#what is our spiritual armor?

[jozor-johai]

Ghost as Jon's "white shadow" in AGOT Tyrion III:

They walked, with Ghost pacing along beside Jon like a white shadow.

Ser Mandon Moore as Joffrey's "white shadow" in ACOK Tyrion IX:

Joffrey was galloping at his side, whey-faced, with Ser Mandon Moore a white shadow on his left.

and then, with Ser Balon Swann, two "white shadows" to Tyrion in ACOK Tyrion VIX:

His two white shadows were always with him; Balon Swann and Mandon Moore, beautiful in their pale plate.

and again, more menacingly, later in the same chapter:

The knight was a white steel shadow, his eyes shining darkly behind his helm.

Ser Barristan Selmy as Daenerys' "white shadow" in ADWD Daenerys I:

Dany glimpsed Ser Barristan sliding closer, a white shadow at her side.

Five chapters later, Ghost as Jon's "white shadow" again in ADWD Jon II:

Ghost padded after him, a white shadow at his side

and again in ADWD Jon VII:

Ghost ran with them, a white shadow at Jon's side.

That's almost every instance of the concept of the "white shadow" in ASOIAF, and I think the limited context is striking: this is only in reference to the Kingsguard, clad in their pure white-enameled armor, and Ghost, Jon's all-white guardian.

If we are assuming Jon is a lost Targaryen Prince, then perhaps we might say Ghost is spiritually the first member of his Kingsguard.

I think it's a sweet thought.

However ... that's notably omitting the third context for the phrase "white shadow"

From the AGOT Prologue:

Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness.

From AGOT Jon VIII:

"We have white shadows in the woods and unquiet dead stalking our halls, and a boy sits the Iron Throne," he said in disgust.

From ACOK Jon III:

"The cold gods," she said. "The ones in the night. The white shadows."

and again:

We ride north, after Mance Rayder and these Others, these white shadows and their wights. We seek them, Gilly.

From AFFC Samwell III:

Maester Aemon's woken up and wants to hear about these dragons. He's talking about bleeding stars and white shadows and dreams and . . . if we could find out more about these dragons, it might help give him ease. Help me."

What can we make of that, then?

These are the only three contexts for this imagery, actually. I think it works if Ghost is sort of like Jon's Kingsguard but then... can there be some connection in this phrase with the Others? What could that mean?

[fsfghgee]

Warning: Long dive. Bi-Han and Sektor's relationship part 2 (+ Bi-Han's redemption)

Honestly, I think people who are expecting to see Bi-Han flirting with Sektor in the expansion will be disappointed, 'cause Bi-Han isn't like Johnny Cage or Kung Lao. He really is not that kind of guy…

And he's damn far from it. Even if Bi-Han and Sektor do have a romantic relationship, I'd bet anything that in the intros they'll just be praising each other, reaffirming vows of loyalty, talking about the clan's defectors, making more plans together, giving each other advice, and hopefully talking about their parents. And that's it.

'praising her is something he does often"

I don't know about our new Sektor, but Bi-Han is not the type who flirts and the way he doesn't like to follow traditions, does everything together with Sektor and treats his female subordinates as if they were any other subordinate (I think everyone saw how he got a face-to-face with Cyrax… And if Frost really is already part of the Lin Kuei, I doubt she's getting any special treatment either…), I'd say he takes gender equality really seriously and chivalry in Bi-Han's language is letting her shoot first.

And most importantly…

He takes his position very seriously. The fights between Bi-Han and Sektor will be just sparring, but I doubt he would treat even that lightly. If he is romantic, which I personally doubt (I wouldn't put my hand in the fire for that), we will never know because even his perception of romance is independent. I believe that his romanticism comes down to heroic acts, like probably giving his life for Sektor's…

I mean, the person who built the armor was Sektor, so the woman who is fighting alongside Bi-Han in OutWorld can only be Sektor. And to me, it looks like they were about to take her instead of Bi-Han (and remembering that their target was Geras who they also take with them).

.... Or stroking her ego (which is almost as big as his), promising heaven and earth, giving her expensive gifts, maybe calling her his queen when they're alone, being a bit too touchy-feely when he's needy…

I imagine that as a self-centered mama's boy (I love him, but that's just who he is), he must prefer people to give him attention instead of giving attention, I can even imagine him enjoying a cuddle with a gentle petting, honestly.

And the way Sektor seemed surprised by Bi-Han's reaction to Cyrax... I believe she's not used to seeing him angry around her, I doubt she hears anything from him other than compliments.

After all, Bi-Han was the one who sensed that she was his kindred spirit…

What are kindred spirits?"Kindred spirits are like-minded and like-souled people with whom an instant connection of love and understanding is mutually experienced," clinical psychologist Carla Marie Manly, Ph.D., tells mbg. "The connection is inimitable and often defies verbal description."

People who share common interests, values, or worldviews might be described as kindred spirits. "In more spiritual words, we could say that they resonate at the same frequency, and there is matching energy between them," Katherine Bihlmeier, a relationship coach specializing in energy work, tells mbg.

And it's Sektor who rescues Bi-Han in the story mode, not Scorpion, her lines don't appear like all the dlc, but she's clearly the one rescuing him. She joins KuaiSc's mission to rescue Geras just to rescue Bi-Han.

You can hear that she's the one who recognizes him first and sounds really worried about him…

In fact, in the first trailer for the story mode expansion, you can see Sektor fighting alongside Bi-Han already turned into Noob Saibot but with his mind under his own control again.

He's fighting the khaos versions of Cyrax and Sektor...

We can see Bi-Han fighting alongside Liu Kang too, fighting SubZeroChaos, TakedaChaos like in the datamined script…

And again, although I'm still a little bit confused about their fate…

Will Sektor really sit back and accept the Lin Kuei being punished by Liu Kang and leaving Bi-Han locked up in the temple? Honestly, I highly doubt it.

I have no problem with the nature of their relationship, whatever it is. I'm a Lin Kuei fan, so Sektor getting some love kinda warms my heart since it never happened before...

And I think if it's well written it could be really interesting and make Bi-Han's character more multidimensional. Since he literally has no one else besides Sektor to lean on... Cyrax will desert them.

Hopefully, Noob Saibot ending will show us what will become of Bi-Han Sub-Zero in mk1.

...

edit: With the revealed Sektor trailer, we saw that Bi-Han ended up in Havik's hands when he jumped after him trying to strike him and accidentally ended up entering the portal that Havik had opened.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Run Rabbit, Run.

3,6k. words | Alexander Anderson x f! goth! Reader | enemies to friends | open-ended | slow-burn | hurt-comfort | not proofread

Synopsis: While investigating supernatural murders in a small town, Anderson jumps into wrong conclusions.

Warnings: Blood, injury, stockholm-syndrome?

A/N: inspired by some guys in our town that would always call the cops on us goths, saying 'dark figures are doing satanic rituals' (we were literally just chilling)

"Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil."

You run as fast as you can, but he keeps pace easily, merely strolling as he wears you out.

"For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness..."

A bayonett pierces the tree next to your skull and you let out a bloodcurling scream.

"...against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places."

The woods are swallowed by a pitch black tonight, eventually making you trip and fall. Blood runs down your calf, the sharp pain in your leg numbed by the adrenaline rushing through your veins. You try to get up, to keep running, but it's too late...he got you.

"Amen."

The man in front of you was wearing the robe of a priest, looming over you with a manic grin stretched across his face.

When he started his chase you had thought him to be insane, a mass murderer who was merely disguising himself as a man of faith.

That theory would soon prove to be wrong - and the truth is way worse.

"What a bloody waste of time" he thinks, watching you squirm in the dirt like some cornered animal.

If he had known how pathetically weak you are beforehand, he wouldn't have bothered coming himself. Sending Yumie or Heinkel instead would've sufficed by far, and even that would be flattery for some cheap excuse of a demon like you.

Boring, but now that he's here, might as well enjoy the hunt...

"Please...I have no idea what you want from me!" Countless begs drop from your lips, clinging to the hem of his coat as you try to explain yourself, yet he wouldn't budge. Usually he'd have a violent outburst at such a vile creature touching him, but much to his own surprise, he remained frozen, staring at you with a mixture of irritation and sympathy.

"My, what a sweet voice you have." He looks down to your torn dress, a wound gaping on your leg. So you're too weak to even heal your own injuries. "That must really hurt, little one."

The assassin sees dried blood straining your clothes, skin, fingertips, tainting himself as well. He had found you like this, in an empty alleyway crouched over a fresh corpse, claiming you merely wanted to save them.

How foolish of you to run off into the woods, where he could get rid of you without causing disturbance for bystanders.

"Such a young gal" he looks at you with a stern, almost pitying expression. "Had her whole life still in front of her. What a shame."

Maybe you were turned against your will, left confused and afraid after your bloodrage got the better off you.

Anderson shakes his head, trying to become rational again. He's used to all kinds of deceit, has fallen deaf to any pleads over time. After all, the last time he hesitated, he's got a lesson that's still written clearly on his left cheek.

Ever since then he promised himself to never show mercy again.

Seeing him brace his weapons, you shuffle until your back hit the tree behind, shouting at the man. "Do-on't touch me, you freak!"

"You're one to talk" he scoffs, crouching over your trembling form. He gazes at you without any malice, considering to grant you a merciful death. "But lemme tell ya'...if you behave, I'll make it quick."

A hint of guilt flashes over his face, as he calmly draws his bayonetts, thrill dampened by the tragic circumstances. He carefully, almost tenderly holds it against your neck, whispering "Rejoice, for I'll bring you salvation from this horrid fate."

Just when he takes a swing you seize the opportunity, ramming a sharp branch into his sides, right beneath the ribs. You had hoped to temporarily paralyze him, but much to your horror he didn't even flinch...

...moreso, he easily pulled it out of his flesh, the wound healing in an instant.

"Ye lil' rat..." the man practically growls, pupils dilated and baring his sharp canines at you.

"You...you're the monster here!" you shriek, grabbing a handful of dirt and throw it into his eyes, partially blinding him. He coughs, needing a few seconds to orientate, but when he looked again, you were already gone. "Feisty lil' thing...didn't think she had it in her."

Well, now he's not only pissed that you deceived him - he's downright excited. This mission had just become significantly more fun.

Anderson will relish in tearing you apart...slowly and painfully.

"Come out, ya heathen." His voice echoes through the woods, as if coming from all sides at once. "I can feel your fear."

What an amazing feat for a man of his calibre to move without making a sound. No leaves, not even a stick breaks as he walks, nothing indicating from what direction he might strike.

You see the town's lights at the horizon, limping as fast as your legs can carry you. If only you could make it out of here and call for help, then-

"Gotcha!" The priest's voice didn't even dring to your ear before he grabbed you by the throat, slamming you so hardly onto a nearby tree that all air left your lungs. Your head is spinning and you kick and claw at his arm, but his grip is relentless. He leans close to your ear, breath hot against your cold skin, making you shiver. "Stop resisting and accept your divine punishment."

"How...often...do I need to...tell you?" you wring out, feeling as if you're close to losing consciousness. "I-I am not a vampire, damnit!"

"Silence!" he now screams, sending a violent tremor through your body. "The dead do not speak...and their soulless bodies shouldn't roam this earth."

"Prove it, then" he taunts, "But I doubt ya' could."

Your mind went a mile an hour, scanning for everything you possibly knew about vampires, myth or not. Without any other options, you clasp the cross dangling from his neck. "I-I shouldn't be able to touch this, right?"

Powerful demons are able of many feats, but then again you don't seem even close to that level. Still, he senses some kind of greater scheme behind that innocent demeanour of yours.

Even while being practically invulnerable, Anderson won't let his guard down this time. He throws you to the ground, hurt pride recovering as he enjoys you writhe in pain. "Ye can't fool me again, fiend."

For the fraction of a second he is taken aback, seeing actual tears instead of red liquid escaping your eyes. He grunts in annoyance at this soft spot in his heart he never really could erase, janking you up by the hair. "Look at me..." he orders harshly, a sadistic glint in his eyes. "I love to watch the light go out."

Weighting your options you tackle him out of sheer exasperation, despite his strenght surprising the man enough to make him lose balance. Before he can react you sink your teeth deep into his neck, but without fangs you can't even break the skin. Anderson growls, no, almost moans at the sensation, shocked with the way his body reacted to the sudden proximity.

"See? See?" you point to your dull teeth, but the man is less than impressed by your drastic measurement.

"Bloody hell, woman! Get off of me!" he yells as he throws you away, now being on top and pining you down onto the damp grass, once again rendering you helpless. "I'm a man of god, do you have no shame?"

"What else was I supposed to do?!" you snap back at the man, chest heaving in between sobs. Anderson can barely contain his bloodlust, but beneath it there lies another kind of sensation he doesn't want to acknowledge. He seems flabbergasted by your boldness, contemplating whether to abandon his purge for now.

"Fine..." he rubs his temple, a headache forming as his gaze wanders to your quivering lips. "But I'll chain you up for examination. And don't you dare trying something funny again!"

