#if we didn't have the eddas

[minetteskvareninova]

I sincerely hope Overly Sarcastic Productions will someday do a video on Slavic mythology. Just so Red gains some sort of gratitude for our sources on Nordic and Celtic mythology.

[skaldish]

Can I ask you your opinion about Asatru Alliance? I live in Italy and I'm starting to see some pagan organizations using Asatru Alliance as a trusted reference for Heathenry. I have my doubts, but it could be that something gets lost in translation.

And by the way, apparently Asatru Alliance reconstructed a day to celebrate Loki and Sigyn, the 31 of july? 🤔

The general answer I have here is to follow this rule of thumb:

Any American org that has the word "Asatru" in it is probably plagued by some bullshit, even if it's not the racist kind.

These orgs operate out of structures they inherited from their Folkish origins. Even if they are not Folkish now, most were established during a time when Folkish Heathenry was the only kind of Heathenry that existed in America.

One notable structure they inhereted was "whoever is in charge controls the narrative of Heathenry for everyone else." So if you want that narrative to change, you need to elect different leaders.

Even the Asatru Alliance admits it determines who it accepts based on whether the applicant is a "good fit" or not, basically admitting there's a norm of narrative-control in their ranks.

Having an authority control the narrative—even when it's a narrative you like—is antithetical to how Heathenry operates, where practices and customs emerge organically from people and culture, not from doctrines or religious authorities determining what's what. (We have a recent example of something new emerging in Heathenry, actually, in the form of Spongecake Day as a holiday for Loki.)

The Asatru Alliance is also basically the posterchild of what I call "Viking Christianity." They take the Norse gods and slot them into a Christian structure, treat the Eddas like holy books, treat the Hávamál like scripture, etc.

I don't know much about the holiday they reconstructed, but I do know many reconstructionists have a bad habit of treating the past as a doctrine to follow. Reconstructing the past can tell us a lot about how Heathenry was practiced in a given time and place, but using it as doctrine is, hilariously enough, very ahistorical—the Norse people didn't base their religion around what they discovered about their Bronze-Age forebearers, so why would we do the same?

Even if the Asatru Alliance didn't have the narrative-control aspect baked into their system, the org doesn't really strike me as one that understands Heathenry's religious architecture. After all, knowledge of Norse Studies is not the same as knowledge of theology.

So no, I wouldn't really trust them as a resource on Heathenry.

[cosmic-metanoia]

Masculinity Concepts in FFXVI

***Spoilers for Final Fantasy 16***

I wanted to focus on the concept of masculinity in Final Fantasy XVI.

I really love how we see different aspects of masculinity portrayed in the characters. I won't go over every male character in the game but I'll mostly focus on the Dominants along with some side characters.

*Clive - I have a whole character analysis post dedicated to him but to highlight a couple points - he has many wonderful qualities that make him very admirable not just as a man but as a person. Despite his handsome looks that we all know and love, he has a surprising softness inside him and wears his emotions on his sleeve at times especially when it comes to Jill. We see moments when he bares his soul and weeps out of sorrow or joy which makes him more masculine, in my opinion, not less.

*Joshua - His masculinity is incredibly refreshing as it is the complete opposite of toxic masculinity. His face has soft and almost feminine-like features. He may have spent his young life being physically frail but he demonstrates a fiery strong spirit. He has this honest chivalry to him yet views everyone as equals and has a gift for poetic words as a result his study of books. He is merciful and incredibly kind but is unafraid to demonstrate his prowess on the battlefield like his older brother.

*Cid - Now this guy is your classic smokin' cowboy archetype but with MUCH better attitude. He oozes masculine charm, wit, and charisma but he uses it for the betterment of society and to persuade others to join his revolutionary cause. But his motives are candid and straightforward. I love how he didn't exist just to flirt, be eye candy, or simply be the comic relief. He becomes the mentor whose legacy lives on through Clive and bonds the hideaway folks into a real family.

*Dion - He IS the reason why Sanbreque was able to tip the scales to its favor - because he is the powerful Dominant of Bahamut. He is the prince but he climbed the ranks and earned the respect of his elite dragoons. He exudes military spirit and possesses a flair for political language as a future leader yet has a sense of honor and duty to his people. And along with that I can bring up Terence who is also a military man and climbed the ranks to be by Dion's side. Their love for each other is tender and beautiful and perceived as just another aspect of themselves.

*Kupka - Now this guy is your typical gym bro and is quite the buffoon (I cracked up when Sleipnir says something like "seems Hugo's head was filled with rocks afterall.) He gives the strong impression that he does not respect women (ahem, that servant he kicked) with the exception of Benedikta who could care less about him. Kupka is your stereotypical toxic masculine type.

*Barnabas - Another villain who uses his masculine aura to dominate and overpower. Even when it came to the intimate scene with Benedikta, he certainly gives the impression that carnal pleasure is just a means to an end. Benedikta knew immediately that he'd throw her away as soon as she lost her use to him. Also... I mean...the dude carries a huge sword like he's trying to make a statement LOL!

In terms of side characters, we see that even the hardened Blackthorne is encouraged to open up his feelings which (through many side quests) he is eventfully able to do and make peace with his past. We see the rugged Otto and his eyes brimming with tears when speaking about the late Cid or about the Bearer son he lost. We see Goetz as the gentle giant who is working on his own self-confidence. We also see Gav who gets emotional after a few kegs of ale and cares deeply about Edda and her baby. And even Uncle Byron who shows his sense of power through his financial generosity but loves to put on a good show (he would be quite the actor in Shakespeare theater!)

There are many male characters that I missed but I wanted to focus on a handful of characters. We're so used to seeing the typical battle-hardened and gruff heroes that eventually claim victory over their enemies and get the girl. It's nice to have a story where you have men with different pasts and drives that pull them forward to their futures.

I will also (hopefully soon) write about the female characters as well! :)

[avelera]

Some missed opportunities for Norse Mythology references in the Loki S2 Finale

I want to quickly preface this by saying the Loki show never claimed to be about or even incorporate more than passing nods to Norse mythology, so the following "missed opportunities" are more things that I think could have been cool and were perhaps within reach as references, but that even at my most wildly optimistic I didn't and still don't really expect because the show has been so very clear on this front. It's not fair to say these are flaws because the show never pretended to be about Norse mythology. NEVERTHELESS, because I'm a big nerd:

1) Ragnarok - All respect to Waititi and Thor III, it was a great interpretation of the myth, but I've always longed for something a little closer to the doom and mysticism of the mythology and the Loki S2 finale came tantalizingly close to invoking it, but fell short of actually using the word. Because Ragnarok isn't just about the fall of the gods, it's about the destruction and rebirth of the world. "After [the events of Ragnarok], the world will rise again, cleansed and fertile, the surviving and returning gods will meet, and the world will be repopulated by two human survivors." 

Gee does that sound familiar! Almost like destroying all of the timelines to create them anew! Almost like that's what Sylvie was invoking by telling him it's better to accept destruction rather than accept imprisonment, and to build something new out of the ashes.

That's Ragnarok. That's literally Ragnarok and they invoked it in so many ways there short of actually using the damn word.

Loki, the god destined to bring about Ragnarok, proceeding to directly bring down the current timeline by destroying and then renewing it with a male and female survivor to help rebuild (visualized with Mobius and Sylvie's little chat at the end, even if it's the TVA they helped rebuild not the human population) sure does sound astonishingly close to invoking the story of Ragnarok.

And even though I'm bummed they never called it Ragnarok, I completely understand why! Ragnarok has kinda already happened in the MCU (never mind that Ragnarok itself is cyclical and will come again, but I digress)! I'd even go so far as to guess that earlier drafts probably did make it clearer but the thread, except for its bones and outline, were abandoned or left unnamed explicitly because it would be confusing for those not familiar with the myth or who would conflate Ragnarok with its Thor III invocation. Alas.

2) Loki bound - Already sort of invoked in Thor II with Loki imprisoned, which is why I don't think any more overt reference was made, but Loki was rather famously bound up in mythology. In this case, in a cave with a snake's poison dripping into his mouth. Not saying Loki bound to his throne of time needed to be conflated with how he was imprisoned until Ragnarok in the myhology, but the imprisonment parallel is there.

3) Loki becomes the new Odin, sacrificed upon Yggrasil - "The generally accepted meaning of Old Norse Yggdrasill is "Odin's horse", meaning "gallows". This interpretation comes about because drasill means "horse" and Ygg(r) is one of Odin's many names. The Poetic Edda poem Hávamál describes how Odin sacrificed himself by hanging from a tree, making this tree Odin's gallows. This tree may have been Yggdrasil." (source)

IE, Loki has sacrificed himself upon the world tree for power and knowledge and for the sake of the world. In this, unlike in the mythology where Loki is not Odin's son, Loki ascends to a parallel of his father's throne to follow in his legacy, having finally learned his father's lessons about rulership and self-sacrifice. Perhaps like the mythological Odin, we will learn that in making this self-sacrifice, Loki too has gained phenomenal knowledge and power?

4) Ratatoskr - This is more foward-looking and I don't in a million years think they'll do it but it would be so cool - so cool - if at some later point Loki has a friend or a servant or a squirrel form or idk, something that invokes Ratatoskr, the squirrel that lives in the World Tree and freely travels up and down its branches delivering messages. Please, MCU, give Loki a little squirrel friend??

[whoopigirlberg2002]

Analysis: Who are the Mikaela subjects? Are Ferid and Crowley brothers?

Are Ferid and Crowley brothers?

This matter has been discussed before on tumblr, but I'm gonna speak about it again. If you already know what I'm talking about, you can skip and get to the next part where I explain the Mikaela subjects.

We know of Ferid's older brother in his flashbacks when he was a human. Well, what if I tell you that his brother was actually Crowley before he got reincarnated?

Ferid's plan has remained for centuries, even until now, to stop the reincarnation cycle. When he killed his brother, he headed towards Romania, where in another flashback Rigr is shown to be in Romania. I suppose Ferid met Rigr on his way towards the east.

In the light novel, ferid refers to crowley as a brother (or even in the manga, I'm not sure but he definitely called him that) and he even said that he has been waiting to see what his brother looks like TO CROWLEY. Ferid mentions that he has waited 150 years for Crowley. Ferid mentioned that this plan which is ongoing currently in the manga has been planned for a millennium, from when he turned Crowley. Why do you think he turned Crowley into a vampire and especially targeted him before he was even born, and why do you think he turned him from Rigr's blood?

If you logically think about it, even the way Crowley lived his life in the LN was another answer to him being his brother in his past life. Since the manga has now taken a turn and has made us focused on reincarnation with Ferid's flashback, let's think what kind of life his brother would have gotten.

Because of his pride and ignorance of people who served him while he was wealthy and lucky enough to get the throne, he would have gotten unlucky in his next life and not very wealthy. Crowley mentions that his family wasn't that poor, yet since he was one of the youngest siblings, he didn't get to inherit anything from his parents and had to work for his money more.

The Mikaela subjects

Kagami said that each name meaning of the characters in OnS have a meaning. I don't think people realized that he LITERALLY meant that and it's not a simple word answer that google gives you. I've looked deeper into Rigr's name meaning and the discovery I made kinda blew up my mind. (I already knew two mikaela subjects + mika himself but I didn't expect Kagami to get so inspired by their names.) 🤨🤨 My friend will also make a post about Lest's actual name meaning and a general analysis of him (I hope so @l1va22 ��😡) so check it out (if she posts it 😒)

When you search "Rigr name meaning" you get that the meaning is simply "King", but if you open the page below, from the source which gives us this information, it leads you to a page about Rígsþula, a norse mythology myth.

«In Rígsþula, Rig wanders through the world and fathers the progenitors of the three classes of human beings as conceived by the poet.»

Hmm, sounds a little familiar, doesn't it?

«Rígr was walking along the shore and came to a farm-hut owned by Ái (great-grandfather) and Edda (great-grandmother). They offered him shelter and poor, rough food for a meal. That night Rígr slept between the pair in their bed and then departed. Nine months later, Edda gave birth to a son who was svartr (swarthy, dark). They named him Þræll (thrall, serf, or slave). Þræll grew up strong but ugly.»

This made me think of Guren, (because of his constant appearance within Guren's presenve in the LN. Rigr is a perfectionist and doesn't waste his time on matters which don't make him gain something.) implying that Rigr also implanted his adn in the ichinose family. Guren has dark hair and in the LN was considered to lack power and like 'a slave'. As far as I know his family wasn't wealthy, though I don't think there was any mention of him being poor. (correct me if I'm wrong)

«Traveling further, Rígr came across a pleasant house where a farmer/craftsman, Afi (grandfather), lived with his wife Amma (grandmother). This couple gave him good food and also let him sleep between them. Nine months later, a son, Karl (churl or freeman), was born, who had a ruddy complexion. Karl married a woman named Snör or Snœr (daughter-in-law; sometimes anglicized as Snor), and they had twelve sons and ten daughters with names mostly suggesting a neat appearance or being of good quality. One of the names is smiðr (smith). These became the ancestors of free farmers, craftsmen and herdsmen.»

Who was good-looking, hard-working and middle class? Crowley was. He's also often described as being very beautiful like Krul and Ferid.

Now this one, is surely not a coincidence ⬇️

«Traveling further, Rígr came to a mansion inhabited by Faðir (Father) and Móðir (Mother). They gave him excellent food served splendidly and, nine months later, Móðir gave birth to a beautiful baby named Jarl (earl or noble), whose hair was blond and who was bleikr (bright white in color). When Jarl grew up and began to handle weapons and to use hawks, hounds, and horses, Rígr reappeared, claimed him as his son, gave him his own name of Rígr, made him his heir, taught him runes, and advised him to seek lordship.»

Who was a noble with very light hair, blue eyes and very attractive? FERID!!!

When I first read the manga, when Rigr appeared (before his asiatic surgery...) I thought that was literally Ferid with shorter hair. THEY LOOK LIKE LITERAL TWINS!! Why? Because Rigr is really his father and whenever Ferid calls him that, it isn't a stupid silly name.

Only the eye shape is different. Ferid is confirmed to have more elongated eyes, while Rigr had rounded eyes.

So, these are the mikaela subjects and I don't think their wealth class is prominent in the manga, yet I think Kagami made their personalities to appear different the way the wealth of these people in the myth is.

Idk surely about Guren being a mikaela subject, but that also explains why Ferid was keen on making deals with him. Crowley and Ferid are surely Mikaela subjects though.

