#the protagonist is white but that's because I'm white and I don't want to write someone else's story

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Sed Proditionem || chapter 2

In Dubiis Libertas, In Necessariis Unitas

But in the end, if I bend under the weight that they gave me, then this heart would break and fall as twice as far.

* * *

Žižka is forced to deal with the aftermath of his failure. Hans and Samuel look for the root of betrayal. At Zlenice castle, a young boy sets out for adventure.

{read below or here on AO3}

* * *

Štěpán of Tetin was bored. So bored in fact that, had the way back to Zlenice been any longer, his wandering thoughts and daydreams may as well have thrown him out of his saddle and into a blissful sleep on the muddy ground. Sure, he had known what he would get himself into, not only this morning when the messenger of Sir Tammo of Ledna urged him to finish his breakfast sooner than expected, no, he had known for over five years now, ever since he agreed to help his guardian Ondřej Dubá with his service as the King's highest judge. And it wasn't the iudicium terre bohemiae, the Bohemian common law, that bored Štěpán so much. He admired the importance of that task, craved for the structure and order that it provided, and was, at least for a seventeen year old beardless man, as Sir Ondřej liked to call him, way more interested in books full of title deeds and legislative records than would have been good for him.

“When I was your age,” Zlenice's commander Sir Nikolai had told him once, “the only law I was interested in was the law of lovemaking, and the only writing I would care for was the one my cock left on the skirts of some pretty girl.” And Štěpán would have all the assets required to be a great philan­derer, Nikolai had asserted! The full dark locks of Iwain the lion knight, the slim fingers and legs of King Charles himself, round cheeks, full lips and long lashes that every girl in the whole of Bohemia would swoon over. Štěpán had as little interest in skirt hunting as he had in the hunting of anything else, nor was he as convinced of his own talents in this regard as the old knight was. But then again, Sir Nikolai had also told him once that he'd make a fine sword fighter, and the whole of Zlenice knew how that one had ended!

His interests clearly lay elsewhere. Which land belonged to whom and for what costs, for example, and more importantly, under what circumstances could this established order be re­voked. In recent years, he had also developed a certain affinity for the exceptional rights and authorities of the church, espe­cially considering what was happening in Prague. That myste­rious white knight, Petr of Haugwitz as he called himself, wasn't particularly fond of Štěpán's interest in the latter. While Štěpán wasn't particularly fond of Petr of Haugwitz.

Just as little as he was fond of the disputes that both nobility and commoners alike called him over for these days. Or rather, that they called Sir Ondřej for, but since the lord had seen his nineteenth spring already, he had bestowed these tasks upon his ward Štěpán. Tasks that included the innkeper Adam selling his beer for a quarter groschen too many, or the guild of the tanners missing to organise their second required procession this year, or baker Marek leaving his horse unattended in the middle of the village square, and on a market day of all times. And God knew how many of those disputes Štěpán had to settle today!

The sun had long set when he led his horse across the draw­bridge marking the entrance to the main castle of Zlenice. There were stables outside the castle walls in the outer bailey, but Štěpán preferred to have his chestnut mare Šárka as close by as possible. One could never know when it was needed to flee the castle unexpectedly. Or when adventure might strike.

The light of Jan's torch was so blindingly bright that Štěpán had to cover his eyes for a moment. The guard had stuck the torch into the wet earth of the ground, while he himself had taken a seat on the lowest stairs inside the castle gate, playing dice against himself. And why shouldn't he? Nothing ever hap­pened on Zlenice. The guard still had enough vigilance in him, though, to raise his head as Štěpán passed him by. “Good night, Sir.”

“Good night to you as well.” He pulled the reigns tighter, and Šárka pranced around on her crooked hind legs. Tiredness started to get to her too. “Would you happen to know where I can find Sir Ondřej at this hour?”

“He ate early today, Sir. Wanted to find some rest, the cough had got worse again.”

Štěpán took a deep sigh and nodded. No surprising news, it always got worse on days like these when the weather changed so drastically, bringing cold air up from the river, chasing away the warmth of spring. Sometimes, when it wasn't only the tem­perature of the air that changed but also its humidity or the force of the wind, Sir Ondřej used to cough so much his whole face would first get red as poppies and then white as milk. “It's always a shame,” Sir Nikolai had told Štěpán once when his guardian's cough had been so bad he had just quit breathing altogether for a while, making everyone believe he must alrea­dy be standing on the threshold to Saint Peter's door. “But he has lived a long life, longer than the rest of us can even dream of. And eh, who knows, lad, you might inherit a thing or two now?” Of course Štěpán wouldn't. He wasn't related to Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice, was only the grandson of one of the lords Sir Ondřej had once bought the castle from, the eleventh grandson, that was. He hadn't been sent to Zlenice in the hopes of inheriting anything, but for two simple reasons alone. To help out the King's highest judge with his work in his old days, and, by fulfilling this duty, strengthen the ties between the Du­bá family and the lords of Tetín. And because for the eleventh grandson, the youngest brother of seven, there was no better use for him back at home anyway.

“Have they sent for the physician again?”

Jan shook his head and put the dice down. “Haugwitz didn't think it necessary.”

“As if he could tell,” Štěpán pressed out through gritted teeth.

“Well, with all due respect, Sir, but the old lord is a tough fella. This cough couldn't get him for the past ten years, and I doubt it will tonight.” Jan chuckled, staring down into his torch, as if the flames had just told him a very entertaining joke. “If that old lord dies, it might just be because he slips on his way to his shitter.” He was still smiling when he raised his gaze again, but winced immediately under the stare that Štěpán regarded him with. “Forgive me, Sir.”

Štěpán shrugged his shoulders. “We should make sure to keep the steps to his latrine always clean then.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Is Haugwitz with him right now?”

“No, Haugwitz is over there.” Jan nodded into the direction of the stables. “Wanted to take care of his horse.”

“Ah. I see.” Štěpán looked over to the small shed with the flickering light inside, and swallowed down the lump that had quickly formed in his throat. Maybe using the stables down in the outer bailey didn't sound like such a bad idea anymore. Ha, so much for adventure calling!

He dismounted Šárka and went over to the castle stables by foot, hoping that it would help against the quick pumping of his heart and the growing numbness in his legs. Štěpán wouldn't have considered himself to be a particularly scared man. Weak yes, that he was, and lacking any skill when it came to handling a sword, that too. But he had always longed to leave this castle one day and see the world, only that such an opportunity had never presented itself to him, keeping his travels confined to the local villages and his actions to those sealed with ink on parchment. That didn't mean he wouldn't like to follow the sweet song of fate wherever it led him, of course.

Šárka shied, threw her head back and neighed. Perhaps the horse felt it too, and what was wrong about it? Certain events and certain people just required a little more wariness.

Petr of Haugwitz was standing next to his black stallion, his back turned to the entrance. He had lid the torch on the wall, and its light made his perfectly white armour and his golden hair shine like paper thrown into a fireplace. The horse and the saddle bags he was rummaging through were hidden under the shadow that his tall, broad body cast.

Šárka neighed again and pulled on the reigns more firmly. Štěpán put a soothing hand to her neck and imagined their roles to be reversed and that she was in fact the one giving him an encouraging pat on the back. “Jesus Christ be praised.”

He refused to call the white knight Sir, ever since Haugwitz had come riding through the castle gates in late December, just a few days before the beginning of the year 1410. Pale skin, pale hair, pale armour, pale as the snow that had surrounded him. Only the glove made an exception, a single black leather glove wrapped around his belt, that he never wore but carried with him every day. Petr of Haugwitz was a strange man in all regards. A noble that spoke and growled like a bloodhound, and everything that he said seemed to be only uninformed opinions that weren't even his own. He spoke ill of the Prague demands for church reforms without knowing much about it, claimed to be a strong supporter of the King, but was tightly involved with Heinrich of Rosenberg's affairs who had been known for his loyalty towards the Hungarian usurper Sigismund. Still, in the mere span of a month or so, the white knight had managed to form a suspiciously close relationship to Sir Ondřej, yet ano­ther reason to be wary of him. And then of course there was his most obvious flaw, the one thing that kept Štěpán from ever using the title Sir when addressing him. No book or legal docu­ment Štěpán had consulted could provide him with any evi­dence that a Petr of Haugwitz had ever existed.

The white knight didn't utter a word of greeting, but he raised his head and looked over at Štěpán as he led Šárka in­side. Pale eyes as well, cold and wet, like dripping daggers of ice.

Štěpán turned away to hide the deep breath he was taking, but it was quiet enough in the stable for his breathing to be heard. Perhaps Haugwitz could even hear his heart and see the blood rush through his veins quicker and hotter than it should. With this stare of his it wouldn't be surprising. “I heard that my guardian's health has been put to the test today, while I was gone.”

Haugwitz started looking through his things again, waiting long before he gave an answer. Not as long as it felt, most like­ly, but in the white knight's presence, the grains of the hour­glass of time always seemed to get drowned in sticky honey. “He is sleeping now.”

Not the answer Štěpán had hoped to get, but then he also hadn't posed a proper question. “Sleep will do him good for sure.” His voice was so quiet and frail now, not even the voice of a seventeen year old weak student of the law, but the voice of a frightened child. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Haugwitz didn't reply but the silence said it all. The shared understanding of secrets Štěpán would better not ask about. The threat of what would happen if he still did.

Noise outside at the gate. The rattling of armour, steel scra­ping over steel as a weapon was drawn. Someone gasped from exhaustion, someone screamed. Jan. “Not a step further, you hear me?”

Štěpán rushed outside, closely followed by Haugwitz. Jan had left his place on the gate's stairs, the dice had fallen down, lay scattered across the dirt. His sword was raised, its tip aimed at the neck of a man who had appeared on the drawbridge. He stood bent over, hands resting on his thighs, panting heavily. The man was armed with a sword himself, but had it sheathed on his hip. He wore armour, but only on his legs and forearms, while a padded doublet was the only protection for his chest. Grey and brown cloth from what little Štěpán could tell in the dim torchlight, and there didn't seem to be crest on it.

He stepped forward until he stood next to Jan, and placed a hand on his wrist lightly, reminding him not to act without his command. “I am Sir Štěpán of Tetín, the ward of Sir Ondřej Dubá, who is the lord here in Zlenice. Who sent you?”

“No one, Sir.” The man's voice was only a hoarse rattling, winter wind in the castle walls. “I just ran, Sir, ran as quickly as I could. I saw the castle up here and hoped for help. I need help, Sir, you need to help me.”

“Help with what? Where did you run from, what happened to you?”

“I'm a mercenary, Sir. I was serving Father Thomas of the Prague synod. But he is dead now, Sir. Killed. A bolt in his throat, shot from the bushes like some animal.”

“Go and wake Lord Ondřej.” Haugwitz's harsh voice, a command that he had no authority for, and Jan moved without any hesitation. Štěpán couldn't blame him. The soldier was just as scared of Haugwitz as he was, and how could he dare to question him in a situation like this?

There was more Štěpán wanted to ask, but Haugwitz stepped forward now, ordering the man to come into the castle with them, to drink some strong wine and wait for Sir Ondřej. Fine then, Štěpán thought. After the shock and the fright from before and the hardships of the day, he could really use some of that wine now, too.

Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice had to lean on Jan as he dragged himself into the dining hall, and his bloated face was slack with fatigue, but at least he had stopped coughing. “So,” he wheezed as Jan had finally managed to help him sit down on his chair, which creaked under his weight, “tell me what happened, boy. And don't leave out a single thing.”

The boy in question was a man of at least thirty years, Ště­pán could see that now in the brighter light of candle holders and fireplace, but to a man of Sir Ondřej's age everyone quali­fied to be called boy. “My name is Lukas, my Lord. I was hired as a mercenary together with two other men to accompany the priest Thomas of Prague on his way to the synod there.” He was speaking much calmer now, the wine seemed to show an effect. It helped Štěpán to sharpen his wits too, and so he no­ticed how the man strictly avoided to look at Haugwitz who had taken his place at the side of the hall, leaning against the fireplace. “We just passed through a gorge close to Jezonice, when we got approached by what seemed to be two other priests.”

“When was that, boy?”

“Just after sunset, Sir.”

Štěpán furrowed his brow. “Why were you travelling at that time of the day? There would be no more inn to stop at for at least ten more miles.”

“I know, Sir, but we had just rested until this afternoon, in Uzhitz, that was. We had met two other men there, a Hungarian and a … a drunkard with a croaking voice. Kubyenka was his name, I believe.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Štěpán could see Haugwitz ba­ring his teeth at the mentioning of these men.

“But they were witty, especially this Kubyenka fella, and Father Thomas shared some wine with him, and they played dice and talked. They seemed trustworthy, and when they told us about robber bands roaming these lands who were on the look for merchants, during the day of course, when most mer­chants would travel, well, it made sense to us, Father Thomas believed them and so did we. So we stayed until the afternoon, and only continued our way then.”

“Hm.” Štěpán tried to put as little judgement into his voice as he could. If there was one thing the solving of too many a mundane village dispute had taught him it was to listen to the whole story first without much questioning, because any of that could twist even the most well-meant truth into a lie of uncer­tainty. “These priests. Did they say anything to you?”

“They did, Sir, and quite a lot in fact. They claimed that they had just stayed in Prague themselves and were on their way back to their parish now. They also said that they had met with Jan Hus. That he had shared his believes with them, and that they would know that those believes were God's true words, because our Lord had performed a miracle while Hus was spea­king. And that there would be miracles whenever someone re­peated these truths. They wanted to show us.” He raised his eyes. There was fright in them, a mortal terror, and for a brief moment his gaze fell upon Haugwitz, and the flicker of fear be­came a wildfire. “The younger one of the two took out this … construction. It was made of glass, like a lantern, but all empty inside. And then he said that the only word a Christian should follow should be that of the Saviour, not that of any priest or nobleman, and that no priest or bishop and not even the Pope himself could claim to be holy by his ordination alone, that it were only the life a clergy man leads that would make him ho­ly, his chastity, humility, poverty. And then he raised this lan­tern above his head, and suddenly … suddenly …” He swal­lowed, tears turning his dark eyes into ink. He took another sip from the wine. “Someone shot Father Thomas. With the bolt of a crossbow, right into his throat. And there were so many armed men up in the forest, and I was scared, I was so scared, and I just ran for it. I am so sorry. I should have stayed, but I couldn't, I …” The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand, before he looked up, first at Štěpán, then at Jan and finally at Sir Ondřej, but not at Haugwitz this time. “Was that the will of God, Sir? Was it divine punishment that Father Thomas had to … That he was …”

“No, boy. That was only the doing of conspirators. Traitors to the land, and to the church. And to God.”

“How many were there?” Štěpán could feel the other's looks weighing down heavily on him, especially Haugwitz's. He was suspicious about the mercenary's story, the white knight knew it, and he didn't like it. “You said there were armed men hidden in the forest. How many exactly?”

“I could not tell, Sir. It was dark, and I … I ran as fast as I could.” Lukas ducked his head between his shoulders like a scared fowl. Surely he was just as aware of the punishments for cowardice as Štěpán was. “But there was the one with the crossbow, and others too, lots of them, men with swords and axes and all that, I could hear them, see a few of them even, I … I don't think Jenda and Maretschek stood a chance.”

“The other mercenaries?” Sir Ondřej asked.

“Aye.”

“But why so many?” Haugwitz's ice cold stare pulled tight around his neck, strangled him like a noose. Štěpán noticed how he brought a hand down, but not to the handle of his sword but to the glove on his belt, wrapping his fingers around it, as if he wanted to entangle them with the empty leather ones. “There were only three of you and a priest. While they had two men in disguise, probably skilled fighters too, an ar­cher with a crossbow, and all these other men that you saw.”

“I … I suppose they wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure of what? That they got rid of you all? But to what end? They clearly wanted to set an example, so what good would it do them if there was no one left to tell the tale? And why then go through all this effort, the disguise, the theo­logical discussion, if they just planned to murder you anyway?”

The chair next to him creaked as Sir Ondřej moved around on it with a groan. Next to the hissing fireplace, Haugwitz squeezed the glove so tightly that the leather let out a desperate whine. “Perhaps they wanted him to escape. Let him run, so he could spread the message.”

“And what message would that be? That the followers of Jan Hus are dangerous and mischievous, not to be trusted at any cost? How could that be in their own interest, how would that benefit their cause?”

“What are you suggesting here, Štěpán?”

He shook his head at Sir Ondřej, at a loss for an explanation. Getting duped over the price of beer, or finding someone's horse parked in the middle of the market street seemed so much more appealing all of a sudden. But wasn't this just the change he had waited for for so long, the adventure he had craved? Only that for this adventure, a priest had died, as well as two mercenaries and a few more men perhaps, and somehow Zlenice was now tied up in all of this too, and if the church found out about it, if the archbishop got wind of the murder of a synod member from Prague, ambushed by Hus supporters out on the streets close to Zlenice, it would be a political disaster. “Something about all of this stinks to high heaven! And I would strongly advise not to jump to any hasty conclusions.”

“And do what instead?”

Lukas buried his face in his wine cup again. Sir Ondřej had his hands wrapped around the armrests of his chair so tightly, his knuckles went all white. Haugwitz plucked something off his armour and threw it into the fire. The smell of burned cot­ton filled the air like a threat. “I will go to this gorge myself.” Even Štěpán himself was taken by surprise by his own confi­dence, but there was no stopping now. “I will have a closer look at the scene of the crime, and tell you what I could find afterwards, so we can take proper actions.”

Haugwitz shook his head, his lips formed silent words that none of them could or should hear, before he actually spoke. “So how long do you plan to wait until we take these actions? Until their bodies have gone cold? Until someone else finds them and gets word out to Prague before we can?”

“We won't get word out to anyone,” Štěpán said with a firm­ness in his voice that seemed to confuse Haugwitz too, because he lifted his eyes from the fire at these words, fixed them at Štěpán instead. “The sole accountability here lies with Sir On­dřej and Sir Ondřej alone.”

