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somacruising · 2 years ago

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A White Future, Volume 2 Episode: Ion, Sync, & Florian Translation Part 4

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Last chapter, we followed as Sync was thrown into Mt. Zaleho and was found by Van. This chapter is going to be centered around what is going on with the chosen seventh replica Ion and Florian. It’s not good, btw.

* * *

The room was located deep within Daath’s cathedral.

It could only be reached from the outside by breaking through the many layers of fonic artes. Since only a limited number of people could enter, there was no danger of pilgrims visiting Daath wandering in.

“Fon Master Ion, this is the book in which the history of the Planet’s Memory is written. It contains a detailed account of what Yulia Jue, whom I explained to you the other day, has read from the Planet’s Memory.”

Ahmed placed the thick book he had brought from the library on Ion’s desk.

“Please read through it and memorize as much as you can by tomorrow.”

“I understand.”

The boy sitting in the chair nodded obediently.

“May I ask you a question? I have just learned about the Closed Score. In order to deepen my knowledge, should I check the right side of the Score where it is written?”

“No, it is not necessary at this stage. Of course, your original is already aware of it.”

Ahmed glanced at the clock on the wall.

“I would like to see the comparative data up to today.”

He extended his hand toward his assistant.

The geographical history of the planet Auldrant, the teachings of Yulia Jue, the entire organization of Daath, general knowledge, the practice of Daathic fonic artes, physical fitness, and all the other things necessary for a Fon Master.

‘I guess this is a good start.’

Ahmed had to report back to Mohs each day, comparing what the replica Ion had learned with the previous day. This has been going on for months.

‘Then again, he isn’t as strong as he should be. Maybe I should have made another one with more athletic ability…’

But the Fon Master’s passing was imminent. They cannot wipe the slate clean now. Since that day when they decided to use the seventh replica here, this boy became Fon Master Ion.

“Master Ion, it seems you haven’t eaten enough. It will hurt your body, so please force yourself to eat all of your dinner.”

”I don't…feel very hungry… You said it’s called having no appetite…” Ion then smiled and said, "Thank you for your concern, Ahmed.”

Ion then added, “I understand what the Score is. I've been thinking about it, and I wonder if it would be possible for me to meet with the original Fon Master Ion? I would learn quicker if I could talk to him in person.”

“That’s outrageous!” Ahmed suddenly shouted. Then, he spoke quieter. “I’m sorry, excuse me. That’s not possible. Of course, Fon Master Ion knows about you, and you get your information about him through us…”

“I understand. I'm sorry that I don't understand enough.”

“No, it’s…”

Ahmed shook his head in dismay.

‘This Fon Master is really docile. Not only is he pacifistic, he never complains about the cramming we must do for his education, and he’s always smiling. But there isn’t enough of the original there…there just isn’t.’

After confirming the intelligence level on the data table, he immediately looked at the replica and saw he was already looking at the book.

* * *

After receiving a regular report from Ahmed, Grand Maestro Mohs waited for the night to fall and quietly entered the reference room. He sunk one of the bookshelves to the floor and opened a hidden passageway. Passing through the fonic circle painted on the floor, he found a familiar laboratory.

While it is called a laboratory, they aren’t currently conducting research here. With only a modest desk, chair, and facilities for simple meals, the place was currently used primarily for his contemplation. A passageway heated by the Zaleho volcano lead out to a passage ring in the back.

‘It’s better than dealing with a continued vacancy, even if it is weak in body.’

Mohs had been thinking about Ion’s replica earlier.

‘It would be good if he could perform his Daathic artes as perfectly as a Fon Master ought to… Well, as long as he isn’t attacked, it’s fine.’

The more information they had, the better, in order to use the Fon Master to comply with the Score. When swapping the Fon Master, the Fon Master Guardians will also need to be those who don’t know him.

“Hm… then the question is how to deal with Arrietta.”

Mohs had propped his elbows on the fonon-lit desk and was pondering this and that when he noticed something move out of the corner of his eye.

He stiffened and stared into the darkness in the corner of the facility.

He heard a dragging sound.

“Who’s there!?”

Mohs got up and cautiously approached the direction from which he’d heard the sound.

All he could do was stare in shock

‘This…!’

“This is preposterous… How…!”

Fear flashed in Mohs’ eyes for a moment, but he quickly said in a menacing tone, "What are you doing here? Weren’t you disposed of in the volcano?”

“Uuu…”

Gray lips parted. It was, without a doubt, one of the botched Ion replicas that should have been dumped in the Zaleho volcano a few months ago.

“All the way from there… How did you survive?”

The replica's entire body was in bad shape, its bones sharp and protruding. Noticing that something was in its hand, Mohs looked closer.

Oh! I-It was a fire rat!

He nearly covered his mouth. The replica was holding the carcass of a fire rat, which lived near the volcano and occasionally invaded the laboratory they were in.

‘There would be some vegetation away from the crater. If it found muddy water, it could have drunk it. But I doubt it could have survived with just that…’

Fortunately, the fire rat in the replica’s hand was whole. Mohs decided at this point to stop thinking about whether or not the replica had been eating rats. Just thinking about what a rat might taste like disgusted him.

Oh a whim, Mohs retrieved a loaf of bread from the cupboard. He had brought it in a long time ago, but had forgotten about it until now.

“Here, eat. It's better than a rat.”

Mohs tossed it a loaf of bread, and the replica gobbled it up.

“Hey, you'll choke,” Mohs said. “Don't you know how to eat?”

Mohs poured a cup of water and gave it to the replica with a scowl on his face.

‘What should I do with him…? Dumping him back into the crater doesn't guarantee he'll die…’

Though it was dirty, the replica had the same face as Fon Master Ion. An idea suddenly occurred to Mohs.

‘Wait a minute. The new Ion is frail…we could keep it in case the new one dies.’

Even if his abilities were no good, he should appear to be Fon Master Ion from a distance. As long as he could get out of an emergency situation, he would be good to go. He was just a mere decoration anyway.

Once he had made that decision, Mohs picked up a piece of rag that had fallen around the area and gave it to the replica. “I'll bring you some more food. Just stay here.”

“…Okay.”

With his hunger satisfied, the boy looked up at Mohs with a relieved expression.

“By the way, what happened to the rest of you? They all got dumped together, didn't they?”

The boy's lips moved, searching for words.

“Three…gone…”

There had been five total, but one must have fallen somewhere far away.

“I see, they disappeared.”

Mohs kicked a rat that was lying at his feet, as if it was dirty.

‘Hmmm, it was Van's ineptitude that led to the creation of so many failures in the first place. Well, then, I'll let him take care of Arrietta.’

Nodding in satisfaction at the tumbling rat, Mohs headed back to the hidden passageway.

Once he was alone, the replica boy looked around fearfully. He did not know why he was here.

He had chased after a delicious-looking mouse that had appeared in his hungry, hazy vision. The road had become narrower and narrower, and he’d found himself here.

He had forgotten until he’d been asked earlier that he had been thrown from the cart and huddled with the other three.

How did this happen? How long had he been there, being examined and then discarded?

No one knew what would happen to them from now on.

The boy remembered the first change occurred after several cycles of day and night.

The body of a boy began to disappear. The tips of his shoulders slowly flashed in and out, and then disappeared completely. Soon his entire body was gone.

Then one more disappeared in succession. He and the other boy finally realized that the same thing was going to happen to them.

“They’re gone.”

“…Gone.”

They looked at each other with dark circles under their eyes and laid down on their sides, grasping each other’s hands.

Their bodies seemed to burn from the earth's heat, but they did not sweat. With their dry tongues, they could no longer speak to each other.

If they’d had memories of life, even for a day or two, they would have stood up to escape the scene. But the lack of attachment to life does not teach the fear of death.

Eventually, his consciousness faded and he could only open his eyes briefly.

When he awoke, it was dusk. The other boy was staring at him, his eyes wide open.

"......Ah......"

He raised an inarticulate voice, and then he disappeared. The boy's hand, which had been clutched in his, disappeared as well.

“…Gone.”

The boy slowly raised himself up, the sad and relieved expression on the dying boy’s face burned into his mind. He looked at his palm, but there was no trace left.

“Empty.”

It was at that moment that the boy was struck by a mad hunger.

After many unsuccessful attempts, he limped up the slope toward the cooler ground. He wandered into a small mountainous area connected to the volcano.

When he saw the short grasses typical of the mountainous area in the valley, with their pure white flowers, he picked them up and started to eat them without a sound.

He stuffed his face with grass juice and orange pollen until he was full. The petals had a bitter taste, and the leaves stung his tongue, but he didn't care. He found water seeping from the rock face and sipped that, too.

When his stomach was full, he turned over. For the first time, he saw the blue sky full of clear, floating fonstones.

He fell asleep, but did not dream. When he awoke, he was already hungry again.

He felt helpless and anxious at the feeling of his empty stomach. The boy was about to reach for the grass flowers again when he heard a faint sound.

A small, brown animal ran past him.

“Wait!”

The boy's hunger grew fierce, and he pounced with surprising agility. A warm feeling, different from that of grass, spread through his hand.

With his right hand, the one which had held the other boy's hand when he had disappeared, he seized the first rat that would keep him alive.

#tales of the abyss #tota #fon master ion #ion #florian #tales #grand maestro mohs #nix translates #tw: death #florian's section made me so sad you guys #shiro no ashita

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fancy-rock-dove · 2 years ago

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Ten Books To Know Me

Rules: 10 (non-ancient) books for people to get to know you better, or that you just really like.

Tagged by the lovely @landwriter whose list I am absolutely taking notes from to add to my own to-read list. Thank you for my evening of reminiscing about some of my favorite stories! I'm about to digress... a lot. I'm wordy. This is known. I'm taking the spirit of "non-ancient" to mean things-people-may-not-have-read-before to recommend, and also trying to stick to the last century or two. I will, however, immediately break the first of those rules because it is impossible to make a list of works to read to know me without including:

The Lord of the Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien

I know, everyone and their grandma has heard of LOTR, this is probably not a shock to anyone, but it holds such a large and ever-recurring place in my life that I would be remiss to leave it out. Please excuse me as I digress into story time on this one and feel free to skip to the next one.

The very first time I read LOTR it felt almost like a rite of passage of sorts; I'm the oldest sibling by several years, and staying up at the age of nine an hour or two after my siblings went to bed to partake in silent reading time in the living room with my dad has a whole host of feelings and memories associated with it. We had this large, red-leather-bound, slipcase-contained, single-volume edition that really felt to nine-year-old me that I was reading something Special. It was I think one of the first things I read and discussed in real time in such serious depth purely for the love and fun of it. We stopped when I'd finished The Bridge of Khazad-dum for my dad to put on the Moria scenes of the movies (which I'd never seen before) because we wanted to chat about adaptation choices. And what's more these books as a whole reward thinking about. I could talk at length about love of the concept and impact of translation and language, a love for song and poetry as important and natural forms of human expression, the reframing of the angst and forces of modernized warfare within the context of epics in the style of the ways people have always talked about and contextualized war, about the ideas that everyone has something to contribute and no contribution made in good faith is worthless, the examination of the fact that evil can arise from fear and good intentions. The first time I studied Beowulf (and many other classic ballads and epics besides) the connection, the sense that I had also grown up hearing stories like this (by design because this is what happens when scholars write about their specialties, even obliquely) was distinct and rewarding. But equally important I think is that the amount it rewards revisiting has let it be a bit of a constant in my life; the first thing my sisters and I all did read together when we started doing out-loud bedtime storytime all together a few years later; one of the first things I talked with my best friend about; the thing that one of my longest-lasting groups of friends first created our "book club" around in undergrad by reading it aloud (again) together (a "club" which keeps us close years later even though our majors and career paths are all wildly different from each others'). And every time I find I have more to see or say or think about and different aspects I find capturing my attention. And of course, the story itself is one I love dearly, and which probably shaped my lifelong love of a good epic narrative.

The Hawk of May - Gillian Bradshaw

Y'all, picking one of Bradshaw's books/series to recommend was a real struggle for me I have to say. I remember loving all the ones I've read. They're historical fiction with a knack for both thoroughness of detail and immediacy of drama. I can't actually pinpoint when I started calling historical fiction one of my favorite genres but I think Gillian may be the one who did it. Most of her works are set in ancient Egypt, Greece, Rome, etc. (I also highly recommend The Beacon at Alexandria [cross-dressing undercover female doctor] which was nearly my pick for this spot on the list) but Hawk of May has the double-notability of being her first book (which she wrote while in undergrad???) and the beginning of a trilogy which holds the dubious honor of containing the first book to ever make me physically throw it across the room in character-related grief. This has only happened two or three times in my life. Given that the trilogy is a historically-inspired retelling of the tales of King Arthur's knights, and Sir Gawain in particular, please take this as a compliment given how well it made me feel the emotions you'd expect to about *waves hand* all of the end of that story.

Dealing With Dragons - Patricia C. Wrede

And all of the Enchanted Forest Chronicles, basically. I LOVED dragons when I was younger (and to be fair haven't exactly grown out of it yet either though it's less all-consuming these days :) ) and read a lot of dragon-related books. I could absolutely make a top ten list just within that category (shout out to the mention I saw in one of these lists of Dragon's Milk, I thought that book was great at the time, and the mental image of prophetic visions shaped in clay on a potter's wheel is one of those ones that stuck in my brain over the years) but Wrede's series stands out also for the humor and the treatment of fairy tale tropes that I think probably actually had a formative impact on my sense of humor. I lost track of how many times I reread this series when I was young. There's a preference for the practical in all our main characters that makes for some very funny loving satire of fairy tale tropes, and also generates some unapologetically hilarious situations. If you want a princess fighting/talking down her own knights because she'd rather they not bother her dragon with their "rescues", or a king who uses his magic sword to do plumbing, this is an excellent series for you. The worldbuilding is quite fun too.

The Complete Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle

Breaking my "there's any chance at all you haven't heard of this" rule yet again, but it's another important installation on my bookshelf and one of the earliest collections of mysteries that got me reading mystery as a genre. Think I read my way through a large chunk of these works between the ages of 10 and 12 and, in addition to being the excellent mysteries people know them for, I think it may also be one of the first collected series of works I'd read that I was aware and could see was published serially. There are a lot of cool things to be said about the interest of the eccentric main character and the presentation of the stories from the point of view of his resigned but invested flatmate, not to mention the way we are far less interested in the law than Putting Things Right. For me though I also really enjoyed reading and thinking about what it would have been like to read a story like this actually published serially when you just had to wonder about the answer and discuss with friends. Baby's early serious metatextual thoughts about collective experience of stories.

A Morbid Taste for Bones - Edith Mary Parteger / Mistress of the Art of Death - Diana Norman

Probably cheating to group two entirely distinct books/series here but I can't mention my historical fiction and my mysteries and then not mention my historical fiction murder mysteries! I associate them very closely because they're both set in 12th century England and feature badass protagonists that people tend to underestimate. A Morbid Taste for Bones is part of the Cadfael Chronicles, featuring Brother Cadfael the mystery-solving former-crusader monk who is absolutely not above breaking some rules or some bones to do right by people. Mistress of the Art of Death features Adelia the Sicilian-trained forensic pathologist who's kindly come out to the far-less-renaissance-influenced 12th cenutry England to help them with their murder mysteries and has a Time navigating actually doing her job while Not being accused of witchcraft in the process. The latter is generally a bit darker in tone than the former, and the former is a bit more episodic book-to-book in general, but I'd recommend them both, they're good fun (as much as a murder mystery can be). BBC also did an adaptation of the Cadfael Chronicles which I watched a couple episodes of once... maybe I should watch some again sometime. :)

Ancillary Justice - Ann Leckie

I am a huge fan of a story that's tightly written around its very premise, and this book absolutely delivers. I've been a sci-fi nerd for much of my life, so the premise of the interface between a biological and computer mind/thought process is something that comes up a lot. And even so, I distinctly remember getting into this book and feeling like the way we were using the very nature of our protagonist was innovative. This book has it all: anti-imperialism, meditations on the nature of memory and identity and personal responsibility (as they arise in our protagonist's unique situation and actually apply to all people), worldbuilding that marks the relationship between language and values and environment and beliefs and culture, thematically relevant music/poetry, a fantastically badass main character, an exquisitely wet and pathetic sidekick she does not want (said lovingly), suspense, action, intrigue, and of course, retribution. Just an excellent read with fantastic worldbuilding and a very tightly-woven narrative structure in the first book in particular. Not to mention a complete disregard for the concept of gender. :)

Story of Your Life - Ted Chiang

And honestly all of Ted Chiang's short stories. Excellent concise yet rich and fascinating worldbuilding in each one. The epitome of stories that delight in breaking down any illusion of the separateness of language and history and math and science as complimentary human pursuits in the larger search for understanding (sometimes explicitly in the mechanics of the stories). This one in particular though may by my favorite short story. It is the story the movie Arrival is based on, but while I like both, I personally found after watching the movie that I still think the two are doing somewhat different things. This story means a lot to me not least because I read it in the midst of getting degrees in both French and in Physics, was just really getting into some of the upper-level approaches like Lagrangian mechanics, relativity, gauge switching, all that good stuff, and was spending a not-inconsiderable amount of time thinking and talking about the ways my degrees were actually similar, how it was all about learning the languages to look at problems from different frames of reference. And so naturally this story made me feel that a lot of my thoughts were Seen. And of course I'm also a sucker for anything approaching time-travel and things that poke at the nature of free will and self-determination, so the meditations of this story in particular on the relationship between our understanding of physics and our understanding of ourselves were hitting real hard at the time.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead - Tom Stoppard

So this is technically a play, but you CAN read it if you want to. The movie is also good and actually directed by the playwright though! I think this was one of my earlier experiences with both existentialism and absurdism in theater. They simply do not let you out with any kind of French degree without consuming a fair amount of angsty, thoughtful, existential and absurdist midcentury books, films, and plays in my experience, but I think it was actually this that was one of my earliest notable reads/views in a couple of those genres, particularly because it was one of my earlier experiences with the concept of tragicomedy. And it actually is also fun! Especially, in my opinion, if you enjoy Hamlet and are in the habit of taking it seriously. It's behind-the-scenes Hamlet, again with thoughts on free will and probability and destiny and the concept of being doomed by the narrative, but with the added bonus of Hamlet occasionally showing up and sounding particularly unhinged from an outside perspective. If The Lion King is furry Hamlet, then Lion King 1 1/2 is furry Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. This may be a trend with me, but I really enjoy the use of Hamlet in particular (already a deeply thematically adaptable play) to parallel uniquely 20th century flavors of angst and questions about the objectivity of reality. I'm a sucker for narratives that acknowledge through their very premise or form that these new-feeling questions or problems are new iterations of human questions we've been grappling with for centuries/always.

The Eyre Affair - Jasper Fforde

A very fun reality-hopping story (and series) with a lot of love for language and wordplay and, of course, Jane Eyre. The worldbuilding in this one is a delight, from the dodo home-cloning-kit-derived pet to the time-traveling dad who may or may not have caused bananas. Fforde is here to have fun at the expense of (or perhaps in kahoots with) language and the fabric of well-known stories and narrative structures. Characters trying and failing to fit the genre they think they're living in is a somewhat recurring phenomenon. @moorishflower's mention of this one in Radio Silence had me screaming about it because the Thursday Next series is indeed excellently fun.

Babel - R.F. Kuang

Confession time: I'm actually reading this one right now, so this is less books-that-shaped-me and more books-I'm-into-right-this-second. So I can't speak for how it ends, but I'm loving how it's going so far. Once again the anti-imperial messaging is strong in this one and it does a fantastic job of making me angry in the ways it should. Very cool premise founded on a magic system that gets its power directly from the nuances of meaning that do not carry over in translation from one language to the other. I would recommend and also love to talk about it with people.

Alright! Think I'm a little late to the tagging game, so forgive me if you've already done it, but I don't think I've seen lists (but would love to if you'd like) from @goodbye-blue, @hopecomesbacktolife, @historyandqueershenanigans, @wordsinhaled (hi!), @chiron-crow, @merytsetesh, @ashes-of-chironides, and anyone else who wants to join in should consider themselves tagged! <3

#I could talk about books ALL DAY #taking a leaf from Gloam's book and staunchly not apologizing for the length of this #but honestly I love So Many books I was putting arbitrary rules on this list just to narrow things down #book recs #tag game

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acloudofsparklingdust · 2 years ago

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Honestly, pretending that Christians don't think god is male is just pathetic. That's just factually incorrect. You can reinterpret your emotional support book all you want, that does not change what is actually in it, and what has actually been done with it historically.

Get help. Learn to read. Stop fooling yourself, your cult ain't cute. It is a cult of woman hatred.

And before there's another long rant as though I'm pulling this out of my ass... I studied the bible at school since kindergarten. I've been indoctrinated since before I could fully read. I live in an extremely religious country, where religious tradition is commonplace and expected.

Don't try to pass off your new agey version of an asexual agender god as the absolute truth when you KNOW 99.9999% of christians do not have this interpretation in mind. It's just so fucking disingenuous and ignorant of basic reality... It shows what a fanatic you are, and to what great lengths you'll bend reality to for jesus... You know, the male son to the male god who, as per your precious book, was placed into Mary. Did she have a choice? Did she really?

"Came unto" can be interpreted as came upon, came over, entered, overtook. Don't pretend your personal favorite bible translation is absolute. Mary was TOLD she would bear the male god's male child by an angel. She was not asked, she was informed. Be honest. You know this is what you were taught as well. If it wasn't, then you are part of a small, very specific Christian community. This is what I learned in Catholic church, this is what I learned in Sunday school, this is what I learned in Seventh Day Adventist church, this is what I learned in Saturday school, this is what I was taught at SDA primary, secondary, and high school as well.

Just because they reframe it and pass along the interpretation that Mary was told she had been impregnated by the holy ghost and she rejoiced, the truth is she was informed by a male coded creature that she was to bear a child that wasn't hers. She was a child and had never had sex and she had no choice.

Also I don't think you wanna be claiming one particular translation and interpretation as absolute when it comes to the bible at all, considering the sort of deeply misogynistic stories present in that hunk of trash. It's all fun and games when we're all "love thy neighbor" or whatever the fuck, but please go ahead and spend some time explaining how woman positive [these passages] are.

