#like this woman Needed to play an escape room so badly i might just invent time travel

[ananalyses]

so like I'm not saying that ann radcliffe would've vibed w saw films (press X to doubt) but I feel she would mesh with that specific brand of "how to game the saw traps" youtube commentary that invariably goes "jigsaw's mechanics are so rudimentary, here's how every single one of these elaborate death thingamajigs gets destroyed with the combined power of this dude's necktie and a dessert spoon I found on the floor"

[91percentpynch]

the cut that always bleeds - kevaaron au pt 3

kejerejean stans? this one is for you. no seriously this one is out of jean‘s point of view? cuz honestly i love that hoe so much. as always get your tissues ready guys. this is actually kinda long? and a mess? and no one beta read it so if there are mistakes or it doesn‘t make sense i‘m sorry!! this is not that sad? tw: mention of murder, mention of physically hurting someone, mention of stabbing, mention of the nest, mention of trauma

check this out to find the other parts:)

Jean has always been a light sleeper. He had to be in order to survive the horrors of Evermore.

So naturally the sobs - as silent as they might have been - woke him up. His eyes opened at once, he sat straight up. Almost automatically he got to his feet and left the room to get to Kevin.

After all, comforting Kevin was like breathing to him.

Jeremy followed Jean, because he would always follow Jean. Jeremy was like a moth and Jean was the light. Wherever he went Jer would follow.

So they went to Kevin‘s room. The striker laid in his bed, curled up, phone in his hand, uncontrollable sobs escaping his mouth.

„I see you took the call this time“, Jean said, surprisingly gentle.

„I wanted to end it. I wanted to have a clear cut. So tell me, why does the cut still bleed?“, Kevin whispered, his voice barely audible.

„Because it‘s a cut that always bleeds“, Jeremy told Kevin as he came closer, carefully and ever so gentle placing his hands on the other boy‘s back.

„He said he wants me to come back to him“, Kevin whispered while holding onto himself as if to try to stop himself from falling apart. „He told me he misses me. That he only gets high when he misses me“

It was quiet in the dark room, shadows were dancing, just as Aaron and Kevin used to dance in the dead of night underneath the night sky.

„You did the right thing Kev“, Jean replied in French while he got into the Bed behind Kevin. Just like they used to do in the Nest.

When Kevin was in his arms he began to hum a French lullaby into his ear.

Jeremy joined them after a second of admiring his beautiful boyfriend and the broken boy in his arms.

„Dude, do you want something? Hot coca? A special Knoxian hug? Us to get Andrew to gut that bastard? Wait, hold on. I forgot. Twin brother. Well, I can gut him for you? Andrew and this is a word by word quote told be once ‚You‘re like a little unicorn in a world full of wolfs with razor sharp teeths, learn to gut the wolfs, stay safe‘, so he taught me how to stab someone? Yeah okay that is not the topic right now, I can still gut Aaron though. I mean Andrew would try to hurt me, but then again I‘m his best friend so he does not have the rights to gut me, right?“, Jeremy offered him a toothy grin, while his hand wandred to his neck rubbing it nervously.

„Can you please not gut him? First of all: Andrew already tried to choke me once when Josten was in danger and I told them where he was, cause apparently yOu DoN‘t KeEp ThOsE tHiNgS tO yOuRsElF yOu FuCkInG mOrOn. I think you do keep those things to yourself if the other option is to get fucking murdered by the mafia??? But what do I know, am I right? After all I‘m just a narcistic, Exy-obsessed asshole without a personality. Bonus I have anxiety, panic attacks, probably depression and I‘m unlovable“, Kevin mumbled into his pillow, the voices of the other foxes, of the other teams inside of his head.

„Did they tell you that?“, Jeremy asked, not quite able to hide the sadness and pain in his voice.

„Doesn‘t eveyone think that?“, Kevin asked. „I mean I think they tend to forget that the woman who gave birth to me, the last woman who geniuely loved me besides maybe Abby, invented the job. I think they tend to forget that the fucking mafia killed her when they found out I‘m not theirs by nature, so the only solution was apparently fucking murder. Then they kidnapped me, brainwashed and tortured me to the point where all I knew was Exy. Oh and maybe they also tend to forget that Ravens were only ever allowed to do Exy, if you were privilegded enough sleep, and do more Exy“

„Kevin you are so much more than that“, Jean whispered into Kevin‘s ear while pressing him against his chest. Just as they used to do in the Nest. „I might be mad at you, because you left me alone with those psychopaths. I used to think you didn‘t care about me. But you were just like me, okay with less scars and less you know. However I cannot say I wouldn‘t have done the same. I understand you now, Kevin. And please, please stop saying those things. And now let us cuddle you and let Jer go through his ridiculous post break-up list. We‘re gonna cuddle you and all you have to do is trying to fall asleep. Used to help me when I was alone at USC. Could only sleep properly when someone held me. Well, Jeremy. Tomorrow we‘ll shove unhealthy food down your throat and watch Downton Abbey or whatever those historcial dramas you love so much are called. While stroking your hand or whatever you‘re into big boy. Afterwards we‘ll take the dogs out and force you to watch the fucking sunset. And I‘ll hold your fucking hand“

Kevin supposed the middle of the night was the time of long lost truths. „Okay“, he mumbled while he moved closer to Jean. Replacing his smell with Jean‘s. It took him a while to fall asleep but he managed.

At the same time Jeremy said „Mi amor, I love you, I really do, but that was literally the most romantic thing you said in the past two years? That is way more romantic than ANY date you ever planned for me? Rude? The audacity?“

„Moi soleil, you don‘t have the ‚cult kidnapped me and tortured me‘ card you can pull, you get the bonus treatmeant of any other people. Besides I literally have matching tattoos with you? I drew you like multiply times? I wrote like a dozen poems and at LEAST one short story? I wrote you a fucking lullaby? You have no right to complain right now, or you‘ll loose your kissing privileges and I give them to Kevin“

„Eww gross“, Kevin mumbled.

„I don‘t remeber you saying that back in the Nest“, Jean replied, poking his cheek.

Kevin didn‘t have the energy to answer. It was a long day. Sleep could have him for the day. Death’s little sister might claim him for the night.

This night he dreamed about Aaron. Strong arms around his waist. Golden eyes locking with smaragd ones. They were on some lonely beach, kissing lazily while the water kissed their feet. It was a beautiful day. Not as beautiful as Aaron, but then again nothing would ever be as beautiful as this specific piece of art. Everything was alright. Everything was good. Why couldn‘t it be the real Aaron and the real Kevin on that beach.

At about noon Kevin woke up to a drooling Jeremy on his stomach and the smell of waffles and soft French swearing in the kitchen. Softly Kevin woke Jeremy up.

„Sorry I always end up on weird angles and drooling on random guys. Jean used to get so mad when I fell asleep in his lap. But you can‘t take him serious when he looks with you with heart eyes trying to be Mad, can you? Anyways we should probably go to him and help him? Oh wait hold on a hot second there. I‘m banned from the kitche, so we can sleep? Right? Right?“

„I hate to break this to you Jer, but it‘s noon. So, no we cannot sleep. You can choose my clothes, though. I know you love going through my stuff and playing dress the doll, Kevin Day edition“, Kevin almost smiled at Jeremy, when he looked up at him pouting.