[falloutoverseer]

Okey, hear me out... Worldless x Hellaverse

This one is probably going to be buried amongst all the lovely fanarts and more impressive AU's that came before I joined the Worldless fandom but I wanted to vent this out: how about a Worldless/Hellaverse crossover? Set after the Grace and Fury ending (because I LOVE that AU), instead of Aven and Edda 'fading' into the universe, they both get teleported to Hell of the Hellaverse! And since they have god powers now, take for granted chaos is about to endure for both Heaven and Hell! Now, any hellaverse would probably ask me 'how' and 'why'? So I will respond: if we follow the lore of Worldless, and mix it with that of the Hellaverse, then that means that when Aven and Edda created a new universe, that basically means that they created the Hellaverse universe, MEANING that the Starfolk are probably the ancestors of Heaven and Hell meaning there's a LINK between them and they can use that link to override the ONE rule that allows Heaven to basically remain impune of their actions. As we all know, Hell's weapons can't hurt Heavenfolk and Exorcists... but the Starfolk are from BEFORE this rule was set, meaning that they CAN and WILL hurt (and possibly kill) heavenfolk, something that they CLEARLY can't allow and weren't even thinking would be possible. The problem with that would be that Aven and Edda will not understand why is it "bad"... because from where they came from, the moral compass between "Good" and "Bad" didn't exactly mattered that much: Worldless was about a fight between "dark" and "light" which DOES NOT mean 'good' or 'bad' because, after all, both sides didn't care, it was all about might and overcoming the strength of your opponent and absorbing it to assert your victory. This means that threatening them, bribing them or trying to convince them to stop will be useless, they will only stop WHEN they are defeated, something that isn't likely to happen. Which brings us to the absorption mechanic: it would be ridiculously broken in the hellaverse because it would be the equivalent of absorbing ones soul which means TRUE DEATH for any unfortunate sinner/overlord/hellborn/exorcist that crosses the two and their powers being ABSORBED by the duo. And I also suspect that, Starfolk would also have another big advantage against the Hellaverse residents: health and their "deaths". If we follow the game mechanic, the only true way that Starfolk 'die' is via absorption. Even if you deplete their health, they simply 'dematerialize', not 'die' because we can summon then again for another try. This means that Edda and Evan are technically invincible in the Hellaverse, a true immortality that in battles is a HUGE advantage for them: this simply means that any fight against any rival is guaranteed to end in the Starfolk demi-god couple winning. If you want to hear more or see a oneshot of this idea, let me know! I'm a writer!

[templeofoccultpractices]

Fenrir

Other names: Fenrisúlfr, Hróðvitnir, Vánagandr

Parents: Loki , Angrboða

Siblings: Hel, Jörmungandr

Consort: Angrboða

Offspring: Hati Hróðvitnisson, Sköll

Mythology

*As a disclaimer with mythology. A lot have been lost to time. There are theories and attempts to reconstruct things although we may not truly know. A lot of lore has been Christianized like the Poetic Eddas.*

The Binding of Fenrir

The binding of Fenrir have many iterations and telling. The general story goes that the gods found Loki's children. They feared Fenrir because of his rapid growth. Some instances that Odin feared his fate and trying to delay it. The gods decided that they would bind Fenrir. As in Ragnarok Fenrir would kill Odin.

They threw Jörmungandr into the sea and Hel into Helheimr but they took Fenrir with them to keep an eye on him. Tyr was the only one who approached and fed him. As Fenrir grew the gods decided that he would not stay and tried to trick him into fetters. Fenrir broke every fetter until Skirnir went to the dwarves challenging them to make a chain that he could not break. The dwarves answered this challenge. They made a chain from the sound of a cat's footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, bear's sinews, fish's breath, and bird's spittle. They named this chain Gleipnir.

The gods challenged Fenrir to break Gleipnir but he knew this was a trick. He said that he would do so only if one of the gods would place his right hand in Fenrir's mouth as a pledge to free him if he failed to break the chain. (In Germanic culture, your right hand was used to swear an oath, and oaths were very serious. "oathbreakers" were sent to Náströnd as long with murderers and adulterers.)

Tyr was the one who stepped forward and placed his hand in Fenrir's mouth. But when Fenrir couldn't break free and the gods didn't keep their oath. He bit Tyr's hand off.

Járnviðr

A forest located east of Midgard, inhabited by trollwomen who bore jötnar and giant wolves. 

Gylfaginning

Þá mælti Gangleri: "Skjótt ferr sólin ok nær svá sem hon sé hrædd, ok eigi myndi hon þá meir hvata göngunni, at hon hræddist bana sinn."

Þá svarar Hárr: "Eigi er þat undarligt, at hon fari ákafliga. Nær gengr sá, er hana sækir, ok engan útveg á hon nema renna undan."

Þá mælti Gangleri: "Hverr er sá, er henni gerir þann ómaka?"

Hárr segir: "Þat eru tveir úlfar, ok heitir sá, er eftir henni ferr, Skoll. Hann hræðist hon, ok hann mun taka hana. En sá heitir Hati Hróðvitnisson, er fyrir henni hleypr, ok vill hann taka tunglit, ok svá mun verða."

Þá mælti Gangleri: "Hverr er ætt úlfanna?"

Hárr segir: "Gýgr ein býr fyrir austan Miðgarð í þeim skógi, er Járnviðr heitir. Í þeim skógi byggja þær tröllkonur, er Járnviðjur heita. In gamla gýgr fæðir at sonum marga jötna ok alla í vargs líkjum, ok þaðan af eru komnir þessir úlfar. Ok svá er sagt, at af ættinni verðr sá einna máttkastr, er kallaðr er Mánagarmr. Hann fyllist með fjörvi allra þeira manna, er deyja, ok hann gleypir tungl, en stökkvir blóði himin ok loft öll. Þaðan týnir sól skini sínu, ok vindar eru þá ókyrrir ok gnýja heðan ok handan. 

Then said Gangleri: "The sun fares swiftly, and almost as if she were afraid: she could not hasten her course any the more if she feared her destruction." Then Hárr made answer: "It is no marvel that she hastens furiously: close cometh he that seeks her, and she has no escape save to run away." Then said Gangleri: "Who is he that causes her this disquiet?" Hárr replied: "It is two wolves; and he that runs after her is called Skoll; she fears him, and he shall take her. But he that leaps before her is called Hati Hródvitnisson. He is eager to seize the moon; and so it must be." Then said Gangleri: "What is the race of the wolves?" Hárr answered: "A witch dwells to the east of Midgard, in the forest called Ironwood: in that wood dwell the troll-women, who are known as Ironwood-Women. The old witch bears many giants for sons, and all in the shape of wolves; and from this source are these wolves sprung. The saying runs thus: from this race shall come one that shall be mightiest of all, he that is named Moon-Hound; he shall be filled with the flesh of all those men that die, and he shall swallow the moon, and sprinkle with blood the heavens and all the air; thereof shall the sun lose her shining, and the winds in that day shall be unquiet and roar on every side

Völuspá

40. Austr sat in aldna í Járnviði ok fæddi þar Fenris kindir; verðr af þeim öllum einna nokkurr tungls tjúgari í trölls hami.

In the east sat the old woman in Iron-wood and gave birth there to Fenrir's offspring; one of them in trollish shape shall be snatcher of the moon.

Thursatru and Rökkatru

Anticosmic Norse Paganism or Thursian sorcery venerates the Thursian giants. This is a Left Handed Path tradition. In the Thursian tradition Fenrir represents primal forces and chaos.

Definition of Anticosmic

Anti-Cosmic Satanism, also known as Chaos-Gnostic Satanism and Anti-Cosmic Gnosticism, is a belief system that believes that the Demiurge imprisoned humans with Cosmic Chains, holding us back from our true freedom in Chaos and Limitlessness. It believes that through the liberation of our mortal chains, we will once more return to Tohu/Ain - nothingness

The Aesir representing the Demiurge powers. Ragnarok freeing the chains and bringing everything back to the Ginnungagap.

The Thursar, the Old Norse primordial Giants, are seen as the more destructive forces raised against that cosmic order of the creation even into the given final culmination of Ragnarök or Ragnarökkr.

Abby Helasdottir coined the term Rökkatru. This is separate from the Thursian path.

Rökkatru's primary focus was the third pantheon of underworld Gods. These include Hela, Loki, Angrboda, Sigyn, Fenrir, Jormundgand, Narvi and Vali, Surt, Mordgud, and Mengloth, among others.

Working with Fenrir

*Please know basic protections and energy work before attempting any deity work.*

Offerings: Blood (when making oaths), Dragonsblood, Frankincense, Meat,

Rituals

⬩ Some practitioners can do a ritual to Fenrir to initiate under him when ready. This is not recommended for those not ready and or those who have any doubts about it. Breaking this oath as with any oaths for other deities will result in consequences.

⬩ A blót for Fenrir. Offer him the finest of meat.

⬩ Ritual for strength

⬩ Thursian rituals

Altar

Set up an altar/sacred space for performing rituals or giving offerings. Items may include

⬩Altar cloth

⬩Candles (color doesn't matter, black is fine)

⬩Cup or chalice

⬩Incense and incense burner

⬩Offering bowl

⬩Statues of Fenrir, wolf statue. Carvings of his name in runes. ᚠᛖᚾᚱᛁᚱ

For more information on basic deity work and altar setups check out the deity work post

Experience

In my personal experience in talking to people who worked with Fenrir. I've met a practioner who didn't think Loki was Fenrir's father. That Fenrir is not bound. He doesn't appear to be bound. He answers those who are strong and come in time of need. He is distant and quiet at first but will become more vocal over time.

I have also come across ideas of a priest and priestess of Fenrir. Priestess having deep connections with him. This tied into the concept that priestess had intimate and deep connections to gods and those of primal and primordial nature. Priest had deep connections to goddesses. This concept is in Greek mythology and heiros gamos.

Fenrir the one of primordial fire, chaos and the primal current. The one who is a shapeshifter. Father of wolves. Looks for those who are strong for he sees true strength. A test, a trial for those who are true. He is a serious deity. He sends a storm in his blessing.

For more content follow my main blog to see posts about all kinds of occult/pagan/witchcraft related stuff

If you have any other questions or wish to join a community feel free to join my 18+ occult server

Ask me anything on my blog

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part X: Swan, continued

ao3

masterlist

first | previous | next

Author's note: Here it is! Please forgive this super long chapter. It's 12.5k but my dear @elder-dragon-reposes assures me none of it's filler (I love her). ✨ So, here's my attempt to fix the Grand Crystal Ball while interweaving Leara's past, anxiety, and unavoidable plot stuff in.

Also! We finally get to my Silmarillion reference! Maglor my beloved

Tag list:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles @shivering-isles-cryptid @orangevanillabubbles @cosmermaid

Content Warning: Nothing you need to be worried about right now 🤞🏻

#######

Leara poured over the Prose Edda until the half-hour chimed in the belfry at the Temple of Divines. Marking her place, it was with a weary heart that she placed it in her satchel. Another bag beside it held her armor, compact yet heavy when not on her body. She wrapped the fur stole about her shoulders before lifting her bags. It may yet be high summer in Skyrim, but the evening air was cool and her arms and shoulders, bare save for the thin straps of her dress, were cold.

Honestly, Victoria cinched the gown so tight that the straps could be removed entirely, and it still wouldn’t fall. No, the only thing at risk of falling was Leara’s chest. The cut of the gown, paired with the tightness and lift from the corset, pushed her modest breasts up in an almost obscene display of flushed decolletage. The last time she saw this much skin from a woman in public was when Bishop got into it with that barmaid at The Bannered Mare. Funny, Leara didn’t recall seeing her there before then, and the girl certainly wasn’t there when she and Bishop were last in Whiterun. Perhaps she got a job at one of the other bars in town. Goodness knows she would’ve just to avoid another public scene like that.

Pulling the black fur tighter, Leara made her way from the dressing room back to the showroom where Victoria was fussing over a package. Beside her, a young Nord in a courier’s jacket stood, shifting from foot to foot. At Leara’s entrance, he stopped. “Woah.”

��Hmm?" Victoria hummed. Following the young man’s gaze, she lit up, “Oh! Is it that time already?”

“Yes, I was just going,” Leara said.

Victoria tutted. “Are you quite certain you want to wear your hair down? I have some ornaments that would create an exquisite updo!”

All at the courtesy of Casavir went unspoken. Where did he get this kind of money, Leara wondered. How much were paladins paid, anyway?

Leara’s hair, long and curling at the ends, brushed her shoulders as she shook her head. “Oh, no, thank you.” The courier gaped at her, and Leara made to offer him a reassuring smile before remembering that his nerves were likely tied to her. Her mouth slipped into passive marble. “Thank you for everything, Victoria.”

“Of course!” Victoria fawned. “Have a delightful time at the ball with Sir Casavir! You will definitely be the envy of all the patrons.”

The courier coughed.

Tracing a frost rune on her palm with her thumb, Leara focused on the sting in her nerves. Anything to divert her attention from the rolling nausea and rose flush burning her face.

Without another word, she exited the shop, skirts lifted as she made her way back to the main street. Sunset was still a few hours away, but it was growing late. Perhaps hiding in the dressing room wasn’t the best use of her time, but she needed some time to herself before subjugating herself to the dog and pony show this ball was bound to be. She made a mental note to ask Casavir about it when he came to escort her.

Walking down the street, she couldn’t help but notice people watching her. The urge to duck her head and hide behind her hair ate at her, but she suppressed it. She didn’t know what this ball was about, but she was familiar with the rules. Balls looked like a fairy tale extravaganza, but in all reality, they were political echo chambers where everyone was in costume. The parade began long before the doors to the ballroom opened: Who was attending on whose arm, what were they wearing, who filled out their dance card – endless questions that haunted the days and weeks before a ball like frost heralding bitter winter. Mothers foisted their daughters off on eligible bachelors while rich men cut business deals in dark corners. Ending the evening with an intact reputation and no personal losses took a particular talent, but Leara hadn’t devoted years of her life to espionage and masks to lose her face in this masquerade now. So she walked, head held high, bags ruffling her skirts, down one street and then another, back to The Winking Skeever.

Bishop was seated at a corner table, a half-full pint of ale next time him. She could feel his eyes on her the moment she maneuvered through the door hotter than any other stare in the room. At the counter, Sorex Vinius dropped a mercifully empty cup, eliciting an indignant scoff from his younger sister. The bard’s fingers trilled a succession of chords on her lyre. Leara swore someone wolf-whistled.

If the Dominion didn’t get her, the crowds would.

Head high, she went upstairs to her boardroom and dumped her bags on the bed. On second thought, she moved them to the table. Divines knew she’d be exhausted when she got back. Out of her satchel, she drew a pair of elbow-length gloves, cream in color, and tugged them on. More silk from Summerset, if Victoria was to be believed. Removing her fur, Leara tugged them on, hiding her rings securely in the glove.

The door opened behind her.

“Wow!” Bishop breathed, “You look amazing!”

