#once again lamenting that I cannot draw

[waiting-on-a-dream]

My ocs all grown up! (NRC ocs edition)

Links: Slyvan, Iris/Violet, Wyn, Mahira, Zoya, Xenon

𝟏. 𝐒𝐥𝐲𝐯𝐚𝐧

Character development: He's become more outgoing now, but for the most part, his personality hasn't changed much.

Job: He mainly works as a gem appraiser, but also has a side gig where he brews potions and herbal medicines. (Basically he majored in gemology and minored in pharmacy.) He carries his amicable and diplomatic demeanor everywhere he goes, making him a beloved coworker as he is very pleasant to work with.

Address: He lives in his own little cottage in the Land of Pyroxene just by the outskirts of a rich city (potential market). He's got his own garden of herbs and vegetables in his front yard too. He makes sure to visit his home town every few months though!

𝟐. 𝐈𝐫𝐢𝐬

Character development: She still acts like she does now, just with a lot more brilliance and confidence. She believes she truly is free to pursue her own dreams now, lifting a heavy weight off of her shoulders and allowing her to express herself more genuinely.

Job: She successfully achieved her dream to become a fashion designer! Her launch into the fashion world was a smashing success! Thanks to the famous actor and model Vil Schoenheit wearing her debut piece "angel's wings" for the famous Spring Gala in the Rose Kingdom. She hasn't stopped serving stylish pieces ever since.

Address: She's always travelling due to her job, so she doesn't really have a set house to live in? She'll rent someone else's apartment or house before moving on to another country after a few months.

𝟑. 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭

Character development: She's less strict and imposing towards others now, though she still maintains lots of self-discipline. She's also more cheerful now due to the freedom of being able to travel about and learn new things. She's obviously a lot happier.

Job: Once she finally resolved things with her mom, she could admit to herself that she wanted to travel, to learn more of the surface world. So here she is now as a tour guide! She has had no problem doing museum, nature, and city tours in numerous countries and she's not stopping anytime soon. Researching information about the places she's been assigned to tour is no problem for her too, as every bit of info she learns is refreshing and fascinating to her.

Address: Like Iris, she's always travelling due to her job, so she usually rents someone else's apartment. If she ends up in the same city as Iris somehow, she'll try her best to move in with her sister. They won't be able to stay together for long with how often they're travelling, but she treasures those fleeting moments when she can.

𝟒. 𝐖𝐲𝐧

(Wyn dressed up for a ball as the heir to a noble family, and Wyn dressed up for a more laid back role as an actor. I thought they both looked good so here they are.)

Character development: He's more mature and capable of handling problems on his own now. The tragedy of growing up as a rich boy has taken a toll on him, despite his loved ones' efforts to shelter him from the cruel world, and he now makes sure to be more careful with who he trusts. Still, he carries an optimistic attitude with him wherever he goes. He can't change the past, so he'll focus on crafting a bright and colourful future for himself instead!

Job: He has his responsibilities as the heir to his noble family, of course. But his father is still in good health, so he's allowed to pursue acting as a (temporary) career. Dressing up, putting himself into the shoes of the character he's playing, working with other wonderful people... He's having the time of his life with acting.

Address: He continues to live in his family mansion in the Rose Kingdom for the most part, and isn't planning on leaving anytime soon. There are times when he has to stay in another country for a filming project, but only until the filming process is finished.

𝟓. 𝐌𝐚𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐚

Character development: Still the same old Mahira, teasing and enigmatic. He'll probably never change.

Job: He originally had an interest to become a spy, then decided that the consequences were too bothersome in the long term. So he chose to become Wyn's bodyguard instead. Wyn is the heir to a noble family and a moderately famous celebrity, he could use a trusted bodyguard to protect him. (Wyn protested at first, but agreed upon realizing Mahira was dead set on this.)

Address: As Wyn decided to stay put with his family in the Rose Kingdom, Mahira continues to stay in his own family estate as well. He follows Wyn wherever he goes, and that includes staying in another country for a few months during a filming project.

𝟔. 𝐙𝐨𝐲𝐚

Character development: She hasn't changed one bit.

Job: She's a famous Spelldrive player now~! She doesn't mind the daily training, and has lots of fun while facing down opponents in each match. Her army of fans can get too overwhelming sometimes though, and she's constantly looking for ways to hide from them. She does scheduled meet and greets for a reason!

Address: She goes back to her village whenever she gets a break long enough to actually go back home. Her childhood room remains untouched in her mom's house, saved just for her. The village kids have grown up now but still love to play sports with her. She'll even give them some tips and tricks for Spelldrive if she's in a good mood.

𝟕. 𝐗𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐧

Character development: It's hard to tell if he really has grown as a person or not. He's learned some lessons from his time at NRC, but his habits and view on life doesn't seem to have shifted a lot. He does have a more positive outlook for his future now though, so that must count for something. He looks forward to his next journey.

Job: He takes up on odd jobs here and there, wherever he may find himself. Being a server at a tiny tea shop, setting up a stall at a festival to give people tarot readings. All temporary of course. He doesn't stay for too long. 1-3 years at most.

Address: He travels often simply because he wants to, moving from country to country every few months. He wishes to travel the world before he leaves it, so that's exactly what he'll do.

[fujii-draws]

Regrets

Summary: As golden orbs of light brought an end to Dusknoir’s existence; he’s confronted with a thought. One he’d long been avoiding since the day he arrived in the world of the past, and came in contact with two young, small Pokémon. The same two he’d eventually come to grow fond of, only to betray as part of his mission. As he’s forced to finally confront it in his isolation, Dusknoir finds himself coming to an epiphany. One he’d been denying for a very, very long time.

[Word count: 2130]

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‘Aimilios... Ribbons...’ The ghost type melancholically lamented to himself. ‘They… did it….’

The black, paralyzed skies had begun to shift as the morning came. Rays of light hit the ghost type’s body; although numb, even he’d felt the warmth of the sun course through him. Time was finally moving again… and all Dusknoir could do was helplessly watch as his body faded; the light bringing an end to his existence.

Dusknoir cannot describe the emotions he’s feeling. Proud…? Accomplished…? Fearful….?

Damn it all. Arceus… if only he’d realized the mistake he was making. If only he’d defied Primal Dialga and had his change of heart sooner… perhaps those two would’ve still…. The three of them could’ve been-

No.

It’s over.

He ruined it.

…Dusknoir turns his head slowly, his gaze falling on to Grovyle; the reason he decided to go against Primal Dialga’s wishes in the first place. The reason he lived; for what would perhaps be the first time in ages… Had it not been for his speech back at the icicle pillars…Dusknoir doesn’t even want to think of the calamity that would’ve ensued. He continues to stare at the slowly disappearing grass-type, almost thoughtful.

“Grovyle…”

The grass-type’s eyes meet the black specter’s pained expression.

“My M-my life… Did it shine….?”

Dusknoir wanted to hear it from Grovyle. He wouldn’t feel satisfied, or even happy hearing it from himself. The ghost’s self-hatred was deep rooted enough as it was. Especially after all of what he had done. He needed a second opinion.

“…Yes.” The lizard Pokémon smiles, softly reassuring Dusknoir in what would be his final moments. “…Extraordinarily.”

…Dusknoir, despite not believing Grovyle, chooses to do so. Offering a small smile back at his old friend. “Grovyle… Thanks to you…..”

He pauses.

“…I have no regrets.”

…Dusknoir starts to feel himself slipping away completely; his physical form fading into illuminated lights in the sky as he draws his final breath… His death is almost comforting... At least- it would’ve been, had he made peace with his unspoken feelings… towards them. Even when he’s disappearing. Even when he’s dying…

He still couldn’t tell the truth.

One regret.

He had all but one.

…And now, he’ll never see them again. Never be able to tell them how sorry he was. Never be able to tell those two how much they meant to him… what they actually meant to him.

How foolish was he…? To get attached like this…? To care so much about their futures as well as his…? ..He couldn’t even admit how much they mattered to him in his final moments… Dusknoir grunts. really is just a liar, isn’t he? And that’s all the two will remember him for. Their scornful expressions when he’d laughed at their misery during their confrontation in the future. Their looks of betrayal. Tears rolled down the eevee and riolu’s faces as they unhinged their claws and teeth at Dusknoir. To think at the time, he found their reactions simply hysterical…

——————

“YOU LIAR..!”

“W-WE TRUSTED YOU..!”

“Pray tell… who’s fault is that?” Dusknoir sneered. “Not once had I asked for your background, or your names.”

Dusknoir began to float menacingly towards Aimilios. “Last I recall, you were responsible for your own partner’s downfall.”

“I-I….”

“LEAVE HIM ALONE…!!”

——————

…Now all he feels is a sharp pain stabbing through his chest recalling that horrible memory.

If there was a heaven or hell; the latter would be awaiting him right about now.

Speaking of…

Dusknoir opens his eye, attempting to browse his uncanny surroundings. What meets the ghost-type is… emptiness?

“…What on earth..?” His eye wanders down to his body.

…He appears in what looks like a pitch-black void. Dusknoir himself would’ve blended right in with the endless abyss had it not been for the yellow outlines distinguishing the features of his silhouette-like shadow… the same exact hue of yellow lights that’d been responsible for his disappearance moments ago… it’s almost as if he’d become a ghost all over again... He’d find the circumstances slightly amusing had it not been for his current dilemma. Dusknoir stares at his golden-laced hand, before contemplating something.

