#she is a liar a cheat and a scoundrel

[circusbutch]

Hiii twiddling around with a new PC for an upcoming Curse of Strahd campaign :>

[sharkaroni]

Finally! Chapter 9 of The Plum Calendar is out!

As we're getting closer to the end, it's finally time for Serizawa to make his decision.

”You are a liar, and a cheat, and a scoundrel,” Kamehime breathed. ”And you broke our agreement.” She said it like it was a bigger betrayal than Serizawa’s rejection. Like it was Reigen who had stabbed her in the back. ”What’s that supposed to mean?” ”I have had it from the phantom you named, Reigen Arataka, that you know full well that Serizawa-dono doesn’t love you.” Reigen felt himself go red at just how juvenile it sounded coming out of her mouth. As if it were a competition on a playground, where the smug winner gets a kiss on the cheek and the loser goes home early. As if Serizawa wasn’t a grown man who could choose for himself who he wanted to date and which dimension he wanted to live in. It was mortifying. Reigen was torn between wanting to give Kamehime a lecture and wishing she had pigtails he could pull.

The Plum Calendar is a fake dating fic where Reigen and Serizawa fake an engagement in order to avoid a) eternal imprisonment, b) forced marriage, and c) death.

Next chapter is the very last one, so this is your last chance to get in on it before it's over!

[lefemmerougewriter]

Chelli might be a scoundrel, a liar, a cheat, a double-crosser. But she is my scoundrel.

Entrapta is defensive of her girlfriend. This is a scene from my newest fic, "Amsaja's Folly: Damn Space Pirates, Aphra's Theft, and Entrapta's Genius".

[seancamerons]

i am sooooooooooooooooooooo glad finally the world is seeing what scum justin is. he profitted off slandering women. multiple women. unfaithful, scummy, cultural appropriating and made a career off of ripping off michael jackson. the beatboxin', the improvizational vocal styling, the layered tracks, the dancing, the slandering his 'crazy' exes, the luxury he must've had.

must be nice. what a little cry baby bitch boy. what goes around comes around, like it's a friggin boomerang. ew. it takes two to tango, you're the one with the victim mentality. a class act, and i mean that in the most downright low down way i can muster. he is horrible. the absolute worst. he did the women in his life so dirty, it's never his fault, god forbid. pathetic.

boo fuckin' hoo, your anniverary was interrupted by your own dirty laundry, so what? what else is new, besides the fact you slandered britney. you threw janet and her 20 year (at the time) career under a bus. idk what he else he did, but he also cheated on jessica "let's evolve" biel, but that's not about her but, bold words for someone who took back their scoundrel, cheating ex boyfriend who cheated on her. i guess she likes sloppy seconds, they seem like they're so great. must be nice, once again. even if he has the upper hand, or control of the narrative or had it for, oh wait, oh about 20 years.

you know what the ex, the puppy love turned real, your childhood love, arguably the once 'love of his fucking life', in a romantic sense best friend, the girl jt was so into that he apparently was about to give her his name, and you do her dirty? dude, you can be so dumb, sure it was a sly dick move, but damn. that says way more about him that it be about her. life hands you lemons, you blame others and squeeze the juice in their wounds, liar liar liar.

so justin, while britney nursed a broken heart and had to grapple with a decision you issued this 'ultimatium' whatever, you didn't say you were gonna be respectful? i imagine they probably talked beyond the text to be like, whatever it's done closure for the pair, par for the course. when you were the first to be cruel, you were the aggressor, you were the liar, you weaved this narrative that it was ALL her. remember this, there's not a relationship with you, there's the other half, who should be your 'better' half, who was miles humble and sweet compared to him.

not to be all will smith or nothin' but keep her name out your fucking mouth if you have nothing good to say, that goes for everyone. like who are people who don't work, have retail, food service, regular people jobs with regular people problems, middle class judging a woman who makes money when she shits, sleeps, eats, dances and posts videos on instgram. why is it such a thing as to have silence in the peanut gallery in regards. "it would never happen to anyone" sure, jan. keep sippin't he coolade. cool.

so weird flex, idk. i'm glad i never bought into "big bad britney" the worst girl, the delinquent deviant, the seductress Jezabelle manipulator, evil woman, ice, stone what have them, there's always gonna be haters, but like f that. I'm on the right side here, not that it's a contest, race, spill tea, money grab whatever. idc who you are, but britney should be referred to as someone who isn't a tabloid joke, but a survivor with resilience and humility and someone who had unrealistic sometimes or big dreams but never really gave up completely even if times were shitty. she always had things to live for, and to do, but some f the things she endured were totally beyond her control.

she was very much chewed up and spit out. adored and then hated, and all the people going, "oh i had no idea, i feel so bad" i really think it comes too little too late, because for years i always assumed there was a lot we didn't know, and that wasn't really anyone, especially her family who treat her like a prized racehorse or cash cow, and not a human.

for 13 years, almost 15 years, she was a second-class citizen in her own home, a literal prisoner, she had zero say in anything. she couldn't drive or vote for a president/elected official. she was unjustly put under a hold that turned into a little over quarter of a decade imprisoned, her civil rights were infringed upon. yes that is something to share that must burden her, sometimes the truth is something that will set her free. her speaking i believe, equates to her healing. i know i said i wouldn't say things about this until i finished up the woman in me memoir, but i can't keep this from coming out.

it's just for once, this girl can catch a break and do what she loves. she speaks very candidly on her fans who she appreciates even at her lowest point, even if she wasn't necessarily 'running the show', she still had personality, passion and intensity that will keep her 'youthful' in the eyes of the world forever. her legacy is so strong, and i hate that it'd been marred by lies for years. slanderous, sensationalized journalism and south park, punch lines, digs, and general biased hate from other fans of pop (tbh all genres) music and more. if beyonce did any of the things briney did they'd (general public) turn their back too or they'd fight for her just as strong as barmy/fandoms related to britney spears/fans of other artists. some artists could get away with literal killing or unaliving someone, and britney would be like going to prison or some mental hospital for LIFE locked up till the 12th of never to be released and her family would assume control and she would die in literal captivity. people act like jamie was looking for brit's

his meal ticket, of course. of course she's married this guy who (i will say he takes care of mostly if not all of his multiple children with more than one mother, not that there's anything wrong with having biracial or even children who are from different mothers. out of his idk how many kids, he has 2 children with britney from when they were married for roughly three years who don't speak to her because they'd been fed this narrative for so long they see no different. federline literally implies she's nuts, so she's not credible so people find her narrative to be false, or use the rhetoric she has mental illness, while that could be something, if she didn't have dementia or some schizoaffective or bipolar diagnosis, well well, she might have some horrible version of post-traumatic stress disorder. everything i'd expected and even things i didn't know or weren't confirmed officially at any time are being corroborated like i didn't want to be right, but i was so on it and everyone thinks she's crazy, and gaslit, enabled this farce of a conservatorship, she needed to be taught how to be an adult, and her family mainly jamie failed her by making every decision for 13 years for her.

i was also ranting that, what kind of crappy luck to have a sister like who ignored her pleas, saw her struggle, and didn't do shit to help her, but freely went on dancing with the stars, the special corps for money grabs, looks so desperate.

she (jamie lynn) wouldn't even be a name out here if she didn't have a sister who was like it or not, britney spears. similar to the plight of ashlee simpson (jessica was the more 'famous' popstar sister, famously had a reality show with her ex-husband nick lachey in 2003 until 2005 or so which the show seemed to seemingly caused them to split by late 2005/2006) , nick & aaron carter (he was the 'kid' brother of one of the lead singers of the backstreet boys, famously dated paris hitlon, was accused by a former girllbander from the girlgroup in 2000-2001 dream.) if my sis was being talked neg about or was being infringed of her citizens rights, i rest my case. i'd go the f off!

i mean let's be serious for a sec, there was so much SO MUCH animosity and jealousy and "living in the shadow" or being "less famous" or too young to remember when things were normal in their families. ashlee simpson famously had a song called 'shadow' (Autobiography, 2004) not to be confused britney spears' "shadow" (In the Zone, 2003)

i do not sympathize with her. in wise the words of mean girl janis ian. listen up.

As Janis Ian once said, "There are two kinds of evil people in this world. Those who do evil stuff and those who see evil stuff being done and don't try to stop it."

[howlingday]

Weiss: Poor, foolish Whitley. So young, and so naïve.

Whitley: Excuse me?

Weiss: The world harsh and cruel, my baby brother, and no one will listen to you unless you can entertain the masses as well.

Whitley: Don't call me a "baby". Not only is it inaccurate, it is also rude.

Weiss: And yet my words are no less true. One day, you will understand what it means to be ignored because you're boring. If you want the people to learn, you must entertain them. Until we meet again, baby brother. (Leaves)

Whitley: Hm... Perhaps she's right. Perhaps my education could be a bit more... jovial.

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

Ruby: ...

Jaune: ...

Whitley: (Rapper get-up) Welcome back to business economics. ...Yo.

Whitley: It has come to my understanding that some of you are having trouble understanding my class. ...Yo.

Jaune: We're the only ones here.

Ruby: Ssh!

Whitley: As such, I have prepared a simple rap to follow along and understand the needed facts to survive in a capitalist-driven economy in which you provide goods and services for your peers and lessers.

Ruby: ...

Jaune: ...

Whitley: ...Yo.

Whitley: (Turns on track, Raps)

She sells sea shells on a sea shore,

But the value of these shells will fall

Due to the laws of supply and demand

No one wants to buy shells,

'Cause there's loads on the sand

Whitley: (Draws seashell on the board, Scratches red X over it)

Step One:

You create a sense of scarcity

Shells will sell much better

If they're rare, you see,

Bear with me,

Take as many shells as you can find

And hide them on an island

Stockpile them high until they're rarer than a diamond

Whitley: (Draws hand, Draws more hands)

Step Two:

Gotta make the people think that they want 'em

Really want 'em

Really fuckin' want 'em

Fuckin' Ironwood wants 'em!

Influencers! Product placement!

Prime time entertainment!

If you haven't got a shell,

Then you're just a fuckin' waste, man

Whitley: (Draws building with seashell, Lancaster draw up logos)

Step Three:

It's a monopoly

Invest inside some property

Start a corporation,

Build a logo,

Do it properly,

"Shells Must Sell"

This will be your new philosophy

Swallow all your morals,

They're a poor man's quality

Whitley: (Lancaster nervously swallow lumps, Whitley draws bigger and bigger circles)

Step Four:

Expand! Expand! Expand!

Clear forest! Make Land!

Fresh blood! On hands!

Whitley: (Draws circles with different things, Lancaster call Weiss)

Five!

Why just shells?

Why limit yourself?!

She sells seashells!

SELL DUST AS WELL!

Whitley: (Wildly draws different randomness, Lancaster joins War of the Roses)

Six!

Sell guns! Sell stocks!

Sell diamonds! Sell rocks!

Sell water to a fish!

Sell the time to a clock!

Whitley: (Excitedly puts up campaign poster, WotR wheel in a projector)

SEVEN!

Step hard on the gas,

Like a bat out of hell,

And run to be the councilman of Mantle!

Whitley: (Puts up more and more posters, WotR gather slides for the projector)

EIGHT!

BIG SMILE! BIG WAVE!

YEAH, THAT'S GREAT!

Know the truth is overrated,

Tell lies out the gate!

Whitley: (Angrily rips down half the posters, WotR turn off the lights)

NINE!

POLARIZE THE PEOPLE!

CONTROVERSY IS THE GAME!

IT DOESN'T MATTER IF THEY HATE YOU IF THEY ALL SAY YOUR NAME!

Whitley: (Projector turns on to blind Whitley, Sees his father staring from the board)

Ten...

The world was yours...

Stepped off the stage as the world applause...

You're a liar. A cheat. A scoundrel. A whore...

Whitley: (Falls to his knees, Sobs)

And you sold seashells on the seashore...

Whitley: (Sniffs, Stands up) Erm, ahem! I, uh, hope you all learned something from this.

Ruby: Er, y-yeah, like, uh, how supply and demand needs to maintain an equilibrium, or else an inflation or deflation will disrupt the economic flow to both consumers and providers detriment.

Jaune: And how product placement can influence people to buy more, and that consumerism helps the provider gain more reach in their influence on others.

Weiss: (Smiles) You did good, Whitley.

Whitley: (Smiles) Thank you.

[feelgoodbridgerton]

Chapter 7: Confessions

Lord Ashford was furious and humiliated by Ingrid's rejection. He swore to himself that he would not let Benedict have her. He decided to use his influence and connections to ruin Benedict's reputation and intentions, and convince Ingrid's family and friends that he was not worthy of her.

He enlisted the help of Mr. William Jones and Mr. George Smith, two gentlemen who were also jealous of Benedict's success and popularity. They agreed to join Lord Ashford in his scheme, and spread rumors and lies about Benedict.

They told everyone that Benedict was a fraud, a gambler, a rake, and a scoundrel. They said that he had no interest in Ingrid, and that he was only using her to get access to her father's wealth and secrets. They said that he had a secret lover, a mistress They said that he had cheated, betrayed, or hurt many women before.

