#valour lashes

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

He could be quiet, Oliver reasons, glancing at the charcoal smudge of Elio’s lashes where they lie upon his Bottichelli cheekbones. The rhythmic rise of his shoulders as he breathes deep and even. Just knock one out into a tissue - or whichever item of clothing he finds on the hardwood floor - then settle in for a few more hours of sleep.

THE ESSENCE OF PLEASURE (IS SPONTANEITY)

The ethereal glow of moonlight still swathes their Manhattan apartment when Oliver jerks awake at some ungodly hour, hard and disorientated from a particularly vivid dream. Elio’s sprawled on his stomach beside him. Slender arms secreted under his mountainous pillows. Nose buried so thoroughly in the striped material that his occasional snuffling snores are barely audible over the yowling tomcat in the communal courtyard, below.

Ever the perfectionist, his exhausted boyfriend has been burning the candle at both ends: taking full advantage of Juilliard's sound-proof practice rooms to cram for his upcoming assessments. Keeping him fed and functional is an uphill battle - Pro and Annella’s sage advice notwithstanding - so Oliver hopes he’ll rest for a good while longer, yet. In all honesty, he wishes the same for himself, but his erection shows no sign of flagging, and the pressure of the sheets alone is a marked distraction at his aching groin. 

He should get up, really. 

Satisfy his carnal urges in the bathroom across the hall. 

But the bed is comfortable, despite its age, the ill-fitting window lets in a draft, and for his sins, the familiar musk of Elio’s skin - the underlying hints of Marlboro cigarettes, bergamot shower gel, and Oliver’s own Drakkar Noir - throws a fierce accelerant on the molten core of his arousal.  

Discretion might be the better part of valour, but where there’s a will, there’s most certainly a way: as evidenced by his maestro’s miraculous presence at all. And he could be quiet, Oliver reasons, glancing at the charcoal smudge of Elio’s lashes where they lie upon his Bottichelli cheekbones. The rhythmic rise of his shoulders as he breathes deep and even. Just knock one out into a tissue - or whichever item of clothing he finds on the hardwood floor - then settle in for a few more hours of sleep. 

The lingering aroma of spent passion hangs enticingly in the air, and flicking his left nipple between thumb and forefinger, Oliver’s thoughts wander to the frenzied smacks of their bodies the night before. The whispered words of encouragement as he thrust inside him. Harder. Faster. Più profondo! The eventual pleas for mercy when it was Elio’s nipples he took between his teeth; working the sensitive peaks until they were red and puffy.

He can hear them still - those phantom cries ringing out like a tefillah - and Oliver’s heart trips over itself as he throws caution to the wind. 

Eases the rumpled bedding from his bobbing manhood. 

Gathers the slippery beads of excitement to ease his way.

A vehicle pauses on the street outside. A muffled rendition of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird rising from its tinny speakers. Oliver closes his eyes on the guitar solo - wriggles to make himself comfortable - and focusing on his sensitive tip, pretends it’s Elio’s whip-smart mouth stretching to accommodate his glans. Unsurprisingly, the mental picture zips a molten trail up his spine, so Oliver proceeds to jerk his cock in earnest; swallowing the raspy groans that choke his tinder-dry throat. 

Imagination turns to need - already, this bears the hallmarks of his fastest orgasm in years - and fumbling blindly over the side of the mattress, he forces his fretful hips immobile as he snags a pair of cotton boxers from amidst tomorrow’s discarded laundry. Elio’s, he discovers, thanks to a surreptitious sniff; the unadulterated scent a powerful aphrodisiac as he brings it to his face.

Just like clockwork, his strokes grow frenetic. The tightness of his scrotum building exponentially as a blazing fire rages at the centre of his being. Beyond his control, the tense muscles of his thighs tremble with urgency - no less violent than the stuttering of his lungs - and the garbled syllables trapped beneath his ribs emerge via stifled whimpers until -

A pointy chin digs into his shoulder.

Blunt nails skim the fading scar on his side.

A second, unabashed palm encloses his fist.

He didn’t hear the tell-tale signs of Elio stirring: the unsubtle creak of their worn-out box springs as he shuffled to close the scant distance between them. Or maybe he did, Oliver debates, while Elio presses a soft, barely-there kiss to his jaw. Airy and teasing, and nowhere near enough. Maybe he���d simply deemed it part of the fantasy. But the shock - the livewire sensation of Elio pulling rank on his pleasure - strikes a deliberate chord, and with a strangled whimper Oliver’s shoved past the thin grey line labelled just about there to right fucking now; his climax exploding like a supernova as bright white orbs dance behind his eyelids. 

It’s devastating in its intensity, yet Elio giggles with clear delight as liquid heat coats their still-moving knuckles. “Better now?” he asks, voice gravelly over his thundering pulse, and Oliver barely has the wherewithal to nod when the other man wriggles southwards, seemingly intent on licking the pearly streaks from his heaving midsection. 

***

Happy Valentine's Day, Peaches... remember when I went through that phase of shameless Oliver wank fics? Well, I figured these two idiots deserved a happy ending ❤️

[littlesparklight]

Some vampires and vampire hunters with Hektor and Paris for the urban fantasy AU prompt of AUtober! :D

"Alexander!"

Hektor stormed through the large house, abandoning their vague line of offense with little thought to the shouting behind him. It mattered less now, anyway; they'd chosen their time of attack well, all but the oldest vampires choosing to attempt to flee them rather than fight, so they might avoid the sun. Even the oldest had quickly chosen discretion as the better part of valour. The morning sun was the most dangerous, though they were capable to come out into the light hours before sunset.

"Alexander!"

But while they'd chosen their attack well, had planned it well, it'd taken them a whole week alone to find where Alexander was. And then two more days to plan.

Nine days.

Most vampires liked to play with their victims. Others would kill immediately. They didn't know the Queen of the West well enough to know which applied to her, especially not when it came to a victim who belonged to a venerable family of vampire hunters. And that wasn't even the only problem, when it came to their family and vampires, when it came to Alexander. Soft, stupid Alexander, who refused to take anything seriously and was never careful enough, who just---

There. The master bedroom.

The door wasn't locked, and Hektor almost fell on his face as he bulled his way inside, the door slamming into the wall. Drawing no reaction at all from the naked figure lying on the bed in a spill of limbs and long, loose hair.

"Alex---! Fuck!"

More curses followed, yet it took several heart-hammering seconds before Hektor could make himself move from the doorway. Weak suddenly, Hektor could only creep forwards, reaching out in passing to tug one of the heavy blackout curtains aside from a window. There was a twisting crawling in his gut, rising up into wet heat pressing against the back of his eyes. His little brother reminded of a porcelain doll, pale and perfect.

Almost perfect.

There were bruises at the insides of his wrists, at his throat. On the insides of his thighs, too, tender places that only emphasized the naked fragility. Especially so when he was - understandably - bare of his usual makeup, though somehow his nail polish was pristine. It must have been reapplied at some point. Hektor wanted to tear something apart, but all he had within reach was pillows, bedsheets and Alexander.

"Alexander."

Hektor pretended like he wasn't begging, like he hadn't been timing the butterfly-shallow and syrupy-slow breaths stirring his little brother's chest. He pulled the covers up to Alexander's hips, at least, as he sat down, and couldn't avoid the bruises when pressing fingertips to Alexander's pulse. Not that that would tell him much, at this point. He spread his hand out to cup Alexander's cheek instead. Under his touch, Alexander finally stirred, lashes fluttering before he opened his eyes.

Flinched, for the head of the bed was bathed in the full morning light, which seemed ill-advised for a bed intended to be slept in by vampires. Even an old vampire like the Queen of the West. Hektor was suspecting there was a reason for that, for there was a burning pinprick in Alexander's eyes before he closed them against the light, then opened them again and blinked rapidly. It remained, no trick, and Hektor's heart boiled over with fury.

"Hektor..?"

His little brother smiled like the dawning sun outside, and fury plunged deep into Hektor's gut, black and soft and heavy. He still wanted to cry, angry as he was, but he beat the urge back.

"I'm here," he said, while he reached for his belt, but there his fingers froze. "I'm here. How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Could you…" Alexander frowned, blinking those big, begging eyes of his, and pouted. "The curtain. Could you close it..? The light hurts my eyes."

He would bet it did. Bile stuck in Hektor's throat, burning a hole right down to his heart. Vampire turnings were slow things.

"Hektor." Deiphobos stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Attention locked at him, not on Alexander. "We need to---"

"Go, yes," Hektor snapped, eyeing his brother narrowly while he wrapped Alexander up in the covers as well as it was possible.

Alexander was already falling asleep again, and he looked, if it was possible, even paler now. Whether it was because the covers cut off the rosy morning light and threw the warm shadows over his skin cooler, or if there simply was no warmth left that could be sustained without even indirect sunlight… Hektor gritted his teeth and picked his little brother up, and he was a soft, unresisting lump in his arms. Still again. Like the doll he'd reminded of, or---

"That's not what I meant and you know it. We---"

"We're not killing our brother," Hektor growled, only keeping from shouting because he didn't want to wake Alexander again. "We're not going to let them win, this time. And they're not getting another Aunt Hesione."

