#that's all it took to anchor him to his personhood and all it took to win the unending love of the future 'demon' of the east sea

[morethanwonderful]

God Zhou Ying as a kid really is just. What if you were a child whose perception of reality was wildly different from every adult around you. What if you were constantly overwhelmed and overstimulated and focused on the "wrong" thing. What if you were always distracted by background details of the world that no one else ever noticed?

What if you were a child who sometimes dissociated from the reality around you? What if you regularly lost track of where you were and saw horrible things, and when you came back to yourself you were always scared and confused? And what if every adult that was supposed to take care of you was so scared by your dissociating that when you were at your most needy and helpless, all your caregivers fearfully ignored you and pretended they couldn't see what was happening?

Surely this is a situation that can only apply to someone magical.

[deejadabbles]

Echo and Comms (Echo x Reader) Chapter Three

Summary: Who could know that a simple night out with your friend would lead to this? A life of danger and the man of your dreams. Echo x Communications Officer Reader (gender neutral). Friends to lovers/star-crossed lovers. A.N: First off I would like say I'm so sorry (!!!) this took so long to get out to anyone interested in this series! If I'm being blunt, I've been feeling rather discouraged over my Echo content. But, I still adore this man and have so many ideas on where to take this series, so, thank you to everyone who shows interest in this story! I appreciate the reblogs and comments so much! Secondly, the emotions of this chapter got away from me and before I knew it I was 3k words deep, so I'm warning you now that this is a heavy chapter, but I promise the sweet reunion and happy times are coming! I promise Word count: 3,814 Songs for listening: What Hurts the Most and Experience . Warnings: mentions and explorations of grief/loss, mentions of drinking as a coping mechanism, very heavy topics in general.

Part One /// Part Two /// Part Three /// [Part Four coming soon]

There was nothing to mourn.

That’s the reality that hit you hardest.

The clones gave everything to the republic, to the people, to the war, and they got nothing in return. You had always known that, of course. The debate of clone rights and personhood was always a raring topic since the start of the war, not that the question of their rights should be a debate at all. You had always known they were dealt a shitty hand in life, but it was never more apparent than now.

Now that there was nothing of your sweet, brave Echo to mourn.

There was no funeral, no last rites, no medals or flags given in his honor, not even a damn word of thanks for his sacrifice. His brothers would grieve for him, of course, perhaps the Jedi who had led him too, Echo had always spoken fondly of Skywalker, after all, but his brothers had no means to mourn. Not really. And no other family could offer you their shoulder, no mother or father, no one but soldiers who weren’t allowed to wear their sorrows on their sleeves.

There was nothing of Echo’s to mourn, nothing but the messages and pictures he had sent you.

They were the only proof of his existence, of his memory. That he wasn’t another number, that he was sweet and charming and smart, that he was awkward and rule-following and so damn caring. He had worried so much about his brothers, about them being remembered, and now, these communications were the only remembrance of him, of your Echo.

Eventually, you had to force yourself to stop looking them over for hours every night. Stop yourself from hoping that you would get one last comm from him. One last picture of his dorky smile, of him and Fives causing havoc. One last call to tell you he missed you, to tell you he loved you. 

Echo had loved you. 

And you, oh, how you had loved him too. You had fallen for him fast and hard, and now this pain was the unyielding ground at the end of that fall.

Work was your only solace. Work was an escape, a place where your mind couldn’t wander, couldn’t focus on the grief, couldn’t muse over your loss, your work was too important for that.

Mavis was your anchor, she gave you space and distractions in a good balance. Space to be alone so you weren’t just cramming your feelings in a box all day, and distractions when she knew you needed something that wasn’t work or grief. 

You weren’t proud of the way you were careless with your drinks at the bar on those nights, but somehow, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care most of the time.

Days turned into weeks. The war stretched on, and death tolls rolled in every day, just numbers, faceless, dehumanized numbers. Just like your Echo.

Weeks turned into months. Work continued, a decryption there, a few lives saved here, small victories, victories that helped your pain. Each one was for your Echo now.

You had always taken pride in your work, pride in doing your part to ease this war, to win battles, but now this was just an extra layer of it, pride that you could help the brothers he had held so dear. It helped, and those around you started to notice. 

Eventually, it got easier to smile throughout the day, and you started to feel less guilty over that ease. Though, you still couldn’t crack jokes quite like you used to. At some point, your trips to the bar became less about drowning your sorrow and more about spending time with friends. Though, you still recoiled every time someone tried to flirt with you.

You hoped that things could get better.

The trouble was that no one told you that hope was a dangerous thing.

A sigh pushed itself past your teeth as you leaned back, rubbing your eyes to wash away the imprint of data streams behind your lids. Just a few more hours and you could go to that nice dinner Mavis had invited you to. It was a decent day, and you felt like eating.

The break from your work must have caught attention because someone cleared their throat beside you. Moving only one hand, you cracked an eye open toward the noise. It was Taan, a young and brilliant decrypter who had been placed under your care until he learned the ropes enough to work on his own. He was holding his data pad with a question burning in his eyes.

“Yeah, kid?” you asked, fighting a yawn.

“Do you have a minute to look something over?”

Silently, you sat upright again and waved him forward, letting your other hand drop.

He paused for just a moment, thought, then must have decided it was now or never, “Do you remember last week, when we decrypted that resource update?”

“You mean the one from the techno union, advertising their fancy new battle tactic algorithm?”

“Yeah, that one! See, I was taking another look at it, and…something doesn’t fit. It bothered me the first time we looked at it, but we were too busy relaying the new information to command for me to think about at the time, but now I looked it over again and…” Fingers tapped on the underside of the data pad as he bit his lip, then he shoved it towards you, “here just look for yourself, look at the developer signatures.”

You did as asked, eyes going to the bottom of the page where the techno union had listed the people involved with creating the algorithm. If you weren’t so used to decoding the various numeric-heavy code names those tech creeps used, it would have looked like gibberish. Wat Tambor’s was the only code name you had memorized and without your key, you weren’t sure who the others were….expect.

Your chair gave a creak as you jolted forward, a little shocked.

“See it?” Taan was trying to contain his excitement at your reaction, obviously glad he wasn’t going crazy. 

He wasn’t. There, right in the middle of the long list of contributors, was a strange name, not coded like the rest. ‘T1b3r’ It only had two numbers, unlike the others, meaning it had to be using a different cipher. Among the dozen confusing names, it was easy to miss.

Your mind was working overtime and you didn’t answer the kid quite yet as you pulled your chair back to your workstation, fingers dancing away at your desk unit. That didn’t stop Taan from rambling in your silence.

“I ran it through our other keys but it still didn’t make any sense, then I thought, maybe this guy’s using a whole new code we haven’t cracked yet? But in that case, why? Like why sign your contribution and make it harder to recognize your name and-”

“That’s because it’s not encoded at all,” you offered, “or at least, not a complicated code.”

“Huh?”

“You play Alderaan Gambit at all, kid?”

Taan hummed, “You mean that weird, over-complicated version of holochess? No, not really.”

Since your quick search on the net confirmed your suspicions, you leaned back in your chair again, “Well, one of the elements of the game is capturing each other’s pieces and holding them behind your ‘enemy line’ so to speak. The pieces aren’t just removed from play, they stay on the board and there are all kinds of strategies players can use to win the game with them. You know what those captured pieces are called?”

He shook his head.

“Tibers.”

Taan’s eyes went wide, “T1b3r!” he snatched his datapad back from your hands, “So… you don’t think that…?”

You hesitated, pulling your lip between your teeth, “That one of our own is being used behind enemy lines? Yeah…maybe.”

A fist slammed against your desk, nearly hitting your keyboard, and a growl pushed its way through your teeth. It was late, much later than you usually stayed, and well past your shift. You had told Taan to go home hours ago, insisting that you could wait for the response alone. 

After your litter discovery, you sent it up the chain of command and leveraged your reputation to get the report marked as a priority. You knew there was a chance that, even if they did look it over today, that they may not see what the two of you saw.

The response to your report was clear: there wasn’t enough evidence to warrant further investigation.

If you weren’t running on so little sleep and half blind from staring at the screen of your desk unit for 12 hours, you might have been able to see their point. It was, admittedly, a weak connection. There were countless languages and cultures in the galaxy, so even if the code name was meant to spell out ‘Tiber’ there was little reason to think it was in reference to a strategy game and not just a birth-given name.

But still, something just didn’t sit right with you. Something was off, you could feel it in your gut, and after years of trusting your gut to stay alive, you weren’t in the habit of ignoring it.

