#The Devine Right of Kings

[ultra-creepy-fucker-things]

Part of me wants Toffee/Seth/most septarians to have genuinely radical politics. Part of me thinks it would be funny if every radical belief the magic high commission feared them for was something that Marco specifically would consider entirely uncontroversial.

[unashamedly-enthusiastic]

I think to topple the devine rights of kings billionaires, we need to dispel the myth that they have that money because they are smart and worked hard and make good decisions

I think the zip ties on the submarine and the limited views on the advertising platform might begin to show them for what they are

They are not smarter than you. They are not better than you. And if you suddenly magically got all that money people would stop saying 'no' to you too. and that is not a good thing

[johnbrand]

Pump and Jump

“Devin, what are you doing here?”

I had not expected anyone to be in my apartment when I got home from work, least of all my sister’s muscular douchebag of a boyfriend. In public, he was always popular to be around. Sociable and knowing exactly what to say and how to act, perfectly aligned with modern male beauty standards and a strong, commanding personality. Everyone treated him like a king, yet I was the one he proceeded to yank around like a subject. Because I was not at the same level of traditional masculinity, I had immediately been deemed as inferior.

“Your twat sister and I had a fight,” Devin replied, the slur came out naturally.

“How did you even get in?” I persisted. “I lock my doors.”

Unbothered, Devin continued scrolling on his phone. “I took your sister’s key.”

I was dumbfounded at Devin’s actions, but was too tired to fully deal with them. I tossed my backpack to the side and moved to the kitchen, my starchy suit itching against my skin with every step. But changing clothes were going to be dealt with after I fixed up something to eat.

“As long as you're in there, why don't you grab me a drink?” Devin’s voice was loud and clear. “A snack would be great too, I could polish off a bag of chips.”

I gulp, pausing for a moment. Instead of preparing anything for myself, I reenter the living room with an ice-cold beer and a few eating options. Devin does not react to my actions at all, simply opening the can and then munching on the first bag of snacks. I could already smell his natural musk, a mix of pungent body odor loosely covered by a cheap spray-on deodorant.

Assuming Devin was satisfied, I turned back to the kitchen to finally help myself.

“Where are you going, buddy?” Devin stopped me. “How about you give me a foot massage while I eat? These puppies are sore from having to haul everything over.”

Haul everything over? I thought. Kneeling in front of the table, I turned my head to sneak a peek of my bedroom. All across the small space were Devin’s belongings; boxes and bags and scattered objects filling my once pristine sanctuary. I was furious, but the potent funk coming from Devin’s feet beside my face nauseating me to the point that making an argument seemed futile. Tentatively, I placed my fingers against the wide, meaty soles. Devin grunted softly as I began to make slow circles.

It was hard to describe, but there was something so captivating about the texture of Devin’s feet. They were soft and stiff at the same time, their flesh both malleable and muscular. I could not help but feel my mind wander as I continued to work at his feet, puzzling over just how large they were. Size 13, Size 14…could they even be Size 15? Devin’s foot funk was so sharp, so pungent, so much that before I knew it the sun had already gone down. 

“Hey Devin, I think I’m gonna head to bed now,” I stated, removing my hands from his feet. Yet I could not deny the strange urge to place them back.

Devin, unphased, continued scrolling through the device in his hand. It took me a few moments to register that it was mine. I immediately commented on it. “You don’t remember?” Devin replied. “I asked for it when my phone died, and you handed it over with no argument. You even volunteered to remove the PIN so I would have access to it in the future.”

Was that true? I tried to open my phone to check, but for some reason my old password was not accepted.

“Oh yeah, I decided it would just be safer if I changed it all together,” Devin nonchalantly addressed. He stood up and stretched, his towering height and size engulfing my own and my possible protests. “Alright, I’m gonna head to bed, good night roomie.” In a mixture of shock and awe, my eyes followed as Devin proceeded to my his bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him.

After just a few days, I quickly became accustomed to not only Devin, but in addition his needs. It was funny how the more time I spent with him, the more it felt right for him to treat me as his inferior. The apartment quickly became Devin’s, and my sole responsibility was to maintain it. Overtime, I was conditioned into faggotry, taught about the hierarchy and where I belonged in it. Which obviously–and what I would soon come to learn, rightfully–was below Devin.

In the end, Devin and my sister inevitably broke up. Eventually I learned it was because he had lied about wearing a condom. Through manipulation, and his massive cock, Devin had bred my sister thoroughly, apparent shooting straight into her womb. Being in a red state, abortion was not an option, but Devin had no plans on fathering his child. Since then, my sister had lamented about his abrupt “disappearance," having no idea he had been living with me since the initial fight. She would never know that she was just one of many women Devin had successfully “pumped and jumped” as he called it; my nephew would arrive with an abundance of half brothers and sisters.

[luceafarul-de-dimineata]

Platonic yandere Lucifer x Gamigin

There's no sex, but it's very dark, so read only if you think you're in the right headspace for it. Cw: mention of incest at the start (the seraphs being weird), unhealthy relationships, emotional manipulation

Lucifer trully cared for his brothers up in Heaven, and, to a certain extent, he still does. But he knew that his relationship with them was getting a bit unhealthy due to his and his brothers incestuous tendencies, so he left.

But than he got to meet another creature... so small and vulnerable, in need of his devine guidence. Such a pathetic creature, a speck in the universe, nothing in the eyes of God yet everything in the eyes of Lucifer.

Gamigin had potential if the pearl on his staff was anything to go by, but Lucifer needed to make sure nobody dared corrupt the young soul.

The way both his angel bretheren and the devils treated Gamigin angered Lucifer to the point he locked his country, making it his own paradise with little pathetic creatures to look after.

As time went on, more devils joined Lucifer's side, but none of them were as close as Gamigin.

During one of the many nights he spent sharing a bed with Gamigin, he used his power to mark him.

[The last dragon shall be unable to leave without my permission.]

Lucifer always treated Gamigin differently. While the other devils have harsh rules to follow, Gamigin could go around doing whatever he pleased as long as he didn't go too far away from his king.

While Lucifer would hiss at anybody that dared get too close to him, he would always ask Gamigin to sit on his lap. It reminded him of how he brought up his brothers, how he took care of them since they hatched.

When he gets very strong hallucinations, he might even try to feed Gamigin the same way he fed his brothers, mouth to mouth.

The sharp black talons on his neck and thigh block any escape from crossing Gamigin's mind and he can only try and talk Lucifer out of his delusions. Yet he's starting to suspect that they're no longer hallucinations, that Lucifer simply wants to take care of Gamigin as if he was a baby angel.

Lucifer insists that Gamigin calls him brother and nothing else. Being called a king is impersonal and Lucifer isn't Gamigin's king, he's his brother. His loving and caring older brother.

Whenever Gamigin makes a mistake, Lucifer will gently hold his hands and explain to him what to do better next time. A far cry from the way he hisses and snarls at anyone else. Gamigin could stab him in the back and Lucifer wouldn't mind.

Brother knows best, so Gamigin is on a strict diet and self care regime. He and Lucifer have a different meal time seperate from anyone else, they do excersise together and Lucifer applies all the creams and treatment on Gamigin's skin and vice versa. All of this is only between the two and anyone that dares inturupt will need a damn good reason for getting between their sweet brother-brother bonding time.

If Gamigin really wants to visit a certain place in hell outside of Paradise Lost and he begs adaquently enough, Lucifer will call the king of said country and threaten to stop providing any healing aid if a proper presentation of the country isn't given to him and his brother.

Lucifer will still make something catastrophic happen while outside of Paradise Lost. Couldn't give Gamigin any idea that anywhere other than his big brother's arms is safe. He'll even pretend to be mad at the people blaming Gamigin for the disaster. It will most likely traumatise the dragon, but that's what Lucifer wants

"The world outside of these walls is harsh and cruel. Remember how they treated you the first time they saw you? You're a monster in their eyes, sweet brother of mine. Oh, don't cry, big brother is here. And he loves you more than you can imagine."

Lucifer would lick Gamigin's tears with a smirk on his lips. His never tasted sweeter tears. Maybe he should take Gamigin out more often if he gets a sweet treat afterwards for his efforts.

[engie-ivy]

(I'm on holiday visiting ancient Roman sites, so about time to post a fic for @wolfstarmicrofic 's Greek & Roman Mythology theme! Unfortunately, that I would be able to keep it short is also a myth...)

4th: Conquest

2263 words

For a simple farm-boy like Remus to end up with the legendarily handsome Prince Sirius of the House of Black of the city of Grimmauld, nothing less than devine intervention would be needed. Luckily for Remus, the gods like nothing more than to meddle in the affairs of mortals...

The Myth of Remus and Sirius

‘Please goddess, answer my call, please goddess, hear my plea.’ Remus repeats the words in his head over and over again, while sitting on his knees on the cold marble of the temple.

Suddenly, he hears a rustling of fabric, and the soft sound of gentle footsteps on the floor. He opens his eyes and lift his head, and despite expecting it, he’s still taken aback by the imposing sight in front of him.

A tall woman, taller than any other woman, taller than any man, taller than any mortal. Flowing silk fabrics draped across her body, but still revealing enough of her ivory skin and soft curves. Hair falling to her waist like woven threads of gold, framing a face with eyes the colour of the ocean and full, pink lips. The most beautiful woman in the world.

Aphrodite, the goddess of love.

“You called upon me?” She asks in a sweet voice as she strides across the marble stones of her own temple to stop in front of Remus.

Remus bows his head again, his forehead almost pressed against the marble. “Yes, my goddess. You must- I mean, I humbly ask you to, no, beg you to please undo the gift you have given me.”

When he dares to look up, Aphrodite has pressed her lips into a thin line. “You were given a gift by an Olympian, and you reject it?”

Remus hands tremble. Insulting one of the gods has never ended well for any mortal, and this might very well mean his death. Or worse.

