wells isn't given the privilege of a coin toss, Chigurh nevertheless engages in an incisive dialogue with his victim. While holding Wells at gunpoint, Chigurh asks, "If the rule you followed led you to this of what use was the rule?" When Wells replies, "I don't know what you're talking about," Chigurh elaborates: "I'm talking about your life. In which now everything can be seen at once." Knowing that the moment of death has arrived, Chigurh wants Wells to examine the path that led him here, claiming that the present situation "calls past events into question" (175). Even though Chigurh admits that he and Wells are in the "same line of work," he finds it necessary to distance himself from the other hit-man: "You think I'm like you. That it's just greed. But I'm not like you. I live a simple life" (177). This distinction between the two hired assassins suggests that Chigurh transcends mere criminality. The "simple life" he leads imbues him with the ascetic austerity of a monk pledged to evil, a satanic reversal of traditional, spiritual roles hinted at by other descriptions of Chigurh as a "faith healer" and a "prophet of destruction" (7, 3). In his study of the portrayal of evil in literature and cinema, Paul Oppenheimer points out that evil often "begins in criminality" but then "surpasses criminality, and finally, by comparison with criminality, overwhelms and belittles it, causing it to seem oddly cumbersome and even childish" (21). Chigurh lives by a different "rule," not motivated by the usual spectrum of human desires and thus remaining largely inscrutable.

It is significant that Wells is given a premonition of his own death exactly three days before it takes place. While examining the damage caused by a shootout between Chigurh and Moss at the Eagle Pass motel, Wells notices "two bulletholes in the windowglass" of a "second floor level" apartment across the street. After knocking on the door and receiving no answer, Wells lets himself in and finds the corpse of an old woman: "She'd been shot through the forehead and had tilted forward leaving part of the back of her skull and a good bit of dried brainmatter stuck to the slat of the rocker behind her. . . . A second shot had marked a date on a calendar on the wall behind her that was three days hence" (147). The path of the stray bullet converges with the path of the unsuspecting woman, much as Chigurh's coin converges with the equally unsuspecting gas station owner earlier in the novel. The woman's death reminds Wells of the inexorable machinations of fate: "Not what you had in mind at all, was it darling?" he asks (148). Wells correctly interprets the mark on the calendar as a portent of the day of his own impending death.

During the final encounter, he tells Chigurh, "By the old woman's calendar I've got three more minutes. Well the hell with it. I think I saw all this coming a long time ago. Almost like a dream. Déja vu." Well's words reveal that he had a vision of his own death long before he saw the calendar. Nevertheless, the question posed by Chigurh, namely, "How did you let yourself get in this situation?" suggest that it was still within Wells's power to make different choices, live by a different "rule," and thereby change his fate. Chigurh encourages Wells to engage in a final moment of self-reflection: "I thought you might want to explain yourself. . . . Not to me. To yourself" (178). Chigurh's questions seem to be directing Wells toward something akin to the existentialist concept of authentic existence, which, though "not clearly defined by the existentialists . . . implies an attitude of sincerity and honesty and the absence of self-deception" (de Silva 1). Furthermore, it is a mode of existence based on "a realization that one is what one makes oneself by one's acts" (Manser 20). It is worth mentioning that Sheriff Bell strives for the same realization: "It's a life's work to see yourself for what you really are and even then you might be wrong. And that is somethin I dont want to be wrong about" (295). Despite the fact that Bell and Chigurh are diametrically opposed in a Manichean battle between good and evil, respectively, both men insist on the importance of authentic existence arrived at through knowledge of the self.

Existentialist themes are also apparent in Chigurh's attempts to make his victims come to terms with the inevitability of death. He accuses Wells of believing that he can keep death at bay: "You think that as long as you keep looking at me you can put it off." Wells denies thinking such a thing, but Chigurh insists, "Yes you do. You should admit your situation. There would be more dignity in it. I'm trying to help you" (176). Behind the "existential preoccupation with the theme of death" is the belief that "living authentically is living constantly in its presence, for then alone can we attain 'freedom in the face of death" (Dutt 80). When Wells accuses Chigurh of thinking that he is "outside of everything" and reminds him that he is "not outside of death," Chigurh replies, "It doesnt mean to me what it does to you" (177). The reply can be read in two ways, the surface reading being that Chigurh has adopted an existentialist approach to death. More subtly, however, the words hint at the idea that Chigurh is no ordinary mortal and may perhaps be Death itself, albeit a modern version that carries a pneumatic stun-bolt gun instead of the traditional scythe.

Wells grows weary of the conversation, announcing, "I'm not interested in your opinions. . . . Just do it. You goddamned psychopath. Do it and goddamn you to hell." Despite the verbal command, Wells's body language suggests that he is not quite ready: "He closed his eyes and he turned his head and he raised one hand to fend away what could not be fended away. Chigurh shot him in the face" (177). Although there is some discrepancy between Wells's words and his reaction to the shot, the fact that Wells commands it enables him to reclaim a certain degree of control over his fate, however insignificant it may appear. Furthermore, McCarthy makes a point of informing the reader that the "new day was still a minute away" (178), thereby emphasizing the fact that the old woman's calendar was not entirely accurate. The fact that, by asking Chigurh to shoot him a minute early, Wells refuses to die on the prophesied day suggests that even within a universe ruled by seemingly inexorable forces of fate, minute degrees of free will and personal agency remain.” - Petra Mundik, ‘A Bloody and Barbarous God: The Metaphysics of Cormac McCarthy’ (2016) [p. 268 - 270]

“The Coen brothers built a story of war between two teams: one team represent the human mind wish to understand the world and the second team represent the universe as a chaos. During the first half of the movie the war looks good for the human mind team but then the human mind team lose – a beatiful metaphor for absurdism.

(…)

Result of the war:

Anton kills Carson, Llewelyn is killed by Mexicans, and the sheriff is retired loosing hope in the world.

The Coen brothers message in this film is that they do not think humans mind will ever be able to understand the world and we are doom to internal ignorance. Depressing.”

[everlasting-evocation]

Marriage in Fear and Hunger

An Analysis of Sylvian Rituals - SPOILERS for both games

Despite being a core mechanic in the first game (and present to a much lesser degree in the second) it's interesting to reflect on how little we truly know about the marriage of flesh beyond its ritualistic origins and physical characteristics.

Going back to the first Fear and Hunger, marriages of flesh could be performed on any ritual circle regardless of location or the character's godly affinity, whereas in the second worship to Sylvian is reserved only for asymmetric circles containing a God's specific sigil. I may have missed something in the game's books (I was unable to collect them all through my playthrough) but from the "Occult Grimoires" it's evident that the asymmetric circle was adopted at some point in history, replacing the previous ritual circle between the events of the Dungeons and Termina for unknown reasons.

