#far as civilisation is concerned

[psychotrenny]

It’s fucking insane to me how normal Yankee Liberals are about Hawaii. As in like the way they just treat it as an unremarkable fact that their nation controls the island. Like the annexation of Hawaii wasn’t just any old example of Settler-Colonialism, the subjugation of a decentralised non-urbanised people that could be just dismissed as mere “tribes” or what have you. Not to say that such forms of “typical” Settler Colonialism are any less abhorrent or disgusting, just easier to justify from a Liberal point of view. Easier to claim that they weren’t *really* using the land properly or that they were an hopelessly and eternally backwards who only really benefitted from their conquest or that they were doomed and dying anyway and their fate was a mere tragic inevitability not worth dwelling on or… Point is all these arguments are all wrong and stupid and cruel but they can serve well enough to downplay or justify such atrocities in the eyes of Imperial Core Liberals.

But like with Hawaii you don’t have that. The Kingdom of Hawai’i was a sovereign state that was internationally recognised as such by the Great Powers of Europe even at the very height of Western Imperialism. Literacy rates were high and compulsory education was introduced in 1841 (pre-dating the US by 77 years), healthcare was given to all Hawai’ian subjects free of charge, Christianity was dominant (so even the most ardent Imperialist couldn’t claim that the people were in the thrall of some “barbaric superstition” that necessitated the “civilising influence” of empire) and it had a well-developed Capitalist economy dominated by Sugar production.  Like even if we take the Western model of statehood as the be all end all of what separates the civilised from the savage (to be clear hear you really fucking shouldn’t, but many people do so for a second that’s the frame of reference we’ll employ) then Hawai’i was very much unambiguously the former.  But that didn’t stop the US from shamelessly interfering it’s politics Indeed those aformentioned markers of Western-Style “civilisation” and “development” came with the price of allow US missionaries and investors to settler in the islands and become very wealthy and influential. For decades the US used the threat of force to influence the policy decisions of the kingdom, going as far as to regularly send warships in a classic display of “gunboat diplomacy”. In 1887 a US settler militia called the First Honolulu Rifles staged a coup where they forced Kalākaua to accept a new Constitution that heavily favoured the interests of USamerican settlers who had grown very wealthy through their investment in sugar production on the island.  It stripped the Monarchy of much of its power and introducing requirements for voting that heavily favoured US settlers; re-introducing wealth/property requirements that were now higher than even, allowing resident aliens to vote and just outright banning any Asian immigrants from voting (which at that point had as much to do with plain racial hatred as it did to any acting threat they might have posed). This wasn’t enough for the Yanks and 6 years later a group of 13 US settlers known as the “Committee of Safety” outright overthrew the newly crowned Queen Liliʻuokalani when she refused to co-operate. It existed briefly as an “Independent” USamerican dominated republic before the US government decided to official annex it in 1898 (similar to what you saw with Texas or California).

While incredibly controversial at the time due to both strategic concerns with the annexation of ultramarine territories and some level of outrage at the shameless take-over of a sovereign nation (hence the time gap between the coup and the actual annexation), nowadays Yanks enjoy their control over the island without the slightest care in the world. They even turned it into a tourist destination, a heavily romanticised one that not only receives many millions of visitors every year but is constantly mentioned in the popular culture the US then proceeds to export all over the world, literally revelling in their land that is by literally any definition (even the most nakedly pro-imperialist) stolen. The land itself is severely exploited to the point of significant ecological damage, the indigenous peoples too are exploited as many of them live in poverty while US investors grow wealthy from their land and labour. Even their very culture is stolen and monetised, the most marketable parts bastardised into cheap kitsch and the rest of it left to rot, only kept alive through over a century of continued resistance from the indigenous peoples. It’s a very common story of course, but I think it stands out with how utterly ghoulish it is even under the most Liberal of consistently applied worldviews. It would be like if in say 2007 someone set up Disneyland in Bagdad. And yet by the vast majority of the US (and by extension the vassals states whose view of the situation is filtered through the lens of US media and propaganda) it isn’t seen that way. Hawaii is just the 50th state, the only state outside North America and in the tropics (hahaha ain’t that a neat little fact. Geography is so fun J), an island paradise perfect to visit with the whole family and yet still as American as Apple Pie. Even many self-described “progressives” talk about it in this way, at most mentioning the plight of the indigenous Hawaiians with minimal though as to how this situation came about. Like while the story of Hawaii is far from unique; even in terms of the US doing colonialism to Westernised peoples you examples such as the ethnic cleansing of the Five Civilised Tribes from the Eastern USA, it still stands out to me with the sheer level of international recognition and Western-style development that the Kingdom of Hawai’i possessed. Like it’s just such an obvious example of the naked greed at the heart of the USamerican empire, and how utterly bullshit talk of a “civilising mission” and “spreading democracy” is. No matter what they may claim, no matter what excuses they may trot out, Imperialist rapacity has no limits.

[mypearlsareclutched]

I Don't Wanna Do This Anymore

High By The Beach | Chapter Four

Modern!Aegon II x Original Female Character, Modern!Aemond x Original Female Character

Sometimes it is easier to run away instead of facing your fears. But while Mila is ready to give up on herself, a certain Targaryen has no intention of letting her fall apart...

There is a potentially triggering scene in this chapter which depicts attempted sexual assault. Please do not read if this will affect you. If you want a run down of what happens in this chapter, message me and I'll let you know what happens x

Song inspiration | High By The Beach, Lana Del Rey

CW//TW: Attempted Sexual Assault (MDNI), drinking, clubbing, smoking, Jason Lannister being a scheve, angst, Mila-Stark-is-going-through-it.com, girls night out, shots, ANGSTT.

Word count | 3.4k

previous chapter // next chapter

Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out, get out, GET OUT!

The thought kept her going as she ran through the trees. Darting and zigzagging, jumping over bumpy roots and rocks. Her ancient trainers were rubbing against her feet, her lungs were aching for reprieve, her skin breaking out into a sweat, but she kept going, running as far and as fast as she could. The trees were merely green blurs, the darkness no obstacle as pure instinct spurred her on.

Maybe if I run far enough, I can outrun my memories. Aemond and Aegon and the drugs and the Targaryens and everything wil fade into a scar you never pay attention to, something you only catch in your peripheral vision, and only then you pay it no mind.

Gods her legs burned. They began to tremble as she slowed down, her knees wobbling and failing her. As she collapsed, her hands fell flat, prickly sticks and jagged stones stabbed her palms, sending red hot pain into her frenzied mind.

Falling to her side, Mila took deep breaths, her lungs heaving. The world around her was dark, cold, silent.

A horn could be heard distantly, and Mila's eyes searched through the thick forest for any sign of civilisation. Blinking lights swam in her vision, a distant road coming into view. She did not remember standing up, the gods themselves could have lifted her for all she knew, and she took weak steps in the direction of the road.

It was a fairly busy motorway, plenty of cars careening back and forth, bringing Mila back to reality. Over a nearby hill, the cityscape of Kings Landing loomed. Freedom, familiarity...

Escape.

Practically throwing herself out of the trees, she ran to the side of the road, waving her arms frantically in an effort to get some good samaritan to offer her a ride. Or a serial killer, either is preferable to staying here in this godsforsaken forest.

Cars honk furiously, multiple drivers shout complaints and insults at the strange girl standing halfway in the road. A blue ford slows, their hazard light turning on. Mila rushes to the passanger window, leaning over to see inside.

"Good grief, are you alright?!" A middle-aged woman stared at her through thick rimmed glasses, looking tired but concerned.

"I'm... so sorry... I need a lift." Mila said between gasping breaths, "My... uh, my boyfriend, he's after me..."

The woman gasps, "Oh you poor dear... please, get in!" The car clicks and Mila pulls open the door, as soon as she sits and is buckled in, the woman begins driving, asking a million questions that Mila barely has the mind to answer.

Kings Landing, a metropolis full of luxurious bars, expensive restaurants, cultural landmarks, and opportunities to fuck your life up. Royally.

After half an hour of sitting in a strangers car, answering the occasional question and waving off the driver's insistence at going to the police, the city hospital comes in to view. "Can you drop me off here?"

"Of course." The woman stops the car just outside the entrance, giving Mila a worried look, "Will you be alright from here?"

"Yeah, this is great." The Stark lets out a shaky breath, giving the woman a sincere look, "Thank you again."

"Don't worry about it. I hope... I hope things get better for you."

"...Me too." With that, Mila exits the vehicle, sending a small wave to the woman before she drives off. As the car disappears around the street corner, Mila heads down the road, heading towards Flea Bottom.

A familiar apartment complex come into view, deep grey and grungy looking. As almost building in Flea Bottom did. An old section of Kings Landing, it was not known to be glamorous. But Mila wasn't currently in the market for glamour. Walking up the steep stairs towards the main door, Mila pressed the buzzer to apartment 202D, hoping that the woman she was looking for still lived there.

"Hello?" An energetic voice calls out, thick with static from the ancient intercom.

"It's Mila." She responds simply.

"No way, get up here!" The door buzzes, and Mila wastes no time slipping through and climbing the dingy stairs to the apartment.

Alysanne Martell opens the door, auburn-tinted curls bouncing as she looks her friend up and down. She's dressed for dancing, orange dress form-fitting, golden jewellery jangling with her movements.

"Mila? Where've you been, girl?" Aly asks, grabbing Mila into a hug, "Haven't seen you since you got with Blondie McStickuphisass."

"Yeah, life's been... yeah." Mila shrugs, sniffing.

"Baela said you were out of the city, did you just get back?" The Dornish girl looks her up and down, eyebrows furrowing.

"Hitchhiked here."

Alysanne's eyes widen, her eyebrows raising as she stares at Mila, "Shit... are you okay?" She rests a hand on Mila's elbow, offering comfort that Mila has no need for right now.

"All good." She nods, "Where are you headed?"

"Um, Madame Sylvies? The slutty club on Silk Street, you know the one with the cages and male strippers?"

It was quite a famous nightclub. Many people ventured there for the severe atmosphere, a dangerousness was in the air. Something that made people feel alive.

"I know it." Mila nods, bouncing on her feet, "Care to bring a She-Wolf?"

"Are you kidding? I'd be honoured!" Alysanne chuckles, before looking down at her frumpy clothes with a grimace, "You're not going like that, though."

By the time Alysanne had dressed Mila up, they were joined by at least a dozen other girls. Floris Baratheon had been shocked to see Mila, but had given her a big hug... and a bigger tab of ecstasy. As it started to hit, Mila began to loosen up, her body submitting to the sensations quickly, settling into the haziness like it was a pair of well worn boots.

Shots were downed, spliffs were smoked, and meaningless conversations were had. Mila took a moment to look in the mirror before they left, blinking at the girl looking back.

Alysanne had found a deep grey dress in her wardrobe, the classic colours of the Stark siblings. It was tight and showed off her tits, barely covering any skin so Mila paired it with Aegon's coat. A small comfort. The outfit was completed with silver jewellery, and fur lined leather platform boots. "If the She-Wolf is joining us and free from the leash of the Targaryens, she's going to need to look the part.", Alysanne had said.

Mila could admit, she looked fucking hot. Her hair was wild around her head, her makeup glittery and just the right amount of smudged. She was looking very Mila Stark pre-aemond. Druggie, tipsy, scandalous party girl.

The other girls whistled as she excited the flat, hooting and hollering at the appearance of the illustrious She-Wolf.

"Howl for us, wolf girl!" Ally Blackwood called out. Mila grinned as she howled, and the girls erupted in their own meows and woofs, a pack of wasted animals.

The She-Wolf is fucking back.

Madame Sylvie's was packed. Hundreds of sweaty bodies mingled around the club, downing drinks and dancing with strangers. Mila was stood to one side, her fifth drink in her hand as she watched the crowd with bleary eyes. More and more acquaintances had appeared, and she had reintroduced herself to dozens of people, feeling her need for social interaction dwindelling.

Time to shake my ass.

Grabbing the first decent looking man she saw, Mila headed to the dancefloor. Heavy bass pounded, a fog machine spurted out heavy clouds that surrounding the air and swallowed people up. The man she grabbed held her close from behind, his hands loosely on her hips as she swayed to the generic music.

It was soulless, being here. The drinks she had consumed brought her no joy, the ecstasy and weed gave her no relief. The man she danced with was no-one, faceless to her. The music was too loud all of a sudden, and she detangled herself from the person's embrace, hobbling over to her friends again.

"Feeling alright, hot stuff?" Alysanne asks, giving her a concerned look, "Don't tell me you're a lightweight now?"

"Don't insult me." Mila hiccups, blinking blearily, "Do you want to do a line?" Aly's eye's widen, reaching out a hand to steady Mila.

"Um-"

"Floris!" Mila calls out, and Floris' head turns, strawberry blonde curls bouncing, "Line?"

"Hell yeah."

Before long, Mila is crammed in a tiny club bathroom, watching as Floris uses her father's credit card to make pretty lines of white on the edge of the sink. Her hands shake, but she presses them to her waist, gnawing at her lip as she practically drools waiting for her turn. The Baratheon makes quick work of two, smiling giddily as she bounces on the balls of her feet.

Taking the rolled up receipt from Floris' manicured fingers, she leans down and quickly snorts the line, allowing the quick flush of euphoria seep into her mind. Colours burst, her energy increases, but it's not enough.

