#heretics and heroes

[ahb-writes]

Book Review: ‘Heroes and Heretics: How Renaissance Artists and Reformation Priests Created Our World’

Heretics and Heroes: How Renaissance Artists and Reformation Priests Created Our World by Thomas Cahill My rating: 3 of 5 stars History is never quite the sum of its parts, as it is the summation of the parts that matter to those whose interests have endured. For the renaissance period of what now constitutes Europe, much effort is required to adequately document the combinations and conflicts that gave rise to new ideas, perceptions, arguments, and cultural idiosyncrasies. Cahill's HERETICS AND HERESY is modestly organized and selectively detailed. No single tome can articulate the multitude of splintering experiences of Europe's renaissance period, whether in Italy, Germany, Spain, or the northerly regions, and yet the author makes an earnest attempt. The book's incompleteness does not become readily apparent for some time, however obvious it may seem from a distance. The author provides considerable depth and context when discussing the chronology and evolution of artistic genius among painters and sculptors in Italy, how they were intertwined with regional political factions, and how their skill earned the favor of, and later fell out of favor with, religious zealots of the time. And yet, the author can only dedicate so many words and so many color plates to the cleverness of peculiar men of status. Cahill's approach to art history and the environments that birthed many a movement or individual are an informative but patchwork ordeal. Sometimes by necessity and other times due to the overwhelming influence of a particular individual, Cahill's narrative devotes much of its energy toward understanding the writers, sculptors, painters, and rhetoricians who were their era's most dominant personalities. Helpful for readers eager to know that Michelangelo was a slovenly fellow. Not so helpful for an actual diagnosis of the social, cultural, and political impacts of Michelangelo's work. Helpful for those eager to know of the reasoning behind Luther's supposed "pathologically induced constipation." Not so helpful for those interested in the less predictable, less gendered, less religious exploits that branched off Luther's efforts in surprising ways. One might argue the author spends too much time discussing and fawning over the art (or the artists) rather than communicating in full the shifting political schema behind each piece of art (or each artist). HERETICS AND HERESY provides exquisite detail in areas such as the counter-reformation, the relationship between an indulgent royalty and the influence of the Catholic church, and other presumptions of authority that emanated from those whose power was in constant flux. These snapshot versions of European history are helpful but are also necessarily incomplete. Nearly all of the figures profiled are male. And so few of those profiled fall beyond the realm of standard presumptions of the formal Italian Renaissance. The splintering of Protestantism and the birth of Anglicanism, for example, is an area where so much information is glossed, one surmises it may well never have been mentioned at all. The book houses a great deal and leaves out just as much. The author's endnotes acknowledge the gaps in research yet do not read at all as being invested in more sharply tuning the research that exists. Sometimes, HERETICS AND HERESY feels needlessly indulgent; Cahill's sincere interest grows superfluous, often deferring to a first-person account (of familiarity) of a religious or cultural figure. However, for readers interested in a literary account of what is essentially a second-year post-secondary course on the renaissance, in capsule form, this book isn't a bad place to start.

Nonfiction Book Reviews || ahb writes on Good Reads

[chaotic-orphan]

The Heretic (4)

It has a name! Previously june of doom day 9~

Read part one here

Continued from here

*~*~*~*~*

Shaw woke with a groan, his head too heavy for his neck to support it. He wanted to open his eyes, but as soon as he did his eyelids shut and Shaw groaned again. The dim lighting igniting a fire of a headache in his brain. He just wanted to sleep again. The fight with Olen had taken a lot out of him and his mind was miles away.

Wait…

His fight with Olen.

Shaw’s eyes snapped open again as he jerked forward in the chair. The clack of chains pulling taut. Shaw didn’t get very far and he cursed… or he would have if not for the fucking gag between his teeth, locking his tongue to the bottom of his mouth.

Shaw’s eyes went wide, glancing down his nose trying to see what it was but even he couldn’t see past his own nose.

Fuck. He needed to get out of here… wherever here was, probably Olen’s villain lair or something stupid like that. Shaw pulled his hands forward again. Both his wrists were locked in different sets of handcuffs keeping his hands apart. Olen probably didn’t know that Shaw couldn’t activate his runes without his voice which… well, fucking sucked because the bastard had covered all his bases with Shaw.

But if Shaw was here… then… Shaw’s heart sank into his stomach. Hero. Nobody was protecting Hero! Superhero could do whatever he wanted, Olen could have already caused a scene and killed them while Shaw was unconscious.

