#square severine

[toutplacid]

Sieste au square Séverine (Paris 20e) — feutre, carnet n° 109, 18 avril 2016 (format du dessin : 52 x 60 mm)

[punkrockhistory]

48 years ago today

Viv Albertine, Steve Severin, Kenny Morris, Sarah Hall and Siouxsie Sioux before and during the Sex Pistols concert, Leicester Square Theatre aka Notre Dame Hall, London, November 15, 1976

📸 John Ingham

[thedrunkenreadersreviews]

A Review on The Prisoner's Throne by Holly Black (SPOILERS)

*Sip, sip* And we're back at it again with that faerie wine!

Now, I know. It has been a hot minute since I posted. The new year has been hectic but I got 2 book reviews coming at you. Let's start with this one.

*Sip, sip*

I knew they would be back and that is why I went to a midnight launch to get my hands on this book. To see the return of my High King and Queen ... ahhhhhh ... but we must have patience and so we shall.

Let's examine this in plot and characters first.

*Sip, sip*

Firstly, let me say that the plot felt a little ... perhaps not as organized as previous plots. For example, the first book focused on the theft of Mab's bones and the creation of these stick creatures which I thought was pretty awesome and enjoyed. Here, that plot goes no further. I wished it was explored a bit more; the power of Mab's bones and the connections it has to the land of Elfhame as a whole. We know Mab was the first High Queen and essentially created Elfhame, so I wanted to see just how interwoven Mab was with the land because, as was explored in The Folk of the Air trilogy, the High King/Queen is immensely connected to the land. That entire part of the mythos kind of fell away to make room for Wren.

*Sip, sip*

Speaking of the whole storyline with Wren ... I'm sorry guys, for the most part, I did not care for it. It's not that I necessarily found it lacking but rather, I found myself disappointed. I had mentioned in a previous post of mine how Holly Black is one of those authors who does not sacrifice the importance or power of one character for another, typically in the case of taking from a male to distribute to a female character. For example, in her novel The Darkest Part of the Forest (which is my favorite standalone faerie book thus far and not just a Holly Black fairy book), never is Severin's status or power diminished for the sake of building up Hazel. It makes perfect sense how, during the climax, Hazel is able to fight as she is. Likewise, in The Folk of the Air, it makes sense that Jude is more strategically inclined while Cardan is more magically inclined, and I LOVED it! I loved how Jude did not possess anywhere near the same magical abilities as Cardan but was rather spectacular for everything she earned. Cardan is a faerie, a descendent of Mab, and the blood High King. It is understandable how he is more connected to the land and thus able to wield it more absolutely than Jude. Jude, on the other hand, taught herself the ways of spying, learned to fight from a vicious redcap, and had to learn to play the game of the folk as she lived in Faerie most of her life. They complement each other incredibly.

*Sip, sip*

Wren, to me, was a bit much. This whole concept of her being able to unmake things made me twist my lips. I understand that hags are the supreme beings of Faerie and how Wren has hag-blood. This manipulation of magic, of being able to unmake things took away, I think, from Cardan, Jude, Oak, and yes, even Mab.

Why? Well, Mab, in a way, is like Jude. She learned how to play the game, she played it well, and Bogdona was upset she got fooled. But, to me, Mab won the Faerie Game fair and square. The land, Elfhame, the crown, all of it belongs to Mab and her bloodline. And Mab gained the ability to create, to bring life. That is the whole Greenbriar thing.

Now, I could work with Wren having the ability to unmake things if it contributed more to the plot of this Greenbriar = Creation, Bogdona/Wren = Destruction. But it doesn't. It just creates a hurtle for Jude. What I think would have been great was to bring this question of Creation vs. Destruction to the forefront. Mab's bones can make things because they are imbued with her power. Great! Can they cure Wren? Can the remark what Wren unmakes? Could Cardan and Jude's power to create block Wren's power to destroy? Could Mab's bones and Cardan and Jude's powers protect Elfhame from Wren's? There are so many questions I wished would be explored but they were never touched on. Could Cardan deflect Wren's spell of unmaking? Could Wren unmake something that Cardan made?

Now to some of you, it may seem obvious ("Well, duh, she can. She has the blood of a hag.") And, you know what, fair. But we should not underestimate the abilities of Mab (who tricked a hag and gained the power of one) and I would have loved it if it played out more.

*Sip, sip*

As for Oak ... oh no.

Readers ... this book made me dislike him. Not hate him, no. And I did not always find myself annoyed with him. Most of the time, throughout the book, I enjoyed Oak but when he annoyed me, my goodness did he annoy me.

*Sip, sip*

As someone who personally detests the whole "ghosting" trend, beating around the bush, talking in circles, and not being direct, I DESPISE the miscommunication/ no communication trope to no end. Anytime Oak even thought about Cardan I slammed my head into the book and seethed past gritted "Just fucking tell him!".

Truly, I had some theories on why Oak may be reluctant to tell Cardan anything. I found no reason besides him being afraid Cardan would tell Jude. Again, fair, but something as simple as saying point blank because faeries cannot lie, "Listen, Cardan, I am not going to ever try to take the throne from you. You do not have to worry about that." Oak's guilt about what he made his sisters endure for him, fine, I understand. But I don't remember a time of him lamenting what he put Cardan through (as I hoped he would) or what he took from Cardan. Rather, he mentions it briefly in passing but does not elaborate. This whole concept of him thinking Cardan wants him dead seems a bit much, even with what he overheard Jude and Cardan talking about in the beginning.

*Sip, sip*

As suspected, though, Cardan is not an idiot.

*Sip, sip*

Jumping back to the plot, the whole ending seemed a little like "Wait, what?" Why is the Ghost done so dirty? Randalian's flip-flop seemed a little Fallout meme "hold on, now." Nacassia and the Undersea were just sort of there (I know she is setting up for an Undersea storyline but as someone who hates cheaters, sorry, I feel nothing for Nicassia so I couldn't care less), Madoc is kind of just pardoned, the falcons who betrayed Elfhame are sort of okay now, someone who literally tried to assassinate Cardan (I think it was twice now) is just sort of free to go. Like, what?

But anyway ... On to the main points.

*Sip, sip*

Oak and Wren.

As much as I found myself annoyed by Oak, I did not necessarily dislike Wren (as I tend to favor villains in books) but found her unforgivable at times. Some of her actions had me pondering, "Oak, how could you have romantic feelings for this girl?" I understand why Wren did most of the things she did. But the way she treated Oak the whole time he was at the citadel, uh, no. Freezing him, starving him, having him in solitary, humiliating him, like ... lying by omission as Oak did, yeah, not cool. Torture via neglect---not cool either.

*Sip, sip*

Do I ship them? I mean ... I don't oppose it but I wasn't really rooting for them through the book. I did not feel the same chemistry as I did with other faerie romances that Black has written. Some characters with great chemistry are Kaye and Roiben, Severin and Ben, Cardan and Jude especially, even Hazel and Jack I felt more pull to. Hell, even Val and Ravius. Why is that? Well, I'll keep this in the Elfhame part of Faerie for those who haven't read the other books. So comparing Cardan and Jude to Oak and Wren as both can be considered enemies to lovers:

Cardan and Jude start off with a mutual hatred.

Oak and Wren do not.

Cardan inflicts his hatred upon Jude and Jude does it right back to him. It is mutual, shared, and practiced on both sides up until they both cave and when they both cave they both cave at the same time.

That's not what happens to Wren and Oak. Their hatred, or rather cruelty, is one-sided. Wren is far more, I guess, negative towards Oak than Oak is towards Wren. Neglect is still a form of abuse; even if the person is not actively being physically, verbally, or mentally abusive, they are still abusing the person via their lack of attention and mindfulness. So when Oak was Wren's prisoner, she was being neglectful and tormenting. Which, hey, he lied and it was a big lie too. So I could fully understand Wren wanting to humiliate Oak because she felt humiliated too. But humiliation is one thing. Neglectful abuse for several weeks is another. Yet, since book one, Oak has had feelings for Wren, whereas Wren harbored a lot of resentment for Oak in the beginning of book 2.

*Sip, sip*

So, do I ship it? As I said before, it is not in my fleet. However, I am not opposed to it. I think Oak does a lot more for Wren than she does for him positively, and I think Wren inflicts a lot more negative things upon Oak than vice versa. Honestly, for this one, I feel as though Wren and Oak would have been better if they ended as friends with the possibility of romance in their future. I think they jumped it too quickly, especially after everything they put each other through. I think having the time to explore being friends again would have been better for their relationship with Black leaving us with a nugget of but you know, they are going to be together in the future.

*Sip, sip*

And now, for the main event.

*Lifts glass*

CUE THE HOMELANDER MEME!

It was perfect. Perfect. Everything. Down to the last minute details.

*Sip, sip*

Yes, my High King and Queen were as fabulous as ever and stole the show every time they were on the page. They were just as in love as ever, still as badass as ever, and both have even matured but not entirely.

Cardan commanding everyone to be killed had me cackling like a Disney witch. Jude's sword fighting is still top-tier. And the fact that Cardan and Taryn still don't like each other had me crying even though Cardan dots upon her son.

Confirmed! Cardan is great with kids as we all suspected.

Him completely ignoring Oriana and her opinions on decorum because he is the High King had me nodding in agreement, one hundred percent. Throwing food into people's wine goblets as a game with Leander, splendid.

Jude resting her head on his shoulder, well done. Jude "threatening" Oak to die for the High King, badass. Jude calling for her good sword, sick! The fact that the sword Severin gave her was not destroyed, big relief (like I was actually sweating when I saw it return, beginning Wren not to touch it).

Them agreeing to Nicassia's stupid little party to keep their people safe, major flex.

Cardan walking off getting stabbed in the chest, giving the order to have people executed to then escorting his people to safety by making a deal with his cheating ex is an I'm him moment.

"Liar," gave me chills and flashbacks to The Wicked King, chapter 15 (hehe ¬‿¬).

Jude acting just like her "dad," put some respect on her name.

Like, if this book was worth reading for any reason, it was them. They did not take up most of the book but when they were there, they were THERE. I loved Jude and Oak's fight at the end, and I loved Oak and Cardan's conversation. I wish they had spent some time talking about how Oak was part of the original plot to put the crown on Cardan's head or how they both fell for vicious women, but the ending was great.

*Sip, sip*

So, was it a good book? Yes, it was. It was an enjoyable read and had that whimsy that all of Black's faerie books have. It was great to see old characters, discover new ones, and expand even more on the realm of Faerie. You know Holly Black loves these characters, especially because of how frequently she keeps returning to them in recent years. It is understandable. These characters are spectacular.

All of the books set in Faerie written by Black so far, for me, from most favored to least, are as follows:

The Wicked King, The Cruel Prince, How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories, The Darkest Part of the Forest, The Queen of Nothing, The Prisoner's Throne, The Stolen Heir, Tithe, Ironside, Valiant.

Also, another review is being posted soon to make up for my absence. If you have a book you'd like to recommend for me to read, I'm all ears (or, eyes, I guess lol). I am also on Goodreads (same name: thedrunkenreaderreviews).

Anyway, thank you for your time, enjoy the faerie wine, and with the weather growing warmer, why not go for a swim with the nixies?

Till next time, cheers.

*Sip, sip*

[doctorstrangereview]

0050: Strange Tales #156

Cover Date: May 1967 On-Sale Date: February 12, 1967

As promised last issue, Umar walks the Earth! Unfortunately, Doc gets the cover this month and it's used to partially spoil the surprise. The splash page helps this along by telling us about a new menace, Zom. Ms. Severin does do a good job of having Umar go through New York City like The White Witch through London.

Umar has arrived on Earth. And she has dressed for the occasion! The Sister of Dormammu has enhanced her ensemble with a lovely cloak. Edged in gold, it's white on the outside and red inside. The Masterworks remastering makes it a lovely plum. In addition to Umar's splash page catwalk, we get some inane banter from The Ancient One and Doc. The Ancient One has banished Doc to somewhere else, while Doc acknowledges it. Thank you Doctor Obvious!

Umar certainly makes a dramatic entrance near Times Square. It's the sixties so no Big Sony or Big Panasonic or the many, many giant electronic signs yet.

She may have tried being a bit more choosey about her landing zone. She isn't too keen on being ogled by the New Yorkers around her.

It's been awhile since I've read C.S. Lewis, but I think The White Witch committed similar atrocities when she first popped into London. Now, did Umar just murder everyone or did they pop up again somewhere else. We never find out.

Meanwhile, The Ancient One is summoning Doc back to our reality. He doesn't look nearly as hot as he did last issue. In a nice nod to continuity, Doc is even bound in the same energy bands as last issue.

Last issue we had the most dreaded spell, now we encounter the most fearsome mystic object. The old dude has sent Doc to free Zom from a funky amphora. He gives Doc a lecture on how the cure for Umar may be worse than the disease.

Meanwhile, we switch back to camera two and look in on Earth. Wong shows up for a couple of powers to sense and dread Umar's approach. He is greatly relieved, however, that Doc isn't around to berate him. Umar arrives at the Sanctum Santorum and does something that has all the Maffia construction companies shaking in their boots. She demolishes the Sanctum with a wave of her hand!

While Ms. Severin has done a wonderful job rendering Umar, her vision of the Sanctum is decidedly unspectacular. It looks like nearly an other building in the area. Also, the Sanctum is supposed to be a corner building.

Having accomplished her first act of destruction, Umar plans more naughtiness. But gets distracted by her hatred for Doc.

As Doc is away procuring antique amphorae, Umar sets her sights on the next best thing, The Ancient One. She proves what a nasty bitch she can be!

While a mountain blowing up in The Ancient One's face is tragic, the even more horrible consequence is messing with the TVs, phones and lights of the normies.

It's amusing that The Ancient One can survive a mountain exploding right under him and he still calls himself feeble.

Swinging back to Doc, he's broken the amphora. Surprisingly, no little old lady has come around a corner screaming "you broke it, you bought it." We do get our first look (excluding the spoiler cover) at Zom.

Ms. Severin gives us a nice dramatic pose for Doc that will inspire similar poses for years to come! Thanks, Marie. It almost makes up for how utterly ridiculous Zom looks.

Doc attempts to control Zom. Zom is uncontrollable. He's such a badass that it was Eternity himself who locked him away. Doc realizes that The Ancient One may be right and this is a huge boo-boo.

Looking back to The Ancient One, he's like "Screw you Umar! I'll face you where and when I want!"

This where turns out to be Stonehenge and Umar invokes her magical Lyft spell to join him quickly. We learn that Stonehenge is where the old dude and Dormie faced off before. He has a sense of nostalgia. Or humor. Probably the former.