Just because the bible isn't 100% about how bad and evil and gross and wrong and sinful and disgusting women are, it doesn't make it okay that so much of it dismisses women altogether.

Also please, the praise of Mary as a perfect holy being because she took a pregnancy she never chose, and bore a child she never wanted, and bowed her head, and said she was happy about it doesn't make the bible woman positive. It makes it propaganda for women to take their marital rape with a closed mouth and nobility, so that maybe they'll be remembered as beautiful, chaste, perfect martyrs as well.

Don't get me started on the concept of virginity that surrounds Mary and how it is used to degrade and control women.

Christians/new agey godly types often twist reality of the religious beliefs they claim to adhere to, so I truly hope your very very very male god keeps you warm at night, and that you'll at least start being honest about what you believe in, rather than making excuses for it. If you wanna be in a cult, go all out, don't pretend to hold out. It's even worse than just being outspoken about the inherent misogyny of your religion, because you fool other women into buying into your bullshit. Just be fucking honest.

#this was written July 1st 2021 probably bc some christian said some shit #idk what it was in response to but i guess i made some points and i'm clearing my drafts so #anti religion #anti christianity #christian bullshit #religious bullshit #misogyny #male violence #rape mention #tw #august rants

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chipper-smol · 3 years ago

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Hollow Knight Telephone Round Two: Pale Jester Chain 2

Prompt: PJ finds his way into Lemm’s shop and begins ruminating about all the different relics with surprising accuracy and knowledge (much to Lemm’s annoyance and confusion)

By @werewolforeos

Lemm was alone, as usual. He dusted off the king’s idols so the illustrious stone regained its shine. He froze as the door to his ‘shop’ creaked, and the bell jingled- please don’t be another caffeine-wanting bug, he thought, turning around to greet the customer.

The masked bug was taller than he was, though not by much- most of its height came from its horns, eight tall spikes resembling a crown. Yet despite this regal feature, it dressed in a fool’s clothes- Lemm could almost imagine the bells attached to the cape’s ends, which luckily were absent. And all its clothes shone with a deep crimson.

“How can I help you?” Lemm muttered, eyeing the stranger’s staff. “Oh, mind that shelf, would you?”

“Oh! A friendly face in these caverns! My, my! What an unexpected surprise!” The bug replied with a too-jolly attitude. Lemm decided he did not like this bug. “Why, I was merely exploring this city- it’s quite hectic outside, no?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Lemm replied. “My shop here is safe, at least. It’s quite calm up here. Have you seen those husks?”

“Yes, yes. Quite the sad fate they have been left with- blinded by those unsightly orange lumps, yet stuck in their daily rituals all the same.” The stranger brought up his hands to his face, in a mocking display of shock. “Oh, heavens! We have yet to introduce ourselves to each other!”

Lemm rolled his eyes. “Name’s Lemm. Don’t have much else to say on that matter, but what’s yours, stranger?”

“Ah- they call me Jester, back up there. You have a nice name, Lemm!” A shiver went up Lemm’s spine as Jester spoke his name- he ignored it, it’s probably just the breeze. “So, Lemm! What do you do up here? It’s quite the nice shop~!” said the Jester, picking up a wanderer’s journal.

“Ah- hands off, please. The knowledge stored on these antiques is priceless.” Lemm tapped Jester on the hands. “I buy these relics of this old kingdom, for the sake of history and preservation. I’ve got many journals to decipher- so if you don’t mind, unless you have any relics for me…?”

“Ah, no, I do not have anything you might be interested in. Though,” the Jester mused, “Perhaps I might be able to assist in deciphering the script? It seems familiar to me.”

Lemm scoffed. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Tell you what, if you can decipher a full journal, I might part with it once I’ve copied it down somewhere.” “That sounds like a challenge to me~! Challenge accepted, shopkeep.”

Lemm gave the Jester a journal he’d deciphered already, to test how well he knew the old script of Hallownest. Putting his finger to the script, the Jester seemed lost in thought, as though looking at an old memory. “This is a passage about those blue cocoons, is it not? They call it Lifeblood.” Lemm blinked.

“That is… correct. But, could you translate the whole passage? I’m curious as to what your skills are.”

“The swirling blue liquid relieves pain, but if too much is taken at once, the Lifeblood seems to take over. We must carefully ration the amount given to the hospitals. Signed… Lurien, the Watcher.”

...That was, way too fast. “Hmm. I’m not convinced. Another.” Lemm trades the journal in the Jester’s hands for another.

“The circus was in town today,” the Jester reads aloud, “and I got to see Marissa’s show! Her voice is so soothing- it reminds me of my dreams.” Lemm was silent. This is ridiculous.

“Hm? Did I make a mistake?”

“Oh, no. I was lost in thought about- these signs here,” Lemm lies. “I hadn’t yet translated this passage, and had not seen this combination written as one word yet.”

“Oh! You’re looking at ‘plague’ there, shopkeep.” Cogs whirred as Lemm processed this information- these journals talk about many things, how did this Jester decipher these so quickly? And does he know things Lemm does not?

“These icons next to each other- ‘sick’ and ‘many’. Many sick make a plague, no?”

“Yes, yes. That does make sense. And here…”

“That’s a shopping list,” the Jester waved it away. “Honeydew, boofly meat, it seems as though this one was quite rich. Though it’s not that important,” he claims, “as those letters from the Watcher you’ve got there seem much more interesting to me.”

You’ve got to be kidding me, everything he’s said has been correct. Even the ones I hadn’t yet gotten to. Just who is this bug, exactly?

The Jester strided over to Lemm’s undeciphered journals, focusing on a specific grouping. “I hereby request the addition of a chamber for Lexi, my butler, inside my Spire. He wishes to stay as he works, and…” Jester pauses as he grabs the next passage. “I believe it would be a good idea to have him with me as I prepare for slumber. Hm, a little fruity, aren’t we, Watcher?”

Lemm just stood there, dumbfounded. “Er. I. Okay.” This is a lot more information than I expected to get in five minutes. Ignoring him, the Jester continued to rummage through the relics, stumbling across a stray king’s idol.

“Hey! Those were ordered to date and time!”

“And now they are not. Is there any issue there? If it is, you can always order them again.”

Lemm definitely did not like this bug. “Excuse me? You waltz into my shop, damage my collection, and strut about like you own the place with your knowledge of the signs used in Hallownest’s prime. Who do you think you are?” “That is irrelevant. I do wonder… where did you find this statuette?”

“A wanderer comes by every so often with many relics, and cleans out my geo stash. I mean- that’s irrelevant. Why do you care?”

Holding the idol at an arm’s length, the Jester tilted his head, studying the way it was sculpted. “This one was found in the resting grounds. I can smell the lavender,” he muses. “I’m surprised they had one of these there- the moths didn’t take kindly to that King. I suppose that’s understandable, given what he did to them.”

“Moths?”

“Yes, yes. Quite a long time ago, they lived in the lands Hallownest was built upon. Did you never get an education?”

Lemm blinks. “Well, I had school, but-”

“Shopkeep, this is something all bugs used to know. Did they scrap it out of the history books? ...Of course he would, that King would do anything for validation. I’m sure the guilt is eating him up from the inside.”

“Jester. The king is dead. Has been for a while. Have you not seen the state of decay this kingdom is in?”

“Ah, no. That Wyrm is still alive somewhere- I’m sure of it.” The Jester moved back to the door, holding his staff in one hand, and journals in the other three. “I do wonder,” he muttered under his breath,”why are these so familiar? Ah, Lemm, was it? Would you mind if I took these outside?”

Before Lemm could express indignance, the door opened once more- standing in it a drenched wanderer, who often stopped by to supply Lemm with his many relics. The pale white mask they donned looked up at the crimson Jester, an unreadable expression behind it. The wanderer gripped the handle of their nail- sharpened, coiled, pure. They recognized the Jester, and they did not particularly like him, Lemm thought. At least Lemm wasn’t alone in disliking his clown schtick. That being said, the Jester still held some relics- if a fight broke out, they could get damaged. Lemm quietly pried open the hands of the Jester.

“Ohoho! We meet again, little one! Do tell me about your excursions down here, won’t you?” The Jester was met with silent scorn. The shop was rife with tension, though the Jester seemed oblivious to it.

“Er, pardon me, but mayhaps you two should take this… outside.”

The wanderer stared at the Jester for another moment, before breaking their gaze away, and briskly walking towards Lemm. They rummaged in their pockets, producing another pair of journals, a Hallownest seal, and an arcane egg. The Jester giggled, the wanderer quickly turning their head towards him, and then sprinting back into the endless rain of the City of Tears before Lemm could give the wanderer the geo they were due.

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By @couch-cat

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By @arandoskeleartist

(audio file working on being uploaded)

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By @uncurdled-bean-curd

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By @the-trans-anon

Lemm was going to have a stroke.

He’d been having a perfectly fine day going through his relics without any annoyances running around, when a strange bug he’d never seen before entered his shop. The bug didn’t seem to have any relics to share, saying he was just exploring, and had been about to leave when he noticed one of Lemm’s king idols.

“What’s that?” The bug asked, reaching for the idol.

Lemm quickly yanked it out of his reach, not thrilled with the idea of someone manhandling his relics. “It’s an idol of the Pale King. The King himself was rarely seen so the bugs of Hallownest worshiped these in his stead.”

“Lies!” Before he could blink, the bug had grabbed the idol and jumped back towards the door. He held the idol up above their head, admiring it.

“Clearly it’s a tiny statue of me! Can you not see the resemblance?” He asked, looking towards Lemm and pressing the idol against his mask, eyes alight with mirth.

Lemm was about to snap at the bug to give him back the idol for gods sake it’s a historical artifact not a toy- when he too started to notice the similarities between the idol and the strange bug. Both had similar horns rising up as a crown, though the bug’s horns were much more curved than the King’s, and their masks looked nearly identical save for the black lines running down the bug’s face. The main difference was their clothing, with most of the King’s imagery in white and the bug’s clothes in a bright, fiery red. The more he looked, the more clear their uncanny resemblance became.

“...Are you related to the Pale King?” Lemm asked, feeling a headache start to form.

The bug looked confused, then put down the idol. “ Ah no, I’m afraid I simply jest my friend. Though we have similar names, I have never heard of your “Pale King” before. Though I have to say,” He looked back at the idol “your king was quite the looker.”

“Wait, what do you mean you have similar names? What’s your name?!”

The bug looked about ready to answer, before he froze and looked up at the ceiling. “Ah, my apologies my friend. It appears the Master is in need of me.”

“The Master??!”

“May we meet again.” The strange bug bowed, and raced out of the shop.

“Wait! You can’t just say something like that and leave who does that!? Come back here!” Lemm ran after the bug, but he was nowhere to be found. “Shit.” He sighed, before deciding to look around for any sign of the bug. That bug had to have some kind of connection with the King, and like hell he was going to pass up a chance to get information about the reclusive Pale King. He needed to talk to that bug.

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By @lesiasmadness

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By @redcynder1234

Lemm angrily grumbled at the tiny hands that dragged him halfway across the kingdom. He had tried to fight the smaller vessel off back in the city of tears. When they had suddenly barged into his little relic shop, seeming urgent as he tried to drag the grumpy old bug out of his shop. Lemm had tried to wave them away, but the smaller bug had quite a lot of determination to show them something then and there, at least no husks dare tread in their path as they traveled. The infection may be gone for sure, but husks of former bugs sometimes still lingered around, it was nerve wracking for sure, but lemm was safe in his shop where he could get lost in his work for hours on end. However now with the little shadow dragging him out of the safety of his home, He was a little on edge.

Finally as it seemed the little ghost had dragged them to their location they pointed upwards. Looking up, lemm grumbled seeing an old rusty chain leading up an old well. “Absolutely not.” He growled out. Even as the small vessel flapped their monarch wings to start and climb the chain. Hearing his response however they stopped and looked down before pulling out something from their cloak. One hand on the chain they waved a king's idol in the air. “Yes you’ve been waving that thing at me through this entire journey! I still don’t understand why you’ve dragged me halfway across hallownest.” He barked angrily. If only the little vessel could speak. He assumed they couldn't speak a few visits back as they sold old trinkets at his shop but lemm never could be sure. It really felt like they were speaking sometimes.

The vessel seemed to wave and point it up desperately before disappearing up the well. “Ey! Little squirt! Come back here!” He barked up the shaft angrily. However when no shadow came to retrieve him he just grumbled angrily. “Stupid, familiar looking…” Lemm mumbled under his breath as he climbed up the chain. If his curiosity about what they wanted wasn't so persistent he would have turned straight back around and headed back to the city of tears. Plus, kings idols were a rare find and he wanted to get his hands on as many as he could.

As he scrambled over the ledge of the well, his old carapace not liking the climb in the slightest, he looked around. He remembered hearing about the town of dirtmouth. By its size alone lemm could tell the town must have been a lively and successful one before the infection's grip controlled and destroyed the place. It was sad, maybe to anyone other than lemm at the moment. Grumpy and tired he saw the cloaked vessel padding towards two pinky almost red tinted tents. “Little pest… just doing to leave me behind!” He barked angrily as he followed after the vessel. Nothing left to do this far into this journey but to follow the little gremlin. Plus, in case there were any more infected lingering about, he rather have another soul that could fight them off then be left to fend them off himself. He only knew how to work with small pliers and knives, not nails and needles.

The vessel seemed to be approaching a small crowd that had formed outside the tents. They had been there before the two entered town, but lemm could already tell from a distance they were all… scared? More weary if anything. As he got closer the little ghost had turned, waving the small king's idol wildly while pointing through the crowd. “Give me that.” He snapped while snatching the king's brand from their hands. “I swear if you really wanted to sell it to me you could have done it in the city of tears, instead of dragging me halfway across the kingdom!” He snapped angrily. Making sure it hadn’t been damaged he fetched a bag of geo from under his cloak and dropped it without even looking at the vessel. “You're lucky I'm not taking half of that for dragging me her- OW.” He barked when ghost suddenly yanked his beard. “I swear-“ he growled as he looked down, wavinging the vessel's hand away from his beard. However the vessel was glaring into his soul and pointing. Angrily he huffed and looked up, before his eyes widened. Huh? That was impossible!?!

Looking down at the idol in his hands he looked up. The normal silver cloak was gone, replaced with red jester clothes. His crown of thorns was bent in such a painful looking way it almost made lemm cringe at the thought; and yet as lemm held up the king's idol he could see the similarities. Far too close similarities to be a coincidence. However there was no way the king of hallownest was some low-life jester doing gags and tricks to please the normal class's eye. Especially to a dead kingdom. Yet thinking this could be the king's brother was almost laughable. The king was a wyrm if the small amount of text he deciphered was true. And wyrms were giant beasts that could kill anything in its path. Then who was this look-a-like in front of them? That must be why the vessel had dragged them here, they may be curious themselves but since lemm was such a history nut he would know more. Could have still told him that before dragging him here.

As the jester bowed and the small crowd nervously clapped. Seeming to be more doing it to please someone then actually liking the show. He paused as the jester disappeared back into the pink tents. He knew the vessel was still standing beside them, watching the relic keeper curiously. Lemm knew he shouldn't enter the tent and ask such a question, but so many questions could be solved about this kingdom if this stupid look-a-like statue was this strange jester. The pale king hidden right under everyone's noses. Yet it still felt wrong in some way but he couldn't figure out why.

Lemm didn't understand what caused him to head towards the menacing face-looking tents; but he headed inside their pink tinted curtains. He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't the tent to be almost pitch black except for small lanterns hanging up around the place. He expected at least a little of the outside world's lights to cut through the fabric. Sure it wasn't bright already in dirtmouth, but the sheets had looked almost see through before, now they looked like solid walls keeping the relic keeper inside. A shiver ran down his back as he almost instantly regretted his decision. He was a relic seeker, not an explorer that went out and actually found the relics to study. However it was a bit too late to turn back now.

Walking down the hallway he saw another bug standing there. Playing a spooky tone upon the accordion in their hands. Lemm wished he could have just snuck around the bug but they noticed him before he got too close. “Mrmm… Sorry, but the master does not want visitors at the moment...” Lemm gulped softly. “Actually I am uh… here to see your jester I believe. I wanted to praise them for the wonderful show.” The lie came out of his mouth a bit smoother than he intended. Yet it seemed the other paused before nodding forward. “Mrmm… Continue then… but do not linger.” they simply stated. Lemm quickly nodded and passed by, making sure the king's idol was safely out of sight from the other bug's eyes. Once passed he calmed down a bit. The hallway led to a pretty large room, silken ropes hanging from just about everywhere above his head. Somewhere tied together, some were almost touching the ground. They were so long, but lemm had to admit it was a pretty sight. Something white suddenly appeared from above, it was the jester alright, carefully twisted around the silken fabric. Was he dancing? It kinda appeared like it. “H-hello?” lemm wasn't one for conversation but it felt a little awkward just watching the other. The other quickly looked down, a mask upon the other's face made the relic seeker shiver. However the others voice didn't sound nearly as threatening as he expected it to be. “Ah! Greetings down there, what brings you to the grimm kin’s tent.” He called down. Carefully sliding down the silken ropes to hang upside down in front of the relic seeker. Lemm nervously took a step back before stealing himself. “I wanted to ask you a question.” The jester tilted his head curiously. Carefully righting himself and wrapping his legs around the silken ropes to keep himself suspended in mid hair.

“Oh?” He hummed curiously “What question do you have for a little jester like me?” he spoke. Lemm gulped nervously before speaking. “Do… were… I….” how does he just ask someone if they were a king?! “Were you a king before?” He blurted out in her strange panic. The jester seemed to pause before bursting out laughing. Lemm huffed even if he knew how stupid that must of just sounded. “I’m serious!” He barked out, feeling a bit flustered. As the jester calmed he wiped a single tear that had formed in the mask's eye. “A funny joke for sure little bug, but there would be no way that I could be a king. I would probably put buzzsaws and little traps as far as the eye could see.” he snickered to himself as he joked, but lemm just huffed. “I am serious-” he barked again but the jester interrupted him “Then your answer is obviously no my small bug.” he chuckled “I could never be a king of something.” He chuckled. “Either way, I don't think you should be back here. If the master finds out you're here he may be quite mad.” The pale jester said with another chuckle. Lemm huffed angrily. “You look like the ruler that used to rule here--” “--That's enough.” the jester spoke with a huff. “I understand a joke but pushing it makes it unfunny.” the other huffed.

Lemm growled. “I’m not joking! I already said that.” he barked “You look like the king of his land, look-!” He held up the king idol that he had hidden in his cloak. The jester paused. If lemm continued to speak he didn't hear it, He focused on the idol in there hand. It made the jester feel strange, like there was something scratching at the back of their head but just couldn't figure out what was causing it. Like a memory long compressed and lost to time. Maybe it was better that they were suppressed but…. Flashes of memories went through his head. Bright white images with blurred faces. Hissing he took a step back before his head cleaned and something warm brushed his shoulder. Looking up he noticed grimm standing over him, his eyes seemed kind and light hearted but the jester could sense the small bit of anger in them.

The jester watched Grimm calmly lead the other outside the tents. Their words didn't fully register to him however as the two left. The strange symbol still was imprinted in his mind but the memories that had come along with them were gone. Strange, but it may be better for such things to stay hidden in his memory, but the jester was still curious. When grimm appeared beside him again through a burst of red smoke he seemed calm, but his red eyes shined in worry. “Ah yes I'm ok.” he chuckled nervously. “Just got a bit of a headache.” he said “What a strange bug.” he spoke, looking towards the entrance to the tent. Grimm only softly hummed “Indeed… Come, we have plenty still to do while we're here.” The jester paused before nodding, following grimm back into the tent.

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By @darkautodraws

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By @daikoski

The Pale Jester always had a knack for dancing.

—Or perhaps, certain kinds of it.

He’d discovered one time when indulging on a slower song from Brumm, that he had a knack for ballroom dancing of all things! But such a thing isn’t commonplace for his kind of performance, no, he much prefers storytelling accompanied with a fun little jig of sorts. Ballroom dancing—especially with the audience he tends to have—seems to be something a little too formal and delicate.

Which is why he finds himself taking on the endeavor of trusting seemingly delicate, flowing silks with the entirety of himself. Ahh, yes, that of aerial dancing! He notes them as seemingly delicate, as they’re more than capable of securing far more weight than originally thought, but also... he’s very sharp.

—Of course, he’s not so clumsy now to go and let his claws tear straight through the silk now, nor would he allow the plates of his body to catch on it either. Not like that one time, when he had first been trying to pitch the choreography to this performance...

Now that had been something. The clicking tear of threads being pulled apart and the swoop of his stomach as he plummeted before quickly catching himself with his tail, something of a boisterous, abrupt laugh escaping him.

“You’re not trying to escape from a web, are you? Try not to cut yourself down little Fool!” Divine had jeered affectionately, and he could have easily preened from the spark of laughter that ignited the rest of the Troupe before lowering himself.

(... he also most certainly tries to pad the sharp ridges of his body a little more ever since that incident, but that’s besides the point.)

Ah, but that’s beside the point. Such a joyous thing it is, to inspire such a reaction in others, even if it’s from a

slipup like that. Perhaps it’s even better when it is. (Aer all, the Jester in fact would like to think he uses his foolishness to endear

himself to others, not dolt around.)

The tent is empty as of now, though that’s no concern. The Grimmkin will flood the audience the moment he does so much as enter the stage—no, he’s searching for the more unfamiliar-yet-not guests to come in, if at all. Perhaps the little wanderer, the shadow? Or maybe even one of the town folks bold enough to come by? Oh, or the princess warrior! Though her kind are truly experts in silk, and he finds himself unsure of how she’ll take his performance. (It is due to her influence that he felt himself particularly inclined to this song and dance aer all.)

Ah, he should probably do some last checks on the rigging, make sure they’re steady and all that. That, and check on his costume, too.

“C’mon Jester, don’t tell me your talons are going all stiff on ya!” comes the snicker of a Grimmkin trying to goad him on, and he laughs, before launching into a sprightly comical bow, tail flicking. Actually, he feels as nimble as possible, thank you very much!

“Of course not, dear friend! I’m simply waiting to greet our beloved guests—” and speak and she will come, the familiar rubied-red cloak catches his eye, and he immediately pats and dismisses the ‘kin to greet the spider. “And here one comes now!”

