#just fucking. insane. every paragraph is worse than the previous one

[leatherbookmark]

but also re: lrb, it kindasorta vaguely reminded me of this article. super recommended if you want to spend five minutes in utter bafflement

[for-the-dales]

Chapter 9: Iron Bull

Chapter 1 (Leliana): https://for-the-dales.tumblr.com/post/185692342364/the-path-forward-chapter-1-leliana

A/N: This chapter contains a reference to self-harm and mutilation. It’s about halfway through the paragraph where Iron Bull makes observations about Ellana having been a slave. You can skip to the end of that paragraph without missing anything important.

         The Iron Bull pitied the poor horse under him as he rode through the Hinterlands. They’d found a work horse big enough to haul his big ass around, but the beast obviously wasn’t used to being ridden. Iron Bull sympathized; long rides were the worst part of any job. It was boring. It did however give him an opportunity to study his new companions. He had volunteered to bring up the rear, Sera rode in front of him, and then the mage, Vivienne, rode next to the boss up front. Those two were so far the most entertaining part of this trip.  They’d spent the whole morning giving each other extremely specific gardening advice, and a child would have been able to figure out that they weren’t talking about gardening. They were so damn pleasant about it too.

           In Viv’s own words, it was delightful.

           There was one thing that did bother The Iron Bull though. It was obvious that the boss was clearly a very skilled mage with a lot of knowledge about some high concept stuff, and as far as he knew, the Dalish didn’t teach that kind of magic. Dalish had always said her clan almost exclusively focused on useful, day-to-day sort of magic. He doubted that included detailed discussions of the origin of spirit magic or the specifics of how exactly a possession works. The boss had some advanced training. He’d never come across a clan that had that kind of training.  She was definitely Dalish though. Really, really Dalish. She spoke more elvhen than anyone he’d ever met, even scholars. Then there were the vallaslin.  He’d never seen a Dalish elf with that extensive tattooing. There were a few too many oddities about the new boss for The Iron Bull to feel completely comfortable around her.  Though to be fair to her, there were very few people he really let his guard down around.

           The Iron Bull looked up when he realized both of the women at the front of their party were looking at him, studying him. It made him a little nervous. Like he’d pissed off his Tama or something. Finally they looked back at each other and Vivienne said, “Perhaps not that level of pruning, but it doesn’t negate my previous point of…”

           The Iron Bull breathed when he realized they weren’t really talking about him. He rubbed the back of his neck. There were a lot of mages in the Inquisition, and he knew his people’s policy on mages was probably going to come up at some point. Fortunately, it hadn’t yet. He’d never really encountered a lot of Sareebas on Par Vollen.  When he got to Saheron he’d fought alongside them and their Arvaraad, but usually just for the duration of a fight or interrogation. Afterwards they’d be herded back to where they were kept. They had kind of creeped him out. He’d felt bad for them, they were born with a shit lot, but some people just were. They were what they were.

           But then he’d think about someone sewing Dalish’s mouth shut.

           The Iron Bull didn’t like to think about that for long.

           He looked back up at the boss. There was a lot about her that was weird, other than her magic. Her halla for one thing. It was fucking huge. Big enough to carry him. He’d never seen one that big at any of the Clans, and Dalish had treated it weird too. All she’d said was that it was special. She’d touched its intricately carved horns then, and he’d never seen her so amazed before. The boss didn’t wear the same robes as other mages either. They were obviously made by the Dalish, but the quality was a whole lot better than any he’d ever said. Krem had talked to some of Josephine’s people and found out that she was from some special Dalish temple, and she was some kind of priest. He hadn’t ever heard of the Dalish keeping active temples before. The boss didn’t come across as a liar, which meant it was probably the truth. The Iron Bull could feel the Ben-Hassrath inside him waking up and being very, very uncomfortable that there were whole groups of Dalish that the Qunari had never even heard of.

           What bothered him the most was that he heard that the other two elves that had followed the Inquisitor to Haven were also priests, and one of them didn’t have any vallaslin. That made him very uncomfortable.

           The Iron Bull had been working on drafts of progress reports to send back home for a week. If there was a secret group of Dalish that didn’t have vallaslin, Dalish that were essentially the Ben-Hassrath of their people if rumors were to be believed, he had to consider that there were some in Par Vollen. But he didn’t have enough information about them yet. Half-true information was worse that no information. The Iron Bull didn’t want to be responsible for a mass culling of Viddathari, particularly if it turned out it hadn’t even been necessary in the first place. He didn’t include the tattoo-less Dalish in his report home.

           Sera groaned loudly, “Are we there yet? My arse hurts!”

           Vivienne scoffed and the boss said, “We should be at the forward camp in under an hour. From there we’ll walk.”

           Sera threw back her head, “Ugh! More trees and bugs and shite!”

           “After we talk to this Warden we’ll head to Redcliffe.” The boss said, trying to mollify the other elf.

           “Yeah!” Sera responded, jerking her head back up, “Where we’re gonna go talk to a bunch of crazy mages who ran away from their Circles!”

           The boss sighed and Vivienne shot Sera a dirty look, but turned to the boss and said, “I really can’t believe I’m saying this but Sera has a point-”

           “Don’t agree with me, I don’t like it.”

           “Fiona and her malcontents aren’t to be trusted. They’ll break their word to us the moment we attempt to establish some semblance of order upon them.”

           The boss sighed, “Maybe, but that’s why we’re going to talk to them. I don’t know Fiona, but I’d like to give her the chance to make her case to us. They may prove to be wonderful allies. You said yourself Lady Vivienne that one of the biggest issues with the break was the timing. Maybe we can help the rebel mages patch up some of the problems that came from such a quick and brutal separation from their traditional role.”

