#immortality and its inescapable isolation

[yandere-daydreams]

Do you know of a short story called "I have no mouth and I must scream", by Harlan Ellison? Your writing reminds me of it a bit (even more when it comes to the video game adaptation), especially because of AM, the super computer, who is arguably a sadistic yandere for the human characters (strong love/hate relationship). You have a gift for writing heavy atmospherial stories who feel inescapable, with Yanderes who are truly horrific, and in some ways it reminded me of this great Ellison story!

That’s actually one of my favorite short stories! I’ve never been able to vibe with post-apocalyptic stuff, but the bare-bones plot of ‘this omniscient computer hates all of mankind and only lives to fuck with me and my unfortunately immortal homies’ really lets the narrator get into the hopelessness of his situation and the pointlessness of AM’s revenge, considering it’ll never actually,,, achieve anything, beyond fulfilling its own power fantasy and ensuring that it still exists, if only in the suffering of others. Both my favoritism towards inescapable plotlines and my budding ai kink should serve as proof that I really took that lesson to heart. 

I’d totally recommend the Yellow Wallpaper, too, if you’re looking for something with a similar vibe. It’s less of a ‘yandere if you squint’ kinda story and more of a ‘damn women really used to have no rights’ kinda horror, but I really like it, and it’s really good if you’re looking for something that’s equal parts the terror of isolation and the false-liberation of introspection. It’s a good time,,, but it’s also, like, not. You’ll see what I mean.

[emeraldtawny]

IkeVam Headcanons: Crying Headcanons (Angst)

...I apologise for nothing. This was spawned by some filthy enablers in the IkeVamp Discord server (you all know who you are....love u guys uwu). 

Vague structure is as follows: how they would cry and what made them cry. Full steam angst ahead. Enjoy~ ^w^

~

Napoleon 

Life as an Emperor made him establish a stone face; show no weakness or emotion and let no one see you struggling. This led to Napo always bottling up his emotions whenever he felt the need to cry. And he was too good at doing so, people being none the wiser when he bottled up his frustration, his anger, his despair. However, there was a limit, even for him. When his mentality is withered down to nothing and he can’t hold back the tears any longer, his breath will leave him with a choke and a single tear will squeeze out despite itself. He’d hastily wipe it away and attempt to recollect himself, but he’s too tired, too burdened, the faint cacophony of war echoing within his brain like an inescapable terror. Perhaps that’s another reason why he sleeps so much...

~

Mozart 

He would be physical to stop himself from crying when he feels it bubbling up. He'd punch walls, door frames, even his dear piano if there was nothing else close by. But the pain from his punches would only fuel his tears, his face tight with rage and a snarl on his lips, but his eyes sparkling with tears and his eyebrows desperately pulled together. He’d be cursing at himself as he felt the first tear fall, his self-berating words only growing into a crescendo in his ears as he fights with - and loses to - himself. He’ll probably clench his fists enough to cut his palms with his nails. His reason for crying? Simply put, he feels worthless, he doesn't feel improvement in his music despite others' praise. 

~

Leonardo 

None would consider the Renaissance genius an emotional man, even in private. And he is well aware of this stigma people have crafted for him and has since molded to it himself. Leo would be able to school his features perfectly so no one knows he's upset (except Comte of course). When MC falls asleep cuddled up sweetly against his chest and he knows she's out, he lets a soft, choked sigh escape and finally lets a few tears out, stroking her hair softly as he does so. He lies there just....dwelling on her existence, knowing her not being as long for this world as him and it weighs on him so much that sometimes he just needs to cry. But he'll only do it in front of MC when she sleeps, so she won’t see him at his weakest. He doesn’t think he could bear it.

~

Arthur  

He would try to smile and play it off that he’s fine when he cries, even though the smile would be shaky at the edges as his lips tremble and he tries to blink back his tears. MC would just watch the collapsing of his smile, his mental state, his resilience; she would be watching a man fall apart. Tears collect in his eyes, but they wouldn’t fall until he does first, his knees collapsing and him hunching over himself as he digs the heels of his palms directly into his eyes. His breaths would be shaky, shallow and he’d be whispering countless choked apologies and baseless self-deprecating remarks of himself. He’s sinking into the black, inky depths of his own mind and even when he wails, even when he screams for release, it all feels hopeless. How he survived without MC there to pull him back from the brink of himself, he does not know. But he’s thankful for it every time, without fail.

~

Vincent 

He may be akin to a doll and when he cries it's with the same beauty, but more in the way of if you saw an actual doll crying; unsettling and spine-chilling. For him, it'd feel like his blood stopped pumping, his body stopped responding to him. He knows that he's crying, but he can't wipe away his tears, can't lift his hands to cover his eyes, can't open his mouth to wail; nothing. His mind is screaming though, and it screams so loud that it drowns out everything else. His baby blue eyes are more striking with a thick ring of red outlining them and his bottom lip quivering like a frail fallen leaf, the faint taste of salt on his tongue from the tears streaming without obstacle down his face and past his open lips. Years of repressed and unknown emotions mean that when he cries, he cries until he physically can't anymore and needs to sleep it off. And when he wakes up? He doesn't remember a thing.

~

Theodorus 

Theo would be pretty physical like Mozart, but just in a more violent yet shorter outburst. He might have thrown a vase to the ground with a groaned yell and shattered it into pieces, his fists clenched tight and his chest heaving with heavy breaths, as if the air was viscous and unyielding in its oxygen. The adrenaline subsides and he just sees the room around him submerge in water. When MC runs in frantically and worriedly asks what's wrong, he pulls her into a death grip embrace and rasps out to stay still and not look at him. She'll comfort him until he loosens his grip enough for her to hug him back and he'll keep his head buried in her shoulder. His cries are shaky exhales and the rogue tear that seeps into her blouse goes purposefully unnoticed by her for his own sake. His reason? The art world is shit, obstacles at every turn, and even Theo ain't strong enough to deal with that every day without fail.

~

Dazai 

He would keep smiling through his crying until his face basically collapses into one big sob...and then, silent crying. Not a whisper of sound; no sudden intake of breath or rasped exhale. Just a man standing there with his head hung low and his mauve bangs masking the glassy, lifeless expression of long-established despair on his face. Tear streaks run down his cheeks and tears hang off of his lashes with his gold irises accentuated by his reddened eyes, yet not one ounce of emotion can be seen - can be felt - emanating from him. He just feels overwhelming moments of despair and nothingness at very frequent times. Most times, he can handle it; it’s what he knows, daresay what he’s comfortable with. But sometimes the stress of...life is just too much. Oddly fitting for a man who wants to die but can't. 

