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artemis-entreri · 5 years ago

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[[ This post contains Part 6 of my review/analysis of the Forgotten Realms/Drizzt novel, Boundless, by R. A. Salvatore. As such, the entirety of this post’s content is OOC. ]]

Genre: Fantasy

Series: Generations: Book 2 | Legend of Drizzt #35 (#32 if not counting The Sellswords)

Publisher: Harper Collins (September 10, 2019)

My Rating: 2 out of 5 stars

Additional Information: Artwork for the cover of Boundless and used above is originally done by Aleks Melnik. This post CONTAINS SPOILERS. Furthermore, this discussion concerns topics that I am very passionate about, and as such, at times I do use strong language. Read and expand the cut at your own discretion.

Contents:

Introduction

I. Positives I.1 Pure Positives I.2 Muddled Positives

II. Mediocre Writing Style II.1 Bad Descriptions II.2 Salvatorisms II.3 Laborious “Action”

III. Poor Characterization III.1 “Maestro” III.2 Lieutenant III.3 Barbarian III.4 “Hero” III.5 Mother

IV. World Breaks IV.1 Blinders Against the Greater World IV.2 Befuddlement of Earth and Toril IV.3 Self-Inconsistency IV.4 Dungeon Amateur IV.5 Utter Nonsense

V. Ego Stroking V.1 The Ineffable Companions of the Hall V.2 Me, Myself, and I

VI. Problematic Themes (you are here) VI.1 No Homo VI.2 Disrespect of Women VI.3 Social-normalization VI.4 Eugenics

VII. What’s Next VII.1 Drizzt Ascends to Godhood VII.2 Profane Redemption VII.3 Passing the Torch VII.4 Don’t Notice Me Senpai

Problematic Themes

No Homo

Boundless continues to perpetuate some long-standing regressive to outright harmful ideas, as well as introducing new ones. There are two that are the biggest. The first is something that's existed for over two decades in the Drizzt books, and something that I've criticized Salvatore for for a long time: the fetishization of sapphic relationships. While Boundless is an improvement (and a bit of an oddity for Salvatore) in that it doesn't include any gratuitous lesbian sex scenes or allusions, it still very much perpetuates an imbalanced representation, such that it wouldn't be fair to describe it as true representation. Yet again, despite it being canon that the default sexuality in the Realms is pansexuality as opposed to heterosexuality in our world, the only people that we see in Boundless that are capable of same sex attractions are female. Ever since the token gay guy Afrafrenfere's epiphany that everything else he'd been engaged in, which includes his deceased boyfriend, was a distraction from enlightenment, there hasn't been so much of an implication that men could be attracted to other men in Salvatore's Realms. There exists more chemistry between Harbonair and Zaknafein than between Zaknafein and Dab'nay, which is rather sad given that the latter pair are actively sexual with each other. There's of course the possibility that Salvatore just doesn't know how to write gay male chemistry, but to be fair, his heterosexual chemistry is pretty bad. Most of it is just sex or another physical act spontaneously happening that triggers a change in the nature of the relationship, for instance, the start of the relationship between Entreri and Calihye. There's so much background "everyone is heterosexual" stuff going on that to be inclusive, Salvatore just needs to mention that there's more than one man in an orgy rather than it always being one man to many women. Or, better yet, use an example directly from the world canon that other authors have used, namely, that the workers of a brothel or attendants in a temple of Sune are of more than one gender and that a male client is greeted by both male, female, and other gender-identifying attendants. Casual inclusion of this nature isn't difficult, and we see Salvatore do it with sapphic stuff enough that leads me to believe that it's a choice on his part not to be fully inclusive.

An example of when Salvatore could've gone for inclusion, but instead went for fetishization, is in the scene of Dahlia infiltrating a Waterdhavian nobles' ball:

This isn't much better than gratuitous lesbian sex scenes at the total exclusion of gay men. It's completely unnecessary for Salvatore to have specified that women also drooled after Dahlia; simply stating "people" would've been sufficient. It's not like Salvatore doesn't have many chances and setups where he can drop a hint that gay men exist in the Realms like he does so frequently for gay women. Oftentimes, Salvatore's writing feels very much like he realizes that there's "too much" chemistry between two male characters, such that he has to throw in a "NO HOMO" wrench. For instance:

While there isn't anything inherently gay in this passage, there isn't anything inherently gay in so many places where Salvatore artificially injected "these women are sapphic" indicators. Yet here, between two male characters, it's specifically clarified that it's brotherly love. Love is love, it shouldn't have to be clarified like this. Sure, some people might jump to romantic love, but so what? This was a good opportunity to at the very least, leave it vague, but apparently Salvatore can't stomach it enough that he has to cross the possibility out with a bold black marker (maybe its the same sharpie he uses on the tapestry of Faerûn). It's as though the possibility of romantic love between two men somehow taints the sacredness of their bond. Salvatore's writing style is very old-fashioned and set in its ways, but that's no excuse not to change. Despite his espoused views on social media, Salvatore's lack of representation in his writing suggests a discomfort that he doesn't want to address. This is increasingly problematic as we try to push to a better world with more acceptance and equality. Inclusion isn't truly inclusion if it's done with only a portion of the population.

