#i am so anti gun but there is something about this man wielding a weapon...

[houseisekai]

House Miisekai Prologue: The Adventure Begins!

House Miisekai Masterlist Here

====

Our story begins in the land of Miisekaitopia! (No, I couldn't think of a better name.)

It is a world where everyone from both storylines and unholy amounts of AU's can live in peace without worrying about wars breaking out every 4 seconds.

At least it was.

The darkness came without warning, a great and terrible shadow threatening all of Miisekaitopia! An unspeakably huge dick came and stole everyone's faces! Then, to add insult to injury, put those faces onto monsters across the land!

But, we shall follow the perspective of Sara Valestein, Instructor of Class VII and the original House Isekai...

Sara casually strolled through the hills, enjoying the sunlight and wind blowing gently across her.

(Sara) "...Goddess I am so bored."

She had been kicked out of yet another bar recently for drinking too much.

Again.

Left with nothing to do, she decided to take a trip to nowhere in particular, going wherever fate took her.

Sara continued muttering to herself, mocking the established "rules" for drinking in a tavern until she noticed something flying in the air.

(Sara) "Is...that a face?"

She rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn't seeing things, and saw the eyes slowly float over to a nearby butterfly.

(Sara) "Uh...?"

(Sara) "GAH!"

The horrific creature began floating faster towards Sara, which prompted her to run full speed ahead towards the closest town.

As she ran out of breath, she ran towards anyone would even take a minute to listen.

(Sara) "H-Hey, there's some freaky bug thing out there with a human face!"

BE-LOP!

Tiny lines of text ran down the guide's face.

It showed too many messages at once for her to properly read it, and the person remained completely still.

(Sara) "...Hello?"

(Everyone) "..."

(Sara) "...Right."

Sara moved to the next person she saw.

...

Sara saw a platypus with a name tag 'Perry' calmly sitting on the market stall.

(Sara) "Hello, anyone here?"

The platypus stared at her, not saying a word.

(Sara) "...What in the hell is with this town?"

Next try. That would probably work.

...

(Anakin) "What did we get ourselves into this time?"

(Obi-Wan) "I'm not sure but...I do not like this a single bit."

(Anakin) "At least you're in a taller body, my head barely reaches your stomach!"

(Obi-Wan) "It's not the first time."

(Sara) "Hey, excuse me ma'aaaaaaaaaa...What in the?"

(Anakin) "Listen lady, we got our own problems right now. We're not in the mood-"

(Obi-Wan) "What my young padawan means is that we unfortunately cannot spare any help if you need it ma'am."

(Sara) "...Evidently."

Sara nervously walked away from the two grown men in a child and woman's body.

(Sonia) "Did we get transported again?"

(Gundham) "By the works of dark magic, no doubt..."

(Sonia) "Oh, looks like there's someone over there. Hello ma'am, do you know where we are?"

(Sara) "Eh?...Huh. That's a good question. Where is this?"

(Sonia) "Oh well, I'm a bit more comfortable knowing that someone I like is with me here!"

(Gundham) "I...uh...er..."

(Sara) "That's cute. Ah, to be young again..."

Sara left the two to talk amongst themselves before finding the next...person?

It was an extremely fat rabbit that was grey and white.

(Sara) "What in the hell-"

BIG BIG CHUNGUS, BIG CHUNGUS, BIG-

(Sara) "Okay, screw that."

Sara finally saw the mayor and approached him, and when he turned she almost jumped.

It was a Piranha plant. She thought so anyway, it was covered in white polka dots and bright red.

(Plant) "Ah, welcome to the town miss?"

(Sara) "Uh, Sara. Sara Valestein. Listen, there's this weird face that attached itself to a butterfly outside your place! You're gonna do something right?"

(Plant) "Did...did you say a face float down? OH NO."

(Familiar Man's voice) "OH YES."

(Sara) ?

(Anakin) "Uh, master?"

(Obi-Wan) "I've got a bad feeling about this..."

The platypus, fat rabbit, and the discord notification looked up into the skies, getting increasingly alarmed.

(Gundham) "THIS DARKNESS...IT'S...IT'S OVERWHELMING!"

(Sonia) "His voice sounds grating like Souda's..."

(Plant) "COINS PRESERVE US! IT'S..."

[Imperial Will - Final Fantasy XIV OST]

(Dark Lord Chris) "KNEEL BEFORE YOUR GOD, AND OFFER YOUR FACES UNTO ME!"

(Sara) "...Faces? You mean like services or...?"

(Anakin) "Maybe that's metaphorical?"

(Obi-Wan) "I'm not sure I want to find out-"

(Chris) "NO, YOU REALLY DON'T. ALSO NO. I MEAN IT LITERALLY!"

Several faces began to fly off the townspeople.

First was the platypus's face, quickly followed by the discord notification and Anakin's.

(Obi-Wan) "ANAKIN!"

Then it was Sonia and the fat rabbit's faces that floated next to Chris.

(Gundham) "AAAAAAAGH!"

(Plant) "OH MY GOD, THIS IS HORRIBLE!"

(Sara) "Can someone tell me what the hell is happening?!-"

(Chris) "THESE NOW BELONG TO ME! NOW, GO TELL THE OTHERS WHAT YOU'VE SEEN HERE, FOR I WILL BE COMING FOR THEM NEXT!"

Chris flew off into the skies, the faces following closely behind.

(Sara) "What an asshole!"

(Plant) "ADVENTURER, PLEASE YOU HAVE TO HELP US!"

(Sara) "Right uh..."

Sara reached for her sword and pistol, which was nowhere to be found.

(Sara) "Well, that's just great..."

Obi-Wan struggled to walk over to here, still not accustomed to his body and looked at Sara.

(Obi-Wan) "Ma'am, I'm afraid I cannot go into battle myself to assist with this matter. And we don't appear to have our weapons either..."

(Sara) "So, what do you reckon I do? Ask nicely?"

...

(Sara) "Damn it."

OUTSIDE OF TOWN...

Chris was floating away from the town when Sara finally caught up to him.

(Sara) "HEY, JACKASS!"

(Chris) "...Oh, you mean me. I-I mean, OH, IS SOMEONE TRYING TO BE THE HERO NOW?"

(Sara) "Don't play smart with me you glasses wearing freak! Give back their faces!"

(Chris) "Or what? You're going to fight me?"

Sara cracked her knuckles.

(Chris) "...Oh shit. Uh, here have it."

The face slowly floated over to a slime, which reattached itself and began hopping towards Sara.

(Anakin's voice) "OH MAN, I THOUGHT THE KID BODY WAS BAD!"

(Chris) "Uh anyways, LATER!"

Chris quickly flew away from Sara, leaving her and Anakin's face on a slime.

(Sara) "Alright, LET'S GO!"

Sara drove her fist into the slime, which quickly bounced off.

(Sara) "...Oh right. It's a slime."

The slime retaliated by knocking Sara onto her back.

(Anakin's voice) "Sorry!"

(Sara) "Damn, my weapons aren't anywhere to be found either!

"I AM THOU...THOU ART I..."

(Sara) "Oh, what is it now-HURK?!"

Sara reached for her head as the voice boomed thunderously.

"THOU ART...Okay, no we're not rhyming. I'm your guardian spirit, Sara!"

(Sara) "Really now? And where were you during Erebonia?!"

"ANYWAYS, it seems you're in a bit of trouble! Do you need some help?"

(Sara) "It's either getting help or getting killed by a damn slime of all things, so...Yeah, sure."

"Good choice! Now, I bestow upon you the awesome power of the guardian!"

(Sara) "You're gonna explain later where I got this from, right?"

"That depends, do you want the plot to get moving? Our other posts are slowed down as it is, and this has gotten too meta in just the first few lines of this."

(Sara) "Ugh, fine."

Sara's outfit shined forth and became donned in armor, wielding a new sword.

(Sara) "Hey, you cheap bastard, where's my gun?!"

"This is a fantasy RPG, why would you get a gun? Just kill the damn slime already!"

(Anakin's voice) "WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?!"

