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amiedala · 3 years

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SOMETHING DEEPER

CHAPTER 4: An Open Wound

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, canon-compliant violence, graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of past abuse/trauma

SUMMARY: “I don’t expect you to follow what I say. I’m not a dictator, and I have no interest in becoming one. But if a single one of you brings danger to this planet you claim to love to hurt me or my wife,” Din continues, and the way his lips shape around the word wife makes something warm and wet unhinge in Nova, “there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide from me.”

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hello my loves and happy Something Deeper Saturday! this chapter is truly a whirlwind, it's hard and sweet and intense and simple all at once. there are very graphic descriptions of violence and death in the one (in the form of Force visions, no one's actually dying, I PROMISE!!!), so please be aware that there is potentially triggering material in what you're about to read. it mentions past abuse and dives pretty deep into current violence, so please just read with caution! i hope you enjoy this journey—i certainly did writing it! more notes at the end!!! <3

Mandalore isn’t a ghost town.

Not how Nova originally thought, anyway. The throne room is filled with wary, armored people. Some are the guards that usually stand watch outside, through the giant palace doors. Nova recognizes Koska Reeves and Axe Woves from the brief, charged encounters she’s had with each of them. Bo-Katan is there, of course, regal and pristine, her shoulders pushed back, her red hair impeccable. There are a handful of villagers that Nova’s seen in passing, but besides the few faces she recognizes, most of the people gathered in the throne room have been hidden somewhere on Mandalore, away from this strange Capitol, away from the everyday. Half of them are without armor, without impressive beskar helmets to hide their wary expressions. Bo-Katan’s icy, measured gaze is clearly a popular currency on Mandalore, because every single person in this room looks skeptical at best and enraged at worst. Nova keeps her eyes on Din, who’s decided to stand at the helm of the dais instead of taking a seat on the beskar throne, watching his every movement to ensure he’s safe up there, and that he stays unharmed.

“I want...to be your leader,” Din says, his voice quiet but earnest. He sounds like he’s incredulous at his own words, like he’s reading off a script he’s never seen before. But there’s power hidden underneath whatever’s scaring him, an undercurrent that Nova knows is unfettered, genuine passion. “I wasn’t raised in the way of Mandalore. Not in the ways that you were—”

“Clearly,” Koska whispers, and the Mnadalorians standing closest to her proximity offer uncharacteristic smiles and snorts. Nova steps forward, but Bo-Katan raises her sharp hand at her side, and they immediately fall silent.

Din looks back at Nova, and for the first time, she can see the fear in his eyes. She nods, encouragingly, even though she has absolutely no clue what point he’s trying to make. Every time she closes her eyes, even if it’s only for a heartbeat, she sees the strange, young hologram of her face, with the word MURDER, MURDER, MURDER flashing back at her, a ceaseless and terrible pattern. Nervously, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, realizing that she’s the only person in this room who isn’t outfitted in Mandalorian regalia. Her black shirt has remnants of dust on the sleeves from the amphitheater. Her pants saw their best days weeks ago. Her shawl, the only proof that she wears any sort of allegiance to the throne, Mandalorian blue and regal, is thrown haphazardly over her rounded shoulders. The boots on her feet are older than her relationship with Din, picked up planets and planets ago, somewhere sunny and warm and an entire lifetime away. When Din’s panicked brown eyes find hers again, Nova smiles, taking a half-step forward, trying to portray anything other than her own frenzied state, the hammering heartbeat that could likely be heard outside of the palace.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Din finally continues, turning back to the crowd. Even from this angle, with most of his face obscured, Nova knows how hard it is for him to stand here, in front of dozens of people, without his helmet, how many rules he thinks he’s breaking, how this must feel like agony. He reaches for the Darksaber hanging on his belt, and when it ignites, every single face in the room is on Din, on that horrific, captivating blade of electricity and death. “I won this in battle. Twice. Both were accidents,” He inhales heavily, studying the flickering, wicked blade. “But they still happened. I wasn’t born on Mandalore. I wasn’t raised here, either. I’ve given some of you this speech before, when I first took the throne.” He exhales through his nose, and Nova wets her dry lips. Her throat feels like the middle of the day on Tatooine, parched and treacherous. “I...I am not a Mandalorian in the way that you’re Mandalorians.” Nova chances another half-step forward, letting the captive, tensioned room blur in her vision as she just focuses on Din. There’s a tremor in his voice, something alive and unsteady, something she only notices because she’s spent over a year studying every inch of him, memorizing Din right down to his bloodstream. “I follow a Creed that you don’t. I’ve spent most of my life trying...trying to be a good soldier, a true Mandalorian. I know I’m not the leader you wanted. I’m not even sure if I’m the leader I wanted. But I’m the one we’ve got, at least for right now. And—” Din exhales sharply, his breath strained, and Nova knows he’s suppressing a sigh, “I swear, I will try my best to do right by this planet. But—but I’m not only the reigning Mand’alor. I’m—”

“Right,” Axe interjects, but there's no malice in his tone. Nova stiffens, crossing her arms over her chest, staring over at him. But he doesn’t look threatening. His smile seems genuine, like he;s just attempting to get Din to lighten up. “And a bounty hunter. A damn good one, at that. He’s caught me twice.”

“Three times,” Nova corrects, and her eyes go wide when she realizes that everyone’s attention is now on her. “But,” she continues, rather nervously, trying to square back her shoulders in a shoddy imitation of Bo-Katan to not display that nervousness, “Din hasn’t been just a bounty hunter in a long time.”

Din sheathes the Darksaber, and instead turns his outstretched hand to Nova. Heart pounding, she slides her hand into his large, gloved one, trying not to show the massive tremble in her fingers. Quietly, he reaches for the Skywaker lightsaber hanging from her belt, and when Nova hesitates, he lets her hand close over the grip instead. Bo-Katan moves forward, so quickly Nova doesn’t even notice, and when she ignites the crisp, illuminated blue blade, half of the people gathered in the throne room draw a weapon. Nova’s expecting Bo-Katan to do the same, but she raises one impeccable eyebrow and turns back towards the room.

“Stop,” she says, and immediately, the majority of the room lowers whatever weapon of choice they’re gripping. Nova manages a tiny, stuttered breath. “She’s not going to hurt us.”

“She,” a voice says from the back of the room, “is wanted by multiple parties. Contacts all over the galaxy will pay a pretty price for Andromeda Maluev, you know. I accepted the cult member as Mand’alor. I accepted you standing down from the throne, Bo-Katan. I will not accept harboring a criminal,” he continues, voice as icy as Hoth, “and a Jedi, at that.”

Din moves forward, all tension, all rage, but Bo-Katan holds up that same, steady hand, and the man making his way across the foreground halts in the same beat that Din does. Nova pulls her own lightsaber back, pocketing it, pulling the shawl higher over her shoulders, trying to unclench her jaw before all of her teeth break off in her mouth. She’s tired. So tired. Exhausted, slogging through this conversation, her heartbeat accelerating, stars shooting out behind her eyes. And still, this time, when she closes them, all she sees is MURDER, MURDER, MURDER.

“Her name,” Bo-Katan returns, measured and cool, “is Novalise Djarin. And yes, she is wanted by both the scum that still survived after the Empire’s demise, and a middleman somewhere in between which we cannot identify yet. Yes, she is a Jedi, or at least is certainly heading in that way. Yes, I stood down from the title. But that wasn’t because I was weak, or because I wanted them on the throne.”

“Bo-Katan—”

“Nova,” Bo-Katan interjects, “I’ve got this.” She steps off the lowest stair on the dias, posture perfect, right arm curled around her distinctive helmet. Everything in her screams royalty, regality. Behind her eyes is a fire so much stronger than the ice in her voice. “I didn’t want this. Neither did you. But Din won the Darksaber, fair and square. And Mandalore isn’t what it used to be. None of us are, either. We’re good at surviving, but we’re even better at fighting. And I believe,” she says, pointedly, glancing over at Din, who’s still coiled in an attack position, “that was the point our Mand’alor was getting to. So let him finish. With your mouths closed.”

The man who spoke, wizened but grizzled, exhales angrily through his nose, but his mouth stays clamped shut. Bo-Katan stands at attention, nodding back at Din.

“War is coming,” Din continues stiffly, and half of the people crowded around the room roll their eyes or mutter under their breath.

“War is always coming,” another woman enunciates, “it’s what the galaxy knows best.”

“War is coming,” Din repeats, and Nova has to force herself to unfurl her palms. Before she can even try to jump to his aid, though, he walks down the steps and presses his flat palm against the holotable. Reflected in the glittering dome above them is thousands of pixels of blue light. Nova’s juvenile mugshot is up there for the entire room to see, but so are statistics from every mission they’ve engaged in, anything even remotely related to the Order. Hundreds of faces swarm the screen, all with interwoven lines connecting them to other profiles and rotating planets. There, at the center of the screen, is the First Order’s name in menacing, large letters. Underneath are the silhouettes of Luke, Nova, and Grogu. When Din opens his mouth this time, his words are vivid and clear. “I know that Mandalore has been razed and sieged. I know that in your eyes, I’m not one of you. I know that none of you signed up for another battle. But I also know that fighting,” Din says, his voice weary, but his dark eyebrow raised, “is what’s in our blood. All of us.”

“I won’t follow a ruler who isn’t a true Mandalorian,” the same man finally continues. He steps towards them, and his face is angry and ghastly in the flickering blue light. His rage is barely concealed, and Nova’s hand flies unconsciously to the lightsaber hanging from her belt. “And I certainly won’t protect a Jedi who doesn’t belong here.”

“Well, then,” Nova says, and she’s so bone-dead tired that she doesn’t realize she’s the one who’s speaking until the second word is out of her mouth, “good thing I can protect myself.” She chances a glance at Din, who could very easily be aggravated at her stoking the fire. The only thing written across his face, though, is pride. Nova’s eyes flicker over to Bo-Katan, who is somehow, unbelievably, wearing the same exact expression.

Din slams his fist down on the holotable, sending all of the blue light back into the atmosphere it came from. The low light of the war room is returned to its usual state, but no one speaks. “I don’t expect you to follow what I say. I’m not a dictator, and I have no interest in becoming one. But if a single one of you brings danger to this planet you claim to love to hurt me or my wife,” Din continues, and the way his lips shape around the word wife makes something warm and wet unhinge in Nova, “there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide from me.”

Still, no one moves.

“Mand’alor,” Bo-Katan snaps, icily, all of her usual vigor and venom back in her voice, and it’s like she’s given an order no one can deny. Half of the Mandalorians nod in wary agreement, and the other half keep their low mumbles close to their chests, all of them shuffling out of the throne room, presumably to disperse outside. When the heavy door closes shut, with only the three of them remaining, Bo-Katan turns back to Nova. Din is already climbing the steps back up the dais where the menacing beskar throne sits to retrieve his fallen helmet. When he pulls it back over his handsome face, it’s like closing an open wound.

Nova looks at Bo-Katan, who doesn’t look nearly as threatening in this low light. Her hair is slightly ruffled, and the hard set of her jaw is tense, electric. “Bo-Katan,” Nova whispers, and her gaze snaps impeccably back to Nova’s. “Thank you,” Nova continues, earnest, “for defending me. Defending us. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” Bo-Katan counters, but there’s the ghost of a small smile on her beautiful, cold face. “They were wrong, and they needed to hear that. See? I’m not always a total bitch.”

The word—so commonplace, so foreign—sounds absolutely ludicrous coming out of her mouth that it makes Nova laugh out loud. The sound is both musical and jarring, and the tension held in Bo-Katan’s shoulders evaporates, even if it’s only momentarily.

“Noted,” Nova says, smiling. Maker and all the stars above, she’s exhausted. Bo-Katan glances back at Din, armored and impenetrable, and then back at Nova.

“You need sleep,” Bo-Katan allows, pulling her own helmet back over her head. “Both of you. I’ll stay down here and monitor any incoming correspondence. I’m too wired to go to bed anytime soon.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Bo-Katan interrupts, and her usual edge is back in her tone. “And I will. Go.” She raises that commanding arm again, and Nova’s too exhausted to resist. She wants to take a shower and wash the last few days off of her, and then sleep for three more. Her scar hurts. Her shoulders ache. Her head feels impossibly heavy. Silently, she lets Din lead her over to the heavy double doors, her ears buzzing with fatigue, but before they step into the hall, Nova hears her name chase her across the war room. In tandem, she and Din turn, watching Bo-Katan ignite the blue holotable. There’s something unreadable about her, even under the helmet. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Bo-Katan says, finally, and the heaviness of her words is louder than the doors when they close on her impenetrable face.

Steam from the shower fills the entire fresher. It’s wet and hot, the humidity seeping deep into Nova’s skin, burrowing under the residual ache from the last few days, nestling between her cold bones from the chill back on Ahch-To, the frigidity back on Hoth. Din joins her once he wrestles off the rest of the armor, and before Nova can explain she wants him, but it’s impossible right now with how exhausted she is, how she can barely keep her eyes open, Din wordlessly lathers up his hands with her favorite, clean-smelling soap, gently raking the suds through her hair.

Nova sighs in the silence, letting her shoulders hunch over, her body weight alleviated by sagging against the warm shower walls and by the soft grip Din has on her arms, making sure she stays upward. For what feels like years, they stand together under the warm running water, reveling in the steam, the heat, without either of them needing to say anything. Din wraps Nova’s long hair up in the freshly washed towel, while she dries off the residual runoff down her arms, her thighs.

The room is cool and dark in the blue twilight, that same fog and haze sinking over the horizon. Wherever the rest of the Mandalorians went, they’ve all but disappeared off the face of the planet. Everything is an eerie kind of quiet, no bugs, no animals, no clamor, nothing that signifies any kind of sentient life outside of the castle. Most nights, that kind of awful silence makes Nova wired, like it permeates even into her dreams, but not here, not now. She has what feels like years’ worth of sleep to catch up on, and the second that Din pulls back the fluffy, silk comforter on their giant bed, Nova steps out of the towel and into the soft cocoon. Din’s barely even settled up behind her before she drifts off somewhere peaceful, somewhere that’s not here.

She sleeps. For hours, maybe days, Nova sleeps. It’s dreamless and empty, warm and safe. Usually, nightmares flicker and flash through her mind, her legs sprinting away from whatever menace or threat is chasing her, but not tonight. Nothing wakes Nova up, not the strange quiet, not Din tossing next to her, not the immeasurable weight of saving the galaxy on her shoulders. She sleeps, uninterrupted and powerfully, swaddled up under the light blue blankets that are somehow keeping all the bad things away.

In the end, it’s not a nightmare that startles her away, nor is it Din’s unshaven face pressing into the crook of her neck. It’s the sleepy, quiet beeping of her commlink, which has somehow been removed from its usual place on her wrist and is buried under the extra pillows that stand sentinel over their bed when neither Nova or Din is there.

Din, at this very moment, is also nowhere to be found, and Nova rakes a hand through her hair, tries and fails to suppress a yawn, and digs through the array of pillows on the floor until she can see the bright, red light. “Hello?” she asks, her voice still off somewhere in dreamland, and she rubs sleep from her eyes as she collapses down on the bed, body still stuck in sleep.

“Hey,” Nova hears, and it’s halfway through another yawn before she realizes it’s Cara calling. “Listen, I’d love to actually catch up, but—”

“You have news?” Nova asks, suddenly wide awake. She smooths the comforter out under her hand, crossing one of her legs underneath the other. Outside, the sky is dark.

“I have news,” Cara confirms, grimly. “I know Wedge called you to Hoth a week or so ago because there was a prison break somewhere outside of my jurisdiction.”

Nova nods before she remembers Cara can’t see her. “Yeah,” she adds, belatedly. “Yeah, but no one seemed suspicious or in league with the Order, and it was a holding cell full of minor offenders, so it was kind of a dead end.”

“Well, it was,” Cara sighs, “until it wasn’t. We were right, kind of, because no one who escaped was linked to the First Order. But the night after that prison break happened, your photo with your old name and manufactured crimes popped up as a hit from the Guild.”

Nova’s heart sinks. Something suffocating is blocking her airway, and she tries to swallow past the feeling before she can exhale. “What does that mean?” she manages, barely, hand fluttering around her necklace, pressing into the embossed star.

“Someone’s setting you up,” Cara continues, and her voice is gentler than Nova’s ever heard it. “Someone who likely knows you or Din, knows how to get under your skin. The reason why this is so dangerous is because whoever did it knows exactly what they’re doing. I’ve tried, and Karga has tried, but we can’t even identify where the hit originated from, let alone who put it out. We’re not going to stop looking, but it’s going to be hard to figure out who did it. And because the warrant is for you alive or dead…” Cara trails off, the silence buzzing and dangerous.

Nova closes her eyes before she fills in the blanks. “I’m going to be in danger anywhere I go.”

“Listen,” Cara tries, but it’s too late. Nova’s still exhausted, she’s in pain, she has no idea where Din went, and all she wants to do is to bury her face in Grogu’s head and smell his sweet, reassuring baby smell. Her heart aches. “Novalise, I’m not going to let them get to you. You have some of the strongest forces in the galaxy who’ve got your back.”

“Yeah,” Nova whispers, “and I appreciate that, Cara, I do, so much, but—but Mandalore isn’t exactly a safe haven, either. The planet knows I can use the Force, and besides that, most of the people Din’s supposed to be ruling hate our guts. I’m not scared of being left to defend myself, because it’s kind of what I’ve learned to be best at. But with what you’re telling me, there’s not a single safe place left in the galaxy for me right now.”

Cara’s silence is deafening. Nova’s heart sinks just a little bit deeper, swimming around somewhere in her stomach. “It’s not forever,” she says, but her voice is a little too glum to be anywhere near reassuring.

“I’m so tired,” Nova admits, feeling tears bubbling up at the corners of her eyes. “And I can’t rest, because that’s when someone can get me. I mean—what would you do, if you were me, Cara?”

Nova can hear Cara moving, a soft rustle underneath the comm. When she speaks again, her voice is low and clear, like she’s telling a secret that only Nova can hear. “I would do what we both know you’re going to do. You’re the rebel girl, remember?” She pauses. “So rebel.”

Nova watches as the comm clicks off, everything in her body electric, a live wire. Before she can bolt to Kicker, or try to find where Din’s hidden in the chambers of the palace, or call Wedge and tell him she’s coming back to Hoth, the door opens, and Din walks in.

“Hi,” Nova breathes, suddenly very aware she’s not wearing any clothes, which is completely ridiculous, because Din has seen, ravaged, and worshipped every inch of it. “Where were you?”

She watches as Din crosses over the floor, the low light of the day catching on his armor. He sighs, moving closer to Nova until he’s standing in between her open legs. Halfheartedly, he hooks his fingers under the rim of the helmet, but gives up completely the second Nova’s hands reach to pull it off instead. Underneath, his mustache isn’t manicured, his hair has been weighed down by the metal, and he looks about as exhausted as she feels.

“Ruling,” Din says, tiredly, and there’s a flint to it Nova hardly hears. He lets out a small scoff in the silence, and she reaches out the smooth palm of her right hand for his cheek to nestle against. “Trying to get the people of this planet to recognize I’m not here to destroy it, or that you—we’re not the enemy.” He catches his slip almost as quickly as it comes out of his mouth, but still, Nova’s heart sinks deep down in her chest again. “I didn’t—look, Nova, I’m not blaming you—”

“It’s okay,” she whispers, even though they both know it’s not. For a second, Din just stares at her, and then he presses his forehead against hers. The warmth his skin gives off is almost enough to make her forget about where they are, about the people that refuse to see her as an ally, about having to save the galaxy from forces that want her dead or for their own malicious intent. “They’ll come around,” she offers, her voice barely there, and Din shakes his head, his hair rustling against Nova’s forehead.

“What if they don’t?” Din asks, and by the weight in his voice, it’s clear he’s not just talking about Mandalore accepting her as the Mand’alor’s riduur, as an ally, as on their side, but about the infiltrated Guild that’s out to kill her, and the First Order that’s out for worse.

Nova’s quiet for a long time, just listening to him breathe, trying to map both of their heartbeats, yearning for the constellations hiding above the hazy Mandalore sky. “What if we can’t do it?” she whispers, her mouth hollow, her head aching. “Any of this? What if we can’t pull this off, Din?” She doesn’t point out the specifics, the weight of planets hanging over both of their heads. They both know what she means. The silence is horrible, but Nova keeps her eyes closed, just like she used to, predicting every move Din will make in the dark.

“Then we don’t,” Din breathes back, and Nova’s about to resist, tears springing back to life in her eyes, and then Din’s mouth is on hers and nothing else matters. She lets him sprawl her back on the bed, the smooth satin coaxing and cool under her skin. Stars are burning out behind her eyes, the same celestial imprints that flood through hyperspace, something more, something deeper, something beyond this planet, this moment, this darkness. When Din’s mouth leaves Nova’s, her eyes stay shut, and his lips trail down to her ear. “I’d give everything else up but you.”

