#hes too versatile...both tempting us to sin.....

[skitskatdacat63]

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, ASH! You’ve been accepted for the role of CLEOPATRA. Admin Jen: I am someone who is completely enthralled by Cleopatra, both as a historical figure and a Shakespeare character. So I have to admit, I had big expectations but, Ash, you completely surpassed them! God, I can’t even express how over the moon I am about this application. Your take on Calina was thrilling to read and pick apart; from the intriguing comparisons you drew between her and her iconic historical counterpart, to the beautiful references to Cleopatra’s history and the poetic tragedy of her story, to the amazing character analysis you explored in the Extras section. These intricacies complimented your deep understanding of Calina, bringing your portrayal to life and making it wholly yours. Your passion for her really shines through and it was a beautiful sight to behold! We can’t wait to see the Queen on the dash! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Ash

Age | 24

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her

Activity Level | Still a working gal, so I’m def still limited to nights and weekends. But y’all know I hardly leave Discord so I’m always about to plot.

Timezone | EST

Current/Past RP Accounts | Can I just… *slides tib’s account over* http://oftybalts.tumblr.com/

In Character

Character | Calina “CLEOPATRA” Sokolova.

What drew you to this character? | Cleopatra. What a woman. In both Shakespeare and in history – and while his name comes first in the play’s title, it is not Antony that gets remembered, is forever emblazoned in history, depicted in art, fashioned in costumes on halloween, celebrated as royalty, nor does he become the sole female symbol to a nation. It is her. The harlot. The seductress. The woman, who many thought did not deserve the crown to her own country.

But it is this kind of a woman that Calina is destined to become. Rising from the ashes of her past. Underestimated. Unbowed. And ultimately unbroken.

If so, the stars wouldn’t have written it that she be found in that alleyway by her adoptive mother. She wouldn’t have made it out of that brothel when she’d lost all else – her possessions, her pride, her hope. She wouldn’t have been found by Damiano and Faron and brought into the Montague fold. She was fated to be much more than a forgotten princess. She was fated to be the queen of an empire – and this is something she never allowed herself to forget again. It is this resilience that brings me to adore Calina so much. Where circumstance after circumstance forged against her was intended to make her wilt as well, she withstood. There’s a pain to that, a realness to that. These reasons make Calina not only a marvel, but an inspiration. As is her Shakespearean counterpart. When the Romans threatened to take the very empire that was her birthright, Cleopatra used the desire, she was so condemned for to create one of the most infamous political strongholds in history, to not only to save her crown but her country and her people as well. Has it not been said that the lily of the valley is the flower that blooms in spite of the darkness? There is no other soft-petaled thing that could depict Calina Sokolova more, though, it’s known she’d rather not be compared to such gentle ideals – she’s much more than that.

What also drew me to this character was the opportunity to find the balance between Cleopatra and Calina, identify the connections between their stories and personalities until they became one. What I love about Cleopatra as a person and a character manifested in Calina, is that she is the epitome of versatility. She is not so simple as to pigeonhole her into one category, one type of woman – as she is many – and she’d sooner sneer at anyone who thought her so one-dimensional. She is the prim scholar, the cultured savant, the coquettish minx, the charming socialite, the strategic tactician, the grateful soldier. There’s a quote I’ve come across and saved as inspiration – ““How many women are you,” he asked. “A legion,” I said” – and if I had to pick a sole defining string of words for my girl, it’d be this one. She’s willing to transform, adapt to whatever situation she might find herself in, an arsenal of personas at her disposal. It’s a skill that not many can master, but she does it with unfaltering grace and glamour as she’s traded her rags for foreign riches. She is every bit feline, perched high above the rest, tail swishing as she surveys and assesses before pouncing from her vantage point. A chessmaster, out-maneuvering and out-witting and out-strategizing the men in her midst, turning the tides into her favor. It is her femininity and willingness to utilize it that makes her underestimated, and perhaps that is her greatest weapon.

Lastly, what draws me to Calina is not only balancing her with Cleopatra, but sorting through the compiled contradictions that reside inside her head and heart. She knows what it is to love and be loved in return, but the beating bleeding thing in her chest is kept behind the gilded cage of her ribs now, as such loss and heartbreak cannot crack at her heart again, not when in the midst of war. Gentle things feel brittle against her skin, and yet brutality causes her to recoil in distaste. She despises those who lack loyalty, looks upon those of vicious tendency with suspicion, but cannot bring herself to be trustful of others as she wishes to observe such savagery and perhaps tailor a bit of it to suit her own purposes. She’s aligned herself with people who do despicable things all before breakfast, and yet she still has the energy to pettily turn up her nose at them all the same for it. She possesses an open mind, but tends to be unyielding and uncompromising when it comes to what she knows, casting her own judgements and aligning her logic only by her own side unless someone is in agreement with her. Hers is a superior intelligence, she knows, a quiet and sophisticated thing. She might be called shrewd or callous for the ruthless plans she might devise, the manipulations she’s deemed necessary, but it is important to note that Calina Sokolova is no more good than she is bad. Sure her origins are questionable, and her motives unknown by most, but she is not a villain – she is simply a woman trying to survive in the mess that men have so brutishly created and come out above it all. A woman trying to reclaim the second chance at life that she’d snatched from the Fates before they could sever it with cruel jagged scissors – because she deserved it. A woman trying to gain all the things she’d lost and then some. She hadn’t come to Verona seeking a throne or a crown, exactly, but if it fits…she’ll gladly rest it atop her head.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | Where do you see this character developing, and what kind of actions would you have them take to get there? 3 future plot ideas would be preferable.

BUT SHE MAKES HUNGRY, WHERE SHE MOST SATISFIES | “A woman’s authority spelled a man’s deception.” It’s a quote I’ve crossed multiple times when doing research and looking for inspiration for Cleopatra. It alluded to the Roman narrative that had deemed her an enchantress, condemned by the men around her for her tempting ‘magic’ leading to the eventual demise of their greatest leaders. If only they knew that love was the reason, that their desire for her far outweighed reason, that being so foolish to let heart lead over head was their true downfall. But through the years, through her observation and careful practice, Calina has seen just how powerful of a sin lust can be – it’s not one of the seven deadliest for no reason. Guilty of strategizing her sexuality, she has used such wiles to obtain things that she had no money or status to simply ask for. When faced with her greatest obstacles, the hailed Queen of the Nile utilized her tactical mind as her greatest weapon too, and with forming such advantageous alliances was able to reap benefits she would never have been able to so much as grasp if so stubborn to work alone. She utilized love to shackle Rome’s greatest leader, affections to keep the independence of her country and hold an army between her fingertips. I would love nothing more than for Calina to utilize the strategy of her namesake, forge alliances of the unlikely kind, relationships of mutual benefit. Perhaps a faithless Capulet willing to build a bridge that might support her plans, her goals. Maybe even higher ranking Montagues who sat closer to the throne she so wants to sit prettily upon. ( Bonus points if such an alliance is romantic in nature. )

ETERNITY WAS IN OUR LIPS AND EYES | In history, it was a known fact that Cleopatra was led by her mind, while betraying her heart and sacrificing being with her beloved for the sake of the bigger picture. I strongly believe that Calina mirrors Cleopatra in that very aspect, her logical, analytical mind pushing her heart to the side more often than not. I hope to explore the matters of Calina’s head and heart, as they are both such fickle vitals within her. As a woman who is often led by one while prone to befalling the whispers of the other, there’s often a lot of inner turmoil inside of her. Far more used to being desired, she’s almost lost sight of what actual love should look like – though, she’d be a liar if she said it wasn’t the kind of passion and all-consuming intensity she craved deep down, the thing of fiction novels and foreign films. But she knows love has no place in war, knows she’d sooner die than find something so true, as it is often a tool forged to destroy pawns and capitalize on cruelly as leverage. Life has taught her that to love greatly means even greater loss, and she doesn’t know if she’s ready to lose again after just grabbing the reins back on her life. So she knows in her quest for power, that she must ignore the affectionate leanings she’s so inclined towards to fill such a gapingly empty hole inside of her. She is not void of fondness and she is not without her feelings (as much as she’d like to be), but it’ll come down to it when she has to ask herself which one does she want more, which one is more important: love and meaningful connection or power. A tender heart or a gilded crown? Or will clever Cleopatra find a way to have both?