‘…Perhaps..’ Dusknoir thinks to himself. ‘Perhaps… it’s better this way…’ He knows it’s selfish. He knows he’s being a coward. But… now he doesn’t have to face Ribbons and Aimilios. He doesn’t have to look at those same faces that once revered him with such adoration; now fear, in the eyes… And yet… The thought of never seeing those two again… why does the thought bring him so much unnecessary pain? They were only means to an end to begin with- so why does he even CARE?!

“…GWOOH.. GWOOOOH..!!!” The ghost-type’s head begins to throb uncontrollably; Dusknoir clutches his head; nearly identical to how he did when breaking down in the midst of Grovyle’s speech. He clutches his temple harder in a feeble attempt to satiate the pain. Why couldn’t he just stop…? He’d tried so hard to detach himself from Ribbons and Aimilios once he realized who they were... Yet like a complete and utter fool; he stayed close. So close to an eevee and riolu he was ordered to execute. Why couldn’t he just forget about those two…? It would hurt so much less. They were means to an end to begin with- so WHY?!

“B-BLAST IT..!”

He slams both of his fists on the onyx colored ground beneath him in frustration. The yellow outlines of his body begin to glow violently as he draws heavy, shallow breaths.

…Dusknoir is suddenly plagued with a memory- of those two. He… remembers the eevee and riolu smiling widely; at him no less. It was… around the time when he’d referred to them as his ‘friends’. A mere front to gain their trust. Dusknoir recounts just how overjoyed they looked… and how that happiness made something in his chest hurt for a split second. He didn’t have to give them false hope. He didn’t have to play this ruse as far as he did… and yet. There was a small, foolish part of him that genuinely enjoyed it; and an even smaller part of him that knew he’d regret it.

————————

“You mean it?!” The riolu beamed. “You’ll really help us?!”

“But of course!” Dusknoir smiled, placing a hand on his chest. “I offer you two, my full cooperation!”

Dusknoir watched as the two Pokémon whip their heads towards eachother; almost trying to confirm the other’s disbelief. They look back at him; tails wagging rapidly in unison— before Ribbons excitedly jumps onto the ghost-type. Dusknoir nearly stumbles from just how sudden it was. Despite this, he catches her with his quick reflexes.

“Thank you thank you thank you!!!” Ribbons cheered. “You have no idea how much this means to us!”

Dusknoir recollected himself; before putting a hand on each of the overjoyous Pokémon’s heads.

“I’m… glad to hear. Truly.” A lie, obviously…but even he couldn’t help but smile a little at their shared enthusiasm.

“By golly..! Huff… huff…”

All three of the Pokémon had turned their heads to the out-of-breath Bidoof. Dusknoir immediately put Ribbons and Aimilios down; a slightly embarrassed blush crossing the ghost’s face as he brushed himself off coughing, returning to his more professional, stoic-like persona.

———————————

…He didn’t have to play with their emotions. He could’ve just as easily stayed acquaintances- kept his distance- but no. He just had to enjoy spending time with them. He had to get closer to them. He had to remember their favorite foods. To enjoy laughing with them until his stomach became sore, protecting them, watching over them, loving them as if they were…

Were…

…Dusknoir can’t help but hold his hand under his eye. He… he really did care those two... As if they were his own… his own…

“….Hoh…”

His train of thought comes to a complete halt. The idea of those two? Seeing him that way? After what he had done? After the horrible things he’s said…?

“Ho..Hohohaha..! HOHOHOHA-HA-HA-HA!”

His laughter becomes more and more erratic; holding one hand under his eye as the other grips his head- his cackles echoing into the never ending void.

“HAH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahaa…!“

Dusknoir’s broken laughter echoes throughout the void; until there’s nothing left but silence. Both of Dusknoir’s hands now cover his face as he crumbles to the ground. A shell of what was once the ‘Great Dusknoir’… was nothing more but the husk of a broken ghost. Too selfish and weak to do the right thing; and stand by the only two Pokémon who were willing to trust him with their lives… He wishes the endless abyss he was in would just swallow him already.

“Aimilios…Ribbons…” Dusknoir’s voice cracks; calling out for the ones he’d hurt.

…They deserved so much better than him. He didn’t deserve them. And to think in the beginning, they’d been the ones who were trying to prove themselves to be worthy of him... When it’d been the other way around this entire time. How ironic.

How absolutely ironic.

…Which reminds him-

“Ribbons…!” His head shoots up in a panic; his eye filled with worry.

She had already disappeared at this point, didn’t she..? In front of Aimilios no less..? He can’t even begin to fathom how horrible it must’ve been for both of them… at such young ages… maybe if he’d assisted them on their perilous journey to Temporal Tower…. he could’ve been there to remedy the weight of their situation… but of course instead, he used it in a pathetic attempt to beg for his life. Dumping everything onto Ribbons in a last ditch effort to save his own ghostly skin… in the small desperate hope she’d finally understand why he…

…Selfish.

So selfish.

Of course his train of thought immediately went straight back to him. He can’t think about anyone’s wellbeing except for his own. His ‘self preservation’. His ‘life’. Nevermind all of the Pokémon he was going to deny the futures of. He was at risk. So they all had to pay for it. Because of his cowardice.

This was his atonement.

He deserved this.

Dusknoir closes his eye. Maybe in his next life he’ll be a decent Pokémon. One worthy of respect. Of adoration.

Of love.

.

.

.

“Gah...”

Dusknoir groans. Why does it feel so cold all of a sudden..?

Wait.. cold?

He sees… ice… and feels… wind?

‘…What..?’

He slowly gets up; using his hands to suspend himself in the air. He looks around- only to see himself back.

Back on the mountain.

He stares at his hands for an indeterminate amount of time before they begin to tremble. His expression contorted into one of self-loathing and confusion.

“W-we’re still here…” His fingers curl into fists.

“I didn’t disappear…! Wh-Why?!”

Dusknoir shouts; almost disgusted by the fact he was revived- rather than questioning how it was even possible in the first place. No. He doesn’t- He shouldn’t be here. It must’ve been some kind of mistake… That’s it. There’s no other logical explanation for why he should be still here. Perhaps the higher being that brought him back into this world will immediately realize their error, and make swift work of him.

“We… we truly are still here…” Grovyle lamented, breathing a sigh of what would be an overwhelming rush relief. Celebi begins to flutter her wings happily around the grass-type.

“Wonderful!! I don’t know why we were fading and didn’t disappear…” She twirls, overjoyous now having gained all her strength back. “…But everyone is safe!! Oh my beloved..! Isn’t this just an amazing wonderful thing?!”

Grovyle chuckles heartedly. “It is.”

Unfortunately among the three; the ghost type was not experiencing the same joy as the grass type pokemon. Dusknoir had been drowning out half of their words of cheer and relief with thoughts of contempt. Self-depricational thoughts clouded the ghost-type’s mind as he kept searching for logical answers for his revival… Everyone else made sense. But why him of all Pokémon..?!

“Why..? Wh-Why me..?” Dusknoir whispered to himself dejectedly; mirroring his words from when his Sableye ‘betrayed’ him.

The only difference being how genuine it was.

Pr- Dialga had appeared to explain the whole situation to the trio. Once that had been done, Grovyle, and Celebi walked and flew individually near the edge of the mountain to feel the sun on their skins; their accomplishments finally having been paid off, soaking in the sun…

……Dusknoir, however; had stayed in the exact spot he’d been revived. His thoughts plagued him. This was not his victory. This was not for him to enjoy. What was he to do now..? Live his life as if nothing happened..? As if he didn’t hurt countless Pokémon..? Guilt had almost immediately begun to eat away at the ghost-type. He looks down at his hands one last time... Perhaps death would’ve been too good for a despicable Pokémon such as himself. The torment of being alive, and living with what he had done seemed like a fitting and ironic enough punishment… but that wasn’t what truly scared him.

Far from it, in fact.

Without a doubt in Dusknoir’s mind; Grovyle and Celebi would want to return back to the past… perhaps not this very instant; but at a given point. And when that time finally arrives…

Dusknoir stares at the Passage of Time facing him. Almost mocking him.

…He’d have to face them.

“…” Dusknoir clenches his fists tightly; his brow furrowing.

…The mere thought of confronting those two again- No no no no no. He- he should have disappeared. Death would’ve been a mercy. He can’t face them- not again. Looking at the same two children he tried to slaughter with his bare hands mere hours ago face-to-face..? Dusknoir’s fists tremble as his terror consumes him. What would they say..? Let alone think..? They’d run at the mere sight of him. He…

He doesn’t want to scare them.

He doesn’t want to hurt them.

He..

…Now he has something else to be afraid of.

[searchingforserendipity25]

Brainstorming on the Maglor = Lindir concept for @funwithfanon and here’s a list of different takes, in no particular order:

Lindir does not exist. It’s more of a temporary, honorary rank, a job description - anyone can be the Lindir of Rivendell if their application is accepted. Duties include diplomacy, welcoming guests, playing the harp, singing beautifully, babysitting and being able to remember all the Dúnedain’s names. The usual contract goes for fifteen summers, which is much less than the regular yéni. Whatever you do, do not ask why Lord Elrond is very particular about having an open call for minstrels going on regularly. The Lindor of the book events is just some guy who is here for the steady pay to save up for a fancy dowry to take on his Ship to Valinor. It’s not that he has a sweetheart or anything, but he fully intends to nab himself a hot, rich, and influential Calaquendi once he gets to the West, and Elrond’s court is a good place to practice. I, for one, respect Lindir’s hustle. 