He was not loosing Alexander.

Even if he in truth already had. They all had. They would have to kill him, or feed him through the turning. And even then - Alexander would yearn for, would need the vampire who turned him. The fledglings and young vampires always did. But handing Alexander back to the Queen of the West would be letting the accursed creatures have another one like their aunt.

With Alexander clutched to his chest and wrapped up far more than his nakedness would require to allow him some privacy, Hektor preceded Deiphobos out in the corridor and down the stairs, ignoring everyone and everything else.

He'd hoped, when Alexander disappeared, it'd been a chance thing. The usual taunt, an injury to be dealt between enemies and to a target softer than the rest of the family, for Alexander wasn't one of the active hunters. Barely had any training, for he'd been aggressively uninterested in it. But it was obvious by now, even if Alexander had been temporarily relinquished to them - to turn the knife, was all - that this was not so.

The blood of their dhampir ancestor wasn't equally strong in all of them, and so not all of them had all the side-effects, blessings and curses both, that came from such a bloodline. Hesione had been among the latest, and the only one most recently, they'd all thought until Alexander grew up, to be saddled not with the vitality and strength and other, terribly useful perks when hunting vampires, but with the curse that belonged to the dhampir blood.

Being able to bear natural vampires.

Hektor had no idea if Alexander could somehow do the same, or if impregnating a female vampire would take as it would in a human woman of fertile age, but either way - the Queen of the West had clearly turned Alexander with an eye to have a second Hesione.

Grinding his teeth, jaw aching, Hektor bundled his little brother into the car. He would - he wasn't sure what he would do, tied to his maker as Alexander now was for the foreseeable future, to young as a vampire for anything else, but he would not let those creatures use his little brother in the same way as they had Aunt Hesione.

[shadowphoenixrider]

Of Shadows and Storms

(Shadow, the new resident of the X-Mansion, can't sleep. In her midnight wanderings, she encounters Storm, and they talk. Wanted to write something a little different, and to give Storm a little more spotlight. Hope you enjoy!)

A tumultous crash of thunder startled me awake, my heart pounding furiously. It was a natural storm, forecast to roll over the X-Mansion during the night - and here it was, clearly taking offence to people trying to get some kip.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour in a battle between nature's fury and my attempts to slumber, I swung my legs out of bed and stepped out into the dark corridor.

Whilst I was staying in the mansion after I'd been rescued from a batshit Friends of Humanity thug, I was sleeping in one of the dorms on the women's side of the building. They were all asleep as far as I could tell, so I padded carefully down the hall, trying to dodge the creaky floorboards as best I could. Sure, if you could sleep through a tempest like this, you could probably sleep through anything, but I didn't want to find out otherwise.

Aside from the storm and the soft groaning of wood flexing with the wild winds, the mansion was quiet. The main mansion, at least - if someone was in the basement training in the Danger Room, there'd be no way for me to know. But that was none of my business.

White flashes of lightning lit my way, the rolling thunder and ceaseless lashing of rain sounding out around me, even in such large building. Try as I might, I couldn't soothe the deep primal fear buzzing under my skin, and I sighed to myself - this was going to be a long night.

I wandered into the kitchen to brew some tea, and then made my way down to the common rooms - one with large windows that faced out towards the grounds. There wasn't much to see in the pitch black aside the watery imprints the deluge left on the windows, at least until lightning split the sky asunder, twisting and arcing like the blood vessels that ran through me. I was completely transfixed at its majesty.

"I see that sleep is eluding you."

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the calm voice that suddenly sounded out behind me. Jerking my head around, I saw that it was Storm. She entered the room with grace and purpose, regardless of the fact that she was wearing an orange nightie with patterns that harkened back to an African culture that I couldn't quite remember. Even now she was beautiful and formidable, and I couldn't help but feel I'd been caught doing something wrong.

"S-Storm!" I stuttered, a tremor beginning in my left leg. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up. I-I tried to be quiet as I could...!"

"It is quite alright, Shadow. I was already awake for other reasons." She smiled, coming over to stand next to me. "I am only surprised to see you awake." She looked out into the darkness of the raging tempest. "Although I perhaps have forgotten that most of the X-Men are used to the sound of thunderstorms."

"Yeah, suppose they are." I nodded, cradling my mug and trying in vain to stop my juddering leg. "I admit, I'm not used to thunderstorms. Where I'm from, they're rare inland, almost an event in and of themselves."

Lighting suddenly flashed nearby, the resulting thundercrack nigh simultaneous - I flinched.

"Fuck! That was close!"

Storm's smile was pleasant, yet faintly amused.

"You are safe, Shadow. It will not be much longer before the storm runs its course and moves on."

I glanced at her, turning the mug in my hands. There was something about how calm she was, so unbothered. Sure, if you can call the weather to your fingertips, you would probably be used to a thunderstorm. And yet...

"Storm...?" I ventured timidly, anxiety flashing in my gut when her ice-blue gaze turned to me. "Do you...'feel' this storm?"

"Yes," she said. "It...is difficult to explain." She frowned thoughtfully. "I feel my powers as if they were my breath - always present, always aware of them, able to harness them at a moment's notice. Sensing, feeling this storm is merely an extension of that - a second heartbeat alongside mine."

"But you could control this storm if you wanted, am I right?" I asked.

"Yes. The winds would jump to heel as soon as I call. Although I do not interfere with natural weather such as this, unless it is likely to threaten others."

I nodded.

"Don't want to upset the natural balance of things." My turn to frown slightly. "You know...it's kinda like mine."

"Oh?" Her white eyebrows lifted as she turned to me, and my heart jumped, starting to pitter-patter almost as fast as the downpour.

"W-Well, not exactly the same." I backtracked immediately, my foot shuddering violently. "B-But, you've heard of my powers from the Professor, right? Biocellular communication and manipulation?"

"Yes. Professor Xavier said your powers give you an ability to heal whomever you touch."

"Yeah." I nodded. "That's my...'main' power, you could say. But it creates other...manifestations." I took a sip of tea to wet my mouth. Still hot. "Being able to communicate with animal cells means that I know myself very intimately. Everyone can feel their pulse if they look for it, but I can feel my heart contract at a moment's notice, my blood flowing through my veins or my nerves pulse, or anything." I smiled weakly. "I would often know more than any doctor that saw me, because my body could tell me exactly what was wrong. Then I barely needed to see them at all."

"B-But I'm getting off track!" I stuttered, quickly realizing the tangent I'd become trapped in. "W-What I mean is like...I kinda know a little of what it's like. To 'know' things a little beyond yourself, like a second sense." My bravery failed me then, and I had to look away, staring at the floor. "A-At least, that's what i-it seems like to me, anyway."

"Whilst I cannot know for certain how your powers feel to you," Storm said kindly, "what you describe is indeed very similar to what I feel. A connectedness to the air, the very water around me. As much my own like my skin or my hair. Sometimes I am consciously aware of it, sometimes not."

When I plucked up the courage to look back at her, Storm's gaze was facing out into the darkness, a far-away look in her eyes.

"You ever just...listen to it, some days?" I asked softly. "Like, sometimes when I was younger I'd find a quiet place, choose a red blood cell, and then spend hours just...'watching' it travel through my body, never to the same place. Except my heart and lungs, of course. You ever did anything like that?"

Storm smiled.

"Indeed. Sometimes I sit and let myself drift for a moment. Become one with the wind and the sky. Feel the air currents like you feel your own blood."

"I can't imagine what that's like." I murmured. "But does it bring peace, sometimes?"

"Quite so. I find it very grounding." She turned back to me then. "You could consider it ironic," she said, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Hehe, in a way, yeah." I chuckled softly.

A brief, comfortable silence settled between us. The thunderstorm was still raging, but the gap between the lightning and thunder was starting to slowly increase, the rain's strength waning slightly. I brought my tea to my lips, drinking deeply now the temperature was less scalding, its warmth settling into my belly.

"You are scared of me." Storm observed, and I winced, heat flooding into my face.

"Ah...Y-Yeah." I admitted, forcing my voice to be louder than a mumble. "N-N-Not because you're bad or anything, i-it's just that..." I sighed. "Well, one; I'm low-key scared of everyone. Two; you're such a beautiful, powerful woman who could kill me in a snap of your fingers, and I'm just...me." I stared into my mug, grateful that the tawny liquid couldn't show my reflection.

However, when I felt Storm's hand rest on my shoulder, I looked up to her. She was smiling kindly, a gentle look in her eyes.

"You will not be harmed whilst you stay here, Shadow," she said. "By us, or any outside force that wishes you harm. Of this, you have my word." Her smile softened. "I appreciate your compliments, and your honesty. I am sorry to cause such anxiety in you."