“Hello, hello! Welcome, Little Hornet—” there’s a bit of distaste that shines through her expression at his thoughtless nickname, and he would reel it in had he not

already said it, instead opting to tuck the information away for next time, “—you’re just in time for this next performance! Sit down, sit down, make yourself comfortable!”

She’s ushered to her seat, which is something on the front rows amongst the many grimmkin. Idly he notes that neither of her siblings are attending, though he has no complaints.

This one’s less of a personal performance and more for all the Troupe to see, so he won’t be able to converse with her until aer. She comes here most oen to ask questions, aer all. A no-nonsense type of bug she is, and it’s only customary he’ll allow such aer a performance, and she seems to know the same. Nonetheless, he bites back a bark of amusement at the way she glowers at the chatty Grimmkin, a little bit crowded as it is.

Lights snap on, beaming bright and warm, and the show begins.

Distantly, he can hear the beginning notes of Brumm’s accordion, and ah, what a perfect guide he always is! The familiar haunting call sends a thrill through the Jester, and it’s with that he begins his performance.

He wonders briefly if aerial silk dancing has ever been seen within Hallownest. Perhaps so, perhaps not; he only learned due to the Troupe aer all, and Grimm hadn’t really shared where he had learned such an art either...

The whisper of silk that he coils around his hand is taut, strong and secure the more he loops it. It’s with quick, tight motions and a graceful swoop that he suspends himself right upside down, sharp mandibles pulling back into a pleased smile from behind his mask. That was a satisfying maneuver.

There’s a split second of concern regarding his costume—the fabric of his wings just do not seem to be cooperating this time around, but alas, it simply feels right to have them there!

The more he spends within the air, the more inclined, the more fond he becomes in fitting such an image. It feels even better when the silks are pulled and he’s practically in arms reach to the ceiling.

Though the Jester isn’t quite sure how to describe it; a certain kind of fun exhilaration, a familiar twinge in his chest at being lied to such a height—he’d first noticed it through the use of mere ropes and cranks, to trapezing and other such elevated storytelling (Ha! Perhaps if he finds more joyous stories to share, he could workshop that into a joke to tell Hornet...) to now dancing with aerial silks.

He lets himself be guided and pulled along, to sway and twirl with the call of the music and the warmth of the Heart with practiced ease and elegance. But of course; he’s more than prepared for this, and with each swoop and dip his smile widens more and more.

When the curtains close and all the Grimmkin have seen fit to disappear off to do whatever it is their hearts desire, the Jester remains lingering on the stage. To clean up mainly, but it is to keep a keen eye on the nimble princess as well. He watches as she simply hops up and makes her way down towards him, and he perks up in attention.

There’s some attempt at niceties, just polite, pleasant conversation on his part, to which she kind of shuts down aer a moment.

“Why the new performance?” Ahh, so some curiosity was piqued!

The Jester hums thoughtfully, letting the silks hold his weight up as he rocks too far back on his legs. It brushes whisper-so against him.

“Perhaps for no specific reason in particular, other than to further expand my capabilities as a jester!” He somewhat not-answers.

She doesn’t respond, instead opting to give him a very narrow eyed look, suspicion and more, and he feels compelled to continue.

“Well, perhaps not nothing. Hypothetically... if this old soul noticed a certain spiderling’s interest in acrobatics—and this is hypothetical, of course!” Hands up in the air as if in surrender yet jestful, he laughs, “and wished to, say, partake in something similar in an attempt to perhaps bond with her...?”

A pause and a beat. “Had it been to your liking, young one?”

He lets the words linger in the air, before dropping his hands down to tug at the silks once more. He wishes to be honest, so even though he feels... uncertain, telling her that, he doesn’t regret it.

Hornet’s expression does... something. It’s tiny—miniscule, even, and perhaps had it been anyone else but him, that faint little tell might have gone unseen. but he does see it, and he recognizes it quickly as some sort of conflicted emotion, a tension that he’s brought upon her.

It seems she very much teeters on something colder, fists gripping at the edge of her cloak before she almost quietly ekes out, “It had been fine.”

The Jester brightens up—why, from such a grumpy young princess like her, that could very well be the highest praise!

...Though it’s best he does not push further, nor goad her on either. Enjoyable their dances can be (with such strong, violent intent from her too!) he’s already finished his own performance, and she’s certainly due to rest sometime soon, nor would he want to upset her more in the first place.

And much to his surprise, she continues, “Such as... that part when you had dropped suddenly... I thought you were certain to fall and crack your mask in half.” Something of a surprised chuckle is pulled from him, and he hums. “Where you were supported by only one silk. It looked... dire.”

It’s vague enough that he can’t really pinpoint what part of the act she was talking about, but it brings forth words to his tongue, but just which ones?

Yes, just what was that phrase... right!

“That part! I was practically hanging by a thread, was I not?”

(So, he hadn’t been able to workshop that ‘elevated’ joke in time... but such is the way!)

By the Heart... he could consider this another job well-done, couldn’t he? No snapping, harsh remarks on the little spiderlings end, no such invasive shenanigans from any of the other grimmkin—the mischief they could get up to!

“It most certainly felt as though I had been too. These silks simply do not part when you want them to! I very nearly cocooned myself at one point!” He muses. A quick

recovery he always is, but it is still such a wrenching moment when there’s even the slightest miss of a cue.

“Tell me, I’ve never had the honour to learn or witness the art of silk in action. I can consider my act something akin to it, though it’s quite incomparable to that of a spider, and I find myself curious! Are there ever such... shenanigans like that?”

Perhaps it’s his curiosity as a now-performer, to find enjoyment in the silliness and mistakes along the way; a perfect performance starts from somewhere aer all, and he finds himself wishing to know more. Hornet probably knows what he’s doing—making good use of that ‘bonding attempt’ that he so mentioned earlier, and...

Is it in poor taste to joke around like this? She is one of the few weavers le... he wonders oandedly, when Hornet lets out something that sounds like a scoff-laugh.

“You would be surprised. Although we in particular favoured silk to be used in tapestries and story keeping rather than dance, it wouldn’t be... uncommon for a mishap to happen in a more verbose storytelling. Such as a silk shroud meant to mimic the silhouette of a corpse creeper ending up on the audience rather than the speaker themself...”

She does not specify if the one accidentally tossing a silken hunter on their audience is her, from her early days of practicing weaving, or anyone else... but she does look a little more relaxed, even if by a pinch. (And if he looked ever closer, maybe even a little embarrassed? It’s tiny, and far off, but maybe...)

(For some reason, he has a feeling he would have been too. Just a little bit.)

Hornet is about to speak more, unprompted (much to his delight), when she halts. One beat, two beats, and then looks at him.

“...you’ve never learned?” It's a small enough question that he nearly misses it. So like a whisper, edged with a sharp venomous hiss, and when the Jester is able to recollect himself from the sudden shock, he’s tuned back in only to see her cold regard and the turn of her back, needle gripped tighter, for she never goes anywhere without it.

“So now you’re curious.”

...Pardon?

He doesn’t give the reaction she wants, if the (hurt? angry?) scoff she gives at his bewilderment is not enough of a tell, then it’s the way she rolls her eyes before looking askance.

“...I will be taking my leave now.” She mutters something more about ‘he never learned about the weavers’ ... ‘not even of their culture?’ but the last bits of it are lost as she disappears from sight completely.

...

That... had not gone well? Or did it? It most certainly feels as though it did, but now their conversation has been cut short without him being able to give so much as a farewell. But he lets her leave. Not that he would stop her, especially knowing she’ll stop by sometime again, but he simply... watches.

She had been upset, in the beginning, and then the end. Upset at him. (Isn’t the first time.) (That’s one, aching pain in his chest today.)

...

The curtains have fallen, and as of now it’s time he recuperates for the next performance.

...That, or dust off that lantern of his to go and gather more flames for the Heart. The Troupe Master had allowed him to forgo such responsibilities in favour of honing his aerial dance aer all. Even with permission, he can feel the faint call of the flames, the flicker-spark as they burn deep within the depths of this poor, dilapidated kingdom.

(Or is it the call of the Heart pulling him away from his encounter with Hornet?)

(The enthralling change in attention is enough to jarr him just a little bit out of his thoughts, though he’s unsure if that’s what he wants or not. Distraction or focus?)

Deliberately, he redirects his thoughts to the spiderling, to their interactions.

...As a whole, it seems today has le him with very different emotions.

She had been testy at first, as always, but it seemed like he managed to converse pleasantly for her, even for just an exchange. And then she’s up and gone in not a moment later.

...There was an uncertain edge to her, when he had told her of his reasons for practicing such dance. The faintest scrunch of her fangs, as if trapped between pulling back into a snarling hiss or an uncertain smile. Or that if she did feel hostile, it was as though she was in polite company and couldn’t afford to be as such.

(And he knows very well that she does not quite see him as polite company, so why does she refrain as such other than habit?)

She was never one to hide her distaste towards him, but that had been something... different. What, he isn’t sure, but... odd, for such a small detail to stick out to him like that.

Ah, haha! But of course he recognized such a tell, not when he has the exact same quirk! Conflicted between strict decorum and honesty, where he’d much rather be honest and forthright than needlessly tense, as he’s so oen teased by his beloved—!

—His... beloved? No name follows that, and although it would be a complete term of endearment

as is, it doesn’t... feel complete. His beloved... one who knows him, knows his face despite the mask upon it

now...? His...

...Odd.

(...Here’s another chest pang.)

There’s a harsh little wheeze of a sour note, and the Jester perks up to see Brumm approaching, fiddling with the instrument before kicking into a slower, soer melody. He hadn’t realized he'd been standing there still, center of the stage, still with hands entangled in the silks, still very much not cleaning up or resting.

“Hello there, friend!” He greets, receiving only a nod in response and a curious look.

“Mrmm... Did something happen? Had it not gone well?” Straight to the point as always, too...

“I...” he falters, and for a second he feels terribly improper for such an obvious display of weakness, before continuing, “I do believe it couldn’t have gone any better!”

And it’s true! There isn’t much in his opinion that could be improved other than the few minute details, but of course, he is always striving to grow! Simply, everything had felt so right, he has no current complaints for himself!

Which is why... how odd it is that he feels so... down. This is by far one of his best performances yet, but that encounter with Hornet... it leaves him feeling tense. She had, while not the main reason he wished to learn such a dance, had been an influential part of it at least...

Because he cares for her like a... like a daughter. (Though that feels a touch too much, considering the fact she is the princess-protector of this fallen kingdom, and how terrible it is that she is to bear the responsibilities of the once so revered king...)

...So maybe a niece instead?

(Perhaps niece would work better—he can’t go and become too fond of the come and goers who eventually leave, just as how the Troupe will part from these ruins eventually too. But alongside that, there was an amusing term he had learned a few kingdoms back from a grub who had claimed him as their... ‘cool uncle’ in feeling!)

(Truthfully, he had never really learned the semantics of family lines like that—never needed to anyways. Taking up the mantle as a Jester of no-one but the

Troupe leaves him snapping up little bits of information from the many different places they’ve visited.)

(And here he is, subconsciously trying to claim a familial title for himself when he’s the last person someone would want as family.)

...

“I had believed perhaps this would be a more successful performance than my usual song and dance.” he admits, jovial tone a little lacking, far less overplayed than it usually is.

“Though I haven’t the faintest idea why... I thought perhaps it would make her happier that I do something she could potentially partake in. Aer all, I had never........”

Sharp words echo in his mind. ‘You've never?’

..........He had never what? The same phrase worms itself way into his mind again, this time from his own tongue. The things he has never done, but... what? Why is it that he feels inclined, feels like he needs, with all of his foolish heart, to make up for something he isn't aware of? Of strings le undone, of time he had owed but had never given...

There’s something tugging at him faintly, trying to unmoor itself from the deepest parts of his mind yet shrouded in the familiar, now comforting mist of blazing warmth and flame. He tries to prod at the thought a little further, before the feeling escapes him.

(Or perhaps the flame that so carefully protects his mind, so caringly had swept it up, crisping it with its bright beauty and letting it smolder into ashes so that these vague thoughts may no longer cling to him.)

He had never......

......Well, he’s never done many things! What he does now though is what’s more important than ever, and if he so desires to try and chip at all the ‘nevers’, what better way to do it than travelling with the dear Troupe?

Unconsciously, he tugs at the hanging silks. Something to fiddle with if anything.

(His head feels foggy again, chest tight. That’s three aching pains today. Or more? He can’t tell.)

Then there’s the low voice of his dear friend, and the Jester tunes into what Brumm is saying. “...Have you shown Master your new performance?” He doesn’t see, or rather, he can’t see the solemn looks of the musician, can only hear the little ‘hrmm...’ that vibrates from his voicebox.

The song he’s playing comes to an end, and he draws the last note out, long and mournful.

“Ah, but of course. Though I must say I haven’t performed it for him officially other than in practice—it would do me well to hone my skills further! You don't suppose he's free currently?” Brumm is offering a distraction, he’s aware, but nonetheless, he wouldn’t turn down a moment with the Troupe Master when he’s been nothing but kind during pain days like this.

“He should be. I shall inform him then.” He inclines his head. “...Take care.”

Brumm bids him a gentle farewell, soon disappearing into the depths of the tent and leaving the Jester to his thoughts.

So.

...Thrice. Thrice, that those aching pains have visited him within this same hour, and he frowns. Thrice, and he doesn’t have an inkling as to how and where they could have come and gone, nothing but a lingering phantom sensation in his chest.

(He had talked about it with Brumm one time, when they were both musing over the ambiguity of their characters; life before the Troupe, faded and gone, just as with everyone else. Life with the Troupe, all that they’ve known, but a satisfactory life it is.)

Where little weird memory aches aren’t impossible, or even uncommon, but are well taken care of. Soothed even, by the Heart.

Ah yes, the Heart. It’s taken the entire Troupe under its care, hasn’t it? They’re all here with the gied masks that brands them as one with the Heart, they’re here for a reason.

And the comfort that so fills him is something overwhelming, bright and unrelenting, such is the way of a flame within the dark. It washes over the last of the tugging memory pains, and he lets it. Lets it singe and smolder, lets it drape its curtain of red over his mind, so that the ache in his chest will disappear.

All of the lingering worries, all the doubts are held alo by a bare thread— —and the Heart snips through it with ease, and the Fool is at peace.

-------------------------------

By @cloudcryptid

#hollowknight #hollow knight #palejesterau #telephoneknight #the pale king #lemm #ghost #hornet

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fancyfade · 2 years ago

Note

1, 4, 18, 40

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

ok i only have a word that makes me go feral in spanish IDK why its my favorite word

medalaganariamente. im sure i found it while looking for long spanish words while bored or something. according to diccionario de americanismos it means "De forma medalaganaria, arbitraria. (in an arbitrary manner, without rule or method*"

close second for english words would be sphygmamonometer (blood pressure cuff) I was so happy when i foudn an excuse to use that in my fanfic

*IDK the word for 'medalaganaria' in english so i just translated the definition of medalaganaria if you click through it once more. i think 'medalaganarious' would be an incorrect anglification of the word

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

I'll choose this one-off fic (link) because I'm in a Maya mood and Maya shows up in it.

context is: Damian takes his R:SoB friends (suren and maya) to the arcade to have fun.

It initially was just going to be a silly few-panel fancomic, contrasting some things for humor value like damian's formal register (it had 'the playing of video games is a sacred tradition' line but damian kept going on about it) and also suren wound up setting an arcade game on fire with his powers when he got frustrated.

i didnt have the time to draw it so i eventually recycled it into a fic that had some serious moments to go with the silly moments. dick was always in the story, but the reasons were put in text more and since it's now from damian's POV we got to see damian's empathy for his friends more

40 Please share a poem with me, I need it.

egotistical so i'll do my favorite poem i wrote

The art of never looking back (link)

1 i already answered in another ask!

#nonbinaryhectorhall #ask #tumblr games #my fanfic

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incarnadinedreams · 1 year ago

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(yes it is very stupid of me to still be thinking about this dumb take but whatever)

But I also feel like this take takes away from just how extraordinary, insane, unhinged, incredible, *impossible* the golden core transfer was to begin with?

Obviously please correct me if I'm wrong, but based on my impression of the story... to say Jiang Cheng should've noticed the Baoshan Sanren story was all bullshit and if he didn't ask enough questions he obviously wanted the golden core transfer to happen... kind of ignores that in the context of the story, it's probably actually more believable that a mysterious, legendary immortal is able to perform a miracle and restore the core than a doctor is able to transfer one.

In-universe, the idea of the core transfer even being *possible* is not some widely-held knowledge or belief. Like, nobody had even conjectured it before Wen Qing, and Wen Qing had very specifically never done one before. Nobody had. Even her own sect mocked her for speculating that it was possible! Even Wen Qing was like "I give it 50/50 tops" as to whether it would work, and it was her own conjecture!

Was the Baoshan Sanren story improbable? Of course. But when your shixiong sends you up a mountain blindfolded alone after telling you Baoshan Sanren will restore your core, and you get knocked out and wake up with a core, what else are you going to believe? Why would your mind immediately go to a core transfer performed by a prominent member of the sect that just annihilated yours, an even *less* probable story than the one you'd been told?

Part of the tragedy of everything that happened afterwards is this whole running theme of incomplete information. (Though in this case 'incomplete' is a polite way of saying 'intentional deception over the course of several years').

It's just enough in character for Wei Wuxian to be arrogant and defiant (given they're the traits that make him a fun, interesting, charming and shameless protagonist), to ignore all the rules and any attempts to rein him in, especially from Jiang Cheng's perspective.

I actually think this passage from the core reveal is interesting, precisely because it plays into that 'incomplete information' theme from both directions in a way. Obviously in this case Wen Ning has the big, important reveal, but there's something about the way it's framed that I found interesting.

Wen Ning, "That's right! Why do you think he never used Suibian again and never carried it with him when he went out? Was it really because of some youthful arrogance? Could he have really enjoyed it when others said that he was impolite and lacked discipline, whether behind his back or not? [...]"

-- Ch. 87 of the ExR translation

Wen Ning's perception of Wei Wuxian prior to the events at Yiling was limited to a single conversation at an archery tournament. He wasn't there for all the times when, in far more innocent and youthful situations, Wei Wuxian seemed to revel in exactly that sort of thing. Which again, is what makes him fun - he's shameless, he has little regard for rules or etiquette, he knows what he cares about and what he doesn't.

Even if Jiang Cheng knew something was wrong, something was off, his brushing off Jiang Cheng with excuses for why he wouldn't carry his sword or attend meetings was just enough like himself to be believable, just enough an echo of old patterns to stave off too close an examination. When Wei Wuxian told him that rules just make him want to disobey more, he believes him because it sounds like him!

(Tangent: I actually find it weird when people fault Jiang Cheng for being pushy or controlling or 'treating him like a servant', because if anything I think he erred far too much on the side of not pushing Wei Wuxian when he probably should have pushed more.)

And Wei Wuxian had been through enough, changed enough, that other parts could be rationalized with the war and being tossed into the Burial Mounds and everything else - there was a whole clusterfuck of insane events in a very short time period! Jumping from that to "obviously he transferred his golden core to me" doesn't really make a lot of sense to me, even if it's what actually happened!

But those are all things Wen Ning wasn't there for. Which of course I'm not faulting him for, their lives (or deaths...) didn't fully intersect until much later in the timeline. But I just think it's neat how both of them have such prominent blind spots regarding Wei Wuxian in totally opposite directions and both are clashing into each other in that scene so perfectly.

(also resisting the urge to ramble about JC & WN and my headcanon/not-explicitly-contradicted-by-canon-theory that JC probably/possibly believes WN was with WC when the Jiang clan was murdered and how that detail may play into long-standing misconceptions they have of each other's role in their personal tragedies)

Special new definition of (medical) consent apparently: if someone you trust lies to you and tricks you into a medical procedure, you’re actually consenting if you just didn’t ask good enough questions ro realize what you were told was a lie.

Glad the MDZS fandom cleared that one up for me

#sorry I can't shut the fuck up about my most precious blorbo prime #thinking too much about yunmeng shuangjie again #thinking too much about jiang cheng is my favorite hobby #I'm actually not that salty anymore it just made me think about stuff idk

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ouyangzizhensdad · 4 years ago

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On the importance of MianMian: musings on the differences between the novel and CQL (PART 2/2)

If you haven’t already, please read through part one first, otherwise this will probably not be very cohesive or comprehensible. There is also some bonus meta because I keep having thoughts about MianMian.

In part one, I contrasted MianMian’s first appearance in the novel and the web series in order to show how MianMian’s characterisation and position within her society were established quite differently in both works. In this post, I will explore the domino effect of those adaptation choices, as well as consider how the two subsequent appearances of MianMian in the novel got translated into a visual format in CQL. Through this exercise, my goal is not only to illuminate the depth and significance of this minor character in the novel, but also to argue that the way her scenes were adapted in CQL ultimately reduced the impact of the character and excised many of the nuances put into her portrayal despite increasing her presence in the work.

(although kudos to CQL for casting Ann Wang because I do not get tired of looking at her face: look at that smile 😳)

The Servant’s Daughter Valued Jin Cultivator Standing up to a Room of Powerful Cultivators

In the novel, we meet MianMian for a second time after the Sunshot campaign has ended. Cultivators from the main sects and allied sects (including some who used to be loyal to the Wens!) are discussing at Jinlintai Wei Wuxian’s actions after he protected the Wens and set up residence on Mass Grave Hill. By that time, it appears her position in her sect, and even her sect’s position, has grown. We can speculate as to why (my personal take is that MianMian proved herself during the war and that her sect is one of the sect who pledged loyalty to the Jin and gained influence as a result). What is important is that she goes from someone who is so inconsequential she might have not even have been a disciple yet when we met her to someone who stands next to a sect leader (who we can safely assume in this context to be her sect leader). A lot is hinted about her character and what she experienced since we last saw her through that small and innocuous detail.

Suddenly, a careful voice interjected, “It’s not killing indiscriminately, is it?”

Lan Wangji seemed to have entered a realm of zen that blocked all of his senses. Hearing this, however, he moved, looking over. The one who spoke was a young woman with a fair face, standing beside one of the sect leaders.