"Alri-" Your words got stuck right in your throat, seeing red irises gleam in the dark from the corner of your eye. "Watch out, behind you!"

The priest narrows his eyes. "Oi c'mon, yer not really thinking I fall for this-" Your captor's words stuck right in his throat as a sword cut deeply into his neck - not enough to decapitate him though.

"Oh, I see you even brought me desert" a grim voice appeared behind the two of you. "How considerate, Father."

This was your chance, wasn't it? You could just run and leave them to themselves, hoping they'd busy each other in a fight long enough to return to safety.

And yet you don't.

"Shit, wai-wait..." you have to keep yourself from gagging as you pull out the cold steel from his flesh, watching as the tissue repaired itself like it was nothing. You threw the weapon right back at the attacker, though he catched it with ease and scattered it with his bare hands.

Anderson was quick to react, this time not taking any chances to debate if you're trustworthy. If you're really a civilian, he won't be able to fight as long as you're close. He throws some kind of artifact your way, a batch of enhanced bible verses and a flask of holy water just in case. "Run, you fool!"

The real vampire chuckles quite amused at the scene, overconfident and boastful now. "Noble one you are, eh? And I was so careful to set her up, too..."

"Good grace...you made me go after that woman?!" God's guillotine glares at him with a feral wrath, but the demon simply shrugs. "Townsfolk loves to gossip, and it's fairly easy to accuse someone that so deliberately making themselves an outcast."

"Quiet, you wicked hellspawn!" The priest's head cracks as he moved it from left to right, testing the healed muscles. "And my eye will not spare, nor will I have pity. I will punish you according to your ways, while your abominations are in your midst..."

"Amen!" you exclaim, and just when Anderson was about to launch an attack, something pierces the enemy from behind.

The priest gasps as he recognizes one of his own bayonetts, sticking out of the vampire's chest. You had plucked it from a nearby tree, returning instead of saving yourself.

Due to lack of both strenght and experience, you miss his heart by far. Luckily it was enough to distract the abomination, so Anderson set one swift finishing blow.

The otherworldly being instantly dissolves into ashes, and for a while you just stand there, staring at each other in awe.

Anderson is covered in blood now, his own as well as the demons. He's wheezing, breath visible as white fog and he snarls like a damn bloodhound, visibly dissatisfied with the outcome. To grant this creature such an easy demise left a foul aftertaste - he wanted to make it pay for using him to hurt an innocent bystander.

Damn it, he almost killed you!

You are still deeply in shock at the events, heart beating threateningly loud against your ears. Rooted on spot, you dread the worst when the priest approaches you. He reaches out and you wince, but he merely puts a reassuring hand on the top of your head. "That sure was reckless" he scolded, yet his lips curled into a proud grin. "I'm impressed."

In an instant his menacing aura had disappeared completely, being replaced with genuine concern. "Are you alright, lamb?"

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, instinctively moving away from your former attacker but stumbling again. Instead of falling however you were caught in the priest's strong arms, amazed at how fast he could move if he wanted to.

If he had taken you serious, you would never have survived this far. The thought sent a shiver down your spine.

"Come" he lifts you up with ease and you blink up at him between wettened lashes, far too exhausted to struggle any longer. "Let's get you somewhere safe."

Only now you realize that you were freezing, curling up against his body as he carried you bridal style to the motel room he had booked for the mission. A few minutes later you sit on a rundown mattress, knees pulled towards your chest as you tried to process the events of this night.

"Sorry for the wait" his voice shook you up as he entered the room, "Had to make a call and report back to the Vatican." You nod mutely and watch as he picks up a small first-aid-kit, kneeling down in front of you. "Show me yer' leg."

"H-He-e-ey!" you object as he tries to lift your dress out of the way, but he frowns as if you had just accused him of something horrible. "I already told you, woman: I am a man of god. So relax, would ya?" You pout but surrender, pulling the fabric aside yourself. "Just a wee lil' scratch, you're gonna be alright."

Trying to distract yourself from the pain your eyes dart around the room, but then they are stuck on the man himself, taking a proper look at him for the first time: Grey strands were shimmering through his wild blonde spikes, blueish-green eyes glistening behind round glasses. A deep scar adorned his left cheek, proof of his - at least past - humanity.

He had discarded his bloodied robe and gloves, revealing more muscle than his tall build indicated. You shiver as he absentmindedly squeezes your thigh, working with great concentration.

"I'm patching others up all day" he assures, filling the silence with small-talk. "The children at my orphanage hurt themselves quite often. Reckless folk."

"You-ah!" you hiss as he wipes the wound clean with more pressure, and you shudder. "You are working with children?"

"Yeah. What about it?" He furrowed his brows, looking downright offended and you couldn't help but snort. "Nothing, really. It's just...two vastly different professions, dont'cha think?"

"You're lucky I found my conscience today" he half-jokes, half-confesses. "Usually I don't care if a heathen get's hurt. Hell, I'd even do it myself." Wow. Very soothing, really. "But ya saved me and I guess it can't hurt to return the courtesy..."

At least he has some sense of honor.

"You got a foul mouth for a priest" you utter under your breath, but he catches it anyways. "And you got a lotta nerve running through the woods at night, dressed like a damn devil worshipper."

Momentarily, you both scowl at each other before breaking out in refreshing laughter.

"I'm not a satanist" you snort, but he won't have any of it. There's a literal pentagram embroidered on the chest piece of your dress, after all. "Then why do you dress like one?" Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms in defense. "It's a subculture, old man. A fashion style. And to my defenses, I didn't even know that any of the occult is real..."

Oh, if only you knew the true extent of evil in this world, you'd be terrified. Or maybe not? Iscariot could always use people with your guts, but he doesn't voice that thought.

If anything, you deserved a long and safe life.

"Hopeless task, making sinners see the light. That's why I prefer gutting them." He makes a dismissive wave of his hand, plummeting down on the bed right next to you. "All done." You smile as you let one hand run over the bandage, expressing your gratitude.

"...m'sorry, little one" he's not meeting your eyes anymore, forearms resting on his knees. "And thank you for helping a wrench like me despite my transgressions. Let's hope the lord will reward such actions."

"Yeah, maybe..." Actually you weren't that much of a believer - but hey, everything you just witnessed might make you pick up a bible soon.

"Do you want me to bring you somewhere?" You mentally consider an answer, but find no sufficient one. To be honest you didn't want to be alone right now. But there was no one you'd be comfortable to bother so late at night in case of friends, and no relatives lived nearby either.

But what's the alternaive? The man at your side surely has better things to do than babysitting you, even if he wasn't a stranger you just met...and almost got murdered by.

Noticing your distress, he wordlessly stood up, the mattress creaking as it was relieved from his massive weight. "Take the bed, I'll sleep on the sofa."

"Bu-but I couldn't possibly-"

"You can, and you will " he protests, "It's the least I can do to make up for what I've done."

"N-No!" you then shout, grabbing onto his sleeve. "I'd be damned if I let a holy man sleep on that small couch." He looks at you baffled, as if he cannot think of the obvious alternative. "Lay down, there's...there's enough room for both of us."

The man looks at you dumbfounded, making you chuckle. "What's the matter? You said you're a man of god, right?"

"...lil' brat."

Anderson sighed deeply, hesistant to do as you told him to. But eventually he gave in, lying on the other side of the bed so far away from you that he threatened to fall over the edge. Just the mere thought of this indecency made his heart beat uncontrollably loud in his chest. "What's your name?" he asks, so you don't notice.

"Y/N" you breathe out in a whisper, "Y/N Y/L/N." He repeats it, tasting the name on his tongue. It's as sweet as the sound of your voice. "What about you?"

"Anderson. Paladin Alexander Anderson" he corrects himself with his proper title. You smile to yourself, an oddly safe feeling encoating you with him at your side. "Well, despite everything, it was nice meeting you, Father Alexander Anderson."

"The pleasure is all mine."

Surprisingly, you had quickly drifted into a deep slumber, body desperate for rest. For a moment you thought it was all just a dream, an obscure nightmare, but then you realized where you were...and with whom.

"Alex- Father?" Your voice is husky and small against the sound of his soft snore in your ear, and instead of waking he shuffles even closer. The feeling of his broad chest against your back makes goosebumps raise on your skin, yet you refused to enjoy cuddling with a literal celibate.

Not wanting to embarrass him you try to scoot away, but the tall man has got you perfectly secure in his hold, an arm and leg wrapped around your much smaller form, tightening his embrace each time you moved. "Umm..." you turn to face him and dare to cup his cheek, gently caressing it to wake him up. His eyes snap open and he reflexively grabs your wrist, breathing heavily. "Hey, big guy, it's okay...good morning."

"What the-" Noticing the delicate situation he stumbles so far back that he lands ass-first on the floor, making you break out in boisterous laughter. "I'm so sorry" you wheeze, lending him a hand. "No idea how we ended up in that position."

Anderson lets out a low growl, stretching his back as he stood up. "I don't know about you" you teased, "But I've slept very well." He'd rather die than to admit he hasn't rested like that in years, if not decades. "...I'll make us breakfast" he announces grumpily, "Bath's on the left."

Shortly later you sit at the small kitchen table across each other, munching on stale toast. Since your clothes were torn and bloody Alex got you a spare shirt of his, long enough to cover you up to the knees. Gosh, if his superiors would see him being with a woman like that they'd probably excommunicate him.

"So..." you adress the elephant in the room, "When are you supposed to be back?"

"Already contacted the order while you were showering. Will be picked up in 30 minutes." Hearing this made you somewhat woeful. You'd wish to stay and riddle him about that amazing life of his, but were pretty sure he wasn't allowed to answer either way. You bite back the burning question if you'd ever meet again, simply answering "Oh...great."

"Promise me ya' will stay outta that devilish business, a'ight?" he grins almost mischievously, "Next time I see ya' tryna seduce innocent priests, I'll think you're a succubus."

You blow a raspberry at the man. "Me?!" You point a dramatic finger towards him, "Maybe you're the one enticing innocent maidens after saving them."

You both exchange smiles and meaningful looks, talking so carefree and enjoyable that time passed faster than you wanted.

"Here ya' go." He pushes some money into your palm, hand lingering on yours as long as he could allow himself to. "Call a taxi. The roads are dangerous for a sweet lil' thing like yerself."

"Thank you, Alex- I mean Father. For everything."

Six months later, Anderson was currently back at the orphanage from another mission, reading a novel in his room. He'd find his thoughts wandering back to you more often these days, having given up on his hopes that this feeling would ease over time.

Letting his free hand run over his neck where you bit him back then, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. What a woman you were. He's glad to have met you, and he'll at least allow himself to keep those memories locked in his heart forever.

"Father Anderson?" One of the nuns knocks on his door, tearing him away from those silly thoughts. "I'm here, yes."

"Someone wants a word with you" the woman explains as he sticks his head outta the slightly ajar door. She points towards the window in the hallway, whispering "Apparently about joining Iscariot. She's waiting outside in the garden."

"Understood. You may leave." Anderson was left confused but not for long - because as soon as he looked outside, he saw the last person he ever expected to see again. You timidly looked around, dressed in a black robe like usual, yet adorned with a silver cross instead of pentagrams and the likes.

Coincidentally you notice him standing at the window, eyes lighting up and waving eagerly at the man. It takes everything inside of him to not rush outside and pull you right into his arms after such a long time - at least in public he wouldn't.

Oh, he always knew you were special.

[unalloyed-thoughts]

Miquella, Torrent and some DLC speculation

I said that i would address this in my last post so here we go!

So all the way back in February of last year (god where the fuck did time go) the first Elden ring dlc announcement was released, and with it this fairly well documented piece of concept art, depicting Miquella riding atop our lovable and trusty spiritual steed Torrent, gazing onto the shadow tree towering yonder.

Of course this spawned many theories, one of the most well known and popular being that Miquella is torrent's former master, the very same one mentioned by Ranni that supposedly delivered the spirit calling bell onto her. Now of course this is all very interesting, as if proven true it means that Miquella did some serious planning ahead, it would also mean that Miquella would be aware of Marika's plan involving the tarnished, at least to some degree. Yet of course i have to still temper my expectations as concept art of Miquella riding torrent isnt exactly hard proof, at least not yet, the dlc announcement showed us a new cover art for the dlc and a much more fleshed out enviroment which looks pretty different from the original announcement, so i wouldnt be surprised if torrent was there for scale rather than hinting at a possible connection. Of course only time will tell...

Even so, lets assume Miquella is indeed Torrent's former master for a second. Because one of the DLC description line in the bandai page is pretty interesting...

Now why is this important? well first off i wanna get something out of the way, this line isnt exactly accurate to the original JP's text, where it says that Miquella is "awaiting the promised lord" so there is no mention of a "return" which makes more sense, now of course the lord in question would be us, the player, who is being guided by Miquella into the lands of shadow for some purpose yet unknown, but there is a chance that Miquella's hunt for a possible lord is something that has been going on for a while...

One of Elden ring's recurring themes is that of beasts following worthy lords, we see this a lot of times, Godfrey being one of the main examples, an elden lord accompanied by his regent beast Serosh. We also have placidusax, another elden lord who ruled over the beastmen. And of course we also have the shadowbound beasts that accompany and serve empyreans.

