#what can i say? i am enchanted with embittered characters

[mr-culper]

You know, one thing amazes me, I see it all the time, in real life, in books, in movies. I don't understand why people don't realize one simple true. There's a really interesting scene in episode six of season two of House of the Dragon. The scene where Alicent steps up to Aemond after the Small Council meeting and says: “Have the indignities of your childhood not yet sufficiently been avenged? ” She doesn't understand everything that Aemond had in his life, especially in his childhood, made him the person he is now. It's not about whether his indignities were avenged or not.

He is already the person his journey has shaped him into.

In this scene, Alicent kind of asks Aemond to stop, but she doesn't understand he has passed the point where retreat is possible; whether he still wants to or not, turning back is no longer an option. There has to be something so important to Aemond in the balance pan so that he stops from turning Westeros to fire and blood. And that something, I think, is love.

Love could stop Aemond. But no one wants to give it to him. Even worse, no one in his family has thought to measure off Aemond a little bit of love and compassion for years. If we want a man to give up war, offering him something instead is the necessary thing to do. However, Alicent in this scene asks Aemond to stop being a war criminal, but gives him nothing. She provides him no alternative. So he continues to push forward on this destructive way he's taken.

There is a similar scene in Black Sails, only there the character is given a different path, and ultimately, he makes a choice in favor of this proffered alternative. In season four, Silver asks Flint would he trade the war to have Thomas Hamilton back again or not. And this alternative that Silver offers, albeit theoretically – they didn't yet know Thomas is alive, although Silver already guessed it, but wasn't sure of it – this alternative is so significant and serious for Flint that the scales are balanced. On the one hand – war, rage, revenge, destruction and death; on the other – peace, tranquility, love, future and life.

It would seem that for most people, sensible ones, the choice is obvious and simple here, and in the end, Flint abjures violence and chooses love. However, this decision was not easy for him to make, because both he and Aemond are on the same path: he is already the person his journey has shaped him into. Even the theoretical probability of returning to who Flint was, taking into account what kind of person he has become over the past ten years, seems utterly inconceivable to him.

Flint doesn't even answer Silver when he asks. Only after a long while does Flint say: John, you asked me, I gave you no answer then, but I'm telling you now – I don't know, in truth, I have no idea what I would do if I really faced with such a choice. Flint said, in all honesty, he doesn't know would he choose love over war?

When Flint was James McGraw, he would have given up on the war right then and there, without a second thought. But he is not James McGraw anymore. He is Captain Flint, and Flint is a completely different person. It's the same with Aemond. It is totally unimaginable for him to turn back when Alicent asks him if the indignities of his childhood have not yet sufficiently been avenged. We remember, by that time he had already killed Luke and crippled his brother. Aemond has taken his revenge. So why doesn't he stop after that? Whom is he taking revenge on now?

The matter is that at some point Aemond, in exactly the same way as Flint does, begins to avenge every bit of pain that was caused to him not only on his offenders, but on the whole world, on the entire personification of what has been hurting him for so long. It's quite possible, by the way, Aemond takes revenge not only for the insults, but also for the love that was not given to him, I mean, for its absence.

Before Aemond had his eye cut out, he would probably have let go of all his grudges, chosen some kind of peaceful path. I already said in the previous episode that, firstly, Aemond has a heart, and secondly, it is merciful. (I didn't come up with it, Ewan Mitchell talked about mercy himself.) But Aemond had to turn his heart to stone because of everything surrounded him. Joe Abercrombie has a character, Isern-i-Phail, who often repeated to one of the main characters next words: “You must make of your heart a stone”. I think somewhere inside Aemond has a similar Isern-i-Phail, giving to him the same advice. Because Aemond has made of his heart a stone as well.  

His heart was very soft, but it became very black.

Ewan Mitchell even said in one of his interviews Aemond would most likely have become a maester. But Aemond's eye was cut out – just like Flint's heart did when Thomas was taken away – and he became not a maester, but a dangerous and skilled warrior. Aemond chose the path of war and revenge. The same one Flint had been moving along for ten years.

Actually, there are many parallels between Flint and Aemond. They are both extremely tender and vulnerable on the inside, but absolutely bulletproof, stern and explosive on the outside. Both bear an open, constantly bleeding wound in their hearts. Both are without equal in how far they are willing to go for the sake of their goal or their revenge. But the most interesting thing is that both of these characters have enormous potential of doing good works. Only the pain caused to both of them turned out to be so great it has just about blocked all that is good in them completely. Both Aemond and Flint had gotten burned so badly that later they are almost unable to deviate from the path they took because of it, because of this old burn wound.

Perhaps Alicent doesn't understand why Aemond acts the way he does, why he cannot change his course, because she perceives life differently. Easier in a way, although she has many her own overwhelming internal affairs as well. Because again, Aemond, like Flint, takes things that happen to him very personally. So personally, it ultimately leads to wars and catastrophes. This element of resistance inside them both, it is so strong, their rage and inability to leave the dark and ugly road they are walking, at the very end of which there is the gaping mouth of the grave. They didn't want to enter upon this path, Flint didn't want to, Aemond didn't want to, but they did. When it happens, one can't do otherwise. There are things that affect us, and we become who we do. Some people are made of good things, while others consist of unhealed wounds. It's a matter of luck, in a way.

Neither Aemond nor Flint would have chosen this path of their own free will; pain forced them to take this step. Now, turning back to what was before is almost unthinkable for them. Although it is possible. Only for that a powerful alternative is required. In the case of James Flint, we see he pulled round, he got out the dark towards the light. But this happened only because he had an alternative. Aemond has no alternative and never had one, so he began to descend into the darkness lower and lower, and according to the book, he will end up in the darkness. According to the show, most likely, he will too.

That's an excerpt from the new episode of the Tea & Rum podcast 'No one is born to be a villain'.

To find more episodes go to Boosty.

[shortskirtsandsarcasm]

The Raven and the Reindeer Review

The Raven and the Reindeer is the November-December Mythtake book club read. I haven’t taken part in this book club before, but The Snow Queen, on which this book is based, is one of my favorite fairytales, so I decided to go along for the ride. The rough storyline is that two best friends, Gerta and Kay, live next door to each other, but Kay has a shard of cold, enchanted glass from a magical mirror embedded in his heart, which primes him to be susceptible to temptation from the Snow Queen. Kay follows the Snow Queen to her palace, and the community gives him up for dead, but Gerta is certain she can save him. She completes a hero’s journey style adventure to get Kay back from the Snow Queen and encounters various eccentric characters and challenges, including a talking raven. This review contains “spoilers” for the original story — don’t @ me, you have had 176 years to read it.

In preparation for reading this book, I reread The Snow Queen story in my Amazon Classics edition of Hans Christian Andersen’s stories. I think this is edition is either done by a different translator or is an abridged version, because The Snow Queen story and others in the collection were missing details that I remember from my well-loved edition that is currently residing in my parents’ garage in California. For example, the witch Gerta encounters at the beginning of her journey shrinks the rose bushes in her garden back into the ground, so that Gerta will not remember her quest to find her friend Kay, or that the rose bushes grow back, watered by Gerta’s tears when she cries about not being able to remember something important.

Similarly, the Robber Maiden character does not “tickle” Gerta with her knife, nor are there snowflake soldiers guarding the Snow Queen’s palace. The snowflake soldiers are my favorite detail from the story, and I am very sad they were not included in either this edition of Andersen’s stories or The Raven and the Reindeer. Where are the snowflake soldiers??? Bring these bad boys back.

Kingfisher takes several liberties with her retelling and the story is better for it. Gerta still believes that Kay is her soulmate, but also engages in a female-female romance somewhere along the way. The talking raven makes an appearance as well (duh, it’s in the title), and in this version, helps Gerta shape-shift. Exciting.

By expanding the parameters of the original story, Kingfisher can give the characters more depth and development. For example, in this version, Gerta thinks critically about her relationship with Kay, and how he displays toxic behavior (because of the evil glass in his heart, definitely not because of toxic masculinity and the patriarchy).

This makes Gerta reevaluate why she wants to save him in the first place, and if that will be worth it for her (and him). When they eventually do come back together, they will have a lot to talk through for their relationship going forward.

Kay is the only male character in the entire book, and he is a very passive character, so the narrative is female-driven. The exploration of old women is also a big part of the story and shows the different paths ahead for Gerta herself as she ages. The first witch she comes across (the one with, or rather without, the rosebushes) is obsessed with holding onto her relationship with Gerta and preventing her from leaving, much the way Gerta views her relationship with Kay.

Next on her adventure, Gerta meets a storyteller who agrees to help her in exchange for her story, so she can entertain her community. Gerta relays her adventure so far but warns that it is so bizarre that no one will believe it. The storyteller assures her it does not matter; that people are less interested in facts as much as feelings.

“No one wants true stories. They want stories with truth dusted over them, like sugar on a bun.”

Gerta’s entire motivation for her trek to the Snow Queen’s palace is her feelings for Kay, without regard for the realities of their relationship, including how Kay does not appreciate her as much as she deserves.

The next woman she encounters is the Robber Maidens grandmother, a grumpy woman who brags about her cannibalism like a totally normal person.

“Stop it,” said Janna, annoyed. “You ate a man once fifty years ago, and you relive it like it was your glory days.” “Everybody should eat somebody once,” said Nan. “Changes your mind about a lot of things. Aaha!”

Gerta views Nan as a “bad” person — possibly because of the cannibalism thing? Who can say — and projects her fears about her own future onto Nan. Gerta is worried she will grow to be lonely and embittered like Nan if she does not find her #soulmate Kay.

The last old woman Gerta encounters is Livli, a woman living presumably near or north of the Arctic Circle, whose secret knowledge of magic helps Gerta shapeshift. Livli is a morally neutral character who shows Gerta how to be self-reliant without being embittered, and by facilitating her literal shape-shifting, helps her “shape-shift” from childhood to adulthood. After this, Gerta can finally be comfortable with herself.

The addition of the characters of the otters who pull the Snow Queens sleigh was charming. It was almost enough to displace my displeasure about losing the snowflake soldiers…almost. The otter herd was cute and funny and was both an interesting obstacle, and eventually a helping influence. The portrayal of the otters as a single entity with many bodies enriched the “herd” vibe and enhanced the surreal comedy. Otters also sound very cute and I would love to have an otter herd as pets and travel everywhere by sleigh. Maybe “Snow Queen” is my dream job? Highly doubt I will be promoted in this economy, though.

To conclude, T Kingfisher’s acknowledgments section is possibly the best I have ever seen. I snort-laughed at the “Hans Christian Andersen was a weird dude,” opener. In continues

“Hans Christian Andersen. Wow. His idea of a happy ending is that everybody dies attended by angels (or if you are very very fortunate, in church with your feet cut off)…I have not the least doubt in the world that he would be utterly horrified at what I have done to the Snow Queen.”

