#it's like. a herald brings light. a harbinger brings doom

[lifewithoutrainydays]

thoughts on roman and remus: harbinger and herald

[marvel-starwarsfangirl]

Episode 9 "The Harbinger" Review

Ah Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer... you love to watch us get all worked up don't you? But in all seriousness, I really enjoyed this episode. It's so beautifully animated and scored. I need the Kiners to drop the OST asap because man was the music stunning. (This episode also further proves that Echo clearly was the braincell of the group and I'm cackling).

As always, spoilers below:

BEHOLD! THE RETURN OF OUR QUEEN VENTRESS! I loved how she was utilized. I was surprised to see her actually be there on Pabu, but it makes sense since Fennec told her to find them. However, I am wondering how she did find Pabu. My guess is that Ventress was given Hunter's photo and meditated with it until she felt his presence... somewhere. Or she knew a guy who knew a guy who knew Phee. Everything from Ventress' design to voice acting was perfection. The animators really popped off with her Dark Disciple look. But, how did she survive? Nightsister magic? There's probably some explanation, but it'll be left ambiguous for reasons.

Her relationship with Omega was very well done. She's changed so much since her first appearance in CW. I liked the balance between her ability to still kick butt while also being a good person at heart as shown with Omega. She doesn't kill the Batch even though they got defensive (and I understand why they did). The scene where she calms the giant kraken-like creature was so so good. It's a nice way of showing how Ventress has found the light with the Force. Her line about being on a side of her own was also good and pretty much sums up her character perfectly. She's neither dark nor light, she's just right.

It's also obvious from the title that she's the harbinger. Harbingers are people that herald the approach of someone or danger. For the Batch, she's a harbinger of doom. That doesn't mean she herself brings the danger, but she tells them that their time is up. Repeatedly, she tells the Batch that they aren't safe even on Pabu. Which means that Pabu is gonna go down next week *cue sad yaying*. Even the lighting this episode signified doom. Pabu is shrouded in fog and the only light we see is from a sunset, indicating the end of the Batch's peace and safety.

Speaking of the Batch, they really do share one braincell and even then, it's usually with Echo. It's so awesome to see them work together again in combat. And we got to hear their theme again!! It was so triumphant and such a great moment! I know we'll hear it again, but this was such a good moment. I love that most of their moments were them just watching out for Omega. I know we all joke about the Jango Fett Mandalorian dad genes, but it's so true. Hunter, Wrecker, and Crosshair love their sister so much. Every time Cross was like "we're not handing her over," I got excited. Omega aside, the smaller moments like Wrecker teasing Crosshair or Wrecker mimicking his brothers were gold.

My favorite moment with the three was when Crosshair threw Hunter and Wrecker's weapons to them. The music went hard and the camaraderie between them is so heartfelt. These brothers will always have each others' backs. (Also, this is the first time we hear Cross call Tech by his name. Tech is still with them, even if it's in their hearts).

And of course there's our sweet bean, Omega. Next week will definitely be about her conflicted over the possibility of being Force Sensitive. It breaks my heart to see her so lost and confused. The Batch can try and help, but they're so out of their depth. I honestly think Omega will go back to Tantiss simply to see if she is capable of using the Force. There are so many questions about her identity. Why was she created? Why is she so important? I know a lot of people now think that she will off with Ventress in the finale if we do get a confirmation that she is force sensitive. Honestly, I hope she stays with her brothers. If they kill the Batch off, then I can see the Ventress end working, but I really hope that's not the case.

I wonder how the Empire will find Pabu. They could get really lucky, find a bounty hunter to track them, or even have a brainwashed Tech. I know the theory about Cross having a tracker or something was popular, but if that was true, then the Empire would've already descended upon them. Maybe Palpatine finds them through the Force; that I would believe. Either way, it will be very angsty and Pabu is doomed. But what do you guys think?

Anyways, that's all I have for now. Let's all prepare mentally for next week. Our little family is gonna need all the therapy and support they can get.

[dear-yandere]

[ spirit blossoms ]

yandere! thresh, yone, yasuo x reader. scenarios, spirit blossom au.