The Ancient One and Umar start to duke it out and he holds his own for a few minutes. Suddenly, Doc shows up and has a surprise in tow. Zom, whose head clearly looks like a penis, says hi to Umar. Umar is not happy about this. She attempts to fend him off, but, even bound, Zom brushes off everything she throws at him. Finally, Umar is like "Eff this! I'm going home! You won't see me again!" That last part is a lie. Umar returns a bunch of times. Remind me to tell you about the time, 55 years hence, she gets busy with Tiboro!

That takes care of Umar. Now Doc and his old buddy have a bigger problem.

Thus ends our first encounter with Umar. She isn't really defeated so much as scared away. It would have been more if her battle with Zom was a bit longer and she got knocked around a bit. Overall we get lots of nice imagery throughout the issue. The story moves along well and is well paced, neither lagging or rushed anywhere. Ms. Severin's terrible design for Zom is inexcusable. I think it's the inspiration for the terrible Rawhead Rex movie from 1986. Overall it's a satisfying conclusion to the Umar arc and gives us a good cliffhanger for the next arc. We're going even more cosmic in the next few issues!

Am I alone in thinking that the opening pages were inspired by the The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?

[june-girl-86]

Chapter 55

Old acquaintances and new faces on Boro-Borosa have to say goodbye in different ways.

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC Female!

ReaderRating: Mature/Explicit (+18)

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence / Love / Action&Adventure / Blood&Violence / Drama & Romance / Slow Burn / Fluff&Smut

On Boro-Borosa, some cities, especially the capital Amos, had formed from the smallest oases of the desert planet and still treasured them. But there were also many untouched places that were not inhabited by the masses. That was where the sand people had been drawn to. In the middle of the desert, at the foot of a mountain from which the spring that supplied the flourishing date palms with water gushed before it flowed into the lake amidst the green splendor. The fish in it were part of the diet of the inhabitants of the oasis. Many of the tents stood between the shady palm trees, and stables had been erected a little to one side. Eopis, banthas and other farm animals were responsible for agriculture and food. The Tusks were once again leading a peaceful life on Bora-Borosa.

Basmah stepped out of her tent, Yamha had finally fallen asleep. The little girl was becoming more and more agile and curious about the world. Her husband sat in front of the campfire, nodding to her. The pipe he always indulged in at night protruded from his mask. He pointed to the free cushion next to him, but she shook her head. Basmah wanted to stretch her legs a little. The glow of the campfires or the torches could be seen everywhere. There were whispers so as not to wake the sleeping people. A breeze moved the palm leaves and let the moonlight through, which was reflected on the surface of the lake. Basmah walked past it, hearing the snorting and humming of her animals. Normally they were asleep at this time of night, but something seemed to be keeping them awake.

The Tusken woman paused when she saw a figure sitting on a rock outside the palm trees. The shape looked familiar to her and Basmah tried to make loud noises so as not to frighten the blind woman. She touched Umm gently on the shoulder and the old woman smiled knowingly.

"What are you still doing here at this late hour?" she asked, crouching down in front of Umm. Basmah had been watching her for the last few days, Umm couldn't rest, did that have anything to do with Nhean's visit? He had not come alone, his wife had accompanied him for the first time. Umm was silent and the wind picked up again. Basmah shivered and reached for Umm's hand. It was very cold, how long had she been sitting here? Had she even eaten dinner?

"Come on, I'll take you back to your tent, you'll freeze to death here!"

Umm shook her head and lifted it. Basmah followed suit and looked up at the sky.

"I'm watching the stars. They have changed!"

The young woman noticed the multitude of stars shining so brightly next to the moon, something she had never noticed before. And then the words slowly sunk in for Basmah. She stared at Umm.

"What do you mean, you watch the stars?"

Umm squeezed Basmah's hand and she could see the old woman's happy features.

"The light shows me the way. There is no place so dark that the eye cannot spot a star. And now they all shine for me!"

Umm looked up again and closed her eyes. Basmah could see the tears glistening as they found their way. And then Umm's head slowly sank down onto her chest, returning her last breath to her home.

As the door slid open, Severin looked sternly at his colleague, who hung her head with a sigh.

"I'm sorry!"

Severin glanced at his watch.

"You're over half an hour late, Bice!"

She sighed again and dropped her bag next to her desk.

"I left on time, but they're going crazy in the city!"

Severin frowned.

"The coachmen had to catch their orbaks again. The animals have been running through the alleyways in complete disarray, destroying many traders' displays and the chickens have broken out of their cages in the market square. The parrots were screeching, and a trader who was on her way out with me said the noise was unbearable!"

Severin looked out of the window, where they could watch the hustle and bustle of the spaceport. Everything seemed the same as always and yet something seemed different.

"But the data is normal, apart from the one spike a few days ago, everything is fine!" he muttered to his colleague. She sat down in her seat and also checked the reports. None of the arriving tourists knew which inconspicuous building they were passing as soon as they left their ship to enter the city. And yet it was so important to inform everyone in good time if a disaster was about to strike. Time passed until Bice thoughtfully pressed a few keys and turned to Severin.

"Are you getting data from sector 4 at the oasis? I'm missing them!"

Severin looked and shook his head.

"No, I'm not getting anything either! But that would be at a completely different location, as it was measured a few days ago!"

Bice shrugged her shoulders helplessly and called one of her technicians. But he was busy in Raija. Bice ended the call and hesitated briefly before grabbing her bag and jumping up. She repacked her drink and Severin looked at her questioningly.

"I've already been to Sector 4, it'll be quicker if I take care of it myself!"

Her colleague agreed and looked after her as she left her workstation and hurried past the window outside. Bice took one of the speeders, which also contained tools, and set off.

Bice slowly approached the green oasis that lay sheltered at the foot of the mountain. She knew that Tusken lived here, but that they were peaceful. Nevertheless, she didn't want to be rude and simply storm into their home. She stopped the speeder at a rock and took off the sand goggles and the cloth. She shook out the sand before putting it in her bag. Bice got out, grabbed her bag and the toolbox. As she walked past the rock, she noticed the bowl on top and the many fruit pits inside. Bice walked on, approaching the palm trees and the small settlement. It was very quiet for the time of day, which surprised her a little. But as she walked past the tents to get to the stream that would lead her up the mountain, she smelled it. Bice paused and closed her eyes. Neroli, the scent of bitter orange blossom. She guessed why it was floating in the air. In Amos, too, it drifted through the alleyways from the windows when people mourned the dead and sought solace in their grief. The flowers exuded the peace that was so urgently needed in these times. So the Tusks had a loss to mourn. Bice sighed, sorry to have to disturb the sand people. The stream babbled along and Bice climbed the hill. A few children came towards her, waved and ran back to their village. Before she reached the ledge, she was spotted by the adults. Bice stopped and bowed her head. She would not go any further until she got a sign. A woman stepped up to her, a small body stirring beneath her robe, and Bice smiled at her counterpart.

"I'm sorry, you're in mourning!"

The woman nodded, her eyes reddened yet composed.

"I have to go to the cave, fix the sensor!"

The Tusken woman stepped aside and Bice thanked her. She left the mourners behind and set to work.

Bice had thought it would be a matter of a few minutes, but the repair took several hours and when she stepped out of the cave, she was greeted by the soothing scent and the setting sun. From her vantage point, she had a beautiful view of it and she took her time. After the last red dot had disappeared, she descended the slope. There was a pot of soup simmering over the fire and Bice realized how hungry she was. She hadn't even touched her snack yet.

"Is everything ready again?"

Startled, Bice moved to the side, she hadn't noticed the Tusken woman. It was the same one who had greeted her this morning. Bice nodded.

"Yes, now I hope my colleagues can receive all the data again. I didn't want to disturb your ritual!"

The woman smiled, you could see it in her eyes, which were the only ones uncovered.

"We gave Umm back to the Creator shortly after she died. The loss will be with us for some time!"

Bice nodded in understanding.

"I am Basmah and I would like to ask you to join us for dinner. You've been working all day!"

Before Bice could refuse, her stomach growled loudly and the women giggled. While the Tusken retreated to their tents to eat, Bice sat down on a cushion under the open sky and enjoyed the soup. It was not only filling, but also warmed her up. In the city, you didn't notice the cold after sunset as much as you did out here. Basmah joined her again, holding her child in her arms, who rubbed her eyes tiredly but didn't want to fall asleep. Bice felt the same and yawned. She shook herself, she still had to go back.

"Does the speeder have autopilot?"

Bice sighed.

"It's a work machine, why would it have that luxury equipment in it?" she scoffed and Basmah laughed. The baby babbled too, as if the little one knew what it was all about.

"Stay here. We always have a tent free!"

Bice wanted to object, but she could feel the tiredness in her limbs and knew she wouldn't get far without falling asleep. She agreed and asked to be shown to her sleeping place.

The baby cried loudly and Bice opened her eyes tiredly. It was a strange cry and slowly she sat up between her blankets. In addition to the crying, she also heard the bleating of the Eopis and snorting of the Banthas. The voices of the Tusken joined in, trying to calm the animals. Bice put on her shoes and left the tent. Most of the fires were out, torches burning, and yet this infinitely star-studded sky was so appealing that this was the first thing Bice saw. Then she heard the beeping of one of her devices in her work bag.

But before she could get back into the tent, she felt strange, the sensation traveling through her body. Creeping up from her legs, it made her tremble. She felt unwell, dizzy and as if everything was spinning. She tried to hold on, but even the fabric of the tent swayed and she understood that the ground was shaking. This was joined by the humming coming from below. In addition to the sounds of the animals, which had sensed the danger much earlier than all the sensors and had not recognized it. Rocks could be heard rolling down the slope, breaking away from the mountain. The Tusks wailed in their own language, but did not scream. They probably didn't want to worry the children any more. Bice felt sick, hopefully the slope wouldn't slide down and they would be buried under it. And then it stopped. The humming disappeared and the animals stopped complaining. The swaying subsided and yet Bice clung to the fabric of her tent for several minutes as if it could give her a firm hold. It was quiet, no one made a sound, even her tool had fallen silent again. And then her Komlink beeped in this strange silence. With trembling hands, she pulled it out of her pocket and when she activated it, she heard Severin scream. Bice sank to her knees and couldn't believe it. Amos was in ruins...

__________

@the-rain-on-kamino

[la-colette]

Yellow streaks of sunlight fizzled out behind him as the sky shone a brilliant orange. The sun was setting and it was just the second day of his journey. By manner of ill luck, he was due to arrive by the evening of the previous day but news of Gerd bandits by the mountain pass hindered his progress as that was the only route to Y'dore aside from the Dorom forest, the home of the savage foragers. 

Bandits, usurpers, foragers… all manner of anarchy existed only in Helvrulm. With Severin as its lord and master, savagery had endured for years, economic turmoil followed and now the province faced problems that even the military could not quell. 

Strong winds tugged at his long black cape and bangs, also letting a few strands of jet black hair loose from its ponytail. Spring season was nearing its end, yet for the life of him, he could not comprehend the reason for such cold winds. Irate, he fixed his short messy tresses and dismounted his horse, closing the remaining distance into the region by foot. 

Now he stood at the center of what he deemed was a village square, scanning through the set of curious eyes placed on him. The hooves of his black steed scraped against the rough grounds, signaling its message of exhaustion and on cue, a stableboy rushed to his side to relieve him of his hold on the horse's reins.

Raven stared stealthily as they left.

"Worry not, oh good sir," a ragged, feminine voice urged, drawing his attention. She appeared to be in her late fifties, shrunken in size but with threads of gray and black hair stitched on her head and a warm smile plastered on her face. "Eldewin may not look it but he is proper good with them horses. Come this way, I will have the innkeeper prepare you a nice bowl of soup and run you a hot bath."

He offered no word of gratitude and she expected none for she gave him not a second's chance to utter a word, only beckoning him to follow her. 

"Hardly do we get visitors in these parts, not unless they are men sent by Severin or foreigners from Chadinian outlands." She ushered him into the inn. It appeared moderate in size but ghastly empty.

"Do have a seat. Florentine! A hot bowl of duck soup and bread, if you may!" She bellowed towards the hearth, eliciting a "yes Metilda" from a light voice from the wall behind. 

Darkness grew on the outside but embers of light from the candles and burning hearth helped illuminate the room, also providing warmth. Raven took a gander at every detail of the place before setting his eyes on the middle-aged woman who stood at the other side of the table, noting with mild shock the scrutinizing look she had on her face.

He narrowed his eyes in askance, slightly tilting his head, "Does something trouble you?"

"Hm, you speak indeed," the examining crease on her face melted into a gentle smile. "Oh Lord Skies! I feared that I may have spoke too much to a mute."

His lips tugged at both ends into a short smile. The woman, Metilda, spoke in a funny way but something about her seemed nostalgic. With his face schooled back to an expressionless one, he shook his head briefly, easing her mind of whatever worry she bore. 

"My name is Metilda." She addressed, though he knew already. Making herself comfortable on the seat opposite him, she divulged, "A new face is a new change. Those are words we tell ourselves. As no one enters or leaves the village for fear of them ruthless Dorom foragers, our excitement knows no bounds when a new face emerges from the dense bushes. That excitement is both for good and bad-"

"Here is your bread and soup, good sir." A young woman, who appeared from the room behind the fireplace, cut in as she dropped the plates in front of him before clasping her hands down her apron in delight while standing beside the sitting Metilda. She appeared in her early thirties. "Jolly seeing a new fig 'round here. I'm Florentine, the innkeeper. Dare I ask, what brings a handsome man like you 'round these parts?"

"Florentine, grace!" Metilda cautioned. "Do not burden the young man with your questions. Quick, run him a hot bath and not that mouth of yours!"

She recoiled at the reprimand. "At once! Forgive me."

When she had retreated fully, the young man began munching his food, oblivious to the same scrutinizing look molded on Metilda's face. "Pardon her intrusion. Just like I reasoned, with a new face comes excitement. Our young and old are the only ones here. No one, not in Helvrulm is brave or foolish enough to cross the mountains or the forests,"

He looked up just in time to see her puzzled expression.

"You serve Severin, do you not?"

She asked with such finality, he knew better than to oppose. Well, he reasoned, it was not like he planned on hiding his identity but he would rather not speak of his ties to his selfish Lord due to the strain of embarrassment it left on him.

"What gave me away?" He teased, humorless while chewing the last piece of bread. 

She laughed, a brief and humorous laugh. "You rode a horse into our village after crossing tempestuous routes and you wield Torventi blade. You think me a fool."

He offered no words of comfort nor of retribution, barely forcing no expression on his face. Instead, he drank the remainder of his soup. 