Beside him, Karnwyr woofed in agreement.

She gave Karnwyr a soft smile before a sigh slipped out. “As long as Casavir likes it, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” she sneered.

“He’ll like it and he’ll hate it,” Bishop said, “because looking at you will make his blood boil and that’s not something he’s comfortable with.”

“He’ll just have to stomach it.”

Bishop caught her arm as she moved to the door, his calloused hand folding around her elbow. “You’d make any real man’s blood boil,” he murmured, low. His gaze dropped from her face to, well. He whistled. “My, my, that number does wonders for your breasts! If I didn't know better, I'd say you might actually have enough up top to make a man's head comfortable!”

Her sneer blossomed into thorns. “Now Bishop, don’t tell me you’re as put upon as you think Casavir will be.” Leaning closer, she tilted her head counter to his. “I can’t imagine you being flustered.”

Barking a laugh, Bishop dropped her arm. “Flustered? No. Thrilled? Yes. Excited? Yes, without question. Would I lose control? Like Hell I would. Does that satisfy your curiosity, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t realize I was bothering you.”

“Oh, my dear, you can bother me anytime,” Bishop stepped back, brushing her skirts. Karnwyr grunted. “But your knight in shining armor awaits.”

Discontent pooled in the pit of her stomach. “Already?”

“Came in not long after you did. But he’s not man enough to tell you he’s here. I saw him at the bar, guzzling water like a fish right before I came up.”

How attractive. “I’ll see you later,” she said. The black stole was secured around her shoulders, its own kind of armor.

Bishop winked at her.

·•★•·

Casavir spluttered, water bubbling down his chin onto his shirtfront. Leara smiled. “You look exquisite this evening!” he said, standing up so quickly that the barstool teetered. “I fear to gaze at you, that I may lose myself—”

“Shall we be going, then?” Leara asked, saccharine.

“Certainly,” Casavir coughed. His cup clattered on the bar.

Someone scoffed. They probably thought this was as ridiculous as Leara did. They were definitely smarter than her, she mused as she accepted Casavir’s arm and allowed him to lead her from the Skeever into the streets. She was thankful for the protection of the fur stole over her shoulders. The anticipation gave her goosebumps, and not in excitement. She glanced around the street and spied neither a carriage nor any other kind of transport. So, when Casavir said he was picking her up, he meant they were walking clear across the city. How very chivalrous of him!

Silently, she detangled her arm from his and slipped her shoes off.

“What are you doing, my lady?” Casavir asked.

“These shoes weren’t made for walking,” Leara said, tucking them under her left arm. No one would notice she wasn’t wearing them; they’d be hidden by the fur.

“It is not becoming for a lady to walk barefoot through the streets,” Casavir said, watching her.

Now that was cute, given that first, he didn’t really see her as a lady, and secondly, he clearly didn’t care enough to procure a carriage for the evening. Leara’s smile was jagged. “I’ll just have to make do, won’t I? Now,” she said, entwining her free arm again with his, “why don’t you tell me about this ball? I know it must be terribly exciting! What sort of entertainment will they have?”

“I am not sure,” Casavir admitted. They strolled down the street, and Leara angled toward the Dour Run. Like Oblivion, she was walking barefoot down that steep hill to the Avenues! Casavir, distracted by the sound of his own voice, made no move to divert her path. “I am fairly new to Skyrim, so am unfamiliar with many of the customs and practices of the people. Though I am told that the ball traditionally has many great festivities, my paladin vows prevent me from partaking in a few of them.”

Ah, yes, paladin and all that. The only Order whose oaths she ever bothered with was the Blades, and she was the poster child for broken vows. But even as a Knight-Sister and later, after the war, she became acquainted with several different religious orders throughout High Rock, Hammerfell, and Cyrodiil. She wasn’t an expert by any means, but Casavir’s vows pricked her interest, if only because she knew how he seemed to rail against them. Perhaps she was playing Daedra’s advocate by agreeing to accompany him to the ball, but it did make Bishop upset. And now she had a break from him for the evening. That had to count for something, right? And besides, attending the ball, as absurd as it would be, would be good, the people of Skyrim would see her invested in their culture. She was serious.

Although she highly doubted that this was what Ulfric meant.

No, she chastised herself. Do not think about him. Do not!

“Tell me about your vows,” she said, in search of distraction.

“I must not partake in any drink that would impair my senses,” Casavir explained. “Partaking of wine and other strong drink would prohibit me from fulfilling my oaths. I must remain clear-minded so I am able to carry out the commandments of my Order.”

“And what Order is that?” she asked. And what in Oblivion did he drink? Milk? Ulfric’s voice calling Bishop a ‘skeever-faced milkdrinker’ came back to her, and it was all Leara could do to suppress her snort. Casavir was clearly one, too. By the time they mounted the run that cut through the Castle Dour yard, she’d just managed to compose herself. As they passed the entrance to the Court of the Eight and the Tempe of the Divines, Leara sent a silent prayer up to Akatosh, Mara, and Stendarr for grace, patience, and mercy. And then, after a moment’s thought, she asked Kyne for strength.

Casavir’s chest puffed up, swelling his ascot and blue coat. “I am a paladin in the Order of the Divines, my lady. We are a militant arm of the Council of the Eight.”

The Council of the Eight. By Talos. The Council of the Nine was the head of the Imperial Church, and just as they appointed priests to parishes and sent missionaries out to spread the Cult throughout the provinces, they also pandered to politics. Faith meant nothing when the concrete fist of the state threatened to break everything apart. That’s what happened following the White-Gold Concordat: Talos worship was banned, and the Imperial Church was restructured to cut the God of Man from their teachings. The Order of Talos was all but scrubbed from the face of the Empire. In the vacuum that followed, the Council of the Eight, so rebranded, formed the Order of the Divines, knight-paladins whose job it was to denounce Talos throughout the Empire in an effort to appease the Aldmeri Dominion. The Aldmeri Dominion, who despised the Imperial Church’s interpretation of the Aedra on a good day.

Bile clawed at Leara’s throat. She’d heard stories about the Order of the Divines, how they would sell out and even hand over Blades to the Thalmor. And here she was, a Blades operative on the arm of a paladin sworn into the Order of the Divines. Her katana was tucked under her mattress at The Winking Skeever, but the desire to check it burned her. She’d left it there before going to meet General Tullius. She didn’t realize it wasn’t the General’s recognition of a Blades weapon that she needed to be worried about.

“Also, I must not dance too close,” Casavir went on, oblivious. “It would be inappropriate to encourage my sensual thoughts.” Separated as they were by her gloves and his coat, there was a tension in his arm that threatened to snatch her closer, claiming to save her when he could only damn her to Oblivion.

This evening just got far more dangerous.

·•★•·

The Imperial Gardens lining the walk to the grand doors of the Blue Palace were alight with torches and chattering guests waiting to get in. Fiery dragon’s tongue and blushing mountain flowers waved from the flower beds lining the drive, enticing people toward the branching paths that wound off into the manicured gardens. Amid the clouds of perfume and torch smoke, soothing lavender wafted through the air, carried from the depths of the garden on a slight night wind. Arising on either side of the gardens, the wings of the palace loomed, cast into shadow by the westward sunfall. Stained glass windows were aglow with warm lights inviting partygoers in from the cool evening air. But the doors were still closed, and so they could only wait.

Hanging back, Leara fell behind Casavir to slip her shoes back on. By the time he turned to question her, she’d straightened and, with a placating smile, allowed him to lead her into the crowd in the gardens.

Stunned dismay and morbid intrigue seized Leara in turns. Several of the women were squeezed into dresses from The Jewel, some more flattering than others. From what she could tell, no one else’s waist was compressed as much as hers. The benefit of time to order according to measurements and having a trusted maid or relative to tie the corset, contrary to Victoria’s distorted preferences, was not lost on her. If she hadn’t refused Balgruuf’s desire to appoint her as a Thane of Whiterun, it was possible she could’ve had a better gown fitted properly. Although, she thought, sardonic, if she were a Thane of Whiterun, she highly doubted she would openly come to such an Imperialized function. Not while Balgruuf remained neutral in the war.

One woman broke off her twittering to her companion, her kohl-lined eyes wide at the sight of Leara. Too-red lips popped open. “It’s you!”

A cordial mask, the same she wore when attending Elenwen’s little soiree, settled across her face. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

The woman, packed into Victoria’s lavender death gown, flushed. “You’re the Dragonborn!”

How forward. And how very unsettling that this random woman recognized her on sight. A strange little smile tried to pull Casavir’s mouth into something beyond his usual smolder. Lightning teased her nerves.

“The Dragonborn, eh?” the woman’s companion chuckled. “How about you put yourself to good use and Shout the doors open for us?”

Leara just smiled.

Wait, isn’t that what they said Ulfric did after he killed Torygg? Or was she getting her story mixed up? The facts around the High King’s death were so muddled by conjecture and heresay.

. . . and she was not going to think of Ulfric Stormcloak again this evening. She was not.

“You must excuse all the gossips out here tonight,” said one woman in slimming dovetail silk. “You’re causing quite a stir! You’re probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to them.”

More exciting than dragons and war? “Of course.”

“The windows look so pretty when they are lit up from the inside,” a nearby girl let out a dreamy sigh. Mercifully for her, she was wearing one of those high-waisted chemise gowns favored in more refined places, like Evermore.

The too-tight corset dug into her ribs. Leara shuddered.

“Are you cold, my lady?” Casavir asked, low in her ear.

“No, I—”

“I am!” cried a girl whose Victoria-gown was decked out with feathers, of all things. “It’s ruddy freezing out here!” The older woman beside her, clearly her mother or an aunt, tutted.

“I heard the Council of Commerce actually funded new sapphire fittings for the ballroom!”

“Fat chance,” someone sniffed.

Discontent murmured through the crowd. Leara wondered at the delay. It was almost unheard of to leave guests waiting like this. Were they still preparing the dinner and hall? Jarl Elisif canceled the ball last year, in the wake of Torygg’s death. In light of the progress in the war, or lack thereof, Leara began to doubt the young queen’s desire to actually host such a frivolous event. But what did that have to do with the Council of Commerce? Unless this was their party, Leara quickly amended. Ah, but things made sense now. An excess of extravagant and ornamental costumes, the volume of food that no doubt awaited them, the festivities and music – all the product of large amounts of money changing hands so merchants could show up, show out, and make bank.

Good taste and culture didn’t matter as long as money was made, yeah?

A hush fell over the crowd. Leara, who stood taller than most of the women, save a few of the Nords, straightened to see between the men’s heads. Then everyone was moving: The doors were open. Leara allowed herself to be guided by Casavir through the sea of people streaming into the Blue Palace. They went at a sedate pace, guests stopping in turns to hand off wraps and outerwear to servants. The line went quickly. Were these Elisif’s servants, or shop assistants pulled in by the Merchants Guild to work the evening? It probably looked good for business if people entered shops to find the same friendly faces who kept their coats safe for the evening.

All too soon, Leara and Casavir were through the doors, and she was handing her stole off to a bright-eyed maid. The cool air from the gardens brushed her shoulders. Casavir gave their names – and by names, she meant Sir Casavir and the Dragonborn since the knight so courteously never asked Leara her name – and then they were off again, swept along by the crowd.

The Blue Palace was large, larger than the Palace of the Kings or Dragonsreach, and certainly more grandiose. It had to be, having served as the residence of several members of the Septim dynasty during the height of the Empire. It was odd, walking where Uriel III and Pelagius the Mad once stood, never mind the Wolf Queen herself. An uncanny feeling utterly foreign to the reassurance she once felt in Cloud Ruler Temple knowing that Martin Septim once lived there. But, she decided, there was a stark difference between the fortress where hope was kept and the palace where treason and madness reigned. Bad things happened in the Blue Palace, most recently the High King’s death and the outbreak of war. With Leara’s recent string of luck, tonight would be just the latest in its sordid history, and she’d be right at the center of it.

They entered the ballroom, a white marble and gold draped hall that echoed bygone Imperial glory that was out of place in the grey climate of the current age. Amidst the rainbow of gowns and robes and suits already clustered on the floor, she could almost see dried blood on cold stone, blue eyes too bright, and shattered bones. A wolf howled.

“Sir Casavir and the one, the only – at least I hope there’s only one, or things will get interesting – DRAGONBORN!”

Leara slammed into the present. If Casavir hadn’t had her hand tucked into his arm, she might have stumbled at the announcer’s introduction. As it was, she tensed against the pull toward the floor. Casavir all but dragged her, escorting her to the wall where chairs were set aside for the women. Ballroom etiquette. How droll.

Introductions were still being made as Leara settled in her chair. Settling her skirts around her, she found Casavir staring at her expectantly. “May I help you?”

Casavir started. He smiled in what he no doubt thought was a suave display, but Leara wasn’t wooed. Nor would she be, having learned far too much about this man and his views on her to put her off him for the rest of the night. How very unfortunate that she was now obligated to dance with him by virtue of being his guest!

“You look beautiful,” Casavir said.

“Thank you,” Leara stared passed him.

The announcer rattled off several names. Most she didn’t recognize, but after a bit, she could pick out a few. There were many with some connection or another to the East Empire Company, crowned with, “Vittoria Vici and her Stormcloak teddy bear, Asgeir Snow-Shod!”

“You are so fair,” he went on. “For once in my life, I find myself regretting ever taking my vows.”

“Pardon, what?” Where in Oblivion did that come from?

Taking the seat beside her, Casavir reached for her hand. “I am merely thankful that you chose to accompany me this evening rather than remain in Bishop’s company. I fear what a man like him might do to you.”

Leara recoiled, but his grip was too much. “Are you saying I cannot defend myself?”

“My lady,” he pressed. “You are most kind, but I am skilled in the arts of battle and healing. Permit me to accompany you when you leave Solitude.”

This again? He’d mentioned as much when they met in The Prints and the Paper, but she didn’t realize he was serious! Bishop’s insistence that Casavir saw her as nothing more than a temptation only reinforced her realization that all these men who were obsessed with her wanted her. Casavir wanted her, and he wanted to get Bishop while he was at it. She coughed delicately into her free wrist, trying to ease the discomfort squeezing her ribs.

The members of the court began to be introduced.

“I don’t believe this is appropriate ballroom conversation,” she said. Again, she tried to withdraw her hand. With a sharp tug on her part, Casavir let her go.

“Forgive me, my lady. I do not mean to offend you.”

“Of course not.”

“And now, the fairest of them all, Good Queen Elisif!”

