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alphaketoglutaricacid · 8 months ago

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Namari is the first of laios old party that gets reintroduced into the story before dungeon meshi really shows it's hand about the bigger themes it wants to tackle. Theres a lot of sneaky setup during her two chapters. Lets talk about her!

Dungeon meshi starts out as kind of a straight forward fun dungeon adventure amoungst adventurers and friends. Namari notably, throws a wrench in this perception while maintaining that lighthearted tone--notably, through introducing the fact Laios is a weak leader. Namari was in the party since the start. She was clearly in a bad situation at the time where adventuring was her only option bc she didnt have enough money to even get off the island. Despite that, she stayed in the party despite the fact she needs money bc she liked the comraderie. Sad that she felt like she had to choose between getting out of debt or having ppl she could be honest to.

All three party members who left did not have their needs properly met. Falin let her life be dictated by laios and marcille and was too passive to try to make choices for herself. She ends up getting eaten trying to save them + then puppetted around by thistle as a result of marcilles attempt (sucess) at reviving her (+ ends up starving the whole time) . I think shuro got kidnapped into laios party and then steamrolled over bc hes just so bad at saying no + also seemed to have never chosen anything for himself in his lyfe.

Theres a clear parallel between laios lack of attention towards these threes needs and his lack of attention that he was hungry at the fight.

Laios treated his like a group of friends going out adventuring without any regard to the needs of the group. Yeah, you could say they couldve told him, but as a leader its kinda ur job to actively keep tabs on this. And Namari really exemplifies this bc she really is in dire straits, her joining the party was out of desparation, and her need for money was getting ignored for years. That she even brought this up to the siblings and they still went on a dangerous expedition and didn't take missions aimed at making money is kinda like.. wow......

It takes a near death experience for her to realize she has really got to go actually achieve her goals —but crucially I feel if laios took more jobs to make money, she wouldnt have left at that crucial moment. I think theres an argument to be made that shuro probs wouldnt have left if namari didnt bc hes a passivity king and may have been more willing to get his retainers to work w laios party if they didnt both mutually agree laios wasnt cut out to lead the party to try to rescue falin. Which I dont think is an unfair assessment of his skills at the time.

Like he is well intentioned and doesnt mean anything bad by it but theres a limit to the amount of carelessness you can have as a leader. Later on, shuros going to have similar complaints and hes going to be much less nice abt it.

Anyways, i think its interesting the party namari aligns herself w afterwards is the right hand man of the lord of the island, awfully close to the occupation her father held before he disapeared after getting caught for money laundering. In her intro, she keeps her guard up from mr tansu and the party bc shes jaded about either having to accept a job for money or to be friends w her new party. I think this may be partially bc she let herself get dragged around for too long in laios party bc she had a soft spot for em. But after sharing a meal , having laios affirm his trust in her, and actively communicating w mr tansu shes able to get both the money she needs to climb outta debt and a good working relationship w the tansus and the twins by clarifying specifically how she feels. I think tansus a bit suspicious bc he thinks shes just in for the money and disregards her feelings as a result. I think theres a bit of an undertone that the way he treats her like a human shield reminds her of how she was cleaning up her fathers messes all the time as a kid.

Crucially, I think this is the turning point for how she acts bc she has so much love to give to the world! She needed to have this basic need taken care of before she oculd help other people. She goes down to the morgue to check for falin. She agrees to help kabru after hearing his motives w utaya even tho theres nothing in it for her. Shes the one who reaches her hand up to support him when he almost gets trampled by the adventurers in the dungeon.

I think seeing ppl help him without asking anything in return helped kabru be more open towards other, which leads to him throwing his lot w laios despite all his doubts.

Doesnt rat out laios party under the threat of interregation tho also it seemed shuro was just 🤐 abt it. She tells tansu shes headed down w shuros retainers to rescue him when he gets kicked like a football into the dungeon - also a nice bit of character development that she clearly wants to help laios w the water spirit and only goes w tansus permission, but here she takes the initiative and tells him she'll report if she sees anything funny. Crucially she throws her lot against the elves, who are the closest to power at great risk to herself. (tho lowkey she may lose her livelihood if the elves take over so there may be a bit of self interest there + her patron is in charge of some of it).

constantly asking shuro for his input bc she knows hes shy

able to support marcille when shes in tears after losing her dream falin and laios despite feeling awkward towards her (kinda interesting parallel w how shuro feels hes bad w laios

For the two of em, think laios failed them as their leader, so they leave. And afterwards, their relationship improves bc they can truely dedicate themselves to what they want from him as their friends--running a legendary sabatoge against the elf cops so he doesnt go to jail!!!

I think theres something to the fact shes the one shown being eaten by the lion when time stops. Then also the one in the mana realm happy that she’d never have to struggle or hunger again. Her whole life seemed to be cleaning up her fathers messes, getting cast out for her fathers messes, just a constant struggle w the dwarves not seeing her as someone worth being in their community and drifting around without a place to belong. Even tho she found ppl now it doesnt change what happened w her. It's sad. But she also accepts she has to go back and face the future.

her love for music and dance is interesting- how like something communal that draws others in spontaneously is something she feels close to

also interesting is her interactions w other races--seems like she primarily interacted w dwarves for the first few years of her life, w just tenous connections to people of other races and it was getting so suddenly ejected that got her there. No coincidence that shes the one who goes in between the orcs and elves towards the finale to go hey we are on the same side. Also not a coincidence she gets along so well w the twins who were abandoned by their families and taken in by gnomes but also always feeling a little out of place in that community.

Tansu clearly stand in for her dad : ( her mom walked out when she was young : ( honestly im really happy she gets a family of a sort w them.

Im also glad she still has her own interest in weaponry and design even tho its tainted w her fathers actions

Her friendship w shuro is so fun. You wouldn't expect them to get along so well bc they seem so different on the surface and namaris blunt in a way that ud think be offputting to shuro and he kinda indirect in a way that would piss her off but theyre very often on the same wavelength.

da warriors bond...no words are needed i think they might be using telepathy. once u get below the surface they have a lot in common.

family issues so severe it managed to creep onto a thrid person thats not their parent

pretty pragmatic ppl at their core (eg. shuros less mad about ancient magic being wrong and more that theyre gonna go to jail for 10000 years before chimera falin apears, his gripe about eating monsters seems more being about youll get food poisening that way etc. namari placing herself close to power in her new party, her insistance on getting paid, checkin the morgue for falin,when things get too complicated she focuses on what she can do now).

seemed to have suffered pretty badly under laios leadership

both seem to be treated as outcasts on the island, namari despite growing up there , shuro for being a forienger even tho 4/6 ppl on his party are foreign

theres interesting contrasts w her replacement senshi, in the way theyre both outcasts in the dwarven community and the way their family/partys legacies weigh heavily for them. but i ran out of steam

shes good at keeping ppl grounded and has a good inventory of ppls strengths. of the three ppl who left the party, i think she has the best potential to be a good leader at the start.

shes pretty linked to the community of adventurers as a whole but (u guessed it) i ran out of steam

I think a lot of her role in the story parallels w the theme that u need careful boundaries and consideration of other ppls needs to be an effective leader, something chilchuck hits upon a lot. but also you need to take care of your own needs first (senshis running theme) and be able to take good inventory of your desires to face the future (izutsumis running theme)

#Dungeon meshi spoilers #namari #every day on this blog i just rant abt something random.... got bless

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see-arcane · 2 years ago

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The Vampyres (PREVIEW)

Something is culling the dead.

Whether they imbibe blood, leech life, or merely traded mortality away to their devil of choice, the revenants of the world are disappearing. A phenomenon that has been carving its way through the undead like a belated necrosis moving steadily through the past century and more. One which the Vampyre, a possessor of many names and collector of many lives, has been fretting over for some time.

A laughable fear, for he is one of those canny cadaverous few who made a deal for perpetual resurrection. The bitten may crumble, but the bargainer may rise from death after death. So he reminds himself. So he worries is no longer the case.

Not when the old boyar in the Carpathians was one of the first to vanish. Still, the monster from the mountains may simply be in hiding, just as the rest must be. The Vampyre himself is surely jumping at shadows. So he convinces himself for a single night…

…before a Thing known only as ‘Quinn Morse’ makes itself and its work known.

Surprise! I accidentally finished a novella during what was supposed to be a short story break. Whoops. Updates to come.

Below is a preview of the opening chapters. A link to the Google Doc version is here.

Warnings for some grisly imagery. Keep an eye out for some familiar faces (such as they are).

The Vampyres

“Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.

Think’st thou that I who saw the face of God

And tasted the eternal joys of Heaven

Am not tormented with ten thousand hells

In being deprived of everlasting bliss?

O Faustus, leave these frivolous demands

Which strikes a terror to my fainting soul!”

—Mephistopheles, Doctor Faustus

The phone came alive at midnight. A fact he would mercifully only become aware of well after two in the morning. He followed at least one form of etiquette at the table by silencing the device from start to finish of each game. He broke no rules in any casino, however polished or derelict. It was what preserved his hobby. The gambling itself he could leave or take.

But the players themselves were excellent sport.

He beggared every starved and bloodshot player hoping to win funds enough to live off for a month, then played as if blind in order to lose it all to whichever moneyed tick needed it least. Considering how equal the misfortune spread across the board for any who played with him—rich or poor, Good Samaritan or giddy sinner—it was rarely too long before even the least credulous in his circles began to shiver when he showed his face. Or so it was in less congested metropolises where the cattle weren’t so bombarded with other distractions that they couldn’t recognize an ill omen when he took a seat at the felted table. It remained true now, as always, that whoever played against him wound up either penniless or slated for an avalanche of misery the moment they spent the money he’d lost to them. A fact that so many of them never bothered to notice even in this age of conspiracy and wildfire gossip living in their myriad screens.

Bless their blunted little souls.

