#first world minstrel

[dailycharacteroption]

First World Minstrel (Bard Archetype)

(art by A-Faun on DeviantArt)

 One good thing about doing these archetypes and options alphabetically is that a lot of similarly-themed archetypes tend to end up in clusters. The bad part is that you quickly grow tired of the same theme both as a reader and a writer.

Thankfully, between fey and First World-themed archetypes, we had a little break in the middle, and now we’re to the last one for a while, but it’s a good one!

While we’ve previously covered bards that either are fey or learned their secrets, today we’re looking at an archetype for someone who has more been affected by the fey realms, rather than being a student of them.

Not to say that you can’t characterize a character with this archetype as someone who learned fey tricks, but I like the aesthetic the subject tries to paint.

Whether they were an ordinary person or already a bard, some people fall into the classic trap of being kidnapped or tricked into servitude by the fey. Some may have been treated as honored guests. Others as hapless victims that may not even have realized what happened to them Either way, they were brought to the First World and spent time there, and whether by escape or by the good graces of their host, they returned, though not the same as they left.

Those that develop bardic talents can channel that change into their performances, bringing a bit of the First World with them long after they have left. Exactly what they do with that power in the Material World, which simultaneously seems duller than they remember and treats them as strange, is up to them.

 One of the ways that the magic of these bards is altered is their tendency to summon monsters of nature rather than otherworldly origins, coloring the sort of aid they can call upon, including fey creatures.

They also have a greater understanding of the natural world and seem to empathetically be able to commune with wildlife.

Rather than bolstering the courage of their allies, the most notable change these minstrels exhibit is their ability to infuse one or more allies with a bit of the fey, granting them temporary abilities, such as supernatural resilience, short-range teleportation, invisibility, magical resistance, and so on. The more skilled they are, the more abilities they can grant, either to a single ally or spreading them about.

With another performance, they infuse a foe with bad luck similar to the aura of a pugwampi gremlin.

They are also well-versed in the tricks of nature and the fey, becoming naturally resistant to them. In fact, they might have just enough fey in them that it confuses spells and effects meant for mortals.

 If you’re looking for a bard that gets a handful of the defensive powers of a druid, you certain came to the right place. The ability to grant stronger abilities to allies, but only in limited amounts is a bit more specialized than a buff to attack and damage, but can be quite useful regardless. Also debuffing a single foe with unluck, while allowing for a save, can be a fun way to turn a strong monster on it’s head. You lose a little skill utility and defenses against musical and sonic effects, but otherwise you can build these bards much as you normally would, though if you decide to take any summoning spells at higher levels, consider the plant summons feat, which massively increases your array of potential natures allies.

 Despite gaining power from the First World, exactly how they feel about that and their power varies a lot by exactly what their experience with it was. Those brought there at a young age might remember it fondly or consider it their true home, though others may have longed for their families. Others might recall their time there as nightmares and terrifying experiences.

  It’s no surprise that the jungle planet has a strong connection to the first world, and in turn, that sometimes lashunta go missing in the fey realms, only to return different, like Akyasha, who ever since then has taken to running a fishing boat, as far out from the rainforests as possible. Still, those who sail with her notes she often stays up late and sings strange songs in the middle of the night.

 A mental proxy war exists in the coastal city of Mivan, where alghollthu masterminds seek to control the citizens, only to be thwarted by the fey Eldest known as the Conch Singer, who over the decades kidnapped many mortals and trained them in the ways to manipulate the mind with fairy magic, seeding them throughout the city and making things difficult for the underwater tyrants. Soon, they will send a plizeazoth, a brutish put powerful psychic monstrosity, to turn the tide.

 All can agree that there is something strange about Lila’s music, but it is nevertheless beautiful, always turning heads whatever tavern she plays at. However, those who know her better than the average patron may notice she never performs on the new moon, and instead wanders into the wilderness outside of town.

[yourplayersaidwhat]

My minstrel, Lark, is a 51-year-old woman whose backstory is that she did the whole get-married-have-kids thing and now all the kids are grown and out of the house she is off to see the world and have a good time. I chose her skills and attributes accordingly, and her main role to date has been party healer, cook, and Face for dealing with the locals. Today we have defeated the BBEG in our first dungeon, but at great cost - only the two fighters are still standing, and Lark has lost a finger! Fortunately she had a healing potion on her, which one of the fighters got down her, bringing her up to where she could heal everybody else enough to walk out of the dungeon on their own power. At that point I said: "Okay, somebody collect the head and we'll go back -"

Archer, who took no damage at all in the boss fight due to standing out of range to shoot: "What? No, hang on, there's doors we haven't opened yet -"

Lark: And they'll still be there tomorrow but today we are going straight back to camp. (I pick up dice.) OOC: I'm using the Mom Voice.

Archer: Oh, back to camp! I thought you meant back to town. No, if we're coming back down tomorrow to make sure we've cleaned it out that's fine.

GM: Yeah, backpedal fast, before she uses Power Word: Middle Name.

[lizardsfromspace]

The renaming of racist advertising mascots in 2020-2021 was greeted with like, okay, yeah they sucked but it's super late to do and that's not what anyone was marching in the streets over

Meanwhile MAGA types, who are OBSESSED with the sanctity of advertising bc their ideal world only ever existed in 1950s magazine ads for ham-flavored jello salads, have never shut up about them. They absolutely think that's what people were marching in the streets over. They started a myth that there was a real Aunt Jemima - that the woman hired to play her in public appearances, Nancy Green, actually created the brand and died "one of the first black millionaires" - when. No she's just a stock character from blackface minstrel shows. They're excitedly speculating that Trump winning & "defeating woke" will mean they'll have to bring back Aunt Jemima, Uncle Ben, and the Land-O'-Lakes Indian and like. I cannot imagine a more empty life than one where you attach very real and powerful feelings to the packaging of rice and butter and want to enshrine fascism in part so that they can put stereotypes from the 19th century back on them

[homartchi]

Join Lone Minstrel!

Lone Minstrel is a text-based roleplay discord server. The community is neurodivergent and lgbt+ friendly! There are several settings you can play in, known as ‘Sonnets’ within the Discord Server.

Lone minstrel currently has 2 Settings to play in, but can house up to 6 settings at a time! We allow any player to make a sonnet. So it is simply first come first serve

The Sonnets are as follows:

Drakentide:

In the lands of Lythera, there are only humans, and dragons. Dragons take up all fauna in this world, instead of cats you have Tatzelwurms, instead of turtles you have dragon turtles, Salamander heat human homes and mandrakes become a horrifying Draconic pest to any farmer. Then there are the Draken. These supersized dragons are by any regards people as humans are, but though careful propaganda they have been seen as devilish beasts that must be hunted down for the good of humanity. You can play as Human or Draken, and uncover the muddy history between Human and Dragon.

Ebbingway:

In October, in old abandoned houses, or deep within the woods. There is a door to a place separate from earth. This plane of existence follows the four seasons, each located in their specific little town. Ebbingway is the town of Autumn. Where one can encounter and play as any number of creatures. Skeletons. Vampires, horrible eldritch entities beyond comprehension? The choice is yours! But, despite the haunting, but quaint exterior, something does lurk under the surface, threatening to destroy the livelihoods of all that live there.

This project has been an act of love by me to make the things I want to make, and I hope that any who join can see the passion I have for this place.

Please join, and if you don’t want to, please spread the world, so we may brighten the day of someone who does.

[elfy-elf-imagines]

To Meet Under the Stars | Thranduil

▹ Pairing: Thranduil x Elf!Reader

▹ Genre: Fluff

▹ Words: ~3k

▹ Summary: In light of the stars, Thranduil finds himself entirely enchanted by a mysterious masked woman.

▹ Notes: I love masquerade balls, that is all. Unedited because we die as men.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The light of starlight was something sacred to the elves. 

In the times of old, before the moon and sun had been created, Varda placed the stars in the sky, illuminating the world for the elves to see. For all other races, stars were just light that guided their way at night, but they were so much more for the elves. They held the promise of life unsullied by the evil of Morgoth. A beautiful display of glistening diamonds that held the light of creation. To honor the stars was to honor Varda herself.

Under the canopy of stars, the wood elves of Eryn Galen celebrated the first night of the autumn equinox. The moon was full and high in the sky as lords, ladies, and commoners alike gathered for the party. The echo of minstrels ensured there would be no corner of the kingdom not lit with joy. Dragonflies darted across ponds, and crickets hid in the forest, chirping to the beat of the lute. There were festivities all throughout the kingdom, but the main attraction was the masquerade ball held within the palace of King Thranduil. Only guests of high esteem were invited to dance under the lush canopy in the company of the royal family. 

And there you were, with summer in your hair and winter in your eyes. Dancing through the crowd, illuminated in the silver light of the moon, you were the vision of a goddess. A soft halo shone upon your silver-gold hair, pinned in an updo with stray pieces that cascaded down your back. Flowers in purple, blue, and silver hues were placed upon your head like a crown, creating the silhouette of a queen. A silver mask encrusted with enough jewels that it glittered under the light concealed the top half of your face, two holes allowing your eyes to glow in the dark. A grin born of pure ecstasy was outlined by the lipstick on your lips. 

No one could recall who you were nor when you’d arrived at the celebration. It was as if you were always there, lying in wait and dancing with the ghosts of the open-roof ballroom. A laugh rivaling the minstrels' songs hung in the air where you stood and followed your every sweeping move. 

From the high table, with a glass of wine precariously hanging in his hand, Thranduil watched you. He couldn’t help it. It was as if you were weaving some sort of spell, casting it upon all who watched, paralyzed by your song and enraptured by your dance. You were beautiful, quick as a whip, and light as a feather. Each step seemed calculated and purposeful, yet so loose it could only be natural.

Thranduil couldn’t recall ever meeting you, so certain he’d know your laugh even if he couldn’t see your face. His advisors tried to make idle conversation as Legolas spent his time with the other members of the guard, drinking and laughing. Thranduil couldn’t be bothered to even pretend to listen, intently focused on the way your summer blue dress flowed like water around you. It nearly felt sacrilegious to directly look at something so beautiful, like staring at the face of Varda herself. 

“It is a beautiful--” his advisor beside him began to speak, talking so slowly it made Thranduil’s lips curl in slight irritation that was hidden by the goblet he held. He watched as you threw your head back in laughter, finding amusement in whatever the elf lord you were speaking with said. It took all his willpower not to roll his eyes as he drank more sweet wine. 

The elf lord offered you his hand, which you gracefully accepted. Instead of dancing through the crowds alone, you twirled in the arms of another man. It made Thranduil’s stomach turn in a way it hadn’t for centuries. 

You and the elf lord you danced with would flit in and out of his vision, yet the merriment never left your expression, and when the face of your dance partner would face Thranduil, he could see just how enchanted the man was by you. His grip on the goblet tightened, knuckles turning white. 

The song seemed endless, drawing out the end of it for as long as possible. Part of Thranduil was tempted to bark at the minstrels to begin a new one in hopes you would once again be left alone, but he didn’t. A king needed to maintain his composure, even if everything inside was screaming not to. It seemed silly to be so taken by a woman whose face he couldn’t even see. 

“Have you tried one of these cakes yet? They’re quite--” 

“Galion.” Thranduil interrupted the man previously speaking, gaining the attention of his butler. The advisor that had been interrupted scowled yet said nothing else as Galion stepped closer to Thranduil. 

“Yes, my king.”

Thranduil pointed at you, Galion’s eyes following his finger. “Who is that?”

His eyes narrowed as Galion leaned closer to try and get a better look at you. Yet not a glint of recognition twinkled in his eyes. Did anyone here know who you were?

“I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with who she is. Would you like me to fetch her, my king?” Galion asked, his attention returned to Thranduil, whose eyes furrowed in mild annoyance. 

“That will not be necessary, Galion.” He waved his hand, and Galion returned to his previous seat. It would be easy to bring you to him, he was the king, after all, but he didn’t want your meeting with him to seem forced upon you. He already had enough of a reputation as a cold, unfeeling man; it wouldn’t do any good to give you a reason to believe them. 

The song ended, and you stepped away from your partner, lowering into a curtsey that he returned with a bow. Thranduil stood, the legs of his chair scraping on the floor; he didn’t bother giving a weak excuse for his exit. If he doesn't act soon, you might slip from his fingers. Thranduil took long strides down the platform and disappeared into the sea of elves. 

He pushed his way through the crowd, most too lost in the magic of the music to pay their king any mind. He could see you, dancing alone with your eyes shut. The grin on your face was wide, never wavering in the slightest. The distance separating him from you was dwindling, the anticipation making his palm sweaty. The crowd parted, and he could’ve pulled you into his arms if he wanted to. 

But as he opened his mouth, you disappeared into the crowd, so preoccupied you never saw him coming. Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, his misty eyes searching the crowd for you, but you were nowhere to be seen. Had you merely been a figment of his imagination conjured by the trickster spirits rumored to hide in his forest? Perhaps you had been, but Thranduil was determined to comb through the crowd hoping to see you again.

Then, a flit of blue brightened the corner of his eye. He turned, seeing you dart from dance partner to dance partner, now on the other end of the room. A cat-like grin appeared on the edges of his mouth; he’d found you. Once more, he pushed through the crowd, not moving his eyes from you for one second, afraid you’d disappear without a trace if he did.

The crowd would pulse, and you would get closer to him before suddenly spreading out towards the treeline. Thranduil would get close enough to smell your floral perfume, but you'd dart in another direction before he could take your delicate hands in his. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was on purpose; you probably hadn’t even noticed him. Your eyes never locked with his that never strayed from you.

But the gods seemed to smile upon him that night, and as the crowd came closer, Thranduil snatched your hand. Your body twisted to face him, the grin on your face never faltering. The perfume you wore was distinctly jasmine, vanilla, and something sweeter, tantalizing enough to bring him closer to you. His hand was rough in comparison to yours, much larger too. 

“May I have this dance, my lady?” His voice was velvet smooth. Thranduil stood out like a sore thumb as the only one in the crowd without a mask. 

“You may, my king,” you curtsied before placing your other hand on his shoulder as his hand found its place on your waist. Wasting no time, the two of you twisted and spun through the crowd in an airy waltz. You had the grace of a swan, maintaining a poised elegance with a child-like grin. Thranduil felt himself falling deeper into whatever spell you had cast. 

A witch, that’s what you had to be. There was no other explanation for the hammering of his heart or the delight your touch elicited. 

One step back, one step forward, one to the side, and repeat. Another spin, extra flourish added for flavor, and the movements continued. Neither of you spoke, eye to eye, unable to look away from one another. Thranduil found himself counting the flecks in your eyes, convinced they held a thousand little stars in them. 

Perhaps you hadn’t been an illusion placed to taunt him but a gift from the Valar themselves. 

All too soon, the song ended, and the dance was finished. As he watched you do before, you stepped back from Thranduil and lowered into a sweeping curtsey. He wanted to ask you to stay with him, not only for the night but the rest of eternity, but he found himself tongue-tied.

“It was an honor to dance with you, my king.” Your voice was soft and warm, like the spiced tea he would drink before bed. He wanted your name, to lift the mask you wore and lay his eyes upon your face entirely. He needed to see the face of the woman that would surely haunt his every dream. 

