#he’s a saint reborn

[daeneryspilled]

people let their true colors shine through their consumption of media. case in point an adult man in a position of great power can rape his way through a numerous amount of serving girls in the castle he lives in and through the streets he frequently visits, but if he’s nice to exactly one member of the small folk due to said small folk member stroking his ego while he sits the throne suddenly *all* of his past evil actions are forgiven and he would ‘make a great king.’ in the same breath these people will cut to a moment twenty years in the woman claimant’s past where she stated, “their wants are of no consequence,” after stumbling upon a play that blatantly makes fun of her for being born a woman and being a girl heir, which in turn upsets her because it’s an insecurity she’s dealt with her entire life, something she’s never been able to forget. SHE isn’t forgiven, instead it’s used as a way to say she wouldn’t make a good queen and has no care at all for the small folk (she is the only royal family member attempting to keep the realm united as of right now).

[swallowtail-ageha]

Funniest thing abt micolash is that when you forget his fandom characterization as the teheheeeeh weird quirky guy he's actually pretty terrifying and one of the most morally corrupt people in the lore

[lunarscaled]

gonna give them the biggest, wettest kiss in the game. just because.

@villain-he

-> Maybe they should have known he was up to something by the way he called their name: Bleu with the dizzying intonation of mischief, how his hand slid warm over the back of their neck to turn them towards him and pulled them in close with their feet stumbling. They don't even recognize what he's done at first—it takes a moment to register his mouth pressed to theirs, or the deft way his other hand comes to their chin to press down and coax their mouth open so he can slot them closer properly. Their second thought is that it feels almost like he's considering eating them: sampling the palette of their mouth when his tongue slides over theirs, too warm and too wet until it forces a shudder out of Lyric when he licks over their teeth and the roof of their mouth and their own tapered muscle. He looms over them and Lyric arches their spine to accommodate the posture, and then leans more when he puts some weight into it until their chest is snug against the bottom of his ribcage and stomach—they think it feels too hard to the point of sweltering. Like he's dumping hot water into their stomach and it's leaking into their veins, the wet sound of his mouth moving against theirs as they cling to his biceps with their short claws. Their eyes squint and start to shut, dizziness overwhelming them when they let him do as he likes, sluggish and overcome.

-> Their head feels like a whirlwind but their gut is a hot iron waiting to be struck. Steadily a warbling runs into a purr peeters into a chirping against his mouth, tail slack as they allow themselves to be devoured until it leaves their skin prickling like they've gotten heat rash and their veins pulsing heavily. Both his hands near their face keep them in place even when they stand on tiptoe and when his incisors scrape their bottom lip they whine, so thin and slight the sound can hardly be heard at all. Their lungs are starting to burn from how long he's been indulging in this, and when he finally pulls away Lyric takes a deep gasp of air. Their mouth is shiny and red from kissing: plush. A string of drool connects them as Lyric takes slow, shallow breaths with their eyes hooded and dark. It was only a few minutes at most, but they are pretty and soft and ripe like fresh fruit beneath that little bit of attention. Their claws dig into his skin like they want him to bleed.

"Wh'uh... was that for..."

[voidsentprinces]

Reminder: A Realm Reborn wasn't particularly about us. It was about the Eorzean Factions, it was about the Scions of the Seventh Dawn and their interactions with and thwarting Gaius and the XIVth Legion. We were just a useful champion slowly growing to fame but not truly a Warrior of Light until literally the prelude to the Castrum raiding mission.

The Parting of Glass wasn't about us either. It was, once again, about the world. And how it had begun changing after Gaius's fall and the brief period of peace away from Garlemald's Shadow. About Alphinaud beginning his arc of growth with hubris and the creation the Crystal Braves and what it might of looked like IF the Scion's good nature was lent to anyone and everyone. And thus opening itself up to the very corruption Minfilia feared to move away from the Waking Sands and to the Rising Stones in the first place.

Heavensward isn't about us. It is about Alphinaud's continue growth, learning of Ishgard's past and history. Hubris, arrogance and narrow viewing lead Alphinaud to steps of the Foundation, it has lead Estinien astray and made Ysayle believe she is a messiah incarnate. And through the journey, each of them grow as they learn the terrible truth about the Dragonsong War. Estinien in particular has his eyes opened and no longer simply seeks revenge on Nidhogg but to get to the bottom of it all. So no other shepherd's son has to live as he has. Ysayle learns she is a shade and a faux Shiva not truly Hraesvelgr's beloved or even in the same category as her. She learns swallow such delusions and embrace what Saint Shiva stood for in its entirety. Which means leaning to lay the road for peace between Ishgard and the Dragons and opening a path to this by sacrificing herself for those she loved so dearly. Alphinaud learns from all of this and more and is humbled by the duty of a knight, the fervor of a dragoon, the sacrifice of a saint, and the courage of his companions and of Sharlayan's arrogance from Master Matoya. To put others before himself and allow others to support him when he falls.

The Far Edge of Fate isn't about us. It was about how Ishgard carries on after Thordan and the Heavens Ward are shown to be the monsters they are. How the remnants of the church, the knights of Ishgard, and the civilian population react to the realization with rejection. How facing off against Nidhogg possessing Estinien, the Warriors of Darkness, and the machinations of Ilberd force Eorzea and Ishgard to look inward and know truly where they should go from there. To ignore the easier road and take the higher path no matter the strife and hardship it provides them. Because when they reach the otherside they would be better for it. Finding that courage, after five years of procrastinating and hemming and hawing, the Eorzean Alliance finally begin to mobilize to free Ala Mhigo from Garlemald and perhaps take on the Empire itself.

Stormblood isn't about us. It is about Doma and Ala Mhigo fighting for the survival of their people and cultures. Facing the parts of their society that were spurned and used as tools of hatred against their principles. That provided the necessary cracks required for Garlemald to break them down and oppress them in the first place. And how reforging under those values and those long histories of violence can make a new path and come to terms to over throw the tyrants who fed on their weakened states and make a strong unity still.

A Requiem of Heroes wasn't about us, it was about the world facing down the barrel of war with Garlemald. And uncovering its origins, its founding father was an Ascian. How Varis is forced to face down the lie as Elidibus wears the skin of his son and the great grandfather he and other Garleans were taught was a walking god in all but name was a sham and a daemon bent on causing more pain and suffering than mankind ever deserved. How the effigies of hate and pain choose to use their fervor to help their people instead of turning against them once more. How every person can change and be given a second chance. How that second chance is what that person requires or if they are pushed the wrong direction, can caused tragedy to unfold. And lastly, it is about our companions, slowly. One by one. Being dragged to the unknown. The story slowly taking away the players on the stage until finally...

