#i don't really write about the worst of the worst

[summertimesadnessirl]

People were talking about how much they liked the shooter before they caught him already. It's not just because Luigi is cute.

But also it doesn't matter.

They can't find a way to make it seem like Luigi was a bad person. He ticks pretty much everyone's boxes for upstanding young man.

The worst they can do is go "boy wouldn't you have a ton of admirers chasing you and romantically interested in you if you had shot a Healthcare CEO!"

They can claim it's because he's hot but literally I've met young men who are incels who basically look like that.

If the best you can come up with while writing mean news articles about how the "male loneliness epidemic" is causing young men to become radicalized and join armed extremist movements because the church flavored corporatist party promised them a wife is "hey lonely radicalized young men with guns, look at how many women and also men are attracted to this vigilante!" I don't think that's really the deflect they think it is.

legit so annoyed about the way the corporate media wants to paint those women waiting outside the court as crazy and as only being there because Luigi is hot. I looked up pictures of them outside the court and they all held signs and were there to send a message: "health over wealth", "denial of medical care = violence", "murder for profit = terrorism", "the United States healthcare stole my livelihood", "insurance lobbyists line politicians' pockets", "healthcare reform NOW". Yeah, they're there because he's hot for sure. Also, there were a lot of men as well but hey, that's not helping the narrative right?

[foone]

When you are confirmed, you pick a name of a patron saint, and from them on you'll get different special abilities based on which one you picked.

Personally I went with St. Isidore of Seville, which gives me a percentage bonus to my computer skills.

I had considered St. Francis de Sales, for the writing bonuses, but he's also the patron saint of Columbus, Ohio and I don't want any Ohio-related bonuses cluttering up my stats page. I've spent most of my life attempting to maximize my distance from Ohio, as have many Ohioans I've met.

My dad picked St. Cecilia for the musical skills. And her bonuses are doubled if he's doing music for the church, which ended up being the driving force behind my father's faith. We switched denominations every time my dad got kicked out of the church band.

Which happened surprisingly often. "leader of the church band" is one of those roles that attracts the worst kind of petty tyrant, and my dad (like me) doesn't really think authority is really something you should give a shot about, so he'd just be like "eh, screw you, I'll go find another church band" and now we're Baptists instead of Presbyterians.

Me and my sis used to joke that were only a couple church disagreements away from showing up at a synagogue or mosque. My dad believed in Psalm 98:4 "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth: make a loud noise, and rejoice, and sing praise". He belonged to the Church of the Joyful Noise.

Anyway the cool thing about selecting St. Isidore is that the programmer socks bonus stacks with it, so I can be doubly bonused and really get into some deep programming.

[annabolinas]

Hey, y'all! I'm super excited to announce something very special: I'm launching a blog! It's called Adventures in Early Modernity. I'll be writing about early modern history, the Tudors, Tudor media, my journey in academia, and some of my other secondary intellectual interests (i.e. ancient history, the Hebrew Bible, classical/early modern literature, etc). I'm really looking forward to giving you a glimpse into my daily yapping and updating you on my life as an early modern history grad student. The site is up now, and you can access it here:

I already have two blog posts up! The first is an introduction to the blog and an account of my academic life (a detailed telling of my time at Oxford and Cambridge will be in a different post):

And the second post up is part 1 (the 4 worst) of a 3-part ranking of 12 on-screen depictions of Anne Boleyn. I've had strong opinions on them for some time, so I'm really excited to finally put them out there! I will be tagging the portrayals on this post, BTW, so don't look at the tags if you don't want spoilers.

I'm over the moon, frankly! Make sure to subscribe to my blog so you can receive email updates with each new post. Just enter your email at the bottom of the page.

Tagging some of my mutuals to signal boost this:

@theladyelizabeth @catherinesboleyn @glorianas @jezabelofthenorth @fideidefenswhore @period-dramallama @katharinepar

[bayetea]

I think it's really annoying that leo has completely falsified memories of jason too and this is barely acknowledged in the books

[rdng1230]

Sorry op, you awoke the writing demon and it must be satiated.

—-

Sal groans into his whiskey, silently asking god why he sent him such an idiotic best friend with it seems, an equally stupid ex boyfriend.

"You asked him to move in with you? Buckley I thought he said you were smart."

Buck can't help the sad smile that invades his face. "He really said that??"