THE THRONE OF OUR QUEEN IS EMPTY | Aligning herself with those that will protect her, benefit her most is Calina’s modus operandi. Distrustful of many aside from herself, Calina, ever the cynic, knows that you must be vigilant as snakes reside in the very grass she stands in. She still waits for the day that Faron might decide to collect his debt that he’d used to free her from the proverbial chains that kept her shackled to that brothel. Still waits for Damiano to name his price for extracting her to Verona. Never the type to bite the hand that feeds her, Calina is a willing and dutiful soldier, knowing that this is a prized opportunity, that not many are so fortunate to be plucked from the gutter and reincarnated as a new deity, given a new form, a new life. But she knows what desperation is like, and it tastes like bile at the back of her tongue, a lingering flavor that she wishes if only to rid herself of forever. She knows now what the elite tastes like, sweet and decadent like caramel, what it feels like, soft and rich like cashmere, and she’d be damned if she goes back to the streets of Russia she’d been made to merely exist in. Clinging to her new status is what she values most, and so she wants to rise in the ranks, secure her place in Damiano’s eyes. He has heard the stories, the words whispered about her unmatched mind, and she wishes to show him just what she can do for the Montagues. Her eyes are on an Emissary title (for now), not too keen, and far too ambitious to resort to taking orders as a mere soldier for long. But she knows her time will come – she’ll make sure of it. (And I want to see just how much she’s willing to do to achieve it.)

SHOULD YOU EVER COMPARE CAESAR WITH ANTONY | I believe I’m most excited to develop Calina’s connection with Alexander. It interests me because now that I’ve gotten acquainted with Alexander, he carries himself like the warrior Antony was, but his mind is what I know will intrigue Calina most, as she isn’t impressed with a show of muscle and brute strength (though it is entirely nice to view). He’s cunning and as sharp as the knife-carved curve of his grin, and it is this intelligence and drive that shows me shadows of Caesar in him. It is written that Caesar was truly a well-match for Cleopatra as they were intellectual equals, a power couple of sorts as they were ruled by their ambitious minds and worked through their mutually beneficial alliance together. So I’d love to see what kind of pair Calina and Alexander might make, where her intrigue of him will take her.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | It would crush me to kill my queen, but of course, if to propel the plot forward, I approve her demise, and it must be as grand and as poetic and as ironic of a death that Cleopatra deserves. If we got some snakes, that’d be greaaaat.

In Depth

In-Character Interview: The following questions must be answered in-character, and in para form (quotations, actions written out if applicable, etc). There is no minimum or maximum limit for your response - simply answer as you would if you were playing the character.

What is your favorite place in Verona?

She can answer the negative to this question rather than the positive. But such is customary of the cynic, is it not? She sees herself seated across from a Capulet counterpart, and only prays to the gods above that her discomfort does not shine through the darkness of her eyes. She sees the velveteen interior, she sees the girls scantily clad and palms itching, she sees Verona’s elite, their fingers offering silver and gold and the lights that have dimmed from the girls’ eyes suddenly returns if for a moment. She can’t see that last bit, but she knows because there was once a time when that had been her. She too had been the girl, glad to serve clients if only to receive payment enough to bring her closer to repayment of her debts. The Dark Lady only reminds her of a past she not only wishes to leave in the tattered pages of her history, but it’s one that needs to remain there, something of the past, a scar that had healed over finally.

“The Capital Library, of course.” Her gaze had been down, examining the pastel shade she’s chosen for her manicured hand, only for that that same hand to make a sweeping gesture, urging the journalist to cast their eyes upon even the furthest corners of her sitting room.  Books, books and more books stacked neatly on shelves, perched precariously against the edges of tables, some lovingly dog-eared so she might not lose her page, others with delicate scribbles in the margins. Texts of new and old. Of the language Verona knows, and in tongues it does not. Her mind was a vast canvas, and reading is not only her solace, but the only way she might paint against it, knowledge of all kinds hanging themselves like masterpieces inside that pretty head of hers. So it’s only with a genuine spark in her tone that she continues, “There is hardly a scent I adore more than that of books.” A pause, a dainty tip of her head, the slightest tug to her lips, “Aside from medovik, of course…” She thinks then of Faron, who’d undoubtedly had a box with a slice of the delectable honey cake from their motherland left on her desk the other day. Once more, she can’t help as sentiment knocks at the door, awaiting answer, as he remembers details so minute, but she doesn’t let it in.

What does your typical day look like?

“Well–” Calina begins, eyes flitting up towards the ceiling in thought, one leg brought up to cross primly over the other, the gilded metallic G of her Gucci suede pumps catching in the afternoon light. “Waking up so horrendously early cannot seem to escape my routine.” She was forged into a creature of the night, nearly hissing as the sun’s rays would break through her curtains each morning. But she has since learned to become one with the day, after hating it for so long, detesting the sun for daring to rise when her world had descended into darkness. Nonetheless, she finds herself much preferring what happens before the sun goes down on this beautiful city. “But I do yoga, I have tea, I feed Si –” She begins her day with all things that relax her, as she knows it’ll only get more turbulent from there.

“I spend most of my day at the embassy more than I spend time here.” Cue the arrival of Osiris, her all black emperor of household, purring as he curls beneath her hand, starved from her affections as her day and night jobs keep her from their home far more than he appreciated. A jealous little thing, he was – not wanting to share his mum with anyone. “Much to this one’s displeasure,” she coos, picking up the cat, holding him tenderly to her chest. “Isn’t that right, darling?” A tinkling laugh slips past charming lips, mouth momentarily pressing to onyx fur to conceal the humor that curved her smile, “Though, I must say, my day only takes a turn for the boring from there. I meet with a few associates, and it’s instantly into interpreter mode.” She leans in then, as if sharing with them a hushed secret, “I’ll be lucky if I speak English for any amount of time.”  A sigh of feigned disappointment escapes her, only for her to continue, “–and then…I suppose I come back here. Have a little dinner, a little wine. Only to rest and do it all over again the next morning.” It all sounds so trivial, and that is with good reason. There is no need for the darling journalist to be brought out of his ignorance of her true purpose here in fair Verona.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

A cant of her head, a knowing smile, “Do I look like a woman who makes mistakes?”

Miscalculations were a rarity with someone as careful, as cautious and as well-thought as Calina. But even she is prone to human error – not that the man who was seated across from her needed to know such a thing. Know that she was something mortal and not entirely godly. So, her lips purse as she waits, a finger idly brushing across her cupid’s bow – whether it’s deliberate, is not something you have to ask, as she intends to draw the eye there to the inviting part of her lips.

He pauses, chest rising with an inhale, the words seemingly teetering on the edge of his tongue unable to fall out, but he musters a shake of his head at her inquiry. He doesn’t think so. “Smart boy,” is her coy response, a flash of a wink in accompaniment, so quick if you blinked you’d probably miss it.

What has been the most difficult task asked of you? (tw: illusions of sexual assault)

It wasn’t asked. That was the problem.

To be asked would mean she was being gifted courtesy wrapped in a bow. To be asked would mean she’d be granted choice, the ability to accept or decline, to return or exchange with a receipt. But no – the most difficult task for Calina Solokova to face was demanded of her. (If she wanted to eat, if she wanted somewhere to sleep, if she wanted to live.)

It happened in the shadows where no one could see, perhaps it was best that way so the crystalline tears that treaded down her cheeks would never be seen by the light of day. It’s a memory pushed so far to the recess of her mind, she almost cannot recall all the details these days. But she remembers her face had been stony, still, unmoving, unaffected. The man nameless, faceless as he pushes crimson silk from her lithe frame, as his calloused fingertips touched her without an ounce of knowledge as to what kind of jewel he was holding.

