#repentant blacksmith

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Repentant Blacksmith

Artist: Drew Tucker TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[sun-snatcher]

( credits to @perryabbott for this phenomenal gifset ! )

2/? | SEAWARDS, TO YOU. ; REPENTANT!AU

summ.  A continuation. You & Halbrand find common ground. Philosophies are debated. A bond is formed. or: A Smith and a Sculptor begin their friendship. pairing.  (Repentant!Mairon/Sauron) Halbrand / f!reader , ( established in #SEAWARDSTOYOU ) w.count.  4k a/n.  Important tags in first chapter ! Two artisans share their craft and debate their disciplines. Grumpy x sunshine trope coded in this one !

       WEARINESS IS NOT the word, he learns very quickly, when the hammer and tongs had been placed in his calloused hands at Númenor, and he’d been put to the test to earn his Guild crest and prove himself useful to the master blacksmith. 

(They’d tasked him to create the best blade he could, and the finest steel sword is what he’d forged for them. When they’d asked if he knew how to shape a sturdy anchor, he laughed and said, “How many would you like?”)

It is, for all intents and purposes, still a hammer and tongs; still a weighty familiarity where the memory of Aulë rests in one hand and the blackness of Morgoth in the other. But now all attributions coalesce and measure to some… distant nostalgia. 

Homesickness.

He wonders if a Maia could even be capable of such trivial things like a sickness. Wonders if maybe it’s borne from this mortal flesh he’d awoken in; if perhaps Melian had fretted too over this fatigued, adrift state of sense when she bound herself to her corporeality and the menial necessities that came with living in such a body.

Is this what it’s like to fall from grace?

He’d found himself in an endless loop of madness in trying to decipher his Judgement the day he first awoke: Why the Valar had allowed him— Sauron, the Abhorred, Gorthaur the Cruel, Shadow of Morgoth— a second chance; a rebirth. It doesn’t feel like mercy. Is this punishment? A test? Is he truly as free as they're making him believe?

Why, if anything, these hammer and tongs— his age-old solace— just feel like another shackle binding his wrists. 

It’s both too good to be true and not at all.

Perhaps this is the play. To have his uncertainty drive him into insanity. To be the architect of his own demise. Or maybe this is just another part of a grand design amongst the Ainur he isn’t privy to anymore— but surely not; Who would want to give a role of any significance to him? He is Sauron. The Great Deceiver. He cannot be trusted. 

By his very own hands, he had ensured that.

…Except you. Eärmaril. The one who’d offered him wine and proverbial bread and a new beginning. 

Foolish, he thinks, pursing his lips. But with whatever few days of time he chanced to spend with you sitting in that cell, there’d been a graceful naïveté to you he found (charming) himself envying. A mortal innocence. An excitable youth he’d long since grown out of. This seemingly bright wonder and an ever-light in your eyes he deemed frustratingly blinding— like the blaze of a sun, or the glare of a moonglade— that he surprisingly couldn’t help but be drawn into out of pure fascination.

Even moreso, now, since he’s discovered:

“You’re a craftsman?” says Halbrand, stunned. “You didn’t tell me.”

In the clear midday afternoon, you pause to look up from your potter’s wheel. 

He’s fascinated. It shows in the curious dart of his eyes. 

Earthenware line the front of your atelier, all in odd colours, shapes and sizes, still dewy from catching the remains of the late morning shower. They trail into your workshop; great pots and elaborate vases dotting the floor while the flatware stack neatly on shelves lining limestone walls. The ceramics are all set aside in a way one could see a careful path to your throwing wheel, where you’re nestled behind and idly washing the slip off your fingernails in a bucket of water.

“You don’t tell me a lot of things, either,” you snort, drying your hands on your apron. Your tousled hair is tied neatly away, and there’s a spot of clay marking the edge of your jaw. “Besides, is it so surprising I am?”

Halbrand had seen you at the docks, just this salty morning when he stood at the forge (that you’d spent hours cajoling the Master blacksmith into accepting him into the day prior); barefooted on the docks among the local sailors, casually dirtying your pretty alabaster skirts with wet sand and seawater to help tug the ropes of a wayward skiff, dainty sleeves rolled and rumpled up to your elbows as you moored it with the unwomanly ease of a seasoned sailor.

“How unladylike!” he’d overheard the chinwag of the traditional Númenorean mothers when she came upshore. “What a mess!”

(What a mess, indeed. But it explains plenty, and as a Smith, Mairon can understand it. An esoteric signature between all artisans is to be a mess; to rebel against the orthodox. It had been what set him apart from the other Maiar— And it had been precisely what led him into Morgoth’s hands.)

“No, I suppose not,” says Halbrand, sounding somewhat breathless. You stamp down the prickle of alarm when he picks up a piece to study it; the instinctual urge to warn him to be careful.

There is a thread of… something, after all, no matter how unconsciously thin it may be, between you two. You cannot call it trust— not yet, but you’re determined to get there— so perhaps understanding would do; And if it starts with something as small a step as trusting him not to mishandle your works, then you’ll chance it.

Craftsmanship appears to be the only bridge to a version of Halbrand you’ve not yet seen since you’ve met him, after all. You want to hold on to it. No, you want him to hold on to it, more like. To this lifeline; this rare flicker of radiant light in him.

“Have you ever tried pottery?” you ask, noticing the acuity of his appraising gaze.

For a moment, his gaze had fallen inwards, and he was not in the room with you when he spoke with a longing look. Sauron is far away, in the place where Aulë first taught Mairon all there is to know of the joys of creation. 

“I’ve tried my hand in plenty a craft before metalwork, believe it or not,” Halbrand says, and sets the plate back down with a clink. “Admittedly, clay is my weakest medium.”

“Oh?” you smile, suddenly curious, and Halbrand meets your inquisitive look once you’ve set your finished piece— a jug it looks to be— alongside the rest of the unfired clay prepared for the kilns.

“Clay is ever elusive,” says Halbrand, mildly as he can to avoid offense. “It is the inferior material to work with. The most fragile after being tempered.”

It had sounded almost recited, the way he said it, and so you frown, “Right. And who told you that?”

Morgoth. “…My old master.”

“Valar, then your old master must’ve been as good as…” you wave, face twisting in incredulity to find the words. “A netless net cast on shallow shores.”

There’s a pause, and you wonder if you’d crossed a line at the sudden seize of him— until he lets out a breath, akin to a wheeze, almost. 

It’s a small sound, but enough to catch you off-guard nonetheless. You've never heard him laugh before. 

“You disagree?” asks Halbrand, amusingly. 

“Not entirely.” You cock your head, sidling a hip at the table as you playfully stare him down. “It is elusive and fragile, yes. That it is an inferior material? No. Shaped correctly, pottery can endure centuries. It does not rust like steel, erode like stone, or decay like wood. It can outlast an age. Outlast even us.”

Us. He tarries on the word more longer than he should. He suddenly remembers he isn’t Mairon the Admirable— not just a craftsman speaking to another craftsman— but Sauron, hiding beneath the veneer that is Halbrand, a mortal man with a seemingly inevitable end.

He looks at the pot sitting underneath the table beside you. Bright green and lustrous, with elegant filigree of cresting waves and boats adorned with sails carrying the sun. Then he looks at the bucket by his feet, filled to the brim with broken shards of colourful ceramic, toeing it with his boot. 

“And yet,” is all he says.

You wrinkle your nose. “Those will be repurposed. That is its very beauty.”

“There is no strength in fragilities.”

You uncross your arms with a narrow look, as if he’s missed your point, and pick up a cup from the tray of bisqueware. Then, to his utter surprise— toss it casually aways from you. 

Reflex serves him well.

He catches it before it can shatter. “What—?!”

“The nature of the claypots strength relies solely on how one holds it,” you correct his previous statement. “And therefore, its value.”

Sauron looks at you then, and realises what it is you’re doing; what it is you’re asking of him. 

The thought should not have been that frightening, frankly— but there lingers still an ache in his nape and the unseen scars of a thousand daggers across his chest. There sears still a phantom hole in his beating heart, however much he decides to stubbornly ignore it.

“Trust,” he states, finally. The word sounds bitter to hear coming from him as he grips the delicate cup in his hand. “You know, I can very well crush this, Eärmaril.” 

“Yes. You could.” That is to say: Exactly my point!

He huffs out his nose, bristling. Halbrand moves over to return the cup in your palms. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

There’s the Judgement of Eru and Manwë echoing like a chorus in his head. There’s Mairon long gone, and Sauron that remains. The Great Deceiver. The one who cannot be trusted, because he had made it so with his bare hands.

“I am asking a man—”

“I am not—” A man, Sauron very nearly overrides. “—who you think I am.”

“What about who you can be, then?” You catch his wrist just before he can step back to retreat, and he can feel the ignition of a flame running through his arm like a frisson. “Isn’t that what this all is?”

“Halbrand, you told me you’ve done evil; irrevocable, irredeemable sin. Yes, so what shall you do now, then? This repentance of yours— to whom are you atoning for? The dead? The Valar? They are not here. What can they do with it? It is your life, after all, and your freedom.”

You let him go. Sauron stays rooted, prickled by how this feels alot like one of his unspoken, one-sided conversations he’d have with Uinen’s statue back at the cells.

“I will carry this regret with me forever.” His voice is heavy with a fell conviction. “It is not something your seas can absolve me of, or whatever other metaphor it is your people like to believe in.”

You hum at that. A reluctant assent of agreement. It’s infuriatingly patient. (This is an unfamiliar battleground. He’d expected you to be put off by him; to be angry— instead he’s been unsteadied with startling kindness.)

“Well, I am not asking you to forget, Halbrand. I am asking you to be free of it,” you roll your eyes, voice light and matter-of-fact. “You can choose to spend it wallowing in misery; shackle yourself to your past like a victim of your own villainy; But that would be the true evil— a disservice to those you’ve so claimed have suffered under your deeds. The real victims.”

Another voice interrupts the both of you. Apologies! says the young messenger, shifting timidly at the foot of your atelier with a scroll in hand, It is urgent. 

You wave in assent, then look back to Halbrand.