Sal ignores him, tapping on the bar like he's Columbo laying out a case. "So tell me if I got something wrong here. He kisses you, you go on a date, you pull the no homo routine, ask him for coffee, invite him to your sister's wedding, fucking insane by the way, you spend the next what, 5 or so months happy as clams not asking any deeper questions at all and you think you can just jump into cohabitating with a smile and a Stonewall Spiel?"

Sal straightens up and turns to face Buckley full on. "No foolin, is there an actual goddamn gas leak in your apartment?"

Buck stares back at him sheepishly, either shame or booze flooding his cheeks red. "I may have skipped a few steps."

"Boy you skipped so many steps you took an elevator."

Buck bites the inside of his cheek. "Tommy always made your pep talks sound like, you know, actual pep talks."

Sal takes another sip of his drink and signals for another. "Here's the thing I think you've failed to grasp about ole Tommy Boy. There is nothing more baffling to him than a compliment."

The younger man's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

And this time Sal actually looks sad. Really sad. "I've been his friend for longer than either of us care to remember. I have seen the best and worst of him and I love him more than anyone apart from my girls. I haven't always been good at showing it, but he is my family."

Sal stares at Buck with a strange mixture of vulnerability and laying down a challenge. One Buck desperately hopes he can meet.

"The only thing I would change about Tommy Kinard is that he would believe me when I tell him that. Would believe anyone when they tell him things like that."

Buck reaches out without thinking to grab Sal's shoulder, and surprisingly the old grump doesn't recoil. Buck can't really say Sal and him are friends. In fact they may be far too similar to ever be friends. But Sal wants nothing but the best for Tommy, and for that, they're on the same team.

"The truth is kid, Tommy has a knack for picking roads he knows are dead ends. He was ready to ride the thing with you till the fucking wheels fell off, but he never expects anyone to stick around. There's nothing scarier to him than potential. To him that's the same thing as loss. And believe me, he's lost enough."

Buck stares at the foggy bar mirror. If he wasn't on his second whiskey, Sal would have made an excellent Roman Centurion. Stalwart and intimidating against anyone who would wish harm to the things he cares about. It's probably what makes him such a good Captain.

"How do I make him believe that he's not gonna lose me? How do I convince him that I want to stay."

Sal gives him a sympathetic glance. "I don't know if he'll ever believe it fully. But the best advice I can offer? Stay anyway. Love him anyway. But you gotta love the real him this time, and believe me he will fight you every step of the way on that."

Buck nods sincerely, his whole body singing at the idea of even seeing Tommy, much less being with him. "I'd fight forever if it means getting him back."

Sal grimaces and juts his chin toward the door. "Get the hell out of here and go get your man Buckley, Unless you wanna gimme a toothache on top of this hangover."

Buck grins, tossing a wad of cash on the counter and gunning it for the exit.

Sal goes up to Buck in a badge and ladder bar and asks him what the FUCK did he do to Tommy

And Buck is taken aback and looks so confused as he replies that Tommy's the one who broke up with him?

And Sal juat goes cool, that doesn't answer my fucking question. What the fuck did you do to him?

[radioheadyaoi]

the homoeroticism of being in a band

brooklyn baby, lana del rey / untitled (you construct intricate rituals), barbara kruger / fabrizio moretti and julian casablancas of the strokes / julian casablancas and albert hammond jr. of the strokes / mr schwartz, arctic monkeys / boygenius: the film, directed by kristen stewart / catapult, arctic monkeys / alex turner and miles kane of the last shadow puppets for everything you've come to expect / driving, not washing, richard siken / the hours and times, directed by christopher munch / sue zhao / the dream synopsis, the last shadow puppets / the last shadow puppets live at the catalyst, 2016 / august, taylor swift / the predatory wasp of the palisades is out to get us!, sufjan stevens / the strokes at the troubadour, 2001 / velvet goldmine, directed by todd haynes / because dreaming costs money my dear, mitski / boygenius for rolling stone magazine / the last shadow puppets live at alexandra palace, london, 2016 / untitled / the dogs i have kissed, trista mateer / strangers, ethel cain / untitled (cont.)

