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astroboots · 3 years ago

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Swim Meet written by 🥸 anon

Mysterious Moustached Anon's Masterlist

To moustached anon: I am beyond lucky to have such an incredibly friend who would write me such a beautiful (panty-meltingly hot) fic for my birthday — I truly don't deserve you and do not know where I would be without you, my oldest friend on this hellsite. This is the best birthday present I've ever received. I love you so much I don't even have words for it. You totally made me cry when your notification popped up as it literally struck midnight.

Pairing: AU! swimcoach Frankie x female reader

Rating: explicit. smut.smut.smut oh beautiful smut.

Word Count: 2,160 words

You collapse into the chair, a sigh of incredible weight heaved from your breast. it's a moment of repose following the chaos and pure entropy of the day.

the swim meet is over.

it always feels this way, the sheer exhaustion that begins to settle in, the adrenaline finally diluting in your bloodstream replaced by the silky, warming rays of the golden hour. it touches every corner, kisses the pool deck outside, the trees, the glimmering surface of the finally still water, and—

frankie.

he‘s as golden as the hour itself, having shed his clothes to slip into the pool and wind up all the lane lines until the next time. his hair shines with the last drying licks of chlorine, stray droplets running down the length of his neck and expansive back.

the kids are long gone, and an assortment of towels and goggles are left to pick up and add to the lost and found, but you can’t be bothered just yet, content to perch in the lifeguard‘s chair — a big blocky white thing that’s barely even elevated — and watch him mill about the pool deck. and as he ambles about, you can’t help but reminisce and bask in the memory of the first time you succumbed to the languid roll of his hips in the men’s locker room, stilted breaths under the hot spray of the shower, indulgent moans echoing shamelessly off the subway tile.

you draw your knees up to your chest in the chair, teeth working at your lower lip as you begin to warm from both the outside as well as the inside.

frankie seems to feel your gaze on him, because he abandons his work and sidles up to the chair next to you, casting you a sidelong gaze that seems all too knowing.

“long day,” he says, casually. you hum your agreement, trying to pretend as if you weren’t just thinking of the first time he had slipped hot, wet, and heavy inside you, had plumbed the depths of your body and kicked your world off its axis.

“you wanna get out of here?” you know what he’s asking. he wants to take you home — to his or yours, he doesn't care either way — and lay you out for himself like a breakfast buffet after an early morning race.

you play coy — even as you feel your heartbeat start to thunder at the unspoken promise of his tongue buried deep inside you — and tilt your face up into the sun, a small smile beginning to twirl the edges of your mouth.

“not just yet, gimme a few more minutes.” he doesn’t say much, gives a quiet grunt and you think if you open your eyes right now you’ll find him openly pouting.

if he is pouting, it doesn’t last long, because soon the sticky, suffusing warmth of the sun is blocked. when you crack an eye open, you find him standing directly in your light, and now it’s your turn to pout.

“come on, frankie, I just want—“

your words get cut off when he parts your knees, hooking a big hand behind each one and drawing them over the armrests of the chair. you gawk at him, scandalized even as you feel your lower lips part beneath your bikini bottoms. you’re wet and he knows it — you don’t know how but he does, the self-satisfied glint in his eye, the half smirk he wears along with his speedo and nothing else.

“what on earth do you think you’re—“

and he does it again. he steals the words right from your throat when he moves faster than a whip — it’s no wonder he’s always off the blocks and in the water before you, he’s so fucking fast — when he quickly pulls at the ties on the sides of your bathing suit bottoms and pulls them out from underneath you, tossing them over his shoulder and into the pool with a soft splash.

fuck.

you’re in trouble now.

frankie’s smile drops, even though he was right and you’re definitely fucking wet, his expression instead replaced by a hunger, a fixated stare that spoke only of base instinct.

your breath begins to labor, your chest pressing against the thin T-shirt you wear over your bathing suit top. you stare him down with equal parts wonder and challenge written into your gaze. it's very nearly a dare. is he really going to do this? here?

you wouldn’t risk losing money on that bet.

and it’s a good thing you don’t.

he looms over you, fills your whole field of view, becomes your entire world and fuck if that’s not very quickly what he’s becoming to you. he’s beautiful, intensely so, with his molten eyes and wild hair, with the way he grips the arms of the chairs as if he might break them if they weren’t made of a polyvinyl wood composite.

you’re so lost in the depth of his gaze, held in thrall by the wood-burning fire you can see within them, waiting for his patience to break, that you miss the way his lips purse until you feel the wet weight of his spit land directly on your clit. your leg twitches at the impact, your squeak turning into a moan when it slides down and around your entrance. frankie is quick to catch it before it slips too far, using the pads of two fingertips to spread the wetness over your lips and clit.

a thrill skitters up your spine — fuck he’s actually doing this. the tips of his two fingers just barely breach you before pulling out, swirling back over your clit, and dipping back down into you ever so slightly deeper.

he’s teasing. he's teasing and it’s not enough and he knows it, but he wants you to participate in this debauchery, wants you to want to be touched by him out here in the open, where anyone walking their dog could pass by the gates.

you hold out as long as you can, but you can feel the ache growing inside you as you try with little success to clamp down around the very tips of his fingers. your head hits the back of the chair in a huff.

“frankie, please.”

“please what,” he asks, bringing his fingers to his mouth for a taste, humming to himself before returning to his torture.

you whine. “fuck, please fuck me.”

his mouth quirks up smugly. "what, here?"

if you weren't already so gone for the man, you'd be liable to slap him.

"i swear to god, frankie, if you keep being a tease, you're—" in a flash his fingers are hooked inside you, your back arching off the chair with a long moan. christ, those fingers. they thrust and rub and explore and twist and god you think you could come just from this — from his fingers and the incredibly possessive look in his eye.

“is this all you wanted, sweet girl?” you shake your head, trying to find the words but all that comes out when he presses up again that spot is a deep groan.

“m-more.”

a growl rumbles in his chest, you can feel it reverberating even in the fingers he has inside you. fuck, you can hear how wet you are just from his fingers working inside you, can feel the slide of your arousal all the way down between your cheeks and over your ass, and you recall the filthy promises Frankie whispered to you about it just last week.

but there’s no time for that — he’s painfully hard and you can see where his previously dried suit has begun to darken again. god help you, you’re going to let him fuck you right here in the open with only the wisps of the thinning hedgerows to block you from view.

“frankie. frankie, please.” he doesn’t need to be asked again. he frees himself from his suit, uses his hand wet with your arousal to slick himself up, and pushes into you with a ragged groan. he steals your breath when he bottoms out inside you — he never fails to stretch you in every direction, every time is like the first, tight and full, impossible pressure and tension and when he rolls his hips back and snaps them forward the pressure only mounts. he grabs onto the back of the chair above you for leverage, plants his feet, and after a few languid thrusts he begins a bone-blistering pace that is absolutely bliss inside you. you bounce in the chair from the force of his thrusts, the backs of your thighs slapping against him, forcing him even deeper, wet and rhythmic and impossibly loud.

you reach with a hand for the back of the chair, if only to stead yourself against the onslaught of his heavy length inside you, and you find frankie’s hand there waiting for yours, linking them together over the edge of the chair back. with your hands linked together over the back of the chair, you find the crinkling smile in the corners of his eyes, the soft brown gaze that wraps your heart in such devoted affection you actually feel your chest tighten from it. but frankie is a man of depth, and when he wraps his other hand around the back of your neck, pulls your mouth to his so he can kiss you, so he can exchange your breath for a few filthy words, you're reminded that he isn't just the sweet man with the shy smile you met at practice one day.

so fucking wet for me — knew you’d want it like this — so fucking perfect — so fucking dirty — you gonna come for me, baby? — god you’re so fucking tight before you come

he’s right again. he runs his mouth and he’s so fucking right because you can feel the orgasm building in your toes, feathering up your calves and nestling at the very base of your spine. he renews his efforts, slides you down just a bit further and cants his hips and — oh fuck, right there, oh god don’t stop — you feel the pressure climbing impossibly high, spiraling infinitely up and it just has to break soon, it has to. tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and frankie’s thumb is there to wipe at them, and in an instant that soft warm presence is back — he already knows your body, knows the signs and the sounds.

come on, baby — I know you can do it — I know it’s a lot, sweet girl — I’m right here — you can take it — just a little bit more.

when the coil finally snaps, your back bows tightly, chest pressing up against him while he continues to fuck into you relentlessly. the high is a weightless, tonal chord that vibrates so deep through you while real sound dies in your throat. the limitless high breaks a dam of rapturous pleasure, and through the tremors you feel the intense gush of release, hear it splash against frankie’s thighs and hips and abdomen and balls as each of his thrusts drives more of your release from you and onto him.

you can vaguely hear him running his mouth again, but it’s barely more words than it is a series of growls. that’s it — there you go, there you fucking go — god, you’re fucking soaking me — sweet girl — so fucking wet when you come — god I want another one — so fucking perfect. his hand drops down to strum wetly at your clit, fast and light and so fucking wet your eyes roll back with a hoarse cry as the release starts again and you soak him for the second time.

fuck, shit, that’s amazing, baby. so wet, so fucking tight, god, I’m gonna come. oh shit, I’m gonna—

his hips stutter, driving further into you as his eyes finally squeeze shut and his body locks up, your still-clenching pussy milking him further as he spills rope after rope inside your quivering core until he finally stutters to a stop. his hips jerk every time your cunt twitches with an aftershock, and he rests his forehead against yours and basks in the gentle overstimulation for as long as he can, letting each intermittent clutch of you send a shiver up his spine.

he wipes a hand over his face; he looks dazed when he opens his eyes, warm and sleepy, all thoughts fucked out.

you feel about the same.

he pulls out gently, stumbling back from the chair, but before he helps you get down, he can't resist a long lick and a loud, slurping suck at your pussy that makes your head knock back against the chair.

"jesus, frankie."

you make your way on shaky legs to the pools edge, meaning to grab your bikini bottoms that are slowly drifting out of reach. but frankie grabs you around the waist and throws you over his shoulder, swatting at your cheeks.

"leave them. you're not gonna need them anyway."

—🥸

Mysterious Anon Tag List: For a few people I think might be interested. Please let me know if you want to be taken off.

@frannyzooey @highsviolets @thirstworldproblemss @keeper0fthestars @littleferal @songsformonkeys @yespolkadotkitty @knittingqueen13 @jazzelsaur @djarinsbeskar @the-ginger-hedge-witch

#frankie morales x you #pedro pascal #frankie morales #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #francisco morales #francisco morales x reader #i'm gonna scream at you in a separate post as soon as i wake up in the morning

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wei-gege-oldaccount · 4 years ago

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lwj and wwx only have 2 settings when looking at each other, they are either stupidly in love or stupidly horny. have you seen this post? kenny2234*tumblr*com/post/629515661032521728

Hi Anon!

Firstly, yes I have seen your post, and secondly you never asked for this and I am sorry for that.

I could write about their eye contact alone until the end of time, or at least until I succumb to the laws of entropy. I could just idly agree with you, yes, aha it’s love or lust and move on. But. I can’t. I can’t. I mean, this is a story where so much is told by the things that are not said. And there is a lot that can’t be said, either because it’s a character trait or because of censorship issues. I will try and keep this concise, and to do that I’m just focusing on mutual eye contact, and from LWJ’s perspective. Thinking to the BTS where Wang Yibo talks about how LWJ mostly only expresses himself through the eyes.

TL;DR: I disagree, there’s really more to it than that.

LWJ actively avoids eye contact with WWX until around episodes 6-7. He’s a Lan. He can NOT condone or make friends with this unruly, loud, arrogant, charismatic, irritatingly beautiful man. He has bad ideas about the uses of resentful energy. No matter how intelligent, observant and artistic he is. No matter now much of a prodigy and a skilled fighter he is. No matter how hot he is. No matter what his brother says.

He likes him but he doesn’t like that he likes him.

So LWJ actively avoids direct eye contact with WWX unless it’s a glare filled with the fire of a thousand suns. You know, as a warning.

This is until episode 6/7. By this point, they have fought water ghouls at Biling Lake. Drunkenly shared personal mom info. Used the Lan forehead ribbon inappropriately in the Cold Pond Cave, and had Physical Contact when escaping. WWX has called LWJ his Zhiji already. It’s only when WWX keeps his promise not to talk about the Yin Iron and scares NHS away when he tries to extract gossip that LWJ decides to reappraise him. Only then do we get some eye contact which isn’t laced with contempt or uneasiness (which of course JC is there to witness).

They go off and do the lantern ceremony. LWJ does a smile at WWX’s bunny art. That devastating look he gives WWX as he makes his vow. You can almost lipread LWJ’s brain thinking “marry me now”. LXC was right about him. Despite this, he tries to deal with the yin iron by himself because WWX is The Agent of Chaos after all. But, WWX is not going to let him bear this responsibility alone, because of course he wouldn’t.

Enter Battle Couple WangXian. They fight the fairy statue, multiple puppets, and the dire owl. Xue Yang happens. They meet famous duo SL & XXC and LWJ & JC totally fanboy over them, and it’s only then, some real Zhiji vibes hit LWJ, albeit with a bit of a sombre mood after WWX’s chat with XXC. My next fave moment of eye contact, I can literally feel LWJ’s stomach butterflies here after they watch SL and XXC leave together:

Whoa, is that us now? I mean, do I dare to even hope that that’s us?

LWJ decides to leave WWX in Qinghe under cover of darkness and asap. He has to get the yin iron back to Cloud Recesses with a low profile. So we don’t see them together again until the Wen Indoctrination Camp. They do a bunch of worrying and looking out for each other, and then we get the cave scene which has been giffed 4 million times already by others who have done a better job, but I haven’t so I slowed it right the fuck down. Forgive the bad colouring I’m trying not to take too much time over this. You’re right about this one anon.

Then lots of bad. I skipped these gifs because picture limit. In summary, LWJ is hurt and angry, lots of angy stares and sword pointing. How could WWX hurt himself by using these methods?! But then WWX promises he will never use demonic cultivation, and agrees to receiving help. LWJ can chill a bit. Night Hunt on Phoenix Mountain. I left this one out as it’s pretty self explanatory. “I used to think of you as my Zhiji”. “I still am”. Ugh but WWX knows he can’t unless he fully informs LWJ of his situation. It’s bittersweet. THE RAIN SCENE. This is not heart eyes or horniness anon it is pure PAIN.

Let’s skip to some good stuff. Yiling dinner date! LWJ can handle strict Lan sect punishments, hoards of puppets and fierce corpses but this situation? Not so much. He is so confused by this strange clingy child and the rabbling crowd and here comes his reason for being here in the first place knight in shining amour! (Ur right here anon, pure heart eyes).

Do I put a Nightless City gif here? Do I put the cliff scene here? It’s the most LWJ’s facial muscles move in the entire show and yet I can’t bring myself to gif it. It’s pure agony. Definitely not any longing romantic looks or horniness here.

So moving swiftly on, jumping to ep 2 for the epically long eye contact moment aka when WangXian are reunited. LWJ. does. not. take. his. eyes. off. WWX. until. he. hears. Zidian. crackle. OMG.

Anyway, after the Yin City arc and watching SL walking away with what remains of XXC’s spiritual cognition, LWJ is not holding back now. The amount of eye f***ing after this moment is frankly obscene. I’ll just leave some gifs of that.

I kind of ran out of steam but you get my point. I guess you can boil the other moments down to the fact they love each other? But I don’t know why anyone would want to simplify things like that. I know I’ve missed a bunch of stuff but this is long enough as it is! My opinion about this will probably change too as I’m still fairly new to the fandom. You just accidentally unlocked an Easter Egg with your comment, as it’s what I’m currently nerding out over haha. I’ll shut up now.

#忘羡 #魏无羡 #蓝忘机 #the untamed #chen qing ling #omg i lost this post in my 2500+ drafts when i saved it #i thought it had been lost in the tumblr abyss #as soon as i hit post i know i'll immediately change my mind about something #so sorry anon #*throws self in bin*#anon #ask #o #陈情令

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rametarin · 3 years ago

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Getting into the weeds of an annoying conversation I’ve had.

Casually speaking to people that believe, very strongly, very hopefully, in life-after-meat bodies. And I don’t mean dietary, I mean, “escaping death by going cyborg.”

A lot of people wish to move their, “sentience,” out of their biological bodies and into a machine, because they do not want to die. Just, whatever it is that comprises their life, their existence, their essence, their metaphoric “soul,” they want to move it out of a vulnerable, mortal meat puppet and into an immortal machine. So as to avoid non-existence, entropy and death, if only long enough to witness the heat death of the universe.

And they get REALLY mad or huffy when you poke holes in their preferred method of immortality.

So they bring up the Ship of Theseus. “If you replace all the parts of a ship, is it even still the same ship anymore? :)” And argue that even you aren’t the you of 7-10 years ago. Owing to your sort tissue constantly replacing and replenishing itself, removing old cells, replacing them piecemeal.

So, they argue, based on that, slowly replacing a human brain little by little with cybernetics, or grey goo filler, should (to their logic) mean it’s possible to continue to exist, just slowly transfer from from a meat based consciousness and existence into a mechanical one.

And again, I argue, that’s not incorporating YOU into a robotic shell. That’s supplementing an existing body with an artificial one that is subserviant to your meat body, you. One that just is convinced, more and more, that it is you.

It would be you the same way that an alien devouring your brain from the inside and slowly replacing your brain with itself becomes, “you.” You can smugly smile and go, “well it has all my memories. It has my fingerprints. It lives in my body. It thinks and says it’s me. Therefore, it must be me.”

