#victims of the inquisition

[todaysjewishholiday]

21 Tammuz 5784 (26-27 July 2024)

Shabbat shalom! Sabado bueno! Gut shabbes!

It is once again the most significant holiday in the Jewish calendar. Shabbat begins eighteen minutes before sunset on the twentieth of Tammuz and continues until full nightfall on the twenty second. May it be a day of rest and peace for all of us.

The parashat hashavua is Pinchas in Bamidbar, which contains the second census of the Israelites. It also contains the story of The daughters of Zelophechad, who petition for an adjustment of the laws of inheritance to account for families with no sons. The parsha shows HaShem adjusting the law in accordance with their request. Next, Yehoshua is chosen as Moshe’s successor and presented to the people. The parsha ends with instructions regarding korbanot to be offered on the major holidays, including the high holy days, which are described as being in the seventh month rather than the new year because the calendar is still counting from Nisan.

The twenty-first of Tammuz is also the yahrzeit of the Spanish martyr Don Lope de Vera y Alarcon, known at the end of his life by the self-chosen name Judah the Believer, who died at the hands of the Spanish Inquisition after six years of imprisonment and torture.

The mission of the church and crown to remove all Jews from the Iberian peninsula was doomed from the start for a number of reasons, chief among them that no matter how many Jews the Inquisitors hounded from Spanish and Portuguese shores, the very book on which they based their religion, the Christian Bible, was full of them. This is the flaw at the heart of all Christian antisemitism, for without us, their religion could never have come into being, and anybody who is exposed to Christianity through the Bible is also thereby exposed to the holiest texts of Judaism as well. And though Christian denominations have their own official interpretations of these texts, the words can speak for themselves to readers who decide to look for an understanding of their own.

This is what happened with Lope de Vera. Born into a Spanish noble family, he belonged to the class the Inquisition saw as the truest of all Spaniards. An academic prodigy, he entered the University of Salamanca at the age of fourteen, and due to a great aptitude with languages was soon fluent in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew as well as Spanish. His study of the Tanakh in its original Hebrew led Lope, who had in all likelihood never met a living Jew, to privately reject Catholic teaching and identify with the faith and ritual practices described by the Torah. Lope made the mistake of describing his newfound convictions to his elder brother, who reported him to the Inquisition in a misguided effort to save his soul. For the next six years the young scholar was imprisoned, interrogated, and routinely tortured in an attempt to force him to recant. All these efforts only made him more certain of his decision to adopt the Jewish religion. He had no access to a Jewish community or any rabbi, and certainly was never able to complete halakhic conversion overseen by a beit din. But for simply professing his affection for the Jewish people and conviction that the messiah had not yet come and that the commandments of the Torah remained in effect, he was considered a profound threat to the very basis of Spanish Catholic society which had spent over a century convincing itself that there were no more Jews in Spain.

In prison, Lope performed a bris on himself, and refused all meat since it was not slaughtered in accordance with kosher laws. He took the name Judah the Believer in place of the name of his birth. After six years, his jailers despaired of all hope of persuading Lope to return to Catholic orthodoxy, and because freedom of conscience and religious association was anathema to the mission of the inquisitors, Lope de Vera y Alarcon was burned at the stake on the 21st of Tammuz 5404.

Before his death, Lope had prepared a written explanation of his journey from Catholicism to identification with the Jews of the Tanakh, as part of the meticulous records kept by the Inquisition of the “confessions” of its victims. This document was smuggled out of the Inquisition’s headquarters by a sympathizer with Lope’s persistence, and donated to a synagogue in Livorno. The Inquisition was unable to silence him, even in death.

[qwainte]

There's this subsection of Astarion fans that are hellbent on recreating the Iron Bull x Dorian discourse with Halsin and Astarion and I just want to ask: why???

[heliomanteia]

RIP Solas another victim of "characters being misunderstood by the fandom in the same exact way other characters misunderstand them"

[mermianar]

she's the coolest (and most tired) mom friend

glendimar lavellan belongs to @valtianan

[couslande]

when i'm in a cherry-picking moments devoid of larger context to prove my point competition and my opponent is the dragon age fandom

[lavellane]

i was so set on replaying veilguard for the davrinmance but oh my god im SO attached to my agent-of-fenharel hardingmancer rn i actually think the choice is out of my hands lol

[zorosdimples]

oh my fucking god i don’t think i’ve ever encountered a more accurate quiz in my life? what the FUCK

[witches-and-weirdos]

💭 Since we're here, thoughts from Nillan on the whole party too, and on the vampire gang

Send 💭 for a thought my muse has had about yours

@undyingmedium

"And they did this all themselves, just the five of them..." She walked with a gentle slowness, watching the blood splattered across stone, kneeling to inspect the ruined corpses, and frowning at the horrible experiments that were stopped. The Meat Forge was now devoid of life, inhabited only by the legion of vengeful wraiths that were unleashed upon it. "Good riddance. Quite very impressive though. I would have needed a small army for this, maybe 10 handpicked and involve the troll too. In fact, that might not even had been enough, depending... hmm..."

She took a little chain of praying bones hanging on her waist and looked for an important-looking corpse. "Let's see how they did it, and where the rest you rotten filth are."

(CONTEXT: The "vampire gang" is a young vampire girl and 4 (now only 3) vampire kids that my players befriended and brought into the current city, then the players left for a few months, during which Nillan found them and helped them in the background.)

"They seem free, but Avi won't speak the name of who turned her, and that silence doesn't seem entirely voluntary. It makes no sense to keep her bound unless her master plans to later come back for something... curious..."

[unreliablewitness34]

What irks me so much about playing dragon age inquisition is that everyone will constantly both-sides the mage-templar war as if they were in any way comparable. It’s incredibly obnoxious every time, literally shut up forever. But I guess it’s true to life, unfortunately

[val-of-the-north]

The "Hornsent deserved it" sentiments make me lose my goddamn mind

Short answer: No they didn't.

Long answer: Oh my gooooooooooood can we NOT do this shit, please???

There are two underlying sentiments to this line of thinking.

The Hornsent hurt Marika's people, thus Marika did nothing wrong, therefore they deserved to die badly

The Hornsent hurt Marika's people + Midra and some others, Marika is still evil, but the Hornsent deserved to be destroyed

Both may even come to the extreme of "Messmer wasn't cruel enough" or some other nonsense in the same vein.