Shadowbringers was about us. It was about how we were instrumental to the world so much that it lost nearly all hope in another timeline. How a group of your fondest friends began and how your comrade's furthest decendents acting on the hope of your legend and stories. To provide a plan of action and lead to happier world. How even when everything seems lost and gone and your purpose seems to turned everything around you into twisted monstrosities. That you can bring the night and wait in comfort for a dawn to bring better days. And the tenacity of your aid providing a world on the brink, the love, the compassion, the understanding, the strength, and the will to stand up to a flood of destruction and spit fate in the eye. Even it costs them everything, they keep fighting until they can see a brighter tomorrow.

Death unto Dawn was about what the tomorrow brings. How it could be another fight but to find what is WORTH fighting for. The memories of those you fight and lived amongst, old studies and things of the past being made to provide the answer to the future, making right wrongs even against those you had wronged unfairly, and to gather together and keep each other safe. You are not alone out here. There are those who will help you along to a brighter future.

Endwalker was about you and yours. About how everyone reacts to an uncertain future in different manners. How some would make ready to flee at the approaching storm, while others would fight, and others might even push you further to the edge. But even when all is lost, call upon the memory of happier times to light the way with hearts aligned shining brilliantly against despair and finding your place amongst those memories.

Growing Light was about us teaching another to hear, feel, and think and experience the world seemingly gone. That everything needn't be give or take. It can be a charitable, warmer place if we make it. It can be kinder and even in the face of unrelenting and undying destruction. Hope will spit out a tooth and stand up once more.

I say all of this because, I've seen people mad that Dawntrail is leaning hard about being about Wuk Lamat and others. To which I say so what if Dawntrail is about Wuk Lamat and Koana? So what if its not about us? We've had four story lines about us. Now we must impart what we've learned to the future as they face similar and sometimes overwhelming odds. To stand tall against the onslaught and make their own choices, their own way to bring a smile to all they hold dear. How family needn't be blood related, they can just be a group who sit down at the table at the end of the day. And speak, laugh, cry, and love. Unto this trail to dawn we shall light way for the future of our world and everything this new dawn brings is worth it.

[pruinescense]

A messy sketch of my Nerevarine, Arenver

Backstory explained below v

As a child he used to believe himself to be the Nerevarine of the prophecy (since there was a "divine sign" of it before his birth where his mother was thinking on a name for her baby and the wind blew the nearby saint Nerevar's shrine into a disarray: on the ground the letter pieces that usually formed Nerevar's name on the shrine table spelled a different name "Arenver" when his mother came to restore the items to their place). His birthmark was also one reason. Later on Arenver started doubting his earlier belief, mostly because the people who had claimed to be the Nerevarine in the past consistently said to be able to hear saint Nerevar's voice advising them. His prayers to Nerevar were never answered, not even in desperate situations (little did he know Nerevar could not be there to answer to him since he himself was Nerevar reborn, no longer a wandering spirit). The ring Moon-and-Star forced him to finally face the truth

[lunarscaled]

"Why not! Why can't I be!"

-> The snap of their voice is sharper than they mean for it to be. Under teasing and banter and metaphors, there is a fragment of their own core in it: why can't their spirit be indomitable? their self-control? Why could they not empty themselves of the trivial, human things that made them uncertain or sorrowful or angry, offer them up on an altar like butchered organs and devote it to God until they are a perfect child, unblemished by their fingers curling into their palms as the nails bite the skin. What are they angry for. Infinity? The weight of it? How he seems to bare it easily on his shoulders and never once deflects it on them? That he doesn't bare teeth back at them---where is your rage? Your anger? Do you not feel forgotten? Do you not want to tear your own body to shreds in an act of protest?

"---No! I don't feel better! Because I don't get any stronger, and I don't get any better for it, and even when I'm upset I still can't talk about how I feel!"

-> Bitterness. Guilt. Lament, but from what it could be hard to know. They bristle, full force, lean towards him and stomp their foot with their fanged teeth exposed. Their eyes are small coals but the edges, where skin bleeds into pink tear ducts, waters and shines wetly with restraint. Control. Always control. They can't offer anything to saints because that removes it from their own hands. They'd end up with their own guts in their hands first.

"I don't want you to eat my sins--- I don't want you to hold my feelings, they're mine."

❛❛ you cain't be calm , cool , ’n collected all the time. trust me. ❜❜

they mean Saint? the one who will die and continue to die? cursed by his own mother for something he ain't even do? runnin’ a mile to a battle the man gone lose every damn time , just cuz he got divine in his veins don't make himself truggle no less than they. they walked as happily , as gainfully into sacrifice as he did. what did they expect out of him that they don't expect out theyself? cuz he smile ’n laugh when he the blade on his guillotine drop make it any less fucked how cursed he was? returnin’ and returnin’ was the blessin’ ... can only imagine what the actual dirty , soul suckin’ curse could be , right?

but he smilin’. Saint's always smiled when they were killed , right?

❛❛ who better to love than me ? what else could I do better than eat ya sin so you don't have to bare it ? ain't that what I do best ? soak up all that bad stuff ya cain't deal with like a sponge when you spew it out that mouff’a yers ? don't cha feel a li’l better when ya take it out on me ? is that not what Saint's do ? suffer so ya don't have to ? ❜❜

[windsweptinred]

Things I want need want to see in kaos season 2

All the Olympians. Give me the patron saints of all dysfunctional families everywhere in all their chaotic glory!! 

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised! FOR KAOS! 

Dennis avenged! May your greatest of sins curse you Zeus. Doom be upon you in the name of Dennis the kitten. 

Riddy x Caeneus / Prometheus x Charon reunion. Or at least whispering sweet nothings to each other on the docks of the Styx like tragic Shakespearean lovers. 

Ariadne Regina. Seeing my queen RULE

Caeneus Almighty. The power of love bay bay!! 

Besotted puppy dog Dio. Just give Ariadne a riding crop, cause that god is going to be so whipped!

Prometheus trickster supreme. He's free, has got wit/wiles/wisdom and a heart of fire. And he's not afraid to use them!

Cassandra… That's it. Just more Cassandra. 

Humanity triumphant. The Riddy and Ari, powerhouse tag team we want and deserve.  