Moving forward to Termina, from what I can tell from limited information it appears to be implied through Daan's diagnosis dialogue that the Sylvian trooper (along with other high ranking members of the Bremen Army) are the result of a marriage of flesh, existing alongside the platoon which clearly consisting of many different humans melted together in a form reminiscent of the human hydra from the first game. While the Bunnymasks, from what we're able to see in the game, appear to be Sylvian's most prevalent cult; however they don't seem interested in creating marriages, instead indulging in a different Sylvian ritual. This raises some questions about the role of marriage throughout the world of Fear and Hunger, as the marriage of flesh within the dungeon are almost exclusively created out of necessity rather than as a genuine act of godly devotion or genuine love between participants. But then again the love that Sylvian has for her creations is much deeper than the love they are able to return to her and, as a result, maybe even the simple desire to create a marriage through merging flesh is enough of an act of 'love' if done in the name of Sylvian, even without any truly affectionate feelings to support it.

"Blood & Flower magic I" found in the first game describes a marriage as an act of love in the passage that follows: "I no longer have to fear for separation from my loved ones, for we can forever join in a marriage of flesh. An act of love that creates a beautiful unison for two souls."

In the White Bunker there appears to be (assumption, not confirmed) a failed marriage within one of the closed rooms of the third bunker. The creature isn't hostile although it does appear to be in great pain. This brings up one of the more important questions regarding the role of a marriage and, more specifically, the soul union as a result. Marriages are stronger than the average human, as shown clearly in the first game from the Marriage's boosted attack, but what about the state of the creation's mind? What exactly is there to be gained from merging consciousness? As things currently stand we have no idea what goes on inside the mind of a marriage, but I believe that the two souls within it remain distinct from one another, each acting as an inner monologue with control over the host body. The union is specifically described as a marriage of flesh rather than a marriage of the mind which is why I believe that there is still some degree of separation. From what we can read in Blood & Flower magic, marriage was, at one point, viewed as a beautiful unison and a very high form of love as it entails becoming permanently merged with a loved one. But why are members of the Bremen army using this ritual? The weaponized Human Hydra appears to be a successful marriage, even though it is unable to function on its own and dies immediately if the Sylvian Trooper is defeated before the platoon is able to join the battle.

Continuing this thought, while the platoon does seem to retain some of it's human understanding, but unlike the Human Hydra it is unable to speak. The marriage is stable, but important aspects of it's humanity have been discarded in favor of turning it into a machine of pure destruction, which calls into question the morality of 'love' when it comes to marriage and the different aspects and consequences of it's creation. The corruption of love could also be significant, as a ritual meant to create a union between two souls has instead been used to birth abominations (like the Centaur)

I'm sure this has some real lore significance and implications, but I can't quite figure it out yet so for now this is going to be left open ended.

[bonefall]

You know what's a super classic conlang thing I'm shocked we haven't done? A kinship terminology chart! We should totally have one, get in those terms for uncle/aunt, grandparents, nesprings, the whole of it!

LETSGO, full list of the familial terms they use in Clanmew, plus a straightforward explanation of the concepts that have been floating around!

PARENTS

Blood relation is simply Gan. This is a term that's more related to bloodline; Nyams is for people you consider your family. Both of these are translated as 'Kin.'

So to start with, the only constant for a kitten is that they have a Mi.

A Mi is a Primary Parent. This is a non-gendered term; there are many reasons why a non-birthing parent may be the Mi of their litter. It also doesn't necessarily refer to whoever suckled the kittens. Whoever spent the most time and energy raising the litter is its Mi.

Fernsong was the Mi of his litter. Torear, biologically Harestar and Kestrelflight's uncle who adopted them, was their Mi. Breezepelt is the Mi of the litters in his polycule.

If, for some reason, the Mi was unable to care for their kittens, their Ba is expected to step up and become their Mi.

Most kittens also have a Ba.

A Ba is a Secondary Parent. This exclusively refers to cats involved in kittencare, to try and imply that an Honor Sire that has no role in raising their children is a Ba is something that supporters of Thistle Law do. It inherently means closeness.

For example, when TigerClan took over, Rippleclaw was considered the Ba of Swansong, even though Oakheart had raised him along with Stonefur and Mistyfoot.

Never use "Ba" for an Honor Sire unless the Honor Sire is co-parenting, such as with Firestar and Sandstorm. "Ba" can also be a title that a cat rejects completely, such as with Breezepelt to Crowfeather, Brambleclaw to the Three, and Dovewing to Lionblaze!

"Ba" applies to all kitten-involved members of a polycule. Heathertail and Harestar are both Ba to the kittens that Breezepelt is the Mi of. In cases of there being multiple Ba, usually a creative nickname is made up to differentiate them. For Harestar, his Clanmew name (Yywayayiaoyr) has so many Y sounds that his children call him Ya!

A Mwaow is a relevant biological parent. Usually a mother if referring to wild egg-laying animals who don't care for their young, though occasionally Wairre is used for "sires" specifically.

"Mwaow" is what Swansong feels is most fitting for his sire, Rippleclaw. Breezepelt wants to be extra insulting and call Crowfeather a "Wairre" sometimes.

To call your Ba a Mwaow is very insulting, and a rejection of them as your parent. Likewise, it is insulting to say that a cat's Mwaow is their Ba if they don't feel that way.

And finally, the term for Honor Sire in Clanmew is Kurruaow. Honor-Parent. They make no distinction between dams and sires in Clanmew.

To summarize;

Gan = Kin/Blood

Nyams = Kin/Family

Mi = Primary parent

Ba = Secondary parent

Mwaow = Biological parent, neutral but non-endearing

Wairre = Biological sire, used mostly for animals

Kurruaow = Honor Sire/Dam/Parent

AUNCLES AND COUSINS

What about the sisters and brothers of your parents? Their kids?

There are Mi-Auncles, Ba-Auncles, and First Cousins. Further than that is just thrown under Gan, if at all.

Myami = Mi-Auncle

Byama = Ba-Auncle

Rabir = Cousin

SIBLINGS

Multiple-births are very common to Clan cats, and furthermore, multiple litters are seen often. Defining your place within your parent's litters is very important socially!

So, in addition to having words for an older or younger litter of siblings, there are also words for your size within your own litter. Clanmew is more concerned if you were a large kitten or a runt than your birth order, but this could be crudely compared to the human concept of older and younger siblings!

This is an important concept because size growing up would mean you had the upper paw in brawls, to your suckler's milk, and were considered the 'most mature.' Runts are considered to need more protection and 'babying.'

If there was a situation where two littermates were equally sized, they often squabble over who was really the bigger sibling. This doesn't relate to adult size-- Fallenleaf was the largest of her litter, but Lionblaze is bigger than her now.

Firra = Siblings (Broad term, often assumed to be innately plural and referring to several types of siblings at once)

Kafrrif = Sibling of older litter

Eefrri = Sibling of younger litter

Wifeerr = Littermate

Wikfrra = Larger littermate

Weesfwa = Smaller littermate

OFFSPRING

A baby cat, referred to as a 'kit' or 'kitten' is simply called a "mew." But that's not typically the word they're using when they're talking about their children. There's also additional words in Clanmew for the children of different litters, and how an auncle refers to their sibling's kittens.