Then he remembered another blonde boy, pouting at him when he told him no. Another constellation of freckles around another, straight, perfect nose. Sinful lips softly turned up, trying to look mad. Hazel eyes instead of ocean blue ones. Messy blonde curles, instead of soft badly dyed ginger ones. Strong arms instead of lean ones covered in flower tattoos. God, Kevin missed his Aaron.

No, not his. Not anymore

„Okay, but you have to wear to fab outfit I‘ll throw in your face“, Jeremy gave him another easy, toothy grin.

Slowly the other boy got out of bed and went over to the cabet. Slowly Jer went through Kevin‘s cloths. After a while he slowly turned around, holding a jersey that is obviously by far too small for Kevin in front of his face. „What is that? Why do you still have his jersey? Babe, you gotta get rid of that, rather sooner than later“

Jeremy had the weird habit of calling his friends babe, baby, dude or bro. Before Jean he called his boyfriends bro or dude as well, but Jean was so confused by it he quickly stopped doing it.

„First of all: I‘m a weak ass bitch, it smelled of it. And secondly maybe I wanna stab it once I‘m over the phase where I‘m like madly missing him?. I‘d just put it into a pillow, stab at it like a maniac and then set it on fire. I didn‘t grow up with a psychopath as my supposed best friend for nothing Jer“

„Okay? Well I got your clothes. And you‘ll look amazing, cause it‘s the FOX ONSIE I GOT YOU!!! I‘ll wear my onsie as well, and I‘ll force Jean to wear his one as well!! Much fun!! Much wholesome!!“

So that‘s how Kevin Day, queen of Exy, landed sandwiched between his childhood crush and long life crush on their couch, watching Downton Abbey with a plate of waffles on his lap. This was nice. He might had actually enjoyed it, if this wasn‘t his and Aaron‘s show. They used to watch it, cry over it together, make out while watching it.

Thank God didn‘t actually touch him while watching Downton Abbey, he was good at daydreaming. Kevin would just had preteneded that it was Aaron and he thought him breathing Aaron‘s name was the last thing any of them needed today.

After their Downton Abbey marathon they ordered pizza, against Kevin‘s better judgement. Another traditon Kevin shared with Aaron. At finals Aaron would often forget to eat and Kevin was too big of a mess to be bothered to cook so he would end up ordering something every single day and feeding it Aaron while he studied on the floor. Occasionally he would earn a soft kiss, growing hungrier when the night grew darker. God Kevin missed the soft lips on his own.

Kevin would have enjoyed the beach, wouldn‘t he be dressed in a fox onsie, holding hands with a 6“5 guy who looked like he both could and would kill you in a unicorn onsie holding two tiny dogs in his other hand and with a 5“4 dude in a matching unicorn onsie with two dogs that were almost bigger than him.

At least this didn‘t remind him on Aaron.

Well, actually. The way the ocean softly kissed the sand, reminded him of his dream. And of the endless trips to the beach, sleeping in the car, Aaron on top of him. Lazy kisses and warm hugs. It was the first place Aaron took Kevin after their rehab. It was the first night they spent together, as sober men. Well, not sober per se. But drunk and high on each others love. It might had been the most painful memory of the day. God he missed those strong arms around his waist.

Nontheless the pain got less, he felt almost numb. Kevin liked feeling numb. Nothing hurt when you feel numb.

The sunset was beautiful. It reminded him of golden hairs, freckles standing against golden skin, soft lips at his ears, his neck, the corner of his lips.

„Aaron you‘re supposed to look at the sunset, you shithead“, Kevin used to smile down at him. „But I‘m already looking at the most beautfiul thing this world has to offer“, Aaron replied smoothly, locking eyes with Kevin.

When the moon took the place of his long lost lover they decided to go back.

It was safe to say that no one dared to think that someone would wait for them there. Especially not the one person they tried to avoid by all means the entire day.

„You said to stop calling. Never mentioned face to face conversations“, a husky voice said. And Kevin‘s world stopped.

[typinggently]

Could you #3 but with tommy in a dress as in La Cabale? Love that story of yours!

Darling, thank you so much!!! 💝

This honestly was such a delight to think about, even though the whole fashion history is really hand-wavy bc it’s late & I wasn’t feeling up to the task of researching the english names for everything ‘^'...Either way! thank you and I hope you enjoy this messy little drabble 💝💝

3. pinning the other against the wall

-

Warnings: mentions of straight sex, infidelity (The Duchess cheating on her husband - T&A are in an open-ish relationship I suppose), Tommy puts on a show of resisting at one point (he’s very into it and Alfie knows, but since it’s Alfie’s POV I felt the need to state it again)

-

Let’s say this takes place after Alfie’s given Tommy a nice seeing-to in the boudoir of the Duchess. And frankly, at this point, Alfie is probably more surprised than anything that the game is still on. After all, the Duke has seen Tommy get fucked. Even if he doesn’t realise the sweet Lady isn’t quite that delicate a woman, he should at least realise she’s not the best company for his wife.

Still, he doesn’t stop his well-protected little sweetheart from inviting this obviously promiscuous creature over for tea. And Alfie, too.

One could think that he didn’t mind catching them last time.

Alfie isn’t going to blame him, of course. And on top of that, he knows perfectly well that Tommy has no interest in the Duke anyways.

However, he also knows who Tommy has an interest in. So this whole thing, this tea invitation, is great fun to him. There’s the Duke, who’s salivating all over his wife’s best friend but trying not to show it, and the Duchess, who shamelessly feigns faint after about an hour to escape the room with her friend. So now Alfie waits about 20 minutes and goes after them with some excuse.

Listen. Inventing a cover that allows you to slip by unnoticed and fuck this well-protected little thing as often as you want is kind of a genius move, you have to give Tommy that. And sure, sure, Alfie’s impressed and all, congratulations, but he’s also very interested in catching Lady Violet in the corridor, on her way – somewhere. Honestly, who cares, it’s not like she’s going to get there.

Still fixing some strands of hair, freshly powdered, the lips a perfect, undisturbed and very fresh kind of red. Terribly suspicious, honestly.

So what Alfie does, naturally, is catch the Lady as she tries to slip past him and pull her into one of the rooms. It’s probably a drawing room or music room or something, not like any of them is paying attention.

At first, Tommy’s doing a fair share of wiggling, all pushes and “Christ, let go of me”s. It’s not heartfelt, of course, which is all the more obvious in the way that Tommy isn’t actually pushing him away, and his wiggling is more a way to move against Alfie and feel his hold tighten. So Alfie is kind and nice and does exactly that – big hands wrapped around Tommy’s pretty waist, pushing against him to let Tommy feel his warmth and strength. And to press him against the wall, of course, so Tommy can’t wiggle away when Alfie kisses his lovely throat, tasting a hint of fresh sweat under the powder.

There might be dirty talk. You know, the nasty shit, Alfie asking Tommy about the fun he just had in his amused, slightly condescending way while feeling Tommy up. Hand pushed underneath those skirts, wrapped around one of Tommy’s thighs, whispering into his ear – “Did you make her moan, Love? Was it good? Fucking her in the bed she shares with her husband, hm?”

And this is actually such a cruel thing? Because Tommy literally just fucked this girl, he’s still heated enough to get turned on incredibly easily, all badly bitten-back moans and clawing at the wallpaper in an attempt to keep calm. But at the same time, he can’t get hard again this quickly, so he’s left in that awful state of frustration, hot and needy but unable to do much about it, with Alfie talking to him, playing with the dress – pushing the skirts up, pulling at the strings of his corset, pinching his nipples through the layers of frills at the chest, just being a fucking tease.

