#since iron is a flux

[newvegascowboy]

I love it when i touch dark clay and my skin is stained comically orange for days afterwards

[zara-renata]

Alike and Cornered Beast: Sylus's POV

Summary:

I was desperate for Sylus's point of view during the first time that MC meets him in the Alike and Cornered Beast chapters of Long-Awaited Revelry. So I uh wrote it myself. I wanted to know why he touches MC so reverently but also quite brutally, so I spent a lot of time thinking about possibilities.

A/N:

Sylus x gender neutral reader/MC, second person POV (but we don't use Y/N in this house). Brief, derisive mentions of Xavier and Zayne (this is Sylus's POV after all, don't come for me). I love all the LIs, but Sylus has his hand wrapped around my throat and I see him as arrogantly having something to say about the other people who are also interested in his shiny treasure. He has mean thoughts about the other LIs, but he can be mean and we love that for him. Slightly canon divergent if you believe Sylus can't tell that MC is scared and repulsed by him until the shopkeeper informs him. I however believe this man is a little more perceptive than that. CW: violence, cursing, rude language, death, grief, murder, ok this is Sylus hello, non-consensual (non-sexual) touching of MC, metaphors involving hunger and blood, overuse of the word "lovely," but Sylus is a simp and it's mostly his POV so we must endure it. SFW, although clearly there is a thread of desire running beneath the interactions depicted ao3 link here

He doesn’t need the aether core in his eye to know how you're feeling. He can see it in the way your lovely jaw is locked tight, teeth clenched behind soft lips twisted into a tight line. The shudder you’re trying and failing spectacularly to repress, desperate to conceal your weakness: the fact that almost as much as you fear him, you hate him.

Almost from the very beginning, things have been going sideways for Sylus. First, that imbecile having the hubris to believe he could just pilfer what had clearly been claimed as belonging to Onychinus.

Second, the palpable fear that had juddered through you as he had graciously relieved the larcenist of the burden of his pathetic life, only for that fear to flare into bright, barely controlled hate once you figured out that using yourself as bait had succeeded in reeling in the largest predator in the N109 zone.

Third, even when he sauntered close to you, allowing you to drink your fill of his face, no other spark of recognition fired besides that of the leader of the most powerful criminal organization in the region. You didn’t recognize him personally at all, even as he hungrily mapped your face with his eyes and felt the bottomless well of want deepen even further in his heartless chest.

You didn’t remember a fucking thing. And for some reason, you hated him more than his worst enemies. And he had quite a large body count in the worst enemy column of the ledger of his existence.

The fear, he can understand. Onychinus is on the Hunter Association’s Naughty List, and you’re one of the Association’s true believers, a jewel in the hilt of their blade composed of naïve warriors. And like the noble, naïve creature he knows you to be, you firmly believe that any intel they fed you about him and his organization was the pure, unfiltered truth.

But the hate? He muses as he looks down into your upturned face, a face that has been carved into his dreams for weeks now, ever since Mephisto had reported back after scouting the Flux Nexus in the no-hunt zone. Ever since the night he finally found you, stumbling around and battling at the side of your sleepy, cunning rabbit of a partner in the dark wood, oblivious to the real danger perched amongst the leaves, watching through mechanical eyes. His lips twitch in an ironic smile, as he knows he should be grateful to the rabbit for the fact that you’re in front of him now, so agonizingly close. He can see the rise and fall of your chest. The breath you exhale, for him to inhale. All he has to do is let his hand do what it wants—reach out, fingertips drifting softly along the curve of your cheek, your throat, the pulse point that betrays your racing heart. You’re close enough that he could swallow you whole. A good man might be grateful, but he isn’t a good man, and he doesn’t have it in him to be grateful; he only catalogues the threat, and tucks away the thought of the light evolver to be a problem to contemplate, and solve, another day. Right now, he needs to solve the problem of why you hate him on a level that professional distaste can’t explain. The hate he sees in your bright, sharp eyes is personal.

Consequently, he might not need the aether core in his eye to know that you hate him, but he sure as hell needs it to figure out why.

He knows he should wait to use his power on you. He knows that strategically, the best play here is to move slowly, to rebuild your trust, to tease out what he wants from you, to prove to you that despite every instinct that the Association has indoctrinated in you, he is not a threat to you and never will be. He knows all too well that one can’t force trust and forge an equal relationship from coercion, but he doesn’t have the time. Not with the entire Nest on the hunt for his Prey tonight, not with his own house in chaos with Sherman running amok and running up the bill on collateral damage. He needs to know why you hate him so that he can deal with it now, all of it. To borrow the vocabulary of another one of your hapless suitors: now is the time for triage, and after he has assessed the carnage, then he will begin suturing the aftermath. Sylus may be a businessman, but he can appreciate a surgeon’s precision in approaching a crisis. Even if Sylus can’t appreciate the iceman himself, if only for the lingering looks the doctor indulges in when his patient is looking the other way. Sylus files this problem away, like the other, to be solved in quiet solitude another day.

So he indulges in a lingering look of his own, fingers twitching with the need to touch where they’re deceptively, casually resting on his hips. And then: Sylus lets himself look. He can feel the familiar warmth increase within his eye socket, the ember beginning to glow hotter and hotter, until it’s almost unbearable, and then truly unbearable, as it is every time, the price he must pay so that he may see.

A little silver apple on a chain.

A pair of smiling eyes.

An old woman’s hand placing a dumpling on a plate.

The relief of realizing that the danger has dissipated, and dinner is still waiting.

A strong, broad back, shoulders shaking with laughter as a door swings shut.

Almost from the very beginning, things have gone sideways for Sylus. He shuts his eyes, feels the heat and the pressure fade like grief with time, as the power in his aether core goes dormant once again. But you haven’t had time, have you? It’s still fresh, the wound still hemorrhaging. You think that he caused this. You’ve been bleeding for months, thinking it was his hand that wielded the knife lodged in your heart. Or rather, detonated the bomb that incinerated the only family you’ve ever known, leaving a smoking crater where your heart used to be.

Sylus’s mind races, compiling this new information, archiving the whys and hows, constructing and reconstructing his carefully assembled plans and all of the contingencies in between, laughing derisively at himself for not seeing this possibility coming. Sideways is an understatement. Things are well and truly fucked, Sylus thinks, looking into your lovely, livid face.

For a moment, an unfamiliar sensation drifts through his chest. He tests it gingerly, letting it cascade through him before he can identify it: despair. After all this time. Every year, month, week, day, second, breath, he has been carving a path towards you, littered with the broken dreams and broken bodies of others, and now he has finally found you, and what should have been his greatest victory (the spoils? His fingertips drifting up your silken skin, his fingers entwined with yours, home), may have been his greatest loss—a loss that is for once, despite all of his crimes and all of the corpses at his feet, every terrible thing he has ever done, not his fault at all.

He savors this strange feeling for a few heartbeats, indulging in it, pressing into it like a bruise, if bruises would actually remain under his skin. And then he discards it: the unexpected rarely obstructs his carefully laid plans, but nothing about you has ever been expected, has it? If he were the kind of man to resign himself to unexpected loss, like the other men clumsily flitting around you, he’d have been a dead trophy tossed at the feet of an enemy long ago. So the rules of the game have changed. So what? Sylus will adapt, because no matter his fucking luck, he is playing to win.

Because while gazing into the depths of your beloved eyes, Sylus not only saw the why of your hate, but the only thing that could soothe it. Something that you refuse to admit, even to your fundamentally honest self. Something you can’t admit, as you spend insomniac nights training until collapse, as you slice, maim, and end wanderer after wanderer, as you bare your teeth a little too savagely as blood spills beneath your fist and blade. You need vengeance. You need someone to hurt as much as you’re hurting. And not just anyone—the wanderers and criminals that you’ve trained your fists and pistols and blade on do not satisfy the blood-thirst burning through your veins. You need to punish the person responsible for the inferno in your chest. Maybe then you’ll be able to sleep again. Maybe then you’ll be able to not smile again, but at least retract the fangs that have been frightening the people around you for months now. The fangs you feared were always there, underneath the careful façade of the well-adjusted, law-abiding, healthy paragon of a hunter you’ve built to keep the nightmares at bay for years, to show your colleagues, your partner, your doctor and your superiors: Look, I’m harmless and righteous, the perfect tool, love me, love me, love me, please do not leave like everyone else I've ever loved.

And Sylus? Sylus has always, and will always, endeavor to give you everything your damaged heart could possibly desire. He knows that you will not believe that he was not the one who ripped your ‘family’ apart. And he knows that it will take time, time that he does not currently have, to rebuild what has been lost between the two of you. He recalibrates, sweeps aside the despair, and reinforces his resolve. If you want to exact vengeance on the person you think is responsible for all of your indescribable pain, Sylus will give his heart to you on a bloody platter, regardless of the pain it will cost him.

You need someone to hate right now to stay strong? So be it. He will be that for you, until he can locate the actual culprit. As he reaches out, ever so gently trailing the backs of his fingers along your hauntingly lovely face, he tells himself for a moment that he can't bring himself to use something so impersonal as the energy of his evol on you. But who is he kidding--Sylus is many things, but a liar is not one of them. He admits to himself that this is just him finally giving into his deepest desire, as he lets his hand drift from your face to the side of your neck, closing around your throat and lifting. He does not want to handle your precious form with such brute, concise strength, but he needs to hurry, he needs answers and he needs to fix this, now now now and you need him to be the enemy. This is what is best for you at this moment, in this place, and he only ever wants what is best for you, so he plays the part you need him to play:

"From your past to your future...to even all the crimes you'll inevitably commit. After all, you and I...we're the same. True kindred spirits."

As your body goes limp from his chokehold on you, he catches you, cradling your head in his hand, grateful for the strength of his body, the shelter he can provide you as he lifts you in his arms, holds you tightly, your chests finally close again, yours too full of a maimed heart and his missing one entirely, complementing each other, completing each other, even though you’re out cold and it will take so much—too much, too much, it’s already been too much time, you’re finally here, you’re finally in his arms, where you should have been all along—time to be able to have you in his arms like this but with your eyes wide open and fixed on his.

Later, when you wake up, in a dark room with this familiar stranger disdainfully staring you down through crimson eyes, as his evol winds itself around you, as it jerks you onto his big lap, you clench your teeth, you fight the tears of frustration and fury—why do you always cry when you’re angry? Is it not humiliating enough to lose control of the leash on your emotions, without tears spilling down your face to betray you to the object of your rage?­—and you fight desperately against the immovable force pinning you in place.

"I want to kill you myself," you grit out, through the tears and the snot running down your face.

And then this man places your gun in your hand, eyes bright as blood never leaving yours, in answer to the quietest, deepest buried desire of your limping heart that he has driven you to saying out loud. Your hate flares, because how dare he expose you to yourself in this manner? Who does this motherfucker think he is, casually extracting from your own mouth and offering you that which you couldn’t before name in hushed whispers, as if it means nothing to him, as if it costs him nothing, his sharp jaw relaxed, a ghost of a smirk curling the edges of his wide mouth? You fight it, the surge of hunger that chokes your panting breath—you fight it so hard, you’ve been fighting it for so long, ever since the piercing ringing in your ears began to sound that replaced your grandmother’s and Caleb’s laughter, the ringing silence that followed as debris rained down on your useless, injured body. You are not a mindless animal. You will not give in to this voracious want. You and this man holding your gun to his own heart are not the same, and never will be.

“Do you need some help? Yes? No? Maybe so?” His voice is the purr of a jungle cat, his hand, large and just as calloused as yours, envelops your own, with that same bizarre gentleness that you can’t even begin to interpret the why of, his finger drifting along your own, until it slowly tightens over yours. Your mouth says “No,” and you see how his eyes dart from yours to your lips and back again, but the hunger inside you howls as this man presses your finger against the trigger and the sound of the bullet leaving your gun drowns out all of the other noise in the cacophony of your thundering heart.

His big body jerks back, head hitting with a painful sounding thump against his melodramatic throne (ok, so it's just an antique chair, but honestly, where do villains buy ridiculous props like this?), and for an endless moment in time, the hunger is satiated, and a sense of triumphant relief courses through you instead. And then your vision sharpens, as blood the color of this man’s eyes begins to pour through the hole he—and you, we, together—just shot into his fucking heart.

He jerks the gun from your grasp and tosses it with a loud clatter to the concrete floor.

“You—Are you fucking crazy?” You’re moving before you realize it, palms pressed over his heart (a spiteful part of you hopes that it hurts him, even as you are suddenly overwhelmed with the terror that he is actually going to die, before you get any answers, before you get any help, before you’ve accomplished anything at all).

“You wanted to take my life,” he pants. It never hurts any less, no matter how many times it happens. He can feel his flesh knitting back together already, each stitch as painful as the one before. “And so you’ve taken it.”

Despite the pain, Sylus watches you leisurely, drinking in the blood splatters across your lovely neck and chin. My blood, he thinks with satisfaction. He wants to soak you in it. He wants to watch you bathe in it. He shakes his head, tucking that urge away for later contemplation. He is finally in the position to do what he has been craving for so, so long. He has given you what you want. Of course he will always give you what you want. However, that doesn’t mean that he can’t simultaneously get what he wants—Sylus strongly prefers deals when they’re win-win. He has given you what you wanted, and the slate is now clean. Now, it is time to begin negotiation of the highest stakes deal of his life: the acquisition of your body, heart and soul. Back at his side, where you belong.

“Now what? Have you already figured out how you’ll pay me back?”

[colorfuldragons]

dungeon meshi characters, but as flight rising dragons

𝟣. laios touden: beige/antique/antique

2. marcille donato: caribbean/flaxen/ruby

3. chilchuck tims: auburn/camo/beige

4. senshi of izganda: coal/oilslick/latte

5. izutsumi: obsidian/obsidian/white

6. falin touden: iris/antique/antique

spoiler scry + design notes under the read-more:

7. falin (chimera): vermillion/antique/antique

———————

i had been meaning to scry/post the dungeon meshi main cast for a while. i figured in honor of the manga's final chapter would be a good occasion

design notes:

𝟣. laios touden:

outfit inspired by fr user Rafale's laios fandragon

ravenskull broadsword bc it has wings like his sword

tundra + antique secondary/tert, like falin (siblings)

2. marcille donato:

ruby runes to represent: her magic, her red hair bow, bloody hands when she was resurrecting falin

will o' the ember for her explosion spells

iridescent primary for her elven heritage + penchant of fancy things

3. chilchuck tims:

veined tert to represent his greying hairs

i debated between the gambeson (closer texture) VS tanned rogue vest (overall closer colors) for him, but ended up going for the gambeson as it feels more distinct

camo secondary for a "camo = stealthy" joke

[edit: 1 feb 2024] i think my screen had the Flux settings too high before and i thought his shirt was beige. its actually white, so i changed his shirt from a shabby to classy dress shirt.