A week ago, an old woman showed up at the house where Remus and his parents live as simple farmers. She had eyes sunken into her wrinkled face, warts in her neck and on her hands, dirty fingernails and hair like cobwebs. Remus had made her a hot bath, cooked her a meal, and let her sleep in his own bed. The next morning, she revealed herself to be the goddess Aphrodite in disguise, wandering through the mortal world to test the people’s xenia, their hospitality. And for Remus’ great show of hospitality, she had promised to reward him with a gift.

“It’s not that I am ungrateful, my goddess. It was a great honour to receive an Olympian on my doorstep,” Remus carries on, knowing that he can’t back down now. “You were great and good to bestow such a gift upon me,-”

“I know it is what you desired!” Aphrodite interrupts. “I could hear it in your thoughts and see it own your face.” She lifts her chin and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Do you think I do not know my own field of expertise?”

Remus vehemently shakes his head. “No, no, no. You were right. It is what I desired. Just... not like this.”

Remus comes from a family of simple farmers, but they are not without a claim to fame. With the bee hives and flower fields behind their simple farm house, the Lupins known across the land to produce the highest quality of honey. So much so, that generations ago, King Phineas Black made them the personal supplier of the royal family of the city of Grimmauld. Befriended kings and queens, rich noblemen, travelling heroes, all are hoping to be gifted a jar of Grimmauld’s famous honey when visiting the city.

Each week, Remus’ father would ride his carriage to Grimmauld to personally offer their finest selection to King Orion and Queen Walburga. And when Lyall got to old to make the weekly trip, Remus took over from his father.

His first time in the palace, Remus kneeled in front of the throne with his tray filled with jars of honey, when soft footsteps approached. Someone reached out and took a jar from the tray. “So, for honey to be the best it must have the exact same shade of gold as your eyes,” a rich voice spoke.

When Remus looked up, his breath caught. A young man wearing a perfectly fitted, silk toga was holding one of the honey jars and smiling down at Remus with a soft, warm smile. He was slender, with a narrow waist and a face that seemed to be carved out of marble, with delicate features from an uncanny perfection, but the bright liveliness in his silver-grey eyes showed that he was very much not a statue. His ivory skin and light eyes contrasted beautifully with his long, raven black hair, which was now held back by silver pins embroidered with small, delicate diamonds that perfectly matched the colour of his eyes.

Remus immediately knew he was gone for. He also knew he was far from the first man, nor would he be the last, to be captivated by Prince Sirius of the House of Black.

Prince Sirius is widely known to be the most beautiful man in the world. Stories are told about his beauty far and wide, and none of those stories have been exaggerated. Besides kings, queens, princes and princesses pursuing him, even the gods desire him. Apollo has come down from mount Olympus several times to watch the man or even strike up a brief conversation with him, and it is said that even the highest god Zeus has let his eye fall on Sirius, and everyone knows that when the gods want something, they do not patiently wait for it, or bother with permission for that matter. Therefore, it is assumed that Prince Sirius will very soon be the next conquest of one of the gods.

His parents are practically salivating at the thought. After all, when young Ganymede was abducted by Zeus, his parents received divine compensation, the prized horses gifted to King Tros by the highest god himself being admired and envied all over the world, and Sirius is surely as beautiful as Ganymede, maybe even more so. And even if the gods will eventually lose interest in their son, there are still incredibly rich kings who will gladly offer a large portion of their wealth to have Prince Sirius with his legendary beauty at their side. Besides, King Orion and Queen Walburga have a second son for their succession, so that they’re free to exploit Sirius for his beauty.

Every time Remus visited the city, Sirius made time to talk to him, and when Remus found out he was not only beautiful, but also clever and witty and good-hearted, he had completely fallen for the young prince. Completely fallen, while knowing it was completely hopeless.

Until just days after meeting the goddess Aphrodite, Remus heard a frantic knocking. He opened the door and did a double take. The young man’s hair was not neatly styled as usual, instead pulled up in a messy bun with strands falling over his eyes, and his fine clothes looked slightly dishevelled, but unmistakably, Prince Sirius was standing before him.

Before Remus could do more than gasp, Sirius spoke. “Remus, please forgive me my intrusion, but I cannot bear to deny my feelings any longer. I long to be with you! I do not want riches, or titles, or crowns, or even a life among the gods. I just want you! My heart has chosen you, and I refuse to listen to my fears instead of my heart any longer.”

Sirius let himself fall into Remus’ arms, and for a moment, Remus’ heart leapt with joy, but then it was like an ice-cold hand had closed its grip around it as Remus realised what had happened.

Aphrodite’s ‘gift’.

She had given Remus what he desired, but she had not realised Remus did not want to have what he desired if it had to be like this.

Remus told Sirius he was tired and needed to rest. He convinced him to get some sleep, and promised they’d have a conversation in the morning when his mind would be clear.

As soon as Sirius was asleep in Remus’ bed, Remus had rushed to the temple of Aphrodite.

Aphrodite purses her lips and crosses her arms beneath her breasts. “How do you mean ‘not like this’?”

“Not if he didn’t get to choose,” Remus explains pleadingly. “Not if he was used as a tool to do me a favour.”

Aphrodite elegantly arches an eyebrow. “I present you with the most handsome man in the world, a rich, young prince, yours for the taking, and you would refuse?”

Remus only nods.

“Why?”

“Because I love him,” Remus simply states. “I would never want to strip him of his free will, or place my happiness above his.”

Aphrodite stares at him for a moment, and Remus wonders if he has insulted her, if these are his last moments before she changes him into a tree or an insect, or simply burns him to ashes.

But then a small smile appears on the goddess’ face. “For so long, I’ve dealt with people confusing attraction, desire or advantages with love, and it’s a balm to my soul to see pure love, like their is between you and Sirius.”

“I... I don’t understand.”

“You have misunderstood the nature of my gift, my sweet Remus. Allow me to explain.” Aphrodite is smiling indulgently at him now. “You must know that King Orion and Queen Walburga were hoping their son’s beauty would bring them opportunity, and that him having eyes for a simple farm-boy was unacceptable to them. They had threatened that an ill fate would befall you if Sirius were to seek your affections. I have made it clear to them that an even more ill fate would befall them if you or your family would suffer any harm, and you know you must never underestimate just how... inventive us Olympians can be when we really want to punish mortals.”

Remus had not thought such a beautiful face could wear such a dark look, and he shudders, images of Prometheus chained while waiting for the eagles to come eat his liver, Tantalus desperately reaching for the fruits and the water just outside his reach, Sisyphus fruitlessly rolling his stone up to hill coming to mind.

“Also,” Aphrodite continues, her face back to its normal expression. “I made it clear to both Zeus and Apollo to let the boy be. They will listen, because they know better than to cross me.” A pleased little smile. “Those two won’t risk having to live the rest of their immortal lives without ever experiencing a mortal’s love.”

“That’s... wonderful,” Remus says, struggling to find words. “And I am much obliged to you for your kindness. But I still don’t understand. How come Sirius...”

“Regarding Prince Sirius,” Aphrodite says, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “My work there consisted of telling him he had nothing to fear from his family or scorned gods anymore. And that’s it.”

“But... But...”

Aphrodite now laughs out loud. “He loved you already, Remus. He was afraid that his parents with their greed or gods unable to handle rejection would harm you if he were to act on those feelings. The moment I made clear he needn’t worry about them anymore, he came to you.”

Remus lets out a breath. “I.. I can hardly believe it.” He laughs shakily, happiness starting to blossom in his chest. “Did you know from the start my feelings were reciprocated?”

“Is there anything concerning love that I do not know?” Then the goddess shrugs. “It may not have entirely been a coincidence I showed up in disguise on your doorstep. Perhaps I had seen the way you and Prince Sirius looked at each other, and I was looking for an excuse to meddle.”

“Thank you,” Remus manages to say. “Thank you, great goddess. I can never repay you for such a gift.”

Aphrodite looks at him with a twinkle in her eyes. “Just continue to prove to me pure love exists, so I can look upon you whenever I need that belief reinforced.”

When Remus returns home, Sirius is sitting on his doorstep with his knees tucked against his chest, worrying his lips between his teeth. The moment he sees Remus approach, he pushes up to his feet and brushes the dirt from his tunic. “I have completely misread the situation, haven’t I?”

“No, Sirius,” Remus says. “No, you haven’t.”

Sirius shakes his head. “I poured my heart out to you. You told me to go to sleep and disappeared.”

“By Zeus, Sirius, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Sirius gives him a sad smile. “It’s okay. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have assumed. I just thought... When you looked at me I thought I saw...”

“What you saw was there!” Remus exclaims. “Sirius, I will explain. Only some days ago, I somehow gained the favour of the goddess Aphrodite, and she promised me a reward of some sort. So when you showed up here, I thought she had looked into my heart and seen only you, and that the feelings of which you spoke weren’t your own, but a spell she had cast on you in order to please me. That you weren’t here of your own choosing.”

Sirius blinks at him, and then shakes his head, stepping forward and placing his hand gently on Remus’ cheek. Remus briefly wonders if he’s dreaming, but Sirius looks so beautiful, Remus wouldn’t have been able to dream up such a vision.

“Remus,” Sirius speaks. “Let me reassure you. I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

[zahri-melitor]

Okay, I see the angle of the complaints but you all really should chill out: Z starts Tom Taylor's Nightwing run

I am exactly one story arc into Taylor's Nightwing and I wanted to pause right at the start and chart out my feelings, because I do try to avoid commenting on these things until I actually see them myself, and I want a record of my feelings right now, where I just finished the Ric Grayson arc.

The problem isn't 'this is a bad Nightwing run' or 'this is an uncharacteristic Nightwing run'. I've read those. This is not Bruce Jones with TentaTodd or Tony S. Daniels' frankly meandering DickBats run on Batman (or Judd Winick's overlapping 'what if this was actually about Jason not Dick' stories) or the multitude of 'this isn't right for Dick' problems with the Seeley & King run of Grayson, or the entire Ric Grayson saga.

Because look, from the opening moves of this story, Taylor's doing a whole bunch of things that signal that he knows the stories he's working with.

