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chanoyu-to-wa · 4 years ago

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Nampō Roku, Book 5 (25): the Display of the Sorori [ソロリ]¹, Gōsu [合子]², and Shishi [獅子]³.

25) Sorori ・ gōsu ・ shishi no kazari [ソロリ・合子・獅子ノ飾]⁴.

[The writing (between the ten-ita and the ji-ita, from right to left) reads: ni ・ ya-gaku shishi (二・夜學獅子)⁵; ichi ・ sorori (一・ソロリ)⁶; san ・ gōsu (三・合子)⁷; furo-kama tsune no (風爐釜常ノ)⁸; (below the daisu) Nōami no shoji san-shu ha, momo-jiri no shaku-tate ・ mimi-guchi no koboshi ・ Rinzai-in no futaoki (能阿彌ノ所持三種ハ、桃尻ノ杓立・耳口ノコホシ・臨濟印ノ蓋置)⁹.]

The kaki-ire [書入]¹⁰:

① There are various ways to handle [these three utensils], each of which represents a [different] way to treasure [them]. [Because of this range of practices,] it is difficult to record the ku-den in absolute terms, point by point¹¹. However, a white towel should be used¹².

② This [shows the case where] three utensils [are arranged on the ji-ita] -- the mizusashi having been left out. They should be handled in the same way [even] if only one or two are used¹³.

The [lid of the] kama should always [be handled] with the damp cloth¹⁴.

③ At that time¹⁵, a [meibutsu] koboshi is not lowered [to the mat during the temae]. This is the difference between [when a meibutsu koboshi is being used, and] an ordinary koboshi¹⁶.

④ With respect to the five meibutsu utensils, it is said that there are two of each¹⁷.

￮ Kama: sha-jiku [車軸]; kiri [桐]¹⁸.

￮ Shaku-tate: sorori [ソロリ]; kōji-guchi [柑子口]¹⁹.

￮ Mizusashi: mumon [無紋]; minna-guchi [皆口]²⁰.

￮ Koboshi: gōsu [合子]; sori-guchi [ソリ口]²¹.

￮ Futaoki: ya-gaku shishi [夜學獅子]; mikotonori-no-shirushi [勅印]²².

￮ As for the furo, there was the large Chōsen [大朝鮮]; and again, the shishi-no-dai [獅子ノ臺], and so on²³.

Also with respect to the [above] five utensils, if [only] one or two of them are used, they should be handled in the same way [that is described in this entry]²⁴.

The futaoki is placed on the nagaita, beside the furo: while it should be in the usual place, [futaoki] should [also] be drawn slightly forward²⁵.

⑤ And again, from the beginning²⁶, a meibutsu futaoki is placed in the seat usually occupied by the koboshi²⁷.

[In this case] an ordinary koboshi should be carried out [from the katte] and stood [on the mat]. At that time, the futaoki remains [on the ji-ita] as it was, in the place [usually occupied by] the koboshi; however, it should be drawn a little forward²⁸.

_________________________

◎ Due to the length of the text and commentaries, it was impossible to also include photographs of the various utensils that are mentioned in this entry in a single post. Consequently, I was forced to upload them into an appendix, which will be published on Sunday morning, shortly after this post appears.

Also, it seems that the author or authors of the kaki-ire had attempted to include too much information in their remarks, while simultaneously trying to make them as brief as possible -- for while the sketch shows three meibutsu kaigu arranged on the ji-ita, the kaki-ire address cases where only one or two of them are displayed, resulting in admonitions which conflict with the way the arrangement in the sketch should be handled*.

Furthermore (as is often the case), the contents of the kaki-ire are not well organized†; and, in one case, it appears that someone‡ has transposed one sentence, resulting in even more confusion. I will attempt to resolve these issues in my comments. ___________ *Specifically:

◦ when a meibutsu koboshi is displayed alone (or together with a meibutsu shaku-tate), then the meibutsu koboshi occupies the central kane during the service of tea;

◦ when a meibutsu futaoki is displayed alone (or together with a shaku-tate), the meibutsu futaoki occupies the central kane during the service of tea;

◦ but when both a meibutsu koboshi and a meibutsu futaoki are used at the same time (whether or not a meibutsu shaku-tate is also present), they obviously could not both occupy the central kane: in this case, the koboshi must be lowered to the mat, but placed in front of the furo (rather than near the host’s hip), while the futaoki occupies the central kane on the daisu.

While the first two cases are discussed in the kaki-ire, the last -- which is, in fact, the situation that is depicted in Jōō’s sketch -- is not mentioned at all, leaving the reader with the impression that, somehow, both the koboshi and the futaoki are supposed to be arranged on the ji-ita during the temae. More will be said on this in the footnotes, below.

†They consist of the usual hodgepodge of unrelated ideas, yet no attempt was made to segregate these through the use of punctuation.

‡Perhaps by Tachibana Jitsuzan.

But what complicates things even further is that Shibayama Fugen’s teihon [底本] (which was one of the four authorized copies of the Enkaku-ji manuscript that were made while Jitsuzan was alive) appears to have restored the proper order to this passage (what seems to have been one long kaki-ire, according to Shibayama, was divided into three kaki-ire in the Enkaku-ji manuscript; and the transposition -- which seems to have been the result of Jitsuzan’s having lost his place -- moved the sentence referring to “the handling of the kama with a damp cloth” from its original place to a spot in between the second and third kaki-ire).

¹Sorori [ソロリ].

This refers to a bronze vase* with a relatively wide mouth, that was used as a shaku-tate.

The shape is very similar to the momo-jiri [桃尻] that is mentioned elsewhere in this entry. The sorori pieces seem to be identified with Korea, while those designated momo-jiri came from Ming dynasty China†. __________ *Originally part of a set of implements used to decorate the altar during Ancestor Worship ceremonies, consisting of a pair of flower vases, a pair of candlesticks, an assortment of footed bowls (some with covers, and others without) and plates, and small sake cups with matching bronze dai, a large lidded vessel in which the shirazaki [白酒] (sake with the white rice flour from which it was fermented left in suspension) was kept, a small bronze rest on which the ladle with which the shirazaki was dipped out and poured into offertory cup was rested, and a deep bowl-like vessel into which the libations were discarded after being offered to the Ancestors (each member of the family approached the altar and offered a cup of shira-zake to the Ancestors, so discarding the libation allowed the ceremonial cup to be reused -- since many traditional families had large numbers of members).

While sets of similar pieces (there were differences, however, in the sizes and purposes of some of the things) were also made in China, it seems that most of those that came to be used as kaigu on the daisu originated in Korea. This is because, in Korea, it was the custom to melt down and recast the entire set whenever one piece was lost or damaged (and so, when a set of outstanding craftsmanship was destined to be recycled, occasionally one piece would be kept back for use on the daisu).

†The momo-jiri came in two versions: one with bas relief decorations, and one without.

²Gōsu [合子].

The gōsu was made as a covered bowl used during Ancestor Worship ceremonies, the gōsu was used as a mizu-koboshi (originally with the lid present, which accounts for the special way that the gōsu is prepared for display on the daisu).

Originally the word gōsu [盒子]* referred to a set of three objects: a rice-bowl, its lid, and a shallower soup-bowl (the three nesting together, and this is what the name describes). And while the soup-bowl could be used as a koboshi (the original “hira-kensui” [平建水] were the soup-bowls from such sets), the word gōsu generally refers to the rice-bowl (including its lid), when used as a koboshi. ___________ *Gōsu [合子] means something like “matched set.” The lid sits on top of the rice-bowl, and this assembly is placed inside the (empty) soup bowl.

The word karakane could be written “唐銅” or “韓銅” -- the former means “Tang bronze,” while the latter means “Korean bronze.” Unfortunately, the Japanese seem to prefer to eliminate all references to Korea, in so far as that is possible, thus the “Tang” form of the kanji compound is what is usually seen in books. Nevertheless, most of the classical “karakane hanaire” seem to have been made in Korea. The authentic Chinese bronzes used in chanoyu appear to be of Ming period origin. The Ming version of this alloy usually has a distinctly soft feeling (which cannot be conveyed in a photograph).

³Shishi [獅子].

This refers to a kind of ya-gaku [夜學]*, shaped like (or decorated with an image of) a shishi [獅子] (the mythical Chinese lion-dog). The original ya-gaku shishi [夜學獅子]† seems to have been lost without any sketches of it having survived into the Edo period. That said, there is an ancient Korean stone lantern which features the fire box held up by a pair of shishi, standing on their hind legs stomach to stomach, and the shape was imitated (in cast bronze) in miniature, as the support for the saucer of oil.

Beautifully made ya-gaku were often used as futaoki‡, and this is its purpose here. __________ *A ya-gaku [夜學] is a small metal or ceramic stand placed inside a night-light, on which the saucer of oil was rested. Elevating the flame to the middle of the shade provided significantly more light than if the saucer were simply placed on the floor of the lamp. Consequently, lamps including these little stands seem to have been preferred for reading at night, hence the name (ya-gaku [夜學] literally means “studying at night”).

†This is how it is named on the sketch.

‡Among the futaoki shichi-shu [蓋置七種], the ko-toku / gotoku [火卓・五德] and mi-kan-jin / mitsu-ningyō [三閑人・三ツ人形] were originally made as ya-gaku. Both their size, and shape (which was designed to support a saucer with a rounded bottom), made them perfectly suited to this use.

⁴Sorori ・ gōsu ・ shishi no kazari [ソロリ・合子・獅子ノ飾].

This entry describes several sets of meibutsu kaigu, and the way they may be arranged on the ji-ita in order to “treasure” them.

Kaigu made as sets only seem to have appeared during the second half of the sixteenth century. One of the earliest (featuring matsu-gasa kan-tsuki [松笠鐶付]) was ordered from Korea by the Hosokawa family. The kan-tsuki on the mizusashi and furo that are part of this set seem to have been the inspiration for the matsu-gasa kan-tsuki on Rikyū’s second small unryū-gama.

⁵Ni ・ ya-gaku shishi [二・夜學獅子].

“Second, the ya-gaku shishi.”

In other words, when arranging the kaigu on the daisu, the ya-gaku shishi is added second (after the sorori).

⁶Ichi ・ sorori [一・ソロリ].

“First, the sorori.”

Naturally, the furo and kama were set up at the beginning, before the guests entered the room*. The point is that, in order to draw special attention to them, the kaigu are brought out later -- after the guests have taken their seats.

With respect to the sorori [曾呂利]† versus the momo-jiri [桃尻], the two shapes are -- as I mentioned above -- very similar. The sorori swells more gently from the mouth to the hips, and has its widest point closer to the foot; the momo-jiri (this name means “peach hips”), on the other hand, is likened to the way a woman’s waste swells to her hips, and the way her upper legs narrow below the buttocks. __________ *In the early days, there was no sumi-temae (in the sense of something performed in front of the guests). When it was time to serve tea, the guests were invited into the shoin, where everything was already ready, so the host simply approached the daisu and prepared the tea for his guests.

The “idea” for the cha-kai [茶會] -- where the host first performs the sumi-temae, then serves a meal, and then offers the guests kashi (all while the water in the kama is heating), followed by a naka-dachi, with the guests returning for koicha, and then usucha -- was devised by Jōō, based directly on the Shino family's kō-kai [香會]. (In the original Shino version of the kō-kai, the gathering began with the appreciation of incense -- which started with the host bringing out burning charcoal and preparing the hand-held censer, after which several varieties of kyara [伽羅] were appreciated -- followed by a meal, kashi, and a naka-dachi, after which the guests came back for tea, before returning to their homes. In this case, the tea things were brought out and set up during the naka-dachi, so the kama was already boiling appropriately when the guests returned from the naka-dach.)

At Jōō's gatherings, the daisu was usually displayed in the tokonoma during the shoza (without the furo or kama), mirroring the Shino’s display of the incense tana during the goza (when tea was served); the furo and kama were arranged on a shiki-ita that was placed on the utensil mat (this was intended to protect the daisu from both charcoal dust -- which is highly abrasive to lacquer -- and sparks that occasionally erupt from the charcoal as it begins to catch fire), and the sumi-temae was performed there. During the naka-dachi, the daisu was moved onto the utensil mat and the furo was lifted into position. In this case, however, the daisu was probably kept in the katte until the naka-dachi, since the kaigu were brought out and arranged only after the goza had begun.

With respect to the Shino school of incense, the various incense games that now constitute that school's curriculum, were incorporated during the Edo period (after the original Korean family -- with which Jōō and Rikyū had been affiliated -- died out, and the school was carried on by their Japanese disciples): the changes were made to bring the Shino practices into line with the other, purely Japanese, incense traditions. The Korean approach to both tea and incense was directed at the meditative aspects of these things (the original idea seems to have been to approach samadhi through one of the senses -- smell, in the case of incense, and taste, in the case of chanoyu), while the traditional Japanese practices were strictly courtly competitions, at which one contestant was expected to triumph over the rest of the field, and usually rewarded accordingly.

†The kanji-name sorori [曾呂利] is composed exclusively of hentai-gana (in other words, the kanji-compound has no actual meaning; it simply borrows the phonemes of the three kanji to write the sound of the name: hentai-gana means to use kanji as if they were kana). The word sorori is explained as meaning “an elegant shape.”

⁷San ・ gosu [三・合子].

“Third, the gōsu.”

The gōsu* is brought out and placed on the daisu third.

The reader should understand that the places in which these objects were disposed are sometimes used only when the daisu is being set up. After the host has finished, the guests would come forward and inspect the arrangement before the host can begin the service of tea. Between this haiken of the ji-ita, and the sō-rei, some of the meibutsu kaigu will have their positions changed. ___________ *When the gōsu is used with its lid -- which was the original way things were done -- one hishaku of cold water should always be poured inside it before it is brought out and arranged on the daisu. And, at the end of the temae, after the gōsu has been cleaned, it is returned to the daisu, again containing one hishaku of cold water.

This rule is of ancient standing, though it has largely been forgotten since the lid was dispensed with (in the Edo period).

Also, when the lid is used, it must naturally be opened before water can be discarded into the koboshi. To do this, the host grasps the knob of the lid with his right hand, with his thumb on the far side of the knob. The lid is lifted upward while its orientation is changed, so that it is now held vertically above the mouth of the gōsu (the thumb will now be above, while the first-finger is below). With the left hand, the bottom edge of the lid is wiped free of any drops of water that may drain there, and then the lid is lowered to the ji-ita, and leaned against the front of the gōsu. To close the lid, at the end of the temae, the knob is grasped (with the thumb above, and first-finger below), and then simply closed (there is no need to wipe the lower edge at this time).

If the gōsu is placed on the mat during the temae, the same rules of usage apply. (Furuta Sōshitsu seems to have been fond of using the gōsu, even when serving tea in the wabi small room setting. Nevertheless, Oribe held that, even at that time, the gōsu should be used with its lid, in account of which it should always contain one hishaku of cold water.)

Because of the lid, and the water, the host must be very careful when carrying the gōsu into, and out of, the room, to avoid splashing the water against the lid (which subsequently could drip out).

⁸Furo-kama tsune no [風爐釜常ノ].

“The furo and kama are ordinary ones.”

In other words, the furo and kama are not supposed to be meibutsu pieces (unlike the other three objects that will be arranged on the ji-ita at the beginning of this temae).

It is important to mention that this arrangement does rely on using a furo that does not have kan-tsuki, since that will allow the furo to be pushed farther toward the left (and so allow room for the mizu-koboshi to be arranged as a mine-suri [峰摺り] on the central kane). While the original furo that was made for use on the daisu was most certainly a bronze kimen-buro, in fact, most chajin of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were using lacquered clay furo on their daisu, and the expression “tsune no” would most aptly apply to such do-buro [土風爐].

Some scholars have speculated that this phrase was only intended to mean that “the kama and furo are arranged as usual,” but, in fact, the formula used in Book Five of the Nampō Roku to mean just that is furo-kama jo-jō [風爐釜如常] or shita jo-jō [下如常]. These scholars have allowed themselves to be influenced (or, we might venture, confused) by the second kaki-ire (which lists the meibutsu utensils that were part of the Higashiyama collection). However, that kaki-ire seems to have been added at a different date, and its text has no relationship with the first kaki-ire. (Indeed, the second kaki-ire, as well as the fifth, are, to a certain extent, internally inconsistent, suggesting that they were not intact texts, but represent notes that were added to by different hands, at different times, to address points or answer questions that really have nothing to do with the sketch itself -- as is frequently the case with these kaki-ire. The problem of interpretation arises only if we assume that all of the kaki-ire were present on Jōō’s sketches, and that the kaki-ire were added by Jōō to explain what he was drawing -- and neither of those suppositions appear to be true.)

⁹Nōami no shoji san-shu ha, momo-jiri no shaku-tate ・ mimi-kuchi no koboshi ・ Rinzai-in no futaoki [能阿彌ノ所持三種ハ、桃尻ノ杓立・耳口ノコホシ・臨濟印ノ蓋置].

“The three utensils owned by Nōami: the momo-jiri no shaku-tate ・ mimi-kuchi no koboshi ・ Rinzai-in futaoki.”

While the set of kaigu shown in the sketch consisted of the above-mentioned sorori (shaku-tate), gōsu (mizu-koboshi), and ya-gaku shishi (futaoki), Nōami's set included the momo-jiri shaku-tate [桃尻杓立], mimi-kuchi koboshi [耳口飜], and Rinzai-in futaoki [臨濟印蓋置]. Interestingly, Yoshimasa’s set was composed of all Korean pieces, while the kaigu owned by Nōami (who was of Korean ancestry, and may have emmigrated from the continent in his youth) consisted of Chinese pieces.

This is not really a kaki-ire (which is why I did not include it there), but simply a description of an alternate historical set of kaigu.

¹⁰The texts of the kaki-ire read:

① Iro-iro ashirai, sore-zore shōgan ari, ku-den ichi-ichi shirusu gatai, shiro-fukin wo mochiiru

[色〻アシライ、ソレ〰賞玩アリ、口傳一〻記カタシ、白布巾ヲ用ル].

② Kore ha mizusashi ryakushite san-shu nari, ichi ni tsuke no gotoku atsukau nari, kama ha itsu mo shimeri-kin ni te

[コレハ水指畧シテ三種也、一二付ノコトクアツカフ也、釜ハイツモシメリ巾ニテ].

③ Kono toki koboshi orosu-koto nashi, tsune no koboshi to ha betsu nari

[コノ時コホシヲロスコトナシ、常ノコホシトハ別也].

④ Meibutsu no go-dōgu ha ni gu arishi to iu-iu ￮　kama, sha-jiku ・ kiri ￮　shaku-tate, sorori ・ kōji-guchi ￮　mizusashi, mumon ・ minna-guchi ￮　koboshi, gōsu ・ sori-guchi ￮　futaoki, ya-gaku shishi ・ mikotonori-no-shirushi ￮　furo ha, dai-chōsen mata ha shishi-no-dai nado tote arishi nari.

Migi go-dōgu mo ichi ni tsuke no gotoku atsukau.

Futaoki ha nagaita no ue, furo no waki, tsune no tokoro ni ari nagara, mae [h]e sukoshi hiki-dasu

[名物ノ五道具ハ二具アリシト云〻￮　釜、車軸・桐￮　杓立、ソロリ・柑子口￮　水指、無紋・皆口￮　コホシ、合子・ソリ口￮　蓋置、夜學獅子・勅印￮　風爐ハ、大朝鮮　又ハ獅子ノ臺ナトヽテアリシ也

右五道具モ一二付ノコトクアツカウ、

蓋置ハ長板ノ上、風爐ノ脇、常ノ所ニアリナカラ、前ヘ少引出ス].

⑤ Mata koboshi no jōza ni hajime yori meibutsu futaoki okite, koboshi ha tsune no wo hakobite-tateru koto ari, sono toki ha futaoki sono-mama, koboshi no tokoro no sukoshi mae [h]e hiki-dashite yoshi

[又コホシノ常座ニ初ヨリ名物フタヲキ置テ、コホシハ常ノヲハコヒテ立ルコトアリ、其時ハフタ置其マヽ、コホシノ所ノ少前ヘ引出シテヨシ].

¹¹Iro-iro ashirai, sore-zore shōgan ari, ku-den ichi-ichi shirusu gatai [色〻アシライ、ソレ〰賞玩アリ、口傳一〻記カタシ].

Iro-iro ashirai [色〻アシライ] this means that there are various ways to handle the utensils, and the arrangement*.

Sore-zore shōgan ari [ソレ〰賞玩アリ], referring to the previous phrase, this means that the different ways of handling things provides the host with different ways of appreciate the special utensils†.

Ku-den ichi-ichi shirusu gatai [口傳一〻記カタシ]: this means that it is difficult to record the details of the ku-den point by point‡.

The entirety of this matter is related to how the three special utensils are to be brought out and arranged on the ji-ita of the daisu. First the shaku-tate is brought out, then the futaoki, and finally the koboshi. Because there are different degrees of respect that may be accorded these special pieces, depending on the occasion and circumstances, it is not really possible to set these things down in ku-den (since ku-den are rules that should not be broken). More will be said about this in the next footnote. ___________ *Ashirai refers both to the way to handle the utensils, and the way to distribute them on the ji-ita of the daisu.

While three meibutsu kaigu are shown in the sketch, the kaki-ire make it clear (in a rather muddled way) that using only one or two of these things had been an acceptable practice since the early days. In general, the way to handle these utensils (even when only one or two are being used) remains the same -- though if only one is used (regardless of which one), it should always be displayed on the first kane immediately to the right of the central kane, and always as a mine-suri [峰摺り].

†Whether they are used singly, for example, or as a set of two, or three.

‡As an example: when a meibutsu mizu-koboshi is being used, the rule expressed in its ku-den is that it should always be kept on the ji-ita of the daisu.

However, when a meibutsu koboshi and a meibutsu futaoki are being used together (as they are in this case), the ku-den associated with the koboshi states that the meibutsu koboshi should be lowered to the mat immediately in front of the furo (rather than by the host’s left or right hip) -- which would have located it on top of the shiki-shi (and this is the important point).

In the latter case, the meibutsu koboshi could not remain on the ji-ita because the meibutsu futaoki has to be set in the place usually occupied by the koboshi (as the kaki-ire state).

¹²Shiro-fukin wo mochiiru [白布巾ヲ用ル].

This is the second part of the ku-den: a white towel is carried in the host’s futokoro, and brought out to clean the ji-ita before the special utensils are arranged on it, one by one.

While Shibayama Fugen limits the use of the fukin to cleaning the ji-ita, Tanaka Senshō indicates that each of the special utensils should also be wiped with the fukin before they are placed on the daisu. Doing so may well have been optional* -- and, indeed, such would fit in with the argument that it is not possible to record the ku-den exactly because, as stated at the beginning of this kaki-ire, there are various ways to do this, and the different ways allow the host to “honor” the special utensils to varying degrees (which would be related not only to his feelings, but to the guests -- how appreciative they will be of what the host does, and understanding of his reasons for doing so). ___________ *And wiping them with the fukin may well have been considered an affectation in the early days. Nevertheless, it shows a special kind of reverence that, while inappropriate for someone like Yoshimasa (who was the oriignal owner of these utensils), it may have been appropriate for members of the machi-shū who came to acquire these objects later.

¹³Kore ha mizusashi ryakushite san-shu nari, ichi ni tsuke no gotoku atsukau nari [コレハ水指畧シテ三種也、一二付ノコトクアツカフ也].

“Here it is the case of the three utensils [arranged on the ji-ita], while the mizusashi has been eliminated. One [or] two [rather than three] may be used, and they are handled in the same way.”

In other words, while the sketch shows the shaku-tate, futaoki, and koboshi, perhaps only one, or two, of these things could be used, rather than all three. It must be remembered that this entry is referring to very special meibutsu utensils, and the simple fact is that it would more and more difficult for any one host to acquire a larger number of them at any one time. Thus, he honors the ones that he owns, and adjusts things accordingly. If he owns only one, then he brings out only that one; if he owns two of them, then he will decorate the ji-ita with both of them. Because the point of this exercise is to do honor to these treasured pieces that had come down from Yoshimasa’s Higashiyama collection.

As in earlier instances of this kind of usage, after the host has finished arranging the treasured utensil(s) on the ji-ita, the guests will come forward and inspect the daisu (though they must not touch the meibutsu pieces). Only after they have finished will the host bring out the mizusashi* and chawan†, and begin the service of tea. ___________ *Since the mizusashi is not included in the collection of utensils arranged on the ji-ita, the host would probably bring out something like a magemono mizusashi at the beginning of his temae, and place it on the left side of the mat 2-sun away from the front edge of the daisu. This would allow him to serve tea in the usual manner.

It would also be possible for him to do this at the end of the temae (so that its water is only used to replenish the kama); but, since he will be using a more-or-less ordinary chawan, this might seem inappropriate.

According to Book Six, in addition to the usual 6-sun magemono mizusashi that we are familiar with today, a special kind of magemono mizusashi was made for this kind of usage: it measured 4-sun 9-bu in diameter, meaning that it would fit between the heri and the first kane.

†The chawan should be a good, but ordinary, bowl. In Jōō‘s day, an ido-chawan is the kind of thing that probably would have been preferred.

¹⁴Kama ha itsu mo shimeri-kin ni te [釜ハイツモシメリ巾ニテ].

“The kama should always [be handled] with a damp cloth.”

Given that the first part of this kaki-ire was concerned with the kaigu, and how the host should handle matters when there were less than the three that are shown in the sketch, this statement is a bit of a non sequitur. It is also possible that this was intended to be a separate kaki-ire -- and that the text, as it now reads, is either corrupt or (as Shibayama Fugen implies) is in the wrong place*.

According to Tanaka Senshō, kama [釜] should be understood as referring to the lid of the kama -- that is, the lid of the kama should always† be opened and closed using a damp cloth. And shimeri-kin [シメリ巾 = 湿り巾], “damp cloth,” refers to the chakin. Thus, “the lid of the kama should always be handled with the chakin.” ___________ *In Shibayama Fugen’s teihon [底本], the first kaki-ire reads

Iro-iro ashirai, sore-zore shōgan ari, ku-den ichi-ichi shirusu gatai, shiro-fukin wo mochiiru, kama ha itsu mo shimeri-kin ni te, kore ha mizusashi ryakushite san-shu nari, ichi ni tsuke no gotoku atsukau nari, kono toki koboshi orosu-koto nashi, tsune no koboshi to ha betsu nari

[色〻アシライ、ソレ〰賞玩アリ、口傳一〻記カタシ、白布巾ヲ用ル、釜ハイツモシメリ巾ニテ、コレハ水指畧シテ三種也、一二付ノコトクアツカフ也、コノ時コホシヲロスコトナシ、常ノコホシトハ別也].

This means that the first, third, and fourth kaki-ire were combined into a single kaki-ire, with one phrase (the one we are considering now) transposed so that it follows the comment that “a white cloth should be used.” While the meaning is not really changed by any of this, it does make the kaki-ire a little less confusing.

†Since the “meibutsu” utensils that are under consideration in the first kaki-ire (as well as in the third and fourth) are apparently limited to the shaku-tate, futaoki, and koboshi -- while the furo and kama are specifically designated (in the writing on the sketch) as being “ordinary” (furo-kama tsune no [常ノ], literally means “the furo [and] kama are ordinary” utensils; the formula used in Book Five to mean that the furo and kama are arranged “as usual” is jo-jō [如常]) -- this casually inserted comment has very significant implications for not only this temae, but all others: when opening and closing the lid of the kama, irrespective of the setting or the nature of the temae, the chakin should always be used (to protect the hand), in so far as it is available for this purpose (the chakin is not available only at the end of the temae -- and at that time the lid of the kama will be cold, hence protection is unnecessary). That some of the samurai (and their Sen family poseurs) apparently considered it “more ‘macho’” to do this without protection is irrelevant (and, frankly, foolish -- as is most bravido).

¹⁵Kono toki [コノ時].

“At that time.” Though it could also be interpreted to mean “at this time” -- and so be taken as a reference to the sketch.

In fact, it refers to the idea proposed in the previous kaki-ire -- namely, the case where ichi ni tsuke [一二付] -- “[only] one or two [meibutsu kaigu] are used.”

The confusion has only been increased by the erroneous transposition of the statement kama ha itsu mo shimeri-kin ni te [釜ハイツモシメリ巾ニテ] (“the kama should always [be handled] with a damp cloth”) in the Enkaku-ji manuscript, so that these words precede kono toki. (The original syntax appears to be that given by Shibayama Fugen -- which is quoted in sub-note “*” under the previous footnote.)

¹⁶Koboshi orosu-koto nashi, tsune no koboshi to ha betsu nari [コホシヲロスコトナシ、常ノコホシトハ別也].