4. senshi of izganda:

bamboo dried tea to represent his cooking supplies

unfortunately none of the helm apparel had the right colors for his helmet, so i opted for tan okapi to represent his helm's horn colors

i wanted to include the iron shield apparel for his adamantine shield/pot, but it wouldve covered up his kilt, so i left it out

[edit: 1 feb 2024] changed primary from ribbon to chrysocolla, an earthy gene to match his past as a miner. changed tert color slightly to match better. also gave him carrots

5. izutsumi:

initially i tried nocturne and spiral, but the armour pieces looked too short on them, so i ended up going for mirror instead

i also tried the tanned rogue apparels, but they covered up too much of the torso

wooly antennae for her ears

6. falin touden:

marshlurker's drape to represent her coat, bc there wasnt a lot of suitable coats, and the more purple-y hue (and hat) also references her debut outfit

sparkle tert to represent her magic

tundra + antique secondary/tert, like laios (siblings)

[edit: 1 feb 2024] edited her primary to be more purplish, since the animes confirmed her coat is supposed to be more indigo colored, and gave her browner boots. also edited her reference photo coat color to match it too

7. falin (chimera):

i chose to make the touden siblings both tundras, so that chimera falin could be a gaoler (based on the joke gaolers are just tundra 2.0)

spirit secondary bc she haunts the narrative

if youve made it to here, feel free to comment which fandragon scry is your fav! :)

[duxbelisarius]

The Dragon has Three Heads or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Believe That Young Griff is the Real Deal

Before going any further, I want to warn anyone reading this analysis that it will contain spoilers for A Dance With Dragons, so proceed at your own risk.

This essay came about from an 'epiphany' I had while reading ADWD on break at work, specifically chapter Daenerys VII. In this chapter, Quentyn Martell and his companions present themselves to Daenerys and offer her a marriage alliance with Dorne. This being the day of her wedding to Hizdahr zo Loraq, Dany refuses and makes note mentally of Quaithe's earlier warning about not trusting "the Sun's Son." The identification seems simple enough, with House Martell's sigil featuring the sun and Quentyn being the son of Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, but there are serious problems with this conclusion.

The issue with labeling Quentyn Martell the Sun's Son stems from how Dany reaches this conclusion; for starters, this is the original quote given by Quaithe in Daenerys II:

"No. Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal."

And this is how Dany identifies Quentyn as the Sun's Son in Daenerys VII and VIII:

Something tickled at her memory. "Ser Barristan, what are the arms of House Martell?"

"A sun in splendor, transfixed by a spear."

The sun's son. A shiver went through her. "Shadows and whispers." What else had Quaithe said? The pale mare and the sun's son. There was a lion in it too, and a dragon. Or am I the dragon? "Beware the perfumed seneschal." That she remembered. "Dreams and prophecies. Why must they always be in riddles? I hate this. Oh, leave me, ser. Tomorrow is my wedding day."

...

The pale mare. Daenerys sighed. Quaithe warned me of the pale mare's coming. She told me of the Dornish prince as well, the sun's son. She told me much and more, but all in riddles.

George has talked about the fickle nature of prophecy in the books and publicly, citing the Duke of Somerset's death at the Battle of St. Albans in Shakespeare's Henry VI as an example of why the literal or easiest interpretations are not always the most reliable. While Dany's conclusion that Quentyn is the 'Sun's Son' seems straightforward, she bases it solely on Barristan's description of the Martell arms. Her reasoning is mainly to justify marrying Hizdahr by dismissing the Martell offer, as Dany herself barely remembers Quaithe's warning and bemoans her 'riddles'.

Assuming that the 'Pale Mare' refers to the 'bloody flux' that the Astapori refugees bring to Meereen, and that the Kraken, dark flame, lion, griffon and mummer's dragon refer to Victarion Greyjoy, Moqorro, Tyrion, Connington and Young Griff respectively, the sequence of Quaithe's warning makes no sense with Quentyn as the 'Sun's Son.' At the end of ADWD, Tyrion is outside the walls of Meereen while Victarion and Moqorro are en route with the Iron Fleet, and Connington and Young Griff are in Westeros. If Dany's return to Meereen from the Dothraki Sea is followed by her journeying westwards, then this sequence makes sense. Victarion will likely destroy the Slaver's fleets and is seeking Dany's hand in marriage, while Moqorro is with him for the purpose of acknowledging her as Azor Ahai and encouraging her to free the slaves of Volantis. Given Tyrion's association with Varys, Illyrio, Jorah and now 'Brown Ben Plumm,' and his family's role in Robert's rebellion, it makes sense that he would not immediately seek out Daenerys on her return to Meereen. Connington and Young Griff await her in Westeros, but Quentyn as the 'Sun's Son' precedes all of them, breaking Quaithe's otherwise sensible sequence. If Quentyn were the 'Sun's Son' he could just as easily have been paired with the Kraken, since both are sent by the heads of their houses to offer her an alliance, while Tyrion and Moqorro travel together on the Selaesori Qhoran (the 'Perfumed Seneschal') and Connington and Griff are in league with Varys.

The far greater issue with Dany's interpretation is that we have access to Quentyn's POV, and there is nothing to suggest that he seeks to betray Daenerys. His purpose was to approach Dany with a marriage alliance, to assist her in reclaiming her crown; his party was even sent by Tatters to scope out the situation in Meereen for a possible double-crossing of the Yunkai'i, specifically to aid Dany. The only thing close to untoward that he does is attempt to claim one of her Dragons, and this was a desperation move driven by his insecurities and his fear of returning to his father empty handed, which would mean that his fallen companions died for nothing:

"What name do you think they will give me, should I return to Dorne without Daenerys?" Prince Quentyn asked. "Quentyn the Cautious? Quentyn the Craven? Quentyn the Quail?" (The Discarded Knight, ADWD)

Volantis, Quentyn thought. Then Lys, then home. Back the way I came, empty-handed. Three brave men dead, for what?

...

His father would speak no word of rebuke, Quentyn knew, but the disappointment would be there in his eyes. His sister would be scornful, the Sand Snakes would mock him with smiles sharp as swords, and Lord Yronwood, his second father, who had sent his own son along to keep him safe … (The Spurned Suitor, ADWD)

Disqualifying Quentyn as the Sun's Son leaves us with only three options, of which only one really works. Trystane is the only other son of House Martell aside from Quentyn via Prince Doran, and given his limited roll in the story thus far I think it's safe to cross him off the list. Doran could theoretically work as the 'Sun's son,' as his mother was Princess of Dorne before him; given that Quaithe describes the figures as going to Dany, Doran's limited mobility and poor health would disqualify him. This leaves us with only one 'son of a sun,' that being 'Young Griff,' aka Aegon VI Targaryen, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne.

This association of Aegon with the Martells via his mother fits with the copious amounts of imagery linking him to the Rhoynar and to 'Egg' aka Aegon V of "Dunk and Egg" fame, specifically that character's travels in Dorne. Tyrion finds him living on a pole boat in the Rhoyne River, home of the ancient Rhoynar culture that Dorne descends from. The Shy Maid is operated by Yandry and Ysilla, so-called 'orphans of the Greenblood' which are another allusion to Dunk and Egg's travels on the Greenblood River in Dorne:

A poleboat had taken them down the Greenblood to the Planky Town, where they took passage for Oldtown on the galleas White Lady.

...

When they’d been poling down the Greenblood, the orphan girls had made a game of rubbing Egg’s shaven head for luck. (The Sworn Sword)

In Tyrion IV of ADWD, a massive horned turtle appears in the river by the Shy Maid, an obvious reference to the Rhoynish 'Old Man of the River,':

It was another turtle, a horned turtle of enormous size, its dark green shell mottled with brown and overgrown with water moss and crusty black river molluscs. It raised its head and bellowed, a deep-throated thrumming roar louder than any warhorn that Tyrion had ever heard. “We are blessed,” Ysilla was crying loudly, as tears streamed down her face. “We are blessed, we are blessed.”

Duck was hooting, and Young Griff too. Haldon came out on deck to learn the cause of the commotion . . . but too late. The giant turtle had vanished below the water once again. “What was the cause of all that noise?” the Halfmaester asked.

“A turtle,” said Tyrion. “A turtle bigger than this boat.”

“It was him,” cried Yandry. “The Old Man of the River.”

And why not? Tyrion grinned. Gods and wonders always appear, to attend the birth of kings.

When Tyrion and Haldon visit the Painted Turtle inn to find information about Daenerys' whereabouts, we have an interesting description of the inn from Tyrion:

The ridged shell of some immense turtle hung above its door, painted in garish colors. Inside a hundred dim red candles burned like distant stars. (Tyrion VI, ADWD)

We once more have Rhoynish symbolism in the turtle, while the 'garish colors' are reminiscent of Young Griff's hair, which is dyed blue in the Tyroshi fashion. Tyrion's description of inside the 'Painted Turtle' is one of dim red candles burning like stars, which can be seen as an oblique reference to the red rubies on Rhaegar's black breastplate, thereby associating the red of Targaryen heraldry with the cultural symbols of the Rhoynar.

The 'Dunk and Egg' imagery goes further, with both Egg and Aegon wearing distinctive straw sun hats, and being accompanied by their Hedge Knights from the Stormlands, both of whom have titles derived from their own simplistic personalities (Duncan the Tall, Rolly Duckfield). Moreover, Egg's journeying to Dorne ends up giving him refuge from the Spring Sickness that ravages Westeros, while Aegon's time in Essos serves as a refuge from Robert's spies and the chaos of the War of the Five Kings. While these similarities might be viewed as a doomed attempt by Varys to recreate Egg through Aegon, I think the purpose of these parallels is to establish both princes as following similar trajectories: both are sons of a Targaryen prince (Maekar, Rhaegar) and a Dornish noblewoman (Dyana Dayne, Elia Martell); become King of the Seven Kingdoms through unexpected circumstances: and if George plans to end ADOS with a mini-Dance of the Dragons, I would expect Aegon VI to meet a fiery end like Egg did.

If Young Griff is actually Aegon VI Targaryen as well as the 'Sun's Son,' this leaves the 'mummer's dragon' without any clear identity. Part of this is due to the conviction that Dany's identification of the cloth dragon from the undying visions with a 'mummer's dragon' or puppet dragon must be correct. In truth, there are countless cases from ADWD alone that show us that a mummer's object is not necessarily a puppet, but more broadly means something which is not as it appears:

I know one stands before me now, weeping mummer's tears. The realization made her sad. (Daenerys III, ADWD)

"Not here," warned Gerris, with a mummer's empty smile. "We'll speak of this tonight, when we make camp." (The Windblown, ADWD)

"My lord, I bear you no ill will. The rancor I showed you in the Merman's Court was a mummer's farce put on to please our friends of Frey."

...

I drink with Jared, jape with Symond, promise Rhaegar the hand of my own beloved granddaughter … but never think that means I have forgotten. The north remembers, Lord Davos. The north remembers, and the mummer's farce is almost done. My son is home." (Davos IV, ADWD)

His reign as prince of Winterfell had been a brief one. He had played his part in the mummer's show, giving the feigned Arya to be wed, and now he was of no further use to Roose Bolton. (The Turncloak, ADWD)

Fat Wyman Manderly, Whoresbane Umber, the men of House Hornwood and House Tallhart, the Lockes and Flints and Ryswells, all of them were northmen, sworn to House Stark for generations beyond count. It was the girl who held them here, Lord Eddard's blood, but the girl was just a mummer's ploy, a lamb in a direwolf's skin. So why not send the northmen forth to battle Stannis before the farce unraveled? (A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD)

Mummer's tears and smiles are obviously false emotions, being affectations put on to hide what someone truly feels. Wyman Manderly is engaged in a mummer's farce wherein he pretends to be loyal to King Tommen and Roose Bolton, but in truth is scheming to restore the Starks to Winterfell and assist Stannis against the Boltons. Roose Bolton, Petyr Baelish and the Crown have in turn engaged in their own mummer's farce by sending Jeyne Poole north to wed Ramsay Snow in the guise of Arya Stark, "a lamb in direwolf's skin." If the 'mummer's dragon' is in fact a dragon that has been made to appear as something else, then Jon Snow more than fits this bill. By birth he should be a Targaryen, having been fathered by Rhaegar Targaryen upon Lyanna Stark; instead, his fortuitous Stark features inherited from his mother, and Ned's claiming Jon as his bastard and raising him amongst his children at Winterfell, has allowed Jon to hide in plain sight from those who would kill him for being Rhaegar's son.

The significance of Dany, Jon and Aegon being the three heads of the dragon is due to their mirroring a less conspicuous triad in George's World: elemental magic and it's connections to the Long Night. We are aware of three forms of elemental magic in the story, being pyromancy, cryomancy and hydromancy. Pyromancy is the most obvious, being the control and use of fire as we see with followers of Rhllor, and also tied to dragons. Cryomancy or ice magic appears in the powers of the Others and in the Wall separating the Seven Kingdoms from the lands beyond. Finally we have hydromancy or water magic, which was used by the Rhoynar against the Valyrian Freedhold and by Nymeria's Rhoynar settlers to support their communities within the deserts of Dorne. Company of the Cat has an excellent video discussing these three 'schools' of magic, but to summarize what she's said: Blue, Red and Green are the colours commonly associated with Ice, Fire and Water/the Sea in ASOIAF; in addition to being featured on the arms of ancient houses such as Massey and Strong, these elements are in turn associated with three magical items in the books. The first, The Horn of Joramun, can raise and lower The Wall (Ice); Dragonbinder, a horn that was likely used alongside similar horns to control the volcanoes of the fourteen flames in Valyria (Fire); and the 'Kraken summoning horn' which is most likely the Hammer of the Waters, since the Hammer raised the seas to swamp the 'Arm of Dorne,' which would have filled the seas fill with corpses of the dead and 'summoned' krakens, which would have fed on the bodies of the drowned.

