#stone sour would be funnier

[sapphire-weapon]

so Leon drives into Raccoon City in RE2make blasting grunge in his Jeep

Ashley has a scene kid outfit in RE4make

this tells me that the two of them probably have very similar tastes in music (don’t get me started on the grunge to alt metal to post-grunge pipeline LITERALLY EVERY FUCKER IN MY IRL FRIEND GROUP WENT THROUGH THIS though some of us also had pop-punk thrown in there also as well but that’s not important for this post)

and while I’m not saying outright that that alone means that the two of them have more in common with each other than literally any other two people in RE and so it was probably the first thing that they bonded over after getting home from Spain and becoming just, like. normal people again.

what I am saying is that there was at least one instance where they fucked in the front seat of his car while he had Bush’s Sixteen Stone album in the cd player.

and now you all have to fucking live with the curse of that thought now that I’ve said it and you’re welcome.

[branwendaughterofllyr]

Branwen reads ASOIAF (again) - AGOT JON I

It’s finally time for Jonny boy. Turns out he is a mess and a half.

The boy is left without adult supervision for half an hour, and he is about to get wasted. 

There were times—not many, but a few—when Jon Snow was glad he was a bastard. As he filled his wine cup once more from a passing flagon, it struck him that this might be one of them.

What are the benefits of being a bastard? Unmonitored alcohol consumption by a minor. (Also, if we get a similar version of this line for a different situation, I’ll cackle.”There were times - not many, but a few- when Jon was glad he was a Targaryen”) 

The best bit of descriptive writing award for this chapter really has to go to the paragraph describing the Great Hall. 

The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, gold, crimson: the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon’s crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.

Listen, I am an absolute slut for the food porn in these books. I own the official A Feast of Ice and Fire cookbook and I cook from it regularly. Give me more, George.

Also, I love that the atmosphere is so visceral, the dull roar of all the noise, with smoke and food. Love it!

Also, not pictured is Sansa going absolutely feral over the singer after Jon leaves. Between the prince, and singer, and no doubt her best dress, the kid must have been this close to passing out from sheer joy the whole time. 

(I’m pretty sure this singer is NOT Mance, since the high harp is not his instrument of choice, but correct me if I’m wrong.)

It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast laid for the king.

Damn, I would have probably tapped out by this point if I’d been drinking as much as Jon is. Especially if I was 14.

Jon’s brothers and sisters had been seated with the royal children, beneath the raised platform where Lord and Lady Stark hosted the king and queen.

lol, the children’s table. Good to know family dinners never change. 

In honor of the occasion, his lord father would doubtless permit each child a glass of wine, but no more than that.

And this is the last sensible monitoring of the alcohol consumption of children that we will see for the rest of the books. After this, it’s nothing but swords and wine skins for all the kids!

Down here on the benches, there was no one to stop Jon drinking as much as he had a thirst for. And he was finding that he had a man’s thirst

Look, Jon’s already ahead of the curve. Him and all the other unsupervised teenage boys are also getting drunk. 

He was certain that his companions were more entertaining than the king’s offspring.

Sour grapes, Jon? I mean, you’re probably right, but this entire chapter is Jon telling us that he’s totally not jealous! How dare you say that! He’s not crying either, leave him alone. 

His lord father had come first, escorting the queen. She was as beautiful as men said. A jeweled tiara gleamed amidst her long golden hair, its emeralds a perfect match for the green of her eyes. His father helped her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat, but the queen never so much as looked at him. Even at fourteen, Jon could see through her smile.

AH, Cersei and her emeralds. A classic combination. Also, I am absolutely on team “Jon is much more observant and aware than people think” but it’s also possible that Cersei’s smile is so fake everyone can tell. You can pick which one is funnier. Also, I do wonder if there’ll be a future situation where Cersei wishes she had gotten a better look at Jon Snow. 

Next had come King Robert himself, with Lady Stark on his arm. The king was a great disappointment to Jon. His father had talked of him often: the peerless Robert Baratheon, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior of the realm, a giant among princes. Jon saw only a fat man, red-faced under his beard, sweating through his silks. He walked like a man half in his cups.

Jon ABSOLUTELY roasting Robert. But also, I never want anyone to complain about Sansa judging people by their appearances ever again. Look at this boy and his head full of fancy and songs! (This is even funnier when we get to the Jaime description.)

After them came the children. Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the dignity a three-year-old could muster. Jon had to urge him on when he stopped to visit.

Awwww, Rickon is too cute. He wanted to stop in the middle to see his brother. Aw. 

Close behind came Robb, in grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors. He had the Princess Myrcella on his arm. She was a wisp of a girl, not quite eight, her hair a cascade of golden curls under a jeweled net. Jon noticed the shy looks she gave Robb as they passed between the tables and the timid way she smiled at him. He decided she was insipid. Robb didn’t even have the sense to realize how stupid she was; he was grinning like a fool.

Damn, Jon! What did Myrcella ever do to you? Also, look at Jon being bitter and Robb and Myrcella coming up with ways to prove that he’s not bitter, lol. Arya comes up with Tommen, and Jon is neutral lol. 

Okay everyone. It's about to happen. Let’s all stay calm. In my personal opinion, George does not start writing Jonsa foreshadowing until the end of AGOT/beginning of ACOK, possibly later. I think that all the examples of Jonsa in AGOT are “hindsight foreshadowing,” something that George notices and goes back to later with his gardening style of writing, like with Janos Slant. That all being said:

Sansa, two years older, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either, to Jon’s vast dismay. Prince Joffrey had his sister’s hair and his mother’s deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey’s pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell’s Great Hall.

RADIANT!? 

What a word choice!

I really think this is supposed to be Jon being jealous of Joffrey, who looks just like Jaime (who Jon thinks looks like a king should), trueborn, and a prince expected to inherit everything, and is also taller than him (big lol on Jon being dismayed by that). Joffrey doesn’t even seem to appreciate all he has, and he doesn't appreciate WF, all cardinal strikes to Jon. But Jon can’t actually think about being jealous, because that would mean acknowledging all his feelings, and we can't have that. He’s not hating on Sansa, because she’s not the problem here, Joffrey is. Sansa is absolutely right in the next chapter, Jon *is* jealous because he's a bastard, this entire chapter is all about establishing that Jon is limited by being a bastard. 

But also. Calling Sansa radiant is hilarious. And I think George noticed this. 

"How is Cersei? As beautiful as ever?""Radiant." Fickle. "Golden." False as fool's gold.  Jaime V, AFFC

Teehee.

Look how smoothly that was made into hindsight Jonsa. 

He was more interested in the pair that came behind him: the queen’s brothers, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. The Lion and the Imp; there was no mistaking which was which.

To be far to Jon, it’s basically been confirmed that the only entertainment in WF is Old Nan. This is probably the most exciting thing to happen to Jon, ever. 

Ser Jaime Lannister was twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered “Kingslayer” behind his back. Jon found it hard to look away from him. This is what a king should look like, he thought to himself as the man passed. 

Jon is not immune to appearances. We are all extremely lucky that Jaime never ended up as king, but it’s funny that Jon takes one look at Jaime and thinks “yep, that's what a king should be like.” (Just like Sansa with Cersei,) Also, compare how he describes Jaime to Joffrey, who look very similar and probably are equally disdainful of WF, lol. Also, Jaime is not even bothering to dress like a KG. More hilarity. 

I’ll have more to say about the Jaime and Jon parallels when we get there. 

Then he saw the other one, waddling along half-hidden by his brother’s side. Tyrion Lannister, the youngest of Lord Tywin’s brood and by far the ugliest. All that the gods had given to Cersei and Jaime, they had denied Tyrion. He was a dwarf, half his brother’s height, struggling to keep pace on stunted legs. His head was too large for his body, with a brute’s squashed-in face beneath a swollen shelf of brow. One green eye and one black one peered out from under a lank fall of hair so blond it seemed white. Jon watched him with fascination.

Leave Tyrion alone Jon. He’s been punished enough by being a Lannister. (but in all seriousness I just listened to Peter Dinklage’s promo interview for Cyrano, and he had a lot of interesting things to say about ableism and visibility, so go have a listen if you have some time. Also watch Cyrano. It made me cry.) Jon gets to learn to see pass appearances by meeting people and befriending them, Sansa has to be a child bride and threatened with rape. Basically the same thing!

The last of the high lords to enter were his uncle, Benjen Stark of the Night’s Watch, and his father’s ward, young Theon Greyjoy. Benjen gave Jon a warm smile as he went by. Theon ignored him utterly, but there was nothing new in that.

Love Benjen, but the Jon-Theon rivalry never fails to crack me up. They're foils AND parallels, outsiders who want dad Ned Stark to be proud of them. and also maybe become Starks by marrying Sansa

Jon had started drinking then, and he had not stopped.

he’s fine. No one check on him. 

Something rubbed against his leg beneath the table. Jon saw red eyes staring up at him. “Hungry again?” he asked. There was still half a honeyed chicken in the center of the table. Jon reached out to tear off a leg, then had a better idea. He knifed the bird whole and let the carcass slide to the floor between his legs. Ghost ripped into it in savage silence. His brothers and sisters had not been permitted to bring their wolves to the banquet, but there were more curs than Jon could count at this end of the hall, and no one had said a word about his pup. He told himself he was fortunate in that too.

Ghost is a good boi, even when convincing Jon to sneak him food. Also, Jon telling himself that everything fine, and he's not repressing anything!

His eyes stung. Jon rubbed at them savagely, cursing the smoke.

He’s not crying! It’s just the smoke in his eyes! 

How do people not realize that Jon’s whole hobby is lying to himself and repressing his emotions? (He gets it from Ned.)

Dogs moved between the tables, trailing after the serving girls. One of them, a black mongrel bitch with long yellow eyes, caught a scent of the chicken. She stopped and edged under the bench to get a share. Jon watched the confrontation. The bitch growled low in her throat and moved closer. Ghost looked up, silent, and fixed the dog with those hot red eyes. The bitch snapped an angry challenge. She was three times the size of the direwolf pup. Ghost did not move. He stood over his prize and opened his mouth, baring his fangs. The bitch tensed, barked again, then thought better of this fight. She turned and slunk away, with one last defiant snap to save her pride. Ghost went back to his meal.

Okay, there’s something going on here. Is this the Greyjoys fucking over WF, Theon specifically? Something to do with the Hound? Generally establishing Jon as a stubborn underdog (wolf?). Something else entirely? Idk. 

Jon looked up happily as his uncle Ben put a hand on his head and ruffled his hair much as Jon had ruffled the wolf’s. “Yes,” he said. “His name is Ghost.”

Adorable family. Hope nothing happens to it!