           The boss and Vivienne continued to argue, and The Iron Bull settled back into his saddle. This time Sera was offering the occasional comment, much to the annoyance of Viv. It wouldn’t matter though; nothing those two could say would change the boss’s mind. Wherever she had been trained in magic, The Iron Bull knew where she had been before. He wouldn’t wish slavery on his worst enemy.

           It was in the little things. She always ate her fill at every meal, and while she was a natural caretaker, she was still often first in line. Deprivation has a tendency to make even the most compassionate people selfish. She never took more than her share, but she never took less either. She kept very few personal items, but the few baubles she did carry that meant something to her she always carried. Every time she left her hut or tent, they were tucked into little pockets in her clothing. They’d been bathing in a creek once and The Iron Bull had noticed even then she hadn’t taken off the talisman she wore around her neck. She didn’t trust anything she left anywhere alone to be there when she came back. He also saw the scar then too. It was less noticeable than it likely had been before she’d gotten her tattoos, but it was still there at the top of her left thigh. It was a brand. It had been marred by more cuts overtop, likely self-inflicted after her escape, but he could still see parts of the design beneath. It had healed well, and The Iron Bull suspected magic had been used to help it blend in so well, but it was there. The advanced healing made it harder for him to place exactly how old it was, but The Iron Bull would guess that it occurred when she was a young girl. The other tells gave the same indication. It doesn’t matter how old someone gets, the shit that happens when they’re young stays with them.

           The rebel mages in Redcliffe had fought to escape their cages. The boss would never turn her back on them; no matter what lip service she gave Viv. No matter the danger helping them posed. The Iron Bull was going to have to get used to working with a lot of mages.

------------

           Fucking mages. Redcliffe had been a shit show. He’d laughed it off at the time, but all the mages under the control of an insane Tevinter magister fucking around with incredibly dangerous magic was one of the worst outcomes that could have happened. At least they weren’t all abominations. Yet.

           At least there was more muscle with the group now. Blackwall seemed to be a decent sort, and he did a good job of distracting Sera from her growing panic at the mage situation. He put up a gruff front, but he was a softie. And a liar, but everyone was about something, and so far The Iron Bull didn’t pick up any signs he was the dangerous sort of liar. He’d tell Red if he decided otherwise. Still, he’d keep his eye on him.

           Then there was the pretty Vint mage they’d met in Redcliffe. Too clever for his own damn good, The Iron Bull could already tell. At least the boss seemed just as uncomfortable around him as The Iron Bull, and he could be sure she’d be keeping a very wary eye on him. She’d been on edge since the moment she found out the Vints were there. The Iron Bull had watched her when she sat across the table from the magister. The boss was normally completely in control of her body language and expression, but he didn’t think she really breathed the entire time she sat there. Her face had stayed blank and her spine stayed straight. She did a good job masking her fear, but The Iron Bull saw it, and he was reasonably sure Alexius saw it too. That would make things difficult going forward. At least by the time they met the pretty Vint she had moved on from fear to anger. The Iron Bull half expected her to rip apart the Vint like she had the demons, but she’d kept her cool and he’d promised his help.

           They were riding back to Haven now, this time Blackwall took the lead with Viv and the boss hung back by The Iron Bull. She was quiet, and anyone else might say she looked contemplative, like a leader going over the day’s events and planning for tomorrow. But The Iron Bull could see what it really was hanging on her shoulders, stress. An old stress. He remembered when Gatt came to serve with him on Seheron. Gatt had already done a lot work to work through his past, and The Iron Bull really thought he had been ready to face the Vints without his anger getting in the way. He was proven very wrong the first time they came across a Vint camp holding slaves. Gatt had gotten his hand on the Vint ‘managing’ the slaves, and The Iron Bull didn’t think the Vint’s mother would have recognized the poor bastard after Gatt was done. Gatt fought him on it, but The Iron Bull sent him back home after that. He still didn’t know if Gatt would ever really get past what happened to him when he was young.

           He watched the boss now and realized that, while she put up a good front, she hadn’t move past it either. The Iron Bull was certain that the only thing she was thinking about with her blank face and stiff back was what she had experienced in Tevinter. He didn’t think anyone really moved on from something like that, you just learn how to live with it better.

           “Bull.”

           The boss’s voice pulled The Iron Bull from his thoughts, “Yeah boss, what’s up?”

           “Would you do me a favor?”

           She wasn’t looking at him, instead staring over the top of her Halla’s head, “Depends on the favor boss.”

           She opened her mouth but hesitated a moment before speaking, “When we get back to Haven I am going to meet with the others about how best to handle the situation in Redcliffe. It will almost certainly involve me returning to Redcliffe while it is still occupied by a Tevinter magister and his people. Agreed?”

           “Yeah, almost definitely. You want me to come with you? Watch your back?”

           “No. I want you to go to Crestwood with the Chargers to help clean up undead and reassert order in the region.”

           “Okay,” The Iron Bull hesitated, “what’s the catch?”

           “I need you take Sahren and Rasa with you. I will tell them that I want them to learn more about how the humans live and how to work with non-elvhen. Rasa already has plenty of experience on that front, but they will assume I am sending them to keep and eye on Sahren. You will need to leave quickly, before they catch wind of whatever plan sends me back to Redcliffe. They can’t know about it until it’s resolved, one way or another. Sahren will do what I tell him. Rasa will too but they’ll ask more questions.”

           “Are you sure lying to them is the best solution here?”

           The boss paused a moment, “The Qun doesn’t allow you to raise children, does it Bull?”

           “No boss. But I’ve mentored younger kids before.”

           The boss nodded, “Did you care about them?”

