#i like this theme of choosing the easy path over the hard path

[muse-write]

I’m 15 minutes into S3 and it’s already started off strong. A random Rumple wardrobe change lampshaded by Hook, great moments between the Charmings, and our first look at the uncaring childish cruelty of Neverland.

[sixxteenbullets]

HIDDEN AWAY-

Saw smth the other day and I can't stop thinking about it.

Pairing: Henry Bowers x fem!innocent!reader

Warnings: u and Henry getting walked in on by Patrick, being watched doin yk, swearing, sexual themes.

______

HENRY Bowers had a girl that was the opposite of him. She was a kind, sweet soul and he wanted to keep her that way. He knew exactly who he was and who his friends were, so to keep up with his goal, he needed her to stay away from his friends. The issue sounded easy to defeat, if his friends were normal.

Two boys, Belch and Vic, he trusted enough to stay away from her. After all, they weren't really ever interested in defying Henry. Though, Patrick was a piece of work. As much as he loved innocence, he loved pushing limits. He was tall, obsessed with pyro, and a sadist to the bone. That was exactly the kind of person Henry needed his girl to stay away from. Someone who could tear away her joy, make her sad and scared, and strip her of her kindness, turning her timid and quiet. He'd seen her that way once, during a bad fight, and he swore to keep her from those feelings for as long as he could. Only he could break her down.

"Hey Hen," Y/n smiled at him, her white teeth shining as bright as ever. "You called."

"Old man ain't gonna be home tonight," He pushed himself off of his bed and sauntered over to her. "Was thinking you could stay?"

She didn't have an ideal home life, either. She wasn't beat, like Henry, and she still had both of her parents, but they were mean. Driven by religion, the girl didn't get to choose her own path very often, and a lot of her decisions were made for her. That was part of why she kept her innocence. There was nothing she could do to break it.

"Yeah, totally." She walked closer to him, meeting him in the middle of his room, and wrapped her arms around his neck. His arms looked around her waist and they were pulled flush against each other. As their lips met, a bubbly giggle escaped her throat and she smiled against his mouth. His face remained straight, but the sound of her giddiness woke such a fierce happiness within him, it was hard to keep from giggling back at her.

"So what do you want to do tonight?" A mere whisper, barely audible. His eyes widened slightly as they met the ones that stared up at him. She never spoke like this. It was just a simple question, but there was a passion behind her words that she never had before. They had been dating for a month, and she typically pushed away his sexual advances, so when she made her own, he knew this was not something to pass up.

His hands ever so slightly lowered on her waist, resting on the peak of her butt. When she put up no objections, they lowered and he gave a small squeeze, which triggered another giggle. Just as he was about to say something suggestive, her lips crashed into his open mouth, and their tongues danced in harmony for a minute before he pulled away for a breath.

Her head leaned up to follow him, objecting to the end of their kiss, but she soon realized her own lack of breath. "What are you doing?"

"I want you." There was absolutely no sign of hesitation in her voice. Every bit of every word dripped with a lust that sounded foreign on her tongue. "Every inch."

He had heard enough. He had been waiting for over a month to hear her ask for him. To finally give herself to him.

Every fiber of his being itched to go fast, to shove her onto his bed and hear her screams as she cried his name. To hear the innocence dissolve from her voice, and only a sinful, whimpering cry would be left. But he didn't think she would like that just yet, so he willed his body to go slow, to pace himself and be gentle as he stole something sacred from her.

"I want you to be rough. Show me every side of you tonight. The good the bad and the parts you never let anyone see. You can have my body if I can have your soul." She always did that. Talk in poetic speeches, using grammer he's completely stranger to. And he loved it just as much as he loved seeing the passion in her eyes as every word spoke it's truth.

They were on the bed in no time, and her request rang through his ears. She wanted everything. And he would give her his life if he could.

Two shirts were thrown on the floor, one pair of pants, and one pair of shorts. Two half naked bodies desperately grinded into each other, craving release from the heat in their cores. Legs intertwined just as fingers did and the two eventually became one. One drawn out moan, one long kiss, one burning desire.

There was something artistic about the way two humans behaved in times of desperation. The way she would whimper and gasp when a particularly sensitive part of her body was touched, and he would see this and use it to his advantage. The way his mouth would open in a silent moan as she rubbed against him, creating a friction they'd never get enough of. Even with underwear on, they behaved wildly, leaving no room for any matter to interfere.

Somewhere in their passion, a door, forgotten to be locked, creaked open to reveal a few rather shocked faces. Not shocked to see their friend with a girl, but shocked to see him with a girl such as Y/n. Especially shocked that a girl like her didn't wear little pink cotton panties, but adorned a black lace thong instead.

The bigger male and the blond turned away, obviously not wanting to get their asses beat for the intrusion. But Patrick stayed for a minute. His eyes traced every inch of her body, and once he had seen enough, a low whistle escaped him.

The two on the bed jumped, and just as quickly as she threw herself down, he had an arm around her and held her close. She stayed pressed against her boyfriend, trying to hide her flushed face and body from the mischievous boy who stood watching her.

"When your done having your fun, why don't ya' let me take her for a ride?" A sickening laugh faded into a room with three emotions only. Arousal, fear, and pure fucking rage. That arousal faded from Patrick when he saw the expression that adorned his friend's face.

"Get the fuck out of here, Hockstetter, or I'll kill you right here." There was a malice in Henry's voice that he'd never heard before. A spark in his eye, a snarl in his lip, and a clenched fist that showed truth in every word he spoke.

If Patrick didn't stop staring at Henry's girl, he would be a dead man and a tortured soul.

So he ducked out of the room and approached the two other members of their gang, shaken and annoyed, completely unwilling to tell the story of the scariest moment of his life.

Henry considered chasing after his friend, showing him how absolutely enraged he felt that his angel felt unsafe. But once he thought back to her, and felt her shivering from his arms, she was his main priority. He pulled her flush against him, not sexually anymore, just possessively. His arms encircled her and she wanted to completely fade into him.

Sobs racked her body. She'd heard horror stories of the boy and his disgusting acts on not only girls, but just others in general. So, when he said he wanted to take her for a ride, terror crept throughout every crevice of her body. Not only did she fear him, but she was absolutely humiliated. Another boy has seen her half naked, not to mention the vulnerable situation she was in.

After a second of silence, she was able to make out a few muffle words against his chest. "Please don't let him take me."

"No one will ever touch you. You're mine, and he knows that now. I'm gonna keep you hidden away from all that shit."

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Creatura innocentiae - Fyodor x Reader

PART I PART II PART III

Synopsys: In a secluded village ruled by devotion, where sacrifice is a form of love and faith demands blood, you are forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

Warnings: No ability au, cult themes, religion, manipulation, murder, death, graphic violence and depiction of blood, dehumanization, power imbalance in relationships, emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, gaslighting, brainwashing, philosophical musings on love, faith, and autonomy.

These themes will be present throughout all parts of this fic. Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: Welcome to the second part of this little story! I've already written a rough draft of the third part, thanks to winter break, which has given me plenty of time to write until my fingers ache and my mind turns to mush. As a fun fact: before Creatura innocentiae, the title of this fic was Nitimur in vetitum, which translates to "We strive for the forbidden."

Word count: 10,000

The next week crept by like molasses, each day heavier than the last. 

Being engaged should have felt like a blessing. You had been told that often enough. But no matter how hard you tried, the feeling eluded you. Abel, on the other hand, wore the engagement like a new skin, radiant with a purpose that seemed to brighten his every step. 

Every morning, he waited for you, his patient smile unwavering as he offered to walk you to the clearing where you prayed. He had taken over bandaging your wounds after ceremonies, his hands clumsy but careful, his brow furrowing with the kind of earnestness that made your chest tighten. He also brought you gifts—wildflowers, a wooden carving of a dove, even a piece of honeycomb—they piled up like the tokens of devotion they were meant to be. 

He was everything they said a husband should be. Gentle. Devoted. Perfect. 

And yet, you almost hated him for it. Or perhaps, you hated yourself. 

The dirt path stretched ahead, quiet but for the crunch of your footsteps. The sky above hung heavy and gray, dulling the world into muted shades of itself. Abel walked beside you, his easy gait a sharp contrast to the hollow weight dragging at your steps. His hands swung loosely at his sides, as though they belonged to a man without a care. 

You didn’t want to be here—not with him. 

“Quite gloomy today, isn’t it?” Abel’s voice broke the quiet, gentle and familiar. He glanced at you, his smile as practiced as the line itself. Then, softer, he added, “Though somehow, you always seem to brighten days like this.” 

You nodded, your gaze fixed on the ground. The words you wanted to say coiled tight in your throat, sharp and unspoken. 

He was trying. That was the worst part. 

Would Abel understand me? 

The question gnawed at you, growing louder with every step. It was his voice that answered—not Abel’s, but Fyodor’s. His voice. His damning words clung to you, weaving through your thoughts: a predator circling its prey. 

“Abel...” you said softly, the sound of his name almost foreign on your lips.  

He perked up immediately, his head turning toward you with that ever-present smile. “Yes?”  

Your heart began to race, a faint tremor coursing through your hands as you struggled to voice what had been gnawing at you. “What do you... like about me?”  

The question felt absurd as soon as it left your lips, yet it hung in the air between you like a weight. You didn’t dare look at him.  

Abel stopped walking.  

You hesitated, realizing he had turned to face you, his expression softened by surprise. “What do I like about you?” he repeated, his tone gentle, as though you had asked him to describe something sacred.  

“Yes,” you said, barely above a whisper.  

His brow furrowed slightly, his smile fading into something quieter, more thoughtful. He shifted his weight, his hands clasping in front of him as he considered your question.  

“Well...” He exhaled softly, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the same warmth he always offered. “I like how kind you are. How selfless. You carry so much for all of us, yet you never complain. You give everything, even when it hurts you.”  

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. His words landed like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last.  

“You’re...” He hesitated, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. “You’re radiant. Like the sun breaking through clouds. You remind us of what it means to be good, to have faith.”  

His gaze flicked to yours, shy but earnest. “I admire you,” he added softly, his voice almost trembling. “You make the rest of us want to be better.”  

A bitter laugh rose in your throat, but you swallowed it down, unable to let it escape.  

“Is that it?” you asked instead, your voice trembling with something you couldn’t name.  

Abel’s brow knit in confusion. “What do you mean?”  

You looked at him then, truly looked at him, and the sight of his gentle confusion only sharpened the ache inside you. “You admire me because I bleed for all of you. Because I make it easy to take.”  

His eyes widened, his lips parting in shock. “That’s not—”  

“Isn’t it?” you interrupted, your voice rising, sharp and brittle. The words came unbidden, spilling out. “You like me because I don’t fight. Because I smile and give and never ask for anything in return. That’s what you admire, isn’t it? That I make it easy for you to love me?”  

The silence that followed was deafening. Abel’s hands trembled at his sides, his expression stricken.  

“I...” He faltered, his voice cracking slightly. “I never meant... I just—”  

“You don’t know me,” you said, your voice breaking. “You don’t know anything about me beyond what I give. Do you?”  

He took a step toward you, his hands reaching out as though to steady the space between you. “That’s not fair,” he said quietly, his tone laced with desperation. “I care about you. I’ve always cared about you.”  

You stepped back, shaking your head. “You care about the idea of me. The savior. The lamb. But what if I wasn’t any of that? Would you still—”  

“Stop,” he interrupted, his voice firmer now. “I care about you because you’re strong. Because you carry so much and still find a way to be kind.”  

His words hung in the air, but they felt hollow. Kindness. Strength. Radiance.  

They were the same words you had heard all your life, spoken in reverence and admiration. But they weren’t about you. They were about the role you played, the mask you wore so perfectly.  

Your breath hitched as you turned away, staring at the horizon where the clouds pressed low against the earth. “You don’t understand,” you whispered.  

Abel didn’t press further. He stood there, silent and unsure, as you began walking again, your steps hurried and uneven. He followed at a distance, the tension between you stretching.

The ache in your chest deepened with every step, the memory of Fyodor’s voice echoing louder than ever: You bleed for them. But will they bleed for you?  

For the first time, you began to think you already knew the answer.  

The late afternoon sun slanted through the gaps in the wooden walls, casting long, wavering stripes of light across the floor. Dust particles swirled lazily in the warmth, their slow drift a reminder of the barn’s stillness. The soft sounds of the space were familiar, grounding.  

You had watched Abel and Fyodor disappear inside the barn a little while ago, tasked by the elders to tend to the horses. A routine chore—unremarkable.

They were not made equally, you thought. Abel was very kind, too kind. It was the kind of kindness that made your insides burn, that felt like a performance rather than a truth. The interaction a few days ago had only solidified that suspicion. Abel got complacence, while Fyodor...  

Fyodor got ambition. It was an unsettling kind of ambition, sharp-edged and systematic. You didn’t know what he intended to use it for, but the thought lingered, prickling at the edges of your mind like needles. 

Not wanting to dwell on the two of them, you turned back to your duties, trying to shake the unease.  

Inside, the barn was still and calm, save for the steady rhythm of Fyodor’s hands working, methodical as ever. He brushed down one of the horses, his motions slow, as if the action itself demanded careful precision. His brow remained unfurrowed, his focus unshifting, as though he were a part of the barn itself, fixed and immovable.  

Across the barn, Abel’s voice filled the stillness with a casual stream of conversation, his words light and unguarded—too unguarded. He spoke of the harvest festival, of traditions and preparations, his tone tinged with forced enthusiasm.   