“Then I will go with you at least. Two pairs of eyes will see more.”

“No, I will go on my own. When looking for evidence, any additional man would just get in the way.”

Haugwitz showed his teeth again. The face of a rabid dog. “This is foolishness.”

“I agree.” Sir Ondřej's cheeks took a deep shade of red as he tried to shift his weight from one side to the other. “With both of you. You will go alone, Štěpán. Gather whatever information you can and then report it to me. But hurry. The murder of a member of the church on my lands is a delicate affair, and one we must not leave ignored for too long.” He coughed. Coughed until his face went pale once more, and then paler than before, and sweat pearled from his brows and upper lip, mingling with saliva around the corners of his mouth. He reached out his left arm like a helpless rooster whose wings were clipped. Jan took hold of it and helped him up to his feet, dragging him over to the door. “If you haven't returned with the ringing of the bells at noon,” Sir Ondřej said before leaving the hall, every word accentuated by a cough or a sharp inhalation of breath, “I will see myself forced to write to Prague without your consulta­tion.”

“Yes, Sir.” Štěpán stood up and bent his head to Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice in a bow that only the mercenary and the white knight could see. “I won't disappoint you, my lord.��

* * *

“Shit!” He swung his arm. The head of the mace described a picturesque circle in the air before it slammed into a wooden pillar of the attic. Under the roof, high up above their heads, a handful of swallows scattered out angrily into the Kuttenberg morning sky. “Fucking shit!”

“Calm yourself, Žižka.”

He turned around and laughed Katherine right into her an­noyingly blank expression. “Calm myself? Calm myself? How exactly am I supposed to calm myself with this fucking disaster that went on out there?” He pulled the mace out of the beam with some force, wood splintered. Damn it all, he should have rammed it straight into that little bastard's stomach before he sent them down to have a word with Schwarzfeld. It wouldn't have helped, Samuel wasn't to blame for what had happened, but perhaps that would have at least made him calm himself! “One of the priests of the Prague synod is dead, we tarnished the reputation of Jan Hus, two of our own men have stabbed us in the fucking back, how is any one of us supposed to stay calm?”

“You don't know what happened.” Katherine tried to sound oh so reasonable, and it was a joke, because there was no rea­son in what she said. “You don't know if Kubyenka and Janosh really betrayed us. What if they are dead? What if Sam is right, what if it was only Schwarzfeld who turned on us, and Kub­yenka and Janosh were rotting somewhere in the forest near Uzhitz, and you were desecrating their memory right now, what then?”

“Then,” he lowered his voice and stepped forward slowly, a demonstration of his anger, he didn't want to scare her, but he could still see her warm, morning haze eyes widen in a way that made his skin crawl from shame, “I'd be a happier man. Then I could proudly say that they were the soldiers, the friends, that I rightfully set my trust in. Believe me, I'd rather desecrate their memory a thousand times over than see them become traitors.”

Katherine didn't reply, only breathed in deeply, but she would understand. Would see that his anger wasn't for her, wasn't even for Kubyenka and Janosh, and that he had wanted to beat that little shit Samuel up only because something in that boy's defiance reminded Žižka of himself ever so often.

“I understand your frustration,” Henry tried to keep his voice as quiet and placid as he possibly could, “but Katherine has a point. This is all just speculation. We need to find them first, and even if they're still alive, we don't have any clue yet what really happened, or what went on inside their heads.”

“It doesn't mater, don't you understand? They weren't there, and the whole plan went to shit. My plan!”

“Your plan, yes, but we were the ones to execute it, and Schwarzfeld was our informant, and even if someone here betrayed us, it still doesn't make it your fault.”

Žižka turned to him. His voice had lost all its fury when he spoke again, it was low and growling now, a threat. “What am I, Henry?”

“What?”

“What am I? To you,” he pointed the head of the mace in Katherine's direction, “to her,” waved it around, at Henry and Godwin, at Hans and Samuel downstairs, at the swallows above him, “to anyone here? What role am I playing in this goddamned tragedy?”

Henry didn't answer, just kept his lips pressed together, his eyes big and bewildered like a beaten pup.

“What am I, Henry, tell me!”

The boy swallowed. “The captain. Our commander.”

“Your commander, yes.”

The next words spoken weren't uttered by Henry, and not by Katherine either, but by the priest who had been silently wat­ching until this very moment, and unlike with the other two, there was nothing reassuring or calming in what he said, only blunt coldness. “You are right, Žižka. It is all your fault. You fucked up. You came up with the plan, and you commanded it. You questioned Schwarzfeld yourself, and apparently to no avail, you couldn't even keep an eye on your own men. We are deep in the shit, and while we all made our contribution to this endeavour, in the end, we only answer to you. So yes. There is absolutely no one to blame here but you.”

The silence that followed was so deafening that it roared in Žižka's ears like carriage wheels on a stone road. The boy's eyes were widened as he stared at Godwin, Katherine had her gaze lowered to the ground, her red lips slightly agape. Even the swallows seemed to have ceased their song, but Žižka paid them no mind. Cranes. The unmistakable grating sound of cranes, as they waded across the freshly frozen ground, sear­ching for food. Fog in the air, hovering above the river to their right, breaking the light of a rising sun. Some of the sun's rays landed on Hynek's scarred face and on his ginger hair, painted it the colour of dust. Must have been the morning haze. “Do not try to keep me, Žižka. This life, settling somewhere, raising stray dogs together, ha. That is not for me.”He had tucked his hands under his armpits to keep them from shaking. Must have been the cold. “They are yours. You can grapple with them now. Like it always should have been.” Then he had left. Off to Austria. And Žižka had left to Humpolec and Krumlov, dealing with Rosenberg, and failing. When he had finally returned north, Hynek was gone. Not to Austria, and not to some other godforsaken land, but to Hell, where a Devil belonged. And the pack was in shambles, some scattered, some had moved on with life. Wenceslas had offered Žižka work in Prague. He hadn't refused it, but hadn't exactly accepted it either. He could have used his military skills for none other than the King him­self, could have settled as a burgrave, but he didn't know how. So he had scraped up the pack once more, or what was left of it, because Henry had properly taken roots in Rattay with his Lord it seemed, and Godwin had built a more theoretical pro­fession for himself in Prague, and the rest, the few he could find and motivate to return to Kuttenberg, had come to him like a horde of headless chickens, waiting for him to throw them some grains of purpose, and so he had fled once more. This time, he hadn't even told Katherine where he went, but they all found out anyway. Found out when he came back to Kutten­berg with his tail between his legs because the Teutonic Order had declined him. It is all your fault. You fucked up. There is absolutely no one to blame here but you.

Žižka nodded. The swallows had started singing again, or maybe they had never stopped, only the noise of the cranes had ceased now. “Henry. I need you to write two letters about what happened out there last night. Explain everything in full detail. One will be addressed to Wok of Waldstein, the other one to Jan Sokol of Lamberg. Leave out any unnecessary formalities and apologies, and don't ask them for support either, it should only be a prosaic rendition of the events and their possible con­sequences so that they know what they have to prepare for. Once these letters are written, you will ride out and deliver them to your father at Vyšehrad. He will know where to find Waldstein and Lamberg, and you will report to him too, by word of mouth. We will join you in Prague soon. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Then leave us alone.”

Henry took a brief bow, turned and walked over to the ladder. His broad back straight as a lance, the steps firm. A blacksmith, an advisor, a soldier, a knight. His hair had grown longer, his beard too, he had matured so much from the boy Žižka had left back then in Suchdol, but into what, Žižka couldn't tell. He hoped Henry could tell at least, hoped it for him.

His eyes wandered over to Katherine, who was looking up at him now expectantly. “You too, Kat,” he said, and Katherine responded with a nod. “I need to talk to Godwin in private.” She left without a word. There were things on her mind that she wanted to say, Žižka could tell, but she would safe them for la­ter, knew that this mattered to him now. She always knew so well.

Žižka waited until he heard both their footsteps disappeare downstairs, before he set himself into motion. He walked over to where the silver rays of light were dancing on the parchment he had spread across the table. Maps, letters, charters, requests, so many names that he had long drowned in. It smelled of ink and wax, dry wood and dust. “I appreciate your honesty, God­win.” He gave a soft laugh that didn't really carry any amuse­ment with it. “In fact, you seem to be the only one here who's not trying to butter me up like a cake.”

“We barely made it out of this ambush alive. Kubyenka and Janosh are missing. The Prague church might be on our tails soon. It's only understandable that they are worried about you.” “I don't need them to be worried, much less about me.” He turned, faced the priest. He wasn't wearing the cassock any­more that Žižka had got for them, had changed it for a simple brown tunic and a black cotton hose. It suited him much better. “I need them to follow my orders and not shy away from being honest with me when my plans turn into a catastrophe. How can I be a commander when they are not fulfilling their roles as soldiers?”

Godwin shook his head and smiled softly. It was a miracle how little he had changed since they had last met. His bald skin as smooth as ever, full cheeks, a faint stubble, dark, not grey, even his brows had some colour left in them. Prague certainly did him good. “Don't be too hard on them, Jan, and please, don't judge them by my standards. I know what it's like to serve in a war as a proper soldier, they don't. All they know is how to fight amongst friends.”

It is true, Žižka thought. They had fought battles before, had called him captain and commander, but that was only ever a technicality, because he had been the one to come up with the plans, to give the orders, and occasionally they had even fol­lowed them faithfully, and afterwards they had got pissed toge­ther, had laughed and quarrelled and got into a brawl. Because they had never been an army, a troop, had only been a pack, a pack of drunkards and outcasts and robbers, a pack of devils. But a pack that was pretty damn good at what they did, because through all this they had never faltered in their respect and trust for each other. “I won't blame them for their friendship. I wel­come it, in fact.” He turned around to the table again, took the tankard and poured wine into the two cups next to it, bringing the one Katherine had drunken from to his own lips, before he handed the other one over to Godwin. “There have been whole armies that were just made up of friends, did you know that, Godwin? I even heard of some Greek troop that only hired lo­vers. Lovers, can you imagine?” Žižka took another sip, and the wine caressed his tongue and burned in his throat, and he laughed. “They fought like no other army did, because they had a cause to fight for, not only abstract concepts of honour and patriotism, but friendship and love.”

“I did not know that.”

“It is a blessing, I suppose.” He took a deep sigh. Above them, the wood of the church's roof truss cracked, as it shrunk under the heat of a new, warmer April day. “I forgot what it feels like, you know? To command this group. The pack.”

He couldn't even remember how many years had passed and how exactly it had happened. There had been beer involved, and a hot bath, and cold steel pressed to his neck. “You hate the lords of this land, don't you?” Hynek had snarled. “And you want money, even better when it's their money, am I right? Well, I have an offer for you.”And then he had introduced him to his pack, some of them, that was, while they had recruited the rest over the following year. Freeing them from prison, or being thrown into the same battle by fate, sometimes as allies, sometimes as foes. The requirement for joining the group was simple. They had to be bastards, lusting for money and willing to kick some nobility's arses. And that had worked well for a while, but times had changed, and they had grown older, and at some point money and a certain thirst for violence had stopped being the only two things that mattered.

Žižka drunk from the wine again, and was surprised to find the cup empty already. The wood cracked, the swallows chirped. It was warmer today. “Perhaps I even forgot what all of this entailed for me. What they needed from me. Perhaps that is just why Janosh and Kubyenka aren't with us right now.”

“Perhaps.” Godwin shrugged his shoulders in the same non­chalant way he always had about him. “But pondering on that won't bring them back.”

“You're right, it won't. That's what I like about you, God­win.” Žižka rubbed dust out of his right eye as he returned to the table to pour himself another cup. The other one had no feeling left in it, the sight had been gone long before, after one misfortune too many. What did it matter? One eye was plenty, and he still had his ears to hear, his brains to think, and his heart, yes, his strength of will and bravery and resistance, and maybe that was all he needed. “You are straightforward. You focus on your target, not on courtesies and forced kindness.”

Godwin laughed cynically. “Well, I'm not sure whether that's always a good thing.”

“You are a soldier. And that's what I'm in dire need of right now. A soldier, not a friend.”

“I cannot promise you to be one without the other, Jan.” The priest smiled again, that damned soft smile of his, that always felt like it was mocking all the suffering of the world, as it made it everything appear so easy. “But that doesn't mean you cannot count on me. And if it's only a kick in the arse you need, well, I can provide that both as a soldier and as a friend.”

Žižka nodded. Then he sank down on the chair where Ka­therine had sat before, and it gave him courage, feeling both close to her and to Godwin alike. “I fucked up.”

“You did.”

“We lost two of our men, and it might have been my fault.”

“It might.”

He emptied the whole cup without putting it down. Good wine, sweet but strong, and it tingled in his fingers and his thighs and made his thoughts run faster. Just what he needed now. “The man I myself brought here to give us the informa­tion we needed seems to have stabbed us in the back, which not only ruined our plan, but might also soon put the whole church and the Prague militia on our arses.”

“Very likely, yes.”

“We also don't yet know why we were betrayed.” Žižka watched as Godwin came over to him to empty the rest of the tankard into his own cup, but he remained standing. Looked down on him with those warm, impartial eyes, waiting, antici­pating. “Given that Schwarzfeld volunteered his help to me on his own, he was either played himself, or he already came here with the intention to obstruct our plans. In either way, I doubt he acted alone. No, he was sent by someone way more power­ful. And I already have a hunch who that could have been.” The biggest bastard of them all, Žižka thought bitterly. The one who brought the League of Lords together, who helped im­prison the King and crown the usurper, who had used his power to pressure commoners and lower nobility alike all around Trotznow. And Žižka had got him back good for a while. Infil­trating his gold mines in Humpolec, and then Rosenberg's very own estate in Krumlov, serving him under a different name, pouring the fucker his wine without him ever noticing. Hein­rich of Rosenberg had long stopped caring about Sigismund and Wenceslas. No, this had become personal. “But that's only speculation, and we can't go to war over baseless accusations. Perhaps Hans and Samuel will find out more.”

“Oh, I'm sure of that.”

“It's also a good thing Kobyla, Waldstein and Lamberg will be informed, so they can take precautions for similar ruses be­ing planned against them.” Radzig and Jan had after all been dealing with Rosenberg themselves over the past year, but he was tough, that sly cur. “But this is not only about us. Hus has just been prohibited from his sermons for heresy, and I might have just made the whole situation much worse for him. So we have to head out for Prague to let him know directly, only that I don't know yet how to best arrange that.”

“I think I may be able to help out with that.”

He raised his right eyebrow, looked up at the priest. There was a strained grin around Godwin's lips that was both intri­guing and concerning. “You do?”

“I may have made it sound a little easier than it actually is,” Godwin stammered, the words broken by an occasional ner­vous chuckle. “But we do share a certain group of friends, and I know the church he still goes to to preach, despite the archbi­shop's edict, and well, I also know the place where he's tea­ching. In fact,” a sip of wine, another chuckle, squinting his warm eyes, “I live there.”

“Where?”

“At the Prague university.”

“You do? Ha, Godwin, a man of a thousand talents, you've become a scholar now!”

“Oh, far from it.” He waved his cup around as if in defence, and a few drops of the good wine spilled over. “At least not as long as Hus is rector there, and we can only pray that he stays such for a while longer. But I am willing to learn, and I like to engage myself in theological discussion from time to time.”

“So what's stopping you then?”

“Well. Hus is. And my,” he cleared his throat, “lifestyle.” It was clear that he had no intention to elaborate on it further, but Žižka didn't know what to make of his insinuations either, and after a short pause he finally added: “Let's just say, a man like Hus who is holding values like decency and austerity in high esteem is not all that keen on a man who was kicked out of his own parish for drinking and whoring around. And,” he scratched his neck in embarrassment, “I may even have told Hus about it myself. Over a drink too many. So we're not on the very best terms.”

Žižka wanted to laugh, but he held it back, as not to humi­liate Godwin any further. “I see.”

“But, as I said, I happen to share friends with him. So if you want me to, I could try convincing them to arrange a meeting or at least deliver our message.”

“That may fully ruin your reputation with Hus.”

“Oh, I doubt that surrounding myself with mercenaries and robbers will come in any way as a surprise to him.”

Now he couldn't hold back the laughter any longer. To his relief, Godwin didn't seem to mind, the tightness even vanished from his expression and made room for a genuine smile. “Damn it, Godwin, you really have made a horrible first im­pression on that man, hm?”

“Perhaps one of the only things I'm truly good at.”

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, and suddenly Žižka thought he could feel a hand twist his left arm back, and a blade pressed to his throat, and the rush of danger and excite­ment pumping through his veins. “Well, you certainly made an impression on me, and I can't claim it was a bad one.”

“A knife on your throat doesn't make a bad impression on you?”

“Quite the contrary. It was everything I needed to convince me of your qualities.”

There was certain fondness on Godwin's face now, and Žiž­ka wondered whether he was still thinking back to their first meeting at Nebakov or to other moments they had shared. God­win kept it a secret. When he stepped forward to put the empty cup on the table and place a hand on Žižka's shoulder, he was all soldier again, and even more so, a friend. It was probably for the best. “Well. Off to Prague then?”

“We will wait for what Hans and Samuel can find out from Schwarzfeld. Then we'll pack and saddle our horses. I wouldn't like to stay under the same roof with a bloody traitor much lon­ger anyway.” He stood up, and his legs felt steady despite the wine, filled with new courage, new hope. “Time for a reloca­tion.”

* * *

“Sam. Sam, wait!” Hans quickened his steps to catch up with Samuel, who was storming ahead like an angry bull let loose. He reached out a hand, to hold him back by his right arm, and when Sam twirled around, his face was twisted both in anger and pain. Fuck. Hans knew that he had some bruises and cuts on his hands and face too, and when he had scratched his beard before, he had felt dried blood clumping the hair together as if he had spilled his last drink all over himself. Whatever he must look like, though, could not have been worse than this. Shit, even Sam's hand up to the root of his fingers was darkened and swollen. No wonder he was bursting with fury. “Just steady down a little, yes?”