They both know he’s lying—Din’s heart is too big, Nova’s purpose is too bright—but neither of them say it out loud. Nova keeps his words in the hollow of her mouth, something shiny and devastating, a supernova or a pearl.

Din kisses Nova like he’s never had her before, low and desperate. It’s an echo of what happened in the amphitheater just hours ago, but it’s sustained, huge, warm. His mouth is made to devour, and if he’s whispering anything to feel the silence, Nova can’t hear it. She’s focused on where his kisses are trailing, desperate and hot and everything she didn’t know she needed. It’s freezing in here, but he’s so warm, his body heat louder than the cold.

“Kiss me,” Din whispers, his voice rough, a plea. One of his hands comes up and braces against Nova’s chin, not an order, but a question. She reaches towards his neck, trying to pull him down, to anchor their bodies together. It’s dark in their room. Without the stars shining above, it’s even darker.

She’s so tired. Still, even after all that rest, it’s like the exhaustion has permeated Nova straight down to her bones. She shudders and sighs as Din moves down her naked body, his lips planting kisses that she doesn’t know she needs until he’s already there. It’s easy and devastating and wonderful and crushing all at once. When Nova tries to return the favor, Din gently pushes her down, mumbling something about taking care of her.

It’s sweet. So sweet, even, that she’s on the verge of tears. Nova would do anything to stay here forever, to feel her husband’s lips on her bare skin, washing away all of the horror, the trauma, the darkness. She doesn’t open her eyes, even though she wants to. Din’s spent so much time without his helmet to appear like one of the people that call themselves Mandalorians, and she wants to give him back every single second of the time that prying eyes stole away.

Before long, Nova’s already close—her orgasm bubbling up quietly, without fanfare, without dramatics, just because Din knows exactly how to make her body sing—and when she taps at his arm to let him know, his mouth unlatches from the small hickies he’s leaving on the terrain of her bare stomach, and moves in between her thighs.

Effortlessly, he hold her legs up, hooking both of them around his shoulders so that his tongue can stay anchored in place. Nova moans, a quiet, radiant thing, and Din’s tongue finds exactly where she needs it to go. It pulses there, on the sweetest of spots, over and over again until she’s finished.

Breathless, she claws at his pants again, but Din shakes his head, his mouth dropping to her forehead as he pulls her into bed. “Rest, Nova,” he whispers, his voice faraway, a deep rumble. He pulls her in against his body, warm and soothing, and both of them are out before their heads hit their pillow.

Din’s asleep next to her, his slow, even breaths barely anything even in all the silence. Nova wants to fall back to sleep, but she knows she can’t. Her heartbeat is running itself rampant, and she’s a tangle of wants and needs, everything pulled in opposite directions. As quietly as she can, she slides herself out from the protective warmth of Din’s arms and the comforter, gently placing her feet on the floor. Even in the cool darkness of the night, her wardrobe, sleek but huge, has nothing but clothes in the same shades of Mandalorian blue, of beskar silver, but right now, Novalise doesn’t want to be a Mandalorian. She doesn’t want to be royalty, doesn’t want to be a figurehead. She doesn’t exactly want to be a Rebel either, because both titles mean the ultimate fate of the Outer Rim and beyond in her hands, so she settles for somewhere in between.

When she’s all dressed—black monochrome right down to her scuffed boots, in a weak imitation of the Luke Skywalker style—she braids the top half of her hair back, sleek and functional, and chooses a shawl buried at the back of her closet, underneath all of the Mandalorian haze of clothing. It’s a stormy grey that shimmers with the silver her husband wears when the fabric catches the light. If you pay close enough attention to the shawl, small, intentional stitches of rust and orange are woven into the fabric, hidden, furious, tiny flames.

Not exactly Mandalorian, but not entirely Rebel, either. And when Nova looks at herself in the mirror, studying the way her eyes flash with all that fire she was so certain was gone a few minutes ago, she sees herself right down to the quick, the high wire in between—she looks something like a Jedi.

So she pulls the Skywalker family lightsaber out of the hook on her door and pulls it to her belt loop, watching as the metal sways and dances in the low light. The weapon seems ancient, like something from another world. Something holy, even though she knows Luke Skywalker is a man and not a myth.

When she closes the bedroom door behind her, Din doesn’t even move. Usually, Nova’s the loud and clumsy one, worlds more obnoxious than Din’s practiced quiet, but she’s grown into her stealth over the last few weeks, especially living here, in a palace that has more rooms than the planet does people. It’s strange and eerie here at night, down the sprawling marble stairs, and she takes the first corridor she can find, just trying to walk off some of the pressure, to put her head back on her shoulders.

It’s lit only by candlelight, an archaic, flickering warmth, so in contrast to the rest of the steel and metal that Mandalore is made up of. It’s like she’s stepped into something that’s been around for years, even though she knows that it’s not possible. Mandalore was sieged, usurped, sieged again, razed and brought to the ground, destroyed. The planet’s atmosphere is mostly ash and haze, all that leftover war from years ago. But this part of the palace looks older, like a tomb that somehow survived.

It’s too creepy, Nova decides, even though the curious part of her is itching to explore it. She wants to pore through every aspect of it, try to find remnants of lost Mandalore, like her father used to unearth texts, like her mother used to excavate history. Before the war, before the Alliance was necessary, before all this death and darkness. When Nova comes out the other end of the corridor, she’s right next to the intimidating double doors of the war room, the holiest place Mandalore has. She pulls her shawl a little closer to her body, trying to retain the warmth she left back upstairs, trying to hold onto a memory more than anything tangible.

Nova isn’t intending to slip into the war room, let alone walk towards the sprawling dais that holds the beskar throne, but she does. It’s still quiet, so quiet, and the dark is coaxing her closer, pulling her up the steps, something beyond a simple want or need. She has the sneaking suspicion that she’s not supposed to be in here, not this late, not without Din, not when she has no legal or physical right to this place, but when she sits down on the throne, something deeper echoes out from within her chest.

It feels like a hymn and a battle cry. Before she has a second to adjust, to rationalize anything, everything becomes starry and disconnected. It’s been so long since she had a Force vision this immediate, this intense, and it hurls her through the proverbial hyperspace, everything dropping away.

It takes three steps forward in this strange, terrifying liminal space before Nova can even identify what’s scaring her. It’s the same kind of evil she felt way back on Takodana, before she was married to the ruler of a planet, before she even knew it was her destiny to be both Rebel and Jedi. There’s a mask she doesn’t recognize, twisted and devious. Behind its menacing, blank expression is something horrifying. Looking into the visor, it’s like her own soul is being fractured into pieces.

It’s humanoid until it’s not. The figure wearing the mask of destruction is tall, easily a foot taller than she is, horrible and menacing. But when the lightsaber they’re using ignites, it’s scarier than the vision of the person at all. It’s awful. It looks like it was forged out of lava, menacing red, the blade flickering and hissing in a way that’s somehow even more terrifying than the stark contrast of the Darksaber’s blade. Nova gasps, the light too bright, too sudden, and she can feel the residual thud on the floor, even in the vision. She knows when she comes out of it, she’ll be hurt, but the blade is getting closer. It looks like a giant rapier, a sword made only for evil things. At the hilt, spraying out in both directions, the blade extends. When the figure in the mask swings, it’s without remorse, so quick, so terrible.

But Nova’s not the target. She rolls away, out of the strike zone, and then she hears Luke Skywalker’s voice cutting through the darkness. She turns, and suddenly she’s not in the horror of the vision, anymore. She doesn’t know where she is. The ground looks icy, like Hoth, but there’s red powder spit everywhere, vomited across giant salt deposits. It’s so bright that her hand comes up in front of her eyes, and when she lowers it, Luke is gone. She’s gone, too. She turns around, hair whipping in the furious wind, trying to find where her name is being cried, and she trips over a mound on the salty ground, and when she falls to her knees, it’s a person, newly slain. The blood is so red, redder than the powder, redder than the evil lightsaber. It drowns through the lines on her hands, slips through her long fingers. She screams, trying to back up from the body, and then she realizes it’s Bo-Katan, gurgling through the slit in her throat, and when Nova tries desperately, in vain, to buffer the blood spilled, Luke Skywalker calls her name again.

But it’s not Luke. It is him—for a second, for the tiniest fraction of a moment—but then it’s not. His lightsaber floods with red, cancelling out the green light. The hallway flickers, once, twice, and then Darth Vader is charging towards her, and all Nova can hear is her blood pounding frantically in her ears and his heavy breathing through his mask, the sound that used to fill all of her nightmares. She’s slamming on the door at the other end of the hallway, and when it opens, the only person standing there isn’t a person at all, but a small alien baby all of two feet tall, green and adorable, and Nova drops her body around her son, protective and sobbing, curling every single inch of her around his tiny little frame, trying to shield him from Vader’s wrath, but when she cries, the vision changes again.

She can feel the motion sickness bubbling up in her stomach, horrible and nauseating. When Nova lands, she doesn’t open her eyes. She’s seen more than enough. Even right now, in the middle of her Force vision, all she wants to do is go back to sleep. She can feel the ache she slept away burrowing right back into her bones. Her scar is pulsing, enraged and angry. The headache she spent the last two and a half weeks fighting off is back, radiating straight down to behind her left eye. It’s all too much, and she can’t look. She doesn’t want to see anything else.

“Novalise,” she hears again, and the only reason she opens her eyes this time is because it’s her mother speaking. Her mother, who only ever called her Andromeda. Her mother, who spent half her life in the stars. Her mother, long dead. Her mother, who never got to know this version of her daughter, this Jedi-in-training, royal Rebel Girl that just desperately needs a hug from her mom.

“Mom,” she cries, and it’s so white. Everything here is antiseptic and deafening. It doesn’t even look like a planet, or even a room, or anything at all. She’s not even sure if there’s a floor, but Nova starts running like she’s never ran before in her life. Her breath is ragged and coming out in bursts. The jiggle in her chest and thighs burn under her speed, but she doesn’t care. She’s racing towards her mother, towards open arms, towards everything she’s been cheated out of for the last ten years.

It lasts for a second. Just a second. The figure is Piper Maluev, her skin dark and radiant, her hair down to her waist. Her lips are wide open and welcoming, her eyes crinkled at the seams. She’s tall and radiant and strong, and she’s everything Nova’s missed for nearly half her life.

And then it isn’t Piper. It’s not Luke, either, or Darth Vader, or whoever the dark, terrible, masked figure was. It’s not her usual nightmare transformation of Jacterr Calican. It’s not Bo-Katan, convulsing and dying. It’s Din. Just for a moment, a tiny fraction of relief, and then it’s not Din, either.

It’s a woman Nova’s never seen before, and her hand is clamped firmly around Nova’s windpipe. Like it’s nothing, she pulls her right off the disappearing floor and choking the life out of her. Her eyes are light but so terrifyingly menacing, her hair is a mess of a dark blonde. She’s pale and awful and her face is gleeful as she pulls the life out of Nova, a sucking, open wound.

She can’t talk. She doesn’t even want to plead for her life. If she’s this close to death anyway, and she just saw her mother, Nova figures there’s a pretty damn good chance that both of her parents are just over the other side. The woman is so happy to be killing Nova off, she doesn’t want to fight it. When her grip recedes, just for a half a second, Nova chokes out a confession that makes everything else grind to a halt.

It’s four words. Barely anything. Tears are streaming down her cheeks when her lips finally open. “I want my mom.”

Then she’s being dropped onto the floor, which very much exists now, and the light room filled with nothingness curls away, receding like it’s being burned. It’s dark in here, the tiled floor slippery and treacherous. In the background, there’s a makeshift trophy made from what looks like bones. Nova’s gasping for air, fighting back with a newfound vigor, kicking her legs helplessly to try and get some leverage on this woman who wants her dead, when, suddenly, she’s at eye level with her.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she seethes, a terrifying smile still spread across her horrible, beautiful face. “When I find you, you’re going to be begging for your life instead of your death.”

“Who—who are you?” Nova manages, through agony. Her shoulders hurt. Her headache feels like it’s trying to split her jaw in half. Her scar feels like it’s being reopened. Everything is torture, and she can’t even breathe.

“You’ll see,” the woman whispers, and her voice is so deadly that Nova internally corrects every time she’s ever called Bo-Katan venomous. Bo-Katan Kryze is a flower. One of the iridescent, gorgeous ones, that lined all the brush on Yavin, the ones Nova’s spent years pressing into the pages of every journal she’s ever owned. She’s kind and lovely and Nova’s very best friend, and when she gets out of this alive, Nova’s going to tell Bo-Katan that. “I’m going to enjoy killing you, Andromeda.”

Nova heaves one giant breath into her lungs, trying to muster up anything that she can, even if it’s just more air. “I—” she starts, and the woman smiles again, loaded and dangerous. “I—I already did that, you miserable bitch,” Nova manages, and when she’s slammed into the awful floor, it’s worth it. There’s some kind of desperation behind the woman’s eyes, now and when her hand finds Nova’s throat again, she spits in her face.

And then she’s out of it. Hurtled out of it, actually, like a dying starfighter in the middle of space. She gasps and heaves on the floor, and as her sight comes back, her breathing does, too. Her head is still killing her. Her shoulders feel like they’re trying to carry the entire weight of Mandalore. Her scar is awful, white-hot and painful to the touch. Somewhere, distantly, her knees hurt like she’s fallen to them, and when she gains back her sense of sight and the feeling of her life being choked out of her body subsides, Nova realizes she has fallen to them. She’s fallen a lot, actually, down multiple steps leading to the floor from the raised platform where she was once sitting in the beskar throne. Nova shudders, inhaling through a terrible wheeze, curling her legs up close to her chest, trying to shake off the absolute shitshow that just hurtled her through the most traumatic Force vision she’s ever had.

“You,” comes a booming, rueful voice, and when Nova’s eyes flutter open, she’s expecting it to be the malicious, purple-haired woman from her vision. Her eyes take a second to adjust, her left one throbbing from the horrid ache pulsing behind it, and when she finally locates the source, it’s the miserable man from the gathering earlier.

“Can I help you?” Nova asks, her voice shooting up at the end, on the verge of tears.

“You aren’t supposed to be up there,” he spits, and Nova squints up at the throne she’d just fallen from.

“I know,” she whispers, dully. She presses a shaking hand to the ache behind her eye, trying to shut out this conversation like she wishes she’d ignored the vision. She tries to stand up, but her knees are too bruised to sustain pulling her to her feet, so she just slumps back against the step she’s on, trying to muster all the strength she has in her exhausted body to not break down. “I’m sorry,” Nova tacks on, the words barely there. “I—I wasn’t intending to sit here, or even come in the room, it just—”

“Happened,” he finishes, oddly calm. His voice sounds closer. Much closer. Nova opens her right eye, and he’s only at the bottom of the staircase. There’s something so wretched and dangerous about the energy he’s giving off, and she wants to run, but she’s in no position to even stand, let alone fight him off, so she just sits there, curling her knees into her chest, pulling her shawl as tight as she can against her upper body. “You’re an abomination.”

A laugh, the traitorous thing, bubbles up inside Nova’s throat. It’s not funny. It’s not. It’s pathetic, and likely racially motivated, but she can’t help herself. Her ribs ache, like they got banged up in her distant fall down these sharp, steep marble steps. “That, surprisingly, is not the first time I’ve been called an abomination in my life.”

“Do you know what the Jedi did to our people, little girl?” He’s angry. Nova can hear it in his voice. And normally, it would scare her, trigger her fight or flight reflex, keep her moving, but after her paranormal face-off with two of the scariest figures she’s ever seen, this one isn’t really that high up on our list. “I do. You were eradicated for good reason. You scorched our planet down to nothing, and now you and your cult leader husband come back here and try to take over? Not on my watch.”

Nova can feel him getting closer. He’s so much bigger than she is, up close, tall and buff, menacing and taut. She weakly pulls her hand away from her eye, trying to at the very least give him her full attention, but she’s so fucking tired. It’s in her bones, at this point. She doesn’t want to be royalty. She doesn’t want to be a Rebel. And, in contrast to what the man in front of her is screaming, she doesn’t want to be a Jedi.

She wants to be the Novalise she was on Naator, with nothing but domesticity and yellow leaves and pink skies. She wants to be the protector she was out there in hyperspace. And, for the first time in ten years, she wants to be Andromeda Maluev, fifteen and gleeful, running around Yavin knowing the stars were her destiny and that evil could always be defeated.

“I don’t even want to be here,” Nova whispers, finally, and it’s like something inside her breaks.

“Good,” the man spits, “then we’re in agreement.” And then his hands are yanking away the hood of her shawl and tangling in her braided hair. Nova’s scream gets cut off as she’s thrown down the rest of the stairs, like her body’s giving up. She chokes out something horrible, fighting to get to her bruised, banged up knees, sore from the fall, aching from the blissful time riding Din’s face less than an hour ago, but she can’t summon the strength. Somewhere, she knows Luke Skywalker is yelling at her to use the Force, but Nova’s had enough force today to last a lifetime. When she’s kicked in the stomach, brutal and awful, she just curls in on herself, hoping her death isn’t a slow one. He startles towards her again, ripping her shawl off of her body, clawing at the meat of her upper arm, and something snaps inside of her. If she’s going to die, really die, it’s not because she succumbed to the injuries this rabid Mandalorian is giving her to try and put the blame on her shoulders. She survived Moff Gideon. She survived Din and Grogu leaving her. She survived her parents dying. And she survived the abuse of Jacterr Calican’s awful hands. Novalise can survive this.

When her lightsaber roars to life in her hands, it’s not only Nova swinging. She can feel the weight of what it being the Skywalker family lightsaber, of Luke and Leia before her, of his father before him, of all the generations yet to come to wield this weapon, this holy sword, this impossible thing. It takes all of her energy, a brilliant beam of blue light, and then she falls to the floor, knowing that even if this is where it ends, that she fought back.

Everything next comes in flashes. It’s in these tiny fractals like what happened when the Crest had died right over Dagobah and crashed to the surface. She sees a blade ignite, and in between the rhythm of her fading in and out of consciousness, Nova thinks she’s just watching herself fight the man back. Suddenly, he drops to the floor, his body nothing but dead weight, and she wants to scream, but she’s back out. It’s horrible and deafening. She’s being scooped up, she can feel that. She’s crying. She’s definitely crying. There are voices, loud ones. When she has enough strength to open her eyes again, Din is slamming his gloved fist against the airlock on Kicker, his voice frantic. She can’t make out what he’s saying, though, and another face appears above her. Din gently transfers Nova’s limp body into someone else’s arms, and when Nova looks up, it’s Bo-Katan, her face so panicked it’s almost impossible to recognize who it is.

“Nova, you gotta stay awake,” Bo-Katan whispers, her palm slapping softly at Nova’s cheek. “C’mon, I mean it. If you die here on this planet you hate, I will haunt you in the afterlife. I swear, you have to stay awake.”

“I don’t—” Nova starts, and Bo-Katan shakes her head.

“You literally should not be talking,” Bo-Katan says, her eyesight dipping to Nova’s neck. Her eyes widen for a second and then her smooth fingers ghost over the outline. Nova coughs at her light touch, and she realizes that the marks from the vision she had of being choked within an inch of her life are here, that they followed her back out of the vision and into this moment. “Nova, no, shut up, I’m serious—”

“I don’t—don’t hate Mandalore,” she manages, her voice sounding like shards of glass, and Bo-Katan offers her a hasty, worried smile.

“You do,” Bo-Katan argues, but her voice is so gentle. “But don’t worry, princess, we’re getting you the hell off of it. No complaints now that you’re off Mandalore, you got it? The second you got here, I knew both of you wanted to leave.”

Din’s at her side again, and Bo-Katan kneels down, gently placing Nova in her familiar tangle of blankets and pillows. Nova’s eyes close again, and when they slide back open, Bo-Katan is standing, trading worried glances and hushed tones with Din.

Nova’s head hurts. So bad. It’s splitting down the middle of her skull, actually, but all she can do is press a hand over her eye and try to block out the familiar low light of the ship that smells more like home than this entire planet ever had.

“Listen, about what I told you back on Hoth—”

“It’s fine,” Din cuts her off, and his next few words are warbled. “I get it. Your allegiance is to Mandalore, not to us.”

Nova can’t hear Bo-Katan’s answer. In fact, she’s not even sure if there’s even words being spoken, because the next time she looks up, Bo-Katan is just staring down at her, incredibly concerned, such an obvious change from her usually stoic expression. Nova’s whole body feels like it’s on fire. She’s exhausted. Bo-Katan kneels down again, just for a split second, to pull the loose end of Nova’s shawl over the rest of her folded body. Nova wants to cry.