"I-It's okay." I stuttered. "I-It's kinda hard not to feel intimidated when being around you and the other X-Men. You're all so strong and powerful - I feel like a gnat in comparison."

"And yet it is the mosquito that brings down mighty men." Storm spoke. "Regardless, your worth is not weighed by your strength, your powers, or how much 'use' you are to people. You had worth from the moment you were born."

I smiled sadly.

"I know that, in my heart of hearts. But...sometimes it's hard to believe."

"That is understandable." She nodded. "If it reassures you, know that several of our team still worry and second-guess themselves. That, just like yourself, they believe themselves unworthy of the places they hold."

I said nothing, taking another long drink. It was hard to accept, what with people like Gambit, Jean Grey and Wolverine. Especially Gambit - that man oozed confidence from every pore; even when he'd been badly injured rescuing me, the pain couldn't mask the man's swagger. I wished I had even just a thimble-full of his confidence.

"Whether you believe it or not, Shadow," Storm's voice broke me from my thoughts, "we are as flawed and fighting our own demons as much as any other." She paused a moment, considering. "Perhaps knowing my name might help."

"Oh, you don't have to share that with me!" I interjected quickly. "U-Unless you're sure, of course."

"My name is Ororo," she said, the gravitas in her voice as clear as a bell, regardless of the softness of her tone. "Ororo Munroe."

I repeated it, trying to commit it to memory.

"Thank you." I said. "I...I might not start using it straight away, though. I..."

"It's quite alright." Storm - Ororo - smiled. "My intention is less for you to change the name which you refer to me as. More to try to defuse this intimidation you feel towards me. Perhaps seeing me as another person such as yourself will help."

I smiled, feeling a blush heating up my cheeks.

"Thank you. I, I really appreciate it. It's...It's very kind of you."

"You're welcome, Shadow." She turned to the window, looking out. "The storm is moving on now. You should be able to get some sleep now."

I glanced back; sure as she said, the rain was slackening and the thunder didn't seem to shake the mansion whenever it sounded out above.

"Great timing, I just finished my drink." I commented. "You heading to bed now too?"

"I will stay up longer to read, but yes, I will be retiring too." Storm smiled.

"Yeah, I'll probably do the same, actually." I nodded. "G'night Stor- Ororo. Sweet dreams."

"The same to you as well, Shadow." And with that, she walked out. I felt I could breathe again, my shoulders unknotting - her theory hadn't worked out, it seemed. Regardless, I felt fatigue tug at my eyelids, so that boded well at least.

After washing up my mug and putting it away, I began to return to my dorm, playing back the conversation in my mind. I felt stupid and embarrassed to admit that Storm's very presence gave me the jitters, especially to her face. Why couldn't I have kept my mouth shut? I was more than grateful she'd been kind to me, but I couldn't help but feel pitied.

As I climbed the stairs, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and the unpleasantly familiar sensation of my skin crawling up my back made me stop. Someone was watching me.

I glanced around, seeing nothing even with my eyes now used to the gloom.

"Storm?" I called softly.

No response. Only the other storm, much quieter than before, little more than just heavy rain now.

"Must be jumping at shadows." I muttered to myself, continuing my journey back to bed.

Little did I know, a pair of curious red eyes were glowing faintly in the darkness...

[pathoscleaved]

@valour-bound sent:

sender gently brushes / combs the receiver's hair. [07] + sender presses a kiss to the receiver's hair. [09]

↳  『 PROMPT ⟶ HAIR 』 Send in a number to see how my muse reacts to your muse interacting with their hair.

WESKER LAYS THERE, BASKING IN THE WEEKEND'S LAZY PULL. Alpha team was off, having swapped with Bravo for their mandatory shift change. Chris was over, spending the weekend with him, and for once, Albert let a sense of calm engulf him. The virologist let himself relax, be vulnerable, and had let his guard down completely.

He had fallen asleep on his stomach, a rarity for the man (who often was so alert and wanting to watch the door should any intruders attempt to break in), and he even hugged the expensive pillow as he slept. The crimson sheets pooled around his hips, revealing the small of his back and the patchwork of scars near his spine from his upbringing. Healed lash marks that crawl up to his shoulder blades and down to his pelvis. Albert's skin is clear, more clear than most, save for a single mole at the top of his back, and one that lies underneath his chin. Both hands are tucked under the pillow, arms crossed at the elbows, and he hides his scarred right hand under his left arm. The healed burn is why he wears gloves, as it cuts through his entire palm, a pink patch of skin that is too soft and too sensitive for his liking.

His back lightly rises and falls as he sleeps, face smooshed into the pillow. Spun-gold locks jut out at different angles from the way he thrashed earlier in his rest. No hair gel to keep it in place, Bert's hair is much longer and wavy than it first appears, and falls into his face.

Wesker is protectively protecting his stomach, where the most precious of scars remain: the one he had gotten to save Chris during their time in the Armed Forces.

Most of his body is pushed against Chris's. Albert is almost entirely naked, save for his boxers, and his skin is hot to the touch. Unknowingly, in the middle of the night, Wesker had sought out Chris from across the bed and had pulled him closer, so their bodies met at every intersection they could.

And now, he feels fingers running through his hair, slow and steady, and Bert gives a soft moan in his sleep at the feeling. He chases the touch greedily and only wakes when he feels Chris lean down to kiss his hair, and another kiss to the back of his neck.

"Chris," he hisses, heat sparking low inside of him as goosebumps ripple across his skin, but there's no anger, just a slight shiver from the affection. The captain stares at him for one long moment, and then glacial eyes soften to a sky-blue hue as sunlight filters in through the curtains. "Mornin'," he drawls, accent thicker than usual from grogginess. Unable to keep it so perfect and in-line as he usually does, because he's let all his walls collapse like he's under siege.

Bert rolls into his best man, tucks himself into the other's side, and lays there, listening to his heart beat. One hand moves to swipe across Chris's chest slowly, as if Bert is mapping out his skin.

"How long have you been awake? What time is it?"

[flowersdaggersviolasandblood]

Fame, Riches, and Music

Name: Nalanthar Arabana (He/Him/They/Them)

Race: Drow Half-Elf

Class: Bard (College of Valour)

Background: Entertainer

WARNING, SPOILERS AHEAD!

I'm back! Decided to take a break from the game due to circumstance and me just simply needing sleep. Continuing out BG3 story with Nalanthar, we were able to kill Nere, but at the cost of the Deep Gnomes being taken by the Duergar. I accidentally triggered the scene too because I, at first, wanted to trade with the merchant, but I needed to get some stuff from camp. I would then come back with literally everyone gone. But hey, Nalanthar was able to decapitate the Drow with little hassle. I quickly went back to Sovereign Spaw and got a concert from the fellow Myconids as they showed their gratitude for helping them.

With the Myconids satisfied and Grymforge empty, it was time for the crew to go forgin some adamantine armor. Before performing the forge battle, I decided to detour over to the Harpers cache and fight the mimic then look for the amulet with the joker effect. Nalanthar wasn't able to fully escape the effects of the amulet, but he had a brief conversation with the monk spirit that inhabited the item. The Monk asked that we return them to a dear family member in Baldur's Gate. Closer inspection revealed that the Monk has some ties to the sun god Lathander and their motives are with good intention, though the creature will lash out if needed.

With those side gigs done, we finally got around to making new armor for Nalanthar and Lae'zel since the weapons weren't catching my eye. Of course, activating the forge provoked its' guardian and we fought it with the help of the massive hammer to dwindle it down. After such deeds, since there were no other way into Moonrise Towers aside from the elevator, it looked like we were going to travel through the Cursed Lands regardless. To be honest, I was genuinely hoping there was more Underdark stuff to explore that could get us closer to Moonrise or have us infiltrate it by finding some secret passage way into the tower via the Underdark. Perhaps with Torment, since there is a nearby temple of Shar in the same area, perhaps it could lead us to getting somewhat closer to Moonrise. Regardless, we went up.

When we took a long rest, Nalanthar got his visit from his Guardian who expressed their weariness. Upon reaching the Cursed Lands, we were able to visit the Harpers instead of going the usual route to meet the Absolute cultist. They were at first on edge until the Shadows of the Cursed Lands decided to pick a fight. Nalanthar and the crew were able to handle the Shadows and protect the Harpers, which got them a front row seat to go to Last Light Inn. Of course, we meet Jaheira and learn that she needs our help with infiltrating the Absolute cult.

So far, that's where the main story stops for now. We explored around and met up with Dammon, fixing Karlach's Infernal Engine so that she can finally be physical with others. In response, Nalanthar gave her a kiss! Of course, her Infernal Engine won't last long in the Material Realm and she would have to return to Avernus, but Nalanthar decided to not touch that subject for now. Especially when he could be getting that firey pussy soon ;). Astarion and Nalanthar also went to talk with Raphael and learn the secrets behind the Infernal writings on his back, which Raphael deflected and placed us on read. Nalanthar has a neutral stance on Mol and her deal with Raphael, not really caring that much about her association with the Cambion.