The Fates and the Furies (see Cassandra and repeat). 

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps… 

It's Persephone with a steel chair! Persephone strikes the killing blow on Zeus, physically or metaphorically. No one hurts her man. 

Caeneus and Riddy, Hades and Persephone 2.0. Let the myth be true for them, let them see each other. If only for a season. 

Orpheus tearing his life apart in a metaphorical destruction of self. To be ‘reborn’ anew. 

The Prince that was promised… Heir to the throne Dionysus

Olympian civil war shenanigans. Zeus vs Hera vs... Take a stand Hades, we know you can do it. Do it for Persephone!

Apollo and Dionysus playing tug of war with Orpheus. (I knew him first! He's an artist, he's under MY dominion! My prophet! No my prophet.) 

Bonus

Persephone: I think this belongs to you? Dionysus: 😲🥹🥰 

Dennis: 🐈‍⬛❤️

[undiscovered-horizon]

(tw for mentions of nudity)

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[After days of travelling, fighting and sleeping on rocks, a rest at a tavern is well-earned. Not feeling up to taste the nightlife with your friends, Gale and you retire early. The evening turns into something heartfelt and domestic as you wash his hair and hum a song he's grown all too familiar with.]

As much as Gale loves to be in the centre of your attention, it flusters him. He's grown so used to being the one doting and worshipping that he's quite unsure what to do once the roles are reversed. Is he supposed to gratefully acknowledge your efforts? Or sit twiddling his thumbs, taking whatever you give him?

How does one take affection?, he wonders in the back of his head.

The party downstairs is virtually inaudible to Gale as his mind is focused solely on the tender caress of your hands. The soap suds feel as though they transcend his skin and wash his very spirit clean. Or perhaps that's just what being loved feels like. His back is leisurely leaning against your chest. In some distant fantasy of his, you are reborn as his guardian angel.

I sowed rue in four little gardens In the fifth, I sowed periwinkle for you, Johnny

Your low singing is ringing in his ears the same way the church bell's toll is ringing in the ears of a saint - calling towards home. Gale shivers as your breath, like a ghost of love once cherished, brushes against his hot skin. The soothing sound of your voice is all too fleeting to him. If he could only grab it and bask in it any time he wishes to. Perhaps, if your place was among the stars in the night sky...?

Rue, my rue, I sowed you in the early morning I sowed you happily; grow tall, rue

He sighs, feeling your fingers tug gently at his hair. Whether you're washing it or rinsing, he's not entirely sure. The moment your fingers dragged against his skin, your nails scratched at his scalp, Gale allowed himself to drift into a comfortable limbo - somewhere between sleep and wake, between dream and reality. It is only by the melody of this song you so often sing to yourself that he can be sure he is alive and well. Otherwise, given the inexplicable lightness of his spirit, Gale might have thought he'd died and gone to wherever he deserved to spend his afterlife.

I sowed you, rue, in a wide bed I thought to myself that Johnny might come

Speaking of death: as the saying goes, 'curiosity killed the cat' and Gale, by his nature, can not help himself but die again and again.

"Not that I don't enjoy your little habit," he breaks the silence in a groggy, sleepy voice, "it's quite adorable if I may say so, but do indulge me: what is this song you're singing? I've never heard it before."

"It's a wedding song," you murmur your answer. Gale's breath hitches as he feels your lips stroke the conch of his ear. "In my hometown, there's this tradition of making newlyweds wade through the dancing guests to reach each other. If they manage to hold hands before the song ends, the Gods bless them and they shall be inseparable from that day on. It's weird how..." you hang your voice and sigh heavily, "no matter."

But Gale is quick to dismiss your silly belief that there is something uninteresting about your thoughts. "Whatever is on your mind, I long to hear it." The pleasing tone of his voice is more meaningful than the wizard's actual words.

For a moment, your careful movements come to a halt. He could, of course, protest the sudden lack of soft tugging at his hair or the pleasant scratching of his scalp but all complaints dissipate as Gale feels you resting your chin on top of his shoulder. "When I was younger, just a filly, I thought about the day I would get to nudge my way through the guests," you recall with both sadness and fondness in your voice, "but now I worry whether I will get to see the break of dawn. Odd how life can get."

He wishes to say something suave, to weave sultry words with skill comparable to Astarion's. Alas, he's too overly aware of your naked form glued to his back and your arms casually wrapped around his stomach. Yet again, Gale is flustered. "Oh, I'm no stranger to twisted and, frankly unfathomable, paths of life," he says, feigning glibness. "Having said that, you've managed to survive things most can't even dream of. If I were you, I wouldn't cross a wedding game off the list just yet."

No answer comes from you - at least not a vocal answer. You place a soft peck on top of his shoulder before going back to washing his hair and relishing in the song that reminds you of home.

The rue is withered but Johnny's not here When Sunday comes, I will be dressing up

Considering he has enough explosive energy inside him to level a city, wading through the mob of wedding guests shouldn't be a challenge. Although, if Karlach and Lae'zel are also invited...

But the doubt in Gale's mind doesn't let such fantasies go too far. First of all, would you even want to? Would you actually stand before him and proclaim to the entire world that you will love him for better or worse? As much as he believes you every time you profess your love to him, the longer he wonders about the proverbial 'until death do us part', the more he grows unsure. Because, honestly, out of all the people you've met on your travels, why would it be him? The man who famously makes bad decisions in the name of love?

Rue, my rue, grow green, rue I will cut you on an early Sunday morning

The thing that happens then leaves Gale even more confused about his own feelings and the matter of accepting affection:

You've finished washing his hair, taking your sweet time admiring the streaks of grey. Leaning back, you gently pull him along. His head falls back into the crook of your neck. If Gale had just slightly less self-control, he would have squealed when you kissed his neck and tightened your embrace around his midsection. You're holding him like a toddler holds their favourite stuffed toy and it's... nice.

Thinking about your trapping hug, Gale suddenly remembers something he wanted to share. "Did you know that a periwinkle is also called a Vinca, which means 'to bind'?"

A light-hearted chuckle rumbles in your chest. "Then I better sow a garden full of them for you."

_____

Halsin's version right here!!