[astranauticus]

i don't have the screenshots on hand because this is just a thought i needed to let out after being woken up by my buildings fire alarm at 7am (i am in shambles, thanks for asking) but back at the start of canto 7 i was trying to figure out what in the Fuck hong lu meant by don quixote being 'the most lucid' of the sinners and eventually my read was that she's the one who's most clear on what she wants because hong lu brought up how her eyes are sparkling and the two times dante notes someone's eyes sparkling in that episode (?) were when don talks about saving all the people in la manchaland and when charon says she wants to eat candy at an amusement park, and also this would very nicely mirror the bit in the final sancho fight when dante ruminates about how so far they've been trying to help the sinners out of their issues by figuring out what they want and then promising it to them but with sancho she doesn't want anything because everything she's wanted as don quixote was part of that dream that she's now woken up from (especially with dulcinae talking at length about the difference between sancho and don's eyes)

but like..... there's one other thing about eyes that dante notices in that early episode

so i'm wondering if this is an idea that's gonna come back in canto 8, that dante's old tricks aren't going to work here either because hong lu just doesn't really want anything for himself when he's been living his whole life surrendering (hah) himself to being used by other people for their own goals

[stop-breaking-my-heart-dragonage]

I'm not ready to shut up about Aveline and Carver--so, when you go see Aveline in Act 1, you can catch up with her a little bit and that's where this conversation can happen:

Aveline: "It's just one more change, though. The real end for me was Ostagar. What about you, Carver? You were there. Do you feel something similar?" Carver: No. Aveline: All right, then. Bit of a tit, your brother.

I wanted to see what she would say if Carver isn't in the party. Instead, she says this:

Aveline: Carver was there. I imagine he feels something similar. If he allows it.

......well, at least she didn't call him a tit?

[pa-pa-plasma]

you just made the scientific discovery of the century & you want to tell everyone & your kids are first on that list but you can't find them. you manage to get a hold of your daughter & she says everything is fine but her voice gets tight when you try to mention your work & she sucks in a breath & says she won't keep you from it any longer than she already has & doesn't say bye as she hangs up the phone. you have a sinking feeling in your gut & you really want to get back to what you were doing but. something's wrong. where are your kids. why was your daughter not surprised when you told her. why was she so quick to hang up on you. your husband has the same type of mind & that's probably why neither of you can ignore this odd turn of events & so you decide to track them down. the research can wait. after all, the spook got away somehow afterwards. it's not like you have anything to go through but data & recordings.

[ducktracy]

i've been in a very "nostalgic for SpongeBob" mood lately and that's warranted a lot of reflecting on Baby Me being a Sponge fanatic and thinking of what she'd think of now. and i have to say that one of my favorite parts of doing what i do--and also the most stupidly niche--is that one of my first online hyperfixations i recall having was SpongeBob production music. i remember animating magical girl transformations in Flipnote to SPONGEBOB MUSIC. i remember feeling so smart researching all the songs and getting to hear them without any dialogue on top. very gratifying to 11 year old me. i was and am still very fixated on production music, and so i always get very excited when seeing uploads of these songs and spotting a screenshot of a scene i worked on among them. one of my favorite aspects of watching episodes premiere is seeing what music they added on top of scenes i touched. it's just neat how many facets my thankfulness for Doing What I'm Doing gets to reach. i'm never not thinking of how grateful i am to be doing what i'm doing

[beevean]

I feel in a very generous mood, and after I talked about how much Lenore fails as a character, I wanted to for once praise the few times when she was pretty well written for who she was meant to be, a professional abuser, liar and manipulator with excellent strategies to make Hector lower his guard. All of these scenes happen in S3E6, for some reason: before and after, she's actually rather sloppy and in your face, and only succeeds because Hector was lobotomized by the writer lol. But this episde is what I mean when I say she had potential.

First, the part where Lenore "offers" the leash:

Lenore: Now then, would you like to go for a walk? Bit of fresh air in the starlight? Hector: I think I would, yes. Lenore: Good. Sadly, there's a condition. *shows leash* Hector: Oh. Lenore: Not my idea. Striga insisted. It should be quite comfortable. She just wanted a little extra security. Hector: You're ten times stronger than I am, Lenore. Lenore: Striga pointed out that you're a magician. And you do want to go for a walk, so… would you mind?

So.

Lenore kickstarts the episode with some fresh humiliation, because she has no time to waste. She jokes that Hector is now walking "on his hind legs" and looks "almost human", jokes again that she dressed up Hector so that his dick won't be stolen by birds, and asks him to smile in the face of his embarrassment like a creepy old man harassing a woman on the street.

