#and losing himself in his grief and beginning to doubt that he can uphold his end of the dead three pact and there's plans to replace him

[princeofhags]

I did the thing

[disgruntledspacedad]

in defense of Din’s subdued reaction to losing the kid...

gif by @quantam-widow

I know we were all thinking it. We got a 2 second reaction shot to the destruction of the Razor Crest (may she forever rest in peace), but then, Grogu gets taken, and... nothing?

What the fuck, Din? we all protest. That’s your baby on that ship! Don’t you care? Scream, curse, kick a rock, cry, make a fist, something!!

I will acknowledge that so far, the show has been excellent with giving us emotional payoff, am I right? I mean, just today we got Din laughing, twice. Twice in a row. I honestly never thought we’d see that. There have been so many excellent, precious soft!Din moments this season, and they all feel deliciously earned.

So, from a meta POV, I guess I’m saying that I have faith in the writers to get it right, and in Pedro to deliver. Duh.

In universe, though, I think it’s fair to point out the obvious - that Din is a pretty reserved guy. He’s much more of a thinker than a feeler. He’s used to keeping things bottled up, and I would even argue that his life often depends on his ability to dissociate from his emotions. Din’s entire journey so far has been about how one little baby yodito shakes his worldview to its very foundations. He’s getting there, but it’s a slow process. 

And also, consider this - we haven’t seen Din alone yet, not since Grogu was taken. For a guy who lives a guarded life literally encased in fucking armor, any display of emotion is going to be carefully protected until he’s in private.

But anyway, Din is detached, rational, a little emotionally constipated, and definitely comfortable in a stressful situation. A true ISTP if you ask me (yeah, I know you didn’t, but whatever). Often, it seems that these cool headed, logical types who have never ruffled a feather over anything in their lives are the least adept at handling genuine fear. In other words, when panic does strike, it strikes them hard. 

And guys, Din was definitely panicking during this episode. 

He’s clearly unsettled from the jump - that outburst of “dank farrik!” in the cockpit sells it, and his distress only becomes more obvious from there. Talking out loud, trying to convince himself that the best thing for Grogu is for him to be trained as a Jedi. Reminding himself of the creed. His overt caution as they approach the seeing stone. His impatience, “Are you seeing anything??”

Then there’s the effects of long term stress. Sure, a bounty hunter in the outer rim doesn’t exactly live an easy life, but Din is definitely used to the drama being on his terms. Compare Din’s body language in the opening scene of season one to when Boba confronts him in chapter fourteen. You can just feel the anxiety, the weariness, the frustration. Din has been on the run for months now, constantly looking over his shoulder, sleeping with one eye open. Notice how he even startles at Fennec’s voice? Season one Din would never have given that much away, regardless of the situation. Long term stress has clearly taken a toll on him.

So we have unsettled, stressed out Din in an emotionally charged situation. He’s exhausted, he’s scared, he’s desperate. This scenario is a recipe for even the most level-headed of adrenaline junkies to loose their cool, and that’s exactly what happens to Din. He panics, and he makes some pretty big fuckups because of it. Leaving Grogu unprotected, twice. Trying three different times to break through that “force field,” even when he knew he couldn’t. Dropping that jetpack and then just forgetting about it (I know we were all screaming about that one, or at least, I was).

So, fear is a positive feedback loop. Those neurotransmitters that do us good in a bad situation - raising heart rate, narrowing focus, shunting blood to the muscles - can also be detrimental if we get too high of a dose - tachypnea and tachycardia, inability to think critically and see the big picture, lack of blood and oxygen to the brain. Epinephrine, in particular, even inhibits the laying down of new memory pathways. In other words, stress leads to poor performance, and poor performance leads to more stress, which leads to... you get the idea.

Then, in the middle of all this chaos, they fucking blast the Razor Crest.

More epinephrine, more cortisol, more stress. 

By the end of it all, Din is a fucking shitstorm of stress hormones and pent up emotions. Notice how he seems to be on autopilot in the immediate aftermath, robotically scanning the ashes of the Crest for anything that might be left intact. Notice how empty his voice is when he says, “the child is gone.” This is a dead man walking. Din has nothing left. His whole life has just gone up in smoke, and he can do nothing about it. 

Guys, Din is holding onto his sanity by a fucking thread in this scene. “The child is gone,” he says, like he’s reminding himself, grounding himself in his shitty reality. He’s stunned. 

And helpless. There’s literally nothing he can do for Grogu. He has no ship, no credits, no resources, nothing to bargain with, nothing to offer. Din literally cannot allow himself the luxury of feelings right now. He’s just got to focus on surviving this very shitty day.

Then, Boba Fett upholds his end of the deal, and suddenly, Din has something to hold onto. An ally, a badass friend, some hope. I don’t think Boba shows Din that chain code in order to verify his claim on the armor - he’s already wearing it, for godssake. I think Boba shows him the code in order to catch Din’s attention - hey friend, I know you’re hurting, but I’m a man of my word. When I make a vow, I keep it. Let’s regroup and go find your kid.

And Din would totally latch onto that. A fighting chance? Din fucking leaps at it. There’s a job to do. A kid to save. All of those stress hormones are going to keep on stewing, because Din has never really come down from his adrenaline high. 

It’s like this in real life, too. There isn’t time to be afraid. There isn’t time to be sad, or second-guess, or say, oh how terrible, or wonder what if it doesn’t work? There’s just you and the job, and if you are the only thing standing between life and death, you will put everything else aside and do what you have to do, for as long as you have to do it.

And that’s where Din is at this moment. He’s running on the fumes of his adrenaline, all tempered focus, all strategy and no bullshit.

Emotional shock, my therapist buddy calls it. Apparently, it’s normal. Expected, even.

But guys, the fallout of this kind of crazy ass adrenaline high is insanely intense. I’m talking collapse to the floor, legs won't hold you, trembling, crying so hard you sling snot, shuddering breaths, stare dead-eyed and spent at the ceiling because you’re just too wiped out to even sleep kind of intense. 

And then, after the breakdown comes the angst. The detailed thinking. The oh god, what if this had happened, or, should I have done that instead? It seems like every emotion that gets put on the back burner in the moment comes back to bite you with twofold intensity when all is said and done. 

In other words, Din is definitely going to feels some things .A lot of very intense things. A reckoning is coming, my dudes. Trust me. It’s just not quite here yet.

That being said, here’s what I can expect from Din going forward:

Just like he’s is slow to acknowledge his growing parental feelings for Grogu, I think Din’s going to be slow at processing his grief at Grogu’s loss. In the next episode, he’s got plenty to distract him - getting together his hit team to take back the kid and coordinating an attack on the empire. 

However, I do think we’ll get a slow moment with Din, probably sometime at the beginning of next week’s episode if the pattern holds. I doubt it’s the full-blown breakdown that we’re all needing, but I’m willing to bet money that we’ll see Din grappling with the fact that his kid is gone. I also think that badass beskar murder machine Din from chapter three will resurface. Stress and desperation make us do irrational things, and anger is one of the stages of grief that Din will inevitably have to work through (I think he’s flickering between denial and bargaining for now).

But then, after Din gets Grogu back? I think that’s we’ll have our big, dearly earned emotional payoff. 

For one thing, Din won’t be able to deny his feelings anymore. He wants to keep this kid, it’s so very obvious. Losing him just forces it all to the forefront. 

And then the relief/joy/regret/guilt that Din is going to feel once he’s got Grogu back? Not to mention the physical exhaustion? All of the fear/terror/angst/grief that he ignored in favor of just going pedal to the metal, guns blazing, get the kid or die trying? That shit’s going to crash into him with all the subtly of a fucking tsunami. I guarantee you, we’re going to get some sort of confession, or adoption vow, or face revel, or other sort of profound softness from Dad!Din in the falling action of this season (At least, I hope we get it at the end this season but I wouldn’t put it past them to kick it into the premier of season three, just for pacing reasons, but then again, I obviously have trust issues).

Personally, I would love to see Din grappling with the long-term fallout of losing Grogu - night terrors, guilt, paranoia, etc. That’s probably the stuff of fanfiction - mandalorians don't have nightmares on screen, surely - but still, some lingering effects Grogu’s kidnapping would be realistic, and I would absolutely live for it.

[holyevents]

IN SANCTUS TERRA…

After a month of merriment and mourning, Cador’s soul finds eternal rest — the crescents rise and fall, and as the New Moon wanes, stealing lazily behind the hills, the Red Rain Moon ascends, hanging crimson in the sky. Yet the wheel still turns. Its orbit conceals violence under its tongue. The moon’s bloodied mantle seems particularly fitting this year, given the circumstances; a spell of unease trickles into the light, leaving an indelible stain. The people of the Holy Land might have looked to the new moon with great liberation and promise, yet the feeling of trepidation begins to sink in. The Red Rain Moon is a moon of dark red, and the violence of it does not escape the masses’ notice: within their city walks a reputed murderer; within their city stalks a beast, seeking to disempower the meticulously cultivated harmony that the Tridium — Sun, Moon and Stars all — have always strived to brace.

The citizens seem intent on demonstrating their discontent, on letting their grief be known - all the mourning and rituals in the world, it seems, pale in comparison to their determination to hold onto their restlessness. As the days drag on, their impatience grows. The mortals feel their voices quelled, feel their hands shackled - and so, they drink on, and fight on, and find satisfaction in the anger that makes their fists shake. The whispered words of the few who saw the body of Cador before he was laid to rest are murmured into one ear then the next. It seems it was not Fate who had called the great Star home, no, he was sent there with poison upon his lips and in his lungs.

The people of the Holy Land look towards the execution of the red-handed creature as eagerly as they look towards those who might serve as their beacon of light in the midst of the encroaching storm.

If God were alive, would He not find it odd that the creatures He created craved violence and peace in equal measure? 

The powers that lord over the precious kingdom of the Holy Land have already begun moving within the shadows to place all their pieces on the board, to see who might crown themself as the new Star. There are those who find favor with ARIANNE ALTIER, LUCA RICHE, JASPER RICHE, and EVANGELINE TRAME. Theirs are the first names upon the lips of the people - those who have curried the adoration and interest of the people with their fame and wealth. It is whispered that the MEMBERS of the ROUND TABLE are already intent on casting their lots and having the vacancy filled. In turn, many have turned to the High Priestess, ISOLDE WICKEN, in the hopes of knowing to whom the honor of being the Star of the Tridium will fall.

“After all,” the keepers of the Temple mumble to themselves, “What does it matter who wears the crown, so long as it is a mortal?” 

“Some mortals,” sighs a Second Eye, arms laden with offerings from the people, “are more deserving of our loyalties than others. Not all of us should be tainted with divinity.”

Little do the citizens of the Holy Land know that it is because of divine creatures that they will have their hunger for justice satiated.

The two remaining parts of the Tridium gather the Horsemen to their chamber, the demon, AZAZEL, and the angel, GABRIEL, crowned with the moon and the sun, respectively. The Horsemen stand before them, VIKTORIA’s gaze flickering between the two as she takes a seat at the table, DMITRI and RYUK following suit while NERISSA leans against a pillar, an intrigued smile already gracing their lips. There is no one else present; not a single other soul that can hear what conversation occurs between the two parties. For there are secrets that shall be passed from the Tridium and into the hands of the Horsemen that will sever the tenuous harmony of the Holy Land.