Her lips press together tightly, she feels the matte texture of her lipstick between them. She pauses so she might think, might craft the correct response. It’s then that she decides playing a part might suit her well here. A breath of a laugh, a feigned bashful tuck of her hair behind her ear, “My mind’s certainly drifted, hasn’t it. What was the question again?” A fluttering of lashes, a softened, apologetic smile – the journalist is gracious enough to skip this question, and she thanks him with a deliberate touch to the top of his palm, feather light and barely there.

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“War,” she scoffs, the sound gentle but her disdain carrying loud and clear.  

Piercing eyes narrow, the winged tip of her kol liner sharpened like the point of an arrow. “It’d be just like men to start something so barbaric with no end in mind.” To her it was illogical, to waste time, resource and more importantly energy, on the maintenance of a petty feud. There is nothing worth fighting for, she’s realized, if not for love or for power. And she liked to think the Montagues and Capulets fought for neither. There were by far better things than to focus on – the creation of empires, the falling of others, she thinks.

“It’s primitive. Dated. If they want to continue on in this matter they might as well fight over Twitter about it.” Another pause. Her fingertips coming to her lips, as if the words had come out too soon before she could stop them, “But, you didn’t hear me say that either.”

Extras: If you have anything else you’d like to include (further headcanons, an inspo tag, a mock blog, etc), feel free to share it here! This is OPTIONAL.

PINTEREST BOARD

QUOTES:

“How many women are you? he asked. A legion, I said.”

“BELLADONNA, n. In Italian a beautiful lady; in English a deadly poison. A striking example of the essential identity of the two tongues.” – Ambrose Bierce

“Men love me cause I’m pretty – and they’re always afraid of mental wickedness – and men love me cause I’m clever, and they’re always afraid of my prettiness – One or two have even loved me cause I’m lovable, and then, of course, I was acting. But you just do, darling –” – Zelda Fitzgerald

“She is her own heroine—capricious, exacting, exquisite, very learned, and beautifully dressed.” — Virginia Woolf

“She’s a very mysterious creature, with an open smile and a closed soul.” — Colette, from a letter to Madame Léopold Marchand

“She carries herself like a god. She is a composed ocean of waves that could become turbulent if you test her.”

HEADCANONS:

TV TROPES: Brainy Brunette, Silk Hiding Steel, Broken Bird, Femme Fatale, The Chessmaster, Passive-Aggressive Aggression, I Have Many Names, The Charmer, Ice Queen, Faux Affably Evil, All Girls Are Lustful, Honey Trap

CHARACTER INSPO: Catwoman / Selina Kyle (Batman), Hathor (Gods of Egypt), Commander Lexa (The 100)

AESTHETICS: She’s fur trimmed coats and heels as high as her standards. She’s a touch as warm as a crackling fire with a stare as icy as the country from which she hails. Chin tipped up proudly as she balances a gilded crown no one can see but knows is resting atop her head. Her voice is like honey, and her laughter like wisps of smoke, tendrils floating airily above ruby-painted lips. Piercing eyes assessing and calculating, who might she charm next with the knowledge carved into the walls of her mind like hieroglyphs? The answer is: everyone.

Her mother Tatiana Sokolova was a widow and school teacher. Her husband, Mischa, died long before she could conceive a child. It was his only wish, his only hope, that they’d grow their little family in Irkutsk, that one day he’d drive his truck route through the snow long enough for them to have enough money to move to St. Petersburg. It’s a dream he never got to see into fruition, God knows they tried their best, but Tatiana always felt that she’d failed him. It’s why she’d prayed so hard, why she’d wish upon every star, why she’d memorize the scriptures until she knew them by heart, because if she prayed to her gods and believed hard enough – miracles could happen. And when her little miracle did happen, Tatiana only wished that he was around to see Calina grow, see her excel – he would have been proud of her, the woman always said.

They say curiosity killed the cat, and despite knowing that fact, Calina grew up ever curious into her original background. While she never sought for her parents, she did seek answers about her heritage, her ancestry. Taking a test, she finds that her roots lie in the motherland of Africa’s tip and in the desert sands of the Middle East – it’s only logical then that she learn Arabic, that she research the customs of such drastically different cultures, if only to feel closer and more immersed into them. One of her many dreams: to visit both Egypt and Morocco one day.

Showing the early signs of a cerebral child, a gifted child, reading was always little Calina’s favorite thing to do, always by far more excited than her classmates to get the summer’s reading list. She was the type of child who would live in the library if she could, taking out stacks of books only to return them by the week’s end because she’d finished them all, and even went through a few of them twice. It’s a habit she could hardly shake well into adulthood, as the Montagues have now become accustomed to finding her beneath the ornate embellishments of headquarters if she is missing for any period of time. To her, there is no shortage of knowledge, only fools claim to know it all. (But let’s not mistake, she knows by far more than the rest do.)

Her mother showed her how to do everything, Calina acting as her permanent shadow as she trailed behind her. She knows how to cook the perfect solyanka because she’s hovered over her mother’s shoulder while she stood at the stove. She knows how to knit her own scarf, because her mother only seemed to have the energy to calmly knit as she got sicker and sicker, and she’d help her knit-one and pearl-two when her bony fingers couldn’t go on anymore. She knew how to tend to chamomile, if only to brew the delicate flowers into steaming soothing tea, because her mother watered and sang to her plants religiously at the windowsill, and she’d do the same. She learned Ukrainian because that was her mother’s second tongue, almost spoken in their home more than Russian.

Her interests are vast and varied – a modern Renaissance woman. Languages are only the beginning. She enjoyed mathematics, was fascinated by history and geography, and marveled constantly at art. Growing and learning, she couldn’t put a finger on her favorite subjects, as she only wished to consume as much knowledge as she could.

When she does make it to Novosibirsk, Calina goes straight into state university, with the hopes to secure a job once her certificate was in her hand. She studies Linguistics, with the hopes to become a translator, maybe one day able to work for government agencies in her country or across the globe – the United Nations was one dream, among many. But she soon learned that dreaming was for the naive. Due to the illness of her mother, and no one to care for her, she has no choice but to drop out of school, and uses the remaining funds from her tuition payments to take care of hospital bills, their rent, and an decidedly ornate urn when her mother eventually passes. Her ashes are floating through the depths of the Baltic Sea by now.

A brilliant linguist she becomes, with a talent for rapid language acquisition, Calina is skilled in six languages: her native Russian, English, Ukrainian, Bulgarian, Arabic and Italian most recently due to her new ‘business’ ventures.

She alludes some her knowledge to her lovers. Sometimes her customers were sweet, in the exchange for her affection they’d wish to bring her gifts – all she’d ask for was information. A new language to learn, a new book to absorb, a new code for her mind to crack. She learns Bulgarian from Stanislav, as he purred it her ear until she could purr it back. Dariya, her favorite, shows her that English is not as difficult as she thinks, leaving her poems from authors even greater than herself. Is brought hardcover books with gilded spines and Arabic lines from Adrik, and she’d lift his delicate round spectacles so she might press her lips to his eyelids. It was her little way of making better of the horrid situation she found herself trapped in.

It had become an inherent part of her, a subconscious thing for a girl like Calina, to analyze and categorize those she interacts with according to a specific criteria, especially so once she was inducted into the Montague ranks. When she encountered someone new, she’d ask herself a series of questions that would determine their suitability of her attention: What can I gain in this relationship? What can this person give me? Most importantly, will I be willing to part with them if need be?

Dependency is her greatest fear. To live in a world where she cannot save herself, where at every turn a man will be there to rescue her, is not one she can see herself existing in. Which is why she’s more than keen to learn how to better defend herself, how to better weaponize herself and stay protected. But she’s yet to voice such desires, waiting to see who she might best employ to assist her.

Currently, she calls the Verona embassy her second home, more time spent there than beneath the roof of her own apartment. She serves as a translator for foreign dignitaries, her charm and clear command of language makes her shine at meetings to discuss ranges of topics, from foreign policy and international trade to criminal justice and matters of Verona’s security. It’s a strategic move on Damiano’s part to place her there, to be the eyes, ears, and soothing guiding voice of influence that is necessary as far as local and international governments are concerned. It’s no secret her mind cannot be resisted, and it makes all the better for the Montagues to have friends in such high places.