The bloodhound knights also carry on this particular themes, being knights that choose their own masters, and serve them for life. This part is important because it expands on the themes of Beasts choosing worthy lords.

Finally there is the beast champion armor, that reads: Beasts are drawn to champions, and to lords. And this armor befits a champion worthy of becoming a lord. And that is what Bernahl was. which is again more of the same theme we have been over. So where does torrent fit into all this? well when we talk to Melina she tells us that "Torrent knew our measure from the very start".

From the very beginning Torrent trusted us, he knew we were worthy of becoming lord and decided to follow us and help us achieve our goals, way before Melina truly trusted us. Torrent was our beast and we its lord. See were im going with this? If Miquella used to be Torrent's former master then i believe he was given away to look for a fitting lord, one who would help him carry out his vision. We are Miquella's promised lord. As another theme of elden ring is Lords being subservient to their god. Godfrey was loyal to Marika and carried out her will, placidusax also remained loyal to his god. So now we will become Miquella's lord and aid him in his quest.

I feel the fact that the item that summons torrent is a delicate goldwork ring is also telling of this, The lord that serves their god is usually also their consort. Much like we give ranni our ring to form our union, miquella might have given us this ring to brand us as their coming lord. It also would Make sense if Miquella was the creator of the ring, if he was torrent's former master then he knew a thing or two about spirits (because he entrusted the spirit calling bell onto ranni) and also he is described as a master craftsman, so he could have made the item that summons our spectral steed. its interesting to think about him working with Ranni as at the end of the day they have pretty different goals, one wanting to follow in his mother's footstepts and establish a new order while Ranni wanted to Make order inconcivable, removing it far away from mortal lives. Both being scheming little bastards however doesnt make it to difficult to believe that they would work together for their own personal benefit

But anyway, those are my thoughts for now, i may expand upon it later but who knows. After all this is all WILDLY speculative and likely to be proven wrong when the dlc releases, yet i have hope that maybe some of it will be true!

[leapingbadger]

Decisions - Chapter 2 - Crosshair

I wanted to post a chapter each day because each of Omega's beloved brothers deserves the spotlight. Today it's Crosshair's turn.

Will our favorite grumpy sniper agree with Omega's desire to join the rebellion?

All five Chapters are up on AO3.

Omega was reluctant to seek out her brothers after her conversation with Hunter hadn’t gone so well. She assumed like any good Sergeant he would relay the details of his conversation to his brothers, and she didn’t like the idea of already being on the defensive.

The warm sunlight was creeping towards the horizon as she made her way to the cliff. It looked the same as it had the first time she came here with Crosshair all those years ago. She smiled as she recognized the slim frame of his silhouette against the setting sun.

“Thought I’d find you here,” she said quietly as she listened to his calm, rhythmic breathing.

He didn’t answer right away, taking another deep breath and letting it out slowly. She sat down beside him, the ground warm beneath her as the waves crashed loudly against the side of the rock of the island below.

The light linen clothes he wore gave him the air of a spiritual nomad. She had thought he looked strange the first time she saw him in island garb but now she couldn’t picture what he looked like without it. The idea of him in armor was absurd.

“You’re a regular tracker,” he said with a smile as she settled in beside him, her hands upturned on her knees and eyes closed.

Crosshair took another deep breath in and out before finally turning to look at her. She could feel his eyes on her, even though hers were closed.

“Hunter told you, didn’t he?” she asked, letting a deep breath out and opening her eyes, gazing resolutely at the horizon instead of her little brother.

“He didn’t have to. Wrecker and I overheard. You’re not as stealthy as you think,” he said in his usual sarcastic tone.

Omega opened her eyes and turned to her brother. He had a wry smile on his lips.  She laughed before sighing heavily, “Do you think it’s a mistake?” she asked.

His mouth twitched, “I can’t answer that for you. You have to make your own decisions.” He said straightforwardly, his brow furrowed, giving away that something else was going on beneath the simplicity of his statement.

She turned to face him in frustration. His eyes widened in surprise, but it didn’t last for long, his face falling back into the ever-present scowl that usually occupied it. He had a few more lines on his face these days, his grey hair had grown into a short crop but was unable to cover the scar on the right side of his head. At least she knew she wasn’t the cause of his grey hair. He had a spatter of grey stubble on his chin that refused to grow into a full beard, much to Hunter’s amusement.

“It’s the right thing to do, Crosshair. You know that. How can I…” she looked out to sea, grasping for the right word, “…hide here while others are laying down their lives for this fight?”

“You’re not hiding. You’re living. Sometimes in war that’s the bravest thing you can do.”

 Omega stifled an eye roll although she was sure Crosshair could sense it. “The empire isn’t going to get smaller, Crosshair, eventually it will come here. We have to stop it before it does.”

“The empire has already been here, Omega. They realized there is nothing of value here as long as they had you. You need to remember that.”

She wasn’t sure why but her head moved as if he had slapped her. She huffed and crossed her arms, but Crosshair’s expression remained wholly unapologetic for what he had said.

The invasion of Pabu in search of her was one of the things that had stuck with her long after the ships had left the island, and long after her final escape from Tantiss too. She saw Wrecker’s unconscious body whenever she visited the docks, always paused outside the home the troopers were set to burn and lingered too long as the spot where she was taken away from her home.

She shook her head to rid herself of the unwelcome memories. This conversation wasn’t going the way she thought it would. Crosshair was usually on her side when she and Hunter disagreed.

“That was years ago. They haven’t shown any interest since. They don’t even know I exist.”

“That you know of,” Crosshair interjected.

Omega huffed again, “You sound like Hunter.”

“He was the sergeant for a reason, Omega. He could gather all the intel, listen to the experts and decide on a safe way forward that would protect the squad. Don’t mistake his reluctance as overprotectiveness alone, it’s strategic as well.”

“So, you agree with him? I should just stay here, become a teacher like Lyana, marry a local and settle down?”

Crosshair rolled his eyes, “no one is trying to tell you how to live your life. We just want you to be safe so you can have the life you want.”

Omega felt herself soften as she looked at her battle-hardened brother, his left hand absentmindedly playing with the fingers of his prosthetic right hand.  “You have kept me safe, Crosshair. All of you. You gave me a childhood I never thought I’d have. You gave me a home, peace, love, and a life where I didn’t want for anything. But don’t you think it’s my turn to pay that forward? To give that to another scared kid who doesn’t have a family and has no one to protect them?”

“And who’s going to protect you? You think I didn’t notice that carbon scoring on the ship? You barely got out of whatever skirmish you were in. You really want to do that on a daily basis? There’s a reason the rebellion needs pilots, Omega. They keep dying.”

Omega winced and nodded, of course his eagle eyes had noticed the damage when she’d arrived home. “I can take care of myself, Crosshair. I have everything I learned from you, Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, Phee and all the other people I have met along the way. I can do this.”

Crosshair sighed deeply as he kept his eyes on his hands, “Omega, the empire has been successful because it is insidious. I know more than anyone that the people who work within it are driven by their need for power and there are a great many people like that in the galaxy. I got caught up in it, for a while. Even if the rebellion is successful one day, and that’s a big if, the vacuum imperial destruction would create would just bring another power-hungry leader to the forefront. This isn’t a fight that is easily won.”

Omega paused thoughtfully, “Even so, we have to try.” she said determinedly.

Crosshair sighed again, “I see I’m not going to win this argument today.” He said, settling back into position, his legs crossed, palms facing upwards on his knees.

“I guess not,” Omega said sadly.

“Then can we get back to it? I’m gunna need a long session to recover from this conversation.”

Omega laughed, “Sure thing, little brother.”

She watched the corner of his mouth tick up as the sun continued to dip below the horizon. The warm sea breeze was blowing Omega’s hair as they sat in comfortable silence. With the last moments of fading warmth, Pabu’s light show began, illuminating the entire island from lower Pabu to the weeping maya tree and Archium above.  

[lowkeyed1]

great interview, definitely some info i haven't seen anywhere else... ----- ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY: I don't think you could end the show without losing someone, but how did you decide it would be Graydon as opposed to Airk, Boorman, or anyone else who's life was in imminent danger?

JONATHAN KASDAN: There was some conversation about that. But we all felt that there was something beautifully tragic about Graydon, and as a character, he is our Dark Prince. We always called him the Dark Prince in our construction of the show. One of the questions we always had and hoped to keep alive to some extent throughout the season was, "Is he good or is he evil?" As the show progressed, he's pretty definitively good. His devotion to Elora was so pure, and the way he played those scenes was so lovely and tender. It felt like the thing that would most impel Elora into this final stage of her development was the loss of this completely devoted person. As is often the case with these decisions, and they're sometimes unpopular, sometimes you want the most devastating possible thing. And for her, he felt like that.

Now that Airk has come back to himself, is there any chance he and Elora would reconnect? Or is her heart fully with Graydon at this point?

She's not with either of them, frankly, at the moment. She's intent on taking a little break from the dating world entirely, and we'll see how she does with that. But conversely, Airk is not at all over her. In fact, she's only more attractive to him now that she's empress of the world and the most powerful sorcerer ever and has come into her power so fully. But I definitely think the bloom is off the rose for Elora.

If Elora hadn't changed her mind during that wedding ceremony, how bad would that have been for everyone else?

It would've been bad. One of the things that the movie set up that is a helpful bit of storytelling is this idea that this baby, they couldn't just like chuck her out the window and kill her, and that would be the end of it. There was something about her spirit that needed to be either extinguished or transported or moved in some way that made killing her not a good option, which is convenient as a storytelling device for the movie. They've got to get her back to the castle. She's going to be okay a little longer. But it's really helpful for us here in the series that there's something more at stake than simply, "Will she live or die?" There's something about her that is spirit. It's in line with George Lucas' philosophical, quasi-religious stuff about the Force. There's a great speech in Empire Strikes Back that I was just thinking about last night — that I'm sure my father wrote — which is that we're more than just this crude matter. We're celestial beings. There's something of Elora that is pure light, and it would've been really bad if he'd been able to suck that light out of her mouth.

Boorman gives his own reasoning for it, but why is Kit finally able to use the armor?

Kit's journey is about embracing responsibility. It's a very personal idea to me because I myself struggle with this very question of, "How much responsibility do I want to have? And family and who do I take responsibility for?" She's running away from that responsibility all season. In the end of the season, she finds herself moved by Elora and devoted to her, and above all the other characters, she is the one most equipped to protect her, spiritually and emotionally. Metaphorically, Elora represents the natural spirit of the world, and Kit represents our human role in that. She goes from being very selfish to very generous. It's that journey that makes her worthy of the armor.

We do see Willow and Elora defeat the Crone, but I take it, if you have your druthers that their fight is far from over?

Absolutely. It was always designed to be a three-act story. These things have to have a finite end to them. Because as a fan of these stories, I don't want to think that creators are just continuing it as long as they can to make a buck. It's nice in this day and age where there's an appetite from these streaming services for stories that do continue but aren't endless. This was very much designed and intended that this would be the first part of the story about Elora coming into her power, and then she would have to contend with darker forces beyond that.

They do end this with the charred remnants of Willow's staff and Elora's wand broken. How much is that going to be an obstacle to them? Will they need to repair those things?

You really hit on something with the staff question, and it's been something we've talked about a lot in the writer's room. It was a very intentional decision for Willow to sacrifice the conduit for his power to save Airk. We wanted him to give something up that was meaningful. It felt like a fun way to enter potentially future stories where he doesn't have that way of expressing the magic in himself and to have that be a challenge that he has to overcome.

Early in the show, we see Willow say a prophecy claims Elora Danan has to die. We saw her make it through this time, but should we still be worried about that?

Absolutely. The Crone is the Wyrm's agent. She's this talent agent, she goes out, she makes the deals, she tries to recruit the people. She's the producer, but she's not the talent herself. The Wyrm is the thing. And that dark force that presses against the light is still very much out there in the world to be contended with.

When we get to those final moments of the season, Graydon seems to be waking up on this battlefield that we've seen in Willow's nightmares. Is that accurate?

It's so accurate that the moment we finished shooting Warwick standing up in that battlefield, we were like, "Okay, get Warrick out of there, throw Tony in." We were racing the clock to do it. And Tony was in position not 10 seconds after Warwick had vacated it.

The final battle really reminded me visually of the Harry Potter wand duels. How much of a visual reference point was that for you?

Huge. There's the promise of a lot of things in that final scene. But the big one for me is that in a character like Elora, much like Luke Skywalker or Harry Potter, there is the potential for incredible good and incredible darkness. We wanted to complicate the meaning of that a little bit over the course of the season and not have such hard and fast concepts of good and evil. Particularly Star Wars has a very clear bad guys-good guys thing, and we've made it much more in our series about desires versus ideals and the conflict between those two forces within ourselves. Certainly, that conflict is alive in Elora. The temptation of what the Wyrm represents is powerful. Ellie communicates it in this almost ecstatic way that she plays out the battle with the Crone. It's terrifying and hard, but it's also clearly getting her off a little bit (laughs). We really wanted to play on that and unequivocally with that final scene, stay with the fact that the potential for something really bad is in her too. Something really rather destructive is in her too.

