#just a girl and her tuunbaq!

[butchsaint]

with tuunbaq behind her. coming. always coming.

[cohendyke]

hi!!! terror, captain, and expedition for the terror ask game!!

yay!!!

terror- which ship would you rather be on, terror or erebus?

honestly probably terror for one reason and that is by the end of their time on the ships there’s like double the people on erebus and that sounds like a nightmare to me idgaf if the vibes are kind of off compared to erebus at least there’s quiet!

captain- who’s your favourite coldboy?

ned!!!!!!!!! im a ned scholar i’m also a ned warrior. hes just as psycho about crozier as jopson he cares about the men so much that he’ll question a captain that more or less seems constantly annoyed by his presence. he’s the last of the men alive but it’s like his soul has been consumed by the expedition because by the time crozier finds him he’s a shell of who he used to be. also what i would give to see wtf led him to do the watch chain piercings (like did that happen before or after dundy soup. sorry)

expedition- top five characters?

1. little. see above <3

2. silna my girl….. her choosing to save crozier because at the core of it all she recognizes herself in his failures it makes me emotional every time considering that if the expedition never showed up her father would still be alive… the fact that she herself is scared of tuunbaq but is compelled to bond to it anyway. yeah…

3. fitzjames. diva what can i say

4. thomas hartnell… just a sweetiepie everyday i lament the loss of the scene where he begs the doctors not to cut open his brother :(

5. des voeux. look he’s a shitty guy he sucks but there’s something about him that captivated me. he’s so offputting to everyone especially as the show goes on (except stanley and maybe fitzjames?) everything that comes out of his mouth is horrible in one way or another but somehow he’s an overachiever he was 19 he was basically a lieutenant by the end and yet he just went along with hickey despite having 0 real reason to.

[hetchdrive]

The post I just reblogged of the little girl with the polar bear made me think of Silna and Tuunbaq. She grew up with her dad the shaman, do you think they treated it as a friend? I mean, probably not, because she’s never tried to communicate with it and she seems scared of it in hiding in the ships with the men but what if that wasn’t the case? What if she grew up close to it and her father dying the way he did changed it in her eyes? She doesn’t want this responsibility but also if she was raised to it she’s got to have some more familiarity with the creature than she’s willing to tell the men. Just like… what is her relationship with it supposed to be like, without their influence? Imagine them as equals.

[saints-who-never-existed]

Episode Eight: Random Rewatch Observations

1. I don’t think it’s ever really 100% certain is it, how deliberate Hodgson’s actions are at the beginning of this episode or how closely in cahoots he might already be with Hickey? I notice right after they all leave the tent that the first person he seems to go to is Le Vesconte though, so I have to wonder if he is just looking for comfort and advice or if he’s peddling the same scaremongering story he does later to Little…?

2. I also wonder if Hickey mispronouncing the word ‘Netsilik’ is deliberate too? Like, is it just a random slip of the tongue or could it be saying more about how Hickey’s just bullshitting his way along while still not really knowing what he’s talking about?

3. He also pointedly doesn’t refer to Jopson as Lieutenant, disrespectful little knobhead…

4. Speaking of disrespectful knobheads, I’ll still never get over how horribly Crozier treats Little in this episode, threatening him with a flogging just for asking a simple question! The fact of the matter is that at that stage, no one but Hickey has any real idea of what’s actually happened, not even Crozier himself. He can’t possibly know for sure until he goes to see the whole sorry scene for himself and in the meantime, bolstering the perimeter is a perfectly reasonable plan.

Surely it would be better to give a timely, controlled order to strengthen that perimeter with your most trustworthy guys in order to make the rest of the men feel calmer, more secure, and less inclined to go off the rails, than to leave the whole camp in panic and confusion, not knowing what the hell is happening, and so jumping at the chance to feel like they’re doing something about it all?

That’s what it’s all about really – timing! Yes, it is a mistake for Little to give the order to arm the men when he does but it’s only a mistake because by that time they’re all too riled up to give up their arms or listen to reason. Again, if they had armed some trustworthy men in a calm and controlled way back when Little first suggested it, if Crozier has only bloody listened to him, then I firmly believe the situation could have been improved massively.  

5. That’s not a comforting arm-pat Blanky gives Little, btw, that’s actually a full-on tit-grab and I am here for it.

6. Oh God you can see how fucked Fitzjames is already in that tent and how he just about manages to hide it until he’s alone. As soon as Little passes him you can see him finally allow himself a grimace of pain when he knows no one can see.

7. Just noticed the neat little detail of a pair of crutches hanging from a beam in the medical tent – shows again the importance of efficiency and preparedness and using ever available inch of space.

8. Oh fuck, the wee Netsilik girl has Irving’s telescope/spyglass right by her side! Can’t you just imagine her having a whale of a time with it right before all the horror kicked off? Gut-wrenching!

9. Also, cannot emphasise enough that Irving would’ve been their friend. Like, none of them are really in their right minds at this stage but those like Little and Hodgson who would have been closest to him would of course be feeling the loss most, and you can see how it influences their decision-making.

Just imagine if your own best friend and co-worker was brutally murdered one day and not only did you have to carry on with your day and carry on working, but you were also berated publicly by your shitty boss then forced to watch as your pal’s already-defiled body was dissected further right in front of you. You’d be a mess too!

10. “Choose men we can trust…” – Aye, you could have done that a few hours ago, Franky-boy, and potentially avoided a whole mess of bullshit!

11. Oh God don’t put De Voeux in charge of anything!

12. Shout out to the Triumvirate of Toms! Jopson taking charge straight away and getting shit done like the brilliant Lieutenant he is. Blanky outrunning Tuunbaq on a wooden leg and continuing not to give a single fuck. And Hartnell, once again ready to step up and help, to defend his mates without a single second thought, even if he has to face down a charging Tuunbaq to do it. Big fan of that little concentrating blinky face he does too – top notch stuff.

13. Good Christ Fitzjames with the rockets is just incredible. That look on his face! The focus and fury and determination in that little snarl! Outstanding! And it also strikes me that this is a perfect instance of him doing an amazing thing without the intention of being seen. He’s invisible in the fog, just like everyone else, and he’s still going all out doing what needs to be done. We know it’s not just vanity with him, that he’s a genuinely good and heroic man, even if he doesn’t realise it himself, but we see more clearly than ever that that’s really not what it’s about here specifically. There just can’t be any vanity in the face of something like Tuunbaq.

14. Pretty sure that’s a diving helmet patch on Collin’s jumper right before Tuunbaq gets him which is just a whole other level of heart-breaking. I wonder if he sewed it on there himself back when he was still excited about being a pilgrim to the deeps…

[majorxmaggiexboy]

I'm on chapter 15 of The Terror. 15. Out of. If 67 sir. Good. Lort.

[literalnobody]

Not-really-inktober #11: “snow”

Just a girl and her tuunbaq~

[seacollectsrivers]

terror 4: punished, as a boy

oh no i’ve wholly forgotten what year anything takes place in. this is five months after what? the last time we saw Sophia and lady Jane or after franklin died??

charles dickens mention!!

ok I assume it's after the events of the last episode, and the terror and erebus is officially not where they were supposed to be

"lady Jane had supposed bylot island" lmao get em!!

