#vague bookends thoughts

[panharmonium]

OBSESSED with how lorelai calculatedly says the most inflammatory thing she can think of in order to stop chris's parents from targeting rory. this woman is standing in a tank of starving sharks and she dumps the chum bucket over her own head the instant straub makes her daughter uncomfortable. she doesn't cause a scene for no reason; she strategically weaponizes everybody's low expectations of her in order to stop straub from attacking rory and encourage him to attack her instead. and it WORKS. and she just sits there takes it. i see your daughter is just as out of control as ever, richard. but lorelai doesn't care what straub says about her because that was the point; she wants to him to come after her and forget that rory is there. if you'd attended a university as your parents had planned, and as we planned in vain for christopher, you might have aspired to more than a blue-collar position...you might not want to take such a haughty tone when you announce to the world that you work in a hotel.

and then she sends rory out of the room to safety and she sits there and continues to take it. she seduced him into ruining his life. she had that baby, and ended his future! and it doesn't matter because they're chewing on her and not her daughter and that was the point. she played them. they fell for it. and it doesn't mean that the things they say don't hurt her, because they do. it means she's willing to let herself be hurt in rory's place.

you can see the tense disapproval on lorelai's face when the group turns expectantly to rory like they're waiting for her to perform some kind of circus trick, and even though the gilmore grandparents + chris do it out of genuine admiration and pride, they don't understand how terrified rory feels about being asked to demonstrate genius on-demand in front of people who are already judging her for being born. rory looks reflexively at her mother with HELP written all over her face, and one needling comment from straub is all it takes for lorelai to offer herself up as a convenient (and familiar) punching bag.

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twenty

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: Canon typical graphic depictions

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

You were running on coffee and willpower, and both were in short supply. You cradled what you promised would be your last cup in your hands, feeling your fried nerves inch closer to bursting into flames with every bitter sip. 

Azriel had one arm looped protectively around your waist, propping you up against his side like an overworked bookend. You both sat huddled over the map you’d spent the last day and night laboring over until you could picture every stark line pressed behind shuttered eyelids like an afterimage. Until your cramped hands shook while clutching the mug like a vice. 

Feyre, Rhys, Mor, Nesta, Lucien, and Cassian similarly hovered over the innocuous sheet of paper. Pale parchment glow flickering over expressions of intense thought. 

You traced the outline of the lake, its form vaguely star shaped and pointing abstractly towards the north, south, east, and west.

“Here.” You tapped the northeast edge where a greyed out huddle of shapes formed the forest and a collection of scribbles marked the Death god’s home close to the waters. The lines swirled in your mind like a thousand snakes locked in battle, swallowing each other whole and getting eaten alive in an endless, vicious cycle. 

Koschei’s portion of the continent lay flat and unassuming, seemingly vulnerable with the flatlands peering at his back with limitless entry points for enemies from the Continent. But the seductive ease of access through that region was a guise. Koschei was a death god, and a powerful one at that. Magic grew in and out of the soil there and what walked those woods had a strange habit of toeing the line between life and death.

The western corners swam in seas of grasslands, flat and open and unprotected save for the expanse of water a mile wide. 

And the lake. The lake was the most curious thing of all. A black shape on paper, still and foreboding. 

You knew from Andrian’s memories that enchanted swans flocked there — women layered with curses that kept them bound to the region in animal form — but nothing else. No creatures floundered in the salty dark. No animals came to drink from it as if they could sense the power that tainted it with decay. 

“The boundaries of the Koschei’s power lie somewhere along here.” You pointed to the lazy line sketched down. “But I wouldn’t trust it. When Andrian was first sent off from the lake he crossed the plains towards one of the harbor towns on the coast and he felt that Koschei’s influence scaled with the distance away from the source of his power.” 

“Any weak points? Places we could slip in unnoticed?” Feyre’s eyes scanned the page, reimagining your weak swirls of ink into something more layered. Something with more meaning that could only come about from the mind of an artist and a warrior. 

You pointed to one of the star points and then to another toward the south. “Here and here. Don’t ask me how and don’t ask me why but these are the only two blind spots. Andrian used to sneak away from Koschei’s house to these two places.”

“To do what?” Cassian asked. He lumbered towards the back of the war room, easily peering over everyone’s shoulders to the flattened parchment and eyeing the wooden pieces strewn across the map, his own piece being tipped with a glistening red stone. 

“To plan his escape.” 

A hush fell over the room, thick and suffocating. 

The boy had never succeeded.

Feyre’s lips flattened to a pale line, the air around her reverberating with heat as the temperature in the room rose — a drop of Autumn’s power magnified. She nodded to the second map, this one gathered from Azriel’s contacts on the Continent. Whereas your map had laid out Koschei’s land in detail, Azriel’s was suspiciously empty where the lake was concerned. The two fit together like puzzle pieces. “What’s the nearest harbor town?”

“Tournnes.” Azriel replied without needing to look down. You’d memorized one map, he’d memorized the other. “It’s a small fishing village located twenty-three miles to the southwest. Most of the inhabitants are men that come and go with the season and travel west from Slairn and Friesieg. It will be empty this time of year.” The fish would have gone south in search of warmer waters. Even here the Sidra had turned frigid, crusts of ice lapping up against grey sand shores. 

Cassian shook his head, examining the map with a scowl. “There’s poor coverage getting from Tournnes to Koschei. And an abandoned town’s too obvious a place to hide any soldiers. It’d be better to come in from the east, through the woods.”

“Then we’d need to take the long way around Koschei’s territory.” Lucien argued back, “Our soldiers would need to trek through foreign lands for weeks and we’d lose any advantage Tarquin could give us by staying close to the coast.” 

“You can’t trust those woods,” you gasped, your eyes flashing with fear that didn’t wholly belong to you. 

Never enter those woods. Henna had once warned her Andrian. Never. Do you understand me?

Azriel tightened his hold on you, pressing his lips into your hair to brush against your ear. “Breathe, my love. Breathe.” 

You hadn’t realized you’d stopped. 

It was a heavy burden carrying the memories of others. Like a weight tied around your belly that hadn’t been properly woven into flesh. Something both part and apart from you. And you’d been feeling too many of Andrian’s memories in the past week since his death. 

Silence flung itself over growing irritation and anxiety as everyone circled back to the same conclusion. 

They wouldn’t be able to bring their armies abroad. And with limited numbers, brute strength would only go so far when forced to bring a fight to a foreign land against a foreign god. This would be decided by few. It would be as intimate as lovers. As ruthless as enemies. 

“There’s still the other plan.” Nesta reminded them, glancing first at Feyre and you with the faintest of nods. 

“I hate that plan, Nes.” Cassian gripped the back of her wing-backed chair and she reached up to take his hand in her own. She looked like a queen in her own right — harsh, pragmatic, unwavering. And he her mirror — a roguish knight, rough and wild and raw. 

“I know. Unfortunately for you, it’s the best one we’ve got.” 

“It’s the only one we’ve got.” Mor said with a sigh, rubbing her temples to alleviate the ache there. “We’re asking for a blood bath one way or the other.” 

“Ione is still with us.” Rhys squeezed his cousin’s knee. “Without her, he can be killed.” 

“But for how long, Rhys? How long until he finds someone else? Some other way?”

The question hung in the air like an ax ready to fall. An invisible clock ticking its way towards doom. Koschei had read the book’s contents. He had to know the secret to freeing himself was sheltered in Ione’s veins. So long as she was alive and breathing she was a threat as much as she was a tantalizing prize for him to tear his teeth into. 

Feyre’s fingernails clicked on the glossy tabletop, eyes narrowed in on that splash of black on paper. Through the golden string tied to her lower ribs, she felt the tug of her mate’s silent agreement. Her eyes flickered upward for a brief moment, as if she could see through the layers of the House to the skies above. “For as long as we have Ione, we have the upper hand. But we can’t rely on it forever.” She looked at you, “ We go with the first plan. It will have to be enough.” 

You shivered. 

Four years ago, when the Day Court had first opened its borders to foreigners from other Courts, you’d encountered a male in the market. He’d been young and reckless and glamoured himself to live amongst the humans for six months. In that time, he’d learned their version of magic — the sleight of hand tricks and elaborate games of misdirection humans played on one another. Caped entertainers bedazzling crowds with obvious moves, while the real work happened just out of frame. 

You thought of him now. You pictured him in the marketplace as he made a hand-painted playing card disappear from his hand into the fold of his suit jacket, only to reappear under an overturned teacup. 

Yes. 

It would have to be enough. 

The crisp blade flashed in the dull light as you moved your feet back and forth in a practiced dance. 

Left, left, right, duck, keep your wrist straight and slice up. Just like Azriel had instructed you. He stood off the narrow mat, hazel eyes tracing every slow movement of yours with a critical gaze. 

“Practice makes permanence.” He’d reminded you earlier. “Get it right first, then we’ll worry about speed.” 

Magic hovered over the House of Wind’s training gym, warping the air like a soap bubble as it shielded you from the frigid rain. Even so, the scent of petrichor and the cleanliness of frosted wind hung close to warn of the storm churning its way down from the north, carrying with it the promise of rainfall or the first true flakes of snow. 