This time around, we met Rolan again. Back in Admaer's campaign, because he convinced him and his siblings to leave, they were not at the inn. Nalanthar, however, convinced them stay at the grove which allows us to see him at the inn much like how Pero met up with Rolan. Unlike Pero, Nalanthar wasn't taking his shit when he decided to place blame on why his siblings got taken by the cult. When we took camp again, Mizora demanded that Wyll go hunting for the devil that was taken by the Absolute cult and held prisoner, and Nalanthar decided to bullshit that he knew a pact-breaking spell. Regardless, she got the point that Nalanthar was asking for Wyll to be released from his pact.

Before ending this post, Nalanthar had a special encounter with Lae'zel. She decided to wake him up in the middle of the night and wanted to solidify their love in mortal combat. Nalanthar, at first, denied, but he couldn't say no to those pleading eyes. So he decided to run hands with her and was able to win the fight. However, Nalanthar quickly caught on that she was genuinely asking for them to be a thing. Which is something Nalanthar doesn't really want. He wants to live his life freely and with no ties with another. And two, she isn't really his type IF he wanted to settle down with someone.

As for him and Astarion, the pale Elf expresses his desire to discover the secrets of controlling the tadpole. Nalanthar isn't interested in this either, but not because of some altruistic "nooo, but that's evil :(" reasons. He just simply has no interest in having that kind of power. But he can still be tempted to consider it.

[afusionoffandoms]

I wanna gush about my DND OC:

X

This is Valour.

He's my first warlock and my first tiefling character. His patron is The Fathomless, but as a twist, the entity is Nyarlathotep - from the HP Lovecraft universe. The problem is that Valour has no idea he's even a warlock to begin with. In his eyes he's just a mediocre magic student who suddenly started sprouting terrifying things he can't explain.

While his family loves him, he resents living in his talented older brother's (a famous bard - think K-pop idol) and girlboss of a mother's (High Enchanter of the region's military) shadow, and so he decided to study magic and prove himself at least capable.

He's anxious and antisocial, and more importantly he is deadly afraid of the ocean. You can imagine how he reacted when a massive spectral tentacle broke through reality to protect him in the campaign's first encounter. He also threw up after killing a person for the first time and had a bit of a breakdown after, and when he levels up, he's plagued by cosmic horror style nightmares, thanks to my talented DM. He has the habit of wringing his tail when he's nervous.

My DM has been really gracious about flavouring his spells, so instead of regular mage armour, vantablack rifts in the fabric of reality absorb incoming attacks, and his eldritch blasts are also impossible voids you can't wrap your head around. His Hellish Rebuke deals necrotic damage rather than fire, as clawed, withered hands lash out at the attacker. Instead of an Imp as his familiar, he woke up one day with a nightgaunt on his shoulder (though it retains the imp stats), scaring both him and the party shitless. It represents his fear, as it remains invisible while he's relaxed, and solidifies when he's in danger. Everything about his spell set is creepy and/or oceanic, despite his personality and character design.

The reason why I love playing him is that he's always pulling against me and his surroundings. He's not tactical, he panics easily, he hates causing violence and he's afraid of what he's becoming. In combat I have to choose less optimal actions - like forgetting to hide even though he's vulnerable - because he simply wouldn't have thought to do that. I also have to think of creative ways to introduce any new spells he's learned since he isn't aware of them - like having him accidentally Charm Person because he's begging someone not to hurt his friends.

He's a load of fun for me, my group and my DM and I love him to death. (Which of course means I will torture him in any way I can.)

Bonus pic drawn by another party member (because Valour accidentally ended up with a sickle and hammer in his inventory):

Later update:

Oh no, the poor boy learned Find Familiar, but oh no, the damn thing is an invisible Lovecraftian demon thing and not some cute little imp, and it kinda just showed up one day without warning and scared the crap out of him and the party.

Also oh no, sometimes in combat, a giant spectral, slimy tentacle shoots out of a rift in the world and whips the shit out of enemies.

Also his Hellish Rebuke is instead Cosmic Rebuke, and it doesn't make a blast of fire, but a rift with nasty clawing hands reaching out, causing necrotic rather than fire damage.

His Spider Climb spell results in inky tentacles sprouting from his back, which let him climb surfaces.

[facelessstranger1867]

The Broken Soldier

This is one of my oldest stories in my backlog, I wrote it because I noticed how, in history classes, we almost never have to learn about what the soldiers thought of the war; we almost always remember the monsters. I resented the fact that the most effective mass murderers on the planet are the ones we learn about, and not those on the ground. Also, war is bad. CW: War, crucifixion, corpses, chemical warfare, blood, wounds

It goes by many names: Slayer of Doves, War Without Reason, Wingless Valkyrie, the Broken Soldier. Its name matters not; the second the Heralds’ vile horns curse your ears; your soul has been claimed by the terrible reality of unceasing violence. The horns of Valhalla, the trumpets of Carthage, the sirens of the Great War. Uninspiring of all except the starkest terror. Tall as mountains yet thin as muskets, they appear to those that see past their pathetic veneer of warning and warding. Their footsteps boom like the firing of artillery; their echoes, the thrum of a tank’s engine. Between their legs, like telegraph poles, ride terrible steeds with eyes that glow like a flare in the dead of night. Pulled by reins of barbed wire, their jaws are filled with sanguine-stained bayonets that conceal an iron tongue of false promises of serving your country. The thumping of their blood-sodden hooves beat unrelentingly through the Soldier’s endless battlefield. If the steeds screamed, it was silent, eclipsed and overwhelmed by the great heralds’ endless wailing. If one were foolhardy enough to trace the reins of such vile abominations, they would eventually lead: past miles and miles of the worst carnage ever known and unknown to the universe; past lakes of blood that are so still as to lure you into seeing your own crimson reflection before drowning you in a thick fog of chartreuse gas; past jungles that have so many hidden dangers as to make one wonder if there were more traps than trees; past fields of government men that would fade to ashes when touched. Past the entire terrible affair, the barbed wire leads to a triaged chest wound, in the shape of an endless trench, inflicted upon a thick leather coat.  

And there it hangs, lashed to a crucifix of valour and corpses by barbed wire, the Broken Soldier, a martyr for itself and a mockery of all that is good and noble, its bulky leather coat cut and shot and burned and stabbed and torn and broken to reveal wounds that sprout barbed wire like ivy. The Soldier’s gas mask wheezes out mustard gas through its filter, as blood, tainted with acute radiation, pours from beneath as though it were crying. Its eyes may first appear as broken lenses, fractured in different ways; if one were to look closer, however, the left clock is fixed at quarter past eight and the right clock is fixed at two past eleven, unable to move past the horrors they were witness to. What is beneath the mask? Well, what is beneath the soul of a warmonger? Or behind the smile of the leader that herds its people like sacrificial lambs to the endless battle? The truth is so simple as to crush the hearts of all who know it: nothing. Nothing but the empty desire of greed and to remain remembered as either a glorious hero or a damnable monster; the only difference being the semantics of victory and defeat.  

To the right of the Broken Soldier stands Exercitus, the undying general. He stands, in defiance of death and peace, a living ghost that will not let go of the war that has ended without him. His helmet is nailed into his head and the brilliant velvet crest that would signify his status as centurion is the grimy steel of barbed wire and it wraps around his bloodless limbs. Like veins, the wires pump life-force into Exercitus, except instead of that crimson fluid that grants life to the living; it spreads the white-hot writhing agony of exsanguination. He commands undead legions of soldiers, splitting his own enormous soul to bring them back from the dead. He knows that the war that ended without him is not done, so he brings it with him, by accompanying the broken martyr that is war.   

And standing left of the Slayer of Doves is the Iron Raven. Her true name was lost with her battalion. Once a proud Valkyrie, one wing remains untainted: white as snow. The other is a mechanical imitation, the only reason that she still flies is that the iron, that composes most of her body, is far too afraid of her fury. She holds her halberd proudly, still clutching a tattered flag that once stood for victory. She commands the cannons of the Broken Soldier alongside a vanguard of shades, her soaring command turns the booming of cannons and the unspoken orders of bugles into a terrifying orchestra of war. It is said that on the battlefield, she appears like the angel of death, her appearance heralding booming destruction but also salvation. Rumours say that she saves soldiers on both sides and brings them to their field hospitals. Perhaps she saves them to keep the war going, after all, there can be no war if every soldier is wounded, every warrior bleeding out. Or perhaps, she wishes for peace, to rescue people from the war and end her patron? It is impossible to discern without risking many things, without giving the endless war more victims. One thing is certain though, she is a terrifying presence, and her existence brings death and destruction.   

As for myself, I exist merely to witness what is to come of this new age. I serve the Shining Eyes Watching From Darkness, which is to say, I am a servant of a limb of a mad god who was shown the truth of reality as it sought to end it. But that is a story for another time, a war is on, after all.  

