#hot potato hot potato better keep that word limit sHORTER

[morwensteelsheen]

i woke up this morning like “i want to write a story justifying why éowyn would have dropped her virginity like a hot potato” and anyways 4,000 words later i am Not At That yet but i am getting a better sense for what i think her life would’ve been like. it’s below the cut in its unproofread state lol also a brief reference to what faramir was up to circa TA3011 because i can’t help myself

Until her twelfth birthday, Éowyn had never thought of herself as particularly more of a girl than a boy. She was addressed as a (young) lady when she wasn’t being addressed by her kin, and had certainly been forced into dresses and skirts — though this came perhaps a little later than it should have, if the judgemental looks from the various women of the court were anything to go by; but outside of those instances, there really hadn’t been much to differentiate her from her elder brother. She had learned to use a sword just as he had, she had been taught (with limited success) to speak several politically-important languages, and had been given as free a rein on Meduseld and Edoras as he had at her age. Those years, she would later realise, had been some of the easiest and most contented of her life, even if the dark cloud of their parents’ passings ever hung over her.

On her twelfth birthday, in a firestorm of misfortune, everything had changed. First, and entirely by coincidence, Éomer had received his first posting, in Captain Grimbold’s éored stationed in the Wold. For Éomer, it was nothing but excitement — at long last he would be able to take off out into the world just like Théodred and would finally get to define himself as a warrior and as a man. That he would be going quite far away from home only heightened the excitement. For Éowyn, who had always been closesr to her brother than anyone else, it was the end of an era, though in exactly how many ways she had not, in the moment, fully known.

Second, she had her first blood. It was not something anybody had warned her about and, in that manner which precocious children are wont to take up, she attempted to solve the problem without knowing quite what the problem was. Hiding in her chambers, hands and knees shaking somewhat at the sight of unexpected blood, she had changed into something thicker (and darker in colour), and bundled the soiled garments up in a spare bedsheet. What little she knew of such matters told her that to be caught bleeding must be a sign of some personal failing, and so must be handled in the utmost secrecy.

There was, she knew, a small fire burning in the western gardens that morning to clear fallen foliage from the previous week’s thunderstorms. With luck and a little careful manoeuvring, she imagined she would be able to sneak her secret bundle into the flames without arousing any suspicions.

Creeping through the halls of Meduseld (mercifully quiet owing to the ceremonial changing of the guard happening later that day), Éowyn had accidentally stumbled upon the third thing that would change her life forever.

Even to her young mind, he immediately seemed a man of contradiction. Undeniably young, but somehow carrying himself with the comportment of a man several decades older; the dark hair and shorter stature of a Dunlander, but the presence and language of a man of the Mark. At first, he had not noticed her — he was so diligently listening to the King that it seemed to her he might not have noticed if an entire éored had passed him by. But when, failing to mask herself fully behind a passing attendant, Éowyn had been spotted by her uncle, the man’s attention had fallen to her entirely.

He was impeccably behaved, granting her the courtesy of a deep bow — despite few ever humbling themselves before such a young girl — and spoke to her levelly (not, to her ears, taking notice of her youth). In the practice yard and on horseback, Éowyn was accustomed to being spoken to with little regard for her age, but rarely was such deference extended into the stricter social edifices of Meduseld.

By any stretch of the imagination, it should have tickled her pride to be spoken to as an equal, it had, of course, been something she had longed for ever since she had first mastered stringing words together into sentences. Something, however, unsettled her about the entire interaction, raising hairs on the back of her neck and forcing her shoulders back into a defensive posture. She told herself that it was a natural consequence of having been effectively caught attempting to bury evidence of a misdeed, and that had she not first met him while she was clutching a bedsheet hiding a bloodied shift, she might have had an entirely different opinion of him.

After she was dismissed and scampered out into the gardens, she was immediately caught by Ceolwenne, the daughter of one of the Lords of the Eastfold who had recently arrived at Edoras to be presented at court. Ceolwenne, who Éowyn had, until that moment, had very little time for, had taken one look at the bundled sheets and Éowyn’s ghost-white face and immediately pulled her into a hug. Together, they had thrown the bundle into the garden fire, and Ceolwenne had, in perhaps flightier language than Éowyn might have preferred, explained what that blood had meant and exactly what she should do to prepare herself in the future.

It should have been a tremendous relief to her to discover that it was not a sign of moral failure and to find that it was something that women could speak to other women about in relatively frank terms. Instead, and for reasons then entirely unexplainable to her, it filled her with a deep, abiding sense of dread.

