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whenimaunicorn · 5 years ago

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The Heart of Admiration - Part 2

Charles Vane x Reader, slow burn adventure/romance, written in a series of short scenes.

Part One Here

This episode’s prompt: “ “I thought they’d killed you. I lost my temper.”

The sea spray leaves the taste of salt on your lips as the ship crashes through another unexpected wave. It feels good to be sailing again, even with a crew you were all but press-ganged to join, and even with the weather now threatening to turn dangerous.

You had pled for mercy for Captain Fisher’s life, and those of his men. They had been your crew for going on five years, and though the plan to steal the cargo from Vane’s ship had been a foolish one, you couldn’t just let them die for it. That moment in which you watched Captain Vane’s eyes smolder while he considered your plea had been the longest one of your life. “So long as they leave Nassau,” he had finally said. “They leave, and you stay.”

You watch your new captain now, down on the deck below, alternately barking orders at the men and peering up at the darkening clouds moving in from the southeast. His heavy brow and bold cheekbones give his face a rugged sort of handsomeness, like he was carved by gods more primal than the Christian one, out of tougher stuff than other men. No one in Nassau knew where Vane had come from, only that he rose through the ranks of Blackbeard’s crew and barreled through the island like a storm.

He catches you looking at him, and responds only by calmly staring back. He looks at you too much. He has not yet been crude, but you fear you know what it means regardless.

It’s hard for a woman to survive as a pirate without becoming somebody’s woman. It would be safer that way, too. Easier. Anne Bonny may be an absolute hellcat, but surely the place she’s carved out on this crew stays comfortable because everyone knows she’s the quartermaster’s woman. It would be easier to have that kind of protection yourself, too, but the idea rankles you. You joined the pirating life because you wanted independence. You made it on the last crew because of your quick wit, and because your skills with celestial navigation were unique and indispensable. Although it helped that the captain was married to your sister and treated you like kin.

You had assumed those skills were the reason Vane wanted you for his own crew, as well. Very few people in this life are educated enough to read the charts and almanacs, to decipher the celestial bodies and figure a precise location in the middle of the ocean. But he looks at you too much. This may be an uglier trap than you had thought.

A lock of hair that escaped your braid flies across your face. The prevailing winds are changing. Perhaps the only thing this particular long look signifies is Vane’s awareness that this storm means the course you’ve been marking out for him will have to be corrected. The course that, if the weather doesn’t blow you too far off from, will take you to meet the intended course of a merchant vessel, whose schedule just happened to fall into Vane’s hands, much farther out from land than most pirating crews would ever hope to be able to find.

You’re already up here to take the noon measurements, but the sun is not quite at its zenith. Once you have the number, a flurry of calculations will follow, and you’ll give Vane your course corrections based on precisely where on the open ocean this ship is located right now, and where the other ship is most likely to be. But you’re already feeling extra tension in your chest looking at those thick clouds; if they cover the sun before you’re certain it has reached its apex, your faulty measurements could throw your course off by miles. And if that storm catches the Ranger, all you can do is wait for the skies to clear to figure where the hell it has blown you. Your chest tightens further when you see the captain mounting the steps to come up to your deck.

Even though you had intended to wait a little longer to take the next measurement, you find yourself lifting the backstaff toward the horizon again while you listen to Vane’s boots approaching you from behind. It’s careful work, to line up the sun’s shadow as the deck rolls in the waves. And it’s only getting more difficult as the nearby storm makes the sea choppier.

“Nineteen point three, and…” You mutter the numbers under your breath as you get them, not wanting to forget the figures before you have a chance to write them down. “Eighty-two point four.”

“Is that what you were expecting?” Vane is standing so unexpectedly close behind you that you jump at the sound of his rumbling voice.

You step away from him, quite deliberately, as you answer his question. “I’m not certain that’s the precise number we’re looking for, but yes, I believe we are still on-course.”

Vane closes a little of the space you had drawn between your bodies. But not enough to be worthy of further correction. “You look worried.”

