#mineral warfare

[quixoticanarchy]

book about resource extraction in the drc published in 2011 trying to say "activists' focus on the congo as a source of conflict minerals is overblown bc they only supply 5% of world total" and "it's disingenuous to point at consumer electronics and say they're soaked in blood when they have a very small chance of containing minerals from the congo" well ok. consider: 1) in the intervening 13 years the amount of coltan supplied by the drc did not stay at 5% but in fact has risen dramatically (and also it is notoriously difficult to track how much the drc is actually exporting, and how much of, say, rwanda's reported production originates in the congo), and 2) how interesting. is the drc the only place in which rare earth minerals are extracted under inhumane conditions? perhaps ppl criticizing what goes into consumer electronics are not in fact meaning to suggest they would be just fine if they contained no minerals from the congo. perhaps it is ALSO bad when ppl in southeast asia or latin america or in fact, anywhere, are ruthlessly exploited so that you and i can have new cellphones and electric cars

[avelera]

Arcane's Jayce & Viktor: A Tech Industry Perspective

I've been wrestling with whether to make a short and sweet post about these points or to just have another long-winded meta and clearly since I'm incapable of being brief, I guess we'll just dive in.

I work in tech. What I see in this industry colors a lot of how I see Jayce and Viktor in Arcane. I'll try to be brief about a few of the things that stand out to me the most and that I think are intentional.

1 ) Jayce and Viktor are references to Alfred Nobel - This is a historical reference so direct I genuinely don't know how people grasp Jayce and Viktor's characters if you don't know about it.

Alfred Nobel is known for two things: inventing dynamite and bequeathing his subsequent fortune to founding the Nobel Peace Prize. These things are very much related.

Nobel was brilliant but socially naive. When he invented dynamite, he intended it to make life easier and safer for working in mines. Sound familiar? That is literally what the Atlas Gauntlets and Hex Claw Jayce and Viktor invented with Hextech was posed to be. It is a direct reference to Alfred Nobel and dynamite, there is no question about it in my mind whatsoever that they pose the benefit to society as specifically being useful to miners.

Nobel also believed that the awesome destructive power of dynamite would mean the end of warfare. Literally. He thought it was so disgusting and unthinkable that people would use explosives on each other that it would grind violence to a halt. He was very, very wrong about this. So wrong, in fact, that he spent the rest of his life in horror and remorse at how explosives were being used to kill people and created the Nobel Peace Prize to promote innovations aimed at peace, a prize which annually recognizes those who "conferred the greatest benefit to humankind".

Likewise with Jayce and Viktor, they are both horrified to imagine Hextech used for warfare and we think they're incredibly socially naive for thinking this, because they are. Maybe in another universe, there'd be the Talis Peace Prize to try to make up for what they unleashed on the world. Which brings me to my next point:

2 ) Jayce and Viktor have typical engineer blindspots to society's ills - As I've discussed in-depth in another meta, Jayce and Viktor both desperately needed some non-STEM or scientific classes in their life because their worldview is so naive and stunted as a result that it's the source of a dizzying number of their problems. Neither of them could even consider that Hextech, like dynamite, would be weaponized immediately. But they have other huge gaps too as a result of their narrow focus on science, and I do believe this is intentional by the writers as a commentary on engineers and tech people in general.

Short version, Jayce desperately needs some understanding of history and of rhetoric. When Ambessa asks him if his school teaches military history, he doesn't even know if they offer it. She was testing him with that question and as a canny manipulator and general, she clearly takes that to mean she can run circles around him, and she is right. Because with incredibly simplistic plays to his male ego, like calling his leadership "impotent", Ambessa immediately gets Jayce riled up and not thinking clearly. She blindfolds him, spins him around, and shoves him headlong into taking violent military action in exactly the direction she wanted him to go in to kick the nest and set off a war.

Jayce is also easily manipulated by Mel for more benevolent but still self-serving reasons with appeals to his life's work with flattery, his male ego with sex, and his dreams for a better world to make him fall quickly into step with the city's corruption with only a little nudging because he has no strong civic understanding of his own to fall back on. As Cait notes, he's never taken an interest in the Council or politics before until he becomes a Councilor himself.

Short version for Viktor, he wants to make the world a better place but he's never actually had to think through human nature before. He's literally never bothered. We know this because of his blindspot towards Hextech weaponry where he truly believed they could avoid it being used for warfare, and the fact that later in his cult, he's somehow shocked to learn that people will do bad things for the ones they love and won't just slice pieces of their own nature and personality off to fit into his little Utopian commune.

Literally cracking any kind of history or sociology book or heck, a Pratchett Discworld book, would have told him that there's a straight fucking line between deciding people are the problem when it comes to fixing society's ills and eugenics. He falls headlong into that trap and it requires his older, wiser self to beat him over the head with the truth of the horrors of his own simplistic worldview would lead to before he literally annihilates all life in his home city in his attempt to save it.

Which brings me to my next point:

3 ) Jayce and Viktor as oblivious tech nerds who have never cracked a book open but suddenly thinking that because they're great engineers, they have the solution to all of life's problems.

This is a somewhat shorter point, but I think in modern society we all know about the proverbial tech bro who keeps reinventing things like public transportation and taxes because they've never read a book in their life that doesn't have equations in it.

To be clear, they aren't bad people! I'd even hazard to say that young tech bros trying to make public good-based startups with a laughable lack of social awareness aren't bad people either! If anything, the education system has failed them, and they're pouring their intellect and earnest, human desire to help others into endeavors with the narrowest possible world perspective, which happens to be their field of expertise and thus it makes sense they'd see that as the greatest value that can offer, it's just too limited a view so they end up reinventing things that already exist or making worse, more dangerous versions of things that already exist. Tragically, their naive but well-meaning worldview often leads to:

4 ) Viktor and Jayce, but mostly Jayce, as tech bros being beholden to billionaire interests to make their dream come true:

Like Jayce, we see how these tech bros have their vision co-opted by people with a broader vision and understanding of the world, by billionaire investors who turn their inventions into making a quick buck for themselves, to warmongers and dictators who turn the creations of their mind into surveillance state horror stories. Some of that is a lack of wisdom on their parts when it comes to building in safeguards, sure, but part of that is there is a class divide too between the powerful and bright-eyed young inventors who just want to improve the world. As Singed notes, no one in power is ever innocent. And those in power have the capital to make a young inventor's dream come true and thus, tie them to their demands and interests. As Jayce said, they built the Hexgates, "Like [the Councilors] asked." Specifically this indicates that their vision has already been co-opted to serve financial interests. It also, again, makes it almost laughable how naive they are that they didn't realize warfare was next after trade.

Like many tech bros with billionaire investors, Jayce relied on the Kirammans, who were one of the wealthiest people in the city and literally on the Council that represents the State, and on Mel who is also part of the State, who is the wealthiest woman in Piltover, and who comes from a family of world-conquering warmongers, to make his dream come true from the very start.

From the beginning, Jayce was at a losing disadvantage when it came to keeping his dream ideologically pure and free of the influence of the wealthy and powerful.

And finally, just to point out that I'm not making this up, that these parallels are in fact intentional and built into the story:

4 ) Jayce and Viktor as parallels to Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak, founders of Apple. Christian Linke, co-creator of Arcane, specifically noted them as inspirations for Jayce and Viktor's relationship, with Jayce (Jobs) as the face of the company and Viktor (Woz) as the real brains behind the invention.

This caused a lot of sturm and drang on Twitter with people misinterpreting that he means Jayce isn't the actual inventor of Hextech, which I think is an overreaction. Jobs, unlike many tech bros who have earned society's ire lately like Musk, was actually an engineer too. It's completely common in tech spaces for partnerships to be made up of one partner who is able to handle being the public face of the company, and one introverted and socially awkward genius who prefers to sit in a dark room and actually tinker with the problem and who would literally rather set themselves on fire than talk to a non-technical human being. I know because I've been in such partnerships before myself as the public face.

Where Jayce and Viktor rather charmingly buck the stereotypes of that relationship and so in turn actually make it more like what I've seen in the real world, is the fact there isn't resentment between the two as a result. Viktor is glad that Jayce is willing to be the public face and doesn't want to get in the way. This is actually very common with the engineers I know! It's not seen as glory stealing, it's seen as sparing them awful, painful work they don't want to do, like networking.

Yes it means Jayce needs to sacrifice some time in the lab, but it's a simple division of labor that he's happy to do, especially if it frees Viktor from the responsibility so he can focus on what he loves, because Jayce loves him. And you'll note that Jayce is very above-board academically speaking on this front, he always cites Viktor as his partner and is scrupulous in giving Viktor credit, in conversation at least, even if he doesn't forcibly drag Viktor on stage to take credit there.

Anyway, when I write meta or even fic for these two, this sort of background is always on my mind, and I thought it might be valuable for others who maybe aren't as familiar with the tech space as I am.

[anastasiareyreed]

“ordinary russians are not guilty of anything and shouldn't be held responsible for the actions of their authorities”

meanwhile:

ordinary russians voluntarily join the russian army to kill Ukrainians and Syrians

ordinary russians organize safari hunting and killing Ukrainian civilians with drones

ordinary russians torture and execute Ukrainian and Syrian civilians and soldiers, filming it on camera

ordinary russians come to the destroyed occupied territories and arrange "fancy and mysterious" photoshoots like it's some kind of disneyland

ordinary russians go abroad to willingly glorify russia at pro-russian rallies

ordinary russians persecute and kill Ukrainians abroad

ordinary russians export stolen Ukrainian clothes, household appliances and cars to russia

ordinary russians buy all these stuff knowing perfectly well and seeing from the labels that these things were stolen from the houses and shops of murdered Ukrainians

ordinary russians donate to support the russian army

ordinary russians make shells and drones at factories in three shifts

ordinary russians sew equipment

ordinary russian activists weave camouflage nets, make trench candles and collect donations for the russian army

ordinary russian truck drivers bring all this to the frontlines

ordinary russians make software for missiles

ordinary russian tourists go on vacation to the russian-occupied Crimea

ordinary russians sell and buy apartments in occupied territories whose residents were killed

ordinary russians write happy comments after shelling Ukrainian homes markets hospitals and schools

ordinary russian doctors go to the frontlines to save russian soldiers

ordinary russians work in prisons and torture prisoners of war with starvation

ordinary russian teachers in the occupied territories reeducate Ukrainian children

ordinary russian social workers kidnap and take Ukrainian children to russia

ordinary russian miners extract coal for steel smelting

ordinary russian metallurgists work three shifts at blast furnaces to melt steel

ordinary russian celebrities shoot pro-russian films, write pro-russian songs and call to join the russian army

ordinary russians organize mass protests in russia against the closing of McDonald's, but not against the war

ordinary russian children draw pictures of russian soldiers brutally killing Ukrainians

ordinary russian artists in russia and abroad create pro-russian art glorifying russia and the russian army

ordinary russians create videogames that promote russian brutality and the army

ordinary russian teachers teach children to hate other nations

ordinary russian trainers prepare children for warfare and murder

ordinary russians ignore russian crimes on the territory of Ukraine and Syria as they ignored crimes on the territory of Georgia. because they believe it has nothing to do with them and it shouldn't affect their comfortable lifestyle.

should i go on?

Putin is not the cause of russian brutality, terrorism and bloodthirstiness. Putin is a consequence.

before Putin, there were other presidents, other tsars and other authorities in russia. only one thing has not changed — russian imperialism and chauvinism.

don't be silent and please continue to support Ukraine! don't let your politicians betray Ukraine, Ukraine needs help to defeat russia!

[daloy-politsey]

From their inception, foundations focused on research and dissemination of information designed ostensibly to ameliorate social issues--in a manner, however, that did not challenge capitalism. For instance, in 1913, Colorado miners went on strike against Colorado Fuel and Iron, an enterprise of which 40 percent was owned by Rockefeller. Eventually, this strike erupted into open warfare, with the Colorado militia murdering several strikers during the Ludlow Massacre of April 20, 1914. During that same time, Jerome Greene, the Rockefeller Foundation secretary, identified research and information to quiet social and political unrest as a foundation priority. The rationale behind this strategy was that while individual workers deserved social relief, organized workers in the form of unions were a threat to society. So the Rockefeller Foundation heavily advertised its relief work for individual workers while at the same time promoting a pro-Rockefeller spin to the massacre. For instance, it sponsored speakers to claim that no massacre has happened and tried to block the publication of reports that were critical of Rockefeller. According to Frederick Gates, who helped run the Rockefeller Foundation, the "danger is not the combination of capital, it is not the Mexican situation, it is the labor monopoly; and the danger of the labor monopoly lies in its use of armed force, its organized and deliberate war on society."

