#threading: there is wisdom in looking beyond our borders

[goldoanheart]

Kurthnaga glances at the pieces of glass now that he has all of them, counting them quietly to himself. Of course, his companion probably already knows how many there are, and yet he cannot help himself.

Ah! There are indeed six!

But how in the world was that supposed to relate to the final passage? Maybe he if he put them together, then there would be some sort of hint in the puzzle.

"Most likely, or else they wouldn't have been hidden in the spots from the underlined passages," Kurthnaga says, focusing back on the glass, observing them quietly with his head cocked to the side like a curious little owl, trying to figure out how they fit together.

"Give me a moment and I'll fit them into place. Perhap then we'll be able to see what they were meant for," He purses his lips, "... Hopefully."

Hit Movie Cube (1997)

Anniversary | Authority +1

[goldoanheart]

To Pluck the Petals Free [Scavenging with Cecilia and Kurthnaga]

Scavenging 

- receive 1 random resource (plank of wood, metal can, or 1d10 tokens) per post

-- 1d10 chance of finding odd gadget from same post, where 1&2 = success (ping Key)

event starter for @valkyrrian

The metal buildings loom around them, and Kurth is reminded of the dream from what seemed like ages ago - though it had only been a mere few nights. The wind blows through the empty streets and Kurth shivers, wondering why the dream had given him such thin clothes to work with in a world like this. Perhaps it was simply the idea that this was all he could find, he had no way of knowing.

He glances towards Cecilia beside him, her long green hair billowing in the wind that whips around them. As they walk, scanning the streets for... something, he isn’t exactly sure what, pebbles scatter among the cracked and broken streets. It feels haunting, the way there is truly nothing around them at all. Silence echoes louder than any sound they make, the quiet settling over the city like an uneasy blanket.

Kurth clears his throat, lifting his head from where it hung observing the road before them, focusing his gaze solely on his companion now. He smiles awkwardly, his entire being put off by the unsettling vibe the entire city emanates.

“So... what exactly are we looking for...?”

[goldoanheart]

The Bean Bites Back

starter for @justices-blade

As happy as Kurth is to be back at the academy after the dreams had finally ended, and as happy he is to see all of his friends again, he is certainly not happy about how clingy his little dragon friend is being. He had only been gone for a month, right? Surely there was no cause to follow him around every moment of every day. Not to mention how much bigger Green Bean has gotten since he left. He had known that some wyverns could grow pretty fast, but this was far from what he had been expecting. If he didn’t know any better, to just let him grow a little bit longer, he would have dared to say that the poor baby could be used as a mount sooner than later. Of course, Kurthnaga still has to get over some of his own hold backs to such an idea, but raising Green Bean has certainly helped a little, even if he was gone from his side for so long.

He glances around the academy, admiring the views that he hadn’t been able to take in for so long, but such things are kind of ruined by a giant baby trying to seek attention from you at every opportunity. As much as he loves the little dragon, he’s beginning to think that he might need a little help to stop making him so clingy.

Spotting a familiar mop of brown hair, he desperately waves to Edward, trying to get the boy’s attention.

“Edward! It’s really nice to see you again, but could you help me out real quick? I seem to have a rather pressing problem!” He gestures towards Green Bean trying to lay of his weight upon Kurth at once. Goodness, he was in for a wild ride with this one, wasn’t he?

[goldoanheart]

the inexorable forces that pull sara into the fray do not find themselves dampened by the gloomy atmosphere. heavy rain soaks her through down to the bone and the incantation of a spell comes as little more than a whisper, drowned out by the raging storm. the sound that follows is an eerire rendition of giggles.

death answers her call at once, a sharp flare of purple light penetrating the mists. two disembodied eyes glisten enticingly before striking with the swiftness of a snake. magic harshly flashes and parts to make way for a courteous smile unfolding on the lips of the ghost of a girl who steps out of fog and shadow.

[ Roll: 9, Death hits for -3HP and -0.5 from Poison Strike ]

"i remember you," she voices blithely. "not long ago, i was a student under the same house, but i decided to stop playing around. this time, i'll be the one teaching you a lesson."

Once again Kurthnaga has found himself on the battlefield, a place that is somewhere that he would wish to be far, far away from at any other time. But he is a professor of his house, and he must be strong for the students that also inhabit this open field. Luckily for him, he can be almost assured there will not be too much blood. This is only a mock battle after all.

The hammer in his hands is all too familiar, having accompanied him through so much at this point. Dreams and books, and all that seemed to pass in between them. If he had to wield a weapon, he was more than happy than it was this one.

What he is more worried about, however, is the mount he sits atop. While Green Bean has grown far more than enough to be able to be used as a mount, the young wyvern is... still not the most well behaved. Good thing this was only a practice battle, or else he would be even more worried.

As he is lost in his own thoughts, he does not instantly notice the spell launched at him and nearly stumbles from atop his mount, just barely managing to catch the reins as the pain courses through his body.

Kurthnaga is attacked with Death! Roll 1d20: 9! Hit! | Poison Strike Activates! | Kurthnaga HP: 1.5/5

His faces twists in a strange emotion, one that he has not felt often before, at the girl's words. How old was this student anyway? Like twelve or something? Such a kid had no reason to be so cocky.

"You may remember me, but there are so many students who pass through those halls that I could not possibly remember every single one. I'm sorry, but who are you again?" His words are scathing as he lifts his hammer with ease, a deadly swing aimed at the poor girl. This was never how he would have wanted things to end.

Kurthnaga counterattacks using Hammer! Roll 1d20+2: 19! Hit! | -2 Damage

Turn 2 Initiation:

Kurthnaga attacks using Hammer! Roll 1d20+2: 4! Miss! | -0 Damage

@shadoll

[goldoanheart]

"Ah... I see," So love could too make the simplest meal in the world taste like it was the best thing ever. But how would Kurth had known that? He'd never had anyone do something like this for him before. It almost makes him want to cry again, thinking of something like that.

"I do appreciate you going out of your way for me," The young dragon manages to smile, though he feels his stomach churn with sorrow. Some part of him feels as though he should likely contact Gareth after this, to remind himself that there was someone he considered family that loved him unconditionally, "Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Perhaps... we could do this again sometime, if you would allow me to ask again."

A Meal with A Mom

[goldoanheart]

Just For A Second, I Wanted to See You

Devoted Hearts Starter

Kurthnaga coughs at the smell of his own perfume, his sensitive nose overwhelmed by the completely overpowering scent of roses he had doused himself in. Maybe trusting Pelleas hadn’t been quite the right idea after all? This perfume certainly seemed... strong. Though, that was probably the point behind the indicator in the first place. For the scent to be so overwhelming that the person looking for it couldn’t help but notice. 

But he wouldn’t have dared to disappoint Micaiah by not showing up at all, knowing that his dear friend had wanted him here so badly. At the very least, he intends to become friends with his partner, given that he already has found the love he desired for so long.

He sighs, twirling the drink he holds around in his hand a little more. He has always hated parties, and being overwhelmed by his own scent isn’t helping in the slightest. He coughs as it seems to get all that much stronger, which surely should be impossible; right? He hopes that his partner will find him before too long, because he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand being pretty much literally drenched in roses. 

Until then, he can at least enjoy the refreshments before him. Or enjoy them as much as he can without even being able to absorb the aroma of food. Really, his partner had better hurry up. Before he keeled over from how strong this scent was. But luckily, he wouldn’t need to wait too much longer.

[goldoanheart]

Yes, It is I Lady Lyndis... and Her Loyal Knight Kent?

