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druidx · 3 years ago

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Family Treasures

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go (2015) Context: A friend linked me a TAG fic with the most perfect description of Lasagna I have ever read. I then got carried away and read nearly every fic she recommended to me... and then I figured I should watch the 2015 version of Thunderbirds (having only seen fragments of the original ‘60s show as a kid)... and then this happened. I’ve also been leaning heavily into the subtext thing still, so constructive criticism, with subtext in mind, is welcome on this piece. Words: 1700 CW: Injury mention, worried people, minor maudlin thoughts Tagged: @viawrites-andacts @strosmkai-rum @scribeofred Read on AO3

Kayo paces. Her sleek leather boots sink into the plush carpet of Tracy Island's lounge. She has been grounded by injury, left to recover while the Tracy boys are out there doing what they do best. She trusts them; knows they know what they're doing, knows they can handle themselves... But it doesn't help. Her fingers itch to activate the comms, but she doesn't. The boys don't need her micromanaging, and she trusts John to forward anything if he thinks she can assist... But still, the ache remains.

Those leather boots softly tap as she reaches the parquet flooring, and Kayo finds herself standing in front of Jeff's desk. It's a big, sturdy, mahogany thing. Impish sunlight glints off the polished surface, winking and laughing. It makes her think of Virgil. The sun drifts behind a cloud, and the laughter vanishes. She turns away.

Her steps lead her to the portrait of Thunderbird One, and the nicknacks beside it. Her eyes slide over the portrait – seen a hundred times before – to an antique barometer on the shelves. And there is Scott: Quicksilver in a glass; carefully controlled vim and daring. She pictures him in freefall, madcap laughter stolen by the rushing wind. The thought of his pack failing at fifty thousand feet is enough to have her leaning against the wall, head reeling like she's nosediving, seconds before the impact that has left her arm in a sling, and Thunderbird Shadow a pile of scrap.

Kayo huffs out her indignation at her weak and maudlin thoughts, wrenching back from the wall. She pinwheels away, her boots marking out time on the parquet as she passes in front of the vast window. Outside the sun glimmers off the swimming pool. Bright. Cheery. Such a laughable contrast to the storm inside. She wishes it were raining, dark skies and tempestuous winds. The bowl of forget-me-not blue is almost mocking in its temptation. She closes her eyes, breathing deeply, and brings herself back to ground level.

Kayo finds herself in the far corner of the lounge, at a kitschy '60s coffee table tucked into the fold of the room. On its surface sits a porcelain pug, which reminds her of Sherbet – and, by extension, his owner. It appears delicate – a dainty conversation piece; but her foot knows it is sturdier than one might think. Her eye catches on a woollen beanie, abandoned next to the pug – and she scowls; Lady Penelope has Parker to keep her from serious trouble. Kayo's brothers are up there without their usual safety net.

She turns back, pacing towards the piano. She plays only a little; her mother insisted, to start with. But after a year of tantrums and sword fights, Mama Kyrano gave up. But the island is empty – even Grandma Tracy is on the mainland – and the house is too quiet.

Kayo sits down at the piano and raises the lid, leaning absently to the side as a small, spring-loaded, plastic frog sails over her shoulder – the latest victim in the ongoing prank war. Her fingers wander over the ivories, and she settles into picking out Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star in the upper third. As the sweet notes fill the air, Alan comes to mind – bright, lively, graceful; effortless as the rising music. Kayo lifts her head as if she might somehow see to the edge of space; see Thunderbird Three shimmering with star-stuff as if picked out in the silver, gossamer notes she plays. She dismisses the fanciful thought with a twitch of the lips, finishing the refrain.

As her hand falls still, she looks across the room, gaze drawn back to Jeff's desk. She remembers the moment he asked her to become his head of security – when Papa Kyrano retired. She'd not long returned from her last field stint with Mossad when he'd called her to the desk. His lips had asked her to help him protect the world; his eyes had asked her to protect his boys.

Kayo sighs, the guilt of disappointing the indomitable Jeff Tracy laying heavily over her shoulders. She closes the lid and turns on the stool, intending to resume viewing life through the plate-glass barrier, when her foot nudges the plastic amphibian, abandoned on the floor. She picks the thing up, lips quirking at the cartoonish features – the bugging eyes and wide, red grin – and is inexplicably reminded of Gordon. Kayo places it on the piano, where it wobbles, brilliant green out of place on the ebony-silk surface. Three birds, two star-men, but only one squid-boy. She purses her lips and tries to tell herself the unease this thought causes is about lack of process redundancy. Perhaps she should expand her skillset in an aquatic direction...

She stands with purpose and walks over to the nook in which sits Goron's transport chute. But as Kayo reaches over to activate the chute, a flicker of something catches her eye. Her free hand is already fumbling for her stun-gun when the interloper reveals itself: a long-legged tropical spider has found its way into the aquarium. It flails and panics, and she wonders if it might drown. But even as she watches, it's already hoisting out of the water and building a complicated nest in the corner of the tank. Kayo watches it work, watches its ingenious use of resources in an unfamiliar environ, watches it engineer a refuge... and thinks of Doctor Hackenbacker. Distracted from her previous thought, Kayo turns away from the chute access, making a note to tell Gordon about the spider. She doesn't think it's a threat to the fish, and the lid is a four-handed affair. Besides, knowing Gordon, he'll want to coddle the thing before he releases it.

Instead, Kayo climbs to the mezzanine. Somewhere in the aether, a stack of security reports grows ever larger, but she is unable to read them, to even consider distracting herself with them at a time like this. Worry still fills the well of her stomach, bilious and vile. There are too many close calls, too many near misses. Too many times she's snatched one of her brothers from certain doom. She's so useless here. Idly, she picks up a blown-glass paperweight. Does John ever feel like this? she wonders as she stares into its nebulaeic swirls. Drifting high above them, like a flame-haired malāk – a messenger of God – with his brothers so far from his grasp, does John ever feel powerless? She wonders how he does it: how he can stay so removed from the action, remaining so calm. She wonders how he manages the silent panic that maybe this is the mission someone does not come back from.

The glass has chilled her hand, chasing phantom skeins of cold and fatigue through her body. Kayo carefully replaces the paperweight and makes her way back down the stairs. She settles into the sofa lining the conversation pit, a hand falling to her side as she allows her body to sink into the plush stuffing. Something rough touches the side of her hand, and Kayo fishes out a blackened cookie from where someone – Gordon or Alan, most likely – has stuffed it between the sofa cushions. Kayo screws up her nose, making a noise of revulsion. It's been at least a week since Grandma Tracy tried baking again. Mouth still in a down-curve of disgust, she leans to put the cookie on the table but finds herself pausing as the light sluices across its dark, oleaginous, undulating surface. It reminds her of the Iceland mission and the pictures of cooling magma Doctor Hackenbacker proudly showed off – and his lecture on igneous rocks. Created by fire, he'd said, melded and reforged into something tougher. Used the world over – even here on the island – as foundations. Unshakable and resistant to all the world could throw. It makes her think of the island's second foundation, of all Grandma Tracy has been through, and yet still stands firm and loving despite it.

She wishes any of her extended family were here, now. Like that spider, Kayo feels out of her depth, could do with someone strong, cheery, soothing; a solidity under her feet. But they are not.

Kayo is a woman who knows when her limits have been met. The island is empty, there's no one around to witness the break caused by cracks of worry, pain and fatigue. Her lip wobbles, vision growing hazy with tears. She gives a small sob, then another, allowing herself the luxury of a little cry.

"Kayo?" She sniffs, swatting at her eyes, and looks up to see Alan's hologram looking down at her, eyes pinched with worry, tone edging towards frantic. "Kayo, is everything okay? John-" "John," comes the even tone of the auburn-haired man who appears next, "should be more careful about what side remarks he makes while on comms to his worry-wart little brother." He rolls his eyes. "Sorry to disturb you, Kayo. But your telemetry did do something unusual a few moments ago-" "Kayo? Alan pinged me. What's your status?" Scott cuts in, as if they are in the sky and all is normal. Before Kayo can say anything, Lady Penelope appears, the picture of decorum and class as usual. "I'm sure it was nothing. Isn't that right, darling? Just a little wobble, eh?" her Ladyship says. "'Wobble'?" asks Gordon, from where he and Brains cluster behind the pilot of Thunderbird Two. "What the hell does- Hey!" Kayo's lips twitch in amusement, as Gordon rubs his head from where Virgil has given him a brotherly love-tap. "It means: keep your nose out, squid-boy," Virgil tells him. "Is everything okay, Kayo dear?" says Grandma Tracy. "John asked me to- Oh," she adds, looking at the packed comm channel. "Well, it looks like you all beat me to the pinch." She smiles and rubs the back of her neck. Kayo looks over her family with a swift, critical eye. Apart from Gordon's head, they all appear healthy and uninjured. Relief floods through her, loosening tense muscles. Her wry amusement turns into a full-blown smile. "I'm alright," she says. "Like Penny said, it was just a little wobble. Everything is F.A.B."

#writing #tanusha 'kayo' kyrano #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fandom #constructive critism welcome #wandering words

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redbootsindoriath · 4 years ago

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Was Anglachel already black before becoming Gurthang??

Y’all, ever since I first read the Silm I’ve been picturing Anglachel as having a bright blade (silver or grey) before Beleg’s death. But now I keep seeing fanart where people are drawing it with a black blade right from the start and I’m wondering if I’m missing something. I’ve only read four versions of the story of Túrin so I’m wondering if this is a detail in some version I haven’t gotten my hands on yet, because it seems like a majority of Silmarillion fans treat it like common knowledge so now I am Confused™.

Here’s what I’ve gathered so far concerning the sword’s color before, during, and shortly after the events at Taur-nu-Fuin, in the order that I discovered it:

“Then Beleg chose Anglachel; and that was a sword of great worth, and it was so named because it was made of iron that fell from heaven as a blazing star...” [The Silmarillion, chapter XXI: Of Túrin Turambar] No mention of color, black or otherwise.

“And Gwindor gave the sword Anglachel into his hands, and Túrin knew that it was heavy and strong and had great power; but its blade was black and dull and its edges blunt. Then Gwindor said: ‘This is a strange blade, and unlike any that I have seen in Middle-earth. It mourns for Beleg even as you do. ...’” [The Silmarillion, chapter XXI: Of Túrin Turambar] This is the earliest in any version of the story that it mentions the blade being black. And the way it is worded, I took it to mean that the darkening of the blade was something new, and something almost sentient. The wording makes it sound as if when Beleg died, Anglachel’s edges became blunt and the blade turned black (the bluntness was definitely new, since it would have been pretty useless before if it wasn’t, and it’s described as being a “keen blade” in Taur-nu-Fuin before Beleg’s death in the Lay).

“The sword Anglachel was forged anew for him by cunning smiths of Nargothrond, and though ever black its edges shone with pale fire...” [The Silmarillion, chapter XXI: Of Túrin Turambar] Note that it says “though ever black”, not “though as ever black”. “Ever” implies “ever after”, “as ever” would imply that it had always been that way.

The Children of Húrin’s references to Anglachel are pretty much identical, word-for-word, to those in the Silmarillion, so I don’t think I have to repeat them.

“Then whistling whirled he / the whetted sword-blade / and three times three / it threshed the gloom, / till flame was kindled / flickering strangely / like licking firelight / in the lamp’s glimmer / blue and baleful / at the blade’s edges.” [The Lay of the Children of Húrin, Part III] The Lay had no mention of the sword after Taur-nu-Fuin (though it is implied that Gwindor brought it with them when they left, as in the other versions), but I’m including this bit because it mentions the glowing edges of the blade, which is the only visual description we get of the sword in the Lay.

“Now then Orodreth let fashion for him a great sword, and it was made by magic to be utterly black save at its edges, and those were shining bright and sharp as but Gnome-steel may be.” [Narn i Chîn Húrin, Turambar and the Foalókë pt. 1] I know that it’s a new sword in this version, not Anglachel reforged, but it’s worth including here anyway, especially since 1. the black sword is even more clearly a new element in the story in this version, and 2. there’s the little detail of it being black by magic (rather than by nature of the metal the sword is made from). Note, though, that Anglachel is never even mentioned by name in the Narn...

So yeah, there we go: no mention of it being black before Beleg’s death--or at least not that I could find--but no clear mention of it not being black either. As I said at the beginning, though, I’m not sure if I’m missing any versions of the story with references to it being a black blade originally. If nobody has anything, though, I’ll continue to be of the opinion that the sword actually changed color, for three reasons: first, that’s how I thought it happened for years and it’s easier to keep on with that than to shift to a different mental image for no canonical reason; second, it’s mentioned over and over as being black when Túrin is its master so you’d think it would have said something earlier too if it had been black earlier (since black really is an odd color for a sword); and third, it’s so freaking overdramatic and matches the tone of the rest of the story (I’ve even got an idea of how the blackness would have spread through/across the blade, like a mix of twining plants and flowing water, and I wish I knew how to animate so I could show you guys, but I don’t know how to animate, so whatever). But really, I can let that all go if someone has information that I don’t. A side benefit of this would be that I’ll only have to make one replica instead of two for my cosplays. So yeah, if you have any other resources, especially ones that specify that the blade of Anglachel was always black, PLEASE TELL ME, I WANT TO KNOW IF I NEED TO ADJUST MY MENTAL IMAGE. (And of course let me know if I’m right, if you’re sure that’s the case.)

Thanks for reading to the end of my rant, this has been bothering me for a few months now and I wanted to get it out there.

#anglachel/gurthang #the man the myth the legends #three shinies #everyone deserved better except mîm #sometimes i overthink stuff #don't mind me #just go read the book #/end classification tags #okay but belthronding on the other hand #belthronding is most definitely black #''his bow made of black yew wood'' yes thank you tolkien you've already said that #''his black bow'' yeah we know we get it #''belthronding made of black yew wood'' I SAID WE GET IT #tolkien must have really liked that bow a lot #he even told us it was strung with bear sinew #why so many details?? we will never know

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valhallanrose · 3 years ago

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Canary in a Coal Mine

When Senga Canonach takes the mantle of Baroness, eleven-year-old Catriona receives the first true explanation of what it means to be the oldest of her cousins.

Some notes: Catriona/Astoria uses both she and they pronouns (she throughout this particular fic), while Avery Maollosa is strictly they/them. Both are nonbinary.

Edrine (she/they/he), who is only mentioned in this fic, is genderqueer (referred to with they/them pronouns here) and will make a full appearance in the next fic.

4.3k. I am unsure how to best label this, but for now, Cautionary CW for feelings and imagery of entrapment as a result of particularly controlling parental behavior.

Fic Title: Canary in a Coal Mine by The Crane Wives

One thousand, two hundred and twelve.

It was the number of individual pieces in the stained glass window above the stairwell, the one depicting their ancestor, Cliamon - their blade raised high overhead in a moment of triumph in they and their compatriots claiming of the territory that would become home to the Canonach family and all the relatives in between. Cliamon had been a force to be reckoned with, and for all the reading they’d done in their lessons, Catriona adored the stories of such a massive figure they could find such a connection to.

Catriona also thought Cliamon would laugh at the prospect of one of their descendants waiting like a loyal puppy at the top of the stairs for someone to fetch her.

Ever since Astor’s death, their mother had grown fearful, the leash tightening so much that Catriona felt she could have choked. Even though his death had been somewhat anticipated, it had left a shadow on Senga Canonach, and left Catriona to deal with the fallout.

Which was why she was left alone, at the top of the stairs, waiting for someone to pass by that could escort her down. It was her mother’s rule that she were not to walk up or down the stairs alone, so that someone might catch her if she slipped, and it was her mother’s rule that she could never leave the estate without an approved escort. The group of approved escorts was extraordinarily small, even though the majority of the family had volunteered, which left Catriona within the boundaries of Castle Kintyre and the gardens beyond the doors.

She was pulled out of her reverie with the familiar sound of what she knew was a silver-tipped cane on tile, and beamed down at her grandmother as she approached the bottom of the stairs.

“There you are, granny! Mother said you were coming home for the ceremony, but I was getting worried! When did you get here?"

“Oh, only last night, dear, and I got in late. You were already asleep, or I’d have said hello.” Myrna smiled as she made her way up the steps, surmounting the last and leaning in to press a kiss to Catriona’s brow. “There was some unexpected flooding on the roads through Ardaleith, but they were kind enough to let me stay a few nights at Ironhearth. I actually came with Baronet Avery and the Lady Rima. Little Edrine isn’t feeling well, so they’re home with their governess, but they wanted me to say hello to you. So...hello from Edrine.”

“Oh, I’ll have to ask them to say hi for me, too. Maybe I can write Edie a letter. I’ve always liked them.” Catriona giggled as Myrna straightened her collar, laying it neatly against the soft navy wool of her sweater.

“Well, they seem to like you, too. I think they’d love a letter. You can even borrow my signet ring for the seal.” Myrna reached down to carefully smooth out the hem of her sweater, then smiled, one hand drifting up to cradle Catriona’s cheek in her palm. “Don’t you look dashing? Did you have any trouble with the kilt?”

“A little, but I think I got it. I poked myself with the pin a few times, though. Does it look okay?”

Her grandmother indicated loosely with a finger, and when they turned obediently in a circle, they were met with a broad smile and a nod from the woman in question.

“Perfect. Now all you need…” Myrna tutted softly as she dug in her dress pocket, withdrawing a hair comb and offering it to the child. “I’d love to see that pretty face of yours. May I?”

Eagerly, Catriona turned, tracing her fingertips over the comb’s arch - made up of two hands cradling a crowned heart - and, when Myrna was finished twisting her hair up and off the back of her neck, passed it back to her so she could slide the prongs neatly into her hair.

“There we are. Fit to rub elbows with some nobility, I think.” Myrna offered her hand to the child, which she eagerly took, the other hand resting on the heavy wooden bannister out of habit. “Shall we be off, then? We might be the subject of a search party if your mother doesn’t see us in our seats.”

* * * * *

The late spring breeze gently ruffled a few loose strands of hair framing Catriona’s face, turning their face toward the carefully trimmed hedges and the beds of colorful blooms in the butterfly garden. Bluebells and thistle, honeysuckle and heather, lavender and primrose, all only a small fragment of the sprays that covered this portion of the estate.

Sitting through any sort of formal ceremony was painful for a child her age, but what stuck out to her the most was when her mother - in her crisp, emerald suit with the Canonach tartan pinned at her shoulder - lowered herself to one knee, and then the other in the garden gazebo. It made her Aunt Malvina nearly tower over Senga, even though Aunt Malvina was already tall, and made Catriona’s mother seem so small when Malvina raised the diadem before them all and laid it upon Senga’s brow.

After the ceremony, when the guests followed in Senga’s shadow with raucous cheers and excited chatter toward the banquet hall, Catriona found herself drawn to the gazebo as the garden became comparatively empty. At the center of it was a flat stone, one that they knew had been torn from the earth at Mistwatch, with two indentations right beside one another in the exact place her mother had knelt.

Catriona lowered herself to the ground and smoothed a hand over the stone, her fingers dipping into the imprints and smoothing over the echo of dozens of knees before her mother’s had fallen there.

In the same spot as Barons and Baronesses and Baronets many times over, her mother had knelt upon the stone, a fragment of Rosinmoor, and accepted the crown from Malvina as if it had been made for her head.