I dont like lady Jane on a personal level, but I like how grounded she is. and bold, in that society. she reminds me of grandma Guthrie tbqh!!

fuck them uppppppp

idk if I've mentioned but I really dig the intro. it's beautiful and short enough for me to never skip it

brooding alone in a dark room. a Mood.

is this jopson!! ive heard about this lad. he's a dote!

oh god I dont know WHY but I keep forgetting the tuunbaq's an issue. or like I imagine the ships are safe zones, like some kinda video game??

I dont know Edward. I dont know Strong. sorry to these men.

now hang on this lad is 13 at best?? don’t bring him??

oooh ok I think I know who Strong is

aurora lookin all pretty up there :)

ONCE MORE the sound design!!!! the MUSIC!

hmmm no nope I am Worried this will NOT end well

jesus did it really lay a trap???

oh god this is. this is gonna weigh heavy on Crozier isn’t it :(

.....how much alcohol did they actually bring for this mission. hasn’t it been like, more than a year.

this is such a serious and dour scene, with death looming and alcoholism and all, and yet I'm here like aww.... lookit them. domestic scenes :)

sharing of pained history timmmeee

oh well ok apparently thats just common knowledge hahahaha sorry crozier

"regretted how it had happened" but not that it happened i guess?

brains out man's alive???

I don’t wanna watch this but i’m also scared ill miss something

ugh I don’t like the redcoats mostly bc I don’t like the military worship that it seems some of these lads have

oh worm. ghosts is it.

well I'm once more Worried.

oh worm NOT ghosts that is NOT a ghost!

wait, is that birthday boy???

oop racism in james jumped out

listen i know how racism works but have they completely forgotten they're the ones who killed her da. obvi the creature isn't her doing but like,,,, if you're believing she's acting out of revenge....

wholly unrelated but I love the sliding doors at the ships

oooh look at crozier in his lil embroidered waistcoat! I would like more of it!

"false" ok but 2 of those statements are objectively true.

this might be my aro ass jumping out but I do get Sophia. you kinda had to be practical about stuff like that, esp as a woman. can't live on love always you know.

the Franklins can choke on their classism and racism tho idc lol

o fuck o god

ok but crozier yelling. 😳

aight i’m. I think i’ve been kinda assuming hickey to be a s1 silver type. like I assume everything he does has an agenda, when he hasn't really actually, so far, done anything to warrant that? he just gives off a vibe lol.

like I don’t particularly trust him but I think I'm giving him too much credit. I don’t know what his end goal is here, except a genuine belief that she's the cause.

he’s very theatrical i like his storytelling

it’s his SMILING thats why, anytime he says anything he has this like hehehehe i’m so clever smile

oooh she’s netsilik! Good to know

the only part of the punishment i understand is the lashes. do I gotta look up naval language once more

"bring me a full chart and I'll show you exactly where we are"

disrespect to the girl go OFF crozier!!!

ah, ok, I think I get hickey a little more.

I am WORRIED about this punished as a boy thing!!!!

whippings are. ouff.

ok i’m gonna be honest I skipped the whipping scene, ill look up a recap bc I'm :T

"I know you dream of such things" tf does this mean

goodsir's genuine outburst of no! when asked if he's been lashed skjshd he's a DOTE

oh noooo scurvy? nooo :(

tobacco! from whomst 👀

i’m SO glad its goodsir feeding the Netsilik woman, only man I trust

"this is not how englishmen act" oh boy.... Google how do I tell 19th c earnest men about the atrocities of the English empire

looking up a recap, the whipping stirred up some sympathy from the men for Hickey? so I assume the tobacco was like a we’re on your side kinda deal

[thomasblanky-moved]

day 2: frozen in

@transterrorweek

rating: g characters: silna | lady silence word count: 306 read on ao3

buy me a coffee!

they called her woman.

she hadn’t understood at first what the word meant- woman, girl- it had just been another series of incomprehensible syllables in their strange, alien tongue. once she understood, though- harry, her harry, had bridged the language gap between them with no small amount of gesturing and blushing- once she understood, she couldn’t help but be amused.

they were correct, and they were not. in another life she may have been a woman. but here and now, in this life, she was sixam ieua, a shaman.

men hunted seal and caribou; women prepared food, made clothing, and kept the home. one could do the other’s job, but rarely; silna did both on the regular. she had her tattoos, dark lines that scrolled across her arms and leg and earned with the same pain and endurance as any woman, but not on her face- another thing that marked her apart, that showed she lived in that in-between of man and woman. any of the people would know immediately what she was.

but here on this strange wooden building, among these strange pale people, she was woman.

she understood them only in bits and pieces, muttered conversations between the men that guarded her room (her prison). they didn’t like her, that was clear, didn’t trust her; they cast her wary (fearful) glances, and when she was spoken to directly (rarely) she often caught the displeased frown that passed over harry’s face even if she couldn’t parse the words themselves.

woman, they called her; and then, as if they were the same, witch.

they blamed her for their misfortune, she knew: the cold that made the ice thick and impenetrable, and the tuunbaq that kept them from wandering far. these men didn’t realize that she was trapped just the same was they, frozen in and hunted.

[losinmortalesperdidos]

Candidate || with @bizarrcinkofwings

That was an ordinary night in Purple Ice. Tuunbaq just shook hands with one of his regular buyers and snapped his fingers beaconing one of the new girls. She was good, had everything customers liked, everything he liked, and didn’t ask too many questions. She stepped into his booth and was about to start the lap dance when one of his guards came and stopped near waiting for permission to speak. “Yes, what?” he peeked from behind the girl’s bare waist. “I’m sorry, Bern, but there’s a guy I’ve been telling you about.” Tuunbaq helped the girl off his lap and smiled at her, “Next time.” She smiled back adoringly, they all adored him here. “The one that says he wants to work for me? Did you explain to him that I choose my employees, not vice versa?” He didn’t wait for the answer and waved his hand, “Let him in, I’ll look at the daredevil.” 

@bizarrcinkofwings​

[titleleaf]

The Terror Appreciation Week, March 26: Favorite Scene

His flesh creeps it reddens as if blushing at the indignity ; the sufferer groans; lash follows lash, until the first mate, wearied with the cruel employment, gives place to a second. Now two dozen of these dreadful lashes have been inflicted: the lacerated back looks inhuman; it resembles roasted meat burnt nearly black before a scorching fire; yet still the lashes fall...

Samuel Leech, Thirty Years from Home, Or A Voice from the Main Deck

You guessed it, buckaroos, today we’re getting punished as boys! 

Naming a favorite scene in this series is really freakin' hard. I want to talk about this sequence in two parts, which could just as easily be considered as two distinct scenes -- the questioning of the three kidnappers, and the flogging itself. I’m going to mainly focus on Hickey, Crozier, and the symbolic power shifts in this scene, but there’s a lot more to be said about just about every aspect of it. 

Content warnings for discussion of corporal punishment, canonical crimes against indigenous people, sexual violence, homophobia.

*

The Questioning

- Captain, I want to say something, but daren't speak the words. - Oh, speak the words, Mr. Hickey.