I will not repeat here the entirety of her speech, which highlights the hypocrisy and the bad faith of the sects, and particularly the Jin sect’s unwillingness to shoulder any blame for their deplorable treatment of the Wens. Instead, I find important to highlight how the other cultivators present react to MianMian based on her positionality.

First, MianMian’s opinions are undercut by the people present due to the fact that she is a woman. Her motivations for speaking out are reduced to the irrational ramblings of a maiden in love.

“You can stop arguing,” someone sneered suddenly. “We don’t want to hear the comments of someone who has other motives.”

The woman’s face flushed.

“Explain things,” she said, raising her voice. “What do you mean, that I have other motives?”

“There’s no need for me to say anything. You know deep down and we know too. You fell for him back in the cave of the Xuanwu just because he flirted with you? You’re still arguing for him, calling white black no matter how irrational it is. Ha, women will always be women.”

The incident of Wei Wuxian saving a damsel in distress in the cave of the Xuanwu was indeed once a topic of conversation. Thus, many people realized immediately that this young woman was ‘MianMian’.

At once, somebody murmured, “So that’s why. Explains how she’s so desperate as to speak up for Wei Wuxian…”

“Irrational?” she fumed. “Calling white black? I’m just being considerate as it stands. What does it have to do with the fact that I’m a woman? You can’t be rational with me so you’re attacking me with other things?”

Then, when members of her own sect disparage her for speaking up, they suggest that her place in the discussion, in this palace of gilded power and privilege, is ultimately illegitimate or at the very least incredibly easy to render illegitimate.

“Stop wasting your time on her. That this kind of person actually belongs to our sect, that she was even able to find her way into the Golden Pavilion; I feel ashamed standing alongside her.

Many of those who spoke against her were from the same sect.

In this situation, not even her fellow sect members are willing to come to her defense or to give her the benefit of the doubt; she is to be shamed and separated from them, lest her actions reflect badly on their own standing.

MianMian’s choice to leave her sect behind is meaningful because she is not privileged. She does not have anyone powerful in her corner to back her up. She does not have many options; people act like she should be glad to even have made it this far, and we can infer that she only achieved her current position due to her skills and hard work. It is also meaningful because she is making that choice while knowing that she’s giving up on the privileges of the social position that she has worked to achieve. The fact that she is giving up on something big is highlighted by the reactions of many cultivators after her departure, who think she will come crawling back to find once more the security and privilege of the position she left behind.

Saying nothing, MianMian turned around and left. A while later, someone laughed. “If you’re taking it off, then don’t put it on again, if you’re so capable!”

“Who does she think she is… leaving as she pleases? Who cares? What is she trying to prove?”

Soon, some began to agree, “Women will always be women. They quit just after you say a few harsh words. She’ll definitely come back on her own, a couple of days later.”

“There’s no doubt. After all, she finally managed to turn from the daughter of a servant to a disciple, haha…”

Beyond what it means for her characterisation and the themes explored in the novel, this moment is significant because there are clear parallels between how she is treated in that moment and how WWX is talked about for protecting the Wen remnants and, later, for ‘deserting’ the Jiang sect. In fact, just before MianMian speaks out, sect leaders call WWX a “servant” and the “son of a servant” when underlying the ‘nerve’ of his ‘arrogance’ toward the sects with his actions.

One of the sect leaders added, “To be honest, I’ve wanted to say this since a long time ago. Although Wei Wuxian did a few things during the Sunshot Campaign, there are many guest cultivators who did more than him. I’ve never seen anyone as full of themselves as him. Excuse my bluntness, but he’s the son of a servant. How could the son of a servant be so arrogant?”

These passages are also reminiscent of the way WWX is discussed by cultivators celebrating his death in the prologue:

“That’s right, good riddance! If the YunmengJiang sect had not adopted him, educated him—this Wei Ying would have been a mediocre scoundrel all his life, nothing but riffraff…… what else could he be! The former head of the Jiang clan treated him as his own son, but what a son! [...]”

“I can’t believe Jiang Cheng really let this arrogant manservant live for so long. If it were me, when this Wei first defected, I wouldn’t have just stabbed him; I’d have cleaned house straight away. Then he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to commit all those deranged acts later. When it comes to these sorts of people, how can you even take sentiments like ‘same clan’, ‘same sect’, or ‘childhood loyalty’ into consideration?”

Due to the circumstances of their birth, even people who manage to achieve a higher position in society hold a tenuous grasp on the power and respect they have gained: their legitimacy is fraught. And even if they play the game right, the lines of legitimate belonging are always ready to be renegotiated by those in power. Despite the “few things” he did during the Sunshot Campaign that aligned with the interest of the sects, and despite being raised among the gentry in the Jiang sect and being perceived as a gongzi, WWX remains in the imaginary of the cultivators who see themselves as the legitimate holders of power as someone who needs to “remember his place”, someone who should be grateful and loyal as he has been “allowed” to raise in influence and be treated well in society despite being the son of a servant. And so when he stands against the interests of the sects, he’s not just betraying them: he betraying the social order which gives them legitimacy. This is directly tied to MianMian’s treatment in this scene. In the novel, MianMian is not only shamed and dismissed because she speaks out against the sects: it is also, if not primarily, because she did not, in the process, “remember her place”.

The scene as it is presented in the novel thus goes out of its way to set up a clear parallel between WWX and MianMian, not only in regards to their righteousness, but also in regards to how they are perceived and treated for being the children of servants. It also takes pain to underline the unfair treatment of women in that society. Moreover, if we’re only considering MianMian’s characterisation, it says a lot to see her have reached this level of importance in her sect despite her circumstances and then for her to let it all go.

In CQL? You’ve probably guessed it; all of these nuances are evacuated from the text. On top of the fact that MianMian continues to be established as a valued member of the Jin sect, the scene is cut short and a lot of the censure sent her way is excised. There are no mentions of her ‘having made her way’ into the room of powerful people who are allowed have an opinion on the state of the world. No mentions of her low social background and no mocking that she will crawl back to her sect after realising she can’t make it into the world without their influence and support. No dismissal of her based on the fact that she is a woman, or suggestions that she is standing up for the YLLZ only because she is enamoured with him. The scene is turned into a pale shadow of its original.

Instead of these elements, we do get a gasp from JZX (which becomes a dangling plot thread because he does not stand up for her nor does he reach out for her even though she’s supposed to be his good friend, nor do we see him being conflicted about being unable to beyond his gasp) and MianMian telling JGS that she is leaving his sect, which I’ll admit is pretty baller. But it does not even come close to having the significance and thematic implications of the scene as presented in the novel. CQL!MianMian stands up against the organized smear campaign against WWX and the sects’ unwillingness to accept their faults, and is only disregarded for having spoken against them: not because of who she was while she was raising doubts about their evaluation of the right and wrong. And that is significant, because it undercuts the discussions the novel explores through so many other characters about the impacts of being considered inferior by others.

The Travelling Rogue Cultivator who Stayed Home

Finally, in the novel, we meet MianMian once more when her daughter, Xiao MianMian, stumbles upon something she should not have seen while accompanying her parents on a night-hunt. The reason their paths cross is that, just like Wangxian, MianMian feels compelled to pursue night-hunts other cultivators disregard for their lack of glory in order to help the common people. This is her life mission as a travelling rogue cultivator: differently put, she goes where the chaos is. This set-up serves to highlight that MianMian and Wangxian are like-minded and share the same definition of what it means to be ‘Righteous’.

He asked, “Did you come here to night-hunt as well?”

Luo Qingyang nodded, “Yes. I heard spirits are haunting a nameless graveyard on this mountain, disturbing the lives of the people here, so I came to see if there’s any way I could help. Have you two cleaned it up already?”

The night-hunt also serves to reintroduce the theme of deception and rumours, and the ways in which MianMian is a character who is not swayed by public opinions but knows how easily others may be.

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji exchanged a glance. “This was a lie too. No lives were lost. We looked it up. Only a few villagers who robbed the graves were bedridden for a while after being scared by the ghosts, and another broke his own leg when running away. Apart from these, there were no casualties. All those lives were made up for dramatic purposes.”

“So this was what happened?” interjected Luo Qingyang’s husband. “That’s absolutely shameless!”

“Oh, these people…” sighed Luo Qingyang. She seemed as if she remembered something, shaking her head, “They’re the same everywhere.”

This is because in the novel MianMian is tied to many themes, and always in a positive manner. Like WWX, she represents the good that is stifled by an unjust social order. She also represents the people who choose to defy and deviate from this social order to pursue a righteous life rather than trying to find vindication and power within that very social order (ie JGY or XY). Like the juniors, MianMian is a character that represents hope for the cultivation world, the potential for small but significant change. Like WWX and LWJ, she represents integrity in the face of the corrupting influences of power and politics, as well as the desire to protect the common people. Like Cangse Sanren, she represents the courage to make her own path in the world, and to marry for love with no considerations for social status or conventions, and the decision to becoming a travelling rogue cultivator.

On top of all these great things this scene accomplish, it is also just incredibly cute. After their talk, their parting is described like such: “Soon, the group had gone down the mountain, and Wei Wuxian could only say goodbye to them with some regret, continuing on another path alongside Lan Wangji.” Honestly, my ‘WWX and LWJ become Xiao MianMian’s shushus’ agenda is alive and well and I will not accept anything else.

In CQL, however, the reunion happens by pure coincidence. The scene is in actuality a mash-up between the reunion we have in the novel and another scene that takes place earlier, in which fugitives WWX and LWJ enter the home of strangers as they are looking for some water (and end up frolicking in hay).

Simply by changing the circumstances and the setting of the reunion, something is lost of the thematic connection between WWX/Wangxian and MianMian, even though viewers still get told that MianMian is someone who night-hunts. Without entering into the specific debate of whether show don’t tell is the only acceptable storytelling strategy, I think it’s fair to say that it is more effective to run into MianMian as she is night hunting based on the same rumours of hauntings as Wangxian instead of seeing her get home, pull a sword willy-nilly after hearing something suspicious in her backyard and finally getting told that she was out night hunting.

Moreover, having to recreate most of the beats of MianMian’s last appearance into this new context seems to have been quite confusing to the CQL production team, and seems to have breed, as a result, a lack of internal coherence to the scene (cut between the end of ep 43 and the beginning of ep 44), regardless of any of its other pitfalls as an adaptation.

In the CQL version, when we meet the family on their way back to their home, Xiao MianMian had been running around and her father chastises her by telling her something along the lines of “Don’t run around, what if you had gotten caught by the YLLZ?”, thereby suggesting that MianMian’s husband believes what is said about WWX. To this, Xiao MianMian replies But Mom Says he’s a Good Guy Though. Obviously, the intent of the writers was to show that MianMian had never bought into the rumours about WWX. However, this exchange makes seemingly no sense if one thinks about it for longer than a second. It suggests that MianMian had never talked about this topic with her husband or that he had never heard her talk about the YLLZ with their daughter. Considering how dangerous the YLLZ is said to be, and that they were night-hunting while he was a fugitive, I don’t see how that would have not come up even if for some unlikely reason she had until then only talked about the YLLZ with her daughter. Of course, one could suggest that MianMian’s husband says this to tease their daughter, fully aware that the YLLZ’s reputation of swallowing children is a tall tale, but the tone is not quite right? And it does not jive with the fact that MianMian is not on board with defaming people: I don’t think she’d be okay with her husband knowingly using the myth of the YLLZ to scare their kid into obedience because it’s convenient to do so? A miss.

To make matters worse, when WWX later asks MianMian is she’s back from night-hunting, Xiao MianMian says that they are back from searching for the YLLZ. First, there is a clear lack of coherence with the previous exchange between Xiao MianMian and her father. And again, it’s hard to get to the meaning of that exchange: is it implying that MianMian was looking for WWX to offer him her help? She certainly doesn’t once she does meet him, so that appears unlikely or at least it’s a plothole/dangling plot thread. But why be looking for him, if she knows he’s not the monster the rumours make him out to be? Clearly, the writers wanted to tell the viewers that MianMian is a rogue cultivator, and figured that having her back from a night-hunt would be enough: but why this line by Xiao MianMian about searching for the YLLZ? Is it just the fancy of a kid, who makes up her own stories while her parents pursue other cases (especially since MianMian says she was looking for puppets)? But then Xiao MianMian does say that ‘we’ were searching for him...

I can’t figure it out. I find it even weirder that, when WWX asks Xiao MianMian whether she is scared of the scary YLLZ (although she’s literally just said moments before that she was not scared of him in her exchange with her father that WWX certainly heard), Xiao MianMian starts replying that she is not scared and MianMian cuts her, apologizing to WWX that he daughter is too young and naive. What is she apologizing for? How is her daughter naive for not being scared of the YLLZ? Or is she apologizing for her daughter suggesting they were searching for the YLLZ? If so, why cut her now and not when she suggested that they were searching for him?

What’s happening in this scene?!

Also, even an attempt to keep lines as close to what they were in the novel ends up backfiring with the new context. In the novel, out night-hunting, MianMian asks “ 什么人” when she sees WWX come out from the direction of a graveyard (she has not seen LWJ yet). Knowing that she might suspect him of being a corpse or a spirit considering that it is night and that he is leaving a graveyard said to be haunted, WWX responds “不管是什么人，总归是人，不是别的东西 “ (No matter who I am, I’m a person after all, and not something else). In CQL, when MianMian hears a sound in her backyard, she asks “ 什么人” and, after LWJ comes out and is recognized by MianMian, WWX still responds (??) with a similar yet slightly different sentence: “ 不管是谁，反正是个人，不是东西 “ (No matter who I am, anyway I am a person, not a thing). This exchange in the context of the scene in CQL baffles me because: why would there be then an expectation that they would not be a person in this situation? Why would he say that after MianMian has seen and recognized LWJ, thus knowing full well that it is a person and not a spirit or a corpse? As well, why change “ 别的东西 “ (something else/different thing) for “ 东西 “ (thing) since MianMian’s question does not imply by itself that she thinks they are not people since she asks "什么人” (literally: what person?), making WWX’s statement that he is “not a thing” completely come out of nowhere? And it’s so much more perplexing than his original statement that he is not “something else” from a human.

I’m spending time on these two lines because I find them to be a sort of microcosm of some of the questionable adaptation choices made in CQL: at times the web series chooses to keep things from the novel even after changing the context in which these elements unfold without understanding how these no longer work within their new context. Yet, at the same time, it feels comfortable making what appear on the surface to be minute changes without thinking through the implications of them, and thus changing the point of these elements through these minute modifications.

Aside from these elements which prevent this moment in CQL to give us a scene that is internally coherent, let’s further interrogate some of the adaptational changes made between the novel and the web series, and their impact on the themes and characterisation.

One change that conflicts with the characterisation and the thematic discussion regards WWX inquiring about MianMian’s husband. Unlike in the novel, where WWX engages him in a little bit of chitchat and then feels forced by conventions to ask to which sect he belongs, CQL makes it seem as if it is an information WWX wants to ask because it’s literally the first thing he says to him, not even after a salutation or a “well met” (I will be magnanimous and believe that that choice to do so was for the sake of brevity and not because the preceding dialogue had not been written in the novel and the CQL writers couldn’t be bothered to come up with something). This, however, makes it look like WWX puts a lot of importance in knowing someone’s allegiance to a sect, which is the exact opposite of how he feels about it.

She pulled the man up, “This is my husband.”

Noticing that they held no malicious intent, the man softened visibly. After some chatter, Wei Wuxian asked out of convenience, “Which sect do you belong to and which kind of cultivation do you practice?”

The man answered frankly, “None of them.”

Luo Qingyang gazed at her husband, smiling, “My husband isn’t of the cultivating world. He used to be a merchant. But, he’s willing to go night-hunting with me…”

It was both rare and admirable that an ordinary person, and a man at that, would be willing to give up his originally stable life and dare travel the world with his wife, unafraid of danger and wander. Wei Wuxian could not help feeling respect for him.

Of course, without WWX’s thought process provided to us in the narration, the implications of MianMian’s husband being originally a merchant are a little bit lost in CQL, even if CQL!MianMian provides that piece of information. Of course, CQL could have chosen to include WWX’s musings, since it does include in this very scene some voice-over thoughts earlier. It is a shame though, that it does not, since MianMian and her husband are clear parallels for WWX’s parents in that regard: his father also left a stable life to travel the world with his wife.

Although, to be fair, CQL!MianMian is no longer a rogue cultivator who travels the world, so it is not like her husband made the decision to travel the world with her. Indeed, by frankensteining the two scenes from the novel, MianMian is by default no longer a rogue cultivator who travels the world: she is a rogue cultivator, sure, in that she does not belong to a sect, but she is a rogue cultivator with a home she clearly needs to inhabit during the day, what with the fact that they raise animals (we see little chicks in the background and there are piles of hay), and who night-hunts close enough to her home to be able to come back home in the morning. Moreover, without the context of meeting MianMian at the same glory-less night-hunt as Wangxian, it is harder to express the idea that MianMian is someone who chooses, like them, to do so for the common good and not for any prestige or rewards. MianMian is no longer another cultivator who goes ‘where the chaos is’ and, in terms of positive female representation, it is truly a shame. After all, the novel frames this as a positive and admirable trait which we see in our two main (male) protagonists: to have a woman follow, independently, the same path as them is meaningful.

Finally, instead of the scene closing with a regretful parting that hints at the sense of kinship between MianMian’s family and Wangxian, we get a truly (imo) patronizing ending. In CQL, their conversation is disrupted by threatening sounds. LWJ then instructs MianMian to stay in her home and protect Xiao MianMian while LWJ and WWX take care of things. So feminism..... such empowerment... To be honest, if CQL meant to change things and put MianMian in scenes where she wasn’t originally, why not have her go with Wangxian? Why not have her be there for the Mass Grave Hill Siege? Why not have her leave her daughter with her husband and let her be a badass? Instead, they conveniently check her out of the action after putting her directly in the middle of it. Instead of having MianMian be away from the sects and doing her own rogue cultivator thing as the events of the novels unfolded in WWX’s second life, explaining her absence, CQL reintroduces her just before an important moment but chooses to send her away once more, to stay home and protect her daughter, probably because they did not want to take the time and energy to figure out how and where she would fit into these scenes in which she had not be written in the novel. This is the kind of adaptational choice that makes me question why people consider CQL a more progressive work of fiction with regards to its treatment of female characters.

Final Musings: sometimes, less is more

Does an increase to the number of appearances of a character shape their impact on the audience? Or, conversely, does it dilute their meaning within and their impact on the text? There is not a simple answer to that question. Certainly, repetition is in itself a literary device, and many readers need salient and blunt reminders to get a message across, the likes of: the important characters are the ones you see the most often. Likewise, having a character feature more often in a work can provide the necessary breathing space to explore more and in more depth their psychology, motivations, past, actions, etc. However, the simple act of increasing the presence of a character does not inherently increase their impact on a work of fiction nor does it increase the nuances and depths of that character.

It is possible to adhere to a cynical or optimistic perspective regarding CQL’s decision to feature MDZS’ female characters more prominently. It is not hard to divine why the decision could have been made solely for the financial incentive of “pandering” to a female audience who dares to want to see themselves on screen. Conversely, one can imagine a production team animated by good intentions, who simply want to give more limelight to these female characters. Whether purely motivated by a profit-based logic or solely well-intentioned, or at a vector of both motives, it is clear that the CQL production did not increase the screen presence of MDZS’s female characters out of a desire to tell a stronger, more effective version of the original story they were working with. And that is why the urge to quantify good representation will always end up failing us in my opinion.

While it can be productive to consider trends, it does not give us a better media landscape or better individual works of fiction; it does not necessarily give us more impactful or better written female characters. This type of analysis urges us to see female characters as female first, without truly attempting to understand their purpose and treatment within the story. While MDZS has fewer female characters, these characters showcase different personalities and occupy different positions within the social world of the novel; they have arcs and thematic resonance and they cannot be simply replaced by a “sexy lamp” without disrupting the plot completely. They are also often given a surprising amount of depth, if readers are willing to pay attention to all that is found in the text and in the subtext.

For such a long novel, MDZS is able to remonstrate a certain amount of restraint wrt its storytelling. The timespan it wants to cover is expansive, its cast of characters not insignificant, and the story it aims to tell is ambitious. It is easy to imagine a meandering version of MDZS where many more characters are present, including many more female characters, or where the existing female characters get an extended presence within the narrative. But would those female characters have been more impactful? Would the story told have been a better one? The way the CQL production team chose to adapt MianMian hints that this is not a done conclusion.

(+ bonus MianMian meta)

#mdzs meta #mdzs #mianmian #luo qingyang #cql vs mdzs #mo dao zu shi #modaozushi #IT'S FINALLY DONE!!!!!!!!!!!!#this is my manifesto

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popculturebuffet · 4 years ago

Text

Uncle Scrooge by Don Rosa: The Isle at the Edge of Time (Thank You Comission For Rosie Isla)

Hello all you happy people! Today’s review is a bit special as it’s the result of another review. See I had trouble finding a translation of the subject of last weeks’ mother’s day special, Family Ties.

No not that one. I have Paramount+. I can watch all the Family Ties I want and that’s a fact that i’m pleased as punch about.

No it was the story 80 is Prachtig, called Family Ties in the copy used, Della’s first major comics appearance and one that explains what happened to her in the classic continuity, one that clearly served as the foundation for her far more fleshed out 2017 versions personality and backstory. It also had Pinocchio in it for some reason, and spent most of it’s large run time on a meta comedy plot that had nothing to do with the reason anyone wanted to read this story in the first place.

But despite being a vitally important story, it never got an english translation, something that baffled me till I read the story and found cameos of the racist indigenous stereotypes from Peter Pan. In 2014. You may commence booing. Even with how weird the story was I simply couldn’t find the story googling it and the Della tag is too vast and deep to go spelunking in.

So what’s all this have to do? Simple I put out a post last month when neither I nor Kev, who wanted to comission it as part of Moons, Millionares and Mothers, my coverage of all three season 2 Ducktales story arcs, could find a copy and offered a review to whoever found it. Weeks passed I got nothing.. then in the 11th hour I got a break as the lovely @rosieisla found a translation that was on this very site, one she seemed to have helped with. As a result I could do the review and as a man of my word, offered it up despite her clearly having not seen that part of the post and simply having done this to be nice. Still she gladly took up the offer and offered me my pick of two stories: The Carl Barks Story Back to Long Ago or this one.

