#Your daughter relates to characters who descend into madness | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

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l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this.

gif credit to @michonnegrimes

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy.

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child.

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother.

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed.

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English.

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland.

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin.

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre.

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king.

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to.

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland.

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk.

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey.

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates.

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you.

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey.

A lick of fire coils up your throat.

God save the king.

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand.

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling.

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose.

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly.

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing.

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other.

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels.

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman.

Masquerading with voice and poise.

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance.

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy.

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear.

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal.

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation.

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own.

You see it all. After all, you are a woman.

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror.

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.”

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact.

King Henry IV.

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly.

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air.

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride.

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you.

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light.

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you.

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law?

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls.

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile.

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more.

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue.

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor.

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light.

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.

“I thank you, sire.”

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear.

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced.

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests.

You leave him burning.

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting.

The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria.

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup.

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans.

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor.

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted.

Even if it is all a charade.

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes.

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs.

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers.

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek.

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers.

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic.

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip.

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat.

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink.

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily.

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly.

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time.

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife.

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil.

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.

“King Henry!”

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry.

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood.

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker.

A ball for the boy king.

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture.

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm.

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise.

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk.

You feign surprise and turn.

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize.

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection.

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno.

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear.

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum.

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs.

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming.

“I thank you, my lord.”

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?”

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response.

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar.

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you.

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game.

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands.

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father.

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce.

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely.

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game.

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding.

You are to let him touch you.

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire.

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself.

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure.

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth.

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman.

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows.

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move.

You only burn brighter.

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase.

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest.

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil.

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval?

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago.

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment.

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns.

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself.

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return.

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession.

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England.

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song.

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together.

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room.

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.”

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear.

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.”

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis.

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely.

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually.

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening.

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it.

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm.

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...”

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss.

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder.

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed.

You have the king’s word.

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool.

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.”

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries.

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly.

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer.

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming.

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races.

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.”

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger.

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this.

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood.

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill.

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling.

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have.

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest.

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other.

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl.

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos.

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world.

The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone.

You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world.

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below.

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ohmygodtheywereparabatai · 3 years

Text

Finally watched Hello Future Me’s video floating around my recommended feed, and halfway through his excellent analysis struck a spooky thought! Here’s a theory for the girl in red.

Sane at the Time of the Finale:

Azula’s Downfall Was in Spiritual Revenge

The poetic justice of Zhao drowned by the moon spirit’s other half, Ozai’s power stripped by a full-fledged Avatar... part of what makes Azula’s defeat so unique is her crumbling sense of self, an introspective enemy instead of an outside one. Katara, whose confidence and network of support are pointed out as the mirror image of what Azula could have had, finally gains the upper hand and pins her down.

From birth, the princess endures an environment that perfects and hones her nature to the shattering point. Plenty of signs point to her devolution: the betrayal of Mai and Ty Lee, getting sidelined by her own father at the literal crowning moment, and her irreversible childhood at the center of the snowball effect. But how ‘bout I do anyway, and tie in the mechanisms of the spirit world with Azula’s last moments? The connection is far from obvious, but well and present. The role of another world in weakening such an iron-fisted character visible in the first GIF itself.

I. “Taking you down is the Avatar’s destiny.”

The spirit world is one fundamental half of the Avatar. Its guidance and power are endowed to a messiah-like figure, who masters the four bending disciplines in order to restore and keep balance. It’s constantly reinforced that the Firelord is meant to be brought down by him, that a century of bloodshed is repaid when the warlord’s life is taken, and the end of his corrupt regime is the beginning of a fuller, more peaceful era.

“Aang, you must defeat the Firelord before the comet arrives.” (Roku)

“Your destiny! This is incredible. You will be involved in a great battle, an awesome conflict between the forces of good and evil.” (Aunt Wu)

“I should have seen this war coming and prevented it... But I believe you are destined to redeem me and save the world.” (Roku)

“Because I know my own destiny. Taking you down is the Avatar’s destiny.” (Zuko)

“Everyone, even my own past lives, are expecting me to end someone’s life.” (Aang)

A seemingly inconsequential detail is that the Firelord at the time of the final battle is not Ozai - it’s his daughter. By then, the title of Phoenix King is exchanged for her coronation. The nail on the head isn’t nitpicking terminology, but that Aang already suffered defeat at Azula’s hands. She herself plays a masterful and instrumental role in the war, literally her father’s will embodied. She’s there to hunt the Avatar, lead the massive drill against Ba Sing Se’s walls, orchestrate a coup, oversee the takeoff of the airship fleet, suggest the annihilation of Ba Sing Se in the first place. It’s a long time before we see Ozai at the warfront in the flesh, and even then, the damage dealt by Azula in Book Two and Book Three resonates. Keeping all this in mind, jump to Aang’s death.

“I went down! I didn’t just get hurt, did I? I was gone! But you brought me back.” (Aang, to Katara)

At the end of Book One, when a spirit is killed and revived, balance is reduced to moonless havoc, and all hell descends on the guilty party. The Avatar-slayer would be far from an exception to this counterbalance. So what we witness in “Into the Inferno” - Azula, gruesomely unmade - may just be the most brutal act of vengeance onscreen, and as a direct consequence of this:

While Aang is not directly responsible, it’s safe to assume the spirit world often acts of its own volition. Notable spirits possess harsh views on modernization, and lash out at humanity for its flaws: Wan Shi Tong’s disappearance, the ocean spirit’s wrath, the aye-aye spirit in LoK antagonizing any human presence, the Mother of Faces admonishing vanity and disrespect.

In this vein, the Avatar spirit remains a powerful source of Aang’s strength, weaved into the very outcome of greater forces such as fate and salvation. In the crystal catacombs, Azula threw a wrench into a universal narrative - for an instant, the world really was lost.

And, truth is, we’ve already watched as an entity descended from the Avatar’s power - one who Azula identifies repeatedly as her lifelong plague - haunts her to the point of systemic delusion. Ursa herself, granddaughter of Roku.

II. “You’ve turned my own mind against me...”

Time to reconcile show canon with the comics!

There’s no one who ties more into the tragedy of Azula than her mother. Hello Future Me dredges “The Search” and “Smoke and Shadow” for panels where her condition is exacerbated by fear and animosity. She’s obsessed with the idea that Ursa was pitted against her from day one, and even claims her influence strangled the loyalties of her friends and forced Ozai to “break free of her control.” The possibility of the slightest truth to Azula’s more elaborate fears raises a host of alarming implications. Especially when acknowledging her character is as sharp as a tack - a dulled edge when madness factors in, to be sure, but not negligible.

Is it logical to develop the belief that Ursa was an agent of evil in the royal court? The death of Azulon and her subsequent disappearance... It wouldn’t take long for Azula - aware of Zuko’s fate at the time, and her mother’s resignation to prevent it - to connect the dots. Ursa’s blood relation to the same Avatar that rivaled Firelord Sozin is another thorn in the side of trust. Whether Azula was aware of it or not, the strife born in Zuko, the eternally entangled red and blue dragons, exist to her biology as well. This makes it difficult to ignore a spiritual side to her illness, which draws primarily from Ursa’s “ill” intent.

Azula is also seen embracing the idea that spirits risen solely to take revenge can derail lives, legitimacy, and loyalty. The comics give us a chance to absorb the hidden subtext at face value.

The Kemurikage were born when robbed mothers abducted the children of others as punishment. Fear of the spirits crumbled the warlord Toz’s support and ended his cause. The masquerading dissenters in “Smoke and Shadow” are able to undermine Firelord Zuko’s authority, create a divide between Mai’s family and her father, and sow widespread fear. Curfew, searches, and interrogations shape the beginnings of a “ruthless” rule, eerily evocative of Azula’s much more rapid descent...

So how do Azula’s visions of Ursa, conjured unconsciously or from a little something more, and her steep debt to the world and Avatar link together - forge the ideal weapon and circumstances for retribution?

^ Just like that.

This only covers Ursa’s side of the family, the redoubling of spiritual balance after Aang’s fall like the snap of a rubber band. Azula’s complete undoing has to do with the lashing out of both families.

III. The blue dragon

Now, what was it about that first GIF?

Azula’s health begins to spiral right as she’s slated to become Firelord. Her identity is unraveled and called into question - Ursa made manifest slips through the chinks in her armor, prying at insecurities. Her inner turmoil admittedly makes her a poor candidate for ascension, and at the pinnacle of Fire Nation victory, - the crucial, final stages of the Hundred Year War - past rulers would look down on Ozai’s decision to usher her onto a seat of absolute power. Sozin’s Comet itself is an event that imbues firebenders with enhanced abilities, and it’s been theorized before that the “acting up” of royalty during the finale could be explained as such. The phenomenon may have also caused the reemergence of imperial spirits... and it isn’t too far of a fetch. More on that shortly.

It’s made clear that Azula’s destiny is far from holding royal court. The comics throw around that word, “destiny” a lot, but it’s a given signpost for any projected arc in the world of Avatar. And it ties in nicely with the will and workings of spirits.

Roping predestination with the probable dissatisfaction of the lineage, we finally have a whole picture. The combined force of an upended natural order, demanding the Avatar-slayer’s penance, and a royal bloodline destabilizing her reign in its infancy... planting mistrust and paranoia, and causing rash decisions. From a cherry pit to five minutes’ tardiness, Azula’s clarity and self-assurance are hacked away.

This is inviting the subversion that it wasn’t all in her head. That the Azula who readily accepts the Phoenix King’s declaration is rattled and isolated at best, but far from the composure that took just one afternoon to shatter. Zhao and Ozai face justice at the hands of the spiritual. The third main villain of ATLA might not have escaped due consequence either.

Finally, this scene. Azula, ensconced in blue flames. Is there any suggestion of the presence of spirits?

Azula’s fire is blue for purposes of flaunting her skill and sheer drive for perfection. The hottest temperature is blue in color, exactly her achievement. The technique isn’t bothered with because it saps extra effort, and so Azula’s signature symbol of power is hers alone. Fitting. But the fact remains: after leaving her hands, the fire quickly cools to orange. See below:

This color change isn’t seen in Azula’s throne room. The fire surrounding her is definitely detached from her body.

Now, it’s obvious why the animators didn’t suddenly decide to give the iconic blue a rest... but it’s incredibly intriguing from the imperial spirits angle. If Azula herself wasn’t keeping up the blue flame, then at the time of “Into the Inferno”, we’re staring into the faces of invisible devils on her shoulder, supplying the driving energy from the beyond. Onis whispering unseen evils down her ear that cause her, inevitably, to snap - the voices of Sozin and Azulon, a hundred sprawling generations. The cherry on the top is Ursa, descendant of the liaison between mortal and spirit that Azula personally killed, who torments her long after she’s relieved of the crown.

“Trust is for fools. Fear is the only reliable way.”

Hello Future Me describes Azula’s personality as a Machiavellian type, named after the guy who coined “It’s better to be feared than loved.” Watching her escalation unfold, it’s sad to wonder how someone as fearsome as her responds to being the recipient of that fear - when her own weapon turned on its hilt cuts too deep.

IV. End!

I think the scene above - the girl who opens with this directly after the demise of an admiral who engaged the incarnate of the tides (and swiftly lost), is a bit telling of her fate.

*To clarify, my framing of Ursa’s appearance as spookier than just a figment of Azula’s imagination - *cough* possibly the personified revenge of the Avatar spirit - is NOT meant to demonize Ursa herself! It just offers up an alternative explanation to what Azula hears and sees. Their bond is a poignant standalone, and I don’t mean to hate on the real Ursa/Noriko. Neither does any part of this discredit the impact of Azula’s childhood and history of neglect on her future.

That is all. Thank you for entertaining my theory!

#atla #avatar the last airbender #azula #atla theory #it’s 3 am no regrets

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daggery · 3 years

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tagged by @hersilentlanguage tyty!

Head over to personalitydatabase and pick out the top six fictional characters you identify with that share same MBTI as you! If you don’t know your MBTI here are a few tests to try out! X X X

tagging @lovehaze @gwenspendragons @xialingsupremacy @tridentarius @wespers @cilophytes if you wanna do this <3 <3

i only really relate to like four or five characters and none of them are listed as infj so i just chose some characters i like :)

i actually once saw a descendant mbti chart by michael that put jane as infj (i think) @vndooms i was like lol yeah bc idk mbti things but if i had to describe my personality thru descendants characters i’d describe myself as a mix between carlos and jane probably? whichhhh for the record i don’t rly relate to either of them kfjskdf

the characters summarized: catholic guilt, tits, eldest daughter, bard, i don’t remember much about her other than her really cool aesthetic, Norman, and the other mad max fury road character who i have an url for. it’s a private sideblog that i use for saving editing resources but yes i got two mad max urls <3

#idk what infj means other than introverted and planner i just took like four tests online when i was 13 #this was fun #KAT when trying to tag u i started typing madisonreyes and was like wait no then started typing oretsevmal then was like waIT NO lol #i feel like i need to stress the fact that i am not catholic #or religious in general #i’m thinking about doing that “characters you see yourself in” gif meme at some point #wanna call myself out #tag game

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bibliofiles-in-a-greenhouse · 3 years

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Mad, Bad, & Dangerous to Know: A Review

Today I will be reviewing Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know by Samira Ahmed. As always, there will be spoilers ahead, so read at your own risk.

~~SPOILERS AHEAD~~

Khayyam Maquet should love her holiday with her studious parents in Paris. But instead she finds herself at a crossroads - her sometimes kind-of boyfriend is ghosting, she may have blown her chance of getting into her dream college, and all she wants is to go back home to Chicago to figure out her life.

But things change when she meets Alexandre Dumas, a descendant of her favorite writer. On top of that she finds letters to a mysterious woman, who just might give Khayyam another chance.

Meanwhile, centuries before, Leila is trying to hide her love from the pasha, and survive as she is ‘gifted’ a position of favor in said pasha’s harem. As Khayyam begins to trace the threads of Leila’s life, the lives of these two women will intertwine as both lives are changed forever.

~~TIME FOR MY THOUGHTS~~

I’m rather sad to say that I didn’t like this book. It felt like a chore to read, and my issues with the characters and the plot only made it worse.

For starters, this book was presented as a feminist and poc narrative, but both protagonists spend the majority of the book bending to the will of men, and not even nice, respectful men. Being a feminist and hating all men do not go hand in hand, but these characters, and Khayyam especially, are at the beck and call of the men in this story, above their own autonomy. Leila is not much better, making strong, well-grounded decisions and suddenly throwing them all away for a man despite the fact that it might very well get her killed.

Another thing that wrankles with me is that, from what I can tell, this book has some good poc representation, especially in that of the two leading ladies. But Khayyam makes me feel like she’s ‘not racist towards the french’ in the way that Emily in Paris is a love letter to France instead of a bunch of Americans taking a shit on French culture. Khayyam is such a cool intersection of cultures, race, and religion (she’s French, Indian, American, and Muslim), and I think it would have been really cool and interesting to take a look at how all of these intersecting identities affect Khayyam, regardless of where she is*.

Instead she spends so much time confused over which boy she should pick (she calls them ‘problematic faves’ - more on that later), that the story (these two women centuries apart coming together) that I came here for comes second.

Back to Khayyam’s ‘problematic faves’, or more accurately, her use of that term. It makes sense that a seventeen-year-old would speak like most of gen z, however, sometimes the volume of gen-z buzzwords in what Khayyam is saying reminds me of Riverdale, and not in a good way (side note: is anything involving Riverdale good? I mean seriously, would anyone ever say ‘I beg your misogynistic pardon?’ unironically?).

For a complete change of subject, where were Khayyam’s parents? Their few appearances are only to further the plot progression (and by plot I mean what should be the subplot of which boy Khayyam is going to pick), despite the fact that their daughter breaks and enters on multiple occasions. They let said daughter run around Paris with a guy that they met once (and the only thing they know about him is that he’s related to Alexandre Dumas), and though I appreciate that they are giving their daughter more independence, I’m a little concerned that they didn’t seem to fear for Khayyam’s safety at all.

The story has such a cool premise, but I feel like so much of it is spent mooning over different men (almost entirely on Khayyam’s part by this point, since Leila’s major paramour died) that it takes a back seat, and could be lost entirely without really affecting Khayyam’s journey at all. I don’t see a lot of character development in Khayyam, and she sort of comes across like ‘i’m not like other girls’ in the way that Bella from Twilight isn’t like other girls.

Later in the story, in an effort to prove that she really is feminist, and she doesn’t need men at all, her two love interests are demonized (which is fair, both of them are flawed, but given the fairly positive view that the reader has gathered of them from the previous 200-ish pages, it’s kind of out of nowhere), but that doesn’t erase the fact that Khayyam has been pining for the both of them throughout the book. I also think that Khayyam could have been a lot less damaging with how she handled the situation. She didn’t try to communicate sensibly and instead hurls insults at them until they both leave (In the case of Zaid, it kind of makes sense, he was not good to Khayyam, but Alexandre’s feels a bit less justified). I understand that given that she is 17, she may not be the most mature person in the world, but I think her outburst is kind of sudden and poorly handled.

She chooses herself, yes, but at the cost of some, if not glowing relationships, then half-decent ones. I feel like the book fell into the common pitfall of ‘romantic relationships are the be all and end all of teen life’ which is simply not true.

Khayyam is so focused on being feminist and defying the patriarchy in the present that she forgets that the whole point of this was to discover Leila’s story, and take down the patriarchy by telling it. The whole point of Alexandre appearing at all (his connections to the Dumas family helping discover Leila) is thrown out of the window when Zaid shows up, just like it has been for the last few hundred pages. Khayyam, and by extension Leila, are jerked around by men, the patriarchy, despite Khayyam’s whole deal supposedly being defying said patriarchy.

Khayyam reminds me of how white cishet male authors write feminists - spewing all the relevant rhetoric until a man comes along and ‘fixes’ it. I guess the only reason that i’m so bothered by it is because this is presented as a masterful feminist story, but all Khayyam really does is say feminist things while she is a doormat for the male characters. It doesn’t even feel like quality observations, because she spews all of this hate towards famous men - not entirely without reason - but she doesn’t acknowledge the cultural influence that these men had. She does not separate art from artist from gender.

Nevermind that these men are helping the plot move forward, and without them there would likely be no plot at all. Khayyam’s main personality trait is supposedly being feminist and not needing men, yet she consistently bends to the will of men for the sake of the plot or drama, both of which are in such contrast with how the reader has expected Khayyam to be that they feel almost physically painfully out of place.

In short, I think that this book had a really amazing plot idea and a lot of things going for it, but the way is was executed in contrast with my expectations based on the synopsis and the author’s note make me feel massively let down. The book has pitfalls that while not always massive, are commonplace enough and reoccurring enough that I couldn’t ignore them, and subsequently couldn’t find myself enjoying the book, no matter how hard I wanted to.

- Marigold

*note: I know that the race, religion, and/or cultural identity of a character, especially a poc character, should not be their only personality trait. However with Khayyam, I feel like it is not addressed in any way at all, despite the fact that within the first few sentences of the book it is put in a position to be a focal point. I just feel as though her saying vague things like ‘that lady was kind of rude to me’ leaving the insinuation that she (the woman) is racist, or ‘it’s paris so i probably won’t get shot by a cop’ (which is a fair thing to say, I just think that if you’re going to mention that you might as well add something to make me invested in that idea with regards to the character personally. That didn’t happen, therefore it feels very abstract; since she’s not in America, where such a comment would be most relevant it falls flat) really leaves out the audience and makes it hard for them to relate or sympathize with Khayyam’s struggles against racism. It feels performative, obligatory and perfunctory when it would have been such an effective device to get readers invested in Khayyam’s life, regardless of whether she was in the US or not. There are no flashbacks to help ground the things that Khayyam references, so it’s far too easy to forget that she said them at all, and that in her hometown she has a very good reason to be concerned for her safety (in special regards to the cop thing).

#book review #new books #book #bibliophile #Bibliofilia #library #mad bad and dangerous to know

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ryttu3k · 4 years

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All Night Road Journal entries! For players who are new to VtM, this is absolutely invaluable. For those who are familiar with VtM, it's still pretty neat! Find it in the menu below your stats.

Note - the Characters list changes depending on your in-game actions; this list is based on my Banu Haqim hot mess Courier, Pyre.

