#i was inspired by those old paintings of nobility

[rattlingmycage]

Two jerks going to see a bougie performance

Hescrates doesn't want to be recognized in case any bards they ghosted from their early life happen to be there, but also inexplicably just can't stay away. Astarion insisted on joining them for fun and profit, but he's about to be bored out of his mind for the next 4 hours.

[r0bita]

Princess Knight headcanons, speculations, and observations, because I have nothing else to do right now. This post got longer than intended.

Much... much longer...

Kingdoms and regions.

Even though both Goldland and Silverland are fictional, they may possibly be the fantasy counterparts to real European medieval/renaissance era kingdoms. Both England and Italy are mentioned in the manga as seperate locations, so it's safe to say that neither Goldland nor Silverland are situated in either of those countries.

A lot of French influences are found in Takarazuka revue and Takarazuka also inspired Princess Knight, among many other stories and characters written by Osamu Tezuka. By that logic, it wouldn't be far-fetched to assume that the main character's homeland, Silverland, is probably based on France. Aditionally, the French pronunciation of Sapphire is Saphir, a masculine word/name in the language. The word "sapphire" in general is a masculine word in romance languages. With that context in mind, it makes Sapphire's gender/naming less suspicious both in reality and in-universe.

Goldland is possibly based on Germany or even the Holy Roman Empire. Additionally, Franz and Heinrich are both german names. Franz, is the German version for "Francis", meaning freeman, frank, or Frenchman (interesting...). Heinrich is the German version of Henry, meaning home ruler or enclosed ruler (very interesting...).

Despite being from an another kingdom (exiled from birth?), Capt. Blood was raised most of his life in Italy (I keep thinking Sicily. If Goldland is the HRE then maybe??? Italian states, the papacy, and the HRE were not always on good terms throughout history. I shouldn’t over think this part too much...). Not surprisingly, he would be fluent in regional Italian, as well as multiple languages and dialects due to his upbringing by nobility and as a sea voyager. Italian varients of Heinrich/Henry would be Arrigo, Enrico, or Enzo, so those could probably be the names he grew up with. As a pirate starting off from the Italian coast, would he call himself Capitano Sangue or Sanguigno?

Hecate's family lives in Mt. Resin (no real mountain by that name seems to exist, as far as a quick internet search can show). It's possibly located within or near the alps, making the location close enough to both kingdoms possible real word locations. I also get a Spanish/Iberian vibe from Hecate and Mephisto and Madame Hell, like characters from a Francisco Goya painting.

I'm surprised there isn't a Bronzeland (unless it was mentioned in the old Ribbon Knight/Princess Knight anime and I completely missed that?)

However, I definitely remember the anime bringing up three sacred treasures in the form of Gold, Silver, and Bronze orbs/bells by the finale. Maybe there were hints to a third kingdom that never got fully addressed?

Characters Observations and Headcanons

Plastic's retains some of Sapphire's experiences on account of the heart switch situation. Maybe even some emotional responses... *cough* and her romantic interests *cough. Even though he proves to be very competent and more mature than he seems, he often worries that he still doesn't have a lot to show for in spite of EVERYBODY agreeing he's a very dependable and trustworthy person.

I'm pretty sure Hecate is the type to break the fourth wall if she wanted. She'd be the type to reference famous actors and popular movies in public. She could totally predict the future, and only choose to use that power for silly reasons.

Incidentally, both Plastic and Hecate are both on the same boat when it comes to their parents and circumstances. Both Plastic and Hecate's parents insist that what they do is for their children, even when their methods are clearly wrong and both Plastic and Hectare are insistent that not only are their parents actions unnecessary, but that it's more for their selfish wants than for their children's needs. Also the coincidence that they were both born/created without "hearts" is an interesting topic.

Franz and Sapphire are both characters that, because to their upbringing, have trouble figuring themselves out and fully trusting others. They are confident in their abilities, but not so much in believing they are worthy of them because of the high standards they must uphold. Thankfully, they are both sword maniacs and absolute dorks around each other, and in general. They'll be fine.

Sapphire functions by giving herself comands. "If I must be a boy, I will be a boy." "If I must be a girl, I will be a girl" "If I must be strong, I will be strong", etc. This is pretty effective up until something disrupts Sapphire's concentration or is simply to overwhelming for her to handle alone. Once something doesn't go as planned, she needs to regain her composure and that often means switching off from whatever she's focused on. This can be frustrating for her, because switching off leads to her getting distracted and it makes her feel vulnerable. This leads to Sapphire often being very defensive and nervous when allowing others, especially strangers, close to her and allowing them to help her.

Franz heavily values honesty, openess, and reassurance, which is both a blessing and a curse for him. He's too dependent on taking other people's words to heart and does not handle mockery and dishonesty very well. This may also be why he is incredibly curious (to the point of being obsessed and nosy at times) and isn't shy about admitting when he doesn't know everything. However, he also has a tendency to be self-deprecating at times which comes in conflict with his need to look competent. He won't allow people to call him a fool, but that doesn't stop it from calling himself a fool often.

I am frankly under the belief that Franz is nearsighted, has a habit of staring off, and prone to laughing fits when he gets surprised, nervous, and even upset at times, much to his uncle's frustration and constant training in etiquette (that last one may very well be true based on his responses to sudden information in the manga).

I'd also like to believe that before deciding to become a pirate, Blood was probably set to possibly become a surgeon, or more likely a physician, either arranged by his adoptive parents or possibly by himself. This is just a personal hc I have due to Capt. Blood's original novel and movie counterpart, Dr. Peter Blood, who started out as a surgeon before he took to piracy.

Madame Hell and Satan. Worst couple.

Madame Hell and Mephisto. Power couple.

Satan could care less about his kids. Mephisto would spoil them and spoil them more. Hell is the actually the more responsible one when it comes to keeping an eye on Hecate, even if she can barely keep up with her daughter.

Oolong and Friebe, coolest sibling duo. It's not a headcanon, it's a fact. (Franz and Blood wishes... No, seriously. Franz does wish they were that in-sync, but life isn't fair and neither is his uncle...)

Speaking of Franz's uncle, Duke Chanell. It's not outright stated, but it is implied that he is his maternal uncle, stating that he raised him after his mother died. If Blood is the illegitimate child of the previous king of Goldland, this may add more to why he has a strong dislike towards Heinrich, who was probably a baby when he sent him away. Franz's uncle is depicted as harsh and greedy. But from a bigger picture, it does make sense why he would go towards extreme lengths for his nephew, possibly the only child left by his sibling, the queen. Even though he is the one ruling the country at the moment, he clearly prefers that Franz to be the one to succeed him then giving it to the elder brother, and is deeply upset about Franz pursuing The Flax-haired girl ,Sapphire, and getting forcibly engaged to Hecate.

[nexility-sims]

I was wondering what the lore is behind the cultural tattoos that I see the reyes family have?

ah, i'm so glad i finally got this question !!!!! i am, however, woefully unprepared to actually answer it skdfsd long, so see below for more & for reference images and such:

i decided at some point to lean more heavily into actually representing the world the way i imagined it—after i went on the hiatus with part iii, i suppose? part of that was reconsidering the aesthetics, which includes tattooing. i'm familiar with the traditional tattoo revitalization movement going on in the u.s. and canada right now (and elsewhere in the world), and i wanted to incorporate it ! i had already sort of included tattoos, but it was in the background (literally, see alfonso's aide). i'd done some sketches in the past with coastal carolina tattoos, so it was pretty easy to draw on those as inspiration (see blanca below or zuriñe's foremothers).

obviously, however, this is not the region that i've chosen as the inspiration base for the story's worldbuilding. for that, i've taken inspiration from designs and depictions of either body paint or actual tattoos. (one source is this comic, which is super well-researched and interesting!) the actual process has been really slow-going because i don't want to ?? misrepresent anything i'm borrowing inspiration from ?? even if it's being put in a fictional space, you never want someone to be like "that looks familiar, but it's wrong and offensive." the body paint, for example, is from a set that is, i believe, brazilian, but i haven't been able to figure out to what indigenous communities it belongs or what the meanings may be. feels a little weird, tbh, but the content for this whole entire hemisphere is SO limited. so, i have been hesitant in part because i don't want to lift designs without trying to understand what they might have meant historically or may currently mean to descendants.

i also would, ideally, like to have meaning ascribed to the details in my own mind? like, if there's a style of tattoo that people are getting across generations within the context of the story, then the elements have to have meaning. probably. the other limitation is that i can't spend all of my time figuring this stuff out or, worse, in photoshop trying to master the line art and fight the way sims destroys image quality sdjksdg

for example: the tattoos depicted below on alfonso and rui are comprised of stepped frets. my understanding is that they're called xicalcoliuhqui in nahuatl, and they're at least a couple thousand years old, with connotations related to the feathered serpent and mountains—a primordial motif with deep roots in the worldview(s) of the region's religious complex(es). the bird on their shoulders is a fantasy bird, apparently, that is frequently (mis?)identified as an eagle ... for my purposes, it's probably an eagle sdjsg i've decided these are military tattoos, but i'm still in the process of figuring out what the military orders are and how these tattoos fit into that ... this is the problem with creating details then having to retroactively refit them into something you create later on down the line !!!!!!

the body paint on arnaut (below) is also a military design, in my mind. he doesn't have the tattoos because he's not in the same order that alfonso and rui were/are/will be. safya's body paint (below) is funerary since she's a corpse in that picture. there are distinctions based on occupation, gender, life stage or accomplishments, whether one is considered nobility/royalty or a commoner, and so forth. same with the tattoos ! i imagine the clans also have their own specific designs (halima has a face tattoo from the aforementioned set; blanca's are based on zuriñe's family's, so i guess they'd be an armendariz design rather than a reyes one, which ... fascinating choice, blanca ????). the body paint is ceremonial, so it's most likely to be seen at an event like a funeral, a coronation, etc. i've been thinking a lot about royal orders lately, and i think they're more likely to be represented with tattoos (or body paint) than a little thing you pin on yourself.

okay, i'm going to stop now because i'm rambling and have nothing left to say of substance skgsjg if you have follow-ups, feel free to ask :^)

[threecardtrick]

@manyfucks: continued...

Strictly speaking, it's not true. Thomas Cromwell is here because of some great, international exchange between two proud nations that are not Roman Catholic. For the English, it represented possible trade and support from the oh-so-recently culturally relevant Russian people. And for her? Well, there's this pesky idea in the mainland that she's somewhat barbarous, that she killed her husband, the king, and ascended quite unjustly.

England and Russia both stood to gain something from this, reputationally. Allyship for England, or acclaim for Russia. All hinged on this little man's subservience to her. She wondered what had made him fit for it. She wondered what he thought of her - his eyes were like wells. He must be either fanatically loyal to this King, or he must be a relief to remove from Court. Are you here for punishment or providence?, she'd like to ask. But, she is still assessing.

Her reputation will shape his perception, and his will shape hers. Two shadows, stretched out and distorted by the white nights of Russia, the ever-sunned summers and the black winters.

"And I am Russia's Ruler." It is a satisfactory answer. His denotes submission, and hers dominance - but he must show a deferent bond to her. She need not show him anything. Her piercing eyes assess him. A man who came from nothing, her courtiers tell her. A man who spun his power like a spider, her advisors tell her. He's got hair like candle-smoke, and a quiet, pensive voice. How does her long hall of painted-faced, French-inspired courtiers compare to his little England? She wonders. There is so much to be learned, and all the time in the world to needle at his mind. It's exciting.

A soft, smug smile, very practiced and well-worn, splits on her face, one eyebrow still arched. "Rise, Cromwell, and be no stranger to your Empress. I remember what it was like to speak no Russian. You'll learn quickly." He's taller than her, because everyone is, but she is stouter than him. They both are older - lucky, too, that their minds are still dazzling. Lucky also, that they both speak French.

"Have you tried our vodka, our darling water? It is the pride of Russia. At our Imperial Court meal, you'll try many kinds - and zakuski. You never will have lived so well." Russia outshines England, and you'd better tell all those little European swamp-squatters as much, this means. All of her generosity is also a demonstration of power, but she likes to think this is not duplicitous: it comes as naturally to her as breathing.

Like that, their first meeting is nearly over. Her mind is constrained by time, always - it is true, after all, that she would spend long hours in the night reading, and had her court time narrowed into five-minute slots for adjudication. Only afternoons and evenings and this show of generous force remained as wild time, for her to explore the courts and people there. She'd like the man, she reckoned, if he remained clever.

He is so far from home that the truth cannot catch up to him. Trampled over by horse hooves and left behind in the dust, where it cannot reach the ears of his new frosty friends. Exile is akin to death; this he knows. To be away from the king is to be away from the splendour of the sun and all its divine, golden rays. He has been sent to fail. It is no matter what titles he holds; vicegerent of the faith (for spitting in the face of the Pope and tearing Christendom in two), upon the king's council as lord privy seal and generously titled baron (for following the king's will, for freeing him, for murder). But to nobility, these words are nothing, for quill's ink cannot replace blood. He'll always be a boy born in the mud, who weaseled his way into the good graces of his betters. To send him is to send an insult. That no seasoned diplomat, no old-blooded noble, has come to show his due deference. For why should there should be? To visit a queen; a so-called usurper. Is she? If such a thing were possible in this world, he thinks, Anne would have found a way to do it. But there's nothing but dark earth to console her ambitions. He rises slowly and humbly, well-practiced knees grateful for the not overly long affair. One day he'll get down and he won't be able to get back up again. "I shall endeavour to do so," he replies eagerly, his intent to learn the language a seeming show of flattery to her. In truth, he cannot stand to hear chatter and not know what it is, what information has slipped by him, what sharpened dagger is intended for his back. "Not yet, but I am keen to enjoy all of this country's great inventions, Your Imperial Majesty," he nods, with no deceit on his tongue. His youth had been spent travelling all over, learning and trying all the world had to offer. "This illustrious vodka, perhaps I shall need to send some back home so that they might be able to savour this great drink as well," he adds on, as much said aloud for himself as for her; all monarchs enjoy gifts. He will send letters, and gifts back to Henry, so he is not forgotten. Or at least, for a moment, remembered. There is the push and pull of the mind of how to continue this first encounter of theirs. Does she desire flattery, or for him to be more coy, aloof? He will learn these things in time. "I have heard that you have established a school for women. The Smolny Institute?" He tries, the pronunciation not atrocious, for he has tried this word, over and over, having prepared its mention. "The first of its kind anywhere in Europe."

[b3lz33bub]

[warning: Enstars brain rot, nerd knowledge]

VALKYRIE - ETERNAL WEAVING

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Lyric analysis *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Before I let myself indulge in this nerdy analysis of the song of my favourite Enstars unit, I have to outspeak for the detail and dedication the creators put into Valkyrie and Shu's character. The language, the references in Vakyrie songs portray Shu and his vision spledid. They really worked hard to maintain the image of an art obsessed eccentric, while still morphing his character development into refined shape.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜

Now with the actual analysis

(I'm going to use the fanwiki translation as a source)

[Mika] - green

[Shu] - pink

[Mika and Shu] - blue

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜

"A living soul, veiled with a lump of clay

Is blessed with a miracle. Let us begin here."

Mika is talking about himself, a puppet whose creator and saviour is Shu, the leader of Valkyrie.

"Singing glories of a king carved out of stone

I wonder if our anguish can be heard from afar."

Shu's past self is the king carved out of stone. Glorious and unshakable, untouchable, unchangeable. Unlike clay, which can be easily shaped into form, stone is resilient and hard to sculpt and reshape. It symbolizes Shu's narcissistic and proud persona, but also the fact that people reaching out to him wasn't enough, it was necessary for a humiliating failure to open his eyes and realize his mistakes.