› art credits: nicolenazooie, 16395606 ,7675856.

what a pretty little catch you are, a wildflower amidst souls equally as tempting. he loves all his children equally, but even thresh isn’t immune to... obsession. your unusual presence in the spirit realm is enough to peak his interest and stoke his obsession — though he much prefers to call it a ‘parental love’ rather than such an unsightly word. but, it isn’t until he has you in his grip that possessiveness and manipulativeness take over. coming off as the ever-protective and benevolent Father of lost souls he masquerades as, it’s hard to think otherwise of his actions for his words are sugary and his presence welcoming.

he is death itself, and death does not discriminate.

surrounded by countless spirits — his own children, blossoming with unseen potential — and yet, he’s only ever tasted the bitter ache of loneliness. it is a constant in his life, a truth he’s come to hold close to his heart. home is where the heart is, and his is but a facade crafted from lost souls and a sense of family that isn’t quite... fulfilling.

until he met you.

you managed to win his heart. an ancient demon in all his right, enamored by the doe-eyed gaze of a lost human on soil they do not belong. his heart beckons to you, yearns for you — he wants to cherish you, to watch you bloom in his hands like a flower that would put spirit blossoms to shame; he wants to taste the power and warmth, that will bring. to know that you are sorely and wholly his, to know that you met him of all kanmei and akana, to know that you chose him.

"do not fear me. i am but a servant of the natural order that guides us all."

as an akana, he takes great pride in his work, delighting in the torment of flawed spirits. to him, they are blossoming with potential, flower buds crying out for attention. his attention. it wouldn’t be fair to favor you over the rest of his sweet little children — he wouldn’t be a good Father, now would he? but he is ancient, and you... you are human. a species so flawed, so selfish, and yet you helped him retrieve his lantern. he misjudged you, truthfully; he thought of you as someone who needed to be molded against his claws, remade into something more beautiful. 

all you made him realize is that even he is flawed.

"those privy to my secrets? they are safe with me now."

as benevolent and well-meaning as he seems, he is a harbinger of chaos and torture wrapped in the pretty facade that seems to tempt human souls so. humans believe whatever is most convenient for their own prejudices, after all; to have him appear before them, a demon in appearance but a light of hope in pretense, any human would fall prey to what he has to offer. eternal salvation, so long as your soul is in his possession. tempting are his words, for humans are so easily swayed from their path to salvation in the afterlife, until all that accompanies them are their own memories. to be haunted by memories of your past life — all your good deeds, all your bad actions... is that not true suffering?

perhaps not. not for him. not with you by his side, not with you in his possession. you’re his favorite pet, darling, just be a good girl /boy and don’t tell his other children. jealousy has no place in this family, not when every soul belongs to him. you are an exception in only one regard: you belong with him.

"a human, neither dead nor alive, surrounded by endless hoards of spirits alike. that, is a tragedy i do adore. but do not fret, my dear, for in death, you are safest with me."

he is undeserving of love. 

of all the truths yone has been forced to witness as a warlord, he has never once questioned this. the war he wrought, the battles he led, have only resulted in one thing in the end: death. death, carnage, blood, and... loss. he has watched countless weep over the bodies of the men he’s slain without thought, and he knows then that love has abandoned monsters like him.

love is out of reach.

renowned for his adherence to honor and duty, he is strict in his ways. the moment he saw you caused a stir in his spirit, a dull ache against his soul. your existence is implausible, impossible; you do not belong here. you... you are human, and all he has ever done is kill humans. he is no different than the obsessive and oft cruel akana, and yet he is a kanmei, beloved by all spirits. he does not deserve such reverence, he does not deserve to guide you. you are better off away from him. his sword, he once thought, was a guardian, a protector of humans.

he will only hurt you.

"a festival of flowers to remember those lost... i think i'd rather be forgotten."

humans are such fickle creatures, selfish and stubborn in their ways. he knows this truth best; it is a testament to his selfish desire to defend a country which forced him to strike his own brother down. so when you stayed, clung to his side like a petal to its stem, he was unsurprised. you were enamored by his poems, or so you claimed. humans deceive so often, he’s learned to accept their words at face value; he’s no stranger to donning a mask of deceit, himself, after all.

but your eyes. they would light up like festival lanterns, welcoming and bright in their hues. a more peaceful time, he recalls — one unmarred by the tragedy of war. when he looks at you, he is reminded of such peace; when he looks at you, he is at peace. when he looks at you, he is no longer a lone spirit wishing for a peace only death can bring. when he looks at you, he feels... forgiven.

