#in my incorrigible era

[itswhatyougive]

I saw some people be like "gweeehhhhhhh Steddie shippers built that whole ship in their minds, it's fanon only, they had no chemistry in the show, they barely had any connection at all "

And it's actually really funny, because I humor them and think, "hmm, was it all in my mind all along?" and rewatch S4.

Then I feel soooooo validated upon rewatching. It actually gets even better and more obvious every time I see it.

[senadimell]

I don’t know what it is about the particular circle of Harry Potter people that I’m in on tumblr, but it’s fun to be in, not because I particularly care about Harry Potter above other fandoms, but because people actually have conversations in post.

Like, it’s not actually the source material that's particularly special above other kinds of media, but the community itself is really fun to participate in? The people I’ve seen involved are unusually reciprocal? (that might just be my very limited fandom experience, but I get almost no interaction when I post analytical Doctor Who stuff, whereas my meta gets reblogged and critiqued and it’s fun).

IDK, I guess I just lucked into acquiring connections to a bunch of blogs and bloggers that enjoy analysis and meta and are comfortable publicly interacting? That hasn’t happened much anywhere else.

[talkingparrotkee]

After seeing disagreeable claims critiquing the end of Wakanda Forever float around for the nth time, I felt like organizing my qualms and putting them neatly into another blog. These are just my musings.

"Shuri should've killed Namor! Sparing him was wrong!" I apologize for my harsh phrasing, but this is a horrible and brainless take, especially when it's from begrudged shippers or anti-Wakanda Forever recasters 😭. Whenever I see it, I can't help but wonder if anyone who says this or agrees genuinely likes and (especially) understands Namor and/or Shuri's actual characters. And no, I do not mean the surface aesthetic of or attraction to them.

If you knew and understood what kind of character Shuri (at least in the MCU) is, you would know why she spared Namor's life after nearly taking it. If you understood the important messages carefully baked into the film, you'd understand the writing choice of Shuri sparing Namor and Namor not being the "incorrigible villain who deserves death."

Asking the silly question of why she didn't kill him in the form of critique, or worse, saying she should have or somehow should give him hell after the fact (fortunately, a regressive immaturity neither character has), is a clear show of media illiteracy. It neglects both characters and at least one pillar theme of Wakanda Forever. If Shuri killed Namor, Talokan and Wakanda would unnaturally be eating away at each other for eternity, allowing the surface colonist nations to swoop in as the destabilization process was done for them. The true villains and enemies that put them in that situation where they collided with one another would gain access to their vibranium and technology. Game over.

Shuri Was Never In Her "Villain Era"

The simple answer, Shuri is not Wanda Maximoff 😊. Goodnight. (Author's note because someone was troubled by this tongue and cheek remark: I don't hate Wanda at all. I meant what I wrote: Shuri is not Wanda, just Wakandan. People want her to be Wanda and have a Wanda arc when she is not and will not. 🫡)

Even at the lowest of her low, Shuri is no villain. Shuri was just a young woman trying to find what kind of leader she was in the midst of grief, inner turmoil, and human anger. I don't know why some fans say she had a "villain era" or want her to canonically have a "villain era," but ok. That is not Shuri, nor would it have filled the hole in Shuri's heart, as said by Nakia. It was not just because it endangered Wakanda and would spearhead them in an eternal war either. Although, that is reason enough for Shuri not to kill Namor.

Who Princess Shuri Truly Is

Princess Shuri is a natural healer, teacher, and creator. Shuri loves, designs, creates, innovates, builds, and protects. Shuri has people who would die for her and trusts her to make the right choice in the end, faithfully standing beside her even when they recognize that the trajectory she currently set them on wasn't a good one. Why do you think this is? Because they know and trust Shuri. They know her brain is as big as her heart.

Shuri is not inherently destructive. That was the uncharacteristic result of her gripe with death (thinking it meant gone) and destructive handling of her grief. Ryan Coogler even pointed out how Shuri's state was unhealthy and dangerous. Shuri and Namor were both grieving and asking themselves painful questions.

That is why Killmonger is who appears to her. Killmonger is a violent, radical character (made that way by neglect, grief, loss, militaristic molding, and the suffering African Americans face) who almost carelessly sent Wakanda spiraling into mayhem. He became the people he hated, in the wise words of T'Challa, and was an unworthy king, in the wise words of Shuri. If such a man is comparing himself to Shuri and is who her subconscious elicited on the Ancestral Plane (which Shuri seems to be taking to her grave now, refusing to tell Nakia), maybe she's not doing alright? Just a thought!

This is also why Ramonda took her out by the river. It's why M'Baku said what he said at Ramonda's funeral. It is so she can mourn properly. So she could heal properly. Something she wasn't doing since the day T'Challa died.

Killing Namor would've destroyed her, not just her people. It wouldn't have sated her despite in her rightful anger, feeling it would. It would've just sent her past a point of no return.

"Show him who you are." Ramonda told her this after she struggled on her own with killing Namor. Why do you think Shuri hesitated even without Ramonda's influence (which was just her presence and reminding Shuri who she already was) yet? It didn't feel "right" to Shuri as their moment together (watching the Talokan sunrise), how Namor paralleled her, and how their people were alike flew through her mind's eye. Shuri hesitated, not because she was "soft" or "nonsensical mushy writing." Shuri saw what they were and what this was. She thought beyond herself. As Editor Michael P. Shawver said, Namor's line of, "only the most broken people can become great leaders" is what they focused on. It is what Shuri finally realizes at the bitter end. They relate. The narrative, characters, and actors all recognize this; I don't see how some audience members do not.

She and Namor were perpetuating the destructive cycle of grief and vengeance while setting that example for their people, but she was strong enough to pull herself up and break that chain. Then she offered her his hand for the sake of not only themselves, but their people. She saw firsthand the beauty of Talokan. Like Namor admired Wakanda in the beginning, she admired Talokan. She remembered her visit to Talokan in the mix of her nation's beauty.

"Vengance has consumed us. We cannot let it consume our people."

Not "my" people. Not "your" people. Our people.

Shuri realized many simple yet, at the same time, humanly complicated truths of how they had connectivity and were broken, trying to be the best leaders they could be. Neither of them was the villain but are what they were due to the bitter hand life dealt them and the situations they faced.

The Real Theme of Black Panther's Wakanda Forever

This movie also had clear themes of:

A) how POC/indigenous infighting sucks and is counterproductive

B) connectivity of black and brown, from culture to shared wounds

C) the scars of colonialization

Shuri killing Namor would defeat the carefully woven narrative and betray all these well-built things. I know some of you guys don't like to hear this, but Namor is not of the archetype of Killmonger, nor is he the real "villain," so he was handled accordingly.

“We talked to so many experts and really made relationships with them, because there was a lot to go through,” says Beachler. “There are a lot of parallels between Africans and Latin Americans as far as the colonization of their communities and cities, the enslavement of their people, the lies that were told about their culture, the misinterpretation of their words, and the ways they were made out to look demonized in order to elevate a European country.”