Where I’m going with this – Tommy probably makes a run for it now and then, trying to slip away before he ruins his make up (again). But the combination of weak knees, the shoes and the skirts mean that he just doesn’t get far. five steps, ten if he’s lucky, and Alfie’s got him around the waist, pushing him back against the wall. And listen, Tommy can do that only for so long.

The third time (at the latest), he’s pulling at Alfie’s lapels instead of pushing at his chest, leaning in with his sweet doe eyes and his red mouth all “We really can’t kiss, it’s going to smear the make-up, absolutely the worst idea-“ as if Alfie’s the pushing his hands underneath his jacket, working at his buttons and biting his lips. At this point, he’s definitely hard again. Alfie would be able to tell from his flush alone, but the fact that he tries to grind against him helps, too.

The problem is, of course, that there’s the matter of the petticoats etc. Those are in the way. Those little constructions tied around Tommy’s waist. There simply is no way for this to be a quick and easy affair, which means Tommy ends up with his corset half undone, chemise slipped to reveal his kiss-bruised chest, skirts pushed up and belt construction abandoned on the floor so he can wrap his thighs around Alfie’s waist. In that mess of silk (let’s say this dress is red, what about it?) and cotton and slipping layers, Tommy finally gets the (second) fuck that day. And once Alfie angles his thrusts just right, Tommy starts clawing at him, leaning in once more and making his sweet little needy noises until Alfie gives in and kisses him after all.

Which is to say – Once Tommy’s back on his feet, he’s in a complete state. The corset can be done up again, but his skirts are wrinkled to hell and back, his throat and chest and shoulders are bruised with countless kisses, his lipstick is smeared terribly and he can barely stand. No way he’s going back to the tea room.

So Alfie, gentleman that he is, wipes off the lipstick smeared on his mouth to his chin (Tommy’s a very messy kisser when he’s close) and goes to excuse the poor lady. She felt faint.

Now all that’s left to do is get Tommy into the carriage and go home. And if Tommy’s grumpy (which he is, because Alfie once again made him leave early because Tommy’s too lenient and enjoys Alfie’s touches too much and Alfie KNOWS), Alfie just has to make it up to him by gently-tenderly kissing his shoulder and calling him “Love”, “Sweetheart” and “Dearest” until Tommy melts and lets him push his hand under his skirts again. Carriages are very cramped, but the dress is already ruined anyway, might as well stain it some more and make Tommy mewl and shake again.

-

the prompts 💝

(please don’t send more alfie/tommy prompt requests - I have a lot of doubles and am currently finishing them up :) thank you so much!)

[snarkybluechristian]

Hazbin Hotel: Yandere Alastor x Vaggie Chapter 20

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Later, back at the mansion, Vaggie was laying still mummified in ribbons on her bed while Alastor and Rosie had a talk about her behavior.  

Vaggie’s mind was in a state of panic.  There was no way she could help Angel right now.  There was nothing she could do.  She couldn’t even warn him.

Knock!  Knock!  Knock!

Vaggie turned her head over to hear knocking on the other side of her bathroom wall followed by “Vaggie, Vaggie, are you there?!  What’s going on?!”

“Mmmmmmmph!” Vaggie yelled from behind her gag.  

“Oh, I know that noise,” Angel replied sadly.  “You’ve been gagged again, huh?  Well, it sounds like you’re in trouble from what I’ve heard our wardens say outside.  How ever they punish you, don’t let them see you cry, babe.  Stay strong until it’s over and I’ll be right here to comfort you when they’re done.”

“Mmmmmmmpppppppphhhhhhhhh!” Vaggie cried helplessly from behind her gag.  

There was nothing she could do but pray.

Suddenly, Vaggie and Angel heard the locks to Angel’s room being opened.  

Angel looked up in surprise and then anger as they opened the door to the bathroom to find him with crutches leaning against the bathroom wall.

“You bastards are sick.  You know that?” Angel snarled.

“What ever do you mean, my dear Angel?” Rosie asked with thinly-concealed malice as Alastor gestured for him to return to his bed.  

“Vaggie says something you don’t like and you punish her by hurting me,” Angel replied reluctantly using his crutches to hobble his way back to the bed.  “That’s sick and not in a good way.”

As soon as Angel made his way to the bed, Alastor tossed aside Angel’s crutches and said, “Oh, Angel, you’re quite rude considering I’ve made you a guest in my home.  I do believe some manners need to be taught to you as well.”

Angel scoffed and said seductively, “Oh, daddy!  Are you going to punish me again?”

Alastor chuckled and said, “Not exactly.  I can’t exactly damage my main auction prize.  Can I?”

“Oh, if I may make a suggestion, how about injecting his bloodstream with a non-fatal poison of my own invention?” Rosie suggested merrily.  “It’ll make him feel as though he’s on fire!”

“My dear Rosie, under any other circumstances, I would say yes, but this time, I must decline,” Alastor replied placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “You see, as fun as that sounds, dear, that type of thing could significantly delay his healing process.  Poison like that might damage his nerves too badly.  Don’t you have anything that could make his healing process more painful?  Perhaps a serum that heals its patients in an unusual way?”

“I have just the thing!” Rosie said cheerfully.  “It’s a potion that heals bones in the most agonizing way imaginable.”

“Oh, Rosie, dear, that sounds just perfect!” Alastor replied jovially.  “Which bone should we heal?”

“How about his ribs?”

“I healed those already.”

“Oh, that’s right…Oh, I know!  How about his pelvis?  You injured that as well when you were playing with him.  Didn’t you?”

“That’s right!  But don’t give me all the credit, dear.  You did a number on it when you played with him, too.  We both damaged it.”

“Alrighty, then.  The pelvis, it is.  What do you think, Angel?”

Alastor and Rosie turned to Angel waiting for his response, but Angel only scoffed and said, “Whatever…”

“Mmmmmmmmpppppppphhhhhhh!” Vaggie screamed struggling desperately to escape from her ribbons.

Her struggling managed to get her to fall off the bed onto the ground.  

Vaggie sighed about ready to give in to her helpless situation until she saw her open bathroom on the other side of the room and came up with another plan.  

She wriggled her cocooned body inch by inch into the bathroom until she reached the wall separating her bathroom from Angel’s and kicked the door with all her might.

“Alastor, did you hear something?” Rosie asked as she finished sending her text message to her penguin familiar.  

“Oh, that’s just Vaggie trying to stop us,” Alastor replied nonchalantly.

“What should we do about it?” Rosie asked with a wicked smirk on her face.

“Why, let her hear the punishment, of course,” Alastor said merrily.

“All tied up on the floor like that?” Rosie asked raising an eyebrow.  “Oh, Alastor, you really are too cruel.”

“Jesus Christ, you two are annoying,” Angel finally said in annoyance.  “You talk a big talk while doin’ absolutely nothin’.  If you’re gonna do something, why don’t you do it already?  I’m so fuckin’ bored.  I could use the action.  Hey, Vaggie!  You don’t have to worry about me.  You know I love pain.”

Vaggie, however, continued thrashing around on the floor breaking free from the ribbons.  She didn’t care that Angel claimed to enjoy pain.  Vaggie knew that Alastor and Rosie’s “treatment” would go beyond whatever threshold of pain Angel could manage.