“Flower,” she garbles, nonsensically. She’s trying to tell Bo-Katan that she’s sorry for all the animosity, that she trusts her, and more than that, she likes her. It doesn't make a single lick of sense to anyone outside of Nova’s head, but Bo-Katan offers a tiny smile anyway.

“Here,” Din says, stiffly, holding out the sheathed blade of the Darksaber to Bo-Katan. Nova’s eyes flutter closed, just for a beat, and when they open back up, Bo-Katan is pushing the weapon back into Din’s grip.

“It’s not mine,” she insists. “Besides, you’re not getting out of it that easy. You’ll be back.”

“Bo-Katan—”

“Take care of her,” Bo-Katan interrupts. Nova blacks out again until they’re up in hyperspace. Din’s body is shielding her from the cold, his limbs draped all over the places that hurt the least. When she opens her eyes, they’re floating through the cosmos, and all her eyes can see is sweet, sweet stardust.

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yamayuandadu · 4 years

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Rider of Clouds (again)

After going through more sources on Ugaritic mythology and the “storm god versus the sea” motif as a whole in Anatolia, Levant, Egypt and Mesopotamia, I decided to post about the characters meant for my loose Baal Cycle retelling again.

Baal (middle) – the eponymous Rider of Clouds, a young weather deity born to Dagon and Shalash, largely retired agricultural gods who settled in Ugarit shortly before Baal's birth. While the mythical Baal Hadad is male, my version is a woman – the idea started as a joke about conflating Baal from the Baal cycle with Baalat Gebal, a female figure associated with another levantine bronze age city (BG's actual identity is an object of much scholarly debate) being more valid than conflating him with much later Baal Hammon from Carthage, which happens a lot online, but I got attached to it (a certain artifact which is variously interpreted as representing either a short-haired noblewoman or a prince was a factor too) so now here we are. She nonetheless uses a male title inherited from her father, much like a few historical female rulers did. In my version “Hadad” is only a nickname, and her real name is actually Hebat, who is a goddess mentioned in one inscription as Dagan's daughter. As the levantine/syrian Hebat lacks a defined character in real mythology (another Hebat was regarded as the Hittite storm god's wife but was replaced in this role by the sun goddess of Arinna and that's about it) it should be fine to conflate her with Dagan's best attested divine child, I think. Baal is impulsive and follows a moral code which, depending on the point of view, might be either naive or heroic, which means she's not exactly the optimal person to get involved in n-dimensional divine politics, but that's not enough to stop her from trying. The story documents her rise to the position of the head god of Ugarit's pantheon. Astarte (right) – a goddess of uncertain origin and no particularly well defined attributes, who attaches herself to Baal initially in hopes of advancing own career, though the two eventually develop a more genuine relationship. She patterns herself after the much more famous Mesopotamian Inanna, seeing her as an ideal to strive for – especially when it comes to trickery. While Baal has the name recognition and disposition fitting for a major deity, Astarte is the part of the duo actually capable of navigating politics, and takes the title of Face of Baal, negotiating support for Baal's bid with other gods. The image of Baal she projects differs slightly from reality, though not enough for most onlookers to notice. Ignore the crescent moon diadem, it'll be replaced as soon as I'll draw her again. Anat (left) – the younger daughter of Ugarit's head god, El. Her philosophy differs greatly from her parents' and as a result she isn't really seriously considered for succession. Her hobbies include bladed weapons, gambling and heroic epics; in the past she attempted writing her own self insert one. She's deeply invested in Baal's ascendance, and is probably the god Astarte wants to recruit for their cause the most.

El and Asherah – the ruling couple of Ugarit, currently pondering retirement, which stirs many contenders to the throne into action. El is a lifelong opportunist changing views and allegiances as he sees fit, though he pretty consistently favors Yam as his main underling. His wife (image tbd) generally holds similar views, though has some qualms about Yam's rise to power.

Kothar-wa-Khasis – a craftsman god who, by own admission, only works part time in Ugarit and travels the world for the rest of it. He's kind and dependable and his wares are both affordable and of great quality, but his real motives are hard to ascertain. His real identity is likewise a subject of much speculation among other gods – while his preferred manner of clothing hints at an egyptian origin, nothing is known for sure. He's also a talented musician. Shapash – El's firstborn daughter, serving as “the torch of the gods”, guaranteeing Ugarit gets its fair share of sunlight. Her political allegiance is unknown.

Yam – a sea monster more than a god, presiding over the nearby section of the sea and all that dwells in it, including the sea slugs important for the human inhabitants of the area. He's also the son of the influential Anatolian god Kumarbi, banished to the underworld by the current head god Teshub. As a result of his influence, he gained El's support and received many titles, which de facto makes him the most likely to succeed El as the king of local pantheon. He's capricious and inconsiderate, but maintains a larger than life public image meant to make him palatable to potential backers. The circumstances of his arrival in Ugarit are shrouded in mystery, and may or may not be relate for his unusually strong hatred of Baal. Ashtar (image tbd) – an opportunist who sides with Yam, hoping to receive a share in the gains he's making thanks to El's blessings. He's pretty content with playing the role of a toady though his aspirations might be different, as evidenced by his gaudy fashion preferences. Yam’s messenger (image tbd) – an attempt at developing an obscure figure from the original myth, Yam's nameless and seemingly rather rude and infuriating messenger, into a full blown character. His real identity is a mystery. He interned under a variety of famous mythical villains in order to gain a greater understanding of their ways, and currently serves as Yam's messenger, adviser, doorkeeper and punching bag. Mot – profoundly unpleasant and unsociable being tasked with maintaining Ugarit's very own underworld. While his equivalents in neighboring cultures generally view themselves as impartial judges or a necessary evil, Mot gets his kicks from posing as a personification of death itself, and is notoriously corrupt.

Marduk – the tutelary deity of Babylon, reigning as the king of gods of most of Mesopotamia and its neighbors. While technically Ugarit isn't directly under his control, he still is the god whose confirmation is necessary to rise to the position of the head of a local pantheon. He doesn't have a unified mythical narrative about himself yet at this point in time, despite his position, which is a source of insecurity for him. During travels, he's assisted by his personal aide and biographer, Nabu, and his pet. Seth – in real life, ancient Egyptians equated many gods of their neighbors with Seth; therefore in Rider of Clouds Seth serves as an ambassador of the Egyptian pantheon. While ultimately Marduk's judgment matters the most, Seth gets the right to veto his decisions when it comes to validating claims to local thrones. On good terms with Kothar-wa-Khasis, which is a subject of much gossip among other gods. Teshub – the head of the Hittite and Hurrian pantheon, technically capable of projecting the most power in Ugarit's politics; however, as the gods of Ugarit share closer affinity with Mesopotamia than Hatti, he competes with Marduk for political influence. As he and Baal are a very similar type of god, he's the most outspoken supporter of Baal's ascension to the throne out of all 3 foreign dignitaries. Ignore the ?, it’s just Baal. Gupan and Ugar – two minor gods who might be some of the only allies Baal recruited herself rather than with Astarte's help. They play a minor role in the story as her messengers and heralds. They're also a couple. Kubaba – a pretender to the throne of the head deity of the pantheon of Carchemish, a city-state close to Ugarit. Involved with the Hittite Sun Goddess of the Underworld in some capacity. This is, however, not their story. If you follow my oc posts you can probably guess which one is about them.

#rider of clouds #homegrown esoterica

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i-will-physically-fight-you · 4 years

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Bronze Statue Chapter 2

Chapter Title: Twilight Vows

Summary: In which Virgil receives more questions than he does receive answers.

Pairings: platonic prinixety

Chapter Word-Count: 1.5k

Warnings: cursing, injuries, implied past corporal punishment, death mention, panic attack

Previous | Present | Next AO3 LINK

@lonelyanxiousbean requested to see a continuation of this as part of my Follower Milestone Celebration which you can click here to learn more details about!

When someone bonked their head on a random-ass bronze statue in the middle of the godsforsaken forest while running for their life with stolen goods and said-statue came to life, killed your pursuers and declared you a prince, it’d be only natural for them to assume it was all just a fucking bizarre dream.

Or at least this was what Virgil assumed. In the murky dusk of twilight, he jerked back to consciousness with a sharp inhale. A field. He laid in an empty field, in the tall thickets and wildflower blossoms. No bronze statue in sight.

A dream then. Surely just a dream. Virgil must’ve evaded his pursuers and then promptly collapsed in a panic-induced coma. It seemed like a logical thing for him to do. He sat up, wincing as his head twinged in agony. The head injury was very much real. Perhaps he ran into a tree? Or a boulder? Either one sounded plausible.

It didn’t stop anxiety from stretching across his chest like one big spider web.

He attempted to ignore it in favor of searching for his satchel. Squinting through the dim light, he saw it about a horse-length away next to a large stump. He rose to his feet when he’d forgotten one teensy-weensy detail; his ankle.

It was like stepping on a sharp needle. A needle that happened to be very large and more akin to a spear than of the sewing variety. He screamed because holy fuck it hurt.

“My prince!” The stump moved, its branches hovering over him trepidatiously.

Virgil groaned, blinking back tears to look up to see it was not a talking sentient stump addressing him. Rather, it was a talking sentient bronze statue. A talking statue who was very capable with that sword of his. He skewed through Virgil’s pursuers like they were nothing. What if he did the same thing upon realizing Virgil wasn’t a prince? Maybe it’d be best to play along for now. Yeah he’d do that.

He opened his mouth, breath hitching, “I’m not a prince.”

Nailed it.

The statue’s head reared back a little and Virgil flinched from the motion. The statue just laughed, an unnatural coppery tinny sound to it.

“Oh, you must’ve hit your head harder than I thought,” The statue said, “We should return to the castle posthaste.”

Virgil’s heart pounded. “No!”

“No?” The statue frowned, “Whyever not?”

“No--you can’t make me--I’d rather die than go back.” Virgil shook, the words tumbling of their own volition.

The statue spoke to him, but it was lost to the fog of panic swelling around him. He couldn’t go back. Not when he just escaped those grey oppressive walls. The only thing that awaited him was execution or worse yet, a living punishment of some kind. The king wouldn’t take well to a servant running off with some of his valuables, after all.

The half-faded half-fresh scars on his back flared up. Almost as painful as when he’d received them, if not worse. His head pulsated and his ankle throbbed to the same intensity as those phantom aches. Breathing felt impossible in this state. Short gasps of air that did nothing to bring oxygen to his lungs.

He bared his teeth as he tried to push away the panic. He couldn’t afford this moment of weakness. Not after everything he endured to get here. Not in front of a sentient bronze statue with delusions of grandeur. Who knows, perhaps the statue was really a figment of his imagination.

Because the last thing he needed was a somehow sentient statue proclaiming him royalty. Stealing kingly possessions was one thing, but claiming you had a blood right to the throne? So, so much worse--he’d been a lowly servant, nothing more, nothing less.

A weighted hand rested upon his shoulder. Heavy enough to crush him but it’s touch delicate and light as a feather.

“My prince,” The statue said, his words like a lighthouse shining through a stormy rage of terror. Virgil snuck a glance up at him, struck by the somber expression worn by the statue. “I hope you can accept my most fervent apologies.”

“W-what for?” Virgil asked, almost laughing as a dizzy spell hit him.

“I’ve been in this forest for a long time,” The statue informed him, “I’d almost--well. I’d quite forgotten that an incorrigible cur now dwells in the castle and that the true King and Queen are no more. You must understand I did not mean to cause you undue fright.

“I know you do not know me, but I swore an oath to protect the royal family. I--I failed before. But I will not fail you this time.”

Virgil stared at the statue, wide-eyed and scarcely breathing. He referenced an event that took place a couple decades back. An event that was spoken in only hushed murmurs. One that Virgil only heard and held no memories, for he’d been only a babe when it occurred.

The current ruling King took hold of the throne by force, killing all the previous royal family and anyone devoted to them. Those who were left quickly learned to obey or else face similar fates.

The statue must think he was the son of the previous monarchs. Who’d also been just an infant when the coup happened. An infant, unlike Virgil, that had also suffered the same fate as his parents.

“How can you be sure that I am the prince?” Virgil swallowed, unsure how to tell the statue his beloved prince was dead. That he’d been too late to save him, from the king’s enforcers or the king himself for that matter.

“I know in my heart of hearts, you are. And I will hold no allegiance but to you.” A lightning bug flittered past the statue, lighting the small grin on his face for a brief moment. The statue’s hand slipped from his shoulder, falling to clasp one of Virgil’s hands. He bowed down one knee, head lowered to the ground.

“I, Sir Roman of Redwood, Knight of the Realm, pledge my unbounding fealty to your royal highness, my prince and rightful heir to the throne of Xiety.”

Virgil couldn’t breathe, his heart had leapt into his throat and now he was choking on it. At dawn, he’d been a cowardly servant. At midday, he’d been a terrified thief on the run. At twilight, he’d been declared a prince and sworn loyalty by a sentient bronze statue. It really was all too much for both his heart and soul to process.

He knew he was the first two things. He’d been in the King’s servitude since almost birth and he had indeed stolen possessions of the King. But a prince? No, no, no. He was the furthest thing from a prince. His hysteria at the mere mention of going to the castle should’ve clued the statue--or Roman he supposed--of this fact right then and there.

But instead, Roman seemed insistent he was a prince. Not of any of Virgil’s doing, but because he was a hopelessly naive moron. He was fooling himself into thinking Virgil was the prince. No doubt so that he reprove himself in his own eyes once more.

Despite all of this, Virgil couldn’t find it within himself to deny him that. He was exhausted, injured and famished. He hadn’t eaten in two days aside from a few breadcrumbs he had to fight off a rat for. He was likely to die in the forest without Roman.

“I, Virgil of Farraway,” He faltered, swerving away from proclaiming himself royalty, “accept your fealty for as long as you see fit to aid me.”

“I shall serve you for long as I am able to, your royal highness.” The knightly statue said, pressing his metallic lips against Virgil’s hand for a brief kiss.

“Please,” The not-prince said, averting his gaze, “just call me Virgil.”

“Of course, your hig--Virgil, if that is what you wish.” Roman said, dipping his head in reverence.

This shocked Virgil. He thought perhaps Roman would be more pushy on that. Did he readily adhere to his request because of the oath he took? Did that mean he’d do whatever Virgil demanded of him?

Of course, he’d known what fealty entailed. He saw an enforcer swear fealty to the King once. He witnessed the enforcers carry out the King’s orders countless times. But being confided with unearned trust and loyalty like this? Guilt already began twisting his intestines into knots.

If Roman took notice of this internal turmoil, he did not say anything. Instead, he stood up, surveying the field. “It is late, and you must be tired. I will take watch and make sure nothing will harm you in your slumber.”

“What about you?” Virgil asked, “do you...do you need rest as well?”

“You need not worry about me!” Roman laughed, loud and boisterous, “In this ghastly form I do not sleep. I will be fine.”

“Okay.” Virgil whispered, lying in the soft grass once more. Roman stood a few paces away from him, a hand resting on his hilt. So still, like a statue. That almost emitted a weak laugh from Virgil.

For what his appearance suggested, Roman did not seem to possess a silent countenance. From his bright booming voice to the way his hands painted a tapestry to accompany it. The comment about “this ghastly form” nearly confirmed he had not always been a bronze statue.

But then if that was the case, just how did Roman end up becoming one?

#thomas sanders #sander sides #roman sanders #virgil sanders #platonic prinixety #kat writes

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ravnicaforgoblins · 4 years

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Ravnica for Goblins

Ladies of Ravnica

Dungeon Masters running a campaign in Ravnica may start to notice a trend with many of the city’s most powerful figures of authority (or notoriety); they are largely women.

Whether this an intentional choice on the part of WOTC for gender equality or purely accidental, most of Ravnica is run by the ladies. Not only do we see equal numbers of each gender represented within each race, each class, and each guild (except the Gruul Clans for some reason), but even a large number of the Guildmasters are/have been female:

Isperia, Sphinx Guildmaster of Azorius Senate

Lavinia, (acting Human Guildmaster of Azorius Senate following Isperia’s death)

Aurelia, Angel Guildmaster of Boros Legion

Feather, (former Angel Guildmaster of Boros Legion)

Razia, (Angel Founder/Parun of Boros Legion)

Vraska, (acting Medusa Guildmaster of Golgari Swarm following Jarad’s death)

Kaya, (official Human Guildmaster of Orzhov Syndicate following death of Obzedat)

Teysa, (unofficial Human Guildmaster of Orzhov Syndicate follow death of Obzedat)

Trostani, Dryad Guildmaster(s) of Selesnya Conclave

Zegana, Merfolk Guildmaster/Prime Speaker of Simic Combine

Vannifar, Hybrid Guildmaster/Prime Speaker of Simic Combine

In addition to this, every Angel and Medusa on the plane is exclusively female, with no exceptions. What does this mean for DMs plotting a Ravnica campaign? It means in all likelihood you’re going to be working on more female voices than male, so get practicing. If you are born a girl, this will be easier for you. If you’re born a guy, you’ve got some work to do. Because if you want to take a hard stance against doing female voices in your campaign, you are likely depriving your players the chance to interact with some of the coolest, most badass NPCs in all of Ravnica.

Lavinia of the Azorius Senate is an icon for the guild’s ideals, a champion for the laws of Ravnica, and steward of Jace Beleren, the Living Guildpact. Everything Jace wants to do with his nigh-limitless power as the embodiment of Ravnican Society has to pass through Lavinia first. She dictates his schedules, official commandments, and public appearances. Most importantly, Lavinia ensures that the most is made of the limited time the frequently-absent Guildpact is around. She is harsh but fair. A great choice for when the DM needs to intervene to save the players.

Judith the Scourge Diva is the Grand Dame of the Cult of Rakdos, it’s most in-demand performer, and the last word on anything that goes on backstage. She has more to do with the day-to-day goings-on than Rakdos himself, as the hedonistic demon Guildmaster rarely attends performances and often spends weeks, months, or even years in his lava pit. She does most of the work while Rakdos claims the adoration of the guild’s fanatics, cultists, and performers. Dramatic, demanding, devoted, demented, and she’s got a thing for blades & blood. She is the closest thing to a ranking member of the chaotic guild of stylized hedonism and carnage that is the Cult of Rakdos. She can be reasoned with.

Massacre Girl is currently the Azorius Senate’s number one fugitive.

Real Name: Unknown

Guild: Rakdos

Allegiance: Herself

Motive: Unknown

Crimes: Murders in every guild, including her own

Signature: High body counts, high-ranking figures, excessive violence

Perks for PCs: Instant Citywide Notoriety for taking her in/down

Drawbacks for PCs: Almost Certain Death for failing to take her in/down

Teysa Karlov, former Grand Envoy of Orzhov Syndicate, currently imprisoned for attempting to overthrow Ghost Council. Teysa is one of the few members of the Syndicate who isn’t motivated by greed or self-interest. Make no mistake, Teysa is as ambitious as they come, but her interests actually extend outside of her guild. She is one of the only high-ranking figures within her guild who actually tries to establish relationships with other guilds. It has dawned on her that the day may come when the Orzhov Syndicate might require the assistance of the other guilds, so maybe, just maybe, they should try to not have every other guild actively despise them. A groundbreaking proposal, the first step of which involved the overthrowing of the Greedy Old Men, aka the Obzedat, and establishing her as new guildmaster. Unfortunately, Grandfather Karlov outplayed her, and both Teysa and her ally Tajic of the Boros Legion were thrown in jail. Tajic was bailed out, but Teysa remains imprisoned thanks to bribes made with high-ranking officials to keep her so. In addition, to keep her from dying and achieving freedom as a ghost, she’s been fed food to magically lengthen her life in prison. All that said, Teysa is the best ally available within the Orzhov, one of the few not morally bankrupt, and knows the laws of Ravnica better than even the Azorius. A perfect choice for a prison break quest.

Emmara Tandris is one of the most well-known faces within the endless bounty that is the Selesnya Conclave. She’s a childhood friend of Jace Beleren, the Living Guildpact, and a public figure for inter-guild cooperations. This, plus the fact that she is a kind & caring individual with a special gift with animals, fey, and elementals, and the fact that Selesnya’s dryad trio Guildmaster(s) Trostani are vague at best, completely silent at worst, makes her a perfect choice for distributing missions, quests, and animal companions.

Last NPC I’ll mention is Vraska, of the Golgari Swarm. Vraska is the Planeswalker Medusa Assassin Pirate Queen of the Undercity. Think of something cooler than that, I dare you. It doesn’t exist.

*Edit: More Kickass Female NPCs!

