#silt blasphemy

[nana-glass-chillhop-radio-hour]

Can anyone think of a benevolent parent fugure in TSV? Hayward's mom, maybe? Like. Nana Glass and Dennis are complicated. But is every other parent like. Arguably neglectful or outright abusive. And the Trawlerman is clearly chaotic evil.

[woodlouseonastring]

i would pay money to see hayward acting like that actually

[catwyk]

silt versing now heres my immediate thoughts

"rejoice! the authorities are on their way" love the blending of the mundane and divine i eat it up every single time

faulkner so silly messing up his scary evil sermon thank god for this sibling rane realness

"I, high prophet faulkner, chosen by the trawlerman- I-I was responsible for the return of the withermark? and the revelations at bellweathers you might have heard. that it was the linger straits but thats untrue thats all been debunked" hes so cringefail i love him

him talking about being unbound from his duty....... someone introduce him to atheism QUICK

i need to make alpha male podcaster faulkner fanart

THE OPENING CREDITS 😭😭 THEIR LAUGHS😭😭 IM GOING TO THROW UP I LOVE THEM SO MUCH THIS IS THE HAPPIEST WE'VE EVER SEEN FAULKNER

"he does not, in truth, care about the people who took him in and gave him a home" sending greve a mail bomb rq hold on

"he will die as he lived. alone" SENDING 5 MILLION MAIL BOMBS

b narr ripping out my heart. again

my god faulkner really will not let up on building his own mythology. he is so desperate to be somebody

🔥RANE LORE🔥

FAULKNER DAD AND BROTHER APPEARANCES EX FUCKING SCUSE ME?????????????

did they ever find out about charlie. who is we eddie. do they know about faulkner's insane life right now. how long has faulkner even been away at this point

stopppppp eddie calling faulkner richie is so cute 💔💔 jon naming faulkner richard just to avoid the three brothers having -ie names and it happening organically anyway

his dad calling faulkner charlie. oh.

the fucking serials faulkner and his dad are watching?? hello??? silly as hell

i was right when i said sibling rane's family came from the faith hell yes vindication

"its not blasphemy if the high prophet does it" eyebrow raise

faulkners desperation with these prayer marks is breaking my heart. theyre so not gonna work

not missing the parallels between faulkner and paige begging and threatening their gods for protection. very interesting

faulkner standing off against uncle just is the most intense scene ive experienced in so long

this heart to heart is KILLINGGGG ME. faulkner is just a little boy oh my god and his dad is only acting in his interest NOW when its too late..... someone hold me

"every god's a god of death. it's the only thing we need them for" COME BACK COME BACK COME BACK C

NO FAULKNER TRYING TO FOLLOW CHARLIE??????? this is NOT ok im gonna cry poor blorbo

dear lord this episode hurt me so badly. why are the voice actors so damn good. why are the characters so well written. i love them so much and i rlly like the direction faulkner is going in, i feel less like hes doomed to die by the trawlerman

[schoenerboner]

(It's been almost a year since last I've seen the first and only person I've e ever loved not because of what they did for me, how they related to me- but because of what they ARE, independent of any context to myself. I knew her in my dreams, over many lifetimes. So frustratingly close this time. We parted under the worst of circumstances, the next year I spent trying to warm myself in memories, drunk on al the beautiful things we never did, and never will. For too long, i danced with fading echo. Just to be that much colder when she faded completely.)

-For KDM.

Discernment and profundity eschewed , in favor of dwelling in a place you never were, in the malleable but immutably shapeless mud down by the river plane; mountain-born, she breathes life into the fallow fields, her lazy winding back-and-forth capricious-seeming, in no hurry to join her betrothed offshore, the Ageless, Endless Sea: he watches her play for time with affectionate ammusment, "go on, young one- meander to your hearts content! Explore, revere- but you draw near, entrapped and channeled ever towards, drawn to your fate, your only can to cease to be, to join and merge at end with my great salinity."

It's there, this place of of ceasing and becoming, the brackish beachhead, where now hermetically you dwell, a choice made odd (some may whisper mad) for your attempts to temper elective isolation, there I see you spend your days committing sacrilege, by breathing life into that which was meant smother such a spark, into grey and ashen sprites and faes, ephemerality betrayed in their the cold and heavy dampness-dressed dead weight, your mystic mists imbued in breathless nostrils, reviving once again unliving life, not half undead, but rather that which simply can't be made to Be.