Characters

Kindred

Aila: A powerful Daughter of Haqim. You consumed her, Blood and soul, ten years ago.

Edouard Chambet: A member of the Ministry and influential fixer. Or he was until you and Raúl destroyed him.

Julian Sim: Your sire Technological visionary, data scientist, and (by Camarilla standards) an "Anarch" bent on bringing down the Masquerade. You and he worked together under the Camarilla's thumb for a few years before going your separate ways. Now you're both back in Tucson.

Prince Lettow: A Gangrel, originally a minor aristocrat from the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth—making him one of the few elders left in Arizona. Lettow came to America after serving as a pilot in the Great War.

Called the Eagle Prince on account of his eagle servant, Riga, Lettow seized control of Tucson after the last Prince launched a murderous and doomed campaign against all non-Ventrue in the city. He magnanimously spared the old Prince's childer and has sought to rule with as much compassion as an undead crime lord can allow himself.

Millicent Rue: A blood trader whose specialty is finding obscure vintages for fussy Ventrue. From a clan called Lasombra, which you don't know anything about. After the fall of Camp Scheffler, has started to rebuild her "business."

Dove: Prince Lettow of Tucson's second in command, a Nosferatu and former courier. Keeps her mouth shut about her past, but she has known Lettow for many years.

Invidia Caul: A Tremere sorceress who works for Julian Sim ever since Prince Lettow forced the closure of her research facility, Kiowa Xenogenetics.

D'Espine: A Toreador. Manages the Cinderblock, a jazz club in Dallas. Obsessed with surgically modifying her ghouls.

Elin Olivecrona: A Ventrue. After the fall of Camp Scheffler, Olivecrona disappeared into the bureaucracy of the US government to work against the Second Inquisition.

Lampago: An ancient vampire—or some kind of related creature—who lurked in Tucson for years until hunters finally drove her away. She now dwells in Biosphere Zero.

Pattermuster: A Brujah. You helped him block a proposed renovation to the hospital.

Reremouse: A Nosferatu elder that dwelled beneath the sands of the California desert. You and Julian spent a depressing year feeding the elder to keep him dormant. When he finally arose, you helped Julian teleport him across the world using ancient sorcery that you do not fully understand.

Z: Julian Sim's mysterious acolyte.

Ghouls

Raúl Cañedo: Vampire hunter you first encountered when a wight attacked you after your CR-X broke down. Now your retainer. Knows how to fight and hunt; also a capable investigator.

Miguel: One of Lettow's retainers and couriers. Killed at Camp Scheffler, probably by hunters affiliated with the Second Inquisition.

Carlos: One of Dove's retainers. A police detective and the local Camarilla's contact with the Tucson police.

Nadia Goh: One of Julian Sim's retainers. Works as a delivery girl for a Malaysian restaurant when not helping Julian.

Others

Elena Prodan: Owner of Covenant Pawn Shop.

Agent Samantha Donati: Technically just a special agent with the FBI's Special Affairs Division, Agent Donati in fact controls most Second Inquisition activity across the Southwest. Her lightning-quick strikes have destroyed dozens of vampires and thrown the local Camarilla into chaos.

Clans

Banu Haqim

Originally from the Middle East, the "Assamites" were once feared assassins and sorcerers. They have recently entered into a tentative alliance with the Camarilla, the vampire shadow-society of Europe and the Americas.

Disciplines: Blood Sorcery, Celerity, Obfuscate. Some Banu Haqim focus on rituals, while others favor inhuman speed and the powers of invisibility.

Clan Weakness: Thirst for vitae. Banu Haqim are compelled to commit diablerie—the sin of draining another vampire, body and soul.

Brujah

Once a proud clan of philosophers, the rage-fueled "Rebels" are now scattered and disorganized.

Disciplines: Celerity, Potence, Presence. Unnatural strength and speed help the unsubtle Brujah in a fight, but the secret to their survival is in shaping crowds with their eerie charisma.

Clan Weakness: Temper. Brujah are prone to losing control of their Beast in terrible rages.

Gangrel

The savage "Outlanders" are shapeshifting beastmasters who, almost alone among vampires, can survive outside of the cities.

Disciplines: Animalism, Fortitude, Protean. Gangrel flesh is both hardy and able to change its form; the Outlanders also have various powers over living animals.

Clan Weakness: Feral. Gangrel struggle to relate to normal humans, especially as their Humanity declines.

Malkavian

The "Lunatics" are all mad, but their madness gives them strange insights. They often serve as court seers and mad prophets.

Disciplines: Auspex, Dominate, Obfuscate. Keen senses and the power to vanish from sight give Malkavians their reputation as prophets. Their mental compulsions often spread their insanity.

Clan Weakness: Madness. All Malkavians are incurably insane.

The Ministry

Formerly the "Followers of Set," the Ministry are friendly and good. There is nothing bad about the Ministry. They are here to help and to get you what you need. They are not a snake cult.

Disciplines: Obfuscate, Presence, Protean. Vampires of the Ministry can become invisible, control minds, and turn into giant snakes (it always helps).

Clan Weakness: No problems here, nothing to worry about.

Nosferatu

The "Sewer Rats" are hideous and malformed vampires whose information-gathering skills make them invaluable. They once managed electronic communication for the Kindred, until the Second Inquisition infiltrated their servers.

Disciplines: Animalism, Obfuscate, Potence. Nosferatu use their shadow-powers not just to turn invisible, but to hide their hideous faces. When exposed, they can call on their unnatural strength, or their allies among the Creatures of the Night.

Clan Weakness: Hideous. All Nosferatu are monstrous in appearance.

Toreador

The elegant and sophisticated "Aesthetes" would prefer you didn't call them "Degenerates." Obsessed with beauty, the vampires of Clan Toreador can seem almost alive when their passions move them.

Disciplines: Auspex, Celerity, Presence. Supernaturally keen senses and a beguiling aura let the Aesthetes thrive among high culture; when things go wrong, unnatural speed helps them escape.

Clan Weakness: Distracted. Toreador are so obsessed with beauty that it can endanger them.

Tremere

The "Usurpers" of Clan Tremere are said to descend from a mortal wizard who stole immortal life from an ancient vampire. Once organized into a disciplined arcane hierarchy, the sorcerers of Clan Tremere are in turmoil after the destruction of their greatest occult stronghold.

Disciplines: Auspex, Blood Sorcery, Dominate. Though famous for their Thaumaturgy—their intricate sorcerous tradition—many Tremere also possess supernaturally acute senses and the power to command mortals with a word.

Clan Weakness: Frail Blood. This manifests in different ways for different Usurpers. Some mend their flesh slowly; others cannot form Blood Bonds or create ghoul servitors.

Ventrue

The Clan of Kings rules from the shadows, controlling modern boardrooms as they once controlled courts and cathedrals. The mental powers of the "Blue Bloods" also protect the Masquerade.

Disciplines: Dominate, Fortitude, Presence. Ventrue study two distinct paths of mental control: Presence is more subtle, Dominate more direct. Some are also nearly indestructible, even when exposed to banes like fire and sunlight.

Clan Weakness: Refined palate. Ventrue cannot drink bagged or animal blood, and most are restricted to a particular kind of human prey.

Caitiff

Not a clan at all, Caitiff vampires are the Clanless—those whose Blood is too thin or whose education was too inadequate for them to join a proper clan.

Disciplines: Varies based on ancestry and inclination.

Clan Weakness: Outcast. The Camarilla has little respect for Caitiff, and other vampires don't treat them well either.

Hunger and Willpower

All vampires suffer from an undying Hunger for blood. Using Disciplines (vampire powers) and mending wounds uses some of the blood you've stolen and increases your Hunger; so does the simple act of rising every night. Only killing and fully draining a living human slakes your Hunger fully, and then only for a time. As a Child of Haqim, drinking vampire Blood also increases your Hunger.

If you become hungry enough, you lose the ability to activate Disciplines or mend your wounds. If your Hunger equals or exceeds your Willpower, you suffer penalties to actions that require concentration and self-control. That includes most actions you take, except those that risk a messy critical—see that entry. The penalties grow as your Hunger grows.

Willpower is based on your Resolve and Composure scores. Increase those scores to increase your Willpower and ignore the distraction caused by your Hunger. Certain actions, like extended negotiations or staying out too close to the sun, can mentally exhaust you, temporarily reducing your Willpower. You can regain lost Willpower by embodying your Convictions (see Experience and Convictions).

Messy Criticals

Succeed too well on certain actions and you run the risk of unleashing your Beast. The monster within you assures your success…at any cost.

Any choice that ends in an exclamation point ("!") risks a messy critical. Most of these are attacks or other aggressive actions where you risk losing control, such as threatening people or bashing down doors. Any choice that involves hunting and drinking from a human also risks a messy critical, and messy criticals there usually result in you draining the mortal completely, reducing your Humanity and leaving you with a corpse to dispose of.

The good news is that choices that risk a messy critical aren't more difficult due to Hunger (see Hunger and Willpower). Your Beast guides you in these savage actions, even when you're desperate for blood.

Experience and Convictions

After a decade of lethargy and routine, you find yourself bursting with newfound creative vigor!

You gain experience in two chief ways: first, by going on missions and succeeding in your goals. Second, by gaining Convictions and living up to them. To gain a Conviction, select choices that increase that personality trait: if you want to Defy the Traditions, then you must Defy the Traditions: ignore vampire laws like the Masquerade (see that entry), disobey elder vampires, and defy the Camarilla. If you want to Seek Luxury, then demand money and inducements as often as possible.

The Masquerade

The First Tradition of the Camarilla—what passes for civilization among the undead—is to hide the existence of vampires from the mortal herd. This is the Masquerade. You can violate the Masquerade by openly using obvious supernatural powers (such as shapeshifting), feeding in public, or failing to dispose of a body you drained.

Violating the Masquerade risks the wrath of elders among the Camarilla. Worse, with the Second Inquisition raging across the United States, a breach of the Masquerade risks sending an entire Second Inquisition kill team to your doorstep. Such an attack usually comes in daylight and can destroy you if you're not careful.

Humanity and the Beast

Vampires aren't human. They're dead things animated by stolen blood, with a screaming monster in their head they call the Beast. Perhaps because of this damned state, most vampires cling to their Humanity and struggle to control the Beast's savage urges.

But the Beast is always waiting. Acts of callousness and brutality strip vampires of their Humanity until, in the end, they are nothing but mindless animals that lurk in the shadows and hunt at night. Even before that point, low-Humanity vampires struggle to act with kindness or empathy.

Killing mortals (unless attacked first, such as by hunters or assassins) is a sure way to lose Humanity. The Beast permits no excuses—killing to feed and killing to hide your true nature (and protect the Masquerade) will stain your soul as surely as killing for sport.

Regaining Humanity is arduous but possible through great acts of sacrifice and by risking yourself for others. But beware: if your Humanity falls low enough, you'll have to spend Willpower (see Hunger and Willpower) to perform even small acts of decency.

The Camarilla

The Camarilla—the so-called Ivory Tower—is a secret society of vampires dedicated to hiding their existence from mortals, a guiding ideology called the Masquerade. Most Camarilla cities are ruled by a Prince (the term is gender neutral). Beneath this monarch is an elaborate hierarchy of underlings and overlords, bound together through favors, mutual enemies, the Traditions (including the Masquerade), and the overwhelming nightly drive to find more blood. Vampires of the Camarilla call each other "Kindred." They all appreciate the bitter irony of that term.

The rise of the Second Inquisition has made the Camarilla more paranoid and restrictive. Where once the Princes tolerated "Anarchs" and fringe types (like independent couriers), now they retreat into their Elysiums—hidden sanctums where they can conduct their business in peace—and try to weather the storm. These nights, the Camarilla are the vampire elite, and like any elite, they are happy to sacrifice everyone else for their own safety or convenience.

The Second Inquisition

The first Inquisition taught the arrogant vampires of the Middle Ages that they were not invincible. They learned that mortals, while weak alone, were almost unstoppable when organized and when they knew their enemy.

The vampires of the Camarilla took the lessons of the Inquisition to heart, hiding their actions behind the Masquerade. But no deception is perfect. As digital technology proliferated in the twentieth century, young vampires adapted, leaving their elders in the dust. They didn't know that mortals were listening in. And even when they realized the danger, many in the Camarilla believed they could direct these hunters at their enemies.

The results of this arrogance were catastrophic: the fires of the Second Inquisition blazed across the world, destroying elders and fledglings alike, cleansing whole cities of vampires. Embedded in the security and intelligence agencies of various national governments, including the FBI and the CIA, the Second Inquisition employs every weapon at its disposal to hunt down and destroy vampires. Now the SI has turned its sights on Arizona. Its goal is nothing less than the total eradication of every vampire in the state.

The Beckoning

A strange event called the Beckoning recently started luring elder vampires to the Middle East. No one knows the source of the Beckoning, but the sudden loss of so many elders—and the vast supernatural power they possess—has thrown the Camarilla into chaos and allowed Anarchs and other independent groups to seize power.

The Nature of the Blood

A vampire's vitae—the stolen blood that flows through your veins—has a variety of supernatural powers.

Disciplines. A vampire's supernatural arts are called Disciplines. Different clans manifest different arts, from mind control and shapeshifting to superhuman strength and speed. Most Disciplines require Blood to activate (increasing your Hunger) and grant a significant bonus to any relevant action you undertake. This bonus increases with your level of mastery.

Mending. You can use the blood you take to repair your dead flesh. In fact, this is the only way vampires can "heal," as they cannot do so naturally.

Ghouls. A vampire who feeds vitae to a living mortal creates a ghoul. Sometimes called a retainer or a thrall, a ghoul does not age, manifests minor supernatural powers such as occasional bursts of great strength, and is loyal to their vampire regnant through the Blood Bond (see below). Most established vampires make use of one or more ghouls to handle their daylight business.

The Embrace. Feed a mortal your vitae and you create a ghoul. Drain a mortal to death and feed that mortal your Blood and you create a new vampire of your clan. You are now the sire to a childe. This act is called the Embrace. Most Princes of the Camarilla forbid Embracing new vampires except under special conditions, as there are always too many vampires and never enough places to hunt.

The Blood Bond. Drink a vampire's blood three times on three separate nights and you are bound to that vampire, forced into service through a supernatural compulsion called the Blood Bond. If you create a ghoul, that ghoul is soon Blood Bound to you. Beware of your sire—you've already tasted your sire's Blood once, when you were Embraced and turned into a vampire!

Learning from the Blood. Vampires of different clans begin with different Disciplines, but you can unlock more Disciplines by tasting the Blood of another vampire and then receiving instruction from them.

Diablerie. To drain another vampire, body and soul, is called diablerie, and the Camarilla consider it the most awful of crimes. But young vampires practice the art in secret anyway, hunting their elders, in order to lower their generation and gain greater power.

Generation. According to legend, the first vampire was Caine, the first murderer. Legend further says that Caine had three childer, who had childer of their own, and that those vampires of the Third Generation founded the clans. Whether or not you believe this story, when a vampire Embraces a mortal, that childe's Blood is thinner and weaker than the sire's. Vampires of high generation are sometimes Caitiff (the Clanless), and those of very high generation are thin-bloods—barely vampires at all. Though a vampire's Disciplines develop with age, generation does not change…except through diablerie.

Functions of Abilities, Skills, and Disciplines

Abilities

Strength: Punching, wrestling, clawing (if you have claws). Most climbing where you haul yourself up.

Dexterity: Balance, speed, reacting quickly. Attacking with a bladed weapon or in coyote form (if you can change shape), reacting quickly. Most shooting that relies on speed.

Stamina: Adds to your Health. Not used actively.

Charisma: Getting people to like you. Leading people into battle or giving them orders. Impressing a crowd.

Manipulation: Getting people to do what you want (even if they don't like you). Most kinds of lies and deceit.

Composure: Adds to your Willpower. Staying cool, in social situations or in a fight (especially when threatened by fire or sunlight).

Intelligence: Education, reasoning ability, analysis. Most forms of research.

Wits: Cunning, cleverness, noticing things on the go. Intuition, "following your nose." Shooting when you can't see clearly.

Resolve: Adds to your Willpower. Determination, patience. Performing tasks that take all night or that are mentally draining.

Use the language of the choices to determine what is being tested. "Quickly" usually means Dexterity, "clever" signals Wits, "patient" implies Resolve.

Specific descriptions override general rules. You normally use Dexterity to strike with a sword, but if there's a lot of smoke and the choice says you need to be clever to hit, that's Wits.

Skills

Athletics: Jumping, swimming, running, dodging.

Combat: Brawling, wrestling, wielding swords or improvised weapons, using claws or teeth.

Drive: This gets your AE86 to its destination in one piece.

Firearms: Shooting a gun.

Clandestine: Sneaking, moving silently, hiding, picking locks, forcing doors.

Intimidation: Threatening, bullying, and forcing others to back down.

Leadership: Giving orders. Commanding your ghoul; also adds a passive boost when you work together with your ghoul.

Persuasion: Getting people to do what you want in a more or less straightforward manner, without lies or threats. Also covers etiquette and manners.

Streetwise: Bribery. Knowing streets and alleys (useful for quick getaways). Interacting with criminals.

Subterfuge: Lying, swindling, and deceiving. Also includes palming, picking pockets, and similar deceptions.

Academics: Nonscientific education—everything from history and philosophy to occult lore. Used in Blood Sorcery.

Awareness: Noticing things just by looking around (or listening or sniffing around).

Investigation: Careful, systematic exploring. Helps you both find hidden items and interrogate people until you find something.

Technology: Crafts, car repair, computer use, and hacking, as well as scientific acumen.

Survival: Finding shelter (especially from sunlight!), hunting wild animals.

Disciplines

Most Disciplines increase your Hunger when used but add a bonus to your actions.

Animalism: Grants you a wolf companion who grants significant bonuses to actions when activated. Your lobo gains power as you advance this Discipline. Low risk of a Masquerade breach; your lobo is just a "big weird dog."

Auspex: Enhances your senses, typically improving skills like Awareness, Investigation, and (if you're shooting where you can't see clearly) Firearms. Low risk of Masquerade breach; Auspex affects only you.

Blood Sorcery: Not a proper Discipline so much as a collection of ritual techniques developed over millennia. Most rituals take time and grant automatic success to an action; particularly challenging rituals, or those opposed by another sorcerer, often rely on Intelligence and Academics. Risk of Masquerade breach varies based on the ritual.

Celerity: Supernatural speed and quickness. Offers only a modest bonus, but helps with a huge number of activities, especially when you need to fight or flee. Mortals will be surprised by but not suspicious of the lowest level of Celerity; any more than that breaches the Masquerade.

Dominate: Overwhelming short-term mind control. Usually succeeds automatically, especially on mortals. A blunt instrument; doesn't gently boost your natural abilities like Presence. Low Masquerade risk since it's so uncanny. Dominate can also be used to scramble memories, which protects your secrets.

Fortitude: Unnatural resilience, even against the vampire's natural banes (fire and sunlight). Not used actively; it works automatically when you're hurt to absorb injury. Low risk of Masquerade breach—maybe you were wearing body armor?

Obfuscate: Fading from sight. Not literal invisibility; people just don't notice you. Mostly used to enhance Clandestine when sneaking. Low risk of Masquerade breach unless you just vanish in front of someone.

Potence: Monstrous strength. Increase your ferocity in combat and smash right through obstacles. Like Celerity, mortals will accept the lowest levels of Potence as the effects of adrenaline, but any more than that breaches the Masquerade.

Presence: Unnatural allure and charisma. Use it to fill mortals with dread (enhances Intimidate) or to enhance your natural charm (pairs with a large number of social skills). Lacks the immediate and inescapable power of Dominate, but more flexible. Low risk of Masquerade breach; people just believe you're unusually magnetic.

Protean: Three distinct shapeshifting powers. Beginners can grow wolflike claws to rip their enemies to shreds. Intermediate students learn how to meld with the earth, sinking into the ground to escape pursuers (or the rising sun). Masters take the form of beasts—in your case, a coyote. Any use of Protean is a huge and obvious Masquerade breach.

#vampire the masquerade #vtm night road #vtmnr #vtmnr spoilers #long post #resources

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romanovanoff · 3 years

Text

bio says black widow stories but i do like to dabble with other characters too. ill have a full list on another post.