Except, no. YOU would be dead and your life and sapience, your existence, hollowed out and replaced by another just inheriting your body. An artificial life that is not part of the original biological blueprints of you.

Arguing that that’s somehow “transferring” your consciousness simply because our soft tissue regenerates and replaces itself, therefore, “we died within 8 years after we were born” is dishonest. As a biological organism, we exist as sovereign independent beings that are designed to do that, by natural selection. Our mortal bodies were designed to replenish and replace and maintain that through the generations of cell generation, death and replacement. So even if we do technically lose consciousness and whom we are die inside to be replaced with more of us, it’s still us. Objectively.

When you add artificial elements to that, like switching out dead braincells and brain wiring until the artificial and the natural are meshed up and virtually inoperable from one another, you aren’t making yourself into a robot. You’re just dying and supplementing what you’ve lost on a wetware, hardware and software level with mechanical stuff. You’re incubating a simulacrum in your brain, like athena from the head of Zeus.

Even if you were just a collection of the longest living cells in your body with a robotic brain wrapped around them, after a certain point, you just stop being you. At best you can argue where the line is between ceasing to be you.

I’d argue that you cannot store memory artificially about whom and what you are and take that function away from your biological brain, and still consider yourself you. The brain has many functions, and all of them are components of the real you. To even replace one of those wholesale with cybernetics is to lose some of your humanity. There will never be a time when you can just piecemeal replace your neurons and braincells wholesale with a robot and continue to exist.

That won’t be you anymore. It’ll just be the slow, inevitable march towards a robot that THINKS it’s you. It’ll be a copy born from a glacial suicide. You may as well have just scanned your brain’s patterns and structure and reproduced it by every nerve ending, memory and some sort of perfect sci-fi brain scan into a simulated consciousness in a robot.

The robot won’t be YOU, it’ll be a robot with a simulacrum of you. The same way a painting is not you. The same way your ass print in the snow, is not you. Just a sophisticated shadow of you.

Folks that dream of escaping death by transferring, “consciousness” out of their body and into a robot absolutely despise this line of thinking. They really tend to not want to die. So, they argue to defend it with resorting to misanthropy. “Life is just a series of amino acids and cells!” They tell themselves. “So it doesn’t matter if the thing that thinks it’s me, is actually biological! My biology doesn’t matter on whether I’m me!”

And it’s like. Bruh. Even if you cloned yourself, and to all human relevant metrics that clone could operate as you, it wouldn’t be you. Because you are still a sovereign and independent organism. That clone, not born from your mother, but a vat as a clipping of you allowed and shaped to become like you, does not have the same origin as you. Yes, it absolutely does matter, objectively, that the clone, while it possesses a large amount of your DNA, is still not YOU. You may be arguing that, “well science and other people can’t tell. :^).” That does not change the objective reality that it is not you.

The more they defend this braindead fantasy of going from human body to a robot, the more they betray what they’re willing to believe about what being a human is and is not in order to abandon it. The more they schizophrenically divorce their biology from what and whom they are, as people, as human beings.

And when you get to the point where you ask, “Oh what is sapience and sentience and individualism, anyway?” Then that says to me you don’t care about anything. You’re just cowardly enough to not want to die. You’re just too stubborn and arrogant and egotistical to admit if you weren’t so convinced you had the intellectual and rational high ground, you’d be exactly like one of those braying sheep singing hymns in your religion of choice, praying that god or the universe itself won’t erase you from existence when you finally succumb to mortality. You damned self-deceiving coward. You self-delusional ninny. Milksop.

And this just absolutely matters, because this revelation of their value of human life, individuality and their own perception of what it means to be human, directly correlates into what they value when it comes to groups of humans relating to one another. Someone like that may speak high and mighty about humanity, compassion, but these are just egotist words and come purely from a place of faux-rational pride that they know the truth.

When the truth is, they pray at the altar of an idealized abstract, and not the reality of what a human is and does and is made of. They value the idea of all these little soulless meat robots working together as a sophisticated collective than they do the life of a single human being, seeing soul only in the net and gross, and not in the individuals or parts comprising it.

They’ll speak at length about “what people SHOULD” or “OUGHT” be doing for other people, while not giving a fuck about an individual. All their concepts of rights and privileges stem from the ideas of plurality, on the basis of being part of that set. Not based on individuals.

And after having had these conversations enough with the sorts of futurists, utopists, transhumanists, I feel confident in saying that if you also feel this way, I probably hate you. Seeing individual people as arbitrary random atoms floating around in space and time but seeing humanity, worth and relatable in groups of them? In the CONCEPT but then devaluing it by saying there’s no “real” individiaulsim that can’t be cloned, or reproduced, and be the exact same as what exists? Somehow you try to insist you see things in the macro and the minutia when you’re completely missing both and focusing on what you project onto them or what you THINK you see based on your own biases. Often based on the HOPE and idealism of what you think SHOULD be real, or what you HOPE humans become.

So the sort of person to pray for robotic physical immortality and “ascending” past the flesh, tends to just.. flow into the sort of person that loves the idea of humanity, but despises any human being that is not on board with their idealized vision of what humanity should be, and will not tolerate people that are not on board with it.

This has become a bit of an acid test for me. Maybe it’s just on the same shitty level as asking a persons horoscope to learn more about them. I don’t know. But if you think a clone of you is equally YOU, if you think a scanned reproduction of you is the equal you to the real thing, just because of the difficulty of proving the objective truth and origins of both to third parties, then you’re probably the same sort of used car salesman type that tries to sell people on “social advancement” while not giving a shit how many people it harms or how much humanity it kills in the name of said, “advancement,” or “evolution.”

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bambooslayer · 4 years ago

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Scent Headcanons

so my covid/quarantine experience has been marked mainly by two things: indie perfume and the magnus archives. to combine these two interests, I’ve decided to match the “scent vibes” of some magnus characters and the entities. scent headcanons I guess? if those weren’t a thing before they are now. scents that I’ve tried will be marked with a *.

The Institute Staff

Jon- Solstice Scents' Gibbon’s Boarding School: dusty wooden desks, paper, carefully hidden tobacco pouch, dying fire, dried leaves, leather chairs, autumn breeze

This scent really captures the “tired academic” aura of Jon, especially S1-S2. Not quite completely put together, but still surrounded by the scent of knowledge.

Martin- Stereoplasm's Lydia*: A uniquely transformative scent; opens with agrestic lavender and earl grey tea with snips of fresh fennel greens. A flood of soapy emerald green bubbles then rests softly into clean sunset musk.

Martin has a comforting, calming scent. He always, always smells like tea no matter what he wears or does. Hints of soap peak through as he tries to keep himself clean and put together, even if the world is about to end. The scent of someone who’s learned to pull himself together to be ready for everyone else.

Sasha- Alkemia's Old Books and Fresh Flowers*: Fresh neroli orange flowers and heliotrope blossoms pressed between the delicate paper pages of a leather-bound book

Boundless beauty and ancient knowledge in one scent. She’s always sorting through the archive’s resources and constantly smells like the ancient paper surrounding her.

Tim- alphamusk's Bardot*: Gorgeous badass goddess like musk that’s insanely irresistible. Notes of roses, woods, magnolias but all blended so effortlessly and meld together beautifully in this sexy magnetizing musk. Everyone who smells it loves it. Very femme. Iconic.

Who doesn’t love Tim at first sight? A sexy, charismatic, fingergun shooting bisexual who’s always ready to do what he needs to get things done. A scent that blurs the lines between gender fits him, and it’s sexy to match. Even when he’s at his lowest, he still draws you in.

Elias- Alkemia's Book of Shadows*: A biblichor of eldritch books - heavy parchment paper, ancient iron oak gall ink, crumbling leather bindings, and wafts of rare incenses

Jonah Magnus smells of all the cursed knowledge he’s acquired. The statements and ancient books he’s encountered leave their marks on him in scent. You can’t smell the underlying evil, but there’s a certain darkness that lives there.

Basira - Death and Floral’s Red string of fate: Red musk and black, burnt amber blended with golden honey and black molasses

I don’t have a good explanation for this, it just feels right.

Melanie- Death and Floral’s Half-hoping to be eaten by a bear: Woody, sweet bare skin; the lingering scent of dry leaves on a cold morning.

Melanie smells of her supernatural adventures and longing for something more.

Daisy- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's Mr. Czernobog: Unfiltered cigarettes, the leather and metal of sledgehammers, aortal blood slowly drying, and black incense.

Daisy knows what she’s done. She’s a Hunter, and these smells follow her.

Peter Lukas- Arcana Wildcraft's Black Sand: The scent of a warm night on a dark, sandy beach. Atmospheric sweetness with a hint of salt air and a subtle undercurrent of danger. The richest amber resin, black coconut, coconut husks, and smoky vetiver.

The scent of the loneliest sailor. There’s a dangerous draw to him still, but you can tell you should keep your distance. (unless you’re Elias of course)

The Entities

The Buried- Alkemia’s St. Louis Cemetery #1: “An atmospheric brooding of Spanish moss, crumbling stone, old cement, red clay brick, and graveyard dirt.”

It’s not quite burying you, but it’s about to. You won’t be able to tell that it will until it’s too late.

The Corruption- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Elli’s Song: “The horrors of entropy, death, and decay: desiccated black mosses, vetiver, olibanum, patchouli, and ashes.”

Rotting. Decay. The disgusting decomposition of all things.

The Dark- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Event Horizon: “A disconcerting scent, heavy and oppressive, through which no light, no matter, and no spirit can escape. Black opium, labdanum, opoponax, black orchid, and benzoin.”

Pretty self-explanatory. Complete and utter darkness.

The Desolation- Arcana Wildcraft's Devilish: “Shaking off vanilla's reputation for namby pambyness, this infernally dark and smoky fragrance comes complete with licks of fire and sulfurous wafts of brimstone. The devil really does have all the best scents.”

Was it worth it? The meaningful life you lived? Was it worth meeting this fiery end? A scent to match the end of a life worthwhile.

The End- Alkemia's Dustsceawung: “Dustsceawung is the contemplation of dust, worldly desires, and the ephemerality of all things... raspings that were once a tree, ruins that were once cities, bones that were once lovers. Dust is always the ultimate destination on our journey. The scent of forbidden explorations and an olfactory meditation on dust... attic air, the inside of old trunks, abandoned haylofts, library stacks, and abandoned buildings.”

The death of all things. Everything must succumb to its true form: dust. No matter what you fear, no matter how accomplished you are, no matter what you’ve planned, it will come for all. This scent carries the dust of those already ended, a reminder of your fate.

The Extinction- Alkemia's Deus Ex Machina: “An olfactory portrait of industrial decay and the fallen gods of age of disruption, innovation, and technological revolution... fire hardened steel, rusted iron, motor oil, wet cement, burnt copper wires, and grey amber.”

Mankind has brought itself to the edge. All that it has created is what finally destroys it. Remnants of industry linger, all that’s left of humanity’s monstrosity.

The Eye- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's The Book: “Old, yellowed parchment paper, tattered leather bindings. There’s a distinct warmth to the scent, though it is ancient and brittle.”

All knowledge lives here. It has watched you your entire life. It knows everything about you, everything about everyone, everything about everyone that has lived. Pages and pages and pages of its stronghold live in the institutes.

The Flesh- Arcana Wildcraft’s Edward Hyde: “A depraved mix of dirt, blood red musk, roasted meat accord, acrid yellow musk, salt, and an odd hint of expensive men’s cologne.”

Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat is meat. A meaty scent that marks the servants of the flesh.

The Hunt- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Berzerker: “Thick furs, strips of leather, and a blood-stained axe with crushed poplar bud and juniper”

The Hunt is never over. Once you get a taste of blood, there is no going back. Furs of a predator, the sharp metallic weapon mixed with the blood of your prey.

The Lonely- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Desolation: “In the perfume, I also tried to capture the blue-violet-white of an afterimage and the silence of a snuffed candle. The scent is dry with age, taut with loss, grief, and heartbreak, and sorrowful in the unspeakable desolation of simply being forgotten.”

Alone at last. Forever. Alone in life, alone in memory, alone in history. A scent that marks those marked by the Lonely, disappearing into nothing.

The Slaughter- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s The Black Tower- “A sepulchral, desolate scent. Long-dead soldiers, oath-bound; the perfume of their armor, the chill wind that surges through their tower, white bone and blackened steel: white sandalwood, ambergris, wet ozone, galbanum and leather with ebony, teak, burnt grasses, English ivy and a hint of red wine.”

The scent of those trapped in the endless cycle of the violence of war, spanning centuries of slaughter.

The Spiral- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Azathoth: “Azathoth is the blind, idiot god who sits on a black throne at the center of Chaos. His scent is high-pitched and screeching, both impenetrably dark and searingly bright with the clarity of madness: tangerine, saffron, vetiver, black amber and cedarwood.”

A scent that matches the contradictions and chaos of the spiral.

The Stranger- Arcana Wildcraft’s Blood & Circuses: “The monstrously sweet scent of clowns gone wrong. An outlandish, carnivalic mix of white pancake makeup accord, pink cotton candy, and the salty sugariness of warm kettle corn.”

The circus has returned. I hope you’re ready for the show. Steer clear of anyone who carries this smell, and give an extra glance to the mannequins you pass.

The Vast- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s R'Lyeh: “The sunken city of the Great God Cthulhu. A hellishly dark aquatic scent, evocative of fathomless oceanic deeps, the mysteries of madness buried under crushing black waters, and the brooding eternal evil that lies beneath the waves.”

The scent of an eternal expanse that you cannot possibly comprehend. Is it the fear of what lies beneath? Is it the depth itself? Does it matter once you’re lost in it?

The Web- Haus of Gloi’s Spider Silk: “Procured from a dream: delicate water mint, wispy grey musk, crystalline webs of amber, oakmoss, torchwood, copaiba resin, and a touch of withered violet leaf.”

A gentle spider creeps its way around, leaving their little traces in the webs they weave. Only too late will you notice that you’re trapped in the web.

#tma #the magnus archives #this took me way too long

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tumlbrtumlbr · 3 years ago

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Woman as alien: Angela Carter's Heroes and Villains.

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"Woman as an alien, the non-patriarchal alien in a patriarchal society, the patriarchal alien in a non-patriarchal society, the non-patriarchal alien experiencing the stress of positioning as a patriarchal subject - all are strategies used by feminist science fiction writers to deconstruct patriarchal ideology and its practice." (1) This quote taken from an essay by Anne Cranny-Francis is for me a very suitable starting point for a discussion of Angela Carter's Heroes and Villains (1969). Written from within the counter-culture of the 1960s, this novel is Carter's excursion into the disaster story convention, a literary sub-genre which was very popular during the period of the Cold War. (2)

Heroes and Villains is a very interesting and unsettling early book, and yet, surprisingly, one that has received "far less critical attention than one might expect." (3) Apart from a few interesting essays, (4) the existing studies of the book (primarily sub-chapters of monographs devoted to Carter) focus almost exclusively on the way the novel reverses gender stereotypes and undermines cultural codings of female sexuality as passive and masochistic. My point is different: I would like to show how, by having a female protagonist (and focalizer) who revolts against cultural stereotypes, Carter revitalizes the disaster story convention that in the late sixties seemed an exhausted and repetitive sub-genre of pulp fiction.

In order to do this I am going to briefly present the British disaster story tradition, place Carter within its context, and then discuss Heroes and Villains as an atypical disaster story that, thanks to a woman-alien who disrupts mythical frameworks that people are confined by, points to new ways of constructing narratives. I will show how the female protagonist of the novel matures and gradually learns that her post-holocaust society is based on a set of false binary oppositions it has inherited from pre-holocaust Western patriarchal society, and that her world is slowly giving way to entropy. I will then prove that Heroes and Villains indulges in descriptions of chaos and decay in order to show the deterioration of once potent symbols and thus of the mythical order which they represent. Only then, once the old order disappears, can the female mythmaker create a totally new civilization, one that does not repeat old and static social paradigms, but is dynamic and mutable. Similarly, Heroes and Villains shows that, in order not to degenerate into pulp disaster, the story should refrain from recreating already known historical epochs (for example, a new post-holocaust Middle Ages), opting instead to create radically new societies ruled by women-aliens.

Though it is rather difficult to state exactly what disaster stories are, a fair working definition of the genre seems to be the one given in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction: "stories of vast biospheric change which drastically affect human life." (5) According to John Clute and Peter Nicholls, the British disaster story was born at the end of the nineteenth century when the first anti-civilization sentiments were being felt, and people began to mistrust the idea of the white man's Empire standing for reason, progress and science. In 1884 Richard Jefferies, a Victorian naturalist and journalist, published After London, a novel describing the ruins of the greatest city on Earth; in a post-cataclysmic future our civilization inevitably succumbs to nature, savagery and non-reason. In the following years such writers as H.G. Wells, Conan Doyle and Alun Llewellyn published numerous fantastic ac counts of natural- or human-provoked disasters, the retrogression of humankind, new ice ages, barbarian raids, the destruction of Europe, etc. (6)

Though dating from the nineteenth century the genre did not flourish until the 1950s and early 1960s during the Cold War, when young British writers revived the old tradition by incorporating a new influence: that of American pulp magazines. American stories of the time were very pessimistic, as the recent war left many with a feeling of despair and fear of the nuclear bomb, political systems based on unlimited power and culture's imminent doom. In England there was a strong native tradition of gloomy fiction concerning authoritarian societies (George Orwell, Evelyn Waugh and Anthony Burgess), and thus the young authors of disaster stories belonging to the so-called "New Wave" of British speculative fiction (J.G. Ballard, Michael Moorcock, Brian Aldiss and others) had examples to follow. (7) Their older colleagues Walter Miller (in the United States) and John Wyndham (in Britain) were writing their post-holocaust bestsellers at that very time.