The Valyrian, Northern and Rhoynish heritage of Dany, Jon and Aegon ties them to these three forms of magic respectively, and by extension to the Long Night. We are given three accounts of the Long Night between ASOIAF and TWOIAF, which I dub the 'western,' 'far eastern' and 'near eastern' versions. The 'western' account concerns the First Men, the Night's Watch, the Last Hero and the Others; the 'far eastern' account covers the 'Jade Compendium' and the Yi Tish account of the Blood Betrayal; and the 'near eastern' or Rhoynar account in which the children of Mother Rhoyne sang a song to return light to the world. Aegon is tied to the Rhoynish account through his mother's heritage, with references to the Rhoynish account in the 'Old Man of the River' appearing in ADWD and Dany's vision of Rhaegar talking about Aegon's 'Song' (that of Ice and Fire):

The Rhoynar tell of a darkness that made the Rhoyne of Essos dwindle and disappear, her waters frozen as far south as the joining of the Selhoru, until a hero convinced the many children of Mother Rhoyne, such as the Crab King and the Old man of the River, to put aside their bickering and join in a secret song that brought back the day. (TWOIAF: Ancient History: The Long Night)

...

“Will you make a song for him?” the woman asked.

“He has a song,” the man replied. “He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.” (Daenerys IV, ACOK)

Jon's connection to the Northern account is obvious given his Stark lineage and service in the Night's Watch, as well as his dreams in ADWD:

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. "Snow," an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard and a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she'd appeared.

The world dissolved into a red mist. Jon stabbed and slashed and cut. He hacked down Donal Noye and gutted Deaf Dick Follard. Qhorin Halfhand stumbled to his knees, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood from his neck. "I am the Lord of Winterfell," Jon screamed. It was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head off. Then a gnarled hand seized Jon roughly by the shoulder. He whirled … (Jon XII, ADWD)

Finally, Dany is directly referred to as Azor Ahai in the books while her visions from Daenerys IX of AGOT connect her bloodline to the Great Empire of the Dawn. The eye colours of the figures she sees match the titles of four of the eight emperors of the GEOTD, Opal, Jade, Tourmaline and Amethyst, with the Bloodstone Emperor killing his sister the Amethyst Empress and causing the Long Night. Azor Ahai and the Bloodstone Emperor are themselves connected, and I recommend David Lightbringer's Nightbringer series and "Azor Ahai the Bad Guy" video for a concise explanation. It's worth noting that David is well within the Faegon Blackfyre camp, but I think his theories here more than fit my own conclusions also.

Aegon being one of the three heads also fits in with the symbolic relationship between water, fire and ice and the green, red and blue colour scheme. As Company of the Cat points out in her video about the magic horns (timestamp 26:52), green is a secondary colour made from a 'cool' and a 'warm' colour, placing it in the middle of the spectrum while red and blue are polar opposites. Similarly, fire can melt ice back into water and water in turn quenches fire, situating Aegon at a middle ground between Jon's ice and Dany's fire. Whereas Jon's only aspect of himself that ties him to House Targaryen is his father and otherwise he is firmly associated with his mother's house, Dany is tied symbolically to her Targaryen identity in the books, being a product of Targaryen incest, the first to hatch dragons in over a century, and her ties to fire through her 'rebirth' on Mirri's pyre under the Red Comet. While Aegon's physical appearance and his father tie him clearly to House Targaryen like Dany, the support of his mother's family alongside his Rhoynar lineage and symbolism place him in a similar situation to Jon, besides their being half-brothers. This also calls to mind the three accounts of the Long Night: if Jon is the Last Hero leading the Night's Watch and Dany is Azor Ahai driving out the darkness with her 'lightbringer' (ie her dragons), Aegon is the unnamed hero who rallied the children of Mother Rhoyne to sing a secret song which brought back the day. To quote alexis_something_rose's essay about Young Griff, "I can wager who will be bickering and who will tell them to set their differences aside and join together in a secret song that will bring back the day."

Whether or not all three or some combination of them will play a decisive role in defeating the Others, or if that will be Bran's part to play, I believe strongly that Dany, Jon and Aegon will be the 'three heads of the dragon.' If 'Young Griff' is truly Sun's Son, Aegon son of Rhaegar, his joining with Dany and Jon represents a unification of the three Dawn Age narratives of the Long Night and it's eventual end. Uniting the icey North, the dragon lord's fire and the songs of Mother Rhoyne would make the endgame a true 'Song of Ice and Fire.'

[theetherealbloom]

AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 2 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Two: Let The Dance With The Devil Begin

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Omfg. I took so long to write this I know T^T Thank you for being patient with me! I just decided to have a mini break bcs I was jet lagged from travelling and had to focus on my health for a little bit. 

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift

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RED KEEP, WESTEROS - 300 AC

You spent two decades carefully avoiding forming deep bonds, all the while meticulously plotting your revenge. You studied their weaknesses, habits, and relationships, patiently biding your time until you could strike from close range.

You had noticed the lingering glances between Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister, their whispered conversations turning into passionate encounters. So when Cersei bore a child, rumored to be the result of her incestuous relationship, and as you witnessed Joffrey Baratheon growing into a likeness of his parents, you recorded every detail in your leather-bound notebook. It contained all the information about those responsible for the death of Elia Martell, ensuring no detail escaped your scrutiny.

Serena, a girl you befriended in the bustling stables, is a steadfast ally in your quest for vengeance. Together, you both meticulously gather intelligence, weaving through the whispers of the kitchen staff and the secrets shared in the shadowy corners of brothels. With her keen eyes and your shared determination, you stalk those who have wronged you, laying the groundwork for your calculated retribution.

In the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, the struggle for power rages on. Joffrey Baratheon, seated upon the Iron Throne, wields authority backed by the formidable House Lannister. However, his claim faces challenge from his uncle Renly, who, bolstered by the might of House Tyrell, presses his own bid for kingship. In this turmoil, Tyrion Lannister arrives in King's Landing, aiming to assert control, only to find himself at odds with his conniving sister, Cersei, now entrenched as Queen Regent.

As autumn blankets the realm and whispers of an impending winter linger, Westeros braces for the bitter cold ahead. Yet, instead of preparing for the harsh season, the land remains conflicted. Renly Baratheon's sudden demise alters the tides of allegiance, leaving the political landscape in flux. Meanwhile, Joffrey, with the backing of House Tyrell, emerges victorious in a decisive clash against his uncle Stannis, solidifying his hold on power.

The fates of many hang precariously in the balance. In the labyrinthine corridors of King's Landing, both Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark navigate treacherous waters, their survival dependent on their ability to navigate the perilous currents of court intrigue.

You had served Sansa since the day she was first betrothed to King Joffrey. Back then, she had been full of dreams—visions of knighthood, love, and a golden crown. But those dreams quickly soured, turning into nightmares as the Lannisters’ hold over her tightened. What was once a promising union became a gilded cage. They kept her in the Red Keep, a prisoner beneath layers of silk and politeness. 

Sansa clung to her “lady-like” pursuits to distract from the harshness of her reality—sewing, embroidery, poetry, and music. Her stitches were always delicate, her voice soft, yet behind her graceful demeanor, you saw the cracks. You were there when Septa Mordane led her through the Red Keep’s throne room for a lesson in history. It was meant to be a glimpse into the glory of the Targaryens and the rulers of old, but instead, Sansa’s gaze lingered on the dark stain where her grandfather and uncle had been butchered by the Mad King. Her face paled, and she pressed her lips into a thin line, haunted by the ghosts of her own blood.

One evening, as she sat embroidering by the window, she confided in you. “Do you think I’ll be able to give Joffrey sons?” Her voice wavered. “What if… What if I’m only able to give him daughters, like Jeyne Poole’s mother?”

You tried to find reassuring words, though even Septa Mordane's attempts had done little to ease her fears. “You’re young, my lady. You will bear many children in time.”

Her blue eyes, wide with fear, met yours, but she said nothing more.

The Hand’s tournament arrived, and Sansa, despite everything, seemed to sparkle for a brief moment amidst the finery of the lords and knights. You stood in the shadows, watching her as she watched them. Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain, was a towering presence, and you felt a chill run down your spine as he unseated Ser Hugh of the Vale, killing him in the dust of the joust. Littlefinger whispered dark stories to Sansa of the Hound’s past, tales of burned flesh and brutal lessons. You saw the way Sansa’s hands trembled as she absorbed the horrors hidden beneath the chivalry.

Yet, there were moments of fleeting happiness. Ser Loras Tyrell, the famed Knight of the Flowers, gave her a single rose before his tilt with Ser Gregor. She blushed under his attention, but you noticed how Loras’s gaze lingered not on her, but on Renly Baratheon, who stood just behind. That small act of kindness, hollow as it was, brought a rare smile to Sansa’s lips, even as the court applauded Sandor Clegane’s intervention to stop his brother’s rampage.

But that brief joy was drowned by the darkness that soon followed. When King Robert Baratheon died after a hunting “accident,” everything unraveled. Eddard Stark, honorable as always, tried to reveal the truth about Joffrey’s parentage, but it was too late. You weren’t surprised when Littlefinger betrayed him. You had seen the cunning in his eyes long before, the way he played everyone like pieces on a cyvasse board. 

Chaos erupted. Eddard’s men, loyal to the last, were slaughtered by Lannister guardsmen led by Sandor Clegane. You remembered Mordane’s voice trembling as she urged Sansa to lock herself in their chambers. But there was no hiding from the Lannisters. They took her.

You watched from a distance as Sansa was humiliated before the court, her innocence crushed beneath the weight of Cersei’s cold cruelty. She stood there, trembling, and you saw the beginning of a transformation. The girl who once dreamed of knights and love was slowly breaking, her innocence being stripped away by every sneer, every command, every cold laugh in the throne room.

You wished you could offer her comfort, but in King’s Landing, comfort was as fleeting as mercy.

The great Sept was filled with the hum of whispers, the heavy weight of tension hanging in the air as Eddard Stark stood before the court. His face, weathered by years of honor and battle, now looked hollow, beaten by betrayal. You stood in the shadows, where servants always stood, your eyes flicking between the high lords and the northern Warden. As the silence fell, Eddard knelt, acknowledging his so-called “crimes” and pledging loyalty to King Joffrey.

For a moment, it seemed the court might breathe again. Sansa stood nearby, her hands trembling. Hope flickered in her eyes—briefly. But Joffrey, perched on the Iron Throne like some twisted boy-king out of a nightmare, leaned forward with a smile sharp as a blade. His words fell like a thunderclap. “Bring me his head.”

Sansa's scream cut through the hall, raw and broken. She lunged forward, hysterical, her voice lost in a storm of pleading, but the gold cloaks restrained her, forcing her back. Her cries—“Please, mercy, mercy!”—rang in your ears, making your stomach turn. 

Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward, cold and unfeeling as he drew Ice, the greatsword of House Stark. You could see the light catch the edge of the steel, and the last thing Sansa saw before she fainted was her father’s final, resigned glance.

You moved through the chaos as a shadow. Your duty to Sansa came first, so as the blood pooled on the Sept’s floor, you carried her from the carnage, her limp body heavy with grief. The days that followed were hollow. She barely spoke, her eyes vacant as you tended to her, making sure she ate, dressing her in the Lannisters' silks even as her soul remained buried in sorrow.

It was one of those somber evenings when she finally spoke, her voice so faint you almost missed it. “Do you… serve the Lannisters?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You paused, setting down the tray of untouched food, meeting her tired gaze. “Yes, my lady,” you answered softly.

Sansa’s eyes flickered with something—confusion, maybe anger. “Have they always been this cruel?” she asked, her words trembling with an innocent horror.

You weighed your response carefully, then nodded. “From what I’ve heard, unfortunately, yes.”

Her lips parted as she considered your answer, but it was her next question that cut deeper. “Then why do you serve them?”

You lowered your eyes, your hands folding over the fabric of her gown, the lie of your position hanging heavy on your shoulders. “It’s something I wager on,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the unease in your chest.

Sansa, always perceptive, frowned. “Is that the only kind of wager you make?”

For a moment, you froze. Then you let a faint smile tug at the corner of your lips, the words “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken” echoing in your heart, though unspoken. “There was one time I bet my entire life on something,” you confessed quietly.

She looked at you then, truly looked, her tear-streaked face searching yours. “Did you win?”

Your smile faltered, but you met her gaze with a spark of determination. “I’m planning to,” you said, with a quiet promise hanging between the two of you.

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP — 300 AC

The stone walls of the Red Keep felt colder that night, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the ancient stones. In a small, dimly lit chamber tucked away from the grand halls, you worked in silence, the weight of your plan pressing down like the calm before a storm. Every movement was deliberate, each thought sharper than the edge of a Valyrian blade. The game was already in motion, and you were setting the pieces in place.

You had long been underestimated—a mere servant, a shadow in the background of the powerful Lannisters, Tyrells, and Martells. Yet, you had seen the truth: the most dangerous players were often those who remained unseen. You were one of them, a silent force, blending into the background while carefully planting the seeds of destruction. The poison, subtle and undetectable, was your weapon.

A soft knock interrupted your focus. The door creaked open, and there stood Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger himself. His thin lips curved into a smile, but there was no warmth in it, only calculation.

“Ah, a quiet place for quiet minds,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, eyes darting around the chamber before settling on you.

You raised your head slowly, meeting his gaze with a calm that belied the storm brewing inside you. Littlefinger wasn’t a man easily intimidated, but neither were you. Two wolves circling, each looking for the other’s weakness.

“You seem to find yourself in many quiet places, Lord Baelish,” you replied, voice soft but pointed. “What brings you here?”

He moved closer, his steps light, like a predator stalking prey. “Just ensuring the right wheels keep turning, ensuring the chaos that follows serves the right cause.” His gaze lingered on your hands, noting the fine movements as you handled a small vial, the liquid within almost imperceptibly shifting.

You allowed a small, knowing smile. “Chaos... Chaos can be useful. But only if it’s controlled.”

His eyebrow raised, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Controlled chaos? Now, that’s an art.”

You carefully set the vial down, your voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “What if the chaos that’s already simmering were to boil over? What if, after Joffrey’s wedding, his reign came to an... unexpected end?”

Baelish didn’t blink, though you could see the subtle change in his posture, the slight narrowing of his eyes. You hadn’t suggested anything outright—it was the art of planting the idea, the delicate balance of nudging him without him realizing he’d been led.

He took a slow breath, his mind already racing. “And who, I wonder, would have the audacity to arrange such an unexpected end?”

You smiled, but didn’t answer directly, your silence speaking volumes. Instead, you moved the conversation forward, allowing the implication to sink in.