If one were silent enough, perhaps they would hear Fate’s shears cutting the cord in two. 

Only the shadows will hear of what is proposed by the Moon and the Sun to the four creatures of the apocalypse. Poisoned, infernal, senseless - the words are whispered within the privacy of the gilded walls of the room, leaving the cursed soul who struck down the great Star of the Tridium with no option other than to fear for their life - or forfeit it completely - for the Horsemen are now determined to have it. 

IN THE REALM OF INFERNUM…

From the moment they step foot into the beguilingly hellish land of Infernum, they know something is amiss. The air is tainted with unease; bitterness swiftly stirring in the wake of it - what was once the taste of contentment now a rancid, ruinous coating upon their tongues. Even the Daemonium seem ill at ease; their guttural howls no longer cries for revelry and satiation, but desperation given vicious voice.

And still the lingering shift continues to elude the returning party of demons.

Little do they know that their kingdom was violated - that their peace was desecrated. 

The doors of the Black Palace open, and instead of howled greetings and a cacophony of salutations, the travelers are greeted with the silence of the dead - six veiled corpses awaiting them. All eyes turn to JUDAS, who looks on in silence then lifts the veil of the body closest to him. The mass of marred flesh that is revealed comes as no surprise - how can he possibly entertain such a sentiment, when the perpetrators are escapees of none other than the Black Cells? His eyes turn to ABADDON, who has no answers to lay before his questing gaze.

Then AMON, a notorious member of the Conclave, breaks the stony silence that fell over the Vices and their king. “There were three members of the Black Cells that escaped, my lord,” they begin, eyes flickering between the unspoken king and queen of Hell. “Their guard, it seems, had forsaken his duties and left himself vulnerable to manipulation. It seemed as though they knew that you, Abaddon, and the Vices had left the kingdom…” AMON’s gaze settles on ABADDON, their lips twisting into a sneer as they walk between the corpses. “But that is not what concerns me.”

The Conclave member reaches down, their fingers bunching the fabric of the veil before lifting it. Beneath it lies an angel - bloodied and marred, their wings twisted beneath them. On their breast is a pin, to mark their authority as an ambassador from Caelum. The Seraphic creature was bludgeoned within the realm of Infernum, by an escapee of the Black Cells. DAMIEN WARD kneels beside the corpse, and gently shuts their eyes.

When he pulls away, his fingertips are stained with blood. AMON bows their head, awaiting the word of the demon they acknowledge as king. MAMMON, however, looks at DAMIEN.

No one gives voice to what they are all thinking - the blood is not only on ABADDON’s hands, but all of theirs.

And the angels will seek retribution. 

It is what the now-dead God had created them for, is it not? 

“Who broke out of the cells, Amon?” ABADDON asks, her voice striking through the silence, as sharp as the end of a whip. 

“There were three of them,” AMON recounts, “two were mortal and one of them was a gifted one. They stole the weapons from the vault and -” 

“Have you sent forces to capture them yet?”

“Yes, my lady, of course-”

“I don’t see their heads on a stick yet,” ASMODEUS interrupts, crossing his arms as AMON twists their hands anxiously. 

AMON stammers out, “Th-They evaded us, but I believe that they may still be within the Realm-”

JUDAS raises a finger, and a hush falls over them all. Three murderers, hateful of demons, are now waiting within the shadows of Infernum - armed with weapons that could fell any one of them. If they aren’t careful, the streets of the city will run black with the blood of those over whom he reigns. The whispers of dissent would multiply ten-fold. They would look to another to uphold his beloved crown.

DAMIEN WARD looks at him, while the members of the VICES glance between the two. The Anti-Christ’s gaze doesn’t waver from that of the Great Betrayer.

“Send word to Michael.” JUDAS says, eyes shifting from the angelic corpse. “Tell them one of their own has fallen.”

IN THE KINGDOM OF CAELUM…

The angels return to their sanctuary, having grown impatient with the absence of their king. It is said that the land is tied to him - when he leaves, it seems to pale; the birds losing the lilt in their son and the sun sinking from its perch atop the skies. Were that the truth, none of the citizens of Caelum would be surprised, for their hearts are tied to the kingdom’s land as well. After all, they fought for it, raging against God, of all creatures, for this piece of eden-like earth. The blood of their enemies had drenched the soil, but it was their blood that made it flourish - it was MICHAEL’s blood that ensured its acquisition. 

When MICHAEL steps into the kingdom, Caelum breathes anew; the VIRTUES filing after him only serving to stir the land into giddiness. No longer are they shackled by the etiquette of foreign courts - now they can indulge in the respite offered by their people and their kingdom. Is it not known, after all, that angels find comfort only within the warmth offered by other angels? For none can compare to their holiness. 

It is why they take the loss of their loved ones as harshly as they do. 

It is also why, when word reaches MICHAEL and the VIRTUES as they make their way  through the halls of Archangel’s Castle, they are greeted with nothing but wailing and grinding of teeth. The angelic ambassadors are considered particularly beloved - for they are entrusted with the will and whim of the king that fought for their freedom. Among them is the fallen BARACHIEL; one of the first to draw their blade in rebellion against God. The most beloved of them all. 

Beloved as they were, the grief they receive is quick to curdle into rage.

The tongues of the angelic creatures grow barbed as they look at their king. Though he isn’t to blame, there is no doubt that the fissures in his visage are beginning to show. Looking upon him, they can’t help but wonder about the efforts he claimed to have made to ensure the loyalty of his allies. While the Holy Land thrives despite its loss, it seems as though Caelum suffers still under this king’s hand. Why are they not thriving as they should be? Can it truly be wise to keep their hearts threaded with that of a king who found it so easy to abandon his kingdom and leave it so pliant and vulnerable?

The whispers follow the king of Caelum as he strides towards the War Room, the VIRTUES gathered and armed to the teeth, awaiting their orders while they bite down on the grief and anger that weighs upon them. 

Gathered within the War Room of the Castle, the VIRTUES lay their eyes upon MICHAEL as he looks between them.

“We ride for Infernum,” He declares. “and we will not leave until we have our retribution.” 

FINAL NOTES: And with that, our second event is now live! We want to thank our members for their patience and support during this period — we sincerely hope the wait was worth it! We cannot wait to see what you all come up with on the dash. For the sake of clarity, you will find notes below on what is occurring with each of the factions. Please keep in mind that you are not restricted to threading only within your faction. Involving your character in any of the events taking place is certainly possible — and encouraged! We are incredibly grateful to our members for being so supportive and cannot wait to see the threads and activity that will bloom on the dash. Below you will find notes on what is occurring with the different factions. 

MORTALS: The entrants and nominees seeking election as the Tridium’s next Star are ARIANNE ALTIER, EVANGELINE TRAME, JASPER RICHE, and LUCA RICHE. If they hope to be successful, they will need to campaign for the position. We invite them — and any of the other mortal characters who wish to participate or offer support — to hold their own events to “canvass” for the position. At a later date, we will be releasing a poll for our mortal-writers to vote for who they think should be the next star. The results will be released at the end of our second event. 

HORSEMEN: The Horsemen have been hired by the Tridium to find the perpetrator that murdered Cador. Though the masses have begun to suspect foul play, only the Horsemen and the Tridium members are aware of this. Azazel and Gabriel have yielded all their information to the Horsemen and have established with them a line of rapport.he Horsemen are free to collaborate with others should they choose to. We also highly encourage that other characters volunteer for the suspect line-up for fun interrogation threads! 

DEMONS/ANGELS: The demons are experiencing a loss of their own — the escape of prisoners from ABADDON’s Black Cells. As the Horsemen are already occupied with the Tridium’s plight, we encourage members of the Virtues and Vices come together to hunt down these escapees. To reiterate: there are three mortals within the realm of Infernum currently running amok and highly likely to kill angel and demon civilians. Their identities and history are known only by ABADDON, but we encourage our players to hunt for more information!

Additionally, please keep in mind that there are two events that occur during the month of the Red Rain Moon. Your character is free to attend any of these, and we highly encourage that you use them for your threads:

VISITATION: Throughout the Red Rain Moon, Mortals in particular pay visit to the graves of those they’ve lost — whether to the Blood Plague, mortality or war. Rather than Visitation being a macabre ordeal, however, it is a celebration. Denizens light candles for those who are absent and dance until the sun comes up, gorging themselves on cuts of meat and fruits.

THE RED FESTIVAL: On the final day of the Red Rain Moon, creatures of all kinds gather in the citadel of the Holy Land and celebrate the Red Festival, the purpose of which is to demonstrate gratitude for those who have survived — and continue to survive — the Blood Plague’s defacing effects. The aim of the festival is to paint the participants in red, mimicking the influence of the calamity, and there is only one rule: all participants must dress in white.

And finally, if you have any questions, please drop them in the Discord channel. You are free to thread out any of the events that have been outlined in the event or to have your characters go on their own adventures. Otherwise, we hope you all have fun and enjoy!

[untamedficrecs]

Hiiiiii i’ve been looking for this type of fic but haven’t been able to find one yet. Do any of you know of fics that deal with jc after wwx died. like how the dealt with it and his thoughts, idk i’ve been in an angst mood lately lol

Hi! so I’m not sure if these are exactly what you’re looking for but I tried my best!! (really sorry for how long this is about to be!) 

our hero by grapefruitsketches

Rating: Teen & up | Jiang Cheng-Centric | One Shot | Status: Complete | Word Count: 1485 Author’s Summary: Jiang Cheng searches for his brother at the bottom of the cliff. He's not sure what he hopes he will find.

☆ personal comments: this is set right after wwx dies and it’s just jiang cheng trying to go through the emotions of losing everyone he cares about. it’s pretty short but i still think you’d enjoy it! 

storm by jiujiu (kiki_bw)

Rating: Teen & up | Jiang Cheng-Centric | One Shot | Status: Complete | Word Count: 1439

Author’s Summary: It's easier for Jiang Cheng to be angry than to try and make sense of his convoluted emotions. Or, Jiang Cheng stumbles back to Lotus Pier after the siege at Burial Mounds where Wei Wuxian dies.

☆ personal comments: much like the above fic ^^ just a lot of jiang cheng feels and pain ;;~;; 

wayward son by seofon

Rating: General | Character Study | One Shot | Status: Complete | Word Count: 727

Author’s Summary: Jiang Cheng’s heart is a patchwork quilt of a thousand black holes. He replaces the pieces that have run ragged with wear and haphazardly sews together lacerated edges. He walks the fine tightrope between love and hate and prays he won’t fall off. He’s been assembled by war, for war, and sometimes he doesn’t know whether there are any soft lines in the melody of his soul anymore.

