#besides bastille

[dig-them-up-comic]

1.10

(click for quality, please it really destroyed this one)

[junk-culture]

13.7.23

[yerimoonlight]

I JUST GOT MY DREAM VINYL MARINA’S FROOT AHHH!

[georgesdamnton]

You know what I hate to say it (truly) but I think Olympe had a thing for Ramard. I've had plenty of people in my life that I dislike on all ends of the scale, and not once did any of them appear in a single one of my dreams all "my p*nis is huge" "I'm epic at s*x" "f*ck me mommy" like. Olympe, babe, that's unusual. Like seriously girl get therapy.

[ok-sims]

Things in Good Omens 2 I still find weird after maaaaany rewatches

Yep, brace yourselves, it's exactly what's in the title:

Maggie making the spelling mistake ("urgrency") in one of the very first scenes of S2.

It is in the very first scene set in the present day. It is the first time we are presented to Maggie. And the spelling mistakes being very much connected to demons all through the season (specially in The Ball episode, with the note about the "angles" and Shax spelling "T-O-S-T-E", not to mention Furfur mispelling Aziraphale's name in 1941).

It is stands out so much because Maggie's mispelling is never brought up again, but the demons' is. And again, it was the audience's first contact with Maggie (even if she is offscreen). It might be just a callback joke (which does not make much sense to me, to be honest), it might be just red herring, or it might be to reinforce the "Maggie is a mirror to Crowley" theory (which does not make much sense to me either, because while Crowley is/was demon, we never see him making spelling mistakes himself).

I'm honestly at loss about what was the intention here. Seens to specific to be just random, given the demons do it many times. My best guess is that it is pure and intentional red herring, to mess with us. But then again, what for?

Miss Cheng (specially in E5S2, "The Ball")

Since my first watch, the brief scene when Miss Cheng is entering the Bookshop for Aziraphale's thinly disguised excuse to have a Jane Austen ball, she has a very... particular look in her face. It is when the weather is getting darkier e gloomier, resembling Michael Jackson's "Thriller" videoclip, because Shax and her "legion" of demons are arriving. The thing is, Miss Cheng does not look afraid at all, or even like she is suspecting something is going on. Miss Cheng looks suspicious herself! I feel like this scene is off in so many levels. First of all, it did not need to be included at all. So why add this scene to the final cut? Miss Cheng does not have a very clear role in the narrative, while all the other shopkeepers have at least something that not only sets them apart from everyone else, but adds something to the narrative and/or callbacks something else in the series.

Beside the obvious Nina and Maggie, Ms Sandwich brings to the table the comical relief, Mr Brown is there to set the excuse for the Jane Austen ball, Mr Arnold provides the fancy classical music for the ball AND the Doctor Who jokes, Justine is an excuse to bring up Aziraphale's bad French again, and give us a callback to the Bastille scene in S1, and Mutt is a callback to the magic shop shown in the zombie minisode.

But Miss Cheng on the other hand brings none of those things. We don't even get to see what is her bussiness. Of course, her scene discussing Ms Sandwich's work is a delight, but honestly, it could have been any other character asking about Ms Sandwich's job. And opportunity to have Ms Sandwich ask what Miss Cheng's work was there, but it was not taken.

Now, the only other scene Miss Cheng is in focus is in the very end of E6S2, when Maggie and Nina decide to sit down with Crowley to have The Talk. Nina asks Miss Cheng to look after the coffeeshop for a few minutes. Again, seens kinda random to have Miss Cheng there, and I really think this specific scene, by itself, might not have any further meaning. But when viewed along her other scenes (and specific lack of better fleshing out, which was given to all other shopkeepers), it just seens weird. Again, might just be a red herring to mess with us, but Miss Cheng is presented in a very sus way.

Aziraphale not having a replacement

Odd phrasing, I know, but I could not find better words to describe it. We are presented very early on to Shax, who is replacing Crowley in his former job in Hell. Shax is an important character all through the season, yet we never get a hint at who is replacing Aziraphale's job vacancy. We don't even get a hint if there is a replacement, or if it was decided Heaven would not be replacing him. We just get radio silence about who is Heaven's representative in London now, or if something happed to that position and why. Maybe if Shax simply did not exist, it wouldn't have bothered me. But since she does, and it is made clear many times that she has Crowley's former job, it stands out to me that nothing is ever said or even alluded about Aziraphale's former job position.

There are some other things that stand out to me, but these are the more obvious ones to me. I would be delighted to hear other people's takes on these matters, as I might have missed something. Oh well, I guess here is my first piece of Good Omens meta.

[ninjigma]

QuinObi Week Part 4/5 - First / Previous / Next

Day 4: Post Order 66 Track: 'Flaws' - Bastille (Spotify / YouTube)

Everything went so wrong, but at least this, this, they managed to once again make right. I think it would be a very dramatic reunion, of Obi-Wan always hoping and Quinlan always seeking, finally stumbling back together. Though a part of me also imagines Quinlan tackling Obi-Wan into the dunes and it being the first time since that horrible day that Obi-Wan hasn't cursed how the sand gets into his beard. And besides, Quinlan didn't seem to mind when he kissed it anyhow.

Enjoy!

@quinobiweek

[probadbatch]

rules: answer + tag 9 people you want to get to know better and/or catch up with

@theproblemwithstardust thank you so much for tagging me :)

Favorite colour?

If I say tumblr blue, are you guys going to judge me? (in my defense, it's a good color and I liked it long before tumblr existed)

Last song?

I was trying to check but my phone is super dead and doesn't want to turn on so that will remain a mystery but it was probably something by Bastille

Currently reading?

Besides way too much fanfic, nothing at the moment. But I've been meaning to listen to the audiobook for Wraith Squadron because that's one of my favorite Star Wars books and since Iron Fist just came out today, maybe I'll start that. Yub yub.

Currently watching?

I'm rewatching TBB and I'll give the Acolyte a shot when it comes out tonight but otherwise, nothing

Currently craving?

Lunch - I have cheddar bagels I'm going to make a sandwich with :)

Coffee or tea?

Coffee. Always coffee. So much coffee. A genuinely concerning amount of coffee.