How poetic that winter should come with death chasing its heels while you were learning a dozen ways to kill a man. 

“Here.” Azriel took your wrist in a loose grip, arching your arm and sticking the point of the knife into the training dummy’s jugular. Hay crinkled and burst out from the burlap covering instead of blood and you stepped away, locating the points in the liver, the lungs, the heart, the throat, under the arms, and more. Gruesome things made digestible by the motionless, fake body propped up on wooden poles. 

You didn’t need to imagine what it would feel like for your blade to meet flesh. 

Your arms ached. Hot, unfamiliar stretches of muscle trembling while slick with sweat. You could taste salt on your tongue as Azriel repeated himself. 

“Be precise. Be quick if you can. Then run like hell.” 

Incapacitation and speed. Those were the only two things you could rely on if things went south on the Continent. 

Precise. Quick. Run.

“Emphasis on run,” You muttered beneath your breath. You adjusted your feet to match Azriel’s stance, feeling the strength of his muscles close to your body and imagining some of that power seeping into the ground for you to drink up. 

The corner of his mouth twitched, then rose in a smile. “Exactly.” He stepped in, hands twisting your hips to be straight and then drifting up to your wrist. “Too much.” He corrected your bones with a feather-light touch. He wasn’t smiling anymore. 

It should have been romantic. Him touching you like this with his front pressed against your back and his breath sliding over your skin as he taught you to wield a knife. Instead his insides churned relentlessly. Visions of you, blood-splattered and motionless on the ground, flashed through his mind. He’d be damned if he let that happen again. 

You practiced on him next. Blunt, stone knife gripped in your hands as he moved in slow-motion. Azriel must have had everything custom made for you. The balance felt right in your hands, the movement as fluid as your awkward limbs could manage. 

You clasped a hand around the back of his neck, dragging him forward as you swung up. 

Where the head goes, the body will follow.

He didn’t so much as grunt as the stone wedged itself into his ribs. 

You locked eyes with him and saw his pupils blown wide as a doe’s. “Good.” He murmured. “Again.” 

On and on you went for hours, Azriel’s panic fueling the training he put you through, as if he could fit a hundred years of combat into a handful of hours. 

You grunted when Azriel easily flipped you over onto your back, a scarred hand catching the nape of your neck so your head wouldn’t slam into the floor. The knife slipped out from your sweaty fingers, skittering away and disappearing beneath one of the weapons racks along the wall. You breathed heavily beneath him, feeling the grit of the ground and the sweat sliding into your hair and the leather brushing your chest with every breath he took. 

In a real fight, Azriel would have killed you a thousand times over and he knew it. There was not a single moment where you could have saved yourself. 

You saw the tell tale flicker in his eyes, the tensing of his jaw before he gritted his teeth and swore beneath his breath. 

You felt shame seep into your stomach again. “Az—”

“I want you to take my memories,” he said. “Everything I’ve learned over 500 years.” 

Metal whispered against leather as a tendril of shadow retrieved the knife and slid it into the thigh sheath Azriel had tied around your legs only hours ago. It felt strange to have such an unfamiliar weight against your thighs. To know that only leather kept the wicked blade from slicing you to the bone. 

“We’ve been over this before, Azriel. I can take however many memories I want from you until I can picture every way to take down an enemy in my mind’s eye. But that doesn’t mean my body will obey or follow through correctly. Knowing things mentally isn’t the same thing as knowing things physically.”

Azriel huffed in frustration, dropping one hand to your waist like he often did and gripping the flesh there to ground him. 

“If we had more time—”

“When this is over we’ll have more time.” 

If I make it. 

Because if there was anyone who would survive what was to come. It was Azriel. And you could find a great deal of comfort in that.

Azriel must have read your doubt because his eyes hardened and his hands came up to cup your jaw. “We will have more time. We’ll have time for everything, do you understand me?”

“Like what?”

“Whatever you want. We’ll travel the Courts. I’ll take you dancing and—”

“You’ll teach me a dozen new ways to kill someone?” 

“Exactly.”

“Should I start keeping a tally?” 

“If that would help, then yes.” He dipped his head down, kissing you firmly on the lips, the taste salty and warm to the touch. Kissing you came easy now. Touches were a comforting drug he craved daily. 

“If things go wrong—” He whispered, flicking a strand of hair out of your eyes. “Promise me you’ll find me.” 

You blinked up at him, tracing fragments of gold in his eyes. 

“Find you,” you echoed, your voice tinged with sadness. “You’re not going to convince me to run?”

He laughed bitterly. “I know you too well, my love. You wouldn’t listen even if I did. If anything, it would make you want to stay and fight even more, just to prove me wrong.“ “Then is this some reverse psychology? You tell me the opposite of what you want, so I end up doing what you intended all along?”

“You’re thinking too deeply about this.” He slid his arms around the small of your back, dropping his weight until you were flush against him. Until you could feel his heart beating beneath his skin in time to yours. “Find me, so I can protect you. And so if anything happens, we won’t be alone. I want you to promise me.” 

You caressed his cheek, the coarse bandages he’d wound around your wrists and knuckles scratching the skin of his jaw and the faint stubble that had grown there over sleepless nights. “I promise I’ll find you, Azriel. We’re better together anyways.” 

He could never disagree with you. He lifted you back onto your feet, kissing your forehead. “Three more drills, then we’ll be done for the day.” 

He made you run five. The bastard.

You’d dreamed of what might come. Nightmares filled with glassy-eyed children and skeletal forests where the dead roamed free. A black lake with stones of bleached bone to fill your lungs and choke the life out of you. 

You wanted to make Azriel proud. You wanted to be the kind of warrior who could match him physically, not just mentally. The kind of female he’d never have to worry about protecting in that way. But violence had never been beaten into your bones and you could only hope that the skills you did possess would see you through to the end. 

You and Azriel would make it. You’d all make it. 

Some way. 

Somehow. 

Then there would be time for everything you had ever wanted and everything you’d never had the courage to ask for.

You woke up to a world shivering beneath a dusting of snow. Frost creeped up the windowsill, trying to slither inside before the House’s magic burned it away. A grey, ashen sky hung low over the mountains, mist blowing over and gathering in valleys until they were transformed into pools of smoke. 

So this is it. You thought wearily, tasting the change in the air. Winter’s finally here to choke the world into submission. 

You burrowed further under Azriel’s wings, chasing the heat that rolled off his skin. When you looked up at his eyes they were already trained on the weather, some similar tangle of thoughts running through his mind that had his grip around your waist tightening. 

“The other death gods. Have you met any of them, Az?” You whispered your question into the hollow of his neck, feeling the blood rushing beneath your lips until he answered.

“I’ve met a fair few. The Bone Carver, Stryga, and Bryaxis joined our side in the final battle against Hybern and Nesta was equivalent in power when she first emerged from the Cauldron.” 

“Nesta?” You asked questionably. 

She was a collection of sharp edges wrapped in silk and cunning, but a death god? 

Azriel smiled ever so slightly. “You didn’t know her then, but she was a terror to behold. You could feel her presence in a room like a knife in your back or a flame licking at your heels so hold it starts to freeze. Only Cassian was foolish and lovestruck enough to approach her at the time.” 

You tried to imagine it — Cassian’s wild, borderline arrogant mannerisms going toe-to-toe against Nesta’s magnified sharp grace. “That sounds about right.” 

“Feyre knows the most about the death gods. Has come face to face with the most. Rhys sent her into the Weaver’s cabin to retrieve her engagement ring — don’t give me that look, my love, I don’t understand it either — and she’s the one who convinced The Bone Carver and Bryaxis to fight for us.” 

“Feyre has a penchant for endearing herself to monsters.” 

Azriel smirked, pearly teeth flashing. “You have no idea.” Then he said something that stuck with you. “The Bone Carver was especially close to her.” 

Anytime the Bone Carver — Thanatos — was mentioned, you could only think of Bethsevah. The one person who had ever looked upon his true face and never flinched.

“How so?” 

Shadows swarmed around his ears, as much a sign of his thinking as it was a sign that whispers beyond your own understanding were reaching him. 

“When Feyre met with the Bone Carver, he made a bargain that he’d only fight for her if she could descend into the Court of Nightmares and bring back an enchanted mirror without going mad. Feyre said she saw her true form when she looked into her reflection, and that it was only by accepting this form that she was able to keep the madness at bay. The Bone Carver was impressed with her and pledged his loyalty to her from then on.” Azriel shook his head, wings flaring out in another sign of his thinking. “It never made sense to me why a being like him would even make that bargain to begin with.” 

“Even death gods can be surprised. We should consider ourselves lucky.” 

“It wasn’t just that though. I was watching when he died. He… he turned his face up to the field at Feyre and he smiled at her. It felt like a bittersweet ending to a story I didn’t know. Like he was saying goodbye to more than just this world.” 

You draped your arm over his chest, tracing the black ink swirling across his chest and over his shoulders like ocean waves. The Bone Carver was more myth than legend to the few fae that had known of his existence and you knew with each passing century his story would be steadily wiped from the earth like wind shaving down stone. His name would become a whisper. His story, and Beth’s, a tragedy for no one but the stars to weep to. 

