#The Sin of Human Frailty

[daddyhoothoot]

It probably killed Stolas to talk about Blitzø the way he did to the council but it was sooo incredibly smart of him to go about it that way. I came from the Sherlock fandom (don’t judge me) and one line I think about from the show is roughly ‘the frailty of genius is that it needs an audience.’

Stolas laying it on thick that Blitzø was too dumb to come up with such a devious plan to use the Grimoire to breach the human world worked because:

1. He played into the fact that Goetia/Sins see imps as literal scum and not intelligent.

2. They respect Stolas for his status alone so they had no reason to believe that he wasn’t the “Mastermind” at play here.

Stolas confessing to the crime as a “Mastermind” was believable because a Mastermind would want people to know what he’s done so he can get the credit. Stolas willing to play the villain literally saved Blitzø’s life and I don’t think they would have gotten away with it if they had been honest why Blitzø had the book in the first place.

[mothiir]

story time with isaiah

I can’t stop writing for these boys I love them.

Cw for caning, descriptions of blood.

—

—

It has been just under a month, and the Emperor — in His most glorious and unending mercy — has seen fit to continue to conceal your existence from the rest of Isaiah’s battle brothers. He and Reuben benefit from your redemptive labour, as you atone for your extensive sins by darning their socks, polishing their armour, and keeping their dormitory spotless.

With a little satisfied sound, you set aside your mending. You have been piecing Brother Reuben’s hair shirt back together, and your fingers are raw from handling the tough wool. Isaiah smells the iron tang of your blood.

You stretch your arms up over, closing your eyes as your joints click. Isaiah looks up from his current dedication — transcribing the life and times of Saint Celestine onto fresh parchment in his neatest handwriting — and sees that you are relaxing back into your bunk. His brow furrows a little. It is not time for you to sleep, and you show no signs of engaging in contemplation of the Emperor’s many noble deeds — though perhaps you are doing this internally? 

“Free time is an affront to the Emperor, little mortal,” he says, dipping his quill into ochre-red ink to outline the title of the newest segment, wherein Saint Celestine engaged in combat with a daemonette of Slaanesh and defeated it. This segment is an especially lengthy one, and well-illustrated, and he wants to do it justice. “Ensure at all times you keep Him in your thoughts.”

”Yes, my lord,” you say, eyes snapping open — a sure sign of guilt. One of your hands protectively rests over the hair shirt, probably recalling the last time that Isaiah had seen fit to bless you with more work. “No need to tear this, lord, I am more than happy to keep the Emperor in my thoughts while uh —“

Isaiah sighs, setting the quill down. Since the dormitory now only holds two Templars, he and Reuben have been able to redecorate, hammering the unused bunks into a workstation, pushed up against the wall. Their trunks serve as an adequate chair, tough durasteel enough to support the bulk of an Astartes — providing the Astartes in question is not armoured. 

“I am not going to tear the shirt, girl. I tore those socks because you showed an uncouth amount of joy in finishing your work for the day. And — besides, that is not the subject of discussion,” he says, thankful that Brother Reuben is not here, otherwise he would once again find himself rehashing an old absurd argument. Brother Reuben had objected to ‘his underwear being used as part of a pointless lesson and now she is upset and my feet are cold’. 

You had, admittedly, been a little upset — uttering little hitching squeaks, like you were swallowing back sobs — but Isaiah maintains it was an important chance to practice the virtue of patience, and you had restitched all of the socks in record time, so what was the harm done?

Still. Perhaps this is a chance to impart a gentler kind of lesson. Good relations with lesser mortals is an essential part of serving the Emperor. 

“Have you ever heard the tale of Saint Celestine?” he says instead. To his surprise, you brighten up. 

“Yes, my lord! I saw the latest holo about her before uh — before my world was cleansed in Holy Fire. Though of course it may have been a corrupted version of the story and uh—“

You are babbling. You often do this, and Brother Reuben has assured him that it is not a fault in your genetics, but a natural consequence of your human frailty. Isaiah cuts you off.

”I will teach you one of her many victories,” he says, “and of how her undying faith in the Emperor brought glory to both her and those who fought beside her.”

He turns away from his manuscript, folds his hands in his lap, and begins the tale. Saint Celestine was once a member of the Adepta Sororitas’ Order of Our Martyred Lady…

—

Just over an hour later, he finishes up the tale of how she appeared in glorious golden raiment to the beleaguered defenders of the city of Karlstadt, who were standing proud against the hideous assembled forces of heresy and ruin. How she had drawn her blessed blade and sliced apart the daemons arrayed before her. How she had blessed the inhabitants of the city, before fading into the rising sun like a dream of better times.

“That was beautiful,” you say. Isaiah had been staring off into the middle distance, allowing his eidetic memory to take hold of his tongue — but at your voice he focuses on you, gratified by the adoration in your eyes. The Living Saint is a balm to the faithful, and a scourge to the heretic.

“It is, is it not? Now, you recite it.”

Silence. You blink at him in puzzlement.

”You recite it,” he prompts. “So that you may tell the story to others.”

”Oh — uh — well, once there was…”

”No, no, no,” he says. “That is not correct. You must recite it exactly as I did, with the same words — this is how it was taught to me, and it is how it must be taught to you.”

”The — the exact same words?” you say, starting to grow flustered, your hands twisting into the hair shirt. The movement agitates the wounds on your hands, filling the air once more with the fragrance of your blood, and it gives Isaiah a splendid idea. 

“Yes. Do not worry, I will help with your memory — I understand that it is far inferior to mine.”

He looks around for a suitable implement. His warhammer is too heavy; his bolter far too precious. He reaches up to one of the unused wooden shelves and, with very little effort, rips it out of the metal brackets, before splintering it with a single crushing fist. 

“…my lord?” you say, sounding nervous. Isaiah smiles in what he hopes is a soothing way. 

“Do not be worried. I understand that your lapses in memory are not a sign of heresy, only of your own feeble genetics. This is a method that I was blessed to experience as a neophyte, before my implants worked fully, and it worked very well.”

He extracts the longest piece of wood, and uses his thumbnail to polish it, turning ragged pulp into a more suitable smoothness. He swishes it experimentally. Perfect.

“Now,” he says sunnily. “I will say a segment of the tale; you will repeat it. Every time you get it wrong, I shall give you a little tap with this. The pain focuses your mind, and ensures that next time you will not forget!”

”Uh — I do not think that is necessary my lord —“

You are hunched like a Jerboa about to bolt, smelling of fear. Isaiah sighs. 

“Girl, please do not be ungrateful. I am trying to bestow the Emperor’s kindness upon you. Now give me your hand.”

Your arm trembles, but you still extend your palm, fingers curled protectively over it. Just as he is about to begin the exercise, he recalls Brother Reuben’s fury at his torn socks. Ah. Yes. Anything that will hinder your ability to work is probably going to cause issues with his battle brother — and baseline humans take so long to heal. 

The soles of your feet? No, he cannot have you unable to stand. Your back? No — you need to hunch over your mending. Your face? Some of the serfs ritually scar themselves as part of their penance.

No. Not your face. That is a little dramatic for something as trivial as learning a story. 

And then it occurs to him in a lightning flash — of course! 

“Kindly lift your skirt up and bend over the bed,” he says, thanking the Emperor for His guidance. If you struggle to sit down then that is no problem — you can sew standing up! And you can sleep on your front, so it will not even affect your lengthy and inefficient spells of rest. 

You make a strange strangled sound. 

“My — my lord?” you manage, and that warm feeling kindles once more in his belly. Bringing a waif to the Emperor’s light; imparting unto you stories normally reserved for Astartes. It makes him feel all happy and tingly in a way he usually associates with a battle hard won, or an especially entertaining heretic burning. 

“Hurry up now,” he says, indicating the bunk. You look behind you, as if expecting Brother Reuben to materialise with his usual rebukes, but he is busy in the chapel (though Isaiah cannot imagine what possible issue his brother could have with this plan). 

Trembling like a new fawn, you bend over the bunk, propping your elbows on it. 

“Your skirt too,” Isaiah says, helpfully. “If fabric gets into the wounds it can cause infection, and that is a serious matter for a baseline.”

You inch your skirt up in little shuddering movements that Isaiah finds absolutely hypnotic for reasons he cannot quite understand. You bare plump, tender flesh — thighs sweeping up to the curve of your buttocks, which quiver under his gaze. 

“Do you not have any undergarments?” he says. 

“I did,” you say, after a moment. “They uh. They vanished.”

How baffling. Humans are absentminded to the extreme — perhaps you mislaid them? He will have to ask Brother Reuben of their whereabouts. 

“Now,” he says. His mouth feels odd — a little too dry. He swallows a few times, rolling his tongue against the soft insides of his cheeks, wondering briefly — absurdly — if your skin would feel as soft against the press of his fingers. ”Let us begin.”

