#he was only driven to such madness by the cruelty of the world he lived in

[bipabrena]

The King of the Ashes (Aegon II-centric Helaegon fic) Chapter 2

Praying to the gods, old and new, to release him from his suffering, Aegon is sent back to the morning of his coronation. He is still weak, he still does not know how to rule. But he has one weapon: information. And with information, comes power. He now knows how to learn.

Being burned and usurped by his brother has left him with no love or patience to spare, for anyone. Everyone he thought he could trust betrayed him, and so he will pay their cruelty twice in turn.

Read here.

1

Aegon was adrift in darkness. The pain in his body dulled, but it remained. Yet, the worst of it wasn’t the burns or his bones. 

It was his head.

It felt as if it were spinning. Shadows danced before his eyes, shapes forming and dissolving in the blackness. It was dizzying, he felt he would faint. 

The darkness gave way to the sky, open and cloudy. He saw everything, clear as day, but he did not feel it. He did not feel the wind, nor the warmth of the sun.

The darkness flickered again, and when it shifted, Aegon saw dragonfire light up the sky. A second shift, and Sunfyre was beneath him, his golden scales glistening. He plummeted, and Sunfyre cried. He cried. Aegon heard it all, but muffled.

Soon enough, he found himself crying with Sunfyre as one. He wished for this to end, for him to feel the pain again; the burns, the shattered bones, he wished for it to be given back to him, if only it meant he wouldn’t have to hear his golden love suffer like this.

His vision shifted again, and he saw the nursery. He saw Helaena, slumped before Jaehaerys’s crib, screaming her heart out as she rocked his headless body. 

They came and went, again and again, and Aegon felt he would go mad. He saw a storm, figures beneath the dark clouds. Dragonfire, the gleam of steel. So much, all at once.

Aegon opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a strangled gasp.

He tumbled through the darkness. He saw dead, the living. 

And then, he heard whispers. 

King of ashes… 

His world twisted and churned, the whispers yammering in his skull.

"A child of six, torn asunder... her blood on the hands of kin."

A young girl, and a mob, their faces obscured, their hands reaching and tearing. The child screams, mingling with the roars of the crowd. 

"A queen of sorrow, lost to despair... her final flight from a tower’s end."

A high tower, familiar, he had seen it; but where? He could barely make out the shape. It was blurry, so blurry, all of it.

"A storm of fury, a pit of death... the winged ones fall, and a legacy ends."

Flames erupted around him, and roars, human and beast, rang in his ears. He saw the shadows of arrows, spears, and hatchets upon the concrete walls. 

"A king of ashes, poisoned and broken... his realm in ruin, his bloodline ends."

Aegon jolted awake with a violent inhale, filling his lungs with air until he no longer could. He panted, eyes wide and unblinking on the ceiling. His vision, it was fuller. He wasn’t blind on his left side.

He lay still, chest rising frantically, disoriented. 

And then he noticed it.

No pain. There was no pain. No burning flesh, no throbs of shattered bones–just the dull ache of exhaustion. He looked down at himself, dressed and covered by a blanket. He looked around the room, finding that it was dark outside. Almost midnight, most likely.

He slowly pushed himself up as he realised these were not his chambers. Or, rather, not anymore.

These were his old quarters. Not his real chambers, the ones he was meant to share with Helaena before, but rather the quarters he often elected to sleep in when he returned to the Red Keep late at night, after hours of drinking and whoring. 

He swung his legs over the bed, and his knees buckled. He let out a cry as he looked at his left leg. 

Healthy and whole. He was driven to his opposite knee, and he held his leg as tears formed in his eyes. He then touched his belly, and lifted his shirt, to find no burns. His left side was as perfect as the right one.

Immediately, he bolted to the mirror.

His eyes blew wide. He looked at his face, his hair.

He was perfect. He was healthy. 

His mouth moved, but all that came out were little cries. He touched himself, as if to confirm the reality of what he was seeing. 

“The gods punish me,” his voice quivered. “They play tricks on me.”

Panic set in, his breath quickening as he spun around the room. His gaze fell upon a flagon of wine. The familiar craving surged through him, and he lunged for it, his hands shaking as he poured the liquid into a goblet. He downed it in one motion, and nearly poured himself a second before deciding to drink straight from the flagon. 

He chugged, but the taste felt bitter and foul on his tongue. He dropped the flagon, clutching his stomach as it retched violently. He stumbled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Wine, it had always been his refuge, his escape, and yet now it was tainted. He gagged. 

Aegon fell to his knees. He clutched the edges of the table to steady himself. He lost his balance as he completely emptied his stomach’s contents. He vomited until all that was left were gags, and he could hear it again.

"A king of ashes, poisoned and broken... his realm in ruin, his bloodline ends."

“Poisoned.”

“Poisoned.”

“Poisoned.”

He held onto his stomach and screamed in pain. He collapsed on the floor, and welcomed the cold.

He panted, and slowly stabilised his breaths.

Aegon settled his palm on the floor. He stroked the cold tiles. “Gods… have you heard me?” he whispered. “Have you ended my pain? Or have you extended it, by playing tricks on me?”

He began weeping. 

The door burst open, and Aegon gasped, trying to push himself up, but failing, falling back down from his hand slipping on the spilled wine. He hit his cheek on the floor.

It was Aemond, he panted. Aemond was here to murder him.

“My Prince, we heard screams!” two White Cloaks approached him.

“No!” Aegon cried when they reached out to touch him. He recoiled from their grasp, squeezing his eyes shut. He did not wish to die, not again. 

The White Cloaks held onto him, one arm each, and they pulled Aegon up.

“I beg you, Aemond! Not again!” he cried. 

“My Prince, what’s wrong?” Ser Arryk asked. He helped Aegon sit.

Aegon recoiled, hugging himself with one arm, and protecting his face with the other. 

He remembered the flames. He could still hear Aemond’s dracarys . He could still see him tower over him, pressing onto his burnt flesh as he inquired what he remembered.

His voice juddered, his body trembled.

“I’ll fetch the Grand Maester,” Ser Erryk told his twin.

Ser Arryk’s eyes swept the room. He saw the remnants of the flagon scattered on the floor, and the spilled wine.

Aegon was just drunk again, he told himself. He always was, according to Erryk. Yet, never before had wine driven him to such panic, nor had it ever left him looking so vulnerable, as if harm might befall him at any moment.

Ser Arryk stepped back to give Aegon some space.

Had the Prince been harmed on his ventures? 

“I beg you, Aemond! Not again!”

Ser Arryk frowned warily. From his understanding, Prince Aemond had retired to his chambers after the dinner. He had not been with Prince Aegon.

What happened, then? Surely the Prince hadn’t been harmed. If something had happened to him, Erryk would not have omitted that. Erryk had never liked Aegon much, disapproving of his drinking and whoring, but never would he dare voice this disapproval. He was still Aegon’s sworn shield, and he would never allow any harm to come to him.

That is, unless tonight had been one of the occasions the Prince had ordered Erryk away. Aegon did often like to be left alone for his ventures.

Ser Arryk offered Aegon water, but any time he spoke, Aegon would recoil further, hugging himself tighter, tucking his chin further into his chest. His shaky hand remained up in attempts to guard his face.

Ser Erryk arrived moments later with Grand Maester Orwyle, who was alert, but still blinking himself awake.

Maester Orwyle was careful in the way he approached Aegon, as if he were a cornered animal.

“I beg of you, don’t,” Aegon cried. 

“My Prince, it is I, Orwyle,” the Maester said calmly. “You are safe, no harm will come to you.”

Aegon blinked rapidly, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Orwyle? 

Grand Maester Orwyle had nursed him. He had worked tirelessly, along with the other maesters. 

“Please,” Aegon whispered, “no more pain.”

Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk exchanged a wary glance. 

Orwyle stepped closer. “You have my word, My Prince. You are safe here. No one will hurt you.”

Aegon slowly lowered his hand. His gaze darted around the room, settling on two familiar faces. He saw the Cargyll twins, at last. He frowned. Aegon was certain he was not drunk enough to see two Arryks. 

So, why was Erryk here? He had defected to serve the bitch queen. 

“My Prince,” Orwyle stepped in before Aegon could question whichever one Erryk was, “you are unwell. Perhaps something in the dinner made you ill. I can brew something for you.”

It’s then he at last noticed how they had been addressing him.

He was no prince. He was the King now!

Aegon’s mind raced to grasp the situation. “What dinner?”

The twins were puzzled, but Orwyle was more successful in hiding his confusion. “The dinner with your family, My Prince. King Viserys had to retire to his chambers, but it’s possible you might have fallen ill, too.”

Aegon’s brows creased. His head snapped to the Maester. 

His father? His father had been dead for over a month. 

His mouth slowly opened. “The dinner… before Father died,” he mouthed to himself as he slowly lowered his gaze to the floor. “I’m… back?” 

The twins exchanged another glance.

“You have been through a great ordeal, My Prince,” Maester Orwyle said, not judging him for what Aegon imagined might look to everyone like a psychotic drunken episode. “But you are here now, unharmed. I will prepare something to aid in your sleep.”

“No, no!” Aegon shook his head. Larys had said milk of the poppy dulled his senses, he could have no more! “No, I…”

The realisation struck him.

If he’s back, then…

“Sunfyre…” he mumbled, and then his eyes widened. “Jaehaerys. Jaehaerys,” he rose to his feet. 

His son must be alive!

Aegon sprinted from his chambers. He raced through the halls until he reached the nursery. He pushed open the doors, and two nursemaids jumped from their seats in fright. They bowed to him.

But all Aegon could focus on was the crib before him. 

He slowly stepped towards it, and fell to his knees.

“Jaehaerys,” he whispered, leaning to the sleeping boy. He reached out, gently lifting his son. 

The boy stirred, roused from his sleep. “Mother?” is the first thing he said.

Aegon placed his ear on his chest. 

One, two, three.

Steady heartbeats.

Tears welled in Aegon’s eyes as he stroked Jaehaerys’s throat with the tips of his fingers. He then hugged his small body. 

Jaehaerys now understood he was woken not by his mother, but his father. “Father?” he mumbled sleepily.

“My little son,” Aegon said. He wept openly, not caring about the nursemaids, or the Cargyll twins that had followed him. 

Jaehaerys reached out to touch Aegon’s tear-streaked face. “Why do you cry, Father?”

His voice was so soft, so small. He was real, he was alive.

“I’m just happy to see you,” Aegon whispered, his cries ceasing. “Forgive me,” he pulled away. “Go back to sleep.”

Jaehaerys was confused. He rubbed his eye as Aegon tucked him back in. “Sleep well, Jaehaerys.”

Aegon looked at the nursemaids, now embarrassed. He averted their gaze, and walked past the twins. 