When you break the news about the imposter lords to one of the villages, they naturally react in horror and shame for being deceived. However, something goes awry when the message is passed along to the village elders. A miscommunication down the line leads these leaders, half-blind and three-quarters-deaf, to believe that you are the “real Lyndis”. Whether you are or not, there is little you can do to convince them otherwise, and so they demand you make things right. [Grants +1 Authority]

mission board starter for @cavalry

Look, Kurth wanted the villagers to know the truth, that they were being deceived and all that, but he hadn’t expected them to instantly turn their gaze upon him as soon as they had heard the news. Sure, he was technically a king, but he had no idea how to deal with something like this! He only knew vaguely of Lady Lyn, from seeing her around the academy, but he had no idea what she was really like! How could they possibly ever expect him to be her?! And like, he was clearly too short too. Probably. To be fair, he had only ever seen her sitting down and from a distance.

Either way, he racks his brain, trying to think of anything he knew about her. Ladies had knights, right? Or at least ones who weren’t raised in sequestered castles knowing nothing about the world outside. He remembers maybe seeing her once with a ginger knight, though he can’t recall the man’s name, if he had ever known it all. Luckily for Kurth, he has one of those to make the act all that much more convincing. Even if it is Sylvain of all people.

He bows politely before the elder, who is clearly blind enough to not be able to tell that Kurth is not a woman, smiling tightly and putting on the best air of dignity he can manage. He gestures towards Sylvain, as a way of both urging him to come closer and as if he is introducing him. If he was to act as Kurth’s knight, then he couldn’t be standing so far away! A knight always seemed to be by their lord’s side. At least, that was what Kurth assumed it was like. He’d only ever had a bodyguard, Gareth, not a true knight.

“I promise you we will make this right my good sir. I am the Lady Lyndis, and this is Kent, my knight. Just tell us what you wish for us to do and we will happily aide you. I would hate to see you suffering from any harm my imposter caused you.” That had to do the trick! Hopefully...

Now he just had to keep this up for who knew how long.

[goldoanheart]

PINNED

TOA Canon [Golden Deer Student]

RADIANT DAWN [NG+ Post-Game]

Goldoa's king, full of youth and curiosity for the world outside of Tellius. He finds himself as the Officers Academy both to learn from others and share his own knowledge and experience as well. Being able to share knowledge is both directions is a valuable thing, and he hopes to be able to achieve his goals by doing so.

ABOUT | INTERVIEW | Please kindly do not use small text! (post) | Current Month's Plotting (post)

NOTES UNDER THE CUT (Spoilers)

Due to the nature of most of Kurthnaga's heavy character appearance being in the back fourth of RD, there will be endgame spoilers across the board. Lesser so than Nasir, as he is not the type who will be constantly thinking about it in relation to everyday situations, but especially in threads with other Tellius characters, memories may be conjured up. This is your warning <3.

Operating under the presumption that he actively participated in each battle during the events of the Tower of Guidance and was not just there for plot related reasons.

Comes from a second playthrough, and therefore knows the revelations that are told to him in such. (IE: his conversation with Nasir and Gareth, knowing Sephiran is Lehran, etc.)

Mun has read through Path of Radiance and Radiant Dawn, as well as having played Radiant Dawn. Though only one playthrough, so anything from a second playthrough will be referenced from a script/let's play. That said! He may forget things sometimes because she has a spotty memory! Please feel free to (gently) nudge if something is off or wrong!

There will be spoilers, most likely, due to the nature of most of his appearances in canon being in the later portion of the game. You have been warned.

He will probably not mention his status as Goldoa's king unless it is already common knowledge to the other muse (ie: muses from Tellius or others that he becomes familiar with and discloses this information to). Not because he isn't proud of his heritage or such, but because he wishes to treat everyone as an equal and share knowledge with them without any barriers.

Unrelated note to characterization: Mun wanted to delete some posts to get a fresh start, but he may have fucked up and deleted some things that they did not mean to. If links to some threads and such are broken (ie: on the mastery page), that's why. Oopsie. :bonk:

[goldoanheart]

Kurthnaga freezes in fear at the way the man speaks. He knows, he has to know what they are really here for, what they have really been here for all along. Or why else, would he call them liars? Kurthnaga had not lied... had he? He had assumed that he was simply talking his way around the complete truth, but perhaps that would seem like lying to an outsider's perspective.

He was no heron, but he knew that this man was terrifyingly serious with his words. He did not know what would happen were he to say the wrong things here, but he didn't really want to find out.

"I have not lied, my good sir. Not in the slightest. But if you fancy me a liar, then perhaps I am not the right man for your role." He fidgets, glancing towards Katarina. No, he didn't have time to fight with this man over whether he was a liar or not.

They had to go. Now.

He grabs Katarina's hand, tugging her towards him as he stepped towards the door, "Well... we should... be going now... uh, send me a call if you need my services for your role...!"

He makes a break for it. Nope. Not dealing with that guy when he looked that terrifying. If they stayed any longer, they were more likely to die than to get any sort of role in an acting troupe.

So! See you later scary guy!

”…“ The man’s silence says all that it needs to of his lack of approval, the loss of favor, though the fact that he allows them to remain before him means they have not failed outright. After he has left them to flounder in his dissatisfaction long enough, he heaves a dramatic sigh and waves it all away. "You’ll need a rudimentary understanding of the sword, if we choose you. But never mind that – you.” A spindly digit flicks toward Katarina now. “We will make use of you as well. Tell me.”

At that, the mage startles, not having expected to be called upon.

“M-me?” Her hands nestle over her heart, ill at ease with the hooded figure’s attention. “I… I can use magic… I, I know a little bit about the sword and bow… B-but I’m a terrible actor, sir…”

At that, the man’s lips unfurl, drawn tightly over his teeth to form a smile whose corners jut uncannily long across his face.

He laughs. The temperature of his voice is almost absent, neither warm nor frigid.

“What liars you both are.”

[writeforuss]

Rolling the Dice on Creativity: Write for Us Gambling!

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Why Write for Us Gambling?

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A Glimpse into Gambling History

Gambling’s roots run deep, spanning centuries and civilizations. From ancient Chinese lotteries to Roman dice games, the love for taking risks is universal. Writing about this fascinating history can give readers a newfound appreciation for their favorite games.

Casino Culture

Stepping into a casino is like entering a world of glitz, glamour, and possibility. Writers can explore:

Iconic Casinos: Think Las Vegas, Monte Carlo, or Macau.

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The Online Revolution

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In the digital age, gambling has moved from smoky casino floors to the comfort of our living rooms. Highlight trends like:

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A seasoned gambler knows that luck isn’t the only factor. Share your best tips on:

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Everyone starts somewhere! Write about common pitfalls and how new gamblers can avoid them. This relatable content will resonate with a wide audience.

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Gambling in Pop Culture

From Bond’s high-stakes poker game in Casino Royale to the heist brilliance of Ocean’s Eleven, gambling has made its mark in movies, music, and literature. Explore these cultural crossovers to captivate pop-culture enthusiasts.

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What makes us take risks? Delve into the psychological aspects of gambling, from the allure of jackpots to the thrill of near-misses. Add depth to your articles by incorporating expert opinions and studies.

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Ready to roll the dice on your writing journey? Here’s what you need to know:

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How to Get Started

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With so many aspects of gambling to explore, picking a niche is essential. Consider these options:

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When you’re ready, send us a pitch outlining your idea, along with a brief bio. Let us know what makes you the perfect fit for our platform.