LOL. I was delighted.

[orderoftheavengers]

A Game of Idiot Balls

Summary: Steve Rogers and Tony Stark decide to settle their differences once and for all  with an epic, illegal Quidditch match.  But a sinister Durmstrang student spikes everyone’s food and drinks with fire-whiskey  and hobbit weed, and hexed all of the Quidditch balls, turning them into literal “idiot balls,” causing all the Avengers to think, speak and act wildly out of character.   

TEAM STARK: Captain: Tony Stark

Beaters: Tony Stark, James Rhodes  

Chasers: Natasha Romanoff, T'Challa, Vision

Keeper: Friday

Seeker: Peter Parker  

TEAM ROGERS: Captain: Steve Rogers

Beaters: Steve Rogers, Clint Barton (using arrow-spells to deflect balls)

Chasers: Wanda Maximoff, Sam Wilson, Scott Lang

Keeper: Charon Carter

Seeker: Bucky Barnes

A Tragic Accident

The “civil war” that destroys the Order of the Avengers begins with a disagreement and a badly-aimed fireball.

It’s a deceptively sunny day in October, and students are milling about on the grass, after studies.

“You’re not the guy to make the tough call!” Steve Rogers challenges. “To lie down on the burning coals and let the other guy walk over you!”

“Rogers, it’s wizard’s chess. We’re supposed to sacrifice our pawns to violent deaths for our own agendas. Oh would you look at that, guess my knight and your bishop have chosen to make love instead of war.”

“Stark, I’ve warned you about enchanting my stuff with your perverted humor!” Steve fumes.

He’s still angry at Tony Stark for adding rude speech throughout his sketchbook. Being wizard pictures, the sketches actually say them out loud. From Steve’s schoolbag, one can hear a muffled voice recite, “There once was an elf from Nantucket, who saved all his farts in a bucket. He could get laid with any elf maid, so he lubed up his hand and said—” Steve hastily shuts his bag.

Tony makes a rude retort about Steve’s (lack of) dating life, and things escalate. Soon they have their wands out, and have drawn a crowd.

“Honestly,” Rose Weasley says loudly, “why can’t the Americans teach their children how to wager?”

When the boys expressed their confusion, Rose explains: “Here in the civilized world, when two gentlemen have a disagreement, they solve it with finances, not fists. Make a bet on something, if you’re so eager for competition!”

Scratching his goatee with his wand, Tony ponders, “Okay…What should we bet on?”

Suggestions start coming from the students around them, each stupider than the last.

“Which Quibbler articles are true!” suggests Lysander Scamander, son of Luna Lovegood.

Loki lifts his broom-wand threateningly. “How about whether or not I’ll have ‘performance issues’ this time, Stark?”

A mandrake classmate in Hufflepuff finally suggests, “I am Groot!”

“Don’t be stupid Groot,” says Rocket (a raccoon/niffler hybrid, in Slytherin). “You can’t light a fart on fire, even with magic.”

“I am Groot.”

“Huh? No way, you have not done it before.”

“I am Groot! I am Groot, I am Groot.”

“Fine, go ahead and show us.” Rocket folds his furry arms.

Peter Quill’s eyes flare. “Groot wait—!”

With a flick of his wand, and a mutter of “I am Groot” (which his wand can translate as “Incendio”), the mandrake’s bum lights up. Groot enjoys a moment’s giggle, before the poor plant realizes his entire body is now aflame.

“I AM GROOT!” he is running around the castle, on fire. “I AM GROOOOT! I AM GROOT! I AM GROOOOOOOOT!”

“The fire’s gonna spread!” Steve gasps, pointing at some flames that have already left the mandrake to spread through the grass.

Thinking quickly, Ravenclaw Wanda Maximoff uses her wandless-magic to create a bubble, trapping the flaming Groot in a contained fireball. She carefully lifts the screaming, flaming tree up and away from the crowd… until her hand slips, sending Groot and his fireball into the Gryffindor tower, obliterating it.

Luckily no humans are killed, but a many hours of homework and a couple of pets are lost.

A mustached house-elf with glasses, irritated by the mess he must now clean up, yells down from the tower, “Don’t make me come down there, you punks!” The Potter Accords The incident inspires the Ministry of Magic to take action, in the form of the Potter Accords.

This controversial new document puts heavy restrictions on the way teen wizards and witches are allowed to go about solving mysteries and saving the school from evil.  

Quidditch now has safety rules; deadly creatures larger than three meters are now required to sleep outside the castle; heroes under the age of 15 will need signed permission slips to solve deadly mysteries or fight dark wizards; the moving staircases are now required to have railings; and applicants for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor must now pass background checks.

Tony, having recently been guilted by a Durmstrang student who lost her owl to Ultron, and has been dumped by Pepper for being “too out of control,” is desperate for a chance to alleviate himself from of some of the guilt he’s been building up over the years. So he voices his support for the Potter Accords.

Steve on the other hand fears the Accords might contain an agenda, and he hates agendas. He joined the army to fight agendas. He refuses to sign.

Duty-bound Gryffindor Jams Rhodes argues with gut-following Hufflepuff Sam Wilson over the issue. Vision begins a logical argument in favor of the Accords, and ends up on a tangent about all of the plot holes in “Harry Potter.” This in turn leads to a lengthy debate on how responsible of a headmaster Dumbledore really was, which circles back to the Accords. The Avengers are beginning to break apart.

Long Live the King

This Halloween, Hogwarts hosts a special banquet for the adults deciding on the Potter Accords. Nicodemus Fury is unable to attend, busy battling some basilisks on a Muggle airplane . But many parents and guardians are present, including King Odin; Peter Parker’s Muggle Aunt May; and King T’Chaka, whose son T’Challa is attending Hogwarts this year as an exchange student.

T’Chaka is giving a toast to a peaceful semester, when suddenly, one of the decorative floating Jack-O-lanterns shrieks, “LONG LIVE THE DARK LORD!” and explodes in a fireball.  Among the casualties are the drummer for the Weird Sisters; another Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher; and King T’Chaka.

Evidence points to one Hufflepuff vampire student named Bucky Barnes.

“Evidence” here meaning, “a fuzzy wizarding photo, of such poor quality that you can barely even make out the middle finger the blurry figure is waving at the camera.” Vice-Headmaster, and Head of Gryffindor House, Thaddeus Ross, and three of his underlings, have personally asked the wizard-photo who he was, and the blurred photo assured them: “I’m Buck Rogers and I bombed Hogwash! I mean Hoggle-wart! Whatever it’s called. I’m that vampire guy who’s friends with that hot Yank with the blue-green eyes. I’m not an embittered Durmstrang kid trying to f*ck with you all, I’m Bucky Barnacle, also known as the Winter Solstice, and my prank-pumpkin killed the king of Anaconda! I’m dangerous hooligan that needs to be corrected! And to those mourning, I highly recommend the pumpkin juice and chocolate frogs. They’re sure to clear your heads.” The experts, having already overdosed on the unusually addictive pumpkin juice and chocolate frogs, express surprise at the Winter Soldier’s Eastern European accent, which Bucky had never displayed before. Nevertheless, the Dementors float over to the Hufflepuff table and snatch up the young vampire, just as he is reaching for the bowl of plums. Poor Bucky is swiftly muzzled and chained to a kinky iron chair, and magically transported up to the Third Floor for his detention, while his fangirls around the castle look on. The Idiot Balls Snowball… Bucky professes his innocence, but is assigned detention for a “careless and dangerous prank that cost lives.” His detention is supposed to involve working on homework with a tutor—a Ravenclaw nerd no one had seen before. The Ravenclaw turns out to be an invading Durmstrang student named Helmut Zemo, cleverly disguised with a pair of glasses. Zemo Imperius-Curses Bucky into going on a vampire rampage throughout the school. Steve finally punches Bucky back to his senses in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, where Sam catches up to them. The trio quickly deduce that Zemo is behind everything. In any other installment of this series, they would rush to communicate the situation to the other Avengers. But instead…. "We can’t trust Tony.” Sam declares. “Huh?” Steve stares at his friend. “Where did that come from? Have you ever even said two words to Tony?” “He won’t believe us.” Sam presses. Steve just gapes at Sam. “…Tony…whose own mentor betrayed him, won’t believe that the suspicious nerd we all just met is a bad guy? Tony, who witnessed Clint and Erik mind-controlled by Loki, won’t believe that Bucky was mind-controlled?” “Even if he does believe us,” Sam continues dramatically, “The Accords might not let him do anything.” “Let him?” Steve laughed. “Okay, I know Tony’s in a ‘follow the rules’ mood at the moment, but do you seriously think Tony Stark would let that stop him from helping us in this situation? Tony, who carried a NUKE for the whole planet and almost died to save all our asses? What’s gotten into you, Sam?” “It doesn’t matter,” Sam says distantly. “For I am you, and you are me, is he as she as we can be.” The spiked food and drink suddenly hit Steve too, and his eyes widen in understanding. “If everybody is nobody, than nobody can be anybody!” Bucky finishes, “I am the walrus!…Geddit? Cuz I’m a vampire, and I has fangs… okee-day I’ll shuddup now.” Steve proceeds to barely ever mention the crucial issues at hand to Tony and the others.  Who in turn, never once bother to ask what the heck is going on. Instead, both sides focused their arguments on the Potter Accords, and stumble forth through their “civil war” like idiots. Pointless, drunken arguing eventually leads Tony and Steve to finally agreeing on a wager: whether or not Tony can find a better Quidditch Seeker than Bucky Barnes.  Tony sets out to find that Seeker, and both boys start recruiting for their Teams… Picking Teams: Before teams can be arranged, Thor and Bruce Banner are given a detention by the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher (yes, they got another one that fast).  This completely pulls them out of the action, unable to participate in the “Civil War” Quidditch match. Tony and Steve agree that the two teams need and equal number of players, as well as one token female Avenger and at one token Black Avenger, each. Falcon laughs, “Imagine if this hadn’t been a planned sport, and had just randomly worked out that way!” Rhodey chuckles, “You’d be more likely to stumble on a recording of one of the Winter Sorcerer’s top-secret missions!” A knut is tossed to determine who gets Natasha, and Tony wins, putting Wanda on Steve’s team, despite her currently sharing Tony’s motivations. But after so much spiked pumpkin juice and butterbeer, almost none of the Avengers are thinking very hard about logical motivations anymore. “Rescuing” Wanda: Already tickled pink (scarlet?) not to be in Azkaban for her past crimes, Wanda is relieved that her only punishment for obliterating that Gryffindor tower is a normal detention in her own Commonroom, under her House Prefect and boyfriend Vision. They decide to study for Home Mag. class, baking pumpkin cake using levitation. A bespeckled, mustached house elf named Stanley delivers the ingredients. Unbeknowenced to Vision and Wanda, but knowneced to the audience, this “house elf” is in fact villain Helmut Zemo, disguised with the Polyjuice potion. The cake mix he gives them is laced with Hobbit Weed from the Shire, and the butterbeer is spiked with Firewhisky from Rosmertta’s. Later on, Hawkeye—already suffering the effects of Zemo’s spiked refreshments—leaps down from the vents into the middle of the Ravenclaw commonroom. “A little tall for a house elf?” Wanda snarks, as Clint brushes dirt and rubble off of his robes.   “My name’s Clint Barton, I’m here to rescue you!” Clint says theatrically. Wanda shakes her head in confusion. “Rescue me from what? Baking cake in a luxurious common room with my boyfriend? It’s a bloody miracle I wasn’t in Azkaban even before all this!” She takes an angry bite of the freshly baked pumpkin cake. “And really Clint, I’m kind of appalled that you of all people—the family man, who taught me responsibility and all that—are trying to get me to break out and go criminal, much less now of all…of all……” Her voice becomes distant and dramatic, as the drugs in the cake begin to take hold. “…of all the commonrooms in all the castles in all the world…he walks into mine.” Vision watches in bafflement as Wanda abruptly switches from sensibility to…whatever the hell had gotten into Clint. “Wanda,” Vision warns, “If you do this, they will never stop fearing you.” “I can’t control their fear, only my own.” “I….I think that just may be the stupidest response to a call for responsibility I have ever heard in my short life,” Vision replies. “Though that is kind of a nice inspirational quote, out of context. Maybe hold onto that line and save it for a more appropriate sce—” “STUPIFY!” Wanda cries with a flick of her hands. Her wandless spell sends poor Vision flying through the stone floors of Hogwarts, down to Moaning Myrtle’s toilet, where he is flushed into the lake and swallowed by the Giant Squid. Wanda follows Clint to the Quidditch field, where the Avengers prepare for the most epic, illegal, drunken Quidditch match ever. Pressuring Peter Parker Meanwhile, Tony is doing some “recruiting” of his own. First-year Peter Parker enters the Ravenclaw commonroom to see a big scary seventh-year with an evil looking goatee flirting shamelessly with Aunt May, on one of the long, blue, eagle-footed sofas. The adult Muggle woman laughingly dismisses the high schooler’s dirty flattery, with comments about not wanting to end up in prison or on “Opra.” Wow, Peter thinks, this kid’s got some balls. The only person in all of Hogwarts stupid enough to try hitting on an adult Muggle would have to be—