They did everything they could to make Ingrid doubt Benedict, and make Benedict lose Ingrid's trust and love.

The next day, Ingrid received a visit from Lord Ashford at her home. She was surprised and displeased to see him, but she decided to be polite and receive him in the drawing room.

"Lord Ashford, what a surprise," she said coldly.

"Miss Whittington, what a pleasure," he said warmly.

He bowed and kissed her hand.

She withdrew it quickly.

He smiled and sat down on the sofa.

She sat down on the opposite chair.

He looked at her with admiration.

She looked at him with disdain.

He cleared his throat and said, "Miss Whittington, I'm here to talk to you about something very important."

She raised her eyebrows and said, "Oh? And what might that be?"

He leaned forward and said, "It's about Lord Bridgerton."

She stiffened and said, "What about him?"

He sighed and said, "Miss Whittington, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Lord Bridgerton is not who he seems to be. He is not a gentleman of honor and integrity. He is a scoundrel and a liar."

She frowned and said, "What are you talking about? Lord Bridgerton is a wonderful man. He is kind, smart, handsome, and talented. He is everything a gentleman should be."

He shook his head and said, "No, Miss Whittington, he is not. He is a second son who has no prospects or ambitions. He has no income or estate of his own. He lives off his brother's generosity and his family's name. He has no future or purpose in life."

She scoffed and said, "That's nonsense. Lord Bridgerton has many prospects and ambitions. He is an artist who creates beautiful paintings and sculptures. He has a passion and a talent for his work. He has a vision and a style that are unique and original."

He shrugged and said, "That's all well and good, Miss Whittington, but art does not pay the bills. Lord Bridgerton may be able to amuse himself with his hobbies, but he cannot support a wife or a family with them. He cannot provide you with the security and comfort that you deserve."

She smiled and said, "I don't need security and comfort, I don't need Lord Bridgerton to provide me with anything. I'd only need him to love me."

He frowned and said, "But he does not love you, Miss Whittington. He only wants to seduce you and abandon you. He has no intention of marrying you or being faithful to you. He has done it before, and he will do it again."

She gasped and said, "How dare you? How dare you say such things about Lord Bridgerton? How do you know what he has done or what he will do? Do you have any proof of your accusations?"

He nodded and said, "Yes, Miss Whittington, I do. I have here some letters that Lord Bridgerton wrote to his previous lovers. They show his true nature and his true intentions. They show how he wooed them with sweet words and promises, and charm, how he left them with broken hearts and shattered reputations."

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out some papers.

He handed them to her.

She took them reluctantly.

She looked at them with horror.

They were indeed letters from Benedict to various women.

They were indeed full of love and passion.

They were indeed signed by him.

But they were also fake.

Lord Ashford had forged them himself.

He had copied Benedict's handwriting from some of his sketches.

He had used some of his phrases from some of his poems.

He had fabricated some of his stories from some of his rumors.

He had created some of the most convincing evidence against Benedict that he could think of.

He hoped that Ingrid would believe them.

He hoped that Ingrid would hate Benedict.

He hoped that Ingrid would leave Benedict.

After Lord Ashford leaves, Ingrid was sitting in the drawing room, reading some of the letters, when her sister, Clara, entered. "You must hear what some of these letters say." Ingrid sniffles.

 She reads one of the letters, and her voice trembles with emotion.

My dearest Amelia,

I cannot bear to be apart from you any longer. You are the only one who can fill my heart with joy and my soul with fire. You are the only one who can make me forget the troubles and sorrows of this world. You are the only one who can make me feel alive.

I long to see your beautiful face, to touch your soft skin, to kiss your sweet lips, to hold you in my arms, to make love to you until we are both exhausted and satisfied. I long to hear your voice, to listen to your words, to laugh at your jokes, to share your thoughts, to comfort your fears. I long to be with you, always and forever.

Please, my darling, do not doubt my love for you. Do not listen to the rumors and lies that others may spread about me. Do not let anyone or anything come between us. Do not let anyone or anything take you away from me.

You are mine, Amelia, and I am yours. Nothing can change that. Nothing can break us apart.

I will come for you soon, my love. I will take you away from this place, and we will start a new life together. A life of happiness and freedom. A life of love and passion.

Wait for me, Amelia. Wait for me, and I will make all your dreams come true.

Yours forever,

Benedict

Clara looks at Ingrid with shock and sympathy.

She says "Oh, Ingrid, I'm so sorry. How could he do this to you? How could he be so cruel and heartless?"

Ingrid shakes her head and says "I don't know. I don't know what to think. I don't know what to feel."

She drops the letter on the floor and bursts into tears.

Clara hugs her and says "It's okay, Ingrid. It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here for you."

As Ingrid and Clara were hugging and crying, their mother and father, Lord and Lady Whittington, came into the room along with their younger sisters, Esme and Adelaide.

They saw the letters on the floor, and the distress on Ingrid's face.

They asked "What is going on? What is wrong?"

Clara explained "Ingrid has just received some letters from Lord Ashford. They are from Lord Bridgerton to his previous lovers. They show that he has been unfaithful and dishonest to Ingrid. They show that he does not love her, and that he only wants to use her."

Lady Whittington was shocked and Lord Whittington was outraged.

Lord Whittington "How dare you let another man treat you like this? How dare you let another man play with your feelings and ruin your reputation again?!" He shouts.

He looks at Ingrid anger. "First Lord Stirling and now Lord Bridgerton." He grumbles

"Father I'm sorry I didn't know, Ingrid says pleading. "What do you want me to do?"

"Ingrid, you must end this relationship at once. You must never see him or speak to him again. He is not worthy of you. He is not worthy of our family."

Esme and Adelaide were also shocked and saddened.

"Michael don't you think that's harsh." her mother states putting her hands on her hips staring down her husband.

"She's not getting any younger Audrey we don't want her becoming a spinster." He retorts.

She's still young," her mother defends. "Besides she deserves to hear his side of the story, and give him a chance to explain. These letters," she gestures to them scattered all around. "Could mean nothing to him now. You had women you saw before marrying me." She points out. 

Lord Whittington frowned and said defensively, "That's different Audrey. I was never engaged to any of them. I never made any promises to any of them. I never hurt any of them."

Lady Whittington shook her head and said patiently, "Maybe not Michael but you can't deny that you loved me more than any of them. Maybe Lord Bridgerton feels the same way about Ingrid. Maybe he loves her more than any of his past lovers. Maybe he has changed for her. Maybe he has a good explanation for these letters."

She smiled softly at Ingrid and said gently, "Ingrid, my dear, I know you love Lord Bridgerton. I know you trust him. I know you want to be with him. Don't let these letters ruin your happiness. Don't let Lord Ashford ruin your love. He is a jealous and spiteful man who wants to destroy your relationship. He is not a friend, but an enemy. He is not telling you the truth, but lying to you."

She looked at Ingrid with encouragement.

She said, "Ingrid, my dear, you must follow your heart. You must talk to Lord Bridgerton. You must hear his side of the story. You must give him a chance to explain. You must decide for yourself what to do."

Ingrid looked up at her mother with hope "Thank you mama." she says hugging Audrey.

Although Ingrid felt overwhelmed by their reactions.

She felt confused and conflicted.

She felt betrayed and heartbroken.

She felt ashamed and humiliated.

She wanted to believe that Benedict loved her, and that the letters were fake.

She wanted to hear his side of the story, and give him a chance to explain.

She wanted to trust him, and forgive him.

But she also felt hurt and angry.

Later:

Benedict was sitting in the drawing room, reading a book, when his sister-in-law, Kate, entered with a letter in her hand.

"Ben, you have to read this," She says angrily. slapping him in the chest with it Benedict took it and looked at the seal.

It was from Lady Whistledown, the mysterious gossip columnist who knew everything about everyone in London society.

Benedict felt a surge of apprehension.

Benedict reads the letter aloud, and his voice was filled with disbelief and anger.

Dear Readers,

I have some shocking news to share with you today. It seems that one of our most esteemed and eligible bachelors, Lord Bridgerton, has been hiding a dark and scandalous secret from us all. A secret that could ruin his reputation and his chances of finding a suitable bride.

It has come to my attention that Lord Bridgerton is not the honorable and faithful gentleman that he pretends to be. On the contrary, he is a notorious and unrepentant rake who has seduced and abandoned many women in his past. Women who have trusted him, loved him, and hoped to marry him.

I have in my possession some letters that Lord Bridgerton wrote to his previous lovers. Letters that reveal his true nature and his true intentions. Letters that show how he wooed them with sweet words and promises, how he left them with broken hearts and shattered reputations.

I have decided to publish some of these letters in my next column, for the benefit of my readers and the public. I believe that it is my duty to expose Lord Bridgerton for who he really is, and to warn any potential suitors of his deceit and treachery.

I also urge any other women who have been victimized by Lord Bridgerton to come forward and share their stories with me. Together, we can bring him to justice and make him pay for his crimes.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

Kate looked at Benedict with a furious expression.

She said "Well? What do you have to say for yourself? Is this true? Did you write these letters? Did you do these things?"

"Kate, this is absurd. This is outrageous. This is slander. I did not write these letters. I did not do these things. These are all lies. Lies that someone has fabricated to ruin my reputation and my relationship with Ingrid."

He looks at the letter with disgust and anger.

He says "This is the work of Lord Ashford. He is the one who forged these letters and sent them to Lady Whistledown. He is the one who is trying to destroy me and take Ingrid away from me. He is the one who is jealous and spiteful and evil."

He crumples the letter and throws it into the fire.

He says "I will not let him get away with this. I will not let him harm me or Ingrid or our family. I will expose him for who he really is, and I will make him pay for his crimes."

He looks at Kate with a determined expression.

He says "Kate, you have to believe me. You have to trust me. You have to help me. You know me better than anyone. You know that I love Ingrid more than anything. You know that I would never be unfaithful or dishonest to her. You know that I am not a fraud, a gambler, a rake, or a scoundrel, but a brilliant, honorable, loyal, and kind man."

He reaches for her hand and says "Please, Kate, don't let these letters ruin our friendship." She says "I  believe you Ben, but these letters look so real. They look like they were written by you. How can you prove that they are fake? How can you prove that Lord Ashford is behind this?" "How can you prove to Ingrid, to the rest of the ton that Lord Ashford wrote the letters?"

Benedict says "Kate, I can prove it. I can prove it with my sketches, my poems, and my alibis. I can show you that these letters are not in my handwriting, that they are not in my style, and that they are not in my timeline. I can show you that Lord Ashford copied my sketches, used my phrases, and fabricated my stories. I can show you that Lord Ashford hired spies and thugs to follow me and Ingrid, and cause trouble for us. I can show you that Lord Ashford is a liar and a cheat."

He says "Kate, please come with me. Please come with me to my house. Please come with me to my study. Please come with me and see for yourself. Please come with me and help me clear my name." "Ben I can't," She says. "But you should ask Anthony and Colin to go with you."

"You're right." Benedict agrees and runs up the staircase to find his brothers.

Benedict finds Anthony and Colin in Anthony's study, where they are playing chess and drinking brandy. He tells them everything that has happened, and shows them the letters that Lord Ashford has written to Ingrid and Lady Whistledown. He begs them to help him prove his innocence and expose Lord Ashford's scheme.

Anthony and Colin are shocked and outraged by the letters. They agree to help their brother, and they follow him to his house. There, Benedict shows them his study, where he keeps his sketches, his poems, and his alibis. He compares them with the letters, and points out the differences and inconsistencies. He explains how Lord Ashford must have stolen or copied some of his work, and how he must have hired spies and thugs to follow him and Ingrid. Anthony and Colin are convinced by Benedict's evidence.

Benedict smiled at his brothers, who had gathered around him in his study. “I’m grateful for your presence, brothers. I value your support and trust.”

“It’s our duty, Benedict,” Anthony said, clasping his shoulder. “We’re family. We stand together.”

“And we don’t let anyone harm us,” Colin added, his eyes flashing with anger. “Especially not some scoundrel like Lord Ashford.”

Anthony nodded in agreement. “He’s worse than a scoundrel. He’s a villain, a schemer, a snake.”

Colin leaned forward, curious. “What exactly did he do, Benedict? How did he manage to write those letters?”

Benedict sighed and explained. “He must have been watching me and Ingrid for a long time; he must have stolen some of my sketches and poems, and copied them. He must have paid some ruffians to follow us and cause trouble for us. He must have invented some stories and dates to make it look like I was unfaithful and dishonest to Ingrid.”

Anthony frowned, puzzled. “How do you know all this, Benedict? How can you prove it?”

Benedict gestured to the papers on his desk. “I can prove it with my own work, Anthony. Look at these sketches, these poems, these alibis: compare them with the letters. You’ll see the differences and inconsistencies. You’ll see that Lord Ashford is a liar and a cheat.”

Anthony picked up the papers and examined them carefully. (Anthony examines the sketches, the poems, and the alibis.) He looked up at Benedict with admiration. “You’re right, Benedict.”

“I agree,” Colin said, joining him.

Benedict felt a surge of relief and gratitude. “Thank you, brothers, for believing me. Thank you for seeing the truth.”