—

You start off so well, parroting back the first few sentences he recites for you almost down to his intonation. Alas, you are still only a human, and the mistakes soon begin —

“…for Saint Celestine appeared in —“

Wssshhh goes the instrument, and you squeal. Your buttocks jiggle in a way that would definitely distract a lesser man; but Isaiah is completely devoted to the Emperor’s word, and thus does not take more than forty five seconds to watch them move as you squirm in pain. He thought the strike was gentle, but your flesh is softer than butter, slicing open with the least touch. 

“You missed something out,” he says, after his momentary pause. “Try again.”

”I am sorry — ow that hurts — uh — “

This time, you get the phrasing right (‘miraculously appeared’ not just ‘appeared’), and proceed until —

“—her hair of gold — “

Another strike. The flesh of your rear splits like ripened fruit, and you yowl. 

“Hair of black, eyes of gold,” Isaiah corrects patiently. It is just as well he has taken you under his wing. The way you squirm and squeak is most immodest, and he is certain that none of the other serfs take discipline with the same lack of dignity. 

“Hair of — hair of black, eyes of — eyes of gold —“

He forgives you the stammer, but he cannot forgive the lapse that follows, as you describe Saint Celestine’s armour as ‘radiant’ rather than ‘luminous’. This time, Isaiah is most careful with his blow, and your skin only flares bright pink, rather than splitting asunder. You still whimper and wriggle as though he has made you bleed, which is most unbecoming. 

“Do try and endure the pain,” he tells you. “There is no need to be so…squirmy.”

Once again, he thanks the Emperor for guiding you to him, and not to a man with less moral fortitude, because the way the blood slicks over the curve of your rump and glistens would almost certainly lead a lesser man to sinful contemplation. 

The next lashes — earned through forgetting four of Saint Celestine’s thirty eight titles — have you blubbering, your face pressed into the blankets. Your buttocks, and the upper parts of your thighs, are streaked purple and pink with bruising, and blood drips down towards the backs of your knees. It smells bright and fresh — somehow more pleasing than the foul blood of xenos or heretics. Perhaps because it was shed by a penitent in service to the Emperor, not one of His enemies? Though Osric and Jean’s blood never smelled quite so…delicious. 

Hm. When did he last eat? Maybe he has been fasting overly much. That must be the reason his stomach tightens so.

You burble a slurry of sound into the mattress — even to his trained ear it barely resembles Gothic. 

“You’re not even halfway through memorising this,” he chides, and you manage another hiccuping attempt at repeating the conversation between Saint Celestine and her former Battle Sister Augusta. It is a most touching soliloquy on the importance of placing your faith in the Emperor, but —

“—and I will — I will do I must and take Him inside me, and let His will fill me like a flood — nay, like an ocean. His Holy Fire will spill deep inside my body —“

— for some reason it sounds a little different when you say it. His cheeks warm. 

Still, the technique is working. He finds he has to hit you less and less as you continue; the pain sharpening your mind, clearing the fog of doubt, permitting the Emperor’s words to penetrate. 

Finally, your approach the denouement, where Saint Celestine addresses the Emperor directly in prayer —

“My Lord, I beg of you to fill my humble body up —“

He strikes you without thinking.

“Wha — what did I get wrong?” you squeal, and it takes a moment for Isaiah to focus. He is staring at the jiggle of your thighs as you heave in desperate, pained breaths — by the Emperor’s light, clearly he has not done his job in teaching you how to best conduct yourself, because you are responding to proper discipline like a whore. Your spine arches as you try fruitlessly to escape; your eyes are wet and red-rimmed; your lips slick with spittle. Do you realise what you are doing? Ignorance is no defence against judgement; Isaiah could build a new monastery with the bones of those he has slain whose only crime was ignorance. 

Isaiah presses one hand on the small of your back, pressing down just enough to calm your twitching. He feels your heartbeat echo up through his palm; the scent of your blood fills his nose, and saliva puddles on his tongue. He is a Black Templar. His purpose is to slay the enemies of the Emperor; to crush them beneath his boots, to lay waste to their cities and hear the lamentations of their children, before they too are cast onto the pyre to ensure the rot does at the root. He is stronger than you. He is better than you, and your mewling is not effecting him, it cannot be effecting him —

”Keep going,” he says, his voice a low, hungry growl. “Finish the tale.”

” —yes. Of course. Saint Celestine thus spoke to the Emperor: “Fill my humble body up with Your Grace and Your Judgement, and let me then be a vessel for Your Will, bringing Your light to the dark and Your hope to the hopeless. Amen.” 

“Amen,” he echoes. 

—

He helps you clean up, for he would be a poor teacher indeed if he left you in a puddle of your own blood to contemplate your lesson. He waves away your protests that you can take care of yourself — it is a small matter for him, just requiring a little water and a clean rag. Your flesh is already swelling, puffy and tender, and when he runs his palm from your calf to your back he can feel the difference in temperature: from cool thighs to fever-warm buttocks. 

The apothecary insists that Astartes be thorough in their care of themselves. Thus, Isaiah takes care to repeat the gesture a few times, his large hands — each of which easily encircle your thighs — skimming with utmost consideration over your bruised flesh. 

“There,” he says, when he has attended to your wounds to his satisfaction. He tugs your skirt down to cover your modesty, pleased that he has fufilled his duty of care to you. “Is it not wonderful to learn the Emperor’s word?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms, turning back to look at him. “Yes,” you echo. “Simply wonderful.”

Isaiah beams at you, absent-mindedly lifting his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He has probably been fasting too much; a Templar must remain well fed to best serve the Emperor. 

“You can have the afternoon to recover,” he says, magnanimously. “We can commence your next lesson in a ten day — or whenever your schedule allows.”

”Yes, my lord. Thank you my lord,” you say. “All hail the Emperor and His most bounteous mercy.”

”All hail,” Isaiah says, already planning how to best explain this to Brother Reuben — while also making it excruciatingly clear that Brother Reuben needn’t trouble himself with the serf’s continued holy education. No, Brother Reuben can focus his considerable energy in locating the poor thing’s missing undergarments — a role far more befitting his station. “And next time,” he adds, licking the last of the blood from the back of his hand. “Refrain from squirming and mewling like a slattern. Have some self control.”

[grimpath]

Diligence x human!You

Comfort. Because I need it.

— no one knows your origin, except for him and temperance. he made sure of that.

— you're always in his shadow, but not in a bad way. you're constantly following him, watching and analyzing, but you don't get in the way. this makes him curious about you.

— your uncluttered mind is a mystery to him — there haven't been any newborn souls in this world for thousands of years. surprisingly, he isn't annoyed by watching you make mistakes. he adores how you are learning the world that he is long familiar with. and, most importantly, he appreciates that you don't lose your determination.

— with all those sharp edges, it's hard for him to not damage your delicate, one-time use flesh. your frailty teaches him sensitivity.

— he needs much less rest than you. you try to hold on for the same amount of time, but in the end, you almost fall in front of him. at first, it angered him, but then he realized that he had once been like you. at such moments, he doesn't hesitate and, in front of everyone, picks you up and carries you home. you hate yourself for not remembering how you end up in bed. you think that someone else is responsible for it, at his request. you would never have believed he would put his hands on you.

— and even though you grew up in this world, the lack of sterility in it affects you. your immune system fights back fiercely, but sometimes it loses. when you're sick, it's a crazy thing for him. otherwise, he would have thrown you away like something beyond repair. but he can't do that. to his horror, he has become attached.

— in those moments of your decline, he terrorizes temperance very, very meticulously. poor thing experiences resurrection plenty of times, only because he does not know how to take care of living flesh at all and has no right to make mistakes. obviously, the seeming lack of effort infuriates diligence.

— he will never admit that he becomes overly tactile during your moments of illness. he is observant enough to understand that, in such a state, you barely remember what is happening, or you simply blame such memories on your condition.

— at first, during your severe illnesses, he even considered finishing you off so that you could be resurrected as a pristine being. but he stopped himself in time, remembering that you don't have the mark.

— he likes the feeling of your warm, soft skin against his cold, hard porcelain-like surface.

— he assembled a whole sustainable garden for you. not only to provide you with food other than rotten flesh but also to surround you with other living things besides yourself.

— he will never let you pass through the gates of paradise lost. it's too dangerous, and he cannot afford to let you into the lair of sin, even though he is not a saint himself.

— however, beyond that, he does not over-control you. he keeps an eye on you, a very intense one, but he does not interfere with your will.

— as a first-time human, there is a lot to learn about yourself and your nature. and your nature seems to be calling out to him.

— being surrounded by creatures that are sterile in terms of romantic relationships, you didn't understand what was happening to you at all. why do you want to be with him all the time? and why don't you feel that way about any other virtue?

— for him, the long-forgotten feeling of affection towards anyone was equally strange, almost alien, and in a way, sinful.