-

Number 1

To tackle number one, we need to remember a little thing called Elden Ring's base game. The Hornsent's jar ritual is undoubtedly abhorrent, that much is true. But I urge you to remember the things that happened during Marika's reign. She:

Murdered all of the Fire Giants but one, subjecting him to a fate similar to hers but worse, forced into labor confined on the mountain among the remains of his people and culture. She mocked him, to boot. All of this because they might have burnt the Erdtree.

Enslaved the Misbegotten from birth "or worse" because their species just so happened to have made contact with the Crucible.

Rewarded her own loyal Crucible Knights with scorn because of it too, as they didn't fit her current society that they fought to establish.

Made sure the Albinaurics were seen as lesser just because they were graceless, which influenced the way they were treated. She even had her Inquisition, run by Rykard, torture them in needlessly cruel manners, as they appear to be their main victims.

Just in general, she allowed Rykard to run a sadistic Inquisition to torture heretics to the Golden Order in the first place, and she saw nothing wrong with it or their practices.

She entombed the entire Great Caravan over a false rumor, which is the sole reason why the Flame of Frenzy was even a problem during her reign. This has also scarred the remainder of their people greatly.

Made the lives of all Omen a living hell either by cutting their horns just as they were born which often kills them, hunting them down in as cruel a way as possible by using their trauma and body parts against them, or throwing them in a sewer to fester with evil spirits hidden from view. She also used to shackle them, including her two children, just to make extra sure they wouldn't crawl out.

Shunned anyone who saw a vision of the Erdtree burning, regardless of who it was, and chased them away from their homes.

Literally allowed the belief that shorter people are somehow lesser, for apparently no reason at all (her most random discrimination decision tbh). This forces them to band together and take up honorless jobs just to get by, and in turn, people start to spread rumors of their inhuman practices, which are likely all untrue.

Had people literally work as slaves for the nobility just by virtue of "being born into obscurity", whatever that means. As well as other accounts of slavery like the Fallen Hawks (likely tied to the defeated soldiers of ancient Stormveil).

Likely endorsed viewing anyone without Grace as inferior beings, which includes the Tarnished that only exist because she divested them of it. She has done nothing to ease their discrimination (despite potentially seeing them as a future asset of sorts), as even the members of the Crusade are more than ready to kill us, like Fire Knight Queelign.

All of this was done in service to HER religion and order. Killing all the Fire Giants and burying the Nomadic Merchants alive? Oh, they could have ruined her age with those pesky flames of theirs.

Systematically oppressing Omen, Misbegotten, Albinaurics and the likes? Oh, they are impure creatures, unlike her people, blessed with the Grace of Gold, elevated from the rest. (Which is the exact same line of thinking as the Hornsent and their horns for crying out loud).

"Oh but the Hornsent stuffed her people into jars" yeah, and I am not arguing the contrary! It was a cruel, deranged practice, born of simple superstition that their victims would be reborn as "good people". But Marika's answer if you don't fit her vision of the world is to either get rid of you and your people through extermination, by literally hounding you from your rightful home, or by enslaving you.

Both sides are genuinely awful... but there's only one side that people are justifying, and it sure as hell isn't the Hornsent.

Marika's backstory is meant to make her less a god, which is all we have ever known her to be before the DLC, and more a human, which is what she once was. It gives her complexity as a character, it's meant to be the catalyst from which we learn why she took the path that she took. It is absolutely not meant to make us go "holy shit guys, Marika was the good guy all along???", because what she brought upon this world through her burning desire for vengeance has ruined it irreparably, and ruined the lives of most of the creatures who inhabit it.

This includes her ruthless, honorless, pointless Crusade against the Hornsent. Sure, it was her own son that started it, but it was for her sake. It was her who allowed him to wage it, he had her full support... until the thing turned to such a slaughter-fest that even she could not associate with it anymore due to how appalling it all was. And what better way to do that than to seal her own son away to wage war endlessly? And not just because his actions made her look bad, but also for the same crippling fear and prejudice that saw her kill all Fire Giants but one and scar the Great Caravan.

Gratuitous violence across the board, and for what?

(I want to make it absolutely clear that I don't mean you can't like Marika now. In fact, I'd say the DLC made her much more of an interesting character to me as well. I just cannot fathom seeing the entirety of Elden Ring and coming out thinking "wow Marika was the good guy" because she isn't. Heck, coming out thinking that she'd be disgusted with what her grandson Godrick is doing with grafting as if she isn't the queen of having zero empathy for those who are graceless or aren't her family, which the Tarnished he grafts are neither. She'd probably be very proud if anything. Marika is a monster. She became one the moment she obtained godhood, because no milestone would quell her. She did all the wrongs, so take this whole section as a refresher in case you had forgotten)

-

Number 2

Now, to tackle number 2... this one seemingly has more nuance, but falls for the tried and true pitfall of "the many must pay for the crimes of the few" which is exactly where it rots and collapses onto itself.

Apparently, because of the perpetrators of the Jar Rituals, ALL Hornsent, INDISCRIMINATELY, deserve to be destroyed. They all, each and every single one, deserve the Crusade and the absolute pointless ruin that it brought them. From the children, to the ones who were friends with people with no horns, to the ones who found their own practices grotesque, to the ones that weren't even tied to the Tower's religion and were just simply living their lives.

They ALL, EQUALLY deserve to be burned, to have their cities destroyed, to have their lives ruined. All of them. Ok.

Number 2 works with the assumption that the Hornsent are some sort of hive mind. Some sort of all-encompassing religious order who believes in their superiority. But that's just the Tower's religion. Hornsent are a people. And people are individuals, with their own opinions, their own lives. In fact, from the perspective of the average Hornsent citizen, they were attacked out of nowhere as they were living in peace, which likely means they weren't even at war with Marika before this event.

People also have the assumption that all of the Hornsent were benefiting from their society, which is blatantly false. In fact, outside the treatment of the Shamans, the people that we know the Hornsent have hurt the most are their fellow Hornsent. We know of quite a few of them suffering at the hands of their kin BECAUSE of their religious and cultural practices.

Being Hornsent isn't a "free from mistreatment" card. If anything, the large Gaols where they were imprisoned were built specifically to house them. The main prisoners we find in large numbers are commoners, the same types as the ones scavenging the ruins of their ravaged towns. They are often seen eating maggots off the floor and cowering in fear. All of them were Hornsent too, locked away for who knows what crime. Could have been big and important, small and insignificant, or even just a failure to do something properly (there's precedent), point is, it's clear the Hornsent weren't having a good time in there.