But you were still here, and your time with Bethsevah’s book had left you with no small amount of fondness for him. For now you would still be able to whisper his true name. 

“Thanatos.” You said. “He loved this world and the people in it. He sacrificed his life for it. I think he had many things he wanted to say goodbye to.” 

“To Thanatos then.” Azriel raised an invisible cup towards the ceiling of his bedroom, silk sheets sliding down his arms.

“To Thanatos,” you echoed. 

You eventually went through the morning motions together —Azriel helped lace up the back of your dress, and you buttoned up his shirts, careful to avoid the fragile membrane of his wings as you stood at his back.

He tugged you away from the bedroom door at the last moment, your questioning eyes softening when he cradled your face in his hands and stole one last kiss in the privacy of your room, murmuring "Beautiful," against the crown of your freshly brushed hair.

"Do the others know you're such a hopeless romantic?" You asked, finally opening the door and breaking the spell of privacy.

Before Azriel could answer, Cassian blew past the room, shockingly quiet for his mountainous size. "Yes, we all know," he shouted before disappearing down the hall.

Ione stood proud and tall in front of the windows, grey eyes narrowed at the Sidra as it wound through the valley like a snake. Cassian slid into the space beside her and handed her her cane. She knew instinctively where the warrior stood and where his hand reached out towards her. She took the cane without the second glance. A golden lion’s head roared from atop its wooden post, Ione’s fingers resting squarely between its glistening teeth as she leaned experimentally on the new device. Cassian had ordered it custom for her and she knew that hidden within the sleeve of glistening redwood was an iron rod forged in enchanted flames that rendered it near unbreakable. 

“Careful.” She reminded Cassian when she caught him staring for too long. “This body may be different, but I can still bring you to your knees.” 

Cassian chuckled, “I don’t doubt that.”

She slammed the cane against the ground once. Twice. Testing its strength and finding it worthy. “Do you think it will happen soon?” 

This waiting — it was beginning to grate on her nerves. This foreboding calm that threatened to fall away into chaos and bloodshed. She almost wished she were living three years into the future, when she was finally done healing from her wounds and the future had faded into the background of her life once more.

“If I could see into the future, I would not be here right now waiting.”

“And yet here we are.” Ione sighed, shoulders rising and falling elegantly beneath a wrinkled but slender neck.  

Cassian would have said more had Feyre and Rhys not entered the room together, bruises layered beneath their eyes as they plastered on bright smiles for their family, tension visible through the cracks in their porcelain teeth. 

The Inner Circle had assembled in their entirety at the request of their High Lord and High Lady. There was no holiday to be celebrated. No birthdays or anniversaries or special occasions. The fare that had been laid out on the table was simple and everyone filled their plates before spilling out across the sofas and the armchairs or carving out a space on one of Rhysand’s expensive hand-woven rugs. There would be no special meal around the new table devoid of scratches and watermarks and the passage of time and love. This was their family, and for their family it was the company that put finery to shame. 

Elain was a flutter of movement in and out of the kitchen, shepherding pots of tea and fruit tarts before Lucien finally caught her around the waist and made her rest. The House was equally restless. The lights strung above the fireplace mantle flickered like lantern flies. 

Mor sat with Emerie’s wings draped around her shoulders like a cape and Gwyn sat on the floor, hugging her knees close to her chest as she rested her head against the Illyrian female’s knee. To no one’s surprise, you and Azriel clung to the corner of the room, content to watch everyone’s laughter with your arm subtly looped around his. 

He still hasn’t told her, I see. Emerie noted, watching your smile stretch into place when Azriel leaned close to whisper in your ear. 

Does it matter? Mor teased, kissing Emerie’s nose reverently. The Illyrian’s cheeks turned warm. Emerie had not been granted the freedom to explore romance to the same degree as Mor, something she’d worried about when they first started their courtship. But if anyone asked the blonde, she’d tell them it drove her wild to see how such simple gestures could reduce the fearsome warrior to a puddle, even now. Mor tucked herself into Emerie’s side, throwing her long legs over the armrest. It’s probably a good thing. If they could speak to each other like this, we’d never hear from them again.

Emerie laughed into Mor’s golden hair. 

Conversations rose and fell. Plates emptied and clicked as they were laid out on the coffee table.

It was a simple peace they welcomed with open arms. 

They didn’t hear the faintest thud coming from above their heads. 

You smiled when one of Azriel’s shadows wove themselves into your hair, tickling the sensitive skin behind your ear and along your neck. 

“Sorry,” Azriel whispered, trying and failing to draw them back to him for the nth time that day. “I don’t know what’s gotten into them.” They’d been especially touchy as of late, nipping at your heels like a litter of puppies vying for attention or hiding in your pockets. It was a mixture of Azriel’s own feelings that spurred them on and their own desire to protect what they’d claimed as theirs. 

“It’s alright, Azriel. I like having them around.” 

They hummed amongst themselves, happy to see you so pleased. Sometimes, Azriel wondered if you’d be able to learn to listen to them as well. To tease apart that secret language he couldn’t begin to describe. 

Maybe you were listening to them now without even realizing it.

Maybe that’s why you and Azriel were the only ones whose eyes snapped towards the hallway before the first creak of wood sounded throughout the House.

The shuffling of a new, unfamiliar set of feet down the stairs had the hair on the back of your neck rising and crackling with energy.

It wasn’t Jurian. It wasn’t loud enough to be Jurian. He so rarely descended from the attic that he made a habit of making his presence known, tired feet shuffling along the rugged staircase with measured drags. 

You walked over to your brother and tugged on the back of his shirt. “Jurian—”

“That’s not Jurian.” Lucien said with bated breath. He was the third person in the room to hear the sound.

He’d checked on his friends less than a handful of hours ago. Jurian had been as he always was — weary but hopeful as one hand had clenched the bundle of morphine and the other had leaned against the food cart Lucien had carried up to the top floor. 

And Vassa… Vassa had been uncharacteristically quiet, slouching against the wall of her gilded cage, raw skin and thin feathers trembling with her haggard breath as she slept. 

“You should come down.” Lucien had said. “You deserve a break.” 

But Jurian had only shook his head and flashed a tight smile. “As much as I would love to bless you with my presence, I won’t leave her like this. But one day, my friend, we’ll both walk down those steps together and have a proper celebration. I promise you.” 

Vassa came down the steps. 

Alone. 

Naked.

Shivering.

You eyed the window where the mid-afternoon sun beat down on a frosted city. 

It was the middle of the day… and Vassa was human. 

You clutched Lucien’s arm, fingernails digging through his cotton shirt before he could take another step forward. Silence suffocated the room. There was something deeply wrong with the cursed queen. She trembled like a newborn fawn unceremoniously dumped into the world, her skin puckered and pock-marked from where she’d picked at old scabs and opened new wounds. The whole array hung from bones so thin they may as well have belonged to a bird. 

“Vassa…” Lucien’s voice broke on her name. 

A path of bloody feathers trailed behind her.

She grasped at strands of her fiery red hair and tugged. Hard. You focused all your energy on keeping the food in your stomach when strands fell through her bloody fingers and saliva rose in your mouth. 

“I’m so sorry, Lucien. I can’t… It won’t stop.” Her voice, which had once been beautiful, grated your ears. “My skin. It feels like I’m crawling out of it.” 

“Vassa.” Lucien held out his hands, showing her they were empty. “Where’s Jurian?” He would come down. He would help her in ways only he was capable of. 

“I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Where’s Jurian?”

At the second mention of her lover’s name, Vassa broke down crying. Fat, ugly tears streaking down tan cheeks that had turned sallow and grey. She wiped them away, fingers dripping. There was a deep, unyielding hunger evident in every stutter of her body as her eyes raked across the room. You flinched when those milky, teal eyes passed over you… and landed on Ione. 

Elderly, painfully human, Ione.

Vassa’s left eye twitched and Azriel had only enough time to tackle you to the ground and cover your body with his own before the mortal queen burst into flames.

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Author's Note:

^^ Visual depiction of how I've felt the last week like what in the world? I'm getting enough sleep I swear but every morning I feel like I'm dragging a two ton boulder behind me until I get a sip of that bitter goodness. Ugh. Hope y'all are resting better than I am.

Anyways, I know it's been a while since I posted, but the chapter is here! Whoop! And I hope you enjoyed :) As always, feedback is appreciated and welcome if you have burning things you need to get off your chest (doesn't even have to be SSIB-related honestly my inbox is there).

[silverskye13]

sorry my brain died when i sent the poem title my boyfriend is using that as his memorized piece for a class and my brain just went "oh you know that kinda vaguely vibes with RnS" and "oh yeah silverskye does poetry"

ive also been dissociated for like 5 days so that may have also been a part of it

but when my boyfriend sent me "and death shall have no dominion" it really hit hard with me for some reason

and i think i just wanted to share it with someone who would probably get it

idk brain funky

You're perfectly fine anon! I thought it might be RnS related, but I didn't want to assume just in case :3

I was overjoyed at the poetry recommendation in my inbox! I highly encourage recommending me more, whenever the mood strikes.