No pressure tags: @photogirl894 @im-no-jedi @lightwise @wolveria @jedi-hawkins

@arctrooper69 @shinigami101 @clonethirstingisreal @faceofpoe

[wordsinhaled]

augh, y'all. The Ball episode is so lovely?? ?? it is just the most episode. i'm emotional about it so you're gonna hear about it.

okay, it's the way crowley is indignant that anyone could ever suggest anything against aziraphale's pureness of heart, even while knowing aziraphale's a bit of a bastard and finding that wonderful about him. and his vehement objection that he'd ever relegate aziraphale to anything less than the most important person in his life. the way crowley is like "oh. i have had. a Realization," after talking to nina, and he has to go and get day-drunk to deal with the enormity of it, and he asks aziraphale if he wants a glass, probably thinking - maybe aziraphale will sit with him and maybe they'll Talk About It. and... "smitten, I believe."

and the way the whole time after his conversation with nina crowley's just subtly different around aziraphale from then on - watching him just a tiny little bit differently, partially like he just can't look away and partially like the realization is sinking in, "this is actually the person who's walking around with my heart and doesn't know it, and i actually have to grapple with that" - you know??? the way crowley's always marveling at aziraphale from beside him - "can i watch?" and then the way aziraphale ushers crowley out of the bookshop so he can make his preparations. the sweeping music while aziraphale miracles the beautiful glowing chandelier and crowley stopping in his tracks outside the window to look at it...

the way crowley rushes into the bookshop from outside and stops short by the door just boggling because the entire place is transformed and aziraphale did all that. aziraphale is absolutely freaking out about asking crowley to dance just before he does it; his eyes dart all over and voice goes all funny with nerves and everything, because he's thinking oh god, i planned this whole thing just for this, and now is the moment. the way aziraphale knows every step of the dance and crowley doesn't really follow the steps of the dance beyond the bare minimum (there's a point where he even sort of shrugs, when that's not the dance step) but he's still taking every opportunity for them to touch. the way they almost hold hands and their fingers nearly twine together each time, while they barely touch the other shopkeepers only as much as necessary.

crowley's "i won't leave you on your own," and aziraphale's answering "i know." the confirmation that aziraphale can stand up for himself perfectly well, but knows it makes crowley happy to be a rescuer and indulges that about him in their relationship - coupled with crowley's "he's unpredictable" from earlier which shows crowley knows his madcap angel can get out of anything but that he enjoys letting himself be rescued. (it's an echo back to the bastille scene too, really, where crowley's basically like you called me here for this??? because you wanted to have crepes??? and aziraphale's like and so what if i did? it's their thing, their thing they both enjoy so much.)

the way their love in so many ways is about knowing one another and understanding one another and giving each other what they need. and the fact that even with all their roadblocks in communication they STILL know and understand one another best, because they've each been witness to the other's first moments of genuine joy and pleasure. (i have a separate set of thoughts about that that i won't go in here because this has gotten long, but -- )

they!!!

[nordleuchten]

Do you know of any Lafayette reenactors who do a good job of portraying him?

Dear Anon,

this question actually had quite the perfect timing because I planned to make a similar post regarding reenactors now that the Bicentennial is approaching.

Good reenacting is walking this very fine line between the accumulated factual knowledge you have and an engaging performance. Reenacting is handling these very tricky questions like “Did you had nightmares during the war?” (real example) that there is little to no source material for.

Probably the most famous La Fayette-reenactor is Mark Schneider. He worked for and with Colonial Williamsburg, Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello and George Washington’s Mount Vernon to name only a few. He also portraits Napoléon Bonaparte and Benedikt Arnold. There is quite a lot of his content on YouTube and he has produced a number of good quality “talks” with the organizations listed above, especially during the COVID.

Schneider is very versatile. He can give you a young and enthusiastic La Fayette fresh after the Battle of Brandywine or a more mature and sober La Fayette, discussing politics with James Madison in a tavern in 1825. And beside his knowledge of La Fayette, there is also his talent to entertain and engage a crowd. I honestly count on him for the Bicentennial.

The other Reenactor I have in mind is Ben Goldman from the American Historical Theater. Not quite as famous perhaps as Schneider, I have nonetheless seen him a few times and generally liked his performances. He is often invited to represent La Fayette as a guest at an event and not necessarily to portrait in the same way as Schneider does.

There are of course countless other Reenactors but the “smaller” ones are often harder to come by and I am always happy to find someone new – so if any one has a recommendation?

I hope you have/had a wonderful day!

[yourwitchybrother]

Odysseus Appreciation Post!!

I haven't really made a post in appreciation for Odysseus yet, so here it is!

For those of you who don't know, I practice a form of spirit work that I call hero work - I work with Greek Heroes, mainly. I've worked with Achilles and Patroclus in the past, now I work with Odysseus. We've worked together for about two years now, and we'll be at three years in the Fall!

Odysseus has been there with me through thick and thin. He helped me get through some of the loneliest moments in my freshman year when my friends isolated and turned against me. He was with me through my stressful fall semester of last year, with so much weighing on my shoulders and me at the helm of my life, struggling to take control. He helped guide me through it. And when I was abroad, through all of my flights, my conflicts, and my travels, Odysseus was by my side. He is such a comforting, level-headed presence and it was really what I needed while I was abroad in Italy.

On top of this, he and I have a very playful relationship. He likes to joke and kid and get up to shenanigans, and I play along or observe or listen. Most of the time, this involves sticking some song in my head that points toward what he wants or needs. When I sing songs (He thinks its funny when I sing Epic: The Musical around him, but he loves Bastille and Hozier), he listens closely. When I draw, he peers over my shoulder. When I'm in a car with my friend, he watches as I take note of landmarks and roads. And whenever I went to the beach, I felt him with me, standing beside me, looking out at the horizon with me. He feels like an older brother who would do anything to keep you safe but loves to bully and tease you because it frustrates you.

Because he's human, he also understands my issues on a different level from my deities, and his expectations are not nearly as high as theirs are. There's a huge focus on quality time, with him, at least in my experience. He's with me when I work out, he's with me when I go for walks, when I travel, when I learn. And it's a calming presence.