Really, even if nothing following it was shown, I'd be crazy about this sequence for what it shows of Crozier. Silna has been through the absolute wringer both with the killing of her father and her ill-treatment at the hands of the men, and Crozier intervening to save her from the men could be played as unquestionably heroic -- an enlightened act, a rescue -- but for Silna Crozier isn't her rescuer even as he re-asserts power over the unruly crew in the most bombastic way possible, he's just another variable in the unfolding clusterfuck she's now navigating. He can't be trusted as her ally, or even trusted to continue giving a reliable damn about her predicament once the obvious challenge to discipline has been controlled. Crozier intervenes to save Silna from almost certain violence, but quickly his attention pivots from this civilian woman, her comfort and safety, to Hickey's insubordination and the matter of the white bear, and that's where the shit hits the fan. He takes an undeniably correct action -- subduing the nearly-rioting crew and protecting this Netsilik woman who to his knowledge has already endured God-knows-what -- and it almost immediately goes off the rails and gets exponentially more complicated and fucked up.

Hickey is undeniably the mastermind in this scene, and he can't hide it; he's the most forward of the kidnappers, he interjects aggressively and turns the questioning from an inquiry to an argument. He wants so badly to talk back to Crozier as if they were equals, to justify his actions and his rationale, to present his findings, and he just can't shut his damned mouth.  For all he uses the rhetorical device of not daring to speak of what he already suspects -- that the beast is intelligent, supernatural, capable of communication and planning, capable of malice -- he sure fucking wants to talk about it, and he seems to think Crozier will value those findings more than he dislikes being disobeyed, which is dead wrong. The scene pivots to being about Hickey's insolence and Crozier's ego, not about the gairl the girl or even the bear. Already Hickey's sense of kinship with the Tuunbaq is forming. Here he constructs the Tuunbaq as Crozier's enemy, and Silna as its witchy master. Before long Crozier will be his enemy, and he'll be trying to crib from Silna with only the most superficial understanding of who she is as a "witch". I’m never sure in this scene how much of Hickey’s account of Silna’s actions is an honest attempt to describe what he believes her to be, lightly embroidered, and how much is him bullshitting with what he thinks will please Crozier most, larding his description with the same anti-indigenous racism that he’ll use to conceal his murders later.

Really I just need to gush about how Jared Harris plays Crozier as almost inflamed in this scene, slightly puffy and sweaty and off-kilter even in his attitude of irritable authority. He begins with a measured declaration of the consequences of Hickey's actions as dictated by the Articles of War, hands knitted together and knuckles standing out as he deliberates. (I will also give a shout-out to Adam Nagaitis' utterly perfect face journeys in this scene.) All the reactions in the room are gold -- the way Manson's lips just barely part with surprise when the sentence of twelve lashes is meted out on him, the way Hartnell's face expresses his shock and protestation (which he, unlike Hickey, manages to restrain himself from verbalizing) and even the way Fitzjames is staying tastefully silent as Crozier hashes out the sentencing… it's so much, it's so good. But this isn't where Crozier's manners stop. Ever-forward, Hickey can't resist pushing back at Crozier and needling him ("disrespect to who, sir?") and at this moment when the other two are taking their punishment with all the shocked solemnity that could possibly be asked of them, that's enough to set Crozier off on Hickey specifically. It's when Hickey hits a new height of forwardness -- claiming that he's just saved Crozier's life and implicitly that Crozier should be recognizing him for it, rewarding him -- that Crozier totally snaps, striking the table and wigging the fuck out. Have you looked at Crozier's face in that scene? He looks like he's about to breathe fire.

...aaaaand Hickey's tongue in his cheek. He knows he fucked up. He just doesn't know how badly he's fucked up until later.

*

The Flogging

- Will it hurt? - Yes, Manson. Very much. That's the point.

(Jesus, poor fucking Manson. I don't know to what extent we're meant to understand him as intellectually disabled in the show, which would amplify the preexisting brutality of his flogging even further, but he's so young and gentle that it's horrible what happens to him in a way that feels different from what happens to Hartnell or Hickey.)

The floggings of the first two men receive almost a perfunctory treatment from the camera -- for them this is a painful and humiliating event, but not necessarily a formative life event That's not how it is for Hickey, and I'd say that arguably without the flogging (or without the flogging playing out as it does) he might not end up so far from normal rational behavior as he does. We can see that divorce from his earlier attitude playing out on his face as the flogging itself proceeds. Wherever Hickey is when that scene starts out, he's in a vastly different place by the end of it, and his relationship to Crozier has dramatically altered beyond salvaging. If you’re willing to paint it in a more rosy light, the given intention of shipboard corporal punishment might be to chastise the subject and induce him to change his ways; in a way that's how the flogging experience shakes out for Hartnell, at least far enough to let him know he doesn't want to be flogged again and he won't trust Hickey any further than he can throw him. But that's the opposite of how it works for Hickey.

Hickey goes through a whole spectrum of emotions over the course of this scene -- insolence, resolve, despair, spectacular vulnerability, arrogance, perverse humor. The flogging itself is a physically brutal act, and the staging amplifies the aspects of public corporal punishment which serve as a symbolic degradation rather than simply upping the number of lashes. Why is Hickey flogged as a boy? Flogging was already on its decline in the Royal Navy by the late 1840s. The corporal punishment of boys differed, perhaps nominally for clemency given their tender years -- undignified punishments like birching and caning alongside the use of stress positions and public humiliation. But Hickey is a grown man, not a ship's boy, and he is not birched or caned; instead of simply being flogged more times than his fellows (which by itself could be understood as proportionate to his larger share in the blame of their actions) the beating is doled out in a manner that's exaggeratedly degrading, the punishment for an insubordinate man delivered as if to a disobedient child. Hickey is flogged to the point of drawing blood, and across the bare buttocks. Thirty lashes falls well short of the maximum number for the 1840s, nor is it clearly intended to cause disabling or lethal injury -- it’s not forty-eight lashes, or a hundred lashes, or three hundred lashes -- but for the initial number to be doubled and then tripled as punishment for Hickey's mere mouthiness is pretty emphatic, and then the blows being delivered to Hickey as a boy  is something else entirely. The sequence of punishments has escalated in ways that don’t involve the simple severity of physical injury. 

In many ways the use of corporal punishment in the Navy mirrored its use on land -- Hickey's no sailor, we learn, so this particular punitive beating might summon up any number of associations with his prior life. The point is not only that being flogged hurts and harms, but more than that, that being flogged humiliates.