It's set in Blüdhaven. It's using existing supporting cast who should be around. It's reflecting on and referencing previous Blüdhaven stories and and parts of Dick's background and linking things up and picking up old stories to work with.

Even just take Nightwing #78, the very first issue of the run, the first issue of Nightwing under Infinite Frontier policies: we see Taylor picking up the threads left by Tim Seeley's run, and dumping in a decent selection of Chuck Dixon and Devin Grayson references.

The very first thing Taylor has Blockbuster do is twist someone's head off, which is the exact same beat Blockbuster had on his introduction as a Nightwing villain in Nightwing #6 1996. My instantaneous thought was "oh shit, are we going to run a Dudley Soames plot?" because that's preboot Blockbuster. That's the guy who haunted Dixon and Grayson's runs, with a level of very personal violence that wasn't as clear in Seeley's portrayal.

Dick immediately points out his apartment building, which he owns, and which by implication he plans to have as affordable housing. Dick's apartment complex is obvious important during the Dixon and Grayson runs right up until it blows up. His apartment is empty looking and sad, because Dick's just moved back in; because Dick's terrible at unpacking; because Dick doesn't decorate until he feels comfortable with his situation.

He also sets up the first indications of the Heartless parallels he's planning to build.

Taylor's calling out the falling-and-catching themes of Nightwing and explicitly building them in and acknowledging how important they are to ground a run in terms of Dick's motivations and his fears.

It's even, as one of the markers I like to point out, using a Flying-Graysons-In-Robin-Costumes reflection from Bruce Redondo, and the choice of which costume to put the Flying Graysons in does actually say a lot about the trajectory and beats of the plot. It means Dick is being reflective and looking back and relying on his background, not pushing Bruce and his childhood away.

Also in the 'this is Infinite Frontier, it's all back baby!!!' category that I noticed: Dick's past as a cop is referenced; Barbara's law degree (though Dick having one as well is new-to-me); Barbara is tracking Dick and has eyes-on him (both the mask lens camera but also fond memories of Babs just having cameras all over Dick's apartment and him being perfectly fine with her 'watching'); Tim is the very second visitor Dick gets (after Babs) and the first thing they do is make terrible jokes and go train surfing; and Tim naming the dog a terrible pun (which he used to do to Dick's car and so on just to annoy him). And that's just stuff that immediately leapt out at me and not all of the layers and layers of artist and writer references layered in in the tribute way comics do.

He's even using the right villains, from Dick's actual rogues gallery: Brutale! Electrocutioner! Using the Maronis alongside Zucco for drama is clearly leaning into The Long Halloween and Dark Victory for a Dick origin! Dick does actually have the various Gotham crime families as an ongoing set of shared villains because Two-Face is one of his major enemies in his set of Gotham Rogues and all the themes around that.

The problem isn't that Taylor doesn't know what he's working with, or that he doesn't know where to pitch a Nightwing run, or that his writing sucks. It's that he doesn't deliver on the potential he's offering, and that's what is aggravating because it's close but not quite exactly what people want (but that's also the zone that generates some of the best fanfic, because the potential is there and people want to fix it).

My other immediate impression is that Taylor does, yes, fail to think through the implications of what he's just set up, in any meaningful sense. Which is probably why I've found his single issue stories and minis are generally fine to read; there's not enough space for the situation that's just been set up to come back around and whack the characters in the head; and in a longer run and some of what Taylor is setting up here, there are all sorts of threads possible to set up that you should expect to come back around and cause Dick problems later on, and from what everyone's said Taylor's had issues delivering on that.

Taylor gives Dick a fortune via Alfred's estate because he wants to play with the idea of Dick stepping into that role of philanthropist that Bruce is currently unable to occupy, and reflect on the differences between the characters. And it's a late delivery from the executor (Barbara) due to the whole Ric Grayson situation, so we don't actually see what other distributions Alfred made in his will: if he left anything for any of the other children he helped to raise; if he left anything for his own daughter Julia Pennyworth, and so on. (It's also a reflection of Bruce showing up and giving Dick his trust fund from his parents early on in Dixon's run to allow Dick to finance setting up as a vigilante, I will note)

It's a convenience for the plot. It's also clearly "Taylor hasn't stopped to think through how this would affect any other character". And look, he doesn't have to; he's writing Nightwing, not the entire Bat book line, and so a full discussion of probate is a bit silly in a book that does not and probably will not ever contain Julia Pennyworth.

It really feels like the problem is it's 'close enough but not quite' that the small aggravations build up on people, to the point that all they see is their frustration rather than the fact that at least 80% of the story is targeted in the right zone, where people want it to be.

(And hey! I will also say that, for instance, I find Tim Seeley's Nightwing run specifically to also fall into that 'close but not quite' zone where it gets Dick and it gets what a Nightwing story should involve, but tragically Seeley is more interested in elaborating plot beats that I would prefer to leave lying and focuses on things I would overlook in favour of more-interesting-to-me storytelling opportunities. It happens. Seeley's a huge fan of a bunch of elements of Devin Grayson's Nightwing stories that, while I am a Devin defender, are definitely not beats that I would be prioritising in terms of rescuing from her work)

It's just to me... "I really wish Taylor wouldn't tie off things quickly and neatly and solve situations within an issue or two" and "I wish Taylor was better at long term payoffs" and "that has a bunch of unfortunate implications that aren't played out" and "the characterisation is too nicey-nice and smoothed over" are accurate complaints from what I've seen so far, but they're also reflecting on how to take adequate or good to great, rather than "this is a title lost in the wilderness, please bring it home" like a bunch of people are acting that it is.

[operose-reblogs]

I desperately want a zelda game set in the time when the sheikh people were building the guardians when the king of hyrule at the time said 'these fuckers are too powerful. Time to try to commit genocide I guess :/'

This was a Canon even that was talked about in i think the book for the development of botw

And the link and zelda of the time is not only trying to defeat demise but also the king because wtf. And by the end they help the sheikah people found kakariko village.

The history of kakariko village is devastating to me and the fact that the royal line of hyrule is always portrayed as good and holy but also they did THAT. I just really wanna see what all that world looked like at the time and also seeing the acknowledgement that the devine right of kings is a little (a lot) bullshit

If anyone has and comic or fic recs PLEASE message me

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Prima Nocta (or the right of the first night) Part 1

Warnings: so so so so many for thematic material. This is dark. Quite dark. This is freshly divorced and verrrrrry bitter and disillusioned Elvis helping himself to the bride of the newest Memphis Mafia initiate. Hugely unreliable narrator, belittling and objectifying of women, dub con because of that, sanctimonious chauvinism, reference to his marriage going very south. no actual sex yet but definitely 18+.

Notes: this got so long from just lead up that I figured it was worth publishing on its own and seeing if there’s interest for a part 2. Sorry for going bonkers on this one, sometimes you just gotta tap into the villain side of yourself. Also, this was inspired by many talks with my previous mutuals about THAT picture of Elvis holding a gun to George Klein’s head at his own wedding…I’m using it for solely for vibes, sorry George

Series: Sky High Lovin -reading Honeymoon might make this even better but not necessary

Dedicated to: Sweet Christi with the wayward mind and all my thanks to Ally and Jane and Elise for spitballing this into existence.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Elvis enjoyed life affirming events like weddings, believe it or not. He enjoyed facilitating days to celebrate love and loyalty and vows before God, promising everlasting devotion. That is, until he learned that “till death do us part” meant about as much to most as a “bless you” did when someone sneezed.

It makes surveying the pink and white festooned hotel ballroom something of an eyesore for him as he lounges back, dressed in black velvet, a sore thumb of ominous derision amidst the pastels, viewing the merry reception through moody, tinted lenses. The familiarly charming table accents of champagne and flowers and paper mache hearts twist his own into something a little furious and decidedly bitter.

A man’s wife betraying him and leaving him and stripping him of his pride and his joy and all his best intentions for her and your child will do that to a man.

Couldn’t even make it a whole decade before she found fault and spread her legs for another and turned his child against the father that loved her.

Sorry for being away so much baby, I was just singin’ myself hoarse to buy you that fuckin ring and car and hair and face and keep you in the style you’d married me for.

Cause it was obvious as all hell that honoring and obeying hadn’t been first and foremost in her mind when she promised forever. Forever to riches and fame, maybe, but not forever to him. She has those now, and he hasn’t got the family he’d prayed an Old Testament God for.

Rather like the pretty lady currently allowing her rodent of a groom to feed her their wedding cake, fake giggles and batting lashes adding to the nauseating act of pretending she can stand being in his company for longer than a couple hours.

Forever, my ass.

Elvis watches her through his shades and with each passing minute the anger burns brighter and his justification steadily builds for the liberty he’s about to commit.

The groom is here for Elvis’ paycheck, the lovely bride is planning to suck that idiot's cock till death doth them part (or a good four years) for the status of being a Memphis Mafia wife, and even the guests now stuffing their faces with pasta and alcohol are here for what Elvis’ money buys.

Loyalty is dead and what’s left is the goddamn food chain, like they’re the animals school tells them they’ve evolved past. In the recent months since his divorce, Elvis has felt a near Devine calling to bring this wicked devolution of morals and motivations to light, to humiliate these homosapiens until some level of shame is regained by mankind. If this is a pack of animals that surrounds him, he is King of the Jungle, and it is a careless and heartless king who lets his subjects run amuck.

He has no appetite for pasta, the hours of frivolity pass him by and he remains aloof, crouching in wait in his chair, running off righteous indignation and primal sufferance. Good things come to those who wait.

That’s what the bride is thinking, Elvis suspects, as the reception winds down and her luxurious honeymoon full of sunbathing and spas, good food and rich wine and the obligatory playing hooky to get out of sex draws nearer. Just a little more time letting fuckin’ Ronnie feed her cake and paw at her, then she’ll be on her way, securely locked into her future of privilege. He’s got nothing against Connie, uh, Sandra, -oh hell what was her name? he consults the gold embossed invitation at his elbow,- He’s got nothing against the newly minted Mrs. Kemp, nothing in particular, except that she’s a woman. And Elvis has a bone to pick and a point to prove with the whole, whorish lot of them.