Thranduil blinked, and in the brief time, his eyes weren’t on you, you’d disappeared. He half expected for there to be stardust left where your feet had been, but the only proof you’d existed was the imprint of your heels in the grass. His eyes scanned the crowd, twisting his body and craning his head, yet you were nowhere to be seen. But this time, instead of seeing flashes of your dress or silver hair, you were nowhere to be seen. You’d disappeared entirely.

Thranduil stood in the crowd a moment longer, hoping for a glimpse of you before deciding to return to his seat at the table. Perhaps from the high crowd, he could ascertain where you were. Thranduil returned to his seat, acting as if he hadn’t suddenly rushed from the table to dance with you, ignoring the questioning glances from his advisors. His goblet of wine in hand, eyes on the crowd, Thranduil sunk into the music and lost himself in thought. All of them were plagued by you. 

And there he stayed as the hours ticked by, seemingly in a trance. No one at the table bothered to strike up a conversation with Thranduil anymore; it was like trying to converse with a brick wall. So they settled in silence, occasionally remarking about the party with the other guests. 

“My king,” Galion returned to his side. “The lady you danced with has stepped away to the gardens.” Galion’s tone was even as if he were merely commenting on the weather. Thranduil side-eyed him, noticing the tinge of mirth on Galion’s smile. Thranduil tilted his head to the side, then slowly nodded. 

“Perhaps I should ensure our guest is enjoying the festivities.” 

Thranduil stepped away from the table and followed the path toward the garden’s you just slipped into. He took long strides to reunite with you sooner. This time he was determined to get your name and to peek beneath the mask you wore. 

When he finally stepped into the garden, he saw your back turned to him, fingers dipped in the fountain's water. Your posture was relaxed, hair loose and flowing, no longer pinned in the updo it once was. It flowed like liquid silver, furthering his conspiracy that you were a celestial being born of the gods. Precariously hanging in your hand was the mask you’d been wearing, thumbs rubbing against the ribbon that tied it in your hair. The minstrels were now a distant hum, the flowing water, and the chirp of crickets the only song in the gardens.

He stopped a few steps from you, trying to find the words to say. It’d been so long since he’d been made to feel like a shy elfling, nervous about approaching his first crush. A king should be dignified and confident, but he felt all of that crumble in your presence. 

Your ears twitched as Thranduil shifted in his spot, head raising at the sudden intrusion. Slowly, you turned, unsure who to expect would intrude upon your solitude. But of all the people you imagined stepping into the garden, you never anticipated it would be the king. He nearly seemed awkward and unsure in his place, fingers smoothing wrinkles on his robes that weren’t there. 

Immediately you lowered into a curtsey, but the king didn’t acknowledge the movement. His eyes were wide and mouth slightly agape as he stared at you. As he looked upon your face, this must’ve been how the first elf to gaze upon the stars felt. The curves and lines of your face were soft and delicate, the vision of beauty. Your eyes seemed even brighter in the dim lighting, an unsure, shy smile curling on your lips.

“My king.”

He remained silent, too wonderstruck to speak. 

“If you require to be alone, I can--” You began to walk towards the exit, but as you passed Thranduil, his hand reached out and caught your arm. You turned to face him, uncertain. Thranduil’s hand trailed down your arm and intertwined with yours, a soft smile on his lips.

“Of all the people who desire my presence, yours is the one I desire most.”

You swallowed thickly, your mouth suddenly dry. You’d been close to the king only hours ago, sharing a dance with him. Yet the privacy of the gardens and the sweetness of his words, it all felt much more intimate. 

“Then I shall stay.”

Thranduil’s grin widened as he guided you further into the gardens. The flowers were vibrant and lush, a true testament to the skills of the elves. A canopy of trees diffused the moon's light, reflecting off the fountain and casting a spotlight on you. 

“I have a confession.” Thranduil suddenly stopped, eyes intently watching your face, noticing how your lips slightly parted and your eyes glowed with curiosity. “I have found myself quite enchanted with you, my lady. It seems foolish, not knowing your face until this moment and not having your name.”

“It’s Y/N, my king.” You interrupted, a charming smile curling your lips. The hammer of your heart matched the tempo with Thranduil’s. 

“Y/N.” He muttered your name quietly, your name on his lips making your stomach curl. Of all the ways you anticipated this night's end, strolling the garden with the king was not what you could’ve predicted in your wildest dreams.

“Y/N. If I may be so bold, I would like for this to not be the last time we meet. I desire more of your company.” 

Thranduil stepped closer, the heat he radiated warming your chilled skin. Gossebumnps followed where his hands touched, a shiver rushing down your spine. Subtly you pinched the back of your leg, convinced this was nothing more than a dream. Yet you didn’t wake; this moment was real. 

“If I may speak freely, my king?”

Thranduil nodded his head. “Please, you may call me Thranduil. No need for such formalities.”

You tipped your head at him as the smile on your face brightened. 

“If I may speak freely, Thranduil.” You corrected, with an almost mischievous lilt to your voice. “I would much desire more of your company as well. I have heard many rumors of your cold and detached demeanor. I’ve heard of how harsh you can be, yet I have seen nothing of that.”

“I’m glad the whispers of the court haven’t scared you away, my lady.” 

The smile on your face curled into a teasing smirk, eyes illuminating. “You’ll find it’ll take more than malicious rumors to scare me away.”

Thranduil's finger twirled around a lock of hair that framed your face. He seemed relaxed and more at ease than you'd have imagined. 

"A strong will and a fair face, Varda herself must've crafted you."  

His words made your face flush red, so deep it was seen in the dim lighting of the garden. 

"Pretty words you speak, my king; I'm eager to learn if your words match your heart." 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Tags: @jmablurry | @lunatichaotiche | @aearonnin | @emiliessketches | @vibratingbones | @moony-artnstuff | @ranhanabi777 | @kenobiguacamole | @ceinelee | @thranduil | @samnblack | @abbiesthings | @Strangebananabatranch | @bitter--fruit | @keijibum | @lifestylesleep | @themerriweathermage | @im-a-muggleborn | @sweetheart-syndrome | @boyruins | @AwkwardBecomesYou | @delyeceamaitare

[tylermileslockett]

APOLLO

“Phoebus, of you even the swan sings with clear voice to the beating of his wings, as he alights upon the bank by the eddying river Peneus; and of you the sweet-tongued minstrel, holding his high-pitched lyre, always sings both first and last…And so hail to you, lord! I seek your favor with my song.”  (-Homeric Hymn, translated by H.G. Evelyn white)

APOLLO (uh-PAH-low), God of prophecy, oracles, music, art, protector of and disease of boys and men, and archery. Just as his twin sister Artemis is patron to women and girls, Apollo is both protector, and killer from disease of boys and men. In my Illustration the god holds his bow and arrows behind, while he strums the lyre gifted to him by trickster Hermes. Near the sun flies his ally and divine messenger, a white raven. The column on the right is capped with a cow, representing his sacred animal as a god of herds. The serpent Python sits dead at his feet, killed by Apollo’s arrow so that the god could take over the Delphi temple location. The temple complex sits beneath the god, while on the far right, thePythia (Apollo’s oracle priestess) sits upon a tripod, breathing the hallucinatory gasses seeping up from the earth to get her prophecies which she bestows upon visitors.

The laurel tree has associations with Apollo because the god, chasing a Naiad (water nymph) named Daphne call out to Gaia (mother earth) for help, who transformed the nymph into a laurel tree, which the god adopted as his sacred tree. In book 1 of the Iliad, Apollo supports the Trojans by raining down a plague on the Greeks, and later helping Paris to kill Achilles. Apollo’s cruelty is shown in Ovid’s mythical lyre contest with the inventor of the flute; a satyr named Marsyas. When Apollo suggested they play their instruments upside down, the satyr lost, and was flayed (skinned) alive as punishment for his hubris.

Support my book kickstarter "Lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in early 2024.

Linktree:https://tr.ee/DcjSQDSEv3

[sgiandubh]

Not all kilts are created equal, either

At the rate things are drastically mutating, as far as cons and fan events are concerned, it would seem the most democratic way to meet, greet and grab an autograph from S is to swallow even the most remote idea of self-esteem and join the crowds on that Sassenach Winter Tour. Beat the pavement with the huddled masses and wait for Ginger Jesus to wink encouragingly, as your knees give way and you melt into a puddle of fuzzy love for... Ahem... no, let's hope not, my quill got the better of my reason, on this one.

This will go on and on and on, until the Last Living Woman on Earth ever to have been touched by JAMMF's self-evident charm will stop writing idiocies like this one:

You would never be able to compare Glenmorangie and SS, just like you wouldn't do the same about S and Harrison Ford, excuse me. At least if you would like to keep some modicum of integrity, here.

I am sorry, Ford and Glenmorangie did not copy anything. They just used a beloved piece of garment, the kilt, to their advantage. The rugged (but sexy and ultimately interesting and kind) Highlander in a kilt was not invented by Diana Gabaldon, nor definitively embodied by Sam Roland Heughan.

'Erself explained many times over she could have chosen anything else (aliens immediately came to my sick mind, but perhaps not the best option, after all) when she first started writing that damned book. But an old Dr Who episode, featuring a Highlander named Jamie McCrimmon and then a punctual subplot detail in Eric Linklater's book Prince in the Heather, mentioning Clan Fraser's only survivor after Culloden sealed the deal. I did not invent these, even Wikipedia knows 😉. In doing so, she simply (and wisely profitably, it would seem) chose one of the most popular and intriguing cultural tropes - Scotland. The rest was easy enough, but never forget that on a different inspiration whim, we could be talking all the same about Jaime, the Impetuous Pirate of the Caribbean (Voyager trivia, anyone?) or even Jacques, the French fin-de-siècle gentleman thief. That she chose Scotland is our delight (I doubt Shipper Mom wouldn't have zapped over a pirate series, after all), and S's lifetime lucky strike, that's all.

Scotland has been immensely popular and fantasized about, from The Borders to the Kamchatka Peninsula, ever since Walter Scott published The Lay of the Last Minstrel, in 1805, to rousing success. And even more so, since Queen Victoria and Prince Albert first visited and fell in love with it, in 1842. All things Scottish, from the tartan to the sense of honor, never ceased to fascinate people all around the world. The Outlander universe is just one of Scotland's latest representations in popular culture and, forgive me for being blunt, not even the best known one.

And excuse me once more, men in kilts have been around ever since, too. John Brown, Victoria's morganatic spouse, included. For better, rather than for worse. My own mind doesn't have to travel very far just to immediately remember Sean Connery, but here is an updated list of celebrities who apparently think the kilt is fashionable as hell and tells a very interesting story of virility and fortitude: https://help.scottishkiltshop.com/hc/en-us/articles/18545441581069-How-Hollywood-Celebrities-Embrace-the-Kilt . It's pleasantly enough written and makes for quite an instructive, updated overview of what the kilt really means in popular culture and how it is being constantly used to ventilate above positive messages & values.

To write that Ford used Heughan's persona in that #ad is akin to uninformed blindness. To go even further and talk with confidence about associative marketing is adding insult to injury and proving the person does not have the remotest clue of what she is writing about.

To cut the story short, associative marketing is simply a sales' strategy directed to minority groups and/or fringe communities. A classic example is Tupperware selling its plastic tchotchkes to moms all around the world and by doing so, peddling the dream of gifting them extra time for themselves (finally!). In other words, the focus of the sales strategy is being mindful about a specific set of needs and priorities that must be addressed. You are selling a product alright, but you are selling it to a niche. Glenmorangie is the opposite of that, in fact: it is a worldwide known brand, appreciated and enjoyed, sometimes excessively, by men and women (and frat boys and girls), irrespective of age, cultural context (yes, even in Tehran!) or social status. I honestly fail to see where the associative marketing can be found in Glenmorangie's poster and would rather think of Sassenach Spirits' own strategy in those terms. Especially when you think again about those huddled masses beating the pavement in front of a non-descript liquor store, on Main Street, America (or Industrial Zone, America, to be more exact).

Oh, well, she probably wanted to say Glenmorangie is coat-tailing Norouzi's genius ideas, which would be disingenuous, if not ridiculous, above anything else. But it surely is my deepest, secret and probably naively altruistic wish for this cheap Sassenach Tour gimmick to be shelved aside, before things become truly, heartbreakingly pathetic.

Make no mistake. I am such a loyal idiot that I am still confident. But the clock is ticking, and not to their advantage. So, is that it, is this how things are going to happen, from now on: extortionate fan events and #silly bottle signing sessions?

What would JAMMF, aka Jamie Roy, the Edinburgh spirits' smuggler, think about all of this?

[thewertsearch]

Ask Comp 9/1

Anonymous asked: has sally been introduced to cursed tavros yet?

[ cursed tavros jumpscare :D ]

Cursed indeed - but mind you, I don't think I could do much better. My handcraft skills are nonexistent!

Anonymous asked: ol tavvy is down with the clown ;o) Anonymous asked: Please, if you will, imagine if when Vriska kissed Tavros, he told her that he was already dating Gamzee.

Heh. I really do think Gamzee x Tavros could have worked out, at least until Gamzee lost his shit. Hell, even if Gamzee did lose his shit, he'd probably still be less of a threat to Tavros than Vriska was.

Anonymous asked: Did you notice Gamzee referenced Earth in his rap? ("6 trillion hemos all up on one rock bleeding as equals") How do you think he learned about it? Some weird pre-game precognition or just his stoned mind being accidentally right?

This isn't necessarily a reference to Earth - but it wouldn't surprise me if it was, because Gamzee's cult seems fully aware of the existence of Earth.

The 'paradise planet' referenced in Gamzee's intro is stated to not exist yet, which is exactly how the narration refereed to Earth in Hivebent's intro. I believe that the 'rowdy minstrels' he's talking about are literally ICP, although he clearly isn't aware of that fact.

@wizardlyghost asked:

A sentiment shared by Eggman, every Space Player, and the villain of Muppets Most Wanted.

Anonymous asked: Now that you've passed where fedorafreak's gray, serviceable hand-held computing device's battery has died, you might appreciate the following short piece of fan art: www tumblr com/vastderp-placeholder/7741061457/savior-of-the-texting-world-rise-up

The fucking implication that the phone is the Player in this scenario is obliterating me.

Also, its God Tier form has wings. Was it a troll all along, or are wings a symbol of divine apotheosis in phone culture, too?

@clueless-rarito asked: Heeey paranatural reference! Hell yeah!

Is anyone else totally stoked to see Eightfold again? I know I am!

Anonymous asked: bilious sick 😭

English's trick made our Bilious sick. :(

Anonymous asked: One of, if not my absolute favorite, quotes/moments in Homestuck is Karkat’s speech to Jade about his failed frog breeding here. Just such a wonderfully tragic moment that stuck with me since the first time I read it.

In a comic chock-full of great lines, that last one might just be the best so far. This was one of the last scenes before Act 5's true finale, and it was an excellent pick.

@drakethedeep asked: One theory I've heard about the Denizen's Choice that tend to headcanon, Is that the choice is to be happy/free or to matter. That much as how God-tiers only grants survival by never having an impact, the denizens have thier playes coose between seeking their happiness and survival, or to struggle to achieve things that while objevtivly monumental, might not be worth the sacrifices needed to achieve it. I like this theory because of how it themes to fit the themes of Sburb.

I really like the space you're playing in, but I'm not so sure if all the Choices we've seen would necessarily fit this interpretation. After all, Davesprite implicitly chose the 'survival' option when he first met Hephaestus, and he's not exactly a happy camper. He didn't end up particularly free, either, since he was almost immediately bound to a Sprite, and later to the Battlefield.