Everyone was watching then. Even Casavir turned from Leara to watch the Jarl of Solitude descend the short flight of steps to the ballroom. She was lovely, in a sweet yet melancholic way. Her coppery hair was coiled in a net of sapphires, framing bold green eyes in a gentle face. She indeed wore Victoria’s Blue Palace design and, somehow, it flattered her figure in a way many of the other gowns from The Jewel did not. The pink gem at her heart glittered under the candlelight. A gentleman who Leara thought was from the Merchants Guild stepped forward to meet Elisif. Bowing, he extended his hand to her. Elisif placed her gloved hand in his, and at once, music sprang up, and the first dance began.

Couples, hands clasped, swept onto the floor to join them.

“May I have this first dance, my lady?” Casavir stood and bowed neatly.

Silently, Leara nodded and allowed him to lead her to the lines of couples circling through the band’s lifting waltz.

Years separated her from the last time she stepped onto a ballroom floor. When was it, Fourth Era 190? Then, she was just a petty lord’s daughter’s governess, worth no more attention at a debutante ball than the curtains on the wall. Now as Casavir led her in line with the other dancers, she could feel eyes on her, the Dragonborn. The music swelled, a sweet revelry, and she made the expected step to turn. Casavir’s hand in hers was hot, but she held it as he led her, and they made the necessary pass. Were these the steps to the dance? She was unsure. Everything felt like a caricature of reality.

“Tell me more about your vows,” she said at length. Conversations from the surrounding dancers flitted just under the music. She forgot that it was necessary to talk to one’s partner to get through a set. Who came up with these rules?

“Well, being a holy knight, I must maintain vows, constantly upholding the cause of virtue and light,” Casavir explained. He spun Leara.

Spinning back to him, her velvet skirts flaring, Leara asked, “Does the Order of the Divines demand terribly much of you?”

“I must pray to keep a pure life dedicated to honor and justice,” he explained, evasive. “I must never succumb to worldly temptations.” Again, he mentions temptation, Leara thought. Any decent person would believe it natural to try and avoid obvious temptations when one’s honor and reputation hinged on it. While it was possible that some knights tried to maintain their image of noble chivalry, there were far too many stories of those who did not for Leara to take any knight’s word at face value. Especially one sworn to the Order of the Divines! Whatever Casavir’s personal failings, whether exhibited or mentioned by Bishop, the fact that he was a member of the militant arm designated to choke out Talos and the Blades penned volumes about his worldview.

“Do you enjoy your missions for the Order?” Was she digging? If so, was it anyone’s business but her own?

Their arms joined in an arch, Casavir broke from her, turned, and then rejoined their hands for another pass. “I fight for a worthy cause, just as you do, my lady. The eradication of heresy is a dangerous course, it’s true, but it is no less worth pursuing.”

“I see.”

Casavir clasped her left hand in his, her rings pressed into her skin under the heat of his palm. Too warm, the still-tender nerves of her hands prickled. Around them, the other women separated from their partners, spinning into an inner circle, mixing poised grace with giggling prattle. Leara followed, the netting of her skirts brushing against her legs as she went. In the midst of the sea of twirling skirts, she spotted Jarl Elisif laughing and twining arms with another woman, her dark umber hair coiled with silver ribbons. She orbited Elisif, dancing in a gauzy chiffon piece fluttering as a bank of clouds and as alike to the sky as her eyes. Like noon shining around the Blue Palace, illuminating the windows and gleaming off the great dome. The dark-haired woman mouthed something unintelligible to her companion, but Leara only caught Elisif’s dimpled smile before she felt an arm coil around hers, tugging her into a spin.

“So, you’re the one who has taken our favorite paladin’s arm!”

Momentum brought Leara face-to-face with an auburn woman, her pale complexion and cool contrast against the warm sienna of her skirts, flaring like a sunburst. Her face was aglow, but her eyes were shuttered.

“Pardon?”

“You know, he isn’t as noble as you may think.”

Not that Leara thought Casavir was very noble, to begin with, but this lady’s apparent penchant for gossip pricked her interest. Over her new partner’s shoulder, Leara spotted Casavir moving away in the line of gentlemen circling the perimeter. His back was to her, his hands folded behind him as he pranced away from sight and earshot. “Oh?”

A thin conspiratorial quirk of her mouth. “You didn’t hear it from me, but supposedly, a maid was cleaning his room and found a book under his bed, a certain script about a certain Argonian maid.”

Was that it, then? He read erotic plays? “Has he read the one about the bard?”

“What?”

But then the women were separating, spinning back to be joined again with their partners. Leara slipped back into Casavir’s waiting hold, manacled by his hands. Ballroom etiquette dictated that she only dance two sets with the same partner. She that was what Casavir expected of her, but Leara found herself wishing to vacate the first dance early, never mind finishing the set!

Mercifully, the dance ended moments later, Casavir dipping her low over his arm. Her arm thrown behind her, Leara could only hope and pray she didn’t spill from the top of her gown at this angle. Then he brought her back up, the room righted itself, and her head spun in its own little dance as he bowed to her. Leara curtsied.

A breath of silence from the musicians, and then the next piece sprang from the strings, a bright waltz more boisterous than the last.

Casavir took her in hand again, and Leara was swept across the floor in a dizzying whirl once more.

·•★•·

Gathering her skirts, Leara settled back in her seat as the couples dispersed from the floor. An airy flute melody wafted through the room, filling the absence left by the full orchestra. She wondered if the musicians were all from the Bards College or if some came from one of the conservatories in High Rock or Cyrodiil. Alinor has a very fine academy of music, but she somewhat doubted an Altmer virtuoso would play in Skyrim at a facsimile of a real ball. Not unless they were employed at the Embassy for one of Elenwen’s parties. Leara shifted just so in her seat at the thought. She didn’t recall much in the way of music at the party she essentially crashed, save for a flutist in the corner, but the elf, for all his quick notes and birdlike trills, hadn’t done much in the way of showcasing Aldmeri musicianship to the lower races.

Her fingers quivered, this time for a reason other than her fragile nerves.

In Alinor, at a real ball, harp song and fairy light filled the air, illuminating the room so that it shown with the brilliance of dawn over the Abecean. Flowers and fine stones covered the hall, ornamenting the guests against the backdrop of a thousand silver mirrors, as endless as the rolling seas. Dancers waltzed, their skirts in turns the crystalline sweep of the tide; in others, the pearly kiss of the moons; and again, the blazing gold of Magnus. So much of Alinor was shrouded in shadow and terror, and as an undercover Blade, she became familiar with more than her fair share of fear. But in those days, amid the society parades and political showcases, she took comfort in the starlight, visible and transparent at once as it fitted and fluttered with magic and memory. The arcane was so much more real in Alinor, and the beauty it took on in the land of the High Elves was more poignant than anywhere else in Tamriel. Though the Thalmor tarnished the true silver sheen of her ancestors, the call, the echo of Aldmeris in her blood sprang to life. Her heart longed for the gentle sands, the buzzing meadows, the white cities, and the crystal towers. To be again ingulfed in magic, arcane and musical.

To pluck a harp and truly touch the earth’s soul with her fingertips.

She could almost see the cherry harp stand, strung with mithril and gold filament. The bell chime laughter of the other members of her class when she was instructed to play. The hummingbird breath and petal fall of the lament, whispering and sighing as she cajoled it from the strings in turns of forlorn memory and wishful longing.

“Would you care for a drink, my lady?”

Gossamer frayed to rags and crystal shattered. Leara opened her eyes to find Casavir watching her, expectant. The shadow of Alinor passed from her face and she was again in the Blue Palace at a ball with a tête de nœud, a ridiculous dress, and under threat of apprehension from the Thalmor Embassy.

“Yes, please,” she said, anything to make Casavir go away.

With a bow, the paladin disappeared. At once, Leara got to her feet and glided in the opposite direction. Not hurried, but not sedate. She would have to join with him again for another dance, she knew, though whether it was the next set or the dinner set she didn’t know. She couldn’t imagine Casavir to be presumptive enough to expect more than two dances, not when he was so verbally concerned with his vows of chastity and piety. Those were ridiculous in themselves: Why would the Council of the Eight expect their paladins to remain chaste and pure? Unless they wanted them as wound up and disturbed as Casavir seemed to be. The Imperial Church, what an institution.

All around her, skirts and coats milled around, chattering to one another in seemingly pleasant tones. Underneath, however, ran the undercurrent or Imperial snobbery and mercantile calculation she expected from an event footed by the Merchants Guild. Their signature was written in the small print of the ball like an insidious contract. All the pomp and poise that seemed out of place in Skyrim was likely a joint effort from the government and the Merchants Guild to reinforce Imperialism to the Nords. The Empire had already taken so much from Skyrim and the other provinces by way of overlaying native cultures with the glories of Cyrodiil that when the people began to question the Emperor’s decisions, the Empire only tightened its fist and expected the people to fall back in line. Solitude fell in line. And all the while, politicians and merchants exploited the system for power and money.

People in corners, gathered away from the candlestands and the tall mirrors, huddled together in a conspiratorial hush. Yes, whatever else this night brought, money was made, power was promised, and someone somewhere would suffer for it.

“Ah, Dragonborn, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Leara turned and found – of all people! – General Tullius. In polished regalia and with a glass of rum punch in hand, at first glance, he didn’t appear quite as put upon as when she met him that morning. Yet there was a hardness around his mouth and eyes that said he wished to be back in his war room, far away from the spectacle around them.

“It was very last minute,” Leara said. “How are you this evening, General?”

“Not at all drunk enough to be here.”

Leara snorted and then coughed into her wrist to cover it up. “The punch isn’t to your liking, I take it?”

Tullius swirled his glass, the ice clinking against the crystal. “It’s fine enough, I suppose. The best that can expected at a place like this. Not until dinner, anyway.”

“Do they not have a room set aside for cards and brandy?” Leara asked, recalling the arrangements made for the debutante ball in Camlorn and how her charge’s mother bemoaned the prospect of the gentlemen hiding away for the whole evening.

“They do,” Tullius said, “But half the Merchants Council is hauled up in there. I’d rather not get dragged into whatever they’re plotting just to get a decent shot of whiskey.”

“That’s a shame, I could use some,” Leara found herself admitting.

Tullius looked at her then, as if seeing her properly for the first time. “Not enjoying yourself, I take it?”

“You could say that.” Leara watched as the string and percussion musicians on the stairs took up their instruments again while woodwinds sat down for a break. The next set began. “Do you dance, General Tullius?”

He threw back the punch as if it were hard liquor. How much did they water it down to stretch the reserve through the night? “Not if I can help it.”

“Then since you have no intention of asking me, I will have to sit this one out.”

“I suspect that doesn’t bother you too much.”

“Hardly at all,” Leara replied. It suited her just fine, she thought. Walking barefoot across Solitude was enough, but to follow that up with endless dancing was like traipsing through broken glass.

Facing the lines of dancers rushing together in a rapid mazurka as they were, Leara spied a wry quirk on the General’s face. This gave Leara some small hope for the approaching peace council. Tensions would be high – she expected nothing less from a meeting between Imperials and Stormcloaks – but if she could connect to either side, then there was a chance she could connect them together. Tullius was a tired veteran used to leading men but was dragged into politics for the sake of his country. He had a strong sense of duty. She could understand that fundamentally. He would come around, kicking and griping as he came, but he would get there. She wasn’t worried about the Empire.

“It’s a shame we’ll never see Ulfric at one of these events,” a booming voice lamented nearby. “Shouting a man to pieces? Meh. Stormcloak and Dragonborn dance off? Gods yes!”

Tension buckled her knees. Leara would’ve stumbled if Tullius hadn’t grabbed her elbow. “Jackass,” he muttered, frown directed off toward whoever made such a tasteless comment.

And it really was in poor taste. Ulfric already proved that he doubted her ability as Dragonborn and her willingness to take her destiny seriously; He didn’t think she could look out for the wellbeing of Skyrim’s people. He would be difficult to manage. It didn’t matter that at the last party she attended, he’d smiled at her. His ability to make her laugh despite her embarrassment was without merit. And honestly! He would have defended any woman from Alec’s smarmy attentions. She wasn’t special. No, the only thing she deserved from Ulfric Stormcloak was his anger: For Skyrim, for his people, and for what she’d done to him. She would get no quarter from Windhelm, and so every inch would be its own battle.

“Divines,” Tullius grumbled.

“General, are you enjoying yourself?” a warm voice asked.

Yet again, Leara forced Ulfric from her mind, though she suspected at this point he’d return fairly soon. At this rate, she was probably going to hallucinate him stalking her, spying from the windows just to judge whatever she did against his standards. And then, of course, all her secrets would inevitably be laid bare before him: The Dominion, the Blades, her mother’s family recipes. Everything. She took a quick peek at one of the upper-story windows. No, nothing. For now. But this wasn’t the first time she’d questioned her sanity, and it would all be downhill from here.

“Have you met the Dragonborn?” Tullius asked, releasing her arm.

“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

Leara focused in again to find the woman in the cloud blue gown poised before them. Her smile was small, but star-bright, framed in all the warmth of a southern complexion. The West Weald accent was slight on her tongue like Surilie Brothers Wine. “How do you do?”

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you!” the woman said.

“Right, Julia, this is Leara,” Tullius said. Julia clasped Leara’s fingers in greeting. “Leara, this is Julia, Jarl Elisif’s favorite attack dog.”

Leara snorted another laugh. Her hand in Julia’s, she was forced to turn into her other elbow.

“Now, General Tullius, that’s hardly fair!” Julia laughed. Exhaustion pinched her mouth, slipping between the laugh lines. “Her Majesty simply has some concerns and I have the means to make them heard.”

Tullius grimaced. So, the General’s relationship with Elisif and her friend was rocky. Interesting.

“Yes, well, a ballroom isn’t the place to get into the war,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I just saw Thane Erikur. I must go before he sees me.” There was a note of mutual understanding between Tullius and Julia. Leara vaguely recalled the name Erikur from the guest list at Elenwen’s party, but if General Tullius and one of Elisif’s friends wished to avoid him, it was probably best she do the same. But Akatosh, she thought as she recalled how she fled Casavir, but the number of people she was avoiding in this room was rapidly growing. Now all she needed was Elenwen or one of her lackeys to show up!

Speak of the Daedra. As Tullius retreated along the wall, Leara caught sight of Casavir’s tall figure cutting through the milling groups along the edges of the room, his eyes searching. “Akatosh take me now,” she whispered.

“Are you all right?”

Julia’s concern was unexpected. And painfully real. Leara smiled, pale and practiced. “Perfectly, I’ve just spotted my escort for the evening.”

“Who—”

“Forgive me, my lady. I took a turn about the room to ease my head before I could, in good conscience, return to you. It is not my intention to neglect your excellent company this evening.” With that, Casavir offered her a glass of rum punch. Julia gaped at him, which he staunchly ignored.