Colin smiled warmly at him. “Don’t thank us, Benedict. Thank yourself. You’re the one who kept all this evidence. You’re the one who figured out Lord Ashford’s scheme.”

Anthony put down the papers and leaned closer to Benedict. “And you’re the one who will expose him, Benedict. You’re the one who will clear your name.”

Benedict nodded eagerly. “How will I do that, Anthony? How will I convince Ingrid, Lady Whistledown, and the rest of the ton that Lord Ashford wrote the letters?”

Anthony glanced at Colin and winked. “You’ll do it at the next ball, Benedict. You’ll do it in front of everyone. You’ll do it with our help.”

Benedict raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “What do you mean, Anthony? What’s your plan?”

Anthony lowered his voice and whispered in his ear. “Listen carefully, Benedict. Here’s what we’re going to do…”

Benedict looked at his brother with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. “That’s a brilliant plan, Anthony,” he admitted. “But it’s also very risky. What if Lord Ashford realizes what we’re doing and tries to stop us?”

Anthony shook his head confidently. “He won’t, Benedict,” he assured him. “He’s too arrogant and confident. He thinks he’s smarter than us. He thinks he’s already won. He won’t suspect anything until it’s too late.”

Benedict bit his lip nervously. “And what if Ingrid doesn’t come to the ball?” he asked. “What if she’s too hurt and angry to see me?”

Anthony smiled reassuringly. “She will, Benedict,” he promised him. “She loves you. She wants to hear your side of the story. She wants to give you a chance. And we’ll make sure she gets an invitation from Lady Whistledown herself.”

Benedict raised his eyebrows skeptically. “And what if Lady Whistledown doesn’t cooperate?” he wondered. “What if she refuses to write what we want her to write?”

Anthony winked at him slyly. “She will, Benedict,” he revealed. “She owes us a favor. Remember when we helped her escape from that angry mob at the opera? She promised to repay us someday. Well, that day has come.”

Benedict nodded slowly, hoping for the best. “I hope you’re right, Anthony,” he said. “I hope everything goes according to plan.”

Anthony hugged him warmly, feeling optimistic. “Trust me, Benedict,” he said. “It will. We’ll expose Lord Ashford for the fraud he is. We’ll clear your name and reputation. We’ll reunite you with Ingrid. And we’ll make sure that Lady Whistledown writes the most scandalous and sensational column ever.”

Benedict descended the stairs with his brothers, feeling hopeful and nervous. He spotted Ingrid in the crowd, looking radiant and anxious. He broke away from his brothers and approached her with a smile. “Ingrid, what a lovely surprise,” he greeted her.

Ingrid turned to face him, her eyes filled with pain and anger. She held out some letters in her hand. “Benedict, I need to speak with you,” she said urgently. “It’s about these letters.” She shows him the letters she received.

Benedict took the letters and scanned them quickly. His heart sank as he recognized the forgeries. He looked at her with sincerity and concern. “These are not mine,” he said firmly. “I never wrote these.”

Ingrid shook her head in disbelief. “Don’t lie to me, Benedict,” she said bitterly. “I recognize your handwriting. And your signature. How could you do this to me? How could you write such sweet words to other women?”

Benedict reached out to touch her arm, but she pulled away. He pleaded with her, “Ingrid, please, listen to me. These letters are fake. Lord Ashford is trying to sabotage our relationship. I swear to you, I have never written to anyone else but you.”

Ingrid frowned in confusion. “Lord Ashford?” she repeated. “Why would he do such a thing?”

Benedict explained, “Because he is jealous of me. He has always been. He wanted to marry you, but you rejected him. He wanted to destroy me, but he failed.”

Ingrid looked at him skeptically. “How do you know it was him?” she asked.

Benedict smiled triumphantly and showed her his proof. “Look at these,” he said confidently. “These are my original sketches and poems that I wrote for you. These are my alibis that prove where I was and what I did on the dates that Lord Ashford claimed I was with other women. These are the testimonies of my brothers and friends who witnessed Lord Ashford’s plot and helped me expose him.”

Ingrid examined the proof carefully, but she still felt uncertain. She looked at him sadly and said, “Benedict, they are not enough to convince me.”

Benedict felt a pang of despair,  Ingrid asked, “How can I believe you? How can I trust you? These letters look so real. They have your seal and everything.”

Benedict shook his head in frustration and said, “They may look real, but they are not. Lord Ashford must have copied my handwriting and seal.”

Ingrid sighed and said, “Benedict, I want to believe you, but I don’t know what to think. How can I be sure that you are telling the truth?”

Benedict stepped closer to her and cupped her face in his hands. He looked into her eyes with love and honesty and said, “Look into my eyes, Ingrid. Look into my heart. Do you see any doubt or deception there?”

Ingrid looked at Benedict with tears in her eyes, feeling torn and conflicted. She wanted to believe him, but she also felt betrayed and hurt by the letters. “Benedict, I don’t know what to do,” she said softly. “I don’t know who to trust. These letters have hurt me so much. They have made me doubt you. They have made me doubt myself.”

Benedict took her hands in his and squeezed them gently. He looked at her with love and compassion, trying to reassure her. “Ingrid, please, don’t doubt yourself,” he said earnestly. “You are the most wonderful woman I have ever met. You are smart, beautiful, brave, and kind. You are everything I ever dreamed of. And you are everything I ever need.”

Ingrid shook her head slightly, still feeling unsure. She asked him, “But how can I be sure that you are not lying to me? How can I be sure that you are not playing with my feelings? How can I be sure that you are not like Lord Ashford?”

Benedict frowned and said, “Ingrid, you can be sure of me because I am nothing like Lord Ashford. He is a coward, a liar, and a cheat. He is a man who would do anything to get what he wants, even if it means hurting others. He is a man who does not know how to love.”

Ingrid looked into his eyes and asked, “And you do? You know how to love?”

Benedict nodded and said, “Yes, Ingrid, I do. I know how to love because I love you. I love you with all my heart and soul. I love you more than anything in this world. And I would never do anything to hurt you or betray you.”

Ingrid felt a flicker of hope and asked, “You love me? How can you prove that to me? How can you show me that you love me?”

Benedict smiled and said, “Ingrid, I can prove it to you by being faithful, loyal, and honest with you. I can show it to you by being supportive, caring, and respectful of you. I can demonstrate it to you by being your partner, your friend, and your lover.”

Ingrid hesitated for a moment, then said, “And I trust you. And I forgive you.”

Benedict hugged her tightly and smiled. “Thank you, Ingrid,” he said gratefully. “Thank you for believing me and forgiving me. Thank you for giving me another chance.”

Ingrid hugged him back and said, “No, thank you, Benedict.”

[the-firebird69]

Watch "Prometheus | Young Peter Weyland TED Talk | ALIEN ANTHOLOGY" on YouTube

It is me and it's my device I plan to do it I'm going out there today who act like they don't care what they do and I'm pretty sure that Stan may have been involved I don't think he's having me do it but for some reason Max does and this person here have a good typed up here by voice recognition says I think so and he's been manipulating we'll see you groups of warlock had to get that I do get that but I don't see how in his and see how either sometimes it just shows you the movie so Mac might be monitoring him and nobody else might be able to and I see that too that makes sense

Tommy f

Where did you get this well someone's giving him cues and tell them what to do and it's not renewed the contract yet and he might have to move anyways and he's renigging on deals all over the place and we noticed something he thinks he can't get back here and he really can't so it's going to end for him soon, and they were a bugger to our friend here in westborough they started rooting their family and everything he's a liar and a cheat and a loser a scoundrel and a slime ball and he got a lot of people hurt but he's young and brash and he does love young things and so does Trump and he's trying to control him and they're too young for him but I will say this he's been a victim of there plans for some time now and Woody harrelson has been stopping them and just just out of gas and can't take it from four sides and stop one of the kind of is a parallel so we understand what's happening there this is what's happening too he's upset about something since his wife is missing and it was Gabby petito and she's gone. They can't figure out what happens no they sort of know it wasn't BG it was the guy Tony f but manipulated by someone and he's getting to the end of his line and who it is.

Most of this is going to happen today and into tonight and the fleet will probably come down tonight and Mac will visit Darth Vader and we think he loses the fight

Thor Freya

[godzillasrighttoe]

Here, some Gen Z copy and pastes for you guys.

19🤪dollar💵Fortnite🤮card💳who🙋‍♀️wants😫it?🤡and😏yes✅ I'm 💁giving🥵it🤡away🙄remember 🤔 share Share SHARE😃and😏trolls👹👺 DON'T ❌GET😳BLOCKED🖕

shut yo skin tone chicken bone google chrome no home flip phone disowned ice cream cone garden gnome extra chromosome metronome dimmadome genome full blown monochrome student loan indiana jones overgrown flintstone x and y hormone friend zone sylvester stallone sierra leone autozone professionally seen silver patrone ching chong ling long suck my ding dong head ass pubg fortnite flip phone remote control autism down syndrome stage four terminal brain cancer o'reilly auto parts silver bronze ash amiibo uv light pen sushi ramen harrison ford gamer bitch ass virgin lamp thermometor lean mean string bean charlie sheen limousine canteen trampoline serpentine antihistamine wolverine submarine unclean nectarine broken gene halloween defective spleen smokescreen james dean putting green tiny peen anti vaccine aquamarine eugene extra green nicotine vaseline jellybean magazine protein lightning-mcqueen vending machine what'chu mean Ocean Man by Ween head ass tf up bitch

wAtAsHi wA🤡wAtAsHi😈aNaTa👽wA😈aNaTA tOoOoOo👽yUuBe🤨ItTEtA🌚 sOnNa👽kI😍mO😂sUru😐wAAAAAAAAAA👽

do😃do😃do😃she🙋🏻‍♀️built🦺like👍king👑kong🙊do😃do😃do😃a😐da🙄da🙄da🙄da🙄da🙄da

warning ⚠️this video will give u nightmares-trauma- lack of sleep - anxiety- fear of leaving house- physical fears and more!!

hEy hEy hEy😍just😄tHiNk🤔while😔you've🌚been🤨getting🥳dOwN⬇️and😊oUt🚪aBoUt⚠️the🤟LiARs😡 and😊the🤟dIrTy dIrTy💩cheats🤬in🥵the🤟wOrLd🌍🌎🌏you🤡could've🙄been😏getting🥳dOwn⬇️to2️⃣tHiS😋sick🤒🤧🤕🥴😵bEaT😔👊

🎤šaWãrAśęNàī🥰KìMì😸Wã⛓šHöJô👻Nâ💅ñÖ?✨böKù🌸Wâ🧚‍♀️ýARiçHiñ🤴BįCChĪ😼ńO😩oSû🚣‍♂️Dà🎉YO💧Ãah🍌

GET BACK🤺YOU🤺SCOUNDREL🤺THOU SHALL🤺NOT TAKE🤺ANOTHER STEP🤺TOWARDS🤺ME🤺🤺🤺

Juice WRLD - All Girls Are The Same

1:40 ━── ❍ ───── -2:46

↻ ⊲ Ⅱ ⊳ ↺

VOLUME: ▁▂▃▄▅▆▇ 100%

Dont🙅Touch🥵me(🧑🏿) You😔Do🦋Not👎Exist🎛 Drip💧My🤓Drip🥼My🤡Drip🔥Right🥵Back🧑🏿On😳My😱Drip🥶

Yeah 🗽 but 🗽 did 🗽 you 🗽 know🗽 lliberty🗽 mutual🗽 customizes🗽 your 🗽car🗽insurance 🗽 to🗽pay🗽 for 🗽what 🗽you 🗽 need🗽

yeah🦎but🦎did🦎you🦎know🦎that🦎with🦎geico🦎you🦎can🦎save🦎up🦎to🦎15🦎percent🦎more🦎on🦎car🦎insurance

Mommy🥺 mommy⛓I 😌 hurt✨my❤️toe😏can🤠u🥰better🔥i😅wanna🌍know😌how☂️about🧋that🦵leg💋 ohhh 😮 nooo💅i 😁 HATE💃 those👁things👞do😅do👹👹

[fang-wolfsbane]

Boku No Hero Academia/My Hero Academia: Inked Feathered Flame: Chapter 18: Wander

He had never drunk any alcohol before, nor did he have any interest in trying to find out what it tasted like. But he did have a hungover.

Not a physical one, but mentally, and he hated it.

How many hours had passed since he left the house, he didn’t know either. He didn’t think to search for a clock. Where his phone was, he didn’t care. He must’ve left it behind in his room.

The sun had already set, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to go home, not tonight. He couldn’t bear to look his parents in the eye and admit to them what a failure he was. Thinking back to the conversation with Mister Aizawa had him clutching at his chest.

He wanted to tear his chest apart and yank the beating pound of flesh from it. How could he afford to look at anyone? How could he simply go about his day knowing that he was the only one that failed. The only one that…

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. His hand was only too fast to brush them away. What good would crying do now? He was already a failure. A joke. A misfit.

The reality of it burned his throat, making him want to vomit. How could Momo have put her trust in him, believing that he was capable of the same greatness she possessed? He wasn’t even worth the strength it took to stand in her shadow. And what a large shadow it was.