INCITE! Women of Color Against Violence, The Revolution Will Not be Funded: Beyond the Non-Profit Industrial Complex

[witchofthesouls]

so if we're going with the energon-are-depressed-version-of-tellytubbies-soup. Send a chef reincarnating into a cybertronian, thus blessing Cybertron with more varient of cuisine rather other than bland energon. Or something alike like that.

Heads up, this is mainly going to be commentary.

I actually did have some thoughts along this ballpark. One concept was a college student taking a break to clear her head and finding out she inherited a magical farm in the middle of nowhere and finding out some Cybertronian squatters (one adult and two kids) in the barn.

It was basically a slice of life between the two trying to get the place up and running. Human is getting access to supernatural crops and space farm animals that the sparklings adore, and the miner is getting access to a safe haven with a variety of food that she wouldn't have dreamed in her entire functioning.

(I really wanted to do a take on mechanical chickens and sheep. Potentially go into how Cybertronian domesticated animals may still exist because of trade before Cybertron and its colonies were consumed by warfare, strife, or other means. Go into crossbreeds and all that jazz.)

Other storylines were humans-into-Cybertronians (Welcome to Noctem residents, Grandma Darby, or an old friend of June/Jack's honorary uncle) with some subplots on what TFP Cybertronians were missing out on the food scale since they mainly subsisted on the equivalent of Pedialyte/Ensure gruel sprinkled in with some "Earth is Space Australia"/"humans are space fae" to play on the Earth-is-Unicron subplot, like those ex-humans able to straight up consume hots spring water without issues. Just for Ratchet to significantly test it out and find out hotsprings can help hydrate Cybertronians since they can filter out a lot of the rich minerals. Think of it like coconut water. Very rich in electrolytes. The Autobots would get a speed run on humanity's way of doing cooking. (Imagine if Ratchet, being the very conscientious scientist he is in TFP, needs to interview an Asian ex-human that prefers a more intuitive cooking style instead of exact measurements. Or a homecook that doesn't own any kind of exact measuring tool and just eyeballs/ratios it.)

So going back to it, if a chef was one-wayed ticket via Truck-kun to Cybertron, then they would honestly have an easier time with the Wilder tribes as those mecha would have some sort of cuisine as a massive FUCK YOU to the city-states, Quintessons, and Functionists. Same if they landed somewhere in a Lost Colony. Meanwhile, a bartender/chemist would have an easier time adjusting to the city-states. It would be interesting to explore a duo between the chef and a forager or even the chef with a folklore historian that's been discredited because they had the ball-bearings to publish (now banned) works about early Cybertronian cuisine prior to Quintesson occupation. There's one pairing that's relatively rational with their experimentation and other pairing are just fucking madlads that veer into culinary food crimes.

Guess which is which?

[room-surprise]

Modern Military Uniform of the United Empire (Dungeon Meshi modern AU)

AO3 Version here!

AEGIS

In my fic, “Show Me How to Get Off the Ground,” Mithrun was once a member of an elite military unit, the Advanced Expedition Group for Intelligence and Security, or AEGIS.

Most civilians refer to them as “the Canaries” instead, a pejorative nickname that has become so well-known that most people don’t realize that it isn’t the unit’s real name, or that it’s an insult. Even AEGIS members sometimes use it.

The nickname is a reference to the yellow bird on the AEGIS logo, which looks like a canary, the bird that coal miners famously use to detect gas leaks. The canary warns the miners of the presence of dangerous gasses by dying, implying that AEGIS members frequently die while doing their duty, and that the government treats them like they are disposable.

The bird featured in the AEGIS logo is actually a skylark, which is one of the many birds that are associated with the elven goddess of warfare and wisdom, Atana. Skylarks are the first birds to sing in the morning, and so they are believed to bring news quickly. Every morning, Atana’s skylark returns to her, and sings the latest news from the war front. The aegis was also a device carried by Atana, usually depicted as a shield or armor made of goat skin, and sometimes decorated with the head of a defeated enemy or monster.

(In the real world, the aegis was either a shield or armor made of goat skin, used by Athena or Zeus. It often had a gorgon's head on it.)

AEGIS operatives are commissioned officers from other branches of the United Empire’s military who have been scouted by AEGIS for their special skills. They are put through extremely advanced magical, military and espionage training, and are considered some of the most elite soldiers in the world. Because all AEGIS agents are selected from commissioned officers, the vast majority of them come from elven nobility.

AEGIS specializes in undercover spy work done behind enemy lines. Because of this, they don’t have a field uniform since they spend most of their time in disguise, dressed like ordinary people. They only wear their formal dress uniform while they are at their home base, doing training, administrative work, or preparing for their next undercover mission.

MISC LORE

ATANA (𐀀𐀲𐀙)

Atana is one of the most popular gods in the United Empire. She’s strongly associated with the capital city and the royal family. She’s usually depicted as a beautiful elven woman with obsidian skin, white hair, red eyes, multiple arms, and wearing nothing but an aegis. Each arm bears a different weapon or tool, and her face is always serene, even when she is smiting her enemies. She’s usually shown surrounded by many different types of bird, and in ancient art, she sometimes has a bird’s head.

She is the goddess of wisdom and warfare, and most people consider her the “primary” god of the elven pantheon, and other gods are usually treated as subordinate to her. Atana embodies elven virtues such as intelligence, cunning, charisma, skill with magic, and stoicism. 

(Atana is a fusion of the real-world goddesses Athena and Durga.)

THE GREAT WAR (1932-2000)

Sometimes called “the great war between the long and short-lived races,” this war began with the Far Eastern Alliance attacking the United Empire’s colonies in the Eastern Archipelago to reclaim what they saw as territory that belonged to them. After 68 years, the Great War ended in a stalemate, with both sides committing atrocities, and both conceding and gaining territory.

The Great War had a huge impact on the relationship between the long and short-lived races, and technology and magic developed during the war has shaped the modern world into what it is in the story.

[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; i

ɪᴛ ʀᴀɪɴꜱ ᴏɴ ᴄᴀʟᴀᴅᴀɴ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ.

word count: 7k warnings: arranged marriage, politics, graphic scenes of blood, violence, & death of family. trauma, past abuse (harkonnen&feyd rautha warning) not much else. mutual mistrust. notes: hi! tysm to my new followers ily all <3 here's chapter one remastered of this fic [originally posted on @tremendum ] - (inspiration for reader's family is taken from the family of tsar nicholas ii, so if it feels familiar that's why.) feedback very much appreciated :)

prelude series masterlist

Penitent Crimes of Retaliation;

“In accordance with the legal doctrine of the 'Reprisal Accord', as sanctioned by the High Court of the Landsraad, attacked houses are granted the right to retaliate against proven offenses committed against them; This action shall such be labelled as ‘Penitent Crimes of Retaliation.’ 

Under this mandate, should sufficient evidence be presented, the aggrieved house may initiate a retaliatory strike and is sanctioned to engage in warfare against the offending party. While reparations for damages incurred during the conflict are mandated, perpetrators shall be exempt from criminal sentences ensuring a balanced recourse within the framework of inter-house disputes; as deemed by a jury of the Great Houses Major and Minor at court."

- From the Reprisal Accord, Office of the Padishah Emperor. Imperium, 10041. 

There was once a time when green was your favorite color. 

You'd enjoyed a childhood of it – Peridot stones glittering upon headdresses, jade figurines, the velveted forest of winter dresses; halls draped with verdant portraits of the faces which came before you, and before you, and before you – all shroud in that forested pride; an ancient thing, to know the ground of the planet and to take life from the same roots as the trees around you. 

A life cushioned in the nested hearth of mountainside and jade pools of glacier; and of course the breathstealing height of the sacred Pine. Viridescent flicks of the woven banner of your house, waving in the snow-whipped wind; A snarling green wolf upon grey armor, a hall of decadent verdant heirloom stones. 

And in the three months each year when the ice melts off the lower glaciers – the glacial lakes, thawed into that deep emerald green. Your brother, your sisters and you, charging with wild hollers and flailing limbs as tutors and soldiers alike chased after you; scolds and yelps of fear dying on chapped lips as young bodies leapt into the glossy pools, rippling screams through the woods. 

In the yawning abyss of childhood, there’s always been that lingering haunt color; When the men of a faraway House Major arrived to retrieve your older sister, she'd been shroud in that very same sacred pine-satin. An elegant dress, you remember quite clearly – draped in gold and jade, haunting the mouth of the ship in her shining emerald headpiece as she turned to wave goodbye for the last time.

A constant source of home, perhaps; and a reminder of the ever-churning yield of abundance the planet gifted your family. Gifts of life, spurting through the ice, growing over centuries within the warm breast of mountain caverns – miners returning to the villages and towns surrounding the castle, hands stained with verdant dust. Green, that gift of life.  

Even at your sister's funeral. 

A glossy forested casket, laid to rest in the ground of a foreign planet – the wind was sharp against the dark emerald veils of the women of House Bourbon the day you said goodbye to your sister. 

Killed by the birth of her first – a son. You became the oldest of your siblings that day. 

It was an honor, your parents had told you through tears as the earth swallowed the emerald peeks of casket through handfuls of dirt; an honor to serve your family, to serve the Sisterhood, to serve the Imperium. 

Years churn on, as they always do – and somewhere across the Imperium, perhaps a new life has sprouted ,evergreen above the plot where your sister lies in eternal rest. But you can hardly stand to look at green anymore. 

No, instead, you mostly see black.

They'd sent you away to make for your house a fortune; a son, they'd wished, for your sake - and, by whispers of your Lady Mother, a daughter – but the nest you made was one of fear and survival; a place crawling with shadows and monsters and deadly smiles. 

Your na-Baron. 

If Feyd-Rautha ever had a semblance of hesitancy, it was when you first met four years ago. You were at the end of your seventeenth year and he, freshly eighteen – a cordial boy by at least Harkonnen standards; escorting you with an arm held out, eyes malicious and teeth glinting but nonetheless tamed to curved glances and sickeningly sinister grins. 

He'd even called you Lady Bourbon those first few months on Giedi Prime. 

Perhaps in many ways, you can consider yourself lucky. Even if only for your bloodline, or the power laced through the syllables of the name you come from – or even, Maker forbid, in some way for yourself – Feyd-Rautha has indeed taken special care of you. Perhaps he does care for you – the care a panther reserves for his chosen prey. 

Despite his endless vanity, he still has stooped so as to admit he waited too long to claim you as wife; a feat which, in some way, might bring him just a step higher in the chokehold his family holds the Imperium – and you, with tongue as sharp as your mind, know when to push and when to dissolve into those dark shadows he loves so much. 

So you’ve let him stew in fury, avoiding eyes and sneaking from column to column; ears pressed to oaken doors with a trembling hand. 

The accusations had come from Baron Vladimir; House Bourbon has been stealing the precious refinery codes, committing treason against the trading accords along the Harkonnen-dominated exportation route. And perhaps, he thought, you’ve been the one to plot against your beloved future family.

But Feyd-Rautha knows better – knows you'd never dare betray him for the sake of your life or purely through the denial of access. Feyd was, after all, the one to demand a public execution of your family and, in the same breath, redirect your sentencing to imprisonment. As if you weren't already. 

Don't look away. See what we do to scum, my pet? 

Hatred flows thicker than blood; and perhaps if you'd had your blade this morning, you would have finally plunged it right into the junction of creamy skin upon his neck, right there in the stands. 

You were, in some ways, relieved when their bodies hit the sand fast. You've never seen your brother's skin so reflective as you did this morning; and the black sun, oppressive as it is intense, still could not hide the blood that had seeped from him.

A deafening roar of the crowd still did not muffle the glistening cries of the two girls; the ones no older than seventeen and nineteen, the ones who carry your nose, and your hair, and your laugh, and your blood. The crowd could not muffle the sharp loss of breath as the blades slid slow across the seam of their necks to spill that which you share so intrinsically. 

You'd swallowed thickly, twitching to look away, gasp – to cry; but any semblance of pain was concealed under layers of unbudging, seething hatred. There is no space here for anguish; Your na-Baron would love it too much.