This is the prelude to her downright falling into sexual abuse, which is this entire part.

The request is obviously unfair. Hector has been cooped up in his stagnant cell for what could be weeks, so it's only natural that he would enjoy some fresh air. But in order to get that basic comfort, Hector has to accept being treated like a literal dog for no good reason. And his braincell does activate for a moment, as he points out that yes, there is no good reason to force a leash on him, because Lenore sure showed him how strong and fast she is:

There is no way Hector would even attempt to run away, not when he has no tools at his disposal, he's starved and weakened, the castle is full of other vampires, and Lenore could snap his ankles in a second Annie Wilkes style.

But Lenore is undeterred. First, she says that it was Striga's idea. It's still ambiguous if she was sincere or not: Striga couldn't give less of a fuck about Hector and shows no reaction when, later in the episode, she sees the two on the balcony. That being said, the fact that she is the one complaining, in E8, that Lenore is taking Hector "on fucking walkies" implies that yes, Lenore lied and mentioned the queen who was less likely to bother Hector. As a bonus, she doesn't blame Carmilla, despite her being the first one who put Hector on a leash as he himself points out later on, therefore creating a precedent, because Hector already has beef with Carmilla, and Lenore is aiming to make him get over his resentment. Hence, the name of a vampire he does not care about. (although, logically, Morana would have been better because Striga will have to work closer to Hector once he becomes their Forgemaster, but eh, I guess even Lenore forgot about her lol)

But whoever had the idea doesn't matter, actually. What matters is that Lenore is shifting the blame on someone else. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I wouldn't do this to you, but I'm a poor little girl and I had no choice 🥺 blame her, not me, I'm just the cute princess obeying superior orders 🥺". And since Hector doesn't know Striga at all, and she has no intention of talking to him, he can believe that. She also subtly blames Hector, because well, he wanted to go on a walk, and she's just giving him what he wanted! He should be grateful, really!

Naturally, this excuse falls flat on its face because even if Striga was the one who suggested the leash for "extra security", it's Lenore who decided to make a sexual game out of it. She is the one who has expressed multiple times her attraction to Hector, first by kissing him after beating him to a pulp, and then by playing some more "genuine" compliments during the interrogation - as genuine as they can be after she spent the entire interrogation making him realize how much of a dumbass he was. She didn't need to do any of this. She's having fun for her own amusement, lording her power over Hector.

(mhh, Lenore using sexual abuse for no reason? It's almost like it's a pattern :) it's almost like being a rapist is in her character :) )

But she's not done! Because at Hector's "You're ten times stronger than I am", Lenore retorts (again blaming Striga, because she has to look blameless) that he's a magician. This is a profoundly stupid excuse because Hector is not a magician, he's a Devil Forgemaster who can't do shit without a forging tool: if he were a "magician" like, say, Sypha or the one who brainwashed an entire village, Lenore would already be a pile of ashes. But again, logic doesn't matter: what matters is that Hector is painted like the real threat to Lenore, the one who has the power to hurt her and not the other way around. See, she's just trying to protect herself from the mean Forgemaster, poor thing! This comes into play later.

Now, were Hector a stubborn person who valued his own dignity, this would be the moment where he'd show Lenore the middle finger and resign himself to staying in the stagnant cell. But Hector is not stubborn. Hector doesn't care about his own dignity and honor: he wants to feel safe and cared for. Plus, Lenore has already beaten him at the first sign of defiance: how does he know that she wouldn't punish him again if he refused her proposal? Even just by taking away the few "gifts" she had given him. So, powerless and too weakened to put up a mental fight, he caves in, because he's willing to give away his humanity for a few minutes of comfort and pretending Lenore is taking care of him.

Before I move on, I need to point out the half-clever, half-frustrating ironic echo the "magician" line gets in S4E6 that almost redeems it:

This is what in a vacuum I would call a big dick move lol. How delightfully sassy it is for Hector, after getting his heart broken and biding his time by coddling his abuser's feelings, to throw Lenore's excuses back in her face to put her in a position of helplessness! Oh, he can't be trusted because of his powers, and that was the reason he was treated like a dog and had a slave ring brute forced onto his hand when he would have willingly agreed to becoming Lenore's pet? Well, then Lenore was a giant idiot for trusting him after raping him into slavery and believing he would be harmless and happy with her, right? :)

(it would have been better if they used the exact word again, but whatever, nitpick)