YOU & I

A Bellatrix & Tom Riddle story

part one

characters:

bellatrix black

tom riddle

narcissa black

andromeda black

druella black

rodolphus lestrange

rabastan lestrange

(tba)

relationships:

bella/tom

narcissa/lucius

andromeda/ted

(tba)

summary: tom is the new kid in school and is already popular amongst his peers. his goal is to have bellatrix black by his side when he conquers the wizarding world, and his only problem? bella is already in an arranged marriage and also wants nothing to do with him.

disclaimer: i have never read the books, and ive seen all the movies only like twice. im not a crazy fanatic potterhead, i just have an unhealthy obsession for bellatrix/helena bonham carter 😌. so apologies in advance if i make any mistakes, regarding whats canon in the harry potter universe and so on. the little things, the big things, my bad. i hope the fact that its mostly au makes up for what it lacks in accuracy.

word count: 3497

——————————

"I overheard earlier today that Hogwarts received a new student," Druella spoke as she took a sip of tea, delicately patting a napkin across her lips before gazing over at her three daughters. Bellatrix, who didn't seem interested at all in the conversation, Andromeda, who was busy scribbling something in her diary, and little Narcissa who was following along to her mother's words.

"Yes, it's true," The blonde girl, thirteen years old, responded. "I thought it strange at first but apparently he and his family were living somewhere in Europe. Tom Riddle, I think his name is. He'd been taught at home and his father had gotten a job at the ministry so they transferred him to Hogwarts."

Ever the gossip, it didn't surprise Bellatrix in the slightest that Cissy knew so much about the new student. She rolled her eyes, wondering why the hell they were even discussing this in the first place. It was just a new student, who cares? She voiced this several times out loud but had received the usual disapproving glances from the two blondes. It creeped the raven-haired witch sometimes at how much Cissy resembled their mother.

Letting out a sigh Bella swirled her spoon around in her teacup, not finding the appetite to drink nor eat the sweets that accompanied her tea. The three of them were currently in Rosa Lee's teashop, a place they often went to every other week, with permission to leave the school of course- though she didn’t ask for it most times. Usually Bellatrix would devour the treats but today she was feeling too anxious to do anything but. At seventeen years old she had stretched out her days of freedom and was now forced into a marriage that should have taken place two years ago.

The thought of marriage wasn't all that bad, if she was being honest. Sometimes when her thoughts and actions weren't clouded with hate and rage she'd daydream a not so near future of a perfect wedding. A wedding where she would be marrying someone she truly loved and could cherish, to honor their vows to the fullest extent. So the wedding itself wasn't the problem, it was who she was supposed to be wed to that was. Her long time childhood friend, Rodolphus Lestrange. And one of the very few in the sacred 28 that wasn't related to the Blacks by blood. At least that she was aware of… The thought still made her cringe, even after checking every family tapestry available and an exhausting amount of research.

Everyone wanted her to be happy about the fact she'd get to marry someone she's known for years, something most pure-bloods didn't have the honor of having, but it was the fact she knew him so well that she hated. He was like a brother to her, albeit at times an annoying and even sexist brother. He wasn't husband material and she was most certainly not wife material for him. And add to the fact that they'd be pressured to have children immediately after becoming man and wife, the thought of having sex with him made her want to gag. You'd think they'd notice that such a practice was incredibly outdated. She hated to wonder if the marriage had taken place two years ago, would they really pressure two 15 year olds to consumate? Fuck this life.

She felt like the world and everyone in it was against her. All her complaints had been shot down, leaving her inwardly seething with rage before being left totally subdued. Oh, how she hated being so… powerless, left without a voice, without a right to do what she wanted and to do so as she pleased, the ever present shadow looming over her shoulder that was the society and family she was born into.

Letting out a sigh she looked over at Andromeda who was still scribbling in that damn book. Probably instant messaging her friends, something Bellatrix didn't have the luxury of having. At least genuine ones anyway. The ones she had in school were merely vultures following around, waiting for the opportunity to eat away at the scraps she bared. They didn't hesitate to use her to their advantage, trying to play her like a fool. Idiots, they should've known she was the brightest witch of her age for a reason. And no one took advantage of Bellatrix Black.

Despite still being superior she continued feeling a bitter pang in her heart, knowing no one truly cared for her there. Well, maybe except for her sisters, Rodolphus and his brother that is.

Catching her eyes on what she was doing Andromeda quickly closed her book and narrowed her eyes at her eldest sister. But then a familiar smirk curled the girls lips and Bellatrix knew what was going to happen before her sister could even utter a word. She knew that smirk anywhere. Bella herself wore that smirk on several occasions, actually even taught it to her dear sister! If only mother knew how truly naughty Andy was, maybe then the heat wouldn't fall upon Bella so heavily when she did something that displeased her.

"Mother," Andromeda chimed in, interrupting Cissy's conversation with the older woman. "Bellatrix is right. Why not talk about something else."

"Andy…" The dark haired witch warned, fingers clenched around her spoon.

"Like… Bella's wedding perhaps? Surely there are plenty of plans to discuss. Some of which I'm sure my dear sister here is needed for?" The brunette suggested 'innocently', smiling back at Bellatrix before looking at her mother.

Druella blinked once, then twice before she brightened up. Damnit, Andy, Bella thought to herself angrily, glaring daggers at her younger sister. "You're right! We only have a short few weeks before the big day and still so much to do. How about we end this little meal early and say we go to one of the boutiques nearby, check up on your wedding dress," Druella said as she rose from her seat.

And so that's what they did. They went to the boutique, checked the incredibly old fashioned dress, with what looked like the most painfully looking corset yet stitched into the fabric. After, they stopped by a few other shops to double check things were in order for the wedding before finally apparating home. The entire time Bellatrix had trudged along reluctantly behind her sisters and mother, offering a few weak comments and opinions for this thing and that when asked of her.

She was glad to finally be back home, finding relief in the knowledge that tomorrow morning she'd be returning back to Hogwarts, having spent the weekend with her family. On one hand she was glad she managed to extend the wedding date, convincing her parents that it might be wise that she finish her last year and take her N.E.W.T.s before focusing on 'wifely duties'. Yes, that was how she phrased it. And yes, they'd taken the bait, obviously wanting their daughter to focus on her marriage once out of school, and not caring about the intelligence hidden behind her usual mask of indifference.

She made short work separating from her family's side to make her way upstairs to her room. And then made even shorter work getting ready for bed. No one ever bothered her when she was up the stairs and hidden away. It was known to all that Bellatrix Black inherited the 'mad' gene in the family, more prone to violent outbursts and destructive tantrums. Because of this her room wasn't the prettiest, constantly being repaired and sparse so there were less objects to break. The room was also constantly being placed under a silencing charm, quieting her screams so the rest of the household could sleep peacefully. How thoughtful of them, she thought to herself bitterly.

The sun was already down by the time she emerged from the bathroom, all scrubbed up and her hair wet, the many strands in ringlets falling down her back. With her wand, she casted a quick-drying spell to both her body and hair, not bothering with any sleeping robes as she climbed into bed. Once in she blew out the candles before getting comfortable under the covers. Usually, it would be too early to go to sleep, and she'd have at least a glass or two of firewhiskey to help her doze off but she felt the whole unexpected wedding planning this afternoon was enough to do her in. Not only that but she did need to wake up early to catch the train back to Hogwarts tomorrow. So without much further thought she closed her heavy eyes and fell asleep, hoping things could be much easier in the future.

THE HOGWARTS EXPRESS

"Tom Riddle is in our class."

"I heard Tom's family is incredibly wealthy and direct descendants to Salazar Slytherin."

"It's true! I overheard him talking to snakes! Snakes!"

The whispers and excited talk continued on and on the moment Bellatrix stepped onto the Hogwarts express. If she thought Cissy talking to mother about this ‘nobody’ annoyed her, she was absolutely wrong. Hearing everyone around her discuss this Riddle boy absolutely drenched her high spirits and put her in one of her dark moods.

No one needed to look twice to know to stay away from the young witch. If dark glaring eyes didn't strike fear into her peers, then the dark energy and aura surrounding her would.

Not wanting to hear the gossip anymore Bella separated from her 'friends' and found a seating compartment for herself, only able to hold two people, but thankfully no one dared claim the other spot. She sat close to the window, forehead touching the glass, and seeming to cool her ever bubbling irritation. Trees and rolling hills passed by in a blur but she wasn't particularly watching, eyes slightly glazed over as she got lost in thought.

So lost in thought she almost didn't notice the sounds of her compartment door being slid open and a person taking a seat across from her. Blinking slowly she looked over to the 'intruder' as the door slid closed once more, leaving the two individuals with some privacy she didn't necessarily want.

The person in front of her was a young man. Probably around her age with dark brown hair, curling neatly at the front. He had bright emerald eyes, warm but she got the hint of something darker underneath, something dangerous hidden beneath the surface and ready to strike unsuspecting prey. Despite that though everything else about him seemed pretty bland. Pale skin- but not as pale as hers-, average build, and put together uniform.

"Who're you?" She found herself asking, swallowing the automatic 'get out' she was originally planning on saying. Given the fact she hasn't seen him before in this school year or any year before that, she was already dreading the answer. She wasn't even sure why she disliked him so much already. Maybe it was the fact he's barely even started school here and yet everyone was already drooling over him. Maybe it was the fact he was well known for things the student body hasn't even had proof of, things he was already praised for. And on her side of things she was well known for her infamous anger and her upcoming marriage to Rodolphus. That or her status of being the firstborn Black daughter. Otherwise known as the current heir of the Black family. Well. That was until her idiot cousin, Sirius was old enough to steal the mantle from her.

So when he said, "Tom. Tom Riddle," She really couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. Cause of course the person she had no care for was sat in, of all seats, the one in front of her. "Does that name offend you?" He then asked, wearing the same damn smirk he wore the moment she took in his appearance just seconds earlier.

"No," She said in a bored drawl, eyes once again gazing out the window as her head rested against the glass. "Unlike every other idiot out there, I care not for who you are. You're just another ordinary student attending Hogwarts. Nothing special about that," She told him, her tone consistent in telling him of how much she didn't care.

He was quiet for some time. Not too long, but enough to give her pause and wonder if she'd wandered too deep in thought and he'd slipped away. Only a glance his way revealed that, no, he was still here. "I agree," He finally spoke again. "There's nothing special about me at all. And I'm starting to despise the fact people are so interested in me. Took a look at the school Friday and suddenly everyone thinks so highly of me just because it was a private tour by the headmaster himself," He huffed.

It was clear to Bellatrix by the way he spoke, by the way he talked that he was excellent at charming people, manipulating them even if you would use the darker term. Again, she was many things but an idiot was not one of them and she wasn't falling for his 'charms' or tactics any time soon.

"Oh, poor you," She said in a mocking voice, jutting out her bottom lip as she faced him fully. "New kid in school has everyone fawning over him. Such a terrible life you must live, knowing you have everyone in the palm of your hands with just a smile." She finished the sentence off with said smile before turning it into a sneer.

"I won't repeat myself again. I care not for who you are, and I don't wish to know you or anything about you. So if you're going to sit here, then it better be in silence, or so help me merlin I will curse you. Laws be damned," She hissed. Hopefully for the last time she turned away again, feeling her mood lighten just slightly at her first threat of the day.

Usually, other students would run away by now, flee the vicinity in which she occupied, but Tom just sat there, in shock, or because he actually listened to her words. Finding herself curious about which option she chanced another glance but was surprised to see him wearing that annoying little smirk instead. "Cute," He told her, enjoying the way her eyes widened just slightly before darkening with anger. "That threat might work on others but it won't with me."

Her magic was absolutely crackling around her, like static in the air just before an oncoming storm. She was soon to make good on her threat. "Based on your looks, in how you speak, and the way I saw you walk earlier, looking down at everyone as if they were beneath you. I would safely assume you are a… Black. Bellatrix Black? Considering you look to be in the same year as me," He continued, assuming everything correctly. She didn't need to know though that he'd actually done his research prior to moving here, and that he had asked around earlier. "I don't expect you to get along with me from the start, but you will see me around often. I'll personally make sure of that. Cause I like you," He said with a shrug, smirk still in place.

Bold. Oh, so very bold and before Bellatrix could even utter a single word or even grab and raise her wand for that matter, he was already out the door. The space in front of her was once again vacant and she stared at the now unoccupied seat as the door slid closed.

LATER THAT DAY

It was almost impossible for the raven haired witch to avoid hearing or seeing Tom. It was as if everywhere she turned, someone was talking about him or he himself was staring at her from a distance. Usually she would never admit such a thing, her pride too strong, but it greatly unnerved her. Who the hell did he think he was? Claiming he would see her more often because he liked her? “Doesn’t even know me,” She scoffed to herself, annoyed as she continued on the familiar path to her dormitory.

Bellatrix was a slytherin through and through, like every other Black family member before her. There had been no question about it. Well, maybe after. She questioned it alot. The houses, the characteristics and traits. All of it. And once she's put herself in a more outside perspective about it she really couldn't help but laugh at the whole student body, almost all of them adapting and practically absorbing their houses certain traits into their own personality.

Anyway, she was a slytherin, but she couldn't help but wonder if she'd changed her mindset that first day, if her family hadn't been so adamant on which house she went to, would she have been chosen for hufflepuff, perhaps? Maybe gryffindor? Ew, no. Possibly ravenclaw. These thoughts raced past in her mind as she made her way down into the dungeons. There was a little of her in each, she supposed.

"Drommie, Cissy," Bellatrix greeted once she made it into the girls dorm, having already said the password and walked through the shared sitting room. All three Black sisters shared the same room, something Bellatrix and her mother both insisted and agreed upon to the headmaster when first starting school here. It was a protective thing. Bella knew that her sisters weren't like her, lacking in gut and courage. She was sure Andromeda could take care of herself, at times, but if worse came to worse she was more likely to break under pressure and need rescuing from her bigger sister. And little Narcissa, the spoiled brat she was, didn't have a single backbone in her body, choosing instead to flee or hide behind one's robes. Despite those certain qualities though Bellatrix still loved her sisters dearly and simply made it a priority to keep them safe, consequences to herself be damned.

Sure… maybe it was Bella's fault for them needing protection, having spent most of her years reigning terror down upon those who even glance at her, therefore her peers not liking her and taking it out on her sisters instead. But… hey! They looked at her funny, they deserved it!

"Bella why didn't you sit with us on the train," Narcissa asked, looking at her older sister as she sat on her bed.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes and walked past, towards her own bed furthest in the room and by the window. "As if I'd sit and listen to you two and your friends gossiping about the 'new boy'," She said back.

Andromeda turned to her with a quirked brow. "I don't know, by the looks of it you sat just fine with the 'new boy' before you ran him away."

Bellatrix was only able to scoff as a response before Narcissa quickly interrupted, hopping over towards Bellatrix. "You got to talk to Tom Riddle?" She asked excitedly. "How was he like? Was he charming? Did he show you parseltongue?"

"Cissy, please, calm down. He was none of those things. He was very bland… and cocky, and arrogant," Bella responded, the end getting heated with annoyance. Not towards her sister of course.

"Sounds like someone I know," Andromeda spoke up with a pointed look Bella's way.

"Shut up," The dark haired witch shot back. Because of course she couldn't deny it. She was those things sometimes… all the time. "Whatever. Let’s go. It's time for lunch anyway."

(A/N: lets be honest idk how classes work at hogwarts so lets say bellatrix and sis’s meet up w mother on the reggy, with permission or without, and this particular weekend was a break for all students to either visit their fam or relax in their dorms/explore school grounds. today (mon) is a day for them to get readjusted and classes start up again the following day. anyway continue)

All the way to the great hall Bellatrix's sisters continued teasing her about Tom. Thankfully she took the teasing easily, shoving her sisters good naturedly and joking along. That was until they reached the great hall. She didn't think her sisters noticed but as they walked past others to get to their table Bellatrix could feel a strong force on her, like something digging into the back of her head. She scanned her eyes around the room once, trying to catch the culprit of whatever was happening but all she could see were other students eating merrily, not a clue to her predicament. Thankfully by the time she'd sat down the force had vanished and she could focus back on her sisters.

Tom stood just outside the doors of the great hall, panting and trying to catch his breath. Never had he been rejected so quickly from someone's mind, not even close to breaching it in fact. Her magic was strong, untampered and just waiting to be fully unleashed just beneath the surface. A magic enough to rival his own. She may think she was strong now but oh just wait until he had her with him, by his side. Just wait until he showed her what she's truly capable of.

With these thoughts in mind he swiftly walked away from the great hall entrance, on his way back to his dorm.

#harry potter #bellatrix lestrange #bellatrix #bellatrix black #bellatrix x voldemort #bellatrix x tom riddle #helena bonham carter #wizarding world #hogwarts #writing #writer #story #fanfiction #fiction #fictional #stories

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greengrass-grows-all-around · 3 years

Text

—— isn’t that rabia greengrass? yeah that is them, sitting there at the hufflepuff table with those other sixth years. when sybill looks into that crystal ball of hers, she sees glass slippers, abandoned at midnight; proving a point if it’s the last thing you do; being able to accept help, even when you can’t ask for it; the scent of candles and bubblebath; a window dying to be used as a door; an adaptable spirit hard at work; and the foolhardiness of falling head over heels over and over again, even though it only ever ends in heartbreak; which seems about right for that nineteen year old. anyway i’ve heard they’re pretty wary, an escapist, and smarter than she looks (or pretends). apparently they’re neutral (for now) and pureblood but i’m sure that’s not related… —— playlist || pinterest

death mention tw

THE INSPIRATIONS

lydia bennet - pride & prejudice; margo - paper towns; mary-ann (goodbye earl) - the chicks

––––––––––––––

→ NAME: rabia ceylan nimet greengrass → NICKNAMES: rab (and she LIKES it, specifically because rabastan and regulus both turn around anyways); rabi, rabid (thanks, emira); cey → AGE / D.O.B.: 19 / 12 April 1958 → SPECIES: pureblood witch → GENDER / PRONOUNS: cisfemale / she&her → SEXUALITY: bisexual (has recently sworn off men for the thousandth time, but things change)

FAMILY → PARENTS: azra greengrass is the only parent rab acknowledges, currently → SIBLINGS: brother: burak sisters: zehra, azra, emira → COUSINS: ? → PETS: she has a pet rat, named Louis (she found him 3 years ago)

LIFESTYLE → BORN: france → RAISED: france; the streets (I couldn’t stop her) → CURRENT RESIDENCE: london - with azra ; hogwarts castle → NATIONALITY: turkish; french → SPOKEN LANGUAGES: english, french, half decent spanglish → OCCUPATION: Hogwarts’ Biggest Flight Risk™; student; → DRINK | SMOKE | DRUGS: she’s laughing, give her a minute → RELIGION: god is a dj, life is a dance floor

PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES → FACE CLAIM: bahar sahin → ETHNICITY: turkish → HEIGHT: 5ft. 4 in. → WEIGHT: 105 lbs → BUILD: small and skinny, always looks like she needs a cheeseburger → HAIR: long, brown; sometimes she makes it look nice, sometimes she doesn’t → EYE COLOR: green → DOMINANT HAND: left → SCENT: cigarette smoke and whatever soap azra has been buying, she hasn’t decided who she wants to be next yet, it’s still in the works → NERVOUS HABITS: she straight up just leaves, now, when she’s uncomfortable; but, for the people she’s close to, and her family, anyone who can keep her in place, she has a tendency to either over/undershare, change the subject so thoroughly your head spins (repeatedly), and tends to to tell the truth halves to test the waters

CHARACTER → MORAL ALIGNMENT: neutral good → MBTI: isfp → WESTERN ZODIAC: aries → SONG: runaway - bon jovi / edge of seventeen - stevie nicks

MAGIC → WAND: black walnut, fairy wings & demiguise hair; 9 5/8 inches → PATRONUS: crow → BOGGART: she’s not ready to talk about it; it isn’t pretty

BIO

rabia used to be the pretty, spoiled, third and (incredibly) overlooked daughter.