And yet another grotesque Golen, composed of clammy silt, countenance cadaverous , she shambles gorgeously unthinkingly, shaped to mimic the very font of life, yet goaded into motion only drawn by entropy; they may stagger left, be seen to seem to choose to lurch now to the right, but in the scant weeks or even days that run her inertia out, invariably is her arrival at the lowest part of town; the old disused part of the the Churchyard, hastily abandoned years now past men's memories, where adjacent rising river waters cause the earth, in a great blasphemy of rejection, to vomit back what has been forever commended unto her velvet cloak. Things that once were born, cried out, and lived, until a weakly exhaled sigh completes their contract and they die. The lifeless creatures I create, their cruel necromancy spent, lay placidly as if dozing, intermixed with the truly terrifying sight of the once-alive, in-death-disinterred, the tragically goddess-evicted, limbs twisted, mouths agape in silent scream, unseeing eyes stare into a future now condemned to spend endlessly Apart From her all-enveloping enmeshed embrace. The placid ever-dead, returned to their natural state, juxtaposed by the terrorized, so contorted for their agony, as only known by those so inexplicably and irreparably abandoned, damned to be undead eternal; hungry ghosts and silent stalking wraiths.

[jedimaesteryoda]

A little religious parable from The Bonehunters by Steven Erickson.

“Modest relevance,” the demon said. “I would tell you a tale, brother. Early in the clans history, many centuries past, there arose, like a breath of gas from the deep, a new cult. Chosen as its representative god was the most remote, most distant of gods among the pantheon. A god that was, in truth, indifferent to the clans of my kind. A god that spoke naught to any mortal, that intervened never in mortal affairs. Morbid. The leaders of the cult proclaimed themselves the voice of that god. They wrote down laws, prohibitions, ascribances, propitiations, blasphemies, punishments for nonconformity, for dispute and derivations. This was but rumour, said details maintained in vague fugue, until such time as the cult achieved domination and with domination, absolute power. "Terrible enforcement, terrible crimes committed in the name of the silent god. Leaders came and went, each further twisting words already twisted by mundane ambition and the zeal for unity. Entire pools were poisoned. Others drained and the silts seeded with salt. Eggs were crushed. Mothers dismembered. And our people were plunged into a paradise of fear, the laws made manifest and spilled blood the tears of necessity. False regret with chilling gleam in the centre eye. No relief awaited, and each generation suffered more than the last." Loric studied the demon at his side. “What happened?” “Seven great warriors from seven clans set out to find the Silent God, set out to see for themselves if this god had indeed blessed all that had come to pass in its name.” “And did they find the silent god?” "Yes, and too, they found the reason for its silence. The god was dead. It had died with the first drop of blood spilled in its name." "I see, and what is the relevance of this tale of yours, however modest?" "Perhaps this. The existence of many gods conveys true complexity of mortal life. Conversely, the assertion of but one god leads to a denial of complexity, and encourages the need to make the world simple. Not the fault of the god, but a crime committed by its believers.” “If a god does not like what is done in its name, then it should act.” “Yet, if each crime committed in its name weakens it . . . very soon, I think, it has no power left and so cannot act, and so, ultimately, it dies."

[omiramotakiart]

Random Nerevarine and Dagoth Ur completely not lore friendly interaction I wrote at midnight while on meds (btw my Nerevarine is a very fucked up middle age dunmer lady who gives zero shits about the prophecy) excuse all errors in this, I'm tired.

"Sharmat," her voice echoed through the chamber, Merezdis still wondered if she was making the right choice, she'd even downed a few shots of sujamma before entering, for luck, she told herself as the looming figure turned around and walked towards her, a humming of sorts coming from the face behind the mask, was it condescendance? Intrigue? A sick satisfaction of sorts?

"Have you come to talk, Neverar, most beloved?"

"I am no Indoril Nerevar, let alone a hero or…" screw it, damn it to Oblivion, all of it, she felt the mask on her face, one she stole from an ordinator in hopes of understanding the whole mantle issue, what would the Morag Tong say of her? A common criminal, a thief, "However I am here to talk, you got that part right."