The jar rituals were used mainly as punishment for the imprisoned Hornsent themselves, as a way to have them become "good people". This was just as horrifying for the Hornsent prisoners as it was for the Shamans I assume. Look how terrified this Hornsent seemed at the prospect of sharing that fate. This is the reason why they chopped up Shamans in the first place, as ritual ingredients for a punishment meant primarily for their kin.

And there were more Hornsent who suffered because of the leading ideology. Curseblades were once shunned because they failed to become tutelary deities, and so they were thrown in the Jar Gaols. They were only let out so they could use their expertise and flowing movements to defend their homeland when Messmer invaded, otherwise they'd be rotting with the Innard Shamans and the other Hornsent prisoners the way Labirith is.

It's also worth pointing out that Midra's Mense was filled with Hornsent attendants who sided with their sagely master regardless of his lack of horns and what the Inquisition believed of him. If we were to operate with reasoning number 2, they too would deserve to be murdered in the Crusade because they just so happened to be Hornsent. Because ALL Hornsent deserve extermination for what happened to the Shamans.

And we also know that the Hornsent can find what happens in Bonny Village revolting. In fact, we know that from someone who was born and raised there.

This sounds nothing like someone who thought any of that was ok. So who is to say other Hornsent weren't like this too, especially those who DIDN'T live in Bonny Village? Those who risked being stuffed into those same jars themselves? We make waaaay too many assumptions about an entire race, and that in itself is foolish enough.

If there's someone to blame, it's the Tower's Inquisition. They are the religious order that governs the Hornsent. They have all the power in their society... and yet, would you look at that? Enir-Ilim, their sanctum, the one place where those calling the shots reside, is completely untouched. And what about Bonny, the most structurally fine Hornsent settlement, when you'd expect it to be a black stain of char by now. But nope, no sign of Messmer activity and the Greater Potentates are just running around naked, doing their thing as usual.

The Crusade isn't even a good tool of vengeance, the only ones suffering are the civilians who were likely the ones with a higher risk of ritual jar punishment anyway. If this isn't proof enough that the Crusade is a completely petty, useless revenge war that accomplishes nothing I don't know what else to say. I'll just leave with what the people taking part in it were taking pride in doing.

These are people who, without a shadow of a doubt, would have chopped up most of the oppressed groups described earlier and stuffed them into jars if Marika had told them to do so. (Heck, something like this was being done to the Albinaurics already, as we have seen previously...)

They have zero moral superiority, their deranged zealotry is the only reason they act in the first place. Not to mention that they have no connection to Marika's struggles or past, nor were they informed of them I bet. It's likely only Messmer truly knows the reason for the Crusade, and that's only because he is her child and shoulders all the blame onto himself.

"Those stripped of the Grace of Gold shall all meet death" is LITERALLY their motto. Do you really think they stopped at the Hornsent? They were just their main target, but judging by the way all of Messmer's soldiers, including Queelign and the other Fire Knights, and even HE HIMSELF, attack us on sight for the simple fact we are Tarnished and lack Grace in our eyes, I have no doubt in my mind these people were just rounding up and killing anyone who didn't conform with the Golden Order.

THESE are the people who should be allowed to play judge, jury and executioner with the entire Hornsent race. And people will genuinely, with a straight face, tell you "That's right".

-

To conclude... I think I actually hate reasoning 2 more than reasoning 1 lol, despite not liking either at all. At least 1 is understandable. Marika is a very interesting character, one that we have known for a few years now. We have an attachment to her, heck, sentiments of her being some sort of misunderstood/rebellious figure were already there before the DLC. In that regard, I understand the emotional response, even though I still think it's a wrong mindset to have. I have at least some hope that it is purely in the realm of fiction because it's a beloved character, nothing more...

Reasoning 2, on the other hand, attempts to be nuanced, or at least pretends to be. In reality, all it peddles is the "an eye for an eye" mentality which is much too common irl as well. Not only that, but it deals in monoliths. All people belonging to a group or race are equally responsible for stuff they didn't even commit, stuff that could have even harmed them, because their leaders decided to commit crimes against another set of people. And don't get me wrong, there will be even commoners from that group or race that will agree with and celebrate that bad deed, but just as many will not, but will be either scared, powerless, already being punished for speaking up through physical violence or elaborate shunning, or currently protesting and doing something to hopefully ignite a change.

But that reasoning only exists to perpetuate cycles; of war, violence, and hate for the most part. And sadly, this mindset is very prevalent, a lot of people fail to see the issue with wanton violence as long as it's to stroke that lust for vengeance. And vengeance is a theme that Elden Ring criticizes multiple times in a row, even beyond the obvious horror of the Crusade.

[spainkitty]

sign me up. Also, let's put in a BIG sign calling it "Dirthavaren" again, or even just "The Plains" 🤬

lavellan should have access to a war table mission to destroy every chantry statue in the exalted plains and the emerald graves i think. as a treat

[xinghius]

There Is A Place For You

"Saeee?"

It's supposed to be on for another three minutes, the face mask he's wearing — given how much he paid for it, he sure as fuck planned on getting his money's worth — but if the way you call out for him from the bedroom isn't enough to get him to peel the soaked sheet off his face in haste, he isn't sure what else would be. "Coming," he intones.

Four minutes earlier than planned, Sae steps out of the bathroom, his footsteps silent as he crosses over the threshold, the towel in his hand soaking up excess droplets of water forming puddles in his hair. Hanging it over his shoulders when he's finally done, his forehead puckers at the sight laid out in front of him.

You're huddled up in bed, blanket tucked underneath the dip of your chin, your arms spread over its surface — like melted butter over toasted bread.

He almost melts, too.

It's nothing out of the ordinary, seeing you like this. The only stroke out of place in this picture of normalcy is the fact that you're still awake; you've usually tilted to sleep by now.

(Despite valiant efforts to stay up to welcome him with open arms, with how demanding his schedule is — and how often it translates to him staying overtime to take showers in musk scented locker rooms — it's no more than an exercise in futility.)

"I got lonely," you confess

You pat down the area beside you in invitation — the space you reserve for him, despite how often vacancy occupies it in his stead. "Join me?" you say, your lips just out into a pout. The same one that never fails to get you what you want.