There is a sexual subtext in this scene, but I don't find it in Hickey's actions and postures as much as in Crozier's punitive approach and the crew's part in witnessing a sexualized humiliation -- there is only one principal actor in the flogging itself, with Crozier giving the order, but others are pressed into service in auxiliary roles, stripping Hickey's drawers and binding him in position spread-eagled and bent over.  Just as we, the viewers, see Hickey exposed against his will, so do his fellow sailors. This scene evokes a rape. It functions as a repudiation of Hickey's non-normative sexuality, about which Crozier clearly knows -- the way Jared Harris bites off the word dirtiness is unmistakable -- but more than that the flogging is a rebuke of Hickey's attempt to reach an intimacy with Crozier. Hickey is guilty of desiring not just passing pleasantries that might lead anywhere, or a motherland shared with his captain, but of coveting an equal footing with his captain, an intellectual parity, an equal share in power and decision-making. Crozier allowed Hickey a tiny glimpse at his own weaknesses, and now he has to punish him for that and to take out the frustrations he cannot otherwise express on a lower-ranking crew member who in many ways underscores his own deficiencies -- young, sober, proactive, charming, even virile. [10,000 words of halfassed lit meta on contemporary stage depictions of naval punishment, White-Jacket, Billy Budd, and early 19th century narratives of the Bounty mutiny have been deleted here.] Never does ratty little Hickey look quite as inexplicably Christlike as he does in this scene. In such a shipboard flogging the sequence of events is regulated by a prescribed form and the anticipation of what comes next is a pungent part of the subject's suffering.  This is punishment as theater -- the drums, the audience, the implements and postures of punishment -- and there's nothing spontaneous about this scene except for Crozier's unrestrained spite. The excess in this scene is not in the number of lashes delivered but in the way they're delivered, in the emphasis on Hickey's violated dignity and in the dark delight Crozier takes in seeing each blow. There is no need for Crozier to utter the word again, except to further reiterate how each blow is meant to underscore the last. What the fuck? The intention is to degrade Hickey, and in obliterating him to obliterate Crozier’s own deficiencies. It becomes more about symbolically purging Crozier’s own demons than about restoring discipline, and even if you accept that flogging is at times necessary to keep good order on a ship (which... I don’t) you can already see that Crozier is losing the plot here.

This impression of excess isn't only for the viewers' sake; there's a whole spectrum of emotional responses among the spectators, but the dominant mood is that of disgust. Rather than serving as a triumphant defeat of Hickey's wickedness, the scene oozes complex emotions; we see lots of rigid uneasy faces in the audience, and expressions that vary from Irving's quiet satisfaction tinged with dismay to Gibson's quiet regret and shame to Fitzjames' wordless apprehension. Fitzjames and Tozer are both plainly aware of the risk of mutiny that Crozier's visible instability heightens, and how this uncommonly degrading treatment singles Hickey out in more ways than Crozier perhaps intended. It's not unambiguously clear who leaves Hickey the gift of tobacco he receives after the flogging, but it's plainly one of these men who witnessed his bloody humiliation. Instead of uniting the men in contempt for wrongdoing, this public spectacle rallies at least some of them in support of an otherwise unpopular crewmate.

In this scene, Hickey is taken on a journey from untempered ambition and arrogance to something much darker, and Crozier is taken nearly to the brink of his personal darkness. He won't fully realize how far his substance abuse issues and personal tumult have taken him until later. In these two scenes already, Crozier may have regained control of the crew, but he has ruptured his own discipline by letting his spite and resentment bubble outward into something beyond shipboard crime and punishment. The tenor of this scene is defined by Crozier's personal difficulties and his personal relationship with Hickey, even if the basic act of flogging men for insubordination and disrespect could have just as easily happened under any captain. Can you imagine a flogging happening in this same way under Fitzjames or Franklin? Both of them might employ corporal punishment, though Fitzjames I imagine much more grudgingly and with a higher threshold for its use. But this scene isn't just "jeez, wasn't flogging in general violent and gross", though it was -- it's something else entirely. This scene is an opera of control and resistance, pride and humiliation -- sketching a portrait of Crozier's greatest weaknesses as a leader and setting out the great drama that in Hickey's mind will play out between himself and his captain. From that point onward his desire for power and advantage will only grow, but his willingness to be satisfied within the normal chain of command has been shattered; any patience he had for a subordinate role is gone, and there's no real way for his grievances to be settled except through bloodshed. Even when Crozier's gotten past his demons as they show themselves in this scene -- his struggles with alcohol, his insecurity and resentment -- Hickey hasn't, and that's why it's so damn hilarious/impactful later that mutineer captain!Hickey still sees the beef he had with Crozier as a major hangup when that's the last thing on Crozier's mind. For Crozier, sinking as low as he does in this scene was only one of several humiliating failures as a captain. For Hickey, this scene reflects his lifelong bruised ego as a man of the lower classes and a despised Other, and foreshadows his future murderous usurpation of authority.

...tl;dr, I really like this scene. It's good.

[abxaquilone-archive-blog]

@silencedsonatas

This wasn’t a first time when these people calling themselves monster hunters uncovered him but this time they came prepared. Tuunbaq found himself immobilized by the influence of some magic in a small dim room. He was on his way home when they got him, just locked his car, put the keys in his pocket, and the darkness fell. He was late, and Petra, his little birdie was probably waiting for him. What was she doing now? Still waiting? While they tried to find out what he was and casually inflict as much pain as possible, he entertained himself with thoughts about her.

First time he’d seen her years ago in Saint-Petersburg, Russia. The Academic Philharmonia. She’d been playing and all the audience was in awe, such a bright young talent. He’d noticed that, too, but those days he’d been busy stretching his spider web all around the world and making ties with Russian bandits and Bratva.

Their second meeting happened a year and a half ago in Purple Ice. One of his regulars came to the club with an escort girl. Tuunbaq was about to kick them both out because it was a violation of strict rules but then he recognized her. The piano girl. Her companion was escorted out, she was asked to stay. He introduced himself as Bern, of course, (his real name she learned later) and didn’t dance around it for too long offering her a deal. Petra gets everything she needs, a nice big home, money, jewelry, and clothes, all the material benefits she can think of, including drugs, and he gets her and her gift. It was still there, he could smell it, her strong connection with the music.

She consent, but not everything was smooth at first. He’s been locking her up a few times and showing her that his anger wasn’t something she could neglect. He’s never actually hurt her, though, maybe left a few bruises on her arms and wrists.

Steinway & Sons, Ebony Makassar, settled in his vast living room. Petra played for him every time he asked. When they just started he had to hide in the shadows, his songbird had a fear of stage caused by the childhood trauma, but since he was her one and only listener with time she started to let him get more comfortable around.

What was she doing now? Tuunbaq couldn’t tell exactly how many hours passed since they started to torture him. Was she scared? Was she thinking about flying away from her cage? He knew that his people were looking for him and sooner or later he was going to be out of this situation. Would he find her there, his pet, his little birdie? It would hurt him much more than needles and knives had she escaped. It would make him very, very angry.

[rxbyknowby]

‘You want a what?’ (we can do that. or not)

@abxaquilone

(we should totally let them try c; )

It was cold outside, and Ruby didn’t like it much. She liked being warm and cozy, so she hadn’t left the house in a couple of days. Tuunbaq had taken some time away from the club to spend with her. She had insisted that he not stop his work for her, but he rather liked being holed up inside with her. She was cooking a hearty meat centered dish, wearing one of his shirts and little pajama shorts. She had to keep pulling the sleeves back up over her hands, but she liked how warm his clothes were and how they smelled like him. They talked idly about anything and everything, pausing what they were doing for little bouts of a affection. When she felt him stare at her for too long, a little smile would settle on her lips before she’d plop down on his lap and kiss him. 