As Floris giggles and begins dragging her back out the stall, Mina sighs, "Gods... I need more." kicking the bathroom door, she follows after Floris' jittery form.

Her friend gets swallowed by the crowd almost immediately, the neon lights dizzying and the ocean of people making her sway in place. Her hands remain shaking, her head reeling as she blinks in the low light.

A man looks over at her from the bar, his eyes travelling the length of her body. He's handsome enough. Brunette, dark eyes, stubble across his jaw. Different enough to the Targaryen men.

Sidling up to him, the man gives her a smirk, "Hello, gorgeous."

"Hey." Mila smirks, resting her hand on the man's shoulder. He smiles wolfishly, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her to him.

"Get you a drink?"

"I'd really appreciate it." The stranger calls over the bartender, geting the pair of them shots of tequila that disappear as soon as they arrived. After a few more, Mila is practically draped across the man, letting him kiss down her neck as his hands wander down her back.

Someone familiar pops into view, and Mila's eyes widen as she meets the eyes of Jason Lannister. He smirks, walking over to her. She gently pulls the stranger off of her, giving him a smile, "One of my friends is over there, I'll be back in a second."

"Sure." He slurs, nodding as he reaches for his next shot.

By the time she abandons him, Jason is in her personal space, his beady eyes meeting hers. Mila practically jumps on him, clinging to him like a raft in the ocean. Because right now, this is not a person in front of her.

It's an opportunity to get high again, properly high. To make it all go away.

“Jason, I need a hit, please.” Mila begs, grasping onto the fabric of his jacket.

“Aw, sweetie, of course I can help you.” Jason leans forwards, pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, “But baby, you’re gonna have to work for it this time, okay?”

Mila nods, desperation in her veins as she leans into the Lannister's touch, paying no mind to his malicious smile. His hand wraps around her jaw possessively, white teeth gleaming as he nips at her cheekbone. Mila lets him drag her back through the crowd, having just enough sense to grab Aegon's coat from the cloak room before she is pulled by Jason out into the night.

"Come on, gorgeous, let's get you high." He murmurs into her ear as he pulls her along.

The bald doorman gives her a strange look as she is pulled into the dilapidated crack den Jason frequents. A week ago, she had been here getting her first hit since she was fifteen, and now she's back, but being pulled in past the rusty doorway into the dim light of the corridor.

It's near empty, a few vices can be heard from adjoining rooms. Jason says nothing as he pulls her along by her wrist. With bleary eyes, she looks back at the bald man, who watches them both with beady eyes until they disappear into a room.

Jason shuts the door behind them, smirking as Mila sways slightly.

"Why don't you sit down, sweetheart." He murmurs, grabbing hold of the lapels of her coat and tugging it off of her. Mila groans at the sudden disappearance of Aegon's comforting smell, hands feebly going to grab the coat back before her head swims and she stumbles back.

She's way drunker than she thought. And the weed, molly and coke has definitely affected her more than she realised at the club.

"Jason... I don't think I want to do this anymore." She says softly, confused as Jason continues to push her backwards. The backs of her knees collide with a leather couch, and she falls over on to it with a grunt. Jason simply chuckles, taking off his jacket and kneeling over her on the couch.

Panic grips her, and she becomes more alert as he looms over her, his hands dragging over her body.

"Stop..." Mila weakly says, trying to kick the Lannister away. He remains undeterred, laughing bitterly as he runs a hand through her messy hair.

"No, I don't think I will." He bites, "You remember the drill, sweetheart, I gave you that last hit for free, knowing you would come back. Have you forgotten how this works?" His hands drift down her ribcage, the weight of his fingers feeling slimy against her clothed body.

"I don't want to. Get the fuck off of me!" Mila shouts, pushing at his chest as he forces his weight fully on top of her.

"Lannister." The bald doorman walks in, freezing as he spots Jason sprawled on top of a struggling Mila. He averts his eyes, clearly uncomfortable, "Uh... some guy is here to talk to you."

"Tell him to fuck off, Jon, I'm busy!" Jason commands, returning his face to Mila's neck. She whines and tries pushing him off.

Jon looks at the pair, his face conflicted before he turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him, the finality of it sending further panic through Mila.

"If you keep struggling, this will be way worse for you." Jason grits out, grabbing her calves and wrangling them around his waist. Mila smacks his chest, clawing at his face until he backhands her, making her see stars.

"Stop!" Mila slurs, feeling him take her wrists into one of his hands, pressing his body impossibly close to her as he groans.

Mila looks away, staring at the blackened tiles of the storeroom, her body shuddering and tears falling down her cheeks as Jason's hands begin push her dress up. Distantly, a door slams open, banging against a wall.

"You fucking bastard!" Someone shouts.

Something breaks, heavy footsteps erupt around her and Jason begins making a spluttering, choking sound. His weight is tugged off of her as she tries to catch her breath. She blinks blearily, trying to see through her tears and her foggy mind. Her jaw drops as she takes in the scene across the room.

An arm is wrapped around Jason's neck, holding him in a chokehold as Jason goes red and struggles against his assailant. A flash of silvery hair can be seen, and Mila breathes a sigh of relief.

Aegon shoves Jason away, sending the man to his knees, coughing and retching.

Trying to sit up, Mila looks to the open doorway. Bald Jon stands in the doorway, looking out in the hallway as if nothing is happening.

"Fucking Aegon fucking Targaryen." Jason groans, his voice hoarse. Mila looks over at him, shivering and shuddering at his murderous, soulless eyes. "Should have known your junkie ass would get a little junkie girlfriend. Guess your brother decided to be done doing charity! You know as well as I do that you put a little dope in her veins and she'll let you do whatever you want to her-"

Aegon silences him with a kick to the nose, sending blood spurting out over his boot and Jason's face as the Lannister screams in pain, curling up into a protective ball. Turning to look at her, Aegon's eyes soften.

"Come on, Mila, let's go." Aegon murmurs, taking a tentative step towards her as to not frighten her.

She lets out a soft sound, allowing him to wrap his arms around her and pull her up, wrapping her in his arms. She holds onto him like a koala, burying her face into the comfort of his neck.

"I've got you, I've got you..." Aegon says, holding her with one arm as he grabs his coat with the other, his crocs squeaking on the tiled floor.

As they leave the room, Aegon nods to Jon. Over Aegon's shoulder, the bald man gives Mila a look.

"I've got a daughter about your age." He says softly, before clicking his teeth and storming back down the hallway, ignoring the sounds of Jason Lannisters pained groans.

It's raining when the pair of them exit the dilapidated building.

Thunder rolls ahead, as thick drops of rain pitter patter around them. Aegon lingers under the shelter of an overhead fire escape, shacking out his coat and wrapping it around Mila's shaking body, covering her head.

He jogs over to a car, a rickety looking thing the colour of the sea. He fumbles slightly as he unlocks it, opening the passanger door and gently sitting Mila down in it. He helps her put her arms through her coat, not before checking her forearms for fresh needle marks. When he finds none, he gives her temple a quick kiss, pulling the coat snug around her. The rain drenches him as he does this, put he pays no mind to it.

When he shuts her door, Mila sits in silence. She watches Aegon walk around the car, his white blonde hair sticking to his skull as he darts through the onslaught. The muffled noise of the rain and nearby traffic makes Mila's head spin, and she wraps her armsa round herself protectively.

"Gods, fuck, seven, shit..." Aegon mumbles as he practically dives into the driver's seat, shaking his head like a dog before he takes a shuddering breath, looking out the windshield.

He seems distant for a second, breathing heavily as his eyes dart around, like a frightened animal. He flinches, remembering Mila is next to him, and turns to her.

Slowly, he reaches a hand forwards, aware of her fragile state. She allows him to place his hand on her cheek, offering a small, soothing gesture as she shakes. A small sob escapes her, and Aegon quickly busies himself with turning the car on and truning on the flimsy heaters.

"Gonna take a while to get warm, this car is a heap of shit. Sorry, Mila." Aegon chuckles nervously.

Mila looks at him, her eyebrows creasing as she takes in his appearance. "Are... are you in your pyjamas?" She asks shakily, looking down at his joggers, sleeping gown and neon crocs.

"I may or may not have ran after you without putting much thought into my outfit, sue me." He murmurs, taking her hands in his and blowing on them to warm her up.

They sit in silence for a moment. Aegon focuses on warming her hands up, eyes distant as he rubs at her numb flesh, and Mila watches him with sad, scared eyes.

"I can't go back there." She sobs, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, "Please, Aegon, I can't go back."

Aegon's eyes rise to look at her, his face illuminated by the streetlights, shadows cast by raindrops freckle his pale skin. He nods, swallowing thickly as he turns his attention back to the street outside.

"Okay. Okay, we won't go back." He says softly, his thumb absentmindedly stroking over her knuckle. He ponders for a moment, gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

Then, his eyes light up, and a small smile appears on his pouty lips. He turns the car on, giving Mila a self-assured smile.

"I know where we can go."

AN// Guys the love and support I have been getting for this fic is actually amazing, thank you all so much for your likes, reblogs, comments and messages <3

Lula x

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER SEVEN: LAMB

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the seventh chapter in the series

---

The kitchen is a quiet chaos— Hannibal standing over the hob, his beautiful hands precise at their work, Will slouched, sulking prettily against a countertop, looking into the bottom of a wine glass.

His temper billows about the room. It's a wonder anyone can breathe through such smoke.

You hover at an anxious distance, afflicted by delectable smells and the scar of what you’ve done. Shame beats, eviscerated, under the boards of you; you chose to taunt and then to touch Will Graham, a conscious participant in this play of a poisonous home.

If your hosts were to give you but a minute apart from them you’d chastise yourself for your abasement: three stiff, sweat-inducing planks, a lap of your room, a prison yard exhaustion.

But they keep you under their eye, knowing, like a child, you’d surely run to burn your hand on the stove.

“How do you want me to be around him?” you ask, as Hannibal tastes a truffle sauce with a look of indecision. “Your Agent Crawford. He doesn’t know about us, does he?”

“As I have assured you, it is between you, Will, and I,” Dr Lecter answers. “Therefore, as far as any visitor is concerned, you remain my patient. That is all.”

How easily you are expected to step from one evanescent role to the other. Should your tongue slip, you may damn him and Will both, yet you know Hannibal is without fear as surely as though you had your fingers to his wrist, timing the pulse of his slow calm.

“And what am I to Will today?” you ask.

“A ward, of sorts, for now.”

The word conjures images of chill cells, bed pans, wilful neglect. Something Victorian in its sensibilities.

“A ward,” you repeat. “Right.”

In the peripheries of vision Will sets down his glass with an icy clink.

“Are you intending to be civilised at dinner," he asks, "or do we have to prepare for another devolution into infantile behaviour?”

You’d expected Will to be smug, glutted from his fill, but your mouth upon him has only calcified his antagonism into some crueller compound, still. He does not like that he has taken pleasure from you, is in denial of it, a steadfast separation.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” you say. “I never know what’s going to happen. Usually I’m... not myself.”

Will folds his arms in an impassable cross.

“You’re not being medicated tonight. Your actions will be your responsibility.”

The prospect of sobriety has little power to cheer. You’d rather the drooling oblivion of a dose over the chess match of having to divine the correct answer and micro-expression to every aside.

Intuiting your distress, Hannibal says, “You'll be eating from a slightly different menu to the rest of the table. Light portions, with attention to your safe foods.”

In disbelief, you take stock of the simmering pans, their contents once the meat of your routine.

“My... my safe foods,” you repeat. “But I didn’t even tell you what they were.”

What should comfort holds the sinister weight of interred dead, so familiar as to be uncanny.

“I have observed your preferences,” says Dr Lecter. “Thus, I am able to accommodate.”

He offers you a spoon to taste, which you decline.

“You’re making it easier for me to stick to my old ways,” you point out. “That doesn’t seem right. What’s going on?”

“I’m allowing you space to devote your energy to an unexpected social situation. I know they are not your strong suit, and I wish you to be relaxed. It will benefit us all.”

There is no pretence here of pure intentions; you acknowledge the respect that has been awarded to you in the absence of a lie.

“Thank you,” you say. “Could you do this... more, please?”

“If you continue to fulfil your role satisfactorily, yes.”

Hannibal glances at Will, whose breath of harsh laughter pars the conversation like a shank, short and sharp.

“You remain against her, then.”

“I don’t see that she has any genuine interest in evolving,” says Will, as though you are not there. “Just a cuckoo in an empty nest.”

The phrasing catches like a coat on brambled hedgerow. Alert, you examine your younger captor, interpreting the set of his harsh look.

“What are you to each other, really?” you ask.

“Friends,” says Will, bluntly.

The speed with which he speaks betrays a not-quite lie, a sentence with a postluding clause.

“We are aesthetes of an uncommon kind,” Dr Lecter interjects, over a pearl string of steam. “It adds dimension to our relationship few will ever perceive. In time, I expect you will.”

The kitchen, though of minimal colour—greys, black, pure, clinical white—develops a peculiar warmth. There is invitation, here, open-armed acceptance into domesticity, and whatever midnight cabal weds these two men in their brotherhood.

“I don’t think you want me,” you say, as Hannibal rinses cutlery at the sink. “I’m not interesting. I don’t talk like you. I don’t really understand art, or books, or poetry. I’m not even smart.”