“Oh my god,” Peter gasps. “You’re Tony f*cking–!” “Ha! I wish.” Tony says jovially, while Aunt May makes a dismissive Oh you, gesture. “Peter!” Aunt May smiles over couch. “You didn’t tell me Tony Stark was tutoring you!” “I was just telling her about that essay for Medieval Troll Literature I proofread for you,” says Tony, while making a subtle face.   Playing along, Peter stammers, “Um, yeah, those Trolls are always really big on spelling and grammar.”

Tony and Peter go up to the latter’s dorm, supposedly to look at Peter’s “troll essay.”   Once they’re alone, Tony whips out a Wizard Card. “Question of the rhetorical variety…. that’s you, innit?” On the card is a moving picture of Peter, done up in his spider cloak and hood, kicking ass. Below is a short description of the mysterious “Spider Wizard,” and his various talents, which include “flying tricks that make Harry Potter look like a tool.” After some adorkable quivering, Tony finally gets the truth from Peter. “So why do you do it?” Tony asks. “What makes you willing to undertake all the crap Harry Potter did, with none of the sidekicks and helpful mentors and direct recognition he had?” Peter stammers, “Well, when you can do the things that I can do…and then you don’t…and then the bad things happen….it’s your fault…” Tony frowns. “Why do you sound so awkward? Do I intimidate you?” “No. It’s just…. there’s a specific sentence that explains, exactly, why I’m the Spider Wizard. But whenever I try to say it I…. I can’t. It’s basically along the lines of me having these huge advantages, and needing to use them.” “You mean like, 'With great powder comes great redundability?’” Tony blinks and shakes his head. “Wow, tongue-tied! What I meant was, with great Shamwow comes great resale ability–” he pauses again, baffled by his own misbehaving mouth. “See? You can’t say it either! It’s like there’s some kind of magical block on that specific sentence, so no one can ever say it!” Tony strokes his goatee thoughtfully. “Seems like a Copyright jinx…Bastards. Anyway,” Tony lifts his wand, “Accio Upgrade!” Several shattered windows, five toppled book shelves, two unconscious first-years and one screeching cat later, Peter is geeking out over his shinny new broom and magical cloak, with special enchantments to keep his identity and body protected. The Slytherin sixth year then blackmails the little Ravenclaw into joining him in an illegal Quidditch match that afternoon. “But aren’t first years banned from playing Quidditch unless they’re Harry Potter?” Peter asks as they fly towards the Quidditch pitch. “I dunno, maybe.” “Could you like, go to prison for making me do this?” “Possibly.” “Cool! We’re outlaws!” “Er…. yeah… the law… the thing I was fighting the Cap about….erm……….. So! Ready to prove you’re a better Seeker than Barnes & Noble?” “Yes sir!” the first year says eagerly. Black Panther Newly crowned King T’Challa believes Bucky killed his father, and vows revenge. When Steve and Tony approach him in the Courtyard, T’Challa agrees to the match and joins Team Stark, purely so he can avenge his father.

“The Black Panther has been the protector of Wakanda for generations. A mantle, passed from warrior to warrior. And now, because that little sh*t incinerated my father, I also wear the mantle of king. So, I ask you Rogers… as wizard, warrior and king… how long do you think you can keep your blood-sucking little Emo safe from me?” Steve can only stare blankly, not so much out of fear for Bucky, as horror over seeing another Gryffindor stealing his gag of dramatic speeches…and doing it infinitely better.

Tony points out, “Well I’ll have to ask you to wait until after Parker catches the Snitch to kill Barnes—”

“I will not kill the vampire,” T'Challa swears solemnly. “I will put the wooden stake of my broom through his undead heart, as I tear his head from his shoulders using only my Vibranium jaws, painting the land crimson in a symphony of vengeance and justice for my father, my kingdom, and centuries of colonization.”

By now even the giant squid is staring silently, as is Vision, who is dripping wet and dangling from one tentacle by his ankle. Tony adjusts his purple shades. “So that’s a yes? Sounds good. We meet at the Quidditch pitch right after dinner.” A Sinister Enchantment By they time they reach the Quidditch pitch, everyone has had a taste of stupidity. Before supper, Zemo secretly poured Firewhiskey into the pitchers of pumpkin juice and all the bottles of butterbeer, and fed Hobbit Hemp to all of the chocolate frogs. But it’s about to get much, much worse. Because Zemo has also put jinxes on all of the Quidditch balls, turning them into literal “idiot balls.” A different jinx is cast on each ball. On the Quaffle, Zemo casts Dramatis Personae, a sinister spell that causes anyone within three miles of the ball to speak and act overly dramatic manner, at the cost of common sense. On one Bludger he casts Sequelitis, which exaggerates the victim’s personality traits to idiotic proportions, and on the other Prequelitis, which makes people say and do things that contradict common knowledge about their own history. And on the Golden Snitch, he cast the most insidious curse of all: Fratres Russo, the spell that erases the victim’s human empathy, for the sake of all of the above-mentioned spells’ ends. Resuming his house-elf disguise, Zemo lurks below the bleachers to watch his work unfold. Let’s Get Ready to Rumble! The Quidditch bleachers are filled with blazed classmates, and even a few professors. (You can bet the Grand Master found a way to attend both this and his other blood-sport at the same time, with the help of a Time Turner.) Throughout the game, the teams’ supporters blast muggle music from the stands: Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man,” and the theme to “Team America, World Police,” attempting to drown each other out.   Before the game begins, Tony flies out into the middle of the field on his “iron broom,” and announces: “Before we do this, let’s go over the ground rules.”

Everyone listens intently, except Steve Rogers and Charon Carter, who are kissing drunkenly.

“Rule Number One!” Tony bellows sternly. “There will be no touching of the hair or face…”

Steve chimes in, “And that’s it! Now lets do this!”

With this being the only rule, T’Challa sees no reason not to take on his Animagus form, and leaps from his broom at Bucky Barnes, while the vampire races Parker to the Snitch.

“You’re a vampire with a robot arm?” Peter exclaims at Bucky. “That is awesome dude!”

“It’s not robotic, it’s enchanted armorAAAAAAA!” Dodging vibranium claws, the little vampire shrieks under his rock-star hair, “FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN’S MAGICAL BALLSACK, I DIDN’T KILL YOUR FATHER!” “Then why did you run?!” the panther demands in a growling voice, taking another swipe. “BECAUSE A GIANT PANTHER, HORNY TEENAGE GIRLS AND A LITERAL ARMY ARE TRYING TO TEAR ME LIMB FROM LIMB! WHAT THE F*CK KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT?!” Bucky dodges the cat once more, and yells hoarsely to the universe, “All I wanted this morning were some f*cking plums!” Meanwhile, Friday and Charon Carter both give up on their jobs as Keepers, since on the rare occasion that a ball of any kind actually comes anywhere near the hoops, it is often not even the Quaffle. As tensions and blood-alcohol levels continue to rise, so does the anger and the violence. “God Tony, I can’t believe you pressured a kid into fighting your dangerous war!” Steve Rogers accuses, as he hurls a massive thestral-carriage onto Peter Parker.

The “Spider-Wizard��� catches the carriage in both hands, losing the Snitch, and tosses the vehicle into the bleachers, where it crushes Galaga Guy.

Tony yells back to Steve, “At least I’m not snogging my ex-girlfriend’s niece, perv!” “No,” Steve counters, “just your surrogate little brother’s aunt. Freak.” “He’s got you there!” a tiny voice bellows from the bristles of Tony’s broom. “Who are you?” Tony searches for the speaker. “Your sex life,” Scott Lang, in ant-nimagus form, replies. “We don’t talk much anymore.” During the action, Vision accidentally hits Rhodey with a curse that transforms him into a merman. Unless this curse is reversed, Rhodey will never walk again. Tony is coming closer and closer to his breaking point… Steve is headed for Team Stark’s hoops with the Quaffle (forgetting that he’s supposed to be a Beater right now, and not a Chaser). Black Widow soars over on her broom and stops in front of him. The Quaffle that Steve holds is still enchanted with Dramatis Personae.