Shaw didn’t care. He started making as much noise as he could, screaming Olen’s name or something that vaguely resembled Olen’s name into his gag. After a solid minute of causing a fuss, Shaw was panting for breath. The gag not helping his breathing situation, as he sucked in air through his nose with a painful grunt. His ribs hurt.

Everything hurt.

God, Olen really didn’t pull his punches.

“Tch.”

Shaw looked up to see Olen standing at the top of the concrete staircase — directly in front of Shaw’s chair —silhouetted inside the doorframe, cigarette in hand. Olen turned his head to face the hall and said: “hey. The brat’s awake.” Before he descended the steps towards Shaw.

“Olen! You bastard let me go,” Shaw said, or tried to say, the gag muffling his words beyond recognition.

Olen waved his hand, batting Shaw’s mumbling away. “I can’t understand you with that thing in your mouth. Save your breath.”

Shaw had so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to ask. He had to know.

Where’s Hero?

Are they safe?

Did you hurt them yet?

Are they… are they still alive?

All questions died on Shaw’s tongue when he saw the second silhouetted figure in the door frame at the top of the stairs.

Superhero.

Shaw’s eyes shot to Olen in accusation, not pleading, more like hurt and betrayed than anything else. Shaw pulled forward in his restraints, cursing under his gag as Superhero came closer towards him. Shaw couldn’t just sit calm and take it, not with Superhero here— he had to do something. Even if it was only struggling futilely against his restraints.

Superhero stared dispassionately down at Shaw, stopping in front of him. Shaw swallowed, glaring back.

“God, you haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Superhero said reaching down. Shaw jerked his head back out of reach but Superhero caught his jaw all the same, squeezing the pulse points on Shaw’s throat as he tilted his head up. “You’re still useless at fighting.”

As if to prove his point Superhero pressed his finger into Shaw’s cheek until Shaw cried out, cursing Superhero behind the gag.

Superhero’s face didn’t change from the disgusted look he wore when he first saw Shaw, unemotional and inhuman. Superhero let go of Shaw’s jaw and stepped back, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“As much as I love not hearing him talk, we need information from him,” said Superhero casually.

“Are you sure about that?” Olen asked, exhaling smoke into the air.

Superhero’s shark like stare was as dispassionate as ever when he ordered: “remove the gag, Olen.”

Olen obeyed quietly. It felt wrong. Back in their academy days you followed an order from Superhero with yes, sir. Olen moving without the mark of respect was strange. Almost eerie.

Maybe Olen had changed as much as Shaw did.

The moment Olen removed the gag Shaw spit at Superhero. He only had a fraction of a second to enjoy it before his head was whipped to the side, his cheek stinging. Shaw hissed, bringing his head back to face Superhero. He met Superhero’s gaze with hatred fuelled eyes and then his head snapped to the side again, this time Shaw biting back a groan.

His jaw hurt enough from the gag, he didn’t need Superhero’s knuckles aggravating it more.

“You fucking piece of shit,” Shaw said, his voice coming out too high, raspy and croaking. He faced Superhero again, glare a little less fiery, a little more cautious.

“Nice to see you too, Shaw.”

Shaw met Superhero’s eyes, raising an eyebrow at the civility. Superhero inclined his head. “In bruises. Nice to see you covered in bruises.”

Shaw huffed a breath out his nose, then started muttering a spell under his breath. He barely got three words out before Superhero’s hand was on his throat, slamming his head back against the chair. Shaw gasped but no air could enter his lungs with Superhero crushing his windpipe.

His lethal eyes burned with a cold fury down at Shaw. When Superhero spoke his voice was low, dangerous, sending ice down Shaw’s spine. “Try and use your dirty spells again, Shaw, and I’ll knock you out cold. Just so I can wake you and make you watch as I murder Hero in front of you, are we clear?”

Superhero let Shaw’s neck go enough so he could answer. “Yes—” Shaw choked out with a slight wheeze.

Superhero’s eyebrow raised a fraction. It was the only warning Shaw had before Superhero’s hand was on his throat again, face far too close to Shaw’s, eyes far too terrifying and it felt like Shaw was a teenager again under Superhero’s command.

“Come on Shaw,” Superhero chided lightly, his voice like the edge of a dagger. “I know I taught you your manners, or have you forgotten and need a reminder hmm? Tell you what, because I’m generous, I’ll give you one last chance.”