Thereafter, the changes in her life came on gradually, some of them so slowly that she hardly noticed they had happened at all. The years passed and she grew up. At least two or three times a year, she bled, but now she knew what to expect (though that did not mean she found it any less unsettling). Éomer and Théodred were away for greater and greater stretches of time, and the man, who she now knew as Gríma, took on a greater and greater role in the Golden Hall.

At first, Éowyn had imagined that the duties bestowed upon her were duties given to account for Théodred’s absence — welcoming local and foreign dignitaries, maintaining the daily running of the household, and seeing to the needs of the King. But with these duties came certain infringements on the life she had come to enjoy. Gone were the comfortable linen dresses and loose hair of her childhood, replaced by elegant velvet gowns and coiled, braided updos; no longer could she practice for hours on end in the practice and tilt yards, not when, as Gríma took care to remind her, the household could not cope without a strong commander at its helm.

With the finer gowns and the increased hours spent indoors came a change in how people spoke to and looked at her. After years of hoping to be treated as an adult, she began to learn that what she had hoped for was to be treated as an adult man, not an adult woman. Adult men could sit in counsel with her King-uncle, and could drink until late at night and argue about the mechanics of war and glory. Adult women could not.

It was as much a sign of her becoming aware of herself as it was a sign that she was physically changing. Slowly, so slowly that she hardly noticed it if she didn’t think about it, her hips swelled and her breasts became heavier and more pronounced. Her face slimmed, her lashes lengthened and darkened, and hair grew on parts of her body that she had not expected it to grow. All of these things seemed to her to be things of little note — except, perhaps, as an occasional nuisance when gowns that had previously fitted her no longer did — but seemed of great consequence to the people around her.

The whispers of the women and men at court wriggled their way into her subconscious. Lascivious tales of noble women undone by pregnancies out of wedlock, peasant women trapped by Dunlenders and subjected to unimaginable acts of violence, and women who took so happily to the chore of sex that they freely took multiple partners — to the chagrin of the court. Without expecting it or inviting it, Éowyn soon learned that the mantle of womanhood that she was now inheriting was a heavy and burdensome load.

She was fourteen the first time she had recognised a man staring at her chest. He was a minor sergeant from just outside Aldburg, twenty-two years old, fairly handsome for so short a man, and loud-spoken with a riotous laugh. They had been standing opposite one another in conversation at the outlying perimeters of a celebratory dance when she had followed the line of his sight. When he realised she was aware of where his attention was turned to, he had smirked at her, then disappeared off to find the hand of another young girl for the next dance. Beside her, one of the fluttering twits who hovered around the court in search of a high-born husband leaned in to her and giggled, telling her in no uncertain terms that she should be honoured by the man’s interest in her body. She did try her best to be honoured, but the only emotion she could conjure within her was a vague sense of fury.

After that, she had taken to finishing her domestic duties as hastily as she could so she could slip out of her gowns and exhaust herself in the practice yard. The first few times she had done so, she had moved so speedily through her duties she began to trip up and make careless mistakes, which had resulted in Gríma keeping an ever-closer eye on her work. When mistakes were inevitably discovered, she found herself forced back into gowns for longer and longer periods of time, and being forced back into gowns meant being forced back under the sometimes-lewd gaze of men. These failures, she was told, were an abdication of her womanly duty to maintain a neat household. Thus, womanhood became inextricably bound up with restrictions on her liberty and the unsettling and unwelcomed notice of men.

Ceolwenne married Elfhelm on a cool spring day, a humble but pretty affair. They went away for a few short weeks, and when they returned, she had a wealth of stories to whisper to Éowyn. Ceolwenne, who had been far better prepared for a woman’s life than had Éowyn, seemed to have entered her marriage with a plethora of insecurities and expectations — most of which had turned out to be wrong. Even still, it was the first time Éowyn had heard that sex could be anything other than a wearisome duty to be endured.

When she was sixteen, Théodred’s èored briefly returned to Edoras for some ceremonial formalities. A young rider, at most three or four years her senior, watched her in the practice ring as she proved to her cousin all that she had learned in his absence. Théodred, with a small smirk, departed after just two rounds, leaving her alone with the man. He introduced himself as Alaric, a local boy under Théodred’s command. He was quick-witted and praised her combat skills, and she had been happy to have someone who wasn’t her kin speak admiringly of her ability to fight. He’d told her he had little experience with cleaning up in the royal stables, and that he needed advice on how to properly stack the saddles so as to avoid her cousin’s ire.

Because she was sixteen, and because she had so rarely been around men who didn’t see her desire to fight as a threat to their manhood, she convinced herself she believed that he needed help, and followed. Inside the stables, she made a valiant attempt at showing him the ropes, until he’d pinned her to the wall and kissed her breathless.

