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amateurvoltaire · 7 months ago

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For the past six years or so, this graph has been making its rounds on social media, always reappearing at conveniently timed moments…

The insinuation is loud and clear: parallels abound between 18th-century France and 21st-century USA. Cue the alarm bells—revolution is imminent! The 10% should panic, and ordinary folk should stock up on non-perishables and, of course, toilet paper, because it wouldn’t be a proper crisis without that particular frenzy. You know the drill.

Well, unfortunately, I have zero interest in commenting on the political implications or the parallels this graph is trying to make with today’s world. I have precisely zero interest in discussing modern-day politics here. And I also have zero interest in addressing the bottom graph.

This is not going to be one of those "the [insert random group of people] à la lanterne” (1) kind of posts. If you’re here for that, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.

What I am interested in is something much less click-worthy but far more useful: how historical data gets used and abused and why the illusion of historical parallels can be so seductive—and so misleading. It’s not glamorous, I’ll admit, but digging into this stuff teaches us a lot more than mindless rage.

So, let’s get into it. Step by step, we’ll examine the top graph, unpick its assumptions, and see whether its alarmist undertones hold any historical weight.

Step 1: Actually Look at the Picture and Use Your Brain

When I saw this graph, my first thought was, “That’s odd.” Not because it’s hard to believe the top 10% in 18th-century France controlled 60% of the wealth—that could very well be true. But because, in 15 years of studying the French Revolution, I’ve never encountered reliable data on wealth distribution from that period.

Why? Because to the best of my knowledge, no one was systematically tracking income or wealth across the population in the 18th century. There were no comprehensive records, no centralised statistics, and certainly no detailed breakdowns of who owned what across different classes. Graphs like this imply data, and data means either someone tracked it or someone made assumptions to reconstruct it. That’s not inherently bad, but it did get my spider senses tingling.

Then there’s the timeframe: 1760–1790. Thirty years is a long time— especially when discussing a period that included wars, failed financial policies, growing debt, and shifting social dynamics. Wealth distribution wouldn’t have stayed static during that time. Nobles who were at the top in 1760 could be destitute by 1790, while merchants starting out in 1760 could be climbing into the upper tiers by the end of the period. Economic mobility wasn’t common, but over three decades, it wasn’t unheard of either.

All of this raises questions about how this graph was created. Where’s the data coming from? How was it measured? And can we really trust it to represent such a complex period?

Step 2: Check the Fine Print

Since the graph seemed questionable, the obvious next step was to ask: Where does this thing come from? Luckily, the source is clearly cited at the bottom: “The Income Inequality of France in Historical Perspective” by Christian Morrisson and Wayne Snyder, published in the European Review of Economic History, Vol. 4, No. 1 (2000).

Great! A proper academic source. But, before diving into the article, there’s a crucial detail tucked into the fine print:

“Data for the bottom 40% in France is extrapolated given a single data point.”

What does that mean?

Extrapolation is a statistical method used to estimate unknown values by extending patterns or trends from a small sample of data. In this case, the graph’s creator used one single piece of data—one solitary data point—about the wealth of the bottom 40% of the French population. They then scaled or applied that one value to represent the entire group across the 30-year period (1760–1790).

Put simply, this means someone found one record—maybe a tax ledger, an income statement, or some financial data—pertaining to one specific year, region, or subset of the bottom 40%, and decided it was representative of the entire demographic for three decades.

Let’s be honest: you don’t need a degree in statistics to know that’s problematic. Using a single data point to make sweeping generalisations about a large, diverse population (let alone across an era of wars, famines, and economic shifts) is a massive leap. In fact, it’s about as reliable as guessing how the internet feels about a topic from a single tweet.

This immediately tells me that whatever numbers they claim for the bottom 40% of the population are, at best, speculative. At worst? Utterly meaningless.

It also raises another question: What kind of serious journal would let something like this slide? So, time to pull up the actual article and see what’s going on.

Step 3: Check the Sources

As I mentioned earlier, the source for this graph is conveniently listed at the bottom of the image. Three clicks later, I had downloaded the actual article: “The Income Inequality of France in Historical Perspective” by Morrisson and Snyder.

The first thing I noticed while skimming through the article? The graph itself is nowhere to be found in the publication.

This is important. It means the person who created the graph didn’t just lift it straight from the article—they derived it from the data in the publication. Now, that’s not necessarily a problem; secondary analysis of published data is common. But here’s the kicker: there’s no explanation in the screenshot of the graph about which dataset or calculations were used to make it. We’re left to guess.

So, to figure this out, I guess I’ll have to dive into the article itself, trying to identify where they might have pulled the numbers from. Translation: I signed myself up to read 20+ pages of economic history. Thrilling stuff.

But hey, someone has to do it. The things I endure to fight disinformation...

Step 4: Actually Assess the Sources Critically

It doesn’t take long, once you start reading the article, to realise that regardless of what the graph is based on, it’s bound to be somewhat unreliable. Right from the first paragraph, the authors of the paper point out the core issue with calculating income for 18th-century French households: THERE IS NO DATA.

The article is refreshingly honest about this. It states multiple times that there were no reliable income distribution estimates in France before World War II. To fill this gap, Morrisson and Snyder used a variety of proxy sources like the Capitation Tax Records (2), historical socio-professional tables, and Isnard’s income distribution estimates (3).

After reading the whole paper, I can say their methodology is intriguing and very reasonable. They’ve pieced together what they could by using available evidence, and their process is quite well thought-out. I won’t rehash their entire argument here, but if you’re curious, I’d genuinely recommend giving it a read.

Most importantly, the authors are painfully aware of the limitations of their approach. They make it very clear that their estimates are a form of educated guesswork—evidence-based, yes, but still guesswork. At no point do they overstate their findings or present their conclusions as definitive

As such, instead of concluding with a single, definitive version of the income distribution, they offer multiple possible scenarios.

It’s not as flashy as a bold, tidy graph, is it? But it’s far more honest—and far more reflective of the complexities involved in reconstructing historical economic data.

Step 5: Run the numbers

Now that we’ve established the authors of the paper don’t actually propose a definitive income distribution, the question remains: where did the creators of the graph get their data? More specifically, which of the proposed distributions did they use?

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to locate the original article or post containing the graph. Admittedly, I haven’t tried very hard, but the first few pages of Google results just link back to Twitter, Reddit, Facebook, and Tumblr posts. In short, all I have to go on is this screenshot.

I’ll give the graph creators the benefit of the doubt and assume that, in the full article, they explain where they sourced their data. I really hope they do—because they absolutely should.

That being said, based on the information in Morrisson and Snyder’s paper, I’d make an educated guess that the data came from Table 6 or Table 10, as these are the sections where the authors attempt to provide income distribution estimates.

Now, which dataset does the graph use? Spoiler: None of them.

How can we tell? Since I don’t have access to the raw data or the article where this graph might have been originally posted, I resorted to a rather unscientific method: I used a graphical design program to divide each bar of the chart into 2.5% increments and measure the approximate percentage for each income group.

Here’s what I found:

Now, take a moment to spot the issue. Do you see it?

The problem is glaring: NONE of the datasets from the paper fit the graph. Granted, my measurements are just estimates, so there might be some rounding errors. But the discrepancies are impossible to ignore, particularly for the bottom 40% and the top 10%.

In Morrisson and Snyder’s paper, the lowest estimate for the bottom 40% (1st and 2nd quintiles) is 10%. Even if we use the most conservative proxy, the Capitation Tax estimate, it’s 9%. But the graph claims the bottom 40% held only 6%.

For the top 10% (10th decile), the highest estimate in the paper is 53%. Yet the graph inflates this to 60%.

Step 6: For fun, I made my own bar charts

Because I enjoy this sort of thing (yes, this is what I consider fun—I’m a very fun person), I decided to use the data from the paper to create my own bar charts. Here’s what came out:

What do you notice?

While the results don’t exactly scream “healthy economy,” they look much less dramatic than the graph we started with. The creators of the graph have clearly exaggerated the disparities, making inequality seem worse.

Step 7: Understand the context before drawing conclusions

Numbers, by themselves, mean nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I could tell you right now that 47% of people admit to arguing with inanimate objects when they don’t work, with printers being the most common offender, and you’d probably believe it. Why? Because it sounds plausible—printers are frustrating, I’ve used a percentage, and I’ve phrased it in a way that sounds “academic.”

You likely wouldn’t even pause to consider that I’m claiming 3.8 billion people argue with inanimate objects. And let’s be real: 3.8 billion is such an incomprehensibly large number that our brains tend to gloss over it.

If, instead, I said, “Half of your friends probably argue with their printers,” you might stop and think, “Wait, that seems a bit unlikely.” (For the record, I completely made that up—I have no clue how many people yell at their stoves or complain to their toasters.)

The point? Numbers mean nothing unless we put them into context.

The original paper does this well by contextualising its estimates, primarily through the calculation of the Gini coefficient (4).

The authors estimate France’s Gini coefficient in the late 18th century to be 0.59, indicating significant income inequality. However, they compare this figure to other regions and periods to provide a clearer picture:

Amsterdam (1742): Much higher inequality, with a Gini of 0.69.

Britain (1759): Lower inequality, with a Gini of 0.52, which rose to 0.59 by 1801.

Prussia (mid-19th century): Far less inequality, with a Gini of 0.34–0.36.

This comparison shows that income inequality wasn’t unique to France. Other regions experienced similar or even higher levels of inequality without spontaneously erupting into revolution.

Accounting for Variations

The authors also recalculated the Gini coefficient to account for potential variations. They assumed that the income of the top quintile (the wealthiest 20%) could vary by ±10%. Here’s what they found:

If the top quintile earned 10% more, the Gini coefficient rose to 0.66, placing France significantly above other European countries of the time.

