#i just think the implied 'all elves are naturally light skinned and dark skinned elves are Some Other Race Inherently Different' is uhhh

[thegreatyin]

it is more than mildly bothering me to look up dungeon meshi discussion between fellow anime-onlys and watch people call the funny purple eyed elf boy (thistle) a dark elf. like. i haven't read the manga but ive seen that one strip explaining the difference between them and normal elves in the dunmeshi verse and uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh that's incorrect i think,

[luna-redamancy]

Hey I love your writing so much and I wanted to know if you could write this? The reader is a human with elemental powers who fought alone during botfa and only fought for the sole purpose to kill as many orcs as possible. During the funeral Gandalf comes forward claiming she could bring them back to life. Once she brings them back to life she leaves the second before they awake and faints as soon as she gets away from everyone. Elrond has to heal her difficultly due to how weak bring people back to life makes her. After she heals she becomes a hero to the dwarves and Kili falls in love with her. She is not that tall for a human and has long dark hair. I understand that requests are closed but I just wanted to try my luck because I have been going through a lot lately. That being said I understand if you are going through a lot and do not want to write this. Much love 💕

Hello, lovey! I’m sorry that you’ve been going through a lot lately, I hope this helps!

The funeral hall was silent, except for sniffles and the sounds of rustling fabric as company members moved to wipe their silent tears. There were so many dead, orcs, elves, humans, and dwarves alike. A frown was etched on your face as you hugged yourself. You, yourself, had brought about a lot of death, using your abilities to your advantage as you crushed orcs with rocks, set fire to them, froze them, even suffocating them by taking the air from their lungs. 

As the crowd began to disperse, you stayed behind, approaching the pedestals and watching the three that you swore you’d protect lay there lifeless and cold. 

“I wish I could have done more,” You whispered to yourself, hand leaning up to brush your knuckles along Kili’s cold, stiff skin. It hadn’t felt real until now, your eyes stinging with tears as you began to sob over him. You never got to tell him you loved him, something you at least wanted to do once before letting him live on with Tauriel by his side. If you only knew you wouldn’t get the chance, you would have done so the minute you realized your feelings. 

“And now I’m too late-” You whimpered, grabbing at his dead hand. 

“You can bring them back to life, my dear.” Gandalf’s voice startled you, causing you to jolt up to see him standing by Thorin’s tomb. Rubbing your eyes, you looked between Gandalf and Kili’s lifeless form.

“How? I’m an elemental, Gandalf, not a necromancer.” You nearly scoffed, watching as he came over with a gentle smile. 

“You can pull life out of orcs lungs, yet you doubt being able to put life into a person?” Gandalf questioned you, before fishing a scroll out of his bag. “This has all the information you need.” That was all he said as he exited the room. 

And as Gandalf stood outside, he could hear you murmuring the words of enchantment, your elemental magic flowing through the room, casting a peach-hued light to illuminate from the room. 

As you opened your eyes, you couldn’t help but shudder at how cold the room was. Looking at your feet, you noticed you were on a bridge. Looking to the side, you deduced you were in halls of stone, each pillar supporting the ceiling intricately carved with dwarvish runes. 

“(Y/n)?” Kili’s voice broke you out of your thoughts as you turned to look away from the runes and at him. This must be the Halls of Mahal, where all dwarves go after death.

“Kili…” You breathed out, your eyes beginning to gleam with unshed tears. Kili looked at you confused, not entirely sure what was going on. 

“You must come home,” You told him, looking over his shoulder to see Thorin and Fili looking at you confusedly. 

“It is not any of your time, your fate has come too soon,” You explained, holding your hand out. 

“Return to where you belong. Please,” 

Kili grasped your hand, to which Fili held his, and Thorin held his. “Let’s go home,” Kili couldn’t help but smile as he gazed into your eyes, an opportunity he never thought he’d have again. 

“Gandalf?” Bilbo questioned, hurrying over with the other company members following closely behind. “What’s going on?” 

Gandalf smiled, “You all will not be in mourning much longer, Bilbo.” Was his cryptic response as the light began to dim. 

“I don’t feel so--” The room resounded with a thud, for your body became so weak that you fainted to protect the rest of your life source.

Hurrying into the room, Gandalf lifted you. 

“Is she alright?!” Balin demanded to know as you laid unconscious in his arms. “She needs a healer, I will take her to Lord Elrond,” Gandalf responded, worry clear on his face as he exited the room, just in time for the three Durin’s to begin to awaken. 

“What’s going on?” Thorin’s raspy voice diverted the worried company as they began to cheer, for the King Under the Mountain and his nephews were returned from their early fate. Seeing Bilbo, Thorin let out a noise of relief as he brought him into his arms. 

“Where’s (Y/n)?” Kili questioned, feeling dizzy as the last thing he could think of was your voice in his ears, coaxing him to return to you. Fili sat up, Bofur checking him over like a concerned mother duckling.

“The lass… She saved you all,” Dwalin said, looking over all of them as they groaned, having been dead for so many hours definitely had taken a toll on their bodies. 

“A hero to us all,” Thorin said before he could think, recalling all of the lives you saved during the battle, and now this on top of it all. 

“Where is she?” Kili questioned, worried by what Dwalin’s tone implied. 

“Gandalf has taken her to Rivendell, she looked as if she was on death’s door instead of you all.” Bilbo piped in as Thorin released him from his embrace.

“She was ready to give us her life…” Thorin murmured, looking to his nephew who was now distraught. 

“She has to be alright, she has to be,” Kili spoke to himself as he got up on wobbly legs. 

“Where are you trying to go?” Oin supported him, ready to scold him for trying to practically run a marathon after returning from death.

“I have to go to her. I have to.”

-

It felt like you were floating on water, you could hear a voice speaking in a foreign language, but you could not decipher much outside of murmuring. You knew you were laying on something, but you couldn’t feel it. 

Your spirit was torn between the spirit world and the natural world, your energy not being enough to pull you into either of them. And so you sat in the in-between, your consciousness in a void as your body recovered.

“You must wake up now,” You heard clear as day, and if you could have opened your eyes you would have. It was Kili.

“You must… You…” You could hear Kili’s voice cracking as if he was crying. 

“You cannot leave me after what you have done for me, please, don’t leave me. Not after realizing how much I love you...” 

And with that, your ears were underwater again despite your face being open to the air. 

It felt like years that you were in this state until finally, it felt like you were being tugged out of the water, a shudder running through your heart as your eyes flew open. Gasping, you couldn’t help but begin to cough, happily accepting the glass of water that was handed to you. Gulping down the liquid, your eyes slipped shut, heaving a sigh as you leaned back on what you were laying on, discovering it to be a bed rather than a pool of water.

“You’re okay,” Kili’s voice comforted you, rubbing a cool towel on your forehead, careful not to wet your dark hair.

“Kili?” You whispered in disbelief, opening your eyes while your heart thumped wildly in your chest. 

“I’m here, love” He smiled as you began to cry, “I didn’t think it would work,” You told him as you moved to grab his hand, holding it tightly.

“I’m so glad it did,” You nearly whimpered, bringing his hand to your face, relishing in the fact that he was no longer cold and stiff, but warm and relaxed. A soft smile formed on your face as you rejoiced in your achievement.

“And so am I,” Kili agreed, moving his hand to free it of yours to cup your cheek, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Or else I wouldn’t have gotten to return to the one I love the most.” He grinned at you, only to have a face of confusion as your genuine soft smile twisted into a forced one. 

Pulling your face from his grasp you nodded, “I am so happy I could reunite you with Tauriel, Kili,” You stabilized your voice, not wanting to show how painful it was to say such words.

“Tauriel?” Kili’s eyes widened in realization, for the last time you truly interacted with him, he was telling you his plans to ask Tauriel to be his courtee. 

“Of course--” You began to speak only to be cut off by his lips pressing into yours. 

“You are all I want,” He spoke after pulling away. “All I ever wanted,” He explained, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“I denied myself the possibility of loving you in the past, and now that I have been given a second chance to live my life… I want to do it properly, with you... “ Kili trailed off, noticing you staying still. “If you would have me, that is.” He began to pull away, heartache settling in as you still had not responded. Until you yanked him back by his tunic, his lips sweet and pillowy against yours.

“I will always have you, Kili, always.” You grinned after you pulled away. 

Tags-

Forever:

@lady-of-lies @all-things-fandomstuck  @fizzyxcustard @izzydaelleth @aquaangel18 @raindancer2004 @love-colorfulglittercollection @underthemoon-n @ladylouoflothlorien @ten-tenya-iida @legolaslovely @bthtallmadge2 @abesottedlass @wilhelmyna @tigereyesf @aspookybunny @keijibum @moony-artnstuff @sirkekselord @guardianofrivendell @fluffymadamina @izbelross @fandomhoe101 @anjhope1 @kitkatd7 @moosetex

Kili:

@greennightspider @ashleygrrrl @skylarkvip  @narnvaeron   @queenofmankind

[herenortherenearnorfar]

This Tornado Tolerates And Respects You

A little story about Gothmog and orcs that I’ll probably put on other sites later. But for now, a tumblr exclusive! CW for the terrible reproductive politics of evil (implied reproductive coercion, forced childbearing, light eugenics), orc awfulness, disdain for incarnates, radiation poisoning, chemical weapons, Fingon’s fate, mentions of cannibalism, malnourishment, ear cropping, and all of the above with the implied harm to children.

Orcs, Lord Melkor’s special pet project, a blasphemy first and a strategic asset second, didn’t make the best troops. They could swarm over a target in a useful mass of bodies but they lacked skill and drive. For the Captain of Angband’s own force of fire and shadow, spirits sprung free from the tyranny of the Valar, orcs were a sea of troublesome bodies, cluttering up the field of battle. More flesh to whip through, barbed wire quick, more lungs to choke with lime gas. An annoyance, not an ally.

He didn’t have very high expectations of them as a source of soldiers and there were very few individual orcs who he respected. Gorfaunt was one of those rare exceptions.

They’d fought on the same battlefield under the taunting stars, in those blissful days before the heavens changed, and he’d been impressed by the orc commanders ability to marshal troops. Very few in that division ended up trampled beneath Balrog feet. Even the retreat was prompt, almost orderly, without sacrificing that wild spirit which was one of the orcs’ few redeeming qualities.

When it came time to capture the stripling-king of the elves he’d requested Gorfaunt’s orcs in particular. Once again they’d proven their mettle and the commander had become of of the Captain’s favorites. If orcs had to be stationed next to their betters it was preferable that it be Gorfaunt’s orcs, who knew how to comport themselves and could fight near Balrogs without dying in droves.

Now with the latest glorious battle (and another successful collaboration, the Captain still glowed at the memory of the Noldor’s latest king cracking open to spill his red insides over his silver banner) behind them and Lord Melkor demanding Nargothrond and Gondolin, they met once a month to strategize, share intelligence, and complain about everyone else. To an outsider they might have passed as friends. There was less formality between the two of them than another high general of the iron fortress might have demanded, they sat at the same table and spoke freely.

(The Lieutenant still asked commanders to bow before him; that was why even his own troops called him Sauron behind his back. Gothmog was a superior appellation, less insulting, more fearful, but he still didn’t hasten to encourage its use.)

Despite their surface level amicability and the handful of tried-and-true inside jokes—mostly having to do with how enemies had died— they could bat at each other, they knew very little about each other’s lives. Meat and smoke only mixed when making a brisket, trying to relate two such different ways of being seemed impossible.

But when he saw Gorfaunt waddling into their monthly kvetch with a belly round and swollen like a tick’s, the Captain felt driven to say something. He was the marshal of Angband, he couldn’t let his king’s forces go to seed.

“Are you ill? Cursed?”

Gorfaunt managed to pull out a chair, made for a Balrog three times the size of an orc, and hoist themselves into it with rangy arms. “No? Just five months with a baby kicking around in my insides. The little bugger’s finally starting to show itself.”

That took a second to decipher. “You’re having a baby?”

Of course the Captain knew the basics of how incarnates made more of themselves. It was a topic of great fascination in the old days, when Yavanna was first figuring the system out, and of course the Lieutenant would prattle on about warg breeding to anyone who’d listen. They had sex— another thing that did not come naturally to beings of spirits, though some Maiar had made astounding progress in the field, for pleasure was pleasure and even Nienna’s acolytes sought catharsis and comfort—then there was lots of squishy biology on a level invisible to the incarnates themselves, then a little parasite was somehow blessed with Erú’s fire, to be nurtured until it could nurture itself.

He also knew that orcs, like elves and dwarves, had little distinction between men and womenfolk. Useful when it meant you could channel your entire adult population to battle. Startling when you realized that a key ally had been quietly pregnant for months without you, a greater being able to perceive stalactites growing and the scales on insect wings, noticing.

In truth he’d been doing a lot less noticing of late. His senses were dulling. Perhaps it was the light of the cursed gems, which painted everything in blinding, indistinguishable holiness. Or he was just losing his touch.

If he focused now he could see it. It was easiest to sense on the plane of wraiths. There was Gorfaunt, a guttering candle; wheezing, weak. All orcs had that fire, however dim. No one had managed to fully extinguish it though it had been much suppressed. Tucked against her, nearly imperceptible, was a little spark. Not much yet but given tinder and carefully fanned it could grow. “You’re having a baby,” he marveled.

Gorfaunt’s face was… orcs were hard to read at the best of times, bubbling over with noisy pain and anger that obscured their true emotions, prone to skin diseases and horrendous eye infections that muddled their expressions. She didn’t wear her gas mask around him anymore, though most were quick to cover up around any Maia of Morgoth. It helped little, her face was still opaque as the mountain itself. “Yep, Captain.”

“Good?” You congratulated an ally on a new weapon, a new bond, a promotion. Which one was an infant classified as? What was the correct form?

“Hopefully it’ll be over and the little goblin will be in the caves with the old’uns by the time we find either of the cities.” Gorfaunt provided, only barely contextualizing his felicitations. She was chewing on the inside on her cheek; sometimes she would gnaw until she spat black blood. “Terrible time for it. Terrible time. But the high ups are worried about reinforcements down the line, I suppose.”

Orcs came from orcs. It was a fact so simple it barely bore considering. Another department handled it. The new ones just showed up, springy and long limbed, faces still soft and unmarred. “Goblins” he’d heard older orcs call those fresh pale creatures. Barely even monsters, more like stunted, crepuscular versions of the elves and dwarves they fought.

“How much longer?” They had a few good leads on Nargothrond, a promising word about Túrin Turambar. The Captain could not sack that city himself, the honor had already been promised to the sulfurous worm. Apparently they wanted to test the mettle of these dragons. But Gothmog could assign a few good orc commanders to supervise, make sure the worm was not overstepping his bounds.

Dark blood trickled out of the corner of Gorfaunt’s mouth. “Five months, I’m told. Could be more, could be less. Then I have to wait until the thing is independent enough to leave alone, that’s another few months.” She was probably counting months as the orcs had started to, by the moon. Wretched traitor, Tilion, who’d laughed with them at the idea of running away then turned his face when the time came to flee for freedom. They hated it as much as everyone else but in their hatred they were aware of its cycles. They rejoiced when it went dark.

“You’ll still be able to manage your underlings?” Orcs, and freed Maiar, were fractious. They did not respect a leader who lacked the strength to force them to obey. It could be exhausting. And Gorfaunt was already so round. The Captain did not wish to lose her support over one orcling.

“I think so. So far… in old days you’d den up somewhere for a year, avoid everyone prowling for blood, but I don’t want to fight my way up the ranks again. I’ve got an ax and I’m using it.” Despite that she sounded tired.

Long heartbeats stretched between them, that exquisite embarrassment of two coworkers suddenly forced to talk about private affairs.

“This is your first,” the Captain didn’t reach the tone of a question with that one.

“Yes. The recruiters were getting growly so I grabbed a fellow. I’ve been avoiding it for too long.”

“You don’t want a child.” Again, not quite a question. He was feeling it out as he goes along. This is the longest conversation about orc reproduction he’s ever paid attention to, for the Lieutenants diatribes we’re always dull.

It was no matter to him, except that this was the only orc commander he could tolerate working with and she was chewing through her own cheek in discomfort.

“They take something from you,” Gorfaunt admitted. “Dame and sire both, but worse for the dame since she has to carry the clot. You go… stretchy. Bleached like old bone. I’ve seen soldiers and after twenty children they’re not good for anything but shoving onto a line of pikes. Raw meat for the wargs.”

That didn’t make sense to him, but he was never a scholar of flesh or spirit. He knew how a skull split and how a soul fled, how this matter-sprung life withered, how it died. That was all that counted. He also knew how to value a resource.

“There won’t be any after this,” he said firmly. “Not if you don’t want them.” If need be he’d escalate to Lord Melkor, frame it as sapping strength from their command structure and propose making officers off limits from breeding programmes.

“As you command, Captain,” she said with a bowed head, but she looked gratifyingly relieved, and their conversation could finally move on to the latest stories of occupied territories and the search for the hidden cities.

The next few months Gorfaunt somehow managed to get bigger and bigger, until she was no longer able to swing herself into a chair and had to take their meeting standing. Her leather armor no longer fit and with just a thin layer of rags over her distended stomach it was easy to see the squirming creature inside.

Ferocious little animal. It would go so still and then kick out again, as if it could burst free of its creator by force of will alone. The kernel of its mind was forming too, a hazy bubble of sensation and half formed emotion. He could see what had the Lieutenant fascinated. It wasn’t his field but it was morbidly interesting, seeing the shape of something new and moldable come together right in front of you.

But he had not been made a sculptor or a craftsman. He’d been born a wild thing, a tornado, a volcano, every disaster meant to fell cities, and though he had not known the words yet he’d sensed in his core, seen in glimpses in the song, that he was a creature of war. Like many other wild things—Ossë, the simpering coward tied up in Uinen’s tresses, excluded— he’d found his way to Melkor in the end. Oh, he’d idled for a time with Vána, heard Námo’s dolorous call, but it was Melkor who he came back to and Melkor who he picked in the end.