It was sloppy, bordering on bad (though then she had no basis on which to judge the quality of a kiss), and it surprised her. But he didn’t seem to mind that he was kissing somebody in breeches who reeked of horse, so she kissed him back until a stable boy interrupted them. When Théodred’s men left at the end of the week, she didn’t watch them leave, and she never again asked after him, though for many years afterwards she often thought of that day in the stables.

A few months later, her marriageability was first spoken of. Lord Boromir of Gondor, a steadfast and favourite friend of Théodred’s had momentarily passed through Edoras on an unofficial diplomatic errand. (After he had left, her uncle had made it clear that he thought Boromir had been sent by his supercilious father to sniff out weaknesses in the Mark.) Lord Boromir had very proudly admitted that he expected that his younger brother, a captain fighting at the far eastern reaches of Gondor, would soon announce his betrothal to the eldest daughter of some lord from the south of the kingdom. It was, he said, a remarkably politically-savvy match, certain to bring the more capricious southern fiefdoms back into line.

Gríma, invited but not desired at that dinner, had, as was his way in those days, managed to redirect the conversation towards the theory of marriage as a political tool, and how a more stringent application of that theory in Rohan (as was seen in Gondor) might come to the kingdom’s benefit. He had implied, though had stared her down while he spoke, that unwed women kin of the King ought to make themselves more available to men of good sense.

Éowyn, who had never before given much thought to marriage, except in passing recognition to the fact that she would likely one day have to marry, blanched at the notion that any future marriages of hers would be discussed so openly. But then it occurred to her, with the swiftness of a winter gale blustering through an open door, that she was, in fact, of a perfectly reasonable age to be thinking of marriage.

In a move that had endeared him to her immensely, Lord Boromir had pointed out that while he referred to his brother as “younger,” he was in fact eight and twenty years old, and his apparent intended was only a few years younger than that, and both had come about the arrangement after many years of unattached life in adulthood.

The door, however, had been kicked open, and the monster that dwelt within could not be so easily returned to its enclosure.

It seemed to her the most frustrating conversation in her life in the subsequent two years, and it seemed to her to occur at two levels. The more overt level was that of the occasional discussion of marriage candidates’ suitability. Men would come, from time to time, to seek out the hand of Lady Éowyn, and Lady Éowyn would, with ruthless efficiency, dismiss them. In this, she had an entirely unexpected ally in Gríma, who seemed to find fault in all of her suitors as quickly as she did, and was far less reserved in his dismissals.

The more subtle level was that of discussions of what would be expected of her after marriage. At first, the language had been amorphous: Théodred had been slow to marry, Éomer was far too pleased with his status as the effective “spare”, what would become of the line of Eorl? Who, asked those who dared ask aloud, would ensure the birth of an heir? In those years, Gríma became a master manipulator of conversations. Where compliments paid to Éowyn had once concerned her ability to uphold her duties, or her voice, or her ability to dance, soon they focussed on her youth, her femininity, and, for the bolder flatterers, the curve of her hips.

She reached an age where she took to working with the elder women of the court on the various tapestries and blankets and carpets that they wrought on their looms. Then, she learned that sex, despite for so many of them being a frustrating burden at worst and a bore at best, was a regular topic of conversation. In their conversations, she came to learn much she hadn’t before had a way to learn. There was a moment, she learned, in the midst of sex where people reached what the women referred to as a “crisis.” For men, this crisis was not only common, but nigh on mandatory, the ultimate and only goal of sex. For women, this crisis was uncommon, but certainly not unheard of, though often stumbled upon quite by accident. Despite their language, all of the women seemed to speak fondly of this crisis, as if it was something to be actively sought after. Having no experience of her own against which to measure her opinions, Éowyn merely accepted that this was the way things were, and that, even if it was a happy one, a crisis sounded like a level of instability she would rather not invite into her life.

Meanwhile, her uncle seemed to age ten years for every one that passed. Her duties became more numerous and more laborious. Stubbornly committed to her precious few minutes of freedom a day, she fought hard to preserve her few hours of swordplay a week, even if it came at the cost of sleep or eating. It was to her benefit and detriment that she placed such a high premium on that time; benefit, in that she never felt as if she couldn’t defend herself from physical harm if needs must, detriment in that it became Gríma’s easiest way to wrest control over her. She had to guard it jealously, had to take to keeping a dulled blade beneath her bed for the days in which she found all the practice blades mysteriously locked away, and had to implicitly enlist the help of the servants to cover her tracks.