Why don't you leave me with them, then? You'd hissed through your teeth.

Though he was wild and psychotic, growling with hunger at the bloodsport in front of him, he heard you for what you'd said. Feyd's fingers pulled your hair hard, forcing your chin up towards his crazed stare. A sickly glint in the black sun, his teeth shone with hunger. 

You'd have me throw you to your Wolves, and lose my prize? He'd tutted, kissing your forehead with a sickening sweetness; enough so that the servants had turned away their spider-black gazes. They didn't care much for the acts of affection you'd occasionally show one another – they know just as well as you that in a world marred by ugliness, any glimpse of beauty becomes a hauntingly grotesque show of power. 

He'd snarled, a growling rumble through the chanting crowd of spectators screaming kill the Wolves; His breath was hot against your cheek. You're mine to keep – there's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

He'd held your hand tight as they slit your father's throat – he was too drugged to put up a fight worthy of retaining his life; after minutes, his blade fell. It was then both of your sisters, swift deaths prolonged only by the wisps of prana-bindu that remained in their muscles’ memories, by the screams that heightened the jeering crowd in bloodthirst. Next came the assassination of your brother; the Tsarevich, the boy whose grasp on his knife shook as he looked up towards your seat helplessly. 

Your mother had fought as much as she could in her drugged state – a Weirding Woman, whose flashing arms and darting legs outsmarted the Harkonnen fighters for far longer than what must have been expected. A Ginaz fighter until the end. 

You saw it all with nails torn into your palms; the Harkonnens are ruthless, and Feyd-Rautha had sat calmly beside you with a sickly grin. 

Your mother met the slow knife’s blade against her throat. It should have finished quickly – but in your horror: The neckline of her gown was too high, and too thickly inlaid with encrusted heirlooms. 

Bless their voided souls.

The emeralds that tore from her gown as she'd spilled her blood to the sand sent a ripple of pain out of your throat; and Feyd had buried his face in your neck, teeth sharp and gaze glued to your own ruby blood beading out of your clenched palms, blackened in the sun's light.

If anybody would have bothered to look before burning the bodies, you know they'd find all the family diamonds sewn into the fabric of their clothing. Centuries of your House, melted away.

And Feyd-Rautha had drank up your agony with his lips, smiling as his hand wrapped around your throat. 

Now, alone and away from the thick industrial air, your chambers are cold and suffocating.

There are screams coming from the hall – not the kind that you've grown to associate with your na-Baron testing his new blades, but the kind that comes with danger. With change. 

As it turns out, you are not Feyd-Rautha's to keep any longer.

A loud noise outside of your quarters jolts you from your bed with shaky legs, whispering to yourself. They're coming for you. The sheets are crisp against your awaiting, tensed body; the blade gifted to you on your nameday three years ago by your husband-to-be grasped in your palm; still tainted with the ghost of your own blood.

Your whispers reverberate in the empty room, a spiny crawl of black moulding curling around your bed and awaiting the coming voices. "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me–”

Your voice shakes, despite yourself. Air puffs from your lips as your blood rushes - few things remain from your early days of training, before you were sent off to become a Harkonnen; This remains a relic.

A loud clash outside – blades against the failing force of shields.  

For a moment, a hand grasps your arm; ghost-white and possessive, it claws at your skin, voice rumbling through your mind. Don't look so sad, my pet. 

The door to your chambers begins to slam with an external force; Soon, the soldiers will enter, and you will do what must be done. 

The hand squeezes upon your wrist harder – you bite back a cry. I will never let them keep what is mine. I will find you again. 

You almost wish he will. 

Slow as a predator, you rise from the sheets; a preparation for a fight that will end before it begins. A fight that has already been won.  

Even when the hand upon your arm is gone into the shadows, succeeded only by a whispering ghost of bruises clutching your skin, you do not stop the old prayer; in fact, you hardly notice that you're saying it at all. 

Even as the doors give in. 

"-and when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing – only I will remain–” 

The soldiers arrive in a burst of splintered doors and smooth movements; the one at the front, flanked by only two others clad in Atreides-tan armor, triggers some faint memory from a lost childhood. 

He moves towards you in the sickeningly familiar stride, and it fills you with rage. 

Duncan. Why did you wait so long? 

It is too late. You lunge, snarling like the wild beast you've become; You fight, because that is the only thing you know how to do. It is the only thing you have left. 

Your blade falls within minutes and you're taken by the man from your past not a minute after; you're on a ship, watching the black Opiuchi B disappear in an hour. 

“My Lady.”

There is a buzzing downfall of drizzling rain that slides over the umbrella’s spine above you. The air here is thicker, laced in salt and terra; the voice snaps your mind back to the ground. Wind whips the veil draped over your head as you step forward stiffly, arms sore and eyes heavy. 

The dress you wear, salvaged from your family's old castle, is dusty and pressed. 

It clings to your skin, drowns you, as the rain falls. A staff of House Atreides holds the umbrella above you, shielding the intricate detailing inlaid along the trim of the dress as you walk. 

The dress upon your shoulders is as tight a cage as the one you inhabited on Geidi Prime; and though it was an effort of good intentions, the Atreides' insistence of providing you with the necessities for you to perform your Sabberon's traditional customary mourning rituals has left you with a prickled spine and a saturation of spite bleeding into your heart. 

Your family may be gone, but the ghosts of their deeds remain with you; a hard goodbye to give when you alone remain to pay for their transgressions. Still, you have found yourself draped with the veil, the dresses, the jewelry; you, alone on a strange planet with the symbols of their crimes, of their betrayals, of their poisoned love. It's what they would have wanted. 

It is a death march from the hangar into the covered acceptance hall – banners of Hawks climb high towards the ragged cliffs, whipping and cerulean in the afternoon light. And ahead, stoic and proud, the members of House Atreides await you.

Your hands brush against the dark velvet – a texture you have not felt in years. It is odd, you notice, to catch the light of your skin not wrapped completely in black fabric; It has been many years, too, since you found yourself in green. 

It is with a prickled glance that you slow your pace behind Duncan Idaho – the man turns and glances at you when you begin to ascend towards the House members, but you can't bear the look of unfamiliarity that flickers over him when he looks at you now. Your chin remains high, your eyes over the line of cliff climbing towards the sky. 

Duncan, after these years, still looks the same – perhaps less tall, but that has more to do with your growth than his own; You, however, are not the same girl he last saw on Sabberon. Your hackles raised, your talons flexed within your palms: A coiling beast of hatred backed into a corner.

There is a coastline far beyond the hangar – and it calls to you quietly; a vast thing, cerulean, cold, and deep. You’d been otherwise occupied when the ship entered atmo to Caladan this afternoon; the sea remains something only within your mind, a figment whispering of golden lips and curling tides in the corners of your dreams. 

An urge strikes you as you begin to ascend the stone stairs towards the welcoming party; and subtly, you crane your neck outwards to catch a glimpse of that sea – a crashing call in the distance, the circle of gulls cutting through the clouded rainfall. But there is no ocean within sight; only jagged cliffs which rocket hundreds of feet above or drop off sharp below. 

Duncan stops just before you; Your spine straightens once more, vision concealed in hues of pine and evergreen as you take in the retinue standing before you. 

Duke Leto Atreides at the center; a man with peppered age, a tall pride and commanding stare – beside him, a woman in a gown of the same deep cerulean – Lady Jessica.

A flood of knowing penetrates you the moment your eyes find hers; through the veil she stares at you, before flicking her sight beyond you, to the Reverend Mother who’d travelled with your retinue as per High Court orders. A voice curls in the back of your mind, stalling your heartbeat for a slow moment.  Hello, sister.

Your lips purse as you look to the right, stood tall next to Lady Jessica; a boy intense in stare and proud in ceremonial uniform, eyes already awaiting your gaze with a sharp curiosity. Paul Atreides.

The son to whom you're now destined.

Even from your obstructed vision, there is no hiding such sharply beautiful features – a sculpted visage kissed with a smattering of freckles from the Caladan sun, pale from the weather; a curve of pouted lips, full, furrowed brows – curled dark locks and eyes wide and just as penetrating as his mother's. A properly handsome heir, you allow your heart's skip; But Maker, you realize as he solemnly watches your veil shift in the breeze, those eyes are so green. 

And most peculiar – within them, there is no hunger; nor hatred, no inkling of emotion besides a giveaway twitch of curiosity in the dragging gaze over your shrouded form. Some ancient stirring in your chest, a hibernated anger, a desire to bare teeth towards such an unassuming and altruistic stare – though you do no such thing, remaining balanced upon your feet and tense with the coiled hibernation of an awaiting serpent. 

There are eyes upon you with each movement of breath from your chest, and it stirs your fear in a way you’ve not felt in a long time.

It was easy to go unseen with the Harkonnens; by nature of arrogance and brashness, they paid no mind to the girl hiding around the shadows, slinking through the halls with a dark stare but blood that still bleeds green. The Atreides are no fools, and you are not one to think so; where Harkonnen honor lacks, Atreides honor flows in abundance. Though still, any such action that might come from a place of intrinsic value sets your teeth to edge. 

The Great Houses of the Landsraad have charged you to leave your nest of shadows, and you have done so. You have been shipped to a new world, a new chain to which you will forever be shackled.

You have learned to find the betrayal of emotion that lingers within the stare of men like Feyd-Rautha and Vladimir Harkonnen – the hunger, the greed, the danger; you have learned to sharpen your edges with the blade of their power, and you know now what your place in this galaxy must be. 

And yet, Paul Atreides: His stare betrays no emotion but duty; a foreign thing to you in these times, though as you scrutinize the twitch of his brow or the brush of eyelashes against cheek, you find yourself struck wary and off-balance. 

He does not have that wolfish hunger in his stare that you’ve come to know – in truth, if not for the boyish pout of his pink lips and his freshly-shaven jaw, you might have dared mistake him for his father; A Duke. 

You might have remained in your study of your betrothed if not for the echoing voice of Duke Leto speaking your name. A snap of your gaze towards the man in front of you as he nods warmly, “Welcome.”

It is an effort to bow in return to him, wincing through your stiffened muscles as your headpiece chimes with your movements. 

“We are honored to welcome you to Caladan.” It is an exceedingly polite, humane tone with which he addresses you; you, a stranger who has been delivered from the protection (which itself might even be a laughable term) of their sworn enemy. 

Though despite the sincerity, you find yourself struck with a stinging embarrassment: There is no honor to your presence, not anymore. 

It gives you a moment to gather your expression, however hidden behind the veil it may be – perhaps they can't quite make out your face, but Lady Jessica watches closely. She sees.

You take a sharp breath, swallowing away the lump of emotion in your throat. 

“Thank you, Duke Leto.” It is steel which grinds the melodically polite veneer of your voice; and without a hesitation you turn to greet the Lady of the House.

“Lady Jessica, it is a pleasure.” 

In response you are offered a smile as warm as the Duke’s voice; there is a flicker of understanding which floats along the line of blue in her irises, and it compels you to continue, “Thank you for welcoming me to your home,” You finish, hoping the steely reflection within your voice does not bleed unto the other ears. 

The rain falls quietly overhead, sliding over the high-drawn ceiling of the open acceptance hall. “We understand that these are trying times,” Lady Jessica begins; your legs feel weakened in a moment of shortened breath, though she finishes in a quiet nod. “We are relieved to have you on Caladan.” 

The spin of worldchange has caught up with you at the reminder of such trying times – a day and a half’s travel between systems behind you, and yet the deaths of your family meet you still with a fresh sickness of shock each time you close your eyes. Your headdress chimes lightly when you bow your head once more in appreciation of her words. 

The welcome feels rather intimate, in this moment – a retinue of four strong flanks behind you: Duncan Idaho, the Reverend Mother, and two Atreides soldiers; and before you stands the Duke and Lady, their Heir, and a party of five men in Atreides uniforms. Your eyes sweep them efficiently – no weapons; a surprising show of trust, knowing who indeed you have just been delivered from the clutches of. 

Perhaps they'd thought they'd be taking in some injured little dove; a cooing thing, wings clipped and battered by the ferocious boy who'd gifted her with a knife plunged between her ribs on her eighteenth nameday. A bitter thought. 

The scar that lies just below your breast on your right side is not a reminder, but instead fate carved into flesh – it does not ache; it hums with the echoes of pain grown to purpose.

