belit0 · 1 month ago
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How about Uchiha men with S/O big chest but she is a tall and athletic woman, which makes her very attractive to the male population
My first request in what feels like years. Bear with me while I get back on track, lol.
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Indra
Indra observes the woman with a mixture of intrigue and detachment. It is not part of his character to prove anything to others, but a curious gleam appears in his eye as he meets (Y/N). His eyes, sharp and analytical, take in her tall, athletic figure with discernment born of his legacy. For Indra, strength and skill are qualities of great respect, and he perceives in her more than physical attractiveness; she is a reflection of his own ideals. Perhaps she is the right person, the one with whom to nurture a legacy worthy of calling his own. However, he is careful not to let his admiration be misinterpreted. Indra's gaze is intense but distant, appreciating her as the embodiment of power and elegance rather than just her looks. He wonders if such a woman could understand the weight of his expectations and if her strength could match the burdens of his mission. Would she be able to keep up with his agenda?
Madara
Madara's interest in her is immediate and intense. Known for his commanding presence and boundless ambition, he sees her as a formidable ally-or a potential adversary. Should (y/n) refuse his advances, or suddenly reject him out of hand, mutual hostility would be born immediately. Her tall, muscular, eye-catching figure is secondary to him; what really captures his attention is her power and poise. Madara's calculating mind evaluates her as a force to be reckoned with, someone who could stand beside him as an equal. Of course, the additional beauty the girl brings with her is pleasing to the eye, and he must be reminded on several occasions that staring at someone can be interpreted as a weak gesture coming from the clan leader. This attraction is not purely physical; it is a recognition of the power she exudes, which resonates with his aspirations and unwavering resolve.
Izuna
Surprise and lust. His warm and open attitude contrasts with his brother's more reserved nature, leaving him in evidence as the womanizer he is from the very first moment he appears on the scene. Izuna perceives her attitude and confident presence as a breath of fresh air, but nothing deeper than that. She's not his type, nothing he'd generally go for, but a change of scenery is always nice. He doesn't intend anything serious, considering her as one more conquest of his vast collection. What better than a challenge to remind oneself of the virtues of being alive and handsome? In any case, he finds the combination of power and beauty a bit intimidating, appreciative of how her looks are matched by an undeniable confidence. Izuna is not entirely thrilled to have someone equal to or stronger than him by his side, a matter of compromised egos, but the harmonious blend of grace and strength (y/n) possesses captures him. Irresistible, for now.
Obito
This Uchiha's initial reaction is one of awe and a hint of melancholy. The woman's imposing figure and aerial prowess remind him of a world he once hoped to protect, a world where those qualities were celebrated. For him, her presence is both a source of inspiration and a painful reminder of the life he has lost. Despite his internal struggles, he is drawn to her resilience and strength, traits that resonate deeply with his own journey. Obito aches for her not only for her appearance but for the way she seems to embody an ethos of resilience and charm, qualities he wishes he could continue to embrace. Either way, (y/n) represents light at the end of a too-dark path, someone to cling to to heal and restore a broken soul. Her stability engenders trust and he soon falls into a great emotional dependence on her.
Shisui
Shisui perceives (y/n) with a combination of amusement and subtle admiration. His eyes slowly wander from the curves in of her breasts to her hips, roaming her body centimeter by centimeter with stealthy eyes, a gaze too indecipherable, preventing anyone from interpreting his ulterior motives. Lightning speed itself. He is used to being chased by people he is not interested in, mainly because none of them can keep up with him. Shisui doesn't want someone by his side to constantly protect, he wants a challenge, someone who brings fun to the table and can contribute to his day-to-day life. A person who will challenge his skills and not regard him as a god, an equal. Finally, someone who can match him, providing dynamic workouts more fun than usual. His interest is tempered with genuine esteem for her personality, recognizing that her physical attributes are matched by a compelling inner strength. Shisui admires her ability to attract attention while maintaining an air of humility and pride.
Itachi
Itachi's perception of her is marked by his usual depth and complexity. Her towering, lithe, athletic figure and imposing presence are observed with a sense of silent respect. To Itachi, her physical attributes are important, but secondary to the fortitude of character she displays. (y/n)’s a force to reckon with, someone to be valued and not underestimated. He monitors her acutely, appreciating how she performs with a poised blend of stamina and flare. Every movement is calculated to perfection, and those are the details that make him realize she knows what she's doing. Itachi's admiration is measured, recognizing her attractiveness while remaining focused on the substance of her personality. In her, he sees a reflection of the balance he seeks in his own life, a combination of outward strength and inner fortitude. He would never approach her with offensive or lustful intentions, too polite to inconvenience a lady of such high caliber.
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babsharrison · 24 days ago
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Safe Haven - John Wick
(Chapter three)
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Pairing | John Wick x Original Fem! Character
Summary | In search of a breath in his tumultuous life, John Wick finds himself in a charming bookstore where he meets a sweet and welcoming woman. As they grow closer, John questions whether she can love him despite the dark secrets he carries. While battling the shadows of his past, he must protect the love that is blossoming and discover if hope and redemption are truly possible.
Word Count | 2.6k
A/N | New chapter! My day was so boring today, but listening to music brought me so much inspiration!! I really recommend it!
(Previous chapter!)
The lobby of the Continental Hotel was shrouded in na elegance that only the most dangerous appreciated. The golden lights reflected on the marble floors, creating na atmosphere of luxury and power. Every assassin, mercenary, or bounty hunter passing through was a reminder that this was no ordinary place. It was a refuge, but also na arena where everything could change with a single glance.
John Wick crossed the lobby with determined steps, his black suit immaculate, but his gaze hardened. He was no stranger to this routine, but Winston’s summons felt like a warning that something more serious was about to happen.
When he reached the reception, Charon, as always, was there—impassive and professional. “Winston is expecting you, Mr. Wick,” he informed without hesitation.
John simply nodded, heading straight for the elevator. The path to Winston’s office was familiar, but something in the air felt heavier, as if a storm was approaching.
Upon entering the office, Winston was already there, pouring two glasses of whiskey. He smiled faintly, a gesture that didn’t completely hide the seriousness in his eyes.
“John,” he greeted, handing him one of the glasses. “Sit down.”
John took the glass but remained standing. He knew Winston wouldn’t have called him here without a valid reason.
Winston sighed, swirling the whiskey in his glass for a moment before speaking. “Have you heard of Marco Vitale?”
John remained impassive, but the mention of the name sparked a flicker of recognition. “I’ve heard of him,” he replied in a firm voice. “Why?”
“Vitale lost someone very close a few days ago. And you were responsible.” Winston set the glass down on the table, his eyes fixed on John. “The man you killed at the nightclub was more than na associate. He was practically family to him.”
John raised na eyebrow, the whiskey glass unmoving in his hand. “He’ll have to get in line,” he responded indifferently, taking a sip from his glass.
Winston, his expression unchanged, was unsurprised. “John, Marco is not a man who forgives easily. He has resources, influence, and a burning desire for revenge.”
“Everyone does,” John responded with a disconcerting calm.
Winston’s seriousness remained. He had known John long enough to understand that the man before him wasn’t easily intimidated, but Vitale’s threat wasn’t something that could be ignored. “I understand you’re tired of this cycle, John, but you need to realize that Marco won’t stop. He won’t be deterred by rules or fear. He wants revenge, and you are the target.”
John looked at Winston, his eyes cold and calculating. “I’ve been through this before. And I’m still here.”
Winston leaned slightly in his leather chair, crossing his fingers in front of him. “And how many more times do you want to go through it?”
John didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked out the window, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. It was as if the world out there was just a distraction, and he was destined to walk this path of blood and violence. Nothing seemed to matter as much as before.
After a brief silence, he turned to Winston. “If he comes after me, I’ll handle it.”
Winston nodded slowly, a mix of resignation and respect. “I know you will. But just remember, John, revenge isn’t the only thing that drives people. Be careful of what you might lose without even realizing it.”
John let out a short sigh, knowing that even though Winston was trying to warn him, he still faced everything with the same cold determination. The Continental offered refuge, but John knew that, in the end, he would have to face his own demons—once again.
“Thanks for the warning, Winston,” John said with a nod before turning to leave.
Winston watched him go, a hint of regret in his eyes. He knew John Wick wasn’t na ordinary man, but he also knew that even a legend had its limits. And maybe, this time, he was closer than ever to reaching them.
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Weeks passed, and the rainy weather became a constant in the city, wrapping Mia’s bookstore in a cozy and comforting shelter. Raindrops trickled down the large windows, while the soft sound of water hitting the sidewalk blended with the whisper of pages being turned. Customer traffic began to grow, and many came not just to buy books, but to lose themselves in the unique atmosphere Mia had cultivated—a space where every corner told a story.
On gray days, Mia noticed that John had become a frequent visitor. He would usually arrive with a soaked coat, always seeming a little tired, but his presence brought a new dynamic to the bookstore. Mia watched as he settled on one of the sofas, immersed in a book, his expression softening as the words transported him away from his reality.
On one of those gray days, while carefully arranging the shelves, Mia decided it was time to establish a new ritual. With a determined smile, she prepared a special blend of coffee—a mix with notes of chocolate and caramel, perfect for warming the body and soul on such a cold day. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the air, enveloping the bookstore in a comforting warmth.
When the bell above the door announced John’s arrival, Mia glanced at the special blend she had prepared, waiting for just the right moment. He entered, shaking off the raindrops clinging to his coat, and his usual tired expression softened in the bookstore’s warm light. The shelves, full of colorful books, created a safe refuge, and the golden lighting gave the room a magical touch.
Mia smiled to herself, picked up the cup of coffee she had set aside for him, and approached. With light steps, she handed it to the man who now seemed to be a part of that peaceful routine. “Something special to warm the day,” she said, breaking the silence without being intrusive.
Hesitant, he looked at the cup, a mix of surprise and discomfort spreading over him as he recognized the gesture of kindness. It was something so different from his reality, a simple offer that seemed loaded with meaning. Before he could formulate a response, Mia quietly stepped away, allowing him to ponder.
Meanwhile, Tom, Mia’s coworker, had been watching the scene from afar. He noticed the repeated gesture and decided to approach her. “Hey, are you making coffee for that guy again?” he asked, a playful grin on his lips. “Are you flirting with him or just trying to win his heart with caffeine?”
Mia turned to Tom, instantly blushing. “No, of course not! It’s just a welcoming gesture,” she replied, trying to hide her embarrassment. The idea that John might interpret this differently made her uneasy. “I just… want to brighten his day.”
Tom raised an eyebrow, amused. “Just that? Uh-huh. And what if he thinks you’re interested?” He chuckled, clearly finding the situation hilarious. “You know, he might be taken!”
Mia’s face flushed even more at the thought. “You think? What if he is? I just wanted to do something kind... now you’ve made me nervous,” she said, biting her lower lip. “I hope he doesn’t think I’m doing this for another reason.”
“Hey, relax! A coffee isn’t a declaration of love. But, hey, it’s nice to see you care like that. Who knows, he might appreciate it more than you think?” Tom winked before returning to his tasks.
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In the days that followed, Mia’s gesture became almost a silent habit. Whenever the rain started to fall, she prepared a cup of coffee and discreetly left it by John’s side. He would notice the coffee, hesitate briefly, but never touch it, as if simply receiving it was enough.
One particularly quiet morning, the rain was pounding hard against the windows, filling the air with a constant and soothing sound. Mia was enjoying the rare silence of the empty bookstore, slowly and thoughtfully arranging the shelves, lost in the peace of the moment.
The doorbell softly chimed, breaking the bookstore’s silence, and John walked in. His black suit was slightly damp, with small raindrops dripping from the collar. He ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly to shake off the excess water. As he stepped into the warm, welcoming space, his posture—usually rigid and alert—softened a little. His eyes scanned the room until they found Mia, who gave him a barely noticeable, welcoming smile, as if he had become na expected presence in that place.
He settled on one of the sofas, his gaze immediately turning to the book he had brought. Without disturbing the silence, Mia decided it was time to continue her ritual.
After preparing the coffee, Mia placed the cup next to John, watching him discreetly as he read. He noticed the gesture and hesitated for a moment, but before he could refuse, he slightly inclined his head toward her, as if silently thanking her. His expression changed when he finally took a sip, and a faint smile appeared as he noted the flavor.
Seeing the silent interaction between them, Mia couldn’t help but smile. The bookstore’s quietness enveloped them, and they were alone in that space, creating a deeper connection. The aroma of coffee filled the air, and she felt content to provide him with a small comfort.
After that moment, Mia, feeling the intensity of that connection, decided to step back a little. She returned to organizing the shelves behind the counter but couldn’t stop herself from casting furtive glances at John, who seemed completely absorbed in his book, the coffee cup resting beside him. The tranquility of the bookstore enveloped them both, but his presence made her heart race, sparking na anticipation and curiosity about what was going through his mind.
When the silence was abruptly interrupted by the ringing of John's phone, he stepped away slightly to answer the call. Mia, still organizing books, heard the murmur of the conversation but couldn't make out the words. The tension in the air was palpable, and she wondered if something important was happening.
As soon as the call ended, John stood up, walking with firm steps towards the counter where Mia was. His gaze, fixed on her, carried a weight that made her heart race. It was only then that Mia noticed the beauty of the man—his dark, smooth hair fell softly over his forehead, framing his angular, strong face. The fresh haircut accentuated his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the contours of his cheekbones. His eyes, deep and intense, seemed to hold a secret story, while an expression of seriousness and determination dominated his face, as if he was pondering something significant. Watching him had become a habit for her, and now, curiosity wrapped around her intensely, making her wonder what he was about to say.
With a hesitant motion, John reached into his pocket. Mia held her breath, intrigued. He pulled out a good amount of money, the bills crumpled and somewhat worn. His intention was clear: he wanted to pay for the coffee.
“I can’t accept this,” Mia said quickly, extending her hand in a gesture of refusal. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel the need to repay her.
He remained silent for a moment, his intense eyes locked on hers. “I insist,” he replied, his voice low and firm. The directness with which he spoke made it clear that this wasn’t up for discussion.
Mia felt the urgency in his voice, but she was determined not to let gratitude become an obligation. “Really, it’s not necessary. I enjoy doing this.”