Elvis opens the limo door for the bride himself, gallantly ushering in the happy couple before joining them as arranged, the whole merry band of his boys piling in after.

The new Mrs. Kemp, unlike some of his boys wives, had had the good grace not to whine about the lack of privacy and alone time to be found in and around Graceland’s inner circle. As a result Elvis allowed her to choose the more expensive flowers and gold embossed invites and french vintages, even if he knew why knew she’d been disgustingly eager for any chance of her intended husband being distracted from her. Elvis is certain, thanks to first hand accounts from fuckin’ Ronnie himslef, that the groom has sampled the bride already. It’s the way of things in this decadent decade, and she’s no fresh outta the nest baby chick. The fact Ronnie could give no further details about his encounters with his betrothed beyond the mechanics of thrusting above her till he blew his load, made Elvis despair of humanity and suspect Mrs. Kemp had a serpentine pragmatism about this entire arrangement.

Oh my buddy my pal, he thinks to himself as the limo flies through the never dark streets of Las Vegas towards the airstrip, I gave my wife everything and that wasn’t enough, how can you compete? God gave Eve the whole of Eden ‘cept for one measly apple tree -and what did the mother of all mankind do? She took, she ate, she damned them all with her disloyalty.

Ronnie is a damn fool, and while Elvis’ warnings were not needed during the engagement and this marriage has progressed to a limo ride and honeymoon, Elvis is not to be thwarted in his determination to save Ronnie the slow disillusionment, the slow death of any pretense of love in his wife’s eyes, the crumbling of all faith in anything such as Elvis has endured. Better to rip the bandage off now, five years is a long crucifixion.

As the limo parks on the tarmac and the gleaming hulk of the private jet looms over them in the night sky, no doubt Ronnie harbors some pathetic hope Elvis has forgotten his promise.

Elvis proceeds his guests up the jet bridge, cane thumping and carefully harnessed excitement radiating through him as he enters the opulent space, watching with benign magnanimity as the newlyweds board his jet, the boys providing a rollicking group to ferry the new couple to their honeymoon destination.

This was Elvis’ treat, he had insisted the jet drop them off before he heads back to wherever it is he’s supposed to be tomorrow. He’s not lost his appetite for spoiling folks. Only this time, he is gonna get repaid in currency a little more tangible than ephemeral, transient, fleeting loyalty. And Ronnie, kiss-ass, weak-spined fuckin’ Ronnie wasn’t man enough to hold out more than a few minutes when Elvis told him his new bride was the price for being inducted into the inner circle, the intitiation to prove his loyalty to The King.

Predictably, after some pathetic and scandalized objections, some monetary threats by Elvis and some judgmental snickers by the guys, fuckin’ Ronnie had caved and betrayed his loyalty to his own wife before he’d even walked down the aisle to marry her.

“B-b-but d-did the rest of t-the g-guys h-h-have to do this?” Ronnie had protested while they were shootin some pool, leaving the gals the other rooms to wedding plan, “Is it a-a-always this w-way?”

It hasn’t always been, no. Because Elvis hadn’t always been so astute. He had allowed his taste for pleasure and innocence and childish notions of fidelity to cloud his perception of women and the men they married. Elvis once was blind, now he saw, and now there was a currency of wedding nights established in the jungle.

“No one’s forcin’ ya to stay in this group.” Elvis had pointed out while lining up his pool cue with the ball, “you’re mighty welcome to go right on out that door, never receive another check from me or a glimpse of Vegas again, you’ll lose that girl, too, cause she sure as hell won’t be stickin around when all your bells and whistles fall off and it’s just you she’s left with. She don’t want ya Ronnie, she wants what I give ya, which makes me her provider, don’t it?” he reasoned before making his shot, the clatter of the balls deafening against the green felt as the older members of the mafia held their breaths in sick fascination with this new form of hazing. “And now, if I’m her provider,” Elvis had straightened up his posture to watch Sonny mark the score on the board, “that makes me a husband of sorts, an authority, a protector. A sugar daddy. Don’t it? You gonna tell me I should throw you guys a damn weddin’ and honeymoon, buy ya the house you live in and the cars you drive, the clothes she wears and the food you eat cause you hang around me an’ promise to protect me if the time comes? Bodyguard my ass, I could turn anyone to chopsticks before you even woke up long enough to realize a threat. Face it Ronnie, there’s a totem pole in this here life, and no one blames ya for bein’ a few notches down than most in the scale of things, but it don’t give ya much leverage bein’ down there. I give you that leverage. And I’d like to compensate myself for my generosity with a lil marital privilege. Jus’ once, just first night rights.” he took a swing of his coke and watched Ronnie closely, licking the sugar off his lips with deliberate swipes of his tongue, “Or would ya prefer I just wait and fuck her in six monthes when she comes knockin’ on my door sayin’ she just got lost in this big ole place?”

Fuckin’ Ronnie was a coward and a cad and he essentially agreed that he’d rather Elvis fuck his wife on the wedding night and be done with it than always be watching his back, suspecting her of carrying on an affair. Ronnie was a little bitch, Elvis surmised. Gone was any protest that he couldn’t do that to her, that she was a good gal, that Elvis wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Kings had no friends. And tonight Ronnie was oh so close to being officially inducted into the Memphis Mafia, he’d do nothing to jeopardize that . Elvis figured he’d wait until the plane took off to sample the goods, make her husband squirm guiltily over it while his new bride puzzled over why he was so tense.

Out of consideration for her downer of a groom, Elvis handed her a drink, playing the gracious host and taking her mind off her husband's stiff bearing and sweaty pallor.

“Don’t mind him, honey,” Elvis whispered hot and wet in her ear as he handed the drink off, “Ronnie boy here’s just scared of flyin’. You’re not scared are ya, honey?”

Honey….he couldn’t recall her name, Mrs. Kemp’s name, his fatigue and apathy too strong. He stood straight and dug in his pocket for a pick-me-up as he watched her smile and blush under his attentions,

“No sir, Mr. Presley, I’m not scared.” she smiled, “One could think we’re sat in a living room, it's so spacious here.” she added a compliment.

“I’d like to show ya the rest.” he says sitting down next to her, his arm heavy and warm around her shoulders and his gaze intent on her, knowing the effect this has on an ignored woman.

He recalls using that same line on his young bride during their honeymoon, eager to show his own new wife everything he had to offer. Beauty and luxury and care and a damn good fuck in front of the mirror back there. And it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough.

He can feel Ronnie tense further against the back of his hand where he clasps the bride’s shoulder, knowing that the “rest” of the plane beyond this lounge is a conference table, a toilet and a bedroom. Ronnie has had the privileges of being part of the TCB and now he’s about to pay his admission fee, and Elvis smirks at the thought that the man will never ride aboard this jet again without thinking of getting cuckolded by his boss.

The Bride is trying to make sense of Elvis' sudden shift of mood along with her husband’s. Both of them seeming to have swapped bearings, changing from the reception as if the jet’s air pressure had doused Ronnie’s merriment and finally revitalized Mr. Presley from the rather sullen attendee he had been. Elvis can feel her hesitancy to agree in her body language and the way she keeps looking over to Ronnie, as if to figure out his nervous ignoring of her and the way Elvis makes up for it in touches and attention. Beneath them the jet rumbles and takes flight, her little gasp at the heart swooping feeling of take-off a taste of what’s to come, of what he’ll pull from her body, willing or not . He’d rather lure her, try that first, the other can always be resorted to.

There’s an unspoken agreement to wait on this lil tour till the jet reaches cruising altitude, and Elvis spends the wait rubbing her arm and watching her try to make conversation with her groom who finds discussing the latest baseball stats with Red far more interesting than recalling the beauteous memories of the last few hours with his now introspective and mildly panicked bride. It’s funny to hold a woman whose mind is racing, Elvis can almost feel the frantic thoughts and conflicting emotions battering her frame from the inside out like a caged bird against its bars.

Elvis allows the minutes to trickle by and work for him, the soothing sweep of his hand slowly melting her rigidity, the continued abandonment of her husband's attention going from hurtful to frustrating, the innocuous chatter of the fellas talking and laughing around them, the cool air of the jet’s cooling system kicking on, and his warm and broad chest already pressed against her, now beckoning like a little haven for her to cower inside until the confusion passes. He clocks all these developments as the minutes go by, fully aware the boys are making small talk with their minds as preoccupied as Ronnie’s about when Elvis will make his move, their anticipation mounting while her guard drops, finally accepting his closeness without question. The jet rumbles and her drink kicks in and with the wedding fever abated it leaves her drowsy, unmoored.

Elvis waits for the perfect moment to pounce and is rewarded for his patience. The cool blast of the AC has made her begin to curl towards him and he’s met her halfway and it’s not till her head almost nods weakly to lay on his shoulder that her sensibilities prick her and she jerks it back up, another little gasp. It makes his repeated,

“Lemme show ya round, honey, got all sorts of remarkable stuff up here”

sound like a gallant cover for her lapse of decorum. Predictably, she shakes herself upright and gives him a polite nod of thanks, their first mutual, unspoken communication acknowledging something the rest of the room isn’t privy to. Her loyalty is slipping and all it took was a few minutes of heating her up with his embrace, a few whispered teases and buying her a whole damn lifestyle. To her credit she looks to Ronnie as she rises, asking him to come along in a coaxing voice Elvis knows is her trying to get her new husband to even look at her.

Elvis watches her try and fail at this from the curtained doorway leading to the back of the jet, thinking it makes a striking picture. A bride still dressed in white, bending over to try to catch her husband's eyes as he watches TV in his rumpled tux, the entire plane’s worth of masculine attention directed on her, except for the man who swore to worship her. Perhaps the disillusion will go both ways tonight, maybe women aren’t all merley bitches in heat, maybe some start out intending to be faithful and good and content.