“The lowering of the koboshi [to the mat] is not done; this differs from [the handling of] an ordinary koboshi.”

However, this refers to the case where only one (the koboshi), or two (koboshi and shaku-tate) meibutsu utensils are being used during the temae. When all three are being used (as in the sketch), the koboshi must be lowered from the ji-ita; but, rather than placing it on the mat next to the host’s hip, it is placed (in line with the chawan) directly in front of the furo. This means that (originally) it was placed on the shiki-shi [敷き紙], and so, even in this case, it was not “lowered to the mat.”

¹⁷Meibutsu no go-dōgu ha ni gu arishi to iu-iu [名物ノ五道具ハ二具アリシト云〻].

“There are two examples* of each of the five meibutsu utensils, so it is said.”

This refers to the objects in the Higashiyama collection: the utensils will be described below. ___________ *Gu [具] is the “counting word” for utensils, or other pieces of equipment (such as military hardware). Ni gu [二具] would, therefore, mean “two utensils,” though translated in this way would make the sentence incongruous in English.

¹⁸Kama, sha-jiku ・ kiri [釜、車軸・桐].

These were both kama that were able to rest directly on the furo, without needing the support of a gotoku.

While modern versions of the sha-jiku kama [車軸釜] are shaped like the hub and wheel of an ox-carriage (with the flange pierced by holes so that it suggests the spokes of a wheel), the original was more like a cylindrical kama with a projecting flange about a third of the way to the bottom. The body flares outward slightly as it joins the flange.

The kiri-gama [桐釜] was originally a kiri-kake kama [切掛釜], meaning it was made to rest directly on top of the rim of a kimen-buro. Its present distressed state is the result of the vicissitudes that this kama has endured over the centuries.

While the kama (and furo) are mentioned in this kaki-ire, confusingly this text has nothing to do with the sketch. The furo and kama in the sketch are specifically described as being ordinary pieces (tsune no [常ノ]), meaning that the furo was more likely to be a lacquered clay furo (in the case of Jōō’s intended machi-shū audience), rather than one made of bronze.

Photographs of these two kama, as well as the other meibutsu utensils, will be published in an appendix, which will follow this post.

¹⁹Shaku-tate, sorori ・ kōji-guchi [杓立、ソロリ・柑子口].

The sorori [ソロリ, 曽呂利] has an elegant shape, with a narrow neck, and pear-like bottom.

The kōji-guchi [柑子口] has a more exaggerated shape than the sorori, with swollen cheeks surrounding the upward-facing mouth -- the former ribbed, like the sides of an akoda melon.

²⁰Mizusashi, mumon ・ minna-guchi [水指、無紋・皆口].

The mumon mizusashi [無紋水指] is the prototype on which most modern bronze mizusashi were based -- the body circled by several narrow raised bands, with a pair of kimen-kantsuki supporting hanging kan.

The minna-guchi mizusashi [皆口水指] has more-or-less perpendicular sides that rise up to the mouth.

²¹Koboshi, gōsu ・ sori-guchi [コホシ、合子・ソリ口].

The gōsu [合子, 盒子] is basically a lidded rice bowl (even though the gōsu has frequently been used without its lid since the Edo period).

The sori-guchi [反り口] is a rounded bowl-like shape, with an abruptly outward-flaring rim to the mouth.

²²Futaoki, ya-gaku shishi ・ mikotonori-no-shirushi [蓋置、夜學獅子・勅印].

The ya-gaku shishi was a small bronze stand on which the saucer of oil was rested inside a night-light (raising the flame above the floor of the lamp allows it to give off more light) -- a night-light was referred to as ya-gaku (studying at night).

This particular ya-gaku [夜學] was shaped like a pair of shishi, standing belly to belly on their hind legs, while lifting up a decorated ring (on which the saucer sat). The shape was derived from a style of ancient stone lantern that was popular during the Shilla and early Koryeo periods -- one of the earliest examples of which is found at the Beop-ju-sa [法住寺] (constructed in the sixth century) in Chungcheongbuk-do (this temple is located near the geographic center of South Korea): this lantern is shown above.

Mikotonori-no-shirushi [勅印] refers to the stamp* by means of which the Imperial seal that was impressed on official documents of state. In the context of chanoyu (where the mikotonori-no-shirushi is going to be used as a futaoki), the word usually refers to square bronze seals that are similar in size to the usual things that are used as futaoki.

With respect to the fourth kaki-ire, it would seem that a specific mikotonori-no-shirushi would have been included in this collection, but (oddly) the name of the King or Emperor with whom it was associated† was not recorded. ___________ *Of bronze or gold, or sometimes carved from a rare stone. Only seals whose shape made them suitably functional could be used as futaoki.

†Given that all of the other utensils enumerated in this kaki-ire originated on the continent, it is probable that the seal, too, was connected with one of the Chinese Emperors -- or possibly one of the Koryeo Kings. The fact that nothing is said makes it difficult to imagine what this specific seal might have looked like (for which reason, I will include two examples -- both modern-day copies, though of representative shapes and appearance -- in the appendix.)

²³Furo ha, dai-chōsen mata ha shishi-no-dai nado tote arishi nari [風爐ハ、大朝鮮　又ハ獅子ノ臺ナトヽテアリシ也].

“Regarding the furo, [there is] the large Chōsen[-buro]; and also the shishi-no-dai, and others, [that were used] for this [arrangement].”

In other words, various furo could be used, though apparently the preference seems to have been for those that lacked projecting ears (since, without ears, the furo is oriented so that its left side is aligned with the inner corners of the two left legs of the daisu, which moves it farther toward the left than was possible with something like a kimen-buro). This leaves sufficient room for the koboshi to be arranged as a mine-suri [峰摺り] on the central kane.

The precise shape of the shishi-no-dai [獅子ノ臺] is not clear, but the best guess seems to have it shaped like a large bronze incense burner, perhaps with perpendicular handles rising from the shoulders. The lid of this kind of censer often featured a crouching shishi, and so the body of the censer was likened to a platform on which the shishi is disporting itself. Some suggest that this incense burner also had rather long legs (and so may have resembled the Ryūkyū-buro [琉球風爐], albeit with ears). At any rate, this, too, would have been a furo designed to support the kama on the rim of its mouth.

²⁴Migi go-dōgu mo ichi ni tsuke no gotoku atsukau [右五道具モ一二付ノコトクアツカウ].

“Also from among the five utensils [enumerated] on the right, [even if only] one or two are used, they should be handled in the same manner [that is described here].”

This entire entry refers to the case where the host has acquired one (or more) of the meibutsu kaigu that were used by Yoshimasa, and chooses to honor it accordingly. This kind of thing should not be done with any other utensils -- and certainly not with ordinary, or modern-made things, regardless of how famous the maker is.

²⁵Futaoki ha nagaita no ue, furo no waki, tsune no tokoro ni ari nagara, mae [h]e sukoshi hiki-dasu [蓋置ハ長板ノ上、風爐ノ脇、常ノ所ニアリナカラ、前ヘ少引出ス].

“The futaoki is placed on the nagaita*, at the side of the furo; and even though it is in the usual place, it should be drawn slightly forward.”

This means that the meibutsu futaoki is placed on the right side of the furo during the temae†. Notice that this rule conflicts with the way the meibutsu koboshi was supposed to be handled; and, when there is a conflict, the futaoki takes precedence over the koboshi. The way this should be handled will be illustrated below, in the “analysis of the arrangement” section. ___________ *Nagaita [長板] is the term that is frequently used in the Nampō Roku to refer to the ji-ita of the daisu. Naga [長], “long,” is used in contrast to the word naka-ita [中板], which means the board made by cutting off the edges of the ten-ita of an old daisu, up to the inner corners of the leg-holes, when the large (iron) furo and other utensils from the o-chanoyu-dana will be used in the shoin to serve tea. In the modern tea world, this naka-ita [中板] is confusingly referred to as the naga-ita [長板].

†Not when the utensils are first brought out and arranged on the ji-ita.

Moving the futaoki from the right side to the spot near the furo is equivalent, in the daisu temae, to resting the hishaku on the futaoki in the small room: it is the invitation to the sōrei.

²⁶Hatsu yori [ 初ヨリ].

Hatsu yori [初より] means “from the beginning.” In other words, from the beginning of the temae.

According to Shibayama Fugen, rather than the arrangement of three meibutsu kaigu that was shown in the sketch included in Book Five, this kaki-ire seems to be referring to the case where only a meibutsu futaoki is being used*.

After the futaoki has been brought out, the daisu would look like what is shown above; while, at the shō-rei, the objects on the ji-ita would be arranged as below†.

The implication is that whenever only one of the meibutsu kaigu is being used, it should always be brought out after the guests have taken their seats for the goza, and that it should always be arranged, as a mine-suri [峰摺り], on the first kane to the right of the central kane. ___________ *Shibayama states that this is a parallel case to where the hoya was displayed by itself at the beginning of the san-shu gokushin temae [三種極眞手前], which was described in the entry Nampō Roku, Book 5 (16): the Display of the Seiji Unryū [青磁雲龍], Meibutsu Nasu [名物茄子], and Meibutsu Temmoku [名物天目] -- to which he suggests that the reader should refer.

The URL for that post is:

https://chanoyu-to-wa.tumblr.com/post/621478104540528640/namp%C5%8D-roku-book-5-16-the-display-of-the-seiji

†After the meibutsu futaoki has been arranged on the ji-ita, the guests would be permitted to approach the daisu so that they could inspect it in situ. Once they were done, the host would begin the service of tea by bringing out the chawan (which would be arranged on the mat in front of the mizusashi together with the tea container, in the usual way), and then the koboshi.

After placing the koboshi on his right, the host would pick up the futaoki and reposition it on the central kane, as shown, and then host and guests would bow together for the sō-rei.

The same kind of thing would be done if only a meibutsu shaku-tate, or a meibutsu koboshi, were being used by itself: first they would be arranged, as a mine-suri, on the second kane from the right -- and (in the case of the koboshi), after the guests had inspected the daisu, the koboshi would be moved onto the central kane, where it would remain during the temae.

²⁷Mata koboshi no jōza ni hatsu yori meibutsu futaoki okite [又コホシノ常座ニ初ヨリ名物フタヲキ置テ].

“Again, in the ordinary seat of the koboshi, from the beginning, the meibutsu futaoki is placed.”

Jōza [常座] means “the ordinary seat” -- that is, the place usually occupied by the koboshi. In this case, however, the koboshi is absent (it will be carried out from the katte at the beginning of the temae), and the meibutsu futaoki is occupying that place -- to the right of the furo, and between the midline and the front of the ji-ita.

²⁸Koboshi ha tsune no wo hakobite-tateru koto ari, sono toki ha futaoki sono-mama, koboshi no tokoro no sukoshi mae [h]e hiki-dashite yoshi [コホシハ常ノヲハコヒテ立ルコトアリ、其時ハフタ置其マヽ、コホシノ所ノ少前ヘ引出シテヨシ].

“With respect to the koboshi, as it is an ordinary [koboshi], it is carried out and stood [on the mat]. At that time*, the futaoki remains as it was, in the koboshi’s place [on the ji-ita], but drawn slightly forward.”

The far side of the koboshi touches the midline of the ji-ita. The futaoki, however, should be placed forward of the midline -- though how far is not defined. Some say that the futaoki should be oriented as if it were placed inside the koboshi, while others hold that it should be located in the most visually pleasing way, without referring specifically to the diameter of the koboshi. ___________ *In other words, on an occasion when the koboshi is brought out from the katte, rather than displayed on the ji-ita of the daisu.

——————————————–———-—————————————————

◎ Analysis of the Arrangement.

In the case of this temae, only the furo-kama, chaire, and habōki are displayed on the daisu when the guests return from the naka-dachi.

According to Shibayama Fugen, there are two possible ways that the host can arrange the special utensils on the ji-ita of the daisu. The sketch below shows the arrangement as depicted in Book Five of the Nampō Roku.

Please notice that the furo is the large Chōsen-buro [大朝鮮風爐]*, rather than the (medium sized) kimen-buro [鬼面風爐]. While the bodies of these two furo were the same size, the Chōsen-buro does not have ears, and so is moved farther to the left. This is why the koboshi can be arranged on the central kane.

Here, the three special utensils are all arranged as mine-suri [峰摺り]: the shaku-tate (which is brought out first), on the first kane to the right of the central one; the futaoki (brought out second), on the right-most kane; and the mizu-koboshi (which is brought out last), on the central kane.

On the ten-ita, an ordinary chaire (perhaps a large katatsuki) is placed so that it overlaps the second kane on the left by one third; and the habōki is placed to the left of the end-most kane†. This is the orthodox way of arranging the daisu, and the arrangement is han [半].

According to one of the manuscripts to which Shibayama referred, however, the arrangement might be done is shown below.

Here the furo would not have to be a Chōsen-buro, since the shaku-tate and mizu-koboshi share a kane (and so are counted as a single unit for the purposes of kane-wari). In this case it is not necessary to move the habōki off its kane after the arrangement of the ji-ita has been finished.

As for the service of tea itself, the arrangement of the various utensils would be like what is shown below.

After the guests had concluded their haiken of the three meibutsu kaigu, as the host had arranged on the ji-ita, a special small-sized magemono mizusashi would be brought out and placed on the mat as shown‡. Then the chawan would be brought out and placed temporarily on the left side of the mat, near the host’s left knee, while the chaire was lowered from the ten-ita and placed on the mat (in front of the place usually occupied by the mizusashi in an ordinary temae), and then the chawan would be moved to its left.

Next, the koboshi would be lowered to the mat, into the place shown in the sketch, and the futaoki picked up and returned to the ji-ita as shown. And at this time, host and guests would bow for the sō-rei.

From this point, the service of tea would resemble an ordinary daisu koicha-temae

At the end of the temae, the kaigu would once again be arranged on the ji-ita, while everything else would be taken back to the katte. ___________ *The Chōsen-buro [朝鮮風爐] came in two sizes, large and small. The large one was used on the large daisu, and the small one was used on the small daisu. (The large Chōsen-buro was approximately the same size as the medium kimen-buro.)

The kimen-buro [鬼面風爐], on the other hand, came in three sizes: the small one was used on the small daisu, the medium sized one was used on the large daisu, and the large kimen-buro was used on the o-chanoyu-dana.

The kimen-buro was, by far, the older of the two. The Chōsen-buro was created during the first half of the fifteenth century.

†Before the three special utensils are brought out, the habōki rests on the end-most kane. After the special utensils have been arranged on the ji-ita, the habōki is moved slightly to the left, so that it is no longer in contact with the kane.

‡The mizusashi is placed 2-sun away from the front of the daisu, and centered between the heri and the first kane on the left (meaning it is immediately to the right of the heri -- in practical terms, it would be located perhaps 1-bu from the heri).

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afewmarvelousthoughts · 6 years ago

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Only For A Moment Ch. 18

Master List | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

Only For A Moment Playlist on Spotify

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: For most of your life you’d been able to keep your abilities a secret, that is until Hydra got wind of you. After years of being in their clutches, you break out when The Avengers expose SHIELD/Hydra. Since then, you’ve been on the run. Things are going as well as you could hope when you see a familiar face… Could the Winter Soldier really be in Bucharest too?

Warnings: None (I don’t think.)

A/N: Y’all are making my heart swell so much with the outpouring of love this week. Seriously, it’s just been so awesome to hear how much you’re enjoying this story and how you feel about these two. I’m right there with ya because they have me all in my feelings.

I hope you enjoy this chapter it’s a little fluffy but there’s a lot coming up very quickly.

SO MUCH LOVE PUMPKINS!

Tags are open!

@bluegirlusa1 @l0kisbitch @tazzi-baby @disagreetoagree @woodyandbuzz20-01 @mooniightbucky @soulless-and-sarcastic @saundrasays @breezy1415 @creepshowzombae @alyssaj23 @mywinterwolf @wonderlandmind4 @fairislesheets @anamcg317 @buckaroo-barnes

You eat an apple from the bowl of fruit but can’t really bring yourself to ingest anything else. You’d been alone for months and been fine yet now… the silence felt oppressive, unnerving. Slowly you make a round of the apartment, studying everything, sipping on another cup.

His makeshift bookshelves of cinderblocks and scrap wood oddly cute. The curbside furniture and hodgepodge assortment of kitchen goods he collected show someone, trying, really trying, to build a life.

Suddenly you’re ashamed. How much more had he endured and yet here he was living, or trying to. More than that he was helping you learn how to live too… trying to lift you up beside him for no other reason than that he was a good man…

You plop on the couch feeling like a complete piece of shit. From between the cushions, his book of E. E. Cummings poetry peeks up. For a second you think you shouldn’t open it, that maybe it will be private but your curiosity is stronger than your sense of honor.

This isn’t like the other books which have been annotated and marked like a student furiously researching for their dissertation. He’s underlined some lines, circled others. Snippets that reveal bits of him to you in the way only poetry can:

“The peaceful terrors of the snow, and before your dead face which sleeps,a dream shall pass)”

“and my little sister and i will take hands and looking up at our beautiful tree we'll dance and sing "Noel Noel””

“but i have seen death's clever enormous voice”

“in the mirror i see a frail man dreaming dreams dreams in the mirror”

“delirious, indivisible grace of dancing”

“he is called death.”

You slam the book closed after your eyes see that final line circled in red pen so hard the page has torn a bit.

The guilt is fucking palatable. You hate that you invaded his privacy but…

You begin to pace. Did he remember Christmases with his family… That bit had a neat little box around it. Dancing. Did he like to dance… Did he see himself as frail… Then there were all the mentions of death. It made sense… Peaceful terrors of the snow. A chill snakes it’s way up your spine. The Winter Soldier.

Nope. This is doing absolutely nothing for you. Your feet have aimlessly taken you to the cramped kitchen. Suddenly you desperately want to cook. When you’d had a particularly shit day you’d always cook an extravagant meal, invite everyone over, send them home full with lunch for the next day and satisfied smiles on their faces.

The fridge is sparse save for some half and half, milk, a couple of eggs, and your leftovers from the night before. The cabinet reveals cornflakes and a small bag of sugar. You smile remembering he bought that just because he wasn’t sure how you took your coffee.

Cooking was out.

Under the sink, there are basic cleaning supplies. A small, previously unexplored, closet near the front door gives up a mop and broom and in his closet, there’s a small battery operated AM/FM radio.

Perfect.

When Bucky walks in two hours later he’s faced with the full force of a classic anxiety fueled Y/N cleaning spree.

You had organized the kitchen, cleaned the inside of the refrigerator, dusted, swept mopped, organized, opened the balcony door to let in fresh air, and now you were cleaning the bathroom in one of his white sleeveless undershirts and your boxer briefs.

Static laced notes of Foreigner’s Hotblooded fill the small space from the little radio that was, seemingly of its own accord, floating about seeking the best angle to catch the random classic rock station you had found.

The door slams, you jump, freezing mid air-guitar. “It’s just me,” he bellows over the music. Immediately your hackles lower. Peeking around the corner you see him wave his hand around the floating radio fascinated.

“No strings attached,” you shout.

“What’re you listening to?” He asks, his tone jovial.

“You’re kidding?” You ask shocked before you grab your mic-stand-mop and begin mouthing along to the final chorus.

Well, I'm hot blooded, check it and see

I got a fever of a hundred and three

Come on baby, do you do more than dance?

I'm hot blooded, I'm hot blooded

He can’t help but laugh at your over exaggerated performance. You slowly sink to the ground, in full tired drunken rockstar style as the song fades out and the radio floats over to you so you can turn it down.

He’s clapping, wearing that incredible smile, as he looks down at your panting form on the floor. “Not bad for my first rock concert.”

You laugh, “Best one you’ll ever see.” He extends his right hand you take it and rise off the floor. “You really don’t know that song?” The question is out before you can stop it.

He gives you a half laugh as he grabs some grocery bags from by the front door, “I’ve, uh, missed a few decades.” When he turns back you’re worried he’ll be cloudy but he’s still smiling.

“Well, that’s not going to fly.” You lean on the bathroom door frame. “I will personally take on the task to begin your musical education Mr. Barnes.”

He drops the bags on the counter, “I’d like that,” his eyes meet yours and your heart skips a beat.

“I hope it’s ok I went a little clean crazy,” you walk to the kitchen, “it’s something I do… used to do when I’m… anxious,” an awkward laugh sneaks out.

“Why were you anxious?” He asks pulling assorted vegetables from the bags.

You chew on your bottom lip before shrugging, “When am I not anxious these days…” he looks at you for a second questioning, “I guess… after… not being… alo-“ He cuts you off pulling you into a tight embrace. Immediately you relax against him, breathing in his smell, not caring that you’re a mess from cleaning.

“I felt… off on my own too,” he sounds just as taken back by the feeling as you and you squeeze him tighter. You glance around him to the kitchen.

“So are you planning on making a feast?”

Releasing you he looks back and chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Well… Not sure,” he returns to the bags. “I’m not much of a cook but I figured with the basics I could… I don’t know… work something out.” Gesturing to a paper bag by the laundry, “I did get us some sandwiches for lunch, so at least if dinner’s a disaster we had one good meal.” That awkward laugh does you in, he’s trying so goddamn hard.

A laugh escapes you. “What’s so funny?”

“I just… really wanted to cook earlier and here you are like grocery Santa.”

“You like cooking?”

“Love it.”

“Have at it,” he makes a presenting gesture toward the counter. You smile and he watches as you take stock of what he bought. “What do you like to cook?”

“Honestly,” you pull a whole chicken out, “a little of everything.” Large onion, head of garlic, you’re putting the pieces together like a puzzle.

“Ok, well what’s your favorite thing to make?” He’s perched on the arm of the couch.

“That my friend is a loaded question.”

His eyes crinkle, “Are we friends?”

You hold his gaze, unable to contain your smile. “Yeah. I think we are… something like that…”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky #bucky fic #bucky imagine #bucky fluff

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tessajayne18 · 6 years ago

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Wolf with Silver Eyes (Chapter 4)

Summary: Byun Baekhyun is an established detective in a world full of supernatural creatures. His life takes a turn when he transfers to a new town as one of the only humans in the town. Everything appears as normal as it can be until a mysterious group plagues the town. Will Baekhyun be able to solve this case or will a pseudo-deity put a stop to it?

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

“I work at a local goods store located at 408 North Seventeenth Street. The boss hardly ever shows up, but the normal workers there might now something.”

Baekhyun looked up at the hodgepodge of assortments on the shelves outside of the store. “I think this is the place,” he muttered to himself.

“It does say 408 on the building,” Anaise replied whether it was needed or not before walking in the store.

“Good morning!” the female worker behind the register greeted the two. “If you need help finding some things, just let me know.”

“Actually, we do need help finding something… or rather someone,” Baekhyun smirked as he turned on the charm. He showed his badge to the worker before asking, “Do you know where a Han Wonbin is? We’re looking for him as part of our investigation and we could really use all the help we can get.”

Anaise rolled her eyes as she waited for an answer. The female worker blushed slightly before answering, “He was in yesterday, but I don’t think he’ll be in for a while.”

“Any idea where he is when he isn’t here?” Baekhyun asked as he leaned on the counter slightly.

“I wish I could tell you where he is, but nobody ever knows where he is when he isn’t at the store,” the worker sadly replied. “But I do know somebody that could possibly help.”

“That would be great!” Baekhyun smiled.

“His name is Yoo Jaesuk, and he’s usually with the co-ed softball team at the baseball diamond just east of here,” the worker said.

“I know exactly where that’s at,” Baekhyun smiled as he patted the worker’s hand. “Thank you very much for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” the worker smiled while blushing.

Baekhyun waved as he and Anaise left the store. After a few minutes of walking to the baseball field, Anaise spoke up, “Are you sure you’re not some incubus or something? You could definitely pass as one.”

“Why do you ask? Is it working on you?” Baekhyun smirked.

“Definitely not,” Anaise bluntly replied.

Baekhyun glared at her and pouted. “I was trying to joke around to lighten the mood…”

“And I’m trying to get this job done,” Anaise shot back.

“You know, ever thought about showing some emotion every once in a while?” Baekhyun asked as they arrived at the baseball field.

“Why must you be intrusive to my mind?” Anaise mildly glared at Baekhyun.

Baekhyun sighed as he walked up to the fence. He found a few familiar faces from his first day, but he waited for someone to approach him.

“Hey, Detective!” Kami greeted as she was putting away her glove and bat into her bag.

“Hey, Kami!” Baekhyun smiled.

“What brings you here, Detective Baekhyun?” Wendy walked up behind Kami and casually asked.

“I’m actually here for detective work believe it or not,” Baekhyun chuckled.

“What do you need around here?” Kami asked as she noticed Anaise.

“We were told we could find Yoo Jaesuk here,” Anaise stated.

Kami nodded as she took note of her coldness. “He had to run an errand a while ago, but he should be back at any moment,” she replied.

“So who’s this?” Wendy asked Baekhyun while motioning toward Anaise.

“Junmyeon hired her to be my partner on this case. Her name is Anaise,” Baekhyun casually introduced Anaise to Wendy and Kami.

“Hello, Anaise, nice to meet you,” Wendy smiled and held out a hand.

Anaise glanced at her hand then looked away. “I’m only here to do my job. No need for silly introductions,” she said coldly.

“I could suck your blood dry if you don’t watch it,” Wendy snapped and glared at Anaise.

“I could kill you quick and painless if you don’t watch it,” Anaise glared back at Wendy.

“Guys, guys! Calm down, there’s no point in fighting,” Kami stepped in between Wendy and Anaise.

Wendy’s eyes briefly glowed a bright red before Kami’s glare calmed her right down. “Sorry, I don’t like being threatened,” Wendy bitterly said.

“You’re one to talk,” Anaise bluntly shot back.

Wendy lunged at Anaise, but Kami caught Wendy and pinned her down before Baekhyun could even move. “Son Wendy!” Kami shouted. “Knock it off,” she told Wendy as if she was scolding a child.

Baekhyun was so dazed by Kami’s quick reflexes, he failed to notice a car pull up to the field.

“What’s going on here?” the man asked as he got out of his car.

Kami looked up and greeted the man. “Hey, Jaesuk, nothing much going on here,” she said.

Baekhyun snapped back into detective mode and formerly greeted Jaesuk. “Hello, I’m Detective Baekhyun and we need to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure! I’d be happy to help,” Jaesuk smiled.

“We were told you could help us find Han Wonbin,” Baekhyun said.

“Wonbin? He’s pretty elusive, that’s for sure,” Jaesuk chuckled. “Last I heard, he was headed to a small shack in the woods just outside of town.”

“What does he do there?” Anaise asked, ignoring Wendy glaring at her.

“I think he helps run a small tea shop there, for creatures who may be traveling,” Jaesuk answered.

“Which side of town do we go to get to the tea shop?” Baekhyun asked.

“It’s on the north side. There shouldn’t be any trouble getting there, but I have heard of some shady people going over there at night,” Jaesuk replied.

“I guess we’ll find the reason for the shady people then,” Baekhyun smirked. “Thank you very much, Jaesuk.”

“No problem,” Jaesuk replied before patting Kami’s shoulder and telling her something. “No practice tomorrow but be here at 10am before the game at noon,” he told her and Wendy.

“Sounds good,” Kami replied as Wendy left the baseball field, leaving her with Baekhyun and Anaise. Kami turned to Anaise and bowed. “My name is Oh Kami, and I’m really sorry about Wendy’s actions. I hope you didn’t take offense to them,” she profusely apologized.

Anaise raised a brow at Kami’s actions. “I didn’t appreciate her actions… but I guess you feel the need to apologize since she is your friend. So thank you,” she calmly said.

Baekhyun was taken aback by her calm demeanor. He then realized what Anaise said and raised some questions. “Hey, how did you know they were friends?” he asked Anaise.

“It’s kind of obvious,” Anaise simply replied before heading out. “Let’s take a break. We can meet up at the north side of town in an hour.”

“Sounds good,” Baekhyun agreed before Anaise was out of sight.

After a few moments of silence, Kami pulled her bag over her shoulder and motioned Baekhyun to walk with her. “So, that’s the partner you were talking about the other day?” she asked.

Baekhyun released a sigh before replying, “That’d be her. She’s something else, isn’t she?”

“I can tell,” Kami answered.

“I’m surprised Wendy snapped at her like that,” Baekhyun said.

“I’m not. If you press the right buttons, Wendy could snap in an instant,” Kami chuckled. “Maybe Anaise has a reason to act so distant.”

“Maybe. I’ve been trying to crack jokes to at least get her to smile, but she’s just so serious all the time,” Baekhyun replied.

“Hopefully she’ll come around soon,” Kami optimistically said.

“I sure hope so. It’s almost no fun working with someone who doesn’t respond to jokes,” Baekhyun chuckled a little.