Melkor taught him so many more ways to be. The smoke, the blood, the screaming not in sorrow but in anger. He taught the others who came to him as well. In the Captain’s little squad alone there was one who learned the slaver’s whip and the threat of fire, one who learned the ooze of pus and malodorous air, one who came to appreciate the ravenings of rabid beasts. From the dragons in the treasure-caves to the cat in the kitchen to the vampires in the highest towers, they were all Melkor’s creations.

Gorfaunt, born and raised here in the shadow of his ancient power, was even more Melkor’s than most. This was how the Captain rationalized his continuing fondness for her as she weakened, his interest in her spawn. Works of the same maker might gravitate together. They could see parts of themselves in each other, the way he could once see himself in other Ëalar born of the same bit of song.

When Gorfaunt came in four months after their revelatory meeting with a sagging belly and a bundle nestled against her chest he was excited to finally see what had been made.

It took a bit of coaxing to get her to show him the baby but no orc would outright refuse an order from anyone stronger than them, they knew better than that. The newborn was dutifully unwrapped and presented, though Gorfaunt’s expression suggested that she considered this all a silly waste of time.

It was a rumpled wet creature; mostly skin and bones, with a cranium as big as its rounded torso. Small too, barely bigger than Gorfaunt’s hand, and Gorfaunt was smaller than all elves and many humans; based on overheard complaints failure to grow was an ongoing issue with their kind. When it was unswaddled sticklike limbs flailed out and began batting at the air ineffectually. Despite this wriggling its face remained in a sleepy scowl. It wasn’t until Gothmog moved one cherry-hot finger closer to it that it opened its hazy grey eyes and tried to focus on him. Even then the dismayed frown stayed put.

An unscarred orc was always an interesting sight; for it revealed the scale of their reworking. How much orcishness was self-replicating, as the Lieutenant liked to claim, and how much had to be beaten in? This one had a droopy brow bone and already peeling corpse-grey skin but it did not look much like an orc besides that. It even had hair, which most orcs lacked (aside from a few lank patches). The fine red down covered its whole body, thickest on the head and face and arms.

“It’s supposed to fall out,” Gorfaunt said, “Everyone says it’ll fall out soon. Even the prisoners lose their hair after a while, especially in the deep mines.”

That was probably because of the miasma of decay that emanated from the ores of Angband. Not macro-decay, of skin and bone (that came later) but the infitesimal decay. Every piece of metal— every piece of existence, when you got down to it— was made of little stars. There was a gaseous center of energy and little orbiting specks around that, spinning in probabilistic loops. Like stars some were bigger and some were smaller and some were ready to collapse. Ilmarë loved to speak of supernovas. The yellow and blue metals below the mountain were full of little stars collapsing, reforming, giving off energy in great sums as they did so.

The Captain had noted the negative effects of this energetic output on incarnates some time ago. Elves sickened and humans just died— Lord Melkor had moved the man he hoped would give him the location of Gondolin far from those mines for a reason. A few of the spirits with natures inclined towards metal, salt, and industry had already incorporated the burning energy into their signatures. The Lieutenant doubtless had some wicked little experiment running with it. It was a part of life here, that background hum of a trillion crumbling particles, and the Captain never thought of the effect on orcs, though they were exposed from birth.

Now that he focused he could see the little crumbs of decay glancing off the baby.

Hmm.

It would probably be fine.

It was already rubbing its eyes and going back to sleep, one hand curled next to a crumpled, not-yet-cropped ear.

“Are you recovered?” he asked Gorfaunt.

“I’m fit enough to fight,” she said shortly, defensively, as if afraid he’d snatch her command from her. “I’ll be better soon when this thing is gone.”

The Captain’s huge palm hovered over her infant. He knew better than to touch; his ability to change forms was not what it once was, he could not stop being a bipedal avalanche, to strong, too close, too dangerous. Even just containing the noxious gases— the pustulent yellow and choking green— simmering inside this war shaped body was difficult. If he kept a few feet distance the chaotic heat of his skin faded into the air and the baby wriggled contentedly in the ambient glow, like a little lizard.

“And how long will that be?”

Gorfaunt’s hand twitched. Another few months, till it can manage worm meal and listen to the grands.”

It seemed impossible that anything could be big enough to leave alone in such a short time; but incarnation was not the Captain’s specialty. “And that’s the accepted practice?”

“A little young, but safe now that the master put a stop to the baby eating problem.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be a concern,” the Captain said very seriously, even though his fingers curled slightly around the baby’s limp body. “We can make modifications if the child must stay longer.”

Gorfaunt glanced down at her sprawled offspring. “I don’t— I don’t want this to last any longer. I’d rather have my life go back to normal.”

That, at least, he could understand. It has been a rather troubling experience overall. Revelations are not always useful and though he’s gained some knowledge it’s not very practical stuff.

“One more question, commander, then I’ll drop the matter. What is it named??”

That nascent mind bubble had sharpened with time and experience but was still comprised mostly of sensation. He could not even grasp at a basic sense of self. The child’s mother should know what if calls itself, if anyone did.

(He wanted to remember the name, for forty years from now, when he needed more good orcs. All those rants about the fundamentals of inheritance left him with some ideas about how incarnates develop traits. Another Gorfaunt would be a helpful tool to have on hand.)

The question left Gorfaunt unimpressed. “It doesn’t name itself anything yet, it hasn’t got the common sense. And no one’s given it a name because it hasn’t done anything interesting.”

“It has an interesting look” the Captain pointed out, “Tell them to call it Red Cap,” he slipped into the elf tongue, which had better color words than the one the Lieutenant devised, and in the process accidentally named the child after a former king of the Noldor. “Or something like that.”

Gorfaunt apparently had a better memory for politics than he gave her credit for, or perhaps just a distaste for the elf cant, because she quickly translated it back into Angband’s crackly tongue . “Rotbint.”

“Yes.” A Balrog, even the chief of Balrogs, could not give much to something so soft and incarnadine. A name, incorporeal, existing in the plane the Captain knew best, was the only thing he could offer. “Now, to business?”

Gorfaunt wrapped the little creature away— it woke halfway through the rolling to stare at them once more— then tucked it against her chest.

The Captain was sad to see it go, though he couldn’t say why.

He remembered that he had come to this physical world for a reason once. He had wanted to see all there was to see, to feel and taste everything, chew chunks of Arda up and spit it out new. Disasters hungered as much as anyone. Yet all he’d had lately was war fare; blood-soaked mud and rage-tinged fear.

Deprived of fresh experiences, he clung to the potential, the novelty, of new life.

Perhaps Gondolin would see him out of his funk, he thought. It couldn’t hide forever.

“We’ll find it, Captain,” Gorfaunt assured him stubbornly. “And we’ll tear it down brick by brick, raze their gardens, fill their streets with blood.”

Even with a baby trying to gum her collarbone her firm tone allowed no questions.

Orcs were, as a rule, bothersome, unruly, walking corpses. Fractious, ugly, difficult, bothersome, recklessly stupid. The Maiar serving under the Captain were sometimes stereotyped as simpleminded brutes but at least they were able to perceive the world around them, even if few bothered to use that perception. In comparison orcs were stumbling around in the dark. They were inefficient as well, you needed three of them to take down any decent enemy. But when they were well made they were well made. Those were the ones that made it all worth it.

It had to be worth it. This was freedom, after all.

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Son; Heading Home

More of my Canon Divergence AU

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 or start reading the series on Ao3

Warnings: Chronic pain, implied past torture, angst

On Ao3

He awoke in darkness and shut his eyes against it. He was queasy. His head felt like it had been split open. He was shaking. No, everything around him was shaking. Was a Balrog approaching? Or someone worse…

He held very still, not daring to breathe, and waited. No one approached him. The shaking didn’t cease. It wasn’t even a shaking but rather a swaying. It would be pleasant if he weren’t so nauseous. And a Balrog couldn’t be here, wherever it was. He had forgotten again!

He took a few deep breaths and remembered what he had to do. Every time he woke up, he went through the routine of remembering before he found it safe to open his eyes. He would slowly reconstruct the entire sequence of memories – battle, freedom, camp, kind elves, his name (Findekáno, he hadn’t forgotten it!), Russandol. Russandol. 

After the routine was complete, Findekáno would open his eyes and look for Russandol. Only when he found him, he truly believed that his memories were real. Sometimes Russandol wouldn’t be there, but Makalaurë would. That was good too, but a slight doubt still remained in Findekáno’s heart until Russandol returned. Russandol was the only one he trusted. Even his memories couldn’t be trusted, but Russandol could.

He was hesitant to open his eyes now. Something was amiss. Something had happened, something he didn’t want to remember because the idea made his heart thud unpleasantly against his ribcage. But uncertainty was worse, and it wasn’t in his nature to delay facing the truth, so he clenched his fists and opened his eyes.

Immediately, he wished he hadn’t. The only source of light was a white gem, which plunged him deep into his memories, into the dark cell where he waited blindly for the twin lights to come and bring him pain. But he wasn’t there anymore, he wasn’t. He closed his eyes and hastily went through the cycle again. Freedom, camp, Russandol. Freedom, camp, Russandol. It brought him no comfort this time, and he knew why, he remembered what he had tried to ignore. Russandol had lied to him, had broken his word, and sent him away. Tears were burning his eyelids, but he kept them tightly shut. He didn’t want to see the light again, his entire body tense in anticipation of pain he knew was unlikely to come.

He remembered everything now. Russandol apologizing to him for reasons he only now understood, his uncle trying to convince him to leave, Makalaurë singing to him. And then nothing. Makalaurë had said they would talk when he woke up, but neither he, nor Russandol was there now, and Findekáno knew it in his heart that they were far away. Makalaurë must have betrayed him too. He was presumably already on the ship they had told him about, the one that was supposed to take him back, take him to the place where he would be healed.

He sat up, trying not to look at the light. There was a door. Dragging his leg, he walked to it and found it locked. Dread rose in him, and he stumbled into a corner, falling down and clamping his hand over his mouth. Making noise wouldn't ease the agony and instead would attract unwanted attention.

He tried to convince himself that there was no danger. His uncle, despite the betrayal, was still kind. But why would they lock the door? They might have thought he would escape. Or that someone would want to harm him? Findekáno had vague memories of doing something wrong, hurting someone innocent. He was going to ask Russandol about it, but he hadn’t found the right moment.

He forced himself to calm down and opened his eyes again. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his face to the light. It wasn’t so terrible this time. It was pure white, while the gems that frightened him so had a rich golden hue. He still didn’t like it, but he could bear it.

He was in the process of persuading himself to stand when he heard footsteps. Instinctively, he pressed to the wall and began fumbling around for something to defend himself with. The lock clicked, the door creaked open, and a hand holding a bluish lamp emerged, followed by Findekáno’s uncle Arafinwë.

He did a double take when he found no one on the bed but quickly noticed Findekáno huddling in the corner.

“Oh,” he said with a smile on his face, as though he hadn’t brought Findekáno here against his will. “You scared me.”

Findekáno said nothing. His uncle approached him and stretched his hand. “Do you need help getting up?”

Findekáno glanced at him and stood on his own, trying to mask how badly his leg hurt. He walked to the bed and pretended he sat down rather than fell down on it. Arafinwë sat next to him.

“I ought to apologize,” he said. “Believe me, if there were any other way to bring you to the ship, I wouldn’t choose this. I’m truly sorry for how this came to pass.”

“If you are, then turn the ship and take me back,” Findekáno said.

He didn’t care that he was rude, wasn’t afraid of the consequences. His voice sounded detached to his own ears. It was a peculiar feeling to hear yourself from outside; not frightening, just odd. It made it easier to ignore the pain too.

Arafinwë looked into his lap. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Then you aren’t sorry enough.”

“Findekáno, you must understand. This was the right thing to do. You couldn’t remain there.”

“Wasn’t it my decision to make?” Detachment swiftly gave way to anger, and Findekáno regretted it a little. “You all told me that I-that I was free. You told me so, I remember, and Russandol did, and Makalaurë. You all told me I could make my own choices. But you lied, didn’t you? I could make my own choices as long as they didn’t differ from yours.”

“We wanted the best for you. I know you wanted to stay, but we all believed—”

“You all believed I am not in my right mind, that-that I could not make decisions for myself.”

“Findekáno—”

“Was Russandol in his right mind? Was Makalaurë?” His voice was wavering. “Are you?”

“That is debatable,” Arafinwë said, unsmiling.  

“I trusted him.” There were tears in Findekáno’s eyes, and he didn’t know if they were from physical pain or heartache; both had tangled into one giant knot of agony. It was wrapped like a barbed wire around his bones, piercing his lungs, making him choke on blood. “How could he do this to me?”

Arafinwë gently took his hand. Findekáno didn’t have the strength to pull it back.

“Maitimo has many faults, but loving you isn’t one of them,” Arafinwë said. “You may find it misguided and hurtful, but he did it out of love.”

Findekáno covered his eyes with his free hand.

“What are they going to do?” he asked, the words scraping his throat raw. “They are all alone. Russandol doesn’t… doesn’t want to live. What if he… What will happen to Makalaurë then?”

“I don’t know,” Arafinwë said after a pause. “It isn’t going to be easy for them, but… Findekáno, your cousins have committed atrocities for their own gain, and it has only brought them to ruin. Perhaps this selfless deed will do the opposite. Perhaps it will bring them some comfort.”

Findekáno rubbed his eyes with a trembling hand and looked at his uncle. “Do you really think so?”

“I hope so.”

“If I were there, I could help them. They needed me.”

“Others need you too, Findekáno,” Arafinwë said softly. “I, for one. My son, your cousin, alone among people who can’t know what he has been through. And your mother.” Findekáno took a sharp breath. “She has been waiting for so long.”

Findekáno couldn’t answer. His memories of his mother were hazy. Long hair with jewels in them, boisterous laughter, and warmth. But it wasn’t true the way Russandol and Makalaurë had been. It was just a story, just a whisper of a past he wasn’t sure he had. He strained to remember more, but a spasm of pain shook him. Arafinwë poured him some water and helped him drink it.

“Lie down,” he said. “You are in pain again.”

Findekáno grunted as another spasm overtook him.

“I am no Makalaurë, but maybe I can help,” Arafinwë said.

He put a steady hand on Findekano’s forehead and sang under his breath. The music enveloped Findekano like a cotton cocoon. The pain didn’t disappear entirely, but it was pushed away. His eyelids fluttered. He knew that if he allowed himself, he would be able to fall asleep again.

Arafinwë smiled. “Take a walk in the Gardens of Lórien,” he said.

Findekáno blinked slowly. “That sounds familiar,” he murmured.

“It is a Vanyarin saying. My mother used to say it when she tucked me in. You must have heard it from her or from your father.” He laughed. “Sometimes, she would add but be careful not to get lost. It used to terrify me as a child. I was afraid I would go too far into the Gardens and never wake up. I was convinced that was what had happened to Fëanáro’s mother.”

Findekáno remembered a flash of golden and brown, remembered soft lips brushing his forehead, leaving specks of gold dust on his skin.

“Will I see her too?” he asked.

“If you want to.”

Findekáno didn’t say anything, didn’t know what he wanted except that he wanted to be back, wanted to open his eyes, see Russandol, and know he was safe. He turned his head away.

Arafinwë sighed, took his lamp, and stood up. “I will leave you to rest,” he said. “Do you need anything else?”

“Yes, I— Could I have the lamp instead of that stone? I don’t… like it.”

Arafinwë didn’t ask questions, he just nodded, put the lamp down, and took the stone.

“Are you going to lock the door again?” Findekáno asked.

“Do you want it locked?”

Findekáno shook his head. He could do it now almost without pain.

“I will leave it open then.”

“Thank you.”

He waited until his uncle’s footsteps died away, then sat up. He knew he had to get out of the cabin while he still felt comparatively well, but it took him so much effort to convince himself he could that his pain level increased noticeably. Still, he went up to the deck, wandered around the ship, trying to stay inconspicuous, trying to spot at least a little piece of the shore. If he had, he would have jumped, he would have tried to swim towards it, but there was nothing except the vast, uncaring Sea stretching to the horizon wherever he looked.

  The mariners didn’t approach him. They weren’t unfriendly but tried to bypass him if they could. When Findekáno asked them if it was possible to turn the ship back, they immediately told him no and made a point of steering clear of him.

Defeated, Findekáno returned to his cabin. The idea that he could do nothing, that he had to revert to just waiting for things to be done to him, was unbearable. He had been so quick to accept that now he had some amount of control over his life. That had been a mistake, a lie told by people who loved him and who had taken his choices away.

He didn't want to yield. He still tried, over and over again, to find a way back, a way out, but all his efforts came to nothing. The mariners must have suspected what he was trying to do, or they simply didn't trust him, but Findekáno felt their eyes on him wherever he turned. 

Eventually, he stopped going out of his cabin. Arafinwë visited him, brought him food and water, sang to him when he was in pain, told him stories about Valinor, about their family, about Findekáno’s mother. He promised that she would be waiting for him on the shore, promised that she would know he was coming home. Findekáno listened until his uncle’s words entwined with his dreams and memories, and he fell into oblivion.

Out of the corner of his mind’s eye, he could see dark, twisted shapes just on the edge of his dreams, but they were kept away by Arafinwë’s songs. Instead, Findekáno dreamed of Russandol’s smile, not the drawn and pained one but the one from before, wide and charming. He dreamed of Makalaurë’s deft fingers on the harp and his bright, joyous voice. He dreamed of a strong hand clasping his shoulder, and he knew it was his father’s, though his features eluded him. He dreamed of being surrounded by dancing lights and being unafraid, knowing them for friends and kin. He dreamed of his mother too, but she was a faceless shadow with stars in her hair.

He woke up one time and sensed that something had changed again. The very air seemed sharper, alive, pulsating. He knew then that they had arrived. He sat and waited, his fists clenched, his heart drumming an erratic rhythm. He waited, as it seemed to him, for an eternity, but finally, Arafinwë came to him. Findekáno didn’t remember ever seeing him this happy. He said something, but Findekáno couldn’t hear him. He was in a bottomless pit, where words were unintelligible and the light distorted.