This time, Superhero only removed his hand slightly from Shaw’s throat, leaving his hand there lingering like a promise.

Shaw sucked in a breath, unable to look down or away from Superhero. Shame curled up in his chest like a cat trying to soak up heat— Shaw told himself he’d never bow to Superhero again and yet…

“Yes… sir,” Shaw whispered.

Superhero’s smile was anything but kind. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Olen, did you catch that?”

Shaw didn’t know what Olen did behind him, but he knows he didn’t reply. Maybe a shrug or a gesture or something, but to Shaw it felt like insignificant.

“Me either. Louder, so we can all hear.”

“Yes sir,” Shaw croaked, forcing his voice to be louder, even as his vocal chords screamed at him for pushing them too much after being choked.

Superhero’s lips twitched as he lightly slapped Shaw’s cheek. “Good boy. Look at you, you haven’t forgotten your manners at all. You just needed a little encouragement.”

“What the fuck do you want?” Shaw asked, not caring that his voice was weak as he spoke. Superhero straightened again, allowing Shaw a little extra breathing room that he was grateful for. At least putting some distance between him and the devil himself.

Olen walked around the chair into Shaw’s view, leaning against the wall beside the stairs. His cigarette was gone and he just crossed his arms over his chest, eyes fixed on Shaw. Shaw could see the tension in his shoulders from here, which means Superhero must’ve been pissed when Olen told him he couldn’t kill Hero.

Shaw almost smiled at the thought of pissing Superhero off.

Almost.

“Since when are you a Heretic, Shaw?” Superhero asked, drawing Shaw’s attention back to him. The question kind of stunned him. Superhero tilted his head to the side.

As in… he wanted an answer.

Shaw swallowed before he spoke, licking his dry lips that were chapped from the gag. “I was born a heretic.”

The answer got him a swift slap across the face. Shaw grit his teeth but thankfully it wasn’t hard enough to turn his head, so small victories.

Superhero’s smile was wan. “When did you pick up your practice again? Did Hero know?”

Shaw tried not to give it away. He tried not to react. He didn’t succeed, because the mere mention of Hero’s name and possible threat and danger caused to them by Shaw well… his cuffs clacking against the chair said everything Shaw didn’t want to.

Superhero let out a scoff. “Of course they did. No matter, I’ll make sure they learn the error of their ways.”

“Don’t fucking touch them!” Shaw all but growled. Superhero’s humourless smile stretched into a teasing grin.

“Or what? What will you do, Shaw? Threatening me from your position… I don’t know if it’s brave or stupid.”

“Why do you even want to kill Hero?” Shaw demanded hotly. “They’ve only ever followed your orders. Done as you asked!”

Superhero rolled his eyes. “Is this the part where I reveal all my evil plans to you, Shaw? Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

Shaw’s eyes went from Superhero to Olen’s, then back again, squinting a little. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“I don’t think it would say a lot coming from you. If we want to talk about stupidity, at least I’m not handcuffed to a chair,” Superhero replied smoothly.

Shaw grit his teeth, pulling slightly on the handcuffs, more to do something than actually trying to escape.

“When did you find your faith again, Shaw?” Superhero asked. Shaw looked down, away from Superhero’s harsh gaze. He could feel the hatred in the room emanating from his captors. Heresy wasn’t something that would win you popularity among normal people.

“Recently enough.”

“How recent?”

Shaw click his tongue against his teeth, shrugging. “I don’t know. The last couple of months?”

“What is the church planning?”

Shaw stared at Superhero, brows knitting together. “I’m not back in the church.”

Superhero blinked, expression unreadable. Shaw looked from Superhero to Olen, eyes a bit desperate. Though, with the look on Olen’s face, Shaw knew he was searching for a friendly face in vain. His glare returned to his eyes as he turned back to Superhero.

“I’m not with the church, Superhero. I told you about what they do, what they did to me. I would never—”

Superhero didn’t say anything. Just stared down impassively. Shaw scoffed, reclining back into his seat with a shrug. “Faith and religion are two different things, Superhero.”

“Fine. Then who helped you find your faith again?”

“What does it matter!” Shaw yelled. Superhero punched him again, his knuckles cracking against Shaw’s cheek and Shaw cursed as pain flamed hot across his face. He didn’t turn his head to face Superhero again. Instead, stupidly, naively, his eyes met Olen’s in a desperate plea.

“It matters because I say so. You had so much potential, now look at you. Wasting it. Squandering all of our hard work with your filthy, blood drunk love of ambivalent gods. Pathetic.”