“What if the reason she doesn’t laugh at your jokes is because they’re terrible?” Kami quipped while smirking to herself.

Baekhyun glared at Kami who then busted up into a maniacal laughter. He then smiled to himself after hearing her laughter. “Have you even heard one of my jokes?” he asked.

“Do I want to?” Kami joked as she laughed even more.

“I’m supposed to be the charming one,” Baekhyun protested, but it came out as more of a compliment.

“Oh, so I’m charming?” Kami asked while still smiling.

“I am not denying that claim,” Baekhyun smoothly replied which caused Kami to blush.

“You know…” Kami shyly started speaking, “I know you’re busy all the time with detective work, but I would like to get to know you a little better.”

Baekhyun smiled and replied, “I would like that, too.” A few moments later, they arrived at Kami’s house. Baekhyun walked her up to the door and continued his thought. “Tell you what, next chance I get, I’ll take you out sometime.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Kami smiled. “Don’t forget to text me if you get the chance.”

“I won’t,” Baekhyun smiled as he walked away and Kami went inside her home.

Kami walked a few steps before being bombarded by Wendy. “I called it, you totally like him!” she smiled evilly.

“Was it that obvious?” Kami chuckled nervously.

“It’s written all over your face!!” Wendy squealed.

Kami’s smile faltered after a few moments. “I just don’t know if I should tell him anything about what I am just yet or not…”

Baekhyun and Anaise arrived at the tea shop around one in the afternoon. They were expecting a small, run down shop, but they were greeted with a massacre.

“What in the hell happened here?” Baekhyun thought out loud as he searched the shop for a body.

The shop was torn down with claw marks on every piece of wood. Blood stains painted the chairs, counter, and the cups filled with tea. Anaise looked behind the counter and found someone. She reached down to check for a pulse and…

“This one’s alive!” Anaise called out to Baekhyun as she helped the man sit up carefully. Baekhyun examined the man and called for an ambulance. Anaise looked back toward the man and asked, “What happened here?”

The man took a few deep breaths before answering, “Werewolves attacked here before sunrise.”

“We’re looking for a Han Wonbin. Did he have anything to do with this?” Baekhyun asked, straight to the point.

“He led the attack… wanted to know where Silver Eyes was…” the man barely spoke in a whisper.

“Silver Eyes?” Baekhyun replied, confusion lacing his voice.

“Wonbin and his wolf pack attacked here once they saw Silver Eyes,” the man answered. “Wonbin and his pack have attacked the town looking for Silver Eyes this whole time… now he won’t stop until he’s found them.”

“Who is Silver Eyes?” Anaise asked, scanning the stand for more clues.

The man fell unconscious before he could answer. Anaise and Baekhyun looked at one another before the ambulance arrived at the stand.

Baekhyun looked at Anaise dead in the eyes and stated, “Looks like we’ve got a major lead on this case.”

A/N: Silver Eyes, huh? That’s definitely going to help with the case. Sorry about taking a while to update. I had a few personal issues to handle, and I also had to draw the chapter banner. It wouldn’t be so bad if I don’t already have a big family project I’m working on at the same time. I’ve rambled for long enough... See you next time!!

#exo #exo baekhyun #baekhyun #exo fanfic #exo scenario #baekhyun x oc #baekhyun fanfic #supernatural #werewolf #vampire #Wolf with Silver Eyes

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deleurandeleuran1-blog · 6 years ago

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Memories From The Activity And also The Male Behind The Sphere" Through "Edwards, William H. (William.

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ebhenah · 6 years ago

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Tending

Fictober Day 14 Prompt: "Some people call this wisdom."

Original fiction/Original characters

Fantasy/Magical Creature

Rating: T for LGBTQI2SA+ themes

The pixies were in an uproar by the time she got back to her dorm room. Caprea dropped her satchel onto the little table by the door and took in the destruction. Two… no, THREE emptied casks of assorted fermented nectars. Random articles of clothing scattered everywhere. An overturned bottle of ink and snapped quill- lovely, that would be so much fun to clean up. Likewise, for the very rare, very expensive bottle of saffron honey her mother had given her for potion-making, which was oozing slowly down a stack of spellbooks, the gooey rivulets surrounded by miniscule, telltale hand, foot, and… yup… those were undoubtedly butt prints making it clear that the pixies were all highly intoxicated. She stopped to right that bottle and re-cork it, because that saffron honey was easily the most valuable thing in their quarters and she refused to let any more of it go to waste.

Further regard revealed half a sandwich, hastily and improperly covered by an upturned glass bowl. At least a dozen candles of various colors and compositions… and, of course, one dozen frantic, screeching pixies bouncing around the room like a swarm of gnats. She sighed, she honestly had NO IDEA what could have happened, and she knew better than to try to get any kind of coherent explanation from the pixies. "Tansae?" she called, fanning one straggling pix away from her face and hair. "Are you still here?"

"Y'am," came the response from the far end of their small suite of rooms. "Fer now an'always. F'r ever n'ever n'ever!"

"Isn't Fennelore throwing a party for YOU tonight?" she half-hollered, picking her way across the minefield of books and bottles and other detritus the floor had become, moving toward her dorm-mate's room. Four pixies flew into her face, their clashing voices high and indecipherable when they were this agitated… and sugared. "Ugh," she muttered softly, "you all should make yourself useful and put some of this hodgepodge to rights! I know you contributed to making it!"

"Fennelore can suck m'twigs," Tansae responded, the statement punctuated by a loud clunk as something (probably a shoe or book based on the sound) hit the door.

"But he's been planning this for MONTHS!" She'd reached the door, but she knew better than to open it without Tansae's ok. "Can I come in?"

"Ugh, FINE," Tansae said, and the door flicked open. Caprea had thought that the common areas were a mess- she didn't even have words to describe what she face in Tansae's bedchamber. It seemed as if all of her roommate's possessions were tossed on the floor, or floating mid-air, or dripping upwards… so, yeah, the guest of honor for Fennelore's massive, elite soiree was completely uprooted on fermented nectar.

"Sweet moon," she breathed, "what happened?"

"Leuce," Tansae groaned, plucking a pillow out of the air to scream into. "Leuce happened."

"Ah," she wove through the obstacles to sit down next to her roommate. "Did you ask her out?" Tansae had been mooning over Leuce since their second week of classes- nearly a year ago. It was one of those awful, all-encompassing crushes that turned you into a tongue-tied, clumsy, blushing idiot. Tansae of the Black Oaks had never had that kind of crush before and it was taking its toll on the usually confident dryad.

"Not exactly," she rumbled, the mistletoe that grew interspersed with her hair, cycled through a full turn of the seasons. Before Caprea's eyes they budded, berried, burnished and fell. "I WANTED to, but then I's talking to her an'she laughed, an'I completely forgot what I'ad practiced… was like m'brain got dry rot."

"It probably wasn't as bad as you think," she soothed.

Tansae lifted her head from the pillow, levelling a dry expression at her roommate, "I told'er Fennelore was throwin'a party an'she should come."

"So far, so good…"

"An'at it was pro'bly goin't be crowded. Kind'a 'the more the merrier' thin… so she should feel free t'bring someone if'n sh'wanted."

"Wait- so, in trying to ask her out, you somehow told her to bring someone ELSE to YOUR party, as her date?"

"Exactly!" Tansae flopped back onto the mattress dramatically, screaming into the pillow again. "HOW?! How does she do this t'me?" The words were muffled, but Caprea managed to make them out.

"You're just not used to being on THIS end of a crush. It sucks, but we've all been there at some point."

"Well, I hates it… an'she's in E'ERY SINGLE ONE o'm'classes an'almost all m'clubs. So, I'm just gon'ta stay in'ere til graduation. I'll just scry the lectures an'submit e'erything by scroll. I don't need t'go anywhere. Easy."

"Except that Fennelore is your Green Man, and he loves you, and he has sunk a ridiculous amount of time and money into this party," she pointed out, "and if you don't go, it could cause major fallout in all the groves that impacts all of us." Her voice gentled, "and hurt the man that will be safeguarding your saplings someday."

"But I don't wan't'go," Tansae whined, "Leuce might be there… an'I'll make an idiot o'm'self- in front of some o'the most powerful an'influential nymphs in the world… an'THAT will cause major fallout, too."

"Tansae, this is a party for YOUR tending, you cannot skip it," she stressed.

"What if'n I don't WANT a tending? Hmmm?"

"Sweet moon, how nectared ARE you? Tending isn't something you can skip! Besides, I know for a fact that you have been dropping leaves about your tending for weeks, right up until you screwed up with Leuce," she sighed, "regardless, backing out isn't an option… and you know it. So, come on, let's get you dressed."

"Y'know," Tansae griped as she stood and started changing into her party clothes, "bein'ware o'what y'can emotionally handle an'avoiding situations that would b'harmful t'yer emotional or mental health is important. That's what I'm doing. Some people call this wisdom."

"Mmm… some would.. But WISE people would call it cowardice."

"Fennelore would be really upset if'n I didn't go, wouldn't he?"

"Fennelore would be devastated," Caprea answered, "he loves you. You love him."

"I do love him," Tansae sighed, "but Leuce…"

"The situation with Leuce will work itself out with time. You can't go downing whole casks of fermented nectar because you put your foot in your mouth in front of someone you are smitten with. You are a Black Oak- you have centuries to pursue Leuce… but tonight you have your tending with your Green Man, and seedlings have a much much smaller window of time to work within." She helped Tansae lace up her gown, using her own magic to wind and twist the black hair and mistletoe into an elegant updo. "Who knows, maybe Fennelore will sing your praises to Leuce. It wouldn't be the first time a Green Man played matchmaker for his dryads."

"I could never ask'im t'do that, it feels too much like… exploiting 'is power."

She sighed, "well then… maybe Leuce thinks your blushing and awkwardness is endearing. Alright, let's get a look at you." Stepping back she regarded her roommate- the wispy green and white gown contrasted beautifully with her deep brown skin and brought out the leafy green of her eyes and lips. The mistletoe that grew in with her hair turned a simple updo into something showstopping. "Beautiful- just remember to blossom once you get to the grove."

Tansae grinned and hugged her, "yer the best roommate e'er. T'morra when I get back, I'll 'ave seedlings growin' in Fennelore's Grove!"

"I know! It's so exciting! Now, shoo… before you are late. I will… try to sober up the Pixies and clean this place up." She used her magic to clear a path for Tansae so her gown wouldn't get ruined by debris and waved her roommate off. She looked around their living space, shaking her head at the chaos left in Tansae's wake, and the growing number of pixies that were passing out mid-flight and spiraling to the floor like maple keys on a windless day.

#fictober18 #fictober18day14 #Day14 #Day14PromptSomePeopleCallThisWisdom #SomePeopleCallThisWisdom

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writesandramblings · 6 years ago

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Secret’s End - Chapter 2

“A Measured Response”

Table of Contents

<< Ch. 1 - A Chance Discovery Ch. 3 - Don’t Sit Down >>

A/N: Sorry for the immense delay, we had a huge surge of projects this month at work. I worked 30 hours of overtime at one point! Luckily, since my day job is writing, I enjoy it, but it left precious little time for recreational writing. Which isn't to say that I didn't find moments here and there to write a bit. Just that there weren't enough of them to finish the chapter until now, and I mostly wrote a bunch of future scenes. (Spoiler sentences have been updated accordingly.)

Readers of TCS will note the crew of the Shenzhou is somehow simultaneously much better and much worse than the Triton's...

Gradually, the situation in the Shenzhou’s medbay resolved itself—with some help from the Dartarans.

“We have never had any issue with the lului in the sense of biological contaminants,” Margeh assured Georgiou. Lalana had been living with them for six years and encountered humans and several other species with no ill effects suffered by any parties. There was also the point that, by Margeh’s description, the Gentonians running the hunting expeditions were extremely cautious and catered to a wealthy clientele whose health they valued. If Lalana or her species posed any risk, the Gentonians would have said as much before allowing Margeh and T’rond’n to take a pair of them home.

T’Vora passed this information along to Dr. Channick, who subsequently decided Lalana was less a threat to the ship and more a potential patient given the length of her captivity. This still left a central question unresolved.

“How am I supposed to know if you’re in good health?” Channick asked after the isolation field came down. She remained at a dead end with her attempts to run medical scans. Saru had been equally unsuccessful at ascertaining any scanner adjustments that would do more than provide a basic physical map of the surface of Lalana’s body. “You’ve been captive for a long time.”

“It was not so long,” said Lalana. “Not even a half of a half of a half of a half of a cycle. And I am entirely undamaged by it.”

“A cycle, is that a measurement of time for your species?” asked Saru.

“Yes. I am seven cycles of age.”

Saru followed the math without trouble. If Lalana had been captive for six years, then six was half of twelve, twenty-four, forty-eight, ninety-two. Except that would make Lalana close to seven hundred years old. Probably she was not being literal and her sense of time was confused after being separated from her natural day/night cycle for so long.

“When you say that,” Saru began, only to be cut off by Channick.

“Thing is, even if there aren’t any physical wounds, there’s the issue of long-term malnutrition. How was your diet? Were you ever sick? Any lethargy?”

Whatever Hasimova was doing with the translation was not having the intended effect. Lalana remained flummoxed by Channick’s inquiries. “Bad nutrition? How are nutrients bad?”

“Malnutrition—weakness from not eating the right foods.”

“I do not understand. Correct foods?”

“What do you typically eat on your planet?” asked Saru in an attempt to head off what seemed to be an entirely misguided line of medical questions towards an alien that clearly had little notion of medical concepts.

“Whatever I want to.”

Channick frowned. Saru’s inquiry had not ended up much more helpful than hers and she considered her own versions of the questions more important than his. “Plants, meat, fruit...”

“Yes,” said Lalana. “Anything which contains the components I require.”

So, she was an omnivore. “Perhaps I could bring you an assortment of food items and you can tell us what most resembles the food sources on your planet,” suggested Saru.

Lalana’s hands spun. “Yes, that would be lovely, Lieutenant Junior Grade Saru! You have such a long name, is there a shorter version of it?”

Saru stood there with his hands pressed together feeling moderately embarrassed as Hasimova and Channick stared at him with less than impressed expressions. This whole experience was starting to feel like a disaster. Saru desperately wanted to run out of the room and hide in the darkest corner he could find. His ganglia itched along the back of his head. “Lieutenant junior grade is my rank. Saru is my name. ‘Lieutenant Saru’ will suffice.”

The last thing Saru heard as he made his exit was Hasimova wondering aloud, “Do you want us to get you some clothes to wear?” Lalana’s response to this was not verbal: she stuck the full length of her tongue out at them and coiled it like a spring.

Gathering the various foodstuffs gave Saru a chance to collect his thoughts. What was happening in the medbay right now felt like chaos and he greatly disliked chaos. What they needed was a clear, direct plan of action and information gathering, not this hodgepodge of meandering questions dancing around important information as to who Lalana’s people were. They needed to be taking a scientific, not conversational, approach.

When he returned to the medbay armed with a tray of delicacies arranged in a series of small glass sauce bowls and a padd containing a plan that would hopefully resolve all their many issues, he found Channick finally engaged in a moment of breakthrough.

“Your question is flawed,” Lalana was saying. “How can I tell you what does not exist?”

“No diseases, no illnesses?” They were back to that line of questioning with the crucial difference that now Channick was realizing Lalana’s earlier answer in the negative was not willful obstinance but an expression of an inability to answer because the question itself was based on a faulty assumption. “But your cells, when they degrade or suffer trauma...”

“If unrepairable, they are reconsumed for materials and energy by the cells surrounding, or in the event of catastrophic contamination, they are eliminated externally.”

Channick tugged at her ear as she processed this information. In Saru’s absence, she had determined the issue with the translator was not that Lalana lacked knowledge of medical biology, but that her knowledge was an order of magnitude beyond the burgeoning translation matrix. As Channick’s questions and explanation became more technical, the computer adjusted its translations accordingly and now doctor and patient were approaching a point of didactic parity. “Can you regenerate all your tissues?”

“What is tissue?”

“Specialized cell group. Like, lung tissue is the cells used for respiration.”

“Nn, no, I am not the tissues, the tissues are the framework upon which I am around. I am the cells, and I do not regenerate, only repair as needed. A dead cell cannot be revived. New cells are created if required, but typically the cells which are me are sufficient.”

Hasimova squinted at the display on her commandeered station, not quite certain of the translation. “The cells which are you?”

“Yes. I am cells. You are also cells, you simply do not know it.”

“We know we’re made up of cells,” said Channick.

”Yes, but you do not know your cells, and your cells do not know they are you.”

That was the phrasing Channick needed to finally make sense of what Lalana was saying. “You have an awareness of your cells?”

“I am cells speaking to you in organization with the assistance of my structural tissues which enable me to operate on the same scale as you do.”

Channick wavered, feeling a sudden need to sit down, but there were no chairs in this part of the medbay. She put her hand on the nearest medical slab as her mind swirled with the implications. There was a paper in here, likely a few of them, and perhaps even a nomination for the prestigious Carrington Award. If she could determine the mechanism by which the cells were aware and their relationship to the tissue structures, not to mention the nature of the repair mechanism...

While Channick processed this, Saru put the tray of food down beside Lalana and accessed the padd. “I have several questions for you organized by subject.”

“Certainly,” said Lalana, sticking her tongue out into the bowl nearest her, which contained lettuce.

The moment Lalana’s tongue touched the leafy green, the entirety of her body turned a matching shade, replete with striations of lighter green that mimicked the lettuce veins. Saru, Hasimova, and Channick were amazed by the sight. Lalana’s “fur” (which it was now clear was anything but) even seemed to have arranged itself into clumps resembling leafy frills. The only thing left unchanged were her immense, lidless green eyes. They remained a shade of green far brighter than the lettuce.

Lalana rolled the lettuce leaf up in her tongue and pulled it whole into her mouth. “This I can eat,” she said once her tongue was returned to its normal position. Next, she stuck her tongue out into a bowl containing a small piece of cooked chicken. She turned the same brownish color as the chicken and her fur flattened, making her much the same color and texture as Saru. Then she withdrew her tongue, declaring the chicken edible but not opting to consume it.

“Remarkable,” said Channick. “Do you do this with everything you eat?”

“Oh, no, this is a game Margeh and T’rond’n enjoyed having me perform for guests, so I thought you would enjoy it.” Her tongue next went to a slice of orange, producing the most wonderful color effect as she mimicked both the rind and pulp. Hasimova gasped in delight.

“If I may begin,” said Saru, glancing at the padd. The first section was labeled Biology. The first question under the heading involved respiration and was clearly moot because Lalana was breathing the same air they were and therefore came from an M-class planet, but there might be nuances to her respiration which merited definition, especially now that she had established herself as a very different form of life. Saru took a breath and opened his mouth to ask the first question.

“That is most impressive,” Captain Georgiou’s voice cut in. She was standing in the medbay entrance, as imposing a figure as ever as her eyes scanned the scene in clear appraisal. “Lalana, your former captors have agreed to assist us in locating your planet and wish a chance to apologize to you. If you do not wish to hear them out, I fully understand.”

“I will hear them out,” said Lalana, shifting back to her previous blue-grey tone. Georgiou gestured towards the open door and Margeh and T’rond’n entered.

“Lalana,” managed Margeh, digging the claws of one hand into the other. “Whatever possessed you to keep this from us...” Georgiou’s tongue clicked in disapproval.

“We apologize,” declared T’rond’n, his voice a low boom compared to his wife’s. “We did not realize that you were... as you are. That does not excuse what happened, but we hope you will forgive us.”

“Certainly,” said Lalana, which seemed generous of her.

“We will do everything we can to assist in ending the hunt of your people,” promised Margeh.

Georgiou spoke again. “There are Federation laws which govern planets like yours which do not have warp drive technology. These laws dictate that we do not interfere with the evolution of your species. To that end, the Federation will endeavor to return you to your planet and stop this atrocity from occurring further.”

Lalana’s hands pressed tightly together—intently, thought Saru—and she said, “That would be... How will you do this?”

“Together, as is the Federation way,” said Georgiou.

Seated in the middle of the conference table staring out at the stars, Lalana had little new information to offer Georgiou. Aside from the history of invasion and hunting, she knew of no interstellar landmarks that might assist them in locating her planet and possessed no information on the Gentonians who were ransacking her world for profit. “It was a red star,” Margeh offered. She, Georgiou, and T’rond’n were sitting around the table in the chairs surrounding it, as intended.

“How would you know?” asked Lalana, tilting her head backward at an angle that suggested her neck bones were capable of spontaneously disconnecting.

Margeh bristled. It was a well-known fact Dartaran visual range was limited when it came to the lower bands of the spectrum. “Because the star was not very bright and was much closer to the planet than most. It could only have been red.”

“There were very few stars visible,” recalled T’rond’n. “The atmosphere must have been thick.”

“The air did smell thick,” said Margeh firmly. What Dartarans lacked in color perception, they more than made up for in other ways. “And the Gentonians are on Risa. We have the contact name written down somewhere, I am sure of it. If you could just bring us back to our home, we will find the name in short order.”

“We have already been in contact with the Risian authorities. They will provide a list of Gentonians on the planet.”

“Our home is only a few hours travel for you,” said Margeh. It was not the first time she had suggested to Georgiou that the Shenzhou provide them a free ride back at speeds much faster than the personal transport currently parked in the Shenzhou’s shuttle bay could manage.

“We are already engaged on a mission,” replied Georgiou curtly. (Which was true, but while Georgiou was mediating this situation, the pirate mission was on hold. Georgiou simply had no interest in playing chauffeur for the Dartaran couple.)

The comms pinged. “Captain, incoming transmission from Risa.”

“Put it through,” said Georgiou, pleased by the speed of the Risians’ response. The Risians were nothing if not accommodating—as eager to please a far-off Starfleet captain as they were the many tourists who visited their planet.

The woman who appeared on the conference viewscreen was the exact sort of living advertisement for Risa that the Risian Hedony liked to employ as a first point of contact. She was stunningly beautiful, with waves of honeyed hair cascading down her shoulders, deep green eyes, and sun-kissed skin. A traditional Risian disc adorned her forehead and an array of tropical flowers filled the frame behind her. If the woman found anything odd about the sight of a Federation captain, two Dartarans, and a blue alien sitting on top of a table, she showed no outward sign of it. “Warm welcomes from Risa, the most pleasant planet in the galaxy. Minister Karrin has readied the data you requested. Please stand by for transmission.” She pressed a button on her console. The Shenzhou’s computer registered receipt. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“For the moment, this will suffice,” said Georgiou, smiling. “We will be in touch again shortly.”

“Certainly,” said the woman. “Let us know if you require anything else. We’re more than happy to be of service. Thank you for contacting Risa.”

“Thank you,” said Georgiou, lingering a moment before terminating the connection.

Images, names, and visa details of all the Gentonians on Risa during the period of time six years ago when the Dartarans had arranged their hunting trip appeared on the conference room viewscreen. Georgiou gestured for Margeh, T’rond’n, and Lalana to make of the images what they could.

Lalana moved to the edge of the table nearest the viewscreen, letting Margeh and T’rond’n control the scroll of images while she watched from between their shoulders. Yellow and green faces with whisker-like protrusions above their mouths flitted by. Most were merchants or traders—Gentonians were consummate traders—but there were several tourists in the mix along with the full staff directory of the Gentonian embassy. T’rond’n startled. “There! That is the one. I am certain of it.”

The Gentonian in question had pale yellow skin with brownish spots. The name beneath the image was “Beldehen Venel.” He was listed as having a merchant license associated with a company called Starway Traders and his current visa status was “ACTIVE, ON PLANET.”

“Computer, display all Starway Traders employees.” Seven Gentonians appeared. “Do you recognize any others?”

Margeh and T’rond’n took their time studying the other names and faces. “No,” concluded Margeh. “The only one we ever saw on Risa was Venel, and none of these Gentonians were on the ship that took us to the planet.”

“Lalana?” prompted Georgiou. “Do you recognize any of them?”

“Nn,” went Lalana, “I do not.”

“Venel was not on the expedition himself,” said Margeh. “He merely arranged our transport.”

Georgiou pressed the intercom button on the conference table console for the bridge. “Please contact Minister Karrin on Risa.” The communications officers on the bridge responded in the affirmative. Georgiou considered Lalana and suggested, “Perhaps you would like to sit in a chair?”

“No,” said Lalana lightly, curling her tail around her legs.

The response from Risa was swift. This time, the Risian woman did not appear on the screen. Instead, a hologram of a male Risian appeared standing in the conference room with brown skin, dark hair and eyes, and an effusive smile. He had the same traditional disc on his forehead and was wearing a blue suit with a white sash. “Captain Georgiou,” he greeted, clearly expecting her.

Georgiou wasted no time. “We have identified a person of interest in an ongoing violation of Starfleet’s General Order One.” With a flick of her finger, Georgiou sent Venel’s details to Karrin. “I am with two Dartarans and a member of the aggrieved species who can corroborate this violation. According to the data you sent, the individual is on Risa at present. He must be detained immediately.”

Karrin’s smile faltered. Risians disliked the appearance of police authority. Risa was largely a safe place to visit, but it was not without its share of crime, mostly because the Risians found it preferable to compensate victims after the fact than to foster an atmosphere of oppressive security that would more fully prevent incidents. “General Order One?”

“Exploitation of a pre-warp species,” clarified Georgiou. On the conference table, Lalana began to knock the knuckles of her hands together. T’rond’n noted this with concern but remained quiet and still in his seat.

“That is...” Karrin’s face clouded. A moment later, it cleared into firm resolve. “We’ll assist in any way we can.” He took a step to the side, pressing a finger to an unseen console on his end of the transmission. “Sollis, are you available?”

The Risian woman from before appeared on the conference room viewscreen as she patched herself into the transmission. “Yes, minister.”

“Can you locate someone for us? Discreetly.”

“Certainly.” It took her only a moment to perform the task. “Beldehen Venel left Risa twenty minutes ago.”

Thirty minutes ago, the Shenzhou had requested information on Gentonians from the Risian authorities. That simple request had evidently been enough to tip Venel off.

On the table, Lalana clicked her tongue. “Oh, that is too bad,” she said. “It seems I will never return home now.”

Saru was convinced of his overall failure in the meager soft first contact task he had requested, so it came as a welcome surprise when Georgiou ordered him to escort Lalana to guest quarters from the conference room. He appeared at the door and stood in stiff, observant attention, his padd of questions still in hand. Lalana amiably strode out to join him in the hallway without a single word of farewell towards Georgiou, Margeh, or T’rond’n. Her only words were to Saru. “Shall we go?”

Saru looked across the conference room at Georgiou. She seemed mildly amused by this lapse of decorum. Not all aliens placed the same value on the niceties that fell under the heading of human good manners, as common as the basic concepts of greeting and farewells were across most cultures and species. “Captain?” called Saru, seeking her permission. Georgiou responded by merely waving her hand at him dismissively and the doors slid shut.

Lalana stared up at Saru expectantly, balancing on a combination of her legs and tail. Saru made a gesture of his own, indicating the direction of the nearest turbolift. “This way.”

Absent a human escort, Saru took a large step in the indicated direction. He was about to self-correct himself to a shorter stride when he realized Lalana matched the distance without trouble and seemed to be perfectly at home doing so. Though she was barely a third of his height, she had very long legs with an extra joint that made them stretch out more horizontally than vertically. He opted to continue at his natural walking gait and felt strangely reassured by the way she glided down the hallway at his side.

“I feel I should inform you,” he said when the wonder of the moment had passed, “humans and many other species find it customary to offer words when arriving and departing a location.”

“Yes, I have observed this behavior often,” said Lalana as they arrived at the turbolift doors.

Which meant she knew how it worked. Had her wordless departure been an intentional slight against the others in the room? Saru asked as delicately as he could, “Your people do not have such a custom?”

“No. This is not something my people typically do.”

That would seem to explain it, then, though Saru imagined she might well harbor lingering resentment towards the Dartarans for their role in her captivity. The turbolift arrived and they stepped inside. “It was very magnanimous of you to accept the Dartarans’ apology despite what they did to you.”

“What they did to me?”

“Yes, hunting you and keeping you captive for so many years.”

“It was not so long and I do not mind it,” said Lalana. “It is over now regardless.” The turbolift doors opened onto deck four and they exited. “Now I suppose I shall have to watch Federation walls.”

“Certainly not,” Saru assured her. “We will bring you back to your planet. Captain Georgiou is a very accomplished captain and will no doubt be successful.”

“Nnn,” hummed Lalana. “And if she is not? What then?”

Saru pressed his fingers together uncertainly. He did not doubt Georgiou’s success and had not given the possibility much thought. Thinking on it now, he found he had no answer. “We will deal with that eventuality should it come to pass. I assure you, the Federation will provide whatever accommodations you require.”