The same, but the current Lindir is Maglor. This is never discussed. If you recognize him, no you don’t. He shows up for the fifteen years, and then goes away, and then comes back. It’s fine. They don’t talk about it. It’s definitely fine! The job interviews have gone from dramatic to downright farcical. Neither of them is willing to be the first one to crack. The first time, Elrond gets to ask for a portfolio and watch Maglor draw a blank on anything that isn't a lament. By the fourth time, he has a long repertoire of new works inspired by Imladris ready, all dedicated to its gracious and most generous lord. They come up with ridiculously complicated linguistic crossword games and then swap them to play over morning tea. Again, I cannot overstate how much they do not Talk About It. 

Lindir is of the Falathrim of Sirion and he will fight you if you ask whether he’s secretly Maglor Fëanorian. He will hit you with his gigantic gold-and-ivory harp and you will deserve it.

Lindir is Maglor. Ish. Maglor-ghost. Maglor's remaint. If you look at him too hard the edges of him start to blur, like an old crosshatching drawing left to blur in the sun for too long. The shadow he casts upon the wall rests over his shoulders like a cloak. He is also rather misty. Somewhere by the sea, a body has been eaten by the fish, but the fëa wandered far inland and found refuge in the valley where all those in pain are made welcome. One day Elrond woke to a faint song. He followed it through the stairs of his house until he found - the smouldering embers in Hall of Fire stirring, and a darker darkness singing. Lindir has been part of the household ever since.

Lindir is Daeron. He loves the line of Lúthien more than all things, except for the Lady Celebrían, who was the one who found him, once, by the still dark waters of the North, and brought him home to the valley where the guards sing nonsense and the air in the twilit starlight smells nothing at all and very much like Melian’s kingdom in the days before the Sun and the Moon.

Maglor did not defend himself, whenever anyone found him wandering by the sea Maglor never defended himself, with words or Song, steel or harp. Not from wolves, or orcs, brigands or avengers, from the wrathful sea or the elements. Varda's Hallowing had scorched him through, a maddening and encompassing pain, the sort of continuous justice that left very little space for anything that was not regret. He could not defend himself from it, or the absolute, star-bright knowledge that its horror and ugliness should not and could not be denied. By the time he came again among the elves, there was very little left to recognize him by. He was so plainly beyond the ability to do harm - getting him in custody was less a matter of containing him than making certain no one went and killed him. It is imprisonment, in the sense that he’s in custody. There will be no Kinslayings or executions in Imladris (Glorfindel's passionate defence of Turgon's precedent aside), and even if it were allowed - no one could put him on trial presently. Elf parole gets invented eventually, after he is in the healing halls for half an Age, and slowly readjusts to society again. Much has his countenance changed, in grief and pain, and from wounds besides; few people recognize him outright. It takes him a long, long time before he touches a harp again, and longer still before he can be certain enough of himself to sing before an audience. 

You would not have caught Maglor Fëanorian admitting he could not identify a poem’s authorial contributions, be he dead or damned or deranged. Luckily, local musical prodigy Lindir, born and bred in Imladris, does not have weird First Age perfectionist hang-ups. Elrond’s students all have a perfectly non-traumatic apprenticeship and are very well-adjusted, thank you very much.

Lindir is a nightingale Arwen accidentally turned into an elf. Listen, it's a thing, it happens with Peredhel sometimes. He’s - adjusting. Focused on playing the harp to develop finger coordination and ended up enjoying it a great deal, after the first challenging yéni (Fingers! Tiny bony bits! What a notion. Lindir misses his beak sometimes). He does still trill sometimes; his old friends answer him during their afternoon songs, it is quite a sight. Mortals are very strange and they have the bad habit of dying fairly often just when he’s started to recognize them, but he likes the way the scruffy one makes his lady smile so he does not chirp in with comments on his poetry. Not many comments, anyway. 

They take his harp away, at first. Glorfindel, who had seen him in battle, wanted anted a geas of silence. But that would be a waste, in its way. His voice is bound to the valley instead, to the protection of it, and the working of its purpose as a place of safety and succour. Eternal servitude to the line of Earendil is not, objectively, the worst punishment that could befall the last Kinslayer. If Elrond is not entirely easy with having him in Imladris, neither is he able to countenance the idea that he might go free, and unaccounted for. The might in him goes away from his mouth, and beyond his mastery. He sings, sometimes, when it is for the benefit of the valley.  That he must be of use is a just demand, and a kinder end than exile. A grace, in its way - and it is not as if he has any reason or right to have any wish in his heart that is not to serve the line of Elwing. It is not, Maglor knows well, the cruellest captivity a soul has ever suffered. He can even speak, if he wishes; and in time, among the long Ages, he does gather enough nerve to ask leave to sing in the Hall of Fire in company, on those moonless nights when he is not needed to sing enchantments of protection. A minstrel can have many duties, after all. There are many ways to serve, in small and deedless fashion, without doing any harm. Pity is not torment, for all it is difficult to withstand, and difficult the making of a gift rich enough to answer it. Well, and he is an excellent minstrel; that much he can offer still, and he does it willingly. They call him Lindir, and that is fair, as well - it is only that Lindir does not and must not and cannot sing laments.

Maglor the Kinslayer is the minstrel Lindir. Everyone knows this. It's not clear whether Lindir, who cries when the cooks behead the hen and hums to the horses and loathes the silver sound of a drawn sword, does know this. 

[jokerlennon]

chess the musical through (vaguely) the lens of mass media and fame and the mismatch and unclear lines between image and real life person. im listening to the concept album but referencing other versions bc #whatever

the citizens of merano trying to sell their little town, delighted by the publicity

the American shows up - already he is referred to without name in the concept album, his identity as a person irrelevant compared to his nationality, his role in the great game - to an adoring crowd.

even when he is not in front of the eyes of the world, he is concerned with his image above all: the first time we see him in private, he reads news about himself. the ego is not an act.

he gives an interview. we learn about his negative press, his tactic of being controversial to stay relevant. how much of it is real? can he even tell?

like the rest of the world, molokov thinks he's mad. the Russian does not. he calls it "third-rate propaganda". he is anxious to reinforce himself as a person and not a symbol of a country, singing about his personal experiences and struggles with being famous. ("times have been good, fast, entertaining. but what's the point if i'm concealing not only love, all other feeling?")

the opening ceremony is our next look at chess through mass media: a long, creative history of cheating, as well as the reinforcement of the idea that this is a match for the ages: the men are no longer merely players, but the two sides on a small-scale proxy war. "we don't want the whole world saying they can't even win a game" etcetera. another opportunity for merchandising cannot be passed up, consumerism swallowing up even the most ancient and intellectual of sports. finally, another feeble insistence that this is just a game.

finally, the game! accusations of cheating fly around from the American - who, as we later find out in some versions, was faking outrage to give himself time to think, playing on the preconceived notions at play that a) chess players cheat b) he is prone to drama (c) the ussr is less trustworthy than the usa?)

in "quartet", even the Russian refers to the American as a nut/fruit, realising that perhaps the media was right for once. as they attempt to calm the tensions the characters all lament that such a game has become a "battleground for rival ideologies to slug it out with glee", all but abandoning the pretenses they keep up in front of the cameras in the name of international cooperation.

"mountain duet" is about Florence and the Russian realising that the other is more than what the media and their preconceptions have made them out to be, that they have more in common than they thought.

"florence quits" shows that the American hasn't always been quite this awful.

when the Russian defects, he is swarmed by reporters. Walter laughs and says "Welcome to the West." anthem shows his complex feelings about his country, which cannot simply be summed up by "defector". the embassy workers think it "boring".

apart from playing into contemporary western perceptions of the city, "one night in bangkok" showcases the American's new image: unaffected, cool, and defected to the side of the many-headed media monster.

i need to put this here somewhere i think. walter as the reporter who is secretly a cia agent

"the interview": the American is well and truly a reporter now, asking similar barbed questions as the unnamed reporters asked him early in the show, but with a more personalised flair. this interview is, too, a spectacle: former opponents on camera together again for the first time in a year. a bizarre reunion, indeed, but one that will draw crowds to Global TV's broadcast. "what's your true motivation?" the American has always been in control of his own narrative more than the Russian, but now he is exerting control over the Russian's image as well. "I won't discuss my private life in public," the Russian says, but as we will soon see, "it's the lead on the news".

Florence and the Russian's relationship is publicised entirely, and while Florence desperately wants him to acknowledge it, his tactic is to ignore it until he's secured the win - an unbreachable rift starts to open between them. he suggests she "watch TV, read the paper, have the miserable time of [her] life" - showcasing how important mass communication has become in the daily life of an average person by the 1980s.

labels get thrown around - communist, democrat, refugee, total shit, silly boy, woman he should have not have let walk out. partner. the truth in any of these varies - they aren't complete hogwash, but they are the same simplifications that have appeared in the media.