Wordlessly, Leara took the glass. Odd that he took a turn around the room. She didn’t recall seeing him and she should’ve. But whatever Casavir did with his time away from her wasn’t her business so long as he wasn’t ratting her out as a suspected Blade to the Temple and Thalmor.

Actually, she was probably going to need to watch him.

·•★•·

She danced the next set with Casavir. His touch burned uncomfortably through her dress and gloves. Her nerves were on fire and she felt too hot. Still, she kept her eyes on the paladin. She did not trust him. Unease boiled under her skin. Whether it was his objectification of her or some secret suspicion that he betrayed her, she couldn’t tell, but the sooner the ball ended and she left Solitude, the better. Paranoia may be hissing in her ear, but its presence was constant at her shoulder. Maddening at times, but it got her this far.

Casavir escorted her off the floor afterward, Leara snagging another glass of rum punch on the way to the chairs. Dinner and hot wine couldn’t come fast enough. Tullius was right: The punch was fine at best but not enough for someone who wanted to be anywhere else on the face of Nirn. She sipped it politely as Casavir went on about saving some lord’s daughter or niece from a charging minotaur during a hunt in the Great Forest. It was a very dry tale, almost as dry as the punch. Divines, and it wasn’t even dinner yet.

“Then when the knave had the audacity to take the poor maiden’s hand in his, I had enough. Brandishing my sword, I drove him off before he could plague her in her weakened state. The look of dismay she gave me afterward told me just how much danger I saved her from. She was insistent that she was perfectly fine, but after being thrown from the saddle because of a charging minotaur, there was no doubt her sensibilities were impaired. Her father would have rewarded me for the protection of his daughter, but I could not in good conscience accept such worldly trophies when I have pledged my life to the Divines’ service.”

Mara’s mercies, he droned on and on and on! Keeping an eye on him meant nothing if he bored her to death. At that point, he might as well kill her outright and do the Thalmor’s work for them. “And how does the Order reward such loyalty?” she asked.

“All that I have is the Temple’s, and all that is theirs is mine,” Casavir flashed her a dazzling show of teeth.

Her stomach flipped, souring. Whose money paid for her dress and gloves and all this ridiculousness?

“Oh, Leara! . . . Sir Casavir.”

As she was trying to decide whether or not to ask Casavir about the dress payment, Julia materialized at her side. Casavir clenched his jaw, but Leara beamed at the Imperial woman. And then her eyes met the startled face beside Julia, and Leara froze.

“Hadvar?”

“It’s you,” he whispered, wide-eyed.

Dressed in a clean uniform styled more for ceremonies than battle was the Imperial officer who tried desperately to save her in Helgen. She could almost feel her hand in Ralof’s as they made the mad scramble through fire and falling debris toward the keep. Screams and General Tullius’s commands filtered through the haze of smoke, but more than anything she recalled the pounding of her heart in her ears and Hadvar’s steady voice across the yard as he led that family into the barracks. He'd pulled her from Alduin’s path before that, before she knew who Alduin was and that the great doom of their time was at hand. She remembered his reluctance before when the Captain wished to send her to the block alongside the rebels.

He promised to send her remains home. To Wayrest.

She took his hand in hers. “It’s lovely to see you again!” she cried, ignoring Casavir spluttering beside her.

Hadvar’s grin was warm and shy and everything that Casavir’s smarmy face was not. Because Hadvar cared about people, not power or pretense.

“Oh, you know each other already!” Julia laughed. “I was hoping you could help me convince him to dance!”

“Julia, please—”

“That won’t be necessary, Lady Lastblood. I will be dancing the dinner set with the Dragonborn,” Casavir said.

Julia’s smile withered. Hadvar’s jaw tightened. Leara wanted to vanish. Feim. Zii. Feim. Zii. Feim—

“That’s a bit inappropriate, isn’t it, Sir Casavir?” Julia said, eyebrow raised. “After two dances, it’s hardly becoming for a man under such holy vows as yours to overindulge in dancing, especially with the same woman three times. Don’t you think so, Hadvar?”

“Yeah,” Hadvar nodded. His arms twitched as if he wished to cross them, but his hand was still in hers. She forgot. The hard stare he directed at Casavir was enough. “Taking up all the Dragonborn’s time when there are plenty of people wishing to speak to her isn’t a good look for the Temple, either.”

“It’s not something you should concern yourself with,” Casavir grumbled. “She’s my guest for the evening—”

“Yes, yes, but see, Hadvar and I are friends, and it’s been forever since we’ve seen each other!” said Leara, her grip on Hadvar tightening.

Hadvar blinked at her, then nodded. Beside him, Julia snickered into her glove. “Yes, you’re right. Actually, can I escort you to dinner?”

The vein in Casavir’s forehead was close to bursting, but Leara didn’t care. “Yes, I’d love that,” she told Hadvar.

A few moments later, the musicians sprang up a lively tone for the dinner set, a cheery Breton song usually played during spring festivals. Definitely chosen to work up the guests’ appetites. Her arm in Hadvar’s, Leara could feel Casavir’s black stare shadowing her as she went. Glancing over her shoulder, Julia’s reassuring wave was enough to send her off. Then the wave turned into a rude gesture aimed behind Casavir’s back. Leara choked on a giggle.

“So, Dragonborn, huh?” Hadvar began as they joined the line of dancers. “Was it your ma or your pa that was the dragon?”

Leara laughed.

·•★•·

Dancing the dinner set with Hadvar meant he escorted her to the dining hall afterward. Leara was relieved. Hadvar asked her about her time after Helgen, cleanly skirting around any mention of Ralof or the Stormcloaks, for which she was grateful. She told him about collecting bounties in Whiterun over the winter. Bitter work, but it kept a roof over her head. She didn’t mention the sheer whiplash she felt going from the anonymous comfort of The Bannered Mare to the spectacle of attending a Solitude ball as Dragonborn. Hadvar asked about Mirmulnir (“That first dragon,” he said) and what it was like to Shout for the first time. Saying she choked on ash and went deaf from the wind in her ears didn’t sound like a good answer. Instead, she told him how the Words of Power sang to her and begged to be inscribed on her soul. Very, very, wild conversation to have over clam chowder and roasted vegetables. More often than not, one of the women sitting nearby would pause their own conversations to stare at her over their glasses; the men were less subtle. Leara didn’t pay any attention to them. By the time dessert was brought out – snowberry tarts dusted in icing sugar – they were discussing High Hrothgar and the call of the Greybeards. Still, as open as Hadvar was to listening to her talk about being Dragonborn, there was so much she didn’t dare mention. Any connection to the Blades was naturally not made. Talos was also off the table; despite her inheritance of the Stormcrown, she wouldn’t risk a word of it when Casavir of the Imperial Weasel Committee was sitting several chairs down. The one time she dared to look at him, snowberry halfway to her mouth, his dark frown stilled her hand faster than any frost spell.

Hadvar asked for her hand in the after-dinner set. Too cold, too warm, eyes on her bare skin, Leara said yes.

She asked him about service to the Legion and how the war was going. As he spun her across the tiled floors, snatches of long nights camped in the weird of Hjaalmarch’s swamps and of scouting missions through the Pale Forest came to her through the swirl of music and movement. She’d thought dinner would be an improvement – when was the last time she ate, anyway? – but eating only made nausea roll through her, twisting with every twirl Hadvar led her through.

She kept dancing. To stop would call attention to herself, a negative, questioning attention. And it would hasten Casavir’s return to her side. Did he find a partner for this set or was he brooding somewhere on the sidelines? Gods, Bishop was right. This was a bad idea.

“Do you think you’ll sign up for the Legion?” Hadvar asked.

“Me?” Her voice was distant to her ears. She shook her head, squeezing Hadvar’s hand in hers. “I can’t say.” I can’t say the day I join the Legion is the day the White-Gold Concordat is redacted and the Thalmor help rebuild Cloud Ruler Temple while singing campfire songs with the Blades they’ve hunted for nearly thirty years. “Being Dragonborn is a full-time responsibility.” Not to mention she’ll probably die when she faces Alduin in Sovngarde.

Hadvar shrugged, and she almost asked if he thought she would die before remembering that hunting Alduin in Sovngarde was another topic she skirted around at dinner.

When the dance ended, he bowed to her, a soft grin playing at his features. “Thanks, Miss Ormand.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” she said, giving a shallow curtsy. Straightening, she swayed back. “I think I’m done for the evening,” she laughed.

“You do look tired, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Hadvar said, halting their retreat from the floor. “Do you want me to help you to a chair?”

“No, no,” Leara waved him off. “I’m fine. I’ve taken up enough of your time already.”

“It’s been fun,” Hadvar assured her. “And Miss Ormand, I just wanted to say, I know you’re not a lot of people’s first idea of a Dragonborn, but I think you’re the one we need, and that’s more than enough.”

Warmth blossomed in her chest. “Hadvar, that’s,” her words caught in her throat. She swallowed. “Thank you, really.”

Ducking his head, Hadvar said, “Don’t mention it.” Just like that, he left, and Leara watched after him.

“I must insist you share the next dance with me, my lady.”

Warmth blazed into fire. Leara rounded, insides rolling, to find Casavir leering over her shoulder. “Sir Casavir, please, I can’t dance with you.”

His too-pale eyes narrowed. “My lady, you are my guest for the evening. Isn’t it right for you to give your attentions to me? I was neglected during dinner, you know.” There was a soft purr in his voice reminiscent of a mountain lion.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re the Dragonborn, untainted by such mundane things as ‘exhaustion’,” he went on. “You are a fair woman, full of grace and power. It is only right for me to display your beauty before the elite of Solitude, where all of your virtues can be truly appreciated.”

Leara squeezed her eyes shut. She shouldn’t have come. She should not have come. Bishop was right. Bishop was—

“I’m here, darling! Don’t mind if I cut in, do you?”

Bishop was . . . here?

Opening her eyes, Leara felt her features slacken, though whether from shock or because somehow she knew this was how the evening was going to play out, she wasn’t sure. Probably both. Through the crowd of guests strode Bishop, but not Bishop as she knew him. Gone were his edgy dark leathers and muddy boots. In their place, he wore linen trousers and a navy quilted vest over white poet’s sleeves. In short, he looked absolutely ridiculous. The collar alone was a stiff, starched piece; she wondered how he managed to get it on. Actually, getting it on was probably why he was so late in coming. Where’d he get this stuff, a barrel behind the clothier’s shop? Strutting right up to them with a smirk, he waggled his eyebrows at Leara. “May I have this dance?”

“What are you doing here?” Casavir growled.

“Why, I’m here to rescue a flustered little boy from himself,” sneered Bishop. He jabbed a finger at Casavir’s oversized ascot. “Now get lost, Casavir. She’s mine tonight.” Bishop’s eyes were back on her in a moment, and the heat under her skin made her shiver. His fingers grasped her chin, firm and callused, and she couldn’t look away. “My, is it hot in here or is that pretty flush for me? That armor you wear doesn’t do you any favors. You look ravishing, sweetheart.”

Bishop’s fingers vanished from her as Casavir wrenched him back. “Bishop! Keep your filthy hands off her! An animal like you has no place with the likes of her!”

“Filthy? Ha! I didn’t get all cleaned up just for you to drag me through the mud!” said Bishop, shoving Casavir away from him.

One step back, two. She wouldn’t be the center of their argument.

“If we’re going to stay here any longer, I need to get drunk,” Bishop went on. “I refuse to put up with you sober!”

“It’s obvious a man like you was never fit for civilized society. Be gone and plague us no longer!”

People were starting to stare. Eyes caught and snagged on her, leaving blazing trails of curiosity and suspicion and derision across her skin. Surrounded by people, she was alone, an island in a choppy sea. It was like the performance in the Palace of the Kings all over again, except the storm was so much darker here. There was no safe harbor. No one was going to pull her out – she was stuck between Bishop and Casavir. At that, she shrunk into herself, her arms wrapped around her. Feim. Zii. Feim. Zii.

“Who wants to be in civilized society when its full of blind idiots like you? I’d rather choke on this damn collar!”

“That can be arranged!”

“C’mon.”

Like a soft whisper, Julia’s hand folded over hers and led her back from the two men. So absorbed in their cock fight, they didn’t see Leara retreat after Julia through the snickering crowd. The steady rainfall of plucked strings and the distant rumble of drums met her ears as Julia pulled her passed the musicians toward the doors.

“That’s so stupid,” she mutters. “Arguing like that in public! At a ball! But I expect nothing less from Casavir. I always knew he was a gross, chauvinistic pig!” Julia stopped just short of the steps. The sympathy in her eyes made Leara want to cry, but she just stood there, frozen. “I’m sorry your friend rose to his bait though.”

She swallowed, hard. “Me too.”

Julia placed a hand on her upper arm. Leara stared at it. It was supposed to be comforting, she knew, but it was hard to connect.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Julia was asking. “Tea? Wine? Sweet roll?”

Leara’s gaze slid over Julia to the musicians and their instruments. They were between sets, and several of them were taking a break. A trio was plucking a cheery harmony together on their lutes, accompanied by another on a snare drum, but the rest were either vacated, or their owners sat at rest beside them. Lutes, lyres, flutes, and whistles. A dozen different kinds at least; apparently the Merchants Guild weren’t ones to skimp out on good entertainment. No, the bright tunes and lively melodies, some Nordic and many cosmopolitan favorites from the Imperial City were the highlights of her evening. A bright patch of sunlight in a blanket of black clouds. And chief among them, curved and strung with grace, was her beloved—

“Harp.”

“What?”

“The harp,” Leara heard herself repeat. So close and so far. It has been years.

Julia stared at her, then followed her gaze over to the musicians, over their shoulders and music stands to the far side, to the harp. “Yeah, okay.”

“Oh!” Leara cried, not expecting Julia to pull her forward. Leara had a handful of precious inches on Julia, but that clearly meant nothing as Julia led her straight to the harpist’s chair.

“Having a nice night, Bragi?”

“As nice as can be expected,” sighed the harpist, a young Nord, his golden hair light and loose around his shoulders. “How’re you?” he asked, lowering his packet of sheet music. Then he did a double-take. “Oh, wow, I’m sorry, Dragonborn.”

Leara wanted to shrink back, but Julia’s grip stayed her. “This is Leara.”

Bragi bobbed his head, his mouth open. Leara offered him a weak smile in return.

“I was wondering,” Julia continued. “Do you think it would be okay for Leara to see your harp?”

Smothering a nervous cough, Bragi’s eyes darted to Leara’s gloved fingers. It was only then that she realized she was twisting them in the silk, and stopped. “Do you play?”

“I, I taught in High Rock, several years ago.”

“Really?” Bragi lit up. “Did you teach at one of the conservatories?”

“I was a private instructor,” said Leara.