Failure. Loser. Useless.

Those words echoed throughout his brain, wanting him to cry them free from the thoughts in his brain. Maybe if he voiced them, they would lose some of their power over him.

A bitter laugh escaped from his lips instead. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t a hero. He was a fraud. A crook. A scoundrel. No better than a villain.

He stumbled, his eyes wide.

No better than a villain.

No… that couldn’t be true, could it? He wasn’t a villain, was he?

Was he?

Sure, he had cheated his way into the most prestigious hero-course high school that existed in the country, but that didn’t make him a menace to society, did it?

No, it only made him a liar. A cheat. A fake.

With the realisation settling in, his grip on his hoodie tightened. His breathing quickened. Who was he kidding? He was all that and more.

He couldn’t call himself a hero. Never. He had no right to that title. He had no claim to be as pure-hearted as those he admired. He had no right to even look at them.

Who was he kidding?

Pathetic.

The word echoed through his skull far louder than all the others. Trembling fingers dug themselves into a wave of ebony hair. What was he besides a would-be imitator?

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

How could he ever be anything? How could he ever have hoped to hold a candle to those that proudly called themselves heroes? Even Izuku with all his bone-breaking was doing a better job than him. He had made it to the finals, whereas he had failed right at the start.

Even though Izuku had only ever been nice to him, Akuriru had failed in every way that had counted compared to the freckled-cheek boy. Izuku had once claimed that his nickname, Deku, meant useless when read a certain way. What was worse than useless? Whatever it was, he was the definition of it through-and-through.

As his thoughts haunted him, Akuriru found himself biting into his bottom lip until it split apart and bled. He didn’t care. The pain was comforting. It was real.

It was different from the pain inside his head.

It wasn’t until someone gasped that he took a second to look up from the pavement to look at something other than his clouded thoughts. He couldn’t really make out what it was, but a group of malformed villains were fighting against pro heroes. He couldn’t name all of them like Izuku could, but he knew one of them just by looking at him.

Endeavor. The number two pro hero.

The tall, buff man commanded respect just with the way he moved, fire said to be as hot as the flames of hell itself shooting free from his palms, enveloping the same creature that had attacked his class not so long ago.

His old class.

The word tasted like ash in his mouth without being spoken. Staring at the TV screen from outside the electronic shop like all the other onlookers, Akuriru found himself doing something completely different from them.

Crying.

He hadn’t even realised that it had happened again until he felt something physical resting on his shoulder. He didn’t look, even as the hand’s owner spoke to him from behind.

“Don’t worry, I’m disappointed too.”

Those words caused him to freeze up as if a block of ice had just been shoved down the back of his neck. Too scared to move, Akuriru smelt the faint scent of burned skin as whoever it was casually slid by behind him.

It wasn’t until he no longer felt their presence that he dared to let out a breath. He hadn’t realised how terrified he was of the unknown voice until he saw how his legs trembled like a newborn deer.

Great. Now even passing strangers scared the shit out of him.

He smiled at the thought, ignoring his wobbling lips. If he didn’t, he would simply start to cry all over again.

Boku No Hero Academia/My Hero Academia, Shota Aizawa/Eraserhead, Momo Yaoyorozu/Creati, Izuku Midoriya/Deku, Enji Todoroki/Endeavor and Touya Todoroki/Dabi © Kōhei Horikoshi Inked Feathered Flame and Akuriru Iro/Chainlink © Fang Wolfsbane

[unicyclehippo]

Beauyashter prompt, 'Touch starved but oh so very patient'?

beau is good at one thing: being a smart ass. she’s been talking back to people since she was only months old, so the story goes—a red faced scrunched up ugly as all hell baby (cute despite it all, because this story was only ever told kindly) and any time her parents cooed over her or spoke to her she’d burst back with a torrent of angry baby talk, tiny baby fists waving.

wait.

beau is good at two things: being a smart ass, and being a shit kicker. she’s got a helluva mouth on her, two fists and two feet, and the gods themselves can’t do shit to stop her from using ‘em.

no, wait. fuck.

she’ll get it right this time. she’s trying this whole awareness thing, truth thing, and has this thought that, like, if she runs from the truths inherent in herself then she’s gonna miss them in other people, so—

beau is good at three things—being a smart ass, being a shit kicker, and being a nosy piece of shit. figuring stuff out. curiosity is her constant companion, infects her tongue, infects her hands, makes her say things and touch things because she wants to know who, and how, and what, and why? what’s better in this world than knowing how it all works? taking the time to figure it all out?

way back when, when she was by herself and cutting out from the archives to see the world and what it had to offer, she was interested in liars and cheats and scoundrels and gems. she loves gems. jewellery too, actually—likes the way the claws of rings hold cut stones in place, likes to watch as jewellers grins and polish them into shapes. likes examining them for facets and flaws. big surprise there, to anyone who knows beau. back then, she wouldn’t’ve said anything about it but now—months down the track and kinda embroiled in a lot of people’s messes—if anyone asked, beau might—might—admit she isn’t in it for the flaws. she just—thinks they’re important. thinks they can’t and shouldn’t be looked over. flaws...set gems apart, make them different. hell, sometimes they even make them more expensive! and it’s the same with people, in some ways. it’s not that she’s looking for the bad shit they do, or the ways in which they’re fucked up—it’s just that once you know that, once you’ve found that, sometimes it shows you more about the person.

okay, that’s a relatively new revelation.

beau used to just like to be able to point out the fact that hey, fucker, i might be a piece of shit but so are you, and here’s my fucking proof: exhibit a, and so on.

but now.

people are complicated, and they’re in over their heads, and things that sound like lies aren’t always lies—or not entirely—and beau has always been a details kinda person but she knows when to take a step back and gauge the entirety of a situation. even when it’s hard. even if it strains the mind, proves impossible.

which is all to say, that is, beau is sharing a room with jester and yasha and she hasn’t been able to sleep for thinking.

she has, as quietly as she was able, moved a small table to sit beneath the window and she has her jewellers kit laid out to clean and polish a few of the rings and other pieces they’ve picked up along their journey, the beading and crystal and stone worked into her fine expositors robes. it’s not something she does when other people can see—earns more questions than she would like, which is zero—but they’re having an audience with the king again tomorrow and they didn’t have a choice about it last time but beau would like to make something of a good impression this time.

the work is slow and methodical, repetitive. calming. gives her plenty of space to think.

so beau does.

her mind clicks over the cult and trent and caleb, and the letter, and kamordah for a moment before beau snaps away from that, powerfully enough that her head actually snaps to the side.

she shakes the thought away.

blinks over at her friends and forces her heart beat to slow and settle.

yasha sleeps differently now. deeply. beau’s mind fiddles and fusses with the details of what it has learned, fits jagged pieces together like a puzzle. a mosaic, more like, with the pieces sharp enough to cut. beau must cut herself on them because she winces when she thinks, defensive mechanism maybe? hoping to die in her sleep? or maybe just to stay in a dream where she was more of herself?

she would have to ask yasha questions to find out more. she’s not doing that.

jester, meanwhile, is sleeping fitfully. she’s laying on her side and has an extra pillow cuddled tight to her, and as beau drags a polishing cloth over the pretty emerald of what is very clearly a fake stone—a good one, but fake—she watches jester twitch and mumble something in her sleep. watches fingers dig tight into the pillow. watches her tail wrap and wrap around her calf and ankle.

a nightmare. she doesn’t have to ask jester to know that.

beau is good at three things: being a smart ass, being a shit kicker, and figuring shit out.

her friends, her girls, they need something and beau knows what some of it is: calm, safety, protection, reassurances, attention. the things most people need when they’ve been through not just one but, like, a hundred fucking traumatic experiences.

thing is, beau can figure shit out. she’s good at it, most of the time. the thing she isn’t good at—really, really isn’t good at—is fixing things.

beau returns her attention to the rings. sets the finished ones aside but the one she’s working on now—real sapphire, square cut, gold—she wears on her index finger, turning it carefully to get at the problem spots.

she isn’t good at it. but she can try.

//

yasha is in some ways harder to talk to than jester, but in a big way she’s also much easier to talk to. the woman has been admitting to things and explaining things and trying her best to make amends in whatever patchwork manner she can, and beau has zero qualms in using that for her own purpose.

‘you look like shit,’ beau tells her, sitting down across from her at the breakfast table. the inn they’ve stopped in is small but nice, and it has opened the shutters on the east wall to let the morning light stream in like pillars of gold. yasha is sat next to one of them, scritching carefully behind the ears of frumpkin.

yasha glances up. settles a moment on beau’s chest before looking away again. ‘i just bathed.’

‘that’s - no - you don’t look like actual shit,’

‘beau.’ the woman smiles. ‘i’m joking.’

beau leans back on the bench seat, braces her elbows against the back board, scoffs. ‘yeah, totally, i knew that.’ she looks away. the maid is still making up her plate. ‘you want to talk about it?’

‘sure,’ yasha agrees easily. her shoulders betray her, tensing, tightening.

they sit there in an awkward silence before,

‘usually people say something—‘

‘do you have questio—‘

‘oh, go ahead,’

‘no, no,’ yasha waves her free hand, the other still so gently petting frumpkin. she hides behind her hand like it’s a shield, interposed between them. ‘go ahead.’

beau clears her throat. feels an itch behind her eyes, exhaustion on so many levels, for so many reasons.

‘i was just gonna say, you said yes to talking but then you didn’t, so,’

‘i thought...you had questions.’

‘i didn’t mean it as a fucking interrogation, yash,’ beau says, and there’s no heat to her words at all. just dry. just dust, spilling out of her. ‘if you wanna talk, i’m here. that’s all i meant.’

yasha nods.

beau’s breakfast comes and she eats as she always does in quick motions, an arm curled around the plate as she shovels the eggs into her mouth. a few strips of bacon into the pocket for later and she’s done. she shoves the plate to the far end of the table to take back to the kitchens later. doesn’t move just yet.

she lets her eyes fall onto the window. the dark wood is painted nearly white with the morning sunlight and she can see dust motes drifting gently through the haze, puffing into swirls and eddys whenever someone moves.

‘are you going to - report me?’

beau blinks. drags her attention back to yasha. sees not fear or upset but a deep and abiding resignation in those eyes.

‘i already have,’ she tells yasha. the woman nods. ‘and i told them the truth. you weren’t yourself.’

‘you said you didn’t know that. not for sure. you said—‘

‘i say a lot of shit.’

‘you were not lying. you nearly died,’ yasha says, and she doesn’t stumble over that or flinch away from it, though she had a big hand in it. ‘i think you could barely see, then, let alone lie.’

‘i lie better than i see,’ beau tells her. shrugs. ‘but you’re not wrong. i told you i figured two things were the most likely. and we got you back, so, eliminated the other reason. you weren’t yourself,’ beau tells her with the exact force and directness she had told the high curator to their face, zero intention of negotiating or altering that statement.

after a moment, when yasha says nothing, just sits opposite her, head lowered, beau leans back in her seat and moves one booted foot forward until it touches yasha’s. she looks away, returns her attention to the window.

the other woman pulls her foot back to make room for beau’s. beau can feel yasha watching her, so she closes her eyes.

eventually, she feels a pressure against the side of her foot, yasha’s finding hers again and resting alongside it. and they sit.

//

jester is harder to talk to. she speaks in dizzying circles and makes jokes and has beau all in a tangle before she can ask anything important, but beau still tries. it takes a little longer but beau takes that step back that she needs sometimes and watches properly, like jester is a mark or a competitor. and beau sees that beyond the whirlwind of chatter and creation and creativity, that jester has made for herself a very neat little bubble. no one goes in. jester rarely comes out. so when jester makes an offer—one that she knows, she knows, beau will refuse—beau looks her square in the eyes and accepts.

jester stops in her tracks. a cute little frown digs between her brows. ‘what?’

‘i said sure,’ beau tells her, crooks a challenging smile. ‘go wild.’

‘you want me—to paint your face?’

‘yup.’

‘like, me? with my paints?’

‘yeah. it’s a party, right?’

‘yeah,’ jester agrees, eyes widening, and she clambers to her feet. ‘oh my gosh, oh my gosh, beau, this is going to be so much fun! and so much better than the last time i did it, i promise i won’t make you into a creepy snake again, it’ll be so pretty, i promise.’

beau shrugs. ‘sure. i trust you.’

jester hurries to her haversack, planted at caleb’s feet within the clear set dome of the hut. she can’t hear their conversation but does notice that jester comes close to but doesn’t quite touch caleb. respectful of his raw state, maybe. she returns with a set of familiar paints, coloured and carefully wrapped in protective cloth and leather.

‘this isn’t the magic stuff, is it?’

‘no,’ jester laughs. ‘just my normal paints. what do you want? a moor bounder?’

‘we’re in the empire so i’m gonna have to do with no.’

‘they might not know what they look like. you might just look really really cool and scary.’

‘that’s true.’