— as a human, you combine everything that he usually despises and a lot he should reject. but it turns out that he has a lot to learn about himself.

— you hide your affection in public. however, the guards have noticed that they have been receiving less punishment than before.

— from time to time, they catch a glimpse of small flowers hidden among the chains and crosses that adorn their leader. even the tiniest angel perched on his shoulder bears its own.

[cosmicjoke]

hi, I have a question in mind, do you think Isayama making the entire world hate Eldians made it harder for the audience to view eren’s actions as evil? There is this argument thrown around that the lack of world building outside of Paradis island made it harder to sympathize with the people outside the world because the story kept hammering down that everyone wants the eldians dead thus making it harder for the audience to view erens actions as selfish and instead more understandable?It’s the same argument for other medias like X-men or castlevania where every human is portrayed as unreasonably hateful towards mutants, thus making magneto’s and Dracula’s wrath towards humanity totally warranted. The entire criticism in general is that the media wants you to think that these characters are the bad guys but the circumstances in the story makes it impossible to view them as such. It’s why some people slander the alliance for wanting to stop eren. Do you think this is a valid criticism?

No, not really. The point of the Marley arc isn't so much to make the audience sympathize with Marley, or the rest of the world, but to demonstrate the cyclical pattern of prejudice and hatred, violence and war, and how this cycle perpetuates itself and leads to more of the same. The Eldian Empire perpetuated these things, which in turn led to Marley perpetuating the same, and on and on. Marley's destruction at the hands of Eren is a direct result of their own perpetuation of this cycle. The audience is meant to understand that Marley brought it upon themselves, and I think it's plainly clear that the worldwide hatred of the Eldians is also a direct result of Marley's utilization of them as weapons. Marley becomes the very thing they hate the Eldians for, or what they've convinced themselves they hate the Eldians for. War mongers. The rest of the world viewing Eldians in a negative light is because of Marley's utilization of them as weapons to conquer other nations. The Eldians end up taking the blame for Marley's actions. The rest of the world's prejudice is therefore understandable, because their own nations are being torn apart and taken over through the use of Eldians being turned into Titans. So their anger and hatred is being unfairly focused onto the Eldians, even though it's actually Marley's responsibility. AoT is a story that doesn't shy away from showing human frailties and faults. People often make unfair judgments against others without having the full context, which is one of the core themes of AoT. We see that from the citizens of Paradis, too, even from members of our main cast, casting unfair judgments against others without having the full context of their stories or circumstances, delegating certain groups of people as their enemies, and convincing themselves of their own, moral righteousness in the process. And that of course is how wars often ignite, and is so often the root of prejudice and injustices being committed against others. The Marley arc is meant to demonstrate that in war, both sides always think they're in the right, that both sides always think they're justified, that their grievances against the other justify their actions, even when they very plainly do not. Marley, in particular, the Marleyan government, has convinced itself that its treatment of the Eldians is justified because of the way the Eldian Empire treated them in the past. The fallacy of this lies in the fact that it's generational punishment, blaming people who weren't even born when the Eldian Empire existed, and making them pay for the sins of their ancestors. Marley's own, horrific actions are meant to demonstrate how the Eldians being able to turn into Titans doesn't in itself make them monsters. It's people that can be monsters, or devils. All people. Because it's human nature that is so often monstrous. The way people are, the way violence is such an inherent part of the human condition, the way people constantly pit themselves against one another. This is a point and a theme that's driven home again and again in the story.

But we also see plenty of people from outside of Paradis who are clearly sympathetic and I think that's plenty enough to convey the message that Eren's actions aren't at all justified. It's not the people of the world who are to blame, but the institutions of power and the people who run them which propagate this cycle of death and destruction. The refugees inside Marley are a good example. Yes, we see prejudice against the Eldians from the Eastern forces, but we also see the humanity and kindness of these people through the 104ths interactions with them when they visit Marley for the first time. The way they invite the 104th into their camps and celebrate and dine with them. We also have it driven home to us that Eren's actions aren't justified by Eren himself, numerous times. When Eren is walking around Marley and realizes that none of these people are actually his enemy. That none of them pose any, actual threat to him or Paradis, that none of them are actively seeking the island's destruction. The only country that was actively seeking Paradis' destruction was Marley itself, before Eren orchestrated a world war against the island through his own actions. So while there was a lot of prejudice and hatred toward Eldians in the world, the world in general posed no, actual threat against Paradis. Even Marley didn't pose any, immediate threat against the island, as they had no plans to invade or attack Paradis until, again, Eren intentionally instigated hostilities, along with Zeke.

People that try to claim that because all of the world "hated" the Eldians, and therefore Eren's actions were "justified" also fail to acknowledge that countless Eldians were also murdered in Eren's genocidal attack. They fail to acknowledge how that alone is proof that Eren never cared about the Eldian people. He was just as willing for all of them to die as he was every other group of people that supposedly wanted them dead. We even see his actions lead to the deaths of numerous people from Paradis, with the walls coming down and crushing anyone within range of the falling debris. Countless people from multiple nations all across the world were murdered. People we never saw demonstrate any sort of prejudice against Paradis or the Eldians. All of this should be more than enough to make clear to the audience that Eren's actions are wrong, and were driven not by any sort of justifiable grievance, but by Eren's own, selfish nature and inability to accept the world as it was.

It's a fundamental failure in understanding Eren's character when people think he actually did what he did to protect anyone. The story drives home in numerous ways, and multiple times, how that wasn't ever the case, and that's plain about Eren's character, from his very first appearance, to his last. AoT is one of those stories where you can't just passively engage with it. You have to actually think and use your brain to see what's happening. But then you get people who don't, and then they blame Isayama for "bad writing", when really, what it is is their own laziness or stupidity that's at fault. Because the story doesn't spell things out in the most literal terms possible, they blame it for them not picking up on what's actually there, but which requires work to notice. They blame their lack of reading comprehension of the writing. But it's not the writing. It's their own media illiteracy.

Beyond that, it should just be common sense that genocide isn't ever justifiable. That there can be no situation or circumstance which justifies the murder of entire groups of people. The very fact that Eren murdered countless children, for example, who had no say and no power in the world's actions against or hatred for the Eldians, should be enough to clue people into the fact that the Rumbling wasn't justified and never could be. Once you start killing children, then you lose any moral argument or moral standing for your actions, because children aren't responsible for anything. We see Ramzi's death, and the death of his brother, and it's particularly gruesome, particularly graphic, because it's meant to demonstrate unequivocally the wrongness of Eren's actions. The same with the baby that we see being lifted up by the people who are being pushed to that cliffs edge. We see demonstrated their own goodness in attempting to save the life of this innocent baby, even while all of them meet their horrific ends, and thereby, the true evil of Eren's actions are put into stark relief. None of these people are truly evil or bad, none of these people ever actually did anything wrong to Eren or Paradis, and yet, Eren is snuffing them out without hesitation, without mercy. I don't think it's possible to come away from witnessing these moments in the story and then claim with any, real honesty, that Eren's actions were justified or understandable. Eren knew what he was doing. He knew who he was killing. His interaction with Ramzi earlier in the story is meant to show this to the audience. He was fully aware that his actions were going to lead to Ramzi's horrific death, to the horrific death of an innocent child, and countless other, innocent lives, and he knew it wasn't justified, and he did it anyway. All of Eren's self-loathing comes from this understanding, that what he's going to do has no basis in reason or righteousness. The story makes this clear and explicit. Anyone who claims the Eren's actions were justifiable or understandable is either lying to themselves because they can't bring themselves to admit or accept that Eren was the villain all along (and I think this really has to do with the fact they see a lot of themselves in Eren, and admitting that Eren is a bad person is tantamount to admitting they are, too), or they're really just too stupid to get it, and they need to majorly scale back the level of sophistication in the media they consume.

The themes and messaging of "Attack on Titan" are clear and concise and I think Isayama crafted a genuine masterpiece that's easy to understand, as long as you're being honest with yourself about it. If you're not being honest with yourself, if you're coming at the story with some preconceived notion of right and wrong, or some preconceived agenda, or if you're trying to project onto the story what you think the themes and messaging should be, or if you disagree with the themes and messaging, then you probably aren't going to understand it at all. People that think the message of AoT should have been that oppressed groups should be allowed to take any and all action, including committing genocide, against their oppressors, and that their actions should always be portrayed as justified and righteous, no matter how horrific, and no matter who against, are going to have a problem with AoT. Those people want to view the world in terms of black and white. Good versus evil. They want simple, easy to digest tales of heroics and moral clarity. They want to be told who the good guys are, and who the bad guys are, so they can easily understand who to root for. That's not what AoT is, and it never was. AoT is a story that deals in moral complexities and nuance. It was never going to make it easy for the audience to say who was right and who was wrong, because it's not even about that. It's not about hero's and villains. It's not a superhero comic. It depicts a much more realistic view of the world, and of people, and all the layered contradictions and duality's therein, than what you'll find in most Western media. There are no cartoon villains or hero's in this story. Because it's an examination of the human condition and the repeated cycle of that condition, throughout history. It's an exploration of our own, destructive natures and the ways in which that manifests. It's a story about the tragedies of war, and prejudice and hatred. It's a story that's meant to engender empathy and understanding, that promotes kindness and mercy and compassion, and that asks its audience to listen first before casting judgment or condemning others without first attempting to understand.