He rolls his eyes, slipping on a fresh shirt over his head — an action you respond to with a whiny protest — before reprimanding you on the importance of routine.

His, at least.

Still, he ends up lying next to you anyway, the final step of his skincare neglected, his shirt long abandoned on the floor, and your fingers tracing arbitrary shapes on his chest.

Wherever the fuck his towel went, he has no idea either.

You hum in content, pressed warm against his skin. He has half the mind to say something, but he's never been much of a talker, and the whirring of the ceiling fan above feels sufficient enough to inhabit the silence.

For you, not too much.

"Can I kiss you?" Your voice slices a clean cut right through it, reaching his heart as well.

He glances at you askance, raising an eyebrow. Inquisitive. Maybe a tad vexed. Flipping onto his side and propping up against an elbow, he looks almost betrayed. "That's a stupid question," he arraigns, the accusatory inflection in his tone unmistakable.

"There's no such thing as a stupid question," you say.

He scoffs.

"Coming from your mouth, there's always plenty."

You feign hurt like the liar you are, pressing a hand over your heart as if guarded. "So mean, Itoshi-san," you scold. "Watch your mouth before I throw you on the couch," you warn, inching away.

"Last name basis?" he teases with guile, closing the new distance you created. "You're going to be an Itoshi someday, too," he reminds, lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

The warmth of it sends a lick of heat creeping up your spine. You tell him to shut up, maintaining feigned annoyance for a good minute. Twenty seconds after that you're melting into him again, falling victim to his spell. He squeezes your thigh and you frown.

"You suck."

He laughs. "I know, baby."

"And you're mean."

This, he clicks his tongue at. His eyes crinkle at their corners and he lets out a noise of dissent. He wouldn't call himself the beau ideal of a lover, per se — then again, no one would — but for all his imperfections, his actions make up for the lack of honesty he can't seem to put into words.

"You're the mean one."

He doesn't struggle, dragging your weight to drape you across his chest. Your thighs cage the sides of his own in the blink of an eye and you can't help letting out a gasp at the suddenness of it all. This contact. Where you press against. Where he allows you to.

A millimeter of distance occupies the gap separating you and him; you still, unsure whether you can move, or even breathe.

He thinks it's cute, your hesitation. On the other hand, it can be annoying at times, how shy you are. How you always feel the need to hold back. To ask, when he's always been willing to give you anything. Anything. Even his last name.

It's offensive how you have yet to see it.

"Look at me," he says.

Wordless, you obey.

He cradles your head in his hands, swiping his fingers along the length of your jaw and reveling in the way you shudder at his touch.

"I told you last time—" he whispers. Still, it remains as sharp as a reminder, one he prays will stick "—you don't need to ask."

It's delicate, this line he treads. He has always been one for taking, after all. Never giving. And often, he is wary just how much generosity he can offer before it turns into some sort of weakness. But when he kisses you and you reciprocate in kind, if not with more desire, he understands why Caesar surrendered himself into the hands of Cleopatra, understands why Antony devoted himself to that love, too.

Maybe it's a horrible analogy, and maybe he's got his facts wrong — he doesn't know much about history, doesn't care enough to, either — but if you can learn to take, and he can learn to give, maybe one day he can learn to be a suave romantic.

But for now, he's content with interrupted giggles and pleads to resurface for air.

[nuadha-airgeadlamh]

godhood and the nature of the world

For me some of the most interesting dialogue delivered in the DLC comes from Ymir when you ask him about the nature of the world:

"I fear that you have borne witness to the whole of it. The conceits – the hypocrisy – of the world built upon the Erdtree. The follies of men. Their bitter suffering. Is there no hope for redemption? The answer, sadly, is clear. There never was any hope. They were each of them defective. Unhinged, from the start. Marika herself. And the fingers that guided her. And this is what troubles me. No matter our efforts, if the roots are rotten, …then we have little recourse."

Immediately upon hearing this dialogue I thought of the item description for the Mending Rune of Perfect Order:

"The current imperfection of the Golden Order, or instability of ideology, can be blamed upon the fickleness of the gods no better than men. That is the fly in the ointment."

I think Ymir and Goldmask are essentially stating the same fundamental ideas here, and that these ideas hit upon a key theme of the entire game: human beings should not become gods.

Marika's traumatic origins are laid bare at the Bonny and Shaman Villages. The extermination of her people through such disturbing means no doubt left her horribly scarred. The spirit in the Whipping Hut spells out how the Potentates treated the Shaman:

"For pity's sake, your place is in the jar. Nigh-sainthood itself awaits your within. For shamans like you, this is your lot. Life were you accorded for this alone."

And the Minor Erdtree incantation demonstrates her bereavement:

Marika bathed the village of her home in gold, knowing full well that there was no one to heal.

We know, too, from Ymir that the Fingers were just as broken as Marika, the children of an abandoned mother.

"Do you recall what I said? That Marika, and the fingers that guided her, were unsound from the start. Well, the truth lies deeper still. It is their mother who is damaged and unhinged. The fingers are but unripe children. Victims in their own right. We all need a mother, do we not? A new mother, a true mother, who will not give birth to further malady."

And the Staff of the Great Beyond gives us further context behind this:

The Mother received signs from the Greater Will from the beyond of the microcosm. Despite being broken and abandoned, she kept waiting for another message to come.

Marika's ascension to godhood placed a traumatized person in a position of ultimate power. Yes, the Hornsent did terrible, unspeakable things to the Shaman people and employed a truly brutal inquisition, but there is no excuse for what Marika did to them through her Crusade. There is no excuse for what she did to the Hornsent, or to the Fire Giants, or to any of the victims of the Golden Order's colonizing mission. The game makes this abundantly clear. Did Hornsent's wife and child deserve to die by Messmer's flames? Does the Hornsent Grandam deserve to remain alone and abandoned, her home crumbling around her? What about the Dried Bouquet, a talisman you find in Belurat:

A quaint bouquet of dried flowers, offered to a small grave.

Raises attack power when a spirit you have summoned dies.

The sorrow that flows from the untimely demise of a loved one is a tenderness shared by all, regardless of birthplace.