Seeing that he was not about to throw a response, she carried on. "As it seems that you are without a partner or troop of men, Severin must be out his wits end thinking of what's become of this place. Hence, it is my belief that you are here to inquire about the last company your lord left to take charge over Y'dore, is that correct?"

Mildly baffled and curious about her sharp intuition, Raven examined her through curious, narrowed eyes. He must admit, he was impressed.

Buying his silence as affirmation, she ventured. "How lucky you must be. Thank the Skies for leading you directly to me."

He cocked an eyebrow, unfazed yet curious to know what she meant. 

She drew the helms of her brown woolen scarf to her chest then crossed her wrinkly fingers on the dark table. "You see, there are only young and old people down here. Most times, our people migrate to Chadine due to low supplies. No medicine; with our only source of water being the well in the grassland close to Dorom and our food in the heart of the forest where we become game ourselves whenever we wish to hunt."

"Our houses, some of the time, are used as nursing homes. This inn, in particular, could be mistaken for a hospital on such days because deep inside, we shelter the sick and injured. Your master is the harbinger of suffering and I say this with every ounce of confidence weaved within me." All traces of mirth and warmth, all that he had earlier seen on her face had, without warning, dissipated. Her hard dark eyes bore into his with so much intensity, it put the heat of the hearth to disgrace. "They say we have treasures hidden in our lands yet we have no access to them in them bandit-lurking mountains. The iron guild no longer sends blacksmiths to this region because of them foragers and the non-existent flow of resources. Humor me then, what good has your master done if not to replace them companies as they come and go?" 

Raven stared a moment longer, leaned back and folded his arms. "Unfortunately, I play no part in your distress; neither have I come to sympathize with it."

"Oh." She tilted her head, bewildered. "A true servant you are. A mirror of your master. Cold and ruthless."

His eyes darkened at the comparison. Irked that all respects she had had been discarded in the wind and for this change, he knew she had reason to be pompous. "What sort of authority have you over the people on this land?"

Her once agitated look crumbled as she recoiled from the table, drew her shawl closely together once again and displayed a smile. "My son leads a group of youngins who go into the wild and return with food and medicine. Hence, I am only respected by many. I have no distinct authority."

Though he doubted, recalling how effortlessly she shunned the innkeeper minutes ago on her own turf, he nodded regardless, making a mental note of his inquiries. 

"As for the last company, Otis' son got lost in the forest. Them people organized a search party and his shoe was recovered, along with his chopped up foot inside. Otis cursed Severin, fled south. Never seen him ever since."

"I have a room prepared for you, young sir." Florentine announced briefly, waiting by the door leading to the inner corridor to lead the way. He accepted, taking his sword and saddlebag with him. 

"Best you leave as soon as you can," the voice of Metilda echoed behind him. "Them youngins are not so welcoming. Certainly not."

~×~

"Look at her, see how she sways her waists for those bumbling he-goats. And my word! How are her breasts still in that corset? They ought to be dangling out by now." Ivette whispered to her sister while she loaded her tray with more cups of ale.

Irvina laughed, peeking at the object of her sister's discomfort. 

Ivette snorted less than graciously, "And her hair! Who on flat earth possesses such volume of long black hair?! Dear Lord Skies!"

"Might I remind you that you are one of such rare people, sister? Need I mention the golden color?" She jested. "Quick, bring that tray along. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of Miss Pec's backlash."

"Since when are we ever not?!" She countered in a hushed tone. "Sister, she gazes at us like a hawk."

They made their rounds, dropping cups of ale on each table while desperately trying to avoid the greedy hands and flirtatious words shot at them from raw, baritone men.

"My word! We are not paid enough for this." Ivette commented as she went round the bar to check on the roasted meat. She later joined her sister by the counter and they continued to watch the events unfolding in the tavern. Just then, a figure walked in, donning a navy blue tunic and black pants which extended to his black boots and was held in place with a sleek black belt. His black hair was tied into a short bun, safe for his bangs. His very physique screamed dark, alluring and dangerous. The bar went silent upon his arrival yet ignorant of this fact, he settled down in a corner, alone and away from the rest of the macho male community. 

The blonde lady, while fixing her hair into her usual ponytail, tapped eagerly at her sister on the other side of the counter, stopping her from duty of pouring ale. "Irvina, there he is. Again."

The ginger woman swallowed hard as she stared at the young gentleman. On impulse, her heart rate picked up a bit. She had heard news of a new visitor in town who had chivalrously arrived on a horse and was staying at the Florentine Inn but couldn't have been prepared for his appearance at the tavern last night. He looked every bit of royalty with his dark chin-length hair, dark eyebrows, dark eyes, chiseled chin, lean yet built muscles which always accentuated his tunic and the stoic look he had on his face every so often.

Yesternight, she was consumed by this undying urge to walk up to his table, take his order or to initiate contact but his presence signaled "unapproachable". So she held her peace. Even now so because her Ivette was also attracted to him and she stood no real chance against her beautiful, curvy sister. 

"I will make my move tonight, I swear it!" Ivette, fuelled with conviction, smoothened the crease on her skirt and apron and adjusted her corset to expose her luscious breasts. "Tell me sister, do I look like you will want me in your bed tonight?"

Coming from someone who just slut-shamed a fellow tavern worker, Ivette was unapologetically shameless and Irvina knew it. Chuckling, she responded. "You are always in my bed, Ivette."

She laughed and motioned to leave on her new quest. He was even more striking up close and the reflection from the lamp did little justice to his beauty. He sat, his chin leaning on his right knuckles with his elbow propped up on the table for support. He appeared to be taking in the environment and barely noticed her in front of him. 

"What may I serve you, oh good sir?"

Casting somewhat indifferent eyes towards her, he said shortly, "A cup of ale. Dried mutton."

Mildly aghast that he wanted nothing more than that, she left at once to fetch his order.

"It went well, I suppose." Irvina teased, despite noting her look of irritation. 

"Maybe he did not see my golden hair. Men always fall on their faces at the sight of it." She consoled herself. "Perhaps I should loosen the braids. What say you, sister?"

Irvina placed his order on the counter. "I say you should take this to the gentleman and let me work before Miss Pec gives me an earful."

Ivette sighed in tired defeat and turned to the dark man. Only to grit her teeth at the sight she met. "It's Clarisse! Again!" She whispered harshly to Irvina, irritated at this point. "I have never seen anyone so shameless in the entirety of my life!"

Considering she just pulled the same stunt herself, Irvina smirked. "I reckon you are jealous."

"Jealous? Of Clarisse? I'd rather walk into Gerd enclaves if I had nothing better to do with my time."

"Shh." Irvina warned in a low tone. "Be careful what you speak, Ivette."

The blonde lady simply heaved a pompous smile, uncaring of her sister's caution. "Jealousy, my dear sister, is but a strong word and even an insult to my person. Look at her, can such shoddiness rival my beauty?"

"True." Irvina agreed. "Perhaps you are only saddened by the fact that there is a man in Y'dore you cannot bend at will."

"A false insinuation, young Irvina." She shook her head disapprovingly, with raised shoulders and a note of self-confidence. "Bending men is for the Lady Leith. It is my wish to break them as they are poisonous lot-"

"Such time you both have at your hands to stand and make merry jokes." The gritty voice of Miss Pec sliced in, catching Irvina's laugh in her throat. "If perchance you go home with empty pockets tonight, will you have that smile on your face, I wonder?"

"Forgive us, Miss." Irvina offered as she scurried away to get back to work. Her sister rolled her eyes in annoyance. 

"We need a fresh pale of water. Irvina-"

"Let me, Miss. I shall fetch from the well." Ivette cut in, looking determined at their mistress. "We agreed Irvina is not to go back there."

Miss Pec sneered at her overprotectiveness. "At least, a chance to let me finish. Could you give me that, Ivette?" The said girl held her tongue. "Irvina, go to the kitchens and tell Cedic to fetch two pales at once. Ivette," she smiled in a condescending manner at the young girl, "Fetch a barrel of wine from the cellar."

Irvina voiced out sheepishly, "But Miss, that is Cedic's job-"

"Well Cedic has to run me another errand now, does he not?"

"Miss-"

"Silence, Irvina." Ivette hushed. "I will bring it, Miss."

"Good. No, make that two barrels. Wine and beer. Take someone along if you must. But Irvina, I need you at your post, pouring ale and serving."

"Yes Miss." The redhead responded, doing as she was ordered.

~×~

"Are all arrangements for the District meeting in order?"

"Yes sire." The steward concurred. "I have word sent across all of Helvrulm. The District Heads will be in attendance, so also will the land barons and chamber speakers. Though some masters have taken ill, they will have representatives attend in their stead."

Lord Severin nodded his approval. "Very well. Is there news of Raven's return?"

"Nay, my Lord." 

His jaw clenched. "You may leave." 

"And, my Lord?" The steward asked for audience.

The middle-aged man regarded him aloofly, "Speak."

"Lady Leith sent word of her arrival in two days."

Lord Severin sighed, preparing for his near long-suffering. "Have her quarters aired and properly furnished. You may go."

The steward bowed out. "Yes, my Lord."

Lord Severin leaned angrily into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as he lost himself in the pit of his thoughts. No news from his ward and he questioned whether it was intentional or a stroke of bad luck.

Ever since the boy swore his oath of allegiance at the age of twelve, he had found it difficult as the days passed to quell his Raven's rather impulsive and disregarding behavior.

Most times he felt the boy belittled him, saw him as some foozler who wielded much power than he could bear. And he could hardly blame him for the mockery, for in his reign, Helvrulm had lost its mantle of authority in all the Six Kingdoms. He scoffed at the thought and filled his cup with wine as he let himself free in his musings.

Gwendolyn; a united kingdom that once stood, in all its might, on the helms of the Six Kingdoms, a united kingdom that fell the day its king went missing and distrust took over the lands, dividing it into distinct authorities. Helvrulm had been its capital and had remained so even after its disintegration but what remained of the system in present times was laughable.

His title as a Lord bore no weight, yet there was no changing the status quo. For a kingdom without a king was no kingdom, and the absence of a kingdom was the absence of the monarchy; and no monarchy meant no hierarchy. Hence, in this dystopian setting, he was a king in his might, though a king largely disregarded by his subjects far and near.

No, he would not blame Raven for his daring attitude. He laughed, finishing his wine. He would, however, solidify the title that was his name- Lord Severin Doltemore- and take proper care that the mention of even such a name would cause hell to freeze over.

Delighting in his new resolve, he chuckled to himself in his work room, having only the intoxicating influence of greedy unseen power- and wine- for company.

~×~

[kudosmyhero]

Daredevil Annual (vol. 1) #4: The Name of the Game is… Death! / And Who Shall Save the Panther?

Read Date: August 16, 2023 Cover Date: October 1976 ● Writer: Marv Wolfman ◦ Chris Claremont ● Penciler: George Tuska ◦ Marie Severin ● Inker: Frank Chiaramonte ● Colorist: Bonnie Wilford ● Letterer: Annette Kawecki ● Editor: Marv Wolfman ●

**HERE BE SPOILERS: Skip ahead to the fan art/podcast to avoid spoilers

Reactions As I Read: ● they really overuse the "…Death!" title in Daredevil in this era

● 👏👏👏

Synopsis: Heather Glenn is waiting for Matt at J.F.K airport. He's returning from Los Angeles when Heather tells him that someone attempted to murder Foggy.

In Holmsford, Connecticut, a plan is brewing to extort Robert Mallory, (who is the head of a law firm called Mallory Intertech), using his son for ransom. Mallory has come up with a way to use the ocean's tides as a power station, and the kidnappers want the plans for the ransom.

Fresh off the plane, Matt goes on patrol in Hell's Kitchen, and learns that Namor has been ransacking the city in search of Mallory. Daredevil attempts to calm him, but is beaten quickly and left to lick his wounds.

Coincidentally, T'Challa is in New York City on some official business when he gets a lead on Mallory's son. He begins tracking the lead as Black Panther and comes upon a group of thugs all arguing amongst themselves. He quickly learns that Ruffio Costa is the leader of the kidnappers, only to give his position away and become overpowered by the group of thugs, who hold him at gunpoint.

Matt is researching the Tidal Power Plant information and learns why Namor is so agitated when he receives a call from the thugs wanting five million dollars for the release of T'Challa. Instead of the ransom, Matt plans on giving them a five million dollar beat down as Daredevil instead. He has Foggy put together five million in fake cash, and tells his friend to be careful not to get kidnapped as well, since there was recently an attempt on his life.

On his way to deliver the beat-down, Daredevil runs into Namor again, who has been held up by the local authorities. Luckily, he saves an officer who was knocked off the bridge just as he gets there. Namor and Daredevil battle again, but this time, Daredevil wins.

While waiting for rescue, T'Challa escapes and frees the Mallory boy as well. He decides to follow Costa's gang by riding on the top of their van.

As Daredevil arrives at the drop off point, he sees that Panther is free, and they both beat down the gang for good measure. As they begin to depart to find Costa, Namor attacks them both.

Not wanting another battle, Daredevil carefully talks Namor out of it, promising to keep Mallory from building the Tidal Power Plant. Namor reluctantly agrees.

Panther and Daredevil track Ruffio down to the Barrington Research Center, where they square off against him. In the tussle, Ruffio is thrown into some machinery and blown up. He recovers from the accident with a new costume and mask, as well as his mind powers heightened infinitely. He has become the Mind Master!

He takes control of Panther and attacks Daredevil, and in the fight, Daredevil is thrown into Mind Master, hitting him in the face. Enraged, Mind Master pools his mental energies to kill them both, shorting out his own mind in the process, reverting him back to Ruffio Costa. Daredevil easily knocks him out, and he and Black Panther part ways.

(https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Daredevil_Annual_Vol_1_4)

Fan Art: namor sea by Seanbean80

Accompanying Podcast: ● Josh and Jamie Do Daredevil - episode 24

[to-the-captain]

Stranger: (Seb and Sev haven't seen each other since they were teens)

Severin stood square in the middle of the warehouse, waiting for Moriarty or his representative to show. He'd spent weeks playing his boss, the Russian, into arranging this meeting, under the pretence of a false business deal just on the chance that he would be seeing a man he hadn't seen in a very long time. For now he kept his face half covered with a scarf, a knife in his pocket but outwardly unarmed, and all he could do was wait.

You: It was quite a pedestrian meeting, Sebastian didn't even know why Jim insisted on sending him personally - really, he had better things to do. Sighing, Sebastian arranged his hair, placing his pistol in its holster underneath his jacket before he stepped out of the black car. It'd wait for him, no questions asked. Since the Russians had proven themselves to be sneaky motherfuckers, Sebastian was wearing his heavy combat boots under his dark jeans, already annoyed at the prospect of potentially cleaning blood off them. So, he stepped into the warehouse, shoulders squared as he assessed his surroundings confidently. "It's a little rude not to show your face, aren't you aware?" was what he first said as he spotted their 'business partner'.