More men came seeking her affection, and she sent them all away. Some men, the younger ones, the maverick officers, didn’t come looking for her hand in marriage, but to take their chances at cracking the Lady of Rohan’s stony exterior. It became a game of sorts amongst men in the know, winning her attention was a warrior’s challenge in its own right, akin to slaying a first — or tenth — orc. Whether she was oblivious to it or intensely obstinate the men never figured out, but either way, none ever had any success.

What to them was a game became a struggle for life and death for her. For each man that flirted with her or sent tokens of affection, Gríma tightened his grip further and further. Her uncle had been almost entirely unmanned, his thoughts so consumed by the looming conflict that the social troubles of his youngest ward bled into the background noise.

Gríma touched her for the first time a little while after her seventeenth birthday. It was a brisk spring morning, and she was scheduled to meet a minor lordling from the Gondorian province of Anórien. She had gone out to the veranda without a mantle and, after a single shiver, Gríma had disappeared back into the hall, only to return with a thin, dark cloak. Though she was loath to accept any gestures from him, she was already surrounded by far too many dignitaries of the Mark who could not be trusted with any sign of defiance from the representatives of the House of Eorl. So, she had tipped her head in assent when Gríma presented her with the mantle, and held her hair back as he stood before her and secured it around her through. To onlookers, it would have seemed as if the fastener on the cloak was particularly fussy, because it took him several long seconds to finally catch it through. To Éowyn, the seconds stretched like hours as Gríma brushed long, moist fingers across the hollow of her throat, over and over and over until finally she’d stiffened, and he seemed to be broken from his trance.

A month passed before he touched her again, and then it was only a hand against the small of her back as he passed her in the council room.

A few weeks after that, it was his fingers wrapping around her arm to escort her away from her exhausted King.

Orcs pushed further into Rohan, a worrying puzzle that panicked all those in Edoras who had any business of knowing. Her cousin spent more and more time riding between his detachment and Meduseld, and each time she saw him he seemed tauter, more bereft of good humour, and, unsurprisingly if frustratingly, less able to listen to her worries. Through no fault of his own, he could hardly notice that it was not just his father whose constitution was bowing under the burden of conflict, and failed entirely to notice that Éowyn had grown distant and jumped every time someone entered the room without fair warning.

Her change in mood did not go unnoticed by Gríma, who quickly used it to drive a wedge between her and her uncle. Théoden, who had also become increasingly paranoid, seemed convinced that his line would die out. It took some careful manoeuvring from Gríma, but in time her uncle believed that it was Éowyn’s reserved personality that most threatened the House of Eorl. She was instructed, in no uncertain terms, to have a more open temperament and to show more warmth to their guests and allies.

It went against every defence she had learned. If she were to be more open and inviting towards their guests (who were all, invariably, men) then she would be indirectly inviting Gríma’s jealousy. She had always tried to deny that that is what it came down to — he was twenty-one years her senior, had known her since she was barely into girlhood, it all seemed incomprehensible to her — but at this earliest of breaking points, it was almost impossible to deny.

For three years, there was a stalemate of sorts. It was not a receding of hostilities, so to speak, but there were no escalations either. She found that if she didn’t put up any resistance when his fingers slipped under the hem of her sleeves or he stopped so close to her side she could feel his breath on her face, then she wouldn’t lose time in the practice ring, and wouldn’t be cornered into emotionally devastating arguments with her uncle and liege-lord.

Men continued to call, though there were fewer as the conflict worsened at the borders of the Riddermark. A daughter of a lord of the Westfold came to Edoras, Edith was her name. She was beautiful and self-possessed, she laughed loudly and drank heartily, and charmed the entire court within hours of her arrival. She took many bewitched men to her bed without a hint of shame, and in so doing left no room for anyone to criticise her. Better to die of good sex out of wedlock, she told Éowyn, than of bad sex in wedlock.

Théoden’s condition worsened, and Gríma cast a wider and wider shadow across Meduseld. Éomer was made third Marshal of the Mark, and Théodred began to spend more time in Edoras. The condition in the Westfold became bleaker with each passing week, the Dunlendings now threatened harm greater than they had ever been empowered to do before.

&c. &c. &c.

[courage-a-word-of-justice]

Boku no Hero Academia 22 - 23 | Grimoire of Zero 8 | Royal Tutor 9 | Kado 8 | Tsukigakirei 8

Boku no Hero Academia 22

I never saw that “meteor shower” coming! BnHA keeps the surprises coming, eh?

Hey, he used Uraraka’s name! He’s serious now!!!

I gotta admit Denki and the other hero trying to defend Uraraka only because she’s a girl is an outdated idea (but the patriarchy demands I only get irked about this a bit), but defending Uraraka because she’s almost out of commission is something I can understand.

Oh, the tough realities of herohood…the suckiness of failure…I gotta touch on this more in Half-Paid Heroes. Better pay attention!