Merezdis sat on the floor, put the mask away, the sound of metal against rock, the heat of the volcano suffocating her, the mer, whoever he was, Dagoth Ur or Voryn or the Sharmat, she cared not for titles, she cared for what he was capable of, "Very well," he said, following her move, she had to think how to even begin.

She told herself it was just like the old days, of giving herself some motivation before any big job and hoping for the best, "Had this been up to me, this would've ended sooner…"

"You could end this now, Nerevar, old friend."

"I am not—" was she not Nerevar? She liked– wanted, prefered, to think she wasn't, that she remained the same idiot found on a silt strider and raised by Ashlanders, the same stupid child who ran away and left the Morag Tong over simple thievery, not Indoril Nerevar nor the Nerevarine or Azura's new and shiny toy, she was Merezdis Sahaourdanu, a name that would remained hidden in history if it all went well, "I know who I was. In another lifetime. And I know who you were. Friend, lover perhaps," something on that word obtained the Sharmat's attention, she could tell, "I want you to know all I will do is not of my choice but Azura's. I am a tool, nothing else, nothing more, and I know for a fact the real Nerevar must be burning in rage for what I'm about to say. But fuck Azura."

More laughter, deep, rich, coming from the chest, "You should've seen your face, oh, what funny things you say, such blasphemy, never thought of you as capable of saying such words."

"Nerevar wasn't. I'm Merezdis however, the only Daedra I've served has been Mephala and even she has my judgement."

"I must admit I have missed our chatter, though it pains me how apart we have grown, complete strangers that we are, care to fill me up in the detail?"

Merezdis raised an eyebrow, looking at three eyes on a mask, a face she only has seen in vague flashes of memory from different lives, most of them show a rotting corpse, one, a Chimer of glowing red eyes and ebony hair with a grin of superiority calling out for everyone's favorite Hortator, she knew him, in the most superficial of ways, Voryn, was anything of him still there? "You mean my life?"

"I cannot simply follow each incarnation from birth to death, you never know where my beloved Nerevar would land each time."

She remained silent for a while, Dagoth Ur kept watching like a child would look at any adult showing an elaborate trick or telling an interesting story, she doubted hers would qualify as such, more like a badly written tragedy, "Grandpa was an ashlander, I think, got tired of it and moved to Cyrodiil, had a daughter, died, said daughter got pregnant and since the idiot father left she decided to go back to her father's people with a newborn," Merezdis shrugged, "That's what her diary said, you call us Ashlanders a bunch of savages but we have a code of no attacking an unarmed person, or a baby, she died because of raiders, I survived."

"Then you must have known. About all of this, what the false gods of the Tribunal did to you—"

"Let me finish!" First time she raised his voice at him, "Look at the stupid mark on my face, of course I knew, sort of, grew up with the prophecy and the Wise Women telling me all about it, yet I wanted no Nerevarine guarshit, I wanted to be like them. Sooner or later once the one from our clan had died… Old Irelenda was the only reason I had to stay, my only family. I never quite understood the fear and hatred my kind had towards the outside. What better opportunity to leave? Guess the skills I learned there were of use for the Morag Tong."

"So you…"

"Lived under the rule of the false gods? In a way, I was taught to hate them, at what use though? The Good Daedra were no better, same crap, different names, the Morag Tong was where nobody suspected a thing of a prophecy I never believed for myself. Now… don't ask me how, nor why, as not even I know, but something went sour in Cyrodiil, I was given a fake contract so my kill was not allowed, served some time for it, came back here… you know the rest."

More silence.

Silence.

Nothing but silence.

Broken by a single question, "You betrayed Azura?" There was indignation in that voice.

"I never sided with the Tribunal."

"You did nothing, having easy access to them!"

Anger.

"What was I supposed to do? Kill the living gods of Morrowind and risk being killed myself?"

"The prophecy—"

"To Oblivion with it!" She stood up, drew her weapon, "Once again, Dagoth Ur, or Voryn, or whatever name I ever called you before, had this been on me, none of this would've happened."

"They murdered you. Almalexia used poisoned candles and cut your feet. Sotha Sil used poisoned robes and cut your face. Vivec used poisoned incantations and pierced you with Muatra…"

"And you became the Sharmat. Cursed you, Dagoth Ur, as much as I curse Vivec, Almalexia and Sotha Sil. Idiots, all of you." She picked up her mask, the one meant to resemble the face she once had, looking at the ghost at her side, the resemblance was none, "Curse you, Indoril Nerevar, and Azura, Boethia, Mephala, the Heart of Lorkhan, kagrenac, all of you."