ARCHETYPES:

45% INTELLECTUAL – Thriving on intellectual pursuit, with a defining grace of wisdom, the Intellectual is the ultimate dinner-party guest. Engaging questions and thoughtful debate are their trademarks. They are your sages – imparting their wise words only learned through time and experience. The Intellectuals can be your scientists – juggling a plethora of ideas in their minds, willing to listen and engage in conversation so long as it properly stimulates their intellect. They are your scholars, your polymaths – brimming with bright curiosity for all aspects of life, collecting knowledge in all its forms. But they can also be your judges – masterful arbitrators, sharp and impartial, slicing through the heart of matters to create balance.

35% PERFORMER – Center stage. In the spotlight. Entertaining and exuberant. Flourishing in the face of attention and applause. The Performers are your provocateurs – walking sirens, with charm and unabashed sensuality on their side. They can get anyone to do anything for them with just the right string of words, the right look, the right touch. They are the pretenders, the seducers – dishonesty is a language they speak well, using it to sway the foolish into giving them their hearts. Nothing is as it seems, as they keep you on your toes, teasing you with portions of themselves instead of the whole. But living on the shallow surface can only go so far when it comes to real relationships.

20% ROYAL – Driven by power. On a constant quest to bask in entitlement and luxury. The Royals are your networkers – with esteem, power, charm and more importantly hundreds of contacts at their disposal, they can work any room and cozy up to the power players in it with ease to help push their agendas. They are your queens – ultimate conveyors of grace and elegance, with the ability to lead as examples, empowering those around them (especially women) to succeed. But they can also be your politicians – people-oriented, excellent communicators, with an innate talent for leadership and influence, they firmly understand that their jobs would be nothing without the alliances they can make.

DARK CORE PERSONALITY TEST:

20.11% Darker than the Average Person

TOP DARK TRAITS

MACHIAVELLIANISM (87%) – “Manipulativeness, callous affect, and a strategic, calculating orientation.”

SELF-INTEREST (80%) – “The unprincipled pursuit of gains in socially valued domains, such as material goods, social status, recognition, achievement, and success.”

EGOISM (80%) – “Excessive concern with one’s own pleasure or advantage at the expense of community well-being.”

[clarste]

Hey, what are your top three favorite and least favorite characters in Touhou? I find your taste in interpretations quite interesting, so I'm sure your choices of characters would be as well.

I think I’ve already given my top 5 in a previous Ask, but since it changes day to day I don’t mind answering it again. I’ll put it behind a Read More tag for space reasons.

#1 Sagume

Something about her just resonated with me from right after LoLK was released. While of course she was perfectly willing to glass Gensokyo, she clearly didn’t want to, which I think counts for something. She’s a smart lady being forced to make tough decisions, but despite all that, she was willing to gamble everything on people she’d never met. Although I’d imagine no small part of that was due to it being Eirin’s plan. She’s a strategist who sees the big picture, but isn’t so aloof as to overlook the personal.

Her power is also interesting. It’s a double edged sword that lets her do almost anything (maybe) but only if she’s incredibly careful about her speech at all times. Although it seems to be more versatile than simply reversing what she says: her power was also instrumental in making it so urban legends come true in Gensokyo. To put it at its most broad, she has the power to manipulate words and the truth. I’ve never been the hugest fan of power level arguments, but it does give her a lot of interesting flexibility in a way similar to older characters like Yukari.

She also uses little magical drones to fight, which I think would be cool to see in AoCF. Please be playable in AoCF. The Occult Balls are still around, so we know you’re still important. What did you talk about with Eirin?!

#2 Seiga

Okay, so maybe I just like villains. Anyway, if other characters interest me, she’s the one I fell in love with, for better or worse. It’s not a rational thing, I just find myself drawn to her. I’d imagine this is less interesting for the readers though.

Not that she’d ever love anyone back. I don’t think she’s capable of that. She’s not necessarily cruel (although she often is), she just can’t comprehend holding herself back on account of others. She has no goals other than her own happiness, and there’s nothing she’d be unwilling to do if she thought it would be fun. As long as someone interests her she’d be honestly excited to follow them or teach them or whatever, but the moment she gets bored she’d drop them without a second thought. In that sense, despite being Evil by, well, any definition of the word, she’s a fairly honest person who always says what she means.

What’s interesting though is that her Sin, as far as the afterlife is concerned, is just living too long without approval. Which I think says a lot about their priorities. It’s almost enough to make you wonder if she’s right to give the divine authorities the finger, even if she could stand to have some empathy for others.

Also she’s a necromancer which is always a cool thing to have in your setting.

#3 Kasen

Kasen’s cool. Yup. I’ve already written extensively about Kasen, but suffice it to say she’s a person struggling to do what right. She wants to be a good person, but it’s really not that easy when you’re not even sure what’s good. She’s smart enough not to take anyone else’s words as gospel, but even after stewing over it for centuries, the path forward isn’t at all clear. But what is clear to her is that she needs to do something: keeping the current status quo simply isn’t good enough. And if necessary she’s willing to tear it all down to fix it. I can easily see her becoming a “villain” at some point.

Which is especially interesting after the reveal that she’s one of the sages who made Gensokyo. And especially especially after Okina was revealed. It seems the sages aren’t exactly in contact with each other, and can have very different reasons for having helped make Gensokyo. I look forward to Kasen and Okina meeting.

Least Favorites

#1 Tenshi

To be fair, Tenshi’s at least fun to hate. Unlike the other villains I love, she doesn’t seem to have much of a developed worldview, and is mostly just a bored brat. She annoys me.

#2 Rumia

Rumia is the most generic of all youkai. I’ve always felt that the stage 1 bosses serve mostly to set the tone for the rest of the game. Minoriko is a generic god, Yamame is a generic Underworld youkai, Wakasagihime is a generic grassroots youkai, etc. I can understand why that needs to happen, but it’s usually not especially interesting to me. Anyway, Rumia was the first Windows boss and is therefore the most generic of the generic. She is the face of the faceless feral youkai, the sort that the villagers fear most. And she is super dumb and boring, and not dumb in a funny way either.

#3 Wriggle

This was probably the toughest decision on both of these lists. And I was almost tempted to cut her some slack since the reasoning is essentially the same as it was for Rumia. But Wriggle does nothing for me. She’s the kind of filler youkai ZUN throws in when he’s out of ideas. For the first half of the Windows games these were generally animal youkai, since it’s pretty easy to just say “She’s a firefly… and a youkai!” but these days they’re more likely to be Tsukumogami. Kogasa and the Tsukumo sisters and all that.

Not that filler youkai have to be boring. Kogasa’s certainly made herself stand out, and even other animal youkai like Mystia have gotten a decent amount of development. But Wriggle is just there, imo.

Sorry xxx#1WriggleFan420xxx. I know how much you love her, and I applaud you for it, but I personally can’t.

[anghraine]

“per ardua ad astra” - chapter twelve

Wherein a hint of a plot occurs!

last chapter:

“You’re Alderaanian, captain? I didn’t realize.”

Skimming something on Jyn’s datapad, he made an indistinct noise of assent. Jyn herself felt an uncomfortable chill prickle all up and down her spine. Maybe danger, maybe the reminder of whatever nightmare awaited them in the cradle of the Rebellion.

Zekheret blurted out, “Oh, that’s why—uh—I mean, you’re going home, then. Sir.”

this chapter:

A man with soft robes and soft eyes asked him his name, and he just begged him, where’s Mama? Where’s Rana?—I’m Cassian, Cassian Andor, but Rana—Renalia, my sister, you’ve got to find her—

 “—the old senator was a troublemaker since before the Empire, the princess is a traitor and spy, and that queen and the planetary council turn a blind eye to open disrespect for the Emperor.”

Tor halted long enough that Cassian assumed he’d finished his catalogue of Alderaan’s sins.

 “I’m aware,” he said.

chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven

Unless Bodhi found an opportunity to escape, they couldn’t do anything until Cassian recovered. Or rather, they might find a way for Jyn and Bodhi to escape, ideally with the location of the plans, but she refused. Instead, they had to wait for the bacta to do its work, and gather as much information as possible to prepare for the day when the attempt might be worth the risk, without Cassian as dead weight. Resting, and strictly adhering to Esten’s advice, was his greatest contribution right now.