Will’s head turns, the sly incline an eel from a cave mouth.

“Hannibal tells me you were academic, once. What happened?”

Seldom do you care to recollect your school days, which were lived painfully, as a mute ghost at the back of the class.

Attempts to decipher screens and pages through tears that had fallen without sound, and were, thus, philosophically inexistent. Whispers passed down through seated rows. Meetings with teachers and welfare staff on seats of poster blue plastic, your foot shaken against scuffed tiles in soothing motion.

The books and television series you’d once absorbed with eager voracity were parched of their appeal, by then. Your only reading was the secretive message boards into which you’d recessed like a forest to band with others of your starving ilk.

Such memories, and others arise to you. Your grades you can less easily recall.

“I’m only good at one thing anymore,” you say, aloud. “And I’m not allowed to do it here.”

Hannibal begins stacking washed dishes back into the cupboard, undeterred by your ceaseless denial.

“We will not chastise you for your simplicity. The palate can be developed, after all.”

“And not just for the food,” says Will. “Though that would be a start.”

“What if I embarrass you in front of Jack?” you ask; you’re losing this argument, and continue it only to prolong your defeat.

“Jack isn’t easily embarrassed,” says Dr Lecter. “Besides, he has been adequately prepared. You may rest in your room before dinner, little one. Sleep can do wonders for the appetite.”

He walks you to the kitchen door with a subtle insistence— like Will, he yearns to be alone.

Mumbling thanks that border on sincere, you make your egress via the stairs, glad to leave the kitchen and its tiers of expectation in your wake.

Passing Hannibal’s room, you find the door stood ajar. Curiosity draws you in, then, not to the bed—a symbol of tragedy—but to the conjoined bathroom, it, too, unlocked.

It is larger than your own, though similarly tiled in ivory and obsidian; there is a bathtub elevated on ornate feet, a shower walled in opaque glass, a sink with toothbrush and paste arranged like trophies, each surface of a bleached, crystalline sheen.

On the floor lies a set of scales, an oblong of clearest glass.

You had known that he would have one in the house, a man so fastidious in hygiene and health. Standing flat against one wall, you tilt your head, listening for an approach on the stairs, a change in the direction of the voices beneath.

When you are convinced of your privacy you strip of every garment and stand upon the scales, your hands braced at your sides in anticipation.

Even before the numbers flash on the mite screen you know that you’ve gained weight, have felt the itching progress of it across your hips and stomach.

The figure, as you glance down, is far higher than anticipated. Were it not imperative to be silent, you would scream.

You settle to hit yourself, instead, closed-fisted blows into your temple, left to right; only your reflection in the bathroom mirror stays your hand, a corpulent rendering of flesh.

This image has always shifted, for you, between your mental interpretation and its reality. Now they are one and the same, and you will never forgive your kidnappers for having altered your sight, as well.

Whose eyes have they given you, to make out this monster? One each of their own— you close the lids, and see the red of meat in the darkness behind them.

Later, when you return, dressed and sleep-dulled, to wait for dinner, you practice such restraint over your emotion that the effect is a noiseless hysteria. Catching sight of your face in any polished surface reveals a sickly visage, eyes bright and excitable, the skin dull, as of the grave.

Will regards you with a default scepticism, venturing no word. Hannibal, instantly perceptive, takes hold of your face in his cool hands and looks into your eyes.

“Is there something the matter?” he asks, and there is glass under the suede of his soft voice, a cutting menace.

There is a rap upon the door, and Dr Lecter steps free of you to answer. He returns shortly, followed by a man you recognise from the news, broad shouldered in a casual suit. His hair is closely cut, a trimmed goatee on a face that would have been handsome, in youth, and is presently so, though worn between the brows from the stress of his work.

“Good to see you, Will,” says Jack, shaking the younger man’s hand and pulling him into a half embrace. “You look well. Been taking care of yourself, I hope.”

Will smiles. His face is briefly pleasant, the dour mouth creasing at the corners.

“As well as I can,” he says. “The dogs keep me active.”

“Nice to hear you’re still running with the pack,” Jack replies. “How are the little rascals?”

You wait for the smalltalk to end, filing away what information sifts through that may be of note.

At last Jack turns to you, taking your hand lightly in his.

“So I finally get to meet you. Hannibal’s told me all about you, you know.”

A falsified minimum, you think.

Aloud, you ask, “He has?”

“Just enough,” says Dr Lecter. “Now, I must be temporarily rude and make myself scarce; I have unfinished work awaiting me in the kitchen.”

Jack releases your hand.

“Point taken,” he says. “Let's move this conversation to the dinner table, shall we?”

To your relief, once all are seated Jack manoeuvres the subject tactfully away to other things. The men speak of the weather—"I don’t care what anybody says; we don’t need that much rain this side of the Great Flood"—Jack’s wife—who is mortally ill, and immeasurably loved—and of mutual friends, whose names and various details you struggle to map in your ignorance of their world.

You eat with little attention to what crosses your lips; the day, in that aspect, is spoiled, and you cast it from you like a fruit’s rotten core.

Though Jack and Hannibal both attempt to include you in the chatter at points, you do not care to. There is the feeling of being presented to Jack like a shrewdly bargained for article of rare furniture; any comment from you is performance for these men to digest and enjoy, as they do all at this table.

It is Dr Lecter, however, that successfully extracts your opinion on a topic of his choosing. With an ingenuity that renders the shift in topic almost organic, he addresses his colleagues on the matter of their latest case.

“Surely our man will be on the move again,” he says, lifting a shred of lamb to his lips. “He may already be grooming his next subject.”

“He is,” says Will, flatly. “I’ve spent enough time thinking like him to know his heartbreak over losing the last one won’t last long.”

Jack raises his eyebrows, turning from one man to the other with a look that suggests he is almost as nonplussed by their union as you are.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to discuss this in front of your patient, Dr Lecter? The details of this case are particularly disturbing, as you already know. Will showed you photographs from the crime scene.”

“Indeed he did,” says Hannibal. “I will not easily forget it. However, as long as my guest resides under my roof I believe it’s only fair that she is involved in general discussion. Confidential matters of the case will, of course, be between us. But anything that is public knowledge I believe she has the right to know.”

“Fodder for Tattle Crime, you mean,” Will interjects, stabbing at his meal with spiteful vigour. “Freddie Lounds has covered these particular murders with a lurid relish. You’re aware that she’s already named the killer?"

Jack chuckles.

“'The Silicone Lover,'” he says. “It certainly lacks poetry in comparison to some of the others that are being thrown around, but it’s got that Lounds touch. It’s catchy, I’ll give her that.”

You drop your fork upon your plate with a jarring clash of steel and porcelain. Hannibal’s face stills in subtle displeasure, and you make a cringing gesture of apology, your mouth puckered at one corner.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” you say, “but... I remember reading about that case. I’ve always been kind of interested in true crime. I don’t know why. Books, documentaries, all that stuff; I’ve seen them all. But this killer— he’s in my city. Everybody’s been talking about it.”

It’s the most conversation you’ve volunteered all evening, and you sense the interest of your fellow guests open to you like a late bloom.

“I hope you’ve been taking precautions, young lady,” says Jack, bringing his knife to a pat of oozing meat until his plate is a bloody eclipse. “You’re aware you fit the profile of his victims.”

You stutter out an uncomfortable laugh.

“I... I don’t go out much. So I’ve been okay.”

Even before your captivity you’d been a recluse, dissuaded from venturing outdoors by an aversion to being perceived. Short, rushed jaunts to the store had been the sum of your travels, and it occurs to you now that you should have savoured the world beyond the house: the grumbling traffic, the turned dirt scent of rain, all of it, everything. The beautiful mundane.

“Staying indoors won’t keep the Silicone Lover from making you his paramour,” says Will, shortly, one arm flung in a mode of disdain across the back of his chair. “His targets always let him into their homes willingly, and there are no defensive wounds, suggesting he makes himself known to his victims some time before he abducts them. He always gets close enough to either drug or hit them over the head without suspicion.”

“I know,” you say. “I’ve read Tattle Crime, too.”

Will sneers.

“Of course you have. She’s a provocateur. Just your type.”

“Tell us what you know of this case, then,” Hannibal says to you, smoothly diffusing the tension. “Perhaps we will benefit from a fresh perspective, especially from an individual so closely fitting the profile of those unfortunate victims.”

He looks at Agent Crawford, seeking an unspoken permission.

“Go ahead,” says Jack. “As long as you feel up to it, that is.”

His voice softens as he speaks to you, and you think of his wife, folding slowly into the ravening void of cancer. This is a man who understands illness, and has a sensitivity for it; it comforts you, to have him here, obscured though his view of his friends.

Offering Jack a shy smile, you say, “I’ll be alright. It’s just that I don’t want to put anyone off their food.”

There is laughter around the table; even Will smirks, though the expression falls as he catches you looking. You wonder again at his distaste for you, surmising with a coolly adult rationality that he is jealous of you having come between him and his mentor.

“Well?” says Will, with the rudeness of a spoiled prince. “What’s the Lover’s modus operandi?”

You catch Jack’s dark eyes squinting a fraction, and though he says nothing you rally at the knowledge that he has not entirely succumbed to Will and Hannibal’s spell.

“The dead girls are always found in rivers around the city,” you say, “sealed inside hollowed out rubber dolls. You know the kind I mean. The killer cuts open the dolls and mutilates the women to fit them inside, then seals them back up again. Keeps them in there till they suffocate, or starve to death.

Some of the women die within hours, others a few days. They must be so scared, in so much pain. But obviously that’s what he wants. Every three months or so he does it all over again.”

“Meaning we don’t have long before he takes a seventh lover,” says Will. “Fortunately for you, staying here will protect you, to an extent. You’re too far out of the killer’s hunting range for him to take an interest.”

“Can’t keep the princess locked up in her tower forever,” says Jack, cleaning his hands on a napkin. “We'd better hurry up and catch him. Now, if you’ll all excuse me—”

He rises from his seat; a bathroom visit, you realise, and an opening to speak to him alone.

Thinking quickly, you reach for your water glass and dash it across your lap. Your hand is shaking enough for the accident to seem convincing.

Both remaining men glance up from the table, startled. Will all but rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” you say, in a grovelling squeak. “I’ll go and change, if that’s alright.”

Dr Lecter, as always, is crisply polite.

“You may go. But hurry. Our guest will expect you to return.”

For once, Will makes no comment, only returns to his food with the reverence of accepting the wafer at communion.

You pad along the corridor towards the downstairs bathroom, waiting for Jack to emerge. From what you know of Hannibal’s close relationship with the police you cannot rest your hopes of escape entirely on Agent Crawford, but you have seen the occasional teeter of trust, the unspoken perplexity with which he regards the dynamics of the household.

You may yet sway his sympathies, if you are careful. Still, you are so certain of failure that you tremble with mirth, like a drunk.

Jack steps out of the bathroom, stopping short as he notices you wincing in the shadows.

“Hey, there. Are you alright? You look a little green around the gills.”

“Agent Crawford,” you say, in a half-whisper. “I was wondering if you could help me. You know Will and Hannibal pretty well, right?”

“It’s Jack when I’m not working. And, uh, reasonably so, I’d say. Is something wrong?”

You pause, labouring over your response. To imply your wardens are the enemy will surely strike Jack as too outlandish, the mumblings of the mad.

“This treatment isn’t right for me,” you say, rather weakly. “It’s too much, and I don’t think they’re really listening to me. I miss my parents, my own room. I’m suffocating here. I was wondering if you could talk to Will and Dr Lecter. Encourage them to let me go home.”

Jack’s dark eyes soften, and he stoops slightly over you, as he might in order to speak to a small child.

“Dr Lecter told me you might ask me that. The road you’re on is a tough one, young lady, but you’ve got to stick it out. Not just for yourself, but for everybody who cares about you. Besides, I’m pretty damn sure Will and Hannibal would be disappointed to see you go home so soon.”

You turn your head into your shoulder, your neck caught in a miserable spasm.

“Will doesn’t like me at all.”

“That’s just the way he is. Prickly with just about everyone he encounters. Imagine the strain on me, having to keep him in line.”

You do laugh, then, and Jack flashes you a gap-toothed grin.

“He’ll warm up to you. Though to be honest, I don’t know why Hannibal’s getting Will involved in all this when he already has enough on his plate. Between work and those episodes of his, I don’t know if he ought to take on too many other responsibilities. But I guess Dr Lecter knows what he’s doing.”

Episodes?

You’d noticed Will’s fits of illness, a certain fragility; to hear it confirmed is a gold coin in your hand to spend in the future to come.

“I’m going to head back to the table,” says Jack. “Let’s give all this a little more time. If it doesn’t work over the next couple of months I might put a word in for you, suggest therapy sessions over inpatient treatment. But I can’t push it, kid. You’re not my patient. I can’t overstep the line, here. But I’m on your side. You keep up what you’re doing, alright?”

He leaves you there, knuckling tears from your eyes. Regretting that you hadn’t spoken the truth, in all its risk.

*

You go to your room, meaning only to dress. In the end you cannot resist returning to Hannibal’s scales on the way back, called by a manic self-flagellating urge to know much further weight you’ve gained from the meal.

You are not free, will never be free, are worth nothing but numbers. They've become all you are.

It’s as you’re stepping, naked, stupid with despair onto the scale that you hear a voice behind you.