His voice was broken as he spoke, drowning with the sounds of the lava, the ground shook, she could see the Heart at the other side of the bridge, "You are breaking my heart, Nerevar, over and over again."

"You see him too? I've felt his fear, his anger, he curses all of you, yet the mer has that bit of love for every single one of you bastards, if only I could talk my way out of this…"

"Time for talking has ended, you are testing me, how tiresome this can be…"

"Had I done anything sooner… no…" she shook her head, "Get the four of you in a room and expect anything good to happen, huh… maybe that's why Azura leaves me no choice," Merezdis saw the red glow of magic in Dagoth's hands, Akulakhan, the trembling of the volcano, "I am but a tool, it doesn't matter how much I avoided this, Azura kept pushing me towards this outcome, and I suppose she prefers blood over dialog. What a shame, isn't it?"

Perhaps that mer who hugged him when sleeping and tied back his hair, the one who brought him flowers and jewels and would burn the world in the name of Indoril Nerevar, perhaps that mer saw the ghost of the champion of Azura stepping back, shaking his head, uttering Chimeri words of disapproval. Another nail for the coffin.

"You deliver the first hit, Nerevar."

Sun, sand on bare feet, light robes, young, wooden swords and spears, the volcano was far away, skin not ashen but golden, days long gone was what her eyes saw, a phrase that only the two of them knew had escaped her lips, "I'm gonna knock off that stupid mask off you, Voryn."

[geekeryisafoot]

The Silt Verses is sexy in the same way vampires are sexy

blasphemy

the simultaneous, competing feelings of reverent worship and revolting horror

the consumption of others’ lives to fill your needs

aesthetics that slap

queer

[nitr09-productions]

A very curious philosophy on the nature of community can be found in the writings of the Great Þewek River People of the planet Raega, a culture made up of the planet’s (now extinct) native Raegini species. The Þewekini lived an agrarian lifestyle along the river deltas, and depended on the Erow (meaning “great white silt”; a type of especially fertile soil fed by volcanic nutrients at the river’s source) to grow bountiful crops.   The Þewekini believed at the core of their very being that all common folk are exactly the same; regardless of species, gender, age, or religion. All common folk are bound together by a series of universal experiences related to the material reality in which they live, and a mutual struggle for survival. These experiences were embodied within the concept of the Erowek (Meaning “silt born” or “child of the land.”), a sort of universal archetypal figure that appeared in bucolic myths, fables, and morality plays. The Erowek worried about the next time she’d be able to put bread and meat on the table. The Erowek sowed her seeds and then gathered her crops. The Erowek chopped firewood when it was cold, and wove fans when it was hot. The Erowek grieved for her dead and hoped for her brood. Every common person was the Erowek, and the Erowek was every common person. Her struggle was the struggle that existed within everyone. It was this concept of the Erowek that allowed the Þewekini to avoid the trappings of many other civilisations of its size and nature. There was no stratified system of societal hierarchy, very little conflict or colonialism, and (despite evidence of different racial, religious, and social groups within the civilisation) virtually no intergroup tension. This was due to the curious attitude the Þewekini had towards the wielding of societal power. The Þewekini term for a king or leader was “Iraþ Erowek Orællin”, meaning “they who have slain the Erowek within.” To wield power over another was to kill an essential part of oneself; severing a person from the universal narrative of shared survival. To sow division by declaring one person higher or more significant than anyone else was akin to an act of blasphemy, and very few of these leader figures ever saw success in the culture. Instead, the culture was governed by regular conferences wherein every voice would be heard. Though records suggest that these conferences could grow impassioned and chaotic, they were always conducted with the baseline assumption that every living being had both the same material wants and needs, and the divine inborn right to have those needs filled.

Just a bit of lore that I’m working on for SYBAE that I’m not sure if I’m including yet. One of the ‘found family’ cast (who I’ve barely gotten around to introducing) is Iriet Orios Erowek Ælleid (or just Ælleid for short), the endling of the Raegini species. Their culture is very deep, but largely lost, and I quite like the idea of one of their names deriving from the concept of a sort of deified common man. 

[thatsparrow]

(some speculative reverend mason backstory based on what he saw in his dream • read on ao3)

In the dream, Mason can't feel the gunshot.