I wish your boyfriend luck memorizing the poem! It's a very good pick in my opinion. Good rhythm and flow, insightful rhymes, bookended stanzas. He'll do great!

[sonkitty]

The Sideburns Scheme Post #33

(For reference: The Sideburns Scheme)

Crowley, Good Omens 2, Episode 3, I Know Where I'm Going, Inspector Constable

...

Muriel

(For reference: Bookend Buddies - Crowley and Muriel (Part 2))

Muriel arrives on Earth. Before they are shown, the episode opens with Gabriel gazing out to Whickber Street while he drinks hot chocolate. The story has these two avoid having any actual, visible interaction between each other.

Mrs. Sandwich gets a complex window scene to see Muriel walk toward the bookshop. Notably, this walk is actually not the same direction that other angels arrive from. While it's on the same side of the street as the bookshop, it is otherwise the same direction that Crowley has been known to arrive from in episode 1.

Later, the episode will show Aziraphale leaving with the car parked in front of the pub instead of across the street from the pub or in front of the coffee shop. That suggests Crowley parked there so arrived from the opposite direction Muriel does.

My overall theory is that Crowley and Muriel have a deep trust in each other. They are possibly friends who have voluntarily forgotten certain memories while still being able to somehow activate their trust, like it has a switch of some kind. This strange theory developed because of how their scenes bookend each other, especially when it comes to the Threshold Tricks, and their combined use of advanced pocket mechanics in Earthly Objects.

This window scene with Mrs. Sandwich is the only one Muriel has that does not have a Crowley scene as a bookend. The front bookend with Gabriel was mentioned above. The back bookend is Muriel with Aziraphale, eventually being allowed into the bookshop.

I consider that back bookend scene to end with Aziraphale closing the door.

After that, Muriel's first scene with Crowley starts though Crowley takes a little while to arrive.

...

Sideburns Check

The sideburns are short, so now it's time for a new challenge from the game.

As stated in the main post, Muriel literally claims to be human. Aziraphale literally accepts the claim before Muriel crosses the threshold by saying, "I thought you probably were." Even though he says, "probably," that is sufficient. He had also greeted Muriel with, "Good morning, officer."

The bookshop space takes all of these literal cues from the characters and decides to give Crowley short sideburns for this "human" encounter.

It probably doesn't hurt that Crowley brought in his plants that are always with him to shorten the sideburns when driving the car.

Aziraphale verbally telling Crowley about the human police officer in their presence helps inform Crowley his sideburns are short, just in case he didn't already know or wanted confirmation.

I dug through my own archives of drafts out of curiosity. In my own general play of this game, this challenge was one of the easier ones for me, solved before I figured out the bigger thresholds with the longer sideburns. I vaguely remember I kept watching this scene over and over to figure out the logic for why short sideburns were around with three supernatural beings, or rather this one angel who is Muriel in particular, and no humans. The human presence seemed to matter in other parts of the story but not here. I eventually caught onto the dialogue's emphasis on the word "human."

...

Brighter Red Streak Check

I think the streak is there when Crowley first walks in and is holding the cardboard box of plants, then disappears once that box is set down. His hair was more red during that part too. Once Crowley has set down the box, there is more light and saturation on his right for his hair during most of the scene. If the streak is there, it's faint and with that side of his head.

...

Hairstyle Changes

The hair is darker and not as saturated in red, compared to the last present day scene in the previous episode. The top front hair goes upward with a slight tilt to the right. The top front hair doesn't have an evident split. Instead, the hair collectively curls back. Some separation between curls can be found if the camera work allows it.

...

Earthly Objects

(For reference: Earthly Objects)

Muriel is holding their cup of tea. Aziraphale is sitting on the chair and avoiding its back again. He also holds a cup of tea. Crowley touches the chair with a hand before eventually sitting on the arm rest of the chair.

Upon seeing Muriel, Crowley's first question is, "Who's this now?" I think the "now" is a clue about Crowley's and Muriel's past friendship. Muriel might have had a memory wipe so isn't quite the same. Crowley's right hand brushes up against the front of his jacket, with the CMC joint looking like it's up to something, especially with how both arms in general swing. One of the tie strands, the one most likely connected to the right hand, does swing more visibly outward off the vest and jacket for a moment. It happens after Crowley's actual left hand went behind Crowley, then moved to cover over the lapels of his jacket. The watch gets a little extra shine after the left arm swings a little more.

There is talk of Muriel's title being part of a name with another title, for Inspector Constable.

There are no touches for the Threshold Tricks during episodes 3 and 4, presumably put on hold while the special connection between homes forms.

The cardboard box receives a shared blur with Muriel only to be left untouched and questioned, just like with the fake Aziraphale-Crowley in episode 1. Crowley ignores it too, and it is more evidently in his line of sight during this scene.

There's a general box theme with Crowley and Muriel, and Crowley is touching a cardboard box the first time they are on-screen together.

Paying attention to the pockets...

I remarked in my first post about Crowley and Muriel that neither are using pockets here. Well, neither of them are using literal apparel pockets...but both make pockets with their body.

When Muriel says, "'Ello, 'ello, 'ello," they have three closed pockets made with their fingers and the cup of tea. One is with the right middle finger, lower part of the cup, and the plate. The second is with the middle finger and ringer finger with the bottom of the plate. The third is a pocket with the ring finger and pinky finger. I'm taking the dialogue meeting the Rule of Three as a clue that I am indeed supposed to notice these three pockets with what Crowley does soon after though not immediately after.

When Crowley seats himself and continues talking to Muriel, he creates three closed pockets with his body. One is between his arms and left knee, another is between the back of his left knee and right thigh, and the third is between his right leg, Aziraphale's chair, and the bottom of the screen. With these 3 pockets, he also has his actual fingers interlaced below the left knee. In the process, the left hand briefly swept over the Tied Hands before they hid themselves in shadow with Crowley.

Aziraphale ends up pocketed between Muriel and Crowley when all three on screen with the camera focusing showing him and Crowley from the front. Aziraphale himself avoids making visible pockets until Crowley gets up to leave, wanting to speak with him in private.

When Crowley does get up to leave, the Tied Hands conceivably retie thanks to the watch being visible, how Crowley manages his right thumb joint, Muriel's finger positions, Crowley's self-made arm pockets, and possibly a clasp striking a lapel edge. That last part is a judgment call based on position with the lighting and blurring of Crowley's movement. It's curious that they might have retied given the scene's context. Usually, there are Threshold Tricks or miracles involved. The miracle sound of the scene is a little hiss during or after this retying is done. There did look to be pocket trickery involved with Crowley, Muriel, and the Rule of Three, so that's my top suspect for why the potential retying happens.

...

Story Commentary

Crowley has changed his present day sunglasses without a word to anyone. Muriel can be seen repeatedly during the scene as a reflection in the sunglasses. It's a little blurry, but there's enough to figure out that it's Muriel. I've brightened the above image, hoping to help the visual. Here is another clue about the value of the reflections later in The Window Trick.

I took a good, long while to think that Muriel and Crowley are friends because pockets, but this reflection, for me, is a clue to look back on as also relevant to this possible friendship.

This scene is adorable, and when first finding the Earthly Objects game, makes Muriel look like a supernatural newbie to that game. Aziraphale is the main guide for this scene in trying to teach Muriel how to play without actually naming the game itself.

A light near Muriel flickers throughout the scene. Pockets use lighting as clues. Muriel saying they've been on Earth for like 200 years could be a clue about their past friendship with Crowley, such as when they first met or became friends. The nearby flickering light flickers just before Muriel says, "200". The number itself likely qualifies as a point for dialogue.

As noted in past posts with the Threshold Tricks, the core concept of The Sunglasses Trick is that Crowley's sunglasses are his door to himself.

The way I generally look at Crowley choosing to change his sunglasses here is that's his way of getting a new finish for his door. He's acknowledging this big step in his relationship with Aziraphale. It's a way he expresses himself without words. He just does it. It also happens to work to his advantage in his Earthly Objects play during the story. He's a sneaky snake like that. I love him for it.

The dialogue includes the second instance of the word "train," while Crowley complains, and this time, it is used twice.

Muriel and Crowley are contrasted with light for Muriel and darkness for Crowley. Crowley's body makes sure to stop with the shadow covering much of his upper body area in a diagonal manner.

The clock visible when Crowley walks in is at 1:20PM. That is a notably different time than the clock closer to Muriel and Aziraphale, which is the main clock visible throughout the present day story. This latter clock is strange in its time. As analog clocks tend to work, the hour hand should be closer to the 9 or the 11 because of where the minute hand is. Both hands are quite close to the 10. The time is either 9:51AM or 10:51AM. My guess is 10:51AM.

The Good Omens book provides a little bit of guidance on that time for the clock in that supernatural beings don't quite understand how things work on Earth, and by their nature of being supernatural beings, Earth will make up the gap. By that, I mean, for example, Crowley has an expertly engineered sound system where he forgot about the speakers, but it doesn't matter. The sound is perfect anyway.