Benjen Stark straddled the bench with long legs and took the wine cup out of Jon’s hand. “Summerwine,” he said after a taste. “Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had, Jon?” Jon smiled. Ben Stark laughed. “As I feared. Ah, well. I believe I was younger than you the first time I got truly and sincerely drunk.”

This is so funny to me. Drunk teen Jon. And how old was Benjen? I’m assuming    he was not being supervised by Lyarra. 

His uncle was sharp-featured and gaunt as a mountain crag, but there was always a hint of laughter in his blue-grey eyes.

Great description, but also blue-grey eyes. Hmm. Just thought that was interesting. Also, Benjen goes in the not handsome Stark pile. 

Benjen watched Ghost with amusement as he ate his onion. “A very quiet wolf,” he observed. “He’s not like the others,” Jon said. “He never makes a sound. That’s why I named him Ghost. That, and because he’s white. The others are all dark, grey or black.

I mean, we’ll pretend it’s not for foreshadowing reasons. Also, love the reasons the Starklings give for naming their wolves. Jon: “He's white and quiet. I’m naming him Ghost.” Arya is winning (mainly because I named my cat Cleopatra when I was also nine. Me and Arya really are kindred spirits).

“There are still direwolves beyond the Wall. We hear them on our rangings.”

HE’S GOING BEYOND THE WALL, BAY-BEE. We hyped for the Wall plot yet? I am!

Benjen Stark gave Jon a long look. “Don’t you usually eat at table with your brothers?” “Most times,” Jon answered in a flat voice. “But tonight Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them.” “I see.”

Cateyn is both right and wrong. Wrong for excluding Jon, but absolutely right that Jon would be taken as insult, especially by Cersei. The chances of her pitching a fit if a bastard was seated with them are far from zero. 

His uncle glanced over his shoulder at the raised table at the far end of the hall. “My brother does not seem very festive tonight.” Jon had noticed that too. A bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes.

Sure wish the show remembered this. Also, whenever Jon is purposely obtuse, it’s him burying it. Which makes ADWD that much more sad and also kinda funny. 

Also, the idea that Jon is forced to be better at reading people as a survival mechanism is interesting to think about. Especially since it seems relevant when comparing him with Robb and Theon. Food for thought. 

His father was observing all the courtesies, but there was tightness in him that Jon had seldom seen before. He said little, looking out over the hall with hooded eyes, seeing nothing. Two seats away, the king had been drinking heavily all night. His broad face was flushed behind his great black beard. He made many a toast, laughed loudly at every jest, and attacked each dish like a starving man, but beside him the queen seemed as cold as an ice sculpture. “The queen is angry too,” Jon told his uncle in a low, quiet voice. “Father took the king down to the crypts this afternoon. The queen didn’t want him to go.”

Glad to see that literally no one but Sansa is having a good time (I guess Robb and Myrcella are also vibing). Also Robert pointedly ignoring Cersei while she stews in anger is pretty much their marriage in a nutshell. Amazing she didn’t try to kill him before this. 

Benjen gave Jon a careful, measuring look. “You don’t miss much, do you, Jon? We could use a man like you on the Wall.”

Benjen agrees with me! Why is it that one of Jon’s earliest established characteristics always gets ignored?

“Take me with you when you go back to the Wall,” Jon said in a sudden rush. “Father will give me leave to go if you ask him, I know he will.” Uncle Benjen studied his face carefully. “The Wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon.” “I am almost a man grown,” Jon protested. “I will turn fifteen on my next name day, and Maester Luwin says bastards grow up faster than other children.” “That’s true enough,” Benjen said with a downward twist of his mouth.

Benjen is also on the “time for the fourteen year old to man up” wagon, but he’s not as bad as Ned, lol. He thinks Jon is too young still. (Isn’t there a callback to this in the Alayne chapters? I can’t quite remember)

“Daeren Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne,” Jon said. The Young Dragon was one of his heroes. “A conquest that lasted a summer,” his uncle pointed out. “Your Boy King lost ten thousand men taking the place, and another fifty trying to hold it. Someone should have told him that war isn’t a game.” He took another sip of wine. “Also,” he said, wiping his mouth, “Daeren Targaryen was only eighteen when he died. Or have you forgotten that part?”

Boy, oh boy. We get introduced to a teenage king losing a war this early on? smells like foreshadowing to me. I mean, we already know where this is going, just pointing it out. Also Jon stanning the Young Dragon is both funny and sad. 

“I forget nothing,” Jon boasted. The wine was making him bold. He tried to sit very straight, to make himself seem taller. “I want to serve in the Night’s Watch, Uncle.”

He’s trying to be taller. My boi. 

He had thought on it long and hard, lying abed at night while his brothers slept around him. Robb would someday inherit Winterfell, would command great armies as the Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon would be Robb’s bannermen and rule holdfasts in his name. His sisters Arya and Sansa would marry the heirs of other great houses and go south as mistress of castles of their own. But what place could a bastard hope to earn?

Big lol at Arya going south to marry and become mistress of a castle. But also, yeah, what place could a bastard hope to earn? What’s the career plan for Jon, Ned??? Was it always going to be the NW?

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Jon. The Night’s Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor.” “A bastard can have honor too,” Jon said. “I am ready to swear your oath.”

Oh, Jon and honor, the beginning of a storyline we must pay very close attention to. 

“You are a boy of fourteen,” Benjen said. “Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up.” “I don’t care about that!” Jon said hotly. “You might, if you knew what it meant,” Benjen said. “If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son.” Jon felt anger rise inside him. “I’m not your son!” Benjen Stark stood up. “More’s the pity.”

Man, when Benjen is right, he’s right. Jon has no idea what he’s giving up, and its not just about sex. It's everything. 

Also, does Benjen know? He might know. Discuss below whether Benjen knows about Jon’s mom or not. 

“Come back to me after you’ve fathered a few bastards of your own, and we’ll see how you feel.” Jon trembled. “I will never father a bastard,” he said carefully. “Never!” He spat it out like venom. Suddenly he realized that the table had fallen silent, and they were all looking at him. He felt the tears begin to well behind his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet. “I must be excused,” he said with the last of his dignity. He whirled and bolted before they could see him cry. He must have drunk more wine than he had realized. His feet got tangled under him as he tried to leave, and he lurched sideways into a serving girl and sent a flagon of spiced wine crashing to the floor. Laughter boomed all around him, and Jon felt hot tears on his cheeks. Someone tried to steady him. He wrenched free of their grip and ran, half-blind, for the door. Ghost followed close at his heels, out into the night.

Oh, Jon. That was mortifying. Kudos for not straight up dying of embarrassment  like I would have at 14, after basically screaming one of my greatest insecurities, almost crying in front of everyone I know, AND knocking over a waitress with drinks on the way out. You are truly stronger than I. 

Also Jon, you just foreshadowed yourself into something. Good luck with never fathering a bastard! Make sure she knows about moon tea.

A lone sentry stood high on the battlements of the inner wall, his cloak pulled tight around him against the cold. He looked bored and miserable as he huddled there alone, but Jon would have traded places with him in an instant.

No wonder after what just happened. Literally everyone is probably talking about you right now. 

Otherwise the castle was dark and deserted. Jon had seen an abandoned holdfast once, a drear place where nothing moved but the wind and the stones kept silent about whatever people had lived there. Winterfell reminded him of that tonight.

BAD JON! DOn’t you dare foreshadow the destruction of WF like this. You’re as bad as Ned, I swear. 

See, this chapter is full of solid foreshadowing, some of which has come to fruition, some of which has not.

The sounds of music and song spilled through the open windows behind him. They were the last things Jon wanted to hear. He wiped away his tears on the sleeve of his shirt, furious that he had let them fall, and turned to go.

That’s right Jon, shove your emotions down so you don’t have to feel. There’s no way this will backfire. 

“Boy,” a voice called out to him. Jon turned. Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, looking for all the world like a gargoyle. The dwarf grinned down at him.

Again, I will be pettily remarking on everyone who negatively comments on Tyrion's appearance and don't need to become a hostage child bride. 

“What are you doing up there? Why aren’t you at the feast?” “Too hot, too noisy, and I’d drunk too much wine,” the dwarf told him. “I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother.

I always forget that I do like AGOT Tyrion. I know, I know, a crime, but it’s true. I only remember when I’m actually reading AGOT, the rest of the time all I can think about is his downward spiral. Still! This is funny, and I say that mainly because I’ve said almost the exact same thing in my life, and I’d like to cling to the delusion that I am funny. 

Might I have a closer look at your wolf?” Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?” “Oh, bleed that,” the little man said. He pushed himself off the ledge into empty air. Jon gasped, then watched with awe as Tyrion Lannister spun around in a tight ball, landed lightly on his hands, then vaulted backward onto his legs.

WTF!?

This is the first and last we shall see of acrobat Tyrion. We get a light retcon about it in ADWD, but other than that, we will never see him again. 

Talk about early installment weirdness. 

Ghost backed away from him uncertainly. The dwarf dusted himself off and laughed. “I believe I’ve frightened your wolf. My apologies.” “He’s not scared,” Jon said. He knelt and called out. “Ghost, come here. Come on. That’s it.” The wolf pup padded closer and nuzzled at Jon’s face, but he kept a wary eye on Tyrion Lannister, and when the dwarf reached out to pet him, he drew back and bared his fangs in a silent snarl. “Shy, isn’t he?” Lannister observed.

Ghost disliking Tyrion is very funny and not talked about enough. Trust the wolf. Always trust the wolf. This seems like solid Jon vs. Tyrion foreshadowing for the future. 

“Sit, Ghost,” Jon commanded. “That’s it. Keep still.” He looked up at the dwarf. “You can touch him now. He won’t move until I tell him to. I’ve been training him.” “I see,” Lannister said. He ruffled the snow-white fur between Ghost’s ears and said, “Nice wolf.” “If I wasn’t here, he’d tear out your throat,” Jon said. It wasn’t actually true yet, but it would be. “In that case, you had best stay close,” the dwarf said.

We can only hope! Also, prehistoric killing machines that are also just there for the Starklings to love on. 

“You’re Ned Stark’s bastard, aren’t you?” Jon felt a coldness pass right through him. He pressed his lips together and said nothing. “Did I offend you?” Lannister said. “Sorry. Dwarfs don’t have to be tactful. Generations of capering fools in motley have won me the right to dress badly and say any damn thing that comes into my head.” He grinned. “You are the bastard, though.” “Lord Eddard Stark is my father,” Jon admitted stiffly. Lannister studied his face. “Yes,” he said. “I can see it. You have more of the north in you than your brothers.” “Half brothers,” Jon corrected. He was pleased by the dwarf’s comment, but he tried not to let it show.

Look! Jon calling the other Starklings his half-brothers! Not just that, but correcting Tyrion when he calls them his brothers. Tell me how Sansa is evil for calling him her half brother instead of her bastard brother again?