“Grand Maester Orwyle will bring you something for your ill, My Prince,” Ser Erryk said. 

Aegon walked fast. He felt lost. He was disoriented, he didn’t know what to do. He wished to go to the Dragonpit to see Sunfyre, to hold him and kiss him and confirm that he was unharmed, but he couldn’t afford to waste time. The ride to the Dragonpit would be long.

If Jaehaerys was alive, so was Sunfyre.

He stopped in the middle of the hallway, the twins stopping behind him. They exchanged glances over the Prince’s bizarre behaviour.

Aegon touched his forehead. 

His head hurt. 

“The, um…” he shut his eyes, tapping his forehead. He then turned to look at the twins. “Arr… Erryk,” he looked between the two, not knowing which one was his sworn shield. “The dinner. How long ago was that?”

“Three hours ago, My Prince,” the twin on the left answered. Aegon looked at him.

“And what did I do after the dinner? Might you refresh my memory?” 

“You said you’d nap, My Prince. You told me to rouse you at midnight.”

“For what?” Ser Erryk looked around. He then looked at his brother, and Aegon exhaled with frustration. “It matters not if he’s here, speak.”

“... To go alone to Flea Bottom, My Prince.”

Aegon sighed hard. Of course that he was there. He remembered now, he thought. News of Viserys’s death had reached the White Worm, she had hidden him, then sold him out.

This meant he still had hours to spare. But his brain felt like mush. He was tired, he had a headache, and even though his body was no longer broken, he still felt he hadn’t rested in weeks.

His father would die soon. His traitorous mother had insisted Viserys proclaimed him King. 

He had to confirm it for himself, but a witness or two wouldn’t hurt. Ser Erryk defecting to the bitch queen was a loss to them, although perfectly manageable. It would make little difference.

Princess Rhaenys was another matter entirely. She was still in the Red Keep, waiting for the Silent Sisters to ready Vaemond’s body, but what could he tell her? To accompany him to visit her cousin? She had made her support for the Blacks clear enough; she was on Lucerys’s side to inherit Driftmark. Her granddaughters were betrothed to the bastards. The woman was a lost cause, most likely.

He would take the twins, only. He needed to hear what Viserys told Alicent. Even if Ser Erryk listening resulted in nothing, at a minimum Aegon still needed to know.

“I wish to… see my father,” Aegon spoke reluctantly. “Accompany me.”

They followed him, and Aegon wondered what this meant. Would things continue as they had, before he returned to this point? Or was this a new event? What if Viserys wasn’t in bed, or didn’t pass tonight? 

He stopped by the door, acknowledging the Kingsguards guarding it. “I wish to see my father,” he spoke up. 

“His Grace is resting, My Prince,” the right kingsguard said. 

“He had to be carried away from the dinner, I’m concerned about his state. Don’t deny a son’s wish to see his ailing father.”

The kingsguards exchanged looks. They nodded, stepping aside as they bowed their heads.

Aegon quietly walked into the grand chambers, the ones that had been his just moments before this witchcraft. When he saw that the twins stood outside, he ushered them in.

They hesitated, they were confused, but they had to obey their Prince.

Aegon slowly treaded towards the bed. He could hear laboured breathing, and moans of pain. “Father?” he called out.

Read the rest of the chapter here.

[horse-girl-anthy]

Anthy as a Personification of Cruelty

short essay under the cut

both Enokido and Ikuhara have spoken of Anthy as a symbol of reality, or character used to signal that reality is entering the drama. as reality is cruel, Anthy must be cruel, and she is aware of many cruel realities. she is the rose, the beautiful and short-lived flower, which grows in tandem the cold thorn of disillusionment.

it's not a mistake to read Anthy as having personal feelings; in fact, much of the anime is about uncovering and allowing her to express personal feelings. even though she is often ambiguous and remote, the audience is clearly given glimpses into her worry, fear, despair, unhappiness, and pain, as well as love, hope, and desire for connection. what makes the characterization so compelling is that in tandem with Anthy-the-character operates Anthy-the-symbol, or Anthy-the-plot-device. the story revolves around her humanization and freedom from the narrative, yet within each script, Anthy is used like a puppet to keep the story moving forward.

Akio is a similar character, and at first, it seems they are serving the same aim of bringing reality into the drama, as Akio shows the duelists "the End of the World." a less interesting show would have stopped with him. it could have been a story about how the world is a corrupt place, the strong take advantage of the weak, and at the end of the day, that's all there is. but at the true "End of the World," the end of the show, who does Utena find? Anthy. Akio kept everyone running in circles; Anthy brings the system crashing down. why is this?

I think that Akio represents "false reality," while Anthy represents "true reality." in a way, they are both stunted and immature, but Anthy, by her very being, her knowledge of the Swords of Hate, is beyond Akio; she has an alien, unimaginable perspective, due to truly knowing what suffering means. Akio doesn't suffer on an profound level, he's just driven himself to self-pitying madness. basically, he's making Anthy's problems about him and his failure to be the prince.

so Akio is the false god who keeps his adherents dazzled by false enlightment, but can't impart true change; in fact, he resists it. resisting change is also a part of the growth process. perhaps Anthy and Akio are siblings because they both must "work their magic" for the narrative to play out. the "false maturity" stage presented by Akio may be the necessary prescedent to Anthy's "true reality." however, as Akio demonstrates, it's possible to just stay in false adulthood forever. Akio refused to touch Anthy's true self, or the swords that plagued her (unless he could use them for his own power). he wouldn't share her suffering; he was afraid of the cruelty she embodied.

the show is essentially about Utena and the other characters moving closer and closer to awareness of suffering, often represented through Anthy, but eventually swallowing up Utena. the final conversation of the Student Council focuses on the cruelty, coldness, and unfairness of the world, which they know will fall upon the selfless.

the cruelty that Anthy embodies is not malevolent when seen this way. it is something that must be faced in order to truly grow up. it hurts to experience it, but it is in fact is the only way to leave Ohtori. Anthy ushers in both Mikage and Utena's difficult graduations, for instance. she is hated for the truths she carries, but her cruelty is not without purpose. she cannot see a world beyond her suffering, but without her, there would be no way to reach that other world. this is because suffering is inherently a part of life, along with many other cruelties, such as separation and death.

I'll end with a quote from my favorite novel, Tehanu: "he would learn [pain] again and again, all his life, and forget none of it. And therefore he would not [...] do the easy thing to do." this perhaps gets at the core of the issue: Akio does the easy thing, the thing that costs him nothing, because he does not know pain. Anthy has to bear pain alone, and so her world revolves around her suffering. Utena learns pain and will never turn her eyes away from it again, and Anthy, no longer alone, can step into a world with a future. true maturity is reached in communion with others, and a true adult is someone who can take in the world as it is and continue living. heroically and with style, when possible.

[queer-ragnelle]

i’m just astonished there are people out there hating on gawain for violence against other knights and lancelot for committing adultery with guinevere when geraint/erec is right there abusing his wife and killing women on purpose.

characters are narrative tools and in a time when these knights were used to express opinions about the world the author lived in, it made sense gawain would be engineered to enact mindless cruelty against his fellows to comment on the cycle of violence or for lancelot’s role as the queen’s lover to indicate how unfaithfulness (ie going against the king and church/sanctity of marriage) has the power to corrupt entire kingdoms. it’s not about agreeing or disagreeing with their actions, it’s not about condoning anything. it’s a narrative constructed to illustrate the author’s viewpoint.

to what end is geraint’s verbal assault against his wife and physically driving her into dangerous situations and murdering his sister on a double dog dare conveying anything at all? like we can plainly see that gawain’s vendetta against pellinore and sons in the blood feud stems from toxic loyalty and the patriarchal societal expectation of masculinity expressed through violence. the narrative surrounding this does not condone gawain’s behavior. he “gets away with it” in his lack of punishment, but that in and of itself is commentary on arthur’s short comings in his sentimental treatment of his nephew. but the author’s omnipresent voice favors the victims and gawain’s reputation is ruined by this behavior. other knights know him for what he is, dinadan dies simply bc he won’t stop talking about lamorak’s murder and is thus murdered himself. lancelot suffers greatly for his affair with guinevere, if not only driven to madness by desperation and guilt, then by his continuous trial along the grail quest resulting in failure and the eventual loss of his son. he loved his king and is devastated when the kingdom crumbles as a result of his actions, whether that be the affair itself or killing to survive in the aftermath of that discovery, nobody can say he ends up happy with the situation. he lost galehaut, guinevere, galahad, arthur, and even had to kill gawain with his own hands. nothing in the narrative favors him.

geraint….is not punished. not narratively nor subtextually. even if we assume he never again forces enid to ride around while exposed to bandits while he forces her into silence and yells at her when she disobeys, that still happened, and his sister is still dead. but in the end he isn’t reprimanded for any of that and continues his marriage to enid in the end. she forgives him. did he atone? can he atone for something like that well enough to deserve keeping all his privileges? he is not stripped of titles or rights or anything. even the narrative frames the event as if love triumphed, the strength of their marriage carried them through a hard time. a hard time! as if abuse can turn off at the drop of a hat.

anyway this is a gawain and lancelot apologist blog that hates geraint and thinks he should explode and die.

[janustheeighth]

I am deeply sceptical of the current use of AI, with all of the plagiarism-by-proxy and ethical concerns. However, this excellent post mortem by the BBC has made it clear that we finally, allegedly, have a true, all-out AI huckster on our hands, Billy Coull. He has also 'written' 'novels', according to the BBC potentially with substantial AI help.

This story has delighted me, as it has so many others, partially for the inexplicable madness of "The Unknown, an evil chocolate maker who lives in the walls" and partly the sheer *Scottishness* of it. The actors doing their best to "be the sparkles on shit" and make the best of a bad job, the Glasgow crowd knowing precisely who to get annoyed at (ie, not the poor souls in costume), Wonka going to the press and *fully* understanding the brief (per The Independent, he says "in some ways, it was a world of imagination, like 'imagine that there is a whole chocolate factory here'", and "I didn't know where I ended and Wonka began"). We have excellent journalists and (allegedly) Billy Coull to thank for this.

And how better to thank him than with some dubiously ethical AI. I for one wanted to know much more about that beloved Roald Dahl character, The Unknown. And so...

Let ChatGPT sing you a song of moving and yet curiously generic and oddly-phrased heartbreak:

In the heart of a vibrant town filled with the scent of cocoa and the laughter of children, there existed a boy known only as "The Unknown." Abandoned at birth, he was left to fend for himself in a world that showed him no kindness. With no family to call his own, he wandered the streets like a ghost, his heart heavy with sorrow.

It was within the walls of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory that The Unknown found solace, hidden away from prying eyes and judgmental whispers. There, amidst the whirring machinery and the intoxicating aroma of chocolate, he discovered a sense of purpose, a reason to keep moving forward.