(Sara) "Hold on, I'll getcha outta there, HIYA!"

[COOL QUIRK: WEAK POINT]

Sara took one swing of her sword and smacked the slime into the floor, it quickly disappearing.

Anakin's face floated off the slime and back to the town.

"That was..."

(Sara) "Really anti-climatic."

"You should uh...probably go back to the town and check up on Anakin."

INSIDE OF TOWN...

Anakin's face slowly floated back onto the child's body, making him trip over.

(Anakin) "AGH!"

(Obi-Wan) "So, how was it?"

(Anakin) "I was just put into a slime's body, how do you think I feel?!"

(Obi-Wan) "Same as usual, got it."

Obi-Wan turned to Sara, who now looked like a proper knight.

(Obi-Wan) "You have our thanks for helping us, Miss?"

(Sara) "Name's Sara."

(Anakin) "Thanks for helping me out there. What are you gonna do? We'd join you but our bodies would just get in the way."

(Sara) "I'm going to uh...Hey, what is the plan?"

"What do you think? You're the only hero in a fantasy land."

(Obi-Wan) "Is she alright?"

(Anakin) "Yeah, she started doing this earlier, no idea what's up with it."

(Sara) "Might as well go after the others, see what happens I guess. Anyways, I'll be back once I restored this town, until then!"

Sara held onto her sheathe and ran out of the town, those still faceless watching her leave.

(Gundham) "Please hurry. Sonia is...unsettling me."

(Plant) "Miss Valestein, you're our only hope...!"

(Anakin) "Think she'll be okay? That talking thing is really concerning me."

(Obi-Wan) "Probably...?"

[Chase Me - Faky]

(Sara) "Right so...do I just go forward?"

"Where did you see him fly off to?"

(Sara) "Was a lot more focused on trying NOT to get murdered by the slimes."

"It was just a slime, you've killed enemy mechs and demonic beasts like it was nothing!"

(Sara) "That's when I had my weapons and ARCUS unit!"

"..Still. Should've had no problem. I probably didn't even have to interfere."

(Sara) "Good goddess, am I going to be stuck with you? Actually WHO even are you?"

"The narrator! In a sense anyway."

(Sara) "What-"

And so begins the tale of Sara Valestein and her quest to defeat the Dark Lord Chris!

What friends will she encounter on the way?

How much of the meta can we break more than we have?

How many more jokes will the writer run into the ground as this series goes on?

FIND OUT NEXT TIME, ON HOUSE MIISEKAI!

(Sara) "...What?!"

STARRING:

And yours truly as the antagonist for this story!

Here's to some more god-awful written meme stories like this one, everyone!

[catawonkus]

Ok so my cousin posted something on Facebook about the police brutality debate that just.... what?? I have to post and talk about this because.... whhhhhhat??

1.

A. “mouthy”, so like - it’s okay to attack mouthy people? man, will my parents be glad to hear that a good way to deal with their mouthy kids is guns. “mobile phone wielding”, you can’t.... you can’t just shoot people with iphones??? like, are they complaining about people filming the police? about... government transparency? what sort of anti-american.... “vulgar, uncivil”, don’t say the word f*ck or the police can shoot you, you heard it here first

B. “there have been multiple assaults and ambushes”, yeah... that’ll put a person on edge. when their demographic has been assaulted and murdered a lot recently, they get nervous. 

C. fckin.... “that escalates the situation”. look, i am in favor of not getting shot, so i don’t fight the police. but that doesn’t mean that’s the way it should be. THE MAN WITH THE GUN PAID BY MY TAXES SHOULD BE BETTER AT DEESCALATION THAN ME, A CIVILIAN

D. “sons and daughters” the police are our family. the public? that mouthy kid? that’s not our family, we don’t need to protect them. we only need to protect the police family, apparently. this just reeks of “well the mouthy kid who got shot isn’t part of my family because he was black and the policeman my (white) cousin”

E. if i see one more “the police protect raped people” argument, ughhhhhhh

2.

F. “Extensive training” what about all those posts proving that American police are wayyyyyy less trained than other countries’?

G. “they have extensive training, but they are human” which makes it okay for them to make mistakes and shoot people????? but like.... what about the civilian???? who doesn't have extensive training??? and is still human???? why can’t THEY make mistakes???

H. “when there are numerous attacks on them, they become hyper vigilant for a reason, they have become targets” oh fuck off. fuck right off, you complete.... see, to me, when i hear “numerous attacks” i think of THE BLACK PEOPLE KILLED BY POLICE IN THE US, not stuff like the crying mcdonalds cop??? and let me be very, very clear. a couple of years ago, in my town, we had some police men killed by domestic terrorism after the Alton Sterling death, and obviously it was sad. But IF police have become targets, it is because the public who pays for them is against them. Black people and other POC are targets because of the color they were born. and like.... im a woman. i grew up aware that if a policeman pulls me over after dark, he might just want to rape me. yeah, it makes me vigilant, but i still don’t attack policemen because they MIGHT be rapists???

I. this is really saying that the police are allowed to be scared because every traffic stop has the potential to become “life threatening”.... and like... just ignoring the fear of the unarmed civilian who are afraid of the exact same thing, with much MORE evidence, and without weapons??

J. “they are the only thing that stands between us and anarchy in the streets”. You know, my dad always taught me that if somebody is trying to scare you into compliance, they are lying to you. If you are telling me that society will fall apart without you, you are actually very afraid that i’m going to get rid of you, and society will go on just fine without you. for example, i’m prolife. i hear this fear in every post claiming that women’s rights will cease to be without planned parenthood. basically, if you are telling me that i MUST act before i think, or else I will be DOOMED, then that is a sign that you are lying, and that if i do in fact stop and think, I will realize that. 

3.

K. “if you want to protect your child, teach them respect” if you want to protect your child, tell police that shooting your child is unacceptable and punishable by law!! You know what advice my momma NEVER gave me? “if you’re being bullied, just be more respectful and demure to the bullies. maybe beg for your life? that always satiates those kind of people”. NO. You protect your child by creating a safe society. YES, you also teach them how to be safe and get home without getting shot, but you don’t just... stop there. YES, my dad used to say “if you get hit by a car, they may have been in the wrong, but you’re still dead, so watch the road carefully” but i guarantee you, if i got killed by a car, he would’ve still sued and pressed charges??? what kind of advice is this??? what sort of victim-blaming BULLSHIT....

L. “not posted for debate” then why post it??? on facebook???? 

In conclusion, how dare you. 

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, CAS! You’ve been accepted for the role of TYBALT. Admin Minnie: I HAVE WAITED A MILLION YEARS FOR EXACTLY YOU, CAS. Please do not think that I am, for one second, exaggerating. You expect every Tiberius application to have a force of will and dynamic quality behind it, but you gave us nuance. You gave us depth. Reading your application left me feeling like I was walking on a tightrope, in the very best way possible, with danger and urgency and FUN. I have no doubt that you will keep all of us on the edge of our seats with our heart in our throats with your Tiberius! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias |  Cas.

Age |  Twenty-two.

Preferred Pronouns |  She/her.

Activity Level |  I’m finishing up my MLit, but I tend to work in the day and then write in the night, so I don’t think it would affect my activity much. Lockdown means that I’m pretty much always around, always have access to a laptop and, therefore, will probably alwaysbe writing. To give it a numerical scale, I’d give it 8/9.

Timezone | GMT.

How did you find the rp? |  Honestly? I’ve been following this roleplay since it opened, more or less. I kinda forgot about it for a while, but I was writing a paper on Shakespeare and that reminded me I should take another look.

IN CHARACTER

Character |  Tybalt, Tiberius Capulet.