Cassian reminded himself of that for the seventeenth time. Jyn refused to leave him, a realization that strangled the breath out of his throat on multiple occasions, for multiple reasons. In her place, he would have done the same—had done the same, so despite the differences in feeling, he didn’t try to persuade her out of it. Not with escape near-impossible, anyway. And once his damn ribs healed, he could be of use even stuck here, if the plans remained hidden long enough to eventually find a way out.

Willix held the whole subterfuge together. While Cassian didn’t care for undercover work, he itched to do something. As Willix, he could. His data trail left opportunities that the nonexistent Lyr couldn’t have. He just had to recover.

So every hour on the hour, Cassian dutifully wandered about the halls near his quarters for fifteen minutes. The limited time provided little chance of seeing anything, but he was still pathetically relieved to walk by himself again, even with his nerves on high alert in the open. He also dutifully took the Imperial analgesics, so he didn’t even hurt.

On his fourth perambulation, he caught footsteps behind him. The halls saw enough activity that it wasn’t extraordinary; he could hear any number of footsteps at this moment, all around him. Only one set, however, seemed exactly synchronous with his own.

Maybe coincidence. Maybe not. Pretending to adjust his gloves, Cassian let himself slow, then return to his original speed. Sure enough, the tread behind him did the same thing. He held up a lieutenant with a demand for directions, and the steps vanished altogether. They began again as soon as he headed to his quarters.

He could think of any number of possibilities, none of them good, few short of disaster. Jyn would be back soon, to make the danger more daunting, but openly contacting her might escalate the situation. As he approached the passcode panel, Cassian considered his options, fear flickering in him.

He didn’t bother trying to repress the feeling; he was often afraid, and had no difficulty acknowledging it. He’d learned long ago to accept fear as the warning it was, keep going, let it sharpen his senses and quicken his reflexes. Denial only made it paralyzing instead of useful.

The steps had fallen out of unison with his own, instead speeding up. Their possessor would be here in a moment. Instantly, Cassian switched from observation to action, swerving without warning.

“May I help you?” he demanded, and then had to tilt his head back. Regardless of Jyn’s opinion, he was not a tall man, but neither was he a short one; he almost never had to strain to meet another man’s eyes. This one, square-built and fair-haired, must be at least six and a half feet. After a glance at his insignia, Cassian softened his tone to respect and his posture to deference. “Sir.”

The giant, who horrifyingly reminded him of Draven, gave a faint smile.

“At ease.” He grasped Cassian’s hand with a force that nearly wrenched his arm out of its socket. “Captain Willix, I presume?”

“I am,” said Cassian, extricating himself. “I did not expect you to come so far, Commander … Tor?”

The smile broadened.

“Good,” Tor replied. “I need a word with you.”

That didn’t require a tedious physical journey to track down a subordinate. On the Death Star, it was very little less.

“Yes, sir?”

“Privately,” he said, with a nod at the door.

Mentally categorizing the blasters that Jyn had stuck into various corners of their room, Cassian tapped in his passcode and led the commander into his quarters. He had to be grateful that he’d re-made Jyn’s bed after she left; Tor glanced around with an approving look.

“I don’t trust comlinks,” said Tor.

“Ah.” With a grimace, Cassian gestured at the hated hoverchair. “Do you mind?”

“No, no,” Tor said, waving him ahead. He watched closely as Cassian leveraged himself into the chair. “I didn’t realize you could walk yet, captain.”

“For short periods.” He peered up at the man, not even having to fake a grimace. From here, Tor really was obscenely tall.

The commander must have felt the awkwardness himself. He glanced around, then sat on the edge of Jyn’s bed.

“How soon can I expect you back on your feet?”

Silently reminding himself to sanitize the bedding, Cassian said, “Dr Esten said that I may be capable of half-duty tomorrow or the next day. Full recovery will be longer—a week or two, I think.”

With a thoughtful nod, Tor took out a small datapad. “I took a look at your history when I received your assignment, captain.”

Cassian could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t already be on the record or look vastly more suspicious than anything in it. He kept his mouth shut and waited.

“Quite a lot of analytical training—that’ll be why you got assigned to my division. But I see that you’ve been in combat a few times.”

A few. He inclined his head.

“Commanded a small battleship.” Glancing up, Tor’s brows rose. “Very small. You’ve been stationed on Corellia, Naboo, Coruscant … coordinating security, it looks like. Men and droids?”

“Yes, sir,” said Cassian. He cleared his throat. “Mostly droids.”

“Understandable,” Tor said dryly. “Then you were reassigned to—the Senate? A bit below your pay grade.”

“My pay didn’t change,” he replied.

“Mm. Says here that you commanded the security detail for Senator … Organa?” The man’s voice, already lighter than Cassian’s, rose higher over the name. “Which—ah, Princess Leia. The traitor.”

“Yes,” said Cassian. He held his breaths even, counted in his head to keep his heart to its regular beat, and not the pounding rush it seemed to be considering. He had long practice with both, particularly in the last few weeks. Even more particularly in the last few days. “We had no proof of treachery then, and I never saw any for myself, but Colonel Jerox preferred to keep her under close observation. He hoped she would be less guarded with me than the other available officers.”

She certainly had been. He could remember Leia, all of sixteen, yelling at him about not telling her how to hide bodies. He remembered his younger self, too, struggling not to shout back at her, snarl that she wouldn’t need to know if she would just listen—

Then again, he remembered everything.

“Why you?” the commander barked out.

“I’m Alderaanian, sir.”

Tor grunted. “I saw that. Well, your record ends there. A few months ago. You were on Scarif in the meanwhile?”

“Yes. The destruction of the station”—Cassian coughed—“was undoubtedly necessary, but destroyed all local records. I worked in robotics.”

“The droids again, eh?” Tor set his datapad aside, and Cassian did his best not to look too obviously tempted.

He could only imagine the amount of information, high quality information, that must be stored right there, nearly within arm’s reach. In more productive circumstances, he could take it and run. As it was, any theft or death would be quickly detected and traced to its source, at least one involving a high-ranking officer. He had nowhere to run and no capability of doing it, anyway. Instead, Cassian wrapped himself in polite obedience and waited.

“An interesting history,” said Tor. “Directionless, some might suggest.”

“Versatile,” Cassian said quickly.

Tor gave a short laugh. “Perhaps. Certainly, we could find any number of uses for your skills, if not for one thing.”

Alarms rang in his head. With a puzzled frown, Cassian searched the commander’s expression. He’d gone from wry to grave—more than grave. Outright somber.

“What is that, sir?”

Tor’s eyes, cold and unwavering, fixed on his own. “You’re a spy.”

Jyn hated the Death Star.

Hated, hated, hated it.

Not that she hadn’t before. Every time she thought of Baze and Chirrut, she felt a breath away from Lyr shattering around her. And Kay—though she hoped he might be resurrected yet—so thrilled with the blaster, and then Cassian screaming his name. All the spies and saboteurs she hadn’t known, who followed her (followed Cassian, but he’d yoked himself to her), dead by stormtroopers or bombs or the terrible light her father had spawned. Jedha, desecrated to feed it and then obliterated—Saw—and less directly, her father and mother—Force, she hated it.

At the same time, she was petty enough to hate it not merely as evil manifest, but simply a place. In particular, the place where she happened to be stuck, with no way out, no ability to take advantage of an escape route even if she had one, and too many dangers and opportunities to stay holed up in Cassian’s quarters. And it took so long to get anywhere. The size of this thing seemed completely asinine; the underlying mechanics couldn’t require this much space, could they? Besides that, the people were either untrustworthy, inane, malicious in a casual, colourless way that bothered her far more than concentrated malevolence, or some combination of them all.

She spent hours talking or eavesdropping on perfectly horrible people, along with a handful of ostensibly decent ones who couldn’t be decent at all, or they wouldn’t be here. Jyn understood keeping your head down; however intolerable now for her personally, she had no room to judge that after the last six years. But actively participating in it was something else altogether. 