Also, this further confirms my theory that this entire chapter is about establish Jon's great overarching internal struggles. He doesn’t want to be a bastard, but he still loves his brothers, he likes it when people compare him to Ned, but he can’t covet what belongs to his brother, but he wants, but he's a bastard-

You see where this goes. 

“Let me give you some counsel, bastard,” Lannister said. “Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”

Look. Sometimes Tyrion gives decent advice. We all have to live with this. And Tyrion genuinely does show a lot of unselfish kindness and compassion for Jon, and later Bran. AGOT is really peak Tyrion. And this is indeed really solid advice. Jon is really just going to have to deal with his bastardy because it’s inescapable in Westeros. 

Jon was in no mood for anyone’s counsel. “What do you know about being a bastard?” “All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes.” “You are your mother’s trueborn son of Lannister.” “Am I?” the dwarf replied, sardonic. “Do tell my lord father. My mother died birthing me, and he’s never been sure.”

We’ll talk about Tyrion and Tywin. Just not right now. Also, if Tyrion is a Targaryen bastard, Varys is a mermaid. 

“I don’t even know who my mother was,” Jon said. “Some woman, no doubt. Most of them are.” He favored Jon with a rueful grin.

HMMMMM

I wonder.

“Remember this, boy. All dwarfs may be bastards, yet not all bastards need be dwarfs.” And with that he turned and sauntered back into the feast, whistling a tune. When he opened the door, the light from within threw his shadow clear across the yard, and for just a moment Tyrion Lannister stood tall as a king.

AND THUS, a thousand theories about King Tyrion are born. 

So, final thoughts. I feel Jon's entire storyline is heavily foreshadowed in this storyline. This is like three characters who I feel like we can say their opening chapters were mini-journeys through their stories. Jon is broody boy with a whole complex about being a bastard and Not-A-Stark(tm), and he has foreshadowed himself into some trouble. 

[fadesofcool]

Matter

Author’s Note: I’m a bit rusty, but I've had this idea for a while and I’m really happy with how it turned out. Enjoy.

Never cared for what they do

Never cared for what they know

It had come at the end of a long week. The days had seem to drag on, each one lasting longer than the last. But you powered through, keeping promises to yourself to be strong and productive. You were exhausted; mentally, physically, spiritually. Your saving grace would be the moment you stepped into your apartment on Friday. Ashton was coming home from tour Friday night, and you had taken four days off to be able to spend time with him and celebrate his homecoming. 

You had gotten the first notification on your phone in the middle of the day. Your phones vibration broke you out of your trance, halting your concentration. You glanced down, hoping for an update text from Ashton, but instead saw a Twitter notification. Suddenly, more and more notifications started rapidly popping up, from all your social media. You furrowed your brows, picking up your phone and unlocking it. Scrolling through your Twitter feed, you felt your stomach sharpen, a sour taste seeping into your mouth.

Pictures of Ashton and the rest of the boys at different clubs and parties, celebrating their recent successes and the end of tour. Countless girls scattered around them, all of them stunning and glowing in their tight glittering dresses. Everyone was smiling and drinking, arms around each other, hanging on each other, hugging, touching. It was all too much. You and Ashton had been together for well over a year, and you trusted him, but the insecurities occasionally crept up on you, surprising you out of the blue, shocking you into a period of self-hatred. But this was brought on by them. The groupies, the girls, anyone that hung out with Ashton that you deemed prettier than you, funnier than you, better than you in practically every way. Ashton may love you, but really, what was stopping him? You were miles away in a tiny town with your tiny life and meaningless job. Everything you did looked small compared to the scale of Ashton’s life. He could easily have anyone he chose, within seconds. In your moments of weakness, you often questioned Ashton’s motives for being with you and staying with you for so long. What was he getting out of it? Was it really as worth it as he said it was? You had your doubts. 

You locked your phone, not wanting to see anymore, knowing the emotions would hit, and you’ve already cried multiple times at work because of Ashton, usually over how much you missed him. But as you turned back to your computer, you couldn’t help but water the seed of doubt that was planted in your stomach. You thoughts were roaming free in an open field of insecurities, and you kept coming back to those girls. You were all for girls supporting other girls, but didn’t that also mean respecting other girls relationships? Why did girls flirt and hang all over Ashton knowing that he had a girlfriend? Is it because you weren’t there with him? You couldn’t put your life on hold to follow him around the world like a lost puppy. 

I never opened myself this way

Life is ours, we live it our way

Ashton locked his phone for what felt like the hundredth time that night, leaning his head back to rest against the wall of the booth. His eyes shifted lazily around the club, barely registering anything he was seeing. He couldn’t enjoy himself. All he wanted was to hear from you. 

“Ash! Dude, come on!” Ashton turned his head toward the sound of his name, seeing Calum walk towards him with a drink in each hand. Ashton had barely drank all night, but Calum was already tipsy. Calum plopped down in the booth next to Ashton, shoving a drink into Ashton’s hand. 

“What is this?” Ashton asked.

“Doesn’t matter! Just drink it!” Calum threw back his drink in one gulp. “I’m tired of seeking you sulk mate,” Calum continued. “We came out to celebrate. Now, put the phone away,” Calum said, reaching over Ashton’s body and grabbing his phone from his hand. “And celebrate!”

Calum stood and shoved Ashton’s phone into his front pocket. 

“Dude, no, give me my phone back. What if she needs me?”

Calum shook his head at Ashton. “She’s not gonna need you because she’s probably out having a great time, just like you should be! So get up and. Go. Dance.” Calum state firmly, turning and walking away from Ashton. 

Ashton sighed, knowing it was no use trying to get his phone back from Calum until Calum passed out and he could dig it out of his pocket himself. Ashton looked around the club, noticing a few girls outside the VIP section where he sat eyeing him, hoping that he would use his leverage to get them in the coveted spot. He rolled his eyes and turned towards the bodyguard guarding the rope. 

“You can let those two in,” He said, tilting his head towards the girls. “I’m heading out the back.” The security nodded, unhooking the rope for the girls. They pushed each other in quickly, trying to get near Ashton. He turned quickly and escaped out the back entrance of the club, breathing the night air in deeply when his feet hit the pavement. He looked up and down the road, gathering his surroundings, before making a left, sticking his hands in his pockets, and making his way back to the hotel.

It took Ash a second to remember what city they were in as he kicked pebbles down the sidewalk. He didn’t have his phone so he couldn’t check the time, but he couldn’t help but wonder what you were up to. If it was night time you were probably asleep in the large bed you shared with Ashton, wearing his clothes as pajamas. If it was the daytime you were probably working or with friends. Either way, he knew you were probably missing him, but doing your best to push it down and power through. You were always determined that way. Not to let anything get in your way. It was one of the many things he loved about you. You and Ashton hadn’t been together the longest, but he was serious about you. He knew he wanted to be with you long term. On the easy Sunday mornings when you two just lazed in bed together, he often thought about how this was something he wanted to do for the rest of his life. He had never had a relationship like he had with you. It was different than anything else he had experienced, and the feelings you gave him were so strong. He knew your relationship wasn’t ideal, but to him, it was so worth it. 

So close, no matter how far

Couldn't be much more from the heart

You had been calling Ashton’s phone for what seemed like hours. After 5 calls, you started to think you might’ve been annoying him, but after 12, you had assumed the worst. None of the other boys had picked up their phones earlier. They were most likely all partying together, to drunk to even feel their phones vibrating, but still, you couldn’t help but think that maybe something bad had happened to Ashton. 

15 calls later, on the fourth ring, Ashton’s phone picked up.

“Hello?”

“Calum?” You asked, confused.

“Yeah? Who else?”

“Why are you answering Ashton’s phone?”

You heard some shuffling sounds on the other end before Calum’s voice returned. 

“Oh shit, I thought this was my phone! Sorry babe. I’m holding onto Ashy’s phone for him.”

You loved Calum, but he was really testing your patience. You closed your eyes and breathed deeply.

“Well could you just put him on the phone for me please?”

“Oh, he’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I think he left a little while ago. He seemed sad.”

“He was sad and you let him go off by himself with a phone?”

“Sorry!”

“It’s okay Calum. Could you please tell him to call me when you see him? Okay?”

You had absolutely no faith in drunk Calum, but you had to ask for your sanity. 

“Of course. Love you bye!”

You pulled the phone away from your ear, the line was dead before you even had a chance to say bye. You sighed, gathering your things before heading upstairs to bed. 

You sat on the edge of yours and Ashton’s bed. You glanced at Ashton’s side, realizing how big the bed seemed with only one person sleeping in it. When you two had picked it out together, Ashton insisted on a larger bed, for many reasons, but he didn’t take into consideration the fact that it would mostly be you sleeping it in. A fact that at the time felt like a stupid thing to mention. You loved Ashton and were so supportive of his career, but sometimes you felt like he didn’t understand all the ways that him being on tour affected you. You closed your eyes, and thought back fondly on the memories of you and Ashton picking out the bed and all of the other furniture for your new place together. It was such a great day for the both of you, a day that really set in stone the fact that you two were serious about each other. So serious that you were living together and picking out furniture. You reached over to your phone on the bed side table and turned the sound on, just in case Ashton called you, you would be able to hear it. With that, you pulled back the covers and got into bed, wishing Ashton was by your side. 

Forever trust in who we are

No, nothing else matters

The shrill ring and vibration of your phone pulled you out of your deep sleep. You frantically rolled over, hastily picking up the phone. 

“Hello?” You asked urgently, not even checking who was calling. 

“Hey, it’s me.” 

At the sound of Ashton’s voice your body instantly relaxed. You closed your eyes and flopped back onto the mattress. You sighed deeply, then sat back up when you realized what time it was.

“Are you okay? Where were you? Calum said you were sad and alone and you didn’t have a phone.”

You often worried about coming across as a needy, clingy partner when Ashton was on tour, but right now, you were so overcome with emotions that they just flowed out of you into Ashton’s ear, trickling out of your heart like a leaky faucet only he could fix.

He laughed softly. “I’m okay. Calum said I was spending too much time on my phone texting you so he took it from me. I wasn’t feeling the club anymore so I walked back to the hotel. It was kinda nice actually.” 

You sighed once again and laid on your side, cradling the phone to your ear like it was about to break. 

“Okay. I’m glad you’re okay. Calum said you were sad.”

Ashton sighed, and although you couldn’t see him, you knew he was running his hands through his hair. He was probably laying on his back on the hotel mattress, boots planted firmly on the floor. His head was probably turned to the side looking out the window, wondering if you were looking at the same sky that he was looking at. 

“I just miss you, that’s all. And I know how you are, and I worry about you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me Ashton.”