"Fairytales, each distorted by time

Are old myths torn asunder and rewritten."

Valkyrie was going to reborn and for that to happen, the tragic past had to be left behind, Valkyrie to be "torn asunder" (Nazuna had to leave) and "rewritten" not as Shu's scheme, but as Shu and Mika's unit. Notice how "rewritten" is sung by both of them, despite Shu having a strong voice to end the verse. Just like Valkyrie, together, it would just be stronger and more mesmerizing.

[Chorus] "In an eternity that never ends, all things progress without halting."

At first glance, the phrase "eternity that never ends" might seem like a pleonasm, but it is purposefully sung so. The old Valkyrie seemed immortal, eternal, but it came to a crumble and a miserable downfall. Yet, it evolved, it came back stronger than ever, it progressed from the "eternity with an end" people might have assumed about Valkyrie after its tragedy.

"Now please, show me your eyes painted with delight."

Shu is addressing Mika, who has a high insecurity of his heterochromia. Thus, Shu is asking, not demanding, but saying "please" and asking for Mika to trust him. Shu wants to be Mika's comfort zone and be the one to preserve the delight in those eyes, Mika's happiness. In a metaphorical perspective, since the eyes are the gateways to the soul, Shu is asking Mika to be his true self around him, to not act according to Shu's "string pulls" anymore.

"From the cradle of the world tumbles and scatters;

Tears that are nothing but reflections of color,

Used only to weave a

Tapestry"

After the old Valkyrie's fall and inevitable crumble, the members had to endure much sorrow. The "tears" later on became "reflections of color", inspiration for the future reborn Valkyrie and motivation to weave Valkyrie, like a tapestry. We'll later on see the tapestry imagery continue.

Shu is known for being a master at sewing and likes using references into Valkyrie songs, this being the case too. "Weaving is a method of textile production in which two distinct sets of yarns or threads are interlaced at right angles to form a fabric or cloth." The 2 distinct threads, we will later on find one what are they, are used to reconstruct Valkyrie from its remains.

Furthermore, to weave, when it comes to stories, means to make complex connections. Thus, Valkyrie is a story which underwent many struggles and sorrows, many obstacles and much work.

"We adorn glamorous clothing, becoming nobility the moment

this comedy threads through the weft"

"Tapestry is weft-faced weaving, in which all the warp threads are hidden in the completed work, unlike most woven textiles, where both the warp and the weft threads may be visible." The old Valkyrie is the warp, as its decay let the current Valkyrie shine in all its might.

Compared to the current Valkyrie, the old Valkyrie has become a comedy, an act of aesthetics at the point of faking its genuinity. But Shu still recognizes the old Valkyrie as the backbone of Valkyrie's tapestry.

"The crumbling eternity of this nightmare entwines

with tragedy, strained into warps."

If for Shu, the old Vakyrie was a masquerade incomparable to the artistic heights of the current Valkyrie, for Mika it was "grotesque", a fuel for both his low self-esteem and his adoration for his unit. The tragedy of the old Valkyrie was a true nightmare, as Valkyrie and Shu were everything to him. Even so, he recognizes that the crumbling of Valkyrie is vital to uphold the present Valkyrie.

"As you submerge into that hot bath, let the vision of

A storyteller’s evanesced reality that we created fly free"

Shu and Mika are now addressing the audience to submerge into Valkyrie's story, one that one day will turn from reality to only a legend. "that we created" is sung together, once again, to portray their unity.

[Chorus] "In an eternity that never comes to an end, ideations evolve."

Same as the last chorus :)

"Let us join our embroidering together, misery cupped in our hands."

Mika is conscious that the current Valkyrie can only be embroidered into shape from the misery of their previous fall. That sorrow is an opportunity to arise, and shares it with both Shu and the audience, pain is nothing to be shameful about. They are willing to turn it into art.

"The ephemeral birth of that palace is

A delightful fever dream."

The old Valkyrie has always been meant to be ephemeral, and Shu knows that. He uses contradictory terms to express his feelings for the unit that once Valkyrie was, "delightful" for the great artistic achievements it has reached and a "fever dream" because he knows the suffering it has brought Nazuna and Mika and he deeply regrets it.

"「I am but a fool that struggles within the sorrow and rapture of this mire.」"

The introduction to the theater style monologue is highlighting the true feelings of the speaker, not through a song, not Mika as an idol, but Mika as himself. Mika has very low self-esteem, can't see his worth, his talent. He thinks himself not even worthy as a human, but as a marionette to be directed around as he suffers in his own sorrows.

"「Nay, your handwoven tales are a beauty desired by Epicurus himself!」"

Continuing with the addressed monologue, Shu displays his true feelings. He is hurt to hear Mika speak so poorly of himself. He wants Mika to know he is worthy, he is desired, by Epicurus himself. But why desired by Epicurus specifically?

"For Epicurus, the purpose of philosophy was to help people attain a happy (eudaimonic), tranquil life characterized by ataraxia (peace and freedom from fear) and aponia (the absence of pain)." Knowing Shu's character, the reason why he became an abuser of power in Ensemble Stars!, we can certainly deduce that when referring to Epicurus, Shu is referring to himself. "Epicurus advocated that people were best able to pursue philosophy by living a self-sufficient life surrounded by friends." By associating himself with Epicurus, Shu wants Mika to know that he is an admirable individual and wants to pursue his art and live his life alongside him.

"「O’Light! Why will you not cease creating!」

「O’Shadow! It is because that is precisely what you demand of me, and it is precisely that which makes you human!」"

Mika can't see his worth, his potential, his beauty. Why would the Light(Shu) keeping casting him(Shadow/Mika)? Shu knows in his heart that Mika wants to be worthy, wants to be in the spotlight and have his art shown to the world. As much as Mika is willing to give up, Shu won't cease to try to achieve their dream together. Because Mika having a dream means that he is his own person, not a marionette.

The shadow can't exist without light. Light can't truly exist without shadow, either.

"「We wish to bestow the beauty of art upon this world!」"

Mika and Shu can now announce their dream, they are ready to uptake the challenge in walking that road together, even if more suffering is yet to come. They now have each other, as equals.

"In this eternity that never ends, let us create that of which the Gods desire,

The reverie of an ever-changing creation."

The two of them are now expecting change, they will reach their mighty artistic goal which cannot be truly eternal, but ever-changing, morphing. As long as they keep themselves true to their hearts, the Valkyrie they are mending will remain truly eternal in its own way.

"The walls of this world’s palace, embellished with tapestries abound,

Displays an endless lineage of weavers."

Shu and Mika recognize that Valkyrie is not the only truly achieved artistic act, but there are many unit and idols also struggling to attain their artistic views and goals.

"Now, let us fall heir to that worth and mend it."

As a conclusion, Shu and Mika are willing to uphold the responsibility of mend Valkyrie into a unit worth its potential. Their true journey towards their dream is just starting.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR STAYING TILL THE END, NERD! I wrote it twice cause Tumblr is evil and made me think it got my draft deleted.

Jokes aside, thank you for letting me ramble about this majestic song. Stan Valkyrie for clear skin!!

[jonthethinker]

After a long day of truly cursed thoughts, I’ve come to the determination that the Cerberus Assembly can act as a sort of Exandrian analog of our world’s Silicon Valley, and I hate it. I hate hate hate it.

The more I think about it, the more it just sort of melds into my mind as fact. I can’t escape it. This is where I live now.

You’ve got this collection of self-proclaimed super geniuses, unbounded by modern social mores and determined to invent a new sort of ethics, with an intent on shaping history and sagely guiding the world into a better future. This is despite the fact that most of the ideas they have inevitably end up making the world worse, and the only thing “new” that they really bring into the world is a bunch of actually very old ideas coated in fresh circuitry/magic.

But let’s dig a little deeper and start getting specific.

They both have these images of fiercely independent, creative bodies desperate to remain free from government control, and sometimes even as a check on that very government. The heads of the Cerberus Assembly outright say their intent is to act as a check on the Crown, and are known to have many secrets the Crown is, to their knowledge, totally unaware of.

Tech companies, particularly in America, have this outward facing very libertarian outlook on things, saying they don’t wish to interfere in the very important process of democracy and free speech, while simultaneously feeling it is their responsibility to fact check those in power and hold them to account, with their “serious vetting” of political ads and the like on their platforms. They also lobby heavily against any and all regulation of their various products and services, preferring to let the “invisible hand” of the market provide the service of keeping them in check, much as the Cerberus Assembly prefers to handle its own problems internally.

But when you really dig into the details this is all bullshit. The Cerberus Assembly, for all intents and purposes, IS the Empire. They run the secret police, for goodness sake. The two are so interconnected, and the Assembly as an institution is so dependent on the infrastructure and manpower, and of course money (because the fancy clothes, giant towers, and expensive sets of material components don’t pay for themselves) of the Empire to accomplish its goals, it can’t serve as a real check on Imperial forces possibly “overstepping”, and it also has no material interest in doing so; the more power and control the Empire has, the more power and control the Assembly has; the less freedom the citizens have due to authoritarian “safety” measures implemented by the Crown, the safer the Assembly itself becomes to pursue it’s morally dubious work and experimentation.

The same goes with Silicon Valley and the various tech companies that fall under its ethos. They will expound continually on the necessary freedom from government control they must have to truly change the world in the ways they think are best, but the primary source of money for most of these companies are governments. They either primarily contract with governments for most of their actual profits or to use its already established infrastructure, as is the case with Amazon, or depend heavily on publicly funded research for their innovations, which is everyone from Apple to Google to Microsoft and dozens and dozens of smaller companies besides. They then even get to patent these publicly funded innovations and hold a monopolized stranglehold on their use. This is not even to mention the starter capital necessary to form many of these companies in the first place itself was provided by governments, with the rather, shall we say “morally questionable” Kingdom of Saudi Arabia being among the top contributors to such start ups.

Even when either of these groups claim to be self-made, it’s all bullshit. So many of our famous tech overlords that supposedly built themselves from nothing started at the upper reaches of society, with more than enough capital and connections to insure they were never at any real risk of failing in the first place. Most even went to the same elite institutions of learning that provide the vast majority of the political leadership of the United States, institutions they had access to due to their wealth and familial connections, not their brains. Elon Musk’s family owned an emerald mine in Zambia for God’s sake, one his family would have never owned without the British Empire being a thing.

The same can be said for the Assembly. The upper classes of the Dwendalian Empire are lousy with mages and magic users. If they don’t have a place to climb among the nobility, they work for the Assembly, and hope to climb there. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that the only poorer mage recruits we know anything real about all were sucked up into the service of the Scourgers, one of the few arms of the Assembly known to regularly interact with societies lower reaches and not so positively at that, and had their familial identities obliterated in the process. Both of these groups are of the upper reaches of society and serve the upper reaches of society, and we should never think anything less.

And this brings us to the ideological framework both of these groups think with. They are both full to the brim with people who are individualists to the extreme. They all believe they are singular actors in the great tapestry of history, who got where they are by hard work and dedication, and anyone who isn’t there just didn’t do enough. The folks living in the tent city outside Zadash? lazy layabouts who simply have not applied their mind to be something greater, or perhaps their veins are just full of bad blood. Poor former factory workers in Detroit whose jobs have been moved to places where labor laws are weaker and wages are lower? If they’d only taken their education more seriously, they could be where I am! Or maybe they just never tried to be an Uber driver or delivering for Grubhub, because that’s how you really pull yourself out of poverty.

Meanwhile, most of the groups consist of people who have never once known real adversity and certainly not the hardship of poverty nor the lack of social and political power that position entails. They are blinded to the reality of most people in the world outside their rather small one, and thus have no understanding of the material hardship that most people experience during their everyday life.

You see this most clearer in the manner in which they try to solve what they see as societies great problems, with no clear thought put into the consequences of these particular solutions. In our world, this is particularly obvious. Uber is painted as an innovative means of transportation on a budget, when in reality it’s just a fleet of untrained, underpaid, non-unionized taxi drivers using their own personal vehicles at their own expense. Elon Musk is seen as this super genius when his solution to LA traffic wasn’t a more robust public transportation system or slowly reconstructing the city to be more pedestrian friendly, but instead to build a massive network of single car elevators under the city to zip cars to key hot spots faster in a manner people less anxious than me would still call risky at best. I mean most of these people think the key to ending poverty is teaching people to code or giving them STEM education, even when in a capitalist economy the only thing a sudden flooding of new coders and STEM educated folks would insure is that the jobs that require those skills will see a sudden massive drop in pay and benefits as the pool of prospective employees becomes over-saturated and individual workers no longer have any bargaining power to protect their once rare jobs. You already see this in animation and video game design, and you’ll certainly see it elsewhere.

For the Assembly, despite being praised as the brightest arcane minds of Wildmount, seem to get most of their ideas either by stealing them from others or digging them up out of the ground. But this is just the nature of empire; it’s always easier for an empire to consume than it is to create. So as little as they think of the Dynasty, they are eager to steal every little bit of knowledge they’ve discovered about Dunamis, and without the faith and moral sense the Luxon-based religion imposes, they will never be forced to put the use of this rare and dangerous magic into perspective. Imagine what harm they can cause with gravity and time magic when they don’t have that religious pressure to consider the value of life and choice. But this makes sense when their main sources of inspiration are the wizards of the Age Of Arcana; you know, the wizards whose hubris nearly destroyed the entire world and spurred an apocalyptic war that sent society into a dark age in which the gods themselves abandoned them? A+ inspiration material if you ask me.

Even the culture of these two groups in regards to how they regulate themselves is so eerily similar. Think of Delilah Briarwood. Member in good standing of the Cerberus Assembly. Also, worshipper of Vecna and talented necromancer. Only expelled from the Assembly after involvement from the Cobalt Soul, even when you know every other member of the Assembly almost certainly had loads of information on this lady.

It just makes me think of all the weird, right-wingers and Nazis who occasionally get expelled from the heights of Silicon Valley whenever some journalist exposes them, and how quickly their colleagues are to condemn them even when so many of them either knew this person was this way well before they were exposed or actively agreed with them and still do. I mean, think of how protected Bill Gates is, because of how much his philanthropist image has served to insulate and protect the gross consolidation of wealth and power in the hands of so few, even when his fortune was built on stolen ideas, military funding and research, and a hardcore software monopoly for well over a decade or two. Also, his philanthropy has done nothing to help African people build their own institutions of power independent of European and American influence, and have help distract us from the damage really caused to the entire continent by earlier colonialism and later capitalist imperialism.

This is to say as bad as our world is, I now definitely don’t want to live in Wildemount. I don’t want to live a world where Mark Zukerberg can cast Disintegrate. Not ideal. I guess I’ll just have to work that much harder to fix this one and not depend on learning Dunamancy to just put us on a different path. Bummer.

[hshq-scotlandyard]

THE RESULTS

THE OFFICIAL STANCE OF THE POLICE !

Prince Arthur II denied ever entering his father’s office on the day of the incident. He had, instead, commanded a few of his personal staff to aid him in gathering his personal belongings in other areas of Buckingham Palace. The guards at the Palace and stationed to watch over his father admitted to never having seen Prince Arthur II come within the vicinity of the office prior to the discovery of the body, other than when he clearly passed by the end of the hall, headed to his own room. HRH Catherine of Scotland heard the sound of Arthur I falling to the ground, as she was using the bathroom in the same area, and promptly headed to the office to investigate the noise. By the time she arrived, Arthur I was already deceased. HRH Catherine of Scotland promptly alerted the authorities.

Detectives believe that the assailant was an extremist who wished for the monarchy to be abolished, having found multiple online groups that were stoked to action by the recent clashes between Scottish/English forces. Authorities are currently assuming the former. The current unrest and chaos within London has made it difficult to locate the assailant, who escaped just before HRH Catherine of Scotland entered the scene. 