Shuri Getting Her Lick Back

"Shuri should've beaten Namor until-" or "She let him off the hook unpunished!" If you paid attention to the movie, you'd see she literally beat him within an inch of his life? She definitely did get her lick back just as Namor got his. Wanting her to get "more" licks after the fact is regressive.

Shuri:

isolated and trapped Namor to weaken and drain his energy

ferally clawed both of his wings, taking out his ability to fly

made him bleed and bruised him up

roasted him in a firey explosion, effectively charring him and rendering him temporarily paralyzed

Shuri didn't play patty cake with him; she made an immortal bleed and fear death. She had him gasping for air on his back at the mercy of her spear tip. She made him yield and call off the troops. She made an ally out of him on her terms who exalted her strength and is currently bandaged up, flightless, and awaiting to aid her (rather than striking first, waging war as originally wanted). It's more than enough and was the best course of action. What do you mean? What are you talking about?

[megumi-fm]

a list of english words and their meanings because the gre verbal section is kicking my ass

abject: to the maximum degree; (alternatively) completely without pride or dignity

absolve: wash away guilt, obligation, or punishment.

adroit: clever or skillful

apocryphal: of doubtful authenticity, although widely circulated as being true

apposition: the positioning of things side by side or close together

beholden: owing; being indebted or obligated (to someone)

belie: disguise; contradict; failing to give a true notion of something

bloviate: to talk pompously and at length

bucolic: relating to the pleasant aspects of the countryside and country life

circumscribe: to restrict within limits

clemency: mercy

cursory: hasty and therefore not thorough or detailed

derision: scornful ridicule or mockery

desiccate: to remove the moisture from (something)

didactic: intended primarily to teach rather than to entertain

dispensation: exemption from a rule or usual requirement

docile: compliant; obedient; submissive

egregious: outstandingly bad or shocking

emulate: match or surpass (a person or achievement), typically by imitation

entail: require; call for

entreaty: an earnest or humble request

ethos: the characteristic spirit of a culture, era, or community

foil: a person/thing that contrasts with (and as a result emphasizes) the qualities of another

garrulous: excessively talkative, especially on trivial matters

glib: fluent but insincere and shallow

gregarious: sociable; fond of company

hackneyed: overused and unoriginal

idyllic: extremely happy, peaceful or picturesque

imperil: endanger; put at risk of being harmed, injured, or destroyed.

implicate: show (someone) to be guilty or involved in a crime

incorrigible: (a person or habit) cannot be changed or reformed

inept: unskilled, incompetent

intrepid: fearless; adventurous (usually used in a humourous connotation)

irreconcilable: (of two ideas or statements) conflicting; contradictory to each other

jargon: special words or expressions used by a profession or group that are difficult for others to understand

libertine: someone (usually a man) who freely indulges in sensual pleasures without regard to moral principles

librettist: a person who writes the text of an opera or other long vocal works

logorrhea: excessive and often incoherent talkativeness or wordiness

loquacious: talkative

onerous: (of a task or responsibility) involving a great deal of effort, trouble, or difficulty; burdensome

ostentatious: characterized by pretentious or showy display; designed to impress

palpable: tangible; (an emotion or atmosphere) intense enough to be felt

pat: simplistic; superficial and unconvincing

patina: gloss or sheen (on the surface of a metal) due to age or polishing; impression or appearance of something

perfunctory: usually an action, carried out without real interest, feeling or effort

perusal: the action of reading or examining something; scrutiny

pervasive: something unwelcome spreading widely throughout an area or a group of people

philistine: hostile or indifferent to culture and the arts.

polemic: expressing or constituting a strongly critical attack on or controversial opinion about someone or something

poring: to be absorbed in reading or studying (something)

pragmatic: practical; realistic

profligate: extravagant or wasteful in the use of resources

pugnacity: readiness to quarrel or fight

ramification: complex or unwelcome consequence

reactionary: conservative; opposing political or social progress or reform

repudiation: refuse to accept; reject

reticent: reserved; introverted; withdrawn

reverence: deep respect for someone or something (used in religious connotation)

roiling: (for a liquid) to make turbid or to move in a turbulent manner

scant: barely sufficient or adequate

scrupulous: careful, thorough, and extremely attentive to details

skein: length of thread or yard, loosely coiled or knotted; strand; an element that forms part of a complex or complicated whole

skewer: fasten together or pierce with a pin or skewer; subject to sharp criticism or critical analysis

sporadic: scattered or isolated

spurious: bogus; something that is not what it claims to be

staid: solemn; grave; serious minded; quiet

subsume: absorb something into something else

sullen: bad-tempered and sulky

temerity: excessive confidence or boldness

tentative: not certain or fixed; unconfirmed; provisional

tout: attempt to sell or show the merit of something

trite: lacking originality or freshness

truculence: eager or quick to argue or fight

understate: describe or represent (something) as being smaller or less good or important than it really is

vignette: a short description or account of something that expresses its typical characteristics very clearly

[lunetual]

♡ HAPPY JOOHEON DAY ♡ i am wishing jooheon a really, really nice day. i imagine the monstas are back to being quite busy, but i hope that jooheon can take some time for himself and have some good old fashioned fun, whether that’s a night out on the town or a quiet evening spent relaxing.

quick cc note: HELLO... we’re in meg’s monsta bday graphics era :) who better to kick us off than THE incomparable and incorrigible JOOHONEY ONE HUNNIT? i admit to feeling a little bad because i know i so rarely post him on this blog, but i want you all to know that he lives, of course, in my heart along with like. the rest of the monstas.

to me, honey is like. okay so. i feel like kpoppies as a whole have gotten REAL used to throwing around the word “ace” and “all-rounder.” and like... sometimes... not that any idols in question are NOT extremely talented and probably excellent in several categories... but ARE they lee jooheon. jooheon to me is like, really a true ace in that he does it all and THEN some, and he does it all WELL. he outsings he outdances he outcomposes and outwrites and of COURSE he outraps. and on THAT subject! i have often said that they don’t make idol rappers like they used to and i stand by it. honey is a rapper who is also an (excellent) idol. there’s a reason that the monstas are so looked up to and well thought of in the industry, and honey is a huge, huge, part of it. and the thing is! he knows he’s good, right? and when he was younger, that came out in this brashness, a chip on his shoulder. but he’s mellowed a lot and i think now it’s more of a confidence where he doesn’t need to SHOW that he’s good because he knows and we all know he’s good. and as he’s said, he’s gained perspective through his time in the industry. i just think he’s grown up so well and into himself in such a beautiful way <- embarrassing and sappy.

i think the main thing that. really stands out to me about jooheon is the honesty in his music, especially his solo work. he lives and breathes music (every moment can be music!!!) and it shows. he can be so raw and direct that it’s like a punch in the gut. i don’t think i can explain what it’s like seeing him perform smoky live except to say that afterwards, you feel like you’ve been wrung out emotionally. i will always be so grateful to him for sharing that and laying his own struggles out bare in order to share and shoulder the burden.

i’m also grateful to him for the way he is the engine of monsta x, the way he is the heart of so much of their music, and i’m grateful for the way that even though he’s been through some really hard times and has found the courage to not only keep on walking, but to keep us by his side and let us have a look into his most vulnerable moments through his music.

i hope that he knows that! so many of us appreciate him and love him and really wish for his continued success and happiness. i for one can’t wait to see what’s still to come for honey, and like. not to be sappy but i’ll keep on walking with him wherever he happens to find himself headed.