Stranger: Severin visibly tensed when he saw that Sebastian had come in Moriartys place, but he forced his shoulders to relax. After all, he had to keep himself anonymous until his safety was assured. "Moriarty isn't the only one who wants to protect himself." He said simply. He scanned the man in front of him - clocking the pistol. Evidently Moriarty didn't trust Leonov. He was probably right not to. When Sebastian got close enough, he went on, straight to business if it would help avoid a fight. "To business, then. My boss has a small empire in Eastern Europe, that Moriarty has shown interest in. He's offering 40% of the profits if Moriarty provides protection and passage for the men involved." That was the arrangement he'd spent weeks drawing up to get Moriarty's attention.

You: A small smirk danced over his lips as Sebastian heard the answer - ridiculous. "You refuse to show us your face, yet expect us to provide protection? So you do have no manners," he mused, as he stuck his hands inside the pockets of his jeans. Might as well, considering manners had officially left the building. "You'll need to show your face if you hope to conduct any kind of business today. Otherwise, I have no issue leaving you to stand right here, right now." It always was annoying when people thought Moriarty was reliant on them, when they thought they were special or important. "We have other partners in Eastern Europe. I'm sure you're very aware of who I am, might as well introduce yourself."

Stranger: Severin took a long time to answer, weighing up his options. Sebastian was poised for a fight, and the last time they saw each other, they had fought - nearly killed one another, so revealing his identity might not be the safest option. But then, if Sebastian walked away, it was all for nothing. So there was no choice. "Very well. My name os Andrei..." Slowly, he raised his hand and pulled the scarf from his face, eyes pinned on Sebastian, on his pistol, ready to move very quickly if he had to. "Or, at least, that's the name I've gone by for ten years now..."

You: It took an awful long time for his opposite to answer, even though it was quite clear that no business would be done that day if the man continued to cover his face. Was the deal less important for the Russians than they had said it was? Was it just bait to get him to come to this godforsaken warehouse? Was this a ruse? Not letting any of these thoughts show on his face, Sebastian waited, only moving to glance at the expensive watch he was wearing. Whether it was a trap, a ruse or a legitimate deal, it certainly was a waste of time. As the scarf was moved, Sebastian's eyebrows shot up. /Oh/. The fingers of his right hand twitched very slightly yet he didn't move, deciding to remain collected above anything else. "It doesn't suit you, you don't have the accent for it," were the first words he addressed to his brother, his baby brother, "Is this why I'm here? You came to finish what you started?"

Stranger: There was a slight pause, the briefest second where Sebastian moved and Severin thought he was about to get shot, but he didn't, and he found himself facing his brother for the first time in a decade. His hand brushed his pocket, as if to check the knife was still there, just in case. "No. I'm not- I don't want to fight you." He said quickly. Severin didn't want to fight and, most of all, he didn't believe he would win a fight if it happened. He reached down, he'd placed a file on the ground when he arrived, and slid it over to Sebastian. "The deal is real. Leonov really does want to make an offer - but I have a better offer. 100% of the trade, 100% of the profits... in return for my own protection."

You: It was surprisingly hard to keep up the facade with a myriad of emotions bubbling under the surface, crawling underneath his skin and up his throat. There were over three decades of unfinished business between them, and Sebastian had hoped it would just never come up again. Now, that they were in the same building, he just couldn't help himself. "So, Father threw you out to the dogs, huh?" he said when he crouched down to pick up the manila folder, thumbing through it but not actually bothering to read it - he wanted to hear it straight out of his brother's mouth. "I'm impressed you dare to show your face around here. Well. You didn't. But we both know your character has always been a little... questionable." Oh, Sebastian was bitter about what had happened, and he only just realised how bitter he actually was. "How far did you think were you going to get with your pocket knife? And you really think your boss is just going to let us take over? You're just offering us work in return for your protection. We don't need you to take over Leonov's part."

Stranger: Severin glanced at the floor, Sebastian's words cut him more than he would care to admit. They were true, for the most part - it was their father who had handed him to Leonov, after a fight (about Sebastian, of all things). He took a small step backwards. "The hard work is done. I've been running that branch for over a year. I can give you seamless control of the finances, names and locations of staff. it will continue to run as it always did, no extra work on Moriarty's behalf." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous tick he'd never been able to shake. "Look, if you'd walked in here and you knew it was me, you'd have shot me on sight, and you know it."

You: Of course, Sebastian listened, but the explanation left a lot to be desired. Since there were no denials, he assumed that he had got the general context of what had happened, which gave him a little satisfaction at least. "So, it's only a branch. Why would we bother with that? You made your bed, my dear brother, and now you refuse to lie in it. What can /you/ offer to us, personally? Why should we care?" After everything that had gone on in his family, playing that card certainly wasn't going to help Severin's case. "Oh, I wouldn't have shot you on sight. I'm a gentleman, you see. I'd say I was raised right, but we both know that's a lie." A sick little part of him was actually enjoying this, enjoying playing with his desperate brother - another, small part yearned to make amends.

Stranger: Severin knew he was being toyed with, and he tried to remain calm, tried to talk his way out of this, tried not to let his emotions bubble over because he knew Sebastian would just treat him like a child having a tantrum. "What more do you want? I can get you control of Leonov's whole company, if that's what it takes. Leonov is a cruel bastard, but I worked my way to the top. I did every damn thing he ever asked of me, I know his company inside out..." Clutching at straws, slightly. He had the faintest idea that Sebastian was just looking for a reason to shoot him.

You: Oh, someone was getting riled up. Interesting. Seeing the emotions dance over Severin's face, Sebastian stepped a little closer, just needing to witness the spectacle for himself. Somehow, this soothed his need for revenge just a teensy, tiny little bit. "I will have to talk this over with the boss," he concluded eventually. It was the truth, what his brother was offering seemed like a big decision, a large change in how the organisation worked. "Of course, only having a branch makes little sense. It'd need to be everything. Someone would have to take care of Leonov..." Trailing off, he looked at Severin, making clear that he would have to clean up after himself, should their deal ever actually come to fruition.

Stranger: Severin mirrored his brother's movement, stepping backwards so that Sebastian could not get any closer. "I can get you everything." He promised, his voice quiet. "And I can do what needs to be done." He hoped he sounded a little bit more confident than he felt. After all, Leonov was cruel, if Severin was the one who had to slit his throat, he'd shed no tears on the matter. He sttod straight, meeting his brother's eyes. "It's been ten years, Sebastian. I'm good at what I do. Very good - you've seen that file there, that's just the start. Don't underestimate me."

You: A little chuckle escaped Sebastian as his brother tried to sell him on him, as if statistics were the most important details in their kind of business. "Your skills might be fine, they might be usable." There were a lot of people who could do what he suspected Severin was able to. "However. We- I have no reason to trust you. You're a traitor. You betrayed me." It felt good to say it, to finally say it out loud. "And now you don't even dare to hold your ground. How can we rely on you to tell the truth? Do you expect me to recommend you to my employer with flying colours?" Jim would have to decide whether the deal was attractive enough to work with someone like Severin.

Stranger: That made Severin seethe, and he stepped forward until he was inches away from his brother. "I didn't betray you." He snapped, images of that final fight shooting through his mind. "You wanted to leave, you wanted to start everything with dad, you started that fucking fight..." His hands were clenched in fists, and it was taking every ounce of concentration not to punch Sebastian square in the face. "I don't care if you hate me, Sebastian. I don't care if you don't trust me. But you don't get to call me a traitor when you're the man who left us."

You: Again, Sebastian's eyebrows shot up, his fingers clenched, unclenched, clenched, until he had his full composure back. His brother looked tired, worn from what he could see up close. "You have an interesting definition of loyalty, then," Sebastian said coldly, almost expecting his brother to just sock him. "You have no idea about half of the things that man did to me, Severin." It was the first time he took that name in his mouth in years, having pushed most of the memories to a dark corner of his mind where he wouldn't have to interact with them. "You have no idea, because you were the golden child. You really expected me to work with /him/ and then acted offended when I asked you what had gotten into you. You just pulled your tail between your legs and agreed to whatever he wanted from you. And after all those years, you still don't have a fucking clue."

Stranger: The golden child. That's what Sebastian had always called him, taunted him with that name. "Don't call me that." He hissed. "You were the eldest, you were supposed to be the heir, you had every opportunity to have it all." He'd known, every time, what was happening, because he'd been at the recieving end himself. And he always thought he was the more sensible, just going along with their father to avoid punishment, but in truth, he knew he'd been a coward. "You pushed and pushed and pushed and of course you got punished. If you'd just done what you were told..."

Stranger: (Really sorry I have to go. If you want to continue, it's moriartysmusketeer@yahoo.com - if not, this was fun!)

[snakemoltsiren]

FFXIVWrite 2022 - Prompt  27. Hail

They were, in truth, her favorite kind of days. When the weather was miserable, when there was no point in going outside - no point in getting out of bed at all, those were the best kinds of days. She cracked one eye opened, listening to rain falling on the rooftiles, couldn’t see the square of sunlight on the floor on account of it being too overcast. With a hum of bone-deep satisfaction she rolled over, wanting to spoon up against Otolin’s side only to find the mattress cold. The blankets carefully pulled up around her in his absence. A frown pulled her out of bed and she shuffled around in socked feet, brushing her teeth, washing her face, finally going upstairs with a grumble. Otolin sat at the small kitchen table, the window over the sink cracked open to let the smell of wet earth in. He looked up from his book when Severine made her appearance, smiling softly at her and immediately putting an arm out to invite her in. She wordlessly (maybe some grumbles) climbed into his lap, knees tucked up against his chest, lingering long enough to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth before ducking her head beneath his chin and sighing. His arms enveloped her, squeezing in soft reassurance before she heard the rustle of pages again. She dozed like that for half a bell, her breathing matching the steady rise and fall of Otolin’s chest. For a moment she was vaguely aware of the sounds outside changing. Something more insistent and sharp, her sensitive ears protesting the intensity. Picking up her head some she listened to the hail pelt down on the roof and against the windows. And then she shifted, lifting her chin to press her lips to Otolin’s throat. To the curve of his jaw. The corner of his mouth again, where she lingered until she could turn her body around with a minimum of squirming, sitting firmly in his lap with her legs bracketing his torso, feet dangling off the ground. All of that without disturbing his reading too much. “Let’s go back to bed.” She mumbled blearily, pressing kisses wherever her lips touched. Her hands rubbed softly against his sides, sliding up to give an encouraging pull to his sleeves. The book gets pressed against her back when he reaches down to pick her up, one hand tucked under her butt to hoist her effortlessly. She grins, smug and satisfied when he kisses her while getting to his feet. 

The sound of hail on the roof tiles chases them downstairs.

[pyrrhesia]

The Warden

Ysabet Sable is never allowed back into Gridania.

Pertains to Endwalker’s tank role quest, and contains spoilers to it, as well as continued liberties with canon.

He ran. Antoin knew nothing else. Thought had deserted him, sanity followed. All that mattered was getting one foot in front of the other, staggering and stumbling through the brush. His breath was shallow and frantic and... somehow, wrong. But he was ahead of his pursuers. That was all that mattered. And so long as he was, there was hope... He was focused on the heavy tread behind him, growing encouragingly fainter. The soft leather ahead eluded him, until it was too late. Wood and crystal whistled, cracking him squarely across the forehead and laying him out, panting and twitching across the forest floor. The culprit stepped over him, gave a quizzical look, then gingerly prodded him with the tip of her mace. Little response. Adequately stunned, then. She dragged the point across his open shirt, pulling it down over one shoulder... ... and there it was. The sign of corruption. "Hold there!" The woman barely flinched as the warning shot whistled between her ears. She flicked them in irritation. "You're late, Wailer." "Who the hell are you?" Not the shooter. Ysabet counted six... no, seven. Two thought they were hidden. And she heard a heavier tread in the back, there... "I am Ysabet Sable. You know of me." She shifted her posture, resting both hands against the greatmace Læraðr. "Do not interfere," snarled a third. "This man bears a plague--" "He bears no plague," snapped Ysabet. "You really think a chigoe did this?" Relief, from the man on the ground. "It's not-- it isn't the Creeping Death? You're saying I'm safe? I'm saved?" "Perhaps," lied Ysabet. "What do you know of it?" said another Wailer, arrow already nocked. "Did you cause it, eh?" Ysabet glowered at him. Evidently, he did not know who she was. "I know you," he went on. "You really think I'd forget a lost rabbit, far from home? Sniffing around Quarrymill?" "Ah." She levelled a claw at him. "No, no, no. I do remember you." "Aye?" Quietly, she said, "I remember you sitting on your hands, In thrall to your dead gods, as a man died in front of you." His knuckles whitened around his bow. "Say that again--" The clank of metal got closer and closer; at last, it crested the hill. "What the hell is going on?" And then, "Ysabet!?" "Hello, Severine," said Ysabet, eyes not moving from the Quarrymill Wailer. "I am surprised to see you. Pleased, as well. Care to enlighten me as to what's going on?"

They took Antoin back to camp to convalesce, then took tea there. Ysabet, somehow, always came prepared. "The Twin Adders have a blasphemy they needed put down," Severine explained. "I was available." "So were others. You didn't have to run out. Don't you have a child to rear?" "I didn't know you were here!" Severine leaned back with a sigh. "Look, this isn't meant to be dangerous. We've slain blasphemies before by the dozen. I'm here to keep the Adders steady while they get the job done." "Mm." Ysabet sipped at her tea, trying to look for delicate phrasing and not finding any. "And how do they feel about taking orders from an outsider who looks a lot like a duskwight?" Severine's smile was humourless. "The Adders keep professional. They're used to mixed company. They've actually seen some of the world, had to work with different people. The rest... haven't exactly been cooperative. But I can't imagine you've had much better luck." "No, I haven't." She leaned forward. "I'm unsurprised to hear of the blasphemy - is there a name?" "They're calling it Gleipnir. Why are you here, then? About the Creeping Death?" "At first, yes." Ysabet chuckled, softly. "Though now, I see a fuller picture. The corruption in the woods runs far deeper than one stray blasphemy." Severine raised an eyebrow. "That might be the case, but the blasphemy is important. Especially if it's behind this plague. Will you help in the hunt?" "Ah, I doubt it would be welcome..." "I'd welcome it," she countered, flatly. "Whatever your issue with the Gridanians isn't my concern, but surely it involves clearing out Gleipnir. Better to work together than at cross-purposes, no?" But there was no time for an answer. A scout burst into the camp. More attacks. This time, at Rootslake. And this time, the Elder Seedseer was going to attend in person. They left. Together.