“Honestly? Their magic is pretty handy. So is their blood, but I guess Olen could tell you all about that. After all, it did stop you in your plan to kill Hero,” said Shaw with a shit eating grin as he turned back to face Superhero. “At least I have something while you godless, carnal fucks just languish here useless.”

Superhero blinked, entirely unimpressed. “You forget your beloved Hero is one of those carnal fucks.”

“No, Hero’s different. They’re good. You know, like what heroes are meant to be.”

“The strong survive, Shaw.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shaw snapped. Superhero let out a sigh, as he started walking in a slow circle around Shaw’s chair.

“There’s a reason that Hero’s goodness is the exception and not the rule, but you already knew that didn’t you? It’s why you waited there in the alleyway. How can a hero who needs protection survive in a world like this?”

“Hero doesn’t need protection—”

“You seem to think they do. Their naivety of how good the world is and how good people inherently are, well…” Superhero said with a smug smile as he came to stand in front of Shaw again. “Let’s just say, it will kill them before I get the chance to.”

Superhero’s words hung in the air thick and dense. He didn’t elaborate further, and after a minute or so the words took on a life of their own and started crawling under Shaw’s skin.

“As long as I’m alive I won’t let anything happen to them,” Shaw told Superhero. He twisted his wrists in the cuffs, hoping that he could rub his wrist hard enough to draw blood from the metal.

Superhero stared at him for a long, drawn out moment. Then he turned his back on Shaw to face Olen. “He’s not going to tell us anything right now. Gag him and we’ll try again in a few days.”

“Wait!” Shaw cried. Shit shit shit. If they gag him he won’t be able to get out of here but then— he doesn’t even know what they want from him?! He pulled at the cuffs harshly, praying that he’d bleed. Come on! He has to stall them longer. “What? You want to know how I got my faith back? I’m telling the truth, it doesn’t just go away.”

Superhero glanced at Shaw over his shoulder. “It doesn’t just come back either, Shaw. Who encouraged you to practice heresy again?”

Shaw set his jaw, his eyes burning as he stared into Superhero’s dispassionate eyes. “You’re protecting someone,” Superhero told him, his voice light and airy. “Friend, family, preacher? Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to give them up today.”

“Why does the heresy even bother you? You’re Superhero the city loves you!”

“As long as the black church still operates from the shadows and has their secret heretics practicing their magic, they will always be a threat Shaw. You know this. Isn’t that why we worked so hard to beat it out of you in the first place?”

“No you tortured me! There was no hard work on your part,” Shaw hissed.

Superhero’s eyes glinted cruelly. “I mean, you didn’t restrain yourself. There was some work on my part. Or did the whippings leave such a fleeting memory? We can start them again if you need a refresher.”

Shaw glared up at Superhero, lips curling back in hatred. “My people are peaceful, Superhero. Most of us are peaceful. Of course there’s some bad people but you can’t kill us all for a few bad people!”

“Who’s going to stop me, Shaw? You?”

“You can’t just go on a witch hunt and eradicate us all! That’s— that’s,” Shaw’s breath hitched as he felt blood slide down his wrist onto his thumb. Yes! Fuck. “That’s madness, Superhero.”

Superhero shrugged. “I guess I’m a little mad then.” That was the end of the conversation. Superhero turned and nodded at Olen before walking to the staircase. Olen had just pushed off the wall when Shaw clicked his fingers and quickly muttered the spell under his breath.

Superhero turned back, rage and murder in his eyes as Olen lunged for Shaw. Shaw grinned at them both, his skin glowing the strange silver and then he was gone.

He collapsed back into his bedroom in his apartment, stumbling back against the bed before lying down on top of it. He felt nausea climb up his throat but he wrestled it down with a groan. He pulled his hands in front of him, staring at his bloodied wrist. His hands were shaking, his body exhausted, his mind spent. He should really have a shower and clean himself up, but instead he kicked off his shoes and curled into a ball on his bed.

Hero’s alive.

He can rest.

[ianime0]

[bloody-red-gem]

Me, re-reading novels about genocidal batshit crazy transhuman war criminals for the nth time, because it helps me take my mind off reality for at least a couple of hours:

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter Two

Chapter One

-

Two years prior

The world is on fire, and Brother Grigori can find no opening in the wall of flames. 

He comes to a stop as the archway comes crashing down in front of him, blocking him from taking the market road. When he turns, the crush of the crowd behind him, pushing and shoving and trying to force their way through the narrowed alleys that still remain, seems as dangerous as the burning buildings.