“You’re not gonna stop, are you,” Nat breaths dramatically, as the Quaffle’s jinx radiates at her. “Power to the people,” Steve replies with an intense stare. “Gondor has no pants, Gondor needs no pants.” In the most cliched way she can muster, Nat sighs, “I’m gonna regret this…” She takes out her wand, and transforms her own team’s Keeper, Friday the snake, into an orange basalisk, now much too heavy for the tiny broom Tony built her. As the goalie plummets to the ground and Steve scores, Tony hollers at Natasha, “What the hell was that? Is the double-agent thing just hard to shake?” Nat glares at him. “Are you incapable of letting go of your ego for one minute?” Tony bobs in the air on his broom, baffled. “Okay, I’m not denying I have an ego the size of Jupiter, but what the hell does that have to do with anything right now?” Breathing deeply, Nat retorts over dramatically folded arms, “I’m not the one who needs to watch my back.” “…what?” Nat shrugs. “I dunno, I’m stoned.” She pulls a chocolate frog out of her robe and offers it to Tony. “Pot-frog?” “What in the hell are you—Ooo, don’t mind if I do, thanks!” Tony lets the stoned frog leap into the air and twirls on his broom underneath, catching it in his mouth. Later on, no one can clearly remember how the game really ended. The one thing everyone can agree probably wasn’t a hallucination was Scott Lang, in his “ant-nimagus” form, taking someone’s “Engorgio!” charm, and growing from a regular ant to a “Them!” ant. Peter Parker then recalled the muggle film “Empire Strikes Back,” and used his own Animagus powers to web Scott’s six legs together, just as the latter was reenacting a Monty Python skit with one of the Quidditch stands. (Said skit being the one with the giant Siamese cat.) Peter then snagged the Snitch, and Tony’s team won. Peter, still holding the Snitch, is now doing a little dance.

Under the conditions of Steve and Tony’s bet, the losing would team take the blame for the illegal Quidditch game, should any teachers ask. Vice-Headmaster Thaddeus Ross did ask, and assigned all of Team Cap a detention of a sadistic sort.

“For the next month,” Thaddeus says sadistically, “You’ll all be imprisoned in the Giant Squid, at the bottom of the lake!”

Steve opens his mouth to protest. Just at that moment, Peter Parker, still dancing on his broom, enthusiastically throws the Snitch behind him. The tiny golden ball goes flying right into Steve’s opened mouth, knocking him backwards into Bucky. Both tumble off of their brooms, and plummet below the bleachers. How Not to Handle Your Teammate Seeing His Parents Killed By Someone Standing Right Next To Him, And In the Same Instance Learning His Comrade Also Standing Next to Him—You—Knew All Along By sundown, everyone within a thousand-mile radius of Hogwarts is roaring drunk, and higher than a hippogriff. The Avengers have just spent several hours handling those jinxed Idiot Balls. But the worst victim of the Idiot Balls was Steve Rogers, who has accidently swallowed one. The worst one—the Golden Snitch. After speaking with Sam in the Squid-Detention, Tony finally realizes that Zemo is the bad guy. He bids his Quidditch opponents goodbye, as the Squid coughs him back up onto dry land. Whipping Squid slime off his robes, Tony mounts his broom, and goes to find Steve and Bucky. Steve and Bucky are chasing a chocolate frog, that tells them it knows where Zemo is. It leads them to the Forbidden Forest. As the sun sets, the frog takes them further and further into the Forest, finally stopping at a glowing stone basin. Tony catches up on his broom, and starts to apologize to them. But suddenly, his broom gives a strong jerk, throwing Tony head-first into the Pensieve. The Peniseve contains one of Bucky’s own missing memories, from his time as the Winter Sorcerer. This is how Tony learns that his parents did not die by accidently aparating into a werewolf’s den, as the Daily Prophet had reported. They had apparated safely to their vacation destination, only to be greeted by one of Howard Stark’s old friends, now a vampire that seemingly didn’t recognize him. When the Pensieve dumps Tony back into reality, he understandably snaps. And yet, Tony never takes any of the ample chances he has to blast Bucky’s or Steve’s heads off, instead going for throttling and blasting metal arms off. It’s almost as if he’s simply having a human reaction to something traumatic, rather than genuinely trying to murder anyone. But Steve is still being influenced by the golden idiot ball he swallowed.  After mentioning Bucky’s mind-control situation once (in a bored voice), Steve never brings the issue up again. Instead, he spends the rest of the fight bellowing corny lines at Tony, like, “This won’t change what happened,” and “I could do this all day!” The enchantment on the Snitch he ate now has Steve viewing Tony as another generic villain, in need of generic heroic lectures, instead of a comrade who’s just watched his parents get killed by someone standing right next to him (and in the same instance learned the other guy standing next to him knew for ages and kept it from him). “Steve, seriously!” Bucky yells, as Tony blasts off his metal arm, “If you’re not gonna mention my mind-control to him, then just stop talking!”

Ignoring him, Steve heroically holds up his fists and bellows to Tony, “I could do this all day!” “You already said that!” Tony snaps, aiming his wand for another blow. Steve retorts, “Down with the Empire! Remember Alderaan!” and punches Tony repeatedly in the head….in the exact same manner Tony has just watched Bucky kill his father with in the Pensieve.

Shockingly, Tony remains pissed. With a finally corny cry of, “Gondor lives!” Steve breaks Tony’s his wand in half with his shield, ending the fight. Which, in total, lasted about twenty minutes, if that. About the amount of time one might expect a blind rage from someone in Tony’s position to last. Tony then shouts his famous, “That shield doesn’t belong to you!” line. At this point, a sober Steve Rogers would come out of his rage and realized that Tony was now incapacitated, visibly cooling down, and still conscious, and that this was the opportune moment to apologize, remind Tony of Bucky’s mind-control, and get everyone back on track against Zemo. But that Golden Snitch, oozing with the Russo curse, still flutters around Steve’s innards. So instead, Steve dramatically! drops the shield, and heads off into the Forest with Bucky. To Steve’s credit, his Gryffindor chivlary prevailed when he dropped the shield he was “unworthy” of; his common sense and empathy just… didn’t. A Royal Hairball T'Challa is perhaps the only individual who clearly remembers leaving the Quidditch field that day.

Near the end of the game, he had Bucky in his claws. The Animagus opened his panther jaws to begin another epic speech of revenge. But instead of powerful words, out of the panther’s mouth came pained, wheezing gags. Bucky just stared emo-ly under his rock star hair. T’Challa motioned with a paw that he had to excuse himself from the game. The panther leapt from broom to broom until he reached the bleachers, then rushed underneath them to cough up a violent hairball.  Up with the hairball came most of the Firewhisky and Hobbitus Cannibus that he had been unknowingly ingesting all day. His head now clear, T'Challa has been reflecting on the day’s events. He recalls that when the suicide-pumpkin detonated, Bucky Barnes was sitting next to him, snogging Steve. And now that he thinks about it, Barnes doesn’t seem have any trace of a European accent. Could it be that the man evil enough to murder his father might also be evil enough to lie about his identity? Still in panther form, T'Challa begins sniffing for clues… T’Challa finds his way to the Forbidden Forest, where he sees Steve, Bucky and Tony fighting, and Zemo cackling from behind a bush. The panther catches the culprit, and gets the truth from him at claw-point. Helmut Zemo is an embittered and eccentric Durmstrang student, who blames the Order of the Avengers for the deaths of his imaginary wife Gwendolyn, and their three imaginary children, Huey, Dewy and Damocles. Vowing revenge, Zemo set out to destroy the Avengers from within. T'Challa’s Gryffindor chivalry now comes to light, and he realizes, “You have let revenge consume you. It has consumed them. I’m finished letting it consume me.”

T’Challa, still in panther form, drags Zemo back to Hogwarts like a dead mouse, and delivers him to the Dementors. T’Challa later apologizes to Bucky, and offers the vampire amnesty in the secret wizarding nation of Wakanda. Prison Break! Soon after the fight with Tony, Steve belches back up the Golden Snitch. As his head clears, Steve realizes how stupid he’s been. But Tony’s already gone. Steve focuses on the comrades who need his help right now. Sam, Clint, Wanda and Scott are still serving detention inside the Giant Squid’s stomach. Coughing up the Snitch has given Steve an idea.

Steve returns to the lake, and with raised fists, yells and the Squid to come face him like a man. The Giant Squid obliges. Steve then drops his dukes and whips out his wand.

“Accio Nausea Fuel!” A Muggle television set comes soaring forth in from who-knows-where. Playing on the TV is a movie, incidentally staring a relative of Zemo’s: “The Human Centipede.” The Squid is soon puking Steve’s teammates back up, one by one. When Thudnerbolt Ross contacts Tony about the jail-break via the Floo Network, Tony “accidentally” dumps the contents of his snakes’ litter boxes into the fireplace, “missing” the call. How Not to Apologize: Steve then writes an apology letter to Tony, or tries to. Unfortunately, Steve is still half-drunk when he pens and mails the letter, and still suffering some residual effects of the Idiot Balls, particularly Dramatis Personae and Fratres Russo. As a result, Tony ends up reading an embarrassing vanity project about Steve’s life and philosophical musings, spattered with lazy and cliched justifications. Tony finds it particularly ironic that Steve dodges giving him an honest explanation for keeping the information about his parents from him, in the letter where he is “apologizing,” specifically, for keeping information from Tony. Not long after, no one is surprised to see Tony Stark strolling out of the girl’s bathroom, whistling over the sound of a flushing toilet and an angry Moaning. But people are a bit confused when Tony throws up his hands and says, “Great, now I got ink all over my butt!” Separate Ways: Everyone on Team Cap is expelled from Hogwarts, as is Natasha, who violated school dress code one too many times.  Hawkeye and Scott Lang finish their education from home through owl correspondence courses. Charon Carter returns home to America. The rest join Steve Rogers in forming an independent study group in Hogsmeade, to finish their schooling. Tony continues tutoring Peter Parker, both for normal classes and being an Avenger. He gets himself much-needed psychiatric help, and gets back together with Pepper. In Wakanda, T’Challa’s brilliant sister Shuri builds an impenetrable, magic glass coffin for Bucky, and begins working on a way to make him immune to the Imperius Curse. Once cured, Bucky takes work tending the flocks of thestrals on the Wakandan castle grounds. “How does it feel to come so far…?” Ministry Auror and former Ravenclaw student Everett Ross stops by Helmut Zemo’s Azkaban cell for a gloat. “So,” Everett teases, “How does it feel to come all this way, only to fail?” “Did I?” Zemo replies sinisterly. “An empire that is defeated by its enemies can rise again, but one that crumbles from within, that is dead.”