But behind the silver mask that obscured his face, The Unknown harbored a deep-seated pain, a childhood marked by trauma and neglect. Raised in the shadows of the factory, he had known nothing but cruelty and hardship, his innocence stolen from him at a tender age.

As the years passed, The Unknown's bitterness grew, festering like a wound that refused to heal. Consumed by rage and resentment, he vowed to claim the factory as his own, to exact revenge upon a world that had abandoned him.

And so, with a heavy heart and a mind clouded by darkness, The Unknown descended into madness, his dreams of redemption twisted and warped by the scars of his past. In the end, it was not the sweetness of chocolate that defined him, but the bitterness of his own tragic origin, a haunting reminder of the pain that lurks within us all.

What was next for this poor soul, you may ask? Well...

After a couple of tweaks...

...the AI lovingly generated this string of approximately human-like words:

In the heart of the town, where the scent of cocoa mingled with the whispers of the wind, there lived a man named Billy Coull. He was a cunning and deceitful soul, preying upon the hopes and dreams of innocent families with his schemes and scams.

For years, Billy had operated under the guise of a philanthropist, promising to help those in need in exchange for their hard-earned money. But behind his charming smile lay a heart as black as coal, his only motivation driven by greed and a thirst for power.

One fateful day, word reached the ears of The Unknown, the enigmatic figure who dwelled within the walls of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. It was whispered among the shadows that Billy Coull had swindled countless families out of their savings, leaving them destitute and broken.

Filled with a righteous fury, The Unknown vowed to mete out justice upon the deceitful man, to ensure that no more innocent lives would be ruined by his wickedness. With silent determination, he set his plan into motion, his heart heavy with the weight of his purpose.

Under the cover of darkness, The Unknown emerged from the shadows, his silver mask gleaming in the moonlight as he confronted Billy Coull in the dead of night. With a voice like thunder, he condemned the man for his crimes, his words echoing through the empty streets like a solemn promise of retribution.

But Billy, arrogant and defiant to the end, scoffed at The Unknown's warning, dismissing him as nothing more than a mere figment of imagination. Little did he know that fate had already sealed his doom, his reckoning drawing near with each passing moment.

In a swift and decisive move, The Unknown unleashed the deadly chocolate hounds, creatures born of darkness and tempered by the fires of vengeance. With gnashing jaws and eyes ablaze with hunger, they descended upon Billy Coull, their voracious appetite sated only by the taste of his treachery.

As the hounds closed in on Billy, The Unknown uttered a single phrase, his voice dripping with contempt and disdain, "get it up ye, ya bampot," a final testament to the justice that awaited those who dared to cross him.

And as the first light of dawn broke upon the horizon, the town whispered tales of the mysterious figure who had emerged from the shadows to right the wrongs of the world, a silent guardian watching over them from the depths of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, his justice swift and merciless.

THIS IS CANON.

All #Unknownfic should be written by AI, human imagination has no place where The Unknown is involved.

[sociopath-analysis]

Sociopath Profile: the High Priestess

From the 2017 fifth season of Samurai Jack Voiced by Grey Delisle

You all are looking at one of the darkest characters in the entire show. Even Aku, a being made of evil, isn’t as terrifying as her. And even he’s surprised at the lengths she’s willing to go. The High Priestess is one of the main villains of season five and she is largely responsible for the dark tone shift in the show. And even worse, she’s only human. (Well, possibly.)

[SPOILERS BELOW]

Let’s just start with the fact that she’s the leader of a cult that worships a literal embodiment of evil. She is willing to do anything for Aku and will openly advocate for the destruction of anything good in the world. The members of her cult, her own daughters, are put through nightmarish training that could end up getting them killed and treats it like the most normal thing in the world. She shows no concern for her daughters and abuses them both physically and mentally in order to make them take out Jack.

And she’s not exactly cruel so much as cold and emotionless. Her voice never really has much noticeable emotion when she does terrible things. And she doesn’t abuse her daughters to be sadistic. Not that it makes it any better. All the cruelty she gave them during their training had a purpose. Not a good purpose, but it wasn’t for entertainment. And the most she feels towards the daughters that get left behind to die is a sense of disappointment since they were not strong enough to be worthy fighters for Aku.

This helps the Priestess come off as more refined and cultured even when abusing her daughters. Superficial charm is something that she would need in order to properly brainwash her daughters. She can talk gently to one of them before doing something awful. A good example is when she catches Ashi looking out the window and tells her many motherly things about protecting her from Jack and the “dangers” he will bring. Immediately after, she grabs her by the throat and throws her across the room. She then beats her and berates her for losing focus. Ragyo Kiryuin may be the worst mother in anime, but the Priestess is an even worse mother than her.

Her backward philosophy of thinking that Aku of all beings is a benevolent god and that Jack is the one ruining their land borders on delusional. It seems that she thinks that chaos and evil are good things while the idea of peace is a bad thing. Not surprising considering who she worships. And it drives her to very scary extremes such as the abuse of her children and drinking a cup of Aku’s essence! Even he’s surprised by it. And her view of life is explicitly shown when she crushes a ladybug in front of her daughters. It shows how little even their lives mean to her.

She also has an over-inflated ego as well. It may not seem like this at first since she is devoutly loyal to Aku. However, she believes herself to be the most worthy and important of Aku’s followers, especially since she gave birth to his children. Aku barely remembers her. Though the fact that she’s able to drink his essence and somehow not be driven mad may justify some of that since Jack only had a drop and it drove him insane. (I guess you can’t be driven to a place when you’re already there.)

Female Sociopath List

[readingsquotes]

"But the world, or more specifically the West, doesn’t do anything. Worse, the liquidation of Gaza, though outlined and broadcast by its perpetrators, is daily obfuscated, if not denied, by the instruments of the West’s military and cultural hegemony: from the US president claiming that Palestinians are liars and European politicians intoning that Israel has a right to defend itself to the prestigious news outlets deploying the passive voice while relating the massacres carried out in Gaza. We find ourselves in an unprecedented situation. Never before have so many witnessed an industrial-scale slaughter in real time. Yet the prevailing callousness, timidity and censorship disallows, even mocks, our shock and grief. Many of us who have seen some of the images and videos coming out of Gaza – those visions from hell of corpses twisted together and buried in mass graves, the smaller corpses held by grieving parents, or laid on the ground in neat rows – have been quietly going mad over the last few months. Every day is poisoned by the awareness that while we go about our lives hundreds of ordinary people like ourselves are being murdered, or being forced to witness the murder of their children.

Those driven to scan Joe Biden’s face for some sign of mercy, some sign of an end to bloodletting, find an eerily smooth hardness, broken only by a nervous little smirk when he blurts out Israeli lies about beheaded babies. Biden’s stubborn malice and cruelty to the Palestinians is just one of many gruesome riddles presented to us by Western politicians and journalists.

.....

Why have Western politicians and journalists kept presenting tens of thousands of dead and maimed Palestinians as collateral damage, in a war of self-defence forced on the world’s most moral army, as the IDF claims to be?

The answers for many people around the world cannot but be tainted by a long-simmering racial bitterness. Palestine, George Orwell pointed out in 1945, is a ‘colour issue’, and this is the way it was inevitably seen by Gandhi, who pleaded with Zionist leaders not to resort to terrorism against Arabs using Western arms, and the postcolonial nations, which almost all refused to recognise the state of Israel. What W.E.B. Du Bois called the central problem of international politics – the ‘colour line’ – motivated Nelson Mandela when he said that South Africa’s freedom from apartheid is ‘incomplete without the freedom of the Palestinians’. James Baldwin sought to profane what he termed a ‘pious silence’ around Israel’s behaviour when he claimed that the Jewish state, which sold arms to the apartheid regime in South Africa, embodied white supremacy not democracy. Muhammad Ali saw Palestine as an instance of gross racial injustice. So, today, do the leaders of the United States’s oldest and most prominent Black Christian denominations, who have accused Israel of genocide and asked Biden to end all financial as well as military aid to the country.

.... For more than seven decades now, the argument among the ‘darker peoples’ has remained the same: why should Palestinians be dispossessed and punished for crimes in which only Europeans were complicit? And they can only recoil with disgust from the implicit claim that Israel has the right to slaughter 13,000 children not only as a matter of self-defence but because it is a state born out of the Shoah.

...

At the same time, Gaza has become for countless powerless people the essential condition of political and ethical consciousness in the 21st century – just as the First World War was for a generation in the West. And, increasingly, it seems that only those jolted into consciousness by the calamity of Gaza can rescue the Shoah from Netanyahu, Biden, Scholz and Sunak and re-universalise its moral significance; only they can be trusted to restore what Améry called the equilibrium of world morality. Many of the protesters who fill the streets of their cities week after week have no immediate relation to the European past of the Shoah. They judge Israel by its actions in Gaza rather than its Shoah-sanctified demand for total and permanent security. Whether or not they know about the Shoah, they reject the crude social-Darwinist lesson Israel draws from it – the survival of one group of people at the expense of another. They are motivated by the simple wish to uphold the ideals that seemed so universally desirable after 1945: respect for freedom, tolerance for the otherness of beliefs and ways of life; solidarity with human suffering; and a sense of moral responsibility for the weak and persecuted. These men and women know that if there is any bumper sticker lesson to be drawn from the Shoah, it is ‘Never Again for Anyone’: the slogan of the brave young activists of Jewish Voice for Peace.

[mysticalstuff]

“Unquenched Desires: A Tale of Yandere Love"

Description: Explore the captivating world of fanfiction, where fantasy horror meets unrequited love. This short story delves into the depths of a Yandere male character's obsession, offering a thrilling narrative that will leave readers on the edge of their seats.

-Yandere themes, do not interact if these themes trigger you.-

---

In the mystical town of Midnight Falls, a haunting tale unfolds - one that speaks of love, unrequited and twisted. At the center of this chilling saga, we meet Akira, a charismatic but troubled young man who spends his days trapped within the confines of his own mind.

Deeply infatuated with the elusive Ayumi, Akira's emotions transcend the norms of humanity. What starts as innocent adoration quickly spirals into a dangerously obsessive fixation. His world revolves around Ayumi; her every move, her every thought, is etched into his very soul.

As this dark tale progresses, Akira's emotions unravel, revealing the true depth of his madness. His love, once pure, becomes tainted by a desire so consuming, it borders on the supernatural. The boundaries between reality and fantasy blur as Akira teeters on the edge of sanity.

With unmatched suspense, this fantasy horror fanfic explores the twisted nature of love, leaving readers both intrigued and disturbed. Here, the lines between adoration and possession are blurred, and the consequences of unrequited love become chillingly apparent.