I guess you could say he 'mattered', because he is he reason the Alpha Timeline exists the way it does - but, technically, everyone's actions contribute to the Alpha Timeline being the way it is. I definitely think there's something to this theory.

Anonymous asked: Without the Door to actually enter the universe, all you've done is make a really big frog.

I guess, when you think about it, there's not really anything they can do with their universe without that door. I suppose they could just fly towards their frog and hope for the best, but somehow, I don't think that'll achieve much.

@morganwick asked: Of course, even though he wasn't fooled by Gamzee using Terezi's "voice", Karkat still showed up on the roof anyway. Perhaps he decided he couldn't take the risk that Terezi was actually there and Gamzee might catch her unawares.

Gamzee's been having a lot of fun 'impersonating' Terezi lately. Just like before, I don't think he ever intended to fool Karkat with his transparent ruse - he just wanted to unsettle the guy. It worked.

@morganwick asked: If Typheus is the mailman, does that make him PM's favorite Denizen?

Maybe it makes him the head of her mail service!

We never saw any other mail Carapacians, and I kind of love the idea that they were operating out of a Denizen's Palace the whole time.

@bladekindeyewear asked: You said: "Mind you, I don’t know if it’s necessarily always a good or heroic thing to allow a Sburb Player full agency over their actions, nor is it necessarily a bad thing to restrict them, in certain cases." Oh I'm completely with you there. In fact, you might DEFINE Heroism as denying agency to those who would do ill, in part. This would make both "Heroic" and "Just" deaths result from trying to stamp your own intentions upon reality, halted by others. Neutrality would be ineffectual.

That's certainly part of heroism - but to me, it's not even close to all of it. A firefighter, for example, is heroic in ways which don't involve another person, as their only real 'opponent' is nature itself.

I personally define heroism as the will to do good, in situations where doing good requires bravery. 'Good', of course, is a fairly slippery concept, though, so that definition is just as ambiguous as any other.

Anonymous asked: Doctor Who anon here. Doctor Who has no canon for purely practical reasons. It's so massive - there's the show, but there's also the Big Finish audio dramas, the DW magazine comics, the Radio Times comics, the IDW comics, the Titan comics, the Virgin novels and short stories, the BBC novels and short stories. And no one owns all of it. The BBC don't even own the daleks or K9. And each piece of media will freely contradict others. No one has the right to decide what's canon, so they just don't. It's also because the people running Doctor Who the show have a deep respect for the extended media. In the 90s, it was the non-BBC licensed, fan-led projects which kept DW alive. Russell T. Davies, first showrunner of the modern era, wrote Virgin novels, so did Mark Gatiss. Nick Briggs, modern voice of the daleks, is the head of Big Finish. So they didn't want to decanonise that stuff, but they also don't want to be beholden to it when writing their own stories. So the fanbase tends to operate on tiers of canon. Basically something can be assumed to still be part of the show's continiuity until the show contradicts it. Big Finish would generally be considered the next highest "tier" of canon. The Doctor Who magazine comics probably wouldn't contradict the show, but the show could contradict them any time. The old books and comics are dubious. But that's all just fan categorisation. Officially, nothing has been deemed canon or not. In fact, rather amusingly, the only thing that has been explicitly deemed "canon" by the BBC is the Doctor Who: Battles in Time card game. That's officially canon. Nothing else. Not even the show.

I think I've heard of 'canon tiers' before, in the context of the Star Wars fandom. I think it's a good way to delineate how 'true' a given event is considered to be, especially in a large, complex shared universe - but at the same time, being consciously aware of these tiers might hurt your investment a little.

You'll never be able to escape the fact that your favourite stories or characters are effectively fanfiction, at least from the perspective of higher tiers. They have no influence whatsoever over the more ''real'' part of the story, unless they're promoted its tier some day.

I do like the idea that all the other Doctor Who stories are fanfiction of the card game, though. That's definitely going to be my canon, from now on.

@morganwick asked: Well, back in Act 4 you said that John and Dave would make S-Tier if and when "John [threw] aside his passivity to do something heroic, and…Dave [would] finally drop that poker face and do something sincere", which is why I pegged the suicide mission conversation as when Dave might make the jump.

I think, on reflection, it's almost always a heartwarming event that catapults a character into S-Tier.

In my opinion, that's one of the most impressive feelings that a work of fiction can inspire in you, mostly because it's really hard to get you invested enough for it to hit properly. Homestuck's pulled it off an extremely impressive number of times already, and we're only halfway finished!

Anonymous asked: It is so fucking awesome to see a new reader in the year of our lord 2024 2025 who's actually like. Engaging with the themes of the story. Lotta people just see it for the memes or the "totally random" plot but some of the shit you're reading into what's happening is like. Eerily similar to actual Hussie commentary. Gold star for reading comprehension, you do not piss on the poor Anonymous asked: Your homestuck liveblogs are lovely and insightful and make me remember a lot of details of the comic that have been lost to time. You will comment on something and I'll go "oh huh homestuck was better than I remember it being." Thank you <3 @honestlyvan asked: Truly your liveblog is the best kind of re-experiencing the experience. I'm surprised at how much your thoughts and reads parallel mine, it's kind of fun to see someone else's deductions go along the same routes. I can't wait for you to get to the Truly Horseshit portions of the plot (and I say this lovingly, I think you're in a great position to give us a real raw read on them without having to deal with the various Mega and Gigapauses) Also -- you keep pointing out a shitton of foreshadowing I didn't catch until my second readthrough. I can't wait for you to get to the bits where it applies and be like "son of a bitch", I think where I'm in the reading of your backlog and where you're in the reading of the comic you've passed at least one of those bits already :D @worldweary-walker asked: The liveblog is so cool. It's a lot of fun seeing you put things together, and the posts where you come up with three completely right conclusions and two wrong ones always amaze me. Impressive work!

Thank you so much! I know I say this a lot, but a lot of these sentiments are exactly why I like reading liveblogs myself. I'm just really glad I can do that for others.

I can totally understand why someone would just read Homestuck for the memes. I wouldn't have been nearly as analytical if I'd read it as a schoolgirl, and a lot of the 2010s fandom were even younger than that!

@divineerdrick asked: Now we have multiple explanations for what is wrong with the kid's session. Vriska has made herself responsible for Jack's rise to power, Karkat believes he gave Bilious Slick cancer, and Gamzee created the harlequin doll that would torment John and prompt Jack's rage-fueled act of rebellion. You've already suspected that Doc Scratch probably has multiple plans in play at once, and we can see that here. It seems he insured, through multiple causes, the kid's universe has always been doomed. Gamzee, as usual, seems to be the wild card. But he's acting out during a crisis of faith, a faith tied to Alternia's twisted social structure, which Scratch seems to have had a hand in. So despite how random Gamzee's actions appear to be, it's possible Scratch managed to seed even this seemingly unpredictable action.

I think Scratch probably did 90% of the work in making Gamzee go ballistic, from multiple directions at once. Looking back, it's shocking just how much of the comic was Scratch's doing.

'Caused' is a loaded phrase in Paradox Space, but what's happening is definitely what he planned.

Anonymous asked: It kind of seems like Rage as an aspect is evil, no? Do you think an aspect can carry an inherent moral weight? If not, what are the neutral meanings of aspects that seem to, and if so, how do you feel about it?

Personally, I doubt that any of the Aspects have a moral alignment - not even the scary-sounding ones. After all, you can Rage against tyranny, or bring Doom to a corrupt institution. Yeah, Gamzee is using Rage for evil, but his perception-shielding could just as easily be used to hide an innocent bystander from an aggressive Underling.

I think that more or less any ability can be used for both good or evil. The only real exception would be a power that's deliberately designed to be irreparably, comically evil. 'The ability to torture everyone for all eternity' would be one of those powers, but Homestuck's Aspect abilities would not.

@worldweary-walker asked: have you read Kill Six Billion Demons?

I have not! It's on my long and constantly growing list, which means I'll get to it between now and, uh, 2096.

Anonymous asked: re: the ancestors' story. WHAT IF WE ALL JUST CRIED like. the sheer transition from inane antics to the. that @corporalotherbear asked: There's a very popular fanmade version of the sufferer's final sermon and following vast expletive, voiced by a man that would go on to be the english voice actor of Izuku Midoriya. I can't add links to asks but if it's spoiler-friendly then your vetter can probably send you "The sufferer's last sermon"

Oh, I kind of love this interpretation. It really sells just how unwinnable the Sufferer's rebellion truly was.

@wolygan asked: I forgot how she is so happy when she is running away. This Girl is still able to believe that good is coming. Except Lord English won't let that happen, no matter what. @wickedsick asked:

That was possibly the fastest you have ever been proven wrong about something

That poor girl. She suffered just as much as the Signless did, but she'll only be known to Alternia as a monster - and unlike Troll Jesus, no one will ever mourn the Handmaid.

Anonymous asked: the sufferer cult is definitely independent of the juggalos! the use of the word sectarian to describe the war waged against the signless's beliefs is not a coincidence, imo. (we also see that highblood is most often used to specifically describe purplebloods). they're just two different religious organizations. given that the grand highblood was a juggalo man/subjuggulator and occupied significant power it seems to suggest that clown religion was a Big Thing among the purplebloods, which would not truck with the signless' cult being so small and secretive. there's one theory that part of the reason the neophyte was sent on mindfang's case was bc the GHB (given that mindfang mentions the neophyte was sent by subjuggulators specifically) knew she was a secret sufferite and wanted to get rid of her. mindfang does talk about how it seemed like they were giving up on her case entirely by sending just one neophyte (granted this is partially bc she underestimated her). it would track that while they definitely wanted to get rid of mindfang, they also were fine with the neophyte dying. this also follows with the fact that after mindfang gets out of that trial, she manages to persist without being caught right up until her death at the hands of the summoner. were they happy that the neophyte got killed, enough to stop putting much effort into mindfang's capture?

I think the Highbloods probably did set Redglare up. I speculated that it was possible when we first heard about her death, and that was before we knew she was a Signless cultist.

Also: lmao, do you remember when Hussie told us that the Juggalo Cult was 'obscure'? That's starting to feel like something that was quietly retconned offscreen.

@clueless-rarito asked: In case you like to know, "Dolorosa" is meant to evoke the spanish word "Doloroso" meaning painful but changing the O for an A turn it feminine.

Dolorosa; in other words, the woman in pain.

Fucking hell, she deserved so much better. It's amazing how much bleaker the Ancestors' lives were, compared to their descendants. Modern Alternia is bad enough as it is!

@lon-kasi asked: Fanwork recommendation: The same guy who did the EoA5 reanimation just did Intermission 2 as well. Like, less than six hours before I sent this ask. It's incredible.

Yessss! These are amazing.

My favorite parts are all the extra touches that weren't in the original animation, such as Rose beginning to realizing how badly she was tricked - or Jade, unused to her own powers, almost knocking John on his ass while she teleports him.

Anonymous asked: Now that you've seen what a Reckoning on Skaia looks like, you can see why Karkat was rushing Kanaya to get their frog done. Despite jumping the gun, skipping the lore elements and just killing their way to the end, the troll kids never had enough time. Especially since, now that I'm thinking about it, if it wasn't the Reckoning then it probably would have been Jack as the "time's up, now turn in your work" event. @marinerofthestars asked: With the revelation that Alternia was built to and ended up speedrunning an Sgrub/Sburb session to catastrophic effect (great job reading this far, btw), how long would you expect a “standard” session to take?

We've got two different asks here - one saying that normal sessions are meant to be shorter than Hivebent's, and the other saying they're meant to be longer.

I honestly don't know which I believe. It feels unrealistic for a Sburb session to take months, but Scratch really did seem to be saying that the trolls were extremely effective Players, implying most sessions take longer to beat. Maybe the reboot session will clue us in a little?

Anonymous asked: “How do you expect to out run me, When I Am Already Here.” Is such a hard line, and it’s completely missable in the alt text for the site banner. I know a lot of people missed it when these panels dropped. I remember HS being considered super unique because of how much the comic messes with formatting things like that.

I was super close to missing some of that scene, even though I'd already been warned about the alt text. There was just so much going on at the time, I almost didn't think to look at the banners.

@royalvorpal asked: "I thought words would be exchanged" How do you expect them to talk when they are in person?

pffffffffffffffffffft

Alright, that one fucking got me.

@bladekindeyewear asked: "But no, apparently not, because it took Karkat zero words and sixty seconds to completely shut Gamzee down. Now, don’t get me wrong, that’s incredibly impressive - but what did he actually do?" If you look back IN RETROSPECT at some of what Gamzee has been telling Karkat, it almost looks like pale flirting, like he was actually WANTING him to do this behind his threats. p3361: "FTC: i wonder if you can all be at with me in time and make me get my reconsider on?" Anonymous asked: You may not like it, but this is what peak moirallegience looks like.

Yeah, this really does make that exchange read as a little flirtatious.

Still, is this really how a moirallegiance is meant to work? Are moirails really expected to risk their lives to halt their prospective partner's rampage? This is starting to sound more dangerous than a kismesissitude!

@bladekindeyewear asked: I'm not sure how well it applies to the revised Homestuck website and it's probably impossible in the collection, but you could view any past/future page in any CSS format the site gave you with a keyword, like the black-on-green Doc Scratch format. So when Andrew did the "SNOP" to SBAHJ-mode, he was intentionally giving us a tool to view the ENTIRE SITE in SBAHJ mode.

There's a 'theme override' button, but I need to finish Homestuck to unlock it. I guess the comic's theme will change in more spoilery ways, later on.

Anonymous asked: Dolorosa/Mindfang is the true kicker of the “vriska keeps ending up in mirror relationships to her ancestor” belief, bc its the one where there is NO way vriska could know that shes in a mirror relationship. Eridan- orphaner dualscar and mindfangs romance was in the journal. Tavros- she knew about the summoner. But while there are hints to the dolorosas identity- sharp teeth, lower blood color, and a very vague if you stretch it hint about horn shape- no way vriska could have put those pieces together!!!

Man, it's still so fucked up that the Dolorosa went out like that. I still think it's at least remotely possible that she revived as a vampire, but I'm not gonna kid myself - her story is over. We're not gonna see her.

Anonymous asked: You've mentioned "ratfic" and something called "the Methods" before, is that something you've read?

If I could write an essay about Steven Moffat, I could write an entire thesis about Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality - but it'd be radioactively critical, and it feels mean-spirited to just post a rant about something unprompted.

If people want my thoughts in detail, I might stick them on the sideblog later - but for now, I'll just tell you that if it wasn't for that fic, XAE A-12 Musk would never have been born. Not a joke.

Anonymous asked: i love the complete about face on gamzee lol. "clearly the fact that he's gone nuts is something wrong with the timeline" gamzee is revealed to be responsible for lil cal "actually fuck this guy"

If we do ever recover the original Gamzee, it's going to really suck for him to face his friends. After everything he's done, will anyone ever really trust him again?

@elkian asked: Love the Exiles. So glad nothing bad happens to them, ever, (I assume the pause before the third s175 post is bc you, like me, took a break to cry over AR hesitating to kill his friend :,(

I was so bummed, guys. Carapacians don't have ghosts, I assume - so the Exiles, sans PM and maybe WV, are gone forever.

The Red Miles will probably have obliterated their corpses, so we can't even prototype most of them - but I'm holding out hope for Waywardsprite.