Conclusion

The gambling world is vast, vibrant, and full of stories waiting to be told. If you’ve got the knack for storytelling and a passion for all things gambling, we’re excited to hear from you. Let’s create content that educates, entertains, and inspires readers to explore this thrilling realm.

[xasha777]

In the star-dappled halls of the Federation's High Council, a murmur of voices grew to a crescendo, each delegate from countless worlds eager to have their say. At the heart of the chamber, atop a dais made of a single slab of ethereal moonstone, stood a figure whose very presence commanded the silence that eventually fell over the assembly. She was Queen Elara, ruler of the Tenth Star System and the last of the Ancient Lineage, known for her wisdom that seemed to transcend time and the ethereal beauty that legends claimed was woven from the light of the stars themselves.

As she raised her hand, the jeweled crown upon her head glimmered, its stones from forgotten worlds reflecting the light of the twin suns that shone through the grand domed ceiling. The Federation had long been a bastion of peace and advancement, but dark tidings had begun to unsettle the far reaches of space. A mysterious force, known as The Null, had emerged, threatening to consume planets and extinguish stars, plunging entire systems into chaos.

“Members of the Federation,” Elara’s voice resonated, imbued with a calm strength, “we stand at the precipice of an era where our solidarity will be tested. The Null respects neither borders nor species. It is the antithesis of life, of energy, of the very essence that makes up our universe.”

A representative from the machine-world of Cybrix, a collective consciousness speaking through a chorus of synthetic voices, replied, “Majesty, our calculations show no weapon in the Federation's arsenal that can halt the spread of The Null. It is...unlike anything we have encountered.”

Whispers of despair began to spread, but Elara held her gaze firm, her blue eyes reflecting a depth of resolve that silenced the room once more.

“There is a prophecy,” she spoke, “known only to the Ancient Lineage, passed down through generations. It speaks of the Harmonic Crystals—elements born at the dawn of time, capable of resonating with the fabric of the universe itself.”

The council exchanged looks of both skepticism and curiosity.

“These crystals,” she continued, “when united by a descendent of the Ancient Lineage, can create a symphony of pure energy. This symphony has the power to restore balance, to fill the void of The Null with creation’s song.”

The Cybrix queried, “Where do we find these Harmonic Crystals, Majesty?”

Elara smiled, a gesture that seemed to infuse the chamber with a newfound hope. “The journey will not be simple. The crystals have been scattered across time and space, hidden on worlds that have not yet seen the light of the Federation. I will embark on this quest, and I will require the aid of the bravest souls from among our united planets.”

The assembly buzzed with excitement. This was more than a mission; it was a saga that would be woven into the fabric of the Federation's history.

“Let it be known,” Elara proclaimed, “that on this day, the Federation not only stands united against a common foe but united in a quest for the very survival of the cosmos. We embark on a journey not of war, but of harmony.”

And so, it was decided. Queen Elara, alongside a contingent of the Federation's finest—scientists, warriors, explorers, and diplomats—set forth on the starship Elysium, their course set for the edges of known space and beyond, to the rhythm of destiny that awaited the intrepid fellowship. Little did they know, the journey would not only be a test of their courage and intellect but also of their very souls, as The Null was but a shadow of a more profound mystery that threaded through the very heart of existence.

Thus began the Harmonic Odyssey, a story whose echoes would ripple through the stars for millennia to come.

[dlkardenal]

Vampires of Tenebris - A brief look at

There are many a soul in the cursed lands of the Towers, yet all know who they owe allegiance towards. They all remember the name of the dreaded building that casts a perpetual shadow spinning around like a clock, always expanding its domain onto another piece of land. That is the home of the vampire families. That is the fortress of their lords.

There are seven of these cyclopean constructs of dark magic and wonderous machines. Each houses a clan of blood drinkers related by blood and calling.

Thesantei

Most pleasant of the cursed tribes are the family of diplomats calling themselves the Thesantei. They act courteously and speak with great caution because they forever dance in the battle of wits and words. Their smiles and kind invitations serve none but themselves, bettering their position while they bleed kingdoms dry without cutting a wound. Not that they are incapable on the battlefield. They lunge and pierce like an artist painting with steel, commanding birds of prey and slithering drakelings to severe a life thread by thread. Their Curse is the most clandestine, capable of snatching and twirling the very thoughts of people, reading the most hidden perversions, and planting seeds of doubt.

Nerinai

People fear even the name of the Nerinai, the vampire physicians addicted to the pain and misery of others. They march in capes red as blood to threaten all who dare look upon them. They are suffering given form to most, humans and vampires alike. They are masters of flesh, bone, and blood, their Curse can mold living matter to heal, harm, or mock life itself. Using their knowledge they create Wretches, mutant abominations serving them without a spark of conscience. That is the root of their menacing fame; the ability to create life, and the cruel intent to morph it into something hideous.

Ataris

One family is like a shadow, a whisper you barely heard on the wind. Some aren’t even sure they exist. Some hope they don’t. They are the Ataris, a clan of vampires dedicated to unraveling the Curse itself and its tendrils into reality – magic. These mages learn nothing and care for nothing but the secret, occult powers they received during the Collapse, mastering it beyond any other. Their Curse calls onto the element of umbra, the smoke-like darkness that coils around every shadowed corner, manifesting it as liquid flame or straining tentacles. They are powerful, yet they don’t care for victory. They only learn fo the sake of learning, and never sate their infinite thirst for knowledge.

Sciria

Every soldier dreads the black blades wielded by the vampire legions because they radiate cold bloodlust and contempt. Those are the weapons forged by the Sciria, the family of blacksmiths that found their calling in the ore veins running under the Shadowshield Mountains. Their Curse allows them to smelt the black iron untouchable by any other soul, as it burns and corrupts every living thing around itself. For the Sciria, it is more than a metal. It is a god, a religion, an amalgamation of all their cries. Through the flames of their forge, it seeped into their blood and now all they touch manifests as their iron god’s avatar.

Tarquin

Even the Towers had builders; the Tarquin. The stone-blooded. The vampire masons. They are like the stone they cut, rough, cold, and immovable. Their Curse tears the border between creature and creation, giving them a sliver of divine power to damn statues with life and servitude until death. Their death. They welcome none, be it man or vampire, they work unseen and isolated and once they are done, only the stone speaks of them. But it speaks. It speaks of the Tarquin’s shame, the creation of the gargoyle horde that once threatened every Tower but remains to this day, scourging the outskirts of the accursed lands. So they build, higher and higher to forever bury this shame under the stone.

Hirinia

The Hirinia embody everything humans fear about the night. They prey in the darkness, silently scouting through the shadowed forest around their Tower and hunt everything that dares to make a sound. They are feral, bloodthirsty and savage, and they heed no warning or wisdom. Because they only hear the call of the wild. No Hirinia ever snuck in the night like a rat, because their Curse makes it their castle. They hear more, see more and sense more than a hound, their dark armor makes no sound and their shape is obscured in the fog of darkness that follows them. And when you hear the silent whistle of a crossbow bolt cutting through the air, it’s done. You are their trophy.

Venetesh

When the Towers go into war, the Venetesh are the first to answer. They are brutes, heartless butchers only kept alive by their everlasting rage and their desire to maim and carve up anyone they have an excuse for. They are the bloodhounds, the mercenaries, the expendable bulk of the vampire army. Their Curse is fury unbound, dark blood that rips them from death’s clutch, straining their muscles until they tear, flogging them forward until their bones break, creating monsters that sow terror on every field of battle. That is the call of the Venetesh.