John hesitated, his intense expression softening slightly. He seemed to weigh his words carefully, his deep eyes focused on her. After a moment of reflection, he paused, and Mia realized how the air around them seemed heavy with expectation. With a serious look, he finally said, almost in a whisper, “John... my name is John Wick.”
The revelation was unexpected, and Mia couldn’t help but let out a soft giggle, which lit up her face. Her smile, a mixture of surprise and delight, made her eyes sparkle. “Mine is Mia Fletcher,” she responded, her voice soft but filled with sincerity. The warmth in Mia’s cheeks betrayed the shyness of the moment, as if the simple act of sharing their names was a bridge between worlds that had once seemed distant.
Mia extended her hand, the gesture hesitant but hopeful, as if she was offering not just a greeting, but an invitation to something more. The slight tremble in her fingers betrayed her anticipation. John watched her for a moment, his eyes searching hers, gauging the authenticity in her gesture. Then, slowly, he reached for her hand, his grip firm yet gentle, creating a tangible connection between the two.
As their hands met, the space around them seemed to shrink, the noise of the bookstore and the sound of rain outside fading into the background. The intensity of their exchanged glances made them both acutely aware that, despite the bustling world outside, that moment was theirs alone.
John remained silent for a moment, absorbing the depth of the connection just formed. His eyes met hers, and for an instant, the world around them seemed to disappear. But, like the sunlight hiding behind clouds, the intensity of the moment also faded.
With a slight nod, he stepped back, slowly retreating toward the door. The expression on his face was a mix of gratitude and the usual seriousness that followed him. Without words, John turned and began heading outside. The soft chime of the doorbell broke the gentle silence that enveloped them, but Mia, still immersed in the newfound discovery, didn’t notice.
As he walked out, Mia’s mind raced, reflecting on the revelation of his name and the connection she felt with him. With a smile on her lips and the memory of his touch still vivid, she allowed herself to drift into her thoughts, almost floating in the bookstore’s atmosphere.
What Mia didn’t notice, as her gaze wandered to the rain-fogged windows, was that John, in a quiet gesture, had left a generous amount of money on the counter before leaving. The crumpled bills rested there, like a whisper of gratitude lost in the air.
Mia finally snapped out of her daydreams, blinking slowly as she reconnected with the reality around her. The bookstore, now wrapped in an almost supernatural calm, seemed to resonate with the memories of that morning. She could still feel John’s presence lingering in the air, as though his silent, imposing energy had seeped into the shelves of old books.
Without him there, though, the place felt a bit emptier, and her heart tightened slightly with the unexpected absence. Curious, she looked toward the door, perhaps hoping he would return—or that it had all been a fleeting illusion. But as she lowered her gaze to the counter, her eyes landed on something that made her pause. There, among the books and the space he used to occupy, rested a small pile of bills.
Surprised, Mia laughed in disbelief, shaking her head softly. “He really did that...” she murmured to herself. The idea of John leaving payment for the coffee, even without her there to see it, was as unexpected as it was curious. “How did he do that?”
Next chapter!
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inaris-mage-of-storms · 5 months ago
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}{ I Found Love Where It Wasn't Supposed To Be }{ Part 3 }{
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They kept the dragon in Xornoth's quarters for the first few days. Scott preferred a cooler room, often leaving his balcony door or windows ajar even in mid-winter, while Xornoth often had a fire lit even in the summer, making their room the obvious choice. Scott gathered the warmest, softest blankets he could find and and made a makeshift nest near the fireplace for the dragon. As uncomfortable as the heat could get and as busy as he was, every spare second he could find was spent right next to their new charge.
"You might have to translate for me when he wakes up," said Scott, tracing a finger over the dragon's snout. "I never could get the hang of dragonspeech."
Gem had tried her best to teach him. But dragonspeech was a form of mental communication rather than verbal, making use of emotions and abstract concepts rather than concrete words. It could be translated into verbal languages, but nuance was often lost on beginners. And for someone like Scott, who put a hard freeze on all but the shallowest of emotions long before he learned to control ice, it wasn't a form of communication that came naturally to him.
"It's really not that difficult." Xornoth's teasing tone bordered on mocking, and Scott pinned his ears in annoyance. Xornoth didn't apologize, but they hesitated, and their next words came in a kinder voice. "I'll translate what I can. But he's not likely to express anything terribly complicated."
Scott shrugged, gently scratching along the dragon's neck the way his favorite owl liked out of habit. "Still, having someone more fluent than I am to translate will make it easier to learn. Gem couldn't always find the right - oh! Hello there, little one."
There were a few sleepy blinks, then gleaming blue eyes peered up at him. Scott recognized the nudge of another consciousness at the edge of his own. Along with it came a sense of wary confusion, then recognition and the feeling of warmth. The dragon moved toward him, wobbling like a new kitten, then sank back down with his chin resting on Scott's knee.
"Oh, you're a cutie pie," cooed Scott, stroking the top of his head with one hand and reaching into his pockets with the other. "I brought some mutton from the kitchens in case you woke up, I'm sure you're starving."
He was pleased to see the dragon eat eagerly despite the lingering weakness. "May we have the honor of knowing your name?" asked Xornoth, and the cautious respect in their voice surprised Scott. Though it made sense, he supposed, given their time bound by the Ender Dragon. They still felt guilty, they admitted to him once, about how cruelly they'd behaved toward her when she was only doing her duty, and about how callous they'd been about her death.
"Is - is he not answering that, or am I more out of practice than I thought?" asked Scott when he didn't hear anything at all in response, let alone anything that could be taken as a name. He doubted he simply missed it; dragon names were often long, made of words and phrases that described the subject's essence. He'd thought Gem's to be quite pretty, something along the lines of the amethyst crystal that resonates as magic flows through it.
"No, he didn't answer," said Xornoth.
Scott hummed and rubbed his fingers under the dragon's chin. He almost stopped when he felt a prick of annoyance that wasn't his own, but then the feeling disappeared and the dragon settled into the touch with a soft sigh.
"Can you tell us what happened, hm? Why were you all alone on top of the coldest mountain in Rivendell?" Scott murmured. For a moment it seemed the dragon was more interested in chin scratches than answering, then he felt a sense of irritated emptiness settle into his chest.
"He doesn't know," Xornoth translated. The dragon glanced up at the sound of their voice, as if only just remembering a second person was present. Then there was a flurry of fear, anger, and confusion as he stood, flaring out his wings and baring his teeth even as he struggled to keep his balance. For a moment it almost seemed like he was trying to put himself between Scott and Xornoth. But, Scott thought, surely he was mistaken about the sense of protectiveness he felt from the dragon. Why would this creature he'd only just met, who was so weak and vulnerable no less, prioritize the elf king's safety over his own?
To anyone else, Xornoth's face probably looked expressionless. But Scott could see the way they wilted ever so slightly, unhappy but resigned as the dragon bestowed upon them the same name Gem had. Hellfire creature, torturer and enjoyer of sorrow and suffering. The best translation into elvish was the same name everyone spat at them: Demon.
"That's not their name," Scott chided. He didn't know what exactly to replace it with, but that wasn't who their sibling was anymore.
"I haven't done anything to earn a better one," Xornoth countered. "Never will, probably. You saw what I was like under the Corruption's influence. How could I ever make up for all of those cruelties?" They bowed to the dragon, speaking aloud for Scott's sake at the same time as they spoke in dragonspeech. "But, I am remorseful for my actions, truly. My only aim is to repair as much of the damage I caused as I can, and I don't mean any harm to you or my brother."
The dragon stared them down, absorbing their statement. It was nearly impossible to lie to a dragon in their own tongue, Gem had explained to Scott once. The very nature of it made it difficult to fully mask any deception. It was how she knew he really hadn't meant to hurt her when his magic backfired.
After a moment the dragon accepted that Xornoth was being genuine, settling down into Scott's lap with a quiet trill of discomfort. Okay. Fine. It was getting easier for Scott to put words to what he was sensing from the dragon. You can be 'the purple one' for now, I guess.
Xornoth chuckled. "I can live with that. What will you call Scott? Does he get to be 'the blue one'?"
The dragon looked up at Scott, and his breath caught as Xornoth's translation confimed he hadn't misunderstood the name he was given: cold starlight that gleams off the blue snow, evoking divine awe and wonder at its sharp beauty.
Xornoth grinned as Scott's ears bloomed red. "Seems he thinks quite highly of you, Starlight. If he were a higher dragon I'd almost think he wanted to court you."
"Shut up," muttered Scott, but couldn't help but smile as he stroked the dragon's head. 'Starlight.' He rather liked it, actually. Fwhip had called him that once, teasingly. His throat tightened at the thought of his missing friend.
He traced a line over the dragon's back, looking at the crimson and black coloration. Fwhip was a blood dragon, too, with similar patterning, though he was much larger in his dragon form than this. Scott lifted the dragon and pressed a kiss to his snout, grinning at the flare of disgruntled surprise and the way he lashed his tail like an annoyed cat.
"Since you won't tell us a name," he decided, "I'm going to call you Fwhip. It's after a friend who I miss very much. Hopefully you don't mind."
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ilions-end · 12 days ago
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finished euripides' iphigenia among the taurians (david kovacs translation)! thoughts that might be even more disconnected than usual because insomnia's a bitch:
the parallels to euripides' helen are everywhere, but the biggest similarity for me is that both are variants of their respective myths that i'm personally NOT that into narratively because it feels like they soften or remove the more uncomfortable elements of central mythological conflicts (what if helen never went to troy/what if agamemnon didn't actually kill iphigenia) .... which is why it's aggravating that THE PLAYS THEMSELVES ARE SO ENJOYABLE. euripides you SNEAK why did you make them engaging!!
like how it forces me to recontextualize iphigenia -- no longer a noble but helpless child, but a woman with guile and initiative. how euripides places her in a story where she can and must use what agency she has! it's so interesting
the age thing is actually really wild to contemplate because in most scenes, iphigenia is demonstrably the eldest. she last saw orestes when he was a baby and they make a point of how pylades wasn't even born yet at the time of iphigenia's sacrifice
the dynamics have all shifted, she's enslaved, she's a victim, but also the one with enough knowledge and initiative to find a solution and save everyone when the men's violence has failed!
i kept thinking about how the play handles blame. like how iphigenia pretends to hold ALL greeks accountable for her fate and deserving of punishment, and you'd ASSUME she hates her father, but in her heart she only blames helen, menelaus and odysseus. she can't bring herself to hate her mother even after learning about the events of the oresteia. likewise, she seems to be unsure WHO she is really sacrificing humans for, if it's artemis or the taurians, and if she can be deemed culpable when she's forced to perform them.
orestes slaughtering the cows thinking they're furies, ahh!! extremely ajax-coded. and it seems he has recurring episodes but always comes to his senses again, painfully self-aware that he's had a recent lapse of cognition. not just ajax-coded but a surprisingly realistic and empathetic observation of psychosis. i keep thinking about that.
"But the other foreigner wiped the foam from [Oreste's] face, protected his body, and shielded blows [...] as they fell, and helped his friend with loving attentions." PYLADES PYLADES PYLADES THE MAN THAT YOU ARE <3<3<3
i kept assuming this play was set sorta mid-oresteia seeing as orestes is still pursued by furies, but they made it clear this is AFTER his trial and apparently some furies just didn't accept the verdict and was like "you can do what you want, i'm gonna keep torturing him" to athena?? that's hilarious
i LOVE how snippy and dismissive orestes is when iphigenia first questions him. usually a scene like that would be (intentionally) frustrating because you WANT THEM to realize who they're talking to SO BAD, but orestes being understandably grumpy and unhelpful talking to the priestess who means to kill him is so enjoyable on its own.
AND THEN THE REVEAL WAS SO SATISFYING!!! pylades just turning around and giving orestes the letter immediately. PYLADES YOU'RE SO FUNNY I LOVE YOU
it's so heartbreaking to compare orestes and electra's reunion in the libation bearers -- how instinctual their recognition of each other is -- with how challenging it is for iphigenia and orestes to believe that they have that bond and are who they say they are. and i know those are different authors and different sibling dynamics but i love how the more plays i read, the more emotionally involved i become in these characters!!
i fucking lost my mind at how the minute orestes and pylades were alone together, orestes asks "Pylades, in heaven's name do you feel the same as I do?" because my immediate read was that he was asking WHAT ARE WE and that they were gonna kiss about it. (they do in the production i have playing in my mind)
"O daughter of Leto, bring me, your priestess, safely back to Hellas from this barbarian land! Forgive my theft! You too, goddess, love your brother; you must expect that I love mine." OMGGGG i got goosebumps that's so GOOD!!
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slime-enby · 7 months ago
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Rachael and Holding Onto the Past and Abuse and Themes
hey cw up front on this one: there's gonna be discussion of abuse n grooming in here
I have been plagued by thinking about the themes of An Atompunk Opera, the New Albion Guide to Analogue Consciousness. It really was a struggle for me and i think mostly that difficulty came down to the character Rachael. As much as i loved her, jokes about her just "being a taxi" for the True Real story kinda kept me from thinking about her story and her writing and giving it proper weight and thought. And that isn't to say that she isn't a passive protagonist for much of the story, she very much is. From the moment she escapes the asylum she was kept in until she runs out on Lee into the arms of Elysium's angels, the narrative mostly happens to and around her. She very much reacts to it.
I think this fits into what I've come to understand as a big theme of An Atompunk Opera, the New Albion Guide to Analogue Consciousness, of holding on too tight to an ideal past to the detriment of seeing, let alone making a new future to be happy in. The most obvious character to point to for this theme is Connor, who was so focused on saving Lee to the detriment of his relationship with zip (mascot 3000) that zip just calls Conner "the madman" instead of dad. and in the end instead of forging a new future with the kid he does have with him, instead he's left with neither one. We see this in Lee's last moments as well, he wants to hold onto and mend a relationship with the woman he thinks is the reincarnated soul of his long dead love, and clinging onto it ends up killing him.
Rachael doesn't seem to be outwardly holding onto something from her past though, does she? I mean all she does after escaping the asylum she was put in after she wanted to keep the pregnancy from a guy who groomed her was follow the instructions of this man older than her because she's lost alone and disoriented- oh hm.