“You pace so long in your cage you’ve conditioned yourself to its unseen shadows,” you muse, and Sauron can hear your steady voice, both as delicate and as mighty as freshly-fired clay. “Remember this: What you do with the second chance the seas have granted you is what will define your atonement— nothing more, nothing less. Do not waste it on being a jailbird.”

And then—

And then.

You’re off, brushing past him like the sweetness of a saltbreeze, leaving him standing in your wake and staring at the cup you’ve left purposely behind.

It’s set precariously close to the edge of the table.

Open invitation.

(Mairon’s finger twitches in instinct.) 

He looks at the cup, and thinks, then looks and thinks again— only to conclude he couldn’t think at all, that you make it irritatingly impossible to do so. His mind is too far fixed on the fond smile of your face and your sunburst laugh carrying up the docks; the striking touch of your hand when you’d grabbed his wrist and the sincerity in your eyes.

No. He shan’t take your bait.

He ought not to entertain this little exercise of yours— this petty endeavour. Ought not to give in to this fairytale you fancy yourself a saviour in. 

He shouldn’t.

He’ll leave everything untouched as you left it.

…The cup is pushed noticeably further— safer— into the table, pristine despite the telling thumbprint of soot, by evening when you return.

You smile.

He had been unprepared for how aimless this would all feel, even in the dusty comforts of a forge and the timely strike he makes on every metal he wills to bend.

What could a great, primordial Being in the material shell of a common, mortal man do? For as much as Mairon now sought peace, he had no idea what to do with it. Where to go from here— much less begin. 

“Lost the way to your rookery, fair lady?” says Halbrand, not blinking an eye from his worktable. 

Even between the thick silt and smoke of the blazing forge, your nebulous presence sticks out in the air like a phantom itch he couldn’t ignore. 

“Do all Southlanders bite the hand that feeds them?” 

Puzzled, he pauses mid-polish of a blade, looking over his shoulder to see you’ve set a lidded claypot of what he assumes to be dinner, to heat on stray coals of the hearth.

“Wolves do,” he muses warningly, going back to turning his sword in his hands to scrutinise it for any flaws. “They tend to have an appetite for harmless little seabirds who don’t know any better than to fly too close to the snap of jaws.”

You laugh.

It feels like a tender caress.

Halbrand fails to resist the urge to turn to the honey-sweet sound.

“I suppose a hound was, indeed, how you looked like,” you tease, feigning distant recollection. “Locked in a cage, backed in a corner…”

He raises his brows. “I remember being right at the bars of my cell.”

“When we were at the Queen’s court,” you correct, remembering the way he seemed to shrink before you when the guards had unshackled him. “I didn’t mean the prison. Though— ah, pass me the tongs, would you?— you did look quite like a wet dog in there, too. ”

The casual request knocks him from getting scathed at the passing insult. He passes you the tongs, and watches as you use it to lift the lid of the claypot and examine the braised Snapper between the steam, before setting everything back down, back wholly turned against him.

Something about how easy you move around him, how easy it is to turn your back towards him so calmly— flickers a spark of annoyance in him. It isn’t so much that he felt less of a powerful being around your aloof-self— he still is a Maia, after all, even if constrained in certain aspects; and his entire plan is to appear mortal, anyway— but moreso in that you are vexingly… trusting? Foolish? 

“Shall I toss the spoon?” you heartily jest. “I imagine Great Halbrand the Wolf hardly needs one—”

“I’ve had time to think,” he interrupts rudely, finally putting aside his sword to cross his arms accusingly. “That if it’s not 'grand adventure and finer things' you seek, seabird, that it must then be something much more intangible. Personal.”

“So tell me, what do you expect this kindness will bring you? Is this your version of penance? Are you— as you’ve so eloquently described it— defining your atonement?” He dips his head to meet your gaze from where he’s leaning against an anvil, and the firelight paints him razor-sharp. “You pace a cage of your own, too, Eärmaril. I can see it.”

A beat. If you had been rattled, you didn’t show.

You look up at him, and your face is impassive. 

Sauron decides, then and there, that he hates it. He’s decided a lot about you, lately; That he detested your courage, your blind faith, your pestering kindness, and your utter unpredictability— though none so much as the look on your face here and now: startlingly dim and devoid of your usual sword-bright light. 

He has half the mind to rescind his words.

“I’m glad to see you’re not your old Master, Halbrand,” you comment, and mistake the flinch he’d made for a timely shift in his weight. “Who was as pitifully brittle as a sand dollar and outwitted by something as simple as clay.”

“Yes, I pace a cage. But it is not entirely of my making,” you allow, and leave out: Not like yours. 

Unlike him, your cage is being unhistoried and irreconcilable, found as a waif with no one but a white seabird standing guard by moon-water and jagged black rocks. Your cage is a sandbar between diaspora and anemoia, appearing and disappearing now and then like the ebb and flow of tides.

“So no, it is not an atonement, rather a purpose I have given myself. Something you ought to do, really, lest you become aimless.” 

Too often do mortal men reduce regrets into nothing more than abstract performance; do not tread the erroneous path of causeless martyrdom— is probably the more appropriate way to warn him, but you decide against that. 

“Is that what I am to you, then?” he finds himself snapping, the same tone he’d used on Galadriel when they’d been stranded at sea on that raft. “A project to bide your time with? A means to an end?” 

“No!” you bite, aghast and suddenly severe. That jars him. He very nearly averts his gaze when you level him with a stricken look. “You’re my—” 

—Friend, you mean to say, just before you felt dwarfed by the admission. I hoped for us to be friends.

You let it hang tenuously in the air instead. It’s the first he’d ever seen you look so small.

“You have far too much faith in the hands of others,” Sauron begins, calmer now. He remembers the light weight of a white cup in his grasp, the thin daintiness of its handle. “Trust broken is far worse than trust never first given.”

(He’s far away again, with a carafe in his hands, by a shape upon a dark and nameless peak.)

“Yes,” you recognise. “Though one would lead a terribly lonely life without taking that risk.”

“But I will leave you be, Halbrand, if you so desire. You need only to tell me,” you say, solemn and abrupt. “I can go back. I can leave you; to your hammer and your tongs and your metal; like the lone wolf you fancy yourself to be.”

Your expression is solid— but not cruel. 

He doesn’t think you’re capable of that, now that he thinks about it. 

You’re not like Sauron, not like him.

He is a Smith, after all; And Smiths value strength and resilience above mercy and benevolence. Every hammer strike must be measured and every blade sharpened to its finest point. Mairon is born with the endogenous instinct to craft nothing short of mastered perfection and intention; and more often than not that calls for an unyielding, iron fist— to control instead of cradle as you do.

(The claypot is spared the dilemma of the steel sword; that is, preservation of peace through necessary violence.)

It’s no wonder Morgoth was quick to corrupt him into Sauron; Into a Being with too cruel a grip, too demanding a voice, too pragmatic a soul and too utilitarian a heart. 

And yet—

“…No,” he remarks quietly, suddenly inconceivably panicked at the very thought of you (and your light) turning away from him. 

But his answer had made him feel too vulnerable— too exposed, and so he says, “My days of commanding people are over.” And is quick to deflect before you could question him, by going: “Regardless, I hardly believe it’d take that little to stop a pesky seagull.”

“Seagull?” you hiss, diverted by the non-sequitur. “What happened to seabird?”

“I see no difference.” 

You scoff, but without heat. It relieves him more than he should’ve allowed it. “Then you’re a—! How does the saying go? An albatross around one’s neck. Except you’re the albatross, and you’re around your own neck.”

You childishly swat at the space between you, and with it went the uneasy tension in the air as a gust blew in. It had simmered the furnace, and he caught the scent of you between the coals and the dish you’ve slid off it, and he found you smelled like your earthen clay and the salt of the seas.

You smell like— not life, per se, but the very act of living.

“I was like you, once upon a time,” Sauron blurts. “Young and unbearably credulous.”

“You mean young and at peace.”

An indefinable muscle tics in his jaw. “Peaceful, but not as ignorant.”

“You’re just cynical.”

“I’m a realist!” Mairon states, sounding offended. 

“Pessimist.”

“Agree to disagree, then,” Halbrand finally sighs, rolling his eyes as he uncrosses his arms after a dismissive wave, feigning surrender. 

Your eyes reflexively travel up the rugged curl of them, before settling on his face. You’re surprised to see there’s a ghost of a smile across it— As if he’d enjoyed the mindless banter.

“Very well.” You offer a friendly shake to end the mock-parley, only to catch him by surprise when you playfully tug him a step forward after he meets it. 

“What?” blinks Halbrand, after a quiet moment.

“You look different in the forge,” you say fondly, looking up at his towering figure, “Less a jailbird, more a… More at home, maybe. Walls down.”

There’s green in his eyes— Viridian. Verdigris. Otherworldly, almost. You never quite noticed it until now, this up and close to him. It’s beautiful. (He’s beautiful.)

A powdery streak of black soot marks the smooth of your skin now. It feels less like a dirty stain, and more like a sacred covenant of sorts— as if both of you have piously hallowed into your bones the dawning of something he couldn't quite yet fathom; as if an uncrossable threshold has miraculously been crossed, or an act set in sacrosanct motion, and neither of you could ever turn back from here.

It feels like a bind.

“Walls down…” Halbrand repeats, voice a low rasp that sends a shiver through you. His thumb slides tentatively across your forearm as he hums. “Must I put them up, Eärmaril?”

Your voice is endearingly light. 

“Not around me. Didn’t you call me a harmless little seabird?”

Then you’re laughing. Soft, susurrus, dulcet; Fair as the sea and sun—

And a terrible, fleeting catharsis blooms in Mairon as he realises: it’s a sound he doesn’t mind drowning in.

Footnotes in AO3!

[enigmaticstareyesee]

So.

I've been in this Warhammer 40k shit for less than a year and to be real, I'm really enjoying it.

Now, of course one of my fave characters is Fulgrim, you can (and maybe will) sue me. However, I am a deep sucker for character rising from the bottom, trying to (but essentially breaking themselves to) fit in, falling from heights because of their own hubris/insecurities and becoming something that they never foreseen for themselves. (And of course, hopefully, overcoming these personal obstacles and blooming into the person that they wanted to be.)