And in a way, it had, forged in the fires of Ardaleith and delivered by Clan Maollosa upon their arrival the night prior. No two leaders wore the an identical crown, rather, Malvina had given up her own and allowed it to be reforged as an acknowledgement of the new reign to begin. Cliamon had worn no crown - the tradition began with their son, Donacha Carleigh - but their claymore had been passed down through generations, and it had laid in their mother’s hands as she swore to lead Kintyre with the honor and grace of all who had come before her.

She couldn’t help but wonder how many more would come after her mother.

Footsteps drew them out of their daze and made them look up - very far up, they realized, until they smiled with recognition and waved at the person in question.

“Hello, Baronet Maollosa. Am I in your way?”

They chuckled, smoothing a few stray hairs out of their face and lowering themself to sit on the steps of the gazebo.

“No, you’re alright. And Avery is just fine, remember?” They gently nudged her with their elbow, then extended their hand, cupcake carefully balanced on the small porcelain plate. “Saved you a cupcake. Your grandmother said you might be out here, and they were going fast. You like salted caramel, don’t you?”

Catriona blinked once, twice, hesitantly looking between Avery’s gentle smile and the swirl of frosting adorning the cupcake itself. It looked so unassuming, but...when was the last time she’d eaten something without her mother telling her to wait until someone else could taste her food?

“Granny said it’s okay?” She said after a moment, and Avery nodded, dragging the tip of their pointer finger over their chest twice.

“Cross my heart. I’d swear on my mother’s grave, but my mother is still alive, so that doesn’t hold very much weight in regard to a promise.”

Catriona couldn’t help but giggle, gingerly accepting the cupcake and starting to peel away the paper wrapping on the outside. “Thank you, Baronet - Avery. Thank you, Avery.”

They scooted forward slightly so they could set their feet on the steps and the plate in their lap, humming softly as they peeled away the paper and swept a finger through the frosting. Beside them, Avery leaned back on their hands, sighing softly as they looked up at the rare cloudless sky.

“Edrine was all torn up about not coming today.” They mused, and Catriona nodded, making sure to swallow her bite before answering.

“Granny said they weren’t feeling well, so it’s okay. I don’t mind waiting to see them. Maybe they can visit when they feel better? Granny said next time, she’ll show us how we can set up a fort in the library, so long as we put the books back where they belong if we take them.”

“I think Edrine would like that very much.” Avery ruffled Catriona’s hair lightly, a smile playing at their lips when she huffed and tried to smooth her bangs back out.

There were a few long beats of pause as Avery watched Catriona, the way she carefully picked at her hair and adjusted it so it looked presentable again.

They’d always liked her - she was quiet, certainly, but she wasn’t shy. Avery had realized long ago that she chose simply not to speak if she had nothing to say, and if she did, sometimes what came out of her mouth made them bite their hand so hard it left marks for trying not to laugh.

Really, she’d won Avery over when eight year old Catriona called them a ‘lily-livered arse’ at the dinner table for taking the last sticky toffee pudding. It had made them laugh so hard their chest hurt, and in an attempt to form a truce with the child, offered to split it with her instead.

It had been a fair offering, it seemed, as they’d never been called such a thing again.

“You know, I’ve never thanked you before.” They mused, dropping back onto their elbows before lowering themself to lay on the floor of the gazebo. “Edrine doesn’t have any siblings, and their cousins are all quite younger than them, so making a friend their age means the world to them. They look up to you - bloody better than the Griogal boy, don’t tell anyone I said that - and I am happy that they won’t have to walk this path alone.”

Catriona paused, tilting her head as she used the back of her hand to wipe the frosting away from her mouth. “What do you mean?”

Avery raised a brow, fingers lacing together to rest over their abdomen where they lay. “In regard to the Barony. You and Edrine are in a unique position, being so close in age and both with clear claims to your respective titles. It can be hard to live that life, there’s no doubt about that, but thankfully your mother and I are young enough to give you both plenty of time to find your way before that.”

Catriona stopped mid bite of the treat they had been given, their stomach suddenly heavy and the taste soured in their mouth.

Her mother had said something like that, once, a hand placed on either of her cheeks and her rings - one a heavy opal from Catriona’s stepfather, the other the Canonach family signet - cold against her skin.

You’re in a special place, sweet Catriona. One day Kintyre will be at your feet, but you cannot forget the difficulty you will face when it happens. I only hope I can give you enough time to find the way you need to go.

She swallowed slowly, then set the cupcake aside, half finished and suddenly not as appetizing.

“What are you talking about?”

There were a few beats of pause before Avery sat up straight, a concerned look clear on their face as they turned to look her in the eye.

“Catriona...honey, has your mother not told you?” They asked gently, and slowly, she shook her head. Avery sighed heavily, raking a hand through their hair before letting their elbows fall to rest on their knees. Catriona shifted, resting her hands on one of Avery’s arms and giving them a pleading look that made them suck in a breath through their teeth.

“I don’t know, kiddo, I don’t want to upset Senga if she wants to have that talk -”

“I deserve to know.” The child said firmly, even as their eyes began to prickle with tears, even as their lower lip noticeably began to quiver. “It’s my life, too. It’s not fair to keep things from me.”

A part of her knew any child in Rosinmoor would have been delighted to have a life at any of the seven estates, and Catriona wasn’t oblivious to the privilege she had been given. But even if it were gilded in gold, a cage was still a cage, and Castle Kintyre had become hers. She envied her cousins, free to go where they want and do what they please, envied the stories of Rosafearn and longed to explore on her own, but it hadn’t been a part of the hand she had been dealt.

But maybe...maybe if they knew what frightened their mother so much, they could try and ease her worries, and get a little more freedom in turn.

At her desperate yet hopeful expression, Avery let out a frustrated sigh, propping their chin in their hands.

“Your mother should have absolutely told you by now, but that’s a grievance I’ll take up with her. You’re eleven, you’re long since capable of at least understanding.” They grumbled, clearly irate, then straightened, tone softening as they addressed her again. “Catty, what do you know about the line of succession?”

“I know everyone’s names. There were a lot of people before Auntie Malvina.”

“Everyone?”

Catriona nodded eagerly. “Yes, from the family tree book in the library. There’s Cliamon, of course, and then Donacha Carleigh, Muiri Lùtair, Juliet Lùtair, and then -”

“Okay, everyone, I believe you.” Avery held up a hand, an amused look on their face. “Stars, my uncle would have loved you. I couldn’t remember what I had for breakfast when I was your age, let alone the whole family tree. But what I meant was if you know how each leader is chosen?”

She had to pause at that, brows furrowing, trying to recall back to that book - they knew it well, the carefully bound leather and the tattered navy ribbon tucked between the pages - but couldn’t remember anything like that from what they’d read. It was always simply passed from family member to family member, but minimal explanation as to why.

“I don’t know.” She said eventually, and that sinking feeling grew somewhat heavier. “I thought it was because she just got married, I guess. I know when Aunt Malvina became Baroness, she had just gotten married to Aunt Lorraine, and mother just got married to James, but now that I think about it, I don’t remember if that was the same for great grandma Sorcha…”

Avery nodded slowly, setting a reassuring hand on Catriona’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “It makes sense. Don’t stress, Catty, it’s a reasonable conclusion. Would you like me to explain how it works?”

When Catriona nodded, they continued, eyes fixed on a vibrantly colored butterfly bush just beyond where their feet rested.

“I’m the oldest of three, so the Barony was going to pass to me no matter how many siblings I had. But my uncle, the last Baron, was older than my father, so he was the heir. And before him it was my grandmother, the Baroness, who was the oldest, and then her aunt, and so on and so forth. But the one thing they had in common was that they were each the oldest of their generation of the family, and thus, the crown passed to them.”

Catriona felt as if they could have been sick.

“Because they were the oldest.” She echoed, oblivious to Avery’s nod, as the realization dawned on them.

She was the oldest of all their cousins. Sachairi was the same age - eleven - but was a few months younger, born in November to Catriona’s September. That distinction was made clear to Catriona at a young age by their mother, but they never understood why, nor did they particularly care for that exact reason.

Their chest squeezed, and it felt as if they couldn’t breathe, thinking back to all the changes they had witnessed since her mother had been announced as the next Baroness. She had a handful of ladies in waiting, like Malvina, and advisors and guards and never being alone and never leaving the palace without an escort just in case, because it was ‘better to be safe than sorry”.

Catriona hated that phrase. It was the reminder she received every time she complained about any of her mother’s rules, because mother only wanted her to be as safe as possible, and she would rather be overprotective than risk something happen to her because she wasn’t safe enough.

But knowing this, now? They felt as if they had no chance of leaving the cage at all. When she was old enough to choose to leave, she’d have to stay, because being the oldest meant you were supposed to be the Baronet.

“But I know everyone’s name. Malvina wasn’t the oldest, Uncle Ualan was. And Aunt Grace and Cameron are both older than mother, so maybe our family is different? Maybe it doesn’t have to be the oldest, maybe I don’t - I don’t -” Catriona’s chest heaved, and she let out something between a wail and a whimper, making Avery jump as she began to cry. “I don’t want this, Avery, I don’t…”

Quickly, Avery scooped them up, pulling them into a tight embrace and gently rubbing her back to try and soothe her as she sobbed into the starched white collar of their shirt.

“Okay, okay...Catty, breathe, honey, I need you to breathe for me. Deep breath in, deep breath out, okay?” Look at me.”

Slowly, Catriona looked up, and Avery dug a kerchief from their pocket, offering it to her when she dragged the back of her hand across her cheek.

“You like your words, right? I have one I want you to remember. Can you do that for me?”

When she nodded, Avery gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Abdicate. It means to renounce, or give something up. I want you to remember that word, because you have a long time before you need to make the choice, but I want you to know that you have the choice - but abdicate is the word we use for saying we don’t want the title. It means you give it up to the next person, and they get to decide what to do. Your uncle Ualan probably abdicated - you’d have to check, but if he's older, it’s what makes sense - and I know your Aunt Grace and Cameron did. And I’m sorry that I had to be the one to tell you this, but you’re right, it is your life, and you deserved to know. I know it’s a lot to take in, but I hope that knowing all the options means you can make the right decision later, when the time comes, because you deserve that much. Okay?”

She sniffled quietly, rolling her lip between her teeth, the simple white kerchief twisting between her hands as Avery leaned back to get a better look at her face.

“Do you want to go find your mother?”

“No.” Catriona murmured, their grip almost white knuckled on the kerchief in question. “I don’t want to ruin her day. She’ll get upset.”

The ‘with me’ was unspoken, but Avery seemed to notice, brow creasing as their gaze fell to her tight hands and gently laid a hand over hers to try and ease the tension there.

“What about your grandmother? I saw Myrna just before I came out, she was speaking with the Lord Consort Griogal, so she shouldn’t be hard to find given he’s wearing something of a peacock blue today -”

“I don’t want to go inside.” Catriona blurted out. “I...I’m sorry, Baronet, I shouldn’t ask you to -”

“Avery.” They squeezed her hand again, this time a little more firmly - not harshly, or painfully, but enough to make her look them in the eye as they gave her a comforting smile. “You’re not asking the Baronet to do anything. You’re asking your friend’s parent for help, and that’s a perfectly acceptable thing to do. Would you like me to ask your grandmother to come outside?”

The child nodded, and Avery stood up, ruffling her hair gently before they stepped down onto the path again.

“Stay here, sweetheart, it’ll be easier for her to find you that way. Shouldn’t be long.”

As Avery began the trek back to the great hall, they couldn’t help but glance back, watching Catriona slump against the rails along the gazebo steps and picking up the pace to cross the stones a little quicker.

* * * * *

Once Myrna had slipped from the great hall, Avery couldn’t help but drift toward the broad windows overlooking the garden, following the small shape of the older woman until she came within sight of the gazebo and Catriona’s even smaller form leapt up and raced to meet her halfway. Myrna scooped her up and carried her further into the garden - and Avery found themself staring at the point where they disappeared, away from the gazebo and away from the castle to somewhere unknown. They were only broken from their reverie when arms wrapped around their waist, and had it not been such a familiar

“Hello, darling.” Rima murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of their shoulder and lacing her fingers together over Avery’s abdomen. “You were gone for a while. Did you get lost in the gardens?”

“No, I was talking to Senga’s bairn. She wants Edrine to visit when they feel better.”

“Well, hopefully it’s soon.” Rima hummed softly, pressing her cheek to Avery’s back and giving them a squeeze as the music in the hall shifted to a new melody. “We should probably stop in Rosafearn before we travel home. They’ve got the candies Edie likes in one of the shops down there, it might cheer them up about missing the party.”

When Avery didn’t reply, Rima frowned, slipping around their side and tucking herself under her partner’s arm to get a better look at their face.

“What’s wrong, Ave? You have that...face.”

Avery chuckled, turning their head to kiss Rima’s temple. “What face? You like my face.”

“I do like your face, but this is the ‘I’m having a crisis and maybe my dear wife can help’ face, and I am the dear wife.” She smiled cheekily as she pinched their side, glancing out the window briefly to see if she could find what they were fixated on and coming up with nothing. “Spill, spouse.”

After a few beats of pause, Avery sighed, leaning their cheek against Rima’s forehead and closing their eyes. “How much do you know about Senga?”

“Not much, she’s a little more than simply closed off. New Baroness, obviously. If you want to know about her, you might have better luck with Myrna or her husband. Or maybe Malvina, if you’re wondering about politics.”

“Mm. I thought so. Perhaps we should invite Myrna to stay with us again. I have questions, but...I’m not sure I should ask Senga, or I might make something worse.”

Rima pulled back slightly, brows furrowing and earrings tinkling as she tilted her head in curiosity. The wordless question made her spouse nod, glancing around to make sure they had no eavesdroppers before they continued.

“Earlier, when I was talking to Catty...I mentioned that Edrine looks up to them because they’re in the same position. And she had absolutely no idea what I meant, but essentially I explained that I meant because they were both heirs, and she just...completely panicked. I think if I’d gone much further than I did she’d have a full panic attack right there in the garden.”

“She had no idea? We started talking to Edrine about it when they were eight for just that reason, so they weren’t blindsided by it.”

“Not a clue. And the way she reacted when I asked if she wanted her mother, it just…” Avery blew out a frustrated sigh. “Something doesn’t feel right, Rima, and I know it’s not my business, but -”

“If it were Edrine, you’d want someone to look out for them, too. I know.” Rising up on her toes, Rima kissed Avery’s cheek. “Myrna already asked to travel back through Ardaleith with us. Let’s get through the night, and tomorrow, we’ll figure out the next step.”

“Alright…alright.” Avery was quiet for a few moments before they spoke again, warm smile on their face. “What would I do without you?”

“Suffer, more than likely.” Rima lifted a hand as if to inspect her nails, her wedding bands flashing in the low light. “Or at the very least be bored out of your mind at formal functions. Admit it, I’m the life of the party no matter where I go.”

With a laugh, Avery pulled Rima into a tight embrace, ignoring her playful protests and peppering the top of her head with kisses before they set their chin on her head. Their gaze eventually drifted out the window again to the spot where Myrna and Catriona had disappeared, thinking of that white-knuckled grip she had had on the kerchief.

But she’d be okay. She had Myrna, now, and Avery couldn’t think of anyone the child would want more for comfort considering how close they were.

Avery just hoped Catriona would be okay long enough for them to do something.

#astoria fenharrow #today on i write fic and i want to beat up senga

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herald-divine-hell · 3 years ago

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The prompt "Kissing your lover when they ask you why you've been avoiding them, not realizing it's because you're jealous that they've been hanging out with [a potential love interest]" for Katherine and Amayian? ✨

Amayian felt his stomach turned, tumbled, and churned, as if he was thrown in a violent, rapid river which swiftly ran out into a whirlwind at sea. But he kept it back, pushed hard against it as much as he could. He was the Lord Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste - something like this should not had bother him so; and yet, it did.

He could see the concern in the blue-green of Katherine's eyes, a shimmering of light burnishing it softly like sun-flame spilling upon the surface of a sea, wavering to one color and than the next; an eternal dance of blues and greens and golds. She had planted herself in front of him, barring his pass through the door which led out to Josephine's office. Hands planted on her hips, besides the concern, her face was cold and sharp enough to be carved from mountain-stone. Lips were drawn into a tight line, her scar becoming more wicked, more harsh, at the act. Her pale golden-silver hair shimmered like molten moon and starlight, glimmering as if gems were strewn about it. His fingers itched to untangle them from her braid, to rake his fingers through them softly.

"I will not have you ignoring and invading me as if I had the Taint, my lord." Her Orlesian accent was thicker, filled with brimming fire and heat, lashing like bolts of lightning, and within her eyes the fire rose as if it was a rearing lioness, a wall of flame. "You will tell me what is wrong."

In truth, Amayian held no doubts that he could easily lift her and place her to the side. He was half-tempted to. That would get a blush on her cheeks, he thought with, a bubble of amusement and affection whispering in his heart. He only said, "It is nothing to be worried over, Katherine." His voice came out colder than he would liked; and he had been doing so well. But emotions always confused him, tumbled him up so much so that whenever he thought he had a grasp on it, it shattered in his hand and he had to reforge it once more. The cold harshness of it froze away any amusement which came from the previous thought, his blood running cold, icy fingers seizing his heart in a hard, chilling grip. Softer this time, he murmured, "It's nothing, I promise you."

It did not deter her, and once more she raised the question, marching forward until she was close enough that he could see the top of her sun-lit head. The pale light twined silver, like a crown of moonlight and sunlight, but the fierceness of her eyes smouldered a greater fire than the forges of the sun, and far more intense. Heat touched his cheeks, a brief spark of warmth that swiftly spread until it seemed to drip down his neck and across his shoulders. She waited there, beneath his nose, arms crossed over her chest. She seemed as perfectly still as stone, and no doubt he would had an easier time moving the Frostbacks than convincing her otherwise.

Swallowing, he said, “It’s foolish.” And it was. Being so wrapped up in such silly worries was unfitting and could nearly get one of them hurt. And not telling her is hurting her as much, a wisp of a voice called out, distant and faint. Glancing away, unable to meet her stare, sudden shamed held him in a tight hold, and he wished for the ice wall that once armored him against such things. It almost had been simpler, back than, when emotions seemed as distant as the sun and hollow like a cavern. Now they bundled together, shattering walls, shadowy and unknown, a whipping storm which threw him about. And yet...and yet...at moments, light would stream through, as clear and brilliant as silver glass and as sweet as water in an oasis. Light always streamed through, shattered the storm a little, whenever Katherine was near.

He did not remembered when he lifted her up, nor remembered his lips on hers; but he felt her fingers stroking through his hair, her legs wrap around his waist, and her soft lips, scarred as they were, melting against him. They found a movement, twining heart and soul in an embrace Amayian did not wish to loose. The storm waned into a drizzled, the dark clouds withering and coiling in thin streams, as great and wide rails of sunlight filled his limbs and minds, roused his heart in massive leaps and beats.

When they pulled away, Katherine’s cheeks were inflamed with scarlet roses. The blue was darkened, swallowing the green like a sapphire-blue flame glimmering within an emerald gem, a widening hole of light within the darkness of the storm. A smile touched her lips, fond and sweet. It took more energy not to kiss her again. The effort was strong.