Delve into the darkest corners of the human psyche and immerse yourself in this captivating tale of yearning, obsession, and the haunting allure of unrequited love. Brace yourself, for once you enter Akira's world, the path to escape may be more treacherous than you ever imagined. Deep in the heart of Midnight Falls lay a forgotten shrine, hidden away from prying eyes. It was said to hold secrets of ancient magics with the power to transform the depths of desire into something more sinister. Rumors swirled that those who dared enter the shrine would have their fervent passions amplified, often to catastrophic ends.

One fateful night, driven to madness by Ayumi's sweet indifference, Akira stumbled upon this enigmatic shrine. Drawn by an inexplicable force, he approached with trembling anticipation. The air seemed electrified, as if the very essence of desperation pulsed through his veins.

Within the shrine's eerie depths, Akira discovered a forbidden tome, its pages adorned with archaic symbols and glyphs. Eager to seize any opportunity to make Ayumi notice him, he succumbed to temptation and initiated a forbidden ritual that would bind his fate to hers forever.

Unbeknownst to Akira, his desperate plea for reciprocation ignited a dark power deep within the shrine. Shadows twisted and danced around him as an ethereal presence whispered promises of fulfillment, its voice luring him deeper into the abyss of his own desires.

Days turned to nights, and nights turned to nights without sleep as Akira indulged in the darkest corners of his soul. He became a marionette, guided by an unseen force that reveled in his pain, feeding off the agony of his rejected love.

His transformation into a Yandere—a character consumed by love to the point of madness—was almost complete. Every fiber of his being ached, ached for Ayumi's love and affection. His mind, a labyrinth where reality and delusion intertwined, conjured fantasies where only the two of them existed, locked away from the outside world.

But as Akira's obsession intensified, so too did the horrors that plagued Midnight Falls. The once serene town descended into chaos, shrouded in an eerie mist that whispered of despair and destruction. Innocent lives were caught in the crossfire of his unquenched desires, and the line between love and cruelty blurred.

In a haunting climax, Ayumi, finally sensing the encroaching darkness, confronted Akira. Through tear-filled eyes, she pleaded for her safety, begging him to release her from the clutches of his broken love. But in the depths of his deranged mind, Ayumi's pleas fell on deaf ears—his twisted perception twisted her words into perverse affection, fueling his obsession further.

As the world around them crumbled under the weight of Akira's madness, a battle waged within his heart. Love collided with possessiveness, tearing him apart from the inside. Would he find redemption and set Ayumi free, or would their tragic fate be sealed by his unyielding grip?

"Unquenched Desires: A Tale of Yandere Love" offers an intoxicating blend of fantasy, horror, and unrequited love, leaving readers submerged in a world where the boundaries of obsession and darkness intertwine. Brace yourself for the final confrontation, where the delicate threads of reality and love threaten to snap, plunging Midnight Falls into eternal darkness.

[silastheanon]

Merry Christmas @professionallydeadinside !!!! I love you (platonically) so much man!!!!!! Its so fun talking to you and being your friend!!!!

They say, when you decide to venture to the kingdom Adavia, that you have doomed yourself to die.

Now, when most heard the words of this all-knowing, all powerful “they”, people didn’t believe them. They always thought, perhaps these mysterious 'they' and all of their widely known opinions were wrong. Most hoped they were. In fact, this “they” was frequently wrong. They seemed to find joy in worrying people over nothing. People assumed their opinions of Adavia were just another example of this phenomena.

Unfortunately, though this “they” was frequently incorrect, they were wholeheartedly true when it came to that fact.

Many could attest to the thought, could prove it true with only a small fraction of their tale. From those that lived there themselves to those who were only passing visitors, it seemed all found misfortune in Adavia.

Each one would blame someone different for their plights, for their fate, but the most recent was Dominic Darthen. There was nary a kind word said of him, and those that did have something to say were ensnared in his charm and world of wonder. From a prince of a distant land, to a poor girl living in Adavia itself, none could resist his charm and sweet promises, it seemed. It broke all's hearts, but little could be done.

One by one they would fall, desolate and broken, twisted and used by his careless hands. Some would die, others would be cursed to continue living, his mark an eternal shadow looming over their hunched shoulders. Sometimes, they would kill each other in a jealous rage, all the while he watched on, uncaring and unfeeling. Or, maybe, perhaps he did feel something.

Perhaps he was disgusted with himself, perhaps he watched on and was filled with a sickening amount of regret and sorrow, but could find no courage to intervene. Perhaps he truly had loved each and every one of those people he had destroyed, had driven mad with pain and hurt and abuse. Maybe he really did care for the grey haired prince, maybe the poor girl had truly caught his heart in her dark eyes.

Perhaps he was a cruel god playing a chess game only he knew, and everyone else was a pawn he was entirely willing to sacrifice to win the game.

Even time could not reveal a mystery such as that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some claimed that they knew from the day he was born that he would be evil, that he would hurt and kill and scorn, but they are liars. None had foretold what he would do. How could they? How could everyday people, doing all they can for their families, for themselves, in an attempt to live and survive, have had the time and effort to convince themselves he would be evil when he was just a babe?

The nobility, now, they were a different story. They, too, claimed to have suspected his cruelty since the day his mother brought him into the world wrinkled and ugly and crying. The nobility did have the time to waste the effort of convincing themselves a babe was going to be cruel even before he was an hour old. They, for once, told the truth.

Most had simply rejoiced that the boy had been born healthy and went back about their day. It was only later that they would see his cruelty begin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Darthen Castle was on a cliff. While inside the great structure, one could hear the waves beat upon the rock and wash away pebbles and sand. Birds would scream their hoarse songs, and dolphins would click click click away down below. If someone was stubborn, they could go all the way from the castle to the small beach at the very bottom of the cliff. When the tide was high, it would be almost completely swallowed up.

Hidden, away from prying eyes, there was a cave in the cliff. It was in that cave that one of Dominic's old lovers, the poor girl with eyes darker than fudge, was burned, her dearest friend and truest love weeping over her pyre. Above the funeral of a kind woman and the birth of an undying vengeance, he remained in his castle, safe within walls that hid him from his angered people and their plotting schemes.

Up above, where the smoke of a heartbroken fire couldn't reach, sat Dominic, Henrick already perched on his arm and deep into his lies.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before them all, before the poor girl and Henrick, was a prince with dark brown hair. He was from a kingdom not very far from Adavia, but far enough that he was something of a fairytale.

At first, the people had loved him. They thought him to be a saviour, someone to help their cruel prince, could temper his attitude and provide solace for the people. His hair turned grey and he eyes grew dark. The people watched in pain as the faraway prince, once a darling thing of fantasy, became tainted by their own, and became less than he was before.

When he left to be taught in a place far off, they all hoped he would come to his senses, would realise the pain and torture the Darthen prince was putting him through.

He only fell deeper into the pit, though.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

While the grey haired boy was away, the people noticed that a poor girl began to be seen near him, hanging off his arm and with his hand on her waist. All could see how she looked at him, and all pitied the poor girl.

From the shadows, people could see a woman in red following the pair whenever they went out, watching them.

When the prince called for the girl to be burned, the red woman was no where to be found. The next day, the girls body was gone and the woman grew more and more restless.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the grey prince returned, pity was the highest it had been in years. He had so desperately wanted the prince to see him, to love him, but it wouldn’t happen. Everyone in the kingdom knew he’d never be loved as he wanted to be.

He would die as he lived, they’d say, yearning for love and a kind hand.

Each day he was there, the red woman grew more and more irritated and upset. People placed bets on the day she’d light her home on fire, or the day she’d take her own life in a fiery blaze of destruction.

The grey prince fully earned his name during this time. His hair was truly grey, and his eyes were dull and dark. His hands twitched and shook, and his words would slur sometimes when he spoke. Outsiders thought it was an illness that caused all these things.

The people of Adavia knew it was Dominic Darthen who had ruined the fairytale prince.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not far from Adavia, there was prince that people said was haunted. They said that he heard things that spoke in dead tongues, and that his eyes weren’t human. He was something beyond mortal, they said, something that could eat your dreams and drink your blood and bathe in your screams.

Others grew afraid of the stories, weary of this demon prince, but the people of Adavia had no fear in them. For, while this prince had the eyes of a demon and the screams of the devil, it held no candle to the true demon that roamed the Earth.

The people of Adavia knew that it was their prince that was the devil.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The people didn’t see much of Henrick, but they didn’t need to. They knew how their prince was, and they knew he’d destroy everything kind that went near him. Henrick could continue to hide away and everyone still knew the fate he was steadily climbing towards:

Becoming as broken as all the others.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The fairytale prince died.

He took his life directly in front of the Adavian prince, who merely regarded the corpse like it was something to be cleaned up, and not the death of a person.

Like it was not the death of someone who had once loved him.

The death of someone that maybe, maybe, he himself had loved, once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the fairytale prince came back to Adavia, and the red woman was full of pain and anger, they had become friends.

People watched as a no one walked arm in arm with a prince of a far off land. A woman with no family left to love her walking with a man that had love but lost it, no fault of his own.

Some even said that they saw something other than rage and a morbid determination enter the red womans eyes. But maybe they were just lying.

Then again, maybe not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The red woman had had a church. It had been her pride. Somehow, when it went up in flames, everyone knew she had done it, and that she was still inside it.

People speculated on why she had chosen that way to die. Some said it was to make a statement none could ignore, not even a Darthen. Others, those that were more romantic, thought it was because the poor girl had died in flame.

Regardless, everyone believed that, somewhere, there was a blazing fire large enough to burn to world, and inside it, where the yellow turns to blue, are two women, dancing under the stars. And if the smoke burns wine red, well, he was a friend of Allisons.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The people in their village around the castle would say, for years, that when the window broke, everyone had heard it. Even those who could’ve never heard it said they had.

And perhaps they had. Perhaps the death of something so evil, so cruel, truly had rang out against every other noise.

People all had their own versions of the tale. Some said that Dominic had simply tumbled out of the window, looking like any man pushed out of one would. Other said fiery wings of h*ll sprouted out to try to save his life, but they were too slow. Others saw the glow of holy things pushing him down, forcing him to die. Others said that the spikes on the walls rose up to meet him, to ensure his death. Regardless, though, of what they all saw, everyone saw his corpse grace the spikes, saw them pierce his flesh and render him gone. They could all see as his red blood dripped down the silvery spikes, as it dribbled out of his mouth and carved a path down his skin.

Doctors and medical professionals of all kind describe blood, the blood that brings death, is pink, bright with the life of oxygen, but Dominic’s wasn’t. It was red like wine, and it smeared around his mouth like he had spilled a glass on himself. It stained his clothes red, too, like the finest fabric.