Anonymous asked: heh, you aren't alone in preferring god tier dave without his hood. i was around for when cascade dropped and wasnt able to watch it straight away due to the various troubles, but one of the first things i heard about it was people talking about how stupid they thought dave's hood looked.

I know, right? Like, yeah, it definitely says 'knight', but Dave's got great hair, and it feels like a shame to cover it.

@bladekindeyewear asked: "PCG: SHE WAS CONSTANTLY FIXING MY FUCKUPS. PCG: ROBOTS FROM THE FUTURE ALWAYS COMING BACK TO TELL ME HOW SOME HASTY SHIT I DID WITH FROG BREEDING OR WHATEVER WOULD MAKE IT BE IMPOSSIBLE TO WIN. PCG: MY OWN PERSONAL MISTAKES PROBABLY ACCOUNTED FOR MORE DOOMED ARADIABOTS THAN ANYTHING ELSE." Now that the Tumor's revealed for the precision device it was, it's also clear that Aradia, likely following the Horrorterrors' instructions, FORCED them to breed the frog JUST RIGHT to create the Sun.

Yeah, the existence of that precision device really fucking threw me. Whatever it did, the frog cancer probably was deliberately engineered to cause it - and I think it was engineered by Scratch, rather than the Horrorterrors. He was also talking to Aradia during the session, and this event was key to his plan.

Anonymous asked: (And one more ask from the person without a tumblr. -DJ) The thing is, Scratch could have just said "you must create the Green Sun, it is essential for the existence of the multiverse, not doing so will create a paradox". But either he chose to trick them, by only but saying "true words", just for fun…or there is some reason telling them about their true mission wouldn't work - RM

Either is possible, and it's pretty much impossible to say. That said, the Vast Glub is proof that he does just like messing with people, so I'm going with the former answer.

Anonymous asked: (forwarding another ask from the person without a Tumblr account -DJ) Do you think there are interesting parallels between Scratch and Tarquin from OOTS? - RM

Well, they are both meta-aware villains with extremely wide-reaching plans, and they're both pretty weird about women. Hopefully this means that Scratch's much cooler son will kick his ass in a later Act.

@bladekindeyewear asked: One tiny cute detail in Cascade I love is how when the Green Sun lights up in the distance for the trolls, Terezi tries to point at it, and Karkat gently takes her arm and re-points it in the right direction. XD

Shoulda brought the Smelloscope, Terezi!

Anonymous asked: The first time i read homestuck my shit bugged out and I literally just missed the entire scrapbook section and cascade. The SECOND time I read homestuck cascade gave me such a neuron firing high that only harrow the ninth has ever gotten close to

That's exactly how to describe it. Cascade blasted my neurons, in exactly the same way that part of Harrow the Ninth did.

@rwbypro asked: Ngl one of my favorite parts about homestuck is the fact that Doc Scratch Won, like he got Exactly what he wanted, and he played everyone like fiddles, one of my all time favorite villains in anything!

He did, the bastard! Scratch managed to pull it off without a hitch.

These are the exact kind of convoluted masterstrokes you want to see in a time-travel story, and I think English's machinations will only grow more intricate, going forward.

@sanctferum asked: The juggalo cult believes in a pair of mirthful messiahs rather than just the one, so if English is one of the messiahs, that's only half the equation. Presumably, the other messiah would be Scratch.

That works! I originally thought that the Messiahs were the two members of ICP, but let's be honest, they still could be. I absolutely would not put it past this comic to reveal that Lord English was Shaggy 2 Dope the whole time.

@sanctferum asked: So now that you've seen Lord English's true appearance: he's got a peg leg, and that peg leg is a golden cuestick, filling in the last missing piece of the Felt analogy - the one that moves the billiards around in the first place. For good measure, English's peg leg, single golden tooth and his garish coat give him a stereotypical pimp appearance, which is fitting given his treatment of his female servants so far (not to mention Scratch's own treatment of both the Handmaid and whichever female player he is manipulating at any given moment. He even explicitly uses the word grooming to describe raising Handmaid!). If there was ever a pimp for Dave to lock in his own crib while dropping it like it was hot, this would be him.

Ayy, you're right! I've been waiting for the Felt's cuestick since the Intermission days!

You're also right about the comic's villains. Scratch and English aren't just screwing over female Players - they've also been fucking with Mindfang, the Handmaid, the Condesce, and even Snowman. It's absolutely a pattern.

These guys aren't just cosmic villains, they're misogynist cosmic villains. Mundane evil and supernatural evil, all together in one convenient package of shit.

Anonymous asked: Now that we've gotten past this point in the comic- I just wanted to say I forgot Expatri8 was ever a name used to refer to Darkleer- mainly because all I ever see people refering to him as is Darkleer. And at first it kinda threw me for a loop when you called him that even though it's the only name you knew for him- Anyhows- You probably noted this at some point but only upper middle class to high blood colors seem to have name names, with some exceptions. Like, they're weird, but Mindfang, Redglare, and Dualscar are all fesable names. Meanwhile the lower bloods just have titles.

It is absolutely in character of Alternia not to allow lowbloods to have names.

Anonymous asked: Just read your liveblog over the last two days. I adore your analysis! I second that one person’s reccomendation of In Stars And Time. Also I reccomend the Blue Lips homestuck video, it’s lived in my head for ages. I’m 99% sure it’s safe to watch now? It’s about the events of murderstuck and I don’t THINK it references anything you don’t know. Anyhoot! I know you mentioned vriska being like Azula when you first started getting to know her. Now that you’re as far as you are, I’d like to argue… Vriska is more like Zuko, in a way? Like. The way she wants to wipe things clean, the way he wants to restore his honor. The way they both have a “parent” that leads them to how things are, and for a while they cling to that as “right” and how things should be… One time I saw a post that Vriska is girl Zuko and Eridan is boy Azula and all the comments were arguing that no, vriska is Azula, but lowkey that post changed my brain chemistry and idk why people were SO vehemently against changing the genders of the characters in the comparison

I think Vriska works well as girl Zuko. You're right - they both started off under the thumb of an abusive parent, and they both try to 'fix' their past mistakes without understanding the wider context behind why they made them. Now, does this mean Vriska will also be getting a kickass redemption arc, which turns her into one of the comic's most straightforwardly heroic characters? Possibly, but I ain't holding my breath.

It's a little harder for me to see the second comparison, though. Like her brother, Azula was made into what she is by her horrible father, whereas Eridan became what he is on his own, with some assistance from Alternian culture.

Perhaps there are layers here that I'm just not seeing. I haven't read the Avatar sequel comics yet, so they might do more with Azula's character that I don't know about.

@mrjocrafter asked: I was trying to think about what the characters' moon alignment means in terms of their characterization, thought "Prospit dreamers are relatively passive while Derse dreamers are relatively active", then realized that's only true for the humans, the Post-Scratch Trolls' 6 Prospit dreamers (excluding Sollux, as his 'official' alignment, according to the Extended Zodiac, is Derse) are the more active characters. Then I realized that on Earth darkness and dark-associated characters are edgy and countercultural, while on Alternia light and light-associated characters are countercultural instead! Goddamn this comic just keeps coming back for more themes Also, I know you've compared Taylor to Vriska in the past, but she really strikes me as more of a Terezi. Beyond the surface level stuff (like going blind and then relying on a supernatural sense), Taylor, like Terezi has a strong moral compass but will twist it into pretzels to do the most horrific shit and there's a 50/50 chance she even regrets it afterwards. Meanwhile, Amy, who I think makes a much better Vriska, does her atrocities either under manipulation (like Vriska) or just does it without thinking about it and feels bad about it later (hey, also like Vriska). Also, Taylor Hebert and Amelia Dallon are coincidentally both valid troll names.

Yup! Which means Kanaya is a troll goth, which is still amazing.

And... hmm, I'm not sure whether I'd call Dave active or passive. He certainly acts more on his own initiative than John, but he also spends a lot of time getting bossed around by Terezi. He's kind of in the middle, really.

I do think Terezi's reframing of her violence as 'justice' is very Taylor-coded - and Amy is absolutely a Vriska, if we're working off the 'female, controversial, and morally ambiguous' definition given by a previous asker. Plus, well...

...yeah. And let's not even talk about Ward. (Because I haven't read it.)

Really, all these characters are multifaceted, and you can draw many different parallels in many different directions. If I had the time, I could probably draw lines from each of the trolls to a different cape in the Wormverse - but for now, we must continue!

@morganwick asked: Bec's influence on Jack is so strong that not only is he reduced to following Jade around like a puppy, he kills CD for completing the mission he gave him and leaves Jade, one of the players he's supposed to be killing, on her quest bed, the nature of which he didn't seem to know about when it came to John. Bec = absolute king.

Bec is a king.

It really does seem like his influence over Jack is increasing as time passes. Is Davesprite going to get more birdlike, as well? Or is Bec just a special case because he's a First Guardian?

Anonymous asked: oh my god you really just cleaned the board with the last minute Dave+Rose quest slab guess??? Like. You were going on about other things and then you just casually mention "oh I guess this could happen too" like okay!!! Seer!!!!

Yeah, I'm pretty proud of that one. I was just thinking about how Aradia might help the Derse kids, once she'd met them at the Sun, and then it hit me: she's been in exactly the same situation, in exactly the same place, because of exactly the same sun!

Anonymous asked: dogtier IS in fact what the entire fandom calls her, if you came up with that yourself congrats on the authentic 2011 homestuck experience, move over carcinisation this is the new big thing in convergent evolution

I did, but come on. That pun makes itself.

Anonymous asked: Fun fact: the music used in [S] Begin Intermission 2, "English", is the same when reversed. It is an EXTREMELY excellent detail. And another example of Toby Fox being a brilliant composer. @sanctferum asked: English by Toby Fox is a really cool song in that its a musical palindrome, playing the same both forwards and backwards, as befits the titular entity. The whole Felt album it's from is based around creating songs with time gimmicks in them, so it serves as a very good semifinal track to almost close the album out. @emotionallyglued asked: You finally got to the part where our big bad man appears! Simple question to ask but I'm looking forward towards the answer: what do you think of Lord English's theme? Grandiose enough to fit a villain of his caliber or did you expect something more/else?

Oh, shit, that's cool!

I liked the song a lot. Sure, it's not as bombastic as the boss theme I went with myself, but it is much, much scarier. It was the perfect way to remind us that this wasn't really a victory - that English's plan went off without a hitch. Our heroes are still in terrible, terrible danger.

@morganwick asked: post/756751870755733504 Still think of Doc Scratch as "Big Cal"? @sanctferum asked: You've heard of Lil' Cal and Big Cal, now get ready for the deadliest and dastardliest villain of all: Biggest Cal. Anonymous asked: you've seen lil cal, now get ready for BIG CAL @lon-kasi asked: finally, Big Ca- well. actually. Scratch was Big Cal, wasn't he? so finally, Bigger Cal

This is the real reason Scratch wouldn't tell Rose his boss's name - because if she'd known her manipulator worked for Bigger Cal, she'd have been too god damn scared to go grimdark.

Anonymous asked: T1ck T0ck goes the God Tier Clock. Its chime signals the Br8k of Scratch's H34D. And with the arrival of Lord English, he lets loose two great, Vast honk HONKS. Anonymous asked: Did you notice something about the English sequence? First, we see Scratch's clock. t1ck, t0ck. Then, his head breaks. 8r8k H34DS. He releases the Vast Honk. honk HONK.

This motherfucker died to the very words that birthed him.

I guarantee you that this was deliberate on Scratch's part. He didn't need to foreshadow his plan so blatantly - but this horrible little troll knew that nobody would get the joke until it was too late.

bladekindeyewear asked: "S u c k e r s ." The bioorganic-looking Tumor opening up to reveal a precision device. Twice the mass of a universe. Doc Scratch fucking played EVERYONE SO HARD. We couldn't believe THEY CREATED THE GREEN SUN, so hard many of us watched without REALIZING IT. If you reread the talk Doc and Rose had from p3627 onward, the amount of TRANSPARENT DODGES AND WEASELING he did in that conversation to mislead Rose and the entire readership is so blatant and shameless, oh my fucking god!!! Anonymous asked: Not only did Scratch never said the tumor would destroy the green sun, he also specifically said they would travel to the green sun LOCATION, not to the green sun itself.

God damn it!

Scratch may have been stoic on the outside, but you mark my words: he was absolutely roaring with laughter on the inside.

@sunbluethinking asked: Regarding 'a dozen or two sweeps,' you do have to remember that it seems like one sweep is roughly equivalent to two human years? (See Terezi's and Dave's 'I'm six' conversation, or whatever it was.) So my impression is that a dozen sweeps would be equivalent to 24 years and two dozen sweeps would be equivalent to 48 years. Still really short, but not quite as absurdly short. (Which actually reminds me of the question of the problem of rate of maturation in fictional races with different lifespans. (Dungeon Meshi touches on this, but) in the case of Homestuck, I think it seems like the trolls mature to adulthood at about the same rate. It's just their adult lifespans that are different.) @bellcarved asked: If my math is correct, "a dozen or two sweeps" is a range of 26 to 52 years. Still not great, but 26 would be the low end of the life expectancy, while they tend to live around half as long as a human.

So either Aradia was about to die, or she wasn't - but either way, she was always going to die young.

We still don't know whether God Tier stops you aging, do we? I have to assume so, because death by old age isn't really Heroic or Just, but I'd feel a lot better if it was 100% confirmed.

Anonymous asked: And here we learn the story of Jesus and the second coming- @bellcarved asked: Now you know the truth: Karkat Vantas is the second coming of Troll Jegus Christ. Anonymous asked: I doubt I'm the first to say this but, the story of the Signless is undeniably based off the story of Jesus Christ. @skelekingfeddy asked: you do realise that the sufferer is Troll Jegus right. the irons/cancer symbol is the crucifix. his method of execution turned into the main symbol of a religion. the dolorosa is mary. karkat is the second coming. hes literally just Troll Jegus lmao @sanctferum asked: turns out, Terezi was right all along. troll jegus was real after all, and he was indeed the best jegus. shame on you for not believing, Dave

God damn it, Karkat. You hate yourself so much, even though you're literally the second coming of Christ.

And really does add weight to Terezi's claim that Alternia had the 'best' Jesus. Sure, says she's joking here, but... well, her Ancestor was a follower of the Signless, wasn't she? Could Terezi have inherited more of Redglare's legacy than we thought?

Anonymous asked: now that you know about the signless i recommend you take another read of karkat's long password on page 3972

...huh.

It almost makes it seem like Karkat's vaguely cognizant of the Sufferer's life, the same way the Sufferer was cognizant of his pre-Scratch incarnation. Funny, that.

@morganwick asked: "For a bisexual alien, his shipping is awfully straight, isn't it?" Well, consider that when he drew that he was trying to adhere to the human model of reproduction with its explicit requirement of one person of each sex, as best he could from his alien perspective. Note that in the same conversation he's struggling to understand the "human taboo of incest". @manorinthewoods asked: Karkat's humanshipping is straight because John told him he wasn't gay, and presumably, he extrapolated. ~LOSS (28/12/24) Anonymous asked: Karkat's very straight shipping chart is the way it is because John's Not A Homosexual:tm:

I totally forgot I came to the same conclusion, back in that legendary group chat.

Man, Rose x Kanaya is really going to throw Karkat for a loop. He'll probably think that John was just bullshitting him.