Rising for his seat, Bragi stepped back. “Would you like to try something?”

“Is that a good idea?”

“The next set isn’t for another ten minutes,” Julia assured her, beaming like the sun.

“Please, it’d be an honor to have the Dragonborn play my instrument – if you want,” Bragi added, sheepish.

It wasn’t that hard to convince her. Once her gloves were off, Julia helped her shift her skirts so she could sit on the stool and still reach the pedals without too much hassle. Then she brought the harp forward, leaning it against her shoulder, and she embraced it. If the maple and Nordic carvings felt alien from the harps she’d held in the past, she didn’t care. A physical release eased the tension around her heart.

One of the flutists was whispering to the other. Leara didn’t pay attention.

“It’s been so long,” she whispered.

“Just start slow,” a nearby piper urged.

Leara plucked the strings. The melody wasn’t as tender as on an Altmer harp, but she could hardly expect that same level of craftsmanship in a younger race where the people had decades, not centuries, to perfect their craft. Another pluck, this time G, then half a scale, major than minor, C to D. Sweet and simple rudiments, stuff she ran over with her charge every day when she taught in Camlorn. Not dissimilar to the lessons she had in Alinor.

Her chest ached.

The last gala she attended in Alinor before the invasion of Cyrodiil, she played. The summer air curled through the open windows, carrying the fragrance of cherry blossom and petrichor into the diamond hall. She could still taste the Oleander wine and feel the brush of sunbird feathers against her skin. The end of Frostfall. Lord Varlarata was hosting the Lord Generals, and she was selected to play for the kinlords. Even then, she knew what was coming. She had to. More than now, dogging the World-Eater as she was, her terror strangled her. If at any moment, someone suspected she wasn’t who she said she was, that she was a Blades agent, then that would be hit. How terribly close she came to having her head join that of every other Blade sent tumbling along Green Emperor Way like a cart of spilled cabbages in the market.

The ring of fire in her black band glimmered darkly at her, as solemn and present on her hand now as then.

Shutting her eyes to the ballroom and the dancers, Leara was again in Alinor, afraid for her life and desperate for Elenwen’s approval. And she played.

There was the sea and the calls of a thousand birds. Auri-El’s dawn caressed the pearl-foam tide. An eagle soared overhead, and the Aldmere came. Breaching the mists of war and chaos, they brought golden light in their wake. Trills and quivering chords slipped in quick succession. Praises sung to the Ancestors, amen. High towers in crystal like stone and insect as glass rose, brushing the sky but never soaring high enough to reach back to Before. Beauty and loss. An accidental minor. Alas, they saw, the eagle would fall. There was no triumph. Bitter, bitter, bitter, harsh and biting, almost violent passages. Lamenting, because divinity was lost to devilry. Trickster foul and serpent cruel—

Pain bit at her heart, but she embraced it, pressing it into the harp.

Swelling crescendo, growing power. They were of Aldmeris. They would be again. Hope and purity rang high in the register.

“They want you to play one of Rolmelval’s pieces. You have the Dawn Comes Softly?”

“Yes, Mistress, but I—”

“Speak up, Vilya.”

“I’ve been studying Nibenaurio.”

“Have you?”

“Yes ma’am, and I was hoping—”

“We will see.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Chaos and divinity warred across the strings in turns fire and stardust. Steadfast one moment and crumbling the next. They were splintering left and right and left again. Leaving. Leaves falling. Descending notes in minor tears. Hold on to the past. Hold the major lift. Her nerves ached, her soul stung. The Aldmere torn apart, the song deconstructed. Aldmeris was lost in the dark, the dark ate the—

She flubbed a note, a sharp accidental in the major key where there was meant to be a dissonant minor. She sprung from there, a wellspring, and reordered the measure to fall back into harmony.

Can anyone bear the pain of a thousand thousand souls weeping in the dark? Lost children in the forest, untouched by sun, unseen by star. The warmth in the blood was gone.

Tragedy seized hope by the hand and spun betrayal just as fast as her fingers danced down the strings. The heart broke. Her fingers stroked a low dissonance.

The sea was still. The pearls were scattered. Dusk touched the waves to the south in a haze of white poison. Harmony lost, the blood, the strings hummed in discord.

Wander lost, wanderlust, alone but the memory endures.

Everything drowns in the end.

The jarring of the strings was so sudden, yet calculated in its own way as only understood by someone familiar with the Aldmeri notation. Leara eased her hands from the harp strings, stunned. A mixture of pleasure and astonishment struck her. She hadn’t played that since before the war.

Julia was crying. “Oh Kyne,” she breathed, hands over her mouth.

“Are you well?” Leara choked, then bit her tongue, the lapse into the lilt of an Auridon accent comfortable and entirely unwelcome.

Bragi wiped his eyes. “Please, please, if being a hero doesn’t work out for you, come teach to the Bards College. Headmaster Viarmo will take you on. We have a High Elven harp.”

Only then did Leara become aware of the clapping and gentle weeping around her. Easing the harp back in place, she found the guests gathered in the hall watching her, tears staining their faces. Some cried softly, others whimpered. A few were clutching their friends and sobbing, mournful.

And then Leara remembered exactly what it was she played. A song of hope and loss, for the Altmer it stirred their magic to take what once was lost. A horrifying thought, all things considered. But for the mannish races. Actually, actually, she didn’t think anyone ever played Nibenaurio for lesser mer, much less men. It was too much.

It wasn’t acceptable.

The nausea returned. “I have to go,” she said.

“What?” Julia cried behind her hands. Her makeup was smearing. Bragi’s cheeks were red. One of the drummers was hugging his snare.

“I have to go!” And Leara darted to her feet, toppling the stool in the process. She didn’t care. She pushed by Julia and up the stairs toward the entrance.

“Leara!”

“Dragonborn!”

Several varying calls trailed after her, but she didn’t stop. Out of the ballroom and down the corridor, around the corner and down the stairs to the lobby. She paused long enough then to fling her slippers from her feet, and then she was off, out of the Palace and into the night.

·•★•·

Bishop found her in the corner behind the changing screen.

Her katana in hand, she sat huddled against the wall, feet bruised and hands shaking. Karnwyr was curled beside her, his head in her lap and ears flat to his skull. She’d cut herself out of the ball gown, leaving a mess of frost-burnt velvet and netting in a pool beside the bed. She was cold, left in nothing but the corset and other undergarments from The Jewel, but she was too shaken to try and get out of them. She was so stupid. All this time, running from the Thalmor, evading suspicion as a Blade agent, and keeping to herself, and at the first opportunity to touch a harp, she played the one song that would raise red flags throughout the Embassy!

She wanted to disappear, Alduin and the end of the world be damned. Maybe if he consumed Nirn, then she wouldn’t have to worry about the Thalmor or Ulfric or anything because they would all be dead!

“Hey there, sweetness. That was quite the exit,” chuckled Bishop, leaning against the wall beside her.

Leara just stared at the window. Would the Thalmor come in through the door? Or the window?

“You had that paladin on his knees, there. Fell apart like an old woman right on the floor!” Quiet, then, “Sweetness?”

“It’s too much,” she whispered. “I can’t do anything right. They’re going to get me no matter what I do.”

“Uh, what?”

She blinked up at him. “The Thalmor. They’re hunting me, and now they’re going to find me.”

“Now hold up just a minute!” Bishop cried. Grumbling, he sat down on the floor, his knees touching hers. With a growl, he ripped his collar off and tossed it somewhere behind him. Then he placed his hands over Leara’s on the katana hilt. Hers were small and frail with ice; his were a giant’s in comparison. She’d never noticed. “So, the Thalmor are hunting you? You knew that. Are you really worried about them? You’ve got me to protect you, and you know I’m not going anywhere.”

Conflict tugged at Leara. Yes, he’d said before that he would protect her from the Aldmeri Dominion, but still, the threat of him betraying her to Ulfric Stormcloak as a former member of the Thalmor continued to simmer under the surface. Oh! She should’ve never gone to that ball! She should’ve listened to Bishop when he warned her off Casavir!

His head in her lap, Karnwyr grumbled.

“You were right,” she whispered. “About Casavir, the ball, everything.” Tears stung her eyes, but they did not fall.

“Yeah, I am, but as great as it is to hear you say that, I’d rather you not be hiding out in a corner.” He pried her frozen fingers from her katana. “Here, let’s set this down and you come to bed – fully clothed!” he added when the tears threatened to burst. “Gods, woman, I’d think you’d have more decency at this point!”

“I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” The blade set aside, Bishop skooched forward and lifted Leara into his arms. “C’mere, I’ll take you to bed.”

His arms around her back and under her knees, Bishop picked her up and toted her to the bed. Karnwyr grunted at the displacement, but followed after, hopping onto the foot of the bed. As he was letting go to set her on the blankets, Leara found herself tightening her fist in his vest. “Thank you for protecting me.”

A brief smirk, followed by Bishop pressing his lips into her hair. “Don’t mention it, darling.” He hesitated. “Do you really wanna sleep in that contraption?”

Leara shifted against the pillows, the corset’s boning digging into her ribs, suffocating. “N-no.”

Bishop nodded. “I’ll get my knife.”

·•★•·

Ruby droplets slid around the crystal bowl as she turned the glass in hand. The deeper garnets at the bottom winked delicious secrets of sun-ripe summers and natural magics. She watched them swirl and fold into the wine, slipping coolly beneath the surface into depths of rose and muscadine. She’d been nursing this same glass for two hours. Not an uncommonality. As with any task worth pursuing, a glass of Russafeld red required time and patience to parse out its secrets.

Not terribly dissimilar to interrogation, but far more pleasant.

There was a knock at the door. “Enter.”

“Mistress Elenwen, our agent has returned from the palace,” the young aid bowed.

Elenwen studied him over the pearl-toned mithril rim of her glass. “The ball was not scheduled to end until an hour ago, was it not?” And it was a two-hour ride on their fastest horses from the city gates to the citadel in the highlands. Elenwen did so hate when one of her agents disregarded her orders. It was already well after midnight. A few more hours of sleep would not soften her retribution for those who disobeyed,

Falcelmo bobbed his head. “It was meant to, Mistress, but I, it’s best if Hindalia tells it.”

There was a clink of crystal on oak as Elenwen sat down her glass. “Yes, I believe that would be wise.” After all, it was Hindalia who disobeyed.

Falcelmo retreated, and in his place, Hindalia strode in. She was tall, raised in the mountains of Firsthold and full of all the fire of someone who was promised the sky and forced to climb for it. More often than not, Elenwen appreciated Hindalia’s tenacity, but disobedience would not be tolerated.

“Mistress,” the girl bowed, her golden braid falling over her shoulder.

“Did I not give you express orders to remain in the Blue Palace until after their little circus shut down?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And yet you left before the festivities were over?”

“No ma’am.”

Elenwen didn’t pause, but she did raise a delicate eyebrow. “You will explain yourself.”

“Of course, Mistress,” Hindalia bowed again, humor pulling at her rose gold mouth. “They canceled it.”

She did so hate it when Hindalia teased out the answers. “It is late, Hindalia. I am not in the mood for your games.”

The smile never vanished. “It was right after dinner. They weren’t even halfway through the second portion of the dances when Jarl Elisif’s little friend, Lastblood, took the Dragonborn to the musicians. You’ll never guess what happened next.”

The half-written dossier in her topmost drawer whispered, as teasing as Hindalia with unlocked secrets and yet not so easily unlocked. Ancano’s letter was in there too. Elenwen leaned forward, gaze sharp. Was this another piece to the puzzle? “Hindalia.”

“She played the harp, and you know, Mistress Elenwen, I wasn’t expecting much when she sat down. I thought that Nord harpist was being sweet on her because she’s their great hero or whatever rot they spout, but no! It was,” for the first time, Hindalia’s face crumpled, the humor dim. Her green eyes were far away, reflecting the meadows and forests of Home. “I’ve not heard anything like it since I was a girl.”

“What did she play?”

Swallowing, Hindalia’s eyes began to water. “It aches to think of it. The Dragonborn played the Aldmere’Loren.”

Elenwen sat back. If she still held her glass, it would have fallen. The Aldmere’Loren. The Darkening of the Aldmer. How in Auri-El’s blessed name . . .?

. . . she used a spell I have only seen used by our own interrogators. Is she from the Justiciar’s branch? . . .

Ancano’s questions circled through her mind, coupled with the lament of the Aldmer.

Leara Ormand.

“You discovered why she was in the city?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Hindalia sniffled, sobering. “The Nords’ elders, the Greybeards, have called a peace council between the Imperials and rebels. She was ensuring General Tullius would attend.”

“Excellent,” Elenwen rose to her feet. “A meeting such as that will be a heated affair. It’s best someone is there to oversee the terms of the Concordat.”

“Ma’am?”

“We are leaving for Solitude in the morning, Hindalia. Tell Falcelmo to prepare our bags.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the girl bowed and was gone.

Elenwen stood beside her desk, her wine glass in front of her. In its depths she saw the Oleander Coast and another agent, quieter and yet not dissimilar to Hindalia. She could almost see the fine gold features in the place of the Dragonborn’s mannish face. It didn’t make sense, none of it did. And yet.

Well, whatever came from the journey to High Hrothgar, she would have her answers.

[lokiondisneyplus]

At long last, Loki finally has a throne. It just probably isn’t the throne he thought he’d be sitting on.

The second season of Marvel Studios’ Loki ends with Loki first breaking the Temporal Loom and setting all the timelines free, only to then immediately grab hold of them to keep them safe. He’s giving everyone a chance. It also, unfortunately, means that he’s got a big task on his hands keeping them like this.

Natalie Holt returns to compose the score for Season 2 of the series, and she knew all along Loki was destined for this greatness. While viewers are hearing a lot of the same tunes and melodies from Season 1, there’s a choir seemingly whispering in the music throughout — and they’re calling Loki to his glorious purpose.

With the final episode of Season 2 now streaming on Disney+, Marvel.com hopped on a video call with Holt to talk through all things Loki, and how she almost wrote a rock song for the finale. 

MARVEL: It's been two years with the Loki music just in the zeitgeist. What has it been like watching people respond to the music over the last few years?

NATALIE HOLT: It's just mad. Something that came out of my head is now being played in sports stadiums. To work on a franchise with a character that's so beloved by so many people, it's been just something unbelievable and a moment in my career that I didn't ever expect that I would have the privilege to do.

MARVEL:  We're hearing a lot of the same songs and melodies that we heard in Season 1. But how did you work to change the score for Season 2?

NATALIE HOLT: I think I darkened the score quite a lot. I had played around with a bit more atonality and was using a Geiger counter for the Loom disintegration. Adding to the ticking clocks was also this radiation. And then I was using voices a lot more in Season 2.