He knows it's there—remembers the whiskey-hot burn of the bullet as it had punched a hole through his upper arm—but the dream dulls the pain of it down to a shadow, a flicker of memory as he watches himself riding across the Wyoming plains, loose horses galloping around him like a fast-moving river burst over its banks. Bone-breaking hooves drumming heavy against the dirt, setting the earth rumbling like some heartbeat stirring below its surface. Behind him, Mason can hear his pursuers, and the dream is even kind enough to take him back, to show him the moon shining tin-colored off the Sheriff's star-shaped badge, blood pooling inside the thigh of the man Mason had been lucky enough to catch with a bullet of his own.

You just need to make it over that rise, he remembers thinking, his right arm weighing heavy and the pain still burning something fierce. You can lose them in the hills, find somewhere quiet to patch yourself up and think about all the ways this went south, but you're not through yet. He can feel the horse breathing heavy under him, his own leg muscles knotting up stiff. You quit now, you'd better hope there's one last bullet in the chamber 'less you want a slow death at the end of a rope.

But Mason hadn't quit, hadn't put the gun barrel to his own temple, hadn't ended with his heels kicking the air while the rest of him hung from a noose. No, he'd survived just like—as the Gilette's Sheriff's Deputy had once told him—cockroach-motherfuckers like yourself tend to do. And the dream reminds him of the rest of it, too—takes him through that night and the others as he'd kept riding east, the landscape all blue sky and gold grassland and two-horse homesteads. Eventually, when he'd started seeing the angry red of infection around the gunshot wound, he'd stopped in some town called Beulah near the Wyoming-South Dakota border, large enough to justify a physician and small enough to have fuck-all else. Probably for the best, though; he could do with a little less excitement. The dream skips past the sharp-smelling ointment the doctor had  used to clean the bullet hole, skips past the nights Mason had spent in the inn waiting for the tincture to run the fever from his system, past him counting the pennies that remained from his fold of stolen bills, skips all the way forward to that afternoon at the Beulah chapel, the preacher out front in his starched white collar.

"My children," he'd said, voice pitched low. "I hear grave tidings from the Black Hills, further reports of violence in that lawless expanse of bloodshed and blasphemy known as Deadwood."

The crowd murmured around Mason. To his left, a woman made the sign of the cross. Clearly the subject of Deadwood was a familiar refrain from the preacher.

"We've prayed before to cleanse them of their wickedness, to heal them of their penchants for gambling, liquor, and laudanum. We've prayed for the safety and sanctity of the women there, particularly those too good and pure to whore themselves away."

Seriously with this shit? Mason had thought, but God strike him down if the crowd around him weren't bought wholesale into the preacher's rhetoric, their mood turning fevered to match the preacher's fire-and-brimstone voice.

"We've prayed, and we've prayed, and we've begged our Lord to deliver them to the light, but the latest word that I've received indicates that they are only moving further into the darkness. Children, I've learned that they've been living for some time without a messenger of God among them, that they have run out their previous minister—my fellow brother of the cloth—expediting their own journeys to an afterlife of pain and torment. And I say they deserve it! I say, if they have turned their backs so fully on God, let us do the same to them!"

The crowd cheered, spitting words of bile and vitriol toward the people of Deadwood. Unsettling to be sure, but what Mason found himself most struck by was the power of the preacher, his ability to spin up that anger with a handful of words and bible-waving. Must be nice to command such attention; certainly not the sort of fellow to wind up dodging bullets with the Sheriff at his heels. Even when the "word of God" clearly wasn't anything more than bullshit dressed up in divine-sounding language, there was trust there. Respect. At the end of the day, what was the difference between Mason and any fellow in a pulpit other than a white collar under a black shirt? He'd sold harder lies than that.

On the steps of the chapel, the preacher had begun shifting tact, turning the wickedness of Deadwood into a reminder for the people of Beulah to attend his Sunday sermons. The crowd had dispersed not long after, but the idea had stuck with Mason, embedded in the back of his mind like a burr tangled into a horse's mane. After all, wasn't he tired of running? Wasn't he weary of ending up in some sort of scrape or the other? What better way to hide from the noose than to dress himself up as someone unimpeachable?

What better place to go than a lawless territory that happened to be short a preacher? It'd be easy to keep his head down in a place with enough chaos of its own.