Arafinwë pulled him to his feet and led him away. If anyone asked him later, Findekáno couldn’t tell how they got off the ship, where they were, how many people there were with them. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much. He shrank away from the crowd, or maybe someone pushed him away, and he walked or was ushered towards a figure standing alone, still as a statue.

Ushered, most likely. For a moment, Findekáno felt the warmth of someone’s hand on his back, guiding him, but then it was gone, and his feet were working on their own accord, taking him to her, to the statue with hair like a starry night. With uncertain steps, he approached her. Findekáno could see her eyes fill with tears, which didn’t spill. She didn’t move, perhaps couldn’t move, but her small smile was welcoming.  

It had to be a dream, but it wasn’t a dream. It was true, it was solid, it was present. Findekáno went closer, then closer again. Finally, the figure herself took a step to him, and in the shape of her nose, the arch of her brows, the jut of her chin, Findekáno recognized himself.

[warlock-enthusiast]

Toss a coin to your Blood Hunter

the ever generous @kasiael bought far too many coffees on ko-fi :P and will receive some stories during this year and probably the next.

She asked for the first meeting of two D&D npcs!

Fandom: Dungeons&Dragons homebrew campaign / Hella x Zaos

Rating: M (light gore, strong language)

------

She was in deep shit.

Really, really deep, supernatural shit.

Hella hid behind some debris, hoping that the ghouls wouldn’t catch her scent.

Why had she managed to maneuver herself into such a tight corner? She should’ve waited for reinforcements. Some more members of their Blood Hunter order, ready to fight at her side. 

Of course, she was young, barely 20, and a bit too arrogant, and she knew about that, but she also showed remarkable skills and control of her growing powers, so this should have been a standard job. 

Her mentor Alarik surely would yell at her for acting brash and without thinking and make her read through volumes of monster lore with the idea of boring her to death.

Well, if she survived.

Death by ghouls or by books. Well, tough choice. 

Right now the group of ghouls had followed her scent through some old, elven ruins. Lush and overgrown with greenery and flowers it seemed like a relic of better times. Nowadays frost covered most of her homeland. Was this place an old temple? Hella had sketched some of the runes and statues earlier, hoping that a wiser Bloodhunter could make sense of them. 

All Hella understood were words about a forgotten, smaller deity granting blessings for a good hunt.

How ironic.

But some rich merchant had paid them a handsome sum to keep his business routes safe. Hella guessed that that guy wasn’t the brightest or most experienced. Dertona itself offered less safety and more snow, ice and gruesome nature combined with ancient monstrosities. Any merchant would be advised to settle down in the south, maybe near Ebrus. 

Dertona never rewarded the soft or weak.

A ghoul growled and grunted right next to her. 

“Fuck.” 

Hella closed her eyes, wondering if she should let go and unleash her inner beast. Trust her inner monster to defeat other monsters. She’d been bitten two years ago and still faced problems controlling herself in wolf form, indulging a lust for blood and flesh. If everything went wrong, she’d slaughter the nearby village men by men. 

She couldn’t risk hurting innocent people.

No. Hella pressed her lips together, suppressing another memory of slain people. 

“Concentrate, breathe.”

Fleeing didn’t appear to be an option, neither did wolfing out. That left some bottles of alchemistic fire and her trusty swords. 

Better fight them then. Night would soon cover everything in darkness, which only granted them more of an advantage. 

“Need help?” A smooth voice cut through her thoughts and Hella flinched, cursing herself for not monitoring her surroundings. Quickly, she drew one of her swords and craned her neck to find an … elf?

Standing just above her, seemingly not a care in the world, features handsome and delicate. “What? Who… what?” “Just a simple elf, wandering around and helping ladies in dire need.” He inched closer and Hella smelled herbs and salt on his clothing and skin. Elves were known for their sneaking skills, though it still amazed Hella how he’d manage to get close to her without alarming some ghouls. 

Hella threw a bottle of holy water into his general direction.

It exploded against his chest, covering him in pieces of glass.

“Eh?” “Just making sure you’re not one of them.”

He had the audacity to smile. “I’m not.”

“Fantastic. Then help me please.”

The strange elf nodded and grabbed her hand. He seemed stronger than his lithe build implied and pulled her to her feet. Never say no to a potential ally, as Alarik would say. Not to mention her own desperation at her less than stellar prospects. 

Their combined motions attracted their enemies. A whole pack of fleshy, undead beasts, ready to tore their throats out and to eat their guts. 

“Here they come.” Hella raised her swords, closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping her heartbeat slow and steady. Every mistake meant certain death and failure. 

And she wasn’t born for failure. 

The first attacker died quickly, sliced in half by her blade.

Her new ally preferred using a bow and killed the second with two arrows. He showed fantastic marksmanship and took position on some old stones. His steady aim helped keep some of the ghouls at a distance. 

Hella never lost footing but pushed and sliced and relied on her years of training. Blood soaked the ground. 

With him at her back, Hella found new confidence, a new focus flowing through her veins. Almost as if magic surrounded them both, vanquishing all her tiredness and somber thoughts. 

She caught the elf’s gaze. “Only a few left.”

“After you!”

Hella used her own blood to further strengthen her strikes, cutting her skin above her wrists. Drops of blood danced on her swords as she killed another one. 

One of them broke through. He collided with Hella, sending her straight on her backside, while moving far too close to the elf. Claws cut through leather and skin and the elf used a hidden knife to push it through its skull.

He patted the dead ghoul’s head. “Ouch. Not nice.”

“You’re okay?” “I think so. Just a nasty scratch.”

“And your back?” “It’s fine.”

The elf raised the corners of his mouth and inspected their fallen attackers. Some of his arrows seemed to be intact and he started to collect them. 

With their enemies dead, Hella took a moment to inspect her unlikely saviour. Tall and slender with dark, longish hair and very grey eyes he looked so out of place and more suited to the crystal city down south. Not to mention that his tan skin spoke of other regions too. 

Hella coughed to hide her staring and offered him a handshake. “Ah, thank the Gods. What is your name?” “Zaos.” Unfathed by her inspection, he nodded and took her hand in his. 

“Glad to have met you.”

Zaos laughed and it echoed through the ruins. “I’m sure it’s a pleasure.” 

What an arrogant prick. Hella moved a few steps away to clean her swords, trying to sound casual, while also luring him into sharing information. “And you from around here?” “Yeah, here and there. I don’t exactly have a home?” His eyes wandered to the sky. “Not any more, so I prefer the road to actually settling down. I keep meeting interesting people.” “I see.” Hella furrowed her brow. “A mystery then.”

Zaos smiled, eyes too bright. “A riddle, if you will.”

So, he wouldn’t share his story yet. Maybe he belonged to the forest and was a hidden beast as well? Or a part of the Feywild, which bled into her world from time to time. 

Would alcohol loosen his tongue? Trying to get more information couldn’t hurt and he wasn’t hard to look at, which came as a bonus.  

Hella patted his shoulder. “Care for some wine?” “Is this an invitation?” “Yes, follow me to my camp and have some wine with me. I can take a look at that scratch mark and hopefully you won’t murder me in my sleep.”

“I’d be grateful and don’t worry. In general, I don’t murder people in their sleep. I wait for them to wake up.”

Hella snorted. “Haha.” “Lead the way.” Zaos bowed and something in his eyes reminded her of a wolf. 

[dahliycia]

I know i already know a little about Michael and Karim but just in case someone else is interested but too shy to ask, please tell us a little about them! 😊❤

🥺 in fact, you do know the more about them than anyone else ^^' thank you for asking! I wonder what I should say here, so I'll just go with a bunch of random info, so it's something new for you, too ;)

- they have a 4 years age difference, with Karim being the older one.

- their couple name is Cherry Chocolate, which comes from the nicknames they have for each other. "Chocolate" was a nickname Karim gave Michael when they were kids, because of the color of his skin (which is very unusual for elves). "Cherry" was a nickname Michael gave Karim at their pre-relationship flirting stage, when Karim was blushing red every five minutes.

- They are both quite tall, with Karim being 181cm and Michael 193cm, which means they have 12cm height difference. Their size/weight difference is way bigger thought, as Karim is very slim and skinny, while Michael is broad and more muscular.

- Karim calls Michael "Misha", and he uses "Michael" only when he really needs to reach him (like, Michael's mind tends to drift). Michael usually doesn't shorten Karim's name, unless they are alone/intimate - then he would call him "Mimi".

- since in the story they are separated as Misha leaves the elven village because of *plot*, and they cannot use phones for quick communication because the village is like, no electricity no signal, they bind their skin with a spell that causes them to have dermographism, but whatever they write on their skin will appear on the skin of the other. They use it to write to each other, and usually start from the left forearm, but often end up scratching all over their bodies due to lack of space.

- the elves have their own language and alphabet. The alphabet is designed with lines and dots (ticks) (*I am still figuring it out*) and is always written in large print. The reason is that majority of the elves have albinism, which also implies a significant part of the village is visually impaired, and their alphabet is designed to be readable both by looking and by touching, with books being enchanted to have the print "come out" as you open the page. Most of the elves can read both ways (however Michael sucks at this, because of concentration issues), and that also means that the skin binding spell Karim and Michael share is readable in this way, too, since the writing comes out swollen.

- Karim also has albinism, but with his eyes being blue, and his vision isn't significantly impacted. He does get sunburned very easily though.

- All elves are more or less connected to magic - specifically a rather ancient, nature magic and magic of light - the forest where they live is pretty much void of dark-originating magic. Karim is in fact very good at it and has a strong connection to magic, and he is generally a bookworm. Misha is completely not good at it, he cannot control it well and he doesn't care much about it, it's just not his thing.

- Michael is an ADHD machine and Karim is the only one who can get him to sit still for a longer period of time (this requires a lot of petting and stroking though).

- Mike is the "act before thinking" one while Karim is the "think before acting" type, which leads to arguments between them, because Mike just tends to do stupid and reckless things without much regret.

- Karim is a great and skilled caretaker while Misha is skilled at getting in trouble and whining about getting hurt.

- unexpectedly, Karim has a very sharp tongue when someone pisses him off, and turns from a calm and nice cutie into a scary dagger in a blink of an eye.

- at the beginning of their relationship, when Mike leaves the village for his last year of school, he gives Karim an old walkman with a stack of batteries (because, no electricity) and a few tapes. One of them starts with Bon Jovi's Livin' on a Prayer, which becomes "their relationship song". The bass line of this song is also a first line Mike plays to Karim on his bass at one of their first dates.

[lothirielswanmarvel]

“Just Muscles. And Abs. Lots of Both.” (Sneak Peak)

Word Count: 2260

Love Interest: Thor (+ Peter Quill Love Triangle)

Summary: A romantic and playful scene with everyone’s favorite Seductive God of Thunder—look out for twists!

**This is a sneak peak for a book I’m considering writing. I MUST have feedback before continuing this novel. Please enjoy, and I’d love to hear your thoughts. 

~*~

I finally realized why Tony liked large flatscreens. The living room suite of Avengers Tower was unoccupied tonight, which was rare: Steve loved documentaries, Clint enjoyed watching people contemplate buying extravagant houses, Wanda would kill anyone who tried to change the channel from the Bachelorette, and Bruce had a secret love for The Big Bang Theory.

The remote control almost felt foreign in my grasp. Spending time with any of the Avengers made my day, but alone time meant I could finally indulge in films or television shows without restrictions. I decided to go full range with my power, and settled for Game of Thrones. [Before you look away, Readers, NO, there are no spoilers to Game of Thrones as you read on. It’s incredibly vague, doesn’t talk or name any characters. Don’t stress. Love, fortune and glory to you!]

I was thirty minutes in, trying to decide who would make it alive to the next episode when I finally heard someone behind me. It had been a quiet night, and I didn't feel like ruining it with an argument.

“Sorry, I didn't know you were here. I'm changing it,” I called out as I paused the show.

“Are you sure? It looks interesting.”

I turned to look at Thor. He smiled warmly at me and walked around the long couch to my cocoon of blankets. Thor sat down beside me, leaving little room between us. I liked his closeness—not just because of the ridiculous crush that I’d been harboring for him for years, but the implied friendliness of it. It was nice to be close and comfortable with someone; no boundaries, no professionalism. As Pepper’s niece, it was nice for someone to treat me like a person and not some reserved business workaholic.

“I don't mind putting on something else,” I offered. Game of Thrones was so popular, no one in the tower really had an issue with it, but there was only so much fantasy some of them could take—and the Avengers witnessed enough dramatic deaths in daily life without the help of George R. R. Martin.

“I like it. The cold and the creatures remind me of Jotunheim—not the fondest memories I have, but it’s familiar.” Thor replied, his tone slightly wistful as he relaxed into the couch. I offered him some blankets from my comfy makeshift nest, although I could feel his body heat through my layers.

“Jotunheim? That's were Loki’s from, technically, right?” I said, glancing at him.

Thor caught my gaze, nodding slowly. “Yes, you are a perceptive one. I'm surprised you remember.”

“I think it's cool, the stuff you talk about. The nine realms, Asgard, it's fascinating.” I said. I forced myself to look back at the TV. I usually didn't want to miss anything, but I found myself losing interest this time.

“You think so?” He sounded miffed.

“Yeah.”

We continued watching. I tried to pay attention to the dialogue, but I was too aware of the presence right next to me.

“What's Jotunheim like?” I asked as the scene on television was full of snow. “Is it as freezing as what’s on TV, or…?”

Thor grunted as he sat up a bit straighter. His voice was deep and rich with a unique accent. “It is—was—a realm of eternal winter. There weren't any trees, or woods—I don't think any life could’ve survived such harsh conditions. Mostly rock and ice. It was always dark, as well: blizzards were their sunlight.”

“Wow—I mean, I guess it makes sense. You have a mountain terrain, that fits frost giants,” I said thoughtfully. “What about the frost giants, if it's okay to ask? What were they like—were they anything like those things?”

I gestured at the screen where creatures sprinted across the icy fixture. Thor hummed thoughtfully, “Hmm, somewhat. Anything the frost giants touched turned to ice—a dear friend of mine, Volstagg, made that discovery. And they’re tall, of course, but they didn't have blue eyes: frost giants are red.”

For the first time in human history, Game of Thrones was forgotten. I was too intrigued in our conversation. Thor’s voice was thrilling to listen to, not to mention that the topics we discussed were bizarre. The only attention I paid the TV was when I changed it to Lord of the Rings as I asked Thor about orcs and elves.

“Were there any kind of creatures like orcs across the nine realms?”

“What about dwarves? Do they stay on Asgard?”

“When Mjolnir was created, were there other things made too, like the rings of power?”

After many rounds of my questions, Thor smiled apologetically. “I feel like I am boring you with my stories, Lady Evangeline.”

I sat facing him now, and most of my blankets were discarded to my other side, making a cozy barrier around us. His presence kept me warm.

I shook my head, “You don't have to be so formal, Thor, especially with titles: you can call me Evie, or Angie, or whatever part of my name you prefer. And I'm not bored, I like hearing you talk about the nine realms and where you’re from. I think you're much smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

The grin on Thor’s face stretched from one ear to the other. My heart started to race in my chest. “You flatter me, my—Angeline.”

“It's not flattery, it's true. You know so much about the universe—and not to mention, you’re one of the best fighters I've ever seen. Seriously, that takes so much practice—and you learn a lot from fighting things. That's how you gain experience in video games, you’d probably be max level in all of them.”

As I stared at Thor, something caught me off guard. His face was turning red. Not just his cheeks; everywhere, from his hairline to his beard.

Did I just make the God of Thunder blush? Was I hallucinating? I never made anyone blush that hard before, not even the few people I had dated. It was such a bizarre sight. Thor, a literal god among men, unfazed by alien armies and robot uprisings, was blushing. Because of me.

But the redness didn't go away. It lingered, like a rose bush in full bloom. I didn't know what to do: this had never happened before, and I would have never expected it. I forced my mouth to open and say something, anything.

“Nat’s showed me a few moves for self defense and that kind of thing, but I wish I could do what you do. You’re really talented.” I said.

Dammit! I made it worse! The redness had multiplied like trees overcome by the vibrant colors of fall.

Thor must’ve regained some sort of composure, at least enough to speak. “Evangeline, do you need furniture moved?”

My eyes narrowed. “No. Why?”

Thor covered his face with his hands, one lingering on his chin to stroke his beard. “Such praise must have a purpose, I assumed.”

“There is no...purpose.” I said, confusion filling me as I tried to follow his train of thought.

I still didn't understand as he stood and offered me a hand. “How about a fighting lesson?”

I blinked twice, trying to process where the conversation was headed. “Uh...sure. Sounds fun.”

I took his hand and stood. We faced each other. Lord of the Rings was still playing, and it's magnificent music became background noise for whatever was about to commence.

Thor smirked as he watched me.

My eyebrow rose. “What?”

“You move with such grace. The nymphs of Asgard would be envious of such enchanting beauty.” He declared.

Like karma, my face felt like a tray of embers. Flashbacks of the many times I had bumped into coffee tables, counters, doorways, and yes, even walls, came to me.

“You remind me of them often, actually. Your beauty is so natural, like an earthen goddess.”

“Thor.”

“Yes, Evangeline?”

“Do you need furniture moved?”

Thor laughed. “No, but you’ll be the first person I come to when the problem arises. Raise your fists,”

I did as he instructed. “Like this?”

“Yes, and your feet a little farther apart.” Thor closed the distance between us. His hands enclosed around mine, making my skin tingle, and setting them up a little higher. I glanced down to make sure my feet aligned with his.

“Right, that looks good.” Thor held onto my hands a little longer than necessary. “Your hands are so tiny.”

“Thanks?” I laughed when he kissed my knuckles, then retreated back a few steps.

“You’re smaller than I am—”

“In my defense, everyone is smaller than you. And everyone is taller than Tony.”

“True,” He agreed. His tone was serious, but there was some lightness to it. “But to overpower me, you have to think differently. You have to find a weakness.”

My eyes scrutinized Thor’s bulking frame. “I don't see any weaknesses. Just muscles. And abs. Lots of both.”

Thor smiled, and some of the redness returned. “Look harder.”

My head tilted to the side. Then it hit me. “Your eyes?”

Thor grinned. “You are perceptive.”