There was a myth, a legend, a tale, that the fairytale prince’s death cursed his blood dark and the red womans fiery blaze coated his clothes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Henrick took over Adavia after Dominic’s death. The haunted prince grew more and more distressed. Adavia conquered all other kingdoms nearby.

Henrick still wasn’t seen, much like when he was on Dominic’s arm, but when he was, all could see the dead prince’s mark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

When one goes to the kingdom of Adavia, one must be prepared to die, they say.

This “they”, though frequently wrong, was correct in that saying, though, perhaps not fully. It was trusting the prince that brought ones death, not the kingdom itself. That was what they had all done, and they all met the same end.

The poor girl had been burned on his order, and her beloved red woman burned herself to see her again. The fairytale prince took his life, his grey hair finally brought back to a colour. Henrick, the one who had survived, the fabled winner, died as well, in the burning blaze that took the world.

This “they” that gives its warnings, that advises none to venture to Adavia, to avoid the Darthen name on pain of death, were correct in their calls for caution.

For any who come to Adavia will meet the same fate.

[bloody-delusion-expert]

Look that you can make requests and encourage me to slide here, you write beautiful! It could be one of slashers; michael myers with a younger sister who he is looking for to get her back because she loves her (the only person she loved and continues to love) and wants to be by her side, be a family and that I managed to get her out of a horrible family

Michael's Protective love

Michael Myers × Younger sister!reader

Warning: pure fluff bro

A/N:this was too good not to write I hope you enjoyed it!!!

It was a dark and stormy night, and Michael Myers had just escaped from the mental institution where he had been held for years. As he roamed the streets, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing from his life. That something was his little sister, Y/N. Growing up, Michael had always been protective of Y/N, and he loved her more than anything in the world. But after he had been sent away, he lost touch with her and had no idea where she was or what had happened to her. As he walked through the rain-soaked streets, Michael's mind was consumed with thoughts of Y/N. He couldn't bear the thought of her being alone or in danger, and he knew that he had to find her and protect her at all costs. It took Michael several days of searching, but eventually he found Y/N living in a small town in the middle of nowhere. She had grown up without him, and was now a young woman with a family of her own. At first, Y/N was terrified of her long-lost brother, who had become infamous for his brutal murders. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw a deep and abiding love for her that she could not deny. Despite her initial fear, Y/N soon found herself drawn to Michael's protective nature and his unwavering loyalty to her. She began to see him not as a monster, but as a lost and broken soul who had been driven to madness by the cruelty of the world. Together, Michael and Y/N began to rebuild their relationship, and Michael became a constant presence in her life. He would watch over her as she slept, and he would follow her wherever she went, always ready to protect her from any danger that might arise. Over time, Y/N came to love Michael as much as he loved her. She knew that he had done terrible things in the past, but she also knew that he had changed, and that he was now a kind and gentle soul who would do anything for her. As the years went by, Michael and Y/N lived together in peace, away from the prying eyes of the world. They were happy together, and nothing could ever come between them. For Michael, Y/N was the one thing that made life worth living, and he would always be there for her, no matter what.

[ainyan]

Wall

She was building a wall.

It was not, by any account, a very large wall - a fact she gave fervent thanks to every time she added another stone to it. It could be, she knew; for every stone she laid, there were another hundred, a thousand that went unset because she had no name to inscribe upon it.

Upon each stone of the wall was engraved a name: Ysayle. Regula. Papalymo. Minfilia. Nidhogg. Branden. Renda-Rae. Lammit. Nyelbert. Niellefresne. Moenbryda. Louisoix. Meffrid. Conrad. Yotsuyu. Livia. Rhitahtyn. Vauthry.

Haurchefant.

Ardbert.

Other names were inscribed, as well - names of those fallen in the war with the Empire, in the war against the Light, in the fights against the primals - of all of those soldiers, she had learned the names of only a few dozen, a pitiable amount compared to those who had met their final rest. Still, for every name she learned, she etched it in stone and added it to the little memorial wall in her garden.

It was one such name that she added today, etched with magic and steel upon a chunk of Gyr Abanian granite, as strong as the man who had sought to free his homeland from a tyrant’s clutches. “Rest well, Jonifid,” she whispered as she laid the stone upon the wall, sealing it to those next to it with a whispered word. “Your widow and child live on knowing a free Ala Mhigo.”

There were those, she knew, who would hold her memorial to be morbid; some, she knew, would be insulted by her claim of names who had in their opinion naught to do with her. She did not see it as thus, however. She was the spindle upon which the world’s fate spun - she had not brought the Garlean Empire down upon them, it was true, but she had been the firebrand who had set fire to the spark of rebellion in Doma and Ala Mhigo. She had been the catalyst that had ignited the fear in the beastmen tribes, that they began to beseech their primals in greater numbers to withstand the fearsome eikon-slayer.

It had been in pursuit of her that Lahabrea had destroyed the Praetorium. In pursuit of her that Zenos had laid waste to the Ghimlyt Dark. In pursuit of her that Vauthry had besieged Lakeland and Amh Arang.

In all of the death and destruction, there had been one common thread. Her.

In all of the pain and sorrow, there had been one voice rising to light a fire in the hearts of the people, to send them forth to a battle they could not hope to survive.

Hers.

And it would continue, had to continue, until the star was free of the machinations of the Ascians. Until the Garlean Empire was fallen or in the hands of one who looked to cooperation rather than coercion. It would continue until either she failed, and the Ascians’ Great Rejoining occurred - or until she succeeded, and Zodiark was laid low, that Hydaelyn might shine on unopposed by her dark brother.

She sighed and reached out, brushing her fingers across Ardbert’s name. In the depths of her soul she felt him stir. It was true; perhaps he should not be here. Though his body was long gone - first dead, then sacrificed to fuel the primal Warrior of Light - his soul lived on intertwined inexorably with hers, sacrificed to save her own when it was shattered and close to breaking beneath the burden of corrupted Light she carried. Though who he once was no longer existed, he was still there - she could feel him, sometimes hear him; it could have simply been her subconscious echoing what he might have said… but she thought not. It had a certain timbre, a certain taste that spoke of her brother-in-arms and in-soul.

But his name stayed, for he more than most had truly sacrificed all he was for her, to save her, to fix her. Not out of obligation. Not out of duty. But out of comradeship. Friendship. Just as another had sacrificed himself out of love. And another for a future she prayed would come. Another to see hope shine bright. And still another in pain, driven to madness by cruelty and abuse. Others for duty. For honor.

And then there were three. They sat apart from the others, their own little wall. There were other names, perhaps, that she should add there - but she was not certain how dead they were. These three, however - she had taken each of their lives with her own hand. Deliberately. Sundered them at last from their undying existence.

She knew even her dearest, closest comrades disapproved of her keeping these names amongst her memorial, but she had made a promise.

Remember us. Remember that we once lived.

They were her brothers. Closer than brothers. Once upon a time, in eons past, they had been kith and kin. And though she had no memory of those times, she could remember them.

Emet-Selch.

Lahabrea.

Elidibus.

She would remember them, and the lessons they had taught her about pride, about memory, about hope and desire and need. And about herself. About what she truly was.

About who she truly was.

And so they had a place in her garden. They all had a place in her garden, those stones upon which the foundation of her life had been built. Her friends. Her enemies. Her past and present and even her future.

She would not forget them.

She would remember that they had once lived.

[unravellingsilencehq]

“Oh, Merlin, tell me, does THE EXECUTIONER get what he deserves?” He is in THE DEATH EATERS & OPEN to finding out. 

— he walks through the world as ;

name → jae mulciber pronouns → he/him identification → cis male year of birth → september 1950 - september 1951 face claim → kim woo bin blood status → pure-blood sexual orientation → up to applicant occupation → defence barrister at the department of magical law enforcement at the ministry of magic future information → n/a

— he is best described as ;

CALCULATED and BRASH, he is the taste of HUNDRED GALLEONS worth of CHAMPAGNE, luxurious and belonging to those with WEALTH. A catalyst of DESTRUCTION, he is the COLD edge of an EXECUTIONER’S BLADE; DECISIVE and CALLOUS determining the fate of victims with one fateful BLOW. Yet the HAUNTED GUILT of victims shadows that linger in the dead of night, UNNERVING in its actions of fate driven MADNESS.

— his story starts with ;

tw: abuse, tw: death

The second born to Kyung Mulciber and Yeong Yang, Jae glowed in his parents’ affection as they primped him to raise the Mulciber name into defying glory. Hidden in the secluded mountains of The Lake District, enchanted barriers hid the family from unwelcome prying eyes. Gothic and grand, the manor was envied amongst Pure-Blood elite for its grandeur. Gargoyles kept a luring gaze on the perimeter, while towering family portraits adorned embossed walls cast in crystal chandeliers. Resilient and powerful with exuberant wealth enough for generations to come; Mulciber was a feared household name for its powerful ties to darkness. Souls matching demons, they snarled at Half-Bloods and Mudblood’s alike, batting them into anguish with a superior god complex. Molded into assassins of torment; purist rhetoric was laced in their lives from dusk till dawn. Breeding internal misery, Jae and ERIS MULCIBER [sister] were taught not what beauty magic held but rather what power. Snarled voices echoed like piercing sirens around the garden’s grounds, poisoning any innocence the children held into pure vile vulgarity. A villainous snarl to accompany his bite, Kyung’s teachings were relentless and treacherous;  enough to make even the Thestrals kept on their ground quiver. 

Concealing their illegal devastation with unregistered Gregorovitch wands, they harnessed darkness while slipping through the grasps of the law. The first born, Eris, struck strife with the Cruciatus curse. Jae however took akin to the killing curse. Harsh, blunt, direct, it grew like a disease in his hand; graving it’s power. The troublesome duo relentlessly tormented house elves for their own self-satisfaction. Reveling in screams, elves who disobeyed fell victim. Only once Eris had her fun did Jae put them out of their misery with one swish flick. Dancing in the praise their parents bestowned, they beamed with pride at the monsters they’d created. Though as years passed, connections faded. Once throwing hexes at one another with childish glee, glowering glances turned their relationship sour as Eris grew green with envy watching Jae became his father’s right hand. Though pleasantries dulled as heartbreak shattered the family. LARKIN MULCIBER [brother], caused their mother’s last breath with his first. Lace as black as night hid silent tears, while the stench of alcohol on their father’s breath bit as he hushed Larkin’s wails of tears with bitter hatred. While Eris grew spiteful, Jae grew dependable and divisive; possessing an anger so vile it could burn cities to the ground.