So, yeah. I love Odysseus, I love his presence, I love having him around, and it's been a very rewarding process, with him. I'd highly recommend working with Heroes! Feel free to ask me about it below!

Blessed be, and may the Sun be your guide! A domani!

[halfbakedideas]

london's burning

The cottage had a fire pit, set right out in the open when they had first moved in.

Crowley makes the mistake of lighting a fire in it one morning, only they don’t realise just how much of a mistake that had been until it’s too late.

Notes:

Title from Bad Decisions by Bastille. It’s winter here and that means my family’s dusting off our fire pit again. And as much as I love the concept of sitting around a fire, Crowley wouldn't. Changed my formatting for fics again. CW/TW: potentially graphic descriptions of a corpse (imagined/hallucination!Aziraphale's; he does not die).

Read on Ao3

-x-x-x-

Winter had well and truly arrived. The weather had been getting colder. Cold enough that Crowley’s knees and ankles declared winter’s arrival with a vengeance. It was getting to the temperatures where it made sense to sit around a fire; where you could do that comfortably without sweating through all of your clothes.

Fire weather, some humans would call this particular shade of grey and cold.

The cottage had a small, moveable outdoor fire pit. When they had moved in, it had sat accompanied by two chairs and a bench seat just outside the back of the cottage where it looked onto the garden. Since then, the concrete and cast iron fire pit had been moved to where it was now, propped up against the wall of the cottage.

Aziraphale had gone out that morning, heading into London to check up on his bookshop. Crowley would have gone with him, but the rapidly dropping temperatures that made them awfully sleepy in the mornings had also made it hard to really focus enough to insist upon that.

“I’ll only be gone four hours at most,” Aziraphale had told them before he had left.

At some point around eleven Crowley had finally gotten up, wrapped themself in far too many layers to still be considered fashionable but still was and made themself a cup of coffee.

They were standing in the kitchen nursing the mug when they spotted the old fire pit through the window. They should set that up, Aziraphale would probably enjoy sitting by a fire.

A fire…they ought to be able to at least see one without seizing up in panic. It had been six years since the bookshop fire, they should be over that fear by now.

Crowley’s now-empty mug was left beside the sink before they headed outside.

They rolled the fire pit back out to where it had originally been in front of those chairs. A miracle took care of not having any wood. A box of matches appeared alongside the pile. Good, now all they needed was something for it to catch on.

There was an apple tree in the corner of the garden that had dropped a decent amount of sticks recently. Crowley scooped up the ones that hadn’t already gotten damp from the grass.

Setting up the fire pit was easy, lighting a fire in it was less so. Crowley pulled a match out of the box and struck it against the side. Orange bloomed from the tip.

Their eyes were stuck on it, unable to look away or even blink. But then they blinked, shook their head slightly to dislodge the memories that were rearing their heads, and tossed the match into the fire pit before it could snuff itself out.

The sticks and dry leaves he had gathered up from the base of the apple tree caught quickly, it grew from a flicker to a small fire within moments.

If the lit match had been bad, this was far worse. The flame was mesmerising, in the worst way. Their entire body threatened to freeze up at the sight of it — and not just from the cold. But at the same time, something within them screamed for them to get up, to run and find Aziraphale.

Then the memories hit them.

Brittle, centuries-old paper being swallowed up as fire races about. It surrounds them and the heat presses in on them from every side, closer and closer and closer. Aziraphale’s diary, still sitting on his desk surrenders to the torrent. The metal of the staircase leading up to the flat above creaks and groans as it gives way. Ash settles heavily against their tongue, clogging up their throat and making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. Yet they persist, pushing one name out through their ash-dry throat. Each time more frantic than the last. Shouting is made ever harder by the fact that they’ve stopped breathing, not that they’ve realised that.

“Aziraphale!”

Crowley whirls around, fully serpentine eyes raking over the burning shell of the bookshop.

Where is he? He’s always here; Aziraphale would remain in his bookshop even as bombs fell and destruction reigned loose on Soho. So why can they not find him?

“Aziraphale!”

There is silence, save for the roar of fire. But then their eyes fall on something — a corpse — and Crowley’s heart stops. The blood in their corporation’s veins freezes solid.

No. No. No. No. No. Please, no. Not him.

Their foot catches on something as they race towards the corpse of their best friend and they go crashing to the ground. They yelp rather undemonically as red-hot pain blooms across their palms when they hit the floor. Was the floor really that hot?

Someone is talking. Shouting their name? The firefighters? Why would firefighters know their name?

Crowley blinks, their eyes are stinging from the smoke. Someone else is screaming. Aziraphale’s corpse is lying mere centimetres from where they went crashing to the ground. They pull themself towards him — it.

The angel’s name falls from their lips frantic and distraught as the smell of burnt flesh hits them.

His vest and overcoat are blackened and unsalvageable. Near the cuffs, his pants are burnt away in parts to reveal charred flesh underneath. The flesh melted away to reveal bone beneath. The worst of all? Aziraphale’s face. An angry red line had been seared across the pale flesh like he had been struck by a fervent piece of wood. Stretching across his left eyelid and down across the bridge of his nose to end by the right side of his mouth. The rest of his face seems to have been pot-marked by embers, as small red dots litter it.

They touch burned-and-blistered fingers to Aziraphale’s neck in the futile hope that he’s still somehow alive.

Something rolls down their cheek and they swipe it away with their other hand, the back of their hand comes away wet. Their face is wet. Why is their face wet?

The voice is back (did it ever leave?). Is it the same as before? They’re not sure. It sounds like it’s coming from underwater.

Someone is grabbing at their arms, pulling them back, twisting around as they try to get free and get back to Aziraphale. But then a wave of something washes over them. It is so intense it would have knocked them clean off their feet if they hadn’t already been kneeling.

Crowley blinked, long and hard. The burning remains of the bookshop, and their angel’s corpse along with it, disappeared like someone took a cloth to the dry-erase board of reality. They blinked again and the sand-coloured pavers and the rest of the cottage’s back garden came into focus. The next thing they noticed was that Aziraphale, unburned and whole and alive, was holding them. The two of them were sitting on the pavers.