These are the monsters we fight against. This is the enemy we shall smite in the name of our Lord, and all the Angel Legions in the high Heavens. That is His will. - Alexandros, Exarch of the Divine Church of Heliogaia

[goldoanheart]

"Where... is Elibe...?" He asks tentatively, knowing that there is a whole world beyond Tellius and Fodlan that he has never gotten to see. He is curious, but now, in their current predicament, isn't exactly the time to go chasing after his normally overflowing curiosity.

"You know, never mind that. You... want me to..." It won't be a PROBLEM per say, with the size that they are currently at, but he would still be worried about squishing Linus accidentally, should he not be careful.

Well, it would probably be fine, so long as he watched his step. He had done it before, at least he didn't have to worry about breaking anything due to how small they were.

"Alright then. If you wish for concrete proof, I hope this shall be good enough. I assure you it is completely safe as well." He takes a deep breathe, stepping back a little from the other man to make sure that he won't accidentally get hurt during the time it takes for him to change forms. It had been quite some time since the last time he had done this, but the change rushes over him as easily as it always has, and suddenly he is glancing down at his fellow professor rather than casting his gaze up.

"Rrrrmmmgh..."

And that was the problem here, wasn’t it? Despite travelling to a few different places before they came to Fodlan, Linus heart and head were still back in Elibe. He expected things to be the same everywhere. What happened in Elibe must have surely happened across the rest of the world. Hell, up until leaving, Elibe was the world to him.

So it was a little bit mind boggling to be confronted with the fact that, no, different lands were not like Elibe and things were not universal to how he understood them.

“I mean– Yeah, I thought…,” Linus fumbles, his indignation at being contradicted warring with his genuine confusion. “That’s how it is where I came from. Figured it, y'know…had to be the same everywhere else.” Because, to him, that had made sense, but…now he wasn’t so sure.

“Really? Never heard of 'em at all?”

Jeez, this was a lot to swallow.

“The Eight Generals are heroes back in Elibe. They stopped the dragons from destroying everything, beat them so fuckin’ bad that they up and left Elibe! The Generals made everything that’s still there now. Countries, religion, history – it all comes back to them.”

For him, it was common knowledge. Stuff he’d known since he was old enough to know it. And sure, there were some people who spoke about some magic city where men and dragons still lived side by side, or that Hartmut had the chance to kill the demon dragon and chose not to out of sympathy. But those views were few and far between, even in Bern.

Skepticism was still clear in Linus’ expression, but…curiosity was starting to get the better of him now.

“You can just…show me. Right here and now? That even safe?” Dragons were incredibly powerful, right? That’s what started the Ending Winter…right?

“Fuck it, yeah, show me what ya got, short stuff.”

He could probably beat a dragon. With his bare hands. Yeah.

[wistfulcynic]

Self-Promo Sunday: The Very Witching Time

Tomorrow I’ll be posting The Sleep of the Sun, my contribution for @cspupstravaganza​ and a continuation of The Very Witching Time, which I wrote for the Supernatural Summer this year. It isn’t necessary to read TVWT to read the TSotS, but just in case, here it is! 

Though it starts in summer the main action takes place in October, and there’s an eerie, witchy vibe throughout. It’s a modern setting, because I love witch!Emma as a modern woman who wears jeans and watches Netflix and uses her magic to keep her drinks hot and make her pancakes perfectly circular. But of course when she’s threatened by ancient evil she can use her magic for far more than that. Or when she meets an injured dog in the forest and needs it to heal him. 

I love this verse so much, and these versions of Emma and Killian, AND the next chapter of their lives, beyond The Sleep of the Sun, which I hope will appear next year for the Supernatural Summer! I just can’t let it go. 

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a hereditary witch, last in a long line of wise women who for centuries have guarded the coast of Maine and the small village of Storybrooke with their homemade cures and their ancient magic. She holds the delicate balance between magic and mundane, but now that balance is threatened by a new foe, one capable of bringing an end to everything Emma is and everything she loves. To defeat it she will need all her power, help from her friends and neighbours, and the loyalty of a very unusual dog who answers to the name of Killian. 

Words: 35k Rating: M (for violence and mild sexy times)  Tags: modern AU, magical AU, witchcraft AU, witch!Emma, cursed!Killian, witches, witchcraft, witch lore 

On Tumblr: One | Two | Three | Four  | Five | Six

On AO3

CHAPTER ONE:

Emma Swan lived atop a jagged cliff in a house that seemed an extension of it, rising up from the wind-hewn face into pointed towers that stood stark against the sky. The house was of the same stone as the cliff itself, great slabs of it, slabs too large to be used for construction, slabs that, observing them, one felt could have been formed only by the hand of nature and never that of man. It was a part of the landscape, that house, as old as the earth and only slightly younger than the sky, perched at the edge of those perilous cliffs in a way that made it impossible to imagine them without it.

The back of the house, or rather the front, as that was where the door was set, however, presented an altogether different aspect; one of a delightful cottage of typical grey Maine clapboard, squat and cheerful with a steeply sloping roof trimmed in white and a low stone wall surrounding a tumbledown greenhouse and a garden where bushes, trees, and flowers jumbled together and neither rhyme nor reason appeared to play any role. On the casual observer the effect was charming in an artless way, yet a keener eye would note method behind the garden’s seeming madness, an ancient wisdom in the randomness of the tumbling riots of colour that shifted and transmuted with the seasons. Where in spring it boasted bright red poppies and purple larkspur, delicate white anemones and pink blossoms on the apple trees twisting around each corner of the wall, summer brought fragrant freesia and heather for the bees, its warm breezes rustling through the tall irises and lilies. Autumn ushered in the muted oranges and yellows of chrysanthemums and the fluffy white of Queen Anne’s Lace, salvia and yarrow and berries from the rowan tree. Even in winter the garden provided: the glossy green leaves and red berries of the holly bushes brightened the snowy vista as pansies and orchids flourished in the greenhouse.

Beyond the garden wall a forest sprawled, dark and wild and perilous, from the very edge of the cliff where trees clung by their gnarled roots to the borders of the village where it dwindled into fenced yards and tidy houses. Here your casual observer would feel a shivering prickle on the back of his neck, that uncomfortable sensation of being watched by things not quite of this world that is more commonly reserved for graveyards at dusk and abandoned Victorian houses. He would move quickly through the dense woodland —yet not so quickly that he appeared to be hurrying— and upon emerging he would feel the sunshine as a balm on skin grown far colder than he’d realised.

The keen observer would, of course, not go into the forest at all.

Emma was as keen an observer as anyone could be but the forest, for all its determined menace, posed no threat to her. She relied on it, in fact, for ingredients she could not or did not wish to cultivate in her garden or greenhouse, just as it relied on her to keep a rein on its magic. Emma and the forest had an understanding.

That understanding failed to extend to the village which separated the forest from the lush farmlands which this stretch of Maine coastline boasted; the richest soil in New England it was said, guarded closely by the residents of Storybrooke who despite their distrust of it were prepared to put up with creepy forest at their backs in exchange for prosperity at their fronts. And though they rarely ventured into the woods themselves they were broad minded and mercenary enough to appreciate the labours of those who did, of Emma and the generations of witches who had come before her; wise women who kept the forest in check and the villagers placated with potions and tinctures, candles to encourage love or drive away evil spirits and balms to soothe every ailment from a bumped head to a broken heart.

And so, just as witches had done in Storybrooke from the time of the earliest settlement of her ancestors in this land, Emma kept an apothecary shop in the village, stocked with the wares she blended and brewed herself, travelling to and from it each day along the very same forest path that had been daily trodden by so many powerful women over the course of the centuries.  