I bit my lip. Thor was tall. I’d probably have to climb him like a vine to reach his eyes, and I ignored the voice in my head that giggled at the idea (which could've also been Wanda eavesdropping).

“Okay...what now?” I asked, tightening my fists.

“Try to take me down,” Thor said.

I stiffened. “I know this is going to sound stupid, but I don't want to hurt you, Thor.”

“We could continue our battle of compliments if you’d like—”

I made up my mind and charged. I knew I was too short to reach him; Thor was massive. So I made a detour and went for the couch first, then pounced.

I yelped when we made contact. I wrapped my arms around his neck out of instinct. One of my legs came around his waist.

“Bad plan, bad plan,” My words were breathy, but not just because of the physical exertion. Thor’s eyes were captivating up close. They were a unique, popping blue-gray like a stormy sea. I took one shaky breath and my mouth was filled with the scent of him; something natural with warm tones and a musky aroma.

“It was a good plan,” Thor insisted. I should’ve let go. My arms wouldn't move. My leg remained glued to his side, unresponsive, but completely aware of the warmth seeping from his body.

“It was a well-thought advantage point. The Valkyries would recruit you for such cleverness,” Thor spoke softer, but up close, I could feel the deep vibrations of his voice. The unique accent that made me stop whatever I was doing and listen.

Thor’s arms came around me, securing me so I wouldn't drop to the ground.

“This is nice,” I mumbled. “The air’s a little thinner up here.”

We smiled. Thor’s chuckle was low. I continued, “You’re so tall...I’ve never seen you up close like this before.”

Thor nodded, and our noses brushed together. “Perhaps you should visit up here more often.”

“Maybe if you could supply a ladder next time…”

“Yes. Of course, my lady.”

I didn't dare look away from Thor’s face, but I could still hear the faint score of Lord of the Rings. It was the scene where Arwen, the elven princess, admitted to giving up her immortality to be with the human ranger, Aragorn. For the first time, I appreciated how soft and soothing the singing voices sounded. It was like heaven. It was like staring at Thor, and sharing that gentle but happy smile.

“Hey, uh, Thor...Jane’s on the line, bud. She’s asking for you.”

My eyes widened. Heaven had dissipated. Reality had sank in. Like a cool morning mist, burned away by the sun.

Thor nodded mutely. His muscles felt stiff. “Please excuse me, Lady Evangeline. . .”

Thor set me down, and I reluctantly unhooked my arms from his neck. I couldn’t decipher his facial expression. He passed Clint on his way out of the room.

Clint crossed his arms and leaned on the couch. “Good thing I came in and checked on you guys instead of Wanda. We’d be knee-deep in gossip for weeks.”

“Uhuh.” I glumly sat back on the couch. The cushions were cold, no longer holding the remnants of someone else’s warmth.

Clint perched on the armrest. “You know, when Laura and I were dating, at some point I sat down with her and had a conversation. I explained that I loved her very much, and my job was very time-consuming. I wouldn't quit my job, but I sure as hell didn't want to leave her. Luckily, we were two very independent people, who kept in touch, who supported one another, and could still carry on with our own lives.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, shaking my head.

“ ‘Cause Jane didn't sound very happy on that phone. After they got together, Thor left her. Left earth. For two years.”

“But they’re still together.”

“I know the sound of somebody about to deliver some bad news when I hear it.” Clint said. He was crossing his arms again. “Look, you and him...I’ve seen you guys interact over the years. There’s something there. Half the people in this tower have bets on when it's gonna happen. But is Thor really what you want? Can you live that kind of lifestyle?”

Clint was silent, letting me ponder. Eventually, he stood. “I'm not trying to discourage you from anything, I just want you to make the best decision for you. ‘Cause you’re the one that's gonna have to live with it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Hi Awesome Adventurers and thanks for reading! I’ve been playing around with the idea of this novel for awhile, but I’d like to hear personally from you guys before I start publishing actual chapters. There will be one more sneak peak at the novel, and you can catch a glimpse at another sneak peak here, a very intense piece that will probably happen at the end of the series. But thank you so much for reading, and please, if you enjoyed this, I’d love to hear from you! If I do start hearing from people, I will post this story on Tumblr, Archive of Our Own, and Wattpad. Your words are powerful, and I’d love to hear them c: love, fortune and glory to you!!

[worstfruit]

GOBLINS

Ok-- this setting focuses on a small continet, a bit smaller in width than australia, but longer (think the stretched greenland we see on globes). To the north, past a mountain range that crosses the land, lay and endless expanse of pete bogs and moors and thick, thonry shrub forests: here live the greenskins and barbaric humans of lore: free creatures and beasts and even men, who pay no mind to the settled empire that exists just south. Focusing on one of these races, I will be talking about my favourite! The goblins (sometimes called the ‘Moors Goblin’ bc i published this on dnd beyond so i could use it as a homebrew race). I’ve borrowed a lot from Warhammer and 40k but as I work on world building I hope to separate these fuckers from both dnd and warhammer.

What differentiates your Moors Goblin from their more classic fantasy cousins is primarily their culture and disdain for sunlight (ok since writing more...unsure if i want them to be light sensitive!! will have to stew on this). Even Moors Goblins who live outside of cave networks don't see too much direct sunlight due to the cloudy and rainy climate of the northern highlands, and so they're prone to sunburn and blindness during prolonged exposure. Likewise, dryer climates greatly weaken their immune system, and so they rarely travel far enough south to mingle much with other races. The Moors Goblin is unique in that their genetic makeup is closely linked to that of fungus, making them incredibly hard to kill despite some of their more glaring weaknesses. They bleed viscous, green blood, thick with spores that, when the time is right, allow for the birth and growth of new goblins. While they do possess many organs similar to most mammals, like cold blooded reptiles, Moor Goblins can survive seemingly impossible amounts of tissue loss and internal damage, as their green bodies generate oxygen through photosynthesis and their central nervous system operates as a networked inlaid along their vascular lines. For this reason, many tribes take to the belief that it is actually impossible to kill them without the aid of fire or acid, and will chant some iteration of 'no burial mound can hold me' as a warsong. Even if a goblin is crushed beyond recognition, a new goblin may soon crawl from the dirt below the sight of his death due to the spores released upon his body's destruction.

Your typical cave Goblin may not know how to swim very well or see all too well in the sunlight, though some tribes do make a living off fishing the river ways in which they reside or travelling large, flat plain lands during daylight hours. Your average Goblin lives a simple lifestyle with a group of their own, and while some clans may be open to trading and friendly relations with other native races such as orcs or humans, Goblins are known for being isolationists and rather...tricky. They've had many altercations with more southerly dwarves and wood elves(? -- unsure if ill use elves in this manner as ive yet to expand on them). If asking any Dwarf about them, you'll likely hear that they are all cutthroats and petty thieves (largely in part due to land disputes within the mountains), whereas an Empire Elf would likely have little to no experience with them whatsoever.

In general, the world does not know too much about Moors Goblins and the inner workings of their society, as the race enjoys keeping to itself, and for the most part, other, more dominant races tend to likewise keep away from goblin controlled regions.

Older Goblins hold no higher rank in society, though they are allowed more relaxed roles due to their age and resulting feebleness. What does elevate their standing is their outward apperance: namely height and scars. A goblin tends to form welts, pockmarks, bumps, or discolorations after being wounded. Goblins who don’t see much warfare or even friendly sparring tend to be smooth, and as a result, assumed inexperienced, whereas more seasoned goblins tend to be more disfigured or even missing limbs (this implies that they have reached the age and status to breed, though sometimes old goblins may be smooth skinned, and young goblins with a rough early start may appear older than they are). Though more muscular goblins may bully their way through the nest, this doesn’t affect their social rank, though muscle build tends to correlate with height, and height a prized trait within Goblin society. The tallest Goblin is the defacto leader, but this tends to lead more diminutive individuals to ‘augment’ their height through unnatural means (stilts, hats, and even magic). The chieftain of a tribe often wears some sort of elaborate mask made of animal bone that helps to augment his height, and also represent the clan's culture through color, symbol, etc. If a tall goblin is entirely smooth, he must rely on his wits and magic knowhow to gain a reputation worthy of leading. If a very muscular but short and scarred goblin arises, he may fight for the title-- though this is rare. It seems instinctual for these creatures to flock to the tallest.

The Moors Goblin generally has very large ears, useful for detecting sonic frequencies within the earth.

They tend to have more angular facial features, larger noses and chins, hollow cheeks, and large, eyes with yellow sclera and slit pupils. Irises vary in color, from those ranging normal to humans, as well as rarer shades of red, purple, black, or even white. Goblin eyesight is exceptional in the dark, making them adept at living underground and scavenging for food at night, but making them poor day time hunters. Their sense of smell is keen like that of a dog, helping tunnelers to seek out anything from fungal food sources to rare minerals and dangerous sulfur deposits. Claws are large and thick on both hands and feet, and the front teeth are sharp, with pronounced incisors and canines and a set of flat, crushing molars at the back of the jaw.

Cutting open a goblin will reveal a startling lack of any apparent major organs! They possess spider-like booklungs, a network of bladder like muscles that have thousands of little capillary rivulets expending from within and connect the tissue to itselve. Cutting into muscle reveals a sort of crystalline pattern, made of a meat like, gooey substance similar to the consistency of what inside an aloe leaf. These fluids range from a watery, yellowish-green, to more viscous forest greens and even dark browns. Although any surgeons in this world would not be able to discern this easily, the goblin does posses a CNS, it is simply spread through the entire body. Likewise, there is no apparent heart organ, but it seems that electrical impulses force a reflective twitch from this network of innards that compels the goblin body forward. The closest thing to a brain can be found along what resembles a spinal column, where more obvious veins stem from to attach to the eyes, booklungs, and multiple small stomach like sacks. Their skeletal system is composed of a highly resilient and flexible cartilage made of keratin, similar to beetle shells. The goblin’s capacity to heal is astounding and quicker than that of your average mammal, though their springy ‘bones’ and soft flesh do make for easy wounding. Some older, stronger goblins develop a thick callous and scar tissue that makes for excellent, natural armor, and is sought after as a source of leather by some dwarvish tribes. 

Eating goblin meat is ill advised, however. It appears to be toxic to pink skins, and no known predator relies on these creatures as a food source.

For this reason, as well as their reproductive nature, goblins are seen as a plague amongst some northerly dwelling empire races. Cut one down, multiple eventually appear. Many have learned to burn goblin bodies rather than cutting up their remains; the more green blood spilled, the more likely they are to return from the earth! Infant goblins can be surprisingly strong and viscous towards perceived threats, and in a great number, they can do a lot of damage.

To an outsider, it may appear that all Moors Goblins are male. In reality, there is only one sex, or rather, in goblin terms, there is no sex or /really/ gender. Moors Goblins have no native terms for 'he' or 'she', though in Common they are typically just referred to as male due to their physical features. Moors Goblins have no need for more telling indicators such as breasts, but do coexist with races that do recognize a binary sex and gender, so they are somewhat familiar with the concept and may navigate it according to their preferences, if they have any. Many are fine with just being labeled an it, a they, or a he/she, though some more involved with humans may chose a set of pronouns.

Moors Goblin society is collectivist at its core; this may be confusing to outsiders however as Goblins are extremely easily distracted by anything they might consider valuable–– be it shiny, aromatic, tasty, dangerous, or just large and heavy. While this kleptomaniacal behavior may seem individualistic on the surface, Goblins operate similar to a termite or ant mound, or even beehives in that they collect food and goods to add to a collective hoard. It’s an animalistic sort of instinctual partnership a Goblin has with their clan, wherein they gather and fight as a collective, for the collective good, in exchange for food and protection. It could be looked at as a primitive form of taxation, but don’t let their demeanor fool you. Many aspects of Goblin society differ so greatly from human culture that it would be easy to mistake the creatures as mere beasts.

Their written language only exists in pictographs and simplistic glyphs, though someone unlearned in their ways may not be able to decode their cave scrawlings. If something must be written for delivery, Goblins utilize clay tablets (much like ancient Sumerians) and rarely take part in record keeping or history. Only the immediate now, and the looming future, really concern the Goblin folk. Oral tradition is common though mostly for religious purposes, and the orator role seems to be taken by older Goblins who have survived wars and skirmishes to tell the tale. In spite of this, Goblins are highly intelligent; though they lack long attention spans and tend towards the hyperactive and impulsive (and greedy) nature, they are adept magic users as well as rogues, druids, rangers, barbarians, and fighters, even bards, and a few exceptional individuals often leave their home to pursue training with other races. Goblin clerics, wizards, monks, and paladins are almost nonexistent, though it is certainly possible for exceptional individuals to arise and take on these roles...just, unheard of. Medicine men are often looked at as Shamans and revered as mystics. If a Moors Goblin has the capacity to learn, or the natural ability to use magic, he will often become a Shaman; as such many 'Shaman' are either sorcerers or clerics, though goblins do not differentiate between the two much, aside from designating some shaman as healers and others as battlemages. Healer shaman are typically alchemists and herbalists.

Religion is not at the center of Goblin culture, though it does play a significant enough role that it merits mentioning. A Goblin may worship any number of deities from a polytheistic pantheon of old, elemental gods; they take their beliefs from oral traditions passed on from generation to generation. Mining and tunneling act as the fulcrum for many folk lore and urban legends, using cautionary tales of careless tunneling practices and unearthing unspeakable evils of the deep. Mentors will often tell these tales to their charges to keep them in line, mostly. As creatures composed of plantlike matter, Moors Goblins tend to feel a kinship with the earth, moss, lichen, and the sort. Shaman, like clerics, draw their powers from the elements and deities who represent them, and on occasion may use their abilities to aid in battles, though primarily reserve them for healing and supplementing their oral tradition.

Goblins will pair bond with one or multiple partners throughout their lifespan, though a coupling for the sake of childbearing is useless in their society. A single goblin may have multiple litters of children in a lifetime, depending on anything from the availability of food to a need for more goblins in a clan. The collective cares for newborns, with a little focus on the biological parent as authoritative figures, though many young goblins may bond with a particular elder and chose to spend more time around them. Many older goblins may mentor or teach younger ones in their trade if they take an interest, though rarely is a goblin forced into a role. It varies among tribes, but is generally a very organic process where any given goblin simply does whatever he is good at. This is how names are given: first names are mostly what matter and are derived from telling characteristics that arise as the goblin child ages. Surnames exist as well, however, and are assigned later once a trade is selected or perhaps a deed done that awards merit. This helps differentiate goblins with more common names, from seperate tribes, or from a proud lineage: fore example, let’s say two Dweezles exist in the same clan for whatever reason. One may become a hunter, the other may become a bard of some sort. The hunter may be named Dweezle Lantz whereas the bard may be called Dweezle the Yox, or in common, Dweezle the Merry. (I am using a very bastardized patois as a basis for a lot of goblin names simply bc i like the idea of Goblle being derived from Orc lowspeak, which I base off a very bastardized French! For no reason other than shits and giggles).

Goblins are often 'born' as twins or triplets, though the mortality rate is somewhat high due to disease and accidents. Goblins share a distant ancestry with that of fungus, and as such their reproduction involves a gestation stage wherein the parent blood lets beneath mushroom caps in a central breeding chamber within the cave networks he may inhabit. From here the spore-filled fluid takes to the dirt and develops into fetuses, which gather further nutrients from the rich soils and the other fungal and plant life found in the cave floor. It continues to grow until a full formed Goblin baby is ready to crawl free from the earth. Infants will possess exemplary motor skills once unearthed and instinctively know to crawl towards older goblins and the scent of food. 

Your typical Moors Goblin dwelling is found around the base of a mountain, rolling hills, or within the nooks and crags of a cliff. The tunnels are narrow and warren like but lead to a number of different caverns, both natural and goblin-made, that are much more open. The central chamber has many interconnecting tunnels and can range from large to massive in size. The larger the tribe, the larger the atrium. Often, tribes will seek out pre-existing caverns to make as their atrium, which is similar to a plaza or the town centre of a human village. Here, cave paintings and banners decorate the walls, Shamans will set up shop to offer medical aid or entertainment and education in story telling, the chieftain will make his rounds or sit atop a central throne and hear reports from foot soldiers or settle disputes amongst tribe members, and children will run about and practice battle or play. Beneath the atrium lies the food storage, and below there lies the brood.  If a cave network has lava, blacksmiths and cooks may conduct their business around these pockets of magma, but will otherwise carry on outside the tunnels. Individual goblins may seek out and dig their own rooms for sleep, though many will seek others to sleep in piles. Goblins live both within these tunnels and on the surface around the outside of the area. They guard the territory around the mine for miles, sending out patrols of hunters equipped with war horns and using wolves as watchdogs to alert them to intruders.

The Moors Goblin spoken language is quick and sharp on the tongue, spoken in fast fragments meant to quickly convey information. Moors Goblins of old were purported to operate as a literal hivemind, not needing verbal language to communicate with one another, though the modern Moors Goblin has lost this telekinetic ability. The influence of such can be seen in how they work in groups. Pheremone signals and bodily gestures (such as ear twitches or stance) carry nonverbal information throughout the entire brood; attacking one goblin in or near their mound can result in a full fledged, hive-wide retaliation. For this reason it is highly advised to isolate enemy Goblins, or to use crowd control measures when dealing with multiples.

Goblins will align themselves with orcs and humans in times of war, making them an intimidating force to be reckoned with. Even a single tribe can be difficult to battle, though, as they attack in droves and rely on their sheer numbers to viciously bring down any enemy. Shamans and bards will aid a fight using berserker elixirs and spells, AOE heals and buffs/debuffs, and providing chants that both invigorate their soldiers and deter the enemy. Bards typically play animal bladders fixed with a series of tubes, much like the real world bagpipes, war drums, or brass oboe-like instruments that sound off a deep resonance (similar to a didgeridoo). Hunters and rangers will lead a charge on wolves or other tamed beasts, while the chieftain leads the foot soldiers. Tribes at war have a high turnover rate for their leaders.

When teamed with orcs, it is common for goblins to serve as a replacement for pack animals, even during hunts, however it should be noted that goblin slavery is not a common practice among the northern orc tribes and seems to be a willing symbiotic relationship between both races.