Disrespect of Women

What Salvatore does with sapphic women is fetishization, which is additionally problematic because it's a short hop from objectification of women. This point is one that I haven't touched on much in the past, but it's glaring in Boundless because in this novel, Salvatore also tries to demonstrate respect of women. Salvatore has a long history of poorly-written female characters. In his books, a female character's most redeeming characteristics were that she was hot and young. For a while, I could tell which female characters were there to stay, which were doomed to die from the get-go, and which would suffer horribly as they met their inevitable end. It always had to do with how physically attractive the character was, and usually with respect to how she measured up to Catti-brie's beauty. Not counting female villains like Sheila Kree who were not coincidentally unattractive, protagonist characters weren't spared this treatment. For instance, Delly Curtie didn't hold a candle to Catti and could barely find happiness with Catti's rejected suitor. By the same token, Innovindil, who, despite being a full-blooded elf, wasn't as beautiful as Catti, and was subsequently very short-lived. Dahlia, another full-blooded elf who wasn't as beautiful as Catti, admittedly didn't die (yet), but what she went through is arguably worse. Dahlia is portrayed to be very much second best to Catti, from her looks to her rejection by Drizzt to Catti outright beating Dahlia in a fight. So, of course, Dahlia gets stuck with Entreri, who's frequently portrayed as second best to Drizzt. Salvatore does deserve credit for trying to break the mold with Penelope Harpell and Wulfgar, but Penelope's appearance doesn't leave much of an impression. We're reminded multiple times that she's an older woman, and the focus is on her personality, but with how often younger female characters' physical appearance is mentioned and re-mentioned, it gives the impression that Salvatore doesn't believe older women can be physically attractive. As always, Catti-brie was an exception to the rule, for even in her mid-forties, "her form, a bit thicker with age, perhaps, but still so beautiful and inviting to [Drizzt]", a characterization that follows another sentence describing how beautiful she was barely a page prior. But we don't hear such about Penelope, instead, we're told about the strengths of her personality, which are admirable, but only become the focus for her, rather than for a young-appearing strong female character like Yvonnel the Second. This is not to mention that someone's form probably shouldn't be characterized as inviting, as that is something the person should do, not something done by the person's looks. The objectification of women is problematic enough on its own, but instead of addressing the issue, Salvatore appears to consider it sufficient to put in a significant anecdote featuring a temporary character to prove that he is an ally to women. The mysterious "demon" possessing the little girl Sharon is painted as a moral adjudicator, entrapping the evil in its unbreakable cocoons filled with wasps that have human faces. Before this "demon" entraps Entreri, it ensnares an old man, whom we're simply told is an old lecher, with no insight about what makes him such and what wrongdoings he'd committed. All we know is that he and his wife attempted to kidnap Sharon and threatened to kill her if she resisted. It's not very clear what's going on in that scenario or what the couple's intentions were. The man's description shifts suddenly from nothing to "old lecher", and he is damned to an eternity of suffering. But how was he a lecher? Was Salvatore trying to imply that he intended to sexually assault Sharon? Or was human trafficking one of his many sins, with the "lecher" part referring to how he is towards women? While all of these crimes certainly warrant harsh punishment, the message that Salvatore's trying to convey isn't clear. Furthermore, the anecdote gives the reader zero satisfaction in the guy's punishment, because we're only marginally invested in what's happened. His anecdote is nothing more than a cheap and lazy setup to illustrate what the "demon" can do.

Social-normalization

The second of the two worst among Salvatore's long-standing problematic themes is the simplified and social-normative qualifications of what makes a person worthwhile. To put it simply, one is good and just if they are the Companions of the Hall and/or act like them, despite the many many ways that the Companions behave unheroically and hypocritically. On the flip side, one who doesn't subscribe to or follow the model of the Companions is evil, bad, or not worthy of existence unless they change to become like the Companions. Of the latter group, it isn't sufficient to change to become a different version of themselves. For instance, during the demonic assault, Zaknafein throws himself into the fray of battle, risking his life, yet again, for his ungrateful son. Yet, Drizzt's takeaway from watching his father do this is, "joy to see his father so willingly risking his life for the cause of the goodly folk of the Crags". There appears to be a subconscious inconsistency here on Salvatore's part, for he even writes that Zaknafein helps the dwarves because Zaknafein knows it's what his son wants him to do, so removing Drizzt from the picture, Zaknafein wouldn't be doing it solely on behalf of the dwarves. Zaknafein isn't Drizzt, and that's a good thing, for not everything needs to be a Drizzt clone, but Salvatore doesn't seem to agree with that assessment.

Salvatore doesn't seem to realize that Drizzt is the problematic one. Boundless represents a point in time in which it's been awhile since Zaknafein has returned. During this time, while Zaknafein has been trying to adapt and adjust his worldviews, Drizzt's perspective hasn't changed at all, despite Jarlaxle spending a great amount of time talking to him about Zaknafein and presumably helping Drizzt get past the initial emotional turmoil of the return of Zaknafein and his own struggles with reconciling the past and the present. There's also a double-standard here, for while Entreri is forced to change because enough time has gone by, Drizzt isn't.

It really seems to be the message that the only characters that are good and valid need to be as close to Drizzt as possible, and this belief applied to Entreri has been the cause of the assassin's increasingly poor characterization. Entreri has become a "better person" by the narrator's approximation, a quality that is, yet again, not coincidentally synonymous to being an ally to the Companions of the Hall. Artemis Entreri may very well have become a better version of himself, but that is not, and should not be, becoming more like the Companions of the Hall. By whose definition is "a better person" anyway? By Drizzt's? By the Companions'? It's often the case that those that believe that they are the definition of what's right and define others' morality relative to themselves are the least qualified to do so.