It echoes of the months spent thrown into a pit under the glaring black sun; Not the arena that rang in the end of your family, no – this pit is smaller, with one large seat for the na-Baron himself; one not with a crowd of vicious jeering but with drugged concubines and slaves clutching blades to service his na-Baroness. 

A place to watch his pets play. 

Your eyes glance to the curved wounds scabbed over your hands – little half moons, skies of pain, etched into the palms of your hands. Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common. 

Unfortunately, you endured; a hard lesson, to live with Harkonnens, to be one of them – and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn. 

It has been long enough for a bout of thunder to rumble up in the heavens above; you turn to the young man who stands next to Lady Jessica.

Your betrothed watches you in a peculiar tilt of head – subtle, but analytical; a gaze so green you have to look away, nodding slightly as you speak once more. “My Lord,” your heart thuds in your chest uncomfortably, wondering if he, too, will be as displeased as Feyd so often was when you spoke to him; though Paul does not so much as move as he inhales softly, eyes coasting over your jaded silhouette.  

“My Lady.” He returns the formality with a voice much softer than expected; your heart is struck with a cool unease, distrust tightening its clutches around your throat.

A silent moment hangs thick between you; it is only then that you see the tense coil of Paul’s shoulders – surely a mirror of your own. Defiance, your mind tells you. Though Duncan Idaho’s voice cuts through your observations quickly. “We have much to discuss.” 

Cutting to the chase, as always; you are relieved for the attention to fall off your presence as you let out a short exhale. “Yes–” though the Duke lifts a brow, eyes caught on the lump of gauze which wraps around Duncan’s bicep, concealed by his uniform. “–Idaho, Do you need to see treatment?” He questions the Swordsman. 

As Duncan laughs, your shoulders tense; and before you can consider some quieter death, he begins to speak. “No. Harkonnen blades are sharp – but so are Lady Bourbon's nails.”

It is immediate, the prickling of eyes which befall you from all sides, and a heated stare from your betrothed that you steadfastly ignore for the sake of glaring at Duncan. There is a smirk growing on his lips as the Swordsman addresses you. “You fight differently than I remember, Little Bourbon.” 

An old nickname, unearthed from the catacombs of the life you once lived in the wintered palace of Sabberon; a nickname so cherished in your youth and so foreign now that it knocks the air from your chest. Resentment curls within you at the warmth upon his tongue. 

The shame floods you just as fast as the pride does, and in the aftermath, you stand just as rigid as before, hands clenched into the velvet of your skirt, seething under your veil. 

There is no hiding the shock upon the Atreides' countenances; before them stands some monster, some savagery wrapped up in a gown and a pretty smile hidden beneath a veil. 

It had been a habit – rabid hounds don't tuck tail when cornered, do they?

Nonetheless, you smile tight behind the veil, trying not to think of the life you've just left – of what cold life lies ahead. 

When you respond, your voice is frigid. “It has been a long time, Duncan.” You muse; Paul’s piercing gaze of green penetrates the veil, but you ignore him. 

“Threats demand evolution.” 

The rain is gone into mist by the next day.

It rolls in fog along the moors outside, taunting an echo of tides far below the castle – in the morning room, forks scrape over blue-plated China. A grandfather clock lives in the corner; the seconds pass in quiet, insistent ticks. 

A cleared throat, a swallow of water – air blown across a plane of steeped tea. 

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

To your relief, your arrival last evening held no such time for small talk – you were whisked away by the service staff to make sure your quarters were comfortable; in the minutes you’d been given to yourself, you’d found the clothing of a former life – dresses, tops and trousers of yourself, your sisters and your mother; the dressings salvaged from the Castle on Sabberon in the week leading up to the trial at Harko Arena. 

All washed thrice of soot and rubble, hanging in wait of your touch within the wardrobes in the room. A sickening feeling had haunted you the moment you’d slipped your mother’s old ceremonial ferronnière and hair chain; the reflection of your stare in the mirror resembling too close the sharp gaze of her own. And that feeling had lingered in the shadows of your room still as you shut away the diadem of gold and emerald, the gowns, the old trousers your sister would wear to ritual; your eyes, burning along the skyline in the distance as you locked the wardrobe with trembling fingers. 

Late in the evening, you'd attended a meeting in a small conference hall. 

There, sat across from Paul, Masters of War and Swords and Strategy, a Mentat, and Lady Jessica, the Duke had asked you questions, ensuring you were not harmed – and perhaps more importantly, trying to ensure there was no malicious intent to your presence. It was in your sleepy haze you first detected the twitching motions of Lady Jessica's hands, the flicking gazes of the others as your voice carried to them. A war language, you’d realized quite quick. They think I am lying. 

You'd only been there for ten minutes before you were escorted by a handmaid back to your chambers, where you sat without rest through the night. 

Truthfully, you're breaking fast this morning with Lady Jessica and Lord Paul out of courtesy; You were up far before the sun had teased the horizon this morning, staring emotionless at the ghost who stood in the corner of your new chambers. 

He is not a new visitor; in the hazy world between waking and dreaming, you’re well used to the ghost – how he smirks by the foot of your mattress, whispering with sharp teeth, with sweet memories, with promises of blood and pain. You’d grown used to his presence, and you’d remained upright for most of the night – until something moved in the corner of your vision, and you screamed. 

That had woken one of the servants.

She came in with her head tilted down, holding a pitcher of water; you asked her to stay.

Her name is Hestia; close enough in age if not younger, as she must be merely twenty – the silence was hesitant but not wholly unpleasant as she’d sat, wary but willing as you shared the pot of tea brought for you. 

It wasn't until she'd brought you breakfast a few minutes later that you realized the staff must have been informed of your ancestral customs before your arrival – she said nothing as you ate silently, staring out towards the coast of rocky cliffs and rolling moors you could just barely make out from your chamber windows. She’d helped silently to smooth your hair under your veil as you’d drawn it in preparation to leave the room; and with a beat of hesitance, you’d almost admitted to her you did not wish to wear it. 

Now, you sit quite similarly; hands perched in your lap, tea in front of you untouched as the food on your plate. 

Your future husband sits across the table from you – with a motion sluggish and ruminating, he pushes the omelet around on his fork. You find the boyishly restless knee from Paul, one which  shakes the table just slightly, jilting your glass full of water. 

A polite and quiet conversation follows; some throw off observation of the weather this coming week, how you seem to have brought the sunshine – a comment that makes both you and your betrothed share a sharp glance; heat following the sudden shared connection. 

Efforts to bring you into such discussions are met with your polite, quiet words – and after a short time, a woman enters and whispers something to the Lady at the end of the table. Nodding, Lady Jessica takes her leave with a pointed look at Paul, suggesting he might escort you around the castle to settle you in.

Some cold dread licks its way up your spine, though you force yourself to nod – to adapt. “–If you have time, my Lord, I'd appreciate it.” 

He seems equally pricked by his mother’s suggestion, though he hides it quite well – a quiet, chivalrous demeanor suits his striking features, and you find your distrust mounting in some self-preserving effort. 

Lady Jessica’s leave brings a gust of air through the morning room, and soon you’re met with the scent of forest; a warm soap, sharp with the efforts of Caladan’s bright ocean salt and wooded hills to the west that lingers upon his skin. Your face flushes in the heat of the sudden morning rays, exposed by a gap in the clouds. 

It's silent for a few moments as only the two of you remain; Your food untouched, his half-eaten. 

The wall behind Paul boasts an intricate geometric wall of wood and empty-space; a fascinating architectural choice which complements the beauty of Caladan’s moors – you find yourself intent on tracing each line laid before you, ignoring the glossy glint of Paul’s hair in foresight. In the silence of youthful discomfort, the quiet feels inescapable – until it isn’t. 

“Are you one of them?”

His eyes trace you when you return to his visage. Them?

In a slow realization, it occurs to you that Paul might assume you are just as bald and sickly as each Harkonnen; that perhaps their soil, so poisoned, might have penetrated the evergreen veins that carry your life to each part of you – might have wilted the very things that make you so uniquely yourself. 

You shake your head, thankful for the lack of chains upon the crown of your head today; you are not a Harkonnen, and you never will be. 

Perhaps that would have been the preferred choice of words, but instead from your lips fall a curt sentence: “I have hair.” 

In the morning light, you glance at the skin of your arm; The skin that boasts arm hair, none of the sickly pale skin that knew of no clean air nor healthy sunlight – your skin, glowing with real melanin and health.

It is a brash choice to speak with such frivolity; You'd not dare speak so freely on Geidi Prime – stars, you'd never have spoken this freely at home on Sabberon, either – but there is no home anymore. 

And if you've learned one thing in your years since coming of age, it's that the Great and Noble Houses of the Landsraad are crawling with perjurers, fabricators; Paul is likely the same. 

If the Atreides boy must be wed to you, you cannot help that; They can dress you, insist on your traditional customs – but you will not go down easy. No matter how cold the home, you can be colder – you are more than the bones which hold you up; crueller than the demons that kept you in their ghostly grip for four years. 

Though at your words, Paul’s cheeks flush a peculiar pink – and his lip twitches in a momentary lapse of stoicism. A lost battle, it seems, as you are rewarded with a small, boyish grin flickering over his visage. “No,” he starts again, eyes penetrating your own somehow, even beneath the layers of green that wrap around you. His breath comes in a short exhale, “Not Harkonnen,” His elaboration grows quiet as he continues, “I meant…Bene Gesserit.”  

Your stomach chills. 

His eyes seem to know the words which whisper around your mind, and a faint sense of memory gnaws at the cage within your head. After only half a moment’s hesitation, you shake your head. “No, my Lord.”

It must be what he expected – he does not so much as blink; though a flicker of knowledge passes over his face and he closes off, eyes flashing. 

You are – despite your resolve – coaxed by his expression to continue, “I suppose I was…” Your hand tugs the sleeve of your gown. 

“–Or, I was supposed to be.” 

Your tone, unemotional; Paul bites back the suspicion that climbs up his throat. He’s no fool; he saw the glances between his mother and you, however short – in those breaths, the buzzing of his mother’s whispers behind shut doors, her eyes quaking and steadfast in the same. 

And, of course, the lapping memories of dreams upon a beach of consciousness; a face beneath a shroud, a whisper from golden lips, a pathway dimly lit and forked into the foggy horizon. 

He stands when you rise from your seat.

The dress you wear is unlike any he’s seen outside of your culture’s books; a waterfall of emerald that pools and flows – some frozen-limbed weeping willow, kissing the face of a thawing lake. He offers an arm to you, and you loop yourself to him with only a breath of hesitation. 

Your voice comes again from those lips so hidden behind the veil of pine. “I was supposed to be a lot of things.” 

Your voice is undeniably beautiful; strong, cold, unwilling. Polite, yes – but calculating, aggressive. Coiled in a nest, watching, waiting to strike. 

She tells the truth. 

His mother had signaled during the council the night before a dissection of your honesty; Yet trust is a fragile thing, and as much as he places faith in Duncan and his father, the thought lingers of distrust. 

He saw the claw marks you'd left upon Duncan; a man you've known since you were a young girl. By decree, Paul is now bound to you in marriage; but he has spent endless hours unraveling the Harkonnens — their cunning, their strategy, their thirst for power – and yet, according to Duncan, the Baron and his brutish nephew simply let you go, unscathed and unpursued. 

It gnaws at him, such inexplicable mercy from a house that knows no such thing.

Paul’s wariness does not bleed through his posture, as indeed it does not with you: You walk with your chest out, back as straight as a soldier’s; your words are cordial, indifferent. 

Halls pass as he murmurs a light overview of the castle’s history, introducing you to Houseworkers as you stop to greet them; he is rather surprised by your indifferent charm that seems to enrapture the workers and scare them all the same; he wonders, then, what this life will be like, when you become the Duchess and he Duke. 

A revolt in his heart; one childish and quelled by duty and understanding – and by his father’s words, burnt sharp into his mind. 

Duty often requires us to navigate paths we may not have chosen for ourselves, Paul. You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future wife. 

Love may come to you in other ways. But you will marry her, you will respect her, and when the time comes, together you will sire an heir.

Outside the walls, it is quiet – the wind is calmed, the tide drawn by the looming moon in the morning sky; you and Paul share no more than one unintentional glance broken up by wind-warmed cheeks and a softly cleared throat. 