Heroes and Villains seems to belong to the same tradition as the disaster story classics: Walter Miller's A Canticle for Leibovitz or John Wyndham's The Chrysalides. (8) Miller and Wyndham describe the beginnings of a new civilization; their prose demonstrates how the deadly heritage of our times (pollution, mutations, decline and chaos) serve as the basis for another better world. In A Canticle monks of a second Middle Ages try to gather and preserve the records of our knowledge by rewriting all kinds of texts (just like the caste of Professors). Though they no longer understand what they copy, still there is hope that one day civilization will be regained. Wyndham's post-catastrophic society, in turn, is obsessed with the idea of purity and the norm. His characters want to recreate civilization in such a way as to make it immune to self-destruction. In its fear of deviations and mutants (bringing to mind the Out People) Wyndham's society is cruel and fanatical, but his novel is, just like Miller's story, full of hope for the future. Human folly and cruelty evoke terror and pity in order to improve the reader's mind. Carter's procedure in composing Heroes and Villains is to allude to Wyndham and Miller's tradition. Both Heroes and Villains and her other post-holocaust novel The Passion of the New Eve show to what extant literature today is repeating already known tales. Yet disaster fiction, a very commercial genre, enables Carter to reuse the stock motifs and to create her own often times shocking pieces. Her disaster novels may therefore be read as modern Menippea: a mixture of heterogeneous literary material. According to Mikhail Bakhtin, Menippea was the genre which broke the demands of realism and probability: it conflated the past, present and future, states of hallucination, dream worlds, insanity, eccentric behaviour and speech and transformation. (9)

Heroes and Villains juxtaposes overt allusions to nuclear fallout and mutations caused by the self-annihilation of technological society with counter-cultural poetics: subversion of the social order, new hippie-like aesthetics, alternate lifestyles, and concentration on entropy, decay and death. Carter is no longer interested in the bomb--she does not warn against the impending holocaust; but instead describes in detail the gradual dissolution of social, sexual and cultural groupings which follows the inevitable disaster and which makes room for a new female-governed future. Thus, she deconstructs the markedly masculine tradition of after-the-end-of-the-world fantasies which deal with the creation of a new order, strong leaders and outbursts of violence (as is the case in the above-mentioned novels by Miller and Wyndham). In stock disaster stories women are either commodities or breeders who are fought for and whose reproductive abilities are to amend r the drastic decrease of population.

In Heroes and Villains the Cold War motif of a post-holocaust civilization allows Carter to create an exuberant world of ruin, lush vegetation and barbarism. Three groups of people live among the crumbling ruins of a pre-nuclear explosion past: the Professors, who live in concrete fortified villages and cultivate old science and ideology; the Barbarians, who attack them and lead nomadic lives in the forests; and the Out People, radiation mutants cast out by all communities.

The Professors are the guardians of this order, and they try to uphold standards and attend to appearances such as dress and accent. Marianne, the novel's focalizer, is the daughter of a professor of history brought up to live in an ordered patriarchal society and to study old books in trying to preserve knowledge. The futility of the Professors' work - abstract research done in white concrete towers, editing what nobody would ever read - demonstrates the arbitrariness of post-apocalyptic social roles. The caste of Professors, in wanting to be different than the irrational Barbarians, must devise artificial attributes of its individuality.

Unable to cope with an existence devoted to cultivation of the past and attracted by the colourful and seemingly romantic Barbarians, Marianne helps one of them--an attractive young Barbarian leader named Jewel. He is very beautiful and he wears an exuberant savage costume, making him look like a Hollywood film star who plays in a wilderness film. For Marianne he embodies her desire and fantasies --on one occasion she even calls him the "furious invention of my virgin nights." (10) Moreover, his name might be considered an allusion to the beautiful savage girl whom Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim made the queen of his little kingdom. (11) Marianne's name might well be read as an allusion to Jane Austen's too-romantic heroine of Sense and Sensibility. (12) This canonical echo is contrasted with the association with pulp fiction: Marianne, a professor's daughter lost in the wilderness, evokes the character of Jane in the Tarzan stories. (13) It is by such literary allusions that Carter constructs her self-conscious pastiche, thus demonstrating the whole range of possibilities offered to a female character by romance and, at the same time, she points out the exhaustion of these conventions. John Barth in his Literature of Exhaustion postulates that "exhausted" literature might be saved by coming back to well-known classics and by echoing their extracts in new shocking contexts. (14) In this way Carter mingles her generically heterogeneous "prior texts".

Wounded in an attack, Jewel escapes from the village and is followed by Marianne. He then takes her to his tribe and, despite her protests, proclaims her his hostage. Marianne is a total stranger among the Barbarians; they find her repulsive and unbearably alien; like a creature from outer space in a B-grade science fiction movie she provokes fear and hostility. An educated and self-assured woman in a tribe "caught in the moment of transition from the needs of sheer survival to a myth-ruled society," (15) she is thus a woman-alien. Interestingly, as early as the 1960s Carter used a science fiction stock character to talk about women in a society that is undergoing changes: in the 1990s Donna Haraway, in her famous "A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century", in a similar way makes use of the science fiction concept of a cyborg. (16) Haraway follows Carter's footsteps, and indeed makes her point even stronger, as her "cyborg" comes from the social outside and is alien to traditional gender structures. As Joan Gordon and Veronica Hollinger explain:

Haraway develops her "Manifesto" around the cyborg--product of both science fiction and the military-industrial complex--as an imaginative figure generated outside the framework of the Judeo-Christian history of fall and redemption, a history that unfolds between the twin absolutes of Edenic origin and apocalyptic Last Judgment. Like Derrida, Haraway warns that (nuclear) apocalypse might, in fact, be the all-too-possible outcome of our desire for the resolution of historical time. Haraway too is wary of cultural discourses that privilege resolution, completion, and totality. (17)

Marianne is alien to the tribe as she refuses to adopt traditional female roles. Thus, Carter uses science fiction literary conventions to talk about gender as performance much in the same manner Judith Butler will some twenty years later. (18) Elisabeth Mahoney in her above-mentioned study of Heroes and Villains reads the novel in the context of Butler's thesis, that "fantasy is the terrain to be privileged in any contestation of conventional configurations of identity, gender and the representation of desire." (19) This is a very good starting point and an interesting comparison but, as Elaine Jordan notices, "Carter did this sort of thing before Butler, so her work could just as well be used to explicate Butler." (20) The same is true for Haraway, Gordon, Hollinger and a number of other feminist critics often referred to nowadays in order to validate Carter's argument. But Carter turning to science fiction for her metaphors predates them.

The tribe (whose descriptions bring to mind a 1960s hippie commune) is apparently governed by Jewel and his brothers, but Marianne soon realizes that the real source of power is Donally, an escapee professor of sociology, Jewel's tutor, and the self-proclaimed shaman of the tribe. For Donally the tribe is a social laboratory where he tries to perform an experiment: to wit, to introduce a new mythology designed to be the founding stone of new type of post-holocaust society. (21)

It seemed to me that the collapse of civilisation in the form that intellectuals such as ourselves understood it might be as good a time as any for crafting a new religion' he said modestly. 'Religion is a device for instituting the sense of a privileged group; many are called but few are chosen and, coaxed from incoherence, we shall leave the indecent condition of barbarism and aspire towards that of the honest savage. (22)

When Marianne meets Donally she immediately recognizes his professorial descent: "his voice was perfectly cultured, thin, high and soft ... He had a thin, mean and cultured face. Marianne had grown up among such voices and faces." (23) Seeing in his study books which she remembered from her childhood (Teilhard de Chardin, Levi-Strauss, Weber, Durkheim) Marianne discovers Donally's attempts to rule the Barbarians according to the outdated formulas written down by pre-apocalyptic sociologists.

Disappointed by the tribe, Marianne runs away only to be recaptured by Jewel, who rapes her, brings her back, and then ceremoniously marries her according to a ritual devised by Donally. With the tribe again on the move, Donally quarrels with Jewel and has to leave. Marianne gradually learns how to manipulate Jewel, her quasi-royal power grows, especially once she becomes pregnant and is to be the mother of Jewel's heir. When Donally sends a message that he has been caught by the Professors, Jewel goes to rescue him and both are killed. In the novel's finale Marianne decides to become the new female leader of a new society.

This brief summary reveals that, in parallel with the action-adventure narrative, the novel also depicts Marianne's gradual psychological change. She learns how to articulate her own fantasies and to objectify the man she desires: Jewel. Nevertheless, it is worth noting that when her romantic illusions disappear she discovers her own deeper motivating desire in her relationship with Jewel: it is her newly awakened sexuality that counts, not the male himself. Though a tribal leader and a future patriarch, Jewel is in fact a passive object both Marianne and Donally struggle to possess. Linden Peach writes:

In the relationship between Marianne and Jewel, Carter also rewrites a further traditional story, that of a demon-lover, of whom Jewel has many characteristics--he is powerful, mysterious, supernatural; and he can be cruel, vindictive and hostile. However, in her description of him, Carter challenges the male-female binarism which ascribes so-called masculine qualities to men and feminine characteristics to women. In discovering the nature of her own desire, Marianne finds that male-female attributes exist within each individual. The demon-lover is also reconfigured as part of her own eroticisation of the male other. (24)

New ways of looking at herself and others set Marianne free and empower her. Towards the end of the book she feels ready to construct a new narrative for herself and make the world around believe in it. A woman-alien dissolves the tribe's patriarchal structure and commences a new phase in its history. The old order based on binary oppositions (hero/villain, passive/active, natural/civilized) and a number of taboos that originated in pre-holocaust times are abandoned. Carter does not do what a standard disaster story author does: she does not establish a rigid binarism between the Professors and the Barbarians, i.e., the civilized and the savage. The post-holocaust narrative is for her a space where she "explores the blurring of conventional boundaries and binarisms and the way in which such artificial boundaries are maintained." (25) She re-uses existing narrative patterns of disaster fiction in order to break the "Wyndhamesque" formula and instead create a new and radical vision of the end of the world.

Moreover, these post-holocaust times are shown to be not a new version of the old order, but an unknown epoch typified not by stability but by creative chaos. Step by step, Marianne realizes that the entire distinction Professors\Barbarians is as false and naive as the children's role-playing game called "Soldiers and Villains". As a female child growing up in a Professors' village she always had to play the part of the Barbarian, the villain, the other, while the boy she played with, the son of a professor of mathematics, always wanted to be a male civilized hero who shoots her dead. As a small girl she was brave enough to refuse to play such a game; now as a young woman she realizes that in the real world the basis of the division between the Professors and the Barbarians is a set of myths and superstitions. (26)

The stay in the Barbarians' camp proves to Marianne that there is no other difference but old wives' tales: to her surprise (and in opposition to what she was told in the Professors' village) the Barbarians do not represent instinct, folklore and savagery alone. They do have a lot of superstitions; they do sport ridiculous tattoos, hairdos and costumes and they do believe in folk cures--but at the same time they are very far from unreflective "nature". When Marianne first sees Jewel he seems the embodiment of the wilderness: a man fighting to survive among hostile wildlife. But he immediately destroys this impression by quoting to her a relevant bit of poetry: Tennyson's poem about Darwinism. (27) Jewel is very well-educated by Donally and likes to boast of his knowledge of philosophical theories and the Latin names of beasts, which seems as irrelevant in the dirty Barbarians' camps as the Professors' lore in their concrete towers.

The Professors and the Barbarians need each other to define themselves. Both tribes work hard to impress the opponent (the Barbarians wear tattoos and facepaint, the Professors organize armies of specially-equipped soldiers to defend their villages). They also blame each other for the hardships of post-holocaust life. Marianne's father, in explaining to her the reasons of the war between the tribes, asks at one point: "if the Barbarians are destroyed who will we then be able to blame for the bad things?" (28) Aidan Day remarks:

The Professors, failing to recognise their own repressions, have sought to hound that which is not gentle and ordered outside themselves. They have committed the crime of finding external scapegoats for realities within their own hearts and minds that they find problematical. (29)

In a world where the Barbarians discuss philosophy and shamans comment on being shamans, even the seemingly biological distinction human\inhuman is not stable and fails to structure reality. While roaming the jungle Marianne encounters mutants whose bodies and minds transgress the human norm. What is worth noting is the origin of the Out People motif: mutants and deviations often populate the worlds of post-apocalyptic stories, the above-mentioned example of Wyndham's The Chrysalides being the best known; but the way they are described is usually quite different. By transgressing the norm Wyndham's mutants reinforce the notion of being human, of possessing some mysterious human factor along with all the rights and duties, while Carter's Out People are just strange, speechless bodies:

Amongst the Out People, the human form has acquired fantastic shapes. One man has furled ears like pale and delicate Arum Lilies. Another was scaled all over, with webbed hands and feet. Few had the conventional complement of limbs and features. (30)

Their appearance shows that overwhelming entropy is not external scenery the human race has to live in, but that it touches and alters the very essence of humanness: what humans are and what humans create is falling apart. Carter is re-writing an iconic disaster story motif (that of humans genetically altered by radiation), but she gives it a new ideological meaning. In classic male post-holocaust narratives mutants are disfigured humans who suffer for the sins of the fathers: civilization should start anew, albeit preserving its essential features (humanism, liberalism, traditional family values and consequently, patriarchy). Carter's Marianne, in watching the Out People, does not believe in re-establishing the old social order with its norms and values. Heroes and Villains is not about the rebirth of humankind, but about apocalypse itself.

In this chaotic world--where there are no more essential differences between phenomena, and the randomness of things does not allow for any conventional divisions--race, species, gender and even time cease to exist objectively. David Punter comments:

The conflict ... is a multivalent parody: of class relations, of relations between the sexes, of the battle between rational control and desire.... There are, obviously, no heroes and no villains; only a set of silly games which men play. (31)

Each entity possesses its own characteristic features; but on their basis no classification can be made as, gradually, all the points of reference are destroyed. Such a process is particularly striking as far as temporality is concerned--in the world of the novel there is no objective measure of time; everybody lives in the temporal dimension of his biological rhythm without calendars or chronometers. In Heroes and Villains the flow of time is stopped forever, as shown by the beautiful though useless chronometers that for Marianne are merely souvenirs from the past, elements of pure decoration. The book starts with a description of her father's favourite heirloom:

[A] clock which he wound every morning and kept in the family dining room upon a sideboard full of heirlooms.... She concluded the clock must be immortal but this did not impress her ... she watched dispassionately as the hands of the clock went round but she never felt the time was passing, for time was frozen around her in this secluded place. (32)

Time itself has become an heirloom, a peculiar reminder of bygone days. For Marianne the ticking of the clock has no relation to the rhythm of life. Its ticking proved to be the sound of her childhood and her father's old age. She left it behind without regret as it had never served for her any purpose. The next chronometers she saw (dead watches worn by the Barbarian women for decoration) were signs of an even greater degree of timelessness as nobody remembered their initial function. The last clock in the book, a gigantic and dead apparatus, welcomes Marianne in the ruins of the old city: (33)

Prominent among the minarets, spires and helmets of wrought iron which protruded from the waters was an enormous clock whose hands stood still at the hour of ten, though it was, of course, no longer possible to tell whether this signified ten in the morning or ten at night. (34)

The gigantic size of this clock and its absolute deadness create the image of the total arbitrariness of any measure of time. Exhaustion and entropy know no time but the vague "now" which for a fraction of a second can at best turn into "a totally durationless present, a moment of time sharply dividing past from future and utterly distinct from both." (35) The post-holocaust landscape of ruined cities near the seaside adorned with dead clocks brings to mind a visual intertext: Salvador Dali's The Persistence of Memory. (36) In this surreal painting, influenced by psychoanalysis, gigantic dead clocks are melting down, showing that clock time is no longer valid. Dali and Carter (who adored the Surrealists and often wrote about them in both her fiction and non-fiction) are both trying to recreate inner landscapes: their critique of the contemporary world takes forms of fantastic neverlands.

Carter's great admiration for the Surrealist movement results from the fact that, as she holds, theirs was the art of celebration and recreation. Their techniques haphazard and idiosyncratic, the Surrealists attempted to create combinations of words and images which by analogy and inspiration were supposed to evoke amazement; such art was based on a strong belief in humankind's ability to recreate itself. The world shown in their works is "deja vue", as in a nightmare we recognize separate elements which we have already seen as they date back to diverse moments of the past. It is a world deprived of time experienced in the mind. In surrealist art: "It is this world, there is no other but a world transformed by imagination and desire. You could say it is a dream made flesh." (37) In Heroes and Villains Carter attempts to use a similar technique to depict the post-apocalyptic world in which past, present and future intermingle.

For Carter's characters the future offers no escape: they are doomed to inhabit the ruins and repeat social scenarios from the past. Living in such a world has the haunting quality of a nightmare: the self-conscious characters feel oppressed by the same surroundings, similar activities and repeated words. What is the worst is the fact that there is no escape in space either, as there cannot be anywhere to go: "There's nowhere to go, dear,' said the Doctor. 'If there was I would have found it". (38)

Madness, drunkenness and paranoia seem to be the only ways out of the grotesque post-apocalyptic wilderness where everything is falling apart; indeed, the wild world Marianne enters (and finally renews) is entropy-ridden. The story's characters can hide only inside their troubled egos, as the outside reality is nothing but an everlasting nightmare. A stifling atmosphere of exhaustion and oppression is created by numerous images of overgrown vegetation, desolate ruins, half-destroyed houses full of fungi and rotting furniture, detailed descriptions of dirt and disease all in the atmosphere of sexual fantasy and paranoid visions. These images are too vivid and drastic to be mere scenery; it is the power of death and the different faces of decay that constitute Carter's style.