“The realm is already full of hungry wolves, my lord,” you said, your voice steady, your hands working deftly as you began to clear away your tools. “All it takes is a nudge in the right direction, and they’ll tear each other apart. No one will stop to notice who did the nudging.”

Littlefinger tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer. “Perhaps,” he mused, his tone as noncommittal as ever, “but wolves are tricky. You can never be sure which way they’ll turn.”

“That’s true,” you conceded, meeting his eyes directly. “But I’ve always been good at reading the pack.”

The silence that followed was heavy, each of you measuring the other, testing the boundaries. He wouldn’t act on your words immediately. Littlefinger was too careful, too meticulous for that. But you could see the spark in his eyes—the idea was there, planted, waiting to take root.

With a nod, he turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “You have a dangerous mind,” he remarked, half admiration, half warning. “Be careful. The pack bites back.”

You gave him a knowing look. “Only if they see the one holding the leash.”

Days passed, and as you moved through the grand halls of the Red Keep, you watched everything begin to fall into place. Like a silent puppeteer, you pulled the strings without ever needing to step into the light.

Varys had been busy, moving pieces on the board that even you hadn’t expected. Ros had whispered in his ear, and soon after, Lady Olenna Tyrell had been brought into the fold. The whispers of a marriage between Sansa Stark and Loras Tyrell spread through the castle like wildfire. You had always known Varys to be a man of schemes, but even you marveled at how quickly he moved.

In the gardens, you overheard the conversations as they unfolded—subtle, quiet, but filled with power. Lady Olenna, with her sharp wit and keen mind, was already orchestrating her plans, likely envisioning a future without Joffrey’s cruel reign.

You stood in the shadows as Littlefinger passed by, his expression unreadable. He had heard your suggestion, and though you were not directly involved, you knew the idea had taken root. He would set things in motion, ensuring the chaos that followed would serve him—and you would remain unseen, untouched by the blood that would soon spill.

RED KEEP, WESTEROS – 301 AC

The War of the Five Kings dragged on, but within the Red Keep, the battles were far subtler, fought with whispers and veiled threats. Your life as a servant under King Joffrey's reign had grown increasingly unbearable. Between the relentless demands of court life and the constant fear of his cruelty, you found little time to care for yourself.

Your headache throbbed—a reminder that you hadn’t eaten since dawn, and the long days had begun to blur into endless nights. It wasn’t uncommon for you to push through these spells, but this time felt different. The world around you grew heavier, your limbs sluggish, and the gardens seemed far away.

Basket in hand, filled with fruit from the kitchens, you trudged through the Red Keep's gardens. The bright afternoon light stabbed at your eyes, worsening the pounding in your head. You tried to focus on your task, but each step felt more labored, and a cold sweat broke out on your skin.

As you rounded a corner near the overgrown hedges, your vision blurred. The world tilted. The cobbled path beneath your feet shifted into an unforgiving blur of stone and soil, and with a muffled thud, everything went black.

In that hazy in-between of consciousness, a voice pulls you back—familiar, though distant. “He would have liked you,” Princess Elia’s voice echoes in your mind.

“Whom do you speak of, my lady?” you had once asked her, back when the Red Keep still buzzed with life and not dread.

“My brother. Oberyn. He’s trouble, but even so, I love him dearly.”

For a brief moment, you can almost feel her presence, and the weight of the past rushes over you like a cold wave. You blink, pulling yourself out of the memory just as a different voice fills your ears. A deeper one, full of curiosity and something unreadable.

You woke slowly, your senses coming back in fragments: the scent of crushed grass, the cool air against your skin, and the distant murmur of voices. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the filtered sunlight through the leaves overhead.

"Careful. Don’t rush."

The voice was deep, tinged with amusement. A hand—warm and strong—rested on your shoulder, gently holding you down. You blinked, focusing on the face above you, unfamiliar yet striking. Dark, sharp eyes, framed by lustrous and black with only a few silver streaks recede from his brow into a widow's peak. The emblem of a red sun pierced by a golden spear embroidered on his tunic caught your eye.

Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper of Dorne.

“Are you injured?” His voice held a soft curiosity as if you were some puzzle he intended to unravel.

You shook your head, still disoriented. "No, I... I must have fainted."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the basket of spilled fruit beside you. “It seems you’ve been overworking yourself. King Joffrey’s court, I assume? They’re not known for their kindness.”

A rush of embarrassment warmed your cheeks. You scrambled to sit up, but Oberyn’s hand remained firm.

“Take your time,” he said, his tone softening. “Even a servant deserves a moment to breathe.”

You weren’t used to kindness, especially not from someone of his stature. His reputation as a fierce and dangerous man preceded him, yet there was something else—an air of compassion, albeit hidden beneath his sharp edges.

“I’m... grateful,” you murmured, unsure of how to respond. “But I should get back to my duties. They won’t—”

Oberyn interrupted with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let them wait. The Lannisters have their claws in many, but even a viper can strike when the time is right.”

There was a pause, a subtle shift in the air between you and Oberyn Martell. His gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, and though his words were casual, they held an undercurrent you couldn’t quite place. It was as though he saw something deeper in you, something more than just a servant tending to her duties. Fate, or perhaps something far more dangerous, had drawn his attention to you.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he stood upright, his dark eyes gleaming with a playful intensity. "You Dornish are known for our... passions," he said, his voice a low, deliberate purr. "But it seems fate has a way of placing beauty in my path, whether I ask for it or not."

You blink, unsure of how to respond, heat rising uncomfortably to your face. He stepped closer, his presence both magnetic and overwhelming. His fingers brushed lightly against your wrist, lingering there a moment longer than propriety would allow. "Tell me," Oberyn continued, his tone playful yet edged with something deeper, "does a woman like you often find herself fainting at the feet of princes? Or is this a rare occasion?"

Your breath hitched, panic flaring inside you, though you did your best to suppress it. Affection—let alone attention—was something you were unaccustomed to. His flirtation was like a wildfire, threatening to burn through the careful walls you'd built around yourself.

"I... I don’t..." you stammered, trying to pull your thoughts together, your mind racing. You weren’t used to being noticed, not like this, not by someone like him.

Oberyn tilted his head, his smirk widening as if he could sense the flurry of emotions raging within you. "Don't be shy," he murmured, voice lowering as his eyes roamed over you with quiet curiosity. "I can see there's much more to you than meets the eye." 

The words felt like a tease, a challenge wrapped in silk, and your heart pounded in your chest, caught between the instinct to flee or stand frozen in place. Oberyn Martell's gaze seemed to strip away every defense you had carefully built over the years, as though he could see straight through the mask of servitude you wore.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, steadying your trembling nerves. This was not the time to panic, not in front of the Red Viper of Dorne. He was too sharp, too dangerous, and your heart fluttered at the way his presence seemed to unsettle the very air around you.

Without answering the prince’s flirtatious remark, you bent down to hurriedly gather the fallen fruit, your fingers clumsy as you fumbled with the basket. But even as you moved, you felt his eyes on you, watching every motion with an almost predatory amusement.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he crouched beside you, his hand brushing yours as he handed you one of the scattered apples. "You're in quite the hurry," he murmured, the smirk never leaving his face. His touch lingered, deliberately slow as he placed the fruit in your basket.

You rose quickly, trying to distance yourself, but Oberyn stood just as swiftly. Before you could retreat, he grasped your wrist, pulling it gently toward him. His movements were fluid, effortless, as if this were a dance he had long perfected. He raised your hand to his lips, his dark eyes locked on yours, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—his lips soft, warm against your skin.

Your breath caught, panic fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird. Heat crept up your neck, your heart racing as you tried to pull yourself together, but his touch seemed to set your mind spinning.

Just then, Oberyn’s eyes shifted, narrowing as he caught sight of something—your scars, peeking out from beneath your long sleeves. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, curiosity flashing across his features. He tilted his head, about to speak.

But you jerked your hand away, the sudden movement sharp, almost frantic. "I should go," you blurted, the words tumbling out hastily. You gathered your things, your pulse still thrumming wildly as you turned on your heel, desperate to escape his piercing gaze.

As you hurried away, you could feel Oberyn's eyes lingering on your retreating form, his expression unreadable. Even in your rush, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the prince wasn’t done with you yet.

KING'S LANDING, WESTEROS – 301 AC

The sun hung high over King’s Landing, its golden light casting a deceptive warmth over the cool sea breeze that drifted in from Blackwater Bay. You stood with Marei at the edge of the courtyard, the bustle of the palace below and the hum of the city distant beneath the tranquil air. The garden was alive with color, a stark contrast to the heavy gloom that clung to those gathered at the banquet table.

Shae moved with a quiet urgency, filling a plate with food from the banquet spread. She placed it in front of Sansa, who sat still, pale and lifeless, her face void of any spark. Her slender hands rested on her lap, unmoving. It was as if she had already become a shadow, despite still breathing.

“You need to eat something,” Shae urged softly, her voice carrying both concern and exasperation.

Sansa did not stir. 

“Pigeon pie,” Shae offered, her tone gentler now, but Sansa’s pale lips barely moved as she whispered, “No, thank you.”

A sigh escaped Shae, but she quickly turned back to the table, scanning for something else. With a quick motion, she removed Sansa's untouched plate and placed a new offering in front of her. “Lemon cakes?” Shae asked, a glimmer of hope in her voice. Everyone knew Sansa's love for lemon cakes.

Sansa’s voice, barely a whisper, responded again. “No, thank you.”

Shae’s expression faltered. “You love lemon cakes.”

But Sansa remained unmoved, as if the world around her had lost all meaning. Shae’s shoulders slumped in frustration, her eyes flicking toward you and Marei before glancing at the entrance of the courtyard.

Tyrion Lannister entered the garden with deliberate steps, his short legs struggling to match the long strides of the men he was often compared to. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the scene with quick efficiency. Despite his stature, you had learned well enough that Lord Tyrion Lannister was not a man to be underestimated. His mind was his sharpest weapon.

“Tyrion,” Shae called out to him with a sigh of relief. “Tell her she needs to eat.”

Tyrion approached the table, offering a small, polite smile. “My lady, you do need to eat.”

Sansa’s gaze remained fixed somewhere in the distance, her hands limp in her lap. “I don’t need to eat,” she said softly, without even looking at him.

Tyrion hesitated for a moment, glancing between Shae, you, and Marei. His expression was measured, patient. “Could I have a moment alone with my wife?” he asked gently, though his tone held the firmness of a command.

You exchanged a quick look with Marei before bowing your head and stepping away. Shae, however, lingered, her eyes flashing with concern and defiance. She crossed her arms, unwilling to yield.

“She needs to eat,” Shae said stubbornly, her eyes narrowing as she looked between Tyrion and Sansa. 

Tyrion met her gaze, his expression imploring, but Shae’s frustration was palpable. With one last glance at Sansa, Shae reluctantly turned and left the garden.

Tyrion took a seat across from Sansa, his eyes softening as he reached out to take her hand. His grip was gentle, but firm enough to draw her from her daze. “I can’t let you starve, Sansa,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet compassion.

Sansa didn’t react. She stared past him, her blue eyes hollow, as if the world had dulled to nothing but gray. Shae, now at the far end of the garden, cast a furious glance back toward Tyrion, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.

A FEW DAYS LATER

KITCHEN KEEP, KING'S LANDING — DAY

The kitchen was a chaotic blend of sounds and smells, with servants rushing around, preparing the feast for the garden party. You focused on your tasks, slicing fruits and arranging them neatly, hoping the repetitive motions would calm the unease bubbling in your chest. The Lannisters' garden parties always came with tension—too many eyes, too many secrets.

Serena, ever observant, moved beside you with a conspiratorial smile. Her presence had always been a quiet comfort, an unspoken pact between two women wronged by the same family. She nudged your side playfully, her voice just loud enough for you to hear over the clattering pans and murmurs of other servants.

“Guess what I overheard in the gardens earlier,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of fresh gossip.

You glanced up, your curiosity piqued. “What is it now?”

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping even lower. “Tyrion and Lord Varys were having one of their secret little chats. Something about Shae.” She gave a sly smile before recounting the conversation she’d overheard, her voice adopting a mocking impression of Tyrion's measured tone.

“Lord Varys. Breakfasting with the king?”

Your hands paused over the fruit, recognizing the weight of that simple greeting. Serena continued, now mimicking Varys’ smooth, ever-cautious reply.

“I’m afraid foreigners aren’t welcome at such exclusive affairs,” she quoted, barely concealing a smirk.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. Tyrion and Varys—always circling each other, testing the limits of loyalty and power. Serena’s impression was spot on, and the dry chuckle she added to Varys’ line brought the exchange to life.

“Oh, to be foreign,” she muttered in Tyrion’s voice before glancing around the bustling kitchen with exaggerated suspicion, mimicking Varys’ quiet amusement.

“Ahem,” she finished with a soft laugh.

The kitchen clamor drowned out any chance of someone overhearing, but you kept your gaze fixed on your hands, focusing on the fruit before you. "What did they say after that?" you asked in a low voice, not wanting to appear too interested but knowing that information like this was often a lifeline in King's Landing.

Serena's smile dimmed slightly as she continued, her tone more serious now. “They were talking about Shae. Varys warned Tyrion that she’s been noticed. That Sansa’s maid saw them together, and it’s only a matter of time before Cersei—and worse, Tywin—find out.”

Your breath hitched slightly. That was dangerous—too dangerous for a place like this.

You glanced up at Serena, who nodded grimly. “Varys told Tyrion his father has promised to hang the next whore he’s found with.”

Your stomach twisted, though you managed to keep your expression neutral. Information like this could be a weapon if used correctly. But it also carried its own risks, especially for someone like you, who lived in the shadows of these powerful people. You simply nodded and whispered, "Thank you."

KING’S LANDING GARDEN, DAY — 301 AC

The gardens of the Red Keep, beautiful though they were, could not ease the tension that clung to the air. The lush greenery and sea breeze seemed wasted on the gathering before you, where cruelty simmered beneath the surface. You moved silently among the servants, pouring wine, offering trays of food, your head low as your sharp eyes observed everything. No one here was truly safe—not even those who smiled and pretended otherwise.

You had learned long ago to watch, to listen, to see things others missed. And here, among the so-called lords and ladies, your simmering hatred boiled just beneath the surface. Revenge had a way of lurking in quiet moments like these, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

At the head of the table sat King Joffrey, his golden crown glinting in the sun like a mockery of all that was just. Around him, the key players of the realm gathered: Queen Cersei, her eyes sharp and watchful; Lord Tywin, stoic and commanding as always; Prince Tommen, innocent and ignorant of the malice around him; and Grand Maester Pycelle, old and leering.