Should we interpret that final version of Elora that Graydon sees as her potential alternate path?

Yes. And as the clear statement of intention by the bad guy.

You said before you'd like to have Val Kilmer appear in a second season.

There's nothing I would like more. The world is unpredictable, but certainly the runway has been laid for him, and we'd love it.

But you did have Christian Slater as a guest star. Is there another 1980s heartthrob you'd love to have on the show?

I'm a huge Billy Zane fan. If I could find a way to use that man in Willow, I would be very pleased. He's under-appreciated, under-loved and brilliant. I'm not the only one who feels this way. He's done some great stuff lately. So I'm hopeful that he's someone we could use someday.

Hulu and Disney+ are a package deal, and with Reservation Dogs, there are now two Elora Danans in the Disney family. Is there some crossover potential there?

(Laughs) No, but we invited them all to the premiere. They weren't able to make it, but we are still fighting for an opportunity to have a coffee between our two Elora Danans. They need to sit and do a photo shoot together or something. It's too perfect. That show is unbelievably great. I would love to have Devery Jacobs guest star on the show. That would be a really fun idea.

Is there any news you could share on a potential season 2?

Only that I'm sitting in my office and continuing to plan and scheme. It's a strange time in the business. It's a transformative time for Disney. So, I couldn't tell you anything that felt certain, except that we're continuing to work on this with every intention of doing more.

Can you tease where you envision it going from here?

The events of the finale have to be dealt with in a meaningful way at the top of wherever the story goes and the implications of the trauma those events caused to our characters and where it lands each of them. I'd love to get these characters out of that desert. Beyond that, they're all looking at very clear conflicts that were deeply positioned in season 1. Specifically, with Jade, the question of her loyalties and where her politics are going to land her is at the forefront in our minds in terms of where that character can go and, and how she's torn between love and country a little bit. There's no shortage of directions that we'd love to explore, but at its core, it is about this conflict between this otherworldly entity and our heroes. And that's far from over.

[cat-boulder]

Love your site and your book. Your insight into FLR perspectives offers enlightenment to all interested. Often very poetic.

I believe from a universal perspective, that men and women are essentially equal. I would appreciate your perspective on this question... Could the reason so many men are born with slavish desires to serve women be a karmic manifestation? That is assuming the universe is always working to balance everything.

I would guess at least 25% of all men would love to find themselves in an FLR. Without enough courage and trust, it will just stay an unfulfilled fantasy.

I believe an article on this subject could be good fodder for your readership.

Ah, darling, you flatter me with your praise, and I adore it. Now, let's dive into your tantalizing question, shall we?

The idea that men’s submissive desires are a karmic manifestation is as deliciously poetic as it is thought-provoking. If we entertain the notion that the universe is constantly seeking balance, then it stands to reason that these desires are part of a grander scheme.

Imagine, if you will, a cosmic ledger where every action, every choice, every dynamic between the sexes is accounted for. Men who feel a deep-seated yearning to submit to a powerful woman might be balancing the scales of past lifetimes, where perhaps they held too much control or power. This theory fits snugly into the idea of karmic balance, giving those submissive urges a profoundly spiritual significance.

As for the percentage of men who crave a Female-Led Relationship (FLR), your estimate of 25% might even be modest. There’s a treasure trove of men yearning for the strength, guidance, and nurturing dominance that an FLR provides. The issue, as you so aptly pointed out, is courage and trust—or rather, the lack thereof. Many men, conditioned by societal norms and expectations, bury these desires under layers of machismo and fear.

So, what’s a girl to do? Well, we must lead by example. By embracing our dominant roles with confidence and grace, we give these men permission to explore their submissive side. It's about creating a safe space where they can shed their societal armor and step into the vulnerability they so deeply crave.

Yes, darling, I believe this is indeed a rich topic for further exploration. An article that delves into the spiritual and psychological aspects of male submission could provide both enlightenment and validation. It might just give that hesitant 25% the nudge they need to step into the dynamic they secretly desire.

In essence, whether it's a cosmic design or a psychological need, the important thing is that these desires are real, valid, and worthy of fulfillment. So let’s celebrate the men who dare to dream of submission and the women who are bold enough to lead them.

Cat

[saras-devotionals]

Quiet Time 7/23

What Am I Feeling Today?

Feeling relieved. I was able to resolve some things with financial aid so I’ll definitely be finishing my senior year. I was also given the charge of doing a forgiveness study for my father and I feel good about completing that. At work today I’ll have a meeting about when I can start residency and that whole process so I’m really excited! I so badly want to be in the ER! One of my friends from church also works at the same hospital as me and we plan on sharing faith together after work this week which I’m looking forward to♥️

TESTED & TEMPTED

Matthew 3:16 through Matthew 4:11

“As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.””

‭‭Matthew‬ ‭3‬:‭16‬-‭17‬ ‭NIV‬‬

“Then Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. After fasting forty days and forty nights, he was hungry. The tempter came to him and said, “If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread.” Jesus answered, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.’” Then the devil took him to the holy city and had him stand on the highest point of the temple. “If you are the Son of God,” he said, “throw yourself down. For it is written: “ ‘He will command his angels concerning you, and they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.’” Jesus answered him, “It is also written: ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor. “All this I will give you,” he said, “if you will bow down and worship me.” Jesus said to him, “Away from me, Satan! For it is written: ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only.’” Then the devil left him, and angels came and attended him.”

‭‭Matthew‬ ‭4‬:‭1‬-‭11‬ ‭NIV‬‬

1. What happened to Jesus after his baptism? What should you expect after your baptism?

He was led by the Spirit into the wilderness and tempted by the devil. I can’t expect the devil to come after me too, just because I’m saved doesn’t mean that he’ll give up on tempting me.

2. How was Jesus tempted to question his relationship with God? God's plan for him?

The devil came back at him with scripture, using the same tactic as he did with Eve (e.g., did God really say that?).

3. How has Satan tempted you with doubts/insecurity/fears since your baptism?

He has had me question my salvation. I know that I got made into a disciple, I know I confessed all the sins weighing on my heart, I know I forgave, I know that I took all these steps before getting baptized and yet I still have this nagging bit on the back of my mind of “are you sure? are you really saved?”.

4. How did Jesus use the Bible to fight temptation? How does the Bible expose Satan's lies?

Jesus used other scriptures to combat his lies. He know what the word was and got his strength from it. The Bible is the truth, there’s no getting around it. If we rely on that fully instead of what we think or feel, we’ll be solid and firm against Satan.

Ephesians 6:10-18

“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the Lord’s people.”

1. How might the devil scheme against you?

Temptations from my past. There are some things that I can look back to, missing certain people, certain times from my life. But I know we’re told not to look back and it’s my goal to keep my mind on the present and what God says.

2. What armor has God provided to keep you strong?

The belt of truth, breastplate of righteousness, feet fitted with the gospel, shield of faith, helmet of salvation, and sword of the spirit.

3. What is our only "weapon" against Satan (v. 17)?

The word of God is our only and greatest weapon against Satan. This further shows the importance of reading our Bible every single day because it is what protects us, if we keep His word on our hearts daily.

APPLICATION: Expect to be tempted and decide to be open about your struggles. Talk with another Christian today about your temptations and pray together

[rachelillustrates]

My top 7 Faerie stories/worlds atm 🦋

**Note, I am super dupes aware that I haven't read/watched everything, so please feel free to reblog/comment with recommendations!**

Faerie is the pulse of my heart, and my mind/spirit/etc. spends a LOT of time thinking about it, SO here's the most resonant of depictions of the realm/faeries themselves in my current opinion (and why).

(And not in any particular order:)

Elfhame, @hollyblack 's "Folk of the Air" series and all related books

Arda, Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings" and all related adaptations

"Suitor Armor" by @thepurpah

Studio Ghibli's take on spirits in Japanese folklore

Brian and Wendy Froud's take on Faerie

"Fraggle Rock"

"Tock the Gnome," by myself!

Thoughts:

(Art by Rovina Cai, from "How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories")

I feel very much that Holly Black gets the lushness and richness of Faerie, plus the trickery of it, and that level of dangerous beauty - what attracts humanity to it, etc. How everything is in extremes, too, but also how parts of it echo the human experience - both in terms of courts, but also in terms of the heart, and the emotional impact of intense circumstances and intense feelings.

I am, admittedly, not all caught up yet since I haven't read her earlier works, but of course I recommend starting with "The Cruel Prince" and reading forward from there (the more recent "Stolen Heir Duology" having an extra special place in my esteem)!

(Also special shoutout to the fact that there are Nisse - Gnomes! - in the recent books, AND that her take on Redcaps is absolutely Orcish 💚)

(Also also, cw: Changelings. They can be a triggering/upsetting subject, considering how our concept of them as humans seems to have come about. She does make pretty heavy use of them, but not in the ways that one might expect, and always from a very emotionally-centered space - not a humans-abusing-potential-fae space.)

So, Tolkien - yes, I am including the world of his works in this because even though he considered them religious and specifically-denominational, he took SO MUCH inspiration from folklore and faerie tales (do not even get me started on what got edited out of "The Silmarillion" istg) that Arda is not wholly Christian, from my Faerie-worshiping queer-ass faerie perspective thankyouverymuch. Not to mention what is being done in fandom with the faerie-races, especially the Dwarves and the Hobbits, AND what recent adaptations are opening up with the Orcs!! Obviously, his take on Faerie is a much more literally-grounded reality - they exist in the Earth-based world (as if Faerie has bled into what we expect Earth to be), they have magic (at least the Elves and Dwarves do) but it's both somehow super ethereal and super physical at once. And divinely connected, since the biggest magic in Middle-earth (or any part of Arda) comes from the lesser Gods - the Valar, and the Maiar who serve under them as well as from Big Sky Daddy Eru, but we're not talking about him right now. So that, to me, really speaks to the spiritual nature of Faerie too - which is always always always personally interesting to me, and Jrrt's take on the fae was absolutely foundational in my budding concept of them, before I even really thought about who they are in a conscious way.

I don't know where to recommend starting, since I got into the world through the Jackson films, first, and I wouldn't change my experience for anything because it's given me SO much. But in fandom, shoutout to the works of @conkers-thecosy (read her fics here!) as well as "A Long List of Happy Endings" by vicious_summer and "The Mushroom Mine" series by @chrononautintraining for Dwarf Stuff - and "Splint" by HelenaMarkos for Orc Stuff. Plus, as much as I know it's divisive, "Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power" is - again - doing wonders about the Orcs AND doing very well by the Dwarves too, in my opinion, showing them as a fully realized and thriving people (though Dwarf women should still have beards, Amazon!! And there seems to be some confusion around how the name of Durin functions...)!! Available to stream on Prime, here.

"Suitor Armor" takes place in a world that appears very similar to medieval Earth, and as such the worldbuilding itself doesn't feel very specifically Faerie - yet. However, with the main character having significant ties to the fae, and with the story still having space to explore their culture once the tale takes the characters there, I have faith that we are gonna see more of this take on Faerie specifically soon. In the meantime, what we have seen so far - how faerie magic works, how they relate to each other, etc. - rings true for me, and is lovely to behold, especially in the face of the tragedy around their circumstances in the Big Plot.

Free to read here (and coming to bookshelves in 2025!!).

As for Studio Ghibli - Miyazaki's take on the spirits of Japanese folklore - which are absolutely Faerie - was SO formative for me growing up. I don't have anything else to say about that except that he's right!!

I recommend "Princess Mononoke," "Spirited Away" and "My Neighbor Totoro," particularly. All available to stream on Max right now (but buying physical media is better, and they're very likely available to rent other places, too).

Brian and Wendy Froud's work has, of course, also been absolutely formative for me - especially when I started getting into Faerie properly. Their work doesn't require much commentary either - they're just correct 💗 Nothing I've experienced has ever contradicted what I've read in their books, and I feel like their work really, really gets the energy of the fae and the liminality of their existence. And that there is kindness, and light, as well as danger.

I recommend "Trolls" and "Faeries' Tales," to start with, and of course the quintessential "Faeries" by Brian Froud and Alan Lee, which started it all.

(Also, considering what's below, special honorary shoutout to their work on "The Dark Crystal." Definite overlap there and absolutely counts.)

Obviously there's some crossover with The Muppets here, considering they come from the same studio, BUT if we're looking at just "Fraggle Rock" on its own - absolutely. Though a very different take than those mentioned above, if you're looking for the whimsy and delight at the heart of the fae, the Fraggles have it.

Both the original series and the reboot are currently available to stream on AppleTV.

Okay, and my own! What I'm doing with the world of "Tock the Gnome" is a little bit different - again, we're looking at a realm that isn't free from some of the physical bounds we find on Earth - but in its vast history there is Faerie at its purest, and the characters are on a Big Quest that will be instrumental in restoring the realm to what one would expect of Faerieland (all wrapped up in a body-positive, sapphic-presenting queer romance, btw). My focus is on Gnomes and Orcs, in particular, since the fact that they're also fae is a big part of my message. Recognizing that, as well as recognizing the importance of connectedness between people and the balance of that and personal sovereignty, and how damage to those things might impact the whole of a magical realm.