That night he was feeling slightly more at ease than he had in some weeks. Even one of the cocktail girls, whose mind carried a pleasing well of empathy and whose fingernails were still lined with soil from a group tree planting, tickled at his peripheral senses and twitched his appetite half awake. If he wanted, he could talk her number out of her over a drink he would never choke down, perhaps keeping her pinned at a stool with his face and his wallet. He might dance her along for a date or three and then bite her throat out before they struck June. The same could be said for the svelte young man behind the bar who had almost fumbled his showman mixologist pour upon making eye contact with him. He had a tang of hope and action sweating from him, the kind that was destined either to make a hero or a martyr of him someday. It would almost be a mercy to put him down in his prime.

The girl, then.

He flung a little mental nudge her way. Enough to make her turn her head. At the same time, he fished out the phone to play with. Just to have it ready should the exchange come quicker than anticipated. A small mountain of text messages sat fresh and unread there. This was surprising by its own merit, considering how scant his contacts were. Then he saw the name. Irritation broke out on his mood like a rash.

Taking himself to a private corner, he began to read. And read. And read. Irritation grew into something heavier. Sicker.

At the bottom of the reading, he tapped play so he might watch.

When all was seen and heard, his hand twitched, crunched in the phone’s sides, and sent spider web cracks flying across the screen. A ruddy gentleman stopped en route to the toilet in time to see this and mumble something about how he ought to invest in a device of higher quality. The man had this cousin working for a new startup, you see, and if he was so inclined—

The last mote of joy he took away that night was the look on that rubicund face as it met the eyes of something no longer bothering to pretend it was human. A grey eye might be ignored. Not so for a dead one. He left the man scrambling his way to the stalls.

On his way to the doors, he made sure to radiate every deathly ounce of his presence into the air as he could. A quelling cold that made the glee of the night’s winners crumble into a dread of things they could not name. Then he was out and under the moon. He nursed from that pale waxing wedge in a desperate reflex. It was a thin taste here, lost in the searing pollution of streetlights and neon, but he basked just the same. Still basking, he crushed the phone in his fist and dropped the remains down a sewer grate. Then he was gone, one of a thousand streaks of rolling light and metal on the asphalt.

He only ever carried phones as a prop.

In this age and those to follow, it would be imperative to keep one of the aggravating little slabs on hand for the purposes of adding the phone numbers of sundry quarries or engage in the back-and-forth patter that so many of them insisted on in those hours when they weren’t side by side. Fortunately, he’d found himself blessed enough to dodge one of the maladies which others indulging in a healthy unlife hadn’t. True, the form he had bartered for had only so many perks, but opting out of extravagant powers had trimmed down the amount of tells.

Some poor bastards had to walk around without reflections or shadows while grumbling over the barriers of running water and uninvited thresholds. Others only discovered their drawbacks as the 20th century budded, revealing too late that their photographs came out either empty or hideously distorted. Even the audio of their voices came out muted or garbled into static. He’d avoided all of these caveats by trading for a more thinly arcane state of undeath rather than glutting himself on all the powerful options in reach. And why not? It still came with the most desired prize without any need for filigree.

Given blood and moonlight enough, there was no iteration of death from which he could not rebound. Same as any of the self-made devils lurking about in the shadows. Such shadows as were left for things like them. In a lighter mood, he might have enjoyed the notion of picking at the wounds of those who’d not bothered with the foresight of arranging investments and back doors of identification for the centuries to come. Only fools could miss how tight the noose of bureaucracy was becoming. A body loitering among the mayfly mortals had to be prepared and he had once laughed to himself at how many times the sorcerous types had to gnash their fangs and scramble to cover themselves as time ticked on and their lounging hedonism softened into corrosion.

But such amusing thoughts had iced over in recent decades.

He had not gotten as far as he had alive or undead by resting on his laurels. Oh, he might enjoy playing with his food and sowing a bit of casual desolation where it could be nurtured, but he never gambled when it came to things that might inconvenience him. Things like other bloodsuckers, for instance. A few had been proper nuisances of old. The majority of the stray vampiric beauties wandering around crypts and lonely midnights luring gullible lovers into their teeth were invariably the result of irresponsible collecting by the usual harem hoarders. Such carelessness often led to sleeping cadavers staked and slaughtered in their boxes like oversized leeches. Not a concern for himself, naturally—he could enjoy a bed rather than graveyard dirt or casket walls—but the attention itself got too many hackles up.

Enough of them raised about a certain type of person could lead to inconvenience. One of his older worries had been the notion of an outright arrest. A trial. A boxing away into a great stone cage of a prison where he would have no choice but to resort to his teeth rather than his daggers or risk being found out as a perpetually young and deathless inmate. A bloody break out, an escape, some secret place where he could lay under the moon and heal from the bullets, going on the run for a decades-long stint until all assumed he must be dead, all these he could picture…

…but frankly would rather avoid. Hence the need for cannier sorts with this unique condition. Those who knew how to take their fun and their fodder between the lines of human living and laws.

It was not against the law that certain formerly-benign persons around you turned apoplectic with madness, horror, or rage after spending a few months in your company. Nor was it against the law to stamp someone’s empty little head with the alien impression of infatuation, lust, or that softly syrupy joke called romance so that they, like the insect drawn to the pitcher plant, would come within reach willingly; regardless of former commitments or fearful kin. There was no law against trances, against the mystic weight of locking an unwitting brain inside an oath with more power to it than hollow words, against having a seventh sense of awareness when it came to the makeup of a soul.

And, apart from those silly backwards places where superstition still ruled, there was certainly no law against being an accused vampire. Or a vampyre, to go by his preferred spelling. Kate Northcott mocked him for this and other affectations on those sparse occasions when they met.

Her name was not Kate Northcott any more than his was Gordon Williams, but it was the name she was the most attached to.

“I turned into a proper ghost story with it in the 1880s. Back when the mesmerist fad was booming, you know. Popped one little stage magician’s blood vessel right there in the middle of his act.” A dainty finger waggled. “I take offense to people playing with my toys. It’s his own fault for trying to walk my poor John around.”

Her poor John, who had, like every beau before him, been told the exact nature of both their lovely cruel Kate’s being and precisely what she intended to do with them should they go through with marriage and life thereafter. More, that she would see them dead if they abandoned her. Each man had run. Each had died. Perhaps they’d have lasted longer if she ever allowed a trip to the altar before laying out the truth post-honeymoon, but the rules of her own contract demanded the revelation come before any wedding bells. Not a terrible bargain, all things considered.

This in mind, he had posited that she might have better luck keeping a paramour if she used her fine senses to detect one of those lot who would trip over their own aching members for the chance to be an eternal puppet to her psychic appetite and the twitch of her riding crop. Miss Northcott had batted her lashes. As always, the lambent shine of her eyes tried to work their magic on his own will. As always, they’d scrabbled for a grip on the frictionless wall that shielded his mind from all such parasites; dead drinkers of blood or soul or otherwise. Following the expected failure, she had huffed and tittered.

“Now what’s the point if they want it? I don’t see you jumping at the sea of willing victims hoping for unlife eternal draped in your arms at the cost of a hickey and a liquid diet. You could have had a set of twins that one time, no? The brother and sister, whoever they were. The Audreys? The Ambers?”

“The appetizers,” he said with all the pining recollection of an epicure mourning an especially pleasing steak. “They were a pleasant distraction. It’s the most any quarry can aspire to.” So saying, he made a point of revealing one of the daggers he still kept on his person. Antique and bejeweled, he took some small pride in keeping the whole set gleaming and up to the task whenever the latest game came to an end. He’d unsheathed his current pick, admiring the dead grey of his stare reflected in the steel. “I have no interest in collecting sycophants.”

“Likewise.” She had sipped at her cup daintily. Perhaps purposefully, the better to show she was capable of consuming more than the spirit of a collared victim. Whether she could taste anything the café had to offer was not a topic he was interested enough to pry for. “But that begs the question of why you’re suddenly so concerned for your fellows that you would bother with the labors of social interaction to pass the warning on.”

Gordon regarded her stonily over his untouched plate.

“I’m not concerned for any of our ‘fellows’ any more than I’m concerned for you. I have every belief that I am one of the least endangered of our kind and all its branches by dint of having some amount of grey matter dedicated to not flaunting my reality like those idiots who decided to take Bowie and Deneuve as role models. At most, I give you credit for being canny enough to dwell within plausible deniability with your methods. More, you have senses enough to glean for yourself if this threat is in your midst and have enough intelligence to enlist others to help with culling it.”

She muffled a laugh and picked at her croissant.

“Even if I believed you would exert effort to come to my aid, I still fail to see what threat you’ve conjured to be afraid of. Your only evidence so far is that you haven’t been in touch with the others of the old guard in some time. Most have never been keen on letter-writing or trading numbers. The last I checked, the bulk of them prefer the sedentary life to our migratory lifestyle. Castles and manors and villages turned into necropolises and so on. Hermit types by nature.”

“Hermits would be at home. All the places I’ve visited have been empty.” He was surprised at having to keep his throat from bobbing in anxious imitation of a tic from his living years; back when there was need to fret for his life. “And filled with dust.”

Miss Northcott had frowned up at him.

“Dust..?”

“Dust and growth. There were flowers growing in the messes that were fresh enough in their conversions to have flesh leftover. Compost.” He thought back to the surreal gardens left behind in that sequestered corner of Munich that belonged to Dolingen. Then a Serbian village that had been swallowed by a ravenously loving pack of wurdulacs, stopped short of virulence by their rules of homeland borders. Among others. Dust in piles, dust wearing ancient clothes, dust in coffins. And scattered throughout, the bounty of younger fledglings. Meat and bone converted to soil from which wild roses, ash trees, and garlic sprouted in healthy crops. As for the nobler estates?