“What?”

“We want to talk to him first. I doubt he will tell us all that much if we just beat him up.”

“Torture makes every man sing in the end.”

Hans closed his eyes for the briefest moment and took a deep breath. So, here we go again. God, give me strength to deal with this fool! “Yes, but it can also lead to them not telling you what you actually need, but only what they think you want to hear. Besides, I'd be happy if we could do this without any torturing.”

“You want to show him mercy?” Sam took a step closer to him now, so close that Hans could smell him again. Not so cal­ming now. The leather, incense and hot iron were only barely recognisable, overshadowed by sweat and blood and dirt. “Do you think he would show any mercy to us?”

“That doesn't mean we need to sink to the same level.”

“We could never sink so low.” His voice was all rough and growling, his eyes had taken the colour of grass overgrown by frost. “They act only out of greed and maliciousness.”

“Who is they? This isn't only about Schwarzfeld anymore, is it?”

“Of course it isn't! This is about something way bigger than him that you just won't understand!” He was screaming now, and Hans looked down the stairs of the tower, hoping Schwarz­feld couldn't hear them from his quarters in the adjacent com­munity hall. “And this is about me being fed up with always getting betrayed!”

“But this time, it has nothing to do with you or your people. This is about Jan Hus, and Žižka maybe, and who knows what­ever …”

“It is always the same, don't you see that? You tell me your story, and you do not understand it yourself!” The words hurt more than they should have, felt similar to the betrayal. He hadn't told Sam these secrets of his past, things he hadn't even told Henry before, only to have them used against him. “It does not matter to them whether it is people with a different faith, or a different political ideal, or a different way to love. To them we are all just vermin. Disposable tools used in their feuds. Even a lord like you.”

“Fine, fine, I get it! This is all a big chess game to the people in charge, and we are all just pieces on the board, even Žižka.” He would not be treated like a naïve child any longer, he was a ruler now, a proper lord, a fucking father! And when he now forced himself to keep his voice down and talk reassuringly to Sam, it almost felt as if he was instead talking to Heinrich or Hedwig. “But that is just the thing, you see, Schwarzfeld is ve­ry likely just another piece on this chess board himself, the same as Janosh and Kubyenka may have been. So if we truly want to find out who plays this game, we need to talk to him. Without violence.”

“I am done talking! My zeyde only talked when they hunted us down and expelled us from Prague. Your lords only talked when they blamed Liechtenstein and us for every bad deed that was ever committed in this country and hunted us down again and expelled us from Kuttenberg. Just as we had been doing nothing but talk a few years before, when they accused us of conspiring against Sigismund's uprising, when Hannah …” He pressed his lips together as if he had to physically stop more words from spilling out of him. The things he had said must have already been painful enough.

Hans nodded. “Yes, but back then you tried to cease the tal­king and take action instead, and it's not like that worked out.” He saw Sam's eyes widen in shock, as he realised that Hans had listened. It wasn't like he had tried to deceive Sam in any way, sleep had overcome him last night and rendered him un­able to speak, and Sam's talking had served as his lullaby that Hans had slowly drowned in until the very last bitter drop. “Look, I understand that you feel angry. I do too. We were supposed to die out there. Well, you were.” He could see that Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Hans interrupted him with a shake of his head. “You don't have to thank me for it. Would things have got any more dire, I'm sure I could have just talked myself out of it by showing them my ring.” It was a lie of course, there had been four of them surrounding him in the end, they would have never given him enough time to throw his fucking family crest in their face, given they could even recognise it, let alone see it in that darkness of the forest. “But it's not only about me. Henry was down there too, ex­posed. This could have ended up a lot worse.” There were tears burning in his eyes all of a sudden, and he swallowed down the fear that had crept into his throat. A long, rough night lay behind them, Sam wasn't the only one in need of some good sleep anymore. “Henry swore to protect me once, and I did the same. I know he hated the last seven years when he was stuck at the Leipa court, but at least it was safe there, for the most part. It kept him out of shit like this.”

“I doubt that he hated it or felt stuck there.” Even Sam's voice sounded rougher now than it usually did, and something in his eyes had become softer, warmer. The frost melted, lea­ving behind fresh and vibrant grass, swaying soothingly in the breeze. “At least things moved on for you. He has found his place …”

“Believe me, he hasn't.”

“He has found you.”

But is that enough? Hans thought, not daring to say the words out loud.

“I tried to build something for my people in Kolín, but in the end …” Sam shook his head. Not angry anymore, only tired. “Prague, Kuttenberg, Kolín, it's all the same. I did not only join this mission to do Henry a favour. I have heard of Jan Hus too. We do not share the same faith, but his opposition against cleri­cal and worldly rulers and against them justifying their rule by some allegedly God-given laws, I can agree with that. I had hope that this here could change something for once. But it's like you said, we are all just chess pieces. And it makes me feel helpless, and I don't want to …” He struggled for a little while, finding the right words, before he gave up.

Hans nodded. Reached out a hand and put it on Sams's arm, the left one, and as lightly as he could. “Fair. Totally fair. And that is exactly why we need to handle this with reason.”

Sam returned the nod, then they smiled softly at each other. They were both scared, they had both suffered, had both been betrayed, but if they handled this together and with a cool head, they might still get some revenge, or some answers, or at the very least some fucking rest.

They went down the last few flights of stairs a little faster, then took the door at its end that led them right into the com­munity hall, where Father Čeněk had offered them a few rooms to stay in, with the first one on the left being assigned to Schwarzfeld. They were both surprised to find Čeněk in the noble's room as they entered, and from the looks of it, both men weren't any less startled by their sudden appearance. They didn't get to ask any questions about it, as the priest just straightened his back and left with a short bow and a mumbled “My lords.” He just called all of them lord, just as he called Katherine lady. He was too old, he said, to remember which one of them held a title, and which one of those titles were also acknowledged by the King.

Sir Robert Schwarzfeld was sitting at his table, with a book and a piece of parchment in front of him. He had his sparse auburn hair covered by a cap of dark blue velvet, adorned with a peacock feather, as if he wanted to make an impression. On whom though, remained the question. Žižka had forbidden him to leave the church for at least three days now.

Schwarzfeld took in the sight of Hans and Sam for a little while, letting his eyes wander down their bloodied and bruised faces, resting on Sam's wrist a little longer, before he finally had the decency to open his mouth in shock. “Did they fight you?”

“Whom?” Hans stepped forward until he was standing right next to the writing desk. The room had no windows, the only sources of light were a candle on the table and the fireplace at the back wall, and both painted long, dancing shadows on Schwarzfeld's lean face. “You mean the four men that you pro­mised us? Oh, do not worry, Sir, there were just three of them, and one of them even ran for the hills right away. Just after that priest was shot. And not by our men.” He waited a while, examining the way in which Schwarzfeld's expression slowly changed. He was a bad actor and a worse liar, so horrible, how­ever, that it served as the perfect cover for whatever he truly thought or felt. “You set this up. You lured us into a trap.”

Schwarzfeld shook his head so vehemently that the peacock feather almost bent down all the way to his long, hooked nose. “I did not know this would happen.”

“Du falsher khazer,” Sam hissed behind him.

Hans raised a hand, demanding him to keep quiet, without taking his eyes off Schwarzfeld. “You know what, Sir? I actu­ally believe you. Because I consider you way too unimportant to be assigned a task like this. And not nearly clever enough to execute it all on your own either. But still, these men, a dozen or so of them,” Hans crouched down next to Schwarzfeld with a crooked, dangerous smile, “they knew us well. They weren't only informed about where all of this would take place. They also knew who we were. In fact, they knew more than we ever let you in on.”

“See?” Schwarzfeld's face brightened up so much that it seemed someone must have set it on fire. “It could not have been me then, could it?”

“Oh, it could. It's just that someone else must have informed you. Someone who knew more than you and brought you all this knowledge. So that you could use your money and influ­ence to gather a few more men and have them stab us in the back.”

“What, you think there is some ominous man behind me who would know all of this?”

“I think there is one, yes, but he doesn't care about the de­tails. He just pays you and gives you the ideas that you could never come up with on your own.” He tried to hurt Schwarz­feld's pride as much as he could, but it was hard to tell whether it worked. The lord's face changed its mood and colour so vi­gorously with every next sentence Hans spoke, it could have meant anything. Time to catch him by surprise then. “But Ku­byenka and Janosh knew. And since they aren't here with us right now …”

Schwarzfeld let out a laughter that could have carried any­thing from an injured pride to disbelief. “And yet you are ac­cusing me!”

“Yes, I am accusing you. Don't you want to ask me who Ku­byenka and Janosh are?”

Schwarzfeld's face changed his colour once more, he got paler around his long nose, Hans could tell even in the candle­light, and this time he knew very well what it meant. Nervous­ness. “Well, two of your men much likely.”

“Oh, clever. But you did not seem surprised in the slightest when I mentioned their names.”

“It …” He stumbled over his own words, and not deliberate­ly now. “It was evident from what you said.”

Behind him, Sam pressed out air between his teeth. “This doesn't lead anywhere.”

“You're right.” Hans nodded, then he stood up and took a few steps back, still keeping his gaze fixed on Schwarzfeld as if it was a nail that Hans had driven into his lying body. “It doesn't. We should change our tactics, I suppose.” He gave a nod in Sam's direction. “You may. If you still have some anger to let loose.”

“Oh, lots of it.” Sam didn't waste any time. In just the blink of an eye, he had rushed forward, hitting Schwarzfeld in the face with the back of his left hand. The man started to whimper and beg immediately. “Did they come and visit you in private? Did you speak with our friends?”

“I … Please, I … I don't know what you're talking about!”

Sam hit him again, just on the same spot, and a little harder now. Hans flinched from the sight of it. “Kubyenka and Janosh. The two men you just all so eagerly remembered. Did you meet with them?”

“I …”

This time, Sam didn't even give him any time to stammer out more lies. He just grabbed the lord by the neck and slammed his forehead down on the table. The blue cap flew off, knocked over an inkwell, black liquid turned the peacock fea­ther into that of a crow.

“I did!” Schwarzfeld pressed out, the words muffled and dis­torted with his nose pressed against the wood of the table. “They came to me! They said they didn't trust … didn't trust in Žižka anymore, and asked me if I could … could help them, and … I didn't know they planned an ambush like this, I just thought they might want to leave your group!”

Sam bowed down to him now, bringing his face so close to the other man's ear, Hans was certain Schwarzfeld could hear even the snarl in his breath. “Stop lying! Even if they wanted to leave us, they would just do so, instead of organising a dozen men to kill us. They wouldn't have dared to, nor would they have had the means to.”

“No, you're right, you're right, they wouldn't! But I'm sure they didn't have to. It was Egghead, yes, it must have been Egghead!”

Who? Hans wanted to ask, but he kept quiet for now, left the questioning to Sam, and he didn't have to wait long anyway.

“Who the fuck is Egghead?”

“The kind of man that you seek out when you need help with all kinds of fiddle that you cannot tell anyone else about. He will always help you, but only as long as you pay him better than someone else would.” Schwarzfeld tried to twist out of Sam's grip, but it only tightened more around his neck, as if all the strength that had left his right hand had flown into his left one instead. “I referred your friends to him! I told them I would want nothing to do with it, but that he could help them. Maybe they didn't even plan all of this either. They just wanted to get out. But I suppose they told him a thing too many, and he must have used that. Maybe he was already paid by someone else, I don't know, you got to believe me!”

“And where can we find this Egghead?”

“In Prague!” Schwarzfeld shouted out the word as if his life depended on it, despite Sam neither changing the position of his hand nor hitting him again. Sam could be frightening, Hans thought, but Schwarzfeld seemed to be scared to death. “I don't know where he lives, but there is this establishment that he fre­quents, Nový Venátky, a brothel, in the new part of the town, close to Charles Bridge. You just turn right once you cross the Vltava, not left, that's the way into the Jewish quarter, and you do not want to …” This time, Sam did take action, raising Schwarzfeld's head slightly by the neck and bringing it back down with force. The man groaned. Only out of pain, and not nearly as terrified as he had been before. “Ah no, no, I didn't mean it like that, I …”

“Stop babbling and get to the point!”

“Yes yes, Egghead, in Nový Venátky, you will find him there, I promise you! You cannot even miss him, he is bald, and his head just looks like an egg, and … Please, that's all I know, I swear, you must believe me, please …”

Hans stepped forward and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, but Sam wasn't his brother, and it took a while for him to respond. Then he finally let Schwarzfeld go with another unsatisfied snarl, and the lord slowly lifted himself up, twisting his head to all sides to ease the pain in his neck. “We do, Sir. We do believe you that this secret meeting with our friends was the only time you betrayed us.” Hans tried to put as much empha­sis into these words as he could, to let Schwarzfeld know that his cooperation changed nothing. “And we're willing to take your honesty into account when we bring word to Žižka now.”

“Thank you.” Schwarzfeld's eyes were as big as plates again, and once more his exaggerated expressions obscured any true thought or feeling he may hold. “Thank you!”

Hans tugged on Sam's shoulder again. “Leave him be and let us go.”

Sam only spoke when they were back on the stairs of the church tower. “I hate it when you order me around like a dog.”

“But it worked, didn't it? You played your role well, we both did, and we didn't even have to rehearse anything.”

Instead of walking up the stairs again, Sam made his way out onto the gallery, and Hans followed him. Watched him lean down onto the parapet, looking down to the altar. Tinted blue light fell on his face through the church windows, making him seem more exhausted than ever. “I am not so sure we actually succeeded.”

“You don't believe him?”

“Not a single word.”

“Good.” Hans stopped next to him and lowered his eyes to the sanctuary. Father Čeněk had lit some candles to its side, their smoke crept up like snakes to the flat ceiling, above which Žižka and the others were hiding. “Because neither do I.”

“He gave in way too quickly, and his words kept running like water from a well. I did not even hit him all that hard.” Sam looked down on his hand, opened and closed his fingers, light flashing on the gemstones of the rings. A sapphire, an amethyst, a pale emerald in the colour of his eyes. “I've ex­perienced much worse without saying a single word.”

The words echoed heavily through the emptiness of the buil­ding. Hans wanted to ask, but he didn't dare to. Brabant, he thought, and it made his skin crawl. He had been the one who had introduced that Frenchman into their group. He had been the one to tell the others how useful the baron would prove. Then Brabant had killed Adder for some bloody silver. Had tortured Sam to a point where it had taken him weeks to reco­ver. Betrayed. Over and over and over again. “I …” He took a deep breath, blew the air out towards the roof, following the snakes of the candle smoke. “I am lucky enough to never have experienced torture myself. But I know what it can be like and what it does to you. From Henry.”

The amethyst flickered as Sam clenched the hand into a tight fist. He did not look up, didn't say a word, but Hans could see that this was an information he hadn't expected to hear.

“It was a long time ago. Shortly before we met you, in fact, back then at Trosky.”

“Von Bergow?”

“Yes. Or rather Istvan Toth on behalf of von Bergow.”

“Hm.” Sam furrowed his brow. Hans couldn't tell whether it were only clouds outside the window or something else entire­ly that painted his expression a few shades darker. “He never told me.”

“He wouldn't have told me either. But unlike you, I share a bed with him. Naked.” Hans tried to make it sound cheerful, failed miserably and relinquished the plan. “There are certain things you can hardly hide in such an intimate situation. Like the injuries that a knife leaves on your flesh. Or tongs, or a hammer.”

Sam pressed his fingers so tightly together now, that his knuckles turned white as snow. His right hand didn't even twitch. “I cannot believe that mamzer is still alive, while so many good people have died.”

“I know how you feel.” Oh, how well he did! He hadn't asked Henry about it on their first night together, and not on their second or third one either, even though back then the scars had still been fresh. He had waited until they had finally re­turned to Rattay. In part because he hadn't dared to ruin the excitement and joy of their first shared love with such painful thoughts. But he had also been scared of the answer he would get. That Henry would say Otto von Bergow's name, the man whose life Hans had defended with his honour. “But he's a nobleman. It's not worth getting yourself killed for. And since he fled the country, allowing me to never see his face again, he might as well be dead to me. So, as a wise man once said,” he gave Sam a smile, and didn't fail this time, even though it was all coated with sadness, “we should leave the dead behind and rather take care of the living.”

Sam nodded. The fist loosened a bit. “He really was wise. I wish we could have understood more of his wisdom.”

Hans had to chuckle at the thought. “Well, I'm not sure if much of his wisdom actually exceeded the lusting for female bodies.”

“And souls. Do not forget their souls. Adder could be quite romantic sometimes.”

They shared the laugh, and it was a welcome feeling, eased the anger and the fear and all the frustration of the previous hours. It brought back the exhaustion too. Jesus Christ, what Hans hadn't given for a soft bed and a good sleep now! “Come on.” He gave Sam's arm a pat, before he straightened himself to leave for the staircase. “We need to tell Žižka what we found out. And then we may need to pay beautiful Prague a visit. Schwarzfeld might have spoken nothing but lies, but I doubt he made this Egghead fella up. Maybe he can be someone to find out more from.”

They didn't have to search long for Žižka. They didn't even have to walk up the stairs, in fact. It was Žižka who came ru­shing down to them, closely followed by Godwin who had a pained smile on his lips, and Katherine who just shook her head silently at Hans and Sam as soon as she noticed them.

Žižka didn't care. He just laughed, put his hands to Hans's shoulders, and gave him a few strong slaps that almost tossed him over. “You're back, boys. Fantastic! Tell us what you found out on the way. We will leave for Prague!”

* * *

The place reeked of death from a few hundred feet away. It was a miracle nobody seemed to have taken note of it yet.