There can be no air to breathe, in a crowd like that. He would be trading possible death for certain suffocation.

Instead, Grigori pulls his white robes more tightly around himself, feeling marked by the visibility. On a normal day, the white robe would lead to people stopping to ask him for healing, for forgiveness, to confess their sins and be freed of the guilt and shame of them. Now, though… the priests of Dromada seem a special target of the bandits who have attacked Her most beautiful patron city.

The priests are nearly all dead, he thinks, in a circle in the temple where they were caught unawares at the evening meal. Only Brother Grigori had been away, ministering to a family with a dying father who needed to be given his Final Grace. 

The man had taken his last breath just as the first bells of alarm rang at the guard towers. Grigori wondered if his body was still lying in his own bed, forgotten.

Or if the man’s house had already burned, a tomb of fire. 

Where the man’s wife and daughters had gone.

Grigori had run for the temple, only to see the bandits streaming out, laughing and shouting and shoving at each other, soaked in sprays of bright red blood against their black leathers. He had hidden, in the temple stables, until they set the stable roof on fire, too, and then he opened the stalls and the wide double doors and escaped when the sudden rush of panicked horses overwhelmed their observations.

The horses had been let to run to freedom and safety. If they make it to the river, and they can swim, there will be safety at the other side. 

Grigori had one inside, moving past the shattered remnants of Dromada’s statue, now crushed on the temple steps. A single white marble eyeball, austere and somehow judgemental, had stared up at him from her half-formed face. The rest looked like cake crumbs, marked with footprints from the soot-stained soles of the bandits’ boots.

He found the bodies of the others in the dining room, some still seated before their still-warm dinners. Throats slit, stabbed through the heart, some simply bashed to death by shield or flat edge of a sword. Twenty-nine dead priests, and only one remained alive, the youngest, twenty-two year old Grigori, who had been found on the steps as an infant and knew no other life than this.

It seemed impossible that the wail he had let out hadn’t brought the walls down around him. 

Then, because there was nothing else left to do, he ran.

Now, the people of the city scream around him. They fight and shove and kick, they hold to each other, beg for mercy from the faceless men in black leathers on black horses who race through the night with torches in hand. 

They kick with heavy boots to knock victims to the ground, yank jewelry from their necks, and slaughter them in the street. He sees someone drag a young man into a house, laughing uproariously as the man pleads, the bandit already tearing at his clothes with abandon. 

It’s obscene.

Like something out of the filthy books they sell in secret at the bookstore in the market, the ones wrapped in thick paper as soft as cloth, that you must ask for by name. Oh, Grigori knows all about the profane pleasures the temple forbids.

He used to dream about them, before he begged Dromada to take such desires away, and they had marked his flesh with his vows. 

He had owned such a book.

Once.

The bookstore has burned, too. There will be no more books sold in this dead city, to dead men, with open eyes the flies already hover over. 

Near him, a woman holding a baby cries out, breaking him from his terrified stupor. Her voice is shrill and panicked. “No! Please, not my baby, please, no!”

Grigori, who had been hidden in the shadows, bursts forward. He’s driven more by instinct than courage. The woman turns to him, eyes wide, tears streaming down reddened cheeks marred with soot. She clutches the wailing infant close.

A bandit on a huge horse looks down at him, face hidden by a mask and helmet except for their eyes, wide with surprise at the sight of him. They have a sword held high in one hand, ready to bring it down. 

“I thought we killed all you stuck-up snobs,” The bandit says, puzzled. “At dinner. Eating fine foods in your fine temples.”

“I-I wasn’t th-there-”

“Oh, you weren’t. Huh. Visiting a mistress?” The bandit winks.

“I beg your-... no!” Fury rose in him, barely held in check by the fear. How dare this anonymous creature of such darkness and hate suggest he would do anything to break his sacred vows, while still wearing the white robes of Dromada, whose hem stays clean even during the worst of the mudslides and floods of spring?

“Oh. Well. If you could just step aside so I can go back to slaughtering-”

“Hurt not the children!” He calls, his voice rasping from breathing in too much smoke, forcing the woman behind him, shielding her with his own body. His heart pounds wildly, making him oddly dizzy, uncertain. “They have done nothing!”