English authorities are trying to organise and ask for any help finding the regent’s murderer.

THE CULPRIT !

Prince Arthur de Iturbide II of Mexico murdered Arthur Windsor I.

Congratulations to the ones who guessed the murderer! And thank you everyone for playing! This was mega fun

He may have escaped the law… this time.

THE MOTIVATION !

Prince Arthur II has been planning his father’s murder since Princess Natalia was named heir to the throne. 

At first, it had been motivated by blind rage; then, it increasingly seemed more logical to do so. Prince Arthur II had been hard at work ensuring that the English nobility did not question the royal family, even after his sister had been named the new heir. He had also been the perpetrator of the Parliament explosion in 2020, though there were no casualties. The attack was a warning, and one that was inspired by his father’s actions against the Dutch. But it did not seem enough. Unrest raged on, and Prince Arthur II believed that his father would continue to undermine his political efforts and destabilise the country ever further should he be allowed to come close to any sort of power. Prince Arthur believed that his father had become the cancer of the nation, and his siblings unable to stop the spread of his influence. All other international parties were either resentful of England or too loyal to the old (ex-) monarch to offer aid and be rid of the despot entirely.

THE CRIME !

Enabling the Scottish and nationalist English factions to cause further chaos in England was the first step. By then, England was already at the breaking point. They needed someone to blame, and it was so convenient to paint Arthur I, the tyrant. He was most already high by the time his father’s conviction was announced, confident of what the outcome would be – not because he manipulated it, but because the sociopolitical conditions of the country might as well have dictated it. 

The second condition was the party. Though Arthur II had no hand in planning it; it was just convenient that it was at Buckingham Palace. It was also convenient that his father chose that same night to take part in the celebrations. Arthur II took this as a sign.

The anger and mortification he conveyed to others was only half true. It constructed the lie that he wanted to retire to his private quarters at just the right time, especially when his father had taken his leave. He instructed his personal staff to gather the rest of his belongings elsewhere: books, memorabilia, and the like, particularly in the library. He obtained a silencer from his private security detail, but needed to find the concealed weapon – unregistered, and received it as a gift from his less pristine connections – in his private quarters. His room also had a secret entrance into the hidden passages within the Palace, and he knew these well, having explored them at length as a child. He traversed them, hearing the guard, George Abbott, watching something on his phone through the wall as he passed by the area that would have been the waiting room beside the study. He waited until his father was alone in his office, and entered promptly. He shot the man first on his back, hitting his chest. Arthur I fell and hit his nose on the table’s edge, breaking it. The elder Arthur attempted to get away and alert authorities, especially upon seeing his son, and Arthur II coldly interrupted: “I hope you’re proud of me now, dad.” before firing a single bullet between his father’s eyes. He did not need to come close to his father and allow his shoes to be stained by his father’s blood – he had been hunting with Catherine since they were old enough to be allowed to hunt together, and they were both excellent (and competitive) shots.

Disgusted by the sight of his father and still somewhat tipsy, he removed the ring from his finger – which he almost never takes off – and allowed it to fall to the ground, not noticing that his father still had his. 

The office has two hidden doors: one that’s an exit to the passage (behind the trophy cabinet) and one that’s an entry point on the opposite side of the room. If Arthur II had returned to the hidden passages, he would have created a mark on the blood spatter on the wall, as well as stepped over the body. This would not do. Knowing that the guard was distracted, he opened the door carefully and slipped out. By the time the guard returned to his post, having finished smoking by the window in the waiting room beside the study, he didn’t know any better. Arthur II rounded the corner just as he was spotted by the maid, Alicia Greene. Her irrelevance to his current concerns caused him to forget they even interacted.

It was a fortuitous moment later, after Arthur II’s subsequent exit, that Catherine heard the noise. The ring was beside Arthur I’s body, and noticing the same ring on the deceased, she recognised it immediately as her childhood partner-in-crime. She picked it up, and the events continued as we know it at present.

RED HERRINGS AND VITAL CLUES !

Madelyn Desjardins

While Madelyn and her beau had a jealous reason to be rid of Arthur I (may he rest in pieces), they were also commoners. Killing a monarch would have been a sure death sentence without the right connections and without prior extensive planning.

Nicole and Natalia de Marquis (and Ennio Este? Arnauld D’Orléans?)

This has to be the most convincing one. We were setting it up the entire time and you got jebaited ! They are all innocent of (this particular) crime. Other crimes, though? Who knows

The Palace staff

Alicia Greene straight up lied. She watched Arthur II and Natalia grow up, after all, and still sees them as kids. She doesn’t know what exactly happened or who killed Arthur I, but she’ll do anything to protect her kids. George Abbott has worked at the Palace for three years, but in those three years, the Palace has seen its fair share of chaos and scheming that he’s learned to steer clear of the study, and Ian Ford probably didn’t give a damn, being loyal to Antonia. The cook and the gardener were innocent and corroborated these claims.

The Windsor siblings

While we were all alluding to killing off dear old dad, none of them are actually murderers

Apart from Arthur II : D

The Dutch?!

I wish

The cufflinks

These were Arthur I’s, which he took off for himself in frustration while he was calling his lawyers. The list of his clothing did not include them.

The wine

Madelyn drank some before leaving the scene. No scuffle ensued here, but Arthur I was struggling to uncork it, which would explain the opener.

The notepad and the laptop

Because the laptop has the most incriminating piece of evidence, we decided to save the best for last. To solve the password, you had to have access to the notes. Old people have a tendency to just write down their passwords, so we placed it there for good measure.

[sailor-muno]

Hi and welcome to my new series called: Mixing D&D with the Black Clover Universe

In this series I will be taking elements, mechanics, and other random things that I like from D&D and figure out how these things could work/be implemented into the Black Clover world. With that being said please add on your own thoughts and ideas to this topic because I want more stuff to think about. Also do not be afraid to suggest a D&D concept to me because it’s all valid here. With that being said let’s get started!

The topic: Classes - The Bard

“Words and music are not just vibrations of air, but vocalizations with power all their own....They say that the multiverse was spoken into existence, that the words of the gods gave it shape, and that echoes of these primordial Words of Creation still resound throughout the cosmos.” - D&D Players Handbook

Section 1: What is a bard?

Typically, we think of bards as magical musicians, but that’s only a narrow wedge of what a bard can be. Bards are experts, performers, and craftsmen, worldly travelers who can win the day with a smile and a careful selection of words where bladed steel cannot. Their spells lean toward charms and illusions rather than blatantly destructive spells. With a wide-range of knowledge in many subjects and a natural aptitude that lets them do almost anything well, Bards become masters of the talents they set their minds to perfecting, from musical performance to esoteric knowledge.

However, not every minstrel singing in a tavern or jester cavorting in a royal court is a bard. Discovering the magic hidden in music requires hard study and some measure of natural talent that most troubadours and jongleurs lack. It can be hard to spot the difference between these performers and true bards, though. A bard's life is spent wandering across the land gathering lore, telling stories, and living on the gratitude of audiences, much like any other entertainer. But a depth of knowledge, a level of musical skill, and a touch of magic set bards apart from their fellows.

Only rarely do bards settle in one place for long, and their natural desire to travel—to find new tales to tell, new skills to learn, and new discoveries beyond the horizon—makes an adventuring career a natural calling. Every adventure is an opportunity to learn, practice a variety of skills, enter long-forgotten tombs, discover lost works of magic, decipher old tomes, travel to strange places, or encounter exotic creatures. Bards love to accompany heroes to witness their deeds firsthand. A bard who can tell an awe-inspiring story from personal experience earns renown among other bards. Indeed, after telling so many stories about heroes accomplishing mighty deeds, many bards take these themes to heart and assume heroic roles themselves.

Cassiea - OlchaS

The Bard class takes inspiration from the Norse skald, the warrior-poets and historians of Scandinavia; the Celtic bard, honored storytellers who reportedly followed heroes into battle to retell their deeds and also acted as neutral diplomats; and the southern European minstrel, musicians who entertained royalty.

In medieval Ireland, the bard was a highly respected profession of poets, storytellers and historians. Bards trained for many years, and held the important role of learning and retelling history in memorable poetic form, in a time before reading and writing were commonplace. By some reports, the bards held the highest social caste in society, and it was taboo to refuse them any request; one even asked for the king's brooch, who was forced to comply, though the brooch was later returned.

When it comes to Bards in Black Clover I would see them as pretty much the same thing. Historians who have a passion for stories and knowledge. They’re the documenters of all knowledge that isn’t related to spellcasting (think grimoires, making magic items, anything Julius would be interested in, etc.). This means that they are in charge of taking care of documenting things like the history of the kingdom, popular folktales and songs, news articles and basically anything else that one would consider to be a historical resource. They are the lore keepers of the kingdom and as such they often have a large presence all about the Clover Kingdom and can be found in all social class districts.

“Anybody can make history. Only a great man can write it.” - Oscar Wilde

Section 2: Magic and the Bard’s College

When it comes to black clover and it’s magic system, we all know that the only way to cast spells of significant power is with a grimoire. This will never change and I will not change it within the context of adding classes to the world. However, with that being said I still believe that while we can’t change the core foundation of how a spell is learned and stored, we can change what the caster uses their magic for. When we think about classes in this context all of a sudden we no longer see them as a different way of casting magic but instead we see it more like a school. How we use our magic in this world is dependent upon our education, like fine-tuning a weapon a class takes your sword and sharpens it m into a fine point.

To go along those lines I now must address The issue of bards only being able to cast their magic with music. In the world of black clover instead believe that bards can cast magic in any way they see fit, as long as they are using their magic in an artistic way. This could be painting, cooking, singing, dancing, or any other artistic medium.  when we put the class under these definitions there are actually quite a few characters in the show that could be considered Bards. Some of these characters include but are not limited to:

Kahono

Kiato

Puli Angel

Rill Boismortier

Marx Francois

Charmy Pappitson

Vanessa Enoteca

Kirsche Vermillion

Catherine

Samantha Kravitz

Elvira Aguirre

Damnatio Kira

David Swallow

Langris Vaude

Dorothy Unsworth

Dominante Code

 these are just a few of the characters that I believe are bards. something interesting to know about this list though is that a lot of the characters on this list or female, more specifically they’re witches. well I cannot give a solid explanation for why this is I can give my own theory on it.

Witches have an innate ability forecasting artistic spells. Based off of what we’ve seen from most of the witches in the show a lot of their magic is based around the idea of Creation or illusion magic. With Elvira and Samantha both having a form of illusion magic that manipulates sound and sight. I like to think of their magic being like the Minor Illusion spell in D&D. Vanessa having threat magic and using it to make dolls and sew clothes is another bard like trait that helps fit this theory.

When it comes to bards in this world and their magic we often find that their magic in it of itself is very showy and performance like. While any magic can be interesting to see some mages are just gifted or taught how to use their magic in a way that is particularly showy or dramatic. For those who are not gifted with artistic magic, and struggle to teach themselves how to use their magic in a creative way there has to be a place where they can go to learn how. This is why we have the Bard’s College.

“What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to the soul” - Joseph Addison

Section 3: The Bard’s College

The way of the bard is a gregarious one. Collecting songs and stories and sharing them with each other in an effort to spread knowledge. It is for this reason that the bards college was made, it is a place for bards to come together and share their finding and store them somewhere they can be taught to future generations. It also serves as a place of learning, teaching its students various mediums of art along with how to properly preserve and document history and record the world around them. While they may not be magical scholars, they certainly are the clover kingdoms finest anthropologists and non-magical historians to date. The college is also home to the biggest Historical Archives in the Clover Kingdom. These archives are treated very much like the Vatican Library and will be explored in the next section.

Now in D&D there are 8 different colleges a bard can attend (including the new Unearthed Arcana college because it’s cool): The College of Creation, The College of Eloquence, The College of Glamour, The College of Lore, The Collage of Spirits (UA), The College of Swords, The College of Valor, and The College of Whispers. Rather than putting all 7 college into the Black Clover Universe I have decided to take these 8 colleges and merge them together to make one college with 8 different “degree plans” one can take. This section will provide you with a generalized overviewed of each of the eight schools. If you wish to look more in depth at either of the colleges from a more mechanical viewpoint rather than a lore point I have provided links to each of the different colleges above.

Bard of Creation

Bards believe the cosmos is a work of art - the creation of the first dragons and gods. That creative work included harmonies that continue to resound through existence today, a power known as the Song of Creation. The Bards of Creation draw on that primeval song through their art as they try to spread the Song of Creation and its meaning to all life on the planet. Usually Bards in this Path either have a love for their art or an already artistic magic such as voice or painting magic. This path is one of the most difficult routes for a non-artistic mage to take on, but it isn’t impossible.

While studying under this practice most mages learn how to take non-magical items and infuse them with Mana to serve as a arcane focus for their spells. Taking their magic and concentrating it into a fine point that is easier to control and direct (think like Noelle and her wand.) along with this the Bards of Creation also put a heavy focus on Creation spells, helping their casters hone and fine tune their spells to perfection. Most Bards of Creation go on to either work in the noble realm as scribes for the nobility or become performers in small towns, collecting villagers stories and immortalizing them through their craft.

Some Characters that I believe are Bards of Craation would be:

Rill Boismortier

Dominante Code

Telian Springbreeze - College of Creation

Bard of Eloquence

Bards of Eloquence master the art of oratory. Persuasion is regarded as a high art, and a well-reasoned, well-spoken argument often proves more persuasive than facts. These bards wield a blend of logic and theatrical wordplay, winning over skeptics and detractors with logical arguments and plucking at heartstrings to appeal to the emotions of audiences.

Bards of the Spoken word most people in this group tend to be Debaters. Always looking to be the winner of an argument these bards are almost unparalleled when it comes to knowing what to say and when. Spending their time studying vocabulary and reading they learn to retain lots of memory and also learn how to regurgitate it properly for any situation. Most bards of this type often go on to become politicians or work for the Magic Parliament as a lawmaker and negotiator. They also end up becoming Royal Advisors in order to help with lawmaking.

Some Characters that I believe are Bards of Eloquence are:

Damnatio Kira

Marx Francois

Valorant Rose - College of Eloquence

Bard of Glamour

The Bards of Glamour are regarded with a mixture of awe and fear. Their performances are the stuff of legend. These bards are so eloquent that a speech or dance that one of them performs can cause captors to release the bard unharmed and can lull a furious dragon into complacency. The same magic that allows them to quell beasts can also bend minds. Bards of this college instead use this power to gladden the downtrodden and undermine oppressors. The can also use their magic to inspire their allies and keep them going through the worst of times.

Often times bards in this school are taught how to use their magic to captivate people and serve as support characters in a battle. Being able to draw on their mana as a source to take their art and use it as a method of passing their spell buffs to their allies these bards often times are found as support roles in their communities. A majority of them finish their training and then apply to join the magic knights, they’re often highly sought after to serve as combat support and occasionally as healers (though this is less common) .

Some Characters that I believe are Bards of Glamour are:

Kirsche Vermillion

Charmy Pappitson

Antigone LaRue - College of Glamour

Bard of Lore

Bards of Lore know something about most things, collecting bits of knowledge from sources as diverse as scholarly tomes and peasant tales. Whether singing folk ballads in taverns or collecting the stories of people at the old folks home, these bards use their gifts to hold audiences spellbound. When the applause dies down, the audience members might find themselves questioning everything they held to be true, from their faith in the priesthood of the local temple to their loyalty to the king.

The loyalty of these bards lies in the pursuit of beauty and truth, not in fealty to a monarch or following the tenets of a deity. The Bards of Lore are the protectors of the archives, serving as it’s curators and guardians. As this is such, a majority of the Bards of Lore prefer to stay with the archives and study rather than leave out for adventure. However some bards do go out and these aren’t the ones that spend their time looking for stories to add to the vast collection of tales in the archive already.