(tagging those who shouted, y'all are the pillars of society: @cakenpiewhyohmy @hairlessgoblin @lillithhearts @day-dreaming-goddess @nico-ith @cakeboxie )

Your prayers have been heard!!!! (As though I didn't start writing this immediately after posting Halsin's version)

Changed the song at the last second because my former choice was a little too upbeat for the setting ("Jeleń" by Sutari, if y'all are curious)

[elamimax]

Alright, here's my theory on what the new Shadow of the Erdtree DLC tells us about Elden Ring and its lore. I'm probably off on a few things, but let's go:

Long ago, the Crucible was a current of energy that flowed through the world and brought death and rebirth. It flows circularly, spiraling, the dead and the living being reborn into one another (we know by now that the Crucible, unlike the Erdtree, was not a single place, after all). This energy was considered divine by many people, including the Hornsent, a pantheistic religious order that saw divinity in the melding of flesh, and would take shamans and force them to meld to achieve sainthood.

They did so by spiriting them away, branding a seal into them, and forcing them into jars until their flesh melded together. After all, "the flesh of shamans was said to meld harmoniously with others." The thing is that the hornsent were right. The shamans were divine, as they were graced with gold.

One such shaman, from a Numen village in the Shadow Lands, escaped that grim fate. Salvaging that divinity from her fallen kin, she ascended the Divine Gate and drew the attention of the Greater Will, who had sown the grace of gold across the Lands Between, and invited it into her. Seeking to ensure that nothing so horrific would ever happen again, Queen Marika founded the Golden Order.

Her firstborn was seduced by an outer god, The One Eyed God, and born with curse like her other children, so she gave him her Scarseal for an eye so that he would retain use of his faculties and she could seal away the worse of his curses, and for her, her burned the Shadow Lands, ensuring that what happened to her kin would never happen again. It was without grace or honour, but out of spite, and vengeance, and fear.

Miquella, Marika's youngest, was cursed three times. He was cursed with eternal youth, though I suspect that he died and was reborn young several times over, shown by the fact that he was quite small when he was absconded with by Mohg but the corpse we find in Mohgwyn palace is massive.

His second curse was that of love. Whether bestowed on him by his parents, the greater will, or chance itself, I don't know, but all who laid eyes on him loved him, and it made him callous. All loved him which, of course, meant that love was valueless. He could steal hearts at a whim, his rune so strong that it enchanted those who laid eyes on it. It was not, of course, enough. He desired a world of peace, of calm, of love, of tranquility, and realized that, as an eternal, beloved child, as an Empyrean of the Greater Will, he would never be able to make that happen.

So, he began the arduous process of dismantling himself, divesting himself first from his body, then his fear and finally, his love, traveling to the Shadow Lands, a land now removed from the Lands Between by his mother's veil, where he knew the currents of the Crucible were strong and he could live without a body, waiting for a consort.

Because Miquella was thrice cursed, and his curse of love was also the same "curse" his mother suffered: his other half lived within himself, and he - or rather she - would travel the world and offer sleep to the sleepless and comfort to the dying, as Saint Trina. By divesting himself of his love, he divested himself of Saint Trina, hardening himself for what would need to be done.

He would need a warrior. His sister was not up to the task. She loved him but she was not capable of being a warlord, her own curse of Rot slowly eating away at her. No, he set his sights on Radahn, greatest warrior of the Golden Order. Radahn refused. So Miquella whispered a request into his sister's ear and she obliged. Radahn reduced to a shadow of his former self, to be slain by lowly tarnished. He didn't need Radahn's body. Only his soul. As for a body...

Miquella's love reached far, and so too did it reach the Luminary Mohg, a man who longed to live up to the promise of dynasty that was his birthright, but who was also a calm, quiet man who sought to inspire others.

Miquella's demands, his love, broke something in Mohg. Forced him into an obsession with the formless mother. Into an obsession with bloodlines and, eventually, blood, something those who followed him have not and never will forgive Miquella for. And Mohg served his purpose: as a corpse, if nothing else.

When Mohg died, Miquella's chosen dragged his body to the Divine Gate where his mother had become Queen Marika so long ago, and used the power there to forge Mohg's body in the Crucible, so that Radahn may be the warrior he had always been, but pliable this time, Mohg's power over blood now merged with Radahn's gravitational prowess. Usable. In the same way that Miquella's mother had used Godfrey, he would use Radahn, slaughtering any and all who opposed his Thousand Year Journey Of Compassion, until such time as he had no more need for such a consort. So, when finally his Consort was "rebuilt", Miquella, divested of his body, his fear and his love, stepped out of the Divine Gate, to protect him.

He failed.

[lunameimei]

Meanwhile, in front of the Gate of Heaven~

I love the headcanon that Sir Pentious ended up right in the Seraphim's room, since he himself was reborn as a Seraphim. Therefore, it makes sense for our Egg Boiz to appear, like all new arrivals, in front of the Gate!

But I’m afraid that Saint Peter will have a breakdown, he has not recovered yet from the situation with Charlie 😭

[hotwaterandmilk]

The Wedding Peach PC-98VX game was released in 1996 and features an original story played out using card battling mechanics. The game draws its visuals from the animated series thanks to designs by Watanabe Mayumi and features 11 different seiyuu (including all the anime leads reprising their roles).

I haven't talked about this game in any detail before, but today I was re-scanning all its packaging in 1200 dpi and thought why not give it a bit of a summary and a ramble?

Dark Angels

The two original characters on the cover of the game (above) are the Kuroba siblings, Valzov and Neana, who have been charged by Reine Devila to defeat the loves angels on Earth. The Kuroba are from a much maligned devil clan, treated differently because they have similar wings to angels, albeit in a dual white/black colouring.

Because the Kuroba clan have never been truly accepted by other devils, they rely only on one another and have an extremely deep familial bond. Despite the mission posing a significant personal risk, Valzov (as the head of the family) takes it on, believing that defeating the love angels will allow his clan to finally be seen as true devils.

Neana, valuing her brother with a possessiveness that goes beyond that of a sibling, heads to Earth with him to find the love angels. Following a lead they find early on in the game, Valzov and Neana begin attending Saint Hanazono as transfer students (Tooru and Nina) in the hopes of finding and destroying the love angels once and for all.

Of course the love angels aren't just going to accept being challenged by a whole clan of devils (including Kuroba compatriotes Miligal, Entran, Julad and Swyswi). Through the eyes of Momoko, Yuri and Hinagiku the player has to figure out what these "Dark Angels" are up to and challenge them via card battles (which allow you to unleash familiar attacks as you gain the upper hand).

Why talk about this game?