“The chateaus and mansions are either abandoned, passed on to the wealthy living, or museum pieces now. Maybe their former masters left it all behind in the past hundred or so years to dodge modern eyes scrutinizing the family tree. I’d like to think so. Just as I’d like to think there was a less worrisome reason that all the pseudonyms and auxiliary domains I tried to follow up on had no recognizable owners when I checked in. But even if I were dense enough to convince myself of such, there’s at least one case that suggests—,”

“The Carpathians.” She beamed at him and his stunted oration. “The castle in the mountains has been gutted since 1897, dear. Looted and halfway dismantled to the foundation by the locals. What’s left of it is there for the tourists.” Her slim hand patted his knuckles. “If you’re worried about the handsy old boyar, don’t be. He’s been mobbed and murdered before. A shame about his girlfriends in their boxes, but they were only born of a bite, poor things. No contractual resurrection to fall back on. The Count, if he is still bothering with being a Count, is doubtlessly off haunting some contemporary castle someplace. Probably a nice high rise for him to skitter down or make his batty flights from. Just as the other oldies have likely taken themselves to higher ground. And if their minions really have run afoul of some sterling sorts with hammer, stake, and axe?” Miss Northcott shrugged. “Well, there’s always more pretty chattel to choose from.”

Now she did laugh aloud. A brittle crystalline sound.

“Honestly, I’m shocked that you’d be the one to turn jumpy over such a thing. Supposing there was some active force in the world bumping the lower tier wraiths off, it would still be no more than an annoyance for us. We’ve both had our share of murders to prove as much. The dried-up old conqueror certainly had his fill in the warlord days, if I don’t mistake the legends.”

“He did,” Gordon granted. “And he has reassembled himself plenty of times before. Which is my point. Supposing he is undead and active today, or was a hundred years prior, why would he let the peasants harvest his fortress down into a ruin?”

“Well, he’s obviously left the place,” Miss Northcott shrugged without looking at him. Her attention had gravitated down to her phone. A manicured thumb tapped and scrolled. More appetite than apprehension lived in her gaze. “You can only pass yourself off as your own descendant so long before things start getting sticky. Everyone hits the point where you have to get on with setting up elsewhere. And really, the warlord days are ancient history. If he’d gone out with a flourish of a massacre on the neighboring towns squirming under his eye, it would only have gotten him more unwanted attention. I recommend you start trawling through top mogul names and see if you can’t spot his picture lurking in there, gone fat and happy slurping up interns.” Her lips pursed. “Supposing he was one of the lucky sorts who can have a photo taken.”

With that, the topic was dead. Gordon managed to sit through another quarter of an hour in which she lamented the double-edged factor of her electronic allergy, woeful at never having a decent photo to spare for social media or dating apps, but likewise glad of the identity-baffling glamour it leant.

Chirpily, she reminded him that even those who grew suspicious of her would never be able to take a reliable photo or video of anything but a spectral horror with mist for eyes, unlike some. Better still, no one even spoke on the phone anymore. Bless texting.

He held on until she started regaling him with talk of her latest doomed darling—a Mr. Quinn Morse, the mortuary assistant who she had met in the before and after of her latest fiancé’s funeral—and what a scrumptious psychic treat he was to the palate. She was frankly surprised at herself! He had proven so pleasant a distraction she might not even bother goosing his mind into vomiting out a proposal. Not for a while anyway. Why, she may even take up two-timing the boy just to snack on a fiancé behind his back, ha ha.

Gordon didn’t bother wishing her bon appétit. He picked out a young couple on his way back to the train. Mister and Missus would be found folded inside a dumpster later that evening, chests carved and throats torn. A rejuvenating bout of gluttony that only gave him new energy with which to curse the lack of answers he sat with. Worse still was the lack of competent allies to make up for the former’s deficit. For a while longer he strained to lower his suspicions to the level of Miss Northcott’s confidence.

His main concern was so implausible as to border on impossible, after all.

The turned might be slain, it was true. But those who had commissioned their states from their devil or deity of choice were immune to total destruction by any of the cattle, no matter how endowed in strength or holy accoutrement.

Days and nights were spent rereading these facts in the volumes that still traveled with him to whatever land or identity he haunted. They remained preciously stored in enhanced safes as the centuries ticked on, now handled only with silk gloves and the most delicate turns of cover and page. He scoured the old tongues, some living, some dead, some entirely detached from human script, and took as much solace as he could from the facts laid there.

His contract was one of perpetual function. So long as he drank his dose of blood, he would go on forever. So long as his dead skin was grazed by moonlight, he would shed any injury or temporary death. So long as he was the thing he was, no act of man would have the power to unmake him.

All these were still maintained. He was safe. As anyone else at his level or higher would be. The more grandiose warlocks and dealmakers who’d glutted themselves on fearsome add-ons available to other forms of revenant had simply moved on and were going about their business elsewhere, under new names. Of course. Of course.

“Of course,” he murmured to the yellowed pages. “They all just happened to do so within the last century. On a whim.”

It could be, couldn’t it? Technology and the microscopic examinations of increasingly thorough systems surrounding properties and owners thereof would make it necessary to move on from old roosts sooner or later.

“Without taking any measures to preserve their estates.”

But then what of the villages? The ones full of living peasantry gleefully peeling the properties down to floorboards. The dead spaces where only silence and specific warding flora bloomed. What sense was there to those, if not the fact that something had been and gone and torn the masters of the land out by their bloody roots?

Something.

That was the prospect that worried him most. Something coming to call, something culling the undead and undying, something roaming across borders of land and water to pick them off year by year, decade by decade. Something that may have been active since the boyar in the mountains disappeared. Something which was not human and so did not fall within the parameters of their sundry pacts’ protection.

Gordon grimaced. It would come down to a technicality, wouldn’t it? Be they gods or demons or Folk in-between, there was always some damned loophole built in to ensure a trade was never quite as advertised. Gordon had studied and sworn and dealt with a god wearing the aspect of one of those horrors that passed for divinities in the Mediterranean. One of tripled faces, of lunar light, of words stitched with power. After so many centuries, he had dared to become complacent enough to think he had gotten away with an impenetrable exchange.

But now came this worrisome century and a quarter in which all those dead who lived off the living were dropping out of sight. He might have dared to make an inquiry to Powers beyond mortal matter if he weren’t likewise concerned that this culling was the work of said Powers themselves. Terminating contracts, as it were. Even if this weren’t the case, what more did he have left to barter with for protection from…

From what?

He didn’t know. Still. The result left him twisting unhappily between throes of frustration at his ignorance and grimmer dread of knowledge that might come in the shape of the long-avoided coffin come to collect.

As always, the cure for his own despondency was to share it with others. Hence the casino. The brief high that had almost transfigured into relief.

And then had come the texts from ‘N.’

Even with the phone safely demolished and abandoned, its final bleak gift stayed branded behind his eyes, searing through his thoughts awake or asleep. The first came at ten past midnight:

R. Need help. My arm’s going black. The knife, it

A lull of minutes followed this. The next message came through at 12:15 AM:

It’s real. He’s here and he’s real. Quinn Morse was a cover. I can’t find any of his pictures in the album now. He replaced everything with their markers. All of them.

Another beat. 12:22 AM:

Pick up, damn it! This isn’t a joke! He’s got all the doors and windows cut off and the police won’t be here in time! I already tried to put him down, but he just keeps going. I can’t drink him. I can’t even hold him. He knew he knew the whole time he

Beat. 12:30 AM:

Pick up you bastard

12:31 AM:

Please, R, he’s outside. He’s got my arm. What’s left of my arm. The door’s breaking and h

The next message came at 12:41 AM. A video. Hitting play, the clearest thing throughout the few endless minutes was the background. Miss Northcott’s plush bedroom stood out in crisp relief compared to the two figures in the foreground. One was a vaguely female haze that Gordon recognized as what was left of Kate Northcott. She flickered in and out of the camera’s concept of her reality. One moment she was spectral fog made of hunger and venom. In the next, she was something far more tangible and suffering for it.

Each flicker revealed a new stage of decomposition twitching in a bloodied sundress. Only one arm was left to flail with as the right was missing, swinging only a necrotic stump at the shoulder. The rest of the body was following suit between spasms. Sometimes a glottal noise that could pass for a voice broke through the static. What had been crystal was now a shrill and dwindling rasp. Dimly, Gordon thought it was strange the noise was not wetter—his cuisine almost always gurgled when enduring the kind of wound he saw staining her breast.

A crimson slit, quickly drying to maroon, had opened where her heart would be. Her remaining hand alternated between scrabbling at the wound and trying to wave off the shape throwing its shadow over her from outside the borders of the screen. As she tried to kick herself back along the floor, the reason for her scuttling along the imported rug was made clear: a bullet hole had gone through one knee. The knee itself was now almost obliterated with decay while the calf and thigh on either side were going hideously spongy. Much like the rest of her.

The last noise she made was as close to a scream with dust for a throat could manage—

“Quin—,”

—before a flash of silver-white swept down. It flew in a shining arc from the upper corner of the screen and through the hazy shriveled stem that had been a neck. A moment later there was no haze left. Only the corpse of the thing known as Kate Northcott collapsing in two pieces. The bulk of it flopped to the floor with a gruesome rattle. Her head, the lush tresses now so much grizzled and flimsy white, tumbled away until it struck the nightstand. When it stilled, the sockets revealed that the eyes had dried away to nothing.

Then Quinn Morse stepped into frame.

If Miss Northcott was mist, her killer was a ghost. The impression of a man smeared just out of true. Really, it was the impression of a character; some escapee from a folk legend or a graphic novel. Such was the outline Gordon could make out in the blur of him. He was a strange medley of huntsman and mourner. Sheathed in black, Gordon could pick out suggestions of both the late Victorian and the fantasy of the American adventurer in his attire. Or perhaps he was assuming too much by the hints beneath the hanging duster and the broad brim of a hat dark as charcoal. The only things not some shade of ink were the white fall of hair growing from under the hat in wild drapes and the twin infernos of the eyes floating in the shadowed void where a face should be. Not red, but a sickening grey that might have matched Gordon’s own but for how they burned.

He thought of cats. He thought of foxes. He thought of carrion birds.

He thought of coins not unlike the pair Quinn Morse held up in his gloved fingers. Gold pinched in old leather. They shined just as bright as the long blade gripped in the opposite hand, its helping of blood dripping.

Gordon watched with the camera as Quinn Morse first held the coins up to be seen, then popped one apiece into each of the eye sockets. Finally, a bundle of familiar blossoms and sprigs appeared from the dark mass of the coat. This was tucked neatly into the head’s sagging maw as if arranging a bouquet. Quinn Morse stepped out of sight. The video ended.

