#some of that is the hate campaign she endured which no one should ever have to go through

[mercuriallworld]

angel reese is just so insanely likable. works as hard as anyone out there, has insane emotional maturity for her age, funny af and fun to watch as well. how can u not love this girl

[holycatsandrabbits]

Tollense, an original serial romance by Dannye Chase, Chapter 3

A history professor falls in love with his best friend, a 3000-year-old vampire.

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Chapter 3

1996 (Three years later)

Liam got a letter in the mail that morning, another one, from New York this time. Liam didn’t know anyone in New York who would send this kind of letter. In any case, they were all from the same person, no matter the constantly changing postmark, and they all said the same hateful, frightening things.

Liam had just tossed this one into the drawer with the others when Kurt appeared out of nowhere, as only he could. Liam had done a bit of research on vampires in the three years he’d known Kurt (as much study as he could on something that was supposed to be fictional), and teleportation was not a common vampire ability. But then Kurt was not a common vampire.

“Morning,” Kurt said, dropping into a kitchen chair. He looked a bit bed-rumpled, but Liam honestly wasn’t sure whether it was because Kurt had been sleeping or because Kurt thought that humans should look bed-rumpled in the morning. “Been for your run yet?” Kurt asked.

“I was just getting ready to go.”

“Want company?”

“You’re not dressed for it,” Liam pointed out, waving a hand at Kurt’s blue jeans, and that caused Kurt to vanish again. Liam was lacing his shoes when Kurt reappeared, this time wearing athletic shorts and, crucially, no shirt. Liam’s fingers tripped over themselves and got tangled in his shoelaces like clumsy people with jump ropes.

Liam had seen Kurt without his shirt on occasionally over the last three years, most memorably when Kurt had shown Liam the scars he still carried from the earliest thing he remembered— a Bronze Age battle. There was a scar above his heart and two on his left shoulder, the marks of flint arrowheads, presumably the wounds that caused his death.

But that was not what caught Liam’s attention when Kurt was shirtless. Kurt had the build of a fighter: a slender waist, sturdy legs, broad shoulders and strong arms. His chest was smoothly muscled around the scars. Meanwhile Liam had the body of a thirty-year-old history professor who went for a run most mornings, but also had a fondness for rocky road ice cream.

Liam wasn’t sure if Kurt knew about the threatening letters. He was also not sure if Kurt knew how fervently Liam desired him. If he was aware of either, or, most importantly, felt any desire in return, he had never said. And while Liam was sorting out the shoelace mess, Kurt pulled on a shirt, so the distraction passed.

The morning was cool, with fog still gathering around the trees. While they ran, Kurt told Liam about a morning in 1914 outside of Ypres, when snow had fallen silently, covering fallen leaves and fallen soldiers alike.

Liam had learned by now that Kurt did not feel the cold. It must have been obvious during a winter campaign, when Kurt’s fingers did not stiffen with frostbite, or his toes blister with trench foot. Sometimes, Kurt had told him, his fellow soldiers thought of him as an indestructible good luck charm. Sometimes they looked on the only member of their group to emerge from a battle unscathed and called him a demon.

A countless number of Kurt’s stories ended with him holding a fellow soldier as he succumbed to injury and passed out of this world.

When they turned back onto Liam’s street, there was a blue car in Liam’s driveway that belonged to one of Liam’s students, Martina. She was standing beside the car, waving at them. Of course, she wasn’t there to see Liam.

When Liam got out of the shower fifteen minutes later, he was surprised to see Kurt in the kitchen alone, drinking the coffee that Liam kept on hand for him. Coffee and water were the only things Liam had ever seen Kurt eat or drink. “Martina didn’t stay?” Liam asked.

“No. She was just returning my jacket.” Kurt looked melancholy for a moment, a brief flash across his features before it faded back into his usual somewhat detached expression. “She met someone else. He’s moving in.”

Liam looked at him in shock. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Kurt shook his head. “I’m happy for her. She’s about to graduate anyway, so we were going to break it off.”

Martina was not the first of Liam’s students that Kurt had dated. Kurt was very good about it, really. The students he chose were from the graduate program, so all in their mid-twenties or older, and they’d all known what Kurt was. They’d chosen to be a part of his life for a while, providing him with companionship, and, though they didn’t usually state it so plainly, with blood.

“I don’t get attached,” Kurt said. “And I pick those who won’t get attached to me. I don’t have the patience for a line of angry exes. Better to be with those who will part as friends.”

“Have you ever been wrong?” Liam asked. He didn’t look at Kurt, carefully focusing on the toaster and butter dish.

“Accidentally broken someone’s heart, you mean?” Kurt asked. “Or lost my own?”

“Either.”

“Not in a long time.”

“Ah.” Liam buttered his toast with perhaps more force than was called for.

“I investigated him, though. Martina’s new boyfriend. His name is Devon.”

“Investigated,” Liam repeated. He sat down at the table opposite Kurt, accepting the cup of coffee Kurt passed to him.

“He seems like a very nice man. And he loves her.”

“So you read his mind.”

“I can’t read minds.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

Kurt looked amused. “I know. But not because I read your mind. In any case, Martina is my friend. She’s under my protection. And so are you.”

This last part was said gently, but Liam caught its meaning as overtly as he was meant to. He let out a groan and pushed away what was left of his toast. “How long have you known?”

“Long enough. The letters are mailed from around the country, but I am almost certain the sender is local. He probably travels a lot, and also has other people mail the letters without knowing what’s in them.”

“That’s what the police think. They also think they’re not serious.”

Kurt seemed immensely unimpressed by this opinion. “So did you do something that some bastard holds a grudge for? Murder his wife? Steal his parking space? Or do you think it’s because you’re gay?”

Liam’s sexuality was not something that had come up in conversation before, so Liam was a bit startled to hear it accurately described. “I have no idea,” he said. “I certainly don’t recall murdering anyone.”

“I’ve looked over the letters. No fingerprints, and I can’t find anything distinctive about the printer he uses.” When Kurt got emotional, he wore it strangely, as if he could be both agitated and unaffected at the same time. Right now his green eyes were bright and his mouth tight. His fingers curled sharply around his coffee cup, blanching white where they gripped too hard. But the rest of his body was still relaxed in the chair, stretched into the sort of lazy pretzel shape that sore legs often took after a run. Liam sometimes wondered what Kurt would be like if he stopped trying so hard to seem human.

“They’re not serious,” Liam told him.

“I’m not convinced of that. You really don’t have suspects?”

Liam shrugged. “Nobody in particular.”

“Ex-lovers?”

Liam focused on his coffee. “I haven’t had one of those for some time.”

“Family?”

“It’s just my sister and me, and we get along fine as long as she can pretend I’m not gay.”

Kurt’s fingers clenched around the coffee cup again. “This is a very intolerant period of history.”

Liam laughed, not unkindly. “It is all history to you, isn’t it? This is just another era to walk through. How odd to—”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Colleagues?”

“I’ve never had any problems. Anyway, the letters are all anti-university. Anti-technology. Unabomber-type stuff.”

“I’m not sure I trust the subject matter. Why send anti-technology missives to a history professor? It still feels personal to me. The one you got today talks about kidnapping you, Liam. That’s a very intimate threat.”

Liam groaned. “How the hell—”

“I read it while you were in the shower.” Kurt did look a little regretful, at least. “Look, I know you don’t like me being all— the way I am—”

“If I minded the vampire stuff, I’d never have agreed to work with you. What I object to is your being sneaky and intrusive on an entirely human level.”

Kurt seemed surprised, which was not a common look on him. He stared at Liam for a moment before saying, “Well, I object to being kept in the dark about your safety.”

“Kurt—”

They were interrupted by the ding noise that Liam’s computer made when he received an email. Normally Liam might ignore it, but at the moment, he welcomed the distraction.

The email was from a colleague in Germany, and as Liam read it, he forgot all about their argument. “Kurt,” he said, in an entirely different tone than the one he’d just used. Kurt was behind him in an instant, moving with that silent speed he had.

Liam traced his finger across the screen, aware that he wasn’t supposed to do that, but he hadn’t quite yet learned not to treat emails like they were pieces of paper. “Look at this. Someone found an arm bone with a flint arrowhead in the bank of the Tollense River in Germany. It’s not— it’s not a giant battle, not yet, just with one body, but it’s the right place, the right time. My colleague thinks this could be what we were looking for, and I think he’s right. Your earliest memory. Your origin. It could be Tollense.”

Kurt had knelt down so that he could read the screen more easily. When he turned his head it brought his mouth so very close to Liam’s. “You did it,” he said softly. “You found it.”

“Well, I didn’t find anything. Someone else—”

“But you put your neck on the line, theorizing about a battle in a time and place no one expected.”

“It’s not like I don’t have eye-witness evidence.”

“But no one knows that. You’ve endured a lot of controversy, trying to help me.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that. I care about—” Liam cut himself off before he could say it.

Kurt seemed to hear it anyway, because he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Liam’s.

It was a light kiss only for a few seconds, until Liam made an intensely hungry noise and Kurt responded to it, bringing his hands up around Liam’s face to hold him steady. Kurt deepened the kiss, sweeping into Liam’s open mouth with his tongue.

Liam had thought about a kiss like this, thorough and overwhelming, fantasized about it, wondered if it might happen someday because Kurt would read his mind and know how much Liam wanted it. But Liam was suddenly sure in that moment that Kurt could not read minds, or at least, that he’d left Liam’s to its secrets. If he had read it, he would have known not to kiss Liam. Because unlike the students Kurt sought out, Liam was already attached, far too much, to this utterly alien man who kissed with a technique undoubtedly honed over millennia, ranging from soft to strong all in a single lick of his tongue, instinctively knowing which parts of Liam’s mouth were most sensitive, and all with a kindness Liam had never before felt.

It was the kindness that made Liam put his hands up and push Kurt gently away. Liam didn’t want kindness at that moment, didn’t want Kurt offering this kiss out of gratitude or friendship, or because Kurt knew Liam was attracted to men and would probably enjoy it. Even because he was worried about Liam’s safety. Kurt was three thousand years old, and he’d no doubt live for many thousands of years after this. Liam’s lifespan was a drop of water in the river of Kurt’s life. Kurt had said it just this morning— he would never allow himself to get attached.

After the kiss broke, Kurt looked at Liam searchingly for a moment, and then moved away.

“We should— we should visit Germany,” Liam managed to say. Kurt just nodded.

************

The battle of Tollense is a real thing! Here is the wikipedia and another article.

************

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Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous serials are for Good Omens: Mr. Fell's Bookshop and Love's Endless Light

My Carrd

[swtorpadawan]

In your headcanon (which I hope you continue to update regarding the future of the galaxy), what’s the ultimate fate of the Eternal Alliance, and the galaxy for that matter? In particular, what is it that finally brings down the Empire?

Thanks so much for this!

So - in my Halcyon Legacy head-canon, the whole thing deviates drastically from game-canon shortly after KOTET ends.

The Eternal Alliance continues to serve as a counter-balance to the Republic and Sith Empire, preventing a breakout of a new war. The Eternal Fleet continues as a peace-keeping force, transporting refugees and supplies, and containing threats like pirates, rogue Sith Lords, and other challenges. (And a warning against future conflicts.) The Alliance is not setup as a rival government - at least not initially. Instead, a Protectorate of worlds is formed, each pledging certain resources to the Alliance in return for their protection. (Sometimes in the form of allowing refugees to settle there.) The Alliance makes no initial efforts to dominate the planetary governments of those worlds; but they do apply pressure subtly by giving people the option to relocate. The Alliance signs agreements with the Empire, the Republic, Zakuul, the Hutt Cartel, and virtually every other major power. They certainly do have enemies, with rogue forces from all factions conspiring at various points. But these are containable threats, since our senior advisors don't suddenly try to screw over the whole Alliance just so they can play hero on a traitor / undercover mission, in a storyline that makes no sense whatsoever.

How the Alliance eventually passes into history is not written. But it does outlive Corellan.    

The galaxy survives. That was, after all, the Alliance's primary purpose in the first place. It was always Corellan's, after all.

I hate-hate-HATE how Acina is portrayed after KOTET, acting like the stereotypical Sith we saw in the class campaigns. In my Halcyon head-canon, this doesn't happen. She'll always be a Sith, but she realizes that war does not serve the Sith Empire's interests. She cooperates with Corellan's peace initiatives, while he supports her when rogue sith attempt to challenge for her throne. The Empire she tries to reforge is still one where individuals pursue their passions, but its not one where they destroy the lives of everyone around them to do it.

Eventually - perhaps in a decade or two, or perhaps a century or more later, Acina's efforts ultimately fail. The Sith Empire falls not due to the machinations of the Alliance or the Republic, but to the same thing that has always destroyed it: Infighting among the Sith. It collapses into history.

The Galactic Republic survives for the same reason its always survived : It adapts. The process is never easy and is usually quite ugly. It will never quite live up to its lofty ideals, but then, it never did.

It will never be good, exactly.

But... it can be better. For a time, anyway.

This, too, will eventually come to an end, of course.

And millennia from now, should an explorer team from another Alliance find some ancient ruins on some long-forgotten world, and should they come across a strange, ornate cube picking through the scrap, then perhaps the cube - picked up by some fortunate individual - will start to glow.

And if it does, then another generation of freedom fighters will hear the words of Corellan Halcyon. They will hear of the principles of what had once been at the heart and soul of the Eternal Alliance, and how it brought peace to the galaxy. In its time. And perhaps that will help inspire them to be better. 

No one can ever quite live up to those noblest of ideals. Not the Republic. Not the Jedi. Not the Alliance. Not even Corellan, himself.

That doesn't mean it isn't right that we try. Maybe that's how we make the world a better place.  

People die. Empires and Republics and Alliances fall. Even dreams eventually turn into nightmares.

Ideals endure. ... thanks again for the ask.

[tanoraqui]

[now all on AO3!]

it starts, like all great slightly cracky fix-it AUs, with Nie Huaisang impetuously deciding to do something slightly good and slightly selfish

basically, at Phoenix Mountain, while everybody else is busy having romantic drama and/or exchanging lukewarm shots in the building cold war over the Stygian Tiger Seal, NHS is busy getting reamed out by his brother again for not being remotely good at, uh…anything. Archery, ghost-hunting, monster-hunting…etc.

then he happens to look over at Jiang Yanli, the daughter of the goddamn Violet Spider yet who isn’t expected to do anything but be pretty and deal with romantic drama, and thinks, hmm.