The Wedding Peach PC-98VX game is the only Wedding Peach video game with narrative emphasis, playing out like an extra anime arc complete with music, voices and visuals that could have been lifted straight from the television series. It is also the only Wedding Peach game that gives us something genuinely unique with the Kuroba clan.

The Kuroba have struggled in the devil world because of how they look. Their devil peers see them as not being true devils because they have wings that look almost angelic. The love angels also notice this, hence the moniker of "Dark Angels" (straight up "Yami Tenshi").

We discover by the end of the game that the unique wings all Kuroba clan members have in some capacity are likely angelic in origin. Limone speculates that the Kuroba clan are descended from angels who fell into the devil world long ago.

However, Neana has the capacity to project a powerful love wave in the battle's climax which devils can't do. This leads Limone to clarify that Neana has primarily angel DNA (literally "tenshi no DNA"). He believes she was an angel who lost her life in battle before being reincarnated in the devil world (that isn't how DNA works but OK). Neana was reborn as a devil to be alongside Valzov, essentially, as an angel can only reincarnate "where there is love".

It isn't explained how Limone concludes any of this, except that he "checked their DNA" though we don't see or hear him doing that so it really seems to be based on vibes and perhaps angel eugenics who knows. While everyone was kind of weirded out by how close the siblings were earlier in the game, in the end everyone just kind of shrugs about it so I'm not sure where incest falls on the "love" scale here.

Regardless, Neana's existence shows us that at least in this version of the franchise, it is possible for individuals to reincarnate into the devil world. This is not shown anywhere else in the media mix and it underscores just how similar all the worlds really are.

It's also interesting that the Kuroba (angels who fell and assimilated into the devil world) must follow Devila's orders to try to shed their poor reputation, when in the anime (which the game draws from) Devila herself is secretly an angel who was consumed by her own darkness and found herself suited to life in the devil world.

Anyway, it's not a life-changing game by any means but it is the one Wedding Peach game that tries something different and that's worth noting if nothing else. I'll be honest I haven't played it in yeaaaaaaaaaars so I might not be entirely on the mark with all my recollections, but I did flip through the manual again and it was a real trip down memory lane.

Unrelated to any of the above, my favourite part in the character book bundled with the game? Salvia's profile stating "She is a reticent and nihilistic girl."

👑 Yes queen, life is meaningless! All values are baseless and nothing can be known or communicated! Give 'em nothing! 👑

[aelenavelaryon]

Robert Baratheon x Reader (pt.2)

Summary: in which the Queen gets her revenge on her husband

The return of dragons came to a surprise for the realm. It was unexpected yet a blessing, especially for Rhaenyra. Finally, dragons returned to the world. Robert was not on board with having them in King's Landing at first but after watching Rhaenyra be happy after the loss of their child he agreed. Robert, despite marrying her without love came to enjoy her company as the two enjoyed making children.

Rhaenyra choose to let her dragons roamed free in a place where they were all away from people, to avoid harming innocent people. Prince Daemon was born in the year 283, near the end of the year. His brother Orys came days after his first name day in 284. In the year 286 came the twins, Aemon and Aemond. Just a year later in 287 she lost a child, it was then that Dragons were reborn.

By 290, Rhaenyra's dragons had grown a lot. The year prior they disappeared and when they returned they were the size of an adult dragon. So, for the first time in centuries a Targaryen finally took to the skies on dragonback. Balerion, the dragon she rode flew her to a part of the Keep that was abandoned and where he kept dragons eggs.

Rhaenyra brought Dragon Keepers to the Keep to help with the dragons and their eggs. The eggs, which were enough to give to each one of her children and brother, were kept warm and ready in the children's room. Finally, after five years of trying for a daughter, a girl finally came. Well, more like two. Rhaena and Helaena came during the summers of 290. By then, her children all had dragons eggs. Prince Daemon had claimed Caraxes, while his brother's hatched their eggs. Orys named his Eros. Aemon named his Moonfyre and Aemond named his Meraxes. Princess Rhaena and Helaena's dragon eggs hatched the same day of their birth.

King Robert threw a feast in honor of their first name day. By then, queen Rhaenyra had given him four sons and two daughters. Princess Rhaena was said to be as wild and defiant as her mother in her youth. Rhaena had the Targaryen hair and eyes, while her twin, princess Helaena had black hair and blue eyes like his father but she was as quiet and calm as her late grandmothers, queen Rhaella and Lady Cassana Baratheon. Robert was a decent king who took the input of his queen. They had a quiet a decent marriage.

Since the day they married Robert kept to his wife's and his own chambers. He slept with no other woman that was not his wife. Some had said he changed for the better and Eddard Stark could attest to that. Rhaenyra's life was good. She had no worries. Everything was just perfect.

The news reached her a few weeks later. Robert Baratheon had slept with Cersei Lannister or so she claimed. Cersei was a girl of three and twenty. She was yet to be married as her father hadn't found her a good match yet. Rhaenyra when she heard said nothing. Robert even thought she hadn't heard but she had. She knew, thanks to her little birds that Jaime was Cersei's lover. So, her plan was to take Jaime from Cersei. It was her goal to make him loyal to her.

Her plan began the very next day. She had asked Robert for a new guard. Stating that with six children it was better for them and her to have extra security. The king agreed. She smiled and acted as if nothing was happening. When Cersei was forced to move the keep by her father's order, Rhaenyra was forced to confront her husband.

Robert entered their shared chambers. "Nyra" she looked away. Rhaenyra was two and twenty. She had given her husband six children. She never complained nor did she cause him any problems. She simply did her duty, ever the dutiful her mother used to say. "I have never asked anything of you, nor have I ever caused you trouble or any problems. I have stood by you for the last seven years. I married you despite everything. I am no saint, nor have I ever been. I brought a son into a marriage that was not yours. You loved him and took care of him as if he was your own. And in return I gave your four sons with your blood and two daughters with your blood" there was a brief silence. "Where our children not enough?" she asked. "Was I not enough?" she asked.

Rhaenyra had never been insecure. How could she? She was a Targaryen, their beauty seemed to be god like and now, with her dragon being a god seemed far more possible than before. "I love you, Robert. But I will not be the person you treat like a common whore. If Cersei gives you a bastard child I will give you one too. And if she gives you another so will I" she said. Robert was too stunned to speak. She gave him on chance to speak before she left their shared chambers, Arthur and Jaime following behind.