Etrata, the Silencer. That name alone should inspire fear. Not just a vampire, not just an assassin, she’s more of an urban legend Boros soldiers tell each other about when they get stuck on overnight guard duty and want to spook their buddy. Lacking the tedious mind games of most House Dimir operatives, Etrata is an old-school killer for hire. She cares neither for politics, nor influence, nor subtlety. Your name shows up in her book, you’re gonna die tonight. She’s the only Dimir agent capable of actually challenging Lazav for his position of Guildmaster. What it will come down to is this; is he smarter than she is deadly? Etrata is great because her exploits are much easier to track than other Dimir. If someone is dead from a vampire bite in a locked room, they’ve just had a visit from Etrata.

Izoni, Thousand-Eyed should honestly have been the Golgari Guildmaster. Not only is she infinitely more interesting and distinctive than the run-of-the-mill Lich Jarad Vod Savo, but she embodies the Swarm in a way Jarad just doesn’t. Scuttling by your feet, buzzing around the air, lurking wherever death can be found; Izoni and her ever-present insect swarms have presence. Jarad, on the other hand, has a bow, very little personality, and the only real accomplishment he’s had as Guildmaster is surviving assassination attempts. Which, let’s be honest, for the Golgari, is just par for the course. Izoni has room to grow, to expand, and she’s exactly the sort of cackling, nasty, power-hungry dark witch players like to fight. Except she somehow makes being covered in bugs hot.

Pierakor az Vinrenn D’Rav, better known as “Feather”, was the Boros Guildmaster before Aurelia, and a former Wojek Officer. Her wings were bound and she was forced to serve in the Wojek for some reason that hasn’t been explained, then when the original Guildmaster and Parun Razia was slain, Feather stepped up. Her reign was short-lived when Aurelia challenged her as unfit to serve as Guildmaster given her unspoken crime that she was charged for however long ago. Feather gave up the mantle and left Ravnica, going into a self-imposed exile in the lawless Red Wastes beyond the Rubblebelt. Basically, this means that there is a Guildmaster-Level NPC living all alone in the most savage wilds on the entire plane searching for redemption. The story is literally just sitting there, waiting to be written.

#ravnica for goblins #ravnica #ladies #ladies of ravnica #vraska #judith the scourge diva #emmara tandris #massacre girl #lavinia #teysa karlov #dnd #d&d #dungeons and dragons #etrata #izoni #feather

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arlingtonpark · 4 years

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2020 Election Night Survival Guide

Hey, everyone!

It’s Halloween night, but the scariest night of the year is going to be in a few days on Election Day.

Since everyone’s wetting themselves over this, here’s a quick survival guide for Election Night.

Part I. The State of Play

In the United States, political authority is shared between three institutions: the President, the Senate, and the House of Representatives. Elections for all three will be occurring on Election Night 2020.

The President is elected by the Electoral College. Each state is given seats in the College based on the size of their Congressional delegation.

Candidates for President put forth a slate of candidates to represent their state in the College, which voters choose by popular vote.

This system was chosen because a national popular vote was not possible at the time.

As of now, Joe Biden is almost certainly going to win the election. He is polling ahead in every state Barack Obama won in 2012 except Ohio and Iowa, and is liable to win Arizona and maybe even Georgia. This will give him a comfortable victory.

The Senate is composed of two Senators for every state. One third of the body elected every two years for a total term of 6 years for any one Senator.

The current crop of Senators was last elected in 2014, a very good year for Republicans.

It was not expected, though, that Democrats could undo those gains since they were made by Republicans wiping out Democrats in Louisiana and Arkansas, and other similar states.

Democrats used to have a strong presence in those states, but that presence was wiped out in the Obama years.

Republicans didn’t make those gains in swing states, but instead in state’s whose voters switched allegiances. It was hard to see Dems making a comeback.

A lot has changed though.

States like Arizona, Texas, Georgia, South Carolina, and even Kansas are competitive now. This was unthinkable in 2014.

Dems have made gains of their own in these states among suburban voters. These people are generally white collar workers who are better educated than average. And they are repulsed by Trump’s basic indecency.

The Dems are now widely expected to win a majority of the Senate -- possibly even a comfortable majority.

The House is composed of 435 Representatives who’re elected every two years.

The dynamics are the same as the Senate: Dems are gaining in the suburbs, and Republicans are gaining among blue collar workers.

The Dems took over the House in 2018 and they’re expected to increase that majority by 10 seats or so.

Part II How to Handle Election Night

Assuming you want to watch the election returns come in live, here’s how to best do it.

Firstly, do not watch the TV news coverage before the actual vote counting starts.

It’s all drivel and you’ll annihilate your brain watching it.

It’ll mostly be padding to fill up time and make it seem like a lot is happening when not much is.

As well as pundits trying to divine the meaning of this election before it’s actually happened.

And lots of bemoaning of how we can’t all just get along. With no one even trying to think of solutions.

Don’t waste your time.

You should use the time before the polls close to get up to speed on what the candidates stand for, and how various scenarios might affect you.

To the extent you can stomach such speculation.

Vox is a great news source with a great series of articles on Biden’s platform.

Here.

President Trump...he has no platform.

Literally.

It’s just a copy-paste of the 2016 one.

Of course, a lot depends on the congressional elections, and I’m not going to get into the nitty-gritty of that here.

There are elections for various governorships up, but you can ignore them, unless it’s your governor up for election.

The governor of any state that isn’t yours only matter if they’re likely to run for President in a few years.

There are also some high profile local elections going on.

To varying extents, Dems are hoping to expand their power in Arizona, Michigan, Texas, and North Carolina.

Republicans are hoping to do the same in Wisconsin.

Arizona, South Dakota, New Jersey, and Montana are holding referenda to legalize marijuana.

Oregon will be voting on legalizing mushrooms and decriminalizing all other drugs.

California has a number of referenda on the ballot regarding rent control, criminal justice, and labor laws.

Florida will be voting to raise the minimum wage to $15, potentially the ninth state to do so.

In any event, feel free to make a party of it.

Order a pizza, have snacks out, beer. Whatever you want. I’d urge you to invite friends over, but, you know...

You can turn the TV news on at 6pm if you like, but I recommend you leave it on in the background and not pay close attention until 8pm.

I also recommend choosing which network to watch based solely on which one has the most gimmicky, over the top presentation.

TV news has zero value to you aside from providing real time, unprocessed information.

Leave the game play analysis to the internet.

Have a laptop open if you have one. Otherwise have a computer handy.

I recommend having three tabs open.

One for the New York Times’ live election night interactive. You know those touch screen displays the networks have their election nerds using to show the state of the race as votes are counted?

The NYT’s interactive is that, but all to yourself.

I also recommend reading the accompanying article explaining how the interactive works. It’s pretty cool what programmers can do these days.

Lots of news sites will have online interactives, though. Choose whatever you like, but the NYT’s is generally the best.

The second tab is for Twitter. Twitter is the best place to be for real time analysis. I’ll have a twitter list available for you to use if you like.

The people on this list fall into one of three categories.

The first are the election nerds. These people are adeptly familiar with the United States’ political geography and can tell which side is winning before all the votes are counted.

The second are the pundits.

Smart ones, mind you.

Political scientists and commentators. I made sure to get a mix of liberal, conservative, and moderate voices. Obviously they provide the commentary on the nerds’ analysis.

The third and final are a couple of joke accounts for laughs. PixelatedBoat, originator of the milkshake duck meme and the Gorilla Channel hoax, is in there, as is President Nixon’s Twitter impersonator.

The final tab is for a good quality liveblog. I recommend 538′s, but again, most news sites will have liveblogs going, it’s just that 538 usually has the best one.

Lastly, as races get called, don’t be afraid to cheer or boo. Election day is pretty sterile, which is a shame because it used to be very rowdy and frenetic. By all means, be emotional.

You’re free to call it a night whenever you want, but there’s no point in carrying on past 1am, so I’d recommend stopping there.

There aren’t any exciting races on the west coast, and California is notoriously bad at vote counting, as they are at ALL things involving government, so the outcome of those races won’t be known for a while.

Part III The Known Unknowns

Now comes the stuff everyone is panicking over.

Is this the end of democracy?

Eh, probably not.

In theory, Trump could successfully steal the election, but only if it’s a close race.

It’s not a close race.

There is no way for Trump to steal the election. Not through excluding mail ballots, not through the courts. There just isn’t one.

The Supreme Court won’t help Trump unless they think they can get away with it, but the recent confirmation of Barrett to the Court has put them on notice, and that will restrict what they can do.

Trump could contest the results by asking Congress to certify his slate of electors as legitimate over the electors the voters chose, but that’s not an issue if Dems control the House.

That’s really it.

There’s no other way for Trump to win even if he loses the Electoral College.

Even recent buzz about late arriving mail votes not counting probably won’t amount to much.

Most of the people mailing their ballots in late are actually Republicans lol ^^.

Here are some issues to actually look out for:

Trump thugs policing polling places. Voter intimidation is illegal. If someone is intimidating you, report them.

Hoax ballot stuffing. Don’t be surprised if people fake fraudulent voting to juice Trump’s claims of a rigged election. Treat such allegations with caution.

Violent unrest is unlikely to happen even a little bit, but I won’t be surprised if there are at least some isolated incidents.

While there is some risk, I actually think the danger is overhyped.

The likeliest outcome of this election has always, always been that Biden cakewalks to Inauguration Day.

Even the talk about not knowing the winner on election night might have been all hype.

Florida, despite its reputation, is actually very good at counting ballots, and the winner of the state should be known on election night.

A lot can be extrapolated from this, and some news sites might call the race just off of that.

If who won Florida isn’t known on election night, then you can start panicking.

Trump will definitely fume about if he loses, but if the outcome is clearly in Biden’s favor, it’ll just be hot air.

It shouldn’t surprise you to know that if Trump loses, he will make no effort to shepherd a economic bailout bill into law in the time between the election and his formal exit from office.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Also Trump.

Trump himself has openly floated the idea of fleeing the country if he loses.

He’s over $200 million in debt and will have to sell most of his assets to pay it off. He also faces prosecution for various crimes he committed before and during his presidency.

If he does, he’ll probably try to brand himself a fallen hero in exile, and live off of his supporter’s Patreon donations or whatever.

Oh, yeah, and the rallies. Trump is planning to keep holding his rallies even after the election, even if he loses, even as the plague is ravaging and the economy is in the toilet.

Don’t be surprised if his supporters are completely blind to the utter failure of leadership in that.

Let’s see, what else to cover...

I guess that just about covers it.

Have fun, kids!

#politics #2020 Election

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reality-imagined · 5 years

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Plans - Part III

SWU Poe x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Slow Burn, Romance

Rating: T+

Word Count: 1503

Sequel to Schematics

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to the Star Wars characters, themes, or plots mentioned nor do I claim any of their work as my own. All rights reserved to Lucasfilm and the writers/creators Star Wars and subsequent movie titles. I simply enjoy their work and imagining what it would be like to live in their world.

Masterlist

By the time Tiro and you had reached the target system, you were itching to get on solid ground. Sure, you didn’t mind being in a ship but the longest time you had spent on board one was before the battle of Crait and now that you didn’t technically have to be floating around in space, you preferred to keep your feet on the ground. Tiro always made fun of you for it, especially when he could see your restlessness slowly consuming you. He always made a quip about never meeting anyone who got “space sick” or “how in the hell you got hooked up with a pilot.” He kept a trash bin in the cockpit just in case though.

Once docked and the ship properly powered down, you grabbed your backpack and hid away the tracking device. Even though Fayvis had declared their allegiance, you couldn’t be too careful and with the information that was on this data pad - you couldn’t risk anyone getting their hands on it.

There was a small welcome group waiting once you and Tiro to step out into the warm air that was Fayvis. Compared to the other planet’s you had been on, the area looked luxe and well, expensive. Even their landing pads were made of the smoothest duracrete mixture you’d ever seen. There was lush greenery surrounded the area and by the taste and humidity in the air, there was a large body of salt water near.

An abrupt voice halted you and Tiro’s wide eyes looking about the scenery, “Names.” He looked to be the landing pad’s lead commandant, but his voice was a little hesitant and weary. Which surprised you, considering you were probably the first of the Resistance to stop by.

“I’m Captain Y/n Y/L/n and this is my assignment partner - Specialist Tiro Driet. Raena is a dear friend of ours.” You replied, it felt a bit weird being formal but at the same time comforting – a reminder of how your work used to go and hope that soon things could return to some kind of semblance of normal. Tiro had a weird face, he had forgotten the sound of your “Captain Voice” and how formal you used to be.

The man looked down at the device in his hand, gesturing a few times before glancing back up and then down - his body visibly relaxing then. “Of course. Sorry for the formalities. Can’t be too safe.” He joked in attempt to make things light, but only made them more awkward. He stood at ease, a smile on his face.

“Right.” Tiro spoke after standing for a moment, looking at each other silently.

“We wasn’t expecting anyone… Considering there are already two of your own currently visiting.”

Tiro and you immediately looked to each other, alarm mirroring the other’s. “May I ask whom is currently stationed here?” You asked hesitantly, looking about the landing to see if there were familiar transports nearby.

The man furrowed his eyebrows, “Commander Dameron and his partner.”

Partner? Surely he meant someone from his Black Squadron. But… even though you hadn’t known much of his assignment from what Tiro had explained, he was alone. By the confused look Tiro had, your assumptions of his solo mission were correct.

“Can-May I speak with Reana as soon as possible?” You asked, still trying to control your voice to not alarm the commandant.

It was like the man was reminded of his duty when you asked that question, he snapped back into attention, arms clasped behind his back, “Of course! I’ll have someone escort you to the palace and notify the Princess of your arrival.”

“Princess?” Tiro and you spluttered.

The man eyed you curiously but said nothing more as he led you to what looked like a horizontal elevator shaft that would take you into the thick of the greenery. You couldn’t see much other than a wall of trees. Once aboard, you and Tiro both exchanged unsure looks. This isn’t at all how either of you imagined this to go.

You couldn’t help but stand in awe of the foyer that you were to wait in. Everything appeared to be aurodium plated and you cringed at the thought that maybe it was real aurodium. Sure, Raena’s personality and manners made you increasingly aware of her higher status and you had always joked that she was close to royalty. But it never occurred to you that she was actual royalty. What royal family would send their princess into a combat zone? Well… it wasn’t the first time such measures had been taken… but you still had so many questions.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come here.” Tiro muttered, looking around the room before settling on you.

“Why? You insisted! It’s not my fault your girlfriend is a princess and never told you.”

“Might I remind you, she never told you either.” He poked, eyes narrowed. He was very uneasy about this new revelation.

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms, “Yeah well-“

“I thought they were playing some cruel joke on me.”

You and Tiro froze then slowly turned to see Raena coming, stereotypically you might add, down the large staircase in the middle of the grand foyer. She wore a long gown that was made of several layers of varying sheer and silk, aurodium colored fabrics. It flowed elegantly as she walked and upon her perfectly styled hair was thin crown. She exuded royalty and you questioned your observational skills once again. It was hard to recognize your friend, especially the one who once got so wasted with you at the Cantina that they started a weekly Karaoke night inspired by her singing on top one of the mess hall tables. You and her never returned because of the embarrassment. That girl, who wore her regulated medics clothing all the time, even when she wasn’t on duty and allowed to wear civvies, was not at all the one gracefully walking towards you.

Despite the barrier you suddenly felt in your friendship, who she was on the base was still her and she was nonetheless still your friend. You opened your mouth to reply but couldn’t find the right words to say, so you opted to for meeting her halfway with a hug. Tiro still stood back, becoming increasingly aware that his reunion with Raena wasn’t going to go how he’d expected.

“Tiro.” Raena smiled after you two had gathered yourselves. She smiled warmly at him, a blush appearing through her precise makeup. “It’s great to see you. Both of you. But it is… a bit unexpected. I hadn’t heard from General Organa yet.” She pulled up her dress, showing how she turned the tracker into an anklet. You imagined it was so no one else would see it or clash with her gowns.

“Right. Well, uhm… I guess we just got antsy? We need a few supplies too. Plus, a friendly face.” You shrugged, looking at Tiro for back up but he still wore that slightly shocked expression and his eyes never once left Raena.

“We’ll get you the supplies in no time and you two will be back on course before the evening!” She turned to the assistant you hadn’t noticed until now. Whispering something then turning back to you, “I’ll walk you back to the landing.”

You furrowed your eyebrows as you let Raena guide back towards palace’s main door. Why was she rushing the two of you out? You hadn’t expected much out of this trip but a friendly face and a since of security… not to be rushed off without even an offer of some water or an actual bed to sleep in. This wasn’t like Raena. Anytime you and Suna visited her quarters, even for a brief moment, she had a tray of tea and snacks prepared. Which now that you think of it, screams propriety and royalty.

“So soon?” You finally spoke before she could gesture for the guard to open the door. You leant back to look at Tiro at the other side of Raena, who simultaneously did the same. His face continued to mirror your own as it had since you landed, this time it was confusion.

She faltered and you could see the real Raen shine through for only a moment before she plastered back on that fake royal smile. You didn’t like this one bit. “I’m sorry. I just don’t think it’s safe for anyone from the Resistance to be here right now.” She looked between you and Tiro. You and Tiro stopped at once, body posture on defense.

“That’s funny.” Tiro spoke up, voice bitter. “We were told Poe was here as well.”

Raena looked stunned then guilty, caught up in her own lies. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it when she realized that nothing she could say would fix this. So, you all stood there in silence, looking between one another, waiting for one of you to speak up first. The room heavy with unsaid explanations and accusing stares.

Raena finally let out a sigh, “Things are… complicated right now. I’m sorry, I- I have a duty to my planet and family. I was just trying…” You could slowly see the real Raena returning, even down to her posture relaxing. “Until I can explain everything, I’ll set you guys up in our guest wing. It can’t be for long, but just enough time to get you the supplies and explain.”

You could tell she was uncomfortable and in a bind. You didn’t want to bring her any extra stress, but you also needed to talk to Tiro immediately about this. You placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and she relaxed further, her eyes pleading an apology. “Thank you, Rae. We didn’t mean to cause so much stress. Why don’t you walk us out and explain then - whatever you can’t explain now, we can talk about when it’s time.”

Raena nodded, gesturing for the guard to open the door then. You and Tiro followed her out, you could tell she was trying to figure out where to start so you didn’t say anything, only waited for her to begin her explanation.

So.... it’s been a minute. or two. or three. its been a lot of minutes... but I was able to see the rise of skywalker and well, I was inspired lol So, I figured I’d write up until I find a point where TROS and Plans can intersect and go from there. Just know that I have seen all of your likes and reblogs and new follows since I last posted (which was eons ago) and I appreciate it so very very much and it baffles me that this is still a thing you want to read.

Also, thinking about making a few Mando drabbles and writings, as I, too, have become enthralled in the existence that is Pedro Pascal. oops. ANYWHO, let’s get to writing and reading, huh? Much love xx

#poe fanfic #poe dameron fic #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron fanfiction #poe x reader

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prorevenge · 6 years

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Underpay me, lie to derail a competing job offer and then try to humiliate me in front of the entire department? Say goodbye to your dignity and (eventually) job/business!

I'm going to leave out specific details about the company and people in question here, as some people also know about this story and I don't want to be identified.

TL;dr:

Company I'm loyal to takes advantage of my delayed graduation to underpay me

They lie to me so that I don't take a better job offer

They then claim my performance is an issue as an excuse to delay my pay raise

When I finally resign, my supervisor tries and spectacularly fails to make me look bad, and instead looks like a horrible, volatile boss.

Her department rapidly bleeds its experts in the months following my departure (I like to think this is in part because of my publicly awful treatment).

Chapter 1: The Good Years

BoringCorp hired me as an intern in the second year of my six year nightmare of college (long story). I was installed as a low-level support technician in the internal IT department, as I was a "wild card" hire, based on a recommendation and didn't have the usual qualifications.

In the three years I worked in the IT department (part time), I reimagined large aspects of how internal IT managed a plethora of internal services at the company. I designed and built several complex software systems to automate inter-department processes, systems management, security and compliance auditing and the like. Over those years I built a significant reputation for myself across many departments, including HR, the security team, engineering, marketing, etc. as someone who could not just "get stuff done", but also improve lots of other things in the process.

Chapter 2: The Downward Turn

Upon graduating, I was encouraged by my team lead (who is an awesome person) to look for a role better aligned to my skill set, and secured a role in the engineering department's systems engineering/automation team. I was offered a graduate salary, something I was unhappy with, as while technically a graduate, I had almost four years' experience in the industry at that point, and had demonstrated significant technical ability. Engineers from other departments often asked me to troubleshoot their code, so it wasn't like I was an unknown at this stage. Regardless, I accepted on the condition that I would be rapidly advanced.

As soon as I started with my new team, it was apparent that the company's engineering department was in some serious strife. Our single team of less than 10 people maintained a mostly undocumented codebase, supporting the deployment and automation of tens of millions of dollars of live customer sites... And stuff was always breaking.