Nia'u = Child/son/daughter

Neewarr = Litter

Niak = Child of first litter

Niawi = Child of second litter

Nia'eef = Child of third/any more litters

Rabnif = Nespring/nephew/niece

Niauga = Grandchild (of child you were the Ba of)

Nini = Grandchild (of child you were the Mi of, can be given for closeness)

Kurrnia = Stolen kit, rightfully won through battle (Archaic)

GRANDPARENTS

Garrmwa = Ancestor (For non-ancient ancestors that can still be tracked with deduction. Great grandparents, not Thunderstar.)

Sharrarram = Ancestors (For ancient ancestors, far beyond modern memory, who live in the stars. Thunderstar.)

Ami = Mi of my Mi (This can also be applied as a term of endearment. For example, Heartstar is the Ba of her kittens, but Tawnypelt is still Shadowsight's Sharrmi)

Garrmi = Ba of my Mi AND/OR Mi of my Ba (Like Ami, can denote a type of closeness.)

Genrrarg = Ba of my Ba/Someone who is still a grandparent, but not a close one. (This is the term that Breezepelt's kittens eventually use for Crowfeather)

Shegarra = Descendant (For the sake of completion; typically used by StarClan)

[girlactionfigure]

Tribal Warfare

The deliberate viciousness of the attack by Hamas on southern Israel was an announcement of the tribal nature of the conflict. Although it is true that the initial assault troops were followed by a civilian rabble that participated joyfully in the mass murder, rape, and looting, the Hamas soldiers themselves received explicit orders (this is documented) to perpetrate a terrorist massacre with all the trimmings, and they did so exceeding the expectations of their commanders.

This wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t merely an outburst of the hatred that is drilled into all Gazans by their Hamas-controlled (and UN-supported) educational system, although that is what made it possible for human beings to become monsters. The savagery was fully intended by the Hamas leadership.

A tribal war is fought for territory, but it is also fought for honor. And honor is gained (or in the case of Palestinians, lost honor is regained) by humiliating the enemy. And this is done here in the Middle East by exaggerated cruelty, especially to the weakest elements of the enemy tribe. That’s why Hamas fighters and their followers tortured women in unmentionable ways and overcame the normal human resistance to hurting children and the elderly.

There is little distinction between civilians and soldiers in tribal warfare, except insofar as soldiers are considered more dangerous. An enemy is an enemy, and you kill enemies.

This did not endear Hamas to some in the West, which had adopted humanistic standards for warfare after WWII, when the folks who had incinerated hundreds of thousands of Japanese and German civilians decided that they would outlaw tribal forms of warfare (indeed they even outlawed war itself). But tribal peoples, like those who inhabit our region, never signed on to the Western vision expressed by the UN Charter; indeed, they never really bought the idea of nations, and certainly not a framework defined by international law.

They operate in a different framework, one in which there are friendly tribes and there are enemy tribes; and what you do to an enemy is kill him before he kills you. You kill him by any means necessary, and you don’t spare women and children. And if you are Hamas or the PLO, you employ the Arab equivalent of WWII’s strategic bombing – murderous terrorism against enemy civilians. The object is to remove the enemy tribe from contact with yours. Genocide is a strategy.

But now we come to our situation. Americans and Europeans who seem to have forgotten Tokyo, Hiroshima, and Dresden, expect Israel to play by the rules that they made up (and don’t follow). Which is hard to do when you face an enemy whose very basic ways of fighting – human shields and hostages, terrorism of every kind, random rocketing of civilian areas, etc. – violate the laws of war that the West expects us to obey more carefully than they ever do.

One of the interesting things about humans is their ambivalence toward cruelty. On the one hand, we saw some reactions of revulsion to the massive pogrom (notably including the US president), even on the part of a few who had heretofore accepted claims that Israel oppresses the Palestinians in Gaza. But at the same time, there was a massive outpouring of support for Hamas, huge demonstrations in cities like London and New York, and of course on college campuses. Some of the demonstrators were were Palestinians or Muslims who were expressing their tribal loyalty, but others were Westerners whose primitive, atavistic lizard brains reveled in the blood and suffering of the Jews. And of course it was cause for great celebration among the Arabs of Judea and Samaria, as well as throughout the Arab world. In this respect, the Hamas strategy paradoxically achieved a propaganda victory.

We in Israel do not want to fight like Hamas. We don’t want to rape their women and butcher their children. On the other hand, we are not interested in committing suicide for the sake of the moral principles of the hypocritical West. And we have a message to send to Hamas and to all our enemies: we can and will fight as brutally as necessary. If we don’t do this, if we allow this campaign to end with an inconclusive whimper as so many previous ones have, then it will just be a matter of time before we are forced to leave up our beautiful homeland, perhaps for the last time, for an  increasingly dark diaspora.

[darklinaforever]

Sylki is not incest / autocest / selfcest :

So… I risk repeating myself, but I really hate hearing that Sylki is incest, or autocest. Quite simply because it's not true.

Incest : Sexual relations between close relatives (marriage is prohibited) ; incestuous love.

Sylvie and Loki are not close relatives, for the simple reason that they do not share the same blood / DNA. (Variant = genetically distinct) Beyond that, they didn't even grow up / live together, so also can't be bonded like Loki is with his adoptive family.

Autocest : The act of cloning oneself and having sexual relations with said clone.

First of all, Sylvie is not a clone of Loki. She was conceived naturally and born naturally. And even as a variant of Loki she is not him. Once again, she does not share the same blood / DNA as the latter. Beyond that, in terms of pure personality, no, she's not the same as him. They act differently and think differently. Episode 3 is probably the one that illustrates this best during season 1. The number of times Loki points out that he would not act the way Sylvie acts and she replies that, well, she is not not him. Which is completely normal, since the two have not had the same life experiences. What shapes who we are as a person is the trials of life, our experiences. And Loki and Sylvie definitely didn't have the same ones.

“My interpretation of it is that they're both Lokis, but they aren't the same person. I don't see them as being like brother and sister. They have completely different backgrounds… and I think that's really important to her character.” - Kate Herron.

So in summary, they don't share the same blood / DNA. They also don't have the same experiences, so as a result they have different personalities.

So… literally, this incest and autocest bullshit has no backing.

The whole series spends its time reminding us that Sylvie is not Loki. She says it herself several times. Moreover, to clearly reinforce this trait, “Sylvie” is literally a name that she chose for herself, precisely to differentiate herself from Lokis. It's hammered home throughout the series, Sylvie is her own person. This is also why Loki reminds Mobius that Sylvie, well, her name is Sylvie, when he tells him that he has fallen in love with himself, in 1x04. To remind the viewer that no, Sylvie is not Loki, she is again her own person. And it's problematic for me when so many people try so hard to reduce her to being a Loki. Even from those who love her. Simply because it's something Sylvie hates : Being called / cathegorized by Loki. (Probably because it removes the impression of being a person and brings it back to the fact that the TVA only sees her as a variant, and therefore that she should not exist, knowing that she just wants to have a life and live it)

“Also, Sylvie's not Loki. Sylvie is Sylvie.” - Tom Hiddleston.