The Goblin diet consists of local fauna and flora that is relatively easy to hunt or gather. Goblins don’t participate in much agriculture aside from a few species of mushroom and various moss or lichen, and do not partake in domestication or cattle rearing of any sort, though a variety of rats, bats, small reptiles, amphibians, and insects coexist alongside the Goblin people in a similar manner to humans and domestic dog and cats. Granted, these creatures are also often on the menu. Many rangers will capture wolves and ride them to hunt, as well, though this is less common for goblin groups that live deep within cave systems.

Due to the lack of sunlight, Goblins get their vitamin D through both photosynthesis of available, diffused light and a hearty diet of fatty meats and protein based foods, supplementing it with small rocks and precious gems, nuts, berries, roots, grasses, and leafy greens. Some minerals may actually imbue a Goblin spell caster with certain heightened abilities for a short while, ranging from increased sensory capabilities to hallucinogenic effects. Contrary to popular beliefs, Goblins do eat a number of root vegetables and fruits, gathered and bartered from surrounding forests and towns. Shamans enjoy brewing powerful elixirs and even moonshine that aid in battle or serve as poison to coat their weapons in.

Relationships with other races are mostly dependent on trade, though due to border conflicts, Goblins have an adversarial relationship towards Dwarves. The Goblin’s inclination towards stealing and eating gemstone and ore, as well as collapsed tunnels and collisions have put the two races at odds with each other.

Many tribes align themselves with Barbaric human clans or nomadic tribes of neighboring orcs, and will fight or even live alongside these different races in relative harmony.

i think that’s it for now!!!!

[diversetolkien]

pomson6000 replied to your post “I think though that at least parts of the racism in tolkiens works is...”

i feel like there's a difference between being racist and emulating racism, and tolkien was doing both :/ if he really wanted to make a fantasy world where race wasn't an axis of oppression similar to the one on earth, he could have At Least bothered to not make the orcs all have dark skin while all the elves are very light... but by choosing that, he seems to imply that oppression based on skin co a "natural" consequence of all civilized society, which is way fucked up.

I agree he was doing both. In same cases he was doing it on purpose, and then on other cases I just don’t think he even realized it :/ And exactly, he applied real life racial stereotyping to a fictional world. The harmful stereotypes were there.

It’s just all to direct to say that at least half of it wasn’t intended :/ 

@pomson6000

[aros001]

First time read through light novel vol. 12. Random thoughts.

Right off the bat and I love this illustration

of the aftermath of Subaru's various deaths. Just at a look and you're able to tell which loop and death it was. From left to right:

After the Witch Cult slaughters Emilia, the mansion, and villagers and Puck goes out to destroy the world. Though not sure if this is the loop where Puck and Subaru got to talk or it this is a loop before that.

Rem tortures and Ram mercy kills Subaru, likely lying and covering up their actions afterwards to Emilia.

Rem dies from the Shaman's curse and Subaru commits suicide, unfortunately doing so right in front of Beatrice and Ram.

Elsa murders Subaru and Emilia. Subaru's very first death.

Subaru is possessed by Petelgeuse and has to be put down.

I wasn't sure about this one at first but later in the book seems to imply this is after Subaru killed himself after Rem fell into a coma.

Echidna speculated that Subaru's save points were based just on what'd help him be most likely to overcome whatever killed him and that Satella likely didn't care about anyone else in his life. But with the black shadow devouring everything, save for Garfiel, and seemingly heading for the mansion next, I wouldn't be surprised if Satella actually is choosing the points that get rid of others who are important to Subaru so she can have his love all to herself. Rem's in a coma and Subaru can't go back further to save her from that fate and the only reason Emilia is still around is because a lot of the events that kill her tend to also kill Subaru, like Elsa and the Witch Cult, so her death wouldn't exist in a timeline where Subaru also gets to live. In arc 3 Subaru's save point was set after he and Emilia had that big fight and went their separate ways. I wouldn't be surprised if Satella set that point specifically because the two were driven apart and she didn't want Subaru to get a do-over.

Watching Ram, Ryuzu, and all the other people he cared about get swallowed whole, vanishing within the shadow.

But even after so many precious people were stolen from him, Garfiel refused to use revenge as an excuse to throw all decency aside. He wouldn’t tolerate any talk about a victory that involved sacrificing Subaru.

I like to think this is a little bit of a callback to some of Subaru's loops during arc 3, specifically when he was so lost in his selfishness and later his rage at the Witch Cult's massacres that he was somewhat blinded to everyone else and was throwing away his decency; something Garfiel is refusing to do. Again, I don't mind that Subaru has had moments where he's not a good person and has very serious character flaws because the story is about him continuously growing into a better person.

“In this world, when I heard ‘I love you’ spoken seriously to me for the first time...it gave me, an unredeemable bastard, enough power to make me think I could become a hero.”

He was a piece of garbage, twisted down, broken, and ready to flee from everything, but those words had made him believe he could face the future head-on, never giving in—to challenge it once more, over and over, however many times that it took.

As sad as I am that Rem's not in the story anymore aside from being a near lifeless husk, I am glad that her importance on the story and Subaru specifically is still strong. Honestly, all shipping aside, I'm mostly upset that, because of the coma, all of Rem's character development has pretty much been put on hold. I was enjoying seeing her grow and the ways she was reacting to events in the story. For the audience, having her be in a coma is maybe worse than her being killed because there's that hope she'll come back and you're continuously waiting for her to do so; waiting for that part of the story to be allowed to continue.

What could he say, what should he say, that would rub the Witch the worst way? There was no one better armed to get under someone else’s skin than Subaru. So he knew.

Accordingly, Subaru gave a shallow, cruel laugh, turning a look of scorn toward the Witch.

“—I’d rather love Echidna and the other Witches than you.”

...Yeah, that oughta do it. Seriously though, I almost felt all the sound go out in the world at reading that line, that's how much of an "Ohhhhh shit." moment it was, with there being nothing Subaru could have said to piss the witch off more.

I suppose Satella (and Subaru) consuming and becoming one with everything can relate to envy. No need to be envious of what others have when you are both them and what they possess.

He had seen the Witch’s face in the moment just prior to Return by Death —and it was the same face as Emilia’s. After straddling death to come back, he had dragged along a fear of the Witch that stuck with him.

It's temporary but I do like this. For a moment Subaru is in a similar position as those who naturally live in this world. He knows that Emilia is not the Witch of Envy, just as most people in the world could obviously understand, but because of the strong resemblance (and Satella possessing Emilia's body) he can't not see Satella when he looks at her and feel that fear. Obviously it's still wrong to have that prejudice against Emilia and other half-elves whom have done nothing to harm anyone but having even Subaru feel that fear, even for just a moment, does make it very understandable why the people of this world have trouble letting go of it.

I know this is bothering me more than it should and it's not a criticism towards the series, but I always feel bad that Subaru has this perception around him of being a little bit of a crybaby, or at least easily upset and needing to be soothed. Don't get me wrong, I make no demands that the MC always be seen all ultra-masculine manly but from the perspective of others it does seem like Subaru breaks down easily. In the mansion arc with Subaru working himself sick and crying into Emilia's lap to the White Whale arc where Subaru gave up and asked Rem to run away with him to now where Emilia is needing to comfort him inside Echidna's tomb. We the audience know these breakdowns are VERY well deserved after the horrors Subaru has been through and he really needs the comfort, but the other characters don't know and it just looks like he's cracking over nothing. I like Subaru and it sucks that he keeps getting seen as a bit of a crybaby, especially in front of the woman he loves. Emilia doesn't make a big deal of it and Subaru has done plenty to prove his worth and bravery before, but I still can't help but feel a little bad for the guy.

I'm wondering if there's an implication that Emilia's doing better during this loop is because she now feels she's fighting/being strong for Subaru? Kind of like how Subaru has found strength in fighting for her and the others he cares about.

“I did think about it, so I asked Ram to keep him occupied. In the meantime, it’s a date between you and me, Ryuzu.”

“I am unsure what it is you mean by dayte...but I cannot defy you at this point, Young Su. You may do with me and the girl here as you wish.”

“That’s giving in a little too much!"

What is with people continuously thinking Subaru wants to defile them?! Is it the eyes? (It's probably the eyes)

I've heard tales before that Subaru comes to be known as the Lolimancer. Given he now has authority over Ryuzu and a practical army of replicas, I can kind of see that. And it's glorious. Nothing crushes your enemy quite like their opponent throwing a little girl that them...and winning.

Then, after a momentary pause, she slowly nodded and said, “—Ahhh, I understand now. Betty is probably entrusting you with her final moment because...”

Once he heard the answer, there was no going back. —He was certain of it.

And yet, his decision came too late. He had realized too late. It was too late for everything.

“—Sorry to intrude mid-conversation, but...”

A voice he should not have heard spoke. Hastened by a terrible chill, Subaru flipped around.

Then he saw her.

“—Is it all right if I become That Person for you, I wonder?”

Carrying a black curved blade in her hand—a kukri knife—the black- clothed Bowel Hunter stood at the archive’s entrance.

F**K! OFF! ELSA!

Crystal arrows were thrust through her entire body, half of it shattered like inorganic matter. Such was Elsa’s death.

THAT'S WHAT YOU GET, BITCH!

Beatrice’s eyebrows fell as she let out a breath of instantaneous relief, forming a thin smile in the process.

—The tip of a black blade was poking out of her chest.

“—My, what an odd feeling in the hand. A spirit’s belly really is different.”

DAMMIT!

“The letter...that’s right. I wrote a letter. I wrote everything on it, that’s why. I really meant to tell you about everything, but...”

“Tee-hee.”

Ohhhhhhhh no, that's never a good sign. Dark tomb dedicated to a witch, everything else outside going wrong, and Emilia just gives a little giggle like that, talking about how lonely she was and how much she loves him? She didn't even comment on how he's MISSING AN EYE.

Funny enough, for this part I am being reminded of a reaction I had while reading the Goblin Slayer light novels. "Oh, thank goodness this character was only severely beaten and about to be sacrificed to summon a demon old god into the world." "Oh, thank goodness. Emilia's not possessed or under some terrible curse. She's just cracked from mental strain and trauma." It's just one of those times where I have to take a moment and think about what kind of series I'm reading where I'm relieved a major character has only gone insane.

It is kind of cool how she's in a way going through a similar experience as Subaru has. Repeatedly going through a continuous loop of failures she can't overcome but feels she has to for the sake of others, until she finally just hits her breaking point.

I do like how even just Roswaal talking about RBD is enough for the witch to grasp Subaru's heart, even though Roswaal figured it all out on his own. I'm also glad I saw the "Memory Snow" OVA because it does add a nice (and really messed up) layer to Roswaal's manipulations. That even a happy and completely innocent time like that, seeming to exist for no other reason than to give the audience a nice breather before arc 3, was something he figured out how to use to his advantage. It makes him feel like even more of a devious bastard, that he'll be taking such a pleasant and pure memory and using it to get the villagers to fear Emilia.

“The current you is insufficient to bring about the future indicated in the text. Any discrepancy with that recorded requires a correction.”

That makes me curious about how specifically the book works. Before Roswaal and Beatrice were making it sound like the book foretold futures that would happen no matter what, but this line implies that Subaru currently is unable to make that future come to pass, making it sound more like the book describes the specific ways required to make the foretold future happen. Then again, Subaru isn't from this world, so is he maybe somewhat exempt from the book's prophecies? Or is he a requirement for fulfilling them? Roswaal caught on to Subaru's looping because of the book, but how? Is the future changing every time Subaru loops and because Roswaal has read ahead he knew what the future originally was and thus noticed when it changed? Subaru also speculates that Roswaal has the ability to inherit memories like Echidna and thus he can remember the previous timelines, but I feel like he'd be able to understand that the loops were caused by Subaru dying then, since that's the common trait among all of them. Roswaal also says there's no point in talking about thing since he will not be the same Roswaal Subaru meets when he loops again, so I'm assuming that means he can't inherit memories or the new Roswaal, while not the same as the previous loop, would remember his and Subaru's conversation and be able to continue it.

So to recap:

Rem, Petra, and Frederica are murdered after Subaru sent them to the village to keep them safe

He has to watch as Elsa murders a suicidal Beatrice

Elsa cuts out his left eye

He's caught in a harsh snowstorm wearing only a ripped up tracksuit

Emilia, the woman he loves, has a mental breakdown

Roswaal murders Ram and Garfiel right in front of him and admits he deliberately drove Emilia into isolation

Roswaal tortures Subaru in order to try and get him to loop

Rabbits eat Roswaal alive right in front of Subaru and likely are doing the same to the rest of Sanctuary, save for those whom chose suicide by fire rather than being eaten

The replicas are killed defending Subaru under his orders and he still got half-mauled in the process

His first kiss was at the very moment of his death by an insane Emilia

All in all, today's been something of a bummer for Subaru, hasn't it?

In all seriousness though, SOMEONE GIVE THE MAN A HUG!!!

And let's just keep the pain train rolling with Subaru being shown the aftermath of his death after Rem fell into a coma. Seriously, that was heart wrenching, between Emilia's sobbing to Wilhelm's desperation to save him and unable to understand how someone he genuinely respected could take his own life like that.

I kind of suspected this already given the first trial made Subaru confront his past, or at least a version of it, but now with the second trial being "the unknowable present" I'm assuming the three trials are based around past, present, and future respectively.

“—Goodness, can you even stand anymore? Subaru.”

...

For she was the girl who knew Subaru was not strong yet had said to him anyway, “I love you.”

“—Rem.”

“Yes. I am Subaru’s Rem.”

REM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I don't care if it's the Witch of Lust trying to trick him, the story made me need that as much as Subaru did.

“If I was stronger, if I was wiser, if I was a man who could do more...no one would have to suffer, to be sad, to go through hard times like that...”

It would have been so much better if Subaru had been strong enough to do everything, all of it, alone.

Emilia’s sadness, Beatrice’s loneliness, the calamity befalling Petra and Frederica, the menace of the Great Rabbit, Garfiel, who was desperately protecting something... He should have been able to do...something.

Everything, all of it, every last bit of it was Subaru’s fault.

That was why, to balance out his weakness, Subaru had to pay by shaving away his life. —That was what he’d thought, and yet...

“Have I saved...anyone...?”

“Subaru.”

“If those worlds continued after my death, how many times I have I abandoned everyone to die?”

“Subaru.”

“How many times...did I make you die? How many times...do I have to kill you?”

Seriously, why do so many people hate Subaru? And I'm not talking about in-story, I'm talking about how often I see people online just crapping on the guy and really just having such firm dislike for the character. Yeah, he has a bad tendency to shove his foot into his mouth, especially early on, and he most certainly has been selfish and entitled. But he's continuously growing, continuously being made to face his faults and try to overcome them. Most important, at the end of the day he's just a guy who doesn't want anything bad to happen to the people he loves and he tries despite how utterly powerless he is, holding himself to his failures to the point of self-destructiveness. He's far from perfect but he's a good guy who's being continuously pushed to be a better one.

“I’ll show you my weakness. I’ll show you my vulnerabilities. I’ll even show you how I’m a petty, irredeemable bastard. —But the one thing I won’t show you is me giving up.”

Rem had once said...Subaru was her hero.

And Subaru Natsuki had decided to be Rem’s hero.

Again, I don't dislike Emilia at all. I don't even dislike the idea of her and Subaru as a couple, since I can clearly see why Subaru loves her and why Emilia is likely falling for him. But these books have most certainly done nothing to temper how much I love the Subarem ship. How important Rem is to him not only helping to pull Subaru out of his despair over his long string of failures but also how much he wants to be the man she sees him as breaking him out of the Rem-deception. I'm not sure if what I said makes any sense but it's beautiful nonetheless!

The funny thing about Echidna's idea for potential immortality, hopping from one body to the next, is that it's an idea I feel like I've seen many times in fiction and yet I'm drawing a blank on many specific examples. I'm curious if implanting memories into a new vessel is how her tomb works, like she placed herself literally into her tomb and thus why her dream castle exists even after her death?

I am really enjoying Echidna so far. You know Subaru probably shouldn't trust her but she's very good at making herself someone you kind of want to trust. While it's a bit grey to say if she is an outright villain, I think she makes for a very good one.

I feel like I may have a misunderstanding of how Beatrice's pact works. She's to guard the library of forbidden books and sometimes the story makes it sound like she can't leave it, or at least can't leave the mansion, but she has left it a few times now, the furthest being Subaru's suicide jump of the cliff. So is it the overall estate she can't leave or that she can only exit the grounds on certain conditions? Because she and Subaru did have a pact when he went to the cliff.

Next volume should prove interesting, given Subaru seems like he's going to form a pact with Beatrice and Satella just showed up for the tea party. Next volume comes on sale on July 21, so I've got a couple of weeks to wait, unless anyone is aware of any websites that've translated the light novels (not web novels) like Overlord and Konosuba have.

Original Reddit post: https://www.reddit.com/r/Re_Zero/comments/ho60yc/novels_first_time_read_through_light_novel_vol_12/

[ivanaskye]

y’all need Elrond fic pt. 2

(second chapter of this bc I’m unstoppable. once again I’m sorry @ ppl who follow me for my original work and aren’t prepared to drown in elf fic,,,, I’m so sorry)

The stars, the stars, the stars!  I have always loved them, and yet to see them now is somehow a greater joy; which reminds me to ask Elros if he feels the same of the sun, and of course to remind myself now is to remember, to remember completely.

How strange and yet how right it feels to remember each and every thought!  Eternal, eternal, not even death can forever take me, for it is told that those who are killed yet become reembodied after time in Mandos’ halls—not even death, not even death.

I trace each and every star with my mind, and they sparkle, they all sparkle, it is a joy to see even though I saw these very same stars yesterday, in the very same place.  But they shine, they shine, they seem to be brighter than even sunlight for their nature of standing out against the dark, white and yet not-white, occasionally blue, each of the many words for white my native tongue holds and so much more as well.