He pressed his forehead against her, and she leaned into the touch as eagerly, as softly. “You deserve better, mon amour.” Amayian lifted his head and laid a kiss to her forehead, erupting giggles from his little Seeker. That brought a smile to his own lips, against the warm skin of her head. Her fingers did not cease stroking the nape of his neck, or halting another in twirling a dark curl.

She captured his lips into another kiss as he pulled away, one more lighter and gentler then before. Against them, he felt her hum. “No, I do not think so. I could tell you were worried - no doubt from my recent actions with the Iron Bull, I presume?”

Heat dug deeper into his skin, and he pressed his face against the nape of her hair, in hopes of hiding it as much as to feel her against him. “Yes,” he mumbled against her skin.

Her words were soft whispers in his ears, fond and holding no hints of malice or irritation. His heart nearly burst at them. “Oh, Amayian, I did not mean anything behind it. You hold my heart, just as the mountains hold up the sky. You are my world. I never meant to hurt you.” He was pulled away from her neck, and another kiss was laid upon his lips. “Now these words to be true. I do love you.”

Wetness slicked his cheeks, and he felt her fingers swept them away and her lips scattering them with soft kisses. But he stopped her, drawing her close for another kiss, feeling his tears on her lips, and gently sweeping his tongue over her bottom lip to be rid of them. He murmured in between how she was his stars within an never-ending darkness, of how much he adored her, and of how much he was thankful for her.

And as the blue skies melted to orange and violets, as the stars were lit by the coming of the night in shines of silver and white and gold, and as the sun dwelt its fiery crown beneath the horizon for rest, Amayian knew he was home.

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jaybug-jabbers · 4 years ago

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Review: Pokemon Gold and Silver 97: Reforged

The Review

What a fantastic game. I went looking for a hack that fully realized the sort of pokemon game we glimpsed in the Spaceworld ‘97 demo, and I was not disappointed.

This alternative version of Gold and Silver takes that Spaceworld demo and builds on it with loving care and attention to detail. All the beta pokemon sprites were freshly made from scratch or edited to update them for the final, polished Gameboy Color look. The pokemon movesets and stats were crafted so that they were balanced and didn’t contain placeholders, and the pokemon were populated throughout the world in a logical fashion. Dex entries were written and the pokes were integrated smoothly into the world. There are even different sprites and different encounter rates for Gold and Silver-- although you can ‘catch them all’ in either version, an excellent choice.

Meanwhile, the world map was colored, tweaked and polished, allowing us to explore that beta world that was stunningly different from the final Gold and Silver. It’s a place that in many ways seems even more vibrant and varied than final Gold and Silver, and is truly exciting to explore.

Along with this fully realized map, this hack’s creators also gave us a fresh new plot for Gold and Silver. This one was inspired by the differences glimpsed in the demo, including Oak’s increased involvement in the story, Silver’s different personality and role, and the inclusion of an Imposter Oak. The plot stays true to the style of pokemon games and doesn’t seem out of place.

All of the exciting little beta details were included too-- including the original Type alignments, the original Gym Leader designs, beta pokemon moves, new hold items, access to the Skateboard, being able to name your Mom, and even the minigame on the game start screen. The attention to detail and the polish on this hack is truly impressive.

Essentially, I feel like this hack can be considered the definitive edition of the beta Gold/Silver that we never knew. It gives us a chance to experience this alternative world, and breathes life into these wonderful pokemon that never were. Giving us a chance to know and love these beta creations is truly a gift for pokemon fans.

Perhaps the only downside is the sadness that this is not the official version of Gold and Silver. I experienced Pokemon a little bit differently then my peers. As a child, I adored Red and Blue, but once I’d finished with those games, I moved on from pokemon. I have no nostalgic memories of Gold and Silver to hold onto. I only returned to pokemon years later as a teenager. At that point I played several generations, one after another, at the same time, as a sort of “pokemon binge.” While most would call it blasphemy, I was never too terribly fond of Gold and Silver. I think it was largely because I didn’t happen to like a lot of the pokemon designs in those games. In many ways, this ROM hack presents a Gold and Silver that I adore and can love even more than the originals.

That’s not to say the official Gold/Silver games are all terrible, of course. There are still definitely some beta pokemon that I feel were axed or altered for good reason. Not all of them are better then the final cuts. And there are other elements that are an improvement, too; for example, I actually really like Silver’s storyline in the official games and the fact we dealt with a character who actually stole pokemon and treated them poorly.

That said, there is an awful lot to love in this ROM hack, and I’m grateful that we have it. Pangshi, Bellrun, Warwolf, Madame, Volbear and others may not be officially recognized by the Pokemon franchise . . . but they will always be very real in my heart.

The Team

Cinnamon (Flame Wheel/Crunch/Scary Face/Earthquake - Charcoal)

Selecting the starter was difficult, because both Honooguma’s line and Kurusu’s line appealed to me. Ultimately I think I went with my old Fire bias. Cinnamon was everything you’d expect a Fire starter to be-- powerful, intimidating, and very reliable. My only real complaint would be that I happened to strongly dislike the sprite the team had created for Dynabear. This isn’t really anyone’s fault, because the team did an excellent job with spriting-- for example, their sprite for the mid-evolution, Volbear, was incredibly good and I adored it to bits. I think it was just a matter of personal taste; I just didn’t like the final evolution’s face. (I’ve actually replaced the sprite in this picture with the original sprite, because I don’t want it to dampen my love for this species) Other than that, seriously, they did this evolution family justice. It was a joy to have on my team.

Doomsday (Curse/Confuse Ray/Body Slam/Shadow Ball - Power Wings)

The second member of my team was found in Brass Tower, to my great excitement: Kurstraw. This was possibly my favorite evolution line to come out of the beta discoveries. This pokemon’s stats were not exactly breaking any records; he went down pretty easily if I wasn’t careful. However, that never really mattered. Doomsday still did his job anyway-- pulling his weight just fine, relying on Confuse Ray and Curse a fair bit to take care of foes. He often was an excellent team player, messing with especially troubling pokemon before passing them over to an ally to finish off. His Normal Immunity also was a strong advantage at times, which I made sure to make use of. Basically, he was a fantastic companion, who helped me all the way through to the Elites and Champion fights.

Rumtum (Slash/Thunder Wave/Thunderbolt/Crunch - Leftovers)

Along with a Rinrin, this round good boy was added to the team next. I was slightly wary of Kotora because it seemed to be one of the most popular beta pokemon among fans. But, the pokemon does seem to be worthy of praise, as it turns out. It is an excellent, cute, cheery little creature and seems to do Pikachu’s job just as nicely as Pikachu, both in fighting and in charisma. Where Pikachu is focused more on speed, though, Kotora and its evolution focus a little more on bulk. The tanky tiger was able to take hits long enough to outlast the competition, even when working with relatively low basepower moves. When he *finally* learned Thunderbolt, though, man, look out -- he was quite a force to reckon with.

It’s funny, actually. When I first saw this tubby tiger, I assumed it was a fire type. Electric was somewhat surprising, but I quickly grew to like it as that typing. Most electric type pokemon are rodent-focused, as Pikachu clones, or Magnemite’s kin. Having a big, bulky tiger is unexpected for the archtype of electric pokemon, but it’s a very refreshing change.

Poprocks (Fire Blast/Surf/Body Slam/Flame Wheel - Mystic Water)

Next on the team was this awesome fellow. Well . . . sort of. Technically, next on the team was TRICKY the Bomsheal, which I traded a Rinrin for with an NPC. Later on, I felt like being able to name the pokemon myself, so I bred Tricky with Cinnamon and trained Poprocks up from scratch. This seal was the cause of some angst for me. I loved Manboo’s evolutionary line a lot, but I also loved the fire seal. They both vyed for the position of the water type on my team. For a while, I used Manboo (and Anchorage) . . . intent on keeping it. But I missed the seal so much, eventually I went back for it to retrieve it from the PC. Yes, it only added to my team’s Rock/Ground weakness, but I didn’t care. I loved this guy too much.

I’m not sure what it is. The freaking amazing typing of Fire/Water? That was definitely a big part of it. But there’s also just something so appealing in its design, simple as it may be. He’s just a cool seal with a fireball. And boy . . . I sure learned how INTENSE its stats were. This seal was RIPPING through the competition. Using it was basically pushing the win button. Honestly it might need to be nerfed a little, it was nuts. But yeah, Bomsheal is a badass and doesn’t need any evolutions to be cool. Best surfer ever!

Darkwing (Slash/Fly/Swords Dance/Faint Attack - Stick)

Right around when I was handed the TM for Fly, I ran into an area that had two types of birds available, depending on the time of day: Hoothoot at night, Farfetch’d at day. As cool as beta Noctowl looks, I eventually decided I needed to have a Madame. I just had to. Like many others, I always, always felt Farfetch’d deserved an evolution and was kind of screwed over. Learning it used to have one was a revelation.

Madame on this team was kind of funny, though. Next to all of these exotic beta pokemon, Madame seemed so . . . normal. She had moves and performed pretty much the way you’d expect a Normal/Flying type to act. It was much like using a Pidgeotto or Fearow. She couldn’t take many hits but usually could take out one pokemon. Her typing had her as an ideal Generalist pokemon-- something that could be used in various situations, not to any amazing effect but usually to a passable one.

That may sound a little underwhelming to you, but honestly, it’s what you’d expect of this cool-looking swan; it’s a Normal/Flying type. It fills that archtype as a familiar, dependable generalist. And I am someone who can really appreciate a generalist pokemon. I think the pokemon world’s richer for having Madame in it, even if only in our dreams.

Alpha (Strength/Blizzard/Screech/Ice Punch - Nevermeltice)

The final member of our illustrious team. You have to wait until fairly late into the game, when you reach the snowy towns, to get a hold of one of these fellows.But the wait is well worth it. What a beautiful pokemon design these two are-- mysterious little creatures hiding inside their wolf pelts, a perfect mix of cute and creepy. Wolfman/Warwolf actually struggled for quite some time on my team, unfortunately, just because of its movepool. I was left with the very weak Icy Wind for a long time. To compensate, I taught Strength, which worked somewhat, but I could still tell Warwolf wasn’t reaching its full potential. I taught it Blizzard, but the poor pokemon had a rough time ever landing its hits. What I SHOULD have done from the start is buy and teach it Ice Punch for a reliable STAB move with decent base power. I FINALLY decided to do that around the time I reached the Elite 4. I kind of had to-- its learnset wasn’t providing it with reliable, decent Ice moves, for some reason. Once Warwolf was properly equipped, he did great work. Admittedly, a pure Ice type pokemon isn’t the best, defensively. They have four weaknesses to some very common move types-- Rock, Fighting, Fire. (Steel moves weren’t really implemented in this game). That said, when used wisely, a pure Ice type can still be a valuable team member.

There was one hitch, though. Warwolf was mainly a physical fighter. This makes sense if you look at him. Of course he’d be a physical fighter. Thing is, in gen 2, Ice moves were all special. So I suppose technically Warwolf still isn’t hitting at his full potential-- not until the special/physical split in gen 4 so he can take true advantage of physical-type Ice moves. Still, despite that fact, he did a great job anyway. He landed the final blow that defeated Lance and won the game, after all.

I think my only real regret is how relatively little time I spent with him when compared to the others. This is, of course, just the nature of the game; you find some pokemon later on when you’re nearing the end of the game. If there’s any sort of post-game, perhaps I can spend more time with him.

And the Ones Who Didn’t Make the Cut . . .(This Time)

There were so many beta pokemon that it was impossible to have them all on the team, of course. I was especially sad about leaving my Bellrun, Tibbs, behind. I adore Rinrin and Bellrun’s line, as yet another set of pokemon that should have been included in the final cut of the official games. Alas, ultimately I removed Tibbs from my team, though. The reason was simple enough. With the beta Type alignments, Dark type was heavily disadvantaged. It was weak to Normal-type and Dark-type moves (as well as Bug), which was extremely significant. Pokemon’s movepools were positively saturated with Normal and Dark type moves, and it was impossible to avoid. With her already weak stats, and her lack of any decent basepower moves for so long, there was just too much stacked against her. It’s my hope that Rinrin/Bellrun get a bit of a buff in future updates, because they really seem to struggle.

In any case, there were also plenty of others not on my team: Aquarius, Noctowl, Belmitt, Jumpluff, Turban, Plux, Grotess, Girafarig, Leafeon . . . and so many more. Honestly, that’s fantastic. It gives such replayability to the game. I have no doubt I will return to do more runs and get the chance to try out other pokes.

And, who knows? Maybe in the future they’ll even update this hack to include even more beta pokemon that were uncovered last year. If they don’t, I’m sure someone else will.

(This hack is largely the work of lvl_3, who created ‘Pokemon Super Gold 97.’ Then, the hack was further changed and refined by a team into ‘Pokemon Gold and Silver 97: Reforged.’ Both can be found at the PokeCommunity as patches.)

#pokemon reviews #pokemon ROM hacks #pokemon fan games #mycontent #beta pokemon #spoilers

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aregebidan · 4 years ago

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Fëanáro is Glaurung AU, or: Arda’s conspiracy theories 101

@xirinofarvada Apologies once again for the endless wait! The first snippet (that ended up being a bit more than a snippet) is finally done, and I’m delighted to share it :D

This takes place toward the middle of the Third Age in an AU where Fëanor and Glaurung are the same being, through some creepy soul-magic of Melkor’s. Centuries have passed since his children have left the Halls, but he’s determined to apologize to them and show his love somehow.

word count: 4328 words content warnings: fire, blood, mild body horror

The soul had been a great many things in life: a newly awakened Quendë, a naive young thing on a journey, a tortured thrall, and eventually the hardened leader of his captured kindred.

He had finally perished in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, as the battle was called by the rest of the slain, on the third day— or was it the fourth? He could not remember many details of his time in Angband these days. The first time he had ventured out of his and his companions’ chambers in the Halls, he had done it to ask one of Mandos’ Maia why his memory was no longer clear.

You are healing, the spirit told him, and would have left it at that if he had not grabbed them by their robe and demanded further explanation.

I am grateful to be rid of my torments, but I do not wish to forget my comrades, he’d said. Is there no other way to go through this healing?

Comrades?

He would never forget the look of subtle distaste on the Maia’s face. No doubt they’d been spending too much time with the Noldor, the ones who had been killed in their original skin; most of those who had died as Orkor kept their familiar scars and disfigurements when they bothered to manifest, and Ainur, as a rule, tended to gravitate towards beautiful things.

The Noldor are worthy warriors, and far more kinder to us than your folk, the Maia snapped, pulling the thoughts out of his head. I will speak to Lord Námo of your predicament. Now leave me be.

The soul had huffed in frustration and begun the long walk back to his rooms.

He hadn’t reached them until three living days had passed. He had heard the stories, of course— so-and-so got lost and never returned, so-and-so wandered the halls for years until she wasted away and lost her physical form entirely. But words often made things seem smaller than they were, and he’d been unprepared for the sheer size of the Halls.

Mandos was a labyrinth of corridors and chambers closed off by hanging tapestries instead of walls, even larger than Utumno, though a few of his elders had told him it had started out small and expanded as more dead arrived. Silk veiled the gaps between the tapestries, shifting in the cold air like smoke. It was a rare thing to meet anyone by accident here, and difficult to meet anyone on purpose.

Which was why, on the day of his release, the soul had expected to be alone.

But then, he thought dazedly as the Prince of the Noldor advanced on him, Fëanáro Curufinwë has always been known to have a gift for the impossible.

He backed up a few steps, the floor cold and hard on his bare feet, making him wince. He had been in this new form for less than a day, and each sensation was multiplied; even the birdcalls that floated in from the other side of the door sounded like what he remembered of a fire-drake’s roar. Were there any of those left? It had been a long time, more than an Age, but the creatures had been made to endure…

The prince stalked after him, driving him away from the door and cutting off his line of thought.

In a world of smoke and shifting silk, the many gates to Mandos were the only truly solid things, carved of dead wood and secured to the walls by metal hinges. Looking at Fëanáro’s tall, crimson-robed form against this door, one might think he was back in his beloved forges, if it were not for his eyes. They glinted a bright, fierce gold, not unlike the jewelry and chains the Lieutenant used to be so fond of.

Gold? He frowned, then cursed himself mentally. Orcish faces were designed to be impassive, but his new Elda’s features would certainly betray his emotions. If anyone found out that he’d been rude to a prince’s face— well, there would be no real consequences, but he had spent so long relearning his manners, becoming civilized again. He couldn’t throw all that aside the second he was reembodied.

“My lord.” He bowed, perhaps not as deeply as he would for Fëanáro’s father, whom he had actually known things about besides “went mad and started a war.” I am his elder and his better, and have seen far more battles, he reminded himself.

Or rather, had to remind himself, because the fire prince was certainly living up to his name and reputation.

Flame flickered along his forearms in faint wisps of red and blue, painting a darkness across his face that never touched these bright eyes. His hands were stained black and tipped with long claws, and the mere sight of them— even now, all these centuries after his defeat— sent shivers up his spine. Pitch-dark hair slashed down the front of his tunic, crowned with a silver circlet that looked strangely fluid, as if it were constantly being melted down and reforged.

And then there were the other things. The prince moved strangely, as if he was not used to manifesting in his own shape; his eyes were too large, the whites near invisible, the pupils little more than black slits. Again the soul could not help but think of the Lieutenant before he spotted the thin line beneath Fëanáro’s cheekbone.

It was nothing more than an errant streak of silver paint in one moment, and in another a gaping chasm, as a crack in the earth, split open by the something churning beneath his skin. A bright, hungry sort of fire, not essentially malicious but rather entirely too much for this world, as if it would consume the hall and tear the sight from both their eyes without the cracked-porcelain mask of the prince’s face to keep it confined.

The longer he looked, the more such faults he could see: on the backs of his hands, his neck, even across his eye at one point. They were always shifting across him, lingering near his eyes as if reaching out to caress those long lashes. It was as if Fëanáro had the same troubles as he did, and couldn’t quite remember what his living face had looked like.

He hadn’t been so unnerved by someone since the first dragon-lord. The fire, or rather the implication thereof, was a creative way to fill in the gaps, but he shrank away from it all the same.

“Ai, Nirvë.” Fëanáro smiled, revealing row upon row of long, cruelly pointed teeth that shouldn’t be able to fit inside his mouth. The soul’s spine shook again. Nirvë, yes, that had been his name. He wondered briefly if his lord Finwë had been the one to tell it to his son, but no— the two hadn’t been as close since Alqualondë and the whole Silmaril debacle.

(A great chamber of iron and obsidian, a jagged silhouette on a throne and the golden one commanded by him, throwing him to the floor and snarling Have you not recovered it yet—)

This was getting out of hand. He would try to find a polite way to reprimand the prince on his disconcerting tastes, but first he would have to recover what was left of his dignity. He would stand tall, keep from running.

Golden eyes narrowed, a look he’d seen all too often in them both, and he backed into the corner. Perhaps Mandos would be merciful enough to re-disembody him right then and there?

“I have need of you.” The prince’s voice was low and inexplicably familiar, and grated on his nerves for it.

“I would suggest you stop trying to intimidate me then,” Nirvë shot back, beyond manners now and glad to know his mouth was not yet frozen. The more powerful Eldar could have that effect on people, he knew. His fellow Orkor soldiers had spoken of Maglor and Nerwen’s gifts, the way they could command stone and steel alike with their words. None who faced either of them head-on ever returned alive, and if the dead of the War of Wrath spoke true, the former had only gotten worse after he took in those clever twins of his.