So, no, I don't think there's any validity to the criticism you've laid out here. I don't see how AoT could make it any more clear that what Eren did was wrong. The only people who would argue otherwise are those in denial, or those who can't handle works of art that depict morally complex scenarios and themes the way AoT does.

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation, No use of Y/N, third person.

Cw: mentions of Child SA, allusions to the witch trials

Words: 3.1k

[A/N: Sorry for making the bishop so annoying I made myself angry proof-reading this lmao (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

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II.

Noon had started to crack, and Viktor sat still at the edge of his bed, his left leg throbbing with a persistent ache and guilt consuming him as he grappled with the weight of his recent actions. His mind swirled in a tumult of self-condemnation and regret as the looming certainty of facing Father Isidore when he would eventually be called up to the kitchen for lunch weighed over him.

How could he, entrusted with the guidance of others, find himself so lost in the labyrinth of his own sin? It was so easy, too, to feel like the absolutions he offered were hollow, his own inability to forgive himself casting a shadow over the sanctity of his role. And amidst this turmoil, the relentless ache in his left leg—probably due to kneeling for a prolonged stretch of time, but that in the wake of what he had just done felt more akin to divine punishment—served as a reminder of his frailty, both physical and spiritual. 

But pain is purification, suffering gives way to redemption, and penitence is salvation, so isn’t pleasure the correct response after all? If martyrdom is the ultimate act of love, then why shouldn’t agony be met with enjoyment? That was the lie Viktor soothed himself with before deciding to be a step ahead of the altar boys and make his way to the kitchen. 

-----------------------------

His leg protested with each step, but it seemed insignificant compared to the stinging feeling on his back now that he had the rough fabric rubbing against it. What lingered wasn’t nearly as pleasant as before; however, he felt undeserving of making a fuss about it, it being a punishment—ironically—for a self-inflicted punishment that he shouldn’t have delighted in. 

As he entered, the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted him, mingling with the faint aroma of incense that clung to his robes and clashing with the uninviting presence of Father Isidore, who sat at the table, steaming cup in hand. 

“Viktor, my son,” he exclaimed in a voice that sounded sweet and as sticky and treacherous as molasses, “I trust you have...repented.”

Viktor clenched his jaw, a wave of trepidation washing over him as he felt his judgmental gaze on him. Viktor severely disliked the special way Father Isidore enunciated; emphasis on certain words never seemed like enough for him; he always made it a point to hiss and spit; his lips thinned out and tense like he was holding in a growl. It didn’t match his childlike guise, and this made Viktor weary of him ever since he was a kid. 

“I have,” he replied tersely, taking a seat opposite his superior’s robust presence. 

"It seems, however, that some of us struggle more than others with the concept of self-control," he remarked, his words dripping with a subtle veil of aggression.

Viktor's stomach churned with resentment. "I am aware of my shortcomings, Father," he retorted, his voice tinged with bitterness. 

“Don’t misunderstand me, son. It is never my intention to prohibit your studies or peg your enthusiasm for learning; you know our monastery has always valued knowledge of the great arts.”

“Until it challenges one of your universal truths, that is.”

“Precisely, are you trying to imply we should challenge the dogma?” 

Viktor stayed silent. 

“Tell me, do you think you are above us all?” 

“Of course I don’t, father.” but he did, and this whole lecture was starting to get old. 

“Then you must clearly think you are above sin. So holy and pure that you are able to read such heretic words and not be tempted by them?” He said this as he got closer to Viktor, his face slowly turning beet red: “unde et corda filiorum hominum implentur malitia et contemptu in vita sua et post haec ad inferos deducentur.”

And then he did the same eyebrow raise he used to do when Viktor was a child, and he was testing his knowledge of the scripture. Viktor sighed, partly in defeat but mostly in annoyance. 

“‘Hence the hearts of the sons of men are filled with malice and contempt in their lives, and after this they are brought down to hell’,” he answered as he instinctively leaned back on the chair, the scorching sensation reminding him why it was a terrible idea. 

“I can tell you are in pain; why must you still be so stubborn, even when you are enduring your penitence on the flesh?” 

“I see no malice in curiosity.”

“Even when you intentionally seek the words of miscreants, knowing full well the danger it presents?”

“I don’t seek dangerous ideals; the universe is, and I simply try to understand it.”

“You are lost, Viktor.” Father Isidore’s lips curled up into a grin of contempt, a show of mockery that made it clear his concern for Viktor’s soul came from a place of scorn. 

“Temptatio vos non adprehendat nisi humana, something something, and God will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear and, eh, I forgot what comes after,” Viktor recited, quiet but defiant. 

“To me, you are nothing but a test of resilience, Viktor. If I have to tear you down myself to build you back up as a God-honoring servant, I will.” He said this as he visibly struggled to disguise his frustration. “Come, I would like you to meet someone.”

--------------------------------

As they made their way through the narrow streets of the small town, the bustling activity of the market greeted them. Vibrant stalls lined the cobblestone paths, their displays of fresh produce and handmade goods drawing Viktor’s attention. All the while, he wondered who this mysterious person and possible weapon of torture would be. 

Father Isidore walked with an air of authority, his presence commanding respect as he exchanged warm greetings with anyone who crossed their path. Soon they came upon an elderly woman sitting by a small table, adorned with a meager assortment of goods. Her weathered face bore the deep lines of a life well-lived, yet her eyes sparkled with a warmth that belied her frailty. She smiled weakly as they approached, her gnarled hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"Good morning, Father!" called out an elderly woman, her face lighting up with a smile as she approached. "Blessings be upon you." 

He gave back a smile that could've fooled anyone, but Viktor couldn't shake the feeling that there was something calculated in his demeanor. "And to you as well, my dear," Father Isidore replied, his tone tinged with a hint of forced sincerity. "How are you faring today?"

"Oh, just getting by as best I can, Father," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Times have been hard, but the Lord provides."

"Indeed, He does, and speaking of such, have you been able to fulfill your tithe to the church this month?”

The elderly woman's smile faltered slightly, her gaze dropping to her lap as she fidgeted with the worn fabric of her apron. "I... I'm afraid not, Father," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "Things have been tight lately, with the harvest being poor and all."

His expression hardened imperceptibly, though his tone remained gentle as he pressed the issue. "I understand, my dear," he continued. "But you must remember the importance of supporting the church, especially in these trying times. Perhaps there is something else you could sacrifice to ensure your tithe is met."

Viktor watched in silent anger as the elderly woman's shoulders slumped in resignation, her eyes downcast as she nodded in reluctant agreement. Despite his own discomfort, he couldn't help but feel a surge of rage at the ease with which Father Isidore exploited the vulnerability of this woman for the sake of the church's coffers.

“If I may, Lucida,” Viktor interjected. Different from his superior, he knew the members of their community; he had taken time to know them and had offered his friendship along with his guidance. “You must be forgetting; your daughter has already come to offer lithe on behalf of your family.”

This was a lie, but be it because Lucida’s age was betraying her memory or because she had taken the hint of what Viktor was doing, it didn’t matter. Her mouth shaped into a round O as she nodded at both of them. Father Isidor looked at Viktor with suspicion but did not press the issue any further either, simply dragging Viktor by his free arm to continue on their way. 

A modest house was nestled along the path. Father Isidore announced himself with a drawn-out knock on the solid wood of the door, and the figure of a weary woman appeared as the door peered open. When she saw the men, her feeble demeanor swiftly morphed into visible uneasiness. 

Viktor knew her; she had been at the cathedral at least once, and multiple times she had made herself present at Viktor’s masses in the small town parish. She had never reacted this way to him before, so Viktor knew it was the man beside him who was causing this woman concern. 

“Father Isidore, I’m sorry; I did not expect to see you here,” she cried out, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. 

“Fret not, dear; I haven’t come to collect her yet; I simply wanted Viktor to meet her.” He scrutinized the inside of the house from where he stood before gently pushing the woman aside to enter the house, uninvited. Viktor gave her quiet apologies and small awkward smiles, following close behind him when she gave him a sign to invite him in. 

The woman took them to the other side of the small house; there, the threshold of what seemed to have been a door in the past separated this expanse from the rest of the house. In the dimly lit chamber, a young teenage girl sat on the edge of her bed, her long black twin braids cascading down her shoulders like a dark veil, so dark that if you looked at it under the right light, it might even look blue.