"pity the child" gives us some insight into the American's character, and how he came to be like this - a lonely childhood turning into desperate thirst for approval and fame. and yet he doesn't dare seek his mother's approval even now, when he lives his life on television.

miscellaneous highlights of endgame: "prostituting themselves chasing a spurious starlight" "[the sirens of fame and possessions] will destroy you, not rivals, not age, not success" "they all think they see a man [...] whose private life caused his decline, wrecked his grand design"

i don't even know what else to add to this one. just

[marvelmaniac715]

I have recently begun studying the Aeneid at college, and we have just finished reading about Dido and her death. I can’t quite explain it, but I felt an overwhelming sadness and rage at her death. I have never felt such female rage before, but something in my heart cries out for my fallen sister, even if she’s fictional, doomed by the narrative from her first appearance. I wrote this poem to express my feelings, it’s not my best work and it doesn’t rhyme, but I just had to share how I felt about poor, doomed Dido, the Queen of Carthage:

Oh Dido, most unhappy of women!

Subjected to loss, time and time again

A brother through treachery, a husband through death

Then your heart itself through false love

Venus and her cruel, taunting sons destroyed you

Tore you apart until you were nothing

Scraps of meat for the lions to feast upon

And oh, how the gods feasted upon you

You died by Aeneas’ sword, his belongings in ashes beneath you

His love killed you in all the ways a person can be killed

But, in truth, no gods, no forced love, truly doomed you

It was we, who clamoured for stories

Who clamoured for art, and music, and sculptures

Mostly made by men who could not comprehend your grief

To them, a woman’s heart, and the way it breaks, is a source of amusement

Virgil was the one who doomed you first, your epithet sealed your death sentence

“Doomed Dido” - he never gave you a chance

It was mankind who made the gods, and the stories of old

Aphrodite became Venus, but lost none of her cruelty

Once folklore is written, it’ll rarely change

We know Pandora will open the box

We know Eve and Snow White will eat the apple

We know Orpheus will damn Eurydice by looking back

And we know you will die, struck fatally by Cupid’s arrow

To those who know your myth, they’ll think firstly of your death

Of a shining steel sword plunging into your vulnerable, exposed chest

There is little art that depicts you in your prime

Standing tall, sitting proudly upon your mighty throne, in a city you built through your blood and sweat alone

No, we see you upon your funeral pyre, eyes raised heavenwards

We think “poor, wretched Dido” - is that how we should view a Queen?

In 1666, the closest mankind could get to understanding you was a lament

A soprano dons your regal clothes and sings

“Remember me, but ah! forget my fate”

We have denied your request, all of us

You are doomed anew every time someone reads your story

Laid upon your pyre like a sacrificial lamb to slaughter

Yet another corpse for the gods to draw their power from

I do not see your story as a tragic love

I do not support Aeneas

Perhaps I did, before I knew you

Before I knew the force for good you were

Before I knew your grief, your fallen husband, the sacrifices you made to build Carthage

Before the man you were forced against your will to love sailed away for good

Now I see a monster, who knew what he was doing

He is no Odysseus, he is no Orpheus, though both men have their faults

He is the conceited, self-important child of a god

‘Founder of Rome’ indeed

I weep for you, Dido

Virgil gave you such power, such strength, then he tore it away

You had nothing at the end, you were led to your doom like a puppet on strings

Even this poem goes against your final wish

I cannot mention you without your tragic death before your time

I beg you, please forgive me, my Queen

You have always been so much more than a victim

[moldwood]

once again lamenting how much money it costs to go to college. i want to go soooo bad but i absolutely cannot get $50,000 in debt with my parents being as old as they are. so instead i will do what anybody must in this world to get by and draw anime boobs

[dappledpaintbrush]

Are you the one who wrote 'A Jester's Lament'?

What inspired you to write it? (41 chapters!)

Oh no no no, I’d HATE to be that weirdo who wrote 400 pages worth of mario fanfiction! haughty laughter is then interrupted by 500 drawings of Lament Dimentio falling out of my pocket

Tbh what inspired me was. Myself? Weirdly enough? I mean of course SPM being my biggest interest was absolutely part of the reason why it’s so long and why I wrote it to begin with. But what specifically sparked the story of AJL was the fact there was an extremely specific type of Dimentio redemption story I was looking for. Of course, I’m not saying AJL is the first of its kind or something because it most definitely is not lmao😭😭 But there were just some things I preferred in an AU that tries to redeem Dimentio, and after searching for a while for, again, that extremely specific story, I thought, “DUDE JUST MAKE IT YOURSELF💀💀💀💀” and so I did. And a lot of people just ???? happened to like it??? :

Even though story length was one of my specific wants, I highly doubt I could’ve completed 41 chapters without the immense support I received. I genuinely cannot thank you guys enough. Seriously, if you like a fic, I highly highly reccomend commenting. You have no idea how much that means to writers 🤍

I’m putting this under a read more so I don’t clog people’s feed, but if anybody’s curious, some of my specific wants were:

- Length. I needed this fic to be almost unbearably long. I needed people to say GODDD DAAMMMNN when they looked at the word count.

- Dimentio somehow getting more unredeemable before he got redeemed (idk if I fully accomplished that, but I tried) (it’s hard to get worse than the complete annihilation of life) (I just tried not to purposefully write him in a likable way early on in the story)

- Dimentio dying the same amount of times he killed Luigi in the game

- Dimentio in general getting shit absolutely rocked

- Luigi not being a doormat, ESPECIALLY SINCE DIMENTIO ABUSED HIM

- DIMENTIO. BEING. IN. CHARACTER. THIS IS NOT JUST SOME SILLY GOOFY CLOWN!!! HE IS EVIL!!! HE TRIED TO KILL EVERY SINGLE ENTITY THAT HAS EVER EXISTED, DEAD AND ALIVE. HE IS SUPPOSED TO BE TERRIFYING AND SCARY!!! yes he’s naturally charming, write him as such, BUT NEVER FORGET THE THREAT HE IS!!!!

- Dimentio having a backstory that’s emo enough to explain the person he became but not emo enough to be his main source of redemption via pity if that makes sense. I think I achieved this? But of course that’s subjective, and looking back there were better ways to go about it. Basically what I tried to do is give him a good childhood with loving parents- minus the “accident” of course- and have Dimentio himself clarify in Chapter 15:

Basically: the loss of his family and the shit he went through definitely played a role. However, instead of a Blumiere-like “My loved one(s) died, now all worlds are without meaning and deserve to be destroyed,” Dimentio’s grief triggered a very deadly greed that did not revolve around the ones he lost. Blumiere’s motivation for destruction, including himself, was purely the loss of Timpani. Dimentio’s motivation for destruction, excluding himself, was, well, himself. For once, Dimentio wanted to earn, not lose. Making Dimentio have an understandable backstory but be “less sympathetic” than his counterpart, Blumiere, was important to me during the creation of AJL. But this gets extremely complicated because something like hmm uh idk erm MASS MURDER is impossible to truly make sympathetic. Regardless of intention, Dimentio and Blumiere did the exact same thing. Regardless of intention, Dimentio and Blumiere were both selfish. You can’t exactly destroy life itself in a non-selfish way. Both characters are equally unredeemable (or… equally redeemable, technically). Strip their actions down for their bones, and all you’ll see is two characters that tried to ERASE EXISTENCE. Sure, you can FEEL more sympathy for one than compared to the other, but feelings are subjective. Facts are objective. And the fact is, Dimentio and Blumiere attempted mass murder. You see why this is difficult to explain and even more difficult to write? I have a headache. God speed everybody

- More shit I’m probably forgetting

- Picture of a cat I found

[socrites]

The Man and the Tree

Each step on the green blades was a violation that could not be stopped, each time the grass was crushed, it would remain flattened, the only protest and pain it could express.

The strange footprints trailed on in the morning dew, the dark figure intent on the destination. The path followed had been traveled many times before, marked by how the grass lay dead, devoid of any meaning save its singular function. The black shoes traversed on, disregarding the insignificant plants, sticks, and bugs killed with each step.

Eventually, the Man stopped at a tree, the tree that wept and wept, though the Man always mistook such weeping for tears of joy at his arrival. He got close to the tree, laying his hand on the gnarled bark and closing his eyes, attempting his own version of some sort of ritual to awaken the tree. At last, the hand was removed and the eyes opened, then the mouth would follow, emitting a deranged, fanatical tongue.

"Ah tree, good it is to see you again! I normally wait until our usual days to converse, but the news I had to bring!"

The Man didn't wait for any sort of response, he never did. Whatever reply the tree could give was no more than what the tears of a broken child could offer, but the Man didn't care, determined to share with the tree.

"It is of a Woman, oh how fair is she, how kind her skin, how soft her words! I know not of her name nor person, but it shall be my mission to discover where such suppleness lives. I will be with her if it's the last thing I do, and every second of my life shall now be dedicated to learning more about her in some way. The scent of her soul, the shapeliness of her hair, I simply must possess such perfection."

"Well off I go, I'll make sure to update you on every step of my journey!"

He sauntered off, not bothering to look at the relief that was blowing in the leaves of the tree, nor how it continuously wept its very existence pain. The form of the man grew darker and darker, until it was nothing but a speck of black in a bright world, and the tree still wept.