Post Mortem: I realise now that, at the moment, the part about "the semantics of victory and defeat" would probably have made a better ending. But hey, that's the cost of looking at your older art, from before you remember that, despite the maximalist tone you go for, sometimes less is more.

[miajolensdevotion]

June 12, 2021

Verse: 2 chronicles 14 Write/ Copy Gods words :

14 So Abijah slept with his fathers, and they buried him in the city of David: and Asa his son reigned in his stead. In his days the land was quiet ten years. 2 And Asa did that which was good and right in the eyes of the Lord his God: 3 For he took away the altars of the strange gods, and the high places, and brake down the images, and cut down the groves: 4 And commanded Judah to seek the Lord God of their fathers, and to do the law and the commandment. 5 Also he took away out of all the cities of Judah the high places and the images: and the kingdom was quiet before him. 6 And he built fenced cities in Judah: for the land had rest, and he had no war in those years; because the Lord had given him rest. 7 Therefore he said unto Judah, Let us build these cities, and make about them walls, and towers, gates, and bars, while the land is yet before us; because we have sought the Lord our God, we have sought him, and he hath given us rest on every side. So they built and prospered. 8 And Asa had an army of men that bare targets and spears, out of Judah three hundred thousand; and out of Benjamin, that bare shields and drew bows, two hundred and fourscore thousand: all these were mighty men of valour. 9 And there came out against them Zerah the Ethiopian with an host of a thousand thousand, and three hundred chariots; and came unto Mareshah. 10 Then Asa went out against him, and they set the battle in array in the valley of Zephathah at Mareshah. 11 And Asa cried unto the Lord his God, and said, Lord, it is nothing with thee to help, whether with many, or with them that have no power: help us, O Lord our God; for we rest on thee, and in thy name we go against this multitude. O Lord, thou art our God; let no man prevail against thee. 12 So the Lord smote the Ethiopians before Asa, and before Judah; and the Ethiopians fled. 13 And Asa and the people that were with him pursued them unto Gerar: and the Ethiopians were overthrown, that they could not recover themselves; for they were destroyed before the Lord, and before his host; and they carried away very much spoil. 14 And they smote all the cities round about Gerar; for the fear of the Lord came upon them: and they spoiled all the cities; for there was exceeding much spoil in them. 15 They smote also the tents of cattle, and carried away sheep and camels in abundance, and returned to Jerusalem.

What is your favourite verse or verses?

9 And there came out against them Zerah the Ethiopian with an host of a thousand thousand, and three hundred chariots; and came unto Mareshah. 10 Then Asa went out against him, and they set the battle in array in the valley of Zephathah at Mareshah.

Explain in your own words what you just read:

This great-grandson of Solomon took the throne of Judah at the end of Jeroboam’s reign in Israel, after his father’s brief reign.

Commitment / what will i do : I will launched a reform movement that lashed out against both idolatry and officially sanctioned sin.

[whatthefunke]

a few looks i've done in the past couple months

[sinwrote]

@sacredpit​     [ THUMB ]:          while cupping the receiver’s cheek in their hand, the sender slowly glides their thumb across their cheekbone in a tender, sweeping caress.

their affections must be secreted if these semblances of normalcy were to be preserved; how normal was it anyway, to be poised at any moment for confrontation, for death. jotaro’s stoicism is honed, becoming his arsenal for these little rendezvous but those hands, soft, with caresses so gentle; he cannot help the softening of a stern brow, an almost feasible smile.  “ you’re being bold,  kakyoin.”  a softly spoken reprimand,  but he does not recoil,  rather, leaning into the warmth of that touch.

is kakyoin frustrated with their circumstance, hungering for something more than the tentative touching of fingers under tables and chaste kisses under the mantle of dusk, avoiding prying eyes.  brazenly, enticed by kakyoin’s own valour, does he flush his own, much larger hand, against his lover’s. jotaro coaxes him away, the absence of his touch fosters his own yearning. the first kiss to kakyoin’s palm is chaste, revealed within his own frustrations, the severity of green through his lashes whispers vows of devouring him - if given the chance.  “  good grief,  do you want them to find out ? ” 

[brooklynislandgirl]

She'd only meant to tease him as a means to bleed off the discomfort and the sheer awkwardness of the situation because it is easier to do that than to try and come up with some sort of plausible story that would convince anyone within hearing distance, and the tongues that would surely wag after the fact, of his valour and honour remaining intact along with her virtue. Their nascent country might be in turmoil, there are things that cannot be overlooked and while Ben has been chivalrous with his lies… Well, some day the war will end. And so will their pretence. It does take every ounce of concentration in her bones not to burst out into laughter at the exact look on Ben's face. There is an innocence about him that cannot be counterfeited by even the best of the stage actors she has seen, and in turn it sets an ache in her chest that he is moved by his better graces to wear it upon his face. And sometimes, just like that, a thoughtless remark trips off his tongue carrying with it a severity her own had lacked in its creation. She'd only meant to josh him, to feed more wood into that burning smile of his so rare in appearance these days. Lashes give shelter to her gaze so he could not see the wound in them and curse him where she might offer a mere sigh. Something that could be laid at the feet of discomfort, or the rawness of the elements and so easily dismissed. He covers her like a secret. Pulls her from the snow. And it seems the day grows dimmer around them. "You're too kind." The words slide off her tongue easily, they are the only ones to survive to her throat. She cants one knee that she might not drag her toes into the frigid cold and find them turned black like so many of the soldiers in camp. Recalcitrant in desire to allow him to draw her upward. She crooks the one ankle and favours it with an unsteady gate when she does rise to her full stature. She doesn't meet his gaze. If anything, she has all but retreated inward and closed herself off. More effigy than human flesh. "There is nothing to apologise for. Neither does it matter what one or the other of us were thinking, Major." The apology is entirely too much and changes the mood of the afternoon. She doesn't quite know what it is to be a man, and certainly not one in command, like Ben but she fears more than the loss of Samuel and Andrew has murdered his mirth. His ability to feel anything beyond despair. His suggestion is not only absurd but proves his better sense has taken a leave of absence. She slashes her eyes toward him sharp as swords and tilts her head. "Absolutely not!" She makes the sign of the cross and her cheeks burn bright and hot as hellfire. In order to do as he suggests several things must occur; her legs would need to part around him ~he is not the stripling he was as a boy~ and either wrap completely around his waist or he'd need to hook her knees along his forearms. Likely doing so would parade her half-robed before the entirety of camp, exposing her to the leers of the men and the gossip of the women, particularly the one good Christian wife who takes issue with every little thing from how Beth dresses, to how she speaks so familiar with a good number of the officers, the men she has known for years. It is more shame than even she can comfortably swallow. And gives rise to the very sin she has been for weeks attempting to combat. Part of her has always coveted Ben. His company, his smiles, and now? She more than wishes the lie he constructed to explain her were anything but make-believe. And then he insinuates that she…that she's a glutton. All the high-summer colour drains from her features until she is as pale as the English ladies that are such the rage this season. "No."

Impugned honor?

Mortified, Benjamin's mouth dropped once he realized the state -- or rather, disarray -- of Beth's hair. Even when they were children, she'd had her locks neatly coiffed or braided, so to see even a hint of unencumbered length made him flush far more deeply than even the biting cold could explain. A woman sprawled out along her backside, even in the slush, even in the unforgiving elements, was nothing Benjamin was meant to witness until marriage -- and worse still, it was her, someone he cared for; someone he'd always sworn to love and protect. Somehow, the weight of Beth's womanhood made his childish vow seem sinful, and repentant, he was quick to lean down and drag her hood up over her hair, if only to afford her a hint of modesty.

"I wouldn't say I recognize you either," he muttered. Their eyes met, and the burning in his cheeks blazed brighter. "Uh..." Swallowing around the failed blockage of words, Benjamin instead took hold of Beth's elbows, then gently coaxed her into rising. Mindful of her ankle, he absorbed her warning and a seedling of dread took root in his chest.

She was right. There was no way to explain "this" -- whatever this even was. Benjamin noted the way her tone leaned into the word, almost as if questioning the very source, and humility once more danced back and forth in a trampling circle across his heart.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "I wasn't thinking..." So rarely was he allowed the chance to not think, nor strategize, nor predetermine a future outcome, so a part of him had leapt at the opportunity to be reckless; to be foolish in a time when boys were forced to be men.

Ultimately agreeing with her advice, Benjamin suggested, "Perhaps I should carry you? Like when we were little?" Meeting her gaze, he admonished, "And don't give me any trouble about it, all right? You're hurt, so the least I can do is get you up the hill...I imagine we'll find your shoe and stocking along the way."

Almost awkwardly, he turned away from her and crouched down, indicating that she climb aboard his back. Holding her bridal style seemed far too untoward, given her disheveled state, and yet as Benjamin awaited her to mount him like when they were children, it suddenly didn't feel sweet nor innocent, nor the slightest bit whimsical. The weight of adulthood had darkened their eyes, drawn their mouths, and made even the most innocent of intentions seem unholy there in the snowy woods.