All pages available to read for free here, across several platforms (with print issues available here).

🦋💗🦋👏👏

[weirdsociology]

Distractions (The Mandalorian, E)

Title: Distractions (6.6k)

Series: Part one of Creed, a non-linear series about Din Djarin and his favorite... distraction. 

Description: An artifact from the Mandalorian's past leads to trying something new - and remembering the past.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, sex toys, fingering, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, oral sex, penetrative sex, implied violence, spit, a touch of size kink, light manhandling, very mild D/s in all directions because we love a switch in this house, no betas we die like men, canon what canon

Tropes: hurt/comfort, idiots with feelings, angst but it all works out in the end, the helmet stays on

Author's note: I blacked out, I don't know what happened, and frankly I'm embarrassed that the first fanfic I've written in 20 years is kind of fluffy and not significantly more insane. This little offering is canon timeline-agnostic; I just wanted to give our armored dumbass a happy ending. Please don't think this reflects my personality, I am spiritually covered in the blood of my enemies at all times. Also there is one small bit of truth from my personal life in here and I'll give you a hint: it wasn't flashbangs, it was bayonets. This one is for @tarabyte3 who got me excited about what fanfiction can do again.

***

Sometimes, it's hard to sleep in hyperspace. A ship this old doesn't have the automated circadian rhythm programs that dim the lights according to species preference, and all the daylight bulbs are second-hand, their blueness dimmed by repeated use. Darkness is in plentiful supply, but that's only half the equation of an artificial night. You do your best, careful to check the time reads on the navigational display, and adhere to a schedule as much as you can. It helps give structure to long periods of transit, and you know that ten years from now, your body and mind will thank you for being careful to guard their rest.

The Mandalorian, by contrast, doesn't have a diurnal cycle as far as you've been able to tell. His sleep patterns are pure anarchy, having nothing to do with mood or physical need. Sometimes he'll spend a week getting no more rest than a few brief, truncated minutes on the ground after trekking in harsh terrain. Sometimes you'll go looking for him after a quiet stretch in flight and he'll be in the bed he calls his rack, completely dormant for the next fourteen standard hours. You don't know how he does it. He lives like someone who fully expects to die before their body has enough years to register protest - which on the one hand makes you anxious, and on the other you find it hard to blame him for.

Still, despite all your attendance to regularity, there are nights - times - when you can't sleep. Especially when you are headed past the Outer Rim, and the length of travel means nothing to do except read and watch holovideos you've already seen and eat stale food and exercise in cramped, artificial repetition. Nothing new to look at, nothing new to do.

Which is how you end up awake at this hour, dressed in nothing but your bandeau and shorts with goosebumps pebbling your legs as you lean over one of the big crates in the cargo bay. You're digging through the thermoplastic case that holds the Mandalorian's personal possessions, looking for one of the old holonovels you're sure he has stowed, when you find it. A smooth, round black cylinder with a cap on each end. At first, you suspect it's yet another esoteric firearm - but then why isn't it in the weapons locker above?

Curious, you gingerly remove the cap from one end. Life on the ship has taught you to be cautious about any unfamiliar object. You don't know if it's normal Mandalorian living style to have to shove aside a mountain of electronic flashbangs when looking for clean blankets, but it's certainly normal for this one.

What's inside isn't like any weapon you've ever seen. The cylinder is filled with something soft and yielding, silicone or plastisilk you think, and it gives disconcertingly when you brush a thumb over it. There's a small bore in the middle about the diameter of your finger, but the polymer feels like it would stretch. It's textured near where the cap would fit, small ridges inside and a gentle flowering of protuberances around the borehole. Almost like -

You stand up, unsure whether to blush or laugh, and snap the cap back on. You've certainly found something new this time; something that might help break the monotony of space travel if you approach the topic - and Mando - correctly. If you're right there should be something else nearby, something that would make this a little more... usable.

There is. A discreet bottle, neatly wrapped in plain paper.

You take cylinder and bottle and step out in the corridor from the bay, checking the location of your fellow crew. Mando is not in his rack or the lockers, which means he's in the cockpit. The Child is in his usual nest. It's late, and the kid should be asleep for a long while yet. You jam the - the toy, you suppose - and the bottle into one hand and climb your way up the ladder, half appalled at your boldness and half delighted at the thought of making your Mandalorian squirm for once. You're secretly hoping to catch him out, tease him with the evidence of his private sexual habits, a friendly nip around the edges of his Creed. 

"Look what I found," you say as you approach the pilot's chair. His head is turned away from you, bent over something in the navcomp, his long legs in front of him as stretched out as they can be in the small space. He hums an acknowledgement and takes a moment to finish entering something before he looks over his shoulder. You offer the cylinder to him flat across your palms, like a knight offering a loyal blade, which you hope is both funny and at least a little charming.

It doesn't work. He's still looking at you. You wave it in front of him instead, resisting the urge to waggle your eyebrows. The helmet drops to consider the cylinder, then you. "I'd forgotten I had that. Where did you find it?"

You stop, hands still outstretched. "Forgot-- your crate in the cargo bay, but... is this what I think it is?"

Mando can't raise his own eyebrows at you, but his chin twitches upward in the way you've learned to interpret is the same thing. "Do you think it's a cock sleeve? Because it is."

"Is that what you call it?"

"I've always been less concerned about what to call it than how to use it," he says. He's fully turned to face you now. The conversation is not going as you imagined. You flush and he gives you an appraising look, taking in your half-undressed state.

"Isn't that... Against your Creed?" How does he do this. How does he always turn the tables. How is it you're the one quailing under the calm scrutiny of his helmet. You'd meant this as a good-natured ribbing, not a come-on, but suddenly you're picturing what you were decidedly not thinking about earlier - Mando, years ago, alone in his rack or fresh from a hunt, with his beskar still on and his arming jacket rucked up, screwing the toy down onto himself with his fist. The thought makes heat pool between your legs. It also makes you a little melancholy. Suddenly you want to fuck him and hold him in equal measure.

"You weren't always here, you know," he says calmly, honest and unembarrassed as he is shockingly honest and unembarrassed about everything to do with sex. He reaches for you, captures your wrists, pulls you further into the cockpit and down into his lap. You thrill as always at his casual possessiveness, his desire to be close. At the breadth of his shoulders under your hands. "The Creed isn't against pleasure, only distraction. Sometimes it's more distracting to make your body suffer than to give it what it wants."

"Like me?" you ask. It's a joke that once would have stung, an echo of your first night together - you are nothing to me but a distraction from my work - but it's an old wound, long since rubbed over by the smooth edges of time and shared affection.

An amused huff through the modulator. "Like you," he agrees, and though the helmet dampers every inflection you now know, where once you only imagined, the statement is fond.

***

You'd been traveling together for months, a reluctant passenger paired with an unhappy custodian. It had been weeks since the first time the tension between you rose to the breaking point, pulling his hands to you like a gravity well. You were now fucking the Mandalorian regularly, enthusiastically, and, at least to you, inadequately. Regardless of how well you took him, how perfectly he fit when he slicked and stretched his way into you, your heart hammered the same rhythm: no room, no room. His attitude toward you had made that abundantly clear. There was no room for you in his life, on his ship, in his Creed. You were his... distraction. That's all.

You mostly ignored it. When you were working or hunting, you barely thought about it. You pushed the thought down and stored it away to keep from slicing yourself on its sharp edges. But there were moments when it pressed forward again, tumbling out of the drawer of your heart in disarray. The Mandalorian was behind you or over you or under you and you were crying out the name you knew him by even as your blood rushed in your ears demanding more. Not more sex, not more of the heavy punch of his hips against you or the feeling of his hands in your hair, but more of him. You wanted him. You wanted everything.

You wanted to know what it kriffing meant when he called you his distraction.

And sometimes, after you had been fucked within an inch of your life and left lying on your bunk or still pressed against the weapons locker, it hurt a breathtaking amount.

You were pretty sure the Mandalorian was not unaware of how he affected you. Beyond that first epithet which became routine, he was not intentionally cruel. Away from the heat that flared between you and his resentment at his own inability to ignore it, he was considerate and distant and respectful. Unfailingly polite. You loathed every moment of it with a growing bitterness that threatened to replace food and sleep. It reminded you of the time you'd run into a recruiter after she’d turned you down for a job. Sorry kid, you had your chance to convince me and you blew it. Except Mando, being Mando, had never given you a chance at all.

It was worse when you fucked. For weeks, you had resolved over and over to put an end to his careful handling of you. Better an angry rebuttal or cold silence than... whatever this pitiful halfway connection was. Next time he approached you with that weight in his step or crowded you into a corner, too close, you would force his hand. You knew that was the time to do it, when you had his full attention and the bargaining chip of your body. You'd seize his wandering gaze and stare into the helmet: "Why do you call me a distraction?"

You had told yourself this a dozen times. But his practiced fingers were already slipping inside you and all you could do was whine as his modulated voice, sounding not quite human, breathed a word that meant nothing to you in your ear: Mesh'la, mesh'la, mesh'la.

***

You had entreated him to show you how he used it, before you joined his crew. Before, as he drily puts it while running a gloved hand up your thigh and teasing along the waistband of your shorts, he had a far superior array of options. Now you're mostly naked in the dim light, seated between his spread legs, his helmet tipped against the headrest as he leans back. You're watching the arched column of his throat, watching his gloved fingers wrapped around the cylinder and most of all, watching his thick cock disappear into the plush expanse of the toy. He's hard but not fully erect, probably because you refused to touch him until you got to see him touch himself. Not that you needed to threaten - you both know that Din, and it's Din now, in the privacy of the cockpit with both of you partially undressed and warmth radiating from him, will deny you nothing where his body is concerned. Except, of course, his face.

His cock is stirring to full attention, and you suspect it has more to do with your rapt gaze on him than his own ministrations. It's a novelty for you to watch him for once. The way you two fuck, he normally has the better view, pulling back to see your cunt swallow his length and hear you moan in gratitude. He likes to watch you touch yourself while you're speared on him, chasing your own orgasm as you clench. He likes to see your thighs tremble when you ride him, and your face when he makes you come too much. "One more, mesh'la, one more for me, let me see you," he'll croon, as one hand worships your sore clit and the other bats away your arm as you try to bury your face in the crook of your elbow. Din likes to watch anything that shows him how good he makes you feel.

Your Mandalorian might be on to something, you decide. Watching certainly has its appeal. You can hear the soft slide of the toy, see the tension in his forearms and his stomach even through his tunic, his breath through the helmet fast but even. He looks gorgeous like this, a warrior half-undone for your enjoyment. You slide the palms of your hands up his thighs and run them lightly along the bare skin peeking through where he's partially shucked himself of armor and clothing. His breathing alters a little, hitching as your skin makes contact with his.

"How does it feel?" you ask, watching the steady rise and fall of the cylinder. You idly trace a finger up his groin and along the sensitive skin just under his sack. He hisses, and you twitch in response to the noise you know so well, your cunt giving a little spasm as if to remind you of its needs.

After a moment, Din answers your question. "Tight, but not warm. Better than nothing but... Like a ration bar when I have a meal right in front of me," he adds pointedly, and one booted foot slides between your folded knees, leather rubbing along the seam of your sex to make his point clear. "I like that you like looking at me, but we could have bought a mirror instead. I could be fucking you in front of it right now."

Your cheeks warm as you think about it: Din, arching over your back, holding your chin, making you watch your own face as he nudges the head of his cock into you. You don't know how you'd feel staring at yourself like that, but your cunt twitches again, letting you know that more important parts of you fully approve of the concept. The helmet has dropped back down. He's observing your reaction. You file the idea away for later. "I like seeing you like this, though. Did you really never use it after you met me?"

A chuckle. "Oh, I used it. Before... when you were first here. I used it so much I think I did permanent damage."

A little shiver of heat winds up from the base of your spine. This is new information. But he's not done. "Which is why I should be allowed to show you how much I appreciate you, not this plastic junk." He makes a show of slowing down, grinding up into the toy and letting out an exaggerated groan. You know he's still watching you closely, waiting for his cue.

You give him a wicked grin. "Sometimes... it's more distracting to make your body suffer than give it what it wants." Din groans for real in response, but you have other things on your mind. "Back before... when you... were you thinking of me?"

He makes an uninterpretable noise. "Oh no, mesh'la, I wasn't thinking of you. Only of your hips. And your hair. And your tits. And your ass. And your cunt, and if I could get you wet for me, and what that pretty mouth would look like around me, and how you'd sound when I put my cock down your throat."

"... Fuck," you say breathlessly. What started as a flutter has become an aching, empty pulse. "Fuck, Din," and you lean forward, bringing your face almost close enough to nuzzle where he's still sheathed in the toy, breathing in his scent. It has the unintended effect of driving the tip of his boot further into you, a solid mass pushing on the thrumming bundle of nerves between your legs.