           The Iron Bull thought about Gatt, about how when he first met the elf The Iron Bull could toss him with one hand, “Yeah boss.”

           The boss turned to him, “Is it wrong to not want to put them at risk? To not expose them to even the chance of-”

           The boss stopped talking, but he could see the end of the sentence in her eyes. She looked forward again after that.

           “They’ll be pissed.”

           “Better than enslaved.”

           “The rest of us can keep you all safe, not to mention those two can look after themselves.”

           “I know they can, and I know you’ll do your best, but I can’t risk it.”

           The Iron Bull could hear she was resolute. He knew this was a terrible idea, but she wouldn’t change her mind.

           “Sure thing boss.”

           “Thanks Bull.”

Chapter 10 (Dorian): https://for-the-dales.tumblr.com/post/189537555854/chapter-10-dorian

[thedistrictsleepsalonetonight]

How to fall in love the wrong way

Chapter 8: She’s the kind of girl who’s in my thoughts all night

My dearest Cheryl,

I don’t usually do this sort of thing. I am pretty sure that if Sweet Pea and Fogarty ever find out about this, I am doomed. They will tease me to my grave, and their laughter would haunt me forever. And that is why this will probably never see the light of day. I am going to write this letter, and then stuff it into a locked box, and throw it under my bed where it will hopefully never be found by my uncle.

Anyways, I have dithered about long enough. Let’s get down to business. I have never written a love letter before, (or so I’ve mentioned in the previous paragraph), so I am not sure of the logistics, but I assume it includes a flattering description of your love’s physical features, mental faculties, and how it all makes you feel. So let’s start somewhere there.

So, I could write sonnets about your beauty and novels about your face, but thing is, you don’t need to be told that. You know exactly how beautiful you are. I mean, sure your face is perfect, and your nose is the cutest thing I have ever seen, and your eyes are the stars guiding me home and blah, but what’s the need? You could describe your face way better than I ever can. Just know that you are the prettiest person in the world to me. I feel like that’s enough.

But your beauty, while divine, is not all that attracted me to you. There is just something about you, Cheryl. How strong you are, how fiercely independent, how brave. I know you don’t believe it yourself, but there’s a lot of good in you. You try not to show it to people, but you’re amazing. You’re smart, and you’re funny, and I wish other people could see that in you too.

Cheryl Blossom, you’re absolutely sensational.

I suppose that brings us to an end of this section. Now, there is something else I’d like to add. I’d like to add my resume here, to sell myself, so there’s a chance of you choosing me, even If you are way out of my league.

I am a serpent. That ought to say that I am pretty badass. No matter how many stories Fangs tells you of me standing on one chair for an entire day because there was supposedly a rat in the room.

I can play the ukulele. And while my voice is horrible, I suppose it’s a nice thing to have a girlfriend who will serenade you all the time. Because seriously, I will.

I know you. I know about your embarrassing childhood spill-ups and your marks, and that one goth phase in middle school that lasted a month. I know all of these. And I would love to know more.

I am tiny, but I will love you and protect you all the time. That is a promise.

Anyway, I have rambled on long enough. Thank you for bearing with me throughout all this.

                                                                                                                                                                                                         Yours, eternally

                                                                                                                                                                                                           Toni

“It’s okay, you can come out now,” Cheryl tells her.

She hears it as if from very far away, which she supposes makes sense because her head is buried under two cushions, and her girlfriend’s arm. She slowly takes them off, and, still grimacing from embarrassment, chances a look at Cheryl’s face. Which isn’t so bad. The girl is absolutely glowing; her cheeks are bright red, and she’s wearing the widest smile ever. She slowly shifts onto Cheryl’s lap.

“Okay, now that the torture is over, can I have this back?”

“Absolutely not!” Cheryl tells her, sternly “I’m keeping this till the end of eternity. Which, coincidentally, is the amount of time you’ll be mine. Just saying.”

Toni groans.

“Did you like it, though?” she asks, then.

Cheryl’s expression softens from mirth to something tenderer “I loved it. I love you. Thank you for writing this. It’s amazing.”

Toni ducks her head in an ‘Aw Shucks’, kind of way and waves it away “Eh, it’s……whatever. No big deal.”

“When did you write this, though? There’s no date on it.”

She thinks for a while “Uh, I think it was the first time I serenaded you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah. This one, I definitely wrote right after that.”

Cheryl kisses her cheek, and then frowns at her “Wait, did you say this one?”

Uh oh.

“Toni, are there more!?”

                                                                                             ********************

The night of the serenade is a funny story.

Mostly because it also is The night of a Fangs and Sweet Pea and Toni adventure and The night of the human pyramid and The night of Archie doing something stupid and Veronica somehow enabling it even more and Jughead trying to be all brooding and unaffected as always and Betty making everything ten times worse and funnier. Either way, you know, it’s a fun night.

It starts with the jukebox.

Which is ironical, since the jukebox doesn’t start.

                                                                                             ********************

“Baby, no.”

“But, Cheryl.”

“No means no, buddy,” Fangs cuts in “We’ve told you multiple times it’s a terrible joke.”

                                                                                             ********************

So, the jukebox isn’t starting at the Whyte Wyrm, and they’ve all taken turns smashing on the metal cover but the sound fizzles out after a while, and that’s when Archie has the bright idea of entertaining the patrons by singing some songs.

Veronica joins in and they end up doing a terrible duet of the High School Musical song which only the drunk biker dudes from out of town appreciate. Jughead spends the entire evening roasting them. Finally, Veronica has had enough, and challenges him to sing. Which, obviously, Betty takes over. Then she, does a terrible version of Teenage Dream, and another terrible three way group song with Archie and Veronica. In the end, it’s just Toni and Fangs and Sweet Pea and Jughead staring at each other in despair.