Clearly the solution is to Acquire or Fake a Serious Medial Condition

Fake better than Acquire. NHS enjoys being a little dramatically frail, but he’d rather not actually have to deal with it. But in order to fake something well enough to fool his brother, as an ongoing thing, he needs

a competent medical professional

who would be reliably loyal to him (begging, bribery, and blackmail all valid options to ensure this if required)

and won’t be too intimidated to lie to Chifeng-zun himself

it is important at this juncture to remember 2 things about Nie Huaisang, as of approximately the Phoenix Mountain hunt:

he is the privileged second son of a mighty sect, not coddled but definitely humored quite a lot, and despite having gotten through a short war not long before, he has never personally faced a real consequence in his life. He’s seen some shit happen, to his friends and his family, but he himself has never experienced a real consequence in his life

he is, however, aware at every moment that real consequences exist, even when he’s doing truly outrageous things to deserve them. Unlike certain a demonic cultivator who shall go unnamed. in fact, he puts effort into avoiding them, also unlike a certain demonic cultivator

so Nie Huaisang asks around a bit, indirectly and sometimes over drinks, and a week later he’s at one of the small towns in Qishan where the remnants of the Wen sect have been stashed, requisitioning Wen Qing

“...why?” says the Jin disciple in charge of security, who maybe NHS has met at a cultivation conference or hunt before

NHS rolls his eyes and complains from behind his fan, “I don’t know! I think Da-ge just wanted to make me fly here, to build my endurance or something. But she’s on of the greatest healers in the land, isn’t she? Our training yards do produce a lot of wounds.”

The Jin disciple has to admit that all of the above is true and/or plausible. Maybe she makes eye contact with one of the Nie disciples NHS has brought with him as protocol and the dangers of the countryside demand, and he nods slightly. She knew him in the Sunshot Campaign, and trusts his judgement more than that of the flighty heir to Qinghe Nie, so she calls for Wen Qing to be found and brought to the oversight center 

(NHS has implied to his retainers/guards that he wants to ask Wen Qing about a personal medical matter that he doesn’t want getting back to his brother, and they accepted it and are prepared to obfuscate that “truth” to an outsider)

(NHS is still new to this; he’s letting his lies get too complex, different for different people and thus harder to keep track of)

Wen Qing is brought, chin still lifted with dignity despite her drab and dirty robes. The Jin scoff; NHS greets her as effusively and not-quite-politely as though they were still students at Cloud Recesses together, and begs a private audience that she can’t deny. The Jin captain offers her office, and the rest clear out.

“Okay so I need you to help me fake a serious but not too serious medical condition,” says Nie Huaisang, and explains the gist of his plan and desires. “In return, you’ll get out of here - come back to the Unclean Realm and live in, you know, whatever comfort a war-focused sect castle* which my brother won’t let me redecorate can provide.”

*apologies to the setting f fantasy Ancient China, but I cannot imagine the Nie sect inhabiting anything but, like, this

“What,” demands Wen Qing, because she isn’t given to absolutely ridiculous ideas, and moreover, she’s a responsible physician and this is so sketch

...but

she’s also a Wen, a curse which thus far has outweighed her gifts as a physician in the eyes of the world, and hand in hand with being a Wen and long before her hand first touched a needle, she is a sister

so she crosses her arms - no. She ducks her head deferentially and says, “I’ll need my assistant to help. My brother.” And she looks up with iron in her eyes, and they both know that this is the final price

NHS offers his hand to shake. “Done.”

here’s the thing though: Wen Qing does have those medical ethics though they don’t always extend to requiring consent for major surgery, and moreover she has a lot of practice surviving, and keeping her brother safe, in a court where they aren’t much wanted. And she’s honest by nature, which mostly means that when she tells lies, they’re carefully chosen

so a few days later, she stands bowing before Nie Mingjue in the grand front hall of Qinghe’s stony fortress, where the last time Wens were there, their blood spilled across the floor. Wen Ning bows from half a step behind her, where he always does; Nie Huaisang stands half a step in front of her, artfully stuttering in the face of his brother’s bellowing. He hasn’t even gotten to his false story yet

(Wen Qing knows real fear when she sees it, she’s both seen it and felt it enough in Wen Ruohan’s court and since, and the second son of Nie has clear never felt it in his life. Not, at least, because of his elder brother.)

“Sect Leader Nie,” she says, stepping past her would-be-cunning, would-be-savior. She bows even more deeply as Chifeng-zun’s attention shifts to her, but still speaks clearly. “Please forgive your brother his trespass, in bringing this one and this one’s assistant to your hall. His concern is only for you, and your health. I am Wen Qing, of the Dafan Wen, who have studied medicine for generations upon generations. I myself, and my brother to assist me, have particular experience managing spiritual power and preventing qi deviations.” It’s mostly truth. “We have been brought only to serve you.”

NHS: [*shocked pikachu face*; the words TOP TEN ANIME BETRAYALS! flash across the screen]

he recovers quickly, though. He’s good at that

“Yes - ” His fan flutters anxiously and tears well in the corners of his eyes. “Ever since the Sunshot campaign ended, da-ge, you’ve been even angrier...”

It takes a while. It’s very loud, and entirely in public. But this is Qinghe, where anything worth doing is worth doing aggressively and in-your face. 

Eventually Nie Mingjue turns back to Wen Qing and growls, “Even if they have some medical knowledge, why should we trust Wen-dogs?”

(Wen Qing hates this. She is Wen and she hates this; she is Wen Qing, reknowned physician, and she hates this. She hates the indignity, the disrespect, and that she’s about to call on a debt she promised herself that she wouldn’t because it shouldn’t have been a debt in the first place, it should have just been treating the patient in front of her)

“Wei Wuxian of YunmengJiang will vouch for us, Nie-zhongzhi,” she says, bowing deeply again.

NMJ’s lip curls, and he says flatly, “The demonic cultivator.”

(Mistake. She gambles harder.) “Jiang Ch- Sect Leader Jiang will also vouch for us. We sheltered him and his brother when Wen Chao hunted them, after the destruction of Lotus Pier.” She lifts her head then, to meet his eyes. “We are physicians first, and will treat the patient in front of us. And you, Sect Leader, need treatment.”

It’s become clear over the course of this confrontation - his eyes are bloodshot, his hand has the faintest tremor every time it’s not clenching his saber hilt so tightly that the palm must be bruised. If she could touch him and explore the state of his meridians, she’s sure they’d be as settled as a flock of crows awaiting the end of a battle

She knew it before, though, or she wouldn’t have started this gambit in the first place. The Nie saber method’s dangers of qi cultivation are well-known among physicians, albeit not understood outside of the Unclean Realm. More importantly, the fear of it was between the lines of every one of Nie Huaisang’s complaints about his brother’s overbearence and the horrors of saber practice, which she’s been listening to for the past day and a half. And Nie Huaisang is known for being a coward, but not on behalf of his brother.

Nie Mingjue raises eyebrows at her, but he gives a short nod. (She should’ve known, she thinks, that Chifeng-zun would respond better to fierceness than to obsequiousness. She’s still to used to Qishan, and recently to the attitude of Langling.) “You may join our physicians - once I receives word from Yunmeng.”

Wei Wuxian brings the affirmation himself, in the form of a letter from Jiang Cheng. Wen Qing doesn’t get to see it, but WWX assures her that it was very polite and approbational. She thanks him once and not effusively, and they both nod and know that their debt is settled - probably a brother’s life for probably a brother’s life 

(she can keep Wen Ning safe in this place, she’s already sure of it. It is Wen Ruohan and Qishan all over again, but far better - in Qishan what mattered was power, and she scraped and bowed for just enough to get by. What matters in Qinghe is strength, for which Wen Qing has never lacked a day in her life)

(What mattered in the few miles of land the had Jin hemmed them into was subordination and indignity, neither of which she has ever mastered)

{there’s another letter to Nie Mingjue that Wen Qing never knows about, from Jin Guangyao on behalf of his father in Lanlang, politely asking what the absolute hell Nie Sect is doing with the two highest-ranking remaining Wen cultivators. After being reassured that these Wen-dogs are tamed ones, Nie Mingjue writes back...well, pretty much that, with kind of a “fuck you and the sword you rode in on” flavor}

{Jin Guangshan swears, complains, and scoffs a great deal when he receives it, and eventually settles down with a grumbled, “Well, maybe the Wen bitch will simply poison him, or he’ll find a reason to execute her, or both. Then I’ll be rid of them both.” Jin Guangyao murmurs an agreement that’s almost entirely genuine, because he hasn’t forgiven Nie Mingjue for that comment about his mother)

Wei Wuxian stays a week, messing around with Nie Huaisang like they’re still children at Cloud Recesses (they were all children, then) or infuriating Nie Mingjue apparently for fun, or most often both at once. At least it makes NMJ’s temper suitably riled for Wen Qing to get in a good first examination. To the surprise of no one, he’s in bad shape. 

The author would put in fun fantasy medical language here, but this book explains jackshit about its magic system, but let’s say it’s like...when there’s been a fast, hard rain and the hillside has turned to mud and it’s not collapsing yet, no, there wasn’t quite enough rain for that - but one more strong shower could do it, bring the whole hillside down on the busy road below, and if one person goes wandering and steps in the wrong place, they might slip into a sinkhole and never come out again? Nie Mingjue’s spiritual energy is like that.

so Wen Qing bullies him into cutting back on saber use by an hour a day - bullying is her natural bedside manner, and she’s backed by several true Nie physicians, genuinely in agreement but grateful to have someone else take the brunt of their Sect Leader’s angry resistance. Nie Huaisang also helps, with an abundance of pleading and near-tears

he also has to accept the bargain of practicing with his own saber for an extra half hour every day that Nie Mingjue appropriately refrains, which is frankly hilarious

after a few more days of peace, she lets Wen Ning out of her sight, pairs him up with a junior Nie physician who knows the area well and sends them to find the herbs she needs. Nie Mingjue does not, at least, protest the sourness of the medicine she brews

and she recommends Lan calming music, because, honestly, why the hell wasn’t he being treated with that already. His sworn brother is Zewu-jun; why are men in power always so stubborn - 

well, of course she knows the answer, it’s “men” and “power.” And maybe she should be a little more deferential - but as discussed, that’s never been in her nature nor her bedside manner, and Sect Leader Nie seems to respond well to, if not simply being bullied, than at least the snappish [fantasy Ancient China equivalent of cop]/puppy eyes [ditto] routine she and Nie Huaisang fall into naturally

and...he starts to get better. It’s just a start, but the hillside starts to settle back into place.

it’s peaceful enough, it seems a steady and safe enough place, that 2 weeks after Wei Wuxian’s gone, she makes another gamble. Not with Nie Mingjue, though - she finds Nie Huaisang in one of his favorite painting spots, stands between him and the lovely mountain view, and demands a favor

To be continued... (this is 1 of 3 probably?)

[obaewankenope]

The Second Life of Sandu Shengshou

Thanks to a dream I had several nights ago, I ended up writing this. It’s the beginning of a Multi-chaptered fic that can be read on AO3 here. I’m not even remotely sorry for this.

Not in the slightest. 

One

The day Sect Leader Jiang dies is a day that the entire cultivation world remembers. For them, the passing of the Jiang Sect Leader is an event not to be ignored or celebrated. It is a day to remember his amazing deeds; losing his entire Sect to the Wen and then rebuilding it from the ground up; becoming a living legend during the Sunshot Campaign; fighting and killing the Yiling Laozu; raising the son of his beloved A-Jie into a fine young man who took the mantle of Jin Sect Leader well; being part of revealing the truth of Jin Guangyao’s deceit to the entire cultivation world; fighting fierce corpses and holding demonic cultivators to account for their crimes.

The day Sect Leader Jiang dies is one to remember his deeds and those of his brother, the last of his family beside the Sect Leader Jin.

For Sect Leader Jiang, it’s just another day of enduring a tired soul and a damaged heart, pasted back together with anger and grief. He expects the day to end with his finally seeing his family and those of his Sect who died in the Wen attack, again.

He closes his eyes, takes his last breath, and lets go. The heavens greet him and Jiang Cheng sees his family once more.

He doesn’t expect to take another breath until his next reincarnation which will hopefully be happier than his current one has been.

Jiang Cheng does not expect to cough dusty air from his lungs and open his eyes to the sight of a fierce corpse intent on killing him.

Instinct honed by battle and years of training serve him well as Jiang Cheng kicks out at the corpse, sending it careening back with an application of spiritual energy. His hand scrambles for his sword, for Zidian but finds only dirt. He has no weapon but his body and his core.

Jiang Cheng grits his teeth. So be it.

He jumps to his feet, stumbling when the strength of his core seems greater than his body can handle, but recovers well enough to drop into a open-handed stance. The corpse moves toward him at speed and, just as it is close enough for Jiang Cheng to strike, somebody slams into it and away from him.

In the moment it takes Jiang Cheng to register the identity of the person who just barrelled into a fierce corpse, a half-dozen purple-robed cultivators appear from the darkness of what he realises are trees. He’s in a forest. The humidity in the air tells him its a Yunmeng forest, but figuring out where he is suddenly isn’t important anymore when he gets a glimpse of some of the faces of the cultivators.

_He recognises them. _

Shidi’s he’d seen slaughtered by Wen-dogs. His disciples, his responsibility and here they are; coming to his rescue like he was a child again.

Is this his heaven?

Jiang Cheng looks around. He’s in a small clearing, ground recently disturbed by what he assumed had been the fierce corpse rising. A glimmer of silver on the ground reveals Sandu’s location and he immediately picks it up, relieved to have it in his grip again.

Everything is easier with Sandu.

“Drop it Corpse!”

Jiang Cheng looks in the direction of the fierce corpse that had attacked him, expecting it to be holding something, but it was down on the ground, pinned by a very, very familiar blade.

His father’s.

That was his father’s sword. That meant-

“I said, drop it!” Someone shouts. Fifth shidi, Jiang Cheng guesses, judging by the tone.

He looks at the children he’d seen die once, and realises, with a jolt, that fifth shidi is talking to him!

“What? I’m not a corpse!” Jiang Cheng exclaims and then almost let’s out a surprised shout because his voice—his voice.

He sounds like a child! 

Jiang Cheng looks down at his hands gripping Sandu. Those are not the hands of a Sect Leader of one-hundred-and-three years. Those are- those-

“A fierce corpse cannot speak.” His father’s voice, the voice of Jiang Fengmian. “My son is dead, who are you to use his body so?”

Pingheng glows a pale violet in his father’s grip and Jiang stares at his father, open mouthed.

“What?”

Jiang Fengmian’s face looks like it’s carved from ice with no emotion to speak of. He looks more like Hanguang-Jun than the father Jiang Cheng remembers.