[peridot-tears]

Time Travel AU: Be Gay, Solve Crimes

"Oi, is it true what they say? That you Frenchies are always raring for a good murder mystery?"

Time travel!AU where after Jacob kills Maxwell Roth, he blacks out from sheer exhaustion and smoke inhalation, only to wake up during the French Revolution. He quickly tags along with one Arno Victor Dorian, who's hot on the trail of whoever killed Jean Paul Marat, and he can't keep away even after Charlotte Corday is behind bars. In fact, he especially wants to stay when Arno teams up with Elise De La Serre -- "She doesn't want you as much as you want her, Arnie!"

After a revolution ends and a new era begins under Napoleon, Arno finds himself turning to Jacob as his closest confidante. "Though you may be boorish and reckless, there must be a reason that you're somehow still miraculously alive to bother me."

("This coming from the man who killed a bunch of men just for wine," Jacob scoffs.)

After a long and tumultuous courtship that they try to label as "frenemies," except in 19th-century French, they become dual Master Assassins who serve the people of France -- and the people of England, because fuck Napoleon and fuck the King too -- and make their relationship official.

And they were dual Master Assassins. Oh my God, they were dual Master Assassins.

They spend the rest of their lives sneaking and assassinating, trying to bridge the gap between Assassins and Templars, and though they ultimately fail, their attempts were so influential, even the biggest fanatics of both sides speak their names with respect.

Once they've retired to the Alps as old men, they spend their days in leisure, until the day they go to bed holding hands, and never wake up.

Except Jacob does wake up.

Evie is at his bedside, scolding him for his recklessness, and it's 1860s London again.

He recovers quickly, considering the tragedy that just befell him. Maxwell Roth is dead. That's a pity. Jacob has known better love and a better man than Maxwell Roth.

Even if that man was just a dream.

Until the day he breaks into the rest of Twopenny's personal collection, where he sees several original portraits of the French Revolution. A sharp-eyed painter from that time had managed to spot two men in the crowd -- Jacob finds himself staring at his own face, hiding in plain sight, and though the head of the man beside him is turned, he would recognize that scar anywhere.

And what sharp eyes that painter had. Jacob sees himself in this painting. That painting. Several paintings throughout the years, given away by small tells that only Jacob himself would recognize: The familiar swoop of Arno's frame as he sidestepped a guard. Jacob's godawful sans-culottes disguise. In the blurry distance, Arno performing a leap of faith, given away only by a gold and blue plumage unusual for a bird in Paris.

I'm here, he thinks. I'm really here.

Familiar steps sound the hall behind him.

Jacob ducks behind the painting; it's merely a worker in the building, coming to make sure the collection is as untouched as it has always been. He looks bored. He looks like Arno.

His hair may be cropped, and his scar may be gone -- the sign, perhaps, of a life that's dealt him a kinder hand -- but that bored look has not changed. It's Arno. He's been reborn, somehow.

That can't be it. Arno's gone. Jacob died with him. But Jacob is here, Jacob thinks to himself.

It's too much. And besides, Twopenny's paintings are rubbish, anyway. But Arno-not-Arno won't leave. He's lingering at the paintings, eyeing the details of the brushstrokes with light interest. He always was incorrigible when it came to purveying the arts.

Jacob tries to sneak past him -- Arno-not-Arno's ears practically prick, sharp as the man Jacob married, and Jacob finds himself grabbing him from behind, knocking him out gently.

He lingers just long enough to prop him up by the painting, smoothing out his hair, tucking him in with a nearby tarp because it's winter, Arno will get cold. He can practically hear Arno scolding him for his poor choice of fabric. "That barely insulates anything," he would say.

"It's the thought that counts," Jacob says.

He tips his hat, and escapes the building.

[theluckywizard]

Happy dadwc! Let's have "You cannot stain a black coat. -Nicholas Nickelby" from the Dickens prompts, for Kirkwall-era Garrett Hawke?

Thank youuuu! I also incorporated these twin prompts from @about2dance and @bluewren for @dadrunkwriting

This inspired a scene in my MatchmakingMoms!AU where Leandra Hawke and Alsatia Trevelyan are trying to fix up Garrett and Rose, their incorrigible adult children who have no interest in getting fixed up. Context: Dougal is coming to extort more money and effectively interrupted Hawke's introduction to Rose. Hawke is off to deal with him with his friends. WC: 2,211 Characters: Garrett Hawke, Isabela, Fenris, Merrill, Varric, Dougal, Aveline, Anders. Rose Trevelyan, Alsatia Trevelyan and Leandra Hawke are implied. Ship: Garrett Hawke x Aveline Vallen (unrequited)

Striding along the snow dusted streets of Hightown in the clink of his armor and mail, Hawke’s mind bounces between the impertinence of Dougal and the ill-fated introduction he’d just endured. His friends all seem to be waiting for him to say something, unusually short on quips considering everything going on. He glances at them, testing his theory and in spite of their varying moods, their brows all lift inquiringly.

“I don’t know. I mean you saw her. She looked as pinched as every other blazing noblewoman I’ve met, but there was something about her expression—” Hawke says starting right in, swinging along the tidy streets of Hightown toward the lower market where Fenris says Varric is running interference. “She— smirked.”

“She smirked.” Fenris’ flat tone is somehow flatter. Hawke thinks back on her momentarily. Truthfully he couldn’t see well beyond the severity of her coif and gown, but she had pleasant enough face he supposes. He hadn’t been paying much attention until she smirked. And then his friends foisted themselves upon them all. 

“Yeah, her smirk. I mean I can’t blame her. I am me. But it was— nice. And… weirdly familiar.”

“Pinched she may be, but that girl’s been plucked,” remarks Isabela with a wry twist of her lips. 

“What do you mean she’s been plucked?” asks Merrill. “Because she’s a Rose?”

“Yes, because she’s a Rose,” answers Hawke, grinning stupidly.

“She’s had sex,” hisses Isabela to Merrill.

“Ohhh. How do you know she’s— well— been plucked?” asks Merrill.

“I just know,” smiles the Rivaini.

“Anyway. Surely she and her enterprising mother will take a hint after another day or two and flee back to Ostwick,” says Hawke, rather eager to be rid of the intrusion this first holiday alone. They’re certainly in no need of the audience as he and his mother feel out how to be fabulously wealthy and normal all at once.

“You are humoring your mother,” observes Fenris like it’s the strangest thing. “Couldn’t you tell her no?

“Not this time. The mother’s an old friend. And I’m a sucker for seeing my mother rekindling old friendships after everything. The aren’t many who will associate with her after her infamous flight to Ferelden. Even all these years later. And no amount of gilding will cover up that stain.”

“You’re a good son, Hawke,” says Merrill. “I thought she looked lovely.”

“Yes, my mother is a delight,” teases Hawke. 

Merrill smacks him with the back of her hand. “That Rose girl.”

“She was fine I suppose. Nothing that could tempt me outright I don’t think. But fine.”