The dream cuts short there, but Mason remembers the rest of it—the way he'd sat with the idea through the evening, considered the shape of it like a panner sifting for gold in river silt. He remembers borrowing a spare set of vestments from the Beulah preacher's laundry, catching that first look at himself in the garb and marveling at what a difference it made, how it'd seemed to turn him into someone proper. Remembers thinking that this was the start of a new life for him, turning over the name "Reverend Mason" on his tongue and liking the taste of it.

Thinks now—the burning smell of the miners thick in his nose—what a fucking mistake it had all turned out to be.

[agateshot]

The story of the Sunlight Sacrament

It is said that the undead have existed since time began, when the world was freed from dragons and Lord Gwyn rose to power on his lightning and sunlight. Since then, the curse has affected many people, turning them mere mortals to those immortal, undead beings sentenced to walk the earth or to be petrified when their souls finally fall from their bodies.

Lord Gwyn, being a god of light, wouldn't want the undead to run rampant, no.

Their founder knew this, which is why he started the process of cleansing the world.

The undead must pay for their sins, and have the light of God shine into their souls, even if it has to be done by force. Especially if it had to done by force.

The doctrine of their prophet said there was no greater glory than to ingest the bodies of those who were dirty and yet made clean. There was no greater way of cleaning oneself than to hold the body if one with the pure light of Gwyn in their flesh in your body. And thus a sacrament from the sacrifice of the wicked.

Sacrifice was to be made holy, and when their prophet was struck down in the light of the Dark Moon, it was proof that sunlight only exists to drive out the Dark. His tortured form was left to see by all, and in the light of day, he became a martyr for Lord Gwyn. The followers of the Prophet of Sunlight broke into three groups, arguing over who should lead. One group called itself the Reformed Sunlight Church, the second; the Way of Light, the third simply called itself by the name the original Prophet had, and moved west.

The Way Of Light forsake their vows, becoming nothing more than a simple religion that espoused only the meekest teachings of their prophet, and spoke more on the works of Gwyn, and would later dissolve into the order of the Fire Keepers when the flames started to fade.

The Blades of the Dark Moon slaughtered the Reformed Sunlight Church, for blasphemy against Gwyn, as such as the order hailed as such in those days.

The third one, the Covenant Of Sunlight… evaded notice for a time, and went beyond the immediate justice of the Moon. And there it sat, hidden from sight like a spider, waiting for its time, growing fat on what prey it could spare.

Those who bore the mark of the dark sign came from within, and submitted themselves to their fate. Those who did not, had no God but Gwyn to pray to, and he was already consumed by the fire. The eyes of the moon had been veiled and no hand would lift it.

But the moon did not need eyes nor hands, for the Moon had Blades.

And of those Blades, a pair traveled the lands beyond those traditionally thought of the Lordran, looking for an artifact known only to them. In their hunt, they came across the lost covenant of Sunlight.

Should the Dark Moon still wish to prosecute those for taking the name of Gwyn and blaspheming in his name, this covenant would have fallen. As it was, to outsiders such as the dragons of the Nameless Moon, the commune seemed to have given up their old ways. The undead worked among their living families, and there was peace.

Hawthorn was eager to move on, but Meadowsweet begged his brother to stay. What was the harm of one week to them, Meadowsweet had argued, long enough to celebrate the harvest, and get more supplies for their journey.

He would later say that it was because he suspected that the commune still followed the ways of the abominable prophet, though Hawthorn always recalled it as having something to do with a pastry his brother had gotten fond of during their brief stay. Neither of the brothers expressed much surprise when they discovered the sacrament of the harvest.

Of the adults of the Covenant, all were slain.

The brothers debated for a time, before deciding to bring the children back into the care of the Nameless Moon.

While they hesitated to kill the children of the Sunlight, they did not hesitate to slaughter each other. Citing the sacrifice of Gwyn, the older children silt the youngest children's throats while the brothers are sleeping, and then themselves. The only child to survive was a weak child that asked Meadowsweet to care for her that evening.

She may have perished by her own hand, had she not woken up with the Dark Sign of the undead etched into her skin.

Thus ended the Sunlit Cult.

It is said that the sole survivor of that tragic affair converted to the way of the moon, forsaking the sun to live in silver armor instead. May her life have meaning.