Leaving the Mulciber name growing in the pits of hell, Durmstrang was Jae’s doing. Persistent in his acts of cruelty, his wit and suave became his hallmark.  His charm lured in the unsuspecting; leaving them at his disposal. Dominating the school with a devilish grin, slicked back hair and an arrogant charisma that left even the strongest of witches falling at his feet. Proud, he rose like a phoenix from his mother’s ashes. Enthralled by his father’s guiding words to gather strong connections to benefit them when THE DARK LORD’s [leader] world came to fruition, Jae entrusted only those equally despicable to his side. NYX FALKOV [close friend] was a witch with powerful wandless magic rivaling even his own as she poisoned minds and played fiddle to no man, while OSIRIS SNYDE [best friend] held a somber disposition but whose combat skills could leave any quivering at his feet. Rioting the night they reigned, encouraged by classmates and tutors alike for their sickafance and talent for the dark arts. Graduating with shining medals of honour to his name, Jae’s intellect and ambition for glory reigned. Hungry for power, he strode in his father’s footsteps; knowing his position could claim him leverage and a dominating hand in any room. 

Filled with aristocratic politicians who aimed to benefit themselves, while he held little interest in the justice of Wizengamot, he saw value in its disgrace. Months he watched the meek plead their innocence despite their guilt. Their insolence was intolerable; but presented the perfect opportunity. Cunning as the devil and twice as pretty, Jae turned his hand to law and became a defense barrister with hopes to become of use to The Dark Lord. Safeguarding those with less than savory natures, Jae was untouchable as he pleaded cases for those with horror’s hidden in their eyes. Slick defenses, he unshackled the guilty with owls piled high on his desk from villainous figures pleading for their freedom. One witch that found his behavior despicable was NAMARI NGUYEN [ex-wife], an Auror with bold gumption; if Jae was the executioner, Namari was the liberator. Taking entertainment in her displeasure, as their heated rivalry grew, Jae found himself only wanting to toy with her more. Love, they say, toys a fine parallel line to hatred. Passionate disagreements turned to scandalous moments hidden behind locked doors. While their values classed; their blood and families aligned. The hand of one of the most trusted Auror’s was a wealthy commodity and perfect mask; for who would suspect the husband of a senior officer?

Sipping a fire whiskey on rocks with his father and mistress Meihui, they laughed at the state of the Ministry under the hands of MILLICENT BAGNOLD [acquaintance]. Though when Kyung went to check on his girlfriend, alarmed shouts disrupted the silence. Joining his father, his gaze befell a large serpent luring in the shadows. Swift action, a twisted hand and a hissed ‘Avada Kedavra’ left the creature cold. Only, to their horror, as the scaly beast morphed into a petite woman did they realize it wasn’t a beast at all, but Meihui; a Maledictus unknown to them. But before Kyung and Jae could utter a word, a scream of horror erupted from Namari who’d just returned home. Horrified, her gaze once loving darked before his eyes. With panicked words of informing the Ministry, she fled for her wand. Barely a whisper of a hair from her grasp, before ‘Avada Kedavra’ cut through the air like a guillotine, leaving her too cold as stone on the marble floor. Jae looked upon his wife’s corpse with; death having left his lips from selfish fear of his own fate before he’d even gabbled the consequences. Masquerading murders, Sectumsempra replicated the attack of the late BOOKER BAGNOLD [acquaintance], leading blame to ‘infamous killer’ SILAS CRUMP [person of interest]. And if betrayed, they’d all go burning to hell and drag RABASTAN LESTRANGE [rival] down with them. 

The Solstice of Summer 1983 was as filled with depraved darkness as they’d hoped. Proving his worth by plucking the doomed hair off CLAUDETTE TREMBLAY’s [victim] shoulder; he used polyjuice potion to transfigure into her and set the fatal spell. Claudette took the blame for AMELIA BONES’s [victim] death, setting the death eaters free in the knowledge their secrets died with Bones. Rewarded with the Dark Mark, he basked with pride at being entrusted amongst The Dark Lords inner circle. But with the passing year he’s grown tormented by shadows. Strange events keep happening without explanation, leaving him feeling haunted in guilt as he catches a reflection of a face he swears is his late wife. An unnerving sight that isn’t helped with Namari’s once partner in crime DOUGAL MCKINNON [person of interest] sniffing around. Storm raging in his chest, for a man once assertive, he’s become unstable in his own judgement. Clearing the name of EDRICK SELWYN [associate], in exchange for his early release from Azkaban, he has tasked him to deter Dougal by any means necessary. Swearing to Morgana the Mulciber name will burn glorious as he arises as the air. But what good is a legacy, if you’re unable to bask in all of its power come dawn?

— he is a LEVEL 8 WIZARD & readied for war ;

[botslayer9000]

So I'm on a bit of a Ni No Kuni kick recently, and it seems like there's a small community of fans here on tumblr. So, has anybody else here ever lost themselves in thought about how Lucien was really just some guy? He wasn't a sage, or descended from one, or any kind of royalty. He was probably some peasant dude who decided "yeah sure I'll study magic and become a soldier to protect my country" and was dragged into a war of aggression because of it. Literally just some dude. He was a practical nobody from a village that doesn't exist anymore in a country that hasn't survived to the present day who became one of the most powerful, feared figures in the entire other world, partly because he was functionally powerless to do anything else before he got that power of hatred and despair level up. Anybody else think about that sometimes? Because I do

[midwesterngothic]

I made a post similar to this a few years ago, with what I considered at the time to be seminal examples of good midwestern horror. You can find it here.

Since then, I’ve read and seen a lot of other great examples, so I thought I’d make a follow up. This is not comprehensive by any means, just some recommendations I’ve read/watched in the past year or so. Also, some of these aren’t even Midwestern, but they fit the same general vibe, so I’m reccing them anyways.

Books

Storm Kings: America’s First Tornado Chasers - Lee Sandlin. Non-fiction concerning the evolution of our understanding of tornadoes and the scientists who developed the methodology behind the categories of extreme storms in Tornado Alley. Great character sketches, and some good bouts of prose here and there. Read this one in the waiting room at the Oklahoma airport.

The Wendigo - Algernon Blackwood. A classic novella from one of the masters of the genre. This is short, eerie, and sparse. Read this on a dark, rainy night in front of the fireplace or read aloud to your friends in an isolated hunting cabin in the middle of the night.

N. - Stephen King. Short story from the King about liminal spaces, cosmic horror, and the desperate, doomed attempt to protect this world from mad, unknowable forces. Read this one right after your early-morning walk through bare countryside in thin January.

We Have Always Lived in the Castle - Shirley Jackson. Yes, this is more New England than Midwestern, but hey, what are you, the genre police? I’m not going to leave the one and only Shirley off of this list. Two sisters live alone in an empty mansion after the mysterious death of their entire family due to a poisoned meal. Suspicious villagers, terrible cousins, and mischievous cats. Read this one while avoiding your extended family at Thanksgiving dinner.

The Troop - Nick Cutter. A troop of Boy Scouts and their Scout Master set out for a weekend hiking trip on an isolated island and discover a biological threat that sets them against each other, and eventually, themselves. Super gory, short, nasty, great B Movie schlock. Read this one at the height of summer when the cicadas won’t let you think, lying on your back on the dock, one foot bravely dangling in the dark water of the lake below.

The Croning - Laird Barron. Oh, this one got to me. Spans the fifty-year marriage of an absent-minded professor and his brilliant, driven researcher of a wife and the dark secrets they carry with them over the years. Cults, cosmic horror, and cruelty. Read this one in the car on the long drive to your new wife’s research location while you ignore the sinking feeling you can no longer trust her.

Her Body and Other Parties - Carmen Maria Machado. Excellent short story collection about women and the trauma inflicted on their psyches when their bodies are not their own. Best story in the collection is “Especially Heinous”, a horror-inspired description of a Law and Order: SVU-esque show that forefronts the lingering trauma that the victims and investigators experience due to the violence they’re confronted with. Machado is a great Twitter follow, too.

North American Lake Monsters - Nathan Ballingrud. Another short story collection with absolutely gorgeous prose. Characters are confronted by monsters, both internal and external. Love is an intense force in the world, both positive and negative. Adored this collection.

The Dark Dark - Samantha Hunt. This past year was very short story-heavy, so I’m now passing the savings down to you. Less horror and more magical realism, these stories are full of dissatisfied women trying to find meaning in their lives through unsuccessful marriages and families.

Universal Harvester - John Darnielle. Yes, that John Darnielle. A small-town video store clerk in Iowa tries to unravel the mystery of strange, unexplainable footage appearing on VHS tapes returned to his story that he thinks might be related to the disappearance of his mother years before. Don’t go into this book expecting hard-core horror, but more existential sadness and the messy fumblings toward human connection.

Ghostland: An American History in Haunted Places - Colin Dickey. Another nonfiction book where every chapter takes one haunted place somewhere in the US and tells the story, but this isn’t your average schlocky ghost tale. This book is far more interested in why we as humans conjure up spirits in the first place, why ghost stories are important to our psyche, what they do for us, and how they help us remember things that shouldn’t be forgotten. This is an excellent book.

Movies

Blue Ruin (2013, dir. Jeremy Saulnier). From the director of Green Room, this is one of the most realistic revenge thrillers I’ve ever seen, with tense action scenes, realistic violence, and a traumatized protagonist that doesn’t turn into an Emotionless Murder Machine (TM), but rather reacts like a real person might.

The Lodge (2019, dir. Veronika Franz, Severin Fiala). A woman spends a weekend with her recently-widowed fiancee’s two children in an isolated, snowed-in cabin. She is the only survivor of a suicide cult, and the isolated location preys on all of their weaknesses. Cold and isolated and quite eerie.

Sleep Has Her House (2017, dir. Scott Barley). Fair warning that this is an experimental film, and a bit hard to lay your hands on, but it is Highly Recommended. As Highly Recommended as can be. An empty landscape suffused with lingering darkness, an oncoming storm that has no escape. You definitely have to be in the mood for something slow-paced and eerie. I suggest headphones and watching this on your own in darkness. It’s an experience.

Pyewacket (2017, dir. Adam McDonald). Another lesser-known horror movie that is absolutely fantastic. A teenage girl obsessed with witchcraft/heavy metal summons a demon to murder her mother. The synopsis sounds a bit schlocky, but it’s really upsetting and scary, and there are some great emotional undertones to the mother and daughter’s relationship. Also it’s just freaky as hell.

Days of Heaven (1978, dir. Terrence Malick). It doesn’t get more Americana than this. Rolling wheat fields, clouds of locusts, turn-of-the-century portraits. Not a lot going on plot-wise, but it’s absolutely gorgeous because they only shot for 20 minutes a day exclusively in the magic hour.

Ravenous (1999, dir. Antonia Bird). This website says they love homoerotic cannibals, but where you all when Antonia Bird needed you in 1999? Shame. No but seriously, this is one of my favorite movies. The rare snowy Western. Great stuff.