Talk somehow shifts to the topic of music, does a jump to the subject of romantic music, and before she knows it, Toni has, in a weird game of Truth and Dare, somehow agreed to serenade Cheryl Blossom.

Veronica voices the only concern that exists “Isn’t her mom, like legit insane? How the fuck are we supposed to make a ruckus in her house?”

And Cheryl feels relieved for a moment, right until Fogarty opens his big fat mouth “Her mom’s out of town, dude,” he says “Got this thing.”

“How do you know?”

He just looks at Toni and everyone nods in understanding.

                                                                                             ********************

“I hope you know that this is ridiculous,” she tells the entire group, half an hour later as she’s sitting on Sweets’ lap, who is stuffed in the middle of Jughead and Veronica. Archie’s driving, and Betty is drifting off to sleep on the passenger’s seat beside him. Fangs is crouched in the back of the van.

“What’s so ridiculous about joining two souls in eternal union?” Veronica asks her.

“Oh my God, is that what it is? Are you……shipping us?” Toni asks her, in utter disbelief, and there are three simultaneous snort, one from Jughead, Sweets and Fangs.

“Everybody in the school ships you, dude,” Fangs tells her.

“It’s true,” Archie chips in “Ever since you’ve started hanging out with her, Cheryl’s mellowed. Like, a lot.”

“And you guys would be so cute together,” Veronica gushes “Like, if this was a TV show, you’d deserve to be the couple in focus, no questions asked. Every scene would be you. Every song would be you. Every duet would be you. Every….”

“We get it, Veronica,” Jughead pipes up, quiet yet amused “They are your babies.”

Veronica agrees, and Toni closes her eyes, wishes for this nightmare to be over.

                                                                                             ********************

Of course it isn’t.

Veronica and Archie are still singing their terrible duet, as they cross the garden. Jughead is half-supporting, half-carrying Betty, who’s mostly asleep. Sweet Pea is still nursing his bottle, and they are all so, terribly, terribly drunk. Oh, and Fangs somehow manages to ruin the rose plants growing at the edge of the fence as they are breaking it, but falling on them. Then, he squeals like a little girl who has just discovered that Ken is gay.

                                                                                             ********************

“I did not squeal.”

“The thorns are on my butt, guys, help me,” Sweet Pea mimics a high-pitched voice, and all of them laugh.

                                                                                             ********************

“Juliet, Juliet, wherefore art thou?” Archie and Veronica shout up at the window, trying to hit it with tiny pebbles (Only one of them hits the mark) “Your Romeo is here to drop a verse.”

There is a sound, then Cheryl is out on the balcony, looking the most confused anyone has ever seen her “Andrews? What the hell?”

(And Toni knows this is totally not the time, that she has to do something potentially very embarrassing and stupid, but Cheryl looks adorable, hair all mussed up, and eyes squinting, wearing a green nightgown that has mice on it)

(Toni has never been more in love)

“My babies!” Veronica sighs, and that’s when Cheryl notices the rest of them.

“What are you people doing here in the middle of the night? Toni?”

She stares at Cheryl for a minute, deciding how to scream her explanation. The, deciding against it, she recruits Fangs (who is still whining about his butt) and Sweet Pea to bend so she can climb up on them. It takes fifteen minutes, one broken wine bottle, and three rounds of exasperated sighs from the rest of the audience before she can finally get up on the balcony.

“Surprise?” she says, feebly.

“Why are you here? What’s going on? Why does Veronica keep staring at us like we’re her long-lost daughters? Why do you have that ukulele with you?”

“Um, truth or dare. A stupid dare. Because she ships us. And” Toni says, concentrating “I have to sing you a song?”

“Um.”

“It’s a dare,” she explains, blushing.

Cheryl keeps staring at her in silence, so she carefully wears the ukulele, and starts playing the opening chords of “Can’t help falling in love with you”. She tries not to look at Cheryl’s face, during, too embarrassed, instead concentrating on the chords and how not to let her voice fade away. Finally ending it, she chances a look up at the other girl.

Cheryl’s mouth is pursed, but Toni can clearly see that it’s an attempt to mask her smile. She looks a little red around the cheeks, and though her arms are crossed, she isn’t angry at all.

“So…..that was it,” Toni breaks the silence that has fallen over them.

“That was it,” Cheryl replies, a slight smile on her lips.

“You’re not, angry?”

The smile widens, and before Toni has time to think, Cheryl is right in front of her. She leans around, and gently kisses Toni on the cheek. There is a loud ‘Whoop’ from down below, and Toni knows they’re being complete idiots right now, but it doesn’t matter, because she is also being a complete idiot right now.

“No, Toni,” Cheryl says “I’m not angry.”

Then she walks back into her own room.

Chapter title from Forever by The Explorer's club

Song mentioned in the chapter: Can't help falling in love with you by Elvis Presley covered by Twenty One Pilots

[cloudybookash-blog]

Book Review: The Broken Eye by Brent Weeks.

Genre: High-Fantasy (supposedly ‘pre- industrial’)

Goodreads rating: **** (4 stars).

Read: 13/02/2017 – 19/02/2017.

The Review:

Are you a big fan of the Lightbringer series? So am I. Which is why, it saddens me to have to say, I think the third instalment of this series is suffering something akin to ‘second-book-it is’.

Warning: There could be spoiler for the previous books (The Black Prism/ The Blinding Knife) beyond this point. There will be no spoilers for this particular book though.

Synopsis: With Gavin lost and presumed dead the Chromeria faces a new prism elect. The political throws of the Chromeria rear their ugly heads and the sinister lost Order of the Broken Eye take advantage of the chaos to infiltrate places of power.