Ashton sat up, feeling his heart thump in his chest, thinking about you all alone in that big house he wanted so bad. A house that was meant to be filled with love from two hearts, but was instead filled with the timid beats of one, all alone. 

“I do, though. You’re all alone, and I know there’s all that shit on social media, and how easily you get sucked into it. I wish I could protect you from all of that. You shouldn’t have to put up with that, and I can’t even do anything about it. It’s not fair to you.”

“Ashton, I don’t care about all of that. I know I read it and I shouldn’t and sometimes it does affect me, but in the end, it’s all background noise. Nothing else matters except for you. Hearing your voice at the end of the day takes all of that away and makes all of it worth it. Knowing you’re there for me and that we have each other, that makes everything okay. I can handle all of this as long as you’re by my side.”

Ashton’s soft smile slowly spread across his face. “I’ll always be by your side baby. And you’re right, nothing else matters.”

[nitewrighter]

Of Blades and Broomsticks Pt. XV

I have no excuse. Have some Widowmaker in a Lestat cosplay.

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 11, 12, 13, 14

Read it on AO3 here.

----

“Seek me if you have the sight.”

“Meet me at the city gates if you’re in.”

“What’s out there?”

The inscription on the cell, the words of the self-proclaimed hunter, and Pharah’s own hunger for answers rang in her head all night, round and round, swapping off with each heartbeat in her ear. Thankfully the continuous exhaustion from trying to cobble Adlersbrunn together kept her from tossing and turning, but she remembered the witch hunter Gabriel in her dreams.

You wish to help me you will be walking a gray and dangerous path. Dogs guard flocks of sheep from wolves, but all dogs were wolves once.

If there is evil in our midst, to treat it with indifference is to enable its existence.

Pharah woke in the dark pre-dawn hours with a sour hunger in her bones. She looked around her bare room, then looked to her window. The moon was shining brightly that night, but the smoke staining the glass rendered it brownish yellow. Pharah wondered if the scent of smoke--not the smoke of a blacksmith forge, but the searing, sometimes sulfurous smoke of magic---would ever leave Adlersbrunn. 

Still so much work to do... It would be very easy, she thought, To let him leave. To keep working on rebuilding the town here. To hope vagabonds like him are enough to keep whatever’s lurking out in the shadows at bay.

She furrowed her brow and looked to the adder stone she kept on her bedside table. No. She wouldn’t leave it like this. And she certainly wasn’t going to leave this situation in the hands of an excommunicated rogue. She rose to her feet, cleaned herself in her washbasin, put on her cleanest, strongest armor, and scrawled out a missive for her fellow guards, establishing the new chain of command in her absence. She sealed the missive with wax and set it on her table in the chamber of the captain of the guards. She wrote another, shorter, more sentimental letter for Torbjörn as well, and left that one on the desk of the castle’s man-at-arms. She packed a few days of supplies for herself and her horse, then mounted a bay rouncey and rode for the city gates.

True to his word, Jehoshaphat Maccrea of Helsing was waiting by the city gates in the mists of the following dawn. She didn’t like the smirk he gave her.

“I like you,” he said as they rode out of Adlersbrunn, leaving the stone of the city walls behind them and heading out into the surrounding farmland.

“And how did you decide that?” said Pharah.

“I like to think everyone’s got that hunger, that curiosity--it’d be too easy to lie down and let death take you otherwise, but few really follow it through to the end,” said Jesse.

“Would you still like me if I had chosen to stay behind?”

“Well I’d respect you, gotta respect anyone who protects their own, but it wouldn’t really matter if I liked you, would it? I’d be long gone.”

Pharah frowned a little, “I suppose so,” she said, looking off.

“I think it makes things more pleasant to like one’s traveling companion, don’t you?”

“I don’t have to like you,” said Pharah.

“It’d make things nicer if you did,” said Jesse with an easy smile.

“I wouldn’t be riding with an excommunicated scoundrel unless it meant making sure what happened to my city never happens again,” said Pharah.

“Scoundrel?” Jesse repeated.

“Yes, scoundrel. It sort of comes with the whole ‘excommunicated’ thing,” said Pharah.

“That is exactly the kind of black and white thinking that’s gonna get you killed out there,” said Jesse.

“I thought you said you’d probably die if you didn’t have me backing you up?” said Pharah.

“I probably would,” Jesse conceded. 

“That’s morbid,” said Pharah as they rode past a pumpkin patch. She wondered if it was the one they found the blood in.

“Didn’t you say you wanted me to be as honest as I can with you?” said Jesse.

Pharah furrowed her brow and readjusted herself in her saddle.

“This is why I don’t have to like you,” said Pharah, looking straight forward as they rode.

“That’s why I like you,” said Jesse with a smirk. She didn’t like that smirk.

-----

Mercy woke the morning after the banquet in a haze of half-sleep. The moans coming from the courtyard of the monastery from the cultists’ revelries lasted into the gray light of dawn. She did her best to try and push what was going on to the back of her consciousness, to treat it like the night birds of the woods or the wind blowing through the trees, but she knew the forests of Adlersbrunn were far behind her now. 

She rose up to a seated position in bed and looked out her window. A part of her was regretting leaving such a remote sanctuary as this, especially with so much still to learn from its library, but at the same time, the previous night had confirmed her feelings that she didn’t really have a place here. The monastery had the feel of a swirling vortex, like the dark portals Zenyatta could summon--and the flame of creation within her thrashed against that void like a wild bird caged. She washed and dressed herself, then proceeded to the library of the monastery for one last look through for anything that might help her better understand the Flame of Creation--a long shot, in a temple to the void, but a shot worth making all the same.

Her perusing though the shelves of the library was half-distracted by her own plans for the journey. She knew she and Genji had agreed to go west, and the Monastery sat on some grim black sea cliffs that.. treacherous as they were, would at least provide a decent amount of visual reference of the area for them to make significant headway in their journey--easier than wandering through the woods, at least. She decided would swing by the refectory for some supplies for their journey when she next met up with Genji. She wondered if he would want human food of if he would prefer to take the form of a sparrowhawk and just swoop up whatever unfortunate creature he could for convenience’s sake. He was certainly strong enough to help carry some supplies--no, no, he was her protector, not her porter. She would carry her pack for herself.

 She was distractedly looking at the illustration in some text of what was supposedly erotic Enochian poetry but just looked like a mass of wings and eyes and circles when Junkenstein suddenly stumbled, swaying as he brought himself to his full height.

Oh that’s right, she thought, with a brief beat of ‘Oh gods, what’s going to happen,’ He was at the banquet too.

“Hoo!” Junkenstein stretched his arms above his head, “What a night!”

Mercy bit the inside of her lip and smiled a little as he walked over. A bit relieved that this was another instance in which she could trust Junkenstein to be Junkenstein.

“You enjoyed the banquet?” said Mercy, glancing up.

“Well that was... anthropologically fascinating. Not a religious man myself but... I understand the appeal.”

Mercy just grinned. “How did they take to your creation?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Oh they like him. I got so much data on his...” Junkenstein cleared his throat, “Social capabilities.”

“Really?” said Mercy.

“Well they aren’t picky about tentacles, so I imagine there’s not a whole lot they are picky about,” said Junkenstein, “And if he has the approval of old Squidface, they’re all over him.”

“Well that’s good,” said Mercy, “I do worry about him... I suppose I worry about all of us having a place in this world...”

“I had to shovel some of them off of him this morning,” said Junkenstein, “Tragically he rolled over on one but, y’know with all the stabbing they do, they don’t get all that upset about that sort of stuff.”

“You still want to leave with us?” said Mercy.

“I told you, you wouldn’t last a second without us,” said Junkenstein, smiling, “Just... don’t mind me if I’m walking funny for the next few days. Well.. funnier than usual.” Junkenstein paused, “You and the demon took off soon as the meal was over, didn’t you?” 

“Well after all the excitement back in Adlersbrunn, I didn’t really have the energy for all that revelry,” said Mercy.

“Right, and you certainly weren’t sneaking off for some moments of privacy with the demon you keep insisting to me that you can’t trust.” 

“He was just making sure I made it back safely to my chambers,” said Mercy, folding her arms.

“Suuuuuure,” said Junkenstein with a wink.

“He was!” said Mercy.

“Nothing happened, I mean--I was covering my face and he kissed my knuckles but that was it. We went to bed---or I went to bed and he... I don’t know. He just flies off at night sometimes. Maybe he turned into a wolf and ate some rabbits or something.”

“You’re joking,” said Junkenstein.

“Look, my cat broke a tea leaf pot, we worked out a deal, he held up his end of the deal, and I spat some blood into his mouth so he wouldn’t die, that doesn’t mean we’re soulmates--” 

“Conveniently leaving out the dramatic rescue (with help from yours truly, of course), riding him in dragon form out of the city---”

“Sprouting wings...” Mercy admitted.

“Sprouting wings!” Junkenstein pointed an accusing finger at her, “Not to mention all the dancing by the light of the cultist fires---”

“What is your point, Jamison?” 

“You’re in deep, Gramercy. I know you. You make a point of not getting in deep with anyone, and as your friend I think I have a responsibility to let you know when you are a lot more emotionally involved with someone than you’re telling yourself you are---especially when, as you said, we may have broken something, we may be kicking off something big that none of us has any control over. And I think we should all be on the same page if we’re going to be traveling together---”

He was cut off by the sound of the door opening, not with the usual grunting of whoever was pushing it open. Both Mercy and Junkenstein looked up to see Zenyatta at the doorway of the library. He hadn’t even pushed on the door, but it had opened for him. Perhaps the stone of this monastery obeyed him just as loyally as any of the cultists.

“Witch,” Zenyatta spoke to Mercy, the tentacles of his face slowly shifting with thought, “A word?”

Mercy looked at Junkenstein.

“Don’t let me hold you up,” said Junkenstein with a shrug, “I’ll keep making the preparations.”

Mercy nodded and walked out of the library.

-----

“So you and Genji are departing?” said Zenyatta as they walked on the cliffs outside the monastery, the white waves and green brackish water crashing on the black rocks below.

“With your permission, of course,” said Mercy, “Genji is my protector, but he was your student before that. I would hate to undermine that. And it is nice to have a place to stay where I’m not too worried of being burned at the stake. But seeing as I am not a cultist myself I don’t want to impose too much on your hospitality.”

“You have my permission--” said Zenyatta, “There are few places you or Genji could travel in this plane that I wouldn’t know where you were.”

 A long pause passed between them.

“Was there something in particular you wished to discuss?” asked Mercy.

“Earlier this morning I asked Genji a few questions about the nature of your relationship---what his plans for the future were. He stated that, as payment for his protection, you would give him your first-born.”

“...That was our deal, yes,” said Mercy, pausing to pick some samphire from a cleft in one of the black rocks.