It is not until he escorts you along a path that winds down out of your sights that he notices your change in demeanor. Beside him, you take a deep breath, footsteps faltering as you slow – a blink of concern until he follows the direction of your veil towards a clump of moss sprawled across the earth. Curiously, Paul slows to a stop beside you.

For a moment, you stare down at the dirt and fallen tree limbs, the grassy field and rocks; though as if an invisible string pulls you upwards, you snap your head, voice sheepish behind your veil. “Apologies, my Lord.” You start to turn, “I've read of plants like this, but never seen them before in person.” 

It is an odd moment in which Paul comes to understand: He knows what Giedi Prime is like, and your homeworld, from what he's read in the books on Sabberon, is mostly Glaciers, forests, and high altitudes. 

The notion of you finding interest in Caladan’s flora and fauna is as bizarre as it is endearing – and so instead of moving along, Paul bends to grasp a bit of moss from a fallen trunk. 

Your veiled visage tracks him as he returns to his full height; The earthy dirt spreads between his nimble fingers, green and soft against his skin. You watch him silently, curiously.

“It absorbs up to twenty times its dry weight in water,” He explains in an echo of an old ecological lesson, pushing the spongy material with the nail of his thumb. “Banks of it grow just around the brackish tidepools below the castle.”

Your interest, piqued, causes your head to crane slightly from your small height – he can tell, even without seeing any part of your face, that you are fascinated; it brings him a moment of pride. 

At his gesture towards the coastline just peeking below, you follow in a slow move of interest, breath coming soft from hidden lips. He watches the side of your silhouette flutter in the breeze. “Am I allowed to see?” You ask stiffly, arms hanging at your sides.

An odd request – one which penetrates any semblance of protectiveness for his homeworld and instead strikes alarm in his chest. What such monsters do you come from that you must ask such foolish questions? 

He lets the moss fall back to the stump, brows furrowing. “You are to be Lady Atreides one day.” His voice does not reveal any hint of his resistance to this fact, and for this, he is grateful. “You do not have to ask permission to see your own land.” He finishes, cheeks warm with the insistence of the seabreeze and the alarm which still thuds through his heart. 

You have grown quiet – in the rushing blow of wind, you are still as an evergreen. 

The wind from the sea whips in misty breaths even this high; inky tresses swirl around his vision and are swept away by his own hand – there are no words from you for several very long breaths, in which you clear your throat. 

“I…do not feel well.” Your voice is sudden, thick with some hint of insistence – though your spine does not bend, it does not yield; a small breath as your head cranes up. Paul sees a glint of eyes through the ripple of green. “Please, if you would excuse me.”

It is not below Paul to entertain your fib – for your sake, sure; but rather for the growing weight of bitterness that festers in his chest each time he thinks of what is to come. Paul escorts you to your chambers in a tense silence that echoes only the footfalls and the swishing of velveted fabric. 

You slip into your chambers with a polite and half-whispered thanks to his looming frame. Paul watches the fabric of your dress curl around the corner as the door shuts. 

Upon his return to his own quarters, Paul catches Hestia; a girl known long before she began working for the House. He requests she bring you some bread and cheese, and send Dr. Yueh to check on you once more.

An insistent tapping grates in his mind as he stalks the corridor towards his rooms; a clock from halls away, ticking away the seconds – hands clench, flex; an itching shiver down his spine as he turns corner towards his chambers. A flicker of green around the corner just across the hall sends his stomach to tense, stilling in a moment of suspicion; hackles raised, Paul blinks away paranoia as a Houseworker trims a houseplant. A hand swipes over his visage, massaging his eyes. 

Threats demand evolution. 

The memory of your voice pierces his thoughts – and without a second thought, he turns heel and makes towards the training room, fingers itching for a blade. 

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[ask-the-prose]

Conducting a War

So, your story takes place during a war. Maybe your characters are experiencing war or maybe they're waging war against other characters or groups. Likely, you are not a general or expert in warfare. How do you write a story that is set during a war?

Who's fighting who?

The first, most obvious, step is to know who is fighting whom and why. Wars are between groups of people. They can be a small clan, a massive nation, or even an entire planet or galaxy. Two characters fighting it out are not considered "at war" because they are representing themselves and settling an individual dispute, even if it is a high-stakes dispute.

Why are the parties in your story fighting? There are a lot of different reasons why two groups of people would go to war against each other, but most wars are over resources at their center. Disputes over land and borders, over who gets what crops and for what price, and even religious wars are usually about the resources available and scarcity. So when you're talking about war, you need to know what either side wants. Just like a character, your war parties need to have desires and stakes.

"Resources" can mean just about anything that society needs. Food, fresh water, opportunities for trade, minerals, metals, building materials, and wealth are all examples of resources your war parties can fight over.

What does it take to wage war?

Wars require resources too. It's not just about getting resources but spending resources as well. When nations go to war in the real world, there are opportunities for people to make exorbitant amounts of money and wealth by taking advantage of a wartime economy.

The parties waging war need people to fight their battles. They need to pay those people, arm them, feed and clothe them, and transport them to where they need to be. Where does the government or person in charge get the food, armor, weapons, and transportation? Where do they allocate those scarce resources? Oftentimes in war, those in charge must make sacrifices. Is there a portion of land that the person in charge gives up to protect another portion with their limited resources?

There are unlimited stories hidden in these questions, and a large base of world-building will help to answer these questions in depth. There are many opportunities for tension and rising stakes for your war parties in the event that the opposing side makes acquiring war resources difficult or impossible.

Types of Armies

Your armies tell you a lot about the resources available to your characters and how you can build your story and plot line around the war. So I'll discuss the differences between four types of armies that exist in the real world and throughout history. These are examples; you can change or twist these examples however best suits your story.

The first is a professional army. These guys are paid and trained by the state; being in the army is their entire job. The army can fill a number of different roles other than fighting, but their purpose is to provide martial protection to the people of their nation and carry out martial orders from the government or sovereign entity in charge. Important aspects of a professional army to consider: these soldiers are paid for their work, they are trained by professionals, and oftentimes they follow a hierarchy or chain of command. Most governments provide medical care to their professional armies, but this isn't required. The soldiers can be conscripted or voluntary.

Next up is a mercenary army. This army is also paid for their services, but they are not trained by the state, and they ultimately take their orders from the organization, not the government. The government commissions the mercenary army for their services. The government does not provide most of the resources required to maintain an army. They pay for the army but don't necessarily feed, arm, or clothe them.

A fyrd is a historical term that refers specifically to the Anglo-Saxon armies raised by different Lords and Thegns to protect their lands and shires. These armies consisted of civilians and able-bodied free men from the local settlements and farms gathered by the ealdorman. They were conscripted into the service, and they lacked formal martial training. Also, importantly, their provisions and weapons were provided by the soldiers themselves. Meaning you will see fewer long swords and forged weapons for the purposes of fighting and more axes and improvised weaponry. The purposes of the improvised weaponry are primarily as other tools, such as axes for chopping wood and knives for butchery. Any horses or mules brought along for work or fighting are the property of the lords or farm owners who provided them.

A militia is very similar to a fyrd; this army consists of civilians who are paid or conscripted into service by the government but are not professional soldiers. These militias may sometimes have training from professional soldiers among their ranks, but mostly they are civilians training themselves. The soldiers provide their provisions, weaponry, and armor, meaning that the wealth has to come from the soldiers and their professional jobs and not from their martial services. The militia is a more modern term, but it is marginally different in that most militias we think of today are voluntary and not conscripted.

Battle Strategy

This is where a little research may help you. Battles behave differently depending on different factors. What technology and weaponry is available to your war parties? Are we talking about bladed weapons or guns or lasers? Is your army a professional or mercenary army, or is it more like a fyrd or militia?

When setting up a battle in your story, focus on the differences between the two armies and how that may affect their strategy toward fighting or engaging the enemy. If your fyrd faces a professional army, they may encounter some problems regarding weaponry and armor. Your fyrd will struggle to match a professional army in defending against well-made weapons and professional training. How do they work to compensate for those weaknesses?

When looking at two equally armed and trained armies, a general or battle strategist will look to the terrain to plan a battle. Generally, controlling the high ground helps in battles. If one army has a heavy cavalry presence, your opposing army may want anti-cavalry measures in place. Do they have the space to do so? Urban areas will lend themselves well to guerilla-style and urban warfare tactics. Jungles and forests will look different to hills and plains, and deserts bring unique problems to a battle that a mountainous terrain might not.

What is the battle for? Battles have a purpose; otherwise, there would be no value to the loss of troops. What is worth the risk of losing lives? Does the battle have stakes? Some stakes that might be worth conducting a battle over include taking control of a river pass, allowing naval trade and travel, cutting off control of a trade route to the enemy, or invading an important town or city to process and refine necessary materials.

Ending the War

The war will eventually end if your characters are lucky. But what ends a war? Wars usually end with agreements between the two opposing parties following surrender or extension of peaceful negotiations. Negotiating what each party needs or wants is an art in and of itself. Each party must come to the agreement that waging war further is more expensive and less rewarding than ending violent opposition with concessions made by either side.

Conclusion

Wars and battles are like characters; they have needs, desires, and stakes. Writing your characters in a war or battle will hinge on the needs and stakes of the greater war and story. Important questions to ask are: what are we fighting for? Who are we fighting? And what happens if we don't fight?

–Indy

[cybertron-after-dark]

No restraints anymore.:

*Gripping your shoulders normally for any possible Boulder x Graham headcanons you have, please please please-

(Can be SFW or NSFW, just really starved for content.)

I think about these dweebs more than anyone should, I think they should have kissed on screen.

We'll keep it sfw for right now, nsfw might happen later

-Pun FIENDS. They'll set each other up for the most GROAN-inducing punchlines, and they've gotten so good at communicating it subtly, nobody else on the team knows when the worst pun they've heard all week is coming until it's already struck. It's gotten to the point where one will OBVIOUSLY set the other up and the other "ignores" it, keeping everyone on their toes until way later when the punchline hits like a brick. It's psychological warfare at this point.

-Boulder can't really eat most human food, and that makes him very sad, because there's so much variety and humans always seem like they really enjoy it. He tries to live vicariously through Graham in that regard by having him describe whatever food's caught his attention. He thanks Graham for his trouble by doing the same thing with various metals, minerals and energon blends that would probably kill Graham if he tried them.

-Cuddles are frequent Graham can be a little shy about physical affection, but he really does love when Boulder holds him. Boulder worries that his armor and treads are uncomfortable to a soft organic, so he'll usually have Graham in his arms, snuggled up in a thick, fuzzy blanket. He keeps one in his cab for that exact reason.

-Boulder likes playing with Graham's hair a lot. It's cute, and he's fascinated by the fuzzy texture. He finds himself idly petting Graham when he's nearby pretty often. It's just kind of relaxing. Graham isnt totally sure of how to feel about his giant robot boyfriend petting him like a small animal, but he's pretty sure he likes it?

-Boulder can be a little insecure about how he looks. Conventional Cybertronian attractiveness leans more towards sleek, trim, speedy, complex optics and biolights, luxury altmodes and minimal kibble. Boulder has approximately... None of that. It's not really a standard he holds anyone else to, just something he's internalized that's a little hard to unlearn. Sometimes it seems like he sees beauty in everything and everyone, except himself. Graham, lacking in the same internalized cultural biases, can't see much of anything EXCEPT beauty in Boulder. He's big, strong, capable, soft-spoken and intelligent, he's a mechanical marvel and the way he can rearrange himself into something else entirely is stunning. He is something wonderful and powerful, and he could never see such a spectacle of a person as an eyesore. Once he picks up on Boulder's hangups, he makes it his mission to help him see that.

-Graham knows he spends a lot of time in his own head, so when he's thinking about Boulder and thinks up something he wants to ask him, or something sweet he wants to say to him, he'll write it on a sticky note so he wont assume he already said it and forget.

-They were both pretty worried about the reaction from the team when they first got together. Graham hadn't realized he liked guys until he fell for Boulder, and neither of them knew how a cross-species relationship would be seen, by the Burns family OR the other Bots. They thought it'd be best to hide the relationship until they were confident enough to announce it. Or, at least, they TRIED to hide it. Neither is particularly subtle or a good liar, so the whole affair was pretty much an open secret. (And then became FULLY open info when everyone sort of acting like they didn't know drove Blades crazy and he finally asked what the deal was. Mortifying, but it did take a lot of pressure off for Graham and Boulder when they got to find out everyone was cool with it.)