And wasn’t Maglor just one of Fëanáro’s outrageously many sons?

This is getting out of hand, he thought.

Fëanáro did not heed his words; in fact, he gave no sign that he had even heard them, save for a slight tilt of his head, a surprisingly regal gesture in such a wild thing.

“I require you to take a message to my sons,” he announced.

“A message, my prince?” Nirvë managed. Before he was aware of it he was falling back into old habits again, trying to think up excuses to avoid the task instead of a simple refusal, thinking only to survive under a being that couldn’t be refused. He swallowed and ran through his list, perhaps a little shorter than it would have been in wartime. Fëanáro’s sons would not want to be bothered by a stranger. Even if they would believe his words to be truly from their father, which was a very big if, he had no idea where to find them, and…

“Ask one of the city guards for directions to the House of Maitimo,” Fëanáro said with a dismissive wave and almost Maia-like surety of his words, “and you will learn where they are.”

Nirvë could feel himself relaxing, resigning himself to the inevitable, but he put up one last defense for appearances’ sake. “And why would I agree to this?”

Fëanáro seemed surprised by the statement. It was the first time Nirvë had seen him look even vaguely like another elf. Something sharp and childishly spiteful reared up in him, catapulted into him straight from his claw-footed, Edain-hunting days. You thought a few pretty fires would be enough to bind me to your service? Fool!

But Fëanáro recovered quickly, and it was with another being’s face and sheer, stone-heavy presence that he responded. “What have you to lose from doing my will?”

“What have I to gain from doing your will, and what have I to lose from simply walking out of here?” Nirvë retorted.

Fëanáro’s eyes flashed the color of magma, as if he had been waiting to hear this exact thing. “Why, my Nirvë,” he laughed, “what makes you think I would let you simply walk out?”

The other elf felt his face drain of color. Instinct had him crouched down and looking for a weapon before his thoughts could catch up with him, before he could remember that this was Mandos and civilized places did not have spears and knives lying around on the floor. No, that had been Utumno, that had been Angamandi where courtesy did not exist and you could hear the Lieutenant’s laughter echoing off stone as he threw another thrall to his Valaraukar, or into the care of his master if he was feeling especially unmerciful. One more for me to break? Ai, my Mairon, you spoil me.

“Look at you.” The prince’s voice was everywhere, in his ears and the wind and the stars of the White Lady Herself. “You have been alive only hours. It would not be very hard to keep you here, even when I am like this.”

I have not had elven blood in so long, sang his uneven shadow and the cruel light inside of him. Let me out, let me out, let me have this one thing—

The heavy tapestries that served as walls shook, creating a sound not unlike that of beating wings; the silk doors fluttered and mist circled above their heads, briefly dimming the torches inside Fëanáro’s wrists. Wind tugged at their robes, whispering in Nirvë’s ear.

You will have your second life.

Nirvë shuddered. My lord Mandos.

“Námo.” Although now damp and thus robbed of much of his former splendor, Fëanáro glowered up at the mist, no doubt in disapproval of whatever the Vala was telling him. “Yes, I am aware of my relative freedom and the way it can be taken away. I am also aware that you are on the other side of the Halls, and that not enough of your will is gathered here to hold me for long.”

His voice had taken on the calm cadence of a practised lecturer, a father to many, but it exploded back into anger after several more seconds of listening. “A second life that I should have been given, whether or not you are comfortable with it! You would treat me as you treated the Enemy, when you and your kind owe everything to my children, including the company of their father, marred as he is.”

The wind sighed next to Nirvë’s head. Fëanáro Curufinwë is a special case, it told him.

“What sort of special case?” he asked it, curious despite himself. Yes, the prince had died in fire fighting the Valaraukar, but so had dozens of others. His appearance and power could not affect Mandos, so what could make him stand out to him?

Newly-kindled eyes snapped to his, and he flinched as the full weight of that gaze bore down on him. “One who would not have killed you, but is now contemplating otherwise.”

The wind hissed. It spoke no words, but Nirvë heard the message anyway: Such insolence from one so foul.

Fëanáro let out a short, harsh laugh. “Come now, fearful one, are you so easily fooled? I expected more wit from one who survived so long in Angamandi. I can do you no harm” —making a rude gesture at the mist above his head, ever defiant— “or Námo will have me locked away again. Will you not, my lord?”

Nirvë knew better than to say anything to that. In the few precious seconds of silence he went over the gesture again, wondering why it looked so damned familiar, like he’d seen it before. But such things hadn’t been invented before he was taken, and surely the prince couldn’t have talked to enough Orkor to learn it in his short time in Middle-Earth.

“It’s true,” he mused, “I have nothing but empty threats to convince you to do this. But I know you, Nirvë Elennion. I did not come all this way to see a stranger.”

That smile again. Where had he come from, anyway? Nirvë found himself regretting the way he’d spent his time in Mandos. The dead Eldar, particularly the Vanyar, had gone straight to the Vala himself to learn what he had to teach, while Nirvë had only helped a number of his soldiers with their healing. It was a worthy task, but one that had kept him busy. After several centuries here, he still knew so little about it.

“I know you.” For a second Nirvë thought he saw an oddly vulnerable look in the prince’s face, a slight dimming of golden eyes that had nothing to do with Mandos, but Fëanáro began to pace quickly, his hair hiding his face and his voice falling back into that confident, superior tone again.

“I have seen the way you scurry after Irmo and his Maiar, looking for someone to serve again. I have seen you try so desperately to become good again and judge yourself unworthy every time. What was it that you said to your friends? Each deed is a tally mark?”

Nirvë bristled. “That is none of your concern-”

Fëanáro only waved his hand. “I have been dead for millennia. Everything here is my concern. And what I have learned from watching you is that you want a cause to follow, and you want to do good things. I can give you that.” Another quick smile; he looked like Nirvë himself back in the old times now, explaining a strategy to yet another dull-witted squadron.

“And would it not be good,” the prince finished with another elegant gesture, “to reunite me with my children this way, since those above us seem to have no care for them?”

those above us seem to have no care for them

Nirvë stared at him, hands hanging limp in shock. “What did you-?”

Fëanáro raised an arched eyebrow as if to say, do go on, but he couldn’t finish. He was not in Mandos; he was back in the Halls of Iron, back in the throne room of unnatural black stone, covered in armor and scars and too tired to care about it. All he cared about was the still-healing whip mark on his back and getting his soldiers into position before they were punished again.

The Lieutenant had been in a foul mood that day; Nirve had had to reform the lines several times, putting everything in order the way he liked it. He kept one eye on his dark silhouette at all times, a mockery of elven-fairness that had earned him a good deal of reluctant admiration from those who had been taken at Cuiviénen.

This had better be good, the rogue Maia had muttered to himself, and Nirvë privately agreed. If they’d gone through all the trouble of organizing an assembly for nothing…

He avoided thinking about that. There was no time for thinking, anyway, not when the footsteps in the corridors closest to them were drawing nearer and nearer. The Lieutenant straightened up and commanded him to take his own place at the doors, and Nirvë complied with the order shoved into his mind, momentarily erasing all other thoughts.

He stood, bore silent witness as the doors creaked open, and gave way to something many of his brethren seemed to have mistaken for the sun itself; they threw themselves to the floor as the light streamed in, drowning the chamber in silver reflections that winked off dark stone like stars on the water. He was half tempted to follow them, but noticed that there was no pain when the light touched his skin.

This was no Vala’s siege-fire, then, but the old flame of Utumno. Whoever had the One deemed worthy of receiving it? Nirvë watched with bated breath as the light cleared, gold and black flames that danced in the air around the form behind it, a wicked serpent-like form tipped with claws of gleaming metal, led on by the unmistakable form of the One himself.

The new being’s golden scales constantly shifted and re-formed on his left side, showing the hard steel of his heart and the fire-river of his blood. Even more impressive was the intelligence visible in every feature, every tilt of his head as he listened to the One’s instructions.

Those in the West would have no care for the others, then, an unfamiliar voice said, seeming almost sad, and Nirvë silently committed the words to memory forever.

All the other beings of Angamandi and the old shapes of his comrades would fade from his mind over time, but this vision he knew he would carry to the end of the world. That had been the only time he had been stunned like that— and now, standing at the door for a second time, overwhelmed by the same being.

“My lord Glaurung…” he breathed.

It was as if he’d never left the Iron Halls; one second he was standing still, a strange sort of respect settled in his heart, and the next he was being pinned against the wall with claws pressed to his throat and blinding red eyes inches from his.

“You would dare,” the prince snarled, mouth widening as he watched to reveal yet more teeth; Nirvë smelled smoke from his throat, and that dark hair now seemed ready to ignite. He swallowed on instinct, drawing these eyes to his neck, only for Fëanáro— Glaurung?— to hiss in annoyance and fling him away.

He landed on the stone floor with a loud crack. The world vibrated; he groaned and touched his head, pulling himself into a sitting position with his free hand.

When he had managed to get back on his feet, the prince looked a little calmer, the fire and smoke that had surrounded him faded. Nirvë still kept his distance and was glad for it when he began pacing, fists clenched. Blood fell from his palms in heated red drops, nearly identical to Nirvë’s own and oddly out of place among the other aspects of his form.

“…five thousand years.” A low, fey laugh echoed off the tapestries, which had turned almost as hard as stone. Nirvë realized belatedly that they were probably meant to contain them. “Five thousand years I have been here, and all my attempts have been for nought.”

Attempts? Has he tried to escape before? Nirvë certainly wouldn’t put it past the prince, especially considering their… shared background. Still, that he was able to attempt multiple times was worrying. Mandos was supposed to have knowledge and power over all who resided in his Halls, and Fëanáro belonged to him as surely as he had belonged to the One. That must be why he hates him so much, Nirvë thought, and the wind answered with another sigh.

Yes, his distrust has only gotten worse after his enslavement. I have tried to tell them he does not fully belong to me, to send him to the realm of Ulmo where he can be less restrained, but they insist upon holding him here for now…

Does not fully belong to you? Nirvë frowned, watched Fëanáro prowl around the entrance hall for a few heartbeats before it hit him. The Silmarils. The One used to say they were the only thing that could control him…

Melkor was right about one thing. A shiver shot down Nirvë’s spine, and the voice took on a gentler tone. I am sorry, young one. I did not mean to frighten you.

“The fault is mine,” he said aloud. “I should be over this by now.”

“Over it?” Fëanáro cried, sweeping the floor with the hem of his robe as he turned on him. “Ai, yes, I know what you mean. You and Námo’s Maiar— all of you want to forget your suffering as quickly as possible, as if you could get over it now.”

Nirvë had been in many fights, but he had never been the target of such mighty disdain; each word from the prince’s mouth, however unreasonable, he felt like a lash on his skin. “As if you could simply put it behind you, like the selfish thing you are. Perhaps family means nothing to your kind, but I had children there!”

This last part he shouted at the ceiling, and now he focused on Mandos, blood still pooling on the floor beneath him.

“I had children,” he whispered, and broke off with a hitch in his breath, sounding almost pained. “Maitimo and Makalaurë, Tyelko and Curvo and Moryo, the Ambarussa, Ancalagon and Gostir, Scatha and Smaug.”

The last dragons of Middle-Earth, the broken and defeated heroes. All his and all precious to him.

What happened next Nirvë could probably chalk up to fear and excitement, but he’d never felt as rational as when he stepped up, took his lord’s shoulder in his hand, and said, “I will take your message to Maedhros.”

Fëanáro stared. The silence filled the room for an agonizingly long moment before he finally replied, “Why?”

“You need it,” Nirvë said out loud, and added in his head, I’ve no idea. Contradictory. Unclear. The Lieutenant would have his head for that; there must be an explanation, and he tried to create one as he went over his next words.

Perhaps it had been the children. He’d been a child once, after all. Taken by the dark powers before he could even reach adulthood, forced to grow up too soon, tortured and mutilated, but he had been a child, and he wanted to accept that.

“You don’t believe in second starts,” he told his prince, “but I do. You were right about what I wanted, and your sons do not deserve this silence from you.” None of them did, not even the ones with your own fire in them.

“Your hand is burning,” Fëanáro said distantly, then snapped back to attention, pinning Nirvë again with that wide golden gaze. Nirvë could see the desperation in them, the fever. Despite the pain in his hand, he tightened it around the crimson-robed shoulder. I will not leave you, my lord.

“Tell Maitimo.” The prince hesitated; Nirvë knew all too well what he was going through; he had had no idea what to say when he’d met the others who had been taken from the Lake of Awakening, friends long dead who he’d thought he had forgotten. “Tell them all that I am sorry for the pain I have caused them. Tell them I love them still- no, wait! Tell them I love them, but it is up to them whether they choose to return that love. They never knew that.”

Fëanáro was smiling, the words falling out of him, and Nirvë ached to see such unfamiliar glee on his face. “Tell Curvo to start standing up straight for once, Tyelko that he must stop tormenting his brothers, and tell Makalaurë— Maglor— that I am so proud of the twins. Tell him I am sorry for what I did in the Gap.”

Nirvë Elennion, Mandos warned. The door is almost closing.

Nirvë looked at himself. His physical form was beginning to fade again, becoming less solid, but Fëanáro would not let go. “Promise me,” he said urgently, “promise me you’ll remember everything. This last part is most important. Apologize to the Ambarussa for me as well, but you must tell them I will never let it happen again. In these exact words, do you hear me?”

Son of Finwë, it is time to go back.

“I understand,” Nirvë said simply, and then the door was opening and finally pulling him into the light of Valinor, the promised land he had never gotten to see.

A sense of almost childlike joy woke in him, and he looked back only to see Fëanáro leave, golden scales replacing skin before he took to the air in the shape of a great, winged flame, majestic and hopefully at peace at last.

#feanor #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien #feanor is glaurung conspiracy au #tolkien oc?#he's just like a window but #fanfiction

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merelliahallewell · 5 years ago

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Drustvar and the Light (my desperate case for Kul Tiran Light worship)

A while ago I wrote a post for /r/warcraftlore (that got expanded into a forum post) that examined religion in Kul Tiras in each zone. Some new things have come out since I wrote it and so I wanted to update it and post it here. It mostly focused on the Tidesages and the new lore we’d been given with them (BfA had just come out), but also poked at Tidesage influence in Tiragarde.

Drustvar, though, was interesting to look at. There’s no Tidesage influence to speak of anywhere in the zone- not a single NPC or building they use for their religion. this could be attributed to how most of the zone seems to be fallen to the Heartsbane Coven (and the Tidesages could be among those killed). Even in Fallhaven - which had yet to see any deaths to the witches and is close to the sea - there is no Tidesage. This one’s a doozy, continue under the jump.

On top of the curious lack of their presence in Drustvar, there’s also burial practices to consider- usually strongly tied to religion. In the Tidesage religion, burial seems to be less important than the collection of souls- to lay their dead to rest in Stormsong Valley, the Tidesages perform a ritual to let the souls flow through the Shrine of the Storm. There are no graveyards throughout the entire zone there, only tidesage markers for players to spawn at. Tiragarde Sound has some graveyards, but they are small and many of them do not even have stone grave markers, only wooden ones.

Drustvar, once again, is the odd one out. Not only does it have numerous graveyards, but it has Kul Tiras’ largest cemetery, Barrowknoll. In Barrowknoll, there is a small quest chain dealing with the Coven raising the strongest spirits of the dead (the Defenders of Drustvar) and putting them into wicker constructs. It seems that here, the souls and bodies rest together- meaning they are not released into the sea by Tidesages at all.

Overall, Barrowknoll is quite reminiscent of the places that Light-worshipping cultures lay their dead to rest, as shown behind Stormwind Cathedral, in Gilneas, at Sorrow Hill and Light’s Hope, and even the redone Arathi Highlands. It features the entrances to crypts (though they are blocked off by gates), and gravestones that are overall of high quality, unlike the simple wooden markers we see in Tiragarde. Most importantly, it resembles Forgotten Hill in Tol Barad- an island once under the control of mages from Kul Tiras.

One last curious burial bit is out in Corlain’s graveyard, on the other side of Drustvar. While most of the gravestones there are the standard models used in Whitegrove, one particular one stood out because paladin players walk past it in their class hall. It features a hammer and a libram- a statue that is meant to mark a paladin of the Silver Hand. Considering that Blizzard created brand new models for gravestones to use in both the Arathi Highlands and Kul Tiras, it strikes me as strange that they’d unintentionally place a single paladin’s marker in a graveyard in Drustvar. We may have had a paladin hail from Drustvar at some point and be buried in their homeland.

There’s more beyond simple burial practices, though. I mentioned the Defenders of Drustvar before, who were powerful spirits being raised by the Coven who had presumably been past heroes. Among them is a woman named Mercy Fairwater. She is one of the few NPCs in Kul Tiras to mention the Light expressly, saying “Light’s Peace be upon you, class.” She also bears the Greatstaff of Righteousness, a staff that features the symbol of the Church of Holy Light as a headpiece. This symbol is on various weapons associated with the Church, and Archbishop Benedictus even wielded these weapons in his fight underneath Wyrmrest.

Another NPC of significance is Inquisitor Erik, a mob added in 8.1. He is a member of the Order of Embers and spawns sometimes for Horde during their world quests. He is dressed in the garb of an Order of Embers inquisitor, yet his attack spells are Crusader Strike and Holy Smite. These are both Light-based attacks… could this really be just a coincidence?

Cleric Loriette is another 8.1 NPC, added from the outpost upgrades you can purchase from the 7th Legion vendor. She is added to Arom’s Stand, and can cast a buff on you called Blessing of the Order of Embers. Clerics are not an uncommon thing in Azeroth- there are the Clerics of Northshire as the most prominent ones, as well as Argent Clerics, Dark Clerics, Alliance Clerics… the list goes on and on. Nno matter what, these clerics are always religious in some manner, usually related to the Church of Light or the Cult of Forgotten Shadow. If Loriette is casting a blessing spell as well, something usually done in Azeroth by priests or paladins, it would seem that perhaps Light worship is implied. The spell effects seem to be orange and almost fiery, perhaps reminiscent of holy fire.

There are other NPCs too that seem to suggest some small level Kul Tiran Light worship, or at least ability to use it. While not based out of Drustvar, the Tol Dagor dungeon features Ashvane-aligned priests who perform the spells Inner Flames and Righteous Flames. The former has a healing effect, the latter is a damage spell. Inner Fire was a once a priest spell.

One last major point comes from Warcraft III: Reforged. While people expected some parts of Warcraft III to be “reforged” per Blizzard’s original word on it, there was also a lot of expectations that minor elements would also be changed to fit with recent lore- such as the Kul Tiran Chaplain unit from Daelin’s forces.

These light-wielding priests would have been perfect fodder to change into a Tidesage to fit with recent lore, yet the released models suggested a continued focus on the Light. The solar iconography of the staff’s head and the golden trimming of the gear makes it pretty clear that they are still using the Light. Since these models are unique and only meant for certain portions of WCIII’s story, there is no reason they could not have replaced them with Tidesages to fit with more recent lore. In my opinion, this is a pretty clear sign of at least some light worship being present.