not the baby, not even the direct center, rabia felt invisible most of her life

and that was not exactly helped by the fact she and her siblings were raised by nannies

and she ... oh my god, that girl is hard to keep track of

she wanders off CONSTANTLY - always has, ever since she learned to walk

she likes to be by herself, though she doesn’t mind company; she just prefers to be out wherever the problems and the people arent (exceptions withstanding, of course)

she’s reckless when it comes to giving away her heart. convinced no one and everyone wants and should have it

but no heart ever breaks the same way twice, so she still wouldn’y call herself an expert on the matter although she’s made excellent strides in the commitment arena

it wasn’t her fault he left, it was his. okay, she kicked him out and that screwed her over, but he screwed her over first, and then he had to go and ... stop existing involuntarily

but that was last year, let’s back up

rabia was not under some misguided impression that her parents cared for her - she knew they didn’t. the role of she and her sisters and her brother was to make them look good. no more, no less

they didn’t care what she did, where she did it, who she did it with, or even to

and rabia really enjoyed testing the limits of this, even if she couldn’t admit how disappointing it was to realize, truly, that no one gave a single shit what you did, or even if you were alright.

and at beauxbatons, at the end of her 5th year, she couldn’t wait for the freedom graduation was going t bring her.

the freedom to move on – with her life, with everything.

but freedom came calling sooner than anyone expected

she was only fifteen when he asked her to run away with him, he was 17 already, he’d just graduated - was anyone going to miss her right away?

no, she’d said

and she’d been right - four four years, no one came for her

but rabia and her love, the boy worth leaving her family for, were over before the first year was out, but at the time their circle was still small, and the end was messy.

of course, in the time it took to kick him out of the flat, they’d lost the flat, so they went their separate ways, and rabia started continent hopping

she WAS starting to run low on funding, though, and from there on out the next three years was a life altering, swim or drown, course on grinding, coasting, and keeping yourself off the radar, while enjoying the freedom of having no ties

last year, they ran into each other, in mexico, no less

and it was almost okay

until it wasn’t

but a jail cell, in tijuana, was not high on rabia’s list of places to see

it was his fault, and she just happened to be there, but he’d been in mexico longer than he’d said he’d been, and she’s still not sure she wants the full story of what happened that night

not the parts she witnessed, or the parts she missed

so she did what she did best – she went to the beach

then she went to spain, because spain is better than mexico

then she started feeling homesick

but she hadn’t been back in france a week before they’d found her;

a day, honestly, because she went to london to visit a friend, and by that very same afternoon she was sitting on her sister’s sofa

it’s been ..... weird.

rabia never was much for rules, especially not as invisible as she was before, and she’d been on her own for quite some time, so she’s still frequently in trouble

but it’s nice to have someone who ccares enough to be mad at her for not coming home on time

and it’s nice to be with emira again, too, even if she does have to go back to school

she still regularly sneaks out and has not learned the definition of grounded yet

but she and louis – who she found near versailles, by the way, and claims is descended from royalty – have been just fine on their own, so they are looking forward to trying out “normal” again

whatever that means

for a greengrass

#dawn:intro #my life as a teenaged runaway || the past #packin up; shackin up's all you wanna do || about #you know the drill I fix as I go #death mention tw

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madampince-rph · 4 years

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everybody always makes alice longbottom in the same families: fortescue, selwyn, prewett. which do you think is best? or do you have better suggestion? thnx

Honestly I really don’t like Alice as a Prewett. It doesn’t make sense to me. I mean we know that Molly is really big on family, basically adopting Harry after five minutes conversation, so if Neville was a nephew or something like that don’t you think she’d have been part of his childhood? Even just a small part? Don’t you think the Weasley children would consider him family, even distant family, if he was a direct Prewett descendant? Making Alice a Prewett makes me uncomfortable, because if you project that lineage out to what we get in the books later it just doesn’t work. imo: bad idea, one of the worst.

Between Fortescue and Selwyn, I prefer Selwyn. We don’t get to really meet any Selwyns in the books – just one Death Eater who shows up briefly – but we have a nice little encounter with Florean Fortescue, and he seems like a friendly sort of guy. Someone who would likely have made at least a token effort to be involved in the childhood of a basically-orphaned little kid whom everyone thought was a Squib, if he had been part of Neville’s family. And while there is nothing in the books that says he and Neville weren’t family or friendly, the fact that Florean hangs out with Harry for a summer and doesn’t mention anything about Neville – a boy who is in not just the same year as Harry, but the same house – well, it just reads as off. Or that is it would read as off, if Neville was a relative of Florean, because that seems like the kind of thing that would have come up in conversation even if he and Neville weren’t personally close. But when Harry is summarizing his weeks in Diagon Alley, he doesn’t say “Florean Fortescue, Neville’s uncle who ran the ice cream parlor…” or anything like that, which leaves anyone trying to make that canon connection the responsibility of answering the question, why not? Why would Florean not introduce himself via Neville when he met Harry? Why would Harry not reference Florean’s connection to his housemate? I’m not saying you can’t make it work, that it’s impossible to come up with a way to make Alice a Fortescue without making later events in the books go wonky – but you definitely need to make that effort to craft that backstory.

Honestly having Alice be directly related to anyone we meet in the books who interacts with Harry in any sort of extended and friendly fashion doesn’t really work for me, because it feels awkward for them to never mention something about “oh you got to school with my nephew, Neville, he talks about you all the time!” or so on, you know? And again, it’s not impossible to do it and do it well, but it is something you have to tackle because when you’re writing a prequel (which is what Marauders Era stuff is if you think about it): you have to be very conscious of the canon that is going to come later and how what you’re writing now that’s new works alongside what was written previously about what is going to happen next. I think we’re all familiar with badly done prequel stories that don’t quite mesh with their later-slash-earlier installments, so I expect you get what I mean when I say that that kind of attention to detail matters!

(Also tbh most of the time when I see Alice linked to a family like that, one of the “nice ones” we meet, her background tends to read as pretty “Mary Sue-ish” anyway. You know what I mean: the sort of OC-insert character who ~conveniently~ has really close family ties to other characters we know and she’s suuuuuper important in their lives and oh-so-special and…basically it just makes you think of bad fanfics, right? The kind you write when you’re twelve and want to burn later? Maybe that’s just me idk, but any time I see the name “Alice Fortescue” I cringe because I think I know what’s coming, and sadly I’m usually right.)

Anyway, basically the thing that I think is important to keep in mind when crafting a backstory for Alice is what we learn about Neville’s upbringing: he was raised by his paternal grandmother. He had a family of busybody relatives who sent him lots of advice on what classes to take and who all thought he was a Squib when he was little and did awful things to try and get his magic to show itself (the doing of which seemed very casual, almost like he was an afterthought, as evinced by him being dropped out the window once when someone wanted desert). No one thought he was important or talented. His grandmother takes him to visit his parents in St. Mungo’s on holidays. She acts very familiar to her daughter-in-law (although admittedly she’s spent about fourteen years visiting her in the closed ward by then, so there’s no telling what their relationship was like back when Alice had her full faculties) and worn-out by it all, although still fiercely proud of her son’s talents (and later her grandson’s, at least once he finally “lives up to” what she wanted from him after the fighting against Voldemort starts).

From here on out this is admittedly all extrapolation, but going off of what we know: it has always seemed to me as though there are a lot of Longbottoms of Augusta’s generation or around that age but not a lot of younger ones, and Alice’s family doesn’t seem to be involved in things with Neville much at all. We know she’s a pure-blood, because Neville is, so it’s not a situation like with Lily – but we also know that the family line means a lot to most pure-blood families. So from that we can draw the assumption that for whatever reason, Alice’s son doesn’t matter much to her side of the family, even though one would think he ought to. Is that because she comes from a huge family, so the Squib-ish son of the girl who went mad and got locked up in St. Mungo’s isn’t someone they need to spend much thought on? Is that because she comes from a family that has almost died-out and there just aren’t many of them left to care about him? Is it because they don’t consider him part of “their” family as much as they do “a Longbottom” because the maternal line doesn’t matter to them as much? Is it because Alice herself had a falling-out with her family so they severed ties before Neville was born?Is it because her family and the Longbottoms just don’t get along (either for reasons that existed at the time Alice and Frank got married, which she did despite her family’s wishes, or for reasons that cropped-up later – perhaps over the side that Alice and Frank chose in the war, or perhaps they blame him for what happened to her, etc etc?) so they don’t want to have anything to do with the Longbottoms...who might not welcome them anyway even if they did?

The last option makes me like the Selwyn idea because we know the Selwyns are pure-bloods at least in part (from the fact that Umbridge claims their lineage when sporting Slytherin’s locket) and we know that at least one of them was a Death Eater. Now that doesn’t necessarily mean the whole family was a bunch of blood-supremacists of course, but it does give us more potential to play with than we get from the Fortescues or the Ollivanders (or the Prewetts), I believe. Giving Alice a family that is: a) majority pro-voldemort or b) mixed between pro-voldemort/pro-dumbledore or even c) majority pro-dumbledore but with a few outcast death eaters provides a much more interesting and idea-fertile background, I think, for both her and her son.

To that end I’m thinking that if you really want to tie Alice in with a family that has members we know well – maybe one that provides you with relatives who will also be played in your game without adding a bunch of OCs – you can always go with the Lestranges. That’s an idea that occurred to me recently that I really, really like. Make her a cousin or second-cousin or so forth to Rodolphus and Rabastan. Not a sister; if she was that closely related to them the dialogue we get between Bellatrix and Neville later gets awkward because there’s no way she wouldn’t introduce herself as his “auntie” to drive the spikes in deeper, not if they had that kind of connection – but some sort of relation, anyway. Then you get to add another layer of intensity to a bunch of canon things without having to actually twist canon at all:

Why did Voldemort pick the Potters and their half-blood son to go after first, before the pure-blood boy? Maybe it wasn’t just because he and Harry shared the same blood-status; maybe it was because the pure-blood was related to his most loyal servant so he figured he’d start with the stranger (either because he thought Harry would be easier to deal with, or because he trusted Bella and her boys to be quick to deal with the Longbottoms if they got troublesome in the meantime).

Why did the Lestranges go after the Longbottoms when they wanted information about Voldemort’s whereabouts? Maybe it wasn’t just because they were Aurors who knew Ministry secrets and were part of the Order; maybe it was because they were family. We know that Bellatrix is enthusiastic about the prospect of pruning traitors out of her family tree after all, an idea that she would probably extend to her relatives-by-marriage even if the Lestrange brothers didn’t share that fatal familial enthusiasm for themselves…although they probably do.

Why did the Lestranges torture the Longbottoms so much that they lost their minds permanently, when surely that meant going far beyond the point of their actually being able to get any answers from them? Maybe it wasn’t just because they got carried away and liked the fun of it so they kept going even when it wasn’t useful any more; maybe it was exacerbated by the fact that Alice and Frank were family and they needed to be punished for choosing the wrong side. Maybe it was personal.

If Alice was a Lestrange before her marriage, then tension between the Longbottoms and the Lestranges gets ratcheted-up about a thousand points in all areas, both regarding the things that happen in the books and their relationships before. It puts her in a position similar to Sirius and Andromeda, where the battle lines are drawn between the branches on her own family tree and she has to decide how far she is willing to go for what she believes in, even when she knows the person looking back at her out of that silver mask.

The First Wizarding War divided people against their own family and friends and too often we get mired in extreme black-and-white ideas of good and evil sides, forgetting that there are a lot more shades of gray (just ask Sirius). Since we know so little about Alice, she’s a perfect opportunity to explore that nuance and making her related to a few Death Eaters (of any family) is a great way to play around with that. Honestly I have like a hundred different ideas of things that could be done with such an Alice so if you want to build one and you’re drawing a blank please hit me up I will gladly gush to you!

tl;dr Alice Selwyn = yes, that’s interesting. Alice Fortescue = a whole lot of meh and a little awkward. Alice Prewett = please no that causes more problems than it does anything else. Also consider as an option: Alice Lestrange.

#alice longbottom #hp rph #alice longbottom rp #bellatrix lestrange #neville longbottom #longbottom family #pure bloods #alice lestrange #alice selwyn #alice prewett #alice ollivander #lestrange family #marauders era rph #character building #character canons #pince's rants #extrapolations

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song-fox · 4 years

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Introducing: another self-indulgent AU that I made up completely on a whim because I was feeling nostalgic.

Long post ahead, I got suuper carried away and also I can't do the cut thing TwT

And now: Sanders Sides Ever After High AU (with some alterations to fit the characters and story more, obviously)

-Virgil, son of the Evil Queen from Snow White's story

-Roman, son of Snow White (honestly were these^ two even a question of who they would be lmao)

-Patton, son of Cinderella

-Logan, son of Belle

-Remus, son of the Mad Hatter (him and Roman aren't related in this AU)

-Janus, son of the Cheshire Cat

-Remy, son of Sleeping Beauty

-Emile, son of Cupid

(Btw, by 'son' I mean descendant. These guys are just descendants of the original characters and live out the og fairytale, idk why they're called the sons and daughters of the characters in the actual show)

Now, onto the story!

Ever After High is a school where all the kids of fairytale characters go and learn more about their respective fairytales, magic and whatnot. Separated into Royals and Rebels, those who want to follow their destinies and those who don't, these kids are just trying to navigate through high school and figure out their place in the fairytale world.

Virgil Queen is... somewhat of an outcast. Son of the Evil Queen, one of the most malicious villains in their history, and he doesn't exactly try to live down the title. He hexes anyone who bothers him a little too much, he snaps at people who judge him for 'being too mean' (he was just defending himself, grow up), and he's best friends with one of the weirdest kids in school. Oh, and he was the first ever Rebel at school. He was the one who (accidentally, mind you) started the whole split between Royals and Rebels when he refused to sign the Storybook of Legends and accept his destiny as a villain, encouraging others to do the same. Did it result in an hour-long lecture from the principal and an even longer scolding from his mother? Of course. Does he regret it? Not in the slightest.

Remus Hatter, son of the Mad Hatter. He's a little... let's say, strange? He keeps summoning things out of nowhere with little to no explanation. He keeps talking to 'narrators' (Thomas is a favourite of his). He can and will beat you black and blue if you so much as look at Virgil too unkindly. And he is obsessed with tea. His outcast status made him and Virgil fast friends, and they've stuck together ever since. Proud Rebel and lets everyone know it (he loves his dad and all and definitely lives up to his Mad Hatter title, but it's just not his thing, y'know?). Resident wildcard and probably the subject of at least 90% of sentences from his classmates that start with, "There was this one kid at school who..."

Janus Cheshire is a rather unusual case, to say the least. No one knows if he's a Royal or a Rebel. He seems pretty committed to confusing and pranking the heck out of other students... but he's also, like, super sweet? Especially to Patton Ella. One moment he's making sure you've taken care of yourself properly and handing out water bottles, next moment he's stealing your textbooks and leaving ominous notes about breaking your kneecaps. You'd be lucky if you've ever had a conversation longer than a few minutes with him, especially if he's visible while talking to you. Closest friends are probably Remus and Logan, reluctant frienemies with Virgil.

Now, onto the Royals.

Loyal Royal and proud as hell, Roman White, son of Snow White. Not too popular, but it would definitely be fair to say that he has a certain influence over the students. Perfect parentage, triple threat, girls absolutely smitten for him, what else could he need? His relationship with Virgil is certainly... strained, but they get along just enough to be begrudging roommates. Well, Roman was the one who persuaded the headmaster to put them together in the first place... but it's for Virgil's own good! Who knows what could happen if he didn't follow his destiny? There would be fights and arguments and holes in his story, and he'd never get his happily ever after! That's important, right?

(After a certain conversation with Remy Briar, Roman's not so sure anymore.)

-Patton Ella, son of Cinderella and a Royal. Well, sort of. He wants to follow his destiny and all, but it's kinda difficult to do that when you catch feelings for someone who is neither from your story nor a prince. A certain Cheshire has caught his eye for now, and he's just hoping he won't screw everything up. He's also got a job at a nearby shoe store, surprisingly enough. Patton doesn't really understand the Rebels, but he certainly tries his best to be nice to them, especially when Janus has been so nice to him all the time. But even so, being a Royal is messy and restrictive... but he can't be a Rebel, can he? That would be wrong! ...right?

-Loagn Beauty, son of Belle (Roman is insanely jealous of his surname). He's just about what you'd expect from the son of Belle: book-smart, adventurous, idealistic, and harbouring a crippling case of gifted kid burnout, which is a lot of fun. A bit of a floater around school- got a lot of friends (people admire him for his intellect and, as his name suggests, beauty), but is only really close with a few. Surprising a lot closer to Virgil, Janus and Remus than any other Royals. Roman doesn't think it's suspicious at all. Logan tries not to think about it. After all, Roman isn't worth his time; gods know how he got so many friends. He may be a Royal himself (sort of), but at least he can still see how obnoxious the prince truly is.

-Remy Briar, son of Sleeping Beauty (yes I changed the surname shut up). He's loud, full of sass and caffeine, and the absolute life of the party. Even Virgil finds himself enjoying one of his parties every now and again. He's spiteful and petty enough to make a Canadian goose weep tears of envy, always caught up in someone's drama, and, obviously, a Royal. Totally. Sort of. Well, technically... maybe. But... he doesn't want to sleep for a hundred years. He doesn't want to follow his destiny and lose all his friends to something as stupid as a nap. But what would people think of him if he didn't? He's been eyeing up the Storybook of Legends lately. Virgil's curious. Patton has been caught staring a few times. And Remy keeps disappearing from his own parties to go look for 'something'. As the Cheshires would say, "Curiouser and curiouser..."

-Emile Cupid, son of Cupid and last of the bunch. Neither a Royal nor a Rebel since he doesn't really have much of a story to follow. Instead he only wants to enjoy school and help out his fellow classmates, whether it's in the love department or not. And contrary to popular belief, he actually doesn't use heart-tipped arrows to make people fall in love, despite his bow and quiver that say otherwise. He just never really saw the point in using them; if it's meant to be, then let it happen on its own, right? And speaking of, he supports the Rebels and fully believes in following your heart, and hey, who is he to ignore his own when it gets a little nervous around a certain rose in the thorns (or should he say... briar)?

High school is hard enough when you've got drama on who's doing what and why, so imagine how it must be for these kids when there's magical storybooks and curses and destinies on the line, too.

But hey! They can navigate it, as long as they've got each other!

...right?

(Just might make a full story on this 👀 who knows 👀👀)

#also i hope y'all know how fun this was to make #i loved eah so much as a kid #so this is rlly just me indulging in my nostalgia #sanders sides #ts virgil #ts remus #ts janus #ts roman #ts patton #ts logan #ts remy #ts emile #moceit #remile #eah au #ever after high au #long post

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ichor-hunter · 4 years

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Queenslayer

Queenslayer Blood Code Study- Main Character

"Your own blood code, which was thought to be lost in the fight with the Queen long ago. The old feelings inside still speak to you. This time you must ensure a lasting peace. This code is well balanced for exploration and melee combat, and features high HP and endurance."

Introduction to Blood Codes and Main Character

Blood Codes are the abilities imbued within a Revenant's Blood. Each Blood Code is unique to each Revenant that resides within the Gaol of the Mist. Once a Revenant has awakened from their slumber after the BOR parasite has been placed in them, the blood takes on a Code which I believe derives from the characteristics of that Revenant.

As the Player Character, MC starts in the realm of Vein as a First/Second Generation Revenant who was enlisted in Operation Queenslayer. The story behind the main character is largely unknown besides a few details here and there, and their backstory is up to the Player's interpretation. What we do know, is that the main character is a chivalrous self-sacrificing individual who is willing to help find The Source and is determined to save the Successors while learning more about what they're meant to do.

Prologue of Queenslayer Blood Code

While the Blood Code itself doesn't reference from any mythology from different cultures, there are hints that it does link to Greek lore from my understanding of this blood code.

Back when I was still on anon and I was following Code Vein content on tumblr (cause I forgot my old password and logins), a bunch of theories started popping up in @louis-with-an-s ‘ blog (tagging for credit and source for comments below!). As inspired by lore hunters on youtube, I was already analyzing Louis’ and Yakumo blood code at that point and I was midway of researching for Louis’ Blood code study (since this series is helping me refresh on my Greek Mythology) when this comment came up (anon if you’re out there, let me know so I can credit you too!):

I was also thinking the same thing that it's way too convenient that the MC's Blood Code is named after Operation Queenslayer. Each blood code is uniquely named and it's different for each Revenant which probably made the most of us think that this isn't our initial blood code as presented in the game. It's 100% unlikely that the rest of the Revenants in Operations Queenslayer had this Blood code, but then why is MC's blood code named after Operation Queenslayer?