~

Isaac 

Despite his best efforts, when Isaac gets too upset to handle, he becomes extremely volatile. He would collapse to his knees and hold his chest with a pained expression. His eyes would be open, wide with fear, as he physically feels the sob bubbling within his chest and rising into his throat like a lump of lead. Moments pass in agony until he lets out a strained sob that rips from his throat and sends a dull yet prevalent pump of blood to his head, a moment of dizziness passing over him. After that, he quietly cries, curled into himself and resting his head atop his clenched hands, letting the tears soak into his skin, hoping - praying - that the pain will stop. If he happens to be in a public space when he gets overwhelmed with emotion, he’ll be quick to extrapolate himself and hide away in a secluded spot, crying with short, almost hyperventilating breaths and whispering “I’m okay, I’m okay” over and over.

~

Jean 

The type to have the most guttural sobs where his throat is ragged and dry, and his breaths heave with effort. He would bottle it up until his vision physically blurs, his tears lining his eyes and obscuring his vision, and he would run to an isolated place if he wasn’t there already. Every time he cries, he hears swords clashing, groans of pain; every drop of blood, sweat and tears of Jean’s falls for those who have fallen for him. A growl of pain wretches from his throat and his fist collides with the nearest wall. He rests his back against the same wall and lets his feet slip out from under him as he sinks to the floor, glaring with frustration at the ceiling until the storm clouds clear from his conscience.

~

Shakespeare 

Shakes would seem to be the type that doesn't realise he's crying until he feels it or until someone points it out. But what if he was well aware that he was crying? But his smile would look so natural and out of place to his blood and gold eyes shimmering with tears that no one would know whether to approach him over the situation or not. It’s like the boy who cried wolf; no one would know he’s actually in pain because all they see is deceit. So when he feels his heart finally begin to pump with pain, he wears a smile even when his own eyes betray him. When he has a moment to himself, he'll dab his eyes calmly with his handkerchief, all the while biting on his tongue - hard enough to bleed - to stop any unbecoming sounds escaping him. He'll massage his closed eyelids to recollect himself and return to business as usual. Sometimes, even Shakes doesn’t know why he has these moments, his memories too repressed to remember the reason for his own tragedy.

~

Comte de Saint-Germaine 

Like the other immortal, he presents himself in a way to suggest crying being a foreign sensation to him and, when he does cry, tries to repress it where he can. He at least has more of his head on to know when it's safe to cry; alone or in front of MC. He won't sob, he won't wail. If anything, it'll look like he's the one comforting MC, him holding her head against his chest so she can't see the strain on his face as he desperately holds back his tears. A few will fall - glistening scarlet, tears of immortal blood - and he’ll catch them on the back of his hand to prevent them from staining her hair red. But she won't say a word, simply embrace him back and let him cry in complete silence. Being an immortal vampire with responsibilities and obligations weighing on you every second of your endless life? It’s a miracle that the Comte hasn't broken down more.

~

Sebastian 

Surrounded by his work and with hardly a moment to let his thoughts get the better of them, when Sebas does let his walls down, it will be controlled. He would let out a shuddering breath, his eyelids closing and his breaths forced into and out of his lungs in a controlled manner. Attempting to control his quickly spiraling thoughts, his brows furrow and his hands at work pause. The tightness and anxiety in his chest grows and he allows himself a quiet sob over the sink, before--  Tick tock tick tock.  Only a few seconds passed, but they felt too long to Sebastian, his head hanging over the sink. Splashing his face with water and with a few good slaps to his cheeks, he reassures himself that he has no time for this - that if he has time to cry, then he has time to work. With a couple of sniffles to fully rid his body of its lasting bout of sadness, his hands begin to move again to finish preparing dinner. Even the perfect butler needs a moment of reprieve sometimes.

[nightxdeeper]

| Ego!Sans • BackStory |

Childhood

You know Arthur just nickname or Else To “Sans” or “Ego”

was born into a time of chaos and war that began with the demise of the Roman empire. It had been believed to be indestructible, but it was only awaiting its destruction at the hands of invading barbarians. In preparation for the war against the barbarians, Rome deprived he island province of any military forces left there. Once Britannia lost the empire's protection, it could not escape becoming independent, causing it to break into smaller countries soon after. This time of barbarian invasions and self-destructive strife between clans started a long period of war that would later become known as the "Dark Ages".

The king, believing in Merlin's prophecy, yearned for the birth of his appointed successor, but the child born was a—not the one he desired.

It is said in the legend that Arthur was left in Merlin's care as the price for his assistance in ensuring the success for Uther's love of Igraine, saying "I will properly guide this child, one bearing a great destiny, and protect him from the crisis of the royal family."so the king could not make a child that was his successor even if he was fated to one day become a king. He was entrusted to the king's vassals and was to be raised as the child of a mere knight. The king fell into despair at the situation, but Merlin was delighted because the sex of the one to become king had never mattered. He was confident that the fact of the being separated from the castle until the day of prophecy was proof that he would become king. Merlin placed Ego!sans in the care of Sir Gaster , a simple and wise old knight, who raised he as his adopted child and successor. Though Gaster did not believe in the prophecy, he did feel the same air from the that as he did his king. He felt that he must raise her as a knight, and he wished for her to grow. He never needed to wish for such a thing, as she trained day after day to become stronger than anyone. He swore to bear her sword for the only reason that "only a king can save a ruined country headed for death" without ever being told such. During this time, he was raised with Papyrus (maybe) as he brother, but they still loved each other as siblings but Doesn’t undrinkable after he learned the truth of their relationship. He acted as his squire and received training from him, while also doing other chores such as pulling along his horse. He was better than him in terms of swordsmanship, but he never beat him in a fight due to his arguments declaring himself the winner rather than actual skill.

Once the day of prophecy arrived, knights and lords from around the country gathered to be selected as king. Each expected the selection to be through jousting to select the most superior one to become a king, but the only thing prepared at the place of selection was a naked sword stuck in a stone with a golden inscription on the hilt reading "Whosoe'er pulleth out this sword of this stone is rightwise king born of England." While many knights grabbed the sword trying to follow the command, none were able to pull it out. As they began the expected method of selection by jousting, Ego, only an apprentice not qualified for jousting, neared the deserted stone of selection and reached out for the sword without hesitation.