@skelekingfeddy asked: steven moffat is a valid troll name Anonymous asked: You've brought it up too much not to ask, what did Moffat do that pissed you off so badly?

Once more, I am very tempted to make this a full essay, but I'll save time by just pointing to Hbomberguy's famous Sherlock video, which I agree with, like, 80% of - particularly the Doctor Who segment that I've timestamped.

In a nutshell, Moffat was always really good at generating intrigue, and building hype for future events - but as a showrunner, he never really delivered on his promises, and was very fond of handwaving established canon to the side. Pet peeve of mine, as you can imagine.

@rwbypro asked: We warned you bro, we warned you about the most important character @skelekingfeddy asked: carcinoGeneticist may have engineered the cancer…but terminallyCapricious was the one who made it terminal. ;o) @capribornio asked: Honk, honk :0) Heyyyy you reached the part where Gamzee became my favorite enemy. Forget Vriska, Jack and Doc Scratch - Gamzee may have his buttons pushed by the good ol' Doc, but he managed to make things worse than even Vriska got to (and killed more main characters, too!). Anonymous asked:Congratulations on reaching this point. So, Gamzee chucklefucked the universe. Crazy, right? @bellcarved asked: Gamzee's "Bard of Rage" title is looking more accurate than ever, now. His own rage lead him to put the clowns in John's dreams, which ended up inspiring the rage that made Jack Noir go to the lengths he did. Bardic inspiration, if you will. …also, this makes Perfect Jack a collaborative effort between Vriska and Gamzee. @capribornio asked: I feel like you get Gamzee much better than most livebloggers (and a part of the fandom, too). Gamzee is an orchestrator, on a much bigger level than any could have predicted. The silly little troll dissappeared once he got off the slime, got his religion destroyed, and got Lil Cal.

I told you, guys! I told you Bards were overpowered!

Yeah, he's already getting pretty crafty, isn't he? Maybe, instead of manipulating Gamzee like he did the girls, Scratch has actually been coaching him. After all, his own manipulating days are over, so maybe he saw fit to train a successor...

Anonymous asked: if vriska was presented with a choice about the creation of bec noir, it would have had to be before the veil because the trolls only flee into the veil AFTER bec shows up and wrecks their reward- and that's their first introduction to him. any choice she could have made about bec/jack after that would result in a doomed timeline, because it would break the loop. that's why it has to be before the veil. @manorinthewoods asked: What I mean is that the Choice that would have prevented Bec Noir is something that would have made Vriska change who she was, in such a way that she wouldn't later make Bec. Vriska's Choice that made Bec can't have occurred in the Veil, because there wasn't a Denizen to give it, so whatever it was, it must have been something to do with character growth that she failed to do. ~LOSS (28/12/24)

Oh, right, that makes sense!

Yeah, poor Vriska simply wasn't self-aware enough to make such a Choice before the Veil. It's interesting what-if, though.

@flambeaufelid asked: ICP albums liveblog maybe??? (Do people liveblog music reactions? They should.) Anonymous asked: Since you mentioned the possibility of having to listen to ICP albums to understand Gamzee better, I figured I’d better let you know that while reading a bit about juggalos, ICP, and ICP’s music does help with understanding Gamzee better if you’re unfamiliar with them (though I wouldn’t say it’s crucial), I don’t recommend listening to their music unless you’re comfortable with graphic depictions of gore, murder, and other forms of violence. (Speaking from personal experience here; I tried listening to them because Gamzee’s my favorite character and quickly realized I didn’t enjoy that.) Anonymous asked: I would say listening to icp is not necessary… I tried myself and failed not even half way through one album so I admittedly could be wrong but… I think it was never intended to be THAT serious

I checked out Miracles, back when ICP was first brought up, but I haven't seen any of their other music. It's probably not actually necessary to listen to the band to understand Gamzee, but I might still do it for fun, since the graphic content wouldn't bother me much.

@skelekingfeddy asked: according to hussie the fifth wall is what divides two narrators/authors @sanctferum asked: According to Hussie's comments, if the fourth wall is the wall between the character and the author/their audience, then the fifth wall is specifically the wall dividing omniscient narrators from each other. or something like that

I, uh, guess that makes sense. Presumably Scratch would be our second 'author' in this scenario, even though he's not literally another author of Homestuck.

[nycteris-g]

“Once, Celebrimbor got it into his head to fly to the stars. He said he wanted to steal one and give it to his mother,” he recounts, gazing distantly at an imaginary horizon. Maglor often has that far-off look—whether he is introducing them to the secret arts of the ancient world or merely reminding them to brush their teeth after eating. Perhaps he thinks it lends him an air of gravitas, as if to emphasize the overseas origins of his pearls of wisdom. Normally, and despite his age, Elros would whip around and demand, What? What? What’s behind us? But as it happens, the matter of stars and how to reach them is one that deeply interests him.

“Is it possible?”

“Of course not,” Maglor scoffs, stroking the strings of the lyre cradled in his arms. “He did come up with quite the contraption, though. Built himself some kind of wings, even a platform, and obviously—”

“How? How did he build them?”

“That’s not important,” he hisses irritably. “Lists in stories bore everyone. And they ruin the narrative.”

The narrative is everything to a minstrel. Many things are done, said, or entirely ignored for the sake of the narrative. Sometimes, Elros likes to joke that Maglor stopped his brother from disposing of them once and for all because it would have ruined the narrative. Elrond never finds these jokes funny and glares sternly to make him stop.

“Obviously the Ambarussa lent a hand,” Maglor continues as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “And even the neighbor’s cat got involved. Imagine, it claimed to know Varda personally and boasted that she had, in full confidence, revealed to it a secret passage leading straight to her finest stars. Bah! A terrible liar.”

The twins exchange puzzled glances.

In truth, Maglor oversees their education with dedicated precision: there is no book in the library they haven’t read, no song they haven’t learned to play on at least one or two instruments.

It’s either that he thinks the addition of a cat was a suggestion from the narrative, or he still sees them as little children.

“They were all so young! They couldn’t have been more than twenty, maybe a little older.”

Perhaps those words bring him back to the present because, suddenly, he widens his eyes at the two youths before him, evidently surprised to find them there. The twins are in that delicate phase every half-elf goes through, where it’s unclear whether they’ve finished losing their baby teeth or if it’s time to put swords in their hands and send them on their way. Elros has started drawing a firm line through his name and these days prefers to be called Ros, the only part that sets him apart from his twin and where he can carve out a story of his own.

Maglor still expects to find them clinging to his legs (likely because their sudden growth ruins the rhythm of some stanza), and Maedhros has developed an abrupt interest in them, pushing—or forcing—himself to teach them what he knows: an immense amount about the art of war.

(Elros enjoys these lessons immensely, though no matter how tall he grows, he still fears that beneath Maedhros’ cruelly scarred lips lie virulent fangs.)

“Someone’s birthday is coming up soon, isn’t it? Twenty-five!”

It would be an impressive number if they were mortal. Most of them, at that age, are already married with at least two brats to feed. The cook’s sons are only slightly younger but have been working in the forges for ten years, their hands hard and nearly impossible to clean of the dirt caked under their nails.

The eldest, Balgrer, claims to be “seeing” the milkmaid who delivers cheese to the fortress every first day of the week. Only, the twins hadn’t understood what “seeing” meant in that context, so they discreetly asked Maglor—hoping to keep what seemed like a secret—for an explanation. Staying true to their paternal legacy, the brothers rarely scruple over what avenues of knowledge to open for their wards; of course, there are exceptions: the star in the sky, the trembling earth—such things remain unspoken. Judging by Maglor’s hiss, seeing someone is one of these exceptions, and he hastily removes an entire collection of scrolls from the library, the contents of which the twins still don’t know.

“This year, I’ll have to work hard to find a suitable gift.”

“Oh, Maglor. We don’t need gifts,” Elrond protests calmly. This is no metaphor: what little Maglor has left, he has offered to them with a moving generosity, anticipating every need before they even realize it themselves.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Elrond. It would be improper not to celebrate the birthday of not one but two princes. I’ll think of something—and now, up, up! Let’s continue with our lessons,” he declares as the ecstatic glaze falls over his eyes again.

(In truth, much of what happens within the fortress walls is improper. It’s improper for the twins to have grown up in the arms of the monsters who destroyed their home. It’s improper for them to learn healing from someone whose hands are so steeped in blood they’re no longer capable of it. But much is overlooked—for, evidently, it’s not good for the narrative.)

[bookshelf-in-progress]

The Beggar's Door: A Retelling of "King Thrushbeard"

Oh, yes, King Gregor had a temper, but in this case, it was more than justified. You see, the king had gone through all the expense of hosting an enormous ball so every eligible suitor on the continent could vie for the hand of Princess Dulcibella, and what do you think she did? Not smile and curtsey and thank them for the honor, that’s for sure. She rejected every man to his face! And not politely! The princess had a tongue like a whip, and she scourged those high and mighty men with every insult you can imagine before declaring she would have none of them as a husband. Some of them were on the verge of declaring war.

So none of us were surprised when King Gregor, in a towering rage, summoned Princess Dulcibella to the throne room the next morning.

Princess Dulcibella was a beautiful maid—fair and willowy—and she walked toward her father with as dainty a step and as innocent an air as any woman who ever lived, humming a traveling minstrel’s tune.

“Daughter,” the king declared. “I have brought you here to meet your husband.”

The princess stopped humming. “Tradition states that a crown princess may choose her own husband.”

“Tradition also states that if the princess refuses all her suitors, she is wed to the first man to come into the king’s presence.”

Princess Dulcibella’s lovely face paled. “You would not be so barbaric.”

“You have left me no other choice.” The king pointed to the grand doors through which the princess had entered—the only entrance that had been left unbarred. “Your husband—the man of my choosing—will enter through that door at the stroke of ten.”

Everyone knew who that would be—Baldric of Eldria, a brute and bore (and, some said, a usurper), but king of the wealthiest nation on the continent.

At his words, a door opened—but not the great door.

In a shadowed corner of the throne room, a forgotten, barely visible door swung open on rusted hinges.

The king whirled upon his chamberlain. “I said all the doors were to be barred!”

The chamberlain was deathly pale. “Tradition states that the beggar’s door can never be barred.”

An old tradition, the beggar’s door, one that said the poor must be able to approach their king for help in desperate need, or else the kingdom would fall. No one had used the door in generations—but the door had remained open.

Through that door came a ragged young man, tattered shoes on his feet and a lute on his back. With a smile, he bowed to the princess, as graceful as any courtier.

“My king and my lady,” he said. “If you can spare a coin for a starving minstrel, I would be glad to repay your kindness with a song.”

He had charm, that ragged clown, and probably a nice face somewhere under the layer of dirt.

Princess Dulcibella smiled upon him—men had crossed continents for that smile—and, in the sight of a stunned crowd in the throne room, the minstrel began to sing.

O, come away, my fine young maiden Though I’ve no place to call my own We’ll wander through the wooded valleys And make the wild world our home

You know the song, but you’ve never heard it as he sang it. He had a voice like love itself come to life—as if he’d come a-purpose for wooing. We all were spellbound. The princess was enchanted.

He sang a verse or ten, and when the song finally faded, the king was the first to remember the purpose of the day. For all the unexpected happenings, he hadn’t forgotten his rage. He’d lost his chance at an alliance, but his revenge upon an ungrateful daughter was still within reach.

“Minstrel,” he declared. “You’ve won more than a coin. According to tradition, you have my daughter as bride to wed.”

The priest emerged from behind the throne—intended for a far more royal wedding. In the sight of us all, the princess and the beggar were bound as man and wife.

“Now, be gone from my house!” the king declared. “You’re a beggar’s wife, now, and can have no place here.”

Dulcibella was stripped of her finery, but somehow she didn’t seem to mind.

The minstrel took her in his arms and carried her out the beggar’s door—gazing upon each other with as much devotion as if they were any ordinary pair of lovers.

With that, they disappeared. I’ve not seen either of them again.

But I’ve heard stories.

Dulcibella was clever, you see, and her maids tell stories of a minstrel who would sing near her window on moonlit nights.

Some say she told him of the beggar’s door.

Some even say that the minstrel was no minstrel at all, but young King Alaric, cast down from the throne of Eldria, living in exile until he can reclaim his throne.

I don’t know what to believe, but I like to believe she’s happy as a beggar’s wife, and I believe there’s no better woman to someday take a place as queen.

King Baldric had better take care.

[fictionadventurer]

Top ten fairytale retelling novels/novellas you've read.

I've already answered my top 10, so here's my shot at listing 11-20.

11. A Long, Long Sleep by Anna Sheehan: Would probably be higher on the list if I'd remembered it in time. Sci-fi story that's a very loose retelling of "Sleeping Beauty", but so rich and emotionally devastating.

12. Maid and Minstrel and The Beggar Prince by Kate Stradling: Putting both of her short "King Thrushbeard" retellings in one entry. The first is more of a "Beauty and the Beast" tale that makes both leads decent people caught up in a misunderstanding, but I appreciated how it (probably accidentally) made me see the Christ-imagery inherent in the original. The second gives King Thrushbeard some character flaws and a good arc, and has an excellent explanation for why the princess didn't want to marry any of her suitors.

13. Fairest by Gail Carson Levine: Snow White retelling set in the world of Ella Enchanted, and retains that book's creativity in adapting the fairy tale elements. Has an excellent full-cast audiobook.

14. The Stepsister and the Slipper by Nina Clare: Georgette-Heyer-esque Cinderella retelling. Very rushed ending, and not the kind of romance I'd advise anyone to pursue in real life, but very fun.

15. Soot and Slipper by Kate Stradling: Cinderella retelling with an excellent twist, adorable characters, and a convoluted ending.

16. Before Midnight by Cameron Dokey: Short and basic Cinderella retelling that gets on the list because I have extremely fond autumnal associations with this book.

17. Unseen Beauty by Amity Thompson: A "Beauty and the Beast" retelling from the point-of-view of one of the invisible servants. Since I'd had that idea for years before finding this, I was thrilled to find that this story does a pretty good job with it.

18. Exile by Loren G. Warnemuende: The first book in a trilogy that retells "Maid Maleen". I haven't finished the series yet, so maybe it's unfair to put it on here, but I loved the section of the story that takes place in the tower, so I couldn't leave it off the list.

19. The Seventh Raven by David Elliot: A retelling of "The Seven Ravens" that does a decent job of retelling the fairy tale, but I mostly love it as a very well-structured novel-in-verse that structures each POV character's poems with their own poetic form.

20. The Tales of Ambia by Allison Tebo: Fun, slightly Wodehouse-ish retellings that are a breath of fresh air in the romantasy-dominated world of indie retellings

Honorable Mentions:

The Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyer: Objectively as stories, these should be pretty high up on the list. It had great characters and adapted the fairy tale elements in some amazing ways. But I'm not a fan of a lot of the worldbuilding elements here, so I couldn't bring myself to rank it above some of my beloved, but more-flawed indie retellings.

With Blossoms Gold by Hayden Wand and Sweet Remembrance by Emily Ann Putzke: Both contained in Once: Six Historical Fairy Tale Retellings. The first is "Rapunzel" set in Renaissance Italy with an agoraphobic Rapunzel, and the second is a beautifully devastating retelling of "The Little Match Girl" set during WWII. I haven't read these in a long time, but I remember them both being very good.