Overall, it strikes me as strange that a region that’s primarily mountainous would look to the sea for guidance like the rest of Kul Tiras. Tidesages often bring the rains for crops in Stormsong Valley, but Drustvar has a number of streams and rivers to provide freshwater to its farming regions, and a large amount of snowmelt to feed them. Drustvar’s fishing villages are in disarray for the most part, and so the other part of Tidesage functions (blessing fishing and monster hunting trips, saying where the fish are biting, etc) are simply not present, but that may be more due to Coven attack than them not being there. With water needs taken care of and little ability to fish in the sea save for on the coastal villages, many part of Drustvar just do not have need for those portions of a Tidesage’s duty.

Unfortunately, there are a total lack of religious buildings in Drustvar to confirm or deny the possibility of Light worship. Whitegrove Chapel features no priests to speak of and is overrun by monsters when we arrive. Even going back in time reveals a wedding officiated by Lord Waycrest, rather than a Tidesage or priest of the Light. ”It is my honor to wed these two in the presence of the land, the sky, and the sea” doesn’t particularly sound like the words of a Light worshipper. Since this seems to be a nonreligious ritual conducted on his authority as the lord of Drustvar, it’s hard to know either way.

Given what’s been displayed between burial practices and NPCs, I’d like to think this post makes the case for some level of minor Light worship in Drustvar- it’s certainly nothing like Stormwind or Lordaeron, but I think that there’s some evidence it exists in the region.

5/15/21 UPDATE:

Hey so there’s more lore. Also, I updated some grammatical errors in the post because I abuse commas. All tiny, little snippets, but that’s sort of what Warcraft roleplay relies upon, right?

This comes from the “Total Cairnage” quests in Drustvar or whatever that chapter is called where you help the thornspeakers and rangers. This lady says this. Not much to say here, it is pretty explicitly Light-related.

This next piece is an interesting one I came across recently when looking up Arom Waycrest’s story. He would have been either a Gilnean immigrant or descended from them: the stories aren’t clear about how long the war with the Drust took, but it does seem to have been a long-running thing. Either way, the worship of the Light, per Chronicle 1 and 2, had begun long before the settling of Kul Tiras. However, what is important to mention is that the Church of the Holy Light did not exist for some time after the Troll Wars, several centuries.

The date of Kul Tiras’ founding isn’t entirely clear, but it relies on Gilneas existing and being established as a kingdom. Because of this, it’s entirely possible that the Gilnean settlers might have brought the early, pre-Church worship of the Light with them across the sea (but it is important to remember Kul Tiras was discovered by the Stormsongs, who were led there by the Tidemother). Arom, from this quote from a story about him, may have revered the Light. The Light being brought over to Kul Tiras without the Church element might explain why there’s no real organized reverence of it there.

But also, this is a story being told to kids from 2600 or so years ago, so who knows? Maybe it’s not true, and the narrator is unreliable. Also, “light” is not capitalized as a proper noun, but nobody really says “by the light” in this universe without the explicit reference being to the magic.

The last thing is not canon, but is an interesting follow-up to the Reforged Kul Tiran chaplains. This is a Kul Tiran Chaplain art piece from Hearthstone by Vladimir Kafanov. While Hearthstone isn’t canon, I found it interesting that this piece was done in March 2020, when BfA was almost over and Reforged had, uh... decided not to “reforge” elements of the lore because they abandoned the game. He wears Tidesage vestments and bears the mantle with the scrolls, which are very important in that religion. But he’s using the Light. Creative decision, blending of lore, or silly noncanon hearthstone thing? Who knows, honestly?

I hope that this post and the new updates might have made enough of a case for a minor Light presence on Kul Tiras. The Tidemother is still the dominant religion, but I personally see enough evidence here to include it in my own roleplay and headcanons.

#Drustvar #Kul Tiras #Light worship #please i need this to be canon #Warcraft #Lore deep dive

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themyriadmen · 4 years ago

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III: Muster

You walk away from the forge, one among hundreds. Your flesh is no longer your own - you feel new, cleansed in fire and oil and burnished to a mirror shine. Your thoughts are no longer your own - hymns echo through your skull, harsh and militaristic, divine chants to drive out the dark. Your soul is no longer your own - the impurities of self have been beaten out of you, the holes left over filled in with molten light. You came upon the castle as a boy. You entered the forge a squire.

You exit a blade.

You have no time to admire the newness of your existence before you and your brothers and sisters are called to present yourselves to the masters. You line in neat rows without instruction, your footsteps lighter and faster and silent as you pad, bare of sole and soul, to the courtyard. Not a scrap of cloth of iron shields you from the master’s gaze. You are clad only in faith, and they must inspect your resolve.

The world has never held such clarity to you before. The sky is too deep and boundless for ‘blue’ to hold any meaning against its splendor, the grass and treetops no longer green but instead the color of life itself. Your spirit quakes at the beauty, and you distract yourself by counting the bricks in battlements or the pores in the skin of the sister stood in line before you. You hear every shuffle of the master’s robes as they walk the ranks. You hear every breath your brothers and sisters draw, every beat of the hearts in their chests, and you send silent exaltations to know they all beat in time with yours.

Slowly, in ones and twos, a trickle of blades falls away from the formation. The masters judge, and at times they find their subject wanting. There are no shouts, no cries, no protestations, no pleas. The masters place a hand over the hearts of the unworthy, shake their heads, and another brother or sister breaks ranks and falls back toward the bellows. They will be broken and reforged, and you pray that in their next life they may find the perfection of form required of your service.

By the time your turn comes the sun has fallen behind the walls of the keep. You are no worse for your hours of motionlessness - you are as hale, as new, as you were the moment you exited the fire. When the masters arrive you are not nervous. You are distantly certain the emotion is not lost to you, but the need of it was carried away on pillars of smoke. You are as they shaped you, no more, no less. You are a work, and if the technique that crafted you was flawed then you yourself are flawed. If you are flawed you will be remade. That is the way of things.

One cannot repair the soul. They can only fire the coals.

You have been inspected as your mind wanders. You do not recognize the master - there are many of them in the castle, and much of its structure had been forbidden to who you used to be. He is an elder, the hair atop his head long since receded, leaving behind dunes of wrinkled flesh spotted through with the splotches of age. A wispy white beard spills down the front of his robes, and one hand strokes through it as eyes undulled by time mark your every inch. You see a flicker of something in those eyes - on a cold, quiet night some long years later, you will realize it was regret - and the hand not worrying his beard raises to your chest.

A shout draws the attention of the courtyard. One of the failures has broken before even the hammers touched his spirit, and he lashes out in blind violence, further sullying himself and the purpose for which he was made. Your brethren remain still while your seniors descend like wolves, wrapped in gleaming white surcoats and silvered mail. Some begin to usher the masters quickly away, while others form a barricade around the gnashing blade. New ears hear the song of a sword leaving its sheath, and a breath later the parting of flesh and the crunch of bone.

You are taken away to a new place, one of those forbidden hallways. You are told it will now be your home. Your guide congratulates the newness of your life, and bids you and your brothers and your sisters to sleep, for on the morrow your work begins.

As you lay atop the bed assigned to you, your head raises, and you look down at the ashen smudge of fingertips settled over your heart.

#ffxivwrite2020 #the king in black

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trinuviel · 6 years ago

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Was the Stark Ancestral Sword Ice the Original “Lightbringer”?

In a recent interview Nikolaj Coster-Waldau hinted that there might be a deeper meaning to the fact that Jaime Lannister and Brienne Tarth wields Valyrian steel swords made from the Stark ancestral sword Ice.

(The HuffPost)

Ice was a great sword of Valyrian steel that has belonged to House Stark for times immemorial. We see Ned Stark wield it in his capacity as Warden of the North in the very first episode of season 1 and he is decapitated by his own blade in episode 9 of the same season.

In season 4, Tywin Lannister ordered Ice melted down and reforged into two new swords meant for his son Jaime and his grand-son Joffrey Baratheon - so that House Lannister could once again have Valyrian steel (House Lannister lost their Valyrian sword Brightroar in when King Tommen II sailed to the ruins of Valyria).

That was a rather painful moment for fans of House Stark - seeing a symbol of their House appropriated by their enemies. Ice was made into two new swords. Joffrey named his sword Widow’s Wail (because he’s a little shit) but Jaime gave his sword to Brienne of Tarth who named it Oathkeeper.

There’s a beautiful sort of poetic justice to the fact that the remnants of Ned Stark’s sword are going to be wielded in defense of Winterfell and Ned Stark’s children. However, NWC’s words seems to hint that the deeper meaning of these two swords goes beyond the emotional resonance of this. In fact, his words reawakened a theory that has been puttering about at the back of my head for a while: What if Ice was the magical sword of the Lightbringer myth? It may sound like a bit of a reach - and maybe it is - but I have several reasons for thinking that Ice may in fact have been the original Lightbringer.

JAIME’S DREAM

According to the Jade Compendium, Lightbringer burned fiery hot when wielded in battle - it was, in short, a burning sword. Burning swords appear multiple times in ASoIaF as I’ve elaborated on in this essay. One of these times is during a dream that Jaime has in ASoS. When an injured Jaime is being escorted back to King’s Landing, he has a vivid dream whilst sleeping with his head on the stump of a Weirwood tree. In this dream, Jaime wields a burning sword:

“I gave you a sword,” Lord Tywin said. It was at his feet. Jaime groped under the water until his hand closed upon the hilt. Nothing can hurt me so long as I have a sword. As he raised the sword a finger of pale flame flickered at the point and crept up along the edge, stopping a hand’s breath from the hilt. The fire took on the color of the steel itself so it burned with a silvery-blue light, and the gloom pulled back. (ASoS, IV)

Brienne appears in his dream and she, too, is given a sword that takes flame:

Brienne’s sword took flame as well, burning silvery blue. The darkness retreated a little more. […] Brienne moved her longsword back and forth, watching the silvery flames shift and shimmer. Beneath her feet, a reflection of the burning blade shone on the surface of the flat black water. (ASoS, Jaime IV)

What is especially noteworthy here, is the fact that the two swords burn with a silver-blue fire!

This is a significant detail since the prophecy of Azor Ahai come again calls Lightbringer not only a burning sword but the Red Sword of Heroes!

"In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him." - Melisandre (ACoK, Davos I)

I’ve previously argued (here and here) that the prophecy of Azor Ahai may not be what Melisandre and the audience think it is. It is very possible that GRRM will subject this part of the story to a epic Prophecy Twist - and that the prophecy is not the promise of a saviour but rather a warning.

Now let’s get back to Jaime’s dream. In this context, this dream may foreshadow both he and Brienne will wield Valyrian swords in the Great War - but the fact that the swords burn silver-blue sets them apart from the prophecy of AA coem again. Jaime has this dream before he returns to King’s Landing where Tywin gives him one of the two Valyrian swords that he had made out of Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark.

Jaime gives this sword to Brienne when he sends her on her mission to find and protect Sansa Stark. He asks her to fullfill the oath he gave to Catelyn Stark and that is why Brienne names her sword Oathkeeper.

The second sword made from Ice was given to Joffrey who named it Widow’s Wail. It is unclear what happened to this sword after Joffrey’s death but it is assumed that it is kept in trust for Tommen until he grows older. Will Jaime eventually wield Widow’s Wail? I find this quite possible given this dream - and since Jaime does indeed wield Widow’s Wail in seasons 7 and 8, the show might just have spoiled this particular plot point.

However, Jaime’s dream might also hint that the two Valyrian swords made from Ice are special in a more magical sense. They burn like Azor Ahai’s magical sword Lightbringer burned, according to the myths and legends. Yet they burn with silver-blue fire as opposed to the red flames of the prophecy of AA come again. Thus, through this dream imagery, the remnants of Ice are connected to Lightbringer on the level of associative logic.

THE LAST HERO

The myth of Azor Ahai and the legend of Lightbringer are stories that have come out of Asshai, on the far end of the world. So could Ice actually be Lightbringer? This is where we have to take a look at the figure of the Last Hero, which is the character who is credited with leading the defense against the Others in Northern lore. The story of the Last Hero goes like this:

How the Long Night came to an end is a matter of legend, as all such matters of the distant past have become. In the North, they tell of a last hero who sought out the intercession of the children of the forest, his companions abandoning him or dying one by one as they faced ravenous giants, cold servants, and the Others themselves. Alone he finally reached the children, despite the efforts of the white walkers, and all the tales agree this was a turning point. Thanks to the children, the first men of the Night’s Watch banded together and were able to fight—and win—the Battle for the Dawn: the last battle that broke the endless winter and sent the Others fleeing to the icy north. Now, six thousand years later (or eight thousand as True History puts forward), the Wall made to defend the realms of men is still manned by the sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch, and neither the Others nor the children have been seen in many centuries.(TWoIaF, Ancient History: The Long Night)

(The Last Hero. Art by Roman Papsuev)

Who was the Last Hero? No one really knows but I’ve argued that you can make a case that the Last Hero was none other than Brandon the Builder, the legendary founder of House Stark, the architect of Winterfell and the Wall as well as the Hightower in Oldtown and Storm’s End, the ancestral seat of House Baratheon. Why do I think that the Last Hero was Brandon the Builder? It was this snippet of text in The World of Ice and Fire, the companion book to the series, that lead to my identification of the Last Hero with Brandon the Builder:

Maester Childer’s Winter’s Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell contains a part of a ballad alleged to tell of the time Brandon the Builder sought the aid of the children while raising the Wall. He was taken to a secret place to meet with them, but could not at first understand their speech, which was described as sounding like the song of stones in a brook, or the wind through leaves, or the rain upon the water. (tWoIaF)

In the myths of the North, the Last Hero sought the secret cities of the Children of the Forest - and now this piece of information from Maester Childer’s book Winter’s Kings or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell places Brandon the Builder in those self-same hidden cities. That is too much of a coincidence in my humble opinion.

If the Last Hero was indeed Brandon the Builder, founder of House Stark, then how does Ice come into the equation? Interestingly, in ADwD the text reveals another intriguing piece of information:

I found one account of the Long Night that spoke of the last hero slaying Others with a blade of dragonsteel. Supposedly they could not stand against it.” “Dragonsteel?” The term was new to Jon. “Valyrian steel?” (ADwD, Jon II)

Thus, the text hints that the last hero wielded a sword of Valyrian steel and that a weapon of this material could slay a White Walker. This is something that the show confirmed in season 5 when Jon Snow killed a WW with Longclaw, which is made from Valyrian steel.

The question now is this: How did the Last Hero/Brandon the Builder get a Valyrian steel sword before the rise of Old Valyria (the rise of Valyria and the Dragonlords is generally placed after the Long Night in the historical chronology of GRRM’s world). Furthermore, if Ice was the original Lightbringer, then what is the connection between the legend of Lightbringer and Valyrian steel swords?

THE MYTH OF LIGHTBRINGER AS AN ALLEGORY

I have previously written about how the legend of Lightbringer works as a subversion of the trope of the Magic Sword on a meta-textual level. Many readers fail to realize that magic swords already exists in Westeros!

GRRM has specified that Valyrian swords require magic for the forging, which means that every single sword made of Valyrian steel is, in fact, a magic sword!

However, he doesn’t specify what kind of magic is required to make Valyrian steel. Some fans have speculated that dragonfire was necessary to forge Valyrian steel and while I understand the reasoning it doesn’t strike me as particularly practical in its application. Instead, I think that there’s a clue hidden in the companion book in the section on the Free City of Qohor because the smiths of this Essosi city still know the secret to rework Valyrian steel:

The properties of Valyrian steel are well-known, and are the result of both folding iron many times to balance and remove impurities, and the use of spells—or at least arts we do not know—to give unnatural strength to the resulting steel. Those arts are now lost, though the smiths of Qohor claim to still know magics for reworking Valyrian steel without losing its strength or unsurpassed ability to hold an edge. (TWoIaF, Ancient History: Valyria’s Children)

It is a secret jealously guarded:

Maester Pol’s treatise on Qohorik metalworking, written during several years of residence in the Free City, reveals just how jealously the secrets are guarded: He was thrice publicly whipped and cast out from the city for making too many inquiries. The final time, his hand was also removed following the allegation that he stole a Valyrian steel blade. According to Pol, the true reason for his final exile was his discovery of blood sacrifices—including the killing of slaves as young as infants—which the Qohorik smiths used in their efforts to produce a steel to equal that of the Freehold. (TWoIaF, The Free Cities: Qohor)

This is an interesting story though it should be taken with a grain of salt, especially since Ice was reforged in King’s Landing by Tobho Mott:

Tobho had learned to work Valyrian steel at the forges of Qohor as a boy. Only a man who knew the spells could take old weapons and forge them anew. (AGoT, Eddard IV)

Mott, however, used magic when he reforged the ancestral Stark great sword Ice into two new Valyrian swords for House Lannister :

But Valyrian steel is stubborn. These old swords remember, it is said, and they do not change easily. I worked half a hundred spells and brightened the red time and time again, but always the color would darken, as if the blade was drinking the sun from it.(Tobho Mott to Tyrion Lannister, ASoS, Tyrion IV)

Whilst Mott was trained in Qohor, I seriously doubt that he could get away with killing someone unnoticed. However, it is possible that some kind of blood magic is involved in reworking Valyrian steel. Blood magic doesn’t have to involve murder as Melisandre demonstrates with the use of blood fattened leeches.

This brings us back to the myth of Lightbringer, which is the story of how Azor Ahai forges a sword in the holy fires of a temple and then quences it in the heart’s blood of his faithful wife Nissa Nissa:

A hundred days and a hundred nights he labored on the third blade and as it glowed white hot in the sacred fires, he summoned his wife. ‘Nissa Nissa,’ he said to her, for that was her name, ‘bare your breast, and know that I love you best of all that is in this world. She did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel. Such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.” - Salladhor Saan to Davos Seaworth (ACoK, Davos I)

(Azor Ahai and Nissa Nissa. The Forging of Lightbringer. Art by Amok)

The role of myth is a recurring theme in ASoIaF. GRRM plays with the idea that ancient myths contain a kernel of truth, a truth that has been distorted over millennia of retellings. A lot of fans seems to think that the myth of Lightbringer functions as a kind of recipe to create an extra-special magical sword. However, while myths contains kernels of truth in GRRM’s universe, they are not necessarily to be read in a literal manner. I don’t think that a prophesied hero will have to kill a loved one to make a magical weapon. I suspect that the myth of Lightbringer is to be read allegorically rather than literally.

The myth of Lightbringer tells us two things about the creation of this magical blade:

There is smith craft involved - “Azor Ahai labored sleepless in the temple, forging a blade in the sacred fires.” (ACoK, Davos I)

A blood sacrifice is involved - “Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel.”

This actually dovetails nicely with what GRRM himself has said about the making of Valyrian steel:

Q: A brief question about Valyrian steel - is it the metal that makes the sword so special (provenance, age, etc), or is it the forging (spells, techniques)

GRRM: Forging techniques and spells, actually. There is magic involved in the making of Valyrian steel. (x)

If we read the myth of Lightbringer allegorically then the sacrifice of Nissa Nissa signifies what type of magic was used in the creation of Valyrian steel, i.e. blood magic.

Let’s get back to the the legend of the Last Hero. As said, Sam discovers an ancient text in the library at Castle Black that states that the Last Hero slew a White Walker with dragonsteel, i.e. a Valyrian sword. In this context, it is worth noting that in Old Nan’s retelling of the story, it is specifically mentioned that the Last Hero loses his sword during his quest:

He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. For years he searched, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities. One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard the blade snapped when he tried to use it. (AGoT, Bran I)

A frozen blade shattering in the cold sounds a lot like what happened to Ser Waymar Royce when he duels with a White Walker in the prologue of AGoT:

His blade was white with frost; the Other's danced with pale blue light.