☆ personal comments: it’s not long but definitely should read, it goes through jiang cheng’s character and covers a little bit about how he tries to cope with everything. 

and sever the rope to set you sailing from my harbour by morifiinwe

Rating: Teen & Up | Jiang Cheng-Centric | One Shot | Status: Complete | Word Count: 7433

Author’s Summary: If he was to be honest, and he was only honest late at night, when he was stressed to tears and there was only Jin Ling to hear him, Jin Ling who will remember none of this, Lotus Pier will always be lonely to him. He rebuilt it for more than just himself. It was for his softly smiling sister, married and happy in Lanling, for his obnoxious brother, whose promise Jiang Cheng held on to. He would never say it out loud, and certainly not to Jin Ling, but he missed Wei Wuxian. He missed him like he had lost a part of himself, missed him while he hated him, and hated himself while he missed him because look at all that he did.

Or, Jiang Cheng, through sixteen years of quiet grief.

☆ personal comments: i was 3 paragraphs in and was already tearing up. this is just sadboi jiang cheng hour up in here. this fic probably fits best with what you’re looking for. it’s also got a lot of uncle jiang cheng feels...and just...im sad...so you can be sad with me :(( 

storm to weather by mikoiifish

Rating: General | Character Study | One Shot | Status: Complete | Word Count:  5301

Author’s Summary: Forgiveness is complicated.Jiang Cheng watches his brother’s back as he walks away – rides away, accompanied by Lan Wangji as always – and wonders if it’s time he forgives himself.(Truth be told, he forgave Wei Wuxian a long time ago.)Or, a story of reconciliation. 

Character study of Jiang Cheng as he navigates his relationship with Wei Ying.

☆ personal comments: this is more snips of jiang cheng’s life and his feelings and thoughts but there are parts that somewhat go into his time after wwx dies and how he deals with things. it’s a really good fic tho...def has angst if that’s what you’re looking for!! 

(what obstacle can stay) the sea-seeking river by monocerosrex

Rating: Teen & up | Jiang Cheng-Centric | One Shot | Status: Complete | Word Count: 26085

Author’s Summary: Making it all the way home carrying her family on her back was impossible, but for all her ill-health Jiāng Yànlí was of Yúnmèng. Her arms trembled with effort, her breaths sawing in her chest; her muscles screamed, but still she fought to uphold her sect’s creed. Her focus wanted to narrow to the pain, the wet ground, the sad tinkling of her clarity bell, but the sniffling of her baby brother—both her baby brothers—kept intruding, driving her on. Her newest brother was still wracked with fine tremors at the thought being carried towards dogs, and her youngest brother clutched her robes in unspoken guilt. Jiāng Yànlí had no doubt his other hand gripped Wèi Wúxiàn in similar sentiment.

Jiāng Chéng's story, told through a series of (mostly) missing scenes

☆ personal comments: this is more just snap shots of jiang cheng’s life but it’s a really good fic and you should def check it out. it’s got some angst and sadness in there. 

the meaning of family by wuxiansmelody

Rating: Teen & up | Jiang Cheng-Centric | One Shot | Status: Complete | Word Count: 2040

Author’s Summary: To Jiang Wanyin, family means a great many different things over the years.

☆ personal comments: very quick read this is just a mix of emotions that jiang cheng goes through as the meaning of family changes for him over the years..its pretty good! 

cocaine and able by brojorlas

Rating: General | Character Study | One Shot | Status: Complete | Word Count: 2433

Author’s Summary:  He would find no answer on that mountain, would only begin to feel what might be called closure long after the dust had settled, after he had been given time and space to process.

☆ personal comments: just...lot’s of jiang cheng feels. just..him. 

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, CLAUDIA! You’ve been accepted for the role of OTHELLO with a FC change to Chadwick Boseman. Admin Minnie: Claudia. Wow, Claudia. This application won me over. I got extremely excited in a matter of seconds just from your first paragraph alone — just ask the other admins, I can even send you a screenshot of my message: “ok i've read one paragraph and im in luv”. From your clean and precise analysis of his core (”learning that love and terror were not the antithesis of each other but an echo of the hunger that comes with being alive” YOU DID THAT) to the incredibly story you weaved in your para sample... you completely won me over. And so did your Othello. I cannot wait to see your plot points come to life, because I’m positive that you’re going to bring a storm to Verona. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Claudia

Age | 23

Preferred Pronouns | She / Her

Activity Level | 7

Timezone | GMT+11

How did you find the rp? |  I’ve known about DiVerona for a while now but it’s been some time since I was active on the rpc scene. Stumbling upon it again after all this time and seeing Othello open feels a little like serendipity.

Current/Past RP Accounts |  Here and here.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Othello. And if I could please request a faceclaim change to Chadwick Boseman.

What drew you to this character? |

Othello is a study in dichotomies – a man torn between polar extremes. Between savagery and nobility, brutality and kindness, love and war.

His very existence was borne of a war waged between his mother’s warmth and his father’s cruelty. He grew up in a house that felt more like battlefield than home, learning that love and terror were not the antithesis of each other but an echo of the hunger that comes with being alive. He feels everything: deeply, intensely, like an open wound half-healed; it’s his greatest strength and it will be his ultimate downfall. Odin is a man capable of a vast and terrible rage. There’s brutality sunken deep in his marrow, something black and rotten in his birthright, an ancient violence. He feels it in his blood like a beast that’s slept dormant all these years, lying in wait, watchful, preying on his worst instincts. He hears it singing in his veins, can taste it climbing into his throat, when he sees a guilty man’s blood spilled on fresh dirt. He thinks he sees glimpses of his father in the mirror, sometimes, when his mind is adrift and steeped in shadow. His eyes, soulless and quiet, his knuckles blooming with bruises.

Suffice to say, I love this broken, conflicted, contradiction of a man. There’s nothing more compelling than a tragic hero and the thing about Othello is that he has every inkling in him of someone who could so easily be tipped over the edge into monster. I love that discrepancy, I live for that sliver of doubt, the seduction of l’appel du vide and the terrifying realisation that he has everything in him to slip beyond that edge.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

ONE MORE SUCH VICTORY WOULD UTTERLY UNDO ME  |  Odin has survived the maelstrom of scandal and ruin that would have meant a fall from grace and high standing, the destruction of all that he has built for himself. And in doing so, he’s lost the only thing he has every truly loved in this life: Delilah. All of the love and devotion and pleas for understanding could not deny the rage and ruthlessness that came with her infidelity. With the heartbreak of knowing the one person he’d let into the deepest parts of his soul, who’d seen him bare and unstripped of all artifice, had betrayed him. He’s burned all their bridges, performed triage to save his reputation and his pride, but what of the love that still sickens him when he thinks of her and how she’s suffering? He has set fire to all traces of her inside his heart but it isn’t so easy to burn her out of his mind or his dreams. These are the places where man has no dominion. And what of the peace he knows he will never find again without her by his side? What of the treacherous slivers of doubt beginning to eat away at him that till now, he has tried to kill and smother with green-eyed reason? He couldn’t possibly be wrong, could he? He couldn’t have abandoned his happiness and his honour with the one woman who has loved him for all his flaws and vices at the turn of a whispered deception?

AM I MY BROTHER’S KEEPER?  |  Ivan is the closest thing Odin has to family. To blood. Ivan has stood at his side through everything, his left-tenant, his confidante, his greatest source of comfort and familiarity. Call it a blind spot, a weakness, but Ivan has earned his faith and unquestioning trust. It was Ivan who came to him when he first heard of Delilah’s betrayal, and it was Ivan who gave him the strength to do what had to be done. But now he has lost his greatest love, and his brother seems more and more a stranger to him by the day. Ivan has always been smarter, sharper, hungrier, hiscunning forged out of necessity and survival. It is the flicker of doubt, the silhouette of something far more treacherous and unforgivable that stains his dreams like nightshade. He is not a man of halfway, or half-done. Odin absolutely cannot abide the grey area of hesitation. If there is more than speculation to the idea that Ivan has somehow exaggerated, or misconstrued Delilah’s transgression… There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing left to lose.

WHY ARE YOU FULL OF RAGE? BECAUSE YOU ARE FULL OF GRIEF  |  Despite his well-crafted attempts at appearing to the contrary, Odin walks a finely wired tightrope between chaos and control. His ego is bruised and battered, and his heart is worn thin with humiliation. He was once a man that wore the hearts of Verona’s people on his sleep. Now, a whisper follows him everywhere he goes. A whisper that becomes a murmur, rising and spilling into a crescendo of rumour and disgrace that hounds him day and night. Odin is quicker to anger, more belligerent and unruly, a humming drum beat of shame and dishonour ringing in his ears every time he turns away and pretends not to hear the outrageous lies they spin. And with his beloved gone, cast out of his heart and soul, there is so little left to keep his worst instincts at bay. All it would take is one bad day. One simple push is all it would take to plunge him down the path into darkness. A push, or a drip of well-timed poison in his ear.  

PROMETHEUS’ GAMBIT  |  Before Odin swore himself to the Capulets, he was a man of the people. A hero. A saviour. Someone who fought to protect those who could not protect themselves, who strove to uphold the law and to push for reform when, at times, it failed to protect Verona’s people. Why, then, would such a noble, virtuous man like Odin Bello, choose to fall in with the mob? Odin is idealistic, but pragmatic. War and injustice have taught him that the law is not enough. Verona runs on blood and money, and if that is what it takes to wield the power and influence in this city necessary to do genuine good, then so be it. Becoming a Captain of the Capulets was an act of necessity, and political savvy. He is a man of his word, and therefore loyal to their cause. But if there ever comes a day when he must choose between the Capulets and the life of an innocent, Odin’s sense of justice may cause him to waver.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? |  Absolutely. Preferably in some manner of tragedy and disaster befitting the very embodiment of tragic irony.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Para Sample:

It is always the same dream.

The same endless plunge into nothingness, a black chasm void of any light or air or sound. It could be sinking, or rising, and Odin wouldn’t know the difference between the sky and the ground. Suffocating. Drowning. Either way, it is a slow, and terrible way to go.

The vice around his neck, coiling tight around his throat, tighter with every breath, crushing any frenzied hope of salvation. He scrabbles wildly at the noose (not a rope but smooth, sleek to the touch, and cold), knuckles paling with desperation as his lungs scream. He fights. But the end is always the same. The hand (when did the noose become so clearly defined? Are those fingers?) clenches around his throat, grinding down against his windpipe with unrelenting pressure. It metastasizes – liquefying with the metallic consistency of blood, or perhaps smoke, as it fills his mouth and his lungs and his chest, pouring into his ribcage and filling every fissure and crevice inside of him.

It tastes like death. It tastes like inevitability.

He drowns like this, suspended in time between shadow and purgatory, for what feels like an eternity. And then either his mind snaps, or the dream does, and he’s released, hurtling into reality with the speed of a sniper bullet.

—

He wakes like a dying man drawing his last, shuddering breath.

In his dream state, his sweat-streaked brow tightens with the anticipation of a brush of warm, soft lips. Ah. But she’s gone now, isn’t she? She is gone and he has carved her out of his chest like a pound of flesh he still holds clutched in his bloodied fist. The proof of her betrayal beating in his palm, visceral and raw as a slaughter.