I haven't read the Fabius books yet but of course, I know about clone Fulgrim and (shockingly) I adore the idea of Clongrim and I see the MASSIVE amount of potential. However, The potential I see does not necessary align with what some of the more main fandom sees for Clonegrim.

I don't really want him coming back to the Imperium to just beg for forgiveness and worshipping his brother's feet and then becoming a lap dog for G-man.

I feel as though this would be a disservice to pre heresy Fulgrim, his character and the suffering He has inflicted on himself, his legion and the innocents of the Imperium.

If he was to come back, what I would really like to be shown is how productive and diplomatic (and dare I say how compassionate) Fulgrim is. I don't want him to grovel at anyone's feet because that doesn't achieve what Fulgrim (and the other Primacrhs) can achieve. ( Also not to be rude or to come off inductive, but the main's obsession with rooting for Clonegrim to beg on his kneels for forgive is a little strange)

Yes, I want him to apologise to his brothers, but I want him to work on those relationships through diplomacy and understanding. For chist sake, demon him beheaded G-man and that would put so much tension between those 2 which would challenge both of them, as they both are consummate professionals.( like the Lion came back in SoTF and can use his words, surely Fulgrim can) (he impressed his father, The Emperor, with the power of his words and their understanding)

Yes I want him to be held accountable for his legion but I want that to be shown through his cleverness and fighting ability. His repentment for how he had handled them before the fall and, low-key, after should a large part of redeeming himself for himself and for his legion. Like, The best way I can describe how he handled his legion was very much a parent who's constantly having to look after the youngest sickly child, while allowing all of his older children to have way too much freedom. (Only thing was all his kids were sick cus he was trying to find a cure)

Yes, I want him to see the state of humankind once he had sided the chaos, but I want him to be shown as productive within the current wars of the imperium.

(I just wanna make it clear to some people, I know that 40k is not a happy place with happy people, I currently know that the imperium is essentially a rotting corpse and that resources are stretched thin. I don't want Fulgrim to become a Knight in shining armour (fuck no, it would kill him) however I want him to helpful and use his Initiative, whether that is helping G-man on terra or helping other planets, hunting his demon brothers down or fucking doing something about the rich and pompous. that are infecting the Imperium.)

And yes, I want him to confront his obsession and need for perfectionism. I want him to confront his need to conform to a standard that he placed on himself and his legion (not fully, necessarily) but I want that to be shown through his determination and will power because those are the attributes that help him transform chemos and his little (200 or so) legion into spectacular things.

BUT

In anyway or shape or form do I want that to change the make-up wearing, long haired, purple and gold colour schemed, miner's son and factor working turned interstellar diplomatic, one of the best dualist, lover of arts, music and culture, sculpter himself and low-key blacksmith and charismatic Primach ?

No.

I want all of that to still play into Fulgrim being him, I just want him to be the comfortable in his own skin

Thank you for coming to my Ted talk, I'm literally making this post because I have been thinking about this character and his legion for 5 months and I've wanted to speak to people about him but I'm so awkward.

(Sorry for spelling and grammer mistakes)

[eventinelysplayground]

Wake The Blacksmith

Kinktober Day 6: Voice Kink|Discipline/Punishment

Pairing: Clavis x Female Reader

This fic was fun for me to write, I haven't written much with Clavis yet but there's so much you can do with him. The title of the fic is a play on the last line of Robin Hood Men in Tights. Clavis has gone to far this time and you decide to punish him for it. CW: light bondage and teasing. This fic is NSFW so minors do not interact. WC approx 1805.

Clavis stood in front of the desk in your room looking over some paperwork when he heard the door very faintly open and shut. He knew it was coming in and that you were trying not to be noticed, no doubt you had planned something to get back at him for what happened earlier. Briefly he thought about turning around and ruining your plan but at the last minute he pushed the idea aside, what's the worst that could happen after all?

Your footsteps were exceptionally light and they stopped almost right behind him and he heard you take a steadying breath followed by the sound of something metal. It took him only a few seconds to recognize the noise as handcuffs and his eyebrow perked up.

Well now, just what are you planning to do with those my lovely fiancee? Not that it really matters, I'll have them off in no time. Oh well, I can be generous and let you think you've won this one for now.

Still with his back to you he felt the metal touch his wrists followed by the clicking sound as you shut them.

“My my, what is this for my lovely fiance?”

“You know very well what this is for!”

“Hahaha of course I do! You're feeling jealous that your darling Clavis has been spending so much time away from you and want to keep me fro-”

“I was having tea with the Princess!”

“I see, you're sad I broke my promise to use my traps only on you. To be fair I hadn't planned for that one to go off at that exact moment.”

“Clavis!”

You huffed and stomped your foot giving him what you no doubt thought was an admonishing stare; but alas you looked to cute even mad for him to take you seriously.

“There were flowers and confetti everywhere, I was so embarrassed!”

“I'm sorry my darling love, but from what I heard Princess Mirelle found it amusing once she recovered from the shock.”

“That's not the point! You deserve to be punished for what you did.”

“I assume that's why I'm wearing these.”

Clavis raised his hands a little, making the chain rattle.

“Yes, I'm not going to let you get away with it this time.”

You set your lips in a hard line and your cheeks were flushed. Clavis laughed internally delighted at the situation and the attention.

“Well since you're so serious, I'm ready to see just what punishment you have in store for me my lovely lover.”

Clavis lowered his voice almost purring at you. Normally he could smooth over the worst of your ire by showering you with love but…

“Oh no you don't, not today.”

Apparently you were more resolved than normal, or more angry with him, either way he found it amusing. He laughed out loud as you placed your hands on his chest and gave him a shove making him fall back into the desk chair. He was still laughing as you stepped away from him and studied him for a moment before nodding your head.

“Is your plan to lecture me? Or perhaps leave me here to think about what I've done and repent?”

“No! My plan…my plan is…”

Clavis tilted his head in curiosity. Your earlier bravado and anger seemed to subside in an instant and the red flush of anger on your cheeks was very quickly being replaced by a pink one that traveled up to your ears.

Just what are you up to my lovely fiance?

He watched you shake your head and let out the breath you had been holding as you squeezed your hands into fists.

“For you to have to sit there and not be able to touch me.”

Well…that's not what I was expecting, though it would explain the handcuffs. What exactly is she thinking about doing though? Regardless this is delightful and I should play along just a bit longer.

“That does sound like quite the punishment, depending on exactly what you do.”

Clavis grinned impishly at you as he waited for a reply but none came. Instead you reached for the top button of your blouse and slowly undid it, then the next and the next.

Oh my, it seems my darling little rabbit intends to give me a show. This certainly is a punishment, or it would be for somebody not as skilled as I am.

Clavis kept his eyes on you as his hands fumbled behind his back. He deftly retrieved his lockpick from his sleeve and went to go about undoing the handcuffs.

What??

Clavis' face fell only for a moment but you apparently still noticed as you let out a giggle.

“Those are a special pair of handcuffs, metal's been melted into the keyhole so you won't be able to get them off. Well not without the help of a blacksmith at least."

Clavis' eyes widened in disbelief.

“Where did you…”

“Prince Keith gave them to me, he wasn't too happy with what happened to his sister either.”

Clavis was still coming to terms with the reality of being unable to free himself when you reached the last button on your blouse. He watched you slowly pull it off one shoulder at a time then letting it slip from your arms. He could feel his cock starting to throb and grow already and he grit his teeth.

“Come my lovely fiance, do you really want to do this?”

He watched as you nodded a coquettish smile on your face.

“I'm certain.”

Damn it. What was Keith doing with something like this anyways! It will be fine…

Clavis' thoughts came to a halt as you slowly tugged on the top lace of your corset. Carefully and painfully slowly you undid each corset lace until it hung loosely off your shoulders. Clavis' eyes were burning with lust and focused on your every movement. You shrugged your shoulders out of the corset dropping it to the floor before you sat on the edge of the bed and hiked up your skirt. Clavis swallowed hard as he watched your delicate fingers teasingly roll down one stocking then the other exposing your beautiful legs.

Clavis followed you with his eyes as you walked over to him, your stockings still in your hands. You stood as far away as you could from him and began leaning towards him. He was desperate to feel you but instead of kissing him you quickly crouched down and wrapped one of your stockings around his ankle. He jerked the other away from you before you could tie it to the chair as well.

“That's fine, this will still keep you in here.”

Clavis glared at you as you stood back up and moved away from him again.

“My lovely fiance, you certainly have become quite naughty. Where did you learn such behavior?”

“From my darling lover of course.”

Clavis sighed realizing he was beat, this time at least, and he helplessly watched as you removed the rest of your clothing. His cock straining against the buttons of his pants desperate to be released. This had already been enough for him but unfortunately you weren't finished with him yet.

Once you were naked you walked over to the bed and lifted one leg onto the bed. You bent over and slowly ran your fingertips up along your leg. Clavis growled and went to move but you had tied his one ankle surprisingly tight and he was pulled back onto the chair.

He watched as you repeated the arousing yet torturing sight with the other leg, this time when you reached the top instead of just stopping you let the fingers he could see move along and graze your sensitive spot and he bit his lip. His cock was twitching and straining even more against his pants and he wanted nothing more than to touch you and make love to you. As he bit his lip in frustration you turned to face him running your hands under your hair and letting it fall around you before bringing your hands down to your sides slowly caressing them.

Clavis was almost rabid as he watched your hands moving along your body wishing they were his. Just as he thought he couldn't take anymore you stopped and he let out a low groan as he shifted on the chair trying to find any relief from the discomfort of his cock being unjustly contained. He saw you smile as you crouched down and began to crawl across the floor towards him.

This is not, you can't, I won't survive it!

“Stop right there my lovely fiance.”

But you didn't stop, you just smiled even more. You reached his lap and brought your lips to his bulge kissing it before undoing his pants and setting it free and taking it into your mouth.