“As Margeh and T’rond’n did?”

That gave Saru pause. Twice now he had heard Lalana describe the Federation in unflattering terms. First, over the ship-to-ship communications, where she had declared herself uninterested in being subjected to “Federation machinations,” and then in the medbay, where she had described herself as having been “captured by the Federation.”

“We will not confine you,” promised Saru. “The purpose of the Federation is to unite the peoples of many worlds so that we may collectively flourish in an environment of peaceful cooperation, and to provide freedom, justice, and opportunity for all citizens.”

Lalana’s hands suddenly began to spin. “Is it? I have always heard that the Federation is largely interested in regulating and restricting trade.”

“That is demonstrably untrue,” said Saru, wondering where she would have gotten that idea.

“I wonder which is more true, the description a person has of themselves, or the descriptions others have of the person.” They had arrived at the guest quarters. Lalana went straight to the window and the vista of stars. She looked out for a moment, then turned to Saru, hands still spinning. “Whether the walls are Dartaran or Federation, it has been worth it to meet a new form of life which I had not seen previously.”

“That is... why I joined Starfleet,” said Saru, surprised.

“Then you were right. We are not so different. Now, what questions did you have to ask?”

Chapter 3

#Star Trek Discovery #Commander Saru #Saru #fanfic #fanfiction #Captain Philippa Georgiou #USS Shenzhou #first contact

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themarionetteanovel · 3 years ago

Text

Chapter Thirty-Nine - Deciphering the Notebook

Claire went out after work, tired of feeling cooped up alone in her tiny flat. At times she wished she lived in her old neighbourhood again, where she was more likely to run into acquaintances at the strip mall pubs and diners along the highway. Carmen was busy and she couldn’t think of anyone else to call. Nor was anyone announcing plans on social media. As she drew nearer to The Broken Cue she grew more nervous. What if Adam was in there.

Fran was seated outside at a small round table by the entrance. Jacob sat across from her and a third chair was empty. A spread of Tarot cards lay between them. Claire was about to pass them and duck inside when Fran waylaid her. “Hey Claire! What’s up?”

“Hi.” She hesitated and then asked, “Is Adam working tonight?”

“He headed out to his folks’ summer cottage for a spell. Not sure when he’s back.”

So he wasn’t lying. Fran gestured and said, “You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

“Sure,” she said, taking the vacant seat. While not feeling particularly welcome, she didn’t sense she was intruding. Fran put the cards away and talk turned to local gossip. “Since you’re from here,” Claire said to Jacob, “did you know a Sophie Robertson?”

He hunched his shoulders. “From high school, but not well. She was three years ahead of me and ran with a different crowd. She was into sports, hiking, that kind of thing.”

And sleeping with other people’s boyfriends while cheating on her own, Claire thought.

“Cute blonde woman, right?” Fran squinted at him. “She took off for out west, didn’t she?”

“That’s what I heard. Though I don’t know of anyone who’s heard from her since.”

Claire felt a little more relieved, but wished she had evidence the woman walked among the living. Plying Jacob for answers struck her as overly intrusive; she only knew him from the odd conversation on the bus. He was leaving anyway. He withdrew his wallet and passed a ten dollar bill to Fran. “Your fee, madam. I have to jet. Thanks for the reading! I learned a lot.”

They watched him amble off. More for the sake of conversation than curiosity, Claire asked, “So how long have you been reading those cards for?”

Fran tucked her deck into a studded leather purse. “Since I was about sixteen or so? Before that I was into I Ching. I’ve always been fascinated by esoteric subjects.”

“Really.” An idea came to her. She lifted off a salt shaker that had been anchoring a paper napkin and drew a few of the symbols. “I was wondering if you’d know what these indicate.”

“Kind of a weird hodgepodge of runes or the Enochian alphabet. Where’s this from?”

“They were in this notebook I found in my late boyfriend’s possession.”

Fran slurped the remains of her drink, mostly melted ice and a wedge of squashed lime. “Where’s this book now? You have it on you?”

“It’s at my place. I don’t live very far if you don’t mind coming with me.”

“Sure, let’s go!”

They headed along Main Street while Claire told Fran about Dave’s affair. On their way downhill, Fran told her about the town’s ongoing family feud. The Delaneys viewed themselves as the town’s founders and therefore the natural owners. They hung onto massive parcels of land around the centre, refusing to sell or lease any of it to what they considered the upstarts, the Robertson and Klein families, who owned an assortment of real estate and engineering firms. Claire had heard pieces of the story from Adam already. He was a Klein.

“The long and short of it, no one in this town makes real money. Apart from the college admin and the drug dealers.” They clambered up the sweltering staircase into her much cooler apartment. Fran stepped inside Claire’s tiny kitchen saying, “I have a friend who lived here. It wasn’t bad in the summer with the windows and all, but the winter? Holy fuck it was freezing.”

“I can take the cold,” she said with a touch of pride. “I grew up in a drafty old farmhouse.” She fetched both notebooks from a shelf above her kitchen table. “I was glad I ran into you because I was trying to think of who I could ask about this. I tried some sites on the internet but you never know. Some of them just muddy the waters.”

“I’ll say.” Fran sat. She shook her head when Claire offered her tea, coffee, or something else to drink, then changed her mind when Claire pointed to a beer Adam had left in her fridge.

“Most of the contents is crappy drawings,” Claire said, sitting across from Fran and shifting nervously in her chair. “And some of it was in this weird code I tried translating.”

Fran leafed through some of what Claire had already decoded. “Dave wrote these?”

“No idea. I found these books while going through some old stuff of his. They might have belonged to one of his friends. Also, there’s two codes and the second one doesn’t have a key.”

“Oh, those are just runes! I’ll give it shot––I love this shit. Got a pen and some paper?”

Claire fetched a ballpoint pen and a pad of foolscap. While Fran worked on deciphering, she checked her clock. One more hour until she was due to call her mother for their weekly chat. She was dreading it, as she hadn’t mentioned breaking up with Adam yet.

Fran mumbled and then turned the black notebook around for her to see. “Looky here. These appear to be directions to someplace.” At the top of the page was a rectangle with a circle at each end. Fran transcribed the symbols onto a separate sheet and read aloud, “Door facing river. Thirty-five south from south-west. Two o’clock right for twenty five … oh, weird. Do you think he means feet, or minutes?” She finished decoding and then wrote in the notebook. “I’m none the wiser. Maybe you can figure it out later. Here, I’ve written a key for you.”

“Thanks for doing all this.”

“No problem. It was fun. I love weird puzzles.” Fran’s brow furrowed and it felt as if the temperature in the room dropped. Claire looked at the page that had captured Fran’s attention.

“What is it?”

“This looks like a sigil,” Fran said. “Chaos magic. That’s some hardcore shit they were into.”

“What’s that?”

“Basically, this method––that’s what it looks like to me––where you write out what you want. Whether it be an ‘A’ on an exam, a girl you like, a windfall, you name it. People then take the first letter from each word and combine them into a single symbol. Among … other things.”

Claire had wondered the same thing the first time she’d seen it. Various letters began emerging from the mess of lines and curves. A, a capital D, and possibly an H or E.

“I wouldn’t be able to tell you what it spells out apart from a wild guess. Even if I were to reverse engineer it, as it were, the meaning isn’t going to make sense to anyone but the person who drew it.” Fran set the notebook and pen on top of the pad of paper. “Anyway, I should head. Got some errands to run before suppy-time. Thanks for the beer.”

“Thanks for your help,” Claire said, moving to the door.

Fran switched on a nearby fan and rasped, “Just one more thing before I go.”

Claire crouched beside her. Fran was nervously clicking the ballpoint pen. “I never said anything before because I didn’t know you beyond saying the odd hello. But when I heard about Dave’s death the first thing I wondered was if Sophie’s family was involved.”

A chill descended on Claire. No wonder the police seemed to have been withholding key details from her. “I always thought her parents’ behavior was odd,” Fran continued. “It wasn’t even them who reported her missing but her best friend Mandy. They shunned any publicity, dropped all their friends—they don’t even hang around the yacht club anymore. They even put their house up for sale. No buyer yet but they may have already moved away.”

“And she went missing before Dave died,” Claire said, feeling sick. “One more question if you don’t mind. Whereabouts did her parents live?”

“That rich area uphill from here. They’re at the far end of town, in this big house right on the waterfront. Got a gazebo overlooking the river, a boathouse with a hot tub and sauna in it. Big pool with a slide and all. A nice place, actually. I went to a party there once. Anyway.” Fran pushed back her chair and stood. “Just be careful. You seem nice.”

“Thanks,” Claire said, feeling deflated. Nice, meaning bland, boring. “I appreciate it.”

They paused by the door. “You’re not still seeing Adam, are you?”

Claire shook her head, wondering why she was asking. She doubted Fran was about to make a pass at her. “We broke up about a month ago. I haven’t heard from him since.”

“There’s something not quite right about that boy.”

“What do you mean?” Even with him gone from her life she felt the urge to stand up for him. Same as with Dave.

“A vibe I get. He’s all right to talk to but whatever, doesn’t matter. Swing by the Cue anytime you want to shoot the shit. I’m always there!”

As Fran tromped down the stairs, Claire closed the door behind her. These notebooks were a distraction she concluded, designed to mislead. But why? The question she kept coming back to, along with who. Or rather, why she was refusing to suspect Kevin. She brought out her laptop. She typed the name of her town and the state into her search query, along with Kevin Delany. Same as before, all the results that came up omitted one of her keywords. Putting his name in quotes had led her to a public relations consultant in Milwaukee. Adding Maurer brought about even more jumbled results. She was too tired to think of better search terms.

She then looked up Sophie’s parents, the Robertsons. The husband was a veterinarian who specialized in farm animals and the wife, a one-time socialite. They looked like any other wealthy, middle-aged couple attending various soirees in the neighbouring towns. A new Year’s Eve charity event, a political fundraiser, a local racehorse owner entered in some stakes at Belmont. A well-coiffed blonde woman in a white pantsuit, her husband with thick greyish black hair, wearing a golf shirt and chinos. She doubted they knew Dave existed. Everyone who knew Sophie said she kept her secrets well-hidden from them. Especially when it came to men. She��d try researching Kevin again after some sleep, once she was in a clearer mental state.

Once she’d gotten her phone call to her mother over with.

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frederator-studios · 7 years ago

Video

vimeo

“Stayin’ a Lava,” is far too adorable not to share with my fellow Frederators - if only to wedge the sing-along song as deeply into your subconscious minds as it has lodged in my own. Invitedly, of course!

I sat down with 5 supremely talented ladies, Anneliese Mak, Angela Wu, Emily Terry, Neha Ranjit, and Sara Colacci in time for the holidays, to chat all things Sheridan Animation and sweet little piggies (near) roasted on an open fire. Err… volcano.

So how did you guys divvy up duties on your lovely short?

Neha: Everyone really had a hand in everything! It was a lot of collaboration on all fronts. But I was a production manager…

Emily: I was the other production manager.

Anneliese: Really, they kept everything afloat!

Sara: Sydney Yang (who couldn’t make our call - shout out to you, Sydney!) and I were story supervisors.

Angela: I was sound supervisor.

Anneliese: And I was the animation and character design supervisor.

Emily: Sheridan’s program tries to get us out of our comfort zones, so we try roles that we’re not used to. We had a great group, because everyone was a team player!

Where did the idea for “Stayin’ A Lava” come from?

Neha: Well, everyone in the class pitches storyboards, and we choose among them.

Anneliese: So we technically chose Syd’s, which was about an artist travelling with a warrior to illustrate his wounds. It changed a lot, to say the least!

Emily: We combined a hodgepodge of ideas. We wanted to make a music video, our character designs were a mash-up of our styles -

Sara: It’s funny, cause we’re an all female group, with no female characters in our short -

~assorted outcry and commentary~

Sara: Okay, yeah yeah, the pig is gender neutral!

Emily: We have a female mama pig! She’s not obviously female though. I originally gave her like 6 coconut boobs. We didn’t go with that design.

The song is great - how did it come together?

Emily: I wrote the lyrics, and then a friend of mine and Sara’s collaborated to write the instrumental music - we recorded it for 2 days. By the end, I hated the song.

Anneliese: It added a lot of fun to our production process! And we got to stress about the music at the beginning, while all the other groups stressed out at the end.

Angela: We had a few troubles with timing the song to the boards, trying to animate to the music.

Emily: It was sometimes like, “How can I make this jump last juuust long enough for the lyric?”

Neha: In the end, I really think we got the music and story to work in tandem!

How was breaking the story of the film - was that done together?

Sara: Oh yeah. In this very room, we spent literal hours dealing with story problems.

Neha: It was mind-numbing.

Anneliese: And we got down to some not exactly necessary specifics...

Emily: Oh my god… so much time spent discussing the physics of the fox shooting through the air toward the volcano. What’s his velocity? His angle? Is mercury in retrograde?

Neha: I just remember we’d be working for so long, that we’d get really hungry, and it was reflected in the short… like that’s how we ended up having the pigs turn into glazed hams when they’re hit by fire. We just wanted ham.

How do your 3rd year films at Sheridan compare to 4th year theses?

Neha: With the 3rd year films, everyone relies on each other, and we all benefit from some people being stronger in areas than others.

Angela: Everybody gets the chance to learn from one another.

Emily: Our 4th year films are… a little directionless, at the moment.

Anneliese: Well, our professors have gone on strike, so we have access to the studio space, but can’t get feedback currently.

A strike?

Angela: It isn’t just Sheridan - all the Ontario public universities have been on a faculty strike. In Montreal too. Most students support the professors.

Neha: And we’re pulling together to keep our work on track. Like we’re supposed to have these milestone events, where we review each other’s progress. Without the faculty organizing it, we had a student-led event instead.

Sara: It’s cool to see how everyone has supported each other, and how committed most people are to their work, without supervision.

What are your favorite aspects of Sheridan’s program?

Emily: It collects together really great artists - it’s good to have friendly competition…

Neha: Though it’s not a sabotogey environment at all! Very supportive, very inspiring.

Emily: Definitely! It’s great to be surrounded by artists your age that you respect. If you want valuable feedback on a design, you don’t have to go to a professor and be like “Hey will you pls look at my donut character?”

Angela: I really appreciate that we have to work in teams, because artists tend to want to work solo, and Sheridan really reinforces the value of collaboration.

Anneliese: Which prepares us for the reality of working on production teams in the industry.

Speaking of the industry - what do you gals want to do after graduation? Do you plan to work in Canada?

Sara: To me, it makes sense to stay in Canada - more opportunities, especially because this is where we’ve built a network.

Emily: I’ve always wanted to work in TV, is what I know. I’ve always been into dinky cartoons.

Anneliese: A lot of people come in wanting to do features, but TV is so big now.

Neha: I’d love to work in layout and design.

Angela: I’ve been really interested in video games, but I had an internship in it, and the pipeline was really unpredictable and changed so often - so now I’d like to try out TV work.

Sara: I’d love to do character design or animation—luckily, Sheridan makes us versatile.

And lastly: what do you guys like to do outside of animation?

Emily: What is this “outside”? I keep a memory foam pad in my locker to sleep on.

Angela: I may not be sure about working on video games anymore, but I like playing ‘em a lot.

Anneliese: There isn’t too, too much to do around here… but it’s pretty easy to take a train into Toronto, and there’s lots going on there.

Emily: For real, I’m really into monster movies. Right now there’s a local exhibit on Guillermo del Toro films running that I’m gonna go to.

Sara: I’m going to a jazz concert tonight!

UPDATE: The faculty strike ended in back-to-work legislation forcing professors back into the classrooms; unfortunately, they didn’t achieve the ends they were after. But, Anneliese tells me they just had a laica screening of their theses film’s progress, and they’re coming along great! Everyone’s excited to see the finished versions in April. We here at Frederator are, too.

Thanks for talking with me, talented gaggle of girls! So excited to see the remarkable and likely mad-adorbs work you produce in the future.

- Cooper

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countryole · 7 years ago

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Happy Thanksgiving

AN: just some light hearted, fun Eclaris prequel fluff for Thanksgiving! I hope everyone got to stuff their faces today!! Even mutants have to eat turkey, right? Read it here at Archive Of Our Own or at Fanfic.net!

It’s almost funny, seeing Lorna in the kitchen.

In the six months he’s been here he’s not sure he’s ever see her cook anything. The most he’s ever seen her do is demand that he fix breakfast tacos while she watches and taste tests “for quality purposes”. Yet somehow she’s managed to prepare an entire feast, with a little help, for the entire Mutant Underground here in Atlanta.

Marcos watches her bustle around the humble HQ kitchen arrangements with Sonia, the two of them chattering back and forth, occasionally laughing about something Marcos can’t quite make out. From where he sits at the bar he’s got a pretty entertaining view. They’re giddy like two school girls, poking fun at one another and passing a bottle of wine between them. At one point Sonia almost drops a tin of rolls, and Lorna manages to save the day and safely float them to the bar top where he’s sitting with a flick of her wrist.

He picks one up off the plate, and takes a bite, meeting Lorna’s eyes from across the kitchen with a full mouth and a crooked smile. She shakes her head, but grins back.

“If you eat all of those, you’re going to ruin your appetite,” Lorna scolds, a knife points at him, floating in the air beside her, before it goes back to cutting the vegetables on the cutting board.

“I thought the point of Thanksgiving was to eat as much as possible,” Marcos stuffed the rest of the roll in his mouth, unapologetic.

“For some people yes,” Lorna raises an eyebrow, “but you do that all the time.”

He feigns an injured look of disbelief at her callus accusation, but they’re both laughing under their breath.

“Bring the rolls out to the dining hall please,” Sonia sings as she walks by with another serving of dressing in one hand, and a bowl of gravy in the other. She disappears through the swinging double doors, calling behind her, “and we need to go ask Johnny if the Turkey is ready!”

Marcos does as he’s told, but instead of immediately following Sonia out the doors, he walks over to Lorna instead. She’s poised over her cutting board, preparing the assortment of vegetables to be roasted for their meal, the knife slicing through them as if a ghost were in control of it. She watches him as he sets the rolls down on the counter top, and the knife comes to a stop and falls still.

“I do know the real point of Thanksgiving,” Marcos adds, sidling up to her, their arms brushing.

“Oh really?” Lorna peers up at him, green strands of hair falling from where she’s got it tied up at the top of her head, “and what’s that exactly?”

“Being thankful for what I have,” Marcos ducks his head, and without warning, steals a kiss from her, “which is you.”

Lorna’s taken by surprise, her face flushes, her pale cheeks red with warmth. When he tries to pull away, she reaches up and grabs the collar of his shirt, pulling him back for one more. If it weren’t for the fact that half of headquarters were on the other side of the doors just a few feet away, he would have kept kissing her for as long as she would allow it.

They’ve only been dating for a few weeks, and they agreed, for now, that it would be best to keep it to themselves until they found a good way to explain it to John and the rest of the team. It’s not an ideal situation, with Lorna being a station leader, but he’s almost certain most everyone knows anyways. They’ll figure it out when the time is right.

“Maybe later tonight,” Lorna smooths the front of his ruffled shirt with her hands, “I’ll reciprocate the thanks.”

“Mmm, maybe so.”

Marcos is trying to determine if he can get one last kiss, and he almost does, but the kitchen door swings open, and they both freeze.

“Good news, I already found Johnny and the Turkey is almost done. Marcos, I thought you were—” Sonia comes to an abrupt stop, her mouth hanging open as she observes the scene in front of her; which is her best friend and the man she doesn’t particularly like past pleasantries hanging all over her.

Lorna and Marcos separate, Lorna grinning from ear to ear, while he clears his throat awkwardly and retrieves the rolls from the counter top. He can feel Sonia’s eyes boring holes of fire into him far stronger than any he could conjure himself.

“I was just coming out,” Marcos offers, approaching her carefully, like one might approach a rabid animal.

“I see that,” Sonia’s eyes narrow, and she steps aside, holding the door open for him. She glances back at Lorna, some silent language passing between them, and it appears to dissuade the dreamer from committing any extreme acts of violence against him—for now.

“I’ll be out in just a minute,” Lorna goes back to chopping and quartering the vegetables as if nothing has happened, “will you make sure Shatter and Fade have the tables all set up? And Sonia…”

“Yes?”

“I’d be eternally grateful if Marcos didn’t go missing between now and then.”

Marcos chokes on air, eyes wide, stuck between the two women who’ve probably had too much wine in the last two hours, his hands full of rolls and no way to protect himself. The two friends fall into another silent conversation of intense staring that he can’t quite understand, and finally, resigned, Sonia sighs.

“Only because you’re my best friend,” Sonia waves a pointed finger in Marcos direction, turning to him, “but I don’t owe you any favors.”

Without further harassment, Sonia spins on her heals and heads back out the kitchen doors, and Marcos casts a forlorn glance over his shoulder to where Lorna still stands, bemused, waving at him to go. He does, but not willingly, unconvinced and with little faith that Sonia would hold true to her promise and leave him unscathed before the day was over.

When he makes it to the hodgepodge of tables all lined up in the HQ’s makeshift dining hall, even Marcos can’t help but be impressed by the spread lined out in front of him. The local stations all pitched in, gathering together here in Atlanta for those that could make it, and for once Marcos thinks they won’t run short on rations for a few weeks simply due to the massive amount of food they’d have left over from this feast.

“Over here,” Sonia calls, the red head waving to him insistently.

Marcos sets the rolls down where she gestures, listening to her ask Shatter and his crew if they can find more chairs. Marcos stands beside her, feeling out of place as he often does here, and he does his very best not to run screaming in the opposite direction when the others walk away, and they’re the only two left in the room.

Once Sonia is sure they’re alone, her eyes narrow, and she turns back to Marcos with her arms crossed over her chest, fingers tapping in agitation along her arm.

“I’m not going to blame Lorna for not telling me,” Sonia tilts her head, “I’m going to blame you.”

“Sonia, I’m sorry, we just figured it would be better if—”

“Ah, no, no, we’ve had this conversation before, Marcos. Don’t apologize if you don’t really mean it.”

“Sonia, please, I know you don’t like me, but I swear—”

Sonia holds up her hand, holding it over his mouth, causing Marcos to move backwards, but there’s no where for him to go except into an exposed brick wall.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, I never said I didn’t like you,” Sonia corrects him, letting her hand drop, her arms no longer crossed, her eyes slightly less livid.

“Well, I could have guessed otherwise,” Marcos rubs the back of his head, trying to ignore the fact that he feels like a caged animal stuck between a hard place and the worst possible other thing; Lorna’s best friend on the verge of a rampage.

“I knew something was up, that she was doing something,” Sonia laughs, and then smirks, “I just didn’t know it was you.”

Marcos can feel the heat rise to his face, and he shifts uncomfortably, which just amuses Sonia even more.

“Listen,” Sonia pats his shoulder, “I’m not going to do anything to you—”

“Yet,” Marcos adds, always prepared for the worst.

“Smart boy, you’re right,” Sonia grins, “I won’t do anything to you, yet, and while I have no doubt that Lorna is perfectly capable of handling you, just remember this; if you hurt her, I will make sure you spend the rest of your life regretting it.”

“Customary best friend threats aside,” Sonia adds, her voice and eyes softening, suddenly warm, “she has been smiling a lot more lately, so I guess I need to thank you for that. Take are of her, ok? She never lets anyone, but maybe she’ll let you.” Sonia squeezes his shoulder, offering him a first, genuine smile. He’s completely taken aback by the gesture, by the fact that she’s no longer glaring daggers at him. Still stunned, he nods, and Sonia rolls her eyes in exasperation.

“Don’t act so surprised, ok? I’m going to go help Johnny finish up the Turkey,” Sonia hooks a finger to the far window, where John and some of the other mutants were down in the yard frying a turkey, since the oven here wasn’t big enough, “I’m sure Lorna could still use some help in the kitchen.”

“Is this supposed to be your blessing?” Marcos asks. “Can I stop sleeping with one eye open?”

“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself, hot hands,” Sonia winks as she backs towards the door, “and Marcos?”

“Yeah?”

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

#the gifted #the gifted fanfic #Lorna Dane #Marcos Diaz #Sonia #Dreamer #John Proudstar #thanksgiving #HAPPY TURKEY DAY GUYS #writing #fanfic: the gifted #fanfic: mine #eclaris

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easyfoodnetwork · 5 years ago

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This Egyptian Grain Bowl Is the Pantry Wonder-Dish We Need Right Now

Anny Gaul

Koshari is filling, flavorful, easy to make, and basically perfect

Last September, the Egyptian fast-casual chain Zooba opened a branch in Lower Manhattan. Among Egyptian classics like taameya and hawawshi, one of the most popular dishes on the menu from the start has been koshari — a centuries-old grain bowl that’s suddenly found itself an unlikely global “it” food. Manhattan’s Zooba is just the latest in a series of hot spots in cities like Cairo, Berlin, London, and New York that are serving the ancient staple to an entirely new and very eager customer base.

The appeal of koshari is easy to understand. It’s both filling and delicious — a mess of complex carbs and protein muddled with a range of acidic notes. A base of rice, lentils, chickpeas, and macaroni is shot through with sauces that meld tomato, hot pepper, vinegar, and garlic, and the whole thing is topped with crispy fried onions. But while it’s a fast-casual trend around the world, in Egypt, koshari is better known as a historic national dish, one that gracefully straddles the divide between street food and home cooking.

It’s also the perfect food for pantry cooking in an age of stay-at-home orders and two-hour supermarket queues. With a long history as a hardy, adaptable, filling meal of choice among traders and travelers, it’s designed to provide maximum nutrition and flavor from cheap, accessible ingredients and local trimmings. If you have an assortment of starches, pulses, and alliums on hand, plus some vinegar and tomato sauce or tomato paste, then koshari’s delights are within your reach.

“Egyptians have a long history of hodgepodge cooking, stuffing carbs with even more carbs — and we aren’t the only ones.” — Egyptian novelist Nael El Toukhy

Koshari’s history has always been something of a mystery. One thing most Egyptians agree on is the dish’s connection to khichidi (sometimes spelled kitchari), an Indian dish that is also built on the winning combination of grains and pulses — a catchall term for the edible seeds of legumes like beans and lentils. But how did it get to Egypt?

Most popular accounts cite Britain’s occupation of Egypt, which began in 1882 and was accomplished with the help of Indian troops. While it’s perfectly plausible, even likely, that Indian soldiers brought khichidi with them to Egypt, they probably weren’t the first or the only such link in koshari’s history: Centuries of earlier, sometimes indirect, connections between Egypt and India likely also form part of the dish’s evolution. As the powerhouse rice-and-lentils combo traveled along the pilgrimage and trade routes that have connected South Asia to Arabia to Egypt via the Red Sea for centuries, it absorbed new ingredients and flavors along the way.

Today, traces of rice-and-lentil dishes dot the ports and coastal regions that long tied Egypt and India together. The crews of dhows — short-range sailing vessels of the Red Sea and Indian Ocean — once ate a dish made with rice, lentils, ghee, and hot peppers, according to one traveler’s account from the 1930s. Food scholar Sami Zubaida recalls a weekly meal of rice, lentils, tomato paste, and garlic during his childhood in Baghdad, adding that the dish was also well-known in Iraq’s port city of Basra. It was Zubaida who pointed me in the direction of several 19th-century British accounts that placed koshari — or something very like it — along the east coast of the Arabian peninsula as well as in Suez, an Egyptian port at the northernmost end of the Red Sea. An East India Company official stationed there in the 1840s described the locals eating a mixture of lentils and rice cooked with ghee and flavored with “pickled lime or stewed onions.”

Zooba [Official]

Two versions of the Koshari served at New York’s Zooba pre COVID-19, now available for takeout and delivery

In 1941, Egypt’s most famous cookbook, known as Kitab Abla Nazira, included two koshari recipes, one with yellow lentils and one with brown lentils. But before its canonization in a cookbook written for middle-class housewives, koshari was likely best known as a local street food. British public health authorities granted a license to a street vendor peddling “rice and macaroni” in 1936. It’s a vague archival detail, but I like to think it may have referred to Cairo’s first recorded koshari cart.

The addition of pasta and tomato sauce to koshari was a testament to the considerable influence of the Italian communities in Cairo and Alexandria at the time, which infused everything from the local diet to its dialect. (Modern Egyptian Arabic is peppered with Italian loanwords for everything from a Primus stove — “wabur,” from “vapore” — to the check at a restaurant, “fattura.”) Pasta and tomato sauce offered cheap ways to stretch koshari’s portions even further.

Contemporary koshari is commonly served with as many as three different dressings: a tomato sauce, a local hot sauce called shatta, and a garlicky, vinegar-based dressing called da’ah (pronounced with a glottal stop in the middle, like “uh-oh”).