If the top quintile earned 10% less, the Gini dropped to 0.55, bringing France closer to Britain’s level.

Ultimately, the authors admit there’s uncertainty about the exact level of inequality in France. Their best guess is that it was comparable to other countries or somewhat worse.

Step 8: Drawing Some Conclusions

Saying that most people in the 18th century were poor and miserable—perhaps the French more so than others—isn’t exactly a compelling statement if your goal is to gather clicks or make a dramatic political point.

It’s incredibly tempting to look at the past and find exactly what we want to see in it. History often acts as a mirror, reflecting our own expectations unless we challenge ourselves to think critically. Whether you call it wishful thinking or confirmation bias, it’s easy to project the future onto the past.

Looking at the initial graph, I understand why someone might fall into this trap. Simple, tidy narratives are appealing to everyone. But if you’ve studied history, you’ll know that such narratives are a myth. Human nature may not have changed in thousands of years, but the contexts we inhabit are so vastly different that direct parallels are meaningless.

So, is revolution imminent? Well, that’s up to you—not some random graph on the internet.

Notes

(1) A la lanterne was a revolutionary cry during the French Revolution, symbolising mob justice where individuals were sometimes hanged from lampposts as a form of public execution

(2) The capitation tax was a fixed head tax implemented in France during the Ancien Régime. It was levied on individuals, with the amount owed determined by their social and professional status. Unlike a proportional income tax, it was based on pre-assigned categories rather than actual earnings, meaning nobles, clergy, and commoners paid different rates regardless of their actual wealth or income.

(3) Jean-Baptiste Isnard was an 18th-century economist. These estimates attempted to describe the theoretical distribution of income among different social classes in pre-revolutionary France. Isnard’s work aimed to categorise income across groups like nobles, clergy, and commoners, providing a broad picture of economic disparity during the period.

(4) The Gini coefficient (or Gini index) is a widely used statistical measure of inequality within a population, specifically in terms of income or wealth distribution. It ranges from 0 to 1, where 0 indicates perfect equality (everyone has the same income or wealth), and 1 represents maximum inequality (one person or household holds all the wealth).

#frev #french revolution #history #disinformation #income inequality #critical thinking #amateurvoltaire's essay ramblings #don't believe everything you see online #even if you really really want to

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tunamayuuu · 6 months ago

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@bsdecember <3

Day 5 - Freedom

tachihara was definitely my first thought when i read this prompt, because he managed to break free from the Book’s control through his self-actualization, isn’t that beautiful?

DAYS: 1 - 2 -3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12- 13 -14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18 - 19 - 20 - 21 - 22 - 23 - 24 - 25 - 26 - 27 - 28 - 29 - 30 - 31

illus. details for those interested! v

berry red = hunting dogs/disguise

red = hunting dog past/revenge

green = mafia/actualized self identity

- the green actually has his usual color palette because the mafia is where he feels himself, someone separated from a grieving younger brother seeking to avenge his older brother

- i meant to add color to the red side too But i have discovered that this red was too dark for any colors to sit on top. so instead it's only shaded, it's the righteous younger brother in him who wants bloody payback for the angel who took his brother in the war

- the uncolored hunting dog uniform and saber are there for visual contrast, but can also mean that he no longer sees himself a hunting dog, also also i thought it'd be fun to try what harukawa does (considering the negative space created by the colored areas)

- the cape drapes like that bc i got inspired by the tachihara vol cover

he was freed when he determines his side as mafia, a side who believes in the agency's innocence; he looks distraught because the commander who gave him purpose betrayed him

this is honestly my most favorite piece so far! i hope to create more experimental pieces like this 🙇

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd tachihara #bsd tachihara michizou #port mafia #hunting dogs #bsd hunting dogs #bungou stray dogs fanart #bsd fanart #bungo stray dogs #BSDecember

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crownmemes · 8 months ago

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Assorted Media Sentences, Vol. 18

(Sentences from various pieces of media. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"You have a lot of love for him, don't you?"

"As tempting as your offer may be, I am a man of principles.... And they bribed me first."

"You're one of them, aren't you?"

"You're going to survive this, and you're going to see the bastards responsible suffer. I promise you that."

"I don't want to get you drunk, but that's a very fine Chardonnay you're not drinking."

"You don't have to live in the past. Just let it go."

"Aren't you the cutest little thing when you're being shy?"

"You look so pretty in that dress!"

"Are you bringing home strays now?"

"I love a rum and coke in the middle of the day! It makes me feel like I'm on a tropical island!"

"You are not as charming as you think you are."

"Apart from feeling like someone stuck knitting needles in my ears, I'm fine!"

"You know that feeling you have that we've met before? It's the same with me."

"Strange how memory can come and go, isn't it?"

"You know what I said the other night about how I admire you? I really meant it."

"I came back to finish you off."

"Exciting? People are dying! I don't think exciting is the word I'd use to describe it!"

"We have existed this way for thousands of years. Who are you to challenge our ways?"

"Oh well. It's not the first time my heart's been broken."

"Tonight's the night I get some answers, one way or another."

"Tonight, the age of man comes to an end."

"Dying in a hail of bullets seems like such a waste, don't you think?"

"Who wears a suit to dispose of a body?"

"Are you rich? How much?"

"We got off to a rough start. It happens."

"That's a bad idea, but you're free to indulge it."

"Does a closed door mean nothing to you?"

"We all have our secrets - even me. Especially me."

"Drunk, I'm an open book. Sober, I'm cagey as hell."

"We're not trained in kindness. It's not a prerequisite. In fact, sometimes I think it's trained out of us."

"Can we go? This place is really freaking me out!"

"Wait a minute! You used me as bait?"

"Do you remember when you first felt an emotional attachment?"

"Aren't you getting a little tired of this? Because I know I am."

"You know, I think if you're going to do something stupid, love is probably the best excuse going."

"There's still a war going on, and I have a job to do."

"Never underestimate the female of the species. It won't end well."

"If once is a mistake and twice is unfortunate, what does that make this?"

"I'm not going to take advice from some thief!"

#rp meme #rp memes #roleplay meme #roleplay memes #rp prompts #roleplay prompts #sentence starters #assorted;#general;

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softlypaintedseafoam · 3 months ago

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Character Remix SJR: Portgas D. Ace Life Timeline

It took a minute to set aside some time for it, but I've finally finished translating the official timeline of Ace's life provided in the SJR novel! I'm definitely not JLPT N1 levels of proficient in Japanese, so I definitely apologize for any inaccuracies in advance. Still it's nice being able to share One Piece information with my fellow fans! If you've been following this account then you know I've been looking forward to translating and sharing any info I could scrounge from it so let's goooo!

All info provided comes from the SJR Ace compilation manga, specifically the timeline. And while reblogs are definitely appreciated, please don't repost on or outside of tumblr!

Age 0

Ace is born in Baterilla, South Blue on January 1st

Is named after Roger's cherished sword the "Ace"

Ace is left in the custody of Mount Corvo's Dadan

Age ? (Anywhere between ages 1-4)

Ace meets Sabo

Age 5

Ace and Sabo begin their pirate savings together

Age 10

Ace meets Luffy

Ace and Sabo take down Porchemy to save Luffy

ASL exchange sake cups and become sworn brothers

Ace fights Bluejam with Dadan

Dogra tells Ace and Luffy he witnessed Sabo's death

Ace reads Sabo's letter

Age ? (Likely 11)

Makino helps Ace learn proper greeting ettiquette

Age 17

Ace departs from Mt. Corvo's coast

Ace eats the Flame Flame Fruit

The Spade Pirates are formed

Either 17 or 18

Ace rejects the World Government's offer to join the Seven Warlords

Ages 18-19

Ace washes on to Wano's shore and is taught by Otama how to weave kasa hats

(It was revealed in vol. 11's SBS that Ace defeated Hanafuda at 18 so I'm tacking that here too)

Ace battles Yamato on Onigashima and afterwards they hit it off and have a party

Ace meets Shanks

Ace fights Jinbei for 5 days but there is no winner

To protect his crew, Ace fights Whitebeard, losing

Ace tries to take Whitebeard close to 100 times, failing

The Spade Pirate crew officially become part of the Whitebeard Crew

Ace defeats the Doma Pirates

Becomes the 2nd division commander of the Whitebeard Pirates

Age ?

Ace makes Oars Jr a giant kasa hat as a present

Ace wants to go to Wano but is stopped by Whitebeard

Age 20

Blackbeard kills Fourth Division Commander Thatch and Ace leaves to find him

Ace leaves a message for Luffy in the former Drum Kingdom

Ace reunites with Luffy in Alabasta and gives him his vivre card

Ace blends into the Buggy Pirates' party

Ace meets Moda in Lulusia

Ace infiltrates the G-2 subdivision base and successfully obtains classified information on Blackbeard

Ace loses his fight with Blackbeard on Banaro Island and is handed over to the marines

Ace is placed in Level 6 of Impel Down

Ace is transferred from Impel Down to Marine Headquarters Marineford

Sengoku reveals Ace is Roger's biological child to the public

Luffy rescues Ace during the Summit War

To protect Luffy from Akainu's onslaught, Ace sacrifices his life

Ace is buried in the New World next to Whitebeard

#nyla translates ー 📑 op #one piece #portgas d ace #sabo #monkey d luffy #curly dadan #gol d roger #portgas d rouge #monkey d garp #masked deuce #whitebeard #edward newgate #marco the phoenix #asl brothers #nyla translates ー 📑

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irisbleufic · 10 months ago

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CALDERA (VOL. 1 & VOL. 2)

I had an ask from someone who wants a post that recaps my IWTV stories to date; given that I wrote the existing pieces so quickly, that's a fair request.