Some characters that I believe to be Bards of Lore are:

Samantha Kravitz

Elvira Aguirre

Bonezo the Undead - College of Lore

Bard of Spirits

Stories of the past are powerful; they hold lessons of history, philosophy, and magic. Bards of Spirits seek the stories of those from beyond the material plane. Using seances and rituals, they reach out to hear their stories, but the bards have no control over what story they find. These bards are closely tied to otherworldly powers often being able to tap into the astral plane (dream dimension) and the threads of fate themselves. Some speak to the dead while others become oracles and masters of fate.

Bards in this school often end up training themselves to use their magic see into the other planes of reality. All bards in this college need to have a gift for the sight in order to join because their magic needs to be tied to the planes. Here they learn how to use their magic safely and correctly so as to avoid any dangers that come from speaking with things outside of the material plane. Most of these bards go on to become oracles or fates. Traveling the countryside easing the pain of lost souls and misguided individuals.

Some characters that I believe to be Bards of Spirits are:

Dorothy Unsworth

Vanessa Enoteca

Tristan - College of Spirits

Bard of Swords

Bards of Swords are called blades, and they entertain through daring feats of weapon prowess. Their talent with weapons inspires many blades to lead double lives. One blade might use a circus troupe as cover for nefarious deeds such as assassination, robbery, and blackmail. Other blades strike at the wicked, bringing justice to bear against the cruel and powerful.

Blades who abandon their lives as entertainers have often run into trouble that makes maintaining their secret activities impossible. A blade caught engaging in vigilante justice is too great a liability for most troupes. With their weapon skills and magic, these blades either take up work as performers or will join the magic knights in order to take their two lives and finally merge them together. Seen as skilled combatants and magic users these bards are not a force to be reckoned with.

Some characters that I believe to be Bards of Swords are:

Kiato

David Swallow

Sierra - College of Swords

Bard of Valor

Bards of Valor are daring skalds whose tales keep alive the memory of the great heroes of the past, and thereby inspire a new generation of heroes. These bards gather in mead halls or around great bonfires to sing the deeds of the mighty, both past and present. They travel the land to witness great events firsthand and to ensure that the memory of those events doesn't pass from the world. With their songs, they inspire others to reach the same heights of accomplishment as the heroes of old.

These bards are taught the stories of dead heroes and in turn a lot of them end up going on to write music about them or use their stories as inspiration for their magic. Often using their knowledge to help inspire their friends in combat and bring hope in bleak battlefields. A majority of the Bards of Valor go on to join the magic knights in hopes of finding their own hero to write and tell stories about. Seeing this as their shot at becoming Chaucer or Geoffrey of the world (Chaucer wrote A Knights Tale and Geoffrey wrote the stories of King Arthur)

Some characters that I believe to be Bards of Valor are:

Kahono

Puli Angel

Hype - College of Valor

Bard of Whispers

Most folk are happy to welcome a bard into their midst. Bards of Whispers use this to their advantage. They appear to be like any other bard, sharing news, singing songs, and telling tales to the audiences they gather. In truth, the College of Whispers teaches its students that they are wolves among sheep. These bards use their knowledge and magic to uncover secrets and turn them against others through extortion and threats in order to seek out justice.

Many other bards hate the Bards of Whispers, viewing it as a parasite that uses the bards’ reputation to acquire wealth and power. For this reason, these bards rarely reveal their true nature unless they must. They typically claim to follow some other school, or keep their true nature secret in order to better infiltrate and exploit royal courts and other settings of power. However they can also use their powers for good, often times bards of this school can use their power to help bring justice and equality to a flawed system or to bring justice to those the law cannot touch.

Some characters that I believe to be Bards of Whisper are:

Catherine

Langris Vaude

Ichiro - College of Whispers

“Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.” - Sue Monk Kidd

Section 4: The Archives

Miles upon Miles of shelves full of nothing but books and thousands of feet dedicated to this one library located deep below the college. Centuries worth of national history folklore legends no one‘s heard hundreds of years live buried beneath the dirt and cobwebs of this dank and mystic labyrinth of books. These are in the royal Archives. most people don’t even know this place exist however, the bards and nobles of the kingdom are very aware of its existence... and of it’s secrecy.

Now you may be thinking “Hey this sounds just like the Vatican library“ but unlike the Vatican library, the archives are open to anyone wishing to seek knowledge. The only reason a lot of people don’t know about it is because no one really cares to ask. If we’re being real here, a majority of the books in that archive are really just diaries written by old people that are really hard to read because they’re either in a different language or they just have poor spelling because people back then were illiterate. However some of the stuff within the walls of the archive it’s rather interesting. Ancient maps leading to long-lost treasures, legends that have faded and been forgotten with time, stories of war love and loss.

It is within these walls that we find that only the country‘s history but it’s very soul. We find the story of our people hidden deep within these tombs of books. Well it is very rare for somebody that isn’t a barred to visit the archives if one is really out seeking knowledge the archive is open to them. I would like to believe that Gauche and Gordon have both visited the library at least once right after the seabed temple arc. 

The grounds of the archives are guarded heavily by the bards of the college. Not only are they guarded but they are also highly protective of the knowledge there. One of the worst things that could possibly happen is the destruction of the archives. It would be on the same level as the burning of the library of Alexandria. It is for this reason that anyone wishing to enter the archives must first pass a test of character. If you are perceived as a threat you will be turned away from the archives but not banned, nobody should ever be denied access to knowledge.

“A society that has no respect, no regard for its bards, its historians, its storytellers, is a society in steep decline, a society that has lost its very soul and my never find its way.” - Laurence Overmire

Section 5: Conclusion

I’ll keep this section short and sweet because it’s been a long read and I just wanna give my thoughts. Honestly I thought that Rill and Kahono had such a unique style of magic that it almost felt like a crime to give us a taste of bard magic without making it something that was common. Plus I felt the clover kingdom needed historians to archive their history so I felt that this was a fun thing to put together to solve both problems!! I hope you enjoyed it! Please feel free to add your own thoughts and contributions to this post because I really wanna hear them!

[officialdcshepard]

The Marble Emperor

**DISCLAIMER: This short story was originally written back in 2014 for a college writing class.**

*May 28th, 1453*

Byzantine Emperor Constantine XI Dragaš Palaiologos knelt on the cold marble floor of the Hagia Sophia, the church at the center of Constantinople, with his head bowed and his eyes closed in prayer.

“To surrender the city to you is beyond my authority or anyone else's who lives in it, for all of us, after taking the mutual decision, shall die out of free will without sparing our lives,” he had growled as he threw the Turkish delegation out.

His father Manuel II, his mother Helena, and his older brother John VIII had prepared Constantine his entire life for the possibility that the Ottomans would one day try to destroy the Empire. (If they were here, they would know what to do, he thought solemnly.) Their stories of the centuries of Muslim atrocities against Christians horrified him as a child. And he suffered a bitter military loss when the Turks drove his armies from an attempted conquest of Athens back to Corinth in 1446. Therefore, from the moment he took the throne in 1449, he undertook to strengthen the city and spill their blood fighting for it. But now those very words of defiance came back to bite him like vipers that now hissed with the accusation, What empire is there left to destroy? What empire indeed? The Byzantines were the eastern, Greek speaking descendants of the Roman Empire, which once had uncontested dominion from Britain to Persia. After ten centuries of weathering attacks from barbarians, Muslims, and Christians alike, however, the Byzantines now only ruled a small portion of the southernmost part of Greece called the Despotate of the Morea (astride what used to be Sparta), a handful of Aegean islands, and the immediate environs of Constantinople.

And yet, Constantine reflected, he was not truly alone in this fight. Kneeling in prayer beside him was Giovanni Gustiniani. Constantine had joked to Giovanni during a rare break in the siege that he was the only good man to ever come out of Genoa. But it was true. The Italian had sailed to Constantinople’s aid with seven hundred Genoese mercenaries. But far more importantly, he quickly became Constantine’s protostrator (or second in command) and made sure the ragtag Byzantine, Genoese, and Venetian soldiers remained unified and could effectively defend the walls. Without his help, the city would not have held out for as long as it had so far.

Right now, though, Giovanni looked worried as he turned to Constantine. Constantine did his best to not show the fear that this look caused to spread through his whole body. If Giovanni was nervous, then surely something must be wrong. But Constantine dared not show his trepidation. He certainly could not afford to appear weak in front of the throng of thousands of civilian refugees who had been praying with them. They now took shelter in the center of this cathedral that remained strong for them and that housed the priests who fed them with meager stores of bread, even as paint from the mosaics peeled off and critical masonry in the walls started to show cracks and strain. It seemed to the Emperor that his subjects were also barely holding themselves together, especially recently.

On the night of May 22nd, when the Moon rose, it was partially eclipsed by the Earth's shadow and its light glowed red like blood. This already caused enough panic for Constantine and what remained of his government in a city that had been besieged for a month to have to deal with. To make things worse, rumors flew around that there was a prophecy that the city would fall after a blood moon. Then four days later, the entire city was blanketed by a large, thick, and choking cloud of black fog. When the fog lifted, there appeared around the dome of the Hagia Sophia a strange multicolored light, which some hoped came from the fires of foreign armies come to relieve the city. Most, however, despaired, wailing throughout the crumbling streets that the Holy Spirit had abandoned the capital to the heathens.

Under these circumstances, Constantine could not blame anyone for panicking. He almost envied that they were able to scream.

"Is there something that troubles you, my friend?" he asked calmly, placing a large, weary hand on the Italian captain's shoulder.

"I don't know quite how to say this, my lord..."

"Please. We have known each other long enough, Giovanni. It is Constantine."

"Alright- Constantine," Giovanni stammered quietly, hoping that he wasn't disturbing the Latin and Greek churchmen and the Imperial nobility who sat immediately behind him as the service continued. "I am afraid I must beg leave to attend to the walls. It appears that the Turks are concentrating their cannon fire on the Blachernae." These were the most weakened walls, and were situated in the northwest of the city.

“I will excuse you and ask for God's forgiveness on your behalf if He should be offended by this," Constantine nodded.

As Giovanni attempted to slink towards the exit without arousing the panic of the commoners or the offended huffs of the churchmen, Constantine wished that he could leave. He was, of course, a very devout Christian, and it was important that the Emperor remain implacably, solemnly beseeching of God's mercy at a time like this. But now he could very well feel the weight of the sword on his right hip and the shield leaning on his left arm, and he knew they would soon be needed.

*****

*Rumeli Hisari, Ottoman Fortress Just North of Constantinople*

"Are you sure that it will not break this time?" Sultan Mehmed shouted at Orban the Dacian, his Hungarian gunsmith. He did this not out of any anger towards the other man, but simply in order for his words to be heard over the constant gunfire.

"Yes, my lord," Orban bowed. "I have made several small but important improvements to the design since the last time we fired it."

"Excellent, my friend," Mehmed replied.

However, the Sultan made a careful mental note to keep an eye on Orban. He had initially offered to work for the Byzantines. It was only because his asking price was too high and because the Byzantines did not have the resources necessary for what he was asking to create them that he had changed sides, and that would pose a problem.

“When will it be ready?"

Orban's blond mustache trembled before he said, "I- I have the full team of sixty oxen and four hundred men rolling it into position in front of the fort even as we speak."

"Good," Mehmed smiled, something which Orban had rarely seen.

Orban then enthusiastically cried, "I will go down there and personally make sure that it is aimed and fired properly. Where would you like me to aim it?"

"See how the other cannons are concentrating their fire at the northwest corner?" Mehmed asked and then pointed.

Orban nodded and immediately rushed down and made preparations to fire upon the Blachernae. At whatever price his loyalty may have been bought to start with, with that gesture Mehmed was now confident that Orban would remain on his side.

When he came to the throne two years earlier after the death of his father, Sultan Murad II, no one would have ever thought that Mehmed, then only nineteen, would ever inspire any kind of loyalty or do anything great. Even Mehmed himself had not been confident in himself when he took the throne.

He had done it before, ruling for a short time when his father abdicated in 1444. But he was only twelve at the time. Frustrated when his teachers assumed he could not do anything competently, took power out from under him, and then nearly ran the entire nation into the ground, Mehmed had had to supplicate his father to return to the throne and resented being lectured by the old fool afterwards. Thereafter father and son bitterly resented each other.

Mehmed had not wanted to have to go through it all again, and almost cursed Allah for taking his father away and making him do this.

But as his father lay dying in 1451, he had summoned young Mehmed into his chambers and had him sit beside him on the bed and read from one of the hadiths, a report of the deeds and sayings of the Prophet Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him). In it he said, "Verily you shall conquer Constantinople. What a wonderful leader will he be, and what a wonderful army will that army be!"

"I know that you can do what I could not, my son," Sultan Murad coughed, and then closed his eyes and drifted into Paradise.

His teacher Ak Şemseddin had drilled into him from the moment he could read that it was his Islamic duty to capture Constantinople. And now, as he wept for the loss of his father, Mehmed was reminded of that. He knew what his first act in office must be, and knew that the Christian and Muslim enemies that surrounded him would never take him seriously unless he did this. Therefore, from the moment he had taken the throne, Mehmed prepared his armies to crush Constantinople. In doing so, he would succeed where Muslim armies had failed since 678. In the process he would eliminate a small but annoying foe in the middle of his country, establish for it a natural capital, and turn his Sultanate into an heir to the glory of Rome herself.

Of course, since he was a reasonable man, he had first offered a way for Byzantine "Emperor" Constantine to step down without bloodshed. He didn’t expect Constantine would *agree*, but all this blood was now on the Greek.

"Fire!" the Sultan cried once Orban had positioned the cannon correctly. It was now midnight on the morning of May 29th, and the Sultan now prayed that this would mark the final assault that would deliver the city to himself, his people, and to Allah.

No sooner had the fuse been lit then the hiss and pop of the fire dancing on the edges of the rope that fed itself into the monstrous bronze beast echoed within its cavernous belly. To some who were on the ground, it was almost was as if this cannon, which was heavier than several ships put together, was an unholy djinn taking a deep inhalation before breathing out terrible fire upon its enemies. And when it belched its black smoke, wheels taller than two men standing on top of one another nearly buckled from the recoil as the ball sailed across the Golden Horn, the small inlet that formed the northern boundary of Constantinople.

Several soldiers immediately noticed another loud bang emerge from the metal dragon. But none of them remembered loading and firing it at all, which seemed odd. One went to take a closer look. By the time he heard another angry shout emerging from the cracks, however, an enraged fireball devoured him and spat out only ash in its wake. The frightened rabbits ran for their lives but it was already too late. Mehmed could not bear to watch the carnage below him. When the bloated weapon finally shuddered and died, he despaired to learn that was left of Orban had been incinerated in the blast and crushed by falling pieces of bronze as well.

Struggling to keep away tears so as not to panic those men who still lived and were dealing with the horror of seeing their mangled comrades, the Sultan's eyes followed the cannonball for a moment before he knelt on the fortress's walls and made this solemn prayer.

"Allah, if it be your will, bring Orban into Paradise and let his death not have been in vain. Bless our endeavor this night and deliver Constantinople unto us."

"What will you have me do, my lord?" the Commander of the Janissaries, the Empire's brave, elite soldiers, asked the Sultan.

"Assemble every man you have and prepare to attack!"

*****

"All of you, get away from the walls and take cover!" Giovanni cried. He was at the front of the line, waving with his sword and banging his shield to get the attention of those who were still manning the Blachernae guard posts at that moment.

Most saw his message and tried to escape by leaping away from the towers and onto piles of hay below. This did not work at all, but fortunately, when compared to those who were caught on the walls when the cannonball slammed into them, their deaths were swift and painless.