Carter treats bits and pieces of old discourses (the above-mentioned allusions to Conrad and Austen, as well as to Edgar Rice Burroughs and John Wyndham) in the way the Barbarians use old garments and broken down pieces of machinery found in the ruins: apparently to adorn but, at the same time, to take delight in dissolution, destruction and death. Metatextually, Heroes and Villains depicts the de-composition of traditional modes of writing; Carter follows the example of such New Wave authors as Pamela Zoline (39) for whom the key narrative term is entropy. In the short story "The heat death of the universe" Zoline defines the entropy of a system as "a measure of its degree of disorder." (40) The "system" is post-capitalist affluent society, and in order to capture the experience of living within the contemporary mediascape she both depicts the chaos of her character's life and introduces chaos to her narrative.

Zoline's "The Heat Death of the Universe" ends with the scene when the protagonist methodically smashes all pieces of equipment in her kitchen, thereby creating an irreversible mess of destruction; all forms give way to chaos. Carter's novel has a totally different post-apocalyptic setting, yet chaos and entropy are equally important. The narration of Heroes and Villains describes decay almost with pleasure and most certainly with great precision. The text changes into a study in decomposition, the anatomy of both our civilization and the disaster story genre: they both are killed in order to be examined. "For I am every dead thing"; (41) this quotation from John Donne would best summarize the world of the novel, which does not allow for any hope. The only emotion left is curiosity: Marianne the focalizer takes some pleasure in scientific observations of decay.

Among the ruins and scattered heirlooms of the past a prominent place is given to old symbols, which at the moment of the world's death, change in significance. Deprived of their contextual power the symbols die, creating ephemeral constellations and gaining for a moment a certain new meaning. The anatomy of signification becomes a favourite pastime of Donally and, later, Marianne; but the way the two of them interpret signs differs. Donally seeks to maintain patriarchal mythical frameworks: the sharp unequal antagonism between male and female; civilized and uncivilized; reasonable and wild. Marianne tries to dismantle these oppositions: for her signs are reduced to aesthetics and the old signifying system dies. The moment she starts to observe signs for their own sake marks her growing understanding of the world around: she lives surrounded by the debris of a bygone civilization which one may study--but only for scientific purposes. New myths are yet to be created. The last conversation between her and Jewel best shows the difference between them. Jewel is still naive enough to believe in symbols, while Marianne analyzes them:

But when he was near enough for her to see the blurred colours of his face, she also saw he was making the gesture against the Evil Eye. Suddenly she recognised it. "They used to call that the sign of the Cross,' she said. 'It must be handed down among the Old Believers." "Did you call me back just to give me this piece of useless information?" (42)

The anatomy of symbolic meanings and their changes is best seen in the example of clothes. Both the dress and decoration worn by the Barbarians come either from the ruins (and thus from the past) or are stolen from the Professors' villages. Worn in new and shocking combinations, old garments gain new meanings. A similar process was described in one of Carter's fashion essays from the Nothing Sacred collection. The essay entitled "Notes for a Theory of the Sixties Style" analyzes the nature of apparel. According to Carter clothes are the best example of the decadent fashion of the sixties, as in those years they "become arbitrary and bizarre ... reveal a kind of logic of whizzing entropy. Mutability is having a field day." (43)

The term mutability is the key notion for this essay, one written two years before the publication of Heroes and Villains. In this text Carter defines style as the presentation of the self as a three-dimensional object. Wearing eclectic fragments of different vestments "robbed of their symbolic content" (44) is a way of creating a new whole whose items are not in any imposed harmony. The theory formulated in the essay seems to be the key to understanding the symbolic meaning of clothes in Heroes and Villains, where mutability is not a matter of individual choice, but the condition of the whole dying civilization.

In broader terms, symbols have meaning only in reference to the mythical structures behind them--and clothes are a perfect example of this process. In a patriarchal society, where the law of inheritance makes men value female chastity and pre-nuptial virginity, the wedding ritual has a deep mythical sense and the white wedding dress becomes a potent symbol. Donally makes Marianne wear an old deteriorating white robe during her marriage ceremony in a vain attempt to reestablish patriarchy in the tribe. For Marianne the dress is just an ugly relic of bygone epochs. Lost in the exhausted reality of dead symbols she feels she has to create their own future: first to escape the old symbolic order and then to devise a new mythology herself.

Thus, paradoxically, the novel combines the symbols of entropy and mutability; it shows the world in the moment of its disintegration, and yet the disintegrating elements are constantly being re-used to create changeable structures. In one moment we read a "Wyndhamesque" end-of-the-world-fantasy, in another Carter deconstructs this tradition. Roz Kaveney writes:

The formalist aspects of Carter's work--the extent to which she combined stock motifs and made of them a collage that was entirely her own--was bound to appeal; sections of the SF readership discovered in the course of the 1970s and 1980s that they had been talking postmodernism all their lives and not noticing it, and Carter was part of that moment. (45)

Kaveney reads Heroes and Villains in the context of the science fiction readership in the late 20th century, and discovers how Carter makes use of SF conventions. Eva Karpinski in her essay "Signifying Passion: Angela Carter's Heroes and Villains as a Dystopian Romance" refers in her reading of the book to the utopian tradition:

The dystopian romance proves to be a suitable vehicle for Carter's didactic allegory of the relationship between the sexes, an allegory, one might add, that uses the utopian ideas of Jean-Jacques Rousseau in order to re-write the myth of the Fall as it structures Western representations of the social and sexual difference. (46)

Other critics, for example Elaine Jordan (47) use the label "speculative fiction," (48) and Carter herself in the famous interview given to John Haffenden calls her fiction "magic mannerism." (49) Thus, one can think of diverse generic formulas to describe the novel, although none of the labels is final, as the narrative itself is unstable and mutable.

The novel also celebrates new feminist myths in order to playfully laugh at them on the next page. Having got rid of Donally and having won her mental struggle with Jewel, Marianne decides on a scenario that suits her best. She has found her identity and now wants to take control over the tribe and to become a post-apocalyptic leader, which she declares by paraphrasing the Bible: "I will be the tiger-lady and I will rule them with a rod of iron." (50) In this sentence she alludes to Donally's attempt to tattoo one of the tribe's children into a tiger-girl, something which ended tragically, as the baby died in the process. But the idea of the artificial creation of a "natural" tiger-human had some appeal to the Barbarians and thus Jewel wanted to get the tiger tattoo himself.

When Jewel learned that at his age it was impossible, he planned to tattoo his and Marianne's baby. And now it is Marianne who is going to symbolically possess the tiger's strength and beauty: not by getting a tattoo, but by ruling "with a rod of iron" over the tribe. Her "rod" is probably going to be her knowledge and education, the love of reason her father taught her, combined with her ability to reconcile binary oppositions and blend nature with nurture, reason with instinct, the Barbarians and the Professors. Only a woman-alien can do this by creating a third, reconciliatory way between the two patriarchal societies. Marianne is aware that she is not yet living in the post-apocalyptic order, but still within the Apocalypse itself, that is, amidst the bits and pieces of the old world which is falling apart. Thus her declaration "I will rule them with a rod of iron" echoes Saint John's Revelation:

and the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born. And she brought forth a man child, who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron: and her child was caught up unto God, and to his throne. And the woman fled into the wilderness. (51)

Marianne misquotes St John for a purpose: she aims to give old patriarchal texts a new meaning for new times. At the end of the book Marianne is, physically speaking, "ready to deliver", as her baby is to be born very soon. But here the similarities with St John end: who can be identified with the devouring dragon? Perhaps patriarchal attempts to remodel the child so that it serves a purpose? After all, Donally and Jewel wanted him tattooed and ruling the tribe according to the old pattern of power. Moreover, Marianne (in contrast to Donally and Jewel) is not so sure the baby is going to be "a man child", and so she plans the future regardless of its sex. Finally, her flight into the wilderness is in fact an act of usurping political power herself: it is she who is going to become a tiger-lady and to rule the new "wilderness", the world outside the villages of the Professors and the camps of the Barbarians.

"People kept wild beasts such as lions and tigers in cages and looked at them for information. Who would have thought they would take to our climate so kindly, when the fire came and let them out?" (52) which is how Marianne's father once explained to her why the exotic beasts roam the countryside devouring smaller creatures. After the apocalypse carnivorous cats once again become the king of beasts; they are the only ones that gained power instead of losing it. Predators could survive and rule. As this is true of tigers, perhaps it can also be true of people?

Tigers and lions are very prominent in the novel; we very soon learn that Jewel is attracted to wild cats, which is perhaps the effect of his own weakness. One of his most vivid memories is the scene when, as a teenager, he met a lion face to face and survived only because the beast ignored him. This story (which he told to Marianne) anticipates the end of the novel: when Jewel gives up and goes to seek his death he encounters another lion and again fails to attract its attention. Marianne sees the animal and cannot but admire its fearsome beauty:

She had never seen a lion before. It looked exactly like pictures of itself; though darkness washed its colours off, she saw its mane and tasseled tail which flicked about as it moved out of the edge of shadow on to the dune. (53)

Marianne is not disappointed; the lion looks "like pictures of itself": the thing and its representation for once go together. The mythical meaning of wild cats is going to survive the end of civilization and shall remain a handy metaphor. Marianne decides to rule over the tribe as its tiger-lady not in an act of imitating a queen of the wilderness fairytale motif, but in an attempt to start a new epoch with its new myths. (54) As Margaret Atwood puts it in her essay on Carter's stories "Running with the Tigers", as the tiger will never lie down with the lamb, it is the lamb the powerless female--which should learn the tigers' ways. (55) By the same token, Marianne wants to create a new definition for a power system in which the oppositions male/female, intellect/desire or civilized/wild are of no importance. (56)

When Marianne gets to the Barbarian camp for the first time she finds herself imprisoned by the patriarchal myth of a new Creation. Both Donally and Jewel want her to act out a new Eve role in order to secure a re-enactment of history which would result in a repetition of the old social and political order. Jewel advises her at the time of her trouble in adapting to the tribe to pretend to be Eve at the end of the world. The original patriarchal myth of Eden is re-enforced by a tattoo Jewel has on his back whereby Eve offers Adam an apple, and by a number of metaphors and allusions. This myth is thus very prominent in the novel and suggests the strength of patriarchal ideology--parallel to the strength of the tribe's male leaders (and also of the Professors' village: both societies are exclusively male-governed). The rival mythical intertext--the Revelation of Saint John--appears not until the end of Heroes and Villains and marks the beginning of a genuinely new epoch when Marianne, a woman-alien, takes power.

A woman-alien sets out to create a genuinely new social order and the question is whether she is going to recreate the hegemonic power-relations of patriarchal order in both the Professors' villages and the Barbarians' camps. In science fiction narratives aliens often perceive human civilization in a new way, one that enables us to see "normal" social order in a defamiliarized manner; Marianne is a stranger to her own world, she is not interested in the reversal of binaries, but in their liquidation. Carter does not celebrate her political victory as a birth of a genuinely feminist paradise: the very concept of "tiger-lady" cannot be taken too seriously. Marianne the Queen is demythologized from the very start of a reign which is going to prefer mutability to stiff order.

Marianne the tiger-lady has a long road to power behind her. Heroes and Villains tells a story of her maturation in a world full of bits and pieces of old symbols and power structures. Marianne learns to see that these binding discourses are giving way to entropy, and that in her world of total chaos new myths have to be created --and that a new, post-patriarchal epoch is yet to be commenced. Moreover, a similar procedure might well be applied to the old literary genre Heroes and Villains pertains to: the British disaster story. By having an atypical protagonist, a female-alien strong enough to destroy patriarchal social structure, Carter manages to revive the exhausted convention and to create a genuinely new story.

(1.) Anne Cranny-Francis, "Feminist Futures: A Generic Study," in Alien Zone. Cultural Theory and Contemporary Science Fiction Cinema, ed. Annette Kuhn (London and New York: Verso, 2003), 219-228, p. 223.

(2.) To call Carter a "feminist science fiction writer" would perhaps be an exaggeration (though the most influential science fiction lexicon, The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction edited by Clute and Nicholls, does have an entry "Angela Carter"). Nonetheless, in some of her novels she purposefully uses fantastic literary conventions.

(3.) Elisabeth Mahoney, "'But Elsewhere?' The future of fantasy in Heroes and Villains," in The Infernal Desires of Angela Carter, ed. Joseph Bristow and Trev Lynn Broughton (London and New York: Longman, 1997), 73-87, p. 73.

(4.) One has to mention Eva C. Karpinski, "Signifying Passion: Angela Carter's Heroes and Villains as a Dystopian Romance," Utopian Studies 11.2 (2000) 137-51; and Roz Kaveney, "New New World Dreams: Angela Carter and Science Fiction," in Flesh and the Mirror. Essays on the Art of Angela Carter, ed. Lorna Sage (London: Virago, 1994), 171-88.

(5.) John Clute and Peter Nicholls, ed., The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction (London: Orbit, 1999), p. 338.

(6.) Clute and Nicholls, pp. 337-339.

(7.) For details concerning the New Wave of British speculative fiction, see Judith Merril, England Swings SF, Stories of Speculative Fiction (New York: Ace Books, 1968). The most important disaster novels written by the New Wave writers are J.G. Ballard, The Drowned World (Harmondsworth and Ringwood: Penguin Books, 1974) and J.G. Ballard The Wind from Nowhere (Harmondsworth and Ringwood: Penguin Books, 1974).

(8.) Walter Miller, A Canticle for Leibovitz (Philadelphia, Lippincott and London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1960) and John Wyndham, The Chrysalides (London: Joseph, 1955).

(9.) Mikhail Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky's Poetics, tr. by R.W. Rotsel (Ann Arbor: Ardis, 1973), p. 96.

(10.) Angela Carter, Heroes and Villains (London: Virago, 1992), p. 137.

(11.) Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003).

(12.) Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility (Harmondsworth, New York, Ringwood and Auckland: Penguin Classics, 2007).

(13.) Tarzan's adventures were originally created by Edgar Rice Burroughs and published in the years 1914-1950.

(14.) John Barth, The Literature of Exhaustion and the Literature of Replenishment (Northridge: Lord John Press, 1982).

(15.) Karpinski, p. 138.

(16.) Donna Haraway, "A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century," in Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature (New York: Routledge, 1991), 149-181.

(17.) Veronica Hollinger and Joan Gordon, ed., Edging into the Future. Science Fiction and Contemporary Cultural Transformation (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), p. 162.

(18.) Butler talks about gender in terms of ritual practices, a role one adopts thus excluding other modes of behaviour. What is excluded forms the "constitutive outside" the zone of the suppressed from which gender roles can be challenged, much in the same way Marianne challenges social norms in the tribe. Judith Butler, Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of 'Sex' (London: Routledge, 1993), p. 23.

(19.) Mahoney, p. 75.

(20.) Elanie Jordan, "Afterword," in The Infernal Desires of Angela Carter, ed. Joseph Bristow and Trev Lynn Broughton (London and New York: Longman, 1997), 216-219, p. 219.

(21.) Carter's numerous shamans, for example the character from Nights at the Circus, are usually totally different. They are given a role similar to that of a writer: they believe in the magic they perform, therefore what they do has the mystical quality of a true primary text. In their context the comments and analysis by Donally seem artificial and exhausted.

(22.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 63.

(23.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 49.

(24.) Linden Peach, Angela Carter (Oxford: Macmillan, 1998), p. 96.

(25.) Peach, p. 87.

(26.) For example, according to these beliefs, the Barbarians sew up cats in the bellies of the Professors' women, while the Professors in turn bake Barbarians alive "like hedgehogs".

(27.) Alfred Lord Tennyson, "In Memoriam A. H. H.," in Selected Poems (London: Penguin, 1992), Canto 56.

(28.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 11.

(29.) Aidan Day, Angela Carter: The Rational Glass (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1998), p. 45.

(30.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 110.

(31.) David Punter, The Literature of Terror--A History of Gothic Fiction from 1795 to the Present Day vol. II The Modern Gothic (London: Longman, 1996), p. 140.

(32.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 1.

(33.) The city is probably London and the clock Big Ben; the tribe is traveling south to spend the winter at the seaside and finally reach the gigantic ruin. Descriptions of London after various cataclysms are very common in disaster stories; examples are: Jefferies' After London, J.G. Ballard's The Drowned World and The Wind from Nowhere and Wyndham's The Day of the Triffid. Once again Carter rewrites a canonical disaster fiction motif in a new way.

(34.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 138.

(35.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 148.

(36.) Painting by Salvador Dali, The Persistence of Memory, 1931.

(37.) Angela Carter, "The Alchemy of the Word," in Expletives Deleted: Selected Writings (London: Chatto and Windus, 1992), p. 70.

(38.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 95.

(39.) Pamela Zoline, "The heat death of the universe," in England Swings SF, Stories of Speculative Fiction, ed. Judith Merril (New York: Ace Books, 1968), 313-328.

(40.) Zoline, p. 316.

(41.) John Donne, "A nocturnall upon S. Lucies day, Being the shortest day," in The Complete English Poems of John Donne, ed. C. A. Patrides (London and Melbourne: Dent, 1985), p. 90.