“I think they’ll love it,” Abel said, glancing over his shoulder at Fyodor. “The festival, I mean. It’s their favorite time of year—dancing under the lights, celebrating our comunity’s hard work. I feel lucky, you know? To be the one by their side for it.” 

Fyodor didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. His silence filled the barn like smoke, creeping into all corners until Abel shifted uneasily. 

“And what makes you so sure they love it?” Fyodor asked at last, his tone quiet, almost idle, as if the question were an afterthought. 

Abel chuckled, though the sound carried a slight tremor. “Because it’s simple, I suppose,” he replied, turning his gaze to the window as though the answer might lie somewhere beyond it. “It makes them happy.”   

The rhythm of Fyodor’s brushing didn’t falter, but the air seemed to grow colder, as if his presence had drawn out the warmth. His head tilted slightly, the faintest gesture of consideration, though his gaze remained fixed on the horse.   

“Do they seem happy to you?”   

Abel stilled. His hands paused in their work, his fingers curling reflexively around the armful of hay he was gathering. He turned his head toward Fyodor, confusion shadowing his features. “What?”   

Fyodor straightened, setting the brush aside. He turned, his eyes meeting Abel’s. They were calm, but there was something unrelenting in the sharpness of his gaze. “I asked,” Fyodor said softly, “if they seem happy to you.”   

Abel faltered, his brow furrowing. “I mean... they don’t complain,” he said, his voice carrying a faint defensiveness. “They devoted to their role. That’s what happiness is, isn’t it? Accepting your place?”   

Fyodor’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something faint and unsettling, a ghost of amusement. “Devotion isn’t the same as happiness. Compliance isn’t the same as understanding.”   

Abel frowned, his confusion deepening as he turned fully to face Fyodor. “I don’t see the difference,” he said after a long moment, his voice quieter now.   

Fyodor took a single step forward, closing the distance between them. “Of course you don’t,” he said, his tone low, almost kind. “You don’t have to.”   

Abel blinked, his expression faltering further. The cheerfulness that had cloaked him earlier seemed to dissolve, replaced by a flicker of something more vulnerable—a faint crack in the armor of certainty he had always carried.   

“They’re devoted,” Abel said again, though his voice wavered. “They’re strong. They’re... They’re everything we need them to be.”   

“Everything you need them to be,” Fyodor corrected, the faintest edge creeping into his voice. He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed but his presence unyielding. “But tell me, Abel—what do they need?”   

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Abel opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. His hands tightened around the bundle of hay, his gaze dropping to the ground. 

Fyodor let the silence stretch, his gaze unwavering as he stepped back toward the horse. “They carry the weight of your love,” he said quietly, his voice almost a murmur. “But love, without understanding, is just another burden, no?”   

Abel’s head snapped up at that, his eyes narrowing. “I do understand them,” he said, though the words sounded hollow even to himself.   

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his expression softening—not with kindness, but with something closer to pity. “Do you?”   

The question wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even accusatory. And yet, it cut deeper than anything else Fyodor had said.   

Abel turned back to his task, his movements slower, more hesitant now. The steady rhythm of his work had faltered, becoming uneven as though each action required conscious effort. He didn’t speak again. The air between them grew heavier, oppressive in its stillness—you could have heard a pin drop, but not the whisper of Fyodor’s steps as he moved across the barn. 

Reaching one of the horses, Fyodor untied its reins with quiet precision, dragging the rope across the floor as though absentmindedly. He let it fall into the straw, its coils half-buried and unassuming, before reaching for the feed bucket to distract the horse with its meal. 

His mind drifted again, to that familiar thought.   

You construct intricate rituals to appease deities you came up with to avoid being your own judge.   

He studied Abel’s back, hunched over as he worked, and the words solidified in his mind.   

God can’t hear you beg for forgiveness, and She doesn’t care about the sacrifices you make to prove your repentance. You stand in front of a mirror, begging for someone else to try you for your crimes.   

He stared at Abel, who was so eager to please, so content to remain blind to the walls around him. Abel wasn’t chosen for his understanding—no, he was chosen because he would never question the system. Because he wouldn’t ask the hard questions that would tear the gilded cage apart.   

“Abel.”   

Abel turned toward him, his brow furrowing in confusion, the ever-present warmth in his gaze replaced by something guarded. “Yes?”   

“You truly believe you’re enough for them?” Fyodor asked, taking a step forward. His tone wasn’t mocking; it wasn’t even cruel. It was simply curious, a calm inquiry.   

Abel blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I... I am enough for them!”   

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering as though he were studying a puzzle. “Are you?” he murmured, the question barely louder than a breath. 

Abel stiffened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Of course I am. I’ve done everything right—followed every rule, every tradition.” His voice grew firmer. “I care for them. I protect them. Isn’t that enough?” 

Fyodor’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Enough for you, perhaps. But is it enough for them?” 

The barn seemed to close in on them, the air thickening with the weight of unspoken truths. Abel took a step forward, his expression darkening. “They’re happy,” he insisted, though his voice wavered at the edges. 

“You don’t see it, do you? The way they looks at you—not with love, but with duty. The same way one might look at a burden they cannot put down.” 

Abel’s breath hitched, his face tightening as the words hit their mark. His grip on the hay trembled, as though he were fighting the urge to throw it down. “Shut up,” he said quietly, his tone laced with warning. 

Fyodor didn’t flinch, his expression calm, almost pitying. “Do you even know them, Abel? Beyond what they give you? Beyond the mask they wear for all of you?” 

“I said shut up!” Abel’s voice cracked, his hands trembling as he took another step forward. The warmth in his gaze was gone now, replaced by something desperate and raw. 

Fyodor held his ground, his composure unshaken. “If they took off the mask,” he said, each word deliberate, “would you even recognize them?” 

The question hung in the air like a guillotine, and Abel snapped. His fist shot out, catching Fyodor in the chest and driving him back against the stall. The horses stirred, their nervous movements filling the barn with sharp, chaotic sounds. 

“You don’t know anything about them!” Abel shouted, his voice reverberating off the wooden walls. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But you don’t belong here—you’ll never belong here!” 

Fyodor staggered but recovered quickly, brushing the dust from his robe with infuriating calm. He straightened, his violet eyes meeting Abel’s with a steady, unsettling intensity. “Neither do they,” he said quietly. 

And when those words came down like a blade on his neck, Abel’s fury boiled over, spilling into every clumsy, uncoordinated movement. His hands found the pitchfork leaning against the stall, gripping it as though it might anchor him against the storm inside. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, the sound filling the barn.

The horses, restless from the noise and the charged atmosphere, shuffled in their stalls, their hooves striking against the wooden planks with growing urgency. One whinnied sharply, the sound slicing through the oppressive quiet. 

Abel lifted the pitchfork, his knuckles whitening around the handle as if he intended to use it, but the weight of his rage made his movements slow and unsteady. His chest heaved, his eyes wild and unfocused as he turned toward Fyodor, the object of his unraveling anger. 

The untied horse jerked sideways, its powerful body slamming into the stall with a hollow, reverberating thud. The motion sent a cascade of hay spilling onto the floor, and Abel flinched at the impact. His grip on the pitchfork wavered, the handle slipping in his sweaty palms. 

“Stay back!” Abel shouted at the animal, though the command sounded more like a plea. His voice cracked, raw and uneven, as though it might splinter under the weight of his panic. 

The sound of hurried footsteps approached, their rhythm halting just outside the barn’s threshold. Someone had heard the commotion—they paused at the doorway, their shadow stretching across the barn floor, trembling as it mingled with the fractured light. Their eyes darted between Abel’s hunched form and Fyodor’s measured stillness. The air felt too heavy to move through, suffocating in its intensity. 

Fyodor’s violet gaze flicked toward the figure, so quick it was almost imperceptible, before snapping back to Abel. He didn’t acknowledge the witness further, his expression settling into something carefully controlled, slightly startled but otherwise unreadable. 

“Is that how you’ll prove your worth?” Fyodor asked, his voice calm, but now carrying the faintest thread of something softer—fear, or perhaps pity. He took a half-step back, his hands raised slightly, palms outward, as though placating a dangerous animal. “By threatening me?” 

Abel’s grip on the pitchfork tightened, his knuckles trembling. “You don’t understand! You don’t belong here!” he bellowed, his tone cracking under the strain of his rage. 

The horses, restless and panicked, stamped and snorted in their stalls. Abel lifted the pitchfork slightly, as if to strike, but the motion only fed the chaos around him. One of the horses reared, its hooves crashing against the stall. 

But Fyodor didn’t move. He stood as still as the barn walls themselves, his gaze steady, unyielding. The horses, by contrast, were all motion—rearing, kicking, their wild eyes flashing in the fractured light. The largest of them stomped violently, its movements frantic and unpredictable. 

Abel staggered, his foot catching on a length of rope half-buried in the straw. He teetered for a moment, his arms flailing as he fought for balance. The pitchfork clattered to the ground with a dull, jarring sound. 

The horse’s agitation grew, its hooves striking out as it reared again. Abel’s flailing carried him backward, the momentum of his stumble drawing him directly into the horse’s path. 

For a moment, time seemed to slow. The animal thrashed above him, its front hooves coming down hard, directly onto Abel's head with a sickening crack. Then, silence—the kind that could make a man go insane the way it seeped into your bones, raw and unrelenting. The horse pawed at the straw with uneasy, jittery movements, its breath loud and uneven. Each scuffle of its hooves felt like an echo of the chaos that took place, a ghost of the violence that now lay lifeless on the barn floor. 

The oppressive tension lingered, heavy and unshakable, as Fyodor’s gaze shifted to the lifeless form. Abel was now crumpled on the ground, his body folding like a discarded marionette. The pitchfork lay a few feet away, untouched and irrelevant now. 

A scream tore through the barn as the witness finally found their voice. It was raw, piercing, and shattered the suffocating silence like glass. 

Fyodor flinched, a reaction born of necessity. There was no pleasure, no satisfaction in the moment—only an emptiness, as if he had simply carried out a necessary task. The rope had been placed just so, half-buried in the straw, waiting for the inevitable misstep. The horse, its reins had been untethered just enough for it to start galloping around. Abel’s demise hadn’t been a matter of chance—chance was too chaotic. No, it was only a matter of time before Fyodor took advantage of Abel’s rage.  

The scream was a spark, igniting a flurry of footsteps and hurried voices as others rushed toward the barn. The commotion fed on itself, a breeding ground for curious eyes and frantic questions. 

Some pushed inside, drawn by the noise, while others hovered at the edges, hesitant and afraid. A few rushed to Fyodor, their voices trembling as they asked if he was hurt. He played the role of the bewildered innocent, his hands clean, his expression clouded with confusion. 

“I…” he began, his voice soft, trembling just enough to appear genuine. “I don’t know how it came to this.” 

The barn felt smaller with so many bodies crowding its space, their overlapping whispers and gasps weaving into the lingering tension. 

Fyodor’s mind remained clear, though something twisted deep in his chest, an unfamiliar discomfort he couldn’t easily shake. 

The scene was immaculate. The horse’s agitation blended seamlessly with the chaos he had crafted—a tragic accident, nothing more. Fyodor lingered for a moment, staring at the wreckage he had orchestrated. He felt no satisfaction. No triumph. Only the steady weight of grim resolve. 

When the questions grew too insistent, a few of them gently urged him away from the barn, their hands hovering as if to steady him. He let them guide him, his steps measured, his gaze distant, his expression carrying just enough of a dazed quality to appear convincing. Yet, even as he moved, his thoughts were already elsewhere. 

They turned to you—the way your voice had trembled when you spoke of your role, the soft, resigned look in your eyes whenever Abel’s name came up. He almost felt pity for Abel. Almost. 

Abel was part of the cycle—a lamb to be led to slaughter, a cog in a system that would never change. But you—you were different. You didn’t belong to this hollow cycle of devotion and duty. 

And that was why Fyodor wouldn’t let you rot alongside them. 

The news left you reeling. Abel, dead? The words didn’t seem real. You hadn’t loved him—not the way a fiancé should love their betrothed. But your heart, too soft and too big, carried the weight of his loss as though it were your fault. Guilt tangled with disbelief, twisting in your chest. If only you had loved him more, would he have been more careful? The image of the horse flashed in your mind, its startled movements, its strength. Why hadn’t Abel been more cautious? The questions circled endlessly as you stepped into the church, the air pressing down on you like a silent rebuke. 

The apse feels colder without the soft façade your mother usually wears in public. Her practiced kindness is gone, leaving behind the sharp, calculating presence of the High Priestess. You’re not supposed to be here. You hesitate by the doorway, drawn by the tension in the air.  

Fyodor stands before her, calm as ever, his posture betraying no unease. He looks at her with an air of quiet reverence, his composure a sharp contrast to the tension that fills the room like a rising tide.

“Abel is dead,” she says, her voice cutting through the silence, deliberate and sharp, like the crack of a whip.

Fyodor inclines his head slightly, his expression shifting into something akin to concern, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “A tragedy,” he murmurs, his tone measured and solemn. “I was there, High Priestess. Tending to the horses with him, as requested. It all happened so quickly.”

“Quickly,” she repeats, her words laden with disbelief. Her gaze hardens, narrowing in a way that feels like she’s trying to pierce through him. “And yet, here you stand. Unscathed. Untouched.”

His lips part as if in a sigh, but his voice remains steady. “I wish it were not so,” he says softly, his hands folding behind his back, the imagine of obedience. “There were others who saw what happened. Abel was not himself. His anger… it was consuming him.”