"Well?" Benjamin prodded. Growing impatient, he teased, "Even if you've been laying into the porridge, I promise I can still carry you. I can walk you all the way to the medical tent, if need be."

[pathoscleaved]

@valour-bound sent:

Trace their scars

↳  SOFT GESTURES

ALBERT'S ON HIS STOMACH, ANXIETY FLARING WITHIN HIS CHEST. Red sheets pool around his hips, and the ugly cross hatches of healed lash marks are in full view. He didn't remember if they'd ever talked about that marring of his back. But now, he shows it, an offering of reciprocated trust, looking away only because of shame that he couldn't make himself more beautiful for Chris. Albert is telling him with this act of vulnerability that he will never betray him, not when he shows the coarse flesh of his back, the spot he feels the weakest. His Achilles heel.

"Touch," he says, voice wavering.

Those marks were the reminder that in the orphanage, he had been a bad child. Nowhere near perfect. And no matter the veneer that others saw, he would always be so ugly and scarred, be a split canvas with those crosshatches across his back, shoulders, and near his pelvis.

He isn't used to being so vulnerable - this vulnerability, of course, is something only Chris can bring out in him. The gentle ghosting of his fingers across one of the scars on his shoulder causes Wesker to shiver, and the tenderness of the slow touches. . . Albert feels like a wounded animal being cradled. A shuddering breath is exhaled against the pillow.

Heat rushes down, and the virologist hides his face in his arms and would inch away if not for Chris's steady hand on his hip. In fact, Wesker is pulled closer, and all he can do is shake a little.

Redfield's palm presses to the small of his back, and he moans softly, the warmth a welcome feeling against his epidermis. He finally peeks at the other's expression, and what he sees there isn't disgust. Concern, maybe? Something more pensive?

The typically composed man speaks softly, emotion making his tone thick, "I was raised in the Spencer Foundation Home for Adolescents. That orphanage in Raccoon City. This was the result of the caregivers there. If we did things wrong, or weren't fast enough, they'd make us do physical labor. If we showed kindness or empathy, they lashed us. I showed a lot. Too much. A majority of those marks were punished three or four times - that's why they look so terrible. I showed too much empathy one day that they . . . "

Wesk reveals his palm, the cut that had had hot oil poured on it. Another ugly mark.

"They did this. It was the only time I screamed. Later, I found out that I had been sold to the Foundation by my birth parents. I became an orphan for their greed. And when Spencer revealed things, that I had been raised to be a tool for another's vision, that my own sense of self was cored from me and replaced with his ideals - I lost my mind. I couldn't handle that my life was so manipulated. I wanted to kill everyone because the cruelty of that man. . . I thought only cruelty existed everywhere. I realized during my Uroboros Research that I didn't have a chance. My entire life was an orchestration of another."

A soft puff of air. "I am not telling you this or having you feel my scars for pity. Don't insult me with pity. You want me to reveal all facets, yes? Be completely honest with you. This is me at my most honest. I am ugly, Chris. Revolting. I killed Spencer that night by ripping his heart out because he called me Little Alby. Resorting me to what the orphanage called me. All of my life has been to his and Umbrella's design. So when Uroboros chose me as its worthy host and resurrected me, I knew I had to make my own design."

His mind races to Spot. "I got this one for trying to feed a dog that had been abused to death," he whispers, "I didn't know it had died. Then I attacked the attendant. Spot was my friend. I created Cerberuses so Spot would always be able to live forever and be able to defend himself. So another dog wouldn't have to deal with that cruelty."

Wesker hums, and he feels the hand move to bury itself in his blond locks.

"I am not a good man. I never will be. From birth, I had my empathy and kindness stripped from me. I was conditioned. My hands are stained with blood, and will always be dripping it. But I will attempt to be good. That is what I can give to you. This is who I am. What I am. But it’s - I am yours."

[wiseabsol]

Let’s talk about why it’s a bad idea if Karrin Murphy’s fate is final.

Some quotes to consider:

pg. 217: “See that this warrior is laid in state,” [Mab] said, and moved her head in a curt gesture toward the Bean. “She has shared our enemies and earned our respect, and so shall it be known amongst my vassals and to the furthest reaches of my kingdom.”

pg. 366: “You tell Odin that Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden says, upon his Name, that if he doesn’t treat Murph better than I would myself, I’m going to kick down his door, pluck his fucking ravens, knock him down, kick his guts out, drag him to the island, and lock him up in a cell with Ethniu [ . . . ] I beat a divine being once [ . . . ] If I have to build a nation to get it done, I’ll do it again.”

pg. 366: Gard shook her head. “Not until the memory of her has faded from the minds of those who knew her. That is the limit not even the All-father may cross.”

So what points can we draw from this?

- According to Gard, Murphy cannot return to Earth until her memory has faded from the minds of those who knew her. This, presumably, includes immortals, whose memories last for a very long time. If this is truly the case, then Murphy cannot participate in the BAT. She and Hendricks will be benched for Ragnarok. In short: Murphy is fucked. 

- Dresden has sealed away a Titan and is willing to do the same to a god. He is currently planning to build his own magical community. Would it really be that surprising if he is willing and able to do something that a god cannot in a future book? Especially when, as mentioned above, Murphy is fucked?

But let’s unpack this more:

First, let’s look at this from a writing standpoint. Why does this rule need to be in place? The short answer is that Butcher is covering his bases. Once we, the readers, learn that Odin has snatched Murphy’s body and is making her into an einherjar, we feel a burst of hope and relief. After all, we’ve seen einherjar before, so doesn’t that mean that we can look forward to Murphy returning at a later date?

Butcher doesn’t want us to think that, though. He wants us to feel as though she’s gone forever...even though we know that the BAT, aka Ragnarok, is coming up, and the einherjar are destined to fight in it. So how does he try to throw us off? He comes up with something that feels...contrived. Something that isn’t a part of the einherjar myth. “She can’t come back! Because--because everyone has to forget about her first! Yes, that’s it! Her fate is final because of this rule I’m only just now saying is a thing!”

But why should we buy this? This is a series in which Dresden is constantly pushing past his own limitations and the roadblocks placed in front of him, and where other characters aren’t afraid to do the same. It’s a series in which the rules are set up to be broken in creative ways (zombie T-Rex, anyone?). Even reality itself can be shattered (and why set that up in Battle Ground if you’re not going to do it in the BAT?).

Aside from that, though, if Murphy really is gone, then we’re left with some problems:

1. Murphy’s death is pointless. As much as Butcher tries to have the characters say that she died fighting a Jotun, she didn’t. She was killed on accident by a scared cop. That’s not satisfying. It could have been if it had more set-up across multiple books, and if Murphy had spent some time grappling with poorly trained officers and cases of police brutality (maybe even cases in which she’d gone too far). But the Dresden Files is stuck in the 90′s in a lot of ways, complete with valourizing “good cops” like Murphy and chalking up “bad cops” like Rudolph to a weakness of character, rather than admitting that there’s a problem with the institution as a whole. In short: This isn’t even political commentary on Butcher’s part. It adds absolutely nothing to the series. 

2. Odin making Murphy into an einherjar is arguably a Fate Worse Than Death for her, rather than a reward. Why? First, her Catholic faith has been ignored. Her soul is not going to the god she chose (did Odin even ask her if she wanted to go to Valhalla? Did Murphy consider it an honor?). Second, everyone she knows and loves will have to die before she can fight again--and what’s the point of her fighting then? Third, she will be forced to sit out of Ragnarok/the BAT. So Odin, in addition to doing a disservice to Murphy, would be benching a warrior during the End Times. How does that make strategic sense? Also, if he’s not going to use his shiny new einherjar, why make her into one at all? Why not just let her be buried and let her soul go to her own god?

3. How much agency does Murphy have in this scenario? Would she really accept the above rule and choose to not help her friends with her new powers? Does that sound like her?

4. If Murphy stays gone, it means that yet another woman has been written out of the story to give Dresden manpain. That’s exhausting, especially considering how poorly Butcher has treated his female characters in the past. Losing Murphy, who is arguably our main female character, feels like adding insult to injury after what happened with Susan, Molly, Lash, and so many others. Why should female readers keep reading a series in which almost every woman character is tortured, killed, or transformed against their will?  

5. Murphy and Marcone were the last important vanilla mortals. If she’s gone for good, then between that and Marcone now being magical, we are left with a series in which normal people--including those with disablilites--can’t survive and make a difference in the fight between magical forces. They’re victims to be protected by Dresden--and thus don’t have agency--or canon fodder if they do get involved. While I suspect that Randy will act as their voice in future books, losing both Murphy and the non-magical Marcone is a blow that I’m not sure the series can recover from. As one reader put it, it’s hard for us to see ourselves in this world anymore, considering that there are no characters like us left in it. Granted, this is a problem even if Murphy returns as an einherjar. But Murphy didn’t have to die in this book, so this problem could have been avoided.   