"forgiveness is... complicated."

he does not deserve it, just as he does not deserve love; and you, you are the embodiment of both. like the scent of fresh blossoms against tree branches and a season anew, your eyes carry a light far more tempting than that of death’s, a light that only living can bring. you make him want to live — you are everything he does not want.

and yet he wants you.

if his life were to be written as a story, it would surely be a tragedy. a tale of redemption far out of reach, a tale of betrayal and blind faith. he has seen the end of worlds — both of war, and of his brother’s — and he has lived. to die is to no longer feel pain, and the greatest repentence is to live with the truths of what he has done. struck his own family member, his own brother, down with a sword sworn to herald justice; yone is undeserving of anything short of suffering.

and yet, such an innocent spirit you hold, he’d almost forgotten those existed. you are unmarred by the tragedy of war and suffering; he is envious, but equally joyous. to see that there is still carefree love in the physical realm, perhaps living is not so bad after all. being with you is natural; being with you is like home. words flow freely when he is in your presence, and you are at peace when he speaks in prose and haiku. dreams he was forced to abandon to take up the sword, he can freely pursue in your presence and be met with applause rather than disdain. the blissful fluttering of eyelashes, the slight twitch of lips pulled into a smile — it will never be enough to make him feel loved, to make him feel forgiven. but it’s a start.

he wants to start over with you.

“with you, there is no need to hide. many have gazed upon this mask and seen their end. somehow, you saw a future.”

renowned for his roguish demeanor, yasuo is familiar with bloodshed and death. he has grown to accept it, unlike his prideful brother; and yet, he desires a life enlightened by music and travel all the same. fate has smiled upon him bitterly, doomed him to spill blood in life and hunt spirits in death.

if this life is cursed, he wishes to be reborn. a songbird, a human — either will do. his soul yearns for music.

"just looking for a road home."

when he saw you, unaccustomed to the ways of this spirit world, he was intrigued. something new, someone to talk to that could actually, well... talk back. spirits aren’t known for their talkative nature, and he can’t really fault them; confusion is all they know, having woken up in another world after death. the azakana are no better — they remind him of himself, bloodthirsty and reckless as he once was. their only fate is to be cut down by his sword... life has not changed in the slightest. fate is truly unkind to him.

but unlike spirits, you are someone. your gaze speaks not of scorn or awe, because when you look at him, he feels seen. the real him, the one he’s pushed down in order to be a swordsman that could live up to his brother. you listen to his flute with keen ears and a sway of your body — the sight alone makes his heart jump. he’s always wanted to see the effect his music has on people, and you’re the first. having greater interest in music rather than swordsmanship is frowned upon in his clan; expectations were thrust upon him the moment he left the womb — to live up to his brother, to live up to his clan name.

"follow the wind, but watch your back."

but you don’t expect anything from him. to you, he is another spirit, another being, an entity that was once a person with hopes and dreams and feelings worth something. under your gaze, he is free from expectation, free from duty. until he was accused of crimes against his country, and forced to take up arms against his own brother, yasuo lived a life unsaddled by the same burden of expectation his brother endured. it was never enough, for even in death, he still envies the freedom birds enjoy. but you offer a taste of such liberty simply by existing; by listening — truly listening. a drunkard as he is, how is he expected to let go of such pleasure?

he can’t, he won’t.

when you convince him to find his brother and begin anew, he was certain. that after all is said and done — that after he has forgiven his brother, and has been forgiven himself — he wants to travel the world with you. he’s seen everything there is to see in the spirit realm, but the world is different with you at his side. you are his freedom, you are his muse. because even if he promises the illusion of choosing your path, it will always cross with his.

it’s hard to part with freedom after you’ve tasted it.

“traveling alone has left me wanting for companionship, and honestly, a sword's poor company for a long road. say... what would you do if i asked you to accompany me? your call, sweetheart.”

dear-yandere 2019-2020, all rights reserved.

[theharellan]

Expectations

My first play-through of DA:I I was playing a dwarf Inquisitor (who I write on @ourdawncomes​) and as it happened Solas was her first friend, and also happened to be one of her best. However, the way the friendship scene plays out with Solas as a dwarf is never quite what I had in mind for how it would play out with Thora, so this is my rewrite of it.

I am using canon dialogue in places where I feel it fits, especially for Solas. And yes, I’m posting it on this blog because I have more followers, even if it’s from Thora’s POV. Don’t @ me.