So, here if, say the time really is 10:51AM, the hour hand is closest to the 10 because that makes the time easiest to read or understand for Muriel since they are in the best position to see the clock and are new to Earth. They might understand the basics that each number represents the hour, and that the hour hand moves, but not that it should have moved closer to the next number with the hour being nearly over. The clock may have looked that way when Aziraphale stopped the record, but he wasn't in a position to see it, and it's not as clear if that is indeed the time it says.

That's a a guess, of course. I could be missing something basic. I'm mainly bothering because of seeing both clocks, and this main clock isn't usually this clear with what it does show. There's usually a blur or a reflection to make it more difficult to read the time.

The hour hand does not consistently have this issue in other scenes, when applicable, but I figured I would note it all the same.

I don't know why the differences in the times are what they are for the clocks due to how the scene flows. I'm not able to piece together the logic for the story making this choice, but the choice is still noted.

The hiss mentioned in the Earthly Objects section seems to be a friendly, "Follow me," from Crowley for Aziraphale.

...

That's it for this post. Sometimes I edit my posts, FYI.

...

Main post:

The Sideburns Scheme

[petruchio]

Do you have any thoughts on what you think s5 of stranger things will be like?

ooh you must have really been digging in my blog to find my stranger things opinions bc i honestly havent thought about stranger things in like ... two years?? but long time petruchio fans will recall that i was HEATED after the 4th season

umm what do i think it will be LIKE? i think it will be BAD! i think it will continue to spiral into near self parody and i think the writing will continue to attempt to raise the stakes higher and higher until they become functionally meaningless and the only few bright spots are going to be the few stancy crumbs and maybe a couple dustin lines and maybe, like, hopper doing something memeable.

plot-wise, i don't know what direction they'll take it in, i don't really know how they could raise the stakes past last season when they were so out of ideas that literally all they could think of as villains was to just bring back matthew modine, make up a new lame child that is a villain, and then just use "the entire ussr" as stock villains without actually investigating and exploring the nuanced political climate of the 1980s that was what made the show originally good...

my hopes (that will likely go unfulfilled) are that we'll get a return to form and they'll just use the mind flayer as the villain, because it was looming and ominous and was vague enough to be legitimately scary. i REALLY want will to have his villain era because i think that would actually bookend the show quite well and make the antagonist feel like a legitimate threat. i also want stancy because as you guys know I LIKE IT and also i don't see the point of like 90% of what happend in hawkins last season if they aren't going to bring back stancy. other than that i'm sure they're just going to do like gratuitous violence and try to build suspense around some vague undefinable plot device without actually working with the characters and their personalities to drive a compelling story, which is what they did in s3 and s4 when they clearly had run out of interesting things to say...

[arondight-overload]

Thoughts in a post final party member world. Vague spoilers up to the end of the island. I won't say much about the plot since it seems I'm pretty far ahead.

Really been iffy on the various awakenings throughout Metaphor.

Strohl was the benchmark, 10/10 no notes and they all just kinda went downhill from there. Shout-out to Junah just being like "oh, I get it guess I'll just pull an archetype out of my ass."

Last two party members were decent and amazing respectively, and I loved final party member's awakening to the point that it's competing with Strohl. Idk it feels like we were bookended with the best two, with less than stellar in-between. Weirdly variable length too.

Honestly, Junah is incredibly forgettable to me. Everyone else is great but she's just wildly uninteresting and honestly kind of abrasive.

Also unsure why Atlus decided to skip romance this time around, since half the bond endings are incredibly easy to read as confessions. Shout out Brigitta especially. Let alone the end of the island, with the ability to pick one party member.

They literally basically put that meme about a person looking at a vista and talking about how pretty it is, and the other person looking at them instead and going "yeah it is" with the beach scene, at least for Gallica. Idk if the others are different.

While I might be looking at the protagonist and Gallica's interactions with shipper goggles, that one was pretty blatant imo.

So yeah, love me final party member, love me ship, 'ate Louis, simple as.

[grimmmviewing]

S1E22: “Woman in Black”—C+ (Watched 7/26/24)

Odd as it might be, I’ve always had this vague fascination with synopses of TV episodes, especially finales—something about the way they reduce so many minutes to several lines of bullet-point-worthy moments and particularly the special energy of the final moment of a given episode. The “worthiness” of it, in a sense.

Reduced to a summary like that, I think “Woman in Black” has exactly the vibe you want in a season finale for a show like Grimm. With regard to my weird interest, it has a satisfying amount of action and a number of callbacks to previous episodes, and it ends on an appropriately climactic revelation—that the titular Woman we’ve been seeing throughout the episode is actually Nick’s mother that he/we thought was dead. (In retrospect, I knew she wasn’t dead but had just forgotten over the years.)

The assumed dead parent actually being alive isn’t just a fine-enough reveal that any show could have ended on, though. It also works well for Grimm specifically as a bookend to a season that began with family as a focus, with Nick losing his aunt Marie, the closest thing to a parent he thought he had. To end with the (re)introduction of his mother makes a lot of narrative and/or “artistic” sense. I was hoping that they’d re-use “Sweet Dreams” as well to circle back to the start of the season, but I suspected that wouldn’t actually happen. What is here is definitely… fine, engaging enough for what it is.

The big downside of an episode as stuffed as this one is, though, is that there’s not much to chew on, in stark contrast with the previous few episodes. Maybe that actually qualifies as justification of a sort—“Big Feet” can be a bit more interesting and creative and thoughtful, while the finale goes hard on action and pure, straightforward dramatic beats, which include a somewhat extensive brawl at the end between Nick and the last of the “Three Coins in a Fuchsbau” crew involved in the deaths of his family. I thought it was much better than the Nick-Adalind fight in “Love Sick,” though Nick’s vague Grimm abilities that I guess let him tangle with a trained fighter like this Akira Kimura remain a point of frustration for me. I’m not a Power Level-obsessed person, but exactly what Nick is capable of (or, more critically, what his limit is) is something that could have been more clearly established. I’m going to argue that that sort of definition and growth is part of the appeal of a show like this, though obviously there’s no predefined suite of “powers” for people to anticipate like there was in something like Smallville. I still appreciated the sustained melee action, however.

At the beginning, “Woman in Black” looks like it’s going to focus hard on the Akira Kimura angle, but there’s a big detour in the middle involving Juliette that may derail the pace of things. The obvious fairytale reference is tied to this plot, where Adalind (a witch) arranges for a bespelled cat to scratch Juliette (a beauty) at work, which eventually puts her into a coma (sleep). It’s incredibly slight in terms of an adaptation, I think, but the personal stuff with Juliette is still great since her relationship with Nick is a favorite part of the series for me. It’s just that I also felt like it pumped the brakes on the energy from the other conflict and that it could have been better paired with a more mundane case of the week so that it could more smoothly “steal” the spotlight.

From a craft perspective, I can definitely appreciate the “have your cake and eat it too” approach that the writers took here: Obviously, Nick telling Juliette about his Grimm work is a big, juicy chunk of drama the audience would love to feast on, but by having Juliette fall into a magical sleep during the attempted explanation, that lets them indulge the drama but also essentially punt on truly resolving things. Between seasons, they could (if they didn’t already know) decide if they wanted her to remember any of this or if they wanted to draw out the tension of her not knowing for longer.

A fair number of the callbacks I mentioned before are tied to this thread, as Nick takes Juliette to the trailer (and then to Monroe’s) to try to show her the truth and convince her that she needs to be worried about the cat scratch. This attempt is… bad, but I think intentionally so. As I mentioned before, I like Nick and Juliette as a couple. Their teamwork is a highlight of the episodes where it actually happens (see “The Thing With Feathers,” especially). I thought Nick would handle this better based on the precedent of their usual interactions. I’m going to just paste in a little chunk of my notes for “Woman in Black” below, as it shows the strength of my feeling about this major element of the episode from right as I was watching things unfold:

“You want the truth, you’re going to get it.” < Nick to J during their arg about Adalind and why Nick’s so suspicious of her and insistent about J getting her cat scratch seen by a doctor. Like, this ain’t good boyfriend! Vague! Threatening! Bad Nick!

Of course, the writers know this, and that’s why Nick’s desperate rant in the trailer comes off like what it is (a desperate rant from an increasingly sweaty-looking guy). It wouldn’t make sense for Juliette to not be scared! After doing this reflection, I added a “+” to the episode score solely because of this sequence and how thoroughly it got under my skin. The fact that I didn’t like it was probably the goal, and I simultaneously expected Nick/his writers to handle this moment better when it came while also wondering how you would “realistically” pull this off. I may have actually told Nick (to the screen) to focus on the fur Juliette found in “Big Feet,” which had her wondering about this stuff on her own. Maybe if he had led with that instead of all but throwing books and morning stars and terms like “Verrat” at her…

I wasn’t pleased with how he put Monroe on the spot about revealing himself to Juliette to make her believe either! It feels like the possible nadir of the more transactional side of their relationship, where Nick only spends time with or talks to Monroe about what amounts to work. I couldn’t say exactly if my opinion of “Woman in Black” would be better or worse if it had somehow ended on the Juliette plot rather than with the mother reveal. Although, to be fair, the coma stuff is also a good fit for a season finale.