Up front i am not comparing Connor to the man that abused Rachael. This isn't a "Connor is secretly this even worse thing" kind of post. This is a discussion of reaction TO years of abuse and cycles. And Themes. Love a theme.
Rachael is a character who as we meet her in her song details being wooed by a man much older than her n whom demands respect from her life. I have been in similar situations to this. Being made small n to listen to directions leaves a huge impact n even after moments of sticking up for oneself it is very easy to still slip into those patterns. Rachael, i believe, is still subconsciously clinging to a past or more accurately trauma of needing to look for instruction and approval. And as a more active role, is holding on to ideas of soul mates and romance to get her through her life. She's holding on to the love song just for her on the radio. She's the character who's holding on with two gripped fists to something that wasn't good in the first place. Her story is so, so necessarily about being able to let her past go.
So she is a taxi in the story as she's told to be. She goes to elysium because she doesn't have much better to do and as she thinks its where her promised love will be waiting. She steps into elysium greeted by a welcome party!
Then it comes crashing down when Lee tells her that she doesn't feel like Adrian, the he cannot love her in the way she wants. So she runs, and she cries and she wants to die.
And then she lives, and then she chooses to keep living, not chasing after acceptance or recognition or her destined love. Rachael chooses to carve out something new with her acceptance into elysium, and with Zip. She gets to have a happy (after?)life because she's the character who finally stopped clinging to a past that she shouldn't return to
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jolenes-doppelganger · 1 year ago
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Twisted Motives (Chpt. 2)
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Larissa Weems x Fem!reader
Previous Chapter
Chapter 2: Cat and Mouse
Summary: Following Y's brief encounter with Principal Weems in the forest of Jericho, a new tension bubbles between the two women. All seems lost until both women make a tentative compromise, a sort of olive-branch in their defensive standstill, but when tragedy brings the people of the D'je tribe to their knees, Y is once again faced with the reality that no one is safe, even in the presence of someone who appears to mean well.
Established world-building is critical- Read previous chapter!
Warnings: Angst, fire related tragedy, minor character death, tragedy is the result of a race-fueled hate-crime.
Word Count: 5k words (DAMN)
The deep winter breezes that came down from Canada surged through the reservation. Rain poured down and onto the panels as Y slept. Upon waking up, the rain had disappeared, burned away by the soft golden sunshine that poured through her window panes. She lived in a small two bedroom, one bathroom cottage at the end of Birch Street, a small little road that was obscured from most of the reservation by massive clusters of birch and red maple trees. Y lived alone. Every once in a while Sierra would come spend the night, but the home was virtually empty, devoid of activity. This inactivity led to peaceful, slow-going mornings, mornings that left Y to her thoughts.
This mornings thoughts weren't peaceful, fantasy filled scenes from her most recent book idea, they were anxious, depressed rambles. Her sleep had been a mix of conscious and unconscious stresses. Chief Vera hadn't reacted well to the news of Y's possible sighting, but no one could have blamed Y. The headwinds were strong, coming westward from the coast. It would have taken an exhausting amount of strength to prevent straying that far from the safety of the reservation forests. But that wasn't what troubled Y, it was the look on Larissa's face. Had it been recognition, was it just the light that had tricked Y into misreading her facial expressions? It was complicated, a cumbersome game of memory and personal attachments. By the time Y had replayed that night for the billionth time, the scene had shifted so drastically from true memory that whatever she was chasing would ultimately be untrue, a twisted version of what really happened that night.
Y adjusted her lorid for the billionth time, relieved that she would once again be adding more layers of fabric as the moon waned. Her close call with recognition had left her both exhilarated and deeply troubled. A sighting meant scrutiny, and scrutiny would only lead to outsiders meddling in D'je affairs, poking, prodding, and ensnaring the people in barbed wire accusations and double-edged trick questions. The D'je tribe was united in these fears. It seemed Y wasn't the only close call that night. Asher, a young teenager had flown too close to the city of Jericho and sparked yet another manhunt for the Jersey Devil. The headwinds weren't to blame in his case. But he was young, it was only natural that he would be too curious, too independent, but the tribe had limited patience for such youthful eccentricities. It was reported that a team of paranormal investigators would be traveling into the city within the week, only adding to the hysteria the recent bear attacks had poured upon the sleepy town. The D'je tribe would once again sacrifice their peace, a hyper-vigilance would descend once more, preventing anyone from having the luxury of being a little careless.
But Y wasn't troubled only because of the incident. Larissa herself was a player in this game of fear and blame. It appeared that another body had been spotted upon a hilltop not two miles from the encounter between Weems and Y, a coincidence that bothered Y. True, Larissa Weems was the stunning example of a devoted community member, but the rumors never seemed to cease their badgering of the Nevermore community, no matter how respected. These whispers had reached Y before she had even left town, even in childhood had she known of the rumors of Nevermore, and the strange woman who led the school. Principal Weems was a fellow outcast, a liar, a con-artist, and the most banal and twisted of all the Nevermore freaks, these rumors had declared. Y wasn't one to believe such rumors, to so blindly follow lecherous lies, yet her fears could be described as warranted, even acceptably cautious.
Times were tough. The same sets of eyes that had pushed Y away from her beloved career had once again returned to wreak havoc on her quiet paradise, the home she had the great honor of calling her first. But such thoughts were desolate, conniving. Y wearily shook her head once more, taking a glass in hand and swallowing the various vitamins she'd been prescribed. Taking a moment to collect herself, Y glanced up at the mirror that hung in front of her dresser. The face that looked back was young, well nourished and healthy, yet the eyes were haggard; the eyes of a woman too well accustomed to hardship. Shoving the feeling of despair that threatened to bubble outward, Y slowly gathered her satchel and small backpack that served as a container for both her personal belongings and her lunch.
Making her way out of the door, Y sighed as she was greeted by the brightness of the day. The worst was already behind her.
<^*-------------------*^>
Two short knocks were all the warning Y gave before slowly opening Principal Weem's door. She was expected, and last night's events had done nothing to improve her patience. The sooner this meeting was concluded, the better. Too much time in Larissa's presence could pose to be dangerous.
"Ms. Y, I'm shocked by your assertiveness," Larissa mused, briefly glancing over a document.
Y made no reply. What good was a retort? She stood solemnly against the back of the door, waiting for the cue to come forward.
"Please, be seated," Larissa gestured, and Y became so.
"You've read the documents?"
Y glanced up at Larissa, noting the dark lines that extended below her eyes. She was tense, and distracted, and it worried Y
"At the expense of my prep-period, yes," Y nodded.
Larissa's gaze became fixed upon Y. The document was dropped, and an intense silence filled the room. Y clenched her fist. She was being too defensive.
"I've never known you to be cold, especially to someone who means well," Larissa verbosely murmured.
Y felt a twinge of guilt, like a child being reprimanded for talking back to their mother, but Y wouldn't play that game. For all she knew, Larissa was as aware of what happened the previous night as Y was. Now was not the time to let her guard down.
"I'm sorry Principal Weems, I fear I've let recent events worsen my previously frayed patience,"
Larissa nodded, and Y bit back a sigh. Both women were tense, eyeing each other with caution and a bit of scorn. Gently clasping her hands together, Larissa leveled her head, unclenching her jaw and forcing a smile.
"So, what is your tentative decision?" Larissa asked, quirking an eyebrow.
Y took a measured breath, clearing her throat.
"I have decided to return to New York following the spring semester, a decision I must insist remain permanent," Y calmly stated. "It appears that as rewarding and refreshing as this experience was, I am still inclined to the solitude of personal creation in a city I've come to accept as my home away from home,"
Larissa's smile faltered. Looking down at the document once more she sniffed, raising her eyes upwards, making blisteringly cold eye contact with Y.
"Abandoning your people so soon?"
Y was left speechless. This woman had no right to comment on Y's personal life, her personal relationships!
"I beg your pardon?" Y scoffed. "What sense of community have you mistakenly exalted against me that you would accuse me of turning my back against my own tribe, a tribe you have no claim to!" Y snapped, to the utter astonishment of Larissa.
Clenching her jaw, Larissa cursed under her breath, sniffing in disdain.
"Ms. Y, if you are this defensive to every comment I make, you will find my patience will run dry," Larissa threatened. "I meant that of your Nevermore family, the family you turn your back upon as misfortune takes a brief repose upon the steps of Nevermore!" she continued, voice slowly climbing in both volume and octave.
It was Y's nonplus that brought both women to a standstill. Y slowly mulled over Larissa's words, words sinking in as hot bile crept up her throat.
"Turn my back?" Y hissed. She loved these students, she'd been there for these students! "I have done nothing that would deem me worthy of being accused-"
"-Accuse you of what you rightfully guilty of? Well wouldn't that be an utter shame,"
Y bolted to a standing position, briefly towering over Larissa, watching as an nondescript emotion flickered over her face before she rose to her full height.
"You're running. Running from the rabble, the unceasingly pestering eyes and rumors, and hate-filled lies that have followed you since you were born, and yet you think that yours is too unique a burden to bear. My dear, you are wrong," Larissa heaved, finger situated squarely between Y's collarbones. "You belong here. I refuse to accept your absence, I have come to expect your presence like the ocean expects the pull of the moon,"
For a brief moment, Y was moved to quiet silence. Larissa's words were poetic, touching in a way most intimately caring. But glancing down, Y saw the painted nail that sat just inches away from her chest, and that brief compassion was gone.
"Tell me how you know more about my problems than myself?"
Larissa's gaze became livid, blue eyes filled with such vengeance Y felt she would become scorched if she held it for too long. Curling up her fist, Larissa took a step forward, bending forward until her blue eyes were all Y could see.
"Because I too, am a freak," Larissa croaked.
Tears bubbled up in the rims of Larissa's eyes, and Y couldn't fight the desire to avert her gaze. Slowly taking a step back, Y began to calculate her next response. This conversation should have been an easy yes or no agreement, yet they were clawing at each other's throats like rabid dogs. There would be room for a compromise later, at a future date when the world wasn't so filled with hatred, where both women could calmly come to agreement. So Y would postpone her answer.
"I will make my decision following the end of the spring semester," Y gently stated, turning back towards Larissa.
Larissa's face broke out in a wide smile, teary and relieved in a way that begrudgingly warmed Y's heart. Coming forward, Larissa closed the distance between them. Panic filled Y's mind and she made every effort to stop the embrace of the blessedly tall woman. It was tight, and warm, and messy. But it wasn't relaxing. Every fiber in Y's body screamed to push this woman away before she noticed the bulge on her back, or the unnaturally sturdy build of the lorid. It was over as quickly as it was enacted, and Y breathed a sigh of relief as her lorid remained pinned to her head.
"Sorry, I don't know what came over me," Larissa hastily apologized, "I-I don't usually go to such, erm, affectionate extents to thank fellow educators,"
"It's alright," Y gulped, "Just, never, do that again, especially-" Y trailed off.
Both women stood in awkward silence, avoiding eye-contact and searching for an end to this most unique encounter. Thoughts raced through Y's head, motives and distressed wonderings. She needed an escape, now! The soft ding of the morning school bell broke the tension, and quickly offered an escape plan for both parties. Relief flooded Y's mind and she quickly gathered up her book bag.
"I've got a class to teach, can this wait?" Y hastily asked.
"Yes, we've more to discuss, so I'll meet with you during your prep period?" Larissa nodded.
Y winced a little, headache brewing for the future pesters she would receive about the grade book. Larissa's eyes flickered in understanding.
"Oh, sorry, your papers," Larissa mumbled. "Are you available after hours?"
"Yes," Y called, halfway out the door. "Bye!" she called before making a break for her classroom.
Y left Larissa standing in her classroom, wishing she would have caught a glimpse of her expression before she'd fled.
<^*-----------------*^>
Today's classes were anything but easy-going. Y's students were on edge, jittery and excitedly swapping stories about the Jersey Devil sighting and the human remains found up in the forest. Several theories were drafted, none Y felt were very creative, but it made her prep period sweeter. In truth, the papers were just outlines of a story, the actual "assignment" part of the story piñatas. Following the end of the school day, Y patiently waited for Principal Weems to appear, but no appearance was ever made. The papers were quietly graded, and Y killed the extra time in limbo reorganizing some cabinets that remained unpacked.
Would Y have spent all night waiting? Maybe. But a pressing call from Sierra sent her home at her regular hours. A brief note was scrawled and left on her desk, should Larissa finally attend their meeting, but Y doubted she would read it. The phone call itself that drew Y from work? Another problem.
"Chief Vera has called an emergency gathering. It's bad," Sierra cried from the other end of the phone.
"Sierra, what happened?" Y solemnly asked.
Her sister just cried, and Y could make out the sound of sirens. had someone died?
"Just get here as fast as possible," Sierra pleaded
The entire drive to the reservation was tense. Barely acknowledging stop-signs and speed limits, Y's driving was reckless, hastily flicking turn signals on and off indiscriminately to the frustration of other drivers. Pulling into the reservation, Y was met with flashing lights and the drone of police sirens. An ambulance and firetruck blocked the main entrance to the reservation, so Y was forced to turn around and take the backroads. Pulling onto the gravel roads, into the neighborhood, Y gasped as she saw the giant plume of smoke that trailed up through the trees. Finding a parking spot a good 300 feet from the burning building, Y sprinted towards the mass of people that gathered around the taped off evacuation area.
The gathering hall was up in flames. Tribe members gathered around and wailed in anguish as firefighters attempted to put out the fire. Running up to the crowd, Y began to scream for her sister and her mother, scanning the crowd for their heads. A pair of hands grabbed Y's shoulder, and she turned around in shock to meet the embrace of Sierra.
"Y, oh my god," Sierra sobbed.
She was a mess, clothes hanging off her frame; she'd dressed in a hurry. Her knees and hands were singed with soot. Damn her, she shouldn't have put herself in danger!
"What happened?" Y gasped, tears filling her eyes.
"Someone set fire to the hall while Aunt Cara was taking the kindergartners on a brief tour of the moon pool," Sierra sobbed. "Someone threw in a Molotov cocktail, the place went up in flames immediately!"