Before grabbing it, Merlin appeared before he to tell her to think things over before taking it. He told him he would no longer be human upon taking hold of the sword, but he only responded with a nod because he has been prepared for the fact that "becoming a king means no longer being human" ever since she was born. He knew that a king is someone who kills everyone to protect everyone. He thought about it every night and shuddered until morning came. While not one day passed where he did not fear that fact, he said that it would end this day. The sword was pulled out as if it were only natural to do so, and the area was filled with light. He became something not human in that instant. The king's gender doesn't matter, and no one will care about the king's appearance or even notice it as long as the king acts like a king. Even if anybody did notice the king was female, it would not be an issue if he was a good king. This started the time of the king who would become a legend. He stopped aging at 15 years old, back when he pulled Caliburn from the stone. Maybe Yeah He’s Not Person it Different?

Kingship

Ego!Sans “Arthur” led Britain from Camelot, and after becoming a feudal lord like his father, he became a king with many knights under he, including the esteemed Knights of the Round Table. He growth stopped at that time he pulled the sword because of its magic, so many knights feared it as ominous. Most instead praised their master's immortality as divine. He battles thereafter were the acts of a god of war. He always led from the front, and no enemies could stand in he way. There was no defeat for a body admired as a dragon in human form. He only knew victory for ten years and twelve battles while He ran through those days as the king. He never turned back and was never disgraced. He was raised as a king and fulfilled her obligations as the king.

Personal affairs

Due to the problem of being able to produce an heir, Merlin used magecraft to turn he into a pseudo-male capable of producing sperm for an unknown duration of time.During this period, he was enchanted by her sister, Morgan le Fay, who took some of Arthur’s sperm, developed it within he own ovaries, and gave birth to the homunculus and complete clone of Arthur, Mordred. He was born and raised without Arthur’s knowledge, quickly growing up due to he accelerated aging, and he managed to join the Round Table through he own efforts and Morgan's recommendation. He worshiped her king while hiding he identity, and he was ecstatic to learn of her heritage. (Bonus : Ha Ha I did say?).

Upon claiming he heritage and right to the throne, Arthur completely rejected Mordred, and refused to recognize he as an heir. Mordred believed the reason that he was not accepted was due to the hatred he father bore Morgan, and that no matter how much he worked to excel over others, she would forever be viewed as a tainted existence. The doesn’t love he had for the king up until that point was so great that her rejection made he hatred burn.

Actually He not Married. (SORRY HA).

Kingdom

Arthur needed to act as the son of the king, as the one to govern the many territories and control the knights had to While some people did grow suspicious of he only he father, Merlin, and Kay knew the exact truth of he identity. He literally covered herself in steel to seal that truth for all he life, and due to he immortality from the protection of the fairies, no one questioned he small body or face that seemed like that of a invincible warrior whose looks or body size had impact on her standing.

During that time, the people living in fear of savage invasions only wanted a strong king, and the knights would only follow an excellent commander. Having met these criteria, no one questioned he He was considered fair and selfless as he always stood at the front of the army while defeating h enemies on the battlefield. While many enemies and civilians died, the king's choices were always considered correct, and he served as the king better than anyone else. No one doubted or had any need to doubt as long as the king was right.

He army reconstructed the lost cavalry, and knowing no losses, they ran through the battlefield while defeating foreign infantries and crashing through numerous ramparts. Many people were discarded for he to join the battles, and all he enemies had to be defeated once he joined. It was common practice for the military to meet its needs by sucking all the resources out of a local village to supply the battle to protect the country. It can be said that no knight killed more people than he, and it is unknown if he ever found such to be a burden.

He did strictly kept to the oath that a king is not human and that one cannot protect the people with human emotions. He never narrowed he eyes in grief while sitting on the throne, and he settled every problem while working hard in government affairs. He managed to balance the country without any deviations, and he punished people without a single mistake. Even after, or possibly because of, winning battles in victory, commanding citizens without disorder, and punishing hundreds of criminals, one of he knights murmured "King Arthur does not understand human feelings."

It is possible everyone felt that way, that the more perfect he became as a king, the more they needed to question her as a ruler. They felt that a human without emotion cannot rule over others, leading to several reputable knights leaving Camelot. He simply accepted this to be a natural event that is part of the process of government, isolating the fair king honored by his knights. Having abandoned her emotions from the start, she did not change her mind even if she was abandoned, feared, or betrayed. There was no right or wrong to someone who saw such events as trivial.

He final battle for he country began in such a way, and the battle at Badon Hill ended in complete victory. The savages sought reconciliation due to he overwhelming results, and her country that was only awaiting destruction earned a brief period of peace. The country finally began to return to the country of which he had dreamed.

Downfall

Mordred being slain by Arthur yeah (Mordred Body’s).

Lancelot's affair with Guinevere was eventually revealed through the plans of traitors who hated Camelot, causing them to stand opposed. Arthur did not see this inescapably unrighteous action as a betrayal Now Arthur Tried Kill Lancelot, but different story actually exactly well he’s Control loss like Saint loss well Destroy him all even he valiant efforts to placate the dissent, he was mortally wounded by the traitorous knight Mordred during the Battle of Camlann. He dying body was But Arthur never Back to City Arthur Was Walk To Found “Flower Like Bluish-Moonshine” He’s Such Stopping Contorl He Was Calm He’s sleeping to years in long.

Years of oldest to Come Important person Did Portal His AU “EgoTale” person walking to Found “Old of White Flor” stop walk Saw Actually Sleeping in Arthur and Person “eh there looks Another sans?” Hear he’s woken eyes Open looks Person Arthur say “. . .who are You” Perosn was quite surprise “wow you got Colder person maybe Are King Arthur”? Arthur “ . . .I longer no Name it now Ego!Sans”.

[imakethecard]

Avarelle World Guide, part 1

Avarelle is a patchwork world. It’s not round and not flat; it has no consistent shape at all. Its geography does not conform to the geometry that we all know; the same road may lead to different places on different days, for different people, or under different circumstances.

Fortunately for the people who live there, large pieces of Avarelle are consistently shaped. Within each Domain, the world is more or less sane. Each kingdom, barony, or nation is like a world in itself, separated from the rest of Avarelle by a frightening wilderness full of wolves and witches.