“Is the serum here yet?” Alastor asked.

“Just a moment,” Rosie said turning away and walking out of the room.

Once Rosie left the room, Angel sat himself upon the bed off the wall with the support of his one good arm and said, “Hey, Alastor.  Can I ask you something?”

Alastor chuckled out loud and replied, “And what shall you humor me with this time, Angel?”

Vaggie stopped struggling and listened in.

“It’s about Vaggie,” Angel said.  “You need to lay off her.”

“Hmm?” Alastor asked raising an eyebrow.

“You and I both know Vaggie’s a tough cookie, but she’s been alive longer than she’s been dead,” Angel began.  “She ain’t used to the kind of abuse we are.  At least, not yet.  You can’t keep being this cruel to her if you want her to love you back.  She’ll snap.  You need to let her go…”

“I know what you’re doing,” Alastor interrupted.  “And it’s not going to work.”

“What are you saying, handsome?” Angel asked with a flirtatious smile.

“I am trying to tame the shrew out of Vaggie, not coddle it,” Alastor replied.

Angel scoffed and said, “I know.  We’ve been reading your book.  Vaggie’s not Kate, and you’re no Petruchio.”

Alastor chuckled out loud and said, “So, you say…”

“Oh, Alastor!” Rosie called out merrily as she re-entered the room with a syringe in her hand.  “I’ve got the serum!”

“Oh, goodie,” Alastor said in an upbeat tone that was just as merry.  “Let’s get this treatment going.”

Angel’s eyes narrowed in a determined glare as Rosie uncovered the syringe and he continued his defiant tirade, “You need to read the book again because you seem to have missed the most important point.  Kate never changes.  She only learns how to act, but I doubt you’ll ever reach that point with Vaggie. You see, Kate was a spoiled brat. Vaggie’s an El Salvadoran woman who learned to fight her way through life’s…”

Just then, Rosie injected the serum into Angel’s pelvis.  The pain was almost instantaneous.

Angel didn’t show the pain he was in at first.  He only started moaning in pleasure.  Then, all of a sudden, the broken bits of his pelvis started moving, yanking and stretching his muscles.

Angel immediately grabbed his pillow and held it over his face so he could bite into the fluff and hide his tears.

Unfortunately, Rosie snatched the pillow out of Angel’s hand as Alastor snapped his fingers causing shackles to hold Angel’s arms above his head so that Vaggie could hear Angel’s screams of agony.

Vaggie squirmed around and moaned in a panic.

After a few moments of screaming and groaning at having his broken arms chained to the wall, Angel heard Vaggie’s muffled screams as she struggled on the other side of the bathroom wall.  

That made Angel all the more determined.  He shut his mouth and refused to keep screaming.  When Angel couldn’t hold it in, he lowered his head down and bit down on his fluff much to the chagrin of his captors.

On the other side of the bathroom wall, Vaggie was feeling distraught.

Alastor sighed in disappointment and said, “Oh, why isn’t Angel screaming?”

“He’s stopping himself from screaming,” Rosie replied.  “And we both know the reason why.”

“Well, obviously,” Alastor said nonchalantly noticing the blood trickling from Angel’s chest.  “Angel’s doing it for Vaggie.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Rosie said with a mockingly sweet tone in her voice.  “Angel must truly care about her.”

“Indeed,” Alastor said clenching his teeth in frustration.

“It’s so charming how strong he is trying to be,” Rosie noted.  “I think I might be in love…”

“Go fuck yourselves!” Angel suddenly cried out before going back to gnawing on his chest fur.  

“Well, that was not very nice, love,” Rosie said with a bemused chuckle.

“Angel, you are not cooperating,” Alastor said with a judgmental head shake.  “That is not good.”

Angel ignored the comment and only bit down harder before Rosie chimed in with, “Oh, Alastor, dear.  If I may make a suggestion, why don’t you go into the other room and comfort your bride-to -be?  I’ll make Angel cooperate.”

“How ever will you do that?” Alastor asked.  

“Oh, I’ll tell you after the fact,” Rosie said leering at Angel.  “I want it to be a surprise.”

“In that case, Rosie, my dear, have at him,” Alastor said as he turned away and walked to the door.  “I shall go see my darling bride.”

Vaggie panicked and began thrashing around more wildly in a desperate attempt to free herself.  Unfortunately, the ribbons wrapped around her didn’t budge or move.  

Vaggie sat there in dread as she heard Alastor enter her room and open the door to her bathroom.

“Oh, my darling wife!  What are you doing rolling around on the floor like that?” Alastor exclaimed scooping up Vaggie in his arms and sitting himself at her spot on the floor against the wall.  “I may have your room cleaned daily, but still…This is no place for any wife of mine.”

Vaggie struggled fiercely to escape Alastor’s hold only for him to hold her snuggly and whisper, “Calm down, dearest.  I’m here now.”

Vaggie only scowled at Alastor and continued to struggle harder.

Alastor wrapped his arms more tightly around Vaggie and said, “Lie still, my love, and listen to the show.”

All of a sudden, Angel let out a blood-curdling scream from the other side of the wall.

Vaggie was paralyzed with fear, but Alastor sighed in contentment and said, “There, we go.”

Vaggie’s shock wore off and she continued struggling against her restraints and her fiancé’s hold as Angel continued screaming in agony.

“Are you going to behave for Rosie now, beloved Kate?” Alastor abruptly asked ignoring Vaggie’s struggles.  

Vaggie quit struggling for a moment and laid there against Alastor’s torso submitting to his hold as she felt the tears roll from her eyes.

Alastor wiped them away, stroked the top of Vaggie’s head, and said, “That’s a good girl…”

“NO!  YOU AIN’T HIS FUCKING KATE, VAGGIE!  DON’T GIVE HIM WHAT HE WANTS…AHHHHHHH!” Angel suddenly cried out before the crack of a whip interrupted his outburst.

“Shut up!” Rosie yelled from the other side of the wall.

Angel continued screaming for another moment before everything went silent and the only noise that could be heard was Angel plopping back onto his bed free from his restraints.

Alastor, stood up, picked up Vaggie and said, “Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn, For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty- Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well - Thou must be married to no man but me...”

Vaggie’s frightened eyes settled into an angry glare as Alastor carried her out of the bathroom and continued his Shakespeare recital, “For I am he born to tame you, Kate, and bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate Conformable as other household Kate’s.”

“Mmmmmmmppphhhhh!” Vaggie cried out furiously behind her gag as she struggled more tremendously than ever to escape Alastor’s hold and her ribbons.

Without another word, Alastor laid Vaggie back on her bed and left the room.  

Vaggie continued her struggle to break free until she heard Alastor talking to Rosie in the hallway.

“The serum worked, Alastor,” Rosie said shutting and locking the door to Angel’s room.  “Angel’s pelvis is all healed.”

“Good work, Rosie, my dear,” Alastor said cheerfully.  “You may release Vaggie now.”

Rosie snapped her fingers causing the grey ribbons mummifying Vaggie’s body to unravel.  In an instant, the ribbons had released Vaggie from their hold, slithered down the bed and across the floor, and went under the door to return to the master who summoned them.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Vaggie,” Alastor called out from the hallway.  “Dinner will be sent to your room shortly.  Rosie and I will be dining downstairs.”

“Do be sure to rest, dear,” Rosie added in a merry tone.  “We’ll be continuing your etiquette classes tomorrow.”