What drew you to this character? |  While I was reading the open bios, I was pulled between a few different characters. I actually started writing up an application for Hero, but honestly, when I read Tiberius’ bio? I was totally enthralled. I’m used to playing sharp, wily, morally ambiguous characters, so Tiberius is new ground for me. He’s a gun with a mouth, a bomb always teetering on the edge of explosion, he’s a blade, he’s a weapon, and he builds a shrine to himself. He is unapologetically the villain of his own story, and nobody can take that away from him. He’s the sort of person who makes you utter his name out in full: Tiberius Capulet. He likes the sound of that. It’s harsh and guttural; it sticks to the roof of your mouth and chokes you. You don’t forget a name like that — and anyway, he doesn’t let you. Tiberius is a god made flesh, and he makes sure you know it. But he’s hungry, ravenous, really, and nothing sates that appetite. There’s a quote by Ruth Awad which I think puts what I’m trying to say quite nicely: ‘God who ate everything, did this world feed you?’ What really draws me towards Tiberius is the fact that he seems to vacillate between two extremes: he is at once cavernous and filled with every damask feeling in the world. He feels nothing and he feels everything; he looks at the world with two brutal, voracious eyes and decides he’ll devour it someday, he’ll eat it raw. That much is owed to him. If the god Ares lives among them, he lives in Tiberius: he is an ancient storm bated beneath skin. If he is given a choice between love and fear, he chooses fear, every time, until he burns so bright the world ends.

And yet, that’s only a slice of him. After all, how do you burn without a fire? Tiberius casts himself as the antagonist, but layered beneath that surface are chapters upon chapters of unfinished stories, untold tales, a whole mythology just sitting there, boiling under the skin. He’s brutal, but he’s not without feeling; quite the opposite, he feels things more deeply than most. Sure, he’s not a man of many attachments, but those he has, he holds onto for dear life. He is at once the beast and the man; the villain and the anti-villain. I think what drew me to Tiberius more than anything is the opportunity to unfurl all this rage, all this villainy in him, and to really determine where it comes from. He covets the crown of Verona, but he is first and last a Capulet — that is something that both propels him into greatness and holds him back. He will set this city ablaze and simultaneously shield his cousins from the fires of his own making. They’re a name, they’re a dynasty, and, sure, he wants the crown, but he’ll stop at nothing to preserve that. He loves them, in his own savage, infernal way. Their strategies will never be the same—Juliet is the Heart, Rafaella the Brain, Tiberius the Brute Force—but they forge a formidable trifecta. So, I suppose what makes Tiberius most interesting as a character is this oscillation between morality and amorality: he wants to feel the weight of the world in his hands and have them bruised by it, but what is he willing to sacrifice to achieve that? He is a mere prince, not a king, and while he knows that power is wielded by those who carve it out in stone and not those who are simply born into it, at night he dreams of sitting on a throne, ruling high above them all.

Anyway, sorry, I rambled — but! Essentially, I’m drawn to Tiberius not merely because he’s a wildfire as much as he is flesh and blood, but also because he has this impossible task of navigating and determining his own loyalties. He has one goal, plain and simple: Tiberius wants to rule. He has felt a strange magnetic pull to the throne ever since he was born; it has been calling his name for as long as he can remember. And he doesn’t care for much, but for those who make the cut, he’ll do anything, stop at nothing; he would pulverise this city into dust if it meant the Capulets emerged from the rubble on top. If feeling deeply makes you a monster, well, then, is the man a monster?

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

‘I, too, wanted to set Rome on fire, but never became an emperor due to unforeseen circumstances.’  Anonymous.

He’s a non-playable character, I know, but I’d love to explore Tiberius’ relationship with Cosimo a little more. I can’t help but feel that from the moment the boy know what power was, felt the weight of it in his bones, Tiberius has made himself accessible, always, to the man he hopes to replace. He was raised in the boss’ household, at all times hemmed in with wealth and warfare but always tempered by that culture of respect Cosimo has cultivated, and all he has ever known is bloodshed, scheming and the ruthless folklore of the Montague/Capulet feud. It’s not really a war anymore. More a lifestyle; simply how things are. Every single thing he knows about the world has been callously seized from the pages of history this mighty house has rewritten, and everything he can see, everything the dark touches, has Cosimo at the helm of it all. For two years, it was him, only him, before Juliana came along. That’s something I’d like to explore down the line: the scorn of his parentage which he finds so unfortunate, coalesced with his rearing, those years gleaning from Cosimo’s words lessons of war and honour, and the way in which Juliana’s birth cut through that blissful acrimony. Like a fine blade cutting through cardinal silk. What were those first two years like for him? Tiberius wears irascible warfare like a second skin — Juliana does not. And that is what makes one a worthy General, no? I’d love to delve a little deeper into the upbringing of the two—Cosimo’s subtly different dealings with them both—and how they have each flourished as a consequence of that. After all, it all goes hand-in-hand with his status as a Captain. Juliana the Heiress, Rafaella the Advisor — but him? Tiberius is a Capulet, but he is severed from the same power, prestige and influence afforded to his cousins; he is relegated and forced to run with the wolves, avid and hungry, with no history or name to bolster them. He may not be Cosimo’s son, but he is Capulet by name and by nature — ought he not dwell amongst other Capulets? It’s an insult, plain and true, and I’d love to explore how that affects Tiberius’ relationship with the other Captains. He views himself above them, their superior in all but status; but how do they view him?

‘Hades is relentless and untamed; so mortals hate him most of all the gods.’  Homer, from The Iliad.

Every action is purposeful, every swing of the blade with a goal in mind. He is no haphazard architect of chaos; the chaos is marked, always deliberate. More than anything, I would love to see Tiberius achieve everything he’s ever dreamed of. To become, once and for all, emperor; the General. But for that to happen, he has to cast Juliana and Rafaella aside. Juliana should be easy enough, he thinks, she has too much heart and too much soul to resort to artillery, blood, firepower—complacency is cowardice—but Rafaella is a more arduous obstacle. She smart enough for the crown, Tiberius is certain of it. Rafaella is not a Capulet by blood, but she is a Capulet by nature, and her wit is a force to be reckoned with. She is Tiberius’ real competition, primogeniture be damned, and, one day, he will have to fight her for the crown. The Capulets are a powerful little triad, to be sure: what with the empathy of Juliana, the sharp gumption of Rafaella, and the brute strength of Tiberius, they are unstoppable, impregnable. They yield to no-one, and that is the beauty of it all. But Tiberius is a dangerous sort of beast; he is blinded by rage and, for as long as he can remember, he has seen all things in red. I’d love to see a plot where Tiberius is at last granted everything he’s ever wanted—the heiress is cast aside as well as the polymath—and Verona suffers for it. After all, history has had its say on bloody men: Herod, Caligula, where are they now? They are dead. Their hands are marred with executions, with the blood of innocents. War is easy, isn’t it? But ruling is harder. Tiberius would not be a good ruler. Not now, not without identifying the seat of all that anger in him; not without Juliana and Rafaella at his side. There’s too much rage in him, too much cruelty. He lacks the heart and wit of his cousins. He is a man of war, a harbinger of violence and blood; what man like that knows the first thing about politics? He was born savage and he will die savage, plain and simple. Tiberius’ rule is not one, I don’t think, that Verona would take to easily. It’s this strange cesspool of moral degradation which thrives in duplicity: Verona is much too familiar with that thin, gauzy film it casts over people’s eyes. And when the body politic suffers, people tend to do something about it.

+  Equally, he might come to terms with the idea that Juliana, Rafaella and Tiberius need each other to rule. Not merely does Tiberius need them, but they need him. He’s prepared to get his hands dirty — in fact, he revels in it. As I mentioned, there is something in each of them which is necessary for ruling. Tiberius may groan at the softness of Juliana’s heart and he might resent the wit which permits Rafaella to rule over him, but he needs them both. If the Capulets want to rule, they must learn to do it together. They are a coin with three faces, and together, they engender a divinity for the modern age.

‘I’ve exhausted all my cruelty. I’ve arrived at myself again.’  Jenny George, from The Dream of Reason.