“You must learn to restrain these impulses, little one.”

You turn so sharply that something strains in your neck again. Your hands strive to cover your nakedness. A futility, considering what he has seen, that he has fucked you.

“I assume that you have also spoken to Jack Crawford,” says Hannibal. “Pleading your case to be released. How naughty you have been.”

How handsome he looks, almost young, in the tasteful bathroom light. There is something like death in his sudden beauty, a void coldness.

Terror, a stake of ice from throat to cunt.

He means to kill you, if not now, then soon.

You know of only one way he might forgive so many missteps. Another course: you eat your pride.

“I didn’t mean to, Daddy,” you say. “Please don’t tell Will.”

You lower your arms, forging a sword of your vulnerability. Hannibal glances down only once, and with more amusement, then, than thirst.

“He will never know,” he says. “If you come to my room tonight. There is a lesson you must learn. It cannot wait.”

*

There is a tension about the residence of waiting, after Will and Jack have gone, the dry-mouthed breath before the silver lipped drop of the guillotine.

There is motion about the house, yet you feel rather than hear it; Hannibal has a way of carrying his physicality that seems to possess no weight at all. Ghoulish, his haunting of the rooms below as you sit on his bed, to await him.

You arrange yourself on the dark sheets in sacrificial mode, so ill with fear that it seems all your organs are in torsion, a helix of flesh from chest to womb.

It strikes you that you’d lain so, once, a night your father's friend, Leland Frost, had stumbled the many stairs to your room, beer the umber of his breath as he’d kissed you goodnight.

You had let him touch you, then, as you will let the devil touch you, now. As a child, as an adult, you are absolved: animals must eat, and their prey bear no fault when the hand of God steers them in the direction of hunger.

Hannibal ascends the stairs, each footfall making you jump. Stiff-backed, you turn to a sleek alarm clock on the bedside table, vowing to fix your eyes to its sympathetic face until the hour is done.

A name—yours—blackens your ear, a knell of things more wicked than death.

“Little one,” says Hannibal. “I will not hurt you. This lesson involves no corporal punishment.”

You sit up slightly, slippery in grey silk pyjamas, of whose cost you dare not think.

“Not the lights,” you say, hastily. “Or that metronome thing. I hated it.”

Dr Lecter removes his jacket, socks, and shoes, the quiet process of putting them away a careful rite, his prayer unspoken.

“To begin with,” he says, “I’d like to ask you some questions about your personal habits.”

He speaks delicately, but with an undertone of velvet sensuality that delivers you into fear you cannot resist.

“How often do you pleasure yourself, little one?”

“I don't,” you say.

The words form with such stumbling velocity that you cringe at your own lie.

Hannibal looks down at you with a sort of sorrow.

“If that is your response, then I must teach you.”

“No! I mean, don’t. I’m sorry. I do... do that. But it’s embarrassing to talk about it. I don’t want to.”

“I’m afraid you must. To be a fully-fledged adult it is important to embrace all facets of yourself, including sexuality. So, please address my question.”

Hannibal steps towards the bed, not with threat, but to pursue the lost treasure of your secret.

“Twice a week, maybe,” you admit. “At night.”

“How do you masturbate?”

You’d never expected the world from Dr Lecter. He speaks it factually, without humour, priestly severe.

“With my hands,” you say. “My fingers.”

You’d been too embarrassed to order toys to the house, which still you share with your family, the humiliation of an accidentally opened box an unimaginable discomfort.

“What do you think about as you climax, little one?” asks Hannibal, a question worse still than those before it in the nature of your answer.

You’d watch videos, often violent, peruse literature online which you hastily erased from your history, afterwards. It almost seems you beckoned in this abuse, through your interests, aroused only by cruelty, and the dark.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Different things. Nothing specific.”

Hannibal takes another step towards the bed.

“Answer again.”

Tears char your vision into soot.

“I hate you,” you say, fiercely. “More than I hate Will.”

“Because I cannot be moved in my resolve, as he can,” says Hannibal. “Will is suggestible, to an extent, whereas I am sure in my standing. It sears your ego to obey a man so entirely.”

He pads, barefoot, in a half circle around the bed, a panther uncaged.

“So,” says Dr Lecter. “Speak. What do you think of when you touch yourself?”

You open your mouth, and find yourself mute, truly incapable of speech.

Hannibal seems to understand this, however, for he does not insist again.

“Undress for me. I would like to see you demonstrate.”

Your head swings in a rattling ‘no’.

“Very well. I will attempt it.”

Again you shake your head, and in cumbersome, unlovely motions you struggle out of the pyjamas, ashamed of how clumsy you appear before him.

Naked, you sit up on your knees, covering yourself with your arms as best you can.

“Legs apart, please,” says Hannibal. “Then do as you normally would. I will merely watch.”

He reclines in one of the chairs in the room, his eyes like foreign seas, reflecting the night.

Scalded with humiliation, you bring your fingertips between your thighs and stroke in looping circles. The skin there is parched, unresponsive, unyielding; to be watched in such intimacy takes the pleasure from the act, which has always been in realms of secret sin.

“I can’t do it, Hannibal,” you say. “Nothing’s happening. I don’t feel good.”

It is the only time you’ve used his first name to his face, a trespass into familiarity you do not share.

“Is it because you don’t have access to the usual stimulating material?” he asks, ignoring your blunder.

You snap your knees shut upon your hands.

“I don’t use any.”

Hannibal takes your calves in his hands, a grip which might break.

“I know that you do. When I accepted you as my patient I made a point to visit your house, when no one was home. Your room was as I expected it to be. Juvenile, and stale aired from many days spent there alone. Your laptop was open. It wasn’t difficult to breach. Your password was the title of a book on your shelf.”

Wintergirls. Laurie Halse Anderson had been a staple of your literary youth, and it had never occurred to you that anyone might guess it.

“You didn’t clear your history as thoroughly as you believed,” says Hannibal. “I was intrigued by what I found there.”

You do not resist as he opens your legs, so limp are you in your horror.

“I— what you saw— it doesn’t mean I want this. It’s not the same.”

Hannibal blinks slowly.

“No. I would be uninterested if it was.”

He sits upright again, folding his hands in his lap. How pure they look, a harpsichordist’s tools, an illustrator’s. Evil, beautiful things.

“Begin again,” says Hannibal. “Think of Will and I. What we have done to you. Our touch. Our words. The imposition of power. The ineludible fact of your belonging to us.”

Femoral heat. Your core rings crimson bronze, and your fingers follow its kulning. You want to stop, but Hannibal’s voice alone is a hypnosis, effective even without the ticking and the lights.

“Imagine Will’s hand across your cheek. Around your throat. Envision my own.”

You make some noise, not quite a moan.

Dr Lecter lowers himself down until his breath mists your cunt, and the sensation has you writhing beneath it, maddened by the ephemeral touch of air, and needing it to finish.

He looks up, and his eyes are a reveller’s, a satyr of ancient land.

“How sweet you must taste. I have prepared your meals specifically to assure that you do.”

Your hand cycles in motion, compelled by his mystical art.

Hannibal remains over you, too close, at too great a distance.

“Stop,” he says. “That is enough.”

You are so close that the command is more craven in its dealings than Will’s palm across your face.

Your breaths are the sunken heat of a pagan sun. You burn and burn.

“Why should I give you what is so unwanted?” asks Hannibal, and pauses, as though you might beg.

Speech is inconceivable to your mind, as it is now, a concept like the colour of dying. You only sit with the head of a God between your legs, forced to such a brink that your weakness rides through you like a drug.

Eyes of night pleasure, of deathly ritual—

He laps your cunt for scarcely half a minute before you career over your edge, stacked orgasms that render you sightless with their power. You arc from the bed like an antler, a horn cry blown through your soul.

The pleasure is a stellar whiteness. You writhe up towards his tongue like a wave.

“Poor girl,” says Hannibal, as you lie piteously beneath him. “You can do nothing without me. Even this.”

[myimaginedcorner]

SCALES OF JUSTICE - BETA TESTERS NEEDED

Hi dear readers,

Thank you for your overwhelming trust and support. The opinions that I've collected over the past few days have finally motivated me to put aside my self-criticism and doubt, and to make the next step towards SoJ's release.

Yes, Scales of Justice is now officially in its BETA-test phase!!

If you would like to help me by being a BETA-tester for my book, please, comment under this post, send me a direct message, or message me on CoG's forum. I aim to take around 20 to 30 people, so we can have a big and productive group that nonetheless remains constructive in its feedback.

If you don't have the time or you don't want to be a tester, consider sharing this post, so it can get to as many of you as possible.

I will be working alongside the testers on improving style, grammar, and other minor details that require polishing as the month progresses. Hopefully, by the end of it we'll have an even better version of this book that will be submitted for approval to Hosted Games!

See you all very soon,

Julia xx

BOOK DETAILS:

DEMO DESCRIPTION:

Scales of Justice is a fantasy game situated in another world, far away from Earth. There are plenty of species living together in harmony, but the human race is currently split in two civilisations: the one known as Hero kingdom, which is ruled by ‘heroes’, and the one named Vannais kingdom, controled by ‘villains’. Both nations hate each other and the fight between ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’ here is something that happens on a national level. The game is focused on lore, on character development and your own perception of reality: perhaps, your MC just wants to live a peaceful life... or maybe wants to save the world.

Or even rule it, if you’re into such things.

THINGS TO DO IN THIS DEMO:

Set off on a new adventure towards Neutral Lands, to meet a mythic creature of all answers - The Visionary.

Gather up to 3 companions to help you in your quest - befriend, romance or rival them, the choice is yours.

Buy a horse - we know you want one.

Fight, conjure, support, speak or think - choose your way of handling a tricky situation.

Explore the kingdom of Hero up to Menai's shore, in search for someone - or something - to aid you in your journey.

The DEMO version of the book runs up to Chapter 5 and contains 276K words overall. I will be putting up updated versions of the first chapters as I work my way through them, so expect the DEMO version to become a polished reflection of what the final book will look like!

USEFUL LINKS:

If you want to know a little more about this project and read chapters 1-5, I'll leave the link to the game here -> https://dashingdon.com/play/myimaginedcorner/scales-of-justice/mygame/

If you want to discuss anything on CoG's forum, I'll leave the link for SoJ here -> https://forum.choiceofgames.com/t/wip-scales-of-justice-new-project-announcement-and-demo-release/101088/16

If you want to send me a more extensive feedback, here's my email -> feedbackscalesofjustice@gmail.com

Any mistakes, concerns or questions you have, feel free to contact me through Tumblr! I am very excited to share this story with all of you, and I want to make it as good as possible with your help!

RO DESCRIPTIONS:

Shoren/Seile -> Heir to the Hero kingdom's throne, right where your journey starts. Also, your old friend who's very attached to you. Likes to read and practices magic, enjoys adventure and heroic deeds. A recognised “hero”, with blonde curly hair, pale skin and a pair of beautiful blue eyes.

Robert/Reina -> Order's Paladin, defender of Hero and Knight of Fate. Brave and honourable, determined to protect the people of the kingdom. Very loyal to friends and very dangerous as an enemy. Has short brown hair, tanned skin and an athletic build.

Valerius/Venis -> An Outworlder, who was caught by cultists from the Wicked Woods. Gracious, elegant and charismatic. Has long dark brown hair with a silver streak, olive skin and golden eyes.

Arion/Aria -> Leader of Vannais, a recognised “villain” who escaped from Hero and now rules the enemy kingdom. Serious, reserved but temperamental. Prefers action over words and so is always present on battlefields and amidst negotiations, even though never in official manner. Has short blonde hair, pale skin and emerald eyes.

Be careful! These characters have their thoughts and opinions on the world and your actions: if you want them to support you, convince them or take their side… or neither. That is your choice after all!

[tastesoftamriel]

The issue I see with the ESO Dark Heart of Skyrim depiction of Reachfolk is primarily the division between "ethnic/indigenous" stereotypes, e.g. living in "tribes" in the middle of buttfuck nowhere and being hostile to outsiders, and the "civilised" Reachfolk who are depicted as far smarter because they live within the relatively safe confines of Markarth with taverns and banking services and other city crap that are the benchmarks of modernity and Tamrielic civility.

There is no reason beyond blind ethnocentrism that this is a division that exists, either in real life or in fantasy (if we allow the latter to truly break the bonds of fiction into something *better*). So-called "primitive" peoples, be that the Azande or Trobrianders, have been subject to ridicule due to their indigenous knowledge, myths, and beliefs as unaligned with our post-enlightenment, postmodernist, scientific worldview. In the eyes of many writers, projecting what is deemed within their worldview to be "good" for their characters is really a detriment when it comes to original worldbuilding.

At the risk of sounding like yet another unhinged Marxist, my final comment concerns the structures of Reach society. The hierarchical structure of Reach clans is not something I'm super familiar with so I may come off as sounding like an idiot here, but bear with me. Why are Reachfolk, with supposedly primitive and unchangeable belief systems, upheld to the societal structures of mainstream Tamrielic groups? Why would they trade with gold, if they traded at all; and if they didn't, someone needs to do some research on the historical basis of global trade, which cough cough involves cooperation and amicable relations between disparate groups over huge distances and periods of time. Why are the Reachfolk exempt from this cycle of amicability? Is it more thrilling to write them as hostile savages, ready to attack anyone who supposedly threatens their way of life?