Bright amber flames surged as plumes of dark smoke clouded the sky. Barriers kept the group away from their hall, men, women, children and elderly all gathered around in a group of hundreds, crying and intermittently breaking out in sorrowful refrains of song. The tribe could only watch as their most sacred ritual site slowly turned into a mass of burnt wood and soot. The carved wooden statues, the various meeting rooms, the moon pool. It was all charred. This wasn't just an attack on the lives of the people, it was an attack on their tradition, and attack on their connection to their deity, their ancestors, their very souls.
Most of the children had been pulled out by the villagers, frail bodies coughing and choking on smoke. The villagers had acted rapidly, wheeling out nebulizers to those who could barely breathe, and the rest were quickly put under the care of Dr. Mera, one of the few members of the D'je tribe that could administer medical care without facing scrutiny of the general public. Y watched in horror as a firefighter rushed in to pull out the last two boys. Their wings were bound under their clothes, but their lorids hung loose. The firefighters immediately moved to remove the excess fabric, but they were stopped by Naver, a nurse and part-time first responder. She was the only member of the tribe allowed past the yellow tape, a small mercy.
Instead of removing fabric, Naver simply poured cold water over their faces and directed the first responders to wheel the boys into the small hospital that lay on the other side of the big field separating the gathering hall from the houses and other buildings on the reservation. Y could see the confusion in the faces of the first responders, but they didn't argue with the orders of Naver. Under no circumstances were the children to be taken to local hospitals, this she had made clear. Sufficient medical care could be provided on the reservation, and so it would be. The secret of the D'je people would not be uncovered today. Even if they had to forcefully remove their young from the grasp of the local authorities, they would not allow them to be examined. The dead body of Aunt Cara would not be subjected to an autopsy, she'd been wheeled away like the rest before Y's eyes. Once pronounced dead she had been taken away and wheeled to what would be the temporary embalming chamber in an unused wing of the medical center. The thought made Y wince. Rituals were done in the gathering hall, and though the resident holy woman, Avera, would do her best to follow tradition, there was still the chance Cara's soul would wander until the ceremony could be properly completed in the gathering hall.
Chief Vera began to slowly chorale the mass, instructing various members to grab the necessary items. A drum circle was formed in the open field that lay a good seventy feet from the tragedy. The people were led in song, weeping and wailing to the beat of the drums. Y danced and cried with her people Very few watched the fire slowly die away, none missed the sound of the sirens as they faded away. Those able to dance did so, those able to sing raised their voices in song. The people mourned, for the people were attacked, but through the people they would return. This was the way, this was the survival method by which their ancestors had survived, and so this was the way they would survive.
As the last embers died away, Y softly combed away the stray hairs that fell from her youngest sister's face. Maya was seven, just a few years older than the children who were now fighting for their lives in the local hospital. All of the kindergartners had made it out alive. Select few were still hooked up to nebulizers, but most would return to daily activities within the week. By some miracle none had been badly burned. The police had theorized that in the first few moments of the fire, Aunt Cara had gathered the children and pushed them against the south doors before passing out from the smoke. People had opened the doors from there, pulling out children before the smoke became too much. Aunt Cara had passed out too soon, Sierra herself had tried to reach her before she'd been pulled back. Cara never breathed another clean breath before dying. Mother and child were lost, and so mother and child would be mourned.
This was done through hair cutting. As Aunt Cara was Y's maternal aunt, it was custom that hair be cut following her passing. Four inches were cut for the forty decades Cara had lived, two inches were cut for the baby, one to symbolize the life they would live in the great beyond, and the other for the life that would have been. Gathering six inches of Maya's hair, Y began to softly sing, a tune taught by Aunt Cara herself. Maya whimpered as her hair was cut. She had gorgeous brown hair, to the pride of Y's family. Most of it was cut this evening. Y gently held Maya and kissed away her tears. She remembered the hair cutting ceremony that had taken place when her father had died. She'd been only a few months older than Maya. Fresh tears fell down her face as she recalled that ceremony. It was Aunt Cara who'd cut her hair; no one in her immediate family could soothe Y into staying still for the scissors.
Five six-inch bundles of hair would be buried with Aunt Cara. One from Y's mother, two from Sierra and Maya, and the last two from Y and her younger brother Kairo. A few words would be shared, their favorite memory. Y already knew which memory she would tell, which song she would lead her family in singing. Cara would live on in this way until she could be properly let go. Baby and mother would be remembered and called upon until the gathering hall was rebuilt. There was nothing more tragic than being forced to walk the earth without your memory being recalled.
As the sun began to dot the horizon, Y finally picked up her phone. There were ten notifications. Eight missed calls from 'Larissa Weems', one voicemail from 'Larissa Weems', one text from 'Larissa Weems'. Hands shaking with emotion, Y opened up the text message. It simply read "Call me when you get the chance, I will be waiting".
A stronger woman would have waited until true daybreak to return her calls. This would have provided Y with a clearer mind, a mind rested and prepared to mediate her own weaknesses, but Y had lost too much this night to truly regret losing more. Smiling through the tears that threated to spill down her face, Y hit the call button and waited for Larissa to pick up.
<^*-----------------*^>
The students of Nevermore gathered inside the main courtyard. An emergency drive had been arranged by Principal Weems and several other prominent staff members following the first news break of the tragedy at the D'je reservation. Students had been awakened forty minutes before standard time and select staff were arranged to guide the students in preparation for both the drive and the gathering that would take place after lunch. A brief memorial ceremony was enacted, a moment of silence offered by all thirty staff members and 300 students of the Nevermore academy. It was touching, and although it wasn't half as passionate as the D'je memorial enacted the previous night, it touched Y's heart.
Being the only staff member of the D'je tribe, Y was expected to speak, an honor made burdensome by both her sorrow and exhaustion. She was nervous, and unprepared. It was a struggle even reaching the podium, so clogged was the ceremony. Standing upon the podium, Y gulped as panic and intense claustrophobia threatened to send her back down to the ground. Everything she had planned to say left her thoughts, and Y began to search the crowd for any hint, any student that could meet her gaze and offer support. Hot embarrassment shot through Y's core as she cleared her throat anxiously.
A hand gently came to rest atop of hers, and Y turned to meet the gaze of Principal Weems. Kind, exhausted eyes bored into her own, encouraging her, providing a firm cornerstone to lean upon, a brief sense of gratitude fluttered through Y, momentarily overpowering her anxiety.
"Students of Nevermore Academy," Y shakily began. "As the representing member of the D'je tribe, I am both honored and nervous to accept this generous display of support,"
Students began to bristle and talk amongst themselves. Where was this teacher going with this? Most were bored. They couldn't be blamed, they had no connection to the tragedy at the reservation. Most students didn't have a class with this woman on the podium, and those that did attempted to pay attention for the base courtesy of someone in power. Y wasn't bothered by this narrative. She'd been asked to speak, and so she would.
"My time here has been brief, but filled with the must kind, accepting relationships I've had the honor of garnering. As one of the kindest, most nurturing staff members once told me..." Y stated, eyes briefly flickering around the crowd, "...Nevermore is a people, a community built not on the foundation of simple camaraderie, but rather a foundation built of the understanding that we are not alone. We are not alone in our differences, in our quirks, our many eccentricities, and our values. I have been blessed to call Nevermore my home away from home, and I pledge to all students that as long as I have the honor of teaching here, you will not be alone, for during my tribe's darkest moments, you have shown us support and kindness that will never be forgotten. Thank you," Y concluded.
Heart pumping with adrenaline, Y shakily watched the mixed reactions of the students. Some cheered, some were teary-eyed, some seemed bored. It was all to be expected Y mused, it was a cheesy speech, and most of it was bullshit. But it was the kind of bullshit that impressed those who had something to gain from the tragedy.
"That was fantastic, I knew you'd pull through," Larissa winked. "Your prep period is next, yes?"
"Yes," Y nodded.
"See you then," Larissa preened.
Y smiled, watching Larissa gently gather the students for dismissal. She was too peppy, too bubbly. Wasn't this a memorial? Y cracked her knuckles, droning out the sound of her voice. She was pissed at herself for being such a pawn, such a victim, the kind of victim that the local news crew that stood in the back would eat up. "Support and kindness that would never be forgotten?" Y's stomach churned. It was a hate-crime. Someone in this community had taken it upon themselves to burn their gathering hall to the ground, and what were the police doing about it? Fuck all! The police report would be pushed to the back, forgotten about until it was too late to follow the clues and arrest the terrorist that had harmed her people. The police would find a more pressing matter and that would be it. The tragedy would be over and any further attempts of the tribe to find justice would be criticized as a cash grab.
Y barely contained the urge to storm off the stage, or worse, push Larissa off the podium. She'd done nothing but pledge the support of Nevermore to her tribe, a bunch of bullshit that would never happen, once again overshadowed when more pressing matters came up. This was a publicity circus, and Y would have no more of it. Floating from the crowd, Y broke out in a run as soon as she was out of sight, making a beeline to her classroom.
Writing a coarse email to another colleague requesting her class be supervised for the last period of her day, Y pulled out a substitute sheet and detailed the brief instructions for her students and supervising teacher. It was another craft day, and if the students had extra time afterwards they could work on drafting the presentation. Easy. Done.
Briefly CC-ing Larissa, Y scribbled an extra note on her desk, citing fatigue and all around grief as the reason for her absence. Y didn't care if this threw a wrench in Larissa's plans, her life was too fucked for any sort of compassion for those around her to cross her thoughts. Shutting her door, Y hastily walked past the throngs of students that poured through the entry hall. The tall figure of Principal Weems towered over the students, and Y watched as a confused look overshadowed her face. Y didn't give her time to reach out, or worse, call her name, quickly pushing past the double doors of the exit and running to her car.
<^*-----------------*^>
On the drive home all Y did was replay the last two days of her life. The flight, the unfortunate head wind that had driven her over to the clearing, the eye contact she had made with Larissa, the conversation, the phone call, the fire, the terrible memorial service. All of it blurred together, but no matter which way she replayed the events, her mind continued to snag on Larissa, well specifically two moments. The forest and the argument were played in parallel, and Y eventually narrowed down each memory to one moment. It was the look in the forest, and that look in Larissa's eyes when Y had first stood up that appeared too similar. Larissa's eyes had widened, mouth slightly agape, eyebrows raised. In both instances the look had been brief, but the more she compared them, the more it became clear that they were the same emotion. Recognition? No. Anger? Most certainly not. Annoyance? No. Excitement? Nope. Brief nonplus? Maybe? No it couldn't be. She'd been taken aback, worried, maybe even fearful-
Fear.
Oh my god. She'd been afraid.
Thoughts raced through Y's head. Larissa Weems had been afraid of Y, she'd seen something menacing, something other, something that sparked that primal desire in her mind to react, to run, to fight.
Larissa knew. That's why she'd been so insistent on siding with Y, trying to bargain with her, "I too am a freak". She'd said it! She fucking said it! Traditions didn't make someone a freak! It was someone's being, someone's appearance. Calling someone a freak based on their cultural practices would be unheard of to Larissa's vocabulary, but horns? A winged demon flying from the night sky? That was a freak!
"I've been so blind!" Y gasped, slowly beginning to cry.
Pulling off the road, Y hastily pulled out her phone, and called her Mom.
"Y, honey, aren't you at work?" her mother's soft voice asked.
"Mama," Y sobbed. "Larissa knows!"
A brief gasp sounded on the other end of the phone.
"Larissa, who's this Larissa? A student?"
"No Mama, she's Larissa Weems, she's the principal of Nevermore. My employer," Y choked, "She was the one, she, she-"
"Baby breathe," her mother begged.
"She saw me in the woods," Y finally got out.
Her mother hummed. "And you didn't think to say anything?"
"I thought she wouldn't recognize me, I just realized, she gave it away Mama,"
Silence filled the other end of the line.
"Are you at work?"
"No, I left,"
"Good. Get home. Now."
A/N: This chapter was HEAVY. First and foremost, my biggest concern was portraying the D'je tribe's tragedy with both respect and sensitivity, but also with as little plot holes as possible. Although this tribe is fictional, hate-crimes are not, and therefore even fictional they MUST be portrayed as wrong, and deeply hurtful to a community both on a small, intimate scale, and as a larger, wounding event. Secondly, Larissa isn't a dumbass. There was no way of brushing off the sighting or the later conflict as two separate occurrences, so I needed them to connect, which is why there was sooooo much description in between dialogues. And the angst? You guessed it, necessary. Yes this is a ship, yes it is slow burn, yes it is gonna be enemies to lovers! Ugh my absolutely favorite. I digress. Expect more angst and some steam next chapter- I've done all of the larger world-building necessary to make this story feel both believable and be truly rewarding when we do finally get the steam. Stay tuned! All future and past chapters will be posted on my masterlist which is linked to the pinned "Navigation" post on my dashboard.
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and-claudia · 1 year ago
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His Heir pt. 36 (Darth Maul x pregnant! reader)
Warnings: none I don't think
Word count: 1483 (sorry it is pretty short)
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Saying goodbye to Dasar was a bit awkward the next day. But I managed through it with the promise that we would see him in a couple of weeks for his wedding. 
The next few days felt weird because all of a sudden there were so many people congratulating me on our son. Don’t get me wrong I was flattered but this didn’t happen when we announced the pregnancy itself, only when we announced it was a boy. Currently, Maul and I were sitting at the table, eating dinner. I could feel Maul’s eyes on me as I just picked at my food. 
“Are you alright dear?” 
I nodded but didn’t look up. I was too lost in my own head. The sound of silverware clinking against the porcelain of the dinner plate made me look up at him. 
“You’ve barely eaten. Are you sure you feel alright?” He pressed. 
“I feel fine.” I mumbled, averting my eyes back down. 
  “Yn, please don-” 
“I said I’m fine, Maul!” I snapped. 
I regretted it the moment I raised my voice. But I had been stewing in my anger all day and it finally just broke loose. 
“I’m sorry.” 
Maul shook his head, “It’s alright, dear. Can you just tell me what’s bothering you so I can help?” 
I sighed, “People keep congratulating me on our son…” 
The ridges where his eyebrows would be knotted together in confusion, “And that’s a bad thing?” 