Eugenics

Although not as prominent as the two themes already mentioned, one final consistent problematic theme of Salvatore's in the Drizzt books that I'd like to discuss is the idea that mediocrity and excellence are inherited traits. Boundless reminds us yet again that all of the offspring of Rizzen are as unpromising as he is, and while it isn't specifically stated that all the offspring of Zaknafein is very much otherwise, we have over thirty books basically telling us that so it probably doesn't need to be repeated. While it is true that genetics do play a role in determining what makes up a person, genetics do not lock in guaranteed results. Yet, the undistinguished Rizzen sired "the mediocrity of Nalfein", and as though that insult wasn't bad enough, "His pants fell down, too. Again, and as expected, unimpressive." Dinin "would do Rizzen proud", but that's not saying a whole lot because it was in the context of the total failure of Nalfein. There's a further level of problematic theme here, for perpetuating the stereotype that a man's worth is at all related to the size of his genitalia. All of that aside, not everyone is privileged enough to be born to top specimens, and those that weren't inherently already have a struggle on their hands. They don't deserve to have the idea that they'll be mediocre no matter what perpetuated. Genetics might be what makes an individual, but what defines them is the actions that they take.

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nelrunari · 6 years ago

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❖ And the Dream calls: Aias Nym Qidove.

Character Name: Aias Nym Qidove

Pronouns: He/him

Age: In the mid/late 300s

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of violence, death, eye trauma, cults

Appearance:

Aias is short for a draakelf, but still a large 6’5 and very broad by elf terms. He looks about as strong as he is, for sure. He’s covered in little bronze scales, most visibly around the edges of the face and backs of the ears. Some, at this point have turned silvery, and some, black.

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DuqVfHiUYAAUnOo.jpg:large

Personality:

The definition of a lawful good paladin, Aias is a gentle soul. He seeks to do whatever good he can, no matter how small the deed in the name of his own personal morals and those more justice-leaning of Bahamut. He believes deeply that there is a spark of good in everyone, and will almost to his and the other’s detriment, try to make them see and bring it out in them. Coming from a culture that was very touchy, he often misinterprets personal space allowances even hundreds of years later, but will respectfully back off if he’s made aware. He happily assumes the role of someone to give guidance or shelter to anyone and everyone. While he’s charming, and carries with him plenty of life experience, naked intelligence has never been his strong suit. He has something of a martyr complex, and will withhold information from a person or many people if he believes it could bring them harm, thinking it is up to him to carry all the burden thrown his way.

Positive: Forgiving, Sincere, Compassionate, Optimistic

Negative: Secretive, Overbearing, Trusting, Fearful

Background:

Born Nym Qidove, oldest of three, he lived on a secluded island of other dragon elves, kept secret from the main lands via magic and centuries of painfully careful secrecy. Aias could see that the power that ruled over the land, known to them only as The Order, had maybe just one or two bad apples among them, and since childhood, sought to become part of the guard to change this from the inside to protect his friends and family. But he was a skinny, weak little thing, unsuited even for the farm work of his family, and too clumsy to work with his father in crafting jewelry.

The day he was old enough, he joined the island guard, and consequently had quite the hard time. They sought to bring out a vicious fury from all their soldiers, but Aias had no unbridled anger in him, and one such attempt to wrest it from him very nearly lost him an eye, and scarred him deeply across the left of his face. He was dismissed and given a different job, “tax collecting”, in a sense, a conceptually low combative profession. After an incident that left him to paranoid to remain around his society any longer, he took the first chance he had to escape, and abandon everything to disappear into Faerûn with only a heavy, cruel looking greatsword he stole off one of the Order guards before fleeing.

Life on the mainlands was tough with no understanding of the common tongue, and it took him a few years and many kind holy souls to teach him the basics; sleeping in churches, in the stables of those who would hire him for a day’s labor, or occasionally on the streets. He made his way eventually to Kingscrest along the Sword Coast, and after many attempts and failures, was drawn into the crownsguard, the drive to protect never leaving him despite how deeply fearful he had become. He became the personal guard to the queen for many years, joining an adventuring crew for a time to confront a force of evil in that land before. During that time he learned to depend a little more on the people around him, and bolstered his bravery enough to, with a heavy heart, leave them behind in new pursuit of wrong-righting and getting stronger, planning to one day return Home and hopefully drive the evil force there out.

He was gathered in by another group that wandered around the country of Ælea to fight the good fight and search for possible ways to solve a problem he refused adamantly to talk about for a hundred long years. And the lot of them, who came and went, became known across the land as legends. At some late point in these years, the scars were removed from his face with magic and he felt a little less burdened by his past, growing brighter and more confident. Aias sought ways to as he would say “remove the curse” that had been placed on his people by weapons like that blackened sword he always kept wrapped up, and eventually brought it to a master smith who knew as much about weapon making as she did about magic. By her hammer and prayer the sword was whittled down and much of the dark magic it was filled with dispersed, leaving only a long blade, “made of the strangest platinum”, he was told. Over this time, he did meet members of the religion that had been practiced around Home, but only at a distance, and as subtly as he could, herded his friends and anyone who would listen away, avoiding any confrontation he could. Even a century later, even a mention of the Order made his knees shake. It was the two longest standing members of this group, two elves that granted him the adult name ‘Aias’ for his loyalty and devotion and he used it ever since. When finally the venture became too much for the final two in the party, Aias was left alone, and went north in search of other brave souls he found a large city in the heart of Ælea’s mountain range, Exaholde, to settle down in as a townsguard for what he hoped would only be a short while.