“And what’s that got to do with this?“ Everett asks. "The Avengers only crumbled due to an outside enemy—you.” A cruel smile begins to spread on Zemo’s face. “Only because I exposed the true nature of the Avengers.” “If this was about their ‘true natures,’ then why did you have to get them all to act so out-of-character, and inhumanly stupid, in order to make this ‘civil war’ happen?” Everett retorts. Zemo says quietly, “where do you think I got the Firewhisky and Hobbit Weed to spike their food with? who do you think taught me those jinxes, to turn the Quidditch balls into Idiot Balls?” Everett can only stare, now totally lost. Zemo sneers, “From the writing staff! My goal wasn’t just to destroy the Avengers as a team, but as a franchise! Yes, peering beyond the Forth Wall is an especially difficult form of Divination, which I have mastered! Today, I exposed to the entire audience how little the writers truly care about their characters, story or audience, if there’s a chance for cheap ‘drama’ and cartoonish fanboy-service! The MCU’s worst film, in any universe, has exposed to all the fans that this is nothing more than a cheap popcorn franchise. Watch now as the superhero genre loses its steam, and begins to collapse from within. Look at the DC movies, it’s already happening!” Everett can only stare at the sad, strange little man behind the barred window. Azkaban truly does drive its prisoners to incurable madness.  Shaking his head, Everett takes his leave.

AN: Guess what my least favorite Marvel movie is. And those naysayers said I couldn’t write an AU fic, a parody, and a movie review all in one post!