The game even draws parallels between the Hornsent Inquisition and the Golden Order's torture methods in the description of the Ash of War: Golden Crux on the Greatsword of Damnation:

Leap up and skewer foe from overhead. If successful, the weapon's barbs unfold to excruciate from within; else, additional input releases barbs in the area. There is something of the Golden Order in the sight of those fixed upon this crux.

After dark, does Limgrave not fill with the screams of the crucified? There is no perfect society— there is no society whose crimes warrant absolute extermination. By giving her the capacity for limitless violence, godhood has made Marika into the perpetrator of some of the greatest crimes in the Lands Between.

We see this effect happening in real time through Miquella's story. While his ideology may initially seem admirable — redemption for those oppressed by the Golden Order, redemption for the Hornsent — on his road to godhood, he abandons everything that matters. The path to godhood is an inherently dehumanizing process and requires of Miquella for him to cast aside everything that makes him him.

Ymir says about Miquella that:

"Ever-young Miquella saw things for what they were. He knew that his bloodline was tainted. His roots mired in madness. A tragedy if ever there was one. That he would feel compelled to renounce everything. When the blame…lay squarely with the mother."

What I believe Ymir is articulating here is that Miquella seeks to atone for his mother's crimes and remove the corrupt order by usurping her position as god, even though he personally is not to blame for these deeds. Hornsent states similar ideas:

"Miquella has said as much himself – he wishes now to throw it all away. He says the act – though undoubtedly painful – will sear clean the Erdtree’s wanton sin. The truth of his claim can be found at each cross. Tis evidence enough to earn my belief."

"Uphold his covenant Miquella shall, and in godhood redeem our rueful clan. Then Marika, and vilest Erdtree both, will at last be from divinity wrench’d."

But in order to replace Marika, Miquella must also commit terrible crimes: he abandons his other half, he beguiles even those who would oppose him into being his very own blind followers. He charmed Mohg and violated his corpse, and Radahn's consent in this whole matter is dubious. In trying to make up for Marika's atrocities by becoming god of a new, kinder age, Miquella leaves behind a whole host of his own sins.

I believe that "the conceits – the hypocrisy – of the world built upon the Erdtree" and "the fickleness of the gods no better than men" are addressing this same idea. Miquella and Marika are no more special or inherently better than anyone else; they become fickle gods and establish hypocritical orders because no human being is perfect enough to wield absolute power with an even hand. Even Ymir himself falls prey to this thinking: he believes he can be a better mother than the ones before him, but he is just as broken as he rightfully points out they were.

This theme goes hand-in-hand with the story's emphasis on the Tarnished as the new inheritors of the Lands Between. From the very beginning, it establishes that it is the Tarnished who are chosen to succeed Radagon as Elden Lord, not the demigods. The intro cinematic announces this:

"Arise now, ye Tarnished. Ye dead, who yet live. The call of long-lost grace speaks to us all. Hoarah Loux, chieftan of the badlands. The ever-brilliant Goldmask. Fia, the Deathbed Companion. The loathsome Dung Eater. And Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-knowing. And one other. Whom grace would again bless. A Tarnished of no renown. Cross the fog, to the Lands Between. To stand before the Elden Ring. And become the Elden Lord."

Enia translates for the Fingers that the Greater Will itself has abandoned the demigods:

"The Greater Will has long renounced the demigods. Tarnished, show no mercy. Have their heads. Take all they have left."

We the "Tarnished of no renown" enter the story at a major crossroads. The time of fickle Marika and her warring demigods is over: by the time we defeat Radagon and the Elden Beast, she is only an empty husk. We are ushering in a new age in which gods are no longer the primary overlords of the Lands Between, in which the power is vested in ordinary people.

I think the array of endings offered up to us further demonstrates this point. Every unique ending, save one, is based around the ideology of a Tarnished, whether it be Goldmask, Fia, Dungeater, or you as the Lord of Frenzied Flame. The only ending themed around a demigod is Ranni's. I've seen people complain before about how you can't side with the demigods and bring about the worlds they envision —Mohg's Age of Blood, Miquella's Age of Compassion, Rykard's destruction of the very gods themselves— but I think this goes against the primary themes of Elden Ring's story. The time of Marika and her demigods is over: now rises the age of the Tarnished. This is why Ranni succeeds where her siblings fail: she wants no power for herself because she, too, recognizes that nothing good can come of a human becoming a god. She explains as much:

"_Mine will be an order not of gold, but the stars and moon of the chill night. I would keep them far from the earth beneath our feet. As it is now, life, and souls, and order are bound tightly together, but I would have them at great remove. And have the certainties of sight, emotion, faith, and touch… All become impossibilities."

Ranni does not wish to become the god of the Greater Will and the worshipped figurehead of the Golden Order. She wishes to set herself apart so that she cannot interfere in the affairs of the Lands Between, unlike Marika and her regime. Ranni's ending reinforces the agency of the Tarnished, while Mohg and Miquella and Rykard's endings still focus around themselves.

Godhood is a dehumanizing force that turns individuals into the most corrupt versions of themselves; the main story sees us supplanting the old, rotten order of the gods as an exiled nobody.

And I think there's no better summation of these themes than Ansbach's dying words:

"Righteous Tarnished. Become our new lord. A lord not for gods, but for men."

[lobselvith8]

Regarding Gaider's "Modern Elves are Partly to blame for their own oppression"

In a conversation with Christina Gonzalez and a few other people on twitter, David Gaider, the former headwriter of Dragon Age, mocked fans of the Dalish. I took issue with his statement and pointed out why people are critical of how he and the other writers handled the Dalish in Dragon Age (while Allan Schumacher of Epic Games had nothing of substance to say in response). The Dalish are nomadic as a consequence of Andrastian societies violently attacking them if they stay too long in one area. The Andrastian Chantry outlawed their religion, making them criminals as a consequence of their faith. Andrastians will threaten the Dalish with violence in an attempt to force conversion to the Andrastian faith. Templars will hunt down the Dalish, and will even torture children. Andrastian elves also suffer from Andrastian oppression as Andrastian humans can massacre all of them, down to the children in an orphanage.

Gaider postulates that one could discuss how the ancient elves were "partly to blame" for their enslavement (let's keep in mind that being slaves is what he's talking about, even though he's careful not to put that into his tweet) or how "modern elves are partly to blame for their own oppression" which is essentially what we are told throughout the whole of Inquisition and the DLCs that accompanied the game (even JoH tries to romanticize the genocidal tyrant Drakon and place all of the blame on the Dales for the elves not trusting the tyrant who was invading their neighbors, forcing conversion, and massacring the people who would not convert - like the peaceful pacifists known as the Daughters of Song).