This project is not complete; it is still in progress. It has had a few extremely brief hiatuses while I wrote this stand-alone, this stand-alone, this stand-alone, and started this 1973 AU series. I also wrote this untitled personal essay about a piece of storytelling from my past that is related to all of this (“The Odyssey of Recollection Can Bite Me” feels apt, sorry not sorry for the pun.)

Above is the AO3 link for my Devil's Minion project, Caldera. The following links are the individual stories to date, plus ratings, word counts, and numbers of chapters:

Caldera: Mise-en-Abîme (Vol. 1)

Not the Good Guys (Rating: E; 20,000 words; 7 chapters; can be read as a stand-alone, but all stories beyond this one begin to serve a much farther-reaching plot)

Maker, Martyr, Mirror (Rating: M; 2,100 words; 1 chapter)

Still Life With Sunken Treasure (Rating: E; 2,400 words; 1 chapter)

It's Not the Louvre, But It'll Do (Rating: E; 2,600 words; 1 chapter)

Time Has Opened Back Up to Us (Rating: E; 3,000 words; 1 chapter)

Gold and Tempera on Panel (Rating: E; 20,000 words; 7 chapters)

Calamity Comes to Your Door (Rating: E; 3,200 words; 1 chapter)

We Need Not Be a Tragedy (Rating: E; 3,900 words; 1 chapter)

Death to Welcome With Open Arms (Rating: E; 11,600 words; 3 chapters)

The Responsible Ones (Rating: E; 11,000 words; 4 chapters)

It’s a Goddamn Trip (Rating: E; 20,000 words; 7 chapters)

The Walls of This Villa Remember (Rating: E; 4,000 words; 2 chapters)

As Only My Hands Can Deliver (Rating: E; 10,000 words; 5 chapters)

Vampire Family, Human Family (Rating: M; 11,000 words; 4 chapters)

Full House, But It Could Be Fun (Rating: E; 9,600 words; 4 chapters)

Just Watch the Stars (Rating: E; 20,000 words; 7 chapters)

It's a Slippery Slope to Stand-Up Comedy (Rating: M; 1,400 words; 1 chapter)

Difficult All the Way Down (Rating: E; 4,000 words; 3 chapters)

Don't Include This in Your Next Backup (Rating: E; 10,000 words; 5 chapters)

From This World into Another (Rating: E; 14,000 words; 6 chapters)

Nobody Asked to See This (Rating: M; 1,200 words; 2 chapters)

The Quick Ones (Rating: E; 52,000 words; 22 chapters; can be read as a stand-alone, and it’s a flashback story that’s actually set before “Not the Good Guys,” so you can also start Vol. 1 by reading this one if you like)

Caldera: Mise-en-Scène (Vol. 2)

The Quick Ones (Rating: E; 52,000 words; 22 chapters; this story doubles as Part 22 of the previous volume and Part 1 of this one mostly to make the click-through reading experience from Vol. 1 to Vol. 2 on AO3 seamless)

Bizarre and Breathless Pause (Rating: E; 20,000 words; 9 chapters)

Avant-Garde and Unsustainable (Rating: M; 2,000 words; 1 chapter)

Cross-Genre Awareness (Rating: M; 2,000 words; 1 chapter)

Fucking Professionals (Rating: E; 20,000 words; 9 chapters)

Fractured and Flickering Gold (Rating: M; 2,000 words; 1 chapter)

Talismans for the Eve of War (Rating: M; 4,300 words; 3 chapters)

#devil's minion #armand x daniel #armandaniel #devils minion #armand #daniel molloy #iwtv #iwtv s2 #interview with the vampire #iwtv fic #iwtv fanfiction #iwtv fanfic #fanfiction #caldera

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nvirskies · 1 year ago

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sand - c. la rue

idea taken from one of @star-girl69 's asks about married clarisse and immediately went to think about how the vast majority of greek demigods didn't get to live past their 20's or even teen years... and the survivor's guilt that would come with being one of the few lucky enough to live longer.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, traumatic nightmare flashbacks, descriptions of violence, descriptions of blood + war, spoilers for TLO, set after both reader and clarisse leave CHB about 6-8 years into the future, google translated Greek term of endearment, crying, survivor's guilt, platonic RueGard, ooc Clarisse, she's matured more over time and more articulate with her feelings and words

summary: clarisse wakes up from a particularly bad nightmare in the middle of the night, reader comforts her through a breakdown

wife!fem!demigod!reader x wife!clarisse la rue

word count: 2.2k

καρδιά μου (kardiá mou) - my heart

Η καρδιά μου είναι η καρδιά σου (I kardiá mou eínai i kardiá sou) - my heart is your heart

"but you have more pieces of me than than desert has sand, and I have less pieces of you than I can hold in my hand" sand, alchemical: vol. 1, dove cameron

taglist: @lvrue @star-girl69 @azrielsdiary @petitegavotte @b0ok-lover

men, nsfw, non-sapphic, 16-/19+ dni

Greek demigods fell in love hard and fast with an unmatched intensity. They normally didn’t live long enough to even envision themselves in their adult lives, and why would they? Every day was a struggle to stay alive with monsters coming in from all angles and quests most didn’t come back from.

And that was why, as soon as the two of you graduated high school, Clarisse got down on a knee and proposed with the knowledge that you were the one she would want to spend the rest of her life, however long or short, with.

When you two had graduated college, the next thing in the books was to make it official in the courthouse, and that was what you had done. No extravagant party or ceremony, just a quiet day in the courthouse and a night in to celebrate.

But no matter how far the two of you ran from Camp Half-Blood, the nightmares never went away, never got better. As the years passed, more of the people you had considered friends died. One after the other, falling like cursed dominos, helplessly standing by as they all tumbled down.

Soon, the nightmares became more about the people that were lost than the monsters themselves. Nightly plagues of searingly painful memories from watching the life drain from so many demigods’ eyes burned themselves in both of your psyches.

All you could do was hope Charon would be kind enough to ferry them across the Styx without his payment of a silver coin.

And tonight certainly hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary with the two of you and your limbs interlaced in a protective embrace while sleep claimed your minds, as if the both of you could protect each other from the monsters both in and outside.

Your head, nestled into her chest. Her deep, rhythmic breathing made your hair flutter ever so slightly as she exhaled. Her arms, wrapped loosely around your waist, hands not-so-sneakily under the baggy shirt of hers you had stolen to wear as pajamas for the night. It was all perfect. Too perfect.

You would be damned fools to think that peace would last for so long. Demigods didn’t get peace, they didn’t get tranquility, and they especially didn’t get uninterrupted domestic bliss.

Unbeknownst to you, Clarisse’s face contorted into one of distress. Her arms pulled you in closer subconsciously as the all too familiar face of Morpheus greeted her with a sly smirk on his face in her dreams.

In moments, she was transported back to the Battle of Manhattan.

She was seventeen again.

Blood was everywhere. Abandoned weapons lay on the floor, the hands that once gripped them tightly, now loose and limp. Shrill screams echoed throughout the air, all cut short by gut-wrenching sounds of fatal injury. Metal cut through flesh. Acid burnt through metal. Flames licked and greedily consumed anything and everything as fuel.

Her feet felt heavy, her hands numb. She could do nothing but stand and watch it all unfold before her own eyes, forced to relive the carnage and devastation that had ripped through Manhattan on that fateful day.

Morpheus’ voice whispered in her right ear, the sound of it sending an uneasy chill down her spine. “Daughter of Ares. A fitting dream, no? Your father must have been proud of you for the way you fought after… well, I’ll let you relive that, too.” Before she could blink, she was transported to the moment right after Silena had been sprayed by the Lydian Drakon.

Clarisse was too late. She had always been too late.

She was back on her knees, choking and weeping bitterly as Silena lay in her arms, watching as life slowly left her once-lively eyes.

What kind of a warrior even was she? So weak that she couldn’t even protect her friend? Too weak to protect the girl who had adorned her armor and led her siblings into battle?

Just as Clarisse reached out to touch Silena’s face to wipe away the one mark of smudged eyeliner that the Aphrodite girl normally would never have even allowed to happen in the past, she was jerked back to consciousness, eyes flying open and arms almost crushing your sleeping form momentarily as she came to.

No longer was she in Manhattan, instead sheltered in the familiarly adorned walls of your shared bedroom. Upon the walls hung framed pictures of joyous times past and her sword collection, among other things.

Familiar faces stared back at her, some faces that would never age again. Immortalized memories of times that would never happen again. Everyone was dead or scattered across the globe.

A particular picture caught Clarisse’s eye. It was a portrait of Silena that she had commissioned one of the Apollo kids to draw for the daughter of Aphrodite’s seventeenth birthday.

She never lived to see that day.

Her eyes locked with Silena’s in the drawing for a moment, and that moment was one too much as hot tears began to prick in the corners of her eyes.

She had inadvertently woken you up with the way her arms tightened around your waist in a near vice grip, slowly coming to your senses. No longer were her breaths slow and rhythmic, their steadfast pattern replaced by one that was erratic and shallow. The once-steady thumping cadence of her heart as it beat in her chest was now quickened, all of which you could hear with your head having been nestled into her chest.

Craning your head to look up at her, you were greeted with the sight of Clarisse desperately trying to silently blink back tears and control her own breathing.

Hurriedly, you pushed yourself up off her chest and tugged the blankets off the two of you before sitting down on her lap. You took note of the way her hands had never left your waist, holding onto you as if she were drowning and you were the last life ring thrown out.

It wasn’t anything you and Clarisse hadn’t dealt with before. The nightmares had been a part of your lives as far back as you could remember, it just came with the territory of being a demigod. But they never got any easier as time went on.

She watched silently with eyes brimming with unshed tears, pleading wordlessly with you to do something, anything to make it all go away.