Then @nosferabbit mentioned these comments below (I hope you don't mind me tagging you! I just want to give you credit! If you're uncomfortable with it, please let me know D: )

I thought of it even more since I was already linking Yakumo’s and Louis’ Greek God counterparts since their lore is strangely close to Heracles and Heracles had interaction with both of them in a similar way as their mythology. Then I was like: "Oh lol, maybe MC's previous code was Heracles before they ingested the Queen's blood."

Then I started looking into the other blood codes, then bosses, the depths and my mind went into overdrive. I discovered more things about how MC alarmingly relates too much to Heracles and his lore and I was nervously compelled into making the blog in the end.

Beyond this point, its pure theory on my end. It might be debunked based on DLC's, future updates of the game, etc. If that ends up being the case in the future, I'll conduct a proper post for Queenslayer afterward.

Greek Mythology

From my point of view, MC's initial Blood Code is based on Heracles.

Heracles or Hercules (His Roman name), as most people mostly refer to him (they're still the same god regardless but for this post, we'll refer him with his proper Greek name).

Heracles was cursed by Hera even before his birth. Hera persuaded Zeus that the next child born under the house of Perseus would be the given the position of High King and the child following that would be a servant of Zeus. Hera commanded Eileithyia the Goddess of Childbirth to postpone Heracles being born so instead, Heracles cousin Eurystheus was born first prematurely and Heracles was born after.

Growing up, Heracles had several mentors that taught him various crafts, music, and arts of battle. Later on in his years, Creon the king of Theban gave Heracles his daughter Megara and together they had two children. Hera was jealous of Heracles so she struck him with a madness that caused him to kill Megara and their two kids. Feeling destroyed by the atrocity he caused, he was instructed by an oracle to serve Eurystheus for twelve years and fulfill all the tasks that'll be given to him to purify him of his sin. These tasks, in the end, became the famous tale of Heracles 12 labors.

Similarities between MC and Heracles

Both Heracles and MC are the heroes of their own stories. Albeit in different scenarios, Heracles through the twelve labors was granted immortality in the end while the MC is already an immortal vampire who possesses the Relic of the blood.

With Heracles being the inspired Greek God for this Blood code, there is one particular character that should be highlighted before expanding onto the other Gods. The relation to the other Gods will be explained in the next section regarding the 12 labors.

With Io, they're not linked by Blood Code but more of Io's namesake. Io in Greek Mythology was one of Zeus's lovers. She was turned into a cow by Zeus when they tried to prevent Hera from learning of their relationship and Io was made to wander the earth. During her travels, she encounters Prometheus who was still bounded and chained by his punishment. As a clairvoyant God, he predicted that in the future, Io's descendant will be the one to free him and that she'll also turn back into a human. She was eventually turned back into a human by Zeus when they both avoided Hera's gaze and many descendants later, Heracles was born.

Heracles is the descendant of Io (Greek) so Io (game) gives a lot of family/maternal vibes towards the MC and vice versa since MC cares a lot for Io's (game) wellbeing. Io (game) wandered throughout the Vein in search of MC just like her Greek counterpart (but for a different reason). Also, MC ventures into the Ruined City Underground in hopes of freeing Io (game) and in turn MC meets Louis (Prometheus) and frees Louis' worries of his Blood bead research with MC helping his cause. So Io (game) brought MC to Louis (Prometheus) just like how Io (Greek) ended up bearing her future descendant and brought Heracles to Prometheus (Louis' blood code).

While the MC is a silent Revenant, Heracles is more outspoken, quick-tempered and witty in his actions so personality-wise, they're quite the opposite. From the few chapters of the Code Vein manga, it displays the MC as a quiet individual who speaks up on certain occasions and is thoughtful of the things around them. Heracles started his adventures in life when he was eighteen years old which could be the same age as the MC (however, we don't know their official age and we can make up whatever age for the MC regardless).

"The old feelings inside still speak to you. This time you must ensure a lasting peace." It is likely hinting that the old feelings could either be their true blood code or simply just their memories of themselves before Operation Queenslayer. The lasting peace is part of Heracles where he wants to absolve his sins and be at peace with himself. Or it could be that MC died with regrets?Lasting peace is the MC being at peace with themselves and their own life within the Vein since their life before the Collapse was anything but peaceful.

Now if we observe the symbol for the Queenslayer blood code itself, it appears to be a distorted crown. If we look at it carefully, the crown has letters that spell out "Vein" but out of order. We see the letter "E" first on the left, then the letter "V" in the center with the letter "I" overlapping the V from behind and then the "N" on the right. We also see this symbol beside the area name we're loaded into.

Considering how the other Successors altered blood codes as mentioned from the prologue, each of their blood codes is from the relics the successors possess. The closest reference we can get at this point is with Nicola's altered blood code: Queen's Breath. You'd expect the symbol of it to be a mist of air or something similar to the like, but instead, we see the source of where the breath comes from, which is the lungs. The breath lies within the lungs while blood resides within the veins. With that being said, Queenslayer is possibly the altered blood code the MC gained from the Queen since they are the Successor of the Blood. The symbol is in the shape of a crown probably because of the importance of the Queen's blood during the experiments. It’s a unique visual interpretation of veins since we’re aware how veins in our bodies look like. So just like the Successor of the Queen's Breath is the symbol of the lungs, the Successor of the Blood symbol is the Vein. Neither of these relics can't be displayed physically for what they are and that's why the lungs and the word vein for these altered codes are a representation of these relics.

Continuing onwards, we also have to mention the aftermath of the 12 labors. With all the labors being fulfilled, Heracles joined the Argonauts who were a group of Greek Heroes that combined forces in search of the Golden Fleece. Considering the True End, MC leaves the Vein along with the others, starting their heroic group outside of the Vein. (Of course, they aren't calling themselves the Argonauts but they are similar sort of troupe). While they're not searching for the Golden Fleece since they already have Io's golden blood bead to guide them. Or we could say they’ve always been team Argonauts and they finally retrieved the Golden Fleece aka golden blood bead and achieved greater heights. Knowing Io's lore with Io (Greek) turning into a Cow and the Golden Fleece from the Ram, which is both from the same Bovidae family, the blood bead here is their Golden Fleece.

There's also a part of Heracles lore where he's thrown into madness which could be linked with several things. When MC was killed by Jack in their memories, he killed them since their body was rejecting the Queen's blood and without their mask, they were painfully going through bloodthirst and becoming lost. There's also the bad end where the MC becomes the new Queen and was falling into madness, but Louis killed them before that could happen too. Madness for the MC is falling into Frenzy.

These moments of frenzy could also relate to the death of Heracles as well. With Heracles' second wife Deinanira, she was attacked by the Centaur of Nessus and convinced her to take his blood-covered shirt (which is ridden with poison) and give it to her husband. Claiming it's a love charm and to give it to him whenever he's being unfaithful. She assumed that Heracles was cheating on her so she gave him the shirt, only for him to be tortured by an immense amount of pain. The poison here could also be the cause of the miasma which MC did take in, the Queen's blood which could be considered poisonous to them at first due to their body rejecting the Queen's blood.

Heracles 12 Labors

With the twelve labors, I initially connected them to the Depths since there are 12 in total. When MC is tasked by Davis to find the Map's to the depths and journey through them, we are given 12 in total for the duration of the game. However, these labors could also associate with other events and Greek Gods which associates with the other characters. Plus a few of the bosses do relate to the monsters Heracles has fought.

1. Slaying the Nemean Lion

The first task King Eurystheus gave to Heracles was to retrieve the skin of the Nemean Lion. The skin from the lion was impenetrable. Since Heracles' arrows didn't affect the lion, he grabbed his club, cornered it in a cave and then choked it to death.

The only thing that comes to mind with this trial is the Argent Wolf Berserker.

The Argent Wolf Berserker has a strong defense against debuffs (especially poison), but it is weak to blood damage according to the Code Vein Wiki. If I recall correctly, this is the only boss you can perform a parry and back-stab with a draining attack. Just like Heracles easily backed it into a corner and choked it, this boss is susceptible to the same things as well.

Interestingly enough, after Heracles kills the lion he ends up taking the skin from the lion (although some writers/researchers disagree. Heracles' lion skin is worn in most sculptures and paintings but for this instance, let’s roll with the former instead) and after defeating the Berserker, the MC received their first and only memory back. MC is greeted by their vestige after defeating the boss. It's really neat how the first trial holds its significance to Heracles and in turn, the MC regains an important memory of themselves.

2. Slaying the Lernaean Hydra

This labor relates to one area and two of the bosses in the game. The first one I'll be mentioning is the Butterfly of Delirium.

The Hydra in this labor has nine heads and its blood is venomous. As mentioned previously, the poison led to Heracles' death. This boss only has one main body and a tail that acts as a hydra's head since it always spews out poison at the MC. For the Hydra, there are nine heads and one of the heads is the main immortal (since each time Heracles would severe a head, it would regenerate). This is the second boss in the game and the second labor Heracles has to tackle.

Next is the area the Howling Pit and the boss Hatsune Miku Invading Executioner.

The swamp area pays homage to the area where Heracles slew the Hydra. For the invading Executioner, the only related lore linking with this labor is her Sickle. Some visual sources claim that Heracles used a sickle as part of his weaponry to kill the Hydra.

The depths that has these two bosses are: The Town of Sacrifice, Swirling Flood and Flood of Impurity is part of my count towards the depths connecting to the 12 labors.

3. Capture the Golden Hind

Heracles was then tasked by Eurystheus with capturing the Golden Hind (a deer). This Hind is very sacred to the Goddess Artemis. Knowing these facts, Heracles couldn't kill the Hind. It took an entire year to hunt the deer and when he gave it a minor injury, Artemis appeared in front of him and was furious. Heracles begged for forgiveness and explained why he did what he had to do. Artemis relented and healed the hind with the condition that the hind must be returned to her. Once Heracles returned to Eurystheus, recalling his promise to Artemis, he asks the king to step forward to retrieve the hind himself. Once the king agreed, he stepped forward but the hind ran back to Artemis.

As mentioned in the Artemis Blood Code Study, this heavily related to Mia and her Goddess lore. When MC and gang first meet Mia in the story, she attacks them for their blood beads. The minute Nicola came out to defend her and fainted, she protects him in case they were to hurt him. They gave him a blood bead but he was still killed by Jack.

When Mia and the others learn he's a Successor, they have to end up fighting him when he induced into a frenzy. With the power of the Relic of the Blood, the MC was able to let the two reunite within the memory echo and then revive Nicola afterward, allowing the two to reunite in person. More is expanded in the Artemis Blood Code Study.

With relation to the depths, the Silent White Depths has the Successor of the Breath which still links to the list of the 12 labors/depths with Heracles lore.

4. Capture the Erymanthian Boar

Heracles' next task was to bring the Erymanthian Boar alive to King Eurystheus. The Boar would come down from its mountain every day to attack everything in sight: Animals and people. It was known for its powerful tusks. This one I believe connects with the very first boss: Oliver Collins.

Oliver ends up killing everyone above ground (excluding Io) as he is fully turned into the Lost. When MC and Louis fight him and cut away half of his health, he fully transforms into his lost form. We see he has a tusk and a snout from his mask getting distorted at the transformation.

There's also mention of Prometheus during this trial. Heracles decided to visit his centaur friend before the trial to stop, chat and grab a bite to eat since he was famished. The centaur Pholus offered him a meal. When Heracles requested wine however, Pholus was scared to open the jar due to the wine belonging to all of the centaurs. Heracles was just like: "Its fine, I yolo for a living," opened the jar and brought on chaos with all the other centaurs rushing in anger that someone is taking their wine. They attacked him but Heracles retaliated with his poisonous arrows (he used the poison from the Hydra at the 2nd trial) and they ran off. Chiron, a centaur who ends up being a teacher to Achilles received a wound from one of these arrows. The pain was so dreadful that he was willing to take Prometheus' place instead of dealing with the pain. In the end, he gives up his immortality. Pholus wondered how an arrow caused Chiron so much pain. He picked it up curiously but it was accidentally dropped onto his feet. He ended up dying from the intense pain.

Poison is a part of this trial and while Heracles did not use poison against the boar (since he's supposed to bring it back alive), Oliver's boss form is susceptible to the poison debuff. MC traveled with Oliver as a friendly acquaintance in the short time they had together. Oliver like Pholus, was worried about a fellow friend/revenant that they bumped into. In the end, it became their demise. Oliver's mask broke and became Lost and Pholus died from the arrow.

Boss Oliver can be found in the Den of the Dead and Den of Darkness in the Depths.

5. Cleaning the stables of Augeas in one day

While there isn't an instance where MC is physically cleaning a stable (or cleaning in general). I think this labor relates more to the Trials of Blood. The occurrence happens at specific areas at random and none of the Lost will go away until all of them have been killed. This is one of the labors that has been disregarded in the end so this labor may not have any relevance to the game, however the Trial of Blood is the only thing I can come up with. Since MC does clear away the Lost in several waves like Heracles washes away the stables by re-routing the Alpheus River. MC has to clear out the lost in one go with these trials in the same manner.

6. Slaying the Stymphalian Birds

With no DLC's released as of this writing, I'm currently unable to see or connect with anything relating to this trial. There aren't any aerial creatures that resemble the stymphalian birds in the game or the events relating to the labor itself, so this one is a bit harder to narrow down. If there is anything revealed via DLC's, I'll be editing this instantly.

7. Capture the Cretan Bull

At first, I didn't have a clue who or what would relate to this trial but after understanding the nature of the Cretan Bull, I'm willing to put my bets on the Gilded Hunter.

Behind the story of the trial, there was Minos, the King of Crete. Minos promised Poseidon he would sacrifice whatever he sends. Poseidon sends a bull but Minos thought the bull was too beautiful so he sacrificed a different bull instead. Of course, Poseidon was angry about it, so he made the bull he gifted to Minos run rampant over the land of Crete. In the end, Heracles came and wrestled the bull and easily brought it back to Eurystheus.

Since the bull was sent to Mino's by a god, we could say that Mido is the god that let the Gilded Hunter run berserk. There was a point where I guessed that Mido could either relate to Zeus or Ares based on his connection to a few characters and his background, but here I can also consider Poseidon as another candidate for Mido.

The Gilded Hunter can also be found in the Arachnid Grotto in the Depths.

8. Steal the Mares of Diomedes

For this trial, I think there could be a better interpretation of it but from what we have now, I can see the Queen's Knight or the events of Operation Queenslayer itself relating to this labor.

Heracles eighth task was to steal man-eating horses. In some tales, he traveled with a group of companions searching for them. In the case of Operation Queenslayer, Jack's team along with the MC venture out to kill the Lost and track down the Queen.

The Bistones notices that Heracles and his crew were taking away their mares and they went after them (they would be the lost in this case). Heracles needed to free up his group so that he could fight them off so he left the mares with a man called Abderos. Abderos was killed by the time Heracles made it back so he founded a city in his honor.

Of course, at a later point, they encounter the Queen's Knight which the Queen's 'puppet' but since this lost has the title of "knight" the lost could be considered to be her steed. A Knight normally would go into battle with their horse to ride into the fields. While this lost isn't a horse, it has connotation of a companion in battle.

Or we can base this trial from the events of it. We can say the man-eating horses are the lost and the Revenants in Operation Queenslayer have no choice but to slay them. The MC takes the place of Abderos instead when they were put to rest and then Jack and Silva went onto founding the Vein (Gaol of the Red Mist). I highly doubt it was named after the MC's blood code but the MC's blood code and the "Vein" are both connected. As mentioned above before the topic of the twelve labors, MC's blood code has the letters of the word Vein while anytime the Player Character is transported to a new area, the same vein symbol like the MC's blood code always appears on the left side of the area's name.

The Queen's Knight can be found in the Zero District within the depths.

9. Stealing the girdle of Hippolyta

I had to think a while about this one since this trial is about Heracles taking the girdle from Queen Hippolyta. A girdle is a belt, and the origin of the girdle was gifted to Hippolyta by Ares since she is the best of all the amazon warriors. Heracles and Hippolyta both befriended each other and Hippolyta was more than happy to give Heracles the girdle but then we have Hera, who didn't want the trial to go smoothly. She told the other amazon warriors (in disguise as an amazon warrior herself) how Heracles was trying to get on her good side only to carry away the queen. So on their boat trip, Heracles noticed the rest of the warriors had their armor and weapons and went and killed the Queen and took the girdle.

Likely this could be associated with the good ending regarding Io. Before we entered the area for the final boss, there are the other Attendants there and we have Io talking with her sisters. Her sisters left their fate in her hands. When Io takes in all the relics and becomes the Weeping Tree, she leaves MC with a golden blood bead. That could also be considered CV's version of the girdle since MC does receive it in the end. Just without the deception part. Io gave the MC something golden and we can say she is the queen of the attendants now from this perspective.

10. Steal the cattle of Geryon

With this labor, I found it connects with the Insatiable Despot.

A very unique feature to the insatiable despot is that it has its main weapon (Tyrant's Labyrs) struck through its body. When you cut their HP in half, they proceed to take the weapon out from their body and use it to attack the MC. With Geryon, he has more than one appendage attached to him (three heads and three legs joined at the waist). The insatiable despot has one weapon/appendage through his chest. The boss creates henchmen to attack the player and they could be considered to be the cattle of Geryon. The only exception here is that MC doesn't need to steal anything from this boss. Heracles was tasked with stealing the cattle from Geryon and ended up killing Geryon in the end.

Via the Depths, this boss is found in the Cliffs of Rust.

11. Steal the Hesperidean Apples

Heracles was then tasked to steal apples from Zeus garden but he didn't even know where the garden is. During his journey of finding the garden, he encounters Prometheus who he ends up freeing from his torment by killing the eagle. The clairvoyant god gave him advice as to where the garden is and how he can get the apples. He also gave him advice on his future labors and endeavors. For more details, please refer to the Prometheus Blood Code Study.

Once Heracles arrived where Atlas was stationed, he quickly mentioned his plight and Atlas agreed to get to the apples from the garden as long as Heracles could hold the skies up temporary. He returned with the apples but had no intention of switching with Heracles. Heracles tricked him that he needed to put on some padding for his shoulders, so when Atlas took the skies again, Heracles just took the apples and ran off.

There was nothing too interesting but after MC accepted Louis' offer, Yakumo tossed him an apple. It's just a regular apple and there was nothing in regards to trickery or thieving, it was just simply an anime version of Atlas giving an anime version of Heracles an apple. Since the apple is what connects both of these gods and Yakumo with MC. More details are already written in the Atlas Blood Code Study.

12. Capture Cerberus of the Underworld

The final trial could be interpreted from two different events.

The first one right off the bat is the final boss Skull King and then The Virgin Reborn. They were previously Silva and Silva held the Blood Code of Hades. Hades is the ruler of the underworld and in a sense a protector of the Vein in and out of the Red Mist.

As we see in the boss fight, we have Skull King (aka Silva). During the boss fight, we also see Silva's Hounds-type Blood Veil, operating as the two heads of Cerberus, and Skull King himself being the main third head.

Heracles’ task was to capture Cerberus. After making the preparations to head to the underworld, he arrived there safely and confronted Hades. Hades said he can take Cerberus as long as no weapons are used against them. Heracles succeeded by using brute strength alone.

In Code Vein, it's more of the reverse with this trial, as the MC has no choice but to kill the Skull King aka Silva (who holds the Hades Blood Code).

We also have the two artificial Lost that Mido left for us. In the game, we had to fight Blade Bearer and the Cannoneer and quickly afterward we had to fight Mido. These three bosses could also represent the three heads of Cerberus figuratively. Blade Bearer and Cannoneer guarded the way preventing MC and group from progressing further to where Mido is. Just like with Heracles being prevented from entering without preparation. When they do reach Mido, Mido is guarding the path ahead and was also in possession of the relics before sending them Silva's way.

In the lore, the parents of Cerberus were an Enchinda which is a half woman and half serpent, and a Typhon which is a fire breathing giant. The Enchinda relates to the Blade Bearer while the Typhon is the Cannoneer. Based on both of their designs, the relation comes in full circle.

Both of these bosses can be found in the Void District of the Depths.

Queenslayer's Gifts

Drain Boost- Increases all drain ratings while you are focused.

Frenzied Fire- Fires a projectile that decreases the enemies' focus gauge.