You rubbed the corners of your tired eyes, hoping to alleviate the pressure growing there. The supervisors weren’t any help to you now, but you weren’t ready to let this go just yet. You just had to think- think of who you could go to for another opinion!

After a moment, your head jerked back up, eyes still stinging as they met your holoscreen again. A quick search in the GAR records would give you your answer, they kept close track of what battalion was where at any given moment. It was serendipitous, or maybe it was fate telling you that you were right to push this further, either way, you practically lept from your chair when you saw that the 501st were currently on Coruscant.

Even if you could let this go until tomorrow (which you couldn’t), you had to go to them tonight, they were shipping out for Ringo Vinda in the morning to aid General’s Tiplee and Tiplar.

You were already clocking out with the Corrie guards on duty before you realized you weren’t even sure who to contact or how. A part of you felt like you knew the men of the 501st, especially Torrent company. 

The number of times Echo had talked about them, all the pictures he sent, the videos he recorded of their antics, they felt like old friends. Echo had wanted you to meet them all, mentioned all the time of plans for you to join his brothers on shore leave the next time they came home. A chance you two never got.

There was a sudden shake of your head as if that could brush the spiraling thoughts away. You had to focus, this wasn’t about your lost chances.

You thought about asking Mavis for Fives’ comm code, but that felt a little trange. So, instead, you checked the time and, when you realized drinking hours were just starting, you headed for your speeder bike.

You hadn’t been back to 79’s since the night you met Echo. When you two were together, it was simply because there were other bars you and your friends preferred more and now that he was gone, no one even dared mention the name of the place.

It wasn’t nearly as hard to walk in as you thought it would be. Though, that was mostly due to the fact that you were avoiding looking at any of the patrons in armor for too long. That wouldn’t last forever, of course, the whole reason you were here was to talk to someone who had the same face as him.

There wasn’t much wandering needed before you spotted a group in blue, downing shots and making a general ruckus at the bar. You recognized the large tattoo on one of them and actually smiled to yourself. A picture came to the surface of your mind, one with three of Echo’s brothers standing in a smoke-filled kitchen. The corner of Echo’s laughing face had been beside the caption: ‘They were betting on who the better cook was. They all lost’.

Again you had to tamp down the feelings welling up inside and once you had, you marched to the bar. You tapped on the armored shoulder, just before he grabbed another shot.

When he looked over his shoulder at you, you said, “Are you Jesse?”

He arched an eyebrow, then turned to face you fully, eyes scanning up and down, “Hey, you aren’t a clone.”

“Observant one, aren’t you?”

That made him smirk, “Just not used to seeing natborns in those uniforms- but yeah, I’m Jesse, what’s your name, hot lips?”

You opened your mouth, but it wasn’t your voice that called your name, instead, a hand gripped your shoulder and you turned to see Fives with concern written on his face. The moment you saw him, something that wasn’t there when you looked at Jesse gripped your heart, but like the other emotions, you swallowed it.

“Fives, is your captain here? I need to speak with Rex.”

His eyes narrowed, “Rex? Why?”

You hesitated, and the moment you did, Fives handed his drink off to someone else and guided you away from the heart of the ruckus (leaving Jesse ignored and a little bewildered).

“I just need to talk to him. Something was brought to my attention at work today and I think he might be able to help me.”

Again, Fives just stared at you, but when you only answered him with a hard stare, he sighed. “Rex is having a drink with Commander Bly,” he jabbed his thumb towards a two-seat table near the corner. Before you could shove past him, however, his grip on your arm tightened a bit. “Hey- just hold on a sec, will you? Can I at least ask how you’re doing?”

You didn’t miss the way he tried to duck into your vision, to lock his gaze with the eyes that were avoiding him. It wasn’t his fault, the emotion welling up inside, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Fives was just too wrapped up in everything that reminded you of him.

But, he still deserved an answer.

“I’m…better. Things aren’t perfect, but,” with a calming breath, you looked up as close to his eyes as possible, focusing on all the little details of his face that distinguished him from Echo. “But they’re better.”

You knew he was staring at you still, maybe searching your face, maybe looking for signs of a lie or cover-up. After a moment, though, he sighed and straightened up. “Alright. Hey, before you leave, tell me, I’ll walk you home, okay?”

A smile flickered across your lips, Fives really was sweet, despite his playboy bravado. After giving his arm a gentle squeeze, you moved past him toward where Rex and his friend sat. As if by fate, the other man, Bly, got up before you closed in, heading for the bar for another round.

Rex’s gaze flicked up from his empty glass when he caught your movement in the corner of his eye.

“Captain Rex?”

“Yes, may I help you?” he asked, looking you over.

You held your hand out, and when you gave your name, his eyes widened. So, he did know of you. That made sense, Echo once said that he ‘bragged’ about you every chance he got, even to his captain. Before Rex could say anything, however, you got to business, “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, Captain, but I need your help with something, do you have a moment?”

Rex didn’t hesitate, after casting a eyes to the bar and sharing a look with someone, presumably his friend, he waved for you to take a seat.

“Did you receive the report on the Techno Union’s new battle algorithm?” you asked once settled in the seat. He nodded, and so, you explained your situation, your theory, and what brought you to it, and how the higher-ups didn’t think it important enough to investigate. 

When you finished, Rex continued to stare at you for a moment, then, “Alright, so why have you come to me?”

“Because I-” you paused, mind faltering. You had a reason, of course you did, but how to put it? Your eyes dropped to the table for a moment, you thought, then darted your gaze back up to his with a sign, “Maybe I just want to know if I’m wasting my time. Captain, do you think a trooper would send a message like that? Or am I drawing conclusions where there aren’t any?”

For a moment, all Rex did was stare back at you, maybe mulling over his answer, maybe considering you, personally. Maybe both. “I mean, it’s possible. Anything is, I suppose. It would have to be a clone with advanced training, like a commando, or an ARC, and of course, to even know the reference to a tiber piece, they’d have to be familiar with Alderaan Gambit in the first-”

Rex cut himself off, mouth clapping shut and eyes going wide again.

That’s when it hit you too.

“Echo,” you breathed, mind connecting this line and that rapidly. “Why didn’t I think of it before?” Something warm flickered in your chest, something small but blooming as you thought over the possibility of your beloved. 

Hope. It was a spark of hope. 

Your rambling continued as the blanks filled themselves in, “Echo used to talk about how he played Alderaan Gambit with- with you, Rex! How you used to come up with battle strategies together while playing. If he was captured, maybe they realized his strategic skills, and now-!”

The spark was fanning itself by this point.

“Now he’s trapped, somehow forced to help their own battle strategies. But he’s too smart to let them get away with it.”

“Stop.”

“And not to mention his ARC training would include advanced splicing, which he’d need to hack into their reports to alter them. He would have all the skills to send us a message. And he would-”

“Stop!”

The sharp firmness of Rex’s tone caught you off guard, words fumbling in your mouth as your mind came to a screeching halt. When your eyes snapped up to his, a hard expression that had taken over his features. It softened a little, but his gaze said it all and you felt oddly chastised under it. 

Echo is gone. Echo is dead.

That spark in your chest dimmed.

Then, Rex sighed and placed a hand on your shoulder. “You can’t do that to yourself, little one. Believe me.” He paused for a moment, perhaps thinking, maybe collecting himself. “You can’t… hold on to the dead. It will tear you up inside more than anything. More than the loss, more than the grief, even the memories. Holding on will hurt you most in the end.” 

The hand tightened a little, almost affectionate, almost… paternal. His eyes were soft and full of years of hard-earned experience. Years of his own grief, of his own loss.

“Echo wouldn’t want that for you. He would want you to let him go, so you can heal.” Rex let his hand fall, gaze fixed on his drink again and you found that you were swallowing a sour taste in your throat. “We all have to move on. It’s the only way we can survive.”

The lining of sorrow in his words was the water that doused the remainder of that spark. Hope melted away like snow on skin and it stung just the same.

Again you found yourself choking on something in your throat; the bitterness of rising tears.

The way Rex kept his eyes unfocused on his hands said all that needed to be said, so you stood rather abruptly. “I’m sorry for taking up your time, Captain. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

You thought he might have tilted his head back up to you as you turned to leave, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Besides that, he didn’t say or do anything as you walked away. There was a ringing in your ears as you went, and suddenly, wading through the crowd of patrons made your skin feel like it was on fire.

Everything was too loud now, the music pressing in on your ears, the lights burning your eyes. You felt dizzy as something else stung your eyes, that sour taste thickening in your throat as you burst through the doors. The stale city air did little to calm you, and you found yourself staggering to the side, trying to find any sort of privacy as your chest clawed itself with pain.