“Let’s switch, yeah? You can lay on me and completely cover me if you want, love,” you offered up, a melancholy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Wordlessly, she nodded and you slipped off her lap, laying back where she had just been moments ago.

Gently patting your chest, you motioned for her to rest her head on it, knowing that the rest of her body would soon follow, completely engulfing your form with hers. After she had positioned herself, her arms snaked around your waist again as she simply held you for a few moments, her face pressed into your chest as tears slowly soaked into your shirt.

One hand reached out to gently run along the length of her back, the motion meant to soothe. A few beats passed in silence before you spoke in a hushed whisper, the bedroom devoid of sound beyond the two of you breathing in tandem with each other.

“You hear that, love? That’s my heart,” you murmured softly, craning your neck to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “It’s beating, beating for you. Η καρδιά μου είναι η καρδιά σου.”

She didn’t respond beyond releasing another shaky sob into your chest and tightening her grip around your body, but you didn’t mind. You didn’t need her to talk just yet.

“You’re also η καρδιά μου, you know that, right? My heart, my wife, my love, my everything. And I’m yours. Entirely yours, and I”m not going anywhere.” You craned your neck again to press another kiss against the crown of her head, hand never stopping its path of running gently along the length of her back.

“I would go down to the depths of Tartarus for you. I would challenge Hades himself to a fight if it meant I had even a glimmer of a chance in getting you back.”

Never once did you try to rush her into talking or shushing her tears. You knew her better than you knew yourself, and giving her time to let everything out was the best thing you could do for her at the moment.

You were her safe space, the one woman that she could let her walls down around. She wasn’t Ares’ star daughter in your arms, she was just Clarisse. No expectations dangling over her head, just open arms and understanding.

After another few quiet moments, she finally spoke up in between half-choked sobs, whispering so quietly that her voice was nearly inaudible, “Silena… Manhattan… should have been able to save her,” before letting her face fall back down onto your chest, releasing another pained cry.

“She’s gone- a-and everyone else too- why me?”

Her question left you speechless, mouth partly opened in an attempt to come up with a reassuring response, but nothing seemed to come to mind immediately. It was rare for this to happen, as you normally had just the right words at the top of your tongue, weaving them as Arachne once wove tapestries on her loom.

“They’re all gone and- and- ”

“Shh, love…” you cut her off, gently pulling her head up to look her in the eyes, your other hand leaving her back to wipe the tears that were still streaming down her cheeks with the pad of your thumb. “Please, don’t go back into that self-sacrificial spiral. Talk to me, tell me what the dream was about?”

She only shook her head in response, unwilling to divulge details of the memory that had shattered your night of otherwise perfect proportions.

Deflating back on top of you, she whispered, “They’re all gone, and we’re one of the only ones remaining. It was like every time another one of them died, that small part of myself that I gave to them died as well.”

Her arms that were wrapped around your waist tightened for a moment before going limp along with the rest of her body as she lay atop you, her head pressed against your chest.

“Love…” you began softly as one of your hands found its way to her head and carded gently through her curls. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. None of it was your fault. We didn’t ask to be born, to be thrown into this mess of a world and tossed around like pawns in the gods’ game of chess with our lives.”

“We didn’t ask for this life, and we were so young at the time. For fuck’s sake, we were only seventeen- we hadn’t even made out yet. We hadn’t graduated high school yet, there were so many things we couldn’t control.

“None of it was your fault, I promise you. You were so brave, and you did everything you could.” She stayed silent as you spoke, the only sounds coming from her were the soft, shaky breaths as she sniffled and burrowed her face further into your shirt.

“I can’t explain to you why so many things had to happen, that’s up to the Fates. I can’t give you the pieces of yourself back that you lost when we kept losing everyone,” you murmured whilst your hands kept on with their idle motions.

It shattered your heart to give her such an incomplete answer when you knew it was tearing her apart inside to live with it all, but there was nothing you could do beyond offer solace and comfort. “And for that, I am so, so sorry. But the one thing I can do is keep the piece you’ve granted me to keep, safe and sound.”

She only nodded in response, not trusting herself to speak in fear of her own vulnerability. Her tears soaked into your shirt, but you didn’t care. All that was important was that Clarisse was here, in your arms, and slowly calming down.

Clarisse knew just as well as you did that everyone had done the best they could with the circumstances given, and that the loss affected you just as deeply. But she didn’t dig into that, it would be a can of worms to open for another time, another sleepless night where your own troubles caught up with you after running from them for so long.

And so, the rest of the night stretched on into early morning, the two of you half-awake, seeking silent solace in each other until sunlight crept into the bedroom through the cracks of the curtains the next day.

The two of you might have been running from your trauma like runners to a marathon, but at least you were running hand-in-hand with matching strides.

#🖋️ nvir writes #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x fem reader #clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue pjo #clarisse larue #clarisse la rue x you #clarisse la rue x y/n #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #pjo tv #im not sorry #maybe i am #no im not

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echoreconcrew · 23 days ago

Text

Meet Me In the Woods

Chapter 1: Victory Val

Author's Note: It's finally here! Chapter 1 of Vol. 1! So excited to launch the first bit of this story. Don't forget to check back here on Wednesday's and Sunday's every week. This time around, art included in the story is by @legacygirlingreen, meanwhile art in cover art by @leenathegreengirl. If you want to be in the know with story updates just ask to join the tag list! Anywho... without further ado: Vol. 1

Summary: On a day meant to showcase order, Captain Howzer can feel the cracks forming. Irritated by a discovery in the barracks, he walks toward the looming speech with a storm quietly building behind his eyes. The crowd gathers, the tension thickens, and somewhere in the distance, a familiar glint catches the light.

Word Count: 4,600

Warnings: General angst/brimming anxiety; briefest mention of order 66, Imperial Crosshair (Granted it's Ryloth but still, know he's not everyone's cup of caf)

The HUB | Masterlist | Next Chapter (coming soon!)

▄︻デ══━一

There was never any question about the quality of the artwork. The craftsmanship was evident—the allure, the realism—it was all there, and Howzer couldn’t deny it. But that didn’t make it acceptable. Had the subject been someone anonymous, someone more abstract, he might’ve brushed it off with nothing more than a sigh. After all, he was no stranger to the pinups his men frequently tacked onto the barrack walls. It was the kind of low-level contraband he typically overlooked. A quiet indulgence, tolerated in the name of morale.

But this was different.

The moment he saw the familiar curves of teal armor—his armor—adorning a Twi’lek figure even more familiar, something in him snapped. The drawing wasn’t just suggestive; it was personal. There she was: Victory Val. Posed as if she had modeled for the piece herself, body angled to exaggerate every flattering line, with the stylized armor sliced and sculpted to show more skin than protection. It wasn’t just distasteful. It was a mockery. A cruel, disrespectful joke at the expense of a woman he deeply respected.

With a sharp breath and clenched jaw, he tore the image from the wall.

His voice followed swiftly, rising in volume and urgency as he reprimanded the men. Not just for the lack of decorum, but for forgetting what their presence on Ryloth meant. They were here to support, not desecrate. To protect, not objectify. The Twi’lek people had suffered enough. Their mission now was one of restoration: peacekeeping, respect, cooperation. Not ogling their own allies like characters from some tawdry wartime fantasy.

Punishments were handed down accordingly. Disciplinary reports, temporary suspensions of privilege. He made it clear that behavior like this wouldn't be tolerated under his command.

Afterward, at the request of his superiors—and likely for his own composure—he stepped away for a moment.

The war was technically over. Peace, however, remained fragile. And in these volatile times, disrespecting one of Cham Syndulla’s leading fighters wasn’t just foolish, it was dangerous. Victory Val wasn’t just a soldier. She was a symbol of Ryloth’s resistance, of its hope. Of its bright future.

And to Howzer, she was more than that. A comrade. A leader. A woman who had earned every ounce of his respect.

Not to mention, she was someone he’d felt an undeniable pull toward from the moment they met. The sharp edge of attraction striking him like a live current the first time he locked eyes with Valérie, Gobi Glie’s younger sister. Her teasing smile, the mischievous glint in her eye, the way she carried herself with both confidence and defiance—it had all thrown him off balance in a way he hadn’t expected, and certainly hadn’t prepared for. And if he thought he’d kept those feelings under wraps, he was sorely mistaken.

It wasn’t exactly a well-guarded secret.

Everyone seemed to know that she flustered him to no end. His men noticed it immediately: the sudden stiff posture, the half-second delays in his replies when she was around. Cham’s soldiers caught on just as fast, exchanging knowing looks whenever Val strolled into the room. Even Val herself seemed perfectly aware, though she rarely said anything outright. Instead, she wielded that knowledge with playful precision, tossing casual remarks his way that always hovered just on the edge of flirtation.

She had a way of getting under his skin without even trying, and he hated how obvious it had become.

Or maybe… he didn’t.

And the artwork had no place in the barracks. It was crass, disrespectful, and offensive in every way that mattered. Howzer had no doubt about where it belonged: shredded and dumped in the nearest waste bin. He shook his head sharply, trying to dispel the lingering frustration as he quickened his pace down the corridor. The address to the citizens was about to begin, and the last thing he needed was to arrive late.

The Vice Admiral would be there. So would a full squad of special forces, stiff-backed and watching everything with too much interest. With the new Imperial refinery operational and the Empire pushing harder than ever to dismantle Cham Syndulla’s resistance fighters, making the mood across Ryloth volatile. Tense didn’t even begin to cover it. One misstep—even one word out of place—and the entire illusion of peace could come crashing down. His men pulling a stunt like that, mocking one of Ryloth’s heroes, one of Cham’s own, only added fuel to a fire already threatening to consume them all. But Howzer forced himself to set the anger aside. There wasn’t time to dwell on it, not now.