For most people, cruelty is a fickle thing: it comes and goes when necessity demands of it. Tiberius is not like most people. Through his eyes, the world crumbles to dust, and he stands, menacing and cruel, high above the wreckage. He has always expected that of himself and, as a result, so have those around him. He’s no Machiavelli, but the harshness of his heart strikes fear into his soldiers, his enemies, his underlings. But what happens when that brutality is exhausted? What happens when you take and take and take from that pot of callousness, of inhumanity, and the next time you reach your hand down into it, it comes up empty? A body can only contain so much: it is only a vessel. I would love to see Tiberius come to the end of his thread, to exhaust all the cruelty in him, and for the first time be forced to confront who he really is beneath all that anger. Identify where it all comes from. There’s a line in Tiberius’ bio I love: ‘He would never be satisfied—not until he drew his last breath, and probably not even then.’ He is relentless, utterly relentless, but every man has a breaking point. Nothing is enough for him, nothing sates him, and that is enough to break him. Tiberius is always being pulled between family pride and power; the Capulet name and the Capulet crown. He has always been decisive but, here, he falters. It bends him out of shape. I want to see him question absolutely everything he has ever known: his ambition, his hubris, his selfhood. Who is he, beyond the anger? Beyond the rage? There’s a quote from Antony and Cleopatra just before Antony’s death which I love: ‘Here I am Antony, / Yet I cannot hold this visible shape.’ I want to see that happen to Tiberius. I want to see him question absolutely everything he knows himself, everything he thinks he wants, and completely re-evaluate it. Maybe it makes him vulnerable — or maybe it makes him weak.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? |  Oh, for sure.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Para Sample: (Full disclaimer, this had a whole story but I ran out of time, so I had to end it randomly! Whoops.)

The man is a gun with a mouth. He is silent until the trigger is pulled, and then he revels in the onslaught.

He smooths his fingers over the dark wood of the pew, splicing them between the ridges as if they were born to them. But that’s blasphemy, no? He’s an unholy, godless thing, and as leather touches to stone, Tiberius swears that his feet are warmed by the flames beneath them. He has always found there to be something quite provoking about the Cathedral of Verona: the ostensible aspect of it, anyway, the guise it projects beyond itself. He watches the way that the crucified martyr glowers down at him from the cross, made definite by golds and rubies and gaudy display. As if he owes him something. Tiberius exhales, inaudible, and leans backwards. A tiger ensconced in wait. He rolls up his sleeve as if he’s wearing a watch. There’s no watch. But he knows Cassian is late.

He catches the words of the believers, pilgrims circling the effigy at the alter, caught up in an aerial whisper: I’ve never found a language to talk about the things that haunt me most, one of them purrs at the idol. He scoffs at that.

The Cathedral is just a history written over another history, Cosimo tells him once. History is always being written—written and unwritten—so, really, history is not history but hearsay, rumour, accepted gospel. Veronans have a short memory, don’t they? They simply accept the image before them without question, without hesitation: they look, but they do not see. They’ve always been like that, he thinks. Why? Why pant after history, he thinks, when we’re rewriting it every day, running rogues through with their own fucking swords and putting words to paper with their blood? But it is no use to justify yourself; no use in explaining. It is weak to be anecdotal. He remembers his Sunday mornings here, dressed up in the right garb, Juliana tugging at his sleeves. Devouts scurry each and every day to grovel at the feet of their God, as if the idol walks among them. He’s a believer, sure, but a profane one. What good Christian boy marches reverently from Sunday morning service straight into the footways of destruction and annihilation, slinging his cleaver over his shoulder? Him, apparently.

Gods walk among them, alright. New, shiny, pestilent gods, with bullets for mouths and their hearts in bronze fetters. God exists, but there are a thousand more to join him, and they’re all made in his image. They’re new stories, new divinities forged out of his own flesh and blood. History is so distracted by the endurances of the past, the days of beggary and hunger. But the Capulets build. Their power coasts along the half-light, savage moments seen in fragments. Tiberius works in the dark, in half-seen expressions and deeds. Light swathes itself around him only when it is too late to escape him. And then he cuts you down. The unknown is a frightening thing, people have decided, and so he opens up that gap and pours fear into it; always fear. Fear and blood, red as their crest.

Some of the rumours about him are true, some of them lies. Still, they are good stories to tell.

Tiberius is growing impatient. His soldiers know not to keep him waiting: when a forest fire burns it smoulders on, indiscriminate. He feels the air shift behind him, chilled, and he knows that Cassian has—at long fucking last—decided to grace him with his presence. He curls his neck over his shoulder, still perched on the pew as if in prayer, and watches Cassian approach him, the sloe of his eyes still and immovable. He doesn’t wait. He rises from the pew and makes towards the sacristy, the movement itself a beckoning to follow. He passes a group of worshippers and nods glassily at them — not worshippers, really, but eyes. Capulet eyes, which are always open.

Tiberius crosses the hall with his shadow lingering a few feet behind him, and when they climb the staircase he runs his fingers across the bannister’s veins of gold. He reaches the second floor and he shoulders himself through a door, slinging himself onto the leather of a sofa. He reposes himself low, all languorous, and a pulls a cigarette from his pockets, lighting it in the cup of his fingers. He does it effortlessly, with ease, like he’s done it a thousand times before — which, of course, he has. He pulls the cigarette to his mouth, inhales, exhales in smoke, resting his elbow on the arm of the sofa. ‘Well?’ he says, impatient.

Cassian is a man of words. Too fucking many words, Tiberius thinks. He prefers action. Still, he gets the job done, he supposes; there’s nothing squeamish about the man and he’s unscrupulous, damn it, and while he wouldn’t trust the man to catch him if he falls, he serves a purpose. He’s a steady little war-dog, always ready to do his bidding.

    ‘No show, apparently,’ he says, his eyes wandering. Buyers of the product who can’t pay up. Won’t, Tiberius had corrected him in their last discussion of the whole affair — won’t pay up. And there’s a price for that, isn’t there? Nobody makes a beggar out of the Capulets; nobody makes a beggar out of him, and lives to tell the tale. Fear’s a funny little thing, isn’t it? It lines one’s pockets with gold, somehow. Gives them the means to pay up, at last. Well, Tiberius is nothing if not efficient. ‘I’ll take care of it, boss.’

Tiberius says nothing. Merely inhales another puff of the cigarette, in, out, brings his elbow back down to the arm of leather and glowers. Same as fucking usual, he thinks. If it weren’t for the money, he’d simply fire his pistol, lodge the bullet squarely between the wastrel’s eyes. How’s that for efficiency? He watches the cogs turn behind Cassian’s eyes, marked, purposeful, full of intent — a thousand courses of actions slowly forging a path to escape him. But will Tiberius bite? Tonight, he decides, he’ll play nice. He flicks the cigarette carelessly into the ash tray and rises from the leather, his face still hard — but not heartless.

   ‘Bene,’ he decides upon, his expression still inflexible but apparently in the mood of charity tonight. Fine. ‘Get me a whiskey, then, won’t you? I’m parched.’

Extras: Just a Pinterest board I made for inspiration, which you can find here.I’ll direct you straight to this pin here because, well, is this Juliana talking about Tiberius? Yes. Yes it is.

[sootcloak]

Crow’s Shadow: Carrion Circle

Second part of a short serial installment I’m working on as a general exercise on plotting, editing and the like. You can find the other parts linked here - {Part One: Repair Required} - I’ll add the last link once Part Three is up. Same spoiler warnings as Part One apply. Same general content warnings apply.

~2400 words, featuring Hilda the Mongrel and Rostnthal the Reborn. Centered around a tense cross country trip, and the looming specter of a dangerous foe. Twelve help me I’d hoped I could fit more of the plot into this one the last part is gonna be so long, such a pain to edit.

A cold, mountain spring cuts through the highlands. The water runs babbling over old, long-smooth stones. Along its bank, a cart is still. A pair of chocobos sleep, curled in on one another. Bright yellow feathers pool starkly against the grey and white of the highland’s snow-covered earth.

The campfire, dim and growing colder by the minute, pops and sizzles in the moonlit dark. Every few moments, the earth rumbles with a heavy snore from deep in Rostnthal’s chest. The old Sea Wolf is leaned up against the back of one of the birds, a canvas sheet thrown over both he and the chocobo. Hilda lies beneath the cart itself, nestled up in a tight ball of quilts and jackets.