‘i could almost make you a cat or a tree or a bunny or an eagle or—‘

‘can you make me an owl?’

jester grins, eyes bright. ‘i can try. it’ll take a while and—hey caleb? can you make frumpie—‘

‘he can’t hear you, jes,’

‘CAN YOU MAKE FRUMPIE—‘

‘no,’ beau laughs, throwing a hand up over jester’s mouth. the touch sends a jolt through her palm, makes her heart race. she’s too aware of that bubble jester has made around herself, too aware that she just broke it. she lets her hand drop, wipes it on her knee, feeling the rasp of fabric make her skin prickle, tickle, in almost the same manner. ‘he’s in the hut, it blocks sound.’

‘oh. right.’

fifteen minutes later, owl frumpkin perched and sleeping on beau’s pack beside her, they are ready. jester sits beside her and lays out the paints. negotiates for a full minute how to sit so that she can comfortably paint beau’s face. her cheeks darken with colour as she scoots closer, darken further still when beau spreads her legs for her.

jester moves closer. her knees press to the inside of beau’s thighs and, when she reaches up to paint the first layer over beau’s face, her free hand comes to rest on the bunched tight muscle of beau’s thigh, stabilising herself.

beau swallows. it makes a dry click in her throat. she closes her eyes. tries to focus on the balmy day, the sounds of fjord and nott training in the field nearby, rather than the hand pressing on her leg or the wet tacky pull of the paint as it slowly layers on.

jester is quiet.

it strikes beau as odd a few minutes into this whole thing—and her brain sharpens, pulls her focus from the hazed, drifting she’s touching me, she smells like lavender to purpose.

beau’s eyes flutter open. wander over the look of peace, of focused intent, of muted joy as jester paints. feels acutely pinned under the force of blue eyes as jester leans in, drags the wet tip of the brush just so under her chin and along the side of her jaw to frame her face. when she pulls back, her eyes slide to meet beau’s and she smiles, crinkles her nose.

‘hi,’ she whispers.

‘hey.’

she doesn’t have any questions any more. jester looks at peace for once, and if this is what it takes, beau can provide it for her.

//

beau takes jester’s hand, guides her over the cracked and crumbling rocks down off the path. jester’s head tilts in the direction of yasha, walking slow and purposeful like a fucking death march by herself. so beau finds herself flanking the woman with jester, setting her hand on the small of yasha’s back.

//

yasha awakes in the swampy heat that rolls in before a storm. beau fumbles awake at her side. ignores yasha’s quiet offer to go back to sleep, to not worry. leans heavy against her shoulder when yasha takes her place at the fire and beau falls back to sleep like that. drools a little. yasha doesn’t seem to mind so much because as they make their second days’ march across the sulphur drenched fields toward pride’s call, yasha is a solid presence at her side.

//

beau braids jester’s hair.

puts a hand on yasha’s shoulder like she would for caleb when she haltingly tells them of her last visit to this pit, to pride’s call.

drapes her blue and brown coat around jester when she tosses and turns in a sleepless night, lays beside her with a hand on her staff, so jester knows she’s safe, knows beau is there for her.

brings jester into a tight hug when the other girl shivers, shakes, at the sight of the massacre in the pit, the rows and piles of dead bodies.

‘anyone else reminded of that arcane laboratory back in zadash? the one with the pit fjord fell into?’ beau asks, and she wraps her other arm around yasha. a silent addition. this wasn’t you.

fjord picks up on it easily, tracks where beau begins and ends, connected to both yasha and jester. he nods. ‘i was just thinking the same thing,’ he says, and nothing more.

//

they have to go through kamordah. a contact is there, or something. beau doesn’t quite know because her head fills with this buzzing, crackling sound and when she sees jester talking to her she can’t make out the words. she can feel, though, the way gentle hands take her and press her down to sitting and her heart stutters when strong arms wrap around her in a hug. her brain that never ever stops going...stops. almost sighs with relief. fingers wind and weave in her hair, scratching against her scalp. rubbing gently at her shoulders. soothing beau into sleep.

when she wakes, it is with a single thought prominent in her mind, like her brain had pieces it together while she slept and hung it there, waiting for her to return to consciousness, return to her own mind.

jester and yasha want to be touched, want to be reassured, safe, calm, soothed. and so do you.

//

touching and being touched are two very different things, beau realises, and now that she knows it, everything gets a little bit harder. she can’t stop reassuring jester and yasha—wouldn’t hurt them like that, she’s not an asshole—but every time she does there is a flicker not of resentment but something akin to it, not directed to them but to herself. want, maybe. guilt, maybe. touching isn’t the same as being touched, and beau wants someone to want to touch her, to care enough to see what she needs. it feels ungracious of her but...to give back a little of what she gives.

the closer they get to kamordah, the more beau remembers that it’s not going to happen again. she made a fool of herself, panicking, which is why they held her.

things work in particular ways. beau knows this. the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. the seasons follow in their set pattern. small fish eat smaller fish, big fish eat the smaller fish. things have their uses, their purposes.

beau doesn’t get to need things. that’s not who she is. she isn’t the one who needs a hug or a pat on the shoulder. she won’t get one, so—

a hand wriggles into her own. tries to, but beau has it clenched into a painful fist so jester wraps her hand arojnd her wrist instead, fingers curling and stroking there and over beau’s knuckles.

‘okay?’ she asks brightly, worry clear in her eyes.

beau swallows hard. her smile ticks at the corner of her mouth but doesn’t stick. ‘sure. why not, right?’

‘maybe because your family seems like shit,’ yasha says in a low, angry rumble. her hand is big and warm and it rubs up and down beau’s spine. makes beau’s stomach flip and twist, makes her breath crackle out of her on a shuddering breath. she almost steps away from the touch—it’s too much—but she’s greedy. that’s another thing beau is. smart ass, shit kicker, smart, greedy. four things that she is. she unfurls one hand. jester takes it, squeezes.

[wemultitudinous]

@hopewrought​ asked:  “You’re important too.” @ varric

100 WAYS TO SAY I LOVE YOU // ACCEPTING

He was born a storyteller.

At least, that’s the story he tells. It’s a believable one, too, elaboration and embellishment wrapped around a fine grain of truth that makes it go down smooth, palatable. Varric’s talked his way into half a hundred situations, and out of half a hundred more. He’s turned his pen to poetry and prose, he’s told stories in return for coin or profit or honest-to-maker. good old-fashioned fun.

He’s drawn to things that make good stories, so it’s no wonder that he’s ended up at Hawke’s side. It’s a hell of a story so far, and he has the feeling it’s only just begun.

He weaves the tapestry of the tale even as they live it. It’s a tale about heroes, that’s clear enough, but not in the traditional sense. It’s a tale about what it means to try and be one----and what it means to be beside one. It’s a tale about a handful of different people running from a handful of different things, and finding each other. Find a purpose too, perhaps.

And so he tucks it all away----the big, and the small. Daring raids, bloody battles, quiet card games and teasing jokes. So even when they’re simply sitting down to dinner or drinking, as they are now, wine flowing free and laughter flowing easy----

     (well, he thinks, looking at Fenris, for some more easily than others)

----even this is a part of the story. So when Hawke, speaking disdainfully about a man who tried to stiff them on a deal, says “maybe I’ll just wring his neck,” Varric hums a thoughtful sound and then shakes his head.

“Not enough poetic justice. At least wait for a more narratively satisfying juncture.”

He notices Bethany’s eyes on him, and shrugs a shoulder.

“What?” he asks. Playing dumb.

“You want to make all this into a story, don’t you?” Bethany says, slow realisation tinged with certainty on her words. Varric curves a grin at her, reaching for his cup and finding it empty; he fills it back up and tops up hers, besides.

“It’s already a story,” he corrects her. “I’m just considering writing it down. Think about it: The Ferelden refugees, one a fearless warrior and one a kind-hearted apostate. The Grey Warden. The cold-hearted runaway slave.”

“He’s not cold-hearted,” Bethany says, dutifully, though Fenris disapproves of her being a mage just as much as any of the rest. Well---almost.

“Lukewarm, then,” Varric concedes. “The Rivaini scoundrel.”

“Scoundrel!”

“You should see how she cheats at cards. Look, point is, this is a cast of characters any storyteller would dream of. And unless I miss my mark, there’ll be story enough to tell.” He takes another mouthful of wine. Bethany is watching him closely.

“You’re important too, you know,” she tells him, at last. 

For the briefest of moments, Varric is surprised. She means it, that much is clear; this is no common kindness or mere politeness.  It warms something in him, and his smile softens into something more genuine.

“You’re sweet, sunshine. But some people are there to make the story, and some of us are just there to tell it.” This is isn’t the time or the place for the gentle fondness uncurling in the cage of his ribs, and so his amusement curls into something light and familiar. “Who else will paint such a generous picture of this bunch, after all?”

Because that’s what Varric’s always been; for all his flashy showmanship, his easy charisma and his complete lack of subtlety, he’s never been at the forefront. He’s never been the happy ending, or the favourite son, or the hero. And even he’s not a good enough liar to pretend that those things don’t weigh heavily on him in his secret heart, most of the time. 

For once though, here and now, he’s all right with it, even if Bethany looks troubled.

“Don’t you worry,” he says, in attempt to soothe the slight crease of concern from her brow. “I’ve stories enough of my own. Did I ever tell you the one about the Orlesian bard, the dock-workers, and the cat----?”

It’s all part of the story----and it might not be about him, but it will be his. That’s enough.

[scarletgardensrpg]

LIVING ♦ FORTY-ONE ♦ HOUSE OF EDEN

JULIAN BUCHANAN is a powerful Resurrector affiliated with the House of Eden. He is also a high-ranking military officer for the Undead army, tasked with accompanying Doctor Kazimir on recruitment missions to scout out new soldiers and train them. Gifted with an unsurpassed ability to raise strong and loyal Undead soldiers, nearly all of the House's best and most capable Undead personnel can be accredited to Julian. He is blind in his in left eye, having forsaken it to resurrect Evander.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: cannibalism

This one, Cecile insisted, and wrapped two tiny, fat hands around his wrist, yanking it this way and that. Get this one. A smile risked revealing itself on Julian, and wordlessly, he lifted a hand, if only to brush a curl out of her face. From behind them, his mother pulled her back sharply and snapped, Don't do that to my son. The silence after, thick and uncomfortable, splintered abruptly to Cecile's wail of indignation—one loud, pitchy shriek followed by another, a vindicative tantrum if Julian had ever seen one. For God's sake— Mrs. Buchanan looked pointedly at him, as if to say, This is your fault. Though they would be Julian's hunting dogs, he had allowed Cecile to come along and help pick. At his father's reccommendation, he'd selected two Dobermanns, who, affirmed by the breeder, were the best of the litter. The one Cecile wanted, squirming blindly in his hands, looked runty and weak. As if sensing Julian's disapproval, it nipped him once on the finger. It might've been an unfriendly bite; it might've been an eager kiss. I'll take this one, too, he told the breeder.

- ❀ -

He was blessed and he was cursed. He was unspeakably beautiful and he was irredeemably brutal. He was a faithful prince knelt at the altar of God, and he was arrogant Lucifer, punished for his vainglory and plunged forevermore into darkness. The Buchanans, as it was, were a family of well-groomed scoundrels, who came away from every handshake with blood on their hands and jewels between their teeth. This was no secret: they were known liars and cheats, filthy rich southerners from money older than dirt, their greatest legacy being their aptitude for elegant barbarism. And this kingdom of rotten ambitions: it would all someday belong to one Julian Buchanan. Ah, Julian: he was, in every way, the golden heir and the favored son—a young god sitting high and mighty with his Dobermanns and black cars, his fitted suits and aristocratic drawl. He, so caustic and cold, carving out an indelicate place at the table of suits and cigars for himself; with meticulous cunning, with perfect control, with the relinquishment of any conventional morality that might've held him back. He could not have been a kind man, even if he wanted to. He could not have wanted peace, beauty, love—those were things other people might deserve. Not him.

For much of his life, Julian could draw a line dividing himself from all the rest of the world. Cecile, who soiled her reputation with a crass tongue and one expulsion after another, and Evander, who wasted his days away like a cat basking in the sun, would never understand what it meant to be a son of sons and an inheritor to empire. When his father had called on him to shake hands and make good with Barberini and van Houten, he'd listened silently to their offer. Life after life. Deathless death. Didn't he want to live forever, they asked? Didn't he want to bathe in divine glory, ascend to new heights of power, and, in true Buchanan fashion, cheat Death itself? Yes, this sort of proposition did pander to the deepest desires of all men, didn't it? And it intrigued Julian, too. The expectant look on his father's face, which remained unchanged when it became clear what would become of Cecile and Evander, instructed Julian that saying no was not an option. That was fine. He hadn't intended to. The decision was made, the damage done, and the cards of fate laid out in perfect, awful alignment: his siblings would die, so that he might live forever. He would silently watch them sign their lives away, leave for the Red Room, and hate him for all of it. That was fine, too. 