“Goodnight!” Alastor called out as he and Rosie finally walked away.

[zani-is-a-stan]

Suzani reads AF: Chapter 3 - In The Mountains

All the other chapters: Prologue Chapter 1 - Bee Stings Chapter 2 - The Silver Touch

I’m reading AF and liveblogging my response. This is partly because RH’s books are so densely woven that I want to make sure I catch every detail I can on the first read. I pounded most of the other RotE books, and discovered an insane amount of details on my second and third read-throughs that I completely missed the first time. I’m also inventing reasons to slow down because i want to savor the fuck out of this book.

I will not be responding to any comments on these posts until I’ve finished the book - to save myself from spoilers.

And I just wrote a bunch of junk so that you could turn away before the spoilers in case you made it here by accident.

Spoilers ahead. Read at your own risk

Predictions based on chapter title: We’re in the mountains. -_-

Preface text: I don’t get this one. I don’t enjoy it either. Well ... I *get* it. Someone’s watching serpents hatch and capturing while an Other watches. I don’t like this at all. It’s bad news bears. AND it’s being done by a White wearing green and gold, colors we just learned were associated with Withywoods. Is it Beloved being so sinister? Is it Bee herself? Is it someone from a very long time ago? Is it metaphorical? Will Amber win over the keepers of the blue and gold dragons only to be turned on by Heeby and Rapskal? Is it a metaphor about how enslaving other will only lead to them turning on you and consuming them? The whole thing feels very ominous and I don’t want Heeby to eat Beloved. Or Beloved to enslave serpents.

Bee wakes up: You know, the first time I read a Bee-narrated chapter, I was angry and stressed about it. This wasn’t the Fitz book I was looking for! When the messenger turned our to be not Beloved, I was furious! I had skipped over RWC to go straight to the Fitz and the Fool books after Tawny man because I was so intoxicated with the OTP. The slow-downs and re-reads have forced me to appreciate the series from a perspective that incorporated more than just skimming the passages until I got to the next occurrence of the OTP being in the same room together. I’m really glad this change happened for me, for a few reasons. It allowed me a greater appreciation of what a true master of the craft Hobb is. It also allowed me to fall in love with all these other characters! Mostly Lant and Bee, but the rest of them too.

So I was really happy when this book opened with a scene of badass, 8-year-old Bee clobbering her kidnappers in the face with a club, and never ever giving up. She’s amazing. She’s inspiring. And give me another story of any genre where the true hero is a magic 8 year old girl ... and it’s as cool as this?

Dwalia and Alaria’s character progression: Dwalia’s coming across as more desperate and petty and cruel than she even did in the first chapter. I wonder where this is going to end up ... The closer we draw to her character, the worse of a person she is revealed to be. And Alaria is suddenly a threat, when before she might have been a character Bee could have turned into an ally. A petty, cruel threat. Dwalia is a person who hold the power of intimidation on those around her, and the people around haven’t yet figured out that there are more of them than her. AND we learn that Dwalia was perhaps in love with the Pale Woman, and this all was a revenge trip. This makes her even more dangerous, I think. I love the detail of her just assuming that the values of another culture (regarding Chalced and Kerf’s family) don’t matter, and she can manipulate any situation to get her way.

New names Symphe. Who is Symphe? Are they one of the four? Symphe might be french, but it popped up in an old english dictionary as part of a root word for the harmonious implications in the word ‘symphony’, and the ‘sym’ aspect as a root for the work ‘sympathy’. So ... someone often in agreement with others? Someone passive? A supporter? And then .... is it possible that Symphe picked the luriks she picked to accompany Dwalia to attempt to turn her away from Bee? Is it possible that Symphe is on ‘our’ side?

Also, this is a good time to bring up that the word ‘Kerf’ means ‘cut’.

Ilistore! The Pale Woman finally has a name! And uh-oh, some heavy implications with this one ... Ilistore sounds not unlike ‘illusion’ or ‘illusory’, which would make sense, as she used the Skill to blind people a lot. But what it really sounds like is ‘Alastair’ or ‘Alaster’ - which mean ‘defender of mankind’, ‘avenger of evil deeds’, 'he who does not forget', 'avenger', 'persecutor', 'tormenter’, 'one who suffers from divine vengeance'. So ... what if she was the actual right White Prophet after all? Obvi a sociopathic evil bitch, but ... what if she was also ... right?

Prillkop Oh man. I wanted so much for this dude to have been a bad guy luring Beloved back to Clerres instead of a good guy who’s probably dead now.

Bee’s Treasures In addition to Per’s hat and Molly’s candle, she now has Lady Thyme’s shawl. Taken of necessity, but still portentous? But Dwalia get the item that was Fitz’s. That’s probably not good, whatever it was. Bee’s First Kill Reppin’s slow death reminds me of the first time I read the scene in Assassin’s Quest where Fitz has to listen to a very young man cry in the road until he dies of the slow poison he had given him. The difference is, Fitz is somewhat tormented by the experience, even though it was the only way to save himself. Bee regrets, but with Nighteyes encouraging her, knew she did what she had to survive. Reppin, Alaria and Vindeliar God, these three are like watching middle school social dynamics play out in front of my eyes. Fucking ow. I really hope Vindeliar makes it out of this in one piece. It’s not his fault he’s been used like this and treated so badly. Important Plot Points I think (for now) that Symphe, Coultrie and Capra are all of the Four. Confirmation that Whites (at least Beloved) have multiple catalysts.

Hoo boy! So ... the Unexpected Sun’s victory is supposed to be absolute, and the recapturing of Beloved proves (to the Servants) that Fitz was not the Unexpected Sun. The reasoning for this is a key to understanding the way they think: victory is the destruction of their opponents. To lose any one aspect of a conflict is to negate any success. This is very different from Beloved’s approach of ‘one little ant at a time’. It shows their paranoia. It shows as well that they see themselves as in battle against something.

Beloved’s catalysts: an assassin (Fitz), a nine-fingered slave boy (Wintrow, who Amber completely missed out on any contact with until everything was over), a ship’s captain (could be Wintrow again ... could be Althea? even though she wasn’t technically a captain. I don’t think it’s Kennit, although it would make complete sense if it was given his historical significance. Wouldn’t it be a damn laugh if it was Grag?), a spoiled girl (Malta, duh), a noble bastard (Fitzy Fitz. Or ... Chade?)

Vindeliar had, or has a sister.

Beloved probably didn’t escape, but was deliberately released. Seems likely. He was a fucking mess, not a Shawshank.

DUDE! The White that Beloved one was is TOTALLY singing through time at Bee! Is she also trying to manipulate Kerf? Did she push him to do what he did? It’s basically because of him that they go through the pillar as they do. When he says “Darker than Death” .... what does he mean? The blood? Bee?

“So, I had that.” THIS IS MY FAVORITE LINE SO FAR!

Dreams Alaria dreams the destroyer (currently being assumed by me to be Fitz) brings foul fumes and death. An acorn (currently being assumed by me to be Bee) is taken inside what I assume is Clerres and becomes the destroyer. Bee mentions the dream from Fool’s Assasin with the puppet with an acorn head, being wielded by what I had assumed was Beloved. I’m going to go back and look at that one again - I had a hard time with it the first time around bc, much like the dream in the beginning of this chapter, it implied that Beloved was a Bad Guy. Reppin dreams that destruction comes (and for her, it does sooner than others.) Vindeliar dreams what seems to be poiting us to the same concept - Bee is brought to Clerres, is ‘opened’ or ‘crushed’ and that triggers a big destruction.