Even today, koshari is never just one thing. Within Egypt, variations abound: Yellow lentils are associated with Alexandrian koshari, while Cairene koshari typically features brown lentils. Many home cooks told me how they’d tweak their mother’s or grandmother’s recipes, swapping in whichever pulses or pasta shapes they prefer or adding more spice. Sometimes elements of the dressings are combined, like hot pepper added to the tomato sauce, for example. There are variants topped with an egg or a smattering of chicken livers. Cairo Kitchen, another fast-casual Egyptian restaurant specializing in homestyle meals, introduced brown rice and gluten-free variations of koshari. And further afield, Koshary Lux in Berlin serves up koshari with jasmine rice, beluga lentils, and caramelized rather than fried onions.

For now, the signature neon lights of Zooba’s Nolita dining room are switched off, just like the lights on the Nile party boats in Egypt they’re meant to resemble. Until they light up again (it recently opened for takeout and delivery!), the world’s original flexitarian grain bowl is easy enough to make yourself.

Anny Gaul

Koshari is less about one ingredient than the right mix of textures and tastes.

Build-Your-Own

The robust grain-and-pulse genre provides a handy template for building a grain bowl from whatever’s on hand. For some good jumping-off points, try Meera Sodha’s twist on kitchari; Maureen Abood’s take on koshari’s Levantine country cousin, mujadara; or novelist Ahdaf Soueif’s koshari recipe. But koshari doesn’t so much require a hard-and-fast recipe as it does a list of stuff to put in a bowl, and a mixture of contrasting textures and tastes is more important than any one ingredient. Here, then, is a basic guide to building your own koshari-inspired pantry grain bowl.

Step 1: Form a base

The foundation of the dish should include at least one grain (rice, pasta, or in a pinch, bulgar, freekeh, or even couscous) and one pulse (lentils, chickpeas). Today’s koshari typically includes at least two of each (chickpeas, lentils, rice, and pasta), but you can always keep it simple, like many earlier versions of the dish, with just rice and lentils.

Aim for short pastas, such as elbow macaroni; for longer pastas like vermicelli and spaghetti, break into pieces before cooking. Most koshari recipes call for a grain-to-pulse ratio of at least 2 to 1. Increase the ratio to stretch the recipe into more servings; decrease it for a lighter meal.

The culinary teams at Zooba and Cairo Kitchen suggested that preparing multiple ingredients in the same pot is the secret to rich, homestyle flavors (also fewer dishes!), so feel free to cook your lentils and rice together.

Step 2: Sauce it

Sauces and dressings can make or break a grain bowl. If you have a jarred marinara-style tomato sauce — ideally something with tomatoes, onion, and garlic — on hand, warm it up and stir it right into your koshari or mix in a bit of your favorite hot sauce first. If you only have tomato paste, improvise a substitute by stirring in some hot sauce and olive oil.

Then you need something with a little more garlic and acid. Whip up a quick dressing with some crushed fresh garlic and cumin steeped in white vinegar (traditional) or lime juice (nouveau). You can also start with a basic citrus vinaigrette and experiment with layering other dressings on top, like a drizzle of pomegranate molasses or a balsamic glaze. A squeeze of fresh citrus never hurts.

Classic koshari is topped with crispy fried onions, which you can replicate with whatever alliums you have on hand, some oil, and a microwave, one of my favorite hacks. Reserve the oil and toss it with the pulses and grains, and add a dollop of butter or ghee for even more richness. For a crunch that doesn’t involve frying things in hot oil but still feels Egyptian, try dukkah, an Egyptian seed and spice mix.

Step 3: Customize

From there, you can pepper in some caramelized onions or add your favorite pickles, fresh herbs, greens, or a soft-boiled egg. Follow the lead of dhow sailors with some hot chiles or pickled citrus.

Step 4: Eat for days

Koshari’s reliance on so many shelf-stable ingredients makes it great for cooking from the pantry, but it can also make the process of preparing it daunting. Pace yourself and split the preparation over a couple of days, remembering that most grain bowl ingredients can be building blocks for multiple meals. If you’re planning a pasta dinner with a green salad on the side, make some extra tomato sauce and a garlicky vinaigrette to dress your koshari the next day. And as you well know, crispy onions make anything better.

So the next time you look to your own pantry for dinner inspiration, borrow a page from koshari’s long, global tradition of piling together sturdy nonperishables with the zingiest trimmings on hand — for a combination that has been satiating sailors, traders, street vendors, and home cooks for centuries.

Anny Gaul is a food historian, blogger, and translator. She’s currently a fellow at the Center for the Humanities at Tufts University.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2SZaQbK https://ift.tt/3buf55u

Anny Gaul

Koshari is filling, flavorful, easy to make, and basically perfect

“Egyptians have a long history of hodgepodge cooking, stuffing carbs with even more carbs — and we aren’t the only ones.” — Egyptian novelist Nael El Toukhy

Zooba [Official]

Two versions of the Koshari served at New York’s Zooba pre COVID-19, now available for takeout and delivery

Anny Gaul

Koshari is less about one ingredient than the right mix of textures and tastes.

Build-Your-Own

Step 1: Form a base

Step 2: Sauce it

Step 3: Customize

From there, you can pepper in some caramelized onions or add your favorite pickles, fresh herbs, greens, or a soft-boiled egg. Follow the lead of dhow sailors with some hot chiles or pickled citrus.

Step 4: Eat for days

Anny Gaul is a food historian, blogger, and translator. She’s currently a fellow at the Center for the Humanities at Tufts University.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2SZaQbK via Blogger https://ift.tt/2WQJTIt

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

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janto-nassimi · 8 years ago

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Warsinger: Eternity

Warsinger IV

Running Hot

Survival

One day before the jungle assault...

If you flip a coin, you have about as good a chance of predicting what a human will tell you about the gods as any other method. To some, the gods are ancient history. The ability to worship them is one reason we fought the White Mantle over two hundred years ago, sure, but that’s just a footnote in history. That war also placed the line of Doric back on the throne, which lasts today. It’s a very real part of our daily lives. The effect is something we can still see.

To others, it’s a matter of faith. The gods were once very active, we’re told, and today they still grant us boons we simply cannot see. But they’re there in battle, beside our grave, in every gust of wind and behind every mask. But that’s never been for me.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with faith. When you take the gods out of it, using that word sounds hopelessly sappy. I have faith in you. I have faith we’ll win. We just have to believe in ourselves. That sort of thing. But faith is more than that. It’s real. Any soldier who has survived the battlefield will tell you that the more numbers you add to a fight, the less an individual’s skill matters. What counts is cohesion, it’s the way you and your fellow soldiers can operate together.

What counts is you knowing the man next to you will do his job right if you do yours. That’s faith. As a 35-year-old… I don’t know — a 35-year-old something, I’ve got a long list of failures. And at the heart of every one of them is a moment when I lost faith.

These were my quiet thoughts as I sat in my once busy PI office on the Melandru High Road in the citadel of Divinity’s Reach. My time as a PI was behind me, ultimately a brief chapter in my life.

I’d cleaned the dust off the desk my feet were propped up on, and as I faced the closed door with guitar in hand I balanced my wooden chair on the back two legs. The chair was an old, wooden thing, and that’s why I liked it. I just wished I had somewhere else to keep it.

Dust still covered the other desk in the corner, as well as shelves of old books, notes and journals. A smattering of asura equipment in the corner was the only fixture that seemed clean.

The song I was softly strumming did nothing to brighten the room. It was something I’d heard from the hylek when I sailed to Orr. A low, rumbling dirge for the fallen.

At least the sword I’d propped up against the wall seemed immune to grime as it glowed with a supernatural blackness. The pommel was a black gem, and the crossguard was a gaudy mess of black wings and red magic. But the long blade was something great and powerful. It shimmered like a pool of water, but reflected only the night sky. Some called it Twilight, and that named seemed to fit as well as any other.

Twilight wasn’t the sort of weapon I was ordinarily interested in using, but I had been ordered to have it ready just in case. It was time for war, and the enemy was powerful and ancient.

A black and red ink began to flow from Twilight until it created a small pool from which grew the wispy image of a woman dressed in a traveler’s vest and heavy breaches. The spirit considered me with a motherly expression before drifting through the air to lounge across my desk. Her knees arched as though to avoid my feet, but misted around them.

“You shouldn’t play that alone,” Nasrin said. I’d named the old spirit after Inasis Nassimi’s long dead mother. At the time, Inasis wasn’t my lover, and the sentiment had felt more appropriate.

I watched Nasrin for a moment while she propped her ghost head on her ghost palm. The mist that formed her body splashed on impact.

“I like it,” I said.

“You feel obligated.”

When I stopped playing and let go of the guitar in my lap it made a sharp, scratching sound. Nasrin winced, and I reached under my shirt to fish out a pale blue orb bound to the chain that held my old Seraph tags. Mist swirled within the orb, but every so often I caught the image of an Oakheart. It had been the power that infused a legendary longbow that once sprouted pink and white flowers, and created magic arrows. Now it just gave off an aura of sorrow to match my own.

Tindorin had called it Yolaru. He was dead now.

I released Yolaru and pressed my left thumb into my right palm to massage it.

“You should play with someone else,” Nasrin said. “The sylvari. Magnolia.”

“We’ve talked about it.”

“You do a lot of that, lately.”

That made me scowl at her, but she was right. I was stuck just talking about a lot, not only playing with Magnolia. I’d talked about marrying Inasis, about trying to give an actual purpose to my guild, Mithril Lantern, about a hundred acts of justice that needed to be carried out. But the world kept moving, the dragons keep coming, and so much gets left behind lately. I feel like I’m just treading water.

“How are the other spirits?” I asked, leaning my head toward the Twilight.

“Better. One or two move on every few weeks,” she said.

“What about you?”

She sat up and folded her arms over her chest. “I will when I’m ready,” she said. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“It’s my fault.” I couldn’t say it louder than a whisper. Tindorin had been a light in a dark world. Like the hero from a storybook, the sylvari would appear when he was needed most, and would never falter. With him, it was simple. Good was… good. He once came to my rescue when I thought I was lost to torture, and I never forgot the righteousness in his heart, or the indignation in his sword.

He was the kind of sylvari who would have sooner died than let the Nightmare take him. And he did.

“I thought you learned better than this when you and I first met.”

Nasrin was right, but I didn’t listen. Instead I propped my guitar up against the wall and shuffled my feet off the desk, sending her misty form scattering for an instant. The room was silent except for the clacking of metal parts as I suited up, not in my Exemplar’s uniform, but in my own armor. I strapped my swordbelt on last, but left Twilight where it rested.

“One last mission before we fly to war,” I said. “Keep an eye on things here for me.”

Lion’s Arch was no longer the hodgepodge of rotting ships and crumbling bricks the pirates who lorded over it had let it become. It had taken the invasion of a maniacal Nightmare courtier, an army, and a flying drill right through the city’s heart, to make the Captain’s Council decide to take their responsibility seriously. I only wish it hadn’t taken an avoidable massacre to wake them up.

Reports indicate they had plenty of warning before Scarlett attacked, but once the city was in ruins, they had built over top of it. If I didn’t know they were too incompetent to plan so far ahead, I’d say that was the plan all along.

With the help of The Consortium, an asura-styled business that had once taken advantage of a number of refugees, Lion’s Arch rivaled the architecture of Ebonhawk. It hadn’t been rebuilt with the consideration of Divinity’s Reach, but smooth, stone bridges, streets and squares divided blocks of fort-like houses. There were still the cramped apartments built inside the hulls of ships, but at least they had been moved inside the safety of cliffsides.

The crisp sea breeze carried in a tropical scent, and the odor of fish. Mixed with spiced foods and the banging of distant, busy forges, it was a unique atmosphere found nowhere else in Tyria. Right out a plaza guarding the Asura Gates, I was met by the cries of hawkers, and the shouts of adventurers looking for another good armsman or magic user. But none of it was my concern today.

I was inconspicuous without my gold and blue uniform, just another warrior in a sea of adventurers that moved about the city, some with purpose, others with unharnessed wanderlust.

I escaped the crowd by ducking down an alleyway into one what was once one of the oldest neighborhoods of the city. One either side of the alley were the giant stone bricks of new businesses. The one on the left stood where the section of an old cargo ship had once been before Scarlett smashed it to dust. It had also once been the site of a home I shared with my wife almost 10 years ago.

There were fewer people on the next street I turned on, and even less of them appeared to be travelers. For the most part, these locals minded their own business and paid me no mind. Two men sat in front of a general store talking about taxes on the Black Lion Trading Company, a laborer pushed an assortment of tools home on a wheelbarrow, and a strong armed housewife paused from sweeping dust out her front door to shield her eyes from the setting sun and inspect the scaffolding of continuing construction overhead.

My destination would be at an old tavern one block over, with the back facing an alleyway. I was supposed to meet with two other exemplars stationed in the city and help carry home the ornate cascabel of a cannon that dated back nearly to the searing. An elementalist had apparently managed to craft it in such a way that it would infuse magic into volleys. If we were about to join the Pact on a frontal assault into Maguuma Jungle, we’d bring with all the firepower we could.

Apparently we had worked with the Order of Whispers in acquiring the cascabel from a pirate captain in the swamps south of Lion’s Arch. He had taken to calling it The Bandersnatch. They weren’t my favorite group to party with. In fact, I’ve often wondered if they’ll betray us all as soon as the dragons are dealt with. They were formed by a foreign power, after all.

I’d heard some concerns about the Pact’s plan. It was always dangerous to put all of your eggs in one basket, but a frontal assault with overwhelming firepower was hard to say no to, especially when your enemy was mired in a massive jungle with the ability to carve tunnels on a whim. I could only imagine the nightmare of fighting that campaign on the ground, especially with a seemingly endless supply of enemies that had literally no compunction about dying for the cause. Orr had been hell enough.

Instead of turning into the most direct alley I took an extra block to make my way around the front of the tavern and have a look. The Two Leaping Hares was built out of scrap and driftwood after the destruction of Lion’s Arch, and even though it had since been abandoned, it still stood by some miracle. The windows were boarded up, and the front door seemed fused into the frame by a mess of nails. I didn’t walk too close to the building, but I got close enough to tell there was no one inside. At least, no one I could hear.

I circled the block again and entered the alley. Half way down, I found the descending staircase that lead to The Two Leaping Hares’ back door. Slumped against the wooden door were the bodies of a man and a woman, each dressed as beggars. Dressed, because with them lying in a dead pile it was easy to spot the way their pistols pressed against their rags from underneath. I couldn’t say if they were Whispers or exemplars without a thorough look at their faces — that was time I couldn’t take.

I cast a look at the rooftops overhead. The new construction was sturdy, and it would be easy to run across them without making much noise. The rickety tavern would make plenty of noise with someone on top. That left two buildings across the alleyway, one in either direction, with clear lines of sight.

If I went right for the door I could be shot dead before I had it open. But wasting too much time in the alleyway meant that if someone had entered another way, perhaps magically, I was giving them plenty of time to escape. And I had no idea how far away reinforcements were.

“Easy, simple mission,” I muttered under my breath as I threw myself backwards so hard I stumbled across the alley and smacked into a stone wall. At least I was temporarily out of the line of sight of any shooter, thanks to the stretching, curved design of the eaves above me shaped to resemble an upside down bow of a ship.

“A bard should be more genre savvy,” I muttered.

I had just an instant to size up the door. The dust around it seemed still, so there was no easy way to spot an illusion. But that did tell me no one had been fussing around the door to set a trap. Probably. I could spot a portion of the door’s bottom between the foot and shoulder of each slain person. There was the imprint of a boot beneath the frame, but a bit old. At the very least, that meant no one had cleaned or evened things out to lay a wire. The other side of the door still left a lot to question, though, but at the very least I was reasonably sure there was nothing immediately lethal on this side.

I freed the knot on my helm and covered my head. No time to waste.

Drawing my sword, I stomped my foot into the stone ground beneath me. With a moment of acute concentration I activated an earth rune on the cuisse of my armor. A vibrant flash of brown and orange heralded the power Inasis had infused my equipment with, and a small boulder flew through the air in an invisible line I’d set by my boot.

It crashed through the door, sending splinters into the darkness and toward the ceiling, then vanished when it struck the floor. I waited only a heartbeat. No explosion. No horrible magic. Oookay. I made for the back door at a sprint, gauntlets raised to cover my head as best I could.

There were no gunshots as I rushed through into the dark tavern, and I found myself standing awkwardly in a still commons. Silence, and blades of light filtered through cracks in the wall and dirt, greeted me. The light revealed a half dozen broken tables, and a bar without a single mug. I could make out a dart board in one corner.

And then movement.

Whoever it was, they moved so subtly they seemed to disturb the light no more than the dust did. But dust didn’t cast a shadow the same way, not a solid one. I stilled my breath with purpose before I exhaled, trying to prime my senses when I drew my sword. I just needed one more good sign of movement and I’d hound the intruder.

A shiver shot up my spine at the sensation of a dagger sliding between the rim of my helmet and the back of my breastplate.

Eternity

The day of the jungle assault...

Though wrongly named, the Jade Wind was a proud Krytan vessel. She cut through the clouds with a broad, iron deck, held aloft by a balloon of heavy deldrimor silk. Blue magitech mesh fastened the balloon to the ship and its single floor below deck. It was a marvel of technology, a symbol of a changing, impressive world with fewer limits. And none of it made me feel very safe.

I had set myself aloof after leaving Twilight below deck, and leaned against the outside of the Jade Wind’s bridge. I still had a simple longsword with me, and a new pistol holster was attached to the other side of my belt. The single-shot pistol inside was primed and ready, custom fit by Murdok Blastfire to deliver an obsidian shot backed up by destroyer-powered gunpowder.

Other exemplars moved around deck - a total of six, counting me. A few leaned over the side, watching the ground rush past beneath us as we flew to join the Pact fleet. One stood alone, but not aside the way I did.

Exemplar Layla Spencer was the very image of the Shining Blade. Arms folded over her blue and gold armor, she seemed to never flinch from the wind as she stared straight ahead. She did it as though she was staring down Mordremoth herself.

With her helmet cradled under a shoulder, she bared a head of cropped brown hair barely moved. Her armor and weapons were immaculate. Her mithril sword hung from a loop on her belt, but she forewent a scabbard. Crisp white and yellow sigils marked the blade’s length, much like those on my own weapon. The Shining Blade were the guards of Her Majesty Queen Jennah, and Exemplar Spencer… if someone could ever be called the crown’s sword, it would be her.

I was no slouch, either. But I wasn’t feeling so bold. I knew these airships could be deathtraps.

When I glanced across the deck memories flashed through my mind in a dizzy haze — memories of toxic gas and Zhaitan’s undead dragons.. It melted steel. It melted people — those who didn’t jump to their death, or who weren’t snatched up in an undead mouth. I faced it during my second breach into Orr after barely surviving a landing party from the sea on my first arrival. The sea had been worse, but the air I still survived by luck alone. Luck, and determination. That was too commonly the case in war.

A familiar voice brought me back.

“You don’t face this alone, exemplar.” It was a green sylvari with patches of brown bark. He smiled as he set a hand on my shoulder, and it seemed to make his veins glow a subtle purple.

I returned the smile easily. I often did, but it helped that it was for a sylvari. Ever since Orr, ever since the sylvari were a light of hope in every battlefield, I’d kept an oath to treat them all as brothers and sisters.

“I know,” I said, raking in a shaky breath. “I just can’t help but remember the last time I was on an airship flying to war.”

The sylvari gave an “Mmm” sound, and glanced toward the bow of the ship.

“I wasn’t in Orr,” he said. “I wasn’t born yet.”

Damn. That made him, what, two or three years old at the most? That was far too young for war. I know sylvari are born adult, at least as best they can be, but people deserve time to make memories, and time to live. Especially sylvari. When you come prepacked with knowledge, you deserve time to carve out your own identity.

Then again, it’s not like I had ever had much time to live without violence.

“Not our ranger, then?”

I pressed my thumb into my palm. Tindorin had volunteered as a ranger for more than one mission to the front against Mordremoth in the past year. He had seen myself and other exemplars safely back from behind enemy lines numerous times.

“I am, actually,” the sylvari said. “I learned from a norn.”

He offered me his hand. “Lysander.”

“Janto Cadell. Exemplar Cadell.”

“Well, Janto Cadell, I’m not half as experienced as you, but I’ll do what I can to watch your back if you promise to keep me safe when this gets dangerous.”

I laughed, but it was pleasant and warm.

“Sure thing. You’ve got my word.”

Cowardice

Five years ago...

“Janto Adega Cadell, get out of my way.”

It was cold, and wet. It was the third straight day of rain, and we were all dirty from the mud, snow, and blood of our enemies. My friends and I were on our first mission for the Order of Whispers, sent into the mountains to help protect a village and gather information on a sickness that had been reported. A few of us had already joined up, and my lover, Aosheng, had been sent to keep an eye on us.

“What, Ao, you’re my mother now? I’m not moving, not for you or anyone else.”

I was standing in the doorway of a wooden shelter, my hands pressed against the frame on either side. No one was getting past me to where the sick were gathered. Huddled into corners and wrapped up the best they could, men, women, and children had been piled into the shelter until someone could figure out how to help them. The rest of the villagers stayed in their homes as much as possible.

“Then you’re going to end up responsible when the rest of the village dies,” Aosheng said, glaring at me from the bottom of a few wooden steps.

She was a tall woman who wore her black leathers like a second skin. She never wore a helmet or mask, and her raven hair was cut short. A Canthan woman, Aosheng wasn’t pretty, but she was fit and capable. The sword and dagger on her belt were both flat and thin, and she wielded them like no other master I had ever seen.

“If you really feel that way, then you know how to get through me,” I said. We both knew she could beat me if it came to a fight, and it wouldn’t be hard for her.

“Janto… I do not want to do that, but think about this-”

“There’s nothing to think about! They’re not dead yet, so we’re waiting. We’re giving them a damn chance.”

She stepped up to me.

“Janto. No one has found a cure for Zhaitan’s corruption. No one has come back from it. When they die, they’ll be gone like the rest. They will turn on us. We’ll be unable to protect the rest of these people.”

I stepped down to her. “We don’t know they’re all going to die. Some could make it.”

“And just be killed by the others in there with them? They must be culled.”

Cull them. Like cattle. Like animals.

“Fuck you,” I said, and swung for her.

She grabbed my arm, pivoted, and tossed me out into the mud on my ass. Aosheng stepped into the building and looked back down at me. “Stop me, Janto Cadell. Show me you really know the Order is wrong about this.”

She went inside, and I stayed there. I didn’t go after her, or try to stop her. Maybe I just wanted someone to keep me from being able to stand in the way, so I wouldn’t have to feel so guilty about what had to happen. I was responsible for those people being murdered, and I didn’t even have the guts to do it myself.

I’ll never make the same mistake again. But I have. So many times in Orr. Daxx. Tindorin.

Free will

Three years ago...

“Mister Cadell, I hope you understand just what you’re asking us to approve.”

Bureaucracy is the cold and safe heart of law enforcement. Out on the streets as a Seraph, I understood what life was like for people who drew a bad hand. The poor, refugees, orphans — they all start in the dirt, and in the dirt it’s easy to reach up and find the wrong hand waiting to help you. It’s easy to make bad decisions. It’s even easier when a mesmer tries to rob you of your ability to make sound decisions.

“I’m not asking you to do anything out of the ordinary,” I said.

At a polished wooden table, I sat facing a tribunal on raised seats. The six of us were surrounded by a fence of wood only three feet high. It was easy to scale, and only there for show to keep rows of onlookers at bay. Or, really, to separate rows of onlookers from the proceeding. To keep everything in its right place, safe and sound. Her Majesty did not need these people — cowards, really — to rule her kingdom. Her throne room was open and inviting. It was a place where even a goat farmer could approach and be heard.

But for now, this was the reality we were stuck in. At least the viewing seats were mercifully empty. And if I was honest, everyone I faced wasn’t so bad. Two of them were ministers, with falsely thoughtful faces and enough facial hair to trick children into thinking they were wisened. But in the middle was a magistrate and on one side there was Exemplar Layla Spencer in her blue and gold. On the other was Seraph Commander Mansfield in his dress uniform.

“You really think we can afford to let some lunatic free? She’s a threat to Divinity’s Reach. Perhaps you are, too, if you are in league with her,” said one of the ministers.

“Minister, there aren’t any adoring crowds here for you to fool, so try to relax,” Mansfield said in a drawl. “Janto Cadell served honorably under my command for 10 years. His loyalty isn’t in question. But son… what you’re proposing…”

This was the best I could get Deci, a teenage girl no one else seemed to give a damn about. As a commoner, the most she was entitled to after a murder and an assault was a hearing from a magistrate. Every favor anyone owed me for my 10 years of service had been only enough to allow my former commanding officer to advise with an exemplar he trusted. But that came with the condition of the advisement of two ministers as well.

The door behind me opened and cast a shadow with the light from the hallway. Someone quiet and small stepped lightly around the outside of the room to take a seat and watch. Another witness. It had to be Ana.

“I’m not proposing anything out of the ordinary,” I said. “When someone commits a crime, especially murder, they face the consequences. But when they’re under duress, when someone forces them to act out of their character, we are lenient.”

“Rotting in prison is lenient, isn’t it?” asked a minister.

“What the minister means to say,” Layla Spencer said in even tones. “Is that what you are describing might save someone from an execution. But Deci has murdered someone-”

“- a noble!”

“- and attacked someone else. How can we let her go free?”

“Because this isn’t an ordinary situation. When someone is under duress, even though they may still act out of character, they still maintain the burden of morality. But when someone is tricked by magic, fooled out of their mind, they can’t carry the same burden.”

Ana sat down in my peripheral vision. Her long blond hair spilled over her shoulder in curls, and she looked pretty in a white dress with a blue sash. I couldn’t look straight at my sister. I don’t know if she could look straight at me. Maybe we never would again.

She needs to be killed before she hurts anyone else. She almost killed Tao!

We aren’t killing anyone, Ana. You’re talking like the Whispers. Everyone deserves a chance to do better. It’s the same chance we were given.

We weren’t a risk to everyone around us.

Is that what you’ve spent the past 25 years telling yourself? You never looked in a mirror and wondered?

My little sister, separated from me for so long. She was taken from me because she feared what she could do. She was afraid of herself, and the necromantic powers that could make her a lich. Who says those things to their sister? I’m still ashamed to know that kind of anger is inside of me.

“Cadell, you really believe she was manipulated at the time of those attacks?” Mansfield asked.

“Yes, by a mesmer named Rhao,” I lied.

Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. As my report stated, a mesmer named Rhao had manipulated Deci, but at the time of her attacks he was long gone. Fear of further manipulation by other mesmers had set her madly against them. Fear was to blame. But a person isn’t entirely their own self when fear rules them. A man had taken away Deci’s safety, had stolen her ability to feel like her own person safe in her own skin. She deserved a chance to reclaim her own identity.

A man sat down next to Ana. He had dull features and a round head, and I knew him. Dans Larith. I fought to hold down the bile in my throat. What was a Whispers agent doing near my sister.

When I looked back to the committee two of the ministers were looking at me like I was a rabid animal.

“Looking strictly at the law, I’m not sure I agree with you, Mister Cadell,” Spencer said. “But I think I agree with your argument, and I think the queen wants the same opportunities for her subjects that you want for this little girl.”

I offered a polite nod.

“We’ll need to speak with the other witnesses,” she added. “Wait in the hall. We will need you back soon.”

When I sat, I saw Ana whisper something harsh to the Whispers agent, and he slid away in silence. Her look for me was cold and hurt. I don’t know why she didn’t reveal my lie. Maybe my angry words had convinced her with the help of all that hurt.

A boy named Andrew

Another lifetime…

A boy named Andrew was crouching behind the crates of a warehouse in the East Commons. In those days, Queen Jennah was not the ruler, and Minister Caudecus hadn’t yet commissioned the mechanical orchestra. There was even more mud in the district in those days, and less safety. With such a large population, and a constant stream of refugees, Divinity’s Reach has long had a problem with gangs. But in those days, it was even worse.

Andrew was hiding, but not from any person. It was as though placing something between himself and what was happening in the room could somehow separate him from it. Andrew hadn’t yet accepted who he was.

You’re nothing to the world, boy. Another grimy street rat is nothing to anyone. But I don’t care what they think.

Danny Red Eye was a big man who liked to wear shirts without any sleeves. That way, he seemed to go everywhere with his arms and shoulders first, and anyone who got in his way usually ended up hurt. But today he wasn’t throwing any punches. He had a dagger in his hand as he circled another man who was tied to a chair at the center of the warehouse. A few other members of the gang watched from nearby.

“You don’t have a whole lot to look forward to anymore,” Danny Red Eye said.