It’s kinda clear Shouto vs Izuku is gonna get cut off by the time limit, but it’s interesting to note that there are 2 rivals close to Midoriya. Normally a shonen hero only has one fixed one.

Boku no Hero Academia 23

I’ve seen people comment a tonne on episode 22, so episode 23 should garner a lot of attention too as the highlight of this season.

I always thought by saying Shouto could be a hero, it implied his mother could no longer be one. Why? Possible trigger warning for this, but I think it’s “enduring Endeavour’s abuse”.

The bandage on Uraraka’s face reminds me that BnHA is good at consistency.

Poodle girl, who tried to defend Uraraka last ep, is still in the crowd. Another good touch of consistency.

This is rare – Bakugo’s introspective and showing off why he’s top of the class simultaneously.

Looking at this from a strategy point of view, Deku still has his legs, potentially his head if he wants to risk it, (uninjured) parts of his arms maybe, or overexerting his arms again. If he gets very creative, maybe his torso. It still looks like Todoroki’s going to win nonetheless, even though he seems to be showing some signs of fatigue too.

I thought he’d overexert his arms again, but I guess I never thought of the more logical path, which would be “overexert the fingers again first”, huh?

That threw me for a bit. 1) Todoroki never says “now I’m angry”. He’s the cool guy, to make a lame pun. 2) That’s a cliched line only bad guys say. Then again, it could be a “you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back” moment.

Ice is powerful. So powerful, there aren’t many ice Pokémon, and I originally planned to have an ice-skater be the 6th ranger in Half-Paid Heroes, only to find that since I kept restructuring the lineup, the skater became too OP. (Also, because Half-Paid Heroes used to be a strictly girl-turns-into-magical-boy affair, the 6th ranger - Yuki - was a great big hinge on what came afterwards, so I’ve struggled with the storyline now that I’ve given it a more workplace SoL baseline.)

I always thought ice was also a salve to some extent, but with more destructive power comes a lessened ability to heal.

Todoroki looks like Bakugo now. Guess it can’t be helped, seeing as “explosions” are associated with “fire”.

“Such a doting father.” – I laiughed, because we just found out that’s blasphemy. It’s ironic, to use the proper term.

Block rubble is a sure sign that this is a sakuga fest. Wowee, last time I saw block rubble was ConRevo (as far as I can remember)! Thank you, BONES!

Hmph. Fanservice. If you like Shouto’s fanservice here, you’ll definitely like Free!, but I’m neutral on it. 15 year olds shouldn’t be so muscular…sure, it’s part of a hero’s job to be muscular if they’re physically fit, but fanservice of 15 year olds ain’t my thing, y’know?

Grimoire of Zero 8

I’m of the idea that Albus is a dude for commentary purposes, but I’ve seen lots of comments across the ‘net saying Albus is a girl. It seems this episode will get rid of whatever misconceptions I have about Albus’s gender once and for all.

When the wolf says she is closest to Him, who’s “she” exactly? Sorena? Sorena’s granddaughter?

The wolf is behind the main trio at the end of the OP…!

I get the feeling this stitch-up scene is just for some manservice on the wolf’s part…but at least it holds some revelations for those that don’t want manservice of the muscle kind. (In terms of bishonen, I don’t dig Dragon Ball or Free!-style muscles anyway. *shrugs*)

That is one young grandmother…but dangit, why was the wolf hot as a man???!!! (It’s distracting, and I already have too many husbandos…but he’s only hot when he has his clothes on.)

Wuh…? Just when I decide he’s worth staying for, I find out his name…and it’s Holdem? Like, Texas Holdem?

Sometimes belief is all one needs to fight for a cause, Holdem my previously-handsome man.

Grimoire of Zero is lucky its CGI is only noticeable when the show is paused…

“Who knew he was Sorena’s granddaughter…”

From the pronouns used in the subs, it seems that even the subbers believed Albus was a dude and stuck to their guns even after the explicit revelation.

Royal Tutor 9

Fancy gakurans…if you already have a gakuran lying around, it’s pretty easy to cosplay the princes, I guess.

Why are those guards so excited?

This thing just went all ACCA-shaped. That’s not a bad thing, I’m just saying guns are normally used at the climax of shows like this, like in ACCA.

I think the “I am a grown man” jokes are getting a lil’ old at the business end, but that’s because when I see drama I expect consistent drama.

The camera scene was so ludicrous that I ended up laughing anyway…

As an action writer, that butt-kicking Heine did was perfect (albeit a tad slow). Then again, this show’s specialty is a SoL-style pace and I wouldn’t change that about it.