She didn’t regret the presence of Brakases and Estens who made things somewhat less relentlessly terrible, or even the Efrahs and (maybe) Zekherets. That was only for her own sake, though, and Cassian’s. In a way, they seemed worse than those who probably celebrated Life Day by kicking puppies.

Ugh.

Bodhi contacted her once; he assured her that he’d encountered no problems, and the rushed training he and the other new stormtroopers received had left him sort of shooting properly when he didn’t get nervous. However, he had no further information, not even gossip. Relieved over him and exasperated with the universe, Jyn stayed as encouraging as she could until the connection broke, then slipped into a fresher and slammed her fist against the wall.

It was safe enough; for obvious reasons, the women’s freshers generally stayed empty. Jyn suspected they wouldn’t exist at all except for the sheer amount of space the architects had to fill. In a normal base, the personal quarters would probably be less (comparatively) lavish, too, even for officers.

Cassian’s ribs should really heal faster. Not that he could help it, but as often as she’d worked alone, this wouldn’t feel so blandly sickening with him around. Especially if she didn’t have to worry every time he got out of bed.

Out of sheer impatience and aggravation, Jyn decided that she wanted to hear his voice. He might have advice or something, and he’d probably appreciate a distraction, anyway. She opened the connection.

The first time, it failed. She must be too far; they should probably figure out the stronger hand-held comlinks. Jyn made her way to an empty elevator; while she hadn’t travelled far enough down that she needed to account for a full hour in her schedule, dinnertime would be soon enough that she should probably start heading back. She tried the com again; it connected, but she only heard static. The connection had gone through, but he wasn’t answering.

Probably asleep. He needed his rest, too, but … she felt uneasy. After five minutes, Jyn tried for a third time.

“Willix.” Cassian’s voice came through, sharp and clear.

A bit too sharp, in fact. Almost tight. Every nerve in Jyn’s body twitched into high gear.

“Sergeant Lyr, sir,” she said, in her most professional voice. “Calling to inform you that I should be available for immediate assistance in … thirty minutes or so.”

“Thirty?” repeated Cassian, in the same strained voice. “Very well.”

Jyn paused, then said, “I hope I haven’t disrupted any important matters, captain.”

To her horror, she heard Cassian say something inaudible—not mumbling, but as if he spoke from a distance. To someone else. Was he on one of the prescribed walks, or worse?

Even more alarmingly, she heard another voice, a man’s, but higher than Cassian’s. This one, also, remained too distant to make out, but sounded much too near for a casual passerby. And she heard nothing else, none of the background hubbub she’d expect in public, not even the groans and hums of machinery. No, everything suggested that she’d caught Cassian in his quarters, and a stranger with him. There, now.

“Ah, no,” said Cassian. “We were just finishing up, I think. Is that right, sir?”

She heard an affirmative sound from the other man. Not merely a stranger, but someone Cassian, a captain here as well as in the Alliance, would call sir.

The hairs on her neck nearly stood up.

“Is there anything urgent, sergeant?”

Cassian’s voice had subtly changed, turned heavier and more emphatic. Jyn took a gamble.

“Yes,” she said. Wildly extemporizing, she went on, “That is, not urgent, but I think potentially significant for … for any future posts. I believe it best to confirm with you in person, if that’s acceptable.”

“Yes, certainly,” said Cassian. “I’ll expect you in half an hour, precisely.”

Jyn took a deep breath, all thoughts of hunger fled from her brain. “I’ll be there, sir.”

A good twenty minutes earlier, Cassian found himself gazing at Commander Tor with a neutral expression and his ears ringing. You’re a spy echoed in nauseating circles while he calculated probabilities as fast and well as he could, without Kay.

Ruthlessly, he shoved away the flood of loss and hope. He could see only two routes before him, and one almost certainly impossible. They’d just have to bet on the other.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, yes.”

Tor gave a satisfied nod. “Good.”

Logically, Cassian knew that his heart could not actually have stopped. Yet he certainly felt like it had taken up beating again, enough that he clung to the last scraps of fear. Relief, he knew from long experience, could be as great a danger as panic.

He permitted a touch of curiosity to touch his face.

“I had not imagined,” he said, threading his way by each word, “that there would be any need for my services in that capacity. Not here. Surely the Death Star must be secure.”

“It seems so,” allowed Tor. “There is no possibility of any breach in our defenses, of course, and if there were, no weapon to rival it.”

Cassian, ever the good soldier, listened respectfully.

A pity Jyn isn’t around to hear this. Not that she’d dare gloat openly, but she would enjoy it, and he’d see the traces. A sneer of the soul, as it were.

“However,” Tor went on, “as I’m sure you know, the Core worlds provide the bulk of our officers. Coruscant, Brentaal, Corellia.” He settled another meaningful glance at Cassian. “Alderaan.”

The usual irritation was a drop next to the ice in his veins.

“Of course.”

“And the princess of Alderaan is a prisoner on this station. I believe she enjoys a great deal of … local popularity?”

“Yes,” said Cassian.

“That’s to be expected,” Tor said. “No blame to you, Willix, but many of our worst problems have come out of Alderaan. It’s a hotbed of sedition, entire towns have blown themselves to smithereens rather than submit to the rule of law, and resources disappear into the hands of smugglers and pirates.”

Blown themselves to smithereens.

It had been a long, long time since Cassian had to work so hard to keep his expression steady. For a few seconds, he didn’t even realize his teeth were clenched together.

Sloppy, he tried to tell himself, but he’d already flown past that. With perfect clarity, he remembered the dazzling rays of light reflected off the snow, Renalia’s fingers strong and firm about his own smaller ones as she led their way. Firm right up to the moment that she halted just outside of town, her hand dropping. In an instant, she shoved him behind the nearest snowdrift, rougher than she’d ever been with him. It hurt, and then more when she tumbled down over him, but she clapped a hand over his mouth before he could complain.

When she snuck forward to peer about the edges of the snowdrift, Cassian followed, shielding his eyes and squinting until he saw what she did. Clonetroopers marched about the perimeter, the sun flashing off their armour. They hadn’t noticed the two of them yet, but they would find them eventually, and that meant trouble. Nobody was allowed out at this hour, edging past mid-afternoon, without leave. Already, though the sun shone brightly enough that he peered out of half-blinded eyes, Vaesda looked aflame.

Cassian, no. She pulled him back even as he tried to understand. Then, without warning, he felt the good goggles drape over his face, Renalia’s hands tightening the straps on the back of his head. You’ve got to get to the caves. Not by the mines, understand? The far ones. Don’t stop for anything. Don’t make noise. Don’t look back. Just run.

Puzzled, he mumbled, Rana?

You don’t need to know why. Just do it.

He nodded. Cassian and Renalia had their squabbles, but she was five years older, and he idolized her. When she spoke in that tone, he always obeyed.

Promise me.

I promise, he said, all the more confused when she knelt to wrap her arms around him and kiss his hair. She was a kind and affectionate sister, but rarely soft about anything. And he didn’t see how he could run with her holding him like that, though he didn’t mind. He liked hugs more than she did.

I love you, Cassian, she said, almost casually, the way she always said anything that mattered. Then her painful grip on him fell away. Now go.

And Cassian ran. Luck or the Force kept him alive, and his own obedience brought him to the caves beyond the blasterfire and real fire and everything. He only disobeyed once, early on, glancing back as he snuck down towards the city. But he couldn’t see Renalia at all, just a dark shape sprawled on the snow, well past the drift they’d been hiding behind. It couldn’t be her, not unless she’d run forward for some reason, and that didn’t make any sense at all.

He wouldn’t understand until the next day, when the Queen’s men pulled him from the rubble, shouting we’ve got an eighth down here and it’s a child! Until a man with soft robes and soft eyes asked him his name, and he just begged him, where’s Mama? Where’s Rana?—I’m Cassian, Cassian Andor, but Rana—Renalia, my sister, you’ve got to find her—

“—the old senator was a troublemaker since before the Empire, the princess is a traitor and spy, and that queen and the planetary council turn a blind eye to open disrespect for the Emperor.”

Tor halted long enough that Cassian assumed he’d finished his catalogue of Alderaan’s sins.