[rastronomicals]

8:49 PM EDT September 22, 2023:

King Crimson - "The Talking Drum" From the album Larks' Tongues in Aspic (March 23, 1973)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

Always thought that this song and "The Sheltering Sky"--vaguely African-sounding instrumentals both--made good bookends

[thehydromancer]

Lordship at Last; A Scrub's Tale

After 268 hours (I know) and 173 levels (I KNOW), I finally cleared my first Elden Ring run. I... love it. It took me a long time to realize exactly why, but when it hit me it made perfect sense. The whole game is the Water Temple. I don't think I need to explain that to anyone. A simple statement, but the more you think about it, the implications are layered and sublime. I vaguely recall an ancient game mag interview with some dev or another who, when asked what his dream project would be, described a grittier Zelda with more subtle storytelling and more interesting uses in combat for traditional equipment such as the hookshot. I remember loving the concept, and later Breath of the Wild/Tears of the Kingdom. Elden Ring though feels like the logical conclusion to exploring the freedom and flexibility of modern fantasy adventure games, the masterpiece bookend to the world of possibilities that the OG NES Zelda began to reveal to us.

And what a journey its been. My first Souls-like game, starting out as a bandit named Torrent (IMAGINE MY SURPRISE WHEN THE GAME {I THOUGHT} ADDRESSED MY CHARACTER BY NAME IN THE FIRST FIVE MINUTES!!!), not understanding how shields worked, and grossly under leveling vigor (hell finished with only 40 before hearing after the fact that 60 is typically the goal). Dying to the lake side ruins bats again. And again. And again. Standing in the Church of Elleh thinking I was safe, studying the Limgrave Tree Sentinel with my shiny new telescope, only for it to drop the walls on me. Not understanding how elemental damages work till the last 3rd of the game. Breezing through some bosses only to be kneecapped physically and spiritually again and again by a pair of mangy mutts, cocaine bear, biblically accurate angel bubbles, or simply a zombie holding a torch causally away from their body. Spending the first half of the game dying in numbers that would make Rosus himself say 'hey slow down there partner, thanks for putting my kids through Raya Lucaria with all those runes you lost, but I really need a break.' Forgetting I'd picked up the crystal tear for cleansing during the Mohg fight, instead trying everything up to and including Law of Regression to clear the triple ring status effect during the fight.

Ever so slowly, painfully, learning the ins and outs of the game. Slowly morphing from a dex curved sword user with throwing knives and a bow to a mage knight desperately cheesing his way through the last 60 hours of the game. SO. MUCH. BACKTRACKING. I must have revisited Stormveil over the course of 100 hours, finding something new every time. Exploring every nook and cranny in the world, scrapping runes together as hard as I could in the early game, only to be shocked at how easy leveling became in the second half of the game. Hosting tryouts for every Spirit Ashes like I was assembling the outer-gods-damned Avengers to fight Thanos wielding the Elden Gauntlet. ACCIDENTALLY STUMBLING UPON DRAGON ELDEN LORD, WHOOPS SORRY SIR(S?) DIDN'T MEAN TO DISTURB YOUR ETERNAL TIMELESS SLUMBER! In the end, somehow, managing to defeat all demigods and I'd guess 95% of the bosses in the game. I know I missed a few, and there was 3 or 4 I purposefully decided to ignore for my own sanity (if Blaidd had been half red wolf he'd of been the next Elden Lord I swear).

Bosses that gave me the greatest trouble at the time;

Margit (pretty sure we killed each other at the same time, so I never got his runes)

Godrick (I'd like to think it'd be a different story now that I've developed some skill and muscle memory but boy was this a grind)

Dragon Tree Sentinel guarding Lyndell (probably over 50 deaths, just the worst, only read about the additional summons later!)

The Elden Beast (how do pure melee builds beat this guy!? I had trouble keeping up with it using various ranged spells, the opportunities to stab it felt few and far inbetween)

Bosses that I was shocked at how easy they were based on memes/carbot/the community;

Radahn (only demigod I beat my first time, still an awesome battle)

Placidusax (one of the most enjoyable fights in hindsight, really felt like I was hitting my stride with the ebb and flow of battle finally)

Malenia, Blade of Miquella (in fairness was probably grossly over leveled by this point, downed in 3 or 4 attempts)

Radagon (the cheese was real but I was also serving it)

Special shout out to the meteorite staff and rock sling spell, the true MVPs of my run and the breakers of bosses, especially dragons. The carian knight sword and grandeur skill had an incredible run until I was able to nab the Sword of Night and Flame, and eventually the Dark Moon Greatsword itself, fulfilling my transformation into Fierce Deity Tarnished. Loretta's War Sickle was surprisingly fun as well for non boss fights.

As I look ahead to the DLC and meander/experiment through a NG+ or 3 while I wait, I can't help but wonder, probably a true dark horse theory... are we, the Tarnished, in some way, shape, or form... Miquella? Why would Malenia, instead of seeking him out to rescue her beloved brother, wait for him in the one place she knows he isn't... convinced he'd return... when it was I, Tarnished, all along who returned? Silly I know. But Torrent (I hate that I have to specify this, the horse) also reacted to Torrent (the Tarnished) in a way that felt more meaningful the second time around after having experienced most of the story. Why would Melina choose us (assuming we were her only attempt) over all others? Did she even truly know?

Alright that was a lot. I wish I'd kept a running journal of my play through, there was just so much wonder and discovery. I look forward to picking up Bloodborne and Lies of P to continue feeding my new addiction!

[basedkikuenjoyer]

Look at that face. That sweet smile, those flower-shaped eyes you know are hiding. What mysteries do you hold flower lady? As we come around out of this hiatus, seems like a fitting time to ponder the reason this all kept going. Our star, ma cherie, simply put...was Kiku's strange ending notes in Wano a sign of future relevance? Or better, still think she could be lying low on Egghead?

Re-reading Egghead over this break, once again fifty chapters later the strangeness of those final Wano chapters and our transition hold up. Don't forget we have stuff like two potential spots we had an extra figure on the Sunny who'd fit the bill. I've said a lot more on the subject but there's still a reason our two big new faces in Wano are these mirror opposites and the subtler one here was, by leaps and bounds, the one who built that organic bond after being the one who just impressed Luffy on her own merit. Given what Momo & Yamato were talking about it's a big deal to no-show that admiral fight and even more so when his words make such a bookend with Kiku & Urashima.

Meanwhile, Egghead has enough weirdness where I've noticed Reddit and shit even catching on here and there. At this point, just the vague idea of someone we don't know about being involved? Being the answer for questions about what happened last night or things like the food pile? That's just an independent idea we see more and more. Likewise with the simple idea another cutaway could fill in these gaps with or without Wano's through a flashback like Kuma's. I see these ideas more and more floating, it's bizarre when you felt like you were expecting it from so early on.

So yeah...I still have to wonder about my girl here. Seeing the same dynamic with Yamato in Academy was such a weird one but affirming at minimum a spinoff author has a similar view I do. This cover serial will be very telling. Whether it be giving us our answer or another conspicuous absence. Really thought we'd see the Grand Fleet for a moment but just as those giants dashed that now I see so much potential in this worldwide broadcast. Still think this could all be a trap by Vegapunk and his holograms so you have seeing through it too should that play out.

That's what she did in Academy, saved the day in the background. It only works in theory because you're Miss Unassuming...but Miss Unassuming still has all that weird shit like a subtly significant big brother, an art exhibit doppelganger, and the deep callback to Kamatari. To me it's still as simple as something feels up and the last arc set up it's weird lil square peg with an ambiguous ending. Wonder when we'll get Drake reporting in?

[amoirsetpacis]

★ --;; It's been a year.

At first Vash doesn't realize. The leaves on the trees throughout the city have slowly been changing in colour; soon there will hardly be any green left at all, drowned out by reds and oranges and browns. Decorations have steadily been winding their way through store windows and around street lamps, now transitioning yet again as the days progress. It's the vague gratefulness that at least there hadn't been ghosts floating around this time crossing his mind that does the trick. It makes his boots come to a slow stop, until he's simply standing off to the side of the sidewalk. Faces he doesn't know continue to stream past him like water.

And isn't it strange? That water is the first thing his mind turns to now, easily ebbing. That he doesn't recognize so many of these faces, or someone that knows someone that knows their faces that's said their name once in passing. There's both a sense of relief and an odd sense of longing in his chest; the comfort of not knowing but undying want to do so anyway.

A year is a long time. He's been alive for a lot of them, and they keep feeling shorter and shorter for a great many more reasons than the ratio of life lived. A singular year pales in comparison to well over a century and a half of them; to how many he's seen be born and have children of their own and whither, to towns growing and persevering and thriving or hollowing themselves out like husks, to hold on to something so tightly in great, bright, intense flashes far more briefly than he ever thought possible-- and yet. A year is still a long time.