It’s incredibly disconcerting.

“I’m not- but- what!”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t understand what is happening. If this is heaven for him until he reincarnates then it sucks.

“Who are you?” Jiang Fengmian’s voice grows as cold as his expression and Jiang Cheng realises that it wasn’t just his mother that he got his temper from. His father’s is colder, but no less intense.

“I’m Jiang Cheng!” He is and he doesn’t understand what is happening but he’s not going to be anyone but himself. But that doesn’t mean he can’t improvise.

A childhood spent growing up with Wei Wuxian and then being the youngest Sect Leader during a war taught Jiang Cheng a lot. Mainly that he can bullshit just as good as his brother is he really, really needs to.

“I have- I’ve been sent back!” He exclaims, holding Sandu and pushing his spiritual energy into it to make the blade glow a deeper purple than his father’s blade. “I have come back from the heavens to protect the Sect! I swear on my sword and my core!”

Wei Wuxian would be proud of his attempt to not get attacked by his own father and shidi’s. Speaking of Wei Wuxian…

“Why should I believe you?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t splutter in shock but it’s a near thing. He has no idea why his father should believe him be abuse Jiang Cheng doesn’t actually know what’s going on but he doesn’t want to die in the afterlife. That would just be embarrassing.

“I don’t know!” Jiang Cheng exclaims in frustration. “You never paid me any attention when Wei Wuxian was all you ever cared about!” There’s a ripple of surprise in the group of disciples and even his father’s face shows a crack in the stone facade at the jab at his father’s favouritism. “Honestly, I’m over it! But it’s not like you know enough about me for me to give you a reason to believe me in the first place!”

Jiang Cheng snorts. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Believe what you want, I don’t care.”

He has spent literal decades coming to terms with his father’s lack of favour for him and his mother’s general disappointment in him. He’s over it.

“A-Cheng.”

Pingheng drops to the ground and Jiang Cheng finds himself wrapped in an embrace he barely remembers. His father is real and solid and clinging to him with the same kind of desperate relief that Jiang Cheng clung to Wei Wuxian all those months after Lotus Pier was destroyed.

It’s the kind of embrace that is full of emotions that can’t be said aloud.

He doesn’t drop Sandu—he’s not his father and he fought in a war, he won’t drop his weapon—when he wraps his much smaller arms around his father’s chest and clings right back.

Jiang Cheng has no idea what’s going on but his father is weeping silently as he holds him and Jiang Cheng can’t remain emotionally distant from that. He just can’t.

Apparently, this afterlife has him dead as a child and his family and Sect have mourned him. What this means, Jiang Cheng doesn’t know, doesn’t really care, because right now he’s in his father’s arms for the first time since he was a small child and that’s more important than figuring out what the hell is going on.

One thing Jiang Cheng knows is a priority however is to find out where his shixiong is. Wei Wuxian will have some idea of what is happening; he always does.

Although he’s expecting it, the sight of Lotus Pier as he remembers it from his childhood is disorienting enough that Jiang Cheng wobbles on Sandu as they come in to land. His father reaches out to steady him, close enough to do so with ease and he’s been hovering around Jiang Cheng since he accepted his son is somehow alive again.

Jiang Cheng steadies himself and dismounts Sandu smoothly, and looks around his home with a more open expression than he intends to have judging by the look his father is giving him. He would hide it, the emotions he feels looking at Lotus Pier as it was before the Wen attack, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t want to. He’s spent one lifetime hiding his feelings, he refuses to spend another doing the same.

Not when he understands how precious this time is.

Of course, his emotional journey at seeing his home unharmed is ruined by the sound of his mother’s voice, loud and very angry-sounding, rapidly approaching.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t sigh because he loves his mother, he does, but she was such a bitter, angry woman who had taught Jiang Cheng to fear showing his soft-side to those who mattered most to him. The Madam Yu, Jiang Cheng remembers was one consumed by resentment toward her husband for bringing home an orphan that was the son of two people her husband loved. After raising his nephew, Jiang Cheng can’t accept his mother’s behaviour as anything but motivated by spite and hate. Perhaps pain.

Whatever this afterlife is for him, it’s giving Jiang Cheng the chance to right wrongs to his family and his brother then, by the heavens, he’s going to take it!

“What do you think you’re doing, Jiang Fengmian: leaving me with that child! He’s useless!”

Jiang Cheng has no clue what his mother is angry about precisely but he knows exactly who she’s talking about. Wei Wuxian. And where his shixiong is, his A-jie isn’t far behind.

It’s unbecoming of him to break into a run, leaving his father and shidi’s where they landed, but Jiang Cheng’s priorities are his siblings. Seeing his mother would be nice in that distant way seeing someone he once valued the opinion of, but he’s lived so long now without her that Madam Yu is less a priority than his siblings.

That’s probably an uncharitable thing to think about his mother but, well, Jiang Cheng won’t lie about the fact that A-jie definitely did more mothering of him and Wei Wuxian than Madam Yu ever did.

Resenting your children because you resent your husband is definitely not a sound basis upon which to build a family, let alone a Sect. Jiang Cheng can admit that, even if it’s only to himself.

The sight of his mother heading straight toward the landing point is a nice sight nonetheless. The last he saw of his mother, she had been fighting Wen Zhuliu with the fierceness she had shown all Jiang Cheng’s life. Seeing her in her prime is something he wishes he’d treasured when he’d had the chance. He has the chance again.

“Mother!” He exclaims, smiling in a way he hasn’t ever smiled at her before. He loves her still; she’s his mother.

His smile is ripped away when Madam Yu let’s out a cry of what sounds like horror and Zidian arcs out in a crackling purple chord that smashes into Jiang Cheng and sends him crashing into boxes of lotus seeds.

Shaking the dizziness from his head, Jiang Cheng realises that if his father thought him dead then it would stand to reason that his mother would have too. His mother of the Meishan Yu. He’s lucky he still has his head_ attached to his body_.

“Ziyuan! Stop!” His father shouts and Jiang Cheng looks up to see his mother with her blade drawn moving toward him with deadly intent.

Right. The whole ‘dead thing’.

“He’s alive! A-Cheng is alive!”

Madam Yu’s approach falters at those words but there are tears in her eyes and a determined, grief-stricken expression on her face that tells Jiang Cheng that his mother is not going to stop.

She must think he’s a conscious corpse like Wen Ning!

Talking to his mother when she’s like this is about as useful as talking to Wei Wuxian into not abandoning him for the Wen remnants had been. So Jiang Cheng doesn’t bother.

He vaults up from where he’s still sort of kneeling among broken boxes of lotus seeds, drawing Sandu and parrying Zidian as it tries to throw him off his feet again.

Jiang Cheng focuses on his mother to the exclusion of all else, though he doesn’t lose the awareness battle dried into him of his surroundings. He needs to fend his mother off and falling into the lake would not help with that.

Fighting his mother is a little bit like the one time Jiang Cheng spared with Nie Mingjue but without the pressure of not making an utter fool of himself. No, the pressure here is not having his head separated from his body by his mother.

Jilie, his mother’s sword, is as fierce as its master, but Jiang Cheng has more years of battle under his belt than his mother and father both. Sandu was more than a match for Jilie but Zidian was still a problem.

Parrying her attacks, Jiang Cheng focused on defending himself rather than attacking his mother; distantly registering the sound of his father calling for his mother to stop, for Jiang Cheng to stop.

Jiang Cheng will stop when his mother stops.

The problem with fighting his mother is that Jiang Cheng has grown used to fighting with Zidian, not against it, and it makes it difficult to handle both Jilie and Zidian at the same time. Eventually his luck at dodging Zidian will run out, he knows that.

When it does, he’s not surprised. Jilie and Sandu are locked and Jiang Cheng can’t disengage fast enough to avoid Zidian arcing around to slice into his neck. The only thing he can do is let it injure his arm instead.

The spark of pain from Zidian wrapping around his forearm is enough to have Jiang Cheng curse and snap at the spiritual weapon with his own spiritual energy.

He doesn’t expect Zidian to unfurl from his arm and instead settle around his wrist, violet sparking disappearing as the weapon goes inert.

That, more than anything, has both his mother and him stop dead.

Jiang Cheng stares at Zidian wrapped around his wrist. “What the fuck?”

In hindsight, saying anything was probably a bad idea but swearing was the worst idea ever.

Madam Yu and Jiang Fengmian both state at him with near identical looks of disapproval at his profanity which is just hilarious, really. Jiang Cheng’s entire political history is cursing, shouting, threats of violence, and profanity.

Still, he is somewhere around twelve and twelve-year-olds do not battle their mothers to a stand still and curse. But, this is Jiang Cheng’s afterlife so he can do what he wants, parental disapproval be damned.

Whether it’s his swearing, his father’s words finally penetrating his mother’s battle focus, or the fact that Zidian has in fact decided Jiang Cheng is fine, Yu Ziyuan pulls away from Jiang Cheng and studies him with a more open expression than he’s ever seen on his mother.

“Jiang Cheng?” Hearing his mother say his name so tentatively, sounding so uncertain, is just another surprise on top of more surprises.

He nods warily, unsure if his mother will start shouting at him for swearing, fighting her, or whatever other reason madam Yu can no doubt think of. Jiang Cheng certainly doesn’t expect his mother to drop her sword and drag him into a hug.

He can literally count on one hand how many times he’s been hugged by his mother. This makes hug number three; and he’s including the hugs from his previous life too.

Madam Yu doesn’t cry like Jiang Fengmian did but there’s a slight shaking to her shoulders that tells Jiang Cheng that she probably would if she ever allowed herself to be that emotionally vulnerable. His father approaches carefully, as mindful of his wife’s temper as ever, and gently joins the embrace; an arm around his wife and Jiang Cheng each.

This, this Jiang Cheng has never experienced. Both of his parents embracing him at the same time. The dashed wishes of the child that Jiang Cheng was long ago rise up and have him clinging to his parents with a desperation he doesn’t expect of himself. He’d reconciled his parents memory with his own failings long ago; he doesn’t need this from them but… It’s nice.

Jiang Cheng deserves nice things after all the crap he’s lived through.

The reunion with A-Jie and Wei Wuxian is either going to be wonderful or possibly worse than his mother realising he’s not dead. Jiang Cheng honestly doesn’t know which it’s going to he but he strongly suspects it’s going to involve a lot of shouting and crying at the least.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t pride himself on being right about things like Wei Wuxian always had, but he’s a little proud of himself for guessing rightly about the shouting and tears. He’s less proud when the source of shouting is his sister and tears is his brother.

Mostly because he doesn’t know how to handle either of those things separately, let alone at the same time.

Jiang Cheng feels perfectly justified in mumbling the same excuse he gave his father to A-Jie as she gives him the same look Madam Yu always gave him; expectant. At least, Jiang Yanli expects an explanation whereas his mother expected perfection.

Wei Wuxian is, in comparison to A-Jie near catatonic, clinging to Jiang Cheng the way he used to whenever someone mentioned dogs or he saw one. It’s terror and fear and a desperate, desperate need for comfort. Jiang Cheng, after literal decades spent trying to be less emotionally constipated, complies readily and pulls his shixiong into a hug that buries Wei Wuxian’s head against his chest.

Jiang Cheng used to do that with A-Ling all the time when his nephew was young and needed comfort after a nightmare. The experience comes in handy with his brother.

“I’m sorry, A-Jie, I didn’t plan on dying in the first place, let alone being thrown back by the heavens to protect the Sect,” Jiang Cheng says and there’s more sarcasm to his words than there should be considering the way his sister actually glares at him. “I’m sorry for hurting you all.”

A-Jie’s glare softens at those words. Jiang Cheng means them for a lot more than just being dead in his afterlife here. He means them for failing his sister and her husband, for not being a better uncle, for pushing Wei Wuxian away, for being so ignorant that he didn’t even realise his core was actually his brothers…

Jiang Cheng is sorry for a lot of things.

“You are forgiven A-Cheng,” A-Jie tells him, smiling at last as she joins Wei Wuxian in hugging Jiang Cheng. “Do not do it again.”

“I definitely don’t plan to, no,” Jiang Cheng promises, smiling despite himself because he has his siblings again. They’re alive and safe and though they’ve been grieving him, he knows they’ll be happy again soon enough.

And he’s going to keep them that way. Even if he has to go and kill Wen Ruohan himself at the tender age of twelve. Possibly Jin Guangyao- wait, it’d be Meng Yao still. Su She too, maybe.

Jiang Cheng sighs into his siblings embrace. He’s going to have to write a list.

The years of being a Sect Leader with no family and a newly rebuilt Sect will come in handy now that Jiang Cheng is going to have to single-handedly organise protection of Lotus Pier and possibly kill several cultivators without getting caught. He can do it, he’s of Yunmeng Jiang, but it’s going to be annoying with Sect Heir duties.

Judging by the hair pierce and robes Wei Wuxian wears, Jiang Cheng figures his father made him the Sect Heir after Jiang Cheng’s… Demise. Of course, Wei Wuxian would be a wonderful Sect Heir and Leader for Yunmeng Jiang, Jiang Cheng has come to accept this about his shixiong and not resent him for it. But Jiang Cheng gets the feeling that Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to be Sect Heir instead of Jiang Cheng.

Considering that Wei Wuxian had become Sect Heir thanks to the Wen attack, Jiang Cheng trusts that his brother has been carrying out Sect Heir duties just fine. The admission by Wei Wuxian that he has in fact been completely useless in the week since Jiang Cheng’s death is… Surprising.

But it’s not, not really, when Jiang Cheng thinks about it. Wei Wuxian loves him—he hasn’t shied away from this fact for three decades, he’s not about to start shying away from it now—and Jiang Cheng himself had been pretty useless those first few days after the Wen attack and then Wei Wuxian’s disappearance. He understands.

“You’re meant to be the next Sect Leader, anyway,” Wei Wuxian mumbles into Jiang Cheng’s robes.

“Maybe, but you’ll be my Sect Heir when I do,” Jiang Cheng replies, calmly staring at Wei Wuxian’s shocked expression. “I’m serious. A-Jie will marry and leave Lotus Pier, but you’re Head Disciple and will become Sect Heir when I take over from father.”

Wei Wuxian stares at him. He looks a bit like a koi fish.

Jiang Cheng kindly does not tell him that.

“But- Madam Yu-“ Wei Wuxian splitters and Jiang Cheng cuts him off.

“Mother is not Sect Leader or Sect Heir,” Jiang Cheng says firmly. “It is not her decision who I have as my heir. I love her but you are my brother and I will not allow anyone to treat you like you are unworthy of being treated as my brother. Not even mother.”