Dougal and his horde of unwashed brutes loiter restlessly in the Guild Quarter, heavily armed and bearing torches. Varric wisely stands to one side with enough space between him and the gang that he can’t be jumped without pulling Bianca first. Dougal himself is cursed with an unearned sense of confidence, eyes glittering over the warped smile on his face 

“You’re only missing pitchforks,” Hawke says with an affable smile.

“We’re missing a little more than that.”

“Says you. We had an agreement,” says Hawke, reaching casually for the weapon of one of Dougal’s henchmen. The young dwarf, not knowing what to do with such a bold, unconcerned incursion, allows it. Hawke inspects it and hands it back to him, ruffling his hand in the hair of the dwarf. 

“I’ve seen the spoils of your expedition,” says Dougal. “The lavish estate. The fine furnishings. I think I deserve a larger share of your fortune. Fair is fair, right?”

“I’ll be the last one to say we should have listened to Bartrand,” interjects Varric. “But we should have listened to Bartrand.”

“Isn’t this a conversation we should have had— say— eight months ago?” asks Hawke.

“What can I say. Things have gone poorly for me and I’m a bitter man,” says Dougal, inspecting his stubby fingers.

“So you admit to being a shit investor and then come slithering my way thinking you can make me cough up more?” asks Hawke, his amusement supreme.

“Now you’re getting it,” says Dougal.

“And if I say no?” says Hawke, crossing his arms. He’s already counted the opposition— twelve excluding the man himself who would doubtlessly hide behind his muscle. Daggers and hammers and crossbows. Leather armor at least. He feels a swell of pity for the goons that have fallen in with this slimeball. Most of them are just trying to make it in this town the same way he was. And Maker, he’d really rather not kill anyone tonight of all nights.

“Let’s just say that I’d hate to see something happen to that lovely mother of yours who spends all together too much time alone. A hundred sovereigns and you can make this go away.”

“Extortion’s never really been a favorite of mine, you know,” says Hawke cheerfully, drawing his sword from its sheath on his back. He tosses it lightly in a little show, admiring how the brazier light flashes on each side of the fuller. “But shameless creature that I am, I suppose I’m tough to blackmail. You can’t stain a black coat.”

“A man does what he must,” says Dougal, easy amongst his squad of stabby goobers. 

“You’ve already interrupted Hawke’s special day,” says Isabela with her usual wry grin. “Now you’re threatening to kill his mother?”

“Special day?” asks Dougal.

Hawke rolls his eyes lightly. “It’s not that special.”

“Well now you have to tell me,” says the rat.

“If you must know—” Hawke begins.

“Hawke’s mother is trying to set him up with a wife,” finishes Merrill, utterly delighted.

“Oh?” Dougal’s brow arches high and then he laughs, a pitying one that echoes off the cornices and columns until it devolves into wheezes. He clutches his side, recovering himself while his men chuckle along dutifully. “Well it’s a good thing I’m claiming my due now. She’ll drain your coffers dry and run off with the stable boy.”

Hawke snorts at the man's confident advice. “Today is not your day,” he says, smiling as he slips his shield onto his left arm. “Why don’t you let all these nice people head along home to their lovely spouses and fight me head to head like the Maker intended?”

“You and I both know I pay good coin for this back up.”

“Good, is it?” Hawke asks. He turns to the men. “I’ll pay you double this month’s wages to fuck right off right now! Toss in a wheel of cheese for your trouble!”

“You can’t buy their loyalty. They’re all family!” laughs Dougal. “Though maybe you don’t quite understand. I heard you notoriously lost your family during your little expedition.”

“Bold blazing words from an actual turkey. Come on then. Let’s get this over with,” says Hawke stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders in preparation before flipping down his visor. He sees the faint the shimmer of Merrill’s barrier hugging him as he invites the onslaught, pounding on his shield to draw them upon him. 

By now his crew is well aware of his distaste for outright murder. He’d seen Varric and Isabela’s precision— pinning culprits to walls with bolts and removing armor with surgical slashes of blades. And Fenris had mercifully learned to execute a relatively delicate little pop on the head when needed. Merrill summons her fantastically freaky tendrils and wraps them up as needed. Hawke is appreciative of their restraint considering.

“I don’t suppose anyone had the forethought to fetch Aveline?” asks Hawke, sending assailants tumbling back with aggravated nudges of his elbow and bashes of his shield.

“Blondie went for her,” says Varric, ducking under a triplet.

“I wish he’d hurry the blazes up,” says Hawke, glancing down at the blood pooling in his mail under his gauntlet. “Fuck.” He shakes his arm out like it might make it feel better and then gets right back to it.

It's Dougal’s numbers versus the eclectic capabilities of Hawke’s crew. The clash carries on long enough that everyone involved starts getting loose and careless in their movements, the early snap of battle settling into a languor as everyone starts hankering after stamina pots and lyrium draughts. Hawke flips his visor up to swipe sweat from his brow.

“So how’d you know this girl anyhow?” asks Dougal, sashaying lightly away from one of Merrill’s grabby vines.

“Daughter of a family friend,” grunts Hawke, shoving one back with the flat of his foot against the poor sod’s stomach. Convenient to be so tall in a fight against dwarves.

“Does she have a nice set of badonkers, at least?” inquires Dougal.

“Acceptable,” remarks Isabela, stepping on her unconscious quarry as she binds his wrists behind him. “Hard to tell underneath those bloody stays that are getting so popular these days.”

“She was perfectly prim,” insists Merrill, cracking the head of a cheeky bastard with her staff.

“You’re all getting ahead of yourselves,” says Hawke, hovering somewhere between exasperation and unbridled laughter. “I have about as much chance of settling down with her as I have sprinting up Viscount’s court in my birthday suit.”

“Hawke,” says Fenris in the simplest challenge.

“Well all right, through the Chantry then.”

“Hawke,” says Isabela, eyebrow raised as she disarms another assailant, kicking their blade far across the stones. 

“You don’t really believe that I’d—“

“Hawke,” says Varric, tilting his head in amazement.

“You do something one time!” he grumbles, knocking back the last goon between him and Dougal hard enough that the blighter doesn’t even get up.

“You’re not going to kill me,” says Dougal, backed against a wall. “You’re soft. Effective but soft.”

“You don’t know that,” says Hawke. “Maybe I want to get back to future wife with the badonkers. I’d get there faster if I stuck you with my sword.”

“Everybody knows your soft, Hawke,” says Dougal, dodging the admittedly lazy thrusts of Hawke’s blade. “Maybe if you’d been quicker to kill you wouldn’t have had to make a deal with me.”

“For Maker’s sake,” mutters Hawke, deftly cornering Dougal with renewed fire and squashing him against the wall with the flat of his blade. “Do I talk this much?”

“Yes!” comes the hollered chorus. 

“You can’t get rid of me so easy,” says Dougal, glancing at his subdued henchmen. “There’s only two ways to make me go away.”

“Three, actually,” comes a blessed voice from across the yard. The shuffling sound says she came with reinforcements. Dougal’s head falls back in annoyance.

“It’s my word against yours, Hawke,” he spits.