(42.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 148.

(43.) Angela Carter, "Notes for a Theory of the Sixties Style," in Nothing Sacred (London: Virago, 1988), 85-89, p. 86.

(44.) Carter, "Notes for a Theory of the Sixties Style," p. 86.

(45.) Kaveney, 175.

(46.) Karpinsky, 137.

(47.) Elaine Jordan, "Enthrallment: Angela Carter's Speculative Fictions," in Plotting Change: Contemporary Women's Fiction, ed. Linda Anderson (London: Edward Arnold, 1990), 19-40.

(48.) "A kind of sociological SF which concentrates on social change without necessarily any great emphasis on science or technology" (Clute and Nicholls, p. 1144).

(49.) John Haffenden, "Angela Carter," in Novelists in Interview, (London: Methuen, 1985), p. 80.

(50.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 150. This is uttered in a conversation when Marianne describes her plans for the future of the tribe: " 'they'll do every single thing I say.' 'What, will you be Queen?' 'I'll be the tiger-lady and rule them with a rod of iron.'"

(51.) St. John's Revelation 12:4-6 in The Holy Bible: Old and New Testament in the King James Version (Hazelwood: World Aflame Press, 1973).

(52.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 9.

(53.) Carter, Heroes and Villains, p. 140.

(54.) Sarah Gamble suggests that the moment Marianne becomes a tiger-lady symbolically "implies that Marianne has now broken free of the stereotyped roles--daughter, victim, wife and whore--in which she has been complicit from the text's beginning." Sarah Gamble, Angela Carter: Writing from the Front Line (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1997), p. 79.

(55.) Margaret Atwood, "Running with the Tigers," in Flesh and the Mirror, ed. Lorna Sage (London: Virago, 1994), 117-136, p. 358.

(56.) A. Day elaborates upon Marianne's future reign: "But while, as tiger-lady, she is going to draw on primordial Barbarian energy, Marianne, it must be noted, does not give up her purchase on reason. It is this emphasis on maintaining reason that separates her from the Donally-inspired Barbarian cult of the irrational. At the same time as Marianne stops being a stranger to her own id during her sojourn amongst the Barbarians, reason emerges as a cardinal feature of her discovery of herself.... In Marianne's case reason may order, like an iron rod, the inchoate energies of the id, while the energies of the id--the energies of the tiger-lady--may enrich reason. This synthetic model is identified as specifically feminine, in contrast with the masculine insistence on self-definition through opposition to an other" (Day, pp. 51-53). COPYRIGHT 2010 Eotvos Lorand Tudomanyegyetem, Department of English Studies

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korkrunchcereal · 4 years ago

Text

Lohn’goron

Death has been broken

In the struggles of the self

To fight is to live

Once more Gargaron Khral found himself upon his familiar rise over the Barrens. So often he had sat upon its crest that the dry grass and crumbling dirt had become indented, his meditation imprinted upon the land he called home. A welcome breeze helped to cool his skin from the unrelenting warmth of the sun, and the soft cry of a bird sounded in the distance.

Beyond the hills of the Barrens, the peaks of Stonetalon Mountain were visible, jutting forth from the earth like gnarled and mangled fangs. From up high Gargaron watched the land, curiosity glimmering from his eyes. A pack of zhevra that so far below were but splotches of black and white grazed with little fear, for instinct and familiarity had made the grasslands comfortable. They thought themselves safe. From above, Gargaron knew otherwise.

He saw metal catching the sun’s rays, the reflection gleaming across sharpened steel and into his eyes. Gargaron blinked, shaking his head to clear his vision. Another orc stalked the zhevra, a spear in hand. The wind blew against the hunter, masking their scent from the herd. Each step closer seemed like hours upon the sun’s fall, Gargaron’s muscles strangely tense with the anticipation of the hunt; of the kill to come.

“He will not kill them, you know.” A woman’s voice called behind Gargaron, familiar enough to draw his attention away. He craned his neck, looking upon an orc woman. He had seen her before, and his brows furrowed in annoyance.

“You.” It was neither name or title for Gargaron did not know them, and so it would serve as both greeting and warning.

“Khral.” She answered, giving a short nod of her head.

“Why are you here? Come to trick me again?” He turned to look back down upon the hunt, puzzled that he could not find either hunter or zhevra that had been there moments before.

“Trick? You are mistaken, warlord.”

“I told you, I am no longer warlord!” He snapped his teeth in irritation, waving his hand dismissively. Some time ago the woman had sought Gargaron’s help to investigate the ruins of a Kor’kron barracks. Instead he had found the one-time Warlord Skullcrusha, rotting away in his shell of hatred. The two had argued, leaving Gargaron brewing with resentment of both Skullcrusha and himself. When he had left the barracks the woman was nowhere to be found.

“So you have proclaimed. Thrice now.” The woman moved to sit beside Gargaron, seemingly oblivious to his simmering rage…or simply ignoring it. The grass did not stir at her approach nor as she sat. “As I was saying, I did not trick you.”

“You led me to him.”

“Yes.”

“You knew he was there, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She repeated, her eyes watching something in the grass below that Gargaron could not find.

“Why?”

“To begin your journey.”

“Journey?” Gargaron turned to look at her in confusion, blinking in shock when he saw she was gone. He shot up to his feet, eyes narrowing as he looked around. Already the sun had dropped low, being caught upon the teeth of Stonetalon. His nose twitched, the scent of something sweet filling his senses.

“Yes, journey. You have languished too long in this place; your spirit atrophies from your doubts. Your fears. Your nightmares.”

“Bah!” Gargaron whirled around, trying to find the woman. The cliff he had been standing on shrunk, as did the northern mountains. His toes curled in grass wet with dew, and he looked to find he no longer stood in the Barrens. Confusion and doubt filled his senses, and he reached instinctively for a weapon that had long been buried.

“hmm.” The short sound was laced in amusement. “This is where your doubts began…do you remember this place?”

“I…” Gargaron’s hands clenched, the orc eyeing the surrounding landscape. He had been here before, though not as it became. “Nagrand. This is Draenor.”

“Yes. The false world made reality. The wrongness here…it weeps like an open wound. But what did you find here, Gargaron Khral?”

“Disappointment.” Was his answer. “Disappointment…and failure.” The orc collapsed into the grass, feeling a great weight pull him down. A part of him was distrustful at what he said, for he spoke freely of his burdens to an unfamiliar entity. Yet it felt right, a feeling he barely remembered.

“Yes. The chains of your doubt hold you here, in this memory.” Thick fingers pressed against his back, kneading into the taunt muscles and causing him to tense. “It’s alright. Relax…”. He groaned, instinctively leaning back into the touch. He felt her face and two small tusks press against the back of his neck, their tips piercing skin and drawing blood. his eyes glancing out of the corner to see curls of red hair fall across his shoulder.

“I-“

“Shhh…” the voice interrupted, a soft whisper against his ear. “Her hair is like a bellowing fire, and her skin like the deepest ocean. She is wild, her passion dancing like a roaring flame. A promise, made under foreign moons. A regret, carried until the end of the world.”

“The weight of it all; leadership, the Horde…it was too much. I let her go so that I could focus on survival, on the Kor’kron and…” he sighed, disappointment lacing his words. “And I still believe I made the wrong choice.”

“She is not your only failure on this world though, is she? Look, Gargaron.”

Gargaron looked and felt a surge of panic fill his being, nearly causing him to flee. Two orcs charged at one another, weapons drawn and war cries loosened. One wore plates of blackened steel forged with the crude blows of a tyrant’s will. The other wore plates of crimson to match the figure’s hair, with a face so much like Gargaron’s own. Younger, but the weight of sin had begun to etch itself into his features. Gargaron watched his doppelganger strike down the black plated warrior, before falling to its knees.

“How many orcs did you kill?”

“I don’t know. A hundred? A thousand? More than I ever wished.”

“Yes…the sins of your people are marked upon every inch of your body. You had heard of the orcs; how their proud legacy had been twisted by ambition and cruelty. The great lie of nobility. Then you learned the truth, didn’t you?”

“The orcs,” Gargaron began, trying to find the words. “They…we are a violent race of monsters. I had been naïve enough to believe the stories. To believe our history was one of survival, and strength born of noble purpose. I believed…” he paused, letting his head fall into one of his hands with eyes closed. “I believed we were better than what we became…could be better.”

“But you feel that is mistaken?”

“I know it is!” He barked, raising his head once more to look upon his reflection. He had known then the great lie or had at least begun to suspect it. “All it took was a tyrant’s words to sway my people! An orc, who had no gift for speechcraft convinced an entire race to commit wanton violence and horrendous atrocities and for what purpose? What grand and ‘noble purpose’ was there?! We are a race drowning in the sea of our own bloodlust! In a thousand years…no a hundred years what will remain of the orcs? There will be no great ruins of our civilization or recording of our culture. All we will leave is the scars we have placed upon the universe.”

He received no response, feeling the soothing touch upon his back fade. Something harsh drags across his muscles now, and he winces in pain. He stands, finding himself upon the shores of a shattered island. There are bodies everywhere, both Horde and Alliance and the acrid stench of sulphur and blood overwhelms him. He turns, vomiting into the sand. His eyes water, breaths laborious as he recovers.

“This is where the Horde died…and in many ways you did as well, Gargaron.” Gargaron wearily glanced around to find the voice, before looking down. The woman lay in the sand before him, several purple fletched arrows buried in her chest and neck. They were not of Alliance make, for their barbed tips betrayed their owner.

“The dead; they’re up to my knees here.” Gargaron stated, spitting out the after taste of his vomit in disgust. “Look at them left to die! Sylvanas did not care! The horde did not care!”

“But you did. The chains of Draenor bound you, slowed you but did not keep you. You fought still.”

“Of course I fought!” he took a step forward, the bodies of man, orc and elf replaced with that of demons. There is no island here. There is but a dead world, twisted by foul purpose. Something charges at Gargaron, and he instinctively swings up. His sword makes contact and-

-his sword. The weight is almost unfamiliar in his hands. The Sword of Khral, both Gargaron’s namesake and the lineage he aspired to. The blade, so sharp as to sever muscle, sinew, and bone as if hot butter sliced through his attacker with ease.

“Yes. You fought…and fought. And fought. And fought for that was the law of Argus.” Argus. A name Gargaron had learned to hate and fear in equal measure. “And how long did you fight?”

“I do not know.” He answered. He spoke the truth; the Twisting Nether was a strange realm of chaos and entropy, and Argus sat within its churning madness. For all Gargaron knew he had fought for countless millennia, in a never-ending tide of slaughter and carnage. The demon’s had given him a name, spoken in hushed whispers among their misbegotten kind. He was ruin, an omen of catastrophe given rage at the end of a blood slick sword.

Even now, Gargaron felt sick from it all.

“It fills you with disgust. I can feel it. Why?”

“It reminds me that despite all my best efforts…despite everything I have done to be more than my bloody heritage, that I will always be slave to my base nature. How can I strive to show my people are more than our weapons and our hatred, when I succumb to the same mindless bloodlust. And..and it reminds me of him.” A nameless title for a beast given the mockery of orcish form.

““Skullcrusha.”

“Yes. Is that to be the eventual fate of our people? Monsters driven by bestial wrath, with reason replaced by animalistic fury?” Each word spoken gave form to the nightmare, the tyrant he had dreamed so often of now stood before Gargaron. He was goliath in size, looming over Gargaron and casting his dark shadow.

“You fear him because you fear this is what you may become. Take a look upon him Gargaron…you may find pity.”

“Pity!?” Gargaron guffawed, waving his hand in outrage. “Pity for this monster?! I-“ he paused, seeing the bands around Skullcrusha. He saw the chains, clasped around wrist, ankle and throat. He saw the strings, tugging at arms and legs like a puppeteer.

“Pity, because he has never known freedom. In all the long years he has existed, he has been slave to another. His purpose in life is only to serve…and I find that quite sad. But it is not the only legacy you loath, is it?” Her words faded in the wind as did Argus, bringing now the stench of burning meat and ash, and he finds his eyes begin to sting as smoke swirls around him. He coughs, his lungs filled with the acrid taste of a roaring fire. He flicks his hand, trying in vain to wave away the smoke.

The wasteland had disappeared, and in its stead was water. A vast ocean lay before him, yet that paled in comparison to the monolithic tree that was Darnassus…and Darnassus was burning. Gargaron had not watched its fall, though heard from his infrequent visits to civilization. There was only one word for the destruction of the Kal’dorei home. Genocide. By the ancestors, he could hear them scream. Gargaron fell to his knees, covering his ears in vain. He glanced up, seeing the orc woman staring at him with curiosity.

“Gah! Make it stop! Their screams are deafening!”

“This is where you died, Gargaron. Though you did not step foot upon the coast of Darkshore, nor witness Darnassus’ fall this is where Gargaron Khral was buried. Why?”

“Why!?” Gargaron roared in anger, waving his hands to the destruction. “Look at it! This is all the Horde has ever been! One bloody massacre after another.” As he raged, Darnassus began to fade, the titanic tree twisting and turning until wood became stone, and branches became walls. Yet still it burned, and upon banners blue and lions gold the fire still raged.

“Mmm…You were a child for this, weren’t you? Too young to remember…but you cannot forget the bright roar of the flames, so blinding for your small eyes or the screams of murder so loud that you cried.”

“The echoes of our history.” Gargaron muttered, finally pulling himself to his feet to watch the city’s destruction. “This is all the orcs are…all the Horde is.” His voice is soft, defeated and he feels tears welling up. “This is all I am.”

“No.” A single word, the conviction of it shaking Gargaron. He turns to look at her, confusion evident on his face.

“No? All I have seen is that I am doomed to failure; that my people are and will always be nothing more than monsters and the Horde little more than the prop of a mad warchief desperate for power. That I…” he paused for a moment, collecting himself. “That I am nothing more than a fool pretending to be a noble warrior.”

“No.” She repeated. “You shoulder the burden of a people, and expect not to collapse beneath its weight?” A barking laughter was given as answer to her own question. “No one is that strong Gargaron. Not even you.”

“Then what am I?”

“A warrior. A blademaster. A warlord…A Khral. You are all of these things and so much more, Gargaron. Come, look once more upon your nightmare.” She waved a hand to her left, Gargaron’s gaze following the motion to once more stare at Skullcrusha, still enchained and enthralled. “Did you know he was once a pale orc?” She smiled at the look of shock Gargaron gave her. “Yes, those wretched things you met on Draenor. His mind was already plaything to darker powers…It was only natural the leash was passed from one tyrant’s hands to another. But not you, Gargaron. Though you were raised in the Internment Camps, you have known real freedom. Love. Passion. Family. Yes, even disappointment, defeat, and sorrow. You have felt life in all its purest forms.”

“Defeat…is life?”

“Of course. How can we grow stronger if we are not challenged…if we are not defeated? How can we be more than what we are if we do not fail?” She paused for a moment, before sighing. “You will always carry the burden of your people. Of your legacy. That cannot be changed, and for that I hope you can forgive yourself…and me.”

Gargaron turned to face her, only to find himself once more upon his cliff overlooking the Barrens, the mountains of Stonetalon catching the sun’s light far to the north. He blinked, looking around in confusion before shaking his head. Idly he scratched his beard, looking down over the cliff side. He felt hands upon his shoulders once more, though did not tense up this time. His eyes closed, and he saw the ocean’s skin and hair of fire.

“You have fought to erase your failure’s for so long, Gargaron. You have fought for Warchiefs, Warlords and conquerors…it’s time to fight for something else.”

“What is there to fight for?” He asked aloud. Her image faded, replaced with that of Garrosh. A single word entered his mind. Power. Another image, that of Skullcrusha and another word. Servitude. Third came an image of Varok Saurfang, an orc Gargaron had not thought of for some time though learned had recently passed. To die.

“Indeed, what is there to fight for? Why do we fight?”

“You sound like one of the Pandaren…” Gargaron muttered.

“There is wisdom in the question. Why do we fight, Gargaron? Sometimes, the answer is simply because we must. Because to not fight is to allow darkness to take hold; to allow tyrants and monsters a foot in the door. Sometimes we must fight to live.” It was not images or words that filled him then, but passions. He felt the warmth of a campfire and of a woman’s touch. He felt the heartbeat of a wolf, pounding against his skin. He felt joy and wonder and…and…

And life.

He felt it all for but a moment, before it was carried away by a chill wind. Gargaron’s eyes opened as he realized he was now alone. He looked down upon dead grass and barren soil. It was dark now, and cold as if it was to rain but there was no cloud in sight. He felt uneasy, realizing then he could not hear a single sound. He was not deaf, but rather there simply was no life anywhere. Not the sound of animals, nor the howl of the wind.

“A darkness is coming, Gargaron.” Her voice echoed in his mind, booming like thunder in the silence. “To the far north upon frozen shores, the veil has been breached. Fight to stop it. Fight for the right to live. Fight, because if you do not then all of creation is at risk. Close your eyes Gargaron…and awaken.”

Gargaron shot up from his bed, sweat pouring off of his brow. He looked around, wide eyed. The fire in his home had long since turned to embers, and from what he could see beneath the flap of his hut it was nearing sunset. He groaned, pushing himself up to sit on the bed’s edge. How long had he been asleep, and had he been dreaming? He must have been, though it did little to ease his unrest. Absentmindedly he rubbed the back of his neck, pausing as he felt something wet. Slowly he brought his hand forward and even in the dim light he could see fresh blood.