As he circled the captured man, Andrew could see the red patch over Danny’s eye. The one he had left darted up to look at Andrew only for a moment.

“I can’t let you go. Can’t let you live.”

The captured man gave a quiet whine. He was too hurt to do much else. Andrew was scared, but he knew he had to stop being so scared. He knew Danny was only doing what he had to in order to keep him and the other kids safe. The Seraph only saw more fodder for their wars when they looked at boys. But Danny saw potential in Andrew.

You know no one else has any faith in you. But we can’t blame them too much, it’s not easy.

“But I can end it quick. You tell me where my weapons are, I’ll send my boys to have a look, and if we find them it’s over for you. If you lie we bring your brother in next. How’s that sound?”

That seemed to bring energy back to the captured man. His head darted upright, his eyes wide with protest.

“No, please, I’ll-” but his words were cut short by a terrified scream in his own throat. Danny Red Eye had shoved his knife into the man’s eyes. With a twist and a scoop, the eye came out in a mangled pile.

The other men looked away. None of them echoed Danny Red Eye’s laugh. But Andrew kept watching. He couldn’t look away. If he did, Danny would be disappointed in him.

“What do you think, boy?” Danny Red Eye asked him, nearly having to shout over the captured man’s screams. “Was he going to tell me the truth?”

“I don’t know,” Andrew said. “How can you tell?”

Danny Red Eye laughed, and Andrew shrunk backwards. When Danny laughed, people usually got hurt. Would he be next? No, he hadn’t done anything wrong today. Or have I? Andrew winced when Danny lifted a hand, and jumped when that hand landed hard on his shoulder. But it was a fond gesture, and Andrew found himself slowly looking upward from under his eyebrows.

“That’s the trouble,” Danny said. “You can’t. That’s why you have to give them a really good reason to be honest. The reason can’t just be to make it stop, or they’ll feed you a lie. They need to know something worse will happen if they don’t cooperate, but the responsibility is still in your hands.”

Andrew swallowed fear, but it wasn’t for himself. His head turned to look at the captured man. He was sobbing, and couldn’t hold his wound. Andrew set a hand over his own eye.

“I told you the responsibility is still in your hands,” Danny said, his voice lowering to a barking gravel. “Ask me why!”

“Why?”

Danny gave Andrew’s hunching form a pleased smile.

“Because the responsibility to confirm is still on you. Confirm, confirm, confirm. That’s one of the most important rules.”

Andrew nodded, but he didn’t say anything. He kept the eye he wasn’t covering fixed to the floor. Then he gave a yelp when Danny seized him by the inch or so of hair on his head and forced him to stand upright. Oh, no! He had failed Danny. Danny had told him how he needed to groom himself for this world, and he hadn’t kept up with it.

“I told you it was one of the most important rules.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

Danny considered Andrew like a pet that had performed a trick to an uncertain degree of satisfaction. He ran his tongue over his teeth and gums before finally allowing a slow, steady nod.

“When I see you first thing tomorrow morning for a lesson this will all be cut off. I told you to keep it gone.”

“Yes, sir.” Danny was just trying to keep him safe. Anyone could grab you when you had hair.

“And you bring me 20 silver coins to pay for the lesson.” Andrew knew he had to learn responsibility somehow.

“Yes, sir.”

When he was finally out on the street, Andrew walked as quickly as he could and kept his head down. He wanted to run as fast as he could, but that would only get him seized by one of Danny’s corner men. The enforcers didn’t like the boys doing anything to draw attention to themselves.

But he knew he still needed to hurry. Twenty pieces of silver wasn’t easy to pickpocket in the East Commons, not with how little people owned. If he was allowed to travel to another district, he knew he could earn a lot more, but Danny had forbid it. So Andrew seized what determination he could, and slowly lifted his head up, and slowly made himself smile at anyone who passed by.

Most in the commons were too smart to fall for his trick, and that slowed down Andrew’s progress. Most knew a smiling child, or any child moving on their own was likely to reach for their pockets.

But a very few saw Andrew as a boy, and they saw his smile. Then they saw his sunken cheeks, and his hollow eyes. When they went to him and offered bread, or comforting words, it made them easy marks.

You’re like a lost puppy to them. Out on the street, they don’t blame you for how ugly you are, and they think they can help. But as soon as they clean you up, they’ll see what’s really there, won’t they? Well I’ve already seen it, and I haven’t looked away. Don’t you, either.

A silver at a time, he could nearly meet his quota before it was too dark. When it was too dark, if he wasn’t under cover somewhere, he would be someone else’s prey.

Andrew found an empty ice box built into the ground of an abandoned house to hole up in during the night. A nearby lamp cast a dim glow into the hole through a smashed portion of the wood lid, and Andrew was able to see down his chest to his leg from it. There was just enough room to stretch out if he wanted to, but for now he was bunched up with his knees to his chest while he worked a knife through strands of thin hair.

He gasped and gripped the weapon in both hands when the lid flew open, and then scowled when the dim light revealed a tiny girl with a tiny nose, purple eyes and muddy hair.

“Move over,” she demanded, and hopped in with a book in hand.

“Go find somewhere else,” Andrew said.

The girl sat down in the space Andrew meant to stretch out when he was finished.

“I don’t want to get kidnapped by a matron,” the girl said in a very matter-of-fact tone. “I’m not stupid.”

Andrew kicked his legs out a little, staking claim to as much of his hole as he could. “Fine.”

“Good.”

She pried open the little book she had with her. There were very few pictures. That made her scowl.

“Can you read?” she asked him.

“Of course I can.”

“Will you read this to me?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you could read.”

“I can read!”

“Sure you can.”

Andrew snapped up the book, and the girl had a very pleased look on her face.

“Lance stayed with Gisele after that, and never left. Even his wolf companion traveled with them through Kryta. There. see?”

Andrew tossed the book back to her.

“Will you read the rest?” the girl asked.

“I have other things on my mind,” Andrew said.

“Like what?”

“Things.”

“It will probably help if you read.”

Andrew gave an exasperated sigh and tried to look away from the girl so he could go back to cutting his hair. She didn’t bother him after that, but after about an hour of silence Andrew peered over at her. She was studying a page with two pictures. In one picture, a burly man sat beside the unmoving body of a wolf and pet it. In the other picture he held the child of a blond woman, and glared threateningly at the woods.

The girl wiped at her eyes, but when she noticed Andrew looking she turned her head fiercely away. He sighed and looked up through the hole at the street light, but every so often he could hear tiny sobs from the girl.

“Give it here,” Andrew said.

She did without protest. Andrew studied the pictures a moment himself. It was strange seeing such a big man holding something so tiny.

“He never had a moment in his heart where he thought he might be in love with Gisele, but he loved her, her new husband, and her children in another way,” Andrew read. “Lance put aside the wilderness to look after the family, and carry whatever burden he could for them.”

That didn’t make any sense. Andrew paged back to the front of the story to read it from the start.

XXX

Eternity

The day of the jungle assault...

The fleet was assembled. With help from Kryta, The Grove, Hoelbrak and the Black Citadel it was as though the Pact had never been battered down by Zhaitan.

“I keep losing count,” Lysander said, grinning up at me.

We stood side by side on the edge of the Jade Wind and soared above the Silverwastes. I felt her creek at the sudden shift as we lifted further into the sky to join dozens of Pact ships. Wings stretched to either side of many, forming horizontal sails. On other ships there were glowing magitech power sources spinning out energy. Still, others had longer, stretched balloons to keep them sailing.

My heart raced when we evened out again to drift alongside the other vessels, and their formation stretched out around us I found myself smiling. My heart felt too warm to mind the cold wind as it buffeted me. There were brave men and women of all races armed for war on a hundred decks, and though they were too far away to call to, I could spot dozens of familiar faces. So many heroes were gathered here, forming crews and war parties ready to face down a dragon.

“Glad to see you made it, exemplar,” a voice said over the radio on the bridge.

“Thanks Warmaster, Her Majesty wouldn’t have you here without our support,” Exemplar Spencer answered back.

A familiar norn ranger held up a hand to me from a passing ship, and I waved back. Lysander joined me, and that prompted the ranger, Jacon, to pat a sylvari beside him and point us out. She waved to us as well, and hopped into the air to cheer before they flew into formation.

The next ship we passed was lighter, likely for scouting. On the bridge I spotted another familiar sight, Captain Cole Barton with his handsome face and lying rogue’s grin. From the look of it, the pirate was giving orders to Priory fighters.

“Good for him,” I told Lysander. “That man is so good, it enraged him to know a woman used centaur hide for fashion.”

“Shouldn’t it?”

“...yes.”

On another vessel a unit of Vigil soldiers was in formation. I spotted an asura I had dug in at Orr with for three nights, and we shared a salute. His face wore grim determination like it was a weapon.

“Magnificent,” Lysander said. “I’ve never seen so many ready to fight, not even in Lion’s Arch.”

“It makes you confident we’ll survive this,” I said.

Lysander nodded.

“Just be ready to steel yourself,” I said. “But before you do, seize this moment and hold it deep inside you. You’ll need it for strength in the days to come.”

As Spencer returned from the bridge, she waved us over and we went to join the other exemplars on the bow of the ship, facing west toward sun as the jungle spread out beneath us. Among the clouds, we formed a nimbus of our own with the other vessels.

“Gentlemen,” Spencer called above the wind. “We’re flying to slay a dragon.”

One of the others gave a whoop of excitement, which broke the determined expressions of two other exemplars. They grinned, and nodded to Spencer.

“These are dark times,” she said. “Those of you who didn’t serve in Orr have surely read the reports.”

I felt the airship begin to shake as gears beneath us spun to place the cannons.

“As Kryta’s most skilled soldiers, we have to know we are not only the best, but our minds must also be the sharpest.”

We descended slowly, and our engine cooled as we slowed, moving with the fleet to hover above the jungle just within an effective range to aim our cannons.

“We must all accept we could die today. But to the last moment, we will strike with unrivaled skill, and we will think with unrivaled cunning. That is what will win this war. That is what will slay a dragon.”

“Queen’s Honor, exemplar!”

“Queen’s Honor!”

“For the Queen!”

“For Kryta,” I said.

The world was still for one precious moment. Then a voice could be heard over the airship’s radio: “Fire!”

We rained down power on the jungle. It was a storied and ancient place, a mirror to the ancient power of the monster it hid. And we smashed it. Ingenuity and a world at war had shaped terrible weapons in all of our forges, and every last godsdamn one of them was pointed at Mordremoth. My ears rang from the thunder of cannons, and each time we fired the elementalist’s cannon I’d recovered in Lion’s Arch, our vessel shook from the pressure.

Die, I found myself whispering in my head. Die, just die. I can’t waste more of my life on a dragon. Deci needs me. Inasis needs me to live. Sati needs to see me again. Just… please, die.

Mordremoth’s counterstroke was terrible. Just as soon as the cannons took a breath and powder filled the air like a fog, hundreds of jagged, spiked vines ripped free of fissures in the jungle in ship-thick arms.

The first ship to go was ripped apart from beneath. Any man who survived the impact died as the ship exploded. Another was seized like a plaything and crushed.

“Fire. Fire! Cover the ships next-” the voice cut off.

Exemplar Spencer snapped into action with a precise voice.

“Exemplars, blades ready,” she said, and lifted her voice to call into the bridge. “Captain, get us moving! Drift wide but make sure our cannons can cover that ship.”

She pointed hard at a ship sailing alongside us. It was Jacon’s ship. I could see him on deck with an axe and torch in hand.

“Wait - Janto, what’s happening?” Lysander asked.

I tried to follow Lysander’s gaze but the Jade Wind suddenly lurched to one side as Mordremoth’s vines snatched at us. I coughed my lungs empty when I slammed into the iron side of the bridge. One end of the ship tipped skyward and I watched a thorny green mass shoot through the air. It cast a shadow as it loomed over us, and I felt an empty stillness in my chest. My breaths felt hollow.

I snapped to my senses as Spencer flew past me, flailing toward a death that awaited her over my head, over the bridge, and to the ground below. I drew my sword and with an acute focus I activated the glowing yellow sigils on my sword, and a rune on my boots. I turned to stand on the side of the bridge as though it was level ground and leaped toward Spencer.

The runes on my boots glowed green as a precise gust of wind launched me forward. Inasis’ magic landed me next to Spencer’s foot and and I grabbed her by the ankle before twisting and slamming my sword down into the side of the bridge. It should have been a useless attempt, but the yellow runes exploded in on themselves. My sword put a hole in the ship and anchored us.

“Attack with the cannons,” Spencer ordered in an impressively powerful voice. She wasted no time finding her own hold. “Now!”

Only the Bandersnatch fired from below, and with it came a bolt of molten flame. The three exemplars holding onto railings pulled themselves forward. One freed a scepter from his belt, another a pistol, and the third simply held her hand forward. Blue, black and purple magics met the green tentacle head on, adding to the searing power of the Bandersnatch. The elementalist operating it below deck had the sense to prime it and blast out fire.

The exemplar who had held their pistol lost his grip when the mass of vines twisted and ground against the Jade Wind, and flew screaming into empty air. I don’t know if his contribution had been the pebble that caused the avalanche or not, but a moment later the vine withdrew.

Our ship righted itself, and Spencer and I smashed down onto the deck. My body groaned from the impact, but I’d been through worse. That didn’t make it hurt any less to sit up.

“Janto!” Lysander called, scrambling to his feet somewhere nearby. “Janto, you need to see!”

Spencer was up before I was, and she hauled me to my feet and to the railing. I was just in time to see Jacon’s face split open by an axe. The axe was held in the outstretched hand of the sylvari who had waved with him earlier.

It wasn’t just Jacon. The deck of his ship was blackened by the blood of dead Vigil soldiers. Only sylvari stood, and one at a time they turned to face us with red eyes. One held his spear into the air and gave a warcry, but his words were lost to the wind. All together they started sprinting toward the edge of the deck, 10 in all, as though they could leap for us.

“Swing us around,” Spencer ordered.

The Jade Wind moved, and as it sailed past one airship, it revealed a battered fleet. Ships fell fast toward the dark jungle below us, and wherever one still flew there was a slaughter. An explosion wrecked the side of one ship, and the soldiers who had originally survived were thrown overboard.

One airship scraped alongside us on a frantic ascent. I saw the charr captain’s grim expression as he tried to rescue his charge, but not thirty feet from him his crew was slaughtered by allies. An adventuring party I had once seen outside a kodan sea sanctuary was ripped apart by a fireball. The sylvari elementalist they’d once trusted roared in triumph.

It wasn’t hard for everyone to understand what was going on. Scarlett. The Zephyrites. The jungle dragon. The sylvari were immune to Zhaitan’s corruption, but they weren’t the blessing I thought they were. They were dragon minions.

One at a time, we all turned to face Lysander. Spencer leveled her sword toward him. She never wasted time, not when lives were on the line.

“No, exemplar, I’m not -”

Cowardice

Five years ago...

I didn’t speak to Aosheng for a week as we traveled north down a muddy road through the mountains back toward the old Krytan swamps south of Lion’s Arch. She didn’t say a word to me, either, but whenever I’d look her way accidentally, she never looked away. She looked right at me and waited.

I was on point, with Madar right behind me. The norn Bordak Nightsky was in the back with the sylvari Cyndel. Able Gray had bid us farewell when we joined the Order of Whispers. I should have gone with him.

Aosheng wasn’t with us either, she was somewhere scouting up ahead, likely buried to her shoulders in the snow that formed frozen waves on either side of the path.

“Well, I’ve finally found some place I don’t like so well,” Cyndel said.

The others sounded eager for the chance when they laughed. I couldn’t help but grin, at least at her effort.

“The snow is rather pretty. And I don’t mind the cold much. But I would prefer a few more colors. You all really should visit the Grove.”

“Maybe after I see my parents,” Bordak said. “I admit I miss my homestead.”

Aosheng appeared ahead of us on the road, black mist parting around her.

“You’ll be home soon enough,” she said. “The way is clear.”

As she moved to rejoin us we shared the same cold stare we had many times. But this time I couldn’t help but scowl. Aosheng stopped.

“I am not sure if I am more ashamed as your lover or your teacher,” she said, “to have taken in such a clueless child.”

There was nothing but white all around us, but all I could see was red. I swung for Aosheng’s face and was surprised when I struck her hard. She turned her head and body expertly with the swing. When she straightened out, the skin of her cheek wrinkled against my arm and she glared a hole into me with her dark brown eyes.

“A tantrum,” she intoned.

I pulled back my fist but before I could swing again she’d grabbed me by my arm, twisted it around, snatched my shoulder and thrown me to the ground. Mud and snow shot up my nose as it smashed down and I coughed.

“Use your words,” Aosheng said.

Fuck her. I twisted around on the ground to face her.

“You didn’t even flinch, did you? You killed them all without giving a shit.”

She stared at me.

“Did you even mean it when you apologized to those families? You didn’t.”

She stared.

“Answer me!”

“I meant it,” she said, voice as cold as her stare.

“And what did you tell those people as you murdered them?”

“Nothing.” Her stare was just as empty, but her words were a whisper. My heart broke for her.

“Ao…”

“My name is Aosheng,” she said in a diffident voice as she squared her shoulders. She lifted her chin proudly, and I could all but see the cloak of iron she was shrouding her nerves in. And I knew that things had ended between us. Everything had.

“Janto,” she said in a very tiny voice. “If you carry on like this, someday you will have to make the same choice I did. And it will break you.”

Free will

A few weeks ago...

Let me tell you about a charr named Vin Stormshield. Not so long ago, I would have been happy to kill her, and I would have been a fool to. But she was a charr. Well, she is a charr. For so long they had been filed so neatly under enemy. They were bloodthirsty monsters. They are bloodthirsty — Vin honestly seems to hunger for a good fight. But she isn’t a monster. She’s…

I’m lucky I met Murdok Blastfire before I met her, only because when I was forced to work with him it forced me to appreciate the fact that charr are just damn good soldiers. That’s why when Vin and I fought alongside each other those first times, often against the Nightmare Court, or dredge, the Icebrood and Inquest, I was able to just focus on work. War is work for a soldier, for her and for me.

She was at my side too many times to count, but also in front of me. If there was a threat to me she met it with the ferocity of a mother dog. If she couldn’t smash the threat, she reached out with warm magic - magic more tender than you’d think a giant, furry beast with horns could have. Every healing spell, every magic aegis and every inspiring chant filled my heart… filled all of our hearts with warmth. That warmth told me Vin was good in a very real way, and I’m not afraid of using that word in the most basic, storybook way. Vin was good.

And just weeks before we were to strike into the Maguuma Jungle, I stood at a campsite outside the Black Citadel staring at a mess of Vin’s blood.

Deci… why?

Vin always had faith in Deci. No matter her past sins, no matter her stupid, reckless, selfish choices. Vin always had faith. And her faith let me have faith in Deci. I’m not sure if I’d have been able to without the strength Vin gave me.

There was a campfire nearby. Vin hadn’t resisted when Deci approached her from behind. Maybe to climb on Vin’s shoulders? Deci liked that sort of thing. But then there was the blood…

Have you been playing us all this time? She’d never had a problem fooling us for selfish reasons. But not like this.

I circled the campsite and crouched to have a look at another bloodstain in the grass. That had to be Deci’s, maybe after she hopped off? The others were consistent with Vin’s wounds. Stab wounds. That was after the garrotte.

It was possible that Rhao, the very mesmer who had poisoned Deci’s mind, had returned. How young was she when Rhao corrupted her? A voice in my head told me I had been a fool to stand up for Deci the way I had at the expense of my little sister. How long could I let it go before Deci’s corruption was too big a threat to let her live?

A boy named Andrew

Another lifetime...

A boy named Andrew stood beside Danny Red Eye in the middle of the warehouse. The man who had been a prisoner yesterday was gone now. Andrew didn't know what had happened to him, but he had heard the man told Danny everything he wanted to know. Danny must have killed the prisoner quickly. He knew it was more than the man deserved.

“Now, I want to know who you were talking to over by the high road,” Danny was saying to a new prisoner.

Knife in hand, Danny Red Eye knelt in front of his new prisoner and leaned in close. He gestured for Andrew to step in close as well, and he obeyed. With his head held down, the prisoner's hair covered his face, but Andrew thought he recognized him.

“Don't you know you hurt me?” Danny asked the prisoner. His rough voice mimicked pain. “There's a guard post nearby there. I hope you have a good excuse.”

“I was just talking to someone, that's all,” the prisoner whispered. Andrew wasn't sure why he was so quiet, but his jaw hardly seemed to move.

Something wet splashed across Andrew's face. He blinked and shook before he looked up and realized Danny had punched the prisoner. His nose was bleeding now. Andrew touched his own face and his hand came back with the man's blood. He gasped and looked back to the prisoner. He could see the man's face now.

It was Garet Lynn, one of Danny's thugs. Andrew had met Garet's wife and daughter once, about a year ago.

“Wait, Danny,” Andrew said. “He has a kid. We can't... he's one of us, right?”

Garet's eyes bulged and he tried desperately to form words, but his mouth just hung open, wobbling awkwardly. “...eeeaaaaasssseee...”

Danny turned to Andrew and shook his head in a slow, sad way.

“Sorry, boy, but we can't show him any kindness,” he said. “Do you know why?”

Andrew didn't, and so he shook his head.

“People like you and me have entered into a sacred trust, you see,” Danny said. “How do you think I'd feel if you did anything I didn't want you to?”

Andrew thought about that for a moment, and tried to find the answer by studying the man.

“You'd be mad, right?”

“Mad, sure. But mostly sad, Andrew. Do you know why?”

“Because you helped me so much?”

“That's right. No one else would bother to give you half so much care. And here I have. If you betrayed me, well, that makes you as bad as everyone would say, doesn't it?”

Andrew fixed the prisoner with as cold a stare as he could, and nodded.

“...eaaaasee,” the prisoner whispered with his still mouth.

“What do we do?” Andrew asked Danny.

“We do nothing,” Danny said. “You get out of here and let me finish dealing with this.”

“I thought you were going to teach me?”

The big man smiled to himself as he stood, rubbing his knuckle where he had punched the prisoner. His smile grew wider for just a moment when he nodded. “No, I've decided on something else for you,” he said. “Come back tomorrow, and I will test just how grateful you really are.”

“What do I need to bring you?”

“Nothing. You take the night off, and come tomorrow ready to be a big kid. You think you're ready for that? Ready to join the gang?”

“Yes, sir.” Andrew kept himself firmly rooted to the floor, straight as he could. It was hard for him not to wiggle around, or cheer. A place in Danny's gang, a real place among the others, meant a roof over his head. It meant food he didn't have to dig out of the waste.

“Good. Now get out of here.”

Andrew walked to the door, and only glanced back when he heard Danny punch the prisoner so hard the chair fell over with him. He winced when he saw Garet's head hit the ground, and rushed out the door. He didn't know why he cared. He wasn't the traitor.

Back in the same hollow ice box as the past night, Andrew hugged his legs to himself to try and fend off the cold of the rain pouring down outside. The rickety wooden seal above him shook and wobbled from the wind and rain. Thanks to the gap in one portion, a tiny puddle was forming on the other end of Andrew's hiding hole.

When the lid suddenly flew open, Andrew thought the wind had taken it, but the girl from the previous night dove in like cat and rolled into a ball, clutching something to her beneath her shirt. Andrew stood and hundreds of raindrops pelted the side of his face before he could force the lid down and shut again.

“Are you crazy?” Andrew asked the girl.

She rolled over, and Andrew saw she had a black eye. She didn't seem to mind, and was busy digging another book out from under her clothes. She had managed to only let it get a little wet.

“I don't want to read to you again,” Andrew said.

The girl opened her mouth to argue with him! But then she snapped it shut and cast her purple gaze downward. Those haunting eyes seemed to glow in the night.

“Besides, it's too dark,” Andrew said.

“I brought you a candle,” she said.

Of course she had. “And how am I supposed to light it?”

She dug out a chunk of flint and a steel firestarter from a pocket.

“Look, I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, but I don't want to be part of it,” Andrew pointed at the girl's black eyes. “Just go away before you get me in trouble.”

The girl crouched down again and leaned against the wall. She sat in the water and gave a small jump before sitting up again and looking around helplessly.

“I just told you to leave.”

“Please, can I stay? I won't make you read. And you won't get in any trouble. I just got hurt stealing this book, that's all.”

Andrew peered through the darkness at her.

“You're kidding.”

“No.”

“Why? You can't even read.”

“I usually make up my own stories from the pictures. I feel happier that way.”

Andrew looked down, and then up and out the cracks in the lid. He tried to look anywhere but at the girl.

“I used to do that, too,” he said. “But I'm not supposed to anymore.”

That's just as bad as closing your eyes and pretending your safe. No! Open those eyes! Are you trying to make me mad?

“Is it okay if you read a story?”

Andrew sighed and sat down. He smashed himself up against one wall as best he could, and pat the ground next to him. “Come here and get out of the rain,” he said. “If you get sick I can't help you.”

She was like a mouse when she scurried over to him. She was so tiny she could fit between the wall and Andrew, and lean into him for warmth. He took the book and pried it open.

“The journeys of Vincent Adega,” Andrew read the title. “Okay.”

Vincent Adega was a braggart, so Andrew immediately disliked him, but whenever he would boast the girl would giggle. She snorted when she giggled, and Andrew found himself wanting to make her do it again, so when Vincent would brag, he made his voice high and quick.

That's how he noticed that whenever Vincent would brag, it was actually after every time he made a mistake, or failed to do what he wanted. And sure, Vincent bragged a lot. He was an incredible swordsman, one of the best in the world, the story said. Maybe the best. But it wasn't like he was running around causing trouble. Everything he did was for someone else. And he never hurt anyone if he could avoid it. In fact, Vincent considered it a special badge of skill he he could win without maiming someone.

In the end, Vincent was forced to retire when he lost a hand in his final battle with a demon. But even then, he bragged about losing his hand.

“Why's he so happy about that?” the girl asked.

“He's not. He's sad about it. He wishes he could still help his friends.”

Survival

The day before the jungle assault...

On pure disciplined reflex I spun and threw an elbow to force the wrist holding that knife away from my neck. That was my sword arm, and I was exposed. But just like I’d drilled into my muscle memory a hundred times I snapped out with my other hand and snatched an arm holding a second dagger meant for my side.

In the darkness it was hard to make out my attacker, but they were human judging from their size and the way their arm felt when I grabbed it. I didn’t think my attacker wore a helmet, so I boxed forward with my head to slam my helmet into their face. There was a puffing sound like a quick exhale, and they were gone.

A lot happened all at once.

Hours spent meditating after nightly workouts came to me in a flash, and I dove inside of myself. Inside I found a boiling, tumultuous sea. The waters were black and oily, thick and heavy. But as I reached into the waves I found the blackness was merely a thin layer. There were sparkling yellows of worry, and the blues of joy further beneath. An egg of red color was somewhere in there as well.

I reached further to seize my emotions and the oily darkness only went with me, polluting everything. Fine. Fine. That’s what I’ll take. I seized my melancholy in a clenched fist and I owned it. Watch me, Tindorin. I won’t lay down and die like you did.

The room came alive in the darkness. Blades of light were more vibrant, and the features and outlines they showed me in the room were accented, as though created by a painter’s brush in blacks and wallowing purples. The color was good enough for me. But there was something else there as well, a hot red just below the surface. What was it I had thought a moment ago?

I didn’t have time to think. My senses were alive, as though each sound had been punctuated by an extra brush stroke, given deeper substance.

In the darkness I could hear the all but silent footsteps of my attacker, and as I turned to face her, details of her arms, wrists and blades came into focus from each hint the light gave me. A white mask covered her face.

I parried an attack, and another, but she came in hard and relentless. She was wielding a long, thin sword now, and each blow came at me like an avalanche, relentlessly seeking my neck or heart. Dark sigils snaked up the length of the blade, promising to break through my armor if only she could strike.

Parrying was like treading water in white rapids - I was there to meet each blow just fast enough to survive, but a counter was out of the question. Each parry brought with it a surge of red to the world that faded an instant later.

I was forced back one step after another, and it was all I could do to make my retreat indirect and at as many angles or sidesteps as possible. One backstep and that avalanche would storm right over me.

This assassin was better than me in almost every way I knew how to measure, a true swordsmaster. I had thought I may have become one, but the proof I hadn’t was ready to kill me. I just had to wait, hold out, and find one opening. One right play was all it took to end a fight. But that’s all it would take to kill me.

Each holding our swords with both hands, we flowed from shadow to shadow, our forms flicking between blades of light. My opening finally came when a thrust for my neck came on too hard, too quick and sure of the kill. I stepped in and out of the way, pushing into the woman’s space psat her wrist. My arms were drawn back and I drove my sword through her guts. And that was the trap.