Giovanni squinted as his entire body and his suit of armor was coated in a thin layer of powdered limestone from the hole that had been punched through the city's defenses. And worse, mere moments seemed to pass before a horde of howling Turks streamed through the walls, seemingly endless. And not just any Turks.

Janissaries.

Brutal, merciless, and born only to kill and maim, these monstrous, gnarled mercenaries drove fear into the hearts of the defenders.

"Stand your ground!" Giovanni yelled. "For we will fight and die honorably and on our feet, as our Roman forefathers did before us!"

He did not get to say much more before a river of Turkish shields slammed against his own. The Italian leaned his shoulder into his shield to push back against them and stabbed his foes through whatever hole in their guard he could find, coating the cobblestones generously with their blood.

Just as Giovanni was about to say something further to rally the defenders to push the Turks back towards the breach in the wall, a crossbow bolt lodged itself in his throat and stifled the Emperor's friend forever. And as word of Giovanni's death spread around the ranks, the Byzantines and their foreign allies broke ranks and retreated now that the man who had single-handedly kept the Empire together was gone.

“Why are they retreating?" Emperor Constantine asked to himself with his hands folded behind his long purple robes, even though he already knew what the answer was.

"I do not know, my lord," one of the churchmen said.

"The Turks are pouring into the city like a river!" a man who used to be a merchant yelled. "We're doomed!"

"I just saw two priests disappear into the cathedral walls! God is punishing us up for our sins," a woman sobbed.

But then, even though Constantine was coming apart at the moment he knew the city was lost, the Emperor walked calmly through the teeming masses and said, "My friends, fellow Romans! Do not despair. For whatever happens this night, trust in our Lord and Savior, for he has said to us, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven'."

With that, Constantine commanded the guards still inside to bolt the doors to the Hagia Sophia, quickly picked up his sword and shield, and ran through the city in full armor, fueled by adrenaline to meet with his men before they could completely retreat.

His robes were long and cumbersome and the trappings of what little of his Imperial office he had left now only served to slow him down. With that, he cried at the top of his lungs, "The city is fallen and I am still alive," tore them off so as to no longer distinguish himself from his soldiers, and charged into the fray with them. After that, no one saw Constantine again.

Some say even to this day that just at the moment of his death, an angel flew in and carried the beloved last Emperor of Rome away. Others say he left the battle, stood atop a platform overlooking the carnage, and wept before hanging himself.

From that moment on, he became the Marble Emperor, turned to stone and entombed underneath the city until he would awaken again in its hour of need. Simultaneously, legends grew that the two priests who disappeared into the walls of Hagia Sofia would reemerge when the city would be retaken by the soldiers of Christ.

*****

The great oak doors to the Hagia Sophia now leaned slackly against the rotting pillars of stone as the Sultan entered the passageway. It had only been three days since the Ottomans captured Constantinople and already his workers were busy painting over the mosaics of Mary with child with beautiful white Arabic lettering on top of a simple black background, as well as placing minarets at the tops of the towers. Within a month, his planners told him, the mosque would be renovated enough to allow for Friday prayers to be read.

Mehmed's soldiers had also been hard at work looting over the past three days, an enterprise that personally disgusted the young ruler. But this had to be allowed, if only for this limited amount of time, for soldiers on any side of a war these days were often a fickle bunch, prone to deserting if every little demand of theirs was not met. For instance, he had had to build Rumeli Hisari in the shape of the Arabic letters for Muhammad in order to keep morale up, and that had only lasted a week. (It hadn't hurt, however, that his name was styled the same way.)

The results of the three day looting period were almost too much for him to gaze upon. Elderly men who just days earlier had been praying for deliverance from the prophet Isa, who they called Jesus, were now stacked on wagons and preparing to be dumped into the Bosporus. Children were in shackles, about to be sold to slave markets as far as the Songhai in the heart of Africa. And women and young girls were weeping, their clothes in tatters.

He could do nothing about those whose freedom had already been lost, but now his voice boomed through the mosque,

"Henceforth, those who are still in hiding will not be harmed."

Hopefully, he thought, this would be the first step in beginning to rebuild the city to its former glory. Soon, he reasoned, it would become the glorious, shimmering golden crown of an Empire without end. It would welcome commerce from all over the world, shelter Muslim, Christian, and Jew, and become the greatest power the world had ever known. "The spider weaves the curtains in the palace of the Caesars and the owl calls the watches in the towers of Afrasiab," Mehmed had proclaimed when he first stepped into the city. Hopefully, that would not be the case for much longer.

[aveaugvstus]

ALL ABOARD ! The HMS PROMETHEAN welcomes  AUGUSTUS SUTHERLAND  to the expedition in their capacity of  THE SCION. They are  24 YEARS OLD & CISMALE  and might be painted as  ROME FLYNN. When you strike up an acquaintance, address them as  HE / HIM. Their deeds on land prece their arrival — people say they are  CHARISMATIC, GOOD-NATURED, DAUNTLESS  but  ARROGANT, RECKLESS, OBSTINATE   when the tide turns. Their purpose aboard the Promethean falls in line with  “protecting the interests of the Commonwealth and maintaining order”, the pursuit of adventure, chasing the thrill of the unknown and hunger for all that lies beyond the edge of the world.

PINTEREST.    /    ARCHETYPES,  INSPIRATIONS,  ORIGIN,  WANTED CONNECTIONS BELOW.

I.  ARCHETYPES.

beautiful charming himbo™ that is actually super genuine and easygoing and gets along with everyone (much to his haters’ dismay)

super rich kid with the suffocating family legacy looking for a little fun and rebellion

pure of heart!!!!! dumb of ass

longing for purpose and capable of being more than he is beneath all the layers of carefree frat boy and clueless pretty boy

loyal to the death, ride or die for his people (which is most people unless you go out of your way to actively antagonise him)

II.  ORIGIN  /  HEADCANONS.

augustus was named by his grandfather, former admiral of the fleet in her majesty’s royal navy, and a fervent zealot in his glorification of the roman empire and civilisation.

his full name is augustus julius sutherland in case you had any doubts about the full extent of his obsession.

the sutherlands are old, old, old money. (if you traced their genealogy all the way back they don’t truly descend from any house in the peerage but they’ve won the prestige and esteem of nobility through centuries of climbing the ranks of the military and have reaped the accolades, rewards and bestowments of land.) war and conquest runs in their blood. august comes from generations of decorated admirals, generals and commanders.

his parents met when his father’s ship came into port at the bahamas. she’s painted as the exotic temptress that beguiled him with her beauty and feminine wiles because he was engaged at birth to be married to a nice rich white english girl.

august is half-afro-cuban and understands spanish but can’t speak it, having learned the language only through his mother’s lullabies and occasional slips into her native tongue.

august is sheltered growing up from what being mixed truly means — he gets the whispers and stares but it helps being the heir apparent of an extremely powerful and wealthy family. it also helps that he’s very likeable, handsome, good-natured, etc. his mother raises him to treat all people with kindness (with a touch of casual but well-meaning manipulation, it helps to be loved to earn loyalty, after all). as such he’s not raised spoiled rotten and pretentious like most of his peers.

being the embodiment of sunshine he is, he gets along with literally anyone he meets just by sheer force of will and personality — it’s the puppy eyes. he’s respectful, polite and genuinely interested in everyone from all walks of life and doesn’t care about class or station when it comes to making friends.

he’s risen steadily through the ranks of the academy, not out of any particular ambition or necessity but because his family name and presence essentially paved the way. a fact that’s pissed off plenty of people and former comrades-in-arms. if there was one word to describe augustus sutherlands’ life thus far it’d be “effortless”.

august sees his allegiance to the british empire as a perfunctory thing. he’s not bound to the commonwealth, the military, or his rank by any undying sense of duty and obligation and if anything, is quite naive about the realities of the empire and warfare. he’s young, impresssionable, and inclined to the see the best in people and situations. he view of the royal guard and being stationed on the hms promethean is one of adventure and limitless possibility. a means to an end to fulfil his thirst for something greater and more glorious than the mundanity of military life and high society.

III.  VIBES  /  INSPIRATIONS.

—    people: dave franco (in most of his movies but especially 21 jump street). michael b. jordan’s general energy and sheer charisma. zac efron in high school musical, not the character, but like his general ‘everyone’s high school crush’ vibe. —    tv: jason mendoza, the good place. joey tribbiani, friends. andy dwyer, parks and recreation. —    film: ferris bueller, ferris bueller’s day off. flynn rider, tangled. johnny storm, marvel. —    literature: peter pan. finnick odair, the hunger games trilogy.

IV.  PLOTS  /  WANTED CONNECTIONS.

fun and chaos, to put it simply. august is always looking for trouble, whether he knows it or not. most of it is harmless but he’s fond of dares, exploring places he shouldn’t be in and doing things he definitely shouldn’t be doing and getting away with it.

literally if you dare him to do anything he is honor-bound by the himbo code to do it.

not sure what the liquor rations are like on hms promethean but fuck it because august will happily get drunk with just about anyone on the ship. he demands drinking games! revelry! stolen moments in the dark

extremely good at finding things — be they lost or contraband that can’t be secured via the quartermaster. perhaps your character has a strange request for something that august can provide.

if a character ever finds themselves overboard, august will be the first man doing a perfect swandive into the water to rescue them, whether they can swim or not

people see august as trustworthy, so he’s privy to a lot of gossip and secrets he otherwise should definitely not be told. he doesn’t have a big mouth but he’s guilty of not treating things seriously enough when he should. those that spill their hearts out to him beware...

august loves a good tale of the adventure and will sit wide-eyed listening for hours to a captivating master storyteller

not to say that august is....... dumb but he’s a little gullible at times and has a fascination with conspiracy theories and mysteries. Loves ghost stories and horror stories

he has an equal affinity for animals as he does with people, he adores them despite being allergic to things with fur. he’ll pet your creatures and spend hours sneezing but he refuses to have regrets (ragrets). 

THE CHALLENGER. someone that august can’t seem to charm and bend to his will no matter what he tries. the thorn in his side that sees through all the rich boy bullshit and doesn’t care for it. a person that, against his better judgement, infuriates him because he can’t get a hold of them or why they seem to dislike him so much.

THE SWEETHEART.  a guest passenger that’s of the same warm, easygoing sensibility that he clicks with from the first moment. an instant kind of bond and warmth despite their differences in background or life. a person that brings out the big loveable heart in august and sees him for who he is.

THE CATALYST.  an older character that’s jaded and hardened and has their eyes completely open to the atrocities and sins of the british empire. a character that confronts august’s worldview and wakes him up, sparks a fire in him that leads to his disillusionment with the empire and the role he plays within it.

[jtownraindancer]

Michael x Reader: Royalty

*

Being a Prophet brought you some unexpected perks.

You could read a lot of dead languages, you were included in an alliance of Hunters and Academics, and you had also gained a full-time bodyguard.

The Viceroy claimed that it was more for his sanity than anything else, though you would later learn that it was more to do with how the last dozen or so Prophets had been extinguished well before their prime.

He wasn't so good at reassuring you after that little confession.

Michael did try, however, making sure to check in on you every day, visiting you at least once a week, and always just a thought away.

You tried to not be disappointed that he only saw your protection as another duty, another command issued by an absent Father.

You were walking home from the local thrift store when your opinion of that matter changed significantly.

One moment, you were contently strolling down the maple lined sidewalk with Bach lightly playing from your headphones, and the next you were in a completely different location, a firm grip on your arm and chipping white paint flicking from a concrete wall in front of you.

It took only a quick glance to immediately recognize the angel that was manhandling you, annoyance and confusion lacing together as you paused your music.

He only did this when he was annoyed with you, when you had were being particularly "defiant." But as far as you had known, a quick trip to browse vintage jackets and old books wasn't particularly rebellious.

"Michael, wha-"

He shot you a glare, one that silenced you immediately.

That wasn't anger in his eyes; that was fear.

All irritation fled you instantly, senses attuning to your surroundings.

The air was drier here, lack of engines and petrichor hinting at a location further away than you anticipated. The asphalt beneath you was tinged in tawny dust, but nothing seemed suspicious.

Except for the quiet.

You weren't used to the quiet.

It was as if Nature herself were holding her breath.

And there it was.

Another whoosh of air, perhaps a block or two away from where Michael was shielding you. There were several voices, some indistinguishable growls.

It left you cold, despite the scalding heat coming from the hanging sun.

You strained your ears to listen, desperate for some form of clarity, but you could recognize neither the voices nor the language being spoken as they neared your sanctuary.

You winced in pain, shifting slightly as Michael's blade slid into his left hand, his firm grip on the hilt signalling no mercy for his would-be opponents. His right hand was still holding your own, his fingers just shy of shattering you.

You were on the cusp of panicking.

Michael had always been on the more serious side, rigid regality and obstinate nobility. His mannerisms were sometimes almost alien, observations bizarrely specific. You were used to that, used to his little quirks.

But some part of you had forgotten that there was more to the Prince of Paradise than his majesty and sense of duty.

Michael was, and always would be, a soldier.

There was no denying it now, not when he stood as solid as marble, silently coiled to charge whatever threat he had detected.

There was no denying the righteous fury in his eyes, the way they seemed to spark with internal flame.

There was no denying how utterly microscopic you suddenly felt, a single quark being defended by one of the very first cornerstones of Abrahamic Creation.

Yet, for how small you felt, you couldn't help but want to defend him, absolutely struck dumb by the worry in his eyes, the scarcely concealed terror coated with such a thin shroud of bravado.

Whoever- whatever- the voices were, they were enough to summon dread from the First Light, and it did nothing to inspire your confidence.

Michael-

You could only hope the small glance your way was an acknowledgement of your prayer, could only hope that he had heard you and that he was willing to listen.

There was something evil drawing nearer, and while you were essentially blind, you could feel how strong they were.

They were ancient, and you knew- as much as the sky was often blue and the grass was typically green- that Michael alone would be no match for whatever these things were.

"It's my duty to protect you."

His voice was scarcely a whisper, but for how close you were to him, for how tense the situation, how silent your surroundings-

The words echoed, his underlying courage leaving no doubt in your mind that he would fight for you, until the very last drop of Grace was spilt, until his glorious wings were nothing more than ash.

So long as that flame burned bright inside him, he would fight for you.

You hadn't really considered the weight of that honour before, hadn't truly acknowledged just how special your position made you.

But you'd be damned if the first spark of Creation was going to die on your account.

"And you really think you can do that from the Empty? There is no shame in running."

A sore subject, you knew. And by the frustration creasing his features as he turned to address your comment, you could tell he remembered distinctly telling you of his irritations with younger kin.

You softened your expression, unashamed to plead with him.

"We'll retreat, regroup, research. Live to die another day."

His eyes narrowed, tracing over your features with consideration.

"They will never stop hunting us."

Good thing you knew some folks who had experience in that area.

"So long as I know you're safe, I don't care how where or how far we have to go."

"I don't need you to pro-"

"Shut up, Michael. Those things-"

"Daeva."

"-whatever they are, are beyond you alone. And as virtuous your intent, you're no good to me dead."

The quip earned the ghost of his smile, still near as bright as the noonday sun despite its dimness. You pressed on, earnest sincerity and growing dread as the creatu- the Daeva- drew nearer.

It was time to put all the cards on the table, and accept whatever consequences may follow.

"Please, Mik'hael."

I can't do this without you.

[dlkardenal]

“Realistic” fantasy worlds – A sidenote to the debate

One of the many good things about Twitter is that I can see what’s on the mind of people. (I completely took over our twitter account, so if you see tweets and comments that is me, Lory, in 99% percent of the cases.) A few days ago I saw a tweet about why everyone who writes medieval fantasy builds a society where they are oppressing women. If you can build any world you want and any kind of society why are there so many medieval European settings, and why most of them have strong patriarchy? For a long time, this just felt natural to me, but that tweet made me think too. Now I have some kind of explanation, and I thought this topic is worth at least one blog post.