I found this poem — this old Edda, the Lokasenna — which is in very old Norse not spoken today. The closest language is Icelandic. I found this Icelandic specialist who helped us use the text in the choir and recorded with these singers in Iceland and then also a giant 40-piece choir in Vienna. I felt like these constant voices were whispering to Loki and calling him to his destiny, which we finally see in Episode 6. And it feels like this big symphonic choral work, which I'm just excited for people to hear.

MARVEL: Do you have a favorite piece or song from Season 2?

NATALIE HOLT: I think it's that ascension moment in Episode 6. It just felt like a culmination of two and a half years. It was a duet with a cello, and the theremin, and this explosion of voices. It's glorious purpose because it's what Loki's always wanted. But a tinge of sadness, because now he's removed from his life and his friends.

I feel like the music, I got to tell that story over the whole journey of working on these two seasons. The piece of music comes like the calm after the storm, when everyone's back in the TVA right at the very end.

Then we see Ravonna Renslayer in the Void with this strange purple thing happening above her. That piece felt very good to record as well. Just those two pieces together, I think those are my two favorite pieces.

MARVEL: I feel like there are a lot of moments of complete silence in Season 2. How did you work to balance that, going from these intense emotional moments right into a score?

NATALIE HOLT: The whole thing of this show is a very collaborative team of people. The three editors were all on Season 1, and these conversations that we're all having about the story and the emotions, even with Tom when I was on set, he was sharing with me this book of poetry that had inspired him for Season 2. He gave me this book, and he was telling me what he discovered in playing the role and wanted to share that with me to inform the music.

The editors have these ideas of what emotions they want in the scene and where they want silence. It feels like such a collaborative process. All the moments of score and silence are carved and created by everyone. Every Wednesday — I miss it, actually. For six months, we were meeting every Wednesday reviewing everything and watching it together. So, it just feels very crafted and thoughtful.

MARVEL: For Season 1, He Who Remains theme was hidden throughout the season as part of the TVA's overall theme. Were you doing any of that for Season 2- hiding music, hinting at what was going to happen?

NATALIE HOLT: Yeah, the Icelandic voices come together. They're calling him to his destiny. And then at the end of episode six, he's ascending to his throne. So, I was teasing that ascension all the way through, and teasing these whispering and voices for this big explosion of the crowning in episode six.

MARVEL: Was it like creating a score for a God?

NATALIE HOLT: It did feel quite something regal about it and something divine. I think we connect those choral works with a sort of religion. All those elements fed into that score, as well as the Icelandic Norse traditions that I've been trying to put those hardanger fiddle and nyckelharpa fiddles and give Loki a sense of heritage. So, it's all there.

MARVEL: I'd like to ask about my favorite music moment in Episode 6, which is going into the end credits. Suddenly there's a guitar riff we’ve never heard before, and it goes so hard. Can you talk about creating that Episode 6 moment?

NATALIE HOLT: I wanted to write a song [for Loki]. I'd been working in the studio with a songwriter, trying to come up with a song using the Loki theme. Kevin Feige just said, “I don't like having lyrics here. It feels too leading.”

But what is left is this sort of underneath of a song. It seemed to work better without lyric's help, because when you add lyrics into a song it does make it very specific. So yeah, it has the feel of a sort of rockier version of the theme though.

[starryknight-dragonarts]

I was thinking more about the potential future of Kaida and Morgan with Children. Kaida would have her genetic clone daughter Kyden but I imagine they certainly wouldn't stop there and would still also want to adopt as well; Kaida was an Orphan once herself and doesn't want any kids to feel unwanted so they would end up having a very big family! I figured since Kaida has her Salandit daughter, why not make the rest of them Eeveelutions like Morgan and each of them get a name after a Trickster god or hero from different cultures.

Loki gets their name from the Loki of Norse Mythology although who exactly IS Loki is hard to pin down. Loki does not exactly have a constant characterization aside from being a trickster, and the sources we have about Loki and Norse mythology as a hole are sadly unreliable at best. The main sources we have for Norse myth are the Prose and Poetic Edda written by Snorri Sturluson, an Icelandic historian, poet, and politician who was also a Christian and at the time the region had already long since been fully christianized so the sources on these stories are all oral tradition passed down through a culture that no longer believed in these myths, compiled by a man who wanted to use the shared scandinavian culture and history to promote his own agenda of uniting Iceland and Norway under one king. According to his version of Norse Mythology the Norse gods were actually advanced mortal men and sorcerers from the advanced civilization of Troy, who tricked the people of scandinavia into worshiping them as Gods, that there is a Higher god above them, the Light Elves are actually just Angels, and Loki is Jesus...WHAT!

While not literally Jesus his story made Loki out to be a parallel to Jesus being the one who solves the problems that the other Aesir can't solve themselves but frequently not receiving an credit for his help, being used as a scapegoat for all their problems, getting punished for stating harsh truths the other Aesir didn't want to hear, being depicted being hung on a cross with his mouth sewn shut, and bringing about the cleansing apocalypse of Ragnarok which would wipe the old corrupt world of the gods away and bring in a new pure world ruled over by a new pure singular god. So...yeah the Christianity dug its roots in deep with Norse Mythology and sadly we don't have a surviving original source. Later interpreters didn't get the memo from Snorri that Loki was supposed to be Jesus adjacent and took his propensity for lies and mischief to make him the Devil and form there Loki has literally been everything from Jesus, a Trickster Anti-Hero, a Wildcard, a Villain, a Poor Sad Puppy etc...so again aside from being a trickster it's hard to get a read on what Loki is actually like or how he was worshiped in the actual Norse Religion but we do know a few things that can at least paint an image of Loki.

First of all Loki's heritage and family are an interesting part in Norse Mythology. Though Accepted among the Aesir Loki is the only god among them who is half Jotun "Giant" the enemy of the Aesir. His relationship with Odin is a point of interest calling them "Blood Brothers" sharing blood through ritual cutting of their hands and Odin is also a Trickster god who from a mytho-history standpoint might have had some of his aspects as a Trickster god in the Mythology bled into Loki (One of Loki's myths in particular has signs of having lost context that strongly implicate Odin being heavily involved but they replaced Odin for Loki in the story). Loki himself has a BIG Family including the World Serpent Jormungandr, the Giant Wolf Fenrir, and Hel the Goddess of the Underworld, but Loki is not just a father but a Mother too. Loki's gender is not static, he would change genders on the regular and frequently got pregnant like the time he gave birth to the 8 Legged Horse Sleipnir. There is also an old Norse tradition where parents would sacrafice their children's baby teeth to the hearth fire and pray that Loki would look after and protect their children.

The Image I am getting of Loki is that they may have been something of a Mischievous but ultimately protective and helpful God of the Hearth and household who represents Family, Parenthood, Bonds, and is the Protector of young Children. Children themselves are often Mischievous and get themselves into trouble just as Loki's trickery often serves to get himself in trouble and have to clean up his messes or cover for the messes of other gods.

Loki is childish and playful with a propensity for causing trouble and mischief which often comes back to bit them later but they love their family, maybe a little lazy and has to be pushed to help out but gets the job done every time, and is fiercely protective of younger children.

[silver-wield]

Ffxvi ending spoilers

I'll tag this too, but this is your warning, I'm about to rant about the ending.

Because I didn't like it.

Lemme preface by saying I loved the game! Love Clive, Jill and everyone else in the cast, except Annabel, she's a bitch and deserves to die. Main story is great, sidequests great, combat is fun and it's great. Except the ending.

It's one thing to pepper hints throughout the story when you have a hero who maybe hasn't done as much to earn the definitive ending you, as a player, expect, and wind up with some ambiguity as to their fate.

It's totally okay to have secondary characters' fates left up in the air and wondering what became of them because they are not your primary hero.

It is not fucking okay to throw out not one, not two, but four ambiguous ending hooks when a hero such as Clive has literally done everything humanly possible to earn the kind of ending you see in ffix, with our hero returning home to his loved ones.

Onto the actual ending. Last chance to dip.

No pics except at the end, but I will be describing what happened.

Last chance fr

Can't say I didn't warn yall.

After Clive defeats Ultima and destroys the crystal, we pull back to see it crumble. Now, if you were going for an ambiguous ending, at this point you would leave Clive there and not return. It's a stupidly high drop and it would leave his fate literally up in the air.

Nope. We see he survives the thousands of feet fall into the ocean and makes it to shore.

We rejoice, believing he'll be okay and keep his promise to Jill to return and actually save himself along with everyone else like she's been begging him this whole time.

Haha, you thought.

Clive attempts to use magic, only for his hand to petrify. He smiles, knowing he's succeeded for definite. And then come some last words as he stares at the star he recalls Jill making a wish on, and his hand falls to the sand in the typical symbolism for death, which we've seen multiple times not only in this game but across FF.

Cut to Jill, staring at the star, which winks out of existence. She bursts into tears and runs to the deck, fearful it means Clive's dead. Torgal howls, mourning his master, and that should be clue enough that Clive is dead because Torgal never gave up looking for Clive all the years they were apart.

Then, comes the pathetic trope of the "light of hope" as the sun rises, and we see Jill's tears stop as she looks at the horizon.

I saw someone say they spent a stupid amount of time looking for a boat and claiming Clive is rowing back to her, but you have to look reaaaaaaally hard to see it. That's because there is no boat. There is no boat.

Jill is recalling her own words and hoping Clive will return to her just like the sun rises, and that's what we're supposed to cling to. Her words, along with all the other "hints" left along the way about Clive saving himself, how he should hang up his sword and pick up a quill (and I'll get to that in a second) and all the plans he makes for a life once things are over are meant to make us hopeful he's alive, despite the previous scene of deathly symbolism.

Then come the credits. No, we didn't see anybody else at the Hideaway besides a short moment with Gav, Mid and Edda, so literally everyone's fate across the realm is left open ended, which is so fucking unsatisfying. As unsatisfying as the ending to ffxv when we see empty landscapes because most of the fucking population across the planet is dead bar a few pathetic survivors huddled in Lestalum, who we don't even see enjoying the "new light of hope" because apparently a view of a barren landscape is meant to be good enough (and then came the dlc with one alt ending and a novel with a "definitive" ending that erases the original canon one because they fucked up so much they couldn't even work out how to end the damn game. Showing a mostly dead world with a "hopeful sunrise" ain't it. Nobody's alive to enjoy the fucking hope!)

Anyway, this is not a ffxv rant, so moving on. After the credits is a short scene of a beautiful cottage surrounded by greenery and flowers with two boys and a smol dog. The elder boy has Clive's dark hair and the younger has Joshua's hair colour. They're doing chores without magic and lamenting that magic and eikons are fairytales and Clive's favourite play makes a reference as well.

We end on a book written by Joshua Rosfield that depicts the war of eikons that the boys are pretending to play out in the garden.

And that's our fourth "did he live?" moment, using Harpocrates words about picking up a quill, and taking on his dead brother's name so it might always be remembered the way he took Cid's name on, Clive writes about his people's deeds. But did he? Or was it one of the Undying who penned it and listed Joshua, their lord, as the author?

But you know what? I don't give a fuck about some distant future where Clive's efforts pay off and the world is free and safe. It was a fucking given that would work out.

What I cared about and wanted to see was the characters I cared about being free and safe.

Throwing some NPC children with Clive and Joshua's hair colours at us as some consolation prize while Clive finished either dead or unconscious alone on a beach and Jill is sobbing is not the ending any of us laboured for. We have no attachment to these children, and the weird fucking hint about reincarnation or whatever that was, is fucking stupid and undermines everything about them living and dying on their own terms. The idea that Clive and Joshua, having been imbued with the power of the phoenix will rise again in some distant and free land, undermines everything they did in destroying magic and eikons and crystals. It's not a good enough ending when it comes off the back of the absolute fuck all that came before the credits and reincarnations were never introduced as a concept in the entire game.

Maybe if they showed Clive alive and reunited with his loved ones it would be a further heartwarming moment to see his and Joshua's souls together in another life. Their bond is such a huge part of what makes the story so damn good, but as it is, it feels cheap and flatter than a pancake to end like this.

It's clear the devs teams eyes are on future dlc to pick up where this "ending" left off and hopefully provide the fulfillment we expected, but to have the canon ending at this point of their next gen mainline FF game be so disappointing and low note just isn't good enough.

And people can say there's hints all over and we just need to look, but after everything Clive went through, we deserved a little more certainty of his survival.

All we needed was a boat on the horizon.

[thenightling]

Wicca and "Cultural appropriation"

I am sick of other Neo Pagan sects deciding that Wicca is "cultural appropriation" and "problematic." Tonight someone tried to scold me and tell me that I should not say that Wiccans celebrate Yule (it was actually a post with a list of Neo-Pagan faiths that have a version of Yule) because they "appropriated" it from Scandinavian religions that had it first and Wicca was "only created in the 1950s." Okay, let me break a few things down here. 1. Yes, it's easy to say Wicca is "new" because it wasn't an official religion in the UK until the 1950s but let's consider an important point. Until the 1950s Witchcraft was still illegal in the UK. No religion was allowed to be officially recognized that practiced witchcraft until then. America didn't even acknowledge Wicca as a religion option for military personnel until 2007. Scooby Doo acknowledged Wicca as a religion before The American government. The actual word Wicca Is Old English for Witch (masculine spelling). The feminine spelling was Wicce. They were pronounced as Witch-ah and Witch-uh. There was a very slight difference for gender specification. Eventually middle and modern English would drop the a and e at the end and settle on "witch" as an (intended) gender neutral term. Like the word Wizard (which came from Wizened) the word Witch meant (Someone who had their wits about them. Until the early middle ages the word meant "Wise person." And that's how Wiccans use the term now. 2. It's become fashionable to pearl clutch and say all cultures should stay separate and not borrow from each other because it's "cultural appropriation." Some "helpful" people even DMed me Youtube videos about why Wicca is a "Problematic" element in Pagan communities solely because it borrows from multiple religions. But literally every religion does it if you look at it long enough. So does Christianity, and Judaism, and Islam. And even Hermeticism which is part Greek, part Egyptian. Merging the two together. (And a LOT of Neo-Paganism is Hermetic) How come all of those can do it but when Wicca does it, that's the one called out where people are shamed? The people practicing "Real Paganism" forget the "Neo" part. That means "new." It's cobbled together from things that were suppressed and often lost to history. Even the Nordic Eddas are incomplete and were first written down by Christian Monks who altered things to (among other things) make Loki more of a Satan figure than he actually was. Almost all Neo Paganism uses hermeticism. Do you know what that is? It's from an era in Greek history where the Greek God Hermes was merged with the Egyptian God Toth. The two were merged into a single being and that's where a lot of Neo Paganism comes from. The teachings from that period where there was Greek / Egyptian appropriation. The Roman Gods evolved from the Greek Gods. Even when we discuss the beliefs of the First Nations there are overlaps because one Nation borrowed from another and beliefs spread. Modern Voodoo is a mixture of West African, Catholic, and Hattian folk beliefs. Mexican Catholicism is very different from French Catholicism. Imagine The Day of the Dead and Saint Death in Paris. When you believe something, truly believe it, you don't covet it as something only certain people are allowed to believe in. If you think of it as truth - as fact, you want others to believe it too. This is not cultural appropriation. This is cultural appreciation. 3. If you think Wiccans shouldn't be allowed to call their winter holiday Yule, you are essentially saying it's okay to call Christmas by Yule and the Christmas season Yuletide. And Christians can even burn Yule Logs but you'll Pearl clutch "How dare Wiccans call their festival the name of the millennia old Scandinavian festival!" Because Wicca = Bad? Christian = Well, they did that a long time ago and Wicca's new-ish despite being a re-adaption of a lot ancient practices.