6. And on a more petty note: Teasing a Dresden and Murphy relationship for ten+ books, and then throwing it away in one, is a nasty thing to do to the readers who were invested in that subplot. “Characters in happy relationships aren’t compelling” is also a weak excuse for doing it, considering that those characters have more to fight for when the world is ending. Finally, just to point out something small: Murphy had sex with Dresden for the first time on the evening of Day 1 of the peace talks, then died on the morning of Day 4. That’s not cool. Butcher can do better.

[jail-crow-of-mandos]

Is Caranthir Autistic Or Am I Just Projecting: An Autobiography

Yup, here it is. My long-promised autistic Caranthir meta. Although I’m not sure how much of a meta it can be considering Caranthir is only mentioned by name 24 times in the entire Silmarillion, outside of the name index at the end. So here’s the plan: we’re gonna go through every time he’s mentioned and see if it tells us anything about potentially being autistic.

Before we begin. here is the DSM list of requirements for being diagnosed as autistic. Considering how few times we see Caranthir doing stuff in day to day life, odds are we won’t get to the level required for full diagnosis, but it certainly can help support it as a theory.

Requirements:

Deficits in social-emotional reciprocity

Deficits in nonverbal communicative behaviors used for social interaction,

Deficits in developing, maintaining, and understanding relationships

At least two of the following: Stereotyped or repetitive motor movements, use of objects, or speech, Insistence on sameness, inflexible adherence to routines, or ritualized patterns of verbal or nonverbal behavior, Highly restricted, fixated interests that are abnormal in intensity or focus, Hyper- or hyporeactivity to sensory input or unusual interest in sensory aspects of the environment

Symptoms must be present in the early developmental period (but may not become fully manifest until social demands exceed limited capacities, or may be masked by learned strategies in later life)

Symptoms cause clinically significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of current functioning.

These disturbances are not better explained by intellectual disability or global developmental delay. Intellectual disability and autism spectrum disorder frequently co-occur; to make comorbid diagnoses of autism spectrum disorder and intellectual disability, social communication should be below that expected for general developmental level.

With that being said, let’s start at the beginning:

“The seven sons of Fëanor were Maedhros the tall; Maglor the mighty singer, whose voice was heard far over land and sea; Celegorm the fair, and Caranthir the dark; Curufin the crafty, who inherited most of his father’s skill of hand; and the youngest Amrod and Amras, who were twin brothers, alike in mood and face. In later days they were great hunters in the woods of Middle-earth; and a hunter also was Celegorm [...]”

“[Regarding the Oath] Thus spoke Maedhros and Maglor and Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir, Amros and Amras, princes of the Noldor [...]”

Okay these two tell us absolutely nothing about Caranthir in particular, at least for this particular topic. Moving swiftly along.

“But Caranthir, who loved not the sons of Finarfin, and was the harshest of the brothers and the most quick to anger, cried aloud: ‘Yea more! Let not the sons of Finarfin run hither and thither with their tales to this dark Elf in his caves! Who made them our spokesmen to deal with him? And though they be come indeed to Beleriand, let them not so swiftly forget that their father is a lord of the Noldor, though their mother be of other kin”

Now we’re finally getting to the good part. Let’s start at the beginning. “Deficits in social-emotional reciprocity”. Yep. To put that in layman’s terms, it means to have trouble understanding how to navigate conversations in a normal way, often talking out of turn or speaking too harshly. This falls into both of those. On top of that, it also shows signs of “Deficits in developing, maintaining, and understanding relationships”. He is clearly misreading the situation and attacking Angrod for no real reason outside of being mad about everything. This is not how you speak to a stranger, especially not a diplomat. 

One could even argue that it could show signs of “Insistence on sameness, inflexible adherence to routines, or ritualized patterns of verbal or nonverbal behavior”” and “Deficits in nonverbal communicative behaviors used for social interaction”. The former could be argued because one could say that he has fallen into a comfortable pattern, and the idea of changing it is deeply distressing to him, hence why he lashed out. The idea of changes happening that he didn’t directly have a say in causes him to panic and react with anger. As far as the latter one goes, given Maedhros’s initial response to Angrod as well as him trying to calm Caranthir down afterwards, one can reasonably assume that his body language was telling his brothers to stay calm and cordial. Caranthir either ignored this deliberately (which would strengthen the prior argument that he struggles maintaining and understanding relationships, given the authority Maedhros has over him) or he simply could not pick up on the nonverbal cues that Maedhros was giving.

“Now the people of Caranthir dwelt furthest east beyond the upper waters of Gelion, about Lake Helevorn under Mount Rerir and to the southward; and they climbed the heights of Ered Luin and looked eastward in wonder, for wild and wide it seemed to them were the lands of Middle-earth. And thus it was that Caranthir's people came upon the Dwarves, who after the onslaught of Morgoth and the coming of the Noldor had ceased their traffic into Beleriand. But though either people loved skill and were eager to learn, no great love was there between them; for the Dwarves were secret and quick to resentment, and Caranthir was haughty and scarce concealed his scorn for the unloveliness of the Naugrim, and his people followed their lord. Nevertheless since both peoples feared and hated Morgoth they made alliance, and had of it great profit; for the Naugrim learned many secrets of craft in those days, so that the smiths and masons of Nogrod and Belegost became renowned among their kin, and when the Dwarves began again to journey into Beleriand all the traffic of the dwarf-mines passed first through the hands of Caranthir, and thus great riches came to him.”

So this is the part that led to all of the Caranthir loving money jokes, which ultimately led to there being a Caranthir/money tag on AO3. (No, really.) That said, there’s a lot to unpack here. First of all, it’s pretty reasonable to think that Caranthir’s love for planning and economics go beyond average, so let’s assume for a moment that economics are his special interest. This would fill the third elective requirement: “Highly restricted, fixated interests that are abnormal in intensity or focus”. Or, in other words, having a special interest. But beyond that, him not even trying to hide his distaste for the Dwarves clearly shows a lack of basic diplomacy, which we’ve been over before. He has severely lacking social skills. Plus, choosing to be hostile towards a group that have the exact same interests as him proves that he struggles with change, or at the very least forming interpersonal bonds, even if he did form an alliance with them in the end (which only goes to show how strong his special interest is).

“Therefore the Noldor held strength of cavalry In the plains at that place; and the people of Caranthir fortified the mountains to the east of Maglor's Gap. There Mount Rerir, and about it many lesser heights, stood out from the main range of Ered Lindon westward; and in the angle between Rerir and Ered Lindon there was a lake, shadowed by mountains on all sides save the south. That was Lake Helevorn, deep and dark, and beside it Caranthir had his abode; but all the great land between Gelion and the mountains, and between Rerir and the River Ascar, was called by the Noldor Thargelion, which signifies the Land beyond Gelion, or Dor Caranthir, the Land of Caranthir; and it was here that the Noldor first met the Dwarves. But Thargelion was before called by the Grey-elves Talath Rhúnen, the East Vale.”

Okay this one might be a bit of a stretch, but one could argue that Caranthir choosing to live beneath the mountains and in a notably dark region could indicate a sensitivity to bright lights, which would qualify as a sensory sensitivity. Even if not, though, we already have the required two of the four electives.

“At that time [Celegorm and Curufin] were from home, riding with Caranthir east in Thargelion [...]”

And this tells us absolutely nothing.

“But seven days later, as the Orcs made their last assault and had already broken through the stockade, there came suddenly a music of trumpets, and Caranthir with his host came down from the north and drove the Orcs into the rivers.

Then Caranthir looked kindly upon Men and did Haleth great honour; and he offered her recompense for her father and brother. And seeing, over late, what valour there was in the Edain, he said to her: 'If you will remove and dwell further north, there you shall have the friendship and protection of the Eldar, and free lands of your own.'

But Haleth was proud, and unwilling to be guided or ruled, and most of the Haladin were of like mood. Therefore she thanked Caranthir, but answered: 'My mind is now set, lord, to leave the shadow of the mountains, and go west, whither others of our kin have gone.'”

One could probably argue that Haleth was Caranthir’s only friend outside of his immediate family, which certainly indicates a struggle in forming bonds. That being said, he did pretty good here. I’m proud of him :))

“Maglor joined Maedhros upon Himring; but Caranthir fled and joined the remnant of his people to the scattered folk of the hunters, Amrod and Amras, and they retreated and passed Ramdal in the south. Upon Amon Ereb they maintained a watch and some strength of war, and they had aid of the Green-elves; and the Orcs came not into Ossiriand, nor to Taur-im-Duinath and the wilds of the south.”

While this is a very interesting passage for Caranthir’s characterization, it has nothing to do with him potentially being autistic, so we can move on.

“The sons of Ulfang the Black were Ulfast, and Ulwarth, and Uldor the accursed; and they followed Caranthir and swore allegiance to him, and proved faithless”

Poor Caranthir can’t catch a break, can he? But yeah of course he chooses the people who end up being the least loyal. Certainly indicates a lack of character judgement, which falls under not understanding nonverbal communication.