As much as he hated the way the Empire operated, as much as Senator Orn Free Taa’s presence made his skin crawl, Howzer still believed in what he was doing… at least, to a degree. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say he believed in the people he was doing it for. Cham. Eleni. Ryloth. They were the ones who mattered. And if enduring the hypocrisy and heavy-handed control of the Empire meant he could help shield those people from worse? Then he would. He’d suck it up for their sake.

He adjusted his posture, squared his shoulders, and stepped through the archway into the balcony suite. Below, a crowd had already gathered, their faces a mix of hope, wariness, and quiet skepticism. He braced himself for the speech he knew was coming. A polished string of reassurances, shallow promises dressed up in Imperial rhetoric. He’d heard them before. They were always the same.

His eyes drifted to Cham, standing nearby.

The man looked older than he had months ago. Not necessarily in age, but in weariness. The kind of exhaustion that came from fighting too long and losing too much. The fire that had once burned so brightly in Cham’s eyes had dulled, flickering low and uneven. Howzer hated seeing it. Hated knowing how much Cham had given, how much he still carried on his shoulders.

But Cham wasn’t the only one to contend with.

Gobi Glie hadn’t surrendered the fight, nor had Eleni. Both still held the line, firm in their resistance. But the inclusion of young Hera into these dangerous conversations... it didn’t sit right with him. She was a child—brilliant, yes, and brave beyond her years—but still a child. She shouldn’t have to carry the weight of revolution on her back.

And then there was Valérie.

Unlike the others, she seemed, if not eager then at least ready, to step away from the past. To let go of the endless struggle and try to build something real. Something peaceful. She’d fought, bled, and sacrificed like the rest of them, but now she walked with a quiet kind of resolve, the look of someone who had made peace with leaving the battlefield behind.

He didn’t blame her. In fact, he admired it.

They were all tired. Some of them just hid it better than others.

And some small part of him, buried beneath years of discipline and duty, wondered what came next. What would happen if this “service” of his actually ended? If he was ever given a choice about where to go, who to be?

He already knew the answer. He would stay.

Ryloth had become something more than a post. More than a mission. He had come to respect its people, its resilience, it's quiet beauty. He had learned to appreciate its sunrises, its traditions, its fierce sense of identity. And, perhaps, he had come to feel a certain affection for a sharp-eyed sniper who always seemed to be watching his six—often with a smirk that made his heart beat a little too fast.

He wasn’t sure what kind of future was waiting for him, or if he’d even be lucky enough to claim it. But if freedom ever came, real freedom, he knew exactly where he wanted to spend it.

"I have a visual. Gobi Glie and his fighters are here," came the voice of Crosshair, sharp and biting.

That snake-like tone was becoming increasingly unsettling. Ever since the war had ended, the steadfast Imperial presence had continued to erode his command day by day. At first, the Imperial arrival had been explained away as "extra security" meant to protect the senator, a flimsy excuse that only grew more transparent with time. His position as Captain, once so pivotal overseeing a legion of soldiers, now seemed less and less significant. As the special forces—led by that infuriatingly insufferable defected clone—made their mark, Howzer’s sense of purpose only grew more frayed. The worst part? Hearing that same clone utter the Glie name with such unmistakable distaste made Howzer’s jaw tighten.

Howzer’s gaze swept over the crowd from his position on the balcony. He didn’t need to search too hard—he knew Gobi would be there. It was where he always was. Cham, the idealist, was the face of the movement, the dreamer who believed in a better future. He wasn't unfamiliar with the fight, but he remained the symbol of hope. Gobi, however, was the military leader, the one who understood the cost of war in a way few could comprehend. But where was Val? Wasn’t she with her brother? Howzer’s eyes darted desperately over the sea of Twi'lek faces. Teal, her striking color, wasn’t hard to pick out in the crowd—it was more of a rare shade—but despite his efforts, he found nothing. A growing sense of unease settled over him.

He shook it off, pushing the thought from his mind as he returned to his post near Cham. At least Syndulla seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. He might not always agree with Cham's approach, but there was a certain clarity in his vision of what the future should look like. Gobi and the others, however, weren’t accustomed to peace. How could they be? Peace had been an impossible dream for so long, a luxury they hadn’t been afforded. Howzer couldn't blame them for struggling to adjust. He understood better than most, that survival had been their only focus for too long. Cham was ready to lay down his arms. Even Val, despite her absence, had seemed ready. But now, with so much still unresolved, peace felt more like an illusion than a reality.

"The crowd appears restless, Howzer," Cham muttered, his eyes narrowing as they shifted to where his wife was speaking with the Vice Admiral and the Senator. "I do not like it."

"Adjustments are difficult, Cham," Howzer replied, his voice steady but laced with a quiet understanding. "The people have been on the edge for so long. They've lost loved ones, seen too much destruction. It’s only natural for them to remain skeptical about change. After all, peace was a dream we thought was impossible. And now..." Howzer faltered, unsure how to articulate the unease that gnawed at him. "Now, it feels like the transition is too sudden. The execution of the Jedi, the consolidation of power, this insistence that security means sacrificing more and more..." He trailed off, shaking his head. There was too much he couldn’t make sense of—too much about the past few months that didn’t sit right. The locals’ unease was contagious, and he found himself questioning the very nature of what they were supposed to be building.

As he attempted to offer some semblance of comfort to Cham, the crowd’s restlessness seemed to grow. That was when he heard the most ridiculous and revolting statement.

"I speak for the people when I say this partnership is most welcome," came the pompous voice of Orn Free Taa. Howzer's stomach turned at the sound. The man was the embodiment of everything that was wrong with the Senate: gluttonous, arrogant, out of touch. A man who served only his own interests, constantly living in a self-made bubble of privilege. Howzer couldn't fathom how anyone could take him seriously. His very presence was an insult to everything they were trying to rebuild. It was clear that Orn Free Taa had no understanding of the sacrifices made by people like Gobi, Cham, or the countless others who had fought for a better future.

At Rampart’s call, Cham slowly turned away from him, as if giving voice to the bitter truth he had long carried but never quite spoken aloud. "After years spent fighting, peace is what is needed," he said, his voice heavy, as if the weight of the words themselves were more than he could bear. Howzer watched him closely. He had no doubt that Cham wanted to believe in the ideal he was voicing, and in many ways, Howzer could feel it in the man’s demeanor. The weariness of battle, the longing for something more, something better. But the smaller, more cynical part of Howzer knew the truth: Cham was a rebel at his core. A soldier who had fought for freedom, who had lived for resistance. And it was hard to imagine that someone like him could truly embrace peace in a way that didn’t still leave room for conflict. Rebels didn’t just stop fighting—they adapted, they evolved, but they rarely laid down arms entirely.

"And with peace comes prosperity," came the booming voice of Orn Free Taa, interrupting his thoughts. Howzer’s lip curled in disdain, his thoughts immediately turning bitter. Leave it to the bloated, self-serving bureaucrat to see the only upside to peace as a financial opportunity. Howzer almost felt sorry for the man, but that was quickly replaced with a sharp pang of disgust. "This is a new era for Ryloth," Taa continued, his hands sweeping the air as though he were offering some grand vision of hope.

A new era for Ryloth, indeed. But for who? Howzer couldn’t shake the feeling that what was being promised was little more than an illusion, a false hope laced with political opportunism. Ryloth had known war for so long, it was hard to believe it could ever really know peace. They had fought for survival, for identity, for a future free from the oppression of the Separatists, and now it felt like they were exchanging one form of subjugation for another. But the worst part was how quickly the promise of prosperity was tied to the same forces that had enslaved them before.

Part of Howzer—just a small part—wanted to believe that this was just the growing pains of a new world, that change could come, that freedom was within their reach. He wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, the new Empire, however flawed, could forge a path that led to something better, something stable. The idea of conscripting soldiers across the galaxy, of building something strong and enduring—perhaps even a place where he could lay down roots, find honest work, a home—was an appealing thought. It could be a chance to give back to the people of Ryloth, to those who had supported him and his men through thick and thin.

But every instinct in him screamed that it was a dream too far-fetched to be real. Unstable. Unlikely. The weight of the galaxy’s history pressed on him, the shadow of the Empire still hanging thick in the air. Could it truly be different this time? Could peace truly come from all of this? Or were they simply spinning the same wheels that had led them into endless conflict for generations?

And what would be left when all the dust settled?

Cham might have wanted to believe in the dream of peace, but Howzer could feel the unease creeping up his spine. He wasn’t sure if it was the ghosts of the past or the uncertainty of the present, but he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the road ahead would be far more complicated, and far more dangerous, than anyone was willing to admit.

Howzer watched as the Vice Admiral stalked off to join the Senator, leaving Cham standing there, the weariness of the moment visibly heavy on him. The burden of leadership, the weight of what had been won and what still remained uncertain, seemed to settle in his shoulders. Howzer couldn’t help himself. He approached the man. "Everything alright, General?" The title slipped from his lips without thought, a habit ingrained from years of military service. Even though they were no longer soldiers at war, the respect he felt for the man across from him remained, unwavering.

Cham looked at him, his eyes tired but thoughtful. "I should be content that the war is over. But as you said, change is never easy." He paused, the faintest flicker of doubt crossing his face before he spoke again. "I hope my people will embrace this peace."

Howzer took a breath, unsure of what to say. The words they’d just exchanged lingered between them, both carrying the weight of reality and hope, but neither feeling truly secure. Still, he gave it a try. "Ryloth is safe, Cham. This is what you fought for." He tried to muster a reassuring smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was what they fought for, wasn’t it?