Masque by W.R. Gingell: An excellent "Beauty and the Beast" retelling with a very lively Beauty, a Beast who works as a police detective instead of brooding in a castle, and some clever adaptations of the fairy tale elements. Unfortunately, I've decided a couple elements of the magic go beyond what I'm comfortable with, so I couldn't put it on the list, but I had to give it credit.

[theladyofbloodshed]

Chapter 1

Notes: This is set after the canon events of ACOSF when Nesta and Cassian go to the Prison. Instead of opening the wards to the cells, she ends up in Lunathion. Bryce doesn't exist in this universe and no magic language beans are required.

Nesta could not do more than twitch her fingertips as an invisible, oppressive weight bore into her, like it’d flatten her into dust upon the starry ground of the strange chamber in the Prison.

Let go, she silently bade the Harp, gritting her teeth, fingers brushing over the nearest string. Free me, you blasted thing.

A beautiful, haughty voice answered, full of music so lovely it broke her heart to hear it. I do not appreciate your tone.

With that the Harp pushed into her harder, and Nesta roared silently. Her nail scraped over the string again. Let me go!

Gone was Cassian’s voice. He was kept out by the wards, witnessing it all.

Shall I open a door for you, then?

Yes! Damn you, yes!

It has been a long while, sister, since I played. I shall need time to remember the right combinations…

Don’t play games. Nesta chilled at the word it had used. Sister. Like she and this thing were one and the same.

The small strings are for games—light movement and leaping—but the longer, the final ones … Such deep wonders and horrors we could strum into being. Such great and monstrous magic I wrought with my last minstrel. Shall I show you?

No. Just let me out.

As you wish. Pluck the first string, then.

Nesta didn’t hesitate as her fingertip curled over the first string, grasping and then releasing it. A musical laugh filled her mind, but the weight lifted. Vanished.

And then everything swirled around her like she was being sucked down a plughole into a vast emptiness. The stars on the floor span, turning white with their speed.

Nesta clung to the Harp as wind whipped her face. She was falling – but into what, she didn’t know. It reminded her of the Cauldon, that endless dark, the never-ending cold. Nesta drifted through space and time until she plummeted downwards.

Her body hit stone, taking the wind out of her.

Nesta blinked, trying to right herself. The lights around her were blurred but there was noise – chatter and distant music.

A bright light came towards her. A long, blaring sound pierced her ears. There was a screech and the light stopped feet from her body curled on the stone.

‘What the fuck,’ came a female voice.

Something slammed and footsteps sounded. ‘Are you alright? I nearly hit you. You landed in the middle of the road.’

‘Move back. Official 33rd business,’ a male voice said.  

Nesta was shaking. The bright lights were still in her eyes. Her hip and leg throbbed from the landing.

‘She’s armed, Hunt,’ somebody said.

The male who’d spoken gave a wearied sigh. ‘Ten minutes left of our shift and a fae has to leap in front of a car.’ He stepped closer to her. ‘Hands up. Don’t reach for the sword.’

Something silver and metallic was pointed at her by his hands. The male was fae. Or, looked it. He had wings similar to the Peregryn that she’d met in the Dawn Court with beautiful, grey feathers. Across his brow was a tattoo. Sable hair hung to his shoulders. The other male was slightly shorter with white feathers and fair hair.

Neither was dressed like anybody she’d seen before. Their clothes reminded her slightly of Illyrian leathers but the materials were different.

Nesta looked around, now that her eyes had adjusted to the light. Nobody was dressed in familiar clothing. People had small rectangles in their hands bearing lights and sounds. The fair haired male tutted and started moving them off, saying she was not a spectacle.

‘I’m going to need you to slide that sword over to me in its sheath. Do you understand?’

Where was she? This wasn’t Prythian.

Where are we?

The Harp refused to respond to her, going mute in this strange, new world.

‘Hey,’ the male with grey wings said, not unkindly. ‘Slide it over now.’

Slowly, Nesta reached for Ataraxia and pushed it across the smooth stone towards him. He kept his metal object pointed at her as he bent down and slung her sword over a shoulder.

‘Now your instrument.’

The other male had returned and collected that. He turned it from side to side, examining it. The first handed the sword to him. ‘Fly those to Vik. Get her to run her tests on them. I’ll bring her in.’

***

Ten minutes. That was all they had left after seven days straight. Hunt was looking forward to a glorious day off but Logan had said they should walk back to the 33rd rather than fly. If they flew, they still likely would have seen a female fall from the sky, but they could have pretended it didn’t happen and finished their shift on time. Now, it meant hours of questioning plus paperwork for what he guessed was an undocumented fae who’d rocked up in Lunathion.

The female in question seemed compliant thus far. Hunt hadn’t cuffed her. She was a skinny thing that couldn’t overpower him. From the spike of her ears, she was fae, not human. After basic questioning, they’d likely call in the captain of the aux from the fae side – and Hunt planned to be in his bed by then. Technically, this female had done nothing wrong except fall from the sky with a sword and nearly be hit by a car. It was strange enough though that Micah would demand their heads if they hadn’t brought her in. He was off in the north, summoned by the Asteri. Peace for once.

‘Where are you taking me?’

He kept his hand clasped around her upper arm as they walked. ‘To the 33rd.’

She frowned. ‘The 33rd what?’

Hunt glanced at her. ‘Legion.’

How had she never heard of the 33rd? Who the hell was this?

‘Are you fae?’

She must have hit her head hard. Hunt ushered her along, surveying her for obvious injuries as they went. ‘No. Malakim. Definitely not fae.’

Her silver eyes stared at him then at the ground, processing something. A med-witch would need to see her to remove her concussion.

Hunt led her to one of their interrogation rooms. The white walls looked yellow beneath the lights and she shielded her eyes from it. It was protocol to at least chain her to the table to prevent her from running, but from the bewildered expression on her face, Hunt couldn’t do it.

‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘Coffee?’

‘I’ll get you a coffee,’ he said, offering a tight smile as he backed out of the room.

He met Isaiah in the corridor.

‘Viktoria’s already working on the items. Both are definitely imbued with magic,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Logan’s filled me in. Fell from the sky?’

‘Yup. Literally.’ Hunt pressed the coffee cup into his hand. ‘I don’t think she knows what coffee is so good luck.’

Isaiah gave a short laugh. ‘Do you think she’s one of the Avallen Fae?’

‘I have no fucking clue where she is from. Another planet by the looks of things.’  

Naomi was waiting behind the interrogation room, computer at the ready. Hunt waited behind the screen of glass too as Isaiah introduced himself and put the cup of coffee in front of her. From the thin frame, Hunt should have grabbed her a snack too. She wore leathers like she was about to do battle. The sword would explain that too – but not the instrument. It seemed to be a common theme that swords were toted by pricks in Lunathion, however this female seemed not too bad so far.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Nesta.’

‘A last name?’

‘Archeron.’

Naomi’s fingers flew over the keyboard. ‘Not a single Archeron in history. Or a Nesta.’

‘I don’t think she’s lying,’ Hunt murmured. It would be a strange name to make up. Better if she gave a common one.

Isaiah spoke gently. ‘What house are you aligned with, Nesta?’

Nesta blinked a few times then, ‘Uh. The House of Wind.’

There was another click of keys beside him then Naomi drew a blank again.

‘What can your magic do?’

‘I don’t have magic.’

‘Why do you have a magical Harp?’

‘I’m a bard.’

The delivery was so flat from Nesta that Hunt couldn’t help but snort with laughter.

Isaiah’s wings flexed at the table. ‘Will you play for me?’

Nesta inspected her nails. ‘I don’t play for free.’

‘What’s the sword for?’

‘When people don’t pay me,’ she quipped.

This female had woken up and found her dry sense of humour then. Hunt examined her through the glass. She didn’t look like the fae of Lunathion. The majority had the same colouring as the king – red hair, tanned skin. Others were brown-haired. The prince was a rarity with black hair, but not unheard of. It tended to be the Avallen fae who were blonde. She certainly fitted the description for now with a limited knowledge of technology; she’d stared at everybody’s cell-phones with utmost confusion. But even Avallen fae knew how to use technology when they left their misty isles.

‘Which king did you pledge allegiance to?’

At that, Nesta gave a harsh laugh. ‘None of them and I never will.’

‘Who is the king of Avallen?’

‘Fionn,’ she said, brandishing her hands in the air with disinterest.

‘Danaan is here,’ a voice said over the intercom. ‘Sending him down.’

Ruhn Danaan was captain of the fae auxiliary unit and exemplified what it meant to be a fae prick. One day, he’d also be their king. And Hunt could not stand him.

He swaggered in, tongue flicking against his lip-ring. ‘This better be good, Athalar.’

Hunt gestured to Nesta Archeron currently stonewalling Isaiah as he attempted to interrogate her on her origins.

‘Don’t know her,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Wish I did.’

‘Is she one of the Avallen fae?’

‘No idea,’ replied Ruhn in a blasé tone. Hunt could stink alcohol on him. Likely the prince had been with his little pals doing what they did best and partying until dawn.

Sensing his frustrations, Naomi stepped in. ‘She fell from the sky. There’s no record of her family name in the history of Midgard. Nesta isn’t aligned to any house, seemingly has no knowledge of Lunathion. She cannot name either fae king – but did mention Fionn. She came with a sword imbued with magic – and a Harp.’

Ruhn finally took notice. He leaned closer to the glass, nose almost touching it. ‘Her eyes are silver.’

‘A fascinating conclusion, Danaan.’

‘Let me talk to her.’  

It was Isaiah’s call so he allowed the prince into the interrogation room, claiming that not only was he fae royalty which gave Ruhn a pass to do what he liked in the city, but also a member of the aux. When he entered, Nesta knew him. Her eyes went wide then she stared down at her lap, murmuring something to herself.

‘Hi,’ said Ruhn who turned the chair around and leant his chest against the back. ‘Your coffee’s going cold.’

Nesta raised the cup to her mouth to take a sip then promptly spat it back out. ‘That’s vile.’

‘Need sugar?’

She folded her arms across her body. Anybody else would have called for their lawyer now or asked what they were being charged with. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Nesta seemed more interested in the security camera and even the lights above her head.

‘Are you high fae?’ she asked Ruhn.

‘I’m fae,’ he said. ‘Vanir. What other Vanir do you know?’

Nesta swallowed. Eventually, she suggested, ‘Illyrians?’

Ruhn gave an encouraging nod and lied that he knew them. Beside Hunt, Naomi was doing her best to search for the term.

‘Who else?’

‘Peregryns.’

‘Yeah. Peregryns.’ Ruhn gave another nod. ‘Those big birds that brought you to the 33rd. What are they?’

‘Malakim.’

Which she only knew because Hunt had told her.

‘What’s Sabine?’

‘I don’t know her,’ she replied.

Well, shit. She definitely was not from Lunathion because everybody knew Sabine, unfortunately. Naomi’s laptop made a pinging sound. ‘Toxicology report. Nothing in her system. Not even a drop of alcohol. Definitely no drugs.’

On arrival, the on-duty med-witch had given her a once over but had not found any major injuries beyond a few bruises from her heavy landing.

Isaiah drummed his fingers on his watch face. ‘We can’t hold her for anything. By rights, we’ve held her longer than necessary with nothing to charge her for.’

‘She’s clearly not from here.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I’m reluctant to call Micah back until we have full specs on the items that she brought with her.’

‘We can keep those for a week,’ said Naomi.

Ruhn emerged from the room, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his long, black hair. ‘She’s fae. Definitely. No idea where she’s from though.’ Ruhn pulled out his cell.

‘Calling daddy?’

He threw Hunt a grin. ‘Not a chance. I’ll keep her at mine.’

‘No,’ said Hunt with a snort. ‘Do you think we’ll hand over a disorientated female to you and your little pals?’

‘Careful with what you’re insinuating, angel.’

Isaiah cleared his throat. ‘Until we know more, Nesta Archeron is a free citizen of Lunathion, not under anyone’s jurisdiction.’

‘She’s fae,’ Ruhn insisted. ‘She answers to my father.’

‘You didn’t hear her, Danaan,’ Hunt said, fighting the grin from his face. ‘She’s pledged allegiance to no king and never will.’

‘Hunt, discharge her. Ruhn, I wonder if you could take a look at the sword,’ asked Isaiah, guiding the prince out of the room.

Hunt cared little for the fae but he wasn’t going to send a lone female who had no clue where she was to the Ruhn Danaan home for parties and orgies. He took up Ruhn’s vacated seat, also sitting backwards on it at the table. Nesta watched him closely.

‘How do you know Ruhn?’

‘I don’t,’ she replied, voice clipped.

‘You looked like you did.’

Nesta furrowed her brow. ‘I thought he was somebody else.’

Hunt nodded his head towards the cup. ‘You didn’t like my coffee?’

‘It was foul.’

‘Oof. No offence taken.’ He began writing out her discharge forms, explaining them to her as he wrote. It would go under a section two; the 33rd reserved the right to question any citizen at any time without reason or without consequence. Anybody from Lunathion would have kicked up a fuss over how long they’d been held for. This one had no cell, no purse, no identification, literally nothing on her person so she likely didn’t know her rights. ‘You can collect your items in a week.’

That was if they found nothing they could charge her for.

‘A week? I need the Harp.’

‘Playing in a tavern?’

Hunt glanced up at her then jerked back. Her eyes were swirling. They looked as if silver flames were trapped within, writhing to get to the surface.  

‘You’re free to go, Nesta. I’ll see you out.’

The walk out of the Comitium was just as interesting. The most inane technology snagged her attention. At the coffee machine, she came to a halt to stare at it in wonder then in the waiting room, her eyes catalogued the television screens, jaw hanging open.

‘Don’t worry. You won’t miss Fangs and Bangs.’

Nesta opened her mouth to say something then the phone rang in the office. That also hooked her attention. She was child-like in her wonder as a malakh answered the phone.

‘That device allows you to communicate?’

Hunt touched two fingers to her forehead. The temperature seemed fine. ‘Try and see a med-witch. Have them check you over for concussion.’

He held the door open for her as she stumbled off into the blackness, just as perplexed as she’d been when they’d found her in the road.

Nesta wasn’t Hunt’s duty. His shift should have ended two hours ago. He was a slave, but a slave who could be off-duty – especially when Micah was out of town. Yet, he couldn’t stop the sense of dread from clawing in his chest as he watched Nesta amble aimlessly into the night.

This female would cause him a headache.

 ***

Seven days.

Nesta needed to survive seven days with only the clothes on her back in this strange city. There were worse places that she could have arrived to. The dungeon had not truly been a dungeon. It lacked the prowling beasts of the Hewn City. The only issue had been how bright the lights were. They hadn’t been the faelights that Rhysand conjured.

There were more lights hanging from towering metal poles on the smooth roads. There were still many out in the darkness but not all of them were fae. Some were like animals with cloven hooves instead of feet or caprine horns that jutted out from their hair.

Nesta didn’t know what to make of it.

She’d left Cassian calling her name in the Prison. Now she was in Lunathion. Wherever that was.

The city was so noisy.

Nesta needed space to think and to breathe so she fought her way out of the densest areas of the city towards a massive river. The sounds of it calmed her. She crossed over it, into the darker area where it felt more peaceful. Nesta sucked in breaths, thinking of Gwyn and her teachings to focus on the inhales and exhales and nothing else. That was easier said than done in a foreign land with no allies, no weapons, and no way back to Velaris.