In the back of the cart, Vavara rifles through the packed supplies. She loads specially marked shells into her revolver. It’s reflective white metal glints in the moonlight. It has a mirror shine in the dead of night, it’s engravings doing little to break up the perfect polish she’s maintained. It is a slow process, painstaking with just one hand. The cartridges hum and vibrate in their chambers, the ether concentrate within nervously singing to her heightened hearing.

Six shots in each cylinder.

If he’s there, it’ll take at least fifteen of these to break his barrier. Even with aether-charged rounds, the inadequacy of her armaments hangs over her. Missing an arm means choosing between her spear and a firearm. Damaged as she is, she might not even have enough aether at her disposal to ignite the spearblade.The core nested between her lungs is pressed cold and stark against her heart, like a long-dull knife. Her soul, nestled within it’s crystal depths, aches from long-faded scars. Her whole body would be a treasure trove for him, secrets to decipher, power to steal. Weapons to wield.

Even then, measured against his life - her secrets, her safety, all things are cast into the pot.

--

She loads a spare cylinder with slow, committed strokes. It’ll take a long time to reload the weapon, even with this preparation.. She didn’t pick this hand, but she’ll play it till the cards are on the table. Folding was never an option, anyways.

Light falls on the small camp, the morning sun casting light into the narrow crevice beneath the cart. Hilda wakes up with a yawn. Her arms stretch across the dirt, eyes squeezed shut. She growls softly deep in her chest, and sits up. Her forehead slams into the wood with an audible crunch.

“Seven hells-” She snarls.

“Gyahah!” Rostnthal’s laughter echoes over the small glade, watching with a gleaming eye as she clutches her forehead.

“‘Ey, Ashenheart! I won! Ye’ owe me a drink when we get back!” His grin is audible, a chuckle reverberating in his voice.

“I never agreed to playing your game.” Vavara says. “Besides, I owe you more than a drink if we all return safely.”

“Heh. Humorless. What with ye’ hangin with the Scions lately, thought you may’ve lightened up some. Guess even they can’t get ye’ out’a that shell.” His voice is no less mirthful, seemingly unfazed by her chilled tone.

“A’ight, come get yer food. Breakfast’s done.” He slaps the side of the kettle, ringing loud and full. Still groaning and clutching a bloodied face, Hilda drops into a cross-legged sit besides Rostnthal.

They goad and poke at one another, the words fading into white noise as Vara sits atop the cart.Her eyes’ light dims, old, ash-soaked memories rising from the shadows of memory. A wave of nauseating nostalgia hits her in the gut.

“You not eating?” Hilda prods Vara with an empty bowl. The old, smoke-scented memories submerge into the dark again. 

“Not right now. I had hardtack before you two were up.” She pushes herself up to her feet, her arm stretching, slight shoulders squaring for a moment under the winter overcoat.

“I’ll get the birds ready while you two eat. We need to move soon.” Her footsteps crunch in the snow as she walks away. A hanging tension in the air slowly seeps into the air as she walks away.

“Y’know,” Rostnthal calls out, voice low and rumbling. “Ye’ still haven’t told us where we’re goin’. Or anything else of substance, really.”

“Yes,” She says as she hoists the barding onto one of the birds. She glances over her shoulder, eyes dimly glowing with an unnatural, cold light in the shadow of the brim of her cap. “I am aware.” The words are biting, dismissive.

“D’ye intend for us to go into whatever trouble is brewing blind?” His tone is calm and grim, his one, good eye locked on hers.

“I do.” She returns his gaze, ironclad.

“An’ if that means things get bloodier than they ‘ad to?”

“It won’t. I can’t protect you on the battlefield. Not in my condition.” She turns away, leading the chocobos to the cart’s front. She clips their barding in, the ‘coos’ and ‘kwehs’ of the birds giving her occasional pause to double check her work.

“So you won’t be there.” She says without turning. “I’ll be leaving you and the birds out of danger. When my student finds you, you’ll take him to Dragonhead.” 

“Wait, what?” Hilda pauses halfway between bites, eyes narrowing. “I came out here to help, not to be a damned taxi. You’re not traipsing off on your own, ‘specially not after all your talk about this fucker who’s hunting you.”

“You want to help?” Vara’s grip on the wood tightens, words turning venomous. “Then I’ve told you how. You want to die? Then go on, follow me after we part ways.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” Hilda’s tone sours, “What’s your deal? We went over this on our first day out, and now half a week in you’re changing your tune? We know it’s dangerous, we get it.”

She sets her half-finished meal aside, standing up. Her hands come to rest on her hips, Rostnthal’s eye moving to rest on her.

“We signed on for this. We knew it’d get bloody, we knew it’d be a close thing. Y’think we’ve not learned to read you? That we were blind to what we were getting into?” She says, defiantly staring down at Vavara.

“So you’re going to ride in and save the day? Vanquish the bad man with your shiny gun and sporty marksmanship? You think you have what it takes to stand against  a man who’s decided he’d rather be a demon?” Vavara takes a deep, steadying breath. There’s something about the question which makes Rostnthal’s hairs stiffen. The skin on the back of his arms and back prickles. He’s still watching Hilda, a blooming anxiousness slowly taking up more space in his chest. He pushes the feeling down.

“Wouldn’t have stepped up if I didn’t think I could help” Hilda says, “An’ I may not be some vaunted champion of the realm like those you’ve been keepin’ the company of, but I-”

“You sound like a child. Too busy playing hero to see the danger you’re in.” Vavara’s chiding words cut through her momentum.

“What do you believe you are wagering? Your life? That in failure, you would die?” Her laugh is a single, wrenching cough. “This isn’t a battle of life and death. I’d sooner shoot myself in the head than allow any of those ‘vaunted champions’ to face him. Even the Warrior of Light, no especially the Warrior of Light.

“He does not kill. He captures. And those he captures become another one of the Empire’s experimental weapons. You would not die, you would become a monster to be sicked on your allies, your friends, and your loved ones.

“So I will face him alone. And you two will ensure an innocent boy does not become a monster because my past came to call. And if after hearing that, you still want to be the hero? Fine. You can be like all the others before you and die like one, too.” Her voice nearly chokes at the end. Shoulders tense, she pushes out a hoarse, whistling breath.

“I’ll do what I do best. Survive. And whatever I have to do to make sure he gets through this too? I’ll pay that price. Worry about yourself.”

“Vavara.” Rostnthal says, leaning in. “What’s so important about this kid that yer so concerned about ‘im getting captured.”

“Nothing. He’s just-” She begins, only for him to hold up one hand to silence her.

“Ye’ never go this far ‘just because’. I’ve seen ye’ in the ‘eat of battle. Cuttin losses ‘as never been somethin’ yer averse to. Even with lives. So if this kid is a hazard to himself more than anyone else, I reckon ye’d try and save him, sure. But to be willin’ to train and tutor a complete greenhorn, let alone throw yerself into the fire for ‘im?? Doesn’t add up.”

He waits. His eye locked on her back, her greying, braided hair shifting with a breeze. Hilda glances between the two, silence bubbling and steaming with tension.

“He is Blessed.” She speaks with a hushed admission, her voice accompanied by an undercurrent of choked, hissing metal.

“And from my observations, he has an aptitude for its power rarely seen. But he is young, foolhardy. I took him in because he otherwise would have found the Scions. And I refuse to see them make another martyr.” She glances back to the other two, over her good shoulder.

“His power will invite controversy and challenge, especially if he cannot wield it. And should Llain capture him, the prospect of an anti-eikon weapon imbued with the power of the Echo is a looming threat I cannot risk. If he can wield the Echo, if he learns how to use it to reinforce his sense of self and being, then he would retain his sanity through any kind of augmentation. Any kind of torment.” Her hand reaches up and rests flat against her chest, claw-tipped fingers scraping against the cloth and leather of her coat. 

“His soul could reside in even steel and crystal, and be unharmed by the process. But if he is captured before he learns to understand and wield the Echo, he could well become a weapon of terrifying power. An incarnation of death made manifest in steel and ceruleum.”