“When’s the last time you did a favor for the Viscount?” Hawke asks with a grin. “Or are you going to extort him too?”

“Not a bad bit of rescuing, if I do say so myself,” says Anders, attending to Fenris who mutters a string of Tevinter curses while a laceration in his side gets a dose of luminescent relief.

Aveline’s guards shackle the ones writhing in pain and check those who have already been trussed up. Hawke asks Anders to work on the most dire of Dougal’s injured goons, eager to relish in being the bigger man.

“Well, Hawke. Can’t say I’ll shed any tears about this one,” says Aveline come alongside Hawke. 

He feels a shadow of the same thrill he once got when she came around, but her indifference to him has at last settled permanently within him, the disappointment sticking like a splinter too deep.

“He threatened Mother," says Hawke, "Like a common hoodlum."

“The worst crime of all,” says Aveline with a wry little smile. “Give my best to Leandra.”

“Didn’t you hear? Leandra is hosting Hawke’s future wife,” chimes in Isabela.

“And she’s lovely!” adds Merrill, earnestly excited.

“Future wife, Hawke?” asks Aveline. “Leandra must be beside herself.”

Hawke’s eyes roll deeply back into their sockets. “They’re visiting for the week. An old friend and her daughter. Figure I’ll spend a little extra time down in Lowtown this week.”

“Aw, Hawke. What if she’s nice? You could use a nice girl,” says Aveline

“Like a singing, dancing bogfisher,” gazing at Aveline doubtfully.

She shakes her head at him in that same Maker-forsaken sisterly way she always has, but he has to acknowledge there’s some truth to it. His romantic heart has too long been preoccupied and alone, fixating on an impractical mirage. He daydreams of something. A secret intimacy of terrible jokes and favorite touches. Of lazy mornings and shared investigations. But he doubts the finicky creature who smirked at him once would be the woman for the job. There isn’t space in this life of his for anyone who can’t keep pace with his nonsense.

Hawke glances around at the carnage— a rather tidy victory, he admits— barely a mess for the street sweeps to cope with, and little more than a sweat broken. He remembers the stab wound near his elbow and shakes out his forearm and hand again before downing a mild healing pot and making a note to dress it at home.

“Watch your coffers, Hawke,” warns Dougal with a smirk as he’s hauled away.

“Better hurry on back,” says Aveline again with that same teasing diffidence.

Hawke snorts softly and thanks her for her timely aid. He makes everyone promise to bother him at the Hanged Man later where he’ll be taking refuge from the machinations of his mother and the elder Trevelyan woman.

Varric comes up alongside him and pats his back, fully aware of the long misery that’s in the midst of flickering out at last. “Come on, Chuckles. I’ll walk you home.”

[southshrouded]

Numbers 20 and 33 for Ceres and Ton please? :>

answers from the WoL Question Set

20. What one-liner pick-up line would your WoL use on someone they like?

Tonkatsu is an incorrigible flirt, let's get that out of the way first. She's absolutely the sort of person who would use something like "how could such a beautiful blossom be left by themselves on a night like tonight? come, let me be your branch so that I may show your incandescent inflorescence to the world." or something.

but if it's for someone she like likes? lol. lmao. the poor girl needs a teleprompter. Ceres, on the other hand, isn't a pick-up line sort. her technique is one of hair-twirling, deep-gazing, subtle-giggling until you either vacate the seat she's been coveting or you give her your linkpearl number. an absolute menace. 33. What would your WoL's limit break call-out be? Tonkatsu, DPS: "O sky afire, gift unto me a wandering star to burn the eyes of mine enemies! Guide my shot true! SEARING SAGITTARIUS SHOWER!!" <- Chuunibyo era Tonkatsu, Tank: "Absolutely not." <- learned some restraint Ceres, DPS: "This has taken foreverrr, I'm booored. Take this, and piss off!" (the biggest meteor you've ever seen)

[thepoeticbubble]

The sky awakens , blurred by the fog of darling bruised hearts ,overgrazed to an extent of incorrigible erosion. With every tarnishing heart beat,the flesh slides down to Plaines from steep hills of love

Life's slowly being dethroned , cryogenically stuffed among the sparkling stars .

My abhorrence for such surrounding atmosphere of loneliness elongates, my Mind cold-worked by frequent forging Carried out with the hammers of longings for the lost , miniaturizing my grains to mimick what people call heart of stone - rigid and brittle

Meanwhile The earth has been succumbed under the carpet of snow,the soil refrigerated, the world in dire need for sunbeams .

I wonder when when summer subsides the atrocities of winter, does any arm raise to salute to deliver the gratitude for such unbiased distribution of light in soft beams ?

I crawl in , back to incised trunk of chinar, peep through the void where every banjaxed insect , tensed and frost bitten mutters freedom. Maybe the branches were never agreeable to the departure of leaves in tortoise like trains, but since no one agreed to see them off to a metro station ,leaves bid oblong farewell , with no visible signs to retreat and jewel the branches again swiftly. I mean, the winter has been long!

The unending braid of cockroaches stretch out , in the court where no one stands ready to present the alibi,pretending as if sun was never seen before its burglary, the winter grins like shark with conical teeth ,for its successful dominance over all earthlings by injecting strong dozes of indolence .

My sight shrinks , the icicles droop , clinging down my eyelashes, the weight shuts down my eyelids, the darkness spreads over the half burnt toasted life.

The weather exhumes my hope , Fetches it in morbidly sealed vessels, a vague hint of being metaphorically disembodied. I'm claustrophobic !

I envision the rooftop becoming stale, nut bolts relaxing to loosen, like a loaf of bread decaying gruesomely on exposure to chunks of moisture laden ache. I choke at the thought of sky falling down without any resistance to offer overhead, my cartilage stretches out open drenched in blood to write a prosaic to at least Guarantee a journal to whoever rambles in an around that domicile.

Sometimes, I become apprehensive at a small thought of being put in rack full of dusty documents entitled "missing", in a congested junk room, unopened from an era.

To be missing ! I don't even have slight expectation that in my lodged case anyone could present satisfactory sketch of my existence, that anyone could have Any possible approximation of my last location so the document could read with detailed description of where I was last found. I will disappoint all the detectives appointed on my search, I'm sure,

It's a horrible experience to feel like a ciphertext that people can't decipher. To feel like you are written in bold but nobody can read what's written. A heart with a password that nobody has access to.

So, I write myself in red, It's cumbersome to read your own thesis then compile yourself, put references at end. But i love it, swear by the God who pronounced white snow as my slate.

Snow as slate! Hah

How could my chalk work any other way , the winter is for a reason, god created a vast white cold notebook for me, I see at 360 degree angle and every where i see is a ground where I can write, write and write in unending verses of rhymes.

I do not diplomatically conform my perception of cold winters, my admiration is still bare minimum, but I am writer! I recollect

I can be the carpenter who fixes the sun with the timbre of my art during this season and elicit a warm blanket of words for my self.

I rephrase myself , world is just in dire need of a poet -who is sunbeam in itself.

-tabish.j /excerpt from book/

[wellntruly]

M*A*S*H - Viewguide, S8

Are you interested in the long-running anti-war situation tragicomedy M*A*S*H (1972-1983), but there are simply so many asterisks and so many episodes?