The last thing a woman trying to hold her own on a ship should do, is admit vulnerability. You roll your eyes at him. “Fuck off. This is not my first storm at sea.”

A smile cracks the captain’s stony face at your response. “Fair enough.” He looks to the south. “We should be able to skirt the edge of that one without much difficulty.” His heavy gaze falls back on you, a sudden gust of wind pulling at his long, twisted locks. “But it will take us off the course we’ve been plotting.”

Usually you have no trouble looking a man in the eye; it’s something particular to Vane that has you dropping your head. You draw your little notebook from its pocket to excuse the movement. “Now who’s the one that’s worried? It’s no problem. I can correct for that just as soon as we get another sighting after it’s passed.” You flip to an open page, and lift your pencil. 19.3, you write, and then… “Fuck me, what was that last number?” Normally you have a good memory. The captain is just being too damn distracting.

You hear Vane chuckle. You refuse to look up. “If I tell you, do I get to?”

It takes you a half a second to run back through the precise words you just said, and catch his meaning. Your voice turns acid. “If you are not going to be helpful, then get out of my way. I am attempting to do the very work you pressed me into service on this ship in order to perform.”

Vane rocks back on his heels. “Is that what I did.”

Your exhale is a sharp burst of irritation, on many, many levels. “You can’t say you gave me much of a choice, about joining this crew.”

You risk a glance directly at Vane’s face again. He looks pensive, behind the general air of aggressiveness that usually suffuses his features. “You’ll be happier here,” he growls out after completing his thought.

You arch an eyebrow at him, just about as high as it will go.

“You were wasted on the Starling.”

~*~

Every pirating crew hopes to avoid violence. They ready themselves for it, bristling with threat and menace as they wait for the ships to close tight enough for boarding, but the most preferable option is negotiation, always, with a prompt surrender on the part of their quarry before any blood is spilt.

That ideal outcome is not playing out today. This merchant vessel’s crew must have been largely made up of former naval soldiers, given the competence with which they are resisting Vane’s vanguard, and the discipline you are observing in their ranks from atop the Ranger’s quarter deck.

“Get belowdecks,” Jack Rakham, standing by your side and watching the battle just as closely, suddenly urges you.

“What? Why?” you bristle on reflex.

Jack interrupts himself to bark orders across the locked sides of the ships: “Watch those riflemen! Aft!” Three men peel off the main fighting to interrupt the knot of sailors that Jack had spied franticly reloading near the back of the other vessel.

You raise your chin as one of Vane’s crewmen severs a man’s arm at the elbow with a deft strike of his axe. “I assure you, I am not squeamish.” You are accustomed to observing the fighting from one of the higher decks with your old crew. On just about every run, unless… Jack’s fingers close tightly around your elbow. With a little shove, he directs your gaze.

A knot of enraged seamen are pushing through the Ranger’s men, dangerously close to one of the gangplanks connecting the ships. “If they get across, you’re a target,” Jack says sternly. “Seeing as you are not disguising your sex. Hide yourself. Now.”

You’d been held hostage once before. It was not a pleasant experience, for you or for your crew. You forgive Jack for shoving you as you start to make your way down.

The fear starts to set in as you scramble toward the ladder that leads to the lower deck; enemy boots stomp onto the Ranger just before your head disappears down the hatch. You hope that Jack, or some of the other men still aboard, notice in time to resist them, but that officer’s eyes landed on you with heavy interest as you scurried away. It seems likely they are indeed intent on a hostage.

The long knife you keep belted to your waist is in your hand as you scurry through the belly of the Ranger. You whip your head and turn back and forth in the muted light belowdecks, changing your course more than once in a way that you are dimly aware signifies panic. This is not your ship. This is not your home. You don’t know where to hide in this unfamiliar place.