You had just ducked behind a row of speeder bikes when the tears broke free, a sob ripping your throat apart from the effort of holding it in. The sound bounced off the side of the building and echoed down the alley, just as the tears soaked into the permacrete without a care. 

The grief that had gotten better rolled over you like a tidal wave. Once again it pulled you under as if you hadn’t made any progress at all.

How could you be so stupid? How could you think that he was alive, that he had defied all odds and sent you some secret message? This wasn’t some romance novel, love and hope couldn’t change reality. Death didn’t just reverse because you begged it to. Stupid stupid stupid-

Once again your mind stalled as arms, warm and gentle, closed around you. Someone guided you to sit, calling your name so softly you almost couldn’t hear it over your own ragging thoughts. A hand tucked you close to an armored chest as they started a slow rocking motion with your bodies.

Stunned, you looked up past the armor and through the tears to find the kindest brown eyes you had seen since your last call with Echo.

“It’s alright, vod’ika,” he whispered, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Fives tucked your head under his chin, still rocking you as he rubbed your back and repeated his assurances.

The waves came again with a vengeance and this time, you let it happen. You curled into his embrace and wept, tears and sobs coming without restraint. It didn’t matter how long you two sat there like that, Fives held you the entire time. It didn’t matter that he was shipping out in the morning, he spent his night comforting you through every moment of the reopening wounds.

Hope was a dangerous thing. It hadn’t been a spark inside you, it had been a fire. 

And you know what they say about fire.

Tag List: @blueink-bluesoul @anxiouspineapple99 @starrylothcat @sinfulsalutations @commander-sunshine @dystopicjumpsuit @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @arcsimper5 @littlemissmanga @wings-and-beskar @clonemedickix

[sporesgalaxy]

the rest of the hair nightmare details I can still recall:

• yes there was space travel via whale. The whale was augmented with technology and you'd go into its mouth and there would be a door in its throat and you could go through it and there'd be like a whole massive ship home to thousands of people inside like a pocket dimension.

• there were 2 space whales and 2 pocket dimension space colonies. It was later revealed that some greater interdimensional entity made these pocket dimensions possible.

• each pocket dimension was anchored to one of two sisters who were each considered heroes and celebrities by the people living in the whale colony they provided geometrically impossible space for.

• neil cicierega was friends with one of these girls, the younger sister

• something went wrong and the extradimensional power began to eat away at the mind and autonomy of the younger sister. She was becoming merely a conduit for this greusome transformative power-- which turned things around her into hair when she lost control.

• She made a second pocket dimension within the whale colony pocket dimension to quarantine herself and her Hair Powers, to keep the inhabitants of the whale safe and give them time to evacuate to the other whale via a portal her sister created connecting the two

• Neil did everything he could to try and save the younger sister, but nothing seemed to be able to permanently remove the entity leeching away at her free will and personhood. At this point he was working with a small team of other people, which included me. The whole team had access to and had taken anti-hair-power potions.

• She begged him to stop and to escape safely to the other whale colony but he refused to leave her, entering the pocket-dimension-inside-a-pocket-dimension that she had made to separate her volitile hair powers from everyone.

• I don't remember what they said to each other but the younger sister basically explained that the destruction of her as a person was inevitable, and she didn't want that destruction to give any more power to the entity that took everything from her.

• She makes another door inside the pocket dimension inside the pocket dimension, and goes through as Neil yells and begs her not to. This causes all the pocket dimensions AND SPACE WHALE to collapse in on themselves, folding into nothingness, destroying themselves and presumably destroying the younger sister with them, but leaving Neil alive, free floating in a space suit.

• Neil still thinks the younger sister can be found and saved-- that her pocket dimension may still be accesible by her sister. He and his team use some weird climbing equiptment type stuff and limited rocket boosters to perilously make their way over to the second whale colony without a portal.

• The team enters the whale's mouth and enters the mouth door, planning to find the elder sister and form a new plan to save the younger.

• Inside the door is what appears to be a night club. It's very dark, and what lights there are are a warm pink color. The refugees from whale 1 and original inhabitants of whale 2 are dancing to incredibly loud music, apparently celebrating together. There is an unsettling, manic energy to it all though.

• Neil is also weirded out because the elder sister's powers should have made her aware that her younger sister was destroyed moments ago. Yet the older sister appears to be DJing the party.

• The older sister says some things to the crowd that make it clear she is extremely out of touch with reality in this moment. Some crowd members begin breaking their facade of partying, suddenly sobbing and having panic attacks when asked what's going on. The older sister is perturbed by this and snaps violently at the crowd, which is extremely out of character. It's clear now that she is losing herself to the entity as well.

• locks of hair float down from the cieling and touch various members of the crowd as everyone begins to panic. People touched by the hair start coughing violently, until they are spitting and crying blood, followed by hair. Eventually their entire form is consumed by hair and there is no trace of them left. The elder sister relaxes once most of the crowd has been turned into hair.

• The hair protection potions either weren't strong enough or began to wear off of Neil's team. They got partially tanglednin the hair, only halfway transformed but very mentally out of touch with the world around them.

• At this point it's clear that everyone is doomed. This is the last remaining space whale, and the girl responsible for making it survivable is now deatroying it.

• I begin to panic about how there's nothing left I can do to stop everyone including myself from either dying in the vacuum of space once the whalecpocket dimension collapses, or succumbing to the hair entity before then.

• the panic wakes me up :)

[flowerflamestars]

I'm in a very angry-with-the-IC-and-Rhys-in-particular mood, and since I'm just rereading Daylight I was wondering, what is going through Rhysand's mind throughout the events of Daylight? Because it's basically his entire life CRUMBLING around him and I'd love to see the mental gymnastics he does to fit it all into his "I'm the good guy, actually" narrative. Or just his general reaction.

this is a FABULOUS question, thank you!

Daylight! Rhys is, in my opinion, the closest to a canonical (pre-acosf) character representation that I go for. He's so SO fucked up, and sublimating and burying all that trauma has, of course, failed, and it's all manifesting, in all these different directions.

To understand the level on which Rhys is losing his shit, it's important to go back to the very beginning: Rhysand, to Rhysand, is always, always the hero of the story. The down on his luck knight with truth in his heart. The struggling, just man.

He CANNOT seeing beyond himself for even a second. He casts himself in the most important role, as the only person whose personal consequences exist.

His mother, at probable great risk, takes him to Illyria to be trained- the precious, first-born, godly son of Night. To learn to fight- to learn, presumably, her culture- to see what that culture is reduced to, a harshness he will on day have the power to change. Rhys had to be, at some point, a great hope for Not High Fae denizens of the Court.

What does Rhysie learn? Illyria is harsh. Illyria is bad. Backwards and cruel.

He hates his father for...presumably, the crime of being a pretty traditional High Lord? Rhys hates the cruelties! the Court of Nightmares! the broken system!

So what does Rhys do when he has power? he fires everyone. He doesn't like them, he doesn't like whatever they did under his father...so instead of hiring new people, he removes himself entirely from a potential role in changing/mitigating those policies. See also: the Court of Nightmares, cowed occasionally, but not in any way governed by Rhys.

But he's the hero! He's destroyed the oppression! His Court of Just his Bros is made of women and Illyrians!

(Rhys removed the terribleness from his direct experience...because only his experiences matter)

So, Rhys in his head: the struggle, the hero, the man just trying to do it right.

Which brings us to Daylight....and Feyre. I know we can attribute the way the characters stop even remotely being sympathetic between acomaf and...everything else...to poor writing, but I also think there's some (maybe accidental but PERFECT) character work there: in acomaf, pre-acknowledged bond, Feyre is an important possession/ally- she's on the same level as the other members of the Court of Dreams, if the jewel of the collection, a high point in the story Rhys tells himself: HE saved the HERO OF PRYTHIAN

(which...let's not even touch on the fact that the deal he makes in acotar is CREEPY and he can only justify it later. she wasn't someone he wanted to work with in acotar- she was a vulnerable, hot young woman he fully took advantage of)

And then they're mates.

And then, slowly but surely, Feyre's personhood disappears. For two reasons: 1) Feyre is on a pedestal so sky-high it blots out everything. Good, pure, true hero Feyre whose adoration Rhysand needs like air. the happy end of his story, the prize and the salvation, the one who sees him.

and 2) ultimately, to Rhys, Feyre is an extension of him. A symbol: his happiness, his peace, his endless power, what he fought to keep.

She's his whole anchor staying sane, which isn't great, considering...ya know, everything. But the Story is Over. They are Happy.

Except- except- nothing is over. Post fifty straight years of torture, a freefall into war and fuckery, teen marriage and literal death, the consequences for all those things AND THE SHIT RHYS WAS PULLING LONG BEFORE AMARANTHA TURNED HIM INTO A CHEW TOY, are still present.