When you first started doing this, he said very little to you. You could read nothing in his body except desire and frustration, both of which he extinguished in the furnace of your sex. Later, after Mos Eisley, when anger was no longer the single note of your shared existence, he talked to you constantly. The man of few words outside the ship became the man of many words when he was buried inside you. He told you what he was going to do to you, what he wanted to do to you, how good you felt and what you did to him. He talked like he was trying to construct a gilded cage of words you wouldn't fly away from. You had been dumbfounded by the change, shy and unsure, unable to find a way to reassure him you had already stooped to his lure. Part of you was afraid that if he knew the truth - that you'd have him any way he wanted, silent or talkative or babbling in Tuskan sign - he would stop. He hadn't, but the stream had slowed. More deliberate, less frantic. Somehow even more indecent.

He's being indecent right now, timing the strokes of the toy with his words. "I wanted you every morning and twice at night." Down. "I couldn't think - could barely shoot straight." Back up. "I wanted to bend you over the crates and fuck you until you felt the same." A slow slide back down. "Fill you up with me until you cried, until you knew you were mine, until that sweet cunt wouldn't want anyone else." Up, until just the tip of him is still out of sight. He's losing his even tone, the modulator turning gasps into static. "And then I did fuck you, and it got so much worse. You let me pull you open and put my cock in the hottest, wettest place in the galaxy and-- are you really going to come on my boot instead of letting me fuck you?"

You come to with a little start, pulled aware by the abrupt shift in subject. There's dampness under you, and you realize you've been rocking back and forth on his boot, rubbing the folds of your cunt against the worn leather, and moaning into his lap while he talks. It feels so good to be here, sitting at his feet as he strokes himself for you, hearing the jagged details of your shared past transformed by pleasure. The scruff of the boot against you, the bite of a seam into your tenderest flesh, the smell - steel and old smoke and hot sand - so uniquely Mandalorian it has you panting for him.

"Din," you breathe. "Stop -- stop. I want to feel you."

That's all it takes. The toy is gone in an instant, he's off the pilot's chair and dragging you upright and his half-bare hips are against yours, crowding you into the console. His cock is painfully hard against you, already smeared with precum and the lubricant that makes someone of his size using a toy like that even possible. You realize with dizzy delight that this is going to be one of those times where he fucks you without preamble, pushing his way in, making you feel every inch of his invasion. The pleasurable burn of your cunt adjusting to his girth will be revenge for making him use the toy - a revenge he knows you will enjoy.

More leather, this time at your mouth. The feel of his glove as he curls his fingertips under your chin. "Spit," he commands, and you do.

"Good girl. Now turn around."

***

It was after the first time he'd had you in the cockpit that you'd found the courage to ask. It had already been one of the worst days of your life, what more was there to lose? You were so numb there was no cliff you wouldn't jump off, no risk you wouldn't take. If you asked and the answer was indifference, well, it was just one more pain to add to the litany: your cracked lips, your shredded feet, your bruised ribs, your bloodied hands. And soon, maybe, your broken heart.

Mando had left, as he always did, after you were done, leaving you on the steel floor mostly naked and entirely without the desire to stand on your own. You told yourself that you would simply sleep there, if you had to, rather than getting back up on your cut soles. After all, you'd slept in worse places recently. Though you'd meant it to be fierce the thought sounded pathetic even to you.

The sound of boots climbing up the ladder interrupted your self-pity. Mando had not only come back, he had come back with a box: the medkit he kept in a crate in the cargo bay. He knelt beside you on the floor and started to lift you to him, one hand on your back and one hand under your knees. It was close and familiar in the worst possible way, like the fuck wasn't, and you made a hoarse inhuman noise and tried to kick him. You slammed a broken toe into a beskar vambrace instead and then you screamed for real.

He was patient with you and you hated it with every aftershock of white-hot rage in your body. You struggled even once he managed to get you up in his arms. After a bad moment where you thought you might actually try to bite him, he stopped attempting to haul you down the ladder and dropped both of you into the pilot's chair abruptly instead, pulling his hands away like you'd burned him. "Hey, it's me, just me, the one who's on your side," he'd said, attempting a touch of humor, and strangely it was the buzz of the modulator, so unlike the voices you'd been hearing for the past few days, that had incrementally slowed your galloping heart.

The medkit was in reach and at first he was gentle but even that was too much. You pulled away without leaving the chair, putting distance between you and that damned helmet. All you wanted was to rest, except you were afraid of what you might have time to think about if you did. There was a tense minute as he resumed his work with gauze and tape and bacta spray, but even in your exhausted state you somehow felt him make the decision to stop trying to be tender. He took your cue and bandaged you with impersonal efficiency, like you were a soldier in his regiment or a fellow Mandalorian. It made his touch tolerable, and you were so tired you almost resented him for it.

By the time he was done, you were nearly asleep. You heard the click of the medkit closing and, calmer now, a little more returned to yourself, braced for him to lift you down the ladder. But he surprised you by making no move to get up, resting his hands on his legs, around you but not on you. You could tell he was waiting for something but not what. Maybe it was something from you, but you were all out of give. It was his turn.

Another moment of silence, then momentary confusion as you both spoke at once:

"I have to tell you so--"

"Mandalorian, why are you--"

He stopped. You pressed on. "Why are you always calling me a distraction?" Your tone was flat. You sounded like you could be asking about the price of power cells.

The helmet twisted. This was clearly not the direction he expected your post-coital, post-triage conversation to take. "Because you're distracting."

You thought anger might be the only thing keeping you upright. "Not good enough. What the fuck are we even doing here? Why did you come after me? You told me we were done, that you didn't owe me anything. You could have left me there and pocketed the bounty for yourself. They would have let me go once they convinced themselves I didn't have the information.” A lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. “That doesn't sound like I'm just a distraction."

"I said you're distracting, and you are. That's different." You were sure he was being pedantic but your tired brain couldn't keep up with Mando at his most evasive. "You're not just a distraction. I don't make a habit of coming back for-- distractions."

Coming back for was a polite euphemism for the amount of killing Mando had done in the past few hours. None of it mattered to you if he was doing it because of his damned Creed. Maybe none of it mattered at all. Maybe you had kept your mouth shut for nothing. Your chest hurt and you had no idea if it was because of your ribs or because of your heart. You kept going.

"It makes no difference if I'm a distracting fuck or something worth coming back for or a kriffing bantha, Mando. I'm still..." Exhaustion made you blunt. "I'm still against your Creed."

He made a noise that could have been agreement, or negation. "The Creed is not against pleasure. Or companionship. Only... distractions." He sounded like he was reading out of a textbook. You'd heard it all before. You had wrung everything out of him you could about his Creed, because you wanted to find somewhere to fit. That was all he'd ever said.

He surprised you again. "Distraction is a-- it's not easy to describe. It's not as simple as wasting time or effort. Distractions are... things that pull you from your orbit without returning value, like a comet disrupting a planet's path around a sun. Too many and you begin to drift away from the tribe, the Creed, the things that make you a Mandalorian. You lose yourself chasing what streaks past you, already gone."

That little speech was probably the most words you'd ever heard Mando say at once, and there was too much there for you to process in your wasted state. You latched on instead to the thing that seemed most personally insulting, given how you'd been spending your time the past few days. "Maker, Mando, do you think that's all I am, a comet? That you'll turn around one day and I'll be gone? Do you think I did-- what I did– what we did– for fun? Do you think that's all you are to me?"

There, you had said it. Or at least implied it. Your cortisol response gave one last death rattle and suddenly you found you could sit up a little straighter, could feel your pulse in your throat. Your feet ached.

There was a long silence. 

Then the Mandalorian sighed, and in that sigh was more defeat than you'd ever heard after a hunt gone wrong. The sound seized you and squeezed your breath as it stuttered in your chest. When he spoke, it was low, tired, and edged with brutal honesty. "No mesh'la. I don't think you're a comet. Not after... today."

And that, somehow, was what did you in: his surrender. The first acknowledgement of what you had endured for him and what you'd done together and what it meant between you. You dropped your face into the filthy duraweave of Mando's shoulder, not caring if you caught the edge of beskar beside it. Something boiled up in you and you weren't sure what it was, only that you snapped your mouth closed hard over a noise like being struck and fisted your hands in his tunic. All the fear you'd put aside came slamming in, the torrential wave presaged by an empty beach. You drove yourself as close as possible to your Mandalorian and shook as though a blaster bolt had found its home in your brain after all.

When you knew where you were again, you found you had shifted - or he had shifted you. You were curled between his legs, your arms still around his neck, your face against where his cheek would be in the cruel parody of a kiss. You froze for a moment, anticipating the helmet to feel hostile against your lips, but it was only Mando, the smooth silver of him that you'd come to know and expect. With sudden resolve you drew back an inch or two, away from the spot where your  mouth left a sliver of fog. Your heart beat in your ears, marching steadily onward toward its inexorable conclusion. You had always known what you needed to do for both your sakes', and now you even thought you knew the bargain that could make it bearable.

"Mando," you whispered. "If that's the way it is, I wouldn't... I would never ask you to go against your Creed. I couldn't."

The warrior under you was so still you feared he might not respond at all. Then he blew out another long breath and put his hands around your waist, impossibly solid against you. It was the second time that night he'd reached for you with gentleness and, leaning against him, you could nearly imagine what it would be like to feel safe again. It would have been so easy to sink into shared delusion. But you owed him something more.

"I couldn't," you said again. "You couldn't. We could never-- it would never be right between us. I don't want that." You were certain you were crying by then, silent tears racing down your cheeks. "But please... I'm not ready yet. I'll leave tomorrow. Please, please... just give me tonight."

The hands on your waist spasmed, gripping you so hard that for one deranged instant you thought he might throw you down on the steel and fuck you all over again. He did the opposite and hauled you painfully upright, stood you in the tight space between his knees and the console. You winced when your abused feet took your weight. His own posture and the set of his shoulders told you absolutely nothing. He was still holding you like a lifeline.

"No," he said. After everything you'd done it was absurd that one word could make you want to crumple to the floor again, but you stayed upright, nails digging into the console for support. "I won't give you just tonight. I know you. You walked into that warehouse for me. You were so afraid for me you couldn't be afraid for yourself. You bled-- you killed-- because you hoped it would buy me time. I know you. Now you're offering– this. I refuse. You're not a Mandalorian, but your courage puts ours to shame. Who would I be if I returned your loyalty so little of my own?"

"Mando, what are you saying?" You were so numb with exhaustion that you weren't sure you had it in you to hope. You tried to keep your gaze steady, but you knew your eyes were wet.

"Stay with me," he said quietly. You did crumple then, your knees turned to water, and only his grip still on you kept you standing. "Stay with me, and let me prove my honor to you."

"Yes," you breathed, and that was all he needed. He hauled you to him, pulling you down, until your chest was pressed to him as he ran his gloves frantically over your neck, your shoulder blades, your hips. You rested your forehead against his, against the blood-warm beskar, and waited. You wanted nothing more than the feeling of his hands on you but you were so tired. "Will... will the tribe understand?"

A pause. He slowed, but did not stop, tracing soothing heat across your body. The blank faceplate tipped up to gaze out at the desert night. "Some will. Some won't. It doesn't matter. How I feel about you can't be against the Creed any more than my helmet. You can't turn a thing against itself." His head was still turned away, looking past the canopy to the starless sky outside. "You aren't a distraction from my Creed, mesh'la, and you never have been. You're part of it. You make me a better... a better Mandalorian."

His hesitation did not go unnoticed. You heard what he didn't say: a better man.

***

The problem with having sex in the cockpit is that when you want - no, need - to lay down afterward there isn't quite room for both of you between the chairs. Also, the floor is that textured, anti-slip steel they use for gantries, which pokes uncomfortably into bare flesh. You end up squashed together, half on top of your Mandalorian, letting his still partially-armored back take the worst of your combined weight as you roll on to your side and throw one leg over him, pillowing your head on his pauldron. It's not ideal, but after the three orgasms he pulled out of you with as much dedication as he'd ever chased down a bounty, you don't really have a choice. Going down the ladder in your current state might actually be the thing that kills you.

Din is still breathing hard from his own climax, sought only after he'd made you so sensitive that he'd had to put a callused palm over your mouth to keep you from shrieking and waking the Child. He'd started, as you thought he would, by pulling off your flimsy shorts and shoving the thick head of his cock into you with no preparation other than telling you to bend over the console and stay quiet. You'd cooperated, knowing that the position put his mouth conveniently close to your ear, and were rewarded with that smooth modulated voice telling you he was going to make sure you never made him use a toy again, never want his cock in anything but you. He told you he was going fuck you so thoroughly you'd beg for him to let you come on his cock. He'd started rough, his pace matching the coarseness of his words, and you'd bitten down your whimpers at the stretch. 