“I mean no… not in itself. But when we first announced that I was pregnant with your heir, the only people that congratulated me directly were my friends that I worked with. But now that everyone knows it’s a boy, anyone and everyone seems to have something to say about it. It just makes me feel like if it had been a girl she wouldn’t be getting the same attention. And I know it’s silly because it’s not a girl… but then I go down the wormhole of what ifs… like what if later on we decide to have a second child, and it’s a girl. She wouldn’t be your heir but she’d obviously be a part of Crimson Dawn would she get the same recognition and respect as our son? Like I said I know it’s silly to be getting so worked up over what-ifs but I can’t help it.” I explained. 
“It’s not silly at all.” Maul was quick to shut down that worry, “I will put an end to this first thing tomorrow morning.” He vowed, “I love that you care so deeply for our son already. And it’s endearing that you’re already thinking of the future of our family.” 
I only nodded, not really wanting to discuss it further. I really just wanted to go to bed honestly. 
“I’m going to go shower then lay in bed.” I said quietly, pushing my plate forward. 
Maul nodded, “Once I finish, I’ll clean up out here then come to bed, alright?” 
It was my turn to nod as I pushed my chair back and stood up to walk to our bedroom. I took a quick shower, the thought of the soft pillows under my head spurred me on to wash up quickly. When I got out I grabbed my robe and tied it above my belly before walking out to grab something to sleep in. I was already half asleep when Maul slipped into bed beside me. 
It wasn’t until a few hours later that I was waking up. Though I was no stranger to waking up in the middle of the night. However, it was usually because I suddenly had gotten too warm under the blankets and next to Maul, or because the baby was in a weird position making me uncomfortable. Not this time, this time when I woke up I had one thing on my mind: I wanted- no I needed chocolate. 
Why of all things was I wanting that? Chocolate was typically pretty rare in this part of the galaxy. I wasn’t even sure if we had any here. Hell on Mandalore I had only had it on rare occasions. I pushed myself to sit up and took a second to consider if I was really about to do this. 
Yup. I was. 
I pulled the fluffy comforter off my legs and turned to get up out of bed. I tried to do so as quietly and gently as possible so as to not wake Maul. Once I was on my feet I turned to check if I was successful, and luckily I was, he was still asleep. I walked out of our room and across the quarters to the kitchen. Then my search began. 
I was in the middle of checking the second cupboard when Maul appeared at the other end of the kitchen island. 
“Yn, what the hell are you doing?” He asked. 
I turned around slowly. I felt like a small child who had just gotten caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 
“Looking for something?” It came out more as a question rather than a statement. 
“For?” 
“Chocolate…” 
“Why?” 
“I need it.” 
That made him laugh a little as he realized what was going on. 
“There is none in here.” 
His words nearly sent me into tears. The craving had gotten so bad at this point that it felt like I would do just about anything for even just a piece of it. 
“But I believe there is some in the main kitchen. Let me check.” He said, grabbing one of the abandoned datapads from the island. 
I walked over to one of the stools at the island and planted myself there as he typed. 
“They have some. Anything specific you want?” He asked. 
I shook my head, “As long as it is or has chocolate, I don’t care.” 
Maul hummed in response and finished typing a few things before he set down the datapad and came over to take a seat beside me. As he passed me, he paused to wrap his arms around me from behind and pressed a kiss to the side of my head. 
“You know you could have woken me up?” He said as he sat. 
“I know… But one I didn’t want to bother you and two I really didn’t consider that. I really felt like I might have started committing crimes if I didn’t get to some chocolate soon.” I joked. 
“Should I be worried about my safety until it gets here?” 
I pretended to think about it, “No. You’re safe. Knowing that it’s on the way is already making me feel better.” 
“Good.” 
“I really don’t know what came over me. Like yeah, I’ve had some cravings already but they have never been that intense. It was crazy.” I explained.
Maul nodded and thought for a moment before answering, “I am in no way saying this to harp on you, just an observation. But part of that may be because you didn’t eat dinner.” 
“I didn’t even think of that…” 
“It’s okay. Once you get your fix, I saved your plate if you want to eat something.” 
I nodded, “That’s probably a good idea.” 
Soon there was a knock on the door and my face lit up as I looked over to Maul expectantly. He let out an amused sigh before he got up and went to the door. When he returned he had a platter with various chocolaty items on it. Before he even set it down I had already plucked a piece off of it. 
I involuntarily let out a moan as I tasted it. 
“Never thought I’d be jealous of a piece of chocolate.” Maul said, amused as he went over to the fridge to get out the dinner he had saved. 
He began heating it up while I sat and ate a few more pieces to get the fix that I needed at the moment. Then once the food was actually ready I swapped the plater for the plate and Maul saved the rest of it just in case the craving happened again. 
Once I was done eating, I was tired once again. 
“Shall we head back to bed, dear?” 
I nodded and he helped me stand from the bar stool before leading me back to the bedroom. 
When I woke up the next morning it was way later than I was expecting. But it was okay considering I didn’t have to work today. Neither did Maul so when I found the rest of the quarters empty I was confused. That was until I saw a note written, hastily, on a piece of flimsy. 
Had to go to a last-minute meeting. 
That was a little weird, even last-minute things, he would usually make me attend. I brushed it off, he probably just wanted to me to get some extra rest. And besides this would be a one-time thing, right? 
taglist:
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bibibbon · 9 days ago
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What is your idea for his arc?
I'm still writing, but the first half of his arc focuses on him gaining respect and recognition from the group he's in (in this case the League of Villains, but the group has another name and they're more competent from the beginning). In the League of Villains, there's a ranking system that goes from weakest to strongest, Nine is in 8th and this frustrates him, so he does everything he can to climb the rankings and prove to his teammates what he's capable of. He's the kind of friend that no one likes, only his team respects him, especially Slice, who is the first person he saves in my version.
How do you plan to interconnect nine's arc with izuku?
I plan for them to start developing a bond at the time of the USJ. Yes, in my version, Nine is responsible for the attack, although it will take a while compared to the manga, since I want my version to start as a slice of life. The situation will only reach a level of tension (Ending) when Class 1A is in their third year. Izuku will start to see Nine as an enemy, and this also happens with Nine, especially when Nine discovers that Izuku is the one with One for All, the power that he hears Tomura and All for One talk about so much.
Do you plan to flesh out Nines team a lot more?
Yes, I intend to develop them and I'm making new stories for them too. The character I'm developing the most is Slice, since in my version, she has suffered so much that she lost her sense of living, until she was saved by Nine, she sees him as a savior and blindly follows him, even though she ends up being easily manipulated. It's like the relationship Harley Quinn has with the Joker.
Who is the biggest antagonist within the series?
I can't reveal anything, I want to leave a surprise and I hope you like what I'm planning.
What is your plan for nine? How are you going to wrap up his antagonistic role so soon?
I want to make him serve as the first main boss of the story, I'm building my story as if it were a game (Mainly a JRPG, I'm taking inspiration from Persona for certain moments), I want him to be someone who can start to break the perfect image of heroes that Izuku and his squad have at the beginning (I'm really going to develop Izuku). I want to make his ideologies clash with Izuku's thoughts and opinions, like showing what society can do to certain individuals. Nine is the antagonist of Izuku's first year and his class. His participation as an antagonist ends with the end of the first year of class 1A, then another character takes his place.
I hope the answers are good for you. Thanks for the questions.
Thanks for answering the questions I asked!
Honestly i just put them as rhetorical questions and I wasn't expecting a reply but thank you!
I think it's an interesting idea the way you have chosen to play with nine's character and completely change him from his stoic depiction in the movie.
I love that you're developing nine and his relationship with his team. I hope you add more to him and mummy to be specific as he gets forgotten a lot of the time and I literally can't even find a picture of mummy and nine together in the movie.
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Having nine climb the ranks and maybe even be introduced to the league through the desire to get stronger, healthier better and to establish his ideals.
I think that Nine's eagerness to climb the ranks and be the strongest in the league would allow for him to be at the front ans center for many of the leauge plans and conduct his own plans.
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From what you have answered its interesting to see the sneak peek of what nine and slices relationship may be and honestly iam much more interested in how you're choosing to develop them. Iam aware that you're planning to make slice all in awe of nine due to him being her saviour but what does nine think of her? Could she influence nine change?
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Having the league of villains have a ranking system is interesting! Yet I am very interested in the way you may be depicting shigaraki as he seems to be AFO's right hand, so he controls the league. Does the league like him? Will the betray him?
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prydainroyals · 1 year ago
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"Grandmother. Do not treat me like a child," Alice snapped. Of all the ridiculous things for her grandmother could be doing at this very moment, cooing with airy condescension, why did it have to be that?
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"Then stop acting like one," Gwyn retorted airily.
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"We already have two grown-up children in this household, we do not need a third."
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Alice bristled. She loved Gwyn, she truly, really, really did-- she admired and respected her for her resilience in dealing with the press over past decades, had fond memories of going out with her to tea parties and public events. She still had a little stuffed cat Gwyn had given her as a gift when she was three!
But this...?
"Arthur and Father are not overgrown children," Alice snapped back, her voice raised and filled to the brim with indignation. "And neither am I. If anyone here is being childish, Gran, it's you. Shame on you for being so dismissive of them! And of me!"
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Gwyn seemed to recoil at Alice's fire--
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--then leaned in, opened her mouth as if to say something, but shockingly did not interrupt. Instead, she pursed her lips silently--
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--and at last began to pout.
"Alice, I am only trying to look out for--" Gwyn began, her cold and haughty tone abandoned for the soft and pathetic simpering of a crocodile of a woman.
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Alice was having none of it; felt the ire stir up a storm. She threw up her hands, struck them through the air as though the oxygen round them was at fault.
"--Stop!" she shouted, composure finally lost. The clear manipulation that Gwyn had reserved for others for so long, now being used on Alice, had touched a nerve and caused her to snap. Whatever patience she'd had, was now seemingly lost against a tide of righteous indignation.
"The only person you're looking out for is yourself, Gran!"
"Why I never--"
"No! Let. Me. FINISH."
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Alice stood from the table and took a deep breath. She couldn't let Gwyn "win" by absolutely losing control. She refused to do that-- she was better than that, and if she let her hot temper get the better of her, she would just be playing right into whatever stupid schemes Gwyn had in mind.
Calm. Relax. It's alright. Just think of Arthur. Think of Alfonso. Think of Carmen.
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Gwyn stood to face her, and Alice let out a sharp sigh.
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"Asking for your support for a mere recognition of the Heir's return home should not be so complicated," Alice stated, her voice sharp, shoulders squared, her sharp, green gaze sat piercing right through Gwyn.
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"I say 'support' and not 'permission' because, to be quite honest, it isn't up to you," Alice quickly, but steadily, went on. "I am doing this for more than just Arthur, who is my twin, but for our family and for our reputation."
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"If you don't like that, I've nothing else to say to you, Gran."
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"Now, whether or not you'll excuse me, I am leaving to attend today's business. If I hear that you've pushed Father to deny this effort, you ought to know that your sabotage of my brother will not be successful."
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"You're overreacting, my dear--" Gwyn replied as Alice turned her back and marched out of the tea room.
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But Gwyn's bait was resoundly ignored and she was left to stand and fume alone.
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---
Alice ain't wrong--this escalated entirely too quickly.
- - -
PREV | BEGINNING | NEXT
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rainbows-fanfics · 7 months ago
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Help Unwanted (Chapter 12)
Summary: After losing the Pirate, Deacon is unwillingly paired with a partner to help with his job. The only problem is - they can't stand each other, and time is dwindling until he can re-capture all his lost prisoners.
Human AU of the Armada from Pirate101.
Pairings: Deacon/Queen!Deacon, Deacon/OC
--
It was a few days into Dea’s recovery and she was doing well. Her bandages were changed on a regular basis and her wound was beginning to heal. She still didn’t have much of an appetite – eating was one of the last things she wanted to do, really – but she finally got around to nibbling off the food they gave her. 
She was told not to do any strenuous thinking, to not fret over her missing memories - but it was driving her mad. What had exactly happened for her to get shot? Deacon said they were on an undercover mission and she’d been in a disguise…but she couldn’t recall where they went or who they chased after. She was able to recall a man in black, but she couldn’t put a name to his character. It was aggravating.
So, she distracted herself. Which was hard to do when one was stuck in a hospital room. Her nurse offered a selection of books to read - and Dea had initially declined, not seeing anything particularly interesting. She wasn’t that big of a bookworm and she wasn’t desperate to become one right now. But then she spotted one of the novels she’d seen Deacon reading back on their ship, and requested for it. 
…It was a detective slash romance novel. 
Oh, she was going to tease him about this for sure!
It was held in her hands and opened to the second chapter. She just started reading and her only gripe was that it was a little cliché. Not like she had read many of these, but it wasn’t hard to tell where the story was heading. She briefly wondered if these were the type of things Deacon read - did he like thriller novels? That would make sense, what with his line of work. Did he enjoy romance stories? She almost laughed at that thought. She couldn’t picture him holding a book with the cover of a woman dangling dramatically from a shirtless man’s arms. It just didn’t seem like him. 
She was in the middle of flipping the page when the door opened. Her nurse peeked in and smiled.
“You have a visitor, miss. Is it alright if I let them in?” 
Dea folded the corner of the page to mark her spot. “...Who is it?” 
She hadn’t contacted her family since she got promoted in the Armada. She made sure they didn’t know of her whereabouts. She wasn’t ready to see them. She still needed to prove herself. It would be terrible if they came and saw her like this. She could already see the disappointment in her father’s eyes, and hear judgemental tsks from her mother’s lips… 
“A special visitor,” The nurse replied happily. This confused her - but she didn’t want to get her head throbbing again, so she nodded and sent him off. 
It was tense as she waited for whoever it was to arrive. She didn’t have to idle long before the door opened again, and a mask peered in from the small crack. Dea jumped in immediate recognition -  instinctively moving to rise to her feet and salute respectively to her guest.
“Q-Queen!” 
“At ease,” Her voice gently commanded.
She rested against the mattress and watched as the tall woman closed the door. She moved across the room smoothly. She had an elegant way of walking, able to conceal the movement of her feet underneath her dress. Sometimes it looked like she floated across the floor. It was the result of extensive practice, to show how attentive she was with her image. Dea watched in awe as she pulled up a chair and sat at her bedside in one fluid motion. 
“I wanted to see you as soon as I could,” She began the conversation, turning her head and the mask followed it naturally. “How have you been?” 