The only thing Sylvie and Loki really share internally is being the deity of mischief. Which translates into a role / identity given to them within the universe / timeline they came from, with the same power base ; the witchcraft. Something that is learned and not transmitted by genetics in the MCU universe. So there is nothing biological about it that could relate to incest and even less to autocest.

“They sort of have the same role in terms of the universe and destiny, but they won't make the same decisions.” - Kate Herron.

Are Sylvie and Loki alike ? Yes. But no more than other fictional couples are capable of being. That they resemble each other in some way is not proof that they are the same person. Especially since as said previously, they do not have the same personalities / lived / dna / blood...

Once again, Reylo is the perfect example in terms of comparison to Sylki : - Different, but complicated pasts which return them to their feeling of loneliness. - Their problem of opening up to the world because of there traumas. - The feeling that no one else really understands them. - Similarity in combat techniques and synchronization of movements at various times, etc.

Then, something else that both annoys me and makes me laugh a lot… It's those who use Sylvie's line during episode 5 from season 1, namely “we're the same”, the only one of its kind you will notice in Sylvie's mouth, but ardently use by the antis to prove themselves right in their argument that Sylvie is absolutely the same person as Loki, so that the relationship is considered incest, or autocest. So… I don't know what these people's consumption of cinematic media is, but they must have missed a lot of romances… No, because it's a classic phrase / expression in this area, to express that two characters are alike ! Example :

Telling another person “we're the same” is not a contradiction to “I am not you”. And I can't believe this is something I have to explain / needs to be explained to some people.

“I think he realizes, and she realizes, that while they're the same, they're not the same.” - Tom Hiddleston.

I mean... No one is seriously going to say that the spidermans of the Marvel shared universe are the same person. Are they ? Because I've never seen anyone do it. Normal. Since that would just be completely stupid ! No ? Also, directly in the case of the MCU we were treated to Thor and Jane, both being thunder deities, which didn't bother anyone, according to my memories !

The fact that Sylvie is a variant of Loki with whom he falls in love is specifically there to bring about the rather clear metaphor / symbolism of Loki learning to finally love himself as a person (besides loving someone else entirely), even though he considers himself a monster. Because yes, Loki's narcissism is essentially just a cover to hide how monstrous he feels, something I feel like a lot of people forget.

Loki “falls in love with himself”, as Mobius describes it, is not proof of vanity / narcissism which would prevent any evolution of Loki as Mobius and some antis claim. On the contrary, Loki's love for Sylvie not only leads him to see himself differently, but also allows him a real positive evolution.

“to me, is ultimately about self-love, self-reflection and forgiving yourself, it just felt right that that would be Loki's first real love story.” - Michael Waldron.

“I don't think Loki's relationship with himself has been very healthy,” Tom Hiddleston explains. “Trying to accept those aspects of himself, which he's been on the run from, was a way of thinking about that in a really interesting way.”

Besides, in the end, to rephrase in a clearer sense, Loki falls in love with Sylvie as much because he sees himself in her (the metaphor of the dagger in 1x03) as he finds her amazing as a person (Loki discovering Sylvie's story at the start of episode 4 on Lamentis).

Something that is once again nothing surprising in a romance. Many couples fall in love because they find themselves in the person they love, in addition to for the differences they share. Even if Loki's metaphor for love with the dagger is not entirely correct, the aspect of seeing oneself in it is for some a truth.

“Love [...]. You can see yourself in it.” - Loki, 1x03.

“When Loki meets Sylvie, he's inspired solely by curiosity,” reveals Hiddleston. “He wants to talk to her and understand her and try to discern what was similar about their experiences, and what was different. He keeps asking her questions because he wants to see if his experience was also her experience. I think he realizes, and she realizes, that while they're the same, they're not the same.”

So, not only does the incest and autocest argument not work, but the similarities these two share (which seem to bother so many people) and the reason(s) they fall in love, well are in is more of a classic fictional couple coding question designed to represent either the complementarity aspect or the soulmate aspect.

Sylki is essentially two sides of the same coin, or mirrors of each other, like many fictional romantic relationships. (Reylo again for exemple !) Which consequently causes their influence on each other. Because yes, not only does Sylki falling in love influence Loki, but also Sylvie.

Loki obviously learns, as I have already said, to love himself, but also to love someone else unconditionally, to trust them fully. He also learns a new form of magic, and in the end, he even starts playing the hero. Sylvie learns for the first time in her life to trust someone, to open up, to form a team and above all finally develops her first good memories. People often say that Sylvie is incapable of sacrificing herself for anyone, but the truth is that she literally scrambled herself to have a chance of finding Loki, when she wasn't even sure that It would work and perhaps simply kill her, therefore indirectly committing suicide. Additionally, it is also emphasized how Sylki is stronger together than apart.

“They are a mirror to each other. They challenge each other, and out of the challenge, they grow together.” - Tom Hiddleston.

With everything I have just explained / demonstrated, I really have a hard time understanding how this ship can be so controversial / misunderstood…

I don't find the series very subtle on the message for Sylki and beyond that, the writers and actors themselves have already explained these same things in a more condensed way in several interviews.

I mean, I am aware that sometimes the words of directors, screenwriters and actors can be stupid and incoherent (the case of the HOTD series being the perfect example of that…), but here, don't mess around, the series (at least season 1) was very well constructed and visibly thought out.

Really, I don't understand. One of the reasons why people are so uncomfortable is surely and simply maybe the term variants (and again it's because I'm nice...), which for these people necessarily equates to being the same person in all the meanings of the term, which, as we have demonstrated throughout this post, is absolutely not the case… Which can be verified by the series itself, the interviews with the writers and actors which agree with what is shown on the screen, etc. Knowing that in addition I have seen tons of people on tumblr with absolutely remarkable analytical skills (and therefore also in terms of symbolism) yet surprisingly not understanding what the Sylki relationship is, defining it instead as a incest / autocest…

So I can only at this stage, for me at least, deduce that this kind of talk about Sylki is willful and stubborn ignorance from people who simply don't like the ship, trying to justify it from a more “reasonable” and or perhaps “intellectual” way, no idea… than a simple “I don't like it, because tastes cannot be controlled”. Which is OK, because everyone has the right to like what they like / want !

On the other hand, spreading or saying bullshit / false things about the ship in question, to persuade people not to / no longer like it, is something I can't stand.