He’d finally decided to work on some financial records to give her some peace while cooking. Tuunbaq’s home was incredibly luxurious, and there were even little television screens in the kitchen. Ruby hadn’t been watching anything important. In fact, she’d hardly been paying attention at all, focusing intently on whether or not the potatoes were starting to get tender. That was until the gentle coo of a baby reached her ears. She felt a small pang in her chest, and her light blue eyes stared at the screen. She didn’t even know what show this was, but there was a small baby girl in her mother’s arms, blinking warm brown eyes, tiny fingers curling and uncurling before she smiled. 

Ruby had always wanted to be a mother. Just like her sister Annie. Ruby….had been a mother. She had loved her children dearly even though they looked nothing like the infant on the screen. She missed that. She longed for that still. Her eyes stung with tears she refused to shed, and she glanced at Tuunbaq who had yet to notice. She didn’t want him to. 

She couldn’t help but wonder… Could she and Tuunbaq have a child? She was incredibly fertile, she knew that much. She had been a well sought out prize by other demons because of her ability to mate. Tuunbaq was very virile himself. But they were so different, Ruby wasn’t sure if they could have a baby. Would it take after her? Would it take after him?

She bit her lip to hide her smile and turned her attention back to the screen. She let her mind wander, imagining what it might be like. She thought of Tuunbaq acting as a protective father, cold and not very loving but…loyal at least. She imagined he’d like to play with the baby in the snow. Teach the little one how to hunt and speak to it in his mother tongue. Her heart warmed when she imagined their little one-shape shifting. The baby turning into a little polar bear cub, plodding along after him. She almost giggled aloud at the idea of Tuunbaq  wandering around the house in human form, their little one as a cub crying for papa to let them catch up. Maybe all of those things would happen. 

But she highly doubted any of them would. He’d never really told her outright but…he’d hinted that he did already have a child. And if that was true…she thought maybe the child hadn’t survived or he didn’t want to see them. Then again, Ruby didn’t have the heart to talk about her sons either. She could hardly judge him for that. But the silent idea of their child made Ruby happy, that distinct longing rising with her again. 

She’d said it as a completely off-handed remark. A thought that escaped with a wistful sigh. 

“I want a baby.”

“You want a what?”

His reply was so quick, it startled her. And then she froze. It wasn’t the speed at which he asked the question, it was his tone. It actually frightened her. Ruby swallowed thickly, for once too afraid to look at him. She’d been careful not give Tuunbaq reason to be upset with her, but it seemed as if she finally had. His tone was not disbelief or surprise. He sounded angry almost affronted. She thought there was a slight growl in his voice. It made her hands tremble. She’d promised to not be afraid of him, but her body was tense and waiting for him to lash out at her. She could feel her chest tightening, her words nearly breathless when she spoke. She still couldn’t look at him. She didn’t want to see the anger that must have been in his eyes. 

“Nothing,” she said softly, “Sorry, I just– Um, nothing.” She pointed at the tv screen to attempt to explain. “They’re cute, but I didn’t mean anything by it. Forget I said anything.”

[majorxmaggiexboy]

OKAY WAIT NO THE AU COULD WORK LIKE Amicia and Hugo are freshly orphaned due to Murder (:{)  and the whole street urchin life really isn’t working bc there’s some bad ish going down related to connections with their family, they’re just trying to get by. Sneak onto a ship either

A. Knowing exactly where it’s going, in which case Amicia probably disguises herself as a male and uses some kind of identity fraud to get in with the crew, smuggles Hugo aboard in secret

B. Having no flippin idea that this is an arctic expedition ship (English reading not great? Just more concerned with Fleeing For Life than checking ship destination?) straight up stowing away

Amicia is literally genuinely a stealth character like it’s her whole thing, that girl can avoid getting caught that isn’t really an issue but of course eventually they get Busted, either by Goodsir or Hickey, and everyone’s like, obviously it’s terribly inconvenient because they can’t exactly turn the ship around to go drop these two off and they’ve already passed the point of boarding anytime soon so they’re kind of stuck. Annoyed about it, but stuck. Also Amicia is a female and a teenager so Crozier’s like “shit shit shit UM” and annoyed as hell because he feels obligated to essentially arrange a protection detail for her which is also inconvenient and she’s pretty adamant that she doesn’t need protection because she has a sling and has no qualms about using the frickin canned goods as ammo if she has to, point, Nobody Will Be Touching Her

Crozier actually finds himself believing her that she can and will seriously damage anybody who Tries Anything but he isn’t a fan of either option, that is, anybody harming her or any of his men being put ~out of commission~ or killed so he’s like yeah No, you’re to be Guarded. Also stowing away is Illegal, so technically you’re a little convict felon anyway, vetoed. 

Crozier also has a throbbing headache because Hugo is like six years old and Cro did not sign up for this and will be needing a drink. The kid is vaguely unsettling and has a tendency to Stare but he’s really sweet with Jacko, Fagin, and Neptune.

I genuinely forgot Sir John exists but odds are pretty high he’s annoyed about the stowaways as well. More than likely at least one person tries to be a jerk about it but most of them are generally like, Well Damn, it’s a Young Woman and a Tiny Child, nothing to be done.

Some of the crew members trusted to be on Guard Rotation actually enjoy babysitting duty or at least don’t mind it. Amicia and Hugo wind up with more dads and older brothers than they know what to do with.

Once the trouble starts, Hugo is oddly fascinated with the Tuunbaq despite still getting the normal level of absolutely mortally terrified of the thing. He can probably kinda sense its Vibes. Hickey decides to be a bitch about it but Amicia and Hugo’s dozen or so dads are like I Know Your Dumb Ass Isn’t Trying Trying To Throw Shade At The Six Year Old. Amicia has been side-eying Hickey for at least two months. 

Amicia is initially wary of Silna just because they don’t speak the same language and Amicia has had little to no interaction with ‘foreigners’ up until that point but within a very short time the mutual Woman Surrounded By idiots Men aspect takes over and they have an understanding despite not speaking the same language. Also the murdered parent thing is a huge area of common ground and Amicia is very personally sympathetic. 

She’s also royally incensed at the vehemence of some of the men’s accusations against Silna about her having anything to do with the demon polar bear. That is Very Much Not Okay.

Despite their protectiveness of Amicia and Hugo, pretty much all the men have to admit that Hugo’s seeming fascination with the dead room is a little weird and uncomfortable. Some of them decide that maybe he’s really scared of it and has somehow chosen to deal with that fear by staring at the door, which is semi logical but Staying As Far Away As Possible would also. Make sense. 

There’s a conversation at one point where somebody asks Hugo what’s the deal with him and the dead room like, does he think there’s ghosts or a monster in there? Lil Man confirms that there’s definitely a monster in there. Adult is like no buddy there’s no monster in the dead room it’s totally safe no ghosts or anything

Somebody proceeds to get Tuunbaq’d in the dead room.

Hugo reveals that that was not the monster he was referring to.

Naturally at some point Amicia finds herself at some sort of Risk aboard the ship, either facing the potential of getting murdered by Hickey (who probably intends to frame somebody to sow some chaos) or due to Tuunbaq. 

It is at this point that the rats come out of the dead room.