You know, when Hobb really pushes me to expect a certain outcome of a situation, i just don’t know if I believe her.

Bee holds a torch under a wasps nest at a crossroads (could be where they are now, with Dwalia being the wasp’s nest.) I like this theory because it ties in beautifully with Kerf’s assertion that killing for no reason will harm Bee if she does it, but won’t harm Dwalia if she does it, by comparing Dwalia to a wasp. As Nighteyes said in Fool’s Errand of Fitz.

A scarred girl weeps with Nettle while they hold a baby. Is the scarred girl Nettle’s unborn baby, changed from her contact with Tintaglia? Is Bee the scarred girl, and the baby her niece? Will be she back home in time for Nettle’s child to be born? A man burns porridge, (no idea on this one) the wolfpack (the Farseers?)howls in despair. The blackness of the destruction is acid, and brings down dragons, destroying their wings.

**There is a thing that only Bee can do!**

And at the end of it all, Bee cries out to her father. Because she loves and needs him --- but will it be a Skill call?

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, NINA!

You have been accepted for the role of IRA SOROKIN. Admin Em: We’d received FANTASTIC, beautifully written applications for Ira and I had the worst time trying to make up my mind - but Nina, it was your headcanons that ultimately swayed me. You fleshed out areas not elaborated on in the bio to create a complete, vibrant portrait of a wolf of a girl - I especially loved how the tale of Ilya Muromets inspired her original name, and her goal to prove Durasts are as much warriors as any of the other Grisha, the invention of a weapon that was most effective in the hands of her fellow Durasts a clever accompaniment. ‘She decided that, if the birth of greatness wasn’t her natural calling, the death of it could be just as useful.’ What a beautifully succinct line that perfectly captures her adaptability. Thank you, so much for your beautiful application and welcome to R&R! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Hey there! I’m Nina.

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: She/her.

AGE: I’m 21 yo.

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: I’m currently finishing undergrad school, and that’s pretty much all I’m focusing my time on rn. So, I’ll be checking the dash every day and plotting/answering to threads every time I can get to my computer. I would be a solid 7 out of 10, I think.

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: -

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Ira Sorokin.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

My first option when I found this rp was Valerian Petrov, as it was the first one I wrote for, but upon reading the other characters, Ira was the one who stood up. I love how wild and master of her own fate she is. And also how her savagery gives me so much ground to work with. She has this infinite possibilities look that pretty much made me choose her.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

Warriors.

The order of Fabrikators isn’t usually acquainted with combat skills, since their work’s focus lies elsewhere. But Ira doesn’t believe that her work and training are enough to keep her afloat, and to be adrift was never the position she favored in life. The Durast believes she, as any soldier, should be able to fight not only with her claws or the will of every metal on a battlefield, but with everything she had. Therefor, Ira decided to seek a partner who could train her on combat during nights and hidden from curious eyes. This is the person she chose to teach her, to destroy every bit of her confidence and rebuild her into something new, stronger. But this is also the one who knows her secret: Ira Sorokin doesn’t like to feel vulnerable, and if she felt it was necessary to trust another being to give her the skills she needed to survive, she would. One can only hope her trust isn’t misleading her.

Both a friendship plot or a manipulative one would work here. It all depends on who takes this on. I would like to see both happening, so there’s that.

Honesty versus Refinement.

When standing side by side with Fyodor Drugov, something rather curious seems to happen. The contrast between them only bring them closer. At the same time Ira presents herself as something wilder, savagery in its true form, to be with Fyodor is to belong. They’re her kind. Undoubtedly. And it urges her even closer to see how refinement suits a beast so well, when she spent a lifetime believing there was no such monster. Ira knows Fyodor is intimately acquainted with the limits of a cage, and she can see in their eyes how they loathes it too. This could be the birth of a true alliance, or the death of her. She isn’t quite sure. But Ira isn’t quite searching for an answer just yet.

The best opportunity to do all sorts of things is right here. Those two have lots of potential and I can’t help but wonder what we can do with that.

The leash.

A wild thing does not wear a leash. But time after time, Ira seems to find herself in the end of one. First, it was her parents and the dead weight they had become in her life. Then, came hunger and its way of driving her to the edge, towards an abyss that stole years of her life; – those she spent in the Sorokin household. Now, it seems the Darkling holds the end of her leash and Ira is growing anxious about holding it herself. She knows this was her choice, and she’s also aware that going against the Darkling’s domain is a step taken towards death, but a wild thing can’t help but feel claustrophobic in a cage. For how long can she keep her claws to herself, then?

Discussing if the Darkling would bother to make her respect him enough to ignore the leash, or if she is as insignificant as the Darkling keeping indifferent towards her, would be very nice. Depending on what he sees fit, Ira’s inclination to once again fight for her freedom would either settle down or grow into another war inside her. Treason or loyalty? That seems to be the question.

Angel of small death.

To lay such a violent devotion upon a fragile thing is to choose a doomed fate, but Ira had no choice. She only knows love as a violent act against the world, and when her heart found something in desperate need of nurturing in Stasya Belov, she forced her claws to be as gentle as she knew how, just to see the other’s wall building up faster than she could possibly understand how. This was rather ironic, if looked closer. The beast who knew no human trait finding the urge to devote all her love to a human who wanted no part in it. At least, this was what Ira perceived. Both the need and the walls separating them, Ira never had the courage to ask. To come closer.

Since this is a one-side connection, it would be very interesting to see Stasya’s side of it. If Ira is imagining it all, or it Stasya indeed had no interest in Ira’s devotion.

Humor me.

If there’s one thing Ira indulges herself in, is the liberty of instinct. She loves how it fits her so well, and how in control she seems when her inner beast manipulates her way through life. The very materialized form of this, is her relation with one certain Druvik Jadeja. Had she spared a moment of consciousness to consider the matter, Ira might have had the idea of how cruel that dance must’ve been to the other, but truth to be told, she neither cared to be moral nor did she have the interest to hide her cruelty. Ira loves to make Druvik dance for her like a monkey to whom she taught some very nice tricks. Manipulation is an art she began to understand through him, and one she would be very disappointed to lose in case of Druvik getting tired of their game.

Here, I would very much like to see what Druvik’s player thinks. Either see him falling deeper and deeper into her game, and wait for Ira to grow tired of how easy it has become to her, or see him revolting against her and allowing another kind of fun to present itself to Ira: the one in which she finds herself between his struggle to get rid of her cruel game and her urge to be so very violent about it all.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: I believe so, yes! As long as it makes sense to her story, I believe it would be quite the final touch.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

BEFORE

The taste of blood in her mouth was a rather pleasing one when the girl opened the door to the Sorokin’s Household. It meant freedom in such a twisted way, that Bo grew fond of provoking the children in the streets of Ketterdam just to get into a fight and come home bleeding all over the Sorokin’s things. Every time they sent her to do errands around the city, her way of protest came with bloodstained packages and a face so bruised, the mistress wouldn’t want her in the house.

It was easier to spend hours in her master’s workshop, playing with metals as she pleased, than to spend countless hours pinning the mistress’ hair, feeding her false words and listening to her disgusting compliments in between threats. And once the woman saw the face of her child slave, what Bo had predicted unfolded right in front of her.