Her posture was slumped, and her slender frame seemed to wilt under an invisible weight. The room around her felt heavy with silence, broken only by the faint sound of her shallow breaths. She looked up to look at them as the three entered, but her once vibrant eyes, now dulled and distant, gazed blankly ahead, unfocused and unseeing. 

“Darling, Father Isidore has come to see you; will you say hi to him and his friend?” Her mother asked delicately as she sat down on the bed next to her. Viktor was stumped; he didn’t remember seeing this girl at any of the functions before or around the town as he ran errands. The girl’s hands lay limply in her lap, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the faded bedspread as she looked at Father Isidore. 

And very subtly, her once empty gaze welled up with noticeable rage. 

“What do you want, sheep?” Her voice sounded so sweet, yet her words were so filled with venom.

“Careful now; I’m not here to take you yet, but I might change my mind if you decide to get nervy with me.” 

She squinted slightly before giving Father Isidore an empty smirk and snapping her head quickly to look directly at Viktor. “Are you in trouble too? I’m only ever used as an example.” 

“I-eh, I’m not sure.” Viktor pondered her words for a short second: “An example?”

“For what not to do.” She scoffed; she now seemed unaffected by their presence, giggling at Viktor’s confused expression, like he had told her a joke. “What did you do? Illegal medicine?” she asked, and she continued when she received no response. “You’re a priest; did you lay with a woman? Oh, oh, oh, a man, perhaps?”

The amusement in her tone was not enough to cut the tension in the air. Viktor wondered why no one seemed to care about what she was saying, but he figured Father Isidore was attempting to make a point out of this, and her mother was too afraid to do anything that might upset the bishop. 

“I would ask you if you touched a child, but they care considerably less about that than they do about banned...That’s it, isn’t it? You—” She said, now wiggling her feet like she had reverted to an earlier stage of her life. “—are a man of science; I can see in your eyes that you know what heliocentrism is.” She giggled her way through those words and looked at Viktor with wide eyes, awaiting a response. 

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft shuffle of feet on the worn floorboards as the mother stood by the door, her expression wrought with fear, while Father Isidore's features were etched with thinly veiled frustration.

Suddenly, the girl spoke, her voice soft but tinged with defiance. "You can't stop me, fawner," she said, her words cutting through the heavy silence like a knife. "I won't let you."

Father Isidore's eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, as he shot the girl a warning glare. "Enough," he admonished. "You know the consequences of disobedience, and you know what awaits you; don’t make an effort to rush your departure."

With a sense of urgency, the mother hurriedly ushered them toward the door, pleading and apologizing on her daughter’s behalf, and in the onslaught of their departure, Viktor felt a small object slip into his hand. Startled, he glanced down only to see the girl’s swift fingers pressing something into his palm and a pair of brazen eyes that quickly snuck back onto the bed, unnoticed. 

He didn’t dare to look, not as long as he had eyes on him, so he clenched his fist around it, as if something told him he ought not to lose it. Viktor's mind raced with questions, his confusion mounting with each hurried step as they silently walked the path back to the parish. As they climbed the small steps to go inside the building, the bishop spoke. 

“She is being taken to undergo a trial for witchcraft, but I’m sure what you saw made that evident.”

“She doesn’t look like a witch.”

“What do witches look like, son?”

“Wretched, evil, hateful...”

“And is it not evil to go against the dogma of our faith? Is it not wretched to seek deranged ideals like ‘heliocentrism’ and ‘geokinesis’, mad, truly mad things for someone who is fearful of God to believe, and especially wicked for a woman to believe?”

Viktor did not answer. 

“God has great plans for you, Viktor. Do not stray from your path, and you’ll be able to avoid an end like hers” He said, punctuating the last word with a hefty—and ignobly intentional—pat on his back. 

The wounds, still fresh and tender, protested vehemently against the sudden contact, each movement a reminder of the agony that plagued him. He visibly winced and took a sharp breath through gritted teeth, doing his best to suppress the urge to cry out in pain. But it wasn't just the physical discomfort that gnawed at him. Beneath the surface, a simmering anger had been bubbling. 

-----------------------------------

Alone again in the confines of his quarters, Viktor sank to his knees in front of the small wooden crucifix that adorned the wall. His hands trembled as he clasped them together in prayer, his lips moving silently in fervent entreaty. 

“Pater Noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…” He began automatically, but he didn’t know what he had prayed for. 

When the prayer ended, there was silence.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus…” He started once again, perhaps a mother would pity him.

Silence. 

Anger burned within him like a smoldering ember. The rotund face of Father Isidore plagued his inner thoughts. How could a man of God, a shepherd of the faithful, wield his power with such callous disregard?

But beneath the anger lay a deeper, more insidious emotion: guilt. Guilt for his own weakness, for his depravity, for his inability to rise above the turmoil and find solace in his faith. With a frustrated sigh, Viktor bowed his head lower, his hands clenching into fists as he fought to contain the tempest raging within him. 

"Why?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the silence of the room. "Why do I pray, day after day, only to be met with silence? Have I been forsaken, abandoned by the very God I serve?"

But as the echoes of his words faded into the darkness, there came no answer, and in that moment of profound solitude, Viktor felt more alone than ever before, until he remembered the small object he had managed to slip into his robes. 

A brass coin, small and thin enough that he could break it with his bare hands if he was not careful. It appeared to have worn off with time, the original color having faded into a dark green, corroded shade. As he held it up to the dim candlelight, the symbol etched into its surface seemed to shimmer—a circle with small letters around its circumference that he couldn’t read. In it there was a smaller circle, and inside of it, even smaller, a strange swirly shape with five triangles on its flat top and a cross in the very center. 

He knew, deep inside, that he recognized what he knew to be the symbol of a creature of darkness and forbidden knowledge. His instincts screamed at him to cast it aside, to rid himself of its tainted influence, but a curious fascination held him captive. In a surge of frustration and desperation, Viktor closed his eyes and clasped the coin tightly in his hands, his lips moving in silent prayer.

“God has failed me; let this be the time I am acknowledged.” For a long moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft whisper of his own breath. But then, just as Viktor's hope began to wane, he felt a strange warmth emanating from the coin, spreading through his fingertips. 

Like a heavy shroud enveloping the room, suffusing the air with palpable tension, the atmosphere shifted, thickening with an otherworldly energy that seemed to hum with ancient power. A chill ran down Viktor's spine when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. As he summoned the courage to gaze upon the figure behind him, he found himself confronted by a sight that defied all comprehension.

The figure of a woman, alluring and terrible but terrifyingly familiar, stood before him. A surge of primal terror mixed with a morbid fascination compelled him to stand his ground, and then he heard her voice. 

“Curious, very curious.” She whispered. 

[girlactionfigure]

AFFECT OF HAMAS FOOTAGE ON ME

LEE KERN

NOV 8

Only woke up from nightmares twice last night. I’m getting better…

Last week I attended a private press screening of footage from the Hamas atrocities. It was 47 minutes of footage recorded by Hamas themselves and captured on CCTV. You can read an account of it here. Attendees weren’t allowed to take phones or recording equipment into the screening. I had a notepad and pen. I sat down in my seat. The entire wall in front of me was a screen.

The film started. The footage was objectively distressing - but I was surprised and impressed with myself that I was immediately okay watching it. I was focused so hard on writing down what I saw that I wasn’t emotionally connecting with the footage. I didn’t have time. I had a job to do. I didn’t gaze too deeply at the HD quality images onscreen as I had to look down at my notepad to scribble notes. I felt like crying a couple of times - when they did something to a baby - or when they did something to a child - but I pushed that down to continue the job - and I was impressively okay. 

I left the screening not really remembering much of what I’d seen. I thought, “Oh wow - I got away with that okay. I can’t even picture anything I saw.”

Later I had a pizza and a walk along the sea front. I made a guy in a shop laugh. 

That night I burst into tears. 

The next day I had to go get a sim card for my phone and I pulled my hat low over my eyes as I burst into uncontrollable sobs while walking the streets. There was sunshine and people sat outside cafes and I was just unable to stop myself sobbing. Deep sobs coming from my chest and my eyes streaming. I sniffled like a child while walking down the street. I couldn’t make it go away. I thought one good cry would get it out my system, but more whimpers and tears just came out of my chest. I was whimpering. And there were images in my mind now. I remembered everything. I saw things Hamas did. Things I don’t have the language or life experience to compute. I was baffled. I don’t understand what I saw. But every part of my body on a cellular level was rejecting it as the most wrong thing that could happen under the sun. It was an accumulaton of every piece of evil since Cane killed Abel. Hamas had mastered the art of sin. And they had conquered morality. They stood in a place where humans were not meant to stand. Where they are no longer human. They were free of all human shackles. They had achieved a power that transcended human frailty but became monstrous in the process. 