Dea tried not to fidget under her attention. She was nervous to be in her private company - who wouldn’t? Any soldier who came across the Armada’s Queen was either in trouble or getting interrogated. She was kept as a rare sight for a reason. Dea remembered how anxious she’d been the first time she met her, and tried to swallow down her worry. 
“I’ve been fine. Why have you come to see me..?” 
“I heard about what happened to you. You should understand my concern.” 
Her gloved hand unconsciously came up to feel the crack in her mask. She often repeated this action when she felt fidgety. It was hard *not* to, when she knew there was an imperfection on her second face. It was upsetting, but it was also the only clue as to what had happened. It was…another irritating thing she wondered about. 
Queen’s eyes followed her hand and Dea tensed. She struggled for an explanation. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to break it.” 
Masks were a touchy subject. They were the most valued part of an Armada uniform. Leaving them dirty violated the dress code, so they were promptly cleaned after every battle. To actually break one was generally frowned upon. It was encouraged to immediately replace and fix any tampered masks - and Dea hadn't had the opportunity to do that yet. The sight had earned her sympathetic looks from doctors and nurses. 
“Non ti preoccupare. I will have my husband make you a new one.” She leaned out of her seat and splayed her fingertips across Dea’s mask. She pressed the material slightly, to test the last of its durability. “I apologize you had to wear that delicate thing. You shouldn’t have been given such a flimsy mask, dear.” 
She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until Queen moved away. A relieved sigh left her lips. So she was getting a new mask…It was even being made by the highest hand of the Armada. She thanked the Gods that she hadn’t upset her superior. If her posture was anything to go by, she seemed to be in a relatively good mood, all things considered. Dea began fiddling with the blanket as she prepared herself to have the conversation she dreaded. She needed to, while she had this chance. 
“I am sorry for my failure.” Her eyes fell to the floor in shame. “If you decide to demote or even discharge me, I understand."
“Oh, bella. This sort of thing happens all the time. You’re just fortunate nothing worse happened to you.” 
“But I still… disappointed you. You were the one to promote me. You had such high hopes in myself, and…I failed to meet those expectations.” 
A hand landed on her shoulder. Queen looked at her compassionately. “You could never disappoint me.” 
She clenched her jaw, withholding emotions that wanted to escape her. “Why?”
“Us sorellas need to stick together. You were a victim, Reyna. But that does not define you - you are strong. No matter what happens, I have every confidence in you.” 
She looked away and breathed heavily to calm herself. This happened the last time she was approached by Queen. She said such inspiring words and showed an immense belief in her…support that her own mother had never offered to her. It was the first time Dea had not been disparaged in her career, and it was then she knew the Armada was the right place for her. 
“...It’s, um, ‘Dea’, now.”
“Dea?” The Elite repeated, holding a hand in front of her mask and giggling. “My, that’s…cute.” 
She grew embarrassed and regretted her bold choice of alias. Queen was clearly amused, but did not press the topic any further. She readjusted her hold on her mask and shifted in her seat. She perked up when she spotted an item sitting on her bedside table. 
“Oh! Have you borrowed one of Deacon’s books?” She asked, reaching for it. Dea extended a hand to stop her, but she already had it in her possession.
“No, that is the hospital’s-”
“I gave this to him last Christmas,” She continued, ignoring her unnerved state. “I didn’t think he ever got to it.” 
“He, ah, reads all the time on our voyages. I think he finished that one recently..” 
She flipped it around in her hands, reading the text and observing the cover wordlessly. She finally asked the question that had been lingering between them. “How are things with Deacon? Are the two of you still not getting along?” 
She crossed her arms and groaned. Her green eyes lifted to the ceiling in regret. She didn’t know how Queen had learned about this. She must have her ways. “...I think I messed up.”
It felt like the room had dropped a few degrees. She rubbed her arms and unconsciously leaned into the trench coat laid underneath her. Queen’s attention momentarily flitted to the item, but she moved her gaze back when Dea let out an exasperated breath. 
“I know what you said about him, but…I didn’t know what to make of Deacon really, and I…may have been a little harsh. He wasn’t all that friendly with me, either, but..I think I made him hate me.”  
“Don’t say that–” 
“-Es cierto. We’ve had a few arguments; I said things I shouldn’t have. I once made him so upset he hadn’t bothered working with me for half the day.” 
“Dear, he’s just frustrated. He’s had a lot going on. You’d be irritable, too, if the same things happened to you.” 
She frowned underneath her mask. “..What should I do?” 
Queen crossed one of her legs over the other. “Show him a little more patience. He’s an independent man. He’s never had to rely on anybody else."
Her heart twisted in guilt. She really had imposed herself. She’d heard of Deacon’s mistake when getting promoted and cruelly taunted it in his face several times. She enjoyed having the upper-hand over someone for once, rather than the other way around. But it was unprovoked. He must have been going through his own personal Hell, and she merely added to it. That’s why he wanted nothing to do with her. She only had herself to blame. 
If she’d lost an entire ship, her prisoners, and members of a crew she was responsible for…she’d be constantly kicking herself for it. She could only imagine what had been running through his mind for these past couple of months. That last thought reminded her of something and she sucked in a harsh breath. 
“Queen? Am I…still involved in this operation?” 
She hesitated. “There was talk about it. Your medical leave puts a slight strain on your mission, so…you and Deacon have been granted some more time.” 
“..Is that even necessary, if he’s still working while I’m gone?” 
“Hmm. I don’t know what he told you, but we haven’t received an update since your admittance. If he is, I don’t think he’ll be working very hard in your absence, bella.” 
Her lips pursed in thought. She thought he’d have already been close to capturing another fugitive by now. He worked diligently when she wasn’t involved – she learned that the hard way.  Was he waiting for her return? Or was he going to work more efficiently with her out of the picture, like she presumed? She didn’t know what to expect and the uncertainty made her restless. 
Queen stood and glanced down at her. “I should leave now. I’ll return with your new mask…It’s a promise, Dea.” 
She went to make her exit, but stopped in front of the door. She appeared to remember something, spinning on her heel to face her again. “-Oh, and after all of this is over with, I would like to have a special day together. Just you and me.” 
“-A ‘special’ day?” She repeated, tilting her head in confusion. 
“You deserve something nice. It will be fun.” Her tone was slightly mischievous as she reached for the handle and let herself out. “Rest easy, sorella.” 
----
“Hell yeah!” 
Rooke’s laughter filled the room as he hit the bullseye on the dartboard. There were only a couple of nearby patrons watching the pair across the room. They’d come at a relatively empty part of the week. Normally, when Deacon and Rooke visited their favorite bar together, it was to celebrate their time off and drink the night away in the company of their Armada troops. Right now, it was only the two of them playing darts with a couple of beers in the middle of the day. 
When it was Deacon’s turn, he carefully aimed his missile and threw it to his best attempt. He’d only gotten a single score. On his next try, he didn’t fare any better. It was pathetic when they tallied the end scores. Rooke had royally kicked his ass, which was mortifying - as darts was Deacon’s game. 
“What’s the matter? You’ve never let me win before.” His brother prodded when they sat back down. The spymaster chose to deflect the question.
“I’m obviously not drunk yet.” 
This failed to make the other laugh. “Hey,” His voice lowered and Deacon knew he was in for it. “I found out what happened. Are you doing alright?” 
“Of course I am.” He snapped. The General glared at him.
“It’s bothering you, isn’t it?” 
. . . 
. . .
Deacon was at his wit's end.
He’d meant to carry on with his mission days ago - but after Dea’s admittance, waking up and finding her bed empty gave him the strangest sense of loneliness. Deacon found himself changing behind his privacy sheet before realizing there was no need to. Their journey that day had been unusually silent. There was no sound of feminine singing as they sailed, so no one had any reason to make noise.
It was ironic. He would have begged for this exact situation two months ago, but now he didn't care for it. 
He made the disturbing mistake later that day, when he spoke aloud at the captain's wheel, intending to ask Dea what she thought of the weather. He quickly made the shameful realization that he was talking to himself. His final straw was when he had accidentally made two orders for his dinner that night instead of one. That next morning, he insisted that his crew take the next few days off, as he was afraid of what would happen if he kept up with this strange behavior. He used the excuse that they were working hard lately, and deserved to have a little fun.
He was trying to convince himself that he was simply used to the routine, not *Dea*. Habits were easy to form, but harder to break, as he knew. Change was clearly the issue here. Wasn’t it? 
He had the intention of taking it easy today, asking Rooke if he was free to hang out, but when they actually made it to the bar, Deacon felt depressed. He wondered how long he could’ve hid it from him - he probably would’ve done a fine job, had they not picked up a game of darts. 
“I don’t know,” He confessed. And it was the truth. He genuinely did not understand what was going on with him right now. 
“You’re really going through it, aren’t you?” His tone was remorseful. “Losing the Erebus, your prisoners, then nearly your partner… ? I’m surprised you haven’t lost it yourself.”
‘I am losing it!’ Deacon wanted to scream. Why was he so fussed over this woman? He wanted to throw his head into a wall. 
“You don’t understand. It was my gun that shot her. My own bullet.”
“Don’t blame yourself. It was an accident.”
“But I pulled the trigger-” 
Rooke shoved the beer towards him. He gave him a stern tilt of the head before his brother reluctantly took a drink. He crumbled in his seat, covering his face underneath his mask and shaking from the guilt.
He was finally surrendering to his emotions.
He was better than this. 
“I’m no stranger to casualties. Accidents happen all the time on the battlefield. Sometimes you can’t predict what your enemy is going to do. Chi Non Fa, Non Falla.” 
‘He who does nothing, makes no mistakes.’
The Emissary faltered. Of course Rooke had seen worse. He’d probably witnessed his soldiers blowing up and dying before his eyes. His line of work was as equally disturbing as Deacon’s, just in different ways. It was sometimes therapeutic to discuss these things with him. Whenever he thought he couldn’t relate, he always surprised him. 
“You should go visit her in the hospital,” He suggested all too nonchalantly. “Buy her flowers, maybe.” 
He didn’t respond. The larger man waited expectantly at his silence. He caved in with a wince. “She thinks I hate her.” 
“Deacon.” 
“I don’t. I just - damnit! She’s been a thorn in my side for so long, but…” He struggled to explain how he felt. Even he wasn’t sure. His emotions felt like a jumbled mess. “She doesn’t deserve her pain, and she shouldn’t think I despise her.” 
“Here’s how I see it-” Rooke leaned back in his chair, gesturing with his hands. “You’ve gotten used to her company. You two have been practically roommates.” 
He scrunched up his nose and looked away. “-But it doesn’t feel like that.” 
“-Then what DOES it feel like?” 
He dropped his frustration. Now he felt conflicted. Over how he’s handled these two months, even after Rooke advised him to open up to her. And he had …He played the piano in front of Dea, tied her corset for her, and discussed the things he liked. He thought that would be enough to start something, a friendship of some sorts, maybe, but…it still didn’t feel like they were close enough. It was unbalanced. He had learned more about his co-captain, even a clue as to what she looked like, while he remained an enigma in comparison.  
“I don’t know.”
This conversation felt futile. He’d gotten nothing out of it, beyond venting to Rooke about his guilt. His brother looked tired. He motioned for them to finish their beers. Deacon obliged – shifting his gaze and somehow feeling even worse. Had he wasted both of their time? Maybe being with him right now hadn’t been the best idea. He should’ve known to wait until he was more mentally stable. 
Rooke noticed his dispirited demeanor and patted him on the back. It was his usual gesture of comfort. “You should still go see her while you can. Try to talk some things out.” 
“..You think she’ll want to see me?” 
“Why not?” He shrugged. 
Why not, indeed. 
----
Two visitors in one day felt like too much for Dea. 
She was tempted to have the nurse send them off, but she really had nothing else to do here. Her conversation with Queen had sent her mind running. What did she mean by a ‘special day together’? She was cryptic with her words, sometimes, and it scared her. She’d been in a frenzy about it, wondering if she should feel relieved or nervous. So she was sort of thankful for the distraction when she was told that someone else wanted to see her.
The last thing she expected, however, was to find Deacon shuffling his way into the room. 
He was finally in his blue ensemble again - his familiar jackets and cape giving Dea a great relief. Just seeing him like this made things feel normal again. She wanted to be back on the ship doing the usual things like chatting with their crew while Deacon simultaneously juggled steering the wheel and reading a book.  
“Ciao.” He greeted her in kind.
“…What are you doing here?” 
“--Checking on you. Would you rather me *not* do that?” He asked seriously. She shook her head. 
“I’m just wondering why you’re not out at sea right now..?” 
“Took the day off,” He mumbled, helping himself into the seat. Unlike Queen, he didn’t pull it up to her bedside and instead settled on watching her from afar. “How are things?” 
“Not so bad. The pain is getting better, but my head is still…” She waved her hand as she thought how to word it. “-Weird? A lot is coming back to me, though.” 
He looked at her curiously. She paused, wondering if she should bring certain things up. She had a few questions, but something in particular had been bothering her. Was it better to wait? Get her answers later?  She decided to bide her time and reached over to grab the book from the table. She held it with a wryly smile - somewhat disappointed that he couldn’t see her expression right now. His eyes moved to look at what she was holding.
“I didn’t think you knew how to read,” He commented dryly. She shrugged and opened it, flipping through the pages casually. 
“I usually don’t, but I saw you had this one, and wanted to check it out.” She pinched her lips together, stifling a giggle. “-You really enjoy this stuff?” 
“I didn’t pick it out,” He defended. “And for the record, there *are* some good detective novels out there.” 
“I’m sure,” She replied humorously, returning the book to its place. Her tone grew curious. “I never asked you, but what do you like to read, Espía?” 
He looked surprised. It took him a minute or two to think about his answer. “Mystery, thrillers, adventure…” 
“What’s your favorite book?” 
“Moby-Dick.”
“No way!” 
He shrugged, entwining his gloved fingers together. “It was one of the first serious stories I'd ever read.” 
Her laugh was like music to his ears. He didn’t expect Dea to ever ask something like this - but he was delighted. He’d just been thinking of how little she knew about him, and he was glad to change that. He owed it to her, after all. His eyes wandered while she calmed down and noticed the article of clothing shoved behind her person. It took a few seconds for him to recognize what it was and realize he had completely forgotten about his trench coat. 