Odin wakes from sleep every morning like he has survived a death. He moves as if his body is exhausted to find itself alive and begrudges him the audacity of enabling the very breath in his lungs. But years of military regimen has been beaten into him like sandstone worn smooth by a millennia of moon and tide. He drags himself out of bed, dresses, makes his bed squared with perfect angles, shaves, slips his gun out from beneath his pillow and into his holster. The barely risen sun casts everything in a dull tinge of faded indigo like day old bruising. He pads through the house, the hollow echo of his footsteps winding down and down the stairs.

A rap of knuckles upon his door splinters his reverie, his attention snaps to the entryway. Sharp. Alert.

It’s Katarina. She swirls through the door, out of uniform but armed to the teeth, gaze chilled as black ice.

“It’s the rat,” she hisses, eyes flashing like chips of steel in the dark.

The word has an affect akin to an electric shock: he’s awake.

“What did he do now?”

Katarina’s gaze narrows in disdain. “What rats are wont to do: lie and squirm and betray.”

“And what’s the word from Sloane? Rafaella?”

“Dispose and send in the cleaner.” Casual murder, discussed just like that. It’s not even seven in the morning yet, a time when normal, human citizens of Verona could be having their first cup of coffee.

“No use disposing of a rat if we can’t get something out of it first,” Odin deliberates. “Catch him for interrogation.”

Katarina snorts indelicately. “Shouldn’t be too hard, the way he’s been hitting The Dark Lady every night like the world is ending.”

The barest smirk toys at the corner of Odin’s mouth. “Maybe he’s not as stupid as we thought then.”

Those that lie to the Capulet Mob are usually exactly as slow-witted as they appear on the surface. Lying and betraying the Capulets is akin to signing one’s own death sentence in blood.

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Katarina drawls, the syllables velveteen on her tongue.

“Tonight. Nine o’clock in The Orchid Room. You can handle getting him there on a work night?”

“Can I get a Veronesi police officer to slack and indulge their vices at a glorified whorehouse? Please.”

“Alright, then.” Odin gives a small nod, a subtle seal of approval.

“Well, I have to go see a gentleman about an exterminator.”

There is something to be admired in how efficiently a malvivente can get away with murder. The science and precision it takes to orchestrate a killing floor, a crime scene, a clean-up. In many ways, Cosimo Capulet is a virtuoso of his craft, if homicide could be considered an art.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate disappearing bodies from the precinct? Remind me to recommend that we accept external transfers only from now on.”

Katarina flicks him a smile sharp enough to cut through bone. “Here’s hoping third time’s a charm.”

––

The city is restless with fevered boredom. A sinister hush before a summer storm. Odin is alone on patrol this morning; Bellamy has begged off their shift with some falsified story about an elderly neighbour in crisis. In other words, a convincingly tedious tale to spin to cover the tracks of covert Montague business.

Odin doesn’t pry; there will be a time to play his cards and reveal his hand but today is not the day.

A crackling comes on over the radio, a standard 10-62 from dispatch. When he arrives on scene on the very outskirts of south Verona, it’s to an unsettling quiet. He steps out of the car, hand slipping cool over the grip of his gun. He heads round the back of the building, passing soundlessly down the winding cobblestone path that leads to the back entrance. His second cause for concern comes with his discovery that the door has been left unlocked. A push of the frame sends it swinging open. Odin’s hand flexes instinctively, curling tighter around his gun as he moves, barrel-first, into the house. With a slight exhale through his teeth, he raises his fist and hammers it into the peeling wood.

“Polizia,” he cries out. “Is anyone there?”

No answer.

No signs, even, of a breaking and entering.

He releases his fist, and heads cautiously on into the house. He clears one room after the other, swiftly and methodically, finding no signs of forced entry or illicit trespassing. The only remaining room left to scour is on the upper floor facing northward. Odin steps forward and reaches to open the door.

Of all the things Odin could have anticipated finding here, the rat they’ve have been hunting for over a week wouldn’t have made the list. But here, in the center of the room, sprawled on the floorboards like a tableau vivant, is Luca Salvatore. His nose and upper lip are smeared with quicksilver, and there’s powered gold, faintly gleaming, dusted around his collar. Ambrosia and il sangue di Faerie. An ironic harmony of Montague and Capulet – perhaps the only time the two sides have ever known true balance. How bittersweet, Odin muses as he lowers into a crouch to expect the body, he betrayed the Capulets and yet it is Montague poison that helped to seal his death. The foam gathered at the corner of Salvatore’s blue-tinged lips glimmers in the light, specks of chrome and liquid gold catching the sun seeping in from the window. Someone made damn sure they shoved enough fae blood and ambrosia down this man’s throat that he’d never live to draw another breath.

Odin sighs, a muscle tightening in his jaw as he pulls out his phone to send a message: Our rat’s been poisoned.

“Dispatch, 10-45D. I’ve got a body.”

Whatever secrets this man was harbouring, whatever danger or temptation drove him to fuck the Capulets, dying of borderline madness was a mercy.

Fool them once, they’ll kill you twice.

––

The night spirals on an endless loop at the The Dark Lady, time and space wrapped around a mobius strip of warped deception and illegality. The walls always look like freshly painted blood from the shadows of the lowlit stage. Unlike many of his fellow Capulets and officers – men are all the same, honourable or not, noble or not – Odin has never been seduced by the promise of The Dark Lady and her Sparrows. So long as his wife held his heart, he was hers in mind and body and endless soul.

Now, he is unchained. Adrift. But the thought of another woman, in her place, whispering the words she once whispered in his ear, physically sickens him. And perhaps it’s pathetic that the very idea of being unfaithful to his cheating ex-wife is anathema to him. Foolish, ignorant, blindly loyal Odin. That’s him. Besides, his purpose here tonight lies with business, not pleasure. If anyone knows who would have the most probable cause to poison their little rat, it’ll be the illustrious queen of the Sparrows. Of course, she’s kept him waiting. Her word and will is law within the dark walls of this establishment.

From his vantage point at the bar, he sees everything clearly through the haze of lust and debauchery. Men reduced to their base, animal selves, led by beautiful Sparrows with their fingers wrapped around their wallet. Gambling, prostitution, solicitation – technically, being here at all goes against the premise of his very existence as an officer of the law. The Dark Lady is one of the most profitable businesses on Capulet territory for good reason, however. Even if it weren’t for Odin’s interference, Mona has her hands in the pockets of every high-ranking officer within the police force. Or around their throats, with the numbers of untold secrets she has in her gilded arsenal.

He’s close to calling it a night and returning in the morning to reschedule when the piercing shatter of glass cuts through the music and hushed conversation.

“Jesus fuck, now look what you’ve done.”

A Sparrow, one of Mona’s girls, her long scarlet hair spilling loose down her shoulders, gives a soft yelp as she’s yanked from her position in a patron’s lap. Like the bird of her namesake with a broken wing, she’s tugged by the force of the man gripping at her wrist. Hard enough to bruise by the judgement of the man’s sheer height and build.

“Stupid little bitch,” the man hisses venomously, brushing furiously at his pants and the patch of wetness growing from spilled liquor staining the left leg. His grip on her tightens, the effect immediately visible from the lance of pain that flickers across her face, pointed and urgent.

The world goes very quiet, and very still. Odin tenses, every muscle in his body going rigid.

The walls here are red, the little Sparrow’s hair is red – vermillion, the colour of a sunset on fire, Bordeaux wine – and his vision bleeds red.

Odin moves without conscious thought: one moment he is at the bar, and the next his arm is slamming into the man’s gut, crushing the air from his lungs and forcing him to release the Sparrow out of shock. His hand, formed in a knuckled fist, fingers wrapped around thumb and the ring on his fourth finger that he keeps fucking forgetting to take off (or burn, or throw into the river, or melt down into scrap metal), swings forward in a brutal uppercut. It makes contact with a resounding snap of bone and cartilage, blood spraying forth in vivid, violent streaks of red.

“You crazy fucking bastard,” the man howls, staggering on his feet as his hands fly up to clutch at his face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“There is one and only one rule in this club.” Odin widens his eyes a fraction. “Are you an idiot, or just in the mood to be skinned alive fully conscious?”

The man’s face twists into a snarling contempt. Naturally, he ignores the question entirely. “I know you,” he says, voice low and lascivious, swaying precariously on his feet. “You’re Odin Bello.”

Odin’s mouth flat lines, unimpressed by the drunken display before him.

“The man whose wife has fucked half the city.”

After, the reports will say that the man was found near dead: 6 broken ribs, dozens of broken, fractured bones, internal bleeding, contusions on his chest, arms and face, comatose.

After, they’ll say that Odin Bello lost his mind.

(Have you seen him? He doesn’t look like someone stable.

His wife was cheating on him for months with every member of his precinct, the poor fool. Who could blame him?

Bello’s insane. He’s completely lost it.

Did you hear the man he attacked is in a coma? Who knows, maybe he deserves it. Maybe he was asking for it.

I feel bad for the wife. Good thing she got out while she still could.)

––

After, Mona finds him in the alleyway with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, his hands and arms soaked in blood to the elbow. He smells like the inside of a slaughterhouse, and ash. She stalks over on stiletto heels sharpened to a knife point and slaps a black dossier against his chest. The Dark Lady’s insignia is debossed, an imprint, a shadow of an elegant swirling sigil.

“This isn’t a favour, Bello. I expect repayment in full, and then some.”

Her hand shoots out to grip him by the chin, manicured fingernails digging into his jawline as she drags his face down towards her eye line.

“You pull that shit in my club again and I’m blacklisting you for life.”

Odin shakes her hand free like her touch is nothing but air and straightens, presses the cigarette back to his lips and lets the smoke coil and spiral from his fingertips. Even the smoke tastes of something raw. Like fresh blood, metallic and veined with rust. There are flecks of it clinging to his cheekbones, splattered across his shirt like an abstract impressionist rendering of violence. The afterimage of it seared into the black and white negative of his silhouette. He looks like an old god, covered in the grime and filth of modernity. A bloodied relic of an ancient religion built on the altar of human sacrifice. He inhales, black smoke swirling in his lungs, the faint glow of eyes like ritual fire as he turns to face her.

“Do you think she knows?”

Bewilderment, then disgust as understanding dawns on Mona’s face. “How the fuck would I know, Bello?”

Odin watches her, unblinking, utterly motionless, his gaze deadened and hollowed like the heart of a black hole. A yawning abyss of unending nothingness with no horizon.

Am I only a monster if she knows what I’ve done?