But your attention flickered to Sansa Stark. Pale, withdrawn, her once-vibrant spirit all but crushed under the weight of her suffering. She sat beside her husband, Tyrion Lannister, who, despite his small stature, radiated an awareness far sharper than anyone gave him credit for. The tension between them was palpable, an unspoken grief they both carried.

Your heart tightened as you watched, knowing Sansa's pain was not unlike your own. Like her, you had learned to survive in silence, though your silence was of a different kind. The Lannisters had taken too much from you. They were going to pay for it one day, one way or another.

Across the table, Lord Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, carrying a gleaming goblet, his voice filled with a pride that bordered on foolishness.

“From House Tyrell and the people of the Reach, Your Grace, it is my honor to present you with this wedding cup.”

He placed the goblet before Joffrey, who barely looked at it, his lips curling into a mocking smile.

“A handsome goblet, my lord. Or shall I call you Father?”

You noted how Mace Tyrell’s face flushed with both pride and unease. He bowed deeply. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

As Mace withdrew, Shae moved gracefully through the crowd, setting a tray before Sansa. You saw how her eyes flickered toward the young girl, but there was no response from Sansa, no recognition of the kindness that once might have been there.

Then, the sharp voice of Queen Cersei pierced the moment, her words venomous.

“She’s the whore I told you about. The dark-haired one.”

Your blood boiled as you saw Shae stiffen. The insult cut through the air like a blade, but Shae, ever composed, turned to leave without a word. You noticed how Tywin’s cold eyes followed her, narrowing as she walked away.

“Have her brought to the Tower of the Hand before the wedding,” Tywin ordered, his voice devoid of any emotion, yet as sharp as a death sentence.

Tyrion’s face darkened. You could see the concern etched into his features, his helplessness as he tried to control a situation slipping further out of his grasp. Your heart raced, knowing the precarious game being played here—and how dangerous it was for all involved.

Shae’s departure was barely noticed as Podrick stepped forward, carrying a large tome. He placed it carefully before Joffrey, and Tyrion followed, a strained smile on his face as he addressed the king.

“A book,” Joffrey said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Tyrion clasped his hands together, speaking with calm civility. “The Lives of Four Kings. Grand Maester Kaeth’s history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read.”

For a brief moment, Joffrey hesitated. His sharp tongue seemed to fail him as the weight of the gift hovered in the air. But Tywin’s piercing gaze prodded him, and the boy-king forced a mocking smile.

“Now that the war is won, we should all find time for wisdom,” Joffrey said, his voice laced with scorn. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Tyrion bowed, but the tension between them crackled like a hidden storm.

Before anyone could breathe, The Mountain lumbered forward, carrying a sword swathed in black cloth. He laid it before Joffrey with all the reverence of a knight presenting a sacred relic. Tywin rose, his voice steeped in gravitas as he spoke.

“One of only two Valyrian steel swords in the capital, Your Grace, freshly forged in your honor.”

Joffrey’s eyes gleamed with an almost childlike excitement as he tore the sword from its sheath, its blade gleaming ominously in the sunlight. You felt a ripple of unease roll through the gathered nobles as the blade sliced through the air.

“Careful, Your Grace,” Pycelle croaked from his seat. “Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel.”

But Joffrey’s wicked grin only widened. “So they say.”

In a sudden, violent movement, Joffrey swung the sword down, cleaving the book Tyrion had gifted him clean in half. The sound of tearing parchment and splintering leather echoed through the garden. A gasp rippled through the crowd, but Joffrey was delighted with himself.

“Such a great sword should have a name,” Joffrey declared, his eyes burning with cruel glee. “What shall I call her?”

The crowd murmured suggestions, none of which seemed to please the boy-king. But then, his lips curled into a malicious grin.

“Widow’s Wail. I like that. Every time I use it, it’ll be like cutting off Ned Stark’s head all over again.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You saw Sansa freeze beside him, her face drained of color, her entire body rigid with the memory of her father’s execution. Across the garden, Shae watched, her eyes narrowing with unspoken fury.

You kept your head down, but the seething rage inside you boiled hotter. One day, they would all pay for this. The Lannisters, their cruelty, their arrogance—it would all come crashing down. And you would make sure of it.

KING’S LANDING GARDEN, LATE AFTERNOON — 301 AC

The preparations for the royal wedding between Joffrey and Margaery were endless, consuming the days and nights of everyone within the Red Keep. But while others concerned themselves with the surface duties, your mind was preoccupied with a far more dangerous task.

The thought of the Strangler stones hidden within Sansa's necklace gnawed at you. The pieces were already in motion, each step methodically planned. Your hands moved through the flowers you were tasked with arranging, but your thoughts were elsewhere, carefully calculating the next move in your plot to bring down King Joffrey without implicating yourself. 

As you worked alone in the gardens, the late afternoon sun blazed overhead. The sweat clung to your skin, and the heat forced you to roll your sleeves up just enough to reveal the faint, jagged lines of scars that adorned your forearms. The burn scars, remnants of your brutal encounter with Ser Gregor Clegane, were still a reminder of what you endured—and survived. The pain was still fresh, but it fueled your resolve. Spite, after all, was a powerful motivator.

You barely noticed the approaching footsteps until a shadow fell across your path. Looking up, you were met with the sharp, knowing gaze of Oberyn Martell. His smirk was playful, as it often was, but there was something deeper there—an intensity that sent a ripple of unease through you. 

"You work too hard," he said smoothly, his voice like silk. "It’s a crime to see such beauty covered in dirt."

You straightened, brushing your hands on your apron, trying to keep the panic from showing. "I have my duties, my lord," you replied, keeping your tone even. The way Oberyn looked at you—intense, almost predatory—made your heart race, though you tried to remain composed.

He crouched beside you, plucking a flower from the arrangement and twirling it between his fingers. His eyes flicked briefly to the scars on your arm, scars you quickly moved to conceal by rolling down your sleeves. But it was too late—Oberyn’s gaze lingered on them for just a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. 

The way he studied you wasn’t merely out of curiosity, but recognition. His next words carried a weight that hung in the air between you both. 

"There are stories... of a servant who once attended to Princess Elia." Oberyn’s tone remained casual, but you could feel the shift, the tension creeping in as he spoke. "They say she escaped the Sack of King’s Landing with her life. Barely."

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to remain still. You had heard those stories too. After all, you had lived them.

Oberyn leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Some say she vanished, swallowed by the chaos. Others claim she survived through sheer will, fueled by spite." His dark eyes locked onto yours, searching. "I wonder… do you know of such tales?"

The question lingered in the air, heavy with suspicion. You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, but your face remained a mask of composure. "Many stories are told in King’s Landing, my lord. Few of them hold any truth."

Oberyn’s lips curled into a faint smile, but his eyes remained sharp, watching you carefully. "Perhaps," he murmured. "But then again, some tales are more dangerous than others." He stood up, still twirling the flower between his fingers, casting one last glance at your concealed scars. "Sometimes, survival speaks louder than words."

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. Ellaria Sand approached, her eyes already on you. There was a possessiveness in her gaze, though softened by intrigue.

“So this is the woman who has caught my prince’s eye,” Ellaria remarked, her voice a low purr as she moved closer, her hand brushing lightly against Oberyn’s shoulder.

You bowed your head, hiding the inner storm brewing within you. "My lady," you greeted, though the tension in the air was unmistakable.

Ellaria’s gaze flicked to Oberyn, then back to you. “She is different,” she said, her tone intrigued, but there was an edge of caution in her words. “I wonder what it is you see in her, my love?”

Oberyn chuckled softly, his attention still on you. “There’s something about her,” he said, his voice smooth, yet laced with deeper meaning. “Something familiar.”

Ellaria looped her arm through his, drawing him closer to her side. “Familiar or not, I trust you know where your loyalties lie.”

Oberyn’s smile deepened, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. "Always," he replied to Ellaria, but his words were aimed at you, and the unspoken suspicion between you both lingered in the air, unsaid but undeniable.

As the two of them moved off together, your heart pounded in your chest. Oberyn's words, the way he had looked at you—he was starting to piece it together. He suspected who you truly were, but for now, he remained silent, watching. You returned to your task, but the weight of his suspicion clung to you. 

Everything had only just begun, and you were already in far deeper than you had anticipated. But like the scars on your skin, the memories of your past had shaped you into what you were now. And just like that day long ago, you would survive.

TAGLIST:

@christinamadsen

[love-and-deepspace-wiki]

Surrounding Characters: Mr. Raymond

Age: 39

Status: Deceased

Cause of Death: Unknown

Update! Occupation: Renowned art collector; founder of Xander Sciences

Residence: Three-story mansion in Linkon City's southeastern suburbs

Appearance: Based on his silhouette, he likely has scraggly hair and some amount of facial hair on his chin?

Details:

We meet Mr. Raymond on the protaganist's very first mission (Mission HM- U-0048-3015). En route, she finds Zayne on the side of the road with his broken-down car. She gives him a lift to Raymond's residence and learns Mr. Raymond is one of Zayne's former patients.

The mission details mention a person named Henry, who is one of the Hunter's Association's clients. They also note that Mr. Raymond is Henry's employer.

During her Wanderer inspection, the protaganist detects Metaflux and follows the Resonance Trail to the collection room. There, she finds Mr. Raymond is lying unconscious on the floor.

After the Wanderer is dealt with, the protaganist notices a Metaflux-infused painting that causes hallucinations. They reasoned it could be where the Wanderer had been hiding and the reason why Mr. Raymond had been acting so strange.

Mr. Raymond is still unconscious when the helicopter arrives and Zayne accompanies him to the hospital. The protagonist then reports the painting to HQ as needing special treatment.

Key Details:

Mr. Raymond had a serious congenital heart disease, hence Zayne's medical visit.

Zayne mentions that, based on the improvement of his vital signs, Akso's equipment determined his age to be "far younger than what it actually is"

Seems to have some connection to Xander Sciences, since the protaganist overhears him trying to convince to Zayne to work for them.

The painting in question was made by Rafayel and was sold by Flux Arts.

Mr. Raymond's Mansion:

Built near the sea and mountains, the southeastern suburbs of Linkon City are home to various luxurious villas and holiday resorts. The entrance to his mansion has an ornate iron gate. Architecturally, his three-story mansion has a style of modern design and simplicity.

Courtyard:

The exterior courtyard (left) is surrounded by a large pool (right) and the water's surface covered in blue-green algae.

First Floor:

The central feature of the first floor (below) is a large fish tank containing what appears to be a Lemurian skeleton. It is surrounded by a spiral staircase to the next floor. The room also includes a sofa set and a grand piano.

Second Floor:

(We don't get any images or description of the second floor)

Third Floor:

This floor is where his art collection room (below) is located. One of his collected items is a painting by Rafayel.

Murder Details:

The case of his murder is currently unsolved and has little known information to work with. But, through multiple accounts from other characters, I've gathered the following information.

Zayne's Statements:

When Zayne calls for medical backup, he mentions the following:

"Male, 39 years old, he collapsed from shock because a Wanderer appeared five minutes ago. No external injuries. His heart rate is normal, and his pupils react normally to light,... The address is..."

Rafayel's Statements:

When the protaganist visits Flux Arts, a digital version of the painting Mr. Raymond bought was displayed in the original's place. Rafayel's disembodied voice says the following regarding the painting:

The story behind it was a dream he'd had in childhood. In it, he had turned into a fish and swam in search of a place beyond the water's surface.

But despite his efforts, he only ended up in blood-red seawater.

That dream was the first time he'd ever seen such a color and he spent many of the following years trying to recreate it. But he never really could get that same shade of red. It was always a slightly different hue.

Thomas' Statements:

When the protaganist tells Thomas what happened to Mr. Raymond and mentions a connection to the painting, his face turns pales before he quickly regains composure. He mentions the following about Mr. Raymond:

Was a renowned art collector famous for his discerning taste

He visited Flux Arts last month, was utterly smitten with the painting, and needed to buy it.

During the process of arranging, displaying, and selling the painting, more than a dozen people were in contact with it. None of them mentioned anything about a Wanderer.

Notes that Rafayel mentioned often hearing strange noises in the studio late at night, but Thomas thought he was trying to trick him.

When the protaganist detects Metaflux from the coral stones in the Flux Arts office, Thomas says Rafayel uses them to make his paint.

Joe's Statements:

Joe is a reporter from Weekly Art who was following Rafayel in hopes of getting a scoop for a future article. He mentions the following about Mr. Raymond's case:

Mr. Raymond had drowned in his bathtub

Was found by his butler Herman. But by then, it was too late.

Before he died, Mr. Raymond had made a bunch of cuts into his arms and legs that resembled "a bunch of fish scales"

[impossiblepackage]

What's one of your fav things that has happened to you in dwarf fortress?

One of my first games I played when I was actually getting a handle on things, years ago before the steam edition, I had a fort that was going pretty good. Right away I had started to build a big grand entry hall with a spiraling ramp entrance, not bothering with stairs, and was just going to dig out the main hall and a few rooms before looking into making some arms and armor so I could get some dwarves training. I didn't have many dwarves, but I had settled near a necromancer tower (which are much more common if you let the world gen run for 250 years, which used to be the default instead of the current 100 years) so i wanted to get prepared early. I had the starting seven when the necromancer came knocking. I managed to get almost every locked aware inside in time, and spent a couple months waiting for them to leave. I was able to dig out that main hall and a few rooms and get a random dwarf to start practicing making copper gear. When they finally did and I opened the gates again, I barely had time to chop a bit of wood and for a migrant wave to take me somewhere around 12 dorfs before the undead came back. This was a much smaller group of 6 or so experiments with decent gear. I kept the dwarves locked up, started looking for flux and iron to equip them properly. After a while I realized just how much I was depending on forage for food and booze, which was beginning to become a problem since most of a year passed without the experiments leaving.

At the time, I still didn't have much of an understanding of how flux worked or where to find it, so I had maybe a few scraps of steel and a load of iron when our food reserves started getting really low. I never considered looking for the caverns because that was still a no-go zone in my mind. So, I hammered out what steel i had into a few weapons and used iron for the rest, plus what iron armor I could slap together. Shortly before we ran completely out of food and booze, I said fuck it, had the civilian dwarves hide away in what was going to temporarily be a hospital, and stationed the military dwarves at the gate. The necromancer experiments had spread out in the tunnel a little bit, so I thought maybe I could just let one or two in at a time, but they were quicker than expected and my dwarves a bit too overzealous. Pro tip: when you want to fight, station the dwarves further back than you actually want them to fight, because they WILL just charge ahead.