"How can we face a beast like that?" "Seedseers're sitting pretty with their guards and their finery... what do they care about any of this?" "They aren't doing a bloody thing. They just don't care..." An uneasy silence fell upon the camp. Commonfolk looked up from their circles of gossip toward the unlikely newcomers. The Elder Seedseer, too, looked up from her conference with her bodyguards, forcing a brave, terrified smile. "Ser Belgrave. And... Lady Sable? I had not thought you would come." "Nor hoped, I suspect." Ysabet's ear flicked. She had not often troubled the Shroud. It had always felt... wrong, to her, to its very core. "Nevertheless, I aim to be of service to you." "What happened?" Severine asked. An Adder grimaced. "Gleipnir's stalking the region. No more attacks - yet - but the locals are in a panic." "There is no cause for panic," said the Elder Seedseer, voice carrying clear across the camp. "The beast will not trespass here." It lacked conviction. And, worse, emboldened one man to bite back, a stage-murmur under his breath, "easy for you to say, eh? We ought to pack up and head to Ul'dah. 'Least down there they don't pretend to care for the common man..." The accusation struck Kan-E like a blow to the heart. She cared. Of course she did. And she would weep for any lost. But what could she do? So she thought. Ysabet cut over anything she could have said, a cruel laugh twisting the knife. "You think so little of the land, you would flee before fighting for your place in it? Has it mistreated you so?" The man had not meant to be overheard; or, at least, not consciously. Confronted, he doubled down. "That isn't-- that's not how it should be! We're meant to live at peace with the land, right? The elementals have to be kept happy, and if the Seedseers can't even do that, what're they for?" "What, indeed," Ysabet muttered, too loud. Far too loud, in Severine's mind. "Calm yourselves. Whatever the elementals' part in this, I will keep you safe." A pained look, from Kan-E. But perhaps it was the shove she needed; she was the spiritual leader, once again. "The elementals live among us. They do care, and they do reward our faith. I swear no harm shall come to any of you. Even now, the net closes on Gleipnir..." She trailed off at beating footsteps. Another report. Some locals really were trying to bolt south to Thanalan.

They tried it Kan-E's way, for a while. But when they found the men, they were frantic. And one had been stricken. He turned, and the rest of the crew with him, the panic more infectious than Gleipnir's plague. Severine and Ysabet did all they could, and put them quickly to the sword. "Raya-O said we would need to turn to the elementals for assistance," said Kan-E, her slender shoulders slumped, "and I know, now, that she was right." "Must they be roused?" Frustration crept into Ysabet's voice. "Is the rot not apparent? Is it not enough of a threat--" "I will seek audience with the great one," said Kan-E - coming close, for the first time, to truly raising her voice. "I shall make the proper ablutions; pray return to the Adders' Nest and await my summons." The Seedseer stalked off, guards in tow. Ysabet stood, and watched them leave. Severine lingered between them, gave a searching look to Ysabet, but she was not comforted by what she saw. There was a coldness in those eyes. "Not coming to the Adders' Nest, I take it?" "I have my own preparations to make," Ysabet said, quietly. Severine grunted, and half-turned away. Then turned back. "Assume, for a moment, that I'm not grounded enough in druidic philosophy to follow this... this tree-measuring contest with the Seedseers? I don't understand how these people work, either, but is it really ours to reason why?" Ysabet gave it thought. She had a way of musing that Severine could find infuriating, sometimes; tell her something she really needed to gnaw on and she would stand there, staring straight through you, sifting it over. But eventually, she came to her conclusion. "I came to Ul'dah, and did not understand. Then I saw the truth; that it was broken. But with the Sultana and the Bull, and the rest of the Scions, we did what we could to make it whole, no?" "A fair assessment. But..." "When we came to your own homeland, Ishgard, the other Scions did not understand. But you knew the truth, did you not? That it, too, was broken? And with you and Aymeric, the Azure Dragoon and the Fortemps, did we not mend it?" A tight smile, through Severine's thin lips. "We left it better than you found it, certainly." "And what of Garlemald? There was a cancer there, called Empire, and we cut that out, did we not?" Ysabet was growing in momentum, now, the words coming faster and more strident. "And Garlemald will heal, as we left it. So now we come back to Gridania, and we see a people in thrall to blind gods who lash out without their rituals and their sacrifices, a... a people who will let children die and duskwights be made outcast, to preserve their unnatural order, all to earn protection from these vaunted elementals... only now, to find them too numb to stir, even as an otherworldly threat threatens to consume all in its path? You tell me, now, that this is a land we cannot mend? That we should leave these people to rot?" There was silence, for a time. A gentle breeze rustled the canopy above. "So," asked Severine at last, "what will you do?" "That... I do not yet know. But when it is time to act, I shall."

Mrdja's arms trembled. The point of the arrow wavered, dipping madly under the target, then swaying right. Damn it all, how did Kjva make it look so easy? Her arms were strong, her aim was steady. With her, it was one swift motion. No hesitation. And always, always, always, she struck her mark. Mrdja ... released. The arrow vanished into the undergrowth. The stag was not alarmed enough to scatter. Stupid, stupid! She pulled another. Pulled it back-- no, too soon! She had to breathe. She had to stay calm. She knew this. And in front of the targets, she was a fair enough shot. The targets did not have chests with pounding hearts. The targets did not have darting black eyes, deep as pools. They did not-- She let fly. The stag grunted, staggered to its left... shook its head violently. The arrow was lodged in its throat. But it was too stupid to know it was dead. It looked straight through Mrdja, who did not know until that moment that a stag could look reproachful. And then, of course, it fled. Fumbling for her second arrow and swearing the foreign curses she'd picked up from the merchant caravans, Mrdja raced along to follow, forgetting all she had learned about drifting along the forest floor in tune with it in the interest of pure pace. Or was her own heart racing too fast? She was no huntress. But she was here to learn an object lesson. Ljda would not see her until the stag's head was produced. The nature of things was out of balance. Foreign hunters had driven a herd into the woods, and they threatened to grow out of control, and this proud old sire would do more than his share to multiply the damn things. 'Can we not leave it to the hunters?' she had made the mistake of asking. Ljda had frowned. Instantly, Mrdja knew she had erred. 'It amazes me,' she said, 'your capacity to repeat the same mistake, a thousandfold. You aspire to master life, yes? To become a healer greater than any salve-maker, to ensure the grove will flourish, to keep your people safe?' 'I do! Is that not--' 'There are two sides to it. And sometimes, to preserve life,' she said, plucking a weed from her garden, 'we must bring death'. And so she'd been out here for two days. Exploring this extended metaphor to its conclusion. Ljda had a sick sense of humour. Worse still, she heard on the wind that the proper huntresses were taking bets on how long Mrdja would take before finding her prize. But at least the shot was landed, now. She needed only follow, scurrying through the forest floor, steadily gaining as the stag lost speed, the shock of its eventually fatal wound catching up, slowly, slowly-- The wolf came from nowhere. Slavering fangs clamped around the stag's throat, dragging it to the ground and silencing it - but for the crack of its neck - with a hard yank. Mrdja stood and watched in horror. And it looked up. And it saw, perhaps, a second meal. Or perhaps competition over its first? Instinct took over. Somehow the arrow found its way to the string, without her even knowing. And somehow, as the wolf leapt, it found its mark, burying itself through one eye and deep into the brain. It hurled itself on her with the last of its strength, but as she kicked and struggled, it slumped off her with no more resistance than its own weight. She sat there, breathing, for a time. Wondering why her racing heart felt so good inside her.

Ysabet found the Guardian Tree unwatched. She frowned. That was not how it was meant to be. And when she saw the first shapes of warped, discarded armour, she knew... ... well, she knew she could not concern herself with that. Any number of hired hands could take down a lesser blasphemy. Only she could do this, now. Not even Kan-E, she suspected. For better or for worse. The 'ritual preparations' were a pretext, Ysabet knew, which meant it would not be long before Kan-E, Severine and the Keeper made their arrival. And they would not allow her to do... this. "Hello, Father Tree," she murmured, running her long fingers through the canopy. "I do hope you are not counting on pleasantries, today. I do not come as supplicant." It rustled. Perhaps already resistant. No, it could hear, she knew. And what it understood, it did not care for. This was not the way of things. This was not how they were done. She drifted her long hand down across its branches to its trunk, claws scraping gently against the bark. It liked that not, either. Yet she did not find the rebuke she expected. "Grown timid in your old age, is that it? Tell me your story." And, when it did not prove immediately forthcoming, "I will have your story." The bark betrayed it. There was... a wound, on it, that could never heal. And she let her mind and soul drift to the fringes of the great consciousness within, keeping her feet ever grounded, staying moored... and she let its memories bleed into her. A wanderer and a Padjal - in training, a mere child! Meant to keep me safe! Meant to protect! Yet he brings this interloper! Can you not see? See through his lies? And the wanderer rose from his pretended prayer, pushed past the child, snapped a branch off the bough-- The rebuke was great. The wanderer did not survive, struck a thousand times a thousand times, no punishment too great. And the unworthy earned his punishment. Stripped of his horns... "Ea-Sura," Ysabet murmured, and her eyes were open, and she saw it-- him! It? Waiting. Watching. Slavering. Profanity's spawn Despair's orphan Sadness, anger Sadness Death's prayer One and all And the fear overwhelmed all. Ysabet pulled herself back while she still could, and dragged herself, mind and body, away from the Guardian, which had whipped itself into a mad frenzy. Ea-Sura! Ea-Sura! Ea-Sura comes! And yet And yet... it waited. Only waited. Ysabet watched it, back rising and falling, sapped of all colour and life and somehow all the more indefatigable for it. And Ysabet realised, then, that it awaited an opening to avenge itself. "For a branch?" she said, softly. "All this, over a branch?" A branch? The rebuke came strong, but Ysabet was ready, this time. Indignation overpowered its own fear, but could not find a way through her wards. Corruption starts... covenant broken... all lost... would that there was the strength... to bring to bear... were I strong... you would be crushed... breaker of faith... "You damned a child for the sake of a trick, a single pruned branch it cost. And now your people reap what you have sown, and here you stand." Ysabet shook her head softly. "Unwilling to act. Fearful of the beast's wrath falling where it deserves. So more die, because of your sloth." No strength to share! No strength to share! The flesh rots! Drive out the evil, drive out the evil! "These woods do rot. The corruption spreads, for want of pruning." Ysabet gathered herself, hands clenched around her mace, letting it become the conduit for her force. "You are the source of the thousand poisons, Guardian. And I am no Seedseer in your thrall, but my people did name me Warden, for I kept them safe. We heard and knew and felt and breathed the Green Word, not the lies of elementals, and the Word never promised protection, nor asked service. We needed only know our place, do our part. Know that I see you for what you are," and she was bellowing now, her words echoing through every corner of the Shroud, "and name you false prophet, name you deceiver! The world demands you be unmade, and through me, it shall be so!" Læraðr came down; branches whipped out, lashing at her, at Ysabet, grappling at her, driving her closer, driving her to one knee. But she made the world rise to her defence, the primal aspects that respected strength; the earth bowed to her and shielded her, vines lashed against the Guardian and drank deep of its sap. Evergreen leaves yellowed and fell all around, warden and guardian locked in primal conflict. Yet with every step in the physical world, Ysabet came closer to its presence in the world beyond, a thousand years of experience at the core of the Shroud. There was a presence here with a power far beyond her, and though it was confused and complacent and fearful, bloated and decadent... this was all that kept her from being subsumed into its core. Yet so close, she could see those flaws, and they gave her resolve. Gave her contempt. Both proved fine shields. But it would mean nothing if she could not deliver... the final blow... "YSABET!" The name sprang from two mouths, one Severine's, one Kan-E's, witnessing her struggle against the Guardian. The latter railed at her; Ysabet tuned her out. But the former unsheathed her blade and advanced-- -- but not on the guardian. But neither on Ysabet, for now, at last, Gleipnir pounced with a wounded, bestial roar, driving its claws into the Guardian, ripping away at its bark. Its poisons seeped into the tree, and it keened, and lashed, and struck back-- -- and left an opening. Ysabet ripped herself clear of the vines, the barbs and thorns tearing through her flesh, but it was enough. Enough to drive her mace through the tree, shattering it to the core, a strike that burst with a thousand long-awaited winters and the killing frost that would give way to renewal. And Gleipnir, too, struck again and again, until a terrible silken sound cut through the rancour. A single blow from Severine drove through its spine, pinning the beast to the tree. The Guardian shuddered. Tremors beneath their feet-- the ground gave way, all around, as roots splintered. And the Shroud screamed in mourning, for it did not yet understand-- "What have you done?" There were tears in Kan-E's eyes. "What have you done?" Severine stamped on Gleipnir's back to drag her blade free, expecting a reprisal that never came. The thing seemed... almost tranquil, in truth, slumping against a dying tree. Severine dragged her blade back, but the second blow never came. It was not necessary. The beast was dust. Ysabet leaned heavily against a nearby, innocent tree, breathing hoarse and ragged. "I have done my part, Elder Seedseer." "You slew the Guardian Tree!" "I am pleased to say I played some significant part in that, yes." With some effort, she looked Kan-E in the eye. "You thought to bring ritual? You thought to plea for your lives? You would have wasted your time. Its thoughts were on the surface, there for the taking. It was consumed by fear. Useless to you; worse than useless! It caused this! And your peoples' complacency..." She shook her head. "Ach, I do not care to moralise. Ea-Sura is slain at last, and avenged besides, and you will learn in time to thank me for my part in it. But I will not force you to exile me, Kan-E. I will go." But when the next words came from Kan-E, as Ysabet panted and tried to regather herself, it was not to berate her. "But what do we do? With the Guardian fallen... ?" "Ha. That's easy enough. Slash the site clear, burn it, then..." Ysabet forced a smile. "Then bury a sapling in its stead. Place your faith in the Shroud to adapt... and in yourselves to adapt, besides."

It would take more than that. Far more than that. And Ysabet Sable never did return to Gridania, her status as pariah marked forever - or, at least, for the generation. That, at least, she was destined to outlive. But the sapling they planted would outlive her, in turn, growing strong as it fed off the charnel of the Guardian. And that was the way of things. The way it should be. It really was that simple.

[houserosaire]

Prompt #28: Bow

           He was not supposed to be in the garden. He was supposed to be in the yard with Silvaineaux practicing. Only after his latest tumbling defeat he felt like the only thing he was really helping his brother practice was apologies.  He was hopeless, and clumsy and neither Silvaineaux nor Lord Father were being unkind about it but somehow that made it worse.