Booted feet are pounding somewhere behind you. No way to know if they are friend or foe. And would your new crewmen even care enough to defend you? You duck into the doorway ahead of you and then put your back to the wall beside it, clutching your knife to your chest and readying to ambush anyone that comes through after you.

Your eyes land on a bed, bolted into the bulkhead. You’ve somehow chosen the captain’s cabin in which to hide. Not that it means much more than that you ran straight to the back of the ship. You’re much more concerned with getting your breathing under control, until your great gasps are not making quite so much noise, so you can listen to the sounds of approaching feet.

A figure steps through the door, and your knife flashes out with barely any choice on your part. You bury it almost to the hilt in his chest. You may not be one to ever storm another ship in the vanguard, but you’ve been training to defend yourself for years. You wrench it out of him and blood flies as the startled man stares down at you, not even realizing he’s already dead.

His last earthly act is to attempt to grab you about the arms, which unfortunately means that when his body sags into dead weight, he’s falling directly into you. You had got the knife free to stab again, but that’s not going to help you against his two hundred pounds of inertia. You have to twist with him in a macabre dance, his life’s blood still spurting, in order to not be knocked directly to the floor.

Which, unfortunately, puts your back to his fellows, rushing into the room after him. You hear a couple of enraged voices screaming at you and then a sharp crack, which instantly creates a thundershock of pain reverberating up from the back of your skull before everything goes dark.

You wake to shouting, then screams. Ugly, ragged, tortured ones, of men too far gone in pain to retain either sense or hope. You feel your body, laying flat on the deck, and a splitting headache that rouses you quickly to consciousness. The sun is harsh against your eyes. Somehow you’ve gotten abovedeck again.

You lift your head; you don’t quite feel ready to move anything else. Your eyes focus dully on a dead man’s face in front of you, his cheek wet in a pool of blood that’s slowly expanding. You don’t know him.

Somewhere past your feet, you hear a voice call “Mercy.” The only response is a bestial snarl and then the wet sound of something slamming over and over again into meat.

You know that snarl. There’s only one voice in the West Indies pitched like that, rasping over blown-out vocal chords. You push up on your hands and look over at the men fighting less than two paces away from you.

The fight is over. Vane hacks once more with his cutlass and the head of the man who was just begging for his life drops to the deck and rolls.

It looks like most of the crew is back on the Ranger. How long had you been knocked out? “Captain…” comes the voice of Jack Rakham, and he’s pointing at you.

Vane’s face is feral as he turns, his long hair matted up with other men’s blood, sweat glistening on his exposed chest. His eyes widen, and your name falls from his lips. He takes a long step toward you, and drops to his knees at your side.

“Are you wounded?” His voice is low, and you’re surprised at the concern you see in his steady gaze.

You push with your hands so you can sit up on one hip, then reach up to the back of your head. “Quite a lump here,” you report, wincing.

Vane reaches to your chest, pinching up a bit of the fabric of your shirt. The whole front of it is soaked red with blood.

“That’s not mine.”

Vane lifts one scarred brow.

“You’ll find the first of the men that came after me belowdecks, with a hole in his chest.”

Your captain nods, looking pleased.

You notice that several sprawling corpses surround you on the deck, each one a red ruin, hacked more brutally than would have been needed to kill them. The would-be hostage takers? You look back at Vane for answers.

“When I saw them dragging you up here, covered in blood, I thought they’d killed you.” Now it’s your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “I lost my temper.”

Your chest fills with some unexpected emotion that feels rather too complex for you to even attempt to sort out. “You can’t be losing the asset you just went to such lengths to attain for your crew,” you say wryly.

Captain Vane fixes you with eyes as blue and deep as the sea. “No one else could have guided us this far out to meet the prize,” he acknowledges. “But I have a feeling I’ve only barely begun to discover your worth.”

Part 3 Here

Notes: if you liked this, thank @acebreathesfire too, she’s my source on navigation facts and basically has been co-creating this OC with me. If not for her encouragement none of this fic would have happened!!!