The shadow I’d killed was blasted away like sand in the wind. My enemy was a foot or two behind it, and wasted no time closing with me for a kill. I’d feel every second of pain from the sword through my heart before shock kicked in. But that wasn’t going to happen. I never had an ounce of magic talent in me, but I always brought the right tools for the job.

I focused on an earth rune on my helmet and a thin layer of transparent stone fit my body. The assassin’s sword struck, but only ground against the rock. As much as the black runes tried to snake down that sword and break through, they made no ground. Wait — was she even aiming for a vital organ? I didn’t have time to wonder, and hauled my arms back around to shove the woman away. I was, at least, stronger than her, and as she tumbled away I closed at a sprint.

I stabbed for her back but she ducked and drifted with fleet feet out of the way, darting up with her sword to catch my side as the stone barrier vanished. I knocked her sword away and cut for the neck with a flick. All she had to do was roll her blade and she caught mine enough to divert the momentum. She flicked her wrist again and her blade came to tuck in lethally under my arm.

With two precise steps I was out and in like a whip, and I batted for her exposed wrist with my sword. Her crossguard caught most of the force, but instead of pushing against me she loosened her stance ever so slightly into a crouch and shoved my force wildly to the side. I let go of my sword with one hand to grab her blade in a gauntlet. She swept my legs right out from under me.

I crashed to the ground beneath her and in a flash she was on my chest with a knee. She had my wrist pinned with the other, and the tip of her blade ready for my eye. Silence reigned. My heart pounded in my chest. I was ready.

“You’ve improved,” Aosheng said from behind that mask.

“What. You. I could have killed you,” I panted. My meditation faded away, and the colors seemed to fade into the ground.

“Not likely.”

Before she stood, she set a hand on my helmet where my cheek would be and nodded. I knew the gesture: proud approval, but not without a lesson to come.

She offered me a hand when she stood, but she wouldn’t have if she saw my dour expression. I stood on my own.

“Did you kill those men?” I asked her.

“No.”

“So you decided it was time to teach me a lesson while an enemy could be waiting to attack?”

“No. I dealt with the enemy. Look behind the bar.”

I slid my sword away and carefully felt through the darkness. It really was dark. That fact seemed to have faded away a moment ago. Maybe she had dispatched the real enemy, but was that really a reason to jump me like that? I had forgotten how damn — I don’t know, what’s the word? — how she just had to see everything as a teachable moment. Whatever that means.

I peered over the bar. There sat a sylvari man in torn Whispers garb. It looked like Aosheng had caught him from the back with a knife and sword and ran him through. She’d plunged the dagger in a half dozen times, likely so fast it felt like he was being raked open.

“One of yours betrayed us? The last I expected was a sylvari.”

“More common these days.”

When I thought about it, I realized she was right. Reports indicated Scarlett had turned on her instructors, and the Zephyrites had been betrayed by a sylvari in their number.

“Where is the Bandersnatch?”

Aosheng took a step toward me and vanished. She materialized on the other side of the bar and shoved the sylvari agent’s body over. With a grunt she lifted a wood board beneath him, and that freed a hidden door. The cascabel, shaped like a flame, sat there whole and secure.

“They died for something, then,” I said.

Aosheng nodded and handed the cascabel up to me.

“You’ll be on one of the airships.”

I turned the cascabel over in my hand a few times. It was cold, regardless of the flame design, and heavier than it looked. “That’s right,” I said.

“You could die.”

“I could always die.”

“This is a dragon. Don’t be dismissive.”

Aosheng only had to tilt back to sit on the bar, tall as she was. She loomed over me like a stork.

“I’m not being dismissive, but I have a duty to Kryta, and to my Queen.”

“I know, Janto,” Aosheng said. “But you cannot hope to live if you only fight to survive.”

I gave her an unsure look that was lost in the darkness, and climbed onto the counter to swing my legs around to the other side and sit with Aosheng. I was silent long enough that she continued.

“You have the same problem most of us humans have. You fight to survive. All of our minds are too often on survival,” she gave a tired sigh. “It’s what the state of the world has done to us. We’ve been beaten back.”

“Then what’s so wrong with fighting to survive?”

“Because you don’t push yourself, Janto,” Aosheng said. “Fighting is discipline, muscle memory and skill. But you need focus for all of that. I’ve taught you techniques.”

She gestured to the room.

“You own your emotions so they don’t own you, that’s good,” Aosheng said. “But if your own thoughts are stuck inward, stuck on just living, how will you push yourself hard enough?”

“Is this some kind of ‘know what you are fighting for’ lesson? You’re not usually sentimental.”

“No. I am only telling you that if you don’t find a reason to push, a reason to use your skill, to push hard with it in full confidence, you just won’t be good enough,” Aosheng said. “You weren’t fighting me patiently, you were clinging to your sword. A swordsmaster knows what they can do. They do it. That’s not bragging. You need to push yourself.”

I pressed my thumb into my palm and looked out a hole in the wall. A few kids heading home walked by the building.. The sun was setting, and it was beginning to get dark.

Aosheng was right. Sometimes... I’m afraid to push. I’m willing to take ownership of my fears and emotions, but owning my skill runs dangerously close to overconfidence. I guess it’s a fine line.

I think it’s easier to instead just always tell myself I’m doing what’s right, and that I hope I can survive doing it. But even I know what’s right isn’t always what’s best. That’s no reason not to do what I think I should, but I use doing what’s right as a shield too often. If I fail… I can just say I was doing what’s right. But if I push, if I put myself in charge, it becomes my call. It means I’m not just following a code, I’m setting one. And that means I have to push.

“It’s a complicated thing to think about,” I said.

“You also need to take a student, or you’ll stagnate.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

Aosheng turned around on the bar and walked for the door. She paused there before leaving, but didn't’ look back.

“Did it break you?”

My body felt cold. My palm ached.

“I don’t know yet.”

“I hope it doesn’t.”

Eternity

The day of the jungle assault...

I stood between the exemplars and Lysander, sword in hand.

“Stand down, Cadell, you saw what was happening.” Spencer had to shout over the wind as the Jade Wind shook. The engines puffed and sputtered working to keep us afloat and we sailed in a wide circle. The back end of our vessel, some ten feet behind me, was in splinters. The deck was littered with the broken bodies of men who had jumped from above in desperate hope they could survive the fall to our ship. None of them had.

“We don’t know if it is all of them,” I said. “Lysander hasn’t attacked us.”

“We outnumber him, Cadell.” Spencer’s sword were mere inches from mine. She was close enough to try and shove me aside and dart past, if she was fast enough. If she decided I wouldn’t actually try and stop her. The cold determination in her eyes told me she would do what had to be done, for the good of all of us.

The other two men wore guilty expressions, and glanced at each other before offering me a pleading look.

“Then we tie him up below deck,” I said.

“Janto, I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

“Yes. Lysander, I know. But you can’t blame them.”

“We can’t take the risk of leaving him somewhere, either,” Spencer said. “We’re going to crash into that jungle any minute now, and if we’re not dead in a minute, we’ll need every one of us to survive what’s down there. We can’t guard a traitor.”

“We could use him to fight, Spencer,” I pleaded. “We need everyone.”

“Last chance, Cadell. I just watched hundreds of soldiers get murdered by people they trusted. I don’t have any of my own left. Think about Kryta. The people we need to fight for. If we lose that cannon, we’ve lost an important weapon.”

I looked over my shoulder. Lysander held a pair of axes, but he wasn’t in a stance to fight. His stance was introverted, scared. He wasn’t ready to push. Could I stop three exemplars without killing them? Could I stop three — even two — with an intent to kill? Even the greatest swordsmasters in the world can be harried by two foes, and three is nearly insurmountable odds.

“Spencer, I can’t move. This sylvari is innocent. I will stop you.”

Blue flames roared up her body and in a flash she was gone. I felt heat pass me and as I spun I watched as those flames burst near Lysander to reveal Spencer once more. He stumbled back near the edge of the ship, raising his axes to defend himself. I ran to help him.

“Janto, don’t,” the elementalist said. Her name was Regina. She was always so concerned with other people. I didn’t listen. A flash of lightning put her in front of me.

“Out of my way,” I roared. But she slid a foot toward me, and gathered up the power of earth. It spiked toward me in a burst that caught me in the shoulders and launched me back toward the other exemplar. Kelin. He was a good soldier. He grabbed me under my arms and hauled me up off the ground, twisting until I lost my sword. It slid across the deck.

“You know it’s necessary,” Kelin whispered to me, voice pleading. “She isn’t making us do it. Let her take it on.”

“No,” I said, struggling against him. His body was surprisingly hard to move, as though stabilized by magic. “Kelin, I’m not going to let her. I’m going to stop her. This isn’t right.”

“None of this is right,” he whispered.

Spencer sent one of Lysander’s axes flying off the back of the ship, and he dove away as she launched a ball of blue fire for him. As he tumbled across the deck, toward the other side of the bridge, he palmed the wood and thorns lashed out to snatch and hold his pursuer.

“Kelin, let me go right now. I will save that man. I’m not letting him die. I can’t let him die.”

He wouldn’t let go,and his hold on my shoulder tightened. I threw an elbow hard, and a protective magic aura around him faded away. I threw another elbow, but with his armor the gesture was fruitless. That was fine. I’d done what I needed.

“Do you really want to stop me?”

“No, of course I don’t-”

I couldn’t swing my sword like this if I drew it, but my hand was still close enough to my belt. In a fluid motion I drew my pistol and dug it behind me into the scales of Kelvin’s armor. Regina gasped and gathered up lightning in her fist. She could stun me with that. I didn’t want to. I didn’t have a choice.

I pulled the trigger.

Blastfire’s destroyer mix tore through Kelvin’s armor, and made chunks of his insides before tearing out his back and spine and scattering into the deck. The exemplar seized up a panicked choking sound and I shoved him off me with gritted teeth. Regina shrieked and her bolt of lightning shot through the air at me.

My body tensed and before I could think I was twitching helplessly on the ground. I could hear the roar of flames launching Regina across the deck, and as I rolled over with my mouth gaping open I could see a burning sword in her hand.

“Traitor to the crown,” she screamed.

Sensation returned as she brought the sword down for my neck, and I shot my legs into the air to catch her by the wrist with my boots. She cut at my legs, and I cried out at the scorching pain. My knees buckled and she pressed forward, straining to force my legs down and impale me. I grit my teeth and pushed back, reaching wildly to find something with both hands.

My fingers closed around the haft of a lucerne hammer. It was a dire weapon with a flat, punishing hammer head opposite a long, hooked back. There was a spike on the other end of the haft. Regina saw me find the weapon, and turned her axe to brand into the side of my leg. The pain made the world flash black for an instant. I could feel my armor pressing into my flesh and meat, hot from the sword as it began to sink into my flesh.

“I won’t give up,” I told her. “Let me up.”

“Die!”

I swallowed my hurt before I lifted the hammer with both hands. I didn’t have any momentum to swing, but that didn’t stop me from forcing the spike on the haft into Regina’s skull with an overhead swing. The sword was extinguished and Regina went limp. As I pulled the spike free, blood oozed from the hole in her head.

“Forgive me, My Queen.”

That was all the time I could spare to mourn, so I prepared myself for the pain and struggled to my feet. I had to lean heavily on the hammer, and even then the sensation of my own burning armor still pressed on my skin was enough to make me sob. A cloud of smoke rolled over me from another falling ship, and as I inhaled from another wave of pain the smoke filled my lungs. My body tried to clear it out with a series of hacking coughs, and I barely held onto the hammer and I struggled to round the back of the deck.

It was at a pathetic limp that I finally made my way around in time to see Spencer throw Lysander to the ground. My roar was as much a battle cry as a cry of pain when I forced myself to move, gripping the hammer so I could heft it to one side. Spencer turned to greet me, moving unvexed into a waiting stance.

“What did you do, Cadell?” she asked in a voice much too calm and professional for what she wanted to do to Lysander.

I didn’t say a word, and swung the hammer for the exemplar’s head.

“You’re a traitor to Kryta.” There wasn’t any malice in her voice, just frost. “Have you gone the way of Deci?”

I didn’t let her move toward me in the hammer’s wake. By choking up on it I could stop wide swings and ram at Spencer with the head to keep her away. By virtue of superior reach I could keep her at bay, but only for so long. I had to end this fast somehow, before that rotting pain in my leg sapped my strength. The world already felt hazy at the corners, like there was smoke everywhere I turned.

“They deserve a chance to fight,” I said, voice sluggish. “They deserve to pick who they are.”

I set a hard stance and tried to shove Spencer back but she moved to one side, put her own weight into it and shoved me off past her. Her sword wanted my neck, but I leveraged the long haft like a quarterstaff and intercepted.

“You can already see who they belong to,” Spencer said. “You know.”

They didn’t belong to anyone. They didn’t belong to Mordremoth anymore than my dead friends belonged to Zhaitan. Not anymore than innocent civilians taken by his corruption were owned. No more than Tindorin. He never would have turned.

She didn’t deserve any of those words. I needed my energy to fight, not to talk. A warm, round glow on my chest told me to push harder and I listened.

The proper use of any warhammer requires strength and control. You need strength to swing it and to kill, and control not to die. I’m sure someone knows how many hours of practice it takes to master war, or to master fighting. I don’t know how many that is, but I know I have more. I focused on my deep ragged breaths. Between blows I endeavored to steady myself, to find control.

One breath at a time I found a steady pulse, and used my reach to keep Spencer at bay. For the second time in two days I found myself on the retreat, pushed back inch by inch by a superior fighter. No, she wasn’t better than me. She was less injured than me. I wasn’t being pushed back, I was luring her. I salved my wound with grit and set my trap. My back was nearly to the wall.

Spencer’s stance changed. She was ready to lunge as soon as I ran out of room. I’d see her in hell.

I lunged for her. It was nothing she couldn’t avoid. Spencer stepped forward so the hammerhead landed past her, and the half landed uselessly on her armor. There was nothing to keep her from burying her sword through my jaw and into my head. I spun the haft of my weapon around so the hook end pressed into Spencer’s back and stepped aside as I lobbed her against the wall behind me.

It took both of Spencer’s elbows to keep her head from crashing into the wall of the bridge, and I stepped around behind her. There was no time for a death blow, not this close. I’d be dead in a second. So I drove the haft spike into the exemplar’s sword arm. She screamed in pain, and again when I tore the spike back out. She turned, arm limp but not broken. Before she could summon the strength to use her arm, I brought the lucerne hammer back around and smashed the hammer head into her skull.

Spencer’s head spilled out across the wall and fell in clumps to the deck.

I immediately fell to my knees panting, but Lysander was with me almost immediately. He put his hands on my shoulders.

“Thank you Janto,” I heard him say. “I couldn’t have succeeded without your help.”

A boy named Andrew

Another lifetime...

The boy named Andrew was in that dirty warehouse for the third time in three days. Today, he was holding a sword with golden seraph wings. Garet was bound in front of him again, tied to a chair. But today he was gagged and blindfolded. Danny set a comforting hand on Andrew’s shoulder.

“It’s not that hard. Right between these ribs. If you do it like I showed you it will go right through his heart,” Danny Red Eye said.

“What about his family?”

“They’re not our problem. He betrayed you. Doesn’t that make you mad?”

It didn’t really. Andrew hadn’t ever trusted anyone long enough to feel hurt by betrayal. It seemed that Danny understood.

“He’s turned on me,” Danny said. “He threatens what I have. And if I have nothing, you have nothing. How long do you think you’ll last? It’s my people that keep the Seraph from hurting you. You’ll be alone.”

Andrew looked down at the sword. Why a seraph sword? Danny had plenty of others.

“You just run it through and let go. That’s how I know I can trust you. Just leave it there.”

His arms shaking, Andrew lifted the sword and pressed the sharp end to Garet’s chest. But he waited too long. The pressure woke the man, and though he was bound, he screamed against his gag. Andrew saw the rag around Garet’s eyes darken.

“I don’t know. I can’t. I’m sorry. Please, I-”

Andrew shrieked as Danny grabbed him by the arm, and hand. Danny clamped Andrew’s fingers tight around the sword, and forced his arm and body forward. Andrew was surprised at how easily the weapon went inside, and at how easily it cut through everything until it stopped hard at the wooden back of the chair.

Danny didn’t let go, and Andrew tugged at his arm, trying to escape the sword. He needed to run, but he couldn’t see the door from all the tears in his eyes.

“You’ve murdered a man,” Danny hissed in Andrew’s ear. “You took his life. Who is going to want you now? And you thought you were bad off before.”

He released the boy so suddenly that he fell to the ground.

“It’s just me. Do you understand. No one else will take you after what you’ve done.”

Andrew dragged himself backwards across the floor, but Danny didn’t seem worried. There were guards on the other side of the only door out, so he could leisurely fetch a hot brand with an eye shape carved onto it.

“This is why you had to cut off your hair,” he called over to Andrew. “I can put this on, and everyone will know you’re mine. They won’t bother you.”

Andrew hid in his hole again that night. He had a bed, and a room Danny offered him, but for some reason every time he touched the bed he felt dirty. He felt sick.

He wished it was raining again. He wanted to get clean. He wanted to scrub himself and his hands. He wanted to find a rock and rub his head raw. The brand still hurt so bad that when he thought about it he started crying.

He was crying when the girl crawled into the icebox, and carefully shut the lid behind her. She watched Andrew for awhile, and when he finally wiped his eyes she tried to lean in and touch him. Andrew slapped her hand away, but she didn’t look upset.

“Did someone hurt you?” she asked.

Andrew just looked at her with empty eyes, so the girl started to look him over, searching for any kind of obvious injury.

“Your head,” she gasped and tried to climb on Andrew to see. He pushed her off as hard as he could and she hit the other side of the hole hard enough to make a sound. The girl curled up, and used another book she was hiding under her shirt to cover her head.

Andrew looked at her for several seconds. She shivered, and leaned away from him.

“I’m s-so sorry.” He covered his face with his hands, and kept his jaw clenched as tight as he could so he wouldn’t sob when he cried. His elbows shook.. “I’m so sorry.”

He wailed when the girl crawled back over and hugged him, and it was all he could do to try and move her and set her down in his lap. Everything was blurry from crying when he felt for the book and opened it, and when he started reading out loud, he kept mixing up the words and losing his place.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered to her at every mistake. The girl didn’t know what to do except to hug him harder.

The story was about a Krytan man named Janto Addlen who traveled to Cantha to learn to be a paragon, a magical warrior who inspired his allies. Together, the band of them traveled the world to help others, and whenever they had to fight, they always gave defeated enemies a chance to repent of their ways and join with them instead.

“They’re all so much better than me,” Andrew whispered. That caused the girl to lean away and look at him. “All these people just do good things, and all I can do is hurt people. I can’t even read to a little girl without being mean.”

“I’m not little.”

“I never even asked your name.” Tears sprang up in his eyes again.

“I’m Ana.”

Andrew nodded and turned the page on the book. A picture showed Janto Addlen taking an orphan boy as an apprentice. He never even asked what the boy had done. He didn’t know if the boy had killed someone with kids. Maybe he’d made other orphans.

“What’s your name?”

Andrew looked back down at the book. Janto Addlen. In the others it had been Vincent Adega and Lance Cadell.

“Can you call me Janto Adega Cadell?” Andrew asked.

Ana laughed at him. “Okay.”

“Thank you. I’m going to read you any books you want from now on, okay?”

Eternity

The day of the jungle assault...

Tindorin had been missing for days, and when we finally found him it was too late. The thornwallow had nearly taken him. The nightmare had laid its roots.

I will die or I will turn. I won’t turn, Janto.

My world spun. I remembered Lysander standing behind me with an axe. I had murdered my comrades for him. But he served Mordremoth. I had finally made what was supposed to be the right choice. I had murdered good people for nothing. That isn’t how it was supposed to go.

He came with the dawn. A sylvari of blossoming red, green and yellow. He was of peace, but righteousness burned in his eyes, and there was indignation in his sword

Another ship crashed into the Jade Wind, throwing Lysander and I flying toward the edge. Had I died?

Remember what I said, Tindorin. Forever in song.

My last memory of Tindorin came rushing back.

Magnolia sat beneath the waterfall, Tindorin wrapped in her arms. She was so beautiful in her heart — she didn’t deserve any of this pain. Her magic soothed Tindorin, took away the pain. That was all she would do. The dagger was in my hand.

Behind me, Inasis poured out a bedtime story her mother had told her as a child. It was something for him to take with to the dream. Tindorin listened with the same fond smile he had for everyone.

I knelt close.

I love you. Why didn’t I say it? Instead I said We love you. We’ll miss you. It was everything I could do not to cry. If I cried, the damn sylvari would try to comfort me.

Goodbye, hero. You were a light in the night sky.

My dagger found a clean and quiet death for Tindorin. I pressed it into his side and gently let the life out of him. I did my best to keep the pressure on, so he wouldn’t feel the blade moving around inside of him. The grip of my dagger pressed so hard into my palm. Right in the center. I kept it right there, and held on until my best friend was dead.

The world dimmed.

I was vaguely aware again. I was laying in grass. There were cliffs on either side, and the wreckage of airships all around. I was surrounded by bodies. One of them was moving. I think it was Lysander.

“Modremoth,” he called. “Your servant returns!”

A tiny weight on my chest warmed, and I thought I saw an Oakheart lean over me. I tried to move, to see what Lysander was doing, but the darkness took me again.

I’d never visited Tindorin’s grave after we buried him. Inasis had asked, but with Deci missing it was too easy to find a convenient excuse not to. But it hurt me every time I told her no, more because she knew I was just putting it off. And she waited with me, even though I knew it pained her. Gods, she’s so patient with me.

In my dreams, Tindorin’s grave was an unmarked spot on the cliffside overlooking the sea. I couldn’t have made a monument worthy of him, but all the stars in the night sky above the rolling waves did their very best. I sunk to my knees and tried to take it all in.

The cool breeze blew through my hair, and I closed my eyes to try and see his face again.

“You were a hero worthy of storybooks, Tindorin,” I said to no one. “I’m going to try to carry on, okay? I’m going to try be as good as you told me I was.”

A hand touched my shoulder.

“When I rescued you, you had fallen into a trap because a child needed help. You didn’t even look for the trick,” he said. “I think you had it figured out without me.”

I fell to my side so I could turn and look up. Tindorin of the Dawn stood over me, smiling the way he always did. As I lay there he crouched beside me. The tears came before I knew I had them. I held my head in my hands, sobbing like I hadn’t since I was a little boy. Why. Why? I’d lost so many friends and allies. Why did Tindorin hurt so badly?

He tried to put a hand on me and I pushed it away. No.

“Tindorin, why? Why didn’t you fight? Why did you just lay down and die? You coward.”

“You know why,” Tindorin whispered. “If you were sick and dying, how long would you want Ana to watch you suffer? She would fight and fight for you, and exhaust herself every night in tears when she failed. You would-”

“-I would find a way to go sooner.”

“I knew if I didn’t go, that all of you, the Mithril Lantern, would have gone on a rampage. If you didn’t die trying to find a way to help me, what would have been left of your souls?”

“Tindorin.”

“So I handed you the burden,” he whispered. “I know it hurts you, but I knew it was a burden you could carry, because you’re a fighter.”

“It feels like everything is falling apart. Deci, and now Modremoth. The Pact. I’m so lost.”

“No, things are just hard. Hard ground makes for strong roots.”

I laughed.

“What were the words of that song, Janto?”

“What song?”

“The song you sang. The one that guided me to you when you were lost.”

It felt like I had to dig into my heart to find my voice. I tried twice, but my voice was too rough. Tindorin only waited with a calm expression, warmly waiting as I cleared my throat.

“Go ahead,” he whispered.

“Another night begins

but it is not the end

no matter how much it sets

the sun also rises.”

“So fight, Janto. Even when it’s just you standing up, you’re not fighting alone. As long as you fight, I’ll be in the dream with memories of you, fighting. Saplings might not know what they are feeling, but every memory we shared is part of the dream now.”

I was aflame when I woke on the jungle floor.

The pain in my leg was not gone, but it was nothing. The hole Tindorin left in my heart was raw, and it hurt a hell of a lot more than any injury. I hurt so bad but that wasn’t going to stop me. I cast a slow look around at all the bodies, many smashed from the fall, but just as many had died to other wounds. I wasn’t the only one alive.

Lysander was digging through the wreckage of the Jade Wind with the help of an overgrown terragriff. The hulking creature came with the body of a bull, but chitinous armor replaced any skin or fur. An assortment of claws and spikes fused together only by a misty red magic formed two sets of long, whip-like claws. With its bull like horns it punched holes in the side of the ship.

“Lysander,” I barked.

The sylvari turned, his eyes popping wide like a man who had just discovered a strange specimen.

“You’re alive,” he laughed. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t survive much longer.”

“Survive?” I couldn’t help but give a soft laugh and shake my head. “Lysander, I’m tired of surviving.”

“Then I’ll make it very easy for you not to.”

I laughed again and took a step toward him. One foot set on the rubble I’d have to climb to reach the sylvari.

“You don’t get it,” I said. “I’m tired of surviving. I’m tired of living. You twisted my good intentions into something terrible, and I’ll suffer for that. But you. I’m going to free you if I have to kill you. Then I’ll go for Mordremoth.”

“What arrogance,” Lysander snarled. He looked back at the terragriff. “Keep digging. Find it. I have what I need to handle this human.”

He crouched into the rubble and grabbed something. When he stood, Lysander gave Twilight a practice swing. “The weight is surprisingly cooperative,” he said. “A powerful magic weapon. And you’re unarmed.”

“Come and get me if you think so.”

The sylvari’s speed was impressive. With precise, nimble leaps he charged down the rubble pile, Twilight blazing as a black and red banner over his shoulder. About halfway he was able to break into a sprint, and I tore my seraph tags from around my neck. I clenched a fist around them and held my arm straight out toward him.

“You’ve gone mad!”

Maybe I had. That was just fine with me. I closed my eyes and looked inside of myself.

A boiling black sea rose up to meet me. Each time the slick oil rolling around on top splashed it created bubbles that popped with a putrid scent. I set a hand inside and felt a panic twirl in my heart when my skin started to melt. I yanked my hand away and stared at my skin sloughing off.

“That’s how it has to be.”

I plunged my arm into the water and swirled it around. The thin, black layer gave way to my worries, my joys, and my fears. But that wasn’t the color I needed right now.

When I dove in the blackness followed me. It was as though a thousand tiny hands were reaching out and taking pieces of me, tearing them off like clay. I think I felt myself die from the feet up. It brought with a decaying sense of entropy. But it couldn’t really kill me. And as potent as the emotion was, it still wasn’t what I wanted. I’d let it rule me too much lately. What I wanted was that red egg hiding all the way at the bottom. I reached it far more easily than I had anticipated, and when I did I closed a fist around it.

When I opened my eyes Lysander was on top of me, leaping through the air with Twilight pulled back for an arcing slice. I had no more words. Nostrils flaring, I breathed deeply through my nose and cornered my anger. I cornered my rage with a snarl on my lips and tears in my eyes. Pink and white flowers blossomed from my clenched fist, and the arc of a longbow sprouted from Tindorin’s orb.

Corruption was everywhere today. It had taken too many in Orr, it had taken Daxx and in a sick way it dogged Deci. It had put a dagger in my hand and had taken Tindorin’s life. I was fed up with it. Today. Right now.

It would be cleansed.

When I pulled back on Kudzu’s misty bowstring it was like I’d thrown back the curtain. A world of billowing rage spread on fiery wings from the legendary bow and dove into Lysander. All the force on his leap was nothing before the flames. He howled and I answered with my own berserk roar as my hair singed and curled back. Lysander’s entire body shriveled to nothing in the same way, and as the flames soared on into the sky they left only Twilight.

“Seeing this would have broken Tindorin's heart,” I whispered. “I'm glad he didn't have to feel this pain.”

The terragriff took notice. It didn’t have any reason to mock me the way Lysander had, and immediately charged down the rubble, its four ebony claws lashing out ahead. I wasted no time either. As soon as Twilight was back in my hands I let Kudzu disperse and held the glowing core in my spare hand. I heard Nasrin laugh in relief somewhere nearby.

The sea inside me was hot red, and I felt it storm when I plunged the orb into Twilight’s blade. The sun rose. A painted blue sky came to life inside the weapon and it flowed through the blade, spreading brilliant oranges and golds of the rising sun. The solid black gem on the pommel filled with the swirling mists of Tindorin’s orb and gave off a sun flare.

The terragriff lept for me and I planted my feet, gripped my weapon and swing it in a wide arc. Plumes of Tindorin’s flames poured out of the weapon, broiling in ever growing clouds that stretched around me in an eternity. I held the sword into the air and then plunged it into the earth. The flames exploded into the air, catching the monster. The blast sent the terragriff flying through the air until it crumbled against the nearby cliff wall.