Oh, to know that I will never lose them!  For a cloudy spell, sure, but not entirely, not until world’s breaking.  Oh, there will be nights and nights and nights, and it will not end—

—and I sigh, for though I love each and every once of these thoughts and hold them like precious stars in their own right, they would be far truer and brighter if I could speak them.  But Elros must be sleeping, he must be, it is so late now and even I should be dreaming and yet am not, for the stars draw me to the present moment too strongly.

And yet, and yet, would that I could speak these things, would that I could!  

The very words I think echo in me, their memory eternal: and they are mine, oh how they are mine!  My very desire for someone to spend the long and shining night with, to exchange stories with without end, stories and songs and tales by a fire—oh, how me that is!  And I will always remember.

It makes me smile, even though I’ve come to this thought by way of a desire that might, had my thoughts gone down different paths, brought me to sorrow—but then, I’ve chosen the joy over the sorrow always, have I not?  That is my way, that will be my way through all this world, holding tight to each moment I encounter, loving, loving, just as Elros predicted and wished for me.

My brother … well!  I do not want to disturb him, but there is some chance he is sitting outside on his own anyway, perhaps gripped by an inability to sleep; of course I hope for his sake that he is resting as he should, but if he isn’t…

I stand up and shake my head at myself.  My thoughts echo to me in my brother’s voice, which is of course also my own: oh, Elrond, you insufferable—I smile to think it, more than I was already smiling, enough for my cheeks to hurt.

What a convenient thing that my Kindred cannot develop wrinkles!

I laugh at myself at this thought, and remember the very stars that shine above me, that I was looking at mere moments before.  I laugh and my laugh becomes a song, something old and remembers from childhood, and it provides me company as I walk forward towards the sound of the sea.

I close my eyes in the cadence of the song, and it feels just like bright starlight, it feels just like the air on my skin.  I close my eyes and walk forward by the place we so often set our fires, past the grove of trees—yes, yes, I do not need to open my eyes to pass this, for I have walked here before, and I have memorized the places these trees grow.  Or, no, no, I have not memorized them, for that implies effort, but ah!  I will never need effort for such a thing again!

I only open my eyes as I come into sight of the sea, and though it is beautiful under the stars and dark of the night, I near instantly find myself close to tears.

Beleriand.  Beleriand, once.  And now, under that very sea.

And so I let my approach grow softer, not wanting to make sound against the sand as I walk, for it seems inappropriate to the mourning deep inside me.  I smile something sudden as I realize that this, too, comes easier than expected; I can soften my footsteps with a thought.  But oh, though I smile at it, I cannot make a sound of joy, for the very home where I once dwelled is under the waves, and never will I see it again, never with these eyes that hold memory forever.

I cast those same eyes back up to the sea and notice something I had not noticed before.  A rock, moving, with my exact proportions—

“Brother!” I cry out, my joy at companionship overriding my grief, or no, not overriding it, merely existing alongside it, I hold both so bright as to burn, and yet I do not burn, I endure.  Endure!  I am far too young to think that, I try to tell myself, as I run toward him, softening my footsteps only a little.

“Now look who isn’t dreaming,” Elros says quietly, without bothering to turn his head to me; he doesn’t need to, I know the smirk on his face just from his words alone.

“I could say the same of you,” I say, sitting down beside him in one motion that I have every reason to believe is graceful.

“And yet you sounded so pleased by it.”

“Well,” I say with an exhale.  “Yes.”  Sadness carries into my voice; I know this.  “And also, seeing you here, I suspect I know what you are thinking.”

“It is rather obvious,” Elros says.

“Mm,” I say, nodding.  I close my eyes and imagine that all the rivers now drowned by the sea whisper in my ears.  “It hurts, does it not?”

“It does,” Elros says.

Almost without thinking I stretch my arm to my side and open my hand; and before I know it, he’s grabbed on, and oh—oh—oh no, he is sobbing.

“Brother,” I say.

“Home,” he chokes out.  “Now gone.”

“I know.”

“It is so hard to stop thinking about,” he says, and his hand tightens around mine.  “So hard!  How am I to bear this loss, brother?  How?”

I have a thousand answers, but I know without saying them that they are Elf-answers, and their very inapplicability to him is why we are different now, is what separates us in our souls.  He is mortal, but it is not because of that that he cannot bear loss so easily.  No.  It is the exact reverse.  It is because he cannot bear it that he chose mortality.  He has not said this to me, but then, he has not needed to.

But too much time has passed without an answer.  “Oh, Elros, brother,” I say.  “You know I cannot give you that answer.  Not in such a way that it could become your answer, as well as mine.”

“I could hear you say it,” he says, distantly.  “All the same.”

“I cannot guarantee that would not hurt more,” I say.

And he disconnects his hand from mine, and he says, “You are right.  Do not tell me now, then.  I do not know that I could bear it.  But nor would I have you keep it from me forever, not when I suspect you have so much more to say.”

His acceptance of this hurts, and the pain is sharp—and of course, I will never forget it.  Which is exactly what he cannot bear.  For him, the stars are not enough, the air is not enough, the leafs in the trees are not enough to offset all these moments that hurt.  He never could have been like I am now, he never—

“Brother?”

It is only by his asking of this question that I realize I am sobbing, my head leaning towards him.  I raise my eyes to him, somehow, but oh, he cannot see my face, or likely he cannot, it is too dark for his eyes—“Yes?”

He shakes his head slightly.  And without him quite saying it in words, I catch in him: what a strange response to a question that was not a question.  You do not need to ask ‘yes’ to a word spoken only in concern.

The speech of thoughts: yes, it seems we still may share it.  That is good to know; I had worried somewhat that we would not.

“Do you remember,” I find myself saying, “that Maglor said I smiled too much for a child of war?”

Elros smiles at this.  “I know what you’re going to say next,” he says.

“He said you carried the sorrow for us both, but not needlessly; that your carrying of it was why you spent so much time drawing up plans for a better world.”

“He was right, you know,” Elros says.

“Of course I know,” I say, and my words feel somehow the same as the tears that fall down my face.

“And I know that you do.”

I squeeze Elros’ hand then let it go so that I may hug him; it seems that I now do this often, now that I understand I have a finite number of chances.  “You will do so well, brother,” I say.  “When you lead your people as you intend to, when you make something of a part of the world set aside for you.  You will do so well.”

“And you, brother,” he says, and the pressure of his arms feels so light that I can almost imagine that I can feel the way his feels his own mortality, as freeing, which of course I do not understand through my own self, but maybe I can understand through him, “you, your smiles will carry light and warmth that would have otherwise died with an age to those who need it most.  I daresay you may do better than I.”

“This was never going to turn out any other way, was it?” I ask.

“No, I suspect not.”

And because his thoughts are like mine echoed back, I breathe deep: for we are connected, entangled, and yet now also the opposite thereof.

“But you, brother,” Elros says as he releases his hold on me, and smiles, looking at me as if he can see me in the darkness although I know he cannot, although he knows I can see him, “you now, I suspect, need rest.”

“How can you tell?” I say with half of a laugh.

“Because all this talk we have just had, you’ve been repeating things you have said before, and though I may be Edain, it is not as if I did not grow up all my life around Elves.”

Accidentally, I grin.  “The way they—the way we—would slip into conversation about memory, again and again, when we neared a need for dreams.”

“Yes.”

“Maedhros was the worst, when it came to that, you know.”

“I know,” Elros says.  “And you’re doing it again, you do realize?”

I laugh; I hadn’t, quite, but it’s true.  “In that case I might fall asleep right here!  For certain definitions of sleep.”

“As if you could stop yourself from conversing with me long enough to.”

I laugh again: he does have a point.  “Then perhaps it is you who should seek a bed, and leave me to act reasonably and actually find rest of my own.”

“Perhaps,” Elros says, but he does not move to stand.

“The mourning prevents you from it?” I guess.

“You know me too well.”

“It never could have been any other way,” I say.

“You’re doing it again.”

“And you know me too—“

“Elrond!” He says, almost laughing.  “I stand by my statement that you need sleep!  Now, perhaps!”

He may be right; I can feel rivers and stars and leaves near me, underneath my perceptions, all my memories bright and vying to hold me, to rest me, to bring me peace—

—even the hazier ones, like the collected sense of the color of the sky over all the time of a summer, me and Elros playing among dry grasses, the sound of Maglor’s lyre in the distance as we poked and teased at each other—

—“Oh, good,” Elros says, and I realize that I am dreaming, and I feel the emotion of the house we lived in with our mother and I temper it with the more recent and less sad memory of running through a meadow, and it is all I can do to smile at Elros in a sleeping response.

“Sweet dreams,” he says.

Always, I respond in the speech of thought.

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Other Place

Mary Gaitskill (2011)

My son, Douglas, loves to play with toy guns. He is thirteen. He loves video games in which people get killed. He loves violence on TV, especially if it’s funny. How did this happen? The way everything does, of course. One thing follows another, naturally.

Naturally, he looks like me: shorter than average, with a fine build, hazel eyes, and light-brown hair. Like me, he has a speech impediment and a condition called “essential tremor” that causes involuntary hand movements, which make him look more fragile than he is. He hates reading, but he is bright. He is interested in crows because he heard on a nature show that they are one of the only species that are more intelligent than they need to be to survive. He does beautiful, precise drawings of crows.

Mostly, though, he draws pictures of men holding guns. Or men hanging from nooses. Or men cutting up other men with chainsaws—in these pictures there are no faces, just figures holding chainsaws and figures being cut in two, with blood spraying out.

My wife, Marla, says that this is fine, as long as we balance it out with other things—family dinners, discussions of current events, sports, exposure to art and nature. But I don’t know. Douglas and I were sitting together in the living room last week, half watching the TV and checking e-mail, when an advertisement for a movie flashed across the screen: it was called “Captivity” and the ad showed a terrified blond girl in a cage, a tear running down her face. Doug didn’t speak or move. But I could feel his fascination, the suddenly deepening quality of it. And I don’t doubt that he could feel mine. We sat there and felt it together.

And then she was there, the woman in the car. In the room with my son, her black hair, her hard laugh, the wrinkled skin under her hard eyes, the sudden blood filling the white of her blue eye. There was excited music on the TV and then the ad ended. My son’s attention went elsewhere; she lingered.

--

When I was a kid, I liked walking through neighborhoods alone, looking at houses, seeing what people did to make them homes: the gardens, the statuary, the potted plants, the wind chimes. Late at night, if I couldn’t sleep, I would sometimes slip out my bedroom window and just spend an hour or so walking around. I loved it, especially in late spring, when it was starting to be warm and there were night sounds—crickets, birds, the whirring of bats, the occasional whooshing car, some lonely person’s TV. I loved the mysterious darkness of the trees, the way they moved against the sky if there was wind—big and heavy movements, but delicate, too, in all the subtle, reactive leaves. In that soft, blurry weather, people slept with their windows open; it was a small town and they weren’t afraid. Some houses—I’m thinking of two in particular, where the Legges and the Myers lived—had yards that I would actually hang around in at night. Once, when I was sitting on the Legges’ front porch, thinking about stealing a piece of their garden statuary, their cat came and sat with me. I petted him and when I got up and went for the statuary he followed me with his tail up. The Legges’ statues were elves, not corny, cute elves but sinister, wicked-looking elves, and I thought that one would look good in my room. But they were too heavy, so I just moved them around the yard.

I did things like that, dumb pranks that could only irritate those who noticed them: rearranging statuary, leaving weird stuff in mailboxes, looking into windows to see where people had dinner or left their personal things—or, in the case of the Legges, where their daughter, Jenna, slept. She was on the ground floor, her bed so close to the window that I could watch her chest rise and fall the way I watched the grass on their lawn stirring in the wind. The worst thing I did, probably, was put a giant marble in the Myers’ gas tank, which could’ve really caused a problem if it had rolled over the gas hole while one of the Myers was driving on the highway, but I guess it never did.

Mostly, though, I wasn’t interested in causing that kind of problem. I just wanted to sit and watch, to touch other people’s things, to drink in their lives. I suspect that it’s some version of these impulses that makes me the most successful real-estate agent in the Hudson Valley now: the ability to know what physical objects and surroundings will most please a person’s sense of identity and make him feel at home.

I wish that Doug had this sensitivity to the physical world, and the ability to drink from it. I’ve tried different things with him: I used to throw the ball with him out in the yard, but he got tired of that; he hates hiking and likes biking only if he has to get someplace. What’s working now a little bit is fishing, fly-fishing hip deep in the Hudson. An ideal picture of normal childhood.

--

I believe I had a normal childhood. But you have to go pretty far afield to find something people would call abnormal these days. My parents were divorced, and then my mother had boyfriends—but this was true of about half the kids I knew. She and my father fought, in the house, when they were together, and they went on fighting, on the phone, after they separated—loud, screaming fights sometimes. I didn’t love it, but I understood it; people fight. I was never afraid that my father was going to hurt her, or me. I had nightmares occasionally, in which he turned into a murderer and came after me, chasing me, getting closer, until I fell down, unable to make my legs move right. But I’ve read that this is one of those primitive fears which everybody secretly has; it bears little relation to what actually happens.

What actually happened: he forced me to play golf with him for hours when I visited on Saturdays, even though it seemed only to make him miserable. He’d curse himself if he missed a shot and then that would make him miss another one and he’d curse himself more. He’d whisper, “Oh, God,” and wipe his face if anything went wrong, or even if it didn’t, as if just being there were an ordeal, and then I had to feel sorry for him. He’d make these noises sometimes, painful grunts when he picked up the sack of clubs, and it put me on edge and even disgusted me.

Now, of course, I see it differently. I remembered those Saturdays when I was first teaching Doug how to cast, out in the back yard. I wasn’t much good myself yet, and I got tangled up in the bushes a couple of times. I could feel the boy’s flashing impatience; I felt my age, too. Then we went to work disentangling and he came closer to help me. We linked in concentration, and it occurred to me that the delicacy of the line and the fine movements needed to free it appealed to him the way drawing appealed to him, because of their beauty and precision.

Besides, he was a natural. When it was his turn to try, he kept his wrist stiff and gave the air a perfect little punch and zip—great cast. The next time, he got tangled up, but he was speedy about getting unstuck so that he could do it again. Even when the tremor acted up. Even when I lectured him on the laws of physics. It was a good day.

--

There is one not-normal thing you could point to in my childhood, which is that my mother, earlier in her life, before I was born, had occasionally worked as a prostitute. But I don’t think that counts, because I didn’t know about it as a child. I didn’t learn about it until six years ago, when I was thirty-eight and my mother was sick with a strain of flu that had killed a lot of people, most of them around her age. She was in the hospital and she was feverish and thought she was dying. She held my hand as she told me, her eyes sad half-moons, her lips still full and provocative. She said that she wanted me to know because she thought it might help me to understand some of the terrible things I’d heard my father say to her—things I mostly hadn’t even listened to. “It wasn’t anything really bad,” she said. “I just needed the money sometimes, between jobs. It’s not like I was a drug addict—it was just hard to make it in Manhattan. I only worked for good escort places. I never had a pimp or went out on the street. I never did anything perverted—I didn’t have to. I was beautiful. They’d pay just to be with me.”

Later, when she didn’t die, she was embarrassed that she’d told me. She laughed that raucous laugh of hers and said, “Way to go, Marcy! On your deathbed, tell your son you’re a whore and then don’t die!”

“It’s O.K.,” I said.

And it was. It frankly was not really even much of a surprise. It was her vanity that disgusted me, the way she undercut the confession with a preening, maudlin joke. I could not respect that even then.

--

I don’t think that my mom’s confession, or whatever it may have implied, had anything to do with what I think of as “it.” When I was growing up, there was, after all, no evidence of her past, nothing that could have affected me. But suddenly, when I was about fourteen, I started getting excited by the thought of girls being hurt. Or killed. A horror movie would be on TV, a girl in shorts would be running and screaming with some guy chasing her, and to me it was like porn. Even a scene where a sexy girl was getting her legs torn off by a shark—bingo. It was like pushing a button. My mom would be in the kitchen making dinner and talking on the phone, stirring and striding around with the phone tucked between her shoulder and her chin. Outside, cars would go by, or a dog would run across the lawn. My homework would be slowly getting done in my lap while this sexy girl was screaming “God help me!” and having her legs torn off. And I would go invisibly into an invisible world that I called “the other place.” Where I sometimes passively watched a killer and other times became one.

It’s true that I started drinking and drugging right about then. All my friends did. My mom tried to lay down the law, but I found ways around her. We’d go into the woods, me and usually Chet Wotazak and Jim Bonham, and we’d smoke weed we’d got from Chet’s brother, a local dealer named Dan, and drink cheap wine. We could sometimes get Chet’s dad to lend us a gun—in my memory he had an AK-47, though I don’t know how that’s possible—and we’d go out to a local junk yard and take turns shooting up toilets, the long tubes of fluorescent lights, whatever was there. Then we’d go to Chet’s house, up to his room, where we’d play loud music and tell dumb jokes and watch music videos in which disgusting things happened: snakes crawled over a little boy’s sleeping face and he woke up being chased by a psychopath in a huge truck; a girl was turned into a pig and then a cake and then the lead singer bit off her head.

You might think that the videos and the guns were part of it, that they encouraged my violent thoughts. But Chet and Jim were watching and doing the same things and they were not like me. They said mean things about girls, and they were disrespectful sometimes, but they didn’t want to hurt them, not really. They wanted to touch them and be touched by them; they wanted that more than anything. You could hear it in their voices and see it in their eyes, no matter what they said.

So I would sit with them and yet be completely apart from them, talking and laughing about normal things in a dark mash of music and snakes and children running from psychos and girls being eaten—images that took me someplace my friends couldn’t see, although it was right there in the room with us.

It was the same at home. My mother made dinner, talked on the phone, fought with my dad, had guys over. Our cat licked itself and ate from its dish. Around us, people cared about one another. Jenna Legge slept peacefully. But in the other place sexy girls—and sometimes ugly girls or older women—ran and screamed for help as an unstoppable, all-powerful killer came closer and closer. There was no school or sports or mom or dad or caring, and it was great.