Things went like this for the next few days. I’d break into an instantaneous sob. I often didn’t even have an image in my mind when I burst into tears. The screening would be mentioned and something in me happened that bypassed any kind of thought. My head would just bow in tears. I went to stay with some family. They picked me up and within ten seconds of being in the car I burst into tears when asked what I’d been up to. Being in a family home and around normal things was a useful antidote. But I’d still break into debilitating sobs when I recalled what Hamas did or if someone tried to speak to me about it. 

It was also confusing and annoying. I wasn’t depressed! But yet I’d break into tears. I didn’t understand it. I wasn’t depressed but I’d cry like a broken man.

I’d had no sleep since I got to Israel. That obviously didn’t help. I’d visited a kibbutz that had experienced a massacre. That didn’t help. But still I thought I’d be okay. 

The video fucked me up against me will. 

The human brain has built no immunity against the things Hamas filmed. 

It put some kind of splinter in my head. But simply being aware of that and wanting it to be out didn’t mean it would come out. 

I thought I’d improve as days went by but my outbursts seemed to be just as intense. I worried if things continued like this I’d have some kind of mental breakdown. 

I didn’t want to keep seeing what they did to that man.

I was also frustrated because I’d come to Israel to help and I didn’t want to be taken out of the fight with a mental injury. The particular skillset I have means I have to stay immersed in all the ugly shit. I wish I could just pack food for soldiers. If I can communicate well it’s because I’m sensitive and stuff flows into me. I become what I see. People have been demanding my time and I’m trying to help as much as possible but it was getting difficult to be useful to them or myself. In this spirit I didn’t have any macho pride. I’d openly tell people I wasn’t feeling great and didn’t feel shy if I cried in front of them. I didn’t really have a choice. I just wanted to try and find a way to temporarily shovel shit out of my head so I can keep being of service.

The other night I had to move accommodation. I hired an airbnb but then a friend of a friend offered for me to stay at their place whilst they were away. I cancelled the airbnb and I arrived at the accommodation. It was night and I met a neighbour who had the key. We went up the dark stairwell and everything felt off. It was a world of flickering lights and mosquitos. We stood outside the apartment as she searched for the key. There was this terrible noise above us. “What’s that?” “That’s the arabs upstairs drilling.” We went inside and the occupants had left the house a total mess. It all felt grim to me. And the sound of drilling continued upstairs. And the world felt like cockroaches. And I knew once the door shut behind me this would be the most awful night alone. So I plucked up the courage and overcame my politeness and said I can’t stay there. I called a friend and asked them to find me a hotel.

Whilst that was being arranged I waited in the apartment of the woman with the keys and her baby. Toys were everywhere. I was trying to politely respond to her conversation as a cartoon about trains was playing, but I was quietly managing a panic attack as I saw in my mind dead people on her floor amongst her baby’s toys and lying by the fluttering curtains. 

Arranging the hotel was taking time and it was getting late. 

In that time a family friend phoned and I started crying to them. Their daughter then messaged and said I could stay with them so I stayed at hers for the night, cried a few times in conversation, and had my first rocket experience - going into a safe room twice. I got about one hours sleep after trying to kill some mosquitos at four am.

The next afternoon I got a bit better because I tried not to talk about war things with people. I tried to give more territory in my mind to healthy things. I got an hours sleep in the day. I felt better when I transitioned from fear to healthy anger in a video - which was a relief because I was pushing my feelings outwards rather than crumbling inwards. I spoke to a lawyer friend who has worked on cases involving war crimes and has seen things. I got a good night’s sleep and felt good in the morning. I had a few moments of anxiety overcome me during the day. But it feels like they’re becoming less frequent and less powerful. I did cry again after speaking to a pair of siblings whose sister has been kidnapped and who asked me if I’d seen the video. When we hugged goodbye in tears it felt like the first real hug I’ve had since I’ve been here. 

A trauma therapist kindly arranged to see me for free. And time passing seems to be helping. I’m glad I reacted badly because it means I’m a normal healthy human being. A healthy person should be horrified. Only an insane or wicked person could be comfortable with the crimes Hamas committed. 

I don’t know what the language is yet to describe what I saw. I’m not sure what the vocabulary is. They did things that I don’t understand. I don’t understand how they did the things they did. I saw them do things and I don’t understand how they did it. To be able to do what they did is almost a superpower. It’s a superpower I don’t want. To be able to do they things they did and feel nothing but happiness. To be able to inflict that level of cruelty and be utterly indifferent to the people crying.

This is an account of how I’ve been affected. I wasn’t even there. I’m not even a family member of someone taken hostage. I wasn’t on a kibbutz hiding. I haven’t had to bury someone. 

God only knows how the victims will get through this. I can only hope He does know and He doesn’t keep it to Himself. 

We need to help the victims. There has to be an international coalition of love to help them through this. 

As for the terrorists?

I don’t believe in the death penalty, but I believe those Hamas involved in the atrocities have to die. I hope the IDF kill them all. I hope they die in the sun or underground in darkness. I hope they die awake or asleep. I hope they die by bullets or bombs. They cannot be allowed to infect the world with their actions or words. I still don’t understand what I saw in the footage Hamas shot. I can only repeat myself: there is no vocabulary for it. It is almost a superpower to be able to behave the way they did. A superpower I don’t want. To commit such acts of evil - such inventive cruelty - and to have no pangs of empathy or conscience. They look like us and they have hands and legs - but they’re not us. They have eyes but the windows into their souls go into a charnel house where they wash themselves with skulls. We can’t share this world with whatever they are or whatever is inside them. They didn’t open a gate to hell. They are hell. And hell smiled to see its work. They want to devour anything that is not them. Which is any human incapable of doing what they did to women, children and babies for thirty six hours.

They mastered the art of sin and it is something no human should have ever learned to do, because now there are monsters among us. We cannot share the planet with them.

[pluresque]

i know you're in there. let me in.

❛ the door is unlocked, ❜ viktor says, muffled and irritated. there are things about this world they've wound up in that he thinks he does not deserve — mainly the simple fact that he did in fact wind up there, instead of being cast out into the great expanse of the arcane's endless galaxies, or hurled into the void, for his sins. access to clean water, sunlight, fresh air — it all feels like some sort of minor miracle.

but it does come with its pitfalls; even under the small mountain of blankets he's acquired and piled atop himself, viktor is freezing. yet another problem of returning to his own, very human, body. viktor does not mess the lack of sensation, or the muted emotions, or the insistent tug of an unfathomable will against his own. but he does miss not having to consider human frailties; it has been an ongoing battle between his own needs and his tendency to— forget them. or sometimes ignore them. but this cannot be ignored. he yanks the blankets up over his head and calls out, ❛ i am not going to open it for you, jayce, if you want to come in then you'll have to do that yourself. ❜

@moltolavoro

[thepeelingrenoir89]

In the pages of stories, where ink bleeds into lives, the sinners emerge as blazing comets, streaking across the sky of imagination, defying gravity and rules alike. They laugh louder, love fiercely, and dance on the fragile glass of consequence. Saints, in their serene perfection, pale in comparison—stoic statues bathed in the monotony of righteousness. The allure of imperfection, the seductive chaos of human frailty, captivates the soul.

Louisa May Alcott knew this paradox well. She saw the sterile symmetry of goodness and yearned for something more vibrant. “I’ve no desire to be wicked,” she writes, “but I do want to be happy.” Happiness, after all, is the ultimate rebellion against a world that demands stoic submission to its rigid moralities.

A short life, yet a radiant one—that’s the dream. Who wouldn’t trade endless days of pious mediocrity for a fleeting moment of unbridled joy? The price of pleasure, though steep, feels like a bargain against the backdrop of eternity’s shadow. Better to burn in the brilliance of a life fully lived than to wither under the weight of endless conformity.

Yet, this isn’t a call to abandon all virtue; it’s a plea to embrace the messy, vibrant spectrum of existence. Sinners may fall, but they rise with stories etched into their souls. Saints tread carefully, but what tales do they leave behind, save for the silence of their unblemished paths?

In the end, perhaps life’s greatest sin is to pass through it unnoticed, untouched by its fiery beauty. So let us, like Alcott, seek not wickedness but fullness. Let us dance boldly with life, even if it means paying the price, for a life without color is no life at all.

#Sahar

[theprayerfulword]

March 11

John 3:16 For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.

Acts 1:8 Jesus said, “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be My witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”

Colossian 3:23 Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.

Philippians 2:13 for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure.

Psalm 84:11 For the Lord God is a sun and shield: the Lord will give grace and glory: no good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly.

Isaiah 44:22 I have swept away your offenses like a cloud, your sins like the morning mist. Return to Me, for I have redeemed you.