You could call it cruelty. Julian preferred calculation. He had always planned to go back for them—after the drug was perfected, and he'd tasted it, he had made plans to bring them back. Were they not his darling little sister and brother? Always, that was what he had wanted: a family, a peace, a kingdom for them to play in, and for him to rule. He had not expected Cecile to spit at his feet when they crossed paths once more, she herself a summoner of Death. He had not expected to gouge his eye out for Evander to eat, and be disobeyed still, the rare gift he’d given unaccepted and unforgiven. It stung his pride more than anything else—and in the years after, bred within him a chilling need for control, lest something slip out of his grasp and wander astray again. The Undead he raised, in owing their second lives to him, would worship his will and bend like reeds to the wind. Why shouldn’t they? Hades sat on his throne in Hell; and a thousand souls cried his name.

CONNECTIONS

SASHA – HIS FINEST CREATION.  He had found her at the beginning of the end of the world, deep in the winter pines: he, a blood-soaked hand pressed to the gash where Evander had taken his eye, had in a moment of bitter, cold impulsion pulled her from the jagged gray ice, if only to see what she would do: a rotbeest of astonishing ferocity and grace, eager for something to sink her teeth into. Come feast, then, he had commanded, mouth twisted into haughty self-satisfaction. She listened then—and she continues to listen now. Sasha, a perfect soldier in every way, is his pride and joy. She has far surpassed any other Undead soldier in prowess, in competency, in power—but of course, that is his design. He would expect nothing less from someone under his wing. Though he regards Sasha coolly, he does, in fact, feel genuine affection for her. His favoritism is subtle, but present nonetheless: a protective hand on her shoulder, little gifts and favors, difficult privileges he negotiates with Thalia to take her with him on missions, so that she might see the world. Capable and strong as she is, he sees her, in a way, as a little sister—someone to guide and care for, someone to mentor and protect. Didn't know you liked to play house, Thalia mocks. Don't tell Cecile. And of course, there is some truth to that, too. Maybe he's playing out an odd fantasy. Maybe he just likes being looked at like a righteous man—God knows his real family sees him as anything but. 

CECILE & EVANDER – I DREAMED. He had wanted to love them both, once: to build them a palace of gold and rubies and, with a wave of his hand, fulfill their every want and need. He could still do it, if they'd only let him. But, alas, his siblings have always been...difficult. Julian would say it's complicated, but it really isn't. Cecile bares her teeth and wrath to him at every opportunity she can, with no softness to spare—her jabs childish and incessant, her anger inexhaustible and nearly incoherent. Certainly, forgiveness is out of the question, though Julian feels he has nothing to be sorry for. He had only ever wanted good things for her; but she, proud and unwilling to accept his help, refused time and time again to listen to reason and stand down. With his sister, Julian has largely forfeited his efforts. Instead, he harbors greater hopes for Evander: young and clever, his little brother had once looked to Julian as a bloom to the sun—and though now he offers him nothing but forlorn gazes that simmer with quiet accusations, Julian knows they are tied too closely together for Evander to ever simply walk away. Someday, Evander will understand. They are blood brothers, and, whether Evander can stomach the truth of it yet or not, he walks the Earth now thanks to Julian. 

NEEVE – QUEEN OF THE DEAD. She is exquisite and nonsensical: a woman who courts death as if it were her lover, and strains her neck over the dark floors of Tartarus with playful, admiring tenderness. Despite their mirrored positions as Resurrectors of the House, they disagree fundamentally on how to handle the Undead: where he treats them like as a general might treat his men, willing himself to hold his creations at a cool arm's length, she chooses instead to surrender, to get up close and intimate, to love them as a mother to some, a mentor to others. It's an eccentric pedagogy, Julian asserts, but one that works. The Undead fear him, but they adore her. Neeve is, truthfully, someone he has never known the likes of before—and though he is reluctant to admit it, the intrusive warmth she insists on bringing into his life is not an unwelcome one, merely unfamiliar. She dances in fields of hair and bone, and expects him to partake in her strange, strange celebrations. He will not—but she is lovely to watch, indeed. 

OPEN ♦ FC: CILLIAN MURPHY

[otisadams]

Bankrupt: The Story of Donald Trump

Below is an excerpt from Presidential: America’s Great Non Sequitur by Otis Adams.  The paperback is available at Amazon.com.  E-mail pithbooks@gmail.com to be notified when the audio book is available.

Buy Presidential by Otis Adams here.

Bankrupt By Otis Adams

 President Trump’s ascendance to the White House as a Republican is truly baffling.  He is a middling businessman whose success came from inherited wealth, a reprobate by Christian standards, admires the Republican hobgoblin Vladimir Putin, champions the use of tariffs that are typically a tool used by Democrats…and he became the Republican nominee for President of the United States?

         The Republican Party is both the party of business and the party of Jesus.  This is a peculiar and conflicted marriage on a normal day, but how did Donald Trump become the choice for either group?  

 God’s Man

         Let us begin our two-part investigation into the Trump mystery with those among us who are most prone to singing with closed eyes.

         Christians have embraced Trump.  If this were not so, he would not be the president.  Many seem to do so with the childlike faith that God will excuse their votes if they were cast with a held nose.  Others, those with that boundless talent for belief, have elevated Trump to the cast of God-chosen biblical leaders.  

         Trump has not only reformed the philosophy of the Republican Party, but has done some remodeling work for American protestant Christianity.  For instance, President Donald J. Trump has rekindled a bit of the interest Christians once had in the Bible by autographing a few.  You too can own your own Trump autographed Bible for $325.

I have written and said for years that we are in the midst of a Second Reformation. Protestants, whose forefathers rebuked the authority of the clergy in favor of the infallible authority of the Bible, are now altogether adrift as they are no longer tethered to the Bible either.  Authority now resides with each individual’s interpretation of their own emotions.

This, I am certain, adds to the agility of the historically adaptable faith as there is no way to debate a believer’s beliefs if they don’t know what they are.  

The modern Christian’s ignorance of Christianity is not a hindrance to church attendance as an abundance of professed believers can be found serenading the Lord in every American town and city on Sunday mornings.    

This newish breed of dingbat is however doing damage to democracy and traditional American ideals and aspirations.  The most obvious evidence of this is that Christians elected former game show host and WWE Hall of Famer Donald J. Trump to preside over the United States of America…and afterward shifted blame by claiming this was God’s will.

If Christians are playing by the (Good) book, they are not allowed to be dazzled by the wealth of the wealthy.  Their concern is to be the teachings of Jesus. Jesus, who turned over the money changing tables.  Jesus, who told the rich man to sell all that he has, give it to the poor, and follow him. Jesus, who said a camel can more easily pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man can enter the gates of Heaven.

Trump’s cupidity, for centuries a disgusting sin in the eyes of Christians, is now a virtue. That the Bible says this love of money is the root of all evil is of no consequence.  The Bible is of little concern to the modern confused Christian. Neither do traditional elements of good character cross the mind.    

Christians are supposed to favor truth over lies.  Yet, they nominated and then voted in the millions for the most prolific liar in the history of the American presidency.  His demonstrable lie tally since becoming President recently rocketed past the 13,400 mark.

Christians are meant to be concerned with integrity but deflect any responsibility for handing the reins of power to a scoundrel who repeatedly cheated on his wives with pornographic actresses and nude models.  

Instead, they twist and contort their own beliefs in order to make room for Trump.  They pervert the New Testament teachings on forgiveness as a free pass to avoid any effort at attempting a virtuous life.  They draw tortured equivalencies between Paul of Tarsus and Donald Trump, pretending that infrequent mentions of God in speeches to religious groups is not bald pandering, but a sinner striving to repent and get right with his maker.  They circulate false equivalencies with Trump playing the role of King David and Stormy Daniels being a breast-augmented version of Bathsheba, apparently substituting Trump’s lies and cover up of the affair for David’s repentance and dead son.

I was shocked when I first heard a variation of the argument that the President of the United States needn’t be a Boy Scout to get the job done. I have since heard this a couple dozen times from Christians I went to church with growing up, who now divorce integrity, accountability, and moral fortitude from the list of qualifications for leadership.

In another vertigo-inducing example my 60-year-old mother, who has gone to church for 60 of her 60 years, describes herself as a “Trump girl”.  I tried to tell her some of the scandalous things Trump has said and she scolded me for using that language in her house.  I showed her the nude photos America’s First Lady posed for and she said, “Well, she is a really pretty lady.”

I keep waiting to hear a Rod Serling voiceover emanating from the heavens as he explains my plight in the Twilight Zone.

In an effort to lend a hand to those confused Christians I find using social media, I’ll review the story in which Jesus said the one without sin could cast the first stone.  This was the scene in which Jesus was writing in the dirt, deep in thought about something else as I recall.  The neighborhood watch dragged a woman over to Jesus and accused her of adultery and asked something along the lines of, “Hey, you want us to start throwing rocks at her?” Jesus then somewhat encouraged the Socratic tenet of living an examined life by requiring the rock hurlers be sinless.

The point Jesus was trying to get across was that throwing rocks at an adulteress until she’s dead was not an equitable response to her actions.  We might intuit that violence is a poor answer to another’s mistakes.  It is also fair to glean, from this and other New Testament scenes, that Jesus wanted us to look at our own motivations and actions before examining others.

However, he absolutely was not suggesting that a person’s character is meaningless and we should make the adulteress the leader of the free world.  

         The cognitive shenanigans American Christians are willing to engage in to scoot their belief in God aside to make room enough for Trump causes me to wonder if they actually buy into those claimed beliefs. If they truly think they will stand before God one day and explain why they granted power to this man, twisting Biblical teachings to do so, and making him an example for an entire generation of children.  

Surely arguments of ending abortion would fall short before such a judge as all the other Republican candidates were pro-life. Winning the Supreme Court for conservatives is another whimpering effort as Marco Rubio is unlikely to have nominated Bob Dillon and Gloria Steinem as replacement justices if he had won the Presidency.  

Hillary Clinton was the most beatable Democratic nominee in my lifetime and American Christians had several candidates to choose from to go and do it.  Without Christian support, Trump could not have won the nomination.  After getting him nominated, Christians then maneuvered to the position that it was a choice between two evils and Trump was the lesser of them, clumsily trying to shed responsibility for making him the nominee.

         Instead of acting as armor, the faith of American Christians was somehow transmuted into a religious faith in Trump.  It is almost as though being people of faith made them vulnerable to Trump, priming them to believe in the unbelievable.  They support Trump with disembodied faith that is no longer coupled with the traditional morality of the religion in which it was born.

         There is a growing bit of data to support this notion that the faithful are more gullible than the faithless, though the report card doesn’t look great for either class.

The number of Americans who can’t discern fact from opinion or something that’s known from something believed is staggering.  Millions of people who grew up going to American schools and living in towns and cities with public libraries have opted not to gather any of the logic skills that have been within arm’s reach their entire lives.  Instead, knowing something has become the finish line for belief rather than an entirely separate category. Regardless, knowing something does not mean believing it a whole lot.

         Pew Research Center findings suggest that American adults would benefit a great deal from asking a second grade teacher for a few of those worksheets where you circle facts and underline opinions. Only about a quarter of American adults could successfully identify the five factual statements among the list of ten they were asked to look at.  For those who do not trust the media’s honesty, the number falls to 18%.  

         The confusion Americans have over the definitions of fact and opinion were brought into the light by the research.  It shows, with overwhelming clarity, that believers are ravaged by the disease of the brain called Confirmation Bias.  They set up their conclusion first, then they call information they find supportive of that conclusion a fact while counterevidence is, at best, an opinion.

         This perversion of faith is evident among most of the Christians I know and even the preachers who are televised on Sunday mornings. Never mind the small scolding Jesus gave Thomas for seeking evidence, or the Bible’s repeated dismissal of knowledge and exaltation of faith.  Never mind that if something is knowable there is no option for belief, only acknowledgment.  These Second Reformation Christians have broken away from the authority of the Bible as Protestants broke with the clergy. They instead give their own interpretation of their own emotions at any given moment the dizzying authority of the true word and will of God.  As the Bible falls out of fashion for American Christians, so too does the value of faith – or even the understanding of what the word means.  Instead, they will say, without hesitation, that they know this or that about God and his will.

The faith a third of American’s have in Donald Trump is akin to deity worship in some ways.  Anything Trump does is good by virtue of Trump having been the one to do it.  Any reporting of his misdeeds is viewed as the enemy of the deity trying to confuse his loyal followers, as Satan confused Eve, and should be met with plugged ears and closed eyes.  The faithful await word from the deity’s spokesperson, Pope Sarah Huckabee Sanders so that they can hear and memorize the words of the deity and go forth and multiply, repeating Trump’s teachings throughout the day to non-believers.  If he says something that sounds bad, the flock will work together to explain what he meant by what he said, and it’s sure to be something good.  If a longtime Republican politician opposes Trump, they’re RINO heretics.  Anyone who disagrees with Trumpians are guilty of persecuting the flock.

         Republican leadership has discovered that repurposed Christian faith is a useful leash for millions of voters.  While some of these faithful are only people of average intelligence with a talent for willful self-delusion, it is also evident that there must be many millions of Americans with a genuine inability to distinguish truth from lie, fact from opinion, or reliable source from unreliable.  Nothing is gained from, and there’s something vicious about, mocking this latter group.  While the willfully self-deluded earn the bruising quips sent their way, a person without the ability to do the job should be offered patience and sympathy.

         Let’s run through a few examples of how faith has been used as a tool for manipulating voters.