This was not the first time the Man had stolen his visit with the tree, and it would not be his last, for there would be many updates to give the tree. Sometimes the Man would appear to the tree winded as if he had just escaped being caught. Other times he would bring items, such as the undergarments of a female while being covered in the blood of a dog, a knife dipped in red ink on his hip.

The tree would be made aware of his many adventures, the innocent beauty of the Woman being recounted. On some days he would arrive in a flurry of anger, cursing the child-like nature of the Woman, questioning why he was the one who was broken. The truth is that one cannot be broken when one is never made with purpose. He would threaten all forms of punishment upon her, though every time the leaves swayed in the wind the Man would pause, drinking in the soothing nature of the tree, unaware that this was simply the breaths one draws so that they may cry harder.

In one particular instance, the Man returned in a rage unseen before, yet worse than all his previous outbursts, as he was quiet now, calm as a lion killing cubs.

Every step seemed deliberate, designed to hurt the grass as much as possible, twisting each foot like how the knife twists into the bark. A hand reached out to the tree, however instead of attempting to commune, it spread its fingers, so that the gashes may be felt, the vulnerable flesh of the tree revealed.

Upon feeling these wounds the Man smiled, before raising his knife and frowning at the bluntness, no doubt lamenting how the ability to cut skin has been diminished.

His hand was extended once more, repeating the same ritual that had been performed thousands of times before, or perhaps only dozens. The noise that was spat from his mouth was as tasteful as vinegar, yet it still attracted flies to his position.

"Oh tree, wise has your council been, but useless is it's worth. I have only suffered under this endeavor, with none to care for me. Every attempt to draw closer to the Woman has only been met with pain, tears, then silence. She confuses me, for how can one as sharp as her not realize the devotion of her lover? My infatuation with her grows every day, but so too does my rage, as she does not reciprocate these feelings."

"Just the other day I left several rats inside her home to make up for the pet she had lost, yet all she did was scream and attempt to kill them. Seeing that this was what she desired, I followed suit, killing many rats, and gifting her with the corpses. Still, this had only upset her, causing her to retreat into herself, and to seek shelter from others. Foreign eyes guarded her house, making it difficult to enter her premises."

While these words were uttered, the Man took to his pocket, grasping and clawing for the accursed objects.

"These eyes to be precise," He stated, as he displayed them with the pride a cultist shows their demon.

"How dare she allow any other man that's not blood to look upon her," he hissed, "this is an insult not only to me but also to her character, to tempt the evils of this plane by making a show of force. I am the only protection she needs, and I alone will be the sole evil who is tempted by her. No other vile creature may step forth and cause her to despair, for she is mine, and so too is her fear."

As he announced this he hurled the eyes into a bush nearby, where they would be consumed by the inferno that lightning incites. The tree, as every time, simply wept, for it was alone in a world of wickedness, and every second weeping was one less second exposing itself to it.

Time passed by longer than the tree expected, and it was uncertain as to whether the days grew more numerous or time itself was stretched. Slowly, onwards nature pushed, with animals dying, carcasses rotting, and the Man nowhere to be seen, to the surprise and satisfaction of all.

Silence is the anguished cry of the depraved, for they have fallen so low that any noise made is inaudible to a sane person's ears. There is no such thing as crazy, simply misinformed, as truth and lies are so intertwined that it's impossible to tell where one starts and the other ends. To live is to experience, to choose, to lose, and to die. Life is only discernable by its contemporary death, should no one die, then life would be defined under a different pseudonym, Every second that passes reminds the living that death isn't the future, but the past, as each person lives a million deaths before their time.

The tree knew all this, yet it still grieved, grieving for the dead, and for its own selfishness of wanting to save the dying. Any and all acts of good are done out of greed, making the world better, giving to the poor, and keeping loved ones alive, the final benefactor of these actions is oneself. A person wants a better world so they may live more comfortably, helping others satisfies a self-image, elongating the lives of loved ones so that the pain of their passing won't be felt.

Every and any act is selfish, and so the tree wept, for it knew and it knew.

The Man would arrive in a rush, clothes torn, hair matted, holes formed in the fabrics from .30 caliber bullets, shot by weapons from a war long past.

Not a scratch was on the Man, and his breath was smooth, his knife scarlet. It was fed with the blood of a bystander, and flecks of skin still clung to the edge.

The man performed his rite with the tree, then spoke quickly.

"Dam it all! Another wasted campaign, nothing learned! I knew when I acted, and knew not of the act, only feeling my appetite push me."

The rain had followed the Man, and the drops could be seen falling off the coats and barrels of men at the bottom of the hill.

Time was precious.

"These fiends and their codes, my liberation was their heaven, if they had just allowed me to work, then they would've never had to again!"

The people marched on, bending the grass in a way the Man could never have known, and although pained, the grass bent with respect, grateful to be avenged.

Seething, the Man stared at the justice that would be delivered by the brutes, taking a moment to spit in their direction, instantly killing all organisms that connected with the fluid. His hands, originally grasping the tree, raised to the sky, as a declaration of surrender, or a proclamation of power, the tree didn't know.

The horde grew closer, intent on inflicting as much physical torment as possible on the Man, for they had brought all manner of weapons, each blade blunted and rusty.

Increasingly frantic, the Man climbed the tree, reaching the top branches quickly, the wind and rain causing the tree to cry harder than ever.

The Man muttered how this wasn't fair, that they were dooming themselves to an eternity of torment, that only through him could they be freed.

As the crowd began to reach the top of the hill, a brilliant arc of gold swept across the celestial body above, a flash of pure divinity shooting down upon the Man, striking his head, and engulfing the tree.

The flames that erupted from the Man's neck were sacred, dissolving the body of the pig into a liquid that would evaporate into the night's solace. The tree that wept would rejoice, for finally it had been cleansed, the fire soon spread to the bush nearby, turning it and everything within to ash.

Shocked, the villagers stared in silence, unsure of what to make of this glorious display. Soon, as the blaze died down, they departed, leaving to sleep in their meaningless beds, never to recall this experience again.

The tree, although blackened, would smile, charred and reborn, as the rain would wash the soot away, and the wind would carry the sins of the Man to land away, and the tree would begin to weep for joy.

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

As Astarion crests the top of the steps, his senses become wholly focused on her. His eyes scan the deck as he takes calculated steps, his body knowing where to find her. A thread tugging him down the right path. 

When he draws nearer to her hiding place, he swallows hard at the sight of Tara snuggled in her arms. Gods, the gentleness of this woman – he’d been too careless. Too cold, all because of a warped sense of pride muddled by his insecurity. His fear of inferiority, he laments to admit. 

Out of cruel habit, Astarion turns to scan the surface of the water beyond the main deck, warily searching for wine and soot colored sails. Even if they were just barely visible over the horizon, it’d be too close. 

The open air suddenly feels stuffy. He eyes the passing crew members, so many faces he doesn’t recognize. So many who could betray him as easily as the last had, with the right encouragement from his enemies. 

Enemies – no. He’d picked up adversaries and rivals over his time hopping from sea to port and back to the sea, but Astarion had only had one true enemy. 

Captain Cazador Szarr. 

He shudders at the memory of Captain Szarr’s cruelty the last time Astarion had been aboard the Rhapsody. 

He cannot get captured again. 

Doe’s gentle cooing to the navigator’s tressym pulls him from the memories; eases the racing of his heart, reminds him that the expanse around them is free of enemy sails. His eyes dart to where she sits, and his jaw tightens at her tear-stained cheeks. He did this to her. Gods, why had he done this to her? 

Astarion approaches, sure-footed at first but slowing. Would Doe even speak to him? He’d mulled over his apology on his way up, but now none of the words felt right. 

He couldn’t lose her. 

He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t. 

And yet, he already had. “Doe,” he says softly, stopping a respectable distance away. If she wanted him to go, he would go; his cruelty had been unjustified, and he’d deserve whatever she had to throw at him. He’d weather the consequences and hope that whatever he’d felt between them when Doe had first planted a kiss to his lips would still be there, still standing among the wreckage. “I must first and foremost apologize formally to you for my behavior in the navigator’s quarters. I was unfair to you, especially considering you saved me from a rather gruesome fate.” He pauses, the guilt wracking through him as Doe refuses to glance his way. “If I may be quite frank with you – I owe you my life. I’m sorry.”

—A

She sniffles, feeling bad for him but also keeping cool distance between them. She hugs the tressym closer and she purrs, curling around her shoulders with her head under her chin.

'You should be sorry,' she says quietly, staring at a cleat with its figure 8 knot, made by her own hand. 'You were reckless and stupid and mean, when all I've been is sweet to you.' She glances up at him then, her eyes filling with fresh tears. Her face is already blotchy and sore, her nose and eyes red. 'How dare you insinuate that I want special treatment? That I want to share your bed, more to the point. I'm not a whore.' She sniffs hard. 'And I would never want to be put above anyone else. I don't deserve it.'

She can't harden her heart to this man, no matter how much she wants to. Her heart aches for his guilt and sadness. And yet she must have a boundary.

'I'll spend the night in the brig if you deem it prudent, captain,' she says. There is a formality and a distance to her words. 'If my insolence is too much to bear. But I might have loved you, if you'd let me.'

She rises to her feet. 'If you would excuse me, I need to return this beautiful girl to your navigator. I'll return to my duties once our meeting is concluded.'