Sadly I can't be fully happy with this scene because, despite his satisfied smirk shown here, Hector isn't really getting back at Lenore for the disgusting way she treated him, but he's instead trying his best to protect her with no malice in his heart, as shown when Isaac arrives and as shown by how he apologizes before trapping her. The parallel between Lenore "protecting" Hector by ruining his life because of her selfishness and Hector returning the favor is obvious, but it's as unsatisfying as possible, because by now the story wants us to feel sorry for Lenore, and Hector's gesture is meant to be tragic, not the rightful comeuppance. Also, due to how wishy-washy the worldbuilding is, I really can't tell if Hector deliberately used the wrong word as a reference to make Lenore really feel bad for her past actions (unlikely, given how he forgave her of everything, but a girl can dream), or if he's seriously calling himself a wizard, which even in the context of the show is very wrong and would be yet another way the animated franchise has watered down the concept of Devil Forging.

That being said, I can ignore the rest of the episode and pretend Hector was being snarky against his abuser 💖 I don't care if it's OOC and it's not like Hector to be this spiteful 💖 go king 💖

After this digression, back to S3E6, before Lenore became a woobie love interest and was still a vile manipulator.

I talked about this scene here, and mostly said that it was wasted potential for Lenore's final act in S4 for multiple reasons. But, for the purpose of this post, it is another nice attempt at manipulation, even if it's a basic "look how nice this place is! You'll enjoy it every night if you'll work for us!". Symbolically, it could be seen as Lenore dragging Hector away from humanity and towards the world of vampires... which would be poignant if Hector didn't start already as someone who turned his back against mankind in favor of vampires and hasn't budged from his beliefs. But eh, I get the idea, and it can be seen as foreshadowing to Lenore allowing Hector free roam of the castle once he becomes her pet. It sure is a nice gilded cage, isn't it?

Then, we have the scene on the balcony:

Lenore: Does it hurt? Hector: No. It just reminds me of the last time someone put a collar on me. Lenore: In Braila? Hector: When Carmilla almost killed me. Lenore: Well, she does have a temper. But she would never have meant to kill you. Hector: No. Because she needs me to be her forgemaster slave. Lenore: No, because if she'd meant to kill you, you would quite simply be dead. Hector: Hmph. Lenore: And if she'd meant to torture you, you would have arrived here carrying your guts in both hands with a spike up your arse. Hector: I suppose that's true. I mean, I can see her doing it. In nightmares and such. Lenore: She does have a temper, but she's logical. She never lets it run away with her to the point of, oh, I don't know, condemning the entire human race to death? Just a recent example of what being genuinely insane with murderous rage looks like. Hector: All right. Lenore: You may not have been treated like a boy king on your way here, but you did show up alive. Hector: Might have been nice, though. Lenore: Have you considered that you're only alive because you listened to Carmilla back in Dracula's castle? Hector: I hadn't. She tricked me. Lenore: I don't think she did. I think she made complete sense to you, and you felt guilty, understandably, about how it all played out. Hector: She made me betray Dracula. Lenore: No, she didn't. She showed you the old man was insane, and she saved you from the consequences. Nobody here wants to harm you. We just don't quite trust you yet. Hector: Trust me? Lenore: You did try to hurt me, Hector.

I still don't know why I can't find a clip of this part. With how crucial it is to their development (and you know, shippers would get a kick out of seeing the peggable boy leashed by the dommy mommy having a cute bonding moment), you'd think there'd be plenty of videos.

Nevertheless, this is the only time Lenore disgusted me in an intentional way, which I appreciate. His character development on stall, Hector has no moral qualms about working for vampires who want to turn humans into livestock, but he is still angry at Carmilla for tricking, beating and imprisoning him, understandably so. She is the only reason Hector still hasn't accepted Lenore's proposal: he doesn't want to work for her out of spite. So what does Lenore do with her amazing diplomacy skills? Launch herself into some pristine abuse apologism, the likes of which are only paralleled by Lenore stans themselves, using every excuse in the book to downplay Carmilla's brutal, sadistic beatdown of Hector, because oh, she just has a temper! Oh, it was just a one time thing! Oh, she saved your life nonetheless, even if you were treated less than royally! Oh, but Dracula was even more insane, so you can't be mad at Carmilla, she was just trying to help!