“And are you aware that I have known the Goddess Satya for longer than mankind has walked the earth? And you can assume, thusly, that I was there when we both gathered our first worshippers?”

“I... I can assume that, yes,” said Mercy.

“And as such I am aware of both the abilities and the physical limitations of those who bear Satya’s flame of creation,” said Zenyatta. His voice deepened and suddenly seemed to surge around her like water , “No seed of man can flourish in a field of fire.”

Another long pause passed before Mercy drew herself to her full height.

“Have you told Genji?” she asked calmly.

“That you cannot give him a first-born? No. No, I haven’t,” said Zenyatta, looking out to the ocean, “I am his teacher, but I find some of the hardest lessons are the ones he must learn on his own. I suggest you break the news to him. Do it on your own terms while you still can.”

“I will,” said Mercy.

“Will you?” Zenyatta’s tentacles tensed.

“The only reason I lied in the first place was because--well, I suppose since he was a demon, I assumed he wouldn’t keep his word, so there was no more harm in me not keeping mine. But he saved my life, he protected me, true to his word. So I will tell him,” she bit the inside of her lip, “When the time’s right.”

“Do you fear his wrath?” said Zenyatta.

“I don’t know,” said Mercy, “He’s always going on about how dangerous he is, and his swift and mighty sword but...” Mercy huffed, “I think I fear hurting him, more--but---that’s silly, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t it more horrible of him to want a newborn baby? He’s probably going to--to-eat it or something, isn’t he?”

“He wouldn’t eat it,” said Zenyatta.

“You know why he wants one?” said Mercy.

“I do,” said Zenyatta.

 “You must tell me what for!” said Mercy.

“That is for him to tell you,” said Zenyatta, “Just as this is for you to tell him.”

“For an all-knowing god, that isn’t very helpful,” said Mercy, folding her arms.

“As is the case with most gods, ‘All-knowing’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘helpful,’” said Zenyatta.

Mercy heard a screech and turned her head to see a handsome silvery skua diving amongst the waves. It wheeled in the white foam, then seemed to catch sight of them and swoop toward them with a cry. The skua swept in overhead, turned in a somersault, and then shape-shifted into a scarred man in black and purple cultist robes, landing lightly on his feet.

“I was wondering where you two were!” said Genji, stretching his arms above his head. “I’ve missed the brisk sea air of your monastery, Master, it saddens me to leave it. But the world calls me--does it not call you, Witch?”

“There is a lot to learn out there,” said Mercy.

“If you have a journey, you have a journey,” said Zenyatta, putting a hand on his shoulder, “You will always have a place here.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Genji, before smiling and looking at Mercy, “And what of you, Witch? Are you ready to leave as well?”

Mercy tucked her hair back and found she was gripping the samphire she had plucked with white knuckles, “I--yes--yes I am,” she said, looking up at Genji.

----

“Remind me again, the point of this,” said Gabriel as he and Moira stood in an ornate septagonal chamber. The chamber had six mirrors, one on each wall, with the exception of the wall containing the door they had just walked through to enter.

“You now walk a line between two worlds, Gabriel,” said Moira, walking to the mirror closest to them, “If we are to free you from the witch’s magic, we will need the help of others who walk that same line.”

Gabriel would have frowned if his pumpkin head was capable of any other expression.

“We’re bringing more demons into this?” said Gabriel, “More damned?”

“If the flame of creation is ignited and spreading in the mortal world, then war is coming. A war between the seen and unseen. We will need allies,” said Moira.

“I was already fighting that war,” said Gabriel.

“You were a child digging a line in a sand to catch the waves washing in amongst his ankles. The tide is coming in now,” said Moira, putting a hand to the glass, “I doubt your god is on your side now, so you will have to make do with me.”

The glass seemed to shift and melt under her touch, their reflections dissolving into darkness and mist. Moira held out her other hand to him and he took it, and they both took a few brisk steps through. There was a sound like the last bits of water in a tub rushing down the drain, and then a brief dipping sensation, like reaching the bottom of the stairs, expecting floor, and finding there was another stair, and then they found themselves on a stone threshold in a high-ceilinged stone room. There was a guard slumped against the wall, dressed in a fine uniform of black velvet and partially leaning on his halberd like a drunkard on a lamppost. He shook himself up to attention as Gabriel’s boots thudded clumsily on the stone floor and he flinched hard at the sight of Moira.

“Oh merde--” he drew a horn from the interior of his cloak and blew it in a stumbling fanfare. Four other guards suddenly charged into the room, halberds at the ready and looked genuinely stunned at the appearance of Moira and Gabriel. He had a corpse-like scent hanging about him that Gabriel thought should bother him more than it did. He noticed his sense of smell was a lot stronger now than it had been when he was alive. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t shut out senses to sleep--he wasn’t even sure if he could sleep anymore.

“Announce my arrival to your comtesse and have her gather her court,” said Moira.

“Th-The comtesse is indisposed---” the guard stammered.

“Do you know why she had this mirror in her chateau?” said Moira, stepping forward.

“Y-yes, Madame, but--”

“But? But what?”

There was a brief tense silence in the room.

“But... the last time you were here was, according to the records, 114 years ago,” said another guard.

“And?” said Moira, “Was there an expiration date set on the terms of her recognition of my sovereignty?” 

“N-no, Madame--”

“Then have her gather her court,” said Moira.

“You heard our honored guest,” said another voice, smoky and smirking. There was a purple flash and guards parted to reveal a woman in an armored doublet and a black hood. She seemed to be fussing with the last buckles of her doublet, and a few stray strands of dark hair hung out from under her hood, as if she had just been roused from bed. Human. Gabriel could smell it on her, warm, and distinct from the rest of the guards. He could smell a faint stench of death on her too, but it clung to her skin like a lover. He could smell magic on her, too, but not like the Witch, more like the metallic smell that issued off of his own adder stone after he had it for years.

“Who are you?” said Moira.

“I serve the comtesse. Come with me,” said the woman, walking out of the room. Moira and Gabriel followed after, 

“You would think the comtesse would keep her estate in better condition,” murmured Moira, “Guards in disarray... food lying around...”

All of the guards escorting them toward the throne room suddenly stopped. The woman glanced over her shoulder at Moira and Gabriel.

“What?” said Moira.

One of the guards leaned close to the hooded woman, “What would you have us do, Spymaster?”

The spymaster shrugged, “She is visiting royalty. Let her have her words. They reflect more on her than on me. Just continue escorting our guests to the throne room.”

“Spymaster?” Moira repeated, incredulously, “Since when would the comtesse keep a human spymaster?!”

“We’re very progressive here,” said the spymaster, a smile in her voice.

There was a brief second where Moira’s eyes flashed yellow, cruel and dead like ghost lights, and a few white streaks suddenly threaded through her hair, but she seemed to regain her composure and her eyes and hair returned to normal.

“Hard to keep the glamour up when you’re mad, huh?” said the spymaster, as they continued down the halls. 

“I know saplings older than you, little insect,” Moira scowled.

“Invite them to court, then,” said the Spymaster, pushing open two massive doors into a throne room. 

The comtesse sat on a throne in the center of the room, a guard at either side of her. Her skin was deathly white, her lips were red and wet, her eyes were yellow as an owl’s, and her black hair was tied back in a loose and low ponytail in a red velvet ribbon. She wore a loose white shirt, the frilled collar of it plunging to her sternum, and high-waisted black trousers. She leaned her head against the knuckles of her hand, looking like all patience was already exhausted by the time court was called.

“Queen Máire. It has been some time,” said the comtesse, not making any movement to rise from her seat as the spymaster took her place at her side.

“Comtesse Amélie,” Moira bowed.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Amélie.

“Would that I could have called in happier times, comtesse,” Moira started.

“Only had 114 years,” the spymaster whispered into the comtesse’s ear and the comtesse snickered.

Moira briefly bristled but continued, ignoring the slight. “I’m sure by now you have already heard of the events at Adlersbrunn,” she said. 

“Yes,” said the Comtesse, “My spymaster is very good at keeping me abreast of the news of the world.”

“Then you know that that news shall spread. It spreads faster in shadows but soon, more mortal ears will hear of it, and more weapons will be drawn against us,” Moira gestured at Gabriel, “I have with me the first casualty of the war to come--bound by magic in servitude to a human, denied the dignity of death.” 

“So the pumpkin’s not a fashion choice?” said the spymaster, leaning against the throne.

“This is a perversion of what magic is supposed to be!” said Moira, gesturing at Gabriel, “This is pain and suffering, wrought by human hands!”

Thanks, thought Gabriel, who would have rolled his eyes if his pumpkin head allowed it.

“And it was wrought by the flame of creation,” said Moira, “Something never meant for a human to wield!”

The comtesse sat up in her seat slightly, apparently more interested now. “The flame of creation hasn’t been snuffed out?”

“It nearly was, but apparently it has been passed down, from human witch to human witch,” said Moira, “I can see through the eyes of crow and hare and hound, but you, comtesse, have far more eyes on wings. If the flame of creation is spreading through the world, then that means this world will re-make itself. It means that war is coming. And I would ask for your allegiance in the war that is to come. Lend me your eyes. Join your strength with mine, and we may survive it.”

The comtesse kept a steady, yellow-eyed look at Moira and Gabriel, and then sat up in her seat slightly. She put a hand on the shoulder of her spymaster and they shared a few whispers. The spymaster shook her head and the comtesse seemed thoughtful for a few seconds, then whispered something more to the spymaster. The spymaster gave a shrugging concession and the comtesse seemed satisfied before turning her attention back to Moira and Gabriel.

“I do not deny that a war is coming, my Queen,” said the comtesse, sitting up in her seat in a bit more stately fashion, “However, my kind can endure through war, and it has endured by not drawing attention to itself. We will clean up the bodies, we will keep ourselves fed, perhaps even grow our ranks in the bloodshed that is to come, but only a few of my kind can even walk in daylight-and we have come to far more...” she glanced at her spymaster, “Symbiotic relations with the humans in our land rather than isolating ourselves. War may be coming, but I will not seek it. Not until it is fully necessary.”

“But our allegiance--” Moira started.

“Was one of non-aggression,” said the Comtesse, “I remember the terms well. But my duty is to my people, first and foremost. Surely your majesty understands that?”

“Of course,” said Moira through gritted teeth.

“Is there any other way I may be of service to you, your majesty?” asked the comtesse.

“No,” Moira’s voice was sharp and brittle.

“You are welcome to stay in the château for as long as--” 

“I have my own estate,” said Moira, drawing herself up to her full height, “I thank you for your time.”

“I understand. Guards, see to it that her majesty finds her way back to the mirrorgate,” said the comtesse, “It’s been an honor, Queen Máire.”