Taglist is open: @acebreathesfire @kind-wolf @that-was-not-supposed-to-happen you are all pressganged into this ship but anyone else is free to request to be put on the list!! Also I am creating this series entirely out of prompt fill drabbles, so if you come across any dialogue prompts you think would inspire good chapters, please pass them my way!!

Link to More Vane Action

#charles vane x reader #charles vane imagine #black sails fanfic #captain vane #charles vane #the heart of admiration fic

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247krp · 8 years ago

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— Rejoice, little lambs! We have recovered our own Kim Jongdae, spotted prancing about in the Northeast Side. I remember seeing him with the Snake Nest back in high school, but I’m not here to spill yesterday’s tea. So straight to the rundown: can you say deceitful and nosy? Apparently now he spends time as a fashion stylist at KS Star Entertainment, and keeps skeletons buried at Banjeom Apartments, 603. But those won’t stay hidden for long, if you and I have any say on it. Welcome back, Hellcat; we missed you so.

TW: mentions of abortion, death, name-calling

In case you don’t remember the devil’s name, here’s to refresh your memory:

this no-name boy’s an ant among other students. a scandal could slap every one of them in the face and they’d still forget his name by mid-morning ( or first thing in the morning, if he was really lucky and they were particularly merciful about letting him fall with grace ). there’s no wealth, no power, no influence to build and command an army of his very own.

maybe it’s luck the nest takes pity on this nobody – he seizes the opportunity to rise above the royalty, the heirs-to-be, the iron fist rulers. maybe he’d make himself a god.

no, he’s a fucking google search engine of excuses for bailing fellow snakes out of binds. ( really, it’s his mistake for fantasizing too greatly. he’s still the ant here. ) they just couldn’t wait to bleed his gullibility dry; maybe it’s for his own good – that they’re tearing down a too-frail-for-this-life naïve boy and making, creating something bigger, better. they’re cutthroat. two creatures of the night. they prey after dusk. their words poisonous; dripping from their mouths and burning holes through flesh. forked tongues like knives. two snakes that mark anything and everything as theirs.

it’s a dangerous territory he’s stepped foot on, and there’s no going back.

he wants to believe, to delude himself that he’s the true threat of this bloodthirsty trinity.

but reality’s a lot grimmer and unforgiving.

he lives to please, lives to do as he’s told because it finally gives him a name to be called by.

besides, he’s worked too hard for this, and to lose it all now? they bleed him dry through the years and he learns he’s absolutely nothing. he needs them, just like they need him. they’re an unstoppable force together. and alone, they’re their own worst nightmares. he’s just a little too loyal, a little too forgiving, a little too ignorant to see them as the coldbloods they are. they’d take down all who cross their paths, or die trying. he hangs on to his rose-tinted glasses, tightly. it’s all that’s left in their destructive wake.

it’s a hush-hush secret between a couple of no-good snakes that plays like russian roulette. and no one can ever know.

Nevermind the memory lane though, the present is always the ripest fruit:

he’d much rather go back in time to warn his former self. the world’s falling down, and after all of that wasted effort for this young, hopeful, prosperous boy. the regret of fucking everything up and destroying monsters and destroying the future before it could destroy him is like an acidic taste at the back of his throat. bitter, bitter regret.

but, of course, he’d never admit to that.

admitting there’s a problem is admitting there’s something wrong, admitting that things are out of control, admitting he needs help. and no, he doesn’t need help.

he surely can’t forget the poor students of cheongnam’s past shot down for their foolish reaching out to others. see, that’s where the strong prevail and the weak fall. mom and dad did do something right – helped build him strong. the world may be stone and gravel and dirt around his feet, but never will he crumble. ha! over his dead body will they take him alive. he’ll take his unwavering loyalty for those who never gave up on this no-name boy straight to the grave.

the bugs swarm his skin – his time is running out in this twisted game he plays. child’s play tempting fate and getting high off of the chase of cops is now a forty hour a week, nine to five job he must slave over. each time, the stakes raise a little higher. each time, there’s more to lose. each time, there’s more to gain.