Being the perfectionist and pathological problem solver I am, I immediately started looking for root causes. Most of the rest of the team, who were principally software engineers with no IT or systems background, or otherwise very inexperienced (grads with no work experience and first time interns), continued to chip away at the surface, without considering the source of our problems. This caused some friction with management, but I managed to convince them of the value of my work.

Six months in, I had identified major issues with our documentation, written up some basic (and easy-to-use) documentation standards, and even documented a large chunk of our projects. I had set up an incident logging process, and tried to pare back on our alerting/pager system to reduce "alert fatigue" and get more prompt responses from on-call team members during outages. No pay raise or even any acknowledgement of my efforts.

Chapter 3: The Struggles Begin

No one was interested in my work. No one documented anything, despite my making it as easy as possible. People kept adding bad code to fix short term problems, and despite my repeated pleas (literally every day at standup) this problem continued. Eventually I became pretty despondent about the whole thing and just started chipping away like everyone else, and commiserating with another new hire (senior engineer) who had significantly more experience than me and was equally horrified at the state of things.

I was then contacted by a recruiter for another company. Now at this point, note that I was still feeling a degree of allegiance to BoringCorp - they had treated me very well in years gone by, and I wanted to do right by them, despite their current struggles. So I kept my manager (who we shall call 'Z') in the loop about interviewing, and when I was offered a job with almost double my "graduate" salary, I told her first and gave her plenty of time for a counter offer. She assured me that they would match the offered salary within a month, and that the process was actually already underway (more on this later).

I turned down the job offer, which resulted in getting my ear chewed off by the recruiter and a very uncomfortable phone call from the CTO of the other company, almost begging me to join.

... Three weeks later, no news. I followed up. "We are looking into it, but I want you to communicate to the team why you haven't been around as much." Well, for starters the company had flexible working arrangements, and I had made it clear on multiple occasions that I was working from home. In addition, the reason I worked from home so much, is that my teammates, all of whom bar two were paid much more than me, would pester me with basic technical questions. I was sick of having my work disrupted so I could give first-year college tutorials on computer networking.

I explained this to my manager as diplomatically as possible (I avoided ripping into her about the ridiculous and offensive pay difference), and she asked me to "communicate more". Yeah, okay. I did that.

Chapter 4: The Last Straw+Camel

Three more weeks. Two past the deadline. No news. I follow up again - and hear basically the same complaint, despite having communicated very clearly and (grudgingly) worked from home less.

I started looking for a new job, again. Within three weeks I was five interviews deep in the process for an overseas company, and had a salary offer of four times my original salary. This was based not just on spoken interviews but also technical testing and work samples, so it wasn't just me overselling myself. At this point I became very angry at the degree to which BoringCorp was undervaluing me. I accepted the competing offer on the spot and started making plans to move. I also went back to working from home when I felt like it.

Fast forward two weeks, and I'm ready to put in my notice. I do so, and almost immediately I get an aggravated-sounding text message on my personal phone stating "we haven't seen you much this week and I expect you to be in for a meeting tomorrow." Clearly this set alarm bells ringing that it was a termination meeting and they were going to try to cheat me of my final pay.

Having worked in IT (and in fact having automated a significant chunk of HR processing), I was very familiar with the company's user offboarding processes. I looked for a work ticket logging my departure... And there wasn't one. Strange - policy dictates that one must be created. It occurred to me that in the past, handling dismissals, these tickets were raised with very restricted access permissions, so that the soon-to-be ex-employee had no prior warning.

Of course, I still happened to have some admin credentials in my password safe (used for automation, and which I had thankfully forgotten to delete). Upon logging in with those, sure enough, I found my very own ticket! Turns out they weren't trying to fire me, instead my supervisor (Z) wanted to put me on "involuntary paid leave" for the duration of my notice period. She also wanted me to clear out my desk during the daytime, in front of my colleagues, and deny my the chance to say proper farewells, etc.

Well, knowledge is power here. I spent the first hour backing up all of my personal data off my work laptop. I then wiped the disk clean and rotated the disk encryption keys, to ensure none of my data or personal project work could be recovered. I drove to work at 2am, cleaned out my desk and took everything home in complete privacy, and then went to sleep.

The next day, I walked in at 7:30am, dropped my wiped laptop with my old team and said my farewells. Also took the time to explain why I was basically getting booted out of the building. There was a lot of unhappiness - towards Z.

Then I went and said farewell to my current team. They were horrified by the situation and also were rather displeased with Z. I caught up with some of my closer friends that I'd worked with over the years and said my goodbyes to them as well. We had a nice, relaxed morning chatting about the good ole times and drinking coffee.

Then the meeting came along... Well, suffice to say, Z was rather disappointed that I had already handed in my laptop and cleared my desk. She grudgingly said I could stay for the rest of the day, seeing as I had already done everything I needed to do, and left in a huff.

Epilogue: The Aftermath

A few months had gone by, and I was now happily settled into my new job. I learned through contacts at the company that since my very rude expulsion, many senior engineers have left. They'd had to restructure the department to try to fix their product delivery issues, and were still unable to fix anything because all of the people who knew the functionality of the system (myself because of my documentation push, and the other engineers who built it) had left in disgust at the poor morale and working environment.

Last I heard, Z was still in her current role, but the company was bleeding cash and constantly downsizing. I don't imagine management was too chuffed with her performance.

(source) (story by Throwawayyyyyyy11235)

#prorevenge #by Throwawayyyyyyy11235 #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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the-end-of-art · 5 years

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Dancing with Professors by Patricia Nelson Limerick

In ordinary life, when a listener cannot understand what someone has said, this is the usual exchange:

Listener: I cannot understand what you are saying.

Speaker: Let me try to say it more clearly.

But in scholarly writing in the late 20th century, other rules apply. This is the implicit exchange:

Reader: I cannot understand what you are saying.

Academic Writer: Too bad. The problem is that you are an unsophisticated and untrained reader. If you were smarter, you would understand me.

The exchange remains implicit, because no one wants to say, "This doesn't make any sense," for fear that the response, "It would, if you were smarter," might actually be true.

While we waste our time fighting over ideological conformity in the scholarly world, horrible writing remains a far more important problem. For all their differences, most right_wing scholars and most left_wing scholars share a common allegiance to a cult of obscurity. Left, right and center all hide behind the idea that unintelligible prose indicates a sophisticated mind. The politically correct and the politically incorrect come together in the violence they commit against the English language.

University presses have certainly filled their quota every year, in dreary monographs, tangled paragraphs and impenetrable sentences. But trade publishers have also violated the trust of innocent and hopeful readers. As a prime example of unprovoked assaults on innocent words, consider the verbal behavior of Allan Bloom in "The Closing of the American Mind," published by a large mainstream press. Here is a sample:

"If openness means to go with the flow,' it is necessarily an accommodation to the present. That present is so closed to doubt about so many things impeding the progress of its principles that unqualified openness to it would mean forgetting the despised alternatives to it, knowledge of which makes us aware of what is doubtful in it."

Is there a reader so full of blind courage as to claim to know what this sentence means? Remember, the book in which this remark appeared was a lamentation over the failings of today's students, a call to arms to return to tradition and standards in education. And yet, in 20 years of paper grading, I do not recall many sentences that asked, so pathetically, to be put out of their misery.

Jump to the opposite side of the political spectrum from Allan Bloom, and literary grace makes no noticeable gains. Contemplate this breathless, indefatigable sentence from the geographer, Allan Pred, and Mr. Pred and Bloom seem, if only in literary style, to be soul mates.

"If what is at stake is an understanding of geographical and historical variations in the sexual division of productive and reproductive labor, of contemporary local and regional variations in female wage labor and women's work outside the formal economy, of on_the_ground variations in the everyday content of women's lives, inside and outside of their families, then it must be recognized that, at some nontrivial level, none of the corporal practices associated with these variations can be severed from spatially and temporally specific linguistic practices, from language that not only enable the conveyance of instructions, commands, role depictions and operating rules, but that also regulate and control, that normalize and spell out the limits of the permissible through the conveyance of disapproval, ridicule and reproach."

In this example, 124 words, along with many ideas, find themselves crammed into one sentence. In their company, one starts to get panicky. "Throw open the windows; bring in the oxygen tanks!" one wants to shout. "These words and ideas are nearly suffocated. Get them air!" And yet the condition of this desperately packed and crowded sentence is a perfectly familiar one to readers of academic writing, readers who have simply learned to suppress the panic.

Everyone knows that today's college students cannot write, but few seem willing to admit that the professors who denounce them are not doing much better. The problem is so blatant that there are signs that the students are catching on. In my American history survey course last semester, I presented a few writing rules that I intended to enforce inflexibly. The students looked more and more peevish; they looked as if they were about to run down the hall, find a telephone, place an urgent call and demand that someone from the A.C.L.U. rush up to campus to sue me for interfering with their First Amendment rights to compose unintelligible, misshapen sentences.

Finally one aggrieved student raised her hand and said, "You are telling us not to write long, dull sentences, but most of our reading is full of long, dull sentences."

As this student was beginning to recognize, when professors undertake to appraise and improve student writing, the blind are leading the blind. It is, in truth, difficult to persuade students to write well when they find so few good examples in their assigned reading.

The current social and judicial context for higher education makes this whole issue pressing. In Colorado, as in most states, the legislators re convinced that the university is neglecting students and wasting state resources on pointless research. Under those circumstances, the miserable writing habits of professors pose a direct and concrete danger to higher education. Rather than going to the state legislature, proudly presenting stacks of the faculty's compelling and engaging publications, you end up hoping that the lawmakers stay out of the library and stay away, especially, from the periodical room, with its piles of academic journals. The habits of academic writers lend powerful support to the impression that research is a waste of the writers' time and of the public's money.

Why do so many professors write bad prose?

Ten years ago, I heard a classics professor say the single most important thing_in my opinion_that anyone has said about professors. "We must remember," he declared, "that professors are the ones nobody wanted to dance with in high school."

This is an insight that lights up the universe_or at least the university. It is a proposition that every entering freshman should be told, and it is certainly a proposition that helps to explain the problem of academic writing. What one sees in professors, repeatedly, is exactly the manner that anyone would adopt after a couple of sad evenings sidelined under the crepe_paper streamers in the gym, sitting on a folding chair while everyone else danced. Dignity, for professors, perches precariously on how well they can convey this message, "I am immersed in some very important thoughts, which unsophisticated people could not even begin to understand. Thus, I would not want to dance, even if one of you unsophisticated people were to ask me."

Think of this, then, the next time you look at an unintelligible academic text. "I would not want the attention of a wide reading audience, even if a wide audience were to ask for me." Isn't that exactly what the pompous and pedantic tone of the classically academic writer conveys?

Professors are often shy, timid and fearful people, and under those circumstances, dull, difficult prose can function as a kind of protective camouflage. When you write typical academic prose, it is nearly impossible to make a strong, clear statement. The benefit here is that no one can attack your position, say you are wrong or even raise questions about the accuracy of what you have said, if they cannot tell what you have said. In those terms, awful, indecipherable prose is its own form of armor, protecting the fragile, sensitive thoughts of timid souls.

The best texts for helping us understand the academic world are, of course, Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Just as devotees of Carroll would expect, he has provided us with the best analogy for understanding the origin and function of bad academic writing. Tweedledee and Tweedledum have quite a heated argument over a rattle. They become so angry that they decide to fight. But before they fight, they go off to gather various devices of padding and protection: "bolsters, blankets, hearthrugs, tablecloths, dish covers and coal scuttles." Then, with Alice's help in tying and fastening, they transform these household items into armor. Alice is not impressed: " Really, they'll be more like bundles of old clothes than anything else, by the time they're ready!' she said to herself, as she arranged a bolster round the neck of Tweedledee, to keep his head from being cut off,' as he said, Why this precaution?" Because, Tweedledee explains, "it's one of the most serious things that can possibly happen to one in a battle_to get one's head cut off."

Here, in the brothers' anxieties and fears, we have an exact analogy for the problems of academic writing. The next time you look at a classically professorial sentence_long, tangled, obscure, jargonized, polysyllabic_think of Tweedledum and Tweedledee dressed for battle, and see if those timid little thoughts, concealed under layers of clauses and phrases, do not remind you of those agitated but cautious brothers, arrayed in their bolsters, blankets, dish covers and coal scuttles. The motive, too, is similar. Tweedledum and Tweedledee were in terror of being hurt, and so they padded themselves so thoroughly that they could not be hurt; nor, for that matter, could they move. A properly dreary, inert sentence has exactly the same benefit; it protects its writer from sharp disagreement, while it also protects him from movement.

Why choose camouflage and insulation over clarity and directness? Tweedledee, of course, spoke for everyone, academic or not, when he confessed his fear. It is indeed, as he said, "one of the most serious things that can possibly happen to one in a battle_to get one's head cut off." Under those circumstances, logic says: tie the bolster around the neck, and add a protective hearthrug or two. Pack in another qualifying clause or two. Hide behind the passive_voice verb. Preface any assertion with a phrase like "it could be argued" or "a case could be made." Protecting one's neck does seem to be the way to keep one's head from being cut off.

Graduate school implants in many people the belief that there are terrible penalties to be paid for writing clearly, especially writing clearly in ways that challenge established thinking in the field. And yet, in academic warfare (and I speak as a veteran) your head and your neck are rarely in serious danger. You can remove the bolster and the hearthrug. Your opponents will try to whack at you, but they will seldom, if ever, land a blow_in large part because they are themselves so wrapped in protective camouflage and insulation that they lose both mobility and accuracy.

So we have a widespread pattern of professors protecting themselves from injury by wrapping their ideas in dull prose, and yet the danger they try to fend off is not a genuine danger. Express yourself clearly, and it is unlikely that either your head_or, more important, your tenure_will be cut off.

How, then, do we save professors from themselves? Fearful people are not made courageous by scolding; they need to be coaxed and encouraged. But how do we do that, especially when this particular form of fearfulness masks itself as pomposity, aloofness and an assured air of superiority?

Fortunately, we have available the world's most important and illuminating story on the difficulty of persuading people to break out of habits of timidity, caution, and unnecessary fear. I borrow this story from Larry McMurtry, one of my rivals in the interpreting of the American West, though I am putting the story to a use that Mr. McMurtry did not intend.

In a collection of his essays, In a Narrow Grave, Mr. McMurtry wrote about the weird process of watching his book Horsemen Pass By being turned into the movie Hud. He arrived in the Texas Panhandle a week or two after filming had started, and he was particularly anxious to learn how the buzzard scene had gone. In that scene, Paul Newman was supposed to ride up and discover a dead cow, look up at a tree branch lined with buzzards and, in his distress over the loss of the cow, fire his gun at one of the buzzards. At that moment, all of the other buzzards were supposed to fly away into the blue Panhandle sky.

But when Mr. McMurtry asked people how the buzzard scene had gone, all he got, he said, were "stricken looks."

The first problem, it turned out, had to do with the quality of the available local buzzards_who proved to be an excessively scruffy group. So more appealing, more photogenic buzzards had to be flown in from some distance and at considerable expense.

But then came the second problem: how to keep the buzzards sitting on the tree branch until it was time for their cue to fly.

That seemed easy. Wire their feet to the branch, and then, after Paul Newman fires his shot, pull the wire, releasing their feet, thus allowing them to take off.

But, as Mr. McMurtry said in an important and memorable phrase, the film makers had not reckoned with the "mentality of buzzards." With their feet wired, the buzzards did not have enough mobility to fly. But they did have enough mobility to pitch forward.

So that's what they did: with their feet wired, they tried to fly, pitched forward, and hung upside down from the dead branch, with their wings flapping.

I had the good fortune a couple of years ago to meet a woman who had been an extra for this movie, and she added a detail that Mr. McMurtry left out of his essay: namely, the buzzard circulatory system does not work upside down, and so, after a moment or two of flapping, the buzzards passed out.

Twelve buzzards hanging upside down from a tree branch: this was not what Hollywood wanted from the West, but that's what Hollywood had produced.

And then we get to the second stage of buzzard psychology. After six or seven episodes of pitching forward, passing out, being revived, being replaced on the branch and pitching forward again, the buzzards gave up. Now, when you pulled the wire and released their feet, they sat there, saying in clear, nonverbal terms: "We tried that before. It did not work. We are not going to try it again." Now the film makers had to fly in a high_powered animal trainer to restore buzzard self_esteem. It was all a big mess. Larry McMurtry got a wonderful story out of it; and we, in turn, get the best possible parable of the workings of habit and timidity.

How does the parable apply? In any and all disciplines, you go to graduate school to have your feet wired to the branch. There is nothing inherently wrong with that: scholars should have some common ground, share some background assumptions, hold some similar habits of mind. This gives you, quite literally, your footing. And yet, in the process of getting your feet wired, you have some awkward moments, and the intellectual equivalent of pitching forward and hanging upside down. That experience_especially if you do it in a public place like a seminar_provides no pleasure. One or two rounds of that humiliation, and the world begins to seem like a treacherous place. Under those circumstances, it does indeed seem to be the choice of wisdom to sit quietly on the branch, to sit without even the thought of flying, since even the thought might be enough to tilt the balance and set off another round of flapping, fainting and embarrassment.

Yet when scholars get out of graduate school and get Ph.D.'s, and, even more important, when scholars get tenure, the wire is truly pulled. Their feet are free. They can fly whenever and wherever they like. Yet by then the second stage of buzzard psychology has taken hold, and they refuse to fly. The wire is pulled, and yet the buzzards sit there, hunched and grumpy. If they teach in a university with a graduate program, they actively instruct young buzzards in the necessity of keeping their youthful feet on the branch.

This is a very well_established pattern, and it is the ruination of scholarly activity in the modern world. Many professors who teach graduate students think that one of their principal duties is to train students in the conventions of academic writing.

I do not believe that professors enforce a standard of dull writing on graduate students in order to be cruel. They demand dreariness because they think that dreariness is in the students' best interests. Professors believe that a dull writing style is an academic survival skill because they think that is what editors want, both editors of academic journals and editors of university presses. What we have here is a chain of misinformation and misunderstanding, where everyone thinks that the other guy is the one who demands, dull, impersonal prose.

Let me say again what is at stake here: universities and colleges are currently embattled, distrusted by the public and state funding institutions. As distressing as this situation is, it provides the perfect setting and the perfect timing for declaring an end to scholarly publication as a series of guarded conversations between professors.

The redemption of the university, especially in terms of the public's appraisal of the value of research and publication, requires all the writers who have something they want to publish to ask themselves the question: Does this have to be a closed communication, shutting out all but specialists willing to fight their way through the thickest of jargon? Or can this be an open communication, engaging specialists with new information and new thinking, but also offering an invitation to nonspecialists to learn from this study, to grasp its importance, and by extension, to find concrete reasons to see value in the work of the university?

This is a country in need of wisdom, and of clearly reasoned conviction and vision. And that, at the bedrock, is the reason behind this campaign to save professors from themselves and to detoxify academic prose. The context is a bit different, but the statement that Willy Loman made to his sons in Death of a Salesman keeps coming to mind: "The woods are burning boys, the woods are burning." In a society confronted by a faltering economy, racial and ethnic conflicts, and environmental disasters, "the woods are burning," and since we so urgently need everyone's contribution in putting some of these fires out, there is no reason to indulge professorial vanity or timidity.

Ego is, of course, the key obstacle here. As badly as most of them write, professors are nonetheless proud and sensitive writers, resistant in criticism. But even the most desperate cases can be redeemed and persuaded to think of writing as a challenging craft, not as existential trauma. A few years ago, I began to look at carpenters and other artisans as the emotional model for writers. A carpenter, let us say, makes a door for a cabinet. If the door does not hang straight, the carpenter does not say, "I will not change that door; it is an expression of my individuality; who cares if it will not close?" Instead, the carpenter removes the door and works on it until it fits. That attitude, applied to writing, could be our salvation. If we thought more like carpenters, academic writers could find a route out of the trap of ego and vanity. Escaped from that trap, we could simply work on successive drafts until what we have to say is clear.

Colleges and universities are filled with knowledgeable, thoughtful people who have been effectively silenced by an awful writing style, a style with its flaws concealed behind a smokescreen of sophistication and professionalism. A coalition of academic writers, graduate advisers. journal editors, university press editors and trade publishers can seize this moment_and pull the wire. The buzzards can be set free_free to leave that dead tree branch, free to regain to regain their confidence, free to soar.

#patricia nelson limerick #larry mcmurtry #education #writing #academia #grad school #university #college

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superiorvanity · 5 years

Photo

GENERAL INFORMATION

Full Legal Name: Emma Noémie Vanity

Nickname(s): None if you know what’s good for you.