Something was moving across the bridge towards her.

It made her skin prickle.

It wasn’t walking. It was gliding.

Her hand reached over her shoulder for the pommel of her sword and remembered it had been taken.

The creature made a low, gurling sound from the back of its throat then reached out a grey hand stripped of flesh in places.

Nesta backed up a step, but more were behind her, moving in that same eerie way without a sound.

The air went static.

A bolt of lightning hit the ground which forced one of the creatures to retreat.

The male who’d chaperoned her to the Comitium landed between her and the bulk of the creatures. Lightning wreathed his hands. His hair rose from the static.

‘You will not feast this night.’

Hunt jerked his chin at her, summoning Nesta to him. An arm clamped around her shoulders then he pushed off from the floor. As they lifted off, his other arm swooped beneath the back of her knees.

The motion was surprisingly fluid. Nesta did what she always did if Cassian flew her and put her arms around his neck for support.

‘What were they?’

‘Reapers,’ he replied. ‘I’m guessing you don’t have them where you come from.’

‘We have creatures just as foul.’

‘Yeah. Well, maybe don’t go for a midnight meeting with the Under-king if you want to see the dawn, Nesta.’ Hunt flew them a short distance then landed back amongst the lights on poles. He kept one hand clasped around her wrist like she might run while pulling one of the metal rectangles from his pocket. It displayed numbers that he tapped. His thumb moved down the screen, the words it showed flew by too quick for Nesta to read. ‘It’s Athalar. As you said, she’s one of your kind. She needs to be put up in a hotel.’ A pause. ‘Near the Dead Gate. I’ve flown her near Jesiba Roga’s house of horrors, but she’ll end up wandering through the meat market if I leave her.’ Hunt gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Either a hotel or the barracks with me, but not a chance I’m leaving her in your custody.’

Hunt slid the device into his back pocket. ‘The prince of pricks is booking you a hotel for the night. You hungry?’

The malakh lifted her into the air again to cross the city. They returned to the huge building where he had first taken her but did not stay long. Nesta was told to wait in the corridor outside a room while Hunt retrieved a bag of items. They stopped off at a restaurant along the way while he waited for news from the prince of pricks, whoever that was.

‘Noodles,’ he said, gesturing to the flimsy packaging.

Nesta stared down at them. They reminded her of yellow strings but there were chunks of meat and vegetables amongst them and a sweet-smelling sauce that made her ravenous. Hunt paid for it all, including the drink that was filled with bubbles.

‘Not a fan of coffee, but you like soda,’ he said between mouthfuls.

‘It is so sweet.’

‘Yeah because it’s all sugar.’

Nesta slurped it down, not caring if the ice hurt her teeth.

Hunt pulled the device – a cell phone – from his pocket. ‘Danaan came through. Let’s go.’

The lodgings were nice. One of those moving portrait boxes was hung on the wall and Hunt pressed a button on another rectangle to make it work. He pressed a few more buttons, the portraits changing rapidly.

‘Here we go. Fangs and Bangs, as promised.’

There was a half-naked female on the screen lounging on a long chair near a body of water. A male, equally as bare and bronze, was discussing their relationship beside her.

‘What do all of those buttons do?’

Hunt shrugged one shoulder. ‘Nobody knows. That’s volume. Channel up and down. On and off.’

‘It controls it?’

‘Yes. A remote. Where the hell did you come from Nesta?’

Nesta said nothing. She couldn’t bear to think of the people she had left behind. There was no guarantee that the Harp would be returned to her or it would even let her pluck a string to return to Velaris.

‘Bathroom’s through there. This is a key card. You press it to that black panel on the door handle to get in but try not to leave tonight, alright. I don’t want to retrieve your body from the Istros in the morning.’ Hunt blew out a breath. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll be by in the morning.’

Despite the day she had endured, the sight of the bed with tightly-pulled white sheets was calling to her. As soon as she hit that pillow, Nesta would be out.

Hunt rummaged in the bag that he’d collected from the Comitium. There were soft, grey pants and a white top. ‘For you to sleep in. There are slits on the back for my wings, but it will be comfier than those,’ he said, pointing to her leathers. ‘I don’t know how you breathe in that.’

‘Thank you, Hunt,’ replied Nesta, clutching the clothes to her body.

‘Tomorrow, we will talk. Off the record. About you.’ He swept his hair from his face. ‘I want to help but I can’t if you’re not honest with me. Sleep well.’   

[minstrel-in-the-gallery]

Why YOU should get into jethro Tull!!

You’ll never run out of things to listen to, with over 200 songs and 23 studio albums!

Each album has a slightly different genre to the last, you can go from blues to prog to folk to hard rock!

Every single member is so darn cute 😭 that’s like an added extra bonus

They’re pretty too 🥰

They have about 1,034,264 line up changes, so you never run out of new musicians to obsess over!

You gain a new friend (me!) and a close knit community on tumblr of regular Tull posters (again, me!)

No one else knows them, yet somehow they were one of the top ranking bands in the 70s. Flex on your family and friends with your cool knowledge! For example, did you know Jethro Tull is in fact not a the lead band member, but rather the name of the band? Cool stuff right 😎

1979 😐

They have amazing musicianship! They’re insanely talented, and absolutely blow your socks off in live performances. Give “Bursting out”, their live album from 1978 a listen, or chuck on a concert from YouTube!

Where should I start?

Well, that depends on you! Because each album is so different, it can be hard to choose. Here are a few helping notes to consider

The 70s were their peak era, any album from this time is gold! Songs from the wood, Heavy Horses and Stormwatch are known as the folk trio. Thick as a Brick and A Passion Play are proggy concept albums. Aqualung is super rocking, Minstrel is acoustic and This Was is blues. Venturing into the 80s and beyond may not be wise for the first time, unless you really like your synth.

Whose who? What’s all this I hear about lineups?

Jethro Tull went through a lot of personnel. Some names you might keep hearing are

Ian Anderson. He’s the main guy, and he’s on every album. Does the flute, singing and weird faces

Martin Barre. Guitarist for almost every album except the first! (And the last 2 but we don’t talk about that.) literal cutest person in the world. His middle name is Lancelot, for crying out loud

Barriemore Barlow. Drummer from ‘72-‘79, insanely talented, loves his short shorts and singlets (in red). Was favoured as a replacement for Bonham in Zeppelin.

John Evan. Piano player, half insane half beautiful mermaid person thing??? His fursona is a rabbit and has a habit of chucking stoves out the windows.

Basically, you can’t go wrong! Enjoy this train wreck of a band <3 (and if I don’t see any Tull dedicated blogs popping up in the next 24 hours I’m hitting someone over the head with my flute)

[knight-of-the-graces]

Hey, um… with the whole “Bluejay!Jason” concept… has anybody ever considered it as an Inkheart reference instead of just a play off his name?

Follow me here, and sorry in advance, this turned into a ramble.

In the second book of the Inkheart trilogy, Inkspell, one of the main protagonists adopts a Robin Hood-esque approach to defeating the tyrant king, and adopts the name of ‘The Bluejay’ from famous folk legends and songs written by a beloved poet and often sung by travelling minstrels. He’s -Inkspell spoilers ahead, though this book is unironically older than I am- known for toppling said tyrant’s throne through the binding of a magic book (a recurring theme throughout the series, if you’ve never read it, which you should). He’s a champion among the Motley Folk, who were that world’s equivalent to a travelling circus and also regularly aid him in his quest to topple the Adderhead (the tyrant king mentioned above), and sought to help the poor and downtrodden. The Bluejay is aided and abetted by his family and friends, which include a shapeshifting wife, a daughter with the ability to make anything she reads come true, a fire-dancer who can speak to the flames, and a knife-throwing 'circus' prince with a black bear companion. (They're not called the Motley Folk for no reason, people!)

Now, consider for a moment: Little Jason Todd, in the local library, absolutely devouring the Inkheart series. It's everything a little kid could dream of in a fantasy book! And there's three of these fat books, what more could you possibly want? And he has an excuse to sit in a warm, safe building for a few hours.

Now imagine, Inkspell becomes his comfort book. Of course it does- every kid had one, and I can't imagine an orphan who grew up alone on the streets of Gotham picking anything other than a story about a strange man helping the opressed and downtrodden in a land he grows to call his own with the help of his family- and The Bluejay is an excellent father to his daughter, too, of course Jason pictured himself as part of that family, as whisked away into that world.

And of course, the rest of the series is wonderful too -Inkheart is where it all began, after all, and Inkdeath is the final triumph over evil!-, but Inkspell is a story about becoming. About learning to be more than you were born as- after all, if Mo the simple bookbinder could become the hero The Bluejay, what could Jason the street orphan become?

Maybe, instead of discovering this book in a library, he found it in the trash. And maybe he wondered, as he read it, why anyone would ever want to throw away the tale of Mo the Blujay, of Meggie the Silvertongue, of Resa the brave swift, of Dustfinger the loyal Fire-Dancer? (And maybe the last one took a while to get there, but he did get there! Eventually! And maybe Jason can understand why it took Dustfinger so long to truly come to trust someone again, because trust is a terribly dangerous thing to give to someone, because you can never really know what they'll do with it.) Maybe he read it through without knowing anything about Capricorn or The Shadow or why they feared the man named Basta, because they hadn't thrown away the first book, only the second. Maybe he wept for the death of Dustfinger, at the very end, because he didn't know that Death wouldn't keep him, because they hadn't thrown away the third book.

Maybe Inkspell found its place among his most treasured possessions. Maybe, when he met Batman and Bruce Wayne in one night and his life changed forever, Inkspell came with him, with its familiar story and characters and world and sorrows.

Maybe one of the first things Bruce did, upon seeing Jason reading that same battered old paperback, was to order Inkheart and Inkdeath and leave them in his room. Maybe that was when Jason started to realize that he wasn't going to leave forever.

(Maybe Jason and Dick would play Motley Folk together, because Dick was in the circus and could most certainly throw knives, even if it gave Bruce a heart attack every time he saw it.)

And maybe, after he could no longer have Robin, he remembered that old paperback book, that old story and that old world, and he thought of a new name for himself.

Bluejay, he thought, as he picked up the book that had been his constant companion for so many years. I'll be The Bluejay.

(I don't really know what this is. I saw some Bluejay!Jason art the other day and just started thinking of the Inkheart trilogy and the fact that Jason would absolutely have read it and probably loved it. And then it spiralled.)

[hanzajesthanza]

oh man, i'm clearing off my desktop and i found this .txt from when i had reached a breaking point of annoyance about the fandom (mostly netflix, sorry about that show) constantly referring to jaskier as "bard" ...

this bothered me because, as i recalled, he is most often referenced as "poet" or "troubadour," whenever mentioned by his profession. especially for what he calls himself, what others who esteem him well (e.g., geralt) call him, or what the narration calls him.

(then there's also the titles of lesser frequency, like "musician," "minstrel," "singer," "poetaster," "rhymester," but these are less frequent, e.g., geralt bof 5 "a poetaster with a lute," regis ttos 3 "our minstrel," rience boe 1 "nasty rhymester" ... rience sucks, but he was right about that one, you gotta admit).

asides from the fact that dandelion seems to self-identify with "poet and musician," (eternal flame i) i just find "bard" so generic, like it's just a catch-all term for someone in a fantasy setting that sings, like the d&d class. it doesn't actually reflect the full roles of his profession: that he writes, he is connected with the concept of poetry and writing, and as such, aspects of his character can be considered a satire of writers. and that his poetic personality runs contrary to geralt's banal realism.

so, in my annoyance i used went and counted all the times in the last wish that he is referenced by his profession (i apparently only cared enough about this to do the first book). i noted what word was used and who said it.

anyways guess what. my hypothesis was right 😎 coming in at over half his mentions by profession, he is called "poet." so hah! he is a poet, i remembered correctly.

(fwiw, this is using the english translation, and just calling to attention that it might have been different in polish. after all - i recall from the lost in translation series something interesting about "poetaster" in a little sacrifice, drouhard almost calls him this, like "one who strings rhymes together" (edit: got it: "He was originally going for “wierszokleta,” or roughly “one who carelessly puts rhymes together.”))

Poet Voice of Reason 2, Narration Voice of Reason 5, Nenneke Voice of Reason 5, Geralt Voice of Reason, Narration Voice of Reason, Narration Voice of Reason, Narration Voice of Reason, Narration Voice of Reason, Narration Edge of the World i, Narration Edge of the World i, Narration Edge of the World i, Geralt Edge of the World i, Dandelion Edge of the World i, Narration Edge of the World ii, Narration Edge of the World ii, Narration Edge of the World iii, Narration Edge of the World iii, Narration Edge of the World iii, Narration Edge of the World iv, Narration Edge of the World iv, Narration Edge of the World vi, Narration Edge of the World vi, Narration Edge of the World vi, Narration Edge of the World vi, Narration Edge of the World vii, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish ii, Narration The Last Wish ii, Errdil The Last Wish iii, Geralt The Last Wish v, Narration The Last Wish v, Narration The Last Wish vii, Narration The Last Wish vii, Narration Voice of Reason 7, Narration Voice of Reason 7, Narration Troubadour Voice of Reason 2, Narration Voice of Reason 5, Narration Edge of the World i, Narration Edge of the World iii, Narration Edge of the World vi, Narration Edge of the World vi, Narration Edge of the World vii, Narration Edge of the World vii, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish ii, Errdil The Last Wish ii, Chireadan The Last Wish v, Narration The Last Wish vii, Yennefer Voice of Reason 7, Narration Bard Voice of Reason 5, Narration Edge of the World i, Narration Edge of the World ii, Narration Edge of the World iii, Narration Edge of the World iii, Narration Edge of the World iv, Narration Edge of the World vii, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish i, Narration The Last Wish vii, Narration The Last Wish vii, Narration The Last Wish vii, Narration Musician Edge of the World vi, Toruviel Edge of the World vi, Toruviel The Last Wish iii, Geralt Lutenist Edge of the World vi, Toruviel

just to say that jaskier IN THE BOOKS is a poet. n*tflix jaskier is a bard. this is a trifle in the broader sense of things, yet another element which distinguishes the characters and everything else between canons

[prythianpages]

Give 'Em Hell | Part One

beron's daughter OC x eventually Azriel

Masterlist

Summary: Beron is celebrating his son's first name day when he learns about a threat to his desired line of succession. His true firstborn.

Warnings: mentions of child loss

A/N: This is the villain origin story of Beron's daughter. I plan for this to be a short series but I also don't really have this planned out well like my other series lol, I'm kind of just going with vibes for this one. After listening to The Buttress's 'Brutus' this came to mind so it will be inspired by Julius Caesar's story and revolve mainly around Saoirse and Eris, who are siblings. Azriel will join later on in the series as the first 2-3 parts will focus on reader and the Vanserras.

In the heart of the Autumn Court’s grand palace, the air hummed with vibrant festivities. It was a day of great joy, a celebration for the name day of the High Lord’s firstborn son and heir. The halls were adorned with tapestries of blazing amber and crimson leaves, their intricate designs catching the radiance of the fiery torches that lined the corridor.

Flickering candles and enchanting crystal orbs dangled from the vaulted ceilings, casting a warm, golden glow upon the gathering below. The joyful chatter of courtiers and nobles mingled with the melodic tunes of minstrels performing lively songs. Excitement surged through the crowd as they anticipated the official naming of the new prince, the air crackling with a promise of a prosperous future for the court and its people.