That trick Ludwig did was basically what Alciel did in Hataraku Maou-sama!, but because it was compressed into a shorter amount of time, it had little to no payoff.

“The stupid-seeming fellow is right.” – I never thought Maximilian seemed stupid…

I noted Fuchs said, “Take me away,” which is a very interesting point.

Well, now we really can’t neglect Heine’s past. Get hyped, Royal Tutor fans!

Kado 8

Shunina’s reading something called Ningen Manzai. According to this website, Ningen Manzai is about a god from space who comes to earth and becomes human…then something about angels and another god. Even if you don’t learn the entire synopsis of Ningen Manzai, the book is very relevant, ain’t it? Also, Shunina’s using his seahorse bookmark from last ep, which is cute.

The discussion on Sansa reminds me of the Porygon incident…

“Hail to Humanity”? So that would mean…the title is actually Ningen Banzai…

It’s Kado Skype, powered by Wam. That…that’s great! We can finally see Wam being put to use around here.

As someone who’s studied IT, I understand Gonno’s words on networks well.

Google Satellite. Yep, it exists.

Kado is unintentionally hilarious sometimes, like the “Dad! Dad!” bit there. The chestnut bit I found vaguely disturbing but that was because Shindo looked like he was gasping for air. For the “Dad! Dad!” bit in particular though, Kado’s gone all Summer Wars and that’s why it’s funny.

These jellyfish are really lifelike…but you get a sad feeling from this “date” scene. As if suddenly the staff finally give us a look into why Saraka is correct…you feel like this is all just an “all according to zaShunina keikaku” thing, and suddenly you see the tower known as humanity was knocked down as soon as Kado came.

So Saraka’s saying…the tale of Kado (the show) is a tragedy? Well, that’s a new take on this whole scenario…hey, wait. So Ward and Gonno (to a lesser extent) are the evil ones here?

Grumpy Gonno…haha.  

Does SETTEN need to learn how to “not be evil”, as per its inspiration’s philosophy? Hmm.

It’s Shunina, on a TV show, like a celebrity. The world is evolving in ways I thought were unimaginable.

Is it possible to watch Sansa because of peer pressure, because Shunina could be seen as a “cool” guy? I wonder…

LOL, so you’re going to get him to talk with drinks? I can’t imagine a drunk Shunina…but I can understand that with drinking culture, it’s probably the right way to go to get closer to someone. (Even if that “someone” is an anisotropic being.) Shunina may not understand “food” after all.

As much as I love the alien dork, he’s getting more and more sinister as the show goes on. From what I’ve read on Kado all over the ‘net, people have distrusted him since episode 1, but hey. That’s what we’re here for.

Shinawa was absent yet again, thank goodness.

The round object in the preview (it looks like a white sphere surrounded by blue chunks) is probably a Nanomishein, knowing this show.

Tsukigakirei 8

Welp, we’re finally back to Dazai after referencing Souseki.

Huh? That part with the dancing guy with the mask has gone from live action to animated…so it seems like the staff of Tsukigakirei give an effort now.

The OP seems to evolve more as time goes by, which is interesting. A few eps ago, the sheet only said “title” but the title of this work that’s evolving is called 13.70. However, it seems to be by Azumi Osamu, and not Kotarou. (Or maybe that’s just a penname of Kotarou’s, based on his love for Dazai?) 13.70 is 75 mai (sheets) long.

Love is hard to describe, and I guess when you love someone it’s hard to put into words because of that.

Is the video going slower or did the animation budget get cut in half?

I’d assume “hayashi” refers to the rice.

So it’s not my imagination…the budget got skimped on! You can tell because they did the same almost still scene thing twice this ep.

Noting how dark the potato is, I’d say it’s sweet potato (purple).

Ahahaha! So that’s where the potato mascot come from. They’re sweet potatoes then…now I get it! (It’s just that when you say “potato” on its lonesome I think of the one you make ordinary chips out of.)

Now that we know Kotarou’s birthday, I know she’s going to buy him a present. That’s what anyone would do…and of course, I was right.

That shot of windchimes from the OP. I like it, but I know it’s recycled from there.

Well, for all the budget skimping they’ve done, they’ve churned out some really good festival shots. They’re so lifelike.

I didn’t think geta were annoying enough to give you blisters. Guess I was wrong.

You’re so stealthy, Akane (sarcastic).

Finally, here are the development we’ve been waiting for. Unfortunately, they’re paired with some really bad off model shots. Fortunately, they bother to give us the first kiss.

The fortune tags both say “I wish to be together forever.” (<-paused specifically to translate before subs came up)…CR tells me I was pretty bang on with my translation.