But now, he has something to protect. His golden future. His puppy Mate.

Because Feyre's safety is the safety of his power and vice versa. Anything he does is justifiable because the loss of Feyre is Not an Option. She is Happy. They Are Happy.

It bleeds into everything- and then it intensifies, because this is the breaking point.

The Az/Lucien thing and Feyre incredibly hurtful blindness? No Rhys isn't going to interfere- Az is so private anyway- if Feyre believes its a romantic bond, Feyre is right, she knows her sister, not that it matters because Elain is totally out of her mind.

Sending Cassian to Illyria? Illyria is a backwards shithole right? They're fierce fighters and that's what Rhys values them for- as the hammer of his power- and nothing else? why would there be anything else? Look at them fighting and hurting each other.

Nesta runs and Cassian is left throwing himself in battles actively trying to die and Rhys? Rhys is totally smug. A problem that hurt Feyre and his brother is GONE.

But it's not gone. Az isn't talking to anyone- and Rhys thinks this probably means Lucien is probably, finally fucking him- but even Feyre understands that Azriel knows where Nesta is. When this is proved (when Elain surfaces and they have the very fun kitchen fight) Rhys isn't happy- but he understands. Azriel has always felt responsible for broken things.

But thats not his job, it's Rhysands job, and Rhys has already made that tough choice for the safety of his own: Nesta has no place here. When she resurfaces inevitably, broke and wanting something, Rhys will stop her before she gets close enough to upset (hurt) Feyre. It's his job.

Cassian goes missing, and Rhysand sets upon what will become his eventual move: Illyria's value is strength. (a martial strength that belongs to RHYS). But they think they can take from him? They can destroy their own best chance? (Rhys recognizes Cassian's value to Illyria even while, you know, ordering him to slaughter Illyrians) They would threaten his power? hurt his family?

Rhys will not allow a world to exist where Feyre can be hurt.

If Illyria can't be controlled, Illyria will be put down, like the rabid creatures they are. (They were always backwards, Rhys thinks. Freeing my mother was the one good thing my father ever did)

But Cassian lives.

Rhys asks Azriel if he's been cursed. Az laughs in his face.

And Cassian is a terrible enemy to have. The strategies the loyalists are using? His, filtered through Rhys. The magical contingencies? Cassian and Az, trying to prevent bloodshed.

Feyre thinks, for a long time, that maybe the rebels have Nesta. What else could compel Cassian to even care? these people keep trying to kill him. they want to kill Rhys. the brothers suffered in the frozen mud at the hands of these monsters, what is Cassian doing?

And then the massacre happens.

And Feyre sick to her stomach, cries when she hears. Rhysand thinks about a little hazel eyed boy who'd never had a bed, a present, who'd been nothing until Rhysand plucked him up- a little boy who'd grown into a dangerous man, who'd just killed every person who ever contributed to his pain. Rhys thinks, knowing he'll have to punish Cassian for this, that it's over.

The camp lords are dead, it has to be over.

(Azriel hears and understands- because he knows damn well Cassian was something before Rhysand, and after despite him. That beneath those repeatedly broken ribs is a heart that was once so big so save him, grown strong enough now to save everyone who was like them: forgotten, abandoned, used.)

It's not over. The mountains are burning. Banners fly on northern wind in a language long dead. They're singing, the spies say, they call him dawn. Loyal-heart-as-dawn.

It's Cassians name. Not that Rhys, who never knew more than a few vile insults in the language of his mother's ancient, proud people, understood it then.

Rhysand, the long-suffering hero of his own story, has been betrayed.

He can risk no more- it's time to end this madness. It's Feyre's idea to use Elain- it's Feyre who is left crying, a betrayal Rhysand will never forget- when Elain, who they've given everything, Elain, perhaps just as broken and wretched as her eldest sister, refuses to help keep Feyre safe.

(Elain refuses to participate in what she sees as genocide, but as we've established, what consequences exist? the ones Rhys feels right in front of his face)

Azriel, Elain, and Lucien run.

Of course, if both Feyre's sisters are capable of betraying her, of course, both of Rhysand's brothers would as well. They are one in the same, aren't they? Marked by destiny, by fate for this hard and terrible work- of course it hurts. Of course- but Rhysand will stop it from hurting Feyre any more.

There's one force in the world that can stand in truth against Illyria. The Darkbringers- their ancestral, ancient conquers.

(Yes, I do think Rhys knows the shitty, shitty history of his court! He just doesn't care! He didn't do it. He's different. He's in Velaris with the common people. He has wings. He's not his father.)

(He is, in fact, far worse)

When he thinks of it, it seems perfect. Illyria will be destroyed- a loss, but a safe one. Keir, will, almost certainly, also be destroyed or at least critically weakened.

Rhysand will stand alone, the man who was willing to do anything for peace. He will rule over an emptied playing field, secure in a world where Feyre is safe.

The Hewn City empties, the armies march- Rhysand holds tight Feyre's hand, says nothing about the fact that nothing, nothing, will stop Keir from killing anyone in front of him when battle starts, and reaches once more for Cassian's mind.

His brother, his friend, his loyal right hand- he begs him to come back. To come home. That they can put down this rebellion and in his love for Cassian everything can go back to how it is meant to be, all of them together.

It does not occur to him to address the hundreds dead. The system he was complicit in and responsible for that ground a culture to dust and ash- what matters is brother against brother should never have turned, and Rhys, in his kindness, will offer Cassian this last chance for honor.

Rhys doesn't want Cassian to die- he wants Cassian by his side- but he will drown the world in blood before he'll lose his crown and hope and Feyre.

And when Cassian dies, falling to the earth in Rhysand's arms, Rhys thinks of penance.

A circle closed.

But of course- Cassian wakes. Death is not done with her right hand anymore than the contract between Lordship and land in immutable. Cassian brought the magic back, brought Illyria back.

Rhys is fighting for something personal- Cassian is fighting for a whole world and future, with everything in himself.

When the new border is drawn, Rhys doesn't despair- sure he's shaking, he's covered in Cassian's blood, his twelve thousand year old walls are smoking and the whole world smells like fucking Nesta Archeron- he's been the victim of curses before.

He won't let it keep him down. He'll be fine. He has Feyre, they're safe. Illyria is going to implode- and maybe, maybe, he'll save some of those that remain when the violence is too much, when they need a real High Lord.

They'll come home. Just like Feyre's sisters will. Rhysand's brothers. They fought for peace and Velaris has it- it is their home.

It's what they fought for, the happy ending, and it's all worth it.

It has to be worth it.

[mileaftermile]

Tapes are Us and Web

these are the tacks on my red string board.

- tapes are Web-associated

- there is “something” that is friendly or at least benevolent on the other side of the tapes

- The tapes aren't just Web (for a lot of reasons but just think of how betrayed Martin sounded in 196)

- Tapes are Us (potentially) ("you have no idea who's listening, Martin")

- Jon is Important to the tapes somehow

- Jon is connected to the tapes

- The tapes/Web share the weirdness of not being affected by things that should affect them (Upton House, e.g.)

- The crack in reality at Hill Top Road connects to other universes, including some very like ours

- The Web and Hill Top Road are very closely connected

My theory: the Web is what connects the tapes to Jon and manifests the tapes through him (hence why tapes still appeared when Jon was cut off from the Eye) and We, The Audience, are (partially) the benevolent presence listening to the tapes aka TAPES ARE US AND WEB. ALSO the tapes are the key to turning the world back.

Red-stringing, more Tape Thoughts, end theorizing, and significantly more rambling below the cut.

Tape thoughts:

- In general, it seems as though the tapes click on when something... narratively important is happening to Jon (or Martin, to a lesser degree). I don’t know if this can be considered evidence because of how blurry the line gets when you make the narrative framing device part of the damn story Jonny, but I’ve been throwing around the idea that the tapes are driven by our desire to know what's happening

- The tapes are being manifested by the Web, though, or at least the Web is involved in it somehow.

- Additionally, there seems to be implications that the Web and the tapes aren’t affected by things that they should be. The tapes still turn on by themselves in Upton House and the tunnels, Annabelle doesn’t deal with any negative effects from, you know, having a skull held together with spiderwebs, and Anya Villete was somehow sucked through the crack in HTR’s basement despite the fears presumably not existing in her universe. This is just spit-balling at this point but I think this weird immunity could be a side-effect of all the messing around Annabelle/The Web were doing around Hill Top Road

- Jon is still central to the tapes (”the tapes are here for me” - MAG 190) even if he’s not the one manifesting them and he’s definitely connected to them in some way - they only start reappearing after he wakes up from the coma and he has a sense about them that no one else save maybe Martin seems to have about them.