Her eyes flash, the subtle narrowing of her brows the only betrayal of her rising fury. “And what of your role in this?” she asks, leaning forward slightly, her presence pressing into him like a blade against his skin. “What did you do to quell this supposed rage?”

“I stepped back,” Fyodor says, his voice a quiet confession, tinged with what sounds like regret. “To keep myself safe. The horses were startled. Abel was… consumed by his emotions. I feared escalation, and yet…” He lets the sentence trail off, as though the memory itself pains him.

Her hands tighten on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as she leans further forward. “Convenient,” she says, the word dripping with venom. “How fortunate for you that his anger left little room for blame to fall elsewhere.”

He tilts his head slightly, meeting her gaze without hesitation, his expression serene. “I did only what I could, High Priestess. The others will confirm as much.”

Her lips press into a thin line, her silence growing sharper, heavier. “Do not mistake my silence for ignorance,” she says at last, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “I know what you’ve done.”

For a moment, the faintest flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by a carefully composed neutrality. “And I await proof, High Priestess,” he says, his voice unwavering but carrying an edge now, subtle but unmissable. “The truth, after all, always has a way of revealing itself.”

The room feels suffocating all of a sudden. You realize too late that you’ve stepped too far into the doorway, drawn in despite yourself. Her gaze snaps to you with the precision of a hawk catching its prey. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you stammer.

Her expression softens slightly, but only enough to mask her irritation. “You have duties to attend to,” she says, her voice firm. “Go.”  

You hesitate, your eyes flicking to Fyodor. He meets your gaze briefly, his violet eyes calm and unbothered, as if none of this concerns him. Something unspoken lingers in his gaze, something you don’t fully understand but can’t look away from.  

“I said go,” your mother repeats, and her voice leaves no room for argument. Reluctantly, you turn and leave, the door closing behind you.  

Her next words are muffled by the thick wooden door, but you can hear the warning in her tone, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “And stay away from my child,” she says. There’s a pause, heavy and menacing. “You may have charmed the others, but insolence has its limits.”  

Fyodor’s reply is quiet, but there’s an edge of amusement in his tone. “As you wish, High Priestess.”  

You stood just beyond the door, your heart pounding as you strain to hear what comes next. There’s a long silence, followed by your mother’s voice. “Be careful, Fyodor. You walk a fine line.”  

The door creaks open behind you, and you jump back as Fyodor steps out. He closes it softly, his expression calm but unreadable as his eyes meet yours. 

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” he says, his voice quiet, carrying a faint trace of humor. 

You flush, clasping your hands in front of you, “I wasn’t—” The words stumble out, unconvincing even to yourself. “I mean... I didn’t mean to.” 

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharpening, though his faint smile lingers. “No?” he murmurs, the word soft, almost indulgent. “Then why are you still standing here?” 

“I...” Your voice falters, the weight of his presence bearing down on you. The shame burns in your chest, but it’s tangled with something else—an aching need to know. “I was worried,” you admit quietly. “About what she was saying. About you.” 

His expression shifts subtly, something unspoken flickering behind his composed façade. “And why would you worry about me?” 

The question throws you off balance, and for a moment, you can’t find the words. “She... she doesn’t usually speak like that about anyone,” you manage. “And—” You hesitate, then push forward, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Did you have anything to do with Abel’s death?” 

For a moment, there’s silence. Not the calm, expectant silence he so often wields, but something heavier. His violet eyes remain locked on yours, unblinking, as though he’s weighing every possible answer against the consequences it might bring. 

“Do you think I did?” he asks finally, his voice low and steady, yet there’s an edge to it—a challenge hidden beneath the softness. 

Your chest tightens under the weight of his question. “I don’t know,” you admit, the words trembling on your lips. “You always seem to know things—things no one else does. And she sounded so certain, like she has proof.” 

“Proof,” he repeats, almost absently, as if the word itself is a curious puzzle. He looks away, his gaze lingering on the shadows flickering along the church walls. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, more thoughtful. “Certainty and proof are not the same. Certainty is... convenient. It can mask fear. Or doubt.” 

You search his face, desperate to read the truth in his expression, but his features remain infuriatingly calm. “So it wasn’t you?” 

This time, his hesitation is so slight you almost miss it. But it’s there—an imperceptible pause, a flicker of something in his eyes. “I had nothing to do with Abel’s death,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “He was... a kind man. His loss is a tragedy.” 

His words soothe something in you, yet they also stir a nagging unease. You want to believe him. You need to. But the shadow of doubt refuses to leave you entirely. 

“I shouldn’t have asked,” you whisper, your hands twisting the fabric of your robe. “It’s not my place.” 

“Questions are not a crime,” he says, his tone softening. “But sometimes, they lead us to answers we aren’t ready for.” 

He steps closer, and you can feel the weight of his presence, the quiet intensity that seems to draw everything toward him. “Your mother is a formidable woman,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “She cares for you deeply. But her care can be... suffocating.” 

You look up at him, startled by the edge of empathy in his tone. “She’s trying to protect me,” you say, though the words feel hollow. 

His faint smile returns, tinged with something almost bitter. “She sees danger everywhere,” he says. “Even where there is none. Her warnings... they’re for your sake, not mine.” 

“What danger?” you press, your voice trembling. “Why would she think you’re a threat?” 

He pauses, his gaze slipping past you as if searching for an answer in the dim light of the church. When he looks back, there’s a shadow in his expression—an emotion you can’t name. “Perhaps because I don’t fit neatly into her world,” he says finally. “People fear what they can’t control.” 

The words settle heavily between you, and you can’t help but wonder if they apply to more than just your mother. “But you’re not a danger,” you say, the statement more a question than you intended. 

His smile deepens, though it’s far from reassuring. “Would it matter if I were?” 

The question takes your breath away, and for a moment, you can’t respond. He steps back, the moment slipping away as quickly as it arrived. 

“I should go,” he says softly. “Your mother would not be happy if she saw us talking.” He steps past you, his presence lingering even as he walks away. You turn to watch him go, your mind can't seem to let go of the subject. 

“Wait,” you say, your voice unsteady. “What does she fear? Is it really you?” 

He hesitates at the door, his hand resting on the worn wood. “She fears many things,” he says, his tone almost gentle. “But most of all, she fears losing you.” 

He glances back at you one last time, his gaze lingering in a way that leaves you frozen in place. “Be careful,” he says, his tone softer now. “Sometimes, it’s better to leave things alone. For your own sake.” 

With that, he’s gone, leaving you alone in the quiet of the church.  

The preparations for the interment felt like a hollow ritual, a series of motions drained of meaning. You were no stranger to death—it was a quiet constant in your duties. Tending to elders who had lived full lives or stillborn children who never had the chance to begin felt like an extension of God’s will, a cycle you could accept.  

But Abel? Abel’s life was brimming with potential, his laughter still echoing faintly in your mind. To see him reduced to this—motionless, silent, stripped of the warmth that had once defined him—felt profoundly wrong, almost cruel. Yet beneath the grief and guilt, another emotion lingered faintly—a weight you could not name lifting from your chest, leaving behind an ache you didn’t dare yet examine. 

The river is calm tonight, its surface reflecting the firelight as if the water itself mourns. Abel’s body lies on a small wooden boat, his head covered by a white veil, his hands crossed over his chest. Flowers are tucked around him—delicate wildflowers from the fields, their petals already wilting under the heat of the torchlight. Gifts surround his body: a carving knife, a jar of honey, and a lock of your hair tied with a red ribbon. 

You stand at the edge of the gathered mourners. The High Priestess holds the ceremonial torch, her expression somber as she recites the prayer of passage. 

“May this fire guide you Abel,” she says, her voice steady, resonant. “May the waters carry you to the eternal embrace of the divine.” 

She hands you the torch, her fingers brushing against yours. You step forward, your legs trembling as you kneel at the riverbank. The crowd watches in reverent silence as you lower the torch, lighting the pyre. The flames catch quickly, crackling and consuming the dried wood and herbs. The fire comes to life, its reflection dancing on the water’s surface. 

Then the boat drifts slowly into the river, carried by the gentle current. You can feel the weight of their gazes on you as the flames climb higher, engulfing everything. The chanting grows louder, filling the night with its haunting melody. You bow your head, but your thoughts are elsewhere. 

Somewhere in the crowd, Fyodor stands apart. His face is unreadable in the flickering light, but you can feel his gaze on you. It’s like a promise, something you can’t sever no matter how hard you try. When you lift your head, your eyes meet his across the riverbank. He doesn’t look away, but you don't either.

The embers of the funeral boat glow faintly on the surface of the dark water, their light flickering like dying stars. You linger by the riverbank, unable to leave, even as the others return to the village. The weight of Abel’s death presses on you like a shroud. You tell yourself it’s the grief of the community—of your mother—but a deeper, more private part of you knows the truth. 

You feel relieved. 

The realization sits heavy in your chest, twisting into a knot of guilt. He’s gone. Abel is gone, and you will never have to kneel at his side, never have to smile through vows that made you feel small, never have to endure his kind, earnest gaze, so full of devotion it almost made you cry.

And yet, the relief doesn’t quiet the sadness. Abel hadn’t deserved this. He’d been kind, gentle, and undeserving of the violence that stole his life. You shiver, clutching your arms as though to hold yourself together. 

The sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, soft against the earth but unmistakable. You don’t need to turn to know it’s him. Fyodor’s presence is unmistakable.

“I thought I might find you here,” he says softly. His voice carries no judgment, only a quiet understanding that feels too sharp against the tumult of your thoughts. 

You don’t respond. You keep your gaze fixed on the water, the last embers of the funeral pyre drifting away on the gentle current. 

For a moment, he says nothing more. He steps closer, his movements unhurried, as though he knows you won’t send him away. He stands beside you, his presence warm despite the chill in the air. “You shouldn’t linger,” he says eventually, his tone as soft as the breeze. “The night is cold.” 

“I know,” you whisper, though you make no move to leave. 

Silence settles between you, broken only by the faint ripple of the water. Fyodor doesn’t press you for words, doesn’t fill the quiet with questions or platitudes. He simply waits, as if he knows you need space to untangle the knot inside you. 

“It’s wrong,” you murmur finally, your voice trembling. “To feel this way.” 

His gaze shifts to you, steady and patient. “What way?” he asks gently. 

You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. “I shouldn’t feel relieved. I shouldn’t feel...” You falter, the words catching in your throat. “Happy.” 

“Happy?” he repeats, his tone light, as though coaxing the truth from you without force. 

You swallow hard, your chest tightening with shame. “That I’m not marrying him anymore,” you admit quietly. “That I don’t have to...” Your voice trails off, and you squeeze your arms tighter around yourself. “He didn’t deserve this. And I feel guilty for being glad.” 

The words hang in the air, fragile and raw. For a long moment, Fyodor says nothing, and you fear his silence more than anything he could say. But when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost tender. 

“Grief and relief can exist together,” he says. “Feeling one doesn’t erase the other.” 

You glance at him, startled by the gentleness in his tone. His expression is calm, but there’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite name—a depth, a quiet understanding that makes your chest ache. 

“It doesn’t make you cruel,” he continues. “Or unkind. It makes you human.” 

You lower your gaze, tears stinging your eyes. You want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words won’t come. Instead, you find yourself leaning into his presence, drawn to the strange, steady calm he exudes. 

“I didn’t want this,” you say softly. “I didn’t want him to die.” 

The silence stretches for a moment, soft and heavy, before you find yourself asking the question you’ve been holding back since the funeral.

“How was he?” you whisper, your voice trembling as you force the words out. “When you saw him last... what was he like?” You search Fyodor’s expression, desperate for something to soothe the ache that’s been gnawing at your chest.

Fyodor doesn’t flinch. His answer comes after a brief pause, as though he’s carefully turning over the words in his mind. When he speaks, his voice is calm, steady, yet imbued with a softness that feels almost kind. “He was troubled,” he says, his tone measured, “but he was trying to find peace in his own way.”

Your chest tightens, a bittersweet mix of guilt and relief clawing its way to the surface. “Troubled?” you echo, your voice cracking. “I... I wish I had known. I should have seen it.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Fyodor says, the words quiet but firm. His gaze holds yours, steady and unyielding. “Sometimes, people carry burdens they cannot share. His anger wasn’t about you—it was about the expectations placed on him. Expectations he could no longer bear.”

The weight of his words settles over you, heavy but grounding. Your throat tightens, and the tears you’ve been holding back spill over, unchecked. “I just… I wanted him to be happy,” you whisper. “He deserved that much.”

Fyodor watches you for a moment, before he speaks again. “Happiness isn’t always something we can give to others,” he says softly. “But he knew you cared. In the end, that mattered to him.”

You let out a shaky breath, clutching at the fragile comfort his words offer. “Thank you,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with emotion. “For being there. For trying to help him.”

Fyodor inclines his head slightly, his expression gentle but inscrutable. “It was the least I could do,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet gravity.

His words linger between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Somewhere beneath the surface, you feel a current of something darker, something you can’t quite name. But you push the thought aside, holding onto the solace he’s given you instead.

And that night, you finally let yourself cry—small, quiet tears that fall into the stillness. Fyodor doesn’t move closer, doesn’t try to touch you. But his presence remains, solid and grounding, as though he knows exactly what you need. 

And as the last embers on the water fade to black, so too does the knot in your chest. It doesn’t disappear completely, but for now, it feels lighter. 

As swiftly as Abel’s passing came, so did the murmurs of his replacement. The inevitability of it clawed at your chest. Who would they choose? The question lingered, heavy and suffocating. You didn’t love anyone in that way—you weren’t sure you even knew how. But it didn’t matter. It never had. Love was a luxury reserved for others, not for you. Your duty to serve and protect stood above such things, an immovable force that demanded everything, leaving nothing for yourself. 