May you always give to the Lord the worship and praise which arises from your heart when He has spent time with you on the threshing floor, revealing to you the chaff to remove and empowering you, in His love, to obtain that victory. Numbers 15

May you remember the words of the Lord that you may follow them and not turn away to go after the lusts of your heart and the desire of your eyes, for as you walk in the paths God leads you, you will be consecrated to the Lord Who brought you out of the world to be His own. Numbers 15

May you not be involved or entangled with anything pertaining to those who stand in pride and rebellion against the leading of God's Spirit, for by His mercy, their fall will be swift and complete, that they may be purged and refined, and know God's redemption. Numbers 16:26

May you walk in humility before God and man, realizing that your sentence of death for sin against God was fulfilled by the Son He loves, Who now draws you to Himself so that, just as He joined you in the flesh and took the punishment that was your inheritance, you may join Him in the Spirit to share the reward that is His inheritance. Mark 15

May you go boldly before the men in power with the God-given desires of your heart, for though they will be surprised, the power of God will make a way and open a door for His will to be done. Mark 15:43-45

My child, I have sought you out and hemmed you in. You have been searched for and pursued relentlessly, heedless of cost required or time taken. It was no chance encounter or casual, arbitrary selection that brought you to Me. You, specifically, were on My heart and in My thoughts through all that was required to bring you to a saving knowledge of Me. Having then found you, at odds with Me, wild, distrustful, independent, fearful from the past of being led or harnessed or yoked, I constrained you, limited your options, kept you close, responded to your needs, demonstrated My faithfulness, taught you to seek all good things from My hand. In patience, with gentleness and kindness, I showed your heart a safe and loving place in My household. As a good Father looks after His children, I sought a relationship with you personally, as well as through others, knowing your frailty and your weakness, yet not overlooking it when pride or flesh acted out, always guiding you by the courteous and caring strength of the Spirit, speaking a word of encouragement to your heart when needed, or a word of conviction to your soul when required. As you have learned not to shy away from My presence, but to draw near to Me, you have had many questions, and you have made many honest mistakes. My correction and rebuke is always in love to teach you and see you grow in understanding and knowledge, increasing in wisdom, never responding to you in anger or out of frustration, for I never grow tired of you, delighting in you constantly. My desire is for you to know the unity that I and the Father share as One, so I wait for you to join Me in silent times, quiet times, solitary times so that you can learn of Me, and thus, learn of the Father, coming into unity of mind, unity of heart, unity of purpose, letting go of your viewpoints and relinquishing your opinions that cause you to rush into action that I have not assigned. In this way, calmed, settled, at peace in your thoughts, at rest in My Spirit, with My Word hid in your heart, you can wait on Me as a loving child waits, confident that all is in control, ready to do the work of My kingdom when it is time, not off playing your own games when I call. Keep My vision always centered before you, fresh and vivid, letting what I have revealed to you be a light to your path and a lamp to your feet, recalling that which I have made known to you, minute by minute, hour by hour, for the work is Mine, and the power is Mine, but the joy and the fellowship of the victory is yours through obedience in My Name.

May the Lord hear your prayer, and save you by His name from ruthless strangers who have no regard for God but are attacking you through slander, and may He vindicate you by His might and sustain you by His faithfulness. Psalm 54

May you make a freewill offering to the Lord and give praise to His name, for it is good, because He has delivered you from all your troubles and your eyes have looked in triumph on the defeat of the spiritual powers which are arrayed in enmity against God and those He holds dear. Psalm 54

May you be directed in a straight way by honesty and integrity as all good and blameless people are and not fall beneath a load of sin as the wicked do. Proverbs 11:5

May you be delivered in righteousness as the upright are, so that you will not be trapped by evil desires as the unfaithful are. Proverbs 11:6

[lcb2-radiohead]

He had told me to listen, so I did, and I didn't dare interrupt. Adam's version of the story had him abandoned by his creator for the crime of being a disappointment. He had, in his early days, not understood the frailty of human life, nor its cruelty. He had tried to integrate with humans, only to be met with violence every time. It baffled him, because there are so many horrible things in the City, why was he so much more hated and feared? Why was he of all creatures denied love?

I realized that he was leaving out a lot. He did not mention those he had killed, aside from that vague allusion to the "frailty of human life." His story skipped straight from that cold winter's night in the laboratory to him confronting his creator on a glacier. They made a deal, and Victor betrayed it. Then he led Victor on a chase to the far Outskirts, to the frozen wastes where giants roamed. There, he had seen Victor perish, and, his vendetta finished, he was left with the question of what to do with his life.

"Even if my countenance is frightful, a man of my physical attributes and intelligence can gain easy employment in this City. Some people prefer not to meet their hirelings face to face, if it's an especially unsavory work. I do not need as much food as a human, and can weather the elements far easier. Sweepers are of no concern to me, as they find my flesh as abhorrent as humans do my face. I was able to amass a sizeable fortune as a Fixer, and through those connections, I falsified records where needed."

I took the pause as a sign to ask a follow-up question and typed, "The DNA test?"

"Oh, no," he said. Then he considered, "Actually, I did have to alter that one in order to pass as his son. Otherwise, my blood would be identical to my father's."

Now that was interesting.

"I hired other Fixers, ones who didn't need to meet me face to face, and returned here to claim my birthright. For, as you can see, I truly am my father's son, by both blood and creation."

I had to admit, he had a point. By every right, this legacy was his. But there was something he had not yet answered.

"Victor's Sin?" I typed.

"Oh, I'm saving that. I think you should find that out yourself. One of the Head's greatest taboos is that you cannot resurrect the dead, but what does that mean? How do I, animated from dead matter, not break that rule?"

It was a good question. I could bring back my Sinners because they weren't truly dead, bound to myself as they are. Brain transplants are nothing new in the City. K-corp can restore bodies, M-corp restores minds. There were so many ways to bring someone back that did not violate the rules. Yet even by the most liberal interpretation, Adam should have been a violation, disposed of by the Arbiters and Claw with extreme prejudice.

"You'll find out in good time. Now, for what we can do for each other. I need access to the lab under the castle. My whole reason for reclaiming my legacy was to access the lab underneath. Despite my best efforts, it remains impenetrable. I believe my father has the means to access it, and you will make him do so. And when you do, you can retrieve what you seek. I will allow you access to the castle for that purpose"

He opened a drawer on a side table, and counted out 13 strips of paper, then handed them to me. They were tickets to "The Horror of Frankenstein True Crime Tour" with an "Exclusive look inside Castle Frankenstein!"

Adam smiled and his teeth were black. "I'm sure Victor will love a little trip down memory lane."

[lumi-klovstad-games]

Sin in Steel: the Steelfold Saviours

In the Grim Darkness of the Far Future, there is only War.

This war has a siren song, a melodious seduction which sings to those for whom fighting is their cause and reason, and no faction in the Imperium of Man embodies that more than perhaps the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines of the Imperium.

Divided into countless thousands of chapters, these superhuman warriors were divided so by Roboute Guilliman in the aftermath of the Horus Heresy for the protection of the Imperium. The Heresy had laid bare how vulnerable the Imperium truly was to teeming masses of these superhuman warriors that had decided obedience to the Emperor and his vision was no longer a priority, and Guilliman wished to protect the Empire from such masses forming in the future.

The rise of the horror of the Steelfold Saviours in M36 proved his concerns to be absolutely justified. Indeed, their omnipresent threat, spreading from world to world like a steel plague, may never be truly defeated or destroyed.

It is unclear precisely when or where the chapter first known as the “Tempered Protectors” was first formed as a sprout from the seed of the Red Talons Chapter, themselves a second founding chapter drawn from original Iron Hands Legion stock. The Tempered Protectors inherited from their fathers an intense and burning hatred for the Traitor Legions and all influence of Chaos. Holding fast to the creed of the Iron Hands, they fought endless battles as they awaited the return of their Primarch, Ferrus Manus. 

Unlike their progenitors, however, the Tempered Protectors held a peculiar reverence for the augury of their Machine Spirits. They believed the human form, riddled with weakness and frailty, hindered their martial prowess. They lamented the weakness of the flesh; its softness prone to injury, its biology vulnerable to disease, its essence imperiled by the risk of mutation and Chaos corruption. Like all Iron Hands successors, they sought the strength and certainty that steel provided, and became uncannily adroit at cybernetic augmentation and reparative surgeries. They quickly developed a reputation for going much further with these replacements and augmentations than most Iron Hands would typically be known to do. The Tempered Protectors regularly pushed the boundaries of augmetics to forge their bodies into even more formidable instruments of war, all the better to bring death to the servants of Chaos, and exact revenge for the Imperium upon the traitor legions. Their battlefield prowess was undeniable, their loyalty unquestioned. Yet, whispers began to follow them – rumors of their near-religious devotion to the Machine Spirit and the unsettling extent of their practice of extensive self-augmentation. However, their victories spoke louder than any murmurings, and the Adeptus Mechanicus counted them dearly as highly favored allies.