“I’m aware,” he said. “You’re concerned about the Alderaanian officers?”

“Not you, Willix,” Tor assured him. “You more than proved your loyalty on Scarif. Now it’s time to prove your competence. With certain events”—he stopped, frowning at his hands rather than outwards. Not quite certain of something? Or ashamed. “With Leia Organa imprisoned and slated for execution, we want to know what sort of unpleasantness might result. Alderaan may have produced problems, but it’s produced some damn good officers, too. And Tarkin isn’t above airlocking the lot of you just to be safe.”

“I imagine not,” said Cassian, the words and bland tone automatic. He’d always known that he might die in undercover work; even the best identity could be blown, often by the most trivial mistakes. Though he dreaded the possibility and took every precaution, he understood that discovery would probably mean his death. But Cassian had never imagined dying under an identity, because of it.

One part of him felt almost outraged. Even as a child, he’d always been able to fool or escape Imperials. Not once had the Empire succeeded in capturing him; very rarely had they grasped enough to try. If he died because of that traitor Willix—

The other part, more insistent, thought of Jyn. Bodhi might be able to make it, if he kept his head down. He had no known connection. But Jyn would never keep her head down. She’d keep trying, even without Willix’s documentation shielding Lyr’s total lack of it. Willix’s death would mean Lyr’s transfer, and they would immediately discover that there was nothing to transfer.

Jyn might find a way to survive it, as she survived everything. Cassian knew she’d kept him alive, though he didn’t recall how. His memories of their escape, such as it was, remained a haze of agony and blood and Jyn’s hands on him, in his hair. Very little would astonish him at this point. That said, he trusted that she could find any chance of survival that existed, not that she had some Jedi-like power to manufacture chances that did not exist. If her last chance died with him, that would—no.

“We’re on a tight schedule,” Tor told him. “Half-duty, we can work with that, but we’re talking about a matter of days, here. This is your chance to compensate for your failure with Princess Leia.”

He tried not to feel offended on Willix’s behalf.

“As you know, I’m sure, she refuses to reveal what she knows. That’s where you enter. You’re as Alderaanian as they come.”

Cassian was getting tired of that. “I am, sir?”

With a vague gesture at his face, Tor said, “Look it, sound like it, all of that. It should help.”

He was very tired of that. Nevertheless, he saw the opportunity gleaming beyond his fingertips, for the Rebellion and Jyn and his own survival.

“With Princess Leia?” said Cassian. “I don’t quite follow, commander. The idea that she might be susceptible to one of her own people plainly proved false. I doubt I could get anything out of her that Lord Vader didn’t.”

“Of course not.” Tor looked appalled. “However, if any of the Alderaanian officers retain some sentimentality towards her, her resistance may provoke some of them to attempt contact, or even to break her out. Either would mean the loss of valuable men.”

“What one does, we all pay for?” Cassian kept his voice flat, but a little dry. Even Willix wouldn’t contemplate his own death with perfect sangfroid.

Rather to his surprise, Tor grimaced. 

“I’m afraid so.”

“That would be a loss,” Cassian remarked. “So I am to hunt down any … seeds of sedition among the Alderaanians, until the execution? Is there a particular date?”

“That depends on—various factors,” said Tor. “In any case, it will happen, and soon. Your vigilance will not end there, either. Princess Leia may prove more dangerous as a martyr than a traitor. For now, we’ll begin rotating Alderaanians into her vicinity, and you into taking command of security.”

With a thin smile, Cassian said, “Throw the doors open and see if anyone steps aside?”

“Precisely. In the meanwhile, you can’t investigate the entire station, but you can take the measure of the sector’s Alderaanians at meals and meetings and the like. I’ll send you a list.”

As Tor consulted his datapad, Cassian said,

“I can’t be the only one placed to … observe.”

“Of course not,” said Tor, without looking up. “We would aim to neutralize the threat in any case. This is simply happy coincidence.” Now he did glance over at Cassian, blocky features inscrutable. “An Alderaanian spy landing here is more luck than we ever anticipated. Yet here you are.”

Cassian considered him.

“Yes,” he said. “Here I am.”

It wasn’t the first time Jyn fought the temptation to dash down the halls, toss all her careful work aside to act, however disastrously. But it was certainly the most difficult. She strode towards their quarters at her most determined stalk, letting just enough worry leak through to justify it.

The effort distracted her so much that she didn’t notice a massive figure approaching until he said,

“Sergeant Lyr.”

Pausing, she lifted her eyes. Then she lifted them much higher; if she had to crane up (just a bit) with Cassian, this man forced her entire head back. He must have at least six inches on Cassian, well over a foot on her, and he was built like a mountain. A head of slicked-back yellow hair lent a certain absurdity to him, but couldn’t diminish the overpowering impression of enormity. 

She’d never seen him in her life. Jyn was certain she’d remember if she had. And she remembered everything, anyway.

“Commander,” she said, taking in the squares at his breast, and then making a leap—“Tor?”

He gave a crisp nod, and a clap on her shoulder that nearly brought her to her knees. “Good luck.”

With that, he passed on down the hall, leaving Jyn with considerably less terror and considerably more confusion. A high Imperial officer coming this far to—what? Welcome a subordinate onboard?

Frowning, she darted into the quarters. To her total lack of surprise, Cassian wasn’t resting, but pacing the chamber with some sort of humming device in his hand. He seemed completely unhurt: better than he’d looked since before he fell, in fact, if thinner and slower.

“Cassi—”

He held up his hand, which would have been infuriating, if not for the fact that she didn’t rush into rage for no reason. She could put two and two together.

Jyn snapped her fingers and mouthed scanner?

Cassian nodded.

“Sorry it took so long, captain,” she said. “Damn elevators.”

Cassian made a short, laugh-adjacent sound. “Can’t disagree with you there. I’m fine, anyway.”

The scanner’s hum remained low and constant.

“No pain?”

Pausing, he actually looked taken aback. “No, actually.”

Jyn narrowed her eyes. “When did you last take your analgesics?”

“After you left,” said Cassian. “About three hours ago.” He switched off the scanner and exhaled. “Well, if he left equipment, I can’t find it.”

“Commander Tor?” At his sharp glance, she added, “I met him, if you can call it that, in the hall. He wished me good look and just about crushed my collarbone.”

With a slant of his mouth that needed no interpretation, Cassian said, “He is tall.”

“He is horrifying,” she retorted. “What was he doing here?”

“He realized that I am a spy,” said Cassian, with perfect calm. He placed the scanner in an open kit on his bed.

“What?” Jyn thought about Tor’s cordial greeting in the hall. “Wait—what?”

“An Imperial spy,” he amended. “Supposedly based on Willix’s posts, but it should be in the file. That’s how I was able to get …” Cassian gestured vaguely at the closet, then walked over, kit in hand, and neatly stacked it. “Everything.”

“Right, you’re a quadruple agent, or whatever it was.” Letting her muscles relax, Jyn tossed her cap—she particularly hated the Imperial hats—onto her bed. She pressed her hands against her back until it cracked.

“Triple,” Cassian said. He turned back to the closet, fixing some trivial problem he must have noticed. “I think.”

Jyn yawned. Though curious about whatever their supposed commander had wanted, the panicked urgency had drained away. Mostly, she felt tired. Dinner and then the hours consumed by Esten’s nightly examination loomed ahead.

We’re alive, she reminded herself. They had their limbs; Jyn and Bodhi had perfect health, in fact, and Cassian would soon. If they survived. The grind of inconvenience and danger couldn’t compare to death and horror.

“He wants us to spy on someone?” She wandered about the room, checking the locations of all the hidden blasters. No changes there.

At first, Cassian didn’t say anything. Maybe he was distracted by whatever had bothered him in the closet, but if so, only briefly. He emerged while Jyn was still surveying blasters, his implication of a smile deepening when he saw her. Not mocking, not even amused—she couldn’t have said what, exactly, it was.

“Multiple someones,” he said. With no more explanation than she had offered, he yanked the blanket off her bed and tossed it into the laundry chute. As he did, and after they sat on their respective beds, Cassian reported the entire conversation he’d had with Tor. Word-for-word, she suspected.