It seems that Jiang Cheng can reduce Wei Wuxian to speechless by a) dying and reviving, and b) declaring him his brother and being willing to fight Madam Yu about it.

Considering Jiang Cheng has already fought his mother today, he’s relatively confident he could beat her if it came to that; even if he’s twelve. He’d rather it didn’t but Jiang Cheng has learnt to plan for contingencies as a Sect Leader.

You never knew if you were going to reveal a major plot to undermine the Great Sects and frame your brother for crimes he didn’t commit, after all.

Speaking of contingencies, Jiang Cheng wonders if it would be wise to reach out to Gusu Lan earlier than the Disciple Exchange in three years. The Lan would be able to offer assurances to the other Sects that Jiang Cheng really isn’t dead, and it would afford him the chance to introduce Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian sooner. Whilst he’d much rather gouge his eyes out than witness his brother being so shameless with the Second Jade of Lan, Jiang Cheng remembers how happy his shixiong had been with Hanguang-Jun and Jiang Cheng will do whatever he has to, to make sure his siblings are happy.

Even if he has to endure shameless flirting and truly obnoxious displays of affection.  

He’ll have to figure something out regarding the peacock for A-Jie too. Jiang Cheng sighs. The things he does for those he loves. 

[tes-trash-blog]

🌙 hmm... an age old question but opinion on the whole Imperials Vs Stormcloaks fiasco Skyrim tried to feed us?

*cracks neck*

Goodbye follower count, I’m going in!

I’m going to preface this with a confession: In my first ever playthrough of Skyrim (2014), I did side with the Imperials. On my second, I sided with the Stormcloaks. Since then, I have done three more playthroughs on the Stormcloak side, and three more on the Imperial side. In four more still my Dragonborn was neutral, slaying Alduin without ever taking a side. In my playthroughs, especially the ones after 2016, I’ve developed my own opinions about the Imperials and Stormcloaks alike.

In order to better articulate my opinion, we must first briefly examine four factors: the American landscape in which Skyrim was conceived, Skyrim itself and its portrayal of the Imperials and Stormcloaks (and the Thalmor), and Umberto Eco, the usage of terms like “fascism” and especially “Nazism” in American popular culture, and how this all relates to the Imperial/Stormcloak fiasco.

So let’s get started.

Part 1: Thanks, Obama.

In 2008, Barack Obama was elected as the 44th President of the United States. It was a landslide victory against Republican runner John McCain, a conserative who frequently brought up his service in the Vietnam War (and his time as a prisoner of war) during his campaign, as well as his years of service in political office. In a move to make his (very white, very male) campaign seem more inclusive in the face of the frontrunners of the Democratic campaign (Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama), he appointed Sarah Palin as his VP. She was the only conservative woman who agreed to be his running mate, as all three  conservative women in the Senate already said no, and the Republicans couldn’t find a black conservative.

(I’m not making this up.)

Anyway, come 2008, the conservatives lose their goddamn minds because Bush’s reign of actual terror was over, a Black man is now President and Whiteness is in peril. This was before the term “triggered” became a popular sneer in the conservative dictionary, but “snowflake” was used a lot. Come 2009, the Tea Party emerges. And now we get to the crux of my, uh, observation.

For the young, uninitiated, or non-Americans who are thinking “What the fuck is wrong with America”, the Tea Party Movement was/is a rash of hardline rightwingers who, still licking their wounds from a sound beating by the Democrats in the 2008 election, sought to rebrand themselves. With some bootstrap lifting and millions of dollars in funding from media tycoons such as the Koch brothers, the Tea Party made its official debut in 2010 after the signing of the Affordable Healthcare Act. Their message was simple: It’s time to take America back from the lazy, the entitled, and the “uppity”. What was really just a rehash of a song and dance that’s been turning its ugly white head since at least 1964 gained something of a stranglehold on America, in spite of its relatively small size of active members. It hit all the notes: a populist movement rooted in the perceived threats to their faith, their culture, and their social and economic capital.

They also believed shit like this:

For instance, Tea Partiers are more likely than other conservatives to agree with statements such as “If blacks would only try harder they could be just as well off as whites,” and are more likely to disagree with statements like “Generations of slavery and discrimination have created conditions that make it difficult for blacks to work their way out of the lower class.” (Williamson, 34)

Like I said. Since 1964.

What made the Tea Party different from the other conservative temper tantrums was one thing: Internet access. All of a sudden, these angry white men had an outlet for voicing their rages, and an open recruiting forum for other malcontents and disaffected youths. I’m not implying the Tea Party had anything to do with Gamergate, nor that Gamergate had anything to do with the rise of the alt-right or whatever these tennybopper neo-Nazis are calling themselves now, but I am saying those circles at least touch in a Venn diagram.

“But tes-trash-blog! What do the machinations of American politics have to do with Elves?” you may ask. Well dear reader, this leads me to..

Part 2: Hey, you! You’re finally awake!

Skyrim was an overnight hit. On release, The Elder Scrolls 5 generated 450 million dollars on its opening weekend alone. This game sold for around 20 million copies, not including Special Edition, VR, or Switch, and continues to see an average of around 10,000 players a week 9 years later (Steamcharts).

And 20 million people see one thing first: A strong, noble Nord in captivity, telling you that you’re on your way to be executed by the Imperials, who are in bed with a scary, sneering bunch of High Elves dressed in black.  20 million people already were told who was the clear bad guy in this game, and it wasn’t the strong, noble Nord in captivity. I’ll be going into this more into Part 3, but suffice to say, the Imperials were already coded as Bad Guy by association. The Imperials decided to execute you, the player. They shot a man in the back because he ran from his own execution. He stole a horse, which was a crime punishable by death in those days. The game doesn’t tell you that part, and is content to say that Lokir was killed because he was in the same cart as the Stormcloaks.

Speaking of Imperials, the Third Empire is written as obtuse, corrupt, uncaring, and cruel. The Septim Dynasty is wrought with scandal and intrigue, plagued by conflict, and powerless to do anything about the Oblivion Crisis that almost ended the world. They flat out abandoned Morrowind and Summerset to better protect their own, offered no help during the Void Nights that destabilized the Khajiit, and worst of all, signed a treaty outlawing Talos worship. That is the crux on which the Stormcloak/Imperial conflict lies. These damned outsiders telling these humble Nords what to do and what not to do. They’re corrupt, lazy, and know nothing of the hardships these people endure, and now the nanny state Empire is telling them they don’t have the freedom to worship what they want? How dare they!

Going further, in the seat of Imperial power in Skyrim is none other than Jarl Elisif, a young widow who relies heavily on the advice of her (overwhelmingly male) thanes, stewards, and generals. She’s weak, thinks mostly of her dead husband, and is written as someone who overreacts to scenarios; the “legion of troops” to Wolfskull Cave over a farmer reporting strange noises, banning the Burning of King Olaf in the wake of her husband’s murder via Shout come to mind. Compare and contrast that to the seat of Stormcloak power, Windhelm. Ulfric spends his time pouring over the map of troop movements and discussing strategy when he’s not delivering his big damn “Why I Fight” speech. Elisif is weak, Ulfric is strong. The Jarl of Solitude is even told to tone it down during the armistice negotiations in Season Unending. She’s chastised by her own general. The first thing you see in Solitude is a man being executed for opening a gate. The first thing you see in Windhelm is two Nords harassing a Dark Elf woman and accusing her of being an Imperial spy.

Both are portrayed as horrific, but only one has bystanders decrying the acts of the offender. Only one has a relative in the crowd proclaim, “That’s my brother [they’re executing]!” The best you get with Suvaris is her confronting you about whether or not you “hate her kind”. Even a mouth breathing racist would be disinclined to say “yes” when confronted with the question of whether or not they’re racist, but that’s how the writers of Skyrim think racism works.

I acknowledge that this was an attempt at bothsidesism, but the handling was.. clumsy.

Part 3: Ur-Fascism, Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Bash The Stormcloaks

And now we move on to Umberto Eco, fiction writer, essayist, and writer of the famous essay Ur-Fascism. In short, Eco summarizes 14 separate properties of a fascist movement; it’s important to stress that this should not be treated as a checklist if a piece of media is fascist, or if a person is actually a Nazi, or to say “X is Bad Because Checklist”. It’s frankly impossible to even organize these points into a coherent system, as fascism is an ideology that is, by its nature, incoherent.

With that in mind, let’s run down the points:

1. “The Cult of Tradition”, characterized by cultural syncretism, even at the risk of internal contradiction. When all truth has already been revealed by Tradition, no new learning can occur, only further interpretation and refinement.

2. “The Rejection of Modernism”, which views the rationalistic development of Western culture since the Enlightenment as a descent into depravity. Eco distinguishes this from a rejection of superficial technological advancement, as many fascist regimes cite their industrial potency as proof of the vitality of their system.

3. “The Cult of Action for Action’s Sake”, which dictates that action is of value in itself, and should be taken without intellectual reflection. This, says Eco, is connected with anti-intellectualism and irrationalism, and often manifests in attacks on modern culture and science.

4. “Disagreement Is Treason” – Fascism devalues intellectual discourse and critical reasoning as barriers to action, as well as out of fear that such analysis will expose the contradictions embodied in a syncretistic faith.

5. “Fear of Difference", which fascism seeks to exploit and exacerbate, often in the form of racism or an appeal against foreigners and immigrants.

6. “Appeal to a Frustrated Middle Class”, fearing economic pressure from the demands and aspirations of lower social groups.

7. “Obsession with a Plot” and the hyping-up of an enemy threat. This often combines an appeal to xenophobia with a fear of disloyalty and sabotage from marginalized groups living within the society (such as the German elite’s ‘fear’ of the 1930s Jewish populace’s businesses and well-doings, or any anti-Semitic conspiracy ever).

8. Fascist societies rhetorically cast their enemies as “at the same time too strong and too weak.” On the one hand, fascists play up the power of certain disfavored elites to encourage in their followers a sense of grievance and humiliation. On the other hand, fascist leaders point to the decadence of those elites as proof of their ultimate feebleness in the face of an overwhelming popular will.

9. “Pacifism is Trafficking with the Enemy” because “Life is Permanent Warfare” – there must always be an enemy to fight. Both fascist Germany under Hitler and Italy under Mussolini worked first to organize and clean up their respective countries and then build the war machines that they later intended to and did use, despite Germany being under restrictions of the Versailles treaty to NOT build a military force. This principle leads to a fundamental contradiction within fascism: the incompatibility of ultimate triumph with perpetual war.

10. “Contempt for the Weak”, which is uncomfortably married to a chauvinistic popular elitism, in which every member of society is superior to outsiders by virtue of belonging to the in-group. Eco sees in these attitudes the root of a deep tension in the fundamentally hierarchical structure of fascist polities, as they encourage leaders to despise their underlings, up to the ultimate Leader who holds the whole country in contempt for having allowed him to overtake it by force.

11. “Everybody is Educated to Become a Hero”, which leads to the embrace of a cult of death. As Eco observes, “[t]he Ur-Fascist hero is impatient to die. In his impatience, he more frequently sends other people to death.”

12. “Machismo”, which sublimates the difficult work of permanent war and heroism into the sexual sphere. Fascists thus hold “both disdain for women and intolerance and condemnation of nonstandard sexual habits, from chastity to homosexuality.”

13. “Selective Populism” – The People, conceived monolithically, have a Common Will, distinct from and superior to the viewpoint of any individual. As no mass of people can ever be truly unanimous, the Leader holds himself out as the interpreter of the popular will (though truly he dictates it). Fascists use this concept to delegitimize democratic institutions they accuse of “no longer represent[ing] the Voice of the People.”

14. “Newspeak” – Fascism employs and promotes an impoverished vocabulary in order to limit critical reasoning.

I did copy and paste the list from Wikipedia, but you can read the full essay here. It’s 9 pages long. You can do it, I have faith in you.

You may notice that you can’t really shorthand these concepts, or at least not in an aesthetically pleasing way. However, you can point to the most infamous of fascist regimes and take their aesthetic instead. You see it in Star Wars with the Empire (hmm) and the First Order, in Star Trek with the Mirrorverse and the Cardassian Dominion (hmm), and in the.. Oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue..

Oh, yeah. The Thalmor. They dress in dark colors, are a foreign power trying to exert their influence on the downtrodden Nord, enact purges, and scream about Elven superiority. The Thalmor express every surface level perception of a Nazi in American popular culture. TVTropes has already pretty well covered this ground in their Video Games section of A Nazi By Any Other Name, so I won’t go too much into here seeing as I’m already at the 2000 word mark. Suffice to say, it’s hard to think Bethesda wasn’t trying to make the player associate the 4th Era Altmer with the 1930’s German.

And in doing so, they accidentally created a group that is.. Well, you’ve read the essay or at least the 14 points. Try and tell me how many of them don’t apply to Nordic culture. What grabs me the most are points 9, 11, and 13: life is a perpetual struggle in which you must emerge victorious, a culture of Heroes impatient to die in a glorious fashion, and the Common Will that is enacted and reinforced by one strongman leader. You see these elements in play in Nord culture, in Stormcloak ideology especially. I, for one, hear what Galmar really means when he says “We will make Skyrim beautiful again”. I hear the echoes in George W Bush’s speeches and McCain’s campaign when Ulfric talks of duty and service, of “fighting because Skyrim needs heroes, and there’s no one else but us.”

It’s less of a dog whistle and more of a foghorn if you ask me. And to go back to part 2, this is a message that 20 million played. Not all of them are Stormcloak stans, but that compelling message was still present. Americans love being a strongman hero in their media; we eat that shit up. The setup was enough: you’re a lone hero about to be executed by milquetoast Imperials and Nazi-coded Thalmor. The story was enough: a strong man rebels against a system gone awry, one that seeks to destroy his way of life. 

It was enough to compel a “fashwave” artist to take on the monkier Stormcloak(Hann). It was enough that Skyrim was lauded as a “real” game instead of say, Depression Quest, and to justify ruining a game developer’s life over it.

It was enough that when Skyrim came out in 2011, the game did not do so well in Germany because of these elements, because the game was written for you to be sympathetic towards these very white, very blond and Ayran-coded Nords. I can’t speak for the popularity of the game now in Germany, but when I lived there, there were a few raised eyebrows among my age group about the message of the game.

I think about that a lot, especially when the tesblr discourse heats up about the Stormcloaks. I see how visibly upset people get when someone throws shade at Ulfric. The talk of “it’s just a video game” and “lul get triggered” starts to look less like passive dismissal and shoddy trolling and more a kind of funhouse mirror to how they really think.