She's hitting every point possible to make Hector give up his grudge, because who cares about how he was treated, he's alive now, right? He should be grateful that he was "rescued" from Dracula's insanity, shouldn't he? Which is very similar to Lenore's overall attitude, like when she lowkey implied that she was the only one in the castle willing to treat Hector nicely after brutally beating him into submission :)

And as the cherry on top, she is blaming him for that, too! Hector tried to hurt her, the meanie, so really, no wonder he's being treated like a dog! No one wants to hurt him, she swears, it's just that these four super strong vampires are scared of this human prisoner! And if Lenore beat him to a pulp the other day (not that she is directly mentioning it, of course, the accent is on how he tried to hurt her), well, it's all his fault, so he can't complain. Mhh, reminds me of another scene where Lenore downplays her disgusting actions by shaming Hector...

Goodness, but Lenore must have gotten a degree in abuse apologism with flying colors! Look at that flawless DARVO! She would be a brilliant portrayal of a self-centered piece of shit who refuses to take responsibility, if I knew it was all intentional!

I also like that, near the end, when she's rebuking Hector's protests, for once she doesn't sound insufferably smug, but like she is patiently correcting a stubborn child making him reason. This is much better than her usual tone of voice that can only be described as "I get wet at seeing you humiliated", and not just because it's less grating on the ears: she is supposed to sound trustworthy and well-meaning, emotionally comforting Hector and not making fun of him. This is the tone she should have had from day one. It also would have helped distinguishing her and not making her sound like Carmilla 2.0, BDSM patch included.

The rest of the sequence speaks for itself. Lenore gives Hector a bigger cell (with added symbolism of her tugging his leash to lead him to it, showing that she is forcing all these comforts on him), complete with a book about vampires that he might find interesting, and engages in yet some more sexual play by removing the collar in the most erotic way possible for the joy of the shippers and the thirsty fans. But I want to focus on two things.

One, the book.

When it came to convincing Hector that nighttime is better than daytime, thus the vampire world is better than the human world, I said it was redundant because Hector already feels closer to the former than the latter. This, however, is a much better way to lure him in: Lenore is welcoming Hector even further in their world - or rather, her world. She is sharing their knowledge, the secret knowledge lost by humans and preserved by vampires, much like when during their walk she flaunted the castle's hypocaust that keeps the cells warm ignore that it's normally kept lit by slaves, giving us some unintentionally clever foreshadowing. In E8, Hector is genuinely fascinated by it:

Lenore's strategy of "humanizing" her race, and thus herself and the council so that Hector won't be scared, is pretty obvious but efficient. It's a shame that it's redundant because Hector has no prejudices, nor has he shown any, against vampires (because that would have created conflict between him and Lenore's plan): but hey, better be safe than sorry, right? In a way, it's a continuation of Lenore's abuse apologism, when she tried her best to paint Carmilla as a logical person "with a temper", and not as a violent beast to be scared of. "I keep telling you, we're not monsters."

Most importantly, this really hits one of Hector's weakest spots: feeling appreciated for his talents. It's all but said that the reason he feels more comfortable around vampires is because they mostly value him for his Devil Forging and necromancy, unlike humans who chased him away for that. For a human being who feels no connection to mankind, being offered a peek into vampire culture must have felt a honor.

Lenore giving him that book "given his profession" shows that she's meeting him on his level, and she doesn't simply see him as a tool like Carmilla, but someone whose blasphemous knowledge is respectable and worth nurturing. She didn't need to do that: Hector is already a genius in Devil Forging, so it's not for him to study to become more efficient. But it's basically a kind gift based on his interests.

But the really brilliant line is this one:

The levels of mindfuckery here!

Lenore coerced Hector into wearing a dog collar and leash for the simple purpose of walking around, making him feel like it was his fault he had to be treated that way, and all for the purpose of gaslighting him into forgiving Carmilla for hurting him. And after that gratuituous display of power over him, she is acting like they just went on a date and she is sheepishly asking permission for another one. (There is no clip, but the tone sounds soft and honestly grateful, too, like he's really doing her a favor.)