Inquisition even rectonned previously established lore on the Dalish in order to have characters like Iron Bull denigrate the Dalish. It's a game that will side-step Celene burning thousands of elves alive in Halamshiral while it will demonize the Dalish for wanting to maintain their autonomy from what's essentially a group of colonizers who want to rule over them and force them to convert, and the white Canadian writers (who are from Canada, a place known for its long history of horrific treatment towards Indigenous people) are firmly on the side of those who think that the Dalish (who, as Gaider himself once said at the Dragon Central forums before the release of Origins, were modeled after "Northern Native Americans") are wrong not to subjugate themselves to white Andrastian rulers.

Andrastian elves similarly face hardships because of Andrastian rule. In Ferelden even the efforts of the Night Elves fighting to free the nation from Orlesian rule didn't the elves any greater freedoms once Maric came to power. The Boon of the City Elf faces a number of dire consequences unless the Warden assumes control themselves as the new Bann. Inquisition ignores the plight of the elves of the Dales entirely to focus on a white human noble as the focus of the storyline in the Dales, and you can potentially help chevalier Michel de Chevin (a white man with blonde hair who is part of the chevaliers, a group who murder innocent elves as part of their initiation rite, although this isn't properly addressed in-game) while Briala's role is marginalized in-game despite being the leader of an elven rebellion across Orlais (and she strangely became white despite her in-book description making it clear she's a woman of color, which accompanying artwork confirmed).

Whether you're talking about the slavery of ancient elves or the 'modern' oppression of Andrastian elves and Dalish elves, I don't see how you can blame either the victims of slavery or the victims of racial (and in the case of the Dalish religious) persecution for the oppression they face. And Gaider doesn't seem to understand that at all, which explains the inherent problems with how the plight of the elves is framed within Dragon Age.

[arc-misadventures]

The Dragon Goddess

Weiss: I am the, God Dragon, Weiss Schnee. The Dragon Goddess of the Winter. Tell me foolish little mortal boy; What brings a child to my domain?

The Dragon Goddess, appearing no bigger then a normal human stared down at a four year old boy armed with a wooden sword.

: I am Jaune Arc! The Hero, and I... and, I am here to slay you! Ahhhhhhhhh!

Weiss saw the young boy charge at him, she raised an inquisitive eyebrow as she watch him charged her as he drew closer, preparing to land a, ‘killing blow.’

Jaune: Ooph!

That was until, Weiss saw the you boy trip, and fall on his face. She was about to rush over, and pick the boy back up, but he quickly got back up on his feet, and charged, her once more.

Jaune: Yaaaaa-AH! ("Bonk!")

Weiss stared at the boy as his wooden sword harmlessly bounced off her leg. She stared at the boy for a moment before she collpased to her knees, and cupped her head in her hands, and squealed, saying.

Weiss: THAT'S THE CUTEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN~!

The Dragon Goddess soon keeled over, and huddled up into the fettle position, and stared cry from cuteness overloaded.

Weiss: Soooo... precious...!

(Thud!)

Jaune: I have done it! I have defeated the evil dragon, I am a hero! Hahahaha!

: What the…?! What’s going on here?!

~~~

Juniper: Okay let me get this straight... My son 'attacked' the, Dragon Goddess of the Winter, Weiss Schnee. And, she found his attempt to 'slay' the 'evil dragon' so cute, that she wants to… marry my son. And if we do this, you, the Godly Dragons will accept this as an apology from the humans to dare ‘attack’ a Godly Dragon. Am I getting this right, cause this is just crazy.

Willow: More, or less. My daughter wants your son… apparently she wants to marry him… something about never losing this cute boy. Honestly, I’m her mother, and I’m just as lost as you are.

Juniper: Okay...?

Juniper: There are many things I’m concerned about. More things I’m thoroughly confused about. But, as a mother I must ask: If I accept this deal, is there the possibility of grandchildren at the end of it all?

Willow: There sure as hell better be!

Juniper: Alright then, Mrs. Schnee, you have yourself a deal!