Oh.

“‘Ziraphale?” they croaked, then coughed. Crowley’s throat was raw, not from ash but from overuse.

“Crowley,”

“You’re—” They cleared their throat and then winced at how painful it was to do that. “You’re home early,”

The demon felt, rather than saw, Aziraphale nod.

“Yes, the shop that I was planning on going to after checking up on the bookshop was shut today,”

Crowley sat up properly, pulling themself out of their angel’s arms. They twisted around to check on the fire pit��� which had a small pile of ash at the very bottom of it.

“It’s a good thing that I arrived back when I did because I found you’d started a fire,” Aziraphale said. “You’re terrified of fire. We both know that. So what were you thinking?”

They ducked their head, embarrassment colouring their cheeks.

“Thought you’d like sitting by a fire, it being ‘fire weather’ and all,” they said. “‘nd I should be over that bloody fear by now, it’s been six years since the— since that happened,”

How pathetic of a demon were they that they couldn’t even say the word ‘fire’?

“Thank you for that consideration, love. But you shouldn’t have done that. I wouldn’t have enjoyed it if you weren’t,” he told them. “And there is no deadline for you ‘getting over your fear’; There is nothing wrong if you never get over it,”

Crowley wished they could disappear into the ground (actually, what they really wanted to do was bury their face against their angel’s chest again but they’d never admit that out loud).

“Now, may I see your hands?”

It was only when Aziraphale asked about their hands that they realised they were still stinging, and rather badly at that. That hadn’t been part of the flashback…hallucination? Illusion?

Their palms were red and puffy, and badly blistered in some places. It looked like they had touched a hot stove.

Crowley hissed when Aziraphale poked slowly and gently at the worst spot right by their thumb and black spots appeared in their vision.

“What happened?” they asked as he finished looking at their hands and released them. They had no memory of doing anything that could have caused this.

“You tried to brace yourself on the fire pit when you tripped,” he said. “And I wasn’t quick enough to stop you from touching the metal rim,”

The angel said that as if it was some great failing. As if it was his fault that Crowley had been enough of an idiot to trip over their own feet and touch a fire pit with fire in it.

“Isn’t your fault,” they said. “‘s mine, shouldn’t have tripped,”

Then they waved their right hand over the left. The skin healed, mostly, with the miracle they weaved over it. But blisters were left behind, although less angry than before. They tried to miracle that away but nothing happened. So they repeated it with their other hand and got the same result.

“Hmh,” Crowley huffed, displeased.

“If miracles aren’t working, would you allow me to treat your injuries, the human way?” Aziraphale asked.

They shrugged.

“Sure, might as well try,”

The two of them got to their feet. Crowley stumbled a bit. Their ankles were stiff despite the boots.

Wow, okay, maybe they were colder than they’d thought.

The pair relocated inside. Aziraphale headed to the heater to turn it up before joining his demon in the bathroom.

When the angel made it to the bathroom, Crowley was standing with their back to the door, staring at nothing.

“Crowley,” he called, making sure that he wasn’t standing directly behind them when he did and that they could see him.

They blinked once. And then a second time. The dull look in their golden eyes receded as awareness filtered back in slowly. They looked up at him.

“Hold your hands over the sink, palms up, please. I’m going to wash them out and then bandage them,” As he spoke, a miracle made a roll of bandages and a cloth appear on the counter beside the sink.

Crowley did as he requested. Aziraphale turned on the faucet and dampened the cloth with it. A tremor ran through them when the cloth made contact with their palms but they didn’t say anything so he continued.

Their gaze drifted off again as he worked. Aziraphale finished with the cleaning part and picked up the bandage roll, planning to bandage their hands. The moment that it made contact with Crowley’s hand, they yelped and flinched backwards. So far back that their back bumped into the doorframe.

“No no no. Somebody, no. You— can’t be —you’re not,” They sucked in a breath that caught in their chest. “You’re not dead. You’re not!” Crowley was pleading, and Aziraphale’s stomach had dropped into his shoes. They hadn’t even said a name but the angel had a hunch he knew exactly who they were rambling about: him.

“Aziraphale!”

He stepped towards them, hands raised but not touching, yet. He didn’t want to make it worse.

“I’m here! I’m fine; I’m alive!” he said. The words fell on unhearing ears.

Unblinking, fully golden eyes, much like they had been out in the garden flickered about the bathroom, not settling on anything. And not a flicker of recognition anywhere.

Damn ‘making it worse’, Crowley didn’t appear to have heard him and he wasn’t going to stand around and watch his demon get tortured by whatever they were imagining any longer.

Aziraphale reached out again, but not with his hand this time. The miracle slipped cautiously into Crowley’s mind to rid it of whatever horrific thing they were seeing, and to bring them back to the present.

Gold started to shrink, white returned to the sclera. Their eyes settled on him, saw him.

“Alive?” The doubt and the careful hope in the single word made the angel’s heart ache. 

Are you alive? was what Crowley was asking.

He nodded. “Yes, I’m alive and I haven’t been discorporated,”

“We’re not in the bookshop?”

“No, we aren’t. We moved out here to our cottage last year, don’t you remember?”

“Right…” Crowley trailed off. “You were gonna bandage my hands?” They nodded towards the bandages that had been abandoned by the sink.

“I was, but I can do it later—“

“You can do it. Best to get it done now or it’ll never get done,” They stepped forwards, towards the sink.

Aziraphale nodded and picked up the roll again. This attempt went far smoother than the first and soon enough the demon’s hands were bandaged up.

If Crowley didn’t take their eyes off of their angel for the rest of the day and refused to be more than three meters away from him for the next week, well that was for only them to know. And when their closest neighbour woke up the next morning to find a fire pit had appeared in his living room, he believed it to be a Christmas miracle.

[baldursgrave69]

Promise Me

Summary: Agnes worries about the Urge, what if she can’t control herself? She asks Astarion to do the unthinkable if the need arises.