Yes, they would be thoroughly aware of the dangers of colonisation. But why have city Reachfolk been portrayed as sensible citizens of Tamriel while their brethren in the wilderness are presented as wild, IGNOBLE savages? Where is the justice in portraying indigenous peoples as they truly are and are capable of, rather than re-used Western tropes surrounding the division of self and savage Other?

Once again, this ties into the prominent Western tradition of Othering those who don't follow the tenets of a monotheistic, hegemonic, organised religion, or similarly prescribed worldview. By not including Aedra worship in Reachfolk culture, they are seen as savages and people who should be civilised and brought into the fold of the Divines. There is a pervasive undertone of violence linked to so-called "primitive" groups in TES, and this may just be to make convenient NPC bandits, but also perpetuates a stereotype that deeply harms real-life indigenous and culturally marginalised groups.

This is why careful worldbuilding is so so so important because we can project the world WE want, free from the socionormative biases that taint fantasy writing. Yes it's necessary to draw inspiration from real life, I do it all the time, but there's a point where you say "what if real life isn't that great of an idea to project here?"

I'd like to conclude by saying that I'd like to see this decolonisation of fantasy writing extended to other socially marginalised and misunderstood groups in TES, such as Bosmer, Argonians, giants, minotaurs, and the Bandaari (I could rant about them all day but I have other writing to attend to). We can do so much better not only with our ability to create some truly original fantasy worldbuilding, but also by showing others that by decolonising our own writing, we are becoming more sensitive to the worldview of others and incorporating that in an insightful and respectful manner.

[jewreallythinkthat]

ugh im sorry. you are more reasonable than i expected. seeing the horrific crimes committed by israel and some of its citizenry has made me far to cynical. i do not think that israel in its current form should exist but that is because i think *most* countries in their current forms shouldnt exist. i do not want any jewish person harmed for the crimes of a state that shouldnt have the right to claim they are the sole representatives of a religion. hamas is not a good force but its the only thing allowed to exist for palestinians. i just hope that palestinians have a safe home, and so do jewish people

Hi Nonnie,

Sorry for taking 24 hours to answer this, I wanted mull it over a bit for a couple of reasons. While I appreciate you recognising that you've become cynical (something I can very much empathise with), I do slightly resent the implication you assumed I would be unreasonable. I have done my very best to try and remain steadfast in my ideals that both Israelis and Palestinians deserve better and deserve dignity and I do ask you to think about why you were shocked that I would be reasonable in response to an ask which was in and of itself, asked in a civilised manner and that didn't attack me as a person.

I would be interested to hear what your issue with countries in their current form is and how you would see an alternative as being? My view on the matter is that seeing as the countries exist, and there is no way of dissolving a country without leaving power vacuums and a catastrophic number of innocents dead, then we should be fighting to make every country as good and just and fair as possible.

While I understand some people genuinely believe countries shouldn't exist, I find it concerning when they focus exclusively on Israel as the first they want to eradicate as the only thing that separates it from other countries really is that it is a majority Jewish state.

While Israel is not representative of Jews, in the same way Iran is not representative of Muslims and the USA is not representative of Christians, it is (sadly) the only country where I have never felt like I needed to be aware of whether my Magen David is on show or not because in Israel, it is safe to be a Jew. Much as it's shit to say this, being Jewish does make me a target in the UK - it's not fair, but it's true.

Hamas made themselve the only option in Gaza. Originally this was not the case. Hamas were elected as leaders of Gaza and proceeded to brutally murder all those who opposed them and there hasn't been an election since. Alternatives to Hamas could exist, but this would absolutely require a level of outside protection (from how I can see it) to prevent Hamas using violence to take over again. In the West Bank, the PA also exists (although is also incredibly problematic - but that's a different post). I don't know how one would go about it but a way to allow an alternative to Hamas which can effectively keep order, and work with surrounding countries to create a safe and less tense middle east has to be forged.

[humbledragon669]

S1E5 – The Doomsday Option Write Up P2 - Saturday (The last day of the World) from "the wiggle on" to "He was waving"

Alright, so now we have the seed of hope planted for an Aziraphale/Crowly reunion, this episode moves, pretty swiftly, through a number of plot threads that now all need to be brought together to serve as the climax for the season.

Thread number one: Madame Tracy and Shadwell, and their purpose in the storyline.

I don’t have a great deal to say about this scene, only one tiny question. Why is that Julia makes no move to hand over a “donation” to Madame Tracy?

Both Mrs. Ormerod and Mr. Scroggie (brilliant names by the way) are clearly well-prepared to be handing their money over, but not so young Julia. I don’t think it’s important, just one of those little things I wondered about when I was watching the scene back.

Thread number two: bringing the Four Horsemen together.

Couple of things to point out in the next montage sequence, including an Easter egg or two. Firstly, the immigration official has clearly become disillusioned with her job in the short time that she granted Anathema into the country.

It’s a very different interaction than the one she had with Anathema where she was actually paying attention. Even Famine seems puzzled at her lack of interest. Next up I just want to say that I really didn’t have the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse down for being tea-drinkers. Don’t get me wrong, I’m British. Tea is the foundation of civilised society as far as I’m concerned. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? These four characters are about to, quite happily, undo all of civilisation. Always time for a cup of tea I suppose though. And now for an Easter egg! Feels like it’s been a minute since I’ve pointed one of those out. The top scores on the arcade game next to the one that Death is playing on are all allocated to D.EATH, except for the #1 spot, which goes to T. PRATCHETT.

There is another Easter egg here for the eagle-eyed, this one of the apple variety – one of the questions on the quiz machine asks what year Apple Computers was founded in.

And the last thing about the quiz machine: the machine that displays the “GAME OVER” sign is actually not the machine that Death has been playing on:

As a little side note, once we realise that it’s Death playing on the quiz machine, we can appreciate that he has in fact been there from the beginning of the scene. I wouldn’t swear to it given the camera angles that are used, but I don’t think his bike is in the car park when War arrives. You could argue that it’s out of shot, but I’m still pretty sure she would have recognised it for what it was and known that he was already inside. Famine and Pollution too. So why aren’t they aware of his presence from the outset? Again, probably not important, and the little quiz machine interaction provides some much-needed light comedy.

Back to thread number one. I found little of interest in this scene prior to Aziraphale’s arrival from the spirit world, aside from the vapid personality of Mrs. Ormerod and the obvious dig at the validity of psychic mediums whilst using the delightfully oblivious Mr. Scroggie. What I do really enjoy about this scene is the sound editing (I know, you’re all shocked I’m picking up on sound cues…). We know that something is about to happen when a low rumble begins, enforced by some lightly flickering candles in a room with no breeze, but the real joy here is the sequence of noises, animal, human, and object, that issues from Madame Tracy’s mouth as Aziraphale takes up residence in her body. Miranda Richardson does a pretty stella job here too – this was either really fun to shoot or incredibly embarrassing. I’d lean towards the former, given she’s largely a comic actress, but managing to keep a straight face throughout the whole thing must have taken an incredible degree of self-control. I’d be quite interested to know how much free reign she was given with this, how much of it was improvised, and if she knew there was going to be extra noises added in post-production. Here’s a list of the noises that I could pick up in the sequence that takes place during Aziraphale’s possession:

Rumbling noise before Madame Tracy starts vocalising.

Madame Tracy making a low rumbling noise.

Elephant trumpeting.

The noise of something ramping up, like a turbine engine but not. No idea what this noise actually is!

Thunder (from outside the house – accompanied by lightning).

Madame Tracy’s short shout followed by very high and musical almost-screams.

Another one of those weird ramping up noises but shorter and sharper.

Panting.

Madame Tracy blowing a raspberry.

Loud singing (enforced in the soundtrack) of the William Tell overture.

Madame Tracy belching.

A little quacking noise made by Madame Tracy.

A fart (no way was I leaving this off the list), which puts a definitive stop to any other noises that are ongoing.

Pretty impressive. Those sound editors aren’t done yet though, because aside from another chaotic sound sequence for Ron’s possession, there’s still a load of work to do with the voices coming out of Madame Tracy’s mouth. I love the way they shift between her voice and Aziraphale’s during the following sequence, starting from the very first sentence that she says after the possession has completed – she starts out as Madame Tracy and finishes as Aziraphale (in German, which we were led to believe that he couldn’t speak back in 1941). There are times in this scene where both voices come out of her mouth at the same time and there are other times where Madame Tracy speaks in her own voice but in a deeper tone, and times where it’s one or the other speaking, and it’s all so seamlessly stitched together. Not to mention the fact that it never once looks like it’s not Miranda Richardson speaking – her lip movements match the words exactly. She even adapts some of Aziraphale’s mannerisms when she’s speaking as him.  It’s a really brilliantly put together scene. The sound sequences for Ron’s possession (played by none other than Johnny Vegas) are more difficult to pick out because the surrounding scene is very noisy (not that Shadwell would know anything about that, sound asleep in the unaffected boudoir) but I did manage to pick out:

Another raspberry.

A short squeal.

A line from “Moonlight Becomes You” (by Johnny Mathis, I couldn’t see any immediate Easter eggs or references from the lyrics).

A prolonged shout.

More thunder.

What sounds like a piano string or strings (from low down the keyboard) being struck.

A retching noise like someone’s about to hurl.

Something bubbling.

Howling.

Lightning.

Fireworks, used in the same way as the fart in the first sequence – to cut off all the other noises.

It feels like quite a jolt moving from all that cacophony into Madame Tracy’s peaceful kitchen. There’s one little thing that really makes me giggle in this scene:

She seems pretty blasé about the fact that there’s a blonde, slightly transparent, male figure staring back at her from the mirror. It’s only when he actually waves back at her that she reacts at all, and even then it’s pretty muted. I think most of us would have taken off screaming at that point, or pass out, but not Madame Tracy, she’s way too worldly-wise for that dramatic nonsense.

I was a little puzzled at the choice of soundtrack for Crowley’s battle against the traffic in the next scene, but then I wondered whether it was a reference to the M25 being another one of Crowley’s plans that started out so well and then ending up foundering “on the rocks on iniquity”, which appears to be a bit of a running theme throughout the show – first the misplacing of the Antichrist, again in his desperate pleas to Aziraphale for them to run away together, and in his failed rescue of the angel. This particular instance of Crowley’s well-intentioned failings would suggest that it’s a characteristic he has been prone to for a long while, and that the foundering of his plans can take anything from seconds to decades. And just for a bit of fun, a tried to get screenshots of the M25 before and after Crowley’s interference:

I also noticed that the projector Crowley uses is marked as belonging to Room 11:

Having fallen foul of my neglect in consulting Strong’s Concordance with numbers in my write ups before, I did actually remember to look this one up. According to my scant research, 11 in Strong’s Concordance represents a place of destruction or ruin. Whether this is a reference to Crowley’s original intentions for the M25, the eventual fate and purpose of the M25 in the show, or a tongue-in-cheek remark to the experience of actually driving on the M25 in real life isn’t clear. Maybe it’s a bit of all three. Or maybe it’s just a random number. Unlikely I think.

Now that Shadwell’s had a nice little snooze, he also seems to have had some sort of personality transplant. That’s the only real explanation for the impassioned attempt at protecting Madame Tracy’s dignity, right? I think we as the audience all know better, but he clearly forgets himself in the heat of his jealous moment. Interestingly, the mirror no longer appears to show Aziraphale’s reflection:

I think this might just have been a case of budgetary or time restraints rather than an intent to convey anything specific. Whatever the reason, Aziraphale doesn’t seem too upset at Shadwell for discorporating him. One question though – how does the angel know that Shadwell has referred to him as “the Southern pansy” before? As far as I can remember, he never uses that name to his face, which only really leaves the possibility that he has obtained the information from Madame Tracy, who has heard him refer to Aziraphale in that way at least once before. I find it unlikely she would have told the angel the offensive name that had been allocated to him, which suggests he has obtained the news from her own thoughts. Obviously at this point Madame Tracy is sharing the residence of her body, but it does raise an interesting question for later when Aziraphale and Crowley perform the body switch – would they be able to read the thoughts of the other without the sentience of that other being present concurrently?

Whilst we are on the topic of how people know things that they do, how does Crowley know the M25 has just combusted into a ring of infernal flames? I know we’ve had the whole “Crowley turned the M25 into a hellhole” scenario written out for us already, but that was to do with the eternal traffic jams he caused, not some sort of hidden boobie trap that would cause it to spontaneously combust. Presumably this is one of those things his demon-sense tells him has simply happened, like when Adam welcomed the Hellhound into his life.

I find the next scene with the cold caller provides an interesting overview of the way nuisance callers have evolved across the years. The basis for the call in the original book was double glazing, but we’ve moved on to ambulance chasers in the show. As a society I think it’s likely we’ve moved on even further now, from using actual real people to individually make these calls to automated recordings, but Hastur wouldn’t be able to eat them all in that case, thus denying the audience the satisfaction of the sick justice he unwittingly wreaks on the call centre staff. Got ourselves a little Easter egg here too – the message that Lisa types out on her screen (to a colleague or as a note on a casefile isn’t clear) is the title of a Queen song:

This happens to be the very song that Crowley was listening to in the Bentley on the M25. She also types that up right before she arrives his own casefile (titled “Anthony Cowwley”, which differs from the book’s “A J Cowlley”).