Please note, everyone is free to say whatever they want, as long as they clarify once again that it is their personal opinion. I am talking about people who speak of their opinion about this ship (or any ship) as fact while making fun of others who like it, make them feel guilty / horrible, or trying to change people's tastes…

Is Sylki weird ? Yes, of course. We are talking about two variants with the same identity falling in love ! Obviously the viewer will find this strange, because it's a concept almost never seen before after all in tv, and complex. But it doesn't necessarily mean bad, toxic, perverse, immoral or unhealthy relationship as the antis argue (knowing that in addition it is in contradiction with the positive message about love for oneself that the relationship transmits), notably to try to take down the ship, especially since Sophia di Martino said she found Sylki “weird”. Which is infuriating, because they act as if the actress's opinion is dominant over those directly writing the story, and that her simple opinion will change the minds of Sylki's fans or should condemn the ship to any possible future ! But also it is mostly infuriating because, well, beyond that, as @where-theres-smoak-2 so well pointed out :

“when you actually look at the definition of the word weird it doesn't necessarily mean something bad. The definition from Cambridge dictionary is : very strange and unusual, unexpected, or not natural. The Merriam-Webster definition is : of strange or extraordinary character, of, relating to, or caused by witchcraft or the supernatural. Which lets be honest fits Sylki, they are unusual, strange, unexpected, extraordinary and you could argue with the whole variant thing its got that supernatural element to it as well. I mean them being weird is what makes them fun and entertaining to watch so honestly I'm not mad that she said they were weird.”

But in itself, is the relationship incest ? No. Because not the same blood / DNA and in no way grew up together like Loki was do with Thor / his adoptive family. Autocest / the same literal person ? Neither. For what ? Because again not the same blood / DNA, and they have not the sames experiences, therefore different personalities which influence their behaviour. Being variants, for Sylki, simply mean (once again) being the deity of mischief, a role / identity given to them within the universe / timeline they came from. That's all. (Damn, some will also tell me while we're at it that the crocodile Loki is the same as our Loki ?! Be a little objective people…) There is nothing bad, toxic, perverse, disgusting, immoral or unhealthy about the Sylki relationship.

Fuck the antis !

[youlikefanficdontyousquidward]

Why so Blue?

Prologue, one, two, three

Chapter 4

Mans needs a drink

Instincts.

Miles Quaritch was becoming aggravated more and more by them now. He watched as Spider worried over you, wiping tears from your cheeks and checking your injuries. He was happy to leave it to him to convince you to fall in line but something in these new instincts had him lingering close by. In his past life he'd have killed you, but he'd have lost Spider's trust or whatever good will he extended to him. He should have just hurt you then, sent you running home, stubby tail between your legs but he couldn't even bring himself to do that. Spider likely could have forgiven that since it would have taken you out of harms way long term. Instead he'd burdened himself with another untrustworthy head to look out for. A useless one at that, he had a willing teacher and translator, he couldn't imagine you'd do anything that'd help in his mission. Though your lack of fighting skills was probably a blessing, less to worry about when his back was turned, if you'd behave. It angered him that he felt this pull to you now too. He'd just about decided he was fine with his desire to be around Spider, at least as long as no one else knew that's what he wanted but he didn't want to feel anything for you.

Instincts.

He was sure something in them had spared you. Maybe it was the way you were with his kid? You were some kind of surrogate parent to him so maybe instinctively he was extending his protection to you? It certainly made something swell in his chest watching you with him. Thinking about how you could have met and decided to adopt his son, or what you'd have looked like with his boy on your hip. Spider had been cleaning the blood off your face, and Miles couldn't stop watching the water dripping over your slightly parted lips. He bit his cheek, instincts and this new young body he thought turning quickly.

Instincts.

He'd been at your side before he could even think. He played it off as irritation, rolling his eyes when Mansk had cocked an eyebrow at him and hauling you more roughly to your feet than he had too. He needed get a handle on this, you were a liability and a threat. His throbbing neck should be reminder enough of that. You would run off and take Spider the moment you had the chance again. That thought he could use, one instinct against another. If he was to keep Spider close, he'd have to keep a close tether on you. Remain in control.

He wanted this, he wanted you to follow his commands and Spider to stay by his side. Though Spider's attention kept returning to you, he'd been easier today. He spoke more freely to Quaritch and even joked a little. Probably trying to endear him, keep his Sa'nok safe but Miles could still enjoy the moment. Spider was so proud of his knowledge of the forest.

"You know, y/n's a healer. Taught me everything I know. I could probably get her to take a look at your neck for you. You know if you uncuff 'em, at least their feet, they'll just keep tripping. Lyle has their things it'd be easy"

Quaritch had just hummed a maybe. He had no intention of letting you near that bag. He'd peaked inside, tubs of sharp smelling creams and dried herbs in bundles. Poisons no doubt, and he had no plans in making your escape easier by giving you access. Though it tickled him to hear how proud he was of you, he wondered if he would talk of him that way in time?

Walking behind you he noticed your scent. He'd figured out quickly that each member of his team had a distinct smell to them. Even Spider had his own smell. He'd theorized that'd been what woke him last night, your new scent had been enough to rouse him from his rest. Up close he could tell why, it was intoxicating. He had no human comparison, just the feeling that he wanted to bury himself in the crook of your neck and engulf himself in it. He felt dazed the rest of the journey.

Instincts?

He'd played with you, made you squirm and now you were gonna feed them all to prove a point. Maybe controlling you wouldn't be so hard. Somehow the joke felt on him now though as you pulled the fabric down past your knee exposing more patterned skin. You looked at him then turned quickly, he watched your hips sway as you walked into the water. Quaritch swallowed hard and turned to see Lyle staring at your retreating form. He forgot his own irritation at himself, feeling hot anger flare across his chest. Mine. He shook that thought from his head, instead nudging Lyle's shoulder. He seemed somewhat embarrassed, ears reddening and pinning down. He'd been caught, met his eyes nodding sheepishly before he ducked past to follow you into the water.

He felt his ears burning too. Spider was looking at him, frowning. Quaritch didn't want to hear what the kid might say, choosing instead to walk back over to Mansk. He'd began the prep work for a fire, seeming hopeful for some fish to grill. Zdog sat on a vine covered rock watching Y/N and Lyle, one hand gently resting on her gun the other fiddling with a stick.

OKAY MAYBE THIS ONES JUST HIM!

You'd walked over to the fire, last light of the day making the world glow a soft pink. Water dripped down your form, snaking down your stomach, past the curve of your hip and down your thighs. In the lower light the dusting of sparkling freckles led trails across your chest, barely covered by your now wet beaded top, a road map.

"Fish" You held them out in front of him. He fought to bring himself back, desperately ignoring the blood rushing away from his face.

"Suppose the kids right. Not entirely useless" He took the skinned fish from you passing them to Mansk to get started. You seemed to hesitate in front of him, large eyes focusing on anything but his face. Quaritch was somewhat thankful you didn't seem capable of looking at him, you might have caught his wandering eyes. You nodded to yourself, rocking back on your heels before stepping to sit with Spider. Closer than Quaritch thought you'd've liked. Still he wanted to keep you close and with only Spider's small frame between you, he kept a good view of you.