As for WHY I picked this one Back To Long Ago didn’t seem bad, i’m just not a fan of “The Cast is put in the past as their own ancestors” type deals. Or in some cases put the cast as people from that time period. It’s just not for me and is most often done in TV where it can get really goofy, Beverly Hills 90210 being a prime example of this, though Girl Meets World was no slouch in being embarassing... that being said I really need to finish that show and miss it.

So yeah when put up against a story with two intresting hooks and FLINTHEART GLOMGOLD, even if i’ts not the version that’s my boy, it was no contest. So what are these hooks you ask? Well join me under the cut and find out.

We open with a weird stylistic choice: This story has a narrator complete with caption boxes. Now for those of you familiar with comics or pastiches of comics in tv and film, this probably dosen’t seem like a big deal. It was a common thing in comics from their inception to 90′s to have caption boxes, big boxes of text narrating the action to help move things along faster. It did start to fade out by the 80′s and was gone by the end of the 90′s for the most part, replaced instead with first person narration. It’s the kind of thing you’d see most often in the Golden and Silver Ages, with stuff like tihs

It’s not a BAD device, it’s good old cheesy and bombastic fun and some writers did get clever with it.. like that time Chris Claremont used the narration to yell at a greiving cyclops after he lost a teammate early in his long and storied run on the uncanny x-men.

This is a objectively weird scene that’s still somehow effective by the by. On the one hand it does come off as Chris Claremont essentally bullying Cyclops who already feels guilty for a death that was not in fact his fault as Thunderbird was told the plane he was attacking with fleeing villian Count Nefaria was about to explode and refused to listen.. and that they needed to get rid of either him or Wolverine as both served the same purpose and chose the non-white guy.

On the other htough it comes off just as much as Scott beating himself up in his grief and anger over the event and his perceived failings as a leader. It’s good stuff and shows why this run caught on as this was only three issues in. Also the rest of the issue features the X-Men fighting a giant cyclopian demon that Cyclops accidently freed in his rage by destroying the stone thing keeping him imprisoned. No really here’s the cover

Huh so tha’ts what Nifty’s dad looks like. Neat. Also I REALLY hope we get the X-Men fighting aliens or demons in the MCU. Unlike the XCU the MCU isn’t alergic to getting batshit.. and for the record Deadpool and New Mutants are the exception, not the rule.

My point that I swear I do have is that this was common practice for most comics.. but never really for Disney Duck comics. It popped up ocasionally, like with Scrooge’s introduction, but Barks and those after him never really used them that much. Sure they’d have caption boxes for flasbacks and what not but Barks and Co geninely only used this sort of thing to set up a story. The most i’ve seen it in a duck comic is life and times and even then i’ts usually only used for gags or to set up the passage of time, as the story IS covering decades and thus often needed to have montages to show time passing, and in the case of chapter 11, had to cover decades in the span of a single chapter, so it’s not like they had many other options. So even Rosa as a personal quirk didn’t really use these often.

Rosa used this specifically because he felt the plot was complicated by the use of the international date line. As for what it is, it’s essentially a line marking calender dates from one side of the hemisphere to the others. To use the offical defentition from the National Ocean Service I found via a quick google:

“The International Date Line, established in 1884, passes through the mid-Pacific Ocean and roughly follows a 180 degrees longitude north-south line on the Earth. It is located halfway round the world from the prime meridian—the zero degrees longitude established in Greenwich, England, in 1852.

The International Date Line functions as a “line of demarcation” separating two consecutive calendar dates. When you cross the date line, you become a time traveler of sorts! Cross to the west and it’s one day later; cross back and you’ve “gone back in time."

Despite its name, the International Date Line has no legal international status and countries are free to choose the dates that they observe. While the date line generally runs north to south from pole to pole, it zigzags around political borders such as eastern Russia and Alaska’s Aleutian Islands.”

Rosa felt this made the story complicated.... and that... really isn’t remotely true. The narration is mostly used for gagas and really dosen’t clarify anything. it’s mostly used well in the opening.. but the actual explinations for the date line are clear enough in the story that even if I hadn’t looked the thing up, I still would’ve got it and i’m sure a kid would’ve too. It just feels like a weird thing to ruminate on, especially because he’s got actual things to make up for: while to his credit the native american characters he cribbed from carl barks are sympathetic, their culture respected and treated decently and used for a green aseop, their dialouge is stitled and sterotypical something he dosen’t even comment on (And these trades ewren’t THAT long ago)

And of course it dosen’t help that he dosen’t even comment on using a common device in american superhero boooks.. in the same volume where he ONCE again makes an unwanted and outdated diatribe about superhero comics. I’ll probably cover the Super Snooper Strikes again so I can throughly tear this apart but higlights include: Calling superhero comics “Unwanted” just because he dosen’t like them personally, when people like me would disagree and they’ve lasted through a LOT of highs and lows, outdately saying they took over the American market as the only suitable comics which while true for a TIME,but by 2015 when this book was printed is laughably out of date, as non superhero works like The Walking Dead, Saga, and Scott Pilgrim were massively popular, one of my faviorite comics that is entirely slice of life and would go on to bea huge hit, Giant Days, re-debuted that very year. He also has the fucking gal to insult The Uncanny X-Men by name and I swear to god I did not know this when I made those references earlier, but as you probably guessed REALLY god me livid.

And this is just on his COMMENTS on the story I can’t imagine just how bad the content itself is and having read the first few pages which come off as Rosa using Donald to essentially do an “old man yells at cloud rant” about superhero comics, I really don’t want to. Might make htis a patreon exclusive or again would do it on comissoin. You all make the call.... the point is I don’t likes his elitist bullshit about superhero comics, and this is clearly something that gets my hackles up as I just spent a good two paragraphs of an entirely unrealted review yelling at the guy for it. I don’t like when he does this and this authors notes entirley felt like an excuse. I GET the dark age of comics were bad, they REALLY were that bad, but I will NEVER accept painting an enitre genre as bad just because one work in it is bad. And I wont accept it from someone who himself writes about an often throughly unlikeable anti-hero for a living. Scrooge may not have a gun on his gun on his gun or get to stabbing or have pouches, but he DOES finacially abuse his nephew, scoff at people’s personal troubles, and often refuse to use his wealth to help others in general. So yeah in conclusion Rosa really needs to say less about this subject.

Okay so where were we.. right the story hadn’t even started yet. Jesus.

Okay so our story begins with the narrator. Whose going on about time and what not. The main point of this speech about time is that it’s night in Duckburg and Scrooge is going to bed as, even being the workhorse that he is, he can’t keep going 24 hours. While he’s snoozing though something major happens and it’s the hook that made me pick this story along with the international dateline one.. an island rises thanks to volcanic erruption.. and the lava is GOLD. That’s just pure unabashed classic Duck Stuff: a mysterious treasure or phenominon of gold bound to bring scrooge in.

But Scrooge isn’t stupid: the sun comes up and the world still spins while he sleeps, so he set up a satalite to monitor for this sort of thing. The thing naturally goes nuts.. and even more naturally breaks down becasue Scrooge bought cheap parts. A nice gag and a fully in character way to bring our antagonist into the picture, as the Satellite of Loaded falls in the middle of South Africa... right on the property of my boy Flintheart Glomgold.

This is something Rosa brought up in his commentary for the story i’d never thought about. It turns out Glomgold being a citzen of Duckburg WASN’T an invention of the original Ducktales but the comics: some overseas had understandably moved him from his home country of South Africa. Him bieing in the same town as Scrooge instead of half a world away allows for easier setups and more intresting ones.

Rosa however being obdient to Barks Version of things, ketp Glomgold in South Africa like barks did, which was an .. ifffy decision given Apartheid had JUST ended at the time of this story. Not so much in the reboot as not only had apartheid been long gone by the time of the reboot, but that’s more fair. Still we do get some gorgeous vistas as a result as Glomgold’s minon goes to look at it and finds it’s from McDuck Mining company... Glomgold’s reaction is obvious.

So on that note we cut to Scrooge rushing to Donalds house and forcing him awake and not telling him anything at first. Look his Ducktales Counterpart straight up kidnapped his donald in my last review, I’d call this a win. He also tries to dress Donald while explaning both his panic to find the crashed satlitle and what it found: the golden island. The end result of him dressing donald is worth a chuckle

So after Donald puts his shirt and little hat on our heroes get rollin rollin rollin what keep rollin rollin rollin who to Manilla. On the plane we get the scene I mentioned: The boys make a quip about Scrooge having lost a day and the group go over the international date line. It’s a fun little scene especially Donald trying to get paid early at the end. Classic scrooge and donald stuff without the abusive undertones some of their classic stuff has.

Meanwhile Glomgold works out the data and finds out about the gold island, and his excitement accidently wakes a giraffe outside.. welll it was nice knowing him, Giraffes are the deadliest species known to man.. here’s an educational video t back that up....

youtube

So at Manilla Airport, Scrooge finds out abotu the south african crash, figuring he’ll get a laugh out of glomgold being there ... only for Donald to spot the Jet. Scrooge figures this can’t be anything good... now come on man maybe he’s just promoting his energy drink.

As super sayin god super sayian as my witness, I will never get tired of Ultra Instinct Glomgold here.

Scrooge isn’t so nice about that though and figures he better find out if Glomgold knows about the island and bribes one of the fueling crew for his uniform. He sucesssfully eavesdrops on Glomgold talking to his pilot, finding out from him exactly WHERE the island is. He ends up hilariously botching the mission though: when getting ready to leave Glomgold complains abotu the price of gas and that naturally causes Scrooge, just as cheap, to join in... and Glomgold to find out it’s Scrooge. The two wrestle outside the plane but before this can progress to a game of Naked Robber an airport security guy comes up and Scrooge cleverly claims that Glomgold’s plane has an infestiation, requring it to be quanrantined and allowing Scrooge to jet on.. thoguh not with an actual jet. With Glomgold seemingly dispatched, he can afford to save some money and take his time with a seaplane and I know just the man for the job.

Oh nope looks like he’s busy. So one time related rambles later we meet Keoki, their asian pilot from the tiny island of Wookawooka.. and no that’s not a real place i checked... and no Fozzy dosen’t own it his check bounced. That being said it is a very well done represntation of someone from a smaller country: he’s doing this job to try and bring money back home, but being a seaplane captain just isn’t enough and his island is dying. Scrooge naturally is about as sympathetic as you’d expect, having apparently never even heard of the idea of a bonus when Huey, Dewey or Louie suggests it.

Even less suprising is that Glomgold streaks by in his Jet:turns out Manilla was already overun with the bugs Scrooge claimed and Donald rubs it in that had Scrooge got a JET this wouldn’t of been an issue.

So Glomgold easily beats them there, and to add insult and actualy injury to a cash based one, our heroes get blasted by golden lava on the way in and crash. Should’ve gotten launchpad... got the crashing professional. Keoki is dispondent as this means his people are doomed. He also dosen’t know waht staking a claim is when Scrooge mentions it and the boys bring him up to speed with the poor guy saying he wish he could for WookaWooka. Donald also makes a valid point about how greedy and heartlress scrooge can be.. and really billiionares in general.

No no YOUR the Grouch who refuses to have one drop of emapthy. Donald’s just pissed at your general selfish and terrible behavior.

Glomgold glomgloats and has seemingly won... but naturally that rant that seemed extranious at the time about the date line comes into play: turns out the Island is on it, and since glomgold put his marker int he west, Scrooge simply puts his in the east which is a whole day before. Now GRANTED there’s nor eal legal prescendice for the intetaoinal date line itself , as noted above... but there’s enough witnesses in Scrooge’s favor that it simply does not matter anyway. Scrooge SEEMINGLY wins.

But Huey, Dewey Or Louie instead backs another claim: Keoki’s from earlier. While it was made in gest, he and the others along with Donald back it as witnsses instad. WookaWooka is saved and SCrogoe ends the story yelling at the narrator.

Final Thoughts: Don Rosa.. did not like this story, feeling it wasn’t one of his best and apologizing for it. I however.. really loved it. It’s not PERFECT: the narration feels not entirely necessary and the gag isn’t as funny as he thinks, though the payoff of scrooge saying “it’s time for this story to end” is fucking hilarous. I also feel it’s a bit too compressed: the story is only 16 pages and was only THAT long because Rosa added a few for exposition, a worthy addition. This feels like one of his 30 page adventure stories but slightly crammed into half the length. I also feel the golden island bit was BADLY underused as it’s such a cool setting but barely shows up in the story.

But despite that.. it’s still a fun story: as is standard for Rosa the art is gorgeous and the humor is great. And unlike some stories where Rosa casually ignores how terrible scrooge is, here it’s his own greed and hubris that do him in: had he actually agreed to help Keoki, the boys likey would’ve let him keep the island but his own cold refusual to be a human being does him in, just as his cheapness nearly did. Flintheart is also decent here.. not the deepest foe but frankly most classical duck antagonists really aren’t all that fleshed out, and we still get some good bits with him. The dateline bit, while telegraphing that it will be important, as I said REALLY isn’t that hard to understand. All in all while i’ll agree with Rosa this isn’t his BEST, it’s still a really damn good story and one he shoudln’t be ashamed of.

Tommorow: Green Eggs and ham is back for some train shenanigans! Kay.

Saturday: The Tom Retrospective returns for it’s last detour! Eclipsa and Moon team up to stop meteora but grapple with diffrent wants: One to save her daughter.. the other to stop waht she clearly sees as an out of control monster. The result.. will only lead to tragedy and a hell of a two parter.

If you liked this review consider joining my patreon, patroen.com/popculturebuffet. At as low as 2 bucks a month you get accesss to my patreon discord, exclusive reviews, and to pick a short when I do one of my shortstragavanzas, a marthon of theatrical shorts honoring a characters birthday. And given Donald’s is next month, now’s the time to get on board.

But if you go up to 5 you get a guaranteed review of whatever you want every month, and will get me to my next milestone, which will give everyone including yourself a monthly public darkwing duck review, reviews of the two Ducktales minis’ I haven’t covered (Time is Money and SuperDuckTales) and a reivew of the Danny Phantom film the Ultimate Enemy. So please join today and if you cannot, like this review, subscribe and give me your opinions on it bellow. Or even if you can feedback is always appricated and I will see you at the next rainbow.

#donald duck #scrooge mcduck #don rosa #ducktales #huey duck #louie duck #dewey duck #flintheart glomgold #gold #island #volcaones

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josefavomjaaga · 3 years ago

Photo

Caroline Murat and her daughter Letizia, who accompanied her mother on the trip to Munich in 1805.

***

@joachimnapoleon, because she's cool like that, has dug up the letters that Caroline Murat sent to her (at the time) BFF Hortense de Beauharnais in Paris. As the letters were published in a French paper, and as I'm very unsure about French copyright, I do not want to translate them in full. But I hope it will be okay to quote one passage from it, as I think this might illustrate quite nicely all the misunderstandings and misconceptions existing between the »startup« Imperial court of the Bonaparte family and the small German "ancient" courts.

Caroline describes a visit to Electress Karoline, in presence of Caroline’s two ladies-in-waiting Madame La Grange and Madame Lambert. She had arrived in Munich on December 20th after a rather desastrous 3-days-journey that included a road accident. She wished to be lodged not in the electoral residence but in her own palace, and as she had not brought many servants (apparently, she and Murat had some financial problems at the time), she was waited upon by servants of the electoral family.

I have already written a little about Electress Karoline's first impressions of Empress Josephine here. So, now for Caroline’s impressions of the electress:

Munich, December 24, 1805 [if this isn’t a mistake in the publication, then apparently she already uses the old calendar that Napoleon will only officially reintroduce on January 1st]

[…] The Court is extremely boring. The Elector is a very good man, in the style of the Elector Archchancellor [Dalberg, who had been in Paris for the Sacre], except that he is not so witty.

I received yesterday from noon till six o'clock the foreign ministers, their wives, Prince Hohenzollern, one hundred and fifty ladies of the town, the whole household of the Elector and all the gentlemen of the town, and at the end the Electress, who saw Letitia, whom she found charming. I have done so many reverences that I am in bed with a dreadful ache.

The day before yesterday I went to the theatre, where it was colder than at the coronation; I was afraid it would hurt me.

When we go to the Elector's, a table is brought in, and Princess Augusta sits down and makes tea for everyone. Don't fancy the Court too high; they are all like good bourgeois. Nothing is funnier than to see the Elector making conversation with the Empress's maitre d`hotel. […]

Madame Beauharnois makes little of an effect. Madame Lambert makes no effect at all; as she only knows how to be silly and as I do not allow her to be silly, she is nothing. Madame La Grange makes an extraordinary effect; the elector always talks about her, because he knew her father and her whole family very well. Monsieur Daligre, though a fool, also makes an impression, because of his name and his fortune; the elector has often dined at his father's house and knows all his family well. If you come to this country, bring people who have a name, because they do not see the others, I will give you an example.

Yesterday, everyone was wondering what Mrs Lambert was, who her father was, who her husband was... So the electress approached her and said that she was very happy to return to her what her parents had done for the elector in Paris and that her name was not unknown to her, because she had heard a lot about the La Grange family; I then saw Mme Lambert blush, very embarrassed; I stepped forward and told her that she had been mistaken and that this woman was called Lambert. Then she wanted to know what she was; the questions embarrassed me, and I answered that she was the wife of one of our principal inspectors of reviews and that she had a very considerable fortune. Then her glances fell more slowly on her, and she told her that she was well pleased to make her acquaintance. While chatting with another lady, I observed Mme Lambert, who was in conversation with the electress, and I was annoyed to see that she always had an air of embarrassment and of a little girl. I am telling you all this nonsense to make you aware of what is liked here.

Except that I don’t think she really understood »what was liked« at the Bavarian court at all. Maybe I’m reading too much into this, but I think her own expectations really got in the way. What she writes seems to me like an amazing mixture of condescension - "Don't imagine too much, they live like good citizens here, the princess personally makes tea for everyone!", disappointment at not making enough of an impression (why would she even try to achieve that?), and the tacit assumption of not being taken seriously by her hosts. She immediately assumes that the electoral family occupies themselves with some of her companions more than with others because those have »a name«. Whereas Max Joseph - remember, this is the guy who walked around his capital on foot and who, in his palace, strangers liked to mistake for one of his servants - just immediately pounced on anyone whose name reminded him of his youth in Paris.

As for the scene with Madame Lambert, it's actually the Bavarian Karoline who makes a mistake and confuses the two ladies-in-waiting. Which Caroline Murat seems to think is some kind of ruse so she has an excuse to inquire about Madame Lambert's family background? I think Karoline really did address the wrong lady by mistake; she is twenty years younger than her husband, to my knowledge has never been to Paris, and probably only knows the names from Max Josef's nostalgic descriptions. She is presumably at least as embarrassed as poor Madame Lambert. Especially as she apparently continues to talk to the lady she has mistakenly addressed for quite a while, observed by Caroline Murat, despite the fact that Caroline knew nothing more to tell about her lady-in-waiting than that her husband has a pile of money.

So, plenty of misunderstandings. Caroline Murat has come to Munich to see a »real« court - and what she gets is tea served by the elector’s daughter. At the same time, she expected to meet with rejection and secret contempt, and now saw these in incidents that in themselves may have been quite harmless.

The author of the article, Paul Le Brethon, juxtaposes these letters from 1805 with a few lines from another letter written from Munich by Caroline, on her way to pick up Napoleon's new Empress Marie Louise, in March 1810 to her husband Joachim Murat:

My friend, I always feel very comfortable with the King and Queen of Bavaria; they enjoy a calm and perfect happiness in their home; their young family is very interesting [they had five daughters at the time, among them twice twins]; these children remind me of my own, and my eyes are filled with tears every time they look at them.

I think by then, Caroline had understood the difference.

#caroline murat #joachim murat #max joseph #karoline von bayern #auguste von bayern #eugene's marriage #munich 1805 #munich residence #napoleon

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fangirlxwritesx67 · 4 years ago

Text

Closer

art by @armellin - commission for @ltleflrt Both were gracious enough to allow me to write a story to go with this picture (see the original post here)

Sam x Rowena, 2550 words.

AN: You know what to expect by now: flirting, kissing, dirty talking, sex, a little biting (not cannibalism tho), size kink, excessive descriptions of Rowena being gorgeous and Sam being hunky. I imagined this being an aside to the Taken By The Wind series, something with an established, loving and sexy relationship. Thanks to @mskathywriteswords and @there-must-be-a-lock for the preread. This one needed more work than usual, so, thanks, friends.

Sam took Rowena’s hands in his as she stepped toward him. In one smooth motion, he pulled her onto his lap, arms wrapping around her. She settled down easily, curling into his embrace.

For once, the two of them had all the time in the world. They could slow down, sink into the moment, savor one another.

Sam’s hand slipped around her waist and then slid down farther, cupping her ass.

"This close enough?" he murmured.

"Closer."

Sam Winchester wasn’t too proud to ask for help, Rowena knew that. But he also didn’t say anything until he had exhausted every available resource.

This time, he called her with a puzzle, a passage in a book written in a code he couldn’t decipher. As soon as he read it, she recalled the translation. She could’ve given it to him over the phone. But how often did she get an excuse to visit him? When he mentioned that he was alone in the bunker, that settled it for her.

Sam caught on, when she provided an answer quickly, that she had an ulterior motive for being there. She watched as awareness dawned on his face.

“You knew the answer as soon as I asked, didn’t you?”

She smiled, lowering her eyelashes before looking up at him. “And what if I did?”

“Then why did you come all this way?” He spread his hands in confusion.

“How often do we have time and space to ourselves? I missed you, wanted to be closer to you.”

She rested her chin lightly on one of her hands while she reached across the books opened on the table. He clasped her other hand in both of his. His hands were huge, callused and scarred from battle, but he had long fingers like an artist. She lightly dragged her painted nails over one broad palm, her eyes never leaving his face. She was gratified to see his pupils widen until his gold-flecked hazel irises were only a thin ring.

“Rowena,” he whispered her name like a question.

She put on her best coy smile, nodding.