Obviously, as a book suffering ‘second-book-it is’ there was a lack of action and movement; lots of filler in the disguise of irrelevant world building; and character development that (I feel) should’ve happened sooner in the series. And to top it all off – as someone sensitive to such topics and forms of exclusive writing styles, a blatantly weakened female presence.

Let’s start with the action – there is none. Oh yes, lots of political movement, spying and the odd ‘Specials’ class for the Blackguard inductees. But, for the most part the only well-paced, pertinent action happens within the last 100 pages of this 800-page book.

I assume all the political tip toeing is set up for the next book – The Blood Mirror. Heaven forbid none of it ties in with The Blood Mirror, I’ll fucking riot. And, I’m all one for political exploration in books, just not in such bulks without anything in-between.

Don’t get me wrong, this book starts off strong. Our Blinding Knife has transformed into a weapon unrecognisable to what it had once been with a threatening promise to the world as we know it. Gavin is being spoken to by his god, but like all good anti-heroes – refuses to listen. Karris is put in charge of an international spy ring. Teia is being inducted into the Order of the Broken Eye. And Kip is on some island going insane in the best way possible.

But all this potential is ripped down by the fact that we have like five chapters from Gavin’s POV. Possible two os which focus the minimal amount of attention one can to the Blinding Knife. I know a lot of people have issues with Gavin becoming a prisoner to circumstance in this book. My issue lies in him not thinking anymore. His once brilliant mind can hardly focus on anything other than –

“Gavin’s every day had a similar rhythm. Pull. Twist. Push. Twist. Pull. Up, down, life circumscribed in ovals of work and rest and transition from one to the other”

Or –

And now, though he could call up their colour and stories and sins and attitudes if he tried, he saw each one of the drafters differently, he pushed them back, away. They became only a name and a sin to be shrived.

Illi Alexander. Gossip.

Loida Moss. Poisoner.

Tinsin. Rebellious.

Tahlia. Envy.

Bell Sparrow. Seductress.

Li-Li Solaens. Wight.

Xenia Delaen. Wight.

Myla Loros. Wight.

Pelagia Breeze. Spy.

Meghida Talor. Hatred.

Tahrith Khan. Greed.

Edna Wood. Sloth.”

And so on and so forth - 42 TIMES. Such blatant filler. Tossing in names and one worded stories of irrelevant people that will never come back up in the story. Few select names were expanded on (not counted in the 42), but only one had any insight into Gavin as a character. The fact that he isn’t whirling around in his head trying to figure out the Blinding Knife just seems so out of character, to me.

Then karris, once mighty Watch Captain White Oak – one of the greatest archers of the Blackguard. Now stripped to Lady Guile – made to wear rich dresses, powders and her hair in lavish styles. All of which hinders her at some point in the story. And, she develops maternal desires while she pines for her lost husband. Don’t misunderstand me here, I like a good female character who personifies femininity – just not when said character spent two books being expressed as the polar opposite. Plus, a strong female character should thrive in said femininity instead of being constantly thwarted by her own fucking dress. Especially seeing as Karris was trained in the most prestigious, elite fighting force in this world.

The thing that pissed me off most about Karris in this book is the act of excusing her rape. I’m not going to quote it because I’m lazy af and it just isn’t fucking worth repeating. But the book spent a chapter with Karris excusing her rape for something she ‘needed’ or something that was the ‘best’ alternative. Obviously, rape is such a sensitive topic and to have a character as strong as Karris raped was a star in the night. A role model for other victims. But having her preform a 180 degree turn, expressing that her rape was ‘deserved’ in some form is an absolute blotch in this book.

The we have Teia, the Blackguard inductee – former slave whose previous status has always been concerning. Trained by previous owners to be violent, sneaky and simply put – morally grey. Teia falls apart at the slightest challenge. She’s too busy thinking of the suddenly thin so therefore more attractive Kip. Or being used and abused by powers above her. Both Karris and Teia – the strongest and only female characters in this series are belittled to nothing but pawns and love interests.

Finally, Kip. He showed the most promise and, if I’m being honest he’s the only characters I feel stood up to his potential. There were a few set-backs, I won’t lie –

“He [Kip] wanted her [Teia] to be free, but he’d still wanter her to owe him, to be eternally grateful, to be somehow therefore subordinate. He wanted her to be free, but he wanted to decide for her how she should use her freedom.”

I know. -Vomits-. The only issues I have with his character is his association with females. He can’t even look at one without falling in love with them and subsequently reverting back to his patterns of self-hatred. On one hand, it’s endearing, to see him struggle with his own image, on the other hand – this struggle is undermined by every character and their mother gushing over his sudden weight-loss/ muscle gain.

There’s points in this book where you learn about the way a city or satrapy used to be 16 years (or more) ago. Zero relevance to the story. Or watch a member of the Order carrying out a routine assassination that again, has zero relevance to the story-line. Chapters with one-off POVs that bring no new information. Character simply talking for talking’s sake or worse – creating tension for tensions sake. All of which could’ve been summed up in a five-sentence paragraph so the story could focus on better stuff. Or, you know, move on with it!

So why not give it a one star rating, you ask? Well, if Blood Mirror disappoints I will be. But, first reason – Kip.

From our weak willed, sheepish boy from Rekton. To a young man stading up to Andross Guile in front of the whole Spectrum. His words become more assured, his lies come quicker; easier. And he develops his resourcefulness to creating and thinking up new ways to incorporate luxin. His own POV carries the type of thought processes I’d expect, and have seen, from Gavin.

“He was hitting the damned thing as hard as he could.