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, TARYN! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE MOON with the faceclaim of FRIDA GUSTAVSSON. In spite of a few understandable bumps in the road, you really blew me away with Maiden! The Moon is a very understated character, to me, in that their subtleties and smaller notes are what really make them interesting. You took them in a direction I wasn’t expecting, but I enjoyed the ride nevertheless -- I also enjoyed the ups-and-downs of the plots quite a lot, and how you tied everything together with a nice little bow in regards to her interest in botany and the past which she is still trying to uncover. Altogether, this was a delight to read, and I can’t wait for Maiden to grace the dash!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC NAME: Taryn PRONOUNS: She/her AGE: 21+ TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST & currently I’m stuck at home and rarely allowed to leave the house because I’m immunocompromised… bleh. In a week or so I’ll be considered okay to rejoin people, and then I’ll be on the job hunt - which I only mention because it may change my activity ability once that’s happening! I also do help out behind the scenes at another roleplay, so some creative juice goes there. Overall, ideally I’m at least online everyday to chat, plot, or post a reply. Some days the ole mental health needs me to stay off screens for a bit or just says You Aren’t Writing Today, but I’d say it’s been a while since I’ve gone more than 3 days without posting on an rp account, so whatever that translates to -- 7/10, maybe? ANYTHING ELSE?: Other than what I already messaged you about (and thank you again for your understanding!!), I just want to say I interpreted things a little differently than the recent skeleton edit/your anon answers imply -- I thought her magic manifested at thirteen with the instance of Moon freezing her mother’s arm, meaning her mother knew from that early age that Moon had powers, and only told Moon to leave when the rumours spread. I think that switches up the dynamic you might have imagined, but hopefully you still like it! I was also a little confused as to whether or not the Moon’s mother ever instructed her in the work she does -- because there is the “All she ever does in return is chuckle and pat you on the head, but you figure that she’ll tell you one day.” line, but it seems that’s when she’s younger, and I figured if she’s working as a botanist at the castle she must have been lessoned in the stuff to some degree. So there is mention of her mother teaching her botany in her history, but it’s not an ~important detail at all and could literally just straight up be removed from the bio without issue. Can you tell I’m anxious and need to over-clarify everything? Lmao. Anyway, thanks again Julie!! IN CHARACTER SKELETON: The Moon NAME: Maiden Mallorian / “Triss” I don’t largely go into naming conventions but I think there’s some worth in discussing it here! The use of Maiden as a given name is meant to embody an Otherness by using a commonly-used noun in place of a traditional name (... though I guess all names are nouns too… anyway), as well as a mystique. EG: If every young, unmarried woman is a maiden, then who is the girl we call Maiden? Is she all of those young women, or none of them - is she a person, or a concept? Can a woman even have an identity with a moniker shared by so many -- a similar question to can a girl have a sense of self if she is raised in isolation, if her teachers are not people but the meadows, the crows and the heaths and the moors? There’s also certainly the archetype of The Maiden in literature, particularly in relation to the trio of Maiden / Mother / Crone. Beyond her mother embracing this triumvirate of feminine archetypes and deliberately naming her after as much, there’s just that very literal interpretation - I’ve named her after the maiden archetype, pure and simple. Her mother is, clearly, the mother, and I see the High Priestess rounding out that divine feminine trio as the crone -- the most aged of all, the closest to death, and the bearer of the most knowledge. Furthermore you have the scrubbing of this name and the replacement of it with Triss -- a simple, short nickname that bares no importance or meaning, and instead effectively erases the things that made her unique. Maiden tends to forget or, at least, forgo introducing herself with the alias both because she dislikes and genuinely forgets to use it -- so you may have a smattering of people who know her in-character as Triss, but to those that she knows better and/or takes a liking to immediately, they’ll know her as Maiden. Which, if I’m continuing to be a little extra with the name analysis, is also a good representation of her duality/contradiction -- two names, two selves, two parts to the moon (glowing at night; invisible by day-hours), the illusion/deception part of the moon tarot, and all that jazz.   FACECLAIM: (1) Frida Gustavsson (2) Ashley Moore AGE: Twenty-five DETAILS: So, full disclosure, I’ve said it a dozen times to a dozen different people but I had the hardest time deciding on a character -- I was literally stuck between five or six skeletons until like 48 hours before the submit closed. They were as varied as The Moon to Temperance to even the dark horse of The Hermit plowing its way through my heart, and what attracted me to that array of characters on the whole was just the ability to see a story in them. I could find in each of them a distinct past and complex future, but the Moon ended up pulling ahead as I started to collect inspiration and jot down notes -- it was Maiden’s story that wouldn’t leave me alone. And I will go into an attempt to tell you why below, but realistically that’s almost the best reason I could give you -- because they won’t unstick from your shoulder or let you reach for someone else. They demand to be spoken for. Truthfully, I love tales of daughters and their mothers. I love the narrative passed between them, how one can be an extension of the other -- I love a retelling of an immaculate conception where the magic is found in the mother, not an absent-holy father (even if said immaculate conception is just myth, because who says a story isn’t as important as a truth). I love women and their stories, and how no girl is ever so far from being a witch -- basically, I adore that Girl Magic, so it was her background that appealed to me first. Because while we’re talking about Girl Magic, there’s such a potential for that with The Moon. I saw her at the crux of an eccentric mage and a clumsy apprentice, possibly hovering in the middle because she has no instructor, only herself -- so she is forced to experiment and create and learn all at once. I also love archetypes of wild women, though that doesn’t have to mean the ones that run with wolves -- sometimes it means the ones who sleep next to them. I’m very drawn to stories of the Others, the ones a half-step from society, who hold something unusual and distinctly enchanted about them -- and Maiden, whose magic has manifested in a way that may prove unique to all humanity, certainly has that Otherness going for her. Women in real life (and in fiction) are so often grouped into homogenous categories or expectations that being able to write one who not only defies societal conventions, but exists outside them entirely, and with contradictions inside her -- phew. That’s some shit I can fall in love with. I do find it difficult to dissect and lay out who Maiden is so plainly -- to me, that’s like writing an analysis on a novel I haven’t finished yet. I can’t separate her bones for you yet on the table because I’m still unrolling them from the skin myself, measuring out the angles of her joints, sizing up her feet, etc. But I like that I know this muse is going to unravel for me with time, despite how much I already have done -- that’s actually a very important note to me in a character, feeling that there is still progress to be made as both myself and the muse go through the roleplay together. Though, that being said, I also don’t remember the last time I’ve been able to create such a long-term character arc from the get-go -- which is super exciting, tbh, and yet another reason I got drawn into the Moon’s lunar pull over the others. Got me out here feeling like I could write a novel 😭 BACKGROUND: let us begin, as all stories do - and as they must - at the beginning. to be fair and honest, as stories never are, we must admit that this is not quite the true beginning. that beginning, in this case and all others, would mean the black-star start of the world (or in the very least, if we are to cheat just slightly, the origins of magic - but i digress), when everything came from nothing and nothing meant everything. but for both your time and mine, we will skip past the first red, slashed dawn of the world, and even beyond the fantastic sky-breaking initiation that brought magic, though they did not come all that far apart, as you may think. i also feel that it is my duty to you, dear reader, to state my bias. that is all. i state it. i type it in bold letters, black like stones from the bottom of a cold ocean and just as cold. it has been relayed, and i have done what is necessary. i have no obligation to further explain to you what it may be, or to who i am favored or embittered - indeed, i staunchly oppose such action, as you yourself must have an active part in this tale, a responsibility to seek out what is truth and what is exaggeration - and there is no point in asking. but don’t read too much into this. all this facetious, drawn-out text is only a disclosure. this is a story, real as your whale-blubber bones, and i am not lying about any of it. all i mean to say is this: it is a sign both of humanity and of narration that we should always, must always, pick a side. it is simply necessary, just as it is necessary to remember this when one is the listener. never believe a narrator who does not disclose themselves upon the opening of a story, and never trust one that calls themselves impartial. they are lying. it is only natural to crave loveliness, or wickedness, or both, and it can only be expected that a tongue slants and bends to accommodate such reactions of the heart. there is no story that is all truth. there is only love and the words we create to try and express it; never quite accurate, never quite enough, like a burr soaked in honey and left on your tongue. stinging and sweet, but no matter how you try, you cannot spit it out. (remember, look closely, but not too hard). this is our story. i leave it in your mouth. there are three things in succession: a bargain, a girl, and magic. the order of these both matters and does not. it does not matter because all these things are one and the same in the end. it does matter for reasons that will become apparent shortly. there is, as many tales go, an unhappy woman (why it is never a man that is so morose and dissatisfied with life in these stories, we shall leave for the scholars to explain). she lives in a stretch of land where few who are not seeking her come, and spends her days shucking the cures and harms out of flowers and counting the wolves that pass by her road. the first bargain, by all accounts, happens some time ago, before we begin the meat of our tale: the woman lives simply but she lives alone, and for that fact alone she is considered both strange and in necessary want of a companion, for it is a truth universally acknowledged that even a peculiar woman is in want of a husband. yet no sojourner or knight come to her door seeking remedy is invited to stay longer, no boots left at her doorstep despite the impressive if not daunting presence of her beauty, and in the absence of romance the people in the farmlands grow restless, then talkative. what does a woman want beside a mate, they wonder? particularly when she is young, and beautiful, and alone, they add, because in these stories and every one that will be told thereafter until my throat is split in a great red grin, that is all that matters to an active audience. a child, they murmur finally. it must be a child. there are varying accounts of what happens next, but let me give you the gristle: a swell comes to the solitary woman’s belly, and in more moons, so comes a daughter. no one remembers when she is born, and it is something of a wonderment that she exists at all; far and wide she is eyed thrice-over by all those who see her babe form swaddled in her mother’s arms, wondering over which crib she has been snatched from. the farm-folk in the nearby flatlands believe that she was not stolen or bred but placed, a changeling offered to her mother in exchange for a bargain made with the undying god, or conjured up by spell and pure maternal desire alone (for you were a fool if you believed these simple folk saw a woman, young and beautiful and alone and with her fingers in the dirt, and never called her witch). others still swear the child came from the unfolded petals of a white flower, her minute form bundled up where the pollen was meant to be. whether this gossip speaks to the audacity of the men in the telling of the lie or the stupidity of the listener for believing something so unnatural, i will let you decide. or perhaps you believe in magic. do you? i digress. so as you are learning, the first bargain is both unimportant and not. completely individual and irrevocably part of a far larger, grander whole, indistinguishable from the rest. but next comes the girl, as i promised. and she is very, very important. she is our story. she is her mother’s in full, because blood and magick are one and the same, and the farmers are right in this alone: her mother loves her as meat loves salt, as lions love flesh and blood and not cabbages, and there is no unnatural thing in this world she would not do to make her borne. she loves her from dusk to dawn and dirt to moon, and so she gives her a name stitched with irony so that the fates will not sew it into her bones: maiden. a thing from every story, a girl on every street. she names her after a concept so that she will always be real, made of life. so that the tales whose paths she walks will not decide for her. mother and maiden live in the little cottage in the wide grasslands between wicked wood and dry cropland, and in the nothingness they have everything they need. mother hunts for their supper and teaches maiden to carry a bow when it is time, and more importantly how to give thanks to the beasts they carve up on the wooden table. they collect logs for fires and till the gardens by hand, taking from the earth all that they need and never - as mother instructs - a drop more. they play games of knots and crosses in the dirt and maiden makes dramas with the figures mother whittles, and to give you the very best truth of all, they want for very little that they do not have. she learns how to be a raven (observing), a fox (clever), a rabbit (swift), a riddle (everything all at once, and only sometimes a girl) from mother and the animals both, and she walks about the meadows barefoot and learns from the trees and birds, loves them the way she never loves people only because she has not had the chance. mothers and fauna are all well and good to take lessons from, but they do make a strange girl. she tells her secrets to the bees and watches the far-off puffs of smoke from the farmlands, pretending they are streams from a dragon’s nostrils and not the warmth of a hearth with children her age sitting next to it so that she does not feel sorry for herself. to her, there are but two people: her mother, and the people she trades with. it is not so bad; they are both very good at being alone, and the people of the nearest town are even better at reminding them to stay that way. when they blow into the hamlet on the western breeze maiden makes games of hanging off porches and climbing things that should never be touched, and she laughs so freely all the other children cannot help but come out from their hiding places and join her until their fathers call them back in. not with her, they say. not that one. — but o, how sweet and precocious a child she is when the visitors come, wrists knotted behind her back and eyes tied forward as she questions their intentions and demands, as if in secondary payment, life stories as recompense for mother’s skills. how you would have loved her, i tell you, that girl with her flaxen hair and moon-eyes, tugging on sleeves and walking the verbal-stride of a child who never learned how to shrink herself — how i love her even now! and if i must tell you something else: magic is rarely courteous, and almost never consolatory. when it arrives, no matter how many pieces of furniture i have shifted in my heart to make way for a girl called maiden, it comes with no such open space in its pit. where i have crafted an open sitting parlour it has bedroom sets and wicker fruit baskets and even a few grand lamps (never mind the fact that lamps do not yet exist; in the cavity of magic, there are always lamps), and so when it arrives she feels the weight of all these things dropped upon her head. and mother, who does so well at holding her silence it resembles a newborn babe swathed in cloth, still grips the quiet as carefully as church glass - even with one arm in disuse. you know by now, of course, what has happened. it is no secret to you or i what occurred that day, as some pieces of stories swell until they brush up against the audience independent of the narrative altogether. the effect was grand even if the moment was not, for unfortunately sometimes even the greatest plot devices happen when the writer is sleeping and cannot pause to fancy it all up. one moment a hand is merely a hand passing twine and foxglove, the next it has frozen in place. it might have been a lovely image under any other circumstance: the look of a pale, slim arm grasping a hanging purple head of flowers beneath thick, glittering ice like a delicately painted carving in a snowglobe. But indeed, how the image shook them instead of the other way around. in an effort to distract her, mother peels open the earth’s secrets at the seam and lets her peek into the sticky, moist centers and slurp the knowledge for herself. she shows her how to unfold plant-magic on the large wood table and lessons her on how to use it kindly in poultices and elixirs and bunches of dried ravensmaw. she learns what is used for fresh wounds and the herbs best combined to stave off heartbreak, and they are more similar than you think. but things are, distinctly, never the same: in a house that has only ever had two voices, there arrives a great sweeping of silence. mother is far-away in a place of wondering, the spot where mothers are ought to go when considering how best to protect their child. maiden too spends time in that same seat questioning who it is that has made her and why they stole from two separate bowls of clay, though the pair never seem to sit down and share a table in that place in peace. life goes on this way, i am loathe to report, until it gets worse. there is an awful quiet that does not leave that house, suspended between the unasked questions of what to do and what am i? maiden is kept from leaving the cabin or its surrounding pasture in ever-climbing extents until she is nought but bound to them, and mother makes the trips to the farmlands for supplies alone and ushers her out of the room when clients arrive. so, here she is in full, with flaxen hair and a moon hidden underneath her tongue: clever and strange, curious and lovely, tall and just a little too spindly-boned. a raven, a fox, a rabbit, a riddle, and sometimes a girl. magic bound in bones. a shut-in who never had reason to grow a heart, but did anyway, and now she is left to the lonesome. truly, can we blame her for what she did next, for answering the door all those moons later simply because someone knocked, and letting them in without checking if their teeth were bicuspids or fangs? can we fault that lonely creature for believing she could help, and fixing the tonic herself rather than waiting for mother, as instructed? can we accuse her for what came next, the slimmest moment of ice crystals skittering across a workbench, cold little diamonds that another less-shrewd eye might have ignored, but this one picked out? and what of the day the child got lost with a thorn in its foot, how she snuck from the cabin and cooed for them till it was yanked free, the simple smoothing of her thumb over the sole leaving it smooth as milk — i ask you that, in true: what crimes would you charge her with? do you blame the tiger for its hunting? it is only following nature, after all. or do you cast your stones on the people who threw nets through the trees and called it protection, expecting not to bleed. one cannot take in a wolf and expect it to never look back at the forest, no matter how well fed it is kept. like a flower cannot choose its colour, we cannot help what we become. she could not help what she did. it was only in her nature. so like rain, like a black cloud, like bad omens, the rumours come for the maiden, the one in the meadow, the one in the little wooden hut with the strange-beautiful-alone mother. daughter is even worse than the mother, they say. i heard it was ice — no, wind — nay, she is vitalus too — they build and rise until mother-maiden can hear the gossip in the air, having travelled by raven-feather and west-wind. of course none of it is the truth, for she bares a reality that no one yet knows — something hidden away like an egg inside an egg at the deepest part of the world — but it does not matter. audiences do not look for fact, they clutch only to wickedness or sweetness, as i have already told you. mother grows panicked with hydrangeas of fear spouting out of her ears, demanding a flight to be taken, and daughter lies awake at night wondering how to do so without wings — questioning how it has come to pass that she knows the roots and berries and grass, but not the woods or how to survive in them. you know, still, what happens next. there is another knock at the door, and despite lessons learned, the maiden answers the call: and this time it is death standing there waiting. they come to an agreement. sometimes death, too, is kind. history peeks its lazy, pinned-down eyes around the corner when the maiden of this story leaves her little hovel, fingers made of revolutions and religions clinging tightly to the doorframe to watch her go. the journey is perilous and full of dark places and occasional humour, if you are interested in that kind of adventure. i will tell it another time, when the back of my tongue has been given rest. i wish i could tell you, dear reader, which sort of story this will be: drama or comedy, mask one or mask two. but i don’t know yet. we will find out together, which makes us accomplices, you and i - like colleagues. two thieves after the same jewel. i have told her story because i love her, this much you know to be true by now, because we do not let the ones we love tell war stories. which is, in essence, what every story we can ever tell is: a battle of wits, or a conflict of hearts, or the combat of self against self. there is always a fight against something. it’s the nature of humanity, to push and poke and burn. —- – and now you see what i meant at the beginning of this tale: bargain. girl. magic. all of it comes in that necessary order and none at all. bargain. it arrives first, before her birth, a rumour; at the same time, it is the last twist, the thing that brings her to this castle. girl. she is born; she exists. magic. her blood, her marrow; a complexity of sparks and hope. a beginning, a middle, an end. a circle. a moon. PLOT IDEAS: These are laid out in a potential arc/chronological order of when I see them happening, but with the exception of a few, almost any combination could work! I. SHUCKED FROM PETALS. I’d like to grow Maiden’s role as a botanist -- both in terms of having her interest in botany itself swell, and also expand this into something of an inventor or potioner function. While she’s currently making strange concoctions at the King’s request, as an inherently curious woman I see these demands as something that will spark interest in her to create on her own. While in her youth she quizzed her mother on the applications of leaves and stems, now that she has no mentor for the process, she can only question and find answers by working through the hypotheses and methods herself. II. ON THE BASIS OF MORALITY. I see very strongly Maiden descending further into the plot to assassinate Septimus and joining the group of revolters in a more tangible way. Her ability to fight and knowledge of courtly life are both lacking, but she offers a unique vantage point of visiting all manner of individuals with the perfect excuse -- their health. As she becomes more decidedly entangled in the rebellion efforts and subsequently offers up her services to them, she begins to craft salves and potions with hidden effects, used in application against those they stand against (a poultice made with an herb that lends to truth when tending to someone with information / a drought with added pollen so that a guard may sleep through their shift that night, etc). Less fleshed out, but still worth noting: if the laced salves and elixirs are a no-go, she could slide into something of a spy/informant role fairly easy. Again, she has easy access to any array of people as the castle, and can come and go from different bedsides silently -- listening in on conversations all the while. III. FASTER THAN MINE ARROW. At the behest of the revolution -- where intentions ring with righteousness yet impact may be less virtuous -- I see Maiden encouraged to embrace her Inferni powers by rebel cohorts. While it’s not a path I see her arriving at and walking on her own, as she entrenches herself in the ideals and plots of the revolution, it would still be a willingly-made choice -- albeit perhaps still a reluctant one. She far prefers to heal than harm, but as the plot to kill Septimus ripens, she would accept the notion that an offensive skill gained by her becomes a shield and sword to the cause. I interpret this as less of an embrace of violence and more an eventual acceptance of her magic in all its parts; Maiden removing her gloves and making attempts at practicing Inferni magic brings with it an acknowledgement that not only are these powers part of her but they are hers alone to control. If she can develop some mastery over them, she can use them as she sees morally right, rather than their use dictated to her by others (so she believes). I want to see her not think of her magic as an intrusion and a mystery, but rather some native at the pit of her -- like stone in a fruit. As long as it is there, one could not bite straight through her. Sub-bullet because it’s not a huge thing, but I’d love a moment where she’s practicing with the ice in the greenhouse and loses control, subsequently destroying much of the flora in there beyond salvation -- cue a sobbing Maiden. Also! Would love to use this as an excuse for the Hierophant to become a sort-of mentor for her -- a dynamic she would undoubtedly seek out and beg for if the time came. IV. WHERE TRUTHS CONFLICT. As clearly as I envision Maiden’s loyalties knotting tighter to the revolutionaries, I don’t believe her resolution is iron in every aspect. While she may agree that King Septimus needs to be removed, deciding which successor she wishes to support would be far harder. This plot could be as simple as indecision and uncertainty on Maiden’s part, or could be as complex as a more nefarious individual taking advantage of her courtly ignorance and indecisiveness by manipulating her into backing their pick for future ruler. V. THE CURE & THE RUIN. Working intimately with anything lends to cross-contamination -- including poisonous plants. My thoughts on this fork a few different ways here, albeit my personal fave is the first bullet: Through her own misinformation or inexperience, Maiden accidentally begins to poison herself through prolonged exposure to toxic flora and their materials. Seeing as she’s in the greenhouse for hours at a time nearly every day, this would lend to a good, steady incline of symptoms -- paranoia, delusion, hallucinations, etc until they potentially culminate in a kind of temporary “madness.” An individual or party on the loyalist side discovers what she is doing for the revolters, and applies the same concept -- a slow poisoning, made to look accidental by exposure to the wrong flower. This may be less likely as it might be implausible for another character to have a knowledge of botany that surpasses her own and plant something toxic in the Greenhouse without Maiden realizing, but I’m totally open to it! Similar to the last, rather than a loyalist poisoning Maiden, they find a way to access her stash of concoctions and alter them so that they harm rather than heal those she is working with. Could be particularly dramatic if she is working long-term on a member of royalty or influential revolution member -- ie. something like visiting them daily to apply salve on a new wound that needs consistent tending. VI. WHAT ARE YOU, SWEET CREATURE? Maiden’s dual powers are bound to come into public knowledge eventually, and I think there’s the opportunity for some terror and delight there. I’ve been ruminating a lot on what the hybrid of her Inferni and Vitalus powers mean -- An Inferni rarely lives past thirty, and Maiden is already twenty-five. I’ve been imagining that she has not seen or felt the costs of her power like other Inferni due to the innate nature to heal, which is undoubtedly something other Inferni would desire. Whether Maiden willingly lays herself down to experimentation in the name of aiding the Hierophant or she’s literally captured by Septimus and crew for a less careful kind of research -- I’d love to see her secret blown up and her safety compromised as a result. VII. IT HURTS TO BECOME. I have little octopus tentacles coming out of this plot because I can see multiple variations on the same idea, so -- As inspired by the “Vitalis magic often manifests itself in nobility” line from the magic page, Maiden is discovered as the descendent of a noble bloodline. This could mean her father was the bearer of a title, or that even in a Mother Gothel-esque fashion her mother took her from a family in the desire to have her own child (though I favour the former). This is less about an advancement in her social standing/hierarchy and more about playing further with the themes of birth and identity. Particularly as an individual that isn’t well-matched to courtly manner and expectations, what would it be to disturb her peculiar existence further and force her into a lifestyle she has no interest in? How does it detract from her purpose and goals? Her mother is found out as someone who previously stayed at the Temple of the Undying and departed in some form of scandal known to the High Priestess. I think this would be particularly impactful if her mother’s time there overlapped directly with the High Priestess, and their relationship marked by some form of betrayal on her mother’s end. This would make her mother a necromancer, a fact that if going from this route was certainly kept from Maiden, or we could work with the concept that perhaps she was merely an emissary there. This bullet is less formed as it would require plotting with at least one other player, but essentially it boils down to braiding the High Priestess into her backstory (or, at least, the Temple of the Undying) -- a completion of the maiden/mother/crone build, if you will. Realistically, the above could be combined -- her mother has a past tied to both the Temple of the Undying, and her father is of noble descent. Lastly, this idea could also be twisted into a falsehood/manipulation of someone from Septimus/the Loyalist side -- she does not have noble blood and/or her mother’s past is made up, but they have fed her this story(s)  in an attempt to distract/derail her from her purpose, or otherwise sway her onto the side of the Crown. VIII. THE MAIDEN IN THE TOWER. I see very clearly what Maiden could be in years time -- in the same way the King has the Tower, or perhaps even The High Priestess, I envision the capacity for Maiden to become an advisor in the arcane arts to the future ruler. This is very epilogue-esque content, the resolution to a tale long told, something far-off and subject to change depending on how the roleplay unfolds -- but if I was planning her arc from where I stand now, that would be the resolution. A femme!Merlin now in tune with her magicks, a strange figure forever working away in her greenhouse-laboratory in the highest room in the tallest tower, descending to the court only to offer counsel and smile at a few bugs… art. And maybe, just maybe, there’s even a bard out there singing about a strange moon-touched woman and her magic, who came from the Farmlands and ended up in a castle. That, I think, would make an awfully good story. CHARACTER DEATH: I’m definitely not opposed to it! If you see a plotline where her death makes sense I’m open to at least having the discussion -- it would probably depend how I’m feeling about her character development, as I do see quite clearly how far Maiden could develop with extensive, long-term rping (the Merlin-esque shit) and it’d be super cool to get there. WRITING SAMPLE SAMPLE #01. TWENTY-FIVE. CASTLE TYRHOLM, THE GREENHOUSE. Based on headcanons found in the extra section! it is the damnable wine she calls to blame for her recession from the great hall. yet still unused to its potency, it turns her stomach and her mind with it, until she is unbalanced and sure a marble placed upon the centre of her would roll only to one side, lolling comically behind her left ear. maiden swears she can hears it as she takes her leave from the night’s feast, a hideous clacking circling around her skull as she takes the steps to the greenhouse. the sound was a well accompaniment to the noise of heart against rib, that lub lub that reminisced so closely to collection of stones in a velvet satchel. how is that for an appraisal, she thinks. an inferni and a vitalus yet, and yet you cannot even hold your liquor. down below, music begins. septimus is performing one of his many wonders, conjuring up new entertainments like a foreigner’s god and his labours – things meant to fell mortal men in their spectacle. the sound, though muffled by stone, is light and deceptive with a beat kept by tambourine and wound through with panpipes. it crashes and crawls as a serpent through brush, dragging its body across the span of men’s shoulders and up the marble spires until it reaches the slender ankles of maiden high above, who slips from the darling (albeit pinching) satin slippers borrowed from the magician. o, that that song had teeth. it would sink them pit-deep into that lovely, exposed ankle. the footfalls that emerge from the far entrance are remote in distance, yet the cadence of it -- quick and spry, in the pattern of a courtly dance -- are close and recognized by ear in an instant. “your skill is in the making of noise, bard. so i would suggest --” she calls to armel with a bland hum, bent over a troop of growing windflowers as she cuts the largest at the stalk, her sharp fingernail used in place of scissors. “leaving behind these foolhardy attempts to remove sound from your being altogether.” maiden looks up then to the musician’s hiding place, half-covered as he is by bushes camellias and hanging vines. the look given beneath her brows is chiding, but it is a reproach with a single candle lit within, a glance perhaps warmed by liquor despite its meaning. “how do you always do that?” he asks, and maiden decides there is something rather feline about him as he emerges from the brush, shoulders rolling with that mandolin hoisted over one. “i didn’t say a word.” “you do not need to. your stroll speaks for you.” the air is moon-hot and the music swells below them, rising like tide to their knees, now their hips. her voice is cut-rope, one end loose in the water, and maiden lets the tide of the pull her, only one end remaining on shore. “asides…” she sighs, “you limp on the left.” “i do not.” “indeed you do. like a horse with a lame leg.” it is a full-force lie, dropped into a casket of wine and pulled out stinking, and armel catches her half-crescent smile at the same moment he spots her bare feet. “i suppose you won’t be returning to the ball, then.” maiden turns and takes to walking the length of the greenery. her back turns to him, but not unkindly; instead her slow, graceful gait seems an invitation to join, though he does not follow. she listens to armel as she winds through the tall grass, eyes upon the stalks, searching for anything that might catch her eye. in the moonlight she is all silhouette and odd-shapes, ever and always a little too-tall, a little too sharp-boned at the joints. but when she moves like this, slow and easily-flooded as moonlight itself, one could forget all that. “dancing slippers are quite unsuitably named,” she says by way of answer as the bard begins an absent strum on his instrument. “they give me no motivation at all to partake in such merriment.” armel does not answer, instead quite pensively continuing to pluck at notes while looking at the near distance -- assumedly undergoing great internal debate as to whether or not he was, truly, a lame horse. “a peace —” she slides the long stem of a gore-red windflower behind his ear when next she passes, as natural a move as though it were but tucking a strand of her own hair behind her ear. maiden smiles. “you actually limp on the right.” //