Even within the Domains, the world is somewhat mutable. The boundaries of Domains tend coincide with their political borders, and their natures are shaped by their inhabitants. When the wilderness is settled by humans, it gradually grows sane by human standards; any land walked by demons becomes hostile and dangerous. Kings and queens have particularly strong influences; those knowledgeable in the ways of Avarelle can judge the character of a king by the flowers that grow by the roadside in his kingdom.

Setting aside the influence of its inhabitants, each Domain has its own unique nature. One might have two-day seasons and hundred-hour days, while another might wither and die unless ruled by a queen of the correct bloodline. Very little is consistent across the plane; even the flow of time varies.

Still, the world is much more unified than it was two thousand years ago.

Sixteen centuries ago, a great king named Ulrek arose. With the assistance of his advisor, the great wizard Azor, Ulrek forged a great empire that stretched across the plane. With the empire came a religion built around Azor’s teachings, which would come to be called the Azorian Church. The empire was founded in blood and built upon bones, but it brought a golden age to the common people of Avarelle. In its heyday, the madness of the world was brought to heel and men imagined themselves the masters of creation.

The empire stood for a thousand years; long after Ulrek died, the seemingly-immortal Azor would return in times of need and strengthen the forces of order. But eventually Azor disappeared for the last time, and six hundred years ago the empire split into a thousand kingdoms. 

Despite the collapse of the empire, its influence is inescapable. Its language, its religion, and its culture form the foundation beneath the manifold ways of the thousand kingdoms. The Azorian Church remains in place, and serves as the only truly global institution on Avarelle. It advises leaders, preaches sermons, and performs ceremonies, but its chief duty is the keeping of records. The Azorian Church keeps track of historical events, marriages, royal bloodlines, knighthoods, and so on. They see this as a sacred duty, and take it very seriously even when it clearly has no practical value.

The Church holds speech holy: any being capable of speaking and understanding speech is considered to have a soul and certain inherent rights. Any being not capable of speaking and understanding speech is not; a talking cow is a person, while a deaf-mute human is not. The rights of the ensouled are fairly broad, and as a result the Church often acts to protect the common people from greedy, tyrannical, or simply incompetent rulers.

The institution of marriage carries enormous magical weight on Avarelle. It blends the souls of the parties involved, giving each some of the traits of the other. Any two ensouled beings may marry in the eyes of the Church, regardless of gender or species, but divorce and polygamy are strictly forbidden. Although the magic in marriage can sometimes be annulled or shared among a group, the Church is completely prepared to kill over the sanctity of monogamous marriage.

Most of Avarelle’s citizens never leave their home Domain. The risk of getting lost, and being unable ever to return home, is terrifying to almost everyone. But there are five types of person that travel widely, knowing that they may well be forsaking their homelands forever:heroes, wizards, merchants, pilgrims, and refugees. 

Some brave souls, often knights, travel in search of adventures to have and wrongs to right; they reject the safety of living in a single Domain in favour of the opportunity to accomplish great things.

Witches, wizards, and those who wish they were witches and wizards travel as well; there is knowledge and power to be had in the far corners of the world that the common people can only dream of. Nobody ever became a sorcerer by sitting at home and reading.

Merchants take advantage of the near-isolation of most Domains to make their fortunes. What is cheap and common in one Domain may well be deeply desired in another, and anyone brave enough to bring a cart of goods from Domain to Domain can earn gratitude and admiration alongside enormous wealth. The greatest prestige is accorded to those few merchants who have travelled to Perdition and returned with their souls intact, having convinced demonkind that working with them is more profitable than simply consuming their soul and turning their body into a puppet. Such merchants often deal in strange intangible goods, and it is said that they can arrange just about any imaginable miracle...for the right price.

The Azorian Church maintains the routes to certain holy sites so that the common people can touch the divine or plead for the assistance of holy paladins. When the Empire stood, most people took a pilgrimage; since then it’s grown rarer and more dangerous, but even now it’s by far the safest way to travel far.

And of course, there are those unfortunate souls who are driven from their homes. Exiled, sometimes, or fleeing from a ruined land. When a Domain is abused terribly, when it is misruled for decades on end, the land withers and gives birth to vermin. Famine takes hold. Eventually, when the Domain is rotten to the core, the terrible Nameless God of Crawling Things emerges to consume the foulness. The Church keeps an eye on the health of each Domain, or tries to, and regularly acts to heal a land if possible or evacuate its residents if not.

The people of Avarelle come in countless shapes. Humans are the most common, since the human species is the most reliably ensouled, but just about every species found on Avarelle has ensouled members. It’s not at all strange for a woman to marry a giant spider, or for the local butcher to be a bear.

Humans and other ensouled animals lack magical abilities of their own. Inborn magical abilities of the sort common on other planes are unheard of on Avarelle. Magic is found by invoking the power of other beings; making a contract with the faeries, taking in part of the soul of another animal, invoking the demons of Perdition, or otherwise reaching beyond your own mundane nature. This magic often works through the power of names, and so even the common people of Avarelle generally keep their true names secret. People often choose new names for themselves, or simply go by their titles. Rulers traditionally go by the names of their Domains.

There are, of course, beings on Avarelle with their own inherent magic. Faeries, dragons, demons, giants, mitlings, and the like need no pacts or invocations to work magic. But such beings are rare, at least outside of their own lands.

It should be noted that the above summary centres humans and other ensouled animals. In some ways this is appropriate, since most of the world is dominated by the mundane races, but it is likely unfair to the elves.

The elves claim to rule the world, and while they may be arrogant they aren’t bluffing.

The elves of Avarelle are not like most of the Multiverse’s elves. They are more akin to spirits than to humans, immortal and powerfully magical. They have ancient laws flowing through their veins, giving them endless strength but little freedom. Animals find elvish law bizarre and incomprehensible, but it is nonetheless absolute; to break it will reduce an elf to goblin-hood. As a result goblins tend to pity elves, seeing them as slaves to a bodiless master. Everyone else respects and fears them.