The Ritual (2017, dir. David Buckner). Yes, again, this is a British movie, but again, I’m recommending it anyway. This is probably the most well-known of the movies I’m going to recommend, but it feels like a lot of people skipped it? One of my favorite folk horror movies. Fantastic atmosphere, eerie pacing, and stellar monster design. I’m always going to bat for this flick.

I don’t have as much to say about these but rapid-fire recommendations at the end:

TV: Stranger Things (I know everyone’s watched this, but season 1 really is excellent), Atlanta, Outcast.

Music: Grizzly Bear (Shields, Painted Ruins), Orville Peck, Phoebe Bridgers, Tune Yards, All Them Witches.

[pastelwitchling]

Michael tells Alex about the Dictator.

Michael was leaning forward on his knees, staring at the flames of the bonfire. He was slowly losing his mind, he knew it, but that didn’t make him pick up his phone and call Max for guidance or Isobel to apologize. He didn’t call Maria to ask if she was having any visions about his future, or Valenti to look him over for a burn mark he might’ve miraculously missed.

Mr. Jones had told him all he’d needed to know, and now the rest of the world felt muffled, like there was cotton in his ears. He didn’t want to talk to his siblings, he didn’t want his friends’ advice or insight. He didn’t think he could ever move away from this bonfire again, watching the flames taunt him. Because they knew they couldn’t hurt him, and that it was torturing him.

When a car drove up to the junkyard, Michael was flooded with memories of another late-night visitor. He looked up, traitorous hope climbing his throat before he could help it. When he saw Isobel behind the wheel, his heart sagged back to the bottom of his stomach, and he returned to staring at the fire.

It was frightening how, even after a year apart, just the thought of the airman cut through his haze like a knife.

Isobel stepped out of her car and stood across the bonfire, her arms crossed. She sighed. “I think you should talk to Alex.”

Michael’s eyes flickered upward. Isobel looked shaken, and the brotherly part of him wanted to be protective and concerned, but the bigger part couldn’t muster the will.

He offered a small, humorless smirk, the only kind he could manage, and held his still untouched beer bottle to his lips. “Pardon?”

Isobel wasn’t having it. She came to stand in front of Michael, blocking his view of the flames. “You’re not okay,” she said simply.

“Would you be?” he answered without looking at her, the cruelty evident in his tone.

“I don’t know why you’re listening to Jones of all people,” she tried. “You’re the one who said we shouldn’t –”

“Is,” Michael cut her off, shutting his eyes. “Not now, okay?”

Isobel said nothing for a moment, then huffed. She grabbed the chair nearest Michael, pulled it closer, and sat down, facing him. “You need to talk to Alex, Michael. You’ve . . . you’ve never listened to anybody like you listen to him, and he’s smart. He’ll tell you what I already know, and . . .” she shook her head. “Maybe you’ll believe him.”

Michael said nothing. He said nothing as Isobel sighed, kissed his temple, and told him she’d come by again in the morning. He said nothing as she got in her car with a final plea for him to go see Alex. He said nothing as she drove away.

He said nothing because he couldn’t admit that he’d been terrified of this beyond anything else. Facing Alex again, after everything he’d done. But he wanted it. He wanted to see Alex so badly, and though he knew it might only push him further over the edge until he felt nothing at all, he also knew he would be worse off not seeing Alex at all.

When Michael dared ask himself what he wanted, the answer was clear; he didn’t want to see or talk to anybody, but he could manage just enough strength to talk to Alex. Only to Alex.

On his way to Alex’s house, he thought of all the ways he could explain what he was doing there, where to begin in what he’d discovered. But it looked like Alex had somehow known he was coming because he didn’t give him the luxury of working out a script in his head. Instead, Michael found him in his front garden, kneeling in the mud and pulling at weeds. He had one hand on the dirt beside a few roses, as if careful not to accidentally hurt them.

Michael pulled his truck to a stop, watching the ends of Alex’s hair stick to his skin with sweat, the way his brows pinched in concentration, but his hands worked gently. A lump formed in Michael’s throat. He thought about the things he’d said to Alex almost two years ago, and the way he’d made him feel.

“I don’t think we’re good for each other, Alex.”

“I like Maria, okay?”

“I’m saying no.”

Michael shut his eyes tight. What right did he have to talk to Alex now? He clenched his jaw and swallowed thickly. He started to turn the steering wheel when Alex glanced up and their eyes caught through the windshield.

Alex straightened and raised a hand in startled greeting. Michael hesitated. He should’ve driven away, escaped as quickly as possible, but he hadn’t seen Alex in a year, and only barely glimpsed him at the bus stop when he’d come back before he quickly turned away, unable to stand the sight of him and Forrest together. And he missed him. He missed him like he didn’t think he could ever miss anybody.

Seeing him now had Michael itching to be closer, to touch. Before he could tell himself it was a bad idea, he parked his truck. Alex pushed himself to his feet as Michael stepped out.

“Hey –” Michael started and stopped as Alex breathlessly pulled him in for a one-armed hug.

“Hi,” Alex said and started to pull away, but Michael kept a hand on his back, keeping him close for a few more seconds. He turned his face into his hair, breathing him in. He was so warm and felt so good, his soft strands tickling Michael’s cheek.

When Alex finally stepped back, Michael saw that he looked tired, but was smiling, his cheeks dusted pink. “I was going to come see you tonight.”

“Y-You were?”

“Yeah,” Alex dusted the mud off the hem of his shirt, but Michael’s hand was still on his waist. “We haven’t talked since I got back. I missed you.”

Michael let his hand fall and allowed himself to stay close. Just for another few minutes, before Alex found out the truth about him and pushed him away in disgust.

He forced a chuckle. “I’m flattered, Private.”

As Alex searched Michael’s face, his eyes narrowed, and his smile slowly dimmed. “What’s wrong?”

Michael’s brows furrowed and he was about to shake his head, to say nothing was wrong, then Alex pursed his lips and said, “That bad, huh?”

He tried for another chuckle, but it got caught in his throat and sounded weak to his own ears. “Alex, I don’t –”

But Alex was already dusting the dirt off his hands. Michael briefly noted the strange new ring on his finger. At his confused look, Alex smiled, “I’ll put some coffee on.”

Ten minutes later found Michael in Alex’s living room, two steaming cups of coffee on the table in front of them. Michael sat on Alex’s couch, while Alex took the bench in front of his keyboard. He had changed into his sweats and an Air Force t-shirt, and Michael kept alternating between fear of what he would say, studying every freckle on Alex’s face and neck, and ogling his strong arms. He was always toned, but it was evident he’d spent the last year working out.

“You look good,” he thoughtlessly blurted.

“And you’re stalling,” Alex said, blushing.

“I’m not,” Michael truthfully said. “You look really good.”

“Guerin,” Alex leaned in. “What happened?”

Michael met Alex’s eyes and felt his own burn, the plagues of his mind coming at him at once with the genuine care in Alex’s eyes. He wondered how many minutes he would have before that kindness turned to cruel satisfaction.

“Karma,” he said. “I . . .” he looked down at his lap, his fingers playing. “I think I know who my dad is.”

Alex’s eyes widened slightly before his captain’s training kicked in, and he schooled his expression to one of indifference. “Okay. Who?”

Michael shook his head. He whispered, “A monster.”

At the confused furrow of Alex’s brows, Michael launched into the story of everything Jones had told them. He thought it’d be impossible to speak at all, but Alex held his gaze and it gave him a strength he didn’t think would last outside these walls.

By the time he was done, he was pacing the length of the living room, and Alex watched calmly from where he sat.

“This guy might’ve chased my mom and Louise off our planet in the first place,” Michael raged, his heart racing. “My mom – my mom, Alex – made Max in a lab so she could use him.” A rough chuckle escaped his lips. “And all the crap I gave you because of Jesse –”

“Guerin,” Alex said gently. “Sit down. Please.”

Michael clenched his fists, and sat down. He shook his head, staring at his cold cup of coffee. “What do I do now?”

Alex raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

Michael looked up at him. “Alex,” he reminded him, “my dad’s a villain.”

“So is mine,” Alex sighed, taking their mugs to the sink. “It happens.”

Michael stared, and stood to follow. “Do you not get –”

“I get that this is freaking you out,” Alex said simply, and turned to face him. He leaned against the sink. “I get that you’re angry.”

“Angry?” he scoffed. “I’m a monster’s son!”

Alex raised a cool brow. “So?”

“So my parents are supposed to be heroes!” he slammed his fist against the wall, and all the furniture jumped a good foot before falling back down.

Alex looked unaffected, but when he spoke, his voice was soft. “I know.”

“My mom used Max! My dad destroyed everything!”

“I know.”

“Fire,” he breathed, “fire doesn’t hurt me, Alex.” He shook his head. “It feels wrong.”

Alex took Michael’s face in his hands. “It’s not.”

Michael opened his mouth on a silent sentence, whatever he was going to say next lost as Alex brushed his cheek with his thumb.

“I . . .”

Alex gently pulled Michael in against him, hugging his shoulders. Against the crook of his neck, he whispered, “I’m sorry your family’s more human than you wanted them to be.”

Michael shuddered. He tried to push Alex away, to get angry, but in his embrace all he could feel was the desperate need to be closer. He ended up grabbing Alex’s hips, his fingers curled tightly in the material of his shirt.

“Why don’t you hate me?” he demanded. “Yell at me, laugh, tell me I deserve this!”

Alex held him tighter and shook his head.

“Why not?” he urged through grit teeth, his eyes burning. “I do deserve it, Alex. I made you feel like crap because of your dad. I . . . I left you alone –”

“Shh,” Alex said softly, raking a gentle hand through Michael’s curls.

“Hate me,” he begged. “Please, get mad at me.”

“Am I monster,” Alex asked, and Michael stilled, “because of my dad?”

Michael was already shaking his head. “You’re my hero, Alex,” he said without missing a beat. “But –”

“And you’re mine,” Alex whispered, his lips brushing the bare skin of Michael’s shoulder where his shirt was pulled back. It made it very hard for Michael to think.

He opened his mouth to argue, to say something, but before he realized his vision had gone blurry, big fat tears were falling down his cheeks and onto Alex’s shirt. Alex held him even tighter.

“We’ll figure it out,” Alex said lightly, as if this was no big deal. As if he had no doubt in his mind the kind of person Michael was, the hero he was. “Everything’s fine, Guerin. I promise everything’s fine.”

Michael’s hands slowly came up Alex’s back, his fingers clawing through his shirt and into his skin, holding him back even tighter.

“I missed you, Alex,” Michael breathed, and buried his face in the crook of Alex’s neck. “I missed you so much.”

Alex chuckled softly. “I’m flattered.”

[gofancyninjaworld]

Garou and the futility of heroism

.With much thanks to @the-nysh for the conversation.  I thought of making this longer and more detailed, but I know myself: it’ll turn into one of those drafts that hangs around for years.