“It’s a trap,” said Jyn.

“Of course.” Tentatively, he leaned forward enough to drop his arms on his thighs, bringing their eyes nearly level. “The only question is for whom.”

Jyn searched his face, her own mind racing. ��Do you seriously think they’re concerned about Alderaanians defecting to help the princess?”

“It’s possible,” he said, startling her. “The Organas are very much beloved on Alderaan. More than they were under the Republic. If Commander Tor can be trusted that far, there is no intention of letting Princess Leia live. Any bargain they might offer is a lie. People have defected over less.”

Her brows rose. “Really?”

“Yes, though I don’t think it’s at all likely that these ones would,” Cassian said. “Not here. Someone like Tor considering that they might, though? Perhaps.”

“All right, perhaps.” She tried to think over all the details stuffing her head. “He didn’t say anything about Aldera?”

“Not directly,” said Cassian. Turning his face to the side, a little, he wet his lip. “But he did specify that he wanted the observation to continue past the princess’s execution. He seemed—I wouldn’t say upset, but …”

“Troubled?” Jyn suggested.

“Yes.” He looked back at her, steady again.

“If they are planning to attack Aldera,” she said, half to herself, “then that is what they’re really worried about, isn’t it? Imperial officers on this thing would probably shrug off the death of a traitor, no matter who it is. Destroying their capital and wrecking a good chunk of the planet around it? That’s different.”

“Very different,” said Cassian grimly. “Alderaan has no weapons. Even officers on the Death Star might think twice about seeing their planet attacked for no reason. Of course, there’s another possibility.”

“It could be a trap for us,” Jyn said. Always alert to danger, she couldn’t help but favour that option. “They’re putting you in the perfect position to communicate with Princess Leia. Even to help her escape, if we take the chance.”

He nodded. “Exactly. It’s very elaborate for potential mid-level traitors, but if they suspect we’re spies for the Rebellion, identifying and questioning us becomes important.”

“Right.” She felt a certain warmth at we’re spies for the Rebellion, at the sheer truth of it. And a little at the sheer ease with which he folded them together—Cassian, a hardened Alliance agent of twenty years, and Jyn, guerrilla soldier turned thief turned thief for the Rebellion. Rebel spies had a nice ring to it.

“Well,” said Cassian, “either is likely enough. So there is only one thing we can do, at the moment.”

“Wait and see,” Jyn supplied. It better have a nice ring, for this. “We can’t contact her.”

“Not yet.” Something like her own frustration settled on his face. Like all his expressions, though, it passed quickly. He straightened up, resolute again. “But we’ll be there.”

[racingtoaredlight]

Raising the Bar

Do’s and Don’ts of upgrading your style.

***

Style is not a competition, despite how often I come off with a tone suggesting it is.  While I do talk about the social aspect of style and how it reflects things to suggest status and refinement of character, the core fundamental premise of my philosophy on style is to properly reflect and frame who you are.

It’s about making yourself look as good as you can, both for those aforementioned social aspects as well as the emotional and psychological boost it gives you.  Frankly, dressing well makes you feel great about yourself.  That in itself is worth it.

But there are some pitfalls that you can unwittingly fall into while upgrading your style.  Things that can make you feel awkward and out of place.  There’s a sweet spot here, and hopefully this helps find it.

***

DO - Keep it simple

I’ve beaten this concept into the ground, but if you’re in the earlier stages of upgrading your style, it’s cost efficient to stick to the basics.  You might be tempted to go for something with a bold checked pattern or a loud color...but it’s that light blue oxford shirt that’ll be worn multiple times per week for a decade.

***

DON’T - Go to the extremes

If you’re in a work environment that’s more towards the casual end of the business casual spectrum, it doesn’t mean you can’t wear tailored clothing or accessories like a jacket and tie.  It just means you probably can’t get away with wearing a suit, even a relatively conservative one.

But if all your coworkers are wearing khakis and polos, you can absolutely get away with wearing chinos, and OCBD with a silk or wool knit tie and an unstructured jacket.  You might be wearing a tie and jacket, but those details will keep it from being overdressed and snooty like a suit would.

***

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DO - Be comfortable

The dude above looks comfortable.  And a soft flannel suit like that and camelhair jacket is fuckin’ comfortable, let me tell you.  But comfort is more than just the fabrics you’re wearing...it’s about being tailored properly and being something that you feel socially comfortable in as well.

That suit’s tailored pretty loose, and yet it looks miles better than the numerous skin-tight examples of suits that have been en vogue for the past five years.

But it’s the dude’s relaxed posture and demeanor that’s important.  If something’s going to make you feel overdressed and stuffy, it’s going to make you uncomfortable.  That reflects outward...

***

DON’T - Look like you gotta poop

It’s impossible to look good, no matter what you’re wearing or how “in fashion” it is, if you’re not comfortable.  This dude looks like he’s gotta poop.  Nobody looks good when they gotta poop.  You’re not relaxed and comfortable if you gotta poop.

This guy just doesn’t look comfortable.  His jacket’s too tight.  His sleeves are too long.  That belt is weird.  It all looks affected and unnatural...and he’s got the demeanor that he knows it too.

Compare the two examples...the buttoned-up guy with the tie and suit looks at ease and relaxed while the guy without a tie and his shirt half undone couldn’t be less comfy.  Again, if you’re not comfortable wearing something...don’t wear it.

***

DO - Use color for maximum impact

I love this example above because of how great of an example it is of using color for maximum impact.  Forget what he’s wearing...that navy vest could just as well be a navy sweater or cardigan.  Look at the simple base colors...camel, navy, light blue...and how that peak of red from the crewneck sweater and the gloves just explodes.

You don’t need to go crazy with color to make a huge impact.  And by cluttering up that color by wearing a bunch of other bold colors, those colors lose their impact.  Use just a splash and it goes such a long way.

***

DON’T - Try to use bold patterns or colors to cover the details up

Bold patterned shirts aren’t as versatile and durable* as solid colored shirts.

*Patterned shirts will fall out of your rotation quicker than solid colored shirts due to being out of fashion, aging poorly or growing tired of them.  Solid colored shirts, especially oxfords, get better as they age and, in my opinion, are better cost efficient purchases for foundational pieces.

And if you’re trying to use patterns or colors to cover up bad fabric or a butchered tailoring job (as in the image above...check out the sleeves), it’s a worse sin than actually dressing inappropriately from the beginning.  Keeping it simple avoids this problem.

***

DO - Refine your style

If you work in a white-collar environment where there are senior coworkers who really dress well every day in suits, it might be hard to raise the bar to their level.  What you can do instead is refine your own.

For example, I’ve pared my ties down to exclusively repp stripes and Italian grenadine ties and it’s something easy to build on.  Sure, it’s not a major upgrade or change, but it’s something that refines your personal sense of style and makes you unique.  Even if it’s just a tiny detail...

***

DON’T - Get cute with these details

Listen, if you work with senior dudes who dress sharp in suits every day, you’re not gonna beat em.  You’re definitely not going to do it by flipping your collar up like the pic above, or doing tie bullshit like this...

So don’t even bother.  Just refine your own style instead.  Boredom with style is actually kind of hard to deal with if you really like it...but it can lead to temptations to do stupid shit like above.  Don’t fall into that trap.

***

Raising the bar at work or personally isn’t hard, but your instincts can play tricks on you.

You might think going bold or splashy will pay off and show the world that you’re a style master to be reckoned with...but it’s usually the little splashes that make the best impact.  Look at how much better the simple examples work compared to the flashier ones...

Take the picture at the very top.  That’s something that’s not hard to pull off, and not hard to imagine working in a variety of social situations, but still looks both incredibly comfortable and sharp.

You’ll know how far you can upgrade because you’ll feel it yourself.  You’ll feel great if you’ve hit that sweet spot, while you’ll feel awkward or weird when you’re overdressed.  Hitting that sweet spot is great though.  You feel like a boss, invincible, like you’re king shit.  That’s the whole point of this thing...to make yourself feel great.

***

***Piece republished from same RTARL pieces written hundreds of times already.

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