[divine-identite]

                                                  xlv. ii

To add from here 

        Ultimately I’m certain he is doomed, to live another immortal life; exchanging a depressing long life, filled with sorrow and insanity for another hellish nightmare. The eternities under the servitude of the Goddess, Etro supplant with the absolute imprisonment of the many children he’s protected centuries now turned his dominant superiors. He shall not transition to a world of beauty, peace, wonder where the soul knows only rest; dwelling in a dream-like realm were all its chords blending into mellifluous melody. He is, now, linked to an inescapable fate to the chaos, and must roam unceasingly in that appalling matter, to shepherd those doomed spirits. I am now more certain in his circumstance he has adjusted to make the better of this terrible fate by helping with the delicate equilibrium - even if he denied rest for eternity. The Yeul’s will not let him go and his soul is inextricably linked with the chaos; for its symbolism represents their love for him.

            How Caius Ballad felt about this is perhaps mixed with abhorrence and sorrow. Now outlining them I do sense this prison yields no future, knowing no escape from Yeul; for his bound to her for aeons henceforth he may understand a child's need for companionship, yet he seems driven to insanity in their paradoxical thoughts; some yeuls desires his rest, yet other demand his rebirth, owing to puerile tendencies and their attachment at an age so young. Yet he depressingly suffers in her company, and the Yeuls know well of his longing wish of death. He has long-since lived for her purpose and desires not to be accursed life, disturbed by the immensity of the time were the human mind not live beyond things incomprehensible to primitive beings. For our mind is meant to burden those undescribable images and utter isolation whilst all things gradually fall before us in plain view.   

❝ From even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent. ❞  ― H.P. Lovecraft, Tales of H.P. Lovecraft

[junker-town]

‘Tiger King’s’ Carole Baskin is the villain a sports-free world needs right now

Carole Baskin is the Patriots.

Let’s get something out of the way: There is nobody, and I mean nobody who you should root for in Tiger King. It’s a collection of terrible people, doing horrible things, in a microcosm which somehow existed under our noses in the 21st century and not an antiquated history book.

Villains are unique in their ability to exist without a hero. A hero needs a grand force to fight against, but a villain — they can simply act in a way that we find reprehensible. Sure, it’s nice to root for the good guy, but we all have an inherent ability to use our experience and morality to identify a villain. Carole Baskin is that villain, one we desperately needed at a time when sports couldn’t supply us with one.

Tiger King was one long, multi-episode schadenfreude session. If you pulled for anything, it was the destruction of every person featured in the documentary, or perhaps the hope of an asteroid slamming into a hopeless planet that allowed people like this to grow and fester. However, inside of the show itself existed a taxonomy of reprehensible people, many of whom were willing to admit at least some of their faults.

Then there’s Baskin. Perfect Baskin, greeting her “cool cats and kittens” from an office chair or a bicycle or anywhere else she has access to a webcam. Soft-spoken Baskin, draped in bedazzled animal print, adoring her milquetoast husband and their disturbing wedding photos.

It wasn’t long before Tiger King’s sub-narrative came through. The person we presumed was going to be the victim was a wolf in tiger’s clothing.

Baskin proved to be such a good villain because she’s a woman who, at first glance, appeared to be a paragon of virtue standing up for the plight of abused and maltreated tigers, but who, in the end, was not all that different from those she claimed as enemies. It was Batman’s Harvey Dent who said, “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain,” and by that standard, Baskin is immortal.

That’s what makes a great villain in sports. It’s not enough to just be the bad guy. It’s not about cheap shots or low-blows. Those are quickly forgotten. It’s about portraying yourself publicly as a person who deserves to win, all the while sharpening your knife and looking for the next victim to stab in the back when the lights are down.

Baskin is the New England Patriots. And that’s why she’s universally reviled.

Throughout Tiger King, it feels like she’s untouchable. Every single break goes her way. By fronting a non-profit she can legally run a cult-like compound of volunteers who do her bidding while worshiping the ground she walks on.

The rules of society and law don’t seem to apply to Baskin, and that’s before we even get into the (unsupported) speculation that she might have fed her late husband to her tigers and allegedly organized a scheme to ensure she was the sole heiress to his fortune.

Being a truly great villain isn’t just about committing crimes, but getting away with them and making people pull their hair out at the grand unfairness of it all.

That’s why everyone outside of New England hates the Patriots. Not because, as their fans assume, we hate ‘em ‘cause we ain’t ‘em, but because of the pervasive, inescapable feeling that they can’t be knocked off their throne. There’s a general acceptance that the Patriots can do anything and everything to subvert rules and common decency, scampering away with slaps on the wrist when their improprieties are too brazen to be ignored, all while finding a way to consistently improve in a league where consistency is impossible to achieve.

What do the Patriots’ minutemen-adorned jerseys and Baskin’s leopard print leggings have in common? Both serve as the impenetrable armor allowing them to live and rule with relative ease,

It helps, of course, that Tiger King paints its bizarre tale as one of underdog vs. conqueror, despite both main characters being inherently vile. If there were a Super Bowl of tiger-fronted cults, every year would be Baskin vs. Joe Exotic. A game nobody wants to watch, but a game from which no one can look away.

We need that villain right now. We need it so desperately. We need it more than we ever wanted to admit, and especially now. After all, it’s easier — and healthier — to hate a football team or a weird tiger-cult leader from a documentary than direct our frustration toward people we actually know.

The phenomenon of Tiger King isn’t one of story alone, but of time. It arrived when we all had nothing better to do but watch. It connected us during a time of isolation. It did what sports always do: Give us an escape, if only for a moment, with clearly drawn battle lines separating Team Carole and Team Joe. In some ways, we all have Baskin to thank for distracting us so we could unite against a common enemy.

So, until sports are back and we can move on with our lives, stay tough you cool cats and kittens. Protect yourselves, make smart choices, and don’t make any plans to go to Costa Rica.

I’d hate to see you slathered in sardine oil and tossed in a meat grinder.

[kettlequills]

day 4- empire/war

A03

The argument before the world as Yellow Diamond knew it changed forever had become engraved in her memory with hyper-realistic sharpness, as if it had passed moments rather than years ago. The next time they saw each other, their mortality would be written all over each other’s faces, and everything would be impossibly different. But for now, all she felt was a frustrated maelstrom of emotion, and the weight of Blue Diamond’s eyes, the way they sparked when they warred. For this was war, for them.

The Diamond’s battleground was one of meeting rooms that were sharp, clean, without aesthetic, in isolated, liminal moon bases built for these purposes only. They had to be removed from the planet proper so that the slightest hint of a power-struggle could not reach their subjects, and more importantly, could not clash against the unified image of the Authority. Reputations were priceless, hard-won and quick-lost, the only thing that they were unwilling to sacrifice in the perpetual grapple for gains, a coveted colony, a perfect planet. They swapped servants like fine purses, wore their achievements like bank statements, counting the number of zeros off against one another, gloating at a well-executed bargain.