~~~

Years Later

~~~

Yang: Wait… your mom sold you to a dragon god for grandchildren?!

Jaune: Yeah, pretty much.

Yang: And, you’re okay with this?

Jaune: Well… Have you met my wife, and our darling kids? Cause, arranged marriage, and all; it was pretty worth it to me.

Yang turns to see, Weiss playing with her golden platinum blond hair children. She watched as, Weiss playfully chased her children, catching one, and tormenting it to a barrage of kisses, before letting them get away, before chasing her next victim. She smiled as this continued, before she turned back to, Jaune, and said.

Yang: Damn, can’t argue against that.

Jaune: Neither can I.

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Goddess and The Reaper

Summary - Azriel can't help but find himself needing answers after a haunted male enters the Night Court

Warnings - mentions of haunting, mentions of suicide, fluff, memory stealing, mentions of death, mentions of torture, angst

There were many things that kept Azriel up at night.

The safety of his court. The worry that something might happen to his family if he switched off. The nightmares that plagued each one of the seconds that sleep did find him.

Many wondered how the illustrious Shadowsinger hadn’t gone mad yet from the exhaustion. Truth be told, Azriel had his own methods of ensuring his mind and wits were always sharp. The most unusual tool in his arsenal being the acts he conducted upon the enemies of the Night Court within his tower that was shrouded in a veil of shadow.

Something about torturing his enemies brought him a life and energy that nothing else ever could.

There used to be a time that he believed in the fantasies he was told as a child by his mother, stories that he never knew if they were real or not, or if they were somewhat laced with truths of a time long gone.

Before his brothers took his hands, Azriel believed. He believed in the Veiled Woman that drifted through the world, taking away the pain from the innocent and inflicting it upon those who truly deserved it. His brothers had always been afraid of that story, curling up in his mothers lap or running to their father whilst Azriel would listen to every morsel that fell from the lips of the most perfect storyteller there ever was.

Perhaps they were afraid that she would come for them.

A woman. Wise and true. Vengeful. Ethereal in ways that would blind all who would dare to believe they were deserving to gaze upon her face. That was why she wore the veil you see, so that no one would be able to see her. Azriel had always liked to believe that she was doing the continent a kindness by hiding her face, that hiding under a veil of darkness was easier for everyone.

But he couldn't help but wonder how lonely she might have been.

Azriel's hands were bloodied, the substance dripping from his fingers unto the stone cold floor of his tower placed so far from the city so that no one would be able to hear the screams of his victims.

Within the chair before his wickedly darkened orbs, a man panted and squirmed against his restraints. A spy from Hybern had slipped beyond the boarder, and Azriel's shadows had alerted him to the fact immediately. He had propelled himself into the sky, leaving his dining chair in pieces on the floor and his family glaring at him with wide eyes as his wings flexed and swooped him upward into the starry night.

The male wasn't difficult to catch. Not at all.

"I will ask you one more time." Azriel leaned down, the cold of the room settling into his veins and the only sound being the rushing of his victims blood in their veins. The wooden arms creaked under the added pressure of his hands, Azriel leant down, almost bringing himself nose to nose with the bruised and broken male before his eyes. "Why are you here?"

The male began to blubber, soft sobs falling from his lips, and his head fell back, exposing the ice blue of his eyes and self-inflicted nail marks over his sockets. "Please kill me. Kill me before she does."

Azriel frowned, unsure whether to trust the words, but the better part, the more inquisitive part, of him pressed on. "Before who does?"

"The nightmare," the male whispered, eyes opening slightly and sweeping across the room with fear, as if his stalker had followed him all the way to Azriel's tower. "The darkness. The one who brings the pain of a thousand sins and leads you to your death."

Azriel considered himself intrigued. "Tell me about her and I'll make this easier for you."

The male inhaled, his bones shaking beneath his skin, but he nodded, and Azriel knew then that no lie would fall from his lips.

"She appears to you cloaked in darkness with a voice as soft as a lovers sonnet," he began, straining in his seat whilst he recounted, "She speaks to you, she seems to know all the wrong you have done, she knows every awful thought you've ever had. You feel like she understands you, that she's there to wash it away so you can finally rest," his blue eyes clouded and his bottom lip wobbled furiously. "But then she shows you that face, that wickedly beautiful face that lies beneath a veil of black and gold, and gifts you all of the pain you've inflicted on others, and guides you to the grave. Most of her prey take their own lives. I thought that I could outrun her."

"But you couldn't?"

"No one can," his gaze flickered upward to Azriel's, "She was at the boarder of this court, ushering me inside. Now I know why. She was leading me to this place so that I would meet my end."

"Why would she not kill you herself?" Azriel tilted his head at the man, examining his face, drinking in his pain and fear and whatever else was written into the contours of his skin.

"It goes against everything that she is. We call her the Angel of Death where I'm from, a guide to the end. In your land I believe she's known as The Veiled."

The Veiled.

Azriel took a step backward, noting how the male's head swung back downcast. "She led you here?"

"Yes," the male rasped, throat raw despite the blood and bile rising through it. "And she's here now. I can feel her in the air. I can feel her in my bones, in my blood. Please make it go away. Free me of it."

Without comprehending his own movement, as though a phantom limb had curled around his hand and led it to the hilt of his beloved dagger, Azriel slit the throat of the haunted male and listened to his gargles in a haze, only coming to when silence had befallen the room once more.

He couldn't tell anyone about the words, not because he was afraid that they wouldn't believe him, but because he had to find this woman before anyone else found out about her.

Azriel scoured the skies for three nights, trying to follow the pull in his gut that had been leading him further and further from the confinements of the Night Court. Each time he ventured beyond, he would always find some vile creature inflicting pain upon something innocent. One night it was a poacher torturing a trapped doe. Another night it was an Illyrian following a young woman home with nothing by hatred and desire in his mind. And on the final night, the soul Azriel vanquished from the earth was a criminal so foul that he had a bounty on his head placed by Rhys himself.

It was as though whatever was pulling him from the Night Court was doing so for a reason.

On the fourth night, Azriel found himself walking through a woodland so dense with trees that the only light that found him was that from the small gaps between the branches that the moonlight could stream through. The ground was soaking up that moonlight like the last breath before it drowned and wept to the depths of the earths core.

From his hunt, the Shadowsinger understood what the male in the tower meant, the feeling of this creature seeping into the very essence of his being. He had tried to ignore the pull, he had tried to ignore the siren-like coo that would find his ears no matter where he stood, causing Rhys to become somewhat suspicious of the absent mind of his Spymaster.

It was mostly silent save for the occasional hoot of owls and the scamper of night foxes along the forest floor, and further away, the soft rushing of water babbling along a secluded stream.

Azriel was waiting for something, another victim led to him or a rare eventless night, he wasn't exactly sure. Nothing could shake the feeling of her. It was as if he had been curled within an ice cold blanket, and he should have felt threatened, he should have been thrashing and fighting against it, but in all honestly Azriel had never felt more safe, or secure than in that moment.

Idly he found himself following the sound of the flowing water, eager to see where it led with his wings tucked behind his back and fingers not even twitching to his dagger as he ascended a mound, eyes widening when he took in the scene before him.

A large clearing lay at the foot of the mound where he stood, moonlight illuminating every strand of grass and bouncing off the lights of the plethora of fireflies that silently waltzed in the air. Even the water sparkled, like pure, untainted starlight, reflecting against the bark of trees and only adding to the mysticality of the place.