I. On medieval European fantasy

You hear the phrase “write what you know” basically everywhere. I’m not exactly at peace with this statement. We’re writing a desert fantasy book as Europeans and I had many depressing nights when I wanted to throw away our WIP because according to this statement, we as white Europeans do not have the right to write a desert fantasy. But this is for another time. Nonetheless, many of us grew up with medieval Europe in our minds. All the fairy tales, the knights and kings, and the old fantasy books have medieval settings. It is familiar, well known, and safe. No one will claim you can’t write it because you can’t associate with it. Also, the godfather of all fantasy–Tolkien–wrote a medieval Europe inspired world, and it became the foundation of the genre. After reading many fantasy books of this kind, I personally got bored of it, and I welcome the new trend of fantasy books with other kinds of cultures. (I read about a book called Black Sun by Rebecca Roanhorse, coming this fall which is based on the Aztec culture and South-America and I am super excited about it.) 

To get the medieval-Europe feeling, you need certain things, like heavy armors, swords, knights, and this includes that the state of women also should be as it was back then. That’s why they call it realistic. II. Women dominated cultures

But really, if we can create any society and any alternative history why patriarchy is considered “realistic”? The short answer, because it is, but before you rage-quit from reading this post, hear me out! You may have already read a lot about ancient societies from me on this blog, but I have to bore you with more.

There is no evidence that real matriarchy ever existed. There were societies suspected to be female dominant because archeologists found a goddess as their center of worship, and there are ethnicities nowadays that have some form of matriarchy, but neither of these is the female equivalent to patriarchal societies. Sometimes they have matrilineality (when they trace their lineage from their mother and grandmother and so on) but not much else, in other cases, matrons rule over a family, but men have the political power. For example in the Mosuo culture in China, the oldest women was considered the head of their family, but the status of nobility passed on from father to son. We know very little about how people lived before the bronze age (or even during that), and there’s a slight chance truly matriarchal societies existed way before –like the amazons in Greek mythology– but for the bulk of our history, there’s only the concept but no execution.

It is worth mentioning though, that there always have been groups of women that lived outside the boundaries of a patriarchal society. In ancient Rome there were the Vesta Virgins, an order of priestesses with unique social standing. They had many rights ordinary women didn’t - they could observe gladiator fights, and their opinions were valued highly among… well, everyone. In Greece the heteras were also held high because of their erudition, but let’s not dance around the question, they were prostitutes. 

III. Biology. The answer is always biology.

Okay, everyone learned history at school, but we are talking about fictional societies! Yes. Fictional societies, but human beings. If you are writing about elves, or aliens, or god-knows-what with different biology from humans, then all these things have nothing to do with you and the reality of your world. But humans have certain limitations. You can see from the examples above, that we can put women into two groups: 1. the mothers and daughters 2. the priestesses and whores. The first group is the rule the second group is the exception, and the main difference – and also the reason for one group to ignore some patriarchal stigmas while the other can’t – is childbirth.

Women were worshiped for their ability to create life, but it meant constant life-threatening danger for them. A woman can give birth only a certain number of times during her life, because, you know, nine months of pregnancy, then a very little baby, then a new baby, then menopause, and half of the children won’t live until adulthood. They are the very essence of society because no children -> no people -> no culture. On top of that women tend to die during labor. So a woman is both valuable and endangered. On one hand, they need to be protected (in men’s eyes), on the other hand, because of their value they could be used to trade and to gain political power. I know it sounds horrible, but if we put aside every moral, I think it is understandable. This is just human nature. It allowed the population to expand at a rapid rate (one man + lot of women = a lot of children, even if half of the children and women die in the process), and outgrow those societies that may have been matriarchal. 

I don’t say, that we can’t imagine a medieval (and before) society where women have rights. Actually, women had many rights among the Vikings, for example, but the most they could achieve was some kind of equality. And even then, male-centered societies outgrew these. This is why I think, that these patriarchal societies in fantasy are not necessarily good, but realistic even if it is an imagined society and history. Because if you write about humans, you have to paint them as such - and humans are like that.

Lory

[nadiaportia]

Community OC asks! What is some original lore you added to the Arcana-verse with your character? (locations, cultures, magic, etc) Tell us about them!

Thanks for the question! This is gonna be a really long one, so brace yourself, especially because I also start going off about my OCs so thanks for unleashing that lol.

For starters, the OCs I have in The Arcana originally come from another story - one that's sci-fantasy - so there already in a way was a location where the plot went down, and because I liked this so much when I transferred those very beloved and actually quite old OCs (talking 2015 here), I decided to also bring aspects of their world into the Arcanaverse, and because until now so few places besides Vesuvia are actually explored (there's Prakra, Nevivon, the South, Nopal and a whole bunch of places where we only know the name and very few information) that I decided to go further and explore the places beyond the map we got - so the three home countries of my OCs are all my own creation with some real life historic influences.

Oriol, the country where my OC Deirdra Margalit comes from, is a small country further to the east than Nevivon and the Strait of Seals with a temperate to meditterranean climate. I largely based it off Southern France and Catalonia in that it's a country with a large rural population as well as a intellectual elite that amassed wealth living in the cities and its capital. By the time the story is set it's ruled by a queen but there is a succession war in which the Queen's cousin claims the rule under the pretense of wanting to introduce reforms to the benefit of the rural population while the Queen refuses to do so, which spirals into a full-blown civil war with the Queen's loyalists on one side and the nationalists on one side. This civil war basically ends up dividing families and reaches its peak with a battle raging in the capital. Many Oriolians flee the country either into its neighboring regions or by ship and sail to places much further away when the loyalists win the war. That part is very much inspired by the Spanish Civil War from 1936-39 as well as the Troubles in Northern Ireland. The smallfolk of Oriol have magic that's mostly connected to nature, mundane one could say with it being used to make their lives a bit easier, they put great importance on community and family and fight for their principles with tooth and nail. Deirdra's family were on the side of the nationalists, with their parents hiding fellow nationalists during raids and their younger brother joining the partisans in secret. When said brother is killed and his body is brought home, Deirdra joins the partisans to avenge their brother and fights by their side along with their comrade-in-arms and eventual girlfriend Renée. They witness the final loss of the capital and Deirdra is forced to flee via ship along with other nationalists and after several weeks of being on the sea, they end up in Vesuvia.

Bizatena is a city-state similar to Vesuvia and its ruler doesn't have any sovereign to answer to. It's located to the west of the map and lies on a peninsula with the Sea of Persephia to one side and the open vast ocean to the other. The region enjoys a mediterranean to semi-arid climate with mountains at its gates and a vast desert beyond. The Palace is built on a hill and a cliffside, around that inner circle the nobility have their residences and around those, the "normal" people live. Bizatena is named after Byzantium/Constantinople and Athens and run by a council consisting of nobles from old and influential familes that is headed by the Emir of Bizatena. Over the years they have kept themselves atop of their game by making powerful allies and maintaining naval trade with other regions after they were once a great empire with Bizatena being its capital that fell apart and is now only a (nevertheless bright) shadow of its former glory. Magic of any kind is highly regarded and basically has the status of a religion, many of the councilmembers are magicians themselves and orphans usually are raised by magicians in one of the many temples all over the city. Sayelle grows up in one of these temples with the other magicians-in-training who become like siblings to her and her many mentors as parental figures, the most important among those being a magician named Farida who takes her under her wing after recognizing her talent and ambition. She becomes so good that when she reaches adulthood, she and Farida are invited to the Palace where Sayelle becomes a court magician and while she is enjoying her new life, her mentor thinks that she's removing herself too much from the real world and the people's problems. Ultimately Sayelle leaves Bizatena to explore the world and find out about and study the other types of magic practised by people elsewhere.

The homecountry of Ximena is the Calpacian Empire with its capital Cartagenth. It's located in the north of the Southern hemisphere and stretches itself across various climate zones with its capital being by the seaside. The capital and its surroundings are very much inspired by Central America as well as Spain, more specifically Baroque/Renaissance era Spain. It's the military and naval powerhouse of the region and its ruler and is allied to the city state of Bizatena and the city of Karnassos to the East, both once great realms that have long outlived their golden age. The ruler of Calpacia, the Zaan, resides in the Cartagense Palace and is supported by their advisors and the court, with both the Magician's Guild and the War Council having special standing. The Cartagense elite and aristocracy in general is very far removed from the rest of their compatriots to the point where they have a lot of regional pride. They place an incredibly high value on all forms of art, be it theater, architecture, sculpturing, music, paintings and so on to the point where most noble families receive an extensive education in all of these areas and specialize in at least one. Magic takes a sort of second place to them but is still valued but among the non-magician nobles seen as more of a tool or a means to an end than an actual way of life. Ximena is born as the youngest of three daughters of a marquesa and into a highly influential noble family and her intitution, ability to listen and tactfulness is what leads to getting trained as a magician from her childhood onwards and put on the track to one day lead the Magician's Guild (since the matriarch of her family, her aunt Esmé, a general and current leader of the War Council, wields so much power at court, it's practically a given that it'll happen) but finds out that she is merely going to be put into a position of power to abuse said power and the whole time she was wilfully ignorant and thus complicit about being a driving force in a cruel and unjust system. Because going against the family wishes doesn't sit well with her at all, her aunt banishes her and takes away her title so Ximena ends up leaving Cartagenth and Calpacia and spends the next years fueled by paranoia (then again... you're not paranoid if they are out to get you) going from place to place without staying a lot of time at one until one day she meets Asra.

This is at least the stuff surrounding my main OCs directly, there are a lot of other tidbits such as the places they go to on their respective journeys. In the original story all of these characters were based in what in my Arcana!verse became Cartagenth/Calpacia but that‘s really something for another day. 😅

Thanks a lot for asking! 💞

[iris-ymir]

Never-ending survey: Lareine

RULES: Repost, do not reblog. Tag 10 blogs! 

Tagged by @blood-of-the-dragons & @under-the-blood-moonlight 🖤

Tagging: @umbralich @vylette-elakha @lavender-hemlock @archon-ffxiv @illia-ast @torr-sceadu @istolin @rael-eryut @alun-ura & @cyrillien

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Lareine Kira, Iris Ymir (formerly).

NICKNAME: Young miss (by Arsene), Patient (by Varg).

AGE:  31

BIRTHDAY:   13th Sun of the 4th Umbral Moon

ETHNIC GROUP: Viera (Veena)

NATIONALITY: Othard, Skatay Range

LANGUAGE/S: Common, hingan & Ishgardian

SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Lesbian

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Lesbian (Iris), uncertain (Lareine).

RELATIONSHIP STATUS:  Its complicated...

HOME TOWN / AREA:  Ymir, Skatay Range

CURRENT HOME:  Pillars, Ishgard

PROFESSION: Assistant to Varg Blacksoul, thief (formerly).

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Short, raven-black hair with purple highlights.

EYES: Light purple, but appears almost black in dim lighting.

FACE: Inverted triangle-shaped face, and a rather sharp nose.

LIPS: Bow-shaped lips, usually painted purple.

COMPLEXION: Morbidly pale, with a hint of purple.

BLEMISHES: Dark circles under her eyes.

SCARS:  Five scars from stab-wounds on her torso (Three on abdomen, two on the left from her heart). Several smaller scars run all over her arms and right shoulder (Most of them hard to notice because of her pale skin-tone).

TATTOOS: Purple markings tattooed around her eyes. Rose-thorns and purple iris-flowers on her left thigh.

HEIGHT:  178cm

WEIGHT: Slightly underweight.

BUILD:  Slender & feminine. Somewhat toned arms, legs and abdomen.

FEATURES:  A beauty-mark below the left corner of her lips, long and sharp stiletto nails, usually painted black.

ALLERGIES:  None.

USUAL HAIR STYLE:  Seems to stay as a spiky mess, no matter what she does with it. A single braid on the left, sometimes decorated with couple of purple pearls.

USUAL FACE LOOK :  Impish smile, wide-eyes or slight pout (Lareine), pissed-off, tired or cynical (Iris)

USUAL CLOTHING:  Black or purple blouse with a corset, either long skirt or hotpants, long coat or a leather jacket & high-heeled boots.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S: Being tied down / restricted, locked doors, losing control.

ASPIRATION/S:  To one day be able to pay back to one man who took her life away, and to another who gave it back.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Extremely loyal towards those she holds dear, adaptable, witty.

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Clingy, childish & whiny (Lareine persona), trust issues,  violent & unpredictable (Iris persona)

TEMPERAMENT:  Sanguine (Lareine), Choleric (Iris).

SOUL TYPE/S:   Artisan

ANIMALS:  Black cat.

VICE HABIT/S: Rather heavy drinker and a stress-smoker.

FAITH: Not much in the religions.

GHOSTS?: Absolutely. Living and the dead ones.

AFTERLIFE?: As long as its not some boring, white space with nothing interesting to do.

REINCARNATION?:  Might be interesting.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Does not understand rat’s shit about politics.

EDUCATION LEVEL:  Street-smart.

FAMILY.

FATHER : Unknown father.

MOTHER :  Irene Ymir (Deceased).

SIBLINGS : Possibly half-siblings from father’s side.

EXTENDED FAMILY: Varg Blacksoul (Doctor / caretaker), Arsene Dreadeois (Butler), Silke Doomflare (Best friend, possible love interest).

NAME MEANING/S: Queen in “ishgardian” (Lareine), name of a flower (Iris).

HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: N/A

FAVORITES.

BOOK:  Old fairytales.

DEITY: N/A

HOLIDAY:  All Saints’ Wake.

MONTH: The months of midsummer & fall.

SEASON: Fall.

PLACE: A victorian style mansion, a room docorated with old dolls.

WEATHER: The gust of wind and the first drops of rain, before a thunderstorm.

SOUND / S: Crackling of a fireplace, grand piano, rain drumming on the roof and windows.

SCENT / S: Incence, fruity / flowery perfumes & rain.

TASTE / S:  Whiskey, sweets & rolanberry pie.

FEEL / S:  Soft fur, skin-to-skin contact, hot bath.

ANIMAL / S:  Anything furry, especially foxes & cats. She is a huge animal-lover overall.

NUMBER: Does not care for numbers.

COLORS: Black, all the shades of purple, violet, silver & red.

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Adaptability in different situations, lockpicking, speed & agility, self-learned with daggers & trained with ringblades, drawing.

BAD AT : Teamwork, manners, staying focused on one task, reading, controlling her feelings.

TURN ONS: Wanderlust, confidence, sense of humor, tattoos.

TURN OFFS: Untidyness, celf-centeredness, rasism.

HOBBIES: Bathing, drawing, people-watching.

TROPES: Guess she is a weird mix of femme fatale, dark lady & hopeless romantic..

QUOTES :  “My Varg-Varg, my knight in shining armor.”

                   “How dare you?! How friggin’ dare you, you creep?!” 

                   “Yesss...”

                   “The anal what?”

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1 :  If you could write your character your way in their own movie,  what would it be called,  what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?          

A1 :  The name of the movie would be “My name is Iris”. It would be a movie about her time in hospital. Pretty much the recent backstory, turned into a film, where the reality and events going inside her head would mix into a twisted nightmare. Something along the lines of Rob Zombie’s film “Lords of Salem”!

Q2 :  What would their soundtrack/score sound like?          

A2 :  Something eerie, with bells and such. A music that would fit into haunted house, full of creepy dolls. Bloodborne & Alice, Madness Returns soundtracks are quite spot on!

Q3 :  Why did you start writing this character?          

A3 :   I think the very first reason was that I somewhat lost touch with my old character. A bounty hunter named Fenris. I liked her, but somehow she did not feel like my own. So I started from scratch! I guess Lareine is one of those children who are not planned, but still end up being much loved. She ended up being my dearest character of all time, and the one I can relate most.