A final text message appeared the instant the show finished:

My God, my God! Look not so fierce upon me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile! Ugly Hell, gape not! Come not Lucifer! I’ll burn my books!—O Mephistopheles!

He had wanted to laugh. To roll his eyes. To make himself tap out a reply in mocking returned verse. To inform Mr. Morse that he was lacking for proper material to parrot, especially in assuming his gods and devils brushed anywhere near something so young and gaudy as the Abrahamic.

He could. He would.

But somewhere in these plans he had found himself crumpling the phone to shrapnel and racing home to start clearing out his necessities for a trip to distant quarters. He kept more than one residence as a rule whenever he wasn’t taking one of his gourmand tours. A fact Miss Northcott may have known, but not well enough to have learned his other addresses. Or names.

Gordon Williams was thrown away that night.

Mason Darvell greeted the morning.

#in which I trip and fall into completing an entirely different piece while being distracted from the mountain of other WIPs #I am become Arcane the Clown #anyway #The Vampyres #the vampyre #john barrington cowles #dracula #horror #my writing #tw death #tw gore

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warrior-cats-rewritten · 8 months ago

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I think my most controversial Warrior Cats opinion is that I actually really like the Cinderpelt-heart reincarnation plot. Or at least I would really love a version of it without all teh ableist implications. StarClan realizing that teh “no kits for medicine cats” rule is hurtful, and also that disabled cats are often pushed into roles they don’t want and aren’t suited for, and they reincarnate Cinderpelt for those reasons, not because a disabled life isn’t a full one. Cinderheart feeling pressure from teh clan, maybe even her family or even Lionblaze, to be a medicine cat when she finds out. It has potential idk.

I liked it at first, because... Admittedly, I read Po3 before I read TNP and before I finished TPB.

So Cinderpelt was this mysterious, not quite known character to me. I went and read TNP and thought "hmm. I wish it had been more 'this is happening because your life is going to be cut short now due to the move to the lake and that isn't fair because you were supposed to live a long time so go become your niece, really sorry about the badgers, xoxo PS sorry about your mom slowly starving to death in the forest'"

Instead it hinges on her having had "not a full life", which.... When I went EVEN FURTHER back and finished TPB.... She did. She loved Medicine. It was HER choice. The Erin's forgot, made a weird retcon that has become her entire character: "I loved my teacher and didn't tell him", and had Lionblaze be the... Reward for that?

I liked it, it was just done for a stupid reason. Another one of those "we wrote this plot point to make sure a character does xyz" instead of just... Writing it. Snowkit's death is the most egregious example of these writers pretending they have no control over these fictional cats.

I have some controversial opinions of my own.

The Lake territory is cool but also sucks. We need to either leave the Lake or start redoing things about it. It has no landmarks to hang out at or have what I call 'set pieces' whatsoever, and more importantly no threats (thunderpaths, snake rocks, gorge, the tree with a huge Owl, Carrionplace) and I'm pretty sure the writers feel this way too since we leave the Lake once an arc. I wouldn't mind moving territories again, to a more dangerous but still natural place.

Breezepelt should be a permanent Queen. I know it would mean seeing less of him (which I dislike) but him being a gentle parent and helping others raise their kits would be a PERFECT wrap up to his arc. As much as I desperately want Breezestar I think he would fit more as a perma-queen.

A trip to the distant future or past would be both good and bad. A whole new cast would be kinda cool but let's be honest, these writers suck. What is needed is a whole new writing team of people who actually LIKE the books.

I never really liked canon!Riverstar that much, we really didn't know anything about him because DOTC is less Dawn of The Clans and more "pwease like our power trip fantasy oc who knocks up a girl his son's age 🥺". I genuinely cannot remember anything River Ripple even does. He just... Isn't there. Maybe more prevalent in the last 2 books but I never got past the first 3 chapters of book 5 and never opened book 6 aside from looking at its last scene and rolling my eyes. Petal's death was where I drew the line, the narrative bending over backwards to make Clear Sky a poor sad baby crossed it.

• I've come around thanks to Bonefall but I genuinely hated Star Flower as a kid. The way she was described was uncomfortable, annoying and made it feel like the writers were trying to force you to think she's this gorgeous, perfect cat, it made her boring, bland, and anything with her in it a slog to get through because of the way Thunder spoke about her, going on and on about her beautiful she was, getting worse when Moth Flight's Vision described her with purple eyes to go with her star-shaped pupils... Also, I was really attached to Petal, who died suddenly when Star Flower entered the picture, and I was on the assumption Clear Sky and Petal were going to get together, while I didn't like Clear Sky, I just wanted my favorite to stay alive unlike every other female character. Starf also suddenly becoming a helples damsel in distress added to the annoyance so badly that I actually never finished DOTC, and it made me take a break from the series altogether. I really wanted her to be playing the long game. A sincere thank you to Bonefall for helping me reread who this character is, and while the way our 'Camera' describes hee is still annoying, I can at least look past that and see the roots of this character.

I love Leafpool, and Hollyleaf. Met a lot of Leafpool fans who seem to think Hollyleaf is this monster when she very much reads as someone who cannot handle their religious and emotional abuse based trauma and lashed out at the wrong person. What she did to Leafpool was awful but she was basically an irrational teenager. Just like apprentice does not always equal child, warrior does not always equal "grown ass adult who should get over it". Her own existence went against every single thing she believed in and was told by her own mentor to never ever question.

As sweet as the scene with Dandelionkit and Juniperkit in Starclan was... There was really 0 point in giving Squilf 2 dead kids, other than "the writers hate her". The only thing I can see a point for it is for a long-shot setup to Squirrelstar for some lives seeing as you just know they absolutely forgot about Squish's friends.

• I think Ivypool has somewhat of a right to be upset with Dovewing. HEAR ME OUT. She is allowed to be upset, NOT take it out on Dovewing. She also needs to learn that she helped drive her sister out, but the writers are allergic to that kind of thing in favour of "make character a background conservative. If female = mom. If mom = soft until politcal debate scenario." She is allowed to be sad and upset that her only sister is gone, she just needs to acknowledge she messed up, as well as lots of Thunderclan cats messed up.

It's time to kill Brightheart, Brackenfur, Thornclaw and Cloudtail. Enough is enough, start retiring cats who were full warriors when TNP started. Tawnypelt should be in the Elders den and Oakfur should be rotting in hell for what he let happen to Berrynose. On that same note, I hope Russetfur went on trial for that and her attempt on Firestar's life. I like her but good GOD, that was egregious, and looks even more pathetic when Yellowfang's Secret reveals she herself wasn't Clanborn.

Tigerheart's Shadow is a good book (aside from that one 'territory' bit, you know the one) and this series could go FAR if they embraced the mysterious mystical elements they set up, people are far too harsh on the experimental things.

Moonkitti makes good points sometimes but I need younger fans to stop taking everything she says as gospel and start thinking for themselves; case in point the recent Mapleshade drama that REEKS of "if I was Orpheus I wouldn't have turned around". The writers call the Moonstone the Moonpool every time we revisit the forest, do you really think they remembered The Bridge? Did YOU remember the bridge or did Moonkitti point it out? Also, with how cosmically doomed from the start the story was, the water probably would have overtaken the bridge and STILL swept them away. For every one good take Moonkitti has they seem to have more than a few bad ones.

My silly one. FERNSONG SHOULD HAVE BEEN NAMED AFTER HONEYFERN AND BEEN A HONEYFERN CLONE APPEARANCE WISE. No problem with him being named for Ferncloud but could they PLEASE acknowledge that Cinderheart is Honeyfern's sister too? Poppyfrost named her baby boy after Molekit and Lilyheart named her daughter Honeykit despite never having met Honeyfern, and those don't feel like coincidences.

I dislike the Tribe as its concept, but I like some of the characters that came from it, know what I mean? I like OG Stoneteller (though I always pictured him very differently. I saw him as gray tabby with white paws!) I think he is an interesting character, and Outcast was a huge letdown with having him be wrong. It would be a nice change in story if the Clan cats had tried to push their way, only for it to NOT work, for there to be a different way to do things, or a trick the Tribe used in the past that they "could give another crack at", and for the Clan cats to learn that their way of life is not a golden standard. Could you imagine Hollypaw learning this? I also really like Brook. I dismantled her and I know she is a play on the stupid "Indian princess" trope. I love how sweet she is, though I hate how it was painted against the Tribe. I plan to keep that wisdom and kindness, while also making The Tribes just as good a place to live.

I don't think Tawnystar would've been a good idea, as good as a name like that sounds. She, like Bramble, is too old, and the writers can't stand killing off Arc 2 characters in favour of killing off Arc 3 and 4, we would have been stuck with her and the writing for leaders atm SUCKS. Tawnypelt also just... Isn't that great. While I like her, I don't think she would be a good leader. Same goes for Mothstar, though I feel like they could have it done better if they do have it happen by making her not want the 9 lives. After the absolute Christian slog ASC has been about "non believers" it would be cool to see her prove that wrong and put this shitty arc's hinge point in the ground once and for all.

I'm tired of Med Cat protags. We've had one since TNP barring Dawn of The Clans when arguably it would have been the most beneficial from Pebble Heart or Dappled Pelt. Leafpool was cool because she was the first, Jayfeather was kinda cool still because of blindness and being part of the Prophecy, and while his POV in OOTS was a necessary evil, we did not need Alderheart. There is no reason to have Alderheart be the POV when Sparkpelt has the objectively more interesting setup and Alderheart's "anxiety" works better when we can't see through his eyes, as the authors don't know what actual anxiety is. Shadowsight and Frostpaw are alright, through Frostpaw's pov suffers around Nightheart and she does suffer from Camera POV Syndrome at times... Not helped by her being a Female Warriors Character with all the lovely things that come with it. Shadowsight was cool until the writers completely fumbled the bag and made him rude, argumentative, and dropped his epilepsy for no reason. All this is NOT helped by the new retcon that you're just "born different" with some kind of inherit special connection to Starclan, like it wasn't some kind of learned thing, hence Cinderpelt struggling with it as a lot of the time she was on her own!