And in the centre of it all stood the woman he had been searching for, he didn't need to ask to know it. The way his heart sang confirmed it for him.

Her veil of black and gold fell over her entire body, though he could make out the point of her nose and the length of her eyelashes beneath it as well as the magnificent shape of her body in the thin black silk gown she adorned. She stood with her back to him, crouching down slowly to run her fingers just below the surface of the water, and all he could do was watch.

"It's about time you found me," she spoke, voice low and sultry, and he could tell without even seeing her face that she was smirking beneath that veil.

"How long have you known that I've been standing here?"

The Veiled Woman scoffed softly, turning on the balls of her bare feet to face him, "In this clearing or my domain in general? Because the answer is since the moment you stepped foot into it."

In all of his years serving Rhys, Azriel had flown over that exact clearing more times than he could count, and he had never seen it the way it appeared to him now. Noting the small cabin at the far side of the clearing, glowing gold and exuding warmth, Azriel took a singular step forward, "You glamoured this place?"

"I am the one who finds people, not the other way around."

"Then how did I find you?"

He couldn't help but hold his breath as she approached him, feet not even flinching as they stepped on jagged rocks and broken twigs until she came to a halt direct in front of him.

Azriel could have sworn that he could see the wordless wonder in the eyes that he couldn't quite see.

The woman tilted her head slightly, fingers reaching up to brush against the sharpness of his cheekbones like a rogue feather in the night.

Isn't it obvious? You're here because I wished it.

Her voice echoed in his mind, in the very depths of his consciousness whilst her hand lay still against the silk of his cheek and her lips curled upward into a smile beneath the lace of her veil.

It was strange how familiar she felt.

But then her touch vanished, and she began to walk away, and the void of ice coiled around him once more, destroying the blossoming sun that had been growing within his chest.

"What's your name?"

She stopped in her tracks, appearing like a fallen angel in the moonlight with wisps of fog parting around her body. A fox cub went to scamper by, but stopped when it saw her, and it tentatively moved closer and closer until it was perched atop her feet, and let out a chipper when she scooped it up into her arms and held it there for a moment.

"It's y/n." Azriel couldn't help but smile at the sight of the fox cub nibbling on her fingers, and she reacted in a way that made him believe that it wasn't an odd thing to happen. "I knew your mother," and with that his blood ran cold.

"You did?"

Y/N hummed in agreement, pitiful and angry agreement.

"Yes," she said, "I'd go as far as to call us friends, but that friendship died long ago."

"She used to tell us stories of you. Of a woman veiled from a the world who took the pain of the innocent and bled it onto the minds of the guilty. She called you Vengeance. My brothers were absolutely terrified of the stories, but I never was."

The brief truth seemed to make y/n smile, she lowered herself to the ground, setting the small fox free into the depths of the woodland before rising once more. "I offered to kill them for what they did to you. Your mother disagreed."

"Is that why your friendship died?"

Silence.

Azriel took another step forward, finding himself needing to be surrounded by her. "No. It ended because she found out what you were destined to be, and she wished to save you from it. I understood, of course."

He wanted nothing more than to lift that veil, to lay his eyes on the face that had always haunted his rarity of dreams, but he knew that no one was worthy of such an honour.

"What I was destined to be?"

Y/N stumbled back a step, eyes scanning him head to toe from behind her veil, "She never told you?"

"Told me what?"

Azriel could sense the confliction.

"You walk alongside death every day and it doesn't fear you, nor you it. Do you remember a time where the idea of death and the life after it didn't terrify you?"

The Shadowsinger contemplated the question, but he answered truthfully, "No."

"Our fates are entwined. They always have been. You have seen my face before but you don't remember it, I had to erase myself, I had to let you live your life until you were ready," y/n told him, she turned away, slowly walking further from him but Azriel couldn't let her, and perhaps he made a mistake when he reached out and curled his fingers around her wrist.

The world tilted. Azriel felt energy course around their bodies, bright but oh so dark and delicious.

Y/N was stuck in her place, black silk kissing the ground and intricate lace flexing over her mouth from the rapid breaths that she was releasing into the air. Azriel moved round her, not letting her go for even a moment, and found his marred fingers grasping at the hem of the veil, slowing lifting it so that it slowly revealed her to him inch by inch.

Soft skin.

A body that could make even the most holy of men crack.

Thick, luscious hair.

A neck carved by the gods.

A pointed chin.

Perfect nose.

Feline eyes.

Azriel suddenly understood why her victims went so mad that they took their own lives. Y/N was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, the most beautiful thing anyone would. Perhaps it was a final mercy that the last thing her victims saw was that face.

The veil fell to the floor in a puddle.

"You have lived in my dreams for centuries, since I was a little boy. Why?" Azriel whispered, his fingers booking beneath her chin and lifting her captivating eyes to meet his.

"I am the Goddess of Death, and you," she reached up, taking his face in her perfectly carved fingers, "Azriel, you are my Reaper."

You walk alongside death every day and it doesn't fear you.

"I cannot kill those that I hunt which is ironic, I know," y/n chuckled gently, hand still caressing the sides of his face, "You were brought into this world to protect those you love, to avenge all pain and threat. You know the stories, you know of the prophecies."

The Goddess and her Reaper.

There was something festering within his soul, begging to be released, asking to be unlocked so that it could run free. It was something golden and bountiful, something that had been suppressed for too long.

"I erased myself from your mind. I have lived eons keeping an eye on you but not allowing myself to get too close apart from on the odd occasion when I just couldn't stay away." Y/N pulled his face to hers and ran the tip of her nose along the bridge of his own. "You have a family, and life with me is as complicated as it gets. I'm not exactly accepted."

"What are you saying?" Azriel asked breathlessly, feeling his soul slowly cracking open and slits of golden rays peering over the shadow that had shrouded him always.

"We are mates, Azriel. I saw you 400 years ago and I knew, but you were hurting," y/n frowned, but then it vanished and became replaced with a smile, "And then you were building your family. You were in love with Mor, and you were training with Cassian and protecting Rhys, and poking fun at Amren. I couldn't take you from that, not when you were feeling the most loved and appreciated than you ever had."

"So you dragged yourself in and out of my life as you pleased, and forbid me from remembering this face?" Azriel traced the pad of his thumb over her lips.

"I thought that I was protecting you by staying away."

A swelling breeze danced around their bodies, sweeping sleeping leaves from their beds and rustling branches overhead. "Let me remember you."

It took a moment, but then it happened. A key slid into the lock around his soul and the force of his essence burst through it like it was some kind of exploding dam. Images flashed in the forefront of his mind, of secret meetings, of cabins at night, of bodies entwined, of promises and wishes, of loudly declared words, and of a love and passion so deep and powerful that Azriel knew that it took something equally as powerful to cloak it.

After the images subsided, all Azriel could do was hold his y/n closer, pulling her tighter to his chest and commanding, "Don't you ever take those away again. I will steal any soul that you wish, I will vanquish anything from this earth that you order me to, I will serve you until my last breath, but don't you ever take those away from me. Not again. Not ever."

"I vow it. If I do then I will meet my end, I swear it."

And with the magic that ran through the veins of Prythian, Azriel and Y/N felt a burning in their flesh, embedding the vow into their very bones.

When they both peered downward at their forearms, all they saw were two twin ravens flying in a circle before the eyes of a starry night.

Author's Note

WOOOOOOOO

I'M BACK BITCHES