The path was so familiar to her she could follow it in her sleep, which she almost did on the August afternoon when our tale begins, lulled by the muggy weight of the late summer air. The sunlight that shone so brightly on the village barely penetrated here; just a few slender shafts of it reached the forest floor, encouraging the growth of the rare plants on which Emma’s livelihood relied but doing little to alleviate the atmosphere made dense by damp heat and malign magic. Emma was blinking heavy eyelids, her mind on the cushioned bench in her garden that was so well suited to afternoon naps when the sound of an animal in distress wove its way into her drowsy consciousness.

It sounded like a dog, which caught her attention. Wilder, less domesticated creatures like cats and witches may feel comfortable enough with the forest’s demeanour to venture within, but dogs, being the keenest observers of all, tended to avoid it with the same diligence and for the same reasons as their humans did.

The noise came again, one that hovered somewhere between a whine and a growl, pained and frustrated. It tugged at Emma’s mind, clearing away her sleepy haze as from the corner of her eye she caught a quivering in the leaves of a hawthorn bush that twisted up from the undergrowth to the left of the path and the flash of a black tail just beyond it.

Without hesitating Emma plunged into the bracken, drawing on her own magic and that of the hawthorn as she went, wrapping threads of both around the bush’s thorny branches and pulling them aside to reveal a large black dog crouched at an awkward angle behind it. The dog looked up and when it saw her it stilled for a moment, staring at her with blue eyes that were almost shocking in its black face, a deep, clear blue she’d never seen on a dog before, bright and intelligent. It blinked and shook its head then looked at her again this time with a plea in those remarkable eyes, giving three quick, deep barks.

{Please help me.}

An affinity with animals was one of Emma’s gifts, and she was not surprised to hear the dog’s voice in her head. She smiled reassuringly and offered her hand.

“Hey, puppy,” she said in a low, soothing voice. “What’s the matter?”

The dog sniffed her hand then gave it a lick, its tail wagging furiously. She petted its head and scratched its ears as she slowly inched closer. It seemed remarkably calm given the circumstances but Emma had seen enough injured animals to be wary, knowing how abruptly their pain and fear could overcome them. She knelt on the ground next to it, murmuring gentle words and stroking its back, and took stock of the situation.

The dog’s front right leg was deep in what was likely a gopher hole, buried up to the middle of its shin, and though the sounds she’d heard and the state of the ground around the hole bore witness to the dog’s attempts to free itself, it was clear to Emma as indeed it would be even to the casual observer that the dog was thoroughly stuck and also that the leg was broken.

“Oh, poor baby,” she murmured. “That must hurt. I can help, if you’ll let me. Will you trust me?”

The dog looked right at her and she could see her answer in its extraordinary eyes, filled with pain but also hope and what she would swear was comprehension. It whined and gave her chin a single, gentle lick, then nodded its head.

“Well, that’s clearly a yes,” said Emma. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.” She hunched closer and examined the dog’s leg, well and truly wedged into the gopher hole, and winced. “I’m really sorry pup but this is going to hurt,” she said, looking up to catch the dog’s gaze again, marvelling at how calm it was despite its distress. She grasped its leg as gently as she could below the break and gathered her magic. “Ready? One… two…”

On three she pulled the leg from the hole, using her magic to ease its way. The dog whimpered at the pain but did not bark or growl and when its leg was free it licked her chin again.

“Okay, that’s step one,” said Emma. “Now let’s see how bad this is.” She probed the leg as delicately as she could with her fingertips, feeling the fractured bone beneath the fortunately unbroken skin. The break felt clean, with no jagged edges. “It’s not as bad as it could have been, I should be able to heal it,” she said, wondering briefly why she was explaining herself to a dog, though the animal in question was watching her intently with those intelligent eyes looking for all the world as though it knew exactly what she was saying. “I’m gonna have to set the break so there’ll be pain again and then I’ll heal it right after. Okay?”

The dog gave a short bark followed by another nod.

{Ready.}

“Okay, then,” said Emma. She gathered her magic, pulling it from the forest flowers and the leaves of the trees for backup, then as quickly as she could she snapped the broken bone back into place and wove her magic into it, knitting it together and soothing the pain in the damaged tissues.

When she finished she sat back on her heels with a sigh and closed her eyes. That was more magic than she’d used in some time and she felt a bit woozy. When she opened them again they fell immediately on the dog, who was staring at its leg in wonder.

Could dogs stare in wonder? She frowned, realising she didn’t actually know very much about the canine species. As a witch she’d always considered herself more of a cat person.  

“Give it a try,” she told the dog. “It’s all better now.”

The dog stood up and began to walk, tentatively at first and then with greater confidence. After a few loping steps it spun around and barked excitedly before trotting back to her with a delighted expression, tongue lolling from the corner of its mouth.

Emma, however, was still frowning. Despite the dog’s obvious pleasure its gait had a distinct limp and when it moved quickly it used only three legs, forgoing the left one entirely.

Its left leg… when she had healed the right.

“Hey,” she said. “Come here. Let me see that other leg.”

It limped closer and placed its left leg in her lap, a leg which she was now able to observe did not end in a paw.

“Oh, no!” she cried, bending to get a closer look at what was evidently an old injury and a badly healed one, with rough scar tissue and signs of wear where the dog had walked on it. “Oh poor you. This isn’t the first time you’ve been hurt, is it? How do you walk?”

The dog tilted its head in what was plainly a shrug.

“I guess you manage the best you can, huh? Well, I can’t give you your paw back but if you come home with me I should be able to fix you up with something to protect the end of your leg and help you walk a bit better. How does that sound?”

The dog licked her face enthusiastically and barked, and now that the press of emergency had passed she noticed the peculiar cadence of its cry.

“Aye!” barked the dog.  

Emma blinked. She may not be the world’s foremost authority on dogs, but even she knew that they were supposed to say things like “woof” or “arf.” She’d never heard of a dog saying “aye” before.

“Aye?” she repeated with a laugh. “Well, I guess that’s pretty obviously agreement.” She stood and brushed the dirt and twigs from her legs as the dog stood patiently in its slightly off-kilter way. “What should I call you?” she asked it. “I don’t suppose you have a name.”

Killian.

The name sprang into her mind, though the dog hadn’t barked. “Killian?” she repeated, startled.

“Aye!” barked the dog.

“Really?”  

“Aye!”  

“You sure? It’s not Spot or Buster or Joe or something?”

The dog looked affronted, and she laughed again. “All right, Killian it is then. I guess that means you’re a boy.”

“Aye!”

“Well okay, Killian, let’s go. We can have some dinner and then I’ll see what I can do about that paw.”

Killian bounded in an excited circle around her, his tail a blur. He moved remarkably well, considering, she thought, even as she laughed at his antics, and soon he’d settled into a limping trot alongside her as she headed home.

When they reached her garden gate she opened it and went straight in but Killian halted with a short bark of distress. She turned in surprise at the sound to see him pacing to and fro in front of the gate, whining softly.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him.

He whined louder and gave two short barks.

{Not welcome.}

“But why wouldn’t you be—” Emma frowned. The wards around her garden were designed to keep humans away, permitting none to enter without permission. But they shouldn’t have any effect on a dog.

Should they?

She really needed to learn more about dogs, she thought with mild irritation. This was clearly a gaping hole in her education.

In the meantime she called to the magic in the ancient warding spells, and spoke the age-old words to quieten them. “I see thee, Killian, and I name thee friend,” she said, in a voice that echoed through the open air. “Be welcome in this place.”