This is the exact same strategy of blaming Striga for the leash. She's passing the responsibility onto someone else: Hector, in this case. Lenore is pretending Hector has any power over their encounters. She's just a poor girl who wants to spend quality time with him, but she would never intrude upon his space without permission 🥺 even thought she just literally did by nearly kissing him while taking away the collar before he could ever express any interest in her 🥺 no, really, she leaves the choice up to him 🥺 (so that everything that follows will be his fault, obviously)

But Lenore doesn't just delude Hector into feeling like he has control right after stripping it from him: the point is, naturally, making him feel wanted. Not just as a thing to play with, because otherwise Lenore can just visit him whenever she pleases, but as a person worthy of respect. She likes spending time with him, and she demurely asks if he too wants to see her - and after popping a boner after her little stunt being lovebombed like that, of course Hector can't say no. Not after feeling genuinely cared for as a person, his biggest weak point.

How nice, after their rough start, they're finally developing a relationship of equality and respect despite their circumstances!

This is what Lenore should have been since the beginning. Wearing the mask of the demure little girl whom others make fun of, who is completely harmless (unless the other person deserves it), really, her hands are tied but she always tries her best, look at her gifts made from her pure kindness of heart! And subtly but constantly snipering at Hector's heart, sensing the chinks in his armor and pouncing on them like only a consummate liar and inherent predator can do. Not smugness, not humiliation, not sexual molestation: the believable lie of love and affection, targeted to someone who would sell his soul to taste those crumbs.

Or worse, the other interpretation is that this isn't even malicious lying at all. Now sure, Lenore can't spend one second in S3 without that obnoxious smirk on her face because she's just enjoying so much taking advantage of the power she has over her prisoner, and sure, I have proof that the ring was a pointless act of cruelty that nullifies all her hard work... but who says every word out of her mouth is a lie meant to harm and psychologically break Hector? Maybe it's just 90% of them! Maybe she's genuine when she shows attraction to Hector, and compliments him, and is happy when gets "permission" to see her again because it also makes her feel wanted (after all, Lenore's priority is feeling good about herself). Maybe she does care about him and she was earnest when she tried to "comfort" Hector after raping him into slavery - oh, my bad, into a position of pet... problem is that she is still a vampire, who cannot conceptualize love as humans do, and sees relationships as inherently unbalanced where she is the one where she has to have all the power. And she's willing to do whatever it takes to gain it, say every lie that comes to her fangs, twist every word, shift every ounce of blame, as long as it's for her pet's own good. Because that's what vampires do.

It's a shame those are the only instances Lenore is well written as a villain, because man, the depths of the realistic, relatable horror displayed in one episode are staggering and well conveyed. And most of this behavior is still carried into S4! ... completely by accident, which ignites my fury like few things.

She could have been a great, viscerally repulsive villain and an accurate depiction of an abuser who truly thinks she's in the right, and not just mere masturbation fodder. Now, if only Hector was written with more spine than a beached jellyfish...

[dirtheran]

I get the sense that while they had planned for that piece of lore to be true, they didn't want to go all in until they were really confident they had it nailed down, which makes it even funnier that it turned out so poorly in Veilguard, imo.

For example, the two biggest "reveal" banters - both Cole's, regarding Solas not wanting a body and burning Mythal off his face and wanting to give wisdom rather than orders - are in Trespasser, rather than the base game. Obviously that doesn't make them less canon, but it does mean that they nailed down that particular plot thread with the certainty that it was something that was worth noting, rather than hinting at. If there's a gun here, it's this lore reveal.

And then! In Veilguard! Bioware made the narrative choice to confirm a huge amount of lore analysis with something very close to objective truth (Solas relating his own memories to no one but himself - no potentially unreliable narrator in an artist that worshipped him here like in the Trespasser frescos, this is The Guy) in the format of a series of very long, very visually flat cut scenes where there was absolutely no ability to react in any meaningful way to any of it.

Does it make sense from an in-game perspective? I mean. Brother, I fucking guess. Technically there's a reason Rook and the Team™️ want those memories, but jesus it is weak. MAYBE there is something in the memories that can MAYBE redeem Solas and get him to change his mind, forget that he has had these memories all along and presumably he's grappling with them in his own regret prison (look away from that plot point, do not ask questions about that plot point). Technically at this point he's still trapped and not at all a danger, but sure. It works out for Rook and Co because of course it does, but a narratively tight choice it is not.

From an external perspective, it is absolutely brutal. It is an incomprehensible choice, in my opinion, to have the worst things that have ever happened to a man played out in a disjointed sequence, and the man himself doesn't have the chance to. Weigh in. Comment. Mention it. Provide context. God for-fucking-bid Solas get any amount of agency when we're talking about the worst things he feels he has participated in.