SAMPLE #02. AGE FIFTEEN. A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS & A DESPERATE ATTEMPT. Fire, it would seem, had ceased to be a friend to her. As a girl she had delighted in it, waving her hands above it, warming herself on it, staring at every passing wooden cart laden with people in the chance that one of them could be a fire-eater. Ice, that thing that ate and yawned across lakes and thatched roofs as if it remembered it had once devoured the world, was far more cruel in Maiden’s opinion. Could I not, at least, have had that which heats and provides sustenance? And more than even these sweet instances from childhood, she knew of fire intimately as an adult. It was a different kind of flame that brewed in her than what ran free in the wild; it was less violent and more warm, meant for thawing out the cold hands of children or creating delightful ever-shifting silhouettes on walls. She walked alone because she liked it, and spoke to strangers for great lengths of time because it excited her. That was her kind of fire, and so Maiden - it could be said - was as much flame as anyone, even as she chilled the air around her with her very presence. That was why, as she sat on her knees before the great outstretching flames of the parlour’s hearth, she had no caution as she threw paper into its guts. “Enough of this!” The girl was alone, but spoke aloud: it was part of her charm. Like a girl in a folktale who was subjected to life in a tower, she existed brightly when on her own because she knew no other way. The Mallorian girl did not need the accompaniment of another to prove her own worth. The fire sputtered charmingly in response, engorging itself as it swallowed paper and turned it into little pieces of nothingness. “No more curses, no more ice or damned magic!” Her hand shakes, but her heart holds its breath and remains steady. Stained at the tips with ash and melted ink, Maiden sits back on her thighs with a great tremble and stares into the flames before she falls to the pose of prayer. “Undying God, harbinger of all things, if this is your doing, let it be undone. I have wronged you not at all, nor my mother; I am not your child. Please.” Her ears burned pink with fear for addressing a deity with the same volume she would have a man standing before her, but it was too early to stop now. She pauses momentarily, straining to listen for a rumbling voice come from within the fire or swung in on the wind and branches. There is nothing but the crackle of pop of breaking wood. “Then -- then if it is the household spirits come for me, unhappy gnomes with rumbling tummies ‘for we have not been feeding them, emerge now! Or call it all off! Call it off, I say, spirits - take this magic from me so I may live in peace!” Again, she waits. And perhaps, if you would hold your hands over the ears of your heart and allow this young woman to admit it, she might have told you that she truly expected a troll-like little fellow with a green cap and scowling mug to emerge from beneath the ottoman. But there still is nothing, not even the tap of impatient little feet from behind the curtains, and her brows furrow as she stares into the hot gold and rose colours of the fire. Maiden sighs, a heavy breath that drops out of her mouth and rolls into the soot of the hearth. She suddenly feels much too old for these follies. Looking over at the pile of hastily-written spells and official decrees of intent (from Maiden to the Undying God, officially) to rid herself of this curse, the wheat-and-snow coloured girl pauses (and it pains me to say it, dearest reader, but the truth of the matter is that in the light of this blaze, she very much resembles the beautiful women you read about who either have very tragic ends or very wonderful ones in tales you all know). She had burned not even half yet, each one a representation of a day that had been ruined by questions or cold or mother’s worry, and there were still more to go. But no sign of the Undying in her great black steed, or impish house elves crawling out from the cracks beneath the woods. For a moment, she considers stopping. She considers picking up the remainder of the letters, tying them up with some of mother’s twine, and returning them to their proper drawer in the study. But as her hand hovers of the papyrus, her heart protests and causes her to pause. She is, after all, no girl in the tower. She will not sit in anybody’s stomach and wait for the woodsman. And if, in the odd and unusual chance that this circumstance of odd and unusual proportions is caused by something otherworldly, Maiden Mallorian shall not bow to it. No, no bowing indeed. “Now listen here --” Her voice raises, grows taller and older. It might be imagination, but the fire seems to as well. “Whether you be Undying God or lowly household gnome, I shall have no more of this. Do you understand? Are you listening, creatures?” There is nothing so impressive as unafraid, youthful folly. “I shall not be carried away to a cold temple to be a child of misery, and will not let this magic ruin me if you shall not bring me answers. If one of you are indeed responsible for this, it ends now. I am Maiden Mallorian, daughter of Yareli; and a right all in my own!” The sweet curves of her breasts rise and fall like toppling empires as she throws the remainder of the pages into the fire, staring fiercely into the contents as if to decipher an answer in their ash. There is a sudden seizure in her instead, a tight and pressing thing foreign to her soft-spun body. It demands something of her, as intent as fingers pressing into her ribs. She picks up the letter opener at her side, brought from the study to slide open old envelopes, but now she raises it to her chin and cuts in one fell swoop. It does not happen with ease, but off comes a handful of her hair. The edges of her locks are jagged, but the pieces in her palm look like fine oat straw that glitter in the light. She throws that, too, into the pile, and does not realize it has chilled. “There.” She speaks. It is solid and sure and sane. “There is my tribute.” Magic cannot be made by offering someone else’s liver. You must tear out your own and never expect to get it back. “Please... take it away.” Her voice, once grand and ringing of dynasties past, now calms. She begins to sound once more like only a girl of this century. “I am… Maiden Mallorian… and I do not wish to live a life of unhappiness.” The strength that once held her shoulders aloft departs in a gentle breath, leaving her soft to touch -- quivering. “If you shall not take this from me... I will make my own way, no matter who has done this -- be it God or beast or some creature in between --” She stands, in possession of some quiet power. “One day I will find my truth. And then I will know a free heart at last.” She leaves before the paper and hair have all disappeared, trusting the fire -- that once-longtime friend, that formerly beloved and willingly indentured servant -- to do as it is meant to. As the cold evening wages on the flame starts to die, and, left unattended, everything turns to ash. All that is left in the hearth of the Mallorian home is the same colour: black. But it is not a frightening colour if you look closely. It seems, perhaps, the ink in this story is drying. It is time for a new chapter.