Pairing: Astarion x fem!durge (named)

Word count: 890

Tags: angst

While writing this I was listening to: Oblivion by Bastille

Find me on Ao3 here

Agnes sat between Astarion’s legs on the rooftop of the Elf Song tavern, his arms draped over her shoulders. They had finally made it to the Lower City. The last few days had been eventful to say the least. Agnes finally knew what she was. Who she was. A child of Bhaal. The sickening Urge within her had a name, an origin at last. That didn’t make it any easier to resist. In fact, she played with the idea of embracing it. Of fulfilling her destiny and becoming Bhaal’s Chosen. The idea of killing her sister Orin and taking her place gave her butterflies. Agnes was still struggling to process her meeting with Enver Gortash. He had revealed to her that not only had they been partners in the planning and implementing of the Absolute, they had been more than that. Enver Gortash had shown her correspondence between the two of them, detailing their story. Their love story. Agnes shuddered, trying to push the thoughts from her mind. She didn’t want to think about that night. Or what she had done. Astarion stirred behind her, holding her closer. “What is it, love?” he asked, resting his chin on her shoulder. Agnes let out a huff, leaning against him. “I’m… scared,” she admitted. “The Urge, it’s bothering you again, isn't it?” he asked, shifting behind her. She nodded. He wrapped his arms around her middle, pulling her closer to him. “What if I don’t resist it? What if I can’t?” she asked, feeling a knot of worry in her stomach. Astarion frowned, this was so unlike her. She was always confident, always ready to take on whatever horror came next. “Do you want to?” he asked, cautiously, pressing soft kisses to her neck. Agnes paused for a moment. “Yes,” she finally said, hoping it sounded convincing. “Then you will,” Astarion said, leaning back against the cold wall behind him.

“How can you be so sure? What if your confidence is misplaced?” Agnes asked, pulling her knees close to her chest. “I’m rarely wrong,” he sighed, turning her to face him. “Besides, I know you. You won’t hurt me.” he said confidently. Agnes frowned, turning her back to him once more. Astarion sighed, pulling her closer again. He knew she wouldn’t hurt him on purpose, but he also knew that she didn’t always have control. If she did, Alfira would still be here. “You shouldn’t have to constantly watch your back around your partner. You shouldn’t have to worry that I’ll murder you in my sleep. That’s not fair to you,” Agnes started, moving to look at Astarion. “We should just end this now. Before it goes too far,” Agnes said quietly, leaning her head against her knees. “Are we really doing this again?” Astarion growled, leaning towards Agnes. She looked over at him, a wounded expression on his face. “I mean it, Astarion. I don’t want to hurt you,” she hissed, tears forming in her eyes. Astarion rolled his eyes, leaning back. “What, you think I’ll just disappear if you break up with me? Come now, darling. I told you, I’m not going anywhere.” Agnes let out a sigh, a small chuckle leaving her lips. “Gods, you’re stubborn,” she said as she looked up. Astarion smiled at her, a tear running down his cheek. Agnes leaned forward, wiping the tear from his cheek as he pulled her closer to him. “I waited 200 years for someone like you, I’m not letting you go that easy,” he sighed, burying his face in her hair.

“Fine, but you have to promise me something,” she said, suddenly serious again. Astarion pulled back to look at her, a somber look on her face. “If it happens again. If the Urges take over and you can’t restrain me,” Astarion cut her off, hugging her tight. “Promise me you’ll end me before I hurt anyone,” she said quietly as he held her. Astarion held Agnes tight, his mind reeling as he thought about what she was asking of him. Agnes pulled away from Astarion to look at him. He averted his eyes, trying to hide the tears beginning to form. “Remember that first night in camp? You asked me how I’d want you to do it,” she said quietly, pressing her forehead against his. He let out a laugh, wiping a tear with the back of his hand. “You said there were too many choices,” he laughed. He had called her dramatic at the time, he thought she must be insane. “A knife, clean across the neck,” she said quietly, looking into his red eyes. Astarion closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Promise me,” she whispered, placing her hand on his neck, caressing his bite scars. “Agnes, I can’t. Don’t ask this of me,” he pleaded, avoiding her gaze. “I trust you to make the right decision if the time ever comes,” Agnes said quietly. “Alright,” he replied, refusing to look at her. Agnes pulled back from Astarion, lifting his chin so he would look at her. His eyes were rounder than normal, sad. “I’ll keep fighting it, I’ll do whatever I can,” she reassured him. He nodded, his expression still somber. “Enough of the heavy stuff,” Agnes huffed, kissing Astarion on his nose. Astarion wrapped Agnes in his arms, holding her as tightly as he could.

[chrlxx]

I’m finally back from shadowban, but did not return empty-handed and brought you some kind of "review" of a historical novel I’ve just read because it was such fun that I can’t help but share it with some educated people and because I love nagging about historical inaccuracies.

🚨SPOILER ALERT🚨

The rest you will find under the cut

The book I’m talking about is Cinq-Mars by de Vigny. This novel was published in 1826 and is centred around the conspiracy of Louis XIII’s last favourite, Marquis de Cinq-Mars, against Cardinal de Richelieu. Cinq-Mars was the first important historical fiction in French and derived much of its popularity at the time from the enormous vogue of the novels of Walter Scott. After 1831, when Victor Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris was published, Vigny was pushed back from the first positions, and his Cinq-Mars was forgotten. At the same time, critics of subsequent eras state that from a purely literary point of view, Cinq-Mars is a much better work than Hugo's novel.

Since Henri d’Effiat is a main character, Vigny portrays him as a hero, a noble man surrounded by scoundrels and therefore doomed. Louis and Richelieu, on the contrary, are negative characters. If you want to get a better understanding of Vigny’s attitude towards them, take Dumas’ interpretation and multiply it, let’s say, by three — after that you will have a proper comprehension of their portrayal. I can’t resist providing one quotation, though: "the tyrant Richelieu, who does not cease to humiliate good old nobility and the parliaments, and to sap the foundations of the edifice upon which the State reposes".