The bandit blinks once. Their eyes crinkle at the edges. “None of you have done a single fucking thing to deserve this,” They said. Was there laughter in that voice, mocking his fear and his righteous anger? When something so terrible goes on all around them? “And yet we’re killing you anyway, just to send a message to Pehla, aren’t we?”

Grigori’s eyes widen. “The… the King Pehla?”

“Oh, right. He’s a king now.” The bandit laughs outright this time, but they lower the sword, and Grigori finds some slim, small pointless hope in the sight. “He was only a prince the last time I saw him.”

“The last time you saw him? No one sees the King!”

“Well. Not since I saw him, I guess. I do tend to make an impression…”

Grigori’s mouth is dry. “I-I… you must go-”

“Anyway,” The bandit says, ignoring his attempt to speak entirely, “Why should we leave any survivors, huh? Tell me why.”

“I, I can’t-... why do you need to kill anyone?” His voice trembles, and he coughs to pretend it’s the smoke forcing it to weaken and not the same fear that has his knees turned to liquid. Somehow he locks them in place, keeping the poor woman and her wailing baby behind him. She shushes the child, cuddling them close. 

“Because you can’t send a message about being dangerous unless you’re actually Dromada-damned dangerous, now can you?” The bandit’s eyes are crinkled again. “Wait. Droma-damned. Is that better?”

“I-... Just. Please. Please, the town is yours, no one else needs to die, there are no more soldiers here. Please.”

There’s a pause. The bandit stares at him, considering. “Say please again. Just like that, but… softer.”

Grigori’s eyebrows furrow, but he offers a hesitant, not-quite whispered, “... please.”

“Dromada’s Dick, that’s nice.”

“Dromada doesn’t have-”

The bandit cuts him off with a gesture. “It’s a figure of speech. Have they ever let you out of that temple, honestly?” Then they sigh. “Well… fine. You're very pretty. I think I've made my point."

Grigori’s mouth opens, but no words come out. The confusion is so pure and perfect that he forgets he ever knew how to speak beyond a stammered, “Wh-what?”

What point?

The bandit points at him, and Grigori straightens up, trying to seem taller than he is. “You. What’s your name, Priestling?”

“I-I am Brother Grigori, priest apprentice to the-”

“Right, yes, Grigori. I like that, Grigori. Nice, won’t have to change it. That would be irritating. See you later, Grigs. Bet you twenty marks I know exactly where you’ll go after this."

"I-... I don't understand."

"Ssssshhhh. Don't worry about it. I’ll find you.”

Before Grigori can answer, the bandit jerks the reins, turning their horse on its heel and riding off into the night. Grigori hears shouting in a language he doesn’t know, one voice then echoed by dozens more, and watches in confusion as the bandits brandishing their swords come pouring out of what houses still stand. They ride away. He watches the one who had dragged the young man into the house come out still fixing his sword belt back on, the young man stumbling after him with his shirt off and his pants ripped, holding them up with one hand. The young man and Grigori briefly meet eyes.

In less than an hour, all the bandits have gone. 

“What happened?” The young man asks, breathless. There are red marks around his neck, which Grigori’s brain refuses to acknowledge are in the shape of the hands that had closed there. “Where are they going?”

“He made them leave,” The woman whispers, and Grigori turns slowly to look from side to side. Indeed… there are no bandits to be seen. 

No army of men and women in black on black horses, setting fires, slaughtering thousands.

No one but the people of the city, and their sole surviving priest.

“You made them leave,” The woman says, in a tone of awe, and she touches the sleeve of his robe as if he himself is the statue since fallen. “You did that. Dromada’s sake, you made it end.”

"What? I, no, I didn't-... I don't know why-"

"Dromada's own has saved us!" Someone yells. Someone else echoes it.

Grigori feels like he'll be sick all over the cobblestones, more frightened of their admiration than he was of the bandits.

By the end of the week, the temple has been cleared of bodies and Brother Grigori is the hero of Henton City. He sweeps the steps, accepts a handshake from the equerry to the king, although not the king himself, who hasn’t been seen in years, not in public. He is given a medal,  special coin on a ribbon with his own likeness cut into it. He's told to wear it always.

He hangs it off his bedpost and pretends it doesn't exist.

He cries, at night, alone in a room that holds thirty beds but only one man left to sleep in any of them. He tries to clean the sleeping space out but finds a diary under Brother Fraykil's bed and reads his writing about what promise Grigori has shown and cries some more, then he never touches any of the other beds again.

People keep coming to thank him, and he can't make himself be rude enough to send them away.

For a few months, he's famous. 