Sadly the rats have limited discrimination between targets so nighttime starts to suck even more

Goodsir’s like Lady Silence Do You Have An Advise About This Silna looks at him like I Only Know About One Unholy Supernatural Entity Around Here My Guy Y’all Brought The Rat Problem

it is decided that maybe the bad canned food has something to do with the insane evil rats. This is of course, not correct. 

By law Amicia and Hugo have to survive and nope off with Silna at the end i do not make the rules

Also in this AU if Goodsir still dies, Hickey’s whole camp winds up getting absolutely annihilated by the demon rats lol like, just straight up flooded. They all get taken out before they can actually get Hickey himself but the Tuunbaq takes care of that.

[thomasblanky-moved]

day 10: in hot water

@12daysofcarnivale

rating: g characters: harry goodsir, henry collins, jane goodsir pairing: goodsir/collins word count: 3096 read on ao3

buy me a coffee!

harry had always been the type to bring home strays. the goodsir household was large and loud and even as a child, he’d scamper home with crayfish or crabs in buckets, or holding a big orange barn cat, or a baby bird. once he had even come home, a triumphant grin on his face, clutching a live grouse in his hands.

(his mother had nearly had a conniption over it being loose in the house, and then it was caught and butchered and harry had cried for days)

he supposed in a way he felt responsible for collins. he cared for him, of course, admired his gentleness even as the man himself shook to pieces, enjoyed the way his voice curled sweetly around harry’s name, had marveled in the way that collins had been able to point out every star and constellation and name each and every one of them. 

(”they’re different this far north,” collins had said, looking almost bashful about it, but something inside of him had seemed to settle and harry had smiled for it)

collins had been caught with a glancing blow from that monster out there on the ice- tuunbaq, blanky had once translated for them, and lady silence had looked small and mutinous- the impact of its great large paw cracking his ribs, claws rending flesh. the wounds were large and ugly, but survivable, and it had been lucky that collins hadn’t gone into shock or caught an infection; harry suspected that the latter at least was due to the coca wine that collins had pilfered, a mixed blessing.

harry had done his best to stitch him up and had felt guilty that out of all the men he could save, he was glad that collins was one of them.

and after, after, when they were swathed in wool blankets that weren’t threadbare and had bellies full of hot food that wasn’t ridden with lead, when the bandages that were wrapped ‘round collins’s middle were fresh and clean instead of tattered, the man will look so small and miserable that harry near aches with sympathy.

“do you have any family?” harry had asked him in his kindest voice, but collins’s shoulders had drawn up about his ears with a wince. “i could write them, if you wish, tell them that you’re safe. i’ll send the letter out with my own.”

“don’t.” he doesn’t know if collins had meant for the word to come out a whisper but it had, a rasping, sad sort of breath. “i don’t... i’m not well, doctor. in the head. don’t want them to see me like this, billy and harry and the girls. it’s not- i’d rather be dead, than come back to them like this.”

harry draws in a sharp breath at that; he had known that collins had been hurting, horribly so, but he hadn’t thought it had gone so deep to make collins value his life so little. he lays his hand over the other man’s, says, “do you have anywhere to go, once we return?”

collins shakes his head no, just the slightest movement.

“then you’ll come with me,” he decides. “nearly all my brothers have left for homes of their own, so there will be room enough at rosebank.”

that was how harry ended up walking down one of anstruther’s streets, collins near enough at his side that their arms brushed. they both looked rather ragged and disreputable, he was sure, but the streets around him felt familiar and close, inundated with childhood memories. he noticed different things, now, whether by separation or experience, and it fits strange on him like an old coat.

“that’s the baker’s shop,” harry says, pointing out the building as they pass; has  done this time and time again, bringing collins’s attention to some landmark and giving a childhood anecdote. “my younger brother robert- bob, really- was sweet on one of the daughters. he’d spend all his money on pastries he didn’t like just to talk to her, and he’d blush and stutter his way through every time.”

later he gestures at the beach as they climb the hill, says,  “i used to spend days out there in the sand. i would bring things back to the house- crabs, mostly- and be scolded for it, but it never stopped me. that’s what i did before, you know; i studied crabs.”

the before what didn’t need to be specified.

collins smiles a little, small, and something lightens in his face as he pauses to look out over the water. “my sister maggie, margaret,” he says, “she loved birds. she’d point out every one we saw, but i couldn’t ever remember all the names.”

harry smiles, too, and just barely touches their fingers together before they continue up the hill.

rosebank was a decently sized house, tiled roof and white-washed walls, and a fixture in harry’s life for as long as he could remember it. this was what he thought of when he had buoyed himself dreaming of home: this house, his parents, his siblings. the big garden that his mother and jane had loved; the work lab that he and john had constructed in the attic; the foul words that robert had carved into tree trunks when they were children.

“that’s it there?” collins asks, and harry nods. he is filled with equal parts trepidation and anxiety, a wanting to be there already while also wary of what he might find. “you’ve got a big house, doctor goodsir.”

he’s long given up any sense of humility regarding his titles; he is a doctor, an anatomist by education if not a surgeon by practice. a doctor goodsir in a family of doctor goodsirs. “i’ve a big family, too.”

the cobble road that lead to the house was the same as he remembered it, the bushes and flowers his mother had loved tenderly, the faded paint on the gate to the carriage house. a part of him had almost expected it to all be gone, to be changed with the way he had changed, these past long years.

“are you alright?” collins’s voice was soft, as if often seemed this days, but now out of compassion more than anything. harry runs a hand down his face, through the beard he’d grown during those months on the long march. he was sure he looked a fright, unshaven and framed by riotous dark curls, but he’d scarcely had time to look at himself in a mirror let alone make himself presentable.

they’d just have to take him as he was, then.

the flat stones that marked the way to the door were the same, grass a bit more overgrown between the cracks without a constant and steady stream of traffic to keep it trampled. the door was the same, the white wash on the walls, the creeping ivy that his mother had tried so hard for years to get rid of. he raises his hand to knock on the door, then decides to try the knob. 

it was his home, after all, no matter how long he’d been gone. he shouldn’t have to knock to enter his own home.

the door was unlocked and so he pushes it open and the house is quiet, too quiet even for only two people. harry frowns and he hears collins shift closer, just the barest rustle of fabric, and he reaches back for the other man’s hand, reassured slightly when warm fingers tangle with his own. perhaps it was his experiences that had made him so paranoid and distrustful of silence, his neck prickling with awareness; he’d spent so long surrounded by a crush (and then a lessening, lessening number) of men that quiet had become foreign to him. 

harry closes the door behind him because he was raised, well, here, and not in a barn, meaning that he had some sense of decency. collins is peering about, his face pinched in that perpetual expression of vague despair that has seemingly come to be his norm.

“you’re sure you lived here, doctor?” collins’s voice is pitched low, and harry would have thought it was a joke had he not known the man as well as he did. he opens his mouth to respond, perhaps a bit put out, but a creak on the stairs makes him look up, the nearly spiral staircase that always squeaked no matter the step.

harry feels something lodge in his throat. “jane?”