But the biggest meme of this book is Father Joseph. Surprised? Me too. First, his character is so far from reality that it made me want to cry. I happened to read Huxley’s Grey Eminence right before this novel, so the contrast was…prominent. I was ready for many things, but not for Joseph eager to betray and poison Richelieu for a red biretta. Besides, the author does not describe him in a very pleasant way: "The monk looked upon the ground with the stupid eye of some base animal". Second, historical François Leclerc du Tremblay died in December 1638, before the events described in the book began. Lower the curtain.

Since I have already started talking about historical inaccuracies, I will continue with this topic. For some reason, Vigny likes to introduce characters who should be languishing in the Bastille or other prison at that time. The story begins in the summer of 1639 in the chateau of Cinq-Mars’ family. At the farewell dinner on the occasion of Cinq-Mars’ send-off — he is heading to Perpignan (which is under siege) to be introduced to the King — Marshal de Bassompierre is present. Real Bassompierre, however, was arrested back in February 1631, shortly after the "Day of the Dupes", and definitely wouldn’t have been able to participate in the occasion. But his arrest still takes place at the end of the first chapter. Besides, Marshal de Vitry and Duc de Puylaurens, who also appear in the novel, should have been incarcerated by then as well: Vitry was imprisoned in 1637, and Puylaurens — in 1635. The latter, by the way, died in Vincennes the same year, so his presence in the story becomes even more strange…

According to Cinq-Mars, many interesting things happened in 1639; so many that in reality it took circa 10 years. I have already mentioned Bassompierre’s arrest (1631) and the siege of Perpignan, which actually took place in 1641-1642, but this is only a small part. On his way to the King’s camp, Cinq-Mars passes through Loudun, where, surprisingly (or, perhaps, unsurprisingly?), the case of Urbain Grandier is in full swing. I’m not an expert in this particular field and cannot fully judge the accuracy of the events described (yet), but some details are historically correct, and some are definitely not. The most eye-catching is the fact that all this tremendous commotion actually began in 1632 and ended in 1634, not 1639. In a while, after Henri’s arrival to Perpignan, it turns out that Marie de Medici has already died. She was too hasty with this, I must say — it should have happened three years later, in July 1642. There are many many more minor inaccuracies, such as someone saying that the Long Parliament in England is still sitting when its session hasn’t even begun or Louis asking Richelieu why he hates Marie de Medici so much, as if it wasn’t Louis himself who sent her into exile for her constant intrigues. Or the premiere of Mirame, which takes place after the execution of Cinq-Mars, in September 1642, although in fact it was January 1641. Such an abundance of events in such a short time makes me think about how boring my life is.

Speaking of time, its passage in the book is very unique. The first chapter begins in 1639, and the fourteenth chapter with line "we will at once pass over the space of two hundred leagues and the period of two years" suddenly brings us to December 4, 1642. Math? No, never heard about it. What’s more, it is actually the date of Richelieu’s death, but the conspiracy against him hasn’t started yet. Then, the twenty-fifth chapter featuring execution of Cinq-Mars and de Thou begins with words "In the middle of a night of the month of September", but in the original french version the same line sounds like "Au milieu d’une nuit du mois de septembre 1642". One could chalk such strangeness up to misprint and claim that the 4th of December 1642 must be 4th of December 1641 — in that case everything makes sense. However, de Vigny points to December 1642 several times.

What I like most about this book is a list of King’s duties dictated by Richelieu, which, according to the author, has come down to us:

Lovely, isn’t it? The eighth one is definitely my favourite. Frankly speaking, I’d like to be in prime minister’s shoes myself…

Lastly, I would like to mark an amusing detail. In twenty-fourth chapter de Vigny makes an allusion to a famous phrase about six lines ("If you give me six lines written by the hand of the most honest of men, I will find something in them which will hang him"), which is frequently attributed to Richelieu. In Cinq-Mars, though, he says, "For four lines in a man’s handwriting he might be criminally tried".

In any case, this piece of literature is good in its genre and worth reading. If you’re not so familiar with the historical part, you won’t grumble about every single incorrect detail in the conspiracy and will even be able to enjoy the story… But still remember: Cinq-Mars was a bi—

[littlejuicebox]

Protect the flames from the wild winds

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Chapter number: Four

Themes: BG3, slow burn, original female character x astarion, dialogue heavy, mostly canon behavior, angst, gore

Masterlist: Click here.

Song inspiration: “Icarus" -- Bastille

Notes: Oof. Battle scenes are hard. I know this is a little shorter than the other chapters but wow it was a lot of moving parts to keep track of! Leave a comment if you have a suggestion or any feedback. :)

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The smell that confronted them outside the tent was vile; a swirling, dizzying aroma that was both metallic and saccharine. Astarion's stomach lurched as he broke through the tent, but he ignored the nauseating sensation, shifting his focus to towards the center of the campsite.

Bright rays of early morning sun assaulted their vision, a break in the gray clouds allowed the first rays of daylight to blaze into their shelter. The soil was caked in thick wads of mud and debris; it was clear last night's storm had done its fair share of damage. Deep pockets of water were spaced throughout the camp, and Astarion lamented the hostile terrain, which proved to be horrible for either travel or battle.

Karlach was positioned near the middle of their tents, her large fists bunched, no weapons on her person; Scratch was beside her, hackles raised, still emitting a rumbling warning to their intruder. A quick glance around the area revealed that a cautious Gale and Wyll were present, both hanging further back from the intruder, expressions laced with confusion and casting hands held at the ready. Lae'zel and Shadowheart were, notably, nowhere to be found.... a curiosity for another time. Just in front of the silver-haired elf stood Wren, her scimitar held low in her dominant hand.

Astarion gripped at the hilt of his own weapon as his scarlet eyes narrowed towards the stranger in their midst. What gall this man must have, to walk into a circle of unknown tents so brazenly.

"Ah... hello fellow wanderers. Forgive the aroma." The man stood, only a few paces between the tiefling and himself. His body was stock-still as he eyed the other party members. "And, apologies for the poor first impression." He added with a humorous smile flashed their way; his hands were lifted, fingers wriggling to show he wasn't holding a weapon.