Perhaps it was still too early for anyone to come by. The sun had only just heaved its body over the horizon, birds of the night still shared their song with the birds of the morning, and both promised that there would be a wonderful day ahead.

There was no trace of that wonderful day out here in the gorge. On the first glance, it was only a carriage, stopped in the middle of the road, and some strange and twisted figures both on top of the carriage and in front of it. For any wanderer who wasn't familiar with death, it would take a while to understand that the horribly pale sack of rags hanging from the coachman's seat was actually a priest drained off all his blood. Then they would realise that the two other bundles on the ground where in fact the lifeless bodies of young men, sliced open neatly by swift strokes of a sword. And only then would they lift their gaze to the right and see the rest of the carnage. The corpses scattered across the slope of the hill, staining the grass the co­lour of copper.

Kubyenka and Janosh were more than familiar with death. They noticed the smell and they recognised the twisted shapes of a men who had died in agony. And yet, even Kubyenka had to swallow down his disgust at the sight of it.

“This is bloodbath,” Janosh breathed out behind him. “Look just like …”

“If you say anything about any kind of mashed food now, I swear, I'm going to forget myself.”

“What you think Janosh for? Heartless ox?”

Kubyenka ignored the remark and got closer to the carriage. Judging by the colour of their skin and the stiffness of their bodies, they were clearly lying here for a few hours. So this had happened just when their little fraud should have taken place. And things went horribly wrong. “Well, we left worse things behind.” They could only pray that it had been the pack who was responsible for this slaughter, instead of being on the receiving end.

Kubyenka kicked over some splinters covering the ground next to the carriage with the toe of his boot. “That must be this spark of God or whatever shit Žižka called it.”

Janosh stepped past him and made the sign of the cross, before he reached out to turn the priest around carefully. Blood was covering his whole neck like some pretty fur collar, a bolt had hit him right into the windpipe. “You think Hans miss?”

“Hans never misses. He's a better shot than me, even a better shot than the Devil was.”

“So someone else come and kill priest down?”

“Not only someone. You don't get ambushed by two diffe­rent groups at the same time and place by mere accident.” He kicked the glass again, this time with more force, causing it to fly up high into the air and into the bushes on the side of the road. “Fuck!” They should have been here when this had hap­pened. Would it have changed a thing? Who knew, with so many bodies lying around, armed men all of them, from what Kubyenka could tell. But at least they would have gone through this together. As the pack that they were!

“If only bald guy not hold us back.”

“Aye. That bald guy.” He made his way to the slope that the bodies covered like cobblestone covered a pathway. It had all gone according to plan so perfectly. They had come to Uzhitz early in the morning, had waited there for the priest to arrive, Janosh had even rejected some local woman for their cause. Around noon, the priest had showed up and settled in the inn for a few hours. They had watched the priest and his men care­fully from a distance, just as Žižka had wanted them to. And then this bald guy had approached them. Had offered Kubyen­ka a game of dice and some beer, and fuck, he should have declined, but wouldn't that have only drawn attention to them? So he had agreed, played, won, and the bald guy had left for another round of beer, and he had handed it out both to Ku­byenka and to Janosh. It had knocked them out as good as the kick of a horse. When Janosh had finally woken him with a slap to the face, the priest and his men were gone, and night had long fallen over the land.

Kubyenka kneeled down to take a closer look at another dead body. Only few pieces of armour, but a good sword in his hand. Had died of stab wounds, right into the thigh. Kubyenka grunted in frustration. “This doesn't make any sense. I get that all of this must have been a trap from the start, and that this bald guy played a role in it too. But for what reason? Sure, they killed the priest that was supposed to carry the tidings of joy to Prague for us, but is that all? And so much effort.” He looked up, counted the bodies. Four here on the slope, but there were more up there on the top of the hill he couldn't see from his po­sition. “All these people … And where the fuck are our men?”

A rustling above, and the breaking of rotten wood. Kubyen­ka shot up to his feet. There was movement up there. At first he believed it must be one of the bodies that wasn't as dead as he had believed him to be, but then he saw that it was another man instead, hunched over the corpse like a feral dog. Pressing his own chest close to the dead one, as if he wanted to embrace it. No. He was hiding. Playing dead.

The man let out the panicked scream of a child as Kubyenka grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the corpse, only to throw him right back into the grass next to it. Before the man could even react, Kubyenka had drawn his knife, holding the blade to the other one's throat. He was a child, Kubyenka could see that now. A boy still gifted with the soft features of a girl, without a single hair on his chin. His youth hadn't stopped him from rummaging through the belongings of a dead man, though.

“What the hell happened here?”

The boy whined again, and tried to raise both his hands to show that he was unarmed, but from the way Kubyenka held him down, it remained a pathetic attempt. “Let go off me, and I will tell you everything you want to know!”

That little shit thought he could negotiate. In his position! Kubyenka let the blade dance across the boy's jaw, up to his ear, and watched him quiver with a proud smile. “How about I cut your ear off, and then you tell me everything I want to know while you beg me for mercy that I don't cut your other ear off as well?”

“Alright, alright! Please, do not harm me!” A little shit, yes, but a coward too. Perfect. This should be easy then. “My name is Štěpán of Tetín.”

“Oh, how good for you, but I did not ask you for your fu­cking name, sonny, I asked what happened here.”

“Well, I don't know either! I just arrived.” He nodded clum­sily into the direction above his head, and when Kubyenka raised his eyes, he saw a grey, feeble horse with crooked legs gawking at him from the bushes.

Kubyenka used some more force on the knife, and the blade cut into the boy's flesh, drawing a single drop of blood from his white skin and a loud cry from his mouth. There were even tears in his eyes. Kubyenka paid it no attention. “Don't fuck with me, boy. When we came here, you were already digging through the corpses like a vulture.”

The boy lifted his head and peered down the hill, only now noticing Janosh, it seemed, who was still at the carriage loo­king for explanations he wouldn't find. When the boy stared back up to Kubyenka, his wet, walnut eyes had widened and his face had brightened up as if there wasn't still a man with a knife pushing him into the ground. “You … You are Kubyenka, aren't you?”

Damn him. He sounded just as excited as if he had just met the hero from one of the old wives' tales his nurse had sung him. “How do you know my name? Who told you?”

“A man named Lukas. He was one of the mercenaries who came with the priest. He said he had a long talk with you and the Hungarian in a tavern in Uzhitz.”

Kubyenka furrowed his brow in confusion. “Is he bald?”

“No?” A question, not an answer, but Kubyenka would take what he could get.

“Then we never talked to him.”

“But you are Kubyenka, aren't you?”

He whistled in annoyance through his teeth and turned the knife a little as a warning. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“No, listen. He knew your name! Kubyenka and the Hunga­rian, that's what he said!”

“Janosh,” Janosh proclaimed behind him. Apparently he, too, had realised that the carriage wouldn't hold anything of value for them, and had joined them on the hill instead.

The boy shrugged his shoulders, or tried to at least. “Well, he didn't seem to know your name.”

“Hm.”

“But he claimed that the priest talked to you in this tavern. And that you were the ones who convinced him of going by night.”

“No,” Kubyenka shook his head, “Schwarzfeld told him. We spoke to the priest just as little as we spoke to any of the mer­cenaries he had hired.”

The boy bit his bottom lip as he pondered. “No, Lukas didn't mention anyone by the name Schwarzfeld.”

“Interesting.” And it truly was interesting, became more in­teresting by the minute, but it also made his headache grow with every new piece of information, as if he hadn't been vexed by that enough ever since drinking that fucking beer the bald guy had brought them. “Did he talk about our men at least? Four men, two of them were dressed up as priests.”

“Yes, he talked about those priests! He said that they stopped them here in the middle of the road, and spoke of Hus and his preachings. And then they got ambushed. The priest was shot from up here, apparently, and his mercenaries got attacked by all these men.”

“But not our men. I don't know any of these people.”

“And we not here to kill anyone,” Janosh added. “Only wan­ted talk to priest.”

“It was a trick,” Kubyenka explained, wondering why he even bothered, but somehow he had taken a strange liking to this boy. “A magic trick, or at least that's what Žižka called it.”

“Žižka?” The boys eyes widened again. “Jan Žižka?”

“What is he to you?”

“Nothing. I mean, he's quite famous around these lands of course, but that's not it. I just got curious because Petr of Haug­witz mentioned him. A lot, in fact.”

“Who?”

“A knight that came to my guardian Sir Ondřej Duba of Zle­nice a few months ago.” He stopped himself, thought for a while, then nodded as if he had just answered some question no one had even asked. “I think he knows you too.”

“Who does? This Haugwitz fella? I don't know anyone of that name.”

“No.” The boy laughed. “Neither do I.” Then he raised his hands all of a sudden and grabbed Kubyenka's arms, not to push him away, but to hold him, as his eyes widened again in excitement. The fear from before had vanished fully. “Listen, you need to come with me to Zlenice right now. We need to convince Sir Ondřej that this here had nothing to do with you or with Jan Hus and his followers. Because if we don't get there in time, he will send a letter to Prague, telling the archbishop that you were responsible for this massacre!”

“We're no followers of Hus, boy.”

“Even more of a reason to come with me then! Help me sort this out! For us and for yourself. Perhaps we can even find your friends this way.”

Kubyenka looked back to Janosh, who only shrugged his shoulders. Might as well give it a try.

“Fine.” He lifted the knife off the boy's throat by dragging it slowly across his skin as a warning. “I think I might like you enough to trust you. But if we find out that you're only playing us here, I'm gonna forget that liking very, very quickly. And then I'm gonna cut off more than just your ears.”

“I understand.” He swallowed nervously and still had the guts to beam like the star of Bethlehem.

Kubyenka shook his head in disbelief, before he finally got up, offering a hand to the boy to help him get to his feet as well. Then he glanced over at the old mare that grazed peace­fully just a few steps away from them, as if the whole ground that surrounded her wasn't covered in stinking blood and rot­ting flesh. “Now I just hope that this Zlenice of yours isn't too far away. Because Janosh and me didn't bring any horses with us. And I doubt this nag of yours will be able to carry all three of us.” And if it is far, he added silently, then I will be the one to ride. Let Janosh and the boy run! He for one was getting far too old for this shit.

[reanimatestar]

go white girl go <3

[image description: pencil drawings of the artist's original character, darla goodwin. she is a white woman with wavy mid length hair.

the first image is a page of drawings. the first is a fullbody of her in a simple style. she is smiling, and wears a crop top with a high neck, loose jeans, and mary janes. she is carrying a tote bag over her right shoulder. the rest of the page is filled with busts of various expressions, such as her looking irritated, scowling, and smiling. there are also two other simple drawings of her sitting down and wearing large sunglasses respectively.

the second image is a bust of her in profile. she is looking at the viewer and smiling slightly. she is wearing a chiton instead of her usual outfit. /end description]

[disneyvillainsdaily]

Thinking about Lilo & Stitch makes me really appreciate certain things about the original + the series. Almost every single named [human] character in the movie isn’t white: the only exception being Mertle, y’know, the bratty little girl we’re not supposed to like.

Besides all of the racial representation, Lilo herself is very much a neurodivergent icon, and her portrayal as the protagonist is amazing considering how characters like her are typically either sidelined or depicted in ways to make them less sympathetic/human (modern media does at least a slightly better job at adressing that kind of thing tho).

So all of that is great, but to anyone that hasn’t seen Lilo & Stitch: The Series, it also does some extremely refreshing stuff.

Pleakley gets tons of validation to dress in drag, everyone always referring to Pleakley as “she” when dressed up as “aunt Pleakley.” There’s even an episode that tackles Pleakley dealing with the pressures of his family that wants him to marry a girl and settle down to have a “normal life.” After the episode's shenanigans, there's a realistic depiction of the misunderstanding of a heteronormative/traditional parent with their non-traditional child: Pleakley's mom says that she just wants her children to be happy, but when Pleakley says that he is happy, she thinks he's only trying to console her as she insists, "How can you be happy? You aren't even married." But Pleakley finally gets it through to his mom when he says, "I don't want to be married, mother! I'm happy just as I am."

After getting to meet all of Pleakley's ohana throughout the episode and hearing from Pleakley himself -after all of the previous misunderstandings- that he really, truly, is happy, she's finally starting to understand.

Even though his mom comments as they leave that she wants him to “try wearing men’s clothes more often,” she still does walk away accepting that she simply doesn’t understand her son's way of thinking. It’ll definitely be hard for her since she’s so much more “traditional,” but she’s finally coming to grips with the fact that her son is who he is, and likes being that way, so she’ll love him regardless. She's trying her best.

The portrayal of people with physical disabilities is also great. It’s not because there’s one recurring character with some condition, but almost because there are non-recurring characters. It isn’t in every episode, but here’s an example: they want to show someone at the park playing fetch with their dog for just one shot. They could very easily have it be any a random person, but they decided to make it a lady in a wheelchair. There's another episode where Nani's friends from highschool show up and one has forearm crutches, but not just because she had some recent accident. No one in the episode questions her condition or feels the need to point it out, the only comment on it being that the friend will use the crutches to lightly bonk the others' arms, and Nani jokes, "You are still deadly with that thing."

The fact that they include characters with disabilities when they "don't have to" makes it that much more normal. These people aren't some special case or the main highlight of the episode, they're just another person. They're normal.

There's so much that all of the original Lilo & Stitch media did right, but now the name will forever be tainted with the association of the remake, which I'm sure will have absolutely none of the tasteful writing and ideas of anything prior to it.

[existence-is-a-pain87]

MONSTER AU AS I TRY TO CRAWL OUT OF WRITERS BLOCK!!! (Haha ima totally hate anything I write for this BUT I NEED TO TRY MY BEST!!)

Here Be Monsters

Yandere!Monster!Dandy's World x Toon?Reader

Wanrings: Obsession and other general yandere behaviors, gore, blood, swearing

IMPORTANT NOTE: I do not own all the monster versions of the Toons in this! Fxnn the Fishbowl and Faceless Shrimpo belongs to KC99 (marsol2099 helped create Fxnn though). I'm just using them in this AU because I think they're cool, hope yall don't mind. <3

Also, if yall don't want to create a special Toon for the reader in this, feel free to just use my OC Endri (ima make her the canon protagonist in this because... eh I'm too lazy to create a reader-centric Toon rn, hope yall don't care too much). (Also yes she shares my name, she's a self-insert <3)

Furthermore, I'm planning on this to be like a Part 1 where not all Toons are showed. You wanna see more of this? Then request a Part 2 or smth, idk. Hehe.

--☆☆☆☆☆--

You've been stuck in that basement for 20 years.

It wasn't like the depths of the facility you were used too, as a scrapped Toon. You were used to roaming around, being made to help out with the handlers and human employees with moving equipment or helping clean up spills of ichor.

But after your Incident? After you drowned in that... Ocean of Darkness?

...they put you in a basement you learnt was made for Dandy. Because they thought you were a Monster.

And you believed them. Why?

Because you weren't a Toon originally.

No, you used to be a human. You died in a car accident, and was reborn as a Toon.

Why?

Probably for some sick and twisted beings' amusement.

Because the Toons were obsessed. Whether romantic or platonic, it did not take them long after meeting you to show a crazed obsession with you.

Yet they contained themselves, to an extent. To the point you could call them your friends.

But you haven't seen them in 20 years.

You were painfully used to the small series of rooms that trapped you in. Allowed you to dwell, and remember your life as a human. Allowed you to learn how to return to the form of a Toon from your giant Twisted form, and to return to that form at will.

You learnt how your eyes had little white pupils at all times now, and would turn red when you got dangerously close to turning unwillingly.

But you learnt. You had to.

...

It was easy to figure out when you were abandoned.

You weren't angry. You knew Gardenview shut down at this point, you played Dandy's World when you were human. It probably shut down shortly after they locked you away and no one could find you.

It was fine, you didn't die. The ichor within you forcibly kept you alive, despite years of starvation and tons of dehydration.

You managed to break through a wall enough and find a pipe, and through a stroke of luck you managed to break it in a specific way that allowed water to come through, so the dehydration issue was solved.

But god, you were hungry.

You did try to ration your food, but 20 years is a long time.

After the food ran out and you broke the wall, you turned your focus to the door.

It was heavily reinforced, more so than the wall with the water pipe.

It took practically 15 years to break through.

15 long, grueling years.

And when you finally got through?

You turned back, desperate to not scare anyone, and immediately began hunting.

No other Toons knew of the little research facility within Gardenview they were born from. You did, though. And you scrounged for food.

Thank whatever evil deity that did this to you because there were tons of canned food that were designed to last this time.

You were never more grateful the cans of soup lasted over twenty years until they expired. You ate tons of canned soup that day.

And the next day. You were bringing that soup with you, you were not starving anymore.

You refused to starve again.

You had a plan. One to leave Gardenview.

It would mean reaching the top, but you could do it. And you could get out and form a life outside of thie facility.

Why?

Because you learnt how to turn into a human.

--☆☆☆--

Your initial plan was to try the elevator.

Unfortunately, it seemed to almost... lose power and plummet down.

Thankfully you survived, but you knew you had to find a new elevator.

You remembered the mines. Even lower down in the earth than your prison, but filled with five generators that would power a backup elevator in emergencies.

...you did not like roaming through these empty depths. You found and grabbed some random items on the ground, and kept going.

When you found that first generator, you quickly booted it back up. It wasn't hard, you've done it before.

But when it booted back up the power, you heard someone.

"What's that? Someone's here?"

You paused, looking back from where you stood in front of the generator.

"It's been a long time since I've sea-n someone..."

Finn..?

"Oh. You must be apart of those lunatics that did this to me... I'll make this quick."

...what?

...

You acted quickly. You knew the implication behind those words.

But... lunatics? Why did he assume you were not a Toon? What even happened here?

You knew better than to stop and dwell right now. You just ran.

But dammit, your stealth was never that great.

And when you saw him?

...that wasn't Finn anymore. A chunk of his head was gone, one hand had large claws, and he carried a bloodstained axe.