The magic of her garden surged and she held out her arms as it rippled and danced around her, ruffling her hair and gilding her skin with tiny sparks of light. Killian stared at her with wonder in his eyes again, and when the sparks faded away and she lowered her arms he cautiously stepped through the gate. The moment he crossed its threshold the garden’s magic… sighed, a soft exhale that sang of enduring hopes fulfilled at too long last, and curled itself around him, ruffling his fur as it had her hair.

Now it was Emma’s turn to stare. Her magic had never done that before. She gaped as Killian seemed to smirk —could dogs smirk?— at the unseen attention he was getting before rolling onto his back and letting the garden’s magic rub his tummy.

“Seriously?” cried Emma. “That’s enough of that, from both of you, Killian, come inside.”

She marched over to the cottage door and pulled it open. Killian leapt to his feet and ran after her, pausing just at the doorstep to wink at the garden before trotting into her kitchen.

Could dogs wink?

Emma made a mental note to dig up a book on canine behaviours later that night. There must be one in her library. Somewhere.

“I don’t have much that’s suitable for dogs,” she warned him as she opened the icebox. “But I think I’ve got some hamburgers in here if that’s okay—”

“Aye! Aye!”

“Okay, let me just heat them up.”

She defrosted the hamburgers with some gentle warming magic and put them on a plate for him. The minute she set it on the floor he dove in, gobbling up the meat with enthusiasm bordering on frenzy.

“Wow, you were hungry! How long has it been since you ate?”

He looked up at her and licked his chops, tail wagging vigorously, and barked twice before digging in again.

{Long time.}

“Well, don’t eat too fast, it’ll make you sick.”

Emma made herself a sandwich and munched it as she watched him diligently try to eat more slowly. When the last morsel was gone he lapped the plate clean then came over to her and licked her hand in thanks, wagging his tail as she scritched his ears before relaxing back onto his haunches and giving her the opportunity to observe him.

He was, as she had noticed in the woods, a large dog, though not a bulky one, with long slender legs and lean muscles. Standing, his head reached her waist with his shoulders around the middle of her thigh. His fur was thick and shaggy and a deep, light-absorbing black, though a v-shaped tuft right in the centre of his chest was bright white and fluffy and so soft-looking that her fingers itched to pet it.

He watched her examine him with a twinkle in his blue eyes that she was certain couldn’t be normal for a dog, as though he knew what she was thinking. She popped the last bite of sandwich into her mouth and when he pouted —did dogs pout?— she gave him a small smirk. “You had your dinner,” she said firmly. “You can’t have mine too. Now what do you say we go and see what can be done about that paw.”

She stood and left the kitchen, Killian at her heels, and headed past the living room and the closed library door, through a dark and narrow passageway towards the rear of the house. As she approached, the solid-seeming wall at the end of the corridor began to shimmer with the same sparking light that had surrounded her in the garden and a doorway appeared, wrought from the same stone as the slabs of the house itself, curving elegantly to form a pointed Gothic arch and frame a door of solid wood, thick and heavy and older than anything that surrounded it.

The door swung open as Emma drew near and she breezed through it without a thought. Killian, sensing the darker energy emanating from the other side, hesitated as he had at the garden gate. Emma turned, her smile understanding.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “It’s not dangerous, just old. Old things are sometimes… indifferent to younger ones. But it won’t hurt you. Nothing will hurt you here.”

Hesitantly he came through the doorway, moving slowly to allow the magic there to get a sense of him. It was less welcoming than the garden had been, but not hostile. As Emma said, it was simply indifferent. This magic had seen too many mortal creatures come and go in its time to care overly much about yet another one.

Emma led him into a large stone room with no windows, the tall, thick candles lining the walls its only source of light. These she set burning with a wave of her hand and the illumination they produced flooded the room with a golden glow despite their modest number. Stone stairs curved up the walls on either side of the room, leading to the towers that flanked the house, their twin helixes twisting up and disappearing into a darkness too dense even for the candles to penetrate. A heavy and cluttered wooden table spanned the length of the far wall, and this Emma approached, producing a thick, soft blanket of deep midnight blue scattered with stars from a woven wicker basket beneath it.

She spread the blanket carefully over the centre of the otherwise bare stone floor, placing at each of its corners a small silver bowl filled with sea salt and thyme and a few dried violet leaves, murmuring a short incantation over them as she did. “Sit here,” she instructed Killian, indicating the centre of the blanket. “I’ll need a few minutes to get my things together.”

Obediently, he sat and watched her in fascination as she rifled through the jumbled collection of bottles, jars, and bags on the table, frowning and muttering to herself as she did.

“…comfrey and rosemary and a bit of peppermint, sage to infuse and to burn…” she intoned as she gathered the named ingredients together. When all were assembled she snapped her fingers to light a fire beneath her copper kettle, then carefully weighed out the herbs on her silver scales while the water inside it came to a boil. She blended the herbs in a large mortar, crushing and grinding them with the pestle to blend them well and draw out their essence before tipping them carefully into a painted ceramic pot and pouring the boiling water over them. Stirring them gently with her magic, with her fingertips she traced arcane symbols through the steam as it rose from the pot into the cool, still air.

When she judged the herbs sufficiently infused she strained their liquid through a clean cheesecloth into a wide copper bowl. As it cooled to a comfortable temperature, she removed a lump of pure silver from a leather bag, holding it up to observe its gleam in the candlelight. The lump was large but to complete the healing properly would require all of it, and it was also precious. Glancing behind her she saw Killian sitting patiently, watching her, his eyes wide and curious but not afraid. Trusting.

He was worth it. She felt sure of that, and though she had no idea why she did not vacillate. Emma had long since learned to trust her instincts.  

She took a bundle of dried sage and held it up to a candle flame until it caught —some fires needed to be started in the mundane way— then blew the flame out with a quick puff of breath and waved the smouldering herbs around the blanket and over the copper bowl before dropping them into the potion. Carefully she lifted the bowl and carried it to the blanket, kneeling down upon it and placing the bowl in front of Killian. Closing her eyes she muttered a brief incantation before taking his damaged leg and bathing it in the warm liquid, her fingers gentle but thorough, making sure to clean away all the dirt and debris from the gnarled scar tissue. He growled softly, deep in his throat, and she shot him a smile, knowing it was a growl of pleasure.

“Feels good, huh?” she said. “Soothing.”

“Aye.” His bark was as low as his growl.

{Good.}

When his leg was clean she dried it with a linen cloth and set it in her lap, then took out the lump of silver, placing it at the end of his leg and cupping both loosely in the palms of her hands. Closing her eyes once more she focused her powers and drew forth the metal’s own magic, its primal properties of health and healing, her hands beginning to spark and glow with light as she kneaded the silver, stretching and weaving it back into itself, moulding the lump into the shape of a dog’s paw and then knitting it into the damaged flesh of the leg. Killian watched with wide eyes, whimpering slightly as the metal sank into his skin and fused to his bones. The light from Emma’s hands burst into a sudden blinding brightness, flickered out, and the silver paw was part of him.

Emma slumped back on her heels, exhausted. “Whew,” she said. “Done.” She patted the metal paw. “Give it a try.”

Killian sniffed the paw, licked at the seam where it joined his leg, then tentatively placed it on the floor and leaned his weight on it. He took a few careful steps followed by bolder ones, then turned to Emma with an incredulous expression. She laughed, happy he was happy. “Go on, stretch yourself,” she encouraged.