And you know what - I could forgive even that (in my opinion) extremely bad narrative choice if we could have the characters question in any way what they're seeing rather than summarizing and then doubling and tripling down on 'so this WAS all Solas' fault!!'

All of that criticism applies infinitely to the Wisdom confirmation, because not a single character involved can use their brains long enough to say 'oh, wait, when Solas says "my people", he can mean spirits too, huh! and they ARE suffering behind the Veil! Suddenly his prevarication about who he's doing all this for makes sense!"

But they can't do that, because Bioware won't write that, and Bioware didn't write that because they really, really, really don't want you to ask if the Veil should come down. They don't want the characters to have the voice to say "maybe Solas has a point" because they're not taking the Veil down and they don't want you as an audience member to stare directly into the question of 'but why?'. You might do it anyway, but it is a very uncomfortable position to put your unequivocally Good Guy characters into if you don't want them to experience any kind of moral quandary and suddenly they're on the side opposite a freedom fighter who wants to tear down the Veil not because he hates the people in this world but because the broken status quo is something that he considers his fault because - indirectly - it is!!!

The Wisdom reveal is a symptom of a long list of things that had narrative support but jesus, the way the characters reacted made me wish they were just still mysteries.

It feels like Bioware built a deck of cards of every single question they made you ask about Solas and Elvhen history and spirits in general and then instead of playing a game with you to show them they threw them all on the table and said, "there, happy?"

If I'm being honest, man, not really!

i know that this is a deep cut, but when people justify a terrible writing choice by saying 'no see there's evidence in the text' it's like. yeah i Know there's evidence in the text. its not a question of whether the thing is true, it's that its stupid.

like yeah i Know that theres a codex entry about how the venatori came to accept being led by the evanuris. i can read that codex entry and still say 'well that was a goofy ass writing choice'

[miaoqing]

my biggest regret in life is writing that post about reducing airplane to a "shitty author" because i forgot that a lot of people on tumblr read with their eyes closed and misunderstood my point completely. "sacrificing your morals for the sake of appealing to the masses is tragic but sometimes necessary if that's the only way you can pay your bills" and "criticising bad writing is valid, especially if you're confident that the author could write well but you're under the impression that they choose not to" are both valid takes and can coexist. however, "an author should always put their artistic vision above what their audience wants even if it means that they will literally starve" is NOT a valid take and definitely comes from a place of privilege, and agreeing with/defending it is... weird, to say the least.

airplane's writing was definitely flawed in many ways, but at the end of the day, he did what he had to do. in vol 3 he tells shen yuan that he's thankful that he made the story go back to what he originally wanted to write but had to abandon because he literally couldn't afford to live otherwise. he did his best. criticise his writing if you want to, but have a bit of compassion, too.

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

[moe-broey]

You see, Moe isn't in the business of fixing people, *remembers Moe is quite literally in the business of "fixing" people as a healer* *stares out into yhe fucki g

[novelconcepts]

the truly problematic thing about having insanely vivid dreams just about every night--and i mean the kind of vivid where you remember details days or even weeks later, like it's just another normal-ass memory--is that you wind up losing track on an emotional level of what's real. like. i know that was a dream. obviously it was a dream. but some part of my brain misses it like it really happened. i am painfully, achingly nostalgic for people i've never met, places i've never been, shit that literally could not ever happen--but i feel as though i remember. which is just the most unhinged thing, right? like, i remember going on a run that took me over a fence into Disneyland, and i remember having to take a shortcut through a Chinese restaurant, but it was fine, because Erika Ishii was there, and they'd done this before, so no worries. right? no! obviously not! why do i remember this with such visceral clarity three weeks later?

oh, what's your favorite episode of this TV show? the one i dreamt. yeah, don't worry about it, it didn't make coherent sense, but it was in the feelings, right? my ship had the best fucking scene. no, of course i can't explain it to you, that's madness. it involved a rocking chair. don't worry about it. it's fine. it's super important i don't accidentally reference this in a fic someday, though.

this shit is deranged, dude. missing people who are quite literally my own brain's invention with an actor's face. missing places that are a meld of a movie i saw once, my childhood bedroom, the second floor of my high school, and inter-dimensional space. like. no! no, this shouldn't be a thing! is, though. the clarity of it. just fucking bananas. this has been happening to me my whole goddamn life.