Mansk passed out food, pausing for permission to hand Spider and you a portion. Miles nodded and he went ahead. Mansk seemed to be trying very hard to maintain distance from you as he did so, almost dropping it in an effort to ensure your hands didn't meet. Still you seemed unphased by this, meeting his eyes to thank him Quaritch was surprised, all day you'd been resigned to your role as captive. He'd have thought you'd be more aggressive considering you bit him during your first encounter but you looked down right tame. He was pretty sure you'd seen through his threat to Spider's life, so it had to be something the kid had told you.

Play nice, you were playing downright homely. He wondered if that'd made things worse, seeing you provide now not only for Spider but for the group, and him. Right now he could barely hold himself back, something animalistic clawed in the back of his head. Claim.

[gorbalsvampire]

In the Gehenna War era, post-splinterification, what do you imagine it takes to be judged True Sabbat? (Please note: I'm way more interested in your creativity, interpretations, and what interests you than in strict canonicity.) Thank you!

So, about the Sabbat, post-interregnum...

In a surprising but welcome shift in approaches, antitribu doesn't mean "on the other side of the sect war from where your clan normally is" but a far more interesting "opposed to the idea of even identifying by your clan to begin with." Pack and Path identity are far, far more important than whose blood flows in your veins and, if we stop and think about it, this is both ideologically and practically on point.

Ideologically, the Sabbat makes war to hunt the Antediluvians and destabilise domains which protect or apologise for them and, of course, to recruit. Leave turf war for mundane practical reasons to the Anarchs! Given that end goal of annihilating the Third Generation, of course it makes sense that Sabbat reject the clan identities defined by which of your targets happens to be at the root of your own particular bullshit.

Practically, the Sabbat shares vitae (and consequently Disciplines) as a regular ritual practice, and during wartime, the mass Embraces aren't a tidy one-bites-one affair. It's a squirming pit of hungry angry vampires, in which the survivors are probably diablerising each other down there before the surface. And, of course, diablerie is going to have an impact too. Given these practices, the Sabbat must be breaking down the boundaries between clans all the time. Most of the buggers should, mechanically speaking, be Caitiff, with only the rare Lasombra or Tzimisce childe groomed personally for a position of apprenticeship or leadership really standing out. Even they, if they have any sense about it, will lean on the achievements of their ancestors within the sect, and push against the definitive limitations of their Blood.

(Defined "bloodlines" like the Volgirre may emerge, but - gosh, now that I think about it, Baron Philippe's brood make a lot more sense as not defining themselves as a bloodline until they're accepted by the Camarilla and start to Embrace more widely and spread. Likewise, the Harbingers joined the Sabbat as allies but kept to themselves and seldom-if-ever Embraced, until they returned to the nascent Hecata.)

Perhaps what is to be Cainite, and True Sabbat, is in truth to be descended from Caine and not his cursed grandchilder. A clanless potentiality, unburdened of the weaknesses of the bloodlines, and able to develop in the direction its chosen Path demands.

SO! Let's talk about the Paths. I've Posted before about the mechanical faults with "adopting a Path" and the impossibility of transhuman ascension under Vampire's transgression-based morality rules, let's take that as read for now. Second edition did it right with the insistence that all "playable" (read "viable, True") Sabbat are on a Path and have successfully internalised its ethics and mobilised them against the Beast.

I really like how the contemporary Sabbat has fractured into packs led by priests and sharing a Path in common. It Just Makes Sense that the philosophical commitments of given Sabbat are what holds them together. The Sabbat is, after all, a militant cult; an army. Units work better if they're pursuing common goals and adopting a common strategy, rather than being tugged every which way by the individual desires of its members.

And, again returning to my Touchstone of second edition, all Sabbat used to operate on a mechanically distinct and alien basis in which Conviction (belief in an ethic), Instinct (trust in the Beast) and collective Morale (faith in the strength of the pack) replaced personal Conscience and Self-Control, and individualistic Courage. They weren't like you, they didn't think like you, and whatever made them so unlike you happened before you ever met them.

The paradox at the heart of the Sabbat is that it preaches freedom (from mortal and Camarilla moral and ethical concerns, i.e. freedom to be an unapologetic vampire) at the cost of submission (to the sect and its goals, i.e. freedom without liberty, do what thou wilt so long as thou dost what th'art told). Adoption of a Path and inclusion into a Pack that shares that commitment is part of that act of submission: it signifies a sublimation of the self into the sect. One cannot be True Sabbat until one has accepted oneself as a vampire - playing, metaphorically and literally, by vampire rules that are proven to work.

Forsake your Clan. Choose your Path. And, above all, make war, on your own initiative, because there are no orders coming from Mexico. The Regent is dead (and, in unknown fact, has been for a decade). The elders who founded and led the sect threw their childer to the fires and answered the Beckoning call of the ancient horrors: fuck 'em, they'll die with the Antediluvians they protect and serve. The self-proclaimed Kindred are merely obstacles. Recruit them, or tear them down. Leave the turf war bullshit to the Anarchs. We have a higher goal.

It's funny how I always drift into character when I talk about the Sabbat. I started out running a Sabbat game, and cast myself as pack priestess when I started playing them. They've always been my favourite mistake, and now that they and the Anarchs are in distinct and very different kinds of conflict, they are more interesting than they've ever been.

[bonny-kookoo]

Bonny pls give namjoon his Hybrid back..he sounds so broken...pretty pls😭😭

Namjoon had always enjoyed traveling.

Be it alone or with family, it always brought him an odd feeling he could not describe. Like a thirst for something so specific that nothing else can satisfy that craving but the feeling of experiencing a place he's not been at ever before.

This time, he's all by himself, in Venice for once, a place he'd always wanted to see with his own eyes.

In the distance, he can hear a group of people laughing, running around, someone elderly yelling something in a language he doesn't quite understand. From the sound of it they must be hybrids- the distinctive clattering sound of their collars and the different sounds they all make reminding him a little of when you were still around. Your laugh was so unique- it always made him smile.

He likes to daydream a lot about where you might be.

Maybe you're at an elderly couple's place, getting spoiled like a grandchild they might never had the possibility to have; he's met a lot of people like that, parents that never got to be parents, families that would never be complete without an addition. Hybrids always have it well in those homes, able to fill a void on both sides.

Or maybe you've been adopted by a younger person, able to live with them through their wild young adult years, having fun while experiencing your own adolescence alongside them. Maybe you've become an emotional support to someone- you've always been very good at calming someone down, so gentle in nature no matter the situation.

He just hopes you have it good.

And with the happy laughter around him, his daydreams become happy as well- shared excitement of the people around him making him softly smile as he lays in between the flowers in the field.

"Oof-!" Someone huffs out, stumbling over his body and landing harshly on the grass right next to him, making him sit up to inspect the girl that's got her back turned towards him, earlier suspicions correct as he notices the orange and white foxtail peeking out from the hem of her dress, the elderly lady in the distance heard calling something out as she slowly makes her way over to inspect what had happened.

"I'm so sorry, are you alright?" He wonders, unsure if you even speak english, but when you turn around, he feels his entire being stop moving. The blood in his veins stops rushing, his heart no longer beating as even his brain seems to stand still.

Its you.