[scribe-of-hael]

The Path to Hell is paved with good intentions

I think what is interesting is the drive that is the Autobots and Decpeticons. Mostly the cause of the Decpeticons and Megatron himself.

Alot of the time we see Megatron to be a crazy, battle hungry, warlord whos hel bent of causing destruction, conquering all in his path and who cares only about his goal to rule.

Over the years we have seen many version of Megatron. From silly goofy villain who's somtiems could acutally be a threat like in g1, to pash, cold, cunning like TFA, to being a crazy war lord who is incredibly cruel in TFP.

But these versions are mostly a Megatron who came from fighting, or had no good intentions to begin with besides being selfish or power hungry.

Then you have TFE and IDW/IDW2 (and possibly tf one). A different apprich to a character. Some may say its to make someone who has done cruel things as more sympathetic. But I think adds depth and personality.

Giving more than a crazy leader with silly goons, to a person who genuinely thought at the beginning, "I want things to change, for the better ,because it is broken"

Much howOptimus, the humble data clerk (hate he is a cop in idw tbh) and the hard working miner. Your everyday ppl, going through diffenrt struggles and honestly. I think woukd be fair to say that Orion wouldn't know the struggles of lower level bots that don't even have proper names..

Like D-16. The mech whis become Megatron.

Both Optimus and Megatron i think wnates to see a change , but how they both went about it i what added the conflict.

These two are basically your average everyday people. Megatron was an average everyday person. He wasn't born into the pits, net a warrior. A worker.

I think with alot of cartoon "villains" to we get older and started to see from a adult perspective. "Oh wait they are making sense." And how MESSED up the situation even was to drive these characters to this point.

Its no longer good vs evil, it is two ideals fighting aginst each other. What was once a fight for what these two sides believes in, turned into warfare and blood shed. To the mentality of Megatron being

"I can't trust anyone to right thing, besides me. I am the only one who can fix this, I can lead us."

You know what I could also see Optimus having the SAME mentality when comes to fighting megatron and restoring Cybertron. They are very much two sides of the same coin. I think that's what adds to the conflict between them. Optimus could be one bad day away from becoming Megatron onnthe sense of wanting to control the situation despite what costs just to not se Megatron when.

And you know he HAS done this. Yeeting the allspark for one to not let Megatron have ir but at the cost of Cybteron and its occupance. It was a loose loose situation regardless.

When it comes to alt-modist mentality, this high class vs low class, and the corruption of Cybertron. It is no wonder why so many people believes in the Decpeticon causes.

The reason why I clung so hard to Transformers Earthspark Megatron is because this was a break out from his character. To later learn it definitely took inspo from IDW who explored this character further sealed my admiration for him.

No one in the tf universe is less or more guilty. Both sides have done HORRIBLE things. Experimentation, brutality, killing innocence and their own soldiers just to get the won up. The autobots are not without their own blood shed. Only SOME of the autobots have a bit more regard for life and the planet they sit on. It doenst mean all of them do, and it doenst mean people within the groups around Optimus like it. But because they are painted as good guys we exapect them to.

Its when Decpeticons seem to take an interest in life do I find it way more compelling because it is out of their characteristics. They are the "bad guys"

Knockout being interested in Human cinema

Thundercracker being into writing and making movies

They are still PEOPLE. With interests and hobbies, internal conflicts and hesitations.

To see a Megatron not only fight aginst his own army , but take a human, a HUMAN as a friend that he TRUSTS?! That he gave up his Cybertronian already mode UP FOR?! Thats a bug FUCKING deal.

Just the contrast to TFW Megs to say TFP. Tfp depsite it beingbbetter for camouflage NEVER changes his alt mode. He is never willing to acutally change, he is so deeply rooted in what he is, who he is. What he is doing. That he is unwilling to change to the surroundings. No the surrounding will change BECAUSE of him.

While TFE realized a change was needed to fix things, to work together, to show I AM CHANGING, I WANT TO DO THE RIGHT THING.

This is not a Slander Optimus rant or a WOW Megatron is such a great guy essay.

Was mostly me rambling.

[mindblowingscience]

At 5:29 am on the morning of 16 July 1945, in the state of New Mexico, a dreadful slice of history was made. The dawn calm was torn asunder as the United States Army detonated a plutonium implosion device known as the Gadget – the world's very first test of a nuclear bomb, known as the Trinity test. This moment would change warfare forever. The energy release, equivalent to 21 kilotons of TNT, vaporized the 30-meter test tower (98 ft) and miles of copper wires connecting it to recording equipment. The resulting fireball fused the tower and copper with the asphalt and desert sand below into green glass – a new mineral called trinitite. Decades later, scientists discovered a secret hidden in a piece of that trinitite – a rare form of matter known as a quasicrystal, once thought to be impossible. "Quasicrystals are formed in extreme environments that rarely exist on Earth," geophysicist Terry Wallace of Los Alamos National Laboratory explained in 2021.

Continue Reading.

[idlepollingofcybertron]

POLLING FAN CONTINUITY

In the latest Transformers continuity for former fans of IDW, it focuses on Cybertron. The war has ended in a divided Cybertron with ruled in one hemisphere by Autobots and the other by Decepticons with open warfare over but tensions still high. Elita-1 and Starscream have taken over leading their factions due to the mysterious disappearance of Optimus Prime and Megatron. The only clue are hidden messages between the leaders ending in an arrangement to meet in secret right before they vanished.

Megatron, a miner turned gladiator turned poet turned founder of the Decepticon Movement, and Optimus Prime, a worker at an Energon Refinery ascended to Primehood who declared them Autobots, are not just leaders but founders and central figures in their respective factions' cores. They have to be found.

Humanity is met during the search for the leaders including: Dr. Isaac Sumdac and his daughter Sari; June, Jack, Raf, Miko, and Fowler; Marissa Faireborn and her newborn daughter Sue; and Astoria Carlton-Ritz who is funding the operation. They have ended up on Cybertron due to a spacebridge accident when Isaac's experiment connected with the spacebrige on Cybertron, but importantly they've been getting several different patterns and signals that they translate slowly to realize are messages from Cybertron and contain secrets.

Cybertron has one general shared belief in that Primus, their creator, is both their god and planet. The Primes are therefore divinely chosen to lead their people as his representative according to tradition and the most popular belief system. The exact nature of worship and origin of the species is murky in history and many different cults, beliefs, and churches exist in the across Cybertron tracing their origins back to stories of ancient heroes and potential demigods.

Reproduction for Cybertronian is done through a mix of different methods throughout history. The most common methods are "parents," two or more Cybertronians making a new bot; Hot Spots; and Vector Sigma directly. Cybertronians grow through stages much like bugs during which they have to go through upgrades and shed bits of old armor. A majority of Cybertronians are raised in shared creches as groups, but mentors/parents are also common, especially in cases where new bots are requested directly from Vector Sigma or are made by their parents/mentors. The exact language used for describing guardians of young Cybertronians and nature of upbringing as well as more common methods vary across Cybertron and class.

The war that shook their planet was started for many reasons, but the rigid caste system enforced by both the government and the Primacy, which were ostensibly separate, created a boiling point that finally erupted over the Destruction of Nyon. The deaths of hundreds of thousands who were neglected and left unassisted enraged many to the point of violence breaking out.

Official Pairings: Optimus Prime x Elita-1, June x Isaac

Current Poll: Build Autobot High Command , Bonus Poll: Combaticons Status

Trigger for Civil War

Elita-1 & Starscream: Workshop & Results

Other Major Characters:

Hot Rod

Drift

Thunderclash

Humanity Workshop

Potential Polls

*Updates as polls finish.

[contentment-of-cats]

More Chiss head canons

Why, yes. I am geeking out.

1: The Chiss came from a 'sleeper ship' that missed its target world around 30,000 years ago after being launched from the Ratukan Empire. The ship spent 3,000 or 4,000 years in transit. The Humans who reached Csilla found not a welcoming world, but a planet that experienced periodic ice ages.

2: The Chiss skin color evolved from minerals in the hydrosphere, and were later found to be a silica-based life form that acted as a symbiont, allowing rapid evolutionary changes. The life form is now extinct, but slotted itself into the genes of the settlers and has remained in Chiss DNA and is outwardly reflected in their iridescent 'freckles' - which are a silicate similar to mica. The freckles will shed from time to time over the course of a Chiss' life. It was debated at the time that this was a sapient life form that was dying out, and 'invaded' the settlers to survive. Others argued that it was a type megavirus or even a hive virus with no sentience. Many settlers died from the 'infection' in a time called 'The Interval' before Ancient Chiss evolved into Modern Chiss about 5,000 years after the founding.

3: The Chiss terraformed Csilla over tens of thousands of years, turning it into a garden world, settling other worlds in the same time period. Before the Intergalactic War where they allied with the Sith, the Chiss governed an empire. After the Intergalactic War and the use of the Starflash along with Ratukan weaponry, the Chiss never terraformed another planet as penance for their sins.

4: Hundreds of Chiss colonies were lost to the warfare that created the Chaos. What is not mentioned in any modern history course is that the Chaos was created deliberately to confound both Sith and Jedi. The Chaos interfered, as as seen in Alliances, with the ability to find other Force users in the Chaos. Palpatine could not find the Sky-walkers until they were taken beyond the borders of the Chaos.

5: Chiss history is heavily redacted. After the Intergalactic War, they changed even their system of writing to make it incomprehensible to outsiders. Cheunh is not allowed to be spoken in the presence of outsiders, and communication instead relies on trade languages like Minnisiat. Meese Caulf, and Sy Bisti.

6: There are Chiss intelligence agents in 'Lesser Space' and even in the Empire and Rebellion itself. Candidates must be smaller than average and undertake extensive surgical remodeling to pass as other species. It includes eye transplants, and only the most dedicated (fanatical) of intelligence officers will undergo the years-long process. The program is top-level clearance, with six people at a time knowing about the program and allowed to read the briefs. The Supreme Admiral, the Supreme General, the UAG Chief, the Speaker of the Syndicure, and two civilians who are kept anonymous.

7: The histories of many planets speaks of blue warriors, or even blue gods who disappeared 5,000 years back. Chiss ruins can be found on Hoth, though nobody can now read the language.

8: There are Chiss who live outside the Ascendancy, descended from exiles and those who fled in other ways. If any Chiss of the Ascendancy happens on the Outlanders, they are instructed to report immediately, detain if possible, terminate in extreme cases only. In some cases, these Outlanders have hundreds of years outside of the Ascendancy and are not keen on going back.

9: Yes, there are a number of women in the CEDF, and nobody would stand in their way. As with Lakinda/Ziinda, it's a way for girls of Common and Lesser families to move up and secure their future outside of making a good match and having children. Blood-born girls like Ziara are heavily pressured not to join.

10: Upon leaving service, Sky-walkers are not encouraged to talk to others about being Sky-walkers, even to other former Sky-walkers. They are largely isolated by the Ruling Families, and pushed to marry within their adoptive or an allied House. Many do marry within their adopting House as it is well-known that the little girls of Ruling Houses are seldom chosen as Sky-walkers.

[drdemonprince]

"Americans will NEVER stand talk in front of cops with long guns in the name of others."

dog... i'm not even american and can rattle off a long list of times where that *did* happen. not even just cops, but the actual military. from the 19th century to now. from pre-us civil war abolitionists to unions facing off with the pinkertons and state troops to literal warfare between miners and the military to black civil rights activists to anti-vietnam war protests to kent state to queer liberation to anti-war protests in the bush era to occupy to ferguson to BLM to DAPL/indigenious activists to pro-palestine activists this fucking year.

like... we can argue about efficacy & approach (especially with more recent movements) but the above statement is so patently false, it's laughable.

yep. we have some deep seated cultural issues and the nation state should not exist but the problem isnt some essential rot in the hearts of the people here. even how bad we fuckin are at forming community is systemic, and the product of a lot of intentional work on the part of the cia/doj/large corporations/police etc

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 1: Afternoon Light]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 3.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

A/N: Not me pulling a Tom Brady by announcing my retirement only to immediately un-announce it. 😂😂 I regret to inform you that I am apparently incapable of not writing fanfiction. I had no ideas for a grand total of 1 week before this story showed up and possessed me entirely against my will...and then I fell in love with it. I’m still working on my book, but I had to get this out of my system too. I hope you enjoy it. 💜 I’ll tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to! 🥰

@elsolario @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl @charenlie @thewew @eddies-bat-tattoos @minttea07 @joliettes @trifoliumviridi @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess

He’s thrusting into you, but you’re miles away: a speck of an island in the Mediterranean Sea, the glimmer of an unnamed star.