“Lady Amélie,” Moira said with a bow before turning on her heel and walking out with Gabriel and the guards.

Gabriel didn’t say anything as they were guided back to the room with the mirror in it. And he found it prudent not to mention the streaks of white that where threading through Moira’s hair with fury as they walked. They stepped back through the mirror with little ceremony and after another stomach-turning trip through darkness, found themselves back in the septagonal room of Moira’s own underground queendom.

“Well...” said Gabriel folding his arms, “That was a wash.”

“It wasn’t,” said Moira, looking back in the mirror and inhaling to bring her hair back to its previous red shade.

“Please tell me we aren’t going to try the other five mirrors,” said Gabriel.

“No, not yet. I believe it should be very easy to convince the Comtesse to see our view of things,” said the Moira.

“She sounded pretty sure of herself back there,” said Gabriel.

“There’s more than one way to make your point,” said Moira, alighting a violet sphere of black magic in one hand.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” said Gabriel.

“I said I would help break the magic binding you, Gabriel,” said Moira, “I didn’t say you would like it.”

[thepanicoffice]

A Grand New Day

[...]

I realise that this is a very difficult time for everyone, and this is, on balance, probably the last thing you needed to hear right now, but... it is with a heavy heart that I must announce my return to the public sphere.

For too many months, the national discourse has been free from the long and ghoulish shadow that I cast, leaving you all to frolic about carelessly in a sunny glade of light chit-chat and petty recrimination. Well now the sky darkens, the seas froth, nature recoils, and the comfort of doubt is snatched from you: the fun stops here.

In  some respects, I had taken to the life of the wealthy recluse like a duck to l’orange. I have been a stalwart companion, a faithful confidante, and a tender lover to myself for these past months. I developed at first a grudging acceptance of, and then a keen taste for, my own urine. I now find myself convinced of its healing properties and somewhat addicted to its tangy savour [1].

Despite being trapped with such stellar company and moreish bodily fluids, the air of my study, soupy with candlelight and the mingled odours of putrefaction and blue cheese, begins to stale, and the days stretch beyond comprehension or endurance.

Even my Christmas presents to myself seemed staid and predictable. I simply haven’t the space for any more carriage clocks [2] or bindings of erotic Victorian lithographs [3].

Perhaps the world outside my window has simply become interesting enough to once again engage my fleeting attention. I have today awoken to more ridiculous coups than a pigeon uprising in Trafalgar Square [4]. Now seems to be the ideal time to leap back into the fray - my personal success rate in instigating insurrections stands at a more than competitive 68% after all. Violent uprisings should never be left to laughable incompetents and lacklustre fascists - my culture is not your costume, damn your eyes!

Perhaps the hour has indeed come to haul back the bookcase barricading the window, heave up its ancient, sun-warped sash frame and, in my faintly soiled nightshirt, cry with a renewed vigour into the trembling light of the New Year:

“You boy, what day is this?”

The boy seems uncertain. His mother keeps a determined gaze on the floor and quickly ushers him past the building. Undaunted, unabashed, I shout again: “I’ll tell you what day it is! It is a grand new day in which to PANIC!”

--------------------------------------- [1] The calcic fragments of bladder stones, carefully acquired over years through a diet richer than Croesus, also make for a crunchy treat.

[2] What was I thinking? My drawing room now ticks and tuts at me like a ghastly court of disappointed aunts. What even is a carriage clock?

[3] Once you’ve seen one shapely ankle, one ruffled bodice, one slightly elevated bustle, you’ve very much seen them all.

[4] A homophonic joke that would be much funnier if it were being bellowed into your ear above the genial din of a saloon bar, carried on my hot, port-soured breath and augmented by my own delighted guffaws.

[maggot-zombie]

Corey Taylor just dropped the best Christmas present everyone could ask for – well, after the X-M@$ single. Live In London is a 2-hour live concert plus a 3 part Q&A videos, adding more 42 minutes to it. Labeled as “an intimate acoustic performance”, it was recorded at KOKO on May 18, 2016, and released last week, on Monday (December 18, 2017), over a year later. Moreover, to put a cherry on top of it, the live concert and the Q&A is available free!

With the usual sense of humor very present, the lead-singer of Slipknot and Stone Sour definitely doesn’t need bandmates to cheer up his crowd. Corey started doing these acoustic, intimate gigs in 2009, and this time we have a glimpse of how it’s like when he is leading the ship by himself.

The show begins with the Q&A in which three new fun stories comes out. The lead singer tells the crowd about his choice to quit smoking and the crazy funny experience at the Heathrow airport. He also remembers of the Astoria Theatre in London, where they (Slipknot) did a midnight singing of Vol. 3: (The Subliminal Verses) and an old – and even funnier – story involving our beloved Paul Gray that, according to Corey, is one the reasons he quit drinking.

He randomly picks fans in the crowd to ask questions that the answers are loaded with a lot of honesty and good humor, it doesn’t matter if it is a question about his thoughts on Marvel’s Captain America: Civil War or a question about what song he would like to see Donald Trump use. In these 42 minutes, he’s able to make people laugh carelessly, clap loudly and really have a good time.

Corey Taylor is a guy that definitely doesn’t get tired of amazing me. His vocal range is one of the most amazing in the musical world and the songs picked by him show it clearly. The fact that he quit smoking also helps a lot and Corey himself comments how different (and weird) is the experience of not smoking in a gig.

In between songs, his silliness doesn’t go away, he’s always focused on one thing: making his fans have a good time and he accomplishes this by joking around, talking about the great British music and musicians and thanking the fans for saving his life.

“You gotta understand something: you guys saved my life. Do you understand that? I have so many fucking people tell me that I saved their lives. Like you have no idea what you guys have done for me, I fucking love every goddamn one of you and you have no idea how much you fucking mean to me. So thank you so much.” — Corey Taylor

With that in mind, I try to understand the context of the background he uses on the stage with the word “Hated”. It looks like he uses it since 2015 but you can clearly see how much love is going on in the room (as cheesy as it sounds). Previously, the acoustic sets had a badge-style star with “CMFT” – stands for “Corey Mother Fucking Taylor”) written in the middle of it.

The show is really wonderful and I love the fact that the editors haven’t let us crazy with the camera’s change. There are awesome shots – close-ups are my favorites – and the lighting helps a lot (can you fucking believe that they had a mirror ball? It was amazing!). It’s a smaller show than Slipknot and Stone Sour’s, obviously, but the production did an amazing job and it is a pleasure to sit through 2 whole hours watching it.

The setlist

The diversified setlist contains 23 songs of various artists but Corey doesn’t let out his own compositions. Although Slipknot set him to success, the vocalist only has 2 songs of the band on the setlist –

Snuff

, easily the most intense song and the best version of

Spit it Out

, in my opinion, better than the original. Stone Sour’s songs are massively present in the set, counting a total of 9 songs.

Through the set, there are moments that stand out, other than Corey presenting us with amazing covers of some greatest bands just as Credence Clearwater, Kiss, The Cure, and Eagles. The first moment, and definitely my favorite one, is Bother, right at the beginning of the set. It is just amazing how the crowd sings with Corey and doing the backing vocals. I had goosebumps all over my body watching it, imagine being right there.

The second moment comes with a warning of how heavy the song is for him and it’s obvious the change of demeanor. The beginning of Snuff is cheered and, once again, the crowd sings along with the lead singer. We can see how hard it is for Corey to sing, how his voice fails sometimes, loaded with emotions, and how these emotions are clear on his face as well. For a moment, I thought he would cry like it happened before, but he managed to get through it and thank the crowd after a “Paul Gray” chant.

Playing SpongeBob SquarePants’ theme started as a joke in 2011, dedicated to his son and niece who were at the show that night. But now it’s an important part of the show and, after a fan shouts it out, Corey answered the request and played the song. Through the Glass was the last moment that stood out for me because having a sea of people singing the song with the artist it’s the best thing to see.

Christian Martucci

Even though Corey doesn’t need support to entertain his audience, he did bring his friend and Stone Sour’s guitarist, Christian Martucci. With

Tucci

– the lovely nickname – the fun was more than guaranteed. It’s awesome to watch Corey interact with him and I must confess: as much as it hurts me that he is Jim Root’s replacement, Martucci proves to be an awesome guitarist.

To be more fan of Slipknot, it’s the first time I’ve seen him playing and the guy’s skills with an acoustic guitar impressed me a lot. I also loved his backing vocals and his voice is a great contrast to Corey’s.

How to watch it

The live concert film and the Q&A videos are available for free. All you have to do is go on

thecoreytaylor.com

, fill up the form on the home page and submit it. The website automatically sends you a confirmation email which will lead you directly to the live concert film.

The Q&A videos can be seen on the “video” tab on the website or on Corey Taylor’s YouTube channel.

Links

Complete setlist More gifs

[garden-ghoul]

misc from HoME

“mostly tinuviels”

this first bit is from the framing story before music of the ainur

Then said he: 'Your pardon, sir! I marked you not, for I was listening to the birds. Indeed sir you find me in a sour temper; for lo! here I have a black-winged rogue fat with impudence who singeth songs before unknown to me, and in a tongue that is strange! It irks me sir, it irks me, for methought at least I knew the simple speeches of all birds. I have a mind to send him down to Mandos for his pertness! ' 

At this Eriol laughed heartily, but said the door-ward: 'Nay sir, may Tevildo Prince of Cats harry him for daring to perch in a garden that is in the care of Rumil. Know you that the Noldoli grow old astounding slow, and yet have I grey hairs in the study of all the tongues of the Valar and of Eldar. Long ere the fall of Gondolin, good sir, I lightened my thraldom under Melko in learning the speech of all monsters and goblins -- have I not conned even the speeches of beasts, disdaining not the thin voices of the voles and mice? -- have I not cadged a stupid tune or two to hum of the speechless beetles? Nay, I have worried at whiles even over the tongues of Men, but Melko take them! they shift and change, change and shift, and when you have them are but a hard stuff whereof to labour songs or tales. Wherefore is it that this morn I felt as Omar the Vala who knows all tongues, as I hearkened to the blending of the voices of the birds comprehending each, recognising each well-loved tune, when tiriptilirilla here comes a bird, an imp of Melko -- but I weary you sir, with babbling of songs and words.'

This is really cute. But also like... Rumil wants to kill this bird for speaking a language he doesn’t know... ANYWAY I think it’s a really cool backstory, he was imprisoned by Melkor so to make himself useful he learned EVERY LANGUAGE THERE IS. But human languages change too often, how troublesome.

Also, ‘may Tevildo Prince of Cats harry him.” If Tevildo is really Sauron mk 1 this is a really funny curse. PRESUMABLY Rumil has met him, if they both worked for Melkor. is he scary or is he just... a cat.