Thora squints against the sun as she steps onto a balcony bathed in midday light. The wind from the Frostbacks is cold on her cheeks, but it’s a welcome relief to stand under an open sky after the high, windowless walls surrounding Solas’s study. He paces along the edge, his fingers running along the ridges of the stone balcony, feeling the grooves beneath their tips. The walk up here had been quiet, at least by their standards, with only polite inquiries as to her health. Now, whatever he had brought her here for weighs visibly upon his expression, brow wrinkled with thought.

“You had something on your mind, Solas?”

He sighs, hand lifting to press against his head, ironing out the lines in his forehead. There’s something familiar about the way Solas conducts himself when his emotions finally get the better of him: the pacing, the gesture of his hands, the way his eyes always look away before they find hers. It’s almost amusing to see him that way, considering who she knew him as when they first met. Amusing, until she remembers Wisdom. “What were you like,” Solas asks, hand falling to his side, “before the Anchor?” Thora’s eyes are drawn to her hand, fingers unfurling to stare at the green crack that glows along her lifeline. Whatever answer he seeks, she does not give it quick enough. “Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?”

“What?” she laughs, looking up, expecting to see mirth in his face, but he meets her gaze with stony eyes which kill the sound in her throat. So, he’s not kidding. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to know that.” She feels the same, mostly. Dreams are new, but Solas knows that already. “I don’t think so. I’ve always been this way, more or less. People are just… more likely to look at me than over me, now.” All the things she says now are what she said before, the only difference being she has a title to make them count, but that answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him. Solas’s ears angle back against his head, lips curving in a reluctant smile that she thinks is meant to assuage her doubts about the direction this conversation is heading.

“I see,” he says, “an excellent point.” It’s not disappointment she sees when she looks at him twice. It is familiar, though. She’s seen it in the eyes of everyone she’s ever told she’s no Herald, like she’s confirming something terrible they already knew was true.

“Why do you ask?

His eyes drift, skirting the same mountains he’d led them through to get here. They seem to wander, farther and farther, perhaps back to Haven, as they had done in her dream. He had said it was important to her, but it was to more than just her. Haven was where desperate survivours became an Inquisition, Solas among them. It had changed things for the both of them, whether he would admit that or not. “You show a wisdom I have not seen since…” His voice trails, sentence losing itself as his gaze drifts across the horizon. In the space of a second they’re on her again, grey eyes bright with a familiar passion. “Since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected.”

A refrain she’s heard before. In part, anyway. With Solas it’s different, most everyone else had heard the title ‘Herald’ a dozen times before ever clapping eyes on her, he saw her back when she was known a prisoner, harbinger of their doom. Blackwall had put it best, his cheeks red with embarrassment when he admitted he thought she’d be taller. Human, more like. “What did you expect?” she asks, bracing for his answer.

“Dwarves are practical. They do not dream, they cannot even imagine a world beyond the physical, but you have shown subtlety in your actions, a mind for the metaphysical. A wisdom that goes against everything I know of your people.” His words hit her like a blow to the gut. Yes, it’s refrain she’s heard before. That doesn’t make it any easier.

“Oh,” she says, voice small. That’s almost where she leaves it– oh. It’s easy, letting it slide, she’s taken enough hits to pretend this one doesn’t hurt. She laughed with Sera, laughed off Blackwall, and it won’t cost her nothing to laugh Solas off, too. Only, she can’t quite seem to bring herself to. Something inside her steels itself, and she breathes in through her nose so she doesn’t stumble over her words. She’s speaking to her feet, but she knows he’ll hear well enough. “I guess you haven’t known too many dwarves, then.”

The accusation– because that’s what it is, isn’t it?– takes him by surprise. His ears perk forward, then pin back against his head as red steals into his cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe you should take a second look at what’s around you.” She sees a frown pull at his lips before his gaze breaks from her. His hand sweeps idly over the balcony, and there’s something in his eyes that looks like he’s remembering. What he’s remembering, it’s hard to say with Solas. It could be yesterday’s breakfast, or a moment lived a hundred years ago by someone else, someone who he alone remembers. Thora holds her tongue, waiting for him to say something. Anger, acceptance, denial, but he lapses into sustained silence. Their eyes catch each other’s, just for a moment, long enough for her to trust he’ll listen. “You’ve read Varric’s books, haven’t you? All those made-up names and people, and he’s not the first dwarf to put pen to paper.” Or chisel to stone, as the case may be. “Some were so good at it the Assembly made them Paragons.”