 I've recently been reading the Epic of Gilgamesh as a part of reducing my terrible ignorance of the foundations of Western literature.  Cracking good yarn, highly recommended, but I’m not here to talk literature. The latter half of the story is dominated by Gilgamesh’s struggle against the idea that he was inevitably going to die.

Where this relates to Garou is not that he’s railing against the inevitability of death and the reality that everything built up over a life will crumble to dust.  What Garou is struggling against is the seeming futility of heroism.

His specific approach is all sorts of bad, but the reality he's struggling against is something brought up repeatedly in One-Punch Man.  One of the *big* themes in One-Punch Man is critically examining what a hero is actually good *for*.  No matter how diligent a hero is, no matter how strong they are, the world's evils do not disappear. 

It's very outrageous and painful to acknowledge how small and fleeting one's efforts are in the grand scheme of things. 

The moment we get a look into Saitama’s thoughts, it’s the very first thing he leads with.  Literally the very first sentence of his thinking.

Saitama might be the strongest hero ever, able to defeat anything in one punch.  Not only has the world not become a better place as a result of his actions, but the very neighbourhood he lives in has become depopulated as it’s become too dangerous to live there.  In its own way, having birdsong be the loudest sound in the morning is its own rebuke to Saitama’s ambitions of helping people.

Watchdogman is the most diligent hero ever, with a perfect monster elimination record.  And yet, City Q is as monster-infested as ever.  Should anything happen to him, it will be as if he never existed for all the good his previous efforts will have done its inhabitants.

however diligently he sits, the pedestal he’s on will crumble the moment he cannot do his job any longer.

 And that’s just talking about monsters.  There are a lot of very bad people in OPM world and not just of the cackling mad scientist variety, although it’s got plenty of those too.

The world of One-Punch Man also has evils driven by factors that are far too big for any hero by their action to stop.  Problems best addressed at the political or economic level aren’t going to be solved with a punch.

Even when the evil appears to be tied up with a single person, like the Ninja Village was established by That Man, getting rid of them doesn’t necessarily change affairs.  The Village stole the freedoms and lives of boys for a good fifteen years after Blast defeated That Man.  It was still too profitable to *not* do.

when you think about it, crime must really pay in One-Punch Man!

Even when you say you’re going to do something simple and heroic, like save a single child from the clutches of a monster... what do you mean by ‘saved’, exactly?  How brutally difficult it is to save even a single person, how easily it is that your best efforts to be turned to naught by an adverse event, like springing a rabbit from a trap only to have it swooped up by a hawk, is fully on display this arc. 

so many heroes’ efforts and yet Waganma went almost nowhere...truly like fetching water out of a river with a basket!

Other than Saitama, we see so many other heroes struggle with the reality of how little they can change things in the long term.  Very notable is the conversation that Snek has with Suiryu, where Suiryu challenges Snek to justify why he bothers being a hero at all? “No matter how hard you try, it’s just drops of water on burning rocks,”  Suiryu says, something done for self-satisfaction rather than because it actually creates meaningful change.   Snek’s thoughts mirror Suiryu’s as he considers whether heroes are actually necessary at all.

Let’s bring it back to Garou.  Garou’s Very Bad No Good Plan to Avoid Heroic Heartbreak he laid out in chapter 41.  Quite simply, heroes always have to wait for bad things to happen and then react to punish the evildoers and/or save people. 

I love how long this guy is...um, sorry I was supposed to be typing something insightful here

But what if it was possible to take the initiative instead, like a monster does?  What if people could stop wanting to be bad and monsters could stop wanting to attack people?  That’s where the Human Monster was born, the quest to create a persona so strong that no one could oppose it, and so senselessly evil that no one dared to do anything that attracted its attention.

punishing the good and evil alike, don’t make him come your way if you know what’s good for you.

I see a lot of readers read superficially, misunderstand and think Garou is punishing heroes in some way. That heroes are bad in some way.  Nothing like that: he attacks heroes because they’re good and devote their lives to protecting people.  After all, only a total monster would do that.  Also, if even the strongest heroes aren’t safe, what hope have the regular people of this world?

All throughout the arc, that Garou doesn’t actually want to be a monster at heart is clear to every actual monster.  It’s clear to us as we see his interactions with Tareo.  It’s clear to him himself as he tries to steel himself to take a life just to prove to himself that he can (thankfully it’s Saitama he tries to kill). 

It’s what makes Saitama’s bullshit-cutting words as cutting as they are.   Ultimately, his trying to scare the world into being good is his way of running away from the tough, heart-breaking work of being a hero.

there is a crazy confidence a hero needs to embody in order to step up, as if by doing so they can do something

The pathos that we can empathise with is that it’s hard to look on a world as messed up as theirs is and not feel that surely, surely there’s something more that one can do.  Garou’s struggle is absolutely legitimate.   However... I’m going to let the however hang a moment...

It’s childish thinking to frame heroism in terms of strength and it’s not much better to frame it in terms of being of exceptional virtuousness.  What a hero is, according to ONE, is someone who can look honestly at the cruelty and randomness of the world, who can acknowledge frankly the fleeting nature of any good they can do, feel the pain of this reality fully.   And then choose to reach a hand out to help anyway.  

In a world where feeling helpless in the face of impossibly large and complex problems feels inevitable, cynicism is too ready a refuge, and just looking out for yourself is common sense, the mere act of reaching that hand out is an act of courage.

not with illusions of good triumphing over evil, but the dogged determination to do the right thing even if the world burns down.  That’s what being a hero is about.

However...

...the way Garou worked out his inner conflict was not legitimate.  He picked the worst possible way at the worst possible time to wrestle with it. Which I think goes to a second theme: that your feelings may be valid.  But that does not mean that every action that follows from those feelings is valid.  Garou hurt a lot of good people and impeded their vital work at a time the world could ill-afford it.

One of the joys of fiction is that not only do characters act for reasons that make sense, but we get to hear and understand *why*. And at the same time, the external actions they take on the world persist. I’m very happy too that ONE isn’t glossing over the consequences of Garou’s actions.  Too many readers pick one or the other and lose half the joy.   

Thankfully, ONE isn’t a half-ass.

It doesn’t become okay for the heroes that Garou attacked that they were assaulted.  It doesn’t become okay for the world that so many people were needlessly deprived of heroes when they needed them most.  And it isn’t okay for Garou that he’s made an outlaw of himself as a result of his actions.   The ramifications on both personal and societal are going to be explored for the individuals involved.  I bless ONE for his conscientiousness and for creating so many excellent characters that make the enterprise worth the candle.

What kind of hero Garou will decide to be and how he’ll make it work in practice, ah that we’re waiting to see.

Coda:

Of course, that’s not the whole story.  There’s one other part.  Occasionally, by being the right person willing and able to step up in the right way at the right time, a hero can change *everything*.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Villain: The Graven Brand of  Cinestys the Inscribed, Prisoner of the Burning Well 

“Mark of Heretics, betrayers, and those who covet the secrets of others. The pain brought about by this ever-searing brand can only be stilled when the hand that bares the mark is engaged in evil deeds. Diabolic in origin. Proscribed countermeasures: pain reducing herbs, renunciation of evil ways, ice, amputation. “

- The Cursebreaker’s Cyclopedia, volume 4, revised edition

Adventure Hooks: 

After defeating a villainous occultist and rifling through their grimoire, the party wizard feels a jarring pain on the back of their hand: Quick, shallow cuts, as if some invisible sadist was hurriedly carving a signature into their skin. The ordeal is over in a moment, leaving behind a sigilistic wound that will scab over but never completely heal. From time to time the mark will begin to glow from within with an unnatural heat, flaring up when the oppertunity presents itself for the ebarer of the mark to do something wicked. Theft, Petty cruelty, lashing out, the brand starts its bearer small, veinal evils while waiting for the moment to drive the bearer to ruin, murder, or other forms of defilement.  Whatever the source of this curse is, it cannot be cured through the usual means, so the party must seek out the realm’s best healers and loremasters for a solution. 

Justicar Illien is a tyrant, an upjumped member of the king’s judiciary who’s decided to take the law into his own hands.  Starting with sermsons on wickedness and the perils of modern life, he whips himself up a mob of fearful supporters, then goes on a tare around town, smashing up businesses and homes looking to ferret out “traitors” and “deviants”. Illien claims to have been granted by a celestial with an innate ability to sniff out wickedness. In actuality, Illien was cursed with the graven brand, and has justified the crimes he commits in its service  as a form of Righteousness

Dangerous weapons are falling into the hands of the criminal underworld, kicking off an arms race in the capital’s underbelly and leading to all manner of chaos. The Culprit is Tsuni Gladoath, a talented journeyman metalworker who has been inflicted with the brand in her travels to find a master to serve under. Confused and desperate, the mark only lets her rest when she is in the process of making something deadly. Forced to work as the weaponsmith for an ambitious gang in exchange for materails and protection, Tsuni has been driven half mad by grief and pain, and quietly searches for a way out when the mark allows it. 

Setup: The Curse of the Graven Brand is the instrument of a devil named Cinestys, a wretched being who appears in the lives of many of history’s most powerful and wicked mages to act as a tutor of sorts. Knowing the ambition and ruthlessness of his students, Cinestys wielded the curse the way a mortal instructor might weild a lash, using pain to refocus his pupil’s attention on his lessons and goals. 

More than a lifetime ago, the devil’s last student managed to bind him in the depths of some secret lair, forcing the Inscribed instructor to reveal all of his secrets before leaving him to rot, dangling over a well of fire. Having no ability to break free from his fetters, Cinestys has reached out through the curses he left behind in the world, having them jump from host to host as he searches for one he can cajole into freeing him. 

Goals & Schemes: 

Puppetmaster: where once he weilded arcane and infernal power enough to break the bonds of reality, Cinestrys is now able to do little more than tug on the thin threads of enchantment that bind him to those marked by his curse. Conditioned by the mark after many rounds of “sin or suffer”, these hapless individuals will find themsleves driven to prepare for long journeys, obsessing over the histories of dark magicians, or researching methods of breaking through locks, wards, and other methods of bindings.  Cinestrys has yet to be able to share anything more than an impulse with those who bear his mark, but will keep trying so long as his teachings ( and the curse that surrounds it) haunt the world. 

Tutor: Despite his predicament, Cinestrys is compelled by both the enchantment that keeps him bound and his own nature to foster greatness in those he deems worthy of his teachings.  The Devil can’t help but provide pointers on how a spell might be done, or trivia on the methodology of a past pupil. A knowledgeable or fast-talking party member may even be able to distract the fiend with an in-depth discussion of arcana long enough to have him remove the curse without noticing  that the players HAVEN’T offered to free him in return.