Here’s an extract from a poem called ‘the man in the moon.’ I didn’t read the intro carefully enough to figure out what it has to do with anything, but look at Tolkien’s vocabulary:

And at plenilune in his argent moon He had wearily longed for Fire -- Not the limpid lights of wan selenites, But a red terrestrial pyre With impurpurate glows of crimson and rose And leaping orange tongue',

Mr Rolkien you can’t rhyme “plenilune” and “moon,” they’re the same thing. It’s cheating. He also used the word “inaureoled” a couple stanzas earlier. Anyway I LOVE internal rhymes it’s the best thing ever.

OKAY I skipped to the tale of tinuviel (for my own reference, page 222), because I want to see my great kids and also the prince of cats. In the framing story Eriol is hanging out with a bunch of kids and telling them his own stories, and he asks them to pay their debt with a story in return. Within 15 seconds of beginning the story they start arguing over the name of Tinuviel’s father (apparently it’s Tinwelint), which is very kids and very cute.

'Hush thee, Ausir,' said Veanne, 'for it is my tale and I will tell it to Eriol. Did I not see Gwendeling and Tinuviel once with my own eyes when journeying by the Way of Dreams in long past days?’

'What was Queen Wendelin like (for so do the Elves call her), Veanne, if thou sawest her?' said Ausir.

They can’t agree on ANYONE’S name. G/wendelin/g is Melian btw. Apparently she has dark hair; I don’t like it, I think she has fire hair. So there’s a short recounting of how Tinwelint and Wendeling met, and then we note that they had two children, Dairon and Tinuviel. Interesting! Dairon is the third best musician ever, after Ivare and Tinfang Warble (pffft). “Tinuviel's joy was rather in the dance, and no names are setwith hers for the beauty and subtlety of her twinkling feet.” TWINKLETOES. I’m going to call her Twinkletoes from now on.

Beren, one of the gnomes of Dor-Lomin (and if I’m reading this right he’s of the people that were imprisoned by Melkor?) turns up (Veanne doesn’t know how, just that he liked wandering) and stares at her, even though gnomes and elves don’t get along. Yr all eldar, guys. There’s this really cool bit though where Dairon sees Beren and flees, but Tinuviel is too confused and she doesn’t think she’s very good at runnin (she’s a dancer! probably has better stamina than her brother!) so she just... melts into a puddle of moonlight. What it actually says is that she hides under a hemlock with large flowers, but Beren is literally watching her the entire time and he still doesn’t get where she went.

she slipped suddenly down among the white hemlocks and hid herself beneath a very tall flower with many spreading leaves; and here she looked in her white raiment like a spatter of moonlight shimmering through the leaves upon the floor.

Then Beren was sad,

So she gets away. He keeps wandering around looking for her and watches her dance a few times. She’s not afraid of him any more because she realizes he just likes her dancing. And she’s great at it! She should be proud! So he asks her to teach him to dance, and she like, cruelly makes fun of him for not being as good at dancing as she is? And she brings him into whatever they’re calling Menegroth these days and is like “:D hey everyone this wanderer wants to learn to dance! that’s pretty funny right!”

Tinwelint asks if he has ever hurt her and she’s like nooooo he appreciates my dancing more than ANYONE else. And when Tinwelint asks why Beren is here Beren says “I want to marry her.” everyone laughs at him, because that was totally unprompted and extremely rude. after Beren storms out, promising to get a silmaril, Tinuviel chides her father, saying “now no-one will ever appreciate my dancing as much again!” I am really enjoying how she’s clearly not in love with him at all yet, and thinks of him more as a captive audience for her GREAT DANCING than any kind of equal.

Beren is captured by orcs and taken to Melkor, cos he’s beefy and they think Melkor might appreciate it. Melkor is actually mad because he can tell from Beren’s phenotype that he should already be a slave. But Beren says he’s sooo tired of hanging out with humans (who Melkor hates) and would rather work for Melkor as a huntsman and trapper to get him food.

Melko marking his hardy frame believed him, and was willing to accept him as a thrall of his kitchens.

Scullery maid is much funnier, but it’s also more true than I was expecting...

Now he gave orders for Beren to be made a thrall of Tevildo Prince of Cats. Now Tevildo was a mighty cat -- the mightiest of all -- and he was in Melko's constant following; and that cat had all cats subject to him, and he and his subjects were the chasers and getters of meat for Melko's table and for his frequent feasts. Wherefore is it that there is hatred still between the Elves and all cats even now.

I’m so tickled by the image of the hugest domestic cat ever chasing down an elk. Alternately, Melkor eats only mice and rats. It’s just to make it harder for the cooks, who have to peel them individually. Anyway Beren goes to Tevildo’s house, which is full of “growling and monstrous purrings.”

All about shone cats' eyes glowing like green lamps or red or yellow where Tevildo's thanes sat waving and lashing their beautiful tails, but Tevildo himself sat at their head and he was a mighty cat and coal-black and evil to look upon. His eyes were long and very narrow and slanted, and gleamed both red and green, but his great grey whiskers were as stout and as sharp as needles. His purr was like the roll of drums and his growl like thunder, but when he yelled in wrath it turned the blood cold, and indeed small beasts and birds were frozen as to stone, or dropped lifeless often at the very sound.

I have to quote Tevildos extensively because everything I hear about him is just so good. I love when cats do a yell. Anyway Tevildo immediately narrows his eyes at Beren and says “I smell a dog,” and dislikes him forever because he used to have a dog. Which he hasn’t seen for months probably while he’s been in Doriath. Tevildo can smell his doggish personality. So he tells Beren that he’s probably an AWFUL hunter and trapper and tells him to catch three mice. But Beren has nothing to make traps with, so he can’t, and Tevildo sneeeers at him.

OH. OH. HE IS LITERALLY A SCULLERY MAID. WHEN HE COULDN’T CATCH THE MICE TEVILDO SET HIM TO SCRUBBING FLOORS. He is a general dogsbody for the cats (ha!) and doesn’t get much food or sleep.

Meanwhile Tinuviel realizes she actually misses him as a person, confusingly? And she asks her parents to let her go rescue him. Which is really absurd, considering they talked for all of ten minutes and he’s just some random guy from the forest. Her father shuts her in a house up in the boughs of HIRILORN, my favorite tree (queen of beeches!) and she has a great time there actually. I think she likes making people bring her stuff, and her brother spends a lot of time playing for her at the base of the tree.

The hair-growing spell actually fits in with this version of the story way better, because this whole thing is a fairy tale. That’s why I like it better than the final version tbh. Beren as a scullion for the prince of cats! That’s good fairy tale material! The cloak she weaves is also imbued with sleepiness, which rocks.

We now learn of Tevildo’s deep personal grudge against Huan, captain of the dogs, who almost caught him once chasing him away from the dwellings of humans. Tinuviel meets him in the forest and tells him she is looking for Beren. What luck! Huan and Beren have been friends for a long time! Double luck, Huan already hates the guy Beren needs rescuing from! Huan advises Tinuviel to go to Tevildo’s house at noon, when everyone is having their catnap in the sun on the terraces. Holy shit. I love thissss

She meets Umuiyan (umunyan) the doorkeeper and flatters him into letting her see Tevildo. And she dares to pet his head and he purrrrrs. He is much bigger than her, big enough to ride, so he carries her to where Tevildo is and then goes off to take a nap because of her Slumbersome Cloak. Tevildo takes her into the castle (she implied that she has news of his Enemy Huan) and she sees Beren carrying stuff around in the kitchens, so she tells her story to Tevildo REALLY LOUDLY. Beren drops everything he’s carrying. Now Tinuviel says that Huan is lying injured in the forest and is a REAL JERK so she thought she’d tell Tevildo and get him killed, which he deserves.

Blah blah Huan almost kills Tevildo, tries to ransom Beren and Tinuviel for his own safety. I want to note here that Tevildo says Beren is probably being scratched by the cook, Miaule. They have.... cat names.... they all have cat names.... this is like that fucking episode of Naruto where they have to infiltrate the cat fortress. anyway Tevildo is forced to give his golden collar to Tinuviel, and she also gets to use the spell that binds cats to his will and makes them huge and scary. So a bunch of normal sized scared cats come running out of the fortress. Huan takes the golden collar, which has “a great magic of strength and power.” Guys. It’s the one ring, but it’s a cat collar. I’m so fucking tickled.

Tinuviel and Beren wander around in the woods with a whole bunch of dogs for a while until Tinuviel gets homesick. Well there’s nothing to be done about it! I don’t want to live in the woods forever, and Beren can only come home with me if I get a silmaril! Apparently Huan has been carrying around a dead cat this entire time as a trophy, which he donates to Beren as a disguise:

Now doth Tinuviel put forth her skill and fairy-magic, and she sews Beren into this fell and makes him to the likeness of a great cat, and she teaches him how to sit and sprawl, to step and bound and trot in the semblance of a cat, till Huan's very whiskers bristled at the sight, and thereat Beren and Tinuviel laughed. Never however could Beren learn to screech or wail or to purr like any cat that ever walked, nor could Tinuviel awaken a glow in the dead eyes of the catskin -- "but we must put up with that," said she, "and thou hast the air of a very noble cat if thou but hold thy tongue."

Beren is a REALLY GOOD CAT THOUGH LOOK

Tinuviel's heart became lighter awhile than it had been for long, and she stroked Beren or pulled his tail, and Beren was angry because he could not lash it in answer as fiercely as he wished.

CUTE!!!

They go in to talk to Melkor. Although Tinuviel looks the same as normal, Melkor tells her to stop “flitting around like a bat.” So we see where the business with Thuringwethil came from! Anyway Tinuviel pretends she is a teen runaway and hates her dad and wants to come live in Angband because like, that’s the MOST OBVIOUS place for a teen runaway to get a job. He’s like, eh, but he lets her dance anyway because he’s bored. Beren uses his kitchen knife from Tevildo’s house to pry a silmaril out of the iron crown, which I think is very charming. He has no other weapons!

When they make it back to Huan, he says Tinuviel to ride on his back and Beren to run beside. Sorry, who just had their hand bitten off? Was it Tinuviel? Let the boy ride! So they go back and everything else happens pretty much as normal, except after going to Mandos both of them become mortal Also they do Many Great Deeds after this, which is good, because in the final version they just settled down with their 15 dogs and had a kid.

[payment-providers]

New Post has been published on Payment-Providers.com

New Post has been published on https://payment-providers.com/the-week-in-very-weird-commerce/

The Week In Very Weird Commerce

Share

Tweet

Share

Share

Share

Email

Among many other subjects, the late, great Hunter S. Thompson was one of the world’s foremost experts on weirdness of all kinds. One of our favorite — and more often quoted — observations from Dr. Gonzo on the subject is a good catch-all for when it seems the world is not making sense:

“When the going gets weird, the weird turn professional.”