"Enough with the apologies, mate! Who the hells are you and what do you want?" Karlach's enraged voice was an acute contrast to the good-natured tone she always favored with her campmates. Subconsciously, Astarion admired the full power of her intimidation and her innate ability to wield both sides of her nature -- a lion in a sheep's costume around her friends. Wren remained stoic as she expertly navigated herself around the sinkholes, focused on pushing herself closer to the center of camp. Her honey eyes kept flashing between the red woman and the burly, long-haired man; the vampire could feel the wheels turning inside the little bird's head... she was formulating a plan and running a million scenarios through her mind all at once.

"Gandrel. My name is Gandrel. And I swear I mean you no harm... I am simply passing through. I am need of assistance with my hunt and hoping to find aid from the hag of these bogs... if I can afford her blood price, that is."

The sharp chortle that exploded out of the ranger ripped Astarion's attention away from the stench-riddled man. Wren hissed, voice full to the brim with vitriol, "What a fool you must be... both to walk into our camp as if it belongs to you and to seek out a hag."

The ranger's scarred lip was curled into a sneer unlike anything Astarion had witnessed from her during their travels. He felt the fury and distaste radiating off of the half-elf as she spat out her words. Wren had quickly crossed the camp with expert footwork and she had positioned herself to face the intruder nearly head on. Karlach remained fixed in the same position, muscles coiled like springs, waiting for Wren's next move.

Gandrel nodded his agreement with a wry smile. He did not seem interested in taking on a group when he was so heavily outmatched. 'Smart man...' Astarion thought, head cocked as he watched the encounter play out.

The long-haired hunter rolled Wren’s insults off his shoulders and continued, calmly. "It is true. Hags are dangerous... and tricky. But I am afraid my trail has run dry and the task I have at hand is quite urgent... I am hunting a vampire spawn."

As the burly man revealed his target, the parasites in everyone's minds reared their bodies in unison, their offense soaring through the group in a domino effect. Gandrel takes the silence from the group as a signal to continue on with his explanation. “I am on strict orders to return him to Baldur's Gate and—AGH YOU BITCH!—“

The vampire's red eyes caught the glint of a blade just as a deafening howl of pain rang through the bog. To his surprise, Wren stood practically on her tip toes, holding the hilt of dagger in her non-dominant hand (where had she been hiding that?). The barbed edge of her blade was lodged soundly in the Gur's eye, and she twisted the hilt of her blade violently, grinding it further down into the depths of his socket. The brunette woman's scimitar simultaneously burred a hole into the man's abdomen with a sickening squelch.

Ribbons of red shot out of the intruder's newly opened orifices as he roared through his pain in a flurry of curses. Wren may have had the element of surprise, but it was quickly apparent that she was no match in physical strength or close-combat prowess when compared to the outsider. The large man tackled the ranger to ground with a crack — 'Her bones or his?' — and his mammoth hands drew desperately around her face.

The Gur's strength was enhanced by a potent mix of agony and adrenaline, exploding him into a fit of violent rage, Wren his only target. One thumb was lodged firmly in the brunette woman’s right eye socket with ease and the other giant paw held her chin in a vice-like grip. The burly male smashed Wren’s head haphazardly into the ground below, sprays of blood salting the earth; the blade that had taken purchase in his eye clattered to the ground. Wren still clung to her scimitar but was unable to wield it to her advantage while under the overpowering weight of the stranger.

Astarion shot forward with his dagger raised, but the mud-riddled terrain stuck to his legs and pulled him into an infuriatingly slow pace. He felt his anger ricochet through his body, cursing the bog and everything in it to the nine hells as he was forced to watch his female allies face the man’s wrath. The warlock and wizard anxiously studied the encounter, their keen eyes searching for an opening; both the spellcasters were painfully aware that they risked hitting one of their allies in such a close fight. For a brief moment, Gale's attention flicked to Astarion and he cast a longstrider spell towards the pale-elf, hoping to aid the rogue's advances. Day later, Astarion would reflect on the fact that it was the first time the wizard ever offered him a hand in battle.

The sturdy stranger landed a final, wrathful blow to Wren's face just as Karlach bulldozed into the Gur, knocking him prone. The female soldier straddled either side of the monster-hunter’s torso, pummeling him with her bare fists as she bellowed a war cry. Scratch lunged forward and grasped the stranger's forearm in his maw, ripping a chunk of flesh from limb.

The Gur grabbed Wren’s bloodied dagger from the ground and stabbed half-blindly at the dog; the blade sliced at the animal's maw and shocked it into retreat. Another swift strike to Karlach left the dagger securely fixed in the side of the tiefling's knee. That searing shock of pain halted the red woman’s onslaught just enough for Gandrel to toss Karlach aside and catapult himself back toward the brunette he'd marked as his quarry.

The ranger was back on her feet now, trails of blood leaking from her eye socket and the gaping wound near her temple. Her hair was caked with filth and crimson; she'd dropped the weapon she'd clung to moments ago. She was swaying, her vision blurred by the endless waterfall of blood coating her face. A sick, twisted smile spread across her mouth as she welcomed the Gur’s tackle, willingly crumpling like a ragdoll under his weight as he snapped his fingers around her neck.

Astarion finally made it to the center of camp, whispering a small prayer of thanks to the gods that never answered him for Gale's clever spellcasting. As the vampire readied his dagger to join the thrall, a burst of blue energy shot through the Gur, forcing a strangled scream from his bloodied mug. Wren echoed the outsider's cries, hands gripped around his beefy forearms. She was a conduit to the energy she’d summoned in her fury, and an overpowering crackle of electricity broke into buzzing fractals around the two.

The dense wetness of the swampland gave immense power to the lightening's current. A dome of jagged blue lines surrounded Wren and Gandrel; the electricity buzzed threateningly as it snapped its energy around the camp. Karlach made the mistake of reaching for the Gur and was punished with a jolt that knocked her prone. The Gur could no longer scream, now paralyzed in the half-elf woman’s grasp, but Wren was still hissing a groan of effort through clenched teeth. The ranger was exhausting all of her energy with the force of her spell, and all at once the azure streaks of lightening reverberated through the sky and dissipated. The Gur's body was still situated over her frame as her arms dropped with a squish into the bogland.