Still alive, it whined and struggled to stand. One of its reaching claws was snapped in a bloody mess, and the others were crushed beneath it.

I marched toward it.

“Modremoth! I know you can hear me in there and I know you're watching just like Zhaitan was before we went to put him down. So listen very closely. I'm coming for you. I'm going to kill you. It might not be me who delivers the final blow, I might not be there for the last stand. But I will kill you. My actions will help lead to your death. In your last moments, when you finally understand fear, I want you to remember what I'm telling you right now. And I want you to remember the name Tindorin of the Dawn. He sent me and he was never yours.”

I ended Modremoth’s beast in another blast of burning rage.

Fin

#warsinger #stories

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titleknown · 8 years ago

Photo

And here is the helm of a new Open Source OC of mine, Mr Mash

This man appears as a six-armed purple-skinned biker with a barred helmet akin to the one above, in rough-cut but weirdly elaborate clothes of red and gold.

He travels from city to city, blocking paths for the purposes of challenging strong individuals to fights, with the wager being their weapons. He appears to be searching for a specific one, known only as the “White Weapon,”

Possibly linked to the legendary Exaclibur but definitely the “good” twin to the infamous “Black Blade” that travels the multiverse. Of course, while the blades are locked in an endless, eternal struggle.

But, his reasons for seeking the Weapon have absolutely nothing to do with that conflict, often leading to him come crashing into stories he has nothing to do with as he fruitlessly quests.

He is also followed by his “mount,” Aniki. Varying in form but usually some sort of rideable; wheeled techno-organic monster, who he considers a friend. It changes forms across the Multiverse and often gets separated in the midst of “jumps” to the point where Mash has to look for them; often seeking help from the very people he fights right after.

His personality is very warm; a fierce fighter with a belligerent; boasting; almost comical attitude but when bested he is relatively genial, and if one manages to befriend him, he is loyal to a fault.

He also has many; may weapons he stories in some unknown place, but he has two frequent sets he tends to use as his “baseline,” one of melee weapons and one of firearms.

The melee assortment includes:

Brightsabre- A simple cyllinder able to extend into a bright yellow-white “blade” of energy, he says this is a rare variety; but more likely it is one of the mass-produced early versions of such. It still chews through night any material and can reflect bullets; energy weapons and sometimes even magic.

Photon Pak- A backpack with a nozzle attached; this looping striped beam is mainly considered “melee” by virtue of its bucking nature and ability to reel in spiritual matter that makes it akin to a grappling lasso. It still hurts like a motherfucker if you touch it though. On a lighter note, it is able to produce amazing moving images if wielded with the right amount of skill (And psionics), which Mash has used for the purposes of street laser-light shows when he’s needed a quick buck.

Nightmare Claw- A glove with huge knived talons on its appendages, this weapon once belonged to a serial-killer turned nightmarish demon, from who Mash stole a copy while dreaming (Ironically at least leading to one temporary defeat of the being). It is able to morph in length and cutting ability, but its real draw is the ability to cut through space to create holes to jump through. Though, often Mash gets lost through these holes and ends up taking a minute to find his way back to the battlefield.

Liberty Shield- A red-white-and-blue-striped shield made as the second-closest thing to the most powerful shield in the multiverse, this shield is not only able to deflect nigh any force applied, but also functions as a bashing and ricocheting discus weapon. Though, Mash is not quite as skilled with throwing the weapon as its original owner; so he often ends up having to retrieve it.

Abnormal Chainsaw- This appears to be a worn variant of any normal; industrial chainsaw; except for the fact that it never seems to get any more worn; and the fact that it never clogs; as it chops through anything it touches with supernatural swiftness

PK Bat- A golden-colored shiny metal baseball bat with a strange translucent aura around it, this weapon is able to produce wide waves of fire; random blasts of lightning and concentrated blasts of frost from its tip due to having been once used by a master psionicist. Though, some have said his ability to use this may indicate latent psionic powers; along with many other telltale signs say scholars.

The Gun-Based Assortment Includes

BFG 6660- An enormous gun like nothing so much as a huge satanic mailbox, this weapon seemingly was enchanted by some forces of hell after it was accidentally given to demonic forces, shooting huge waves of unholy plasma that linger long after the initial blast.

Ol' Painful- An ordinary chain gun, albeit the size of something that should be mounted on a helicopter with nigh-unlimited ammo. Very likely engineered by a gunsmith while on a drunken bender one night; in a way not even he could replicate.

Judgement OMA- A weapon able to fire normal, incendiary, explosive, homing, taser, gas, and holy bullets on different settings, this is a weapon from an authoritarian police force in a world where things have gone very; very wrong. Mr Mash’s copy happens to have a “Random” setting, custom made for him, because “It’s more fun this way”

Shumacher Special- Created by a deranged cryonicist upon the loss of his wife, this weapon is able to fire devastating blasts of frost; with the unintended capacity for cryonic preservation, able to preserve the lives of those frozen in critic suspension for aeons with only a quick warm-up needed to revive them. It is also called the “Mr Nipples” by some, though never in front of Mash’s face.

Martian Heater- Something like a retro-ray-gun that shoots devastating waves of heat and causes most things it touches to combust or melt, it’s big enough that it looks like it should be attached to some invading tripod-machine. And, in fact, that is very much where Mash wrenched it off of, having driven into a timeline while an alien invasion was going on and driving Aniki into one of the war machine’s legs because he thought it might help. It did, but not how he thought…

Valkyre Blossom- Akin to a tiny spaceship with a trigger attached, it has a very long windup and cool down time, but when pressed it unleashes a flower-shaped spray (Hence the name) of beam-bolts and missiles; creating a massive cone of projectile death. Nobody knows where he got it, not even Mr Mash, though rumors include a shrink ray or the last “taxidermied” remnants of an attempt at making starships that could reproduce gone hideously wrong,

The WTF Assortment Includes

Bullet Sword- A sword made of the lead of thousands of spent bullets, then enchanted with necromancy and healing magic to give them eternally the kinetic energy they had when they were fired while still in flight. It looks akin to a sword made of glowing spheres, able to fire off those spheres in a boomeranging “loop” and to absorb bullets to increase its power

Neon Blaster- Resembling nothing so much as an incredibly elaborate “Eat At Joes” sign, and in fact most likely made by one, this releases a gas as its primary charge, which is not neon but which may in fact be sentient given its tendency to form letters and phrases as it spreads. Then, the secondary charge activates the gas, lighting it up to form magical glyphs resembling neon signs; able to exhibit many; many effects. Mash tends tp be pretty “hands off” on what spells he wants the gas to form, though it doesn’t help that he doesn’t know how to use the settings that control such things on the weapon, but the gas seems to have a pretty good idea of what is useful in that situation.

The Harryhausen- This weapon consists of three seemingly organic tendriil-like arms and a singular tendril-like neck with a reptilian; muttonchopped face, able to move of their own volition and drain blood from their grappled enemies as sustenance, While powerful in its own right, its real draw is the ability of the main head to cast spells that heal and hasten its owner; though it seemingly can only do this after it has drawn a bit of blood first.

Shock-Rocker- An enormous electric guitar with its own built in “speaker” resembling electrical apparatti such as Jacob’s ladders and tesla coils, this machine produces deadly electrical waves even as it produces beautiful musical tones. It usually plays tunes of a classic-hard-rock style, given that is Mr Mash’s preferences.

Engine Fist- Essentially the entire front half of a futuristic muscle car turned into a brass-knuckled gauntlet, this mechanism’s engine has been modified to produce the maximum possible sheer force with every punch. Though, the time gap between one punch and the next is usually pretty wide; given it is possible to break one’s arm from the sheer force if it us used too frequently within a short stretch of time.

Frankenstein- A hodgepodge of different parts from many different broken legendary weapons; from when Mash tried to create a “Magnum Opus” of gun smithery, this machine’s parts are wildly incongruous in appearance; including a slot-machine-style roller reel and a tank of slime. The slime seems to be its self-replenishing “ammunition” supply and, appropriately enough, the reel always spins whenever the machine is fired. It launches a random effect with each time; with even Mash unsure they’ve seen all its effects. Though, 90% of the time the effect usually helps Mash more than the enemy, so he considers it effective enough.

The process of dimensional travel sometimes alters Mr Mash from his original appearance; to different species or; more often; to different genders; to the point where in some corners he is known as “Miss Mash;” though all variants tend to share the basic garb and appearance with the original; usually attractive for what they are but with an emphasis on height; muscularity and general devil-may-care-ness in their looks.

They consider themselves technically genderfluid due to this, preferring to be referred to by the typical pronouns of their current form, and they are attracted to all genders (Though they’re a bit of a dorky cassanova when it comes to wooing; no matter what body they are in). He seems to go by a different name across other parts of the multiverse, but he is loath to say what it is...

Btw, This character; Mr Mash; and all his accountriments are free to use by anyone, as they see fit, under a CC-0 license

I’m doing this one as a bit more open than my others, given the character’s not just as much an expy of a certain character, but they may in fact be that character, so IDK if he’s worth a CC-BY license...

#open source character #public domain #expy #gilgamesh #final fantasy #weapons #open source characters #my art #my ocs #sorta

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amorremanet · 8 years ago

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what's your novel about??

Oh my gosh, nonny, thank you so much for asking!!

Okay, so the absolute shortest version — the, “summarize this thing and make it sound as shitty as possible” meme version — is, “Superpowered LGBTIQ neurodivergent and/or mentally ill mutant weirdos with emotional problems (and their self-appointed sidekick, who isn’t a mutant but is very enthusiastic about the work) investigate some seemingly unrelated incidents and accidentally uncover a neo-fascist supervillain club that’s trying to take over the U.S. on as many levels as possible — currently, by pulling strings to sabotage the lead-up to the still-upcoming 2016 election — and the neo-fascist supervillains are, unfortunately, very good at this.

“Also, our heroes start out as a ragtag group of misfits with superpowers [or, in Pete’s case, enthusiasm, wit, dedication af, adaptability, and a rather sizable collection of lime-green hot-pants], and progressively become both an actual team and a set of accidental rising stars in the superhero world. Is it a bit of a tired plot? Yeah, especially given how often superhero teams have to do some kind of song and dance like this — but: 1. it’s done so often because it resonates with people and, when done well, it can work; and 2. tired or not, it’s something that viewers/readers deserve to actually see happening, rather than just being told, ‘oh yeah, now they’re a team, okay? okay cool.’”

At least, that’s the plot of the first book, since…… I can’t make anything simple or less-difficult for myself, series are often more fun in general, and I just have a lot of characters here who I love, so the whole, “These incidents are starting to string themselves together in really suspicious ways, oh shit fuck goddammit, the election is being sabotaged” plot is just the start of things.* The bigger series plot would be more about trying to deal with further attempts by the neo-fascist supervillain club to wreak all kinds of neo-fascist supervillain Hell all over everything.

Then, the way I’m looking at this, structurally? Is that I have an ensemble cast, in the end. There are different tiers of importance among the different characters, because that’s unavoidable — I mean, I rail against JKR’s habit of treating her characters as plot devices first and people second, but even if you all treat your characters as people, you have to prioritize some of them over the others at different points, or else you end up worse off than George RR Martin, drowning in impossible goals and strangled by the giant pile of fictional people you made up to tell stories about — but I still view the cast as fundamentally an ensemble.

However, for the sake of reining in my horrible attention span and trying to avoid GRRM’s example, each installment has a focal character, whose own personal story of the moment gets to exist alongside the bigger plotty plot-stuff of each book (…I am a serious business writer, oh yes I am). As an approach, this has its drawbacks — balancing things without making it all too coincidentally intertwined is a big one — but I also love it because, to me, it reflects the way that life has several different levels to it that aren’t always intimately woven together, but still affect each other and need to find some kind of balance if you’re going to get anywhere

Anywho, the focal character for book one is Sebastian, because on one hand, he was here first. Like, he was originally for a game that my Sunday night RP group was playing this past summer, which was still the same-ish idea of mutant superheroes, except that it was more closely modeled on the way that Aya Brea’s powers work in the Parasite Eve games

Meaning, “the system is very openly based on Parasite Eve, it says so in the player’s handbook and everything,” rather than a motley hodgepodge assortment of superhero comics and movies/TV, speculative fiction in general, LGBTIQ theories and histories and cultures, “okay, I’d kind of like to be more active in superhero-related fandoms, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that the stories I want to tell right now are not easily mapped onto characters who already exist, I won’t feel fulfilled in trying to change them so I can shoehorn Sam and Steve and Nat and Bucky or Dick, Jason Stephanie, Tim, Cass, Duke, and Harper into them, so I’ve got to just say, ‘fuck it’ and do my own thing”

and, “what if I did [something that is a big and very, very deliberate middle finger to either Marvel or DC, possibly both, for some reason or another]” — e.g., “what if I made a pair of characters who are a pretty blatant satire of/commentary on/response to/whatever Marvel’s perpetual, annoying as fuck Cherik-baiting, except that they’re actually married — and they will be literally married as soon as the U.S. Supreme Court rules on Obergefell v. Hodges in-universe — and also they are old lady lesbians, nah nah nah nah nah nah *flips off Stan Lee et al. with both middle fingers while doing a, ‘come at me, bro’ dance and generally being a Stunning Bastion Of Authorial Maturity Lmao Not Really*”

So, yeah. I had to rescope some things after my RP group dropped that game, but in the name of, “developing my character and giving Jake, my DM and high school friend, material with which to torment my character, and also, Double-Cross’s system actually makes character development and characterization pretty important elements to playing the game,” I’d already written way too much stuff to just let it go, and Sebastian had endeared himself to me in a big way, and I just went, “Fuck it, I’ll write my own thing with him in it, it’ll be fun.”

I don’t remember when he decided to look like Hayden Christensen, only that I tried to stop that mental image from solidifying, and trying to stop it only made it worse, so I just gave up and went, “Fine, whatever, look like Hayden Christensen, see what I care.” But then, more importantly than, “Sebastian gets to go first because in fairness, he was here first”? Well.

On a thematic level, I feel like this little mutant disaster’s biggest personal story of the moment (trying desperately to get his shit together after making it to 30 without his clinical depression getting noticed as depression, much less treated; trying to stay sober and find something to do with his life that feels even vaguely fulfilling, which for him would mean, “helping people, doing some kind of good in the world, trying to make someone else happy because he is fairly certain that he never will be, period”; trying to actually deal with the past and move forward, not forgetting it or forsaking it entirely, but also not being frozen and chained to the past, learning from it and building something new)…

…has the most common ground and overlap with the current round of big plotty plot-type stuff, since it’s all about things like, “whoo, the formation of a new team! whoo, the new team getting it together and learning how to work as a team and trying to figure out their team identity and values! oh no, emergence of previously unseen threats that have not actually come from out of nowhere, even though it kind of looks like they have, and are more complicated than previously estimated! oh no, we can’t just delete them from existence because they’re insidious and entrenched in more places than we entirely realize at first, so how do we even fight this! ohhh no, progressive realization that we’re fighting a symptom rather than the actual facts problem, but we can’t just NOT-treat the symptom or shit is even more fucked than it will be if we treat the symptom by not the actual problem, and in some ways we don’t even entirely know what the bigger-picture problem is yet! oh man, what do we do!”

—so, like. These two threads work together better than they would with different parts of the larger, longer story.

(And then there’s Pete, who is an admitted authorial pet of mine, just like GRRM blatantly favors Tyrion and JKR visibly projects onto Harry and Hermione, and who I feel lends himself better to a format more like, “Dunk and Egg”-esque novellas, or a collection of, “chronicles of side-kicking” short stories about his little side-adventures and myriad hijinks that aren’t always immediately relevant to the main story but that are really fun. But I also feel like that might just be an excuse to write more weird adventures for him that aren’t necessarily tied together in the right order, like novels generally need to be unless you have some kind of reason not to do that.

idk, man, I just really love my stale cinnamon roll Dramatic bb theatre kid with a heart of gold who will tell you that you’re wrong and he so does not have a heart of gold while he is digging around Seb’s kitchen and making dinner for himself and his Princess because an unfortunate side-effect of one of Seb’s superpowers — the toxin filtering part of his mutant healing factor — is that his body doesn’t only filter out poisons, gases, narcotics, caffeine, and alcohol… it also filters the antidepressants that he gets given a prescription for about ten hours before abruptly being thrust headlong into his newly-awoken mutant superpowers.

Which is a huge mess all over — though, yes, there is a huge part of this that is a pretty deliberate, “fuck you” to literally every piece of media that goes, “and then the hero found out they had superpowers or magic or the fuck whatever and lol suddenly no more mental illness or disabilities or any kind of neurodivergence or anything neener neener” — and anyway, Pete’s hypothetically just found Seb half-spaced out and listening to, “Careless Whisper” on repeat, and Pete is going to tell you that he doesn’t have any kind of heart of gold because he’s a heartless wretch shut your mouth……

…while he’s making them dinner and going, “okay, come on, Princess. Sit up, let’s try and get you through this. No, don’t argue with me. You did the same — or similar, anyway — for me in that entire ten-day stretch when you knew I wasn’t eating disorder okay but couldn’t get me to talk about it and we’ve been over this: if that’s what friends do for each other, then it cuts both ways, so come on. Dinner. Do you want me to put on Labyrinth, The Princess Bride, Female Trouble, Ten Things I Hate About You, or some other thing until you feel like talking.”)

But anyway, as I was saying.

I look at the attempt to find thematic crossover between the plot parts of a book in the series and the story parts of a book as being kind of like how, in the first three seasons of Community, whatever class the Study Group had together was a of synergistic reflection of certain season-long themes and developments for them as characters and in their relationships.

Like, in season one, they were learning how to talk to each other and the basics of building relationships with and understanding each other, so they took Spanish, a language class.

In season two, they took Anthropology — in-universe described as, “the study of humanity” and which is presented as being so open-ended that shitty memetic youtube vids are as valid an object of study as humanity’s development and use of tools, and the different processes by which humans work together to do greater shit than we can do solo — and in that year’s shenanigans, the Study Group cemented their trust as friends, but also went through Hell together in several cases, and in the last two episodes (the cowboy/Star Warts paintball two-parter), they had to face the question of whether or not removing one of them for his shitty behavior (Pierce) would be better or worse for the overall health of the group.

And in season three, they took Biology, defined in-universe as, “the study of life” (which isn’t wrong irl, but the specific phrasing is important to me, here), and they spend a lot of time exploring and developing their lives, both together and individually, both at Greendale Community College and more importantly outside its walls. There’s also the season-long theme of evolution, because the Study Group have evolved as people and continue to evolve — which reaches its biggest culminations in the finale, not just in Jeff’s Winger Speech, but also with five of the big seven (Annie and Britta are sort of adrift but Troy, Abed, Shirley, and Pierce all have moments, and Jeff has the BIGGEST, most obvious moment).

So, with the books, I’m trying to do something kind of similar. Not quite the same, because…… well, TV vs. novels, school setting vs. a variety of settings but none quite as structured as a school (even one that’s as, well, Greendalian as you get on Community), a million other reasons besides — but having some kind of thematic synergy between the plot part of each of the books and the focal characters’ personal stories in each book…… idk, it gives me a comforting sense of structure to play with?

And aside from that, I feel like it’s probably a better choice for the sake of the whole stories because having those points of connection means they can more easily work to enhance each other, rather than distracting from each other. Like, one of the biggest issues that I have with shoehorned-in romance plots in stories that don’t need a romance plot? Even overlooking how they are almost invariably white and m/f and heteronormative and can be all kinds of, “uggggh” in several other ways besides, it comes down to whether or not they work, thematically and tonally, with everything else.

[this is where i had a tangent trying to illustrate my point by talking about pointlessly shoehorned-in white, m/f romance plots in otherwise no romo stories, then cut it after i started to feel moderately ashamed of how many examples and trends about this that i just have in my back pocket]

The point being: you can use dissonance and conflicting juxtaposed parts of the story to different effects, but it’s often harder to pull off and you do need to have some idea of what you’re doing, otherwise you’re going to end up with a huge mess and no idea where to start sorting through it (I say this based on having done this exact thing several times before)

So, in the interests of not doing that, I like the idea of trying to find the big points of synergy and connection between any given book’s focal char’s story, and the plot points of that installment and how it fits into the larger story. And, for the sake of book 1, Sebastian’s big story of the moment is the one that lines up best with the plot stuff, thematically.

Also, apropos of nothing but, he spends like all of two minutes coming up with his nom de spandex, and ends up with Pete being Unimpressed at him because…… Really, Princess? Princess, really. Like. Princess. Really. Your family is obnoxiously insistent on your Frenchness, even though you were all born and raised in fucking Baltimore and your Dad’s family hasn’t been in France itself since your ancestor sold the old ancestral marquisate and came to save the Revolution with the Marquis de Lafayette… and now you turn into a nine-foot-tall wolf-man…… and you picked out the official, “it is on your actual facts government-issued vigilante hero license” name of…… Gévaudan.

Really, Princess. Fucking. REALLY. Ugggggggh, you’re more creative than that, why did you pick the stupidly obvious werewolf name ffs, your family isn’t even FROM Gévaudan or anywhere in its general damn vicinity, why did you have to pick THAT name, it’s BORING.

And now I don’t know how to wrap this up so I’m gonna abruptly stop talking (apart from the footnote below, which I wrote a couple hours ago, whoops)

Thank you so much for asking this and giving me a free excuse to talk about my novel, nonny

*: Given my chosen subject matter, I feel like it has to be? Partly, yeah, it’s authorial self-gratification because I love my weirdos and their adventures.

But another part of it is the idea that it’s not enough to punch fascists in the face. Like, yes, by all means, we need to do that, too — but fascism is insidious and easily enabled by so many aspects of our contemporary societies. So, we need to resist the urge to simplify the discussion. We can go, “Fascism is wrong, period” while also trying to understand the different ways that fascism draws people into supporting it, how it can spread so far and so thoroughly in nominally non-fascist societies, and its different manifestations and ways of working, so that we can better fight it.

Additionally, we’re products of the same societies that create people who do become fascists and we can easily become complicit in both fascism and oppression more generally, so we need to hold ourselves and each other accountable while trying to fight fascism, instead of putting it off for later, because…… historically, and based on several different precedents? Putting off addressing the internal issues among ourselves doesn’t work; it just creates fertile ground for more problems to breed and makes it even harder for people down the line.

And there aren’t any easy answers here. There are some part of them that are easy or at least easier than others — e.g., agreeing on the statement, “Fascism is wrong and we should oppose it” — but unfortunately, not everything in life and resistance can be as easy as, “This thing is wrong, we should oppose it.”

Even getting into the questions of HOW to best and most effectively fight back against fascism gets complicated, to say nothing of situations where there isn’t an obvious Right Side or Wrong Side, no matter how many people try to turn those discussions into Right vs. Wrong and get into a lot of binary-thinking moral absolutism that ultimately upholds a lot of the shit we’re nominally trying to fight, and does more harm than good to everyone involved.

(ftr, those discussions are not things like, “Fascism is wrong, Y/N,” but more like disagreements between people, none of whom are outright in the wrong, but all of whom have different sets of values, different kinds of grievances with each other [some fair, some not so fair], different points of view on any given topic, and so on, usually about things like, “is it more important for people to be free but with more potential for people to abuse that freedom in hurtful ways, or for people to be safe but in ways that give us new ways to hurt each other in the name of safety,” however the Hell these issues are manifesting in a specific context at any given moment)

And, well. It’s a precarious line to walk on, as someone who wants to be as ethical and responsible a writer as I can be and as true to my handful of basic guiding principles as possible. Principles that I have because…… uh, I want to be as ethical and responsible a writer as I can be? And I want to always work on failing better, as @saathi1013 would put it?

so, if you’re going to do that, you kinda need to have something to stand for and try to be more aware of what’s going on in the world, more aware where the content you’re making fits into those discussions, and more aware of yourself and how you work so that you can try to find places of potential Unfortunate Implications or places where you’re not actually living up to the values that you want to put in your work — c.f., JKR’s handling of House Elves and Muggles in the HP series, or how she wants the books to be anti-abuse but gives Dumbledore a free pass on hardcore manipulating both Harry and Snape [to say nothing of how he doesn’t do shit to make Snape act like a teacher, not a bully, because of reasons], and gives Molly and Arthur a total free pass on all of their unadulterated abusive bullshit

—and part of all this is knowing what you stand for, knowing what you think and feel as much as you can, and being willing to actually interrogate your positions and adjust your views and stances as you come into new information, new experiences, etc. Call it a belief, call it a good idea, call it whatever you want, but for me? You have to have some kind of principles to stand for/by, if you really want to be ethical and/or responsible content creator, because if you don’t have your principles, then what’s guiding you in this, exactly? Principles are what separate people who at least try to be ethical and/or responsible content creators from fuckbishops like the Dadaists, the Marquis de Sade, and the creative team of Family Guy.

And one of my principles here is, essentially, “People are people, and this means, on one hand, that all people deserve basic human rights and civil liberties. But on the other hand, it means that many of our problems are, in the words of Pterry and Gneil in Good Omens, caused not by people being either Good or Evil, but by people being fundamentally people. We’re all a bunch of disasters to varying degrees, and most situations are not going to come down to Good vs. Evil, but to (as Richard Siken puts it) need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone has the potential to be doing wrong by/unto someone else, even if some of us are going to come out more wrong than others based on our actions and/or the context of the situation.”

Which all basically adds up to…… yes, “Fascism is wrong” is a simple and straightforward statement, but there are situations and debates that arise surrounding most simple, straightforward statements that are tangled up and complicated. In this case, for example, how fascism takes root and spreads, how to best fight it in which situations, how it takes advantage of structures and practices even within non-fascist communities and uses them to fester and draw people into supporting it + what the fuck to do about that especially since at a certain point all of us become complicit in it to some degree or another, by virtue of being people who are alive and take part in our civilizations, and what’s at stake for everyone in all these discussions + how best to approach the question(s) of priorities

(…see, what I mean when I say that yes, I have interest in contemporary sociopolitical goings-on for their own sake but also bring them back to the novel pretty easily and regularly? It’s kinda unavoidable when you’re living in the times we are now, writing about superheroes who have to fight very explicitly neo-fascist supervillains)

So, anyway, the TL;DR of my basic point here is that I do try to approach my writing with principles in mind, but I don’t believe in oversimplifying shit — based on what I’ve encountered so far, I believe that oversimplifying things in a lot of these discussions usually starts in an understandable sort of place, but only ends up creating more problems for everyone in the long run, because it too easily fosters binaristic thinking and moral absolutism, dehumanizing each other, creating arbitrary hierarchies that we always end up using to justify hurting each other, and so on — and I don’t want to be a preacher in my work. I’d be a lot happier if I inspired actual discussions.

……Unfortunately, I’ve been in fandom and literature generally for too long to think that this is going to happen without the risk of people playing the apologist cards, the [douchebag character] in Leather Pants card, and all of that good stuff, but…… well.

I’m just trying to tell myself that this is a risk I’m going to have to live with, and if I do everything that I can reasonably do to prevent that and it still happens anyway, then hey, I’m in good company with George Orwell (all the people who have read 1984 as a defense or endorsement of right-wing anything when Orwell was a Socialist, he just opposed fucking Stalinism), Dr. Seuss (the anti-reproductive rights brigade who co-opted Horton Hears A Who to make it a screed against abortion), Emily Brontë (everyone who thinks Heathcliff is romantic and awesome when no. NO. fuck ALL the way OFF, he is an abusive jackass who literally kills a puppy and torments a generation of kids into reenacting his and Cathy’s relationship, just to get back at her for dumping him, and whose author was a fucking abuse survivor, now can everyone please get off her tits and stop using her book to justify their own abusive garbage behaviors), and so many countless others

But that’s a whole other kettle of monkeys, and I should only be so lucky to maybe someday have enough people reading anything I write that there are actually popular misinterpretations of anything. Like, would it be ideal if the misinterpretations didn’t happen? Yeah, but that’s not how writing works and it’s not how reading works and it’s not how most contemporary socialization trains us to read and see things, and everyone who reads anything I write is going to come up with their own interpretation because I can’t tell them how to read it, so

*shrugs* The Author Is Not God, y’know? I can do the work to try and best actualize my vision of things, but there will be things in it that other people see that I didn’t intend or didn’t notice, and my version of the story can’t be the absolute truth because the readers’ input is just as vital to the life of a written work as the work itself. It’s an unavoidable risk of writing shit on shit, so we make do, the end, I guess?

#that story with the mutants that i should find a working title for fml #sebastian moncrieff: mutant disaster #pete arden: dramatic disaster #pete x seb #mine: asks #mine: writing #nonny hi you're my favorite today if ur still around #reaction gifs//#depression cw//#writing meta #Anonymous

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