The truth was, Howzer didn’t have all the answers. The Separatists were defeated, but the victory felt hollow at times. For now, things could be better. He repeated that mantra to himself like a prayer, every morning in the fresher before strapping on his stiff armor and heading out for his rounds. Each day, it felt like the chain of command and all its promises had come in, disrupting the life he had tried to build with the locals. He had come to appreciate the rhythm of this place, the simplicity, the connection to the land and its people. But the empire had changed everything. Every day, it felt more like something else was being taken from him.

Howzer could feel it: the creeping softness in him, the erosion of the old military protocols he had once followed without question. He’d let himself slip into the traditions of the locals, wear their coverings, their clothes. At first, it was just a way for him and his men to connect with the Twi'lek militia—an unspoken gesture of respect. Trust was vital between the Twi’lek and his men when they arrived.

The command that had come before his legion had failed in its duty to the people of Ryloth. They had gotten the Twi'lek to safety, yes, but the planet itself had been lost to the Separatists. And in that loss, Cham had been left behind, abandoned. Howzer could still feel the sting of that betrayal in the air, and it drove him to work tirelessly to rebuild the trust between Cham and the clones. It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t happen overnight, but he believed until it became reality.

He encouraged his men to respect the Twi’lek traditions, to honor their culture. There were things they had to let go of. Old habits, old phrases that had once been the norm but were now offensive. He had worked hard to stamp out the use of “tail heads” after Val had informed him how deeply disrespectful it was to the Twi'lek people. The idea of earning back their respect, of showing that they were allies and not oppressors, was something Howzer took seriously. The cultural divide wasn’t easy to bridge, but it was the only way forward.

And then, of course, there was Val.

Her name lingered in his thoughts like an unspoken truth, a shadow in the corner of his mind that he couldn’t quite banish. The sudden absence of her in the crowd, that feeling of not knowing where she was, gnawed at him more than he cared to admit. She had become a symbol for the delicate balance between duty and desire, between the past and whatever they were trying to build. She was part of this world now, a part of Ryloth's future, and yet she remained an enigma, elusive in a way that was both maddening and strangely comforting.

She was young, but not in the way that most people assumed. There was a quiet wisdom in her, an idealism that wasn’t naïve, but deeply rooted in reality. She didn’t dismiss concerns, didn’t bury her head in the sand, but neither did she let anxiety take over or spiral out of control. She had this rare ability to face the hard truths of the world while still keeping her feet firmly planted. And in doing so, she had a way of lifting his spirits, of giving him a space where he could breathe—somewhere between the weight of Cham’s expectations and the guarded distance of her older brother.

She was the reason he had earned their trust back in the first place. Despite her teasing, her challenges, her refusal to let him off easy, she had always seen through to the heart of things. Her candidness had cut through the layers of suspicion, and her unwillingness to simply follow orders had forced him to prove himself time and again. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it.

It was just her nature to know how much she meant to him, to understand the effect she had on him, even when she didn’t speak it aloud. And yet, she never let it show. Instead, she’d simply flash him one of those mischievous smiles, the kind that reached her eyes and made the world seem a little less heavy. With a gentle tug on his arm, she’d pull him out of his thoughts, grounding him in the present moment, as if reminding him that in spite of everything, life could still have moments of lightness.

Those moments were rare, of course. They only came when the dust of their work and struggle settled, when the weight of their responsibilities momentarily lifted, and they could simply be. Together.

In those fleeting moments, he allowed himself to indulge in something softer, something more hopeful. A quiet dream for the future, one that wasn’t weighed down by the uncertainties of the past or the pressure of what was to come. And in that, she gave him something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing: a glimpse of what could be, even in a world that felt so fractured.

Howzer’s mind snapped back to the present when Cham began speaking to the crowd, his voice rising above the murmur of unrest. The general was attempting to calm the brewing disturbance, his words carefully chosen to settle the growing tension before things got out of hand. As Cham gestured toward him, Howzer found himself unexpectedly thrust into the spotlight, the General using him as an example of how the clones had done right by Ryloth.

A part of him wanted to square his shoulders, lift his chin, and stand tall. When Howzer had first arrived on Ryloth, speeches like this—full of gratitude and reverence for the sacrifices of the clones—had been exactly the kind of recognition he fought for. The kind of acknowledgment he believed was deserved after years of battle. But that was before he had met someone who had completely shifted his perspective.

Now, the words felt bitter. He wasn’t the model of selflessness. He wasn’t the embodiment of the heroic clone soldier fighting for the greater good. He wasn’t even sure if he could call himself a soldier anymore.

This mission—this entire period of his life—had become far too personal. He had crossed the line between duty and connection long ago, and now, there was no going back. His loyalty had shifted, his focus had changed. His last few years on Ryloth, the ones spent fighting beside the locals, were no longer about the broader war or some grand idea of serving the Empire or the Republic. They were about the citizens he had come to care for—people who had become more than just comrades in arms.

Hera. Eleni. Gobi. Cham. And… Val.

Each of them had left an imprint on him, some more deeply than others, but all of them had tugged him away from the rigid, cold doctrine of a soldier’s life. He had fought for them—with them. They had shown him a new way of seeing the world, one where duty and compassion could coexist, where there was room for hope amid the ruins of a war-torn galaxy. But in doing so, they had also made him question everything he once believed.

As he stood there, Cham’s voice a low hum in the background, confirming that his people should respect his brother-in-arms, Howzer’s gaze sharpened. He didn’t need to hear the words; his instincts were already on edge. That’s when he saw it: a glint. The solar flare of a reflection, sharp and unmistakable, bouncing off the lens of a scope.

He knew his men had set up parameters around the walls of the city, but this—this was outside the established bounds. A flash of movement atop a distant cliffside to the right, just beyond the edges of their perimeter. Brown eyes narrowing, he shifted his focus. Then, a flicker of color. Teal. The smallest, almost imperceptible flash of it, just behind the ridge.

He should’ve known. She should’ve been the first thing on his mind. Always within earshot, always close, always ready to assist if the situation called for it. But this time it was different.

The Empire had confiscated every weapon the locals had. Every last one, except for the few who had managed to keep theirs hidden, and she was one of them. He’d always known she’d find a way to keep it. But seeing the glint of her scope trained at the city, pointed at their heads, sent a cold jolt of panic through him. It wasn’t for his safety: he didn’t care about that. It wasn’t even for the Senator’s safety. It was for hers.

If the Empire found out, if they discovered she was holding a weapon, it wouldn’t just be a reprimand. She’d be in serious trouble—immediate, deadly trouble—for defying Imperial orders. Worse still, he’d be the one tasked with handing down the punishment. The weight of that responsibility, the gut-wrenching knowledge that it could fall to him to turn her in, to sentence her, gnawed at him with a bitter sense of inevitability.

He scanned the cliffside again, his heart rate picking up as his mind raced. There. Just a shift in the air. He could sense her presence even if she wasn’t visible. With a subtle shake of his head, he gave the smallest of gestures, just a hint of movement. A silent order for her to put the weapon down. It wasn’t just reckless; it was dangerous.

With Crosshair, the special forces sniper, roaming nearby—his every movement designed for precision, his defect almost tailor-made for tasks like this—Howzer knew the risk was amplified. He would be scoping their surroundings, looking for threats, looking for any sign of movement. The thought of her on that cliff, exposed, risking her life for nothing, made his blood run cold.

For a moment, he didn’t see the flash of the scope again, nor did he hear Crosshair’s usual cold, detached commentary about spotting targets. But that didn’t mean it was over. He couldn’t let it go. Once this gods-forsaken speech ended, once the crowd had been dealt with, he’d find her. He’d get to her before anyone else did. And then, he’d make sure that rifle was stashed away, hidden out of sight, out of reach. Her safety depended on it.

The thought of what might happen if anyone discovered her, if she were caught with the weapon, sent a chill down his spine. He couldn’t afford to lose her. Not like this.

Tag List

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every-sanji · 10 months ago

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#one piece #sanji #black leg sanji #everysanji #summit war saga #volume 56 #ft. luffy #ft. zoro #ft. nami #ft. usopp #ft. chopper #ft. robin #ft. franky #ft. brook #i'm not about to go back and reorder these posts but vol 56 goes from 542 to 551 #i realized i was skipping entire volumes so i figured i'd go back and check for stuff like this #so yes i ammmm doing my due diligence i'm just eepy

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thewormsdontstop · 11 months ago

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Y E S

so that's why this volumes called declaration of war

#reading 1pc #one piece #one piece manga #vol 41 declaration of war #liveblog

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cjrae · 1 year ago

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Tragedy of the Jade Nightingale. Or: My thoughts on Vol. 11 of the Apothecary Diaries.

Given that this volume just came out in English a few days ago, spoilers under the cut!

I usually think of the Apothecary Diaries volumes as pairs - usually two volumes make up an arc. If so, Volume 11 will be the first half of the arc with 12, but it also functions beautifully as a tragedy in it's own right.

** I will be only discussing information appearing officially through Vol. 11. Yes, I have read the fan translations of the web novels, but given that details can change, until it appears in official English translation, I won't yet be including it here.

The Hero

Gyoku-ou. Talk about someone who thinks he's smarter than he actually is. We knew this guy was a threat all the way back in Vol. 8, with how Gyokuyou reacted to her brother's letter and his veiled insult of sending a younger version of herself to catch either her husband's attention or the Imperial Brother's. Now we get to see him in action and he's scary - right up until he's not.

This man is charismatic as anything - he understands what makes people tick on both an individual level as well as a social level. His ability to wield a mob effectively makes him extremely dangerous, but I'm oddly put in mind of Lakan's initial impression of Fengxian. "This woman is strong, but she only knows how to fight in her own, small world."

The world Gyoku-ou inhabits is a very small, petty one. You can see it in his conspiracy theory about Jinshi's birth.