Over a decade, he rose through their ranks to become the captain of the western division, under only the general himself and beside 3 others. He took on one wild soul, someone he felt he could guide to a better state and after a few frustrating years of butting heads, slowly, quietly, fell for him. Although the relationship was only ever one sided romantically, they became very close friends. But it wouldn’t have mattered, he would not reveal more than surface level details of himself for fear of being found out by the wrong person and having the horror of Home brought here. This would cost him that friendship eventually.

Eventually came the news of an encroaching threat, a small but horribly devastating collection of people bearing crimson and black armor, all marked with the same symbol: a crying eye with a slit for a pupil between two scaled wings. The Order was here, and it was coming to Exaholde. For what he could not know, but would not run, not this time. They were many, but he, he was strong. In the ensuing battle in the south fields, he spent more of his time healing the fallen and begging them to run when it was almost immediately clear they were outmatched, including reviving a number of times, the fool he fell for. In a last grand stand, he and a powerful magic user of some ilk destroyed each other, and he was disintegrated. Finally, in death, he felt Bahamut’s touch, warm and gentle.

But it was not a peace meant to last. When his eyes inexplicably opened again, there he was, back Home. Weak. And he could remember nothing more than that. There was only a drow man and a handful of people that looked distantly familiar, all in crimson and black. He was fed lines about “helping” this place, that this island called Ea Asari needed his help specifically, for his connection to the platinum dragon. They insisted on training Aias, who had been graciously reminded that was his name, in the ways of barbarianism by hoping perilous, terrifying battles would bring out a primal rage, for reasons he did not understand. And slowly, as the months went by without success in finding this fury, this man who he only ever heard called Order Master became impatient. In a snap, quite literally, the memories flooded back and Aias stood dumbstruck. In that moment, he found his rage, and in it, fought through, strangely, no one as he slew the drow, who seemed nothing but pleased. Shortly after, he was descended upon by dozens of guards, and eventually put down. He could not harm these people, his own family in two cases, and could not for the last of the life left in him understand why any god could let all this happen.

Death was cold, this time. And dark. Five women, unseen but sounding all the same, spoke, saying she was glad to finally see him. “Even if,” she said. “it is for but a moment.” And as cold claws wraps around Aias, his eyes opened. And there he was. Alive. Again. But he had not any control over himself, his voice was not his own. Instead, it was someone else. Someone barely familiar. An attendant to whatever all this was spoke: “Welcome back, Order Master.”

Memento:

The Bell - A long, bright blade smelted from platinum scales that never chips or scratches, the handle seeming too long for a regular longsword. Struck upon the ground, it makes a sound like the clap of a church bell. The thing is exceptionally heavy to most anyone not connected to a good-aligned higher power. It used to be a very evil weapon, but it was reforged and tempered to be a pretty, if not now notably less powerful blade. He keeps it with him though it slowly siphons his life away every new moon, thinking he may be able to use it as an antidote for its own curse.

Natural Abilities:

Breathweapon: Can breathe a 30ft long line of lightning.

Darkvision: Able to see 60 ft ahead as if in bright light, in dim light and that far in darkness as dim light and are unable to discern colours.

Draconic Heritage: Resistance to lightning damage

Power History:

Aias is (was?) a level 15 paladin with his oath pledged to the crown, and a level 1 barbarian.

His too many skills and peek at the character sheet are here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ywkm9Pvm-yMEk-u00Uy4bQHuiO8Tx-YOh-gNaMId0l4/edit?usp=sharing

Extra:

Pinboard : https://www.pinterest.ca/Rennigan/nym/

Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0XdsiGHpeMGeOLghWJGGWK?si=2inbtAKhRl6C0OLZM1E1ig

❖ Nelrunari Section ❖

Ward: Hallowtide

Player Tag: Here

❖ OOC Section ❖

Name/Alias: Rennigan/Ren

Contact: @ChronosAster on twitter

Age: 25

Pronouns: they/them , she/her

#nelru apps #pc ( rennigan )#char ( aias nym qidove )

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dishonoredrpg · 5 years ago

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Congratulations, MALIN! You’ve been accepted for the role of DEATH with the faclaim of ZOE KRAVITZ. Death’s hunger is one of my favorite aspects about their character -- but it can be easily overstated or understated in contrast to their humanity. You struck the perfect chord, and the song you wrote for me with Death was so well-written it made me weep. Zoya has the real potential to be a power-player, as you’ve shown, but her history and humanity gets in the way, and there’s so something undeniably poetic about it. The lore you sketched out for me at the start merely set the stage for a wonderful application that I enjoyed to no end (fantasy Lasik!). I’m fully prepared to serve Zoya a seven-course meal.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

ooc.

NAME: Malin PRONOUNS: she/hers & they/them AGE: 25 TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT+1. Currently, I’m at about a 6-7 out of 10, I would say? I’m hoping for my own sake that I somehow nab a new job during summer sometime, which might push that activity down some – but I will still be here! ANYTHING ELSE? 1. i invented some in-game folklore. as a little treat. 2. listen, I gave a bitch haunted Lasik. 3. i did some MORE fuckshit regarding her body regenerating freakishly quick for a while after her resurrection (it has since gone away.) ALL OF THESE ARE DEFINITELY NEGOTIABLE if you feel it’s too much! but if you DON’T feel it’s Too Much though and you like it? ……………… let me do some fuckshit. 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀

in character.

SKELETON: Death

NAME: Zoya Nathair, daughter of Duke Nathair, the Duke of Serpents – thus giving her the title of lady while at court. The hefty mouthful you’ll find on legal documents has her down as Zoya Casimira Lucem Zilvinas Nathair. Informal names given through the years include the moniker Prince of Snakes, as given to her by the people of Lowtown – an insult turned pet name with time, if you will – and the Gaunter of Hightown, a ghost story she accidentally caused in her youth.