“Aye!” he barked, frolicking joyfully around the room, spinning in circles and leaping through the air. He ran to Emma and jumped on her, putting his paws on her shoulders and licking her face until she pushed him away, grinning through a jaw-cracking yawn. “I’m glad you like it,” she told him as she rose unsteadily from the floor. “I gotta get to bed. Um…” she swayed on her feet and Killian was there immediately at her side, pressing firmly against her leg and letting her brace herself with her hand on his neck as she stumbled from the stone room and out the doorway.

It disappeared behind her, the magic within whispering far more warmly than before, no longer so indifferent to Killian as it had been.

Emma sank her fingers into his thick fur, clinging to him as she made her way up the stairs to her bedroom. Her head felt heavy and woozy, her fingers and toes numb. Moving clumsily she kicked off her shorts and unhooked her bra, pulling it from beneath her tank top with jerky movements and dropping it to the floor before collapsing into bed, sinking deep into the pillows. Dimly she was aware of Killian moving around the room, his fur soft against her skin as he pulled the blankets up over her, the warm weight of him curling up at her back, his chin resting on her hip. With the last of her energy she reached up to stroke his head then fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

                                                    ~~🌺~~

Some hours later Killian was awoken from his doze when the magic from Emma’s garden called to him. He lifted his head from where it still lay on her hip and gave a low growl, staring through the bedroom window into the pitch blackness of the night.

Something was out beyond the garden wall, moving around its perimeter, methodically testing the magical boundary in search of weaknesses. Killian could sense it there, could feel its cold determination and intent even without the garden’s warning.

Threat, whispered the garden magic in his mind. Danger. Stay with her.

Killian flexed his new silver paw, feeling the power that still thrummed within it, feeling the absence of pain in his left limb for the first time in many a year. He looked at the golden haired woman still sound asleep, drained to exhaustion by the act of healing him, of selflessly giving him this invaluable gift. He recalled her warm green eyes and kind smile, the strength and gentleness in her touch.

He lay back down, pressing tighter against her, curling his neck around her hip and placing his silver paw gently over her waist. He closed his eyes again and answered the garden’s plea.

{Always.}

Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world.

                                   —Hamlet, Act III Scene 2

Continue to Chapter 2 

[ethenell]

Best Films of 2017, Part II

5. Blade Runner 2049 (dir. Denis Villeneuve)

“Mere data makes a man … A and C and T and G … The alphabet of you, all from four symbols.”

Making a satisfactory sequel to a widely beloved masterpiece like Blade Runner is a borderline impossible task – the weight of expectation is oftentimes simply too great. In keeping with that wisdom, Blade Runner 2049 is not at all a satisfactory sequel - Luckily for fans of the groundbreaking original, it is much, much more than that. A daringly-conceived blockbuster epic that flies in the face of today’s rapid fire genre filmmaking rulebook, 2049 is the kind of bold, visionary sequel that Blade Runner has always deserved, but most of us lacked the optimism to hope for.

With a gargantuan runtime and an average shot length dwarfing that of the average blockbuster, it’s hard to understate the sheer ambition of what director Denis Villenueve has brought to the screens with 2049. But the true miracle is that the magnitude of 2049’s ambition is matched by its achievement every step of the way, thanks in no small part to the partnership of Villeneuve and cinematographer Roger Deakins, whose Oscar-winning work (!!) on 2049 deserves consideration alongside the best of his unparalleled career. Their collaboration is central to the hypnotic mood and texture of the film – a significant departure from that of Ridley Scott’s 1982 film. It would have been easy for Villeneuve and Deakins to replicate the look and feel of the original – many have done it over the years, with varying degrees of success. But rather than do what was easy, they took the original’s oft-imitated cyberpunk world and filtered it through their own creative lens – coming out on the other side with some of the most indelible imagery the year in cinema had to offer. That the film also treads novel thematic territory in the well-worn debate on the existential border between man and machine, cements 2049’s status as one of the all-time great film sequels. 

In keeping with the film’s heavy Tarkovsky influences, Villenueve focuses more on finding the right way to ask the hard questions than on constructing tricky ways to answer the easy ones. But Tarkovsky, as brilliant as he was, never made a film that looked anything like this. It’s with this delicate marriage of grand imagery and even grander ideology that Villinueve has defied the odds and done what most thought was impossible … He’s made a brilliant follow-up to an undisputed masterpiece.

In doing so, he just might have made one of his own.

4. Lady Bird (dir. Greta Gerwig)

- Lady Bird. Is that your given name?

- Yeah.

- Why is it in quotes?

- I gave it to myself. It’s given to me, by me.

All too often, authenticity in filmmaking is synonymous with directorial transparency - passive camera and observational direction have become the du jour techniques to achieve a realist aesthetic. But there is a special authenticity to crafting a film that fully and authentically inhabits a specific point of view. Greta Gerwig’s splendid semi-autobiographical debut Lady Bird is just such a special film. Far from being passive and observational, Gerwig’s distinctive voice as an actress transitions beautifully behind the camera as she bottles up all the emotional tumult of high school and unleashes it through a powerhouse performance from one of cinema’s best young actresses.

Though a realistic Oscar push never quite developed, Soairse Ronan has now delivered two performances more than worthy of the honor - at 23, she is already far overdue for greater recognition. As Christine “Lady Bird” McPherson, she works in perfect harmony with Gerwig to deliver big-time laughs and well-earned tears while casting even the most tired coming-of-age tropes in a fresh new light. And, while it’s not clear whether it’s even possible to steal the show from a performer of Ronan’s caliber, leave it to the reliable character actress Laurie Metcalf to give it her best shot. Her big-hearted but overly-critical mother is career-best work that often serves as the film’s emotional backbone. She’s the perfect foil to Ronan’s bursting-at-the-seams teenage rebel, and their fraught relationship is the crux of Gerwig’s film.

The best thing that can be said about Lady Bird – and there are more than a few great things to say – is that it simply rings true. It’s earnest portrayal of a young girl clashing against the boundaries of her world, and herself captures something deeply true about the contradictions of young adulthood. Despite it’s modest packaging, Lady Bird is a genuinely moving and supremely confident debut, bursting with creative ambition and boasting immaculately-realized characters expressing ideas that resonate with audiences beyond the film’s pointedly narrow scope. If that’s not the sign of a brilliant filmmaker, then I don’t know what is.

 3. Call Me By Your Name (dir. Luca Guadagnino)

“Nature has cunning ways of finding our weakest spot.“

On the heels of Moonlight’s stunning Best Picture win, few would have expected another masterpiece of LGBTQ cinema to emerge so quickly. But the consensus best film from the Sundance Film Festival’s 2017 iteration was just such an effort. Luca Guadagnino’s entry to the festival was immediately pegged as one of its more buzzed-about titles. His previous two films, 2009’s I Am Love and 2015’s A Bigger Splash - both featuring characteristically excellent performances from Tilda Swinton, with the latter boasting a very uncharacteristically off-the-walls and thoroughly underappreciated turn from Ralph Fiennes - established Guadanigno as a premiere actor’s director. But Call Me By Your Name showcased a newly-subdued directorial style, giving his impressive cast of players even more room to shine.

On this note, it’s hard not to point to Guadignino’s pairing with 2017 breakout Timothee Chalamet as a gift of fate. Working with Guadanigno, Chalamet is revelatory. He delivers a performance with nuance and complexity far beyond his years. As the film follows Chalemet’s Elio finding first love, he projects confidence only to be betrayed by moments of utter vulnerability, hitting those extremes – and every note in between – with absolute perfection. In this year’s Best Actor category, Gary Oldman had the perfect industry narrative, but Chalamet gave the most deserving performance – no one will ever convince me otherwise. Surrounding Chalamet’s masterful work is a stellar ensemble, of which Michael Stuhlbarg is the clear standout. In hands-down the best moment in the year of film, Stuhlbarg delivers a monologue for the ages with his voice hardly rising above a whisper. His is an absolutely brilliant performance that, like most of his unerringly impressive character work, has been criminally ignored.