“I refuse to be the mother of death.” She says, softly, almost-inaudibly.

Rostnthal opens his mouth to speak, but the glare he receives from her in return stifles him for a moment.

“None of that changes what you must do. I trust you enough to determine your own path, if you will not heed my warnings. I will tell you what you need to know, even if it is not all you want to know.”

“No, it does change what we need to do. Whether you think so or not.” Hilda says, her confidence returning.

“That kid. What’s his name?” She asks, eyes fixed on Vavara’s.

“Tahve’ir.”

“Well, he’s going to need a teacher still, by your tone. So getting him out isn’t enough. I’ve got to make sure you both get out.”

“And if you can’t?” Vavara says as the two share a long, grim stare.

“Then I get him out, and come back for you. You said he doesn’t kill, and I doubt he can make it back to Garlemald in a single night. So, we get Tahve’ir out, and if you get caught in the meantime, I’ll run back and get you out in the night.”

“Nah.” Rostnthal’s voice rumbles softly, quietly. “Ye’ ain’t got experience with that kinda work. I’ve ran with the yellow jackets and the like, bustin’ slave rings and smashin’ smugglin’ ops. If she gets caught and we have to pull out, I’ll go. An’ you’ll take the kid.” He looks towards Hilda, a confident spark in his eye.

“Alright. Best not mess it up, y’old drunkard.” Hilda says, she cocks a nervous grin and playfully jabs his arm. He just chuckles grimly.

“So you won’t heed my warnings.” Vavara’s voice is distant, a kind of shrill, haunting whistle riding under the injured voice. “It always happens like this.”

“Chin up.” He says, crossing the distance between himself and her in a few steps. He drops to one knee, and rests one hand on her shoulder. He grips her softly, confidently.

“I’m not ignorin’ what ye’ said. We can’t win in a direct fight? Then we’ll just have to run ‘im ‘round the bush. Keep ‘im guessin’. Keep ‘im dazed. We’ll work on strategies on the way there.” He takes a deep breath, and then stands. He climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Have faith.” He says, patting the birds with a solid, steady palm. “‘Ave faith, an’ all will be well. Besides. Yer not meant t’look so glum. Doesn’t suit yer’ image. Times like these, a snarl’s better.”

She just takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and nods.

She jumps up into the back of the cart as Hilda finishes dumping the last bits of the kettle, and scooping her bowl back up into one hand. The dinnerware sack lands in the back with a cataclysmic, chaotic crash.

As soon as her boots are fixed upon the wood, Rostnthal whips the reins and the birds kick up dust as they run.

--

The sun sinks back low in the sky again. Pale-red light streaks across the untamed mountains between Ishgard and Ala Mhigo.

A small shack with a sprawling, chaotic garden sits on a low, narrow plateau. Heavy, metal boots scratch into the wet, snow-melt fed earth. A man with sandy skin, a straight back and strong shoulders stands at the edge of the homestead. His hair is neatly, painstakingly pulled into a long, salt and pepper braid. It rests on his armored pauldrons, and hangs down to his waist. His eyes, a gilded, ember orange, take in the small, humble abode.

In one hand, he holds a thick, angular blade. It’s gunmetal edge reflects no light, despite the bright morning. Coarse and rough, like a painted, sharp thorn of ink clutched tight.

In the other, he holds a stark, shining revolver. It’s pearly white metal casts myriad colors onto the ground around him, and up onto his own blackened platemail. 

In the light of dusk, his aura shines bright and ethereal around him. Dancing, half-there reflections in intangible glass.

He takes a deep breath, and cracks a cheery grin His shadow stretches over the gardens in the evening light. He can smell the faintest hint of ceruleum in the air.

“Finally. Progress.” His smile is all teeth and ambition.

[voiceofreason11]

I want to talk about something that I've been hearing more often. It's everywhere, news, social media, etc. I hope people from both sides reads this, because there is people on both sides calling for this.

Civil War... it doesn't fit in my head that people actually want something like that happening here. Let's say you are a guy that supports Trump, and you really believe in what he stands for -I am not picking on you, again there is people on the other side just as passionate- And you have your assault weapons and your guns, and you are mad at the libs, and you are willing to take someone's life for what you believe, ok. If a civil war broke out, and if you have family, children, wife, parents. What happens to them? Are you gonna put a weapon on your children's hands and send them out to fight? Would you turn them into children soldiers like terrorists do? Is that were we are now?

And if you answered no; do you have a bunker? Because this is one of the things people really don't think about. This war will not be fought in Iraq or Syria or some other country in the middle east. It will happen here. On the streets of Chicago, on the streets of New York, Atlanta, Biloxi, Seattle, Boston, get the point? Think about it, you will have American Soldiers, Marines, wielding the most sophisticated weaponry in the world, fighting against each other on the streets of your neighborhood.

Because that is another thing, do you think that all the military is gonna follow him? No, that's not the way it works. Some will, maybe even the majority but a lot of them won't. And the same will happen with the police, and with every other law enforcement.

Now add to that, all those anti government groups that have been waiting, just waiting for their chance. Some will line up with the government and some won't. Some will fight each other, adding more chaos to the chaos. On top of that, who do you think is gonna come here to fight? Do you think our allies are gonna come help? After all the damage he has done? After insulting NATO? Do you think England would be willing to send troops to help stop or at least monitor the situation? Germany? France? No, they won't get involved. They are gonna say, "you wanted to be alone, ok then"

The only ones that are gonna come here are the ones that have been waiting for this to happen. Russia, Iran, all the ones that hate the US. Are you good with that? Having Russian troops committing war crimes against Americans on American soil?

Going back to the families, if you don't have a bunker and you are off fighting for whichever side you are on. What do they do when the artillery fire starts raining down on your town? They would have to leave, and from that point forward they will be refugees for the rest of their lives. Think about that, refugees, let that word sink in. Your kids, the ones looking at their phones right now, or playing video games, or listening to that music you hate. Refugees, you know, like all those people that are trying to come here to better their lives and that all those maga folks are so mad about.

Wouldn't that be ironic, Americans climbing over the wall to get to Mexico for safety. I am sure plenty of those that have chanted "build the wall!" would be the first ones trying to cross that border to save themselves.

And then there is the fantasy that once the war is over, everything will be fine. What, do you think is a weekend thing? You star a war Friday and by Monday everyone back to work? You don't know how long it would last, no one knows. Sri Lanka's civil war lasted 26 years for Pete's sake.

And what about the economy? What about the mighty dollar? Do you honestly believe that the US would come out of a civil war with its economy intact? That it would remain the number economy in the world? In the best case scenario it would take decades for the economy to recover, in the worst, the dollar would become irrelevant, forever.

I am not judging anyone, you have the right to believe what you want to believe, but don't let what you believe blind you to the brutal truth of what you are calling for. Are you ok with Americans as refugees? Are you ok with American cities and towns leveled by artillery fire? Are you ok with war crimes in American soil? Are you willing to see everything we take for granted every day, burnt to ashes because you think this man is right?

[breakingarrows]

Wolfenstein II: The New Colossus (2018)

[This was originally published on VerticalSliceMedia.com in 2018 and is republished from the latest draft I have]

Wolfenstein II: The New Colossus is a game at odds with itself but also very willing to face uncomfortable truths. Tool tips and mechanics can be rendered useless on difficulty levels beyond, and in some cases even on, the normal difficulty. BJ is presented as an unstoppable Nazi killing machine, but can be cut down in seconds when not in cover. A strong narrative and a presentation of a United States in control by the Nazi regime has enough to say about white complicity under fascism to be worthwhile, and is wonderfully timed.