Rhaenyra knew Cersei's greatest love was Jaime, and she rarely even allowed him to wonder far from her. Jaime didn't mind, watching over her gave him some sort of relief as he felt guilty for killing her father years back. He also wanted to keep her safe as he could not keep Elia and her children. Jaime was also avoiding his sister, as much as she would try to find him but he would walk the other way or ignore her pleas to talk. Over the months the good relationship between the queen and king perished in the blink of an eye. King Robert returned to his drunken and whoring ways.

Cersei Lannister gave birth to a son who she named Joffrey Baratheon, a boy with black hair and green eyes, he seemed to be all his father but the eyes. A year later, in the year 292, queen Rhaenyra gave birth to a son, a boy she named Rhaegar Targaryen and a daughter who she named Rhaella. The boy had blonde white hair. His eyes were the same eyes of princess Alyssa Targaryen, wife of Baelon Targaryen. One green eye and purple. Her daughter, princess Rhaella had a her grandmother's looks. Ser Jaime Lannister was the first one to hold his two children. A little princeling he used to call him and his little baby girl. Jaime and Rhaenyra were the ones who picked the names.

Robert knew but he said nothing as the guilt of returning to his old habits returned. Prince Jacaerys came four years after his sisters, then, a year after him came Lucerys. Princess Rhaenyra had always loved those names and had always wanted to name one of her sons like them. Prince Jacaerys had dark brown hair and purple eyes, his brother Lucerys was just like his brother. Queen Rhaenyra bore thirteen children at the short age of thirty. Her last two children were girls. Daughters. Visenya and Daenerys, daughters of Ser Arthur Dayne.

Eddard Stark never married, instead he served his queen Rhaenyra his entire life. And of course he took care of their two sons. Ned had became her closest companion alongside Arthur and Jaime Lannister. She had no other allies at court but them. At least, she didn't trust anyone else but them. Cersei gave Robert three more children. Tommen, Myrcella and Joanna but they were known as bastards since they were not married.

On the queen's name day, a thirtieth name day celebration was made in her honor. Every house in the realm attended, including Dorne, Driftmark and the North. By then, Prince Jaehaerys was nearly six and ten, Daemon was five and ten, Orys three and ten, Aemon and Aemond were one and ten, Helaena and Rhaena were eight, Rhaegar and Rhaella were nearly six, Jacaerys was four, prince Lucerys three and his sisters had just turned one.

Queen Rhaenyra, despite birthing thirteen children looked far better than most, she was grateful, she also took care great of her figure, she wanted to preserve herself as much as she could. Robert knew that seven of those children where not his. Jaehaerys had been claimed as a Targaryen despite Tywin's insistence to keep him as a bastard. Rhaenyra did not wish for her son to bear the name Baratheon or Stark. Brandon had written to her often wanting to know about his son but he not once had asked for the boy to visit him nor to be claimed as a Stark. She knew Catelyn did not like the idea of Brandon's bastard sons being in their home and possible taking Robb's birthright.

During the Queen's name day celebration things are said and revenge is plotted. They say when you play the game of thrones you win or you die, there is no middle ground. Queen Rhaenyra is going to win, no matter what. The question is, will she succeed or will she fail?

[lunarscaled]

❛❛ I think snapbacks suit you. as much as you try to hide from people up under the brim , it's attractive on you. ❜❜

-> He says it too casually for their taste---as in, he says it easy, like their attempts to sequester as much of themselves out of people's view and pretend they don't exist are not a protection from a bygone period where they felt the need to be scarce, but instead a charming little habit that he notices and keeps for himself. They wonder if this is part of that existence of his which gives and gives and gives to make others feel wanted and calm, but do they feel calm? Not by a long shot---not by a mile and more, not when he casts them a glance just long enough to know they're paying attention before looking away to remove the pressure to react, and though they still do. They feel it in a heat on the back of their neck that spreads forwards into their cheeks, the flush creeping around their pearly scales, their eyes a little wider than normal that give away their unguarded response ( maybe he couldn't even see it under the flat rim. maybe he could, but wouldn't say anything. but neither of those things prevent it from being: a stinging red color to their cheeks like it was salacious to be perceived at all. ) They feel a rickety heartbeat in their chest the same as when Mel battered them into trying on outfits for his own personal fashion show, buttoning them up along their spine in something gauzy and white with little crystals seen in, the train so long they didn't know how anyone could hold it. And the ginger elf clapped, invigorated from head to toe at the sight, It's perfect, Lyric! You look just like a princess!

-> They didn't necessarily want to be perceived as a princess of all things, generally considered helpless and very spoiled, but they do think of how Saint patiently complimented their eyes. And they think of how they're trying hard to learn to take compliments without refuting them in some way. And most importantly, through the hazy and embarrassed flush of their upper cheeks, they think of how Saint doesn't lie for nothing. ( but they pull the brim of the hat down more, like it's going to salvage something. )

"It's just a hat, it can't affect how I look that much..."

[cremefrappe13]

Reborn (Saint Vanilla & Child!OC)

Again, the Beast Ancients AU and character of Saint Vanilla belongs to @cuppajj

I wrote this mostly for fun and I think it was an okay job.

Trigger Warnings: mentions of death, major character death

Reborn (Saint Vanilla & Child! OC)

Saint Vanilla had finally done it. He “purified” (disintegrated) his child at last. His first and only child, Honeyflower, had finally been purified by him. He remembered the face of exhaustion and absolute terror the young girl had on her face when she embraced him in a hug, and the tears she had shed upon disappearing. However, Saint Vanilla had felt a sense of… emptiness after he “purified” her. Perhaps it was his fatherly instincts disappearing after watching his child disappear before his eyes? It could not be though… He stared at the ceiling as he tossed and turned in bed, thinking about his daughter. He tried to sleep, but his mind was faster than sleep itself as Saint Vanilla kept tossing and turning, trying to avoid all thoughts on his daughter and what he had done to her. However, what he did was right, was it not? Her soul was so pure, and the sooner she was purified, the lesser her soul would be tainted when she “ascended” right?

Right?