“This is unacceptable, child!” the woman yelled at her, “I do not wish to see your ugly face inside the house”, and against her scum, Bo hid a smile as she looked down and left the room. The pain that came with all those bruises was never so great as the one of serfdom. The girl wasn’t born to live in a cage. Wild things belonged somewhere else. But the Sorokin seemed blind to such a small and meaningful truth. It was rather convenient to keep her at an arm length. And so they did.

Every day she was moved as the masters pleased. Obeying every word in order to feed, to be kept warm and to have a bed at night. More frequently than not, the girl missed the soft brush of leaves against her skin, and the smell of freedom surrounding her. Those were days of happiness, – the ones spent in the wilderness of Ketterdam’s outskirts. She had no family, no master and no mistress to pin her down. Bo was free.

Shame that hunger brought her to a gun point. Now she knew this world wasn’t her place of right. She was told just how much otherworldly and beast-like she was at every bullet she escaped by the will of her mind. “Grisha”, the man had called her, and Grisha she became in the hands of her master.

That man only knew how to take advantage of Bo’s abilities, and though she despised every inch of him, this was a lesson the girl soon learned upon living with the Sorokin. If Bo wanted something, she had to take it from whoever had it. If she wanted to be left alone in the master’s workshop, she had to be beaten up badly by the lost children of Ketterdam and return home with barely no dignity.

But the girl knew, deep down, that this lesson would thrive into something greater. Time was all she needed. For as she manipulated steel into the form she well pleased, unnerved by the bars in her cage, Bo planned the future days of freedom. Those who waited for her in the end of that piece she was working one: a blade. The instrument to buy her way out of this hole.

INBETWEEN

Tw: slavery, torture.

The sea crashed against the hull of the ship as the whip of a master against his slave’s bare skin. It had the cruelty of who feared nothing and respected no one but itself. And it reverberated on a certain Ira Sorokin who knew that reality far too intimately to not spare a minute of recognition when the structural entity of the ship was set in a fierce wave.

At this point, the men on board seemed to be so acquainted with the violence of the sea and how it reflected so perfectly on Ira’s eyes, that they settle themselves on not bothering the girl once she was balanced on the bowsprit at the end of every day of work. For this was the time she devoted to the past. The moment of every passing day on the sea where she would close her eyes and feel the wind upon her face. Where she would poise herself as the daughter of feral things and travel back to the world of a girl whose name was now lost. “Bo Murometz”, she would whisper to herself and into the wilderness. In an attempt to hold on to that piece, to keep herself from forgetting.

She wasn’t sure why it mattered so much, but the thought of letting go was rather a sharp one. It left disfigured cuts on its way and more often than not, bathed on her blood. Ira Sorokin could never let Bo Murometz fade away. It was a stupid name of a stupid girl, but it belonged to her. There wasn’t many things in her life that she could call her own. Freedom, Bo Murometz, the chance of a glorious future… these were the things Ira possessed, and to devote herself to those small details, was to hold on with all her violence, in all her cruelty.

With the traders as her witnesses, Ira became the sea of unwanted things, and with no one to care for them, she took upon herself to be their guardian. Every day she stopped at that same place, climbed the wooden structure towards the bowsprit, and let her mind wander. The men feared her, despite the prejudice of women bringing bad fortune on sea. And they admired her, far beyond the immaculate beauty of her face. They knew she was something else entirely. Not the woman who worked her way into that ship and woke up every morning to prove her value to the crew. Not the girl who seemed lost in those split seconds of solitude. But certainly the being whose claws were beast-like.

They knew better than to ask, though. And she was grateful for it. Her hands were still wet with her masters’ blood. Her tongue still poisonous with her mistress’ name on it. She wasn’t just about to spill it all out, nor did she cared to do so. They kept to themselves, and Ira did the same. For the day she would set her feet on Ravka’s shore, was the day she would not have the time to the past. This was her way to say goodbye. This was her way of, utterly, and reluctantly, let go.

AFTER

The sound of chains made of Grisha steel whipping the ground was like a thunder ready to bring down a fortress. Ira greeted that old force with the devotion of a lover.

This was the moment she waited for the entire day. The fall of night when she could escape the curious eyes and hide as far way from both palaces as she could, with nothing to accompany her but the chains around her torso and a handmade tobacco roll burning between her lips. And though the drug was the one erasing all the insignificant beings that crossed her way, the weapon was the one to calm her down.

With time, she grew fond of the grip of metal between her fingers, or the rush that using her power brought. Ira liked to watch the tsepi unfold and move like a snake by her feet under her command. She could see, there, how promising her order was, for her dreams of glory always came hand in hand with the Durasts being able to be something other than workshop’s rats. Within those walls was another cage, and Ira wasn’t just about to confine herself again.

So the woman raised the roll to her lips and breathed in the smoke of tobacco. Her dark eyes falling shut as she stopped and ordered the tsepi to wrap around her torso once more. She smiled fiercely. A part of Ira knew she wasn’t meant to be displaying her pride like a trophy, but the part born beast made her loose hair and untidy clothes fit naturally to the chains she summoned back to her body.

That moment, Ira Sorokin was made of warning, of danger. This was the girl who murdered the man and woman who dared to imprison her. This was the wild thing that survived in the forest for so long and with no help at all. And this was the sailor who bought respect from the traders that led her here.

Strange was the path of a monster such as Ira Sorokin. One she, herself, couldn’t understand. Yet, she managed to conquer a few great things. A brief moment of freedom. The liberty to be otherworldly amongst her equals. What would her mistress tell her now?

There was no blood staining her clothes, her ethereal beauty as intact as the real Ira Sorokin liked. But her mistress was long gone. She couldn’t see her child slave now, and that piece of satisfaction, that small accomplishment, made the beast thrive.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

   x The lost child.

There’s a name whispered at night that Ira holds close to her heart and out of danger. It belongs to a girl who could barely remember her first years in this world, but who had known, with every inch of her soul, what her father had cried out in his vices and what her mother dared never to say. She believed it meant “wave” in her mother’s tongue, for she knew it was different from the one she learned in Ketterdam. It was an easy-to-remember name, a simple and sonorous one to Ira’s ear. It was Bo. Just this. No family name.

Until, there is, she wandered off and went to the outskirts of Ketterdam, where once, upon hearing voices between the trees, the girl found a father and a son traveling north. Hidden and far too curious about their ways, she heard a story about one Ilya Murometz, a bogatyr whose story started with “From the famous city of Murom, out of the village of Karacharovo, the valiant, doughty youth Ilya Muromets, the son of Ivan, set out far into the open fields…”.

She wasn’t sure what that word bogatyr meant, nor where those cities and villages were, but the girl was certain they were very much real, like Ilya himself. She learned how he spent his first 33 years of life on a stove, unable to move, as the consequence of a curse put on his grandfather, and how, upon the arrival of three religious men, the bogatyr found himself able to walk for the first time and became the owner of a super-human strength.

Enacting battles and great heroic moves, the strange traveler described how Ilya single-handedly defended the city of Chernigov from invasion and how he, afterwards, killed the forest-dwelling monster who murdered travelers with his powerful whistle. And with every victory, Bo celebrated as fiercely as she knew how. Ilya Murometz defeated bandits, three-headed flying serpents, possessed knights and even princes. A true bogatyr, a true hero.

When the night fade away and Bo lost the travelers in her sleep, she woke up the next morning to one decision: she was to be a monster slayer, a hero, just like Ilya. From that day on, she was to be called Bo Murometz. The girl who survived on her own and left on her path many victories.