Thora moves to stand beside him, shadow tall next to his. She leans into the balustrade, tucking her elbows upon the stone rail to look upon the distant mountains. “And I don’t know where Dagna’s head is half the time, but I don’t think it was ever with the Stone.” Not the way she tells it. Her sights were set on the Circle before she’d ever seen the sun. “She doesn’t dream like you do– or, like we do, but you’d be hard-pressed to say she isn’t a dreamer.” There had to be a bit of a dream in the head of every dwarf who journeyed to the Surface, to imagine a life beyond the heavy doors that lead into Orzammar. Sometimes she wonders what the dream in her ancestors’ heads were when they left, sometimes she wonders if Solas could tell her, if they went looking for it. Could they have ever dreamt of this, of her? Her hands curl, fists pressed into the stone, fingers touching the mark on the palm of her left hand.

Likely not.

She takes a small, steadying breath, cold air painting her throat, reminding herself of where she’s headed. “Just in this age, dwarves have invented smokeless forges and– machines, just powered by hot air.” She hopes she’s remembering that right. All she recalls is word of some Surfacer in Val Royeaux with a forge that employed a hundred men, and tools that run on steam. “My people can do more than just imagining a world beyond the physical… they make it real.”

Silence falls between them, the sort that curls her stomach into knots. He waits until she’s ready to burst before he says or does anything, a quiet inhale heralding his remark, “You have thought about this before.” Solas’s voice is soft against the wind, coloured by something that sounds like contrition.

“I… I guess I have.” It’s only now she realises the amount of times she’s had this conversation in her head, always after hearing another remark about dwarven merchants. “It’s hard not to, with people the way they are. You… well, you must know what I mean.” She’s heard him say as much before, wondering aloud why people are defined by form and not their nature.

Thora glances at him out of the corner of her eye, scanning his expression. He’s still looking out at the horizon, but something in his face tells her he’s not really seeing much of it. That most of him is turned inward, looking at himself, maybe. “I suppose I do,” he says after a moment. “I am sorry to have caused offense. My intent… I meant only to express how much you have come to mean to me, since that day you first calmed the skies. With each passing day, you have given me new reason to respect you.”

Her lips spread in a smile, but it feels tender and fragile on her face. “You’re my friend, too, Solas.”

He cracks a smile to match hers, looking down at the railing before his eyes slide to meet hers. His skin is still blotchy with shame, pink to the tips of his ears. “Thank you. You have given me much to consider, as I have come to expect. I admit, so much of this world I have come to know through dreams alone, what I know of your people leaves much to be desired.”

“Hm.” She’s reminded of the list she found on Solas’ desk, the page full of books with titles in three languages, all on the Fade and the daunting tasks ahead of them. Giving him dreams is beyond her capabilities, but books she can manage. “I can give you some places to start.” Thora pushes against the balustrade, walking backwards a few steps into her room, knowing just what she’s looking for. It waits for her on her bedside table, a book clumsily bound with coarse linen cords. The kind you resort to when you’re bookbinding, Lowtown style. “Here,” she says, passing it into his waiting hands, “some of those poems I mentioned.”

Lying the spine flat in the palm of his hand, he pries the book open, flipping through the first several pages as though he were touring it. Recognition flashes in his eyes, brow raising in her direction. “This is your handwriting.”

It figures that he’d notice. Her cheeks flush, hotter than the cold air warrants, when she sees she has to explain herself. “I copied it myself. The original I, um, it wasn’t mine.” The polite way of saying Lantos had stolen it for her. She remembers sneaking it back onto the shelf it belonged on, coming closer to getting caught returning the damn thing than he had taking it. “Took a while, but I knew I’d want to read it again.”

Amusement creases the corners of his eyes, but he has the manners not to laugh. “I see.” He parses through it another moment. Without even seeing the page she knows what he’s looking at, a series of short poems by Paragon Lynchcar, written in the breathing space between battles. Oh, she wishes she could read it again for the first time. The book snaps shut with a puff of air, and when he lifts his chin to meet her eyes, the red in his cheeks has cooled. Instead, his expression is alight with the same eagerness she’s seen as they’re standing in the shadow of a long-crumbled home, the prospect of learning shining in his eyes like stars. “Thank you again, but I fear I have troubled you enough for one evening. Besides,” Solas gestures with the book, a smile turning the corners of his lips, “it appears I have reading to do.”