Elvis has yet to meet a woman faithful and good and content once he puts his mark on them, they spend the rest of their lives day dreaming and closing their eyes when their husbands are in them and clogging his phone lines, kidding themselves that they’re special. He’s saving her the sin of coming to his room in a couple of months or years and saying she got lost while dropping her silk nightwear down her frame, an old and familiar expression of invitation on her face. She might not know that’s in her future otherwise, but he does. And he’s gonna save her the wait. When she wants something she’ll come to him now, not her husband, and he will have the discipline to make the right choices for her.

Elvis holds the curtain aside and beckons her with his fingers, and she would be angrier that he has the nerve to summon her away from her husband if she weren’t so humiliated at being ignored by the man. Frustration at their man makes women very susceptible to comfort, Elvis knows this intimately, and in their strong desire to be understood and soothed, they’ll spread their legs for the first person who tells them they deserve that attention.

She ducks under his arm, into the shade of the conference room with an attitude written on her face. Elvis drops the curtain behind them, the prey corralled. Nothin so easy as a woman scorned, nothin’ quite so hungry and quite so fierce. He hopes she’ll take out some of that miffed little ‘tude out on his back with those fancy nails his money bought her. It makes him smirk in anticipation and he can tell she finds that unsettling, her huffy bearing faltering once she notices him just watching her move round the glossy table top, suddenly aware of their seclusion and the fact she left her groom behind for a tour of the jet. She’s beginning to doubt her choice, doubt her loyalties.

Honeymoon off to a damn good start, she thinks sourly.

It’s innocuous, standing at opposite ends of a conference table with a man who is your husband's closest friend and at whose house you’ve eaten multiple dinners. There’s nothing wrong with it, but she feels her skin prickle none the less like she’s in danger, like those eyes observing her through shaded lenses are not fully human, not fully beneficent. She curses Ronnie for humiliating her, for his weird mood these past weeks making her feel isolated, for her past making her paranoid of this assessing male gaze.

She’d met a panther in the woods on an Appalachian bike ride once. They’d stared each other down as he had crouched and observed, his eyes fathomless and intent, the muscles of its body undulating in readiness beneath sleek black fur. Her mouth had dried out exactly the same as it does now when her shy smiles aren’t met with anything besides those assessing eyes and that crooked smirk that holds no fondness for her, no pride in his jet, no amusement at her awe of his wealth. A smirk of pure and smug knowingness.

Then he calls to her and the warmth of his voice melts her fear. “Check out this icebox, honey”

Her face lights up like a kids in the yellow glow of the refrigerator light as she bends over to look inside, white stain skirt hugging her perfectly and he gathers that all that athleticism has done her good, she could probably ride a man for hours without tiring, judging by the firm curve of that ass.

“See anyhtin ya’d like?” he asks her casually, laying a light hand between her shoulder blades as she reads rows and rows of labeled refreshments.

“Oh, uh, no, no, the drink was enough for now. Thank you Mr. Presley.”

He used to correct folks when they called him that, and used to punt the honorary title to his father. But nowadays he finds “Mr. Presley” might be closer to “your majesty” than mere “Elvis” -in which case he’s stopped putting little floozies at ease by asking them to call him by the name his mama gave him. That’s a name used by a wife back when he was happy and respected and alive.

“C’mere, I wanna show ya this television back here.” he beckons again, removing the heat of his hand from her back and she breathes easier with him taking the lead, she’s able to watch his imposing figure unobserved as he leads her past the conference table and into a small hallway with a large, showbiz style mirror.

Elvis swaggers right on by the marvelous monstrosity with its low counter and doused bare bulbs, but she can’t help herself. A flicker of childish glee taking over as she flips the switch on the wall and makes the bulbs buzz to life, brilliant as a spotlight in the inky gloom, illuminating them from the knees to the ceiling in a gaudy reflection. The sudden blast of light makes him pause on his trek to the bedroom and he joins her in looking at their reflection.

“Hell, honey,” he drawls amused as he takes in her fresh little wedding set and his decadent black suit, “we look like cake toppers.”

She laughs at that, a sweet unaffected thing that is music to his ears, and no doubt a screech to Ronnie’s. Elvis finds his grin growing at that thought and she mistakes it for joy. She laughs again, aborted little chuckles tapering out.

“There’s a tv back here, too?” she asks, embarrassingly at ease with entering a bedroom in the company of Elvis Presley.

Interestingly she doesn’t even glance at the bed when he ushers her in, she’s peering at the walls and the built in furniture for a peek of a screen.

“Mhmm, keep lookin, it’s hidden.” Elvis follows her and shuts the door behind him, a quiet click she doesn’t hear as she’s got her back to him, busily creaking open dresser doors and clapping in commendation upon finding the tastefully camouflaged TV set.

“How wonderful!” She praises and his heart does something funny and nostalgic over unpretentious enjoyment of what he has to give her.

One day it’ll be old hat to her and she’ll be like all the other wives, naggin’ and bitchin’ over keeping up with each other, forgetting about what it was they ever wanted, consumed with one upping each other and dominating the pecking order, spending Elvis’ money not for pleasure but for bragging rights. For now he watches this young woman bounce in her heels over a hidden TV set and makes a pact with himself to be nice, to gentle her into this ruination.

Then he recalls she married Fuckin Ronnie, and that twists his gut in reminder she’s a practical gold digger like all the rest. And he doesn’t mind that about her, he just hates the dishonesty of pretending she’s in it for more, and her ignoring him for a tv irks him as disingenuine.

“Wanna kick back and watch somethin, doll?” he asks her and sees the exact minute his words make her back and shoulders stiffen beneath white silk.

“Uh, on this one?” she’s scared to ask, scared to sound like she’s accusing him of suggesting it, scared to suggest it and give him ideas.

“They got the damn game on the other.” he answers her smoothly, coming up behind her and reaching round her to power it up.

“Elvis.” she dares to sound reprimanding when all he’s done is stand behind her and punch a button, she’s the one who walked into a bedroom with a man who isn’t her husband.

“Gonna be a long flight, three more hours I reckon.” he is patient with her.

“Y-yes.” she hesitantly agrees, watching the screen flicker to life, “And I wanna spend it with Ronnie, exc-“

Liar! He doesn’t let her turn around, he puts his hands on her shoulders and keeps her facing the TV, keeps her away from the closed door she’s not yet noticed, he nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck telling himself, gently, gently, tempt her, tempt her. “Doesn’t seem like Ronnie is eager to spend it with ya.” he mourns low and sympathetic in her ear and she gasps at his brutal honesty, at the fact he’d have no tact to pretend he didn’t notice.

“Elvis, t-this isn’t right.” she parrots her mother or her favorite tv show or some rote set of rules she doesn’t really embrace.

“What ain’t right, honey?” he rumbles, keeping his hands on her, moving them from her shoulders down her arms, then swooping them up again and fingering at the sides of her neck, delighting in the shiver her body yields up to him.

If he hadn’t been so aloof before, she figures she might not feel so electrified by his sudden, all consuming touch. But it’s not just that, he’s kept his distance from her since she started dating Ronnie and in her star struck insecurity she’d made no move to become friendly with him.

Now this, this intentional hovering and the petting that tastes like something she’s only ever heard about. It’s Elvis, Elvis petting her in her wedding dress on the way to her honeymoon destination and that’s simultaneously about as predictable and uncredible as can be. Elvis, who’s been the ephemeral host for countless of lovely parties, Elvis who’s been the presiding specter over all their schedules since she became part of the group, Elvis who has been the magical name on the credit card used for everything she ever wanted. Elvis Presley, the man who achieved all there was in life by 21, and has been bored by it ever since. What did she expect him to be, a fatherly figure?

“Did you like your weddin’ honey?” he asks her after her raging thoughts consume the time she should have spent answering and protesting him.

The hands descending to her hips and squeezing there hint a warning prompt even as his gentle tone reminds her of all he has done for her, his inexhaustible benevolence -which it seems something has finally exhausted. She begins to panic, no need to see those panther eyes when the heat is radiating off of him, sexual intent potent from his aura alone, no need to feel a crude gesture or have it spoken out in clunky declarations of desire. Ingrained self doubt takes hold of her for one brief moment before the scratch of his sideburn rubs against her cheeks and the hot press of his lips against her neck tells her it is not vanity making her project on him, Elvis Presley really is trying to seduce her mere hours after her vows, a few yards away from her new husband and his friends.

“Mr. Presley!” she resolutely stiffens in his embrace and tries to turn and leave his hold of her and he lets her so far as she’s spun round and facing him, her stern tone wobbling out when she’s met with the hypnosis of his expectant stare, “Y-yes it was lovely, thank you.” she stammers out, fear and primal instinct kicking in and guiding her to cower and simper her way out of this, her boldness having bounced off him like shotgun shells off cement. Nothing but damaging to her. “T-thank you for all you did.” she tries again, her tone unsure as his face remains unreadable, his eyes burning and unblinking behind his shades, lit with white hot something in the glow of the tv screen. “You’re very generous.” she admits, tacking on every obeisance she can think of while resolutely ignoring the feel of being held to his chest, near eye level with the gap of his shirt and the chains glittering on his skin. “I need to rejoin my husband, sir.” she begs, begs that she doesn’t want this, denies she’s ever hoped for this.

Idly he wonders if she’s being honest, then he watches her swallow thickly as she catches a whiff of his scent.

Suddenly he crushes her to him, her mouth smashed to the metallic, skin warmed nest of his chains, pinning her there with a hand to the back of her head as his other reaches for the hem of her skirt and drags it up and over her ass, palming it even as she shrieks in shock, “Tell me, Mrs. Kemp,” he growls in her ear, “did you go after Ronnie cause he was near me, or did ya come for the money and stay in the hopes I’d pay attention to your little self? Was you countin’ on me gettin lonely some night an’ sendin’ your husband on an errand so I could get my fill of his wife? Is that what keeps ya from gaggin when he’s on top of ya? Is that the hope?”