           He ducked in between a pair of hedges into the little space beside a garden statue and made himself small. He hadn’t heard them looking for him yet, but they would. His eyes stung and he was helpless to stop the childish, foolish tears that slipped out. He tugged his knees tighter against his chest, wrapped his arms around them and hid his face against the stained fabric.

           They would come and they’d find him and they would be kind about it. But they would still bring him back to the yard. And no amount of kindness would change the fact that Honore was clumsy and that he forgot to raise his shield and he was horrible at being a knight. A small sob escaped him, and then another harder one followed the first until despite himself he was crying like a baby instead of a big boy of eight summers.

           He could hear nothing but his own misery and his eyes were squeezed tight, so he didn’t notice there was anyone else in the garden until he felt the gentle hand on his head and the familiar sweet scent of rose-scented perfume wafted over him. “Oh my little Honore, what is the matter?” And Lady Mother knelt, spreading all her pretty skirts on the dirt as if she hadn’t the slightest care about soiling them and tugged him in all his dusty practice armor and stains into her arms.

           If he were better at being brave Honore thought he might have managed to square his jaw like Silvaineaux did and wipe his eyes and tell her it was nothing. But he could not be that brave and instead he hid his face against her shoulder. “I am so awful at everything.” He sobbed the words into the fabric. “I try so hard and I never get any better and the armor is heavy and it makes me so slow and clumsy and I forget to use my shield or it is too slow and I will never ever be a good knight.”

           She was silent as he spoke, but he could feel her head bent close and her gentle hand sliding over his hair and patting at his chainmail in the way that wasn’t his own mama but was no less full of love. “Did you know?” She whispered, when his words had subsided into heaving tears. “That I cried over this very same thing more than once?”

           He looked up at her in helpless surprise, wondering if she were teasing him, but no, through the blur of his tears her blue eyes were soft and serious. “Really?”

           “Really.” She whispered. “I wanted so badly to learn to use a sword and to wear armor and to fight beside Severin.”

           “Lord Father.” Honore whispered.            “Yes.” She smiled at him. “I wanted it more than anything even before I knew him. But I wanted it even more after I met him. Then he got me armor and helped me order a sword and tried to teach me. And I tried. But I was hopeless. The armor made me clumsy too and I worked and worked at it but never seemed to get any better.”

           Another helpless sob escaped him and he turned his face into her shoulder again. It really was hopeless then.

           “But do you know what your Lord Father told me?” She continued. “He said that if I truly wanted he would never stop helping me. But then he also told me that we are not all good at the same things and that I was the finest archer he had ever seen and perhaps I should not forget that. So I took up my bow again. Have you ever tried to shoot a bow, Honore?”

           He shook his head. “Not really.”

           “Would you like to try? I could teach you. An archer can kill a dragon too, you know.”

           He swallowed. “Really?”            “Really. I have.”

           “But what if I am bad at archery too?” He whispered.

           “Then we will try something else.” She said as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “But you have sharp eyes and clever hands, there is no reason you wouldn’t be good at it. Even if it takes practice. What do you think? Would you like to try?”

           He swallowed and nodded. “I would.”

           “Then I will get you a bow. And you can practice with me.”

                                                              ***

           He had outgrown that little bow a very long time ago. When Honore held it now it looked like a toy in his hands. It was a useless sort of thing to keep, but at least once a moon he took it carefully from its chest to tend the wood and simply hold it in his hands. Sometimes nothing reminded him so clearly of love as that.

           He was good at archery. Sometimes he had the small and traitorous thought that he might be even better than the Lady that had taught him. But sometimes he also thought perhaps that was because whenever he drew his bow he could hear her somewhere in his heart reminding him to breathe, and to look, then to loose.

[punkrockhistory]

46 years ago today

Viv Albertine, Steve Severin, Kenny Morris, Sarah Hall and Siouxsie Sioux before and during the Sex Pistols concert, Notre Dame Hall (now the Leicester Square Theatre, Nov. 15, 1976. Photos by John Ingham

#punkrock #sexpistols #history #punkrockhistory #otd

[books-of-the-great-leviathan]

Chapter 2- Azare

***

Azare paused at the arched doorway to the courtyard, watching the king teach his son how to shoot.

The crack of a gunshot echoed across the sunlit courtyard, a long rectangle of withered plants and the cool green scent of fountains, keeping down the dust. Carved platefish spat arcs of bright water through the afternoon sunlight, and colonnades stretched on either side, filled with strolling courtiers, veiled ladies with paper parasols and military men with their hands behind their backs, medals flashing silver as mirrors. A pretty scene- like something from a painting, one of the old masterworks in the dead queen's gallery, full of color and life.

Azare let himself savor it as he took a short breath and stepped into the courtyard, boots ringing on the flagstone avenue. There was little enough life to be had in the Tower these days. Another shot sounded; a cloud of gunsmoke billowed through the amber leaves of martyr fronds.

The patrolling guards lowered their heads in deference as he passed them, and he nodded in return.

"A fine shot, Highness," the gunsmith said as the echoes died. The young prince looked up at the smith, pistol held uncertainly in both hands. A target had been set up some yards down the avenue, its face pitted with holes. "You'll make a mighty soldier someday."

"Someday soon, isn't that the hope, Marin?" King Daval said, one hand coming down on his son's small shoulder. Marin looked up at his father, the pistol barrel dipping. It was a fine weapon, its long barrel silver, its grip and stock chased in gilt- half of a matched set, Azare noted. The other lay on green velvet in its box on a nearby stand. The gunsmith saw him before the king did, and clicked her heels before sweeping into a bow.

"I hope his highness doesn't need to see war before he's done a great deal of growing," Azare said, and the king turned, eyes narrowed in the drenching sunlight.

He grinned. King Daval Belmont, sovereign of the sister isles of Estara and the most powerful man south of Lapide's naval blockade, was as familiar to Azare as his own face in a mirror. They'd been friends since boyhood, more than thirty years in one other's company- children studying at each other's elbow, escaping tutors and training to climb orchard trees and race elk down Estara's rocky, sunburnt coasts. Children growing into duty, into men, a matched set like the pistols in their case. Daval had become king like his father before him, and Azare, the son of the old king Etain Belmont's most trusted general, became his Witchhunter.

Daval was all muscle, his black curls threaded with silver, his close-cropped beard not obscuring the square cut of his face. His eyes were black, too, lines feathering their corners, flecks and slashes of paler scar tissue spattering his cheekbone and taking a nick from one eyebrow. The face of a warlord, a commander. Not one to stand back, was Daval, nor stay in the shadows. That was Azare's role.

"Severin," Daval said, and clapped Azare on the shoulder. He wore no crown, just linen and leather and riding boots. "Watch the boy shoot. I commissioned him these pistols. A proper soldier learns young, learns well, with the correct tools for learning."

He plucked the pistol's twin from its box and spun it so its grip faced Azare. "All the way from Ibaris." He held it poised on one finger, then spun it again and replaced it in its box. "No better balance in the Isles. Show him, Marin."

Marin stood there, his pistol still in his hands. He had his mother's look; her majesty Queen Adele was most likely in her solar this time of day, with her circle of ladies and attendants, recovering from her recent illness. The last time Azare had seen her she'd still looked poorly, her pale face obscured by a sapsilk veil. Poorly, and pretty, and young, so young. She was scarcely much older than Daval's other son, who was nowhere to be seen in the courtyard. Prince Marin was six, but looked younger with his round face and dark curls, his eyes the delicate blue of Buyani porcelain.  

"Go on, boy," Daval said. He crossed the distance to his son in one stride. "This is the Royal Witchhunter Severin Azare. You know who he is."

"Yes, father," Marin said quietly.

"You want to be as great a soldier as he is, don't you? The stories he could tell you, of battles won and Lapidaean heathens slain at his swordpoint! None of it could have happened without practice. Show him."

Marin glanced to Azare. The boy looked as if he'd rather go play with his pet fox kits, rather be anywhere but here.

"Have you really killed people?" Marin whispered.

"I have," Azare said.

"What is it, Marin, are you frightened? A king cannot be frightened," Daval said. "A king must be strong. Isn't that right, Severin?"

"You're the king, Majesty," Azare said. "You tell me."

Daval's smile widened, his teeth blindingly-white. "Listen to that, Marin. Only this man would dare speak to me like that. Even your mother wouldn't dare. We've all been scared little boys, haven't we? But we must grow older someday. Go on, Marin."

The prince licked his lips, then turned back toward the target. He lifted the pistol; it seemed much too large for his small hands. Daval folded his arms behind his back, eyes narrowed again. He watched his son like Azare might watch one of his men training, looking for faults to correct. Marin's eyes squeezed shut when he pulled the trigger; a notch burst into the target's upper curve, nearly a foot off center. Marin's arms dropped, and the gunsmith swooped to catch the pistol before it fell to the flagstones.

"Poor," Daval thundered, and Marin's shoulders curled in. "Very poor, boy. Will that win you wars? Will that win you respect?"

He snatched the weapon from the gunsmith and fired. Marin flinched. The gunshot was a crack of thunder; birds burst from the trees, wings clattering as they fled to the skies. A hole appeared in the target's heart, a perfect shot into the exact center of the circle of red paint.

Daval thrust the pistol back into its box and snapped the lid shut. "You. Go," he told the gunsmith, who bowed again and hurried to bear the set away, followed by her apprentices. Smoke and the acrid tang of gunpowder hung in the air, stinging Azare's nose. The king rounded on his son, who stood shivering, tears dripping down his chin.

"Next time you won't miss, will you?" Daval said.

"Daval," Azare said quietly.

"Will you? Answer me."

Marin shook his head. His curls bounced. He snuffled, then scraped his hand over his running nose. Daval shook his head too, something softening in his face. He cupped his son's head in his palm, a brusque pat to his hair like he might calm one of his elk. A rough tenderness. It was, Azare thought, the best he could do.

"Go on, then, Marin," he said. "Back to your lessons. I will see you tonight. Be respectful of your tutors."

"Yes, father," Marin said, and attendants stepped forward, a girl in servants' uniform speaking to the young prince softly. He hugged close to her as she ushered him down a path.

Daval sighed.

"That boy," he said. "More interested in animals than weapons training, sweets than swords. I despair to think. Was I like that at his age?"

"We both were," Azare said. "Except you were rounder. You liked sweets, too, I seem to remember."

Daval laughed, a rumble of a sound. "Witches pluck out your eyes, Sev. What do you think of the boy?"

"I think very much of him."

"His mother's illness hasn't spread to him, no matter how much time he might spend worrying and fawning over her. It's not an illness of the body, Severin, it's an illness of the spirit. This war hasn't been good to her."

"It hasn't been good to anyone."

Daval gave Azare a slow once-over. Azare held his gaze. Daval's dark eyes settled on his, and stilled, and stayed there. He nodded, once. "Walk with me," he said.

Azare dipped his head. "Majesty."

They retreated from the range, from the patrolling guards. Daval lifted his hands and flexed them. They were as scarred as his face, evidence of the past decade, of the battles and shrapnel, of spellfire and the roar of bolt cannons. Cool shadows swallowed them as they left the courtyard for halls built of the same dark rock as the rest of the Tower. A row of windows showed hexagonal towers spearing into the sky, shimmering black under the relentless sun. Red flags snapped from spires like speartips, standing ready to impale the shell-blue sky. The hall opened into a long row of arches looking over a parapet, falling a hundred feet to the crashing waves below.

Pavaloir Tower stood on its own, all of Pavaloir stretched behind it. The fortress protected its city from invaders; from these walls, the first sign of enemy ships could be sighted far out in the bay. There was nowhere to hide under the gaze of Belmont kings. A ferocious structure, walls sheer, made to withstand sieges. Queen Margaux, the king's first wife, had been responsible for maintaining its garden courtyards, its galleries and tapestries, the birds flitting like air spirits, but those were the only places that sort of beauty intruded. This was a house of defense, not of the loveliness she had so briefly brought to it.

A warship was anchored several hundred yards out, iron flanks bristling with artillery, the men on its decks no bigger than insects. Azare felt the bass vibration of its engines in the backs of his teeth. Islets studded the sea, sharp thrusts of black volcanic rock lashed white by spray. Seabirds floated over the swells. The sea was the same vivid blue as the young queen's eyes, darkening as it stretched closer to the horizon.

That was where Daval fixed his gaze. Wind ruffled his hair as he lifted his head to the sky, bracing both palms on the wide parapet. Azare stayed a step back. The salt air was free of the day's heat, and sliced past his face like a blade.

"Tell me truly," Daval said. "What do you think of my son?"

"He's a good boy. Clever. A credit to you."

"Terse as always, old friend." Muscle bunched in his back, his fingers curling to fists. "He's afraid is what he is. He doesn't understand-"

"He's six, Daval. A child."

"Children die every day in this war. Children younger than him. I can't have him walk into this world weak as milk. Do you understand?"

Azare said nothing. Daval rounded on him, at once bright with fury. "What would you do in my place?"

Azare's voice, when he spoke, was soft, the same calming tone he'd used on Daval for years. "You didn't bring me here to talk about Marin."

Daval sighed again. His burst of anger left him as quickly as it had come, like some great sleek predator laying down once again in the shade. "No," he said. "No, I did not."

"What's your news?"

"You saw the swift flag come to harbor."

It was Azare's duty to know all who crossed Estara's sea border. He'd had report of the ship ever since it appeared on the horizon. "Yes."

"The news is good."

"And?"

"They've agreed," Daval said. "That witch-queen in blue with her brood, and her damned retinue of chancellors. They've agreed to a match between Alois and Valere's youngest."

"The princess Cereza?" Young, indeed. The princess was not yet nineteen.

Daval gave a curt nod. "A fitting match for my son. A marriage built to bring peace. To bring an end to this war. To bring unity between our nations the likes of which has not been seen since the days before the Sundered Empire."

He paused, a faint wolfish smile on his lips. "So my ambassadors say."

"And?"

"I agreed to send the prince to her across Bellana's Arm, all the way to Lapide to meet his future bride. There will be masks aplenty, with their pagan carnivals cluttering their capital's streets. I intend to give them one more."

Azare said nothing for a moment. This thing they spoke of, this matter, it was ghastly, it was proud, it was a legacy etched in blood. And it would save Estara. Of that, he was certain, if ever he'd been certain of anything.

The breeze stirred his hair. He remembered the dead queen, then. Margaux had been gone nearly ten years, but some days it was like she had just stepped from the room. They had stood here once, at sunset, the two of them so young. She'd held a handful of snowbloom, white petals scattering as the wind blew the flowers apart.

It carried their scent, bitter and sweet all at once.

How we mock the innocent, Captain Azare.