“harry?”

they stay at rosebank some few weeks, a season or maybe more. harry is glad for it; anstruther is a sleepy, quiet town, contained and familiar and free of painful reminders. collins, too, seems more settled, something lighter in his eyes, the set of his shoulders. he has been thinking of things to write to his family, to tell them that he is not well but that he is getting better, and that he hopes to see them all soon; harry helps him, sometimes, when the words get caught somewhere between his brain and his pen.

but there was grief here, too, empty spaces where people should have been. he would walk into the sitting room and expect to see his father sitting in front of the fireplace, or at his desk in the study; if he listened close enough, he swore that he could hear archie’s laughter. jane was the only one here, now, and he felt almost bad for her, all alone in the house.

the others visit by turn, john and robert and joseph. harry is glad for it, pathetically so. the first time harry is alone with john he clings to him and sobs like a child, while his brother combs his fingers through his hair, only a little bit awkward. robert, on his own, ribs harry gleefully about it all, but there’s relief in his voice when he says that he had sailed, twice, to find him and came home wanting.

(it is joseph that harry worries for, joseph who comes home and looks thin and sad and ill but so very glad that harry has returned, who holds his face in shaking hands as if he couldn’t believe that this was all real and pulls him into a tight, crushing embrace. harry reminds himself to ask john his thoughts in his next letter.)

he is getting better. they are getting better.

jane seemed taken with collins, which harry was grateful for, but even more than that he was relieved to see that collins rather liked her, as well. she gave him tasks, harry knew, to keep him busy: running errands or washing dishes or chopping wood or pulling up whatever crop she had decided was good enough to harvest. and then they would all sit down together for dinner and it would be cozy, and domestic, and everything that harry had been almost certain he would never see again.

so harry enjoys the little things he had previously put aside or never had time for. he goes back to studying crabs; he collects seashells. some shaggy tortoiseshell with a cropped tail follows collins home from the grocer one morning, and instead of chasing her off they decide to keep her; he names her apollonia (“polly, for short.”) and feeds her scraps off the table, to jane’s eternal vexation.

they go to the beach, sometimes, he and collins. they take off their shoes and socks and roll up their trousers to wade around in the tide pools, laughing and shouting as the cold waves lap over their ankles and sand seeps between their toes. collins says to him, “we used to do this when we lived in hartlepool, george and i.”

“george?”

“my brother,” collins says, and there’s something sad in his voice. “my twin, really.”

harry makes a surprised noise at that, glances over curiously. “i didn’t know you were a twin.”

the barest shrug of shoulders answers him. “i’m not, anymore.”

he backtracks, then, says, “you don’t sound as if you were from hartlepool.”

“never stayed in one place for more than a few years.” collins plucks a stone out of the sand, deep black and smooth, edges rounded; he tries to skip it but it falls flat into the water with a plop. “my father was navy, and we followed his postings. sussex is where me and george were born. hal and billy in hartlepool; maggie, some place in ireland; tamsin, decima, and lizzy were all popped out in liverpool, but by that time i was already sailing.”

“my family have all been doctors,” harry offers. he plants his hands on his hips and stretches his back, cracks his neck. “my father, my grandfather. john, bob, archie, and myself all studied medicine. we were all born here, too, along with jane and baby agnes, except for joseph. he was born in lower largo, but that’s only a few hours’ walk from here, so i’m not sure it counts.”

it’s the most harry’s ever heard collins talk about his family; occasionally there would be some throw away comment, something one of his siblings had said, or that his sister like this kind of chocolate or his brother broke an arm while climbing a tree. little, inconsequential things, but he’d never had names to go with them. he decided that having a brood of siblings rather suited a man like Collins.

“you’ve a good family, doctor goodsir,” collins tells him, and harry smiles. “you all seem very close.”

“we are. were.” it’s tinged with grief; archie’s loss still hurt, sometimes, like a healing wound. “and please, call me harry. i’ve told you this before, mister collins.”

“you have,” collins cedes, “but you’ve never called me henry, either.”

it is winter the first time harry kisses collins, a bit over a year since they had first stumbled up the hill to rosebank, ragged and tired and battered. and it’s very much that way, harry kissing collins, because harry is the one that fair falls forward while collins’s hands hover, surprised and unsure, and harry is the one that breaks it, too.

there is snow on the ground outside, falling in fat, crystalline flakes, and harry finds that he hates going out into it, but not nearly as much as collins, who takes up a near permanent position in the kitchen, wrapped up in a tartan by the stove as he tries to learn how to knit. the cold was in them, now, deep in their bones and dredging up old nightmares.

they stay indoors. harry sends john his papers to be published, collins tries to knit, and a boy from down the lane chops their wood.

the kiss itself is neither coordinated nor particularly good. harry doesn’t know why he dies it, really; perhaps some latent impulse. he was terribly fond of collins, though, and at this point the man knew him better than anyone else; not his past, perhaps, but his thoughts.

so, harry kisses him.

collins is watching him wide-eyed when he rocks away, fingers clutched in a half-woven glove, his mouth slightly parted. he looked utterly gob smacked and harry swallows down the hysterical laugh that crawls up his throat.

“i’m sorry, henry,” he babbles, “i don’t know what- that is, i didn’t. i’m not. i’m sorry-“

“harry,” collins says, and though his voice is small, harry stops talking immediately. it’s a rare moment when collins uses his name.

“…yes?”

collins’s hand is shaking slightly as he reaches out to brush his fingertips across harry’s cheek, light as a feather, and harry’s eyes flutter shut. his palms are rough, callouses that had cracked in the cold catching on harry’s beard, but the gesture is tender nonetheless. harry covers collins’s hand with his own.

“did you mean it?” collins asks, seriously.

“of course,” harry says.

collins smiles at that, something small and shy and unsure, but it’s a start.

“you’re as bad as john,” jane scolds harry, “and not even half as subtle.”

she has him cornered after dinner, having requested his help with cleaning up. collins had given them both a quizzical look- often he was the one cleaning up, always volunteering- but jane shoos him off and he goes, polly cradled in his arms.

“pardon?” he says. he tells himself he’s not intimidated- that he’s seen worse, done worse- but jane had always had something of their mother in her, and her ability to loom over him despite her height was one of them.

“i don’t care what you do to henry in your spare time,” she says hotly, and she has a finger pressed to his chest, a scowl upon her face. there is the just tiniest beginnings of bags beneath her eyes, and harry swallows. “or what he does to you. but you could at least be quiet about it, else your wailing is like to wake the neighbors and send me to an early grave with exhaustion.”

harry remembers, suddenly, that their rooms share a wall.

“it’s not like that, jane,” he protests, a hot flush crawling up his neck, even though it plainly was. “it’s-“

“i don’t care!”

his mouth snaps shut, cowed into quiet for a moment, and then frowns. “what does john have to do with anything?”

the look that jane gives him is pure disbelief paired with a noise of disgust, and she turns on her heel and strides from the room, leaving harry to clean up dinner alone.

collins sends a letter to his family in late spring of ’53, nearly two full years since they had escaped the arctic.

he was happier than he had been before, harry knew, smiled more and had nightmares less. he was still quiet, still shy and sometimes drifting, but he was leaps and bounds better than the miserable, haunted creature that had first followed harry to anstruther. there were things that had come back with them and things that they had left behind, harry knew, and they would never be the same as they were before it all, before all the death and fear and horror.