Well I can’t help you with the asterisks, but nor can I help myself: I started watching all 11 seasons of M*A*S*H, and bringing back for you my viewing selections, chosen for The Qualities.

— — —

Season 8: Klinger stops wearing dresses and it immediately sets this whole edifice on the fucking wobble.

Maybe this season more than any set I’ve put together yet I’m aware could give an entirely different impression if I’d picked even just a couple different episodes than I did. As is, I made my selections by asking the following questions: Is it good? Is it interesting? And, Does it make me want to slap it up on the x-ray illuminator, point at it, and yell, “What!!?” If you (an episode) reach two of these criteria, you’re in!

Enjoy this more petite but dare I say piquant collection:

M*A*S*H - Season 8 Recommended sequence

8x04-05 ‘Goodbye To Radar, Parts 1 & 2’ - Although they, curiously, did not, we gotta start here. M*A*S*H has finally figured out how to do a farewell episode for a departing cast member, and it’s for my ridiculous sincere little buddy Radar. 💔 Ohh man, if you wanna talk end of an era!! Gary Burghoff as Corporal O’Reilly has been with this show from when it was a Robert Altman movie, almost just fucking molecularly, he IS M*A*S*H, and it’s only through a neat bit of acting Gary pulls that I was able to find a little bit of peace with it: here at long last, Radar O’Reilly finally feels like he’s grown up. It’s time for him to leave home. But I’m gonna miss him!!

8x06 ‘Period of Adjustment’ - Incredibly, we had this chat, and then the very next episode I watch is this one. LOL. This episode looked me straight in the eye and said “‘I could fix him’ well I could make him worse <3,” and then left my ass in pieces. Just, come here, be here with me. Pull up a patch of floor. We’ve got this one on the light box. 

8x09 ‘Mr. and Mrs. Who’ - And now for something completely different: something so familiar. Remember years ago when like half of M*A*S*H episodes were about goofy half-forgotten drunken escapades on R&R interwoven with a sticky little medical problem the doctors are trying to solve under adverse conditions? For one night only, we’re bringing that back! Get your tix.

8x11 ‘Life Time’ - Honk honk! EXPERIMENTATION STATION. Alan Alda co-writes a 25 minute real-time surgical episode with their medical consultant, actual doctor Walter Dishell, M.D. When that little ticking clock face chyron got tossed up in the corner, oh girlie, absolutely. Also notable for BJ fully transporting back to his first season thoughtful sad sweetie register (??) (!), and, since it’s not otherwise a cold episode, Alda coming up with a localized reason for at least him personally to still get to pretend to be cold.

8x15 ‘Yessir, That’s Our Baby’ - A baby is left at the MASH, and every man in camp is immediately like, (tenderly) I AM MOM. Unmissable. Unbelievable. I am torn between laughing, cooing, and the I GUESS!!! guy.

8x23 ‘War Co-Respondent’ - After his very rewarding directorial debut last season, Mike Farrell returns to the chair with a script of his own this time, and it’s a jewel! Witty and referential, from Cole Porter lyrics to how in Charles’s first season his and BJ’s great war was Massachusetts vs. California. And that’s not all Farrell hearkens to in M*A*S*H past: Hawkeye as an incorrigible yet endearing flirt (it’s the shamelessness), and how whenever BJ has struck a Romantic figure, capital R, it’s always been so rooted in his quietness. Mike...!

8x22 ‘Dreams’ - Everyone’s SO COLD and been working for two sleepless days straight, and as it finally eases just enough for them to start covering for each other’s naps, said naps are all strange nightmares about war surgery. That’s right, it’s Alda again (could you tell by the overcoats? and TRAUMA?) and god, he really effectively renders the way dreams can seem kind of banal and then just bend at the wrong angles. Of course my favorite of the season, and your unusual, haunting finale.

Season 1 • Season 2 • Season 3 • Season 4 • Season 5 • Season 6 • Season 7 • Season 8 • To be continued

#M*A*S*H hours

[burningcrab]

the blaseball zine jam is over! i ended up doing quite a lot (and yet still not as much as i hoped to do! same as it ever was.) collected here is every zine i contributed to, and a few bonus little recommendations :)

suns out, guns out (page 55) - a magi ruiz/alaynabella hollywood story for the season 24 zine THE END! it’s about the game where magi used the equal sun to nullify the equal sun. also i wrote it in exactly 26 minutes and 54 seconds, the length of that game, because i wanted enrichment and had a very tight deadline

they turn the light on and it’s burning up the sky (page 48) - another magi/layna piece, because i’m incorrigible. this time it’s my playlist for them, annotated for the playlist zine radio immateria. it has a lot of lyrics that connect to their story and their messed-up relationship, along with some little author’s notes about those connections. i’m really happy with how it turned out.

highway to hell(mouth) (page 6) - a story about alaynabella hollywood and howell franklin’s road trip to the hellmouth when he gets traded for brisket friendo! it’s a silly piece for the travel zine The Open Road - which i also organized and very hastily assembled last night. it’s a sweet zine with lots of great pieces from friends of mine. check it out!

look at me (page 46) - a new IRM for deceased core mechanics player ruffian applesauce, made for the letters from the rumour mill zine. she’s a horrible teenager who wants to kiss fellow horrible teenager york silk and it’s about coming back home and realizing everyone you’ve hurt is still there. and then dying without fixing it. i love her very much.

the smallest gap (page 14) - an interpretation of feedback weather for REALITY FLICKERS, a do-this-in-your-style zine. it was vaguely EEAAO-inspired and is about two unnamed players who meet over and over again in the time it takes to run to second base. it’s funky and weird and i like it a lot!

time and time again (page 30) - a shortish piece for the fanteam zine The Yourplace Ourfolks. it’s about two players for the Nevada Timekeepers, unwilling maintenance people for the temporal anomaly that swallowed their home. it’s also about not wanting to talk about work until you’ve had your coffee. it’s also about geological eras with respect to dinosaurs. i like them :)

the garages section (page 14) of the tales from the short circuits zine! the garages went through several iterations in the circuits — some folk-punk musicians in an orchard with crashed spaceships, apocalypse survivors navigating a wasteland on an endless train, and space pirate radio DJs who broke the universe! read about them and many other teams here.

that’s everything i contributed to, but if you want even more zines to read, i recommend these!

the kansas city dispatches, a hilarious postmortem look at jon halifax’s time in the ILB. imagine if agent 47 from hitman had hair, sucked at his job, and died when a cowboy tried to shoot him and missed. now go read this zine because it’s even better than that!

The Salt, a truly incredible alternate-universe work set in a lost circuit, where the halifax region has become a massive salt flat. it’s got amazing character work, worldbuilding, art, and so much writing that all tells a beautiful story. i can’t recommend it enough.