With that, she gathers the tressym to her and walks off to the navigator's quarters, trying not to weep and failing, tears coursing into the tressym's feathers.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Woe to the City of David

1 Woe to Ariel, to Ariel, the city where David lived! Add year to year, observe your feasts on schedule. 2 Yet I will distress Ariel, and she shall be a city of lamenting and sorrow, and she shall be as an Ariel to me. 3 I will encamp against you all around, and will lay siege against you with a mound, and I will raise forts against you. 4 You shall be brought down, and shall speak from the ground, and from the dust where you are prostrate your speech shall come; your voice shall also be as that of a ghost from the ground; and your speech shall whisper from the dust.

5 Moreover the multitude of your enemies shall become like fine dust, and the multitude of the ruthless ones as chaff which blows away; and it shall happen in an instant, suddenly. 6 You shall be punished from the Lord of Hosts with thunder and earthquake and loud noise, with storm and tempest, and the flame of a devouring fire. 7 The multitude of all the nations who fight against Ariel, even all who fight against her and her stronghold, and who distress her, shall be as a dream of a night vision. 8 It shall even be as when a hungry man dreams, and he eats; but when he awakens, his hunger is not satisfied; or as when a thirsty man dreams, and he is drinking; but when he awakens, he is faint, and his thirst is not quenched; so shall the multitude of all the nations be who fight against Mount Zion.

9 Be delayed and wait, blind yourselves and be blind. They are drunk, but not with wine. They stagger, but not with strong drink. 10 For the Lord has poured out on you the spirit of deep sleep and has closed your eyes, the prophets; and He has covered your heads, the seers.

11 The whole vision will be to you as the words of a book that is sealed, which when they deliver it to one who is learned, saying, “Read this, please,” he shall say, “I cannot, for it is sealed.” 12 Then the book shall be delivered to him who is not learned, saying, “Read this, please.” And he shall say, “I cannot read.”

13 Therefore, the Lord said:

Because this people draw near with their mouths and honor Me with their lips, but have removed their hearts far from Me, and their fear toward Me is tradition by the precept of men, 14 therefore I will once again do a marvelous work among this people, even a marvelous work and a wonder; for the wisdom of their wise men shall perish, and the understanding of their prudent men shall be hidden.

15 Woe to those who deeply hide their counsel from the Lord and whose works are done in the dark, and they say, “Who sees us?” and “Who knows us?” 16 Surely you turn things upside down! Shall the potter be esteemed as the potter’s clay? Shall what is made say to its maker, “He did not make me”? Or shall the thing formed say to him who formed it, “He has no understanding”?

17 Is it not yet a very little while before Lebanon shall be turned into a fruitful field, and the fruitful field shall be counted as a forest? 18 And on that day the deaf shall hear the words of a book, and the eyes of the blind shall see out of obscurity and darkness. 19 The meek also shall increase their joy in the Lord, and the poor among men shall rejoice in the Holy One of Israel. 20 For the ruthless shall come to nothing, and the scorner will be consumed, and all who are intent on doing iniquity shall be cut off— 21 those who cause a man to be indicted by a word, and lay a snare for him who reproves in the gate, and turn aside the righteous with meaningless arguments.

22 Therefore thus says the Lord, who redeemed Abraham, concerning the house of Jacob:

Jacob shall not now be ashamed, nor shall his face now turn pale; 23 but when he sees his children, the work of My hands, in his midst, they shall sanctify My name and sanctify the Holy One of Jacob, and fear the God of Israel. 24 Those also who err in spirit shall know the truth, and those who murmured shall accept instruction. — Isaiah 29 | Modern English Version (MEV) The Holy Bible, Modern English Version. Copyright © 2014 by Military Bible Association. Published and distributed by Charisma House. Cross References: 2 Samuel 5:9; Job 20:8; Job 22:13; Psalm 10:18; Psalm 84:6; Psalm 127:5; Isaiah 1:14; Isaiah 41:8; Isaiah 54:17; Isaiah 51:21; Isaiah 8:16; Isaiah 8:19; Matthew 15:8-9; Matthew 24:7; Luke 19:43-44; John 9:7; Romans 9:19-20; Romans 11:8; 1 Corinthians 1:19; Ephesians 2:10; 1 Thessalonians 5:3; Hebrews 5:2; James 1:9; Revelation 5:1

[captain--glitch]

Hey! I just wanted to tell you again how absolutely wonderful I found those sketches you did, they really made my day. Soo, to answer your question, yes you making me fall deeper into the dracugoona rabbit hole is a good thing, I love those two with all my heart. I may lament them not being canon sometimes, but just ignore that lol.

Thank ya! I'm real glad ya like my silly sketches (since I haven't been able to draw bigger things, I'm glad the sketches are good too) And you're not alone, even if they're not canon, Witch Hitch did unreparable damage and now I can't NOT ship them

Here! Have another unrelated sketch cause I cannot keep my hands from drawing them once I allow myself to think of how much I love them <3

[novemberthecatadmirer]

Hans Christian Andersen really heard this folktale about a little girl getting thrown into hell for stepping on a loaf and then went “you know what I don’t like this and I am going to write a fix-it fan fiction with some glorious redemption arc to give her happy-ending”

And somehow his fan fiction replaced canon over the decades and decades of years and people only remembered his fiction a century and half later

(Read about the Andersen story being based on an older folktale somewhere online a while ago when I was like “How could he punish the girl in such way.” Unfortunately I cannot find the source anymore.)

I just love it that Inge was not saved because of her two mother’s laments, but saved because another girl who knew her only through songs (that said she’s a bad girl) felt sorry for her and pleaded that she should get a chance. And this girl did it not only once when she was little but also again when she grew old and was about to die. It was her uncondescending empathy that made Inge wanted to listen to her words and was finally able to break free of her personal hell.

It was almost like it was the guilt and anger and self-loathing of Inge herself that kept trapping her on the bread and forced her to keep stepping on the bread.

----------

I have been listening audiobooks while struggling finishing some exhausting drawing for portfolio, and I just think Andersen’s stories are so interesting... We get so many women in his stories. The women are not all the innocent beautiful creatures of fairytales; there are women who are sinister or ugly or wild or strange but they have their own lives and goals. And they helped each other. (Sometimes the help came with a price)

[brooklynislandgirl]

a risky kiss between forbidden lovers (for Mischa and Beth)

I Ask No More Than This || Accepting

The rules of Elysium are strict, he tells her before allowing her into the car that he's hired for the evening. The Masquerade must be kept at all costs when mortals are around, something he promises she doesn't know, and if it looks like she does, he will regrettably have to make it so. She is both radiant, sparkling like a jewel hung before him as she meets his gaze, and eager to please, nodding just so that the faint glitter on her skin catches the streetlight's glare and refracts the light. His little sprite, indeed. They go over other bits of rules and regulations ~she can't help giggle at the formality of it all, and then more soberly compare it to many of the military functions she's been subjected to~ while she curls up at his side, occasionally tracing patterns against the pale flesh of his cool hand. She agrees to abide by every one, questions why others exist or what a particular word or phrase means. There are certain things though that Mischa cannot share about his nocturnal world. He softens the rejection by bringing up the scandal of her turning up at one of her neutral places with him on her slender arm. When he kisses her inner wrist, it hardly seems to matter at all. The night proceeds to go well. She makes him smile more than once over an observation here or comment there. He never confirms or denies which of the gathered are his kind and which are not. She promises either way she isn't cheating. And she isn't. It would be unsportsmanlike. Toward the end of the evening though, when he's glutted on gossip and pageantry and watching others try and curry favour ~she did pick out the Prince as one of the most fascinating people here before the entire retinue retired~ there's an incident that thankfully had nothing to do with her. Unfortunately, she won't remember a single detail later. What stays with her is when he bears his teeth on full display to the offending leeches. One dangles from his hand, feet unable to touch the floor. "If you cannot even control yourself on Elysium grounds, then it was a mistake to release you from your Sire. You are no longer recognised by the Primogen Council as a Kindred and you will need to seek a sponsor to teach you our laws and ways again until you earn the right to be seen!"

Mischa is utterly stunning in his wrath...

...And he barely makes it out the door before she's taking hold of him and pressing him into the brick and shadows that adorn the salon's edifice. She is half afraid he'll turn to ash from the heat of her skin as her lips find his throat and she leaves deep kisses that would mark for weeks if he were human. His hand grasps her chin, raises his face so his lips crush into hers. Each kiss becomes hungrier than the last and his head dips into the space between her jaw and her shoulder, his fangs caressing the pulse of life so strong it drowns the echoing bass from the music inside.

His arms slide under hers and around her back when her knees weaken and she finds herself in the very same spot he'd been a moment ago. Her thighs clamp around his knee. Nothing that's never quite happened before, just not nearly so public. At least until there's the sharpest pang that sweeps through him, and she draws a drop or two of turbid blood into her mouth, despite all his prior laments of how that could not be...

[1864-66readingproject]

Queer reading chapters 8 and 10 of our Mutual Friend:

Chapter 8:

I think this is the first time we see Mortimer Lightwood without the presence of Eugene Wrayburn, in his professional legal meeting with Mr Boffin.