...Why was his head leaking blood, though? And why would he charge at anyone with an axe?

You knew he wouldn't kill you, but you were immediately scared you'd kill him if you entered your Twisted form.

So you just ran, your feet thudding against the ground. And he chased.

God was he faster than before, and laughing. Why was he laughing? Why was he taking joy in the idea of hurting another?

What happened to the Finn who would crack fish puns at you and ask you to take care of Barnaby Wilikers when he was being taken away somewhere for a bit.

Then you drowned.

...was this where he was taken? And they did this to him?

...wait.

WAIT!

You still have Barnaby Wilikers on you, don't you? You cleaned off all the ichor from him and kept him safe and close.

What if..?

"GO AWAY!" You yelp out, pulling out Barnaby Wilikers and gently tossing the toy fish at...

Fxnn. That's what he is now.

Barnaby lands square in Fxnn's bowl, staying in neatly despite the damage. Immediately, Fxnn freezes and reaches into his head, giving you a chance to get away and find a new generator.

"...How did you get him?" You hear him ask, "How?!"

You don't dare respond, focusing on the machine. You hear him mumble to himself, but can't make out the words.

"...did you do something to them?"

...uh oh.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM?!"

OH SHIT, YOUR PLAN BACKFIRED.

Did he think you weren't yourself? How couldn't he piece together that this was you?

HOW BLIND WAS HE?!

You quickly fixed the machine and bolted, right as Fxnn charged in, readying the axe to chop off anything from your body until you died.

You kept running, didn't dare to stop, as you desperately fixed machines.

You fixed four by the time he cornered you.

"There you are, you bastard..." He breathlessly says, "Haha, you're a quick one, you know that? Reel hard to catch... but no more games. I'll kill you for what you did to them, because there's no other way you'd get Barnaby Wilikers..."

"...Finn, are you fucking blind?" You blurt out, "Like, how? How do you not recognize me as a Toon? I'm fucking tiny compared to a human! I'm not a human!"

He freezes, eye widening as he lowers the axe.

"...Angelfish..?" He weakly croaks out, sounding almost relieved yet even more terrified, "Is that... you?"

You quickly squirm away, managing to avoid the hand he reaches for you with.

"Stay back!" You yelp out, shaking a bit. You were terrified something would go wrong and you'd hurt him.

"Angelfish-?" Fxnn asks, looking panicked when you start running, "Angelfish, WAIT!"

He kept calling for you as you fled, searching for you as you rebooted the last generator and got the spare elevator running.

"NO! NONONO!" He roared out as you made a mad dash, "GET BACK HERE! I'M NOT LOSING YOU AGAIN!"

...How long as Fxnn been down here? As long as you were imprisoned?

How could they do this? Why could they?

You becoming a Twisted was an accident. This had to be on purpose. There were no machines of blood, unlike the pit of ichor you drowned in.

...You got an idea.

You didn't need to take an elevator, necessarily. Your Twisted form was primarily ichor, not to mention huge. You could climb into the vents and clamber through like you were Yatta.

So as Fxnn reached for you and you got to the elevator, you hopped to the side and shoved Fxnn in there.

He stares at you with a wide eye, and you sheepishly grin back as the elevator slams shut and starts going up.

You wheeze a bit, horrified by what you just experienced, but just want to leave.

So you go into the vents, and start climbing through.

Completely unaware of Fxnn's shaky laughter, his broken mind thinking you sacrificed yourself for him for some reason, and his desperation to see you after seemingly losing you again.

Cod, he loves you.

--☆☆☆--

You didn't know Yatta would be in the vents.

Or... what remained of Yatta.

It started with you seeing dark ribbons in the vents, randomly laid over each other, some knotted together.

You tried to ignore it and keep moving. Ignoring the faint clanging you heard in the vents you swore wasn't you. You tried to ignore the feeling of being watched that came later, and the feeling of being followed.

Then, you found pieces of ichor-stained candy wrappers in the vents.

When you paused in your crawling to pick one up, you heard a quiet chitter.

It made you tense and move a little quicker.

And made what was following you quicker. And giggle.

Then you felt a hand grab your ankle. You squeak and glanced back, seeing Yatta.

Her head was bashed in, one eye hanging by a tendril of ichor, but both staring intently at you. Her mouth is curved up in a grin that feels too big, until you realize she no longer has lips.

You barely see her legs, but all you can really see are stumps. Her ribbon tail is too long, disappearing into the darkness as you realize those black ribbons are her tail, and it seems like it's constantly growing.

She lets out a chitter, opening her mouth as candy spills out, gargled, excited words, desperately trying to leave her candy-stuffed throat.

You let out a screech, and drag your leg away and start crawling.

She's much more skilled at crawling through vents than you, though. So she easily catches and grabs onto you, arms wrapping around your waist as she pulls onto you in a hug.

She tries to say something, and candy falls onto your back. She rests her head on your back, and you feel her eye- wet, uncomfortably wet- press into your neck.

You shake slightly, as Yatta lets out a content purr.

"Yatta, let go."

You assume she replies with a garbled 'no'.

"Please, Yatta, I could hurt you."

Her eye narrows, as she looks a tad bit skeptical.

"Yatta, please. I may not look it, but I've become dangerous. I could hurt you, even kill you."

She may be a Twisted now, but it's not to your extent. You're terrified for her.

Yatta drags herself more onto you, clearly uninterested in letting go.

She just found you after TWENTY years, and now you're leaving? How RUDE!

"...Yatta, please."

She ignores you.

"...Would Looey approve? Or Blot? I'd think they'd ask you to let go."

Yatta looks up at you, tilting her head.

"What if you let me go? Wouldn't they like to see me again? You can show me where they are!"

Yatta hesitates, before letting go.

"...Thank you. You can show me the way now."

She turns and starts crawling away, expecting you to follow.

You don't follow. You move the opposite direction before she notices you aren't following and keep moving up.

You manage to get out on a higher floor as Yatta realizes you didn't follow her and immediately starts searching for you again.

You left her? AGAIN?! Why?! How DARE you! She's going to drag you back into the vents and NEVER LET YOU GO!!!

--☆☆☆--

You ended up in Astro's room.

He used to bring you here all the time. Mostly for naps with him.

You were glad to be in a familiar place, though.

You immediately started moving to go find one of the elevators, trying to ignore the eyes in the wall. Why did the walls have eyes? And why did they all snap to stare at you as you went, and you felt... exhausted.

You yawned but kept moving, mumbling weakly under your breath.

Then you saw it in the middle of the room.

Its top half looked like Astro without his blanket, even if it was larger than how he normally was. But his lower half looked like a slug's body made of ichor, blankets, and eyes, with his hat seeming to blend into it.

He was staring at you, and you felt even more exhausted. Your legs started shaking as this Twisted form of Astro seems to slowly start approaching you.

You try to hold yourself together as Astro manages to approach you, all four of his arms wrapping around you as you almost fall asleep.

"Starshine..."

You glance up at Astro, trying to push away.

"Let... go..."

"Why? It's been so long since I've seen you, please don't make me lose you again..."

"Astro... please..."

His gaze is usually soft, as he presses your face to his chest.

"Shh... You're exhausted. Just sleep."

No...

"I promise your dreams will be perfect."

No..!

"You'll barely tell you're asleep. You'll be completely okay. I won't lose you again."

NO!

You barely processed when you were in your Twisted form, dragging yourself out of Astro's arms. You could barely recognize how his eyes widened, the way his mouth opened and closed as his mind reeled.

You let out a snarl, being unable to speak from the ichor leaking from your mouth.

Astro wasn't too fazed. He just reached out and took your hands, staring at you with a mournful look.

"...I'm sorry I couldn't stop you from becoming like him."

You pause, giving Astro a confused look, as your Twisted form makes his exhausting effect notably less effective. He brings your hands to his face and buries his face in then, looking absolutely mournful.

"I'm so sorry, starshine."

You try to pull away as his grip tightens slightly.

"Please stay, starshine. I don't want to lose you again. I love you."

You hesitate, grimacing.

"I know you don't love me back. But I'd love you no matter what happens. Please don't leave me."

--☆☆☆--

You managed to get away from Astro after lying about you planning on returning to him.

As you turned back to your Toon form and entered the elevator, you let out a quiet sigh as the door shut.

Finally. You're almost out. Just have to ride the elevator to the top and leave the building.

You're so close to freedom. Freedom from the obsession, freedom from this prison, and freedom from living life as a Toon.

You can be human again.

Then you hear a click behind you, the sound of something rolling up from the floor, and the sound of uncomfortably familiar music fill your ears.

...no...

You don't dare turn around. You just hope your mind deceives you.

"Hello, dewdrop!"

Pretend you didn't hear.

"Dewdrop, turn around~"

Don't move, don't move...

"..."

Please go away, please go away...

"Dewdrop. Turn around. Before I make you."

You slowly look behind you. And like a light switch, Dandy's scowl turns to a happy grin.

...Not him...

"Oh dewdrop, it's been so long since I've seen you!" He says, standing behind the counter of his shop. "You have no idea how much we've all missed you!"

He leans on the counter, staring at you with adoring eyes. "How much I've missed you."

"...Hello, Dandy." You quietly murmur.

"...Oh, come here, you." He instructs, beckoning you closer, "Let me show you just how much I've missed you~"

You cringe at his tone- attempting to be seductive- and his lidded eyes, or the way he tries to beckon you closer.

"No Dandy. I need to go to another floor."

Your reply is curt, and you look away as his expression immediately sours.

"...How are you not like the others?" You suddenly ask, "Not... Twisted? Or Broken?"

Dandy laughs. "Well, because I was waiting for you to come back, of course! I searched high and low for you, you know? But I couldn't find you. But that didn't mean I gave up, no most certainly not!"

You try not to scowl as his tone almost goes smug. "Isn't that what anyone who loves you would do?"

You look away from him, taking a breath to steady yourself.

"I don't love you, Dandy."

"...what?"

"I don't love you." You repeat, "I never did, and I don't think I ever will. Please leave me alone. I need to go."

"...No."

Then, a sickeningly wet crack fills your ears. And another. And another.

Before you can even look back, you let out a screech as you're forced to hit the ground as... he lands on you.

Oh god. He's like you.

A Twisted version of Dandy- even bigger than your own Twisted form- looms over you. He takes up most of the elevator. And one of his ginormous hands- with those sharp and almost dagger-like claws- wrapped around your throat.

"Oh dewdrop, my sweet, stupid dewdrop." He snarls out, a faux grin of sharp teeth plastered on his face. "Why must you lie? I know you adore me. Not as much as I adore you, but still."

His grip on your neck tighten. You choke slightly, tears welling in your eyes as you tightly squeeze them shut.

You do not dare to let him see that you're like him.

You do not dare let the delusions that will bring come to your reality.

"Perhaps I need to show you my love." He muses, as his other talon gently runs down your arm, a claw twirling across it and pausing uncomfortable close to your waist, "Drill it into your silly little head that we are in love. Make you accept these feelings you are so unused to."

You shake as his hot breath caresses your face.

He laughs, nuzzling into your cheek. Your breathing becomes far too ragged for your liking.

"...I see you shake. You're scared." He lets out a curt laugh, "Oh, what are you scared of? I'd never dare harm you! You're just my little dewdrop. A tiny drop of water that can barely stand on its own! I'd never dare to evaporate you, you pretty little thing."

Should you turn into a Twisted? Risk the delusions to fight him off?

No, are you stupid? He would kill you!

...or worse.

"No, I'll wait to teach you the extent of my adoration." Dandy tells you with a smirk, "You aren't quite ready for it, my dear dewdrop. But I won't take you to the surface, I know that's where you desperately seek to go. Not yet, at least."

His other talon gently trails down your side as he hums.

"Get me tapes." He instructs you, "As many as you can get your tiny, little hands on. Bring them to me, and I'll take you to see the sun. Would you like that?"

You weakly nod, not daring to enrage him more.

"Good." He coos at you, giving you what you can only guess is a kiss on the cheek. "I love you, my little dewdrop~"

You weakly mutter back something similar, not meaning a word you said. However, he seems content.

You don't dare open your eyes as the pressure on you subsides. Nor as the wet cracks signifying Dandy's return to Toon form. Nor as the sound of Dandy's shop leaving fills your ears.

You only open your eyes when the elevator stops and opens.

You've never left an elevator faster.

[siriuslyobsessedwithfiction]

Writing YA books about Faes/Faeries: Holly Black and Sarah J. Maas

I’ve started to notice this trend and discussions on how some hardcore SJM fans didn't enjoy The Cruel Prince, whereas the Cruel Prince fans tend to be critical of SJM’s work.

Some of it can be blamed on tiktokification of reading, essentially wanting to just read porn, which would be fine, if people would admit to it instead of shitting on good YA books and making them unpopular, which results in publishing of more mediocre smut with problematic undertones with no consistent plot, which in turn dumbs down the audience. There's no need to turn an entire age category of books into Wattpad fanfics.

I’ve seen ACOTAR fans on tiktok (before I deleted tiktok) say they “didn’t get” Cruel Prince or had to DNF because it was “boring” and "too much politics, no smut”. I had heard all of that before I read either Holly Black's or SJM's work so here's an objective take because I'm not a hardcore fan of either of them.

If you think The Cruel Prince has a lot of politics, you have been tiktokified or don't remember a book that wasn't romance or YA to begin with, so please go read one. It's good for you to broaden your horizons. It doesn't have a lot of politics even for YA. But I will say this: the pacing was slow and the romance was practically nonexistent. You'll have to really look into details and speculate. I wasn't digging it at first at all. I had to come back and reread it again after finishing the trilogy. I fell in love with Jude x Cardan only during the second reread. The Cruel Prince trilogy is not for smut seekers.

However, what some fans don't realize is that unlike SJM, Holly Black doesn't excuse Cardan's or Jude's actions to make them look like great people and leaders or forces the narrative and other characters' pov's to do that. Holly actually writes Fae as what they're supposed to be - actual different creatures from humans with different ways of thinking and feeling. I read somewhere that humans have black vs white morality they navigate, while the fair folk have orange vs blue morality. It's not the same for them, and yet, ones who are actually evil are easily distinguishable. Holly manages to pull that off beautifully. The writing in that regard is masterful. I would also say that Jude and Taryn have adapted to and adopted orange vs blue morality in their own ways. Which translates in them seeking security in the world that's not designed for them, as well as their ambitions.

SJM, on the other hand, writes Fae as way too powerful, constantly horny, conventionally hot people. There is no orange vs blue or even grey morality, they're just selfish people with victim complexes. Their backstories serve as an excuse, not as an explanation. Everyone yaps about how powerful they are but always need their asses saved. PTSD is written unrealistically and the author only whips it out when she needs it. Characters' grand gestures of growth feel shallow since they always go back on their words or ignore the actual root of problems. Faerie folklore is not properly explored, random mythology is tossed in, plot bends backwards to make the perfect ending for protagonists...I would call it porn with plot except the smut isn't even good.

SJM also can't write politics, so instead she feeds her readers propaganda so they won't question the rulers' incompetence and incapacity to make a change in centuries. The whole thing feels like a parody of making fun of filthy rich people. It would be at least somewhat clever if it was.

Lastly, a shout-out to Margaret Rogerson for writing the best and loveliest way I've seen about what it's like to give up humanity to become Fae and grapple with remaining humane in her book An Enchantment of Ravens. Fair warning though, the book is pure fluff, no smut.

[zaebeecee]

No, you don't want the Hays Code to come back.

Listen, I get it. I'm aroace. I don't like sitting through gratuitous sex scenes that do nothing for the plot and exist solely for the purpose of "being a sex scene in the movie". It's lazy writing and a cheap marketing ploy, to be sure, but don't try to fool yourself into believing that a return of the Hays Code will somehow only change this particular aspect of film, and that everything else will be allowed to flourish as a result.

Let's pretend that the Hays Code did come back. If that ever happened, what kinds of things could you expect from all film, going forward? Well, we're going to go on a journey. I'm going to go through the Hays Code (which you can find here in its entirety if you'd like to read it) point by point, and the following list is just what immediately comes to mind while doing that. I promise you, the full list is much, much longer.

Things you could look forward to if the Code came back:

You don't get any more sympathetic villains. The very first rule of the Hays Code is "the sympathy of the audience should never be thrown to the side of crime, wrongdoing, evil or sin".

There will be no more characters who are happily allowed to live any lifestyle alternative to the Average American Nuclear Family With Dad And Mom And 2.5 Kids And A Dog. This includes everything from queer representation to just having a woman who doesn't want to get married (or, Heaven forfend, wants a divorce). Any characters who are living lives like this will either 1) have this rectified by the end of the story, usually by falling in love with the promise of marriage and a family, or 2) die.

There won't be any more criticism of the police or the government unless it comes from villains, at which point the criticism will be so cartoonishly over the top and miss the point so hard it isn't even criticism anymore. If a protagonist holds any of these views, they will very quickly be "set straight".

You won't have any more horror movies with any part of the horror coming from the portrayal of a character's death, because the Code prohibits murder shown in any context that people might theoretically be able to imitate or with any brutality whatsoever. The shower scene in Psycho pushed this rule almost to its breaking point.

All crime procedurals will be barebones by necessity, because even crime on property or non-violent crime (theft/robbery, arson, smuggling, etc) will not be allowed to be presented with any level of detail. Any sort of heist story will not exist for the same reason.

There will be no more action movies with guns in them, as the only presentation of firearms allowed will be "restricted to the essentials".

Not only can smuggling not be portrayed, basically everything about illegal drugs will be banned from film.

Characters will only drink alcohol in any form at all if it's critical to the plot.

No romantic affairs unless they're a vital plot point.

The ban on sex will not be limited to on-scene sex. There will be no kissing or even embracing that could be construed as "lustful", as well as no characters allowed to even hold themselves in a vaguely provocative manner. Also, the very act of seduction is banned, even if it's in a positive light.