Let Daisy retire and let Sorrelstripe take over the nursery. These new characters are in desperate need of personality, let Sorrelstripe be a feisty, confident midwife who won't let Queens be bullied into things.

#warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats rewrite #wcr #asks

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chaoticgoblinwife · 1 year ago

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AHHHH

I've yet to see anyone talk about the wretched mirrors represented by Snow and Peeta, and I love it so much. Like two boys who fall in love with the beloved songbird of district 12 and how that relationship was shaped by them themselves.

Peeta who wants his songbird to be free, he wants to love Katniss, but only in a way Katniss will accept love from him. Only in a way in which she will be happy and free to be who she is with the people she loves, because that's the songbird he fell in love with. Peeta who when asked to run away with Katniss into the woods, says yes- but we have to take everyone you love with us. He knows that he'll forgo comfort, that life will be hard, but it's worth it because he has enough love to be happy with it. Peeta, who in a cruel and unforgiving world, always chose love and trust no matter how many times it hurt him.

Contrast that with Snow who wants HIS songbird under HIS control, caged in his living room, to put on a show when asked. He wants to 'love' Lucy Gray in a way that keeps her under his thumb and fundamentally changes who she is- because she's district and that will never be good enough. Snow never fell in love with a free songbird, he heard the song of a trapped one and wanted to live in it forever. Snow can't run with Lucy Gray, because he can't give up himself for anyone. He cares more about HIM, his comfort, his ease of life, his new sense of importance, means far more than a songbird that slips its cage. Its a cruel, unforgiving world, and Coriolanus Snow decides to embrace it.

Like the difference between the two is fundamentally how they deal with the coldness of the world around them, whether responding with constant and unyielding warmth and compassion versus letting the coldness set in and take over until its all that remains.

And don't even get me started on them coming from similar lives of struggle and proceeding to move past it in diametrically opposed ways and how that ties into the conscious choices they make to be the people they are, like Snow constantly jockeying for a chance to fit in with his richer peers and trying so hard to keep up the illusion of status versus Peeta who knows that his family only gets to eat what's old or slightly defective and still fucking something up so badly -ON PURPOSE- so that he can give it to a classmate he knows is starving, knowing that he will be beaten for it and it will probably affect his own family's food because not only can they not sell that bread, they cannot eat it either.

Snow who decides that he will never love again because love is the death of power, and Peeta who multiple times in the series *loves Katniss so fucking hard it nearly kills him* (purposefully teaming up with the careers, the berries, being hijacked, being on the capitol team).

I'm sure there are so many more wonderful things I'm missing but I've typed to the point my arthritis is kicking in and my wrist hurts, so in conclusion, AHHHHHHHHH JESUS FUCK I LOVE THESE BOOKS AND SUZANNE COLLINS GOD SHE'S FUCKING BRILLIANT!

#the hunger games #hunger games #thg series #thg #peeta mellark #thg peeta #coriolanus snow #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

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cgogs · 1 year ago

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I’m rereading and crying over Oxeye Daisy again, and I was wondering what made you choose the flowers for each chapter title? Azure Bluet, Poppy, and Orchid feel like deliberate choices, but I cant seem to figure it out

Anyway, thanks again for this fic! I recently read the epilogue and cried my eyes out even more over it, so I’m still in the process of freaking out over this tic

Each flower can be an ingredient in minecrafts suspicious soup, which is referenced in the fic itself through the soup that george and dream eat! The oxeye daisy soup recipe makes you regenerate hearts ingame. This was my primary reason for naming each chapter but it was always a fun little surprise learnjng that their respective flower languages fit each chapter as well

Chapter 1 is the title chapter, oxeye daisy. Aside from being a reference to the soup and their relationship in general the flower itself symbolizes patience. Which. Well. <:) is georges virtue in this fic

Chapter 2 is titled azure bluet, which inflicts the blindness status effecg ingame and also symbolizes commitment. The second chapter is all about the two stumbling blindly in the dark, unsure where their relationship stands anymore after all thats happened, especially after they crossed the line at the end of the previous chapter.

Chapter 3 is titled poppy, and it gives you the night vision status effect, which i thought was a clever nod to how thru this chapter they get a little better at identifying what they want from each other and where they stand, and how dream opens up to george about his motivations and george sees straight through him. Poppies symbolize death and consolation, and a lot of this chapters theme has to do with the death of how they used to he and the looming threat over dreams head from the bounty.

Chapter 4 is titled orchid, and in the minecraft soup it gives you the saturation status effect, which makes each food you eat last longer, making you have to eat less. This is a bit of a double meaning to me, and dream as well. It could either mean my belly is full and i am content or it means i am nearly starving and making every bit of food i have count. The flower itself symbolizes precious moments and memories, on account of its delicate nature and how it could wilt any moment, just a matter of time

#IM SO GLAD YOU ENJOYED and thank you for givingbme yhe opportunity to blab about my favorite fic again <:)#oxeye daisy

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anxiousgaypanicking · 5 months ago

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sure why not?

okok.

so roman being arthur. logan being sally. patton being ollie. virgil being margaret. janus being uncle jack. let me explain.

there was never any doubt roman would be arthur. he's an inherently selfish character - its his entire personality! he took care of his disabled brother, but ultimately abandoned him on a train alone when he switched their passports. (the only real issue here is that percy was older than arthur, which is how arthur got away with using his passport, but we can say remus and roman are irish twins since thomas/the fandom celebrates their "birthdays" on different days anyway lmao). holds childish resentment for sally for doing something that truly she had no choice but to do (bitter exes, much?) but still comes to him for help anyway, only to abandon her when she can't leave immediately. when he eventually escapes, he's still given the choice to go back and forget, and live his life in oblivion

logan as sally is something i truly was back and forth on. both patton and logan would be great as sally for different reasons, but i decided i liked patton as ollie more. sally is great with chemicals, but also has a baby. she sleeps with the general for favors, while also supplying him and the constables drugs that they threaten her over. while taking care of her baby is what her gameplay generally centers around, shes a very self-sufficient character, and very smart, getting herself out of negative encounters with the general on separate occasions!

patton as ollie, whos mind has been so fucked by drugs that he hallucinates his supposed dead daughter. but margaret isnt his daughter, and is instead uncle jacks daughter, whom he got killed out of spite after uncle jack was making comments about the war. after this, he felt so guilty that he took a ton of drugs to make him forget it. he hates uncle jack with a passion, but is inevitably the one to expose uncle jacks last show where he implores everyone to go off their joy (a pill that makes them happy)

virgil as margaret - uncle jacks dead daughter. she's ollie's voice of reason, even though she's mainly a hallucination. ollie got her killed - not intending to, but it being done anyway - and so she sort of haunts his mind until he eventually overcomes this grief, remembers what he's done, and plays uncle jacks last show

and janus as uncle jack. he's a tv personality who interacts with sent-in questions, gives advice for living in the town, talks about joy, and in his last show - after margaret has been killed - exposes the town for starving to death because the joy keeps them from even realizing theyre hungry. he goes from a charming, charismatic face to someone distraught by reality. he also argued against surrendering during the war, which is what eventually led to his daughter - who he was hiding, after the town demanded that everyone's children be sent on a train over to germany - being found and killed

anyway yeah idk i love the story of we happy few sm and think the sanders sides characters fit so neatly into it <3

victoria byng was another character i thought either janus or patton could be. she's the one who initially made joy, and after no one was taking it, spiked the water supply with it so people would get addicted to joy even if they didn't want to. eventually she's forced off her own joy by ollie and realizes that the town is in ruins because of joy and so eventually destroys it all which people hate her for because what gives her the right, though they do eventually realize they were all going to die if they stay on it

#ask #we happy few #sanders sides #sanders sides au #PLEASE at least watch a video on we happy fews story #all the characters overlap its so great

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musings-of-a-lit-student · 6 months ago

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Prisoner of War: Part 5

Disclaimer: I don’t own Maus or any of Spiegelman’s work. I have attached the photos from the work itself, but do not claim to own the scanned version either. I highly recommend purchasing the book to support the original author. My thoughts do not represent the author's work and are merely my own interpretations.

Warning: MAUS is a graphic novel based on the author’s father’s experiences during the holocaust and includes anecdotes and scenes including violence, blood which may be considered triggering.

Introduction: The work MAUS by Art Spiegelman is a novel that tells the story of Vladek Spiegelman and his experiences during the holocaust using an allegory and parallel storylines to depict the Vladek's past and Artie's present as he hears the story from his father. This work includes an autobiographical and biographical element due to the inclusion of two main characters - Vladek and Artie. Spiegelman makes the decision to introduce himself as a character in the work as a mouthpiece for himself.

Main Characters: Artie: The author Vladek: Artie's father Anja: Artie's mother Mala: Vladek's second wife Françoise: Artie's wife

Navigation ->Prisoner of War Masterlist -> Previous Part

MAUS by Art Spiegelman

Points of Interest:

Starting the war

There's always been a lot of conflict regarding the instigators of wars, and Spiegelman starts this out by having his germans blame the jews. The lack of accountability is astonishing in hindsight, and we are reminded of all the conflicts that hadn't been cleared up then. The leadership often misled their soldiers, and this is a clear depiction of their mindset. The politics of a war cannot be discounted and Spiegelman includes that line in to make a point.

Focus Circle

A creepy nazi cat stares into our souls with the most menacing imagery of the novel. The sharpened teeth emphasise the predatory nature of these animals, and the cats are not to be taken for granted. Their beady little eyes, and the skull adorning each hat, makes them literal harbingers of death, and creates a threatening image that will follow the audience through this scene.

Hand

A derailing conversation about the softness of the hands, suggest that there is a lot more they've gone through. Vladek was around Artie's age while struggling, and lived a similarly privileged life. His frailty after undergoing the war and the holocaust is understandable, and the choice to have a close up of his hands is significant. The labour put in by a person is seen by the marks on their hand, be it callouses, or cuts, and Vladek suffered resulting in his weary hands in the present.