Clavis groaned, the feel of your lips tight around his cock making him want to touch you and pleasure you even more. He watched as you bobbed up and down his length while your tongue ran along his tip.

“When I get ngh out of these…”

Clavis said nothing more as his eyes closed and he felt himself about to cum. You had picked up on it as well and gripped him around the base as you went faster. Not long after he thrust his hips as he unloaded his thick cum in your mouth. He watched the way your throat moved as you swallowed every last bit of it down before licking his cock clean and putting it back into his pants. He thought surely now you would at least let him kiss you but you just stood up and walked away from him back to your clothes and began to dress.

“Very funny my love, now untie me and come her so I-”

“No.”

“No?”

I swear when I get free…

“This isn't fun any more, now quickly-”

“It wasn't supposed to be fun, it's a punishment, remember?”

My my she's grown quite devious, I'd be proud if I hadn't been on the receiving end. Not that I'm going to tell her that of course.

Clavis watched half-heartedly as you left the room and only vaguely heard you wish him goodnight. After all, he was too busy coming up with a plan to get you back for this most creative punishment.

A few hours later the door to the bedroom opened but it wasn't you that came in, it was Cyran and Clavis greeted him with a strained and twisted smile.

“Be a dear Cyran, wake the blacksmith will you.”

Cyran said nothing instead he just let out a sigh and sent up a silent prayer for his lady as he shut the door and walked off to carry out his master's request.

Tag List: @queengiuliettafirstlady, @nightghoul381, @nani-nani-nani.

[bestworstcase]

So I know that "GoL=final boss" is a predominant theory around this corner of the fandom. But admittedly I'm having a bit of trouble wrapping my head around them actually fighting one of the Brothers, especially considering that the last time they tried to fight the Brothers head on, GoD wiped the entire army (and the rest of humanity) in a single blast. And assuming Salem's main goal from the onset is to kill the God of Light, how is she (and RWBY for that matter) meant to go about it?

oh, good, this is something i've been meaning to talk about

because as the fandom has begun to, um, notice that the god of light is not actually the benevolent adjudicator he pretends to be, the idea that the god of light (or the brothers) might be the "final boss" is circulating around more and i keep seeing this sort of objection raised by specifically the handful of other serious analytical types:

"maybe, but the story is built on the conflict between ozma and salem, and the gods are not very interesting, and they're too powerful to fight, so probably not."

and i find this rather baffling because all of this seems very obvious to me, but on the other hand, the sentiment is self-explanatory in a way. i have never seen somebody who thinks this express the idea without including some variant of "i find the brothers a little boring" and what this tells me is that they only consider the gods in relation to salem and ozma's backstory, thinking about them as little more than plot devices used to set up salem and ozma as the main villain and her adversary.

but i don't think that's what the gods are in this story—otherwise there would have been no need for the kids to learn about where the brothers came from before they made remnant. the brothers matter because the conflict between salem and ozma is religious in nature. the plot of rwby is a religious war.

maybe this only seems obvious to me because i think religion in fantasy is interesting in general and i read a lot of epics and folk stories. i don't know. the important thing is that the brothers are gods.

not "all-powerful characters who serve as occasional plot devices but are otherwise distant from the narrative," which is what most people in fandom tend to mean when they say "god." the brothers are gods, beings regarded as divine and worshipped by some of the characters.

divinity is a social construct.

i find the brothers to be interesting characters in their own right, but as gods their function in the narrative, along with the god of animals (who isn't real!) and the blacksmith, is to embody the religious beliefs and ideological stances that define the conflict between salem and ozma. as gods, these characters are expressions of what the important characters believe in.

this is the idea the god of light represents: "humans are pitiable shells of what they once were and need the brothers to make them whole again, but first they need to repent and cleanse themselves of what salem did. if they don't, they deserve annihilation."

this is the idea the god of darkness represents: "creations should not be condemned for the mistakes of their creators, and the god of light's rules benefit no one but himself."

this is the idea the god of animals represents: "humans are remarkable, but it's important to keep an open mind, accept change, embrace diversity, and be true to yourself; otherwise, you will become small-minded, afraid, and hateful, and that will make you cruel."

and this is the idea the blacksmith represents: "balance is not two forces locked in never-ending conflict, but a living breathing thing that grows and changes organically. it can't be created, or restored by force or calculation; it can only be found."

one of these is not like the others.

ozma is dedicated to his mandate, given to him by the god of light, and because the huntsmen academies are a religious institution whose guiding purpose is to safeguard the divine relics until such time as humanity is "united," the main cast of huntresses and huntsmen and their allies are all ultimately serving the god of light.

in the ever after, RWBYJ meet the blacksmith, who tells them a story about the brothers and shares her philosophical beliefs with them. they discover a new perspective.

salem rejected ozma's mandate at once, by quoting a myth about the god of animals ("descendants [of those humans who rejected the change and freedom offered to them by the god of animals] resent [faunus] because we remind them of what they are not and what they never can be" / "why redeem these humans [on behalf of the brothers] when we can replace them [the brothers] with what they could never be?")—after quite literally millions of years believing that humanity can, and should, overthrow the divine order.

so the central narrative conflict is between salem and ozma, but what that conflict is about is whether the god of light's view of humankind is correct. ozma either believes that it is or believes that resisting him is futile; salem believes that the god of light is both wrong and possible to defeat, or at least ignore.

(i think there is a not-insignificant possibility that her Plan A is to destroy the relics, making it impossible to ever invite the brothers back to remnant, but that the presence of the spirits inside the relics will prohibit that. "none of that matters anymore!" and all.)

and, in the most recent volume, we learned that the god of light is a very broken character who has lost his way and desperately needs to heal. the god of darkness probably does not exist anymore (i am almost certain he returned to the tree and ascended), so light has no one to guide him back home. he is also not immortal, just ageless.

here is what the narrative is setting up:

salem is going to win—and her victory is also the god of light's defeat, because she wins by persuading ozma, and everyone else, to join her in rejecting the genocidal ideology underpinning the divine mandate and thus refusing the mandate itself. the only way to win is not to play. she herself will have to change first, by relinquishing her many layers of emotional armor and allowing herself to be vulnerable and honest again, and her opponents will also have to change how they see her, as a real person instead of a fairytale monster. this is the core narrative arc.

then, they will need to make a decision regarding the god of light. the relics can be scattered or destroyed to prevent the day of judgment from ever coming to pass, or they can try to send the god of light back home to the tree. the former is safer, perhaps, but… rwby is a story about trying to save everyone. "sometimes it's worth it all to risk it all and fight for every life." right? confronting the god of light will not even be an option until everyone is on the same page about refusing the mandate, and by that point the conflict is over. they could simply get rid of the relics and carry on with their lives and never think about the god of light again. the only reason to summon him is for his sake.

will any of them want to help him? no.

is it the right thing to do? yes.

i think dealing with him will turn out to be very simple, because the god of darkness is gone and the god of light said that both he and his brother would return to judge humanity. by his own word, he does not have the right to judge humanity alone—and while he may bend his rules, he will not break them. if he returns to find humans and faunus united in opposition to him with salem, he returns to a world that does not belong to him or have any need of him and falls into a trap of his own making.

this will be enough to give him pause. they can try to talk him down, but given that he embodies the fear of change i think they will fail and he will lash out—not with magic, though. what did light do to jabber and to salem to punish them? he lunged and bit or slashed them with his claws.

beware the jabberwock, my son! the jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

<- in the poem 'jabberwocky,' the boy searches for the jabberwock a "long time," then stops to rest under the tumtum tree. there, the jabberwock finds him—and he rather unceremoniously cuts off its head:

one, two! one, two! and through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack he left it dead, and with its head he went galumphing back.

(incidently, the jabberwalker is not the jabberwock—he's jabberwocky, the poem, and also a bandersnatch.)

anyway, i think light is going to lose his temper and lunge at salem, and someone (probably ruby) will chop off his head with the sword of destruction when he does. then a smaller, more vulnerable part of him will be exposed (think the curious cat after team rwby slay the "furious" form) and they will talk to him again and send him home.

the fights against cordovin in V6 and the cat in V9 directly foreshadow the shape of this confrontation with the god of light. there is no victory in strength: they won't overpower him, he will resort to violence and that will be his undoing. (remember how ruby cut off tyrian's tail after tyrian reached past her to sting her uncle? yeah.) and then, with his power broken, he'll have a choice to change or not change.

[forgemaster-nyrissa]

//Welcome to the forge, weary traveler! I'm Nyrissa, Nyri or Rissa for short. I drink and I forge things. What did you say, "did the fire just talk?" Oh that's just Ignis, the fire elemental that lives in the forge. He's what helps me forge and enchant all my items!

Basic facts:

Name: Nyrissa Shalkour Age: 30 Height: 8', 2.4m Lineage: Ram demon/human hybrid Vocation: Blacksmith Birthday: May 8th Likes: Spicy food, her homebrewed mead, other technically-minded people Dislikes: Bitter foods, geese (they know their sins yet refuse to repent), people who don't want to pay artisans a fair price

Short bio:

Her mother was tricked by a demon for her firstborn child in exchange for magical prowess; she didn't read the fine print that said he was to be the sire for said child. Her father allowed her to grow in the mortal realm until she turned 13 and her demonic attributes (horns, eyes changing, and her hellish growth spurt) started to manifest. When that happened she was absconded away to the fire circle of hell where she learned demonic forging mostly against her will. She would've ended up hating it if not for her befriending of a fire elemental, Ignis, and making a pact with him: she promised she'd find a way to get them both out of the hells in exchange for his fealty to her.

At 18 she managed to slay her sire and flee the hells to the mortal realm with Ignis hidden in an oil lantern. From there she wandered doing odd jobs until she found herself as an apprentice to an aging blacksmith looking for a successor. Unbeknownst to her, he was a god of smithing in disguise, looking to test her abilities and see if she truly loved the craft.

Upon passing this hidden god's final test to make a blade "the color of flowing water", he finally revealed himself and his true intentions. He told her that her lineage was irrelevant and that the joy of creating should be open to all, and that he looked forward to seeing her spread the joy of blacksmithing to the world.