Beginning Wolfenstein II you are confronted with a difficulty slider that ranges from descriptors of “Can I Play Daddy?” to “I am death incarnate!” This naming is present due to the legacy of Wolfenstein 3D. However, Wolfenstein II is a game that wants you to feel empowered, especially in the latter portion of the campaign, and has tooltips clueing you in on dual wielding and melee executions. Unfortunately, these sorts of mechanics are counterintuitive on the higher difficulties, and even on the default “Bring ‘em on!” health and armor deplete quickly. The lack of a hit indicator when taking damage doesn’t help. The New Colossus wants you to hack up Nazis, yet leaves you open to taking fire when doing so. It wants you to dual wield shotguns as you sprint through soldiers, but will leave you dead within seconds when you depart the safety of cover.

Comparatively, DOOM (2016), the natural companion to Wolfenstein, does not have this problem. DOOM on the easiest and on the hardest difficulty plays the same. Wolfenstein II on the easiest level is the best way to play the game, but it’s condescending at the outset. Wolfenstein II on the hardest will lead you to much slower confrontations and relies heavily on weak stealth. With no mini-map and no ability to see enemy vision measurements, stealth sections frequently devolve into an enemy commander sounding an alarm that will rotate in more enemies to reset your progress. A courtroom scenario midway through the game strips you of your weapons and starts you in the middle of a large arena surrounded by enemies. You begin with a submachine gun and have to slowly reaccumulate your small armory. Trophy data suggests otherwise, but I believe this section to be impossible on the highest difficulty. Surrounded by enemies with breakable cover your only protection, you will die often from cheap angles or just overwhelmed by numbers. This sort of scenario is not a challenge, its punishment.

Even on the easiest level, the gunplay is still the weakest aspect of The New Colossus. The weapons themselves are adequate, with the optional upgrades and satisfying audio feedback. Melee executions are a joy to watch, but it's a shame that there are no perks to give you bonus health or armor for each takedown. A jump and smash mechanic is used once in the introduction and very rarely appears as an option later on. A nuked New York City as at first arresting in its large scale tragedy, but eventually devolves into a muddled mass of grey husks with progression obscured by the confusing layout. New Orleans rotates between interior and exterior spaces, but besides a confrontation and ride-along with a Panzerhound, has nothing unique to offer. Not one level sticks out as memorable, and even Venus lacks a unique scenario or great setting for the shootouts. Instead, when outside the Venus base you need to fuel up on coolant consistently, which just layers on another meter besides health and armor that you must babysit.

The New Colossus’ narrative is its saving factor, as scenarios presented both in and out of cutscenes are wonderful to watch unfold, and character interactions can be very entertaining.

The relationship between children and their parents is a major theme of The New Colossus, evidenced by the introductions focus on BJ’s abusive father, Rip. Throughout the game, characters have to come to terms with either their own upbringing or the newfound responsibility of introducing life into this bleak world. BJ has his abusive father and impending parenthood to twins with Anya, Grace and Super Spesh already have a child, Max Hauss is cared for by the entirety of the Kreisau Circle, and Sigrun is belittled by her mother. BJ and Sigrun are the most interesting of these, as they must decide whether or not they will become mirror images of their respective parent.

BJ is informed early on that Anya is having twins, and he frequently contemplates his death in tandem with regret at not being able to be a father for his children. BJ’s own father did not leave behind a great example to follow. A racist, sexist, anti-semitic, economically anxious white man who is almost a cartoon epitome of everything that was and is wrong with part of the American population. As a child, BJ is berated for not being enough of a man to take care of himself, but Rip blames others for his own deficiencies. Instead of reflecting inward at his own failings, he explodes outwards at whatever is available. This conflict results in abuse towards his wife and pushes him to kill the family dog in a fit of rage. Rip is a good example of how not to be a parent.

Rip doesn’t just represent the worst offerings of what a father can be, but also the worst aspect of the american population. Willing to sell out his family for meager rewards such as property ownership, it was men like him that paved the way for Nazi occupation to sweep through the United States as quickly as it did. People like him gave in to their debase hatred of the Other and went above and beyond betraying their fellow citizens in order to have an easy life. We already allow people of color to be unjustifiably killed at the hands of police, would it be so hard to believe we would go further under threat of violence to willingly give them into the hands of death?

A positive influence on BJ was a young black girl named Billie, who exposes BJ to the discrimination experienced by those whom his father hates. She upends the expectations he has inherited from his father, teaches compassion, and they even share a child crush. She teaches him empathy, something his father never bothered to even attempt. BJ is forced to relive and reflect on these memories when he revisits the family farm. Upon confronting his aged father, BJ kills him upon learning that his mother was sold out by her own husband. By doing so he rejects the teachings of his father about white supremacy and all that it entails.

Mentioned throughout the main narrative and spread throughout collectibles in each level are details that tell the tale of how America fell to the Nazis, and how it was mostly with a resigned sigh. An ex-military student murders scientists working on the “Manhattan Project” resulting in Nazi Germany obtaining the nuclear bomb first and using it on New York City. This attack is framed as a necessity to end a brutal war, much like the United State’s position on the bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima which resulted in extraordinary civilian death. History is written by the victor, and since we were not the subject of an atomic bombing in this timeline we are free to justify it. After this forced surrender, America reverted back into what it was a hundred years earlier: devoid of rights for any who weren’t straight or white.

A most damning example of this new America is shown during a brief segment taking place in Roswell, Arizona The townsfolk celebrate “Victory Day” as Nazis parade through the streets. A soldier critiques/mocks Klu Klux Klansmen on their failed attempts at German, a different soldier rebukes a white woman who tries to earn favor by talking shit about Austrians (not knowing Hitler himself was Austrian), and a citizen reminds her family of an upcoming slave auction. Propaganda newspapers talk about replacing the fake news of yesterday and the efficiency of the new regime compared to the “clique of corrupt elites who were never interested in [your] welfare.” Two Nazi soldiers discuss attacks against their rule and how violence is not okay before pondering if they’ll be assigned to the same death squad in New Orleans. A newspaper clipping I am convinced was placed late in development explains our current political situation:

“...then the odds are on the man who is, intrinsically, the most devious and mediocre - the man who can most adeptly disperse the bottom that his mind is a virtual vacuum… On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their hearts desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.”

America in Wolfenstein II is complicit to the racism of the Nazis due to their beliefs being intertwined with our history. Not content to exist only behind us, this inherent discrimination continues to be active given the rise of the so-called “far-right” and blatant racism in figures like our current president. The white man, a majority of the population, has nothing to fear from a Nazi overhead when compared to the black, the queer, the Other, who already had restricted rights underneath a “free” America.

As for those born underneath Nazi rule, we are given Sigrun Engel, daughter of Irene Engel our central antagonist. Having turned on her mother due to Irene’s consistent verbal abuse towards Sigrun’s weight and diary entries, the Kreisau Circle welcomes her but doesn’t accept her. Members frequently call her a Nazi despite her protests. This boils over during BJ’s birthday party in which she confronts Grace over her Nazi labelling and overcomes her emotional connection to Bombate. She represents the hope that even those born under Nazi rule can break free and work against it. We even avoid predictable plot beats as Sigrun is not secretly feeding her mother information or betrays the Circle near the end.

Ultimately, you take revenge on Engel after she has killed Caroline during the introduction, steals a family ring meant for Anya, and mocks you after murdering Super Spesh. After taking over her Ausmerzer fortress in a frustrating shootout, the Circle confronts Engel at a talk show where you hack off her arm before delivering the fatal blow to her head. No matter the timeline, members of the Circle deliver what is meant to be a rousing speech to those watching the television broadcast, but any emotion is swiftly eliminated by the end credits song: a horrible cover of We’re Not Going to Take It.

[motherofrainbows-blog]

Princess: The Dirty Word

Why is being called a princess an insult? What gives the word the sting? The backlash that sends people running to their keyboards and pounding out riots?

The answer is simple, it is associated with weakness. Girls are the weaker sex, the gentle people who sit at home and nurture the children. While the men go out and wage war with their guns and their swords. Hunt with their bows and arrows, return a hero bearing meat on their backs.

It also puts in mind the image of the classic damsel in distress. The stupid girl sitting on her castle window in a tower somewhere, praying for a prince to come along and save her. Making friends with animals to pass the time and falling in love the second anyone bothers to say a grand hello.