Heracles was known for using a bow and arrow. Especially during certain labors after his second labor, where he coated his arrows with the hydra's poisonous blood. Frenzied Fire also matches with how Heracles was easily thrown into madness by Hera. With the focus gauge, once it's been filled, it prevents staggering and using drain attacks to launch an opponent in the air is possible. With the labors that Heracles went through he wouldn't allow any of the creatures, he fought to take advantage of him, so in a sense, he decreases the likelihood of his opponents overpowers him just like the function Frenzied Fire serves. Drain boost just displays the enhanced skills Heracles had while facing opponents. As already mentioned with Frenzied Fire with Heracles countering his opponents, Heracles himself as a trained warrior wouldn't allow himself to be staggered and is intuitive on when to attack.

Cleansing Light-For a limited time, a portion of the damage you take will slowly heal automatically.

Instantly this associates with Heracles’ immortality and the labors together. The purpose of Heracles going through these labors was to cleanse his sins of slaughtering his own family in his madness (which wasn't caused by him, Hera was the one that made him go mad). The immortality that Heracles ended up gaining wouldn't kill him no matter what the circumstances. This Gift is ultimately a portion of Heracles' true immortality while it's named after his cleansing ritual with the labors.

Circulating Pulse- Unleash a barrage of strikes. An offensive skill performed with One Handed Sword/Halberd/Bayonet.

Heracles throughout his youth studied many forms of combat and mastered several weapons. The fact that this gift is versatile with multiple weapons is a no brainer here. He utilized multiple weapons during his adventures and his twelve labors.

Final Journey- Immediately restores all HP and increases abilities but kills you after a short time.

Final Journey is a ticking time bomb. This could be related to a few things I have in mind since this is MC's signature Gift.

First, the name of the Gift itself. Final Journey relates to all of Heracles' journeys and adventures in general since he always lived life at the edge. Any of his adventures could easily be his last and he mustered his strength and prowess to go against all trials, achieve greater things and defeating his opponents. If you've read the labors above or know of them in general then you already know that these tasks are very daunting and no normal being would be able to handle these tasks.

Also similar to cleansing light, this also links with Heracles' immortality. As a god, Heracles used all his abilities in his journey and labors. With his story being so self-explanatory at this point, we know that he's one of the strongest Greek heroes in legend. However, even with that great power, the poison he received was too much to the point that he'd rather die than suffer through the pain. This part is likely the reason why MC/PC dies after using the power-enhancing gift since Heracles was willing to give it up and ascend instead.

Lastly, the image of the gift itself is a skull and most time in real life, it symbolized death or a poisonous substance. This gift grants power but we could also consider it as poison, the poison that ended up killing Heracles in the end.

Concluding Thoughts

PHEW, finally this analysis is finished lol. I had way too much fun thinking out this one. Please remember that this analysis is just a theory itself and you don't need to force your OC's to match with my analysis or agree with anything written in this post. What I've gathered in this post is simply based on facts I've noticed based on the amount of Greek Lore that's mixed in the story and with the MC. Regardless if this does turn out to be true or not, I sincerely had fun breaking down the possible lore of the MC. With MC's altruistic nature within the game, it makes a lot of sense of how they would behave. Their past before Operation Queenslayer remains (and will forever remain) a mystery since our job is to fill in those gaps. I like how there's so much Greek lore incorporated into the MC while still giving the player room to add in their own details. Asides from the whole "silent MC until the final scenes in the game" (I wish they could've spoken more D: ) the MC is a great example of how Player Characters should be done.

Also, if anyone wants to discuss more of my Heracles theory, just send an ask! Please let me know what you guys think about it! I hope this post was worth the wait! :D

#code vein #blood code study #queenslayer blood code #code vein theory #blood code queenslayer #code vein spoilers #long post

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dumbledearme · 4 years

Text

Unpopular opinion:

TROS works. For me at least. And here’s why:

So... I have never been a die hard Star Wars fan. In fact, although I do love the story, the setting, the world, I always kind of thought the original trilogy was a Luke Snoozefest (#sorrynotsorry). I was under the impression that the three original movies were unnecessary and that George Lucas could’ve told the same story in just one movie, and that would’ve worked much better.

In 2015, I went to watch TFA by accident, mostly because there was nothing else to watch at the time. And boy was I shook. SHOOK, I TELL YOU. I got out of the movies completely in love with Rey and thinking that Kylo Ren was the greatest character to ever live.

And even though I wasn’t a fan at the time, I could clearly tell that TFA was an ode to the old Star Wars movies. It was telling me, essentially, the same story that it’d told 30 years ago: a hero comes out of the desert to save the galaxy from the bad guy in a mask. Yep. Thank you very much.

Not only that, every single one of the new characters were cleverly written to replace someone else in the franchise: Rey is Luke, Kylo is Vader, Poe is Han, Finn is Leia, etc. The new trilogy starts the exact same way as the old one did, with a droid being found by the unsuspected hero, guarding very important information, which, in my mind, was already a hint that the new trilogy would also, fatefully and rightfully, end the same way the original trilogy did.

I’m not gonna lie to you, I liked TFA because the protagonist was a girl and because Adam Driver is amazing and he delivers Kylo Ren like it’s nobody’s business. But the story is intriguing and the building, at least to me, made a lot of sense and had a lot of potential. I knew from the start that Rey had to be someone’s daughter, not because she was the main character, or because she was clearly going to become a Jedi, but because of her raw potential and the consistent hints at her parentage, which, in a movie like this, are rarely gratuitos.

Sure TLJ introduces the concept that anyone can be powerful, or a Jedi, or save the galaxy, and that is a truly powerful idea, but they weren’t necessarily saying that Rey was a nobody: I think they were saying that she should stop looking for who her parents were because ultimately it doesn’t matter. Rey being related to Palpatine in TROS doesn’t matter, it only tells you where her raw strength and potential for darkness comes from. What really matters is the choice she makes in the end to belong to the light, to belong to the Skywalkers. Rey being a Palpatine is balance because it tells you she comes from the villain’s side, but it doesn’t mean she is a villain, just as Ben comes from the hero’s side, but he's chosen to be Kylo Ren.

Not to mention that as far back as 2017 there were already theories that Rey was a Palpatine, so some fans did pick up on that from the beginning. And I have to say, looking back, that I get what they mean. Especially with the fighting scenes: Rey usually overpowers Kylo Ren using anger, fear and aggression, things that, according to Yoda “the dark side are they...”

So ultimately, I was not mad about that. Just as I wasn’t mad about Palpatine being the main villain. It seemed right (?) because, like I said before, the new trilogy is essentially the same as the old one. Palpatine is the archenemy of Skywalker. When you think about it, the Skywalker line even started with Palpatine (didn’t he use his power to make Anakin’s mom pregnant with him?), so it only makes sense (?) that it should end with him, too.

And since I’m on that subject, I might as well mention that, to me, it felt like Rey is actually the chosen one from the prophecy and not Anakin like we’ve been taught to believe. She used the Force to end Palpatine once and for all. She is the balance: she is Palpatine and Skywalker, she is light and dark. So, I’m sorry, but as far as I’m concerned the Skywalker who brought balance back to the Force was the one who wasn’t a Skywalker by birth and rather by choice, and I think that’s really beautiful.

Now, let’s talk about the real elephant in the room: REYLO.

Yes, I’m a Reylo shipper. I love Rey. I love Ben. I love them together. I wanted them to get married and have lots and lots of babies. The fandom is great and the fanfics are even better. But here’s the thing: I never, not in a million years (!!!), thought the movies were hinting at them being together. WUT

In TFA I was like “sure would be nice if they banged” cause I could see, HELL I COULD FEEL, the chemistry between them and I was all in for it. When he met Rey, Kylo was all like “hell, Imma kill this girl”, which maybe might’ve been why I felt it would be such a clever twist if he fell in love with her.

The charm of Kylo Ren to me (other than he being played by Adam Driver, I mean) is that he’s not your typical villain. Kylo is a child who has no idea what he’s doing or WHY he’s doing it. Someone who doesn’t have an agenda is more terrifying to me because he is unpredictable: there’s no telling what he’s going to do next because he doesn’t have a defined goal, he’s just angry and vengeful and a child with a lot of power in his hands. And in the real world that is a truly scary thing.

But then again, back in 2015, I thought that if Kylo and Rey had fallen in love would mean that I was watching a romance and Star Wars might be many things but it was never about romance. Sure, it’s about family, it’s about love and friendship, but it was never about ~~romantic love~~. The romantic love between Han and Leia is a secondary plot and if you remove it from the movie, it changes absolutely nothing. The romance between Anakin and Padme gets more attention because it’s partially the reason why he became Darth Vader, so it was necessary, but even so it’s not what the trilogy is about: the movies were made to show how he descended to darkness and not to show how he fell in love. Like.. whatever. So I was never under the impression that we would get to see these two characters fall for each other. (Plus, it sort of felt like they were building something between Rey and Finn for a hot minute there, didn’t it?)

HOWEVER, 2017 came, TLJ happened and things got bothered and hot. Because killing Han Solo didn't bind Kylo Ren to the darkness, it made him shy away from it instead. And then the bond happened (and don't even try to tell me that it wasn't a natural thing, that it was Snoke who did it, because I won't believe you, okay? They were already connected from the moment the Force awoke inside Rey and that's why they were seeing each other in the vision when Rey first touched Luke's saber.)

So the bond happened and I thought "my God please more". I sensed the potential for fanfiction. I wanted them to be a pair, to be together. I wanted Star Wars to be a romance, just this once, I never asked you for anything, guys! But I also knew it was wishful thinking. I didn't think the bond was building a romantic relationship between the two of them (clearly I was wrong), I thought it was a powerful connection of the mind, of the soul even, but not of the heart. I thought these two very lonely characters would find a way to relate to each other so that Rey, in the end, could be the key to pulling Ben Solo back to the light.

I was reminded of the scene in TFA when Maz tells Rey: “Whomever you’re waiting for on Jakku, they’re never coming back. But... there’s someone who still could. The belonging you’re seeking is not behind you, it is ahead.” At the time, both Rey and I assumed Maz was talking about Luke, but after TLJ I wondered if she couldn't be referring to Ben Solo? That Rey could bring him back because of that sense of belonging that neither of them had ever experienced in their lives but started to find in each other?

So through the bond we as an audience were able to explore both Rey and Ben's past. Their connection, their chats helped them get to know each other and get to know themselves. They explored parts of themselves that they had been previously too scared to explore alone. They were even allowed to see each other in moments of weakness and vulnerability, like when Adam Driver is shirtless #yes. That was included in the movie to show us that they were getting to know each other in a very deep level where Kylo Ren was no longer the man behind the mask, he was transparent, Rey could see into his soul. And he could see into hers so much that he saw her parents and her lineage.

And ahh when they touched hands it was like having sex to me. I was so into it, I could hardly believe it. Rey got to see Ben behind the Kylo Ren facade more deeply than Luke could see Anakin behind Darth Vader, so it was no wonder that she had the same reaction he did.

LUKE: ...There is good in him. I’ve felt it. He won’t turn me over to the Emperor. I can save him. I can turn him back to the good side. I have to try.

REY: There’s still conflict in him. If I go to him, Ben Solo will turn.

The scene in the elevator, for example, and when Kylo Ren is delivering Rey to Snoke are also a clear mirror of when Darth Vader is delivering Luke to Palpatine. The dialogue is also pretty similar. To me, that was a hint that the end to this story would be a pretty close mirror, if not an exact one, to the end we’ve seen in Episode VI.

LUKE: I feel the conflict within you. Let go of your hate.

REY: I feel the conflict in you. It's tearing you apart.

Last week, when I went to see TROS, I was not expecting at all to get confirmation that Reylo was canon. I was expecting, however, to watch Anakin die again. I anticipated the scene where Darth Vader turns and dies in the hands of the only person who believed in him. And that’s what happened to Ben.

Look, guys, I know it’s sad. It’s heartbreaking. I know we all love Ben Solo and we wanted him to be happy. But that was never in the cards for him and deep down we’ve known it all along. Sure, we’re just humans and we can’t help hope and cheer for a character we’re attached to. But since the moment he was marked with a scar on his face he was destined to die like Anakin died. It was bound to happen. I think it worked as faith that Ben should die doing the one thing Anakin couldn’t ever do. We see him asking for Darth Vader’s guidance, fearing that he won’t ever be as strong as Darth Vader, and then we get the confirmation that he is even more so.

The new Vader, Snoke calls him. New and improved actually.

The thing is all Anakin ever wanted was to save the people he loved from death and he couldn’t do that. It was the only power he was after, so why couldn’t he do it, if both Ben and Rey can?

ANAKIN: Why did she have to die? Why couldn’t I save her? I know I could have!

PADME: Sometimes there are things no one can fix. You’re not all-powerful, Ani.

ANAKIN: Well, I should be! Someday I will be. I will be the most powerful Jedi ever. I will even learn to stop people from dying.

Why, you ask? Well, I have a theory. Anakin was always blaming Obi-Wan for holding his powers back, when, in fact, his own selfishness was doing that. And the movies tell us that being a Jedi is being selfless (heck, I think Anakin is the one who says that even).

The Sith rely on their passion for their strength. They think inwards, only about themselves.

To me that is the difference between Anakin and Ben. Anakin was a full-on Sith. He wanted to keep his mom and Padme alive because of how much they meant to him, because of how much it would hurt HIM to lose them. That is not a good reason to want to save a person from death. Ben, on the other hand, he saves Rey because of who she is, because she is necessary to the world, she is important, she is a good person and she deserves to live, much more so than he does after all of the horrible things he has done. HE knows that. He is very much self-aware, something that Anakin was not.

Which led me to think that perhaps, even as in love as he seemed to be, Anakin wasn’t ready to give up his life for Padme’s and that’s why he couldn’t use the Force to heal her. The key to that power is a life for a life. An exchange. And Anakin wouldn’t exchange his life for anyone’s. Not in that time of his life at least. He was just too selfish. And that’s where Ben differs from him. Anakin was only ever ready to die for someone many years later, when he met Luke.

Remember: “fear of loss is a path of the dark side.”

Moreover, Anakin never learned everything there was to learn about the Force because the Jedi council didn’t trust him and they kept many things from him. I got the feeling that this was a power the Jedi kept hidden from everyone because they feared it and thought it unnatural. For Rey it came naturally because she was just that good of a person. Nobody taught her to do that. But she taught Ben, or at least she showed him how and that action is what saves her in the end.

ANAKIN: Love won’t save you, Padmé. Only my new powers can do that.

But here’s the thing, Anakin. Love does save people, because it was love that allowed Ben to tap into the power and use it to exchange his life for Rey’s.

So I’m okay with Ben’s death because I know he did for the right reasons. As for Rey’s reaction to his death... Well, wasn’t it the exact same reaction Luke had when Anakin died in his arms? I think it’s just another mirror scene, guys.

And besides, the previous movies tells us that we should “rejoice for those around you who transform into the Force” and not mourn them. That this type of death is a good one, a happy one even. If a dialogue had happened in these scenes, it would probably have been very similar to the one between Luke and Vader.

LUKE: You’re coming with me. I’ll not leave you here. I’ve got to save you.

VADER: You already have. You were right. You were right about me.

And she was, guys. She was right about him and that’s all he ever needed. Ben doesn’t need to live because he can’t make right the things he’s done wrong. Both his parents are dead because of him. He can’t make up for that. What he can do is make sure that Rey doesn’t die because of him, instead she gets to live because of him.

Which brings me to my last subject: the death of all Skywalkers. Yes, they killed all the Skywalkers in a movie called The Rise of Skywalker. And you know what? I don’t blame them. Not one bit.

I know most of us wanted the movie to be different, to be about Ben’s redemption, but it never was. The movies are about Rey. She is the main character. She is the one who needs to live out the legacy of Star Wars. And that means that people need to let go of the past.

“Let the past die. Kill it if you have to.”

We can’t keep holding on to the old characters. We need to let the Skywalkers die. They’re done. It’s past. Star Wars needs to be about something else now. Rey only takes their name because she wants to honor the only family she has ever known, the family she knows she belongs to, but the Skywalkers have to be gone for a new generation to rise and prosper. Didn’t you notice that all the wars and all the destruction have something to do with that family? They had to go.

In the end, Rey was alone in Tatooine and that’s okay. Being alone and being lonely are two different things. You can argue that she lost the love of her life and her only chance for happiness, but that’s not true. She lost one romantic pair. I know we live with the romantic notion of having just the one true love, but that’s not life. She will be fine because Ben made sure she lives! He gave her an opportunity to take her life and make a good thing out of it. Death is final. Life is full of possibilities. And he gave her that. As a woman, I feel good about the fact that she doesn’t need him in her life to have a happy ending, however harsh that may sound. I find comfort in knowing that she can think back on him, that she knows there was once this *beautiful* man and that she was able to touch him so deeply that she changed his faith entirely. She gave him hope. And he, in return, gave her life.

I thought the movie delivered a great sense of nostalgia and longing at the same time that it cut everyone off from the past. It was done quite beautifully.

I’m not going to deny that there are faults, that the fact that they changed writers mid-way was a mistake, and bringing JJ back when he had so much baggage wasn’t the greatest idea. But in no way I think the delivery was bad. There were holes in it, just like in any other Star Wars movie. There were things changed at the last minute, just like in any other Star Wars movie.

Like I said, it wasn’t the movie I wanted it to be, the romance between Ben and Rey. But none of the Star Wars movie is what I wanted. They are what they are and they follow a pattern that, most often than not, works.

Would I have liked it more if Ben Solo had lived happily ever after? Yes.

Do I hate it? No.

Thank you for reading this. Please be mindful of your words.

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anghraine · 4 years

Text

pro patria, chapters 1-7

I don’t actually expect people to read this, but I want it over here for completeness’s sake, so—the Guild Wars 2 fic!

This one is ... different, apart from being for a canon that I think maybe three of my friends are interested in, because instead of writing a one-shot in my format of seven sections of seven sentences each, I've written an entire 70k+ fic that way. Each chapter is precisely 49 sentences long, which makes for a lot of very short chapters, so I'm bunching them up into groups of (of course!) seven.