There was no pure brutality of an arena, watching eyes and bright gems, swept-clear stone, chilly breezes, kept stark and open and therefore rulebound. There was no public accountability, only the silent companionship of thousands of years shackled all together; they could escape any gem but each other. They could fight and flail and fail to fuse all they liked, but in centuries, they still only had the stagnancy of the same relationships, the same tired faces, the same tired arguments. They were worn out, worn in, stuck in the same antagonistic rut which overlapped into moments of relief, closeness, intimacy, passion and hatred balanced together with the caution of immortality. Discipline, at this level, was self-imposed and less than rigorously maintained.

They were Diamond, and they were made to lead, and compromise was difficult at the best of times. But in the middle of open civil war and across an innocuous, steely-straight table, Yellow Diamond and Blue Diamond were polarised. They spat for the pleasure of spitting and pretended not to be thinking about a nicer exchange of synthetic saliva they had no purpose having. Any tension could be made into an argument, if they were desperate enough, an argument of painful secrets and not-quite forgotten fights.

But in White’s company, they had to play their proper, professional part in the theatre of a diamond debate. She hung over them like stifling fog, suffocating on euphoria and exhaling poison.

Pink should have been hosting, since the planet the base orbited was her colony, her Earth. Instead, it was White, Yellow, and Blue standing around a holographic projection of Earth with the facet lines glowing with different colours depending on who currently had possession (bright pink for the rebels, white for Homeworld), arguing about Pink’s sudden disappearance a few rotations prior. The scouting parties they’d sent out were unsuccessful.

They didn’t know yet that Pink Diamond was absent because she had been cracked into mutilated pieces over the steps of her own palanquin.

White was staring silently at the map, arms folded, an unhealthy greyish pallor to her colourless cheeks; she looked wrung out, somehow limp and finished. Sometimes, in the dragging rotations that followed, Yellow wondered if White had known – had suspected. Yellow’s hands were planted on the table, disturbing the projection and making it ripple with static around her wrists like disrupted water. Blue opposed her, the only one seated, her hands folded in her lap and her every muscle radiating chilly disdain. They argued in tense, not quite hushed voices, straining back and forth and skirting around the horrible, huge absence that would later forever shatter their image of invulnerability.

“We’re in the middle of a war,” Yellow was losing her temper, hearing her voice raise, trying to forget the last time she’d shouted at Blue. An isolated solar, with music pounding wild and fey outside, twisting silk, their bodies, close together. “None of that matters,” she told herself, and Blue, and their argument.

Blue’s eyes flared like a solar eclipse. She hated to be told she didn’t matter. It was a lie but one that Blue was too ready to believe from Yellow. Yellow tried to pretend that in itself didn’t wound her more than anything Blue could spit at her. Under the shadow of her hood, her expression was impossible to guess and utterly obvious at once – offended lip, narrowed eyes, slanted brow, the language of fury. Yellow forbade the shiver that wanted to work its way up her knotted-tense spine.

“Of course you say it doesn’t,” Blue snapped back in the quiet tone she used when she was at her angriest, “All both of you want is to seize control of Pink.”

White did not react to the statement, didn’t bother to deny it. After the resistance she had put up to Pink leaving the protectiveness of Homeworld for her first colony, it would have been a thin and weak denial. White did not enjoy contradicting the obvious.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Yellow cried, incredulous, “What would I want with Earth?”

“You have to let her learn on her own! If I was struggling with a little rebellion problem there is no way that it would warrant all three of us coming down here to ‘supervise’,” Blue hissed back. She had supported Pink most vehemently during the battle to wear down White’s control of her, and remained defensive of her freedom. Their positions were entrenched, these debates over and done, no new progress was made, stagnation was the name of the game.

“And if you had gone missing, I suppose you think that we-“-I- “wouldn’t care at all? What matters now is finding her!”

On this, they all agreed, but Blue mimicked offence to be contrary, because even the most minor of victories could not be given easily. Yellow had forbidden anything to be easy. Forgiveness was too tempting, and emotions had become inefficient.

“She’ll turn up,” Blue said instead, almost airily, sounding so much like Pink’s carelessness that Yellow saw White’s jaw tense.

“Blue,” Yellow said, half-warning, though Blue would surely be watching White as well. Appearances mattered when touch was off the table.

“Quiet!” White finally snapped, and the both of them instantly obeyed, Yellow swallowing the rest of the words with an instinctive scowl. White’s brows pulled down over her pale, cold eyes, like two chips of ice hung before the moon. “You’re wasting time that cannot afford to be lost.”

These were a Diamond’s battlegrounds, and unlike the fury of a fight, debate could be stopped at a cutting statement and the illusion of control. It had become an illusion, after Pink had left Homeworld and proven that White could lose, but it was a compelling one nonetheless.

“Diopside,” White said, chilly eyes never leaving the two of them.

A hulking shape appeared instantly in the doorway, and Diopside crossed her chest in the strange, one-armed version of the diamond salute, the mechanical arm Yellow had built for her hanging limply at her side. Yellow startled, then fought to restrain her reaction and pretend that she had known Diopside was there all along. Diopside was never far from her beloved mistress’ side, particularly, she reminded herself belatedly, considering they were standing on a moon above a planet involved in open rebellion against everything White Diamond and the Authority stood for – law and order in the galaxy.

“Ready my ship,” White ordered, crossing her arms over her chest again, as if she was trying to pull herself together, “I’m going to look for Pink myself.”

A beat of silence passed, in which Diopside’s murky green gaze remained fixed on White Diamond, her face stiff and emotionless, but for the way a tic jumped in her left cheek. Her natural arm was held rigidly, hard muscle bulging against the skin. Yellow’s eyes skimmed over Diopside’s broad, barrel chest, tracing the stern lines of rigid muscle that she almost knew by heart. Diopside had trained Yellow in the arts of war, ingraining familiarity with time and tension, and was a constant shadow just behind White, a harbinger of her presence.

White raised her chin, and tapped her fingers against her forearm deliberately. Diopside’s head bowed slightly, and she muttered a reluctant acquiescence as she stalked out. After that, White seemed to feel that there was nothing more to say, and she kept her glare on Yellow and Blue, forbidding them to speak, to question her edict. They all knew that it was too dangerous for White to go to Earth, where the rebellion was thickest and the gems had no personal loyalty to her, where she symbolised the tyranny of the Authority. They all knew that White wouldn’t listen, because she was blinded with love, and it had made her irrational and desperate. They all knew that reminding White of that aloud was idiotic in the extreme.