No, he was hitting as hard as he could muscularly. Magically, he should be able to hit harder.

[…] He remembered the wights in Garriston, leapfrogging from roof to roof, shooting luxin downward as they jumped, using the kick to extend their jump. It was the same concept that worked for Gavin’s skimmers and sea chariots. But bother of those interacted more externally. They didn’t have to, did they.

[…] Here goes nothing. He stood with his right foot back, twisted, snapped, and as his right foot came up, he shot green luxin out of it.”

Safe to say, Kip’s developing some of Gavin’s magically focused experimental yearnings. Throughout the book, he talks well beyond his years, offering advice and orders, talking strategy.

The only saving grace for the female characters – both Karris and Teia, is that they at least lock into challenging positions of power by the end of the book. Hopefully that means their futures promise badassery and strength.

The last one hundred pages are the greatest. Full of musket firing, experimental luxin, escapes, deaths, sabotage, hexed, and plot twists. The last one hundred pages feel more like the first two books. Quick paced and constantly moving. The characters don’t rot their personalities like they did during the books idle inaction. Information and developments in those last pages promise a fantastic story in Bloor Mirror.

I go forth excited, but wary.

[kremlin]

here's an oldie (probably 2/5 stars imo)

---------------------

i've never worked a night shift before. it's been about three weeks and i am only starting to get in the swing of things being wide awake and ready to wind down with a beer at 7:30 AM on a tuesday is a strange place to suddenly be. living in a suddenly frozen desert swamp sort of adds to that uncanni-ness. it has frozen in texas and my pipes are cracked and broken there is almost no part of this shanty house that isn't elligible to join the AARP. it's one of the last ranch style ramblers left in montrose, all of the others have been replaced by bizzare brutalist white cube apartments which i assume house pod people our ballbusting 900 year old landlady (slum lord) sent out the handyman steve. steve is not a plumber which is a point expressly made to me, by steven, several times we were not forewarned of this & steve's arrival came unexpectedly 8:00 AM thursday morning is now my time to furiously discuss drugs, on drugs, with internet strangers soon to be nebulous internet acquaintances, then friends, then perhaps even those friends from the internet you've known for a decade suddenly from my desk, if the door is open, i catch about a half-degree of the window facing the backdoor. a full degree if i lean back. i lean back as to kind of avoid the bizzare reality that the other players of the space game seem to deal with the same problems i do at an alarming frequency. i lean back There;s a fucking guy back there angry at the fact that i have to now deal with this, i find our friend steve in the back yard, sauntering around, muttering to himself in a way that's between mumbling but below speaking "surely that man has a blue tooth head set" but i was already smiling wide knowing he didn't. if you're going to appear in my backyard unannounced, milling around babbling to yourself is the way to do it steve doesn't really speak english. you'll read that and think he's like any other non english speaker but that is not the case with steve. steve will get out about four or five sentences in perfectly spoken english before switching to (hindi?) for a bit. you'd think that if 80% of his communication was clear, that'd be enough for mutual understanding, but steve is all over the place steve was furiously pacing around the broken pipe when i got to the back door. that is a fact i'm only coming to realize is important now, writing this, because the person standing near a broken pipe with a wrench is a plumber, someone who is allowed in my back yard in this circumstance HEY YO i tried to whistle but made a stupid faring noise with my mouth he swings around at the perfect moment to make my sudden departure all the more awkward as i realized how waistbanding a pistol in sweat pants was extremely not working. remember where we are by the time im out of my room steve has his head poked through the back door YOU COULD NOT WITH YOUR FINGER POINT A WORSE PLACE FOR PIPE BREAK and boy howdy he was right. if you're going to break a pipe, don't make it the one between your meter and a valve, and especially don't make it one on the ground next to the garage you keep all your weirdo electronics and "vintage computers" you "collect" i sort of like plumbing. i've done some plumbing. there's an illegal stipulation in our lease that lets the landlord, you know, just not maintain the place. with my engineering background i am of course compelled to think i am somehow qualified to solve these problems. i'd like to use the expression "dive into with full force" to describe my approach but combine that with the imagery of a blind person gracefully swan diving into an empty concrete swimming pool but this is not about me, i am not particularly interesting. -- steve. steve is sort of interesting. his murmuring grew to a breathless combination of words which i thankfully mostly understood (individually, not collectively). steve was upset with the pipe situation to be described later in this document's best paragraph. he was upset at the last person to work on the pipes here because they fucked up. he was amused by how preposterously