An all out brawl broke out which was taking AGES for some reason. The fight spread out all over the hall, and one of the experiments showed up a bit late and peeled off to slaughter most of the civilian dwarves. Several of my military dwarves had died, but a couple of them had too. Eventually, I had nothing left but one military dwarf and two civilians behind a locked door in the hospital. That soldier was wounded but still up and about. The remaining experiments had started spreading throughout the rest of the fort and the mines, leaving just one on the opposite side of the great blood-soaked entry hall, with a wounded soldier near the hospital door surely about to bleed out on the ground. I took a chance and let a dwarf out to rescue her, hoping to get her in a hospital bed before the undead got in. Almost worked, too. Got her in, but that experiment caught the walking soldier on the wrong side of the door. The two civilians fuckin jumped into the fray and the three of them together were somehow enough to take it out and get back inside before more came, at the cost of the lives of one of the civilians, who had to haul the military dwarf to another hospital bed before dying themselves.

Which is about when I realized I didn't actually understand how dwarven medicine worked. I had no medical supplies at all, so all that was left to do was wait and hope she got better. Just two soldiers, locked in a room of corpses, hoping the enemy leaves of their own accord. Miraculously, she got up of their own accord, and after so long of waiting I said fuck it and decided to try and take em on one at a time. They got one or two of them this way, on account of them all being pretty injured as well, but the remaining three all showed up at once. They got one of them, they got our brave rescuer from before, and my last dwarf, one who had been one of my favorites from the start, the one we lost the last two civilians to rescue, fought valiantly to the bitter end, but ultimately fell.

then, hilariously, a migrant wave arrived and was immediately slaughtered in the open.

[percheduphere]

I check in on Reddit once in a while to gauge where the "general audience" is at with certain things, including shipping. Unsurprisingly, the majority of subredditors don't see Lokius as having any validity.

I mulled over why this is, and I've come to the conclusion that, as a society, we are very bad at understanding that the human experience is a fluid continuum. We get so bogged down with labels and separating things by those labels that we don't consider the fact that those labels are in and of themselves social constructs.

This may be why so many people have trouble wrapping their minds around being trans, gender fluidity, romantic friendships, gray asexuality--essentially anything that can be in flux. Ironic, since our lives are always in flux.

To tie this back to Lokius and shipping in general, heteronormative media relies on oblique cues for romance: falling onto a mattress, facing one another across a low-lit table and speaking in hushed voices, sharing a blanket, a kiss.

But the queer experience has been oppressed for so long that a heteronormative audience doesn't know how to look for queer romantic cues that are not overt (physically or verbally), and they don't know how to look for those cues precisely because they've never had to be hidden. They never lived that experience.

And this bias inevitably leads to the logical fallacy that heterosexual friends can absolutely fall in love, but two men who started out as friends shouldn't (read: "can't") fall in love because "friends and lovers are two different things".

Really? So by that definition, my lover can't also my friend? What?

"Why can't they just be friends?" That question signals the fear of men being mistaken as gay when showing another man affection. This fear doesn't really happen between women. At least, not often. I have yet to meet a woman who was offended for being mistaken as their best friend's lover.

This means that our media needs a queer male character who has BOTH a male romantic partner AND cis-straight male friends to show both can (and does) happen concurrently.

Gah, the rigidness of social constructs is worse than duct tape.

[feedthefandomfest]

I have a question because I want to comment but I feel nervous. It is very foolish but it is seriously something that prevents me from commenting-

So English is not my first language and I suffer from a disease known as 'fuck you all English leaves your brain when you tap on the comment box'. Like I'm fluent enough to write a fic but the comments break me and I can only do basic 'subject verb complement' and forget half my vocabulary because I'm so nervous, so it often ends up being broken English.

I back out of posting comments except 'i love this this is amazing thank you for writing I love it' because I'm too scared the author will take it badly ? Like, what if they find it annoying ? What if they believe I think they write bad English and I'm mocking them and they don't want me to ever read their works ever again ?

Anyways, my question is : Does it actually bother anyone to receive broken English comments? Do people find it annoying ?

I would never be annoyed by such a thing and I'm positive that's true of others as well. On the contrary, it kinda blows my mind whenever I stop to think about how members of fandom for whom English is not their first language are so often working in translation. Like the trickiest barrier I have to contend with when writing anything is sleep deprivation and your average writer's block 😅 so to imagine also rendering those words in a different language?? 🫠

To varying degrees, the tragic disease of "empty comment box = empty brain" can strike anyone, regardless of language. On the plus side, some of the tricks to break through the blankness are also broadly applicable, such as

drawing from a list of sentence starters like the ones offered here or here (the beginner bingo card also has similar tasks!!)

installing this handy script that generates a positive comment on demand, which you can modify or expand on as needed

using the floating comment box to track moments or quotes you want to compliment specifically, even with just a string of emojis 💕💕💕

I can recall a couple comments I've gotten where the person apologized or gave a sort of disclaimer that English wasn't their first language, and honestly it just made me even more appreciative of the comment? Because there are so many reasons that a reader doesn't comment, and a language barrier is the most understandable!! And yet here they are, making me smile with their words. I always want to reassure them in my reply that an apology/disclaimer isn't necessary, but I don't always know how. (And there's nothing wrong with acknowledging something you're self-conscious about, after all.)

The concept of "broken English" has also got me thinking, though... And since it turned into a bit of an essay I'll leave it under the cut. 💛

Because the term "broken English" has a lot to unpack, seeing as it's always unfairly positioned those who speak English as a second language imperfectly as lesser (broken = defective). And that strikes me as a bit ironic, considering the degree to which English is a Frankenstein's monster of a language—this conglomeration of every language it encounters and subsumes. In that sense, English itself is a broken language? Or rather the shards of numerous languages held together with duct tape and gum and a whiff of imperialism. Its usage is always in flux, always evolving as speakers adapt it to new circumstances, and those adaptations become dialects in and of themselves. There is no one English language.

I teach high schoolers, and I'm consistently struck by the growing chasm between the kinds of English I can speak and the kinds of English they can speak. And technically my job is to train them in how to use American Standard English and read literature written in American Standard English, but really I find that pretty limiting.

Take the tone of this response, for instance! The more I've leaned toward trying to articulate these complicated issues of language, the more formal my speech has become. Contrast that with the first paragraph, where I'm trying to get across this awkward earnest admiration for the extra effort required of some fans just to engage in fandom, and so I ended up using more casual phrasing and emojis in a way that (hopefully) conveys a certain warmth and self-deprecating humor and whatnot.

If I were to leave a comment on a fic that blew me away, left me in a state of awe or delight or anguish—just a puddle on the floor—I'd find American Standard English quite lacking. Downright restrictive. The unique jumbled babble of fandom-speak functions on breaking the standard rules in order to evoke an intensity of emotion that meets the demands of the moment.

Another thing about commenters who really commit to throwing the rules out the window in favor of vibes is that I get such a strong sense of personality beaming through. A distinct voice that's generated, an intense impression of there being an individual on the other side with a particular shape. And there's something delightful about that.

...I suppose this is all a very roundabout way of saying that if there's anywhere to just unleash, vocab and mechanics be damned, where it's more than okay to string together whatever words you can in service of how you're feeling, it's the AO3 comment box. 💛

[brumeraven]

🍂: Resurrection || burnout, chronic illness, creativity, decay, depression, disability, expectations, fae, gross, dolls, psychopomps?, love?, the surreality of seeing a reflection of oneself in a hoarder

"it will take care of that, Miss."

Before the thought that I might as well be finished eating had even fully formed, the doll's fine porcelain fingers clamped on an equally fine porcelain plate one shade further from bone white, whisking it away from the table before me.

Presumptuous? Perhaps. But the doll was always right. I was done, the last fifteen minutes spent pushing bits of vegetable into sorted piles and tracing designs in the sauce.

All that brumeraven work disappeared along with a meal half-eaten at best on a plate...not quite normal?

"Where'd you find this plate?"

"the cupboard, Miss." It never was easy differentiate snark from honest confusion with this one.

"The edges. The rim is rolled. My plates have a rim that thins towards the edge, no?"

"the manufacturer changed its process. this one apologizes."

I thought nothing about it at the time, assumed that one had simply broken and the doll had tried to replace it without my finding out. These things happened from time to time; dolls hated change almost as much as they hated admitting culpability.

Then I threw out some paper.

I was writing again. Or, rather, I wasn't writing again, just staring at a few half-written words on a page.

With a frown and a flourish for none but myself, I plunged pen into inkwell and hovered over the paper in anticipation, willing anything at all to manifest on the page.

A splotch was the only answer to my prayers, dripped carelessly from nib I'd forgotten to tap then held in trembling hand. The iron gall ink darkened to black along with my mood, eating away at the paper until only a hole remained.

Crumpled and tossed in anger across the room.

"it will take care of that, Miss."

As always, the doll I'd forgotten was there was quick to act, scooping the balled-up scrap of failure off the floor with near-reverential care and turning as if to hurry from the room with it.

"Flatten that out first! It takes up too much space in the bin if it's crumpled. I'll not have you overflowing the trash."

My anger was as undirected as my scribbles. The doll stopped all the same and swiveled to look at me, shuddering slightly in a manner I took as quizzical.

"this one cannot."

I blinked, not understanding the flat refusal. "What do you mean you can't? You're not capable of flattening a sheet of paper?"

"it cannot destroy nor change what Miss has created..."

"It's trash. It's going to be destroyed anyways when it gets thrown out."

Quaking now, joints quivering with... Fury? Or shock?

I decided on the latter; I'd unintentionally committed some great blasphemy for what seemed the hundredth time.

"What are you going to do with that?"

"this one will file it, of course."

"Show me."

Words I would regret.

It lead the way, and I shuffled along after as fast as my failing legs would allow.

It wasn't far, just down to the exterior basement. I hadn't been in years, not since the trip out and around the side of the house and down the steep stairs had become all but impossible for me.

Still, it wasn't large, just a tiny cellar I'd never used for much. I pointed at the door, finger crooked yet still firm and unwavering in its demand, and the doll stepped forward to push it open.

I'm not sure what I expected to find.

Dolls are creatures of Flux, animated by it, and consequently have some limited capacity to influence their world. The exact nature of this interaction has been a productive topic for the philosophists, much scholarly debate with little actual scholarly consensus.

No doll has ever been capable of wielding Flux with any conscious control or precision, and yet...the subconscious wishes and needs of such simple creatures sometimes manifest in ways that would've been deemed impossible by even the most forceful Witch.

The basement was changed, different, massive. Certainly bigger than the footprint of the house at this point and with no indication that it had been dug out or otherwise enlarged.

It had simply...expanded to the doll's needs, without regard for the constraints of physical space.

The entirety was filled floor to near-ceiling with boxes in a hundred different sizes, piled haphazardly in stacks that could only charitably be described as precarious.

Half of them were only upright for the fact that every single gap was mortared full of assorted miscellany.

Stamping down on my trepidation firmly, I reached an unsteady hand to pop the lid of the closest box. A gurgle of disgust or perhaps dismay caught in my throat.

Inside was the plate of half-eaten food from before, along with another half-dozen in various stages of decomposition.

"Why. Did you. Do this." I gagged the words out, managing less snap in my voice than I would have preferred in the moment.

The doll blinked, hesitating in the middle of its carefully placing the crumbled paper in the space left between two boxes of more organized storage.

"this one ran out of room for boxes. the room stopped getting bigger. so it had to become more efficient."

"I-no, not that, the..." I gestured more broadly at the room as a whole, eventually settling on a question to encompass it. "What is all of this."

"it is you, Miss."

I took a step back under the force of the answer's innocence, thinking I didn't understand, fearing I would come to, dread creeping slowly up from my feet, its icy fingers clawing insistently at my bowels. "How...what do you mean..."

"it is you, Miss. this one is saving you."

In that moment, I understood. I felt that frigid clutch grab my throat and plunge it into my bile-filled stomach.

This was it.

This was everything.

All of this trash, rotting and pointless, was everything I had ever done, everything I'd ever accomplished.

Every plate I'd ever touched, every paper I'd ever thrown away, every clump of hair I'd ever shed, and every tissue I'd ever bled on. The scraps of every good idea and every bad. The mildew from tears shed in anger and in sadness and in joy.

This was all there was.

"...why." My throat clenched, dry, the word croaked from between cracked lips near to bleeding.

"because you are dying, Miss. it must save every single thing if it is to find someone to repair you when you are broken. if it misses anything, you won't be whole."

The house burned the next day, and with it, everything that I owned. An accident, they said. Dolls could be peculiar, they said.

I didn't care.

None of it meant anything anyways.

~🍂

[l3x01d]

98' Furby Battery Contact Replacement/Repair Guide

What you'll need:

soldering iron, flux, 60/40 leaded solder, related safety equipment

size 1 bit Phillips-head screwdriver

needlenose pliers

new battery contacts (the little metal parts inside the battery compartment that touch the batteries) for AAs (the ones i ended up using i got on ebay and were called "Battery Spring Plate AA Battery Contact Nickel Plate 28mmx12mm for DIY 20 Pcs")

q-tips and very very thin/small disposable make up brushes (i found some marketed as stirrers for drinks or resin)

very thin/sharp pry tool or xacto (depends on how corroded the contacts are! you might not need this)

**If you're using this guide for other electronics: Pay attention to what each contact looks like and where it's placed. Take many pictures both close up and far away to help you later! The point is to try and recreate the contacts as exactly as possible. The most important part is that the batteries "contact" (touch) the metal. If there's multiple parts to the compartment (like on this furby) there should be metal connecting all the parts. This will become easier to understand as you read this guide.

This is xXToh-Loo the VoideaterXx! They've been hanging out on my work table while I worked up to changing their heavily corroded battery contacts.