His rhythm is clumsy but never rough. He smells like wine and sandalwood, lavender and bleak perspiration. You moan when he expects you to. Your body moves with his, compliant, complicit. You roll your hips and tug at his white-blond hair, corollaries of ecstasy you wish you felt. You’ve learned to feign pleasure convincingly. Aegon will stop if he thinks you’re not enjoying yourself, and you need this to be over. What do you want me to do to you? he’ll ask, cerulean eyes drunk and muddy, words slurred, body repositioning. Do you like it this way? How about this? You can’t bear his curious consideration, his invasive hands. You don’t really like it any way. You’ve grown to accept that. You’ve had time to get used to the idea.

The air is sharp with the mineral ether of sex. Spots on the sheet beneath you are wet, clinging, cold. When Aegon kisses you—sloppily, carelessly—your lips and tongue follow his, willing him to finish, your eyes squeezed shut as he gropes your face with ungainly fingers. And at last, it’s done: he shudders, groans, flops down beside you on the mattress.

“Well done, wife,” Aegon pants. He gives your disheveled hair one absentminded stroke and then gazes up at the canopy, cloth embroidered with green roses and spiraling gold dragons. He yawns, his eyes dipping closed. The rise and fall of his bare, glistening chest is slowing.

“Aegon?”

“Hm?” He is inconvenienced; he is already half-asleep.

You roll onto your side, turning towards him. Aegon feels the mattress shift. Reluctantly, he rouses himself, sighs, swallows the rest of the wine in the cup he left perched on the nightstand. “I’m so sorry,” you say softly.

“About what?” He peers at you, groggy and half-listening, stray beads of red wine like blood on his chin. “Oh, yes. That.”

That. What he means is three miscarriages in one year, all early, all excruciating beyond words, all destructive to both the body and the soul. “You have no idea how hard I’m trying.”

“Don’t worry yourself, wife,” he says, yawning again. He always calls you that—wife—with a vague, impersonal fondness. Aegon doesn’t know anything about you. He doesn’t seem interested in remedying that. He doesn’t see it as something to be remedied at all. He attempts to set his empty cup back on the nightstand and doesn’t notice when it tumbles off and clanks against the floor. He burrows beneath the blankets like a hedgehog. “We’ll get it right eventually.”

Eventually, you think with horror, as you are left alone in the candlelight; Aegon plummets into sleep and is silent except for his snoring. How long will I have to do this?

Twelve months of marriage and you are no closer to fulfilling your purpose here. You are told what to eat, when to sleep with your husband, how to lie still afterwards so his seed can take hold, which saints to pray to. You are offered tender-voiced morsels of advice until they feel more like palms cracking across your face than gifts. Every second of your existence is consumed by the desperate need for Aegon’s heir, for the Greens’ future. And each time you lose a pregnancy, the clock starts over again.