“What the…” his eyes went wide, remembering his dream. Outside he heard his wolf howl, giving a long mournful wail. “Rosha!” he shouted for her, already pulling himself out of the bed. Her cry sent a chill running up his spine and as he pulled away the hut’s flap he gasped. Dark clouds were approaching from the Stonetalon mountains, so vast as to swallow both the sun and sky.

His wolf stepped beside him, whining as she nuzzled his leg. Gargaron glanced down and knelt, hands gently playing at her mane. “Something is wrong girl. I know you can feel it. I can too.” He looked back to the rapidly approaching clouds, feeling uneasy. A cold wind blew across his chest, causing him to shiver.

“The veil has been breached…” he muttered, repeating the words in his dream. “An ill omen from the same mysterious woman met with a sky that flees the northern winds...Perhaps...” He stood up, sighing. He had fled from this moment for too long now. He turned around, moving back into the hut to kneel in front of the fire. Rosha quietly approached beside him, sitting to watch. His hands dug through the embers, causing him to wince in pain. He continued to dig through the ashes and into the ground, pulling out handfuls of dirt. “Well?! Help me out!” Rosha yapped, before digging her paws beside him.

They dug for several minutes, the floor slowly crumbling away until he was near a foot below. The dirt gave way to a steel box, and Gargaron brushed at it. With a grunt he pulled, the length of it as tall as he was. It had been years since he first opened the box, and slowly almost in reverence he unlatched the clasps. The steel creaked with the motion and with a gentle touch he grasped the hilt of his weapon. Orcish runes glowed faintly as he pulled forth his blade, and for a moment the very air stilled as if in tense. The Sword of Khral felt as familiar to him as the last time he carried it, as if an extension of his own arm. It felt good. Right. He had run from his failures; of her, and of his people and the Horde. It was time to stop running.

“I have hidden from my regrets for too long, Rosha. I’ll never be rid of this malaise; of that I am sure of. But…I can fight it. To live. Now come! We leave for Ratchet. With luck we will find passage to Northrend, for that must be where I am called to fight. Ancestors know what evil that wretched place has spawned now.”

#Warcraft #world of warcraft #Skullcrusha writing #gargaron khral

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ltleflrt · 6 years ago

Note

YAY!!! I'm so greedy for your writing... Coworker & Immortal AU, Please and thank you

I’m kinda stretching the definition of coworkers here, but in the eyes of an Immortal, human definitions are probably fleeting anyway :)

Warning for people dying.

Little fingers press against Dean’s palm, and he gives them a reassuring squeeze as he watches the heartbreak spread across the faces of the nurses as the doctor calls time of death. The soft crying of the witnesses turns into broken sobs that make even Dean’s ancient heart squeeze painfully.

“Will they be sad for a long time?”

Dean looks down at the spirit of the child gripping his hand. In the last days of her life, her body was thin, and ravaged by sores. In death, she’s beautiful, practically glowing with the the power of a young soul that hasn’t dimmed from a long lifetime of use. “They might,” he answers honestly. “But not forever.”

“I wish I could tell them I feel better now.” Her large brown eyes swim with metaphysical tears as she watches her parents mourn.

He smiles at her. What a gentle heart. Many children make wishes when they pass from the world of the living. Sometimes they don’t want to leave, and they wish to go back. Some wish they could see a beloved pet again, or say goodbye to their friends. A large number of them wish they could take their toys with them, which always delights Dean.

If he had the power to grant wishes, the ones made on behalf of their lost loved ones are the wishes he’d be most eager to fulfill. Alas, he’s the embodiment of Death, not a Djinn. “I wish you could too.”

She heaves a sigh that expresses a knowledge only gained by death. “Thanks.” She gives him a watery smile. “So what’s next?”

“You have a journey to make,” Dean says.

“Like Dora the Explorer?”

He laughs at her sudden excitement. “Yes, just like that.”

She bounces on her toes when he introduces her to the Reaper assigned to lead her to her next destination. Only once does she look back, waving goodbye to him and to her parents who have yet to come to terms with the sudden termination of her short life. Then she fades away, her spirit absorbed into the larger fabric of the Universe.

“I’d feel more sorry for them if they weren’t anti-vaxxers,” Sam says from nearby. “How many of the other kids here do you think might be dying because their daughter was patient zero at her school?”

“All of them,” Dean answers. He spares a glance for the mourning parents, and grimaces. Crowley’s anti-vax movement has been very effective.

He always does his best work using misinformation rather than spreading actual plagues. Even the Black Death became the massive killing machine that it did because he’d convinced people that cats were The Devil’s creatures. So many cats were wiped out, they could no longer keep up with the plague carrying rats infesting human cities. Crowley was quite proud of that one.

That many falling to him at once was overwhelming. He and his reapers had been overworked, and he’d been pretty pissed about it. Especially since each death had been so intensely miserable. Dean is neutral to death because everyone succumbs to it eventually, but that doesn’t mean he condones such cruel methods.

Which means it’s time to intervene. “Crowley.” He feels the other horseman’s presence fill the hospital before it condenses down into the form of a small man in a tailored suit.

“You called?” Crowley asks in his crisp British accent. It’s an affect; Crowley has existed since before English started stealing words from other languages, and long before the most ancient forms of verbal communication.

“You’ve made your mark here,” Dean says. “It’s time to lift your touch from this town.”

Crowley scoffs. “Only 9 have been infected. I’ve barely started--”

“It’s enough,” Dean commands sharply. “The Fates have other plans for these people, and you’ve already interfered with their work enough.”

“Fine,” Crowley drawls, clearly unhappy with the order but unwilling to go against one of the few beings that has the power to demote him from demi-god to corpse. “I’ve got some mosquito populations to check on.” He smiles tightly. “Can’t let all the rainforest loggers get off without a touch of Malaria.”

He’s not asking for permission, but Dean tips his head in acknowledgement anyway. It isn’t his goal to anger the spirit of Pestilence, only to maintain a balance. “I’ll send some Reapers with you.”

That perks Crowley up, because it means that his victims won’t survive the disease. “Splendid. See you around, Boss.” He nods to the gaunt shadow at Dean’s elbow. “You too, Sam.”

He disappears before either of them can respond.

“He’s such a bag of dicks,” Sam sighs.

“No shit,” Dean agrees. “Good at this job though.”

Sam makes a noncommittal sound. His eyes follow the spirits being led to their next destination by Dean’s reapers.

A tug behind Dean’s sternum pulls his attention across the country. His lover rarely summons him so urgently, so Dean sets aside his current plans to see what Castiel needs. “I’m needed elsewhere,” he says out loud, sending the message to all the local Reapers.

“Dean,” Sam says softly. “Please. You summoned me here for a reason.”

“I did. I’m sorry I forgot.” Dean grimaces and rubs a hand over Sam’s shoulder. “There’s a janitor downstairs. He’s been sneaking into patients rooms that he has no business in.”

Sam’s eyes darken with greed. “A damaged soul?”

“Let’s just say that he’s worse for children than measles,” Dean says. “He’s scheduled to slip and crack his head open in a few hours. I’ve instructed my Reapers to leave him to you.”

“I appreciate it.”

Dean pats him again, and hopes the touch conveys how proud his of Sam’s current restraint. He knows how difficult it is for him, being the only horseman who suffers when he doesn’t use his powers. An eternity of addiction and starvation is a punishment he doesn’t deserve, and Dean would shoulder that pain for him if it were within his powers. But he can only settle for helping Sam maintain his balance, by making sure he feeds often enough that he stays strong enough to keep his powers reined in.

The love and gratitude in his brother’s eyes tells him that Sam knows. It’s enough for now.

They say their goodbyes and Dean spreads the great shadow of his wings. In the scope of the universe Earth is miniscule and it takes barely half a flap to reach his destination. He stretches them wide before folding them back into his essence, and looks around.

The Oval Office is dark, the current president not the type to stay up late worrying about matters of state. But there is still a figure slumped in the chair behind the huge desk. A smile tugs at the corners of Dean’s mouth when his eyes fall on his lover. “I thought you’d given up stealing thrones.”

Castiel huffs a soft laugh. “I’ve been given more thrones than I stole.”

“Hmm, my mistake.” Dean walks around the desk, and when Castiel swivels the chair to face him, he straddles his thighs and anchors himself in place with arms wrapped around Castiel’s shoulders.

Their lips meet in a kiss that is mostly greeting, with a tiny lick of heat. Even after eons, the passion driving their relationship has hardly dimmed. But Dean can sense that Castiel needs him for more than a quick fuck over the desk. There’s a different need emanating from his skin.

Dean tilts his head until their foreheads bump. “What’s wrong, Cas?”

Castiel’s sigh warms the space between them. “I’m finding it very difficult to maintain the balance. Between the rise of despots with a hunger for nuclear weapons, and dictators draping themselves in the flag of democracy whipping up their most frenzied followers into violence, I find myself very busy for how little actual battle these humans participate in.”

“I’ve noticed.” Dean doesn’t offer platitudes or advice. War is Castiel’s domain, not his. And often, Castiel just needs a sympathetic ear, which Dean is qualified to provide.

“I miss the Cold War,” Castiel grumbles.

Dean laughs. “Bullshit. You were tearing your hair out trying to get someone to push the big button.”

Castiel’s icy glare could drop a human on the spot, dead of heart failure. Dean just thinks it’s adorable. “Don’t be ridiculous. Wiping out all of humanity would render me obsolete.”

“You still wanted to see it happen though,” Dean counters with a grin.

“I’ve seen civilizations wiped out by supernovae.”

“But that was my work.” Dean wiggles in Castiel’s lap. “It’s not the same.”

Castiel huffs his annoyance and wraps his arms tightly around Dean’s hips, holding him still. He presses his face into Dean’s chest. “Please don’t mock me.”

Dean sobers, and runs fingers through Castiel’s hair. Sometimes he can pull Castiel out of his existential funks with a little teasing, but this is apparently not one of those times. “Talk to me, Cas.”

“Maybe I am just God’s Hammer.” His voice is muffled by Dean’s shirt. “And this battle against my baser nature has only one inevitable end.”

“You wouldn’t have these doubts if that were true.” Dean refrains from pointing out that these internal ‘battles’ are part of his nature as a god of War. It’s a lesson Castiel will eventually learn on his own. As the youngest of the horsemen he still has a long life of learning ahead of him.

Castiel hums and nuzzles closer. “Tell me of your doubts.”

“I set my Reapers on a hospital full of kids with measles today,” Dean says. “And I’m not seeing that trend stopping any time soon.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s the nature of the job.”

“Still.” Castiel lifts his head and looks up at Dean with kindness and understanding. “I know you don’t enjoy when your touch lands on children.”

He doesn’t enjoy any aspect of his job. Okay, maybe he enjoys feeding the souls of the truly terrible to his little brother sometimes. But being the instrument of entropy in the universe isn’t exactly fun, even if he knows that there’s no other way it can function.

“Yeah,” he says. “It always sucks. But none of our jobs are exactly easy.”

“Crowley seems to enjoy himself.”

“He’s a bag of dicks.”

Castiel laughs and pushes his face against Dean’s chest. “I wonder if this is what a mid life crisis feels like.”

He’s nowhere near the midpoint of his life, but Dean can’t--won’t--tell him that. “Is that what’s going on?”

“Well I’m very old,” Castiel says dryly. “I believe I’m entitled.”

“Pfft.” Dean flicks a finger against the collar of Castiel’s current favorite outfit. “You’re just a baby in a trench coat.”

“I watched the first fish crawl from the ocean, Dean.”

“I’m literally older than dirt,” Dean counters. “And molecules.”

Castiel’s essense brightens, and Dean knows that he’s finally broken through the shell of his bad mood. “Dirty old man.”

“You make me young.” Dean nudges Castiel’s chin, forcing him out of hiding. He presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead and then another to his lips. “My existence started with yours.”

It’s sappy as fuck, but as much as he loves his brother, and occasionally enjoys Crowley’s antics, his heart finally found true joy when Castiel joined their ranks.

“You are not a Hammer,” he continues. He cups his hands around Castiel’s face so he can’t look away, and strokes his thumbs across Castiel’s cheekbones. “You are a Weaver. Spiders would cry in awe if they could conceive the delicate webs you create. You weave nets to contain and stabilize the balance of the universe.”

He kisses Castiel again, nudging until lips part under his own. He’s rewarded with a moan, and Castiel tilts his head, leaning into Dean’s touch. Castiel kisses like he’s trying to win a battle, but Dean calms him with his touch, keeping the passion at a simmer instead of letting it turn into an inferno. When he finally lifts his head, Castiel blinks dazedly up at him.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers. “I am a creature of destruction. I don’t--”

“You are an creature of peace as well as war,” Dean whispers. “Balance.”

Castiel closes his eyes, and settles under Dean’s touch. “Sometimes I internalize the vision humans have of me. Thank you for reminding me that there’s more to me than violence and death.”

“I’ll always be here for you. As leader, and lover.” Dean peppers more kisses over Castiel’s face. “Until Time itself fades, and I reap the last vestiges of the universe.”

“Thank you.” Castiel stays pliant under Dean’s touch, and he smiles. “And I love you too.”

Dean pecks him right on the lips again. “Existential crisis averted?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good,” Dean says brightly. “Now what do you say to desecrating this desk?”

Castiel surges to his feet, carrying Dean’s weight with him and depositing it on the polished surface. “There’s nothing holy about this desk.”

Dean is already tugging at Castiel’s clothing. They could dismiss it with a thought, but they’ve both spent far too long with humanity, and enjoy the trappings of physicality. “It’ll be the most holy, after I make you see god tonight.”

“We’ll see who’s crying for god’s mercy when I’m through with you,” Castiel growls.

Dean laughs and allows himself to be pushed flat. He already knows they’re both going to win.

#destiel #death!dean #war!cas #4 horseman au #oops i ficced #kazshero

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glitchvault74 · 5 years ago

Text

This Terrible, Stupid Man Should Not Be Left Alone or He Will Die

A dreamless black, a mind unaware, a world outside his little box slowly succumbing to entropy... The rust eats through an iron railing... It creaks, whines, unstable.

It crashes, ringing in a sharp note like a bell.

He jumps in his box, eyes flying open as “my tea!” flies from his lips, followed prompt by a thud “Ow!” of his head hitting the top of his enclosure. He blinks, vision blurry and mind foggy. This isn’t his home. What’s going on...?

He pushes on the ceiling above him, but there’s no give. He scoots to one side and pushes on the wall. It falls open, and he rolls out and lands on his knees with a hiss from the dull pain now living in his knees. He sits there for a moment until it passes and then climbs to his feet.

Dark... Some light, some faint glows. He wanders towards it like a moth to a flame. Strange world... Unfocused vision... A dream...?

He lands at a terminal and hits a key and stares at the random string of characters.

What the heck is this supposed to be...?

He clicks at random, squinting and frustrated as he can’t process whatever is being said besides the sure sign he got locked out temporarily. Try again later... He wanders away in the meantime.

He shuffles like the undead through... wherever he is. Slow, lethargic, jerky yet dragging. Like he hasn’t moved in ages... Something’s odd here, but the world is quiet and still.

Another terminal. Or the same one...? He stares at the text, trying to puzzle out what it is. Letters correct?? No letters correct??? What?????

He gives up after the third try and keeps looking. There’s weird shapes that look vaguely person shaped. It’s too hard to focus...

Third terminal. Or perhaps a second after the same one twice. Perhaps the same one thrice. ...No, the room is different. It’s a new one. He can sort of make out the words and things this time... He selects something. Stares and puzzles out another one... He goes through his four attempts. He can try again later. He yawns and stumbles off, still unthinking...

He sees a sign, written in letters larger than he is tall, higher than he can reach... “Vault 113 - Welcome”. Huh. Weird....

One more terminal... He stares at the words for several seconds before making his selection. He narrows it down by the third attempt. Hacked. He’s in. New words, too many for him to understand. He selects something at random, something something words he’s too out of it to read or whatever. He stares helplessly at the screen, waiting for something to happen of its own accord.

Something happens.

Something clicks nearby. Hisses. Shifts. Light pours in and he shields his eyes but heads for it. Death? Is that you? Finally come to—

He walks out into a world he’s unfamiliar with. It’s bright, empty, quiet. In the sunlight he looks down and sees the blue jumpsuit he’s dressed in. The weird, bulky thing on his wrist. He blinks and shakes his wrist, trying to loosen the bulky thing and make it fall off. It doesn’t budge. He pulls at it, pushes, messes with the buttons and knobs and ends up with random words and sounds he can’t process. He gives up when some numbers at the bottom flash 01.01.1970 and 00:00. He’ll figure it out later.

He walks along, a lone wanderer, in search of others. Hopefully not a sole survivor... Where is he...? Where was he...? The last thing he remembers... At home, with his roommate... At home, roommate gone... Ushered to leave... Something...

He comes across rusted metal giants... Structures and old machines, worn away by time. Old railroad tracks, abandoned railway cars... He keeps going, mind waking slowly, slowly, slowly...

He stops and stares as he sees a group of people approaching... the weird animals with them. The... The... The things they’re carrying, whatever those are... His head hurts... He holds it and crouches down, in sudden pain... What’s going on...?

“...Hey?” someone calls at him, from a safe distance. He looks up and sees a woman watching. “Are you okay?”

He stares. “...wha—” His voice cracks and he stops himself. He holds his throat, feeling like it’s the first time he’s spoken in days...

“You’re from a Vault?” she asks, slowly approaching. “How long have you been out...?”

“Vault?” he asks. “Been...?”

“You need help getting somewhere safe...?”

“...Ye—” His voice croaks again. “Yeah...”

“Can you walk?”