Oh, hey, look, a good one: any rape must be essential to the plot, non-explicit in any capacity, and never used for comedy. You get one, Hays.

No more queer people. At all.

The Code explicitly bans the portrayal of "White slavery" and "miscegenation". Know what those are? "A white woman traveling in any capacity with a black man" and "any marriage between a white person and a black person".

No stories of anyone suffering from an STD.

No childbirth. You can't even say the word 'pregnant', and showing a woman who is pregnant is pushing your luck.

Good one number two: no depicting children in an even vaguely suggestive manner. So that's two, Hays.

The points on 'vulgarity' and 'obscenity' are so incredibly vague that basically anything objectionable is subject to being banned depending on the personal opinion of the person making the judgment. Also, no more jokes for parents in kid's movies, and that's not limited to sexual innuendo, because the obscenity clause forbids even the possible suggestion of something that might be considered objectionable even if only a small portion of the audience will understand it.

No profanity, for any reason.

There won't be any costumes that are considered immodest according to the standards of 1930. Also, you can't portray anyone undressing or being exposed to the point of indecency according to the standards of 1930.

No one will be allowed to dance in any way that isn't your basic Jr. High slow "save room for Jesus" type dancing. This includes, but isn't limited to, dances with any sort of sexually provocative moves. For context, it was this restriction that had people calling for Elvis Presley to be arrested and burning his records, because of that basic little back and forth hip movement he did. It wasn't even thrusting, it was mostly side to side.

There will be zero critique of religion. Doesn't matter why. On this note, the only acceptable portrayal of religious figures will be as wise, caring espousers of good advice and wisdom. No religious figures as villains or presented in a comedic light. Also, all religious ceremonies are to be respectful if portrayed and cannot be used for negative plot reasons.

If they show a married couple's bedroom, the couple must have separate beds, because you can't even suggest that a married couple are sleeping together.

Anything relating to the flag of the USA or patriotism will be required to be shown in a positive light. The same can be said of representations of other countries and cultures... according to the standards of 1930.

Good point three: no animal or child cruelty.

"Oh but isn't the next point good" no because "the sale of women" just means prostitution, so yeah, no more sex workers. And not just them actively working, you can't portray them at all.

Medical dramas and war dramas won't be able to portray surgery.

Now, yes, it's true that the Code goes on to clarify points, with things like "it's okay to sympathize with the person committing the crime, just not the crime itself", but these clarifications are always just there to make the Code seem less like a totalitarian dictatorship. Also, do you really think people are going to push their luck and possibly have their work subjected to severe third-party editing or, worse, flat out banned? Of course not. Filmmakers are going to err on the side of caution and not push anything.

You might be looking at this list and thinking, "but I know a lot of characters from the Code era that did all this stuff!" Right. I'm sure you did. And they were villains, by and large. And if they weren't, they were either fixed because it was a dramatic plot point, or they were punished with death.

I'm sure there are things on this list that you think are fine. But I'm just as positive that there's at least one thing that bans something you personally like. And I suggest you just stop for a second and think about all the media you like, and how many of them—under strict adherence to this code—would be banned.

Being in my 30s, some of these might be old or outdated enough to be obscure, but this would ban (or change past the point of recognition) things like Breaking Bad, NBC's Hannibal, Monty Python anything, V for Vendetta, James Bond, everything MCU and DCU, Ocean's 11, The Big Lebowski, The Boondock Saints, The Walking Dead, most every reality show in existence, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, The Substance, Straight Outta Compton, Heretic, Nosferatu, The Hunger Games, Percy Jackson, Salem's Lot, Boardwalk Empire, Wicked, The Passenger, Glass Onion and Knives Out, half of everything the Muppets have ever done, Smile, Skinamarink, The Babadook, Sister Act, The Blues Brothers, Gone Girl, X, Jurassic Park, Death Becomes Her, The Birdcage, Cabaret, Repo! The Genetic Opera, Mrs. Doubtfire, Smokey and the Bandit, Jaws, The Nun, The Amityville Horror, Reefer Madness, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Little Shop of Horrors, Moulin Rouge!, Les Miserables, Chicago, Hamilton, Adventure Time, The Menu, To Wong Foo, Paris is Burning, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, It, The Godfather trilogy, The Thing, Shakespeare in Love, Pirates of the Caribbean, Wilde, To Kill a Mockingbird, Fried Green Tomatoes, Murder She Wrote, and this is just what I can think of at the moment.

Even if you don't like or don't care about most of this list, you can't deny that this is a lot of things from a lot of different genres, many of which have almost nothing sexually provocative in them at all.

The Hays Code didn't make movies better. It isn't the kind of limitation that breeds creativity. The Hays Code existed explicitly to silence absolutely everyone that the Moral Majority didn't like, and I'm sorry to tell you this, but if you're on tumblr then there is a 98% chance that you are one of those people the Code sought to silence. It wasn't made for anyone's benefit except the people who made it and wanted to control as much of the culture as they could.

Things like the Code do not help people, and they do not only hurt people who aren't you. Ultimately, it does nothing except make art unilaterally worse.

[tabsters]

every reference to animals I can think of in ALNST

aka: I'm in grief and this is how I cope. by making yet another ALNST analysis post. (hey so uh I started writing this post right after wiege happened and forgot about it and finished it just now.)

@thegh0st-of-ingrid @hoisinblackcat @ventiilatte @probably-a-human-being

first off, I think it's fair to start off with the most obvious animal that I and many other people have compared the human pets to: dogs. 

first of all: the collars.

shock collars have been used as a way to discipline your dog to prevent behaviors that you don't want them to do. this is called (AP psychology time!) positive punishment, where you give an "undesirable consequence after an unwanted behavior to make it less appealing". I'm not entirely sure what the collars in ALNST do, as we never actually see anyone get punished via the collar. however, till is shown having a collar over his mouth, neck, and his entire body:

so that leads me to believe that some shock or pressure thing is enacted by the collars. additionally, the collars are also shown to flash green when the pet is in a calm state and flash red when the pet is in a stressed state.

the second thing that makes me compare the human pets to dogs is this image of sua and her owner:

where sua and her "sisters" are all on leashes, all dressed in identically frilly white dresses and bonnets. this reminds me of the stereotypical rich woman, who is often depicted with having a bazillion identical fluffy white Pomeranians purely for the aesthetic. 

(not all of these are pomeranians by the way I just couldn't' find a better photo with a rich woman with a lot of white dogs)

this also leads me into dog pageant shows, where dogs are compared against each other to "a judge's mental image of the ideal breed type as outlined in the individual breed's breed standard". sua is described as having "the smallest face in 50th ANAKT",

meaning that she is definitely the epitome for human pets.

the third thing that relates the human pets to dogs is the fact that luka canonically has a shitload of clones of himself.

people have already compared this to dog breeding, where breeders "mate selected dogs with the intention of maintaining or producing specific qualities and characteristics". luka was made with the intention to be the perfect human pet. bred dogs, especially pugs, also have health defects as a result of limited genetic diversity. luka is shown to have numerous health issues, which further ties into this.

there are other examples that I'll briefly touch on, like how Ivan and till's play fighting is similar to how dogs fight in real life:

and how someone once compared this image of mizi going insane to a feral dog and how she was going to be put down by segyein, much like how rabid dogs are put down:

and how dogs that are considered "undesirable" are sold at discounted prices, much like till:

there's also the fact that all six of our main protagonists have special talents (sua: mental math, mizi: scary stories, till: flower crowns, Ivan: starting fire with rocks, luka: splits, hyuna: impersonations), much like how dogs can be trained to do tricks. perhaps the segyein trained the human pets to have defining "talents" to make them unique and endear them to a wider audience.

now the next pet that I immediately think of when I think of human pets: birds.

obviously, the first thing that connects human pets to birds is the fact that they both sing, and that humans are apparently the only beings in the universe that can sing, much like how specific birds are the only animals capable of human-ish speech. 

there's also the imagery of birds being trapped in cages, and how birds are trained to sing for their human owners. when hyuna escapes her "cage", she sings for others of her own species, not her owners.

I mention hyuna especially because there's this line in all-in:

which I think speaks for itself.

there's also the idea of mating songs amongst birds. in this case, obviously my clematis and cure and wiege are the mating songs for human pets, the songs that show their love and devotion to each other.

the final animal that I think of when I think of human pets: cows.

now, this one might be a weird one, but hear me out.

cows are branded by their owners so they can be identified. what do all anakt children have on them?

tattoos so they can be identified by the segyein.

there's also some more cow references with io, till's mother. io is the name of a princess who was turned into a cow, more about that in @blackhoisincat's posts here:

plenty more cow imagery and greek mythology references there.

additionally, it seems like io and baby till were kept in cages, similar to CAFOS (AP environmental science time!), which are "Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations (CAFOs), where animals are kept and raised in confinement". humans, besides being viewed as pets, are also commodities. there's also some theories that human meat is lab grown as a food source for segyein, further contributing to this theory if that's true.

and here's one final cow reference. remember this two headed alien?

as I said previously, this alien reminded me of orthrus, the two-headed dog who guarded the *cattle* of geryon. humans are valuable, valuable enough that segyein don't want them escaping.

and that's all I have to say about animals. I have to study for pre-calculus now.

[niniane17]

I realize that anti Got Season 8 posting in late 2024 is a bit boomerish, but screw that it's my blog and there's no law stating that I can't post about That Series again.

I've stumbled across an old anti-Daenerys post written by a Sansa fan some months after the show ended and...oh my God. I had nearly forgotten just how batshit crazy those takes are.

Dany is a colonialist. Dany is a white supremacist. If you like her you are both. Martin is just pretending to write her as a hero, in the end he will reveal she was evil all along and freeing slaves was a secret code for enslaving people. Valyria is evil and the Targaryens are evil. Westeros is simultaneously the ancient Americas and Medieval Europe. Essos is Europe but also the Oppressed Middle East.

Sansa is the true anti colonialist hero. Sansa is the true opprossed woman. If you don't support her you are an oppressor and possibly a rapist yourself. The North is good and the Starks are good. When Arya sails West of Westeros sporting the North's banner, she is not partaking in colonialism, in fact, she will be the anti Christopher Columbus. How do we know that? Because she's a Stark, the Starks are good...

It's maddening. No wonder Daenerys fans are driven into a frenzy. It's not irrationality, it's just natural frustration at constantly being held to double standards and fighting some crazy takes.

Now, treating a fantasy tv show fandom as anti-colonial activism is bad enough, but it's clear to me that at least some of these takes are motivated by the fact they see Sansa as the underdog, mistreated by both the characters and sometimes even the narrative.

And here's where things get weird.

I've said many times that I didn't become a full Dany fan until she was heavily mistreated by the narrative, and I'm definitely not alone in this. Back in the day, many people who previously didn't care one bit for Daenerys suddenly ended up defending her or even stanning her.

Like, of course if somebody wants to root for the underdog, the first thing to do is rooting for the actual underdog. Season 8's underdog was Daenerys. Everyone and everything was deadly set against her from the moment she arrived in Winterfell. They constantly disrespected her, undercut her efforts, killed off or villainized her allies, snobbed her non-traditional upbringing, conspired behind her back. And all the while they always asked asked asked for more, nothing she was giving was enough.

In contrast, the Starks' and the North's actions were constantly justified or presented as good, even betrayal (which is a very huge deal in Westeros) or, in one instance, outright racism by the Northern people -this time fully intended by the production, rather than an unintentional outcome of some poor behind-the-scene choices.

At the end, Season 8's Starks were absolute gods who could do no wrong and were always in the right no matter what they did -except their bastard son, who was contaminated by the evil people's blood and has to symbolically kill that part of himself forever.

Well, guess what, people didn't like that. But the newfound Dany fans were perfectly consistent: they wanted the underdog to win, to overcome her hurdles, internal or external, and be happy at the end. If the underdog is Dany, well, then it's time for Dany to win.

It's Sansa stans that see everything in terms of How This Affects My Fave and are willing to bend over the narrative to get what they want. They are perfectly happy with a biased narrative and double standards, they just want it to be biased towards Sansa, and everything is fair game to them, including real life politics and vocabulary, with some hilarious results. For example: Sansa as the voice of the Oppressed Minorities is...a take, to say the least. Her world doesn't even have a prejudice against red hair, as it would have in real life.

And guess what else, this kind of Protagonist-Centered Morality is very similar to the one used by real life colonizers, especially in their "explorations". Not that it matters because this isn't a post-colonial story and it never will be. It's a story about a messed up Fantasy Medieval/Early Renassaince World with Dragons, heavily influenced by various periods of European history. The only vaguely post-colonial element are maybe the zombies-as-slaves metaphor, and I think it's more due to the fact that Martin was probably inspired by old horror Movies pre-dating the Romero ones. And who is liberating slaves in his story, again?

Anyway. 2019-2020 was a really weird time to be a Dany fan, and in hindsight it was crazy how much shit there was around a fantasy series with dragons. Surely five years later people are a little more normal, right? Right?

[anachronismstellar]

Hey yo, SVSSS fandom, I arrive uh *checks the clock* three years late and at one in the morning because this idea won't leave my head.

I don't think I'm going to write more of it, because I'm already two long fics deep and *shrugs* I'm also too much like our poor Airplane: high on caffeine, without enough time to write all that I want to write, and this idea deserves better

Basically, after canon, the system got bored? And as it can't mess up with the protagonist, it went on to torture our poor Mobei Jun, curious to know why he's Airplane's fav character and the only character that was kept the way Airplane originally wanted the story to be.

It's just a scene, and if you wanna adopt this idea go for it! Just tag me please, I wanna see your takes on it! :D

Anyway, scene under the cut! TW: Canon mentions of blood, torture and- let's be honest, the System itself should be a TW.

Hope you like it!

Mobei Jun couldn't see who said it, the stench of blood and piss burning his nostrils, the room too hot for him to think. Somewhere on his mind, a voice that screamed too much like Shang Qinghua kept repeating, "Get up, get up, get up, GET UP!" but he couldn't move, both his arms and legs bound by heated metal.

----

"Oh, that won't do."

"That won't do at all," the voice repeated, closer than before. Too close, the little Shang Qinghua voice in his mind would say. He forced himself to blink, head lolling to the side as lukewarm hands grabbed his face, pushing his hair back, a thumb pressing on his demon mark.

"You were written to be better than this," the voice- no, the man mumbled, followed by an annoyed "Tsk", his touch slowly bringing Mobei Jun back to the present, blue eyes widening as he recognized the soft yellow An Ding Peak robes.

"Shang Qinghua?" he tried to ask, but for sure, he only managed a gurgled sound, throat too dry to say anything. Besides, the man - should he call it a man? - in front of him had his servant's voice, but his posture was all wrong, too confident, too sure of himself. Daft fingers pressed on his cheeks, forcing him to look up, making his breath stutter.

"User 001 is not available at the moment," the strange man wearing Shang Qinghua's face said with a smile, too polite, too calm. There was also something really wrong with his eyes, as if someone had taken Shang Qinghua's warm brown ones and swapped with a poisonous green that glowed in the dim room.

"Where's Shang Qinghua?" he managed to speak, blood dripping from his lips as the room got impossibly warmer. Mobei Jun could feel in his conscience slipping, his strength melting from his bones as he did his best to keep himself awake, to not close his eyes and let himself even more vulnerable to his torturer.

"User 001 is not available at the moment," the man repeated again, and then once more, as if mocking Mobei Jun's hazy mind. "There, I hope you understand. Important things must be told three times. Now-" The thumb on his demon mark pressed further, the inhuman strenght tearing a scream from Mobei Jun's throat as a pain thin and sharp like a neaddle splited his skull in two. He couldn't think he couldn't breathe- Where was Shang Qinghua- Was he hurt? Did this skinwearer kill him?! He had to-

"Protocol 24978 generated. System's mission engaged: Author's favorite."

None of those words made any sense, what-

"I hope you enjoy our services!"

Mobei Jun's world went blank in a flash of white.

[madamedewberry]

"If there's a book you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it."

- Toni Morrison

My contribution to the @creatingblackcharacters Black History Month Challenge

From a Digimon fanfic I'm working on: The siblings, Zaraiah and Zerubbabel, and their new friend, Ekat Anne

For a clearer look at their designs: (though this is them all magicked up, so things like their hairstyles are different)

The reason I chose these characters in particular...

When I was a child, I was really into Digimon. I even made a fan comic with my own fan characters, but not a single one was Black like me

In fact, looking back, I don't think I created my first Black original character until I was in middle school and that's because she was based off of me. Many of my OCs were anthro or nonhuman, but the humans were almost always White.

So, this is me rectifying that. I can't go back in time and tell Kid! Me that she can be the protagonist and smooch all the anime boys she wants. But I can say it to my fellow Black fan creators

It's your story and you deserve to go on adventures

That's also why I chose that quote from Toni Morrison. Her words were a massive inspiration for me and changed my entire trajectory as a writer and artist

It's a little late to tag anyone else to take part in the challenge (I am great at time management), but I hope someone finds this inspiring

[writingwithcolor]

Avoiding the white savior of the kingdom

@ceo-of-angst asked:

Okay so I'm writing a fantasy series. There's two main kingdoms though there is a third but that one doesn't have to do anything with this ask. Both of them are likely as big as a continent each so there are different climates everywhere, therefore there's a lot of diversity even within one country. The issues mostly is between the two kingdoms nationality wise, as there's a war. The prince of one of the kingdoms kills his older brother to gain the throne. This is where the issue starts. They have a younger (half)sister who ends up leading a revolution bc of her brother's bad rule (famine, war, dictatorship and incantation or sentence to fight to the death in war to anyone who doesn't obbey the government etc), she's white, she's helped by my main cast who are all poc (one of them also from nobility) from the other kingdom and I don't want to accidently make it a white savior She's not my main character though if anything we only see into her pov bc of a difference between kingdoms in book 2. Most of the pov is on my main cast so I don't know how this could pay out.