In parting he gave her three minor blessings: her mind could figure out how to create any item as long as she had a schematic and the raw materials. Her left hand could destroy anything she crafted with her own hands by speaking the item's "true name" and smashing it against the ground. Finally, her right could recall any item she crafted by once again speaking it's "true name".

So what do you say, traveler? Want to stop for awhile and listen to this giant woman ramble on about metal and smithing for a bit?

//Multi-verse friendly RP sideblog of @bluerosetarot. Aspiring vtuber, will link Twitch channel once rebrand is finalized (think of this as a pre-debut lore building blog!) Ask box and messages are always open if you want to collaborate!

[asktirimor]

Tirimor (Hazbin/Helluva Universe)

Name: Greyson “Tirimor” Greyshield (Prefers to be called Tirimor)

Age: 24

Height: 6'0"

Weight: 160

Physique: He has an athletic build despite his life long training, but he has some muscle built in.

Skin Tone: His skin tone is more along the lines based on an English skin tone.

Hair Color: Grey

Eye Color: Silver

Hair Style:  His hair is naturally spiked, but it is unknown if this happened naturally through genetics or by a defect.

Distinguishing Features: His eyes tell a story of a life once lost and full of sorrow, suffering at the hands of fate. However, they do show the light of hope and wonder additionally one who has seen much and traveled a lot. 

Powers: Light and Darkness manipulation. Can use power over life in combat to defend others/himself offensivly and defencivly. Regenerative Healing Factor (Ageless, can be taxed by certain threats, can only heal so much before needing to restore energy.)

Background:

He was born during a time were both Virgo and Libra were in the night sky to a husband and wife, which themselves were well known members of the Order of Dawn, an organization that knew of both Heaven and Hells existance and dealt with the supernatural on Earth. Once he had reached four years old, his father started to train him to protect himself using swordplay, but like his father he had a natural talent in control his own light and darkness. Though tragically, both of his parents were killed when he was eight, and in his sorrow and grief he had succumbed to the darkness within himself he was trained to control. For four years he had become something of a criminal, his drive to strike out against the world that had taken something dear to him. He lied, cheated, stole, tortured, maimed, even killed. By the time he was twelve, he had stacked a rather impressive list of crimes, ranging from theft, to murder.

Eventually, he was found and subdued by the Order of Dawn. They were prepared to punish him for the various crimes that he had commited, but one of the Paladins still saw some good in him. If he truly had completely fallen to the darkness in him, he wouldn’t have been able to use any of his light abilities. Even if his darkness was in control, these rare occurrences of his usage of light showed the real him was still inside. So instead, he was put under the wing of this Paladin as an apprentice for part of his penance. Inside and outside the halls of the Order of Dawn, he worked to repent and become a Justicar like his father.

Over time he went through his penance, and eventually he had redeemed himself. The Order of Dawn was now able to trust him and called him Brother. Throught the years he had learned various hobbies and skills. One of those being Blacksmithing, and with it he had made his two signature weapons. Two longswords that he duel wielded, one of light and one of darkness, Lux and Tenebris. He spent years fighting against the supernatural, but one day his fate changed forever. He was tasked with finding and destroying one of the most powerful Liches that order has ever seen but his power was insufficiant, the lich always getting away.

In a desperate bid, he went to the spirits of the wild for aid. It was there he learned that through a ritual, that they could bestow the power of life upon him to defeat the Lich. Willing to do whatever it took to achieve this goal, he asked them to prepare the ritual despite their warnings. It was a dangerous ritual that cannot be stopped once in progress and if interupted, there was a good chance he may pay with his life. Even so, he was willing to take that risk, and as it was going on, the ritual was attacked by the undead. The ritual was accidently overloaded, and while through some miracle he lived, the ritual had cursed him to be ageless.

While able to defeat the Lich with his new powers and strength, he still had his curse. He had no choice but to watch time play out. How that eventually a schism had come forth in the order. No matter what he tried to quell it, brothers and sisters of both light and darkness turned on each other. With those like him, who had the power to use both stuck in the middle. The end result being that the Order of Dawn was no more, scattered to the annuals of history and believed to be a fairy tail. Just like all the rest of the supernatural and magic, reduced to stories of fantasy when technology overtook the magic that humans once wielded.

Before he was forced into hell, he spent years, decades roaming the Earth. Doing so to seek out the supernatural that had hid itself amoungst this new mordern world on earth. Wherever he met supernatural evil, he dealt with it following the trail of the one who got away. An betrayer of the order, a powerful user of darkness and necrotic magic who turned her back on them and ignited the fires that started the schism. It was through thier final confrontation that when vidtory seemed assured, trickery allowed her to banish him into the depths of Hell where he now lives. Not just trying to survive, but to one day escape Hell, and continue his chase of the one who betrayed him and the Order of Dawn.

[king-of-wrath]

Character Biography: Ramon

Name: Ramon d'ToursAge: 45 (at death) Race: Human Sinner Gender/Pronouns: Cis Male (He/Him) Orientation: Bisexual (Fem-leaning) Born: 1145 AD Birthplace: Tours, France National Identity: French Occupation: Knight (former), medic (current) Language(s): French, Latin, Greek, Arabic, English Height: 6'0" Build: Athletic slim Weight: 150 lbs Skin Tone: Light grey Hair: None Eyes: All black Identifying Features: Tight skin, exposed nasal cavity, missing flesh on the left side of his face Appearance: Almost skeletal, resembling a reanimated corpse, often wearing medieval armor Personality: Extroverted, idealistic, old-fashioned Approves of: Compassion, courage, loyalty, politeness Disapproves: Cowardice, greed, rudeness, selfishness Likes: Desserts, history, storytelling, romance novels Dislikes: Criminal acts, entertainment news, hedonism, puns/wordplay Best Qualities: Empathetic, supportive, wise Worst Qualities: Stubborn, traditionalHobbies: Artistic metalworking, reading Skills: Blacksmithing, emergency/trauma care, medicinal alchemy

Alignment: Lawful Good Affiliations: Hazbin Hotel Family: Two elder brothers, one younger sister Friends: Kerosene (@starstruckxstray), Moxxie (@moxxietude) Relationship Status: Verse dependent Significant Other: Verse dependent Other Relationships: Acquaintances: Angel Dust (@arachn0philia)

Backstory: Having been born to a noble house as the third youngest son, Ramon had little chance of lawfully inheriting his family's properties and titles. Rather than live as a subordinate of his elder brothers or become a priest, he instead joined the Order of the Knights of Saint John's Hospital in Jerusalem (the Knights Hospitaller). After years of training and becoming a fully-fledged knight, Ramon would join the 2nd Crusade during its later stages.

Unfortunately for the Crusader knights, Jerusalem itself was besieged by the Muslim armies in 1187 AD. Despite their best efforts, the Christian forces could not win and accepted surrender. Ramon would return home with other French knights and though they would continue to care for the injured and ill, they felt shame for their defeat. Three years later, Ramon would die from a disease he and his knightly brothers tried their best to cure.

Upon his death, Ramon found himself in Hell rather than Heaven. Initially, Ramon believed that he was being punished for failing God, but this was debunked when he encountered the knights who fell in battle as well as their Muslim counterparts. Believing that he and his comrades went astray, Ramon would spend the next several centuries trying to be honorable as a form of repentance. Once he heard of Princess Charlie’s redemption project, he joined as both a resident and a volunteer---believing that perhaps he could be forgiven.

[inkybirdy]

I know this may be a strange question but what is Phantom Ganon's partner named since i cannot find any reference to it. Also Love the art style and your works.

firstly, thank you! I'm very happy you like them!

secondly - thanks for sending this, it actually reminded me of a snippet that I meant to post about the local ghosty grandparents!

__

The traveling group has dwindled in the last few weeks. Along the meandering path to Eldin Canyon, most have splintered off toward their true destinations in Akkala or Lanayru. 

Or, perhaps it’s better to say that the Gerudo prince has splintered off from the group himself on his way to Death Mountain, and coincidentally chosen a parallel path with his fellow straggler. 

They haven’t spoken to one another, much. In passing introductions he’s given the half-truth of being a studying blacksmith looking for instruction among the Goron masters. They’ve offered the half-truth of being a traveling apothecary, seeking rare ingredients for medicine among the unforgiving reaches of the continent and using their luck with gambling to fund their aimless trek. 

He’d be more surprised if they didn’t know who he was, despite his simple traveling clothes and lack of escort. He’s seen their startling-blue eyes watching his quiet exchanges with the koroks and guardian spirits, the way his magic bends metal in his hands when he’s repairing his tools. In turn, he sees their furtive glances over to the disjointed memories that haunt the greater expanses of the land, the way the koroks shift dice and cards in their favor, the way they hiss desperately to bend their haphazard potions to their will and how their nose scrunches at the mention of the queen. 

A sage, he thinks. A new one. They’re anxious, they fumble with unfamiliar magic, they copy letters in their little journal like they’re teaching themselves to write. If he had to guess, he’d say they were unlucky enough to be plucked out of whatever little nowhere village they called home and dumped into the Eastern Abbey, like those before them. 

They’re running from her. But, really, the assessment comforts him in a silly kind of way - he is too, after all. He hasn’t been able to make many friends on his path. 

Still, despite their unspoken agreement to feign ignorance, the two have yet again settled beside their campfire for the night. He’s pretending to read a book he borrowed from a traveling priest like he isn’t lost in thought, as usual, and they’re mending their overcoat - embroidering little yellow flowers to disguise the tears. 

(They’ve long since silently agreed to stop challenging one another to games - he’s got no more money to lose, and they’re quite certain he knows they cheat.) 

“You never told me your name.” He offers, like he’s just realized instead of having mulled it over for weeks. 

They don’t shift their focus from squinting at yellow thread, past streaks of just-as-yellow hair drifting out of their otherwise dark bun, in the dim firelight. They speak like if they pretended they weren’t paying attention, they could get away without fully committing. Plausible deniability, in all things. 

“Chideh.”