“There fell Celegorm by Dior's hand, and there fell Curufin, and dark Caranthir”

RIP. But it doesn’t really tell us anything.

Obviously, we can’t know what he was like during childhood development, nor can we know what underlying conditions he may have. However, given how many alliances he fucked over or nearly fucked over with his bad social skills, it’s fair to say that his autistic traits would have clinical significance. So, in conclusion, while nothing can be said for certain, it is reasonable to think that Caranthir is autistic.

[aliciavance4228]

Pausanias, Description of Greece 9. 26. 2 (trans. Jones) (Greek travelogue C2nd A.D.) :

"So when any of her brothers came in order to claim the throne from the Sphinx, she resorted to trickery in dealing with them, saying that if they were sons of Laius they should know the oracle that came to Kadmos. When they could not answer she would punish them with death, on the ground that they had no valid claim to the kingdom or to relationship. But Oidipous came because it appears he had been told the oracle in a dream."

Seneca, Oedipus 87 ff (trans. Miller) (Roman tragedy C1st A.D.) :

"[Oidipous (Oedipus) speaks :] Far from me is the crime and shame of cowardice, and my valour knows not dastard fears . . . The Sphinx, weaving her words in darkling measures, I fled not; I faced the bloody jaws of the fell prophetess and the ground white with scattered bones. And when from a lofty cliff, already hovering over her prey, she prepared her pinions and, lashing her tail like a savage lion, stirred up her threatening wrath, I asked her riddle. Thereupon came a sound of dread; her jaws crashed, and her talons, brooking no delay, eager for my vitals, tore at the rocks. The lot's intricate, guile-entangled words, the grim riddle of the winged beast, I solved.

Why too late dost thou now in madness pray for death? Thou hadst thy chance to die. This sceptre is thy meed of praise, this thy reward for the Sphinx destroyed. That dust, that cursed dust of the artful monster is warring against me still; that pest which I destroyed is now destroying Thebes. [I.e. the land is suffering from drought and pestilence and Oidipous incorrectly blames the ghost of the dead Sphinx.

Even the ancient sources described her as hideous and monstruous, and emphasized the fact that she resorted to trickery.

The Decadent Movement, a European movement that was attributed to the notion of “decadence” around the 1890s, implores the main notion of finding beauty in the decline of civilization in the form of macabre or taboo subjects such as the sphinx. The motif of the sphinx can also be connected to the motif of the “femme fatale” figure in decadent texts in which a typically female-like figure or beast seduces and murders men. The “femme fatale” is used to establish a decline or decay ranging from perversion, death, prostitution, and other taboos of Victorian society.

Excuse me, what the actual f-

The only sort of connection that I can see between the Sphinx and Femme Fatale is probably, possibly, perhaps the fact that the Femme Fatale Trope firstly appeared simultaneously with the Smart Woman one (because intelligent women are intimidating and dangerous and stuff).

What makes the Sphinx appealing, at least in my personal opinion, is the fact that she takes pride in her intellect and/or the fact that she thought herself to be the only one who could answer correctly to that famous riddle. She didn't seduce men, she asked them the same question again and again, and if they didn't answer correctly she would kill them. Also, this passage doesn’t emphasize the fact that she was eating them too; because quess what - at the end of the day she was a monster and had to eat something. When Oedipus proved himself to be wise enough to respond correctly her ego and sense of arrogance was crushed instantly and she killed herself.

Another aspect that frustrates me is the implication that she only killed men. Have you ever considered that back then women weren't allowed to be soldiers/warriors, and/or that men were the only ones who were sent to the Sphinx, and that's why most of her victims happened to be men? Pretty sure that if a woman or a child would've came to her she would've tell them the same riddle (and implicitly turn them into dinner if they answered wrong).

I thought for a very long time that maybe the fact that she had the body of a lion is enough to make people think twice before approaching her, but apparently I was wrong. Let's just associate any female monster with humanoid traits with beauty and have her dangerousness linked in her ability to seduce men. I mean, can you imagine any other weapon that a woman could use besides her sexuality? I knooooooow...

[bookandcranny]

Communication Issues: This Time In Space

The alien has been quiet and sullen, barely speaking a word since the crew of The Starship Atalanta VII took them onboard. Even after providing them with the necessary translator tech, they remain skittish. It’s not that they’re being uncooperative, quite the opposite really. They answer every question that’s lobbied their way in a clipped, overly polite tone. The command council is suspicious of their compliance, their formality, and Officer Resplendent Valour knows it.

Fortunately, they haven’t had the opportunity to do anything about it though since the subject of their interrogation is still confined to the medical wing most hours of the day-cycle. Rezi checks on them as much as they can, hoping she’ll be able to provoke some more honest communication when it’s just the two of them, but so far her attempts have been fruitless.

That’s why it’s more than a little surprising when she enters the infirmary one day and hears the alien patient talking animatedly, excitedly even, in their native tongue with Lan Suwan, the chief medical officer. What’s almost more shocking is that Lan is talking back, speaking Tesseraen with-- not quite ease, but fluency.

Both of their translators are turned off, obviously, and the alien is sitting on the edge of a cot, leaning forward with their hands braced on their knees as their tail lashes behind them in time with the speech that Rezi can’t hope to parse. The gill-like slits on either side of their face flare in recognition as she approaches and their yellow eyes slide towards her. They trail off and duck their head, looking sheepish as Lan follows their gaze.

“Oh, Resplendent, making the rounds?” e raises eir eyebrows, transitioning smoothly back to English. “Me and Mx Stone were just getting to know each other a bit better. They’ve made great strides in their recovery.”

The alien-- Stone taps their temple to reactivate their translator, and Rezi finds herself resenting the small, self-conscious motion for a reason she can’t identify.

“I didn’t know you spoke Tesseraen.” Because why beat around the bush when you can barrel straight through it? Subtly has never been her strong suit.

E shrugs. “Not that well, but I can hold a conversation. I tested out of the standard language requirement back in university so I decided to take a few more advanced courses. It’s easiest to pick up new languages when you’re young, better neuroplasticity and all. But if you start learning as a kid it strengthens those pathways and helps you keep picking up new ones even as an adult. I was taking regular English and French lessons by the time I was seven. So, you know.”

Oh, you know. No big deal. Just regular everyday genius things! It occurs to her that, for all the months of coworkerly small-talk and the occasional tongue-in-cheek flirtation, she knows remarkably little about the doctor. Perhaps defensively, she asks,

“Why? Translators exist for a reason. Seems like a lot of work for a skill you don’t really need.”

Lan looks at her, eir expression more serious than Rezi can recall it being outside of the rare medical emergency. That was what she-- what everyone liked about Lan. E was funny, aloof, cool under pressure. For the specific role e played onboard the ship, a good bedside manner wasn’t necessarily required, yet when it came down to it the bulk of the crew would take em as readily as any nurse.

“Sometimes I forget that you didn’t grow up planetside,” e says, not unkindly, but not as warmly as Rezi had come to expect from them either. “And sometimes it’s really obvious.”

Stone touches eir arm, softening eir expression. E shoots them one of those trademark grin that leans just to the left of propriety.

“I’ve stolen enough of your time.” E leans in close with a hand on their back and no real attempt at discretion. “Remember what I told you, babe. Go get 'er.”

The alien flushes a brilliant lilac from the neck up. There’s a muscle in the soft unplated part of their throat that’s working overtime.

Before Rezi can gather the presence of mind to ask em what e means by that, Lan is all-but jogging away back to eir office. Weird, but e’s always been pretty off-beat, as evidenced by their apparent secret polyglot tendencies. Rezi realizes she still has no idea what the two of them were talking about that got the stoic Tesser Stone so worked up, and judging by the way they’ve withdrawn back into themself, she probably never will. She’s… jealous? Of Lan, for getting them to open up so effortlessly? Or of Stone, for commanding the attention of the medical officer in a way that seemed more than friendly? It’s no secret that Lan flirts as easily as e breathes, but this feels different somehow.

There’s a hot knotted lump like a blocked fuel line in her chest. Rather than try to pick the thing apart, she sits down on the cot beside Stone, fixing her gaze firmly on the place where her hand falls on the pale sheet between them.

“I’m glad you’ve got a friend here,” she says, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “Lan is… Lan is good. A good doctor and a good person. I hope that I… me too… I can be your…”

Stars’ sake, Lan can speak four languages (that she knows of!) and she can barely string together a sentence in the single one she knows. Rezi has never been like this! She’s cool, she’s confident, she’s a role model for all the little kids with greater space-faring aspirations back on the colony.

And she’s about to stutter into cardiac arrest because there’s a handsome alien like the cover of one of those trashy exo smuts covering her wandering hand with their own.

“Vez-plen-dant is a friend,” Stone says through the translator app’s chugging processors. Still not quite the greatest conversationalist but it’s one giant leap from the heavy silence and anxious glances that have been their prime mode of communication to this point. Their smile is soft and earnest and almost apologetic and--

Oh. Oh, wow, she is in trouble.