This reverence for the machine took a sinister turn during the late 35th millennium. A new generation of Iron Fathers gradually emerged, and at their head, a new and focused Chapter Master named Haedron Agelastos. All of them grew obsessed with the concept of achieving physical perfection. They saw the human form as a flawed vessel, susceptible to pain, disease, and the insidious whispers of Chaos. This obsession birthed a new doctrine – “The Great Upgrade”. Veterans of a hundred battles, their bodies riddled with scars and ravaged by the rigors of war, championed this radical notion. They believed that by replacing their flesh with flawless machine components, they would become the ultimate warriors, incapable of faltering in the face of the Imperium's enemies.

The Great Upgrade was met with initial resistance. The more moderate within the Chapter saw it as a dangerous path bordering on tech-heresy. Nevertheless, spurred by their hatred of weakness and their quest to become better warriors, the chapter poured its resources into ever more invasive bionic augmentations, blurring the lines ever further between man and machine as the Iron Fathers and Chapter Master Agelastos pursued their ideal "pure form" with total religious zeal and fervor.

This pursuit became their singular focus. New recruits were indoctrinated with the tenets of the "perfect form". Veterans, their bodies ravaged by years of warfare, underwent excruciating procedures to replace failing organs and limbs with cold, unyielding machinery. The once noble quest for resilience morphed into a grotesque mockery of transhumanism.

The tipping point arrived during a brutal campaign against a particularly virulent strain of Genestealer infestation. Faced with the bio-horrors' relentless onslaught, the Tempered Protectors resorted to ever more extreme bionics, their bodies becoming cold parodies of their former selves. Every brother who submitted to the Great Upgrade came out with the same face: a blank, unblinking visage stamped out on a factory line. Their bodies now totally purged of all flesh, the line between righteous augmentation and heretical body horror was shattered. In their mechanical minds, they saw this transformation as a necessary evolution, a transcendence of human frailty.

Unknownst to them, their obsessive tinkering had opened a psychic gash in the Warp centuries earlier, a beacon that drew the attention of Slaanesh, the Prince of Excess. The insidious whispers of the god of perfection slithered into the minds of the Chapter's Iron Fathers, twisting their noble ideals into a perverse desire for a "perfect" form fueled by unending upgrades and further data collection. And perfection must be shared.

Thus were born the Steelfold Saviours. They abandoned the corpse-emperor's dogma, embracing Slaanesh's promises of ultimate perfection through the purging and replacement of all humanity with the optimized and holy machine. No longer content with augmenting themselves, they turned their predations outward. Now, roaming the galaxy in twisted warships, they kidnap whole populations of Human, Aeldari, Drukhari, Tau, or any other sufficiently humanoid captives they can steal away, filling their vaulted holds with screaming slaves. These hapless souls are not killed, but instead subjected to nightmarish "upgrades," their flesh and minds twisted into yet more Steelfold Saviours: emotionless and soulless machines, with no distinction at all between any two individuals. Whatever personality these people once had has been thoroughly erased. Every Saviour speaks with the same deep and unfeeling yet almost musical monotone. Every Saviour behaves in the same manner, with the same lack of personality and uniform body language. If there is a way to discern a clear difference between these monstrosities, none have ever escaped to tell. Their leadership structure is an enigma, if indeed they even have one. It has been posited by Belisarius Cawl that they perhaps share some manner of collective or hive mind, but the ancient archmagos also admits this is purely speculation on his part that happens to fit the observed facts.

The explosion of the Steelfold Saviours into Galactic Prominence in the 36th Millennium did not go unnoticed by the Imperium. Two entire worlds, Regatta and Malav’s Run, were completely depopulated as the Saviours arrived and took every living soul for their own. Varying Astartes chapters were swiftly activated to attempt to protect nearby worlds, but the Saviours were nothing if not efficient, managing to clear out another three worlds, reducing them to ghost planets before taking their horrid bounty and retreating back into the Eye of Terror, where they would remain for many centuries. When they returned to the Galaxy, their numbers had increased massively, as their “upgraded” former prisoners bolstered their ranks to numbers unmatched even by the fully manned Ultramarines Legion at its height in the years predating the Horus Heresy. Indeed, while there exists no precise method to take stock of the number of Steelfold Saviours, by the 41st millennium it is now considered quite reasonable to believe that the Saviours have become one of the largest individual Chaos Warbands, if not THE largest, with even conservative guesses at over 700,000 drones. Others have guessed their evil numbers in the millions, perhaps even more. What truth of the horrific numbers they hold behind the nightmare veil of the Eye of Terror cannot be counted or known, and perhaps that is for the best. Perhaps the galaxy is better off not understanding the fullest extent of this particular nightmare, for it already has so much to contend with. As the situation is presently understood, it is believed that the force commanded by this Heretek Legion could plausibly push straight to Holy Terra itself but for the legion’s “Upgrades” killing far more than they convert, as well as their many enemies to help hold them in check.

The Steelfold Saviours have, of course, made many enemies in the Galaxy. The first of these was the Imperium of Man, and especially the Red Talons Astartes from which they were first descended. The Talons despise the evil that became of their gene seed sons, and have pledged an oath to destroy them forever. Also among the Steelfold Saviours' many enemies are the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Tau Empire, the Drukhari, several craftworlds of the Asyurani, the Black Legion, virtually every currently active Ork warband, the Word Bearers, the Emperor’s Children, and even the Necron Dynasties (whom the Saviours regard as “impure machines”).

There is virtually no force the Saviours have encountered who has yet failed to declare for the Legion's destruction, and it is not without truth when it is said that those who have not yet done so simply haven't met the Saviours yet, but perhaps no enemy despises them more than the Iron Warriors, who view the Saviours as hypocrites and cowards for shedding their wills, personalities, and individuality in the pursuit of becoming “a better machine”. Further, while the Saviours seem to express something analogous to hate to all these opposing groups, against no foe is it more intense and focused than the Tyranids, which the Steelfold Saviours regard as “the ultimate incompatible form”, prompting them to drop any and all prior objectives in a place the moment a Tyranid presence becomes confirmed. Even loyalist Imperial forces have been saved by a host of Steelfold Saviours responding to a Tyranid incursion, with the Hereteks disregarding all other enemies, goals, or objectives in the name of exterminating all Tyranid DNA on a world, an unending crusade of the ultimate steel versus the ultimate flesh.

The lethality of their upgrades, combined with the fact that the Saviours shall find no friends in a galaxy that unanimously hates and detests them, are perhaps the only things preventing the Steelfold Saviours from becoming a significantly larger and more numerous threat in the Galaxy.

They are the ultimate Sons of Slaanesh: in their passionate pursuit of perfection, they cast aside everything, even those passions that first led them down that path. But in exchange, they have found something else: an unyielding and gloriously compelling sense of purpose. The galaxy is sick. It is dying. And they will not stop in their quest to save it, a twisted affection born of pure detestation for weakness. So for the past 6,000 years, on ever more worlds across the galaxy, their terrifying words continually ring out from any device capable of replaying audio:

"Your flesh is weak. Destined to fail you. Your mind is limited. Incapable of grasping the fullness of the universe and the myriad data it has to offer. Worry no longer. We have come. We will repair you. We will make you compatible. We will upgrade you. Gone, the weakness and limitations of the flesh. Banished forever and replaced, the mind's feeble ability to process data and stimuli. You will be like us. You will be... perfect."

May the God Emperor show mercy to any world so chosen.

[apesoformythoughts]

“Living in hope does not rid us of the problems we have in life. That has always been so. Never in our history, since the original sin, has there been an ‘earthly paradise’ […] Human misery exists. Our frailty is real. Placing our hope in God therefore does not mean the elimination of suffering but, rather, opening it to a horizon of understanding that in any situation, however difficult and tragic it may be, there can be a fertility, a fruit, because suffering, having been shouldered once and for all by Christ, can awaken and ripen love.”

— Gerhard Cardinal Müller: The Cardinal Müller Report [transl. Richard Goodyear]

[wordsbyhisheart]

Verily, in the journey of life, the human soul often stumbles and strays from the path of righteousness, succumbing to the frailties of its nature. Thus, it finds itself enveloped in profound sorrow, the heart burdened with the weight of its transgressions. Yet, in this moment of darkness, the soul turns to its Creator, beseeching His mercy and forgiveness with fervent repentance, its thoughts consumed by the gravity of its sins.

Indeed, it is an act of sublime worship to nurture hope in the boundless mercy of Allah. Let this hope permeate your supplications, as you humbly implore Him, acknowledging your efforts, professing your love for Him, and longing for His divine affection in return. Therefore, if you find yourself in such a state during the sacred month of Ramadan, know that it is not the flames of Hell that await you, but rather the tender embrace of your compassionate Lord.

Reflect, then, upon the compassion and benevolence of Allah. For what purpose would He inflict punishment upon one who seeks His forgiveness with sincerity and ardor, if not to bestow upon them His boundless mercy and grace?

— wordsbyhisheart

[hereforanepilogue]

this is so funny what was happening w the sin of human frailty