Salmon and Snake, the product of months of work by my dear friend sonder. it’s a season 25 1 AU where everything (well, not everything) resets to season 1, the rosters shuffle, and the game proceeds just like it did. it’s more than i can possibly explain here, just check it out!

and of course, every other zine (over fifty! holy shit!) in the blaseball zine jam 2022 deserves your love. it’s been buckwild and i can’t believe how much stuff we all made

[believerindaydreams]

I couldn't stand not having more crossover from hell to read and unfortunately that means I have to write it

"I miss home," Harry says, quite in his cups. They do an exotic fermented brew in the Mojave that's entirely peculiar, but also entirely satisfactory for the purposes of getting drunk.

Damn it, he deserves this. They both do.

"I don't," the Doctor says. After three ginger beers he's perhaps a little flushed, but it would be hard to tell in the Atomic Wrangler's dubious lighting. "Skaro's not half so dull. Or smug. Or- were we not talking about you? I believe we were."

Harry nods, very solemnly, aware he's falling back into the stiff officer dignity trained into him at Portsmouth. "And I don't even know which one I miss. I don't think I could stand 1911 again, with all that history weighing me down like a- like a..."

"Like a heavy thing," the Doctor helpfully completes.

"Quite. And then there was...there was...what year was it when we left? I've forgotten."

"You can't expect me to remember everything," the Doctor says huffily. "I've visited quite a few years, I'll have you know."

"Well, didn't you ever want to pick out one and settle down a while?" He takes a quick look around to see if anyone might be watching their anomalous conversation, but the other patrons seem equally preoccupied with their own concerns. Mostly downing drinks. He takes another healthy gulp of his own.

"Perhaps I might have tried it if I hadn't been imprisoned in yours," the Doctor says, scowling. Harry catches his breath; he's always had an eye for men, there's no denying that, but never before had it been so starkly undeniable. The way the Doctor's wry, mobile face flickers through expressions will keep amazing him every time.

"Well, one of mine. Can't say I'd have held out too much hope for England's chances if we'd had as many alien invasions at the start of the century as the end."

"You weren't interesting enough back then," the Doctor says crushingly. "Pre-spaceflight civilisations simply aren't."

Never mind defending the honour of his native era, Harry decides. He'd undoubtedly lose track of the argument halfway through. Again. "But UNIT wasn't right either. I kept fantasizing about buying out my commission and running off to some little village where they didn't have all these ghastly cars. Or supermarkets."

"We're on a planet without supermarkets or cars," the Doctor observes, crunching a piece of ice. "Does that make you happy?"

Harry gives that a serious thought. "Yes. It does, actually. I don't feel utterly out of my depth, but neither am I itching for developments that haven't happened yet."

"All of the companions I could have been stuck on Skaro with, and somehow I have the one who thinks the planet is a good idea. How perfectly incorrigible."

But he's smiling as he says it.

"And speaking of incorrigible- shall we go see how Sarah's getting on?"

[real-life-cryptid]

The guild is very funny to me because it's a group of people where every member in the group thinks they are the smartest person in there and that everyone else is an incorrigible stupid little freak who's playing right into their master plans and is nothing but a mere pawn in the grand scheme of things. It's like that one neopets image where the user says "wow this place is a freak show. I don't respect literally any of you people." They're so good because they are so cartoonishly Disney level evil. Their dynamic reminds me of those Disney skits of the villain club where characters like Scar and Ursula snark with each other and try to outdo who can be more gay and horrible to children. They are weirdoes who live in a flying ship named the Moby dick and wear victorian era clothing who drink tea together because their boss will fire them if they don't. They all hate each other and would sell each other out for a single cornchip. They all think they are playing 4d chess with each other when in reality literally no one cares about what they do. They are the embodiment of rich people who are so out of touch with the rest of society and just do whatever they want. They are the opposite of found family. They are my best friends, my enemies, my girlfriends, my wives, my baby girls, my problematic favs ❤️

YOU GET IT FORREAL . THIS IS IT GUYS THIS IS THE ONE

[grandhotelabyss]

Excellent question! I admittedly haven't looked into a physical dictionary in 20 years, but I grew up with the second edition of Webster's New Universal Unabridged, a Christmas present from my mother when I was about eight or nine. I once put it on a bathroom scale; I think it weighed 40 pounds. It was too big to grip, exactly: you had to rest it in your lap or on the floor. I don't have it anymore, but you can get the very book for $25 on eBay.

Like many writers, I did read the dictionary as a child. (I was young in the era when, as a matter of principle, no adult would ever tell a child the meaning of a word. They would say, "You know where the dictionary is!" Where was Wittgenstein to tell them that we really wanted to know not what the word meant but how to use it?) In the Webster's, though, I favored not the dictionary proper but two appendices, one glossing common foreign-language expressions and one a guide to mythical or legendary person- and place-names. I would pore over the foreign phrases, hence my incorrigible habit, despite my being a fairly incompetent linguist, of spicing my prose with words from other lexes. And the glossary of myth gave me many a name for superheroes, supervillains, and superterritories in my hand-written, hand-drawn, hand-folded, and hand-stapled comic books. Speaking of comic books, I believe Alan Moore once said the ultimate grimoire is the dictionary.

[watching-pictures-move]

The Roger Moore Morally Compromised Mini-Marathon | Shout at the Devil (Hunt, 1976), Gold (Hunt, 1974) & The Wild Geese (McLaglen, 1978)

Mild spoilers below.

There's plenty you'll have to wince through when watching Shout at the Devil, which depicts the African continent as a playground for white adventurers, which relentlessly infantilizes its black characters while lingering over their dead bodies after they've been violently killed, which has as its most prominent African character a mute played by a white actor who is all too eager to hang villagers, and which has a character go undercover in blackface during the climax, as a cherry on top of a big ol' racist sundae. And this is not to mention that it asks us to root for an entirely self-interested ivory smuggler and features a poaching sequence so exuberant that the heroes are practically high-fiving each other as they kill a shitload of elephants. (Although a disclaimer assures us no animals were harmed during the making of the movie.) Unsurprisingly, the movie was produced in Apartheid era South Africa.

But I think Roger Ebert in his review, despite glossing over the film's issues, gets at its essence pretty succinctly, correctly noting that it's about the unironic embrace of jungle adventure movie with all its pleasures and idiosyncrasies. And if you can wince through all those aforementioned elements (and it's perfectly okay if you can't), you find much to enjoy here, starting with the team-up of Lee Marvin and Roger Moore, in incorrigible scoundrel mode and dashing but self-deprecating mode, respectively. Even the introduction of Barbara Parkins as Marvin's daughter and Moore's love interest doesn't sink the film, as Parkins is able to complement both of their performances pretty nicely and give the movie a bit of heart. Everybody knows all girls have cooties, but Parkins and the movie take measures to mitigate their spread.

There's also the fact that Peter Hunt, who directed one of the best Bond movies and edited a few others of similar pedigree, is a really good action director. There's one great scene where the heroes ambush a German convoy going down a hill, and the sense of diagonal movement snowballs, powered by both the astute editing and the unexpectedly gruesome violence, which, along with all the dicier elements, makes this feel like an exploitation movie despite the A-grade production values.