...

Ser Waymar Royce found his fury. "For Robert!" he shouted, and he came up snarling, lifting the frost-covered longsword with both hands and swinging it around in a flat sidearm slash with all his weight behind it. The Other's parry was almost lazy.

When the blades touched, the steel shattered.

A scream echoed through the forest night, and the longsword shivered into a hundred brittle pieces, the shards scattering like a rain of needles. (AGoT, Prologue)

The Others bring a cold so intense that it shatters steel swords. Only a magical blade might stand a chance against their ice swords.

If the Last hero was indeed Brandon Stark, and if he did indeed wield a blade made of Valyrian steel, then it is most likely that this sword was Ice, the ancestral blade of the House he founded. If this is indeed the case, the its very name, Ice, could obliquely refer to the fact that it was used to kill a being that was essentially “Ice Made Flesh” (I’ve argued elsewhere that the text implicitly depicts the Others as beings of embodied ice).

THE HIGHTOWER

Let’s just assume that Ice was indeed the dragonsteel blade that the Last Hero (Brandon the Builder) wielded against the Others. The question remains: how did he get his hands on a blade of Valyrian steel when the Valyrian Freehold did not yet exist? In this context, it is worth noting that the myth of Lightbringer and the prophecy of Azor Ahai come again appear to originate in Asshai and not in Valyria. Maybe the secret to forge Valyrian steel wasn’t actually discovered in the Valyrian freehold but in Asshai? This is where this essay gets even more speculative.

In this section, I’ll be drawing on a four part theory that the user u/sangeli published on reddit a few years ago (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4). The gist of this theory revolves around the hypothesis that the Valyrian Dragonlords weren’t native to the Valyrian peninsula but that they were the descendants of the Great Empire of the Dawn, which u/sangeli locates in Asshai. The chaos of the Long Night cause an Asshai’i diaspora (possibly because Asshai was ground zero of some kind of magical catastrophe that rendered the place sterile, which I’ve written about elsewhere). One of the places where the Asshai settled was the Valyrian peninsula and the companion book does offer some weight to this argument:

In Asshai, the tales are many and confused, but certain texts—all impossibly ancient—claim that dragons first came from the Shadow, a place where all of our learning fails us. These Asshai'i histories say that a people so ancient they had no name first tamed dragons in the Shadow and brought them to Valyria, teaching the Valyrians their arts before departing from the annals. (TWoIaF, Ancient History: The Rise of Valyria)

However, u/sangeli goes further and theorizes that some of the Asshai’i also settled in Westeros, more specifically in the location that is now known as Oldtown. It is one of the oldest, perhaps even the oldest of the cities of Westeros and its origins is lost in the mists of time. That doesn’t necessarily mean that it was founded by an Asshai’i disapora but u/sangeli presents the mysterious structure of fused black stone that constitutes the foundation of the Hightower as a piece of evidence for their theory:

Yet mysteries remain. The stony island where the Hightower stands is known as Battle Isle even in our oldest records, but why? What battle was fought there? When? Between which lords, which kings, which races? Even the singers are largely silent on these matters.

Even more enigmatic to scholars and historians is the great square fortress of black stone that dominates that isle. For most of recorded history, this monumental edifice has served as the foundation and lowest level of the Hightower, yet we know for a certainty that it predates the upper levels of the tower by thousands of years.

Who built it? When? Why? Most maesters accept the common wisdom that declares it to be of Valyrian construction, for its massive walls and labyrinthine interiors are all of solid rock, with no hint of joins or mortar, no chisel marks of any kind, a type of construction that is seen elsewhere, most notably in the dragonroads of the Freehold of Valyria, and the Black Walls that protect the heart of Old Volantis. The dragonlords of Valryia, as is well-known, possessed the art of turning stone to liquid with dragonflame, shaping it as they would, then fusing it harder than iron, steel, or granite. (AWoIaF, The Reach: Oldtown)

The base on which the Hightower rests is made from fused black stone in an unknown technique the is eerily reminiscent of the magical arts of Valyria. Yet the architectural style of this edifice shares no similarities with the architecture of Old Valyria:

The fused black stone of which it is made suggests Valyria, but the plain, unadorned style of architecture does not, for the dragonlords loved little more than twisting stone into strange, fanciful, and ornate shapes. Within, the narrow, twisting, windowless passages strike many as being tunnels rather than halls; it is very easy to get lost amongst their turnings. Mayhaps this is no more than a defensive measure designed to confound attackers, but it too is singularly un-Valyrian. (TWoIaF, The Reach: Oldtown)

I must admit that with evidence like this, I do find u/sangeli’s theory that the Hightower was founded by an Asshai’i disapora both interesting and convincing. As do I find their claim that House Hightower may indeed descend from these people, especially since the companion book also raises the issue of the origins of House Hightower:

The reasons for the abandonment of the fortress and the fate of its builders, whoever they might have been, are likewise lost to us, but at some point we know that Battle Isle and its great stronghold came into the possession of the ancestors of House Hightower. Were they First Men, as most scholars believe today? Or did they mayhaps descend from the seafarers and traders who had settled at the top of Whispering Sound in earlier epochs, the men who came before the First Men? We cannot know. (TWoIaF, The Reach: Oldtown)

The reason I bring up the Hightower in relation to the Last Hero and the secret of Valyrian steel, is because Brandon the Builder had a connection to the Hightower as the purported architect of its upper levels. Furthermore, the Hightower is associated with the Night’s Watch through the image of the Lighthouse as a positive image of fire - a beacon in the darkness, which I’ve written about elsewhere.

(Left: Hightower in Oldtown. Art by Ted Nasmith, Right: Sigil and Motto of House Hightower)

If we accept that there’s usually a kernel of truth in the myths and legends within GRRM’s fictional universe, then we may speculate that Brandon the Builder did indeed visit Oldtown and the mysterious fortress that forms the base of the Hightower. If u/sangeli is correct in their theory, then the people who inhabited this mysterious structure of fused black stone may have been Asshai’i refugees from the GEotD - and they may have known the secret of forging dragonsteel steel. The Hightower may indeed have been the place where Ice was forged.

All of this is, of course, highly speculative, if the Last Hero did indeed wield a blade made of Valyrian steel before the Valyrian Freehold existed, then I haven’t come across another theory as to why he would have had such a blade.

(GIFs not mine)

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #game of throne #lightbringer #ice #valyrian steel #azor ahai #the last hero #oldtown #the hightower #asoiafmeta #asoiaf meta #gotmeta #got meta

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totk-headcanons · 5 years ago

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Lynels

Link's father, Ganondorf, had long ago been touched by something greater. Most silver lynels had been slain, but his father bore scars that told his age, the trials he had endured to become the last silver. Link, just born, with his bright red mane, had often stared at his father, wishing for the brilliant purple stripes and black mane his father bore. Even as he'd explained that he gained them by being a puppet, that they were not something to be desired, Link wanted the marks of strength he bore. As Link aged, he decided they weren't for him. Not until he had white fur himself, at least. As his dark brown fur turned blue, his red mane pink, he focused more on honing his weapons. His father had taught him much, but there was always more to learn. He sharpened and reforged his arsenal constantly. Where his father welded a massive crusher, something that could rely on its weight and the strength of the user, he needed to continue to hone his technique and his blade. His father came by, once, a fresh scar on his chest, and Link chuffed at the sight of it.

"Getting into more fights, father?"

"Not of my choosing, son. But, I am not here to discuss the hate shown to me. I wish to see how your new blade is coming along." Link beamed, drawing the weapon and handing it to his father. He swung it experimentally, smiling. "What wonderful balance you have achieved! It feels like nothing more than an extension of my arm."

"As it should!" He took the sword back, putting it back in its place on his back. "I've been working on it for weeks, now."

"And you've managed to defend your territory between all that forging? Impressive."

"I didn't get rid of my last blade until I was sure this one would be better."

"Wise decision."

"Come, father. Let us hunt. There's a herd of horn beasts down in the valley!" Ganondorf smiled as his son began to prance a bit in excitement.

"It will be fun."

Link was visiting his father when it happened. Lynels did not fear storms, for cold did little to them. And whites and silvers were especially resilient. So he wasn't listening for the arcing of electricity, and noticed too late that his shield, sword, and bow were all drawing lightning too him. He screamed as the bolt struck him, collapsing once the charge had left his muscles. His father was next to him in an instant, helping him up and into a nearby cave where he could rest. He leaned into him, comforted by his presence. It would only be months later when he was shedding that he'd notice the yellow growing in. Stripes of his fur remained white, but most was a deep yellow. He was confused, but thought little of it. He found himself feeling like there was still electricity assaulting his muscles sometimes, only it didn't hurt. It simply felt like it'd strike his muscles and they'd react faster, feel stronger. Ganondorf was intruiged, but didn't press when he saw Link's disinterest in the change.

There was a hylian being chased into his territory by the stupid red ones. They'd often tried to communicate with him, but they'd failed. Certain words they spoke made his head fuzzy though, and he hated it. He hated the red ones. So he charged in, and the hylian screamed while the red ones cheered. It stopped when the first head came off. They vanished after two more deaths, and he chuffed, moving to the hylian. It stared up at him, and shakily reached a hand out, healing a wound on his leg. His eyes widened and he lifted it, ignoring the shriek of terror as he set it on his back. He headed toward a large cave on his territory, and stopped at the entrance, motioning for it to get off. It did, staring up at him. He pointed into the cave, and it quietly moved in further. He darted off. A tusk beast would make a good meal for the hylian. When he returned, it was curled up against a wall, making an odd stuttering noise. He set the tusk beast down, walking over and laying next to it, gently grabbing it and starting to groom it's mane. It froze, and the noise stopped. He finished grooming it and fixed its mane to how it had been before standing, going and getting the tusk beast. He sat it next to the hylian, who simply stared. Clearly it needed instruction. He tore a leg off and bit into it, smiling encouragingly. It simply stared. He huffed a bit, wondering how to get the thing to understand how to eat the tusk beast. And then it made a 'wait' motion and left. He followed, worried the red ones would come back for it, and watched curiously as it started gathering sticks and stones. When it began to make something, he was more confused. It was making a terrible furnace. But he watched, wanting to let it do it for itself. When it cut a small piece of the beast's side, skinned it, stuck it on a stick, and put it over the fire, however, he understood. He settled in the entrance of the cave, continuing to eat as he watched curiously. It started eating after a moment, and smiled at him. He smiled back, tossing the bones of his leg away, dragging the tusk beast to be within reach of both of them, tearing off another leg.

"Zelda." He looked at the hylian, tilting his head. It placed a hand on its chest. "Zelda." He hesitated, unsure if he was misinterpreting, and placed a hand on his own chest.

"Link." The hylian, Zelda, he supposed, beamed at him. He liked that.

His father drew his crusher at the sight of the hylian on his back, wary, but Link held his hands up.

"No need, father. This is my friend. Her name is Zelda. She healed me after I saved her from red ones, so I gave her shelter. She's been teaching me her language!" The hylian gave a sheepish wave to the older lynel, and he chuffed.

"Odd friends you make, my son. Greetings, Hylian. I am Ganondorf." Zelda's eyes widened.

"You speak Hylian!"

"Indeed. I am older than your castle, and many hylians have been kind before." The crusher settled back into its holder. The three settled into a cave as it began to rain, and Zelda began to explain why she'd been chased by the yiga, and her idea to, given their vast intelligence, attempt to bring lynels into the fold of the Hyrulean kingdom. Or, at the least, get them recognized as more than monsters.

*Blue (I am aware gold lynels are SILVERS that got struck by lightning, but it's my AU, and you can't stop me.)

#link #zelda #ganondorf #mod blue

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curiosity-killed · 4 years ago

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a bow for the bad decisions: Chapter 11

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(on ao3)

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Graphic depictions of violence, emotional/verbal abuse, major character death (chapter summary available at start of next chapter — please take care of yourselves!)

The talisman gate looks the same as it did all those months ago. Red and shimmering, a veil of blood in the grey air. Silence hangs heavy around them. Last time he was here, there were at least bird calls, the occasional chirp or caw of blackbirds fluttering near the borders. Their absence settles like a needle at the base of his skull. He doesn’t see who breaks the barrier, but he feels the split like a cold flood. Resentment bursts, scatters, rebounds off all the gathered cultivators like sparks escaping a fire. Gaping emptiness greets them on the other side, missing movement, absent life. The three thousand cultivators summoned by Jin Guangshan’s war call hesitate, shuffle amongst each other on the path. Jiang Cheng watches with something like disgust, disdain cold over the crackling, snarling anger burning in his heart. They were all so eager at the start, tripping over themselves to be the one to slay the Yiling laozu and now they stumble like juniors on their first night hunt.

Part of him, childish and willfully naive, hopes they’ll scare themselves out of attacking. Maybe they’ll remember the war, the legions laid to waste under Wei Wuxian’s command, and instead of thinking of killing him, they’ll think about how many of them are going to die here.

It’s a wasted hope. Someone steps forward, and once they’ve taken that step, it releases the rest of them to flood after. Jiang Cheng is swept along as much as he decides to follow. He is surrounded by cultivators calling for his brother’s head. His own disciples stick close to him, Xingtao and Bujue each leading a faction at his back. He doesn’t want to bring any of them. If any of them should have to go up this mountain, should have to go up against their shixiong, it should only be him. Wei Wuxian will never forgive himself for killing his shidis, he knows. It will wreck him if they fall here at his hands. They step beyond the wards, into the blade-like stillness, and Jiang Cheng thinks of Lotus Pier. A warning, a series of traps, the first defense — did Wei Wuxian follow the same pattern here? If he is the anchor, does that strengthen the defenses with his own blood or weaken him each time one is crossed? Worry has become a living thing, constant and hungry. They meet the first corpses when half the forces have passed the gate. The smell precedes them, that sweet-sour stench that permeates the air and congeals in the back of his mouth like sodden cotton. During the war, Wei Wuxian hardly seemed to smell it, as if he’d grown impervious to the reek, but Jiang Cheng knows: you never stop tasting the dead, the way it coats your tongue and sticks in your throat. Cracking sticks and limbs shade their steps, the wet squelch of half-rotten flesh through soft loam. There are hundreds, thousands of them. They descend like locusts, hands clawed, teeth bared. A Jin disciple stumbles in front of Jiang Cheng, body buckling, and they twist in a stuttered fall. Black hair falls loose around a scarlet gash, jaw torn away and throat ripped through. He brings Sandu up, slices through the corpse’s chest. Tugs her out of the rotting ribs. Pushes forward. Zidian cuts through the swarm, and the scent of burning flesh hangs heavy in the humid air. He presses on. Xingtao and Bujue’s swords flash at his sides. A Lan disciple with a birthmark like wine splashed across her cheek gives a sucking gasp at his side as a corpse punches through her chest. Jiang Cheng braces himself, but the corpse turns away, lurching toward a Nie disciple on the other side. He stares a moment, but there are others coming; he doesn’t have time to think, can’t waste a moment considering it.

They push forward up the rotting hill, and if the Yunmeng Jiang group pulls ahead of all the others — well, it’s just proof that they’re growing as strong as they once were. He tells himself this as Sandu cuts through corpses’ backs and sides, as gold and white and grey robes fall but never blue. He tells himself it’s only skill and perhaps some familiarity with Wei Wuxian’s cultivation style after so many years of association. Then they hit the second wave.