Extras:

ORIGIN: Standing at 6’5” since he was 18 years old, Odin cuts a striking figure. His presence commands gravitas without him ever having to speak a word: a simple nod, a tilt of the chin. Soldiers fall silent when he speaks, higher-ranking officers defer to his cool judgement and lateral insight. He is a man born for leadership, marked for authority and the steady ascent to power. They say that those who deserve power do not want it, and in Odin’s case, at least to begin with, this is true. He enlisted at 18 to find an escape, a lifeline. A pathway to an existence free of his father and the brutal legacy he’d built for him — the only thing his father had ever given him other than his name. It was of little surprise that being primed and honed for war came easily to him. Odin rose swiftly through the ranks, impressing his superiors with his discipline, resolve and relentless potential. If anything, he was a little too disciplined, a little too resolute. Too intense and dead-eyed even when his fellow recruits were pushed to the brink of physical and mental collapse. Odin never seemed to tire, never seemed to even approach a tangible breaking point. He was utterly in his element: consistently ranking first in all his classes and dominating thr basic training activities with his physical advantages. But he was also charismatic, distinctly likeable, and always willing to help and shoulder someone else’s burden if he saw them struggling. As much as the other recruits would have preferred it, he was impossible to hate. At 24, he was promoted early to Lieutenant and led a squad of nine men who were willing to fight and die at his word. Out there, in the desert, they would have walked open-eyed into a minefield if he had given the order. Five years later, he was honourably discharged with the end of his tour. At least, that’s what his official military transcript says. What the transcript doesn’t say is that Odin Bello was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, chronic insomnia and major depressive disorder following his return. This will do you good, the Lieutenant Colonel had said. You’ve fought this war for long enough but now it’s time for you to go home, to find a little peace for yourself. He returned to the country, battle still burning in his blood and his head full of quiet demons, and immediately left in search of a place that did not feel like a graveyard. So he found, Verona, wartorn, streets red with blood, a monster lurking behind the face of every man, and felt for the first time in a very long time, at home.

HEART: Odin has a great love for animals and small children. When he was young, he would feed what little food he had to the local dogs and strays. They followed him around the streets like a loyal pack of guard dogs and one time even chased off a gang of older children harassing him for non-existent money. Odin was a single child but he often played with the other children in his town and helped to look after the youngest ones when needed. His heart is most visibly softest when he’s around children. To this day, he ensures that a significant portion of his pay – as a law enforcer and Capulet – goes to the local orphanage of Verona. He spends at least one day a week in his time off-duty feeding the stray creatures of Verona – be they beggars, street ruffians or stray dogs.

SOUL: It’s a hypocrisy of the highest order to be an officer of the law, and yet a Capulet. The Capulets are the source of half the rife and warfare in the city, the beating heart of the black market that funnels contraband and weaponry through the illicit networks of the underground. The Capulets liken their legacy to that of Robin Hood, a legendary tale of David defeating Goliath. Now, however, the Capulets are fat and glutted on their gold and wealth. Just as filthy rich and corrupted as the aristocrats they overthrew in the name of liberty and equality. Joining the Capulets was a means to an end for Odin, an opportunity to oversee the inner workings of the Capulet crime family, and to use it for his own quiet purposes. A thief that slipped away with the life savings of a dozen families he swindled could be dealt with in shadow and silence. A rapist plaguing the city with no proof to his accusations but the blood and tears of his victims could be found dead in the morning, his throat slit in retribution. A murderer could be caught, and punishment dealt in a manner befitting his crime, not by the corrupt, unjust systems of the court. It does not sit entirely well with the balance of Odin Bello’s soul, that he works for the Capulets and paints his hands in blood for them. But as long as the good he can do outweighs the evil, then he is willing to stretch his soul a little thinner in the name of what must be done.

HAMARTIA: Odin does not do anything in halves. It’s all or nothing with him. He loved his mother with all his heart, and he hates his father with the very same heart. He has never known a middle ground. The love he knows is a double-edged sword – all-consuming, and therefore, destructive. For Odin, there is no other way to love than to give everything of himself until here is nothing left. Even if it means his ruin. He gave everything to Delilah when he swore himself to her – his heart, his name, his soul, his life. He would have ridden into hell for her and beyond, if she had asked. He would have plucked the moon from the sky and given her the stars to light her smile, if she had asked. At the time of her betrayal, he had believe his rage equal to his love. Burning like wildfire from inside of him until it consumed all the good and warmth he had associated with loving her. Grief, he has since realised, outlasts rage. He placed Delilah on a pedestal and made her his god. Casting her out of Eden meant leaving behind a hollowness nothing else could fill. So he clings to the only other person who has ever worn the shape of love in his life – his comrade-in-arms, his brother, Ivan. Ivan, who has never abandoned him or given him cause for pain or doubt. Ivan, who has always understood his rage and darkness, and stands by him in the light nevertheless.

[cryoculus]

Can you do angst? If not it's okay, but can you do a scenario with bokuto or tsukishima's long time friend developing feelings for them. But the guy is to focused on his current crush to notice his long time friend. But she wants to be a good friend so she sets up the guy and his crush, and nearly dies. But refuses to tell the guys why she almost died. Sorry if this is confusing for you to understand.

» Word Count: 3,475 words

It took a while for me to fill this in, sorry for that! I just hit a wall with how the near-death experience was gonna play out, but I managed to come up with it this way. Note: this has become Akaashi-centric, ‘cause the best way that I could convey the friend’s grief was through the eyes of someone as perceptive as Akaashi. GOD this is about 3,000+ words, so I put the rest under the cut!

EDIT: I realized that the request wasn’t specific to certain pronouns, and I FORGOT THAT while I was writing this, and subconsciously implied that the friend was female. Sorry!

Akaashi was not one to stick his nose in matters that didn’t involve his direct interference. It was a principle that he trained himself to uphold, since he observed too often that, when one person meddled in another’s business more than he needs, it comes back to bite him in the behind in the near future.

But sometimes…sometimes he convinces himself that inaction could be the worst of sins he can commit. 

His predicament began on the day he walked across the bridge that led to his neighborhood, when he didn’t have any volleyball practice. The sun was beginning to set, emitting a resplendent orange glow in the vast sky. At that moment, Akaashi was so caught up with the twilight in the West, that he barely noticed the figure emerging from the bottom of the concrete bridge. He did though.

“(Name)-san?” Akaashi stopped in his tracks, regarding his senpai, whose uniform was soaking wet, with a raised eyebrow. 

You snapped your head in his direction, panic filling your eyes. Scrambling to your feet, you acknowledged Akaashi’s presence with a curt bow. 

“A-Akaashi! What brings you here?” Your tone came a bit shaky, like you were hiding something from him. Akaashi wasn’t particularly curious, but he was concerned. You’re Bokuto’s best friend, after all.

“Did you…fall into the river, (Name)-san?” That’s what he could deduce from the situation – drenched uniform, scrapes on your legs and arms, and a slight shiver in your composure. 

“W-Wha – oh! No, no, no! You’ve got it wrong!” You raised your hands, denying his assumption. “I d-dropped my phone in the water, I came to, um, retrieve it…”

Akaashi retained his aloof expression, but he could somehow tell that you weren’t telling the truth. It was rare to see you like this. You’ve always been a cheery person, who never seemed to lose their glee. However, it wasn’t like him to press others for information, so he ended the curious exchange by saying, “Do tend to your cuts, (Name)-san. They might get infected.”

You chuckled, lightly knocking your fist on your temple. “I can’t believe my kouhai is telling me off for such a clumsy thing I did. Thanks.”

The two of you were headed in opposite directions. Akaashi was treading forward, while you were headed to where he came from. At the corner of his eye, when the two of you passed by the other, he could see the ivory-tinged lilies you held in a tight grip behind your back. 

When you finally passed him, Akaashi paused once more, looking back at your retreating form. Why had you picked the rare flowers that bloomed under this bridge, knowing it’d be a risk? He didn’t know. 

But he knew better than to meddle. 

“Yo, Bo!”

Akaashi’s ears perked up at the familiar voice. Morning practice had just finished, and everyone was beginning to fix their things for their first period. Bokuto, who was at the other side of the gym, greeted you with a high five.

“Ahh, you’re a lifesaver, (Name)!” His captain exclaimed, encasing you in a bone-crushing hug. “It looks exactly like the kind she wanted! I couldn’t find these anywhere! Where’d you get them?”

When you pushed the energetic spiker away, Akaashi could clearly see the lilies you picked from yesterday, the stems wrapped together with a pink ribbon, in Bokuto’s hands. 

You flipped your hair. “I got it from a reliable source at a steal price! The guy selling them thought I was cute, and gave me a discount~”

“Oho? As expected from the charismatic class rep!”

You crossed your arms. “Now make sure Saki-chan’s gonna like them or I might’ve wasted my charms for nothing.”

Bokuto hollered, fist bumping you. “You won’t be disappointed.”

It was always loud whenever you paid Bokuto visits during morning practice, and it grated on Akaashi’s nerves every time your loud voices intermingled in his ears. But somehow today, your grin didn’t quite reach your eyes, and your laughter sounded a little forced. It was a minimal shift in your usual behavior, but it was enough for him to notice. 

Still, even if was he the only one who saw the bright colored band-aids through your stockings, he knew better than to meddle. 

About a week later, he overheard the two of you talking amongst yourselves in the hallway just outside the gym. Not wanting to interrupt the conversation, Akaashi stayed behind the lockers in the corner hallway. 

“She liked them, (Name)! She really did!” He could hear Bokuto jumping about in excitement. 

You laughed. “Best lilies in town, I tell you.”

“Can I…uhm, get some more? I kinda promised that I’d give her some every week. I-I’ll even pay you!”

Silence followed for a while, but then a fit of giggles resounded in the walls. “Bo, you don’t have to. I told you that the seller has a huge crush on me, remember? He might just give me seventy percent off the next time. y’know?”

He huffed. “Alright, fine. Just make sure that guy doesn’t pull any funny moves with you, though! The moment he does anything perverted, tell me right away!”

“Sure thing, Bo! I’ll give it to you Friday morning.” 

After exchanging farewells, Akaashi could hear the double doors to the gym close shut. Footsteps, presumably yours, were getting closer, and he’s in a really compromising position –

“Akaashi?” You furrowed your eyebrows, eyeing his pressed up form on the lockers. You contemplated for a while, and for some reason he didn’t move an inch. “Were you eavesdropping?”

Shit. You noticed. 

He straightened himself out, clearing his throat. “I just did not want to interrupt, (Name)-san.”

You nodded warily, brushing past him without another word. But just as you were about to round another corner, you halted, and looked back at him. 

“Akaashi, would you do me a favor?” 

He slightly craned his head in confusion. “What is it?”

You offered him a sad smile, an expression that he thought he’d never see you make. “Could you…not tell Bo?”

He nodded, not wanting to be part of…whatever this is in the first place. After all, he knew better than to meddle. 

For the next few months, your presence after practice has been a staple every Friday morning. Everyone in the volleyball team has been accustomed to the presence of Bokuto’s best friend right after practice ended. However, the girl he was trying to woo was yet to make an appearance in the gym, which more or less baffled their teammates.

“Saki-chan’s really shy, but I’m helping her get through her social anxiety,” Bokuto smiled to himself. It was a rare sight for Akaashi to see his captain like this, soft spoken and not an owl on steroids. 

Almost everyone in Fukurodani heard of Ishikawa Saki, the third year that attempted to commit suicide on the school’s rooftop. Akaashi remembered the scene vividly. He was right behind Bokuto when he coaxed her out of her suicidal tendencies, after all. 

She was a bashful, but gentle girl. Akaashi would almost call her fragile, but with the way that Bokuto was supporting her now, she’s starting to get back up on her own feet. It was quite a love story, as some of the girls he passed by in the hallways said. Who knew that the loud, outgoing captain of the volleyball team would be the suicidal girl’s saving grace? 