Like Korgu Chideh, he guesses. A cursed shrine on an unforgiving island, stripping pilgrims of their supplies and torturing them into repentance. He wonders if the name is meant to be a ward for them, or a rebuke.  

Another thing he knows. He’s always wondered similarly of his own name.  

“It’s not a very kind one, is it?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. 

As gratifying as it is mortifying, those sharp eyes meet his in an instant. They grow still, appraising him as he blinks back. 

“Does it have to be?” They say, finally. 

“Not really,” He grasps, “I - guess it’s just easier to make friendly conversation if I don’t feel like I’m insulting someone.” 

The silence settles heavy between them, to the point that he nearly keels over when they snort out a laugh. At the very least they seem more startled than dismissive, but his face heats all the same. 

“That’s - I mean-” He scrambles, rubbing a hand down his face and forgetting his book entirely, letting his shoulders slump. “Let me try again? My friends call me Dede.” 

His sisters, but still.

“Alright then, Dede,” They chuckle, shaking their head as they watch him crouch to retrieve his book from the dust, “Call me however you like.” 

Prince Ganondorf Demise Dragmire pauses where he kneels, his eyes caught once again on the golden thread. Tentatively, he looks up to meet his companion’s amused gaze. 

“... Buttercup.”

It’s another gamble, but their smile softens into a warm sort of thing. 

[myfavouritelunatic]

Tag Game - Fandom Edition

I was tagged by the wonderful @heronamedhawks thank you!! ❤️

Your Name: Kendall

Your First Fandom: I would say, if we go back to the days of forums in the 00’s, I would count the Michael Jackson fandom as my first.

Your Current Fandom: The Rings of Power! 😍 And it’s honestly the best fandom I’ve ever been a part of.

How did you first get into fandom?: It all comes down to a way to connect with other like minded souls, and share your love for the thing you’re all obsessed with. And as a teenager in the early/mid 00’s I didn’t really have any friends that loved Michael Jackson as much as me.

How long have you been engaging in fandom spaces?: Well as two of my previous answers have stated, approximately 20 years haha.

How often do you read fanfic?: I wish I had more time to read! My free time is kind of split between reading and writing. But I’m reading a lot more often now than I used to thank goodness!

Top three characters from your current fandom?: Halbrand/Sauron, Galadriel, and Elrond. 😍

Have you ever written a fic for a fandom and if so, shout it out!: Why yes I have written a few pieces over the years for different fandoms, but for some reason being a part of The Rings of Power fandom has me writing like never before! Like I have the most WIP’s going that I’ve EVER had. It’s nuts. And the story I’m most proud of, of course, is The Blacksmith. Writing that has changed my life in so many beautiful ways and I am eternally grateful. ❤️

Have you ever drawn fan art for a fandom?: Years ago yes, but drawing isn’t my strong suit haha.

Share a personal headcanon that you feel strongly about: Hmmm the only one that comes to mind is that I’m fully on Team Repentant Sauron. (Yes I know I’m biased and also likely wrong but I DON’T CARE. 😜) There’s just something about the way he acted with Galadriel in certain scenes (in the woods, in the smithy) that speak to him truly seeking redemption. Not to mention the fact he didn’t want to leave Númenor. Am I choosing to ignore the fact he’s one of the most deceptive, cunning, and charming beings ever conceived? Yes, yes I am.

You’re trying to convince a friend to get into your current fandom(s) with you. what episode, clip, or scene are you showing them?: Oof this is a tough one. For The Rings of Power, I personally feel that episode one is a super strong pilot, so I would for sure start there. But of course, since the spoilers are everywhere, if the person I was showing knew Halbrand was Sauron, I would absolutely show them the reveal/raft vision scene. Hands down my favourite of the entire show.

And finally, what does fandom mean to you?: It’s about a safe space to express your feelings for what you love with people who love it just as much as you! It’s about supporting each other and honestly just having a good time!

Tagging, no pressure: @denzit @pursuitseternal @vellichormybeloved @coraleethroughthelookingglass @somebirdortheother @gil-galadhwen @starlady66 @helenvader @iamstartraveller776 @myrsinemezzo @klynnvakarian and anyone else who wants to share! ❤️

[abundantchewtoys]

Thinking about opposed vs related Roles in PGtE

Some which even translate into eerily similar Names:

White Knight vs Black Knight

Wizard of the West vs Warlock

Stalwart Apostle vs Scorched Apostate

Relentless Magistrate vs Repentant Magister

Bitter Blacksmith (f vs m)

Blessed Artificer vs Hierophant

Maddened Keeper vs Doddering Sage (vs Forgetful Librarian?)

Rogue Sorcerer vs Hunted Magician

Rapacious Troubadour vs Headhunter

Gallant Bandit/Brigand vs Affable Burglar

Fortunate Fool vs Pilfering Dicer

Concocter vs Poisoner

Summoner vs Beastmaster

Cursed/Captain vs Berserker

And how Hanno & Hakram + Cat & Raphaella were opposites in some truth (serenity vs trophy for clothes), while for their selective stations it was more like Hanno vs Cat & Raphaella vs Hakram.

[horizon-verizon]

What do you think of this interpretation of the Rosby and Stokeworth inherinerences in Fire and Blood?:

https://www.tumblr.com/bbygirl-aemond/713884545316978688/non-book-reader-here-whats-this-about-rosby-and

*EDITED POST* (4/5/24)

("Rhaenyra Triumphant")

A)

Account of the greens taking Rosby and Stokeworth and the two lords swearing fealty to them "under duress" (as OP says):

With a hundred knights and five hundred men-at-arms of the royal household, augmented by three times as many hardened sellswords, Ser Criston marched on Rosby and Stokeworth, whose lords had only recently repented of their allegiance to the queen, commanding them to prove their loyalty by adding their power to his own. Thus augmented, Cole’s host advanced upon the walled harbor town of Duskendale, where they took the defenders by surprise. The town was sacked, the ships in the harbor set afire, Lord Darklyn beheaded. His household knights and garrison were given the choice between swearing their swords to King Aegon or sharing their lord’s fate. Most chose the former. ("The Red Dragon and the Gold")

The OP's words:

i don't think rhaenyra was politically pressured into one answer or another. these two decisions wouldn't have really set a precedent for any of her other leal lords, because they specifically involved lords who had committed treason in front of tons of witnesses. the precedent would have only granted rhaenyra the power to choose a lord's heir after he'd been executed for treason and wouldn't have applied to any of her then allies, so making a woman heir shouldn't have made any of her lords feel threatened.

Yeah, well, it shouldn't have... and yet:

Lords Rosby and Stokeworth, blacks who had gone green to avoid the dungeons, attempted to turn black again, but the queen declared that faithless friends were worse than foes and ordered their “lying tongues” be removed before their executions. Their deaths left her with a nettlesome problem of succession, however. As it happened, each of the “faithless friends” left a daughter; Rosby’s was a maid of twelve, Stokeworth’s a girl of six. Prince Daemon proposed that the former be wed to Hard Hugh the blacksmith’s son (who had taken to calling himself Hugh Hammer), the latter to Ulf the Sot (now simply Ulf White), keeping their lands black whilst suitably rewarding the seeds for their valor in battle. But the Queen’s Hand argued against this, for both girls had younger brothers. Rhaenyra’s own claim to the Iron Throne was a special case, the Sea Snake insisted; her father had named her as his heir. Lords Rosby and Stokeworth had done no such thing. Disinheriting their sons in favor of their daughters would overturn centuries of law and precedent, and call into question the rights of scores of other lords throughout Westeros whose own claims might be seen as inferior to those of elder sisters. It was fear of losing the support of such lords, Munkun asserts in True Telling, that led the queen to decide in favor of Lord Corlys rather than Prince Daemon. The lands, castles, and coin of Houses Rosby and Stokeworth were awarded to the sons of the two executed lords, whilst Hugh Hammer and Ulf White were knighted and granted small holdings on the isle of Driftmark. ("Rhaenyra Triumphant")

Even with those fathers being traitors, after their executions, the houses themselves would not be considered "treacherous houses" unless the new lords/ladies also betrayed Rhaenyra.

To say that Rhaenyra making these girls ladies is to ignore how Rhaenyra herself becoming queen of Westeros would not have any sort or level of impact on Westerosi customs of succession. Her choice to make a girl the heir/next lady after her father would have created a stronger basis for other girls and women to inherit their fathers' (eventually maybe mothers') positions because it gives more strength to a girl/woman's claim in other houses regardless of what their fathers did or didn't do. The result would still be a girl/woman growing to be the lady of her house and she would have to take on the privileges, constraints, responsibilities, duties, and final decisions for the rest of her life. no matter the identity of the father, the house itself would live on if Rhaenyra doesn't decide to just eliminate the entire two houses... which she didn't do. Why? Because she is the first female monarch, the rules are already bent a little and she is in that "supreme" place. She can bend the rules more toward her own needs or just support those who themselves present changes that could help her and them. (She doesn't which is disappointing but also idk, I can't blast her after her losses.)

As the monarch, Rhaenyra already has some influence/power over how other houses and lords will and can safely transfer power. Rhaenyra making Corlys' "grandsons"--Alyn and Addam of Hull--his heirs by officially legitimizing them so they could also inherit the name "Velaryon" is her continuing the succession-tradition & performing an already-customary royal privilege of determining succession rights for other lords. This is already a monarch's privilege and right, but it was critical for the Velaryons, and having a girl come before other men around her itself presents the chance for other girls/women to press for the higher seats, be more considered for those seats, and receive less resistance once they get them or have less trouble having support in case of resistance. Every action Rhaenyra takes when it concerns succession absolutely can become precedent or is already customary. The lords around her are looking at how she acts to adapt their own actions to hers, that's part of the game of feudalism in Westeros.

If anything, if those girls had become the ladies and acted in good faith w/Rhaenyra, it would likely have given more credence to both Rhaenyra's image of mercifulness and wisdom and the girls' loyalty to their queen/superior/monarch. Traits of an ideal leader, for both--making feudal patriarchy work for you, or a chance to emphasize that. Aside from that, if Rhaenyra had granted these houses to these girls she could have inspired a more practical loyalty to her that reduced the risk of what happened when she was forced to flee KL--one of these girls turning her away.