Saint Vanilla was not sure anymore, as he questioned his own decisions, but his Messiah complex did not allow him to think that he was wrong, let alone even consider the possibility he was feeling guilt over his actions. After all, Honeyflower had been the sweetest, most innocent thing before she ran away and let herself be tainted. However, she had already been purified, so there was no point in thinking about it anyway! He just had to move on and finish his mission of purifying every cookie on Earthbread and finally transcend to join her. Even so, Saint Vanilla still felt a pang of emptiness every once in a while without Honeyflower by his side, smiling up at him or clinging onto his robe for protection. Still… her screams and cries of pain as she was “purified” would never leave his mind. “Papa..! What’s happening to me?! It hurts… so much!” “Shhh, don’t worry my dear… you’re ascending, just like Papa will one day do too…” “But I don’t want to ascend! I want to stay here with you..! It hurts, make it stop please, MAKE IT STOP!!” “Honeyflower, don’t fight it, it’s for your own good.” “NO! I WANT TO STAY WITH PAPA!!!” “…” “PAPA! PAPA..!” “…” “Pa…pa…” “…” “…”

Those very moments kept replaying in Saint Vanilla’s mind, still haunting him in his dreams as he tossed and turned in bed, recalling his dear daughter’s cries for him to stop the process, or to end the pain, and then the silence. Either way… she was gone. For good. Saint Vanilla continued to do what he usually did, preaching the “good” message on how he would be the one who would transcend to redeem the world, leading the Lambs of Penance (his cult) and continuing to purify as many cookies as he could, trying not to think about his daughter who was waiting for him on the other side of his path of transcendence. Other than his occasional waves of emotion, Saint Vanilla’s progress with his plan went along smoothly. Well, until Strawberry Crepe had escaped the Vanilla Kingdom with Frigid Cacao’s son, but he would let the Lambs of Penance deal with that. Saint Vanilla was just planting an orchid in his kingdom when he noticed a child, all by herself. He turned to her and recognised her as one of the children of a member in the Lambs of Penance. Saint Vanilla noticed the girl disappear as quickly as she had come, and it sent a ripple of something through his heart… was it sorrow? Or was it guilt? Saint Vanilla could not tell as he pondered more about his daughter’s fate. Saint Vanilla from that point, started to become disillusioned, as he kept thinking he saw his daughter in fields of sunflowers, maybe even his own orchids, or sometimes behind a building. Occasionally, he would think that he heard Honeyflower playing in her room when he passed by it, but all Saint Vanilla found in the room was emptiness and a hollow echo of his daughter from the remnants and traces she left behind in her “purification”. He would always sigh and try to shake it off, but even he could not outrun the clutches of guilt and grief, always being unable to ignore his mind’s tricks on him, making Saint Vanilla feel rather out of it. Well, at least until he saw a small girl, eerily similar to his daughter. The way she had ran amongst the field of sunflowers in his kingdom, laughing with the other children whose parents were Lambs of Penance. It was as if Honeyflower had been reborn into a new life. A better one, without the constant threat of Saint Vanilla trying to purify her, and without others pushing for her to be purified. Saint Vanilla, as he watched this from his orchid staff, felt a father’s relief, yet his own selfish desires took over him, wanting to “purify” this version of his daughter once again. And so the same, tiring cycle repeated: Born, live, “purified” Born, live, “purified” Born… live… and be “purified” It was just the same cycle of futility all over again. No matter how many times Honeyflower may or may not have been reborn, if Saint Vanilla ever saw a smidge of his daughter in other cookies, they might as well kiss their life goodbye, as he would relentlessly pursue them, to finally “purify” all traces of Honeyflower from this world. After all, a good father always wants the best for his daughter, right?

[miffy-junot]

Illustrations of Napoleon in La Vie Parisienne, 1932.

accompanied by the following short story:

'In the great dining-room with its mahogany furniture, and whose windows opened on the Luxembourg Gardens, bathed in the brightness of the May sky, dripping with cries, laughter, joyful songs, peopled by a world of birds chirping, pulling, chirping as best they could, a young man of small stature, thin, with flat hair,  with a yellow face and dark eyes, was seated before a table laden with food. He ate quickly, mixing stews and sauces, sliding the starters and roasts onto his plate, and pouring himself from time to time with that golden wine of Cap Corse, a little heavy, mellow, fragrant, all laden with the Provençal sunshine which shimmered in the jokes of the bottle.

On the table, in the middle of a centerpiece, a large basket of ruddy cherries offered its collapsed bunches which strewed the tablecloth like rubies held together by a tangled cord of green silk.

An official sneaked into the room, dressed in a half-oriental, half-French suit. The servants drew back near the dressers and changed the dishes. The young man turned nervously and asked: "What is it?" Is that you, Roustam? The official made the military salute and waited, heels clasped together, holding out a letter with the red wax seal he held in his hand. "Approach!" said the guest in the same rough, brittle, authoritative voice, in which, however, a hint of a southern accent lingered. He took the letter with a quick gesture, took off the ribbon that sealed the envelope, and drew out a large sheet of armorial paper which he looked over. "What?"

He jumped to his feet, pushing his chair back and slumping behind him on the waxed floor. The official raised the seat and smiled enigmatically. His master's mood swings no longer frightened him. The little man went to a window and leaned on the balcony. He was dressed in white breeches, white stockings and patent pumps. A tightly buttoned frock coat, of coarse blue cloth, further slimmed down his waist, "a real parchment," he himself often mocked. A scarf, richly embroidered, tied as a belt, said the rank of the young man, the first in France at this moment, the first in the world, soon. His hand trembled a little as he opened the paper a second time, and the text danced before his eyes:

"The Countess Melchior du Colombier has the honor to announce the marriage of her daughter, Angélique du Colombier, to the Baron de Bressieux, a union that will be celebrated in Valence on May 11th."

He stared at the lackeys and Roustan, motionless, without seeing them, and murmured: "On the 11th of May?" Today? Ah!" A sort of secret pain further reduced his emaciated face. He crumpled the paper in his nervous hand, and then, uncertain and tormented, he took it up. Then, abruptly, he turned his back on the room and looked at the park, which twelve strokes of noon at the church of Sainte-Geneviève were gradually emptying of its belated strollers. Against the gates of the Palace, alone, the consular guards, weapons in arms, continued their comings and goings, aimlessly. "May 11th! Sixteen years! already? His eyelids fluttered. He bit his lips and relived the past that had been abolished for so long, which, in a minute, was reborn.