Seduction, now that was a game she had been playing -and winning- for years, with men and women alike. But with Sam, things were different. He was so much more than a prize to be won. Never had she met someone with whom she was so evenly matched in almost every way. She had taken him as a challenge, at first He had grown into a friend, and then a lover, her equal.

Rowena licked her lips in anticipation, her eyes never leaving Sam’s. He pulled his hands back, looked away and huffed out a sigh. She could watch that all day, his chest heaving and his shoulders lifting.

With that deep breath, he seemed to lay aside a burden that always weighed him down.

When he looked up again, his eyes were wide, his face open. He only looked this soft when he felt safe. Seeing him like this, knowing he was hers, never got old.

This was a rare moment, just the two of them, alone together. They were safe, close, and had all the time in the world.

He ran one hand through his hair, a boyish smile crossing his face. She felt her heart leap, looking at him, thinking about getting her fingers into those silky chestnut curls. Then he pushed back his chair and held out both hands.

“How close?” he asked, his voice husky, the invitation unmistakable.

She stood up and walked towards him with graceful steps. The long blue dress she was wearing had been chosen carefully, specifically for this moment. Knowing how the clinging fabric draped over her curves, she put an extra sway in her hips, making the dress ripple like water.

Her hands slipped into his outstretched grasp, and he tugged her until she was standing against him. Her breathing quickened. With one smooth motion, he pulled her easily onto his lap, face to face with him. She fit so perfectly into his embrace.

He slid one hand down to cup the curve of her ass while the other rucked up the hem of her long dress. His fingers trailed over the silky material of her stockings until they found lace, and above that the velvety skin of her bare thighs.

His eyes widened, lit with delight, as he discovered the surprise she had prepared for him.

“A garter belt?” he whispered eagerly.

“I prefer them, don’t you?” She smirked. He did, and she knew it, loved to watch him go all flushed and eager.

Rowena leaned in until their noses brushed, her gaze fixed on his. Her fingers rested for a moment over his heart as they breathed in sync. He leaned in to close the tiny space between them, and their lips met, whisper soft.

Sam wasn’t the only one who felt safe when they were together. The sanctuary of his presence allowed her to open up parts of her soul that she had kept locked safely away for centuries. She loved Sam, and he loved her. Together, their magic was powerful.

The next kiss was deeper, hungrier. His hand caressed her cheek and she leaned into his touch. She let her mouth drop open, inviting him in. His tongue explored her, slow and savoring, until she whimpered, the sound muffled between them.

She felt her skin prickle under his lips as his kisses trailed over her jaw. His mouth followed the line of her collarbone all the way to her shoulder before he returned to the base of her neck.

“Wish I could bite you,” he murmured against her creamy skin. “Taste you, make you all mine.”

“Why, Sam Winchester!” She tipped his chin until his gaze met hers, nails rasping against his stubble. Her lips curled with delight and a hint of wickedness. “Who ever said I’m not all yours? Taste as much as you want.”

“Oh,” he sighed as she ground down on his lap.

She just had to tease him further. “Or did you want to make me beg?”

“You’d like that, hmmm, you little witch?”

“Wouldn’t you?” She breathed the words against his lips.

He stood up, and she felt how carefully he set her down with an arm around her waist.

“Bed, now,” he commanded as he pulled her with him, wrapped in one strong arm. Her heels clicked on the stone as she hurried to keep up.

Inside, he spun her to face him. She threw her arms around his neck as he tugged her to him. His hands roamed her body, broad palms and long fingers skimming and pressing and squeezing as she rolled up against him eagerly, tangling her fingers in her hair.

They kissed desperately, breathlessly. She reached down and tugged up his shirt. Her hand slipped under it, feeling the flex of his muscles under his warm skin. She trailed her fingers around his waist, over his hips and down towards his belt buckle.

At her touch, he pulled away from her lips with a gasp.

“How do I get this dress off?” he asked.

She showed him the zipper, and he helped until the blue garment pooled at her feet.

She had dressed carefully for this exact moment, choosing a grey lace bra and panties, and garters snapped to stockings that circled her thighs. She was well aware of how she looked, skin glowing alabaster gold.

Sam’s gaze raked like fire over her body, hot and consuming. Her spell of eternal beauty ensured that she would look stunning. But for him, no additional magic was needed. He knew her, saw her for who she truly was, and wanted her just like that.

If she happened to be wearing elaborate, expensive lingerie? That was just a treat for both of them.

He stepped towards her and cupped her breasts, thumbs pushing down lace until he could circle her nipples. She arched up into his touch.

“Rowena,” he repeated. “Wanna taste you.”

She had to tease him, one more time, just couldn’t resist.

“I seem to recall talk of someone begging. Is it you, now?”

The look that came over Sam’s face was one she could never resist, controlling and almost princely. He wasn’t one to ask for what he wanted, so she loved when he demanded it.

“Get on the bed.” He bit off each word.

She obeyed.

He knelt between her knees. She looked down and he raised his gaze to meet hers, dark and hungry. All that power, that lethal skill of the world’s most dangerous hunter, was at her bidding. She had never felt more safe.

Sam hooked one knee up over his shoulder and turned his head to kiss her thigh, first under and then over the lace band, lips trailing across her leg. She felt him unsnap the clasps keeping her stockings up as he kissed over her thighs. She lifted her hips to help him ease off her panties and garter belt, and toss away her shoes.

She was stripped bare before him, wet and waiting. Still, he took his time. His chin grazed the sensitive skin of her thighs, kisses growing more hungry, nipping and sucking as he worked his way higher. He bit her, lightly, right on the crease where her thigh folded into her ass.

“Please,” she gasped. She couldn’t help it.

She felt his lips curve up in a smile. Without looking down, she knew exactly the expression that would be on his face: predatory and proud. He had made her beg. She didn’t care. She needed -

“More,” she moaned as he finally lowered his mouth to the copper curls covering her.

He knew what he was doing, what she loved. Her head tipped back against the pillow and her fingers wound tight in the sheets as he continued, insatiable, pushing her higher.

Every touch of his mouth was pure pleasure but he was still teasing her, taking his time. She couldn’t stand it, couldn't wait any longer. She reached for him, fingers skimming his face before slipping into his hair.

She yanked, pressing him in hard, her hips bucking against his face. Her breath was coming in short gasping pants, murmuring his name among her curses and pleas. He kept working her over, relentless, generous, until she was coming, crying out for him.

He eased her through her orgasm, lapping at her gently until she stopped shaking. He turned and planted one more sharp kiss on her inner thigh, just a hint of teeth along with warm wet lips, before standing up.

She raised herself on one arm to watch as he took his clothes off. She would never tire of watching Sam undress, all those layers peeling off to reveal his beauty underneath. He was tan and toned, skin marked with ink and scars. His careful control belied his strength, but when he was naked, there was no denying it.

If it weren't for her magic, he could overpower her completely. Even with all of her skill, he had gotten the best of her more than once. But he loved her, cared for her, took his time to pleasure her. And he gave himself to her over and over.

He had commanded armies of hunters, angels and demons, fought Death and won. She could own him with the magic in one of her fingers. The two of them were perfectly balanced: quick, skilled and lethal. Both of them among most dangerous people in the world, but together, they were safe.

He settled back on the bed, sitting up against the headboard with the pillows behind him.

He held out his hands, palms up as she straddled his lap. Her fingers laced between his, the two of them eye to eye, before she lowered her mouth and kissed him. He felt her lips curve up in a smile as she nibbled along his lower lip.

She relaxed into his grip, letting him hold her, handle her. She fit so perfectly into his grasp. He pressed careful bites and kisses all over her heated skin, He tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling until she tilted her head back. He ran his teeth along the sharp angle of her collarbone, the soft rise of her breast, the meaty curve of her shoulder.

She shivered under his touch, skin prickling where his lips trailed against it. His attention was incredible, lighting every nerve on fire with desire. She whimpered and writhed against him, covered him with her warm slick.

“You promised,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire. “Bite me.”

He looked up at her, eyes dark with lust, as he pressed in to her. His hands tightened around her waist, holding her down. She felt his thumbs dig bruises into her hips.

As he thrust into her, she shimmied against him. Even sitting on his lap, he had to lower his mouth to the base of her neck. She could feel that he was careful, restrained, not wanting to hurt her. She tried to urge him on with the wanton sounds falling from her lips.

Desire burned through her with every breath like fire. She rocked her hips as he stretched her, filled her so perfectly. He was overwhelming, taking her apart and holding her together at the same time.

His tongue traced a spiral on the hollow of her throat before he finally bit down. He was deliberate, measured, could hurt her but chose only to mark. She didn’t see it but she knew how it would look: the imprint of his teeth, a dark purpled bruise, angry blood rising to the surface.

Rowena heard herself cry out as her mouth dropped open in a low, ragged sob.

Sam was everywhere, inside and all over her. His lips and tongue were pressing soft kisses over the marks left by his teeth. The sensation of mingled pleasure-pain was incredible.

Her nails dug into the breadth of his shoulders, red crescents pressed into tanned skin, trying to anchor herself as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.

She felt her climax building, desperate tension like a rising tide. She pressed kisses along Sam’s jawline and down his neck. His muscles were tense, inviting. She couldn’t resist - she bit him, too, right at the top of his shoulder. She felt him shaking, buried deep inside her, and then he was shouting her name.

She was clenching around him, her mouth still filled with the salty taste of his skin. Then she was coming, crying out, cursing, as her world disappeared in a burst of light.

When her eyes fluttered open again, she was resting in Sam’s arms, wrapped in his close embrace.

She could feel his chest heave as he tried to catch his breath. She was still quivering, heartbeat racing against his. He ran his hands lightly down her back, petted her skin with his fingertips.

This was a rare moment for the two of them, so intimate and warm. Finally, she sighed and relaxed. She nuzzled her cheek against him and whispered his name.

“Ro,” he murmured. “I wish I could keep you, care for you, love you like this always.”

She lifted her chin to look him full in the face. His eyes shone radiant, satisfied.

“Hold me, Sam,” she answered. “Hold me closer.”

SPN First Last and Always: @boondoctorwho @dawnie1988 @deanwanddamons @defenderrosetyler @defenderrosetyler @emoryhemsworth @fookinghelljensensthighs @idreamofplaid @kalesrebellion @kickingitwithkirk @maddiepants @magssteenkamp @onethirstyunicorn @the-chocolate-moose @there-must-be-a-lock @tloveswriting

Sam Girl For Life: @awesomesusiebstuff @lilsylvia @winchesterxfamilybusiness

Rowena My Queen: @delightfullykrispypeach @lilsylvia @marril96 @pansexualdarling @songofthecagedmoose

#closer #sam x rowena #samwena #samwitch

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years ago

Note

Can you please give your opinion on Dany n missendei relationship in books? It's much more complicated than show n both characters are young.

So, Missandei. I don’t think about her a LOT but there was a connection to a theme that struck me when I compared her to the Stark sisters and it points to a relationship that is, let’s say, very different from what the tv show chose to do.

Long. Many quotes.

Preface: The talking bird – a lady’s armor – “Valar Morghulis”

I am always specifically reminded of Missandei when I read this Sansa passage.

Sansa could not bear the sight of him, he frightened her so, yet she had been raised in all the ways of courtesy. A true lady would not notice his face, she told herself. “You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor,” she made herself say.

(…)

He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie.

Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. "Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite." (AGOT; Sansa II)

A bird from the Summer Isles, repeating words.

The concept of courtesy is a lady’s armor is tied to the idea of the talking bird. (Leaving out the obvious talking raven at the Wall for this, because I don’t see Missandei tied to the magical arc. I see her tied to the political one.)

The phrase “courtesy is a lady’s armor” shows up four times:

Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady's armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, "I'm sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord." (ACOK, Sansa I)

and

Sansa felt dizzy; one instant her head was full of dreams of Loras, and the next they had all been snatched away. Willas? Willas? "I," she said stupidly. Courtesy is a lady's armor. You must not offend them, be careful what you say. "I do not know Ser Willas. I have never had the pleasure, my lady. Is he . . . is he as great a knight as his brothers?" (ASOS, Sansa I)

and

“How old are you, Sansa?” asked Tyrion, after a moment. “Thirteen,” she said, “when the moon turns.” “Gods have mercy.” The dwarf took another swallow of wine. “Well, talk won’t make you older. Shall we get on with this, my lady? If it please you?” “It will please me to please my lord husband.” That seemed to anger him. “You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall.” “Courtesy is a lady’s armor,” Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that. “I am your husband. You can take off your armor now.” “And my clothing?” “That too.” He waved his wine cup at her. “My lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage.” (ASOS, Sansa III)

and

A lady's armor is her courtesy. Alayne could feel the blood rushing to her face. No tears, she prayed. Please, please, I must not cry. "As you wish, ser. And now if you will excuse me, Littlefinger's bastard must find her lord father and let him know that you have come, so we can begin the tourney on the morrow." And may your horse stumble, Harry the Heir, so you fall on your stupid head in your first tilt. She showed the Waynwoods a stone face as they blurted out awkward apologies for their companion. When they were done she turned and fled. (TWOW, Alayne)

So here we have a theme that ties the talking bird to something you were taught by a mentor, to lying, flattering, evading offense in a situation of powerlessness. To evading harm by hiding your true emotions.

So keep that theme of the lady’s armor in mind before we get to Missandei herself.

But there is another pattern of repeated words, and another Stark Sister with clear parallels to Missandei.

"As well ask what good is life, what good is death? If the day comes when you would find me again, give that coin to any man from Braavos, and say these words to him—valar morghulis."

"Valar morghulis," Arya repeated. It wasn't hard. Her fingers closed tight over the coin. Across the yard, she could hear men dying. "Please don't go, Jaqen."

"Jaqen is as dead as Arry," he said sadly, "and I have promises to keep. Valar morghulis, Arya Stark. Say it again."

"Valar morghulis," she said once more, and the stranger in Jaqen's clothes bowed to her and stalked off through the darkness, cloak swirling. She was alone with the dead men. They deserved to die, Arya told herself, remembering all those Ser Amory Lorch had killed at the holdfast by the lake.

The cellars under Kingspyre were empty when she returned to her bed of straw. She whispered her names to her pillow, and when she was done she added, "Valar morghulis," in a small soft voice, wondering what it meant. (ACOK, Arya IX)

Words by a mentor. The phrase becomes a mantra, it is repeatedly tied to her revenge name list and Jaqen’s iron coin and being unafraid. But she never learns what it means until Braavos. She is merely repeating the words, devoid of meaning. Parroting, the same way Sandor accuses Sansa of doing. But like with Sansa, the action serves to strengthen her.

"Valar morghulis," she told the old gods of the north. She liked how the words sounded when she said them. (ACOK, Arya X)

And..

She was only ten, a skinny girl on a stolen horse with a dark forest ahead of her and men behind who would gladly cut off her feet. Yet somehow she felt calmer than she ever had in Harrenhal. The rain had washed the guard's blood off her fingers, she wore a sword across her back, wolves were prowling through the dark like lean grey shadows, and Arya Stark was unafraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she whispered under her breath, the words that Syrio Forel had taught her, and Jaqen's words too, valar morghulis. (ASOS, Arya I)

And..

The captain turned it over and blinked at it, then looked at her again. "This . . . how . . . ?"

Jaqen said to say the words too. Arya crossed her arms against her chest. "Valar morghulis," she said, as loud as if she'd known what it meant. (ASOS, Arya XIII)

In Braavos, Arya begins to learn Braavosi, a variant of Valyrian. She becomes a multi-lingual servant in the House of Black and White, tasked with becoming no one, but always secretly being Arya Stark inside. A different kind of armor, a different kind of flying creature. Always playing a role.

Not Randomly:

Archmaester Ebrose, who has made a study of all known accounts of the affliction, believes that it is spread by the butterflies that the Peaceful People revere. For this reason, the disease is oft called butterfly fever. Some believe the fever is carried only by one particular sort of butterfly (a large black-and-white variety with wings as big as a man's hand is favored by Ebrose), but this remains conjecture.

Whether the butterflies of Naath are true handmaids of the Lord of Harmony, or no more than common insects like their cousins in the Seven Kingdoms, it may well be that the Naathi are not wrong in regarding them as guardians. (The World of Ice and Fire – Beyond the Free Cities: Naath)

So we have a connection to a lovely but deadly creature of black and white and Naath. A handmaid. A guardian. Let us keep that in mind, also.

Now let us look at Dany and Missandei directly.

This is how Missandei is introduced to us in ASOS, Daenerys II, when she negotiates for the Unsullied.

“Tell the Westerosi whore to lower her eyes,” the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz complained to the slave girl who spoke for him. “I deal in meat, not metal. The bronze is not for sale. Tell her to look at the soldiers. Even the dim purple eyes of a sunset savage can see how magnificent my creatures are, surely.”

Kraznys’s High Valyrian was twisted and thickened by the characteristic growl of Ghis, and flavored here and there with words of slaver argot. Dany understood him well enough, but she smiled and looked blankly at the slave girl, as if wondering what he might have said.

“The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?” The girl spoke the Common Tongue well, for one who had never been to Westeros. No older than ten, she had the round flat face, dusky skin, and golden eyes of Naath. The Peaceful People, her folk were called. All agreed that they made the best slaves.

“They might be adequate to my needs,” Dany answered. It had been Ser Jorah’s suggestion that she speak only Dothraki and the Common Tongue while in Astapor. My bear is more clever than he looks. “Tell me of their training.”

“The Westerosi woman is pleased with them, but speaks no praise, to keep the price down,” the translator told her master. “She wishes to know how they were trained.”

Missandei of Naath, a pretty bird from the Summer Isles, repeating the words they tell her. But she, too, does more than that. She translates and manipulates at the same time, conveying intentions, hiding discourtesy. A diplomat, wrapped in lady’s armor. A girl of ten. With eyes as golden as Nymeria’s. She is, and the text doesn’t emphasize this enough, extremely intelligent. She doesn’t know Dany but she is able to read her reasonably well, while translating literally and figuratively, simultaneously. She is basically playing a Game of Faces, reading, translating, lying, repeating… She is basically a character that connects Arya and Sansa on the concept of lying and truth.

His girl conveyed the essence of his speech, more politely. (…)

“Tell her how pretty the pyramids are at night,” the slaver growled. “Tell her I will lick honey off her breasts, or allow her to lick honey off mine if she prefers.”

“Astapor is most beautiful at dusk, Your Grace,” said the slave girl. “The Good Masters light silk lanterns on every terrace, so all the pyramids glow with colored lights. Pleasure barges ply the Worm, playing soft music and calling at the little islands for food and wine and other delights.”

Missandei is a poet. She also echoes another poet.

She pictured the two of them sitting together in a garden with puppies in their laps, or listening to a singer strum upon a lute while they floated down the Mander on a pleasure barge. If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa's dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya. (ASOS, Sansa II)

Brothers and dreams. Let us keep that in mind, as well.

In ASOS, Daenerys III, Dany acquires the Unsullied at the “price” of a dragon, and gets Missandei tossed in as a bonus.

“Done,” the slave girl translated, “and done, and done, eight times done.”

“The Unsullied will learn your savage tongue quick enough,” added Kraznys mo Nakloz, when all the arrangements had been made, “but until such time you will need a slave to speak to them. Take this one as our gift to you, a token of a bargain well struck.”

“I shall,” said Dany.

The slave girl rendered his words to her, and hers to him. If she had feelings about being given for a token, she took care not to let them show. (…)

Dany turned away from him, to the slave girl standing meekly beside her litter. “Do you have a name, or must you draw a new one every day from some barrel?”

“That is only for Unsullied,” the girl said. Then she realized the question had been asked in High Valyrian. Her eyes went wide. “Oh.”

“Your name is Oh?”

“No. Your Grace, forgive this one her outburst. Your slave’s name is Missandei, but …”

“Missandei is no longer a slave. I free you, from this instant. Come ride with me in the litter, I wish to talk.” Rakharo helped them in, and Dany drew the curtains shut against the dust and heat. “If you stay with me you will serve as one of my handmaids,” she said as they set off. “I shall keep you by my side to speak for me as you spoke for Kraznys. But you may leave my service whenever you choose, if you have father or mother you would sooner return to.”

“This one will stay,” the girl said. “This one … I … there is no place for me to go. This … I will serve you, gladly.”

"I can give you freedom, but not safety," Dany warned. "I have a world to cross and wars to fight. You may go hungry. You may grow sick. You may be killed."

"Valar morghulis," said Missandei, in High Valyrian.

"All men must die," Dany agreed, "but not for a long while, we may pray." She leaned back on the pillows and took the girl's hand. (ASOS, Daenerys III)

Does she have a name. Still careful to guard her words. She will speak for Dany like she did for Kraznys. (Dany = Kraznys.) She has no other place to go. Valar morghulis.

Honestly, I wonder if Missandei truly did not know that Dany could speak Valyrian, or if the wide eyes and “Oh!” reaction were an act.

Have two Arya parallels:

"You are," he said, "but the House of Black and White is no place for Arya, of House Stark."

"Please," she said. "I have no place to go." (AFFC, Arya I)

We know how deeply genuine Arya’s devotion to the Faceless Men is…

And bilingual fun.

She said a silent Prayer to the god of many faces, slipped out of her alcove, and flounced up to the guardsmen. Mercy, Mercy, Mercy. "My lords," she said, "do you speak Braavosi? Oh, please, tell me you do." The two guardsmen exchanged a look. "What's this Thing going on about?" the older one asked. "Who is she?" "One of the mummers," said the pretty one. He pushed his fair hair back off his brow and smiled at her. "Sorry, sweetling, we don't speak your gibble-gabble." Fuss and feathers, Mercy thought, they only know the Common Tongue. That was no good. Give it up or go ahead. She could not give it up. She wanted him so bad. "I know your tongue, a little," she lied, with Mercy's sweetest smile. "You are lords of Westeros, my friend said." (TWOW, Mercy)

Dany uses the chance to grill Missandei on the loyalty of the Unsullied.

“If I did resell them, how would I know they could not be used against me?” Dany asked pointedly. “Would they do that? Fight against me, even do me harm?”

“If their master commanded. They do not question, Your Grace. All the questions have been culled from them. They obey.” She looked troubled. “When you are … when you are done with them … Your Grace might command them to fall upon their swords.”