But this week we actually have another favorite in mind — from later in Thompson’s career:

“It never got weird enough for me.”

Given the amount of mayhem and chaos Thompson personally took credit for causing, that admission alone is fairly shocking. It may be the case that there was no amount of weirdness that would have been enough for Hunter S. Thompson.

However, the last few weeks of action in payments and commerce has convenience of a plausible other explanation: He didn’t live long enough to see retail reinvention in the digital age.

In the face of infinitely informed consumers, Amazon being everywhere and consumers wanting to be able to buy everything everywhere whenever they feel like it — well, things have gotten more than tough for retailers: they’ve just gotten plain weird. Everyone wants to build the best consumer experience. Ideas for how to concretely do that, other than getting a job at Amazon, are few and far between.

So the weird have gone pro and out-of-the-box thinking abounds. Some of it works; disruptive innovation depends on thinking a little bit differently. Some of it, however, does not — because there is such a thing as too different.

For example…

Dirty Clothes Are the New Black?

Okay, before we dig into what might be Nordstrom’s worst fashion faux pas ever, we want to note that bad ideas about blue jeans have abounded this year.

Expensive bad ideas.

Barney’s is selling “inside-out jeans” for nearly $1,000, and Levi’s is selling what it calls ��bare-butt” jeans for $1,260. We’d include a picture, but this is a family publication. Suffice to say, bare-butt jeans are exactly what they sound like.

We also want to note that distressed jeans are not a new idea. Ripped jeans were the height of style in the 1990s, and there is a good reason for that. They are totally awesome.

But ripped and filthy are not the same things — a distinction someone failed to explain to Nordstrom before they started selling actual mud-encrusted jeans on their website for the consumer who wants to look like they fought a hobo for their pants.

And who wants to spend a lot of money doing it, because the jeans cost $425.

According to Nordstrom’s description, the jeans are:

“Heavily distressed medium-blue denim jeans in a comfortable straight-leg fit, embody rugged, Americana workwear that’s seen some hard-working action with a crackled, caked-on muddy coating that shows you’re not afraid to get down and dirty.”

That description has the dual benefits of being silly-sounding — and also totally false. If one were not afraid to get down and dirty, they would not buy a pair of pre-soiled $425 jeans. They would buy $25 jeans at Walmart and then go and actually get down and dirty.

And this story gets funnier in at last two regards. Nordstrom may have failed to boost buzz for their edgy merchandise with the run of dirty jeans, but they did manage to give Reebok a bit of a boost. A day or so after the various stories about the soiled designer jeans made the rounds, Reebok began advertising their own parodic version of the jeans: a pre-sweated t-shirt.

The better punchline? Amazon still undercut them on price. The same jeans can be had for $99-$202 and arrive at your door in two days.

So that one didn’t work — but not all kinds of gross products are a bad idea, per say…

The Unicorn Frappuccino — Because Tasting Good Isn’t Everything

By now you’ve seen the picture: pink, blue, iridescent and sparkly — the Unicorn Frappuccino looked something like a Lava Lamp you can drink.

Well, you can drink it if you have a taste for a beverage that was described at times as “disgustingly sweet,” “unnatural in all ways,” and reminiscent of “the taste of sour birthday cake and shame.”

How does one achieve the look of a lava lamp and the taste of shame? According to Starbucks, the drink is “made with a sweet dusting of pink powder blended into a crème Frappuccino with mango syrup, and layered with a pleasantly sour blue powder topping,” according to a news release. It changes colors from purple to pink when you stir in “swirls of blue.”

Pink is not a flavor. Blue is not a flavor.

They are colors.

And, according to most people who drank it, they are not tasty colors. It is notable that the Unicorn Frappuccino was released on 4/20 — an unofficial holiday for stoned people with the munchies, and even they didn’t think it tasted good.

But then, taste was not the primary concern at The Washington Post.

“This drink exists only to be Instagrammed, hashtag unicorn emoji, hashtag magical.”

And magical it was — particularly for Starbucks’ bottom line. The drink was so popular it often sold out, and baristas took to social media tearfully begging people to stop ordering it.

There will likely be more.

“Just stay tuned, because we have a lot more coming,” former CEO Howard Shultz said during an earnings conference call Thursday.

Schultz said that the pink-and-blue drink drove significant traffic to chains during its limited run, and noted that said sales will be more apparent in the company’s Q3 results. These sales will likely be seen in the company’s fiscal third-quarter earnings.

And where there is success, there is repetition.

“We will bring at least one … entirely new drink into Happy Hour this year that is going to be as good as Unicorn or better,” Starbucks CEO Kevin Johnson said, referring to the chain’s coming-soon promotion of half-priced fraps to customers from 3:00 pm to 5:00 pm.

Pray for the baristas.

And finally…

Robot Dog Deliveries (From Your Childhood Nightmares)

Dogs have a long history delivering things, as fetch is one of their favorite things to do. So in some sense, it is not surprising that the team at Boston Dynamics chose a dog to be their robotic delivery beast.

And “Spot,” is out there, programmed to deliver packages to consumers’ front doors.

Spot is Boston Dynamics’ attempt to branch out some — since before being bought by Google, its robots were largely funded by military contracts. But these days, Marc Raibert says the company has been testing how it can put its robots to work in more marketable ways.

During a recent talk at TED 2017, Raibert showed a video of Spot delivering a package strapped to its back to someone’s front door.

“We’ve been taking our robot to our employees’ homes to see whether we could get in the various access ways,” said Raibert onstage at TED. “We’re doing very well — about 70 percent of the way.”

So will it work?

Well, we think they may have a small problem.

This is what a dog looks like:

This is what Spot looks like:

We suspect if you show an average consumer a picture of Spot and ask if it is

A.   A Dog

B.   A Delivery Robot

C.   A prototype of the xenomorph being used in the Alien prequel due out in theaters later this year

D.   Something they’d never want to see at their front door

No one would say A, and no one who didn’t work for Boston Dynamics would say B.

We’re not experts — we’re just saying that in the early days of robotic delivery, when people are already a little nervous, it’s probably best not to send anything to customers’ doors that could be mistaken for a movie monster come to life.  No matter what it is delivering, even odds someone is going to try to kill it with fire.

The lesson this week? Weird can work — tie-dye beverages can bring a people together, even if they don’t actually taste good. Or weird can fail — by being too gross to be edgy, or too scary to expose the public too.

And, of course, weird is transitory — for all we know, a year from now Spot will be delivering all our Day-Glo Frappuccinos, though we prefer to believe the mud-caked jeans thing isn’t going to catch on.

But we could be wrong. After all, area expert on weirdness Hunter S. Thompson also famously noted:

“Yesterday’s weirdness is tomorrow’s reason why.”

Barneys, boston dynamics, Day-Glo drink, earnings, Featured News, Hunter S. Thompson, Innovation, inside-out jeans, Marc Raibert, News, Nordstrom muddy jeans, robotic delivery, Spot, starbucks, Unicorn Frappuccino, weird commerce

Source link

[thisdudewalksintoabar]

Princess Birthday

You know who she is. Perhaps you have been her! https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/04/06/an-open-letter-to-princess-birthday/

Yo, drunk girl. Not you, the other one. Yes, you, with the tiara and the sash that says “PRINCESS!” on it. I see that it’s your birthday, and I can see that you intend on having the best night of your life. I can also see that you’re indifferent to the band playing right now, but as soon as they take a break, you should definitely grab the mic and tell everyone about your special day. I’m sure no one will mind — it is your birthday, after all. Since you’re already up there, you might as well get behind the drums and whack the snare a bunch of times. If someone tells you to quit it, find a guitar and try to figure out how that strap works; if you can untangle it from your hair and get it over your head, be sure to bang as hard as you can on the strings — I can’t speak for everyone in the bar, but the guitar-solo face you keep making is completely awesome, and I, for one, can’t get enough. You might even want to stagger over to the amp and try to make sense of all those knobs — electric guitar is way better if you can hear it, and guitar players are totally cool with a complete stranger ruining their tone.

If your handlers let you stay on stage when the band comes back on, I think it would be really great if you could lean into the mic in between verses and say things like “That’s right, bitches!” or “It’s my birthday, bitches!” And while you’re at it, why not invite your friend up there to sing “Happy Birthday” to you? The band would like nothing more than to stop what they’re doing and wait, and when she sings it like Marilyn Monroe, well, I’m pretty sure that’ll be the funniest thing anyone has ever seen in the history of mankind, even funnier than when you both yelled “ ‘Freebird,’ bitches!” during the first set.

As the night winds down, you should see if everyone who makes eye contact with you will buy you a birthday shot — I’m not so sure you have room for any more booze, but you won’t know until you try. If you were going to get alcohol poisoning tonight, you’d already be in an ambulance (probably), and, anyway, your bestie promised to hold your hair back while you puke, so don’t let her off the hook! And later, when you’ve danced your dress crooked and one of your boobs pops out? Well, don’t be embarrassed. At least it drew attention to your sash. –– Steve Steward

Comedy Gold

File this under “An A for Effort.” For a while now (which means “within the last year”), Esoterica Studios (941 Foch St., 817-924-1500) has held occasional comedy nights on Fridays, and over the past two months, The Moon Bar (2911 W. Berry St., TCU area, 817-966-9600), my place of employ, has thrown its hat into the stand-up venue ring. Starting at 8 p.m. on Sundays, the Moon’s open-mic laff jam is pretty much what you’d expect: a brief succession of nervous performers bombing with well-intentioned bits, mercifully tapping out before the audience’s stone-faced silence boils into sour murmurs or loudmouth jeers. Sure, most of these guys aren’t very funny, but this is amateur hour by nature, and it’s genuinely enjoyable to applaud anyone taking a chance on one of the most unforgiving forms of public address. There’s no cover (and PBRs are only $1.50), and you can tell that a few of these dudes are diligently honing their craft, a large part of which is knowing when to quit. For example, up-and-comer Matt McInnis told three solidly funny jokes and then hit the proverbial eject button — his bit might have taken all of two minutes, but bailing at the right moment is a sign of knowing what you’re doing. –– S.S.

Spencer’s Song Swap Night

Speaking of knowing what you’re doing, singer-songwriter Mike McClure is hosting a four-man song swap on Monday nights at Spencer’s Corner (6861 Green Oaks Rd., 817- 652-6090). The first one featured himself, Jason Eady, Scott Copeland, and some dude named Evan Felker. I kind of got the feeling that Evan was getting hazed a little, but, honestly, following Scott Copeland is a tall order. In any case, while I meant to leave at 11, I ended up stretching my weekend all the way to Tuesday morning. –– S.S.