The sacred chamber bared the weight expectation. The candles lining the room burned low, their wax pooling like spilled offerings onto the scarred surface of the circular table at the room’s center. Icons glowed faintly in the flickering light, their intricate patterns seeming to pulse as though alive. 

You sat at your mother’s right hand, your presence as ceremonial as the candles. They had positioned you carefully—not as a participant, but as a reminder. A living symbol of the decision they had gathered to make. 

The council of elders surrounded the table, their robes pooling around them. Their faces were worn and lined with years of devotion, their gazes sharp with the weight of tradition. Their voices, low and murmured, weaved a thread of tension through the room, a quiet hum that settled in your chest. 

At the head of the table, your mother sat straight-backed and composed. Her silver hair caught the light like threads of spun steel, and her white robes were pristine as ever. Though she hadn’t yet spoken, her presence was enough to keep the room in balance, every elder’s words carefully measured, every movement deliberate. 

You remained silent, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your gaze fixed on the candlelight as though it might offer you some form of escape. 

The conversation began predictably, each elder taking their turn to speak with the slow gravity of a ritual. 

“We must consider their future,” one said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “The vessel cannot remain unbound.” 

Another nodded, her fingers steepled before her. “It is not just tradition—it is their purpose. Without a partner, their role is incomplete. Unity is required, both for them and for the community.” 

Their words surrounded you like a net, each thread tightening with every passing moment. They spoke of you, about you, but never to you. You were not a person here. You were an offering. 

The discussion turned to Abel’s death. 

“It was a tragedy,” one elder murmured, shaking his head. “He was a promising match. His devotion was unwavering.” 

“But it leaves us with an opportunity,” another interjected. “We can find a match that will strengthen their position further—someone who embodies not just faith, but leadership.” 

The High Priestess remained silent, her sharp gaze sweeping over the elders. Though her expression was serene, you could see the faint tension in her jaw, the slight tightening of her fingers around the edge of the table. 

And then, a new name entered the conversation. 

“What of Fyodor?” 

The murmurs grew louder, the elders turning toward the speaker with surprise and curiosity. 

“He is young, yes,” the elder continued. “In his short time here, he has proven himself. Devout, polite, eager to serve. He carries himself with dignity.” 

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber. 

“He performs every task with care,” another said. “Always thoughtful, always measured.” 

“And the people respect him,” someone added. “The children adore him, and the elders speak of his humility. He has shown the kind of character we need.” 

Your mother’s frown was almost imperceptible, but you saw it. Her fingers tightened on the table’s edge, her composure flickering like a candle in a gust of wind. 

“He is still an outsider,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “A man we barely know. Devotion takes time to prove.” 

“But his actions speak for him,” one elder countered gently. “Even you must admit he has adjusted seamlessly to our ways.” 

“It is his seamless adjustment that concerns me,” your mother replied, her tone sharp. “No one adapts so quickly without intent. Devotion should be earned, not performed.” 

Her words hung heavy in the air, silencing the murmurs for a moment. 

You sat frozen, your gaze dropping to your lap as their words swirled around you. They spoke of Fyodor with admiration, of Abel with reverence, of you as though you were an extension of the altar itself—a sacred object to be placed, given, assigned. 

You felt your throat tighten as one elder leaned forward, their voice soft but deliberate. “Mother Maria, with all respect, we cannot deny the strength of his character. He has brought stability, even in the face of tragedy. Perhaps he is exactly what they needs—a man who can uphold appearances while serving the divine.” 

Your mother’s gaze darkened, her frown deepening. “Appearances are not enough,” she said sharply. “The vessel must be bound to someone who embodies faith and tradition. Fyodor is neither. He is an outsider, a stranger who has only begun to understand our ways.” 

Another elder shifted in their seat. “And who, then, would you propose?” they asked carefully. “Abel’s passing has left us with few options. The sacred vessel cannot remain unbound.” 

The room grew heavy with silence, the air thick with unspoken tension. 

Finally, your mother spoke again, her voice steady but cold. “There are others. Men whose families have served this community for generations. Men whose loyalty is proven, not assumed.” 

Her gaze swept across the room, her authority pressing down like a weight. “We will not make this decision lightly. And we will not make it tonight.” 

Her words were final, the tone leaving no room for argument. The murmurs faded into uneasy quiet as the elders began to rise, their robes rustling softly as they filed out of the chamber. 

You remained seated, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. The flickering candlelight cast wavering shadows on the walls, but the weight in your chest remained still, solid. 

When the chamber was nearly empty, your mother turned to you, her expression hard but laced with something else—something close to fear. 

“I will not allow this,” she said, her voice low. “You may think him charming, but I see what the others cannot. There is something... unnatural about him.” 

Her hand rested on your cheek, soft almost possessive. “You will be promised,” she continued. “But not to him. Never to him.” 

She rose, her robes sweeping the floor as she left the chamber. The sound of her footsteps faded, leaving you alone in the suffocating quiet. 

You stared at the candlelight, its faint glow reflecting in your eyes. You wondered if she was right to be afraid. 

Days passed, but the elders’ conversation lingered—a quiet echo in the moments you least expected. Would Fyodor be a good match? The question felt like a cruel jest. It didn’t matter, not really—not when your mother had made her feelings about him painfully clear. Her disdain, her insistence that his presence near you was sacrilege, kept him at an arm’s length even now. 

And yet, for all her hatred, Fyodor stood apart from anyone else. Abel was predictable, the others distant, and even you could only see yourself in fragments. But Fyodor? Fyodor saw you whole. 

And what he saw terrified you. 

It wasn’t just that he seemed to know you better than anyone else. Sometimes, it felt like he knew you better than you knew yourself. 

But more frightening than that—the thing you couldn’t admit, not even in the quiet of your mind—was how you reached for him in return. Like forbidden fruit, dangerous and tempting, he pulled you in with a force you couldn’t resist.

The embers of the ceremonial pyre glow faintly against the night sky, casting restless shadows over the clearing. The others have gone, their murmured prayers and reverent footsteps swallowed by the forest. You should have left with them. You should be anywhere but here, but the ceremony lingers in you like a weight you can’t shake off. The sacred blood on your arms feels heavier than it should, its warmth long gone.

You stare into the dying fire, hoping its last flickers will burn away the unease twisting inside you. But it doesn’t. It never does. 

“Still here?” Fyodor’s voice drifts toward you, as though he’s been waiting for the moment you’d be alone. 

His voice slips through the stillness, soft and smooth. You don’t turn. You don’t need to. Fyodor’s presence isn’t loud—it doesn’t crash or demand attention. It seeps into the space like smoke, slow and inevitable. 

“You seem to always find me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. 

“I wasn’t looking,” he replies, his tone smooth and unhurried. “It’s just that you’re always where I expect you to be.” 

You glance over your shoulder and find him leaning against one of the great trees that ring the clearing. The white of his robe catches the firelight, making him look ghostly against the shadows. His posture is as it always is—calm, controlled—but his eyes hold something sharper, something that makes your pulse quicken. 

“I needed a moment,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the fire. 

“To think?” he asks, stepping closer. 

“To breathe.” 

“That is because you give so much,” he says softly, and his words cut through you with an unsettling precision. “But what does it give you in return?” 

You flinch, the truth of his question striking a nerve you didn’t know was exposed. “It’s not about what I get,” you reply, though your voice trembles. “I told you before...It’s my purpose.” 

“And who gave you that purpose?” he presses, his steps slow as he closes the space between you. “Did you choose it? Or was it chosen for you?” 

His words dig into you like thorns, and you pull your arms closer to your chest, as though shielding yourself from the weight of his gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” you say sharply. “It’s what I’m meant to do.” 

“But does it feel that way?” he murmurs, his tone softening in a way that feels more dangerous than his earlier sharpness. 

You look away, your breath hitching as his presence presses against you—not physically, but in a way that feels just as real. You want to step back, to break the pull he seems to have on you, but instead, you find yourself leaning toward him.

“The divinity that was pushed onto you,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, almost reverent. “It will stain your fingers and mouth like a pomegranate. It will swallow you whole and spit you out, wine-dark and wanting. And still, you’ll reach for it, again and again.” 

You take a shaky breath, your chest tightening. “Why are you saying this?” 

“Because you deserve to ask the question,” he says simply. “Because no one else will let you.” 

You want to argue, to push him away with words that make sense, but all you can feel is the ache in your chest, the way his presence seems to burrow under your skin. His words are too sharp, too close to truths you’ve tried to ignore, and yet you can’t bring yourself to step back. 

You glance at him, searching for something in his expression—mockery, cruelty, anything that might give you an excuse to dismiss him. But his gaze is steady, unflinching, as though he’s been waiting for this moment. It unsettles you, the way he looks at you. Not with reverence, not with the awe you’re used to, but with something deeper. Something you can’t name. 

“I should go,” you say finally, though the words feel hollow, turning away from him and started walking.

“Should you?” he says, his soft but relentless, stopping you in your tracks, “You are trying to flee from the truth.” 

The weight of his words pulls at something deep inside you, something you’ve tried to bury beneath years of ritual and obedience. Your chest tightens, your heart pounding against your ribs as you search for an answer, but none comes. 

“You let it take everything,” he continues, stepping even closer, “and you ask for nothing in return. Not even its mercy.” 

“Stop,” you whisper, though there’s no force behind the word. 

“Why?” His gaze burns into you, the intensity of it making your skin prickle. “Because you’re afraid of the answer? Or because you already know it?” 

The air feels too thick, too heavy, but you can’t seem to move. You lower your gaze, the words tangling in your throat as your chest tightens. “I don’t... I don’t want to—” 

“To think about it?” he finishes your sentence for you, his voice softer now. “I know.” 

His words hold no malice, no triumph. Instead, there’s something almost tender in the way he says it, as though he sees the storm inside you and knows exactly how to navigate it. It’s too much, and yet you don’t push him away. You tilt your head, giving him the space to press closer. Letting his words sink into your soft skin.  

Fyodor stands close now, his presence steady but overwhelming, like a shadow that refuses to vanish. His words linger in the air between you, carving truths you don’t want to face. 

“So, this is where you are.” 

You stiffen, the sound like a blade slicing through the fragile stillness. Your mother, the High Priestess, steps into the clearing, her purposeful gait as deliberate as the firelight still flickering behind her. Her face is carved from stone, her fury tightly leashed. 

“Mother,” you say softly, turning to face her. 

Her gaze doesn’t land on you. Instead, it pierces Fyodor, her eyes narrowing with a quiet, terrifying intensity. “Fyodor,” she says, her tone dangerously calm. “You have a habit of overstepping your place.” 

He inclines his head, his posture unshaken. “High Priestess,” he greets her, his voice a smooth undercurrent. “I deeply apologize, I wasn’t aware I had stepped beyond the boundaries.” 

She steps closer, her movements slow and deliberate, the weight of her authority filling the clearing. “You are speaking to my child,” she says sharply, motioning toward you with a flick of her hand. “That, in itself, is overstepping.” 

Your mother’s gaze flicks to you then, her expression unreadable but heavy with disappointment. “And you,” she says, her voice quieter now but no less cutting. “Lingering here with him when I warned against it. Have I not taught you better than this?” 

You open your mouth to respond, to explain, but the words die in your throat. “I—” 

“Silence,” she snaps, the single word ringing out like a whip. “You shame me.” 

Her hand moves suddenly, and you flinch, expecting a blow, but instead, her fingers close around your wrist. Her grip is ironclad as she drags you forward, pulling you closer to where Fyodor stands. He watches silently, his expression unreadable, though his eyes follow every movement with unsettling calm. 

“This ends now,” she says, her voice a low growl. “If you cannot respect the boundaries I’ve set, I will remind you of them.” 

Her other hand rises, striking you across the cheek before you have time to process her words. The force of it makes your head snap to the side, your skin stinging as tears spring to your eyes. You bite your lip, refusing to cry out. 

Fyodor shifts, a flicker of something—anger, perhaps—crossing his face, but your mother’s gaze cuts to him before he can speak. “Do you think you’re exempt from consequence?” she says, her tone sharper now, laced with menace. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replies, his voice smooth but edged with defiance. 

Her eyes narrow, and she steps closer to him. Though she is smaller in stature, her presence feels overwhelming, like the weight of the heavens pressing down. “Kneel,” she commands, her voice heavy with authority. 

For a moment, you think he won’t obey. The air in the clearing is thick with tension, the space between them crackling like a live wire. But then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees, his posture still calm, still composed, as though he’s granting her a favor rather than submitting to her will. 

Your mother circles him like a predator, her steps slow and deliberate. “You think you’re clever,” she says, her voice venomous. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing, creeping into my flock, whispering your poison.” 

He doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed ahead, but you can feel the weight of his composure, the way it unsettles her. 

She stops in front of him, her hands folding neatly in front of her. “I warned you to stay away from them,” she says. “You chose not to listen.” 

She raises her hand, striking him across the face with the same force she used on you. The sound is sharp in the quiet night, echoing through the clearing. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, as though the blow hadn’t even registered. 

“Your defiance will end,” she says, her voice cold. “Do not mistake my mercy for weakness.” 

Fyodor tilts his head slightly, and though he doesn’t smile, there’s something in his eyes that feels like a challenge. “Of course, High Priestess,” he says softly. “I am yours to punish as you see fit.” 

His words are obedient, but the tone beneath them feels like something else entirely—something darker, something that tightens the knot in your chest. 