“And even that, they would do?”

“Yes.” Missandei’s voice had grown soft. “Your Grace.”

Dany squeezed her hand. “You would sooner I did not ask it of them, though. Why is that? Why do you care?”

“This one does not … I … Your Grace …”

“Tell me.”

The girl lowered her eyes. “Three of them were my brothers once, Your Grace.”

Then I hope your brothers are as brave and clever as you. (ASOS, Daenerys III)

What other reason does Missandei have to not want to leave? Because she has THREE brothers within the ranks of the Unsullied. Brothers who have been harmed, twisted, enslaved. Brothers she may want to guard, like the butterflies of Naath.

From the moment we meet her, and certainly after she is handed over to Dany, Missandei serves as a tie to the human suffering on Display with the Unsullied. She explains the gruesome “training". She reveals having brothers among them when faced with the possibility that Dany might order their suicide.

But she also serves to comfort Dany numerous times in a way that Irri (her “not a sex slave”) cannot.

She sings.

The hours crept by on turtle feet. Even after Jhiqui rubbed the knots from her shoulders, Dany was too restless for sleep. Missandei offered to sing her a lullaby of the Peaceful People, but Dany shook her head. “Bring me Arstan,” she said. (ASOS, Daenerys IV)

She tells her stories of her home.

Do all gods feel so lonely? Some must, surely. Missandei had told her of the Lord of Harmony, worshiped by the Peaceful People of Naath; he was the only true god, her little scribe said, the god who always was and always would be, who made the moon and stars and earth, and all the creatures that dwelt upon them. Poor Lord of Harmony. Dany pitied him. It must be terrible to be alone for all time, attended by hordes of butterfly women you could make or unmake at a word. (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

Who else serves a “one true God”? Arya, with the many-faced god. With his servants in black-and-white. Dany hears a lot about the culture of the Peaceful People from Missandei. She seems to find it relaxing.

“Are there many flies on Naath, Missandei?”

“On Naath there are butterflies,” the scribe responded in the Common Tongue. “More wine?”

“No. I must hold court soon.” Dany had grown very fond of Missandei. The little scribe with the big golden eyes was wise beyond her years. She is brave as well. She had to be, to survive the life she’s lived. One day she hoped to see this fabled isle of Naath. Missandei said the Peaceful People made music instead of war. They did not kill, not even animals; they ate only fruit and never flesh. The butterfly spirits sacred to their Lord of Harmony protected their isle against those who would do them harm. Many conquerors had sailed on Naath to blood their swords, only to sicken and die. The butterflies do not help them when the slave ships come raiding, though. “I am going to take you home one day, Missandei,” Dany promised. If I had made the same promise to Jorah, would he still have sold me? “I swear it.”

“This one is content to stay with you, Your Grace. Naath will be there, always. You are good to this—to me.”

“And you to me.” Dany took the girl by the hand. “Come help me dress.” (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

I think Dany is projecting a lot onto Missandei. Her longing for home, for childhood. For loyalty. And yet…

Daario and Ben Plumm, Grey Worm, Irri, Jhiqui, Missandei … as she looked at them Dany found herself wondering which of them would betray her next. (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

And here Missandei witnesses an interesting turn of events.

Dany thought a moment. “Any man who wishes to sell himself into slavery may do so. Or woman.” She raised a hand. “But they may not sell their children, nor a man his wife.”

“In Astapor the city took a tenth part of the price, each time a slave changed hands,” Missandei told her.

“We’ll do the same,” Dany decided. Wars were won with gold as much as swords. “A tenth part. In gold or silver coin, or ivory. Meereen has no need of saffron, cloves, or zorse hides.” (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

Instead of eradicating slave trade, Dany allows it to wobble back into existence, because she had no better plan. Curiously, Missandei seems to support, even enable this. She turns Dany’s attention toward the Astapori practice. Why? That is.. seriously odd, for a former slave who is supposedly enarmored with Dany’s anti-slavery crucade, and thus loyal to her.

Missandei remains gentle, caring, ever so attentive. As Dany struggles with ruling Meereen, Missandei is there to hold her hand.

She was Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, khaleesi and queen, Mother of Dragons, slayer of warlocks, breaker of chains, and there was no one in the world that she could trust.

“Your Grace?” Missandei stood at her elbow wrapped in a bedrobe, wooden sandals on her feet. “I woke, and saw that you were gone. Did you sleep well? What are you looking at?”

“My city,” said Dany. “I was looking for a house with a red door, but by night all the doors are black.”

“A red door?” Missandei was puzzled. “What house is this?”

“No house. It does not matter.” Dany took the younger girl by the hand. “Never lie to me, Missandei. Never betray me.”

“I never would,” Missandei promised. “Look, dawn comes.”

The sky had turned a cobalt blue from the horizon to the zenith, and behind the line of low hills to the east a glow could be seen, pale gold and oyster pink. Dany held Missandei’s hand as they watched the sun come up. (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

Dany promises to take her home, Missandei promises to never betray her. Or “promises”? She now knows that Dany is certainly concerned with fear of betrayal. Yet her gentle presence allows Dany to refocus when she was tempted to leave Meereen behind.

“There is nothing to stay for,” said Brown Ben Plumm.

“Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves,” said Daario Naharis.

“You have brought freedom as well,” Missandei pointed out.

“Freedom to starve?” asked Dany sharply. “Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?” Am I mad? Do I have the taint? (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

Dany ends ASOS choosing to stay, to rule.

Of course, the deterioration of Meereen has a devastating personal effect on Missandei. Her brother is murdered.

She could hear the soft sounds of sobs. “Who is that weeping?”

“Your slave Missandei.” Jhiqui had a taper in her hand.

“My servant. I have no slaves.” Dany did not understand. “Why does she weep?”

“For him who was her brother,” Irri told her. (ADWD, Daenerys II)

(Subtext: Irri sees no difference between Missandei and a slave. Dany does not understand. She does not really comprehend how to MAKE it different.)

Mossador. Dany made a fist. Missandei and her brothers had been taken from their home on Naath by raiders from the Basilisk Isles and sold into slavery in Astapor. Young as she was, Missandei had shown such a gift for tongues that the Good Masters had made a scribe of her. Mossador and Marselen had not been so fortunate. They had been gelded and made into Unsullied. (ADWD, Daenerys II)

I wonder what happened to the third brother? Has he died by this point, as well?

Dany decides to employ torture to investigate the murder of Missandei’s brother and others by the Sons of the Harpy. The torture of a suspect’s innocent daughters, to be exact. Another step toward villainy.

When she returned to her rooms atop the pyramid, she found Missandei crying softly on her pallet, trying as best she could to muffle the sound of her sobs. “Come sleep with me,” she told the little scribe. “Dawn will not come for hours yet.”

“Your Grace is kind to this one.” Missandei slipped under the sheets. “He was a good brother.”

Dany wrapped her arms about the girl. “Tell me of him.”

“He taught me how to climb a tree when we were little. He could catch fish with his hands. Once I found him sleeping in our garden with a hundred butterflies crawling over him. He looked so beautiful that morning, this one … I mean, I loved him.” (ADWD, Daenerys II)

Mossador sounds a lot like Bran. Climbing, fishing.

Compare the images:

The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling."

"He was going to be a knight," Arya was saying now. "A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?" (AGOT, Eddard V)

Asleep in the godswood like Mossador had been in the garden. Surrounded by dragon’s breath flowers like he had been covered by butterflies. Two sisters thinking of their brother, terribly harmed. Where Bran survived, Mossador did not.

“As he loved you.” Dany stroked the girl’s hair. “Say the word, my sweet, and I will send you from this awful place. I will find a ship somehow and send you home. To Naath.”

“I would sooner stay with you. On Naath I’d be afraid. What if the slavers came again? I feel safe when I’m with you.”

Safe. The word made Dany’s eyes fill up with tears. “I want to keep you safe.”

Missandei was only a child. With her, she felt as if she could be a child too. “No one ever kept me safe when I was little. Well, Ser Willem did, but then he died, and Viserys … I want to protect you but … it is so hard. To be strong. I don’t always know what I should do. I must know, though. I am all they have. I am the queen … the … the …”

“… mother,” whispered Missandei.

“Mother to dragons.” Dany shivered.

“No. Mother to us all.” Missandei hugged her tighter. “Your Grace should sleep. Dawn will be here soon, and court.”

“We’ll both sleep, and dream of sweeter days. Close your eyes.” When she did, Dany kissed her eyelids and made her giggle.

And reading this, I just realized that there is a clear parallel to someone else: Taena Merryweather. Where Irri parallels the sexual abuse aspect, Missandei parallels the “sweet confidant” aspect of her relationship with Cersei. Sharing a bed, telling stories, secrets. We know how loyal Taena was to Cersei.

Missandei just lost her brother whom she loved enough to weep copiously for, yet she ends up comforting Dany, the exchange becomes about Dany. This reads sweet and mutual, but IS IT REALLY when you keep that turn of the conversation in mind?

Dany keeps projecting onto Missandei, and I think Missandei knows. I think Missandei is very aware of this and using it to stay afloat. Not because she is evil but because she is simply trying to survive and do anything he can to try and keep in contact with her brothers, to protect them. Her connection to Dany is the best way to do that.

Missandei keeps witnessing Dany’s lower points:

When Daenerys returned to her pyramid, sore of limb and sick of heart, she found Missandei reading some old scroll whilst Irri and Jhiqui argued about Rakharo. “You are too skinny for him,” Jhiqui was saying. “You are almost a boy. Rakharo does not bed with boys. This is known.” Irri bristled back. “It is known that you are almost a cow. Rakharo does not bed with cows.”

“Rakharo is blood of my blood. His life belongs to me, not you,” Dany told the two of them. (ADWD, Daenerys VI)

Interestingly, she is also reading “old scrolls”. Educating herself.

Dany remains happily intrusive in her command over her “handmaiden’s” bodies. It accompanies a very strange exchange between them.

A cool wind was blowing on her terrace. Dany sighed with pleasure as she slipped into the waters of her pool. At her command, Missandei stripped off her clothes and climbed in after her. “This one heard the Astapori scratching at the walls last night,” the little scribe said as she was washing Dany’s back.

Irri and Jhiqui exchanged a look. “No one was scratching,” said Jhiqui.

“Scratching … how could they scratch?”

“With their hands,” said Missandei. “The bricks are old and crumbling. They are trying to claw their way into the city.”

“This would take them many years,” said Irri. “The walls are very thick. This is known.”

“It is known,” agreed Jhiqui.

“I dream of them as well.” Dany took Missandei’s hand. “The camp is a good half-mile from the city, my sweetling. No one was scratching at the walls.”

“Your Grace knows best,” said Missandei. (ADWD, Daenerys VI)

It is not the Astapori scratching.

For a moment he saw only the blackened arches of the bricks above, scorched by dragonflame. A trickle of ash caught his eye, betraying movement. Something pale, half-hidden, stirring. He's made himself a cave, the prince realized. A burrow in the brick. The foundations of the Great Pyramid of Meereen were massive and thick to support the weight of the huge structure overhead; even the interior walls were three times thicker than any castle's curtain walls. But Viserion had dug himself a hole in them with flame and claw, a hole big enough to sleep in. (ADWD, The Dragontamer)

So Missandei is hearing the warning signs the others are missing.

Dany is trying, but the true cost of ruling – the abdication of one’s most personal choices toward the benefit of the many - chafes hard. Interestingly, Missandei is unusually outspoken on the subject. Downright testing the waters of her influence on the friendship track.

“Your Grace needs more than wine to break her fast. You are such a tiny thing, and you will surely need your strength today.”

That made Daenerys laugh, coming from a girl so small. She relied so much on the little scribe that she oft forgot that Missandei had only turned eleven. They shared the food together on her terrace. As Dany nibbled on an olive, the Naathi girl gazed at her with eyes like molten gold and said, “It is not too late to tell them that you have decided not to wed.”

It is, though, the queen thought, sadly. “Hizdahr’s blood is ancient and noble. Our joining will join my freedmen to his people. When we become as one, so will our city.”

“Your Grace does not love the noble Hizdahr. This one thinks you would sooner have another for your husband.”

I must not think of Daario today. “A queen loves where she must, not where she will.”

Her appetite had left her. “Take this food away,” she told Missandei. “It is time I bathed.” (ADWD, Daenerys VII)

Eyes like molten gold. Molten gold, a golden crown that men shall tremble to behold. Ominous.

I wonder what Missandei’s endgame here is. Why does she oppose the marriage? Why did she propose the slave sale tax?

Dany relies on Missandei emotionally. But Missandei seems to pull back, now that Dany did marry Hizdahr.

Dany flinched. “Who is there?”

“Only Missandei.” The Naathi scribe moved closer to the bed. “This one heard you crying.”

“Crying? I was not crying. Why would I cry? I have my peace, I have my king, I have everything a queen might wish for. You had a bad dream, that was all.”

“As you say, Your Grace.” She bowed and made to go.

“Stay,” said Dany. “I do not wish to be alone.”

“His Grace is with you,” Missandei pointed out.

“His Grace is dreaming, but I cannot sleep. On the morrow I must bathe in blood. The price of peace.” She smiled wanly and patted the bed. “Come. Sit. Talk with me.”

“If it please you.” Missandei sat down beside her. “What shall we talk of?”

“Home,” said Dany. “Naath. Butterflies and brothers. Tell me of the things that make you happy, the things that make you giggle, all your sweetest memories. Remind me that there is still good in the world.”

Missandei did her best. She was still talking when Dany finally fell to sleep, to dream queer, half-formed dreams of smoke and fire.

The morning came too soon. (ADWD, Daenerys VIII)

Missandei did not correct herself when she used “this one”, like she used to before. She does not enthusiastically agree to stay with her. “If it please you” is a phrase used with monarchs like Joffrey, Cersei, Stannis. Dany used it on Viserys, to placate him.

Missandei becomes even more openly critical just before the fighting pits open.

“Even if the pits must open, must Your Grace go yourself?” asked Missandei as she was washing the queen’s hair.

“Half of Meereen will be there to see me, gentle heart.”

“Your Grace,” said Missandei, “this one begs leave to say that half of Meereen will be there to watch men bleed and die.”

She is not wrong, the queen knew, but it makes no matter. (ADWD, Daenerys IX)

Once again, no correction on the “this one”. She doesn’t bother anymore. Still she makes a last-ditch effort to use her emotional influence on Dany. To no avail. Why does she not want Dany to go? Is it the principle of the thing? Is it to subvert the union? Is it because she knows something is going to happen? Does she Need Dany on a particular path?

Just before she leaves for the fighting pits, Dany has her last interaction with Missandei.

Missandei reemerged. “Your Grace. The king bids you join him when you are dressed. And Prince Quentyn has come with his Dornish Men. They beg a word, if that should please you.”

Little about this day shall please me. “Some other day.” (ADWD, Daenerys IX)

That’s it. Brushed off. Missandei stays behind. Dany goes to the pit.

Next we see her is in ADWD, The Queensguard. She is mostly unsupervised, alone.

The royal apartments were still and silent. Hizdahr had not taken up residence there, preferring to establish his own suite of rooms deep in the heart of the Great Pyramid, where massive brick walls surrounded him on all sides. Mezzara, Miklaz, Qezza, and the rest of the queen’s young cupbearers—hostages in truth, but both Selmy and the queen had become so fond of them that it was hard for him to think of them that way—had gone with the king, whilst Irri and Jhiqui departed with the other Dothraki. Only Missandei remained, a forlorn little ghost haunting the queen’s chambers at the apex of the pyramid. (ADWD, The Queensguard)

Dany and Selmy can forget that the kids are hostages. But Theon shows us that they never forget what they are. Irri and Jhiqui remain Dothraki. And Missandei? What IS she up to?

We gain a few more insights on her interactions in Meereen.

“She might be flying home,” he told himself, aloud.

“No,” murmured a soft voice behind him. “She would not do that, ser. She would not go home without us.”

Ser Barristan turned. “Missandei. Child. How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. This one is sorry if she has disturbed you.” She hesitated. “Skahaz mo Kandaq wishes words with you.”

“The Shavepate? You spoke with him?” That was rash, rash. The enmity ran deep between Shakaz and the king, and the girl was clever enough to know that. Skahaz had been outspoken in his opposition to the queen’s marriage, a fact Hizdahr had not forgotten. “Is he here? In the pyramid?”

“When he wishes. He comes and goes, ser.”

Yes. He would. “Who told you he wants words with me?”

“A Brazen Beast. He wore an owl mask.”

Like Arya as a cupbearer, Missandei is both visible and invisible and has the opportunity to fade into the background but also make contact with numerous people while she had Dany’s ear, hypothetically. We certainly know that Missandei disapproved of Hizdahr, as well. Also, she is sneaky and can listen to conversations. We know she reads scrolls. Her outward appearance remains that of a loyal believer.

Selmy immediately decides to make use of that ability.

The worst were those who played the game of thrones. “Can you find this owl again?” he asked Missandei.

“This one can try, ser.”

“Tell him I will speak with … with our friend … after dark, by the stables.” The pyramid’s main doors were closed and barred at sunset. The stables would be quiet at that hour. “Make certain it is the same owl.” It would not serve to have the wrong Brazen Beast hear of this.

“This one understands.” Missandei turned as if to go, then paused a moment and said, “It is said that the Yunkai’i have ringed the city all about with scorpions, to loose iron bolts into the sky should Drogon return.”

Ser Barristan had heard that too. “It is no simple thing to slay a dragon in the sky. In Westeros, many tried to bring down Aegon and his sisters. None succeeded.”

Missandei nodded. It was hard to tell if she was reassured. “Do you think that they will find her, ser? The grasslands are so vast, and dragons leave no tracks across the sky.”

“Aggo and Rakharo are blood of her blood … and who knows the Dothraki sea better than Dothraki?” He squeezed her shoulder. “They will find her if she can be found.” If she still lives. There were other khals who prowled the grass, horselords with khalasars whose riders numbered in the tens of thousands. But the girl did not need to hear that. “You love her well, I know. I swear, I shall keep her safe.”

The words seemed to give the girl some comfort. Words are wind, though, Ser Barristan thought. How can I protect the queen when I am not with her?

Look at her tickling dragon-killing information out of Selmy while appearing very concerned for Dany.

Afterward, back at the apex of the pyramid, Ser Barristan found Missandei amongst piles of scrolls and books, reading. “Stay here tonight, child,” he told her. “Whatever happens, whatever you see or hear, do not leave the queen’s chambers.”

“This one hears,” the girl said. “If she may ask—”

“Best not.” Ser Barristan stepped out alone onto the terrace gardens. I am not made for this, he reflected as he looked out over the sprawling city. The pyramids were waking, one by one, lanterns and torches flickering to life as shadows gathered in the streets below. Plots, ploys, whispers, lies, secrets within secrets, and somehow I have become part of them. (ADWD, The Kingbreaker)

Again, reading scrolls and books. Again fishing for information. (Understandably, but also probably not innocently.)

Next, she is caring for Quentyn Martell on his deathbed.

Missandei sat at the bedside. She had been with the prince night and day, tending to such needs as he could express, giving him water and milk of the poppy when he was strong enough to drink, listening to the few tortured words he gasped out from time to time, reading to him when he fell quiet, sleeping in her chair beside him. (ADWD, The Queen’s Hand)

So she is undaunted in the face of death and physical atrocity, much like Arya. Giving comfort to the infirm not unlike Sansa with Sweetrobin.

She assumes the role of confidant for Selmy, as well. Seamless.

The tiny Naathi scribe looked up at his approach. “Honored ser. The prince is beyond pain now. His Dornish gods have taken him home. See? He smiles.”

How can you tell? He has no lips. It would have been kinder if the dragons had devoured him. That at least would have been quick. This … Fire is a hideous way to die. Small wonder half the hells are made of flame. “Cover him.”

Missandei pulled the coverlet over the prince’s face. “What will be done with him, ser? He is so very far from home.”

“I’ll see that he’s returned to Dorne.” But how? As ashes? That would require more fire, and Ser Barristan could not stomach that. We’ll need to strip the flesh from his bones. Beetles, not boiling. The silent sisters would have seen to it at home, but this was Slaver’s Bay. The nearest silent sister was ten thousand leagues away. “You should go sleep now, child. In your own bed.”

“If this one may be so bold, ser, you should do the same. You do not sleep the whole night through.”

Not for many years, child. Not since the Trident. Grand Maester Pycelle had once told him that old men do not need as much sleep as the young, but it was more than that. He had reached that age when he was loath to close his eyes, for fear that he might never open them again. Other men might wish to die in bed asleep, but that was no death for a knight of the Kingsguard.

“The nights are too long,” he told Missandei, “and there is much and more to do, always. Here, as in the Seven Kingdoms. But you have done enough for now, child. Go and rest.” And if the gods are good, you will not dream of dragons. (The Queen’s Hand)

Child he calls her, and yet…

“Ransom,” said Ser Barristan. “Each man’s weight in gold.”

“The Wise Masters do not need our gold, ser,” said Marselen. “They are richer than your Westerosi lords, every one.”

“Their sellswords will want the gold, though. What are the hostages to them? If the Yunkishmen refuse, it will drive a blade between them and their hirelings.” Or so I hope. It had been Missandei who suggested the ploy to him. He would never have thought of such a thing himself. In King’s Landing, bribes had been Littlefinger’s domain, whilst Lord Varys had the task of fostering division amongst the crown’s enemies. His own duties had been more straightforward. Eleven years of age, yet Missandei is as clever as half the men at this table and wiser than all of them. (The Queen’s Hand)

He takes political advice from the eleven-year-old translator. And he never stops to wonder what else she might be up to. Missandei is no sweet, innocent follower. Missandei is brilliant. She is a patient player. And she hides it so well.

In Dany’s mind, Missandei remains ever her loyal handmaiden.

Jhiqui and Irri would be waiting atop her pyramid back in Meereen, she told herself.