How long can I do this before it breaks me, kills me, drives me mad?

~~~~~~~~~~

When a northern pike glides through cool rippling currents, yellow perch and bluegills scatter; and that’s exactly what the courtiers do to you. It’s a bit like living inside a glass bowl: people press their palms to the arched walls and stare like you’re a captive animal—a leopard or an elephant or a white bear from the Arctic—but they don’t speak to you. None of them know what to say. There are whispers flying, women in gowns and men in tunics gossiping about how last night was the first time the prince returned to your bed since your most recent miscarriage. The tentative speculation can begin again, glances at your waistline and delicate inquiries about your health. Bets are placed on whether you will at last produce an heir this time: boy, girl, white-haired or not, early, late, alive, dead. The clock has been reset.

You do not allow anyone to see your pain, your desperation. You have no true friends here. You are allied with the Greens, yes, but that does not mean they are your friends. The Duke of Hightower, chief advisor to the king, was insistent that you bring none of your ladies with you from your homeland; and so the women who attend you are English, polite but not particularly devoted, dutiful but not reliably discreet. He wanted no weak links, no chess pieces that he could not entirely control, no loyalties that ran deeper than his ambitions for Alicent and her children. Now, the Duke of Hightower is fiercely disappointed with you. He’s losing his ability to hide it.

As you traverse the Great Hall of Westminster Palace—an island, a lone cloud roaming across a clear sky—Prince Daemon, smirking and wolflike, stalks into your path.

“Hello there, Navarre,” he says, circling with one hand on the hilt of his sword, his strange deep-set eyes flicking all over you. He likes to call you this, a reminder of where you came from, of why Aegon married you: for an alliance, for advantages in the inevitable civil war when King Viserys dies, for heirs intrinsically linked with the Continent. You were one piece of a far grander design. Helaena was married off to Castile, you were brought west from Navarre, and thus the Greens gained supporters in the Iberian Peninsula. Helaena has given birth to one healthy son so far, and by all accounts has found great happiness in her new life across the Bay of Biscay. Daemon never tires of drawing attention to the fact that you have yet to fulfill your half of the bargain.

You bow your head swiftly, without conviction. “Prince Daemon.”

“My, that’s quite an extravagant gown. What have you got hidden under it? Your father’s famed archers, perhaps? Gold coins and steel daggers? I know what Prince Aegon would want under his skirts.” Daemon grins. “Lady Joanna Montford. Or is it Mountford? You must forgive me, I’m always mixing up the details.”

“I’ll defer to your better judgment, you have far more experience with whores than I do.”

He offers you a single rose, dyed black. “I regret that I did not have the opportunity to properly express my condolences after your most recent loss. It’s become difficult to keep up with them, they’ve grown so numerous. I’m sure you understand.”

You take the rose; untrimmed thorns bite into the defenseless flesh of your fingertips, but you don’t let it show on your face. “Only one from you? Your wife sent me a dozen.” They were red, the color of Navarre’s flag; though the resemblance to blood did not escape you.

“Yes, it’s true, her heart remains rather tender, much to my chagrin.”

“And yours remains nonexistent.” You pluck onyx petals from the rose one by one and toss them to the floor. Courtiers watch this, chattering spiritedly.

Daemon is still grinning. He has won. It never matters what you say, what you do; until you give Aegon a son, in every interaction Daemon walks away the victor. “I hope you enjoy the rest of this glorious July afternoon. And I hope you enjoy your evening as well. And the evening after that, and the evening after that…” He prowls closer, his voice dropping low and sinister. “And all those countless, blundering, long evenings you’ll spend under your mortifying drunk of a husband.”

You rip away from him—not his hands, no, even Daemon would not deign to touch you in front of an audience, but from his suffocating antipathy—and continue on your way to the royal stables, courtiers dispersing in your wake like startled doves. The cobblestones of the palace gardens are weather-beaten and craggy as you sail over them, warm summer wind in your hair, the hem of your gown dragging. Herbs and spices grow high and vivid green: angelica for digestion, feverfew for headaches, St. John’s wort for melancholy, betony to ward off evil spirits, chamomile to bring sleep, rosemary to quell nightmares, pennyroyal to induce a woman’s monthly blood. You have the opposite problem. All you seem to be able to do is bleed.

Inside the royal stables, the world is reduced to hushed subtleties: hooves thudding against straw, nickers and huffs, the swishing of tails, cascading sunlight dotted with whirling planets of dust. You drift by each of the stalls, inhaling the scent of horses and mid-summer. King Viserys promised you an Andalusian, brought by ship all the way from your homeland, for each child born to you and Aegon; alas, none of the animals housed here are yours yet. There’s Sunfyre, an Akhal-Teke, small-boned and shimmering gold. There’s Caraxes, a temperamental blood bay Arabian, and Syrax, a Marwari, cremello with blue eyes and delicate ears that curl in towards each other. Tessarion is a dappled blue-grey Percheron, young but gaining height and brute force each day. Jacaerys and Lucerys have Marwaris like their mother, Baela and Rhaena own volatile Arabians like their father. Joffrey is still riding a slow, potbellied pony; little Aegon III, Viserys II, and Visenya cannot ride at all yet. Every time you blink, it seems, the Blacks have added another child to their ranks, another inheritor to carry their claim forward. Your stomach sinks beneath your skin and scarlet ropes of muscle, a basket full of rocks.

You stop at the last stall, twice the size of any of the others. Vhagar towers over you. She is an English Great Horse, and the largest one that anyone can remember knowing of; her coat is a dark, lustrous brown, her massive hooves feathered, her muzzle sloped and velvety when you lay your palm against it. She lets you do this, as she always does; more than that, you think, she welcomes it.

You remove the letter from your bodice, your true purpose for coming here. You want to read it where you can be alone, where there are no prying eyes to report back to King Viserys, Queen Alicent, the Duke of Hightower, Aegon, Daemon, Rhaenyra the Crown Princess. You must keep your composure, your dignity. It’s all you have left.

You unfold the letter, your gaze skimming across your mother’s words, the slopes and summits of her letters heartbreakingly familiar, her fears loud through the ink-and-parchment silence. You expected this, and yet the weight of it stacks up in your ribcage like the splintered wreckage of a ship.

Think, my love, the Queen of Navarre writes. Think of everything you do, see, say, and feel. There is something that is poisoning the children inside of you. Do not trouble yourself with court gossip or bitter rivalries. You cannot serve your husband’s family—your family, now—if your attention is divided and your heart heavy with doubts. Shut yourself away from all things impassioned. Commit yourself to prayer and needlework. Purify yourself, dear daughter, prepare yourself in body and soul. God answers the cries of those who have won his favor.

You crumple the letter in your fists and then rip it to pieces, not out of wrath but so that nobody else might read it. The fragments flutter away like autumn leaves. You cannot resent your mother for her cushioned reprimands. She means well, but she cannot hope to understand; she bore ten children, eight of whom lived past the cradle, with no exceptional difficulty. Your father has taken mistresses on occasion, but not until years into his marriage, and regardless of his dalliances your mother remains his confidant, his greatest desire, his heart. Your life is nothing like hers. Your future has become something you didn’t know existed. You feel as if you have stumbled into a mirror, a duplicate world where everything is the same but the wrong way around. Where is your own satisfaction? Where is your soulmate?

There are footsteps, and you spin to see Prince Aemond standing in the doorway. He immediately turns to leave, and this is unsurprising; he never speaks to you, rarely looks at you, glides out of rooms as you come into them. You had once hoped to befriend him before his aversion to the notion became clear. He is palpably disinterested in you. But this afternoon as warm golden sunlight spills down on him, for reasons you cannot fathom, he hesitates; and now he’s waited too long, it would be rude for him to flee so obviously from you. Slowly, Aemond walks into the stable. He is so much like Daemon, though lighter: not in color but in gravity, his steps quieter, his hands graceful and precise. You’ve never seen him without his eyepatch. The Blacks call the cause of his maiming a sparring accident, the Greens call it an ambush, King Viserys doesn’t call it anything; perhaps he has forgotten it completely.

You expect Aemond to demand to know what you’re doing here, to scold you for jeopardizing your health with unnecessary excursions. “I’m so sorry for what you’re going through,” he says instead, his voice whisper-soft like pattering spring rain, like a leaf of lamb’s ear threaded between your fingers. “I hope my brother has been…kind about it.”

“He’s very kind. He doesn’t mention it at all.” Not once has anybody said those three words to you: I’m so sorry. They lift a million pounds from your shoulders, an eon of stones from your belly. “In fact, no one speaks of it with me. They speak in my direction, they tell me what to do differently, they assign blame…but no one has any interest in what I have to say back. No one asks me what it feels like to…to…”

It shocks you, knuckles to the gut: your breath hitches, your lips tremble, you swallow down tears like poison. It’s humiliating, this display of helplessness, this shattering of regal poise. You shield your face with both hands so Aemond cannot watch you war with yourself. And surely he is repulsed by you, this prince who has been mutilated and unavenged and overlooked since childhood. You have never known anyone as self-possessed as Aemond Targaryen. He endures all of life’s trials without emotion, without weakness. He must be appalled that you cannot do the same.

Yet when you are at last confident that you will not weep in front of him, you lower your hands to see that Aemond has silently obliterated the space between you. He is close enough to touch, his palm pressed to Vhagar’s monstrous neck. He’s looking at the horse, but he is listening to you. “She likes you,” he says gently. “She doesn’t like anyone.”

You’ve never been in such proximity to Aemond before. He’s taller than you remember; his eye is watchful and intent, a paler shade of blue than Aegon’s, more clear, a river rather than a sea riotous with storms. When you inhale, you taste pieces of him: leather, musk, the smoke of a blacksmith’s forge. There’s an abrupt weakness in your knees and ankles that you pretend not to notice. “Most of my friends have hooves these days.”

“I never see you go out riding.”

“I’m not allowed to.”

For an instant, his brow knits with confusion, and then he remembers. Horseback riding is thought to be calamitous for pregnancy, and your chances are slim enough already. “But that’s something that you once enjoyed, back in Navarre?” You flinch when you hear the name of your homeland, a reflex, Daemon’s taunts ringing in your skull like church bells. Everyone knows that’s what he calls you. “Forgive me, perhaps that word has painful connotations now.”

“It doesn’t sound so bad when you say it.” And that’s true: it’s not a dagger but a murmur, a musing, a dream. “Yes, I used to love riding horses. And dancing, attending hunting expeditions, reading poetry, plucking olives from the trees…my brothers and I would even knock swords together sometimes in the courtyard.” You smile wistfully, then lose it like a gull feather on waves. “And now I don’t do anything.”

“What brings you happiness here in England?”

“Nothing,” you reply, meeting his gaze for the first time. He studies you, his eye blue like the mid-summer afternoon sky, searching. And suddenly, you’ve never felt more interesting, you’ve never felt such raw hunger to unearth everything you’re built of. You skate your palm down Vhagar’s face and confess quietly, shakily: “I always thought I would teach my children to ride horses.”

“You will someday,” Aemond insists.

“When you’re little, five or ten years old, you dream about growing up and all the miraculous things you’ll be. And then you finally become an adult and you meet the rest of your life and…and…” You don’t like it. “It’s so different from what you imagined.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, soft and mournful.

“But I’ve interrupted you,” you say. “You came here to take Vhagar riding, I’m sure, and now you’re caught in my little web of nostalgia and self-pity. Please, accept my apology, and don’t let me delay you any further.”

“I was planning to go riding,” Aemond admits. He’s wearing a black leather messenger bag, you notice for the first time. He pulls at the strap that hangs from his right shoulder self-consciously. You have never seen Aemond betray any sign of self-consciousness before this moment. In many ways, you have never seen him at all. He asks you pointedly: “What if I took Vhagar out walking you accompanied me?”

“I told you. I can’t.”

“Not riding,” Aemond says. “Just walking. We’ll lead her down to the edge of the forest, let her stretch her legs a bit and eat some of the fallen apples. You’re allowed to walk, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so.” You stare at him, perplexed. You almost ask why he would offer to do such a thing, why he would feel inspired to raise your spirits. But you don’t want him to change his mind. You point to his messenger bag. “What do you have in there?”

“Parchment. Quills. A bottle of ink.”

“What do you write? Battle plans? Letters to marriageable foreign noblewomen?”

“Poems,” Aemond confesses in a whisper you can barely hear, not looking at you.

“Could I read some of your poems?”

“No,” he says immediately, startled.

“Never mind. It was wrong of me to ask.”

He doesn’t reply; he just fetches Vhagar’s halter from the hook on the stable wall, black leather studded with sapphires the size of ladybugs. She allows Aemond to place it on her without any resistance. He attaches the lead chain—heavy silver links—but he doesn’t need it. Vhagar follows him out of the stables, her colossal hooves drumming like distant thunder, her jet black mane whipping in the wind. Aemond matches his pace with yours as the three of you cross the emerald green field that separates Westminster Palace from the tree line of the forest.

After strolling for a while—Vhagar chomping on apples, you stepping gingerly over felled branches and gnarled roots—you and Aemond sit beneath a sprawling cedar that blots out the sun, its limbs like the wings of a dragon. He recounts myths and legends of England, things that Aegon has not thought to share with you once in the past twelve months, weeks of which you spent in bed bleeding out his would-be children: King Arthur and Beowulf, Robin Hood and the Rollright Stones, Saint George the guardian of the royal family. And as Aemond speaks, at some point you stop hearing him and start seeing him, everything that brought him here, everything that will happen next.

Once upon a time, King Viserys named his daughter Rhaenyra his successor. She was his only surviving offspring, the last vestige of his cherished wife Aemma, dead in fruitless childbirth and cold in her tomb in Windsor Castle. The king then promptly remarried and fathered four more Targaryens, closer to afterthoughts than assets in his eyes: Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. Rhaenyra is still the king’s favorite, and is much loved in Northern England, where her mother hailed from. She has the support of Scotland as well. Her marriage to their Crown Prince Laenor Velaryon was meant to consolidate the two nations under one ruling family, one flag. To reinforce this alliance, her uncle Daemon wed Laenor’s sister Laena. But then Laena died, and Laenor did too, and all those tragic pieces fell together for Rhaenyra to get what she evidently wanted all along: Daemon in wedlock, in her confidence, in her bed. Her sons with Laenor will soon marry his daughters with Laena, and each new white-haired child she produces with her uncle gives the Blacks one more dynastic pawn to play in the game of thrones.

The merchants of Southern England—the Duke of Hightower foremost among them—are aghast at the thought of Rhaenyra’s ascension. No woman has ever successfully ruled England, and she is sure to be malevolently influenced by her uncle-husband. The Pope will not sanction their incestuous union, nor those of their children, though this does not daunt the Blacks. They will make a new order here in the British Isles; they will not play by the Continent’s rules. In reply, the kingdoms of Western Europe—to varying degrees of zealousness—support the Greens and the coronation of Aegon II upon his father’s death. King Viserys is in fine health now, but that could change at a moment’s notice: with a fall from a horse, with veins darkened by infection, with a vial of poison, with a resurgence of Plague. When the king is dead, Aegon must have every possible advantage to offer England, including a clear line of succession. This was supposed to be your role. This has become your greatest failure. Yet here under a hundred-year-old cedar tree outside Westminster Palace, Aemond makes you forget that for a while.

Hours later, you are back in your bedchamber when your husband arrives to fuck you. That’s a crude word for it, but that’s exactly what it is: something he does to you, not with you. You gulp down a cup of your apple cider, the drink you like best here in England, not as thick and bitter as ale, not a poor imposter of the Continent’s red wine. It is bright, sweet, sometimes vaguely minty. It makes you think of spring and summer, of rebirth. It fills you with the undying ambition to bear fruit of your own.

You turn to Aegon, who is yanking off his white shirt with his back to you, his hair in disarray, his pores sweating out wine and indifference. He crawls into the bed on all fours, slapping himself lightly across the face, forcing himself to stay awake until the act is done.

And you think, for the very first time: I wonder what it would have been like to marry Aemond.

[greenpanda-basicfakewitch]

Spiritual Dieties

A/N: Just realised that I've included a list of god/esses BUT Christian will be excluded because theirs is too BIG, seraphims, archangels, and the names of who is what that is it's own seperate post -_- they're christian witches so even my own opinion of christianty (I don't hate them but dont love them either) I would still respect anyone who still follows it.

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Deities: 

Divine status, quality or nature. A god or Goddess, a supreme being. Most well known in Persian/Norse/Celtic/Greek/Roman/Egyptian/Hindu/Pagan/ Christian Angels-Demons, etc.

Celtic Gods:

Alator: God of war and protection, name means “he who nourishes the people.”

Albiorix: God of protection and war, name means “King of the world.”

Belenus: God of healing, name means “Bright one.”

Borvo: God of healing waters and minerals.

Bres: God of fertility, tyrant ruler

Cernunnos: Horned god of Nature, fertility, the underworld, wealth and fruit

Esus: God of strength and human sacrifice.

Lenus: God of healing, associated with Roman god Mars

Lugh: God of the sun and craftsmanship, justice and ruleship

Maponus: God of music, poetry and youth

Nuada: God of healing, the sea and warfare.

Celtic Goddesses:

 Brigantia: Goddess of rivers and waters, poetry and crafts

Brigit: Goddess of fire, fertility, healing, cattle and poetry

Ceridwen: Goddess and sorceress, poetic wisdom, prophecy, magic and rebirth.

Epona: Horse goddess, fertility and cornucopias, horses and mules

Medb: Goddess of sovereignty and motherhood

Morrigan: Goddess of seafarers, fertility, and abundance

Nemausicae: Mother goddess, fertility and prosperity

Saitada: Goddess of grief.

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Norse Deities:

 Gods:

Baldur: God of Beauty, peace, innocence, rebirth.

Bragi: God of Poetry, music, the harp

Hodr: God of Winter, Blind God, god of Darkness.

Hoenir: God of Silence, passion, spirituality, poetry

Kwasir: God of inspiration, god of wisdom.

Loki: God of trickery, mischief

Magni: God of strength and bravery

Njord: God Of the sea, wind, fish and wealth.

Odin: The allfather, God of war, poetry, magic and wisdom.

Thor: God of Thunder and battle, protection of mankind.

Try: God of War and Justice, god of skies

Ulr: God of skis and bows, god of winter.

Ali: God of revenge and vengeance.

Goddess:

Eir: Goddess of healing and medical skill.

Eostre: Goddess of spring and dawn.

Freyja: Goddess of love, fertility, battle and witchcraft

Frigg: Goddess of marriage and motherhood, Queen of the gods.

Gefjun: Goddess of fertility and plough, abundance and prosperity.

Hlin: Goddess of consolation and protection

Jord: Goddess of the Earth, Mother Earth.

Nanna: Goddess of joy, peace, and the moon.

Nott: Goddess of the night and darkness.

Sif: Goddess of the harvest, grain and earth

Sigyn: Goddess of fidelity, mercy and mourning.

Skadi: Goddess of Winter, mountains and skiing.

Sol: Goddess of the Sun and healing

Vor: Goddess of Wisdom, knowledge and awareness. 

Greek Goddess

Aphrodite

Hera

Athena

Artemis

Demeter

Hestia

Persephone

Gaia

Greek Gods:

Zeus

Hermes

Ares

Poseidon

Apollo

Hephaestus

Dionysus

Hades

Cronus

Eros

Helios

Atlas

Pan

Heracles

Prometheus

Uranus

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Roman Goddess Minerva

Venus

Ceres

Juno

Vesta

Diana

Janus

Bellona

Cybele

Fortuna

Victoria

Proserpina

Roman Gods

Apollo

Mars

Jupiter

Neptune

Mercury

Vulcan

Pluto

Saturn

Faunus

Flora

Pax

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Egyptian Gods/Goddess

Horus

Anubis

Osiris

Isis

Thoth

Set

Bastet

Hathor

Amun

Sekhmet

Nephthys

Ptah

Sobek

Ma'at

Geb

Nut

Shu

Ra

Bes

Tefnut

Khnum

Khepri

Khonsu

Neith

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Persian Gods/esses

Ahura Mazda

Angra Mainyu

Mithra

Anahita

Verethragna

Atar

Vohu Manah

Haurvatat

Mitra

Ameretat

Vayu

Zoroaster

Haoma

Rashnu

Spenta Armaiti

Indra

Aka Manah

Allani

Ahurani

Kshatra Vairya

Azhi Dahāka

Arash

Apam Napat

Fereydun

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Hindu Gods/esses

Shiva

Vishnu

Ganesha

Brahma

Hanuman

Krishna

Durga

Rama

Saraswati

Indra

Lakshmi

Kali

Kartikeya

Parvati

Agni

Surya

Varuna

Vayu

Chandra

Devi

Kamadeva

Sita

Kubera

Shakti

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What is similar?

One type of ‘Leader’ along with a ‘Mother’ a ‘son’ or ‘Consort’ a god of death, healing, creativity, the Sun, the Moon, wisdom, mischief, fertility. Or some deities symbolise a couple of things based on their story. Or domain that they rule over. But most do have similarities or cross over to other religions. For example the Roman gods are just the Tumblr edgy oc’s of the Greek Gods. {And the Romans twisted greek stories but those stories is what we in modern day take as 'canon' }

“Our gods are stronger and better than yours!” ha, just kidding.