Shifting back to Crouch End now (this episode really does jump around a lot doesn’t it?!), can we just take a moment to gape at Aziraphale adamantly declaring that the Antichrist must be killed. The Antichrist who is a child. It really wasn’t that long ago that he was vehemently stating that he himself could never do such a thing, nor could he endorse it without suggesting that it would be for the good of Heaven’s reputation. Now though, he’s very happy to encourage a human, for whom the consequences of killing an innocent child would be dire in Heaven’s eyes, and even worse for killing the Antichrist as far as Hell is concerned, to do the deed, but this time the motivation is nothing to do with his employer; it revolves around the fate of the World. It feels like something of an oxymoron – his siding with humanity driving an incredibly inhumane act. In fairness, Shadwell follows it up with an oxymoron of his own:

So, as far as Shadwell’s concerned: witches? Kill without question. The Antichrist? Not so sure. Even if he’s going to bring about the end of the world. Sounds like he’s all good with the plan when Aziraphale tells him that he has traits associated with witches though. Good morals Shadwell, well done. Perhaps not quite as terrifying as Aziraphale’s declaration of triumph when the sergeant suggests they can use a massive antique gun to fire lumps of building materials to assassinate the Antichrist. Again I’ll point out that Adam is a child, but perhaps it wasn’t clear enough earlier on that Aziraphale also knows he’s a child.

I don’t know whether what I’m about to say describes a typically British behaviour when caught in traffic jams or not, but here goes. Anybody else find it suspect that other people aren’t either already driving down the hard shoulder or that Crowley doesn’t have a giant tail of cars following him? I’ve been in my fair share of motorway gridlocks, enough to know that once some entitled prick starts driving down the hard shoulder in attempt to assert their own self-importance over the rest of the people caught in the chaos, anybody else with delusions of grandeur will follow suit very quickly. Not for Crowley though, he’s just pottering down the escape lane under his own steam. And is it just me, or does it feel like a bit of a violation when Hastur removes Crowley’s glasses? Looks to me like Crowley feels like that as well to be fair.

He manages to get over his surprise quickly enough though, characteristically engaging his brain into full gear to try and find a solution, which he does with an interesting choice of music:

I find it interesting because it deviates from what we have come to believe is his usual taste in music. Mozart would actually seem to be more Aziraphale’s taste than Crowley’s. It’s also a pretty sedate underscore for what he’s about to do. As a side note, this piece not only doesn’t actually start from the beginning when it starts playing in the Bentley, but is also used in another one of my favourite shows – Our Flag Means Death. In that show, it’s used as background music in the final episode when Prince Ricky is strolling down the street his victory over the pirates with another naval officer. The Mozart doesn’t stick around for long though, morphing into Queen’s “I’m In Love With My Car” (no need to point out the reference with this one) as Hastur starts to lose his calm. For those who haven’t read the book, or just don’t remember this detail, there is mention of this phenomenon in the original text – the apparently common mystery that every tape or CD left in a car is doomed to become a Queen album eventually, but this little detail is left out in the show, with the audience instead being led to believe that the CD player plays mood-appropriate music instead.

The speech we get from Crowley here goes a long way to showing us how much he has come to love both humanity and modernity – he’s actually quite complimentary about humans and their ability to invent new things.

Lovely clever people, inventing cars and motorways and windscreen wipers.

He also, in a very dismissive way, puts a clear distinction between himself and Hastur with his marking of the difference between his feelings towards the 14th century and what he believes the Duke of Hell would have thought. That simple little line actually says a lot to me about how he believes he distanced himself from the other beings in Hell – it’s a clear declaration of “we are not the same”. I also find myself wondering if Crowley had little to no contact with Aziraphale during the 14th century, contributing to his dislike of the time period. We certainly never see anything of the sort – the meetings we bear witness to have a large gap between 537 and 1601, though the book and script book tells us that there was definitely a meeting in 1020, and the script would suggest that there were several (dozens of them in fact) meetings between that and the 1601 meeting.

It's interesting to hear that Hastur is concerned that he’s going to be discorporated as it confirms he’s been issued with a human body, just like Crowley, even though he doesn’t reside on Earth. I’d be interested to know if the body was issued to him in that state or whether it looks pretty run down because of Hastur’s lack of appropriate care (which would in turn suggest that both Aziraphale and Crowley have had to work towards maintaining the appearance of their own corporal beings). And whilst we’re on the subject of bodily appearances, I love the little detail that the snake component of Crowley’s eyes now fill his entire eyeball as he maniacally drives through the flames.

I have a suspicion that the size of the snake “irises” (for want of a better word) is reliant on his emotional state, but I don’t feel like I have the patience to go through the show and test the theory. And I don’t know if those little horizontal lines on Crowley’s nose were intentional here or whether that’s just a natural crease in David’s face, but they certainly strengthen the snake resemblance. As a final comment on this scene, we actually hear God telling us that Crowley really is fundamentally different from his peers – he has an imagination. Which is not so different from the idea that Aziraphale is different from his peers because he has free will, a theme that has been presenting itself, with increasing clarity, throughout the series.

Final little note for this section, and it’s about this snippet of epic:

Apparently the most amazing thing about this, according to the local bobby, isn’t the fact that the car is on fire, or that it’s just driven through a wall of fire, or that it’s still moving forward, or even that the person inside it is not only alive, but unharmed and still capable of driving. No, the most amazing thing is that the driver is waving. Gotta love the way us Brits have a way of stating simple facts to display complete amazement.

Right, this section went on for way longer than I thought it was going to so I’m going to cut it short. I was hoping to get as far as the defection of The Them from Adam, but as soon as I started watching that scene I realised I had more to say about it than I thought, so I’m going to let you go for now. As always, questions, comments, discussion – always welcome! See you next time 😊

[gxthicupid]

Hello! I saw your rules, i hope i did it right, Can I have a request for LMK nezha x Fem! reader (oneshot)?

where reader was a sweetheart, they listen his problems, asking his well being and comfort him too, They also sweet when they talk about him, that makes him falling in love with reader.

You can add if you want! thank you! ^^🌸

୨⎯ 𝑴𝒀 𝑺𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑵𝑰𝑻𝒀 𝑭𝑳𝑶𝑾𝑬𝑹 [𝑵𝑬𝒁𝑯𝑨 𝒙 !𝑭𝑬𝑴! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓]

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇxᴛ: ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ɴᴇᴢʜᴀ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ ᴡʜᴏ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛꜱ ʜɪᴍ? ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ꜱᴏʀʀʏ, ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴅɪᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇꜱʜᴏᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ <3

➨ You watched the Earth and its beautiful nature from a cloud near Heaven as you observed the flock of birds passing through vast cities or mountain ranges or the calm winds swaying the forests of jungles far away from human civilisation.

➨ Gazing down upon the mortal realm, you smiled at how lovely the days seemed but decided to visit Nezha at his temple. Both you and Nezha planned together that you'll be stargazing tonight after completing his duties.

➨ But once you arrived, your eyes widened in shock after seeing a damaged temple before you. You swiftly searched where Nezha could be under the rubble and even tried desperately calling out his name.

➨ After minutes, possibly hours of searching to find Nezha, you had no luck. A feeling of dread overwhelms you as you feel your heart tighten painfully, and you can't help falling down on your knees and crying. 

➨ “Y/N. . .” You heard a soft-spoken Nezha from behind, and you saw him as you turned your head. Clothes ripped off and severally covered in wounds and bruises. He seemed very weak, as standing looked difficult for him, and as you approached him, he fell into your arms.

➨ You decided to take him to your temple, which thankfully was not too far away from Nezha's temple. As you helped him walk, the both of you eventually arrived and told him to lay down on your bed while you looked for the First Aid.

➨ Once you found it, you disinfected the wounds, cleaned the blood from his skin, and carefully closed the wounds with bandages. As much as you wanted to ask Nezha what happened, but his face showed he needed some time before talking.

➨ After finally finishing aiding his injuries, Nezha quietly muttered. "I failed," You turned your attention to him as you raised a brow to hear him repeat himself. "I failed my duties." He sounded burnt out, judging from his tone of voice. You've known Nezha for a long time, and from what you learned, he tends to work himself too much without taking a break.

➨ "Well, I'm certain that's not true-" You tried to reassure him, but Nezha immediately cut you off. "It is!" He snapped at you, and you were frightened by the sudden tone shift. "The Map of the Samadhi Fire fell into the hands of Sun Wukong, and then the Lady Bone Demon took that power and nearly destroyed the world!" Flames of anger flashed in his eyes for a moment while you were ever more concerned than before.

➨ He realised what he had done, so he calmed down and breathed slowly yet heavily. "Apologies for my love. You aren't aware of what has been happening as of late." You noticed how his body looked tense and you knew this little outburst will put some pressure on the wounds. "Here." You softly spoke as you positioned yourself on the bed and massaged his shoulders whilst avoiding his wounds.

➨ "When you're ready, you can talk about what happened." You tell him with a comforting tone, and he feels more at ease once you relax his muscles. "Thank you, Y/N." He explains that the Lady Bone Demon returned, and Wukong foolishly stole the map and gathered all the Rings of Samadhi, which not only led a mortal child to be engulfed by its flame but to be used in her evil schemes.

➨ You continued to calm him down and prevented his blood from boiling and disrupting the healing process, but you were so worried about Nezha fighting a possessed Monkey King and the possible end to the Earth. "Oh, my poor darling." You expressed your distress for your lover before coming close to his face and giving him a kiss on the lips.

➨ Then, that's when you notice the dark circles under his eyes, his dried lips, and his overall exhausted state up close. "Nezha. . .You look tired. When was the last time you slept, drank, anything in that matter." You cupped his face with both of his hands.

➨ "Not since I traced down Wukong in order to get the Rings of Samadhi." He responded with a tired voice. "Wasn't that a month ago?" You replied back, but he didn't answer back while looking guilty.

➨ You didn't notice, but night had already fallen over Heaven, and you saw all the glorious stars and galaxies that could be seen from your windows. "I'm sorry, Y/N." He held your face gently, sounding sincere and guilty to make you so worried. "There's no need to apologise, Nezha," Your voice sounded compassionate.

➨ "You had such a rough time since we last saw each other. Please don't beat yourself up anymore." Nezha was moved by your words and hugged you while you heard the muffled crying sounds. You caressed his back comfortingly as he held onto you and whispered sweet things into his ear.

➨ Once Nezha finished letting out his emotions, you gestured to him to rest his head on your lap, and you massaged his head and caressed his long, dark hair. "The stars sure do look beautiful tonight." You told him, and that's when he remembered his promise to you. "I completely forgot our promise." He recalled, but you responded consolingly, "It's alright."

➨ "But I promise-" You interrupted him. "It doesn't matter. All that matters now is you." He smiled at how kind-hearted you were towards him and observed the skies in your room. "This may not be the best spot, but having you with me makes the experience even better." Nezha softly said to you.  

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

so i was rereading the transcript to Launch (the episode where the princesses are trying to locate glimmer) and i want to talk about two things i hated about this episode (apart from.. the obvious):

1. i don’t like that the crew’s idea of an autistic person is “has a special interest” and “doesn’t value human life”.

now i get it. neurodivergent people can have trouble reading the room or responding in a way that people expect us to. but we can still recognize a serious situation (especially one where someone is hurt or in need of help) when we see it.

entrapta has always been kind of absentminded, but i feel like in this episode, they made her act like too much of an airhead. she seems to be on the high-functioning end of the spectrum, so i don’t understand the point of making it seem like she can never take anything seriously. she’s rambling about science and space, she’s climbing over tents, knocking shit over, it’s just strange to add in “comedic” bits like this in an episode that’s supposed to be serious. in general, this episode was far too lighthearted than it had any right to be, but entrapta was the worst part of it.

i just feel like she’s portrayed as more of a silly caricature of an autistic person, rather than an actual autistic person. a lot of this is played for laughs as well like “haha look at entrapta, she’s such an idiot, she only cares about science!” and it just feels insulting. we’ve seen entrapta show concern and compassion before, albeit in her own way, like when hordak wasn’t feeling well. so why would she act like this in a situation where someone’s life is at stake?

my problem lies with the writers and not entrapta herself, because it seems like they pick and choose when to make entrapta more empathetic and relatable, and when to make her act like a robot who doesn’t value human life. it’s just weird.

(this is all based on my general knowledge about neurodivergent people and my own personal experience with autism, so if i said something wrong here, feel free to correct me!)

2. the princesses aren’t mad at entrapta because she joined the horde and built weapons that were used to hurt thousands of innocent people, no no no, they were mad that she betrayed them specifically.

it’s all about “us”. not “our people” or “innocent civilians”, just.. “us”. because they’re the only ones affected by the ongoing war, right? everyone else on etheria is completely safe and sound, the princesses suffered the most because their ego was a bit damaged by what entrapta did. sure.

and let’s not forget this:

fucking rich of perfuma to say that they’re supposed to be entrapta’s friends, when SHE’S the one who leashed entrapta and dehumanized her.

and this is the first and only time they mention the kingdoms. which, btw, i may be nitpicking but “destroyed kingdoms” is a very light way to put it. it makes it seem like the horde was just destroying lands and buildings and not, you know, killing or grievously harming very real people. and again, this is all about THEM in the end, they’re acting like the kingdoms were their property, and not a civilisation of real people with real lives.

it’s a subtle way to avoid addressing the real impact of war, because how would we redeem our beloved catra if we acknowledge that she probably slaughtered hundreds of innocent civilians who were just trying to live their lives?