inconvenient the broken pipe lay. this amusement was not anger what followed next was clearly anger. perplexed, astounded anger ice on the ground is something you see once every 4 years in (excellent) swamp i live in. it's a pretty reasonable assumption that a broken pipe after a freeze/melt cycle is due to the freeze/melt cycle this was not the case the pipe had ruptured due to a sequence of truly insane and utterly nonsensical choices made by the previous plumber who almost certainly kicked the bucket in the reagan years as suggested by the lead solder used to seal joints and lead paint used to, well, just hold on the pipe burst because a large metal rod was inserted *through* it. the details on exactly what went down are a little fuzzy as my simian mind was preoccupied with thoughts about some weird software that started as a fluid dynamics simulator and is now a physics simulator and an insane person simulator. i would digress and expound on this but my thoughts aren't yet settled on the space game the rod went through the pipe and into the ground, on the other end were rusty wires. it is a grounding rod, you know, for electricity. i unfortunately know a litle bit about this. you can ground a circuit through a cold water tap, like when you're lining the fence with copper wire to create a makeshift shortwave antenna with your weird kind of racist dad. water is conductive. more commonly the rod goes into the ground, which is also usually conductive so, this grounding rod, sitting between a 3 foot gap between the back of the garage and fence, an overgrown mess of decades of detritus and weeds that had grown into vines that had grown into weird anemic trees. this grounding rod was painted. it didn't come painted. it was painted. it was painted the same color as the garage. paint is not conductive. the circuitry in my house was not grounded. thankfully there is no ground pin on the outlets in this ancient home besides the one i strangely installed one day. the amp plugged into it now gives a hum where it didn't before. the ground was subsequently disconnected to eliminate the ground loop as we are in our early 20s and cannot die, especially not in an electrical fire it's sort of nice to know that even back in the 1940s people screwed up as royally and maximally as possible, employing such a degree of backwards demented logic as you'd expect from a home owner's association bylaws handbook or normal computer software anyways, steve, ohoho. oh boy. steve did not fuck with this at all. steve, the man who is self purportedly not a plumber, immediately took to the valve between the city's water main and our house with the wrong implement. an implement used to unwrench joints around a u-bend underneath a sink. it worked perfectly `I just use this for many valve. It works mostly. No need for heavy T` (steve's parlance doesn't transcribe to text very well) steve continued, `Too many tools is too bad. I use this one for tiling and for drywall and for ducks` (ducts?) he spoke while gesturing listlessly at nothing in particular. it became clear that steve's limited, nebulous tool set was carefully chosen. when you are the un-fuck-it man for an ice queen landlord you sort of have to be a plumber and an electrician and a roofer and sometimes a debt collector. the arcane set of tools used to approximate all of these trades made a bit more sense the lack of a monkey wrench did not make sense. none of steve's esoteric implements could wrench like we needed them too. i offered to purchase one from the nearby hardware store which was a great excuse for me to go to the nearby hardware store and purchase a monkey wrench, *my* monkey wrench. steve objected but i was deadset. i was buying a wrench today. the newly purchased wrench calmed two agitated souls: one was drowning in thoughts about drugs and space and coincidence. the other was angry he couldn't wrench down a pipe joint a few hours passed. several trips were made to the hardware store by my roommates and the new tennant in the garage apartment, less than $20 was

spent. i sort of farted around not helping while getting jawed at by steve who had permenently changed the subject to grand life philosophies. i'm about the last person that'll tolerate some windbag wasting my time, but between the fun of trying to decipher what the fuck steve was saying and what language (or nonsense utterances) he'd conclude thoughts with, i realized that his sensical words actually, uhh, rang true steve believes in doing a good job. read that last sentence without the disinterested, vaguely-trying-to-be-funny style this document has maintained so far this hit me on a deeper level than i was expecting i'm young and do not really understand the world very well. i'm not so young that i'm blind to the depths of what there is to understand about this world, i'm allegedly content with the resignation that for the time being i'm sort of a dumbass and will continue to be a dumbass in the future, although less so hopefully i'm going to tell you that i believe in "doing a good job", "doing things properly", "taking your time to properly solve a problem", or "solving a problem for the sake of solving a problem and nothing else". i am going to tell you that these are some of strongest and earnestly compulsions i feel. i'm not lying when i write this but i wasn't lying when admitted to how little i understand anything at all, so maybe weigh those two facts against each other nearing 200 lines, i realize i have spent the hours meant for sleeping writing a truly innappropriately verbose wall of text all because of how stoked i was that an angry muttering tom bombadil character spent an extra 45 minutes to fix a pipe properly the new pipe was measured and cut, threaded. steve's measuring tape is interspliced with further, smaller graduations he hand-scratched into a long measuring tape. the previous graduations on the tape presented steve with an unsuitably low resolution of 1/8th of an inch i'd guess this was a 12 foot measuring tape. i never saw the end of the graduations, i don't doubt for a second they extend the entire length of the tape. do you know how many notches you'd have to painstakingly scratch on to a 12 ft measuring tape to change it from 1/8" -> 1/16". well, don't: 1152 steve might be a little nuts but holy shit a master plumber could not have done a better job. the dude fuckin laid on his back, in the small pond of pipeleak water, so as to see up a length of fixed pipe so he could better lay teflon tape on the *inside threaded surface of the pipe joint*. i challenge you to try and imagine what such a manuever would be like, considering the damp slimy pipe surface, the fucking hell that is teflon tape (fuck teflon tape) all while laying in a pool of possum water at the impossibly cold temperature of 45 F my pipes don't leak anymore. there is no longer a bizzaro steel rod puncturing the most critical pipe on this property. i own a monkey wrench when i did not this morning. i am thinking less anxiously about the space game, still. me and steve sat around smoking cigarettes and communicating with each other through a method i can't describe but wasn't reliant on words. we talked about the virtues of work ethic and then we talked about those that have broken our hearts. the conversation, as well as this text, ended with a solemn mutual acknowlegement of how terrifying electricity is and how terrified of electricity we are

[secret-diary-of-an-fa]

2020: The Year That ALMOST Saved Culture

CONTENT WARNING: Culture is fucked; COVID and death; cocaine and deceased hookers. You know, the usual.

So, before COVID rocked up and basically fucked everything, 2020 looked like it might be the year that legitimately saved cinematic (and potentially televisual) culture. For years- and I mean insufferable fucking years- big genre-oriented studios (both cinematic and televised) ignored long-time fans and established fan-bases in order to cater to a more mainstream audience with less abtruse, specific tastes. Ghostbusters 2016 thought that it could get away with sucking the wit and surprisingly downbeat verbal, character-driven humour out of the franchise, leaving only the slapstick shell with a lazy, gender-flipped gimmick to draw dipshits in like the dangling light on a deep sea angler fish. Star Trek: Discovery moved in the opposite direction, taking an earnest, hopeful series with a vast ensemble cast and tightening the focus around one bell-end while everyone bickered like fuckwits in the background in a bid to create a more pointlessly fraught mood that low-brow angst-havers could relate to. Hellboy 2019 traded touching, likeable characters and a world that balanced Lovecraftian darkness with off-the-cuff whimsy for overblown spectacle and flat characters (made worse by the fact the film purported to be truer to the original comics but had clearly missed the point). And you know what, I’m still in the camp that says the Disney-era Star Wars films were a pretentious waste of time that shat on the legacy of the original just as badly as the fucking awful prequels.