--

I’ve told my wife about most of this, the drinking, the drugs, the murder fantasies. She understands, because she has her past, too: extreme sex, vandalizing cars, talking vulnerable girls into getting more drunk than they should on behalf of some guy. There’s a picture of her and another girl in bathing suits, the other girl chugging a beer that is being held by a guy so that it goes straight down her throat as her head is tipped way back. Another guy is watching, and my smiling wife is holding the girl’s hand. It’s a picture that foreshadows some kind of cruelty or misery, or maybe just a funny story to tell about throwing up in the bathroom later. Privately, I see no similarity between it and my death obsession. For my wife, the connection is drugs and alcohol; she believes that we were that way because we were both addicts expressing our pain and anger through violent fantasies and blind actions. The first time I took Doug out to fish, it was me on the hot golf course all over again. As we walked to the lake in our heavy boots and clothes, I could feel his irritation at the bugs and the brightness, the squalor of nature in his fastidious eyes. I told him that fly-fishing was like driving a sports car, as opposed to the Subaru of rod and reel. I went on about how anything beautiful had to be conquered. He just turned down his mouth.

He got interested, though, in tying on the fly; the simple elegance of the knot (the “fish-killer”) intrigued him. He laid it down the first time, too, placing the backcast perfectly in a space between trees. He gazed at the brown, light-wrinkled water with satisfaction. But when I put my hand on his shoulder I could feel him inwardly pull away.

--

As I got older, my night walks be came rarer, with a different, sadder feeling to them. I would go out when I was not drunk or high but in a quiet mood, wanting to be somewhere that was neither the normal social world nor the other place. A world where I could sit and feel the power of nature come up through my feet, and be near other people without them being near me. Where I could believe in and for a moment possess the goodness of their lives. Jenna Legge still slept on the ground floor and sometimes I would look in her window and watch her breathe, and, if I was lucky, see one of her developing breasts swell out of her nightgown.

I never thought of killing Jenna. I didn’t think about killing anyone I actually knew—not the girls I didn’t like at school or the few I had sex with. The first times I had sex, I was so caught up in the feeling of it that I didn’t even think about killing—I didn’t think about anything at all. But I didn’t have sex much. I was small, awkward, too quiet; I had that tremor. My expression must’ve been strange as I sat in class, feeling hidden in my other place, but outwardly visible to whoever looked—not that many did.

Then one day I was with Chet’s brother, Dan, on a drug drop; he happened to be giving me a ride because his drop, at the local college, was on the way to wherever I was going. It was a guy buying, but, when we arrived, a girl opened the door. She was pretty and she knew it, but whatever confidence that knowledge gave her was superficial. We stayed for a while and smoked the product with her and her boyfriend. The girl sat very erect and talked too much, as if she were smart, but there was a question at the end of everything she said. When we left, Dan said, “That’s the kind of lady I’d like to slap in the face.” I asked, “Why?” But I knew. I don’t remember what he said, because it didn’t matter. I already knew. And later, instead of making up a girl, I thought of that one.

--

I forgot to mention: one night when I was outside Jenna’s window, she opened her eyes and looked right at me. I was stunned, so stunned that I couldn’t move. There was nothing between us but a screen with a hole in it. She looked at me and blinked. I said, “Hi.” I held my breath; I had not spoken to her since third grade. But she just sighed, rolled over, and lay still. I stood there trembling for a long moment. And then, slowly and carefully, I walked through the yard and onto the sidewalk, back to my house.

I cut school the next day and the next, because I was scared that Jenna had told everybody and that I would be mocked. But eventually it became clear that nobody was saying anything, so I went back. In class, I looked at Jenna cautiously, then gratefully. But she did not return my look. At first, this moved me, made me consider her powerful. I tried insistently to catch her eye, to let her know what I felt. Finally our eyes met, and I realized that she didn’t understand why I was looking at her. I realized that although her eyes had been open that night, she had still been asleep. She had looked right at me, but she had not seen me at all.

--

And so one night, or early morning, really, I got out of bed, into my mother’s car, and drove to the campus to look for her—the college girl.

The campus was in a heavily wooded area bordering a nature preserve. The dorms were widely scattered, though some, resembling midsized family homes, were clustered together. The girl lived in one of those, but while I remembered the general location I couldn’t be sure which one it was. I couldn’t see into any of the windows, because even the open ones had blinds pulled down. While I was standing indecisively on a paved path between dorms, I saw two guys coming toward me. Quickly, I walked off into a section of trees and underbrush. I moved carefully through the thicket, coming to a wide field that led toward the nature preserve. The darkness deepened as I got farther from the dorms. I could feel things coming up from the ground—teeth and claws, eyes, crawling legs, and brainless eating mouths. A song played in my head, an enormously popular, romantic song about love and death that had supposedly made a bunch of teen-agers kill themselves.

Kids still listen to that song. I once heard it coming from the computer in our family room. When I went in and looked over Doug’s hunched shoulder, I realized that the song was being used as the soundtrack for a graphic video about a little boy in a mask murdering people. It was spellbinding, the yearning, eerie harmony of the song juxtaposed with terrified screaming; I told Doug to turn it off. He looked pissed, but he did it and went slumping out the door. I found it and watched it by myself later.

--

I went back to the campus many times. I went to avoid my mother as much as anything. Her new boyfriend was an asshole, and she whined when he was around. When he wasn’t around, she whined about him on the phone. Sometimes she called two people in a row to whine about exactly the same things that he’d said or done. Even when I played music loud so I couldn’t hear her, I could feel her. When that happened, I’d leave my music on so that she’d think I was still in my room and I’d go to the campus. I’d follow lone female students as closely as I could, and I’d feel the other place running against the membrane of the world, almost touching it. Why does it make sense to put romantic music together with a story about a little boy murdering people? Because it does make sense—only I don’t know how. It seems dimly to have to do with justice, with some wrong being avenged, but what? The hurts of childhood? The stupidity of life? The kid doesn’t seem to be having fun. Random murder just seems like a job he has to do. But why? Soon enough I realized that the college campus was the wrong place to think about making it real. It wasn’t an environment I could control; there were too many variables. I needed to get the girl someplace private. I needed to have certain things there. I needed to have a gun. I could find a place; there were deserted places. I could get a gun from Chet’s house; I knew where his father kept his. But the girl?

Then, while I was in the car with my mom one day, we saw a guy hitchhiking. He was middle-aged and fucked-up-looking, and my mom—we were stopped at a light—remarked that nobody in their right mind would pick him up. Two seconds later, somebody pulled over for him. My mom laughed.

I started hitchhiking. Most of the people who picked me up were men, but there were women, too. No one was scared of me. I was almost eighteen by then, but I was still small and quiet-looking. Women picked me up because they were concerned about me.

I didn’t really plan to do it. I just wanted to feel the gun in my pocket and look at the woman and know that I could do it. There was this one—a thirtyish blonde with breasts that I could see through her open coat. But then she said that she was pregnant and I started thinking about what if I was killing the baby?

--

Doug had a lot of nightmares when he was a baby, by which I mean between the ages of two and four. When he cried out in his sleep, it was usually Marla who went to him. But one night she was sick and I told her to stay in bed while I went to comfort the boy. He was still crying “Mommy!” when I sat on the bed, and I felt his anxiety at seeing me instead of his mother, felt the moment of hesitation in his body before he came into my arms, vibrating rather than trembling, sweating and fragrant with emotion. He had dreamed that he was home alone and it was dark, and he was calling for his mother, but she wasn’t there. “Daddy, Daddy,” he wept, “there was a sick lady with red eyes and Mommy wouldn’t come. Where is Mommy?”

That may’ve been the first time I truly remembered her, the woman in the car. It was so intense a moment that in a bizarre intersection of impossible feelings I got an erection with my crying child in my arms. But it lasted only a moment. I picked Doug up and carried him into our bedroom so that he could see his mother and nestle against her. I stayed awake nearly all night watching them.

--

The day it happened was a bright day, but windy and cold, and my mom would not shut up. I just wanted to watch a movie, but even with the TV turned up loud—I guess that’s why she kept talking; she didn’t think I could hear her—I couldn’t blot out the sound of her yakking about how ashamed this asshole made her feel. I whispered, “If you’re so ashamed, why do you talk about it?” She said, “It all goes back to being fucking molested.” She lowered her voice; the only words I caught were “fucking corny.” I went out into the hallway to listen. “The worst of it was that he wouldn’t look at me,” she said. I could almost hear her pacing around, the phone tucked against her shoulder. “That’s why I fall for these passive-aggressive types who turn me on and then make me feel ashamed.” Whoever she was talking to must have said something funny then, because she laughed. I left the TV on and walked out. I took the gun, but more for protection against perverts than the other thing.

--

I gave my boy that dream as surely as if I’d handed it to him. But I’ve given him a lot of other things, too. The first time he caught a fish he responded to my encouraging words with a bright glance that I will never forget. We let that one go, but only after he had held it in his hands, cold and quick, muscle with eyes and a heart, scales specked with yellow and red, and one tiny orange fin. Then the next one, bigger, leaping to break the rippling murk—I said, “Don’t point the rod at the fish. Keep the tip up, keep it up”—and he listened to me and he brought it in. There is a picture of it on the corkboard in his room, the fish in the net, the lure bristling in its crude mouth. I have another picture, too, of him smiling triumphantly, holding it in his hands, its shining, still living body fully extended.

--

She was older than I’d wanted, forty or so, but still good-looking. She had a voice that was strong and lifeless at the same time. She had black hair and she wore tight black pants. She did not have a wedding ring, which meant that maybe no one would miss her. She picked me up on a lightly travelled forty-five-mile-an-hour road. She was listening to a talk show on the radio and she asked if I wanted to hear music instead. I said no, I liked talk shows.

“Yeah?” she said. “Why?”

“Because I’m interested in current events.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I just listen to this shit because the voices relax me. I don’t really care what they’re talking about.”

They were talking about a war somewhere. Bombs were exploding in markets where people bought vegetables; somebody’s legs had been blown off. We turned onto a road with a few cars, but none close to us.

“You don’t care?”

“No, why should I? Oh, about this?” She paused. There was something about a little boy being rushed to an overcrowded hospital. “Yeah, that’s bad. But it’s not like we can do anything about it.” On the radio, foreign people cried.

I took the gun out of my pocket.

I said, “Do you have kids?”

“No,” she said. “Why?”

“Take me to Old Post Road. I’m going to the abandoned house there.”

“I’m not going by there, but I can get you pretty close. So why do you care about current events? I didn’t give a shit at your age.”

“Take me there or I’ll kill you.”

She cocked her head and wrinkled her brow, as if she were trying to be sure she’d heard right. Then she looked down at the gun, and cut her eyes up at me; quickly, she looked back at the road. The car picked up speed.

“Take the next right or you’ll die.” My voice at that moment came not from me but from the other place. My whole body felt like an erection. She hit the right-turn signal. There was a long moment as we approached the crucial road. The voices on the radio roared ecstatically.

She pulled over to the shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

She put the car in park.

“Turn right or you die!”

She unbuckled her seat belt and turned to face me. “I’m ready,” she said. She leaned back and gripped the steering wheel with one hand, as if to steady herself. With her free hand, she tapped herself between the eyes—bright, hot blue, rimmed with red. “Put it here,” she said. “Go for it.”

A car went by. Somebody in the passenger seat glanced at us blankly. “I don’t want to do it here. There’s witnesses. You need to take me to the place.”

“What witnesses? That car’s not stopping—nobody’s going to stop unless the emergency lights are on and they’re not, look.”

“But if I shoot you in the head the blood will spray on the window and somebody could see.” It was my own voice again: the power was gone. The people on the radio kept talking. Suddenly I felt my heart beating.

“O.K., then do it here.” She opened her jacket to show me her chest. “Nobody’ll hear. When you’re done you can move me to the passenger seat and drive the car wherever.”

“Get into the passenger seat now and I’ll do it.”

She laughed, hard. Her eyes were crazy. They were crazy the way an animal can be crazy in a tiny cage. “Hell, no. I’m not going to your place with you. You do it here, motherfucker.”

I realized then that her hair was a wig, and a cheap one. For some reason, that made her seem even crazier. I held my gun hand against my body to hide the tremor.

“Come on, honey,” she said. “Go for it.”

Like a star, a red dot appeared in the white of her left eye. The normal place and the other place were turning into the same place, quick but slow, the way a car accident is quick but slow. I stared. The blood spread raggedly across her eye. She shifted her eyes from my face to a spot somewhere outside the car and fixed them there. I fought the urge to turn and see what she was looking at. She shifted her eyes again. She looked me deep in the face.

“Well?” she said. “Are you going to do it or not?”

Words appeared in my head, like a sign reading “I Don’t Want To.”

She leaned forward and turned on the emergency lights. “Get out of my car,” she said quietly. “You’re wasting my time.”

--

As soon as I got out, she hit the gas and burned rubber. I walked into the field next to the road, without an idea of where I might go. I realized after she was gone that she might call the police, but I felt in my gut that she would not—in the other place there are no police, and she was from the other place.

Still, as I walked I took the bullets out of the gun and scattered them, kicking snow over them and stamping it down. I walked a long time, shivering horribly. I came across a drainage pipe and threw the empty gun into it. I thought, I should’ve gut-shot her—that’s what I should’ve done. And then got her to the abandoned house. I should’ve gut-shot the bitch. But I knew why I hadn’t. She’d been shot already, from the inside. If she had been somebody different I might actually have done it. But somehow the wig-haired woman had changed the channel and I don’t even know if she’d meant to.

--

The fly bobbing on the brown, gentle water. The long grasses so green that they cast a fine, bright green on the brown water. The primitive fish mouth straining for water and finding it as my son releases it in the shallows. Its murky vanishing.

The blood bursting in her eye, poor woman, poor mother. My mother died of colon cancer just nine months ago. Shortly after that, it occurred to me that the woman had been wearing that awful wig because she was sick and undergoing chemo. Though of course I don’t know.

--

The hurts of childhood that must be avenged: so small and so huge. Before I grew up and stopped thinking about her, I thought about that woman a lot. About what would’ve happened if I’d got her there, to the abandoned house. I don’t remember anymore the details of these thoughts, only that they were distorted, swollen, blurred: broken face, broken voice, broken body left dying on the floor, watching me go with dimming, despairing eyes.

These pictures are faded now and far away. But they can still make me feel something.

The second time I put my hand on Doug’s shoulder, he didn’t move away inside; he was too busy tuning in to the line and the lure. Somewhere in him is the other place. It’s quiet now, but I know it’s there. I also know that he won’t be alone with it. He won’t know that I’m there with him, because we will never speak of it. But I will be there. He will not be alone with that.

[thiswasnotscripted]

I’ll keep you save

Fen'an had known, that it was a bad idea, even before he accepted.

They did come back from Emprise du Lion this afternoon, where they had fought Red Templars, froze off their feet and managed to ditch the many dragons that had made this area their new home. All their caution had been useless in the end; one of these huge reptiles had blocked their path and the fight had been inevitable.

While Fen'an had been glad to come out of the fight alive, the Iron Bull had been pumped. Proudly he had carried the massive skull back to Skyhold and even the fact that he h would have to give his trophy to Helisma, so she could examine it, couldn't bring him down. Spontaneously he did invite the whole party into the tavern under the pretext that the alcohol would surely warm up their frozen bones.

Fen'an had known, that it was a bad idea. But now he was here with the Iron Bull, between them to mugs filled with a beverage that tasted like kerosene, and regretted his decisions.

Lavi and Sera did gave up long ago. While Lavi still tried to sit upright and probably promised herself never to drink again, Sera already lay under the table, snoring peacefully.

„Hey Boss, you're giving up?“, asked Bull grinning and was greatly entertained by the hard-drinking Inquisitor. The elf smiled deviously.

„Never.“

He felt hot, sick and the world had started to spin around him minutes ago, but he would have never admitted that. Not before the qunari would declare his defeat and would admit that he wasn't able to drink the Inquisitor under the table.

Reluctantly he reached for the mug in front of him and chugged down the bitter liquid, which the qunari dared to call alcohol. Bull did the same and reached for the now almost emptied bottle.

„You know, it's no shame to give up now.“, he tried again. „You are an elf after all, and elves are known to be quiet the lightweights.“

Fen'an shook his head and tried to cover up a cough.

„This may be true, but this is about honor!“, he said and frowned. The alcohol burnt in his throat ad gave him a voice of a chain smoker. Heroically he lifted his fist. „I am the Inquisitor and I have a reputation to lose.“

„As you say, Boss.“, Bull laughed and refilled the mugs. They had emptied the bottle now and Bull was almost relieved. He didn't know how much longer the stubborn elf would be able to sit upright.

Fen'an emptied the mug one last time and Bull did the same.

„Ha!“, Fen'an shouted triumphantly and leaped up. For a moment it looked like he would fall backwards over the bench behind him, but he caught himself and pressed his hands into his hips. „The bottle is empty, I am still standing... you owe me 20 Sovereigns.“

Bull looked up to him and smiled amused. He had to give him that, the elf could hold his liquor. When he had tried that stuff the first time, it had needed less to knock him out. Fen'an seemed satisfied with his victory and didn't noticed the person, that had just entered the room. Dorian had been searching for the Inquisitor for quiet awhile now and seemed to be relieved to have finally found him.

„There you are!“, he said and came closer. „And I feared, I had to search whole Skyhold for you... Are you okay? You look pale...“

„Dorian, we talked about this.“, Fen'an reminded him and smiled fondly. „If I go out in the sun, I reflect its light. That's just my natural skin tone.“

The mage wasn't convinced and reached for Fen'ans chin.

„Your eyes are all glassy.“, he murmured and felt his forehead. „Either you are feverish or you just drank too much.”

Fen'an grinned and took Dorians hands off his face. He held one of them to calm the mage and gestured into the direction of the table.

“Bull just lost 20 Sovereigns, after he betted that he could drink me under the table.”, he explained proudly and beamed at the mage. Dorian grimaced though when he saw the empty bottle.

“Did you drink a whole bottle of that?”, he asked shocked and shot Bull a judging look. He knew this brew too well and was honestly surprised that nobody died of it yet. “Are you insane?”

“Well, actually that was the second...”, Fen'an wanted to say, but quickly continued, before Dorian could scold him further. “ I am fine. You see? Still standing!”