Add diversity to the kingdom

There is a simple solution: don’t make one kingdom all-white or all-BIPOC. Add in diversity and mixed race. You seem to already be doing that, and it’s not an issue of race but rather tyranny. White saviorism is when only a white character can solve a problem for BIPOC and they’re seen as the hero. If it’s a team effort, where your protagonist is fallible but well-intentioned, you should be fine. -Jaya

Questions to ask yourself

This critique got levied at Tamora Pierce’s Trickster series, and it’s a pretty valid critique of the books—every time you have a white person as a figurehead of an otherwise-diverse movement, you’re going to start getting into why this white person, and why then?

It’s especially salient if you have the person come into an already-established rebellion movement. Is her involvement the thing that gets the privilege necessary to make the movement valid? What about her makes her the ideal top person in the organization?

Why is she white?

My first question is: why is she white? Is it related to colorism and classism? If yes, then why are you automatically making the leading group white if there’s so much diversity and so many other groups can trend extremely pale?

Why are the kingdoms so big?

My second question is: why are the kingdoms so big? It’s actually frighteningly hard to run a continent-sized country. If you’re attempting to make these single groups so big simply for ease of worldbuilding, and for diversity’s sake, know that a country does not have to be large to contain a multitude of groups. You are allowed to have political rivalry in a small area and still maintain diversity within it.

How much privilege is she willing to give up?

My third question is: how much privilege is she willing to give up? Is she trying to take the throne for herself, or is she trying to destroy all of the structures that gave her status in the first place? Because that question will determine how willing the PoC around her are going to be. Why would they support a ruler if they’ve been subjugated by that family, with no real promise she’s going to be any different once she gets in power?

On the flipside, why would she be willing to give up any of her privilege in the name of removing her brother from the throne, and what stops her from going off the deep end once she has the ability to control others?

It’s likely doable to make this situation read as less of a white saviour, but in order to do that you’ll likely need to wask yourself a lot of hard questions about your motives and the character arc you want to have with her.

People may see a white savior, regardless

And you’ll also have to ask yourself if you’ll be comfortable with never really being able to avoid some people calling this a white saviour plot. Even if you do “everything right” and follow every bit of advice you can, there’s always going to be some people who aren’t too thrilled that the person saving everyone is white.

So examine your motives, really nail down what you’re trying to show with this, and come to terms with not making everyone happy no matter what you do.

~Mod Lesya

[fangthroat]

Hey!

So I've been seeing the little repost rain that's been happening woth the post you made only a few moments ago. As a white as white person, I want to learn and understand better so I know what I can ay and what I can't say and how to speak about it properly and who / what to avoid. I'm sure there might be some others of your new followers who might be feeling the same and just want to understand the topic that obviously means so strongly to you.

Would you have a link to a post with a full explanation of the creature, where it comes from why not to speak about it etc.?

Again I just would like to lean and understand better so that I can be be a completely safe page for all!

Sure! Here's some info I'm comfortable with sharing.

In indigenous culture it is NOT accepted to nickname, insinuate, or write/type out the name of this entity. It is genuinely regarded as one of the single greatest evils of our culture. In general, you probably just shouldn't say it or spell it out at all.

The root of the entity is from the indigenous tribe of the Algonquin, with their roots in Canada. But variations of this entity can be found throughout indigenous culture all over. It is a demon, sometimes born from people who partake in cannibalism, but in other legends it is a creature that lures you into the woods and possesses you, tempting you into cannibalism. It is a being of greed, a symbolism of destruction.

There is also recorded history of a physiological condition going all the way back to the 1800s, referred to as [ENTITY NAME] psychosis, where individuals ranging from fellow natives to colonists succumbed to madness and ate other people. There's a famous story that I was told about as a child of a native man who murdered and ate his entire family, and was later recorded to have been afflicted with this condition. His name was Swift Runner, and you can read about what happened with him by looking up Swift Runner 1878

Here's a quote with the name removed, that I think accurately reflects how many of us feel regarding the situation.

"Scholar Francesca Amee Johnson criticized the use of the [ENTITY] as an antagonist horror character in popular culture in Reinvention: an International Journal of Undergraduate Research. She noted that many popular depictions, like Until Dawn (2015), The Retreat (2020), and Supernatural (2005–2020) are created by mostly non-native writers. The use of the [ENTITY] as an antagonist has become a common trope, "as it easily creates a villain for white protagonists to defeat repeatedly." Johnson writes,

This construction is problematic in the horror genre as it presents an Indigenous antagonist that poses a threat to white culture for its otherness and indigeneity – while at the same time, misappropriating, discarding and demonising the Indigenous culture the myth comes from, at whim."

*This quote in particular is sourced from Wikipedia because I feel it's relevant and an important one, but you should ALWAYS search for sources with indigenous roots or more trustworthy information regarding it's symbolism and cultural significance. I don't want to flood my search history with the entity's name so I'm afraid I'm not comfortable providing these (but they are out there and I have read them as well as exposure from my own upbringing and culture), but it should be very easy to google on your own.

[starrylayle]

women (of colour) in severance

an incoherent rambling about the female characters in severance, specifically focusing on Gemma and Helly. Mostly Gemma. A bit of Alexa too. Spoilers under the cut.

Ok so to start off, I absolutely adore all the women characters in severance they're all soo spectacularly written.

I remember when I first started the show, I thought that Helly was going to be the stereotypical, fiery and the only female protagonist whose story started off interesting but in the end her only character purpose was to be Mark's love interest. Boy, was I wrong. First the elevator suicide scene and then the Helena reveal, I knew this show knew how to write women.

Similarly, when Ms. Casey was first revealed, I remember rolling my eyes, thinking, oh look another stereotypical robot-like Asian lady who has no greater character purpose. Then, it was revealed that Ms Casey was (partially?) severed and not a part of the staff like I'd initially assumed. Of course, then the Ms Casey = Gemma reveal happened and I was SHOOK. Like,, you mean to tell me that she is actually an important character with narrative purpose? And Mark's wife -- I had assumed she was a -- white woman -- who would never actually have a character arc and would only be shown in dead-wife-john-wick-style flashbacks to further the plot.

I became so hyped. Two characters, the 'dead' wife and wellness lady, were actually one which meant they (she) would actually have character arcs!! And she's a woman of color!! Woohoo!!

But now that season 2 is progressing, as much as i absolutely adore it, I'm just worried that Gemma/Ms Casey will not have the caharcter arcs I wanted. Especially the theory that Casey is secretly a clone and not actually Gemma,,, or that she's brain dead,, or that she'll die again,, or whatever else. I know that it narratively works, but I just wish there was some way that Gemma/Ms Casey could have a proper character/character arc, even if it resulted in death at the end. I hear a lot of Mark/Gemma and Orpheus/Eurydice parallels which gives me hope because Eurydice is still a fully formed character (at least in the musical Hadestown llolol). I've seen some people theorise that Mark may have romantacised his marriage with Gemma and maybe they weren't as happy as they seemed?? Which I highly doubt, considering the info we were given in 'The You You Are'. Or maybe she secretly worked for Lumon beforehand?? I dunno how I feel about these theories but they would definitely make for an interesting plotline and character arc.

I guess what I've realised is that the show writes white women very well (Helly/helena, Ms Cobelvig and Devon) and their woc counterparts,,, not so much. Still holding out hope for Miss Huang, Reghabi (what is her deal btw?? I must know!!), Natalie and Gemma/Ms Casey, and that they will have fleshed out characters by the end, but who knows.

This may be an unpopular opinion, but Alexa, the woman mark went on a date with, was actually a favourite of mine. I was convinced she was gonna be relevant to the plot lmao. but eh she feels more of the 'disposable Black gf trope' :( tbh I'm still delusional enough to believe she will come back. Maybe if Ricken beomes a sell-out Devon will leave him date Alexa?? Yes I sound like a delusional lesbian but cmon Devon clearly liked her enough to recommend her to Mark?? maybee?/ Anyways this was a tangent. Maybe if they decide to go the Helly got pregnant route (which I hope they don't unless it ends in miscarriage) Alexa will be there coz she's a midwife (or doula?? I hear different ppl say different things??)

Anyways, I know this is all very far from the main narrative so I don't mind too much, I'm just hoping that they fully flesh out Gemma because she, along with Mark and Helly, are at the core of the story.

[akajustmerry]

I didn't really like the helmet grab by Michonne in towl. I didn't think it was necessary for them to make her do that even though I know they were trying to show how angry she was. Am I overthinking this?

forgive me but I actually think you're not thinking enough. You're not thinking about what's happened from michonne's perspective. even if you were, you're not extending her any empathy because writing off her as just "angry" does not cut it here

....Michonne had to carry on believing rick was dead for FIVE YEARS, raising their kids despite that grief and then when she was given the smallest hope he was alive she gave up another 2 years with her kids, risking her life in the wastelands, surviving chlorine poisoning, and enduring more fucking trauma with nothing keeping her going but the fact that she loved him and would not give up looking...... AND THEN she finds him against all those odds and rick had the CAUCACITY to try and trick her into ABANDONING HIM and insinuate that she DOESN'T TRULY LOVE HIM UNLESS SHE DOES??? of fucking COURSE she rips that dumb fucking helmet off his head!! she wants him to say that nonsense to her FACE, hear how insane it sounds, and be greeted with the only appropriate response to an assertion so ludicrous: silence.

When my dad and I watched that episode we both agreed rick actually got off easy for trying to pull that shit after what michonne had been through. My dad even left the room when rick was bragging about his stoopid plan to trick michonne into leaving to jadis because my dad is very sensitive to second hand embarrassment and rick was so fucking idiotic for trying to do that to michonne and thinking it would work.

ALSO.....something that I've ranted about before is this idea of an empathy gap between how people see white characters and characters of colour (ESPECIALLY Black characters) because such is the racism of the world that people simply don't empathise or even sympathise with characters of colour because they've been conditioned not to. Years of racist media conditions you to empathise with white characters almost instinctively even when they're wrong. In this case, rick was wrong. Totally wrong, despite his intentions. He was dishonest, condescending, and inconsiderate. Michonne had every right to be angry and every right to show him how angry she was. The fact that you're uncomfortable with that maybe means you haven't really paid mind to what michonne has been through and maybe you haven't done that because she's a Black woman. Personally, I loved that scene so much and I also love all the scenes in ep4 where she's pissed off because michonne isn't just rick's love interest she's a protagonist in her own right and she's NEVER not once accepted less, even from him.

anyway, hope you don't think I'm being mean! I've just seen weird discourse about that scene that is so unnecessary. It simply wouldn't be a thing if people actually cared about michonne as a character, rather than just as one half of a ship.

[hollowtones]

first yiik impressions?

Hi. Thanks for your message. I've been thinking about this for days. I wrote paragraphs. Here you go!

Everyone talks up how the game is bad, but I've never looked into it much myself, so I went in with an expectation along the lines of "people whose opinions I often agree with think it was an awful mess, I'll likely think something similar". Expectations were low. Even then I wasn't really ready.

"YIIK" is a game of tedium. I don't think it's a game about tedium, that's something different (though it could be, if it was a different video game altogether; "what if the world was made of pudding" etc). To some degree I think the tedium is by design but I'm not really sure what it's in service of.

I don't think tedium in a video game is a bad thing. "Morrowind" and "Breath of the Wild" are two video games I like very much, and some of my favourite memories of those games are of slowly wandering through empty expanses, or having to suddenly deal with equipment degrading or supplies dwindling because I forgot to prepare. Moments like that feel thoughtful! They're interesting moments of reprieve or of tension that feel thoughtfully and intentionally designed! "YIIK" feels like trudging through chest-deep molasses so it can shout "hey did you know you're stuck in my molasses right now? that's weird, why are you stuck in my molasses right now? did you notice?" directly into your ear.

You'll notice this is a pattern.

Combat is turn-based and involves completing little minigames, timing button prompts or hitting targets or some such. It's a cute idea that wears out its welcome when you start realizing how long every single one takes to resolve, especially when you have multiple party members, and sometimes multiple enemies (I'm told this part specifically gets more egregious as the game goes on). I don't think it's awful or unsalvageable but I'm not super into it as of the point we're at.

This is a pattern.

Leveling up is a manual process that you have to unlock, and it involves going to a save point (any save point? we didn't check), to enter the Mind Dungeon, to enter the actual Mind Dungeon, to walk down a set of stairs and enter individual doors one-by-one, so that you can choose how you want to allocate stat increases, so that you can walk down a different set of stairs to commit your choices and spend your banked experience to level up. I think "you can only power up at specific points / times / locations" and the granularity of stat growth are interesting ideas, and the environment they made for it are a charming idea, and I don't think it needed to be a "Hotel Mario" level that you had to slowly walk through. It could have been a menu. They could have used the resources for a nice background or backdrop for a menu that accomplishes the same thing.

This is a pattern.

I haven't really mentioned anything about the story or writing yet. The protagonist's name is Alex and he's a very self-important nerdy misanthropic dickhead white man (a very specific kind of guy that I've definitely met at least once or twice) who is obsessed with a paranormal message board populated by people like him and desperate to find out more about the disappearance of a woman he witnessed. (The woman & her disappearance are based on the real life death of Elisa Lam & aren't handled with a whole lot of tact, IMO, but other people have put this into better words than I can right now. It sucks. It keeps coming up and it makes me bristle every time.) Alex is a bad person. I know he is. You know he is. The game knows he is. I've seen some reviews say a negative point of the game is "the main characters aren't likeable", which I don't really get, because that's the point of the characters, as far as I can tell. The issue, then, is how much time the game takes to exposit at you how bad the characters are. It's exhausting. Every time Alex has a monologue, it feels like it sums up to 10 minutes of "I am a bad person. I am a bad person. Alex is a bad person. This character is a bad person. Do you get it? He's a bad person. Alex is a bad person. Do you understand yet, player? Alex is a bad person. You should know that he's a bad person. Do you get it?"

This is a pattern.

(I don't know how interested I am in bringing up the game's lead writer right now, if at all, but there's a well-known anecdote where he talks about wanting to write a story about a bad person who is forced to grapple with himself and do better, and how the reason why his game wasn't well-received was because people who play video games didn't get it & weren't ready for a story like that. I dunno. I can understand being upset about negative reception to something you poured time and sweat into, and saying something hasty because of it. "Final Fantasy 4" is a beloved RPG classic, though, and "Disco Elysium" came out the same year to overwhelming praise. I haven't played either of these yet, though, so I'll admit maybe I'm off the mark here.)

The characters we've met so far (i.e. the ones that aren't unnamed NPCs) are… well. There's a smarmy younger kid who idolizes(?) Alex & also made the aforementioned paranormal website. So far it seems like he mostly exists to go "hey fuck you Alex, you dickhead" and immediately say something even more insensitive. There's the insensitive based-on-a-real=ass-dead-woman elevator woman, who immediately disappeared from the narrative while still being an essential part of the narrative. There was a dead(?) robot in a bedroom, who had a choir of ominous hooded people monologue about how weird and sad and strange and uncanny the scene is. What the!? There's a woman who works at the arcade and has Powers. Her design's cute. (I feel like, generally, the game's visuals are Fine. The audio, too. That all ranges from Just Fine to Surprisingly Neat. I don't really have much issue with those aspects of the game, but I don't have much to say about them either.) Alex and Kid Whose Name I Didn't Care To Remember are constantly very uncomfortable to her, because she's a woman and because she isn't white, in the 15 or so minutes we've seen her on-screen, and she gets to tell them off, but then immediately kind of goes "well whatever I can smile and put up with this and hang out with you". It feels misogynistic. I know to some degree Alex is misogynistic on purpose, because the game is bludgeoning your skull in and yelling "ALEX IS SHITTY TO WOMEN! AND PEOPLE OF COLOUR! DO YOU GET IT? HE'S SELF ABSORBED IN A SHITTY WAY! DO YOU GET IT, PLAYER? YOU UNDERSTAND THAT ALEX SUCKS ASS YET? MAYBE 10 MORE MINUTES OF THIS WILL MAKE IT CLICK?" But for a woman of colour (the only one we've seen so far who isn't Probably Just Dead) to finally tell him off for being a shithead, only to turn around and go "well it's ok, you're cool now, let's hang out now because it's narratively convenient and you're the protagonist" is pretty damn egregious!

This is a pattern.

Writing in general feels stilted and long-winded. Most of the main characters feel like they don't talk like people do. Alex gets to feel like a person but that's mostly because he gets to talk to himself so damn much. Most of his monologues feel like overly flowery prose, like someone padded it out with identical adjectives to meet a school essay word count. There's an interesting idea or premise or setpiece every now and then. There's a spark. A glint of something compelling. Every single time this has happened so far I find it immediately snuffed out by an over-blown "oh my god!!!!!!! how weird!!!!!!', or a very long plot dump, or a Joss Whedon-ass quip. There can be no small moment of joy. No story element or visual element can stand on its own legs. There can be no room for ideas to breathe. No space for the player to wonder, to dream, to play in the space. The narrative is compelled to suffocate iself on itself, to take up all space, to swallow itself whole in its making. One very minor (so far?) side character has some interesting dialogue in this one dream world, and I think "oh that's neat", and then I learn they're lines taken wholesale from a book (and I think that's fine, reference is fine, but I have a bit of a chuckle over the fact that this character is the reason why the game has a giant REFERENCES option in the main menu). The literal first minute of the game is a bird telling you "oh my god, the title of this game, right? why'd they spell it like that? so fucking dumb, am I right!" It feels insecure. It reads like the writing has no confidence in itself. It has to make a comment about how silly and video-gamey it is, roll its eyes at itself, mock itself for the thing it's doing while continuing to do it without addressing it or discussing it or doing anything with it.

This is a pattern.