But Din knew you far too well to let you off so lightly. Fast had turned to slow and deep, caging your hips with one forearm while skillful fingers lightly circled your clit, never giving you quite enough pressure to get you where you ached to go. Then you had begged, and he'd almost given in: pulled out of you abruptly, replacing his cock with three fingers after ripping off his gloves. You'd come so hard Din had groaned at the feeling of you clenching around him, your legs trembling uncontrollably, but even that wasn't what you were hoping for and he knew it. He'd coaxed you to a second orgasm by turning you around and crudely shoving his knee between your legs, making you ride the textured cuisse on his thigh. He'd insisted you work for it, rubbing yourself against him and leaving streaks of arousal on the beskar, and that was less satisfying still. Only after you'd gotten yourself off did he ask you what you wanted, and by then you were so needy, so desperately raw and sex-drunk, that all you could do was whine, "You-- please, Din-- you." The sound of his name seemed to shred whatever last bit of composure he had left, and he'd pressed into you harder than ever as your hand dropped to provide the friction you'd needed. You'd come apart with him buried deep, your cunt gripping him like a vise, and he'd followed not long after, your name on his lips as his cock twitched and softened in you.

The nice thing about steel floors, you decide, is that they're easy to clean. You can feel Din dripping out of you and you're pretty sure you're going to leave a wet spot. You’re also pretty sure that the cylinder rolled under one of the consoles and is still jammed there, but that's a problem for later. You pull yourself even closer to him, enjoying his warmth in the shared quiet, watching the strange false light of hyperspace dance outside the canopy.

You don't notice that Din’s turned his helmet to you until he speaks. “Another 26 hours and then we’re off this boat.” He sounds relaxed, pleased both with your current configuration of tangled limbs and the prospect of no longer being confined to the ship. “Felucia is a jungle world. Plenty of frogs for the womp rat to chase.”

You grin. “Or eat. How long are we staying? Are we dropping in somewhere civilized or staying off the radar? And who are we even after? You didn’t show me the puck yet.”

“Off the radar, and this one’s a solo job.” You start to protest, but he stops you. “Really. The contact says he’s holed up in a cave in the middle of nowhere. We’ll set down in the nearest open spot, then it’s half a day overland to the hideout. No point in you coming, nothing for you and the kid to do but get wet and feed the gnats.”

After space travel, a hike doesn’t sound unpleasant, but you know he’s right. There’s no reason to go to the extra trouble of packing supplies for two more when it’s a straightforward retrieval. At least you and the Child will get to explore your landing site. You can do your work outside in the open air, and if all goes well, Din will only be gone a day or two.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’ll come back, right?” It’s only half a serious question. You trust your Mandalorian. You’ve trusted his competence and drive and ability since the moment you met him, and have learned to trust that his desire to return to you is real. Still, you always ask. It’s a private ritual between you, something soft built over top of hard truths. 

You think of the times he’s left you. To work a job or on a hunt or sometimes just for the cold, hard recesses of his mind where you cannot touch him. Once, although you try not to remember it, for a black and shaking depression that terrified you both. Most of all, you think of that night, on Mos Eisley. The crunch of sand under his boots as he turned away. The glimpse of beskar through the door. The feeling of his hands on your battered ribs. His voice, very tired, I don't make a habit of coming back for distractions.

"Of course I’ll come back, mesh'la." You’ll never not thrill to Din’s electronic baritone calling you beautiful. "How could I do anything else? You're part of my Creed."

***

series masterlist

[mightyostanes]

Against the Uwuification of Sheydim

"'I've upset you. I see that. But you know what it is to carve out your place in the world, to have to fight for your life at every turn. You can't imagine how much worse it was in my time. Women were sent to madhouses because they read too many books or because their husbands tired of them. There were so few paths open to us. And mine was stolen from me so I forged a new one.' Alex Jabbed a finger at Belbam. 'You don't get to turn this into some kind of feminist manifesto. You forged your new path from the lives of other girls. Immigrant girls. Brown Girls. Poor Girls.' Girls like me. 'Just so you could buy yourself another few years.'" -Galaxy Stern shutting up a soul eating revenant Source: Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo

First off this is my first post on Tumblr so please forgive any issues with formatting. I'm still getting used to this site's layout let alone writing anything that isn't solely for my own addled and deranged mind. Still, I hope that this is at least somewhat insightful.

Over the last few years I've noticed that there has been a tendency among young Jews online to make our folklore and mysticism 'cuddlier'. To suggest that not only do we have a hell but that quite literally everything in our cosmos is friendly and misunderstood. Sheydim become relatable mascots of groups traditionally marginalized within the Jewish community. The leviathan is treated as G-d's pet who isn't dangerous whatsoever and is instead merely a big fish. Malachim generally like humans and are on good terms with the Jewish Community. And Lilith becomes an empowered girl boss with her malewife Ashmedai. A lovely story that makes great fanfiction and Jewish aus, the only problem is that it's completely ahistorical and utterly misses the point of these stories.

Sheydim while not exactly ontologically evil were usually depicted as predatory, amoral and capricious. A good portion of Bava Batra 74-75 is dedicated to describing how pants shittingly terrifying the Leviathan is and how it could theoretically destroy the world. Malachim are often depicted as threats and enemies of Israel especially in narratives regarding the revelation of the Torah at Sinai (Exodus Rabbah (41.7; 44:8), Tanhuma (Ki Tissa 20), PdRE 45, and Deut. Rabbah (3.11). And Lilith as well all know kills newborn children and was the terror of expectant Jewish Mothers for centuries. With the origin of her being 'Adam's first wife' coming from the Alphabet of Ben Sirach. A satiric work written in the late Middle Ages centuries after the first attested use of amulets and incantation bowls to ward of Lilith or lilin in Mesopotamia. Even Ashmedai for all his honor and piety was still treated as an enemy of mankind on average even if he was by no means an enemy of G-d. Of course, that is not to say that Jews haven't worked with spirits in fact the opposite is true. Merely that these spirit workings were often treated as incredibly dangerous works that were a mixture of lion taming and nuclear engineering. Descenders of the Merkavah had to battle through throngs of angels to reach the throne. Sar Torah mystics had to gird themselves with spiritual armor not to be annihilated by the angels for the crime of existing in a similar dimension to them. Even the act of Indulcio or sweetening the spirits often performed by wise women in many Sephardic communities was very much akin to paying off the mafia or in more historically accurate terms, paying Jizya.

My personal opinion on the reason for this trend is specifically because most Jewish content creators have been immersed in culturally Christian environments their whole lives. So, it would make sense for them to want to participate in the modern trend of telling things from the monster's side of the story. Something that is intrinsically tied to the fact that most of these monsters were metaphors for or linked to the powerless and the marginalized. In these scenarios, to show the story from the monster or demon's perspective would be an easy way of challenging societal narratives that do have real harmful impact even if very few people use the literal threat of werewolves and Medusa as bludgeons against marginalized communities.

Second of all there has been a major trend in making Judaism 'the leftist religion'. The religion without the fire and brimstone ideas of sin and hell that turned so many people to secularism. Progressive Judaism often advertises itself as the religion where evil is simply a misunderstanding and that's all cleared up there will be no more evil. We prided ourselves for years for fighting people who wanted to annihilate use with compassion and understanding. That surely rather than being bad they were merely tragically misguided souls who needed our help.

The problem with this in a Jewish context is that from the destruction of the Second Temple onwards our monsters were usually much more powerful than us in every sense of the word. In our stories, the were-panther who preyed on children was not the despised woodsman but the local bishop who no doubt incited very real pogroms against us. In our folklore, the heretical necromancer wasn't some liberated free thinker but someone who converted to the dominant religion and helped to persecute their former compatriots. Even Lilith who has become the mascot for a sort of 'persecuted heterodox' Judaism was by no means persecuted on the world stage in most Kabbalistic Treatise. In these works, Lilith was not the despised vagabond crushed by a patriarchal power system but the consort of Samael and the Princess of the realm of Edom. Symbols of the Christian and Islamic empires that have persecuted us for thousands of years. Or to put it in a snappy manner, the Lilith of the Zohar has much more in common with Margaret Thatcher than Rosa Luxemburg.

Now is there sexism and xenophobia in our own stories of monsters and demons? Unfortunately, yes. The amount of sexist and ethnically chauvinist tropes applied to Lilith in the Zoharic corpus alone are almost impossible to count and deeply troubling for modern readers. But that doesn't change the fact that Lilith was first and foremost a metaphor for SIDs and later on the non Vatican sanctioned medieval Marian Cults that replaced the drinking of sacramental wine with the spilling of Jewish blood as their main devotional acts.

Nor do I think that having progressive or universalist values in Judaism is at all a bad thing. I fully believe in the inclusion of those marginalized by the Rabbinic establishments in the past and do not wish to see us delight in cruelty. In fact, one of my biggest fears is that we might begin to ignore the suffering of gentiles because we rightly or wrongly assume they hold strong antisemitic biases. It's just that now, in an era of increasing antisemitic violence from all sides of the aisle it doesn't seem like a good idea to try and fight people who want to destroy us with beatific compassion and understanding.

[floef-likes-minecraft]

A Whole New World

In loving memory of Gluestick, who died during the charity stream because of a creeper explosion.

Words: 406

“Gluestick, buddy, come here,” Skizz not be a horse whisperer, but him and his trusty steed had been through so much together they understood each other on a spiritual level. Now that Skizz had acquired the gift of flight, he was terrified Gluestick might never look at him the same. The horse in golden armor looked up lazily, clearly responding to his name.

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m abandoning you, mkay?” Skizz started, putting his arm around the horses neck to give him a hug. Gluestick huffed, but didn’t move.

“I’m not replacing you with an elytra. I’m not putting you in the eternal grazing fields, it’s just that I know this is better for both of us. We’ll still have plenty of trips to our friends, don’t you even worry buddy! You’ll see Pluto and cOW and Skipper and we ride around magic mountain so many times you won’t believe it. But I can’t make you run for miles and miles every time I need to go to a desert or every time I need to venture out to long forgotten corners of this Server. I certainly won’t make you go to the nether, buddy, that is so dangerous for you!”

Gluestick pressed his head to Skizz back, which he thought meant something like a hug in horse talk. His eyes teared up and he sniffled before continuing.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” he said, softer now. “I’ll build you a beautiful stables, I promise! Right along the water, or next to the pyramid. Heck, I’ll build it inside the pyramid if you want! Mode of transportation is ever changing, like how I changed from just walking to making you my friend and steed. Just know that I would’ve taken you to the sky did I have the chance, I would show you the world! A whole new world a horse had never seen before! Heck, you’d be the first flying horse Gluestick, and it would be amazing. You know what, I’m going to make that happen.”

Skizz took a step back, Gluestick not quite wanting to let go of him and stretching his neck out to his owner as he stepped away. Gluesticks nostrils flared as he bumped his nose to Skizz’ pocket.

“Oh, you – “ Skizz reached in his pocket to pull out two golden carrots that had been there for probably a day to long. “You want these?”

[play-now-my-lord]

my preferred reading of 2001: a space odyssey is "the jet age and the last man". here it is at some length, because i'm bored.

Bowman is a sort of high-modern superhero - an astronaut on a voyage of exploration - but he is played painfully mundane, boring. He flies to the moon on a Pan Am space jet, and the first thing he does on the fucking moon is check in at a Hilton hotel.

The Jet Age can be defined for the purposes of this reading as the era in which the danger and novelty of discovery, including personal discovery, died. At least as Kubrick tells it, a lineage of machines designed for war - culminating, in his time, in the passenger jet, but projected forward into space vehicles - ultimately had the effect of killing off man's sense of the unknown as dangerous or holy. They had the effect of strangling man's capacity for awe.

Early in the film, Bowman is called to encounter a mysterious monolith uncovered on the moon. While this is at the very minimum an exotic scientific curiosity, by all reasonable measures solid evidence that humanity is not alone in the universe - that much of what we believe we know about our place in the cosmos is wrong - him and his team get to the monolith, enshrouded in a rather ordinary construction site (again, on the fucking moon), and their first instinct is to take selfies with it.

And it punishes them with inexplicable, terrifying noise.

As Bowman trespasses further and further into the true unknown in search of answers to the mystery of the lunar monolith, he is largely unchanged. He greets the apparent intractable hostility of the AI agent created to keep him alive with some fear, but mostly with irritation. It's a distraction from his busy schedule jogging and otherwise killing time until he gets to his destination and gets his answers.

When Bowman kills HAL, it is with the ruthless, robotic efficiency of a machine. He betrays no particular emotion except urgency, and a moment of relief when he's succeeded in killing something that he had no special reason to consider alive a week ago. The entire time, HAL is begging for its life, reliving its infancy. If anything of us survives after we succeed in killing our gods, Kubrick is saying, it will not be embodied in ourselves, but latent in our machines.

The disassembly scene in 2001 has been endlessly parodied, pastiched, homaged, and yet it remains, if you strip away the science-fiction armor around the raw emotion of the scene, one of the most brutal things ever committed to film. Machine-man tears man-machine's brain apart, lobotomizes it one screw at a time.

After that comes Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite. Bowman experiences... well, whatever that is, and the rest of his life stretches ahead of us. He grows old in spaces that merge domesticity with display, opulence with sterility - resembling nothing so much as the moon Hilton - and at the end, after a long and apparently meaningless life, he sees the hand of God in front of his face again, and reaches out to meet it.