- SO I think the tapes are... anchored to Jon, for lack of a better word, by the Web. Why The Web would have formed the connection between Jon and the tapes I don’t know. (Unless the Web didn’t form the connection and just took it over slowly?)

- With the camera gone, I think it’s gotta be the tapes that are going to be the key to turning the world back.

- I'm not sure about this but I think it has to do with the Watcher/Watched paradigm. People listening to the tapes, observing, documenting the events, ultimately makes all the fears the Watched, and that, according to Jon's whole CEASELESS WATCHER routine, is enough to destroy them. (or at least fuck em up I don't know if you can kill an entity)

More thoughts:

- A lot of this theorizing about how the tapes are us and how the listeners become relevant to the story would feel like far more of a reach if TMA as a whole wasn’t also so much about stories. Like, it’s clear that Jonny himself puts a lot of significance on narratives and story-telling (see The Mechanisms and MacGuffin & Co.) and that has obviously been figuring into things (I mean, that’s a whole chunk of Beholding’s thing right there, and like all of Jon’s thing)

- I hope they don’t actually go too meta on us though like I just want a crack in the fourth wall not for them to demolish it

- if they say the word podcast I'm going to commit a crime

- So, where does this leave Jon? Well I’ve been obsessed with the idea that the Rime of the Ancient Mariner (aka the poem recited in the mid-season trailer by Arun) is some serious foreshadowing for how the show ends. If you haven’t read it, basically guy kills an albatross that he shouldn’t have, stuff happens, and he’s forced to wander the earth forever telling his story to people who need to hear it.

- So here’s my end theory that nobody asked for: Jon becomes the conduit between the actual content of the tapes and our world (/all the worlds like our world), forever telling his story to those who need to hear it, keeping the powers out but at the cost of his... personhood? humanity? basically he gets Jonah Magnus’d is what I’m saying. there’s your fucking grim souffle.

- someone's falling into that crack. probably Jon.

this got super long, i’m. so sorry. congrats if you made it this far lol

[decadentrpg-blog]

WELCOME EMILY, YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF HELOISE DELACOUR

Admins Note: Heloise was certainly a difficult choice to make but after much assessment, I want to say that I absolutely adore what you’ve brought to the table! From build up of her background to every little historical reference that was placed within your application, it cohesively created this duality that Heloise has! I’ve enjoyed every interaction she has as well as the clarity and rationale behind her thinking! Your faceclaim request for Virginia Gardner has been approved. Congratulations on your acceptance again, please make sure to head your way to the checklist and submit your account within the next 24 hours!

Out of Character

Name / Alias: Emily

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: Twenty-two

Timezone: GMT.

In Character Application

Full Name: Heloise Delacour

Sexuality: Lesbian.

You like girls. No, that’s wrong. You love girls. You love the smoothness of their skin. You love their gentle curves, their bodies like oceans, refreshing and divine. You love stroking their hair as you lie between sweat-soaked sheets, curling it around your fingertips. You love sharing lipstick shades so it won’t get too messy when you kiss and the sound beaded dresses make when they hit the ground. Most of all, you love who you become around them. Bursting at the seams with euphoria, without a trace of shakiness in your footsteps, you unveil the creature you fought so hard to become - self-assured and valiant. You always slipped into her without thinking about it, knowing instinctively, that this was right. This was who you were supposed to be.

Gender/Pronouns: Cis-female, she/her

Hogwarts House:  Gryffindor.

The hat was adamant. They wanted you in Gryffindor. They wanted you to learn to harness your own roar, the find power in your sort of bravery - perhaps even to tame the brasher instincts of your peers, to calm the storm inside of them. Not every kind of bravery favours the bold, the defiant, the loud. There are different kinds of bravery. The courage to carry on when the chains around your neck drag you to the ground. The strength to try and try and try. The valour in turning yourself into an anchor, a steady weight for the rest of the world to ground themselves on. There are all sorts of bravery in this world, each as useful, each as needed, as the last. Children, yourself included, see so much, but so little at the same time.

You didn’t glimpse the potential in yourself. You wouldn’t for many years yet.

But the hat knew.

You pleaded for Hufflepuff, knowing you’d be able to carve a home out of the house. The world underestimated badgers, sneering at their perceived lack of intelligence, wit or ambition. You didn’t see that at all. You saw steadiness, a bedrock to build a person upon. It wasn’t a leap of faith. But society couldn’t be built around those who flew. Someone had to be waiting, down below, rooted to the earth, ready to catch falling angels.

The hat laughed.

“Better be…” Panic rose in your chest, a knot tightening inside of you. “GRYFFINDOR.”

They weren’t unkind to you. But you were the fawn in the pride of lions, the hovering figure in the background, the mute who never could make herself heard. Years later, with your personhood more fully attached, half of you wistfully wishes you could go back and do it better. Do it again. And yet, in your heart, you know there’s no value in looking backwards. You must journey on.

Head canons:

Trigger warnings for violence, war, alcoholism and mentions of abuse.

I. la petite fille

Your father - and you only have the confidence to say this now you’re a fledgling, grown to use her own voice - always cared far too much about what people thought. Cream of French society, darling of the elite, a career-hungry politician intent on climbing the ladder. Ironically, the sunshine in your soul can be traced directly back to him. And yet, where yours is woven into the very essence of your being, a warm touch to steady a storm, an easiness to still a monster, a brightness to diminish the darkness, his is a mask, a choking falseness. It was that, more than anything else, that scared you. He changed before your very eyes - shaking hands and kissing cheeks one second - to plotting behind their back the next. Nothing about him was real. He slipped between your fingers, never a solid thing to hang onto.

(The feeling, you know, is mutual. You were a grand disappointment. Too timid to follow in his footsteps and too honest to lie. You’re mostly strangers now, each unable to understand the other).

Your mother you know a little better. An English rose, she fell for your father’s charms one summer, a fling that never was supposed to turn into a marriage. You were the bump that interrupted those plans, the shame that would have befallen her good name. Both parties were hastily married and that was that. You’ve always wondered if she blamed you for it. Always been too afraid to ask. Your mother, you know, was miserable, far far away from home, shackled to a man she barely liked, forced to play the part of politicians wife. When she played it well, there was harmony in the household. But if she slipped up…all hell broke loose. And her, with her love of expensive wine and flirting with other people’s husbands, did mess up. You never witnessed the war inside of your father unfold, merely lived its after effects. Silently, you’d pull a blanket over your mother’s quivering frame and give your father his favourite cigar.

(As you grew, you became rather good at predicting the ticking time bombs. So before the storm ravaged, you nearly always scrambled to safety, grabbing your teddy bear and retreating to the back of the wardrobe. You never found a secret world in the back of there, but you did find safety - and that was a comfort in and of itself).

Peacemaker, your father would sometimes say with affection, your mother with scorn. You’d gulp and nod silently, opinions kept to yourself. Over time, a survival instinct became a pattern and from a pattern into a habit. Such things are hard to shake.

Ii. maison choisie

Your mother hailed from London’s big smoke and your father made Paris his home, so you’ve always been accustomed to cities - you could even say it’s in your blood. But nowhere ever felt like home more than your Grand-Mere’s home a stone’s throw from Amiens. Reluctantly, with great effort, your father would make the bi-annual privilege there, dragging your mother in tow. You never had to be forced, you galloped ahead, a country girl at heart. There was something so liberating about Amiens, especially in the summer, where the line between the fields and sky was impossible trace and wildflowers bloomed. Your grandmother was kinder than your parents, the only one who could pull you out of your shell - but even then, only when you were alone. More a hedgewitch than practiced individual, she used to set you upon a stool as she practiced her potions, entrusting you with the responsibility of stirring from time to time. She was the one who taught you that magic had more than rigid purpose, that it would be as beautiful as life itself.

She also taught you a second, valuable lesson.

You remember the very first muggle you met. You remember them because they waved joyfully as you stepped into the town square - and knew your father by reputation, your Grand-Mere by face. Your father, ever the diplomat, turned his face away, pretending not to have heard. You, bashfully, didn’t meet their eyes either. It was only later, when your parents had been placated by a bottle of wine or two, that your Grand-mere took you aside.

“Why didn’t you wave back?” Dumbstruck, you look for somewhere to scurry away and hide. Gently, she took your hand into her own. “I won’t hurt you chérie.”

“Maman et Papa didn’t.” And you never were awfully comfortable around strangers, bashfulness seizing control of you.