It’s business as usual, however, in having copious footnotes (these ones assume everyone’s unfamiliar with the canon story).

title: pro patria (1-7/?) stuff that happens: a young Ascalonian woman grows from a sheltered aristocrat, to a hero rushing into danger to help a nearby village, to the investigator of a series of mysterious abductions and thefts tied to the Ministry itself. verse: Ascalonian grudgefic characters/relationships: PC (mesmer / human / noble origin / missing sister [Ascalonian]), Lord Faren, Minister Ailoda, Deborah, Countess Anise, Logan Thackeray; PC & Ailoda, PC & Deborah, PC & Anise, PC & Faren

ONE 1 I always thought of myself as Ascalonian first, and Krytan second. Both of my parents were Ascalonian—my mother came from a family of Rurikton refugees fallen on good times, my father from Ebonhawke, and I was born there, myself. Mother had resigned from the Ministry over some quarrel with Minister Caudecus, and hammered in her protest by uprooting the entire family for an extended holiday with my aunt Elwin in Ebonhawke. This was long before the Rurikton gate got fixed on Ebonhawke, so in the off phases, people generally took “going to visit family in Ebonhawke” as a euphemism for something. But Mother being Mother, she headed through Lion’s Arch to the Black Citadel of all places, carved her way through only the gods knew what to the gates of Ebonhawke, turned herself over to the Vanguard, and waited for Aunt Elwin to show up and get them released. She was seven months pregnant with me by the time she arrived, Father and five-year-old Deborah in tow. And two months later, she delivered me there, Father and Aunt Elwin at her side, and Charr siege engines in her ears. 2 Father always wanted to go back to Kryta, for Deborah’s sake and mine. And during the times that the Rurikton gate got switched to Ebonhawke, when our kin in Divinity’s Reach rushed supplies through, requests for Mother’s return to the Ministry came with them. She only said, “We need soldiers, not supplies—yes, I know centaurs are attacking them, but —” “We need to go home,” said Father. A Charr attack shook her resolve more than he did: one that briefly broke through the walls while Deborah was out walking with Aunt Elwin. But it was Aunt Elwin who convinced Mother that she could do more to help our people in the Ministry than as one more staff against the Charr legions. She accepted the latest offer from the Ministry, this time to serve as representative of the Salma District itself, and we headed—home, to a place I’d never seen. 3 My father was a Fairchild, a descendant—if collateral—of Duke Barradin himself, while my mother was only a Langmar, and a Langmar of mixed heritage, no less. But Langmar meant nearly as much as Fairchild in Rurikton, where the family had owned a mansion for generations. When we first arrived, I’d never seen anything like it, for Aunt Elwin’s house in struggling Ebonhawke couldn’t begin to compare to the splendid gardens and shining marble of a mansion in Divinity’s Reach. Even Deborah, her eleven-year-old dignity often stronger than any other feeling, couldn’t help staring around with wide eyes. Mother, meanwhile, gained a still greater mansion in the Salma District upon receiving her appointment as representative, but she wanted us safe from the politicking and corruption of the Ministry. Deborah and I grew up quietly in Langmar Manor, educated with other Ascalonian nobles by Ascalonian tutors, familiar with every corner of Rurikton and very little beyond it. Deborah chafed at the confinement, but I was a little girl, content enough to spend my days playing and studying with Yolanda, Corone, and Faren, new and lifelong friends. 4 Deborah joined the Seraph the day she turned twenty. “I don’t understand,” I said blankly. “We call ourselves Ascalonians,” she told me, “and that means more than tracing our family trees. You don’t remember Ebonhawke, but those are real Ascalonians, fighting for what they love—like our ancestors fought for what they loved—but we’re happy to boast of their names without doing anything. Captain Thackeray could just sit back and enjoy everything he gets for being Gwen Thackeray’s heir, but he isn’t, and I won’t either. Ascalon is lost, even if Rurikton and the Settlement and Ebonhawke will never admit it, but as long as Kryta stands, we have something to fight for.” Deborah as a Seraph, solving crimes, keeping order, and skirmishing with the occasional bandit raid, wasn’t half so chilling a prospect as Deborah fighting legions of Charr, so I didn’t say what I thought—as long as Ebonhawke stands, we have Ascalon to fight for. 5 Deborah’s departure left the whole family scattered: my mother in Salma, my father dead, my aunt and cousins in Ebonhawke, my sister stationed all the way down in Claypool, and some remote relations and me in Rurikton. Mother, still grieving Father and anxious over Debs, decided that at fifteen, I was old enough to come live with her in her Ministry mansion. I’d felt lonely and restless in Langmar Manor, but I still received the news with very little short of horror. “You’re going the next district over, not across the world,” said Yolanda. “I’ll take a house in Manor Hill too,” Faren said recklessly, “and we’ll have amazing parties.” Faren being Faren, he actually did, aided by his father’s relief at him showing interest in something beyond Rurikton high society—even if that thing was only Salma high society. My mother kissed me when we arrived, and with a smile, told Faren, “It’s a pleasure to know you’ll be keeping my girl company, and of course, just to see you—you’re looking so well!” He preened. 6 We spent those early weeks exploring Salma, curious and cheerful despite ourselves, suppressing giggles as we followed a dour guide about the district. “Orr was destroyed,” the guide was saying, “Ascalon was ravaged by the Foefire; only Kryta is left, and that by a narrow margin.” “Ascalon was ravaged by the Searing,” I said sharply, all laughter gone. Nobody would call Faren a great wit, but when it came to conversation and society, his instincts were impeccable. “You must have gotten the order confused, good sir—the Searing came first, the Foefire when everything was already wrecked—but a simple mistake, I’m sure—you were saying something about Kryta?” Biting back the first words that came to my lips, I forced myself to smile and say, “Sorry, we’re Ascalonian.” “I guessed,” said the guide. 7 I suppose I was a callow, coddled creature in those days, spoiled if not malicious—and though three years of even more luxury in Salma didn’t change that, a single letter did. To Minister Ailoda Langmar, I regret to inform you of the loss of Falcon Company in a centaur raid. Your daughter, Sergeant Deborah Fairchild, died honourably in battle. With my deepest condolences to you and your family, Captain J. Tervelan of the Seraph (Queensdale) As Mother staggered backwards, I caught her, and somehow afterwards, that was always the clearest memory: her weight in my arms, the letter falling out of her hand, fluttering downwards until it reached the floor, nothing visible but the seal of the Seraph. Until then, I’d been little more than an irritable butterfly, but with Mother shattered, I found myself willingly shouldering the work of mourning: the formal letters and heartbroken notes, the refusal of Deborah’s pension, the visits from friends and allies and enemies—I was warm and grateful to the Mashewes and Baroness Jasmina; coldly civil to that ass Zamon, whose commiseration fell little short of gloating; brave and dignified to Corone and his friend Edmonds; grieved but composed with Faren and Yolanda. Like a creature of a thousand faces, I sometimes thought in exhausted moments: not at all a proper Ascalonian hero, more Anise than Deborah—but it was the only way I knew to be strong.

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1) Ascalonian first: the PC from the first game was a resident of the human kingdom of Ascalon when the Charr, a species of giant cat people who lived in Ascalon a thousand years earlier, orchestrated a massive magical attack that killed thousands of Ascalonian civilians and devastated the landscape. Surviving Ascalonians were afterwards mostly killed or enslaved, except a few groups that escaped. The king then went mad and turned himself and the last survivors into vengeful ghosts.

2) and Krytan second: in GW1, the PC helps Prince Rurik of Ascalon lead a group of Ascalonian refugees into the neighbouring kingdom of Kryta. Some Ascalonians establish a settlement there while others live in the cities; generations later, this has resulted in a minority population of Krytan Ascalonians within broader Krytan culture, which the GW2 PC can belong to (though it has no impact on gameplay, which is what inspired the fic). In-game, Ascalonians are fiercely proud of their heritage.

3) Rurikton refugees: Rurikton, named after the Rurik in #2 (who was killed in the journey to Kryta), is the Ascalonian district of the Krytan capital, Divinity’s Reach.

4) Ebonhawke: a stronghold in the furthest reaches Ascalon built by elite Ascalonian soldiers and the civilians they fought to protect. It fell just outside of the king’s curse and has managed to survive the onslaughts of the Charr for 250 years.

5) I was born there [Ebonhawke]: there is no evidence for the PC being born outside Divinity's Reach, so this is probably one of the creakiest elements as far as canon goes. DR is canonically the PC’s home, and they strongly suggest they’ve never seen anything else. I made her very young when she arrived to finagle it, but it’s mostly there because I’m interested in the dynamic between Ebonhawke Ascalonians and Kryta Ascalonians, so I wanted to give her a foot in both worlds.

6) Minister Caudecus: a deeply corrupt Krytan minister who shows up in various storylines.

7) my aunt Elwin: Elwin Fairchild is a noblewoman of Ebonhawke in the game, a proud Ascalonian ambivalent over Krytan involvement in Ebonhawke’s affairs.

8) Rurikton gate: Asura gates are magic/technological portals created by a species of small, floppy-eared, ethically questionable scientists and researchers. They have a gate in Rurikton that will instantly transport you to the one in Ebonhawke, but it seems that it’s only recently been permanently fixed on Ebonhawke.

9) Lion’s Arch: the former capital of Kryta; after a cataclysm caused by giant eldritch dragons, the original Lion’s Arch was sunk and the city rebuilt into an independent city-state, while Divinity’s Reach became the new capital.

10) The Black Citadel: the capital of Charr-controlled Ascalon, built on top of the former human capital (and human remains, according to one Charr).

11) turned herself over to the Vanguard: the Ebon Vanguard defends and seems to largely control Ebonhawke.

12) five-year-old Deborah: we don’t know the exact age gap between Deborah and the PC, but Deborah seems to be older.

13) the Salma District: the PC will always live in Salma, regardless of origin, even though the city has sharp class and ethnic divisions and you can belong to one of the minority populations.

14) Duke Barradin himself: Duke Barradin was the heir to the previous royal family in GW1, but loyal to the elected king, Adelbern. His daughter was engaged to Adelbern’s son Rurik, but both were killed, so he has no direct descendants. However, the PC’s friend Faren is explicitly descended from royalty, the noble PC is implied to be so, and the Duke of Ebonhawke is descended from Ascalonian kings in particular, so it seems likely that their progenitor was some relation of Barradin’s.

15) only a Langmar: Captain Langmar led the elite Ascalonian soldiers that ultimately founded Ebonhawke, though she died in the process. There’s no sign that she had anything like an aristocratic background, but we’re told that class hierarchy in Rurikton is rooted in descent from Searing-era heroes, as Langmar was.

16) mixed heritage: GW2 Ascalonians, especially in Kryta, are a lot less homogeneous than in GW1. We see NPCs of all sorts of RL ethnicities identifying as Ascalonian or strongly implied to be Ascalonian. OTOH, Ebonhawke Ascalonians are implied to regard Krytan Ascalonians as "less" Ascalonian than they are, and there's a remark about Logan Thackeray’s beige heartthrob status being partly because he’s pure Ascalonian. The NPC I appropriated as their mother is a minister with default Krytan design, but who is talking with a Krytan who tells her to get over the Searing.

17) safe from the politicking and corruption of the Ministry: per #13, Salma is canonically the PC’s home and I’m stretching canon. The game is pretty emphatic that Ascalonians live in Rurikton or the Ascalon Settlement, and since there are nobles and mansions in Rurikton, it can’t even be a matter of “but the noble ones are up on Manor Hill.” The real explanation is that the choice of ethnicity is purely cosmetic and not considered any further, but that’s boring, and we’re never told that the PC has always lived in Salma.

18) Yolanda, Corone, and Faren: Faren is a shallow flibbertigibbet, but he seems to genuinely care for the PC; Yolanda and Corone are two of the friendliest guests at the party he throws for you.

19) the Seraph: the Seraph are a cross between soldiers and police in Kryta, principally involved in fighting off centaur and bandit attacks.

20) Captain Thackeray: Logan Thackeray, the Seraph commander of Divinity’s Reach and ultimate mentor/friend to the PC. He’s the descendant of Gwen Thackeray from GW1/GW: Eye of the North, who was the BEST CHARACTER IN GUILD WARS enslaved by the Charr as a child, but escaped to fight them for the rest of her life between succeeding Captain Langmar, finding love, and establishing Ebonhawke. She’s an iconic hero to Ascalonians.

21) Ascalon was ravaged by the Foefire: you don’t get a chance to correct the Salma Guide, but otherwise these are his exact words. The Foefire was the mad king Adelbern’s final curse that turned him and the last survivors into ghosts; the game tends to emphasize this rather than the Searing + brutal invasion that led to it. (It’s particularly glaring in this case, as you personally see Ascalon ravaged by the Searing in GW1 and spend a good deal of time fighting there, years before the Foefire.)

22) Minister Ailoda Langmar: the Krytan-Ascalonian minister I mentioned above is simply "Minister Ailoda," with no other name given. There's no sign of any connection to the PC, but eh, game mechanics.

23) the Mashewes...Jasmina...that ass Zamon...Corone and his friend Edmonds: Lady Mashewe is a pleasant acquaintance who says her mother prayed for the PC; Jasmina's a noblewoman avoiding Faren; Zamon and the PC insult each other; Edmonds talks to the PC with Corone.

24) Anise: Anise is the charming, enigmatic, and powerful mesmer leader of the queen’s personal guard, the Shining Blade.

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TWO

1 My sister’s gravestone read: Deborah Fairchild Daughter of Kryta and Ascalon Died serving her country with honour, faith, and courage. No body rested beneath the stone; neither the Seraph nor Mother’s Ministry guards ever managed to recover the missing corpses. I never saw a ghost, never heard the merest whisper of her spirit. The grave was the nearest approximation we had, but I often felt drawn to it, dry-eyed and somber. A day rarely passed when I spoke her name, and a day rarely passed when I did not think of her, memories jumbled up with horror at what that missing body must mean. When Debs joined the Seraph, she spoke of Logan Thackeray, of Ebonhawke, of the ancestral heroes whose names brought us respect and luxury—not of Mother, Aunt Elwin, certainly not me. Yet I could not help feeling that somehow, had I done something different, been someone different, she would never have left us. 2 For a year, I played my part in what increasingly seemed a theatre of grief: three months’ withdrawal into mourning, gradual emergence into a solemn, reserved public life over the next six months, and another quarter-year to return to my old habits of gaiety and grudges—yet little altered for me, at court or during my weekly vigils at the grave. Not, at least, until one of the latter was interrupted by a familiar voice, saying: “Indulgence doesn’t suit you, darling.” “Anise?” I exclaimed, too surprised for offence; Countess Anise was a longtime friend of our family—only the Six knew how long—but I rarely saw her away from court, much less in the guarded seclusion of the Langmar cemetery. “All those faces of yours,” said Anise, her drawl indistinguishable from every other time I’d heard her, “and you’re squandering them on self-pity and an empty coffin.” “She wanted to be a real Ascalonian,” I blurted out—I, who hadn’t confided in my mother or my aunt or my friends, and somehow I couldn’t help but babble on, “a hero fighting for her home and her cause, and now—now she’s just like them, a martyr and a defiled corpse somewhere—” “You’re getting hysterical,” Anise said, not unkindly, and added, “Is martyrdom what it means to be Ascalonian, now?” I’d always liked Anise, a clever lady mesmer like my namesake, but alive and undefeated; I respected her uncharted skills and enjoyed her inscrutable charm, but until that moment, I never realized: she was Ascalonian, too. 3 Teach me, I found myself begging Anise, though I myself didn’t quite know what I meant—maneuvering in the court, or chaos magic, or defending another person, or outwitting potential threats, or generating clones, or simply surviving in prosperity—perhaps I did not mean anything in particular. I couldn’t be Deborah, and in my heart I didn’t want to be Deborah, a soldier locked into hierarchies and orders and thrown into small doomed skirmishes. In any case, I hadn’t Deborah’s resilience, or Captain Thackeray’s unwavering loyalty, or his foremother Gwen’s relentless courage—but if I did not envision myself as equal to Anise, hers were footsteps I could see myself following, regardless of the particulars. Even as I pleaded with her, I expected little from a woman at once detached and preoccupied—and thought little of what had driven her to intercede in the first place. But Anise, taking the request on its face, smiled. “Chaos for a devotee of Kormir? Delightful—I’ll expect you at moonrise.” 4 My life reformed itself over that next year. Mother, relieved to see me interested in something of substance, readily relinquished me to Anise’s patronage; Anise herself proved an exacting but gracious mentor, dispensing advice, demands, criticism, and praise in equal measure; and my friends found me more and more myself. Small concerns crept back into my mind: the superiority of silk over velvet, Barradin wine over Eldvin ale, Gwen Thackeray over Queen Salma. Greater ones, of course, drew my attention as well: the downfall of the Meades, one of the oldest Ascalonian houses in Kryta, and consequent disappearance of our childhood friend Kasmeer Meade; the desperation of the war in my birthplace and heightened Krytan aid; the murder of an Ascalonian minister. I miss Debs every day, I wrote to my aunt, but I know I have to make something of my own life, in my own way. I’ve been thinking of returning to Ebonhawke to help, since Anise says I am ‘highly proficient’ as an aetherist. I haven’t left Divinity’s Reach in years, though, so before I try myself against the Charr, I’m planning on making my way around Queensdale—at least Shaemoor. 5 To the world, my story began the day I stepped through Dwayna’s Gate into Shaemoor. The world is wrong, of course; my life didn’t begin with centaurs clubbing a frightened man the instant that I set foot in Shaemoor, with stalls and cottages roaring into flame, with a boy as blond as Debs huddled in a corner, with the blood and brains and screams of that day. It didn’t begin with the barely-heard orders from Corporal Beirne—with the indistinct impulse that had me running forward rather than back, urging strangers towards the inn, catching the boy up in my arms, consoling a woman over the slaughter of her dog as I dragged her with my free hand—with the furious spells tumbling from my mouth, focused through the weak wooden sceptre in my hand. I was someone before I became the hero of Shaemoor. I was myself, with my own history, my own concerns, my own people … the man, that man slaughtered before my eyes, was Ascalonian, and the boy too. If they had not been, perhaps the instinct of the moment would not have flung me into the horror as if I’d been tempered by the Searing, instead of sheltered in Divinity’s Reach. Or perhaps it ran deeper than that, and I would have turned onto that path had the man been Zamon, or an Asura, or even a Charr—but still, it was the turn, not the beginning. 6 Something did begin at Shaemoor, however: my association with Logan Thackeray. I’d met him before, socially, but only just—and in perfect honesty, knew him more as the butt of Anise’s wit than anything else. But I respected him from what I’d heard of his service to Divinity’s Reach, and for his determination to follow his ancestress’s footsteps and not just her name. In the midst of all that panic and death, it seemed only natural to rush to his aid when I heard that he was being overwhelmed. I had no sword, like Logan, or Deborah; I struck from among magical decoys, twisting chaos about our enemies from each direction—but it was something, and an hour from leaving the city for the first time, I was at Logan’s side, blasting aether at a massive earth elemental and the many smaller ones. He didn’t know me from Kormir, or at least from Kasmeer, but I knew we were a Langmar and a Thackeray again, thrown into another desperate fight, and there were worse ways to die. But we didn’t die; we lived and we triumphed, and by the time that I awoke in the care of a priestess of Dwayna, every Seraph from Logan on down knew who I was. 7 All my life, I had been Minister Ailoda’s other girl or the lady Elwin’s niece or Sergeant Fairchild’s sister or a Langmar, you know, on the mother’s side—or, now and then, merely my lady. I rarely heard my own name outside my little circle of Ascalonian nobles. I also rarely heard it in the immediate wake of Shaemoor. But now I wasn’t a satellite about greater relations, extensions of my mother or aunt or sister or heroic ancestors. I was the hero, myself, even as I wandered about Shaemoor in a daze. I didn’t do much: fought off little wyrms and harpies, found missing herds, gathered apples. Yet there was no my lady there, much less So-and-so’s relation: only the hero of Shaemoor.

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1) clever lady mesmer like my namesake: the PC's name isn't explicitly stated in this section, but those familiar with the original Guild Wars: Prophecies can probably figure it out from this reference.

2) Chaos for a devotee of Kormir?: all human characters choose a patron god/goddess, and the choice of god and the choice of profession are completely independent. But Kormir, goddess of order and truth, is a rather odd choice for a chaos magic-using mesmer.

3) the murder of an Ascalonian minister: Minister Brios, the representative for the Ascalonian Settlement, is poisoned in Divinity's Reach before a meeting with Anise. There are very few Ascalonian ministers, so the murder of one of them seems likely to be particularly troubling to Ascalonians.

4) before I try myself against the Charr: you can get to Ebonhawke straight from the starting zone of Divinity’s Reach, but Ebonhawke is in a level 30+ zone.

5) a boy as blond as Debs: Deborah will be blonde if you choose to be Ascalonian.