However, perhaps the saddest on-screen failure of the last few years was Justice League. Fuck. Justice League should have been great. A lot of people hated the darker, grimier take of the Snyder-helmed Man of Steel/ Batman v Superman/ etc early DCEU, but I- and a large, loyal fanbase besides- absolutely loved it. It was great to see a version of the superhero genre that played so confidently with the real-world consequences of superpowers and the concept of modern mythology. And then poor old Snyder couldn’t finish Justice League, because he suffered a bereavement and the studio took the opportunity to rope Joss Whedon into the project because he’s a more accessible, mainstream director (no offence to Whedon, incidentally- I actually love his work on his own fucking projects: he just shouldn’t have been near this one). The studio’s thinking seemed to be that getting A LOT OF MONEY from a loyal fanbase of die-hard supporters wasn’t sufficient and they’d rather have ALL THE MONEY IN THE WORLD, courtesy of a vast sea of mainstream consumers. Predictably, the film was a tonally-inconsistent mess and didn’t even make a lot of money, because (unlike die-hard fans) mainstream film-goers are flighty culture-hussies with no staying power who are easily distracted by every shiny object to bounce through their peripheral vision. The whole DCEU was forced to re-tool its direction and we got some good films out of it (most notably Shazam!, which just kicked a million times more arse than it had any right to), but the dream of an actual mature, nuanced, mythically-resonant superhero project with big cinema bucks behind it died on the vine.

Bascially, between the shitty virtue-signalling of gender-flipped sci-fi reboots, the over-the-top edgelord grimwashing of niche, charming little fantasies and the neutering of genuinely dark and complex budding superhero universes, the genre landscape at the end of 2019 was a fucking wasteland populated by horrible, poorly-conceived mutant franchises with terminally damaged DNA and no real sense of unique identity. Even the Terminator series finally seemed to be dying, and after so many bad movies and comebacks, I think we’d all just assumed that one was unkillable. Culturally, us nerds were in the shit. It was the eleventh hour and the cavalry weren’t coming.

Then something remarkable and quite possibly unprecedented happened. The big money folks behind the major studios stopped acting like the arrogant, charmless, talentless fuckwads that they are and instead (let jaws drop across the world) actually listened to fans! Not ‘audiences’, in that horribly amorphous and meaningless sense of the word, but the actual fucking fans. The studio bosses actually stopped snorting cocaine off of dead hookers for a minute and took the time to make a good decision. It started, rather grandly, with a sequel to a new Ghostbusters film... except this one wasn’t going to be a reboot or a retelling with a more air-headed script and a cast more palatable to modern audiences. Instead, it was to be a sequel to the original 80s films that specifically erased the 2016 reboot and refocused on characters who- while updated for the modern world- could still be more closely identified with the fans who loved the originals than whatever insane what-stupid-people-want checklist the 2016 berks were working from.

Other smaller things were happening at around the same time. Notably, towards the end of 2019, a truly lovely ten-year-old zombie comedy called Zombieland got a long overdue sequel that was entirely in the spirit of the original with no ridiculous attempt to bring it up-to-date, while adverts for the next installment of the semi-dormant Kingsman series started cropping up at the beginning of 2020. As isolated incidents, these things were just flashes in the pan: little positives in a cultural landscape of mind-squanching negativity. Contextualised by the arrival of Ghostbusters: Afterlife, they pointed towards a genre film industry that realised (at least on some level) something had gone terribly, terribly wrong and was edging its way back to a previous era of film-making from before everything when terribly, terribly wrong.

Then, the icing on the cake: the release of the Justice League Snyder Cut was finally announced. Zacky-boy was going to be allowed to finish his own fucking film (albeit, probably, in the form of a six-part miniseries) and the superhero genre was going to gain, at the very least, a last hoorah for the abortive darker-mythic project started in Man of Steel and, at the very most, a whole new timeline to keep that dream alive. I can’t really express my feelings on The Snyder Cut in a single paragraph- I’m gonna need to take a whole blog entry for that one, which I will do, soon. Suffice it to say, I was a very happy bunny.

Then COVID happened. 2020 was supposed to be the year to fix everything- or at least, all the things that could be fixed (Doctor Who was still broken beyond repair and, outside of the cultural sphere, the world was still fucked, with an upper class twit in 10 Downing Street and an evil cheesy whatsit in the Whitehouse). But, with cinemas closing and the production of new cultural artefacts getting bottlenecked by the sudden demobilisation of content creators, the high hopes that 2020 brought with it started to evaporate.

Britain is just now coming out of Lockdown (too early to be safe, by the way- did I mention we have a twit for a Prime Minister?) and that could be... interesting. You see, while coming out of Lockdown midway through the year before a vaccine is ready might be a very bad thing for humans, it could be a pretty good thing for culture, because it gives us time to play catch-up. There’s still time to release the films and miniseries that we need to start healing the liminal dustbowl that genre fiction has become. Here’s hoping that we can still salvage that at least. I mean, it’s no substitute for saveing actual humans from the crisis, but the situation we have is the situation we have and we might as well make the best of it. Roll on the fucking Snyder Cut.