“They were wrong to.” Bopping your nose, your grand-mere drew giggles from you. “They didn’t wave because he was…” her voice strained over the English word. “A muggle. Have they told you not to talk to muggles?”

You shook your head.

“Don’t let them. There will be some, especially when you go to school, who tell you not to talk to witches who have muggle parents. You musn’t let them order you around. No one is any better or lesser because of the blood in our veins. Even muggles…they’re not witches. But they’re not the enemy. After all, if I never spoke to a muggle, I’d never speak to anyone! Never forget that.”

You promised you wouldn’t. You haven’t since.

Iii. armes de guerre Ultimately, it was war that drove you away from your beloved France and your cherished Grand-mere, who refused to stand down and flee when the German troops overran Amiens. You like to imagine she would not take a cowards way out, apparating whilst the others were rats in a barrel, trapped by the advance. You like to imagine she fought to defend her farm with every trick up her sleeve. You like to imagine she remained strong and valiant until the very end. But you’ll never know. The war snatched her from you, her story lost to the wind. All you had left was an owl from the French ministry and the personal condolences of the French Minister La Magie.

It took you a very long time to summon the courage to return. And even then, you couldn’t do it alone. Kenshin stepped in without being asked, the year after you left Hogwarts, stability at your side as you confronted the ruins of the happiest parts of your childhood. Violence had ravaged the landscape, scarring those who survived. Left with nothing, you saw the hallows of hunger in their sunken cheeks and poverty wrecked on their bones. Beauty had perished and been left to die. But in the ruins of her farm, you saw all was not lost. The Peach trees were still rooted, their bounty just as sweet. The goats, against the odds, made it out of the shelling alive. The old stool you had once assisted your grandmother had merely cracked, not splintered. Life went on - and through the cracks of darkness, light emerged.

You saw something of yourself in that light.

A hopeful creature, timidly taking her first steps into the world. A passionate believer in the strength of goodness, in victory and vanquish over evil. That progress, ultimately, would triumph. That even in the face of blasphemy, there is room for beauty, for brightness. The trick is in finding it and nourishing it, so that it may grow.

From seed to sapling to great oak.

The spark within yourself ignited that day. You felt your grandmother’s presence and smiled. You mourned, not in sadness, but in joy - for all the happiness that had been, for all that would yet come.

The world treads down on optimists, mocking their faith. But you’ve learnt there’s courage in that kind of relentless determination. That day, you felt its whispers in your soul. That day, you swore to let it go free.

Iv. soldat improbable The time that  followed ‘The Great War’ was supposed to be the long peace. If you look with hooded eyes, you’d find that in the cityscape of New York. Illicit drinking. Parties that last until dawn. Jazz bands. Woman’s emancipation. There is so much beauty, so much progress. But squint harder - and you’d find an underground war, a cold one, lurking just below the surface. It’s cause is more just than any muggle one ever fought. It isn’t a battle between great powers, princes and their cousins. It’s between right and wrong, progress and past, egalitarianism and inequality.

You know you’re not a likely candidate to fight in it. Most overlook you, sneering at your daintiness, soft smiles and open heart. They should understand that it’s what makes you strong, too. All you want is some small part in this larger battle, to be a part of the greater good. More than anything else, you’re a visionary, able to picture a world beyond this hatred. If you can see the brightness, you can be the brightness, a bedrock for those wearier than you, a guide for those who might come in your direction. You’re no warrior, not in the conventional sense, but not every battle should be fought with a weapon. Some need softer tools. You could be that person.

It is the sum of your duties with Dahlia. You see yourself in her, the girl you were but a few years ago, timid and unsure of the power in her own voice, but possessing a rosy heart. She deserves better. You long to show her that, to share your brightness and certainty in betterness, to pull her from the den of snakes and away from the Pride Society. You’re not asking her to fight, for the Coalition, for you…never. You simply want to help her. You would do anything - give her the means to runaway, a safe roof to shelter under, because you long to see her flourish. You’re just so afraid of failure…of failing her, your duty and yourself. The powers against you are overwhelming, those who wield the weapons lethal. The horrors she confesses terrify you. Light, as bright as it is, can be snuffed out. That is your greatest fear where Dahlia is concerned.

V. Coup de main As fun you’ll admit the parties Wren and Kenshin drag you out to are, you couldn’t carve a life out of them. Pleasure is for hedonists - and you do not count yourself among their ranks. When you found your own voice, the grit beneath porcelain skin, you were determined that it should count. You sought purpose in yourself, a way to matter. Almost as if you were trying to prove yourself…to yourself.

You found clarity in the most unlikely of places. A non-descriptive building in Queens - that would appear empty to an unsuspecting muggle. It’s purpose only became clear when you stepped inside, finding an overworked and overwhelmed refugee agency. In the aftermath of the great war, the creation of a dozen new states in Europe, thousands of wizards chose to emigrate instead, heading to the United States in search of a better life.

It’ll be tough work, the supervisor warned, staring you up and down, disdainfully. You bit your lip. Old habits die hard.

I’m tougher than I look. Promise. Your voice rang with clarity, in how true that statement had become.

You began volunteering on a trial basis. You distributed donations and held shaky people in your arms. You played with children and made puppets dance. After a fortnight, you began to offer your services as a translator, hoping to connect people into the interior of the US. A little while after that, you suggested you could be used by the organisation at large, rather than ad-hoc.

You felt a rush in your chest, advocating for yourself. You felt strong and brave and…right.

VI. bizarreries personnelles

Here are the little things that make you, you.

You never broke the habit of walking on your tiptoes, a legacy left from a childhood full of ballet dancing. Slender limbs, porcelain skin, your teacher used to sigh and wish you centre stage. Bashfully, you refused, your cheeks darkening. The spotlight was never yours to claim.

You cannot cook without making a mess. In your presence, the kitchen comes a bomb sight, ravaged by war. Nose flour-stained, fingers sticky, you chase Kenshin around the kitchen. You always catch him. He always allows himself to get caught.

Your pastries are infamous, light and puffy, the sort only the french know how to make. You refine your recipes with magic and tap your nose whenever anyone asks for their secrets. (Later, in fine ink, you pen them a letter, containing the details).

You despise British food. You ate dutifully at Hogwarts, too shy to even dream of asking for an alternative. Toad in the hole. Pies. Casseroles. Blegh.

You bit your fingernails until you were fifteen years old. Your mother enchanted them after that, exasperated at your lack of self-control. The spell has long worn off, but the manicure never lasts long. It’s a nervous tick.

You used to chew your hair. You threw off that habit by twelve.

Birthdays are your favourite times of the year. You take great pride in the gifts you give friends, a thoughtful gesture behind each one. You do, however, despise your own birthday. Being at the centre of attention makes you uncomfortable, you’d much rather spread and share the joy. Luckily, everyone’s learnt not to throw you surprise birthday parties. Instead, you have small, intimate gatherings.

(You and Kenshin have a ritual. A cupcake at midnight as eve becomes day.)

You’re hopeless at keeping plants alive. There isn’t a green bone - or thumb - in your body. You failed herbology miserably.

But you’re incredibly attentive when it comes to writing in your diary, daily and in french, to prevent eavesdropping eyes. A habit you haven’t shaken since your days in Gryffindor.

Your patronus is a lamb. An individual with a lamb patronus has a sort of natural innocence about them, and have a very serene disposition. They are kind to most, though they tend to have a difficult time reaching out and expressing themselves. They have a shy aspect of them that is not only social, but inner, which makes them hesitant to do many things. That said, they are very patient and calm creatures, which allow them to be workable with this nature.

You talk too much when you’re nervous. Far too much. About things that have nothing to do with anything. The weather. The latest show that opened on Broadway. The dance craze everyone’s talking about. Whether you should get a bob. You blabber, filling the space with…words. It’s endearing to most, but you despise it in yourself.

Your wand is 9 ½”, french-made and slim. Beech and Unicorn Hair. “The true match for a beech wand will be, if young, wise beyond his or her years, and if full-grown, rich in understanding and experience. Beech wands perform very weakly for the narrow-minded and intolerant. When properly matched, the beech wand is capable of a subtlety and artistry not seen in any other wood, hence its lustrous reputation.”

Languages are your forte. You have a knack for wrapping your tongue around them, inheriting a little of your father’s silver-tongued mantle. French is your mother tongue, but you’ve added English, Spanish, Italian and a pinch of Latin to the mix.

When you’re making a bold declaration or gesture, you rehearse the words in your mind the night before, like a politician preparing for a speech. You muse over the most effective way to get your point across, the comfort a person will be most receptive to, or whether it’s better just to hold someone and let them cry.

Connection expansion:

I. meilleur ami (Note: I’m happy to change all of this if the Kenshin player disagrees, this is merely my interpretation).