If anything, Akaashi didn’t like to think of it that way. Bokuto didn’t save her. He only helped her to save herself, and maybe he managed to catch some feelings along the way. Akaashi would have approved of their budding union, but…

“Bo~” Your singsong voice rang in his ears. 

When Akaashi spared you a glance, you looked horrible. Of course, you were still the pretty class rep of 3-1 that everyone admired, but there was no doubt of your disheveled state. Your hair was escaping your loose pony tail, your eyes looked tired beyond comprehension, your uniform was unironed, the pleats of your skirt, rumpled (if he looked a little closer it looked damp, even), and you weren’t wearing your stockings. Your legs, which were bandaged all the way up to your thighs, were on full display. 

“What happened to you?” Bokuto ran over to you, grabbing you gently by the shoulders. “Why are your legs bandaged up?”

“Oh, this? This is nothing, Bo! I may have gotten into quite a scuffle with the guy selling these.” You feigned ignorance, handing your usual delivery with an unmatched smile. “He probably got mad that I won’t accept his confession.”

He scowled. “He did what?”

You laughed. “Bo, I was kidding! I got into an accident on my bike and might have fucked up my legs.” You forcibly placed the lilies in his hands. “I’m alright, okay? Stuff like this happens.”

Reluctantly, Bokuto accepted the flowers, twirling the stem in his hands. “If something worse happens to you, I won’t forgive myself, you know? I’m supposed to be your best friend…”

For a split second, Akaashi could see your lip quiver, something akin to despair shadowing your face. But it’s as gone as it came. Instead, you flashed him a small smile. “I know that more than anyone, Bo.” 

At this point, Akaashi was beginning to have second thoughts on his sentiments on meddling.

The next Friday, it was raining heavily. Classes were suspended because of the torrential downpour, but Akaashi’s mother didn’t have qualms with sending her son out in the rain for some errands. Of course, he complied. The market was just beyond the bridge. It wasn’t too bothersome a journey. 

So, he shrugged on a jacket, retrieved an umbrella, and headed out. The sky was so dark, he had a hard time convincing himself that it was only ten in the morning. The raindrops heavily tapped on his umbrella, forcing him to huddle himself under its cover so his clothes wouldn’t get too soaked. 

As he closed in on the bridge, he noticed the river rapidly flowing down the stream. It was always like this during particularly rainy days. The slightest drizzle would make the river wild.

However, at the far end, he could see a familiar backpack sitting idly on the sidewalk. That’s…

Akaashi’s eyes widened when he pieced everything together. He only saw you emerge from under the bridge once all those months ago, but hasn’t seen you again in the area ever since. You insisted for months that you got the flowers from some guy that apparently fancies you, but you had also told Akaashi not to tell Bokuto about what he witnessed that time. 

His discarded his umbrella, as he ran to the railing, craning his head as far as he could for any sign of you. The rain immediately soaked through his hair and clothes. When he was out of luck on this side, he switched to the other side, and –

The moment he saw the form of a girl with dirty bandages on her legs, lying face down on a slightly elevated island in the middle of the harsh stream, Akaashi peeled off his jacket and shirt, and dived in without a second thought. 

The stream was flowing to the direction where your unconscious form was lying, so he didn’t have to propel himself with much effort. When he got to the island, his sneakers almost sunk into the mud. Not paying it any mind, he kneeled down, lifting you up to rest your body against his own. 

“(Name)-san? Can you hear me?” He shouted through the loud rain, but you weren’t responding. He placed the back of his hand against the skin of your neck and it was hot to the touch. How long have you been out here?

He gathered you in his arms, as his eyes darted everywhere in search for a route back to the bridge. The stream was flowing against him now, and it would be hard enough for him to swim back on his own, but he had to get you to safety, too –

“Bo…?” You opened your eyes, but they had a glazed look on them. “Bo…I’ve got it…Y-You can give it to…Saki-chan later…” You lifted a trembling fist up to him, Akaashi took whatever you had in your hand in his. When he unfurled his fingers, he saw a white lily, whose petals were frayed and torn from the time you’ve spent protecting it from the rain. 

Something pierces through his chest, and shatters the composure he’s kept up all this time. It’s something he’s never felt before, but all he could do is cradle your feverish body in silence, as his tears mixed with the raindrops that fell on his face.

“Why are you doing this?” His voice cracked, fingers digging into the skin of your arms. “Why?!”

You already sustained an injury on your legs, you’ve been out here, passed out and running an incredibly high fever for God knows how long, you’ve got new cuts all over your arms, so…why? Why could you still find it in yourself to grin at him like it was nothing? Why do you sacrifice so much, go out of your way all the time, risk your own precious life…for the sake of his stupid, stupid captain, who was oblivious to your feelings for him? 

Still shaking, from the rain or from the fever, or from both, you raised your hand to cup Akaashi’s cheek. What were you seeing right now? He was curious, but for now, he’d tend to your fantasies for your sake. 

“It’s…‘cause I want you…to be happy.” A single tear rolled down your cheek. “I…love you, Bo.”

It took a while before you could go back to school, given your multiple injuries and the fact that you almost drowned in pursuit of the lilies you always gave to Bokuto. But that’s not what you told the school. You informed them that the injuries in your legs simply worsened and you had to be observed in the hospital at an indefinite amount of time. 

Akaashi was the only one who knew of what truly transpired. He was the one he brought you to the hospital when a few locals spotted the two of you after all. However, when your family arrived and thanked him ceaselessly for having saved your life, he took his leave. His presence wasn’t necessary, anyway. Or maybe he just couldn’t stomach the sight of you in your hospital bed, knowing that he could have prevented this all from happening should he have taken action earlier. He noticed everything, yet did nothing about it…

Bokuto was concerned, of course, but his head was too wrapped up in the fact that they were competing for the Spring High Nationals the following Monday after the incident, that he couldn’t bring himself to at least contact you about it.

However, when you did come back to school on the first Friday of December, you didn’t show up to their morning practice anymore. Akaashi should have gotten used to it by now, given that you were absent for at least two Fridays already. But when you texted him about your return today (you exchanged phone numbers at some point), he half-expected you to be up and running with some stupid white lilies in your hands, giving them to his dumbass captain to treat his girlfriend while being in the dark with everything you’ve been through thus far. 

If he was being honest with himself, he hated his captain right now. Akaashi, of all people, was expected to be the one who’d understand all of Bokuto’s behaviors and mannerisms the most, but witnessing firsthand what you went through, the thought of you sacrificing everything for the sake of his happiness… How could he be so God damn oblivious to all of it?

But then, before he let his blind rage consume him, Akaashi got a text message from you. 

meet me at the rooftop in five?

The cold air seeped through his clothes when Akaashi opened the door to the rooftop. Winter really has settled in in Tokyo. Rubbing his arms as a pathetic attempt of getting warm, he darted his eyes around for any sign of you, and saw your lonesome form standing by the metal fence. He made his way towards you.

“Hey,” you spoke without facing him, fingers gripping the fence. “Did you know that these were put up here after the incident with Saki-chan? It was to guarantee that no one was gonna pull any stunts like that here anymore.”

Akaashi nodded, gazing out at the view of the city. “Yes, I am aware.”

You hummed, and stood there in silence for a good while. Akaashi suddenly recalled that fateful day from what now seemed like a long time ago. The rain pelting his bare back, the smell of the soaked Earth under his knees, the constricting sensation in his throat, and the glassy look in your eyes, that suggested that you weren’t thinking clearly at the time. When he asked you if you remembered that you thought he was Bokuto, you drew no memory of it. He wasn’t sure if he should be glad or not.

“Akaashi, why’d you save me?” 

Ah, but you did remember that he’s the one who actually jumped into the river to save you. 

Akaashi exhaled, averting his gaze as far as he could from you because, frankly, even he didn’t know what drove him to strip his clothes and jump into the stream that day. He’s been doing a great job ignoring everything he took notice of with your strange behavior, minding his own business. Wait… You were dying, for God’s sake! If someone else was in his shoes that time, they would have done the same. It’s only natural that he’d go rescue you. And maybe…maybe he wouldn’t be able to live with himself knowing that he kept turning a blind eye to your suffering. 

A thousand thoughts swirl in his mind, but all he could bring himself to say is, “Because you’re important to Bokuto-san.” 

You laughed, turning to him. “Am I not important to you?”

He raised an eyebrow, making sure his face didn’t betray any discomposure. “Why would you ask me that, (Name)-san?”

You put a finger on your chin. “Hmm… I know you saw through all my lies, you know? I thought it was just a rumor that Fukurodani’s Akaashi Keiji could read the volleyball team’s enemies better than anyone, but to be able to apply that outside of a game?” A grin made its way on your lips. “You really are something, huh?”

“I don’t understand. What am I supposed to make of our conversation?” 

You scratched the back of your head, chuckling. “I don’t know either, actually. I just wanted to thank you properly.” You reached out from behind your back – he didn’t notice you were carrying anything – and handed him a lavender flower with two unfurled petals, like it was just beginning to bloom. Akaashi shot you a confused look, but accepted it, regardless.

“I did my research,” you imparted. “The lilies that I was picking for Bo…they’re referred to as the flower of death. Makes sense why Saki-chan would like them… Okay, bad joke, but yeah.” You mulled over your next words for a moment, cheeks beginning to tinge red. “This is an iris. They symbolize hope, or at least that’s what the internet wanted us to know.”

Akaashi examined the Iris in his hands, then turned to you. “Where’d you get it this time?”

His accusatory tone made you laugh, and this time it sounded genuine. “Oh, you think I jumped under a bridge to grab these again? Nah. I got it from the flower market downtown. The guy selling them probably likes me. Gave it to me for free~”

“Did he, now?” He couldn’t help it. His lips turned up into a small smile. “Why have you decided to give this to me, of all people, (Name)-san?”

“Oh, God, don’t ask me. It’s kinda corny.”

“Pray tell.”

“Fine.” You shifted your gaze back to the city skyline. “It’s ‘cause… You were the one who made me realize that Bo’s not the only guy in the world. In a way, you gave me hope that there’s someone else out there just waiting for me.” 

He contemplated for a moment, letting your words sink in, before saying, “You’re absolutely right. That was corny.”

An irk mark appeared on your head. “Hah? Who knew Akaashi Keiji, aloof second year setter of Fukurodani, could be a wise-ass, too?”

Then and there, Akaashi realized that he’s glad that he didn’t know better than to meddle, in the end.

[thetemperamentalcat]

Daenerys and how I wanted it to go (Long but please read)

After reading posts and articles on Daenerys and her becoming the Mad Queen there is some logic in her becoming mad. She has demonstrated in the past a willingness to enact violence and death onto others. However she has also shown a great deal of empathy and kindness to others. For the first 6 seasons she has balanced between these two states. The seventh season is a bit iffy but in my opinion there isn’t anything that rivals what the rest of the Queens, Kings, Ladies and Lords of Westeros have done. 

The eighth season rolls around and . . . . 