“Comfortable?” He asked, much-too-knowing not to be suspicious. Dea looked at him strangely before realizing where he was looking. Her face grew hot under her mask.
“I - ah,” She stammered, moving to hide the coat from his view. “If I remember correctly, YOU were the one who gave this to me..!” 
He gave a casual hum, sitting back in the chair. From what *he* remembered, she didn’t even want it. She grew annoyed at his reaction and waved him off. This did not dissuade him from continuing the conversation. 
“Who is your favorite singer?” He prompted. She blinked in surprise.
“What?”
“The person who inspired you,” He clarified. She wondered why he inquired about this, but figured it was fair, since she had asked him about his books. She clicked her tongue. 
“My aunt loved to sing. She would teach me all sorts of songs and play instruments for me. She was a big inspiration in my life.” A particular word rang heavy in the room, so she elaborated. “She passed away a long time ago. I’ve wanted to sing in her memory, if that makes sense. She always wanted to share her voice with the world, but never got to. I…guess I haven’t, either…”
“...I see.” He responded. He sounded happy to know, but sympathetic to hear at the same time. She offered the question back to him. 
“You’re really good at the piano. I bet you’re talented with the violin. Who inspired you to play?” 
“No one, really. It was just beneficial to learn.”
“Then how come you didn’t pursue it? As a career?”
“Not what I really wanted to do,” He confessed. “I liked to be on boats, go sailing. I did well in school, so my father thought I was educated enough to become an Emissary.” 
She continued to pry. “Do you like your job?” 
This was when he fell silent. Of course he loved his job. He was miserable whenever he was put on-hold. But he couldn’t admit that aloud. It didn’t feel right. Being an Emissary and a spymaster came with all sorts of responsibilities, and he was held to such high standards that it was often stressful for him. When he made mistakes, he faced brutal consequences. Being an Elite was a privilege, and not one he wanted to lose. So he overworked himself and never had any time for anything else.  
Maybe if he had become a professional musician, he’d be a little happier. He wouldn’t be held to such standards, and wouldn't have to work under Kane. He would never have to deal with his disappointment because he was conditioned not to make any mistakes on strings. He was slippery with his job now, things constantly happened out of his control…he suddenly wondered if he had made the right choice with his life.
Seeing his struggle, Dea spared him from answering. “I bet it’s hard.” 
“Unbelievably so.” 
He wanted to change the subject. He had to, before things escalated and they were digging into territory he did not want to discuss. Before he could say anything, a troubled sigh escaped the woman. She clasped her hands together and looked away. 
“Deacon…I remembered what I was trying to ask you, back at that church. You said we would talk about it later. Is now a good time?” 
He held his breath. No time was good for this, period, but he’d rather talk about it like this. Alone, and when the air between them was still light. He gave her a solemn nod and she took a second before having the courage to ask again. 
“What happens to these prisoners, when we are done capturing them?” 
“As I told you,” He began calmly. “They will be taken back to Valencia to be questioned.” 
This conversation was going exactly the same as it did last time. Maybe that was for the best. “-And they’ll be questioned about *what*...?” 
“I have studied the rise of piracy within this past year, and suspect these pirates will grow numerous in the long-term and pose a threat to the Armada and our plans. The criminals and undesirables we are arresting have valuable intel about a pirate haven located somewhere in Skull Island.” 
Her eyes grew in shock. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together. Her stomach felt like it was in a knot. She had to gather her strength to ask the next question that popped up in her mind. 
“And if these prisoners don’t tell you what you want..?” 
He bowed his head, his tone ominous. “They will be tortured until they do." He looked her in the eye before finishing, "-By me.”
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paperlovesadness · 2 years ago
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In regards to Wet Leg, I think the TikTok aspect of it is really kicking. They're ~cool and edgy and sexual and out there and just so fucking *trendy* that it seems almost fake to me. Kinda like Måneskin (who used to be cooler I must admit but now is just another act in the back of the line...)
The very ~edgy cool quotable sexual innuendo easy to memorize~ lyrics do a lot of work too, I think (which, to me, seem so fucking cringe and immature and like, uninspired???)
And the fact that POP-DEITY and all around easy to digest and ~relevant and queer and catering to the right audiences Harry Styles endorsed them so heavily? And the continuous repeated mention of other celebs who love them like Elton John, Dave Grohl and Florence Welch, it's like they're just being pushed super hard in the industry. It seems so rehearsed and put-on. Like a spiel someone has been paid off to say every fucking time.
The Brits themselves must have been eager to have someone young, female and trendy to push forward to stay woke and up to date after the controversy.
Also, the fact that they copied Alex's speech at the Brits, but she hadn't even memorized it? She needed to look at her phone and it seemed so odd? Like why??? And then she stopped? Why begin and not follow through and commit to the bit? Like what was the point? She was trying to say how its amazing to have more women in rock and she chose to quote a speech made by a man dripping with sarcasm who doesn't care about being there?? And then she proclaimed how much it meant to them? Like?? Just, go with either one... She clearly had no fucking clue what he meant with that speech.
Ooh, you've made some really good & interesting points! (Thank you for joining the conversation!)
The more I think about it the more I agree that the 'tiktok potential' aspect may be a huge factor in this.
I saw someone on Twitter use the phrase "fast fashion but in music" - and I think that kind of nails it? There's always been musical trends but now like with everything they're coming and going so much faster than ever before. And with tiktok being able to make a song trend and bring the artist millions of views & streams it's no wonder the industry will gear towards that to get some easy income in. Especially when the songs that do best are literally the most basic easy-to-compose tunes one can think of.
I'm not even very up to date with these things. But I can see some patterns. Like make up a song that's simple, relatable - and like you're saying edgy and (*gasp!*) sexual + very rhythmic (good for edits and jump cuts/transitions) & you've got a potential hit.
"ABCDE-FU" type of shit. Or yeah- some of the new Måneskin songs too. Like BLA BLA BLA and Kool Kids (which were the only two actually unbearable songs on the album to me - but then in shock I found out that they're up in the top of their young fans' favorites)
(I do also agree - I was very much a fan of Måneskin and their previous two albums. They kind of lost that originality though with most ot the tracks on this one. Very much going the fast-fashion-music direction unfortunately)
Harry Styles' support being a big reason also just came to me yesterday as an idea - glad to see someone also thinks this could be a factor. His music isn't my thing - but I can respect it and even say some of the songs I have heard are good. But he's got a crazily dedicated fan base to the point that I believe they'd love and support anything he ever said he liked.
It's exactly the fact that next to them suddenly getting all these awards they've also been getting so much acknowledgement from fellow musicians who make completely different music that made me want to understand. I just feel like I'm missing something here!
Because I can understand getting the little songs stuck in your head or enjoying bopping around to them. But how does that type of song get you "best new discovery" awards & recognition from people like Elton/Dave/Florence???
The point you made about Brits possibly clinging to them as their hip-trendy and female representation is am interesting one too! Quite possible with the scandal they had.
And yeah... That speech... honestly didn't know what to think about it at first. Except how it was almost physically painful watching the awkwardness. It could've been a good idea to do if it had literally and thought and aim behind it. Like is they felt the same way about award shows and the way the industry works as Alex/AM does. They obviously don't though.
If it was meant to be a cheeky little joke-reference then it should've just been that first line (I'd appreciate it that way!). When she continued with it I stopped in my tracks and thought she'll do the full thing as maybe some deeper commentary/statement. But then she cut it off randomly... Strange.
And you're right it did also actually kind of contradict some of the things they added later?
Overall - I've got some ideas but still don't feel much closer to solving this mystery.
But very grateful for what you added! I think we've got a similar view on these things.
Have a great day anon! 🤍
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lairofdragonagelore · 2 years ago
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DLC: Jaws of Hakkon - Frostback Basin, Nigel's point
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This was one of the ruins that the explorer Ser Nigel visited on his travels through the Frostbacks. Its Tevinter name has been lost to the ages.
[This is part of the series “Playing DA like an archaeologist”]
[Index page of Dragon Age Lore ]
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We are introduced to this place via the codex Nigel's Point by Collete. Colette is Professor Kenric's research assistant and one of the few elven students at the University of Orlais. The little we saw of her interpretations and preciseness in the gathering of evidence, we can consider her a proper researcher who will probably enjoy other researchers as precise as her, [unlike that fucker Orlesian in Exalted Plains who called a statue of Fen'Harel a "broken dog"]
Sadly, part of her base knowledge of this ruin comes from a previous explorer she respects: Ser Nigel. He has written several codices in this area, and despite being appreciated by a meticulous researcher such as Collete, he seems to have little recognition in the academia compared to Brother Genitivi.  So, if I don’t trust Genitivi, I find less reasons to trust this Sir, to be honest. So his opinion will be barely taken into account except when the evidence seems to confirm his words. 
This ancient Tevinter ruin lost its name and purpose ages ago. Collete tells us that these Tevinter Ruins were the first structures in this area, and the Tevinter presence lasted really little. Then, Ancient Avvar used the place, and later, Ameridan saw it in a similar shape as we see it now. 
We can explore this ruin and see what details has to offer. 
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In a falling apart corner of this place we find one of these objects that we learnt via concept art that represents urns. It triggers a note that ends up being a prayer for Razikale, Dragon of Mystery. Several of these inscriptions can be found in this area and are analysed in the post of Tevinter presence in Frostback Basin.
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We can see the architecture is ancient Tevinter, displaying the same iconography, patterns, and style than the ruins we saw in Western Approach.
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The building has a lot of claws that stand out from the stone
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One of the most unsettling parts for me is this one. On a battlement of this building, we find this massive skeleton. The supposition most aligned to the occam’s razor is to think that this was a giant slaved by Tevinter, meaning that Tevinter has been slaving giants since before the Blights. After all, we saw that the Venatori had a tradition in using them for raw brute force tasks. If this is true, then the tale of the ice-troll seems to be unlikely, at least the part in which a giant made Tevinter leave a zone. 
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However, I think it’s a wrong supposition: this skeleton has no tusks nor one eye sock as the giants in DAI have. So this skeleton is simply a humanoid one enlarged, which is strange.
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The ruin is half falling apart. We can see the claws have a base which looks like a pyramid made with different pointy squares. 
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There are big octagonal structures and frame doors that present an intricate pattern that we saw in previous Tevinter ruins.
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In one of the rooms in the open of this ruin we find this Tevinter artefact with spikes
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On a side, we have access to a balcony, where an andrastian statue was placed, and at its base, there is an elven urn open. The presence of this statue has to do with Ameridan: Avvars who respected the fighting skills of Ameridan’s  companions were honoured with this statue in these ancient Tevinter ruins. The details are shared by Collete:
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At the base of the statue we find a book [I assume it is Collete’s] that triggers the poem The Hunt of the Fell Wolf where we read the story about Ameridan and his Templar friend fighting a Fell Wolf demon who wounded severely the Templar.  Apparently it narrates about an "idol of fade-touched stone" that would destroy the demon. The tale ends well with both wining against the beast and the spirit.
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We talk with Collete about this finding:
This statue with its inscription seem to be a tribute to Ameridan’s Templar friend and his dwarven alchemist friend. They bought time  for Ameridan against the Ancient Avvar while he continued with this quest. 
It’s implied that Orinna, despite being a dwarf, had developed unique techniques to combat demons.
Haron, the templar companion, was one of the first Tempalrs in the order when it was starting. He is the most famous templar of the original ones.
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shoggoth-the-bitch · 2 years ago
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I can see why some people don't care for Doctor 13. I just finished season 11 and I don't care for the way they wrote her.
I don't exactly mind her personality but I'm bothered by the fact that she seems to be saved, protected, and corrected way more than other Doctors. And her eureka moments simply don't hit as hard in this season compared to older seasons.
To be clear, I don't fault the actress playing the Doctor, I fault the people writing and directing these episodes.
Like, when she took on the Dalek for the first time, that scene felt great at first. She was proud and boisterous, she was the Doctor and she commanded respect and recognition from the Dalek. It was the first time it really felt like she was Doctoring this whole season. And then she totally lost control of the situation and the scene just kinda deflated.
And then the solution to their problem came from Ryan's average Joe of a dad. Like, sure, maybe he could suggest something like, "this thing is made of old tech? Can't microwaves short out tech like that?" And then the Doctor would have called him brilliant. And she should have been the one to actually take the thing apart and build it. Yeah, they make one throw away line that he's an engineer but come on.
There are other instances in the show that bug me but this episode is simply the freshest in my brain.