Her amber eyes were on him, her face still and sorrowful. He remembered those eyes most of all. They were haunting, untouched in his mind by years or death.

"You're resolute, then," Azare said.

"I am."

"You think this is the correct course of action?"

"Yes," Daval said. "I do."

Azare studied his friend. Daval had always been a force, even as a boy, even more so as a young man, as if he carried storms inside him. His father, the old king, had laughed and said his son was Leaure reborn, a warrior Saint bringing holy fire from Bellana to set the seas alight. Now Azare saw that fire in Daval's black gaze. He had made his decisions. He would not go back on them, not if the Great Leviathan reared from the deeps, not if the world was at its end. His friend's honor was strong enough for ten, his love for his country stronger still. For that Azare had forgiven him almost everything.

"She's a young girl," Azare said quietly. "Younger than your son. Barely more than a child."

Daval's gaze grew cold. "Then let Lapide mourn a child," he said. "Saints know Estara has mourned plenty."

"And Prince Alois?"

Daval faced the parapet and leaned against it once more, staring out across the sea. Azare made out the faint ghost trace of the great moon, its lesser siblings not yet shown themselves. The sun was on its descent, touching the tops of the waves with gold. Soon, sunset would come and stain the sea bloody as the aftermath of a battle.

"You know what to do," Daval said. His voice was hard. The warlord had come, and the boy he'd been was long gone. Ten years of war. Ten years of death. More than Queen Margaux's, though hers had marked its beginning. "So do it."

Azare bowed, then turned and left the king, shadow folding over him as he stepped into dim corridors once more.

For him, now, there was work to be done. Dark work, silent work. Shadow-work, he thought, and cold shivered through him like the first sighting of a storm.

It- she- would take careful preparation. Best go before nightfall, chains or no, while Bellana's light still filled the world.

A pair of Tower guard passed him. Azare nodded at their salute before turning down a passageway, away from the sound of the ocean and back toward the wing of the Tower that housed the Witchhunter training halls and his offices, the martial rooms he'd occupied for the past twenty years. Usually the passage was silent, empty.

Not today.

Someone was waiting for him.

He was a young man in breeches and shirtsleeves, his boots dusty, a pair of gauntlet gloves shoved under his belt. His curls gleamed like ink in the lamplight, his dark skin flushed: Prince Alois Belmont, King Daval's eldest son and the heir to the Estaran throne.

He stepped up as Azare paused.

"Captain," Alois said. He sounded breathless. "You were talking to my father, weren't you?"

"Highness." Azare gave a short nod. "I'm sorry. I have business to attend to."

"I saw the ship return hours ago. There's news, isn't there?" His eyes were wide. "There must be news."

"No news."

He moved toward Azare, leaning in with anticipation. "Come now, Azare, it was flying the swift flag-"

"If the king wishes to speak to you, he'll send for you."

Alois pressed forward. For a moment, in this light, he looked so familiar. The queen had looked like that when she was determined- the same set of her jaw, the iron resolve in her eyes. She'd left so much of herself in her son, her strength, her kindness, everything Daval mistook for flaws. In that much she was still alive, though her body was bones, buried far from the starlight in the catacombs beneath the Tower.

Deep inside Azare, ache twisted like an unhealed wound. He pushed the pain ever deeper. This was no time to remember, no day for her breed of mercy. All the same, where Alois was concerned, Azare thought she would have been proud.

"It's about Lapide. About the war," Alois said. "I know it is."

"You know I can't speak freely."

"Just tell me-"

"The king is above, on the sea walk," Azare said. "Go to him."

A muscle fluttered in Alois's cheek. Azare didn't reach out to him, didn't shame him with pity. The both of them knew there were no comforts to be had in matters between the king and his son. Azare stepped down and past him in a long stride, further down the corridor.

"Wait," Alois said.

Azare turned back.

"Is this the end?" The prince faced him. Alois's eyes were still bright with hope. "Does this mean it's over?"

Azare stood, silent. There were so many things he wanted to say, he could never say. So many words that would die with him, when the day of his own death came. For once he longed to speak the truth, plain under the eye of the sun, and damn what consequence came. There had been so many lies in his life, so many things sacrificed for Estara, for his nation, for his honor. Now there would be another, and the truth would stay silent a day longer.

"Your father loves you," he said at last. "Trust him. Trust what he asks of you."

Alois's expression clouded. Azare stepped toward him, then stopped, and with a last nod to the prince left him in the lamplight, left him like a coward to the king.

[kryetara]

A  LEMON  COLOURED,     COTTON  BLANKET  SITS  SQUARE  ON  A  PATCH  OF  DRY  GRASS,        close by a murky pond that teems with life.      while severin starts arranging the small spread of various foods they collected and prepared,       ira finds his gaze     (  weighted,   but commanding with care  )     flit between a number of places to rest ;    the nearby birch trees that glitter in the soft summer wind,    the sparrows that pick at the parched earth for worms or grubs,    the soft white fabric of maria’s t-shirt.      he takes a ripe red strawberry from a plastic punnet and bites a half.          “     i’m glad we got fruit.     ”            as it appears,    despite the enormity of their combined guilt,      ira finds himself fill with little resistance to organizing their  return to grace,    as it may be ;      he nudges a pack of oreos in maria’s direction,    touching severin’s arm on the way back to wordlessly remind him that  he’s got this,    he’s in control,    and everything is going to be okay.           “      go on,    greene,    get some sugar down you.    it’ll do you some good.     ”          (  a familiarly northern tilt breaks loose.  )

featuring     @crimewrought​    and     @perdefinitio​ .

[stainedglassgardens]

Favourite films watched in 2020

In no particular order:

Katalin Varga (Peter Strickland, 2009) The Gleaners and I (Les Glaneurs et la glaneuse, Agnès Varda, 2000) Land of Silence and Darkness (Land des Schweigens und der Dunkelheit, Werner Herzog, 1971) Post Tenebras Lux (Carlos Reygadas, 2012) The Return (Возвращение, Andrey Zvyaginstev, 2003) The Grand Bizarre (Jodie Mack, 2018) Transnistra (Anna Eborn, 2019) Ghost Town Anthology (Répertoire des villes disparues, Denis Côté, 2019) The Petrified Forest (Archie Mayo, 1936) Viy (Вий, Georgiy Kropachyov & Konstantin Ershov, 1967)

Complete list of all 323 films watched in 2020 under the cut!

January

Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging (Gurinder Chadha, 2008) Blade (Steven Norrington, 1998) Who Among Us! (Abhishek Prasad and Rebecca Kahn, 2019) Brotherhood (Meryam Joobeur, 2018) Disctrict 9 (Neill Blomkamp, 2009) Hair Love (Matthew A. Cherry and Karen Rupert Toliver, 2019) Kitbull (Rosana Sullivan, 2019) Sister (妹妹, Siqi Song, 2019) Nuts! (Penny Lane, 2016) The Judge (Erika Cohn, 2017) The Ghosts of Sugar Land (Bassam Tariq, 2019) Amazonia (Dominic Hicks, 2018) Dearborn Ash (Hena Ashraf, 2018) Pineal (Jenny Rinta-Kanto, 2019) Headcleaner (Nick Scott, 2019) Rattlesnake (Zak Hilditch, 2019) The Neon Demon (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2016) Skin (Audrey Rosenberg, 2018) The Banishment (Изгнание, Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2007) F is for Friendship (Shaya Mulcahy, 2016) Paradise Hills (Alice Waddington, 2019) Road House (Rowdy Herrington, 1989) Hustlers (Lorene Scafaria, 2019) I Believe in Unicorns (Leah Meyerhoff, 2014) Ghost Train (Lee Cronin, 2014) Troop Zero (Bert & Bertie, 2019) For the Love of God (Pour l'Amour de Dieu, Micheline Lanctôt, 2011)

February

Sitting Next to Zoe (Ivana Lalović, 2013) Dark Places (Gilles Paquet-Brenner, 2015) Nocturnal Animals (Tom Ford, 2016) The Limey (Steven Soderbergh, 1999) Side Effects (Steven Soderbergh, 2013) Good Sam (Kate Melville, 2019) Anima (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2019) What Did Jack Do? (David Lynch, 2017) Fleur de tonnerre (Stéphanie Pillonca, 2016) Parasite (Bong Joon-ho, 2019) The Field Guide to Evil (Peter Strickland, Veronika Franz & Severin Fiala, Katrin Gebbe, Yannis Veslemes, Ashim Ahluwalia, Agnieszka Smoczynska, Can Evrenol, Calvin Reeder, 2018) Devil (John Eric Dowdle, 2010) 37 Seconds (Hikari, 2019) The Falling (Carol Morley, 2014) Grave of the Fireflies (火垂るの墓, Hotaru no Haka, Isao Takahata, 1988) Elena (Елена, Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2011) The Lighthouse (Robert Eggers, 2019) Baskin (Can Evrenol, 2015) In Fabric (Peter Strickland, 2018) Leviathan (Левиафан, Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2014) Suffragette (Sarah Gavron, 2015)

March

The East (Zal Batmanglij, 2013) Solaris (Солярис, Andrei Tarkovsky, 1972) Mamma Mia! (Phyllida Lloyd, 2008) There Will Be Blood (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2007) Io (Jonathan Helpert, 2019) The Death and Life of Marsha P. Johnson (David France, 2017) A Bump Along the Way (Shelly Love, 2019) Color Out of Space (Richard Stanley, 2019) Divines (Houda Benyamina, 2016) Vanishing Waves (Kristina Buožytė, 2012) Mirror (Зеркало, Andrei Tarkovsky, 1975) Zama (Lucrecia Martel, 2017) Swallow (Carlo Mirabella-Davis, 2019) Joy (Sudabeh Mortezai, 2018) Good Time (Josh and Benny Safdie, 2017) Quarantine (John Eric Dowdle, 2008) The Reflecting Skin (Philip Ridley, 1990) Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (Martin McDonagh, 2017) Leto (Лето,  Kirill Serebrennikov, 2018) The 39 Steps (Alfred Hitchcock, 1935)

April

Queen of Earth (Alex Ross Perry, 2015) Black Christmas (Sophia Takal, 2019) Dogs of Chernobyl (Léa Camilleri & Hugo Chesnel, 2020) Firecrackers (Jasmin Mozaffari, 2018) Les Misérables (Ladj Ly, 2019) The Evil Dead (Sam Raimi, 1981) The Daughters of Fire (Las hijas del fuego, Albertina Carri, 2018) The Fallen Idol (Carol Reed, 1948) The Wailing (곡성, Gokseong, Na Hong-jin, 2016) Inherent Vice (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2014) Sorrowful Shadow (Guy Maddin, 2004) Mistery Lonely (Harmony Korine, 2007) The Grand Bizarre (Jodie Mack, 2018) Zombieland: Double Tap (Ruben Fleischer, 2019) Waves '98 (Ely Dagher, 2015) Uncut Gems (Josh and Benny Safdie, 2019) The Last Séance (Laura Kulik, 2018) Too Late to Die Young (Tarde para morir joven, Dominga Sotomayor Castillo, 2018) Room (Lenny Abrahamson, 2015) Queen & Slim (Melina Matsoukas, 2019) The Holy Mountain (La montaña sagrada, Alejandro Jodorowsky, 1973) The Chaser ( 추격자, Chugyeokja, Na Hong-jin, 2008) Made in Dagenham (Nigel Cole, 2010) The Color of Pomegranates (Նռան գույնը, Nřan guynə, Sergei Parajanov, 1969) Lost Girls (Liz Garbus, 2020) Ghost Town Anthology (Répertoire des villes disparues, Denis Côté, 2019) And Then There Were None (René Clair, 1945) Doctor Sleep (Mike Flanagan, 2019) Meshes of the Afternoon (Maya Deren and Alexander Hammid, 1943) Circus of Books (Rachel Mason, 2019) Catfish (Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman, 2010) Wildling (Fritz Böhm, 2018) Delphine (Chloé Robichaud, 2019) The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (Lewis Milestone, 1946) The Red Balloon (Le Ballon rouge, Albert Lamorisse, 1956) Nona. If They Soak Me, I’ll Burn Them (Nona. Si me mojan, yo los quemo, Camila José Donoso, 2019) The Lodge (Veronika Franz & Severin Fiala, 2019) Invisible Man (Leigh Whannell, 2020) Sans Soleil (Chris Marker, 1983)

May

A Russian Youth (Мальчик русский, Alexander Zolotukhin, 2019) Sicario (Denis Villeneuve, 2015) Fedora (Billy Wilder, 1978) LoveTrue (Alma Har'el, 2016) The Platform (Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia, 2019) Water Lilies (Naissance des pieuvres, Céline Sciamma, 2007) The Assistant (Kitty Green, 2019) The Half of It (Alice Wu, 2020) Tomboy (Céline Sciamma, 2011) The Last Man on Earth (Ubaldo Ragona and Sidney Salkow, 1964) Beanpole (Дылда, Kantemir Balagov, 2019) Mommy (Xavier Dolan, 2014) The Fall (Jonathan Glazer, 2020) Girlhood (Bande de filles, Céline Sciamma, 2014) Carnival of Souls (Herk Harvey, 1962) Marguerite & Julien (Valérie Donzelli, 2015) Portrait of a Lady on Fire (Portrait de la jeune fille en feu, Céline Sciamma, 2019) This Magnificent Cake! (Ce Magnifique Gâteau!, Emma De Swaef & Marc James Roels, 2018) Romantic Comedy (Elizabeth Sankey, 2019) Transnistra (Anna Eborn, 2019) Eraserhhead (David Lynch, 1977) The Farewell (Lulu Wang, 2019) Emma. (Autumn de Wilde, 2020) Late Night (Nisha Ganatra, 2019) Charlie's Angels (Elizabeth Banks, 2019) Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (Cathy Yan, 2020) The Ancestors Came (Cecile Emeke, 2017) Suicide by Sunlight (Nikyatu Jusu, 2019) Anthropocene: The Human Epoch (Edward Burtynsky, Jennifer Baichwal, Nicholas de Pencier, 2018) A Perfect 14 (Giovanna Morales Vargas, 2018) Westwood: Punk, Icon, Activist (Lorna Tucker, 2018) Free Radicals (Len Lye, 1958) Aniara (Pella Kågerman and Hugo Lilja, 2018) Vivarium (Lorcan Finnegan, 2019) La Pointe-Courte (Agnès Varda, 1955) Diary of a Pregnant Woman (L'Opéra-Mouffe, Agnès Varda, 1958) Salut les Cubains (Agnès Varda, 1964) Uncle Yanco (Oncle Yanco, Agnès Varda, 1967) GUO4 (Peter Strickland, 2019) Atlantiques (Mati Diop, 2009) Sitara: Let Girls Dream (Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy, 2019) Lions Love (Lions Love... And Lies, Agnès Varda, 1969) Živan Makes a Punk Festival (Živan pravi pank festival, Ognjen Glavonić, 2014) Plastic and Glass (Tessa Joosse, 2009) The So-Called Caryatids (Les Dites Cariatides, Agnès Varda, 1984) The Octopus (La Pieuvre, Jean Painlevé, 1928) Hyas and Stenorhynchus (Hyas et sténorinques, crustacés marins, Jean Painlevé, 1929) Sea Urchins (Les Oursins, Jean Painlevé, 1929) Bernard-L'Hermite (Bernard-l'Ermite, Jean Painlevé, 1930) The Sea Horse (L'Hippocampe ou "cheval marin", Jean Painlevé, 1934) Voyage to the Sky (Voyage dans le ciel, Jean Painlevé, 1937) Le Vampire (Jean Painlevé, 1945) Freshwater Assassins (Assassins d'eau douce, Jean Painlevé, 1947) How Some Jellyfish Are Born (Comment naissent des méduses, Jean Painlevé and Geneviève Hamon, 1960) Shrimp Stories (Histoires de crevettes, Jean Painlevé and Geneviève Hamon, 1964) The Love Life of the Octopus (Les Amours de la pieuvre, Jean Painlevé and Geneviève Hamon, 1965) Acera, or The Witches' Dance (Acera, ou le Bal des Sorcières, Jean Painlevé and Geneviève Hamon, 1972) Pigeons of the Square (Les Pigeons du square, Jean Painlevé, 1982) The Slumber Party Massacre (Amy Holden Jones, 1982) Jane B. par Agnès V. (Agnès Varda, 1988) The Cranes Are Flying (Летят журавли, Mikhail Kalatozov, 1957) Crystal Swan (Хрусталь, Darya Zhuk, 2018) Take Me Somewhere Nice (Ena Sendijarević, 2019) Microhabitat ( 소공녀, Jeon Go-woon, 2017) The Unforeseen (Laura Dunn, 2007)