This ep’s ED convo is just a lovey-dovey couple fighting and saying “I love you more. No, I love you more” sort of thing, so don’t bother.

I got bored of these a few eps back, but since I have time right now, I went, “Why not?”.

Well, as much as I dislike the humour in these, I have to admit the moral in the Aira one was pretty good.

Well, finally Sakura gets some happiness. Good on her.

I don’t think I’ve seen a girl being called ippiki before. Ippiki is normally used with small animals, like dogs or cats.

The Roman and Ryouko (Sensei) ones are the worst of these, I just can’t ship them because the age gap is about 10 years. That’s a little too big for comfort, y’know?

That “Kotarou’s Parents” one actually made me laugh. It’s also a good insight into characters that don’t get developed much in the series. If I were an author (which I am, I just haven’t got any properly published books out there yet – the closest book I do have out there has no words…*hides in corner of shame*), I would have bonus content more along these lines.

[redconfidential-blog]

I’ve been up and away again. This time, to visit the Queen! Okay, that was an exaggeration but, I’ve been in Great Britain for a few weeks, touring some parts of Her Majesty’s Kingdom and as usual, I will be sharing my experience with you! But first, let’s talk about Britain and its people.

Before I go any further, it is important to explain that despite being used interchangeably, the British Isles, United Kingdom, Great Britain, and England actually refer to different things. The diagram below explains this difference succinctly.

The Difference Source: http://brilliantmaps.com/eng-gb-uk/

British Culture I’ve come across unintelligent comments on social media like “white people don’t have culture” and that just isn’t true. Mostly Caucasian, Brits are generally soft-spoken and extremely polite. They are reserved or snobbish as my Brit friend said. They aren’t likely to start a conversation with a stranger but if you started one, they’d respond pleasantly. Most people are helpful with directions and general inquiry and if you are familiar enough, you’ll be invited to have some tea.

With regards to fashion, Brits sense of style is very muted, with most of their clothes in dull colours like pale pink, grey, navy, dark blue or black, and their jewellery very discrete. Generally, they seem not to have a single flamboyant bone in their bodies. The women love leggings, and the teenage girls pair them with cropped tops despite the biting cold. The majority seem not to be wearing any underwear, not that it’s a punishable offence.

  Brits and Tea

His name is Shadow

Now, if you’ve wondered where the phrase “every man and his dog” came from, I’m quite certain it’s Great Britain. For most Nigerians, our dogs are primarily security guards, bred to bark and alert us of intruders, and if necessary in the course of duty, take a bite or two of them.  A Nigerian with his dog outside the home is most likely going to the vet. But it’s quite different with Brits, who appear to really love their dogs and seem to go almost everywhere with them. On the bus, the train, the morning run, taking a walk, everywhere you look, there’s a  dog right next to the baby in the buggy and they come in all kinds of breeds. From the sausage-like ones that give new meaning to hot dogs, to the massive, well-fed and wolf-like, that breathe life to the direwolves of the North. To my surprise and delight, they are mostly well behaved, friendly even.

As much as they love dogs, most Brits appear to also enjoy gardening. On Sunday morning while we are getting dressed and rushing to church, many of them are otherwise purposefully dressed, down on all fours pruning and planting, and they do a good job of it too. These gardens spot the most beautiful flowers and very often fist-size roses.

  Landscape The British countryside is a lot like walking into a bedtime story. I grew up on Ladybird books with stories and poems that talked about castles, houses with chimneys that Santa could climb down at Christmas, picturesque woodlands, sheep in the meadow and the grass rippling in the wind, and classic lonely cottages where the witch could be about to cook Hansel and Gretel, all so surreal. Unlike in Nigeria, no one’s sheep or cattle is roaming free on the road. They are all respectfully confined to their farms.

  Money The Great British Pounds (£, GBP) otherwise known as Pounds Sterling is the official currency of Great Britain. It is one of the strongest currencies in the world, ranked 4th most-traded in forex markets, after the United States Dollar ($, USD), the Euro(€), and the Japanese Yen(¥). Bringing this home, one Pound Sterling sells for 470 Naira, and one pound is a coin.

  Coins from Coin Purse

GBP Coins

Coins and Notes

This brings me to my first inconvenience: Carrying and Spending Coins. Unlike Nigerian currency, coins here are valuable. Drop a one or two-pound coin, and you have lost N1000. The least valuable coins are one and two pence, the “red” ones, equal to 5 and 10 Naira approximately.  To get rid of as many of them as possible, I had to do some mental maths and a lot of counting.