it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. it’s itchy, it’s fire, he wants to peel the skin off. ( or better yet jump out of it because how can he even stand looking a monster in the mirror to see what he’s become )

down, down, down he goes. further, further, further he drowns.

it’s a fatal taste of bliss. he needs it. he’ll never fill this expanding void – endgame is self-destruction and ‘completion of the final level’ and ‘winner, winner, you have won! congratulations!’ it’s accomplishment, a sense of purpose, happiness, alcohol and nicotine and drugs to make the bad go away. he fears facing the cold, unforgiving tundra the world really is.

once a snake, always a snake.

But we are nothing if not open books – my job is to ensure you get to the best pages:

i. imagine the glee, the relief, the pride of mom and dad when they conceive a lionhearted boy.

1992. the fragile lion isn’t given a chance to make something out of himself – not with bird bones weighing down upon him and crushing unto him. every breath is hollow, crackles like mini storms in his lungs. he fights a war beneath the surface and loses. mom and dad kill away pieces of themselves to bury with their soldier son who fought oh-so-bravely. 1993, rip.

1994. they can’t bring back the dead. it would haunt them. mom dreams wide awake of terror, of young boy flesh raining down upon her in bed. she isn’t relieved remembering that he’s safely tucked away six feet under. they can’t rewrite the past, but they can’t give up. what would devastate her more – a new baby girl, or murdering another of their kin?

the second’s a success. he’s no lionhearted boy.

ii. oh, skeletons in the closet. hear them knock, see them run.

dad feeds his disappointment to mom and son alike. there’s something, well, different about this one. this one isn’t a prince born from their hopes. this one, dad says, won’t amount to much. there’s a certain lacking flair in the boy’s eyes for honor and drive to be the best. he’ll do, he’ll do, dad must remind himself.

the comparison of what who never was devastates a young jongdae. it isn’t jealousy; not when there’s no sibling to rival with, not when there’s no competition in their veins and challenge in their eyes to compete for the love and affection of their parents. there’s just a kim jongdae at war with a dead would’ve-been older brother having robbed his worth before even high school.

excerpt i. it’s time to face your fears

there’s nothing. it’s empty, he’s empty. mom left plenty hearts rotten with all of these i love you’s. as fake and phony as the cients of plastic surgeons. it’s cold, suffocating. mom and dad wrap the lies a little too tight around his neck. he lets them.

in darkness, the ceiling whispers this:

imagine when you were a kid and you played in the snow and you were so cold and tired, but you came inside and your mom had a blanket straight out of the dryer, and some hot cocoa, and a loving hug. the warmth, comfort, relief, relaxation, safety, and love. instant peace. feels like a sigh of relief. imagine the more times your mom welcomes you inside with a hug, cocoa, and a warm blanket, the longer you have to stay outside, and when you go out, you don’t have a jacket anymore, or boots, or gloves. each time you’re losing more and more insulation from the cold. the cold becomes so much worse. you get frostbite, you’re in physical pain, you just want to go home so badly. eventually there is no hug, no cocoa, no warm blanket; your mom’s not even there, and you’ve been outside naked crying in the snow, begging for it to end since you woke up. outside is your home now. what would you do to get back inside? you’re stuck trying to believe that this time your mom will be there with that warm blanket, instead of an empty, drafty room with nothing but a few walls to keep you out of the wind for a little while. no longer a warm sigh of relief, but a brief respite from the bitter cold that’s your entire life. you may act a bit reckless. playing outside in the snow becomes your life. inside is addiction. being clean is buying really good winter gear, and accepting living in an igloo, and being okay with your new life as an eskimo; but you remember what the indoors feels like, and sometimes you can see your mom, and a warm blanket, and cocoa through a window, and you know the door is unlocked. the longer you’re outside, the warmer it feels. how long until you open the door?

he dreams they’re on hands and knees, begging for his forgiveness, that it never meant to come out like that. he’s still suffocating, but he just can’t unwrap the scarf they made just yet. it’s warm, a reminder they exist.

iii. open the door

it isn’t the same. the hugs suck the life out of him. dad’s tough love in scolding and punishment and why can’t you be like all of those other kids is murderous. he’s convinced.