Compared to Shout at the Devil, Gold, an earlier collaboration between Peter Hunt and Roger Moore is maybe a bit easier to get through, in that it offers some semblance of self critique for choosing to film in Apartheid South Africa. Here, the gold mining industry is depicted as a purely amoral enterprise, the kind that is happy to kill off its own employees for short term gain, or, you could infer, maybe do business with a repressive regime. And it shows at least nominal sympathy for its black characters (and treats them as actual characters). A lot of the movie is about traversing through corporate politics, which I probably find more interesting to watch than the average viewer (a bizarre side effect of being a business major), although it must be said that Moore has great chemistry with his co-star Susannah York, and we get a pretty appealing performance from Ray "Dial M for Murder" Milland as the gruff patriarch. Hunt's talents as an editor are somewhat underused, but I like the way he presents the mine as one big machine, with a series of moving parts working in unison, all integral to its proper functioning. All that being said, the fate meted out to the villains feels like something from a dumber movie, and for some reason there's a Bond style theme song and opening credit sequence but with gold mining instead of racy silhouettes. (If you want more serious Moore, I'll recommend The Man Who Haunted Himself, which makes a pretty nice case for his acting talents and gives him some unexpected vulnerability. Also, he has a mustache.)

And of course I had to cap off my Roger Moore morally compromised mini-marathon with a rewatch of The Wild Geese, a movie that I've grown a real affection for, thanks to both familiarity, and the fact I'm a sucker for these old school men on a mission movies. Listen, the politics here are awful, and even more cringeworthy is the movie's attempt to hide it by pairing the deposed African president the heroes rescue with the most racist member of the group. Winston Ntshona and Hardy Kruger, the actors playing the president and the racist, respectively, both took their roles hoping for a serious movie about racism and African geopolitics. That seriousness did not materialize in the finished film, which resolves these issues with a quick conversation by the one hour thirty-two minute mark, at which point it can get back to shooting and blowing stuff up. For what it's worth, Ntshona and Kruger are actually committing to the material, and Kruger is especially good, although the movie plays its hand by allowing Kruger to articulate his mixture of racial resentment and isolationist views with unusual clarity while saddling Ntshona with vague platitudes. (And if you think racism is the movie's only questionable stance, it also relentlessly pokes fun at the one gay character, although it does eventually give him some good scenes.)

A bit easier to enjoy, perhaps at the movie's expense, are the presence of Richards Burton and Harris. I understand both of them were not allowed to drink during the production, and while I am not a good enough judge of alcoholism to tell if they look hungover from sneaking sips at night between shooting hours, or angry because they haven't been able to drink, there's an undeniable booze-adjacent contempt in their performances. (For what it's worth, Harris looks more cheerful, but I've found him the more innately energetic actor from experience.) The other big star is Moore, who gets by on his natural charisma but isn't as good as he is in Shout at the Devil or Gold or his Bond movies.

Honestly, for the first half, the movie seems to be rather badly made, shooting scenes in the most drab, limp way possible and resolving every confrontation with as few hiccups as possible. An attempt to rescue a character being hunted by the mafia ends with the mafia abruptly lifting all the contract put out on him. The siege on the base where the president is being held ends with no losses for the heroes, the guards all being sprayed with cyanide gas in their sleep or killed instantly with a crossbow. These characters are supposed to be highly trained professionals who can do this in their sleep, and that's basically how it plays, for better or worse. But complications do eventually arise, and the movie thankfully gets a lot more exciting. There's a half hour or so in the third act where the characters are retreating through the bush from a rapidly advancing army while trying to secure an exit, depicted as a near constant stream of close quarters gunfights and on-the-fly defensive tactics. As limp as Andrew V. McLaglen's direction is in the first half, he wisely gets out of his own way here, moving things along at a fast clip and letting the shooting, bleeding, dust and wilderness do the talking. (For something that feels tonally like a classic WWII era actioner, complete with rousing score, it's quite a bit bloodier than you'd expect.) It's a great action scene, and goes a long way in warming me up to this movie.

[fgrobichiko]

Case 2022G - Sage Advice

[Subject: an unidentified white male of advanced age, who appeared on the grounds of [REDACTED] ten minutes before recording begins]

"Recording begins. Please, once more. What is your name?"

"I am the wizard Alderforth, fifth of my line, advisor to King Harald the Ninth, and I demand you release me!"

"I will do so soon, Mister Alderforth, but please remain calm. How did you come to be here?"

[There is the sound of a heavy wooden object slamming into the floor]

"I demand to see the king!!"

"Please, sir, I am trying to understand what happened here just as much as you are."

"Fie, you would assume as such. Very well. For now, I shall wait, but send for the king's men at once!"

"I'll have someone on that as soon as I can, sir."

[at this point, [REDACTED] nods to a worker at the window, who moves to make a call]

"See? We're working on it."

"Very well... I shall be seated. You must as well."

"Yes, alright."

[There is the sound of a pair of chairs being pulled out and sat upon.]

"I believe you, Alderforth, but I can't say that I'm familiar with you."

"Indeed. Some foul witchery is afoot. What Merrow did this? Speak!"

"I am sorry, sir, but this truly is not the world you are accustomed to, though I cannot say in which way it is different."

"Mm, indeed. Incorrigible place."

[there is the sound of rustling and tapping, and Alderforth breathes deeply]

"Blasted pipe. Never fails to raise the hackles."

"Yes, sir... I'm afraid we can't really allow you to smoke in here-"

"Eh? No smoking? For what purpose? Worried I'll fog up your mirrors? Ha!"

"No, we just - fine. I'm sure I can't stop you."

"Mm, quite."

"Tell me about yourself. When were you born? We must have SOME record of you, surely."

"Ah, I cannot tell you such powerful information, surely you know better."

"Can you give us an approximation? A year? A decade?"

"I was born in the fifty-second century of our lord, if you truly cannot tell. I'll agree, I look good for my age."

[There is no response. There is the sound of papers flicking for several seconds, and then hurried writing in pencil]

"Is that so surprising? I'd have thought you'd know a wizard might live centuries..."

"Sorry, how many? Centuries, I mean?"

"Four, of course."

"Four hundred-!!"

[the writing resumes, faster than before]

"So, by your count, it is... roughly the year 5500?"

"That's the century, at least, yes. Though we are closer to the 5600s now, don't they teach mathematics in this facility? I had assumed it was a place of learning."

"My god... I am sorry, mister Alderforth, by our reckoning it is the year 2022. But it certainly doesn't seem possible that-"

"TWENTY TWENTY TWO??"

"Yes, sir."

"A.D?"

"Yes, though we would call it the common era-"

"Good lord... then the house of Ashanti is not yet founded. My word. Who is king? This would be the, ah... the Giancarlian period, correct?"

"I'm sorry, sir, the current monarchy of britain is the house of Windsor."

"Britain?? Bah. Never heard of it. Show me on a map, sir."

[Recording ends. It appears our strange guest has memories of an entirely alternate time period, though he seems well-versed in the geography of our world. Ascertaining the details of his time is difficult as they appear to have no similarities to our own, other than references to major geological events and certain arcane practices. It is suggested Alderforth be used as an early warning system to events we may be yet to see, and as an instructor, should he be convinced, in arcane protection. The earliest details he describes date to roughly 5000BC, with notable divergences beginning some thousand years after, though by his count, these took place eleven thousand years before his own time. This discrepancy bares significant investigation.]