June

Funny Games (Michael Haneke, 1997) Louise Bourgeois: The Spider, the Mistress and the Tangerine (Marion Cajori and Amei Wallach, 2008) Wodaabe: Herdsmen of the Sun (Werner Herzog, 1989) Bells from the Deep: Faith and Superstition in Russia (Glocken aus der Tiefe - Glaube und Aberglaube in Russland, Werner Herzog, 1993) We Are the Best! (Vi är bäst!, Lukas Moodysson, 2013) Olla (Ariane Labed, 2019) Return to Reason (Le Retour à la raison, Man Ray, 1923) Ghosts Before Breakfast (Vormittagsspuk, Hans Richter, 1928) Sissy Boy Slap Party (Guy Maddin, 2004) The Republic of Enchanters (La République des enchanteurs, Fanny Liatard and Jérémy Trouilh, 2016) Sullivan's Banks (Sullivans Banken, Heinz Emigholz, 2000) Black Panthers (Agnès Varda, 1970) Asparagus (Suzan Pitt, 1979) America (Valérie Massadian, 2013) The Fall (Tarsem Singh, 2006) The Watermelon Woman (Cheryl Dunye, 1996) Douce Menace (Ludovic Habas, Yoan Sender, Margaux Vaxelaire, Mickaël Krebs, Florent Rousseau, 2011) Curling (Denis Côté, 2010) Trouble Every Day (Claire Denis, 2001) The Return (Возвращение, Andrey Zvyaginstev, 2003) Maillart's Bridges (Maillarts Brücken, Heinz Emigholz, 2000) Two Years at Sea (Ben Rivers, 2011) The Creeping Garden (Tim Grabham and Jasper Sharp, 2014) Homo Sapiens (Nikolaus Geyrhalter, 2016) A Radiant Life (Une Vie radieuse, Meryll Hardt, 2013) Shirley (Josephine Decker, 2020) Disclosure (Sam Feder, 2020) Baghead (Mark Duplass and Jay Duplass, 2008) Lahemaa (Leslie Lagier, 2010) Closeness (Теснота, Kantemir Balagov, 2017) Touki Bouki (Djibril Diop Mambéty, 1973) Daughter (Dcera, Daria Kashcheeva, 2019) Human Nature (Sverre Fredriksen, 2019) 1 Dimension (一维, Lü Yue, 2013)

July

Post Tenebras Lux (Carlos Reygadas, 2012) Something to Remember (Något Att Minnas, Niki Lindroth Von Bahr, 2019) Gegenüber (Ewa Wikiel, 2019) The Claudia Kishi Club (Sue Ding, 2020) Villa Empain (Katharina Kastner, 2019) Fata Morgana (Werner Herzog, 1971) Some Like It Hot (Billy Wilder,1959) Breakwater (Quebramar, Cris Lyra, 2019) Y a-t-il une vierge encore vivante? (Bertrand Mandico, 2015) Virus Tropical (Santiago Caicedo, 2017) The Tribe (Племя, Miroslav Slaboshpitsky, 2014) Integration Report 1 (Madeline Anderson, 1960) Tribute to Malcolm X (Madeline Anderson, 1967)

August

The Stopover (Voir du pays, Delphine and Muriel Coulin, 2016) Our Time (Nuestro Tiempo, Carlos Reygadas, 2018) Never Rarely Sometimes Always (Eliza Hittman, 2020) Land of Silence and Darkness (Land des Schweigens und der Dunkelheit, Werner Herzog, 1971) Continental, a Film Without Guns (Continental, un film sans fusil, Stéphane Lafleur, 2007) Spaceship Earth (Matt Wolf, 2020) The Go-Go's (Alison Ellwood, 2020) First Cow (Kelly Reichardt, 2019) Light of My Life (Casey Affleck, 2019) Wadjda (Haifaa al-Mansour, 2012) Spinster (Andrea Dorfman, 2020) Love and Anarchy (Film d'amore e d'anarchia, ovvero: stamattina alle 10, in via dei Fiori, nella nota casa di tolleranza..., Lina Wertmüller, 1973) Shapito Show (Шапито шоу, Sergey Loban, 2011) Charade (Stanley Donen, 1693) Cat People (Jacques Tourneur, 1942) Radioactive (Marjane Satrapi, 2019) Tabloid (Errol Morris, 2010) The Mourning Forest ( 殯の森, Mogari No Mori, Naomi Kawase, 2007) Lilya 4-ever (Lilja 4-ever, Lukas Moodysson, 2002)

September

The Nightingale (Jennifer Kent, 2018) Babyteeth (Shannon Murphy, 2019) Let the Corpses Tan (Laissez bronzer les cadavres, Hélène Cattet & Bruno Forzani, 2017) Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin, Wim Wenders, 1987) In My Room (Mati Diop, 2020) Katalin Varga (Peter Strickland, 2009) Les 3 Boutons (Agnès Varda, 2015) Somebody (Miranda July, 2014) Öndög (Wang Quan'an, 2019) Strasbourg 1518 (Jonathan Glazer, 2020) Mermaid (Русалка, Anna Melikyan, 2007) The Lighthouse (Маяк, Maria Saakyan, 2006) Phenomena (Dario Argento, 1985) That One Day (Crystal Moselle, 2016) Brigitte (Lynne Ramsay, 2019) The Wedding Singer's Daughter (Haifaa al-Mansour, 2018) Shako Mako (Hailey Gates, 2019) Carmen (Chloë Sevigny, 2017) The Summer of Sangailė (Sangailės Vasara, Alanté Kavaïté, 2015) Hello Apartment (Dakota Fanning, 2018) Seed (Naomi Kawase, 2016) Beyond the Visible: Hilma af Klint (Halina Dyrschka, 2019) Matthias & Maxime (Xavier Dolan, 2019) The Gleaners and I (Les Glaneurs et la glaneuse, Agnès Varda, 2000)

October

American Murder (Jenny Popplewell, 2020) Hereditary (Ari Aster, 2018) Ghostland (Pascal Laugier, 2018) Triangle (Christopher Smith, 2009) The Amityville Horror (Stuart Rosenberg, 1979) The Visit (M. Night Shyamalan, 2015) The House of the Devil (Ti West, 2009) Misery (Rob Reiner, 1990) The Exorcist (William Friedkin, 1973) Coherence (James Ward Byrkit, 2013) Metamorphosis (변신, Kim Hong-sun, 2019) Errementari (Paul Urkijo Alijo, 2017) I Am a Ghost (H.P. Mendoza,2012) The Changeling (Peter Medak, 1980) Witching and Bitching (Las Brujas de Zugarramurdi, Álex de la Iglesia, 2013) Thirst (박쥐, Park Chan-wook, 2009) V/H/S ( Adam Wingard, David Bruckner, Ti West, Glenn McQuaid, Joe Swanberg, Radio Silence, 2012) The Autopsy of Jane Doe (André Øvredal, 2016) Overlord (Julius Avery, 2018) Häxan (Benjamin Christensen, 1922) Viy (Вий, Georgiy Kropachyov & Konstantin Ershov, 1967) Amulet (Romola Garai, 2020) A Bucket of Blood (Roger Corman, 1959) The Wasp Woman (Roger Corman, 1959) Mother! (Darren Aronofsky, 2017) Suspiria (Dario Argento, 1977) The Open House (Matt Angel, Suzanne Coote, 2018)

November

The Damned Don't Cry (Vincent Sherman, 1950) Notorious (Alfred Hitchcock, 1946) While the City Sleeps (Fritz Lang, 1956) The Man Who Wasn't There (Joel Coen, 2001) The Naked City (Jules Dassin, 1948) The Petrified Forest (Archie Mayo, 1936) Croupier (Mike Hodges, 1998) In a Lonely Place (Nicholas Ray, 1950) Elevator to the Gallows (Ascenseur pour l'échafaud, Louis Malle, 1958) Key Largo (John Huston, 1948) Dial M for Murder (Alfred Hitchcock, 1954) The Long Farewell (Долгие проводы, Kira Muratova, 1971) The Killers (Robert Siodmak, 1946) Gun Crazy (Joseph H. Lewis, 1950) Alphaville (Jean-Luc Godard, 1965) Laura (Otto Preminger, 1944) The Third Man (Carol Reed, 1949) Dark City (Alex Proyas, 1998) Night and the City (Jules Dassin, 1950) Ace in the Hole (Billy Wilder, 1951)

December

Nimic (Yorgos Lanthimos, 2020) Elsa la rose (Agnès Varda, 1966) Le Bonheur (Agnès Varda, 1965) Little Girl (Petite Fille, Sébastien Lifshitz, 2020) Cold Meridian (Peter Strickland, 2020) The Fiancés of the Bridge Mac Donald (Les Fiancés du Pont Mac Donald ou (Méfiez-vous des Lunettes Noires)) (Agnès Varda, 1961) Along the Coast (Du côté de la côte, Agnès Varda, 1958) Vic + Flo Saw a Bear (Vic + Flo ont vu un ours, Denis Côté, 2013) Zootopia (Byron Howard, Rich Moore, 2016) It's a Wonderful Life (Frank Capra, 1946) Paddington (Paul King, 2014) Miracle on 34th Street (George Seaton, 1947) High Life (Claire Denis, 2018) Paddington 2 (Paul King, 2017)

[lewisloening]

Structure - Research

- Find 10 examples of Architectural photography from diverse sources

Lesley MacGregor 

Building from her “Monuments” portfolio. 

Lesley MacGrgor is a photographer that specialised in architecture and buildings, creating graphic and minimalism photographs that look to me like either computer renderings or blueprints.  

Lesley has photographed and edited this photograph of the building above in a way it’s isolated from the other buildings. People are also seen in shot to give a sense of scale. 

Lesley also does detailed and abstract shots like these stairs photographed on a metal building. 

Laura Sanchez

Laura Sanchez is a french street and minimalistic photographer based in Paris but has photographs from around the world. Alot of her shots feature people with a backdrop of graphic shapes.  She usualy uses pastel tones in her photography to create an empty and evocotave urban environment.  The image above is of the “bibliothèque nationale de France“ (National Library of France) shot square on so every line is straight in full sunlight for an almost 2D look. I suspect that she used a telephoto lens with aspect adjustments in post to create this look. 

A spiral staircase photographed somewhere in Paris, I suspect Sanchez used a long exposure to create this even tone across the image. 

Eugene Atget

French arcitectural photography from 1857-1927. In the years bridging the 19th and 20th Century Atget created an encyclopedic portrait of a city on the cusp of “the modern era” . 

Obviously taken on old plate and film camera’s Atget’s photographic timing in history give a unique perspective from 1 era to the next. 

The image above looks like a very high ISO/ASA image with a reletively long exposure since we do not see any people in the foreground. Or it was taken at night time but it is hard to tell. It was also photographed at a wide angle to gat the whole street in, we can tell this because of the slight bend distortion on the verticle lines due to having no lens correction at the time. 

Lewis Baltz

Lewis Baltz was an American visual artist and photographer from 1945 to 2014.  IN the 1970′s her became a prominant figure in the “New Topographics” movement with his photographs and art shown in San Francisco and Paris. 

Lewis Baltz, Southwest Wall 1974.

In this photo Baltz keeps all the lines both horizontal and verticle, straight and level while also having the image as a whole asymetric while keeping it well balanced with the extra tall garage door on the left hand side, compared to the main door in the right of centre. 

Stephen Shore

Shore is an American photographer known for this pioneering use of colour in his photography. 

Stephen Shore, West 9th Avenue, Amarillo TX 1974. 

In the shot above Shore photographed this unused, decrpid sign at a medium focal length making sure the verticle lines are straight, I think the ground is slightly on a tilt aswell making the sign look like its leaning to the right slightly. It has also been taken in shadow with the sun coming off the right hand side at a low angle. 

Iwan Baan

Baan is a Dutch architecture photographer based in Amsterdam. 

Teshima Art Museum, Kagawa Prefecture, Japan

The photo above is a wide interior shot of the Teshima Art Museum in Japan, Baan has used either a model or member of the public to show the sence of scale of this particular room. It seems tohave been caught at a fast shutter speed as there is no motion blur on the person and the image is still quite a bright subject thanks to the massive oval shaped window. The eye is drawn to the person due to them being darker to the rest of the image aswell as the green tree in the window. 

Tekla Evelina Severin

Swedish architectural photographer based in Stockholm with work done for companies such as IKEA, Air France and Vogue Brasil.

From her series of images of the Muralla Roja building in Spain.  I was drawn to this image due to the classic orange and teal colour scheme. Taken in possibly the evening it enhances the contrast of the orange hilights and blue shadows. 

Close up detailed shot of part of the interior of the same building, the colour blue being very prominant here.