Elvis’ fingers find the band of her lacy panties -honeymoon lingerie his money bought her- and he snakes his hand in, down the warm curve of her ass and along her crack, dipping between clenched thighs to rake through predictably sopping wet folds. She gave the whole resistance act a good try, but her womanly body responds to dominance, and Elvis is dominance incarnate. It’s in her weak nature to drip for him, plain and simple, and so he swipes and dips and drags his fingers through her as she fights against his chest, pounding her fists impotently against the velvet of his coat.

“Shhh, shhh honey, I know, it ain’t your fault.” he is magnanimous, gracious as King Solomon. “This, honey, this is what hope tastes like.” he brings his glistening fingers to her snarling mouth and shoves them in against her tongue, savoring the way her choke distracts her from the obvious defense of biting him, “Taste that? That’s how hope tastes, and there ain’t anyhtin’ more harmful than hope. Makes a purgatory of your life. Doesn’t let ya be satisfied with what ya got, won’t let ya get dissatisfied enough to wanna change anythin. You just hope and hope and your life goes by, while you’re hopin.”

She whimpers around his fingers, wilted white silk in his arms, dress bunched up obscenely in the screen-lit room. He strokes her cheek with his spit wet hand, the ring faces of rubies and diamonds and priceless gems caressing her tears away, lulling the creature back to her basic instincts, hypocrisy and futility purged away beneath Elvis’ healing hands. “I ain’t gonna let you go on hopin for years and years,” he enchants her with whispers, rocking her now as she whimpers in catatonic fascination, “I’m gonna gift ya with knowledge.”

Everything she’s given up while fighting to get herself on a jet like this, married to a man of means, with a house and a steady future and a predictable timeline stretching out before her -security at last! -all of it crowds her mind, the devil and the angel on her shoulders whisper in a traitorous debate. Of course life isn’t how she wanted at eighteen when she expected to marry for love, yet of course her mature self is pleased with this match. Those can both exist, and she planned for them to exist in a tidy world where Elvis Presley wasn’t an option, because he’s not. He’s not offering himself, doesn't even have enough dreams of his own to bother with lying about it to buy them both a minute of reprieve from the disillusioned hellscape that is life in one’s thirties when you comforted your starry eyed twenties by telling yourself it gets better. Then to no one’s surprise -it didn’t. The one last insupportable piece of this maturing puzzle that would cement her growing up forever is tasting this then going back to Ronnie. It’s out of the question and she doesn’t give a shit what he’s going through right now, or what Ronnie thinks about her angering his boss, what she needs is the peace of mind that comes with not knowing.

“You can take your knowledge and shove it.” she snaps out of the pliant heatstroke his embrace caused her and shoves him away, only succeeding at making room between them because he’s so surprised by her sudden surfacing out of the trance.

One final thrash of the prey and he watches with amusement as she stumbles in haste across the flickering room, yanking open the closed door and steadfastly booking it to the front of the jet. Headed to the shelter of a man who promised to protect and defend her and cherish her and swore it all while counting his bonus for selling her out.

Elvis watches her till she and her crumpled white dress fly past the brightly mirrored hallway and disappear from his vantage point through the doorway. He picks at his nose and thinks about what he might like to take on this little experiment, and having procured a few items of use saunters after her at a leisurely pace. He sets them on the conference room and table and watches as she pulls back the curtain and steps into the lounge, her whole being vibrating in a way that is not subtle or discreet about what just occurred between them.

It’s warmer in the lounge, just pulling the curtain back wafts warmth into the ice box chilled areas of the plane that Elvis frequents, it makes her tremble with relief. She’s back in public, back where he won’t try anything. Ronnie, to her angry bewilderment, is still glued to watching the TV like he didn’t even register her absence. But his mere existence will still work for what she needs. She needs to belong to someone and sit beside that person for three hours while his boss cools off.

She is not prepared for the way everyone in the lounge spins round to look at her once registering her presence, looking with absolute surprise as if her reemergence was the surprise, not the lengthy plane tour to the back bedroom. It makes her seethe inside, they thought she’d go through with it, damn animals that they are, all “what happens on the road stays on the road” and carefree chauvinism inherited from their boss. She has to remind herself why she wanted this life in the first place, has to recall the perks and the wages and lavish reception.

Red and Joe now flank Ronnie and her seat beside him is taken up by those two manspreading oaf’s. Desperate, she decides to play at being cute and makes to sit on her husband’s lap, spinning round to find Elvis watching hehe from the curtained doorway as she tries to lower herself down to perch.

“Babe, I can’t see the damn screen with you like that.” Ronnie has the churlishness to complain and she wants to scream at his denseness, the way pushes at her lower back to tip her out of his lap.

To save herself the humiliation of face planting on the plane floor she chooses to stand of her own accord and catch herself from the shove. She sees Elvis’ lush mouth frown behind the cigar he’s lighting up.

“Don’t be an ass to her Ronnie, she’s your wife.” he reprimands and she gets a funny feeling of appreciation for being defended in all this. Her loyalty teeters towards the man she has to remind herself she needs to escape from. “Or have ya forgotten, ya unchivalrous bastard?”

That’s a little harsh but the memory of Ronnie not giving a damn about the fact she was almost assaulted -that’s harsh word for that too, her traitorous mind supplies- reminds her that she isn’t happy with him at all. But in fact, come to think of it, she isn’t pleased with any one them, and there’s no where to go on this damned plane. It starts to make her skin crawl, the realization that she’s surrounded by men who would either not believe or else not care if Elvis went through with the forceful attentions he was showing her back there. Who would believe her if she said he forced her?

“Ronnie I’m tired and my seat’s been taken!” she argues with him, “I just wanna sit down. Lay down, even!” she begs, thinking of how best to clear the couch of anyone but him so that no one takes liberties and sits down beside her.

“Then go lay down in back where there’s a fuckin’ bed? Why’d you come out?” he snaps.

“Cause-“ because Elvis Presley tried to take liberties, that’s why, but she feels strangled watching how all the men await her answer with a little too much investment, the way Elvis is still watching her behind tinted shades and a haze of cigar smoke.

“You get all bitchy when you’re tired, go lay down and take a nap, honey. I’m watching the game.” Ronnie suggests her worst fear and it infuriates her how he’s changed just since he slipped a ring on her finger.

“Ronnie please-“ She whimpers and would give anything to know why Joe is leering up at her with a sly grin. There’s no time to think on it as Elvis’ ringed fingers close around her elbow and tug her back towards the curtain.

“C’mon honey, ya heard your husband, let’s get ya situated.” he coos and her fingers turn to ice from the shock of it all.

“I don’t wanna!” she protests, “Ronnie!” she tries one more time while being backed away from her husband by his boss.

“Oh for fucks sake just do what he wants!” Ronnie begs with something akin to frustration but the red hot blush sweating up his neck suggests he’s humiliated to be caught saying it.

“Beg your pardon?” she hisses in disbelief, feeling Elvis’ hand clamp on her arm just a little more, maybe to keep her from marching up to Ronnie and smacking him.

“Just, just give him what he wants. Just tonight.” Ronnie spills the beans far sooner than needed and Elvis wants to roll his eyes at how fast they went from taking her for a nap to admitting to something far more sinister.

The bride’s head swivels from viewing her husband to Elvis and back to her husband and the room full of men who’s thrumming interest in her makes her wanna bolt straight out of the plane now she knows why. It’s sickening yet so strongly in character for them she doesn’t waste many moments in disbelief, it all makes sense in a horribly predictable way. Every one of these fella’s grinning at her discomfort are pathetic in her eyes, as pathetic as men who’d prefer to watch naughty movies than better themselves as lovers. Somehow in the mess of it all, Elvis alone stands out as something a little less deplorable. Even if it’s just his brash and demented honesty she admires.

“Y’all planned this?” she asks dully, scanning each lip licking face, ending with her husband’s sullen one, “This was all planned out? You offered me up? You goddamn, two faced bastard-“

Elvis loops his arm around her waist to prevent her from launching at Ronnie and clawing him to shreds. His chest is searing her through the silk on her back and his hands grab at her more than they need to in order to restrain her. It makes her pulse pound and fury swirls inside her, battling with the cold dread of weakness and helplessness.

“Ronnie made a little deal with me.” Elvis is drawling in her ear in so soothing a way it almost counteracts the nauseating confirmation, “And now, we can watch you runnin’ round this plane for hours to get away from me like a Junebug in a bottle but that ain’t gonna change how this night ends. How bout ya just be sensible, hmm? Just cause he’s a lyin’, no good sunnuvabitch don’t mean you gotta turn bad yourself, ya know? He gave ya instructions, ya can still be a good lil wifey and honor and obey him, can’t ya?”

“Why?” she persists, but feebly this time, not knowing if she’s asking her husband who keeps his face averted towards the screen or the man whose hands are mapping out her body in full view of his friends. “Why y’all gotta do this?”

“I told ya honey,” Elvis murmurs, rucking the hem of her skirt up passed her knees, “hope’s a dangerous thing. I don’t allow it in my house. An’ you’re part of my house now, ain’t ya?” he pets at the damp plushness of her inner thighs as the men stare and she struggles to find a way to empower herself while caught in such a feeble position. Hurting Ronnie, twisting the knife a little more like he’s done her is all she can think of at the time. “Don’t you belong to me, sweetie?” Elvis is prodding once more and his cheek is clammy and hot against hers, the cigar smoke pungent around them.

“Yes sir.” she agrees while sneering at Ronnie’s reddened face.

“That’s more like it.” Elvis’ voice gentles to something a little less frightening than before but all the more terrifying for how sure and smug it sounds. His hands grab at her breasts and she can’t help the whimper she lets out from the presumption, no doubt it’ll only get worse. “Since you’re so eager to stick close to ole Ronnie and include e’rbody in our private business, I reckon it’s only fair we conduct this lil interview on the conference table, hmm?”

When she cranes her neck to look behind him and past the curtain, she can see the shiny table top littered with items it didn’t hold when she made her hasty exit passed it; scarves and a strange sort of plastic wand, that stupid police flashlight and a box of cigars are clumped at its foot in an ominous hodgepodge.