Age: 20

Gender & Pronouns: Cisgender female & she/her

Allegiance: Neutral

Status: Pureblood

Sexuality: Bisexual, with a preference towards women. Emma will seek out a woman if she is hoping for a good time, but men have their uses. If there is something to gain she will spend her time with a man--- whatever that reason may be; good publicity for being seen with someone, spending her time with someone who has connections to whatever it is she may be interested in, etc. Sometimes she might be surprised, but Emma is a selfish creature and has found she’s enjoyed herself more with a woman in bed with her. The Slytherin knows one day she will have to be wed to a man to carry on with the family, so for now Emma is simply enjoying herself with whoever shows the most promise at the time.

Date of Birth: November 2nd, 1957

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

APPEARANCE

Faceclaim: Madelaine Petsch

Height: 5'5"

Weight: 119 lbs

Hair Color: Red

Eye Color: Light brown

Noticeable Features: Naturally red hair which is exceptionally striking.

Typical Outfit or General Fashion Sense: Emma dresses to impress, but the colors she sticks to are usually dark or neutral tones. She’s always wearing heels to give her an edge on her height, even if it’s just to go to Potions Class.

HISTORY

Hometown: Chelmsford

Financial Status: Incredibly wealthy

Spoken Languages: English and French

Dream Job: After having a very successful internship over the summer, Emma doesn’t believe in a ‘dream job’. Once her time at Hogwarts is over she will graduate and immediately start her climb up the ladder at the Ministry in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. At first it will start off with just busy desk work--- helping people throughout the Department who need it. Determined to make her mark fair and square without people saying Emma paved her career with the help of anyone pulling strings for her. Her goal is to make her way to the International Event Coordination Team within at least a year of working at the Ministry--- maybe two. Her next step would then become the Head of the Event Coordination Team and have her own department within the Department along with her own set of staff. Emma’s goal is to achieve such a title before she has her second child because she certainly would never stop working to be a stay at home parent.

However, Emma is aware Quidditch teams are looking at her and with it being her final year teams would be looking to recruit her before she officially graduates so she’d be signed onto a team and can start up once summer begins. While the thought will be certainly tempting for her, Emma will end up turning down Puddlemere United (a very difficult decision for her, knowing how proud it’d make her father to say his daughter played on the same team he did) which would have been the only team she’d even consider, but it’s her life and that isn’t how Emma wants to spend it--- no matter how much she loves to play Quidditch. Through her job at the Ministry she will still keep up the hobby.

Vices: Emma doesn’t believe in bad habits. She barely drinks unless it’s socially, and never enough to risk making a fool of herself.

FAMILY BACKGROUND

Mother: Yvonne Vanity née Dubois (Socialite)

Father: Carter Vanity (Former Chaser for the team Puddlemere United; current Death Eater)

Sibling(s): N/A

Pet(s): A snow white cat named Sylvester.

Grandparent(s): Amélie and Gérard Dubois on her mother’s side. Eliza and Noah Vanity are on her father’s side. Emma is close to both sides of her family and visits them with her parents as frequently as she can.

Cousin(s): She has a few on both sides of her family, some she’s closer to more than others.

MAGICAL ABILITIES

Wand: Rowan, Kelpie Hair, and 12.25 inches

Patronus: Emma cannot produce a patronus and likely will not have a reason to bother learning for quite some time, but whenever she finally casts it it will take the shape of a viper.

Boggart: At this exact moment, Emma’s boggart would take the form of a Death Eater. She knows nothing of this obscure group who goes around causing destruction--- granted their targets seem to be directed more towards those who aren’t purebloods or those who don’t openly uphold the values and traditions expected in this day of age. Nonetheless, these extremists are hurting and killing people. Who knows who could get caught in the crossfire of things? Emma has no interest in the war and would like to keep herself firmly away from it entirely.

OWLS: Charms (Outstanding), Care for Magical Creatures (Acceptable), Defense Against the Dark Arts (Exceeds Expectations), Potions (Exceeds Expectations), Transfiguration (Outstanding), Ancient Runes (Outstanding), and History of Magic (Outstanding).

BIOGRAPHY

For the first part of Emma’s life Southern France was the place she called home. Growing up in a large manor set back just far enough from the ocean the young girl could see the water from her bedroom window. With a father who played Quidditch for a living and a Socialite of a mother who was around more to help the nanny of the time with Emma, Yvonne thought it would be the perfect opportunity to shape her daughter into the spitting image of herself. At first it seemed easy enough--- while stubborn to a fault since the moment Emma could get a word out, she was the perfect daughter. Charming enough to hold a conversation with anyone about anything (even though Emma has always despised small talk), beautiful enough to wear anything and look spectacular, and a clear ambition which showed even at a young age the Vanity heir was going to go far in life. Yvonne saw herself in her only child and couldn’t be more thrilled, that is until she learned her daughter would much rather go out and play Quidditch rather than sit around and have tea parties with her friends.

Carter introduced his daughter to his pride and joy thinking she’d be bored with it--- after the first game he figured Emma would never want to go again. He never expected his daughter to attend every single game through her childhood, let alone find passion in the sport herself to pursue a spot on a team when she got old enough to attend school.

For the first four years of her schooling Emma attended Beauxbatons School of Magic. The school was her home and Emma found a close circle of friends and cousins who she attended with. She loved her education and pushed to be at the top of her class--- perhaps she didn’t do the best, at least not every time, but the girl never allowed her grades to slip. Emma had always been hard on herself, even worse than her parents. Her friends were jealous Emma had so much freedom at such a young age--- neither parent dictated every aspect of her life like most did, especially when it came to the daughter of the family. No, the family saw no reason to be breathing down their daughter’s neck when Emma herself had a stricter set of rules for herself than they could likely come up with. She was tough on herself, but Emma refused to allow any slip ups which people could hold over her.

The summer after her fourth year wasn’t a particularly favored one. Usually her summers were spent enjoying trips with her family and friends. Shopping and hours lounged out on the Vanity’s own private beach. Emma said goodbye to everything she could call home and her family packed everything up to move to England. Even with her persistence Emma couldn’t bring her parents to stay, her father claiming the move would be good for them. She had no idea about her father’s ties to Voldemort’s group of Death Eaters--- Carter preferring to keep his daughter in the dark about his less than pleasant activities he attended to when Emma wasn’t around to notice.

Hogwarts wasn’t particularly a bad school--- it was highly talked about even as far away as France. It just was full of new people and Emma had to readjust to a whole new life. She was a survivor at heart and forced herself to adapt--- forced to find a home in Slytherin, and find one she did. The redhead quickly settled into her studies and made the Quidditch team with no question. It took her a bit longer to find a group of friends she felt comfortable with because it took Emma longer than most to warm up to someone, but she found a few who she held close. The Slytherin even found another Slytherin who fancied her interest, a boy two years her senior. They dated through the year and the summer before her sixth year Sebastian asked Emma’s father for a betrothal to his only daughter. He wasn’t expecting Emma to come storming into Carter’s study, demanding to know why he’d ask her father rather than the person he’d be marrying after Emma’s graduation. Refusing to start a relationship with someone who didn’t put her on equal ground with themselves, Emma kicked him to the curb, right in front of her father who tells the story proudly to others.

Her sixth year was easier--- Emma was used to the school and professors she had. She spent the year building up her résumé for her internship at the Ministry she desired for the summer. Of course Emma was accepted, but that didn’t keep her from working hard. The Slytherin saw her future and Emma liked what she saw, she just had to be patient and make her way through school. With her final year at Hogwarts on the horizon Emma plans to focus on her studies and hopefully have another smooth year to give her a pleasant kick start off from graduation. Maybe she’ll loosen up to actually slow down and enjoy the last year of her still being just a kid, but if you ask Emma it wouldn’t be likely.

#;;about

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caraidean · 5 years

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First Flirtations || Ced & Tine

Participant(s): Ced of Silesse, @sireneia / Tine

Words: 3,500

Type: C-Support

Summary: Ced saves Tine from a nasty fall, and finds himself with a genuine, deep attraction to her that neither expected to find.

MENTIONS OF WIND magic brings Tine’s mind to images of her brother excitedly talking about the home they had supposedly once shared. A bit of that love had rubbed off on her; how could it not when he seemed so happy speaking of Silesse and its affinity for the sky and all that made it up?

She’s thinking of that home as she squeezes her eyes shut, wondering if maybe in the afterlife if her mother is enjoying a place like that. Soon she could be joining her, she thinks— find out on her own. Tine hadn’t taken a step back into that wondrous land herself so she wouldn’t be able to recognize anything like it, only match descriptors, but she could learn to love it, she thinks.

She doesn’t get that chance— at least, not yet. Though she had been bracing herself for a horrible fall when the earth of the cliff cracked beneath her ( her fault for wanting a good last look at Alster but not knowing the lay of the land, what terrain was safe and what was not, due to her lack of… really going out anywhere ), there’s a curious floating sensation unlike anything she’s ever felt. Her eyes flutter open, her hands still clasped around the red pendant looped around her neck in a prayer that betrayed her thoughts, and the sky floods her sight.

The mage feels herself smile before she looks down and yelps. The fantastical feeling of flying wears off and she’s back to drawing inward towards herself in fear. She does notice the man who seems to be directing the wind, guiding her back to even ground again and it’s only when she’s standing back on her feet that she eases up, though her hands still remain closed tightly around her necklace.

“ I um… thank you. ” Her eyes hover over the tome in his possession, and she finds her voice again to ask, “Did you save me with that ? I’ve never been able to do anything like that with my magic… ”

Ced was having a hard time fitting in with the rest of the Liberation Army, if he could speak frankly. He’d spent the last several years alternating between working alone or leading his own group, only pausing for that brief allegiance with Leif towards the end of the last year. It had been a relief, certainly - finally getting rid of the sense of responsibility, the crushing self-doubt that had been following him around.

But something so mundane as scouting with two or three of the other members of the army? It just felt so strange to be doing this instead of lurking in a tent planning, or forcing himself to give some moral raising speech. He stood on the cliffs and sighed, looking back at Alster and feeling his eyebrow quirk up a little - and then he heard a sharp crack, and the starts of a scream. He whipped around, knowing instinctively what must have happened, and thrust out his hands–

Got her

Ced let out a sigh of relief when he ‘felt’ Holsety’s winds wrap around the girl, curving his fingers back into his palm and tugging her upright before setting her carefully back on solid ground. He extended his hands in case she needed to steady herself, but the poor girl seemed to be clutching her pendant too tightly to notice.

“It’s fine.” Ced assured her quietly, following her eyes to his tome. He shifted his cloak to cover it instinctively, before remembering what Seliph had told him - no more secrets. Not after the damage secrets had caused to their parents. So he reluctantly let her look, even tugging it out of his cloak and holding it in his hand.

“Holsety is…special.” He glanced at her hair and blinked for a second in surprise. “You…you’re from Friege, aren’t you? I would have thought you knew the Holy Weapons can do things most can’t.”

That came off as too aggressive, so he sighed and put it back in the pouch on his hip. “Are you alright? Sometimes the fright of a fall can cause as much harm as the fall itself. You’ve not gone into shock, have you?”

THIS THEN MUST be Holsety. Legendary weapons truly were something else, that much Tine was aware, but to give humans the ability to defy gravity? Wind, in her mind, was either light or something that could cut your very flesh— so she had been warned as a mage proficient in thunder magic herself. But what Holsety just displayed to her was neither the gentle breeze nor the deadly tornado.

It was a tender strength she had never known ‘til now.

“ …Of course. ” She surely must have looked dumb with her question, and her throat feels as if it is closing up with her shame. Still, she can’t leave him without a response when she asks about her state— surely coming off as ignoring him would only make things worse for her. “ I’m fine. Sorry about the trouble I’ve caused… ”

Her head tilts down slightly, and she is about to keep herself in check, not to speak back or say anything more than necessary, until she remembers where she is now.

Memories of her apologizing to Seliph only for him to forgive her so easily flash through her mind. She didn’t need to fear as much as she had in days past. Her wavering gaze moves upward, back to try and meet Ced’s own. Perhaps Silesse’s prince would not be as surprisingly gentle as Seliph was, but he did save her. She did not imagine the wind that granted her both exhilaration and safety, and maybe she was deluding herself in hoping so, but she wanted to believe that that wind spoke for the man who controlled it– that he too could be kindand she need not fear him.

“ A-About earlier, um… what you were saying… ” She loosens her grip on her necklace, though her posture is still very much so reserved as she gathers the courage to speak again. “ I’ve seen Mjolnir a few times, yes. It is strong, can strike anything down and protects us… but it makes Ishtar a feared goddess. I’ve only seen Holy Weapons as things that can cut down people but you’re different. You saved me without bloodshed… Mjolnir can’t do anything like that. You and Holsety are something wonderful and… ”

You made me feel safe without being family.

She cups her hands over her mouth, that bravery seeping out of her rapidly now and her voice grows softer as she averts her gaze. “ I’m sorry. I said too much, didn’t I ? ”

“It wasn’t any trouble. You just…need to be more careful.” Ced said quietly, trying to reassure her. He paused and glanced at the poor girl walking behind him, slowing his pace so they fell into step together - although considering how much taller he was than her, his current pace was actually quite uncomfortable for him. He resisted the urge to just pick the girl up and carry her, either with Holsety or just physically.

She didn’t look like she weighed much. She looked…slight, and delicate almost. Ced’s brow furrowed for a second after realizing that, for the first time in a while, he was attracted to someone…outside his taste. Still, it would be incredibly poor form to start flirting with her now. If he could remember how to flirt in the first place.

Gods knew what his sister would do to him if she thought he was trying to pressure a poor girl after saving her life. So instead he focused on the conversation proper, listening to her slight rambling about Mjolnir and raising an eyebrow.

“I’m sure it could do something similar, if they just…experimented.” He said quietly after a few moments, unsure how to speak about Tine’s family. “All too often, people forget that magic doesn’t have to just be a weapon-”

And he found his words snatched away by her frantic apologies, Ced raising an eyebrow slightly in what was almost disbelief. Someone had done a number on this poor girl, that was for sure. Gods. What was it that he was feeling now? Not the surge of pure attraction from earlier, but…not quite pity, either. He didn’t know what to think.

“You didn’t say too much.” He assured her, quietly. “We have quite a distance left before we get back to camp. Please…keep talking.”

HER FACE IS a canvas, one repeatedly painted in different shades of confusion every time that the male replies to her. She thinks her hunch at least was right however, that he could be kind. His voice is a foreign sound both literally and figuratively — a far cry from Hilda’s scoldings.

Tine realizes that she would very much like to continue hearing him speak that way to her, to draw out whatever gentleness she could from him, though she had not even the first idea of how to.

Somehow, his claim that magic ( besides Holsety ) doesn’t have to just be a weapon seems believable to her despite more than a decade of her life spent not knowing anything like it. She wishes she hadn’t cut him off, taking away that voice she so wished to hear more of right now.

How ironic it is that her babbling was what stopped it, yet she can’t make herself implore him to continue. She really does think she’s said too much now, though not because she’s offended him. If she’s done anything, it’s deprive herself of something nice.

“ …Okay. ” She inhales, trying to think of what even to say. She’s not used to this much freedom, but could she at least take this to mean he might not find her horrible to listen to? Could she be hopeful that he would talk to her again after they stopped today?

Ah. What was she doing, being so hopeful about this? Regardless of that, she was supposed to be filling in the lull between them now. It looks like she hadn’t blundered this as badly as she had initially thought.

“ I wonder… when you say that magic doesn’t have to just be a weapon… could even I be capable of that ? I don’t have anything special, ” she looks down at her Elthunder tome attached to her belt, an attempt at mimicking how her cousin wore her own holy tome, “ but… I would love to be as kind and dashing as you to others if I could. All I know is magic, and that’s about all of what I’m useful at. ”

Sometime along when she was sharing her honest thoughts, she had begun to break out in an unconscious smile. It was small, but it was definitely there and likely to grow as she said whatever came to mind from her heart.

“It doesn’t have to be a certain kind of magic.” Ced said after a few moments of quiet thought, considering her words. He’d always felt a need to use his to help people, one way or another - and perhaps wind magic was the second best inclined in that direction. Beside healing magic, his wind let him do a great deal for the common people, even before he discovered the sheer elemental force that Holsety brought with it - he had broken storms, carried supplies over chasms to build bridges, granted pegasus riders a tailwind to move faster. Holsety had amplified that…thousandfold. Thunder magic, however, proved difficult.

“If someone knows one kind of magic, they have two options.” Ced spoke carefully with these thoughts in his mind, falling back into step with her when he noticed he’d pulled ahead. Not by any deliberate design, just…the height difference that he was growing increasingly aware of. His legs were longer, so he walked faster.

It had been almost adorable, watching her suddenly up her pace to make sure she didn’t fall behind again. She was all…eager energy, a desire to speak and spend time with him. Or at least, that’s what he thought.

She was endearing - and he was a hopeless romantic at heart. He’d gotten that from his mother and father both, as much as he wished to deny it.

“You can learn a form of magic that might be more useful, outside of fighting.“He said, gesturing towards the cleric in their group. “Or you can think outside of the box, growing creative. In Silesse, during the winters, Fire mages are some of the most desired to help combat the chill that can set in. I’ve heard rumors in Thracia proper that Thunder and Wind mages have been trying to combine their magics to bring about rainfall, to try and fight the droughts that plague their lands. For my part, I can move supplies, break storms, hold back disasters…catch pretty women who stumble off of cliffs.”

He cursed himself for that last line, feeling himself slipping into how his father talked almost instinctively - but he looked over at Tine and smiled reassuringly anyway, nodding his head. “Just think about it. You can figure it out.”

Two options, huh? Where some might find being limited to just two as restricting, it was very freeing for Tine on the other hand. It meant a choice, something to try and wrest, and from the look of things, neither option seemed terrible or utterly confusing! Difficult, perhaps, but if being helpful to others in ways she hadn’t been before was the consequence, then the price was more than worth it.

“ Thunder and wind mages working together… Southern Thracia must be full of very resilient people. ” Word of mouth was all she could rely on as a cooped up princess, and even then all she had heard of Thracia was how they were dogs that had no choice but to take the mercenary life to survive. It was always so derisive, sountrusting of them whenever there was commentary — to hear of the steps they were taking to help against their fates was inspiring in a way and so very personal in a way it had been lacking before. Her voice as she mused her thoughts out loud to herself had a dream-like quality, one that shattered when when her mind finally registered the rest of what her walking companion had said.

“ Oh… ”

Her heart skipped a beat. That… meant her, right? She was pretty? Honest to goodness? And as a woman and not just a cute child!

But as quickly as she let her thoughts run with her, they took a turn for the greener. Pouting a bit, she says with much delay, “ I bet you catch a lot of pretty women then. ”

It was dumb, and she’s unsure if the blush high on her cheeks at this point is due to the warm feeling from earlier or if it’s from her current shame at making such a comment. She speeds up slightly, a small attempt to run away from what she had just said.

"So far I’ve only managed one.” Ced was amazed that that line had worked at all, even if it had apparently struck her confidence. What had happened to the poor girl…were her guardians like his father was? Worse, even? From neglect to abuse?

He couldn’t dwell on it for too long, turning on his foot and deciding to clear the air. A hand reached out as he stepped down a ledge, offering her support, and when she took it he smiled at her.

“I hope you didn’t take any offense.” He said calmly, even as a part of his head started to scream at him. Gods help him, he was acting like his father - but he refused to play it out like he would. He wouldn’t toy with the poor girl’s heart. “But, yes…the Thracians are very resilient. Like you, from what I’ve heard.”

She stops, face stuck in its beet red shock. Though she had been slow to realize at first the flirtatious implication of his words from earlier, it was like noticing them at all made her hyper-sensitive to any future thing he said.

Her timing is fortuitous with how they reach the ledge, and she gently lays her hand in his. Even if she had thought herself rather foolish for her little show of envy, she was no match for this downright princely gesture. His smile was just the icing on the cake really. The moment was so short, yet for that small time of support, she feels a little bit like a princess out of one of those tales she would read on her lonesome when her mother was too busy being the focus of Aunt Hilda’s wrath.

“ No, I didn’t… No offense taken, I mean. ” She bites her lip, unsure how to dissuade him with her meek voice. However that was not at the front of her mind. Instead, her thoughts lingered on where they were connected, and perhaps with more daring than she would have had at the start of their conversation, she moves her fingers to wrap around his hand and tighten their hold. “ Um, sorry to say something that won’t make me sound so resilient then, but… may I hold your hand until we get closer to camp? It’s a bit hard to keep up with your legs…”

In the end, it was a bit of an excuse, and maybe this was a bit much to spring onto him. He surely didn’t intend to lead things this way, did he? Yet here she was, being too clingy…

“Why not. It’s not that far.”

Ced gave her a gentle smile, squeezing her hand to assure her. He noted just how much shorter than him he was for the first time, a somewhat intrusive thought that made him raise an eyebrow and blink in surprise. She seemed so small, so…delicate. But she’d made it through a life which he could only assume…ah, well. He’d said that she was resilient. It might not be clear to the eyes at first, but there was something about what he could see past the nervousness in her eyes, something…

No matter.

Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to her…if the Magi Squad were here, they’d laugh at me for finally straying away from my ‘type’. I suppose it’s harder to get any more distant from tall, brash dark-haired warriors than a cute, tiny and timid mage girl. But…

He was snapped out of his thoughts when the camp came into view, letting go of her hand with a small amount of reluctance - before clearing his throat and coming to a stop, tugging lightly on her forearm to get her attention.

“Before we return, I…would like to see you again. Other than on patrol, if you’d allow it.” He smiled, although this one was a little more nervous, a little more wary. “I know a place in the next city, well, hopefully it survives the battle intact at least…I’d like to take you there.”

Her worries prove for naught. She doesn’t dare lace her fingers through his but she finds herself content enough with the warmth of his hand meeting her palm. For a few minutes, she could live a little dream and maybe tell her brother about it– sigh in reflection of how she looked like a fool in front of a handsome hero within their army’s ranks.

The time is fleeting. Tine expects this, yet she still feels disappointment when his hand leaves hers. Her gaze falls back down to the ground until she feels his touch again beckoning her focus to him, both a little curious and a little afraid of what he could want to say.

“ …You want to? ” The emphasis falls on the second word, and it’s clear she hardly believes what she’s heard. When Ced continues, adding details to his invitation, she can picture this as more than just a jest or fantasy.

“ I’d… really like that. I promise you I’ll go! ” She realizes she’s raised her voice unintentionally, and she covers her mouth with her other hand for a few moments before releasing herself of worry. So what if she got carried away with her excitement there a little? She lowers her hand to over the center of her chest, revealing the smile that’s formed on her face now. “ Um, you can find me anytime. If I’m not doing something for Seliph or my brother at the time, that is. ”

She’s the one to put some distance between them now, but as she resumes her walk to the camp, she turns back to Ced and waves her temporary farewell, her heart feeling a little lighter than when she initially came out here.

#Wind's History;Ced Thread Archive #History Had Its Eyes On You;Thread Archive #Inheritor of Wind;Ced #sireneia:tine #Forwards!;In Character #Inheritor of the Wind;Ced

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badsithnocookie · 7 years

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Unification (1/?)

Alright, Illte. You can do this. Breathe.

Returning to Iokath wasn't her choice, truthfully; all Eirn wanted to do was sink back into obscurity, sidle on out of the spotlight that other people kept thrusting her into and let some other fool take on the galaxy and all its problems. Her hand kept being forced, though; dragged by those same other people, and the rest of her was too attached to her hand to do anything permanent about it.

'I told you, I'm no assassin! I've come to deliver a message from the Republic-!'

On any other day, in any other place, the Republic not-assassin's qualities (her voice, her accent more specifically - it, and the sharp contrast it took to the content of her words) would have made her its focus, but Eirn's attention was all on the other not-assassin (at least, she'd never known him as one - though she remembered, at that thought, the times he'd disappeared on missions of his own and come back, weeks later, with a spring in his step and another tale that he would refuse to tell any but the poorly encrypted personal logs that made their way to Baras).

He was older, of course; not by much, but noticeably so - his hair a little thinner, a little more uniformly black in a way that spoke not of youth but dye and denial. He was thinner; again, not by much, but his uniform hung a little less snugly - more room about the neck, a few millimetres at the most but very definitely there. His eyes, which half refused to look at her, were just as blue; his rank bars had altered, his ribbons changed, but it was very definitely-

'...Malavai?'

When she spoke, she felt her voice crack; wonder if she had, and wish, simultaneously, that she hadn't. All of the attention in the room, it felt, snapped to her - not just that she knew the not-assassin, but knew him intimately enough to call him by name (by given name, under these circumstances)-

He looked at her, for a moment - at her, as opposed to everything but her, and then glanced away again (imperceptibly, almost, but he did so; his focus back on whatever was behind her, his aura far more ordered than she remembered it being and infinitely more impenetrable, at least in her current state).

'My lord.'

And that was all he had to say; all he said, greeting her in the politest and most distant way possible. That hadn't sunk in yet, though - that he'd afforded her the barest of civility, that he wasn't even paying her attention, that-

'I- what are- you doing here?' she blurted out - not the most coherent or poetic of greetings, herself, but it cut right to the point and that- well, that had always been the closest thing she'd ever managed to a strength.

His posture did not relax for a moment, though - his attention, while on her for only the briefest of split seconds, soon returned to whatever was occupying the space behind her. 'I am here representing the Empire, my lord. Empress Acina sends her best wishes, and desires to speak regarding an alliance-'

I will find you, he'd said, even if it kills me.

That had been what she'd been the most afraid of; that he (that what remained of him) was out there, somewhere, in some unmarked, unknown grave, that she had failed him one final time, that she might not ever even know what happened, in the end.

But no, here he was. Alive, and looking right past her, and all he cared about was business.

Acina, back on Dromund Kaas, had been Acina - and had not been, and Eirn hadn't been sure what to make of the Sith Empress other than to remember the lust that the older Sith had once had (for power, for her) and the disconcertion that even then Eirn had felt knot itself at the base of her spine. Acina-now was different to the Acina-of-before; she wore heavy armour, not soft robes, and the Force pulsed through her in a way that had begun to rot her body from the inside out. Her skin was still smooth, her hair still shone, but her eyes glowed that same yellow-orange that always looked so sickeningly unnatural in humans (and it was unnatural, for all the Sith - the human Sith, the Sith orthodoxy - claimed otherwise) and her breath, when she spoke, came out in cold puffs that only smelt of death and treachery.

How do you walk away from such power, Wrath?

But that was why Eirn had vetoed the idea of allying with the Sith - to Lana's irritation, and Theron's bemused relief. None of the Zakuulans had understood the fuss and none of the Jedi had complained, and even many of the Sith who called Odessen home had not been sorry to learn that the Empire had failed to court the Alliance's command structure.

'You were once the Emperor's Wrath. The strongest of our number. Join me, and you could be that once again.' It was a practised speech - and one that, once, might have even worked.

You could serve me again, Wrath. You could kneel, and beg to be allowed to kneel. Now, though, Eirn couldn't help but snarl at that thought, even as the ice-cold knot in her stomach made her regret the morning's attempt at a solid breakfast.

And then there was Malavai, of course - ramrod straight, ever at attention and entirely avoidant of it settling on her. Acina, Eirn realised, wasn't simply courting her again - hadn't made excuses for them to be alone, hadn't sent flowers or tried to bribe her with technology and weaponry, but had sent - had tried to send - Malavai, who-

(hadn't even bothered to try and contact her; hadn't sent so much of a hint of any further message, after that one desperate plea into the void)

-and that ice-cold knot thawed as it was overpowered with anger that Acina would (so brazenly attempt to manipulate her; that Malavai would go along with it, that either of them might ever think she would ever crawl back to Dromund Kaas, after all they had done to her)-

'Commander Malcom,' Eirn heard herself say - her voice wavered, and she hated that waver more than anything, if only because of the judgements she immediately became afraid of, 'Tell your people here to expect me. We can discuss the details once I'm there.'

'Pathetic,' Acina muttered - derision escaping out from between her teeth, an insult spat by lips that moments before had only said such honeyed words. Sith honeys, though, were invariably laced with poison, and Eirn no longer felt she had the constitution to enjoy them. 'Major,' the Empress added, 'You have your orders-'

-and she was gone, and Quinn had made his empty apology before Eirn could even grasp her saber.

When the dust cleared, Malavai - Quinn - was gone, of course; Eirn expected nothing else, and wondered how it was that she still managed to be disappointed. His loyalty to the Empire had always been unshakeable; she'd known even when she had some passing dedication to it of her own that, forced to choose between her and it, she wouldn't have liked anything he had to say. That didn't stop it hurting, though; to know that after they had shared so much, he loved that monstrosity more than he had ever loved her. That he'd graduated from Baras's lackey, to the Wrath's, to the Empress's - and that he would, at that, sooner be the Empire's lackey than any kind of master of his own fate. Acina had never seemed the type to send him flowers, though Eirn knew that had never stopped Sith before - and indeed, Sith were more likely than others to make such gifts out of cynicism rather than any genuine desire. Still, she wouldn't even have needed to - what had it been he'd once said, that had driven her so mad? Service is its own reward. Service, she'd tried to explain to him, doesn't pay bills or put food on tables. Service cannot set you free.

'Hey. You alright?' Theron Shan - the son of a Jedi, a spy for the once-enemy, someone who Eirn had once found incredibly easy to hate - and he was more concerned than her once-husband. There was some unpleasant irony here, but Eirn knew if she dwelled on it she'd end up hurting someone she'd regret - or worse, crying.

'I'll be fine.' Not that this was a lie that ever got easier to tell - not that anyone who knew her had ever begun to believe it, but Shan apparently had the sense to let it go, for now.

'We need to rendez-vous with the Republic,' Eirn added - a strange collection of words, even now, and she frowned a little distantly at the way they fit. 'The Empire won't waste any time in hitting them.'

Lana was looking at her like this-was-her-fault, though, and Eirn just glowered in return. If there was anyone to blame here, it was Acina - and, not for the first time, Eirn did not regret refusing the Empire's generous offer of allegiance in the slightest. The Empire did not enter into agreements of equals, not if it could avoid it, and Eirn knew Sith enough to know that while Acina might not ever technically betray the Alliance, she would put her own interests far above even mutual ones - even the Empire's ones.

'Captain Dorne. I need you and your personnel to hold this location. Lord Beniko will be here to assist you.' Eirn might not have wanted war, but it was, all the same, what she got; war, and the Republic. This was an idea that was going to take a lot of getting used to, and not for the first time, she wished that there was someone here who she could actually lean on; someone here that she could actually trust.

'I expect,' she added, quietly - only loud enough that Lana could hear it, as she passed the other Sith, 'Captain Dorne and her people to remain unharmed. The Republic are, for now, allies. Are we clear?'

Lana's thin-lipped glare hardened ever further, at that, and for a moment, Eirn wondered if the other Sith wasn't about to start something that they'd both regret.

'I am capable of being professional, Lord Illte,' Lana replied - her use of Eirn's oldest title a deliberately displeased one, an eternal - for want of any other word - protest at Eirn's refusal to be the Alliance's figurehead. Lana was insulted, too - at the threat, at the implication she was anything but professional, but Eirn found it impossible to not see the way that Force had rotted Lana's body, too.

'Good,' Eirn replied - her own tone just as clipped, just as irritated. 'See that you are.'

#war for iokath #my writing #what am i doing #outlander!eirn #ficlet: unification #long post #malavai quinn #elara dorne

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westeros-rp · 4 years

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Was it too late to turn and run? Likely, especially now that they had finally made it too Kings Landing, she had been fairly excited for this trip at first. That was until halfway here she mentioned how she already missed the Dreadfort her father rather bluntly announced that she would be missing it, even more, when she returned to Winterfell with Rickard. By some miracle, she had kept her composure when she inquired as to why she was going to Winterfell with Rickard when they hadn’t even wed yet? Roland had apparently come up with the genius idea to just host a small wedding at Kings Landing, his reasoning being that anyone they would have invited would already be there. Plus it would save him coins, because apparently it was just too much of a hassle planning his own childs wedding. If it hadn’t been for her dear handmaiden Anri’s comfort and Vordt letting her blow off steam by smashing a barrel to bits with his mace, she probably would have smashed her fathers head in with the mace instead.

What was the bloody point in plans when her father was a massive indecisive ass that didn’t think telling her that her wedding had been moved up was all that important? She should have figured out his plan beforehand, even though he was getting old and dumber by the day her father’s wit would make itself known on occasion. She spent the rest of the journey to Kingslanding biting her nails to nothing as she tried to come up with plans on how to delay this. Before realizing there was really nothing she could do, not amongst so many Nobels, she briefly tossed about the idea of exposing her brother Rupert’s romantic relationship with her guard Victor. Yet she knew she would need that later, something to dangle over his head when her father did kick the bucket and he took over the house. She knew she should have smothered the old bastard six months prior when he was bed-bound from a rather horrid cold. His breathing had been so labored, it would have been so easy to get away with it.

At least she had her wedding dress, Anri and her deciding to bring it along so they could go shopping for fabric while in the capitol and work on it there. Boudica had actually taken an interest in the dress, wanting it to be worthy of jealous looks from other women. Yet it appeared they wouldn’t have much time to make it any better than it was now. Boudica found herself to upset at this point to think of it, telling Anri to handle it herself as she thought if she was forced to look at it too long when she was this furious she might rip it to shreds. She could trust Anri’s skills, half of her wardrobe being thanks to Anri’s skilled fingers and the wardrobes that her mother and stepmother had left behind upon there deaths. When she wasn’t thinking about ways to off her father while he was still close she found herself stuck on thoughts of Rickard.

Anri liked to call him dashing, Vordt claimed he seemed like a decent man….Victor agreed with Anri that he was Dashing when Vordt was out of earshot. Was she really the only one upset with the match? Well, she had two reasons, she didn’t want to leave the Dreadfort, second being Rickard wasn’t exactly what she had been hoping to marry. Seeing as the only chance of him ever taking over his family is if every one of his brothers kicked the bucket as well as any children they had. She knew she wasn’t the only woman that would have been upset with this. Seeing as she was her father’s only daughter she figured he’d agree with finding a match for her that would at least be closer to taking over his house then Rickard.

There were good things about him, things she was trying her damndest to ignore. He was sweet, now being a Bolton equaled many things, even if she was a woman there were very few that thought she’d enjoy things like flowers and all the times she had the honor of meeting her bethroed he had presented her with flowers. Pretty ones as well, that he had picked himself! The last person to give her a flower was one of her father’s knights and he boldly proclaimed afterwords that they looked like lady bits and maybe they were as pretty as hers. There was a reason he was no longer one of her father’s knights, daddy dearest was still willing to defend his daughter’s sweet virtue. Rickard seemed like a genuinely kindhearted soul, that was very far from what her family was, and was considered even though she put up a damn good facade.

These thoughts had consumed her once more, she found herself leaning against a random pillar gnawing away at what was left of her nails as she tried to get her mind off Rickard and onto whatever plot she could scrounge up to by herself more time. “So this is where you’ve been hiding?” Boudica stilled her back going straight as she turned to face the other man in her life she wished would just walk off a cliff. Rupert, her solom looking brother. “What does he want?” she hissed out. Rupert flashed her annoyed look rolling his eyes as he made a display of throwing his leather cloak over his shoulder. Showy bastard. “Guess dear sister, he’s quite concerned as to why you haven’t approached your affianced,” Rupert spoke Boudica turning her back to him once more. “I will approach him when I’m ready,” Boudica huffed blowing a piece of curly hair out of her field of vision. “You know just as well as me that’s not what father wants to hear...do you really want to attend your wedding sporting bruises?” Her brother’s words made her throat go dry, if there was anyone that also knew of her father’s cruelty from first-hand experience it was Rupert, and for once she would have to agree with him.

Yet she would never give Rupert the satisfaction of verbally agreeing with him, instead she rather childishly shoved her way past him. Taking in a few deep breaths her usual smile returned to her face, now where would she be able to find Rickard. Likely with Tacita Stark another individual she was going to have to worry about. Marrying Rickard equaled her also being thrown right into the wolves' den. After all the things her father had told her of the Stark’s why did he think marrying her off to Stark’s current first in command was a good idea. No that was a stupid question she knew why he thought it as a good idea, the Stark’s distrusted the Boltons as much as the Boltons distrusted them. This was probably his way of trying to prop up the shaky bridge that was their allegiance to the Starks. Her father might be awful but he was not a fool when it came to the game every Noble house in Westeros played. So Boudica started to follow the trail of individuals she knew tended to stick close to Tacita, and her intuition seemed right as she spotted Rickard not far from the redheaded Stark watching the various trivialities of the Royals.

Composing herself, for what felt like the hundredth time today, she made her approach. “Rickard,” she called out his name, a sing-song undertone to her voice as she flashed him her sweetest smile, though her eyes didn’t seem to show the same sugary overtone she was putting forth. Yet unlike their usual hidden malice they actually seemed to show her worries. Taking in Rickard he hadn’t changed too much since their last meeting, but she could see he seemed rather anxious. At least she wasn’t alone with that. Growing closer to him she gave him the smallest of curtsies, “I’ve been scouring Kings Landing for you, silly man.” she teased, shrugging off the blatant lie, but it wasn’t like he had gone searching for her either so why should she feel so bad about it!? “I’m sure your brother was informed, we’re to be wed while in Kings Landing….I hope you’ve come prepared.” there was a sharpness to her last statement, coated in her usual sweet tone.

With her hands tucked behind her back and her most innocent look on her face she waited for his reply. “I suppose we are getting married this weekend” He did seem a bit off today? Was he truly this nervous over their marriage, or was he just nervous to be in a place like Kings Landing? After all this was certainly far different from the North, and she found herself missing the North already herself. "Yes, my father only informed me halfway here....what a wonderful surprise." The slightest twinge of sarcasm slips into her voice before she corrects herself. "Needless to say I will likely have to see if I can get some of the servants to drop my things off at Winterfell. I'll have to send out a Raven later today." She takes a few caution steps towards him, before stopping to stand at his side. "I hope you could ask Lady Tacita to have a few of her men be on the lookout for my things if they arrive before our return." She mutters, she really hoped that someone would be willing to receive her property, she actually had quite a few sentimental things that she rather not get destroyed by being left in the snow.

“I wasn’t aware that you were not notified of our upcoming nuptials...I apologize. We received notice just prior to leaving Winterfell.” Rickard nods, “I can ask her. Taci is incredibly kind. Would you like any other arrangements?” She wanted to tell him that she was clearly kind to him because they were dear friends. Yet she was sure if she approached Tacita herself and requested such things it would be a very different response. Boltons and Starks have always butted heads "You haven't had many conversations with my father, have you? I'm just lucky I thought to bring my wedding dress."Boudica rolled her eyes, Rickard was lucky she wished she knew less of her father the more she learned about him,"I do not wish to strain Lady Tacita any further, I'm sure she is already very busy." She gives Rickard a tight smile. "Though I would like to make arrangements with you, if you have any free time It would be nice to enjoy your company. It's only right for us to try to get to know one another a little more." Where did that come from? She usually wasn’t caught off guard by her own words but here she was asking the man she was trying hard to continue to despise to allow her to get to know him better.

“Our interactions have been limited.” Rickard comments, Boudica was not surprised her father didn’t bother getting to know the man he was marrying her off too. He almost did the same with the first man he attempted to wed her to, but by the grace of the old gods he listened to Boudica when she insisted it was a poor match. “She is happy to help and will be in attendance as well.” He smiles, and her heart leaps in a way that made her want to rip it out of her chest and toss it into the nearest body of water as he speaks of Tacita’s willingness to help. “I have the afternoon free. We could take a walk around the grounds or the garden” He says, "Well, your very lucky then." She'd state letting out a small sigh in comment to him not having spoken much with her father, Glancing at Tacita not far from them, "I suppose...that my handmaiden could use assistance finishing my dress. If she has anyone skilled with needle and thread. I'm unsure if I will have time to help myself. Anri will be ever so grateful for the extra hand and so will I." She says, already feeling bad that she was leaving such a hefty responsibility on her handmaiden."You like plants? So the gardens sound lovely. I feel as if you'd like to spend time there anyway?"She asks, she was a bit interested to see what sort of plants they had here, surely they had many things that she had never seen before.

“I’m sure we can find someone to help.” Rickard nods as she spoke, “that is one way to say it. I’ve enjoyed botany and the like since I was young. I would enjoy to have your company in the gardens.” Smiling widely at him, unsure if it was faked or genuine for once. "I hope so, I sent Anri and Vordt into town to find some more fabric for the dress since she'll have to remove the heavier layers. They shouldn't be too long." She tilts her head. "Ahhhh, so you know quite a bit about plants then? I must admit, I don't know much myself, and we don't exactly have much variety in our plants at the dreadfort. Perhaps you can teach me some things as well." She says, a bit embarrassed to admit her lack of knowledge, she liked to pride herself on knowing things that most women didn’t. Yet plants weren't exactly something she ever had the opportunity to study, her father wasn’t exactly an avid gardener, nor her many deceased relatives. The plants they grew were for necessity and nothing more.

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captainmazzic · 7 years

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Well hi there, and thank you for the compliment. I’m a little less calm than I look, honestly, but at least with questions on tumblr I can take my time to answer them. It definitely helps me get my thoughts together.

And I do have a very long answer for you, and it comes in several parts. Bear with me.

Answer part one:

The basic idea of Jedi/Old Republic = good and Sith/Empire = bad is a very, very simplistic premise, and significantly unreflective of anything remotely realistic. I like highlighting the grey areas, the areas where the Jedi and Old Republic were NOT good, and the areas where the Sith and Empire were NOT bad. And mostly it’s a heavy emphasis on the former.