FACECLAIM: Zoë Kravitz, Jessica Parker Kennedy, Crystal Reed, Keira Knightley, Jodie Comer (would want to change the age depending on the backup FC!)

AGE: 31-32

DETAILS: Zoya is a collection of contradictions: she died once, yet she lives; she’s Hightown-born and yet has her hands in Lowtown dealings – and the face she puts on and whom most know is a mask.

Calculating, impulsive; ruthless, caring; selfish, loyal. She crafted a lie she could live, and now she’s caught in it – and yet she finds herself both relishing and resisting that lie. Her outspoken nature among the upper echelon began as a game, Zoya courting consequence for her own amusement – but the longer it’s gone on for, the truer it rings. But Koldam has been razed, and if there ever was a time to kill a king, it’s now.

At the start of the game, she is a woman considering all the choices that have led her to where she is, and she will need to reconcile the gnawing hunger within herself – the parts of her she sees as self-serving and ignoble – with the parts that recognize the injustice being done, the same parts she’s spent years drowning out.

CHARACTER DEATH: Yes, I’m comfortable with it! As a woman who has already died once, she knows it’s coming – just not how, or when. Considering she’s also out here being vocal about TREASON, it’s uhhhh [will wright voice] pretty likely, innit. I think her dying could be interesting, though I’d like it to have the right weight, storywise, and to have a hand in it myself, should it come down to it!

CONTENT WARNING – brief mentions of self-harm in the section “skins shed; lives lost, lives given”!

biography.

THE WOLF WHO BECAME DUKE OF SERPENTS.

A wolf saves an adder from the claws of a hawk; its snarling, hungry teeth scaring away the kestrel. With the hawk gone, the wolf advances on the adder, slobbering spit from its maw. “Do not eat me,” hisses the adder, “for I am little more to you than a morsel. Let me instead return the debt I owe you.”

Intrigued, the wolf agrees – for the snake is right; its sullen, sorry skin will hardly feed the wolf. And perhaps wolves are hungry creatures, and perhaps hunger is an ancient feeling – but there are more things in this world to be hungry for than meat, and wolves themselves are ancient.

And so it is that the two of them venture into the gleaming halls of the Serpent Queen, far below the earth. Her den of snakes have hollowed out the primordial passages, which coil and twist through stone and bedrock. Rivers of emerald and sapphire greet them as they enter her labyrinth; the air is suffused with the rich scent of loam and ferns that grow in the dark. It is there, in a cavern bled through with silver, that the Serpent Queen sits upon her throne, her glittering scales carved from obsidian and lapis lazuli, quartz and tiger's eye.

The hiss of her court is silenced as she speaks, her voice the whisper of wind through grass. “What do you wish for?” she asks the wolf, and the wolf answers that he would like the comfort of a rich man’s life. “No more would I need to starve through winter,” he says. “No more would I need to roam the woods for meagre prey.”

“So it shall be,” the Serpent Queen says, and so it is. She grants him a name, for he has none; a title, for he does not have that either; enough wealth that he may buy land wherever he pleases. Finally, she grants him his new form: she teaches him the secret of snakes, how to shed his fur for skin – but once it is done, you may never go back.

And so it is that the wolves of House Nathair never again ran on all fours through the Volkan woods; rising instead on two to walk among men. That first wolf was named Zilvinas, and so they would all take the name in his honor. Their head of house is forever known as the Duke of Serpents, for it is to that scaled queen below the earth they owe their riches and land.

† † †

It’s a strange story, even among the varied gentry of Tyrholm; an odd fairytale from a long-gone era. As a child, she spent much time contemplating the skin and the claws and the fangs that were shed. Now, in her cups, she does much the same. Sober, she pretends she doesn’t. The crest of her family – a wolf’s head circled by a snake eating its own tail – is more entrenched in her mind than she wants to admit. But let her brothers be the wolves: she has shed her skin more than once, and she will do it again, and again, and again.

THE GAUNTER OF HIGHTOWN.

In Hightown, there is a certain manor. Its stonework is decked in reliefs of beasts ready to spring to life: wolves chase stags through marble woodlands, beautiful serpents hide in the leaves. Amidst well-lit streets and manicured gardens, it is easy to forget the ghosts that haunt Tyrholm – but as the saying goes, not all corpses sink in the Tear. No apparitions are ever gone for long. As servants from neighboring homes passed through the ginnels and alleyways near it, they would often feel as though they were being watched… and at odd hours of the day, they would look up and see a gaunt face staring back at them from the manor tower, before fading into darkness once more.

At dawn, one might catch her from the east, staring from between the hallway curtains, and some even said they saw her gazing down at them from the parapets after midnight – her bony hands curved across the stone, pin-prick eyes boring holes into them. The Gaunter, they called it, the strange creature that watched and waited.

They say if you aren't careful, the Gaunter will catch you - wrap its spider-fingers around your neck, and squeeze until you're as gaunt as it is. They say it caught a chambermaid, once, after dark. They found her by the bridge leading to the Isle of the Dead, her brown hair gone grey overnight, her cheeks hollowed out.

† † †

From birth, Zoya was an ill child – prone to spells of sickness that would leave her bedridden and housebound for weeks, even months, at a time. Tonics and ointments and even the occasional visit from a Vitalus got her back on her feet, for a while – but nothing ever healed her; not truly. From the windows, she would observe the world passing her by, and the sight of her sickly face peering out gave rise to a considerable number of ghost stories among gentry and servants alike.