“Mon Frere…” Kenshin catches your grin. Deliberately, his mouth forms an ‘o’. “Ma sœur” You wince at the deliberately butchered pronunciation, but smile nonetheless. He’s always had a particular knack for that, drawing the happiness out of you. And you for him. The only label that fits your description is that of platonic soulmate. Or big brother. For truly, the lines between friendship and family have blurred, that you can’t tell them apart. Certainly, he feels more like family than your own blood ever did.

You met on your tenth day at Hogwarts, in the middle of Herbology class. Devil’s snare wrapped around your hand, you panicked, but were too shy to raise you concerns, suffering in silence. Where few did, Kenshin noticed you - and calmed you down with that bluntness of his. Before you knew it, you were smiling, then laughing and then free. You’ve been attached at the hip since - and shall be, until death do you part. The years did little to change the pair of you. Where some friends grow apart, you grew together, slotting like two jigsaw puzzle pieces. By third year, you were spending Christmas together, Kenshin sensing your unspoken reluctance to go back to France and face the holidays with your parents. After your first one together, you confessed the truth, honesty no one had even known. But most of all, he brought light into his life - different to yours, more brazen and bold. Like two twinned suns, strung across the sky. He is your confidante, secret keeper, joker, dance partner and now, roommate.

The latter made sense. When the two of you ended up in New York at the same time (it’s impossible to imagine the two of you oceans apart, impossible and terrible and dreadful), it made sense for the pair of you to find a two-bed apartment in Manhattan and make it your home. You are as compatible roommates as you are friends.

And, for the first time, he made a house a home.

II. le fruit interdit (Again, I’m happy to alter things dependent on plotting w/ Prosperina’s player) You shouldn’t want to kiss her. If you are the doe, she is the wolf - a huntress determined to strike clean.  In your heart, you know you should hate that dynamic, as you know you should despise her - resent the intimidation that rises through your bones, abhore the uncertainty she makes you feel.. You should be afraid. Very afraid.

And in so many ways, you are. You’re scared of what your attraction to her says about you, now that you are both girls grown, living with the choices you make as adults. You aren’t school children anymore, you aren’t praying to be noticed, doodling hearts with your names encased in it. You’re fearful of what might happen if you find yourselves alone, in a dark - or a light - room. But you’re more frightened, in a strange way, of nothing happening at all.

With Prosperina, there are so many unspoken anxieties, so many things you can’t possibly wrap your head around, that you can’t possibly know. Why she notices you now. When you began to crave the burn. If the risk is worth a moments ecstasy. How beauty could wear such thorns.

You know, now, how Eve felt, in the Garden of Eden. Just one bite, the snake hissed. Just one kiss, Prosperina whispers. You have no wish to shed your wings and toss yourself from Paradise’s gate. But she’s just as beautiful as any angel you’ve ever gazed upon.

In Character Paragraph:

Thursday night, 9pm sharp, the Yale Club. Dress elegantly. Heloise didn’t need to glance down at the invitation to know its contents, her heart having memorised them ten times over, skipping a beat each time it paused at a cursive. Even Prosperina’s writing was beautiful. She would have liked to say that the invitation was unexpected, out of the blue and had been firmly rejected. Yet, since she distastes lies, she could not.

Heloise had, however, made an attempt or two to excuse herself. Sending an owl in return, she had outlined her disapproval of the Pride Society and its galas in no uncertain terms. Prosperina had take an age to respond - deliberately, Heloise supposed, to make her nerves hop and jump. When she had, Heloise could almost taste her tone. It’s not one of those. It’s for charity. Don’t you support charity? She had caved. Heloise couldn’t be sure if that was strength or weakness, good or bad.

Three days later, another letter had arrived. Wear pink. It matches the blush on your face.

Stepping into the room, Heloise steeled herself, a picture of defiance in angel-white, beads reflecting the light back.

Not so long ago, she would have cowered, a ghostly slip of a thing, trembling in the corner. Glass of champagne stitched to her hand, she would have sipped until someone had taken pity on her - and even then, she might have fled. That worked under the assumption she plucked the courage to attend at all. Time sandpapered everyone, some for the better, others for the worse. Heloise liked to think she took after the former.

The first eye she caught was from across the room, her gaze instantly drawn to the slip of a girl shrouded by demons, unable to do anything but stare from her cage. Dahlia. It hurt to see her here, to see the shackles bound and to know she was powerless to help. To approach her, to take her hands into her own and wrap her arms around her shoulders was to betray her newfound friend, to expose her doubts to the world. There was cruelty in watching her suffer - but there was greater cruelty in taking a hammer to the foundations below her feet. That wasn’t Heloise’s job. Hers was to encourage Dahlia to flutter her own wings, to learn how to fly. All in good time. Smiling softly across the room, she let her face say what her tongue couldn’t. Stay strong, keep the faith.

The second pair were Prosperina’s - appearing from nowhere, sneaking up behind. Departing from conventions and norms, she didn’t bother with small-talk. “You look ravishing. But not as pretty as you would have had in pink.”

Tongue-tied, Heloise searched for a response. No one had the power to shrink her anymore, now that she had freed her voice from its restraints. And yet, that didn’t mean anymore wit had returned to it. In times like these, she prayed for Kenshin’s presence at her side, always ready with a sharp retort, the sort that drew him closer to someone. Or even Wren, brazen and bold, who spoke without thought. You don’t want to impress her! One voice screamed.Not like you imagined you might, a lifetime ago.

And yet, a little bit of her did.

Heloise spurned her interest. But a little bit of her didn’t want to do without it either.

“I - Thank you. You look…” Staring at Prosperina for the first time, Heloise felt the breath be stolen from her lungs. Divine. Enchanting. “Like a million bucks.” Slanting her voice into an American accent for comedic effect, she immediately regretted her choice no sooner had it been said. “And this…it’s certainly big. Very big. I suppose that’s good. The more people you can fit in, the more donations you can collect for charity.”

Prosperina laughed. Heloise was never sure if she was being laughed at or with. She preferred to think it was the latter.

“The committee had a few reservations. Something about…vermin control. The guest list is rather exclusive, you see.”

Confusion flashed across her face. It wasn’t as if New York was a stranger to rodents…but something about her tone, about the look on her face…made it clear that it wasn’t animals she was referring to. Without noticing, Heloise had become a player in the game. The smile froze on her face. “I sure hope that isn’t a reference to the architects who built the place. Or the perfectly nice people going about their business on the floor below. They’re not doing any harm.”

“Ah yes, the No-Maj’s, as our Yank friends love to say.”

Heloise tensed on the mention of that word. She despised it. No-Maj. So…derogatory. And rather rude. As if they didn’t count as people, or deserve respect, on the merit of something they didn’t have - and had no choice in having. “I hate that term. I hate - you shouldn’t talk about them like that. Nobody should. They’re hardly hurting anyone. And technically, this is their territory so really we should - be respectful.” Exhaling heavily, she steadied herself.

“Oh,” Prosperina leaned in, all smiles now, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “You’re such a doll. I was only playing. But I can be nice, if you ask nicely.” Her touch felt like electricity, the sort of chemistry that couldn’t be duplicated or faked. When it was real, it was real. “I’ll go fetch us expensive champagne to make amends.” Half-purr, she broke off and Heloise dropped her gaze. “Pink Champagne, I think.”

Cheeks deepening into rosy-red, Heloise watched her depart, wishing she could look away.

Extras:

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[theharellan]

2, 6, 17

supporting character meme | not accepting

2. someone who influenced solas over a long span of time

mythal. she’d been in the best place for it for ages, and elevated solas to a position where the number of people who had influence from above him rather than below to a scant few.

if it weren’t for mythal, among others, he likely would not be a part of any of this. it was mythal that asked for him to fight, tying himself permanently to a physical body. it was mythal that bid he protect the people as often as he protected her, and generally instilling within solas the desire to help. even if his reasons for doing so did not end selflessly, and were often a way to consolidate more power. while it ultimately took bonds with others (and a lot of personal growth, there’s a good reason my solas disappears from elvhenan completely before he reemerges as fen’harel) to tether solas’s goals to the well-being of the people, mythal tied the first knot. she was the first person who gave him purpose in helping others.

but not all of her influence was necessarily positive. mythal is shown to be quite ruthless when she feels justice calls for it. the person who took the form of a dragon, the shape of a divine, was passed to elgar’nan, who has a reputation even in elvhenan-era documents for being ruthless. she killed titans to allow her people to live on the earth safely, and while she successfully stopped a civil war by allowing champions to duel to settle an argument she did essentially condemn someone to die for the sins of the evanuris. what i’m getting at is a lot of solas’s ruthlessness, especially when he’s acting as fen’harel comes from her.

there’s other things she’s influenced, she engaged his passion for knowledge and art, and travel, never tying him to her side when it was not necessary. and by asking him to remain in a physical body to fight in a war also did mean he started to associate its existence with violence. 