Admitting to being frightened by it would strip away her last bit of autonomy in this and so in a bid to act unbothered she slips out of Elvis’ hold and walks on her own two feet into the room, turning her back to Ronnie before shifting herself to sit on the cold, hard surface of the table.

“Is this what you had in mind, Mr. Presley?” she asks him meekly and makes sure to let her legs fall apart just so. She thinks she’s going to have some control in all this, the silly little thing, thinking he’s a man with regular tastes and base preoccupations, easily distracted from the purpose of this like any other. And the purpose is not pleasure -though he intends to draw it from her till she is broken from it- but purity of intention and nature. A lie dressed in white no more, but a wanton woman giving in to her true nature. Only he has the power to bring this out in every one he meets, and to purge it all the same.

Elvis Presley eyes her, as do all the men in the lounge just past him, until with an approving little hum and smile that is almost pleased, he steps towards her, yanking the curtain closed behind him and leaving them (somewhat) alone together in the dimly lit room, full of anticipation.

And maybe dread.

[childrenofthesun77]

Now that I think about it, aren't we still missing the second part of lily's backstory?

Like sure, he was a prostitute in I would guess 17/18th centure France and was only desired for his good looks by richer people, but how did he die, why did he, as a poor person, begin to cling to the idea that there should be this one aristocratic smart person in charge of everyone?

I'm aware of absolutism and hobbes leviathan (I even had to read it and take an exam on it) and that yes, a lot of commoners did simply believe in the devine right of kings instead of thinking for themselves (until they beheaded him). But I still feel like a fictional character like lily needs a stronger motivation to plan and do all these things for 200 years than "he's a product of his time".

The time, country and circumstances he came from provide believable context, but it's missing a more personal component. Lily wasn't an aristocrat himself. He didn't really benefit from the system, he just got a taste of luxury from the people who did. So what happened to him that made him follow this idea for 200 years?

What was his relationship with the count? In the flashback in the lust arc he said he didn't want to become a vampire, so probably negative. I guess in his plan lily kind of doesn't see him as a person, just a tool to give his eve power so he ignores that he dislikes him for turning him.

No idea where I'm going with this, I only realized I have many questions.

[the-twentieth-man]

Equality is Nonsense ― A Position Paper

“We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal. . . .” So saith the Declaration of Independence. RUBBISH! It is rubbish; for in the course of my own life, I’ve encountered men who were more than a full head taller than myself. They were twice as wide at the shoulders as well. Where is the equality in that? Furthermore; I’ve showered naked among other soldiers; and…

[asitrita]

Thoughts on the Donquixote's crucifixion.

Since today is Good Friday I felt like sharing this piece of interpretation of Donquixote family's "crucifixion". Throughout the series and Doflamingo's life I think we can see some symbolism, paralelism, or just vague allusions and hints to his nature being similar to that of the Antichrist (opposite of Christ) or the idea of Doflamingo as Lucifer or a fallen angel (we see something akin to The Last Supper with his "family", including his own personal "Judas" sitting at his left; his ideology of being the rightful king to rule the world, yet not being willing to sacrifiece himself for anyone, but actually expecting everybody else to sacrifice themselves for him; his agent-of-chaos personality; the entire idea that he is almost a devine creature that fell from Heaven to Hell, stripped of his rightful power, status, and legitimate possition above humans, betrayed by his own family and blood; the nickname "Heavenly Demon", etc.). However, I believe the moment in his life he comes to incarnate all these topics comes just after his and his family's crucifixion, or just right after the very moment he lashes out against the rabbid mob awakening and loosing his haki. Just seconds before we have this image:

Here we have Homing, whom we know is a good man, in the middle, at the centre of the scene. Rocinante is to his right hand side, and Doflamingo is to his left. As you might know, Jesus Christ was crucified together with two more people, often refered to as the good thief (traditionally named Dimas/Dismas), and the bad thief (traditionally named Gestas). The good thief was crucified at the right hand side of Jesus, while the bad thief was cricified at his left. Maybe I am looking to much into it, and I'm pretty sure someone else must have already realised this, but I can't help to notice the paralelisms and similarities. In this scene, while all Homing is concerened with is the safety of his children and doesn't mind begging and humiliating himself to try to get the mob to free them, to the point he asks the enraged mob to forgive his children, for they were only little kids, Doflamingo's anger gets the best of him and he lashes out at the crowd, not asking nor begging them to put him down, but threatening to kill them all for their actions, all while blaming his father for all his surffering and his family tragic fate. No forgiveness, no acceptance, but defiance and a promise of vicious and bloody revenge for his father and the craze mob's wrong-doings. Homing was willing to take in all the hate, die for the sins his kind had committed over the centuries, if only to appease the mob and get them to spare his children. He was willing to die for them (and he eventually did, though not in the best way possible, tbh), he was a good person and this scene perfectly shows that, despite his naiveté and the tragic and dire consequences of his actions, he acted out of the goodness of his heart. Doflamingo would not even lower himself to the point of asking for mercy, not before humans he believed were below him. We all know how the story goes, how Doflamingo and Rocinante turned out to be complete different people, with the whole good vs evil motive they have going on. Again, I'm probably digging too much into it, but I just like the Rosi/Dismas, Doffy/Gestas and Homing/Christ paralelism. More so considering how Homing will eventually willingly die for his kids' future, which sounds kinda biblical given we are all God's sons and daughters, and he (Jesus, God's son, God himself) died for us (even if in Homing's case he did die for nothing, as Doffy will not be accepted back among his kind); and how, just after Homing's (Jesus) death, it will be Doffy who becomes, in a way, the symbol of the fallen angel, of the gone-wrong-Jesus, of the anti-Christ, almost Satan himself (ruling the underworld, as his father's heresy took the throne above away from him). He replaces his father as the semi-Biblical almost Christ-like figure, but in a reversed, twisted and sick way.

Crucifixion by Giovanni Donato

[princepotatosack]

What If Choices' Race-customizable LIs Had Surnames Reflective Of Their Ethnicity?: An Experiment Just For Fun (Part 3/3)

Info in Part 1

Part 2

THE PRINCESS SWAP

Derya

This is a special case and not only because Clarke doesn't have a canon surname: the top row of face options are described in the asset files as "Middle Eastern" and the bottom row are described as "Caucasian". Caucasian is used in the U.S. interchangeably with "white" even though the Caucasus region is in east Europe/west Asia and can be interpreted to encompass parts of Turkey.

Clarke's family members (including parents of both face options) all have Turkish names and if I’m remembering correctly, it’s heavily implied in the text and art that their country is based on Turkey. Which makes the name Clarke really confounding. I wanted to replace it with a Turkish name but I couldn’t find anything that sounded remotely similar. So I chose the unisex name Derya because I like how it sounds!!!!!

Devin Rhee

These face options are described in the asset files as “Asian”. The masc face option’s haircut leaves me no choice but to headcanon him (and by extension the fem face option) as Korean. What the extremely common Korean surname Rhee lacks in being spelled similar to Wright, it makes up for in sounding kinda like Wright. If you were hearing it spoken from another room. Lmao

QUEEN B

Ian Wang / Ina Wang

These face options are described in the asset files as “Asian”. As discussed in Part 1, there are not a lot of sound matches in Asian languages or Spanish for King(sley). I did read a theory online that this LI’s name comes from the fact that they’re the counterpart to the MC who is the titular queen of the series, so I went with the thematic route and chose the surname Wang, which means “king” in Chinese and Korean. The fem face option reminds me of several Korean women I know so I headcanon these face options as Korean, although Wang is a rare surname in Korea whereas it is one of the most common (if not thee most common?) surnames in China. So I guess they could also be Chinese?

Ian Reyes / Ina Reyes

These face options are described in the asset files as “Hispanic”. Same as above, not too many Spanish sound matches, king/queen themes and motifs, etc., so I chose the Spanish surname Reyes which means “kings”.

ROOMMATES WITH BENEFITS

Drew Yáñez

This one was so hard lmao. These face options are described in the asset files as "Hispanic" and there were not a lot of Spanish-language surnames that are a sound match for Young.

Drew Yadao

Also a hard one! These face options are described in the asset files as "Asian" which is really broad, and they don't look "typically" East Asian to me or like any East Asian person I know. The masc one reminds me of someone I know who's Filipino so I'm going with that for my headcanon. Again not a lot of sound matches for Young just like in general, and I decided on the Ilocano surname Yadao because it was one of the only Filipino surnames I could find that started with a Y.

SHIP OF DREAMS

Theodore Kassavetis / Theodora Kassavetis

These face options are described in the asset files as "Mediterranean", although the wiki does note that there's a scene where they say they're Greek. So I initially decided on the Greek surname Karakostas since it kept the "K-AR-T" sound pattern from Carter but then I changed my mind and gave them the surname Kassavetis because I like John Cassavetes the Greek-American director.

SURRENDER

Reagan Tong

These face options are described in the asset files as "Asian". The "th" sound in Thorne that's found in very few other languages like come on now don't piss me off. These face options honestly give Vietnamese to me but I couldn't find any Vietnamese surnames that matched Thorne and the Cantonese surname Tong sounded closer in my opinion.

UNBRIDLED

Ryder Villanueva

The face option on the left is described in the asset files as "Hispanic", and the one on the right is described as "Filipino". A unique situation here as many people in the Philippines have Spanish-language surnames and some speak Spanish due to Spain's historical colonization of the Philippines, meaning "Hispanic" can sometimes apply to Filipinos. We're touching on a complicated issue of using "Hispanic" as an ethnic descriptor but this post is not the place to discuss that. Sooooo since Spanish does not traditionally use the letter W (?) there aren't any Spanish-language surnames starting with W, and the only surname from a Filipino language starting with W that I cound find was Wenceslao which I didn't think was a good match for Wilson. So we're going with the Spanish Villanueva which has the initial "il" sound . Also means "new house" which I think is thematically appropriate for this book? Idk I don't have VIP so I can't play it yet and I just read the summary.