Call Me By Your Name is destined to join the ranks of the all-time great LGBT romances, but it’s thematic reach and the appeal of its characters are universal. It’s a masterpiece of storytelling that perfectly captures hesitant intimacy blossoming into the kind of love that burns bright and leaves marks that last a lifetime. Guadagnino guides us gracefully through the tender connection at the film’s center without sacrificing the complexity of Elio and Oliver’s emotional journeys. These moments of self-discovery – and discovery of a part of yourself in another – are never straightforward endeavors, but Guadagnino’s warm camera conjures the melancholic beauty in every intricate detail as though he’s recalling a fond memory. Times like these call for films as tender, earnest, and full-hearted as Call Me By Your Name. It’s unmissable.

2. Dunkirk (dir. Christopher Nolan)

“You can practically see it from here ...

What?

... Home.”

Leave it to Christopher Nolan, who already revolutionized the superhero movie, to produce a war film unlike any I’ve ever seen. Like Saving Private Ryan before it, Dunkirk throws out the playbook and finds great power outside the bounds of convention. An absolute masterclass in structure and formal editing – in many ways more ambitious even than the groundbreaking structure of Nolan’s grandiose mindbender, Inception – Dunkirk juggles three different storylines, all of which occur over different timeframes, until they all converge in a breathlessly tense climactic sequence. Weaving these threads effectively is a gargantuan task, but Nolan proves himself more than up to the challenge.

From a directorial perspective, Dunkirk is not far removed from Nolan’s previous efforts. His precise technical command and vision for spectacular set-pieces is nearly unmatched in modern studio filmmaking – but this isn’t news for anyone who’s familiar with his previous work. Where Dunkirk improves dramatically over Nolan’s previous efforts – particularly his more uneven films, like Interstellar and The Prestige – is on the page.

One of the biggest knocks against Nolan as a filmmaker has always been his over-reliance on expository dialogue. (Honestly, how many different perfunctory monologues did it take for him to explain Inception’s dream-within-a-dream structure? Or wormhole travel in Interstellar?) So how did he respond when writing Dunkirk? With a ruthless editorial pen, he chipped away at each bit of dialogue until all that remained were the truly essential elements. The result is the most sparse film of Nolan’s career – it also happens to be the best.

Even with the lack of dialogue Nolan’s cast is given to deliver – or perhaps precisely because of it – Dunkirk is filled with memorable ensemble performances. Cillian Murphy’s shellshocked sailor, Tom Hardy’s steely, resilient pilot, Mark Rylance’s calmly resolved civilian, and yes, even Harry Styles’ fearfully cruel foot soldier, all leave a lasting impression despite limited screen time. It’s a testament to the efficacy to the show-don’t-tell philosophy when embraced by a director as immensely talented as Nolan.

Filling in the gaps is composer extraordinaire Hans Zimmer’s droning score, which might very well be the best, most thematically effective work of his career. Propelling and underlying the cacophonous atmospherics is the simple tick of a clock – so ubiquitously present that you only notice it when it suddenly drops away. It’s a simple gambit that makes for one of the most thrilling moments of the cinematic year. Without Zimmer’s score, it never would have materialized. His work elevates the film – there’s no greater compliment that a composer can be given.

Like The Dark Knight before it, Christopher Nolan has also crafted Dunkirk to be uniquely resonant in the present geopolitical landscape. It’s a morally resolute film, firm in its assertion that certain battles are worth fighting and unambiguously optimistic about the willingness capacity of good people to do so, no matter the cost. It’s an empowering message, harkening back to a day when Western civilization was left with no choice but to do away with equivocations and rise up to face an unambiguously evil force at work in the world. As we see hints and shadows of that same fascistic ideology re-emerging in our present politics, Dunkirk reminds us that we are capable of defeating it, but only at a terrible cost.

1. Phantom Thread (dir. Paul Thomas Anderson)

“Kiss me my girl, before I’m sick.”

With each subsequent entry to his already-legendary filmography, Paul Thomas Anderson further stakes his claim as American cinema’s greatest living auteur. His latest, Phantom Thread marks a particularly fascinating step along his journey to filmmaking greatness. As with all of Anderson’s films, there’s more to Phantom Thread than initially meets the eye. What initially appears to be a peculiar period romance slowly reveals itself to be a devilishly subversive take on power dynamics and love. The film’s austerity and elegance belie it’s prickly subtext, but (of course) it is this exact contradiction that makes Phantom Thread so damn interesting ... There’s not a film this year that has more frequently occupied my thoughts.

In what is reportedly his final role, Danial Day-Lewis is as impressive as ever, doing away with the towering theatrics of his best-known performances (there’s hardly a hint of Daniel Plainview or Bill the Butcher, here) in favor of the meticulous character work that initially brought him to critical esteem. In his hands, Woodcock’s cartoonish mannerisms feel thoroughly organic with nary a false beat to be found, while bringing Anderson’s words to life with extraordinary skill. Lines that could feel like throwaways to another actor take on legendary status as delivered by Day-Lewis. If it is indeed the final time that he will be gracing our screens, then he’s picked a finale befitting his storied career.

As if taking cues from his star and uncredited co-writer, P.T. Anderson directs his latest masterpiece with an uncharacteristically gentle hand. Thrown to the wayside is the visionary flash and technically prodigious camerawork that defined his earlier greats. Instead, Anderson hones in on his unmatched sense for interweaving character and theme and lets his actors the heavy lifting in largely still frames. Unsurprisingly, the results are brilliant, the product of an assured and confident master working at the very height of his powers while refusing to lean on his past successes.

But while the continued collaboration of Anderson and Daniel Day-Lewis sits at the center of any assessment of Phantom Thread, it’s greatness is often solidified by the masterful contributions outside of this titanic duo. Another frequent PTA collaborator, Radiohead guitarist Jonny Greenwood, turns in his best work since his groundbreaking score for There Will Be Blood. His lush piano work and elegant strings match the film’s beats to perfection, rooting out its subtleties and amplifying them beautifully. And Day-Lewis’ co-star, the previously unknown Hungarian actress Vicky Krieps, may well be the most exciting discovery of the year. Acting alongside Daniel Day-Lewis must seem a daunting task to even the most experienced of thespians, but Krieps fearlessly matches him step for step.

Phantom Thread, though it’s the director’s most austere film to date, is a P.T. Anderson film, through and through. By that I mean that it’s deeply strange and continually surprising, but ultimately narrows its gaze on something uncomfortably and fundamentally true about our common human condition. It’s gorgeously made and subtly provocative cinema from a virtuoso filmmaker … What more could you ask for?

[goldoanheart]

Kurthnaga looks at Robin like he just asked the dumbest question in the world, blinking a few times as he let the other man's words set in. Why... that was a silly question indeed; wasn't it? The answer seemed almost obvious to the young king of dragons, but he supposed that the professor would not know that; now would he?

"Yes, I can. Though... there is the issue of space, of course. Thus it is not something I have demonstrated much since coming to Fodlan," Whether from influence from Nasir, or just wanting to feel as though he could stand more equally with those here at the academy, he kept his identity a secret and his head low.

"That, and... there has not truly been much of a need to. That form is how we fight after all, and I would much prefer to avoid any violence at all."

snow covered dragons