He stands again and stumbles forward, but manages to regain his balance and walks slightly more steadily. “Yeah. Yeah...”

The woman watches him, uncertain. “What’s your name? You know anyone we can help you find?”

He squints. What’s his...? Help him...? “Rig... Miller.... Rig Miller.”

“Rig?” she asks. “Well, alright, Rig. You can head with us to the next settlement. You look like you need a tutorial on how things work out here.”

He blinks. What? His name isn’t— The woman already turns around and lets him follow, and she’s calling to the others that “This is Rig” and, oh, wonderful, it’s too late to correct the mix-up.

What happened? This is not the world he remembers... He glances at the woman. ...That’s a weird looking gun.

...Vaults sound familiar... What were they for again...? He was in a vault... 113...

“You got any skills, Rig?” the woman asks.

“No,” he says without thinking.

“...Well, shit, son, you’re not going to be much use around here if you don’t learn some.”

“Just woke up,” he says. “Bad at brain thinking. Everything’s blubber.”

She gives him a look. “Either you’re not sober, or you’ve got fifteen concussions all at once.”

“Yes,” he says. He hesitates. “...No? Fiv-got.... Six at most...”

She chuckles once, short but amused. “Next settlement should have a doc. We’ll have ‘em look you over if you can last that long. We’re not going to go out of our way to protect you, so don’t do anything stupid.”

“Okay...”

He walks along, somehow keeping up the entire time. The sun passes across the sky, and he finds himself waking up more as they go. The woman walks with him the entire time, telling him about the history of things, catching him up on everything he doesn’t know about, which is quite a few things. There was a war, no one won, everything was thrown into nuclear hellfire, and now it’s 2288, and something or something?? He soaks it all up like a sponge already laden with water, but stays quiet for the entire walk save for small indications whether or not he knows things she asks him if he knows. He knows nothing. He’s an ignorant puppy pal friend about everything. They eventually stop to rest for the night.

“You think he understood anything you were rambling about today with that concussion of his?” another caravan member asks, passing food to his helpful teacher of the day.

She splits her meal in half and hands him some. He shakes his head. Not hungry. She frowns but shrugs and keeps his portion. “Well, if he didn’t, there’s others who can tell him all this all over again. I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“You sure you didn’t see that other caravan guard?” the caravan member asks. “He went off ahead didn’t he? And we found a vault dweller instead?”

“Apparently,” the woman says. “The other guard probably got lost. I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually.”

“How you feeling, Rig?” the caravan member asks. “You look more active now than before. Nocturnal? Is that what the vault experiment was?”

“Experiment?” he asks. He blinks. “I... don’t know?”

“Vault 113, right?” the woman asks. “According to your jumpsuit. How long ago did you end up there? Or were you born there?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know. I don’t remember going there. I woke up in a box inside. I— Fff— Buh— I don’t remember anything that happened there...”

The caravan member frowns. “What do you remember before waking up...? What year was it...?”

He racks his brain. “I was... At home with my roommate... It was 2070-something... Something happened and things got shaky and loud and I was told to leave... Or was that later...? I don’t remember seeing—” He frowns. “I don’t know where my friend went... He wasn’t there when... what happened to happened had happened...”

The woman and the caravan member share a look. They don’t say anything. He doesn’t know what they’re thinking and doesn’t try to guess...

“What was it like in 113?” the woman asks.

“Dark,” he says. “I was dizzy waking up... No idea what I was doing or where I was going or what was there. Just messed around with terminals and stuff until a door opened and I left.”

“That doesn’t sound—” The caravan member shuts up at the woman’s stern look. “Alright,” he says. “You’ll be out of our hair tomorrow, at least.”

“So it’s been over 200 years?” he asks. He rubs his chin and jumps at the scratchy hairs. “I have stubble?”

The woman frowns. “Do you need to shave?”

“It took me 200 years to grow only stubble?!”

“...Is that a no?”

“I can never shave,” he groans. “It won’t ever grow back! 200 years! Stubble!”

“I don’t think that’s the rea—” The caravan member cuts himself off again. “Well, we can’t all grow hair overnight...?”

The woman sighs. “Just... If you’re not going to eat, go get some sleep, Rig. Promise, we’ll wake you up when it’s time to leave.”

He leans back until he tips onto the ground and lies there, staring up at the star-filled sky. ...At least that’s kind of pretty...

The woman and the caravan member share a look. Neither of them say a word, and they both give “Rig” some space.

...Rig watches the sky the entire night. He watches the stars move across the sky and start to fade, and he thinks the entire night. About his situation. About what may have happened. About what he may be missing. About the actual Rig Miller and what happened... He was supposed to go with him... somewhere... Vault 113, maybe? Is he still there...? Did he leave his friend behind...? Did he make it there...? Did he survive the... what was it...? A war? Wow. An entire war that changed everything and he doesn’t remember it or what happened or anything or whatever happened or anything or—

The sun starts to rise and someone shuffles up to him, and he props himself up on his elbows to look at them. The caravan member startles but then looks like he was expecting this.

“Help us pack up,” he says. “You can at least do that much, right?”

Rig nods and climbs to his feet to do as told.

He can follow instructions.

He’s good at that.

The woman doesn’t talk with him at all the rest of the trip. No one does. He spends the rest of the walk in his own head while occasionally tuning into the conversations the others are having. Something about synths? Something about danger? Something about leaving him as soon as they get to the settlement for the people there to deal with?

Sure. Whatever. He knows some of those words.

Aforementioned settlement approaches on the horizon. The first 24 hours awake will come to a close soon enough, or so he estimates...

The numbers on the weird thing on his wrist still flash 01.01.1970 and 00:00.

...That was supposed to be the date, wasn’t it?

Whoops. Hopefully he didn’t break anything else useful on this thing...

———

[Next]

Written with help from @falloutglow

#Rig Miller #story #The System is Rigged #art

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meowgetsproductive · 5 years ago

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Getting back on your feet. Resetting. Day 1

Technically it’s day 15 of my 365 challenge/new year resolutions. However, like most of you, I ran out of steam and flopped my resolutions.

Today marks a reset to day 1. I don’t see flopping as an excuse to give up the challenge. Maybe I can’t do it for the full 365 days in a row. But maybe I can do it for two days in a row, or ten, or a month. In any case, I hope to have figured it out by December.

The 365 challenge is:

Projects 1) Edit or write 1000 words a day (currently: M39 Novel) 2) Go to gym every 2nd day (current: pass fitness test) 3) Do one course exercise a day (current: Artist’s Way) 4) Progress 1 chore a day (current: renew passport)

Habits 5) write morning diary daily (emotions) 6) stretch daily (body) 7) Meditate daily (spirit)

I’m restarting this blog to share the journey with you. Why not restart your resolutions now? Or set some if you haven’t yet, for an exciting year of growth.

So, where I’m at right now, is I’ve just awoken from burnout.

I couldn’t string two words together, much less write heartfelt 1000 words of my novel. Yesterday, I had a trip to meet my boyfriend’s parents. Sitting in front of two well-meaning strangers, being asked simple questions like "what do you do?” had me in stumps.

The parents meant my profession but I was thinking about something much more mundane.

What was I doing day to day?

Burnout is a horrible thing. It robs you of inspiration, creativity, and creates an unfillable void in your chest. Nothing feels good enough, good enough to try. Nothing is exciting. I’ve been reading day after day, all day, trying to fill that emptiness in my soul.

That trip to see “the parents” made me look at myself as an outsider. I didn’t like what I saw.

What the hell was I doing with my life? It’s only been two weeks of the resolutions and I all but forgotten them! I have lost myself, letting entropy and the lack of energy dictate my life.

So today, the start of Day 1, I am restarting this blog and getting myself into gear. Gently.

I urge anyone starting out to treat yourself gently, like a new student. To get back on your feet you need encouragement, not harsh blows of criticism.

Today’s all about getting back to our feet. Gently.

I’m typing this blog as I go, because I need gentle encouragement. Baby steps.

First thing I’m gonna do is have breakfast. Luckily I have eggs in the fridge. I did say today marks the start of Day 1. Forget the resolutions for now. Even doing breakfast feels hard.

For breakfast, I made 2 eggs with leftover tofu and spinach from who knows how long ago, and packaged miso soup. I have miso soup every day, so it’s a typical breakfast for me. You shouldn’t try to make anything fancy. A jam on toast is fine. the point is to eat something that gives you energy to start the day. It’s hard to function when you’re low AND have no physical energy either. So we start with breakfast. I also made a banana smoothie in a blender to snack on as I go.

Next, I’m gonna tidy up my room. I live in a share house and my bedroom doubles up as my study and entertainment and library. I have piles of washing on my bed, plates on my table, pillows on the floor, random plastic bags of stuff that I barely remember dumping by the bed to be dealt with later. I have so much stuff that I can barely breathe. I need orderliness to think, and right now, my surroundings make me feel anxious and suffocated.

I’m not gonna clean up the whole place, that is too much effort. But I took the dishes and cups to the kitchen. I have put scattered books into stacks so they’re out of the way. I put all used tissues in the bin.The biggest eyesore are clothes. Seeing clothes on the floor makes me feel out of control. I have two baskets where I sort used clothes instead of just throwing them on the floor. I put exercise clothes in one basket under the bed, while lounge clothes went in the other. It didn’t take long. The one thing that did take time was folding the laundry. It took time but it was worth it for the sense of freedom of my room clothes-free. Just remember, we want to create a sense of peace and serenity, so that you can get on with your day. Maybe you don’t mind your clothes on the floor, maybe for you it’s cleaning up that really ugly stain that bugs you. Or that shutter making an infernal rattling noise that you couldn’t been bothered to fix. Get your peace of mind. Fix it.

I put on some nice music while I tidied. When I was done, I lighted a scented candle to cheer up the place with a nice scent. Maybe play a victory tune to celebrate if that’s your thing.

The tidying took up more energy than I was prepared, and I feel wiped out. I haven’t even started on my daily seven yet. I just feel like collapsing with a book and not getting up again.

Luckily for me, there is one item on my daily seven that invigorates me when I remember to do it. It’s number five, the diary.

Now my diary isn’t like a normal record of the day diary that most people use. My diary are the morning pages from Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. All I do is write out my worries. That’s when it works best. Sometimes I don’t know what’s bugging me and writing it long hand helps me figure it out. Sometimes I can’t think of a worry, then I write whatever is on my mind, stream-of-consciousness style. The point isn’t to list all your worries, but to let out of your chest whatever is gripping you. Sometimes it’s the excitement of a new idea, and I have written little scene sketches in the diary too. Dreams. To-dos. Battle plans before meeting The Parents. There is no wrong way to do the diary as long as you write whatever comes to mind, not stopping. “I don’t know what to write now...” is something I see too.

I did this diary for 2 pages of my large notebook, which is roughly 22 minutes. And that takes of item number five on my daily seven.

5) write morning diary daily (emotions)

I give myself a sticker for each of the seven that I complete. It cheers me up and brings a little bit of joy into my day.

In my morning pages diary, I realised that each of the items isn’t hard. The illusion of it is. It seems hard, but once you start doing, it’s actually not that hard to do the task in the moment. Stretching isn’t hard. Thinking about doing stretching, about how much time and energy it takes and that I’d have to get up and start moving and that I’ll never be flexible so what’s the use, is what keeps me stuck dead. The key is not succumbing to the illusion of difficulty, and just starting. Once I start, the task will take care of itself. 10 minutes meditation is nothing. But thinking about sitting there trying not to think and how my back always aches, is the enemy.

My advice is, start the thing. Don’t think about starting the thing. Start doing the thing. If it’s gym, get dressed and out the door. Start doing it. No debating allowed!

I’ll meditate next. Another thing that often remains undone, because it’s boring.

I find meditating boring.

Sitting without thoughts, experiencing time without beginning or end is very hard for me. I’m very good at imagining stuff, such as cleansing the chakras or directing energy in my mind. Sitting quietly with a silent mind, 10 minutes seem to go on on FOREVER.

All right, fine. Start. Not deliberate. I’m going.

I sat on a cushion and set alarm for ten minutes.

Ohh, it started off well enough. Then I got really restless. I started counting my breaths to 10, which really helped. Then after some time, my thoughts went wild. I was deciding which movie to watch tonight as my reward for doing so well, Dr Strange or Iron Man. Those are my favourite movies. Also I was thinking that I was gonna finish early today, and how early was early? At which point I realised I’ve had a pop song playing in my mind’s background for some time. Ugh.

Ten minutes felt long, but I lasted the whole time and now I feel so happy and proud of myself! I have done the meditation for today, item seven. Another sticker. Yay!

The benefits of meditation are numerous, but the benefits don’t kick in until several months in, same as gym. It took my brother 3 months of gym before he began to look great. I’ve just started gym and meditation myself on New Years Day, so it’ll take some time for my mind to center and my body to look great. Today’s a great day to start!

7) Meditate daily (spirit)

Well, I feel like I’m on a roll with my daily habits, so I’m feeling inspired to do the 10 min stretching. I’ve already done morning diary and meditation, stretching feels like a piece of cake! (See how small steps inspire more small steps? I’m all fired up!)

I put up some music, set the timer, and bam! Done. Three stickers today. The amount of bones I cracked was embarrassing.

Why do I resist stretching so much? Again, it takes time, even if it’s just 10 minutes. It’s boring, even if I put on music. Plus it hurts when I’m sore or I try the splits. Then why do it? Because doing something like a ten minute stretch helps keep flexibility and freedom of movement for life. Like all good things, the tangible benefits don’t kick in until later in life. (I’m beginning to see a pattern here).

6) stretch daily (body) Done!

That’s the Habits triad done. Yay for emotions/body/spirit!

Where’s the mind, you may ask? Well, the rest of the daily tasks are mind-heavy. Writing, gym, course exercise and chores tend to draw heavily on intellect. They make my brain flex.

Writing draws heavily on all areas.

Going to gym is as much a mental battle as physical exertion is.

By now, I’ve done the easy items on the list, the ones that take 10 minutes max. Doing it this way was semi-deliberate. I need easy wins right now to feel empowered. Attempting something like number one: writing, would be too overwhelming for me. Thanks to starting with the small items, I feel accomplished, I feel confident about getting more items done, I feel cheerful and I have what I feel like lots of energy (stretching could be at play for the energy boost).

Next, I feel like tackling the easiest item on the Projects list. Which is number four, the chore of passport renewal.

All I have to do for passport renewal is to load the official form onto USB and print it, get two passport photos, and go to post office to pay a fee and lodge the form and the photos.

The due date is tomorrow. I’ve been putting it off for a month.

The reason is, I am hesitant about taking that photo. I currently have long-ish hair at my boyfriend’s request, but I normally keep it short. I don’t want long hair in my passport photo. I have been procrastinating getting a haircut (and hurting my boyfriend’s feelings), yet I wasn’t comfortable taking a long-haired photo. That would be ten years staring at a photo that screams “not me”.

Some of you might be thinking “Gal, it’s your hair, you don’t have to do what your boyfriend says!”. I agree. This time, however, it’s not a bother to keep my hair long. I don’t care that it’s long right now (and I like that my boyfriend appreciates it), I just don’t want my hair long in my passport photo.

Alas, I’ve decided as I’m typing this this that I’ve left the decision for too long, and I’m worried about the paperwork expiring tomorrow if I don’t do something now. So, I’m gonna find that passport form and put it on USB, then fix myself for going out (long hair and all), and see if I can take the photo at the post office directly rather than getting someone to do it for me and then rushing to a printing shop last minute (for all of you who can print at home, I am jealous and I salute you!).

Finding an empty USB and loading the doc there took less than thirty seconds.

The getting ready didn’t take too long because I had met The Parents yesterday and so I was all clean. I wore the same clothes cuz I just needed to do the photo, not please people.

Doing well so far.

At the post office, the lady told me they don’t do printing. While they could do the photo, they can’t print my form to finalise the process.

I envy you, printer-owners.

I contacted a relative to see if I can use their printer, and also if they can do my photo. It would same me money if my relative could print the photo for free. They said okay.

Turns out the passport photo couldn’t be printed via inkjet printer. I only printed the form at the relative’s.

Then I drove back to post office, did the photo, and submitted the whole thing.

I’m so tired now. This recovery thing is hard.

Or maybe that’s cuz it’s early dinnertime and I haven’t had lunch yet.

4) Progress 1 chore a day (current: renew passport)

I’m gonna make some food next. It’s not dinner, not lunch, but something in-between.

I made a sandwich for that meal. Again, I wasn’t going for fancy, since I’m so low on energy.

While having lunch and talking to my brother, I have randomly uncovered an answer for a touch writing problem I’ve been having about some critique I’ve gotten. I was so inspired by this insight that I worked on the solution for about two hours, which resulted in about 2,500 words. That covers number one on the resolutions list, quite by accident.

I love when success begets more success.

1) Edit or write 1000 words a day (currently: M39 Novel)

Now it is late, and I’ve been sitting down for most of the day. Plus the gym rush has ended. A great time to head out to gym.

I didn’t stay long in the gym, only 40 minutes, 20 of which was walking on treadmill. Baby steps, remember?

2) Go to gym every 2nd day (current: pass fitness test)

By the time I got back and took a shower, it was 10pm. I still have one item not done.

This leaves only one item not yet attempted, and that is item two, the course exercise (for the Artist’s way). It takes only 5 min. I remember that all exercises for week 11 in the book are lengthy. I don’t think I can easily do any of them. So, I’m gonna do the trick I do for really difficult tasks, or tasks I’m really scared of.

I set a timer for 10 minutes.