It was just rushed and I feel like we’re missing a few episodes in which we get to see her descend into madness. There isn’t much to draw from in the first three episodes of season 8. Episode 4 was very weak in doing anything useful. Missandei, her best friend, just got beheaded in front of her. Of course she is going to be angry and upset. 

I think what would have been really interesting for season 5 is to see Daenerys falter in her desire for the Iron Throne. Everything she had gained throughout these 6 (maybe 7) seasons she has lost or mostly lost. Where she vacillates between anger, grief, paranoia and doubt. And worked into these emotions are tinges of the infamous Targaryen madness. 

First she is angry and talks about burning the Red Keep or just razing the entire city. (This would of course greatly concern Varys who goes off to write letters) Her anger eventually dissipates into grief. 

And in her grief she may sometimes forget Missandei died and sometimes be in denial of that. Tyrion and Varys correct her of that fact and this causes her to go where she feels safest and isolate herself. Perhaps curled against Drogon, her last child. Maybe she talks to him. 

Then Jon arrives and she sees him talking to Varys. Daenerys accuses Jon, Varys and Tyrion of plotting against her. Which Varys actually is. (Side note: Tyrion and Varys learn about Jon’s parentage from someone else other than Sansa. Does she not remember the last time she told a Lannister something thinking it would help her??)

Daenerys accuses Tyrion of being a secret Lannister Loyalist and Jon of using and manipulating her. At this point, Varys finally says to her face he doesn’t think she’s fit to rule. She shoots back that its because she isn’t male. Varys answers that while that may partly be it but also he sees her brother in her - more specifically Viserys. He paints her a picture of her ruling the ashes, of ire and blood, and every house or what is left them bowing down because “We wouldn’t want to wake the dragon now do we?”

Daenerys visibly flinches as if Varys had hit her. Because she remembers her brother. She remembers his arrogance, his cruelty and his madness. She remembers her fear of him. She has never wanted to become him. These words make her sick to her stomach and they drain her. 

But to the three men she is unreadable. There is a long stretch of silence. And then, she give a command. For them and everyone else to go home or go where ever they wish. She will stay in Dragonstone for now and if they stay they will have her protection. She is giving up.

Tyrion protests and says she is the Queen.

Daenerys says “Queen, King. Anyone can call themselves thus. But it doesn’t matter. Power, true power, comes from the people and their love I have no love outside these walls only fear.” 

The three men leave and converse with one another. Tyrion is, of course, concerned. He truly believes Daenerys would be a good queen. And he begins to doubt himself and his ability to serve her. He talks about him believing himself to be clever but maybe that was a trick he played on himself. Tyrion, the character who always valued and found pride in his intelligence, is starting to doubt himself.

Varys is cautious and regretful. He hadn’t expected this reaction from her. Dragon fire raining down from above? Yes. To be eaten by a dragon? Yes. To have his throat slit open by Grey Worm? Yes. He wonders if perhaps he was too hasty in his actions and decisions of trying to overthrow Daenerys. He never thought she would give up. 

But Jon is not doubtful. He’s shocked by Daenerys’ actions and angry with Tyrion and Varys. They have stood by and done nothing. Varys makes a token effort of saying Daenerys talked about bringing the sky down onto King’s Landing. Jon snaps back and asks if they hadn’t thought she was angry because Daenerys had just lost her child and couldn’t protect her friend. Jon talks about what he did and what he wanted to do to Ramay Bolton. And that if there were any Frey left alive what he would do to him. If his friends hadn’t stopped him Jon would have joined Robb’s army and who knows where they would be if he had. That if it is madness to want blind vengeance on those who have harmed you and yours then it is better to be mad then what the two of them are. Jon storms off.

Jon and Daenerys have a heart to heart. A real one. She’s tired and talks about all she’s lost. She didn’t think she would lose this much. She also talks about Viserys. And most of all she wants to go home. She talks about a place with a red door and a lemon tree. Jon suggests they go and leave. Daenerys asks if even that would break his oaths. Jon says he is upholding his vow and she’s his queen. 

Daenerys says she isn’t a queen. Jon just says the words “My Queen”. They have an intense stare before they are interrupted by Tyrion and Varys.

They have a new plan. She doesn’t want to hear it. But Tyrion tells her Cersei can’t stay queen. (Side note: Let’s assume that Cersei has been shown to become mad even though most of her screen time was just staring out a window and smirking. Sorry Lena Headey, you deserved better than this.) The people will suffer under her rule. They may not wear chains but they will be Cersei’s slaves nonetheless. 

Daenerys turns to Varys. He looks at her and then bends the knee. End episode.

[wayward-hatchling]

Here I am beating a dead horse BUT.... you know what would’ve been a sexy af ending to Game of Thrones?

Imagine this:

Brienne dies in the Battle at Winterfell (+1 major character death, adding gravitas to the big battle that we all felt was missing.)

There’s no real culmination to the Brienne + Jaime triste, which is tragic, but her death inspires Jaime to finally kill the boy and let the man be born--without Brienne, Jaime leaves Winterfell for King’s Landing to complete some unfinished business. Daenerys thinks he has defected, though Tyrion does not believe it. (This puts Tyrion on Dany’s s**tlist even more.)

Jaime arrives on the day of The Last War, sneaking his way into the Red Keep along with the refugee civilians Cersei is housing as a meat shield. Once inside, he reveals himself to the Kingsguard and is brought directly to Cersei, professing his love for her once more. Cersei has never felt more alone--and is carrying Jaime’s child--and loses herself for just a moment. And Jaime, wielding Brienne’s Oathkeeper, once more upholds his destiny as a Kingslayer and kills Cersei to stop the war. He leaves the blade behind, abandoning his identity as a warrior, and throws the golden hand (a symbol of his family and a gift from Cersei) out the window of the Red Keep. He goes to leave and end the war--to save the people of King’s Landing from Daenerys--but it is too late. Daenerys decides to rip Cersei out root and stem and slaughters everyone in the Red Keep in dragonfire--Jaime included. Jaime dies a hero’s death, and Daenerys has committed a terrible (but PERFECTLY. JUSTIFIABLE.) atrocity.

The final episode sees characters debating over Daenerys’s ruthlessness--Jon and Tyrion are not quite convinced that Daenerys is an irredeemable evil queen (because she really isn’t), but also cannot justify her actions any longer and fear a repeat situation should the remaining lords of Westeros rebel. Tyrion investigates the Red Keep to confirm his sister’s death for the new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms--he must prove his allegiance to Daenerys and must stay in her good graces now more than ever. On the way up, he spots a suspiciously familiar golden hand, a foreboding sign that something is amiss. He searches the ruins of the Keep with a handful of Unsullied,. They uncover Cersei, a half-charred, unrecognizably marred corpse in the Map Courtyard ruins which has been stabbed with Jaime’s recognizable Valyrian Steel blade. (Valyrian Steel is forged with dragonfire, and here we find out it can also mostly withstand it. This resolves why the importance of Valyrian Steel was never addressed in the show.)

Tyrion deduces that not only has Jaime died a needless death at the hands of Daenerys--but so did the people of King’s Landing. The Unsullied are with him, so what transpired is undeniable. Had Daenerys fought the proper war and not resorted to massacring everyone with dragonfire, she would have known that Cersei died before the battle and all the citizens would have survived entirely unharmed. All the innocents Daenerys killed had died for nothing.

He tells Daenerys the news, in anger and grief, and to her dismay (and as a result of her increasingly poor PR and Jon’s more legitimate claim), Daenerys orders Tyrion be tried for treason. She is furious that Tyrion appears to distrust her and that his loyalty has faltered, but in truth she is trying to cover up what she’d unknowingly done. This new development would unconditionally prevent her from becoming a true queen, as the lords and ladies would never accept her now. She is doubting in herself at this point--she is not a murderer, but she has nothing left but the Iron Throne she had only just won for herself. We see her weigh her options with what she must do to her last ally, Greyworm.

Jon Snow sneaks into Tyrion’s jail cell and learns the truth--a truth that by this point sounds too familiar and too honest to be false--and decides to do what he must to protect the realm and his family.

Daenerys has her coronation--a somber affair due to its nature, albeit satisfying in that it actually happens. She is finally queen, though there is no throne to sit upon now. It mirrors Cersei’s coronation after the destruction of the Sept of Baelor. Afterward, she decides to wander her way through the ruins of the Red Keep-- she finds the Iron Throne still mostly intact and finally sits upon it, completely alone amidst the ruins of the keep. A queen of the ashes, a dragon in truth with no friends or equals.

Jon seizes his opportunity and follows her to the ruined throne room to complete his mission, and is met with the monologue of a conflicted Daenerys as she contemplates all she’s had to do to get to this point and what she now must do to stay there--it serves as both a humanizing moment for her, as well as a solidification that Daenerys has always justified committing unspeakable horrors on her enemies. She speaks of crucifixion and burning trusted advisors alive, and Jon resolves himself. Jon falters as he sees Daenerys begin to regret her actions and lament the looming execution of another of her advisors-- but as Daenerys maintains her faith in herself and her destiny, Jon finally understands that there is no such thing as good and evil. Daenerys displays for him how both exist side-by-side. Jon decides to champion the realm and kills Daenerys to prevent any further death or destruction. As a result of his queenslaying, Jon is put to trial by the Unsullied and Dothraki forces. On the ruined steps of the Red Keep, Jon Snow is beheaded for treason. (Thus, we are spared his Night’s Watch ending, and his character arc solidifies his role as Ned Stark’s true son and completes his various parallels to Jaime Lannister, who also just killed a queen who was once his lover. He defies his Targaryen family and dies an honorable death for the good of the realm.) From there, I could really no give a f*&Rk what happens next. I mostly cared about the botched Jaime, Daenerys, Jon, and Tyrion story arcs.

[relnhart]

The Blanegard Family, and some history on Reinhart. (To be continued)

Reinhart Blanegard age 24 A farmhand at bentbranch meadows. Has a scar going from the nape of his neck on the right side to across his chest. (received from a Coerl attack when he was 16) Joined the lancer's guild 5 years after the Calamity. Raised his own red chocobo from birth. Has a huge crush on Taimu Dolores. Has a basic understanding of Thaumaturgy and Conjuration. Did not consider himself worthy of the title of warrior of light until given Hraesvelgr's Eye. Titled as the Viridian Dragoon, as Estinien is referred to as Crimson and Shiro as the new Azure Dragoon. Cannot hold his liquor and gets drunk easily. Prefers not to drink because of this.