*****

He saw himself again, a second lieutenant fresh out of school, barely sixteen years old, already carrying the weight of this whole "sacred" family that the death of his father had left weighing on his shoulders as a child. Thus he worked prodigies to provide for everything, and his wit, his talent, his . good humor did the rest. At that time he was not yet suffering from the malignant fever which was to take hold of him in Douai two years later and not to let go for fifteen years, until the vesicatories of his doctor Corvisart succeeded in curing him. Yes, on that day in May, 1786, when he was cheerfully ascending the steep ramp of Crussol's "string," carrying his gold-trimmed tricorn hat under his arm and having unfastened the collar of his white coat with red collar and facings to be less warm, he was joyful. "She" had arranged to meet him up there, in the "cherry orchard," by the whimsical caprice of a little girl, happy to command this young officer whom everyone in Valence was snatching up, and sure of being obeyed. Thus he came obediently to yield to her call, which he had perhaps solicited a little, and was delighted beforehand to admire through the eyes of the young girl the spectacle, already watched a hundred times, of the valley of the Rhone and its distant Alps.

A voice suddenly made him start. Emerging from the ruins where she was concealed, Angelique ran towards the second lieutenant, clapping her hands, and bounding from one stone to another. A last jump, badly calculated, made her stagger. He rushed to hold her back, and received her, fresh, rosy, smiling, to his breast. The blonde curls brushed against the teenager's long black hair. "Here you are?" There you are? How happy I am! You may have come all the same," she cried, clinging to his arm to go up the path. "What happiness!"

They crossed a hedge and found themselves among the cherry trees laden with fruit that the sparrows were plundering. "You know," continued Angelique, "I have received your letter! It's almost a love letter! If Mama knew?" "Mademoiselle..." he stammered, troubled. "But Mama knows nothing, you fool! Your letter is pretty! But you write badly and make spelling mistakes. You write "j'entends" without an "s" and "supplie" without an "e." Well it doesn't matter. I understood all the same!" She walked around him, rummaging through the three-button scarlet pockets for the candy she liked. "Naughty!" she said, sulky! "He didn't bring me anything!" Angelique pouted and continued. "And then I read your fairy tale, 'The Mask of the Prophet'. "But it is not a tale," he murmured, hurt. "It's an anticipation." "It doesn't matter, it's terrible!" Ah, you have imagination, you."

She kissed him with her fingertips and began to dance in front of him. He looked at her with admiration. She grew impatient. "Come, stir up! Say something..." "I will tell you..." She interrupted him: "No. Not yet... Here, help me pick cherries." Together they had drawn up a ladder against the thickest of trees. And the young girl was already climbing the ladder. "Hold me tight, I'll throw them to you." Under the fingers of the adolescent the supple waist quivered. A shower of cherries surrounded him, which he did not think of collecting. "I will go higher." She disappeared into the branches. The second lieutenant looked up to watch his sweetheart's climb and, in spite of himself, under the silk skirts he saw two slender ankles in embroidered stockings. "Pick them up, pick them up," she ordered, laughing.

When he rose, his hat full of fruit, Angelique, standing on the last rung, looked at him with a mischievous irony. "Come here!" He approached and offered his harvest. The young girl, her deranged linen kerchief, gave a glimpse of her throbbing throat. Around her ears two clusters of cherries hung like curls. "Come nearer again, you coward!" He obeyed. Angelique had put one of the bunches in her mouth and swung the other at the tips of his fingers. "Close your eyes!" He lowered his eyelids and. In an instant, a furtive kiss brushed her lips, while a sweet fruit crushed on his tongue.

He found himself alone in front of the abandoned ladder. Out there, in the distance, the young girl was fleeing, waving her arm in a sign of farewell. The young officer hesitated. Already Angelique was disappearing behind the hedge. And the youth had only to go down the hillside, melancholy eating his cherries perfumed with country love. That same evening his regiment left for Lyons to suppress the revolt, known as the "two sous," and the young second lieutenant was never to see Angélique du Colombier again. She was not fifteen years old.

*****

The letter, torn into tiny pieces, flew out of the open window like flakes of late snow. And the recipient after having furtively wiped his face, he returned to the table. "Bring me these cherries!" One of the footmen lifted the large basket, the fruits of which were scattered. The former second lieutenant took a bunch, raised it to his lips, caressed it, and threw it back: "After all, it's useless. Work! He crossed the room, opened a door "Roustam! Send for Junot." In the study, sober and stern, the young man sat down. A step made him turn.

"Good morning, Junot. Do you know that today is a date for me?" "By the way, Lodi's victory, isn't it?" asked the other naively. "Ten years ago!" "Perhaps! And I'm only thirty-three years old. What's up?" said the dreamy young man. "A grenadier of the consular guard committed suicide last night. Out of love, they said. I inquired about the motive of the act: A disappointed passion."

"He's a coward," growled the young man, running his hands over his sweaty forehead. He reached the large board and threw a sharpened pen to his interlocutor. Write. "Order of the 22nd of Floréal — Year X of the Republic. The grenadier Gobain committed suicide for a woman. A soldier of the guard must know how to conquer the pain of passions, for to kill himself in order to escape them. it is to abandon the field of battle, before conquering..." "And then?" asked Junot. "That's all. Sign for me: "The First Consul. Napoleon Bonaparte". On the window sill a fragment of armorial paper had just landed.'

source

[wewillneverknow1111]

James/Sarcean parallels

This is just some random speculation, but I can't help but see some parallels between Sarcean and James.

The most striking one to me is that in Dark Heir, we learn that Sarcean was thrown in prison for his “evil deeds“. How did he get out of there? Someone who had a crush on him (Visander) set him free. In Dark Rise, James was also imprisoned by the Stewards for his "evil deeds" and was also released by a guy who had a crush on him. In both cases, we would have expected Anharion to be the one to release Sarcean and Will to be the one to free James.

We don't know much about the past yet, but Sarcean seemed to have been an important figure in the Sun Kingdom before he betrayed the king and became the Dark King. From the flashbacks in Dark Heir, I gather that Sarcean may have been admired for his powers before the inhabitants (and the King?) turned on him. It's all speculation, but maybe that's why he turned against the Sun King and committed all those crimes.

Does that sound familiar?

James was also greatly admired by the Stewards before they found out he was a Reborn and turned against him because of his powers/abilities.

The Stewards feared him, just as the Sun Kingdom feared Sarcean. And James betrayed and killed them, just like Sarcean.

On the other hand, there are some parallels between Anharion and Will.

In the flashbacks, we learn that Anharion was an important general who was held in high esteem in the Sun Kingdom.

The stewards also saw Will as a savior because he was the blood of the Lady.

The catch?

Will was the Dark King all along, pretending to be someone he wasn't.

Could that have been the case with Anharion too?

The Sun Kingdom and the Stewards also portray themselves as saints, although they are not as innocent as they try to pretend.

These are just some random thoughts so take them with a grain of salt :)