Tenth-born and the only daughter; half-dead from her first breath – easily forgotten, among her pack of older brothers, too young and frail and fragile to be heard in all the noise. Another girl might have been cowed by her circumstances – but that girl was not Zoya. Forget the blood in her mouth and the way her limbs threatened to give out when she pushed herself too hard, too fast, too much – she was stubborn; clung to life like she had since birth.

She was tutored in much the same way as her brothers before her, but where they were strong enough in body to wield a sword, and healthy enough to leave the manor, Zoya was decidedly not. It meant she was left to her own devices, and she divided those hours between books and the staff of servants, making friends with the scullery maids and stable hands. They told her stories and tall tales and gossip, explained the intricacies of Lowtown to her, taught her card games, how to spot a cheater and how to hide your nature as one – and if they ever pitied her, they had the good sense not to show it. (For that, she was forever grateful.)

When her health confined her to her room, she would read – voraciously so, head lost in tales of Faerûn’s fall and the glory of Hypatos, stories from beyond the Sahrnian Sea describing horror and wonder alike. And when she could, she would sneak out from her chambers to roam the hallways like a spectre. Under cover of darkness, she would make her way out and up, peering down at the Hightown streets; wondering what it might look like, should she ever get there.

The world continued passing her by, and though she grew older, she never got well. The year she turned fifteen, her health sharply declined for the worse. As spring began, Zoya was sent to the Nathair estate in the countryside to live out her last months – no doubt both because it would be a finer place to die, but also because she’s certain her parents wouldn’t want the stench of death to taint their Hightown manor.

As spring became summer, her family joined her for her living wake; Zoya’s body still warm, but not for long. Soon after, a flash flood rendered the nearby roads unusable, and the threat of summer storms meant travelers had to be wary. It wasn’t a surprise, then, that someone came knocking, invoking the law of hospitality – but their two missing fingers certainly were. A necromancer had come calling, and her father let them in.

† † †

Perhaps it was pity, or guilt, that made her parents leave her to her roaming. She’s certain that had they known where she went, they would have stopped her – but they didn’t.

She spent the fragile remainder of that summer in the furthest corner of the rose garden, and her company was largely silent, yet magnetically present. The necromancer would rarely speak, unless it was pressing, but they never chased her away. For hours, the two of them would sit there, one near death and the other beyond it, the roses slowly wilting. The sweet scent of rot permeated the air, fragrant and earthen, and it remains a strange, hazy memory on the periphery of her consciousness, even now.

Slowly – and then quick as a slap – she began to wilt, too.

The night she died is a haze, but she thinks she remembers the necromancer’s strange, quiet voice as they spoke to her father: “You have shown me kindness. Let me offer you mine.” She remembers the last breath she drew. She does not remember the face of her resurrector, but she swears she feels the touch of their hands, on occasion, phantom traces of memory.

It was as if she had been woken from the longest slumber. Her saviour was gone, like a ghost fleeing the dawn; had left right before sunrise. Already, she felt it – life. She had been a desert, and now she was a river: not until she could feel strength in her limbs for the first time did she understand just how parched she’d been.

She hobbled to the garden, and found a wasteland in its stead. The rosarium was rotting, that scent rising from the ruin left behind. And then, of course, there was the matter of her right eye.

Before, they had both been the shade of burnt umber, a lovely rich brown – but after she rose, her right eye was yellow as amber; her pupil no longer round, but a serpentine slit. It distressed her parents greatly: undeath is holy, but the flesh is weak. Her strange eye seemed fit as proof of some inner flaw, no matter the blessing bestowed. A sacrilege of a holy gift. It did not help matters that she began to see things, out of the corner of her eye – shadows and silhouettes, strange motes of light. Sometimes, she even swore she heard them whisper. Necromancy may be holy, but not all magic is, and whatever had been left behind in her – or woken up – was decidedly not holy. The eye drops were a compromise: her father wanted to have a Vitalus heal her eye, in the hopes that it might banish whatever ill fortune had befallen her, and Zoya staunchly refused. It was her mark, her scar, she would do with it as she pleased. But she could not deny that the strange visions bothered her, and in time, took to covering it with cloth. It made her realize that simply removing the sight from her right eye seemed to stem the problem – and so she agreed to her father’s solution. He commissioned eye drops brewed from belladonna and other strange components, and she has kept a vial of it on her at all times ever since.

† † †

SKINS SHED; LIVES LOST, LIVES GIVEN.

It was as if whatever force had eluded her in her first life had begun pouring out of her in her second. She took to fencing, took to the city, took to anything and everything she could get her hands on: I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive. It echoed in her, a fervor unlike anything else she’d ever felt. She could tell it almost frightened her family: it must have been uncanny, she knows, to see her spend fifteen years half-dead, only to lie there a corpse and then be brought back. To see her right eye become something else, something not-her, to see her be so viciously alive after what had transpired.

And so, when she scratched herself on the thorns of a bramble in their Hightown garden, and found the scar knitting itself together, she kept it from them.

For weeks, she tested the limits of her resurrection – with thorns and knives, even a red-hot poker. If they were simple cuts, they would heal within the day. But if she exceeded her body’s strange, nebulous limit, they would often be bloodless – like a desiccated body, despite the glow in her cheeks and the fact that she was conscious. That fervor – that hunger – began to scare Zoya, too. But she had always been stubborn, and she would be damned if she let go then, after years of clinging to a half-life. So, like always, she pushed forward. If she hungered, she would have it – she needn’t think about that nagging thought in the back of her head, so long as she kept going.