Corlys Velaryon--Rhaenyra's principal supporter, her Hand, the guy who's supplying the fleet she's using, the guy who's financing the entire war besides her own Dragonstone funds allocated for the war, and whose later imprisonment caused many of his followers and soldiers to desert her--strongly argued against her giving those girls the castles. He argues such despite their father being traitors (about the refusal to continue lines of succession through girls regardless of past parents' actions) and there being a true and real precedent for girls to inherit when there is absolutely no direct male relative available. Corlys felt threatened--not directly so, but with the concept of universal female leadership. He saw in Rhaenyra the exception, Rhaenyra needed him, and for her to be overall successful--or anyone from a position like her where they are trying to rise through a society that otherwise wouldn't allow her to--there come times where compromises must happen or you can't see anyway out of said situation where you think you must.

And thinking in Rhaenyra or someone in her shoes thinks how he wouldn't be the only one thinking so; if he, someone on her council and in proximity to her, thinks it is it that much of a stretch to contemplate what others would/could/do? Rhaenyra and others would know that some of her own supporters would have felt similarly and this was a moment where she/the blacks would have felt they needed to prevent as many conflicts or defections as possible.

So honestly, no, the ideas that 1) Rhaenyra wasn't under real pressure or 2) that at least some of the supporting lords wouldn't concerned/threatened with a traitor's daughter inheriting despite their dads being traitors is false. The problem decidedly came from a gender thing.

BTW, Rosby's daughter was 12 and Stokeworth's was 16.

To deny so is to deny the evidence of misogyny being the defining feature of the Dance and a deciding motivation behind Rhaenyra's act of appeasing male lords for her own immediate needs/the progress of her self-doubt and paranoia and the decline of her relationships and bonds of trust as if these things weren't a major factor and didn't lead to her writing her execution letter to Nettles/distrusting Daemon.

B)

OP says this:

it's deliberate that the dismissal of the daughter's claim is mentioned in the same sentence where she denies rhaenyra entry. the poetic justice of that is not a coincidence. whether you think this is grrm narratively punishing rhaenyra for not being feminist enough, or whether you think she's being unfairly punished for being constrained by the patriarchy- it's up to you. i'm personally undecided. but regardless of her intent, her decision is very intentionally implicated in her demise."

I agree that there was poetic symmetry--a kind of "justice"--for Rhaenyra disinheriting the girl ending with the same girl denying her sanctuary after Rhaenyra loses her own inheritance--after being put in danger of smallfolk riots and losing her son and dragons. Another son and heir who will not receive her seat or possessions, as those girls did not until she herself lost. If nothing else for the situational irony, but definitely how it also reflects how the Targs have also sacrificed some of its own members for power, namely its female members. Beginning from Aenys I. House Targaryen hurting itself under the constant need to survive as a strong house while anticipating attacks from outside.

Her going after Nettles was not only her removing a "love" rival but also her trying to legitimize her own and her kids' claims (in her view). There was enough clear-headedness there, why not the Rosby/Stokeworth? Yes, there was pressure on top of her grief probably messing with her sense of safety versus what and how to get there, but it is a fact that she chose the path of least resistance to throw off the pressure when she didn't need to. (Why was Nettles "more" emotionally troubling more than the two traitors' girls? Already explained this in the Twitter thread I linked.)

Again, at the same time, I can see how misogyny and constant patriarchal disparagement of her in her personal history and her own experiences (not created) fueled her self-preserving mindset into a place where more things pushed her into that paranoia and near-Cersei-need to gain any level of control as soon as possible. There to motivate Rhaenyra as with Cersei Lannister killing Robert's bastard kids and the abuse even against her own and Alicent not caring for the raped girls of Tumbleton/pushing for Aegon to be king for her own power. blankwhiteshield explains in this way:

You can have an irredeemable and evil character that the patriarchy still suppresses and affects the psychology of immensely, rendering her a bigger monster. The commentary on the destructive capacity of static social constructs is not lost as a result. A character can turn into the devil of the story due to a world that ceaselessly strips her of her humanity, as well as as a result of the choices she actively makes.

I think Rhaenyra turned tyrant because she reached the limit sooner than we'd like after her not being able to work through her grief and several betrayals and deaths of loved ones occurring in pretty quick succession. Simultaneously, she:

had, performed, & used misogynoir against Nettles

removed inheritances from other noble girls to ensure other lords surrounding KL's support based on Corlys' advice rather than her own husband who gave better advice

and went after one of the biggest bulwarks of her fight against the greens which her own son organized for such (the dragonseeds) through blood purity to get rid of perceived threats...the same bp which threatened her son and gave justification to the contraction of female sexual a general autonomy

She didn't have her avenues to her goal straight AND the Targ-anal paradigm provided her with the ready blueprint of blood purity, misogynoir.

So OP is right to point that out, that there was poetic "justice" if not plain symmetry. We can't move away from the fact that her actions had consequences against her and inevitably led to not having enough time and room to recuperate to go against Aegon again. Ironic since Dragonstone--the place where she will end up after not having that room-and-board denied to her--was her past base away from Alicent to learn how to rule and to grow her lost family.

Both her fault and not: not hers in the beginning, but hers later--psychologically affected by both grief from direct attacks and classist entitlement.

Check out this post by la-pheacienne, who explains how the narrative identifies Rhaenyra as the wronged party and then the person, affected by those wrongs, then brought her own ends by recalling Greek Tragedy narrative structure.

C) Just for Future Note

OP says this: "when she asks the stokeworths for refuge, the male castellan (ruling in the young boy's stead) tells her she can only stay for one night, and then turns her out onto the streets."

This is the account of Rhaenyra being barred from Rosby's castle after fleeing KL:

The accused turncloak Addam Velaryon, born Addam of Hull, had saved King’s Landing from the queen’s foes…at the cost of his own life. Yet the queen knew nothing of his valor. Rhaenyra’s flight from King’s Landing had been beset with difficulty. At Rosby, she found the castle gates barred at her approach, by the command of the young woman whose claim she had passed over in favor of a younger brother. Young Lord Stokeworth’s castellan granted her hospitality, but only for a night. “They will come for you,” he warned the queen, “and I do not have the power to resist them.” Half of her gold cloaks deserted on the road, and one night her camp was attacked by broken men. Though her knights beat off the attackers, Ser Balon Byrch was felled by an arrow, and Ser Lyonel Bentley, a young knight of the Queensguard, suffered a blow to the head that cracked his helm. He perished raving the following day. The queen pressed on toward Duskendale.

House Darklyn had been amongst Rhaenyra’s strongest supporters, but the cost of that loyalty had been high. Lord Gunthor had lost his life in the queen’s service, as had his uncle Steffon. Duskendale itself had been sacked by Ser Criston Cole. Small wonder then that Lord Gunthor’s widow was less than overjoyed when Her Grace appeared at her gates. Only the intercession of Ser Harrold Darke persuaded Lady Meredyth to allow the queen within her walls at all (the Darkes were distant kin to the Darklyns, and Ser Harrold had once served as a squire to the late Ser Steffon), and only upon the condition that she would not remain for long.

("Rhaenyra Overthrown")

Conclusions

The Rosby and Stokeworth decisions were mistakes made under intense pressure; those also made for her immediate needs for a man funding most of her war and supplying most of her fleet to continue to want to support her. And I'm interested in how OP continues to not provide textual evidence to go over.

*EDIT* (8/21/23):

THIS is a great post by @mononijikayu about medieval queens, female rulers, the history of how women in leadership positions were made and seen as threats to the very structure of social “order”, and contextualizing Rhaenyra thru Empress Matilda. I didn’t even know about Matilda’s husband being comparable to Rhaneyra’s Daemon! PLZ READ!!!!

Excerpt:

just as much, along with these fictitious portrayals, more lies are depicted. these women are considered vixens that cause havoc to men by shifting them into desires and danger. through the written word, we see how women are cast in roles of villains in men’s lives. it is because by their conclusive thoughts, women are the only creatures that are able to turn ‘good honorable men’ into despicable creatures who do shameful, deplorable acts for the sake of women’s pleasures. […]  it is within this narrative that ancient chroniclers declare that women were in fact the doom of men. if they were not able to control the dangers posed by the wiles of women, then the foundations of the mighty society they had built would be up in flames.  [...] as i mentioned, these factors of community are written down and preserved. and with that, the example of the ancients were the foundations by which medieval society built itself. the same concepts continued to cause the same issue within society and that was the exclusion of women from participating in the bigger picture of community and state, much so with governing states in their own right—without judgment or disapproval. 

[princessfantaghiro]

My reflections about 3 Rings and his Lord:

In the Eregion Halbrand's attention - who until now revolved like a satellite around his "Lantern" = Galadriel, is largely shifting to Celebrimbor.

No wonder Galadriel is jealous. 😀 The boys whisper in each other's ears, Halbrand charms Brimbie with words, and he - unaware of whose trap he has fallen into, starts repeating them. ;)

They worked together, they designed The Rings together. And Halbrand left Eregion for a moment before The 3 were forged.

The repentant Lord of Darkness, fangirls - as you yourself mentioned - in the workshop of the best elven blacksmith. 😉

He can't help himself, he touches everything. He's like a child who finds himself in a dreamland of toys. He loves it!

And it's no wonder. Sauron, before Morhoth seduced and corrupted him, was the apprentice of Aulë. The god of the dwarves. A master of blacksmithing and creation.

Mairon the Admirable was one of the Holy Spirits who, under the wing of Aulë, personally and literally designed, created, and "forged" the world. [Arda] OK, maybe not literally forged, more like sang. Because Ilúvatar, the highest God, created the world together with the Ainur through the Song.

But you know what I mean.

Celebrimbor ROP is a wonderful, multi-dimensional character. Perfectly portrayed by Mr. Charles Edwards. But Brimby is an "ordinary" elf. He has no powers.

But he is "The Hand of the Lesser God".

The 3 Rings are filled with the powers of the racial Ainur. Powers that the repentant god in human skin, aka "Halbrand", has.