Your mother turns to you then, her expression cold. “Look at him,” she commands. “This is what happens to those who forget their place.” 

You lift your gaze reluctantly, your eyes meeting Fyodor’s. There’s no trace of the humiliation your mother intended to inflict, instead, his gaze holds yours steadily, the weight of it grounding you in a way you don’t understand. 

“Do you understand?” your mother demands, her voice breaking the moment. 

“Yes, mother,” you say softly, though your chest feels hollow as you speak. 

She straightens, her authority radiating outward as she looks between the two of you. “This is the last time I will address this,” she says. “Please do not make me do something I will regret.” 

With that, she turns and strides out of the clearing, her long robes sweeping the ground behind her. The silence she leaves behind is deafening. 

You stand frozen, your cheek still stinging from her blow, your chest tight with shame and something else you can’t name. Fyodor rises slowly, brushing the dirt from his knees.

“You didn’t have to kneel,” you whisper, your voice trembling. 

He glances at you, his violet eyes sharp in the faint light. “Didn’t I?” 

His words twist in your chest, but you don’t have the strength to respond. Instead, you look away, the weight of his gaze almost too much to bear. 

“She sees you as her lamb,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but firm. “But even lambs grow restless.” 

You shiver, his words digging deeper than you want them to. Before you can reply, he steps closer, his presence steady but overwhelming. 

“Go,” he says softly, his tone gentler now. “She’ll be watching.” 

For a moment, you hesitate, your body refusing to move. But then you nod and turn, your steps unsteady as you leave the clearing. Behind you, the air feels heavy, as though it will never truly clear. 

That night, you were restless. Sleep didn’t come easily, your mind replaying the scene in the clearing over and over again—the sting of her hand, the weight of her gaze, and the calm defiance in Fyodor’s eyes. You felt raw, stripped bare in a way that made your skin prickle even in the stillness of your room. 

You avoided your father as much as you could. His presence, always so quiet, so small in the shadow of your mother’s, felt unbearable now. When he glanced at you during supper, his eyes gentle and searching, you looked away, unable to meet his gaze. 

He didn’t ask what happened. He never asked. But you knew he could see it in the way you held yourself, in the silence that stretched between you like an unspoken confession. 

And still, he didn’t press. He never did. 

The house was silent, but your thoughts were loud, the echoes of your mother’s fury and Fyodor’s calm threading through your mind until they tangled together, like wire impossible to separate. 

Even as exhaustion weighed on you, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sting of everything you couldn’t say. 

PART III

Dividers: saradika-graphics

[electricneonvalkyrie]

I believe that while it's easy to understand the feelings of people we like, the real difficulty lies in extending that empathy and understanding to those we don't.

I deeply appreciate how this game and its narrative pushed me to do precisely that and continues to do so with every consecutive game play.

I find it interesting to examine every situation from a fresh point of view, drawing parallels between characters and their bonds with their friends.

I'm particularly interested in applying the same approach to their adversaries.

How are Abby and Joel similar?

I'm immediately struck by how both are powerfully motivated by personal loss.

At the start of the outbreak, Joel loses Sarah in a chaotic, violent scene, forever altering his perspective and setting the stage for further, devastating losses and trauma.

(I’ve written a piece on Joel and how I feel PTSD presents in his character, perhaps I’ll share that down the line if that’s something you would be interested in.)

The loss of her father, Jerry, ignites a fire of retribution in Abby's heart, fundamentally reshaping who she is and everything she believes in.

Loss irrevocably altered their moral compass, shattering their sense of justice and restructuring their views on right and wrong, leading them to rationalize acts they’d more than likely once condemned.

I acknowledge the role of survival in their difficult world, but their personal losses and trauma were the major catalysts driving them down a path of destruction.

Abby and Joel both serve as the villains in someone else’s story. In many eyes, they are the bad guys.

That said, I love how both characters find redemption through unexpected companions. Joel slowly reconnects with his humanity through his journey with Ellie.

Abby and Lev travel a similar road, which helps Abby break free from her rigid, treacherously numb, survivalist and revenge-based mentality.

Their loved ones gave them a reason to live beyond the violence.

No matter how hard they tried to leave the past behind, they couldn't escape the repercussions of their choices or the collateral damage they inflicted—still, they kept trying.

Some players may be unhappy with the game's direction, but its story is, in my view, more meaningful than most recognize.

Impactful stories don't need to be flawless, yet this one's judged by such peculiar standards.

The themes are so much more than revenge bad in my experience. I get that most players recognize the cycle of violence and the hollow victory of revenge but for me, grief was the undeniable centerpiece.

I wouldn't be surprised if, in another universe, over a quiet cup of coffee, Abby and Joel found they had far more in common than they thought.

I think many of us unknowingly have people and situations like this in our lives.

It’s a painful truth that we are capable of such intense hatred, even when the consequences harm ourselves and those closest to us.

I like to think we were meant to live more peacefully than this.

Maybe we can.

Perhaps we honor the ones we've lost by choosing to live differently.

(I'll be away training for a few weeks, but I'll be back here as often as I can! Thank you so much to everyone who has left kind comments and interactions so far. They always make me smile. Stay safe out there. Put down the golf clubs. Unless you play actual golf, then... do that. 🤣)

[sammaggs]

due South Season 4 Personal Viewing Order

After @dirtyzucchini's amazing Season 3 Personal Viewing Order post, there was some call to do the same for Season 4—so I'm going to give it my best shot!

sammaggs' viewing order for season 4

Hunting Season

Easy Money

A Likely Story

Dr. Longball

Odds

Mojo Rising

Good for the Soul

Mountie Sings the Blues

The Ladies' Man

Dead Men Don't Throw Rice

Say Amen

(+13.) Call of the Wild

I've sort of merged the original airing order with the DVD/YouTube order here while moving a few other things around, and here's why!

I know putting Hunting Season first seems kind of insane on first blush, but hear me out: every single other season of due South starts in Canada. Every single one! Pilot and North and Burning Down the House all open in the Northwest Territories, and so does Hunting Season. I also prefer to put Hunting Season earlier in the season alongside the other "woman interloper threatens Fraser's partnership" episodes in season 4 (A Likely Story, Odds). We get a little happy Fraser moment right off the top, and now we don't have to consider why Ray would have run off to Mexico with some woman right after the Henry Allen. So that's that.

Easy Money is next because it's kind of meh and it seems extremely like a repurposed Vecchio episode, so really shouldn't go any later in the season. Lots of early season callbacks (tracking things in Chicago, money in the hat, etc.). But also Ray going feral over Fraser being kidnapped. That much feeling for his partner probably has him a little in his own head, leading to:

The interlopersodes, which I like in their original airing order quite early in the season—it allows for some post-Mountie on the Bounty gay panic (maybe I still like women! maybe you still like women? wait, maybe I'm jealous of women that are around you? wait, maybe I didn't actually like that woman after all, I just thought I should?). But that can't and doesn't last, and so we move on from that moment by the time we're done with episode 5.

I put Dr. Longball between A Likely Story and Odds 1) to break up the monotony of the two similarly-themed episodes with something more lighthearted, and b) because it actually does make sense to me that after the motorcycle refenestration and Luanne's rejection and Ray's subsequent soul-searching that he might do something as stupid as run off to Mexico with a perp in a last-ditch effort to be still thinking about women. It doesn't work; Fraser gets his ass back hard in Odds; that whole sub-plot is over. No more women, boys.

Then we've got Mojo Rising, because it's also kind of a meh episode and I like to get it out of the way in the first half. Like Ray in earlier episodes, Dief chooses Fraser for good in the end of the ep, so that's settled. Seasonally I also like it here instead of earlier as everyone is wearing their coats. Ray and Fraser are working well together but things do feel a little tentative.

Good for the Soul I like smack-dab in the middle of the season since it is the Christmas episode, and also because it's the moment where we really establish Fraser's found family once and for all. The 2-7 backs him, Ray backs him, it's Christmas, everyone loves each other. This is a heavy one and one of Fraser's most internally-challenging episodes, so it's nice to sandwich it between two less-stressful hours.

That's why I've got Mountie Sings the Blues next. It also introduces the idea of the Frannie/Turnbull romance (which I love), starting her down the path of letting Fraser go for good. The Ladies' Man is next; this is another heavy one and Ray's most internally-challenging episode, keeping it close to Good for the Soul but with a necessary emotional reprieve between. Ray and Fraser are about as close as they're ever going to be as partners, here. They've worked hard for it.

Dead Men Don't Throw Rice is nice toward the end of the season for a few reasons: It's Frannie at her best—she's both useful and dedicated to the case, and she's also got herself a new boyfriend, finally telling Fraser it's over between them—but it's also Bob Fraser's set-up for the finale. Benton's work isn't quite done yet, but Bob's nearly is.

Say Amen comes in penultimately with the series' thesis statement on love at first sight and true partnership, and really puts the final nail in the coffin on Fraser using his magic for anyone other than himself and the man he loves. And then we run off to the Northwest Passage in Call of the Wild and that's all she wrote folks

So that's that!! Huge huge thank you to @allofthebeanz and @dirtyzucchini for betaing this and giving me such great feedback. Please do comment, I would love your thoughts, this is still a working list!

PLAYLIST: Thanks to @dirtyzucchini, this season 4 order now exists as a Playlist on YouTube!!

[pan-magi]

Anime and Manga Comparison (Encore): Amon

I'm back at it once more, and this time it's at the beginning. Not the very beginning, but close enough! This time comparing the first dungeon. I talked before on the specific humor compared to action we see with the slimes. Now, I want to focus on the design of the dungeon itself.

I love the intro dungeon in the manga. It's great. I do appreciate the comedic timing and framing of some Ohtaka's panels. The manga also shows Alibaba's problem-solving skills better. He has the moment in the anime showing he knows Tran and is well read and can lie pretty easily. But convincing a rich petty man that has never done anything by himself isn't saying that much.

Alibaba is able to deduce the proper way to go is the path left unmarked. Not something particularly hard in retrospect. It is a common tactic to leave some kind of marker where you've been to avoid confusion He is smart to break out of the in-the-box thinking he and Aladdin were stuck in. They thought the markings were something left by the dungeon itself as clues to progress. A good ol' dungeon puzzle. It wasn't though. It was merely something left by former adventurers to not screw themselves over and get lost. Taking a minute to go "wait a sec" isn't that easy, especially in a high stake location like being stuck in a dungeon.

I love the parts in the manga that didn't make it into the anime. It is great, truly.

But goddamn is it Amon generic as fuck.

Spikes in a death pit? Ancient language that you should know or else? Bland stone corridors and caves with multiple paths you have to travel through? Slimes as the common dungeon creature?

It's so painfully generic. I can't even, lmao.

I get the impression that Ohtaka did not know what she was going for in depth with the dungeons. I don't mean that as lack of experience or planning ahead, but more-so as just wanting to get her series off the ground so she went with common tropes she knew her readers would expect and probably enjoy. A safe bet to work her story out.

The rest of the dungeons once she gets around to them have so much character. The second you're in Zagan you can tell: this belongs to an earth djinn. Baal as the first dungeon in SnB feels more standard but has more stuff going for it. I love the creature designs inside a lot of Sin's conquered dungeons.

Belial is an absolute mindfuck and I love it so much. It's a psychological barrage of confronting your trauma and biases because Belial more than anyone else has to make sure he has a King's Candidate that has their shit together. Then it fails miserably. It has to be my favorite dungeon in the entire series.

Amon has nothing on any of that.

The anime in contrast?

From the outset, in a way in which your ass will be fried if you don't pay attention, the lesson is clear: this belongs to a fire djinn. Be careful or you are dead. 10,000 have gone in and very few had come out. It's great. The dungeon had such a powerful glow up in the anime. 10/10 will recommend for certain death.

A couple other things that don't really fit into the theme of dungeon design. In the manga, Aladdin sits around and waits because the time dilation is different for people entering the dungeon. Something that isn't really brought up in the anime is that people travel to and from dungeons separately and at different rates. Anime Aladdin could have been there for a while. I doubt it though as kid would have drowned and been burned alive of Alibaba didn't grab him and bolt out of there.

The bigger more subtle change is how Amon is summoned.

Manga: Story based on Aladdin and the Lamp. Cannot not have the imagery of Aladdin touching the lamp (or its stand-in in this case).

Anime: It's the moment when Aladdin chooses Alibaba as king. The magi has made his choice, and Amon decides that is a definitive time to come out. That isn't something that is clear on first watch. Odd that the room would suddenly light up when Aladdin helps Alibaba up. It is easy to miss the significance with not being introduced to the magi system until afterward. On rewatch it felt like a sledgehammer to me on how blatant they made it. When the anime hits you with the symbolism, it goes all out.

About wraps it up this time. Next, I'll probably try to tackle the beautiful mess that is Zagan's arc changes because BOY DO I HAVE THOUGHTS.

Mostly how it is surprisingly well done but so many people come out looking dumber in the anime. omg.

[constantvariations]

Since tumblr decided to be a dick and not put my last post in rwde and I don't feel like retyping all my tags, here's those tags expanded as their own post

So. Themes. Super important for a story if you want to have any depth. Super easy to fuck up

What always sniped my snout about the trailers is how the Black Trailer is the strongest in terms of story because its theme is made abundantly clear and the path ahead exciting. "Are casualties acceptable in the name of a good cause?" has been asked a thousand times and gotten a thousand answers. It's a difficult enough question in real life but even harder in fiction because of how grounded it has to be in the worldbuilding and plot and characters

That last one starts off so well, too. Adam is firmly in Camp Casualties while Blake holds a more tentative counter position. In just a few minutes with minimal dialogue, the writers established the base of these characters and what their entire story would be about. This setup promised a veritable feast of drama and philosophy, made even spicier by the obvious bond the two shared

Yet the Black Trailer may as well be a fart in the wind for all the show cared. Not only does Adam not properly appear until three years in, he can no longer perform his original function as thematic counterpart due to Cinder calling the shots the moment the events of the BT are over. All the casualties seen are of the White Fang themselves, sacrificed on the altar of Cinder and Salem’s plan to... gain power and destroy the world, I think?