Still silence as thick as soup smothered Yellow in its grip. Perversely, she glanced about for her pearl, for her work, anything to distract her from inevitability of being stuck in a room with Blue and White and her feelings, and the inescapable absence of Pink. Yellow ground her teeth, clenching her fists and restraining the urge to pace. White was statuesque, silhouetted by the light of the open door, the planes of her face gleaming with iridescent brilliance.

Blue was hunched, enshrouded, and it seemed as if the whole world’s gravity rested in her, an undeniable orbit like the suck of a black hole and Yellow the stupid, burning comet caught in her claws, folding into oblivion when Blue raised her head and looked at her, with eyes as deep and bright as the colour of Kroag IV’s skies, cloud- and merciless. Blue lifted her hand, trembling, and Yellow bit off a groan in her chest, lest White hear, and stalked to her, boots clacking loudly, despite her attempts to place her feet gently. These days, she could never be anything other than imposing. Somewhere along the way, she had forgotten how to be soft.

White watched, her lip curling.

Blue almost looked terrified when Yellow stood up behind her chair and rested her hands on her thin shoulders, her grip like an iron vice, but relief won out. Blue’s head dipped as if the weight was too much for her to hold, and her shaking hand touched Yellow’s fingers digging into her shoulders briefly, lightly, like the brush of snow, fast-melted and gone, leaving nothing in its wake but a slick of sweat under Yellow’s gloves.

In an instant, they were reunited again, together against the immovable barrier that was White. Yellow fought off gratitude, pleasure, happiness, and focused on feeling cold and solid and strong, dependable, like metal. She could not leach Blue’s comfort without offering strength. Interactions between them were transactions, nothing more.

Nothing less. Her thumb smoothed rebelliously against Blue’s collarbone, and Blue’s breath jittered against the weight of her palms. Too close, too much, not enough. Yellow wondered if Blue felt this need too, this agony of inexpression hanging around her neck like an albatross of lead, the necessity of leading ahead making it impossible to walk alongside.

Yellow wondered if Blue remembered Ceta. Remembered how they had once been close enough to intermingle. White was staring at her as if she knew Yellow’s thoughts, and Yellow tilted her chin up proudly to her stare. White liked to pretend that she was purely ignorant, but Yellow knew that she had been stained, taken, loved and fused by ghosts that had left their marks on the world only in White’s memories. Let her try to make Yellow ashamed. There was nothing White could do to her that was worse than the recrimination Yellow served herself.

Blue’s shoulders pressed tentatively back into Yellow’s hands and Yellow closed her eyes again. Blue, on the other hand…Diamonds were supposed to be indestructible, yet Yellow felt as close to shattering as she ever could be with Blue.

Diopside’s returning feet were audible from halfway up the staircase, unnecessarily stomping to vent her displeasure about White risking herself like this. White didn’t bother to wait for her to get to the top, and swept out without a word of goodbye. Something in the room tightened when she left.

Unmonitored, unwatched, unrestricted, Yellow stood with her hands on Blue’s shoulders and pressed her thumb against Blue’s collarbone. It would not be hard to snap her like kindling between her hands. Blue had once been attracted to Yellow’s strength, a long time ago. Nowadays – Blue’s spine went rigid – she feared it.

With a reluctance she told herself she didn’t feel, Yellow dropped the contact and made to leave after White.

“Some of us,” she remarked to Blue over her shoulder, archly, “still have an empire to run.”

Blue’s eyes stirred with fire again, and Yellow hurried out before she could retaliate. It would not do to push her luck, to let them get too close. This was already the most they had touched each other in centuries.

[vardasvapors]

🔥 like, elrond? Tell me about elrond

While I don’t remember if I said it myself, I believe my reblogs and tags have indicated my opinion that Tolkien’s wording as well as basic extrapolation strongly suggests Elrond closely identified with his Numenorean kin, but lemme try for something more actually contrary:

This is a prime example of how funny a thing fanon is, but when I read the Silm I was totally insulated from all fandom input and so my ideas about Elrond and Elros as a set of twins wound up very different from fanon. Like, there’s this idea of Elrond being very scholarly and quiet and reserved and unadventurous, especially in contrast to Elros. Which I did not pick up on in isolation at all because, what stuck out to me about Elrond when I read LOTR as a kid was his…ridiculous level of bluntness about how difficult or dangerous something will be or how much is riding on it (I was SO AMUSED at that bit where he’s just, to Aragorn, “lol if you don’t succeed everyone is doomed no pressure!!11”) And that thing where he was simultaneously like gently, “there’s no reasonable way this is ever gonna work” and “we absolutely have to do this” which I didn’t really have the framework to talk about until I read the Athrabeth, but which still struck me very strongly.

And then in the Silm, there’s that idea of, well Elrond became a loremaster, while Elros became a king. But, I imagined, post-apocalyptic loremastery with no stable institutions would be like, exploring this strange ME to collect or write down the lore and stories and history from unknown peoples or from the survivors of Beleriand; whereas Numenor is similar in its unexplored newness but is this specially prepared hallowed peaceful island, and I thought, the first king of such a place would be a visionary, a planner, a builder - a dreamer even! And I guess, it’s often mentioned that Elrond is a healer? But I barely remembered this because he’s not mentioned as a healer until the 3rd Age, whereas Elros…well, one of my first thoughts about Elros was to flash back to the first time I read ROTK, and that line “the hands of the King are the hands of a healer,” where I was like, “since when?” And once I wrapped my head around who Elros was, I was like “oh! since then?”