2009. he enters hell high. ( he lovi ngly dubs cheongnam ) look hard enough, blood’s on the walls. listen close enough, shrieks echo through the halls. it’s a constant upstream battle to not defame the great kim name, to try his hardest to make dad proud, to turn a blind eye to the carnage a killer by the name of gossip girl leaves in her wake at school, to fill the void. he’s probably as empty and hollow as the stripped corpse of his dead brother.

2010. but that’s where one of his homeroom teachers from middle school comes in. she’s a gangly 170cm of perfection born from his mind. he never paid heed to the extensive plastic surgery rumors. who’s he to judge when he’s wearing the skin of a dead baby – dad likes to remind him. ( dad insists he loves young jongdae all of the same. but all of the same? it’s not the same when he’s not a kim jongdae under their roof, rather a no-name spirit aimlessly wandering the rooms in search of whatever his fucking purpose is after all of these years. )

it ends up not being so bad.

numerous tutoring sessions are like this:

miss kang from middle school takes him under her wing, dotes on him, shows him what it’s like to be alive.

it’s wrong, what they have, but she teaches him it’s okay. it isn’t wrong, not if they don’t acknowledge it.

bits of jewelry, photos, a new phone, kisses on the cheek warm like honey and not like the ice of mom’s – all a lasting memory of the secret they share.

together, they build a world where nothing can go wrong; where the demons are unwelcome, where there’s no hurt, no pain. solace.

maybe he’s dead, too, and this is what being dead is like. being dead is being put out of his misery. no, her touches are real. her cherry-stained kiss marks leave lasting stamps on his skin.

so where did he go wrong? did mom at home go wrong?

dad’s disappointment becomes nothing more than a distant memory and scabbed-over wound.

2012. no one likes a snake. snakes are liked by nerds or aspiring biologists or something like that. snakes bite, crush, suffocate, devour, hurt, poison. but snake rolls nicely off the tongue. he finds himself at home with a couple of other snakes to share a nest. he’s invincible, they’re invincible. he’s not a failed could’ve been. ( miss kang’s drilled that into his head many, many times )

iv. TIME’S UP

photos flood the internet. gossip girl’s sickeningly sweet and graceful in her murder of this boy. this little secret’s not a secret any longer. poor miss kang’s defamed, guns poised and aimed at her – firing slut, whore, dumb bitch, sex offender. and he? fake, two-faced, a bastard, garbage. he ruins a married woman’s life for his own selfish gain.

he needs it, he misses it. he needs those touches to make sure she’s still there, that she hasn’t abandoned him. he needs to hear her voice. there’s eternal darkness swallowing him. it’s empty, empty, empty. walls close around him, suffocate him. the memories hurt his head, burn his lips, bruise his heart. he can’t get rid of her, but she wouldn’t abandon him, right? he’s alone, scared. mom and dad are too far away. no, this is what death feels like. but he needs to fill the void! it’s eating him from the inside out and he might join hands with his dead brother in a ring-around-the-rosie into their early graves.

he needs more roses, needs more bracelets, needs more shoes. otherwise she might let go and disappear. so, so empty. he’s cold, lost, exhausted. he steals a card from a store. he smiles. the outside shows two stickfigures hand-in-hand. the inside, soulmates. it goes in the closet with all of the other stuff.

she promised to protect him, and this foolish boy clung to her like the lost child he always was, always still is. once again, a d rifting no-name wandering the streets, lost.

#247: accepted

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thatoneshadyshop · 8 years ago

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5th of Sun’s Dawn, 2E 581

Had one been told but the other day that one would have saved the life of the damnably suspicious and every way as ugly as an ogre with cholera guardswoman, one would have been entirely skeptical.