Q4 :   What first attracted you to this character?          

A4 :   I guess Im kind of a sucker for dragic types with an attitude and a hint of sillyness to balance it all.

Q5 :  Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.

A5 :  She tends to be a huge extrovert, while Im more of an introvert. So writing her can get bit “draining” time to time.

Q6 :  What do you have in common with your muse?          

A6 :   Fashion sense! We also have similar sense of humor, and as I have mentioned before, some of her problems mirror certain events in my life.

Q7 :   How does  your muse feel about  you?          

A7 :   We would most likely get along! If we lived under a same foor, one of us would end up dead though...

Q8 :  What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with ?        

A8 :  While Lareine can get along with almost anyone, for Iris, I think the most interesting characters to interact with are the ones that can match her temperament! It might also be interesting to match her up with some nobility, because of her lack of manners. Pretty much anything that will lead into juicy disasters, in one way or another!

Q9 :  What gives you inspiration to write your muse ?        

A9 : I mostly get my inspiration from music, soulsborne- and American McGee’s Alice-games, I mentioned earlier. Sometimes also from movies, if they happen to have some beautiful scenery. Rare these days, but the Nun was some serious eye-candy!

Q10 : How long did this take you to complete ?          

A10 : I dont know, as I made this on side with other stuff... Too long?

[youngster-monster]

live and die by the sword

There's is something deeply meaningful in a knight handing his sword to another. It's not only the symbol of his nobility: in battle, a sword is all that stand between a knight and death. Without it, he can't protect himself. By giving it to another, he gives him the mean to strike him down while disarming himself.

Gives him his life, the ability to protect or end it.

It's not a risk most knights are comfortable taking. Even brother-in-arms may be wary of leaving themselves unprotected, if only from outside threats.

Arthur, of course, has no idea. It's one of the many things he didn't know when he became king. He wasn't raised a sword in hand. He wasn't even raised a noble, only a squire to his brother. He knows what a sword does. It's a weapon. A knight's sword or a woodsman’s ax aren't that far apart in terms of use. They cut things and that's about the gist of it. Mostly he's aware of what a sword represents to the people, the farmers, even the blacksmith that forged it. It's nobility. Power. Knighthood.

He doesn’t know what a sword means.

And Arthur really, really wants to be a knight. Wants to earn the title, more than inherit it; that's how it's always been, in his mind. One can only be made a knight, not become one of his own volition.

That's why it doesn't quite register, when he takes Excalibur, that this is it. He's a knight now. To him, he only got the sword and none of the power and duty that comes with it.

He tries asking Gawain, first, and is confused by his protests.

"I am not worthy of this sword," the knight explains, half bowing in deference. 

"Yes you are. I'm handing it to you," he replies, puzzled.

"No, I– I can't. I'm sorry, sire." He goes to explain, maybe, either himself or the situation.

 Arthur waves him off with a tired sigh. "Leave me."

"But –"

"I want to be alone," he snaps.

Gawain leaves without another word.

 It hurts, still, that he'd refuse. Hasn't Arthur proved himself already? Isn't he worthy of the title, the responsibility? Wasn't the sword trial and proof enough?

And if Gawain was telling the proof, if he's truly not worthy of the sword–

If he can only be knighted by someone his equal or above him–

Who will knight him, he who was already crowned king?

(It never crosses his mind to be satisfied by that much. King isn't enough. Nothing will ever be, with his heart set on knighthood.)

-

No knight worth his salt as ever handed Maleagant his sword in anything but defeat.

He doesn't begrudge them their lack of trust: he's not exactly a trustworthy man. They may trust in his strength, his cleverness, but his character? They're not foolish enough for that.

Excepted for Arthur Pendragon, apparently.

He looks up the long blade presented to him hilt first, to the bloody, ashen face watching him wearily. The… king holds himself awkwardly, half cradling the wound of his stomach, but the offer is made with complete confidence.

A desperate kind of it, nonetheless.

Surely it must be the blood loss, Maleagant thinks as he struggles to his feet, beaten and bruised. Or it's a trick. That must be it.

But Arthur's eyes are earnest as he says, "Take it and make me your equal."

The would-be king knighting the rightful heir... Ironic, in a way, but fitting.

He takes the sword, gingerly. Excalibur is lighter in his hands than he expected it to be. As if it would go back to its previous immovability at his contact.

There's a bitter, angry weight in his chest as he lifts the sword, poising for a strike. The other knights shift, drawing theirs–

Arthur only kneels, silent, expectant.

He doesn't know what it means to hand his sword, but... Maybe a part of him does, still.

(He can never say no to a pretty man on his knees.)

An invisible fish hook catches onto the underside of his ribs, pulling him half a step forward, closer yet–

He chokes out the ritual words. "Arthur Pendragon. By Excalibur... I make you a knight of Britain."

A shock goes up his arm, sparking from the point of contact between his palm and the hilt. Excalibur almost seems to sing, clear and brief as a silver bell before it settles in a low, comforting hum.

He throws the accursed blade at Arthur's feet. It clatters to the ground, no more than mere metal, but it's still a phantom weight in Maleagant's hand, warm right through his gloves. 

It's unfair. It's so, so unfair, that he would be given Arthur's life on a silver platter and could only give it back to him. He wishes he could plunge his own sword through the damned king's throat and paint the cobblestone blue with his royal blood.

There's old magic at work here, wrapping around his bones. He knows it, son of old magic as he is himself.

He held his king's life in his hands and deemed it just and worthy enough to save and give back whole. It's as good as an oath on his own life and honor.

His hand spasms at the thought of bathing fresh, hot blood. The old hunger, tampered like a fine blade by the curious wrongness the idea inspires him. Arthur, dead, is no longer something he can achieve himself. Not when Excalibur offered it to him and he refused, all because he was– 

What? Too honor-bound to strike a foe who already bested him? Or to afraid to fall at the hand of the dozen other knights loyal to the king?

It doesn't matter. Pride and cowardice are equal admissions of defeat, and defeat means servitude.

(This is how you tame a wolf: early enough it doesn't realize you're a threat yet, with a gentle hand and a steel resolve.)

Arthur rises to his feet, wavers, collapses, blood loss finally hitting him. Gawain surges forward to hold him up. Maleagant is closer. He catches Arthur easily, lowering him to the ground with more gentleness than he deserves.

"Put him down," Gawain snarls.

Maleagant sighs wearily. Gingerly he shifts his hold until he can lift Arthur in what he's unwilling to call a bridal carry. "He needs medical attention, and quick. He's bleeding out."

"Because of you!"

 "And it will be your fault if he dies now."

It shuts the argument effectively. How sweet it is, to be feared still, if only for the power he holds on their king.

Guinevere is sweeter still as she takes a step forward. "Bring him inside and I can tend to his wounds."

Sweet and far out of his reach, even if she was promised to him. Already it feels as if his bones are turning to steel, too sharp and jagged to be held. Excalibur burns in the corner of his vision like the afterimage left by the sun.

He stubbornly refuses to look at it. The capricious thing can rust for all he cares.

-

This time, when Arthur wakes up, it's not to Genevieve's angelic face and the brush of a wet cloth on his feverish forehead.

Instead he wakes up to Maleagant's thunderous face as the witch-knight jabs him in the side with his pointy gauntlet.

He protests the rough treatment weakly before the situation registers and he attempts to sit up.  "What-"

Maleagant makes an annoyed sound, low in his throat, and pushes him back down with a hand on his chest. "Do you have a single idea what you did?" He snaps, more wolf than man for the span of an enraged breath. His face is cast in impossible shadows, too dark and fey for his traits. "Handing the sword of kings to anyone passing by, expecting them to knight you and be done with it!"

He twists a wet cloth as he speaks, putting all his anger and frustration into wringing it.

That's when he realizes he's half naked. And Maleagant, for some obscure reason, is helping him rather than finishing him off.

"What-" He coughs. His dry throat won't let more than that single word slips out. He scowls in frustration.

"Shut up, for once, that will do you some good."

He's tempted to try again, if only to be contrary, but a truly thunderous look from Maleagant makes his jaw snap shut on its own accord.

He takes a moment to study the other knight, instead. Maleagant looks the same as ever, his delicate face drawn in a resentful expression that his long hair can't properly cover. His armor still glint beetle-black, the skull on the pauldron glaring back when his eyes settle upon it.

His handsome features don't make him any less of a fearful sight. If anything they make it worse: there's something off about him, something strange and fey weaved in the inky hair, glinting in the depth of his green eyes.

Witch-knight, they called him in court, only in whispers, as if afraid of summoning him. Sorcerer, changeling, bargain-child.

He can't help to wonder if there was any truth to those rumors. But Maleagant is oddly... Not gentle, but careful as he treats his wound. He cuts off the dirty bandages in a single, graceful twist of a knife and sets to cleaning the wound with brusque but light movements. Arthur winces at the sting, which doesn't elicit any sympathy. He hisses between his teeth when Maleagant prods his stitches, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. His lips twist, not quite happy but satisfied of the work.

Silence lingers as Maleagant wraps clean bandages around his middle and ties it in a strong knot.

Finally he seems to take pity of Arthur, though he avoids his eyes too much for his intentions to be read easily. With one hand he brings Arthur to a sitting position. He bears his weight easily, his gloved fingers splayed over his back. With the other hand he brings a goblet of water to his lips and tilts it slightly, forcing Arthur to swallow slowly despite his thirst.

When the goblet is empty and Arthur feels less like his throat is filled with sand, he rocks back on his heels. His hand trails over Arthur's back, slow to let go in case he is too weak to stay upright by himself. For a moment he seems engrossed in the simple act of putting away the goblet, setting it down with infinite care and never letting it out of his sight, as if it were the Graal itself.

"What are you doing?" Arthur finally managed to ask. His voice sounds raspy from disuse even to his own ears.

"Cleaning up," Maleagant innocently replies. 

"What happened?" He asks instead, hoping a different wording will make Maleagant more likely to answer.

Maleagant wrings out the bloody rag over the basin one last time before a great sigh seems to take over him. His shoulders drop with it,  and the rag slips through his fingers and land in the pinkish water with a splash he doesn't seem to register.

"What do you think happened?" He asks back, seemingly out of the blue. "You handed me Excalibur, gave me your sword, and asked me to knight you. Heedless of the threat I represented, especially armed while you were not."

"You didn't kill me, though. You're tending to my wounds right now."

A glimpse of– something flashes in his eyes. Some complicated, incomprehensible emotion like a lightning strike. His fingers tense, the only outward sign of his agitation. When he speaks his voice is strained, almost shaking in his effort to remain calm and unaffected.

"You gave me... Maybe the most powerful magical artifact of the isles, yours by right of blood. And had me make you my equal." There's a weight to his words. Like he can't believe what happened himself. He repeats, "What do you think happened?"

Arthur groans. Nobles, with their mind games and twisting words and refusal to say things straight. "I don't know, that's why I asked. And I didn't make you do anything. You could have refused."

"You fought me and won. Whatever you asked, I was bound to do." Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. He can taste it, unexpectedly, like bitter wine at the back of his throat. "And so I did. Congratulations, my king: you are a true knight now."

Maleagant never calls him his king, not since he claimed the crown as his by right and set to bring Arthur down by any means necessary. He seems to read the confusion in Arthur's silence and finally lifts pale, green eyes to meet his.

"You gave me your sword and had me knight you. In the eyes of magic, in accepting to do so, I accepted you as my rightful king as well." He lets out a mirthless chuckle. "The king is dead. Long live the king."

Arthur blinks owlishly. His sleep-muddled brain works through the information slowly, laboriously, like the wheels of a cart stuck in mud.

"So you're not going to fight me for the crown anymore?" He finally asks.

Maleagant casts a willful glance at his side, as if wondering if striking Arthur down right now was worth it. In the end he decides against it.

"No, I won't. I can't."

"Why, though?" Oaths never stopped anyone from committing regicide before. Even the most loyal of knights can be swayed by love or money, and Maleagant... Doesn't strike him as the 'most loyal' type.

Maybe Maleagant understands his meaning, or he reads it in his eyes – jumping to his dark armor, his bloodied sword. "Old magic is not so easily disobeyed as Merlin. Even the druid, powerful as he is, answer to someone. Something. Old magic only answers to itself." He looks away, not in shyness but bitter regret. "An oath on Excalibur is an oath on the old magic. No one would be foolish enough to swear on either – except for me, apparently."

"Well, I'm glad." At Maleagant's burning stare, he explains quickly, lifting a placating hand. "I saw you fight, that day, in the tournament. You're a fearful opponent. I'd hate to have to face you in battle again." At this he gestures to the bandages around his middle, a clear example of what would happen were he to fight Maleagant again. "I do prefer my guts to remain inside of my body."

The flattery is far from unfounded and it shocks a chuckle from Maleagant. "I suppose I will have to let you keep them, then."

He rises to his feet with a fluid grace that doesn't even disturb his armor, where another knight would have made at least some kind of clatter. He gathers the water and other healing supplies in his arms and turn on his heels. Arthur is ready to believe he will leave without another word but he stops in the doorway.

"Rest," he orders. "Leodagan insisted on a feast tonight. It would be a shame if you fell asleep in your plate."

Against his better judgment he asks, "What will you do in the mean time?"

But he's already gone.

-

Maleagant is rarely a good man, and he definitely isn't a kind one. That why he grins when he sees Arthur is still sleeping, and empties a bucket of ice cold water over his head to wake him up.

The king sits up with a gasp, spluttering. Rivulets of water drip down his neck, his chest, disappear under his bandages. Maleagant doesn't let himself stare and throw Arthur a towel. It hits him in the face and puts a quick end to his undignified noises. 

"Dry yourself, it's time."

Arthur throws him a mulish glare but complies, or tries too. It's obvious his wound still pains him, and he can't lift his arms much higher than his chest without wincing in pain. 

Taking pity on him – it is, after all, his fault he is wounded – Maleagant kneels to his side and pries the towel from his fumbling hands. He rubs his hair until it is somewhat dry and sticking up every way. 

"It would have been quicker to not throw the water," Arthur says, the pout easy to hear in his voice.

"Yes, but much less amusing. Can you stand?"

Arthur tries, bless his heart, but he can't do much more than sitting up of his own power. He looks up pleadingly.

Pleadingly. At Maleagant. Dear god, they will eat him alive out there. If he's ready to trust a former enemy so blindly – they were at war less than a week ago –then what of his allies?

Someone, eventually, is bound to take advantage of his naivety. Something in Maleagant recoils at the thought. For better or for worse they're connected now, and he'll be damned if he let anyone abuse his sovereign. 

There's a brand on his soul, claiming him as Arthur's – the same, he expects that will mark all those he knights himself in the future.

He wonders if they will feel it too, pulling taunt against their ribs like harp strings. Ringing in their bones whenever Arthur strums them, a touch or a word, unsaid orders he doesn't notice and Maleagant can't quite escape.

Shaking his head he brings himself back to the present. He takes Arthur's arm over his shoulders and hoist him up. The other man grunts in pain and lays more on Maleagant than on his own weak legs. Holding him up is kind of awkward: their height difference is slight, barely noticeable, but he can feel it all the same as he bends slightly forward.

"If you can't stay up of your own volition, I don't see the point in dragging you down there," he says offhandedly.

Arthur pushes him off. He lets go, amused despite himself at how easy it was. He can't keep the smirk off his face as he watches his king wobble in place, trying to stand on legs weak after days laying down.

This time he doesn't bother letting him dress by himself. They're on a bit of a schedule here. And there are no servants coming to help any time soon. Merlin was quite final in his decision to put Arthur's convalescence his responsibility alone as a punishment of sort for putting him in that state to begin with.