[quillkiller]

I have just seen this and maybe you have talked about it before but Effie x Walburga

I’m like shaken because I can’t imagine James mom ever wanting to be with someone probably cruel from birth. I mean they would have been together in the fifties, idk it made em giggle

would you all still love me if i said i was a walburga defender… :(

ok ive been pondering this all day, and ive also spent an insane amount of time on public transport trying to find a post i made in defence of walburga. @sugarsnappeases pulled up her laptop as my own personal hacker and stalker and couldnt find it either. however i found a snippet of an ’what are ur unpopular opinions’ ask and found this:

and that’s the gist of it. if anyone remembers the post i made or know how to find it pleaseeeeee send it to me. me and kara went through hell and back to try and find it :(((((((

anyway!

1. i hate the concept of people being born ’cruel’ or ’evil’. people are people and sometimes people do bad things. i think its important to still acknowledge that abusive people aren’t monsters who just couldn’t help themselves. abusers are people and those people chose to treat you like that. that was a choice they didn’t have to make, but they did. abusers aren’t monsters or monstrous. it’s important to me, due to personal experience, to remember that abuse is a choice. it allows me to feel betrayed and hurt and angry that a person chose to do that to me

2. i think walburga was a victim her whole childhood. atleast my own depiction of her. it’s different when she becomes an adult, has children, etc, and she should know better. there’s no excuse for her abuse towards her children/no excuse ever for abusive parents. and i want to be very clear about how there are NO excuses !!!!!! i am not team walburga and will never ever be team walburga !!!!!

3. walburga was a woman in the 70s, she held no power over orion what so ever. he was the man in the house. the head of the family. the abuse was allowed because quietly sat back and allowed it. absolutely ridiculous to me that walburga would be worse than orion. i simply think its an ignorant and misogynistic take. a silent father will always scare me more than the active abusive mother. like.. the patriarchy in the 70s in pure blood families ? lets be real here

ive seen posts saying orion was scared of walburga and thats why he never did anything. like are we being serious here. no way she got to choose her husband. and he’s a powerful man from a powerful family. in the seventies. why woud he be scared of her she has absolutely no power what so ever

4. i love exploring the womens narrative in the marauders fandom because their canonical narrative is based on sexism and the nuclear family. i guess you think it’s outlandish that effie would fall for walburga (cruel from birth) because shes james’ mother, and the anti walburga in the way she opens up her home and basically adopts sirius and makes a home for him ? to me that’s not interesting sadly :/ i love effiebarty because i get to explore good housewife effie tearing down her walls and acting on her desires and urges. like…. i want her to leave both james and monty behind out of pure selfishness. like.. im the girl writing the baby killing fic where lily is the sole survivor….

5. to me walburga is sort of similar to alicent from house of the dragon. what did she ever do that wasn’t expected of her? she was a girl in the 60/50s in a powerful family and had less choices than either reg or sirius ever did. she didn’t leave like sirius did. she stayed like regulus. and for similar reasons reg stayed probably. and she’s a woman. her sons are more priveliged than she will ever ever be. even disowned sirius is more priveliged than her.

6. i want to be very clear again. i am not a walburga apologist. i think there’s a clear distinction between her child- and adulthood. at some point the abuse becomes a choice. she didn’t break the cycle and she’s bad and rotten woman who abused her children. no excuses !!!!!!!!!! however. it is interesting exploring the circumstances which led to the woman she is

7. to actually answer your question. i dont necessarily care for effie/walburga but i can see the appeal. maybe i’ll get into it we’ll see……. like honestly they wouldn’t be that different from jegulus?

[skybristle]

ok. finally my big gc post i've been hyping up. im sorry theres so much context bullshit here my fanon is complicated and this is Very me-specific, i don't think this could ever work in canon. bear with me though.

First: magic system . long story short, there are divine planes of magic, the 'source' of each type of magic's power and usually what the god of it has direct control over. another important thing about them [particularly the celestial planes, which is a distinction you thankfully don't have to care about] is that they can hold souls 'hostage' from the flow of life. this will be important later. particularly, the world of dreams has most of the main celestial body magics, plus some other rudimentary stuff, including the sunlight realm, a daydream facet of the whole world of dreams. normally, a god will by default have the 'birthright' to their realm,,, however sometimes spirits can get minor or even major godhood if they know what they're doing. it's both incredibly painful and simply unreasonable to expect a mortal body to be able to take the inflow of divine magic. [and yes, even though the ancients are immortal, they still Classify under mortal, they don't have any divinity asnd they just got a shitton of magic in their things]

and secondly: city of wizards. i mentioned it, but the world of dreams Does have a sun facet, and there IS a sun goddess, sunshine! [my lovely girlfriend @princess--bongwater 's oc].. i've always wanted them to be connected, but i haven't really figured out a way to make it work since i didn't want gc to straight up have a divine blessing that would set her apart from the other ancients. you see, uhm, a certain Incident happened in the city millenia ago where tldr moonlight got cursed by some twink, the city fell, and the dream barrier [divine in origin since it's technically moonlight's magic, so sunshien can't break through] and eclipse, their adoptive mother, tells sunshine to run before hell completely breaks loose when it all begins. sunshine, locked out with a vieled city only being able to see her twin chained up in the abyss of the dream realm, with an assumption her mortal mother is dead or will be by the time she's able to return,,, wanders off to the mortal realm. and, in a mortal diguise, that's where she's been, unable to face the dream world let alone her own personal godly duties, fucking around in bars getting slammed and shit. so. she's really out of the picture. the throne of the sun has been empty since a time beyond memory

NOW. golden cheese. i imagine a lot of the ancients came from the general place they founded their kingdoms [besides white lily and pv probably], and i've always seen gc as a thief wandering between villiages and oasis' on the sands prior to meeting hb / the others. it's a very disjointed soceity, with only one unifying trait: the worship of the sun goddess.

once she's settled in as the pharoah, the worship of the sun is still very much there, even if gc has kind of become sort of a godly figure among her people. she personally doesn't consider it much, having originally lived a harsh life and never being given sol's grace. until shes on her knees, sobbing, crying, clutching the staffs of her dearest friends and her people over the ruins of her kingdom, over the dried blood in the fractured golden tiles. the wind whistles in her ears. this is the first time in her life the desert sun has felt completely scorching. and, in the deepest depths of her grief, she finally prays to the sun. for anything . [she doesn't know that's what all of the bodies before her were spending their last moments doing]. she cries and sobs to the heavens as her talons are digging so hard into her other hand they bleed. she has no other choice. the heavens are silent

well, golden cheese has never exactly been a cattle waiting for rescue. fine then, sunshine, be that way. she has to bring them back. her finest treasures, all of them. the gold burning her eyes doesn't matter. so she soars. up and up and up. her lungs are burning with the thin air. her wings are pounding in her ears and she can see nothing but light, and she can't tell if it's what she's staring at or her soul jam overflowing with the power of her grief and denial. but she keeps going.