Yet in holding back Qau’Dar as he tried to race over and claw the woman’s face off with his bare claws, one fears one has done just that.

One has not seen the Khajiit draw to such wroth before. He is usually such a relatively affable fellow, once one learns to cope with the shedding and the improper brushing technique and the amount of sugar he puts in tea that he makes. One has seen him intervene to prevent Gwemba from swatting a fly, so soft hearted he has always appeared to be. One would almost find it hard to reconcile the same Khajiit who one sees in the evenings brushing and braiding Gwemba’s hair, listening to Birk’s stories, fussing over the smallest rips in the children’s clothes, or a dozen other small things, with the same hissing, spitting, howling, demented jaguar that one had to physically restrain. Earning, one should note, oneself a few new scratches for one’s collection, something that one will, in time, be sure to take up with the hellcat himself. Yet not now. Given his tantrum, one feels it best to allow Qau’Dar space, and to be entirely fair, one is sure one would have reacted in the same manner in the same circumstances.

We all knew, of course, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the guardswoman was a foul and degenerate example of a Nord, what with her opinions of other races, her refusal to bathe, her sneering face and her leading questions. Attempts at leading questions. We have been subjected to her inquiries, her interrogations, to her searches and suspicions. We have, for the sake of own freedoms, held our tongues as she has made Birk cry, as she had terrified Lirim, as she has poured through our personal belongings, demonized our kin, all but accused us of murdering the tone deaf Dunmer bard, and driven away one’s paying customers with her manner.

One had thought it beyond even her, however, to physically assault one of the children. To one’s deepest despair, however, one was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. One would rather not recount the whole episode. Suffice to say, the facts are this: Ma’Riahni moved to tell the woman to leave. The guardswoman, foul and degenerate and malicious, ignored her, instead telling the ‘damned cat’, as she calls Ma’Riahni, to go away. Ma’Riahni refused, and repeated herself, moving closer. And thus the woman, in the depths of her hatred and with no logical or compassionate or even vaguely sentient thought in the empty vacuum of her head, lashed out. She kicked Ma’Riahni away. Twice.

Twas fortunate for her that one stood between herself and Qau’Dar, and that one was quick enough to grab ahold of the Khajiit before he could reach her. One has not heard such a stream of murderous curses in Ta’agra previously in one’s life, indeed, one has not heard quite such filth since one sailed under the black flag. One cannot blame the Khajiit. One was driven to wroth as well - alas, as ever, it fell to one to be the voice of reason, for to lash out at the guardswoman would have been to find the entirety of the household hauled into the dungeons. Much as one may have wished to see the woman pierced a dozen times with arrows, one had to content oneself with ordering her out, shouting over the Khajiit’s curses to be heard.

The woman has not returned today. Tis good. One thinks perhaps she has given her obvious presence a second thought. One certainly hopes so. One could not guarantee her safety should the Khajiit see her again - in fact, one could not guarantee her safety should oneself see her again, or if the children saw her again, or even Lirim, who himself overcame his shaking fear to label the woman a monster for her actions. Moreover, one is not sure one would want to guarantee her safety in any of those cases. In fact, one is entirely sure one would be more than happy were one to never see nor hear from that foul ogress ever again.

#elder scrolls #altmer #khajiit #bosmer #nord #in the shop #children #stuck in skyrim #another day in frozen hell #Ma'Riahni #Lirim #actual plot

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daniellemohlman · 8 years ago

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March 2017

I was in California for the last week of February and the first week of March. The sunshine tricked my body into thinking it was summer -- I hadn’t seen a truly clear sky in months. That kind of thing can drain on you; late sunrise, early sunset, and clouds clouds clouds rain. Mostly rain. It was fitting that I read Sarah Ockler’s The Summer of Chasing Mermaids while in California. My body already thought it was summer. Why not let my mind think that too? I do that sometimes -- get so lost in a book that I think their world is my world, that summer or winter or fall is happening right now. I caught myself the other day calling the month we’re in “February” when in reality it’s two months later. I don’t know if that means time is moving quickly or I’m all turned around. I can say one thing for certain: I’m ready for Seattle to put its clouds away for good. Because I could use a heavy dose of sunshine. But for now, here’s what I read in March.