I can’t lie, it reminds me so much of 2009, of these angry people screaming racial slurs on the Internet because there’s a Black president or posting sexist screeds because Michelle Obama wanted kids to have access to healthy meals. It reminds me of the kid in my sophomore class who said he was going to “take out” Obama on his inauguration day. He was 15 years old then. He’s a father now.

Hell, it reminds me of right now, of Republican Senators demanding civility and tone policing as they kowtow to an actual fascist. The Stormcloak in the Reach camp “had to do something” about the Empire telling him and his what to do, and the neighbor I used to dogsit for had to do something too. I don’t watch his dogs anymore. When I told him I wouldn’t, he tried to make himself the victim and say I was getting political about dog sitting. It’s just two dogs. It’s just a video game. All political messages are just imaginary, snowflake.

But it’s really not, is it now?

TL;DR and Sources

TL;DR: The imperials are portrayed as weak and effectual, as the bootlicker to the Thalmor, and the writers were so busy trying to make one side look bad and weak they inadvertently made actual fascists.

Even though this is pretty long, this really only scratches the surface of the.. Well, everything. In all honesty this is just a very condensed version of my opinion. Big shockeroo, there.

Do keep in mind that this isn’t a condemnation of Skyrim. Lord knows I love that game, or I wouldn’t have this blog. This also isn’t a damning of people who play the game and side with the Stormcloaks, or think Ulfric is hot, or don’t like the Thalmor or what have you. You do you, fam. You do you. This is my observation and opinion on one aspect of the game, just with some tasty sources to better paint a picture of where I personally formed my opinion.

This also isn’t to say that I’m trying to draw a 1:1 comparison between The Elder Scrolls and reality, or that Ulfric is obviously a McCain/Trump/Hitler expy, but Skyrim is, like all things, a product of the minds that created it. Skyrim didn’t happen in an apolitical vacuum, and apolitical stories about war simply do not exist. Anyone who tells you otherwise is simply reinforcing the status quo, and it is our responsibility as people who consume this media to question it, and that status quo they so dearly wish to hang on to.

Also, Elisif hot.

Sources:

Eco, Umberto. “Ur-Fascism”. The New York Review of Books. 1995. https://www.pegc.us/archive/Articles/eco_ur-fascism.pdf>

Williamson, Venssa, Skocpol, Theda and Coggin, John. “The Tea Party and the Remaking of Republican Conservatism”. Perspectives on Politics, Volume 9. March 2011. https://scholar.harvard.edu/files/williamson/files/tea_party_pop_0.pdf>

The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Steamcharts.com https://steamcharts.com/app/72850>

Schreier, Jason. “Bethesda Ships 7M Skyrim, Earns About $450M”. Wired. November 16, 2011. https://www.wired.com/2011/11/skyrim-sales/>

Hann, Michael. “‘Fashwave” - synth music co-opted by the far right”. The Guardian. December 2014. https://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2016/dec/14/fashwave-synth-music-co-opted-by-the-far-right>

[vamonumentlandscape]

Washington D.C: Day 1

Our first stop on our trip was to Lorton, more specifically the Occoquan Historic District. The Occoquan Regional Park is on the land where the inmates of the Lorton Work House Prison worked in the brick kilns. Only one survives today, but it gives you a look at what once took over the large park space by the river. After eating at the cute riverside spot Brickmakers, we walked up the hill to see the nearly complete Turning Point Suffragist Memorial. According to the park’s website, over 150 women were imprisoned at the Lorton Work House in relation to the women’s suffrage movement from June to December of 1917. The “Silent Sentinels”, as the monument described, were the women who peacefully demonstrated outside the White House, but were detained and charged with falsified information. Those charges led them to be imprisoned at Lorton or in the District of Columbia Jail. These brave suffragists, like Carrie Chapman Catt, Alice Paul, and Lucy Burns, were the sparks of change that paved the way for women's rights. Paul and Burns both endured much pain fighting for their rights, like with the notoriously long hunger strikes they would enact when imprisoned. The statues done for Paul and Catt are beautiful depictions and show their strengths as activists. Alice Paul is holding her famous picket sign, MR. PRESIDENT HOW LONG MUST WOMEN WAIT FOR LIBERTY, to greet you at the beginning of the memorial. After you have rounded out the beautiful garden path, you end with seeing Carrie Chapman Catt with a big bouquet of flowers to symbolize their success. While Paul took the more radicalized approach with Burns which they picked up from British suffragists, Catt was a peaceful activist who took a more amicable approach. Another interesting piece of the memorial was the original White House Fence from Wilson’s time in office on display. It was powerful to see the large black fencing these brave women stood in front of almost daily to fight for their rights. The goal of women’s suffrage never would have been achieved without all of these brave women.

Unveiled in 1876, the Emancipation Memorial (also known as the Freedmen’s Memorial) has been controversial since its unveiling. Though the sculpture of Lincoln and a former enslaved person was funded by free African-Americans, there was some shock during the dedication ceremony in response to the deification of Lincoln and the stance of the African-American male. In his keynote address, Frederick Douglass expressed some criticism for President Lincoln. In the end, Douglass acknowledged an “earnest sympathy” for Lincoln. When talking about this statue in the spring semester, we knew that a stop at this memorial was essential. During a hot afternoon, Lincoln Park was packed with families with their children and their four-legged friends. We took a close look at the statue that has garnered more-recent criticism from activists like Glenn Foster of Palm Collective, who we were fortunate enough to talk to just a few weeks ago. Foster believes that a hidden narrative exists with the statue actively marginalizing African-Americans. “What does it mean for an African-American child to see the statue?” Foster asked. As we saw it with our own eyes, we understood why the memorial was so controversial. Though Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation freed enslaved persons in the South and made the cessation of slavery the goal of the Union during the Civil War, we were taken aback by the depiction of the man kneeling at Lincoln’s feet. It is problematic, to say the least, and requires a sign for historical context if the city does not take it down. Just across from the Emancipation Memorial is a statue that honors Mary Bethune. As a child of formerly enslaved persons, Bethune became a notable educator, civil rights activist, philanthropist, and feminist. She was the leader of many organizations like the National Association for Colored Women and was an adviser to President Franklin D. Roosevelt. She most notably started a school for African-American students in Daytona Beach, Florida, which became Bethune-Cookman University. Throughout the life of “The First Lady of the Struggle,” she never gave up in standing up for the right to improved opportunities for African-Americans. The Bethune monument, which was unveiled in 1974, stood in direct contrast to the feelings we had with the Emancipation Memorial. We may not know what should be done with the depiction of Lincoln, but it certainly requires some sort of action. Lincoln will always be one of the most consequential presidents of our history, but our society must be honest in interpreting his legacy along with that of African-Americans.

We took a quick ride on the Metro over to the L’Enfant Plaza stop to see the memorial for Dwight D. Eisenhower in front of the Department of Education. A statue of a young Eisenhower raised in Abilene, Kansas can be seen looking towards his future of being the General that commanded the D-Day invasion in Nazi-occupied France and the 34th President of the United States. All depictions of Eisenhower and his close allies during his time in the military and the Oval Office are beautifully done. The memorial shows the powerful presence that Eisenhower had in every role that he had. We made sure to also read through the speeches on the back of the marble pedestals, which included his famous farewell address where he warned of a military-industrial complex. During his presidency, Eisenhower sent in Federal troops to ensure the integration of schools in Little Rock, Arkansas. His largest project would be the Interstate Highway System, which has been the way that most Americans get around ever since. One can understand why Eisenhower is seen as a President of a higher echelon. We certainly did after viewing this memorial.

In response to the murder of George Floyd in 2020 and in support of calls for justice, Mayor Muriel Bowser of Washington D.C. supported the renaming of a section of 16th Street NW to Black Lives Matter Plaza. This section of the street is located at the Lafayette Square end of the White House. This action may have been a jab at the former president, who did not look favorably upon calls for police reform, but it was also a move to show that the city was listening and understood where people were coming from. The vast majority of protests were not composed of “thugs” and “looters” as charged by the media, but involved peaceful calls for ending police brutality and systemic racism. We were able to walk on the bright yellow letters that spelled Black Lives Matter. Though it has been over a year since most people were out in the streets of Washington protesting, the street still felt like a pilgrimage place for all Americans. Saying the words “Black Lives Matter” should not be treated as taboo and it is not claiming that other lives do not matter. BLM is all about the issue at hand, which is that African-Americans are disproportionately targeted by police, even when they are unarmed. Unwarranted killings and attacks by those meant to protect must end, and they must end now. As evidenced by our stop at this living memorial, the movement is here to stay and legislation must be passed in favor of fulfilling justice for all.

After seeing Black Lives Matter Plaza, we took a stroll to Lafayette Square just across from the White House. Just like BLM Plaza, this park is a social hub for tourists and residents alike. It was great to be able to walk upon this park to see the beauty of the White House up close. With the previous President, no one had been able to get very close for a while. Music, voices, laughter, footsteps, and the whirr of the sidewalk scooters filled the air. The beautiful weather made it an even better atmosphere. The one statue that took us off guard while enjoying the grounds was of Andrew Jackson. He is one of the most controversial presidents in American History. His fame originates from being a famous soldier in the wars against Native Americans. Later the “common man” became more popular as he was not an elitist running for president. Duels were something he took part in quite frequently as we have learned. Rebecca Grawl, an alumnae from Randolph-Macon Woman’s College and our tour guide for part of DC, told us that he actually had been shot at around 12 times and had 2 bullets lodged in him from previous duels. The worst part of his legacy was the Indian Removal Act of 1830 that led to the infamous Trail of Tears. Thousands of Natives were displaced, died of disease and exhaustion, and were forced out of their homes. Another one of his blunders was his dismantlement of the National Bank. It is ironic that the man who destroyed and hated the national currency of the United States resides on the twenty dollar bill. Another fact learned from Rebecca Grawl was that his equestrian statue is wrong. There is a rule for when there is an equestrian statue built for someone - the front two feet symbolize how the rider passed away. Two feet on the ground means that they died of natural causes, one foot off of the ground means they died due to an injury or disease from battle, and two feet off the ground means they were killed in battle. Jackson’s horse has two feet off of the ground, yet he was not killed in battle. Despite his title of being an American president and winning the popular vote three times for president, his legacy is troubling to say the least.

Our last stop for the day before heading to Shake Shack (YUM!) was the World War I Memorial. It is unfinished, but what is complete is absolutely stunning. A statue of John J. Pershing towers over the memorial representing his incredible military leadership of U.S. troops during The Great War. Beside his grand statue are maps engraved in gold, red, and blue on black granite with descriptions of each campaign. This is a place for reflection and education as many of those lost in the war may only have distant descendants living and those who visit are mostly coming to learn. The largest unfinished part of the memorial is right behind the small pool of water. A Soldier’s Journey is a large sculpture that follows a young male soldier through the “myth of a hero’s journey” from home, to the battlefront, and his return home where he is changed from the war. This part of the memorial will be complete in 2024 and we all are eager to return to see the finished product.

[problematicwelshman]

Michael Sheen on Good Omens, sex scenes, and why Brexit led to his break-up

28 NOVEMBER 2018 • 4:18PM

Michael Sheen may be 49, and sporting a grey beard these days, but mention Martians and the actor reverts to a breathless, giddy teenager.

It all stems back to one evening when Sheen was about 12 years old. “It was a significant moment in my life,” he tells me over coffee in a London hotel. “My cousin Hugh was babysitting, and he put on Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds.

“I remember us lying there, listening in bed in the dark. It absolutely terrified me, but I got obsessed with it. I’m worryingly into it. I know every single note, every word.”

Wayne’s 1978 rock opera has had a similar effect on countless fans, even if it prompts a bemused shrug from non-converts. Without ever topping the charts, it has slowly become one of the best-selling British albums of all time, and this Friday begins a stadium tour featuring a 35-foot fire-breathing Martian and a 3D hologram of Liam Neeson. It’s a geeky novelty, but one of epic proportions.

When Wayne asked Sheen if he would star in a new radio drama-style version for the album’s 40th anniversary, alongside Taron Egerton and Ade Edmondson, the Welsh actor “bit his hand off”. It had always been his dream. For decades, whether doing serious political dramas such as Frost/Nixon or the great roles of classical theatre – Hamlet, Henry V – the one part Sheen really wanted involved Martians saying “ulla-ulla”.

“When I was doing Caligula at the Donmar [in 2003], I was filming The Deal during the day – which was the first time I’d played Tony Blair,” he says. “I’d be so tired, to wake myself up [before the play] I would do whole sections of War of the Worlds.” He can even beatbox the sound effects, he adds proudly. “The other guys in the dressing room would all be really pissed off with me - but I was playing Caligula, so they had to put up with it.”

Enthusing about an outtake on a collectors version of the album where you can hear Richard Burton coughing, Sheen briefly slips into an impression of the late actor. It’s eerily spot-on. Burton played the role he takes in the new version, which feels apt; growing up in Port Talbot, Sheen was aware of following in his footsteps.

“Coming from the same town as him really helped,” he says. “It’s place you wouldn’t necessarily think would be very sympathetic to acting – it’s an old steel town, very working class, quite a macho place – but because of Richard Burton, and then Anthony Hopkins, there’s the sense that it’s possible [to be an actor], and people have a respect for it.

“Ultimately, though, we’re very different actors - Burton was very much a charismatic leading man, and I’m probably more of a character actor. He wasn’t known for his versatility.” Sheen, by contrast, is a chameleon, as he proved with a remarkable run of biopics from 2006-9, playing Tony Blair, David Frost, Brian Clough, Kenneth Williams and the Roman emperor Nero on screen in the space of just four years.

He concedes that he may have made a “partly conscious” decision to avoid biopics since then. “I’ve been offered quite a few I didn’t do. I did feel, for a bit, it was probably good for me to move away from it – certainly from playing Blair at least, because that’s the one I became synonymous with. I’d quite happily play real people again, but it’s hard to find good scripts and it takes a lot of homework. With some parts I’ve been offered, you might only have a few weeks to prepare for it - and you can’t do that with Clough or Kenneth Williams.”

Despite his best intentions, Sheen is playing another Blair in his next film – The Voyage of Doctor Doolittle, where he’s the nemesis of Robert Downey Jr’s animal-loving hero. “I don’t know if they did that as a joke or not,” he says. “He’s Blair Müdfly – there’s an umlaut that he is very specific about. He was at college with Doolittle, and hates him, and becomes the antagonist because of his jealousy of Doolittle. Müdfly is employed to try and stop him from finding... what he wants to find.” As the film isn’t out for 13 months, Sheen is tight-lipped about further plot details – but he hints that Müdfly is “a villain in the tradition of Terry-Thomas villains.”