A hero.

Painfully lonely, but... a hero.

Plagued with nightmares, withdrawing from the people, eventually closing the temple doors and barring them shut. The people pitied him, left him gifts of food and drink on the temple steps for him to bring inside at night.

They whisper about him.

He doesn't care to listen any longer.

He prays, and feels the Goddess's touch, but by the time he next wakes from sleep, the comfort is gone.

And yet... still, he's the Hero of Honorable Henton City, Dromada's favored priest, the single survivor of the temple massacre. The man whose grace and holiness was so strong, at his young age, that even the evil things could be convinced to leave by his word.

He was meant to be there, the people whisper. He was born to be the orphan left at the doorstep, raised bathed in holy waters by the men of Dromada's temple. He was born to be a hero.

He doesn't... feel like much of a hero.

They say he's one anyway.

... until he runs away from the temple and joins the very bandits who had so disgraced Dromada’s own city, swears allegiance body and soul to their terrible leader, sleeps with him on the dark altar to a vicious elven god, and vanishes into the dark forests of the Kaila, never to be seen again.

At least... that's the way the story is told.

Grigori's version of what happened is a little different than that.

Not that there's anyone to listen, by then, but the bandits.

-

tag list: @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @sunshiline-writes @befuddled-calico-whump

[pyrrhiccomedy]

THE WHITE DOOR

He never called her “the woman he loved” until she was dead in his arms. 

Her killer was a a man whom Bastian admired; but Bastian wronged him anyway, and he was savage and exacting in his vengeance. So: Bastian too is savage and exacting, and far less admirable. 

Though revenge provided no abatement of his grief, it was required by the circumstances.

It is not enough by far.

He readies his companions to set out for the continent of Death itself. He knows only one man who has been there, and that man returned blinded, bitter, and heartbroken: but the dark prince loves his wife, and a knife will not keep him from her. Nor will the endless miles of the white countries, nor the threat of mutilation, nor the will of any God.

He expects horror. He will bring it himself.

His wise wife, his fairy wife: he trusts she knows that he is coming.

[mercurymascara]

[kayzero]

hello kay kayzero what are the names and etymology of weekdays and months 👁️👁️

so the first thing you have to understand is what the setting is based around. because i have an obsession, the ragtag group of plucky adventurers who defeated the angelic oppressors are named after the seven sins. Peccatum, the name of the planet, is Latin for Sin.

so the Leader of about 80% of all humanity on the planet is Lady Pride. her secretary, who everyone in the Prideful Nation sees as her second-in-command (but everyone who knows them knows that it Cannot lead anyone in anything) is V, the sin of envy.

V is fanatical in its devotion to Pride, and coincidentally was the one who made the discovery that led to both the length of a year—which corresponds to the Angelsbane’s growth cycle (exactly 343 days to grow, bud, bloom, wither, die, and regrow)—and the space between pulses and amount of pulses in a day—exactly 78,400—and yes, it sat there and manually counted.

so because it gathered this data itself, it was granted the honor of naming the days and the months. it also named the weeks, which are used mostly for formal announcements and research papers, but for the most part people just go with “the Xth week of this or that month”.

anywho,

Months

named after flowers associated with each Sin

Cyclamen

Dianthus

Dahlia

Gentiana

Gazania

Helenium

Belladonna

then we have

Weeks

mostly adjectives that V associated with each Sin (who was then told by Pride to get rid of the ones that were more insulting)

Prideful, Excellent, Primary, First

Envious, Silver, Shifting, Second

Wrathful, Combative, Enduring, Third

Lovely, Radiant, Musical, Fourth

Greedy, Golden, Wealthy, Fifth

Gluttonous, Hungry, Indulgent, Sixth

Sleeping, Last, Silent, Seventh

and finally,

Days

gemstones

Amethyst

Emerald

Ruby

Sapphire

Topaz

Carnelian

Opal

[calliclassic]

perseus and andromeda are my favorite mythological couple. I know that a greek being shy about nudity is silly, but the idea of him offering his cloak to her gently is all i can think about.

[dufrau]

why do i ever buy AAA games when all i really want to do most of the time is play cheap little indie roguelikes

[animefeminist]

Chatty AF 189: 2023 Summer Mid-Season Check-In

Alex, Toni, and Peter check-in on a light and breezy Summer season!