In that time, I’m gonna read the exercises and see if I can do any today. If not, I’m going to pick one and write up a list of materials I’ll need, or do a search if the exercise asks me to contact people etc. Basically, I’m gonna spend the 10 minutes trying to progress something somewhere.

10 min. Go!

I could do one exercise. It was massive. I had to list 10 wishes in 7 areas of health, possessions, relationships etc... I only got through the heath, possessions and leisure in 10 minutes, and I thought I was coming up with wishes pretty fast. Those course exercises aren’t quick!

However it does accomplish my daily resolution of progressing a course exercise by a minimum of 10 minutes. Yay!

3) Do one course exercise a day (current: Artist’s Way)

This means I did all 7 resolutions! Hooray!

I gave myself a special sticker to celebrate!

But it did take me a full day, from breakfast to 10:30pm to do all seven, and I didn’t have any obligations today. If you have work or are looking after kids, then maybe try for one resolution a day. I definitely don’t want to be spending an entire day tomorrow doing just the resolutions. I’d like to do other things too. But today I wanted to start it easy and so I didn’t plan any other things so that I had plenty of time to do the resolutions.

I hope that once I’m more at the rolling stage, I can achieve all the resolutions in a single 3-4h evening. If you have a lot of resolutions and you’re struggling, do the math to figure out what is realistic. My resolutions take a total of 3 hours 20 minutes as a minimum (items 3 to 7 are ten 10minutes each, to a total of 50 min. Gym takes about an hour. Writing is variable, but 1 hour for 1,000 words sounds reasonable. Plus add a minimum of 5 minutes between each activity. Seven activities require six breaks, a total of 30 min). So, a theoretical 3 hour 20 minutes worth of tasks took me 12+ hours to do today. Again, be gentle with yourself.

What are your resolutions for today? I wish you success, good luck and good cheer!

Meowgetsproductive

#NewYearsResolution #life goals

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weaselandfriends · 6 years ago

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Hymnstoke XV

GC: TH3Y 4LL THOUGHT 1 W4S CR4ZY GC: BUT H4H4H4 1T TURN3D OUT W3 4LL W3R3 1N OUR OWN W4YS GC: TH4T H3LP3D US R34LIZ3 TH3 P4RTICUL4R D3ST1N13S THE G4M3 PUT TOG3TH3R FOR US GC: 1N TH3 VOC4BUL4RY OF L1K3 GC: TH3 HYP3R FL3XIBL3 MYTHOLOGY 1T T41LORS TO 34CH PL4Y3R GROUP

Bildungsroman.

I think the term "bildungsroman" (or its less-pedantic equivalent "coming of age story") is over-employed in contemporary critical analysis. It's a lot like the term "deconstruction," which can be draped atop a wide variety of stories to ostensibly make a critical statement without saying anything.

Hussie himself, in one of his old Formspring posts, described Homestuck as a "coming of age story." But who exactly is the one coming of age? Obvious answer is John. The story opens with him on the cusp of adolescence (thirteenth birthday) and ends, at least in one Epilogue, with him reconciling with his estranged wife and child. Obviously some coming-of-age has occurred, even if only literally. But in what way has John developed as a person? Is that development stymied by the existence of a parallel Epilogue in which he unceremoniously dies, or does even that branch of John's existence feed into who John becomes as a person?

I've only read the Epilogues once, so my thoughts on that part of the story probably won't be fully realized until I reread them at the end of this blog. Rooting myself purely in the current moment of Act 4, however, I can still discuss certain aspects of John as a character. I mentioned in previous Hymnstokes his beginning as a naïve, blank slate reader-surrogate who blindly fumbles his way through uncertain situations. His trajectory has been away from this initial naivete toward cynicism—or "irony" if you will—a more cautious, guarded approach to his understanding of the world around him. The main moment of development so far has been his foray into his Dad's room, which revealed to him that his Dad "isn't all that into clowns you guess." But I don't think it's until John's interactions with Vriska in Act 5 Act 2 that he's going to reach the done-with-this-shit, rolling-my-eyes attitude he possesses throughout Act 6. (And it's funny, because even when he takes on that attitude, he still serves as reader surrogate—as if the reader, too, sees what was once novel and wonderful as obnoxious and stupid—but that's for a discussion of Act 6 as a whole.) So that's John's coming-of-age "arc."

Which feeds into a larger discussion about duality, because as I mentioned previously Dave is moving in the opposite trajectory, away from irony and toward sincerity. Rose is moving away from scientific analysis and toward occult spiritualism, while Jade—well, Jade never really gets a "character arc" because she's more of a plot device than a real character. But Jade, functionally, begins as a spiritual prognosticator whose seemingly supernatural facets all eventually become explained by rudimentary technical features of the SBURB game.

The reason why I think describing Homestuck as a "coming of age story" is reductive is because while these young characters do develop (or at least change), these developments crisscross one another, lead to innumerable dead ends, and fail to satisfy the characters themselves. I would argue that almost all of the characters are more insecure, or even more immature, at the end of Homestuck than at its beginning. The thirteen-year-old versions of these characters speak with the vocabulary and understanding of a reasonably well-read 30-something dude, employing witty barbs and clever sentence constructions left and right as they empirically sort out the unfamiliar game world of SBURB to satisfactory results. They have "problems" with their parental figures, they don't "understand" themselves, but they are competent people capable of progressing despite immense challenges hurled their direction. The major failures of the B1 SBURB session are caused by the meddling of the trolls, not imperfections in John, Dave, Rose, or Jade. In fact, the kids' concerted, Herculean efforts to create a clockwork Cascade of perfectly-placed mechanisms are what salvage an otherwise hopeless situation.

Yet in B2 it all goes to shit, and John and pals wind up being totally useless despite having far more advantages than they did in the B1 session: three years to prepare, foreknowledge of the game's mechanics and even the specific situation of the B2 SBURB they are entering, being literal gods, retcon powers, et cetera. It's almost as if, rather than "coming of age" and "developing into adults," the kids undevelop, unmature, regress, fall apart, decay...

Kind of like entropy.

So if the characters themselves are progressing in these crisscrossing dualisms, irony versus sincerity, science versus faith, then the development of the characters as a whole is crisscrossing the development of the plot: Degeneration versus regeneration, destruction versus creation. In a way, these characters are relics of the world they left behind: that saturated, useless Earth. They are products of its cultural detritus, and while their aim is to create a world from its fragments, they themselves are among those fragments. In the Epilogues, their intrusion into the world they created hurls that world into chaos, and the Meat epilogue ends with them extracting themselves from a place in which they do not belong.

GC: 4CT1ONS TH4T COMPL3T3 LOOPS 1N TH3 T1M3L1NE GC: COGS 1N P4R4DOX SP4C3 TT: Paradox space? GC: OH H3LL GC: L1ST3N TH3 UN1V3RS3 W1LL 34T P4R4DOX3S FOR BR34KF4ST GC: 4ND SO W1LL TH1S G4M3 GC: G3T US3D TO 1T GC: BY NOW YOU SHOULD R34L1Z3 TH1S WHOL3 M3SS W4S 4 B1G S3LF FULLF1LL1NG CLUST3RFUCK GC: A HUG3 ORG14ST1C MOB1US DOUBL3 R34CH4ROUND

Or are the linear tracks of character development I described actually part of Homestuck's favorite structure, the mobius loop? Is the duality between irony and sincerity, science and magic not actually a duality, but two sides of the same one-sided shape?

Because the path of Homestuck might also be read not as a linear rise and fall, but a series of loops. John and pals degenerate in early Act 6, only to renew again after GAME OVER when Vriska sorts everything out and they have a huge pow-wow before the final fight. Yet they degenerate again in Epilogues, falling apart at times even more pathetically than they did on the three-year plane ride to the B2 session, only to finally reach a semblance of resolution at the end of either one Epilogue or the other. But even the ends of those Epilogues suggest a lack of finality, a way for the story to continue, more development upward or downward to be had.

A series of Ascents and Descents. It fits the naming structure employed for many key moments in Homestuck. But what does it mean? Why does it matter that Homestuck is structured this way?

Thomas Pynchon, that nefarious postmodernist, was a writer overtly concerned with entropy, given his background in science and engineering. He once wrote a short story about another one of his favorite interests: parties, bro. In this story, a group of young people are partying in a house. Having fun, drinking, all that young kid stuff. But as the night draws to an end, the energy disperses, everyone becomes tired and lazes about. The closed system of the party has succumbed to entropy. At the end of the story, someone opens a window and a breath of fresh air revives everyone so that the party can continue.

On a universal level, entropy is irrevocable. Eventually, millions or billions of years in the future, heat will disperse throughout the universe; no more stars, no more solar systems, only a cold expanse of space. But in a closed system, entropy can be easily overcome by opening the system and letting in energy from outside, the way it worked in Pynchon's party story.

In an earlier Hymnstoke, I exuberantly declared that Homestuck overcomes entropy. My argument was that, by making meaning out of meaningless cultural detritus, Homestuck resolves the problem of societal decay famously put forward by T.S. Eliot in the poem The Waste Land. That conclusion may have been overeager, especially in light of how Homestuck ends both in Act 7 and the Epilogues. But I think viewing Homestuck through this post- or post-postmodern lens of entropic decay sheds some insight on what exactly those tricky Epilogues mean.

Paradox Space appears to be a closed system that overcomes entropy. It can go both up and down despite being closed. It continually chews up and recycles its own parts to continue its progression, similar to how Hussie brings back seemingly irrelevant details to create meaning later. As characters state innumerably throughout the story, everything in Paradox Space is a "S3LF FULLF1LL1NG CLUST3RFUCK," designed with the sole intention of continuing the existence of Paradox Space.

But Paradox Space cares nothing for the existence of its constituent parts beyond what they can do to further itself. And because of this, the characters, while trapped within Paradox Space, cannot truly progress. They go up every time they go down, down every time they go up. Every state of maturity breaks apart into a state of immaturity, every revelation or self-understanding is later reframed as a shortsighted false epiphany. Eventually, like John at the end of the Meat epilogue, they are unceremoniously mulched so that Paradox Space can continue.

Where's the escape? In a world where the worth of an individual is only how much use can be drained out of them until they break, how does the individual "come of age"?

I think, moving forward, I'll keep a closer eye on how each character interacts with Paradox Space, that unseen clockwork machinist putting all its cute pieces together for the sake of continuing itself. If Homestuck is a "coming of age story," I do not believe it has an altogether positive view on the ability of children to mature and develop. Hussie may have intended it to at an earlier stage of Homestuck's creation, but that was PAH, Past Andrew Hussie. It has been, what, seven or eight years since that Formspring post?

TT: I'm starting to see that. TT: So the exiles are on Earth? Does that mean our goal is to get back there too? To resurrect it somehow? GC: NO NO NO GC: S33 1RON1C4LLY TH3Y G3T TO DO TH4T GC: 4FT3R TH3YR3 DON3 H3LP1NG YOU TH4T 1S GC: YOUR JOB 1S OF GR34T3R CONS3QU3NC3 TO S4Y TH3 L34ST GC: BUT P4RT OF TH31R JOB 1S TO R3BU1LD L1F3 4ND C1V1L1Z4T1ON TH3R3 GC: 4ND 1F TH3YR3 SUCC3SSFUL 1N THOUS4NDS OR M1LL1ONS OF Y34RS TH3 T3CHNOLOGY 1S UN34RTH3D 4ND TH3 PL4N3T 1S R1P3 FOR S33D1NG 4LL OV3R 4G41N

Oh hey, rebuilding and reseeding. Even the dead planet gets recycled so that another session of SBURB can begin.

(End of Meat epilogue, 2010 colorized.)

GC: 1M MOT1V4T3D BY S3LF 1NT3R3ST GC: TO H3LP YOU 4DV4NC3 MOR3 QU1CKLY GC: B3C4US3 1V3 GOT YOUR WHOL3 ADV3NTUR3 R1GHT H3R3 1N FRONT OF M3 EB: do you have a braille screen or something? GC: SHHHHHHHH! GC: 4NYW4Y TH3 PO1NT 1S GC: 1TS LONG AND BOR1NG GC: 4ND YOU COULD ST4ND TO SK1P SOM3 ST3PS

Vriska will eventually take on the role Terezi is performing here, but this exchange hearkens back to what I was talking about in the previous Hymnstoke about "skipping to the end." Doing it here gets John killed, because of course this skip is meant to "FUCK UP TH3 T1M3L1N3." At other times, screwing with the timeline is exactly what the timeline requires, so it is allowed in that instance (and it's even allowed in this instance because the doomed timeline created here allows the main timeline to progress in a necessary way). The concept of temporal causality, introduced in the Intermission, becomes more explicit in this episode with Terezi and John and the jetpack. Where Spades Slick and the Felt played by temporal rules, John will not, and the consequences for those actions will be revealed, as well as the harsh truth: the individuals within the system have no choice; the system commands their actions.

GA: I Just Would Like To Gather GA: Some Means Of Gauging Her Sincerity TG: ok well its easy TG: for everything she says take her to mean just the opposite TG: see not everybody always means literally what they say the way john and jade always do GA: Maddening GA: How Do Humans Forge Meaningful Relationships Using Such Communication Patterns GA: Perhaps It Is The Human Riddle That Is Truly The Ultimate Riddle

While this quote touches on the irony versus sincerity angle as it pertains to the kids, the reason I bring this passage up is: What the hell was the Ultimate Riddle? I completely forget if it was ever meaningful whatsoever. Did it get answered? Does it even show up after Act 5? Act 5 (and Act 4, its prelude) is so divorced from everything that comes before and especially after it. Act 6 gleefully forgets anything that happened in Act 5, and the Ultimate Riddle is only one of its many casualties.

I guess if you slap something into a story called "the Ultimate Riddle" you're going to provoke people to try and answer it, even if the riddle lacks any substance whatsoever.

GC: TH3 HO4RD CONT41NS SO MUCH MOR3 GR1ST TH4N YOU COULD 3V3R US3 1N 4N 4LCH3M1T3R GC: 1 M34N YOU COULD 1 GU3SS GC: BUT TH4TS NOT TH3 PO1NT GC: 1TS FOR TH3 ULT1M4T3 4LCH3MY EB: what's the ultimate alchemy? GC: 1TS NOTH1NG FOR YOU TO WORRY 4BOUT NOW

I think the Ultimate Alchemy also doesn't matter? I don't remember it, at least, although maybe it had more of an answer than the Ultimate Riddle. I think SBURB as a game doesn't matter all that much, that a lot of it is, eventually, skipped Vriska-style. (Maybe the Ultimate Alchemy created Caledfwlch? I seriously forget.)

JASPERSPRITE: Rose im just a cat and i dont know much but i know that youre important and also you are what some people around here call the Seer of Light. JASPERSPRITE: And you dont know what that means but you will see its all tied together! JASPERSPRITE: All the life in the ocean and all the shiny rain and the songs in your head and the letters they make. JASPERSPRITE: A beam of light i think is like a drop of rain or a long piece of yarn that dances around when you play with it and make it look enticing! JASPERSPRITE: And the way that it shakes is the same as what makes notes in a song! JASPERSPRITE: And a song i think can be written down as letters. JASPERSPRITE: So if you play the right song and it makes all the right letters then those letters could be all the letters that make life possible. JASPERSPRITE: So all you have to do is wake up and learn to play the rain!

God damn, we are just going on a tear of "shit that is introduced like it's important but turns out to be not important at all." I recall in particular several people were annoyed that Rose never "played the rain," that it was a point foreshadowed but never acted upon. But rereading this story from the viewpoint of knowing what is and isn't resolved, I think it's no accident that all these game concepts (Ultimate Riddle, Ultimate Alchemy, play the rain) are introduced in such rapid succession and all wind up not being that relevant. The quantity of these esoteric terms undermines their ostensible quality; when faced with Ultimate This, Ultimate That, the reader fails to affix narrative importance to all of it. And because all these things do, in fact, wind up being barely relevant (if relevant at all), this stylistic presentation turns out to be entirely appropriate. Of course, these pointless Ultimate Whatevers are framed against the backdrop of John "skipping to end," so the concept that certain things might not be important should already be implanted in the reader's mind.

Does that make Paradox Space not as efficient as it seems to be? That's one interpretation, but here's another, based on a point I made previously: What is important for Paradox Space is not important for the characters. Paradox Space can put forth an Ultimate Riddle, and to Paradox Space that riddle may, in fact, be important. But it's only more jumbled detritus to the protagonists, a collection of obscure terms that are ultimately less important on their personal paths than, say, Con Air. And this fact might suggest that creating your own path ("skipping to the end") might be more important than following the preset path laid out for you, the path created by the system (society, biology, your parents, the government, whatever you consider the "system" to be). John's jetpack excursion fails. But it wasn't his idea to skip ahead anyway, it was Terezi's. He wasn't following his own path. Hence, his failure.

However, in this Jaspersprite instance, "irrelevant" is not a completely fair assessment. A song that can be written down as letters? The letters can make life possible? Jaspersprite also says this:

ROSE: Jaspers, the message you gave me years ago before you disappeared... ROSE: What did you mean? JASPERSPRITE: Meow. ROSE: Sigh... JASPERSPRITE: :3 ROSE: I don't understand.

M, E, O, and W are the four letters that represent GCAT and become essential later in Act 5 for creating Becquerel (if I'm remembering correctly). I think it's those letters that Jaspersprite refers to when he tells Rose to "learn to play the rain," meaning this mystery, at least, is not only relevant but was resolved long before things in Homestuck stopped being resolved.

#homestuck #hymnstoke

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