It’s the latest in a series of quirky, eyebrow-raising roles. After playing a vampire in the Twilight films and a werewolf in the Underworld franchise, Sheen says he would often be asked in interviews why a “serious classical actor” was wasting his time on fantasy films.

“There’s a lot of snobbishness about genre,” he says. “I think some of the greatest writing of the 20th and 21st centuries has happened in science fiction and fantasy.” While promoting the films, he would back up that point by citing his favourite authors – Stephen King, Philip K Dick, Neil Gaiman. “Time went on, and then one day my doorbell rang and there was a big box being delivered. I opened the box up and there was a card from Neil saying ‘From one fan to another’, and all these first editions of his books.”

It was the beginning an enduring friendship, which recently became a professional partnership: Sheen stars in Gaiman’s forthcoming TV series Good Omens, based on a 1990 novel he wrote with the late Terry Pratchett. Set in the days before a biblical apocalypse, its sprawling list of characters includes an angel called Aziraphale (Sheen) and a demon called Crowley (David Tennant) who have known each other since the days of Adam and Eve.

“I wanted to play Aziraphel being sort of in love with Crowley,” says Sheen. “They’re both very bonded and connected anyway, because of the two of them having this relationship through history - but also because angels are beings of love, so it’s inevitable that he would love Crowley. It helped that loving David is very easy to do.”

What kind of love - platonic, romantic, erotic? “Oh, those are human, mortal labels!” Sheen laughs. “But that was what I thought would be interesting to play with. There’s a lot of fan fiction where Aziraphale and Crowley get a bit hot and heavy towards each other, so it’ll be interesting to see how an audience reacts to what we’ve done in bringing that to the screen.”

Steamy fan fiction aside, it’s unlikely Good Omens will match the raunch levels of his last major TV series, Masters of Sex (2013-16), a drama about the pioneering sexologists Masters and Johnson. In the wake of the last year’s #MeToo revelations, HBO has introduced “intimacy co-ordinators” for its shows - but, Sheen tells me, Masters of Sex was ahead of the curve in handling sex scenes with caution.

“It was a lot easier for myself and Lizzy [Caplan, his co-star], as we were comfortable in that set-up, because we had status in it. But for people in the background, or doing just one scene, it’s different,” he says. “It became clear very quickly that there needed to be guidelines for people who didn’t have that kind of status, who would probably not speak up. We started talking about that, and decided there need to be clear rules.”

Sex scenes, he continues, “should absolutely be treated the same way as other things where there’s a danger. If you’re doing stage-fighting, or pyrotechnics, there are rules and everyone just sticks to them. Whether it’s physical danger, or emotional, or psychological, it’s just as important.”

Despite having several film and TV parts on the horizon, Sheen says he is still in semi-retirement from acting. In 2016 he hinted that he might be quit for good to campaign against populism. “In the same way as the Nazis had to be stopped in Germany in the Thirties, this thing that is on the rise has to be stopped," he said at the time. But now things are less cut. “I have two jobs now, essentially,” he says. "Acting takes second place."

While many celebrity activists limit their politics to save-the-dolphins posturing, Sheen has been working with a range of unfashionable grassroots groups aiming to combat inequality, support small communities and fight fake news. As well as supporting Welsh credit unions, and sponsoring a women’s football team in the tiny village of Goytre, he tells me that he's been “commissioning research into alternative funding models for local journalism”.

If he returns to the stage any time soon, he says it’s likely to be in a show about “political historical socio-economic stuff, a one-man show with very low production values”. It’s clear he’s not in it for the glamour.

Sheen was inspired to become more politically active by the Brexit referendum – which also indirectly led him to break up with his partner of four years, the comedian Sarah Silverman. At the time, they were living together in the US. “We both had very similar drives, and yet to act on those drives pulled us in different directions – because she is American and I’m Welsh,” he explains.

“After the Brexit vote, and the election where Trump became president, we both felt in different ways we wanted to get more involved. That led to her doing her show I Love You America [in which Silverman interviewed people from across the political spectrum], and it led to me wanting to address the issues that I thought led some people to vote the way they did about Brexit, in the area I come from and others like it.”

They still speak lovingly of each other, which makes their decision to end a happy relationship for the sake of politics look painfully quixotic. Talking about it, Sheen sounds a little wistful, but he’s utterly certain they made the right choice. “I felt a responsibility to do something, but it did mean coming back here – which was difficult for us, because we were very important to each other. But we both acknowledge that each of us had to do what we needed to do.”

[thescrybe]

Xerath, The Magus Ascendant

Xerath is an Ascended Magus of ancient Shurima, a being of arcane energy writhing in the broken shards of a magical sarcophagus. For millennia, he was trapped beneath the desert sands, but the rise of Shurima freed him from his ancient prison. Driven insane with power, he now seeks to take what he believes is rightfully his and replace the upstart civilizations of the world with one fashioned in his image.

The boy who would eventually be called Xerath was born a nameless slave in Shurima thousands of years ago. He was the son of captured scholars, with only the prospect of endless servitude ahead. His mother taught him letters and numbers, while his father told him tales from history in the hopes that such skills might allow him a better life. The boy vowed he would not end up bent-backed and whipped like every other slave.

When the boy’s father was crippled during the excavations for the foundations of a monument to the Emperor’s favorite horse, he was left to die at the site of the accident. Fearing her son would suffer a similar fate, the boy’s mother begged an esteemed tomb architect to take him on as an apprentice. Though at first reluctant, the architect was impressed with the boy’s eye for detail and innate understanding of mathematics and language, and accepted. The boy never saw his mother again.

He was a swift learner and his master dispatched him on errands to the Great Library of Nasus to retrieve specific texts and plans on an almost daily basis. On one trip, the boy met Azir, the least-favored son of the emperor. Azir was struggling to read a difficult passage in an ancient text, and, despite knowing that to talk to royalty was to invite death, the boy paused to help the young prince with its complex grammar. In that moment, a tentative friendship was established, and over the coming months that friendship only grew stronger.

Though slaves were forbidden names, Azir gave one to the boy. He named him Xerath, which means ‘one who shares,’ though that name was only ever spoken between the two boys. Azir saw to it that Xerath was appointed to his household’s slaves, and made him his personal attendant. Their shared love of knowledge saw them devour texts from the library and become as close as brothers. Xerath was Azir’s constant companion, learning all he could from this new proximity to culture, power and knowledge, finally daring to dream that Azir might one day free him.

On the annual tour of the emperor’s dominion, assassins struck the royal caravan as it spent the night at a well-known oasis. Xerath saved Azir from an assassin’s blade, but Azir’s brothers were all slain, leaving the young prince a heartbeat away from Shurima’s throne. As a slave, Xerath could expect no reward for his deed, but Azir promised that one day they would be as brothers.

In the wake of the assassination attempt, Shurima endured years of horror and fear of the emperor’s retribution. Xerath knew enough of history and the workings of the Shuriman court to understand that Azir’s life hung by the slenderest of threads. That he was heir to the throne meant nothing, for the emperor hated Azir for living while his more beloved sons had died. Of more immediate danger, the emperor’s wife was still young enough to bear other children, and thus far she had borne many healthy sons. The odds were good that she would produce another male heir for her husband, and as soon as she did, Azir’s life was forfeit.

Though Azir was a scholar at heart, Xerath persuaded him that to survive, he must also learn to fight. This Azir did, and in return the young heir elevated Xerath, insisting he continue his education. Both youths excelled, and Xerath proved to be an exceptionally gifted pupil, one who took to the pursuit of knowledge with gusto. Xerath became Azir’s confidant and right hand man, a position unheard of for a mere slave. This position gave him great - and some said, undue - influence over the young prince, who came to rely on Xerath’s judgement more each day.

Xerath bent his every effort into seeking out knowledge wherever he could find it, no matter the cost, no matter its source. He unlocked long-sealed libraries, delved into forgotten vaults and consulted with mystics entombed deep beneath the sands; all to further his knowledge and ambition, both of which grew with unchecked rapidity. Whenever the whispers around court that spoke of his delving into unsavory places grew too loud to ignore, he would find cunning means to silence them. That Azir never mentioned these whispers was, to Xerath, tacit approval of how he was keeping his emperor safe.

Years passed, and Xerath took ever darker steps to keep the emperor’s wife from carrying a child to term, using his nascent magical abilities to corrupt every infant in the womb. Without rivals to the throne, Azir would be safe. When rumors of a curse arose, Xerath ensured they were never spoken again, and oft-times those who had voiced such suspicions vanished without trace. By now, Xerath’s desire to escape his roots as a slave had become a burning ambition to achieve power of his own, though he justified every murderous act by telling himself he was doing it to keep his friend alive.

Despite Xerath’s best efforts to thwart the queen’s midwives, a new prince of Shurima was brought into the world, but on the night of his birth, Xerath used his growing magical powers to summon the elemental spirits of the deep desert and craft a terrible storm. Xerath brought bolt after bolt of lightning down upon the queen’s chambers, reducing it to burning rubble and killing the queen and her newborn son. The emperor rushed to his queen’s chambers, only to be confronted by Xerath, his hands ablaze with arcane power. The emperor’s guards attacked, but Xerath burned them and the emperor to cindered skeletons. Xerath ensured that the mages of a conquered territory were blamed for these deaths, and Azir’s first act upon taking the throne was to lead a brutal campaign of retribution against its people.

Azir was crowned emperor of Shurima with Xerath at his side, the boy who had once been a nameless slave. Xerath had long dreamed of this moment, and expected Azir to end slavery in Shurima before finally naming him brother. Azir did none of these things, continuing to expand his empire’s borders and deflecting Xerath’s overtures regarding the end of slavery. To Xerath, this was further proof of Shurima’s moral bankruptcy, and he raged at Azir’s breaking of his promise. Azir’s face was thunderous as he reminded Xerath that he was a slave and should remember his place. Something once noble died in Xerath that day, but he bowed in supplication, outwardly accepting Azir’s decision. As Azir continued his campaigns of conquest, Xerath remained at his side, but his every action was carefully designed to increase his influence over a realm he now planned to take for himself. To steal an empire was no small thing, and Xerath knew he needed more power.

The famous legend of Renekton’s Ascension revealed that a mortal did not have to be chosen by the Sun Priests, that anyone could rise up. So Xerath plotted to steal the power of Ascension. No slave could ever stand upon the sun disc, so Xerath fed the Emperor’s vanity, inflating his ego and filling his head with impossible visions of a world-spanning empire. But such a dream would only be possible if Azir could Ascend as the greatest heroes of Shurima had before. In time Xerath’s perseverance paid off, and Azir announced he would undertake the Ascension ritual, that he had earned the right to stand alongside Nasus and Renekton as an Ascended being. The Sun Priests protested, but such was Azir’s hubris that he ordered them to comply on pain of torture and death.

The Day of Ascension arrived and Azir marched toward the Dais of Ascension with Xerath at his side. Nasus and Renekton were absent from the day’s events, for Xerath had arranged a distraction for them by weakening the seal on a magical sarcophagus containing a beast of living fire. When that creature finally broke its bindings, Renekton and Nasus were the only warriors capable of defeating it. Thus Xerath had stripped Azir of the only two beings who might save him from what was to come.

Azir stood beneath the sun disc and in the final moment before the priests began the ritual, events took a turn Xerath had not anticipated. The emperor turned to Xerath and told him that he was now a free man. He and all Shurima’s slaves were now released from their bonds of servitude. He embraced Xerath before naming him his eternal brother. Xerath was stunned. He had been given everything he desired, but the success of his plans hinged upon Azir’s death and nothing was going to dissuade him from acting. Too many pieces were in motion and Xerath had already sacrificed too much to turn back now – no matter how much that part of him wanted to. The emperor’s words pierced the bitterness enclosing Xerath’s heart but came decades too late. Unaware of his peril, Azir turned as the priests began the ritual and brought down the awesome power of the sun.

With a roar of anger and grief combined, Xerath blasted Azir from his place on the dais, watching through tears as his former friend burned to ash. Xerath took Azir’s place and the light of the sun filled him, reshaping his flesh into that of an Ascended being. But the power of the ritual was not his to take, and the consequences of his betrayal of Azir were devastating. The unbound power of the sun all but destroyed Shurima, sundering its temples and bringing ruination upon the city. Azir’s people were consumed in a terrifying conflagration as the desert rose up to claim the city. The sun disc fell and an empire built by generations of emperors was undone in a single day.

Even as the city burned, Xerath held the sun priests in the grip of his magic, preventing them from ending the ritual. The energies filling him were immense, alloying with his dark sorcery to create a being of incredible power. As he drew ever more of the sun’s power into his body, his mortal flesh was consumed and remade as a glowing vortex of arcane power.

With Xerath’s treachery revealed, Renekton and Nasus rushed to the epicenter of the magical storm destroying the city. They bore with them the magical sarcophagus that had imprisoned the spirit of eternal fire. The Ascended brothers fought their way to the Dais of Ascension just as Xerath fell from the deadly radiance engulfing the city. Before the newly-Ascended Magus could react, they hurled his crackling body within the sarcophagus and sealed it once more with blessed chains and powerful sigils of binding.

But it was not enough. Xerath’s power had been great as a mortal, and that power - combined with the gift of Ascension - made him all but invincible. He shattered the sarcophagus, though its shards and chains remained bound to him. Renekton and Nasus hurled themselves at Xerath, but such was his newfound strength that he fought them both to a standstill. The battle raged throughout the collapsing city, destroying what had not already sunk beneath the sands. The brothers were able to drag Xerath toward the Tomb of Emperors, the greatest mausoleum of Shurima, a vault whose locks and wards were impossible to break and which answered only to the blood of emperors. Renekton wrestled Xerath within and called upon Nasus to seal the vault behind them. Nasus did so with heavy heart, knowing it was the only way to prevent Xerath’s escape. Renekton and Xerath fell into eternal darkness, and there they remained, locked in an endless battle as the once-great civilization of Shurima collapsed.

Uncounted centuries passed and, in time, even Renekton’s mighty strength waned, leaving him vulnerable to Xerath’s influence. With poisoned lies and illusions, Xerath twisted Renekton’s mind, filling him with misplaced bitterness toward Nasus, the faithless brother who had - in Xerath’s fictive narrative - abandoned him so long ago.