Episode Information

Date Recorded: August 5th 2023 Hosts: Alex, Toni, Peter

Episode Breakdown

0:00:00 Intros Red Flags 0:02:16 Level 1 Demon Lord & One Room Hero Yellow Flags 0:07:57 Zom 100: Bucket List of the Dead 0:15:16 Dark Gathering Neutral Zone 0:21:56 Reign of the Seven Spellblades 0:28:03 Reborn as a Vending Machine, I Now Wander the Dungeon 0:36:44 Helck It’s Complicated 0:37:49 The Most Heretical Last Boss Queen: From Villainess to Savior 0:42:01 Gene of AI Feminist Potential 0:45:28 Undead Murder Farce 0:53:56 My Happy Marriage 1:05:01 Outro

Further Reading

2023 Summer Premiere Digest

2023 Summer Three-Episode Check-In

[ianime0]

Lastame | Ep1 | Sorry... I'm sorry... For what? I'm sorry, I... couldn't even help you, I couldn't help a single person. I don't want you to forgive me. It's just, you and your mother are separated, and I can't help you two... I'm sorry I can't fill your heart. I promise you, I will never, ever hurt you more than I already have. You, and the country your mother is in, I will make it so that everyone can keep smiling, for as long as I am alive!

[glitter50000]

I just think that in Aleksander’s eyes, Alina is fucking stupid

[dokitm-arch]

@kiingsroar asked: "i can name a couple ways this shit might go" // leona @ idia !! chapter 7 vibes?? 👀👀👀👀

at least there were common grounds the two could agree on - their options were bleak, at best. come on, who in their right, logical mind would've predicted something like this happening?! for all idia knew, this could all be some sort of ploy to get back at him after causing trouble at styx ...! if that were the case, he'd never pull the plug ever again. besides that, you'd have to consider one teesny problem ... their opponent was malleus freaking draconia! his stats were over the roof! only a total noob would be hot blooded enough to go after the final boss like a headless chicken.

well... a noob or the two only present students who hadn't been affected by the "blessing" ( what kinda blessing was "sleep ", anyway? kind of an overrated trope, if you asked him, lol. ). realistically speaking, idia would've run for it without looking back. this was different, however - ortho's life was at the line. who knew OP magic could even cause a shutdown? either way, this was enough for the scared little boy to even stand here. maybe ... just maybe ... he could be the hero IRL. from zero to hero ... wouldn't that be an exciting adventure? could this give him even the tiniest solace?

nervously biting his lip at leona's sentence, idia's topaz hues averted to the side. even if he's forced to work alongside an ever so arrogant leader of savanaclaw, socializing just couldn't come as easily. ❛ th-that's an, um... o-optimistic way of saying we're gonna get wrecked, fuehehe... n-not in character for leona-shii ... ❜ the leader of ignihyde sighs out before subconsciously chewing on his nail. ❛ or we could, y'know... w-wait for everyone to wake up or something? what can we do, honestly, besides lose lives without a respawn which, btw, m-malleus-shii totally has over 1000 lives and can definitely respawn with a click of fingers like a final boss in roleplaying campaign, the fates have truly cursed us this timeeee...!!! ❜ had he realized the mad ramblings? absolutely not.

music for the soul ... accepting!

[elhokar-kholin]

stormlight characters' response to being asked "did the chicken or the egg come first?"

gavilar - "this is nonsense. neither came first because they both come from each other. there is no "beginning" here."

dalinar - "their lives are a circle, the chicken lays the egg which hatches the chicken. they both come first, because they are the same."

navani - "it must be the egg, because all chickens are from eggs, so there never was a chicken not starting from an egg."

evi - "the chicken because she lays the egg and grows it ^-^"

jasnah - "if you follow the lineage of the species of chicken that we eat today back to its source, back to its last common ancestor where it split off and became an actual chicken, you'd see that there was at one point a non chicken that layed a chicken egg, so that egg hatched the first actual chicken. thus, the egg came first."

elhokar - "oh wow." [thinking face] "i don't know, that's a weird question."

adolin - "... the chicken, i think? it does lay all eggs, so it must have come first."

renarin - "the egg."

aesudan - "who gives a shit."

shallan - "well, if you look back into the history of the species, it wouldn't be possible for the first chicken to have hatched without being an egg, so the egg."

kaladin - "i... don't know? I mean chickens come from eggs, but those eggs also came from chickens so... they both just come from each other."

gavinor - "what's an egg? do you have a chicken here?" [you show him a chicken] "can i pet it? it's body is so soft! what is that stuff covering it? 'feathers'? wow!!!"