The grand doors opened and the High Lord of Autumn, Beron Vanserra, was the first to emerge. His wife and Lady of the Autumn Court, Aurelia, followed behind him. In her arm, was the autumn court’s new bundle of joy. A beautiful and healthy baby boy with hair as red as hers and amber eyes as bright and earthly as hers.

As they walked forward, the crowd dispersed, bowing their heads in respect. They curiously sneaked a peak at the boy, filled with anxious excitement to catch a glimpse. Lady Aurelia tightened her hold on her babe protectively. It had been a year since the announcement of his arrival and she had feared losing this babe as she had with her first. Her firstborn had befallen to a strange illness and she sadly did not survive past her first week into the world.

But this time, things were different. The child was born a male and healthy. He was fiercely monitored and protected. The securing of an heir to a High Lord of Prythian was one of great matters.

High Lord Beron sat himself on the throne, his dark brown eyes cold and fierce as Lady Aurelia stood beside him, her amber eyes were timid and wary. They were husband and wife but not equals. Never equals.

“I give thanks to all.” Beron’s voice was deep and powerful, echoing throughout the grand hall. “For gathering to celebrate my first born son. My heir. Eris.”

“Eris,” a murmur swept through the crowd like a breeze, the name mingling with the crackling excitement of the gathered court.

With a graceful motion of his hand, the lively melody swelled, encouraging some to sway and twirl to the music. High Lord Beron gestured for his son and Lady Aurelia hesitantly passed the small child into his arms.  He placed Eris on his lap, embracing the young heir, and together they observed the vibrant dance of the Autumn court from his throne.

A cloaked figure approached the throne, bowing his head as he reached the foot of the steps.

“Soothsayer.” High Lord Beron acknowledged with a solemn nod, allowing the figure to rise back up. He never bothered to learn his name, despite the Soothsayer being a part of his court for decades. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’ve come to enlighten you, my lord.” The Soothsayer replied, his voice possessing an air of icy calm. Lady Aurelia, who remained by her husband’s side, tensed.

High Lord Beron’s brow furrowed, a scowl etched onto his face. He did not believe in prophecies. They were nothing but nonsense to him. But something in him prodded him to entertain the man’s presence. The Soothsayer had, afterall, predicted the accurate arrival of his son.

The Soothsayer’s gaze fixed upon the child on his High Lord’s lap and a smile graced his face. “Eris shall grow to wield unparalleled strength.”

Beron gave a disgruntled hum, finding little amusement in the Soothsayer’s words. The notion that his son would grow strong seemed more a matter of course than a profound prophecy. Eris, as the heir to the Autumn Court, was destined for greatness. 

The Soothsayer’s demeanor shifted dramatically. His eyes rolled back, their irises disappearing into a haunting white void as he surrendered to the profundity of the prophecy. 

“The Vanserra line will be fruitful and flourishing as Autumn’s greatest harvest, for they are born with the greatest fire in their veins. But it will not last. Not all will thrive as some will die. Two will soon become three until there are finally eight but one will not be true to you and only one shall come to be. It is the one that possesses the phoenix's heart that the Mother will favor. She shall reign, the true firstborn.”

Beron’s eyes widened for a faltering moment before he rose sharply to his feet, handing the child that had begun to grow restless back to his wife. His gaze blazed with fury, taking the Soothsayer’s words as a threat. Tendrils of flame escaped from his finger tips, rushing to wrap around the Soothsayer’s neck to silence him.

But the Soothsayer did not falter, despite the burning ring around his neck.

“She will emerge from the ashes that aim to entomb her, ever lingering near. A course that cannot be averted. Beware… the ides of March.”

Beron’s eyes continued to rage, the fire in them burning ardently, as the fire around the Soothsayer’s neck tightened. It tightened and tightened, suffocating the male and burned through his flesh. He didn’t stop until the Soothsayer’s head dropped to the floor in a sickening thump, his body following along shortly.

Lady Aurelia let out a cry in shock, her hand flying to her son’s head, shielding him from the grotesque scene. The couples that had been dancing and swaying to the music came to an abrupt halt, eyes widening at the dead body before the throne to the Autumn Court but the music continued to play.

High Lord Beron finally peeled his heated gaze from the dead male, eyes darting around the room. “Did I say to stop?”

Not wanting to meet the Soothsayer’s fate, the crowd began to dance again, compelled by fear. Beron then turned to his guards as the Soothsayer’s words repeated themselves in his head and sunk in, bringing forth a familiar ache in his chest. One he had thought he had destroyed years ago.

His mind was consumed by memories from his past as he gave hushed and urgent orders to his most trusted men. 

For the rest of the night, the High Lord of the Autumn court maintained a scowl and an air of fierce composure. The flames that danced restlessly from his fingertips betrayed the inner turmoil he harbored. He did not rest, until days later, when his men finally returned.

High Lord Beron was sharing a quiet breakfast with his wife and son when he turned to address his men.  “Is it done?”

“Yes, my High Lord.” One of his men replied with a bow. The men behind followed.  “Not a single survivor left.”

Beron’s lips curled into a wicked smirk that sent chills up Lady Aurerlia’s spine while little Eris shifted in her lap.

“Good.”

**

Grief is the price one pays for love. It’s more than missing someone. It’s an overwhelming sensation, one that often takes a piece of you with it, leaving one with a gaping hole in their chest.

 It starts with denial, you pretend that the loss is not real until the pain that it carries becomes too much and anger floods in. The “what ifs” and “if only” nearly drown you as you bargain, wanting to postpone the sadness, the confusion. And then it’s peaceful in the deep and quiet depression. The arms of the ocean of grief’s depression carry you in until acceptance comes along like a bittersweet lullaby with a small sliver of hope–a life ring that may pull you out of grief’s cold depths.

But Saoirse’s mother never reached the final stage.

Instead, her mother slowly disappeared into the unrelenting depressing grip of grief. The depths of it were so deep no hand or life ring could reach. All for love.

Saoirse vowed to never fall in love. How could she when it was love that drove her mother so mad she lost her sanity?

Saoirse shuffled through the vast meadow. It was a canvas of autumnal hues, serene and enchanting, resplendent with vibrant flowers. Golden, russet and crimson blossoms swayed gently in the breeze, their petals swirling among the tall, amber grasses. Sunlight dappled through the tree branches, casting a warm golden glow. She picked out the prettiest of the flowers, making sure to grab her mother’s favorites–red chrysanthemums–before carefully wrapping them into a beautiful bouquet held together with a thin cloth and ivory ribbon.

When Saoirse entered the comforts of her small, humble home, she was greeted with the enticing scent of apple and cinnamon and the warmth of the roaring fireplace in the living space. She found her mother sitting in a rocking chair close to the fireplace, facing the window. A blanket had been gently draped over her lap, her fingers fidgeting over the warm fabric.

“Happy birthday, mother.” Saoirse greeted with a faint, fragile smile.

She approached her mother, placing a soft kiss on her forehead and the bouquet of flowers in her lap. Her mother’s shaky fingers clung onto the bouquet but her green eyes were distant.

“You took my heart when you left. Without your sweet kiss, my soul is lost…”

Saoirse’s smile fell and she felt her heart ache. She hated seeing her mother like this.

“She’s been like this all day.” A weathered voice chimed in solemnly.

“My city’s in ruins.”

Saoirse turned, her gaze landing on her sweet grandmother. The woman who had sacrificed everything to run to her daughter’s aid all those years ago. The woman who rose shortly after her high status fell, working hard to provide for her and her daughter. The woman, who when she found out her daughter was pregnant, delicately took care of her, raising Saoirse as if she were her own. Her eyes, usually warm and sweet, were green pools of sympathy as Saoirse’s mother’s voice faded into the background.

“Come on, rise up. Come on, rise up.”

“Dinner’s almost ready.” Her grandmother said, inkling her head toward the kitchen. “I made apple pie for dessert.”

**

They ate dinner in silence. With the help of her grandmother, Saoirse had guided her mother to the small dining table, just big enough for the three of them. Her mother continued to sing, green eyes still vacant as she was tormented by her memories. She had fallen into another bad episode, where the memories ran through an endless loop in her head. The song falling from her lips was her only solace.

“My city’s in ruins.”

Silver lined Saoirse’s eyes, making her dark brown eyes glisten. Eyes that she unfortunately inherited from her father, if she could even call him that. She was grateful it was the only trait they shared.

Saoirse hated the male that helped bring her to this cruel world with a burning passion. Everything was his fault. Why her sweet grandmother’s hands were calloused, roughened by the hard labor she was forced into. Why her mother was drowning in her depressive, almost vegetative state, refusing to heal from all the damage that had been done. All the damage he had done.

Saoirse had also fallen victim to the torturous depths of grief, mourning the loss of the mother she never got to know. Similar to her mother, she found herself stuck but it was not grief's depression that suffocated her. It was the ardent flames of anger. They ran so deep they flooded her veins, igniting her with a terrifying desire to burn everything to the ground.

“Sersh.”

Saoirse snapped out of her thoughts, eyes finding her grandmother, who glanced down at the table. “Shit, sorry.” She muttered.

 “Come on, rise up. Come on, rise up.”

As she drew back her heated hands, a shiver of discomfort ran through her. The scent of singed wood tickled her nostrils and the once pristine table bore the mark of her growing abilities, its surface marred by a thin layer of char.  Her grandmother’s soft chuckle met an abrupt halt. 

Their heads swiveled to Saoirse’s mother, whose voice had ceased mid-song. With a shared look of concern, both Saoirse and her grandmother called out to her simultaneously. 

“Margot?”

“Mother?”

Silence hung in the air after Saoirse’s call to her mother was met with no response. Her mother, Margot, remained wordless. Her emerald eyes widening in sheer disbelief and lips pressed into a taut line. She appeared as though she had seen a ghost.

The silence was suddenly interrupted by a blood-curdling scream. A scream that did not originate from within the house, a scream that elicited a tumult of more anguished sounds, echoing chaos.

Saoirse leaped to her feet in a panicked rush, rushing out the door in urgency. Her eyes scanned the landscape of their small village, her eyes widening with dread at the horrifying sight that unfolded before her.

The village, the place she had called home all her life, was engulfed in an all-consuming blaze, flames licking at everything in sight. More screams sent her heart racing. She didn’t know what to do, where to go, who to help first.

She found her neighbor, who desperately carried a bucket of water, and ran to him. “What is going on?”

“I don’t know.” He answered, his voice frantic. “They say it’s a wildfire from the drought but it started in the granaries. Get your grandmother and mother and run.”

Saoirse nodded as she turned around in haste, making her way back to her home. The flames danced freely in the village, their fierce, unwavering embrace swallowing everything in their path. The once-charming cottages, adorned with vibrant fall flower boxes, now stood cloaked in orange and red. She held her hands up toward the flames, beckoning her powers to ignite. Perhaps, she could manipulate the flames to turn away from the village.

Nothing happened and it was then that a terrifying realization dawned on her. This was no ordinary fire. It was fire sparked from magic. Saoirse willed her legs to run faster as plumes of smoke twisted upward, smudging the sky with a toxic charcoal hue.

The air grew thick with the smoke and somber chorus of crackling flames. Villagers, gripped by fear and despair, dashed frantically. Like her neighbor, they hauled buckets of water in a futile attempt to quell the unrelenting blaze.

She was almost home when she heard a sudden and loud sequence of snapping. A massive tree limb plunged directly in her path, sending her stumbling and crashing into the fallen leaves below. Panic surged as a terrified scream escaped from her lips, watching in horror as the tree she once climbed as a child splintered and fractured. It’s trunk plummeted, crashing over her house with a resounding, earth-shaking roar.

“Nana!” She cried, crawling to her burning house.

The smoke burned her lungs as she rose to her feet. She hurried to the door of her house but there was fire everywhere, keeping her from entering. Her hands extended once more, a desperate attempt to summon her powers. She could feel a trickle of blood run down from her nose at the exertion. Nothing.

With another desperate cry, she kicked at the door, not caring if the flames engulfed her. “Nana!”

She could hear the faint sound of coughing. “Saoirse!”

“Nana,” she almost cried in relief but no matter how much she kicked and threw herself against the door, it would not budge.

“It’s alright, my sweet Sersh.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. No. She refused to accept this.

“No, it’s not! I need to get you two out of there.”

She continued to kick and scratch at the door desperately. Blood trickled from her hands. "Please," she begged. To the Cauldron, to the Mother. Anyone. "Please."

But there was no answer. Only silence. A deathly stillness that enveloped around her, choking her just as the flames threatened to.

Her shoulders slumped and she collapsed against the door. Her vision blurred from all the smoke and tears. The fire’s glowing fingers reached out hungrily as it continued to sear over. More trees collapsed. The once tranquil village was now a chaotic scene of devastation. Saoirse let her eyes close as she gave up. Broken sobs wracked her body. 

She wanted the flames to swallow her whole.

**

Saoirse did not know how much time had passed but the sounds of the roaring fire gradually came to stop. She sharply sucked in a breath, regretting it as it burned her lungs and brought her into a coughing fit.  She had curled into herself and was no longer leaning against the door to her home.

When Saoirse finally opened her eyes, she realized it was because there was no longer a door. There was no longer a home. She was met with the devastated landscape of the village. Her home, it now held only desolation.

She was the only living body among the piles of ashes and splintered bones. They covered the ground like a blanket, a silent witness to the fire’s destruction. Her clothes had burnt off, leaving her skin to be tainted by the stains of ash and smoke. Tears were caked onto her face.

Despite the intense heat that had engulfed her entire village and burned through her clothes, she remained unscratched…untouched by the flames that ravaged everything around her ruthlessly.

The flames had flickered in a strange familiarity. This was no wildfire as she had confirmed earlier. This fire had burned and blazed through the village with a purpose. To destroy her.

She knew her existence would not be a welcomed one. It had never been a matter of if but when. This could not be a coincidence, not when the High Lord’s son recently celebrated his first name day and was christened as Autumn’s heir…

Her father had found her. This fire was meant for her, to burn her alive and silence her forever. But she did not burn. The fire inside her blazed brighter than the inferno that had been sent to her.

All she had wanted was to live her life in secrecy and peace with her grandmother and mother at her side but now...

The two people she cared and loved the most were dead, taken from her. She lost everything...because of him.

She felt a heat surge through her body. Her skin, her veins, her bones. A spark of light burst forth from her chest, right where her roaring heart was. There was a tiny, defiant glow there. A stark contrast amid the gray surroundings.  

Come on, rise up, the spark beckoned her and then her legs were moving before she could process the command.

She emerged from the ashes, standing tall amidst the lingering smoke. Her mouth held the taste of sorrow, intertwined with the metallic tang of blood. Her once dark brown eyes now burned a vibrant gold, flickering with an inner flame.

From the glowing ember within her chest, wisps of fire snaked out, coiling around her shoulders and forming fiery wings, a vivid and brilliant display of life and rebirth. Each beat of them stirred the ashes around her in a magical whirlwind. 

She was a phoenix, a breathtaking manifestation of flame and ash, and she was burning with an insatiable thirst for revenge. 

A/N: the song reader's mother was singing was my city of ruins by bruce springsteen. I picked it bc I really liked the lyrics and while it's a worship song, I did find it was fitting to her mother's and beron's story. Adult Eris along with Lucien and the other brothers will make appearances in the next parts.