And in just stitching things together, I was reminded of that ridiculawesome Mary Sue description from the Hobbit: “He was as noble and as fair in face as an elf-lord, as strong as a warrior, as wise as a wizard, as venerable as a king of dwarves, and as kind as summer.” So many different things, and so much overreaching – to live two lives even, or at least, to live one immortal life to the brim! And I feel like, especially given that his choice to become immortal means being separated from Elros by death forever, there’s a strong element of, “what’s the point of being immortal if I don’t take advantage of having all the time in the world?” And so my impression of younger!Elrond was the guy who is like, learn ALL THE THINGS! Become immortal in order to have all the time to do all the things and see all the things, because the world is so great and there’s so much of it…

Ofc this is Tolkien so everyone goes to hell and there’s a ton of war and really, chilling in a green valley and innkeeping is the A+ life, though also over the ages, it becomes more desperate, “what was the point of becoming immortal if I don’t use it” regarding Sauron and the rings, and the Akallabeth, and the Dunedain. But also…there’s this impression in fandom, and a bit in the text too, that Elros was like, an ideal human? Or, no, not the ideal in the sense of being better than other humans, but having an ideal appreciation of human mortality because he chose it freely. I love that, and I think the same would apply to Elrond, for elves. There’s that other description of him in LOTR: “in his face was the memory of many things both glad and sorrowful.” And…isn’t that close to the ideal for immortality? The focus is usually on how immortality sucks because of all the endless inescapable sorrow, but immortality also means unlimited opportunities for gladness and glad times if you can keep them in your memory, like he apparently has. Those fifteen chieftains! The line “both the sweet and the bitter” is applied to choosing mortality in LOTR, but it applies to immortality just as well.

But anyway, the point is, 2nd age Elrond, literally the most carpe diem of elves! Even though he has unlimited…diems…to…carp…I don’t speak latin at all guys.

[alpha-centari27]

From the moment he walked on screen in The Force Awakens, some Star Wars fans felt like they already had a handle on Kylo Ren: he was obviously a good guy.

Or at least, he was going to wind up that way by the end of the trilogy. The original trilogy ended with Darth Vader’s redemption, so logically, Kylo Ren’s story would end that way, too.

That assumption rang false to me, and not just because I was skeptical that anybody could come back from murdering his own father, Han Solo, one of the most beloved characters in Star Wars history. It’s because Star Wars isn’t about redemption — not in the original trilogy or even in Return of the Jedi.

It only seems that way.

[Ed. note: This piece contains spoilers for Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker.]

Return of the Jedi’s immortal third act set the tripartite structure for all future climatic Star Wars battles: A fight on the ground, a fight in the air, and a fight of Jedi emotions. As his friends desperately try to destroy the second Death Star, Luke Skywalker stands in the Emperor’s throne room and duels with Darth Vader. The stakes are his life and the very future of the Force.

Just when it seems that the Emperor’s power is inescapable, his loyal lapdog, Darth Vader, betrays him. Moved by his son’s example and Luke’s genuine belief that he is not beyond saving, Vader hurls the Emperor down a shaft, taking a mortal blow as he does so. He dies in Luke’s arms. After he escapes the Death Star, Luke gives him a warrior’s pyre.

But here’s the thing...

Darth Vader was never redeemed

In the moment Vader turned on the Emperor, he repented. He saw the error of his ways. Perhaps more importantly, he saw that it was still possible for him to perform some lasting good by saving his son, the only creature in the galaxy that held some honest love for him.

The original Star Wars trilogy wasn’t about Darth Vader redeeming himself in the eyes of others — about the impossible task of making up for the thousands dead, the lives irrevocably altered, the families, including his own, shattered — nor should it have been. It was about Luke growing into his own.

The Empire Strikes Back sees our hero hubristically chafe at the guidance of his Jedi mentors, and suffer immense consequences for it. Luke not only fails to save Han from carbonite, he barely escapes an encounter with Vader with his life, and has to be rescued by the very people he went to Cloud City to rescue. In Return of the Jedi, when Luke insists to Yoda and Obi Wan that there is still good in Darth Vader, it’s his first rebellion that actually pays out.

Luke grew up idolizing an idea of his father as a heroic veteran of the Clone Wars, and has the training to intimately, psychically sense Vader’s emotions. Vader’s turn is vindication of Luke’s instinct to forgive, and of his destiny as one who can recreate the Jedi order.

But asking for forgiveness and actually making amends for your actions are separate things. Vader’s nearly immediate death created a useful emotional illusion that completed Luke’s character arc in a satisfying way. The audience easily mistakes that with the real thing.

Vader’s act of repentance meant that he could no longer stand among the series’ other bad guys, but Return of the Jedi never attempted to figure out whether that alone was enough to allow him to stand alongside the heroes.

Yub nub nope

Imagine, for a moment, what the end of Return of the Jedi would have been like if Luke had walked into that big party on Endor’s moon arm in arm with a contrite Darth Vader. Vader personally tortured Leia in A New Hope, and Han in The Empire Strikes Back. He forced Leia to watch as Grand Moff Tarkin destroyed her home planet.

But we were never forced to watch as Leia looked Darth Vader in the face, knowing that his blood ran in her veins, while she decided what the fledgling Republic should do with its second greatest boogeyman.

This is a good thing. For the purposes of the kind of story that Return of the Jedi is trying to tell, this is a great ending. Vader’s death is narratively necessary.

So, naturally, The Rise of Skywalker attempts to mirror Vader’s turn with Kylo Ren’s — with the added problem that, thanks to J.J. Abrams’ tactic of echoing the original trilogy, but going bigger, Kylo’s crimes are an order of magnitude larger than his grandfather’s.

Discarding anything from expanded Star Wars media, Kylo’s version of “the Empire” carried on a systematic campaign of kidnapping millions of children to brainwash them into loyal cannon fodder, and used a superweapon to destroy the fully populated star system that served as the galaxy’s political center. He personally tortured both Rey and Poe and murdered his own father, Han Solo, in The Force Awakens. He attempted to murder and indirectly caused the death of Luke Skywalker in The Last Jedi. In Rise of Skywalker, a previously hale Leia Organa sacrifices her life force to do ... something related to making Kylo turn, making him the indirect cause of her death as well.

The scene in which Kylo truly turns is an emotional one. In isolation, his talk with a (memory?) of Han Solo is a nice acknowledgement of how difficult it can be to recognize when one has done something truly wrong, and how hard can be take on the work of making up for the hurt you’ve done to others when it would be so much easier to just accept the advantages those acts awarded you.

But, like his grandfather before him, Kylo never gets the chance to do any of that work. He turns to the Light Side of the Force, but ultimately sacrifices his life to save (or possibly resurrect) Rey. He dies without ever facing the consequences of his actions, and without ever reckoning with what it would take to make amends for them.

He repents, vindicating Rey’s belief that he always carried the seed of that within him. But, just like Darth Vader, Star Wars doesn’t redeem him. It’s all a necessary Jedi mind trick.