As if to emphasize his statement, Fen'an started to stumble the exact second and Dorian had to catch him before he would end up on the floor. Fen'an threw his arms around the man and steadied himself.

“Have I ever told you, that you smell really nice?”, he murmured into his chest and the mage looked down in confusion. “Is that lavender?”

“Ah... yes. It's a new soap I ordered in Orlais that arrived this morning.”, he said quietly. “I thought you might like it.”

“I knew it...”, the elf murmured and nearly started to purr. Dorian seemed a bit overwhelmed and suddenly realized that they both were still in the tavern for everyone to see. Bull watched the couple amused and lifted an eyebrow.

“Well, time to get you into bed!”, Dorian said eventually and shoved to elf to the door. “Josephine kills us both if you show up at the wart able hung over.”

Bull couldn't help himself and threw a comment at them, that made Dorian, already redfaced because of the unexpected burst of affection from his amatus, blushing even harder. Cursing he urged the elf out of the tavern.

The cold night air seemed to sober Fen'an up. He jumped from one stone to the next, babbled happily about everything and nothing and fulfilled almost every cliche one could have about the Dalish. Dorian would have thought of this view as endearing, if he didn't fear for the elf to stumble the next moment and break his neck.

Eventually he managed to bring the Inquisitor safe into his quarters. At least he managed it until they came to the stairs in front of his rooms, where Fen'an suddenly let himself fall down and decided not to move any farther. The effect of the alcohol seemed to show his full effects just now.

“Don't tell me you want to sleep here.”, Dorian sighed. “Just this morning you told us how happy you are to not have to sleep in a tent covered in snow anymore.”

“But everything is moving.”, Fen'an whined and started to pout. “If I get up now I will fall and die... what do you think Josephine will do then?”

Dorian laughed. The Inquisitor used to complain a lot when sober, but now he had turned into the child the most saw in him. It was quiet adorable, really.

The mage crouched down in front of him and sighed.

“Well, then I'll have to carry you to your bed.”, he said eventually and opened his arms for Fen'an to crawl into.”Cant' have you freeze to death out here, can I?”

The elf clinged to him like a monkey and burrowed his face in Dorians neck. The mage couldn't bite back a smile. If Mother Giselle could only see them now... she would probably imply the evil Tevinter mage tried to kidnap the Inquisitor.

Under minor inconveniences he managed to get the key out of the elf's pockets and opened the massive wooden door with a well-aimed kick. Fen'an giggled about something Dorian couldn't understand.

With a final strike of effort he threw him onto the bed and promptly followed him unexpectedly. He shot the elf, who still clinged to him, a questioning look.

“I see you are entertained?”, he said but couldn't fight a smile at the sight of the clingy elf. Usually the Inquisitor rather bit the hand of anyone getting to close than to be touched and even with Dorian it was hard for him to ask for physical affection. His current state was just adorable.

“Very.”, Fen'an said happily and toyed with the mages hair. Dorian followed the touch. “Please stay.”

“Don't you think that'll get a bit uncomfortable, in that position?”, Dorian noted and tried to bring distance between them. Until now he had only entered the Inquisitors bet to... well, to attend certain activities one tends to do with a lover. Not once he had stayed, had left before Fen'an could get the chance to throw him out. The elf had never tried to. He had accepted his decision, upset but understanding.

Fen'an took a deep breath, furrowed his brows and eventually let go of Dorian. He scooted to the headpiece of the bed, as far away as possible and pulled his knees to his chest.

“I am sorry...”, he said quietly and avoided to look into Dorians eyes. “I... I don't want to rush you.”

“But?”, Dorian pressed and watched as Fen'an, still avoiding his gaze, picked at his pillows.

“... I am afraid to be alone.”, he said eventually and Dorian realized.

The sudden urge for contact wasn't a result of the alcohol and the risky drinking behavior had not just been a bet. Fen'an was scared.

He was scared to seem weak, scared to be vulnerable and alone with his thoughts. Scared that others would see just how afraid he was.

What had happened after they left the Winter palace had affected him more than he had shown. The scars on his neck, that glimmed faintly in the dark, did heal. The scars on his soul didn't.

Dorian sat down next to the elf and pulled him to his chest.

“Amatus...”, he said quietly and pressed a kiss on top of his head. “I won't leave you alone, not if you need me. You're safe now. I'll keep you safe.”

Both of them stayed like this till late in the night, when Dorian noticed that Fen'an was fallen asleep  in his arms. He didn't leave but brought them both into a more comfortable position, fearing that one of them would suffer from a stiff neck in the morning otherwise.

To his surprise he had to noticed that the elf, despite having been dead ass drunk the night before, didn't show any signs of being hung over. He was just really happy to find Dorian next to him. Also, he had to admit, it was nice to wake up and feel the warmth of the elf on his body. He could get used to that, he thought.

The only true sufferer was Lavi, who was woken up by Sera the next morning and found herself on the same bench she had been fallen asleep on. The elf offered her a glass of water, which she gladly took and she promised herself never to touch any alcoholic liquid again. This time for real!

Her mood did brighten though, when she heard how the night had gone for her brother. At least one of the twins had profited from her suffering.

[your-dungeon-is-problematic]

Hobgoblin (AD&D)

Hobgoblins! Like goblins, only...hobbier? Or rather, they’re bigger and stronger and...more orange than regular goblins. And I hear they’re highly militarized in structure. But only the parts of the military that make them more evil. Let’s take a gander, then!

General:  “Hobgoblins are a fierce humanoid race that wage a perpetual war with the other humanoid races.” So, first sentence, and we already are embroiled in a war of racial violence. ...This doesn’t bode well. “They are intelligent, organized, and aggressive.” See, if it wasn’t for the previous sentence, or the adjective “aggressive”, they could simply be intelligent and organized. But no, to hell with that, they’re evil, because my fighter isn’t going to getting to Level 5 by not murdering people. “The typical hobgoblin is a burly humanoid standing 6 1/2′ tall. Their hairy hides range from dark reddish-brown to dark gray. Their faces show dark red or red-orange skin. Large males have blue or red noses. Hobgoblin eyes are either yellowish or dark brown while their teeth are yellow.” Wait, really? I’ve never seen it portrayed where their face is a significantly different color from the rest of their body, not to mention their noses. It makes them sound almost like baboons, or mandrills, or other weirdly colorful apes... And of course, they have terrible dental hygiene, because it’s not like anyone who wasn’t evil didn’t have terrible teeth, too. Heaven forbid a good person ever be unable to receive or afford dental care, right? “Their garments tend to be brightly colored, often bold, blood red. Any leather is always tinted black.” I’m struggling not to quote “Paint It Black”, here, guys. “Hobgoblin weaponry is kept polished and repaired.  Hobgoblins have their own language and often speak with orcs, goblins, and carnivorous apes. Roughly 20% of them can speak the common tongue of man.” ...Wait, the common tongue of man? Since when has humanity ever, ever had a common tongue? I mean, you get lingua francas from time to time, but even those are usually known more by scholars or merchants or the like, not all people, everywhere. Hell, the closest we’ve ever gotten to a “common language” is English, and that’s only due to the cultural influence of both Great Britain and the United States over the last two centuries, after the Industrial Revolution was well underway, and then even more so after the advent of television, and later the Internet. To me there’s a gaggle of weird and/or unfortunate implications by having a “common language” that is explicitly “of man” in a pseudo-medieval setting. Not to mention, if dwarves and elves have been around longer, as they so often are in D&D settings, why wouldn’t any lingua franca descend from Dwarvish, Elvish, or hell, even Draconic?? ...I’m sorry, I got off on a tangent, so allow me a very small one: “Carnivorous apes”?! Where are the carnivorous apes?! I haven’t seen any carnivorous apes in this book, much less ones that are sapient to the point of using language. Did I miss them?? I mean, they can’t be using an insulting term for orcs or goblins, because they’re mentioned by name alongside the “carnivorous apes”. Where are the apes?! Alright, sorry, moving on.

Combat: “Hobgoblins in a typical force will be equipped with polearms (30%), morningstars (20%), swords and bows (20%), spears (10%), swords and spears (10%), swords and morning stars (5%), or swords and whips (5%).” You know, with a diversity of arms like that, and if you read up on the necessary strategies to portray this in-game, you could make the hobgoblins masters of combined arms tactics. A squad of spearmen defending the archers, and such. I mean, I suppose a high enough level wizard could blow through such groups with fireballs and the like, but on the other hand, if it’s just the one wizard against an army of hobgoblins, an army has more men to spare than most wizards have spells for the day... “Hobgoblins fight equally well in bright light or virtual darkness, having infravision with a range of 60 feet. Hobgoblins hate elves and always attack them first.” I...well. ...That came right the hell out of nowhere, didn’t it? No context of any kind, before or after, this is the last sentence of this section. Just leave us on that note, eh? Is this just to remind DMs that if the party has an elf in it, any hobgoblin armies will just beeline towards them for murder? What’s the point?

Habitat/Society: “Hobgoblins are nightmarish mockeries of the humanoid races who have a military society organized in tribal bands,” Ah. Just starting off with a right hook of “evil AND ugly”, eh? Well. “Nightmarish mockeries”? Seriously? Just because they do have a military society, and are perhaps not as “classically beautiful” like the elves are, doesn’t make them “Nightmarish mockeries”. I mean, most dwarves aren’t exactly lookers, themselves, and their society is all about mining and killing whatever disrupts their mining, but that doesn’t make them “nightmarish mockeries” of anyone else who mines and is militaristic. Hell, “nightmarish mockeries” would make more sense if they were corruptions of a different race, like how Tolkiens orcs are thought to be corrupted elves, or if they were just manufactured by some evil entity, but as far as I can tell hobgoblins arose as naturally as any other race in Dungeons & Dragons, and yet you’re just going to call them “nightmarish mockeries of the humanoid races who have a military society”.  Right.  “Each tribe is intensely jealous of its status. Chance meetings with other tribes will result in verbal abuse (85%) or open fighting (15%).” This just gives me the hilarious mental image of some scribe shadowing a hobgoblin tribe and recording the reaction whenever they came across a different tribe over the course of a year or two. “It just gets into a metaphorical pissing match 85% of the time.” “That’s ludicrously precise.” “Hobgoblin tribes are found in almost any climate or subterranean realm. A typical tribe of hobgoblins will have between 20 and 200 (2d10 x 10) adult male warriors. In addition, for every 20 male hobgoblins there will be a leader (known as a sergeant) and two assistants. These have 9 hit points each but still fight as 1+1 Hit Die monsters. Groups numbering over 100 are led by a sub-chief who has 16 hit points and an Armor Class of 3. he great strength of a sub-chief gives it a +2 on its damage rolls and allows it to fight as a 3 Hit Die monster. If the hobgoblins are encountered in their lair, they will be led by a chief with AC 2, 22 hit points, and +3 points of damage per attack, who fights as a 4 Hit Die monster. The chief has 5-20 (5d4) sub-chiefs acting as bodyguards. Leaders and chiefs always carry two weapons.” ...This implies a much more complex and organized society than the monstrous manual will deign to elaborate on. And on a minor note, why didn’t they go all the way with the military ranking thing? Like, okay, so you got sergeants in charge of 20-man groups, why isn’t the “sub-chief” called a “captain” or a “colonel”, or something? Why isn’t the chief a “general” or “warlord”?  ...Don’t tell me it’s because by using “tribal” terminology it makes them seem more “primitive” and therefore less “cultured” and therefore because they don’t contribute much in the way of “culture” it’s “more okay” to exterminate them, because that would be nothing short of absolutely hideous. “Each tribe has a distinctive battle standard which is carried into combat to inspire the troops. If the tribal chief is leading the battle, he will carry the standard with him, otherwise it will be held by one of his sub-chiefs.” ...Well, uh, good? Is there some morale bonus for depriving them of it? If there is, you don’t expound upon it here. Is it in the DMG? “In addition to the warriors present in a hobgoblin tribe, there will be half again that many females and three times as many children as adult males.” Oh, my God. So literally for every two hobgoblins you’re killing, that’s three hobgoblin women and six hobgoblin children you’re leaving without a father/husband/brother/what-have-you? That’s awful. You keep doing this, Monstrous Manual, you keep telling us about the women and children, right after telling us that this species can be killed without any moral quandaries, and then don’t tell us what to do about the noncombatants that the party will leave behind, traumatized, if you play them as written. It is baffling. “Fully 80% of all known hobgoblin lairs are subterranean complexes. The remaining 20% are surface villages which are fortified with a ditch, fence, 2 gates, and 3-6 guard towers. Villages are often built upon ruined humanoid settlements and may incorporate defensive features already present in the ruins.” See, this shows at least as much knowledge of construction of fortification, or ingenuity in utilizing old construction, as the armies of Rome did in ancient times, but I hardly think you would call Rome ‘uncivilized’ or free to exterminate, eh? Despite the Roman Empire being at least as devoted to military expansion as these hobgoblins you’re trying to portray as irredeemably evil.  “Hobgoblin villages possess artillery in the form of 2 heavy catapults, 2 light catapults, and a ballista for each 50 warriors. Underground complexes may be guarded by 2-12 carnivorous apes (60%)” It is things like this that I like, because they do portray the military focus of their society, even though I know it’s to show DMs how to design these fortresses that their parties are inevitably going to infiltrate and burn to the ground.  ...Also, again with the carnivorous apes?! Did I overlook an entry in this book? Where are the carnivorous apes?? ......Oh, they’re under ‘Mammal’.  ...Huh. See, it’s just weird that, first of all, they can be spoken with in a manner they can understand, and also as far as I know there are no apes that are obligate carnivores? ...I mean, I suppose more than a few are insectivorous, but that’s a little different from red meat, you know? Though who knows, I could be wrong. Moving on! “They are highly adept at mining and can detect new construction, sloping passages, and shifting walls 40% of the time.” See, between the mining, the stout defenses and fortifications, and the racial hatred towards elves, explain to me in what way hobgoblins are different from most dwarven kingdoms.

Ecology: “Hobgoblins feel superior to goblins or orcs and may act as leaders for them.” ...In a “white man’s burden”, kind of way, or...? “In such cases, the ‘lesser races’ are used as battle fodder.” Ah. ...Though in practice, that’s usually how the “white man’s burden” mentality seems to play out, too... “Hobgoblin mercenaries may work for powerful or rich evil humanoids.” But only evil ones, because since when have good humanoids ever been powerful and/or rich? Like, this is especially odd, considering if you’re mercenaries, you work for the highest bidder, usually, right? So if the good guys pay you better, could you convert hobgoblin mercenaries to your way of thinking? Or, because they’re EEEEEEVIL, would they take the money and run?

Koalinth: “This marine species of hobgoblin is similar to the land dwelling variety in many respects. Koalinth dwell in shallow fresh or salt water and make their homes in caves. Their bodies have adapted to marine environments via the evolution of gills. Their webbed fingers and toes give them a movement rate of 12 when swimming. Their bodies are sleeker than those of hobgoblins and they have light green skin. They speak an unusual dialect of the hobgoblin tongue.” ...So does anyone else get vague flashbacks to the seadweller trolls from Homestuck? Because I’m getting vague flashbacks to the seadweller trolls from Homestuck. ...Also, hold up, they evolved gills? So evolution in Dungeons & Dragons is confirmed. So are hobgoblins some manufactured-to-be-evil race, or did they arise through natural evolution? Because if they evolved naturally there is no reason that I can think of that they would be absolutely bugfuck evil, to a man. “They tend to employ thrusting weapons like spears and pole arms. Koalinth are every bit as disagreeable as hobgoblins, preying on every thing they come across, especially aquatic humanoid and demi-human races. They detest aquatic elves.” Well that’s self-destructive as hell. If you destroy anything and everything that is not you, then anything that isn’t you is going to gang up on you and take you out. It’s societal suicide.  ...And again with the weird, specific elf hate. No expounding on that point at all, just “they hate THESE GUYS in particular”.  I mean, I suppose racism doesn’t really have any good explanation, but usually they try to think of some threadbare justification to sate their own warped consciences.

General: Well! I mean, if nothing else, you can’t say their society isn’t organized. ...But if the males are implicitly all warriors, does that leave the women to farm and feed these armies? Because I mean, hey, an army can’t fight on an empty stomach, right? At least, not very well. And raiding and pillaging neighboring cities only works for so long, once their scouts tail you back to the lair and call down a siege that you can only outlast if you actually do have farms to feed off of. Like maybe I kind of harp on this, but a society needs an infrastructure to realistically survive. It can only mooch off of others for so long. Like, I suppose if they get big enough to actually conquer a human kingdom, they could use their new vassals to farm for them, but the entry as written implies hobgoblin settlements are usually individual fortresses with relatively small garrisons.  Also, the children! What are you going to do with the hundreds of children?! You could raise them as your own, but then that almost plays into all sorts of “white savior”/”white man’s burden” narratives, and... It’s all just a little frustrating. Like, okay, yeah, the whole “they are military-based, and are evil” isn’t that much better than “all they do is banditry. Banditry all the time, 24/7, 365 days a year, they’re evil”, but it at least is more easily made into an actual workable culture that can realistically be portrayed in a setting? Like history is no stranger to military dictatorships. You can play up the Lawful bit of their Lawful Evil alignment, make them be very heavy on the hierarchy of the chain of command, give them a very zealous military police, a court martial, all that. Like, if their theme is “military”, play it to the hilt, I’d say.  And they still needn’t be evil, even at that point. They could just be an overly zealous, overly paranoid obsessed with making sure their people are not conquered. Hell, make ‘em Sparta. A proud military city-state that doesn’t take no guff from outsiders. Until they bite off more than they can chew, are conquered by a much larger outside empire, and are quickly rendered irrelevant for the rest of time, if you’re going to go all-out with the analogy, but still. I guess what I’m saying is, and really this applies to every entry on this blog, is that you gotta work for it. Maybe they’re an isolationist city-state, maybe they’re an expansionist empire, maybe you drop the militaristic culture entirely and make them peaceable agrarians, just take the “monster” given to you and give them just a modicum of depth. Or at least, deeper than what the Monstrous Manual offers. Shouldn’t be hard. :P