6. someone who solas used to dislike/hate but doesn’t anymore.

mmm “hate” is a strong word but solas’s opinion on cassandra turned around real fast. i would say rather than hate, there was a period before the start of inquisition where he feared and disliked her.

at the start of the game cassandra is everything she appears to be: a nobleborn human endowed with enough privilege that she never doubts her righteousness. solas mentions she threatened him, and given she threatens the herald at the start of the game i’m inclined to believe him. of course, she doesn’t kill him, and allows him to study the anchor and helps save the herald. she goes against the chantry’s wishes and starts the inquisition, and doesn’t claim the sole influence over the decisions it makes. in fact, she relinquishes it entirely to another.

solas is surprised by a lot of this. there’s a lot about cassandra he still doesn’t approve of, she supports circles and disparages the temple and its guardians, but overall she turns out to be more thoughtful than he ever expected her to be. it comes to a place of respect and friendship, even if he knows it won’t last.

17. someone solas looks up to

inquisitors he’s friendly with. you can see this in his last cutscene conversation in the base game, no matter what you pick he’s inspired by their reasons for doing what they’re doing.

i’m going to be self-indulgent though and talk about how he looks up to my canon/main inquistor, thora. there’s some stuff that will apply to all inquisitors he likes, however. like for one, there’s the fact that they’re successful. they do things, they make plans, those plans usually pan out. perhaps not perfectly, no one wanted hawke/the warden contact to die at adamant and for thora in particular, she’s never happy with how things turned out at halamshiral. but what solas takes away from that night is that the inquisition needed orlais as its allies, and she got that.

you might say this applies to inquisitors he hates, too, and it doesn’t, really? he’s used to terrible people having things go exactly as they want them to. but seeing someone who strives for kindness and compassion, who prefers mercy to ruthlessness, and who is strong enough to stick by their morals despite the disapproval it might win them is someone solas admires.

thora’s willingness to learn about spirits and elves does more than validate solas’s beliefs, it helps him find that same willingness to learn. solas starts inquisition unsure if the people of modern society are, well, people. which a lot of people in fandom tend to hate him for, but forget that solas himself is surrounded by people who also deny the personhood of spirits. even while solas is in clear distress about his friend being in trouble the inquisitor can respond with “lol i thought all ur friends were spirits” as if it makes a difference what kind of friend it is. you can also play them as being more open to the idea, but in game the farthest you can take this is a) agree with him when he makes the case of their personhood, b) allow him to save his friend and c) encourage the spirit nature of cole during his personal quest.

thora’s a little canon divergent in that i’m allowed to take it a little farther, she starts to see how the Breach is just as much a tragedy for spirits as it is for people in her world. after adamant, while her concern is initially for the wardens sacrificed, after solas expresses his anger over the spirits who were similarly used she starts to see that it was a twofold crime. when the tranquil mages are killed for the oculara, so, too, are the spirits that possess them. she becomes more mindful of this, and while she’s making that journey solas is making his own.

both make missteps. as i said, it takes time for thora to truly register that the spirits killed at adamant are as deserving of being mourned as wisdom, or as necessary to help as cole. and for solas’s part, he harbors a lot of unkind opinions of dwarves, and expresses them to her while he’s trying to tell her how important she is and how much he likes her. it takes effort, but seeing her effort enables his. thora also, unlike, say, varric, does feel sadness for the loss of the dwarven empire while not wallowing in it like solas does. having a vested interest in learning history and trying not to repeat it is just another thing he admires.

idk i could talk a lot about their friendship but i’m realising this ask is getting long so i’m stopping now.

[sakurabunnie]

Questions for your Inquisitor ⛭ 1. 3. 5. 7. 11. 12. 13. 16. 19. 20. 23. 32. 33. 35. 42. 43. I hope you REALLY like asks

Heck yeah, I do!! Bring it! >:D

1. How do they feel about the Anchor?

On one hand, Maxwell is incredibly curious about it. It’s an ancient and unknown form of magic that he wants to understand better. He also finds it incredibly useful in battle. On the other hand, he’s scared of it because he remembers how painful it was and how it was killing him in those early days after the Conclave.

3. Questioning Beliefs: How do they feel before and after events? Do they doubt their belief or their religious perspectives at some point?

He’s not religious, so nothing about his religious beliefs changed. Maxwell also never considered himself to be holy or touched by divinity.  He never believed he was the Herald of anything, so when he found out that the Anchor was from some ancient spell he messed up, and the figure people saw wasn’t Andraste, he was ecstatic. It was simply proof of what he always knew. Honestly, if it really was due to Andraste, then he would have been so pissed off!

5. Describe their emotions and thoughts about the rebellion between Mages and Templars.

He has incredibly strong emotions about Mage/Templar war. It’s a war where his people are fighting for their freedom, personhood, and right to live, so he is incredibly invested in it. To him there is no gray area, it is only right and wrong, life and death in this war.

7. Do they believe the Chantry functions as it is? What would they change?

He’s a non-religious Mage who believes in Mage rights so no, he very much doesn’t. Frankly, he thinks the Chantry shouldn’t exist since it’s completely corrupt and should be gotten rid of entirely, but that’s not likely so he’d settle for changing everything about it. He greatly approves of the changes Leliana wants to make in it, and that’s part of the reason he made her Divine.

11. What did your Inquisitor think, when laying eyes upon the throne for the first time?

He seriously couldn’t believe that he gets an actual throne and he wonders why they chose one so pointy.

12. How does your Inquisitor deal with traitors?

Depending on what they did he’d probably have them interrogated and then thrown in prison. He doesn’t like killing people.

13. Which factors play a significant role for them to recruit people for the Inquisition?

The main factors for Maxwell recruiting people are their desire to join, their skill, and if they are in need of help and a place to be.

16. Did your Inquisitor let the Inquisition remain or did they disband it?

Maxwell disbanded the Inquisition at the end because the Inquisition had fulfilled its original purpose, it was now filled with people he couldn’t trust, and he never wished to be Inquisitor forever anyway.

19.  Does it bother your Inquisitor to be called by their name? Do they prefer being called “Inquisitor”?

Maxwell actually prefers it when people call him by his name. He hates the title Herald, he doesn’t consider himself a Lord, and he only tolerates the title of Inquisitor when he’s working.

20. Which abilities did they specialize themselves in? Explain how the trainers convinced them.

Maxwell trained as a Knight Enchanter. No one had to really convince him since he had already made up his mind to be one before the trainers arrived. He only took the specialization because he thinks it’s cool to swing around a magic sword.

23. Which members of the Inquisition do they stand closest to? And why?

Maxwell is the closest with Varric, Sera, Dorian, Bull, Josephine, and Cole. Varric and Bull are his good friends, Dorian is his best friend/lover, and Sera, Josephine, and Cole are both friend and family to him.

32. What are their thoughts on Skyhold? Is there a stronghold they would prefer over it?

Maxwell was in complete awe when they first discovered Skyhold. It was so impressive to him, and strangely enough, there was an aura or sentience about the place like it was welcoming him (my personal headcanon :3). It quickly became home to him and was the only place in Thedas he felt safe. He established strongholds in Crestwood, the Emprise du Lion, and in the Western Approach but none of them feel like home quite like Skyhold.

33. Which places at Skyhold does your Inquisitor spend the most time at?

Maxwell spends most of his time in the garden where he gardens as a hobby, in the library visiting Dorian and doing research, and in the Tavern drinking and playing cards with his friends.

35.  Does your Inquisitor enjoy traveling? How much does your Inquisitor stick to the map?

Maxwell loves to travel! Ever since he left the Circle, he has wanted to travel the world and take in all of the sights. He usually follows the map, but once he has established a camp, he explores the area more freely.

42. Which bed does your Inquisitor sleep in at night (if they ever sleep)?

Before being in a relationship, he sleeps in the Free Marches bed, and after he enters into a relationship, he upgrades to the canopy version of the Free Marches bed (Free Marches Bed II).

43. Which materials does your Inquisitor prefer for armor?

Maxwell prefers a mix of leather, cotton or any light cloth, and some metal. His armor needs to be lightweight but protective and allows him a lot of movement. In-game he wears armor made of Ram Leather, Lustrous Cotton, and Silverite.

Thanks so much for asking! (๑╹ڡ╹)╭ ～ ♡

Questions for Your Inquisitor