Reinhart Blanegard, Son to Elaena Blanegard. Is the heir to a bloodline born from Allagan expermentation, who used human slaves as guinea pigs to further their own twisted ends. Tiamat had imprisoned herself in Azys Lla, mourning over her beloved Bahamut and the monster she created throught the help of Ascian machination. The Allagans took full advantage of their prisoner, taking her blood experimenting with it. Among which were transfusions into human hosts, Creating mindless thralls turned dragon to send out as monsterous reinforcements for their armies. One such dragon overcame the deadly effects of the blood and eventually regained their human form, seeking out to live their life peacefully away from Allagan rule. This person would later be the progenitor of the Blanegard bloodline. with each generation carrying that slight bit of draconic essense. Though not apparent at first glance, Traces of their draconic ancestry can be found in dominant hereditary traits, such as two toned hair colors. Reinhart's case being black and dark green. A small Draconic rune symbol embrazoned on their body a sa birthmark, and their eyes taking on a draconc appearance in times of extreme duress (A faint blue energy exudes from them, as well as their pupils stretch more vertically to match that of a dragons). Likely connected to Tiamat herself, when confronted with extreme sorrow, regret, or anger. Emotions that Tiamat feels since her imprisonment. Lastly would be their greatest treasure, the dragoon soul crystal. It's creation made when Zaryn Blanegard, the first of the line, gave his life defending his homeland and family in Mercydia from the Allagans. His lover kept the soul crystal safe, until it's purpose was made clear to her grand daughter, who was gifted with the echo and carried the crystal as a warrior of light. It would later be passed down generation to geenration.

To begin the story of Reinhart, we shall start with his mother, Elaena Blanegard. Elaena Blanegard is the daughter of Wilfred Blanegard and Vivian Gallione. Will heralded from the central continent Isalbard, an accomplished Dragoon who fell in love with the budding Red Mage Vivian of Gyr Abania. Her skills not of the greatest calibur but was always determined to make a difference to those around her. The two would settle in Ala Giri and later raise Elaene there. Elaena is what some may call a prodigy, others a perfectionist, Solitary, and quiet. She was adept at learning both lance and magic, but sometimes would struggle to find common ground with her peers. Often being teased doe her quiet nature. She hated losing though, so she works hard to stay at the top, this in tandem with her quiet nature made her hard to approach at times. Then the Garleans invaded Eorzea. The campaign to defend her homeland would span across the country. Her bold tactics carried a certain uneasiness to them. But The ferocity of her resolve inspired many to follow. Alas, Gyr Abania was fated to fall under Garlean control despite her efforts. It was around this time she would meet Reinhart's father, An Ishgardian midlander by the name of Cross Volieur, of House Volieur.

Cross Volieur was born into the noble family of House Volieur, Who's forefront role was that of a mercantile house, Making a lucrative business out of winter coats and quality furnishings. Cross himself though was far removed  from the expectations of his father, he'd rather keep a quill in his hand as an author rather than Learning the ins and outs of running his family business. As the eldest son of the house, he upheld sole responsibility to keep a commendable reputation in Ishgardian society. Cross himself liked to speaked his mind freely, to the ire of his parents. Being scolded again and again that his was the attitude of the commoners. Regardless, he was a rebellious soul, never wanting to step in the heels of his father's footsteps.

With a last attempt to keep his son in line and to keep a good repuation with the family name, He set Cross up for an arranged marriage with the daughter of one of his competitors, to ease tension between businesses. It was around this time Ishgard would get involved with the defense of Eorzea against the Garlean advance. Cross, wanting to escape his fate, gave up his scholarly studies and joined up with the Ishgardian military. Making the promise to uphold his duties as heir to his father's legacy upon his return. With the help of some of his freinds at the scholasticate as well as his commanding officer, they landed him a deal to work as an on site correspondant. letting him write in his free time about the war at the Eorzean front. His written articles would later boost morale among the soldiers and the Ishgardian populace.

Cross' life as a soldier took getting used to. He initially saw enlistment as a means of escape. He rarely took his training seriously got an earful from his commanding officer on more than one occasion. His behavior also cost him the ire of his fellow men, seeing him as a liability than a soldier. He was later forced into the roll as an errand boy in the medical ward for a week, and i was there he got his first taste of the harrowing truths about war. He spent most of that week frantically delivering medical supplies throughout the ward to the chirugeons that needed them, rarely having a moments rest. His time there forever changed the man, making him realize the responsibility of having the lives of his comrades rest upon his shoulders, he turned his attitude around and took his role as a soldier seriously from that point onward.

Cross would then set out with the rest of his squadron, having been tasked with meeting up with the joint efforts of the Immortal Flames and Ala Mhigo. It would be here that Cross would meet Elaena, although only by circumstance as soldiers. Cross of course being a no name private, and Elaena appointed as a leiutenant. The next month would be of them systematically sabotaging Garlean outposts, communications, and intel. This mix mashed unit slowly became clsoer as a whole, and began seeing themselves as one cohesive unit rather than the three seperate forces they  were composed of. They would be periodically receive orders, and carry them out discreetly. Never directly engaging Garlean forces unless under the cover of surprise. One night however did not go in their favor. One order was meant to be a standard surveillance sweep in Northern Thanalan. An encrypted Garlean message was decoded and the Immortal flames decided to take advantage of the opportunity. Their unit was to confirm the location of a convoy of prisoners and report for further orders via linkpearl.

The convoy was located in the dead of night, with some prisoners taken out for exercise under close watch and then loaded back onto the ground transports. Theyw ere then given the task to ambush the Garleans and liberate their captives. The ambush was successful, Many of the guards were taken out without notice, What was odd though was that upon closer inspection, they were unarmed Garleans. . . that were chained. That moment of realization was when their trap sprung, they were quickly surrounded by Garlean forces and the transport emptied out with the prisoners, armed with Garlean weapons.

The Garleans were using glamour prisms and swapped appearances with their captives. Someone tipped them off about the raid and they were fully prepared for it. The guards that were taken out were in fact the prisoners they were tasked with rescuing. Too much risk was involved to take the extra time needed to confirm the true idenity of the guards they ended up slaying. They were given order to retreat and sustained heavy losses in the ensueing conflict. of the 27 remaining soldiers of their task force. Only 8 managed to escape, 2 of which would later succumb to their injuries. Elaena took the substantial loss hard, she had never faced such an overwhelming defeat. She was always known as calm, quiet, and collected. But the lives she had sworn to fight alongside were now gone, she was the sole survivor of the Ala Mihgan's assigned to this unit. Much to everyone's surprise, she completely broke down. She couldn't give orders the next day. The Link pearls they were given were not working, perhaps by some interference from Garlean technology, none can say. They were deep in enemy territory and needed a way out. Yet her words carried trepidation with each sentence, She doubted her capabilities and could not bear to give orders out, fearing it may be their last. It was also at this time the draconic nature of her eyes took hold once more, some curiously asked her about it. She explains to them it's a trait from her father's side, it's not completely understood, and is linked to their emotions, commonly grief, sadness, and anger.

Although some may be consumed by tragedy, Others would be defined by it. Cross would later take lead, spurring what little morale was left from the remaining squadron, and slowly sneak their way out of Garlean controlled terrirtory. He made it a point to keep talking, whether it be about food, politics, the weather, anything. Silence only brings them back thoughts of that harrowing night. Encouragement to talk about home kept their spirits from breaking. After some prodding even Elaena started to open up a bit more during their travels. It would be a week before they reached the first signs of Eorzean controlled territory, Their rations gone, they subsisted soley on wild game and vegetation.

Cross gave a full report to Ala Mhigan command at an outpost near Gyr Abania. Given leave and much needed rest while they await further orders. Elaena was taken in for psychiatric evaluation diagnosed with severe PTSD, Having react negatively to the sounds of gunfire and magitech cannons. Ealanea would given considerable severance pay for her outstanding service to the realm. Even offered a full time position as a battle instructor for the Theordrain's elite guards. She declined, and spent time with Cross and the others. Showing them around her homeland. The two grew close and eventually started dating, Cross comming to visit when he was on leave. A year of this would pass before they would get married. Elaena took up body guard jobs for caravans to help keep her skills sharpened, refusing to let her shortcommings stop her from honing her skills. She would eventually move in with Cross in ishgard, though her name and deeds would be known throughout most of the realm, They did not reach the ears of Ishgard. She saw this as an opportunity to reinvent herself. She hid her famed spear at the bottom of a canyon in Coerthas central highlands. hoping to bury her bloody past along with it.

Cross' father though dismayed at his son's actions, welcomed her with open arms, working out some sort of other deal with the rivaling family. Elaena took up Carpentry under the tutelage of Cross' father. Another two years would pass, Cross would continue his military career, and Elaena would continue to impress her Father in law with her adeptness and determination. Or stubborness as he would say. Elaena would bear a Son, Reinhart. Cross father around the time grew ill, and though overjoyed to see his grandson, he did not live long after his birth. It was only a month later that treachery would befall the rest of the Vollieur Family. Cross would be caught with a Dravanian Idol, of how he came into possession of one, none are certain. He never had any motive or reason to side with the heretics. Nonetheless, His other family memebrs would also be caught with one as well. Someone was setting them up, but due to the timing of Nidhogg's awakening, Tensions about heretical activity had been a all time high. Judgement from the high Inquisitor was swift, there was no such investigation made.

Of course they were all sentenced to fall from Witches Drop and prove their innocence before the fury. One by one they did, many forcefully. Elaena  would eventually jump, of course using the training she had to disperse her fall, and then fake her death. Cross begged them to spare his son. It was decalred that due to him being so young, he couldn't possibly be tainted by such blasphemers yet, and would be spared. Relieved. Cross Jumped off peacefully, landing near Elaena, Miraculously he survived the fall, only barely. His injuries would be too severe to survive. Having been satisfied, the Inquisitors would wisk Reinhart away to be orphaned in the Brume. After their departure, Elaena would get up and spend a few moments with Cross. Whom, barely alive would let her know Reinhart will be spared, thank her for the love they shared. and to Save their son, before finally passing on. She set off down the canyon and recovered the lance she buried some summers before. Kept in a case to help resist the weather.

She returned, The look of fury in her eyes, Blood was taken from her and it will be repayed in kind. Obviously the guards stopped her at the gate. She refused to stand down and jumped the gate. and evaded pursuit until she was within the city's walls. Walking out in the open near the front gates, for all to see. Many saw her, afraid, she firmly planted her lance and called out the Inquisitors. That Justice will be had. Laying bare the false accusations made against her and her kin, and that no trial was made in accordance to their laws, and now that the enirety of House Volieur was condemned to the Witch's drop. She was but one woman in the eyes of the the inquisitors. But the scene she made caused quite an uproar with the populace, and one soon became many. Not wanting to upset the delicate station they had made for themselves. She had survived the drop, the inquisition countered that she is a heretic for surviving the fall. But the populace was beyond outraged for their conduct. House Volieur would be claimed innocent, but she would not. She demanded her fair trial there then. They could not sweep this fiasco under the rug, they demanded a trial, and a trial would be had.

By combat, she chose. Elaena fights one of the heavensward champions, though victorius, she loses one of her eyes and gets a deep scar across her face from the battle. She retires back to Gyr Abania with her son and lives in peace with her parents for a few years until Reinhart is the age of 5. Garlemald encroaches closer to the Ala Mhigan border and the mad king of Ala Mhigo continued to opress his people. For fear for her son's safety, she makes passage to Bentbranch meadows and requests Gustavian to take care of Reinhart while she joins the resistance in Ala Mhigo alongside The Crimnson Deulists as a Red Mage, leaving behind her soul crystal with Reinhart They slay the mad king and are immediately set upon by Garlemald's forces, who were lying in wait for the moment to strike. Many of the Crimson Deulists fell to Garlemald's assault upon the palace.