her talons clutch the sun, finally [this is a little metaphorical, she's actually seizing the divine realm, lol dw the literal sun is ok] and as she finally falls back down she holds it close and channels all of her power into it and even if it's fighting back she's wrangling it like a jackal and she'll fucking win. she has to. there's no other choice now.

before she smashes into the sands, it fianlly takes her there. a blank slate. a little messy from hosting daydreams and not being attended to by its god, but it's workable. it's oddly dim, i guess there's no sun here anymore.

perfect. with just the right timing, she grabs the souls here from the hand of death and takes them away.

the 'digital' kingdom is, yes, a lot of technology, but its also a melting pot of magic and souls and code and it's very,,, hectic. thankfully, her people weren't big mage-types, and she mainly assigns the souls of former mages similar powers using the fakeness of her world. just trying to look at this thing using their magic sight would give them vertigo if they were using Actual Magic that's real. i should also add she had to personally bury each one with her own two talons. sure, the cheesebirds helped, but there's only so much they can do. her closest friends to the tiniest babies to her wisest elders. and,,, i mean,,, she's sitting on the throne of the sun. she *is* the sun goddess. but while she is sitting in the vacated land of the sun she betrayed, her soul jam is supporting a lot of it, and she's actualyl despite her ego actively fighting against the transformation into a god. the divinity is seeping into her, but its absolutely *agonizing*, i imagine the 'sun deity' transformation in her skill is absolutely brutally painful, and even if her soul jam cam help her bear the weight of this whole charade, it's not very,,, fun. it's just such a captivating hc to me. she usurped the goddess of the sun to keep up this lie. in fact, that's why the digital kingdom is always night, a false sun can't illuminate it. and there's a timer ticking. stop being delusional and face the music of what really happened, or get eaten from the inside out by the reminder of what she stole. i wonder which she'll choose. a lot of my thoughts with this hc r just visuals. ill have to draw smthin later

[hazelenergy]

17 + 20 + 23

17. What is the worst thing you have put your OC through story-wise?

Oof, she has been through some shit. Since I've gone FT again, she's had a way easier time bc I haven't had time to play dolls with other people as much and put her through the horrors tm.

I think there are two distinct moments that define her lowest lows:

The first occurred within her first year of unlife. After disobeying her adoptive sire, Hazel was subjected to Dagon's Call- and survived. Now, this wasn't planned on my part. My storyteller had this moment plotted for Hazel's eventual disobedience- but had misinterpreted Dagon's Call for v5. This was circa 2019- so the V5 book had recently come out. He was using the effects of Cauldron of Blood, a level 5 Blood Sorcery power- with the range of Dagon's Call from older editions (so it was still Quietus). Which makes Hazel's survival all the more impressive- and shows how desperate Mary was to get rid of a loose end. Hazel experienced wave after wave of unyielding pain, her blood boiling and bubbling out of any orifice it could find: her mouth, her nose, her eyes, and the bullet holes in her gut. Mary made sure to call Hazel and hear her screaming. However, Mary shortsightedly ended the call before she heard Hazel stop screaming. Perhaps she thought that the three waves would be more than enough. Hazel survived on the vitae of another Tremere (Mary's ex, yikes!!), drinking as she bled out. And to top it all off, the scene prior had Hazel witness the death of her only touchstone. Its a thinblood miracle she did not lose all her will to her baby beast. The lasting impact this has on Hazel is PTSD and nightmares, but it also made her sometimes fearless. Hazel is not built to withstand extreme damage, but she can no-sell the pain. There are few things that have felt worse to her.

The second worst was the meeting of Hazel and Bishop Marco. What makes Hazel more afraid is she STILL does not know what information she spilled while Marco tortured her in the shadows, how Marco got her, and if he can do it again. The encounter doesn't start with Marco pulling her through the Abyss. Its hours before, when Hazel made one crucial and cocky mistake in sabbat territory. She, intelligently, went into the sword's turf with the sun high in the sky. The problem was she didn't "leave no trace." The thinblood was keen on nabbing a recipe from a local coffee house that definitely makes coffee blood. When she was snooping around the wreckage, a human came to check out what triggered some still working security cams. Hazel's beast is a sneaky one, and decided it was time to play with her food. She got to take a nice drink, steal the woman's tablet with the recipe on it, and leave without the woman ever seeing her face. However this was not a mundane human. This was one of the sabbat pack's shared ghouls- and when that human came to, definitely ran and tattled what happened. Its believed that Marco could follow the connection between the consumed blood of the ghoul to Hazel. The powers here are a little fuzzy- but plot device, you know? Plus, you don't take something from a sabbat Bishop without his permission. Hazel was already a state over when she parked and decided to start deciphering her prize. That's when the shadows began creeping through the vents in her car, uncaringly tangled her up, and dragged her, piece by piece, into the Abyss.

The following encounter with Marco starts...cordial. Something something the devil is a gentleman? He is polite and Hazel minds her pleases and thank yous. They even crack a joke at each other. This doesn't last though. Hazel was willing to say whatever Marco wanted to get out to safety. She is shrewd and a very good liar. She manages to slip two little lies past the Bishop. The third, he would not tolerate. One way or another, Hazel was going to do exactly what he wanted, and there was no way he was going to let the thinblood go without a little assurance. Shadows poured into Hazel's mind, shrouding the synapses until she snapped. Truthfully, we decided to fade to black at this part of the scene. I believe that Hazel put up a fight at first, but went limp and froze as the torture progressed. The lasting impact of this encounter leaves Hazel paranoid that Marco still lingers in her shadow and can weave into hers whenever he wants. She swears she can see him in her periphery. Sometimes she's right. This also made Hazel want to dive more into her bloodline's powers. Before, Hazel didn't really care that she was from a Lasombra lineage and what powers should have been her death right. Now she wants to control the shadows- if only to push Marco out of hers.

20. Does your OC have a tendency to get jealous? If so, how does this manifest?

Oh absolutely. Hazel is a possessive creature, its just not an aspect I enjoy portraying unless I am at the table with trusted players. She is a great one night stand, terrible long term romantic partner. When she doesn't have her love's attention, omygod she's such a pest.

Online and with more open roleplay, I tend to have her jealousy manifest a lot less. She doesn't get upset when people hang out without her, mainly because I, the player, don't want to have this misconstrued (because I do not have time for that shit). She will however try to take things for herself or try to enshrine herself as something better than whatever she's jealous of. Or she will try to get whatever/whoever she is jealous of under her tiny thinblood boot. Additionally, over the years as I have played her, her jealousy has become less and less interesting as a negative trait. Her paranoia and pride however- thats the good shit.

23.What emotion is the hardest for your OC to process? How about express?

She has a rough time processing grief. Repeatedly this emotion gets the better of her because she won't let herself feel the pain of it until it is too much to bear alone. Granted, anytime she should let herself grieve and get the sads out, something terrible happens and she has to swallow the pain and survive. Expressing grief isn't hard, mainly because she just reaches a point where she can do nothing else but cry and sob- the numbness gets overruled.

Edgy/misc OC ask meme ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