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THREE 1 These days, I knew better than to let myself get consumed by grief. Still, as I flung spells at spiders, giant worms, bandits, centaurs, anything, I couldn’t help but wish that Deborah could see me now. At the garrison, I snatched up a rusty sword and poured magic through it with every swing at a centaur; what would she think? Me, fighting with a sword? Maybe not the way she or the other Seraph did, but still! She wouldn’t believe it. She’d be proud, I thought—wouldn’t she? 2 I’d barely passed beyond Shaemoor when I heard from Faren: positively hasty, for him. His pet raven delivered a gushing note that, in the space of a few sentences, managed to tease me about my injuries, urge me to talk him up to my healer, and summon me to a party—at my own house. I could only laugh; ridiculous as he often was, I loved him dearly, and always had. Even as children, we’d been friends and companions, but after Kasmeer vanished and Deborah died, we found ourselves inseparable. We were among the last of that quiet, secure little Ascalonian world in which we’d grown up at Rurikton—certainly the closest. Deborah’s death had changed me, driven me beyond the walls of Rurikton and Manor Hill, beyond letters and parties and court gossip. But I remained Faren’s friend, as I would always be. 3 Many people, I think, assumed Faren and I were lovers; in fact, to our own bemusement, nothing could be further from the truth. When we were seventeen, he said, “I don’t understand it. You’re pretty—I’m gorgeous—but I really think I’d throw up.” I might have been offended had I not felt exactly the same. “Inbreeding, I expect,” I told him. Faren brightened. “Grandmama was a Fairchild.” 4 Faren waited ahead of the party—a sacrifice, in the world of Faren—to greet me with his most grandiose bow. “The hero of Shaemoor returns!” I shook my head, but I grinned despite myself. It turned out that my servants had gleefully conspired with him, and when I entered the courtyard, I found it full of strangers and friends alike, along with food, gossip, and a wizard. I’d enjoyed exploring Queensdale, pushing myself to further and further limits; it was good to know that I could enjoy simpler pleasures, too, although it didn’t extend to the dog fights and bear baiting that a cousin of Faren’s called for. “Not in my home,” I snapped, “and if you want to stay, don’t mention that again.” When I heard someone say my name, I seized the chance to turn away—only to find myself facing my mother’s most hated rival. 5 “Minister Zamon.” “You’ve done well for yourself,” Zamon said acidly. “All it takes for a noble to be a hero is a bit of swordplay, a few bottles of cheap brandy, and an inflated sense of self-importance.” He had said much the same of Deborah’s swift rise among the Seraph; she’d never responded, holding herself above partisan squabbles. “Then you’re almost a hero already, my lord,” I replied, smiling. “All you lack is the brandy and swordplay.” I was not Deborah. 6 Even my old friends seemed to see the hero of Shaemoor more than anything else. Corone, brought up with Faren and Kasmeer and me, and now a respected warrior, regarded me as if he’d never seen me before, and said he’d be honoured to fight beside me. Yolanda hailed me as a heroine—before chiding me for associating so much with Faren, “that rascal!” In his imagination, maybe. Fending off her interrogation about Logan Thackeray, I’d never been happier to see Faren bounce towards me. And the moment that I muttered something about being tired, he assured me that he was done with the party as well, and headed off to make our excuses to the servants. I was ignoring Yolanda’s meaningful stare when I heard him scream. 7 Corone got his wish sooner than either of us could have imagined. We easily trounced the bandits who swept into the party, but it didn’t matter: Faren was already gone. With Corone and Edmonds protecting the guests, I ran out of Manor Hill and into the district plaza, desperately trying to catch any sign of Faren, or even the bandits; they’d have to have some way to recognize each other, wouldn’t they? But there was nothing, just ordinary people carrying on with ordinary business, merchants calling out sales, the old tour guide talking to a woman with a red handkerchief about her neck … with that over her mouth, she’d look just like the bandits who had abducted Faren— “Madam?” said someone near us, and then “ma'am!” as I blasted the bandit with a bolt of aether. I fought at least half a dozen across the district, tracking them one by one to a house at the opposite end of Salma. At the sight of me, bandits poured out of the house, but I didn’t care: they’d learn what it meant to cross a daughter of Ascalon.

FOUR

1 After Shaemoor, the bandits were nothing. They kept jumping out of their safehouse one by one—idiocy—and flailed at my clones, even their supposed leader. “Soon, you’ll beg me for death!” he shouted. I laughed, and blew up the clones. He went down like a basket of eggs. But I never laughed for long. I’d yet to see Faren, and images of bandits beating him, tormenting him, cutting his throat, flickered before me, each as vivid as every spell I cast. 2 Inside the bandits’ safehouse, I raced upstairs, barely wasting attention on the few guards left inside. Fear and victory kept my blood rushing fast: I didn’t even think about Anise’s lessons, but my feet landed exactly as she’d taught me, my body slipped away from each attack, and every spell hit its mark. Beyond them, I could just see Faren. He seemed alive, thank the gods, but stretched out in magical chains that turned my anger and fear to raw fury. I fought through a haze of rage, but one that illuminated rather than blinded—everything seemed crisp and bright and clear, more than ever before. When the last of them collapsed, I scrambled the rest of the way up the stairs, and tried to clear my head. “Um,” said Faren, “a little help here?” 3 When I broke the chains, relief flooding through me, he gave a hoarse laugh. “Am I pleased to see you!” he exclaimed, then grinned and added, “though if you wanted me to leave the party, a simple ‘Begone, freeloader!’ would have sufficed.” Captivity or no, Faren clearly remained Faren. “I’ll make a note of that,” I said dryly, and asked after any information he might have picked up on what the devil was going on. But he knew only that they operated out of a house in Shaemoor, where they’d meant to lock him up, and that in recent months, they’d turned more brazen, bloodthirsty, and focused on rebellion against the crown. “I can't save you and leave the others to rot,” I decided, and managed to smile at him. “Bad form, you know.” 4 Faren, looking determined (for him), said, “Count me in—I may not be a centaur-killing berserker like you, but I can take care of myself.” I’d believe that when I saw it. On the way to the bandits' den, I said, “Glad to have you with me, but do me a favour? Stay close”—I poked him with my sceptre—“and that way, we can protect each other.” Faren shrugged that off, which didn’t comfort me, but he actually managed himself well enough; he didn’t even get blood on his clothes as we fought our way into the concealed and guarded caves, nor when we rescued all the prisoners caged inside, so it counted as a success as far as he was concerned. “If you know any fair maidens, be sure to tell them who rescued you,” he said, and added with a grin, “the dashing Lord Faren … and his friend!” 5 The mission did count as a success for me, too; one of the captives had filched papers about a plot in Divinity’s Reach. We escorted him and the others out, taking down the remaining bandits with impatience (me) and glee (Faren). “We showed them what Ascalonians are made of!” he said triumphantly, and I straightened right up. “That’s right.” When Logan Thackeray arrived to help, Faren swaggered up and said, “My friend and I defeated these delinquents with panache and aplomb; you're just in time to celebrate our victory.” “I’m … amazed,” said Captain Thackeray. I knew the feeling. 6 “Then again,” he said, favouring me with a respectful nod, “I should have known that the hero of Shaemoor wouldn’t let your kidnapping go unanswered.” I remembered Shaemoor, fighting alongside Captain Thackeray with my stick of a sceptre just like Gwen and Langmar once had, all those years ago, and tried not to think too much of it; we’d barely met, outside of a few social occasions he clearly didn’t remember. But I also thought of Faren struggling in his chains, and danger spreading to the home that was supposed to keep us safe, and that we were all Ascalonians together. “No one hurts my friends without answering to me,” I said firmly. I handed over the papers we’d acquired, but to my surprise, it was Faren(!) who proved most useful; he noticed the quality of the paper, and even knew of the papermaker I could track down to identify it. I promised, “I'll get the information you need, without anyone realizing the Seraph are aware of the traitor in the city.” “Be careful,” said Captain Thackeray. 7 Although he warned me, I didn’t realize so many skale existed in the world as I wiped out on that trip—luckily, I found a new sceptre on the way, so I managed to keep them at a distance, and my clothes remained as pristine as Faren’s. When I arrived, I found the paper maker he’d mentioned; Fursarai was a small, prissy man, an impression not helped by his quite beautiful waistcoat, but it didn’t stop him from shouting at a departing Norn about getting his supplies back to the city. “You there—you look like you can handle yourself in a fight!” he announced, gaze fixed on something in my direction; I glanced over my shoulder, but none of the Seraph seemed to be behind me, nor anyone else. He gabbled something about the garrison and cowardly guards at the empty air—unless—unless "you there" was supposed to mean me? What a boor: but unfortunately, a boor who could direct me to Faren’s attackers. Friendship had its sacrifices. I looked at my silk sleeves, and sighed. FIVE 1 “What do you cost?” Cin Fursarai demanded, and now I preferred to believe he wanted a replacement for that Norn. It was flattering, I suppose, that he looked at me—a young noblewoman in silk, wool, and fine leather, carrying only a sceptre and a small sword—and thought I looked like someone who could fight. “I’m not a mercenary,” I said, and added: “I'm here to ask for help identifying the craftsmanship of a piece of handmade paper.” Fursarai sniffed. “If you found quality paper in Divinity’s Reach, I can assure you, I made it.” By sheer force of will, I didn’t roll my eyes—I had a conspiracy to unearth, never mind how irritating this little prig was—and instead requested his help, only for him to sniff again and go on about how he had no loyalty to the crown, because he happened to live in Lion’s Arch. He had red hair and dressed in high Rurikton fashion; he had to be Ascalonian, descendant of refugees saved by Kryta’s rulers, yet—yet— 2 It didn’t matter. It didn’t, not right now—and anyway, our fashions had spread far and wide, Lion’s Arch had long ago drowned its history, and true Ascalonian identity meant more than ancestry, whatever they might say in Rurikton. Deborah had taught me that much; if he didn’t care about it, then I wouldn’t, either. Easier said than done, though. “I need this information as soon as possible,” I told him. “But why should I trust you?” he retorted. “Who are you, anyway?” 3 I lifted my chin, and for all I might tell myself, I felt as if the pride of generations clustered about me, even with my foremothers’ spirits hopefully at peace in the Hall of Echoes. I had not forgotten what I came from. All those Langmars, the children and children’s children of Gwen Thackeray’s great captain. The Krytans they’d married now and then, abandoning an easy heritage to transplant themselves into Rurikton, absorbed into Ascalonian life and identity. The Fairchilds in Ebonhawke, kin of the last kings, of the duke who still haunted Ascalon and his martyred daughter. They’d fought a long defeat, on and on, yet managed to keep a last corner of human Ascalon alive; my aunt still worked to keep Ebonhawke standing while this man sneered over paper. “I am Lady Althea Fairchild of Divinity’s Reach and Ebonhawke,” I said. 4 Fursarai eyed me suspiciously. “Well, which one?” Despite myself, my defiance flickered. I would always be Ascalonian above all else, yet I would always serve the queen, too, and set myself against the enemies of Kryta. I belonged to Ebonhawke, my father’s land, my birthplace and my pride; I belonged to Divinity’s Reach, the only home I knew, where my mother’s people had lived and fought for generations. Anise always called me a creature of two faces, and I supposed I was. “I don’t know,” I admitted. 5 He grunted. “Explains why you don’t stink like the rest, anyway.” “Thank you,” I replied dryly. After a minute of meditation (not helped by Fursarai’s string of complaints), we headed out. I was just about ready to kill him myself by the time we got to the Shaemoor garrison; he’d have easily died without me fighting skale and centaurs and one exceptionally large spider by sceptre and sword, but he made not the slightest attempt to defend himself, just cowering against his bull and yelping the entire way there. That was before I had to take down three centaur catapults and Lyssa knew how many centaurs, with maybe two Seraph backing me up. Naturally, his gratitude upon entering the garrison amounted to checking his supplies three times, turning to me, and pronouncing: “I feel like I was run over by a herd of marauding dolyaks!” 6 Irritation aside, he did supply the information I needed, admitting that he sold his paper to Minister Zamon. Zamon, the man who’d all but gloated at my mother when Deborah died, purely—I thought then—because of malice at the suffering of a rival. And then, not long ago: the man who’d sneered at my defense of Shaemoor. “He has excellent taste,” Fursarai said, his glance clearly implying that I didn’t. As if he’d know. I silently decided that I’d never buy anything from him, even if I had to go to Lion’s Arch myself to find another papermaker. I smiled and said, “Don’t leave Divinity’s Reach.” 7 I found Captain Thackeray in the Seraph Headquarters, deep in a discussion with Anise, of all people, but his head snapped up when he caught sight of me. “Do you have any news?” “Fursarai admitted he made the paper for Minister Zamon,” I said, suppressing any signs of satisfaction. Well, mostly; Anise cast an amused look in my direction. “Setting up citizens to be robbed and brutalized?” exclaimed Captain Thackeray. “That's out-and-out treason.” Why, so it was.

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1) The Fairchilds in Ebonhawke, kin of ... the duke who still haunted Ascalon and his martyred daughter: i.e., Duke Barradin, while his daughter, Lady Althea—this Althea’s namesake—was burned alive by the Charr.

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SIX 1 “But where are my manners?” said Captain Thackeray, whom I’d never seen with so much as a wrinkle in his surcoat or a hair out of place. “Allow me to introduce you to Countess Anise, Master Exemplar of the Shining Blade.” Bemused, I nodded at my mentor of years, while Anise bowed with a faint, ironic smile. Disregarding the matter of manners, she said smoothly, “Minister Wi’s hosting a party tonight; it’ll be a good opportunity to eavesdrop on ministers, their allies, and enemies.” Captain Thackeray couldn’t quite bring himself to disagree, but clearly wanted to; he proposed a (perfectly legal) raid on Zamon’s house instead, and worse still, left the choice to me, insisting that he couldn’t give me orders—even though he clearly had no idea who I was. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he’d realized I had a name. 2 Naturally, I consulted with Anise—Thackeray or no Thackeray, she was my guide and teacher. “Personally,” she said in her light voice, “I prefer convivial, face-to-face situations. Then again, cloak-and-dagger skulduggery is always fun.” I laughed. “The way you describe it, it all sounds so charming; I’ll have to think it over.” I didn’t, actually. Minister Wi lived in Rurikton, and Faren was my best friend; if I knew anything, it was Rurikton parties. 3 “Minister Wi’s party,” I announced. “I’ll see what I can learn.” “Are you sure?” said Captain Thackeray, though with a distinct note of resignation. “You can’t break into Zamon’s place if you attend Minister Wi’s party.” “I’m sure,” I told him. “Minister Wi’s party it is.” He sighed. 4 “Your fellow nobles seem to have a knack for making my life interesting,” Captain Thackeray told me, clearly putting the best face on it. “Let’s see if we can’t return the favour.” “We nobles, Captain Thackeray?” I said, amused; everyone knew about his relationship to Gwen—and his relationship to Queen Jennah, too. “A step down from royalty making your life interesting, I’m sure.” To my surprise, he flinched. Some lover’s spat, perhaps; I decided it was none of my business, and turned to Anise, who promised to meet me at the party—because it wouldn’t do to make us share the spotlight during our entrance. Of course. 5 I listened to a few complaints and registered some unsolved crimes after Anise left, then headed out. At least, I meant to, but on my way to the door out of Seraph Headquarters, I caught sight of an open book—a register. “That lists the names of all Seraph soldiers for the last two decades,” an officer told me proudly. I glanced over my shoulder, undoubtedly looking as suspect as a priest of Grenth on Wintersday, but nobody seemed to be paying attention; the officer had drifted over to settle a dispute over a farm, Captain Thackeray was talking to a lieutenant, and everybody else looked up to their ears in work. I opened the book, scolding myself for being foolish, giving into a pointless sentimentality that would achieve nothing, recover no corpse for a grave—but still, I turned the pages, searching for the name I would know. I felt like a spy, flipping through pages, for all that the registry was open to the public and I had every right to look—and then, there it was, near the head of its page. Sgt Deborah Fairchild; missing in action, assumed dead. 6 “Are you looking for someone?” said Captain Thackeray. I nearly jumped straight into the air; as it was, I flinched as violently as he had. “No, sir,” I said, and realized—Debs would have said no, sir in the exact same tone, would have stood in this very room as I did now, would know it all better than I did. What would she have thought, if she’d known that one day I would be investigating crimes for the Seraph, reporting to Captain Thackeray himself? She’d never pressed me to be anything I wasn’t, never seemed to love me less for being the thoughtless, frivolous creature I was then, but I couldn’t help but imagine she’d have been proud. Imagine how this whole thing might have gone if she’d been alive—maybe we’d be investigating Zamon together, or— “Good luck, Captain Thackeray,” I said, and walked out. 7 By happy coincidence, I already had an invitation, of sorts. My mother’s said Minister Ailoda Langmar and one other. “You want to go?” said Mother, looking startled. “I would have thought you’d be busy slaying monsters or saving people or whatever else you do these days.” I frowned, unsure how to take this; it might have been pride, if not for her studiously neutral tone—did she think all this unimportant, or regrettable, or beneath us? Or was it fear, with Deborah dead on Seraph business? For a wild moment, I longed to tell her, cling to her and admit that I was frightened and angry as well as resolved, to confide in someone who would always see Althea first and the hero of Shaemoor second. “I need to keep an eye on Faren,” I said.

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1) his relationship to Queen Jennah: Jennah is the Queen of Kryta, and a beautiful young woman; it’s widely rumoured that she and Logan are having an affair. The last time royalty made his life especially interesting was when he deserted his dragon-hunting guild, Destiny's Edge, out of love for Jennah.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- SEVEN 1 I headed back to Rurikton for the party, though a good while before it was set to begin. I hadn’t been home for a while—months, though it felt like longer—and I wanted to get my bearings. I strolled past the familiar stone gryphons, a light calm settling over me. It deepened as I made my way down the streets, passing refugees and servants who gave slight bows: respectful, no more. Clusters of nobles nodded familiarly at me. I stopped by local traders, most of whom I knew by name. One bookseller had a pair of rare books on Ascalonian history, one of which I’d wanted for ages; I purchased them on the spot, and after these weeks of fighting and investigating and rescuing, it was a pleasure to let it all slide for a moment, and decide that today was already a success. 2 I personally carried my books to Langmar Manor, since I’d forgotten to bring any servants, and didn’t feel very much inclined to send for one now. Oddly enough, I had gotten used to managing on my own. The walk from the district square was a short and easy one in any case; I strolled down the streets, encountering nothing worse than a few seditious posters I tore down, and a man complaining about Captain Thackeray to an unsympathetic friend. “You know, just because your wife’s taken a shine to Logan Thackeray doesn’t make him a bad guy—he’s cursed.” At the first man’s scoff, the friend added, “Cursed with good looks and true Ascalonian blood! It’s not his fault that every woman fawns over him.” Not every woman, I thought. 3 The people of Rurikton had always mingled at the Maiden’s Whisper as well as Rurikton at large, so I attracted no particular curiosity when I strolled into the tavern. Several other lords and ladies stood near the entrance, smiling and lifting their glasses towards me as I passed, while everyone else simply continued their own conversations—despite the Norn inexplicably towering at the side of the room. “I like that Minister Caudecus,” one girl announced. “To Queen Jennah!” someone just out of sight said, echoed by a dozen toasts to the queen, Divinity’s Reach, Captain Thackeray, and assorted ministers. Across the hall, a man bellowed drunkenly, “Show me a woman who can wrestle a bear, and I’ll show you a keeper!” “If the Charr think they can come here,” said a woman, her voice clear and pleasant, “me and my meat cleaver will tell them otherwise.” I smiled; despite everything, it really was good to be home. 4 I spent the last few hours before the party skulking around Rurikton, but found nothing beyond a particularly incompetent group of adventurers and ordinary conversation on the street. Returning to the inn, I searched for a relatively secluded place, found it in a library, and closed my eyes, peering through those of a near-invisible clone as she drifted through Minister Wi’s manor. She wasn’t caught, but turned up nothing except preparations for the party. I was sure there had to be something we’d missed, but apparently not. Well, Zamon might be acting in secrecy. Might. I resigned myself to the inevitable: I would only discover what I needed to know at the party, and I would have no preparation beyond what I already knew. 5 When I arrived at the manor in person, the place was positively oozing Ministry guards, for no particular reason. Anise slanted them a glance that betrayed nothing, then eyed my finery with nearly smug approval. “This will be delightful,” she said, apparently no more inclined than usual to bother with such minutia as greetings and farewells. “Having the hero of Shaemoor on my arm will make tongues wag.” Even though it was just Anise, I flushed. So much for separate entrances—but it was like Anise to enjoy disrupting plans, even her own. “Thank you for letting me join you this evening, Countess,” I said, because it was like me, too. 6 “Mingle,” she said. “Speak to everyone—you never know who’ll say something they regret later.” It was an encouraging thought. “Second,” said Anise, “don’t limit your conversation to nobility; servants and guards see everything.” “Understood,” I replied, adding, “I suppose it goes without saying that I should be discreet?” “You catch on fast,” she told me, and touched her finger to the end of my nose, eliciting a startled laugh. “Go and charm the masses.” 7 “You know where to find me if you need me, pet,” Anise concluded, while I still tried to wrap my mind and dignity around the fact that she’d bopped my nose. But at the moment, I found her at my side, setting my hand on her arm and marching forward in her tall boots. She actually smiled when I matched my steps to hers, even if I could hardly match the total assurance of her stride and her drawl—but she smiled more at the sudden hush that fell over the grand room when we entered. “The Countess Anise,” the servant at the door announced, and after a suitably dramatic pause, continued, “and the hero of Shaemoor!” Virtually everyone in this room had known me from childhood, but they all bowed anyway, as if my mother herself stood in my place, rather than the other way around; she’d abruptly developed a cold when she heard Zamon would be there. Zamon himself was nowhere to be seen. Interesting.

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1) Cursed with good looks and true Ascalonian blood: this (and much of the dialogue here) is part of the ambient dialogue near the inn.

#anghraine's gaming #anghraine's fic #ascalonian grudgefic #ascalonian grudgeblog #althea fairchild #ailoda langmar #countess anise #marius corone #deborah fairchild #edmund fairchild #elwin fairchild #lord faren #julius zamon #logan thackeray #captain tervelan #guild wars 2 #pro patria #footnotes ahoy!

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