Jinshi is one of two people Gyoku-ou fails to read. When he brings Lakan and Jinshi to his puppet council to gauge support for attacking Shaoh, he thinks he's got a young malcontent in his hands, someone who wants power and is prone to the flashes of temper and insult that often drive young men. Someone who is easily manipulated. Instead, Jinshi mops the floor with him in that meeting, cutting Lakan's support out from under Gyoku-ou and making it clear that his priority is peace above war.

This doesn't take away from Gyoku-ou's political genius - this meeting teaches him that Jinshi has to be maneuvered around, rather than maneuvered directly. If the Imperial Brother doesn't want to play his part, then too bad. Gyoku-ou will see to it that Jinshi is hedged in all directions except where he wants him to go - which is to war. And even then, he's got a fight on his hands as Jinshi fully takes advantage of Empress Gyokuyou's information to undercut Gyoku-ou's support within his own family.

It's a mark of Jinshi's political skill that Gyoku-ou's move in that family council is to flirt with treason. If he can't maneuver the Imperial family through Jinshi, then he shifts tactics to turn Jinshi (and the rest of the Imperial Family) into the villain of his piece - a prince born and raised into utter depravity.

Let's just sit with what Gyoku-ou suggests to the rest of his siblings (minus the Empress) in that meeting. He implies that the Emperor impregnated his own mother in order to produce an heir. A son that he loves so dearly (and unnaturally) that he would willingly look the other way while Jinshi murders his other children in order to make sure that his brother-son-lover succeeds the throne.

This is a brilliant examination of how the bare facts of the situation can be construed by people with very different motivations to fit whatever worldview is most convenient for them. I'm a fan of the palace politics in this series because they feel very real.

Gyoku-ou doesn't lie once. But boy does he create a narrative that suits his purposes and dares anyone (namely Rikuson) to tell Jinshi. He is escalating the situation and he's doing it fast, while also challenging the legitimacy of the Imperial Family. A fact which, if it does get back to Jinshi (or the Emperor), could get the entire new You Clan wiped out just as fast as the Yi Clan was. This scene functions as a microcosm of Gyoku-ou's two fundamental character flaws; his short term thinking and his utter self-absorption.

Becoming The Wind

Since Rikuson was introduced in Vol. 5, he's been a mirror for Jinshi. He's a "pretty boy," calm under pressure, fundamentally kind and decent to other people while also being extremely competent at his job. Unlike Jinshi, he's also a bit older and more mature. He also clearly admires Maomao and sees the qualities that make her exceptional, despite her various masks.

As it turns out, Rikuson mirrors Jinshi in another important sense too - he also has a secret identity. The Yi Clan were the de facto royalty of the Western Capital and Rikuson is one of the direct survivors of the clan. He was never in the line of succession given the Yi Clan's matrilineal structure. But they were quick enough to save some of the children, namely Rikuson and Empress Gyokuyou's three ladies in waiting, Haku'u, Koku'u and Seki'u.

Rikuson, who was Gyoku-ou's excuse to trick His Former Majesty into giving him the authorization to destroy the Yi Clan. Rather than truly being an bastard Imperial prince, he's a young pawn in Gyoku-ou's hands to whip up an armed mob to hunt Rikuson down - and his mother and sister give their lives to ensure his survival - not for vengeance, but so that the Yi Clan's mission of protecting the west will live on even if the named clan itself dies. So, like Jinshi, he is dedicated to the welfare of the people above all else.

The trouble with relying on an unruly mob is that it's sloppy. Gyoku-ou left multiple survivors and they have absolutely no love for him. He's left weapons at his back.

Rikuson is the other person Gyoku-ou utterly fails to read. He spends well over a year back in his homeland, working for Gyoku-ou as an aide ostensibly from the central region, patiently waiting for an opening - even as Gyoku-ou, who knows that Rikuson has to be assigned to the west with some kind of ulterior motive, is so blind that he thinks he must be a secret member of the La Clan, rather than the Yi boy he tried to kill seventeen years earlier.

Rikuson represents the culmination Gyoku-ou's short term thinking in that he doesn't bother to think about the threat of any surviving Yi clan might pose to him.

He will not insult his mother's memory, or his sister's. But if his mission of protecting the west coincides with vengeance for his family? Sure enough, Gyoku-ou's insistence on going to war (and dragging the Imperial family's legitimacy into his motivations) gives Rikuson his opening; especially because he isn't a vigilante.

He is acting under orders.

The New You

Rikuson's point about Gyoku-ou's life being a tragedy hits home when you consider Gyokuyou's thoughts of how she knows her father loves her - but would also abandon her in a heartbeat if she is no longer valuable to him. Unlike her older brother, she has a very clear-eyed view of how their father operates and focuses on making sure that her value never drops in his eyes.

Gyoku-ou's value to Gyoku'en plummeted the day he destroyed the Yi Clan - Gyoku'en's family. He was given a second chance to show that he could still perform the single function of the men of the Yi Clan - to protect the west. When he endangered it instead, Gyoku'en sent the weapon he'd spent seventeen years preparing (Rikuson) with an execution order.

By first destroying the Yi Clan and then following it up with a proposed invasion of Shaoh, Gyoku-ou proved to Gyoku'en that he was no son of his. Given how desperate he was to be his father's son, this whole book is a tragedy in the classic sense. The Jade Nightingale was so desperate to reinvent himself as a Jade Eagle that he destroyed himself in pursuit of the one thing he never lost - his father's love. But, to be his father's heir, what he needed was Gyoku'en's trust and respect, not his love.

And he killed that seventeen years ago along with the Yi Clan.

Ironically, the foreign born girl that he despised and attempted to undermine at every opportunity, emerges as their father's true heir and mother of the nation, with the rest of the surviving Yi clan as part of her loyal retinue.

In her triumph, the Yi Clan is reborn as the You Clan as Gyoku'en, a Yi man, is given a clan name on the strength of Gyokuyou's role as Empress. So much of their history has been lost, down to the matrilineal succession and family records, but their mission lives on through the Yi men who will continue to protect the west, no matter the personal cost to themselves. There is no room for self-absorption here, therefore Gyoku-ou has no place in their new clan.

Also, a parallel to pay attention to is how the destruction of the Yi Clan and the Shi Clan are mirroring each other with the children being saved. The Yi Clan is reborn with a new name, which leads one to wonder what the consequences of saving those Shi children will be long term.

A Dagger In The Dark

Gyoku-ou sucks up a lot of air in Vol. 11 because he is driving the action - Jinshi, Maomao and their party are all stuck reacting to him, except for one character; Chue.

We see Chue attach herself to Maomao starting with the ship and it's not difficult to guess that just as Lihaku is serving as a discreet bodyguard for Maomao on Jinshi's orders, Chue is also there as protection. Chue doesn't try to conceal that she is clearly trained in espionage either.

Rikuson's proposal to Maomao is not a serious bid for her hand, but nor is it a joke - it's a message to Chue that Jinshi needs to tighten security around Maomao. As he puts it, he knows the "hyper protective" elements around her will close ranks. Because he's foreseen a strategy that may not have yet occurred to Gyoku-ou (who tends not to pay attention to the bit parts of the play), but if it does would almost certainly push the country into war.

Maomao is the lever that could move both Lakan and Jinshi.

All he has to do is kill her and make it look like a foreign attack. Lakan's instinctive ability to read a situation and Jinshi's formidable investigative skills would likely be dulled in the face of their rage and grief. Especially since they are technically Gyoku-ou's guests and don't have freedom of movement to push the issue.

Rikuson seizes his opportunity before Gyoku-ou can continue to escalate, but he realizes quickly that Chue arranged the stage and was there as both spy and backup assassin. (I think it's safe to say that Gyoku-ou's conspiracy theory AND that Yi family ledger will be reported, given that we know there were ladies-in-waiting at the meeting and that's how Chue was disguised - and she didn't actually promise to dispose of it).

Gyoku-ou doesn't bother to think that while the Emperor may be far away and the Imperial Brother is a manageable threat, that the people surrounding Jinshi may not be bound by his strictures. Hence, Chue was on standby. No matter what, Gyoku-ou was never going to make it to that ritual. He was never smart enough to realize that his crossing the line would be never be forgiven.

While Jinshi would order an execution if necessary (and has in the past), he would never order an assassination. Therefore, it's evident that Chue reports to someone else. Who that someone is, we don't know, but there's only one person further up the Imperial tree than Jinshi, so it would be reasonable for Rikuson to assume that the Emperor has placed additional protection around not just Jinshi, but Maomao.

Exclusive: Baby Swap!

Jinshi's birth is not a secret to the audience and while Maomao doesn't have confirmation, she's pretty certain of her suspicion. This volume made it patently obvious that there are others out there who are perfectly capable of putting the pieces together, even if the details are twisted.

Let's return to Gyoku-ou's conspiracy theory.

He's put together all the correct pieces. The Emperor's attitude toward Jinshi makes no sense in a traditional palace setting - a much younger, handsome, charismatic and competent brother? That's a threat to the Emperor and his direct line. But Jinshi is never treated that way - instead he's indulged on many fronts.

He's allowed to duck most of his official duties as Ka Zuigetsu (except for a few he can't, where he appears masked).

He's allowed to pretend to be a eunuch for six years and run the Rear Palace.

When he finally reveals himself to the court to put down the Shi Rebellion, he's described as "hale" and "just as proficient in the military arts as the administrative." (More proof that Jinshi is NOT the best judge of his own abilities). He emerges fully formed into court politics - a perfectly trained Crown Prince - only to have a newborn given the title instead.

Gyoku-ou deliberately put the worst possible spin on these facts. I suspect the rest of the You siblings are going to keep their mouths shut about Gyoku-ou's ugly theory, but if he could think of it, if Maomao could think of it with just seeing Jinshi standing next to Lady Ah-Duo, then so can others.