I'm not gonna go over skinning them since there's so many guides/videos already online. I didnt think of doing this guide until after i finished so the pictures are of new/clean contacts. Sorry for any confusion this causes! step 1. open the battery compartment

step 2. clean whatever you can. i have no pictures of this but i used a combination of scraping the corrosion off with my xacto and cleaning it up with isopropyl soaked q-tips. ive heard white vinegar works really well but ive never used it. if you use white vinegar be careful not to get it inside the rest of the furby! also wipe it down after with water. (making sure its VERY dry before putting batteries inside. use distilled if at all possible. your water may have sediments or metals that could interfere with the batteries)

step 3. bend up the metal that connects the top right side of the contacts. wiggle them until they detach from the compartment. used an exacto or something similar to help with this if they're really stuck. be patient! this might take a while. ****If they really won't budge dont give up! You might need to scrape along the inside edge of the metal [or where you think the metal should be if theyre really rusted/corroded] with your exacto until you dig out a lot of the rust/corrosion. Then try and stab it repeatedly almost like slicing a bagel along the whole side inbetween the metal and plastic. Be careful not to hurt the plastic. Wiggle the exacto side to side all along the edge to break it free.*** Remove and dispose of the old contacts.

step 4. using the xacto and pliers do a similar thing to the other side. there are no metal flaps on this side so it requires more patience but keep going! i promise you'll get it out just be careful. once you get it detached from the back grip the spring with your pliers and pull it out that way.

Step 5. Do the same for the inner right side of the battery compartments. These are unique in that they have a long metal part coming off of the contacts. Remember this for later. You may have to open the casing to remove this part? I cant exactly remember. Just be careful and slow. I go over taking the casing off later on.

Ignore the rest of the contacts for now! Clean everything again to the best of your ability. It's time to take off the casing. There's six screws, two halves of the casing, and one back sensor button. Be careful taking the halves apart! There are speaker wires and I will detail how to do so.

Step 6. Take all six screws and the sensor button out. Keep them together!! They're small and rolly.

Step 7. Take off the casing. Start with the "pet" sensor facing you. Take off the Left casing completely. Crack the Right side a bit until you see the speaker. Grip both wires firmly. Tug it a little to get it out. It shouldn't take much pressure at all. Let the speaker hang and take off the Right casing.

If you tilt your furby up you'll see this spring. be carful with it! mine fell out so you might want to consider taking it out and putting it with your screws.

Pretty much the whole rest of this guide involves soldering. It's annoying but not something that will risk any electronics being destroyed so it's actually a pretty good beginner project.

Step 8. Turn on your soldering iron. Get your safety gear on.

Step 9. Desolder the wires on the side of the contacts and remove the contacts. You might have to really work at these ones! These were the worst ones in mine in terms of corrosion. Make sure there's no corrosion left on the wires. Be careful not to damage the wires with the iron.

Step 10. Clean the compartment again and make sure to get any corrosion on the internals (if there is any! mine didnt have any)

Step 11. Cut the tab off of one of the sets of contacts you have. Keep it and put it aside. Put this in the top Left slot in the compartment. Make sure to put the spring in the - slot and the dome in the + slot.

Step 12. Cut one of the contacts in half along the tab. Keep the tab on the spring side. Put it in the top Right slot in the - side. Bend the tab to secure it.

Step 13. Put the dome from the contacts you cut in half in the Left + slot. Put the tab BEHIND it and bend it to secure them. The domes on the contacts I got don't go out very far so I have to get creative.

Step 14. Cut two more contact sets in half. Cut a strip alll the way down the middle including the tab. Keep these strips for the next step.

Step 15. Solder one strip to the spring side a tabs width inside of the square. The strip should line up with the indent when placed into the compartment.

Step 16. Solder the second strip to the middle of the dome square. Solder another dome ontop of that to ensure the battery makes contact.

Step 17. Place these new contacts into the bottom right of the compartment.

Step 18. Cut another contact in half. Cut another strip off the bottom of a full contact set and THEN cut that contact in half. Solder the strips into the middle of the full spring and dome squares. Place them into the bottom Left of the compartment making sure the strips are through the hole that goes to the internals of the furby.

Step 19. Bend and trim both strips on the inside of the furby. Solder the wires to the bent strips. (Step 9 has a good pic of what its supposed to look like) Shove the second cut dome square behind the soldered in one in the compartment to ensure battery contact.

Make sure the metal contacts touches all the batteries and both long metal ends in the bottom right touches both top right bent tabs when the compartment is closed. It should now work perfectly! Put some batteries in and have fun. : ]

[fatehbaz]

In this coastal ecology, no fixed separation between land and water. The “polymorphous personality” of the mangrove ecosystem defies stable boundaries. The mangrove’s name is a combination of Malay and Arabic, of Portuguese and English. At the Sundarbans of Bengal, the largest mangrove region, the “sea forest” is marked by unfixity and a porous quality that undermines formal political boundaries, demonstrating “the trembling instability of borders”. While Euro-American legal institutions rely on clear delineation of land to recognize tenure, Yolgnu Aboriginal communities and Dholupuyngu cosmology cannot be contained. The landscape respires, is in flux, among the tidal seas of mangrove forests, “antithetical to the manicured” lawn.

---

[T]his tropical coastal ecology is a site of continual refiguration: neither sea nor land, neither river nor sea, bearing neither salty nor fresh water [...]. The mangrove has been prone to confused definitions, since it is a grouping of over eighty specialized plant species that survive as “botanical amphibians,” but is also a complex coastal ecosystem in itself. With these hybrid conditions of “belonging,” the mangrove lends itself to helping us think through the present-day schematic of Euro-American crises amid larger constellations of political insurrections and migratory movements. Its polymorphous personality as a sediment-carrier, land-builder, defender of numerous life forms, and also an inadvertent protector of pirates renders the mangrove a fascinating study in the biopolitics of selfhood. [...]

---

The mangrove also traces a language cartography, setting sail through the routes of travel and the histories of encounter to which mangrove-naming bears witness. The hybrid terms that define mangroves in different linguistic cultures become conveyors of sociopolitical contact between civilizations and coastal ecologies. For instance, the combination of the old Malay word “mangi mangi” and the Arabic word “el grum” refers to the Avicennia genus of mangrove tree, which is a favorite attraction for fireflies. Or consider the juxtaposition of the Portuguese “mangle” with the English word “grove” [...].

However, the mangrove’s intense bed of foliage, punctuated with prop and stilt roots, remains antithetical to the manicured and decisively cultivated grove. It may therefore be more productive to reflect on the mangrove’s word origins not merely through land, but as linkages with a specific kind of tree and tide.

The Sundarbans covers an area of 10,000 square kilometers of intertidal zones between parts of southwestern Bangladesh and the state of West Bengal in India. The largest mangrove forest in the world, its name bears the combined genesis of a beautiful “sea forest” and of the Sundari tree, the Heritiera fomes species of mangrove, which grows across these wetlands in abundance. [...]

---

As a landscape, the Sundarbans is marked by unfixity, since its intertidal nature places it between appearance and disappearance -- with islands being submerged overnight. It is ironic that while the aerial root systems of mangroves are highly valued as fortifications against the onslaught of angry tidal waves (as experienced during the tsunami of 2004) their porous quality does not allow for clear border-making. In reading this satellite image of the Sundarbans, produced by what is said to be “the most stable, best characterized Earth observation instrument ever placed in orbit,” we are met with the trembling instability of borders. The water channels eat into the land as gnarled roots of mangrove, uncontainable on ground and from an aerial view -- here the coastline becomes indiscernible as a single entity.

---

The legal vexations of such amphibious and obtuse terrain become pronounced in sea-rights cases, wherein border-making becomes the necessity of tenure. Forming rulings over such zones lays legality prone to paradox. In the Blue Mud Bay case, heard by the High Court of Australia in 2008, a legal body was called upon to make a determination regarding the shifting geography of a mangrove coastal region. In the final ruling the aboriginal Yolgnu claimants were successful, with the court ruling that the column of tidal water lying above land should be regarded no differently from the land itself. Thus the court’s attempt to encompass Dholupuyngu cosmology and “aqueography” occasioned a legal magic transforming water flow into the fixity of “land.” [...]

In the intertidal and interpenetrating zone of the mangrove, the border between land and sea becomes a choreography of re-crossings. The mangrove line is, hence, one of sedimentary reclamation rather than clear political divisions of terra firma. In mangrove zones, human determinations become ghosts.

---

Text by: Natasha Ginwala and Vivian Ziherl. “Sensing Grounds: Mangroves, Unauthentic Belonging, Extra-Territoriality.” e-flux Journal Issue #45. May 2013. [Bold emphasis and italicized first paragraph in this post added by me.]

[shimmer-wolf-arts]

DANG IT TUMBLR DIDN'T SAVE THIS AS A DRAFT SO NOW I GOTTA START OVER-- ugh

Also, @pansy-picnics always inspires me to write/ramble about the same things LOL

But yeah, we share the headcanon that Hugo is genderfluid.

Cuz honestly, look at them. There's no way they aren't!

Ramble about Hugo headcanon incoming:

So, Hugo uses he, they, and she pronouns. Corona mostly uses he and they, but Varian, Grace, Nuru, and Yong will use she if Hugo tells them!

Hugo suppressed his feminine fluxes a LOT growing up. They presented as a man 99% of the time (except when she tried infiltrating the Ingvarran army at 16), mainly for their own safety. He grew up in an orphanage with only boys, who were already bullying him for being attracted to guys, and Ingvarr was notoriously transphobic overall, thanks to the Queen. So Hugo had to hide that part of herself.

Upon meeting Varian and the gang, and slowly beginning to trust this group of queer peeps (Varian being bi and on the ace spectrum, Grace being bi, Nuru being a lesbian, Yong not knowing what he is yet but being 100% supportive. I'm thinking Yong might be nonbinary in some way idk), Hugo started letting his guard down a bit.

The first thing she asked was if Nuru could help her paint her nails after they did the Trial in the Dark Kingdom. It was small, but it made Hugo feel a bit more feminine.

Upon returning to Ingvarr for the Iron Trial, Hugo asked Grace if she could make hair extensions for them out of her perpetual ice (aka ice that didn't melt). Their hair was already growing out, but if Hugo was to disguise themself in Ingvarr (you could literally be arrested for either trying to escape or for coming back AFTER escaping), they needed to look different.

It was little things like that on their journey that made Hugo feel a touch more comfy with himself.

After the entire incident at the Eternal Library and things calmed down, Hugo started wearing a bit of makeup! Nothing too much, just eyeshadow and a bit of mascara. But once she started dating Varian and Grace, she finally came out to them. Fully.

Hugo didn't always feel like a guy. Sometimes, they felt like they were nonbinary (specifically demigirl), or like they had no gender at all. Varian and Grace didn't care. In fact, they were even happier since Hugo didn't have to hide that part of herself anymore!

Hugo had gotten his hair reshaved and cut when the went back to Corona for the final Trial, but after that, he just let it grow. He kept the shaved part maintained, but the top part grew a LOT. It gave him the flexibility to present it either really feminine or really masculine, or androgynously. And no matter what flux Hugo is in, they always have painted nails. Hands down, always green nails. And hell, they'll even wear makeup even if they're in a masculine flux. They just really like it.

But yeah, when Hugo is in a feminine flux, she goes ALL OUT! And she SLAYS in whatever outfit she wears!!

[pentacass]

If being frozen in carbonite never awoken her feelings, is it possible for Aelirra to fall for Lana (assuming Ves isn't around)?

- @legends-chauvinist

oh...spicy ask! (thank you!!) sadly, not so spicy answer lmao

Short answer: It's hard for Ael to fall in love during KoTXX, but those circumstances could have led to her seeking comfort in Lana. Even if it grew into an actual relationship, it's doomed to fail due to conflicting beliefs and methods of action. The gentle hand can only stop an iron fist for so long before something gives.

Long answer:

Even if we assume she doesn't have feelings for Kira (and remember she didn't even realise this until Kira came back in canon), she went through the Zakuul arc without getting involved in romance. Romantic love she doesn't actively seek, and she can live happily without it, finding fulfilment in her role as a Jedi/peacekeeper.

That said, the events of KoTXX are pretty stressful, and to have slept for five years, waking to a vastly different galaxy...it did shake Ael, even if she barely showed it. Lana being a stable source of support since her awakening can be a prime factor for her developing feelings, or...dare we say it...an attachment to Lana. A desperate need for just one constant amid a galaxy in flux.

But it won't last. Ael and Lana do fight constantly over the Alliance's (and Lana's) methods of getting things done. For Ael, who believes a gentle hand is always better than a brutal fist, fighting with Lana like that will put a strain on their relationship. And she is too much of a Jedi to fight for such a tenuous connection - if it is such a struggle, then maybe it isn't meant to be. If it isn't meant to be, she will let go - for both their sakes.

I think the deciding factor in Aelirra's relationships is this: are you willing to sacrifice yourself (or your partner) for the greater good? Lana clings too tight, leaving marks with her nails, willing to let the galaxy burn just to preserve her love - and that is not a price Ael is willing to pay.

(And if I may add,) Kira, on the other hand, shares the same belief as Aelirra in giving themselves for the greater good. If she ever had to give Ael up to save the galaxy, she would. She will kick and scream, she will grieve and weep, but in the end, she will accept its necessity. She will remain as a guardian of the galaxy Ael sacrificed herself to protect. She will see the beauty of the world and know that Ael lives on in its very pulse, in the Force. That Ael is with her, always. And that is why she has the courage to let go.

[askyogsundesirables]

update - september 10th, 2024

it's been about a good few months since the announcement I made to start this blog anew, so it's appropriate I give y'all an update and let y'all know I didn't abandon this again... (this entire project has consumed my thoughts since early may)

last I mentioned I've only begun brainstorming a new storyline, though now I have a pretty clear outline how the plot will unravel. at the moment there are a few in-betweens I need to add as well as rewriting/adding more content for an arc; I am not liking how lackluster it feels and it's a very important arc. well it should be. kinda note to self here, make sure to research that thing involving the arc rewrite

as you've seen recently, I started working on revising the banner with, surprisingly, an improved art style. I'm also testing the process of drawing asks and how it will look for the askblog on my art blog, here, feel free to leave me some asks there! answering those asks are gonna take some time since I have work and school started recently and I'm slightly behind atm, hah. the process and art style are basically what I've done before with a few tweaks and hopefully more expression/pose diversity; I mainly wanna get used to the process again

once all the background stuff is taken care of I need to work on the technical stuff, which is mainly tediously retagging all the old posts, yay... I'm also binge watching as many yogs complete series related to the undesirables as I can since I pretty much forgot everything lol. so far I'm just about half way through flux buddies and that's only the tip of the iceberg to the collection of series I need to rewatch. ALSO I've never seen blood and chaos so that will be fun

I project the rerelease of askyogsundesirables to be sometime in early 2025? which is ironic since the first post was made back in early 2020. wouldn't it be funny I start the blog back up at the exact same date. if the demi-gods permit, we'll see

is it normal to think about songs related to projects you're working on before it's even release? there's one song that I'm currently rotating in my brain

[dailycass-cain]

Cassandra Cain Reading Guide Part 4: Alternate Universe Cass

We've had DCU Cass. We've had Rebirth Cass. But what of Cass from another reality? Well, here's Part IV, a reading list of Alternate Universe Versions of Cassandra Cain!