( Am I alive, or am I a corpse? She would slip her hands into leather gloves, and tell no one why; would steal her mother’s perfume and fasten flowers to her lapel in the hopes that it might cover up the rot she was so certain she could smell. )

These days, all scars stay, whatever errant magical remnants the necromancer left in her long-gone. She wears the first scar that stuck with pride – a nasty gash in her left thigh, an anchor to remind her that she’s a living, breathing person. ( But sometimes, it’s hard to remember. )

SKINS SHED; LIVES LOST, LIVES TAKEN.

At 25, Zoya won the Rosewood Maiden in a game of cards, and the previous owner has sorely regretted it since. Already, she had been entrenched in certain Lowtown dealings, but it was the Maiden that would truly cinch her presence there. It became her way in, after a handful of years spent on the periphery, slowly working her way in. It would be easy, to say she wanted power – but the truth of it is that in her mind, power goes hand in hand with freedom. (Funny, then, that she has tied herself so strongly to a place, despite her childhood dreams of seeing what lay beyond her windowsill. –– But she did spend those fifteen years dreaming of simply seeing Tyrholm, and while she’s still curious about the rest of the world, Tyrholm is hers.)

Her “purchase” of the brothel marked a turning point: no longer was she an outsider, peering at the commonfolk from her ivory tower – no, she was one of them, now, with real stakes in Lowtown dealings. It made it easier for them to accept her, and her nickname, once spoken as an insult, became something else. She was theirs, now, and she enjoyed the idea of it – belonging. A pack of her own.

She snuck her metaphorical hand into the metaphorical pockets of the upper echelon, and used that gold to fund an expansion of her business – and in time, someone wrote a little ditty, one she hums if only to unnerve when the occasion calls for it:

Duke of Serpents; Prince of Snakes, king of liars, thieves and rakes– ruby, diamond, pearl and stone: rob you blind of blood and bone.

The nobles can say whatever they like. She’ll take what she wants in due time.

miscellaneous.

The Rosewood Maiden Architecture and design Rather than two, I headcanon that the Rosewood Maiden has three official floors and one hidden one - the top floor, which hosts Zoya's office as well as some sundry guest rooms for hire and storage space; the entry level, which hosts the tavern proper; the brothel quarter below; and underneath the brothel, a cavernous passage into an old smuggler's route.

The tavern and brothel are lavishly decorated with carved serpents and roses - and the occasional wolf and unicorn stag.

Faith She keeps a shrine to the Undying, as well as a scattering of more "heathen" ones - the Serpent Queen among them, and I imagine what deities would pass for good luck, fortune, and thieves in this world.

Sight & eyedrops After she was raised from the dead, her right eye became serpentine: a physical mark of her resurrection. She keeps two small bottles of an alchemical solution at all times: one to cloud the eye over, leaving only the faintest trace of yellow right at the edge of her iris, and another to undo the first. I think she gets these from Wyrmwood's, primarily, but I think seeing her approach the Moon for it could be neat! something akin to the historical drops of belladonna used to enlargen pupils, but [tyra banks vc] make it fantasy.

In addition to the uncanny appearance of her eye, there is also the issue of what she sees with it. When left "untreated", whether by eye drops or eye patch, Zoya sees shadowy figures and strange lights - traces of something else, beyond mortal ken. I headcanon that it's maybe a mix of the sheer cost of resurrecting her for the necromancer – an especially noticeable chunk of magic was infused/intertwined with Zoya – and maybe there's a touch of something latent within her? Who Can Say. I enjoy leaving it ambiguous!

Underdogs She has a soft spot for underdogs and unlikely victors - she tells herself it's mostly narcissistic, as it's a simple fact that they mirror her – but truth is there's empathy involved, though she often elects to ignore it. (It’s easier, that way.)

Delusion As a result of her resurrection, and the curious circumstances surrounding it, Zoya has struggled with the occasional delusion / compulsive thought that she is dead – a walking, talking corpse. It's gotten better over the years, but she will wear gloves for comfort when it's at its worst, and is always wearing perfume - a light touch on good days, and a heavier layer on bad ones.

She has a love/hate relationship with the scent of rot: it can set her off, especially meat that's gone bad.

Scent & flowers Both as a result of her delusion, and simply because she likes it, Zoya has an extensive collection of perfume oils to wear - florals, amber, spice; scents that tickle and intrigue.

In addition, she always keeps a large amount of flower arrangements wherever she is staying, whether it's in the Rosewood Maiden, or her home. Again, it serves many purposes - she likes flowers; she feels the scent masks her own when she struggles with thinking that she's dead; she associates them with the necromancer that brought her back, and she feels it keeps other necromancers "at bay" – the flowers will wilt before she does, essentially. They serve as a measuring tool, in that sense, as well as passive lifeforce for the eventual necromancer.

Magpie She has certain magpie tendencies – she enjoys the spoils of wealth, the security of it, to be sure, but she has an eye for the strange. A favorite are supposedly enchanted or cursed objects – she still remembers the stories she read as a child, and she feels a certain kinship to them, in an odd way. (She, too, is a cursed thing.)

extras.

† character tag † playlist † pinterest

plot ideas.

connections.

THE CHARIOT Her relationship with the Chariot is two-fold: on one hand, she very much enjoys the little deal they’ve struck, though she’s well-aware she may need a contingency plan should they try to back out. On the other, she roots for underdogs, much as it pains her.