Maomao can be mad about Jinshi branding himself all she wants, but it's currently looking like an absolutely BRILLIANT move on Jinshi's part. Whatever doubts Gyoku-ou managed to plant about Jinshi and the Emperor's motives with the rest of the You clan siblings, Empress Gyokuyou is not likely to entertain it.

Also, it got the Emperor to essentially "banish" Jinshi to the edges of the Empire shortly after his new Crown Prince was born, which makes it look to other members of the court like the Emperor is taking steps to rein in his younger brother and balances the factions that have to be forming back in the capital.

This is not a secret that can be kept forever. No matter how careful Ah-Duo and Anshi were, the information is starting to leak out around the edges, as we see that the Empress' ladies in waiting that were dismissed clearly had eyes and ears - and in at least one case, a loose tongue.

The next arc is being seeded and Jinshi is inching closer and closer to that throne. He ran the Rear Palace for years (essentially managing the nation in microcosm) and as of the end of Vol. 11, he's now stepping up to govern a province and gain actual ruling experience while also having suppressed a war.

I've said before that Jinshi ascending the throne is the bad ending - if there is a single person who is more trapped by the palace than the prince, it's the emperor. We'll see what happens!

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sapphim · 8 months ago

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Ok I have returned with more, actually. Here's what we know about the Ferelden Grey Wardens from Duncan's and Alistair's time, before the Blight:

Warden-Commander Polara

Duncan became Ferelden's Commander of the Grey in 9:10 Dragon [see note], assuming the mantle from Commander Polara, under whom he had served since the order's restoration in Ferelden. Polara, who hailed from Antiva, had built an amiable relationship with King Cailan. She overcame many of the objections of Teyrn Loghain, who had argued strenuously against the order returning—after all, the Wardens had attempted to overthrow the Ferelden throne centuries before. When Polara disappeared—perhaps recalled to Weisshaupt, although none in Ferelden saw her leave, nor have seen her since—Duncan bequeathed to her son a silverite axe of great value. Duncan said he had wielded it and a twin in younger days, back when he had been a far different man. He'd named the axe "Fiona" after a Warden who inspired him, and suggested that the son ought to take similar inspiration from his mother. It's unknown what became of Polara's son, other than that he fled Ferelden during the same Blight in which Duncan perished. —DA2 Codex Entry: Item: Fiona

note: The events of The Calling took place ca. 9:10 Dragon [That timeline has been riddled with errors but per WoTv2 p.81 "...when the Grey Wardens first returned to Ferelden in 9:10 Dragon... King Maric joined a much younger Duncan and his fellow Wardens in a mission to the Deep Roads."]. The 9:10 date given for Duncan to assume command of the Wardens is certainly in error, as at that point in time he was a babey Warden who'd been recruited about six months prior [per The Calling].

Warden-Constable Reyor

The following is an excerpt from a letter [...] written by a Warden-Constable Reyor two months after Alistair's recruitment: "I know you said it was unnecessary, but as I investigate all new recruits I looked into this Alistair lad... and it's rather odd. There was an old groundskeeper who knew him and seemed quite fond; she reminisced about the night Alistair was first brought to Redcliffe Castle. She mentioned a young man of Rivaini descent bringing the boy, and intrigued, I gave her your description. She didn't know if that original young man was you, but she said she'd seen you come to the castle often through the years, asking after Alistair's progress and watching him. I have to ask: Is that true? Is there something about the lad the Wardens should know?" And the response from Warden-Commander Duncan: "Alistair is the son of an old friend. As my travels indeed bring me to Redcliffe from time to time, I have looked in on him. I believe he is a worthy addition to our ranks. There is nothing more you or the Wardens need to know." —World of Thedas vol. 2, p. 80

Richu & Tamarel

Duncan stood silently at the gates of the village. To his right crouched Tamarel with her bow. He had recruited the young elf for her sharp eye; she had justified his confidence through methodical, deadly hunting [see note]. To Duncan’s left waited Richu, as experienced a Warden as Duncan himself, thick arms crossed and waiting. In war, victory Duncan recalled the start of the Grey Wardens’ motto, the part he held closest to his heart. War never offered any choice but to win; in the battles the Wardens fought, losing meant the destruction of everything they knew and loved. Any sacrifice, if it meant victory. Triumph, no matter the price. The three were nearing Redcliffe when they felt the tugging at their souls, the sensation familiar to any Warden that warned of twisted foes approaching. It is a blessing and a curse, thought Duncan, to sense the darkness in time to fight it, but also to know that a piece of that darkness will always be with us. In peace, vigilance It was centuries now since the end of the Fourth Blight, and the world had moving on. Some said the darkspawn no longer existed, or thought that occasional darkspawn raids in remote lands proved them now no more than a nuisance. But although the battles were hidden from human eyes, the dwarves still clashed with the darkspawn in the Deep Roads. Ignorance would not make the threat disappear. Here, in this remote village in southern Ferelden, the darkspawn had risen in such numbers that the people had been completely overwhelmed. Duncan shook his head, nodded once, and a several darkspawn near the center of the village fell to Warden arrows. Duncan and Richu charged, steel glinting in the moonlight, to engage the creatures in close combat. There were more than a score remaining to confront the three Wardens, but Duncan reckoned the odds fair. Blades slashed through dark flesh, and Tamarel cautiously pressed forward into the village, loosing arrows upon any darkspawn that thought to flee. The Grey Wardens cut the darkspawn down to the last. Covered in dark ichor and his own red blood, Duncan surveyed the combination of partially eaten human corpses and newly dead darkspawn. A few, maybe three or four, villagers stirred, staring out at the scene with lasting horror. “We were too late,” Tamarel said. She was right; Duncan knew in his heart that the survivors had already been tainted. Those who avoided a quick, excruciating death would be driven mad, turned into diseased and rabid killers. He cursed and spit and wiped his sword clean. He stepped forward. The villagers looked on him with mounting terror, their eyes growing wide as they turned black. They turned and fled. Tamarel’s arrows slammed into the villagers’ spines as they ran. They died because they must, died to prevent the spread of the same taint that gave the Grey Wardens their connection to their enemy. That same evil that would eat away at the three Wardens until one day each would decide it was time to descend into the Deep Roads for one final walk into the shadows, to end their lives with purpose rather than wasting away from sickness. In death, sacrifice The final line of the Wardens’ motto is doubtless the most crucial. Every life must have meaning; every death must have purpose. Waving his hand, Duncan called the others to him and they began the bitter task of burning the village to ashes. Nothing was to be left. —Bioware Wiki: Duncan

note: We know that Tamarel was no longer present at the time that Alistair was recruited [six months prior to the events of Dragon Age: Origins, per his dialogue] as he states [see below] that there were no women in the Ferelden Wardens during his time, and the only elf was a man named Tarimel................ wait oh my god he transitioned good for him

Gregor (Grigor?) & Kherek & Tarimel

Warden: What was it like to be a Grey Warden, with all the others? Alistair: I didn’t know them for very long, but I guess it was longer than you. You never met them all, did you? Alistair: They were quite a group. Actually, they felt like an extended family, since we were all cut off from our former lives. Alistair: We also laughed more than you’d think. There was this one time… well, you probably don’t want to hear stories about men you didn’t know. Warden: Weren’t there any women? Alistair: Not as Grey Wardens, not while I was there. I saw pictures of some who had been, and they all seemed to be able warriors. One was even a templar. Warden: Were there any elves amongst them? Alistair: Just one, a man named Tarimel. He kept to himself, mostly. I got the impression that his life before the Grey Wardens was… unpleasant. Warden: Were there any dwarves amongst them? Alistair: There was one when I first joined, a dwarf named Kherek. He was one of the elders and he… left for Orzammar before the reports of the Blight began. Alistair: It’s too bad, really. Kherek said that he never wanted to go back. He wanted to die fighting darkspawn on the surface. Alistair: There was one Grey Warden who came all the way from the Anderfels. What was his name? Gregor? Grigor? He was a burly man with the biggest, fuzziest beard you’ve ever seen. Alistair: And the man could drink. He drank all the time but never got drunk. Finally we all made a pool to see just how many pints it would take to put him under the table. Warden: Sounds like you had a lot of fun. Alistair: Sometimes. We were kin, of a sort. All of us had gone through the Joining, so we knew… anyhow, it doesn’t have to be deadly serious all the time. Warden: I bet I could have out-drank him. Alistair: Oh, I honestly doubt it. You might have tried, but this fellow had a supernatural constitution, I swear. Alistair: Anyhow, we never did find out. He said he’d drink a pint for every half-pint that the rest of us drank. He was still going by the time the rest of us were passed out. Alistair: I’m told that Duncan walked in later on and saw us all passed out from one end of the hall to the other, and Gregor still drinking. Duncan laughed until he nearly… until… —Dragon Age: Origins

Rondall

[...] it appeared Alistair did well among the Grey Wardens. He flourished in a way he never had in the Chantry, quickly growing attached to his fellow Wardens and they to him. One can see this in a letter he wrote to Arl Eamon but never sent: "I didn't think I belonged anywhere, Uncle. You said I should try my best, and I really did when I was in the chantry. Well, that's a lie, I suppose. I wanted to try. It was hard to want that, however, when everyone's always scowling at you.[...] "But the Wardens are different. Everyone who comes here... they didn't belong anywhere, either, and then they found this cause. They found each other. They don't know anything about me, where I come from, and they don't care. Duncan said I was worthy, and that's all that mattered. I thought the man must have been insane to pick me out, me of all people, but now... Now I don't know. They say I'm learning fast. I beat Rondall in a spar the other day, beat him honestly, and... I think I might be good at being a Warden. They think so, too." —World of Thedas vol. 2, p. 81

#canonical texts #wardenposting #this became an alistairpost somehow but eeeeeehhhhhhhh you know it happens

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