When the Tomb of Emperors was finally discovered beneath the desert and broken open by Sivir and Cassiopeia, both Xerath and Renekton were freed in an explosion of sand and rubble. Sensing his brother still lived, Renekton charged from the ruins, his distorted mind leaving him little better than a savage beast. After an age lost to legend, Shurima was reborn, and as it rose majestically from the desert, Xerath felt another soul return to life beneath the sand, one he had thought long dead. Azir was also newly resurrected as one of the Ascended, and Xerath knew there could be no peace for either of them while the other yet lived.

Xerath sought the heart of the desert to regain his strength and understand how the world had changed in the millennia since his imprisonment. His stolen power grew with every passing moment, and he beheld a world ripe for conquest, a world brimming with mortals ready to worship at the feet of a new and terrible god.

Yet for all his newfound power, however far he has come from that nameless slave boy, a part of Xerath knows he is still in chains.

[screamingatanemptyroom]

Chapter 2 – The Rewrite in which I Become the Ultimate Overpowered Maid

I had multiple plans to improve Katrina’s character.

The first, and the easiest was her personality. I wasn’t very outgoing by nature, so keeping my head down and doing my work properly without mocking others or causing a scene was simple.

The first day after I had appeared in this world, I tried smiling and greeting everyone I worked with. The reaction was a little overdone, one butler literally backed away from me until he fell down a flight of stairs.  I had never really specified in the book how awful Katrina was in her day to day life, but considering the astonishment and relief shown by the other house staff members at my changed personality, she must have been dreadful to work with. Now that I wasn’t acting like an idiot bully, I naturally made friends with most of the people who worked there.

Second, I decided that if I was going to be a maid character, I wanted to be the super, cool type that could do anything. For that, I was going to need teachers, this turned out to be more difficult than I expected.

“Why?” Gertia, the head maid, stared at me with a stony face.

I took a deep breath to calm myself, it wouldn’t do to bite the hand that could feed. “I am sorry that I have been lazy and useless before now. I wish to learn everything I need to know to be the best lady’s maid.” I looked up at her, but if anything, her gaze became more stern than before.

“You’re not smart enough.”

GRRR! I really want to punch her!

Burying my inner monologue deep inside me, I summoned a calm, polite smile.

“Please judge me after giving me a chance.”

She seemed startled at my response, but in the end gave me a slow nod. “Very well. But if you waste my time, I’ll kick you out without hesitation.” Finally she smiled, “I should warn you, very few people have ever gained my approval.”

Despite my poor first impression, I couldn’t help but like her straightforward manner. I grinned at her. “Bring it on!”

She hadn’t been lying, what followed was the maid training course from hell. Etiquette, fashion, household management, every second of my free time was taken with learning what she had to offer. Despite her grim appearance, she was a good teacher, easily explaining even complex subjects, but she definitely didn’t hold back. The one time I had forgotten her lesson on cutlery placement will forever scar me.

I worked hard, and over time, she seemed to loosen up a bit. I swear I even caught her looking at my work with a half smile once. Of course, it might have just been a hallucination.

I branched out, learning from the chef how to cook, basic first aid from the local healer, different plants and poisons from the gardener. I never had enough time in the day, but as I continued to work hard, I started gaining a wide variety of useful skills.  

Once I got a grasp on the behind the scenes work of high society, I moved on to fighting skills. Thinking back to all the fight scenes that would have to survive once the plot got going, I would definitely need to know how to protect myself. Why had I wanted this to be an action packed story?

I approached the captain of the Duke’s personal guard, Alexander, a young man in his twenties with a serious expression, and asked to learn combat and weaponry. To his credit, he simply declined politely and didn’t laugh in my face. I didn’t give up though, I began the daily food campaign. Each day I brought the treats and snacks that I made for my cooking training, hoping to butter up the captain and his men. Although I was greeted with suspicion at first, the food was delicious, if I do say so myself, and soon the guards began to look forward to my visits. Of course, as they ate I made sure to talk up the benefits of having the lady’s maid being trained in combat.

“Think about it!” I explained once, waving around a cookie, “If Lady Autumn gets attacked in the bath or some other delicate place, then are you going to barge in and see her naked? Isn’t it better if I can help protect her?”

Alexander choked on his own cookie as I spoke, his face turning red.

“Umm, Miss Katrina,” One of his men spoke up with a grin, “You may want to phrase your arguments more… delicately. I think it’s a bit much for our poor innocent captain.”

“Shut up.” Alexander glared at his subordinate, who fell silent but kept smiling. He then turned to me with a thoughtful expression. “You really want to learn?”

I nodded my head excitedly, and let out a cheer when he sighed and nodded back.

“Fine.” He patted me on the back. “Run around the grounds five times.”

My smile fell. “Pardon?” The estate wasn’t small. That distance had to be at least a mile. I hated running.

“Fighting requires endurance.” His smile was grim. “Prove to me you’re serious, and I’ll teach you how to fight.”

“Deal!” I jumped up, and headed towards the grounds. As I ran I heard the cheers of the rest of the guards.

“Good luck, Miss Katrina!”

“You can do it!”

“Please don’t stop bringing us cookies even if the Captain bullies you!”

It was difficult. Painfully so. Katrina had done little in her life beyond gentle walks and lifting tea cups. Suddenly starting to run… needless to say I collapsed long before the 5th lap.

Someone save me! I’m just an author, I want to nap!

I knew if I wanted to learn how to fight, however, I would have to persevere. So pushing away the despair in my heart, I trudged onward and completed the course at a literal crawl.

The Captain watched me finish, giving me a solemn nod before walking away.

Jerk! At least praise my hard work!

Every day I ran. It took time, but eventually I could complete it without passing out, puking or crying. I reported this cheerfully to Alexander, but his poker face didn’t change, he simply doubled the distance. Finally I conquered even that, and he allowed me to begin training.

I learned hand-to-hand combat, and fighting with a dagger. When I had protested, seeing my dream of sword fighting disappearing into nothingness, he argued back that as a lady’s maid I would have to work with weapons I could keep concealed. Unable to refute his sound logic, I reluctantly agreed.

By the end of my two years of preparation, I was able to run quite a distance without becoming tired. I could quickly flip and subdue opponents that were even twice my size, and my knife throwing/fighting skills were at the level where I could hold my own against most of the Duke’s guards. One day, I arrived with my usual box of cookies to find the Captain and all the guards waiting patiently for me, excited looks on their faces.

“What’s going on?” I asked, looking at them one by one. “Did I miss a party or something?”

The guard closest to Alexander elbowed him. “Give it to her already, Captain!”

Alexander stepped forward, hesitant for the first time since I met him. He held out a plainly wrapped gift. “This is from all of us.

I opened it. It was a beautifully crafted blade, easily concealable and weighted appropriately for throwing. I held it up to look at it closely, startled. “Is this really for me?”

“You’ve worked really hard. If you had been a man, we would have just let you join the guard, but as it is…” He trailed off. “Good job.”

I smiled, tearing up a little. “Thank you so much!” Without thinking, I grabbed his hands with my own, shaking them.

Alexander’s eyes widened and he pulled his hands gently away before clearing his throat and staring off into the distance. Had I offended him? When I looked closer, however, I noticed his face and ears turning bright red with embarrassment. Briefly, I remembered that I wrote the Captain as a side character. He saves the protagonist Autumn from an attack in the second book, and as a result of that interaction develops a little bit of a crush on her. I had liked his character a lot, however, and not wanting him to waste his life pining after Autumn, I wrote for him to meet and marry a beautiful kind woman. Now, having met him in person, I was even more glad that he got his happy ending. Grinning, I patted him on the shoulder.

“Hang in there buddy; just a couple more years.”

“What was that?”

“Oh nothing.” I chuckled, thinking of the wonderful girl he would meet later on. I would have to make it to their wedding!

Within a blink of an eye, two years had passed. I had grown accustomed to living in this world, as well as my new persona as Katrina. I was no longer the spoiled arrogant woman who plotted against others. I had friends, I had skills, and if all else failed, thanks to Captain Alexander I could run away really fast and keep running for miles!

Autumn’s sixteenth birthday was tomorrow. The plot had arrived.

I was ready.

PREV CHAPTER /  NEXT CHAPTER

[gascon-en-exil]

Ranking FE’s Lords

@paragonred asked for this, possibly as a follow-up to this ranking of the games themselves. I’ll use the same tier format so I don’t have to get so specific as to order everyone into a numbered list.

S Tier - interesting, narratively engaging, and (usually) fun to use

Micaiah - see this post.

Eliwood - ends up mediocre more than half the time, but he’s got a strong character arc with plenty of development and good moments even on Hector’s route. I very much like Eliwood/Hector as a traditional romantic friendship that could feasibly grow into something more between games depending on who they marry and what happens to their wives. Incidentally, I don’t have any very strong opinions on any of those ships, other than that Hector/Florina is rather nonsensical.

Celica - see this post

A Tier - fun unit and may have interesting character potential, but I’m less invested in exploring them

Ephraim - mostly up here because I like lances. His arc is similar to Hector’s with more urgency and the homoromanticism coming from different sources, but his contribution to that questionable legacy has largely been swallowed up by twincest. Or something like that anyway.

Hector - speaking of which, he’s a good unit apart from his promotion (both the class itself and the timing of it in his route) and as mentioned I ship him with Eliwood in a sense, but I don’t like the archetype he spawned. He also feels a bit superfluous to FE7′s main story, though not as much as Lyn does.

Lucina - will be incredibly broken unless you don’t pair Chrom or stick him with Sully. Severely under-served by her narrative despite being a uniquely tragic figure in an otherwise aggressively optimistic game, but she got a DLC campaign and a bunch of shilling outside the series proper so that sort of makes up for it?

Sigurd - the most OP lord ever. I like that he’s an idiot and that he faces real consequences for his mistakes, and I like how he looms large over Gen 2 in spite of his flaws. Even more so than with Hector, I don’t like how his fanbase sees his game performance and nothing else about him.

Alm - already a good unit in the original from what I understand, and he benefits considerably from the distinctive presentation elements of FE15. He certainly offers a more nuanced discussion of class than certain other lords. *ahem* It does suck a bit that it feels like some of his character beats have to compromise Celica’s to make them work, but that’s partially Gaiden’s fault too.

Leif - might move up if he’s relatably more of an impoverished aristocrat in the remakes, but then his particular circumstances don’t really speak to me the way that, say, Almedha’s do. I mostly hated using him in FE5 though he had his moments. Probably benefits from being surrounded by interesting people more than anyone else in this tier, but he really benefits there.

B Tier - either overwhelmingly average, or with both strong positive and strong negative aspects that balance each other out

Ike - yeah, you guys probably saw this one coming. On the one hand, he’s very likely gay; on the other, half the fandom still won’t shut up about the possibility that he might not be and/or that IS was wrong to do what they did with him. On the one hand, convention-defying peasant lord shaping his own destiny is interesting; on the other, he has terrible manners and a shameless insensitivity to foreign (beorc) cultures and yet we’re meant to be rooting for him. On the one hand, a strong unit who plays quite differently in his two games and so therefore doesn’t feel stale; on the other, he and his mercenaries edge out the light magic-wielding Micaiah and her army for screentime and EXP and it’s pretty obvious which unit type I prefer there. I can’t even get all that strongly into Ike/Soren for entirely personal reasons, but at least Ike/Ranulf is still there to pick up the slack.

Lyn - even though she’s the first lord with a same-sex paired ending that fact is largely forgotten. Much of her enduring popularity seems to be based on her sex appeal, and she’s irrelevant to Elibe as a whole. Still, her route is a nice little self-contained story that doesn’t feel too similar to anything else in FE, and she’s got a strong camaraderie with her fellow lords.

Corrin - it’s difficult to talk about Corrin as one entry since they develop differently depending on the route, but as with Fates as a whole I feel like the three iterations of the character average out somewhere just slightly below average. Birthright Corrin is a standard FE protagonist, except maybe a little angrier (Leif, Shadow Dragon Marth maybe?) and with entirely too many death scenes thrown at them. Conquest Corrin has the most missed potential, as with most things involving Conquest apart from gameplay, and one practically has to roll with the headcanon that they and the Nohr royals have been conditioned by years of abuse to make their characters sort of work. Revelation Corrin reminds me unpleasantly of Robin (see below) with the power of cross-cultural friendship stuff and the super special ending. I’m not too fond of the character as a unit either, since they take more work to get as flexibly broken as the other Avatars and their manakete form fails to impress except for tanking.

Seliph - saved from C Tier by the general messiness of Jugdral. His father’s legacy is a complicated one, and about 1/3rd of his campaign amounts to a blood feud with the aim of giving his first cousin a throne for somewhat dubious reasons. He takes some time to get as broken as SIgurd, but he’s all sorts of fun when he gets there. Couldn’t tell you if he’s got any interesting romantic prospects, endorsed by the pairing system or otherwise, because he’s still pretty dull in that department.

C Tier - bland, and usually bad as units

Marth - truly the Mario of FE, in that he’s everywhere with a different personality almost every time. His two remakes did surprisingly little to flesh him out in any consistent way, and by that point over half a dozen other protagonists had diverged from his archetypical lord model in almost as many different ways.

Roy - red-haired Marth with a harem and an obscenely late promotion instead of no promotion at all *yawns* I guess he gets points for having a living parent? Not sure why anyone is a particular fan of him unless they mained him in Melee. Maybe a remake will help him out?

Chrom - Marth with biceps and a time-traveling daughter who coincidentally cosplays as Marth. That’s marginally less yawn-worthy if only because of how strange it all is, and he also borrows from the Hector-type lord as well so he ends up as an unexpected fusion of the buff and the bishonen. Overshadowed in story and in gameplay by his daughter and some random amnesiac he found in a field who he may or may not decide to sleep with.

Eirika - only slightly a Marth clone, but as with Celica the story is unevenly stacked against her and in favor of her male counterpart, even on her own route. The fandom doesn’t like her because she’s naïve, but that could also be said of several other lords. Not really into her as a unit or any of her ships, so...yeah.

Kris - ...do they even count as a lord? Eh, whatever.

D Tier - OP unit, terrible character

Robin - would have been so much more tolerable if endgame didn’t abruptly swerve to becoming entirely about them, at the expense of Chrom and Lucina and everyone else. Somehow the special secret origin type of Avatar grates more than one whose importance to everyone and everything in the story is laid out right at the beginning. I can more or less buy everyone in Fates obsessing over Corrin because of who they are and what they represent for the various players, but not so much Robin whom everyone rallies around apparently for the sole reason that they’re a really friendly tactical genius. Compound that with the fact that they’re meant to be a self-insert in a game with enormous levels of explicit homoerotic denial and it should be easy to see why they’re at the bottom of this list.