This was the name Ira Sorokin kept a secret: the easy-to-remember word her useless parents gave her and the tale of glory she stole from a traveler in Ketterdam.

   x The tsepi.

Ira isn’t as devoted to the creation of things as she’s to their destruction. For a Durast in the Second Army, who was supposed to tailor equipment and build ships and fortresses, then, it was a tough path to fit in. But as always, Ira managed a way. She decided that, if the birth of greatness wasn’t her natural calling, the death of it could be just as useful.

Upon settling her mind to the task, Ira excelled on designing weapons to fit every special need. In the beginning, it was a rather disappointing project, but Ira didn’t rest until she left the workshop with triumph between her fingers. She created something called the Tsepi, a weapon that could only be useful to very skilled hands or to the Durast, It consisted of a chain made of Grisha steel that could be wore as a defensive weapon upon attacks in hand-to-hand combat, as well as one that involved knives and objects alike. But also one that worked as a whip and followed every command of the people who controlled metal as she did.

And once tested and proven worthy of her every efforts, Ira decided to be the first to show that Durast were warriors as much as any other Grisha. She knew it wasn’t exactly the description of her kind’s endeavors, but she didn’t really mind. Ira wears her tsepi wrapped around her torso, beneath her kefta, as the most beautiful and priceless jewel, and dreams of the day it will be a success in the Second Army, because the Durast will be encouraged to leave the workshop if they wish to.

   x The True Sea and the Shadow Fold.

On her way to Os Alta, Ira had two paths to choose from. One used the land bridge between Kerch and Shu Han to cross the True Sea and get to Ravka through the mountains that divided Shu Han’s and Ravka’s territory. The other was a wagon to a Port City where she would find her way into a Trading Ship with its course settled for Ravka, where she still would have to cross the Unsea to get to Os Alta.

Aware of the stories that travelled all the way to Ketterdam about Grisha who were experimented on in Shu Han, Ira decided she would rather cross a million times the Shadow Fold than risk being caught by the Shu Han and become a slave again. So she settled for the wagon, and once in the nearest Port City, found her way into a Ship that carried tobacco to Ravka. It wasn’t an easy journey, but she found out she loved the True Sea. Had she not dreamt of glory in Os Alta, Ira would’ve settled with a life on a ship, traveling back and forward to wherever the wind would take her.

This was particularly why the sight of the Unsea made her partially regret her decision. From something so beautiful and pure, to that aberration. From freedom itself to her grave. At least, this was how she defined the Fold the very moment she entered it. Rather unnerving was to realize, once she heard the volcra surrounding them, that she was more curious about them, than it would be wise. Something about those creatures just found an echo in her. Ira was afraid of them as any other sane human being, but that thing reverberating in her with the wings of the volcra and the blood they left in their path, just seemed right. After all, like calls to like. Beasts feel at ease between their kind. Why wouldn’t Ira be curious about the volcra?

  x The way to vices.

The girl Ira once was would never dare to nurse a vice. The reality of its ruination still fresh on her mind from all the disgusting things her father meant to her. But the woman Ira became needed a vice so desperately, that she took upon the opportunity to learn from those tobacco traders how to roll tobacco to smoke and which were the best to chew. It became a rather strong and reliable thing to do whenever she was unnerved or displeased with something or someone, and since the trip to Ravka, the Durast is still nursing that poison on her mouth.

If she’s not in the workshop or training, she’s most certainly smoking by the lake or wandering through Os Alta to buy her stock of tobacco.

EXTRAS:

    x Personality.

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN

Scorpio.

MORAL ALIGNMENT

Neutral Evil.

TYPE

Entrepreneur // ESTP-A.

TRAITS

Cruel. A conscious is a luxury not many were granted on birth, and Ira just isn’t one of the lucky. She was born to a world of cruelty, where the only ones who survived were those who learned how to be just as fierce and cruel. And as time went by, this particular trait of her developed with every drop of blood to ever touch her skin.

Independent. There’s not a thing or soul in this world that may control Ira, if she doesn’t allow them too. She has become her own master and made sure no one would ever rule her around once more. Now, the only one she respects enough to follow is The Darkling, for she also knows how to preserve her own freedom.

Feral. Everything Ira does has a heartfelt and powerful intensity. She may be small and rather fragile-looking, but those are the traits no one seems to perceive once she enters a room. For Ira walks as the person who knows what are life’s barriers, but has conquered them all. She’s involved with the world, with this life, in such an unique way, that powers emanates from her. And it’s wild, beast-like. So otherworldly, that she could very well be the monster on her favorite bogatyr’s story.

Devoted. To love is a rather violent act to Ira. She knows nothing about gentle emotions and thereof how to display them in such manner. But she, as anyone else, can love. And hers is a rather strong and fearless one, – though Ira won’t offer this rare and precious form of devotion to many. She’ll love whom she chooses with all her soul, mind and body, but she won’t know how to tune it down, how to be civilized about it. Ira will do it as fiercely as if it was a battle for her life, and though it may not be healthy, she knows no other way of loving someone.

Self-centered. When you live a life as she did, you learn that the one person to be trusted is oneself. She doesn’t trust anyone, no matter how strongly she feels about them, and won’t rely upon any other. Therefore, Ira is the most important person in her life and that’s final. All she does is based on her interests only, and all she thinks about is how to benefit from everything surrounding her. For as long as her distrust in mankind exits, this will be the way of Ira Sorokin.

   x Aesthetics.

Here.

    x Quotes.

1. “Nada do que fui me veste agora (Nothing I was fits me now)." — Maria Gadú.

2. "Her violence was art." — Rachel Vincent.

3. "I am made of untamable demons and unfillable voids." — Ira V. Simon.

4. "The passions we cannot control are the ones that define us.” — Simon Van Booy.

5. “Re-create yourselves: and let this be your best creation.” — Friedrich Nietzsche.

     x Playlist.

1. Iron by Woodkid.

“A soldier on my own, I don’t know the way I’m riding up the heights of shame I’m waiting for the call, the hand on the chest I’m ready for the fight and fate

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head The thunder of the drums dictates The rhythm of the falls, the number of deads The rising of the hordes ahead

From the dawn of time to the end of days I will have to run away I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste Of the blood on my lips again”

2. Running with the wolves by Aurora.

“Go row the boat to safer grounds But don’t you know we’re stronger now My heart still beats and my skin still feels My lungs still breathe, my mind still fears But we’re running out of time, time All the echoes in my mind cry There’s blood on your lies The sky’s open wide There is nowhere for you to hide The hunter’s moon is shining”

3. Youth by Daughter.

“And if you’re still bleeding, you’re the lucky ones ‘Cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone We’re setting fire to our insides for fun Collecting pictures from the flood that wrecked our home It was a flood that wrecked this home

And you caused it”

ANYTHING ELSE?

Regarding the book question, as I said before: I confess I had a really hard time thinking about my answer. I know it’ll probably change, as it did a few times, but The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller, The Secret History by Donna Tartt and Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgueniev are my favorite books rn. I’m an Oscar Wilde trash 4ever, as in I pretty much love everything that guy wrote (and also Teleny, that no one actually knows if he wrote it or not, but wtv), and that’s the only constant regarding books and myself, but those three are the favorites of the season, or something like that kljdslfkjsdlfkjs