The Summer of Chasing Mermaids by Sarah Ockler

My friend Anna recommended this book to me, partly because it’s a beautiful retelling of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid and partly because she’s in the acknowledgments. (!!!) I spent a lot of time talking to my grandma about this book because I basically carried it everywhere I went while in California. I devoured huge sections at a time and slowly savored other moments. It’s best read in the sunshine. Or better yet, by the water. I’ll be recommending it to a ton of friends this summer.

Fun Home by Alison Bechdel

I was lucky enough to see the musical Fun Home when I was in California. I went with my mom and my grandma -- three generations in one theatre. The musical knocked me out. I was already a big fan of the cast album and kind of expected that to take away from my experience of actually seeing the thing. As soon as the three Alisons sang those last notes about Pennsylvania, my first thought was "The cast album is amazing, the performance is better." The book knocked me out even harder. If you haven't read it yet, head over to your library immediately. I'll probably end up buying myself a copy just so I can revisit it over and over again. It is a masterclass in storytelling, in memoir, in non-linear form.

Are You My Mother? by Alison Bechdel

I read Are You My Mother? immediately afterward. Three uninterrupted hours in a rare patch of sunshine on the water, exactly how I think The Summer of Chasing Mermaids should be consumed. I thought this second memoir -- this exploration of her life with her mother -- was interesting, but not captivating. I’ve since read the picture book this title is swiped from (for the first time, as an adult) and I’ve gone back in my mind to replay key moments from Bechdel’s memoir. The way she flits from therapist to therapist to phone calls with her mother (all women, all around the same age) parallels the baby bird’s search for his kin. Bechdel’s college therapist is no more her mother than the dog is to the baby bird. It’s an interesting exploration of family, but pales in comparison to the masterpiece that is Fun Home.

Choice: True Stories of Birth, Contraception, Infertility, Adoption, Single Parenthood, & Abortion edited by Karen E. Bender and Nina de Gramont

I read Choice for my feminist book club and I spent most of the meeting talking about how visible the editing (or lack of editing) was in this essay collection. There were twenty-five essays in the collection and while they were from a variety of viewpoints, most of the essays meandered about without making telling a clear story. There was an overwhelming number of essays about doctor recommended abortions -- five or six or seven essays all in a row. I’m eager to read about that perspective, but it almost felt like the editors didn’t ask any authors who chose to have an abortion because they wanted to. Because they chose it. It made for a lively discussion at book club, but the overall collection lacked curation.

Patsy Walker AKA Hellcat, Volume Two by Kate Leth and Brittney Williams

I’m feeling kind of underwhelmed by Patsy Walker AKA Hellcat lately and while I know there’s only one more volume of comics before the series wraps, I don’t think I’ll be giving in to my normal completist tendencies. I prefer my Patsy Walker fiery and without any fucks left, so I’ll be patiently waiting for the return of Jessica Jones on Netflix.

Paper Girls, Volume One by Brian K. Vaughan and Cliff Chiang

Paper Girls is incredible and I can’t believe I’m only just now reading it. This collection feels like the biggest tease in the world, giving me just enough of the world to be intrigued and then BAM hitting me with a big dose of new information. I immediately put myself on the library holds list for Volume Two because I have questions. And while I’d normally be demanding answers, I just want the opportunity to ask even more questions.

#52books #The Summer of Chasing Mermaids #Sarah Ockler #Fun Home #Alison Bechdel #Are You My Mother?#Choice #abortion #pro life #pro woman #Patsy Walker AKA Hellcat #Paper Girls #comics

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