         In 2012 the Associated Press conducted a survey that revealed that more than 40% of Americans believed the new health care bill included death panels.  The basis for this belief was a claim made by Reverend Sarah Palin, who invented an Orwellian Democratic scheme to create a panel of folks who would be in charge of whether to kill elderly parents or children with developmental disabilities in order to save on medical costs.

Before becoming President, Trump himself made enormous political headway by yanking on that faith leash as he championed the lie that President Obama is not a citizen of the United States.  In the lie’s heyday, about three-quarters of Republicans either agreed or weren’t sure. Over 40% of Republicans still believed Obama was secretly a Muslim in 2015.  

         Millions of Republican voters believe that Hillary Clinton had a side-gig of running a child sex ring out of a pizzeria basement in Washington D.C.  Trump, as the conspiracy theory goes, quietly began the heroic work of taking down these sex rings and bringing the celebrities and democrats responsible to justice immediately after taking office!

         These are good examples of believing on faith alone as twenty minutes of research, supposing common sense did not dismiss the absurd claims immediately, would reveal facts dispelling the lies above. Instead, they take their preacher’s word on it and see evidence to the contrary as stumbling blocks placed in their paths by the great deceiver, the mainstream media.

         Christians have butted heads with science for centuries, since evidence-based discoveries began disproving elements of papal teachings. This became another handy vulnerability for the Christian’s party mates, the businessmen, to exploit.  As the leadership in corporations that make money off things that cause harmful emissions started to get nervous, they found the solution of sending out Christian soldiers to roll their eyes at Global Warming any time it snows.  Beleaguered climate scientists, aware that this misunderstanding was more likely mischief than ignorance, began using the term Climate Change.

         When I was in high school their position was that Global Warming was not taking place at all.  Christians, with their marching orders, repeated this wholeheartedly in their daily lives.  A few years later this argument began sounding so absurd that the pundits shifted to the idea that maybe Global Warming was happening but it wasn’t any more caused by mankind than the last ice age.  Christians broke into new denominations.  Some held the line while others fell back to the new trench and pretended they had been there all along.  

The new position that’s popular today is that Global Warming is probably taking place, and maybe human activity has slightly contributed, but we have passed the tipping point and should not do anything that risks the economy in the name of a problem that needed action twenty years ago… back when they said it wasn’t real.

         The eager faith of American Christians and their predilection for opposing scientific discoveries when they move too closely to things that are believed made them a useful tool for the business side of the party.  When the decision was to either acknowledge the findings of a staggering number of scientific studies or believe a few conservative radio and TV talk show hosts, they chose the latter without hesitation.  They were well prepared to believe in often ridiculous lies about the opposing party while ignoring glaring truths about Trump.      

Those Christians who want to collapse the separation of Church and State should recognize this separation is not in place only to protect the state. American Christianity could not even survive, in any recognizable form, after mingling with a single political party. Instead, they lost themselves.

         Christians are mandated to have compassion for the poor, though they have become sycophants of the rich.  Christians ought to feel an empathic pain when they see a toddler pulled from his mother’s arms at the border as an added deterrent for illegal immigration, though they shrug and call them criminals.  Christians are meant to insist that leaders be devoted husbands, free of the filth of greed, not prideful, above reproach, honest, good tempered, patient, kind, and charitable.

Unfortunately, American Christians have abandoned their post.

 A Modern-Day Vanderbilt

As we rang in the New Year, 2019, the stock market was plummeting. The American government entered a shutdown for the third time in a year, a feat that had not been accomplished for decades.  The national debt reached its highest mark in the history of the nation.  Trump had been President for 24 months.

         Trump’s reputation as a self-made billionaire who rose to the top thanks to the buoyancy of his business genius is mostly a fiction manufactured by him.  Donald Trump has reportedly been the longtime clown prince of America’s wealthy since the 1980’s, often the butt of jokes at parties on yachts where I imagine women smoke cigarettes in those Cruella de Vil cigarette things and men exchange tips on how to improve their croquet games.  Among America’s top businessmen, Trump was a punchline.

         Trump’s business acumen is only impressive to those who are ignorant of his record beyond what they have read on magazine covers. Often, he made it into those magazines through self-promotion and a bit of trickery.

         John Barron is one of the characters Trump would play to promote himself in telephone calls to reporters and columnists. (Trump’s alias John Miller was in charge of calling gossip magazines.)  This alter-ego can be heard in taped recordings talking to Forbes reporter John Greenberg in an effort to get Trump on the magazine’s list of richest Americans.  Trump had been lobbying to get on the list since its inception a few years before and winced as it reported his wealth as being a fraction of what he had been boasting publicly.  Even so, Trump’s smoke and mirrors apparently benefitted him as the magazine determined he had $100 million.  Greenberg says that he now regrets the mistake as new research proves that at the time Trump had about $5 million.

         On a side note, the choice of creating an alter-ego named Barron gives some insight on Trump’s psyche.  Perhaps he sees himself as a baron from feudal times in Europe or a cattle baron from the 19th century American West.  In any event, he likes the name well enough to give it to himself when prank calling magazines and he gave the name to his youngest son as well.

         Trump wanted to be thought of as an American billionaire, regardless of having $5 million.  “Fake it until you make it,” might be a good credo for the Donald. The tactic he used was to try and confuse reporters as to how much of his father’s wealth now belonged to him. While Trump privately tried to convince magazines that he owned what belonged to his father, he publicly pushed the idea that his father gave him a small loan to get him started, but the rest of his success was well-earned.  

         By the 1990’s Trump was in fact extremely rich. He gained an enormous amount of wealth by joining with his siblings to create a fake corporation, its purpose being to, “disguise millions of dollars in gifts from their parents,” The New York Times reported.  He also helped dear old Dad evade millions of dollars in taxes by lying about the value of assets they held and advising the old man to take deductions illegally.  The tax fraud saved the Trumps more than $500 million.

         Donald Trump deftly played this shell game, wanting the public to think he was a self-made billionaire due to his swashbuckling brilliance in crafting deals, trying to convince magazines he was super-rich because he inherited daddy’s real estate empire, and telling the IRS he was living paycheck to paycheck.

         His mischief paid off though.  In today’s dollars, Trump was able to leach off over $400 million from his father’s empire to keep for himself.

         While Trump has had business successes, his numerous failures keep him off the list of the great businessmen he wants the public to believe he is the champion of.

         Former Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney provided a damning list of failures in his famous speech urging his party to choose a more qualified nominee in 2016.  He said, “But you say, wait.  Isn’t he a huge business success?  Doesn’t he know what he’s talking about?  No, he isn’t and no he doesn’t.  His bankruptcies have crushed small businesses and the men and women who work for them.  He inherited his business.  He didn’t create it.  And whatever happened to Trump Airlines?  How about Trump University?  And then there’s Trump Magazine, and Trump Vodka, and Trump Steaks, and Trump Mortgage. A business genius he is not.”  

         How the Republicans morphed from the party that nominated the upright Romney in 2012 into the one who nominated the degenerate Trump in 2016 is baffling, but the former champion of the GOP was swiftly villainized by Republicans for truthfully reciting Trump’s resume.  His loyalty to Republican policies and commitment to ideals of at least attempting to have strong character were rewarded with accusations of being a traitor.

Trump’s philosophy in life is that reality is the story he presents and truth does not exist.  Trump acolyte Kellyanne Conway revealed these teachings as she told Meet the Press’s Chuck Todd about, “alternative facts”. That Trump successfully sold himself as a modern day Vanderbilt, Carnegie, or Rockefeller to those voters enamored by the rich might unfortunately prove his philosophy of deceit as a workable path to success.  He was awarded the nomination over far more qualified Republican candidates.

It is part of Trump’s standard operating procedures to boast, even about failures.  His loss of the popular vote to Hillary Clinton is an example.  There he claimed voter fraud, without any evidence. Without this imaginary voter fraud, he would have won with record-breaking numbers.  His approach to business is much the same as he describes his bankruptcies as just smart business decisions that are commonly made by high rollers such as himself.  To support my claim that he is nothing more than a middling businessman whose success relied upon inheriting much of his father’s vast wealth, let’s look more closely at these bankruptcies.  

Tax records revealed in 2019 that Trump took a billion dollar loss between 1985 and 1994.  From 1990 to 1991 he was number one in the country in losses, more than doubling the hit taken by the nation’s second biggest loser.  As with the bankruptcies, Trump dismissed the story as smart business decisions that common people would not understand.

What is a bit more difficult to dismiss is that in 1990 Trump’s hotels, casinos, and airline were performing so poorly that they could not even cover the interest owed to the dozens of banks who loaned the future president money.  For Trump this could have meant bankruptcy.  Lucky for Trump though, it also would have meant heavy losses for those banks.  The banks decided to loan him another $65 million to keep him from missing his payment deadlines.  One cost of the loan was that Trump had to surrender managing control of his companies to the banks, who expected that Trump would spend the time they bought him to sell enough of his properties to pay them back.

Even after all this, Trump’s three casinos filed for bankruptcy. The Plaza Hotel had to do the same in 1992 and the banks took many of his remaining assets.  Trump would have had to file personal bankruptcy, damaging the fiction he was presenting to the public during these years, but the banks worked with him and his father gave him money to prevent it.

         It was because of these enormous failures that Trump was locked out of the big business deals he had been attempting. Instead, he began selling his name. The lie he had been telling about his legendary business genius somehow endured these setbacks that would have been crippling had his father not saved him.  He has been selling that lie ever since.

RINO

         The typical routine for candidates in both parties used to be to drift toward the extreme side of your party to get the nomination because that is where those eager enough to vote in primaries lived. Then the job for running for president was truly a race back toward the center, where most Americans lived, before the election.  

         When I was a kid, my neighbors had a two-party household.  My father, raised by a democrat mother and republican father, was a republican and my mother went along with it without having any real partisan convictions I can recall at that time.  Even so, we frequently got visits from my mother’s democrat friend and her pro-union husband.  My dad would grumble, “Those people are idiots,” before they arrived, and then for the next three hours I would watch television while they played cards at the kitchen table.  In those days, my home state earned its nickname as the Show-Me State because neither political party had Missouri in its pocket.  The nominees had to prove themselves.

         Those days have gone, though I hope not forever.

         Today, the parties have moved so far apart that the distance naturally creates more distance.  It used to be that a president could expect his fellow party mates in Congress to support him 60-70% of the time.  By the time of Obama’s presidency that party loyalty was closer to 90%, and has topped 90% with Trump.  The once commonplace pro-life Democrat, for example, is now seen as repugnant by both parties and is quickly shamed into compliance or shunned – as religious communities often deal with heretics.

         Being in the political center is now mocked by newcomers like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who frames having centrist views as a symptom of having no convictions about America’s future.  

         The right also pushes this fiction that the greatness of your patriotism will be shown by how extreme your political views are. Conservatives shame people away from the center in many ways, but one of them is with the term RINO.  This stands for republican in name only.  

         Once some tipping point in recent decades was reached, the widening of the partisan divide took on some characteristics of a perpetual motion machine.  If Republicans took a step to the right, Democrats took a step to the left.  Each time one party moved farther from the center, the other party responded in kind.  

Center-left and center-right voters find few options. If you considered yourself a Democrat but voted for Ronald Reagan, you still voted for someone who agreed with you on about 80% of the issues.  To cross over now might mean voting for someone who disagrees with you on 80% of the issues that are important to you because politicians are fleeing from the center.  

         This divide and team sports mentality means that voters are no longer considering the character of the person running for office as they once did.  Instead, they are more and more voting for their team, regardless of the individual wearing the jersey.  The party leads the people.

         There are several popular explanations for how the Republican Party went against its own established principles to nominate Trump, and then how the nation went on to elect him.  They range from angry voters trying to teach Washington D.C. a lesson to angry voters trying to tell Democrats to get back to helping the working person.  These are not robust enough explanations to satisfy, and I am afraid I will not be offering my own guess.  

I will say, however, that in 2016 the Republican Party chose a RINO as their nominee.  This indicates to me that it is not only agreement with a nominee that leads to their winning the White House, but that voters’ revulsion toward that nominee’s opponent that motivates.  To put it more directly, voters have become so saturated with the poison of partisan loyalty that they were going to the polls to vote against Clinton, which they would have done no matter who her opponent was.

         My calling Trump a RINO does not mean that I consider him a centrist.  He is not genuinely left, center, or right politically – and at the same time he has been each of these things over the course of his life.  He is whatever works.  If Trump had seen a clearer path to becoming president as a Stalin Communist, he would have told his people to find Ivan Drago and talk him into being his running mate.  

By calling him a RINO, I am just saying that he won the Republican nomination, but does not keep with long held Republican ideals.  By this point, it would likely be more accurate to say that the party itself has shifted to meet Trump, transforming its claimed ideals so that it can fit around the president.

There was a movement of a sort when it began to look as if Trump might be the nominee.  These Republicans called themselves Never Trumpers.  This amounted to an enormous portion of established Republican politicians when it seemed like a safe bet that he would never become president. After he became president, the Never Trump movement lost a lot of momentum, but many soldier on in defense of what the GOP was before Trump.