Astarion plunged the final few paces forward, using the opportunity to bury his dagger in the Gur’s throat as the outsider’s body shuddered with aftershock. An agile removal and snappy reinsertion of the blade, followed by a satisfying slice of flesh, and the vampire deftly severed the stranger’s jugular. Blood sprung forth in a foaming cascade of ruby, and the Gur choked out his final, strangled cry. The vampire shoved the threat’s limp body to the side in an effort to relieve Wren of the Gur’s weight. When Astarion turned to his companion, he nearly vomited the meal she'd given him last night up at sight of her. A pool of ichor and muddy water lay beneath her, brown and pink swirling in a filthy basin of water. The little bird appeared unconscious and unaware of the victory; her face full of burgundy, blue, and brown. Her right eye was imperceptible through the well of blood that sat in the socket; the left side of her face was caked crimson and swelling profusely.

“Get up, damn you!” The silver-haired elf gripped at Wren's shoulders. He shook her violently in his desperation to return her awareness to their plane of existence. The woman's head lolled sickeningly until Wyll’s hands grasped Astarion's arms and pried him, with much effort, away from Wren.

“Astarion! Stop! Get a hold of yourself, you’re going to hurt her.” Wyll shouted his plea. Astarion was clawing at the warlock’s insistent grasp, a string of empty threats escaping his mouth as he fought to make contact with Wren. Karlach and Gale both rushed to examine Wren while the pale elf hissed insults and threats through his fangs. The dam of panic seething inside burst without warning, and the rogue emitted a choked, agonizing cry. He continued to claw at the Blade of Frontiers, but Wyll remained steadfast.

"Please, Astarion." The warlock whispered, and finally, the vampire relented.

Shadowheart and Lae’zel tore through the treeline simultaneously, the unlikely pair making a dash for the heart of the group. Lae’zel holstered her blade when she realized the threat was neutralized, but quickly cast her gaze around the camp to assess if there were anyone coming to avenge the intruder. Shadowheart sank down in the muck and held her hands over the ranger, reverently reciting healing incantations.

Several painstaking minutes passed; everyone’s eyes were fixed on the limp body of their leader. Finally, Wren gasped a shuddering breath, and a blanket of relief covered the group. The little bird jolted in fear, reaching out to grasp whatever she could find. She desperately grabbed hold of Shadowheart’s wrist, fingers shaking. “Kol! Kol, I can’t see.” The confession was hushed with panic, the ranger's voice wavering at the end.

The entire group stood still, their relief sliding into unease as they watched the terror and pain overwhelm Wren. She was groaning, one hand clasped over her right eye. “Kol, gods dammit! Say something, I beg you!” She wailed in distress as tears began to stream from her left eye, narrowly escaping between bruised, bulged lids.

No one knew what to do in that moment but stand in a cloud of solemn silence and confusion. Mercifully, Gale mustered the courage to unleash a pink whisper of a spell upon the half-elf, knocking her into a slumber. She slumped against Shadowheart, and the group exchanged anxious glances, but no one dared to say a word... no one could think of what to say. After another breath of silence, Wyll released Astarion and moved to pick the ranger up. He carried her towards her tent, Shadowheart trailing closely behind and continuing her incantations.

Astarion remained on his knees in the mud for what felt like ages as he processed the entire battle. He stared at the blood Wren left behind, fingers dumbly grasping for where her schmitar lay beside him. The woman had been both captivating and terrifying in her uncharacteristic fit of rage. Up until this point, she was typically more inclined to stealth and tactical moves, attacking from the shadows or luring enemies to their death one by one. In most altercations, Karlach and Lae'zel had been in the forefront of the battle and Wren typically hung back, defending them with a well-placed arrow.

The vampire's head reeled. While she was terrifying in the center of battle rather than on the edges of it, her characteristic level-headedness tossed aside, she had been even more terrifying to Astarion in her panic. His gut rolled again as the flashes of her limp and bloodied body looped in his mind and he gagged, desperate to relieve the tormenting waves of nausea. Nothing came. Everyone rushed around him, tending to their own wounds or the wounds of their campmates, but the vampire couldn't make himself move.

Finally, Karlach came to him, offering a red hand to the pale elf. “Come on, soldier, let’s get you over to your tent. I think you just need to lay down for a bit.” She muttered, patting the elf's back with a strong but comforting hand as she hoisted him up. All Astarion could do was dumbly follow the tiefling woman as she walked him to his bed. Karlach was wincing as she bore weight on a still-tender knee and pushed him gently into the confines of his own tent... which he remembered he hadn’t even slept in the night prior. “Get some rest, mate. And then go check on your girl.” Karlach whispered, placing another small pat on the elf's back before she stumbled away.

'His girl? His… girl?' The sentence floated in the vampire’s head as he lay on his bedroll, too tired to move. His exhaustion from the restless night prior and the events of the morning forced the vampire into a trance. The words "his girl" echoed in his mind as he slept, the relentless chant lulling him through the merciful peace of sleep.

[frasers-of-my-heart]

Wednesday 100: Claire and Fergus wait for Jamie to return from the Bastile post-dinner brawl

Claire sat staring at the fire from one side of the chaise, while Fergus occupied the other.

“Milady?” Fergus finally broke the silence.

“Hm?” She barely focused her eyes on him.

“Milord will return soon, no? He is innocent…” he looked down to his lap, fidgeting with his fingers.

“I’m sure he’ll be home soon, darling, go rest.”

“No, I will stay right here beside you. Milord would never forgive me if I left you to wait alone.”

Claire smiled for the first time all night and pulled the boy down to her lap, looking down at both their children.

[ineffable-xenanigans]

Crowley hair studies: 1793

His hair at the Bastille is such a mystery. Who knows what's going on back there (besides a big-ass bow).

Also, this is my least-favorite page in this whole series.

Reference images

Source: quiteunlikely.net/screencaps/displayimage.php?album=654&pid=414252

Source: quiteunlikely.net/screencaps/displayimage.php?album=654&pid=414276

Source: quiteunlikely.net/screencaps/displayimage.php?album=654&pid=414277

Materials

Paper: Leuchtturm (120G Edition notebook)

Pencil: graphite (HB)