Weather In my limited experience, the weather south of Britain is much better than up north. I’m told the best time to visit is between June and September. It’s still cold compared to Nigeria but it’s so much more bearable.  Most of the time, a hot bath and some tea kept me warm. I’d like to visit during the winter just so I can see it snow, but the way they describe the bitter cold, I don’t think I’ll survive it.

  Sunrise

Me freezing

Sunset

Another inconvenience was Sunset and Sunrise. That thing about longer days and shorter nights we didn’t really grasp in geography class? It’s real here. I crawled out of bed to pee at about 4.00am and light was sipping in through the curtained windows. The sun was rising! I couldn’t believe it, especially since the sun didn’t completely set till about 10.00pm the previous night. With only 5 hours of true darkness, it was difficult to sleep or keep track of the day. It looked like 2.00pm outside but it was actually 6.00pm.

Language Thanks to colonialism, communication in Great Britain is easy because we speak English fluently. However, I learnt that it is necessary to speak slowly and to pronounce one’s words slower and carefully so the Brits can understand, because believe it or not we have a Nigerian accent. This is why people who are foreign-based pick up a foreign accent. It’s not to sound bourgie, it’s just an adaptation to the society they have been in.

Drinking Tap Water

Drinking Tap Water We don’t drink water straight from the tap in Nigeria. In fact, if you do that in Lagos you are most likely to end up in the hospital. We drink bottled water when we are financially buoyant or pure (sachet) water otherwise. In Britain, it’s the exact opposite. According to Prof Paul Younger, of Glasgow University, “Water coming from UK taps is the most stringently tested in the world,”. The tap water is checked daily under a rigorous inspection regime and is widely believed to be safer than bottled water. This was really difficult for me to adapt to. Getting drinking water straight from the tap always felt unhygienic. In thirst, I’d fill my cup but only take down a few sips. This left me dehydrated a lot of the time.

Trying British Foods I enjoyed some typical British foods but I kept a lid on it because my budget was small.

Full English Breakfast which is otherwise known as a fry up is made up of sausages, some bacon, baked beans, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and bread. Nothing really special in my humble opinion, because we have all of these at home.

Scones are a mouthful everyone should try. It’s more or less hard cake.

Crumpets are my favourite only because they look divine in pictures. They are really just bread made in a pan and they go well with jam and butter. They are a little too salty for my taste but I intend to make a saltless version when I get back home to Abuja.

Branson Pickles are an absolute delight in a ham sandwich

Marmite is salty and absolutely disgusting. Don’t even touch it.

Worcestershire Sauce is the one no one really knows how to pronounce. WorCHester or WorSester, it’s great in Ceasar salad and perfect in meat marinate. Get some.

Finally, you have to try Cornish Pasty by West Cornwall Pastry Co. Thier potato wedges are beyond delicious and for a decent price of one pound. It was so good I didn’t remember to take pictures fo you all, so I have included a few stock images.

  Trekking Up and Down The transportation system here is very organised and for the most part timely, so most people use the bus or the train to get around. Consequently, you have to trek to the bus stop or train station. As a Nigerian, I differentiate walking and trekking based on 2 things; distance and purpose. If it is leisurely and short, it’s walking. if it is purposeful, brisk and longer than 12minutes, it’s trekking. Cab fares here are quite steep and an ordinary 20-minutes walking distance can easily cost you some 10 quid which is some N5000! So I trekked. I trekked in the sun and even in the rain (because it started raining out of the blue and cabs aren’t readily available like in Nigeria) while being mindful of stepping in dog poop like dodging landmines.

Running Shoes

On the upside, while trekking, I didn’t sweat because the weather was cold, but I had to pee often, and my fitness improved tremendously. In all of this walking, trekking and running, I cannot overemphasise how much you need a good pair of running shoes. If you overpronate like I do, Nike Zoom Structure is the shoe for you.

Using the Train As if trekking isn’t enough, finding my way around the train station was mind-boggling. I very often found myself running from one platform to another and back, trying to find and catch the right train. Fortunately, and unlike the Indian Metro, these trains have very comfortable seats.

  Swindon Train Station

First Great Western Train

Train Tickets and Change

Some trains had wifi and sockets to charge your phones, laptops and other handheld devices. They had on-board toilets and a food cart selling cookies, sandwiches, beverages and other life-saving edibles. You are likely to undervalue these services and facilities until you are in for a 3-hour ride.

Overall, Great Britain is a good place to visit and relax, not just because there’s no language barrier, but for its tourist sites and heritage which I will focus on in my next post. In the meantime, root out your passports!

Discovering Great Britain I've been up and away again. This time, to visit the Queen! Okay, that was an exaggeration but, I've been in Great Britain for a few weeks, touring some parts of Her Majesty's Kingdom and as usual, I will be sharing my experience with you!