In essence, the word princess is meant to invoke a feeling people have felt for centuries. Powerlessness, weakness, being thrown down under the bus and screaming as you watch the tires rip up your face. It makes us feel powerless and broken down, as if the only useful thing we could do is sit there and do as others tell us. That is what princesses do, after all, isn’t it?

No.

Princess has become a victim. Not of her own doing, but by the people all around her. Men, women, people who have come along and poured crap all across her good title. She has been put in a prison where there are only two categories she could fall into. Classic age, or modern day. Someone who sits in the window waiting for prince charming, or someone who slashes his throat and proclaims she doesn’t need anyone but herself. Many people would be inclined to believe that the latter is the better of the two. But I propose we analyze both stereotypes of the princess, and think on what each means.

The classic princess for certain is the very reason the term has been allowed to become derogatory. For far too long, men made princesses weak. In European countries princesses were treated, more or less, as baby machines with a giant sack of money attached to her. Dowries used to sell girls away into a life of servitude and, often, abuse from her lord and husband as well as a double standard of infidelity. Of course there will always be exceptions to this. Queen Elizabeth, for example, lived a long and proud reign as the Virgin Queen. An independant woman in her own right, someone who didn’t look to a King for every decision she made. Mary Queen of Scots was renowned for her affair with James Hepburn, otherwise known as the Earl of Bothwell, granted their circumstances were far from ordinary in the cases of royals. But in stark contrast, there are thousands upon thousands of records of kings and princes having ‘favourites’, ‘mistresses’, and ‘concubines’ and all sorts of sexual contact outside marriage...Yet no backlash.

In comparison, the modern day princess is someone who does not, bluntly, take shit from a man. She can wield weapons just as good as anyone else. Stand up to her enemies for herself without a touch of fear. Look that attractive prince right in the eye and tell him she doesn’t need his romance. She is a proud and independent force whose only support she needs is herself. Examples in modern day culture, let us focus on the infamous case of...Disney princesses. Moana has made records in recent media for being what many people consider to be the first truly independent disney princess. She fights, she stands up for what she believes in, is of equal power to her fellow protagonist, Maul. Whatever comes at her she bounces back and doesn’t let anything keep her down. And in so many ways, she is grand and inspiring for little girls all across America. But she also represents something else, a modern day classic that I believe is highly troubling. Part of the reason people love Moana so much is a very simple fact...she has no romantic interest.

Here, my readers, is where I see the issue.

Why, in order to be considered revolutionary and feminist approved, is there a requirement to be single?

Of course women need to be able to care for themselves, there is no question in that. Every person, whatever their gender is, has a right and a need to be able to exist without a romantic partner. You need to be able to understand and care for yourself before you should ever consider sharing your life with another. And when it comes time to meet that person, they need to be just right for you. Whatever that means to you and not anyone else. This does not mean you should disregard the advice of others, but they are not the ones who have to exist within the relationship. If there is not a threat within it, you feel safe, happy, and secure every day with that person, whomever they may be, I would think it is safe to assume you have found your match.

That being said, there is always going to be someone who prefers the company of themselves. That is okay, I am in no way trying to attack the people who are single and proud. Currently, I myself am one of these people. But someday, personally, I would like to share my life with someone. This is not the case for all people. But for those who do, I know I want to live in a world where this is accepted. Where I do not have to sit and listen to other women, and sometimes men, tell me that because I am in a relationship, I am not feminist. I want to live in a world where a princess can have a romantic interest, and still be considered a powerhouse who can fight for herself. Because true love has no limitations, it does not hinder your ability to defend or live for yourself. True love only add to that gratification you get from yourself, and it will come in the form of another person. That does not mean you depend on them, it means you love them. You can stand life without them, but you prefer your life to exist with them as long as you are both healthy and happy.

This is why I question this common belief, that you can only be an independent woman if you are alone. That is not true, nor will it ever be. You can always be your own person, it is a matter of choice. Choice of who you love and who you associate with, or who you chose to be in your daily life on your own. And your partner can be the very same way, woman, man, agender, whichever they are. You can always be able to care for yourself, and still have a healthy relationship.

So why are princesses with love interests degraded? Because, unfortunately, often times in media we are confusing real romance with theatrical romance. The ‘love’ you see on movie screens is not often what real love looks like. Though of course, as with everything, there are always exceptions to this rule. And people love to put up the classic image of a woman giving up everything for her love. Or her love giving up everything for her. But is that love? Or is that a good plot devicey way to make people burst into tears in the theatre. Think about it. “Oh he loves her so much, he gave up his entire career for her!” “He would give up his life for her!” “She would die for him!” So on, so forth.

Looking at another example from Disney, Belle gave up her entire life for her father and lived as a prisoner with the Beast. Of course, in the end he ends up changing and becoming her Prince Charming(Prince Adam). Their love affair has always been a sore spot for many people, for several different reasons. Abuse, beastality, anti-feminist. And as it stands, some of these claims are very true. As much as I love, and always will, the Beauty and the Beast films, there is no denying that the instant Belle fell in love with the Beast she was quick to give up her idea of “More than this provincial life”. Even though I would like to think that in the end, after their ballroom scene, they go and galavant the world just like Belle wanted, introducing the Beast to everything he had missed during his trapped state...Reality is that they likely stayed in the castle, had children, and lived the typical monarchy life.

Now, it is time I addressed something many people have thought, does being a housewife, or living the stereotyped role of a woman make me Anti-Feminist?

No. The entire point of Feminism is that women are equal to men. If, in your relationship, your say and right is just the same as your partner’s, then you are not Anti-Feminist. You are just living a life that is not considered to be the classic Feminist role nowadays.

Again, the typical Feminist ideal forces women who are comfortable living a different way to think they are hindering the cause of their fellow women. Isn’t that the exact opposite of what feminism intends? Isn’t the driving force of the movement to be accepted for who you are, whoever that is, and being given the rights and privileges just like anyone else?

Yes.

Then why have we been brought to this point? There is nothing wrong with single living, there is nothing wrong with being a single mom, a housewife, someone without children, an independent ‘boss ass bitch.’ Women are women. Men are men. People are people. They can live however they chose to, as long as it does not hurt or demean others.

Then why does the term princess still cut? And why, now, in a time where women have more rights than ever before, are we limiting our ideal ‘princess’ to a single woman? There are all kinds of women around the world. Of all different circumstances and races, manners, thoughts, and bodies. No woman should ever have to feel Anti-Feminist because she fell in love. And no princess should ever have to be degraded, and thought less of, because she fell in love.

Love does not hinder, it makes you grow.

The term princess refers to someone who has a royal title, the negative connotation comes from people who have made her seem weak. Who have limited her in her life, and changed her to a cut example out of a sheet of paper and plastered her on the walls and said “This! This is a princess, because I say it is!”

But now is not then, and I propose to everyone that we rethink the term princess. Like how other groups have reclaimed their names in the past, why can women not do the same for princess? Princesses can be strong, they can be weak, they can be anything and everything in the world because she is a person. And people are not limited to what people believe they are, or should be. People exist because they are unique, and princesses are just the same. People, a name. They only have whatever power it is you chose to give them.

Picture a movie, if you will, of a princess who is independent and strong, but also has a love interest. Also proud and strong of who they are. They do not hinder each other, they complement one another and build them up to be a better person because of the love they share. Two people, in one relationship, striving always to be better not just for the other but for themselves. When the giant crushing moment in the movie happens, they both collectively rise each other up because two forces working together can overcome challenges. Just as a single one can.

Picture a world in where girls say they are princesses proudly, and everyone looks and them and says “Yes, you are a princess.” Without assuming damsel in distress, or pink lace bows and fancy dresses. But whoever that person is, just with the title princess before their name. Something that makes them happy, and proud of who they are.

That is a princess. Someone who can be anyone they want to be, with whomever they want to be with, or not at all. They are themselves. Not a derogatory word that tears them down. They are proud, and they are strong, even if not physically, mentally, or whatever strength you want to be.

They are a princess, and nobody has the right to take that away from them.