Parallels

The two panels below on the left of the first page are close to each other like a flip book. A direct progression from the hand held above, and the accusatory finger pointed at Vladek. We see the shadowed mice, representing their vulnerability and the towering height of the cats. There is no symbolic reasoning I can find for such a sudden parallel drawn, but its obvious that there is a sense of intimidation in the mice.

Silhouette

There is a visual focus on pigsty by silhouetting the characters. The type of menial labour expected and performed was harsh, and unfair timelines were placed to further subjugate and weaken the jews. Having been starved, we understand that Vladek's obsession with cleanliness comes from a position from desperation and a subconscious belief that everything must be spick and span in order to receive basic human rights. His trauma has followed him into the present, as we watch him scold Artie, and we can observe how Spiegelman points out how his eccentric behaviours are a result of the experiences of his youth. Here we see the events of the past and their corresponding consequences in the present immediately, and Spiegelman does this to explain parts of his behaviour.

Complaints about Mala

An odd repetition we see throughout this novel is Vladek's constant complaints about Mala, the woman who cooks, cleans and puts up with a lot his grumbling. Artie shows us no reason to believe that she is a what Vladek suggests, and he is indifferent to most of Vladek's complaints making the audience avoid acknowledging them as well. Questions are raised about her housekeeping abilities, and for now we wonder how reliable both our narrators are, given the facts we see.

Next Part

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sunsoakedhighhopes · 1 year ago

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Captain America #5, Case #1: Captain America and the Ringmaster of Death

Steve and Bucky go to the circus on their day off, where they happen to run into General Blaine

Bucky plays a game of chance, and we learn that Bucky's lucky number is the number 7.

Unfortunately for our dynamic duo, their day off (? Idk, they're both still in uniform?) is about to get ruined (as it usually does) because the ringmaster of this circus just so happens to be a nazi sympathizer, with intentions to murder the nazis' biggest foes. This is the usual assortment of high ranking military officials, FBI Agent Betty Ross, and of course, Captain America himself, and Bucky.

The ringmaster chooses who's going to be his next victim by spinning his Wheel of Death (TM), because all comic book villains have to have some convoluted way of committing their crimes.

Once again, our villain uses a member of a vulnerable population to do his bidding, against his will.

The murder method of choice in this instance is to let the tiger out of its cage (Yes/YES/The tiger is out), which then promptly kills General Blaine and, I guess, tries to eat him.

Since the vast majority of these cases are written to be like murder mysteries, and there's always 1-2 (or more) murders per case, I feel like the American Army has to be on the verge of running out of high ranking officers. Either that, or they're promoting people to general after, like, a week. The life expectancy of a general stationed near Camp Lehigh must be about the same as the life expectancy of a captain on the Death Star.

Steve magical girl transforms into Captain America, and then kills the tiger with his *bare hands*.

Steve, that tiger was probably mistreated, underfed and starving. Ahem. Anyway.

Then we get another installment of my favorite Captain America trope: Steve getting in trouble for doing Captain America things when he's supposed to be on duty.

While peeling potatoes, Agent Ross stops by, and Steve uses *himself* as his own secret identity to bolster his argument. Never change, Steve.

Betty goes to warn the defense commissioner that he may be next, but the warning comes too late, as he's already in the process of being murdered, this time via the snake charmer and a venomous snake.

Steve also turns up at the defense commissioner's, opting to ditch potato peeling duty, but, obviously, doesn't get there in time. And Betty gets kidnapped by the circus performers.

The ringmaster is not thrilled that Captain America decided to get involved again, so he decides to spin his magical wheel of death, and what do you know, it lands on Captain America.

Me thinks Betty Ross might be developing a bit of a crush.

As expected, Steve turns up and finds Betty dangling from the top of the circus tent. And then he and Bucky swoop in on a trapeze(!) and rescue her.

And finally, the villain is defeated, Steve disappears into the night, and Agent Betty Ross laments that she didn't even get to thank him.

#marvel comics #captain america #steve rogers #stevie reads comics

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fig-newtons-official · 2 years ago

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Floki and Ivar Peace Out And Do Their Own Thing Pt. 7

6 (also contains links to previous chapters because I’m lazy)

…I am so sorry. It took me WAY too long to come back to this. Please forgive me and enjoy some violence, scheming, and our two favorite crazies causing mayhem.

Image sources: x, gif

Summoning:

@youbloodymadgenius @prepare4trouble @biobiopsy @exomal

———————————————————————

Tharain, the former thrall of Erik the Snow-Burned, stared hard at both Vikings, his jaw tight. He probably would have preferred if Floki hadn’t remembered him.

“As of now, I’ve been a free man for longer than I was enthralled. And even then, I was never truly a slave. Erik learned that the hard way.” Tharain explained, his forehead creasing at the memory.

Floki’s smirk grew. “As I said, I was glad when you did him in. Erik was a prick.”

Tharain sighed then quickly said, “That was a long time ago. Besides, my story is rather boring. I’d rather hear more about the two of you. How is it that a refugee who claims to be unfit to serve in the military was able to fight so well?”

Ivar let himself look insufferable and cocky, knowing that it would anger Tharain, “It could be luck. Or it could be that your swordsmanship is so abysmal that even a cripple can overtake you.”

Tharain’s face didn’t betray anything as he said, “That’s not an answer.”

Ivar fought the urge to purse his lips. Tharain was catching on to his games. That wasn’t ideal.

Thankfully, Floki piped up, “Ivar has grown strong from having to pull himself along the ground. I did teach him the basics of handling a battle axe, but not enough to be a true Viking. Just enough to defend himself. There are far too many people who would consider him an easy target.”

Ivar and Tharain glared into each others eyes, Ivar daring the painted warrior to call them on their fraudulent stories. He could tell that Tharain was skeptical, but the warrior lacked the evidence to dispute their tall tales.

After a long stare-down, Tharain finally said, “I’m sure that you’re both exhausted. As I mentioned before, you aren’t prisoners. Dinner is being made as we speak and you are more than welcome to join us. This tent may also act as a shelter for you two, if you’ll have it. I only use it when I need to smith something.”

The Vikings shared a glance. They had left their supplies up on the top of the hill and were not entirely sure of how to get back to it. Unless they wanted to starve to death, or risk finding some other unwelcome surprised while trying to hunt in unfamiliar territory, this was their best option. Besides, even though Tharain said that they weren’t prisoners, that clearly wasn’t the case. Ivar wasn’t sure why they were being given the illusion of choice.

One other factor preventing them from leaving at the moment was one that Ivar was reluctant to admit to either himself or Floki: his legs. His fight with Tharain had taken its toll on him. Hot little needles dug into his marrow, his penance for overexerting himself. Ivar knew that if he tried to push himself like that again, he’d break a bone.

Given their circumstances, Floki and Ivar agreed reluctantly to dinner.

———————————————————————

After being the subject of ogling his whole life, Ivar probably should have been used to it by now. The painted warriors would turn away whenever he’d try to catch their eyes, but he could feel the weight of their gazes when they thought that he wouldn’t notice. Some of them appeared to be in awe, others afraid, and others guarded.

Truthfully, it was easier to focus on their judgment of him than the agony his body was being subjected to. It took tremendous effort not to wince at the sharp sensation in his legs, exasperated by even the slightest movement.

Their dinner consisted of some brown broth with what appeared to be chunks of pork, possibly from the boar that they’d encountered before Ivar’s tussle with Tharain, as well as some small potatoes. To Ivar’s relief, it tasted better than it looked.

Ivar raised his head when he heard one of the warriors whispering in their strange language. The quiet conversation ceased once he raised his eyes to glower at the speakers.

Tharain noted Ivar’s threatening expression and edged closer, lowering his voice, “They weren’t insulting you. You remember what I told you about how they thought you were one of the Fair Folk? Or elves, as the Northmen call them?”

Ivar snorted as he used his spoon to chase a potato around in his bowl, “They think I’m an elf. And what gave them that impression?”

Tharain shrugged, chewing thoughtfully before he replied, “Nechtan insists that you appeared from thin air and made fire appear to chase the Saxons.”

Ivar grinned slightly. The unwanted son of Ragnar, a powerful elf capable of summoning flames? That certainly would be something. If only it were true.

He tilted his head curiously at Tharain, “And what do you believe?”

“I believe that he needs a few good meals and a few good nights’ worth of sleep. But there is something about you, besides what I can see, that is otherworldly.”

Ivar narrowed his eyes, preparing to be insulted, “And what can you see?”

Surprisingly, Tharain seemed reluctant to reply, “Your eyes. I’ve never seen anyone with such blue eyes before.”

Ivar raised an eyebrow. Normally, people were more focused on his legs than anything else. The only ones who knew about the peculiar way that the pale part of his eyes would turn blue when his legs were weakest were those who were close to him, which was a fairly short list. It definitely wasn’t information that he wanted to become more widespread. The last thing that he needed to provide yet another reason for others to regard him as weak.

And why was Tharain so sheepish when he mentioned it?

With a smirk, Ivar replied, “What if I was an elf? Is that truly so outlandish for you to believe?“

Now it was Tharain’s turn to snort, “If you’re an elf, I’m a snail.”

“You said yourself that your home must be easy to transport, not unlike a snail’s shell.” Ivar rebutted.

Tharain pondered for a bit, then shook his head, “A snail doesn’t choose to be nomadic, that’s simply how those creature were designed. I, however, have had no other option but to slink across the ground while avoiding the heels of those that mean to stomp me.”

“The Christians?” Ivar questioned nonchalantly.

“Among others. Namely, a rather large viper that scurried after me in the woods.”

Ivar chuckled, knowing his smile looked unfriendly. He wanted to remind him of how close he’d come to plunging a knife into his eye. However, he knew that allowing himself to be petulant would be against his interests, so he decided that it would be better to keep his thoughts to himself.

Ivar stabbed into the stubborn potato, pretending that it was Tharain’s eye.

While this conversation was going on, Floki and Eithne were trying to converse using exaggerated gestures. It looked like they were trying to talk about chopping wood. Wait. Floki just pointed at a tree. Ivar playfully threw a nearby twig at his mentor when it occurred to him that the boat builder was trying to tell her about his tree cutting misadventure. Floki merely laughed. Meanwhile, poor Eithne simply looked confused.