(The damned felt the old magic as soon as he approached Maleagant. He finds the situation all too amusing, if his constant cackling is any indication, and hasn't seen fit to worry about leaving the two of them alone.

He knows there are no reasons to. Whether it's a blessing or a curse remains to be seen.)

Maleagant doesn't waste time dressing Arthur. He stomps down the vague humiliation of acting like a squire or a servant. 

Part of him chafes against the feeling, knowing it could have been him wearing the crown.

The rest thrums with magic, sings with it. He breathes it in, hold his breath, releases it, and goes back to his task. He bats Arthur's fingers away from where they're trying to clumsily tie his laces. Once Arthur gets the hint and stops hindering him he makes quick work of the rest of his outfit. The cloak goes last, covering his lack of armor.

They stand like that for a moment, toes to toes, Maleagant's fingers curled in the ruddy fur around his shoulders.

The black knight looks deep into honest, steel-willed eyes, and makes a choice.

It's one he's already made, he simply hadn't noticed before.

He takes a single step back and slowly, deliberately, kneels. 

"Maleagant–"

"Arthur Pendragon," he intones, cutting him. His eyes linger on the boots in front of him, cataloging the creases in the leather rather than facing Arthur head-on. If he did he's not sure he could do this at all. That rebellious part of him rears up, clawing at the inside of his skull. He chokes out the rest of the sentence before it can break through. "I, Maleagant, pledge myself to you. On my blood and on the old magic I swear to follow you and protect you, in war and in peace, through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered. My sword will be your sword. My shield will be your shield."

Arthur attempts to speak, but he's not done, dammit. He keeps his eyes stubbornly downcast as he continues. "I give everything to you. My arm, so it may guard you. My heart, so it may beat only in your name. My soul, so I may be entirely devoted to you. I shall live to fight for you and die before dishonoring your name."

His blood sings, high and clear as a chorus of silver bells. Eagerness and fear struggle for superiority in his mind, a sickening anticipation sending his heartbeat in a frenzy.

"That sounds more like marriage vows than..." Arthur's voice trails off. He wets his lips, tries again. "Are you sure?"

Finally he lifts his head and looks Arthur dead in the eyes so he may know he means it. "Will you have me, my king? At your side in battle and court, as your sword and shield, a right hand to help you lead in battle and out of it?"

It's a sacrifice for the both of them. Maleagant may lay all he is at his feet, but Arthur entrusts him with his life and kingdom in return. A dangerous bargain to do with any knight, let alone one like Maleagant.

But he has one advantage on the rest of them: he doesn't get a choice on loyalty. It's been thrust upon him and now he must follow wherever it leads, for better or for worse.

"I will have you," Arthur says. First he sounds hesitant but seems to find assurance as he speaks, his eyes never wavering from Maleagant's. "And all that you will give him. I will watch over you as I watch over my kingdom, and never ask of you that you shame yourself. Your honor will be my honor, your name will be my name, your sword an extension of my arm." 

Something snaps into place inside of Maleagant. As if his entire being, unbalanced since he had taken Excalibur, had finally settled. A loose end tying itself around his soul. He lets it sink in, welcomes it. 

Arthur fumbles then, realizing he had to close the ritual somehow and unsure how to do it. He stumbles forward, as if pulled by some invisible strings to close the distance between them. He brings his hands to Maleagant's jaw. They hover there, not quite touching him, before he cups his face.

"Arise, Maleagant, my sworn shield," He whispers.

Maleagant follows the lead of his hands, rising to his feet and resting his forehead against Arthur's. He dares not blink, almost holding his breath until his world becomes nothing more than Arthur's eyes on his, Arthur's breath on his lips.

Arthur opens his mouth to speak. They are drawn closer, until they are almost flush against each other–

The door slams open.

"Arthur-"

Leodegrance stops short at the sight of the two of them. He clears his throat. Slowly, Maleagant turns his face and shoots him a glare so dark he feels his soul cringe back.

He turns on his heels and walk out of the room without ever saying what he came here to say.

When he turns back to Arthur, his king has a dazed look on his face, as if coming out of a dream.

"What was that?" He asks. His hands fell from Maleagant's face to his neck and he digs his nails in without realizing. 

"Magic," Maleagant says, and drags him forward by the front of his cloak to kiss him furiously.

They don't make it to Leodegrance's feast. He very carefully doesn't remark on it.

[kokina-kizoku]

Noblesse Painter AU: The Meeting

Go here for the presentation of this AU.

Frankenstein was in a state of deep torment. His emotions were dueling: admiration against disgust, wonder against rage. He had finally arrived in Lukedonia, the world capital of painters, and was certainly not disappointed by the artistic quality of what he saw: everywhere on the walls of the buildings were painted magnificent frescoes, each with a unique theme. For example, the Kertia mansion was decorated with images of wind and lightning, representing speed, and the Landegre mansion was very imposing with its elegant columns, painted with nobility and distinction.

However, wherever he looked, he saw the injustice that enraged him: ease. The children born in Lukedonia were supported by great artistic masters, brought up in luxury, lodged and fed like princes. And all their paintings represented opulence. Frankenstein was thinking about his mother, who died for lack of money to cure her, and to himself who had to search the trash and sometimes even steal to get a tiny amount of paint to express his art.

At one point, he passed a large mansion decorated with frescoes representing the fire, with the sign "Avgain Family" written in gold letters above the door. These warm colors made him think of Tesamu and he felt a poignant sadness add to his anger. Fucking Union. Fucking humans unfair and selfish.

The heart hardened by this memory that still hurt, even after three years of separation with his little assistant, he took a dark resolution. That night, he was going to add his colors to the rich and pretentious city of Lukedonia.

The brush slowly slid against the canvas, bright red mixing with the black to create a blood-colored hue. Raizel knew this mixture by heart. In each of his works, there was at least one small red spot. It was his signature, for lack of a real one. Raizel did not know how to write. The only thing he had always been able to do was paint over and over again. He had no idea of the letters that made up his name, but why sign his works? Anyway, there was no one to admire them.

That night he was sketching the image of angel's wings on his canvas. Two scarlet and bloody wings. Those whom his brother had not had to fly when he had pushed him off the cliff to prevent him from doing evil.

A tear fell on Raizel's pale cheek, devoid of color because he was never exposed to the sun. The pain that filled his heart was impossible to express, even with the greatest artistic talent in the world. He hated crying. His father had always told him that it was a weakness. That his emotions should never be expressed otherwise than by art.

Raizel's fingers were shaking. He hated his talent. He would have liked to learn something else... To learn love, happiness... Now that he was alone, he had nothing left. Just hundreds of useless paintings adorn his huge, empty house.

Suddenly, a sound of fast footsteps echoed across the door of his studio and Urokai Avgain entered. He was out of breath and his eyes were furious.

''Sir Raizel! There is a poverty-stricken who wreaks havoc in the city... We hastily painted his portrait. If you have seen it, report it to us!’’

Urokai placed a folded sheet on the table, bowed with deference, and hurried away. Raizel sighed. This sudden visit had at least had the advantage of distracting him from his grief.

He rose slowly. His body was thin and weakened by inaction and lack of food. Indeed, he had already spent 24 hours painting, completely forgetting his physical limits. But his health did not matter to him. He took the paper and unfolded it carefully.

The man in portrait had young and beautiful features. His blond hair in battle fell on his broad and strong shoulders, his lips were tight with determination and his eyes seemed troubled, lost. Blue like the sky. This portrait gave off power and wandering. Raizel recognized, for having already seen it before, the characteristic signature of Ragar Kertia at the bottom of the sheet. This man had always been talented, drawing with extraordinary speed and perfect precision.

Raizel brought the sheet to his easel. He had just found the inspiration, the person he was going to illustrate as an avenging angel with scarlet wings.

Frankenstein was exhausted. His arm was aching and the cold of the night made him shudder. He always wore rags, worn clothes on his travels, and had no time or money to buy a good coat. But he plunged his brush again into the purple paint. On the main wall of the Kertia mansion, he smeared furiously another streak of color. He had time to finish blackening these offensive designs; he was returning from the Urokai mansion and the men were still looking for him.

He took a few steps back to evaluate the whole, then raised his brush again in order to make the final line that would create in his drawing without a definite shape, that wild and unstable harmony he so much loved. But his movement stopped in the air when a soft and severe voice called to him.

‘’I ask you to stop now.’’

A few steps from him, the Kertia clan leader was standing, looking very calm, alone in the middle of the street. Frankenstein gritted his teeth. He would have preferred to see the man start screaming at him and attacking him. It would have been worse than the impassive gaze as he faced her, his cashmere scarf hiding the lower part of his face and his silk coat. As for him, he was panting, dressed in torn clothes, covered with paint and trembling with cold. This contrast of richness between them made his anger even more vivid and he said defiantly:

'' What if I do not stop? ''

"These frescoes were painted by my father, in honor of our family. I politely ask you to respect that. I do not wish to fight you; I am a painter, not a warrior. ''

"Oh, do you see that?" Frankenstein mocked. ''Your little bourgeois hands can not be damaged by giving a blow? ''

"It would be dishonorable for me to do it out of anger, you are clearly not in a normal mental state at the moment, and, moreover, sick and shaky. Be reasonable, stop now. I know very well why you are if angry with the nobles, your art is eloquent and denounces opulence, but there are many things you do not understand... Please, calm down and let me help you."

'' BULLSHIT! Why would you help me? You do not know anything about me! ''

"I know what suffering is."

"That's enough, Ragar," said another voice, more serious and ripe. "He is not able to think and listen to you right now. The mayor has given us the order to capture him and bring him behind him. Let's fulfill this mission now."

Frankenstein watched with resentment as the second, silver-haired, older man emerged from the shadows. Ragar looked sad and nodded.

"You are right, Gejutel. I'm sorry, but we're going to force you to-"

He paused when Frankenstein grabbed the paint bucket with one hand, ready to swing it in his face. But he changed his mind at the last second and instead threw it on the named Gejutel, who was splashed with violet paint from head to toe.

He barely heard the old man's shout of surprise, running at full speed. He hated to run away but he had no choice at the moment if he wanted to save his life. The members of the Urokai family had tried to kill him and he did not trust the mayor of this town, which certainly should not be less radical. The man called Ragar had seemed kind and understanding, but he could not take any chances.

Frankenstein ran as far as the city, a terrible pain oppressing his chest. His cough increased and he had difficulty breathing. He found himself in a field and without the cover of the buildings, the cold wind slapped him without pity and he could not see anything in that absolute darkness. There were not even stars in the sky.

He saw the lights of a manor shining in the distance. A manor house in such an isolated place? Strange... He was getting ready to go into the forest, but he felt his head spinning and realized he could not stay outside anymore. The cold would end up killing him. He also had a chance to die if the inhabitants of the manor found him, but between that and let his corpse be found in the morning in the middle of a field...

He gathered his last strength to get to the mansion. It was tall and imposing, and even in the dim light, Frankenstein noticed that he was not decorated with frescoes like all the others. It gave him a good impression. The owners of this mansion were not eager to show what they had to others.

As he entered, a flush of heat made him shiver with relief. But the house was not as hot as it should have been, and despite the lit oil lamps in the hallway where he walked, the mood was dark and empty. Dust covered the floor, and there were only two footprints track on it. He was so exhausted, his mind so lethargic that he automatically followed this track instead of trying to hide. He had a presentiment that he was not in danger in this manor.

As he passed, he put on a white shirt hanging from a coat rack, ignoring the fact that it was not his. It was a beautiful linen garment, the same one he had dreamed of wearing when he was a kid. As he climbed the stairs, trying to drive out those sad memories of his memory, his gaze stopped on the huge paintings hanging on the wall and his breath was cut off.

They represented ragged landscapes, with fuzzy and faded colors, with spots of red spotted in a few places. Such a poignant emotion filled them that Frankenstein put a hand to his heart, upset. Other paintings represented people with empty eyes, wandering in the fog and completely alone...

Suddenly, footsteps on the first floor brought him out of his contemplation. He had to hide. A coughing fit shook him and he pressed a hand against his mouth, leaning against the wall. His legs were close to collapse, but his survival instinct was stronger and he forced himself to walk to the end of the hallway and open the door to the last room.

He froze on the spot. It was a painting workshop, filled with pots of all colors, high ceiling. Paintings decorated the old tapestry. And near the window, an easel was installed. A man sat with a brush in his hand and stared at him. This man was frail and livid, his skin white as snow, his hair black as night and his eyes glistening with a reddish glow. His deep eyes pierced Frankenstein into his soul.

'' I ... I ... ''

He could not speak. The silence of this man was an invincible weapon. The window, open despite the intense cold, let in the wind that whipped the thin figure of the painter and fly through the air immaculate curtains. A flash of light suddenly illuminated the sky, creating dazzling lights in the room, and the thunder sounded. Frankenstein, like electrified, says in a whisper:

‘’Good evening. I came to work here.’’

Raizel, bewildered, looked at this intruder who had desperate and suspicious eyes like those of a wild animal. It was him, the one who was wanted through Lukedonia. He has released as much power and torment as in his portrait. Raizel could feel his panic, his anger, his loneliness. Then, gently, he did something he had not done in years, naturally, to appease the terror he saw in his blue eyes like the sky. He spoke.

‘’You wear my shirt.’’

The man looked embarrassed, but relieved at the same time not to be hurt.

‘’Ah, uh, yes. I did not find anything else, forgive me.’’

The door opened suddenly, and panic returned in his eyes. Frankenstein took a step back. The old man with silver hair, looking satisfied, or at least the most we can be when we are covered with purple paint, stood next to Ragar Kertia in the embrasure of the door. The latter, on the other hand, did not seem very happy and rather guilty of not being so.

"We found him. It was the last place I would have thought ... "

"He came to work here."

Gejutel paused, his mouth open and his eyes wide. He looked at Raizel as if to ask him if it was really him who had just spoken.

"You ... um ... what do you mean?"

"He came to work here because I live alone and I need someone to maintain my paintings."

Frankenstein did not understand much about his situation, except that the ebony-haired painter was defending him. He tried to support his words, but a violent cough shook him as soon as he opened his lips. He placed his palm in front of his mouth to repress it, and blood fell on his palm.

"You are sick," Ragar said. Frankenstein gave him a annoyed look.

"I know how to take care of myself."

"We have to take him to the mayor," Gejutel said authoritatively, ignoring the dialogue between the two. Raizel replied in a whisper:

"I will send him when he is healed."

The two clan leaders bowed, and came out after giving Frankenstein a last look. The latter, once the door closed, found himself without words. The painter looked at him with compassion, and got up to close the window from which the cold draft was coming.

"Thank you for saving me," he finally said. '' My name is... Frankenstein...''

"Cadis Etrama di Raizel."

Frankenstein printed this name in his memory. He was not at all like the other nobles... Faded, silent, and surrounded by an aura of power and calm. His eyes fell at random on the canvas he was painting. He stepped forward, fascinated. The painting depicted a man with scarlet wings... A man with blond hair and blue eyes like the sky...

He realized with shock that it was himself and the memories poured into his memory.

"Mom, you always say that angels protect us. Who are they?''

'' They are the artists, my treasure. Those who create beautiful and moving things for humans... "

"Can I become an angel, mother?"

''I think so. You are so good for others.''

Frankenstein's lips began to shake. There was no reason for him to be combed like this; he was more of a demon than an angel. But this painting was moving, more beautiful than any other he had seen in his life.

"It's so beautiful ..." he said in a panting breath. The painter lowered his eyes. Frankenstein convulsed as another fit of coughing him, preventing him from breathing and filling his mouth with blood.

He fainted.

Coming soon in Noblesse Painter AU: Frankenstein's healing, his first moments with Raizel and his confrontation with Ragar.