(Hard to remember when we, both hero and audience, had to wait almost a decade for the reason the story is happening, and the payoff just sank the show further into debt)

As bad as that is, nothing is more disappointing than Blake never being able to explore and embody her own theme. Whenever she gets challenged on her stance, not once does she rise to the occassion and proclaim why she's right to believe what she believes. The only thing she believes is that Adam (violence) is wrong and needs to be stopped. She doesn't face any hardships or loss for choosing peace over violence, instead getting handed victory after victory because her opposition keeps getting hit with the stupid cupid stick

The closest Adam and Blake ever got to fulfilling that original theme is at Beacon, and it's so weak and shallow and overshadowed by "mY dArLiNg" that it's hardly worth talking about. The writers' choice to switch from "are casualties acceptable" to "running away is the only way to protect your friends" with no bridge or closure is truly astounding

They could have done both. Even a world told through the narrow narrative lens is big enough to contain multiple themes at once, and they can be used in tandem to create insane amounts of depth. RWBY was a highly ambitious and very large project, so having multiple themes was pretty much guaranteed, but because the writers lacked skill and passion, they subtracted themes instead of building them, and the entire show is worse off for it

[mightydyke]

Watched Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind a few nights ago and I loved it so much. Obsessed with all the metaphors and the symbolism. When Kushana said she wanted to destroy the toxic jungle in order for humans to rule the world again, but we know or can guess that humans trying to gain too much power is probably the exact reason why the toxic jungle is so dangerous. And then we learn that the jungle itself isn't toxic, it's just the soil and water that has been poisoned by human activity!! And the fact that the forest actually purifies the water! And of course Nausicaä discovers this by going into the jungle and learning about it. She's a hero because she studies ecology.

I also loved the theme of the danger of violence, and also Nausicaä trying so hard to stay as pacifist as is feasible even when violence is so tempting. During the battle in the castle in the Valley of the Wind when Tolmekian soldiers are invading, Nausicaä fights them off but she's blocked by Yupa and her sword goes through his arm. My friend was like "surely if he's a master swordsman he knows not to block with his arm?" but I was like "No it shows the damage of violence and how war hurts everyone!!" Another moment that seemed really key to me was when the Tolmekian airship was getting attacked and Nausicaä goes to steal a gunship. Kushana sees her and smiles because she thinks Nausicaä is going to use this ship for battle, that she's been seduced by violence, but then Nausicaä uses that ship to save Kushana! She transforms this weapon into a vehicle of peace, when using it for violence would be so easy, she chooses a different path and that scares Kushana more than anything, which is why she tries to take back control using her gun in the toxic jungle, even though Nausicaä knows that this is only going to cause more suffering. Of course there's the ending where she stops the stampeding Ohm not by force but by empathy, taking the pain of the baby Ohm onto herself when she goes into the acid lake trying to save it, and her dress is stained from it's blood, symbolically allowing its suffering to change her so she can understand it, bringing peace by sacrificing herself, not the Ohm (honestly you could read Nausicaä as a sort of Christ-figure but that's a whole other post). For me, a big thing that really resonated with me and drove in the idea of choosing peace over violence even when it's really hard was every time that Nausicaä cried. Every time she cried I felt like I understood the frustration and feelings of powerlessness so vividly. When she tells Yupa she's going to cut off the water to her underground plants so that they die, just like how the jungle is going to die, because the Tolmekians are stronger and forcing them to go along with the plan, and I could *feel* the anger that everything she'd worked so hard for would be destroyed because she wasn't powerful enough to stop it. And this feeling of helplessness is so similar to when she tried to hide a baby Ohm but it was killed by her own people and her own father. And when she learned of Pejite's plan to use the Ohm to destroy the valley of the wind and she just cant convince these people not to murder her valley. And when she sees the baby Ohm and how much it's been injured and she says something like "I'm so sorry for what we did to you" whilst crying... I felt that so much. And all the time it's because she realises the value in all life, and she can't convince people who see life as worthless compared to their greed, but because she knows life is so valuable she can't respond with violence, but her path of always valuing life works in the end! She doesn't need any weapons when she has compassion and ecology.

[allthoselostthoughts]

Lately, I have been obsessed with 'The Uglies' series by Scott Westerfield. It's recently come out with a (not very good apparently) film and I loved it as a kid so my ADHD brain has circled back around to hyperfixation.

TLDR (because this is important); Making the choice to fight for yourself and rewire your brain in the throes of mental illness is hard, but every time you decide you're worth the effort you are shaping your brain for the future. Every choice to bleed in the fight for your wellness and future matters. You matter. And eventually, it's worth it. (As relayed by/ related to 'The Uglies' series)

I've been listening to lots of reviews on "The Uglies' series and I can't help but feel that they miss the point. Or what I thought was the point as a kid and even a teen at least. Something especially relevant if you subscribe to the 'Death of the Author' theory for literary interpretation. I subscribe more to the idea of 'The Author is a ghost guiding my thoughts with whispered fingers, gentle like the kiss of butterfly wings rather than bludgeoning like a Louisville slugger'.

Aka: The author's intentions matter and can help guide our interpretation but cannot fully change our perceptions as our lens is so intrinsically connected to and shaped by our own personal experiences.

In 'The Pretties' Tally (the main character) takes a 'cure' for what we now know are brain lesions, secretly put on the brain of every child at 16 when they undergo plastic surgery to become 'pretty'. The lesions are a kind of lobotomy, keeping everyone pliant, minimally questioning, and breaking their ability to quickly reason and critically think. Thus their society is a bunch of pliant happy pretty people with no real freedoms due to this 'brain damage'. However, we later learn that in actuality Tally did not take the cure and has instead been having to work around these lesions and 'rewire' her brain on her own.

People seem to find this kind of silly, like the theme is the idea that brain damage can be fixed if you're just special enough with all that main character energy. Perhaps it's because we're currently in the 'Neuro' part of medical school but I find this take to be completely missing the point. I've always been of this opinion but now that I understand the brain better, I can actually articulate why I believe this using actual science. The point being that your mental pathways MATTER. Your brain must use previous experiences to predict the correct responses to new ones because otherwise moving your arm to take a drink from someone's hands would take so long they'd have already dropped it before you got there.

In that way, each time your brain is right or wrong it uses that info to recalibrate your predictions for next time. Similarly, the paths that are taken most often in your brain will be the most myelinated aka they'll be the fastest most 'well-traveled' roads. Creating new ways of thinking requires shaping and changing your knee-jerk predictions and choosing new pathways to myelinate rather than taking those that are well-worn. Just like how driving to your new job takes tons of mental energy for the first few weeks but in a few years, it takes so little that you find yourself at work without even remembering how you got there.

THAT is what I get as a takeaway. Tally didn't get a pill to fix her brain, it would have been nice if she had, but she was able to rewire it herself with tons of effort and energy. And it was HARD. We see later, when they eventually create medication to help with this 'rewiring' how much harder Tally had it having to do it alone. It's not saying that you can fix literal brain damage or that medication isn't great, it is, but your thoughts MATTER. Every thought and action is a CHOICE that will shape your brain over time. I'm not saying mental health is easy, it's not, and a lot of us start off making these choices at a disadvantage compared to those who are 'neurotypical' but we still make choices.

Mental health is hard, overcoming mental illness is constant work and energy and effort. It's draining and maybe you don't choose to fight every day or win every battle, but you can win the war. And a not insignificant part of winning that war is choosing to do things to restructure your brain, even if that choice is taking the medications that fuel the neurotransmitters that spark those pathways or making that therapy appointment or deciding to tell yourself that it's okay to be exhausted rather than feeling guilt pricking at your skin when you can't muster up the energy to get out of bed and wipe the tears from your cheeks.

The point is that healing your brain is work. and it's not easy, but it matters. Every time you make the choice to fight for yourself, it matters. Eventually, it gets easier. And eventually, it's worth it.

[another-lost-mc]

I have a fun idea to ask! What would it be if your OCs had separate routes like another Otome game? Like, who would be in the hard mode? Would each of their routes be more angst or fluff? Would players tend to get the good end, normal end, or bad end on their first try without a walkthrough?

Hope you have a nice weekend! Love your works as always!

This idea is so much fun! Some of these hint at actual events that take place in their unpublished stories so I've kept those plot points vague. lol

KARASU

Route difficulty: Easy

His route is fluffy with lots of (optional) smut content as his story progresses. Most of the drama between him and the MC happens towards the end of their story together.

His good and normal endings are both be easy to achieve without a walkthrough. Avoiding his bad ending is easy to do and it's obvious what the correct vs. incorrect responses are.

Good Ending: He and MC stay together and [REDACTED].

Normal Ending: He and MC stay together.

Bad Ending: He and MC break up because of [REDACTED] and the route ends.

AZRA

Route difficulty: Easy to Medium

His route involves drama between him, MC and secondary characters which makes the choices in his route more impactful. His route starts with fluff and adds in smut and angst later. Parts of his route (usually the bad ending paths) have darker themes including violence and character injury/death.

His normal ending is easy to achieve without a walkthrough. You might need one for his good ending. His bad ending choices are easy to spot once you have a grasp on his character.

Good Ending: He and MC stay together and [REDACTED]

Normal Ending: He and MC stay together.

Mini-Bad Ending 1: He and MC break up (early on) after the fight with [REDACTED].

Bad Ending 2: He and MC break up because MC blames him/does not forgive him for [REDACTED].

ZEE

Route Difficulty: Hard

Prerequisite Route: Azra (Good Ending)

You need to successfully complete Azra's good ending to unlock Zee as a potential love interest. You meet him as an undateable character in Azra's route, and that should give you a hint of what to expect. His route has fluff, smut (including intense but optional scenes), angst and darker themes including violence and character injury/death.

His route is a slower burn. Early on, there's a lot of seemingly unimportant scenes/choices that can lead to one of his early Bad Endings if you're not careful. A walkthrough is highly recommended if you want to avoiding his bad endings. Save early and often.

Good Ending: Violence with [REDACTED] is avoided and their conflict is resolved. He and MC stay together and [REDACTED].

Normal Ending: Violence with [REDACTED] is avoided. He and MC stay together.

Mini-Bad Ending 1: Zee ghosts MC and the route ends.

Mini-Bad Ending 2: Zee breaks up with MC and the route ends.

Bad Ending 3: Zee attacks [REDACTED] after MC fails to prevent it or encourages it, and the route ends.

TENEBRIS

Route Difficulty: Medium to Hard

Prerequisite Route: Karasu and Azra (Normal Ending)

Achieving Karasu and Azra's normal endings are required to unlock Ten-Ten as a love interest.

His route involves fluff, smut (several optional scenes) and angst. Darker themes in his route refer to past violence/murder and (potential) character injury/death. His good ending is difficult without a walkthrough, but his bad endings can be avoided if you prioritize Tenebris over other characters.

Good Ending: Conflict with [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] is resolved. He and MC stay together and [REDACTED].

Normal Ending: Conflict with [REDACTED] is avoided and conflict with [REDACTED] is resolved. He and MC stay together.

Mini-Bad Ending 1: MC chooses not to forgive Tenebris for [REDACTED] and the route ends.

Mini-Bad Ending 2: MC chooses to side with [REDACTED] instead of Tenebris and the route ends.

Bad Ending 3: Conflict with [REDACTED] results in Tenebris being wounded/killed (based on previous choices) and the route ends.

METATRON

Route Difficulty: Easy to Medium

Prerequisite Route: Azra (Normal and Good Endings)

Completing Azra's normal and good endings unlocks a hidden route for Metatron. It includes a completely new story where MC's first year in the exchange program takes place in the Celestial Realm instead of the Devildom.

Metatron's story is lighthearted and has a similar fluffy, romantic vibe to Karasu's route. His good ending may require a walkthrough, but his normal ending is easy to achieve and his bad endings are easy to avoid.

Good Ending: He and MC stay together and [REDACTED].

Normal Ending: He and MC stay together.

Mini-Bad Ending 1: He and MC fight about [REDACTED] and the route ends.

Bad Ending 2: MC supports [REDACTED] instead of Metatron and the route ends.

[thecrusadercomrade]

I read a comment recently that talked about the portrayal of "hard choices" in stories, and how we as a society view that sort of thing, and it really got me thinking.

Basically, the comment was about how, whenever people talk about making the "hard choice", it's always in relation to doing something cruel, or bad, for some perceived greater good. Like torturing someone to gain information that could save a person's life, or, as we see in TWDG, stealing supplies that belong to someone else to save your own struggling group. You know, the whole situation with the station wagon. There's this glorification of Hard Men Making Hard Choices in order to save the day, and yet, this comment talked about how we hardly ever get to see the other side of that coin.

Where are the stories about making the hard choice to do the right thing, even when it hurts? Those who choose not to steal, even when they're starving. Those who won't sacrifice innocents for the sake of saving their own loved ones. In my opinion, it's infinitely easier to prioritize your own loved ones at the expense of others than it is to let people you care about suffer for the sake of doing the right thing. Choosing the moral path is much more of a hard choice than doing what's convenient and pragmatic.