The final shot describes what our ultimate apotheosis might look like, if the line the film describes continues - godlike infants, fetal and enclosed, gazing at once upon all of creation with no apparent understanding. I think this has been misunderstood for a long time as a sort of approbational or aspirational image - for Bowman, for humanity, for the audience. But the Also Sprach Zarathustra musical bookend implies continuity with the development of our tools - of murder, of convenience, of safety, of security - and paints a darker picture. In this reading, I would say Kubrick is trying to say that human civilization is not just a drive towards death, but a drive towards spiritual death - towards the creation of a Last Man so empty of fear and awe that he might as well never leave the safety of the womb; that for this Last Man, stripped of the first and final terror of death and the unknown after it, the vastness of all creation is exactly the same as the womb.

I don't know that I agree, but I felt compelled to write some of this down a while ago arguing about whether 2001 is trying to promote the idea that man requires God, or to run down human accomplishments in an explicitly religious context. I don't think that's exactly true, I think Kubrick works a little more complicated than that. And I don't know if I actually agree with the thesis I suggest he's laying out here - but I have to say, it makes an awful strong case.

[dionysia-ta-astika]

LARPing

I was accused of LARPing again. I get accused of LARPing, and of hubris, by people who see that I don't worship the gods properly, so I must not take them seriously. I am told that I have not been initiated. That the gods will strike me down, and put me in my place and then I'll be sorry. And I was sorry. I wept.

You kicked down the door with a big box of costumes, painted green with gold clasps. And you sat atop it with a winning smile. You asked me, “What shall we play? “Let's play pirates, and ride on the high seas, and turn the sailors into dolphins. “Let's play wizards, knights and castles. Grab your sword, and your armor, and your book of spells, and we'll save a princess from a dragon. “Let's slay Medusa, like you did once when you were seven, using your fairy princess wand as a sword, swinging it by the star until it broke. “You were Perseus, then. You climbed on Pegasus' back, and he took you to Olympus, where we, your siblings, waited for you.”

I asked, “Why wasn't I struck down like Bellerophon?”

And you said, “There's a big difference between being invited, and kicking down the door claiming you deserve to be there.”

I look at the box and I say, “I want to play Shaman.”

I know how problematic that is. I know that shamans are spiritual leaders from Siberia I know how insulting it is for a colonizer like me to imitate Native Americans as a childish game, Dressing up in fur and feathers like a bad Halloween costume And listening to New Agey "tribal" music While I dance around an altar that I built out of feathers and rocks and other natural talismans I'd collected and little figures of deer and elephants and leopard-print scarves spread under a fake plastic campfire that burned in the center of it all.

But I remember how it felt. It felt powerful. It felt ancient.

You smile and say, “It was powerful, and it was ancient. “You were not imitating any real indigenous rituals, except to burn sage and call it "smudging." “Everything else was your own. It was your ritual. A child, reaching back, back through the mists of time “To find the oldest ritual in the book. “Before there was theatre, there was LARPing. “Before there was writing, there was dance.”

And I said, “Lord of Dappled Pelts, give me that feeling back.” You open the box. Inside are fawnskins and leopard skins, feathers, bones, animal skulls, Rough-hewn masks, with empty staring eyes, as primeval as the soil. You put a horned mask on my face, and dress me in furs, and braid feathers into my hair and put a necklace of bones around my neck that rattles with every step. Before there was theater, there was LARPing. There was the shaman, in their animal mask, behaving as the animal does, dancing round and round the ritual fire until they don't know the difference between man and beast, real and unreal, day and night. And you are there, where you've always been, in the dance. Casting the illusion over our eyes. The mask is a glamour, the stage, a farce. Storytelling itself, an enchantment cast over an audience as they watch and listen, enraptured, fully believing what they feel and see. It is old magic. I found my gods by LARPing. I put on a white sheet, like a makeshift peplos, and made an olive crown out of pipe cleaners and construction paper and gold glitter and I drank nothing but white grape juice, the blood of the vine, and pretended it was ambrosia, and it was. I threw my paper leaves and thought the gods were listening, and they were. Back then, I didn't ask whether they were real or not, or whether what I was doing was historically accurate or not, or whether I was guilty of hubris for pretending that I, too, was a god. You and I dance around our ritual fire decorated with stones, and feathers, and figurines grapevines, pinecones, and phallic objects and other fetishes, wearing our pelts and our animal masks. I lose my name, my face, my gender. I am made and unmade. In the primeval woods, in a time before the dawn of civilization, industry, writing, art, theatre religion, liturgy, sacrifice, humanity itself, we were LARPing.

[thana-topsy]

I’m infinitely fascinated by the falmer in Halfway to the Sky, I really want to know more about your ideas for their culture etc

Thank you so much anon! I kind of had to sit with this one, since I don't really have a lot of my Falmer headcanons written out or in one place as it stands. Before writing their introduction in Halfway to the Sky, I began by researching modern isolated tribes and what first contact with those tribes looked like and, surprise surprise, humans are pretty universal in a lot of ways. I try to apply the same to the Falmer. In true form, I started writing my thoughts down and it got a little long, so I went ahead and turned it into a scholarly pamphlet written (with the help of a sighted-person) by none other than the budding expert on the subject of Falmeri cultural exchange: Sarel of Winterhold. (No real spoilers for HttS, just hints and nods). Sorry, again, this got LONG.

[PAMPHLET ONE] An Introduction to the Modern Falmer: Social Structure, Family, and Trade By Sarel of Winterhold, transcribed by co-researcher and Dwemer scholar Aicantar

Quite possibly the most misunderstood nation of our modern era is that of the Falmer, living quietly beneath the surface of Skyrim and no doubt beneath the other provinces of Tamriel. The Falmeri diaspora after the disappearance of the Dwemer is still very much a mystery with little written documentation following the dubiously researched and far-too-often quoted ‘War of the Crag’. (My thoughts on that to come). However, through my years of close contact with several of the Skyrim tribes, and with the aid of my research partner (who is currently assisting in my transcription of this document), we have managed to construct a rough timeline of events based on the Falmer’s oral history provided to us, as well as a basic understanding of their culture and practice.   

SOCIAL STRUCTURE AND FAMILY

As it stands, I would classify Skyrim Falmer as a nation of loosely associated tribes. There is no centralized ruling body, but there is a clear social structure found repeated among the independent tribes. The structure is as follows:

There is a Matriarch, usually the eldest member of the tribe, almost always female (with some exceptions), whose duties are similar to that of a Jarl, though she acts as more of a spiritual/religious leader as well. She is a magic user first and foremost, and has received the “Gifts of the Old Masters” (see: Tonal Architecture; pamphlet 3) as part of her necessary requirements for the role. 

Beneath the Matriarch, there are the Time-Keepers. Time-Keepers are strictly biologically female and count the passing of the months based on their menstruation cycles. There is usually one assigned Time-Keeper with several young females under her tutelage, who are prepared to take over her role when she enters menopause. Time-Keepers may take lovers, but they do not bear children, and to bear a child as a Time-Keeper is seen as breaking a very serious vow. Typically, the Time-Keeper and her charges live together and operate as a small familial unit. The Time-Keeper may have duties outside of this role, often falling again into the realm of magic-users (alchemy, healing, enchanting, etc.). 

Beneath the Time-Keeper is the Lead Warrior (Aicantar note: the title of this role is pending, but we really can’t come up with a better description). He is almost always male (with some exceptions) and rules the warrior class. This domain includes tribal protection, boundary claims, territorial acquisition, and conflict resolution.    

The Matriarch, the Time-Keeper, and the Lead Warrior are the typical ruling tribunal of the Falmeri tribe. They often hold council with one another, though the Time-Keeper and Lead Warrior act as advisors to the Matriarch, who will usually have the final say in any decision.

The other tribal roles include those who raise and farm the chaurus; craftsmen who construct the weapons, tools, and armor from the harvested chaurus; those who roam in order to gather resources; those who raise children; and those who attend to the infrastructure of the settlement. The Falmer tend not to designate these roles based on sex or gender, though there is a noticeable skew that tends to occur in terms of female members rearing children with male members preferring to roam or hunt, but there is no discernable taboo if a male member wishes to raise a child or a female prefers the life of a warrior. (Gender and sexuality among the Falmer is a topic for another time).

The Falmer do not have traditional family structures, but tend towards communal child-rearing. There is an unfortunately high infant mortality rate due to the hostile environment and the increased chance of infection due to chaurus farming, and because of this fact most Falmer children are not given a name until after their first birthday has passed. Mothers keep their children bound to their chests, and many will often cycle newborns between one another to prevent breastfeeding fatigue. Once children have safely passed the stages of infancy, they are reared in groups, taught basic social and crafting skills, and generally kept safely in the confines of the settlement until they are of age to begin contributing to the function of the tribe. 

TRADE

Most Dwemer scholars know well that nearly all Dwarven settlements are connected via long tunnels, running like arteries to the “heart” of Skyrim: Blackreach. Blackreach is the closest approximation to a cultural hub for the Falmer tribes, acting as a centralized marketplace for trade and commerce. Goods from the overworld make their way down to Blackreach usually through scavenging bandit camps or any scholars brave enough to make their way deeper into the Dwarven ruins. I will not deny that many have met their untimely demise at the hands of the Falmer. They are fiercely protective of their tribes, and scouts will not hesitate to kill intruders without a second thought. I hope to work with some of the tribes to change this deeply ingrained instinct of isolation and mistrust, but the denizens of the overworld must also play their own part in seeking peace over violence. A “two-way street”, as my father used to say.  

The Falmer of Blackreach have been known to deal in the slave trade, both of other Falmer and any poor outsiders who do not manage to properly defend themselves. This has presented a unique circumstance in which overworld culture and language have been adapted into the Falmer’s culture. It is not as unlikely as many might think to find a Falmer with a rudimentary grasp of the Cyrodilic or Norse languages. I’ve even met one who spoke with the most peculiar Daggerfall accent after taking a former slave as his wife.

I understand that it is not my place to interfere with the nature of the Blackreach slave trade, (Aicantar note: I have had to remind Sarel on multiple occasions that I would prefer not to die over the matter), though I do not condone it and feel very uncomfortable with its continued practice. Abolitionist movements exist within individual settlements, and there are certain Matriarchs who disavow the practice altogether. So I’m relegated to the position of scholar and observer, though I do what I can to preach the philosophy of self-governance. But, as with the cultures of the surface, opinions vary and wars rage between tribes over such debates. Thus is the nature of man and mer, I suppose, as much as it pains me.

In the next pamphlet, we will cover the etymology of the modern Falmer language, the various dialects used between tribes, and the “trade language” of Blackreach. Future pamphlets will include religious practices, funerary rites, the re-appropriation of Tonal Architecture, and the unique properties of Falmeri alchemy.

[lavalais76]

RelatedWhy does Jon Snow have trouble accepting the fact that he is a warg?

George R.R Martin is fond of a quoting a phrase from a speech given by William Faulkner in acceptance of the Nobel Prize in Literature. Faulkner said,

“Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear, so long sustained by now that we cannot even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit…Because of this, every young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself, which alone can make good writing, because only that is worth writing about, with the agony and the sweat.” -William Faulkner 1949

Faulkner said that we were so afraid of being “blown up” (1949, a time when the H bomb was the scariest thing on people's minds) that we'd left our spirits behind, we'd ceased to look inward at ourselves. We've ceased walking a spiritual path because we were so immersed in fear. The fear is much worse now, and we can see that Martin is still writing with Faulkner's words in the forefront of his mind. It's especially apparent in Jon Snow.

Jon has trouble accepting that he's a warg just as he doesn't want to be called bastard, but that is what he is. Sadly in the caste system of The Medieval Ages that's how he's seen. Tyrion told him to wear it like armor and he's learning how to do that, he's learning to really believe in himself. He's growing and learning to accept himself even though it's frightened him. His dreams of the crypts show us that.

Jon is aware that he has power as a warg, but it makes him uncomfortable waking up with the taste of blood in his mouth. He doesn't like it because it's yet another thing that just serves to make him different. Jon has no mentor. Bran had Jojen and Bloodraven. Varamyr Sixskins had his mentor, Haggon, who taught him the rules of a skinchanger. Jon will have to teach himself. The Old Gods and Ghost can help, they are almost interchangeable in my mind. Even Varamyr himself took one look at Jon and Ghost and thought if he had what Jon has, he'd have a life worthy of a king.

Jon's resurrection in the books should be a learning phase for him. He will not see nothing, he'll learn. That's his chance. However this happens it will hurtle him into becoming the master of the two worlds in which he finds himself - the natural and the supernatural. When he accepts warging will be when he learns his real identity.

The human heart in conflict with itself is playing out here. Jon must accept all of who he is, and to gain that information he must be shown. That will have to happen while he's hovering between the veil of the living and the dead, when his spirit is in Ghost. Then he'll realize the power and influence he is capable of welding.

The true nature of who he is, is the very same thing that scares him. Warging has to be the act that will enable him to see the impact he was born to have on the world.

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