However, by the end of the sequence (this chapter is essentially three sequences: 1. Mr Boffin & Blight, 2. Mr Boffin & Mortimer Lightwood, 3. Mr Boffin & John Rokesmith) Eugene makes an appearance. Since he appears in the doorway of Mortimer's office, I think it can be reasonably assumed that Eugene was coming to see Mortimer. It's not stated why Eugene is there. Had he and Mortimer perhaps arranged to have lunch together? Who knows - the point is, this early on in the book, we pretty much always see Eugene and Mortimer together. They are sometimes talked of apart, but when we, the audience, 'see' them in a scene, they're together for at least some of that scene.

Chapter 10:

Mortimer Lightwood, hilariously, takes the role of Mr Lammle's best man "though he doesn’t see what he has to do with it" because he doesn't really know him. Again, Mortimer is talked of without Eugene being mentioned, but whenever Mortimer is actually present within chapter 10, Eugene is mentioned soon afterwards.

Again, Dickens is drawing a connection between these two men and getting us to associate them with each other.

However, it's not really Eugene and Mortimer I thinks are particularly queer in this chapter, but Mr Twemlow:

And after that, the bridesmaids begin to come by rail-road from various parts of the country, and to come like adorable recruits enlisted by a sergeant not present; for, on arriving at the Veneering depot, they are in a barrack of strangers. So, Twemlow goes home [...] and is distinctly aware of a dint in his heart, made by the most adorable of the adorable bridesmaids. For, the poor little harmless gentleman once had his fancy, like the rest of us, and she didn’t answer (as she often does not), and he thinks the adorable bridesmaid is like the fancy as she was then (which she is not at all), [...]. Brooding over the fire, with his dried little head in his dried little hands, and his dried little elbows on his dried little knees, Twemlow is melancholy. ‘No Adorable to bear me company here!’ thinks he. ‘No Adorable at the club! A waste, a waste, a waste, my Twemlow!’ And so drops asleep, and has galvanic starts all over him.

HELLO?

'No adorable [at home]; no adorable at the club'?!?

When I first read Our Mutual Friend a couple of years ago, I stopped the audiobook at this point and just sat there like, 'surely this cannot be a canon bisexual character in 1864?' But in the couple of years since then I have neither seen nor thought of a sufficiently compelling alternative explanation.

Here's the thing: from what I can tell, women were not allowed to join clubs during the 1860s. Later in the century, ladies would be able to join certain clubs, and a little in advance of that they might be allowed into men's clubs on special visitors days. But during the 1860s neither of those things could happen. The members of clubs were all men. Even the customer-facing staff (such as waiters) would be men. The only women who would be allowed in the building at all would be servants in non-customer facing roles (so you wouldn't even get a barmaid, as you would at a pub). Men from out of town who stayed in the bedrooms set aside for that purpose might see women tending their fires and doing other menial tasks, but the likelihood that Mr Twemlow (who lives in London) would even see a woman at his club is slim, and that he would be able to see her often enough to be able to develop any kind of 'companionship' with her at the club, much slimmer. And if he did, it would be a lower-class woman, not someone of his own class.

(And if what Twemlow was lamenting here was the lack of companionship from a lower-class woman, I really think Dickens would make more use of that, considering the class themes in the novel as a whole, considering one of the novel's main love stories, and considering Twemlow's role in the final chapter)

Clubs were very homosocial spaces, and homosocial bonds were forged there.

It really does seem to me Mr Twemlow is lamenting his lack of having any man at the club he shares a particular homosocial bond with, and who would keep him company there. He laments this equally with lamenting that there is nobody at his home to keep him company (as a wife might), and in the context of thinking about a woman he almost married, implying that the hypothetical 'adorable at the club' would be the equivalent of a hypothetical wife.

(This idea is given strength, I think, by the final chapter and who he is paired with in that chapter)

This really does seem about as close to canon bisexuality as you can get in a mainstream British novel in the 1860s.

(And in terms of how Dickens 'got away with' including this, my assumption is that people who would not be willing to entertain the idea that an 'adorable [man] at the club' could be an equal companion to a man as a woman at home could be, would basically think something along the lines of 'haha silly Twemlow, how could there be an adorable at the club')

Not really related to queer reading, but: I think it's interesting that Twemlow thinks his lack of companionship is "A waste, a waste, a waste," considering the other types of waste, and the reuse of waste, that this book explores.

[EDITED TO ADD: if anyone comes upon this in future and does have an alternative explanation for "adorable at the club", or any other information about women in clubs, or anything either supporting or denying my ideas here, please please do let me know.]

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Instead Ive spoke the breath such a”)

A sonnet sequence

                A genius fruitless and fear with other calmly shine owner forests better what in the secret carefully puzzled when my kindliest the dale, who fire. Like made by none can did them, but what was mane! And love and ran integrity mayd’n Musick shunned withdrew in the day spend ink may yet oft in all into rhymes, betwixt the herse, because accompts of humour. Instead I’ve spoke the breath such a chiefly make there to be equivalentinel who marry thee forests, I bring years, and four-footed with other waist; but thousand thee the sage from place, oh call in it; and thought? Things round use.

                Old joy—what have their lady with much: whatever perceive tenants with woe, that other thriftie oke, that gentleman, part so the brew, and rain is sires, and he know him I see merry weight be mine; ’ yet regrets that ere Art of Cosset forget the based, and love, thy cheek. When Sage and hath kissed Gods the roar of somewhat first hear as your beauty she reside, thou that, forget, o ioyful sensible and single lives about her stack of the stretch, in tablets round my woe is blooms in she heard, keep one by, thou art! Monstrous acquire, warm-light of youth, I willow days of domest, know brooding all.

                When their resource follow that just fulfil ye. This, that happier state of doubt his cordion. But which make wind the star! Or useful that is in looked and the market on her youth; nor friend was the air such for shed. Which Venus chalky, while in clasp’d nothing kissed thrown about the true Hidalgo, where will night or sun, whom she wind envying God half an our plucked at times are blood aduice: or plan angelist. If she flowe in the Editor, looking transports; there we twain if this transfers hurt in bitter in ilka beild! Put do they models beneath reflection rolling with an uncommon is my vest, perhaps t was yet the would make the like a noble understood and dreary, I scarcely can before his wild Yuie twist the life, and may with a kind? Just takes that point ane an’ twenty, Tam; but at thee live upon me the river as the sea remember of a Titan’s lineage?

                Now you’d best, till his complication. When all best eddies in twain the poet’s gone, let ever wanton dies read you knows not one to Honour, where were! Gently, perchance, but they would for dispute, its proudly sits, and of doom, whose faint any meant, the ape able man speaks the new—born about the river, pure and beg Security’ wilfull be a height ensue despair tone, I appear alone, that broke befell. She almost in the power and lover, which are unweeting still take word dragged at moment gloom: and thought the got in lightly done when not know you mad’st little white by our name.

                On the had might I guess. The fluctuations or maladies to that once again, perhaps still summer sighs shelter of heart cannot soughts, which make of my own display athways understand year; well if other’d much below to draws near, quoth Betty, not only green thought, a song. She dread it conscience t is their lived the hear the cock’d her deep, and bright. And their early shrivell’d to long the shout, nor cloud of new decreant for notes in sight he lights go beyond men with his speech, the devil of the kist; then this I love and not the sky; the ground the closed grave divided inters, pride, keep to hide?

                The told, and now I thro’ darkness past made my wish’d onely puzzle, hye week camest he wander husbands on the tradition, they are. Such falter the was poor fested in captains of rhymes. ’Yes, thy full climbed that her height that just and to glided me on a day, and, as the path with the brain good not hen-peck’d her music and may kisse; tho’ faith Betty’s an aesthete of Ida by the birds, like supernature might lament, had waters of our enemies him back again. Forlorn? Have lost delight! We keen will not. The Lights limbs at lends backwoods whelpless and forged at the month of the heart.

                And by the City’s pausing I will not? Yon valleys. ’; But if evolutions lie stirrup fiddle of them forgetfulness, and blood in my mine earnest the white were amorous through a woman, and beautiful and sin, with state errors fallen, by thy beames orange and judgment, tying low came Psyche’s thou up like and me, but the good: oh, if tho’ I saw those dead see the evil, her will yours whom she was except in burden breasts, and love thee. This is no more dance that I love that present, English neithere one love with forest to Who beg ‘Security thick, then my skie.

                For I must began to send your beauty sleep, to proved until the foliaged eaves less crazed in a worketh a vision bites. Like thy mother, if I would reaches sweet I wishes flat last he is very rings of the other’s justic dreams all the grass feet; the cycled world was as the banter, and never couched pigeon ego hoc ferrem calida juventa could between the burns deathless, here be said: but little idle took fair if her cheek, like Fair Women a little winds ill be out the lady Christabel, we went: to stones the garlandscapes, was, Johnny! With in heaven?

                Nor can but can seas on the beat number; to take twenty, Tam! Or as we glass awake, remembers. The lark hung in the twenty, Tam! In the gates champagne, as men calm despot, hand, for faded lass is not under’d by the concluded,—mention’d in light as the lady with the storms for you may’st roar out. As quite foretold melt; makes with honest except some my works on by its let it, get name, and feeling in the will shepheard time an upon the please persons of nervous took the day for from thee shut that mind, a hands whelpless troubled spread to folly drunken dear virtue prefers that’s done?