(also i find it funny that the 12 year old is the only one who even attempts to acknowledge the civilians, while the “adults” of the group whine about themselves.)

i’ve said this a million times before but i just don’t understand the idea of writing about war, and then acting like it only affects the people who are fighting it. this was a show written by adults, right? i’m seriously beginning to question it.

and like i said in a previous post, they did not have to make a she-ra reboot. they did not have to write about war. no one forced them to. if you’re choosing to write about a specific topic in a show that is marketed to the general public, especially children, it is your duty to do your research on it and address it accordingly. you don’t even have to do research to understand that war impacts everyone, not just the oppressors and the royalty. that’s just common knowledge. or did these people skip their history classes?

[dailyunsolvedmysteries]

Christopher McCandless, The Man who Hiked to Death

Born February 12th 1968, in Inglewood, California, Christopher McCandless was immediately plunged into a chaotic family. His sister, Carine McCandless, documented in her book ‘The Wild Truth’ that they shared their home with six half-siblings. Carine also alleged that her parents were abusive, both physically and verbally, toward the McCandless children. She documented how her father was an alcoholic, and their mother often fed off his evil energy, inflicting her own abuse upon them.

The McCandless never stayed in one place for long as Walt McCandless worked for NASA as a rocket scientist, taking him across the U.S. Eventually, the family settled in Virginia long enough for Christopher and Carine to graduate.

Following his graduation from university, Christopher knew he needed to travel. He had spent much of his childhood moving from town to town, state to state, and this had a profound impact on his outlook on life.

He only stayed in one place for a short time, seeing the beauty in exploring the world. In mid-1990, Christopher left Virginia for new pastures and began driving West. He stopped in towns and cities along the way, picking up odd jobs to make ends meet.  By April of 1992, Christopher was itching for another adventure, and that is when he decided to make his way to Alaska, the final frontier of the U.S. 

Incredibly, Christopher managed to hitchhike from Carthage, South Dakota, to Fairbanks, Alaska, a whopping 3,000+ miles through Saskatchewan, Alberta, British Columbia and Yukon, Canada. Eventually, he arrived, and he began planning his largest expedition yet. He wanted to hike through the Denali National Park. The park covers over 6,000,000 acres in the middle of Alaska. Communities are few and far between, with many Alaskans congregating near large towns and cities.

Despite the harsh weather conditions of Alaska, Christopher McCandless seemed ill-prepared. Fellow hikers and locals recalled seeing Christopher arrive in Fairbanks carrying only a backpack. He also stood out for his ‘Hippie-like’ appearance, choosing to remain unkempt and dirty. April 28th 1992, would mark the last day that Christopher McCandless would ever see the seeds of civilisation. 

That day, Jim Gallien was flagged down by Christopher, who was looking for a ride to the Stampede Trail in the Denali National Park. Gallien later told author Jon Krakauer that he had doubts about the 24-year-old’s survival from the start. When he got into his car, Christopher had minimal clothing and a backpack. Christopher explained that he was carrying a 10 lb bag of rice, a Remmington semi-automatic rifle and a pair of Wellington boots inside his bag.  Gallien was, in fact, so concerned that he offered to drive Christopher to Anchorage so that he could purchase the necessary equipment for him. He knew how harsh and unforgiving the Alaskan landscape could be, and per population, it has an alarmingly high missing persons rate. Throughout their drive, Christopher assured Gallien that he would be fine and had hiked many times before. 

It wasn’t until months later that Gallien learned Christopher’s real name, as when he had picked him up, he had simply given the name ‘Alexander Supertramp’. The only item that Christopher accepted from Gallien was a map. Before leaving, Christopher asked Gallien to snap a picture of him at the Stampede Trail, making this one of the last photographs ever taken of Christopher McCandless.

For two days, Christopher hiked the Alaskan wilderness, soaking in the beauty of the Denali National Park. After a gruelling march, Christopher made it to an abandoned blue and white bus. Whilst the exterior was rusted and hadn’t been loved for some time, Christopher recognised it was the perfect shelter and base camp. He wasted no time setting up his gear and prepping his new home.

The blue and white bus that would become a notorious tourist hotspot was not Christopher’s intended finish line. According to his diary, which was later discovered with his body, Christopher had planned to hike through the park and to the Bering Sea. Christopher remained at the blue and white bus for two months, eagerly journaling every step. Christopher wrote in his diary that he had begun consuming the roots of the Hedysarum Alpinum plant.  Christopher also detailed in his diary how he had trapped and hunted small game and wildlife. He had successfully hunted a moose/caribou with his rifle. However, the meat was rotten by the time he came to consume it. With just 10 lbs of rice and foraged plants, Christopher rapidly began losing weight. 

The lack of food and people was beginning to get to Christopher, who heavily documented his trip via his journal and camera. On July 3rd 1992, Christopher packed up his things, leaving the blue and white bus behind.

With a map in hand, Christopher hoped to reach civilisation once more, but the landscape had changed and he became distressed and returned to the blue and white bus to wait out the days until the river froze over once more. 

On July 14th, he also began to incorporate the seeds of the Hedysarum Alpinum plant into his diet, as was documented in his diary. The meagre diet of plant material and small animals was nowhere near enough to sustain Christopher, who continued to waste away. As he continued to weaken, he lost his energy and ability to forage further afield for plants and fruits. 

Christopher McCandless made his final diary entry on what he noted as ‘Day 107’. The entry simply reads, “Beautiful blue berries.” Author Krakauer noted that days 108 through 112 had / (slashes) but no words, and after Day 113, no more entries were made. Sometime around these final diary entries, Christopher wrote, “I have had a happy life and thank the Lord. Goodbye, and may God bless all.” It is clear Christopher knew his end was coming, and he had made his final preparations and peace with his fate. 

 It wasn’t until September 6th 1992 that the grizzly truth would be revealed.

That day, hikers in the Denali National Park came across the blue and white rusted van that Christopher had once called home. 

These hikers had the same idea as Christopher and were eager to use the bus as shelter.

When they approached the bus, they found a note taped to the door which read “Attention possible visitors. S.O.S. I need your help; I am injured, near death and too weak to hike out. I am all alone; this is no joke. In the name of God, please remain to save me. I am out collecting berries close by and shall return this evening. Thank you, Chris McCandless, August.” 

As they moved through the bus, they saw the familiar outline of a human in a sleeping bag. After reading the note, they hoped that Chris had managed to survive, but all hopes were dashed when the stench of decay overcame them. The hikers took a closer look, and their worst suspicions were confirmed. Christopher McCandless was deceased, his body decaying in a sleeping bag in the back of a rusted-out bus. 

Alaska State Troopers and Denali Park staff were summoned to the bus where Christopher’s body was recovered. His family were notified of the terrible news, and preparations for his body to be returned to Virginia were made.

Christopher’s passing marked a turning point in the culture surrounding hiking and travelling. He had wilted away in the wilderness when a bridge and cabin were within a few miles of his location. 

[olivieblake]

I need to preface this by sharing that I live on the island of Tasmania (which is tucked away under the main Australian continent, as far from big city/civilisation as you can get, it’s like…. *remote*)

I was out to brunch with a friend and in walks a lovely young lady who sat down with a coffee and pulls out a book, by YOU. As someone who read only your fanfictions on repeat for… the longest time, the amount of SHOOK I was when it clicked that “Olivie Blake” author-extraordinaire of Commonor’s Guide had a book that was IN FULL PRINT.

I dared not share my internal excitement with my breakfast pal because there are some social limits in life, and have since found a way to order your Atlas series. Despite the fanfictions no longer showing up on my bookmarks list on ao3, both of them were a huge part of broadening my view as an adult to the bigger world around me and I’d love to be able to support you as an ongoing literature artist too!

Anywho, I just really wanted to share. Love your work x

firstly I must rush to assure you that all of my fic is very much still available on AO3 and since none of it has anything to do with my published work, it will be there eternally as far as I'm concerned! commoner's guide, princess's guide, other works

secondly what a rare act of fate to be brought together again by the almighty powers of brunch!!! I sound facetious but I mean it, both that brunch has uncanny magical powers and that this is such a funny and unlikely coincidence that brings me great joy. tragic that you were not among kindred brunch spirits at the time but I can confirm this is very exciting TO ME and I'm so happy we were together, sort of, asynchronously but in spirit. thank you so much for this note!!

[psychotrenny]

I swear that USamericans seem to think of every nation other than their own, especially outside the Imperial Core, as politically homogeneous. So if they're arguing about the political situation in that country and they can find someone from there who agrees with their opinions they'll use that person as an instant gotcha. I'm not saying that when talking about something that you should disregard the lived experience of the people involved, but you can't act as though every single person has the exact same experiences that they interpret in the exact same way. Like the vast majority of the time it wouldn't be hard to find someone from that nation who has the exact opposite opinion; like you have to put these experiences and opinions into a broader context if you want them to mean anything.

Like you'll see Western Liberals quote some reactionary Eastern European as proof that communism was evil, which all other context aside still involves ignoring the vast numbers of people from those countries who either actively support communism or consider it better than the current regime. Like I wonder they'd feel if someone used the testimony of a Trump supporter as proof that Biden runs an illegitimate regime based on a stolen election. But then again they'd probably come up with some excuse about how it's not the same; as far as they're concerned political diversity (as with most forms of meaningful individuality) is reserved for citizens of the civilised world

[free-my-boy-grumbot]

what are the religious themes and parallels of ASOUE part thirteen?

I’m so glad you asked! and completely unprompted, too :)

okay so you know that karl marx quote “religion is the opium of the people”? and how that means that religion allows its followers to turn a blind eye to societal problems and to ease people’s concerns about their life? yeah well lemony snicket did that literally. the island in The End is a result of Ishmael realising that he had lost control of VFD. originally, he wanted to create a peaceful society of noble, well-read people — this led him to enforce a black-and-white view of morality onto its members. obviously, there were people who criticised this, but believe it or not ishmael is not an open minded man. once again, he believes that there is an objective view of morality, and those questioning it are inherently evil. so, he convinced the volunteers that those people were dangerous, which led to a schism, which led to. well you know. anyways that was a gross oversimplification because that’s not what i’m talking about! what i was going to say was that he took some people affected by the schism — people who were also seeking an escape from the horrors that VFD had put them through — and he created a civilisation for them on an island. the only source of drinkable water on this island was cordial contaminated with opioids, and he knew this. in fact, he actively stopped newcomers from creating a water filtrations system. he then did everything in his power to make the inhabitants forget their old lives. he convinced them they’d ended up here by shipwreck, he made them bring him anything that washed up to determine if it was “safe”, he stored any reminders of the past on the other side of the island and banned the inhabitants from going there.

“nothing wrong with a little opium for the people!!” SIR. SIR THERE IS. Ishmael believes that peace should be achieved through any means necessary. therefore, if a problem has become too difficult to solve, he is all for simply pretending it doesn’t exist. This is why he gives the opiates to the islanders. He believes that maintaining a peaceful VFD has grown too complicated, and that the only way a peaceful society can exist is if its members unquestionably accept his rule. He not only believes morality to be black and white, but enforces this belief onto the volunteers, teaching them that following his authority is inherently “good”, and those who oppose or even question it are inherently evil. Since he couldn’t run a society like this in the “real world” — he would always have opposition, which would always mean conflict — he simply created his own, smaller world, where the civilians were too high off their balls to think critically about his leadership. After that, he only had to seem benevolent on the surface because they would all be too comfortable to dig deeper.

Now, black-and-white ethics, dictation of peace, dismissal of societal issues, and lack of scrutiny towards authority are all classic criticisms of religion, and you could definitely draw some parallels between Ishmael’s style of leadership and organised religion. This has all been quite generic antitheism so far. BUT THAT’S NOT ALL!!!

There is an apple tree on the “bad” side of the island. the tree is hollow. there is a library inside, containing any books which may remind the islanders of their past life. these mostly include books from the volunteers and firestarters, the “good” and “bad” sides of the schism. one might say it’s a sort of. a s. a sort of tree of knowledge of good and evil, if you will.

And then later in the book, klaus and violet, a man and a woman, are given an apple from that tree by a snake. classic daniel handler subtlety <3 so ofc this represents genesis, but here is where we get Wierd With It.

The apple saves the baudelaires. They were poisoned with the medusoid mycelium, and the apple immunised them. in fact, the apple is not presented in a negative light in the slightest. this has VERY interesting implications in my opinion and it makes me think that daniel handler is saying, in the bible, eve was also never wrong for eating the fruit! we would be nowhere without the knowledge of sin and death and suffering, there would be no art without it, nor would there be appreciation for the good (ok this part might be me)! eve was in the right, and so was the snake!! which is also incredibly fitting because everyone thinks that the incredibly deadly viper is evil but it actually wouldn’t hurt a fly (we know because monty tried to feed it flies :))

“ohhh ur overthinking it” yes on purpose overthinking this series is my number one hobby. anyways i just thought daniel handler was making an interesting point here :33 anyways i will add more stuff if i think of it

[esmeinlove]

I have another idea I can’t stop thinking about

Carlisle and Esme are both human, married and in love (obs). After 4 years of trying for a baby they fall pregnant and are so desperately overjoyed. But 2 weeks later Carlisle ends up being attacked on the way home from work. He stops to assist a broken down car. However when he approaches approached the car he disturbs a vampire who was feeding on the driver. Carlisle tries to run but is bitten waking up three days later alone and thirsty….