That's actually something I think TWDG does pretty well a lot of the time. Giving Lee the option to spare the St. Johns when they've been defeated, even though it would be so easy to justify murdering them. Having the option to NOT agree to stealing from the station wagon, even if the others still go through with it. Moving on to other seasons, there's the choice to not steal medicine from Arvo, even though your group could really use it. Or how you can get through the sequence with a captured Abel without torturing him.

For all that TWDG can be a bit cynical at times, there's still all these opportunities given to take the high road, to choose what is right instead of what would be easy. Even when so many people in this world have turned into monsters, the player as Lee, or Clementine, or Javi, can still hold onto the idea that there's something more to life than simple survivor. As a Christian, whose faith teaches that we must be prepared to accept suffering in this world for the sake of righteousness, I find that very appealing. There is much more at stake than just surviving in this world as long as possible, regardless of who we hurt in the process. What we do in this life echoes in the eternity to come. While TWDG doesn't really touch on Christianity directly, I can still appreciate when certain themes cross over, so to speak. Even if that wasn't the intent of the writers.

Anyways, enough rambling from me. I just saw that comment on another site a few days ago, and I wanted to talk about it.

[batgirlsay]

Bodyguard Tempting Fate

Obiyuki Trope Madness 2024 Playlist for Bodyguard Crush

Another early Obi playlist using the most broadly themed trope, so I could include some songs I’ve been wanting to use for a while! Most songs have some common themes from previous playlists (arrows, snow, green vs. gold) but I had a difficult time naming this playlist before noticing the lyric “troublemaker tempting fate” from the Nada Surf song.

Bodyguard Tempting Fate

An Arrow in the Wall- Death Cab for Cutie Acrid- The Beths Troublemaker- Nada Surf Bite The Hand- boygenius Whose Authority- Nada Surf The State of Gold, Pt. 1- Matt Pond PA Bring You Down- The Dear Hunter Green Eyes, Red Face- Lucy Dacus Copper Mine- Matt Pond PA

Summary lyrics are cited after the cut:

An Arrow in the Wall- Death Cab for Cutie

My heart runs on gasoline vapors The thousand drums waking up the neighbors But I can feel the fissures in the freeways The rusted steel, deception in the handshakes

An arrow in the wall Take it as a warning That you are gonna fall Even if you're soaring

There's more than one way to get your freedom

Acrid- The Beths

Acrid, the smell of burning rubber is a daily feature When I throw myself into reverse Check out of my surroundings Backing up so blindly, my back to the universe

Like a ship out of commission Like an arrow always missing

I'm trying to lie like a pro And I know it looks easy from the outside But it's hard to hold your brow just so

Like a record slowly twisting Like an arrow always missing I'm always whistling by But it's you I want to run into Tragic, the messages I send my mind post-midnight Are showing seen but no reply So I mash the keys a million times for a million years And maybe by chance I'll say it right Closing in on your middle distance Filling quivers with ammunition But I'm always missing you

I want to run into you Like a light burning bright in your hard heart I won't make a sound when I go dark Can you see me through

Troublemaker- Nada Surf

Why do I feel bad again? I shouldn't be sad or miss a grin Doubt creeps in and doubt creeps out Skews the view from my cloud

Troublemaker tempting fate Questioning the path I take Showing me the twists and turns The forks and points of no return

Every day I choose to spend the rest of my life with her And every day I break the molds of lives and worlds I already miss the things that I will never know I will never know the things that I've already missed

Bite The Hand- boygenius

I can't hear you, you're too far away I can't see you, the light is in my face I can't touch you, I wouldn't if I could

Here's the best part distilled for you But you want what I can't give to you Your hands are gravity while my hands are tied I can't love you how you want me to

Whose Authority- Nada Surf

I walk like you guide me, my eyes Are shut like I'm blind Turn to you and listening and tryin' To be in your mind

Surprised in translation World without end

How do you stay where You most want to be? Where'd you get the patience Did it come easily?

On whose authority I have none over me 

The State of Gold, Pt. 1- Matt Pond PA

I might have a drink to be myself I hope nobody notices tonight what it takes to be real To truly keep this lamppost standing

I don’t care if anyone carries me I don’t care if anyone drops me Cause I know how to be alone At least I’ve learned how to be alone

We might have to fight to get out That’s the way I picture almost every night below stars Below the crown of heaven

All I care about is your sentences And all the secrets you left down in them There’s so much we’ll never know All the vastness in the word hello

There's more than one way to live There's more than one way to love There's more than one way to give I won't stop climbing to the state of gold

In the ether above our reach is the state of gold worth believing in

Bring You Down- The Dear Hunter

You took me by surprise A stranger through my eager eyes

I tried so hard to hide The cynic in me far from sight But moments still arise when My flaws get the best of me

So don't let me bring you down No, don't let me bring you down

Green Eyes, Red Face- Lucy Dacus

Slow dancing At low tide Drawn to move By the moon

And I see the seat next to yours is unoccupied And I was wondering if you'd let me come and sit by your side And I got plenty of affection I'll be glad to show you some time

What am I supposed to do With you in the room? What am I supposed to say With your green eyes on my red face?

Copper Mine- Matt Pond PA

When it snows from above the towers The ground stays still - it can't get away Clothe the roofs hour after hour

With this ease ignore the obvious Heard the cold lost all its power If we go let's go away

[the-art-of-sanshoku]

Shadowheart End of Questline Thoughts - ACT 3 SPOILERS

A very long analysis of Shadowheart's story/themes of BG3. As stated in the title many spoilers for Act 3 - mainly regarding Shadowheart, but also Astarion and Gale's stories

So I was thinking about her quest again yesterday and I have A LOT of strong opinions and feelings regarding the choice with her parents. When I did it months ago I only talked about it with some friends and I was the odd one out, and I feel like I don't see the end of her story discussed that much so I thought I'd talk about my thoughts here (although maybe it was discussed just when the game was newer and I missed it).

For context in my playthrough I went pretty hard in being anti-shar, in Act 2 I had her make her own choice regarding Nightsong and she chose to spare her. I then encouraged her a lot to find her parents/reclaim her memories/etc. When the choice came for whether they live or die I also had her choose for herself, thinking she would choose to save them and live with Shar's curse. She then chose for them to die and not going to lie I was kind of surprised and disappointed. I still watched the scene play out and also did her following long rest scene. I felt like this choice was supposed to be a harder pill to swallow but seeing her parents turn into moon motes and frame it as them "forever being with selune and watching over her" I felt like took the edge off the choice a lot. Maybe I just love some good tragedy I don't know, but I would have preferred if this choice was a bit - sadder I guess?

I also want to say that I don't think killing Shadowheart's parents is a bad or wrong choice (I don't think this game has wrong decisions), but I do find it narratively unsatisfying in regards to the themes and character arc of Shadowheart.

First of all, when my Shadowheart chose to spare the Nightsong that to me signified she was ready to live with Shar's curse forever. What hope does she have of getting her favor back after betraying her? And she made that decision with her only resolve being that her parents might be alive and that she wanted her memories back, so when her parents were right in front of her and she makes the decision to have them die so she doesn't live with the curse it felt like a real let down to me based on what I had seen her do previously. It felt like a betrayal of what I thought I had known her character to be.

Regarding the themes the entire House of Grief/Followers of Shar seemed to revolve around "people who lose themselves because they give up things important to them (mostly memories) because they do not want to deal with the pain of reality, and in turn become 'empty' ", and I feel that this framed as a sad thing in game. What I felt the message BG3 wanted to convey with a anti-Shar Shadowheart is "We mustn't choose the easy way out that rids ourselves of pain, because living with pain and growing and overcoming it and sharing it with others is what it is to be human and to be alive", something akin to "To live is to suffer but it is also to know joy/can't have happiness without sadness/can't have darkness without the light".

So for Shadowheart to give up her parents so she can avoid the pain of the curse was just very dissatisfying to me. People say that Shadowheart wins over Shar by severing the curse and gaining freedom, but I think she wins over Shar by living with the curse. Her choosing to live with the curse shows that Shar cannot control her, that Shadowheart is not afraid of the Sharran wound and she will not give up anything anymore to her. Sharrans throw away their memories, their personal relationships, everything to appease Shar, so even though Shadowheart may be severed from the curse by throwing away her parents it still feels like Shar gets the last laugh by getting Shadowheart to do this act. It shows that Shar had -and may still have- power over Shadowheart and her decisions.

Now by continuing the "Shadowhearts parents die" path you can say that the "darkness" in the "darkness without the light" is the weight of her parent's death , but I think the moon motes scene kind of cheapens the impact of that. But in return the "light" is that Shadowheart can now more freely choose who she wants to be and she will be free of the past. And I do think BG3 also has themes of that "gaining freedom/moving forward" and "not being chained down by our past" so I don't dislike this take but I think her having to throw something away and harm others to achieve that makes it my less preferred Shadowheart ending.

You can kind of compare it to Astarion's storyline. Should he choose to become Vampire Ascendant he loses an important part of himself, he could not become more than what Cazador made him - a spawn who thinks only of power. Should Shadowheart give up her parents she loses a part of herself and fails to become more than what Shar made her - a woman who is forced to embrace loss. Of course there is more nuance to all of this as the game is very well written but in broad strokes this is how I read into the character arcs for them.

I also view the Sharran wound as the equivalent of Astarion's sunlight issue. It's kind of a metaphor - I don't think that's quite the right word but I'll use it for now - for the things they've done. Both of them did horrible things to others, they may have both been essentially brainwashed/coerced in a way that I don't blame them for doing what they did, but in the end they did do those things. And in Astarion's conversation with Sebastian I think you can see that as much as he dodges the question, he does feel some responsibility for what his actions under Cazador. And Shadowheart as well feels responsible for the things that she did as a Sharran. In the Astarion spawn ending he must live with the curse of the sun and the hunger for blood, in Shadowheart's ending with her parents she must live with the Sharran wound. They are reminders of what they have done, being a vampire and having been a Sharran will always be a part of who they are but more importantly it does not define them and it is not all they are.

Going back to BG3 having themes of "Moving on/letting go of the past" I think is a bit too simple, I think how I have more so read it as "We must live with our actions, but not let it define all that we are" which I think is quite suitable to the Shadowheart with parents alive ending. You can still move on without just pretending everything before never happened, and in fact you shouldn't pretend it never happened because that is just running away and failing to take responsibility for what you have done. And also because the past you is still you and is an important part of who you are. For another example I think Gale fits here quite well, in my preferred ending for him - if you don't want to him to be obsessed over the crown of Karsus - he apologizes to Mystra (I think a romanced Gale can bypass this but I'm not 100%). Gale moves on but recognizes he fucked up too, and he also bears the responsibility of the orb in his chest until he can get her the crown (his equivalent of the Sharran wound from my previous analogy). But, he has become more than Gale of Waterdeep who can only pine over his ex and be defined as "Mystra's favored", he moves on to be Gale Dekarios who is a man of many things and talents and wants and dislikes. Honestly, I don't really like Gale asking Mystra for forgiveness because fuck Mystra she sucks you know, but I see why it is needed for his character arc in acknowledging the folly of his ambitions.

Another argument I've seen against letting Shadowheart's parents live is that her mom is like mind broken and doesn't have long to live anyway so it's better for Shadowheart to have a clean future, but for the reasons above I don't think that matters. Whether they end up even being a family or not, or how long they have together, does not matter, for it is the choice to not throw them away out of fear of Shar is what matters. That this chance of reclaiming what was taken away from her is more important.

Also just to gush a little bit about how cute the Hallowleafs are. They recognize that their family will never be what it once was, or that Shadowheart may decide she ultimately does not want to be them, but there is a chance that they could still be something. That their fragmented relationship could still mend into something new and something still precious and I guess I just love that kind of stuff in fiction. Also the hug scene and Arnell telling Shadowheart he doesn't mind calling her Shadowheart/identifying as Shadowheart instead of Jenevelle is so touching and cute and 😭😭You know how a lot of BG3 fans have that one side character they love a lot like Zevlor or Rolan or Karniss - Arnell is that guy for me he is so cute and sweet😌

As an aside, apparently as a Shar-aligned Shadowheart you may learn that not severing the curse (aka not killing the parents) also means Shar gets to like take her and her parents in death? And that her parents will not become moon motes or return to Selune after dying, but be in Shar's hands? Or something? I'm not entirely sure I just saw like one post on it online. Which certainly adds a different dimension to this choice but since the game does not seem to really allude to any of that in the non-Shar path that I could see I will still stand by my feelings above.

Again I don't want to create arguments or discourse on which path is "right", this is just what I prefer from a narrative standpoint based on what I had seen from the decisions in my game and why. In fact if I was actually the Tav living in the world of BG3 I think Shadowheart not living with the Sharran wound and having her parents watch over her with Selune is probably the "better" ending! (This is the ending/reasonings my friends had actually) But, for me as a player who sees it from the lens of a third party, from a thematic and character perspective I much prefer her choosing her parents to live.

[goron-king-darunia]

Annon-Guy: Thoughts on the songs from Shadow The Hedgehog (Game)?

"I Am (All of Me)" perfectly encapsulates, to me, everything they're trying to get across with what the main game themes are. The capacity for both great good and terrible evil inside all of us, and the specific struggle Shadow has to face in deciding how to direct his immense power. It's all coated in that Edgy Branding that Shadow built up. I think the only criticism I can give it is that in order to parallel the first and second verses, the rhyme scheme is limited and sounds a little amateurish. That said, it is a video game for teens, it doesn't have to be high art in order to be a good game, and toying too much with the phrasing to get other rhymes to work wouldn't necessarily make it better. It's just an unfortunate result of having to use the particular rhyme scheme over. The game hits you with an absolute banger right out of the box. I approve.