From time to time a petition or letter signed by a few dozen preachers standing up to Trump will make the news, but they have little lasting impact.  Christians who are not moved by immigrants having their children taken away from them and held in detention centers are not likely to feel their spirits stirred by a petition.

One effort from a Christian magazine did hold a spot in the headlines for a few days.  Christianity Today, held in high regard by some believers because of its ties to the late Billy Graham, published a very clear rebuke of Trump concerning his impeachment.

“The typical Christianity Today approach is to stay above the fray and allow Christians with different political convictions to make their arguments in the public square… (We want to be) a place that welcomes Christians from across the political spectrum, and remind everyone that politics is not the end and purpose of our being… But the facts in this instance are unambiguous: The president of the United States attempted to use his political power to coerce a foreign leader to harass and discredit one of the president’s political opponents. That is not only a violation of the Constitution; more importantly, it is profoundly immoral.  The reason many are not shocked about this is that this president has dumbed down the idea of morality in his administration.  He has hired and fired a number of people who are now convicted criminals.  He himself has admitted to immoral actions in business and his relationships with women, about which he remains proud.  His Twitter feed alone – with its habitual string of mischaracterizations, lies, and slanders – is a near perfect example of a human being who is morally lost and confused.”

It did not take long for most Christians to forget the article, though it was an overdue stance from a significant Christian periodical and the magazine should be proud to have taken it.  

         The National Review is the conservative magazine that taught Ronald Reagan Reaganomics. It is safe to say that when they took their early stance against Trump being nominated to lead the party, they believed they still held a good deal of influence over voters.  As they tried to draw comparisons between Trump and Obama, it seems that not many were listening.

         The rise of Trump also marks the moment the main body of Republican voters broke with Republican intellectuals.  This could hardly have come as a surprise to those intellectuals.  The growing disdain for experts on the far right as well as the spreading virus of baseless hubris among those voters had been obvious to anyone paying attention. These are the voters who know more about current events than the press.  They understand climate science better than climate scientists.  Their Google-powered research makes their conclusions about vaccines more valid than that of the world’s community of medical doctors.  Their opinions are stronger than facts and their beliefs can withstand any evidence. What use could such a group as the far right have for conservative thinkers like George Will when they have emotion and intuition to guide them?

         Susan B. Glasser wrote an interesting article for the New Yorker in March, 2020 following the efforts of Never Trump Republican Sarah Longwell.  In part, the article describes some of the organized groups attempting to hold to traditional Republican principles, and how their disobedience infuriates the president who warns, “Watch out for them, they are human scum!”  Longwell’s hope is to build a coalition of the center and she hopes that Joe Biden can represent this.  Her hope beyond this is that, as after the Nixon debacle, the Republican Party can take the following four years to redefine itself.

         After Trump was the nominee, Longwell began feeling very lonely as her allies hopped over the line to join the New Republican Party. As the 2020 Presidential Election grows near, Longwell has found allies like George Conway and the Lincoln Project, and continues trying to make her case to likely voters.

         The aroma of petrichor is in the air as signs of a rejuvenating rain begin to mount. The avalanche of Trump’s scandals and embarrassments seem to vex reasonable Republicans who ignored them two years ago.  The very early polls suggest that Joe Biden could win comfortably against Trump in November, in part because he is not reviled by the right in the way Hillary Clinton is, and so his nomination may not ignite the same fire in Republicans.

         If the historical mistake of Donald Trump is corrected in November, we should keep in mind that the 30% of Americans who make up his base will remain.  They are the ones who showed themselves in a poll released yesterday, in which 70% of Americans were in favor of mail-in voting for November’s Presidential Election in order to protect lives from Covid-19.  The remaining 30% are not moved by the elderly poll workers who are distressed by the idea of risking their lives.  Instead, they either understand that the fewer people allowed to vote, the better Trump’s chances for re-election, or else they are so gullible that they can be manipulated by claims of mail-in ballots leading to a rigged election absent any evidence.

         People who are happy to undermine American Democracy, whether it be through the meddling of a foreign government or homespun ways to keep people from voting, have likely always been around but were too weakly organized to derail America.  Supposing Biden does win over the financially and morally bankrupt Trump, we will still have to wait to see if the reasonable center has been restored well enough to dominate the extremes in a lasting way.

         The checks and balances built into the foundations of our government by our Founding Fathers have remained intact, though they have been damaged in the Trump years.  It is naïve to take for granted that American Democracy will endure no matter how irresponsible the American people.  We have been reminded many times throughout our history that America is an experiment that can either succeed or fail.  America can only continue unbroken if each generation keeps it until passing it to the next.  

         The adults in the center must regain control of the children on the edges or our future might read like Lord of the Flies.

[rileychester]

Things are still touchy with Louise and Ben, even though I do think they do love each other.

She’s going to be devastated when she finds out the truth about Keanu. She thinks he’s so wonderful and has definitely drank the kool-aid while wearing her rose colored glasses. It’s going to cut her swift, when she realizes what a scoundrel that Keanu really is.

I can see her blowing up at Sharon and Keanu, but later going off on her own to wallow in private about the mess her life has become.

I hope they show a sibling scene with Ben and Louise after the reveal. Where he comes upon her while she’s by herself and she warns him, she doesn’t want “I told you so” lecture from Ben about Keanu. And he makes a joke, saying, “of course not, I’m saying that one for dad.” As he comes over trying to cheer her up by telling a few jokes.

And Ben is actually kind to Louise about her love being a liar, cheat, and boring lump of wood. That he sees she’s hurting and reels himself in because he knows she needs him to be in her corner as her brother and not to make things worse.

[simone-boccanegra]

Carlo, Eboli, Tatyana, Simon Boccanegra (of course), and wild card bass or bass-baritone (you decide).

Carlo

Best trait: passionateWorst trait: unhingedOTP: RodrigoWithin-opera BROTP: also RodrigoCross-opera BROTP: WertherPeople this character needs to stay away from at all costs: Filippo, Grand Inquisitor, EboliHeadcanon(s): he loves Rodrigo so much (is that even a headcanon?) What I imagine this character looks like: smol, fragile, black hair, dark eyesF, M, or K?: FUnpopular opinion: noneOther miscellaneous thoughts: frankly should take Elisabetta’s “why don’t you kill your father” unironically. like what are they gonna do. he’s the king now, whoops

Eboli

Best trait: actually has a good heartWorst trait: jealous and doesn’t think things throughOTP: ElisabettaWithin-opera BROTP: TebaldoCross-opera BROTP: AmnerisPeople this character needs to stay away from at all costs: RodrigoHeadcanon(s): biWhat I imagine this character looks like: tall, dark hair, fierce, has eyepatch!, hot af, killer eyelinerF, M, or K?: FUnpopular opinion: noneOther miscellaneous thoughts: what does she even see in Carlo when Elisabetta is Right There

Tatiana

Best trait: smartWorst trait: a bit reckless but grows it outOTP: GreminWithin-opera BROTP: LenskyCross-opera BROTP: CharlottePeople this character needs to stay away from at all costs: Onegin tbhHeadcanon(s): when Onegin inevitably dies soon after the finale she sips tea and says “unfortunate”What I imagine this character looks like: dark hair, grey eyes, rather petiteF, M, or K?: M (best waifu)Unpopular opinion: noneOther miscellaneous thoughts: I hope she’s happy with Gremin. he’s such a sweet and loving man.

Simon 

Best trait: kind and forgivingWorst trait: too trustingOTP: Maria (also kinda crackship with Fiesco)Within-opera BROTP: FiescoCross-opera BROTP: Hans SachsPeople this character needs to stay away from at all costs: PaoloHeadcanon(s): he’s depressed. the amount of times he expresses a death wish is rather high even if we dismiss it as “opera character exaggerating”.What I imagine this character looks like: no matter what Gobbi says I imagine him as medium height. I like when Fiesco towers over him. Warm brown or hazel eyes, luscious wavy hair. Usually beard. Goes from brown to greyish hair during the time skip. I think in private he dresses like a modest citizen to contrast his fancy official robes. (In modern stagings he should switch to something comfy and casual from Act II onwards. Definitely not the type to wear a suit at home. Give him jeans and a soft jumper or something.) Looks very huggable.F, M, or K?: MUnpopular opinion: noneOther miscellaneous thoughts: he deserved so much better :( 

hmmm let’s do 

Wotan

Best trait: he’s aware of his failings (after a while)Worst trait: thief, liar, cheating bastardOTP: no one really... he fucks around but I doubt he actually loves any of his flings, and he certainly doesn’t love his wifeWithin-opera BROTP: Loge, sort ofCross-opera BROTP: Filippo, Boris, other Sad Bass typesPeople this character needs to stay away from at all costs: Alberich, FrickaHeadcanon(s): he has so many Issues he needs not one therapist but a whole army of them What I imagine this character looks like: tall, majestic, really nice hair (it goes grey by the time he’s Wanderer), beard (mandatory), a nasty looking scarred mess where missing his eye used to be (no eyepatch, or he removes it in Walküre), I kinda prefer him dressed 19th century styleF, M, or K?: K, he wants to die anywayUnpopular opinion: he’s quite the scoundrel. he plays the cool god but he’s practically a criminal. Other miscellaneous thoughts: I can’t really take traditional costume Rings seriously. if they had practical armour and pretty costumes, but NO. they tend to look funny. 

[visionmarred-archive]

💰 for Nadine and Benyssa; ☄️ for Sidane and Perry; ⚖️ for Vanyla and Atreyan; 🎁 for Ramori and Leeva.

Thank you!! :) Answer under the cut because it’s kinda long, lol.

💰 If your OC had all the money they could ask for what would they do with it? Where would they go and what would they buy? Are they the only one who benefits from this wealth?

Nadine: Her family gets out of the Alienage, for starters. Or at least they get a better home, and they’re able to buy protection from the shems that would accost them in their daily life. Her family would share the wealth, naturally, and probably the whole of the Alienage. Actually, life in the Alienage would improve in general, and any shemlen who hurt her people would actually have to pay for it.Also, cookbooks and spices from countries all over Thedas.

Benyssa: Her family gets out of Orzammar and has something better on the surface. I figure pre-Blight Ben wouldn’t care to share that wealth with anybody but Rica and Leske, tbh, but post-Blight, Leliana too. She’d use the money to travel as far as she wants to once Rica (and her mother, and Endrin Jr.) are provided for.

☄️ Does your OC believe in fate and destiny or do they think it’s a load of garbage? Would they ever get this fortune told? What would a fortune-teller tell them about their future?

Sidane: They do, but only because there’s figures in history that were said to be able to see the future. They don’t think about it much in their day-to-day life… though they did have lament the hand fate dealt them after the final battle, when Morrigan left with their unborn child and they discovered their sight would never recover.I’m not sure what a fortune teller would tell them, tbh? Maybe something cryptic about how they “leave a trail of hearts behind them, but love would find them and leave them in the dust.” :P They’d absolutely go see one! For fun, if nothing else.

Perry: Definitely not. Unlike her sibling, she doesn’t buy that those historical figures actually had prophetic gifts, and she thinks there’s just not a lot of proof to actually validate that being a proper form of magic. She’d only be willing to go visit a fortune teller if Sidane or Zevran talked her into it; I figure her fortune teller would probably give her the unheeded advice to slow down for five minutes, and that “you will find success, but not the type you’re imagining.”

⚖️ What is the biggest crime your OC has committed? Are they a theif, a cheat, a liar? What is the smallest, most petty crime they’ve committed? Or do they not do crime at all?

Vanyla: In a universe where she isn’t the Warden, she gets a reputation as something of a scoundrel for various crimes in smaller towns in Ferelden. They basically amount to theft and assault, and her intent behind them generally amounted to Robin Hood reasons. Steal from the rich, give to the poor, protect the innocent - she grows up and becomes a lot more empathetic in either universe, I like to imagine.Warden!Vanyla’s only got the major crime of being accused of killing Cailan, but… well, she did do the crime spree quests in Denerim. :^D

Atreyan: His answer is going to be boring - a Trey of either stripe would probably have assault on his record, and like his twin, in defense of somebody else. Warden!Trey also has to deal with Loghain framing him for the death of Cailan, but aside from those two, that’s about it.

🎁 What would be the perfect gift to buy your OC? What would be the worst gift? Are they themselves any good at gifting things or are they really indescisive? How do they wrap their presents?

Ramori: She really likes pretty gothic clothing, but especially stockings. I figure that one of her big companion gifts would be a set of stockings with intricate stitching and skeletal designs; a major approval loss would be anything to do with fire or spiders. Ram’s incredibly perceptive and remembers small details about her loved ones, and she makes for an excellent gift giver, but she’ll never bother to wrap those presents.

Leeva: Chocolate would be a perfect gift! She tries it for the first time during the Blight and falls in love with it, and has a small, personal goal of tasting chocolate from all over Thedas. An amazing way to lose approval would be anything Andrastian that would try to convert her to the Maker, she’d find it a major offense and disrespect to her and her people. Like Ramori, she’s not going to bother wrapping the presents; unlike Ramori, she’s terrible with giving gifts and only gets lucky in terms of remembering the really big stuff her friends mention.