Part 1

Part 2

[mathewharris7703]

"It was a quiet morning inside of The Devil's Casino, which was very unusual for King Dice. Usually the casino would be slightly busy with the workers getting ready for the daytime shift before it opens and The Devil is usually in Hell for a meeting or two or just to see how the demons are doing but there wasn't much activity going on downstairs in the Casino and Dice was informed that his boss did not show up in Hell at all, so a welfare check was needed. Mr. King Dice headed upstairs to The Devil's office to see how he is doing and why he hadn't been to his meetings. To his surprise, it looked like no one was there. Devil sometimes likes to hide to try and scare his right hand man for his own amusement; knowing this, Dice decided to look around the office to try and find him. As he got close to The Devil's Desk, in a sudden he was intercepted by the edge of a golden trident and some white gloves. Of course, this could just be any kind of trespasser but when Dice looked to see who it is, he was immediately started. What he saw a young looking male black goat, around the age of 10, he has a bean body, some gray leather boots, a short tail and floppy ears. His hair was shaggy and spiky that looks similar to devil horns, some sharp teeth with a mischievous smile and orangey-yellow eyes. The goat just smiled evil-like at the stunned adult. Dice couldn't get his words out; he never expected anything like this as this was a total complete different goat form and one he knows that HE wouldn't change at all. Dice could not believe this, he just couldn't. The only word he was able to blurt out... ...Boss?" Art by @missd476 Part of a storyline for my world I've been re-working on recently that I'm going to dub as "Lil Devin Darling". Context: The Devil becomes a mortal child goat called Devin, without knowledge that he's The Devil. King Dice becomes a father figure and Devin gets enrolled into school where he does tons of mischevious actions.

[rhendarzon]

I'd like to hear your opinion on something that's bothered me for years. How does Rhen change her mind about being queen of Thais?

sorry for the late reply! work has been.... heavy

Anyways yeah me too! I even made a post about all the times she's said that she doesn't want to be queen: (here) with the latest one being in Thais after meeting the chancellor for the first time! That's quite late in game xD

for me personally i don't view the canon ending as my ending :P so she never really becomes queen in my eyes

But for the sake of canon,

Yes, she really, really, really did not want to be queen, but somewhere along between seeing Thais for the first time and fighting Ahriman, she changed her mind. Why? I can only attribute it to her being extremely empathetic/caring for people, always wanting to help/having this sense of responsibility, if that makes sense. We see it with Dirkon, Tiny, the boar guy (forgot his name) and a lot of others.

So my guess/HC is that she saw how ruined Thais was with her own eyes, and something changed. Before that it was all oh you're Queen this Queen that, all talk, right? Seeing it for your own self, with your own eyes, that's different. The walls crumbling, the blasted lands, the scared citizens, it was just misery everywhere.

It wasn't immediate, obviously. The first time she stepped into the Thais castle to meet with the Chancellor, she still didn't want to take the position. But, game-wise, we still face Aesma and Agas after Thais and before Ahriman, saving Vata, saving the Priestess, and a whole lot of travelling back and forth... oh man, our girl had time to stew on this. A lot of time.

So she can't help it. She has to do it. She couldn't let those people suffer, right? And facing Ahriman probably added fuel to that fire already burning inside her, so that definitely helped, seeing as he was the one who destroyed Thais after all.

But wait, why can't Devin do it? (Bear in mind, at this point we never knew if Devin himself could still return and be King - that only pops up after defeating Ahriman and only in the non-canon endings) << i might be wrong, someone help me double confirm lol ...Yeah at this point Devin is out of the question and the option of him being King again literally doesn't exist canonically lol~

So, yeah! This is my opinion on her changing her mind about being Queen of Thais! I hope this answer makes sense!

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

Tell us weird theories/speculation among Insomnia's population about What Happened When The Conqueror Went To Galahd.

Hello and welcome to another episode of Historia Antiqua. A podcast where we dissect anecdotes, happenings and people from ancient history. The grotesque, the mysterious, the mundane, the well known and the unknown. Everything goes.

My name is Falco and today I have something very special prepared for you.

Maybe some of you listeners - depending on when you are listening to this - have already heard of this. If so, welcome! I hope you will learn something new from this as well.

So what are we talking about today? Well, we are going to talk about a man named Firmus Lucis Caelum. You may better know him as the Conqueror and 10th King of Lucis.

'But hold on', I can hear you say, 'we already know everything about this man' - well, you're wong. What I will talk about today currently has near every scholar of antique history up in a tizzy. I think one of the old scolars got so upset his wig fell off. It was great.

But before we get into the meat of things, let's first talk about what we know about dear old Firmus. A refresher, if you will. And maybe you will learn something new as well. You never know.

Who was Firmus Lucis Caelum? We all know him for his epithet. The Conqueror. So let's start there. What did he conquer? The answer to that is most of the Lucian continent.

Before his reign, Lucis was barely more than all of Cavaugh and a few territories along the Leidean coast. After he died, his son inherited a Kingdom that stretched from Cavaugh all the way to Ravatogh. The land north of the mountain was still its own kingdom by that point, but that's not important right now.

What is important is that a single man's ambition more than tripled the size of a kingdom in about a generation's time. Which is very impressive. According to anecdotal history, the moment Firmus brought Ravatogh under his rule, the Draconian gave him his epithet The Conqueror. Before that he was actually known as The Elementrist.

Side tangent: If you ever come across a certain consirancy theory telling you that The Elementrist is a missing King of Lucis that we erased from history, no, there wasn't. It's just Firmus. I cannot stress enough how that is just Firmus's first epithet. Yes, I'm talking to you, Constantia.

*ahem*

Where were we? Ah, yes. Firmus came very close to giving Lucis its modern borders. Which begs the question: Why? Why conquer nigh on a whole continent? No one just wakes up one morning and chooses violence on that scale.

The answer to that question is 'A Divine Decree'. For all that don't know: the Devine Decree is a document written by the Conqueror himself, detailing that his conquest is in accord with the Devine Will of the Astrals. It's a very... interesting read. Sadly, not all of it survived to this day. Part of it got burned when the Old Palace burnt down during the time of The Rogue.

Some people were very upset back then about women being Kings. Let me tell you.

If you are interested in the finer details of what we do have from the Divine Decree, I'll leave a link on my mog-page along with all other sources I have consulted for this episode.

What else we have on written record of the Conqueror is very sparce. Most of what we do know, comes from a man named An Inarim - a Leidean historian who lived around that time - and he wasn't exactly Firmus's biggest fan. For very good reasons as well. According to what we have of his books, Firmus had a very salt-the-earth mentality when a town didn't surrender before he killed their leaders. Among varuous other things. An Inarim also called Firmus a religious fanatic, which was a very bold claim to make at the time.

By now some of you might be wondering what the point of all of this is. Well, that's simple: Some weeks ago a young man named Ianus Veter walked into the Grand University of Insomnia with an old diary he found in his grandparents' attic. The contents of which are so monumental that they will change how we write history.

Yes, you heard that right. A nearly 2000 year old diary is the reason you have seen that funny little picture of old Scolar Lampas loosing his wig circling around the net.

In all seriouslness though, this diary is a milestone in researching ancient history and how we think about it. Especially wen it comes to one tiny detail. A hint to answering the qustion of what happened to the Black Fleet.

Through the tenth book of the Lucis Caelum Cycle - which is what the bools of An Inarim are called - we know that the Black Fleet was built as a part of the Divine Decree, though that part of the document has been lost to time and flame. It was completed somewhen around 427 AS, though some sources also mention the years 424 and 429. We know for sure however, that it set sail in 431 AS. Inarim is quite insistent on that detail.

What we don't know what happened to the fleet after that. All we know through the Lucis Caelum Cycle and a few surviving written pieces in Insomnia, is that only three ships returned, maybe around the year 433 AS. No one can say for sure.

What happened to the fleet has been a mystery ever since. Firmus himself hasn't been very vocal about it. As far as we know, at least. He must have said something, since the vanishing of a whole fleet, ships and crew and all, cannot have been without consequences. Sadly, no sources survived to this day.

This is where the diary comes into play. According to the University - and the parts of the diary they have published - it was written by an older noble named Avitas Veneres. He mostly wrote about his day-to-day life, which in and of itself cound't be amazing enough. That man really loved his wife and children. Which is an important detail, because on the 13th day of the 1st Leviathanis 431 AS he writes that, and I shall translate roughly: 'Worry eats me down to my bones, for my youngest son has signed onto the Farsighted. It is a fine vessel and it would be a fine choice, if this ship hadn't been part of the fleet set sail to the savage nation of Galahd.'

He goes into a bit of a rant, which shall not be repeated here, but let that sink in. Part of the fleet set sail to Galahd. If there wasn't any other fleet being built at the time - and the possibility of that is vanishingly low - Veneres here is talking about the Black Fleet.

Which, I don't even know where to start with this. If this is true, then this would mark the first contact between Lucians and Galahdians in history. It was previously thought that the honour of first contact belonged to the Wanderer.

Why is this important? Well, it would at least in part inform about the animosity between our two people. I mean, who would want to deal with a nation that tried to conquer theirs? And I know it has been nearly 2000 years since then, but I think we all have heard about the famous feuds of the Galahdians by now.

My sister hears two of them arguing in the streets one day. Apparently it was about a member of one family slighting another family, which happened at least several hundred years ago, and they were arguing about it as if it had happened just last year.

So I do have to wonder: Do they know about whaat happened to the fleet? And if yes, how accurate is it? In research circles Galahd is famous for keeping to its oral traditions to this day. Which is quite the amazing feat, to be honest.

All we do know for sure is that the Conqueror has forbidden the depiction of his likeness after his desastrous return to Insomnia.

And that's it, dear listeners. We shall take a quick break and then return to discuss some of the finer details of what Avitas Verenes has written about Firmus Lucis Caelum and the whereabouts of the Black Fleet.

See you in a few.