A high, keening scream pierces the air, cuts through the stench and yells and anger. He can’t tell who it is, but it comes from their side and it is nothing but unfettered fear. Cutting through the corpse before him, Jiang Cheng understands. He’s seen this before, a few times, when Wei Wuxian used the Seal in the war and called up the spirits of cultivators and beasts and monsters. He’s never seen it like this. It’s as if the Burial Mounds themselves are exhaling a great spirit in tatters and gasps. Black and crimson flood them, block out the weak sun and the ash-and-bone soil. Anger, rage, anguish, sets the air to crackling, lightning-surge power singing through it. The air burns his skin where his face and hands are bared, caustic. Resentment splinters and shivers down the veins of his neck, slipping like silver through his bloodstream. He twists and catches a scarlet spirit, half of a face snarling through the blood, diving down at a clump of Lan and Nie disciples. Before he can snap out Zidian, there’s a sudden pressure at his back, and he turns with Sandu raised. A great serpentine head rises in black smoke, monstrous and familiar. Stepping back, he shifts in front of Bujue and Xingtao. They have their blades raised, faces pale but set. The xuanwu pauses, its terrible grey-smoke eyes considering them. Jiang Cheng should attack, should strike now in its lull — but he remembers this beast, remembers the horror of it, of Wei Wuxian after, clutching that hideous sword. The xuanwu swings its head away, plunging toward a band of Jins. “Zongzhu, look!” Bujue calls. “Da-shixiong must be protecting Yunmeng Jiang!” It’s true, he realizes as he looks over their band. There’s blood on some blades and splattered across their robes, but it’s not theirs. No one is missing from their ranks; he can spy no grave injury. Elation surges up through his chest, sped on its way by the adrenaline of the fight. Of course Wei Wuxian remembers them. Of course he found some way to keep them safe. He dives forward once more, newly charged with hope. Wen Qing may be Wei Wuxian’s close confidant and the best doctor around, but she doesn’t know his brother like he does. Wei Wuxian has strength running through him like a pillar of forged steel. What other cultivator could stand against three thousand? Who else could face them down and still protect his family? He is the strongest cultivator alive, and his golden core was torn away. Strange pride surges through him, the savage and vicious kind that revels in fierce strength. It’s the kind that wants the other sects to know, to tremble before the brutal strength of Yunmeng Jiang, rebuilt and reforged in blood and death. The impossible is nothing in the face of Yunmeng’s sons. He cuts through spirits and cleaves them into nothing with Zidian. These are his allies, after all. A voice that sounds like his father’s says pledges made shouldn’t be lightly cast aside. A voice that sounds like his mother’s says keeping up the pretense will serve him however the wind turns. Behind him, he can hear the disciples do the same. Even as they fight and cut them down, the spirits don’t turn on them. They forge ahead, pulling up the mountainside. As they ascend, the resentment grows thicker and hungry, a clinging fog reaching out and tugging at them with claw-tipped hands. It drags at them, turns their steps leaden and breaths shallow. Worry nips at the back of Jiang Cheng’s mind, but then, this is such a virulent place. Wei Wuxian said it would be worse with a golden core. He must be fine, anchoring the center, or else how could he be protecting them still while fighting all the others? A clawed hand lurches out and seizes Jiang Cheng’s throat. He chokes, bringing Sandu up to hack at the wrist. The fingertips dig in even as the blade bites through bone, and he gasps in a painful breath and stumbles. He swings out with Zidian, burns through golden robes and a peony crest. The puppet sways and Sandu bites through its neck. Its head falls before the body, eyes white and empty. No, he thinks. Another puppet lurches toward them, a thin sword upraised. No. He refuses to accept it, can’t allow himself to believe as Xingtao narrowly escapes a fist through her gut. Puppets are rising through the black mist, cultivators from each sect killed and turned against their kin. His stomach twists, bile rising sour in his throat. They stalk forward unfalteringly and wield pejians that should rebel against so much yin energy. They are overwhelmed, subsumed and turned on end. They rush the gathered forces and show no memory of the Jiang. Jiang Cheng deflects a blow and runs a puppet through on reflex. Panic screams in his ears, and he bats it down. There’s no time to lose control, no chance to let himself slip. They are in a battle, and his destination remains the same. He has to get to Wei Wuxian before the others. He has to get to his brother, protect him, pull him back. His urgency doubles as the spirits around them turn with the puppets to tear into the Jiang force. A puppet swings at his chest, a hole through her heart and wine-red over her cheek. He lashes out, splits her ribcage open on Zidian’s fierce edge. Falling, she clears a glimpse up the slope. There’s a single figure ahead of him, white in the writhing black. “Fuck,” Jiang Cheng hisses, pushing forward. For all that they tried to persuade Wei Wuxian that Lan Wangji cared about him, deserved to know about his core, that doesn’t change who he is. Hanguang-jun has always been the most vocal enemy of demonic cultivation, of this unorthodox and unrighteous path. Now, with Wei Wuxian so clearly flooded by resentment, will Lan Wangji see anything other than a monster to be eliminated? “Wei Ying, stop this!” “Ah Lan Wangji, have you finally come to kill me?” His voice doesn’t sound like his brother. It’s too resonant, too sharp, like a dozen voices speak in chorus with him. Chills shiver up Jiang Cheng’s skin as he struggles through the resentment tugging lead-like at his legs. “I always knew we would one day have to fight for real.” “Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, “please.” His voice breaks, pleading and raw, and Jiang Cheng thinks, oh. Thinks, that explains a lot. Doesn’t think about all the ways he probably should have known before; doesn’t have time to think what it actually means except that he’s always wondered what Wei Wuxian is to Lan Wangji and now he knows. His brother is a tattered ribbon in a storm of black. His face is a too-pale slash, a bared skull in the maelstrom. Fear cinches around Jiang Cheng’s stomach, pulls tight. He struggles anew, desperate. “Wei Ying, please,” Lan Wangji begs. “Come back.” “Come back with you? To Gusu? To the righteous path?” Wei Wuxian’s laughter rises high and cutting. “Go to hell, Lan Wangji.” This isn’t right. This isn’t his brother speaking. It’s like the war again, like that horrible night in Yiling when his brother came back changed and wrong. “Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji begs. “You are destroying yourself. You promised you’d let me help you.” The Seal hovers at Wei Wuxian’s side, whole and writhing with malevolence. Jiang Cheng shudders before it, even from this distance. He can feel the cold hunger pulsing off it in waves, the leering anger. This close, he wonders that they couldn’t tell the moment when Wei Wuxian snapped it together. It is a wholly different creature than the resentment of the Burial Mounds. His mouth grows dry at the sheer power of it, and he wonders, looking at it and Wei Wuxian, who is the master and who the tool. “What help are you, Hanguang-jun?” Wei Wuxian scoffs. “What can you possibly do? Aren’t you going to kill me? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” “Wei Wuxian!” Jiang Cheng yells. Someone needs to get through to him, and it’s clear Lan Wangji is getting nowhere. He stumbles forward. “Wei Wuxian, stop this!” he calls. “Stop this?” Wei Wuxian turns to him, and his heart stops. This is not his brother. This is not even the Wei Wuxian of the war, who looked ghostly and crooked in his skin. His eyes gleam bloodred, his body half-there, smudged and ribboning with resentment. There is no kindness to the sword slash smile his lips form. “Why would we stop this, Jiang Cheng? Will they stop? Will they lay down their swords and let us be? Do you think there is any walking away from this? Poor Jiang Cheng, always the little brother,” someone else croons with his brother’s mouth. “Always chasing after someone you can never be. Are you going to miss your war dog, Jiang-zongzhu? Will you turn on us now that we don’t answer your whistle?” It’s not his brother. It’s not. His brother would never say these things — but — but that doesn’t mean he’s never thought them, deep in his heart, in that place he’d retreat whenever mother lashed out particularly harshly. It might be the Seal talking, might be the resentment of the Burial Mounds, but there’s no reason it’s not Wei Wuxian’s own beliefs. The thought makes Jiang Cheng stagger, eyes stinging. It’s not as if he hasn’t had the same thoughts, as if he hasn’t stayed up at night hounded by bitterness and envy echoing around his skull in his parents’ voices. He’s known since he was fifteen years old that he could never live up to Wei Wuxian. He’s known that no matter how hard he works, he will never be the sect leader that Wei Wuxian would be if their births were reversed. If he’d been the one born to a servant, he never would have risen so high above his station. His mother was right: he doesn’t have the backbone for it. “Look at you. Do you really think you could stop us? You’ve brought all the sects here,” his brother’s voice crows. “We’ll kill you all and finally be free. We will never be a servant again.” Jiang Cheng forces himself to stand and take a step forward. Fine. If his brother believes it, then let it be. Wei Wuxian can hate him if that’s what it takes, but if there’s one thing Jiang Cheng can do better than Wei Wuxian, it’s hold on. He’s always been too scared of being abandoned to be the one who lets go first. Mother sneered at him for being childish; Wei Wuxian teased him for clinging to his shixiong. So be it. “Wei Ying, you do not mean this,” Lan Wangji says. “Let us help you. Release the Seal and let us help. Please.” He seems to know Jiang Cheng’s there, but it doesn’t seem to matter. All that famous composure is sundered, blown away like ashes on an easterly wind. His voice is split open, raw with entreaty. Five years ago, Wei Wuxian would have thrilled at getting a fraction of a reaction from Lan Wangji. Now he doesn’t even seem to see it. If I lose control—

His fingers are skeletal against Chenqing’s sleek black. Resentment curls and unfurls all around him, loving and ravenous. His brother is still in there. He has to be. He has to — Jiang Cheng can’t lose him. He can’t lose any more, he’s not strong enough to survive it. “Wei Wuxian don’t you fucking dare,” he spits, stilling Zidian. “Don’t you dare. You think you can leave us like this? You think you get to abandon a-jie?” There— a flicker, the faintest hint of his brother in the furrow of his brow. “You made jie cry, Wei Wuxian, and now you want me to clean up the mess?” He��s not sure he’s making sense. He’s not sure it matters. Anything, anything to get that horrible stillness off his face, that awful question out of his memory. “Jiang-zongzhu,” Lan Wangji says, warning and confusion in his tone. Jiang Cheng ignores him. Whatever Lan Wangji feels for Wei Wuxian, he’s Jiang Cheng’s brother. He’s known him since he was nine years old. He knows him. He braces Sandu and steps forward. “Fuck you, Wei Wuxian,” he says. “You can’t make me do this. You can’t leave us like this. You promised.” His hand shakes as he steps into the storm surrounding Wei Wuxian. Resentment tugs at his robes, yanks on his hair, bites at the back of his throat. Each word stings his lips like a desert wind, gritty and biting. —you’ll stop me, right? He can’t do this. He can’t he can’t— he has to. Whatever foothold he’s made with Wei Wuxian flickers and disappears as he steps close. A cold sneer curves his lips and his crimson eyes glance dismissively at Sandu’s bared blade. “Are you going to threaten us, Jiang Cheng?” he asks, nearly laughs. “Tell us, have you ever bested Wei Wuxian? What makes you think yourself our equal now? Do you really think you can kill us?” “Go to hell,” Jiang Cheng spits. It’s not his brother. It’s not his brother. It’s possession, a monster wearing his skin. “Jiang Wanyin!” Lan Wangji lurches forward, reaching out. His sword is sheathed, guqin nowhere to be seen. Did he really think he’d cut through all this resentment with nothing but his words? “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” the demon with his brother’s face croons as he steps neatly out of Lan Wangji’s reach. “So protective. Do you still think you can save him? Do you think he’d ever go back to Gusu with you to be shut away and locked in? Lan Zhan, so righteous and noble, trying to keep him in your gilded cage. Do you want to know the truth, Lan Zhan?” Each step is agony. His shoulders are braced forward, teeth clenched. He wants to yell at Lan Wangji not to listen, not to give it an opening. Then, Wei Wuxian turns toward Lan Wangji and it’s his posture, his scowl and tight lips. No matter the crimson glazing his eyes, that’s Wei Wuxian. It’s his voice that comes out, all cruel and cutting. “Lan Zhan, I would rather die than go back to Gusu with you.” Lan Wangji stops short, stricken. His eyes have widened just a hair, his lips parted. He looks young in a way Jiang Cheng has never thought him. Even when they were all kids in Cloud Recesses, there was something ageless and distant about the Second Jade of Gusu. There is none of that in the sheer ruin of his anguish. Lan Wangji stands fractured in this wasteland, impossibly young. Wei Wuxian grins, a wicked, bloody curve. Before Jiang Cheng can move or call out, a yao of pure yin energy rises from the roiling clouds and slams into Lan Wangji. His white vanishes into the mist, swallowed whole by the darkness. “Wei Wuxian!” Jiang Cheng howls. He’s close enough now. Wei Wuxian turns with that stupid, obnoxious, hateful curl to his lips. Jiang Cheng only has to take half a step and thrust. Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen in dumb shock, that bloodletting smile finally slipping. Clenching his jaw, Jiang Cheng gives Sandu a short, sharp push. She bites through the teal fabric; he can feel when she hits skin, the brief resistance and sudden give of flesh splitting. It is the worst gift in the world, he thinks, to be trusted with this. He doesn’t want the privilege of his brother’s death; he doesn’t want Wei Wuxian to trust him to stop him. The memory makes something sour and thick rise up in his throat. He draws in a shaking breath and places a hand just in front of Sandu’s hilt to hold the blade steady. Just shy of his side, the blade won’t hit anything vital, won’t be lethal. With a golden core, it would probably take only a week to heal. He breathes in and pushes the the sword deeper into his brother’s belly. “Wei Wuxian,” he says. “Wei Wuxian, listen to me.” Resentment is still spilling, swirling, screaming, around them. It brushes past, misses his skin by a breath. His hands are steady. Everything else is shaking, spinning, crumbling around him. He presses spiritual energy through the blade and his own core seems to rebel, to recoil from this violation. “Wei Wuxian, come back,” he says, begs, pleads. “You can’t do this! You can’t make me do this. You’re my brother.” His voice comes out hoarse and broken, sobbing. He once hated his father for bringing home a stranger and telling him to be his brother. “You have to come back,” he orders, even as his voice breaks. “We said we’d figure it out together. You said you’d come home. You can’t leave me.” Sandu sinks deeper, slides home. Salt stings Jiang Cheng’s lips and he gasps around the knot in his throat. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. They were going to go home. They were going to go home and they were going to be together as a family once more. They were supposed to be together, brothers in this life and the one that follows. Wei Wuxian can’t just leave him, not like this. “Jiang Cheng.” It’s a whisper, fractured. Blood bubbles through his teeth, breaks on his lips. Jiang Cheng shudders, holds Sandu as steady as he can. “Jiang Cheng, it hurts,” his brother whispers. There are tears running down his cheeks, mixing with the blood dripping down his chin. His eyes are wide and frightened, and still that bloody, burning red. Jiang Cheng can feel his own tears burning hot trails over the edge of his jaw. He can’t let go, can’t pull back now. He’s lost so much blood. “You can’t die,” he orders, voice breaking. “You can’t die, Wei Wuxian. You can’t leave me like this.” It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair— His very core rebels against the spiritual energy he’s pressing into the blade. It’s wrong. He was never meant to raise Sandu against his brother. They were never meant to hurt each other, not like this, never like this. “Wei Wuxian, you promised,” he sobs. “You promised. You’d be by my side for life.” His eyes are still hazy with scarlet, resentment writhing off his skin like it’s peeling out of him. “Jiang Cheng,” he says, soft through the blood on his teeth. His lips part around a tattered breath. Jiang Cheng clings to Sandu as Wei Wuxian sways and his knees fold. He tries to keep the blade steady as they sink to the ground, tries not to let it hurt him anymore than he already has. “A-jie’s waiting for us, Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng sobs. “I promised her. I promised her I’d bring you back. Wei Wuxian, please. Please just let us go home.” A fragile smile shivers into Wei Wuxian’s lips. The Seal sinks into his upturned palm, and Jiang Cheng holds his brother’s gaze, begging. Wei Wuxian’s teeth tighten and grit together, pain carved into lines of tension through his face. There’s a burst of resentful energy that bowls through both of them and a horrible, snarling crack. Two halves of the Seal spin, burning and raging, before Wei Wuxian. Relief rushes through Jiang Cheng, such a heady wave he nearly loses his hold on Sandu. “Come on,” he coaxes. “Wei Wuxian, lets go. A-jie’s waiting for us.” That smile slips thin and shattered over Wei Wuxian’s lips. Jiang Cheng feels hope spread fragile veins from its root in his heart. “Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says, as soft and gentle as if it is a treasure in itself. “A-Cheng.” He reaches out the hand not holding Chenqing. His fingers don’t look quite right: two of them are bent at an odd angle and the rest can’t seem to straighten. Still, he reaches out for Jiang Cheng. “Thank you,” he says. He has no time to comprehend it. Wei Wuxian’s hand stiffens. The heel of his palm hits Jiang Cheng just below his collarbone with all the force of a golden core. He’s flung backwards, clinging to Sandu so tightly his own blood mingles with his brother’s. For a moment, it seems as if time itself has slowed; he can see the resentment crawling up Wei Wuxian’s body, can see the dark stain where blood is seeping through his robes. He can see the broken smile that tugs up one side of his lips as Wei Wuxian’s hand clenches tight and cracks spread through the Seal. He watches as the Seal fights and shudders and collapses in on itself in a tidal wave of resentment. He watches as the resentment scrawls up Wei Wuxian’s body like black hooks sinking into his chest and tugging. He watches as his brother’s body is torn to shreds.

#mdzs #cql #the untamed #untamed fic #my writing

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mirai-eats · 5 years ago

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Rewind and Start Over:: Noon

Bingqiu, rated M, 5,120 words, part 2/5, Incomplete

Angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, re-transmigration, Angst with a Happy Ending, Rating May Change

Modern science is so good it kept a dead man alive.

Shen Yuan is dragged forward but his feet are stubbornly digging in the ground. Luo Binghe is running as fast as he can to catch up.

- Binghe's perspective of Shen Qingqiu dropping dead back to life.

read on AO3

He promised. He promised he wouldn’t leave Luo Binghe ever again. Shizun said he would stay with him forever!

It fell away with the shatter of a broken teacup and a sharp inhale, his last gasp of air, from Shizun’s chest as his eyes rolled back and he collapsed in a heap on the other side of the low table. Luo Binghe cried out his name and lurched forward, the tea set shaking from the sudden movement. He shakily pulled Shen Qingqiu up in his arms, completely limp and not a trace of life left in his body. It was as if he’d fallen from the tower all over again- an empty kite with a hole in its wing with no cultivation or soul to give it flight.

Shen Qingqiu remained beautiful even in death, his layers of robes fanned out like he was a fallen flower, his hair loose from the impact of his fall and slipped from his silver and jade crown, a lock tracing his temple and the pale ribbons trailing his inky black hair like a green river in volcanic meadows. Luo Binghe gently lifted him, his name spilling from his lips and tears falling from his eyes stained the pale face already losing its shades of life and gave away to a deathly grey. There was no pulse, the warmth dripped away with each drop of a crystalline tear. No flutter of his eyelashes, no gentle rise and fall to his chest.

Luo Binghe worked quickly to preserve Shizun’s body all the while his mind scrambled to find a solution. There has to be a reason behind him suddenly dropping dead, something must have pulled the soul away. He promised! Something beyond his control had reached in and snatched Shen Qingqiu’s soul out from his body- the real body this time! He wouldn’t break a promise! Last time it was his useless father that had to pull Shen Qingqiu back to his real body from the Dew Seed body. There was no powerful demon to pull him away so suddenly, he was one of the most powerful demon lords there was absolutely no one who would dare to mess with him!

After pouring his spiritual energy into Shen Qingqiu and arranging him comfortably on the bed, he dropped the silken drapes to hide him away and set off toward Cang Qiong Mountain.

---

Even after digging through the whole of the mountain and threatening every Peak Lord and every disciple, he came up with nothing. No one knew anything and was shocked to learn of his sudden passing. He didn’t believe a word.

A scurrying mouse caught his attention and he chased after it.

---

“I don’t know anything!” Shang Qinghua squeaked in fright, the wall behind him blown in from the sudden force of Luo Binghe’s fist. He was trapped by Luo Binghe’s leering form, shivering under his glare. “I’m just as shocked as you are!”

“But you had a different look on your face when I told everyone,” Luo Binghe sneered. “You looked confused. Did you do something?”

“Nothing, nothing!” Shang Qinghua shrank deeper into his collar. “How-how about this. Leave me alone, but! I have an idea of how to get him back.”

“Talk,” Luo Binghe spat, eyes on fire.

“I have a hypothesis that his soul might… might have been sucked off somewhere far away,” Shang Qinghua stuttered. “You can easily go traipsing through the human and demon realms with your demon and human blood, but-but this might be beyond our reach. Don’t ask how! It’s an untested theory!”

“Who did this?” He drove his fist deeper into the wall by Shang Qinghua’s head. He whimpered pathetically.

“I don’t know!” He cried out. “But give me time, I’ll think of something to help Cu- Shen Shixiong out!”

Luo Binghe stepped back, a couple of crumpled rocks fell to the ground from the wall. “I’m going to continue physically searching. I’ll be back, for now, you must think of something before I return.”

With a flourish of his black robes he left. Shang Qinghua’s legs gave out and he slumped to the floor with a mutter of “scary, too scary!” under his breath.

---

Nothing. He searched every crevice of the mortal and demon realm, shouted to the heaven’s to give him back. There wasn’t a whisper of his soul anywhere. He dug through holes in the mountains, swam down to the deepest parts of the lakes, turned over every rock and leaf in the world and there was no Shizun.

He returned to Shen Qingqiu in his demon palace, resting in their grand bed and shielded away from prying eyes. He was stripped to his under robes, bathed in soft jasmine flowers, and his hair was brushed daily by Luo Binghe. It was always silky and knot-free. The long locks were braided loosely and he would lay him on his back and pull the silken blankets up to keep the chill off. His body was well preserved by Luo Binghe’s own spiritual energy as he did during the five year period of his death and for the first time in years, he went searching for humans with high spiritual power to help balance out his clashing demonic and spiritual energies. Every night, no matter how far away he searched, he always came back to lay next to Shen Qingqiu, curled up next to him under the blankets and cried real, hot tears onto his lukewarm chest, kiss each finger, bury his face into the junction of his neck and inhale the subtly sweet scent of jasmine flowers, tea leaves, and something that’s so distinctly Shizun.

Every morning he’d rise before the sun, press a kiss on Shen Qingqie’s forehead as he always didoes to his demon mark, fills him with more spiritual energy, and disappear to find him.

---

He reappeared to harass Shang Qinghua over half a year later.

“You need to reforge Xin Mo,” Shang Qinghua said. “But you’ll need to do more. As you might have found, Shen Qingqiu is nowhere on either world and the heavens have not sent a sign yet that he is with them. No soul has responded to inquiry, not unless he was split apart beyond anything recognizable, he must have been pulled far away.” His eyes shifted. He wasn’t telling Luo Binghe something. “But we can’t be certain. Try your alternate Bingge’s world and see if he’s been sucked in first.”

“That’s exactly what I’m planning. What will it take to reforge?”