EXTRAS A NOTE ON ~MAGICK: I just wanted to state that while I loved imbuing her story/personality with themes of oddity and enchantment, I don’t expect any of these things to be real. Her biography was supposed to be an exaggerated verbal retelling, and in example: the rumour that Maiden’s birth was the result of not a normal conception but pure willpower and magic is just that -- hearsay crafted by unnerved townsfolk trying to justify a strange, unmarried woman in the woods and her peculiar daughter. I’m also not sure what balance you’re looking to strike between realism and fantasy, so if things like her pet owl are too much the former -- no problem!! I could definitely tone down anything you think is too out there! PINTEREST: here. MUSE TAG: here. CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS BIG AND SMALL!: Kayley (Quest for Camelot), Garrett (Quest for Camelot), Phoebe Buffay (Friends), Amalthea (The Last Unicorn), Rapunzel (Tangled), Merlin (The Sword in the Stone), Arthur (The Sword in the Stone), Taran (The Black Cauldron), Eilonwy (The Black Cauldron), Katrina van Tassel (Sleepy Hollow (1999)), Nimue/Lady of the Lake (Arthurian mythology), Honey Lemon (Big Hero 6), Vasya Petrovna (The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden), Kida (Atlantis: The Lost Empire), The Mage (King Arthur: Legend of the Sword), Luna Lovegood (Harry Potter), Thumbelina (fairytale), Circe (Circe by Madeline Miller), Yvaine (Stardust) HEADCANONS: She has a mild form of associative prosopagnosia, a type of facial blindness. While Maiden can distinguish faces from one another, it’s essentially difficult for her to recognize those she’s newly met or has not known (and subsequently seen) for a certain amount of time. As her youth in the woods meant infrequent visits from varying strangers and acquaintances, Maiden learned from a very young age to identify those she met with other signifiers -- the pitch of their voice, their cadence, the pattern of their boots on her mother’s shop’s creaky wood floor -- and she has become exceptional at it. While she may struggle to associate new faces with names, if she has heard your voice or the template of your gait, it is likely she can recognize you from the sound of these alone in the next room. Contingent on the above, I like to picture a longstanding game between Armel and Maiden with him attempting to sneak up on her, trying to outdo her hearing abilities only to be smoothly called out each time -- like the first twenty seconds of this scene from Tarzan. -- And obviously this was inspo for one of my writing samples! Major sweet tooth, and most likely has a standing relationship with The Hanged Man who provides her with desserts in exchange for tonics or pouches of seasoning curated from Maiden’s personal collection up in the greenhouse. Alternatively, she’s The Hanged Man’s personal Garfield, constantly being chased out of the kitchen before she can stick a finger in icing or steal a hot bun. Another Armel headcanon because I’m a sucker for a Found Sibling dynamic: Maiden has been teasing him for ages with the concept of knowing (and withholding) an Epic Folksong that her mother taught her and that would be just perfect for him to perform. There’s every likelihood that there is no song and she’s made it up to amuse herself, but every once and a while she hums a foreign tune or drops a few words from the “lyrics” to keep him interested. If it is a real song, bonus points if she’s making Armel do little chores etc to earn another piece of the song. Subject to plotting with Death’s player, I imagine her nickname/alias Triss was borne from a singular moment where they introduced her to someone within the castle upon arrival -- only to bluster that she used that strange name, Maiden, which confused the third party. Death makes a quick save by adding that “she means only that she is a maiden from the Farmlands,” and creating the assumed name on the spot, forcing Maiden to adopt it. Both due to falling asleep atop a text after extensive nights reading and researching and the comfort of being around plants, Maiden often sleeps in the greenhouse -- in fact, she prefers it to the cramped quarters she’s been given, and keeps a spare blanket there at all times. In the greenhouse has also come into residence a fat, one-eyed grey cat who she has named Augrunn, known affectionately (or otherwise) Auggie. Grumpy and demanding, Maiden found him taking shelter in the greenhouse on a particularly rainy day, and though he comes and goes as he pleases, it’s now effectively his home. Auggie is known to both yowl for personal space if you’re too close and swipe if you stop petting him too early. Similarly, Maiden has an owl-friend whose name I haven’t decided on, but the front-runner is currently Archimedes. Unbothered by Augrunn’s attempts to snatch him out of the air, he’s a chill little feather-loaf that watches the comings and goings of the greenhouse from the carved wood perch she has made him. He is aware of the location of Maiden’s sleeping quarters, and can occasionally be found sitting on her windowsill when she’s there. She bruises very easily, even in circumstances unrelated to use of her Inferni magic -- just as likely to get a mark from walking into a corner as she is to scar from the use of her ice powers. Insects don’t bother her in the slightest. Growing up in a small home filled with plants, there were always bugs crawling around the flora, and Maiden appreciates them all. She will 100% pick up the scary spider you’re flinching from and make sure they get back to their web. Prefers to be barefoot, and likely does not share the same feelings of taboo around exposed skin as most others -- to her, flesh is only flesh, and a very natural thing at that. Temperature is a funny thing for her -- given that she seems to emanate a kind of cold, I think it stands to reason that she doesn’t easily chill, but that it is also hard to heat her up. I picture it like a normal hand held above a flame, then one stuck in the snow -- it’s going to take longer for her to melt before she feels any pain from the fire. CONNECTIONS: *Obligatory these are just ideas and I’m totally open when it comes time to plotting with these players! THE HIEROPHANT: Chihiro and Haku vibes (that sort-of-romance entirely unnecessary, though I would be down for Maiden to have a little crush), basically. Give me a Maiden as impressed by their showy nature as their inner fire to overthrow Septimus -- an Inferni mentor, even, or just an individual that helps guide her through the dangers of Tyrholm’s court. Also… ice and fire... I meant to do more but ran out of time rip