No matter how short they may feel, just how much that can be jammed into one can still sometimes feel overwhelming, even when they bleed into one another. There are no small number of years that may as well have been lost to him, with how well Vash had taken them. Long, empty. Ones he's not even sure he'd like to remember even if he could; for someone who loves humanity and its stories and the beauty of life even when it's muddied and dirty and difficult, holds them close in his chest, he has spent a not insignificant amount of that time in some sort of haze-- whether it be granted unto him by external means or thrust onto him from the internal. Grief, guilt, numbness, repeat.

Joy overwhelming, impossibly shining, acting as luminescent bookends. Chapter beginnings. The bridge to a favourite song that always gets stuck in your head. Warmth and love and weightlessness, even if it must wrap itself around something that hurts. The comfort of knowing it was there, that it would come back, even in the times it wasn't.

It's a lot to sit with-- or, rather, stand with. Some old memory of being called 'too serious' makes him crack a small smile, despite how lost in his own thoughts he can be, as he finds a place to simply sit and watch. Clouds roll by slowly, punctuating the otherwise bright sky; a breeze that hints at tonight's chill makes a few more leaves tumble from their homes, though most are still unwilling to relinquish their hold.

Not a single thing hat has happened this year feels as though it's managed to slip through his memory, as though bleeding into something new while he was unaware. Each moment is crystal clear, regardless of how light or heavy they may be ( and of whether or not they, in turn, had scrambled his own mind ). Strange and wonderful all at once, no matter how painful and complicated they had had the potential to be.

Meeting new faces is old hat. He's been criticized before, many times directly to his face, that he cares too easily about others-- that he gives his trust too carelessly. Nothing's changed, in that regard; though he still doesn't agree with the sentiment. New faces are just as important as old ones, he thinks-- have the capability of so much promise, of joy, of taking their place among those already at the table. He holds them carefully in his chest just as he would anyone else that crosses his path.

Faces not entirely new holding as much weight as they do isn't surprising-- at least, not any more. They are something careful and clumsy all at once, and it still doesn't feel like he really knows how to handle everything that comes with them. Vash is hardly any good at handling everything that comes with himself, even after so long. Giving them the space they need is a balancing act that eats at him, each of his failures and successes so wildly tipping the scale each time. It doesn't take away from how glad he is, though; how happy he is to have met them, to be able to say 'you're not alone,' even if it hurts.

For as much as he loves them, though, being granted old faces is a gift he'd never dreamed to receive, a blessing he's not sure he'll ever believe himself worthy of but so impossibly grateful for regardless. Love overflowing and bright, both simple in places and complicated in others but so welcome an intrusion that he hasn't once cared. Effulgent light from his chest, warming from the inside out, that this sinner has been allowed a do-over. That he can hold his brother's hand. That he can be greedy, can share tomorrows and their soft mornings and easy evenings with the person he'd wanted to most.

A gaggle of kids rush by, backpacks swinging wildly from their shoulders as they run past, and even though there is that unwavering want for children back home to have the same ease there is still a peace and joy that comes from its existence here, too. That he gets to witness it, be a part of it, for now. It's enough to drag him out of his thoughts, the weight of the bag cradled in his arms brought back to his attention.

So he stands up as he comes back to himself, footsteps resuming one in front of the other. He's almost there, anyway; he can almost smell the coffee from here.

[panharmonium]

Man, these past few days...so many thoughts. About my life then, my life now. What I missed. Thoughts about what I'll never have. And what I want to have.

[empathieves]

This is technically cheating, because it’s 30 words over the maximum, but it’s already cut from what I originally wanted to send and I can’t bear to shave away more of it:

Boyd hesitates, just for a moment. And then he places his own hand on top of Raylan’s, so their scars meet.

Grief. Longing. Curiosity. Resentment. Bitterness. Affection, tangled up with an ache so well worn it feels like part of him, too painful to call love but too tender to be anything else. Desire,

familiar but also resigned. An urge to goad, to poke, to get a reaction, to get something from this man that’s his , no one else’s. Possessiveness. A vague guilt over that particular emotion, when they were never -

He jerks back then, reeling, and when he brings his hand up to his face it’s wet with tears. Boyd - Boyd looks like he just got punched in the face. Apparently some of his expressions haven’t changed in all the years between them, because the look is as recognisable to Raylan as it was when he was seventeen.

Raylan sits down on the steps that lead up to the church, because he doesn’t think his legs can hold him. After a moment, Boyd does the same.

“I didn’t think you were ever coming back here.”

“Neither did I.”

“I heard about that man you shot. He the one who -” Boyd gestures then, in the vague direction of Raylan’s stomach. So he had felt the torture then.

“Yeah, that was him.”

“He deserved it then.” Boyd says, seeming satisfied with that.

“And me? Do I deserve being back here? Having to deal with you as a Marshal, and not as - not as whatever we are?”

Boyd looks at him then, his eyes opaque as they ever are.

“I don’t know about deserve, Raylan. That’s between you and whatever God you believe in. But I will say that I never thought you’d be near enough to touch again, and this shit I’m into isn’t more important to me than the idea you might not let me do it again.”

Raylan stares at him. Boyd leans back on his elbows, looks up at the sky and waits.

“You’re saying you’d give this up. For me.”

“All that shooting make you deaf? Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Jesus, Raylan, I thought I was gonna feel you die before I ever saw you not covered in coal dust. You - you left. ”

Boyd’s jaw is tight, the muscles in his neck tense. Raylan watches this, a little fascinated, because he’s never known Boyd to lose it easily. Except apparently he does, when it comes to him.

“I need you to understand, the last twenty years you’ve felt like a ghost. If I hadn’t had that postcard I would’ve sworn you were haunting me. Instead you were just - not here. And now you’re back. And I can’t lose you again. I didn’t even have you the first time, and it just about killed me. I’m not doing it again. I’m not.”

Raylan looks away from Boyd, whose face is far too full of emotion to keep watching, and leans back on the step behind him. It creaks under his weight. He sighs out a breath. Inhales and takes in that scent again, all home and memory and agony, overlaid with Boyd.

“Alright.”

OOOOOOOH BOY okay here we go!

Boyd hesitates, just for a moment. And then he places his own hand on top of Raylan’s, so their scars meet.

Intentional callback! I wanted to bookend this piece. This one started with a very clear image of them as boys making a blood bond in the afternoon sun, and I had a clear idea that I wanted to wind it up with them joining hands again - but this time with the full knowledge of what’s between them. There’s intent this time. They’re not boys anymore - they’re men and they can’t excuse this with naïveté.

Grief. Longing. Curiosity. Resentment. Bitterness. Affection, tangled up with an ache so well worn it feels like part of him, too painful to call love but too tender to be anything else. Desire, familiar but also resigned. An urge to goad, to poke, to get a reaction, to get something from this man that’s his, no one else’s. Possessiveness. A vague guilt over that particular emotion, when they were never -

Grief for the path they didn’t take. Longing and affection are obvious here - I wanted the ‘ache’ part to invoke a bruise. Curiosity about the man Raylan’s become, and all the years that have gone by without him. Resentment and bitterness about the way things have gone. Resignation because Boyd thinks he knows how things are going to go. Urge to poke because I think that’s such a Huge part of Boyd’s character, the need to prod at things best left alone. Possessiveness - Boyd knows that no one knows Raylan like he does, no one has seen the inside of Raylan’s head and felt what he’s felt. The vaguest of guilty feelings about that because even if he knows there’s something there, he does respect free will, and he knows Raylan didn’t choose him back then.

He jerks back then, reeling, and when he brings his hand up to his face it’s wet with tears. Boyd - Boyd looks like he just got punched in the face. Apparently some of his expressions haven’t changed in all the years between them, because the look is as recognisable to Raylan as it was when he was seventeen.

The implication here is that Boyd has gotten his own taste of what Raylan feels, and instead of what he expected - maybe some fondness, irritation - he has instead gotten all this complicated pining and anger and repression and shame and regret. Also wanted to give that sense of still knowing each other, intrinsically, with that recognition of expression. And also the idea that Raylan saw Boyd get punched in the face enough that it’s a recognisable expression.

Raylan sits down on the steps that lead up to the church, because he doesn’t think his legs can hold him. After a moment, Boyd does the same.

“I didn’t think you were ever coming back here.”

“Neither did I.”

“I heard about that man you shot. He the one who -” Boyd gestures then, in the vague direction of Raylan’s stomach. So he had felt the torture then.

There’s a whole scene here implied by this. Boyd would likely have been in prison while this was happening :)

And an acknowledgement that neither of them ever expected to be in this position.

“Yeah, that was him.”

“He deserved it then.” Boyd says, seeming satisfied with that.

“And me? Do I deserve being back here? Having to deal with you as a Marshal, and not as - not as whatever we are?”

Boyd’s defensiveness of Raylan even now. Also, Raylan comparing returning to Harlan and seeing Boyd in this new different capacity with death. Which it is - metaphorically. Also an acknowledgement from Raylan that there is something between them.

Boyd looks at him then, his eyes opaque as they ever are.

“I don’t know about deserve, Raylan. That’s between you and whatever God you believe in. But I will say that I never thought you’d be near enough to touch again, and this shit I’m into isn’t more important to me than the idea you might not let me do it again.”

Opaque as an indicator of how hard Boyd is to get a good read on. Then Boyd being disarmingly earnest and honest in a flip on that.