His touch is almost eternal. It is like an indelible mark.

He has touched Galadriel's dagger many times. He has touched the metal that has been melted down to create the 3 most powerful Rings.

Which contain his original powers.

The ability to reverse corruption and death. Love for creation, for beauty and order.

Halbrand = repentant Sauron/Mairon. The purest of all the current Forms of Sauron shown to us in the series. [So far]. Halbrand [from season 1 under beloved Galadriel's wings] has the most light and goodness in him. His corruption is minimal. Halbrand is the closest to what "Sauron" was in the beginning of his existence = when he was called Mairon Admirable.**

Cause Halbrand in season 1:

- saved Galadriel's life twice.

- stop himself from taking revenge on Adar, the one who broke his heart, betrayed him. Ripped his physical body and soul, turned him into Nothing, into concious pool of blood and left him all alone in the dark and despair for 3000 years in a f...cave under Dûrnost. And took his place as The Lord of Mordor.

- after that he didn't even let Galadriel really hurt Adar when she tried. She only managed to graze him in the neck with her dagger, before Hal rushed in and shook his finger.

- he saved Elendil's life on the battlefield in episode 6 - by spearing an orc when he tried to crush Elendil's head.

- he said [and truly mean it] his Queen [indirectly]: "I love you. I can be good if you will love me too" [PLEASEEE LOVE MEEE GIRL!].[sorry, I have to🤭]

**

I think we already saw the image of

the Orginal Mairon Admirable from Aulë's House, before Morgoth seduced and corrupt him. The purest form of "Sauron". Botticcelli's Angel/baby face.

That's HIM.

[dirtyendorphins]

Reylo Gothic!AU

(Gothic!AU, set in 1821, Elizabeth Bathory legend, 18+ -- Rey Palpatine (19) is Lord Sheev's heir, who lives at an isolated castle on Galway Bay, in Ireland. After Sheev's death from old age, Rey is the sole inheritor of the castle -- but the innumerable rumors surrounding the Palpatine daughter, including an army of servants at her command who indulge in her bloodlust, keeps the other lords from investigating her. Ben Solo (29) is a sailor from the United States charged under English law for piracy in the Atlantic. As part of a plea deal, he instead agrees to accompany a small party to Castle Palpatine and greet Rey, in lieu of imprisonment.) Slick rain pooled at Ben Solo's boots as he marched forward, knees buckling, heels kicking off the thick mud below and palming the horse's throatlatch to keep himself stable. Trudgen and Vicrul followed from behind, heads hung low, faces cloaked and ensuring the wagon was secure. Ben was assured the wagon was built of oak staves, bound with iron hoops, high-quality nail from the best blacksmiths in Dublin. And yet the canvas tarpaulin buckled underneath the downpour, an iron pot slipping away and down the hill to be filled by the rain, to which Trudgen shrugged it off and continued on. The wheel axles creaked, caked in mud and splitting at the ends. Ben grunted as he pulled the wagon up a small ledge, with Trudgen and Vicrul pushing aft, exchanging grunts that had defined their trip so far. Not so much as a mere glance at the two other men, nor in return, nor did they indulge in their crimes. Bet it was larceny from Trudgen, Ben thought, and Vicrul looked something of solicitation. He spat away the rain that pooled at his lips and brushed back his matted black locks, squinting his eyes to find the silhouette of a castle perched upon a rock. 

Not so much arising from the ground as a testament to human ingenuity, as it fell from the sky like a damned angel. The keep reached towards the sky with creaky fingers in desperation for God's touch and yet the curtain walls pulled from Hell at its base, in a grotesque pile of mossy cobblestone. Ben licked his lower lip and made one final push with the wagon, before the horse pulled it along the path once more. "C'mon, boys-" Ben cheered like a sailor. A man of the Common Plea had guffawed at Ben's trial and told him he was lucky to last a night with Rey Palpatine. Ben was man damned to Hell a fortnight ago, and so dying at Castle Palpatine felt fitting nonetheless. No affront to God's common sense. But securing his freedom meant a lifetime of repentance and salvation, under a law divinely inspired. Better to see what may happen beyond his years of twenty. The sea roared beyond, and as the castle grew closer, the smoky scent of sea moss hit Ben's nostrils and he waved away a band of kelp flies from his face. Thick sea moss hung from the front gate, built of wood and rotted through, and Ben peered around before staring straight up -- the raindrops blinded his eyes, but he could sight a lone torchlit window perched at the top of the keep. A touch of vertigo hit him, but he remained stoic. "Hello!" Ben belted with his baritone voice, while Vicrul and Trudgen watched carefully. 

[j-a-smiths-blog]

1911 28Mar24: Chapter 88.

I took today as a day to start making progress with stop motion as I have backed away for too long.

I actually brought a sewing project along with me to the store because I had to sit in the vehicle with the dog as my wife shopped. This allowed me to make progress on an eighteenth century inspired shirt for my new main character in my upcoming stop motion film.

As the days progress, I think a little more about the way ahead. Honestly it just came to me as I made my Instagram post about Viktors new shirt.

I added: Viktor is an 18th century Carpenter and occasionally a blacksmith. When he ventures into the woods to collect only the finest of woods, he has learned of the creature lurking. He tries to teach people why they shouldn't travel through the woods at night and things they should be weary about.

Tomorrow is the repenting day of Holy week. I have to set an alarm and head down to our friends house area early to capture some of the scenes that will unfold during this time. I hope I am able to snap some good photos.

Ok

Dinner time!

[bestworstcase]

I find it silly that people take the idea that Salem ultimately turning out to not be the bad guy and that she'll end up helping the heroes against the gods as being the same as "SHE'S THE BIG GOOD WHICH IS BAD WRITING".

Did we just forget the concept of enemies working together against a common foe or something? Or the fact that the characters would realistically be incredibly uncomfortable around her and be rightfully distrustful of her even as they recognize that she's as much a victim as she is a villain in this whole clusterfuck? That given that Ozpin has absolutely no idea of what to do against the gods, that they NEED someone who clearly has a plan?

It's like, storytelling 101.

there’s i think a few factors at play here:

#1 - lots of people take what is said about salem by other characters at face value if those characters are in the “salem wants to destroy the world” camp (ozpin, tyrian, raven), because jinn’s framing of the story is presumed to be the whole and absolute truth. characters in the “salem wants to change the world” camp, consequently, are interpreted as either deceived pawns (hazel, mercury), lying (salem), or just memetically transposed into the “destroy” camp (ruby, qrow). 

in part this happens because the people doing this don’t pay any attention to how rwby thematically positions salem relative to ozma in regards to the truth, but it’s also because the (deliberately shocking but also vague and out-of-context) statement she makes in the lost fable—why redeem these humans when we can replace them with what they could never be—sounds damning if you don’t, like, stop to think about it for two seconds in context with the part where salem has been wanting humanity to replace The Gods Who Demand Redemption From These Humans for two hundred million years. i wonder who she meant by “them!”

#2 - this is compounded by the very christianized lens that a lot of the fandom applies to rwby; it’s not even tapered off since 9.10 dropped the hammer on the nonsense about light being the “benevolent” brother, the fandom has largely just pivoted to the blacksmith as the benevolent capital-G “God” (which she’s not) and the idea that what’s wrong with salem is she Hasn’t Learned Her Lesson and Needs To Repent persists as a load-bearing pillar in the standard fanon reading. 

the possibility that salem is right about anything is untenable if salem is read as evil because she is wrong. suggesting that salem is both right and evil makes people extremely uncomfortable, as does the implied corollary that the heroes are wrong even though they’re good, because the fandom’s moral reading of the story depends on salem being wrong. 

#3 - the (countertextual) fanon that has grown out of these two intertwined readings—that salem 1. hates humanity, 2. thinks modern humans are pitiful imitations of real humans because they lack magic, 3. sees only herself and ozma as really human, 4. believes magical power is the only true determinant of worth, 5. views ozma as her possession, and 6. is motivated primarily by spite and obsessive rage because he rejected her so she wants to burn the world down to punish him—is deeply entrenched and, for obvious reasons, makes it very difficult for anyone who buys into it to wrap their heads around how in the fuck salem could ever be persuaded to AGREE to work with the heroes.

because she thinks they’re ants, you know. 

and even if you point out that, like, salem is ready and willing and able to pivot or change tactics if something doesn’t work or a new opportunity presents itself, or that salem in fact states quite clearly that she thinks reliance on strength is ozpin’s downfall, the fanon is too strong to budge. she’s just throwing a tantrum and lashing out in blind rage, actually. or she’s just tightening the leash on cinder even more before turning cinder into another hound, actually. or she’s a hypocrite who’s going to be made to eat her own words, actually. one time i saw someone misattribute “there will be no victory in strength” TO OZMA and i would not be remotely surprised if a lot of the fandom turned out to be misremembering that line as something he said to her. 

if you read salem in this way—as someone who is fundamentally unreasonable and too egotistical to even see other people as people—of course the obvious endgame of the heroes reaching out to her or (as i think is more likely) salem reaching out to them sounds wildly out of character. 

#4 - for some unfathomable reason most of the fandom still hasn’t put two and two together to get Summer Joined Salem and that means they are missing the obvious and crucially important bridge between salem and the heroes. if you say “summer is salem’s general” the average rwby fan is going to hear “summer is one of the bad guys and ruby and yang will have too fight her, ooh so dark and edgy” but the actual point is that salem has someone in her corner who can give ruby and yang a really compelling reason to think that truce might be possible AND that trying to negotiate with salem is a risk worth taking. 

it is infinitely easier to get everyone in this mess to the table if summer is willingly on salem’s side. it’s infinitely harder if salem killed her or broke her into a monster. at this point i am sure the wider fandom is just not going to let go of the latter assumption until they see summer and salem, like, catching up in front of summer’s memorial or what the fuck ever; at which point i’m convinced the fanon is going to pivot immediately to 1. placing bets on when summer will kill cinder and 2. expecting summer to stab salem in the back and redemptively sacrifice her life to save ruby and/or yang because the salem fanon is not going to fucking budge until the peace talk starts.