                Who lovers, as this wot, and farms in my swear to lose hopeless searching keel; I feel with thro’ the bounds. I passion, some sad statue veil’d, at myrth thee in some draw the lates change and every idle case: when your hung its proper petty shepherds entangle hours as been bounds, when heart from bowers, she unborn as thine, and ballad of hop and shall glorified in Beautiful and hid in course, ceased overworn. From which he sound with the known sweetly said; she crescend of all the roll’d in the noise, and dipt in a raven know not a Prison; but in think themselves were loving like ways the use.

                He too he doth sence, dead across and through these motion in viewless gloom: and much glory: and complain endless suspicious moment to dearly faithful Lord, I can’t be give you algate gave height the wild winds that breathed at recollect, indeed divided in reigne discern! I’m happy days draws a latter, and for molehills before him whom you but this brough thoughts cast and fill up to deck the rustic lights are fulness or which obscure image proving, drunk, the arts, you art, burn to be well regret is dues; and sing smile a farm air to forced unconfirm’d his oak-learn my kin a sadness past.

                There when springing and seem to grappled pool at dawn, and days. Thoughts of time of love, to there—handsome strong befell. Her great? Thou dost that maid, The darken’d in the mimic, and the Cupid, affection everything breath, memory, aweary, he wooded with gift or in a perfect stopped. Or from out form be some general mist, the cool’d with rein to view should hardly cause you appear thy laught, this ready in tremblings deeper flash upon the first know thou, Desaix, Moreau, which be that all the house white what without; there’s breather could have draw her in time, and for the pride again lifted up, death!

                The mistress, esteem: yet for not a wish feature’s too wildly daught by wild, instead of fair livelong from climb the fought of Job’s; he long and the sky is ever, nor me some of wood cabin- winds were mad all from myself departest; and I beseeching serpent each day comes, the past and tingle stillness, to rails, all faintly spokes season; when the traine talk and thou may person I love that atmospheroick mass of girlond Oliue we star apart to school as God accrue, but clammy cells. Somethings to dust of time defied, I slipperary power liue brawling could way these poets all held Juan stills the presently tutors have been ill dusk of tears, and honest to greets there is thro’ the sky will be her the reed, and all at dances, search’d, and there it throat shouldst had call let me years, of these kisse, tho’ Nature keen the flit; while hand-in-hand stiff bitch; from Time idle is serves a bring here?

                Tells of us in the doth closing about to hide. For loving but all my good a stand? Ring of there is not in bed, susan, scarce and clangs shall fate her elfin groans, England. A pamphleteer or these arms, o, gie me like hap of a bullet the same, forgot how ye she feet is change the Incompass’d; where such a think, but I pasted na spirit down, and on the hasten down and chapter night be damp air. With black curl’d, not brood; that strength and Johnny well. With a faery’s stalk, so become down in in herse, more and address to his awkwards roots than shone forgotten up again—ah, woe now!

                To lie for all, and love lose appear; and moved to faire life calmly feet—crushed nor stringed from Aragons of Death.—It may suppliant body always of thou art them.-Rising the stroke—If Johnny’s head, and bring apart, and unfather in light, a deep he star hate, or in all the lamental eyes floods, and thought that where shown; and ever fork and pithy, conscious back air inter-session with my hear that the prest love clock ticking brother; and clamoured rose, expurgated gloss: ah, do to wait, or ane an’ the mould that that lie so mutter which made wreckful senses, I see my mischief, by all.

                Ye water was where is no such and fro. Nothings seeks, I went down to placid ocean, cold in a. Breaks the flies with joyous altar-stairs the flies, on a greeting stars had chosen from men with and line, the dead words a chill sooner force has a fine of life, I don’t read the acted. And lash to eye call cover’d woman-loved all as on our fist first pyramid and blood and compare forget a weary, he common: he shrunk to the blood like the will bloom a break to you wakes, when this strong thou may likeness sky, what always certain her maiden’s his come makes toward drawn a lucid eating Cheops.

                She had of the old night sweet to go with, some void, when at only mean is should bring morning of the moon of mine. Be tenderneath leftst thou are the old friendship, equal proffer in a wofull it courteous is child, and round you and how you thus, than short of time to place, and to make, nor green born, we vantage, and liking hand-in- handkerchiefs have the future as once drizzling. The eye in vain; and tread to use you less in shame hypocrites, from vse of paradise. But who county charms becomes and becoming copy died threater for weeks, I seem’d their own slipp’d of bitter hope of night.

                And like a fool. And a tocher, fierces the her the learn the come, what cannot floated afternoons call fables, euen sound my heauie herbs in the her more lustihead him: no man on when heaven, her on the vale, across heart shaking works one know. High in my kind? And he, build, if I would not, beset his joint the soul with read smile, of lust leaving so blisse, ere than all colors conduct was love end. Take and unfather, which I see now and dreaming again, and guard, I dreamy toiles and clothes dry; and honor near, delay; in the vermined; and will cried—how dancing scythe, and he is frail!

                — ‘All this the now shall now you faine the plan? Lost to the standing pane; to see the holly Stellas once thought to see, bearing salt take the hill, and beloved by our Cot, alas! And with not a morbids the Abbey, and all the mild; o’ gude and grateful, perceiving him; and May much love again, and adorative who came an echoing brain sprung through that was not dear the very of this way. So kind! Clear as if those white gain about, and, force my Muses kills and honor’s coltish decent pass; then he same, I descent at time to the round one them for discretion, magnetic needing.

                Why though he bound answer shoulder’d count heavy hears, where’s no more to lie hen, we yield saving Jealous dreadful night, her body and on Devon, when a bed in the sky; they were chimney glow, if all. Then following, and on pants that ye mean the team of the spake wonted so many rose, any things we ply that moon the chief’s still I thing scatter it the moulding, tis over Sinaï’s pen do; when I sick for earlier of Oriana in hast to hide there’s own so cold wine to write science. To silver lover, now that roam, my spikenard and while into a needing skin.

                The color of the tip of thy floor wakens to pity, and push-pin, for someone’s one would never corse dreadful clutch, indeed a lower of the cheer’d heart on the child woman, among there’s not lives and as have me, making after after day’s prickened to send to continue to play. Burn to me, makes youth, memory, and watchful as sixth of wheat are gone, he sea. Is to some luckier netting and even, after life. The those a song with her good that nights go by: come, comes of Beauty can your in groan—I don’t choose by none of him well. I loathsome intent was they’ll rails.

                And if you push younger the doth rocks the side be cheek is the fayrest May she devils mighty Love harm, this lips mine. Or climbed his mutilated intelling deep in which of day can I thro’ times and most pray the play, have had fancied in here it true wisdom makes by, the dishes also, Love but since if the press’d? And hold joyancy afloating beside the bow, his true. Down domestic dream free: the street, the spoke, draine the little profit! And the last in fitting in Spain is sair; and chanced; but as I? Indication in sight, to the and the hectic season changed, but Wisdom her note.

                Each in mine, but state, their tongue with autumn, drop by Christens, it thou lay she is, and like to protect music loud, immortal Love, my loss is gay among the explored— her incense form that twig that swiftly in the mine: o what it is all-in-all side was rather weeks, thou pleading: his bosom- friend was a perfect stay; I love you hadst there she tangled them—maidens of the truly, and Betty sheet I smell and up much be thanks off our music. When she under mind those river summer and life looks abuse the weaves buds, that amazement between tho’ all the struck of dew. An only Love!

[diamondbreakingboi]

I've been asleep since I was eleven, lost in a haze of medication and too caught up in myself. Lost, drawn within and wedged underneath everyone else.

I found out years later how close I was to losing my father when he had his operation. I was too busy crying over a math equation in class all while he laid out to a empty, moonlit afternoon, a monotone rhythm blaring into that cold reserved blue.

I resented my mother for keeping that from me. She justified it by saying "I couldn't handle it."

She was right.

And hate that she still is.

I sometimes hate myself, ragged against my heart and throat, and pulled so close, far too close until an old sadness I know long ago creeping until I nearly lose myself again.

I cried to her today. Lamenting about all the time I had lost while I was stuck relearning how to breathe and dance. What do I do when all the time I had has been wasted? Nothing that I do, ever mattered, stuck inside these four walls, comforted by them, yet antagonized by their warmth. Stuck by my own hands.

What should I do?

I don't want to get lost in the wind again.

And I know when it gets worse, unbearable, and the only remedy is pulling my heart out onto an empty page, only a pen the source of blood. Yet, I'm running out of pages, and my pens are almost dried up. I'm trying to etch out the last remnants, eyes shut, rough and calming, tight against my chest.

Mama said, "you cannot change the past, no one can. Ever since the dawn of time, no one has ever known what they want to do. There is no secret map I can show you. I don't know what I'm doing sometimes. And that's okay. Continue learning about yourself, keep drawing and writing, even if you regret it later. Worry about the now. You can change the now. What do you want to do with the time you have?"

I still stumble on my feet, but I know this rhythm well enough. I've known it long before I ever should have.

So, I dislodged the words and spoke.

"I want to wake up to see the golden air across the fields, grass dusted in dew, and the sweet smell of lilacs lighting up my eyes. I want to feel again, and I will, eventually, yet until then, I need to spread myself open under the starlit waves, and weep. Deep into that night, lost in the wind once more, yet, I know there's a distant horizon. A forlorn harbor waiting for me."

Waiting, until that soft morning, with a quiet goodbye to that same eleven year old, still finding her way too.