Many times I do this because it’s something that not a lot of people are doing, and I feel it’s something that should be taken notice of more often. While we might be told we’re supposed to see the Jedi and Republic as pure innocents, as saints, as the heroes and the ones who are purely Good, and at worst maybe a little misguided sometimes, that is not what is depicted. I take issue with people showing me a picture of a grassy field under a blue sky and telling me that even though that’s what’s depicted, I’m actually seeing a cityscape. And that’s kind of the impression I have of how Star Wars is presented to its audience right now.

What is depicted is the Republic/Jedi/Alliance performing questionable and sometimes downright atrocious acts of religious persecution, murder, slavery, brainwashing, terrorism, and unethical warfare.

And here’s the kicker – obviously, the Empire and the Sith are/were doing these things too. Every faction on this playing field is utilizing the same horrible set of skills and tactics and behaviors, but only one side of the conflict is being vilified and blamed for performing them, via the narrative. The narrative is quick to highlight, in high relief, all of the atrocities that the Sith and the Empire perform, yet doesn’t even acknowledge that the Republic/Jedi/Alliance are prone to doing these same things. At least, not openly. But the overwhelming evidence that they DO perform them is all over the place. I have cited many common examples before, but I’ll run the risk of repeating myself here:

the Jedi kidnapping children from their parents because they feel they have a religious right to these childrens’ bodies and minds before they even have the capability of making the choice themselves;

the Jedi readily going along with utilizing a slave army born and bred solely for the purpose of dying in a war;

the Republic utilizing orbital bombardment of Mandalore to the point where the planet’s entire surface was rendered unlivable for over 300 years, even though Mandalore was not currently at war with the Republic, and had made no move to declare such a war;

the systematic genocide of a wide variety of non-human species that the Republic performed for over eight hundred years that resulted in humans taking up the huge percentage of the population of sentient beings in the galaxy that they do today;

the Republic designing and utilizing a staggering variety of weapons of mass destruction capable of inducing planet-scale catastrophes (Hammer Station, Shadow Arsenal, Baradium Bombs, the Death Mark, the Shock Drum, etc. etc.);

the Alliance to Restore the Republic performing actions and displaying behaviors identical to modern-day terrorists (sabotage, espionage, theft, kidnapping, assassination, bribery, violence, and widespread destruction of government and public property in order to instigate political and ideological change);

the Republic actively endorsing and allowing an extremist religious sect to take a heavy-handed lead in, and sometimes even take entire control of, almost every aspect of the government and social lives of its people, including but not limited to politics, law enforcement, law making, judicial affairs, the military, religious freedoms, family planning, and forcibly implementing their own insular religious culture’s needs and desires upon non-member’s cultures;

The Republic claiming to be a “democracy” being run by “senators” and representatives where an alarming number of worlds have representatives which were not elected by their people and had no standard bar of leadership to pass to be included in the Republic’s proceedings (Republic worlds’ leaders range from actual senators, governors, and presidents to kings and queens, emperors, nobility, influential clans and families, military warlords, despots, dictators, heads of corporations and other business leaders, religious leaders, and criminal kingpins, not to mention the dozens of puppet governments that the Republic itself set up after it invaded and subjugated “problematic” planets).

This is a very brief and partial list, by no means exhaustive. And very few people talk about this stuff. Much of what I write is because I feel that this is a dialogue that can only benefit from being put out in the open, because there’s never just one side to a story. People are not arithmetic - there’s never just one right answer and all the rest are wrong. Things are complicated. People are not Good or Evil, they’re just people. And I think that’s very important to highlight, particularly here on tumblr, because it’s something that often gets lost in the highly charged and highly polarizing world of tumblr discussion and politics.

Answer part two:

One of the problems that I tackle frequently is people assuming that since I like the Sith and the Empire, that means that I must approve of everything that they do, and assume that I view them as the “good guys”. I don’t. Overall they’re just as terrible as the Republic and the Jedi and the Alliance, I just like the Sith and Imperials better than my other options. I like them for many reasons, and none of them have to do with me assuming that they would hold the real-world moral high ground. A few examples:

Aesthetics. I like the way they look, I like the way they feel, I like the atmosphere and mood that they set.

Childhood bias. I grew up thinking Darth Vader was The Coolest™, and the Star Destroyers were so awesome, and I got really excited hearing the shriek-roar of the TIE fighter engines, and red was my favourite colour and all the Sith had red lightsabers.

Individual characters being favourites within each group. Almost all of my favourite characters in Star Wars happen to be Imperials, Sith, or other disapproved-of fringe groups like bounty hunters, mercenaries, pirates, crime lords, etc. This tends to put me in the position of looking more favourably towards their faction or allegiance of choice, however slight.

None of this has anything remotely at all to do with whether or not I think the Sith and the Empire have the moral high ground. As far as I’m concerned, nobody has the moral high ground in Star Wars. I just don’t feel the need to echo and parrot the sentiment that everyone already knows, that the Sith and the Empire do bad things. Of course they do. They’re made of people. People do bad things. It doesn’t matter what sect or organization or government they belong to. And the same can be the reverse, as well. People do good things, regardless of what sect or organization or government they belong to. The Sith and the Empire are no exception, but we rarely get to peek into their side of things because that’s not the direction the dominant narrative prefers to go.

Everybody knows that the Republic and the Alliance and the Jedi are capable of doing good things. Everybody acknowledges those things already. The same with the fact that the Empire and the Sith do bad things. Everybody acknowledges that already.

But it’s the things that nobody likes to mention, the bringing out in the open of the fact that not everything the Republic and Jedi do is good, that not everything that makes them what they are is right; that is something that I feel is important to discuss. So that’s what I focus on. I feel like I’ve said the same thing in five different ways, but it’s something I want to be certain I’ve been clear on.

Nowhere, ever, have I said that the Sith and the Empire are the Actual Good Guys. I may like them more, but likability and intrinsic goodness are not the same thing, and have zero correlation. Personally, I don’t believe intrinsic goodness or badness even exist, but that is for a talk on relativism in general, and we’re here to talk about Star Wars.

Answer part three:

Another thing that I’d like to touch on, at least in regards to the Sith, is a partial religious identification with what the Sith are subtly engineered to represent. This one takes a little bit to explain, bear with me.

I adhere to an animistic, polytheist Pagan religion that I will refrain from naming. It maintains that there is a lot of power in the earth and the elements and our ancestors. The dualistic belief in a war between good and evil like the type so characteristic of monotheistic religions has never entered into my religion, so I fail to understand the appeal of something like, say, Light Side vs. Dark Side. Instead, I am much more comfortable with a worldview and belief system that sees the world in much more relative terms.

Circling back to how this relates to Star Wars, the Sith (and many non-Jedi Force-using sects, most of which turn out to be Dark Siders) as depicted in the many movies, books, comics, and animations are painted in unquestionably polytheistic Pagan colours. They are coded to look like Pagans, they have been designed to have rites and rituals geared to bring images of Pagans to mind, and underneath the Saturday-morning-cartoon “violence and blood and death and destruction! Yay!” veneer, many of them hold relative values and worldviews like Pagans. And to top it all off they are caricatured, vilified and reviled like Pagans so often are by many proponents of monotheistic religions in the world today. I am not impressed nor am I pleased.

From what I can see and the supplemental material I’ve read, the Jedi are modeled after well-established monotheistic religion, with bit of Buddhist and Taoist proverb taken out of contest and sprinkled on top to spice it up. And they play their part very well. Again, I am not impressed nor am I pleased, seeing the Sith – the biggest representative entity in Star Wars that’s painted in my colours, that reflects parts of my own worldview, however poorly – consistently depicted as the horrible evil Bad Guys that need to all be killed, for the good of the galaxy, and by the hand of the dominant monotheistic religion. That hits a little too close to home for me to be comfortable with it, particularly for the message it, intentionally or unintentionally, is communicating about how people should view or treat adherents of Pagan religions. My kneejerk reaction to that is to quietly say “no” and subversively adopt the Sith, and claim them as my own.

Answer part four:

This one is very related to that last sentence up there. My intrinsic nature is to find the people that nobody cheers for, to find the villains and the antagonists and the questionable side-characters and the morally ambiguous tricksters, and adopt them. I identify very closely with people like that. In life outside of tumblr, I fit into quite a few minority groups and often find myself on the outside looking in, when it comes to society and privilege and being deemed worthy or qualified to have good things in life. So I find that when it comes to fictional worlds and fictional characters in the stories and universes that I have grown to love, my heart goes out to the characters that nobody likes, or characters that everyone seems to think deserve to die, or just characters that get sidelined or ignored or left out in the cold. I take it upon myself to love them, and when many of them come from a group that is also deemed just as unworthy and unlovable as the characters themselves are, I tend to reach out to those groups as well. Honestly, this is the crux of the matter. I love Star Wars, I love the planets and the plotlines and the species and the technology and the starships and the magic of the Force, but I love it most for the individual characters.

So that’s pretty much it, I guess. This is all just my own personal reasoning for why I like the things I like and write the things I write, and I don’t claim to have all the answers or believe my word is some sort of sci-fi gospel or anything. There are lots of people out there who are perfectly happy with interpreting Star Wars in a dualistic light, and deeming that the Jedi/Republic have done nothing wrong, and that the Light Side truly does reflect Good and the Dark Side Evil. And you know what? That’s how they enjoy Star Wars and they are very welcome to a differing opinion. We tend to play in very different sandboxes, and none of us have any right to come stomping into the others’ sandbox and knock over their sandcastle. Dialogue and debate between us can be wonderful tools to help one another understand each other and enrich the fandom environment, as long as everyone involved is doing so willingly, and as long as those tools are not abused by using them to attack or demean others in a personal way.

When I make a post like this stating strong opinions I tend to get a bunch of angry anonymous messages bordering on hate mail, so I’m going to temporarily turn off anonymous messaging for a while. But I do appreciate the question, and I hope my answer was sufficient. :)

#star wars meta #sarc has opinions #replies #jedi critical #old republic critical #rebel alliance critical #dark side positive #imperial positive #sith positive #republic critical #anonymous #sarc talks to strangers #sarc speaks #long post

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backroadblues · 7 years

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June 5th, 2017 - Mainz to Boppard & and Kelkheim, Gernany

Today is our last full day in Germany and tomorrow we head home. We decided to take a Rhine (or as the German’s spell it, Rhein) river cruise. We left the house by 7:15, so we could head to the town of Mainz to catch one of the river boats that sales up and down the Rhine river. We get to Mainz by 8:10 and there is a boat leaving at 8:30AM. We park at the Hilton am Rhine and it is just a short walk over to the river boat ticket office. We ask the agent if the we can go to Koblenz, she says yes. Once again, I learn that in Germany you have to be very specific with your questions. I’ll come back to this later.

With our tickets in hand, we hop on board the MS Godsburg. It is a large cruiser operated by KD (Koln/Düsseldorf) Ship Lines. It has a main deck that is indoors and is set up much like a large restaurant surrounded by large picture windows so that anyone sitting here has a good view on either side of the river. There is also a large open air deck up above, with low railings and cafe tables set up nearest the railing on either side of the ship. My research suggest that its best to be sitting on the left hand side of the ship when going down stream toward Koblenz, or at the very bow of the boat, however the bow is closed to passengers today. There is friendly waiters who are eager to take orders for food and beverages. There is a slight premium for shipboard service but not as much as I was expecting.

We start out bright and early on the upper deck. The ship’s initial point of departure is Mainz and there are only about 20 people boarding, so Elisa and I have our pick of the seats. We also purchased a map/guide of the sights we will see on this ride. We are seated on the left hand side of the boat near the front with unobstructed views forward and of the landscape on the left bank of the Rhine. It is 8:30 in the morning, the clouds are thick but the sun breaks through intermittently and best of all there is no rain in the forecast. I have my rain jacket with me just in case, and it is a good thing becasue it is downright cold out here on the water. Eventually, we head downstairs to get out of the cold.

As we leave Mainz the boat will be making several stops at towns along the way, and the ride to the end of the line will take over 3-½ hours and we are only traveling about 35 miles. There is a lot of barge traffic out on the river at this time of the morning. We see a great many barges heading upstream that are riding very low in the water, with their open holds carrying a wide variety of different cargo. We see coal, containers, sand and other raw materials. However mostly what we see are tanker barges carrying crude oil upstream, having picked it up in Rotterdam and taking it to refineries up river. We also see a lot of tanker barges carrying refined petroleum products back down stream - heading to Rotterdam where they will export them around the world. Between Mainz and Rudisheim, the scenery is mostly industrial. This journey takes about one hour.

As we approach Rudisheim, we see the dock filled with tourists - mostly Asian - waiting to board. With that is sight, Elisa heads up to the top deck to nab a prime spot before they all board. I stay back finishing my breakfast I ordered. When i head upstairs to join Elisa, I see the top deck is very crowded, we are lucky to have gotten our prime seats once again. The trip up river from Rudisheim is where things start to get really beautiful. We are headed into the Rhine Valley Gorge. In this section, the hills on either side of the Rhine are steep and dotted with many different castles. There seems to be the ruins of castles almost every ½ mile. These castles largely popped up in the 1400’s when Germany was not yet united and the land was carved up into over 350 nation states. The Rhine river was a key corridor for the transportation of goods into and out of the area. This was a time when there was no motor driven vehicles. Navigating the fast moving waters of the Rhine was treacherous and would require assistance from handlers and animals on the shore. The castles would pop-up along the way by self-appointed “Princes”, who were people with money and they would extract tolls and fees for services from the barges making their way up and down the river. Because of the valuable cargo moving on the river there were also robbers out there and barges could seek refuge or protection from the various castles in return for fees paid. As the castles popped up, so too did towns. The land that these towns would occupy were on lands claimed by the castle owners, consequently the people in those towns would have to pay taxes to the castle owners in return for the use of the land and for protection from mauraders. I suppose from this chaos of extortion modern governments would arise.

We see so many stunning castles along the way. Many are in ruins but others are very well preserved and have been rehabilitated to house hotels and restaurants. There is one stretch of river that makes some sharp bends and the river also narrows. Consequently the current runs fast here. There is a tall stone cliff on the right hand side of the river and they call it the Lorelei rocks. Legend has it that beautiful sirens would sing their enchanting songs from the top of the rocks and distract the sailors and they would wreck their ships. I think that the sailors of yore were simply looking for something to pin the blame on for any accidents they might have. Sort of the equivalent of - “oh, a cat ran out in front of my car, and I had to swerve into the tree to avoid hitting it.” Once we get past the Lorelei, we pass two castles on the right hand side that are very closely situated with one another. At the very top of the hill, between the two castles is a very large and high wall. Legend has it that these castles were owned by brothers who had a disagreement. They call the wall the “hostility wall”. The legend goes on to say that the two brothers would end up killing one another in church in the town below the castles. After about 3-½ hours on the river its about 12:00 noon, we are nearing the town of Boppard. It is about 5 miles away from Koblenz, our desired destination. We are told that the boat we are on will be turning around at Boppard and heading back down to Mainz. We ask what about going to Koblenz and we are told that if we wait in Boppard for 3 hours there will be a boat that continues on to Koblenz.Well, it sure would have been nice to have that little piece of information from the agent when I was buying my ticket. We don’t have time to wait another 3 hours for the boat to Koblenz.

Instead we walk around this quaint little town and we learn that settlements in this location date back to Roman times around 4BC. The settlements would expand and grow through about 12AD. Roman walls and thermal baths are found in the area. By 12AD the Romans would be pushed out the Saxons. Boppard wouldn’t re-emerge until around the 11th century. Because of its location, it is fought over occupied by many different groups. In the 1400’s there is a 30 year period of wars and during that time the town of Boppard would be occupied by the Spanish, French, Swiss, Bavarians and Prussians. As the feudal system began to develop in the late 1400’s Boppard would pledge it’s allegiance to the Counsel of Trier. In return, Trier would protect the city and its prince. However, the city would have to build a palace and taxes would be collected from the people, further subjugating them. It sounds like a tough life back then if your weren’t a 1 Percenter. It’s now about 1:00 and we decide to fine a place for lunch. We need to get to the train station by 3:00 so we can make it to Elisa’s friends house by 5:00 in Kelkheim which is near Frankfurt.

So, we look at this one restaurant and we see that there are about 10 tables inside with most of them empty. There are also a few tables in front of the cafe outside and in the shade. Over all it doesn’t look too busy, we thine we’ll be able to get a quick bite to eat. As I sit down at one of the tables inside the restaurant, I have a view outside and I"m looking out on the plaza and I see an area with about 30 tables under umbrellas. It takes our hostess about 15 minutes just to give us menus. That’s when I notice that our hostess along with one other waiter, are also waiting on the 30 tables out on the square - all of which are full of diners. They are doing their best to keep up with all those tables plus the ones inside, where we are sitting, and the ones right out front. We feel really sorry for them because they are really overwhelmed. We finally place our orders after waiting 40 minutes. Our food comes out by 2:15, we wolf it down and are dashing to the train station. We see a sign pointing across the street to the ticket office. We dash over there but it’s closed. I’m assuming we will have to purchase a ticket on the train. As I figure out what track we will be leaving from, Elisa decides she needs to use the restroom. By now it is 2;30 and our train arrives and departs at 2:44. I see that there is a ticket machine on the landing where the train will be arriving. I go up to buy our tickets. The first machine I go to is not accepting my credit cards. It’s now about 2:38. I find another machine, finally it is working - I buy our tickets. It is now 2:40. My phone starts ringing, I’m sure that Elisa is wondering where I’ve gone since she doesn’t see me in the entry way of the station. I dash back down and urge her to come onto the platform. We are finally on the right track with our tickets in hand and the train arrives on time at 2:44. Once again Minerva is with us and everything works out.

The train ride is very smooth and quiet. I don’t know how those Germans get this trains to run so quietly. If only they could do that with Bart. I takes us about an our to make our way back to Mainz. By now, my phone is totally dead from having taken so many pictures on the river boat ride. Elisa’s phone is also very low. The challenge is to figure out how to walk the mile from the Mainz train station to the Hilton Hotel where our car is parked. Normally, we would use my phone’s GPS and maps to help guide us, but my phone is dead. I take a look at a rough map that we have and I have a good general idea of the direction we need to go. For some reason, Elisa does not have confidence in my dead reckoning skills - it might have something to do with the fact that my nickname is “wrong turn Rex”. I’m pretty sure I’m going in the right direction, but she is sort of in a panic. Fortunately, her phone has just enough charge left in it to lay out a course on the GPS and we are in deed going in the right direction. After about a 15 minute walk we see the Hilton Hotel sign in the distance. We are back to our car by 4:30. We have to be in Kelkheim by 5:00 and our GPS now says we are 36 minutes away. Close enough.

If you read yesterday’s blog post, you know that we reconnected with Terri, one of Elisa’s high-school friends, whom Elisa had lost contact. We had such a good time reconnecting, with them we made plans for dinner at their home in Kelkheim. Today was a German Holiday for them and it would not be too much of an inconvenience. They make us a fantastic dinner. Gary has deep fried a small turkey that has a garlic and herb rub on it. It tastes great. Terri has made some asparagus. - Elisa is thrilled because it’s so hard to get veggies when eating in restaurants here. Terri also make some really tasty roasted potatoes. The capper to this great dinner is the homemade Creme Brûlée that Terri has made. She has a little trouble getting the torch to stay lit so she can caramelize the sugar on top but Gary gets it going. It is really good

Terri and Gary live in a beautiful home in this suburb of Frankfurt. It is sprawling and occupies 2 levels plus a basement. They have been leasing it since they arrived in Germany over 6 years ago. The owner did an excellent job of renovating it. The home is very unique, in that the basement which occupies the full footprint of the home at one time had a dance studio and pub in it. This is fantastic, since Terri and her husband Gary love to entertain. What also makes this the perfect home for them is that Gary used to operate a karaoke and DJ business. So he has plenty of room to set up his sound system and all of their parties include karaoke down in the basement / dance studio. Elisa thinks she has died and gone to heaven. She loves to sing karaoke and she hasn’t really been about to do it since we moved into the new house. She, Terri and Gary sing several songs and I must say they sounded great. I am a happy audience for them.

As we begin to roll up on 10:00 pm we need to head out and let Terri and Gary get their rest so that Terri can go back to work tomorrow. Also, we need to re-pack our bags and get ready to head home to California tomorrow.

So this may be my final Aufwiedersehen. I will write an epilogue to this installment of my Backroad Blues Blog.

I’m so long winded, that I’m sure few of you have had the time or inclination to read my ramblings. I do it so I can remember what we’ve done on our many trips. I also do it so that I can share our experiences with all of you.

Thanks, Rex

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