———————————————————————

When they were taken back to the smithing tent, they agreed that it’d be best if they took turns keeping watch while each other slept. Ivar volunteered to stay up first. Unlike his mentor, he was wide awake thanks to his body being at war with him.

Ivar reclined next to the anvil, arms crossed behind his head, eyes gazing at nothing as he concentrated on the voices that he heard outside. Focus on them and on getting out, not the pain. He recognized the voices of both Talorcs by the entrance of their tent. They were chuckling to themselves, reminding Ivar of two roosters clucking away. Not much further off, swords clanged against each other with occasional shouts from those that held them. Sparring.

There weren’t many people at the camp, which meant less eyes to spot them if he and Floki tried to sneak off. But how attentive were the Talorcs?

Ivar reached for the anvil and gave it a slight flick to see if their guards would react to the noise. The clucking of the Talorcs outside continued. He tapped it again, louder this time. Once again, neither guard reacted. Ivar knocked it over with a loud thud. The clucking didn’t falter for a second.

Floki, however, heard everything perfectly well and woke up briefly from his slumber to scowl at his young companion.

Ivar was more focused on the heavy footsteps approaching the tent to notice the older Viking’s ire. It sounded like Tharain.

The painted giant of a man ducked through the entrance of the tent, mouth in a stern line. Floki sat up slowly, his exhaustion forgotten instantly.

Ivar grinned coldly at their visitor, “Oh, good. You’re back.”

Instead of answering, Tharain dropped a sword at Ivar’s feet.

The smile slipped from the young Viking’s face.

Floki glowered at the painted warrior and hissed, “You’re challenging him? Did you not hear us earlier or did we perhaps use too many syllables when explaining our situation?”

Tharain’s eyes remained on Ivar as he replied, “Oh no, I understood your story quite well. The problem is I don’t believe it.”

Ivar pushed himself into a sitting position, gritting his teeth as the movement sent shocks of pain through his knees and thighs. He wasn’t in any condition to accept a rematch. He’d break a bone for sure and he doubted that the Pictish healers would be equipped to deal with his condition. However, if he didn’t accept, he’d be a coward.

Floki glanced at him, his face an irritated mask, though Ivar knew him well enough that he could detect the concern in his gaze. The familiar burn of anger rose in Ivar’s gut as he slowly grasped the handle of the sword…

And tossed is right back at Tharain. He narrowed his eyes, letting all the hate in his heart show through as he hissed, “And what is the challenge of a rebellious slave worth to me?”

The painted warrior’s nostrils flared, reminding Ivar of a bull about to charge. Tharain answered, “Perhaps you’re just afraid. It’s one thing to take a man in a fair fight, and quite another to catch him off guard.”

Ivar laughed cruelly. “So that’s what this is really about? I hurt your pride!”

“Admittedly, yes, but not for the reason you think.”

“And what reason is that?”

“Your story is so blatantly contrived that I can only take it as an insult that you’d think I’d believe it. Now pick up the sword. Prove me wrong.”

Ivar pursed his lips and crossed his arms. “Why should I? If I best you, you’ll take that as evidence that I’ve been dishonest, and if I lose, all that you’ll be proving is that you’re exceptional at beating those who were born at a disadvantage. All this serves to do is embarrass us both.”

“Don’t think of trying to throw the duel to prove your innocence. I will know. I’ll be waiting for you in the circle.” Tharain stated curtly before stalking out.

Once he was gone, Floki instantly crept forward to look at Ivar’s eyes.

Ivar growled, “I know. You don’t have to say anything.”

Floki snapped, “We both know that you’re not an idiot, Ivar, so don’t you dare act like one!”

“So what do you suggest then, hm? That I sit in here and pray to Freya that he forgets the whole thing?!” Ivar argued.

“I’ll see if I can accept the challenge for you-”

“And what will that prove?! That I’m a coward that needs an old man to fight his battles for him?!”

“Ivar, there is no one to tend to you if you break a bone! I know that-”

Ivar rolled his eyes and interrupted, “You’re beginning to sound like Mother.”

Floki’s frown deepened, but his voice softened, “There have been many times in my life when I should have accepted help when it was offered. Please don’t make that mistake.”

Ivar gritted his teeth again as he reached for the sword on the ground. He growled, “My mistakes are mine to make. Now, let me by so that I can shove this blade up Tharain’s ass.”

Floki sighed in resignation, but held the tent flap open for Ivar to crawl through, falling into step to accompany him to the sparring circle. Eithne was standing on the side of the ring, pale face flushed with anger as she watched their approach. The bones in Ivar’s legs shrieked their protest, but he buried their cries deep. He reminded himself that he’d bested Hvitserk when they sparred, and his other brothers were too afraid to face him. Hvitserk had been afraid of him after that day as well. Legs be damned, Tharain was going to learn to be afraid of him, too.

The warrior stood in the circle, tall, broad, and imposing, looking every inch like the Frost Giants Floki had told Ivar about as a child. He watched stone-faced as Ivar pulled himself into the ring.

Ivar scoffed, using the sound to hide a small grunt of pain as he put a little too much weight onto his left hip. “Do you expect me to crawl on the ground after you, nipping at your ankles like a kitten, or do you have something for me to sit on?”

“You didn’t need a seat in the forest.” Tharain responded coolly.

Ivar sighed and licked his lips, praying to Odin to give him the strength to get through this challenge without further destroying his emaciated legs. He gripped the sword tightly and kept his eyes trained on Tharain, waiting to see what his first move would be.

Tharain circled Ivar slowly, sword pointing at Ivar’s nose. Ivar kept completely still except for his head, gaze fixed on his opponent, his right hand pressing the sword into the ground to appear as if he was putting more weight into it than he actually was. He tried to appear as if he was leaning onto it too much to use it in time.

The corner of Tharain’s mouth quirked, which was all the warning Ivar had before he threw himself onto his back, sword held above him to clash against Tharain’s blade. Ivar pushed Tharain’s sword down with his, then rolled away just as Tharain struck again, his sword penetrating the earth where his head had just been.

Ivar slashed at Tharain’s ankle, but the giant danced away, following the dodge with a downward swing at Ivar. The Viking rolled again, then instantly regretted it as he a thunderbolt of misery slithered through his right thigh. The pain took his breath away, stars danced at the corners of his eyes, but then he saw movement. He raised his sword to deflect Tharain’s blow slightly too late.

Ivar felt liquid on his face. Oh gods, was he crying? No, that was blood. The blade has glanced off of his cheek. He risked hurting his legs further by rolling again, then slamming his forearm roughly into Tharain’s knee. Tharain staggered as his knee buckled on reflex, pushing himself to fall on the ground away from Ivar, hitting it hard. Ivar tightened his jaw, shuddering as the cracks in his fragile thigh bone deepened while he pulled himself on top of his opponent.

Before Ivar could get his mind off of his own agony, Tharain toppled him, now he was on top of Ivar. He gripped the wrist Ivar was using to hold the sword, pinning it to the ground.

Tharain sneered down at him, “Perhaps you weren’t lying after all.”

Rage overpowered anguish. Ivar lunged up and sank his teeth into the crook of Tharain’s shoulder, just missing the man’s jugular.

Tharain yelped, then managed to use his forearm to push Ivar back to the ground. Ivar smiled at him, his lips covered in blood, then spat the red liquid into Tharain’s face.

Tharain chuckled, “I knew it. You really are a viper.”

If only. That bite would’ve killed him. Ivar jerked his arm, trying to get it free to keep fighting, the movement reigniting the flames in his cracked femur. He turned away from Tharain, swallowing back a wince.

Tharain whispered, “Do you concede?”

Gods, now what? He couldn’t move, he could barely think, and he really, really did not want to surrender to this prick, even if it would help reinforce his tale of being a disenfranchised refugee. He doubted he could get close enough to bite again.

Fuck. Fuck.

Ivar took in a deep breath and snarled, “You’ve made your point. Get off of me.”

Tharain’s grip loosened on his wrist and the weight was lifted off of Ivar’s chest as the Pict lifted himself up to a kneel, using a hand to get his copper hair out of his face. He didn’t bother to wipe off the blood Ivar had spat on him, letting it join the blue lines painted onto his visage.

Eithne shook her head, still looking angry, then motioned to Floki. He looked towards whatever she was pointing at, then simply nodded once. She stormed off. Floki watched Ivar like a hawk, but wisely didn’t approach. He knew that rushing over to check Ivar for injuries would just infuriate him more.

Tharain smirked down at Ivar again as he offered his hand, “Are you ready to tell the truth now, viper?”

Ivar begrudgingly took his hand, letting himself be pulled up to sitting, then wiped the blood off of his mouth with his sleeve, making a point to glare into Tharain’s eyes as he did so. He was certain that he looked like a rabid animal. He definitely felt like one, with the metallic taste of Tharain’s blood lingering in his mouth.

“You won. What’s there to tell?” Ivar snapped.

Tharain, still kneeling by Ivar, gingerly touched the bite on his shoulder, then shuddered. He retorted, “You didn’t react like some scared refugee that only knows the bare minimum to defend himself from brigands. You reacted like a warrior.”

“Believe what you want. I did your damned challenge and you won. Have you restored your precious pride?” Ivar spat.

Tharain watched as Eithne came back holding some rags and an old wooden bucket. “No, I haven’t. You still haven’t told me why you’re really here.”

She dropped the bucket on the ground, dipped the rag in, then pressed the wet rag against the bite on Tharain’s shoulder. He winced and squirmed away. Judging by the hardened look on Eithne’s face, she didn’t regret making the bite sting. Floki snickered.

She wet another rag and stepped towards Ivar. He held a hand up, hoping that she’d simply hand it to him, but she ignored it and pressed the rag against the cut on his cheek. He hissed inwardly as whatever liquid she was using to treat their injuries stung his skin.

Tharain continued, “I’m guessing your someone’s son?”

“Every man is someone’s son.”

“You know what I mean, viper.”

“Stop calling me that.” Ivar grumbled.