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stardust-in-my-mind-blog · 2 months ago
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digging up bones
I guess if I'm up and already in a bad mood about it
might as well go through some of the thoughts
I was thinking about unearthing later on today
maybe it'll exhaust me and I can go back to sleep
my mood can't get worse and there is no dopamine
anywhere to be found because I've exhausted all sources
let's talk about why I don't want to get a therapist
by collecting quotes from experiences from the past
I had one who decided to laugh in my face about
my love for Jung and my thinking I was autistic
his ego couldn't handle my knowing shit about myself
and other things he couldn't quite grasp
once during a conversation about my childhood sexual abuse
he actually said to me with no sense of his depravity
"no wonder they couldn't resist you"
what the actual fuck my dude I was a child
he stopped seeing me when I turned the tables on him
and got him to confess all the things he used to do
when he was a dangerous guy just like his father
by mimicking his behavior and following his patterns
kind of seems like that pattern recognition and masking
should have rang a few bells but he didn't want to believe it
he told me my feminine energy was weaker than his male energy
but he sterilized himself like a gelding because he feared
bringing another kid into the world that felt
as fucked up as he did every day
I guess I'm still kind of mad at him
I think he might have been one of the first people I trusted
with all those dirty little secrets I was forced to hold since I was born
I didn't plan to become the therapist and hear his story
I was just following the rhythm of the conversation
but once he lost the power he felt he didn't want to look me
again in the eyes and it was confusing
because nothing he said was even that bad
my most recent therapy experience was marriage counseling
I knew that was going to be a fucking joke
and I was so used to being silenced by the man in the room
that I exploded out in a monologue of trauma dumping
desperate to be seen as someone who was tough and dealt with shit
far worse than the lanky bastard sitting next to me
who wouldn't let me have emotions without trying
to smother me under every avoidant wall of stone
ugh, I do not want to be awake and I'm so angry
and not even fun arson angry just petulant and mean
I did end that therapy experience with a three page letter
I wrote about all the reasons I was completely
over my doomed marriage and the man involved in it
and all the reasons he wasn't shit
but written eloquently and logically
because I'd had plenty of time to prepare
It was fun having an audience and his surprised pikachu face
will always be one that I remember fondly
fuck you asshole you know what you've been doing
the female therapist I went to the year before
to tell about the patterns of abusive behavior I'd documented
and the reasons I had for needing to leave the dysfunction
was met by a woman the age of my mother
who must have saw a silly daughter making a mistake
because she asked if psychological abuse was his only sin
and told me successful men were hard to find
I had fun the rest of the sessions talking about how
out of all the religious texts I read the bible was the most dry
and boring and I just wish I could get into it
and all the crosses and scriptures she had around her office
and the way her face pinched when I said those things
really made it difficult for us to synch up after that
to be fair I was always willing to make it work
I did have one therapist that was the best
her name was Elise and it scares me to think of calling her
I wonder if it's because of the unpaid account
or the fear of rejection or knowing I get to tell her
how everything went to shit after I came into her office
with my youngest as a baby and a glowing happiness
to my presence because I thought I finally
found something that I ended up losing as time went on
well, saying that I lost it is not very accurate
you don't lose someone's respect
they decide to stop giving it to you
and I have a difficult time tolerating that in relationships
I will blind myself for awhile but there does come a point
where something clicks and suddenly I'm on fire
because I'll be damned and choose damnation
before I let a little bitch boy like that make me die
it would be so fucking easy to make him cry
well, this little think piece shows I definitely need a therapist
and I guess getting those shitty thoughts out is one less thing
I have to muddle through tomorrow to find motivation
I'll call Elise and see if I have problems to solve
to get to go back and see her
she saw me and knew me right away
and she helped me get through a situation
that I'm going to have to walk through again
and she was great at it last time
fuuuuuuck this all sucks and I hate it
custody battles and shitty apartments and lawyers
building another new life and climbing out of another grave
it could be worse
I could be as scared as I was last time when I did it
I'm not scared I just know it's going to suck
Elise was the first one to coin the term "the Dani filter"
to describe the way I mask in my bubbly upbeat way
I wonder what she'll think of me now if we get to meet again
I think she'll appreciate my darker wit and my cynical smile
she knew how my mind worked right away
and said that I changed her mind completely
about behavior theory because I guess
when I decide to do or become something
and actually commit to it I surprised her with how
I can change my behavior and patterns on a dime
and never go back to them
you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?
alright now I feel like I did something
so my mood is less angsty and I have a move to make
still not tired but maybe that'll come soon
call Elise tomorrow and if that doesn't pan out
it's back to the drawing board
but I'll find someone and it'll be fine
and if it's not I'll find someone else
I am getting the fuck out of this stagnant energy
otherwise I'm going to start getting destructive
and that helps nobody
especially not me
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lauvra · 4 months ago
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Yesterday threatened compressing into another foggy bead in a long strand of routine days and as that awareness bristled across my mind, I closed the laptop and tipped my remaining coffee into the Teabag Graveyard and got my shit together. At an Artist's party recently, a painter/potter told me about a communal north side library with an obscenely reasonable yearly membership agreement and free access to generally 'hang out' on Sundays. Now, if someone asks me to "hang out", my brain serves up a static sensation. Hang out? I just don't get it. Despite myself, every Sunday since the gathering I've considered the recommendation before withdrawing and today there was no less apprehension but it was the solitary decent idea beating against my skull and besides, I was invited. Rose St. Markets must have been running, I charged past the stalls because everyone in Fitzroy looks too cool; such that I willingly disengage my eyeballs to allow them to graze against the pavement, which is distinctly more relieving than to suffer new desire. Having walked too far, it was an accident to end up at the bar but ready for my second coffee and having packed a book I slid into the booth and picked up where Annie and I had left off in 'Getting Lost'. Numbering each time she mentioned her lover only desired her merely for her status as a writer, I laughed at the realisation she seemed aroused foremost by him as a young man in the Soviet Union. Does anyone really see anyone? Can we escape illusion and use? Of four people to my left, as usual, one louder voice in the mix stood apart. They began to speak about a poetry event and I tuned in unashamedly to interject in gain of a hookup. I scribbled the details in the margin, thanked them and we continued to colour our beads respectively. One intrusive thought, something to the affect of 'that's all?' but I don't know why. I checked the location of that library: 18 minutes walk. I brushed it off only to find myself on its street by accident and realised if I didn't go now, it was a deliberate avoidance and my day would still crystalise misty and indistinguishable. I wont spend a lot of time on this part, but the door was nondescript, I would've missed it if not for asking somebody trailing behind me. Inside was dim, packed with aged titles, musical instruments and well sectioned. Someone showed me around, offered then brewed me a green tea and as we spoke I realised I recognised him. He'd recognised me too, I'd come to him once inquiring about "anything cynical". Beyond welcome, but still restless I downed my tea quickly. Through cobbled alleyways I found myself magnetised to Old Bar and ordered a coke then sat out the back to read some more. A loud voice spoke "Hello, again!" and I'll admit fear struck me before recognition did; it was the poetry guy from earlier and his quieter friend. It was a relief when they settled in, then one said "Sorry if this is too forward, but would you like a Dexamphetamine?" I said no, surprising myself. Earlier wanting to feel part of something, the same stranger wills me into the fold and I say... no? He hadn't spooked me but I left without finishing my drink to heed the pressing sense it was time to move along. There's another thing I've been avoiding each Sunday for weeks and it was developing into deliberate avoidance. Surrender. I caught the tram home with acquaintances before separating, placed my book and bag on the kitchen bench then, intending to feed her dinner, realised my cat was gone and had been for hours. She romanticises outside while afraid of everything out there, I wasn't stressed. I was actually in a complete state of denial, shining torches under cars thinking it pointless, because I couldn't lose her. She can't disappear, or die, or be gone. I do not surrender. I walked down every nearby alley calling PENNY, YOU BITCH, and posted in the local group but as soon as the post was approved we found her waiting at the back door as if nothing had happened. My housemate held up my book and said "Dude".
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writingescapades · 1 year ago
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Lyney & Merlin 3
Merlin stretched her back. With every crack, she could feel her bones realign with her body clicking into place to form the human she was. Alone early in her office, these were the best moments of her day. They recently started morning services in addition to on call duties. Not everyone could make it to the clinic. Some just needed the comfort of a healer in their twilight years.
Merlin perused through her appointments. Sylvester was kind enough to create something of an appointment book and reminders for Merlin. It was something Merlin used to do herself, back when she had more expectations and more self respect if she was being honest. Creating a to do list when you were unemployed was the most dispiriting task because it confronted you with the obvious fact that you couldn’t avoid the tasks you hated most and put off. Once again, she had an appointment book. Sylvester must have adjusted to their new clinic.
A yowling sound came from above her desk. There was a small window, a flat rectangle usually allotted to basement rooms. Outside the window was a cat, an odd cat with a star and teardrop for eyes and fur that almost glowed? But of course, nothing was really odd for this world. If people could harness visions, surely a cat can have shapes for eyes. Merlin ignored the cat, thinking it would go away or to the food she left out, but the cat persisted. It mewed and scratched the window, incessantly demanding the young doctor’s attention. Finally, for some peace and quiet, Merlin cracked open the window. Dust fell on her table and in the midst of her sneezes, the cat slipped through and immediately curled onto her chair, the warmest spot in the room.
Anything else, your majesty? She thought, eyeing the cat. The cat just mewed once, as if to thank her, and slept. With no better reminder, Merlin made way for the door but not before leaving the window open and placing her scarf around the little mite.
...
“Have you seen him yet, Freminet?” Lyney called out to his younger brother? They had been searching throughout the theatre, home, and every known location Lyney usually did his shows, but no one had seen his cat. Rossland rarely ran off what with his vital role in Lyney’s shows. Yet today, the blasted cat dashed off, ruining Lyney’s plans to use in him tonight’s show.
“Perhaps, he’ll come back tomorrow? Maybe, if we left some food out?” Freminet’s hesitant response came. He was lifting dustbins for a quick glance, worrying over whether Rossland got himself stuck in a can, desperate to get out.
“We might have to wait till tomorrow,” Lyney signed and pressed his hat. It was nearing 5 pm and the show would start in two hours. He then noticed a small cluster of cats and realized they were near the clinic of the new doctor.
“I didn’t know a new clinic was here,” Freminet mentioned, walking towards Lyney. Then he too noticed the cats. Wordlessly, the brothers approached the clinic and entered.
Inside a calm quiet atmosphere welcomed them. A lady walked toward the door they just entered, turning back to thank “Dr. Levine and Nurse Sylvester”.
“Are you two here for an emergency?”
Recognizing the doctor walking up to the receptionist desk, Lyney placed the unfamiliar voice with Nurse Sylvester. He grinned.
“Hello Nurse Sylvester and Dr. Levine. Wonderful to meet your acquaintance! My brother and I are on a quest. You see, I seem to have lost my cat”.
Lyney observed the recognition in the doctor’s eyes and stared, encouragingly, at her.
“Describe your cat” the doctor flatly requested.
“Uh, well. Rossland has unique eyes. One eye is a star and the other,” Lyney pointed to his cheek, “is like my teardrop tattoo”.
The doctor nodded. “Just making sure you really are the owner”. She bade them to follow her and took them into her office. There, lounging about the table in a most regal way that becomes a cat who knows its claim over the world sat Rossland.
Lyney laughed. “It seems my cat has found himself a new home”. He took off his hat, and waited. But the said cat did not jump into his former home. Instead, the cat looked at the doctor as if he was waiting for her permission. The doctor gently patted the cat’s head, an act the cat leaped up and nuzzled his head into her hands. The act, caused Lyney to blush at the sudden intimacy. Since when did Rossland become familiar with just anyone?
“Time for you to go home,” the doctor gently said. The cat meowed and allowed the doctor to place him into the hat Lyney held out.
“You can come back anytime. The window’s always open,” the doctor told the cat. She looked up at the cat’s owner and smiled.
“Cute cat”.
Recovered from the previous moment, Lyney gave a dazzling smile. “Isn’t he?”
He insisted on repaying her for taking care of Rossland. A kindness to take in the cat when she had no obligation to. Such an act must be repaid.
“Really, it was nothing. And I can’t accept these tickets. I’m on call tonight,” the doctor protested.
“Very well,” Lyney said, placing his hat containing Rossland upon his head. A small tail appeared behind Lyney’s head, but otherwise the cat did not protest. “Then at the very least, allow me to know your name”.
“Dr. Levine. Dr. Merlin Levine, and this here is Sylvester”.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you two. My name is Lyney. Lyney the magician. Allow me to the first to welcome you to Fountaine”.
...
Rossland’s presence at the clinic became a regular sighting. Initially Lyney was embarrassed, but after a while he gave into the cat’s rambles. It even made good publicity for any upcoming shows. The cat was always present for practice and shows. He somehow had the ability to know when he wasn’t required. Soon, hanging out at the clinic became a regular habit for Lyney and his siblings.
Lyney noticed that some mornings Merlin was not there at the clinic. Instead Sylvester would handle the patients, most of which, Lyney observed, didn’t require a doctor’s diagnosis.
“She’s out making her rounds,” was Sylvester’s response when he noticed the magician’s curious face as he looked around for the doctor. Lyney didn’t know where the doctor went on her rounds, but he knew those were the days Rossland insisted on staying, often wrapped around her scarf. Lyney couldn’t understand his cat’s behaviour and found Sylvester’s hidden replies to the doctor’s whereabouts odd.
One day Lynette got a slight injury on her arm during practice. It was a small nick, but the blood wouldn’t stop and before Lynette could calm her brother down, Lyney found himself dashing off to the clinic. He would forever think about this one decision of his. They had access to plenty of physicians, yet here he was at the Ally Doctor, relying upon someone he barely knew.
“It’s a superficial cut. Nothing serious or infected,” the doctor said as she dressed Lynette’s wound. She gently dabbed antiseptic and placed a band-aide. “Once the bleeding stops and crust forms, remove the band-aide and let the skin breathe. It will heal faster. Try not scratch, otherwise it will bleed again. Come back if the bleeding doesn’t stop”.
Lynette nodded and thanked the doctor. Lyney watched as the doctor packed her stuff and headed towards the clinic door. She was leaving the clinic for her evening rounds when they bumped into her. She couldn’t make sense of Lyney’s rambles until Lynette showed her the injury, after which, the doctor went back into the clinic and dressed the wounds.
Once again Lyney found himself indebted to the doctor, a fact punctuated clearly with the appearance of Rossland as he strolled towards Lyney and jumped into his hands.
“You don’t need to keep thanking me,” Dr. Levine said. “I’m just doing my job”.
Still, Lyney insisted on repaying her and asked when she was free. Upon hearing the date, he promised to return with tickets for their next show.
...
As they walked back to the theatre, Lyney was aware of Lynette’s stare. He knew what she was thinking. What tickets was he planning to give when they did not have a show the day the doctor was free? What the twin was unaware of was that his sister was not staring at him so much as she was staring at Rossland.
“Rossland seems fond of Dr. Levine,” she said, starting the conversation.
It was a statement that contained a hundred questions and a thousand answers. Lyney was aware that whatever familiarity or trust he could claim upon the clinic or its doctor was based solely on Rossland. He was also aware that Lynette knew this. And yet.
“It’s a curious clinic,” was all he said
It was a curious clinic. Lyney had looked into the it. The clinic appeared six months ago, yet very few people knew about it. The clinic hand its handful of patients, but most seemed to not come to the clinic. The doctor was a trauma surgeon by training, yet they operated a general clinic. Almost nothing was known about her or her nurse, Sylvester, yet they had more heart than some of the other doctors Lyney knew. Most important of all, was the doctor’s response to his question of whether she liked his show.
“Lynette,” Lyney asked suddenly, “Do you think magicians should capture their audience’s attention or distract it?”
“A captured audience will look where you want them to look, hear what you want them to hear. A distracted one does not want to have their senses tampered with”.
Lyney nodded and fell into his own thoughts.
“Be careful Lyney,” Lynette cautioned.
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