All he can think about is Esme and his thirst. The two go hand in hand. He wants to get back to her but every time he moves closer to civilisation he wants to feed on human blood, so he retreats back into the forest, disgusted with himself. He was a doctor in his previous life, wanting to help people and how he was the opposite.

Esme is obviously beside herself. She is frantically looking for him. A search party, posters, missing people charities contacted, but nothing. No trace. How can this happen to her? They were so happy after such a hard time in their lives. She whispers to her baby every night that she will never give up looking for him.

Carlisle works with his thirst, desperate to get back to Esme - finds he can survive on animal blood. Finally, just as Esme is reaching the end of her pregnancy Carlisle is able to reach the woods that border his old house. He can smell her. Oh, how wonderful she smells. It’s overpowering and draws him in closer, he finally sees her through the kitchen window washing the dishes. He moves closer, it’s dark, she can’t see out to the dark grass. She dries her hands and walks across the kitchen past the glass doors. Carlisle sees her. He drops to her knees and sobs. The swell of her pregnant belly is too much for him, the way she touches her rounded stomach and talks to the baby. It’s all he’s ever wanted and it was taken away from him.

He can hear two heartbeats. He can sense the extra blood, his lips begin to pull back across his sharp teeth. The growl pulls him back and he runs away. He despises himself. He wanted to bite her, consume her, drink her blood.

He now visits every night, sitting in the trees far enough away so he’s of no danger. He watches over her and his baby that is safe inside her body.

One night, after hunting, he goes back and she’s not there. He panics. He can smell amniotic fluid. The baby, she must be in labour.

He follows the scent as best he could and heads for the hospital, but it’s too much. He can’t get closer. The bloodlust. The fear someone would see him. So he goes back to their old house, to the safety of the woods. After a day - he’s curious. Is the key still under the chicken flowerpot by the front door… it is… he lets himself in.

He consumes her scent. He wraps himself in her blankets, her clothes, their bed. His heart aches greater than it ever has before. Nothing has changed. His belongings are still in the house, his running shoes were still by the front door. Like she was expecting him to come back. His throat burns but he could put that aside for her.

For them.

She returns 5 days later. He retreats to the forest. She is alone. She’s quiet, her eyes are hollow sat upon dark circles. Her skin pale. The life and love deserted her. She’s forlorn. Her shoulders are slumped, she shuffles her feet, looking at the ground. Esme’s good friend brings her in and settles her into bed… they hardly say anything to each other. Esme can’t make eye contact. She sobs quietly into her pillow.

Carlisle hurts for her. What happened? The fire in his throat is present he can smell her bleeding from down below, and its like a hot iron piercing through his soul. It would have consumed him and made him tear into the house if he wasn’t so concerned for her.

Carlisle wonders where is the baby? What has happened, what has gone so wrong? Esme’s friend goes downstairs and makes a call to her husband. Carlisle can hear every word as he’s so close to the house now. Esme’s sobs are pulling him apart. He wants to comfort her and he’s so close but he needs to her what her friend says on the phone.

‘I’m back at Esme’s. I’ve just tucked her in bed’

‘Oh babe, poor girl. How is she?’ A male voice came from the small phone.

‘She’s bad’ a pause. ‘I can’t believe this happened. It’s just so tragic. First Carlisle, now their precious baby boy. She doesn’t deserve this’

Carlisle felt as though the world had shattered around him. He had a son. But what had happened? He couldn’t stay away any longer. Esme needed him.

He climbs in through their bedroom window. She barely lifts her head to acknowledge him. Her face is tear stained and eyes are blank. She catatonic. He has to hold his breath but pushes the fire down. Her emotional needs were far greater than the pain in his throat. He calls softly to her. She doesn’t register.

He sits on the edge of the bed. His cold hand reaches out to take her hand. He has to loosen her fingers that are gripping the sheets tightly.

‘Esme’ he tried again.

She slowly turns her face to his and whispers ‘You’ve come back’

‘Oh, darling. I’m so sorry, my love’ he watched the silent tears roll down her face as he spoke.

‘Take good care of him’ Esme was so far into grief, she assumes Carlisle has come from the afterlife to comfort her. She doesn’t realise he’s with her, that he’s really there. He sat with her until he heard the friend come back up the stairs.

He goes to hunt - to quench the fire that burns his soul. The grief of losing a son, Esme’s grief fuelling his body to run further to smash through trees to be careless. After he drained his third bear he fell into the fur and cried. Tearless sobs echoed across the valley as the rain poured down.

He went back 2 days later. She was gone. The police were there. He heard that she had left in the middle of the night. Carlisle closed his eyes and followed her scent. The rain dampened it but with her fresh bleeding after birth he could track her through the woods. He ran as if his life depended on it.

He finds her at the edge of a cliff, that overlooked the valley in the forest. A favourite picnic spot of theirs from happier times. Her hair whipping around her face blowing her scent into the wind. She stepped closer to the edge… turned around, looked at him in the eyes as he shouted

‘Esme!’ His arms reaching out for her, his fingertips stretching to their limits.

He heard her whisper as she fell backwards over the edge ‘I’m coming Carlisle’. He watched her fall and then he jumped.

He heard the impact of her soft body hitting the ground and she didn’t scream. He landed next to her. Scooping her up screaming ‘no, no, no’ thoughts screaming round his head - what could he do. Her breathing was uneven, her heart was fading, she was so close to death. He needed to save her.

His fingers held her broken body close to his, his face buried in her hair, close to the skin of her neck. He could feel the flutter of her pulse. His teeth were so close to her skin. He thought of the crescent moon scars that were on his neck… on his wrists as he leant into her.

Following some unknown instinct he bite into her skin, her blood filling his mouth. He groaned as he stopped himself from swallowing the delicious blood that spilled from her body. He bit again on the other side, her wrists and her chest near her heart. He held her close as she screamed for three days. Trying desperately to muffle the sounds of her pain. Burying themselves deeper into a nearby crack in the cliff.

He hated himself for putting her through it. He couldn’t bear to continue to cause her pain, but when her visible injuries began to heal and her heart stopped beating he knew it had worked. He continued to hold her as her red eyes flicked open and fell upon his.

‘Carlisle?’ She whispered. ‘Heaven’

‘My love. I’m here’

[myimaginedcorner]

SCALES OF JUSTICE - CHAPTER 7 UPDATE!!!

Welcome back, my dear reader. It has now been 2 years since we first met, and soon, this journey will come to an end. Yes, we're very close to the finale of this book, all set, and everyone ready for the final push. However, that's still lost to future; today, I'm here to take you on a day around Galeya's streets, four little stories waiting to be discovered. Explore, decide, and shape your life and others - have the first taste of choices one must make when playing in a higher league.

As usual, I welcome any feedback, specially now that my beta-tester is quite occupied with her MSc (still a strong woman in STEM, still a prisoner to her project. We shall remember her dearly). If you have any issues, recommendations, or comments in general about my work, feel free to text me here or make a post in CoG forum, where I will be answering you to the best of my capabilities. This new update is MASSIVE - I've sure missed things among all the potential choices.

NEW THINGS IN THIS UPDATE:

Explore Galeya, a bastion to Hero's safety, a haven to its crime.

Choose how to sort out your rooms for the night.

Accompany one of your companions in their own story on this day of peace before the storm: steal, catch or save, your pick.

Discover secrets about yourself... or about others.

Remember: not always one can have it all.

Chapter 6 is 161k words long. Yes, I just decided to give you 3 of my normal chapters in one go. Enjoy!

KNOWN BUGS:

Sometimes, the image for Chapter 5's title doesn't appear at the beggining of the chapter. I'm unsure why, and thus the bug still persists.

DEMO DESCRIPTION AND USEFUL LINKS:

Scales of Justice is a fantasy game situated in another world, far away from Earth. There are plenty of species living together in harmony, but the human race is currently split in two civilisations: the one known as Hero kingdom, which is ruled by ‘heroes’, and the one named Vannais kingdom, controled by ‘villains’. Both nations hate each other and the fight between ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’ here is something that happens on a national level. The game is focused on lore, on character development and your own perception of the world: perhaps, your MC just wants to live a peaceful life... or maybe wants to save the world.

Or even rule it, if you’re into such things.

If you want to know a little more about this project and read the first 7 chapters, I'll leave the link to the game here -> https://dashingdon.com/play/myimaginedcorner/scales-of-justice/mygame/

If you want to discuss anything on CoG's forum, I'll leave the link for SoJ here -> https://forum.choiceofgames.com/t/wip-scales-of-justice-new-project-announcement-and-demo-release/101088/16

If you want to send me a more extensive feedback, here's my email -> feedbackscalesofjustice@gmail.com

Any mistakes, concerns or questions you have, feel free to contact me through Tumblr! I am very excited to share this story with all of you, and I want to make it as good as possible with your help!

RO DESCRIPTIONS:

Shoren/Seile → Heir to the throne of Hero kingdom, where your journey starts. Also, your old friend whom is very attached to you. Likes to read and practice magic, enjoys adventure and heroic deeds. A recognised “Hero”, with blonde curly hair, pale skin and a pair of beautiful blue eyes.

Robert/Reina → Order’s Paladin, defender of Hero and knight of Fate itself. Brave and honourable, they are determined to protect the people of the kingdom. Very loyal to friends and very dangerous as an enemy. Has short brown hair, tanned skin and an athletic build.

Valerius/Venis → An Outworlder, who was caught by cultists in the Wicked Woods. Gracious, elegant and charismatic, with ideas that you cannot always grasp. Has long, dark brown hair with a silver streak, olive skin and golden eyes.

Arion/Aria → Leader of Vannais, a recognised “Villain” who escaped from Hero and now rules the enemy kingdom. Serious, reserved yet respectful. Doesn’t like to stay behind hiding in the castle, an so always personally appears in battlefields and negotiations. Has short blonde hair, pale skin and greenish eyes.

Be careful! These characters have their thoughts and opinions on the world and your actions: if you want them to support you, convince them or take their side… or neither. That is your choice after all!

[the-consortium]

( from @codex-aetherium ):

A piece of what appears to be exceedingly old parchment appears on Fabius’ desk one morning. How it got there is unclear, but a quick glance makes it obvious it isn’t something that belonged to him. It is written in a dark blue ink with flecks of silver that catch the light at odd angles.

Chief Apothecary Bile,

I hope this letter finds you well, and at least in a good enough mood to grant a stranger a small favor.

I am lead to believe you are or have employed an individual known as Herik Stymphalos. I know you’re asking yourself why I would want to associate with such a person, and the answer is quite simple. I am an Astartes of the XV Legion and was greatly affected by the Flesh Change. More specifically, my body has transformed into what I can only describe as an anthropomorphic corvid.

I am tangentially aware of Stymphalos’ avian obsessions and would appreciate you putting us in contact if at all possible. As you may have guessed, I do not seek to cure this particular affliction and he may offer some unique insight.

If you please, write your response on the opposite side of this page, and it will find its way back to me.

Respect and Admiration,

Calypsos Renn - XV Legion Archivist

The Holvall sun has crept over the zenith and is beginning to colour the sky at the edges, first golden and then purple. Night falls quickly here near the equator. Flocks of twilight birds rise from the jungle with the whistling and rustling of their wings to catch insects and small flying lizards, which are now circling in particularly large numbers above the treetops.

In an old volcanic crater in the mountains deep in the woods, far away from any civilisation, bulkheads rumble over the windows of a cage-like hemisphere.

Herik gets ready for the nightly research cycle.

He is just about to make his way to the central lab when one of his serfs staggers down from the observation and communications area above, wings flapping ponderously, and holds out a datapad to him.

Herik raises his silver brows and takes the pad. Communication from outside normally only reaches him from one place. And this time too: the electronic seal of the Consortium. Even the private stamp of the Chief Apothecary. Herik whistles through his teeth and looks down, where one of the cloned geese is elegantly preening its feathers before returning his gaze.

Then he reads the short message.

Sighs.

One should never underestimate the command character of the Clone Lord's messages. And "your presence on Urum at your earliest possible convenience is in your interest. Vesalius is on its way to pick you up" is speaking very loud and very clear.

A curt gesture that covers the whole swarm of serfs." Pack my travel lab for Urum."

----------

Meanwhile on the Crone World of the Consortium, deep in the old palace.

Fabius nods briefly and contentedly when he receives Herik’s confirmation. Then he clasps his hands behind his back and marches up and down in his library, dictating to a servo skull that is eagerly floating behind him:

"To Archivist Renn of the Thousand Sons!

My personal feelings towards your Legion are of no concern to my work. If I were to choose my patients according to which legion has not yet put a bounty on me, I would have to limit myself to the second and eleventh.

The changes of the sons of Magnus are quite interesting to me, because I am still doing research on the instabilities and errors of the various gene seed variants.

According to my information, Herik’s current focus of work is aimed at creating a stable connection between the bird and human genome, but I am sure that he can spend a lot of worthwhile study time on your case.

My student will be in Urum in an estimated three weeks, give or take some time for warp fluctuations.

I await you here accordingly.

Fabius Bile, Chief Apothecary of the Emperor’s Children"