Her sweet scribe Missandei as well, and all her little pages. They would bring her food, and she could bathe in the pool beneath the persimmon tree. It would be good to feel clean again. Dany did not need a glass to know that she was filthy. (ADWD, Daenerys X)

and

As the world darkened, Dany settled in and closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. The night was cold, the ground hard, her belly empty. She found herself thinking of Meereen, of Daario, her love, and Hizdahr, her husband, of Irri and Jhiqui and sweet Missandei, Ser Barristan and Reznak and Skahaz Shavepate. Do they fear me dead? I flew off on a dragon’s back. Will they think he ate me? (ADWD, Daenerys X)

Does she want her alive or dead? And what path does she want her to follow? Missandei’s specific goals are a mystery to me.

But I am loving this.

That relationship is one giant cauldron bubbling away. A big sign saying “Watch this Space”. I am excited for this. Considering the parallels to the Stark sisters, especially Arya, but also to Taena Merryweather, I am fairly certain Missandei is going to betray Dany and play a role in at least a significant setback for her. I do NOT think that Missandei genuinely cares for Dany. The details of her aims are fuzzy to me, but I suspect it’s going to prioritize her brothers.

Considering she was the last to care for Quentyn, I would be especially excited if she somehow came into contact with Dorne, especially Arianne and Aegon, before the end.

So yeah, those are my thoughts on that relationship.

#asoiaf #daenerys targaryen #missandei of naath #asks #my posts

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lady-of-the-lotus · 4 years ago

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Fractured Ice - Ch. 5/7

Xue Yang whisks a nihilistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right? AU where Wei Wuxian never came to Yi City and Xue Yang is still running around post-canon disguised as Xiao Xingchen.

Lan Xichen in an agony of suspense, hands shaking as he pulls Liebing from his qiankun pouch and puts it to his lips.

Xue Yang bites his finger and traces symbols on the sarcophagus in blood, breaking the seals.

Lan Xichen holds his breath.

Nothing happens.

XueXiao & XiYao - Rated M - Read on AO3! Tumblr: Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 6

Ch. 5: damn right, you should be scared of me

Lan Xichen feels dull and heavy as they pass through the gates of the Unclean Realm.

“We were not expecting Zewu-jun!” babbles the Nie chamberlain as they arrive. “Please excuse the lack of reception; we received no notice of the Clan Leader’s arrival—”

Lan Xichen glances at him dispassionately, then dredges up a small smile and ducks his head at the chamberlain, almost overbalancing and falling forward thanks to the weight of his forehead ribbon.

A-Yao never would have been unprepared like this when he served in the same role. Never would have shown it, at the very least. Would have made the guests feel welcome, his quick mind adjusting to the new circumstances with alacrity and grace—

“My name is Xiao Xingchen,” says Xue Yang. He puts his hands together and bows deeply at the chamberlain. He’s fully back in his Xiao Xingchen role, all gentle refinement and forceful softness and slight _ otherness _, as if he’d learned social graces somewhere outside of normal society. “Zewu-jun and I have come to see Clan Leader Nie on matters of grave urgency. Our visit is to be kept secret.”

The man glances at Lan Xichen for confirmation. Lan Xichen nods.

Another bow. “Please follow me, then, Zewu-jun. This way. Thank you.”

Xue Yang winks at Lan Xichen as they follow the chamberlain through a series of side passages to the reception hall. Lan Xichen gets the idea that he’s hugely enjoying this farce. In another life, he feels, Xue Yang, might have been an actor.

Lan Xichen, on the other hand, feels his sense of dread growing as they near the hall.

Any hint of color in the Unclean Realm is swallowed by the overwhelming sense of grayness. Slate gray walls. Slate gray floors. Gray ornaments, gray ceilings, gray fixtures and furniture and sconces and statues and carvings.

Exactly like a tomb.

Lan Xichen keeps one hand out, just in case the stifling walls begin to move, to crush him, as he’s convinced they will at any second.

“One moment, please.” The chamberlain bows low at Lan Xichen and disappears through a door. Slate gray, with black accents, set in a dark gray frame.

He returns a few minutes later. “I regret to inform Zewu-jun that Clan Leader Nie is in an important conference, but he would be happy to meet with you tomorrow, or perhaps the day after tomorrow—”

Lan Xichen backhands him into the wall with his full Lan strength and pushes open the door, locking it behind him and Xue Yang.

Nie Huaisang hops to his feet, dropping his paint brush. “Zewu-jun! What a pleasant surprise—”

“Some conference,” says Xue Yang, glancing around at the empty chamber.

Nie Huaisang gulps visibly. Lan Xichen can almost hear the ropes and pulleys creaking in his head as he decides whether to fall back on his old Headshaker routine or acknowledge the fact that Lan Xichen is onto him.

He goes with the former.

“What can I do for Zewu-jun?” he asks, bowing deeply and seating himself on his throne-like seat. He seems to make himself smaller as he does so, as if well aware of how the seat dwarfs him and wanting to play up the impression of smallness, of helplessness, of innocence and vulnerability. “And, of course, our venerated cultivator friend.” He rises again, bows at Xue Yang with a flap of expensive silver sleeve. “It is a true privilege to meet Xiao Xingchen once again.”

That’s right; Nie Huaisang met Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen at the same time A-Yao and Wangji did. Lan Xichen hopes that Xue Yang, remembering this, will reign in the theatrics.

Xue Yang bows a bit too low. “The honor is all mine, Clan Leader.”

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Nie Huaisang is wearing one of his after-all-it’s-not-as-if-_ I- _ can-be-of-any-help-to- _ you _ looks, and Lan Xichen is seized by the sudden urge to rip his quivering little face off—

He blinks the thought away, a bit unnerved at the idea that Xue Yang might be having more of an influence on him than he’s thought.

Nie Huaisang, in turn, looks even more nervous than usual, as if he’s aware Lan Xichen is not quite himself.

_ Good. You should be afraid of me, you murderer— _

Lan Xichen looks away from Nie Huaisang, eyes roaming over the familiar room. He’d spent many hours here visiting with Nie Mingjue, and then, later, playing guqin opposite A-Yao—

Had A-Yao truly killed Nie Mingjue?

Nie Mingjue had tried to kill A-Yao more than once as his mind deteriorated, but Lan Xichen doubts A-Yao could have done such a terrible thing to their sworn brother in return. If there was one thing A-Yao had proven, it was that he could bear up under repeated slights. He can’t remember if A-Yao confessed to Nie Mingjue's murder at Guanyin Temple, but it doesn't matter. He’d confessed to killing Qin Su, and Lan Xichen himself had watched her commit suicide, witnessed A-Yao’s grief. A-Yao’s guilt and self-loathing, it seemed, was all-encompassing at the end, smothering him, choking all rational thought and pushing him to shoulder every impossible sin in the face of the united wall of hatred that faced him in Guanyin Temple.

_ Not me, _ Lan Xichen wants to say. Will be able to say, soon enough, if all went well. I _ never hated you— _

“Brother Xichen?”

Lan Xichen pulls himself out his thoughts. “We have come to pay our respects to Chifeng-zun,” he says.

Nie Huaisang looks alarmed. “Mingjue?”

“It has been a year since his entombment. I thought it only proper to pay my respects now that I am able to travel again.”

Nie Huaisang picks up the fan he’s painting, using it to hide the lower half of his face. “I’m—I’m afraid that’s not possible, Brother Xichen.”

Xue Yang bows low. “And why not, Clan Leader? Zewu-jun has traveled long to get here.”

“I—er—”

Lan Xichen wonders if Nie Huaisang received a message from Lan Qiren, something about keeping Lan Xichen in the Unclean Realm until the Lan cultivators could arrive. For all that he doubts his uncle would have taken Nie Huaisang into his confidence, the signal could have gone out the second he’d stepped inside the fortress’s gates. Or perhaps Nie Huaisang simply sensed something wrong on his own.

“It’s like this,” says Nie Huaisang, emitting a nervous little laugh from behind the silk fan. “Er—you see—Da-ge is resting in the eastern family tomb.”

“Meaning?”

“Er—well—that’s where we keep our more—how should I put it?—problematic dead.” His eyes dart over to Xue Yang, as if he’d rather not air clan laundry in front of a near-stranger, no matter how distinguished. “There are many seals on the tomb, many—er—dangerous areas—”

“The tomb is booby-trapped,” translates Xue Yang bluntly.

“It’s perhaps not as safe as one might have liked—”

“Like the sabers’ Stone Castles?” asks Lan Xichen. Even before Wangji and Wei Wuxian’s little adventure, he’d heard stories from Nie Mingjue.

Nie Huaisang blanches. “Nothing like that! These spirits aren’t dangerous—it’s simply a precaution—”

Lan Xichen can almost see the calculations in Xue Yang’s head—how fast the cultivator could pounce at the clan leader, snatch his stupid fan away, grab him, _ force _ him to help them—

Lan Xichen shakes his head at Xue Yang warningly. “Your brother was my friend, Huaisang. I have a right to pay my respects, as I was in no condition to do so when he was entombed.”

Nie Huaisang’s tone changes to one of pathetic flattery. “You won’t hold this against me, will you, Brother Xichen? Please understand, Brother Xichen. You know how I value our clans’ friendship, Brother Xichen; but I just simply cannot. Nobody in a hundred years has stepped foot inside the tomb unless it’s to bury a body; even I pay my respects from outside the tomb—but not _ too _ close—”

Xue Yang smiles as if about to make a comment about there being one more Nie body to bury if Nie Huaisang keeps this up, but for once his mouth remains shut.

Nie Huaisang hops off his oversized seat and scurries over to a side door in a funny little trot. “I’ll call the chamberlain; make sure you have comfortable rooms made up!” he says, and he darts out.

Xue Yang smirks. “He certainly lives up to his reputation.”

But Lan Xichen shakes his head. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

By request, Lan Xichen and Xue Yang eat alone together in Lan Xichen’s quarters, the same ones he used to stay in when he was a frequent guest here.

“This food is as bad as the Lan junk,” says Xue Yang in disgust. “What did they put in here? Haven’t they ever heard of salt? Meat? Chicken? Honey? Are these raw carrots and leaves stewed in fucking barley water?”

“They prepare it specially for me,” says Lan Xichen absently. He can’t bring himself to eat. He paces the room, trying to ground himself with the firmness of the hard gray stone beneath his feet, the solid smoothness of the walls under his palms, but he’s drifting and he knows it.

“So we can blame you for this inedible garbage? At least at the Cloud Recesses they know how to prepare the stewed leaves properly; this, however—” Xue Yang frowns suddenly. “You don’t look so good, my friend.”

Lan Xichen has sunk to the bed, leaning forward on his knees.

“Zewu-jun?”

“I’m fine.”

“Not worrying about the Lan popping in? I'd say we should get moving, but you don't look great. ”

Lan Xichen glances up. He'd forgotten about the Lan since leaving Nie Huaisang. “I thought we decided my uncle would never trust Nie Huaisang with the truth, and you told me you asked around and were told no Lan cultivators were seen heading here—”

Xue Yang shrugs. “I’ll admit, I half expected to be arrested the second we stepped foot in this metal box. Glad we got an opportunity to eat instead, if you can call this food. I'd figured you could fight us out, maybe take out the Headshaker in the confusion, do the Nie Clan a favor while getting a bit of your own back—”

“I wouldn’t hurt Nie Huisang, no matter how much I wanted to.”

Xue Yang raises an eyebrow. “Never?”

“I am not a murderer.”

“Murderer, killer, same thing.”

“We’ve been through this. It is not at all the same thing.”

Xue Yang makes a face and puts down his chopsticks. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll be right back.” He slips out of the room. Through the door Lan Xichen hears him sending the chamberlain out for different food, but he doesn’t pay attention to the actual words. He’s been here many times before, he knows this guest chamber like the back of his hand, but suddenly the room is unfamiliar. A flash of alarm, as if he can’t remember how he got here even though he can clearly remember the past two hours.

At least he thinks he does.

He lies down on the bed, taking deep, meditative breaths. Stares up at the ceiling. Familiar gray ceiling with familiar stone carvings, but the memory of when he last saw this ceiling is hazy. Hard thin mattress—was it always so hard?—“a warrior’s bed”—who had told him that?

A faint brush of memory: a shared meal—a war conference—a blade flashing beside his—but all that stands out is the sound of guqin music, played in duet.

A sensation of floating, of expanding, of being outside himself, reaching through the walls, feeling the wetness of the rain that has begun to fall—

He opens his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed. Xue Yang is just finishing up his meal, watching Lan Xichen with an almost worried expression he just manages to hide as Lan Xichen sits up.

“We leave in five minutes,” he tells him.

Xue Yang grins. “To the tomb?”

“To the tomb.”

* * * * * *

They fly out over the fortress walls.

“I counted a dozen sentries on the parapets,” says Xue Yang as they land. He returns Jiangzai to his qiankun sleeve. “They definitely saw us, despite the rain.”

“Your knocking out the chamberlain did not help matters.”

“He was in our way.”

“He was bringing the dessert you ordered.”

“He had it coming.” There’s a new bounce in Xue Yang’s step, as if he’s happy to be _ doing _ something, _ after _ something. If Lan Xichen didn’t know that there had been nothing but vinegar-water at supper, he’d think the delinquent cultivator had been bending the elbow too freely. “You should have seen the look on his face when I asked for extra honey for my dumplings. As if none of these musclebound Nie ever—”

“Xue Yang, we haven’t the time.”

They hadn’t flown very far, needing to preserve their spiritual energy for the booby-traps and ritual at the tomb. They hurry down the road, expecting guards to be following them at any moment, but the night is quiet save for the pattering rain.

“You do know the way, right?”

Lan Xichen nods. He knows where all the many Nie tombs are thanks to the many internments during and after the Sunshot Campaign, but he hadn’t known which one contained Nie Mingjue and A-Yao or he could have spared them the afternoon’s charade.

“The Headshaker, I feel, is someone I could get on with,” says Xue Yang, who seems to feel it his duty to fill any silence with conversation despite the fact that silence would serve them far better. “Squirrely little bastard, isn’t he? Never boring around him, I’d guess. Always something to laugh at.”

Lan Xichen ignores him. Barely even hears him. He’s outside himself again. He tries to bring himself back into his body, focusing on the drenching wetness chilling every inch of his skin and the muddy squelch beneath his feet as they cut through a hardscrabble little farm, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s bobbing above his body, watching a tall blue figure and smaller green-and-black figure slog side-by-side though the rain.

Without consciously deciding to, he embraces the feeling.

He’d spent the better part of a year like this. It’s familiar. Welcome. A cushioning cocoon of numbness.

And yet, still somehow sharp. Focused. Clear.

A part of him somehow knows that it’s a blessing, how a few hours in the Unclean Realm undid all of the changes of the past month. Knows that he needs the old version of himself to do the things that will need to be done to bring A-Yao back.

Besides, he’s happier this way, on some level.

It’s almost dawn when they arrive, drenched and shivering, at the tomb.

Outside the tomb are seven Nie guards, which explains why nobody has come after them.

“You!” Three of the guards converge at the sight of the intruders. “Oh, it is—begging your pardon, Zewu-jun—”

Lan Xichen reaches inside his qiankun pouch, removes his guqin, and blasts them into the tomb’s outer wall with a single arc of blue light that illuminates the falling rain like lightning.

Xue Yang nods approvingly at the three bodies lying prone at unsettling angles. “You tore through them like rice paper.”

“Captain! We heard—” Four more guards run up.

Four more guards flung into the wall with such force Lan Xichen has Xue Yang check to make sure none are dead.

Not that he cares. Nothing is real. Nothing matters.

But just in case.

“All breathing,” says Xue Yang. “Do you think you could teach me that technique? No?” He glances at the tomb door. “How about using it to open the door, then? Preferably without the blue light giving everyone and their great-aunt our location.”

Lan Xichen’s heart is pounding so hard it’s a miracle the countryside isn’t roused by its thunderous beat.

This is it. Inside is A-Yao.

His A-Yao.

Waiting for him to rescue him—

He summons the awful, wonderful energy swelling within him, focuses it, releases it through his guqin in an explosive blast of energy, rocking the thick stone door off its hinges.

Xue Yang grins delightedly. “I was wrong about you Lan,” he says. “What you lack in pizzazz you make up for in power.”

Lan Xichen strides in. Xue Yang follows, Jiangzai out and resting across both shoulders in a way that, if he’s not careful, might result in his severing the tendons in his shoulder.

Xue Yang takes a torch from a wrought-iron sconce on the wall and lights it with a touch of his finger, a trick he’d learned from the Wens. The light and warmth are welcome, but Lan Xichen is still soaking wet and chilled to the bone. The chill goes deeper than mere autumn coolness. It’s a chill he thought he’d gotten rid of but had in fact just burrowed deeper, to be excavated in the Unclean Realm.

That’s fine, though. He likes the cold. It keeps him awake. Keeps him on his toes, despite his detachment.

Sharp. Focused. Clear.

“No booby traps,” says Xue Yang as they step into a chamber a bit bigger than the Nie reception hall. “Do you think the little chipmunk lied to keep us out?”

“Undoubtedly. Lying is his specialty.”

“Same decorator as the Unclean Realm, I see. All gray stone and ugly monster carvings. At least the Unclean Realm doesn’t reek.”

Lan Xichen ignores the overwhelming musty smell. “There. This one.” He rests both hands on the lid of the sarcophagus. A faint hum can be felt through the thick stone. They had sealed off Nie Mingjue’s ghost, immobilized it, but he can still sense the power of the two spirits, locked in eternal battle. How metaphorical of a battle still remains to be seen. “What next?”

Xue Yang is pulling materials out of his qiankun sleeve. “First of all, we have to be prepared to fight a ghost once we open that coffin—”

“We are not fighting Nie Mingjue!”

“He’s not exactly going to want to sit down to tea, though if we had tea it might we worth a shot—”

“We immediately suppress him.”

“Not liberate? Xiao Xingchen was always keen on setting them at rest.” His tone is dismissive, but Lan Xichen senses the effort it takes to mention Xiao Xingchen so casually.

“His spirit is too far gone for that. The kindest thing would be to put it out of its misery.”

Xue Yang shrugs. “You’re the boss, Zewu-jun. Don’t mind me. I’ll work around you. Actually—” He bows, suddenly deferential “—I will need a drop or two of your blood.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t bother asking him what it’s for. Doesn’t matter at this point, as long as it can help.

With surprising delicacy, Xue Yang pricks Lan Xichen’s finger where it won’t interfere with using his flute, guqin, or sword.

“And now,” he says, removing something from his qiankun sleeve with a flourish, “we prepare the accommodations for our guest of honor.”

It’s the spirit-trapping pouch he’d given to Lan Xichen and long since taken back, its brown sides smooth and blank. As Lan Xichen watches, riveted, Xue Yang uses Lan Xichen’s blood to cover the bag in intricate, entirely foreign symbols.

Xue Yang hands it to Lan Xichen when he’s finished. “Just one moment; I need some...grass from outside. I’ll be back in a second.”

He lights another torch and leaves, returning soon with a handful of grass. He scatters it on the coffin and sets up the rest of the ritual, humming to himself, drawing an intricate array around the sarcophagus in red from a jar he has with him. Red paint, Lan Xichen would have assumed had he been paying even the slightest bit of attention to anything but the spirit-trapping pouch. After all, where would Xue Yang have found so much fresh blood?

“All right, then,” says Xue Yang, straightening up and rinsing his reddened hands off with water from his canteen. “Step away from the sarcophagus, Zewu-jun, if you please. We have work to do. I’ll need the pouch back, please. Thank you.” He waits until Lan Xichen is a safe distance away before putting his hands on the side of the sarcophagus lid. “Sword out,” he reminds Lan Xichen. “Or flute, or guqin, but don’t just stand there.”

Lan Xichen shakes himself out of his reverie. “Do you truly think he might attack?”

“I just know that that fan-waving little prick would rather torment your friend’s spirit than set his own brother’s spirit at rest. After a year of being confined in there like that—”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Lan Xichen has to admit. It had been explained to him once, the rationale for leaving both spirits like this, but he can’t remember the details right now.

Xue Yang rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it isn’t. Now, places, everyone.”

Lan Xichen in an agony of suspense, hands shaking as he pulls Liebing from his qiankun pouch and puts it to his lips.

Xue Yang bites his finger and traces symbols on the sarcophagus in blood, breaking the seals.

Lan Xichen holds his breath.

Nothing happens.

Frowning, Xue Yang pushes the heavy stone lid off the sarcophagus.

Black smoke roars up from the sarcophagus, spinning furiously in a tight vortex. It rushes Xue Yang, flinging him into the wall before he can react.

Lan Xichen begins to play battle music.

Nie Mingjue is one of the angriest spirits he’s ever encountered. But though Lan Xichen is not the man he used to be, tonight he’s committed.

Sharp. Focused. Clear.

Xue Yang is back on his feet, Jiangzai drawn, but he’s smart enough to stay put as Lan Xichen plays.

He channels all of his remaining spiritual energy into Liebing, channels the affection he bears for the man the spirit had once been, channels his feelings for the man whose spirit this man is tormenting, and with the sense of something rupturing, Nie Mingjue’s spirit dissipates.

“I told you it was sheer spite, keeping him in there,” says Xue Yang, spitting blood. “If you could do it, anyone could.”

“Not everyone can do what I can.” Lan Xichen isn’t bragging; it’s simple fact. He glances over anxiously at Xue Yang, who stands looking down into the sarcophagus. “What now?”

Xue Yang turns away and draws unfamiliar symbols in the air.

The array glows red.

At the sight, Lan Xichen goes entirely numb. He’d swear he’s as faded as Nie Mingjue, as vague and amorphous as his birth name, Huan—“to dissipate”—a handful of vapor, a human-shaped patch of nothing so focused on Xue Yang’s next words that it’s lost all sense of self.

Xue Yang turns back to Lan Xichen. In his hand is the spirit pouch.

The symbols on the sides are glowing with a touch of the array’s eerie red light.

Grinning, he tosses it to Lan Xichen.

“He’s all yours,” he says.

* * * * *

Up Next: Xue Yang and Lan Xichen pay Chang Ping a friendly visit in a desperate bid to bring A-Yao back.

Or: Don’t try this at home, kids.

Chapter 6

#Chapter Summary: Nie Huaisang is (almost) utterly useless #Or: The Nie chamberlain’s very bad no-good day. Also some tomb robbing if that floats your boat #Fractured Ice #Xue Yang #Lan Xichen #XueXiao #XiYao #mdzs fanfiction #cql fanfic

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