(he thought, sometimes, of lady silence, whether she had survived it all and what she was doing if she had, and his heart will swell and collapse inwards under the weight of it all and harry knows that this, too, will never leave him.)

collins writes only one letter, to his mother, and it takes him nearly two weeks to do so. harry walks with him to post it, and they walk close enough side by side that their fingers brush on the way home.

[losinmortalesperdidos]

[ Harley, for Tuun~ ] ❝ You may be a big, mean.. tree, but you do have a point. Kind of. Maybe. ❞

Tree. Okay, he could take that. Tuunbaq looked down at the girl that stormed into his gym. She was very lucky that it was one of the usual days, had she done this in the middle of a completely another activity inside these walls he would hardly even move a finger to stop anyone from shooting her as an unnecessary witness. “A point that you have a suicide wish or a point that you don’t walk like this into a place full of big sweaty guys alone?” He grabbed a towel from a bench near the wall and threw it around his neck. Not all of the customers of the gym were his people, some of them were just men that came here for the iron and sparring, some were those who later at night would walk into the cage with him and other fighters. And though he knew that his subordinates wouldn’t have done anything that didn’t have his approval, he couldn’t give orders to the others. “So, you were looking for someone? Another big mean tree?”

[midweekblues]

Oh boy, this has been sitting in my drafts for how long!? Ok this one's straight up going under a ReadMore, sorry about your dashes dear followers

Tuunbaq VS Tuurngaq

Names are SO important in The Terror. Silna given a name through violence, respectful or at least sympathetic at first ("Condolences, Lady Silence") then turns into an everyday thing then it gets tragic when she cuts her tongue but by then it's caught on? Like how Crozier refers to her when he's talking to Goodsir in the tent "Do you think she's safe?" "Silence?" like... can i scream a bit? Anyway i was gonna talk about Toony Tunes, Mr Teeth and Claws, you know.

I LOVED Nive Nielsen's interview, what a QUEEN her first day at work was the scene with her dad dying? And she KILLED IT like that. BTW Silna's name is a mix of the two main Inuk deities (Sila and Sedna) which i thought was a bit cheesy at first but YES GIRL you deserve to be named after not 1 but TWO gods. Ok Nive fangirling over, let's talk The Creature™ and its names.

Nive says tuurngaq, that's the word in Greenlandic and also in Netsilingmiut and most Nunavut inuktitut variants as far as I've found. Here's Johnny Issaluk, who's from Nunavut, saying it too:

Slightly different accent but the -rng- sound is still clearly there. Here's Silna's first time saying it on screen, with Crozier and Blanky's attempts to repeat the word:

I'm gonna take Blanky's word on turnraq being Yupik but... Francis... Toombak? Really? And then he just keeps going, and so do the subtitles even when it's Inuit characters speaking proper Inuktitut. It's been like this since the very beginning, when Ross and ¿McClintock? are talking to Issaluk's character in his tent.

And you could think, ok these kabloonas can't tell the difference between a guttural -rng- sound coming from your throat and a labial -mb- coming from your lips? But the plot thickens because in the novel, Tuunbaq is specifically not a tuurngaq, it's closer to a tupilaq.

Ok so what's a tuurngaq (plural tuurngait)? In general terms, a spirit. It can be good or evil. Angakkuit (shamans) interact with them, if they're friendly, and they can become their helping spirits. Tuurngait are present in most Inuit cultures and there's so many stories on them (if you're looking for Netsilik stories, check out Rasmussen's book). They can be humans who have passed away, they can have animal forms, sometimes something inbetween. They can be male or female or have no gender? They are spirits, but sometimes they can be killed. Here's almost one hour of Igloolik folks talking about them, and shamans, and the decline of shamanism as Christianity took over the Arctic Seriously this is really cool because it's from 2003 and it's mostly elders talking about their parents' and grandparents' experiences and way of life.

So what's a tupilaq (plural tupileq)? Okay this is more specific to the Greenlandic Inuit but it's basically a monster-spirit created by one having magic powers, who uses it to wreak vengeance on an enemy. One of the common themes is that if the person it's supposed to attack defeats the tupilaq, then it will turn on its creator. But book!Tuunbaq is not your regular, standard issue tupilaq. It's Sedna's. A tupilaq created by a goddess, and so a whole-ass deity in itself. This is 100% Simmons' creation because he loves his monsters, so he tells the story like this:

Sedna (aka Nuliajuk for the Netsilik), the ruler of the sea and all its creatures, had beef with Sila (aka Narssuk), the ruler of the skies and the weather, so she created a tupilaq to kill him which was the terrible Tuunbaq, BUT Sila defeated it so it had to turn on Sedna, BUT Sedna was too smart and had created it with a bug so if Tuunbaq was ever defeated it would be cast to the physical world and could never reach her, and she put it up North in the most desolate area of the world so it wouldn't, y'know, kill everyone. And Silna, her dad and others are part of a super-dope pan-Inuk angakkuit society that serves it, because book!Tuunbaq cannot be controlled, only somewhat appeased. Something behind human comprehension ("We were not meant to know of it") but almost in a cosmic horror kind of way.

Why keep the Tuunbaq spelling/pronunciation for the show when they changed almost everything about it? No idea. Maybe Simmons requested it? Maybe they thought the book fans would like it? (i didn't) As far as i know, tuunbaq is not an Inuktitut word, and actually the -nb- (or -mb-) phoneme doesn't even exist. Show!Tuunbaq works more as a tuurngaq anyway (though I'm ambivalent when it comes to its relationship to Silna/the expectations placed on her regarding it, where the show strays from most of what i've read on the subject), and i think it's interesting to note the importance placed on amulets (the ones belonging to Silna's father, the one she carves for herself) which were definitely A Thing in Netsilik society. Would she have been able to control it if she had the proper amulets? If her father had died under the sky, had an appropriate burial? If Hickey & co had not interrupted her first attempt to bond with it? Guess we'll never know. I think about it a lot though!

are there any Inuit/Netsilik folklore(? idk exactly the word i'm looking for here) around names?

just thinking about Silna/Lady Silence, and my immediate thought about her not giving up her name to them* is, from my Western/North-Western European standpoint, very reminiscent of fairies and not giving out your real name as it holds power.

like... names are SO important in the Terror. I especially like how Nive Nielsen replaced tuunbaq with tuurngaq, as that is how she would say it (in Greenland). she mentions this here (great interview, would recommend a read!). that the terror & erebus crews aren't supposed to know of the Tuunbaq, and then also mispronounces its name? feels v important. (and then add onto that - Crozier & Fitzjames' conversation about it in ep8, when they both genders it and claims it. man, if anyone have any interesting thoughts about that i'd love to read it!! brain mushy)

and then Crozier is only told her name when everyone else is dead, and he's as good as. he's harmless now, he has no power, so he is told her name.

but idk the myths and rituals around names in Silna's culture. i don't know how much they considered it when making the show, but as Nive apparently was allowed a lot of freedom, and was consulted regularly on what she thought would be appropriate (she also discusses that in the interview!), i like to believe they maybe did some research into that? maybe.

*(IIRC they did actually ask and she stayed silent? if they didn't that's just another point in Here Comes Imperialism, esp when they Name her. then it becomes a different but equally interesting discussion!)