Part I reading guide you can find here.

Part II reading guide (Modern) you can find here.

Part III reading guide (Random) you can find here. 

Part V reading guide (PAIN) you can find here.

Teen Titans #52-53

- Honorable mention to Titans Tomorrow Cass aka Batwoman, but-- she only shows up in three panels. She is Starroed like many Tomorrow Titans but does cry out to "Huntress" aka an older Charlotte Gage-Radcliffe who gets possessed first).

The curious thing about Titans Tomorrow Universe it is always in flux. Originally, her death (along with others by the hand of Duela Dent) caused the "bad tomorrow". Then the sequel well, cloning happened and Cass came back or the future still happened but now she was alive.

A further "revised" Tomorrow timeline shows up in Detective Comics #979 right after Titans Tomorrow Tim escape Jor-El alongside our Tim and then the two battle for a lengthy period in the present day DCU. #979 shows us the current variant of that future with Cass dying to Ra Al Ghul's hand. But-- we're told this by an unreliable narrator in General and Brother Eye.  As they say, Steph died too, but when we are reintroduced to this timeline (showing how Tomorrow Tim is snatched by Jor-El) she is very much alive.

-DC Bombshells Black Bat-

DC Bombshells United #8, #18-19

- We don't really get a feel for Cassandra's character in this. Other than we see her for a few panels and learn both she and Katana overthrew their corrupt governments and rebuilt them from scratch. Cass leads a group called the "Bats of Blood and Iron" and goes by the Black Bat moniker. 

She's not much a character in this, more a footnote in this story. I feel like if there ever was a spinoff series. We really should get to see Cassandra/Katana more do these things that are mentioned. But.. I probably doubt we ever will. Or amazing variant covers by Ant Lucia.

-DCeased- 

DCeased: Unkillables #1-3 

 DCeased: Dead Planet #1-7

DCeased: War of the Undead Gods #1-8

-  Though Cass doesn't appear in #1 and #4 of Dead Planet. Because the survivors don't come back to Gotham until #2 (when we see Cass again), and #4 (the journey to New Genesis). Cass shows up in #1 and #4 (War of the Undead Gods) so far. 

Unkillables features the first full-on return of Cass's Batgirl costume in over ten years (2009 was the last time she wore it). It also explores the complicated mother/daughter relationship of Shiva/Cass.

Something big happens to Cassandra in Dead Planet. No spoilers (save Stephanie, who's over in DCeased: Hope at World's End), you're just gonna have to enjoy the moment like we did.

A curious little fact is this is the first DC Comic that has a universe that has Cass and Babs both as Batgirl (An infected Batgirl Babs is shown in the original DCeased), and her body is found by Cass and Jim Gordon in Unkillables #1 with both mourning the loss of her.

DCeased: War of the Undead Gods has Cass in the issues throughout but unlike the prior series doesn’t have a key role. Save for two noteworthy things in #1 and #7. That and has an AMAZINGLY gorgeous cover in #6 (a 1:50 variant and good luck finding one of those).

Interestingly, Cass is one out of two Bat-Family members to survive DCeased. Sadly, there could’ve been ONE MORE survivor if only writer Tom Taylor could give us the answer to that. Perhaps one day he will answer that subplot since he hasn’t SPOILED it.  

- Amanda Conner Universe

Wonder Woman #600

Harley Quinn & the Birds of Prey (Black Label) #1-4

   - A DCU similar but different as husband/wife team of Amanda Conner/Jim  Palmiotti various DC books (Power Girl, Harley Quinn, Terra, Starfire, and suggestions related). 

If you were disappointed with the way Cassandra was handled in the live-action Harley Quinn and the Birds of Prey movie this comic gives us a more traditional Cass.

Not only does she steal the series from everyone, but there are exceptionally sweet moments in the final issue. A highly recommended mini to pick up! Cass embarrassing the Joker is worth the price alone!

It’s possible this story takes place either probably after Wonder Woman #600 (which also features Cass by Conner).

Future State 

Future State: The Next Batman #2, 4

Batman: Urban Legends #7

- Alternate future Gotham City where it is ruled tyrannically by a group known as the Magistrate. Rogues and Vigilantes alike are outlawed and hunted by the Magistrate’s chosen deputies and soldiers. Cass is the lone warrior who still follows Bruce’s ideology but is broken with Barbara missing and Stephanie breaking her heart (it is HEAVILY suggested the two had a relationship in this reality).To be entirely truthful, I was massively disappointed with this story. It was like being thrown into the middle of a story. 

Once again, we get Dick acting like a dick to boot.  “Hunter.. or Hunted...” on the other hand features Cass hunted by the Magistrate with exceptional art. Of the two stories THIS IS THE ONE TO READ. Even if it throws you again of not knowing what’s going on. At the very least “Hunter... or Hunted...” gives Cass more pathos and a better overall showing.

There are TWO more tales with this version of Cass in Future State: Gotham. But.. the only important things of those to note is the gorgeous variant cover #6). But please do avoid the other tale that involves FS Cass at the tail end of Future State Gotham. Unless you want PAIN.

Shadow of the Batgirl 

- Literally this comic other than the OG Puckett/Scott run is a remarkable tale that nails the character of Cassandra Cain perfectly. Like literally, you just want a complete origin and character study of Cass/ Why... why is it suddenly raining in my room again? This graphic novel is that good for long time fans of the character. Newbie fans might be interested as it is a one and done (so far). 

Batman: Wayne Family Adventures

Episode 1 "Moving In" (mentioned and acknowledges her adoption)

Episode 2 "The Last Cookie" (first appearance in the series)

Episode 5 "Arm Day"

Episode 7 "Vigilante Bingo" (mentions she's been Batgirl, Black Bat, and Orphan in this universe)

Episode 10 "Crush 3/3" 

Episode 13 "Stupid Traditions" 

Episode 14 "Unaccompanied"

Episode 15-16 "Family Ties"

- First Cass-centric arc in the series. Focuses on Cassandra's love for ballet, and Bruce trying to balance his life as a father and vigilante.

Episode 17 "Top Chef" (Thanksgiving episode)

Episode 19 "Bat-Cow's Day Out"

Episode 21 "Holiday Spirit" (Christmas episode)

Episode 22 "The Tournament"

Episode 32-33 "All Seeing"

- Second major arc focuses solely on Cass. The episodes showcase the many qualities of the character on why are a fan of the character. A good starting point for new readers on the character.

Episode 36-37 "Belonging"

Episode 48 "Shovel Talk"

- Cass and Duke centric episode with the family dealing with the possibility she has a boyfriend. Wackiness ensues.

Episodes 49-50 "One More" (mentioned only) 

Episode 51 "Night In" (Season 1 finale)

Episode 52 Assassin (Season 2 Premiere)

Episode 56 “Why We Fight Part 2″

Episode 57 “Picture Day”

Episode 61 “What Matters Most Part 2″

Episode 66 “No Doors Allowed”

Episode 67 “Branching Out” (Cass/Steph meet Harley/Ivy wackiness ensues)

Episode 68 “Thankful”

Episode 70 “Hunted Part 2″

Episode 72 “Snowfall Part 1″ (part one of Holiday episode)

Episode 73 “Snowfall Part 2″ (part two of Holiday episode)

Episode 78 “Outlaws” (slight tie-in to Red Hood: Outlaw spinoff webtoon comic)

Episode 82 “Sneak Attack”

Episode 90 “What I Want Part 1″

Episode 91 “What I Want Part 2″ (first appearance of David Cain in series, first full appearance of Cass’s Batgirl costume, origin of Cass in this universe.) 

Episode 93 ”Alarm Bells”

Episode 98 “Power Outage”

- Episodes 66-67, and 70 are the Cass-related episodes (so far). We get some amusing sister/brother antics in Episode 66 with Jason/Cass trying to impart their “wisdom” of dramatic entrances to Duke. Only for the later to give his own inclusion how make an entrance. 

Episode 67 has Cass/Steph are watching over a bedridden Harley Quinn and meet Poison Ivy. Amusing adorable hijinks ensue.

Episode 70 reveals Babs making sure Cass/Steph are in on her mission. Showing the trust and bonds the three have with one another. 

- Cass is mentioned in the spinoff series to WFA, Red Hood: Outlaws in episode 46.5 Like Son Part II, Damian records Bruce confessing and then hugging Jason that “I’m sorry. I was wrong.” To save himself, Damian says if Bruce does anything to him, he’ll tell Cass. Bruce relents. 

- Episode 90-91 is Cass’s first central dramatic story in Season 2. She and Damian run afoul of Mad Hatter who brainwashes her to attack her sibling. In part 2 we see Cass’s origin in WFA, as it uses Pre-New 52 David Cain (in his first appearance in the series). Cass breaks free and Damian/her share a cute brother/sister moment afterward.  

DC Vs. Vampires

DC vs. Vampires #2, #4-6

DC vs. Vampires: Hunter #1 (one panel)

DC vs. Vampires #10-11, #12 (in shadow)

- Cass is one of the few heroes in the DCU not taken over or killed by the vampires in this elseworlds story. Problematic art though for the main series sadly given the artist turned out to be very icky.

The writing is a mixed bag as well as Cass was a main character of the plot in the first half of the comic, before being dropped and randomly showing up in the latest issue.

One interesting tidbit of this version of Cass is that she moonlights as both Batgirl and Orphan (but only donning this identity with the Outsiders) in this universe.

Second interesting note is at the end of DC vs. Vampires #12, Cass is one of two people in the Bat-Family in #2 (the other being Alfred) to not have been killed or become a vampire. 

Steph and Helena are also the only other Bat-Family members to have survived as well being human. 

Young Justice

Young Justice: Targets #2-3

- Expands on the Cass introduced in Young Justice cartoon by revealing she knows ASL (I wish this was introduced in the main series). She has a few kickass moments in the comic as well.

However, she only appears in these two issues and that’s it. Only recommended if you enjoyed this version of Cass, and desire to see her storyline somewhat continued. 

Dark Multiverse

Tales of the Dark Multiverse: Hush #1

Batman/Superman Authority Special #1

Dark Knights Death Metal: Robin King #1

In the “Dark Multiverse” there have been three variants of Cass that have appeared. The most “prominent” one among them is the one in Hush. Cass, Tim, and Barbara go down a darker path as they openly rebel against Thomas Elliot and his iron grip over Gotham with not Batman or Bruce Wayne to stop him.

Cass’s costume is a mixture of her Orphan and Kasumi costume. We never get much of her codename as she’s quickly killed by the Gray Son (Dick Grayson who’s been recruited by the Court of Owls). It is implied that this version of her and Tim had a relationship as his name is the last word she utters before collapsing dead.

We’re teased another evil Cass (along with the rest of the Bat-Family) who is part of the Empire of Shadows. Lead by Ra’s Al Ghul (Bruce Wayne) the Empire has taken over their respective Earth and learns of the multiverse. We see this version of Cass once near the end as her silhouette is quite clear in the shadows.

The final Dark Multiverse Cass is the one shown briefly in Dark Knights Death Metal Robin King #1. As the Batman Who Laughs gives Robin King a tour of an Earth where he “tortures” numerous Dark Multiverse Batmen and the survivors become his minions. One of those shown bears a strikingly resemblance to Cass, but the appearance has never been confirmed. 

Injustice

Injustice: Year Zero #2

Though not fully appearing, Cass is namedropped in the prequel story to Injustice comics. It isn’t really known what became of this version of the character. But from the dialogue suggested by Superman to Batman, Bruce/Barbara having mentored her presumably as Batgirl (Babs is Oracle at the start of Injustice).

 Batman: Last Knight on Earth

Batman: Last Knight on Earth Book Three

- Cassandra was originally one of the survivors of Omega’s original assault on the world. She (along with the rest of the Bat-Family) changed their personas to resemble Owls with Cass taking a more Talon-esque costume as shown here (they believed Omega had tainted the Bat mantle/symbol at this point). 

We don’t know much else about this variant of Cass as she along with Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown, Jason Todd, and Kate Kate all perish by Omega’s hand right before a revived Bruce Wayne shows up. 

But hey! Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon survive. 

..... 

Look I get it they live because they have a kid (who also lives). But it just feels so darn cheap to have the most of the “Bat Family” to die right before Bruce shows up.

It feels so wrong to me and just like a certain someone high up above this creative team had this wet dream to kill them all off to tick off fans. Well, congrats! It worked! 

Dark Knights of Steel

Dark Knights of Steel #6, 9

- No I didn’t forget this alternate Cass. It’s just that well.. we don’t know much fully about her yet save three things. #1 She’s the only Cass who was ever a Robin (a Robin in this universe are the “agents” who serve under Bruce Wayne (aka the Bat Knight) around this world. #2 She’s different then the rest of the Robins (as detailed in Dark Knights of Steel: Tales of the Three Kingdoms #1 they were all a crew of thieves until they caught the attention of Bruce but there was 0 Cass among them) in that we know next to nothing about her connection to Bruce here. #3 She’s placed in a position to free Prince Ka-El as she is the medical professional addressing his wounds but also keeping an eye on him.

Sure enough, she freed Ka-El to prevent the war between the three kingdoms. 

Batman: Knightwatch

Batman: Knightwatch #5

- This one just feels more like an Easter Egg than an actual reference. Though not with the Bat-Family, this Cass is just a normal little girl, who just happens to really like Batman and the Bat-Family. Probably the only normal Cass of them all. But the sass is still there with this one.

Harley Quinn: The Animated Series

Harley Quinn & the Legion of Bats #4-6

- So far recently introduced only in the comics. This Cass is unique among other variants being she’s the same age as Damian. There’s not much know about her yet. Save we know Vixen/Batgirl (Barbara Gordon) were working on a case together that involved Cass.

She bonds with Damian, who in turn opens up being ACTUALLY friendly toward her. This Cass also makes friends with Tiffany Fox (who was targeted in the series by Black Mask). 

Cass adopts her Orphan persona joining Dick, Damian, and Babs on a mission to stop Black Mask from taking over the Gotham Underworld while also having to deal with Poison Ivy and the Legion of Doom. 

After Black Mask is defeated, Wonder Woman is called in to escort this Cass to Themyscira. This Cass is second to one other variant that is raised by the Amazons (the other being the Dark Knights of Steel version).