[thecrookedtower]

19. Dreams of Home

Campaign context: Morcego has been exploring the swamp, and has experienced all manner of horrors. The worst of which being the party’s encounter with a succubus. The fiend charmed several of them, forced Morcego to attack her allies, and gave her a draining kiss that almost killed her. Morcego’s dreams have been full of nightmares since. Vitor still stews over the letter from entry 15.

--

The wizard and the rogue, though separated by many miles, had both endured restless nights. High in his tower, Vitor sat, slumped in his chair. Quite uncharacteristically his hair was unkempt, and stubble roughed his cheeks. He had cleaned his desk, at least. Though, the letter that gnawed away at his mind was still there, folded neatly and tucked back in its envelope.

Vitor had penned a reply, but Morcego was unable to read it. She was off in some wretched swamp and had been for some time now. The tiefling seemed to be on route back to Saltmarsh, and he hoped that things might improve then. For now, he was left with her words and the sting of her absence. The stone walls felt hopelessly cold without her countenance to fill the halls of the tower with warmth.

Vitor reached for the silver mirror that seemed always at his side in these recent weeks, and one of the few things that brought him comfort. It was through scrying that he could at least know that she was safe. He had tried to give her space, though he yearned to visit her or cast a sending to hear her voice, he had refrained. Yet, each night since her departure he had checked on her before he went to bed, just to know that she still lived and breathed. Her new way of life was rife with peril, and he worried about her constantly. Not because she was weak, no, she was clever and quick... but from far away he could do little to protect her as he had for all those years. The injuries inflicted upon her by the hateful villagers were as etched into his memories as the scars that marred his lover’s beautiful wings.

“Show me Morcego.” Vitor whispered, his voice gravelly and tired. The silver mirror’s polished surface shimmered, seeming almost liquid, before it revealed her sleeping form. Alone, in a tent, unharmed. He breathed a sigh of relief. The moments between casting the spell and seeing her were always tense. He feared she would not appear, or she would be injured. Though he resented himself for it, there was the worry that he would see her with someone else. Yet, save for the time she had gone missing in the Azure sea, the mirror revealed her as it always had, safe.

Her sleep seemed plagued by nightmares, as it had for the last few days. She writhed and cried out softly. As Vitor watched her, he wondered the cause. Morcego had the occasional bad dream, but never like this. The duration of it concerned him, he had not intervened in previous nights out of respect for her privacy and wish for space…but something seemed off. What could be hounding her sleep? What had she experienced to make her so distraught? Tears slid down her cheeks as she tossed and turned. The wizard pinched the bridge of his nose, he could watch her suffer no longer. He let the image fade from the mirror.

Vitor’s eyes narrowed in focus as he tried to remember the location of all the items he would need. Crossing the room his fingers brushed against the handles of the many cabinets that contained a myriad of spell casting materials. One by one, he procured them: a small handful of sand, and a writing quill that had been plucked from a slumbering bird, and an inkpot.

He sat in his chair and spread the sand out on the desk. Vitor dabbed the quill into his inkpot, and then pressed the tip of it into the sand, whispering a small sequence of words as he did. The ink seemed to work its way into every granule, staining the sand black. With the wave of his hand, he scattered it. The sand rose to the air in a plume of glittering particles, light like dust. He felt his consciousness fade.

--

Morcego’s dreams were flashes of horrible images and stained with crimson. A terribly beautiful woman caressed the tiefling’s face and kissed her passionately. The entire dreamscape shook with the pain that Morcego experienced, and the horror of losing control of her body and mind. She was dying, she was watching her friends die, torn asunder by beasts or by her own hands. A spiraling cascade of fears and harrowing experiences seemed to crash through her mind, and she was wholly lost to them.

The wizard kept himself hidden as he watched the thoughts and memories play out for a moment, finally learning what had been eating away at his companion. Her mind was wounded, she had taken a startling amount of psychic damage, and the ghost of it haunted her dreams. No more, she would rest easy tonight. Using his magic, Vitor shaped the images carefully, banishing the terrors and replacing them with familiar locations.

Morcego felt the fear dissipate as her dream shifted away from the dreadful Drowned Woods to the homey interior of the crooked tower. She was in the small personal library, seated in a small alcove that held a small table and cozy chairs. The smell of chamomile tea and worn pages replaced the scent of blood, and she felt at ease. Vitor watched, as invisible as the spirits in the walls. How many times had he seen her read at that table? How he wished he could run his fingers through her hair, but in these dreams he could not act. He could only twist the images. He could speak to her, but he would not, not tonight. He manipulated only the surroundings, he would not show himself, he would not ask her the burning questions on his mind. She deserved peace.

Morcego felt content to leaf through the books and found that they were her old field guides. Filled with pressed flowers, illustrations, and descriptions that both she and Vitor had written. These were soothing sights, and as she turned each page the scenery around her shifted to the places that she had been while collecting the samples. Rolling fields of flowers, high mountains and open skies, then a small pond tucked away on the outskirts of the village. 

It was all so vivid, far more-so than her usual dreams. The way the pond shimmered with starlight, the crispness of the night air, the wetness of the grass and then scent of plant life. These images were not mere dreams, they were too real. Yet from each scene there was something-- no-- someone missing. These had not just been her experiences. She pushed herself up from the dew-filled grass and surveyed the pond that glowed in a soothing moonlight.

Morcego realized that if these were her memories, he should be beside her as he had been that night. The area was darker, the dim light cast its shadows longer. This was the glade seen through human eyes. This version of the memory was Vitor’s. A small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, and she felt a warmth in her chest.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” She asked of her surroundings. There was no response, save for the cool wind that rushed through her long hair. She reached out for it, wondering if he was there, somewhere among those dark woods, or if he was simply the fabric of the dream itself.

“Thank you.” Morcego whispered, and she felt the dream fade into the darkness of slumber as Vitor pulled away the tendrils of his magic.

--

The necromancer’s eyes fluttered open, the trance induced by the spell ending. He leaned back in his chair and loosed the breath he’d been holding. Vitor hadn’t expected her to realize the influence of his magic, but he was not surprised. Morcego had always been clever. At least she seemed thankful, and the dreams had calmed her. He tried to hold onto the sound of her voice and the sight of her, she’d reached out for him, should he have revealed himself?

The room was spinning slightly; the wizard was still a bit disoriented from being in the space of someone else’s thoughts. Being so sleep deprived probably didn’t help either. With an unsteady hand Vitor poured himself a short glass of fire whiskey. The warmth as it went down was grounding, helped him remember how to move his physical body.

Seeing and hearing her had brought him some measure of peace, but also impatience. Within a few days he’d have a response if she deigned to answer his letter. He felt a resentment towards her traveling companions for having dragged her through the swamp, having put her in constant danger. Rationally he tried to remember that it had Morcego’s decision to take part in it all, but he could not forgive them for how they’d let her suffer afterwards. Had she no council among them, no shoulder to lean upon? She spoke highly of this group, but they seemed just as unreliable as any he’d ever met.

Could her new friends really protect her if the threats continued to intensify? If Sebastian or the bulk of the Sea Princes decided they were too much of a nuisance? Vitor felt as he was walking on a tightrope. Morcego wished for him to relinquish the Princes as an unnecessary evil, but now more than ever he needed the power and sway with the pirates to help make this world safer for both of them. The goal at the end of his long pursuit seemed closer than ever now, but it could not be brought to fruition without the continued access to information and resources. The region grew more tumultuous by the day, and Morcego seemed hellbent on finding herself at the heart of it.

Vitor would find a solution, he always did. It was late, and for now there was little he could do but sleep. He took a small measure of comfort knowing that far away, his lover also slept soundly.

[smokeybrand]

Veterans Day

It’s wild to think that the US has been in constant war since 2001. nineteen years this past September to be exact. That shit’s f*cking ridiculous to me. Mu oldest nephew was born in 2002. He doesn’t know an America not at war. There is an entire generation of kids who don’t know what peace time looks like and no one bats an eye. There is something severely wrong with that. Yesterday was Veterans Day here and it was surreal seeing all of the “Thank you for your service” type posts and all of this aggressively American nationalism all over my Facebook. The outgoing president is consolidating power and installing cronies for what can only be seen as power grab meant to set the foundation for a later coup, but we are all flagellating ourselves over the people who came home from war. This sh*t is a distraction.

Now, before i continue with my aggressively negative opinion toward the US military industrial complex, i need to clarify; I do not hate the troops. I understand that, at times, war is necessary and sacrifices must be made. A lot of my family have served actually. All of my uncles on my mom’s side went into the army. Her father served in the Air Force. All of her uncles did tours, more than a few did double duty in Vietnam. That nephew i referenced above? His dad, my older brother, was deployed to Ira during the beginning days of that war. I got a little cousin that swore her oath into the Marines a few months ago. I’m not so much of an asshole that i would call them “suckers” or “loser” for their choice to serve, even though i fundamentally disagree with the very notion of enlistment. If you’re reading this and you served, i hold no ill will toward you ether. I genuinely thank you for your service, i just don’t agree that you should have to serve in the first place.

The last war the US ever actually needed to fight was World War II and the only reason we got into that one, was because Pearl Harbor got bombed. We st back and watched the Blitzkrieg decimate England, secure in the fact that no one could touch our isolationist ass until we got suckered by the Japanese. That sh*t woke us up and we’ve been committing war crimes ever since. The history we’re taught about all of the wars we get into, is one colored but nationalist colored hues and propaganda highlights. We’re taught that every conflict the US gets into, we win or the job is done or whatever other focus grouped buzzwords are used to fool the unwashed masses into thinking a massive military campaign in some far off brown country is necessary and heroic. The truth of the matter is that these campaigns are never necessary and they are always far from heroic.

Every major world conflict since the Korean War has either been exacerbated or directly caused by the United States. Hell, the Korean War might fall into that observation, too, but I'm not as well versed in that one as the the others. Vietnam was an unwinnable war to begin with. It was also a historically unpopular one, so much so they had to draft people into it. The US government forced it’s people to kill a bunch of Vietnamese because Communism. And guess what? Vietnam is whole ass communist! We lost that “war.” Vietnam is community to this day. What about the volatile nature of the Middle East? We’ve been installing and couping puppet dictators in that region for years, eventually leading to the people running right into the arms of fundamentalist zealots, f*cking those countries up to this day. Have you ever seen a picture of Iran in the late Sixties/early Seventies? Their sh*t looked just like ours. Women had rights. They could walk around without covering up with no fear of reprisal. They could f*cking drive. They didn’t have to worry about getting stoned to death if they’re raped. And then the US made the Ayatollah happen. Womp-womp.

Speaking of sh*t the US created, lets talk about the Taliban. Once upon a time, way back in the 80s, the Soviet Union was coming out of pocket and tried to used Afghanistan as a backdoor into our assets in the middle East. One of which was Saddam Hussein bu that’s for later. Since we couldn’t be seen fighting the Ruskies outright because, you know, nuclear winter and all, the US equipped and trained the “Afghan freedom fighters” whom we used to wage a proxy war on Russia. After getting beat by a bunch of farmers using US tactics and guns from the fifties, Russia was humiliated. Our assets were protected and Russia was humiliated, a contributing factor to the eventual fall of the USSR a few years later. Did the US stay and bring a bit of stability to the war torn region? F*ck no!

We bailed the second that last Russian tank rolled it’s ass out of there. That was not lost on the Afghan people and one of them whose named rhymes with Osama Bin Laden, took the reigns of those “Afghan Freedom Fighters” who became the f*cking Taliban. There’s a movie about. Its called Rambo 3. I’m actually serious. Rambo goes to Afghanistan to fight along side the Freedom Fighters against the Russians in Rambo 3. That flick did not age well at all. Fast forward to 2001, and the now radicalized Taliban blow up New York and we’ve been at war with our imperialistic hubris for next nineteen whole ass years, with no stopping in sight. You can draw a straight line from our intervention in Afghanistan back during the Soviet-Afghan war, directly to the ISIS we’re fighting right now in Syria and sh*t.

When Bin Laden took down the towers, a wave of anti-Muslim and Islamaphobia washed over our country, vaulting us into a war that wasn’t. Operation Enduring Freed (see? Buzzwords) sent our troops back into Afghanistan, only we weren’t the Russians. We decimated that country in an effort to find the man responsible for the three thousand casualties we suffered at the hands of a improvised explosive airplanes. I don’t know what the casualties were for the Afghan people was we burned their country to the ground, probably way more than three thousand, but, once again, we bailed without stabilizing that country. Nope, once we got in there, W. Bush decided to send the rest of the forces into Iraq to murder Saddam Hussein (See? Told you we’d get there.) who was once a puppet dictator we installed that got a too big for his britches. So while we were distracted by a personal vendetta, Hussein tried to killed Bush Sr. so Bush Jr. decided to use the US armed forces to beat up his dad’s bully, the understandably angry remnants of Afghanistan regrouped into IS, which evolved further into ISIS. Now guess who was waiting for us when we “finished” Operation Iraqi Freedom? The same motherf*ckers who have been f*cking our sh*t up for the last two decades.

This is a long ass post because i needed to be as clear as possible about my vitriol toward the machinations used to force people into serving. Every enemy the us has had since the Seventies, have been our Frankensteined monsters. We made those beasts. We sewed that strife. All because we kept making the same mistakes. We beat the Taliban withing months of invading Afghanistan but we didn’t do the necessary cleanup, just like the incursion during the Eighties. We didn’t finish the job. We haven’t finished the job since Vietnam. We just kicked the can down the road and look where that got us? Vietnam is Communist. The Middle East is a volatile pressure pot of radical fundamentalism. That can we kicked way back when, is kicking back in the form of ISIS and Al Queda. And that’s just the sh*t overseas. I’m not even going to get into the bullsh*t we’ve done to Central and South America or how our clandestine f*ckery effected a very specific, very melanated, demographic of our citizens, here at home.

Every vet who fought in a war after WWII, has fought for the lie of freedom, when thy weren’t forced into it. The US is the most powerful country in the world. We have the largest nuclear arsenal on record, in all of history. We spend the most on”defense” that literally anyone else in the entire world. Last i heck, it was something stupid like seven hundred and fifty billion dollars. For one year. One. Year. There’s no way my nineteen year old cousin should be at war, not when we spend that much on it. There’s no way she should be fighting the same enemy as my forty one year old older brother. There’s no way either one of them should have felt enlisting was their “patriotic” duty, especially when we created the issues to begin with. I appreciate the service but i hate the fact that they have to serve, especially knowing and understanding who they are serving against.