There is a part of her that sees herself mirrored in them – and perhaps the Chariot is nobler, or at least better at acting the part of someone with morals, but they are both of them still tied to that nebulous nothing, and she wonders what they would do if put on the throne.

I would like to see a certain tension, maybe a twisted understanding, between the two of them! She enjoys the idea of what she could do if only they #let her in, and I think she could provide an interesting counter to their more tragi-heroic energy.

THE LOVERS While Zoya spends a lot (a lot) of time adding to her tapestry of reputation at court, she can be both charming and kind in turns – when she wants to be. I think the Lovers maybe remind her of her childhood friendships, in a strange sense. I think she’s curious about their standing and relationship to the World, but there remains a simplicity to the kindness she displays around them, regardless – she isn’t only using them, but the cogs still turn in her head. I think this relationship could be a good fostering for a side of Zoya that few get to see, which excites me! I also very much enjoy the potential of the Lovers talking to her about their thoughts re: the king.

THE MOON Again, she enjoys the relative power she has over them – and I think a more cruel part of her maybe enjoys toying with them. They owe her a debt, and she won’t let them forget it: they have a little foothold in the castle, now, and one day, she might have use for it.

I think the intersection between Zoya, Armel and the Moon could be really fun, that’s it that’s the pitch. JK. I also have some #thoughts on her maybe commissioning them for eye drops, which could provide an interesting back-and-forth between Zoya and the Moon, especially if they feel that it levels the playing field some.

STRENGTH Strength is absolutely someone she enjoys toying with – and they make it so easy that it almost isn’t fun. (But only almost.)

I would like to expand upon their possible past dealings, concerning Strength’s mercenary company, and also I’m a sucker for the bear & wolf imagery, NGL.

THE TOWER She wonders deeply what exactly hides beneath the Tower’s exterior. The part of her that simply likes stoking chaos to see how far she can push it finds itself circling the Tower – as does the part of her that might in fact like to see justice done to the king.

I headcanon that depending on the timeline, she may not have been present for the Tower’s Incident at Court, but I think she’s definitely heard about it – most likely from one of her brothers. It’s fascinating to her – morbidly so – that the Tower now works for the king, despite what they’ve been through. Yet again, she wants to prod, as is her nature.

suggested connections.

THE STAR He is talented, and she appreciates as much - and he is utterly wasted on the court, who no more respect him than they appreciate him. WE LOVE A BARD JULIE. WE LOVE HIM. dark mirror to Armel re: stories!

wanted connections.

NECROMANCER the necromancer who brought her back Yolo

FENCING TUTOR idfk seems sensible

COMPATRIOTS Her little host of underbelly compatriots! Criminals who help her with her dealings, people loyal to her.

future plots.

CRIMINAL EXPANSION.

I have some headcanons about the Rosewood Maiden, and I also have some suggestions for future ventures for the good ol' Prince of Snakes - namely, fighting pits, betting rings, and potentially an underground tributary river and an old smugglers' cove right beneath the Rosewood Maiden.

– i just want criminal shit and could also see this working in the favour of the rebellion – smugglers route used to ferry supplies and people in and out of Tyrholm? hell yeah baby

– masquerade balls and Events. zoya got CASH she’s gonna host PARTIES and talk about KILLING THE KING (maybe)

– the initial focus is DEFFO on the rebellion but like listen i………. am simply a sucker for fantasy crime.

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT.

Internal-- I think that Zoya's internal arc will largely be a battle of her dual drives: her greed/gluttony versus the parts of her that see injustice being done. It's a moral conflict that I think has seeped into every aspect of her life – the things she has done and the lengths she is willing to go to, versus the part of her that knows it's morally reprehensible and even fucked up. Duality & paradox is an abstract concept that I return to for Zoya – she is both calculating and impulsive, which means she has the potential to do stupid shit despite knowing how stupid it is.

I think I'd like to push her in a direction of having to fight with her impulse to use people while caring for them – because the two cannot coexist for long, IMO! And I think that that particular internal conflict can get Juicy

writing sample.

IN WINTER, DEAD THINGS FREEZE. She wrapped her coat tight around herself, the fur-lined collar warm against her neck. Fresh snow lined the cobblestone streets of Hightown like a fine dusting of powdered sugar, little candied houses on parade with cream-tiled roofs. Bells tolled the hour in the distance, their chorus echoing across Tyrholm, midnight, midnight, midnight–

Midnight was a witching hour, or so the stories said. What was strange became stranger, and in dark woods, a traveler might strike a bargain with a hag. But there were few hags to be found, in Tyrholm proper, at least of the magical variety. (None that wished to be found, at least. She'd looked.)

The air smelled pleasant: it was the scent of cold, brilliant and ruthless; strangely sweet.

Her hands clenched into fists, leather gloves creaking.

She breathed in – rough, eyes fixed on the nearest torch. She could picture it in her mind’s eye – the rosarium, rotting; sweet and acrid all at once. Her boot dug down into the fresh layer of snow, crunching it beneath her heel. In winter, rot and death all froze, just like the Tear. Alive, alive, alive.

She curled her mouth into a smile.

IN SPRING, DEAD THINGS THAW. Ilarion Nathair was, unlike his sister, not a frivolous creature. Once, he came close – though his close-cropped head of black curls and the noble set of his shoulders might certainly convince passersby that he had never so much as stumbled upon a mischievous thought in his entire life, let alone acted on it.

But Zoya knew better. Zoya knew him.

"Ilya," she said, and as though they were weights levied by the same pulley, his brows swept into a frown as she grinned, wide and incorrigible.

#accepted #accepted: death

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