I wasn't a fan in my younger days of either the deep rumbling vocals or the higher pitch more gravely growls in "Almost Dead." I appreciate them a bit more now, but I still find it hard to decipher the lyrics, even knowing what they are, because they meld together with the harsher blown out electric guitar. I understand these are staples of the Metal Genre, but it's why I'm more into power metal and symphonic metal over straight heavy metal a lot of the time. That said, it works surprisingly well as a dark theme. Part of the appeal of a game where you can choose to be good or evil, even though the choice largely doesn't matter in the broader context of this game given the true ending, is that feeling of righteous anger and getting to unleash your fury and rage. But the morbid lyrics almost beg you to question that. Shadow isn't really happy going down this dark path. The lyrics signal a sort of resignation to a fate where he's hated by others and can't trust the people he fights beside and feels caught in the middle of two sides of a world he can't relate to. Which brings us to...

"Waking Up." A guilty pleasure of mine and definitely where I would have put my vote in the poll if it wasn't for "All Hail Shadow." Waking up feels much more like Shadow indulging in a righteous anger. Teen me loved this song and when we were picking songs in Dance Class, this is one I put forward as something we could choreograph to. Didn't end up happening but man, it would have been rad. Works tremendously as the neutral end theme. It really hammers in that this is Shadow doing things for himself. While his goals may occasionally align with someone else's, he's ultimately out here to break anything he feels like if he thinks it will get him answers. Slay, king.

Unironically, "The Chosen One" was a theme I once arranged for a poetry assignment in English class to "write a song about what it feels like to be a teenager. Edgy as fuck and cringe as hell. I had so much power being unlimited cringe back then. That said I do think the song resonated with me for a reason. Besides the broader experience of chūnibyō (中二病), with that obnoxious anime protag phase I absolutely had, I do think the main sentiment of the theme of inheriting a responsibility I wasn't aware I signed up for by being born and having to move forward in a world that I suddenly understand is imperfect. Teenage years are about slowly easing into adulthood and realizing that childhood magic is largely a gift bestowed upon you by the adults in your life and that being a teenager is a sticky place where you have the rights of a child but are shouldering more of the responsibilities of an adult.

You get exposed to a lot of problems of the adult world and have no real experience to realize that even the stuff that looks easy on the outside is complicated, so you get this idea as a teen that either you're the smartest person to ever exist and being a teen is so unfair because if adults would just let you take a crack at it you could *totally* fix things (delusions of grandeur) or you see this yawning void of joyless drudgery and realize it's all too much for you so suddenly and you're being asked to help contribute to a world you barely understand and it's 3 AM and you're gaming even though you have school later and realize that your future, at least if you want a better world, is going to be picking up the pieces in the aftermath of problems you didn't create and you feel like a lamb to slaughter (this is mostly depression, I think.) It's coming to terms with imperfect parents, realizing you're alive against your will and it's nobody's fault, coming to terms with your own imperfections.

For Shadow it's a much more direct lyrical connection. It's him coming to terms with the fact that he was created with a specific purpose that he's being expected to fulfill, even though he doesn't have a full understanding of his past and himself. It's him realizing that he has to inherit the purpose he was born for and the life his past self led, including the harm he did in SA2 and during the events of Shadow The Hedgehog as well in order to remember even a fraction of who he is and what he has to do. The almost mournful wailing of the guitar in this alt-rock masterpiece and that uncertain synth droning vibration ending honestly carry so much. Absolutely a number 3 pick. Ratatosk DotNW could have had a vibe like this and it would have been so cool. Shadow stepping the fuck up and realizing even if he doesn't understand everything fully, that he still needs to make the right choice for the good of humanity, even though he's doomed to be, basically, alone in this task forever because he's functionally immortal. Absolute king shit and I love me a sad boy with a god complex, even if that sad boy is a 50+ year old alien hedgehog alien.

Crush 40 absolutely crushing it with "All Hail Shadow." My top pick. Unironically feels more like a vengeance song than the dark theme does. Shadow is in his element and this is audibly a triumphant song, but the lyrics are almost DANGEROUS. This is Shadow absorbed in the absolute euphoria of being able to justify all his pain by throwing down against an enemy he doesn't fully understand. He's been given blanket permission by the "good guys" to throw hands and he is more than happy to take them up on that opportunity. This song is "fuck it, we ball" at its finest. Shadow the Hedgehog woke the fuck up, couldn't remember a goddamn thing and went "neat, I fucking hate this but since there's nowhere else to go but up, let's fucking GO." The song unironically feels like a reward for being a goodie two-shoes without making you take off your edgy dark eye-shadow and goth/scene/emo clothing. The game is about an edgyboy shooting guns and driving vehicles and smashing everything in the way, so the song does lean a bit heavy on the glorifying violence aspect, even lyrically, but dear god. This is Shadow and the player wallowing in the euphoria and power fantasy of being given permission to raise hell. Delicious. 10/10 no notes.

"E.G.G.M.A.N." is a remix that almost lives up to the original. The extra synth and cutting the original vocals together to up the scat factor that showed up at the tail of the original rendition and cutting the lyrics as a whole down to just the essentials is honestly an incredible move. Keeps everything good about the original and amps up some of the parts that needed attention. Maybe it's the rose-tinted goggles, but the original will always be better in my opinion. But holy crap this is how you do a remix, especially considering that Eggman goes back to being a background character in this game rather than a playable and focal character like he was in SA2. Chef's kiss.

"Never Turn Back" is absolutely a baller ending theme. The sad reprise of "All of Me" as part of the intro is a stellar move. Crush 40 is incapable of missing. Not as triumphant as "All Hail Shadow" but the more steady, almost shanty/worksong rhythm has such a rugged and determined feeling. This is confidence. Shadow has decided what he's about now and he's sticking to his guns from here on out. He's moving forward regardless of what's true or not, he's decided what he wants regardless of and independent from everyone else.

This is my first time learning the history behind "Broken." I did see the trivia about it being an unused hero theme because they couldn't get the rights in time. I'm actually kind of glad. "The Chosen One" being written especially for the game makes it more fitting anyway and it wouldn't exist without the mishap, but I can definitely see where they were going with "Broken" and it honestly gives me that same feeling "The Chosen One" does about, well, what being a teen felt like. Coming into your own identity, but still wanting to be approved of by others, or at least not hated for being who you want to be, and the tension that sort of thing creates.

The Music from Shadow the Hedgehog is honestly always going to sit in a foundational place in my core. Absolutely stellar stuff that hit my squishy brain at exactly the right time in my life to get wedged there permanently. An absolutely incredible track list.

[sirenofthegreenbanks]

hiiii really enjoyed your chenglingposting i was thinking about how sometimes the kids in adult stories function as a sort of barometer for optimism about the future in their views and options in life... obviously the alliance wants to continue the cycle of antagonizing and vengeance and conflict with the veneer of "honor" but. zcl gets to choose not to. its been a while since I either read or watched, do you know if zcl was ever onboard with actually wanting vengeance or if that was just being pushed on him? Obv its not super in line w his personality but grief could be a factor. i just thought it'd make a lot of sense if he changed his mind on that due to the influence of wenzhou and how they prioritize enjoying life w your people and following your own path over expectations. priest really took one more chance to emphasize breaking cycles/"if it sucks hit the bricks"

hi!! omg!!! thank you and im glad you enjoyed it! honestly this is a question i have been thinking about since at least two rereads ago. the show and the novel are handling this issue of zcl picking up his legacy / giving in to external expectations / finding out what he really wants in life a little differently, i think, as befitting of what they both focus on. ive said in my chenglingpost that the show is about legacy and inheritance in my eyes, while the novel is about martial arts and freedom of choice. obvs freedom of choice is a high priority in word of honor as well, but word of honor seems to have an overarching look, kind of focusing on the big picture and what a generation / a community needs rather than a few individuals, while the novel focuses exclusively on wenzhou and their little group and seems to handle the rest of the themes in priest's usual style. the show is about something "grand", the novel is about the mundane, almost boring human experience. martial arts play a bigger role in the latter too because they are a stand-in for many things that are hard to grasp, like autonomy. in chengling's context, martial arts are irrevocably linked with seeking revenge. i think that is specifically in the novel the case, not so much in the show. in the show seeking revenge is pushed onto him by others as well as inheriting his sect's legacy and becoming worthy of being his father's son. in the novel, the idea of seeking revenge is first presented to him by gu xiang, and it is actually this huge contrast to how others treat him because others "generously" offer to take revenge for him, while gu xiang tells him he can do that himself. we see with wen kexing that getting revenge does not make u happy. it gives u closure but it does not make u happy. i think that is something chengling learns during the novel. he gets closure in the end but it does not look the way he had imagined it would. i think he imagined himself to get super strong and then single-handedly slay his foes. yknow, as u often see in wuxia and as wen kexing literally does. then he starts learning martial arts and realizes getting super strong is actually not that easy, and this chasm between what he expects of himself and what he is able to achieve gets wider and wider and he falls into depression spirals, because to chengling, seeking revenge was taking ownership of his life and his trauma, and what use does he have when he cant even do that? that is the path wen kexing walks and it hollowed him out and it would have him kill himself if he hadnt met zhou zishu; wen kexing viewed himself as an instrument for a very long time rather than as someone deserving of having his own life. so obvs, that path is rubbish by itself (wkx gets his revenge and his closure and his life, good for him!) and its far too much for a kid. and i think, that is what chengling learns here: he only needs to do as much as he can, only bite off what he can chew, and the rest should not be his concern. and there really turns out to be a way to get everything he needs without walking the same path as wen kexing, as the novel proves, because wen kexing had nobody when he was in the same situation while trying to survive the valley, while chengling has wenzhou who guide him and shield him and love him. (crying myself into a huddle over wen kexing and chengling and them being foils of each other.) so in that sense youre already putting it into words. chengling seems to have changed his mind over the course of the novel, he doesnt have that same outlook on vengeance as he as in the start. i think thats different for the show. in the show, there is this weighing of the concept of revenge against the concept of getting justice, and what both these things do and require of a person and what they can offer u as an individual, but also u as a collective, in the long run. they are seen as two different things and are explored and qestioned individually. i think that can be seen in the conflict with chengling and all these expectations everyone has of him and how he handles that.

[gertlushgaming]

Arcade Tycoon Review (Steam)

Arcade Tycoon Review, Delight your guests with a huge variety of entertainment including consoles, pinball, retro, modern-day, shooters, pool, ice hockey, virtual reality, and more. Create awesome-looking themed areas by purchasing unique attractions and decorating all aspects: floors, walls, pictures, and all the required and very handy facilities.

Arcade Tycoon Review Pros:

- Decent graphics. - 1.4GB Download size. - Steam achievements. - Graphics settings - screen mode, and resolution. - Gameplay settings - autosave frequency, reticule style, edge panning, mouse lock, and max autosaves. - Three difficulties - Easy, normal, and hard. - Two game modes - campaign, and sandbox. - Management gameplay. - Tutorial level. - Eleven locations to unlock and play. - Save and load when you want. - You can sit there and watch the game play out. - Every machine you place needs power and you only get so much in a location. - Each level has three trophies to earn. - The game uses old-school browsers for the menu system. - You get to name or randomize your arcade names. - Easy to use drag and drop system for placing machines. - Hire staff to help customers, and fix machines. - Money earned and lost will pop up above players, workers, and machines. - Analytics lets you see what is trending at the moment so you can get the right games in. - Customers will have an emoji above their heads saying how they feel. - You can fully decorate and customize your arcades. - Emails will come through with help and warnings. - Workers can be left to their own devices or you can man manage them, either way, they earn exp and level up to get new perks. - The clock autoruns but you can open and shut the shop at will. - Different weather types can affect business. - In-depth stats for all machines and staff including how much they make, power usage, and how popular they are. - You can edit the price of food and drink. - Speed boost can be turned on and off at will. - Events like school holidays and heatwaves can happen which impact how you run your business. - At the end of the year, you have to deal with the taxman. - You have to hire cleaners, entertainers, security, etc. - At any time you can jump to a new location/level once you hit the criteria. - Can be a good little time waster. - Sandbox mode lets you set rent, and start cash which opens the game up allowing big arcades. - Excellent and sometimes humorous animations. - The best part of the sandbox mode is having everything unlocked. Arcade Tycoon Review Cons: - The game is very loose in regards to tutorials and leaves you to go through the many daunting menus and numbers. - Takes a while to get going. - Cannot remap controls. - It's not obvious so I never saw it but you have to manually click into each machine and turn them on. - The game just starts in the campaign and you're not sure what you are doing and get little feedback. - Uses a lot of the same character models. - The bios of workers repeat constantly and don't feel unique. - You only see the one angle of your arcade so in essence you have half an arcade to decorate. - Putting down a floor is on a tile-by-tile basis. - Mission goals are not clearly shown and instead hidden in menus. - Hard to click on workers at times. - The gameplay just feels repetitive and starting a new arcade feels the same method over and over. - You get little motivation to unlock all the trophies on an arcade and instead just do the ones needed for new locations and machines. - The arcades are very small. - Cannot choose the location or them of the world in sandbox mode. - The AI path finding of the workers is not always good. Related Post: Saga Of The Moon Priestess Review (PlayStation 5) Arcade Tycoon: Official website. Developer: Vincent Corporation Ltd, Squidpunch Studios  Publisher: Vincent Corporation Store Links - Steam Read the full article