Yes, Wicca is a hodgepodge religion of many beliefs cobbled together. So are most religions when you break them down. None are truly safe from "contamination" from other religions. This separate yet equal / segregation and "Wicca's bad because it appropriates" needs to stop. Aren't there enough prejudices that ALL Neo-Pagan faiths need to worry about? We don't need this "in-fighting".

[researchercase]

A proposition proposed by Ephie to Kieran Woods. Recorded December 3rd, 2024

(Transcript below)

[CLICK]

[A cat meowing can be heard]

KIERAN Yes I heard you, Captain, but I can't cuddle you right now, I'm doing work

[Another meow]

KIERAN You can sit beside me, you're acting as if you're unable to do that when you and I both know you can

[Another meow and a small thud on the coffee table is heard]

KIERAN No, Captain, I'm doing work you can't-

[Kieran stops talking as he notices the tape recorder]

KIERAN [Muttering] How are you back here?

[There's then a knock on the door]

[A pause]

KIERAN [Sigh] This can't be good

[He gets up and opens the door]

KIERAN Can I help you?

EPHIE In a way, yes, you can

KIERAN Now, I don't want to be rude, but I'm assuming you're not a regular person, are you?

EPHIE You are quite the observer, Mr. Woods, what gave it away?

KIERAN The tape recorder that appeared on my coffee table, which hasn't appeared in around two months. I was getting used to the quiet.

EPHIE We both know you of all people can't used to the quiet anymore.

[Pause]

KIERAN … What do you want?

EPHIE [Sincere] I need you to find someone

KIERAN [Caught off guard by Ephie's tone shift] You what?

EPHIE You heard me

KIERAN I did, yeah. It's just weird… This isn't for some ulterior motive? A step in the Web's grand plan?

EPHIE Well anything is a step in the Mother's plan, but the first thing… no, this is not some ulterior motive. I want to help out a friend.

KIERAN I thought Web avatars didn't have actual friends outside of their own group, and even then you're not truly friends with each other

EPHIE Well you're not out of the ballpark on that first part, it is for someone chosen by the Mother. You've met him briefly, one Eric Foster.

KIERAN Him?! The guy who interrogated and partially threatened my friend, and killed his sibling? Why would I help him?

EPHIE Well your fiancé and his wife are friends, and the two of you have something in common.

KIERAN [Scoff] Like what?

EPHIE You're going to be a Father, and he just became one.

[Silence]

EPHIE You may not like Eric, but trust me when I say he didn't mean to kill Sinclair, and you are one of the very few people who don't hold a grudge against him and his family for that

KIERAN Well, me and Sinclair weren't close. We barely talked to each other outside of passing hello's and goodbye's. A-and, wait, you said his family? They had nothing to do with Sinclair's death as far as I know

EPHIE That's true, but it seems one person in particular didn't care about that

KIERAN Who?

EPHIE Lyfrassir Edda

KIERAN Them?!

EPHIE You've heard of them

KIERAN Hard not to. [Sigh] What did they do?

EPHIE They stole Eric and Penelope's new born baby, who is premature might I add.

KIERAN Oh my god… [He briefly places their face into his hands, breathes, and puts his hands down] I'm guessing the baby is who you want me to find

EPHIE Correct, her name is Tahlia.

KIERAN Nice name. How do you expect me to find her and Lyf?

EPHIE I know you Hunters have your ways, and so do I, if the intimidation of a Hunter who is somewhat close to the family doesn't scare them into giving Tahlia back, well, we'll both pay them a visit.

KIERAN Both of us? What are we supposed to do against them, with that weird power and all that they have?

EPHIE Just trust, guilt should hopefully be enough, but lets hope that it doesn't come down to the two of us.

So, what do you say?

KIERAN [A moment of silence then he spoke]… Fine. I haven't been on a good Hunt in a while anyways.

EPHIE Wonderful! I'll put you in contact with Eric. Toodles!

[Ephie walks away and Kieran closes the door]

[He walks back to the couch and sits down]

KIERAN Goodness…

[There's a meow and the Captain jumps onto Kieran's lap]

KIERAN …. [He just sighs as the Captain purrs contently]

[CLICK]

[aotopmha]

And I'm done with the lvl 87 Endwalker quests, ending on the Venat cutscene.

The very first thought that jumps out to me is actually an annoyance: I really don't care for when the story uses jumpscares.

The only time during the game I have thought it was effective happened to be with Edda and it's because the mood was built for it in different ways.

It didn't work with Titania's introduction and it effectively annoyed me with Meteion.

Her transitioning to a grown woman's voice and listing off the dead worlds in a robotic tone was effective enough.

But they just keep doing the jumpscares with her and the more they do the less effective it is for me.

But to transition to some more character thoughts, I love how Hermes's words towards Meteion are also relevant towards Hermes himself.

"Though I gave you these wings to soar the heavens, I did not teach you how to walk the earth."

In the end, as Emet said, Hermes could not see anything good right in front of him on Etheirys. He simply could not find happiness or purpose in his own world, so he hoped to find it in others.

And so it lead to his flawed question and the painful result of it for the rest of the world and Meteion.

He hoped he would find the answer for his quest for meaning in other worlds. Perhaps use those discoveries to pave the way for a more empathic world that did not deny negative feelings. Perhaps to convince the ancients all lives had value. Perhaps to find companionship in his sadness and loneliness.

It was a two-sided issue, as the ancients also worked to not look at negativity, which probably would have had some bad consequences on a bigger scale eventually, no matter how you look at it.

Again, we go back to the idea of mental illness creating tunnel vision. All Hermes could see was the flaws of the society, but the society itself also did not address the issues within. (Or did they, looking at some of the side quests in Elpis?)

Across all of Endwalker, the idea of emotional resillience has popped up over and over again.

And when I first reached some of the parts about emotional resillience while watching someone else's playthrough, I really wasn't sure about the story leaning into the idea of "what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger".

Thavnair especially felt this way.

And that perspective is incredibly hostile towards the individualised nature of emotional struggles. What doesn't kill you does not, in fact, always make you stronger.

But Elpis and everything afterwards put in a lot of effort to make it much more nuanced than that.

"As fragmented, imperfect beings, yours is a never-ending quest. A quest to find your purpose, knowing your end is assured. To find the strength to continue, when all strength has left you. To find joy, even as darkness descends. And admist deepest despair, light everlasting."

Might just be the most important quote of Endwalker.

In reality what the game says (at least what I think the writers aim to say and I read the story as) is that we should try to appreciate the good when we have it because it isn't eternal.

And yet we should not look away from the bad and instead digest it in a healthy way.

As I touched on a few lines above, I think the point of the characterisation of the ancients is that negative feelings hurt, but burying and invalidating them will end up hurting more and more and eventually lead to some sort of issues.

Therapy good.

And as the Ascians show us, their tactics just lead to more and more sacrifices, to the point where it started feeling worse and worse and the rift between the two sides of the ancients happens.

The world of the ancients treats mental illness just like our world does and this story is simply commenting on the current mental health crisis, which was even worse during Covid times.

I'll touch on it more in my upcoming posts because I know that Alisae has a few really important lines regarding this idea, but I know I had this criticism for a while and I was really happy the story addressed it.

Another criticism I see Endwalker given is related to precisely the idea that by creating this causal loop the game implies all of this suffering HAD to happen (and that is why it is okay), everyone had to be sundered to survive and thus it fully also excuses Venat's actions.

But to me the nuance here is that while the game agrees with Venat, it never says what she did was "right".

"I create a world of suffering to mire and plague."

She created so much suffering by sundering the world.

And to me that's what makes it interesting. The Goddess of Light, image of "all good" was driven by her own very human beliefs to save humanity, which also lead to much suffering.

Neither side is completely right or wrong and to me that's the most interesting part of this.

Even if affinity to Dynamis was necessary for humanity to survive.

Even if the 13th is an useless void so the full Rejoining was never possible to begin with.

Even if the Ancients just kept sacrificing themselves and were on a path of unsustainable self-destruction, Venat still caused untold suffering with her choice.

And she takes full responsibility for it.

And to me that's a super cool element to the struggle between the two sides of the ancients.

Because on the other side, the Ascians absolutely were driven by love for their people. This was true all the way through.

Duty, love, desire to get back their paradise. There WAS so much beauty and actual kindness in the ancient world, it just had its own struggles, just like the present world gas its own.

Both sides were literally fighting for the same thing.

One looking to the past. One looking to the future.

And I just do not get why people have the need to appoint the right and wrong in this conflict when I think both having their own flaws is the entire point (and far more interesting to me).

I think Venat's manouvering after Hermes uses Kairos goes under this, too.

Her decisions are all driven by her personal perspective as a character (what she believes in, what she gleaned from Meteion's words etc). I've seen her judgements and the memory erasure be criticised as too wishy-washy on a writing level, but I like it because it is so tied to the characters of those affected.

To me her caution and hesitation makes sense considering what is at stake, especially.

I think Emet is the shaky one because I feel he would look into this as deeply as he could. He accepts his memory being gone a little too easily, I think, but I take it considering the biggest tangible loss we see is two familiars (Meteion and WoL).

Finally, I'll comment on the dungeon.

I think Ktisis Hyperboreia is probably my least favourite of the Endwalker dungeons up to this point.

But that also doesn't mean I hate it. I just think we've had so much cooler set pieces and also much cooler bosses with cooler mechanics in other dungeons.

This IS a dungeon in the ancient world with you exploring an ancient facility and you get the ancients as Trusts, which is super cool, but outside of the final third almost being space, it didn't feel particularly unique or interesting to me as a set piece.

I did notice a bunch of bird cages in a room and the notes, but setting aside, the first two bosses in particular were nothing special to me mechnically, either.

The Hermes boss fight did cause some wipes, though. The beams had a very particular pacing a positioning, which caught me off guard and others in the team also had forgotten the fight so we had 4-5 wipes at the Hermes fight, I think.

Overall, though, once again, a very solid bit of story in my eyes.

[tac-the-unseen]

💫About The Creator💫

General:

Name: Tac-the-Unseen (Tac)

Age: 18

Gender: Non-Binary (They, Them, Theirs)

Sexuality: AroAce 🧡💛🤍🩵💙

Nationality: 'Merica 🇺🇲🦅🦅🦅🎸🎸

Religion: Born and Raised Pagan 🪄🕯️🔮

Time writing: 9 years total

Star signs: 🌞 Pisces, 🌝 Capricorn, ⬆️ Pisces

MBTI: ENTP

More specific:

Favorite type of Music: Mostly Metal and early 00's-00's pop

Favorite genre of movie: Definitely Horror, no contest

Favorite song: Poetic Edda - Disembodied tyrant & Synestia

Favorite Movie(s): I know i just said my favorite genre is horror, but my favorite movie is 1951's Alice in wonderland

Favorite Characters: Cheshire Cat (AIW), David (TLB), Marceline/Marshall Lee (AT), Bill Cipher (GF), Elvira (E:MOTD), Severus Snape (HP), The Hex Girls (SD), I got more but that's a long list

Favorite Band/Artist: Limp Bizkit, SlipKnot, Korn, Type O Negative, Rammstein, Sleep Token, Ghost, Ayesha Erotica, MSI, In this Moment, Lamb of God, Murder dolls, Seether, HELLYEAH, JinJer, + more (I take music seriously lmao)

Favorite Animals: Stingrays, Sharks, Cats, Any Reptile, Skunks, Jaguars, Leopards, probably more

Backstory Stuff:

(I'll just highlight the general Ideas)

I started writing as a Child and just didn't stop. I loved making short stories and yapping about them to my (Poor) Teachers (I'm so sorry😞).

It was the one thing I wasn't being made fun of, so that just filled me with determination. (A few bullies stopped being mean to me after reading my Stories in the 5th grade.) (We weren't friends but they just said sorry and moved on)

Anyway at 12 I started Posting my works (that username is going to hell with me 🔪🩸). My first ever book currently has 17k views.

Now I'm here, Looking to widen my Audience!

Random Trivia:

• On my AO3 account, my most popular book has 24k views :D

• Counting both ears, I have 9 piercings

• I have 5 cats, 2 Dogs, 3 Rats, a bearded dragon, a Crested gecko, and a jumping spider

• I Love Clowns (It's an obsession)

• My Favorite Book is 'Every You, Every Me' by David Leviathan, And it has zero fandom 😭😭😭 (seriously the only thing online about it is reviews) (plz read it 🙏)

I'll update this time to time, maybe ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

[thievinghippo]

🌿 for all of them please!

(hi i have my internet back. thanks again for checking in! <3)

YES GOOD I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE SAFE

Ahem. Here we go! Almost all of them have tattoos, just not visible ones

Edda has a casteless tattoo on her shoulder, as a reminder of how close she became to actually being casteless before joining the Wardens (Emmrich got into the habit of putting his hand on her shoulder and letting his thumb run across where the tattoo was before big fights)

Sonnet has a tramp stamp of the Mourn Watch symbol (Emmrich is a little obsessed with it)

Isle has no tattoos, doesn't want any distinguishing features (once she was firmly out of the seduction game, she still didn't get any. doesn't like needles)

Yichen has a bunch of dwarven tattoos, including an actual casteless brand on his cheek, cause he used to be casteless (Neve eventually got a dwarven tattoo herself, on her kneecap of her amputated leg)

Oanez did not have any tattoos until the gods were defeated. Then they got griffin wings tattooed on their back (Davrin very much approved!)

Aahan wears body paint instead of tattoos (Bellara likes to help put it on when it needs refreshing)

Daahir has a full sleeve of Mourn Watch tattoos (One of Harding's favorite things is to trace the tattoo. She always makes sure she's on that side)

Laire gets a small tattoo once she and Taash are fully committed. They both get the other's name on the inside of their right wrist