Raylan stares at him. Boyd leans back on his elbows, looks up at the sky and waits.

“You’re saying you’d give this up. For me.”

“All that shooting make you deaf? Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Jesus, Raylan, I thought I was gonna feel you die before I ever saw you not covered in coal dust. You - you left. ”

Followed by immediate defensiveness, snark, and then an unwilling expression of hurt. Boyd wasn’t expecting any of this and he wasn’t prepared for it. His words fail him at the end of his speaking here, which is rare for him.

Boyd’s jaw is tight, the muscles in his neck tense. Raylan watches this, a little fascinated, because he’s never known Boyd to lose it easily. Except apparently he does, when it comes to him.

“I need you to understand, the last twenty years you’ve felt like a ghost. If I hadn’t had that postcard I would’ve sworn you were haunting me. Instead you were just - not here. And now you’re back. And I can’t lose you again. I didn’t even have you the first time, and it just about killed me. I’m not doing it again. I’m not.”

A touch of the regular kind of southern gothic. Raylan leaving has left Boyd in his own kind of story and now he has a chance to get out. Not out of Harlan necessarily but out of the narrative he’s been stuck in, of this closeted man missing someone who’s been gone for longer than he was here.

Raylan looks away from Boyd, whose face is far too full of emotion to keep watching, and leans back on the step behind him. It creaks under his weight. He sighs out a breath. Inhales and takes in that scent again, all home and memory and agony, overlaid with Boyd.

“Alright.”

Scent and sound are the biggest triggers for memory. It was important for me here that Boyd is the top note - Harlan and all its history is still there underneath, but now Boyd is at the forefront instead of Raylan’s old trauma. It’s a metaphor for how this piece itself unfolded - Raylan couldn’t take this step with Boyd until Harlan was far enough distanced from him (again, not literal) that he could move forward with his life. It took a while, but he’s there now. I also had the ‘creaking under his weight’ bit in here because this moment is HEAVY. It’s got all this history behind it. It’s weighted. It’s important that it is, that this isn’t a spontaneous joyful thing. There’s consideration here. This is a choice.

[reservoirreputation]

Some thoughts on House S1

House was one of the first shows I really got into. Even from a young age, I had a soft spot for the comedic relief character that has a tragic backstory and doesn't want to let people get close for fear of being hurt again. Always a banger, rarely misses.

I was also waaaaaay too young to be watching, but watch it, I did. It was probably in its fourth season when I got into it? So, about 2009? Maybe 2008. So, I would've been around 10. That's some formative entertainment, right there.

I don't recall watching the show after it ended, so, this recent rewatch for the past week is the first time I've touched it since 2012. Really, I gave into temptation after seeing for the dozenth time tumblr's continued enthusiasm for it.

So, Season One.

I could recall the general plots of most of the episodes, sometimes could remember how some ended, sometimes just vaguely familiar. Considering how long it's been, it's still impressive how much has stuck with me.

God, I remember when I used to think Hugh Laurie was American. It's so funny growing up with Britcoms, not realizing that's him in stuff like Blackadder. I've always found Foreman's name funny because it's literally the same as Eric Foreman from That 70s Show.

I've always enjoyed the original team's dynamic: Foreman butting heads with House constantly, but only because they're so alike. Cameron wearing her heart on her sleeve, but also not afraid to try new things (the episode where she tries to persuade her coworkers by using their first names, and the way it works). Chase being so laid back, but he can get really opinionated at times, though, and adds nice conflict and contrast with the other two.

Cuddy and Wilson help balance out House's personality and antics so well. It's also interesting watching Wilson's more passive development, where we only get occasional updates. Like how he's at first happily, though strained, married, and then he's having casual lunch with one of the nurses, insisting that's all it is, and then spending time with House instead of his wife because his buddy needs the company and she's used to him being away. Then by the end of the season, his relationship is in the toilet.

With Cuddy, it's so hard to concentrate, because she's so damn pretty. The costuming department, wherever you are now, THANK YOU. Her attire is so on point, speaks volumes about her character, and is so aesthetically pleasing, and her office?? Is so gorgeous?? And is peak academia?? How are there not tumblr blogs solely dedicated to her outfits??

Truly, Cuddy's wardrobe for me is "God, I wish I had these clothes, these accessories!" But in reality, I dress like House. Well, I wear more plaid, but you get the picture.

A couple of highlights from this season; so, I only cried twice. Once during 1X10 and then 1X21. The former, with some of the best character development for Foreman, and how he goes from dismissing this poor woman to holding her hand as she dies of rabies, god DAMN was that a gut punch. Just, exquisitely done. And Three Stories, just as the audience puts it together that these are all very similar to what happened to House, BOOM, they reveal just exactly that: he's expressing his past trauma the only way he knows how, as a teaching moment. Just, I needed a moment after the episode ended, because it just makes you feel like shit. If you or someone you love has ever been misdiagnosed, or doctors have ignored your symptoms, or inadvertently made your condition worse, you know exactly how this feels. It's just so heartbreaking.

That bookending moment, with the season opening and closing with You Can't Always Get What You Want, is so good. The way it, again, socks you in the stomach by reframing the context of the song, showing how House and Stacy were it for each other, and still want one another, but they're bad together. House may be the One, but Stacy's husband is what she needs. Jesus fucking christ, this first season is so good.

Is it perfect? No. The writers are still getting to know these characters, and that's expected. But it's a really strong start, and is really great at looking at the many different facets of these characters very early on.

Fun little side note, despite having health related anxiety, this show doesn't freak me out. Maybe it's because it can be funny, maybe it's reassuring in how, no matter what's wrong with you, there's likely someone out there that can help. They may violate your privacy while they're at it, but they'll help you. It's oddly reassuring.

[dirtyoldmanhole]

okay the ONE complaint i have with revelations handling of gunter:

HOW TF DO YOU CHICKEN OUT OF THE ACTUAL DEATH(?) SCENE THAT MUCH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

this is exactly like rajaion's death in FE9 where half the fandom (including me) thought he was ALIVE due to the script being so vague about whether the herons healed him and we didn't find out until the next game he was actually dead l m a o. just. the reverse!

imo? if it was me in the writer's chair?

I'd have committed.

the dude legit just ran himself through with his own broadsword.

I don't care if you've got a fleet of healers right there or some dweeby divine power at the last minute, that kind of mortal wound, plus his grief, plus his body being wrecked by being possessed, and his advanced age feels like it's exceptionally weird to survive.

i would have also tweaked the next few lines, instead about being 'living to atone' - you have him confessing everything. corrin's 'you'll always be important to me' line, (plus a few others i'm not gonna mention now b/c they're going in this slowburn fic).

and then i would have had the scene fade on corrin grieving him, with his body staying intact and bloodied, rather than fading away into the holy water like arete/sumeragi/mikoto.

subtly underlining that stark difference of him as the man, the broken traitor all along, but with still that odd sense of finding peace in concrete death.

(it also sets up a powerful bookend with ryoma's death in conquest, which i thought was well done for exactly the same reasons i have beef with this scene!)

and the thing is - even if he stayed alive to fight through the last battle i think he'd hang himself as soon as the game was done (just like his unmarried conquest ending!). the sheer .... staggering guilt of everything would break nonpossessed!gunter and honestly the mental image of him trying to still live with the (in his mind) unforgiveable) weight is more upsetting than actual fking death.

[demigodofhoolemere]

This is a formal plea for people on Facebook to get better reading comprehension skills.

I simply asked if there was any chance that the upcoming Tales of the TARDIS episode would go up on Disney+ for those of us in the US. I said I understand why the others were iPlayer only, because they’re not related to the new era that’s connected with Disney, but that I think it would be weird if non-Brits were barred from watching something that very much involves the new series and its characters and plot. I said that I recently rewatched Pyramids of Mars on BritBox, so it’s not like seeing the story at all is the problem, just the new segments with Fifteen and Ruby, and that I think the rest of us should also be able to watch something that includes new content of them that’s relevant to what’s going on. I said I would not be surprised if the new segments showed up on YouTube like the others have, but that not everyone is going to know to look for it.

So far I have received these responses.

- Multiple people trying to tell me how and where I can watch Classic Who, including one baffling person who suggested BritBox, despite the fact that I clearly have BritBox. I said I have BritBox. I appreciate the attempts at help but I do not need help finding ways to watch Classic Who. I clearly have access to Classic Who. I never asked about Classic Who, I was blatantly asking only about the new Tales of the TARDIS episode, for the sake of Fifteen and Ruby scenes and not because I can’t find Pyramids or something.

- Someone telling me what time it will air on BBC4. That does not help me, as I already said I am in the US.

- Someone telling me that the other Tales of the TARDIS episodes were not put up on Disney+ but that clips are on YouTube. I mentioned in my original comment that I know the others were not put on Disney+ and expressed my awareness of the bookend segments being on YouTube.

Only one person was even vaguely helpful, and while it still wasn’t really anything to go on, this is the one and only person so far who seems to have actually understood what I was asking about. Either none of the others read the entirety of my question or the reading comprehension of people on Facebook continues to be worse than I thought.