Tharain eyed him up and down as if seeing him for the first time, “You sound educated when you speak, which tells me you’ve had the time and resources to become educated, a luxury that most cannot afford. You carry yourself as if you expect the world to bow before you. And above all, you clearly well trained when it comes to combat, though you aren’t used to having to employ what you’ve learned.”

Damn. Tharain really had been paying attention. He should’ve committed more to the lie when he first told it and acted simpler, but he’d had to come up with the tall tale on the spot. He should’ve been smarter than to come in so unprepared.

It occurred to him that the truth sounded even more improbable than his original lie. Would Tharain even believe it if he chose to tell it? But he didn’t have to tell the whole truth necessarily, just enough to obfuscate his intentions.

Ivar let out a ragged breath and rasped, “Alright, but you probably won’t believe it.”

Tharain insisted, “Try anyway.”

Ivar began, “I’m a runaway prince.”

Tharain laughed dryly, “You’re right, this is even more ridiculous than your first lie. I suppose you’re going to tell me now that you’re next in line for the throne and running away from an assassination attempt?”

Ivar continued, “No. I’m actually last in line for the throne. I’m the youngest of five, including a half brother. I’m also the only one that hasn’t had a chance to prove myself, so I set off to do so.”

Tharain nodded towards Floki, “With just him? Shouldn’t you have an entire army behind you?”

Ivar smiled wryly, “Who would follow a cripple into the unknown?”

“So you chose the old man?”

“I trust him more than anyone else in this world. Of course I chose him.”

Ivar couldn’t read Tharain’s expression. He didn’t know if the other man believed a single word of this.

“So all of this is a chance to prove… what exactly?”

Ivar rolled his eyes as if Tharain had asked him the most ridiculous question that he’d ever heard. “The point is to prove that I’m not completely useless.”

Tharain stared off into the distance at something Ivar couldn’t see.

The giant eventually lamented, “So the viper is a prince. That isn’t entirely what I expected to hear, yet it makes sense.”

Ivar snorted. “This makes more sense to you?”

Tharain shrugged one shoulder. “It’s easier to imagine you sitting on a throne than it is as some regular peasant trying to get by.”

Ivar’s eyes narrowed, “That sounds suspiciously like an insult.”

Tharain finally stopped watching whatever distant thing that had his attention and met Ivar’s scalding gaze. “Take it how you will, viper. You clearly are used to get what you want and you don’t know how to handle it when you don’t.”

Ivar scoffed and shook his head, “Again, I didn’t come here for a delightful summer vacation. I know that I’ve lived a sheltered life. In fact, I’m painfully aware of it.”

Tharain questioned, “And how exactly do you intend to prove your worth?”

By killing you.

What Ivar said instead was, “I’m not certain yet. But I feel as if an opportunity will present itself soon.”

———————————————————————

The next night, an opportunity did present itself.

The ground rustled as someone darted towards the the Talorcs as they stood guard in front of Floki and Ivar’s tent. It was a woman, speaking quickly, each word she spoke punctuated by a gasp. She had to repeat her sentence three times, due to her distress.

The tent entrance opened suddenly as the woman barged in. Her round face was ruddy, her cheeks streaked with tears. She spoke shrilly, but naturally, it meant nothing to him.

Ivar surreptitiously tapped Floki’s shoulder. The old Viking’s head turned in the direction of their visitor but Ivar couldn’t see his face to gauge his reaction.

The Talorcs swiftly followed the woman into the tent and tried to drag her back out, but she wasn’t leaving easily. She shouted at Ivar again, struggling against her kinsmen as they forcefully led her out.

What the Hel was that about? Ivar sat up straighter, now even more alert than he was before. Floki was on his feet, his ear against the tent’s flimsy wall, eyes blazing as he listened intently. Both cursed the fact that they didn’t know what their captors were saying.

Floki’s head jerked towards Ivar as he heard someone else approaching. Ivar quickly pulled his right leg closer, gritting his teeth as the tender bones in his leg screamed from the movement. He hastily reached into his boot, withdrawing the hidden knife, then crossed his arms again to conceal it.

Tharain appeared in the doorway, face grave. “Saxon scouts have been spotted. I suspect that they’ve been tracking you.”

Ivar didn’t answer, waiting for Tharain to say something more.

The painted warrior wiped his face, “I don’t have many people left that can hold a sword, and a good majority of them still haven’t recovered enough from their imprisonment, which means that we’re going to have to run. I fear that you two will slow us down-”

“You aren’t even going to try to defend yourselves?” Ivar interrupted. “You’re going to let the Christians chase you out?”

Tharain snapped, “Defend ourselves with what, exactly? We’re too few and too injured!”

Ivar coolly replied, “Nobody is running. Nobody is getting left behind. We will make our stand.”

Floki stared at Ivar as if he’d gown another head while Tharain barked a humorless laugh.

“You expect me to believe that you suddenly want to fight for us? You must really take me for an idiot!” Tharain sneered.

Ivar’s demeanor only grew colder. “You are an idiot, but that’s besides the point. We don’t want to die at the hands of the Saxons any more than you and your people do. Speaking of your people, how far do you think that they’ll get, hm? You said yourself, many of them are weak. How many of them will make the trip before the Saxons catch up to them, do you think?”

Tharain’s scowl deepened. “So you suggest that we stay here so that we can all die like heroic fools? You are truly brilliant.”

The young Viking leaned forward, his eyes practically glowing, “I can’t guarantee the life of every person here, but I can promise you that listening to me will spare your people from more deaths.”

“You promise a lot, viper, especially for someone who has never seen combat by his own admission. Are you truly deluded enough to believe that?”

Ivar’s head tilted obstinately, “Hear what I have to say, then you can decide how delusional I am.”

Floki shook his head as if he couldn’t believe the situation that Ivar was getting them into. Tharain still looked unpleasant, but allowed Ivar to speak. As he listened, the ugly look on his face gradually began to recede. He blinked in disbelief, considering what the young man was suggesting.

Tharain finally said, “That could work, but why? Why help us?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I can’t walk, let alone run. And even if I could, Floki and I don’t know this country. I intend to survive this night and many nights after that, and unfortunately, I need you in order to do that.”

Tharain was silent for a moment more before announcing that he’d speak to his people before making a decision.

The moment he was out of earshot, Floki stated, “You know, your father has had some insane schemes in his time. You are definitely following in his footsteps.”

———————————————————————

Eadgar was shocked to see that someone had gotten to the Picts first. From the gasps and confused muttering from his comrades behind him, he knew that he wasn’t alone in his surprise.

The bodies of the painted warriors were strewn about the camp. Blue-tipped arrows were stuck in most of them. The Picts used blue-tipped arrows. Under normal circumstances, Eadgar would’ve found this suspicious, but he knew that the Gauls had ‘recruited’ some of the Picts to fight for them. These ones must have refused to integrate into the larger army, and this was their price. It wasn’t the first time that Eadgar had stumbled onto a scene like this. They truly were animals, willing to turn on each other for anything.

There was a groan. One of them was alive. Eadgar spotted a man dragging himself painfully away from him, covered in blood. Eadgar shook his head, gazing haughtily down at the injured man. Picts truly were pathetic creatures, not much better than pigs.

“Who wants to have a bit of fun?” He sneered, pointing out the pathetic, broken warrior. The other men cackled nastily in response. Together, they stalked towards the injured man, crossing the sea of cadavers to get to their prey.

However, if the Saxons had been paying more attention, they might have noticed that the arrows had actually penetrated the ground, not any of the Picts’ skin. They might’ve noticed that the blood on their bodies didn’t have any discernible sources.

If Eadgar was paying attention, he might’ve noticed that the ‘corpse’ of an ashen-haired woman still had her blade in her hand as he stepped over her. But he didn’t notice it until she’d dug it into the back of his left leg.

He howled as he pitched forward, the sound not entirely human as he felt the blade continue to drag its way through his shin. With his good leg, Eadgar kicked her roughly and started to shout to his men when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The injured man that he’d been intent on torturing for amusement crawled towards Eadgar, teeth bared in a predatory smile.

Eadgar shuddered, utterly convinced that he was looking at The Deceiver in the flesh. The demon’s blue eyes glowed like twin flames as he pulled himself towards the Saxon soldier. Eadgar’s scrambled to get away from the Devil, his left leg useless and limp. The ashen-haired heathen had cut him in such a way that he couldn’t move his foot anymore.

The Devil only crawled faster, catching up to Eadgar quickly, pulling himself in top of the terrified Saxon, pinning him down by the throat. Eadgar struggled, trying to pry the strong fingers off of his throat, but the beast was stronger. The blonde heathen woman was by the Devil’s side, offering him her dagger. Eadgar watched in horror as the demon smiled beautifully, brought the dagger up to his lips, and lapped Eadgar’s blood off of the blade.

A moment later, the dagger had drawn a jagged line across Eadgar’s throat. The last thing he saw the the Deceiver laughing at him while the heathen woman turned on her heel towards the rest of his men, who weren’t faring much better than he was.

They’d join each other again in the Kingdom of Heaven.

———————————————————————

Ivar left the Saxon to bleed out, hearing a fight going on somewhere behind him. They had felled quite a few of the Christians before the rest were aware that they were under attack, which brought both sides to even numbers. After a quick glance around, he was pleased to see that his side hadn’t lost anyone yet.

He spotted one of the Saxons trying to sneak up on Eithne, who was occupied with another swordsman. Ivar quickly threw the knife he was holding, watching as it embedded itself in the shoulder of its intended target. Eithne finished off the warrior she had been fighting and turned around, slicing through her other attacker in one swift arc. She nodded at Ivar in gratitude.

Meanwhile, Floki seemed to be overjoyed to be able to cross blades with the Christians again. He had a menacing, gleeful grin stretching his lips as he pursued all of those holding shields adorned with red crosses in his path. Those unfortunate enough to be in his path of destruction seemed discombobulated by his unconventional swordsmanship, making it all to easy for him to break their defenses.

In short, the ambush was more successful than Ivar ever could have imagined.

#ivar the boneless #vikings #vikings au #floki the boat builder

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