There's a specific part of "YIIK", at this early point in the game (we're only around the start[?] of chapter 2), that feels emblematic of the thing as a whole up to this point. Alex is getting phone calls from a stranger. They're confusing and weird and sound a little like something you might hear in a dream. They make references to some shared past, some childhood, some understanding of Alex, or maybe of you, the player. They've come up a few times. Every single time, I'm left thinking about what it could mean, how it fits in with everything we've seen so far & what the game seems to be talking about, with regards to connecting to other people and to yourself. It's a neat little thing. It's a neat idea. I'm charmed by it. As much as my thoughts on this game are largely negative, I still try to look at it fairly, to understand it, to talk about it, to let myself be surprised by it. As soon as I find myself thinking about this, my thoughts are immediately drowned out by Alex telling me how weird the phone call is, how random and uncanny and dumb this is, and how he's rolling his proverbial eyes about it, in spite of all the other paranormal happenings around him, for another period of Just Too Long. And I am sapped of all strength and I crumble to dust.

I'm genuinely transfixed. I'm transfixed! Maybe the fact that I wrote Paragraphs about the 4-or-5 hours I've seen of the game can tell you as much, even if you skip everything I wrote in them.

I can't wait to see more.

This, too, is a pattern.

[applepie2523]

"[RANT] The problem with Rhaenyra

Show Discussion

It's clear that *House of the Dragon* and *Fire & Blood* are two different beasts with two different goals. HOTD understandably cuts the historical ambiguity and focuses on a more digestible narrative, leaning in hard on the ASOIAF-esque themes of war, monarchy and gender. Doubling down on and expanding the book's diametric framing of Alicent & Rhaenyra is an understandable direction, as is the latter's role as the indisputable protagonist.

This direction of a traditional hero archetype makes sense for her character, just as a traditional tragic backstory does for Alicent's. I do, however, find the application of this and the aforementioned thematic goals to have all but suffocated any interesting facets of Rhaenyra Targaryen's character.

To me, Alicent's writing is muddled and confused; the goal is unclear and the portrayal of the many possible readings is inconsistent.

Conversely, when it comes to Rhaenyra I can see exactly what I believe they are trying to accomplish; it's successful, simple and to the point. I just hate what that thing is.

The Princess and the Queen

Book Rhaenyra is a complicated topic, but for the purposes of this post it's not that complicated. She is fraught with misinformation due to the biased nature of F&B, and so some of the things she does may not have even happened; nonetheless, what appears in the book is inevitably the audience's impression of her character, the information the writers have to work with, and the general situation through which the Alicent vs Rhaenyra feud is filtered. There was a lot to work with, but ultimately the writers had a blank canvas. Rhaenyra's motivations and even actions were up for grabs, and it was up to them to pick and choose, and create altogether, depending on the kind of story they wanted to tell.

I'll get to the point: Rhaenyra starts out strong then falters. As a child (The princess) she is compassionate and fiery, but with clear flaws: headstrong, rude, rebellious, insecure and, most fascinatingly, a rejection of motherhood; as an adult (The queen -- see what I did there?) she is graceful, motherly, patient, merciful, brave, determined, humble, peaceful, perfect and any other virtuous trait you can imagine.

Unfortunately, even Young Rhaenyra's flaws are not really presented as such. Her decision to hire Criston Cole as a Kingsguard is presented and confirmed by the writers as intelligent, her trash-talking Lady Redwyne for criticizing Daemon's war-mongering is presented as a deserved moment of sass, and her publicly mocking multiple men vying for her hand is presented as humorously relatable.

In fact, the only genuine flawed action she exhibits in all her episodes is making a comment diminishing the wants of the smallfolk when hearing they may not accept her as queen -- yet, we get no development on this front, and Rhaenyra no longer thinks this way come adulthood.

The writing elects to sacrifice novelty for likeability, effectively so: She shows compassion to the white hart, because we don't like seeing animals get hurt; she has a night out with her uncle in Flea Bottom, because we think Daemon is cool; she recklessly rides on her dragon to save the day, because it's exactly what we would do if we had a dragon.

This approach continues as Rhaenyra's insecurities are tugged on each episode to evoke pity. Episodes 1-4 I would criticize for depicting the same arc to varying degrees: **She feels undervalued, unwanted and alienated from her father, finally they reconcile near the end of the episode; however, the final moments leave us with an ambiguous feeling of doubt.** This is repeated in all but one episode of Young Rhaenyra, with she and Viserys finally on the same page in Episode 5. I'm not claiming her motivations to be nearly as inconsistent as Alicent's, but it's something to observe nonetheless.

And that's where the nice things I have to say about Rhaenyra sadly end. Because once we get to Episode 6 of S1 and onwards, it becomes increasingly clear what the writers' intentions were for her.

The motherhood problem: A tangent

I feel that the most interesting aspect of Young Rhaenyra by far was her aversion to motherhood and the innate prison she felt it placed upon her. The seeds of her contempt for these feminine confines -- the Arya to Alicent's Sansa -- grow upon her mother's death and hang over her interactions with Viserys, Alicent, Daemon, even Rhaenys.

This is a trait which the second half of the season completely abandons and skips over, instead dealing with an adult Rhaenyra having given birth five times and being pregnant with a sixth. Having spent girlhood in fear of being a woman defined by her womb, Rhaenyra's identity now heavily revolves around being a mother, something that continues into the second season.

It's a jarring change, character development in the most crudest of technicalities; fit for a twitter post but not necessarily for a narrative. Point A to Point B is not a story if there is no bridge in between. Like Alicent, Rhaenyra changes so jarringly off-screen, and her very different actor's performance exaggerates these changes, however unlike Alicent this discrepancy is not giving an on-screen cause.

Rather than exploring how Rhaenyra grapples with these complex feelings, all of her children are perfect and so is she. Instead "motherhood" is once again a way to either summon cheap "aww"-bait or to hand-wave female character dynamics: Rhaenys didn't kill the Greens because of Alicent being a mother, despite killing numerous mothers moments previously; Alicent has a change of heart about Rhaenyra because of her being a mother, despite using her newborn to be vindictive and borderline sadistic.

One of the most egregious examples of the shallow use of Rhaenyra's motherhood is a scene where Luke bemoans, without a shred of insincerity, that he cannot live up to Rhaenyra because she is too "perfect". On a small scale... has any fourteen year-old boy ever called his mom perfect? This is also followed up by one of my least favorite tropes, Rhaenyra perfectly responding to the accusation with "I am anything but perfect", the icing on top of this sickeningly sweet cake. I don't know, this is the only scene I cannot articulate my issue with. It does on a larger scale, however, broadly highlight my main issue with Rhaenyra's characterization: She is too perfect.

I understand Fire & Blood is intentionally written to be biased against Rhaenyra, and perhaps in reality she is a perfect person. But in that case the biased medium surely makes a more engaging story. In transitioning to a medium with one clear narrative, you need complexity that goes beyond miscommunication drama, and you need tension that comes from things other than the protagonist being a perfect human in an imperfect realm.

The protagonist that was promised

There is no scarcity of flaws when it comes to the biased depiction of Rhaenyra in the books. She beheaded Vaemond Velaryon and fed him to her dragon for calling her children bastards and she called for a little boy to be tortured upon him insulting those bastards.

I understand these biased accounts are biased... but is it unreasonable to want Rhaenyra to be responsible for a single questionable act or at least embody some flaws?

The only actions of hers that could be considered morally wrong in the show are so casually swept under the rug that I wonder if they were meant to be wrongs in the first place. She orders the murder of an innocent serving man at the behest of her goal to marry Daemon and intentionally traumatizes Laenor's now-childless parents. Like with Young Rhaenyra's many "flaws", is this truly depicted as a flaw? Does anybody watching this episode treat this with the severity it deserves? I saw more people blaming Alicent for the murder of Harwin and Lyonel Strong. Any moral consideration gets deflated by the reveal that Laenor is alive. The same can be said of Rhaenyra calling for the torture of Aemond. Despite this clear contextual meaning in the book, and the exact words being adapted, this can only be interpreted as a literal "sharp questioning" following Viserys doing just that.

Why not write a situation where Rhaenyra is extremely protective of her children's claims to the point that she is involved in Vaemond's death? Why must Daemon bear all her sins? I understand her feeding a human corpse to a dragon could be viewed as one of many F&B embellishments, but it's actually from a more trustworthy source than stories used to malign Aegon's character, such as Mushroom's account of the child-fighting ring we end up seeing in Episode 9. Why not do something interesting and shocking with Rhaenyra for once?

Not to mention, Alicent not only continues to demand Lucerys' eye in the show, but grabs a knife and makes to do the job herself. Alicent's violence is dialled up while Rhaenyra's is obfuscated.

The nail in the coffin for me is the existence of The Song of Ice and Fire. It's probably one of the most contentious plot points in HOTD, and for good reason, though not nearly enough for its weakening of Rhaenyra's character. She now has prophetic justification and her motivations are infallibly pure. To admit to a sole redeeming aspect of this point and her character, the idea of Rhaenyra resembling and following in Daemon's footsteps as a child, but resembling and following in Viserys' footsteps as an adult is a interesting and realistic concept. It's played well by Emma D'Arcy and creates great conflict between Rhaenyra and Daemon.

However, it also purifies Rhaenyra the same way the motherhood aspect does, undermining ASOIAF themes. Unlike the tragic failure and admonishing of Viserys' prophecy as he took immoral actions for his own dreams, Rhaenyra is completely justified every step of the way, up until and including her decision to go to war. (The prophecy being contradicted by GoT holds as much relevance as the context of "questioned sharply" in this show. What matters is presentation, and we are led to believe Rhaenyra acted perfectly with the information she was given.)

I feel that so many scenes would be more compelling if Rhaenyra simply wanted the throne out of ambition and an expressed confidence in herself. Had she rejected Criston Cole without divine purpose lingering in the background, it would be one of many ambiguous scenes where the audience is left to parse the authenticity of her stated goals: how selfless is she, really? Instead there is no question: the story is saying Rhaenyra on the throne is the ideal outcome for society.

The power paradox: Passive or Pacifist?

The show is consistently forced to undermine Rhaenyra due to reconciling its themes and goals.

How do you write powerful women who still struggle under patriarchy? How do you write realistic female characters not defined by their femaleness?

These are questions the show appears to struggle with, and it often takes the easy way out. The female protagonists, forced to strike the balance of the show's themes, end up having confused and ill-informed motivations, making them rightfully appear incompetent to the men around them. Despite this, the women of the show are the moral voices and the most innocent: Rhaenyra, Rhaenys, Alicent, Helaena and Mysaria. There is a clear dichotomy, and the significant non-flawed male characters I can think of are Jace and Luke, Rhaenyra's sons.

Because the themes demand that Rhaenyra wants peace, but the narrative demands war, it therefore also demands her failure to avoid it. The anti-war and anti-patriarchy message necessitates that Rhaenyra's judgement be superior to the men around her, however. Therefore, we're at an impasse and the plot must bend around Rhaenyra's motivations to fit these jigsaw pieces together.

This peace-seeking goal of Rhaenyra ends not with a bang, but a whimper. The justification is already tenuous -- the information that initially holds her conviction for peace gets reaffirmed, but this time pushes her to war? -- but the worst offender is how underwhelming it is. Despite Luke's death in the S1 finale being the expected and implied beat that spurs the long-anticipated Black Queen, Rhaenyra has one episode to showcase her grief (which is more than can be said for Alicent and Blood & Cheese) and is then promptly unaffected by the death of her son. Instead, she meanders for three more episodes around the idea of peace, before arriving at the Sept and awkwardly deciding it is now time to fight. Her character is not changed from the long string of tragedies -- her father dies, she finds out he was usurped, she has a miscarriage and then finds out Luke was murdered -- and is not even changed when she finally decides to embrace war. Why involve an arc for peace in the first place, if the plot is just going to get impatient? The plot is utterly irrational, evidenced by Rhaenys immediately being on the same page as Rhaenyra, despite being the one to guide her away from war in the first place and not having access to this new information that changed her mind.

Rhaenyra is necessarily both a victim to patriarchal expectations and a victor of them. The show's thematic interpretations demand this. She is consequently framed as the center of all Black decisions, unlike Aegon who is a useless puppet, but she does not actually make decisions, instead passively accepting when they are thrust upon her. I do not think this was intentional:

The choice to finally send dragons after many days of pressure via the councilmen, is voiced by Jace before she can discuss her change of heart; she accepts this. Her idea of going on dragonback herself is shut down; she accepts this. Rhaenys volunteers on account of Meleys' strength; she accepts this (and with wordless confirmation, no less). All three ideas: sending dragons, not going herself and sending Rhaenys, are said by other characters and Rhaenyra simply relents to them, allowing it all to happen. This notably follows a trip to King's Landing that caused her council to be thrown into chaos, a trip which she was also told by another character to take.

"Some have mistaken my caution for weakness" Mistaken? in the scene-hushing words of a hurried Hightower, "There's been no mistake. It's too late, Rhaenyra". Too late indeed, as Rhaenyra's strength continues to be undermined.

While Alicent's flip-flopping on her goals in the Dance was inevitable from the writers painting themselves into a corner, that dissonance does not exist with Rhaenyra as the plot, narrative and characters bend to her will to make her justified. Her goals are perfectly aligned with the narrative's morals. War should be cautioned against until Rhaenyra is ready, and then it's justified.

If the excuse for Alicent's agonizing perpetual passivity is telling the story of the failures of self-imposed submissive feminine roles, what is Rhaenyra's excuse for also being so passive?

The Dany problem: A tangent

This is a theory, but I think the issues stem from a motivation to do "Daenerys done right". In parts I agreed with this idea at first, in parts I didn't. However, although I expected the show to explore the patriarchal themes of the Dance, I wasn't a fan of Rhaenyra herself being given motives of political advocacy.

What makes Rhaenyra as a concept interesting to me is actually her remarkable ordinariness. She is simply a woman claiming her birthright, just as the men who came before her did, only her existence is unfairly scrutinized.

The problem is Show Rhaenyra is unrealistically virtuous. I understand the motivation to make her patient and graceful in the face of a reputation littered with misogynistic nicknames such as "The bitch/whore of Dragonstone". But I don't want her to be Daenerys, to want to free the world from slavery or patriarchy. I like that Rhaenyra is simply fighting for the throne because she's the heir, with no noble goals.

It's true: Rhaenyra in F&B could, for all we know, have some Cersei-esque lamentations on the male privilege she misses out on, but like Cersei I feel that these should be confined to Rhaenyra's own selfish interests and not trying to meaningfully fight the patriarchy. If GRRM wanted to write a story where she is advocating for egalitarianism and not simply claiming her birthright, then Rhaenyra would have likely given birth to daughters to make the stakes for her victory higher. Instead they are sons, and Rhaenyra is fighting for her own interests -- the patriarchy is simply in the way.

This legacy of Daenerys nonetheless hangs over Rhaenyra, much like Game of Thrones understandably hangs over House of the Dragon. Indeed, they are both dragonriding women aiming to be the first queen whose claim to the throne resides in succeeding their father. But I think the writers are trying too hide to fill the void left by GoT's disappointing conclusion and projecting this heroic Targaryen "girlboss" energy onto a character that would truly thrive without it.

She witnesses cosmic signs of her importance, such as the white hart in S1. defying the idea of Aegon as a king even so early on. Syrax is also made to be the mother of Dany's dragons, instead of Dreamfyre. In case it wasn't obvious enough.

Missing the mark: Misogyny and Monarchy

The sexism of the Dance is because Rhaenyra, as a woman, is existing in a way that puts her at odds with a patriarchal society. Her character is picked apart more than if she were a man: a merciful queen is weak and soft; a merciless queen is hysterical and insane. The soul-eating nature of this double standard and the lose-lose situation it puts women under is the type of sexism GRRM is commenting on. He understands this nuance. It seems that the showrunners do not.

Rhaenyra in the show is instead the most objectively deserving of the throne. Her lack of flaws and her persistent positive traits are one thing, but being divinely justified thanks to the prophecy and intentionally wanting to unite the realm is what demonstrates the show writers were unable to meld critiques of patriarchy and monarchy in the same story.

The idea that she would make a good ruler if only the men would give her a shot completely misses the point that under monarchy there is no "good ruler". This is a bad feudal system that goes against the will of the people and prioritizes rich families holding onto power so they can continue to be rich.

Rhaenyra does not need to be a vastly superior ruler to communicate this; the point is that women should actually get to be mediocre or even bad rulers (just as men can be) without their leadership being tied to their womanhood. Neither Aegon nor Rhaenyra should be exceptionally bad or exceptionally good, but average rulers who get pushed into doing horrible things because of the succession crisis that tears the realm apart.

And this is what makes the Dance compelling to me. It's two spoiled brats clawing for power and destroying their family because of it.

The show meanwhile beats us over the head, episode by episode, with how screwed the realm would be if Aegon were king, and how much of a utopian paradise we would get if Rhaenyra were queen. In all likelihood they would both probably listen to their counsels and maybe make a bad decision here or there, like most kings. The stakes are the war itself, not who ends up on it, which would be negligible. The show has made an error in essentially justifying this wry from Rhaenyra's perspective by in every moment instilling it into the audience that it will all be worth it if Rhaenyra one day rules.

Monarchy is thematically bad in ASOIAF and F&B. If the two claimants are bad rulers, it's not because they are bad people unfit to be monarchs, it's because there are no good rulers under monarchies. The bigger picture is that nepo baby dictators, including Rhaenyra, are not a good thing.

It should be a bloody fight between two vindictive privileged children of the king who feel they are entitled to the throne no matter who it harms, rather than a one-sided tale about our hero being punished again and again for trying to save the world.

I think in navigating strong female characters, as long as we see Rhaenyra struggling with these gendered issues, then it really only comes down to one thing: What makes for a more interesting character? To flawlessly push for the right decision, or to have surprising traits that make us think about and question her character?

This is why, ultimately, I am disappointed in Rhaenyra Targaryen's character. Thank you for reading."