To mine the steel of an immortal mountain, forge it in the fires of a mountain of blood, and slaughter a hundred thousand demons to stain the blade black with its malice. For at least one moon cycle it needs to be embedded in a corpse, preferably a full thirteen moon cycles but they were pressed for time.

“It won’t be as powerful, but it should be enough” Shang Qinghua finished.

Luo Binghe set off to start. How long it would take, he didn’t know. Shang Qinghua said it would take at least three years. He will do it in one.

—-

The cloying darkness of the mine was nothing compared to the anguish in his heart, the burning flames of the bloody mountain were nothing but an added flame to his determination. His hands were bloody and raw, his skin dry and filthy- almost like he was back in the Endless Abyss again.

Every night, he returned to bathe and curl up by his Shen Qingqiu, filled him with spiritual energy, then rose in the morning to take a human or two brimming with fresh spiritual energy and balance out his demonic energy. He wouldn’t have cared if the demonic energy laid waste to his body, but the flash of Shen Qingqiu behind his closed lids- laying stripped and raw and bloody from his uncontrolled hands would always send a shudder of fear deep in his heart. No matter the torment, how easy it would be to let go, he refused to fall for Shizun’s sake.

—-

The new sword was forged in record time (Xin Mo 2 is what he called it) and after a brief reprieve to rest at Shen Qingqiu’s side, kissed his naked cheek, wrapped his arms around his slim waist, and buried his head into his slender neck. He left at the break of dawn drained of spiritual energy and brimming with demonic energy.

First, he tracked down Luo Bingge’s world and traipsed through his cursed realm. It was colder here with Shen Qingqiu’s blood staining the soil. He crashed through the doors of Luo Bingge’s demon palace and found him in the arms of three wives.

“Get out,” he pointed his sword toward the three unfamiliar women. They quickly gathered their clothes and fled from the ominous blade, his ominous gaze.

“I thought you destroyed your sword,” Luo Bingge snarled. He lounged back on the large bed, uncaring of his nudity. He was exactly like Luo Binghe, minus his the scar on his chest and hand, the faithless look in his cold eyes, a cutting edge to his words.

“I did, but I needed it again.” He pointed the blade to Luo Bingge. “Where’s Shizun?”

Luo Bingge arched his brow. “He’s not with you? I only have the remains of mine, do you wish to see him?”

The bloody, lifeless hunk of flesh Luo Bingge kept preserved in his dungeons could not be Shen Qingqiu, the blood soaking the walls and floors and ceiling were not his Shen Qingqiu’s. He felt a whiplash of cold strike through his heart at the thought of and Shen Qingqiu suffering a fate like that, limbless, half-blind, wholly mad, completely shattered even in death. Sometimes, the corpse swinging listlessly from the chain would haunt the deepest recesses of his dreams.

“No. I need mine.”

Luo Bingge spread his arms in welcome. “Feel free to search my realm, turn over every stone and leaf, to find him. But know you are wasting your time.”

With a flourish of his robes, Luo Binghe turned on his heel and marched out of the bedchamber and proceeded to search.

This time it went faster with the help of his demon sword, stopping to flood his system with this realm’s cultivator’s spiritual energy then returned every night to put every drop into Shen Qingqiu.

When he dug through the last mountain, he laid on his back and stared up at the bleak, grey clouds and let his tears drip down to his hairline.

---

He broke through Cang Qiong Mountain’s barriers with ease and kicked down Shen Qinghua’s private chamber’s doors down. A startled screech met his ears followed by a rough thump on the bamboo floors. Luo Binghe went around the private screen to find Shang Qinghua half out the bed, his robes pulled open, and Mo Beijun sitting up next to him, blinking the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. He gave Luo Binghe a short bow of his head and pulled Shang Qinghua up off the floor.

“Can’t you knock? Politely wait outside until I let you in?” Shang Qinghua hissed, pulling his thin robes tightly over his chest. Mo Beijun’s hands were still resting firmly on his waist.

“Good morning to you, too,” Luo Binghe greeted. “Xin Mo 2 is done.”

“Xin Mo 2…” Shang Qinghua muttered, a look of disbelief crossing his features. “Okay, okay let me get dressed and we can discuss what to do next.”

Not long later, Luo Binghe sat with Mo Beijun at Shang Qinghua’s low tea table where he served them fresh tea and snacks. Xin Mo 2 laid across the table, it’s blade an obsidian black, a pale, green jade was mounted in the hilt.

“Interesting touch,” Shang Qinghua noted.

Luo Binghe nodded. “For Shizun.”

“We should test to see if we can reach him in the first place. Have you tried opening a portal yet?” Shang Qinghua asked.

“How do you think I got here?”

“Ah, makes sense. Okay, and you’ve checked Luo Bingge’s realm?”

Luo Binghe nodded darkly. “Get on with it, what else can I do?”

“Since it might be such a far reach, you might not be able to reach him. Here, I thought we could use this to help. Mo Beijun brought this back from the demon realm we might at least be able to use this to catch a glimpse of where he may be at before you go jumping into any portals.” Shang Qinghua stood and bustled to the back of his house, emerging a moment later with a large, smooth obsidian disk. It was about the size of the tabletop, the surface polished to a glossy reflection where even after he cleared off the table and placed it in the middle, his fingerprints dissolved on the surface before their eyes. It didn’t radiate malicious energy as most things from the demon realm would, but a sort of calming threat as if it can strike if striked first.

“Luo Binghe, can you slash the surface with, uh, Xin Mo 2?” He asked him.

Luo Binghe nodded and stood. In one fluid movement, he drew his sword, cut the starless surface, and sheathed it.

The slash in the middle where it was precisely cut seemed to suck in light, the polish surface that had their faces reflected around a moment ago swallowed by the expanding black hole until they were looking down a dark hole carved through the wooden table. They leaned forward, breaths held to catch a glimpse, a sound, of anything.

After a moment of nothing, Shang Qinghua piped up. “You focused on Shen Qingqiu specifically, right?”

“What else would I be thinking of?” It’s not like he could have anything on his mind but Shen Qingqiu.

“I have another hypothesis,” Shang Qinghua stood. “Try again, but let me hold the sword, too.”

Luo Binghe grasper the hilt and pulled it away from Shang Qinghua’s outstretched hand. “No.”

“Do you have any ideas?” Shang Qinghua snapped, a moment of boldness. There was a tilt to his tone, an unfamiliar accent Luo Binghe here crop up when Shang Qinghua thought he was out of earshot with Shen Qingqiu. “I don’t like this either but… ah, I really hope I’m wrong, please Binghe let me try just once?”

He kind of didn’t want Shang Qinghua’s hands anywhere near him or his sword, but he pushed that away and hesitantly held out Xin Mo 2. For Shizun, he told himself. Shang Qinghua’s clammy hand wrapped around his and together they raised the sword and slashed the obsidian mirror.

Like the first time, a black void spread across the surface, but then there were blinding lines of green accompanied by a high pitched, repetitive noise. Shang Qinghua next to him choked on a gasp, a barely heard “oh fuck.” muttered under his breath.

“How did you do that?” Luo Binghe asked. “Why were you able to open a portal to him, and yet I, his own husband, wasn’t?”

Shang Qinghua didn’t answer right away, his eyes glazed over, a similar look She Qingqiu would have sometimes. Mo Beijun watched Luo Binghe and Shang Qinghua with sharp eyes, not caring for the mirror at all. It took a moment before Shang Qinghua responded, blinking himself back down to the present.

“How do I start- uh, I guess with the most obvious, no use tiptoeing around it anymore,” Shang Qingqiu straightened up, his eyes focused on the trailing green lines. “Shen Qinqiu and I transmigrated into this world together. I was hoping my assumptions were incorrect because as being the creator of this world I could come up with a way to get him back, but by the looks of it he was pulled back to where we came from. I have no jurisdiction over there.”

No one spoke, the repetitive noise from the mirror echoed in the chamber.

Surprisingly, Mo Beijun broke the silence first. “Are you a god?”

“Oh my god no, no? Uh, well, yes maybe?” Shang Qinghua was flustered. “I’m a writer back in our realm. This is a story I wrote to pay the bills. I… I died due to unforeseeable circumstances and transmigrated into this world a long time ago at the beginnings of Shang Qinghua’s life. Cucumber bro was a devoted reader who also passed away, a heart thing or whatever. Remember back, what was it, I think twelve, thirteen years ago? When Shen Qingqiu suffered from qi deviation and was changed, losing his memories and his nasty personality?”

Luo Binghe’s heart pounded in his chest, trying to absorb this new knowledge as calmly as he could. This person, this not-Shizun who is Shizun but there hasn’t been a Shizun in many years is the one he’s so thankful for.

Shang Qinghua continued. “This realm’s Shen Qingqiu passed away and as Cucumber bro died cursing my novel, his soul was plopped into his body and told to fix the story if he thinks it’s so terrible.” He turned to Luo Binghe, his accent tilting once again to something he used privately with Shen Qingqiu. “The Luo Bingge you met who tried to take Cucumber bro, that’s the original Luo Binghe I wrote. All because Cucumber bro swore to hug your thigh and treat you better, the whole course of the story changed from my daring stallion novel to this BL. Isn’t that crazy? So many people are alive now all because Cucumber bro took the reigns of this story and changed it for the better.

“Aaah, I originally wanted to write a BL, but it’s not what my readers wanted!” He flopped back down to the ground with a sigh, the harsh green light emanating from the obsidian mirror throwing shadows across his face. “I needed money, I hope you understand but seeing the original scum villain making the protagonist fall in love with him, even I didn’t see that coming!”

“Protagonist?” Luo Binghe finally spoke up. “Scum villain?”

“Yes, you.” He pointed up to Luo Binghe’s looming figure. “You’re the ultimate protagonist! And now Cucumber bro went and made you gay on accident. I’m not terribly mad, but there’s still so much fanservice we’re missing out on!”

“Why did you write such a shitty protagonist the first time around?” The thought of Luo Bingge being his original counterpart made him sick to his stomach.

Shang Qinghua gasped, clutching his chest. “I’ll have you know that despite hating the work as a whole your husband adored the protagonist!”

At that moment the high pitched sound stopped and the green light faded, putting their conversation to a halt. They all leaned forward with their heads crowded around the obsidian mirror as the green lights fizzled away and replaced by a dark room.

Luo Binghe held his breath afraid it might shatter the surface. The room was barely lit, shrouded dark except for lines of pale light striping the edge of the bed and floor. Everything looked weird, too square and smooth. There was a person on the bed, curled up improperly with an arm thrown up, a pale hand knocked against the headboard and a tuft of dark hair were the only things visible.

“Your world is ugly,” Luo Binghe noted, examining what he could see of the smooth walls with glossy portraits hanging from them, the simple furniture all had items he couldn’t figure out what was for. Clothes, at least he assumed so, were spilling out of a basket in the corner and draped across a chair, piled at the foot of the bed, even on the bed. This is most certainly his Shizun’s room, and that must be Shizun asleep.

“Our world is practical, now hush let’s see if he’s gonna wake up,” Shang Qinghua said. As if roused by them, the figure in the bed shifted, rolled over and stretched. He reached over and grappled something on the side table, a smooth, black item that was rectangular and sleek like the obsidian mirror and brought it under the blankets with him.

“A scrying mirror?” He asked.

“Not quite,” said Shang Qinghua

They watched as the figure shifted again and pulled himself up. This man was not Shen Qingqiu, his face too slender and his cheeks too low, the brows and nose broader and his lower lip was fuller to an almost natural pout, but Luo Binghe suddenly recognized those features as to that of the Dew Seed body Shen Qingqiu hid himself in, the features on that one only a 40% match to his body but the other 60% was unmistakably this.

The difference was the short hair. It made Luo Binghe want to weep, especially how it stuck up flat on one side and was a tangled mess on the other. The not Shizun, yawned widely, uncaring for his posture as he slouched down and rubbed his eyes and face hard to wake himself up more. The clothes he wore were unusual, the sleeves short, only reaching to his elbows, and there was no tie to indicate how he got in it.

Not Shizun rolled himself out of the bed, shuffling papers and books that were tucked in the folds of the blankets into a pile and stood with a stretch. Luo Binghe choked and pushed Mo Beijun, turning to Shang Qinghua to do the same but he already had his eyes closed and turned away with a shout of “I’m not looking!” Not Shizun didn’t have anything on his legs! His legs were completely bare, save for the little piece of garment hanging from his hips that barely passed the tops of his thighs. Luo Binghe wanted to cover his eyes for Shizun’s privacy, but also he couldn’t help take in the figure

Shen Qingqiu was slender like a steel-blade, but this Not Shizun (he will never call him Cucumber bro) was paper-thin as if the slightest breeze would send him tumbling. The ends of his hair barely traced his nape and his skin was pale to the point it was almost sickly. Not Shizun leaned over the side table again and put a weird contraption on his face, blinking blurrily into the clear glass and stumbled out the room, most likely to freshen up.

“I think,” Shang Qinghua started. “We were able to locate him only because I have a link to this world too.” He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes through his whole explanation, his gaze firmly fixed on the shapes of the furniture, a melancholic notes to his words. “You should be able to just jump right in and get him back but how will you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“He has two bodies and one soul,” Shang Qinghua pointed out. “He can’t easily leave his current body without dying again, and Shen Qingqiu is only preserved due to you dutifully replenishing him with spiritual energy. How will you get him back? And consider this.” Shang Qinghua straightened up, an unusually sharp look in his eye. “Will he want to? This is how he lived, everything he knew, until a little over ten years ago he suddenly died and was thrown into a whole other culture and told to survive. He lost his friends and family, everything he worked at and was blessedly given another chance of life but not his life. Now he’s back somehow and he’s clearly making strives to live life to his fullest. Look.”

He pointed to the mirror and Not Shizun was back pulling on clothes that covered his legs and arms, but they were so form-fitting they left nothing to the imagination! His socks barely covered his feet and he watched him roll up the leg of his pants a little, revealing tantalizing ankles. The papers and books he had piled up at the foot of his bed were put into a strange bag and with a strange sound, he sealed it shut, tucking the obsidian rectangle into a pocket at his side. His hair was smoothed down (except when he turned, there was a stubborn cowlick on the back of his head), his face flushed with wakefulness, and he left the room.

“I’ll… we can figure it out once I see him.” There was a moment of silence, the sounds of Not Shizun moving around in another room. “I need to see him at least and if he doesn’t…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

There was a loud clacking sound from Not Shizun’s end followed by the deafening sound of a door shutting, muted clicks concluded his exit.

“I’m heading over.” With a solid location finally set, trying to hold back his hands from quivering, he raised Xin Mo 2 and slashed open another portal, one that will link to the little, messy bedroom viewed in the obsidian mirror. The image in the mirror dissolved without Xin Mo 2’s energy directed into it.

“Wait!” Shang Qinghua stopped him. “Promise me you won’t leave the room until Cucumber bro comes back! Don’t go running after him you might cause a scene just- just wait there in the bedroom until he returns.”

Luo Binghe harumphed and stuck his foot through the portal. “No promises,” he said and lept through.

---

The room was cool, cluttered with unfamiliar items yet done familiarly, like when Luo Binghe first moved into the bamboo house and found out despite his immortal exterior, his Shizun was a mess.

At first, he politely sat by the bed on his knees facing the door, ready to greet his Not Shizun the moment he came home. He watched the light grow brighter through the weird window covers, strips of white that only allowed light in like prison bars. The golden lines moved across the bed, a hum came from outside the window, people moving around above him, below, to the sides.

Curiosity finally got the better of him and he stood to explore the room. Everything was blocky, made of strangely smooth, cool material that wasn’t wood sometimes but lighter, sometimes hollow. The weird white bars on the windows could wiggle. He peeked outside and was met with a textured wall, down below was a grey ground framed with sparse grass between the narrow alley. He turned to further explore the room.

Everything was strange. Books bound in hard casings lined the towering bookshelf, stacked on the floor and dresser. God statues and portraits hung on the walls in vibrant, glossy colors. Clear cups with gunks of something stuck to its sides made Luo Binghe’s nose twitch.

The room was strangely stuffy, outside sounds muted by the hard walls and floors. There was an uncomfortable itch to his neck. Guilt ate at him for snooping around his Shizun’s room and he quickly shuffled back to his spot and knelt on the weirdly soft ground, back straight as a blade and eyes trained on the door with a guard dog concentration.

---

The sun trailed across the room, a peak of a muted blue sky from the pains of glass was the only sense of time he could gather. He could wait, he waited for three years, he waited for five more, and after finally- finally - receiving his Shizun’s affections, he had to wait another year. Determination was the only thing leaving him from straying too far into an aimless wander, but it was still an aimless path he carved himself. Now here the aimlessness was coming to an end and all he had to do was be patient, very patient.

Luo Binghe was a generally neat person and his Shizun was not, but here it felt like he had given up on even trying to keep anything somewhat orderly. It’s fine, it’s one of Shen Qingqiu’s cute traits that only he has the pleasure of knowing about, but a mess like this with the undertone of something rotting in the air mixed with dust and dirty clothes, he couldn’t take it. After sitting diligently on his knees for a few incense sticks time he sprung to his feet and started a mad dash to clean. He easily found the source of the rotting smells (a bowl of something with green fuzz starting to stick to the bottom, a cup with a handle with black stains on the bottom and rim, and a few crushed metal cylinders that read it was energy drink on the sides) and didn’t hesitate to throw them in the can by the door with more trash in it. He gathered all the clothes on the bed and set to sorting out the clean from the dirty based on smell (and if he stuck his nose into a soft coat to take a really good sniff of this new smell he could associate his shizun with, who would know but him?), and gathered the remaining books and stray papers back onto the bookshelf.

It was in the middle of neatly cramming the clean clothes in the wardrobe did he here the distinctive click from the doors opening. He froze, wanting to run out and greet the Not Shizun and yet unsure if the rule applied to him staying in the bedroom only or the entire house. Not wanting to cross any lines and realizing he wasn’t done, he quickly went back to trying to put away the rest of the clothes, dumping the dirty remnants into the wicker basket already packed full. He rolled to the ground and started picking up anything he could, accidentally bumping into the bookcase and one of his god statues came tumbling down. With a suppressed curse on his lips, he brushed her off and gently placed her back up, along with the snapped off arm and did a quick prayer for forgiveness.

He bodily slid back to the ground to his knees by the bed facing the door, trying to adjust his robes to make him look less disheveled. Quiet footsteps were approaching the door slowly, his Shizun was back! He’s almost here! He gripped his clammy hands to his pants in anticipation almost vibrating on the spot.

A sudden clatter and painful, hollow-sounding thunk echoed outside the door instead. Panicked, Luo Binghe lurched to his feet and in two long strides opened the door to find-

The Not-Shizun from the obsidian mirror, sitting upon the ground, one hand holding some weird contraption and the other held up on the narrow wall. The weird lenses he wore had slid down the bridge of his nose to reveal his wide, frightened eyes and his hair was tousled much more than when he’d originally left. With a shaking hand, he pushed it back up to his eyes and the fright turned to shock.

“Binghe?!”

#scum villain self saving system #scum villain #svsss #bingqiu #luo binghe #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #mxtx #fic #shen yeet #m writing the last chapter now but progress was slowed due to uh finals but im gonna have it all done in 2-3 weeks #uwu #forgot to post it here oop #the rating is uh pribably gonna b E thats why its taking me so long to finish oop

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